#thread; lang

@mcsaiccfmuses​​ sent: ❛ You can’t help what you feel, but you can help how you behave. ❜ (Dustin to Lang)

     “By not getting bent outta shape over something… trivial?” Lang said it with a hopeful note, shoving unruly blond-brown curls. “I mean, that’s what I’m trying to do.” He wouldn’t get it. He wasn’t like him. He wasn’t a werewolf, having to constantly be aware of his emotions, to keep them in check. Even just the slightest provocation could make a werewolf lose control. 

@blood-paintedroses​ | verse; untitled | title; i brought coffee (Lang & Jeb) | cont. from here

     “Oh, good.” That was a load off his mind. He’d been worried that the gesture--kind as it was--wouldn’t go over well on account of black coffee. Friendships had ended for less, or so he figured. Speculated. Eh, it probably was it true but it seemed like something that might be true.

     He’d gotten his with the cream and sugar he liked and took a cautious sip of it. Lang’’s attention drifted to the sketchbook, eyeing the drawing, before he quickly looked away, just incase he might be anything like himself--anxious to show any of his art while it was still a work in progress. 

He hesitated a second before he reached in and grabbed a few of the Starbursts. Mostly cherry ones. Cool. Lang unwrapped one and popped it in his mouth.

“Hey. I got coffee for you. I wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I left it black.” Lang chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I hope that’s okay?” There were sugar packets and creamer on the little counter nearby in case it wasn’t.

@gentle-hearted

"Wait... what? Val--You want to be--Valen--" Sentences only half-formed tumbled out of his mouth. And then no words at all.

Valentine's Day had always been a sort of joke growing up, hardly significant among other holidays. And she wanted--

"I've never had a Valentine before," Lang heard himself say. His racing heart made it difficult to hear much else.

@gentle-hearted

Someone had abused the hell out of the book in Lang’s hands. Plucked from the latest donation box, the paperback flopped where the spine had come undone. Water-logged and it smelled of mildew. And something sour, he thought, nose wrinkling. Carefully, he held the sodden pieces together as carefully as he could and turned to see the cover.

Habits of a Happy Brain. Self-help? Yeah, right, he thought, shaking his head. I don’t think it helped the last guy very much. Doubt he's got a happy brain.

And that’s when he heard a woman’s quiet voice interject and he jerked his head. He hadn’t heard or sensed her, so engrossed had he been in unpacking the box. It took Lang several seconds to understand that she’d said something, and another to stumble over “what?”, and one more long moment—seconds, minutes, hours—where he could only gape at a pair of gray eyes.

Realization came rushing all at once, along with the flush of pink that climbed his neck. He looked down at the book. “I didn’t—I mean, it’s not mine. It’s just—” He couldn’t be sure she’d said what he thought she said so “what?” came out again, and Lang smartly shut his mouth.