Couples receive “parent points”, which they can use to purchase their children. Most parents wait for a few thousand, but you chose to buy the cheaper, 100 point child.
Shane knows what it’s like to be a 100 point child. He knows how it feels to see potential parents–potential families–come through the facilities doors, faces bright with excitement. He knows how it feels to see them reading the little plaques on the nursery doors, scanning the lists there for the right bits of knowledge and etiquette and grace that they want their baby to have.
He knows how it feels to see their faces pinch outside the window before they hurry to the next room.
Shane grew up in a 100 point nursery. They had torn, ratty, books and no teachers, and when snack time came, the tray was pushed through a slat in the door. They were called “unruly” and “damaged” and “stupid.” A lot of the other kids threw tantrums and broke furniture (and sometimes other kids). A lot of the other kids went quiet after the first few years when they realized they’d never be adopted until they were old enough (or pretty enough) to be useful. A lot of the kids cried and didn’t stop until they got taken away or were aged out.
Shane’s grown up a lot since aging out. He put himself through school, got himself a job, shed his 100 points like the torn clothes he’d left the facility in. He’s powerful now, successful, and he’s grown out of the twisted nose, big ears, and gap-toothed smile that had made him one of the less attractive 100 point babies. Or maybe he’s grown into them. Who’s to say?
It’s taken him a long time to get enough Parent Points to do what he wants. Being a man is, for once, somewhat hindering as most of society equates “parental” with “maternal.” He’s lost count of how many social workers have politely hid expressions of surprise when he told them he wanted to adopt stag, that he’s willing to take the classes, get the grades, make the oaths to get even one Parent Point.
tbh sherlock could be wearing rainbow lipstick and have “I’m gay” tattooed to his forehead and peaking under his curl fringe every episode and i’d love my smoll son just as well
I thought this sentence was going to end “and the mainstream audience would still insist he’s not gay.”
He has a pack, kit has a father that snaps at him when he wanders too close to their den. They don’t need each other.
But there’s the crux of it.
He trots through the forest, wandering, and he hears Stiles before he sees him, the quick scamper of tiny paws in the fallen leaves, and the streak of russet and black before the fox fixes himself to Peter’s ruff, shaking and biting.
Peter snarls, and rolls, and Stiles darts away, barking happily, a big grin on his face, tongue lolling out, waiting a heartbeat to see Peter give chase.
They don’t need each other. But they chose each other anyway, and Peter likes to think that matters.
~*~
Stiles was a baby, the first time he saw the kit. A baby playing with his father’s paws, darting and yipping as he nibbled on them while the old, stately fox watched with fond amusement.
He was a baby and he didn’t know any better, when Peter crept from the shrubs to stare at them.
His father did, and he’d snarled, shoving the kit behind him as he growled at a wolf four times his size.
Peter eyed him, huffing his disbelief–and Stiles darted out, yipping and flashing tiny sharp teeth, biting at Peter’s paws as he growled.
His father looked so pained by the kit’s behavior, and the kit was so ridiculously, ineffectually fierce, Peter couldn’t help but laugh.
He nosed at the kit until he finally stopped biting Peter’s fur, and peered up at him, golden eyes blinking and a canine smile stretching his little mouth.
~*~
Stiles likes to run. He’s faster than Peter, something that makes him preen, endlessly, until Peter tackles him and mouths at his throat, the fox’s legs kicking at his belly, claws scrabbling for purchase.
John caught them like that once and almost attacked Peter before Stiles wiggled out from under the wolf and bared his teeth in a wild smile and threw himself at the wolf.
Peter yelped and collapsed under the weight and rolled, flashing his pale belly as Stiles barked a happy victory.
John doesn’t like Peter, distrusts wolves in general, but he doesn’t worry much, about Stiles’ safety with the wolf.
Not when Stiles runs fast and sleep, and Peter bounds along in his wake, blue eyes tracking the red blur with avid devotion.
~*~
Peter’s pack dislikes Stiles.
They growl, teeth bared and threatening, when the little fox trips into their den, paws cold and clumsy, pulled along by Peter’s scent.
Peter is at his side in an instant, snarling and snapping until they back down. Isaac lunges for the fox, and Peter shoves the kit out of the way, taking the brunt of the beta’s attack, snarling through the teeth ripping at his shoulder, before he twisted and bit at Isaac’s throat.
Isaac’s pained yelp as Stiles latched onto his heel, dragging him to the ground while Peter sank deadly teeth in his throat.
Isaac lived, only because Stiles whimpered as he pulled away, and Peter forgot the wolf in his haste to curl up behind the fox, grooming him until bright golden eyes slipped closed and he finally slept.
The wolf stayed awake, muzzle alongside his tiny friend’s, watching the pack.
~*~
Stiles is annoying sometimes, loud and chattering as he bounds through the forest, licking at Peter’s muzzle before he darted away. He was a horrible hunter, too loud to be stealthy, and too clumsy to be effective.
Peter didn’t mind, though.
He could kill for the both of them and he sat next to a dead rabbit, sometimes, his eyes half lidded and pleased as Stiles lapped delicately at the blood, and tore into the muscle with savage pleasure.
Later, Peter would finish the rabbit and nose at his fox’s round belly and Stiles would almost purr in contentment as he lazily licked Peter’s muzzle clean.
~*~
They’re an odd pair, and they don’t need each other, really. But Peter likes the fox, and Stiles makes life in the forest brighter, happier. He thinks they look ridiculous, when Stiles clambers up on his back and sleeps, his head resting between Peter’s pricked ears.
He thinks it doesn’t matter, because Stiles’ heartbeat is steady and comforting above him, and it’s lulling him to sleep.
Damn the rest of the forest, the pack and Stiles father and all the chittering gossipy birds.
They’re happiest together.
He sleeps, content, knowing he and his fox are just where they’re meant to be.
hot take but the ring only affected bilbo because it could sense the void that thorin left behind and so it filled that space and made itself precious to bilbo and bilbo let it because, well, it hurt less than to leave that space open for thorin. if thorin had lived the ring eventually would’ve been forgotten in some drawer in erebor somewhere and sauron would’ve spent the next ever being like “where the FUCK is my ring.” in this essay i will
Bootsrcool 