#cruentusrxus

yeah, that was something Stiles didn’t need to know

College is refreshing, Scott decides two weeks in. It’s nothing like Beacon Hills, with it’s anonymity and self-chosen schedules. Everyone minds their own business in this giant behemoth of a city and, not for the first time, he realizes what a good idea this was.

New York is always moving, the concrete jungle that it is, and while Scott had thought he’d feel the distinct lack of forest, he finds the drastic change lifted him out of the pit that was slowly swallowing him whole. 

He’d been drowning in Beacon Hills, they all had. He misses his mom, he misses the packmates that stayed behind, but he’d known, the second it’d been suggested, that this was a good idea. 

It never would have worked without the two that had come with him, though. 

Scott pockets his phone and slides on a pair of headphones, the walk to Central Park routine by now. He’s still on edge, he always is; Deaton had told him he’d never truly wear out of it, now. Said his behavior can psychologically be linked to that of a soldier come back from war. He knows Stiles and Lydia feel the same. 

Not all of it is unfounded. There are rival packs here, alphas sniffing at their heels, wondering what this new pack is, what they’re doing here. They’ll deal with it as it comes, like they always do. Difference is, there’s no Nemeton itching at the base of their skull, no legacy choking the life out of them. 

The park is alive with bikers and joggers, loungers and workers, and Scott finds the thick-trunked tree they’ve managed to sit under the numerous times they’d been since they moved here. 

This feels like cheating. 

There are dozens of teens she’s never met, milling around and waiting to start. Some she’s seen in class, but most are foreign to her, blank faces grazing over her just like everyone else. She likes it that way, liked that about New York too: hiding in plain sight. 

Being a girl on the field seems to be a little conspicuous, though. 

Morning After Meme:

It works. 

When everything else in Barry’s life has fallen apart, when Harry Wells leaves without a backwards glance, when Henry Allen is in the ground, when Leonard Snart is willfully gone, Stiles is there.

He’s there, and he doesn’t ask Barry for anything but acceptance. 

They work, because they work at it. At not talking about anything serious or important. At not being anything, but themselves. It’s freeing to have a life outside of being metahuman, even if it’s only behind closed doors. 

Not being in love is pretty freaking awesome. 

Which is why Barry is still sprawled out in Stiles’ bed at nine in the morning, smoothing his palm in long strokes up and down the line of Stiles’ back. 

He has to be at work in...well, fifteen minutes ago. But they’re used to him being late. 

“That’s not nice.”