Topher Lydon

My style sticks out like a sore thumb, so... ::Devious grin:: I came up with a plan... not write one at all this year

Peter is probably the only person who can speak to Andrew like that and get away with it. And like usual he goes right for the jugular.

The file landed on Andrew's desk at 9:47 on a Wednesday morning, and it landed differently than the others. No Cheryl dropping it from height. No elastic bands or faded manila. This one was delivered by Robert Gable's personal assistant, a woman named Margaret who had been with the firm for forty years and spoke in complete sentences that somehow conveyed entire paragraphs of meaning. "Mr. Gable asked me to give you this directly," she said. "Mr. Kellerman is already reviewing the companio

Moby Dick would have a whole lot more angsty Young Adults... interesting

There will be a new Charlie vs in about a month or so. Book V : Charlie vs the Union of Doom

You coulda just used the door Moo-Juice!

12 The descent into starvation was not a sudden, dramatic cliff edge for a three-hundred-year-old apex predator. It was a slow, creeping greyness that settled into the marrow of his bones. For the first time since his arrival in this aggressively cheerful suburban purgatory, Andy was trying to be noble. It was a terrible, itchy, deeply uncomfortable sensation. Historically, when the dark thirst arose, he would simply stalk the cobblestone streets of whichever European capital he was c

The game is moving, and we're starting to see how Merrick intends to use Jason as leverage against Will. It's enough to cause whispers. Inappropriate things with his ward, grooming... whispers that if they got back to Avery-Woods would shatter Will's reputation and trajectory. It doesn't need to be true, it just has to look like it's true. The problem is Jason's past, which he's telling Marcus all about. It's his shameful thoughts. It's all fuel for the pyre being built beneath Will's feet. Once built, all Merrick needs is to hold a match. Image is everything.

This is a good peek behind the curtain at how I write though I'll write the base chapter... let it sit and move on to the next... coming back as I need to and add scenes to build up the chapter. I think the Andrew in court scenes were written first, then the Peter and Andrew apartment scene, with the hockey scenes later, much of the Marcus plot being inserted last. Ideally this chapter should have been the Court scenes and the Peter/andrew scene alone, and the rest in a seperate chapter... but again, I had five minutes to fix things because I was a dumbass and had already hit the publish button on the first half. Ahh well, it all works, just a little longer than usual. The main point is Darius knows what's happening with Marcus/Jason, the photos and Merrick, and is getting a warning to Andrew.

Yes, I was sleepy while typing this, and Darien is a familiar shape when you lack coffee... I'm not a dumbass I swear... I didn't realize I had only published half the chapter when reviewing... and so had to put the other half in without my usual editing pass... which left it a little messy. (been having a couple of days of 'mess') I apologize, I will do better.

HA bad habits die hard, Darius... not Darien... fixed it.

Tiny hiccup, turns out I'd split this chapter in my files when it was supposed to be one. My bad, fixed it now.

The ache in Andrew's shoulders was a dull, persistent throb that no amount of coffee could touch. He rolled his neck as he walked through the marble lobby of Commerce Court West, feeling the protest of muscles he hadn't known existed until Dimitri had introduced them to the concrete floor at seven o'clock Saturday morning. Footwork. Stance. Weight forward, never back. The lessons blurred together now—the mitts, the combinations, the brutal repetition of movements that felt nothing like

Poor Buzzcut is busy rocking the cubical on the third-floor, trying to work out why his porn feed recommendations are suddenly very weird.

Ronan's just a kid with an over-active pheromone gland, and all the over active insecurities that come with being a little different. While standing next to the pressed and perfect Declan that won the genetic lottery and doesn't drive werewolves nuts because they think he's in heat all the time.

This is a minor corrective piece which I sort of consider the same chapter, just told from a different perspective to help with the slightly rushed feel of Chapter ten... I hope it is ok.

There, it's taken me all day, but that should stabalize chapter ten, and make things a bit easier to follow.

11 The interior of the Volvo XC90 was an exercise in pristine, Swedish-engineered silence, but the air inside the cabin was thick enough to choke on. It smelled of rich, conditioned leather, spearmint chewing gum, and the overwhelming, suffocating musk of a teenage werewolf having a quiet nervous breakdown. Marcus Draven kept his hands at a relaxed ten-and-two on the steering wheel, his eyes on the manicured suburban sprawl of Oak Creek rolling past the windshield. He reached over with

I do like the weaponization of an over active pheromone gland, the only problem is, it doesn't work on Andy, he's only affected by Lucas's.

TBH I could have used a bit more time on it, just felt the time crunch today. I think it does show a bit, I tried to cram a bit too much into the chapter and the pacing suffered.

strapping local lads doing me a favour. all of respectable ages, so I don't feel like an old perv staring at them while they tackle what has rapidly become a jungle in my back garden. They started yesterday, but only got half way, so they are coming back... ahhh Community service, sweaty shirtless young men, and friendly smiles while I make them cups of tea, and try not to melt down. Gotta love weekends in the summer.

sorry for the early release, possibly about to be invaded by hunky gardeners... so you know... need to sit in a lounger like I'm Stacy's mom and direct.

10 The history classroom at Oak Creek High School smelled distinctly of floor wax, adolescent anxiety, and stale chalk dust. To Andy “Cooper”—formerly the Scourge of the Carpathians, currently a high school junior for the thirty-seventh time—it smelled like a prison. Andy sat perfectly rigid at his desk in the third row, his vintage leather jacket meticulously adjusted over his shoulders. He was entirely motionless, a predator trapped in a diorama of mundane teenage existence. Two row