orientation ;; demiromantic pansexual, with a few exceptions.
physicals ;; stormcloud eyes gaze out from slightly tanned skin. lanky limbs that bring him to surprising six feet two inches tall. tousled strands hover in shade between light brunette or dark blonde.
abilties ;;
tracking.
full wolf shifts.
enhanced innate skills.
hand to hand combat (minor.)
healing himself, taking another's pain.
persona ;; although to most isaac gives off the front of being insouciant and bitter, with a nonchalance to his being, to those that truly know him he's much different. he uses sarcasm as a weapon, but once his walls are gone he's sweet and self concious. he searches for approval from those he trusts and cares about, though he hates that trait and tends to hide it with more bitter sarcasm.
distinguishing ;; a very thin filigree of silvered-white scars that line almost all parts of his body. although they should have healed when he received the bite, isaac somehow managed to will them to stay. although he sometimes wishes they were gone, for the most part they’re a reminder for him that he survived. one tattoo on his inner left arm, which is this in honour of allison.
history.
you were born exactly on the midnight that hailed the morning of christmas. you were instantaneously beloved; seen as a gift to be born on such a date. your mother, carla, and your father, michael watched upon you with unbridled glee. your brother, camden, was hesitant, but soon upon laying eyes on you, loved you as well. your parents name you isaac, meaning 'he will laugh.' it leads you to a joyous childhood, with a loving mother and a loving father, a loving and protective older brother and a life that’s nearly too good to be true.
your life remained that way until you turned five. that was the day your mother died. childlike innocence never alerted you to anything being wrong, not that day, not ever. not between mother and father. yet you’re in your room, mother in her own, cam out at a baseball game and father with him when you hear it. it’s loud, a clap of thunder on a sunny summer day. you don’t understand, you don’t think you want to, but you go searching anyways.
wandering into your mother’s room, you see something no child should ever see - your other, deceased. your mother, laying in crushed velvet, crushed velvet that pools slowly and rolls towards your feet. it’s warm as it touches you and the gun is still held tight in her hand, shining metallic - and then you scream. what else are you supposed to do? you’re a young child, you know nothing more. you scream, and scream, until there’s sirens in the distance and within seconds, there’s hands holding you.
the hands tow you in, gentle, warm, reassuring. pull you up and hide you from the sight, take you downstairs and hold you close. minutes pass before cam’s home, your father right behind him. they see the police, they see you, and immediately you’re being transferred - your father’s strong arms around you while cam plays with your hair. you’re too young to understand the technical terms being tossed around, but when your father’s arms go weak, your brother is the only thing to stop you from hitting the ground.
four months. that’s how long your father lasts. four months he tries to hold himself together, to take care of you, to take care of cam. but a grieving, betrayed man can only take so much - and he cannot handle the trauma you are suffering from, and one night, he hits you. it burns and you don’t understand, don’t understand why he’s screaming at you to shut up, shut up! shut the fuck up, isaac! you don’t even understand what it means. you’re only six, and you don’t understand. you just want your father back.
of course, camden jumps to your rescue. shouts at your father and you flinch, because why is everyone yelling? you attempt to hide against your big brother, and he scoops you up, he runs. cares for you and patches you up, does his best to make everything bad better. kisses your bruises away, patches every cut. until one day, cam leaves. cam leaves you, just as mother did.
not that you know that. he tells you he’s going off to see some friends. a grand adventure. he promises he’ll be back. you ask him why you can’t go with him, and he softly replies that it’s no place for a child. hurt, betrayed, and confused, you watch him go. his retreating back is the last thing you see, the last memory that is left to rest in your mind.
they come to the door the morning of your eighth birthday. there are no ribbons, no balloons, no birthday cakes. just empty silence. your father was up all night drinking again, so when you answer the door, you’re alone. you’re alone when they ask where your father is. you’re quick to have them hold a second, you quickly wake your father. your shout of pain when your father hits you for waking him has them quickly walking in; but you hide the pain and smile, pretend you’re okay.
that smile fades when they tell you that cam is dead. they offer their condolences, their thanks, for your brother’s bravery. but that is nothing to you. your brother, your guardian, is dead. just like mother. that night, that week, that month, you remain unconsolable until your father shoves you in a freezer. that’s the first time he does it, but it’s not the last.
you spend the next nine years in that sick, repetitive cycle. your father hits you, throws glass at you, teaches you the cruelties of the world in one fell swoop. you debate how awful it would be if he killed you, debate how awful it would be if you killed yourself. yet you don’t, because you have one terrifying thought: what would happen if you survived the attempt on your life?
victimized you remain. you remain in hell until you’re seventeen, when you’re working your graveyard shift and you’re pushed into an open, fresh grave. at first, you’re not surprised. you were expecting to see a grave by now. you were expecting to be in one. you merely weren’t expecting to be alive. you’re not even scared as you lean against the moist earth, staring up in surprise as you notice a man, a man staring down at you.
he pulls you from the grave after moving the backhoe. his name is derek hale, and he offers you a gift you could never except. offers you a bite. one that will make you a werewolf. you don’t understand how it’s possible, and you’re practically certain this man is a psychotic murder, but at the same time, you don’t care. at least if he kills you, you’ll finally be dead. you tell him you’ll think about it, and two days later, you accept the bite.
everything from that moment on passes in a blur. you’re a werewolf, and control comes as naturally to you as breathing. but these new abilities, this alpha, these friends, give you strength, and you become a person you’re not. your father dies, killed by jackson whittemore, also known as a kanima. of course, you and your pack, including outsiders scott mccall and stiles stilinski, the gorgeous allison argent - you take jackson down and make him a werewolf. and then it’s a never ending battle of supernatural against supernatural.
you lose your packmates in the battle. you fight back against your alpha, derek, the one person you trusted. you do it to save your best friends. erica and boyd. the first friends you hand. your best friends. your packmates. but just like that… you fail them, too. they’re dead, gone. you try not to let it hurt too much. in ways, it doesn’t. you’re so used to losing those you love, it doesn’t really matter any more.
so you move on. you join scott mccall. you join his pack after he takes you in, offers you a home after you lose derek. you trust him in ways you hadn’t trusted someone in months, years, trust him like you should truly trust an alpha. along the way you fall in love with allison argent, and she becomes your tether. your anchor.
but life has it’s wicked ways, and you lose her, too. another person, gone. just like that. but not just a person. your first love. your pack mate. your tether. your anchor. all… ripped… away. just like that, in one fell swoop. allison’s father, chris, takes you in, and together you leave. move to france for a good few months before chris decides it’s time to go back.
and so you return. you apologize to the alpha, the pack, you left behind. and you do your best to make everything okay once again, to forget the pain and focus on all the good.
guidelines.
hey hey hello! my name is kat, and i'll be your mun today. i am very glad you've stumbled upon this blog!
one thing i wanna address is that this blog WILL have triggering content. i'll tag it to the best of my abilities, but that only works on the dash, not on the blog itself. some of the things that'll be featured are: substance abuse, self harm, alcohol abuse, mentions of suicide and attempts at suicide, death, and depression. so, there's your warning!
i'll literally roleplay just about anything. angst is my bread and butter, but i'm cool with fluff and cuteness too. you wanna be best friends? great. lovers? fantastic. bitter enemies? SIGN ME UP!! anything is welcome, truly. i don't really do the smut thing. that's just. naaah, man. kili is a horny fucker but i'm just not into the smut. besides, he has a fiance ok.
PARAS ARE MY LIFE. i can do short things and long things and icon things and one liners but--i love paras. give me twelve paragraphs and i'll probably propose.
i can't be on all the time, but i'm almost always available through kik, which, if we're mutuals, you can ask for. i don't often have internet access, thus my being on really fucking sporadically. but i almost always have signal, so ask for my kik!
replies will be delayed, but elly is my top priority. sorry, but she's my best friend, and i talk to her more than the people i live with, and even the guy i'm in love with. she's first for just about everything, but that doesn't mean i'll forget everyone else!
tbh i'm just an awkward turtle. i want friends. gIVE ME LOVE LIKE NEVER BEFORE, BECAUSE LATELY I'VE BEEN CRAVING MORE. sorry, sorry, okay, so. DON'T BE SHY. i'm a selective fuck with who i follow, but i ALWAYS welcome more friends. just shoot me an ask or something and i'll be very happy to be your new buddy, if you can handle my rambling, headcanons at all hours, and nifty habit of turning lighthearted conversations about dick tattoos into soul crushing sadness. and i have a fall out boy obsession, so there's that.
