You know that old clichƩ "write what you know"? Its true. And you know so much more at 34, than you did at 24, and even more at 44 and 54.
I know what its like to have a kid, which makes me better at writing kidfic.
I know what its like to have a career, which makes me better at writing characters with jobs.
I know what its like to pay a mortgage and bills and live on a budget, which makes me write my characters with a job and a house that match (nobody is buying a 3 bedroom house with a yard big enough for a swingset/pool while working the register at the Gas-N-Sip).
I know what its like to live so my characters do too.
34 with an ao3 account is crazy
ā¦.. is it?
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y'all... i am... i think overwhelmed isn't a strong enough word.
The Scripthunt's really, truly, absolute last fundraiser is almost halfway to the goal we set out to raise. Considering we opened the thing just over a day ago and intend for it to run two months, this is... truly overwhelming :'D
Look at all these amazing prizes, make a donation, and enter the drawing. You've got plenty of time before it closes, but at this rate I'll be spending the next few days on the floor
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the curse of adhd:
i will remember with absolute clarity, when the thought strikes me that i have a text to send someone, that this is the fourth time in three days i've attempted to send this specific text
i will forget, in the time it takes me to pick up my phone, that i picked it up intending to send a text
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Drummer!Stiles porn. That's it. That's the fic.
Well. This happened:
And then THIS happened:
So basically, as with all good things, this is all Fizzās fault. I HOPE YOUāRE SATISFIED WITH YOURSELF! HAPPY LATE FREAKING VALENTINES DAY!
Props to Vangoghstars for the beta.
- - -
It starts with chopsticks.
The Pack has descended on the newly-renovated Hale house, armed to the teeth with bad takeout and worse movies and theyāve somehow turned the entire living room into a swamp of blankets, pillows and flailing limbs. As Jackson leans over and snatches the last egg roll out of Stilesā hand to loud protest, Derek canāt help but wonder why the hell heād actually missed them all this semester.
āGood to know college hasnāt mellowed your epicĀ douche-baggery, dude,ā Stiles says with a sigh.Ā
āI called dibs,ā Jackson says, before swallowing three quarters of the roll in one bite. Derek would be impressed but heās seen Stiles down two of the things at once.
Derek watches as Stiles rolls his eyes before snapping theĀ flimsyĀ wooden chopsticks apart with a flourish that shouldnāt work as well as it does. Leaning over, Derek grabs up the lemon chicken before Erica can steal it all and is just spooning a generous helping onto his plate when the tapping starts.
Stiles is drumming away at the coffee table, chopsticks loose and comfortably tucked between his long fingers. The rhythm is sure, obviously practiced and Derekās going to get right on being annoyed by it just as soon as he can focus on anything beyond the way Stilesā right index finger is curled over the fucking stick.
āOh hey,ā Scott says around aĀ mouthfulĀ of cashew chicken. āHowās the band thing going?ā
Stiles grins and nods, and Jesus, even thatās in rhythm. āYeah, really good,ā he says. āIāve got good time apparently - I just have to work on my technique.ā
āHow is that working on technique?ā Jackson says, tapping his own chopstick on the table as Stiles switches rhythm. āYou arenāt even speeding up.ā
Stiles shrugs and Derek only notices because his wrists twist slightly with it, middle finger slipping down one of the chopsticks and fuck. Derek feels his face heat up when he realises he canāt stop staring. āYou need to keep it smooth and controlled,ā Stiles explains, and Derek swallows. Hard. āSpeed comes from good technique, not the other way round.ā
Derekās brain very helpfully asks what other things might come from Stilesā technique and he almost drops the takeaway container in his hand.
āOh hey, lemon chicken!ā Stiles says, ceasing hisĀ impromptuĀ practice session to snag the food out of Derekās grip.
Derekās so thrown that he lets him.
- - -
Stiles starts bringing drumsticks to Pack gatherings, sitting himself on the edge of the group to tap out maddening rhythms on his knees as the werewolves train. The first time heād pulled them out, spinning one stick in a showy twirl between his fingers, Derek had actually staggered a little, missed a basic move, and ended up on his back blinking up at fucking Jackson, of all people.
Itād taken three hours and a lot of bruises to beat that little victory out of the asshole.
When the drumsticks arenāt rubbingĀ frustratingly between Stilesā fingers, theyāre shoved into the back pocket of his jeans. Something Derekās developed a love/hate relationship with because they tend to catch Stilesā shirt as heās walking, hiking the material up over his belt in a way that'sĀ bothĀ hilarious and really, reallyĀ distracting. Seriously, Derek could have lived his whole fucking life without knowing Stiles has three moles dotted across his goddamn hip.
He also could have lived his whole goddamn life without Stiles ever, ever figuring out Derekās little fixation.
Theyāre watching a movie. Which is to say, Scott and Lydia are watching a movie; Jackson, Boyd, Isaac and Erica are engaging in a vicious looking game of go-fish; and Stiles isā¦ driving Derek to goddamn distraction.
Heās tapping away at his knees again because Jackson had thrown a pretzel at him when heād attacked the coffee table earlier. Derek doesnāt know whatās worse, the way his legs are propped open slightly so that creases in his fucking jeans are now on Derekās hate list, or the way the muscles in his forearms bunch and shift as he drums.
Derek couldnāt even tell you what movieās on the screen, because for every one second he glances un-seeing at it, he spends another two watching Stiles out of the corner of his eye. Itās probably a miracle that Stiles takes as long as he does to notice.
It happens during one of those mind-melting littleĀ flourishes Stiles likes to pepper through his practice routines. Stiles double-taps with one stick before twirling the fucking thing like a baton, which is a lot less band-camp and a lot more sex-act according to Derekās traitorous libido. Derek shifts slightly, wetting his lips, and Stiles- Stiles drops the stick.
Derekās eyes snap up and he feels himself freeze, because Stiles is looking back ā mouth a shocked O as he glances between Derekās lips and his eyes. Itās like a train wreck. As one, they both look down at the drumstick on the floor and Derek sees the exact moment Stiles gets it. Because of course he does. Stiles rarely misses anything, which Derek used to think was a good thing because itās saved all their lives more than once.Ā Screw it so hard now.
Derek wrenches his eyes back to the tv and slouches violently his seat. Itās a fucking sad state of affairs when he realises theyāre watching Lady and the Tramp and itās the second worst thing to happen to his day.
- - -
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