→ you know I'd rather work alone than play a supporting role

[studmuffin]

When: August 14th.
Rating: R.
Characters: Everyone! Tell your friends!
Summary: There are no Star Wars people in the City so let's have ourselves a bit of education.

What started off as a brosession quickly turned into a free for all movie night. Not that Stiles minds considering, but it means he has to plan and execute everything a lot more smoothly. So when Saya offers up the equipment they need he jumps at the chance.

Isaac helps cart everything about - werewolf strength, Stiles is envious -, and together they track down a space in Xanadu and fill it. It's not a hot night but it's warm and balmy and nobody's going to end up with pneumonia. Squashy beanbags get borrowed off a particularly hipster coffee shop and placed liberally about the place. They take what they can, couches that fit out of doors and large obnoxious cushions so everyone has a place to settle. There's a fuckton of candy too. Stiles pretty much wipes out a weeks allowance alone getting it and the soda. But if he's doing something he's doing it properly and he texts everyone the time and the place and all but collapses into a beanbag.

When people arrive he'll move. Honest.

Comments

[lefthandedgenius]

She casually flexes and points her toes, not minding the tattoo that Peter beats out on her ankle if it helps him to relax, though Roman's question gets her attention. "What, friends? Mostly. Some are more friendly than others, and none of them are enemies." Thank god. She can't even imagine what it would be like if Deucalion or Jennifer were to show up. Or worse, Peter Hale.

[velveteenwolf]

Peter just settles in on his end of the couch, feigning at careless relaxation, although his fingertips on her ankle betray him. And there's those flicks of blue eyes that watch Roman from under his eyelashes. It's not quite secretive or subtle, but it is unsteady, a little too intent. He's not sure what to make of Roman, where it all fits together. He thought he had, and then there had been Letha, and comas, and too much bullshit for anyone's good.

This place... it almost feels like a reset button, though that feels way too fucking optimistic. Sitting here like this feels like a weird sense of almost deja vu. The same two boys and a different pretty girl, and Peter still pathetically lost in how it makes him feel. His shoulders shrug and he sinks into the couch and pretends like he's rapt on the movie.

[saturniapavonia]

"Mostly." Roman scoffs and shakes his head. But he's just toying with Lydia. Why? Because he's trying to see how to best get a response from her. "If otherwise, you now have two professional assholes to help you handle that."

He throws a glance to the other side of the couch and is very disappointed to see that Peter is doing a great statue impression. What the hell. This can be fun, this can be normal. Why the distant act? Lydia is great. Is he sore that Roman got to her, it seems, first? The thought pleases and revolts him. It's all weird.

"Right?" Long fingertips reach out to tuck his hair. The reach brushes his lips against Lydia's hair. She smells lovely.

[lefthandedgenius]

"Are you entirely sure that's the category you fit in?" Lydia asks, her smile wry. "Because I've known a few pro league assholes in my time."

(In some other part of the universe, Jackson suddenly feels a cold brush of air go down his neck.)

There's a very quick, sidelong glance at Roman, accompanied by the corner of her mouth quirking upward in a flirty grin. But it's also full of I know the game you're playing, sugar. Her gaze then tilts toward Peter, some concern coloring her tone. "You okay?"

[velveteenwolf]

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine." There's a wave of fingers and he forces a smile, but it's a convenient lie.

No, he's totally fucked, but that's nothing to worry about. He distinctly has that feeling of being the oddman out, here. It's the inverse of the creepy feeling he got with Letha, who always paid too much attention to him. Instead, he's on the other side watching Roman flirt with Lydia. She's a nice girl, or, Banshee, or whatever. Pretty, too.

He's not jealous, so much as he is overcome with a feeling that he ought sit on his hands for fear of somehow putting them where they don't belong. He knows enough to know that sliding away to give them space is about the worst fucking choice he can make. So, he smiles and tries to make it stick.

(He might be jealous; it's just not something he understands.)

"But he's right. It's how we make a living." There's a joke there, in the twist of his lips he uses to downplay that tension that scrapes at what Peter allows himself to notice.