#faetxlity

“He isn’t even wearing derby skates,” barks Lambert as he reaches up to unbuckle his helmet, launching it across the changing room. It bounces harmlessly off a pile of dirty towels and clatters to the floor, which somehow pisses him off more than if it had cracked. He ignores Coën’s placating “I know, Lamb”, continuing to complain, “He’s some fucking nobody is who he is— I don’t give a shit how many followers he’s got on TikTok for his pretty skating tricks, you can’t just roll into derby and act like you fucking own the place when you’ve no inclination to learn the actual rules or any respect for the sport itself. I fucking hate TikTok anyway!”

Removing his own helmet so that he can carefully wipe his face, Coën repeats with all the calm patience of someone who’s sat through a thousand of Lambert’s rants, “I know, Lambchop.”

“And did you hear, when I asked him about derby he said he used to practice with some Cats,” hisses Lambert. “That’s bad news, Co, I don’t give a fuck if he’s coming here with good intentions or how hot he is, Vesemir would have my head if he found out we were training potential skaters from our biggest competitors. And he said it so flagrantly too! I mean, no fucking respect!”

He angrily gestures with his wrist pads at the Wolf emblazoned on his shirt. Coën, who transferred teams years ago after the fall of his own school, only nods politely. “I know, Lambert.”

“And…” Losing steam, Lambert runs a hand through his already messy hair, ruining it further. He finally turns to look at Coën, aggrieved. “And the fucker is, like, really hot. I mean… he’s our type, right?”

Three hours later I’ve consumed about a hundred pages worth of knowledge about Eastern European folk medicine and another hundred about general uses of common flora throughout history.

Fae, you're a hero.

This happens to me all the time (and most authors I know). One minute you're searching up how to splint a bone and the next you're researching specific herbal remedies and whether they could exist in a temperate climate. Or how best to break a nose/slit a throat (that last one was for a flirty fluff piece...)

I joke with friends that I'm definitely on several watch lists based on what I research on a daily basis. The life of a writer!

Well, if Chris is dating an immortal and a werewolf, he’s not going to be living with his dad for very long lmao. 

Actually, I could see Chris and Gerard having a huge, thrown down knock out fight that Chris just barely escapes. When he gets to Peter and Stiles, they get him patched up and taken care of, and when he falls asleep Stiles sends Peter to snuggle with him. 

“Where are you going?” Peter asks, already knowing but wanting to hear it anyway. 

Congrats on the milestone!

(modern era, no warnings! I love this prompt thank u so much)

The worst habit Lambert has developed lately is, without a doubt, ‘forgetting’ his keys. But he just can’t be arsed to bring them around anymore, not when Coën’s archival job has him working mornings and Aiden works from home. There’s always someone in the apartment to buzz him up, and the antiquated, creaky elevator doesn’t require any sort of keycard. It’s nearly never a problem.

Until, of course, it is. Lambert enters the buzzer code over and over and over but no one answers, and to make matters worse he’s got a duffel bag full of expensive groceries that will likely expire in this afternoon heat. Given his luck, Coën’s vegan yoghurt and Aiden’s overpriced salmon have probably already gone off. Lambert shoulders the strap of the bag, slamming the buzzer code in for the eighth time and wishing that the building was modern enough to connect it straight to his phone.

Of course, he also left his phone at home today, so fat lot of fucking good that’d do him.

An angel in a housecoat and slippers exits the mailroom and sees Lambert through the glass windows of the entrance, clearly taking pity on him and his heavy bag. Lambert is pretty sure he knows this guy but wouldn’t be able to place his name on the apartment list; his spirits brighten nonetheless as he waves at his saviour. The resident tucks his letters under his arm and heads over to open the door, even offering him a kind smile.

“Thank you so much, I thought I was fucking screwed!” Lambert grins back toothily and the older man’s demeanour changes immediately to one of abject regret. “Now I just have to pray those shitheads haven’t locked the door.”

23. post-argument + 35. "It was an accident, I swear." T, 700 words, hurt/no comfort

Aiden is the first to break the heavy silence between them. “It was an accident,” he pushes out, words bitter on his tongue. “I swear.”

Lambert doesn’t even look over or bother to stop, whittling down a splintered piece of bark into… well, smaller bark. His grip is tight enough around his dagger that Aiden can practically feel the handle pressing into his own palm as he watches. That’s how injuries usually go for them, and why they have to prepare every potion in duplicate. Lambert’s poison runs through Aiden’s blood. Lambert’s calluses ache at Aiden’s fingers. They’ve been together for so long that they move as one, fight as one, eat as one, sleep as one. Or, they had, anyway.

“If it was an accident,” Lambert retorts, “then take it back.”

It really had been an accident— they’d been fighting over something else entirely when it had slipped out. Aiden hadn’t meant to fuck everything up, but Lambert stokes a unique fury in him. He wishes he had said it differently; he’d had all these childish fantasies of grand romantic gestures or a big dramatic confession. Instead he’d sworn it while stomping his feet and fighting the urge to shove Lambert down into the mud. You’re fucking lucky I love you so much, you whoreson, or I’d be long gone by now!

Totally valid, Fae. I would have loved to see more of Sven, Luka and Illyana, so I'm looking forward to a few more fics around them! I'm ignoring all and anything to do with the sacking, the trials, the worldbuilding.