@pantslessoptimism sent: "Write me a starter where..." Anne questions why soph is *still* ‘under the weather.’ mwhahahah

      “Girl, you threw up again?” Though Anne posed it as a question, there was no guessing it; she’d heard every heave from the next room. Sophie seemed to have had this stomach bug on and off for a week, going on two. Either she was sick with something more serious—or it was something else. If she was a betting woman, she would’ve put money down on something else. 

     But she decided to give Sophie the benefit of a doubt. 

     She passed her sick friend a damp washcloth, her eyebrows bunched together with thought and concern. “I’m gonna say something—and don’t be getting pissed at me because of it—but you’ve been sick too long for comfort. It’s time to head to the doc office. C’mon. Get up and put your pants on.”

@southern-belle-outcasts​ sent:  “ tonight’s the night.”- Kaylee / Anne

@mcsaiccfmuses​ | title; what’s on your mind? (Anne & Rahne) | from a starter call

     "You've been so quiet. What's on your mind?" 

     Her guest had been an unobtrusive presence from day one. If Anne hadn’t been able to scent her, she might not have even known she was still around. With work and obligations to the pack, it had taken a while for the werewolf to find time to actually sit down and talk to Rahne, but she did so now, while prepping for dinner. 

@pantslessoptimism​ sent:  “I understand this sort of thing requires ice cream of some sort.” (for Anne!)

memes | selectively accepting

     “Well, considering its heartbreak, yes.” Though, it wasn’t actual heartbreak--no one had broken up, but there was still trauma. “I can’t believe the season ended like that.” Anne unfolded her legs from under her and stood, stretching slowly. “I have ice cream. There’s vanilla and strawberry. I don’t keep chocolate in the house, for obvious reasons.” Werewolves couldn’t eat chocolate, at least not without a bad stomachache--among other things--so keeping the temptation away was important. 

     She started for the kitchen and paused. “Oh, there might be some butterscotch sauce somewhere too.”

@southern-belle-outcasts​ sent:  “Damn, I got blood on my shirt.”- Anne / Farrar

memes | selectively accepting

     “Well that tends to happen when you get hurt, hon,” Anne said, without missing a beat. Lucky for him, the injury wasn’t that bad and her quick patchwork would probably be all the care he’d need. Gloves snapped as she pulled them off her hands. “But I guess that goes without saying, huh.”

     It wasn’t really that much blood, but she understood his annoyance. “If you need something clean in the meantime,” she drawled, vowels long, “You can take one outta the ex-boyfriend box. They’ve been washed.” There were a few sweatshirts in there, maybe a t-shirt or two--all shit they had left behind.

@thestingingwasp || cont. from here

     A sharp wave of embarrassment washed over her. Damn, had she been so absorbed in herself and that atmosphere that she hadn’t even noticed the bartender was blind? Apparently so. A little half laugh came out, stifled with a clearing of her throat. “Well,” she began, drawing the word out long, “I’m sure they’ll get the idea I ain’t interested, whoever it is.” Maybe not so much the fact she didn’t drink alcohol, but whatever.

     As the bartender went on, she glanced around, trying to spot the fella or gal who’d ordered the drink for her. Catching no obvious stares, Anne shrugged it off and returned her full attention to him. The joke, while not the funniest she’d heard, did draw a faint smile and an even fainter chuckle. “Good. I was worried for a second. Hate to see good booze go to waste.” And that was the sad, sad truth. For a second, she looked longingly at the drink as he drew it away then took a deep breath.

    By all rights, she should’ve left the bar long before now. The little party her co-workers had thrown was winding down. She didn’t drink and she wasn’t looking for a hook up, but the band was pretty good and she found herself staying because of it.

   When the server slid a drink onto her table and told her someone had bought it for her, Anne had to politely decline. “Look, I don’t drink. I’ve been drinking ginger ale all night. I can’t accept this.” She eased the drink away from her with a small push of her fingertips. “Tell ‘em sorry.”

    She had no plans. No worries. Glen was working and the house was empty. She dressed in her frumpiest clothes—an old sweatshirt, two sizes too big and cotton shorts that disappeared beneath the hem of her shirt. She had a favorite book, a favorite movie playing on TV. Vivian was content.

    Then she heard the sound of a vehicle rolling down the drive. She cursed beneath her breath and went to the window. She recognized Anne’s blonde hair, and Sophie’s darker brunette. What were they doing here?

    “She’ll have heard us by now. We have to act fast, but not suspiciously.” The pie in her lap was still warm, the scent of sweetness and cinnamon filling the space of the vehicle.” Anne looked to the front porch. “God, I hope she don’t lock us out before we even start.”