Paperfingers with a Hint of Lemon

Illusionist Extraordinare

14 Apr

queenklu said: SAM/CLINT DUKING IT OUT OVER WHO'S THE BEST BIRD

ifeelbetterer:

The pattern starts forming: after the big missions, the normal humans on the team tend to have shit to do in the medical floor Stark made for the Tower. And they tend to have to stay there a while.

It’s not like it’s on purpose or something anyone is conscious of, but the Steve Rogers and Bruce Banners of the world basically can shake off the gaping intestinal wound and finish watching the film they’d had on pause since being called out to fight aliens. The Clint Bartons and Sam Wilsons, on the other hand, have to wait for neck braces and dislocated shoulders to be fixed. 

The first time it happens, Barton just nods to Sam and sits in stony silence for the twenty minutes it takes a nurse to bandage all the abrasions on his arms—arms which, of course, he hadn’t bothered to even clothe let alone wear significant kevlar protection. Sam’s got a pretty significant gouge out of his left shoulder so he’s not entirely up for conversation either.

The second time, Sam’s there because one of his own wings erupted and is sort of stuck in his back. Barton’s there because he fell badly and something’s wrong with his right foot.

"Taking the bird thing a bit literally," he says after a half hour.

Sam blinks. He honestly thought they weren’t ever going to talk.

"Fuck you and the bow and arrow you rode in on," he says.

Somehow, that makes Barton grin.

The third time, Barton’s whole left side is covered in burns and Sam’s just got a sprained wrist but he’s in no rush because clearly every doctor in the entire building so be dealing with the dude whose left side is entirely covered in burns.

"You get that I’m the one with the wings, right?” Sam says.

Barton grunts but it’s sort of a quizzical grunt so Sam continues.

"I mean, of the birds on this team," he says. "Let’s count how many of us should actually be jumping off cliffs into pits of fire."

Barton huffs a laugh.

"Because one of us earned their bird name," Sam says. "And the other’s all talk."

"Your face is all talk," Barton says, his voice gravelly and strained.

"Yeah, but my face can fly.”

The fourth time, they have matching bullet wounds. Nobody says anything and the machines just keep beeping quietly.

The fifth time, Barton’s jaw is broken so Sam takes the opportunity to explain how if he wanted to pick a bird based purely on eyesight, there are better options than a hawk. Falcons, for example. Super good eyesight.

The sixth time, it’s clear Barton—Clint, he corrects when Sam says it out loud—has been watching some Planet Earth. Sam decide’s to call him “Cooper’s Hawk” for a while.

"The male is smaller than the female," he explains. "Seemed appropriate."

"Fuck you,” Clint says, grinning.

17 Jan

amarguerite:

simplyirenic:

“Most of Bonaparte’s dragons are stationed along the Rhine, and of course he has been busy in Italy; that and our naval blockades are all that is keeping him from invasion. But if he gets matters arranged to his satisfaction on the Continent and frees up a few aerial divisions, we can say hail and farewell to the blockade at Toulon…”

            -Naomi Novik, His Majesty’s Dragon


friendly reminder that a plausible career alternative for a convict’s son with 1) the unshakable belief that he must remain outside society and 2) a streak of courage bordering on recklessness is captaining a giant flying lizard

where’s my dragonriding!javert fic, tumblr

(On it)

Captain Jones, of the Yellow Reaper Honoria, was losing. It galled him to admit it, that the great, combined might of the British Aerial Corps and the British Navy were crumbling under the clever attacks of some upstart Corsican. Captain Jones had flown in to Toulon, thinking that the sound of wingbeats all around him were from the other Yellow Reapers of his division— but this Lieutenant Austen cried out, “Sir, they’re Fleur-de-Nuits!” and Captain Jones felt enormously stupid. Every midwingman knew Fleur-de-nuits had the same wingbeat as Yellow Reapers. And now, of course, Austen had been shot in the shoulder, by some French lieutenant distinctive only by his savage grin and sideburns, and now Honoria was being boarded. His crew fought as tenaciously as they could, but they were overwhelmed, particularly as the nearest Fleur-de-Nuit had raked Honoria’s bellynetting and set their extra munitions tumbling into the Mediterranean. Jones reloaded his pistol with the of his balls and powder. It was good he had done so; the French lieutenant with the savage grin had jumped off the nearest Fleur-de-Nuit and onto Honoria and appeared behind Jones like some wolfish phantom.

“Go ahead, shoot,” said the lieutenant. “You’ll miss.”

Jones shot.

“Missed,” said the French lieutenant. “Didn’t I tell you so?” His sword was drawn; he pressed the tip against Jones’s throat. “Do you surrender?” 

Honoria was keening with distress and said, in broken French, “Yes, yes! Surrender! Surrender!”

It was the work of five minutes for Honoria to land, with her honor guard of preening Fleur-de-Nuits. The French lieutenant escorted Captain Jones off Honoria with the air of a wolf bringing its prey back to its den.

“To whom,” Jones asked, very stiffly, in his schoolboy’s French, “am I surrendering?”

“Lieutenant Javert, of the Fleur-de-nuit Justice.”

Honoria raised her head sulkily. “La Justice? What a stupid name.”

Justice, who had been the Fleur-de-Nuit to destroy Honoria’s bellynetting, could apparently speak English. She drew herself up, disdain radiating from her moon-white glare. “It is a name a chose for myself. What is your name? I bet your captain gave you some pretentious, Latinate name that does not distinguish you from any other Yellow Reaper. Indeed, I scarcely know you from any other Yellow Reaper except that your wing beat is uncommonly slow.”

“Calm your dragon, sir,” Jones ordered. 

Lieutenant Javert had drawn a snuffbox from his pocket and ignored Captain Jones in favor of taking a  pinch of snuff.

“You are my prisoner, you have no right— come with me,” snapped Justice. “I named myself because I watch over the galleys here. You shall be a galley slave for your insolence, if you do not take care.”

Honoria reared up in terror and attempted to grab Captain Jones in her claws. “You shall not take Fitzwilliam, I shall not let you!”

The other French officers were scrambling about in a panic but Javert merely closed the lid of his snuffbox and said, almost appreciatively, “What fire! But you shall not escape Justice.” And indeed, Justice cuffed Honoria on the side of the head, and sent the Yellow Reaper reeling.

Honoria dizzily seized a stone, one of the heavy ballast stones carried by the galley convicts into French ships. At first she was baffled that she had not grabbed her captain, but then cried, “Beware! I shall crush your lieutenant if you injure my captain!”

“You’ll miss,” replied Javert, advancing, pistols drawn and pointing at Jones’s heart.

Honoria heaved the stone; Javert ducked and it went flying over his head.

“What did I tell you?” exclaimed Javert, as Justice raked Honoria across the face with one foreleg and, with the other, seized Captain Jones. “You are just like your captain. Let that be a lesson to you— you cannot escape the claws of Justice.”

16 Oct

gyzym:

(x)

“What about Wolfman?” Scott says. “I mean, I’m a wolf. And a man. So it kind of works, right?” 

He knows it was the wrong thing to say when Stiles looks up from the half-finished suit spread across his lap and blinks at him rapidly, but he just waits, figuring Stiles will get to why it was the wrong thing to say if given enough time. Sure enough, Stiles spits the pins out of his mouth a moment later—Scott grabs them all out of midair, because if he doesn’t Stiles will end up trying to sleep with pins in his bed, Scott just knows it—and says, “Scott. I am sewing for you here, okay? I do not sew for just anybody. You cannot be Wolfman, because there was already a Wolfman. The name Wolfman is taken.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Scott says, “but that’s comic books, dude. This is reality. I think I can—” 

“Wolfman is the lamest superhero I can think of!” Stiles cries, waving a hand. “Wolfman was cancelled for reasons of sucking, I refuse to allow you to share a name with somebody lame. You are my best friend, and you are too awesome to be mocked by geeks. It can’t happen. It won’t happen. No.” 

Scott considers this. “You’re a geek, and you mock me.” 

“Right, but that’s like, because I’m your sidekick and shit,” Stiles says. “I am allowed mocking privileges by dint of being the person who is usually next to you during all death-defying stunts. My brethren have no such claim to mockery.” 

“Your brethren?” Scott says, grinning and raising his eyebrows.

Stiles scowls. “Fuck you, man, I’ve been sewing for thirty-six hours. Parts of my sanity have gone into this costume, I will not be judged.” 

“You say that like you had any sanity left to begin with,” Scott says, still grinning, but he flops back against Stiles’ bed when Stiles ignores him. “Hey. If I just went with ‘Alpha,’ what are the chances Derek would like, tear my throat out for dominance or something?” 

Stiles opens his mouth, shuts it, purses his lips, and sighs. “80/20 for, I think. Which blows, because that would be pretty kickass.” 

Scott nods, still thinking. After a few minutes, he says, “What about Captain Alpha?” 

“That,” Stiles says, eyes wide, “is the best idea you’ve ever had in your life,” and they grin at each other over a half-finished sleeve, mirror images of excitement. 

The suit is red and black, with gold trim marking the places where torso meets sleeve. It’s also really, really skintight, but Stiles and Allison are in firm agreement that he pulls it off, and Scott doesn’t have much of a chance to worry about it before the first call comes in. It’s an armed robbery that sounds vaguely supernatural, reported over Stiles’ stolen police scanner, and they’re in the Jeep before anybody can think better of it. 

“Don’t get shot,” Stiles says, as they pull around the corner to the bank. “And don’t take the mask off, and try not to shift in front of a camera, and definitely don’t get shot.” 

“I’m not going to get shot, Stiles,” Scott says. He’s thrumming with adrenaline, shifting in the passenger seat. “And even if I do, it’s not like I won’t heal.” 

“Don’t get shot anyway!” Stiles says. “There’s never a good reason to get shot!” 

Scott rolls his eyes, but smiles a little despite himself. “I promise not to get shot,” he says, as they pull to a stop in front of the bank. “Don’t let anybody come in until I’m done, okay?” 

“On it!” Stiles says, “Go kick some ass!” and then Scott’s tumbling out of the car and running for the door. 

Becoming a superhero, Scott thinks as he punches a masked robber with purple eyes in the face, was a pretty good call. He wasn’t actually expecting Stiles to run with the suggestion like he did, and he definitely wasn’t expecting the costume, but it’s totally as satisfying as he thought it would be. He gets all six of the robbers down and tied up with phone cords in under five minutes, and bursts out the door to the sound of approaching sirens just in time to see Derek arrive. 

“What’s going on here?” Derek demands, throwing himself out of his Camaro even as Scott throws himself into Stiles’ Jeep. “Why does your chest say ‘Captain Alpha?’ What did you do? What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Caped crusading, motherfucker!” Stiles yells out the window, and as they peel away from the curb Scott’s laughing, mask firmly in place, already ready to stop his next crime. 

(Source: obriens)

29 Aug

Teen Wolf WoW fic?

You need to read this.

Read it.

READ IT.

15 Aug

To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar

09 Aug

Sterek Fairytale-ish AU

frownyalpha:

Would you like to hear a story, child? No? Well, that’s too bad; I’m going to tell you anyway. Now shut up and listen.

Once upon a time – what? No, I don’t know why stories always start that way. It’s tradition. Hush. Once upon a time, when beasts could speak, and the air could sing, and the seas could capture a man’s heart, there lived a boy. His name? No, that’s not important, and anyway, it’s been lost in time. Enough to know that he was there, never mind what they called him.

Now, the boy’s mother was very sick, sick enough that she couldn’t do much more than speak at times. She knew she was going to die soon, and she wanted to see the beautiful flowers of spring again before she did. So she asked the boy to go into their backyard and gather some flowers. “But,” she warned him, “don’t go beyond the gate, understand? There are wolves that might eat you up!”

The boy nodded obediently and left to go gather flowers. True to his word, he didn’t go out beyond the gate, but he could see the glint of eyes within the dark forest and hear a voice softly calling his name.

The next day, the flowers the boy had picked had wilted, and his mother asked him to pick new ones. “But,” she warned him again, “don’t go beyond the gate, understand? There are wolves out there!”

The boy nodded obediently and left to go pick flowers. But this time, he was a little braver and ventured closer to the gate than before. And he saw that the glinting eyes had merely been pools of sunlight, and his whispered name simply the breath of the wind. But as he turned to go back to the house, he also heard a wolf’s padding footsteps, and his name, again, but with a growl to it that no wind could imitate.

But he trusted his mother’s judgment, and he knew that he would be safe if he stayed inside the gate.

The next day, the flowers the boy had picked had wilted, and because his mother loved those flowers, and he loved his mother, he went out to pick new ones, heeding her warning yet again not to go beyond the gate.

But she had said nothing about leaning on the gate and gazing into the forest beyond, and so that was exactly what the boy did. “Wolf,” he called softly. “Are you there?”

And a huge wolf appeared out of the trees, as if he had always been there and was simply now allowing himself to be seen. He walked up to the boy, slowly, cautiously. “Boy,” he said in his gravelly voice. “Why are you not afraid?” For even the strongest man should have been. This wolf was the size of a pony, with the muscles and teeth to match. He would have no trouble leaping over that gate and devouring the boy if he so chose.

But the boy did not know that. “Because my mother said that if I stayed on this side of the gate, I would be safe,” he told the wolf.

The wolf smiled in his own way, a quick flash of teeth. He prepared to leap over the gate and simply eat his snack when the boy said something that gave him pause.

“And you are beautiful,” the boy said.

The wolf cocked his head to the side. Beautiful? There had been many words applied to him in the past. Monster, fearsome, beast, abomination, terror, killer, bloodthirsty, brute. But never beautiful.

“Beauty can kill,” said the wolf. “Destruction can be beautiful, too. Have you ever seen a forest fire? Have you ever felt the vitality of the hunt, of ending another being’s life?”

“No,” said the boy. “But you are beautiful because you have.”

And then he turned and went back inside, leaving a dumbfounded wolf behind.

The next day, the boy did not check if the flowers were wilted, and while he listened to his mother warn him of the gate and the forest and the wolves, he was careful not to explicitly agree.

Now, he walked right up to the gate, and sat on the thick stone wall in was attached to, making sure his legs did not dangle over the edge. When he looked up, the wolf stood in front of him, his face level with the boy’s.

“If I stepped down, on the other side of the gate,” the boy said, “would you hurt me?”

“Hello to you, too,” the wolf said, a note of humor injected into his otherwise stony voice. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Would you?” the boy insisted.

The wolf stopped. And thought. And opened his mouth to say yes. And he was as surprised as the boy when what came out of his mouth was, “No.” And he paced back to give the boy space to come down.

The boy unfolded his legs and gingerly stepped onto the unkempt grass and moss. The wolf paced around him, and the boy reached a hand out and touched the wolf’s flank.

The wolf grinned again, that quick flash of teeth. “Run with me.”

And the boy did.

What? No, of course the story doesn’t end there. What about the boy’s mother? What about the boy and the wolf themselves? They cannot go on running forever, can they? Now sit still, and I’ll tell you what happened after the happy ending.

The boy and the wolf became fast friends, and soon they grew to love each other. The boy got older, but the wolf stayed the same, and soon the boy could keep up with the wolf under his own power as they ran.

And then one day the wolf did not know the boy was there. And the boy saw him hunt a young fawn, and clamp his fangs around its neck until the grass was painted red with its blood and its legs had stopped churning the air.

Then the wolf saw the boy, frozen at the edge of the clearing, and he was ashamed. Not of hunting, child, that would be stupid. The wolf had to hunt to stay alive, and both he and the boy knew it. But the wolf was ashamed that the boy had seen him as the others did, and that he had destroyed a part of that innocence. He lay down in a clean part of the grass and began to eat, and waited to see what the boy would do.

He kept his eyes on the ground, but after a pause he felt a hand on his back and a body against his flank, and he knew that the boy would not leave.

The boy’s mother’s health waxed and waned, and it was not three years later that her poor body finally gave out and she died.

The wolf was there for the boy, and so were plenty of people, but the wolf was the only one that let the boy’s tears soak into his fur and held him until he exhausted himself and slept.

And then, one day, the men came for the boy. Why? Because he was still just a boy. Boys cannot live on their own. They need someone to look after them. And he had no parents, so they came to take him to the orphanage in the center of town, where there were no forests or flowers or wolves. So the men came for the boy, but they could not find him. The boy had not known they were coming, and so he was not there. He was with the one he loved, in the woods and the wilds that only they knew.

So the men thought the boy must have been mad with grief, and run into the woods to hide. They took weapons and torches and big, heavy boots and the marched into the woods to find the boy and save him, they thought, from the wolves.

The boy did not know any of this. He was playing with the wolf near his den, and they had decided that the boy would stay with the wolf, and not go back to the village, and they could grow old together. It was a romantic plan, and it never would have worked. Why? You ask that an awful lot. But you’ll see why, I promise.

The men found the boy and the wolf. It was not hard. They were not trying to hide. But when the men found them, they did not see the boy’s smile, did not notice the way hands lingered on paws and fur, or the way the wolf carefully kept his weight off the boy and answered with a smile of his own. No, the men saw what they wanted to see, and so what they saw was a feral beast crouching over an innocent child, fangs bared and preparing to kill.

The men did what anyone would do. They pointed it out to the best shooter of them all, and waited until he got a clear shot. The boy saw the archer, but it was too late to shout, to late to do anything but try to protect his wolf. He pulled himself up, shoving the wolf down at the same time, and took the arrow meant for the wolf right in his heart.

The wolf’s own heart broke, shattered into a million pieces with the sound like the thunk of an arrow, and he promised the boy, in the boy’s last breath, that he would do whatever it took to bring them to together in their next life. And they would stay that way, he promised. Forever.

But the men did not hear the promise. They heard only whines and howls, and nothing of the language of the wolf. Why? Oh, child, because they had forgotten the words, don’t you see? And they shot the wolf in anger and revenge that one of their own had died in his stead, and so it was that the wolf and the boy died in the same breath and with the same promise.

What? No, that’s not the end, either. You’re young. You deserve the true happy ending.

One day, a long time ago, or from then, or right now, a man named Stiles met a man called Derek. They were working together, and they were the best at what they did. And the man named Stiles didn’t know why, and he never asked the man called Derek. But they formed two halves of a well-oiled machine, streamlined, and they almost instinctively knew what the other would do.

And after they had been together for years, something slotted into place, like a half-remembered dream. The man named Stiles straightened up suddenly and regarded the man called Derek.

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Only the last eleven years or so.” The man called Derek was very sarcastic. He hadn’t gotten much sleep.

“No, no, somewhere else. Before that.”

“Well, I don’t know. Deja vu?” The man called Derek smiled in his own way, a quick flash of teeth, and the final piece of the puzzle snapped into place in Stiles’ head.

“…Wolf?”

The man called Derek froze, hoping against hope, and the man named Stiles could see that he had always known, since the day they had met, but had said nothing and kept his promise all the same. “Boy…”

“Run with me.”

And, two men and the wolf and the boy, they did.

A moral? You want a moral? It’s not that kind of story, child. There are two kinds. Well, more than that, but only two are relevant here. The first kind is one with a moral. That’s the made-up kind, the kind with an evil witch and nosy children that falls apart when you squint at it. Then there’s this kind, no moral but watertight, because this kind is true. True enough to tell, true enough to ask for, true enough to make the air sing because it has remembered the words.

But maybe there is a moral after all. Keep your promises? Take a risk? Disobey your parents on the word of a stranger? No, you’re right, none of those are very good morals, not for a story like this one. How about this one: sometimes…

Sometimes, everybody lives.

You’ll understand when you’re older.

submitted by anon.

so this is the full story, and you should definitely read it. It’s amazing and super cute.

(Source: vampirewoobin)

11 Jun swing-set-in-december:

they Houdini’d their way from that cop car, very impressive

Stiles knows all the tricks to getting out of a cop car. Papa Stilinski always seems to forget this skill. (Actually, he refuses to believe anyone on his force would actually teach Stiles how to escape his cruiser. He’s allowed to arrest his own child, dammit.)

swing-set-in-december:

they Houdini’d their way from that cop car, very impressive


Stiles knows all the tricks to getting out of a cop car. Papa Stilinski always seems to forget this skill. (Actually, he refuses to believe anyone on his force would actually teach Stiles how to escape his cruiser. He’s allowed to arrest his own child, dammit.)

(Source: hhaywood)

28 May

lemonpaperfingers:

Things to be noted about Stiles:

  • used to have a boa constrictor
  • well versed in old films
  • morbid sense of humor
  • loves his Jeep
  • takes Adderall
  • is entertaining to drunk people
  • knows how to use a fire extinguisher (may denote previous use)
  • witnessed Derek/Scott wall slam via web cam
  • calls the dispatcher a lot (not necessarily while she’s on duty)
  • dispatcher also has a firm ‘No Stiles on duty’ rule
  • his dad always tries to make it to the lacrosse games just in case
  • is always overcompensating his movements (almost like he’s not used to his body)
  • has a oral fixation (always gnawing, biting, licking, eating)
  • is totally a peeper
  • possibly had a previous make-out session (S01E02 “Its good, isn’t it.” Stiles to Scott)
  •  wonders if he’s attractive to gay guys (especially Danny)
  • has Beacon Hills news alerts sent to his phone
  • knows his superheroes
  • doesn’t faint at the sight of blood
  • likes to verbalize his fear of Derek Hale. A lot.
  • is Derek’s go-to guy (because Scott has ADHA (Attention Deficit Hey Allison) and cannot be trust with responsibility. Ever.)
  • filled with sarcasm

5/24 TBC (My brother got bored of seeing Scott’s face. LOL)

5/28 updated to 1x04 and extended/deleted/alternate scenes

24 May
Yep! And I still can’t believe he hasn’t realized that Derek was in Stiles room! Why weren’t his “Stiles Virtue Is In DANGER!” sense not going off?

Job stress probably dulled his senses momentarily. But fear not! It will return! And with a vengence. (Run, Derek. RUN.)

24 May
It does!! And he probably tries to stay away from Stiles, for fear of getting castrated or shot. Papa Stilinski is cockblocking his son!

Papa Stilinski, protecting his son’s virtue since ‘94 until the end of time.