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bisexual-horror-fan · 6 months

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Do-Over-December. Knifeplay And Sugar. "Sweet On You." Buddy Swanson X FEM! AFAB! Reader.

I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas! We are in the home stretch and here we are with Buddy doing some dirty, dirty knifeplay action! I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do! Kinky December's redo marches onwards.

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 3.7K. (Old Length. 3.6K.) Warnings. Established Poly Relationship. Exposition. Some Softness. Some Domesticness. Making Out. Biting. Grinding. Choking. Knifeplay. Cunnilingus. Praise. Pet Names. Dirty Talk. Semi-Public.

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Buddy Swanson was a hard-working guy.

Passionate was one of the most apt descriptors you had for him. He had such a difficult life growing up before you met him. It had taken a long time to get the full story, but you had, he had filled you in about Centre Stage, and Roger and Camilla and his mother and just why he hated theatre so badly and all of it.

One of the things that helped him through those awful times was cooking.

He threw himself into it and developed his skills and worked hard, one of the things that had helped was accepting a job at Camp Clear Vista and with that job, of course, meeting Sam Wescott.

Sam had hired Buddy based on his previous experience from Centre Stage, being lead cook for so many years was impressive, and Buddy didn’t disappoint. They both ended up becoming great friends, Sam was a hard worker himself and appreciated Buddy’s work ethic and how funny he was, that he knew how to let go and have a good time at the end of the day and how he could push him out of his shell. Buddy appreciated how difficult a position Sam was in, running his family’s summer camp after what happened to them was a tall task, and he admired how he took it in stride and with a smile, doing everything he could to do it right and keep it going as close as it was before.

Buddy had started the job pretty soon after moving to America, fleeing Canada after the events of Centre Stage, he lived at the camp obviously, it was a sleep away camp after all. So when camp finished he needed to find a place to live, Sam helpfully suggested letting him stay with him while he found a place, and they just found that they were so compatible living together that instead they both looked for and found a new place, a positively perfect two bedrooms. Buddy got a great job at a restaurant and felt like everything couldn’t be better.

Life was finally good.

Then the next summer, Sam wasn’t driving up to camp by himself, Buddy was with him. It worked out well, there was a program at the restaurant he worked at to give people fresh out of culinary school some real restaurant experience and training, which freed Buddy up to go work at camp in the summer. He intended to keep this habit up as long as Sam did, he was excited about another summer, it was good and fulfilling work, and then something unexpected happened that made his life and to be fair, Sam’s life, infinitely better.

They met you.

You had been hired as a fellow counsellor, and it just kinda ended up happening over the summer. You liked them both, they both liked you, it was all talked about, everyone knew about it, and it ended up working out. Not only that, but you all just clicked so well and brought out the best in each other.

It had to be the best summer of your life.

Days spent running around in the sunshine and swimming and games, activities and looking after campers. And nights spent with either Sam or Buddy or of course both, stargazing and dinners, drinks and stories around the fire and of course much more adult activities.

You all didn’t want to stop seeing each other after the summer.

So you didn’t and suddenly that perfect two-bedroom apartment wasn’t as perfect because you weren’t living there. You spent more nights there than you didn’t. Holidays approaching, and you all agreed that in the New Year that apartment hunting was in order.

You were excited as fuck to move in with them. But for now you enjoyed what you had, spending the night was fun.

Buddy was working at the restaurant tonight, it was later than normal. Where he worked had a reputation as being a great venue for people’s holiday parties and December was usually packed with events, he had been working so damn hard. There had been some nights where you and Sam had a date night, and Buddy had every intention of joining you when he got home. He’d come in and greet you both with a kiss, you’d be watching a movie or something, and he’d take the armchair near the couch and end up passing out right there. Or another night he grabbed a shower soon as he came in and went to his room after to get changed and when you and Sam came in, mid-make out, hot and heavy, you were walking backwards, tugging on Sam’s collar as you pulled him along, both stumbling into Buddy’s room to again find him asleep.

You and Sam ended up in his room instead that night.

You could tell Buddy was annoyed about it too. He loved his job and the work he did, but being worked so aggressively this month and having no energy at the end of the day. Him passing out so frequently and missing out and getting to spend time with you and Sam was starting to get to him.

He missed you a lot.

Thankfully, he was about to get some time off. He was working late to wrap up dessert preparations for this holiday party that was happening tomorrow. It was a closed off private event, the rest of the place would be closed to the public so not as much staff was needed, he had been putting in so much extra time he had earned a few days off.

You and Sam had picked up a lot more skills in the kitchen being with Buddy, so tonight you two had conspired to put some of those skills to work, making dinner for you to wrap up and bring to Buddy’s work to have before you brought him home. He was usually starving after work, but he had fallen into the bad habit of passing out with no dinner from being so tired, bringing him dinner and having him eat before taking him home would hopefully help give him enough energy to actually stay up for your date night. You wanted to celebrate the time off and him getting to spend some proper time with you again.

You found yourself now walking up the back alley behind the restaurant, bundled up, boots crunching through the snow.

Soon you were in front of the back door and knocked loudly. The door swung open, and you were greeted with the sight of your boyfriend, Buddy Swanson himself, he smiled upon seeing you and held the door open, gesturing for you to come inside, “Hey you. Been a while, get in here.”

“Hi Buddy.”

You took the one step up and paused in the doorway, one hand on his chest as you leaned up and kissed him. It was meant to be a quick kiss hello, but in classic Buddy fashion it didn’t stay that way. His hand came to the back of your neck, fingers gripping the soft scarf you had on, and he pulled you closer, he deepened the kiss, you returned it easily, not at all upset at him escalating it so soon. You missed him, missed this. He had pushed you so your back hit the door frame, pressing you against it, kissing you deeply, grip tightening on the back of your neck, your tongue ran over his bottom lip before nipping it playfully, and he groaned against your mouth.

You broke the kiss and his forehead pressed to yours, a quiet, “Fuck.” -breathed out before he allowed himself to pull away. You looked up at him as he stood up straight again, hand smoothing out his apron, you couldn’t help letting out a little laugh from how badly you had gotten to him so quickly. This would be unreasonably fun.

“Missed me that much, hmmm?” You asked playfully.

He scoffed with a roll of his eyes and a laugh of his own, “Obviously.”

You shivered a little, still standing in the open doorway, and he took your hand, pulling you inside, letting the door close behind you two.

“C’mon, I’m almost done.”

You shouldn’t really be doing this. You didn’t work here, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to be bringing his S/O in the back of house after hours, but no one else was here and you both liked the idea of doing things you weren’t supposed to.

Being back here with him reminded you of camp with him. The afternoons and nights you would visit Buddy as he worked, and everything that happened in that kitchen other than cooking. He led you back to where he was working, walking you past the dish pit and stove tops and polished metal tables to one that was covered in trays.

“Well, look at all of this. You’ve been busy.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” He said with a laugh picking up the piping bag and resuming his work, you watched him for a minute, unwrapping your scarf and unzipping your coat, mittens pulled off and stuffed in your pockets.

Your eyes took in the trays scattered about, Buddy had been working tirelessly on improving his dessert making skills and had been working more with the pâtisserie at the restaurant and the work had clearly paid off.

“So, what is all this?” You asked as you shrugged your coat off and dropped it on an empty table behind you, hat pulled off too now. He seemed to brighten at that. He was always excited to share his work with you, he enthusiastically began explaining what was what, gesturing to different desserts, talking about some of the process and challenges they presented, how he had impressed his mentor and how he impressed him so much he had trusted him to finish up on his own. It all sounded delicious and looked even better.

It reminded you of the food you brought. He had finished up decorating the last one and set the piping bag down, wiping his hands off on a rag, and you held up the bag, “Dinner before you clean up?”

“Oh fuck yes! I’m starving, thank you.” He came around the table and took the bag you offered, he leaned down, a kiss pressed to your forehead, and he set the bag down, pulling out the Tupperware and fork you had brought him. It was still warm as he opened the lid, asking, “You and Sam make this?”

You were smiling as you watched him, leaning back on the table as you responded, “You know it.”

Nerves were always common when it came to this. Buddy was so talented, and you were always worried about whatever you made measuring up. You watched as he brought up the first forkful and tried it, holding your breath for a moment, and then his reaction made all that hard work worth it. His eyes rolled back a little, with a satisfied groan, hand coming up to cover his mouth still partially full as he spoke, “Fuckin’ hell. Did you two make the pasta from scratch?”

You recalled earlier that afternoon with Sam, both making dough and cursing as you fussed over the pasta maker, trying to remember exactly how Buddy showed you how to do it. You and Sam figured it out eventually, and seeing how he reacted now, it made you feel happy and proud.

“Yeah we did!” You and Sam had made him pasta from scratch as well as the tomato sauce and put in some sausage too, you had both already had a plate earlier and had liked it but still weren’t sure Buddy would like it.

It was foolish to be honest, of course he would love it, he understood the two of you were amateur cooks and were held to a different standard, plus you two were very important to him, the idea of turning his nose up at something you both had made with love and care was unthinkable. Buddy showed his love often through food and of course appreciated when you and Sam reciprocated.

He stuck the fork back into the food and strode over to you, scooping you up into a hug, swinging you a little, you laughed until he set you down, and you asked, “So it’s good?”

“So good! You and Sam are improving a lot. Thank you.” He praised you a little more as he ate, obviously happy as he ate, expressing the sentiment that he felt so very lucky to have a pair of S/O’s that were not only so damn funny and sweet and beautiful but could also cook too.

Once he had finished up dinner, he just had to run one load of dishes through and put the trays of the finished desserts in the fridge and he could go.

You were eyeing the desserts as he loaded up the dishwasher, you couldn’t help it and when Buddy came back over, wiping his hands on a clean dish rag after having washed his hands, it was like he read your mind when he asked, “You want some?”

“Oh really? Can I?” You asked, and he smiled, his head cocked to the side as he said, “Course. I thought ahead. I made some just for us to take home.”

So thoughtful as per usual. He crouched and pulled out a box from under the counter and opened it up, showing it off, several of the different desserts sitting inside, they looked delectable. “Awe Buddy! Thank you, I can’t wait to try em.”

“Well, why don’t we have one now?” He was looking at you in that one particular way that you positively loved.

He was leaning on one hand that was on the table-top, looking you over, slight smirk, towel thrown over his shoulder. You knew that look well, it was the same one on his face before he kissed you that first sun soaked afternoon in the kitchen at camp. It was playful and flirty look, a tad mischievous too. It was the kind of look that invited you to be playful, and you run with it, “Fuck it. Why not!”

You said, leaning over the box, peering at the confectionary inside before looking up to him. “And what pray-tell does the chef recommend?”

He came around behind you, one hand on your hip as he leaned over your shoulder, a quiet hum as he considered it. “I thiiiink… That you would like this one best.”

He reached over you and into the box. His chest felt warm against your back, and he picked up one of the treats by the wrapper underneath. His hand on your shoulder, leaning back a bit, and he turned you around, you were close to him, looking up at him.

“May I?” He asked as he held out the dessert, and you certainly couldn’t say no to him, you never could, and you allowed him to feed it to you. It felt surprisingly intimate. This wasn’t the first time that something like this happened. You recalled a similar incident at the apartment, where making pizza had turned into a hell of a lot more.

The dessert was amazing, chocolate and cream and fruit all intermingling in this perfectly balanced dance of flavour and texture on your tongue. You couldn’t restrain your moan at the taste, and he smirked at that, Buddy was a lot of things, and one of those things he had in abundance was confidence.

It was a bit messy.

Some of the sweet cream and some smudges of chocolate ended up on his fingers, and your hand closed around his wrist, making unbroken eye contact as you sucked the sweetness from his digits. You could see something in that look of his change, something a little darker, you loved when that side came out to play.

He let out a hum, watching as your tongue rolled between his fingers before sucking them rather obscenely. One of your legs between his, thigh pressed between them, and he let out a sigh before pulling his hand away from you, he felt hard already. Wet fingers slipped down, and he gripped your throat, making you gasp. He was always rougher than Sam was, and it had been so long since you got to have this, have him, that it hit harder than usual.

“You sure you want to do that?” Playing dumb seemed like a fun idea, and so you did. “Mmm do what Buddy?”

He chuckled and shook his head, those soft looking brown curls of his bouncing as he did. “So that is how you want to play it tonight? Be an awful tease?”

You bit your bottom lip as his grip tightened and yeah that did sound good, so good if it would get him to treat you like how you wanted to be treated. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

He let go of your throat and his mouth was on yours so quickly. Kissing you deeply, your arms thrown around his neck, the make out progressed quickly.

You had missed him terribly, were in desperate need and so was he, it had been weeks and while you had Sam of course he hadn’t had either of you, just been too busy and he needed this. He dipped down, and his hands came under your thighs, and he lifted you up, setting you on the mostly empty table that just had your winter clothing on it. He ground on you and the friction felt incredible at that moment, you ground back on him for a second. His kisses were hungry and desperate, and then you felt something you never had before.

Something cold and hard, unrelenting on your thigh. You had worn a skirt and high socks that peeked out of the top of your knee-high boots, and you felt something sliding over the exposed expanse of skin between the top of your sock and the bottom of your skirt. One of your hands in his curls you tugged, getting him to break the kiss, and you looked down to see one of his strong hands gripping your thigh tightly, the other hand dragging the flat part of the blade of a knife over your skin.

Your heart had never beat harder.

His mouth was on your neck, your eyes never left the knife. He moved it slowly and carefully. You had no idea when he had picked it up or his intention with it. He bit down on the side of your throat, your hips bucked slightly at the jolt of heat that sent to your quickly damping core, and he laughed into the crook of your neck.

“Like it that much, hmm?” The knife moved and was soon resting on your inner thigh, and he tapped it there, you spread your legs wider as you stammered, trying to tell him that no, of course you didn’t, but you couldn’t.

The words just wouldn’t come out because they would be a lie. You did like this.

A surprising amount.

Heart pounding, sweating, palms slick, pulse racing, already breathing harder. You couldn’t help it. The danger of it was arousing. The cold steel on your skin that was heating up so quickly was getting to you so badly. Him kissing over your neck was making it worse too, he sucked on the skin where your neck met your shoulder, and you arched into him, whispering his name, voice strained with sheer need, “Buddy…”

“I think you’re ready.” Before you had a chance to ask what he meant he had fallen to his knees in between your spread thighs, he pushed your skirt up higher and the sight of this was too hot to handle. Him looking up at you through his curls, mouth on your inner thigh, hand on your leg near your ankle and his other hand holding the knife to your opposite leg, dangerously close to the edge of your panties. His mouth trailed down, taking his time, and he pressed the flat of the blade to the damp crotch of your panties, and you shivered from the shift in temperature, and he smirked against your skin. You resisted the urge to grind on the knife and instead tried to just enjoy the light pressure it provided. Just sit there and take it and hope he will give you more soon.

His hand slid up your leg and his fingers hooked in the crotch of your panties, and you watched, he paused for emphasis, building the tension. Regardless of what he said about it, Lord knows Buddy had a flair for the dramatic, theatre kid still somewhere inside of him, and then finally he cut the fabric in two, exposing your dripping slit to him.

Your legs were shaking, fear and arousal both running through you, he leaned in, and his tongue finally ran over your clit causing you to moan his name, wanting to arch your hips to get more of your mouth on him, but he pulled back when you tried, “Ah-ah. Might want to re-think moving too much.”

He had adjusted the knife. The sharp edge held to you, biting slightly into your plush thigh and your eyes were wide, and he leaned back in. Another pass of his tongue that then turned into his mouth closing around your clit, a slow suck that ended with a swirl of his tongue over you, and you fought hard not to move a single muscle.

He spoke against your soaked flesh, looking up at you, knife pressed just a bit closer, and your breath caught in your throat.

“I missed this far too much. I’m gonna take my time, and you aren’t going to stop me, baby.”

Another lick that made you desperate to squirm, and he kept going, “I need you to be good and stay nice and still. Let me do what I want to. I trust you to be a good girl and control yourself, but this-” He gestured to the knife with a tilt of his head, glancing at it for a moment, making you do the same as he finished the thought, “-is just extra incentive for you to be good for me.”

Your hands gripped the table’s edge. White knuckled, and he licked over your whole slit again, a breathless laugh before saying, “Better hold on tight.”

Fuck.

#Buddy Swanson x reader #Metal Killer x reader #slasher x reader #BHF writing #Do-Over-December #I love this one omfg

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spaceorphan18 · 2 years

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What are your headcanons about Klaine between episodes 6.08 and 6.13? Do you think they were renting a flat in Lima, or were living with Carole and Burt or Pam?

Ha.

I mean - man does this show love to play fast and loose with living arrangements. I wanna know where Santana slept while she was at the loft ;)

Yeah - so, that time period is such a weird thing.

Okay, so there are a lot of different variables here, so this is my thinking on the subject.

First of all, addressing Kurt's living situation before coming back to Lima. There's no way he could afford to stay in the loft by himself - I'm assuming he and Rachel had a year lease, and she probably continued to have it paid for until the lease runs out. When Kurt and Blaine decided to live together - it was probably assumed that Blaine would have some sort of income to help pay for it. (I have no idea how Kurt was getting a grand a month unless he has some huge student loans, but I'm ignoring that for the time being.) When they brake up, Kurt has to do something cause he can't stay in the loft.

He has a few options - move in with a friend (namely Elliott), move into Nyada dorms, or find a stranger to move in with him. Honestly, a one bedroom apt in NYC, on the cheap side, is around $2000-$4000 a month - there's no way Kurt's living on his own. My guess is that he moved in with Elliott - but it's really up to your own prerogative on that one.

The other thing is - what happens to all his stuff after he comes back to Lima?? Well, again, he could leave it at his new place (with Elliott in my own headcanon) or put it in storage while he looks for a new place. I don't think that he dragged it all home, as that would have been rather pricy, too. My guess is storage - but I mean, again, there's not a solid option.

Anyway - so, Kurt comes back home, he lives with his dad. And - he only plans on being there for a single semester, since that's how long his work study program lasts. (Which... don't get me started on how ridiculous nyada is.)

Meanwhile... Blaine! Moved in with Karofsky in late Sept/Early Oct in some small apartment in Lima. Do they have a six month lease? A year lease? Month by month? My guess is six months, tbh. It's a commitment, but not too much of a commitment.

In Nov. Karofsky moves out (as seen by all the boxes in the apt), and Klaine gets married. Where do we go from here??

We know that Sectionals (6x11 -We Built This Glee Club) is in December, so Kurt and Blaine are in Lima for at least another month.

And then... ?? The problem is that Dreams Come True isn't very clear. Not only is the editing confusing in that episode, even reading the script, it's not fully clear the time line on anything. So, there's not a whole lot of text to pull from. Blaine mentions to Sam that they have a nice place in NYC and that they see everyone in the city -- but there's also a thematic thru line of Klaine going back to NYC for good.

So, did they go back in January? Or stay through the spring when Nationals is held?

There are a lot of different angles on this one, so here's mine...

Kurt and Blaine get married in November - and then immediately head out for their honeymoon. I do think that they're smart enough - even through their happy blissful time in - wherever Sue sent them for a week - they do figure out the living situation.

Blaine keeps the apartment in Lima, and Kurt stays there, but doesn't exactly live there. Kurt's stuff stays split between his dad's home and his NYC storage place (or with Elliott). He does, though, spend his nights with Blaine in the Lima apartment (even if it is all rainbow colored, and a little weird that Blaine had just been living with another guy.)

They stay that way through the holidays. In January, though, there are plenty of different options - but I'm kind of coming up with an interesting one on the spot...

In January, Kurt has to go back to New York -- he stays with Elliott, but starts looking for apartments for he and Blaine to share. Blaine, however, takes the semester off -- as he can start NYU in the fall. This gives him some time to wrap up things in Lima, and see out the six month lease on the Lima apartment which would be up in April.

I know that the two of them living apart when they're first married seems a little odd -- but I think it might actually be good for the new reconciliation and marriage. Instead of jumping into things without talking them through - they make the decision not to throw themselves into a less than ideal situation as they had when Blaine first move into the loft.

The space and time apart gives them time to find a small place that they can afford (between Kurt's loans and Blaine's parents' money), and one that they could feasibly keep once they need to look for jobs once out of college. The distance works - as Kurt doesn't feel too suffocated by the relationship, and the fact that they're married makes Blaine feel secure in it. They've learned from their mistakes and are able to talk through what they want their future to be instead of trying to play it out as it goes along.

Anyway, come April - Blaine moves back to NYC for good, but they do spend time in Lima around Nationals as well as going back for Mr. Schue's back to school stuff in late August. But when Blaine starts school in the fall - they're officially moved out of Lima for good.

And that's my headcanon!! I came up with most of that this evening, and I'm totally working it into a fic - I really like the idea of Kurt and Blaine spending time apart at the beginning of their marriage. Thanks Nonny for the inspiration!! :D

#that's how s.o. sees it #klaine #interesting question!

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ifuckinglovestvincent · 3 years

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THE FORTY-FIVE: ST. VINCENT

Sleazy, gritty, grimy – these are the words used to describe the latest iteration of St. Vincent, Annie Clark’s alter ego. As she teases the release of her upcoming new album, ‘Daddy’s Home’, Eve Barlow finds out who’s wearing the trousers now.

Photos: Zackery Michael

Yellow may be the colour of gold, the hue of a perfect blonde or the shade of the sun, but when it’s too garish, yellow denotes the stain of sickness and the luridness of sleaze. On ‘Pay Your Way In Pain’ – the first single from St. Vincent’s forthcoming sixth album ‘Daddy’s Home’ – Annie Clark basks in the palette of cheap 1970s yellows; a dirty, salacious yellow that even the most prudish of individuals find difficult to avert their gaze from. It’s a yellow that recalls the smell of cigarettes on fingers, the tape across tomorrow’s crime scene or the dull ache of bad penetration.

The video for the single, which dropped last Thursday, features Clark in a blonde wig and suit, channeling a John Cassavetes anti-heroine (think Gena Rowlands in Gloria) and ‘Fame’-era Bowie. She twists in front of too-bright disco lights. She roughs up her voice. She sings about the price we pay for searching for acceptance while being outcast from society. “So I went to the park just to watch the little children/ The mothers saw my heels and they said I wasn’t welcome,” she coos, and you immediately recognise the scene of a free woman threatening the post-nuclear families aspiring to innocence. Clark is here to pervert them.

She laughs. “That’s how I feel!” From her studio in Los Angeles, she begins quoting lyrics from Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Red House’. “It’s a blues song for 2021.” LA is a city Clark reluctantly only half calls home, and one that is opposed to her vastly preferred New York. “I don’t feel any romantic attachment to Los Angeles,” she says of the place she coined the song ‘Los Ageless’ about on 2017’s ‘Masseduction’ (“The Los Ageless hang out by the bar/ Burn the pages of unwritten memoirs”).“The best that could be said of LA is, ‘Yeah it’s nice.’ And it is! LA is easy and pleasant. But if you were a person the last thing you’d want someone to say about you is: ‘She’s nice!’”

On ‘Daddy’s Home’, Clark writes about a past derelict New York; a place Los Angeles would suffocate in. “The idea of New York, the art that came out of it, and my living there,” she says. “I’ve not given up my card. I don’t feel in any way ready to renounce my New York citizenship. I bought an apartment so I didn’t have to.” Her down-and-out New York is one a true masochist would love, and it’s sleazy in excess. Sleaze is usually the thing men flaunt at a woman’s expense. In 2021, the proverbial Daddy in the title is Clark. But there’s also a literal Daddy. He came home in the winter of 2019.

On the title track, Clark sings about “inmate 502”: her father. He was sentenced to 12 years in prison for his involvement in a $43m stock fraud scheme. He went away in May 2010. Clark reacted by writing her third breakthrough album ‘Strange Mercy’ in 2011; inspired not just by her father’s imprisonment but the effects it had on her life.“I mean it was rough stuff,” she says. “It was a fuck show. Absolutely terrible. Gut-wrenching. Like so many times in life, music saved me from all kinds of personal peril. I was angry. I was devastated. There’s a sort of dullness to incarceration where you don’t have any control. It’s like a thud at the basement of your being. So I wrote all about it,” she says.

Back then, she was aloof about meaning. In an interview we did that year, she called from a hotel rooftop in Phoenix and was fried from analytical questions. She excused her lack of desire to talk about ‘Strange Mercy’ as a means of protecting fans who could interpret it at will. Really she was protecting an audience closer to home. It’s clear now that the title track is about her father’s imprisonment (“Our father in exile/ For God only knows how many years”). Clark’s parents divorced when she was a child, and they have eight children in their mixed family, some of whom were very young when ‘Strange Mercy’ came out. She explains this discretion now as her method of sheltering them.

“I am protective of my family,” she says. “It didn’t feel safe to me. I disliked the fact that it was taken as malicious obfuscations. No.” Clark wanted to deal with the family drama in art but not in press. She managed to remain tight-lipped until she became the subject of a different intrusion. As St. Vincent’s star continued to rocket, Clark found herself in a relationship with British model Cara Delevingne from 2014 to 2016, and attracted celebrity tabloid attention. Details of her family’s past were exposed. The Daily Mail came knocking on her sister’s door in Texas, where Clark is from.

“Luckily I’m super tight with my family and the Daily Mail didn’t find anybody who was gonna sell me out,” she says. “They were looking for it. Clark girls are a fucking impenetrable force. We will cut a bitch.”

Four years later, Clark gets to own the narrative herself in the medium that’s most apt: music. “The story has evolved. I’ve evolved. People have grown up. I would rather be the one to tell my story,” she says, ruminating on the misfortune that this was robbed from her: a story that writes itself. “My father’s release from prison is a great starting point, right?” Between tours and whenever she could manage, Clark would go and visit him in prison and would be signing autographs in the visitation room for the inmates, who all followed her success with every album release, press clipping and late night TV spot. She joked to her sisters that she’d become the belle of the ball there. “I don’t have to make that up,” she says.

There’s an ease to Clark’s interview manner that hasn’t existed before. She seems ready not just to discuss her father’s story, but to own certain elements of herself. “Hell where can you run when the outlaw’s inside you,” she sings on the title track, alluding to her common traits with her father. “I’ve always had a relationship with my dad and a good one. We’re very similar,” she says. “The movies we like, the books, he liked fashion. He’s really funny, he’s a good time.” Her father’s release gave Clark and her brothers and sisters permission to joke. “The title, ‘Daddy’s Home’ makes me laugh. It sounds fucking pervy as hell. But it’s about a real father ten years later. I’m Daddy now!”

The question of who’s fathering who is a serious one, but it’s also not serious. Clark wears the idea of Daddy as a costume. She likes to play. She joins today’s Zoom in a pair of sunglasses wider than her face and a silk scarf framing her head. The sunglasses come off, and the scarf is a tool for distraction. She ties it above her forehead, attempts a neckerchief, eventually tosses it aside. Clark can only be earnest for so long before she seeks some mischief. She doesn’t like to stay in reality for extensive periods. “I like to create a world and then I get to live in it and be somebody new every two or three years,” she says. “Who wants to be themselves all the time?”

‘Daddy’s Home‘ began in New York at Electric Lady studios before COVID hit and was finished in her studio in LA. She worked on it with “my friend Jack” [Jack Antonoff, producer for Lana Del Rey, Lorde, Taylor Swift]. Antonoff and Clark worked on ‘Masseduction’ and found a winning formula, pushing Clark’s guitar-orientated electronic universe to its poppiest maximum, without compromising her idiosyncrasies. “We’re simpatico. He’s a dream,” she says. “He played the hell outta instruments on this record. He’s crushing it on drums, crushing it on Wurlitzer.” The pair let loose. They began with ‘The Holiday Party’, one of the warmest tracks Clark’s ever written. It’s as inviting as a winter fireplace, stoked by soulful horns, acoustic guitar and backing singers. “Every time they sang something I’d say, ‘Yeah but can you do it sleazier? Make your voice sound like you’ve been up for three days.” Clark speaks of an unspoken understanding with Antonoff as regards the vibe: “Familiar sounds. The opposite of my hands coming out of the speaker to choke you till you like it. This is not submission. Just inviting. I can tell a story in a different way.”

The entire record is familiar, giving the listener the satisfaction that they’ve heard the songs before but can’t quite place them. It’s a satisfying accompaniment to a pandemic that encouraged nostalgic listening. Clark was nostalgic too. She reverted to records she enjoyed with her father: Stevie Wonder’s catalogue from the 1970s (‘Songs In The Key Of Life’, ‘Innervisions’, ‘Talking Book’) and Steely Dan. “Not to be the dude at the record store but it’s specifically post-flower child idealism of the ’60s,” she explains. “It’s when it flipped into nihilism, which I much prefer. Pre disco, pre punk. That music is in me in a deep way. It’s in my ears.”

On ‘The Melting Of The Sun’ she has a delicious time creating a psychedelic Pink Floyd odyssey while exploring the path tread by her heroes Marilyn Monroe, Joni Mitchell, Joan Didion and Nina Simone. It’s a series of beautiful vignettes of brilliant women who were met with a hostile environment. Clark considers what they did to overcome that. “I’m thanking all these women for making it easier for me to do it. I hope I didn’t totally let them down.” Clark is often the only woman sharing a stage with rock luminaries such as Dave Grohl, Damon Albarn and David Byrne, and has appeared to have shattered a male-centric glass ceiling. She’s unsure she’s doing enough to redress the imbalance. “There are little things I can do and control,” she says of hiring women on her team. “God! Now I feel like I should do more. What should I do? It’s a big question. You know what I have seen a lot more from when I started to now? Girls playing guitar.”

If one woman reinvented the guitar in the past decade, it’s Clark. Behind her is a rack of them. The pandemic has taken her out of the wild in which she’s accustomed to tantalising audiences at night with her displays of riffing and heel-balancing. Instead, she’s chained to her desk. Her obsession with heels in the lyrics of ‘Daddy’s Home’ she reckons may be a reflection of her nights performing ‘Masseduction’ in thigh highs. “I made sure that nothing I wore was comfortable,” she recalls. “Everything was about stricture and structure and latex. I had to train all the time to make sure I could handle it.” Is she taking the heels off when live shows return? “Absofuckinglutely not.”

Clark is interested in the new generation. She’s recently tweeted about Arlo Parks and has become a big fan of Russian singer-songwriter Kate NV. “I’m obsessed with Russia,” she says. In a recent LA Times profile, she professed to a pandemic intellectual fixation on Stalin. “Yeah! I mean right now my computer is propped up on stuff. You are sitting on The Gulag Archipelago, The Best Short Stories Of Dostoyevsky andThe Plays Of Chekhov. I’m kinda in it.” The pop world interests Clark, too. She was credited with a co-write on Swift’s 2019 album ‘Lover’. At last year’s Grammys she performed a duet with Dua Lipa. It was one of the queerest performances the Grammys has ever aired. Clark interrupts.

“What about it seemed queer?!”

You know… The lip bite, for one!

“Wait. Did she bite her lip?”

No, you bit your lip.

“I did?!”

Everyone was talking about it. Come on, Annie.

“Serious? I…”

You both waltzed around each other with matching hairdos, making eyes…

“I have no memory of it.”

Frustrating as it may be in a world of too much information, Clark’s lack of willingness to overanalyse every creative decision she makes or participates in is something to treasure. “I want to be a writer who can write great songs,” she says. “I’m so glad I can play guitar and fuck around in the studio to my heart’s desire but it’s about what you can say. What’s a great song? What lyric is gonna rip your guts open. Just make great shit! That’s where I was with this record. That’s all I wanna do with my life.”

More than a decade into St. Vincent, Clark doesn’t reflect. She looks strictly forward. “I’m like a horse with blinders,” she says. She did make an exception to take stock lately when the phone rang. “I saw a +44 and that gets me excited,” she says. “Who could this be?” Well, who was it? “Paul McCartney,” she says, in disbelief. “Anything I’ve done, any mistake I’ve made, somehow it’s forgiven, assuaged. I did something right in my life if a fucking Beatle called me.”

Now there’s a get out of jail free card if ever she needed one.

Daddy’s Home by St. Vincent is out May 14, 2021.

#‘I HAVE NO MEMORY OF IT’#LOOOOOL #WHY ARE U LIKE THIS #st vincent #full of shit #annie clark #Annie Clark on beds #yellow is the color for dull ache of bad penetration?

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vtforpedro · 3 years

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LONG POST, medical update. ptsd, suicide TW: I’m really tired. I feel like I’ve been saying that for a year but I am exhausted. mind, body and soul exhausted my head got better after I lost the water weight my chemo pill was packing on (I was 15lbs lighter than the three weeks previously. so it was pretty bad lol) but now it’s getting bad again. it never gets to the point of relief, but it gets manageable and now it’s becoming unmanageable again. it’s not water weight but it might be cause I’ve put on a couple pounds over the holidays (just barely a couple pounds, I’m eating much lighter in general) anyway I don’t see the point of being scared to name what it is my neurosurgeon and I believe this is anymore. my psychiatrist thinks it makes sense, my pcp, even the ER doctor I saw on dec. 2nd lol but I am 99.9% sure this is what I have and it does makes sense but every fucking time I think about it for a while it makes me so angry. so so so angry y’all. I wish I could sit every single medical professional I interacted with over the last year or so who didn’t believe me and tell them it’s all been real, they failed me to such a degree I have ptsd and anger problems that I’m going to need therapy for, and tell them to learn how to be better providers. blegh so I saw my neurosurgeon (one of the best in the country) for the first time in april. his thoughts? anxiety with muscle tension in my back and neck that led to tension in my head. as in the muscles around my bones, not inside of my skull. didn’t listen to me or believe me, thought all my crazy symptoms were just anxiety and possibly the chiari malformation but there’s no treatment for that beyond surgery and mine is so mild no one wants to go that route (me most of all lmao) I put off seeing him again because I saw different neurologists and my PCP over the months who basically all said the same thing. like my PCP believed me and gave me referrals to the neuros, but one told me to ‘stop worrying about this and just enjoy life’ and the other sat with me for an hour, the first half of which she was all on board the ‘anxiety is fucking with you, none of this is real’ train until I had to tell her to LISTEN TO MY SYMPTOMS firmly enough that she did. she went the opposite way then and said yeah ok something ‘mechanical’ is happening, you need to go back to a neurosurgeon. turned out she loves the neurosurgeon I saw in april (worship the ground he walks on, were her words) but told me maybe I still needed a second opinion. she did also mention that I’ve been living with this for so long that I’m ‘married to it now’ which still implies I’m making it worse than it actually is but :) whatever, she couldn’t think of what it could be decided to just go back to that neurosurgeon and tell him the physical therapy he prescribed in april I had to stop because it made things worse. his PA tried to prescribe me more PT on the phone before I firmly told her I needed to SPEAK with him face to face because my quality of life is gone, because I get close to killing myself weekly because of how bad this is and nothing has improved since april. only gotten worse. so I had my appt with him in late October I think? I explained all of my symptoms (again) and told him how nothing has changed, things have gotten worse, when I do x y z I have an episode, etc etc. he said he still doesn’t think it’s the chiari but he said it *might* be IIH idiopathic intracranial hypertension first time I’ve ever heard of it and even though it was over 11 months into this, it might just save my life now that I have idiopathic = we don’t fucking know why this happens, intracranial = HAPPENING IN MY SKULL AND BRAIN, hypertension = technically high blood pressure, but for here just high pressure cause my BP is good it is rare, it is unknown why people get it and why others don’t, it is most common in women of child bearing age who are obese. the thought is that the weight on the body causes the brain to very slightly inflate, decreasing spinal fluid flow and increasing pressure in the brain, sometimes CAUSING a chiari malformation to appear, which can cause other symptoms on top of IIH it used to be called pseudotumor cerebri because IIH makes the brain behave like it has a tumor while no tumor is actually present (which means normal MRI/CT scans and the main reason everyone told me I was faking it) I gained 80lbs in less than two years due to severe depression and ptsd. I’ve been at the same weight for almost two years now and was at that weight in Feb 2019 before things started happening in Dec 2019. sometimes it does just come on one day. it can be chronic, it can randomly go into remission and come back, and they have no idea why it even happens. it’s rare enough that no neurologist I saw could even think of it. rare enough that one of the best neurosurgeons in the country didn’t think of it until he decided he believed me lol he leans even more heavily into this because I gained weight so quickly (one of the hallmarks of getting IIH) and I had not a single symptom like it before the weight gain I don’t trust anything or anyone right now and I am extremely pessimistic and have no hope. but the one thing that’s given me a little hope, that’s made me believe this is what I have, is the fucking wikipedia page on IIH. it lists one specific symptom that I’ve seen nowhere else (and is EXTREMELY specific lmao) that I have and that everyone thought I was crazy explaining. beyond destroying your quality of life, the one thing IIH can do is cause permanent blindness. I’ve had a fuck ton of problems with my vision since this all started happening. one of the worst is that if I’m in the middle of an episode and I look up or to the left, it makes it h u r t and makes the episode worse. which is on the wikipedia page! which explains why I couldn’t fucking do EMDR therapy which involves rapid eye movement from side to side :) :) :) even my therapist was thinking this was all in my head and I was just letting my anxiety tell me EMDR would send my head into an episode instead of it actually happening lmaaaao god I am so angry y’all my mom and my uncle The Doctor wanted to commit me in March/April. I had an entire ER nurses station mock me for ten minutes for coming in repeatedly and having bizarre symptoms that, because they were unexplained, they thought I was faking. they belittled me when talking to me. one put the tv remote (no tv in the room) instead of the call button in my hand when I was too out of it to notice. the ER doctor that day told me I was making up a story, none of this was real, and to continue seeing my psychiatrist. I went home that day, told my mom I was fine for her to go back to work (she was angry with me and wanted me to go to a psychiatric hospital), took a shower and planned on swallowing a bottle of pills. I was in agony, utter agony, every single day multiple times a day I thought I was going to die, and it was being made clear to me that no one, not even my mom, believed me. I told my best friend and she talked me out of it, but I came very close and I will forever be heartbroken and angry beyond belief about this (my mom came around not long after this after seeing that this wasn’t going away and has thoroughly apologized for wanting to commit me. she has been helping me every single day since this started even tho she thought it was anxiety. I’m angry but I don’t hold it against her, not after the incredible sacrifices she’s made for me for a year) so yeah. every bizarre symptom, every agonizing thing I go through, the weird discomfort, pain and burning, vision problems, etc etc, all explained by IIH. the very specific ‘looking in a certain direction makes it worse’ has been there since day one. it’s because pressure has increased on the nerve behind my eyes so looking in a certain way aggravates the affected nerve further gaining all that water weight and having my head get so so so severe, enough to send me to the ER again, made me also think this was a real possibility and the ER doc agreed that the fluid retention was making pressure in my brain even more severe and it did ease quite a lot once that was all gone, another reason I believe this is IIH if you read up on IIH or read stories by people with it, it is life altering, debilitating, and agonizing to live with. most people will also have the same story of doctors not believing them and saying it was anxiety before getting this diagnosis the good thing? there’s a cure and while some people may need additional help later on, it works for most people. and it is, very simply, losing weight. 10-20% of body weight (some places say relief can start at just 3%) seems to completely cure it for most people because the brain is no longer inflated and because of that, any chiari malformation (cerebral tonsils sitting in the spinal cord opening) will actually go away, because it makes room in the skull for the tonsils to go back to their normal place I have some trouble knowing that I am partially at fault for gaining weight like I did, but my mom keeps telling me it’s so rare and how could I have possibly known and it was after severe trauma so. trying to deal with that too lol but yeah! weight loss journey. my chemo pill, if you read my last update, completely fucked me up for a while (including the fuckin weight gain despite a low calorie, low fat diet since like nov 1st) so it’s made it hard to lose weight. but now that I’m off of that pill, I’m down 7lbs and I will continue to lose. I have never been more motivated in my life to lose weight lmao and I’ve successfully done it before! I can’t exercise but my neurosurgeon said as the weight comes off and my symptoms start getting better, I will probably be able to incorporate more movement in my life. I can’t even walk around my apt for too long right now cause it builds pressure in my brain. it fucking sucks because this is something they don’t understand, it’s really only diagnosed if everything else has been ruled out (and with a lumbar puncture, but I am too fucking traumatized to have that done. but if I showed high pressure with no reason for it, it would be an ‘official’ IIH diagnosis). but I’m choosing not to do the LP because if I start to have my symptoms relieved as I lose weight, it’s pretty obvious that’s what this has been from the start my brain thinks it has a brain tumor and is going absolutely batshit insane and no matter how much I tried to get people to believe me, it took 11 months to get there. I will carry this with me for the rest of my life and once covid eases, I’m finding a good trauma therapist and working through this if my symptoms DON’T ease, we’ll talk brain surgery. but I think this is what I have and I think I’ll be okay when I lose enough weight (and I’ll feel better all around lol) anyway I’ve had an extremely bad couple of months and I wanted to get this off my chest, sorry it’s so long. if you can please, please, please cross your fingers for me and wish me luck that this is what it is and that over the next handful of months I lose the weight and get my life back, I will appreciate it more than I can say I’m going to thank all of you ahead of time because I lack spoons to reply right now and I also want to thank you all for your support over this last year and never doubting me. for always offering me words of encouragement and for being angry on my behalf. thank you thank you thank you I love you all <3

#personal #medical #health update #tw suicide #long post

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swissmissficrecs · 4 years

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Favorite Sherlock (BBC) Fics of 2019

Once again, my hopes of getting through some of the very tantalizing fics that finished up in December are simply not going to materialize anytime soon, so rather than delay any longer, here are my personal picks for the fics I enjoyed the most last year.

Disclaimers: This list is obviously skewed toward my own personal preferences and reading habits. There are plenty of other fics that I enjoyed, and even more that I simply didn’t get around to reading (yet), so it’s not a judgment if your favorite (or one you wrote) isn’t on here. Think of this as a sampling rather than a definitive list. I hope this will help you to re-acquaint yourself with fics you loved, give a chance to others you may have skipped the first time round, and possibly discover something entirely new and astonishing.

And now, in descending order of length:

Voyages of the Bakerstreet (528,359 words) by fresne Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/OCs Summary: Starfleet never really intended to assemble a crew with a half trained doctor and an alpha Augment with authority issues. But they also didn't really intend for the Borg to make it quite as far as they did. And so...These are the Voyages of the USS Bakerstreet. Her five year mission (make that ten (okay fine twelve year mission + time travel)), to seek out new life and new civilizations. To go boldly.

Proving A Point (186,270 words) by J_Baillier, elldotsee Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Invalided home from Afghanistan, running out of funds and convinced that his surgical career is over, John Watson accepts a mysterious job offer to provide care and companionship for a disabled person. Little does he know how much hangs in the balance of his performance as he settles into his new life at Musgrave Court.

Riptide Lover (114,090 words) by jinglebell Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: The year is 1866. When John becomes swept overboard, he never expects to encounter a living creature of myth. When the merman absconds with John, the lost sailor must use every tool at his disposal to convince Sherlock not to kill him. But it seems that killing John Watson is not what the deadly, beautiful creature has in mind at all... Victorian mermaid AU. Heed the tags.

By A Thousand Cuts (95,774 words) by 7PercentSolution, J_Baillier Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: It's hard to let go of the past, especially when going home for the holidays. An incident just before Christmas brings unpleasant memories to the surface, and the wounds Sherlock carries may take more than just time to heal.

Rebuilding Rome (94,000 words) by SilentAuror Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: When a case unexpectedly forces John to acknowledge some difficult truths about himself and his life, he spirals downward, leaving Sherlock to do his best to rescue him from his own darkness and somehow try to build something new on broken foundations.

Side Effects (86,730 words) by MissDavis Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Life is a lot better for Sherlock and John than it was a year ago. Yes, John still can't walk and Sherlock is still on antidepressants, but they're married now, and almost everything else is back to their version of normal. They have a dog. Sherlock's solving cases again. But when Moriarty learns of their marriage, he escapes from prison and takes it upon himself to make their lives miserable. Is Sherlock really up to the challenge of catching a criminal whose only goal is to make sure that he and John don't live happily ever after?

The Monument of Memory (79,663 words) by J_Baillier Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: A genius traumatised by a past he's only beginning to recall. The psychopath sister that time forgot. A missing woman and a mentalist who may or may not be a murderer. And, in the middle of it all, stands John Watson.

Repairing the Broken Things (75,151 words) by BakerTumblings Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

Just to Hold You Close (70,841 words) by sussexbound Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

White Knight (69,840 words) by DiscordantWords Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Green. The word green was used to convey a great many things. Illness. Envy. Inexperience. Standing there amidst Janine's chattering bridesmaids, watching Sherlock furrow his brow and study fabric swatches, watching him smile and simper and flirt, John thought it a remarkably apt colour choice. Because he felt quite sick to his stomach, he feared the source of said sickness might very well be jealousy, and he had absolutely no idea at all what to do about it. Or: Sherlock needs to fake a relationship for a case. He doesn't ask John.

I'm coming home, John. -SH (67,247 words) by Ranowa Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: In the two years after Sherlock throws himself off the roof of St. Bart's, crunches into the pavement below, and dies in John's arms, John starts texting. He doesn't know that his text messages are being read.

The Low Road (57,327 words) by Jupiter_Ash Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Low Road - n. Behaviour or practice that is deceitful or immoral. The last thing Sherlock remembers is shooting up in his university room in Cambridge. Now he's miles away, in the middle of nowhere, trapped with a man who wants to have sex with him. Where is he? What's going on? And more importantly, who the hell is John Watson? The game is on. But what happens when the other player seems to know you better than you know yourself?

Isosceles (56,609 words) by SilentAuror Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s) Summary: After solving a case for a major celebrity, Sherlock gets himself asked out. When John asks, he discovers that Sherlock has no intention of going, at least not until John agrees to coach him through whatever he might need to know for his date...

The Alphabet Vignettes (49,141 words) by suitesamba Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Twenty-six vignettes featuring Sherlock and John's life after S4. These begin just after E3 and continue into retirement in Sussex, but are presented in a non-linear fashion.

The Lying Doctor (44,285 words) by pagimag Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/Mary Morstan Summary: Sherlock and John's relationship is fragile after the events at Culverton Smith’s hospital. John struggles with guilt and anger issues. During a case he decides to visit his aunt, which leads to an unexpected development. He’s forced to reevaluate ingrained behaviours, confront long lasting issues and question how he leads his life.

Complete as a Human Being (41,661 words) by LollipopCop Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/Mary Morstan Summary: One week after Sherlock's birthday, Irene Adler is back in their lives, living at Baker Street and bringing up old wounds from the past while aggravating new ones. John is not pleased.

Reconcile (36,464 words) by illwick [plus all of the other installments of this terrific series] Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: John views his past through a new lens when he finds his relationship with Sherlock on thin ice.

The Change (28,841 words) by Laur Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Sherlock and John struggle to accept the Wolf as they begin their new relationship.

A Quiet Life (25,176 words) by DiscordantWords Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: There had been three days of silence and a funeral. Sherlock had the terrible feeling that whatever happened next would depend, entirely, on him.

Haunted (22,369 words) by Vulpesmellifera Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Plagued by the past, John moves himself and his daughter to a new flat for a fresh start - and it's not 221B Baker Street. While he grapples with new knowledge and old guilt, he's confronted with odd neighbors and strange noises in the night. But is it the new flat, or is John Watson losing his grip on reality?

John Watson and the Three Spirits (aka A Ghost Story of Christmas) (18,788 words) by PipMer Rating: Teen Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: John hadn’t planned on becoming a grumpy old man. Well, he wasn’t old quite yet. But he wasn’t getting any younger, and as he thought back on his life so far this Christmas Eve, he was coming up with a lot of regrets. He had been here before, at a crossroads. Feeling as if his life were over, only to have it turned around in the blink of an eye. Could it happen again? Or was it finally, truly, too late?

The Palmyra Atoll (16,069 words) by elwinglyre Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island.

stay (just a little bit longer) (15,155 words) by subtext-is-my-division Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: John may not be an expert, but he's pretty sure that shagging your ex is a bloody awful idea. (Shame the sex is so good, though.)

Boat Chase! (14,314 words) by shamelessmash Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago Summary: Sherlock, John and Lestrade are on a case that lead them to Brooklyn, NY. Reluctantly, Sherlock accepts the 99th precincts offer to help with the legwork. Welcome to this Sherlock/Brooklyn 99 crossover, where everyone ships Johnlock, and the case doesn't matter.

The Death and Resurrection of a Beekeeper (12,923 words) by shiplocks_of_love Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Sherlock escapes London for a quiet, solitary life in Sussex, exhausted after the whirlwind of drama following Mary’s death. One day, a letter arrives.

In July of This Year (12,078 words) by yaycoffee Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: There is an oft-cited experiment discussed in classrooms and cocktail parties alike, a convenient analogy when one endeavors to make a point about not noticing the obvious until it is inevitable. Simply, if you place a frog on a hot plate, it will jump off immediately, but if you put that frog on a cool plate and turn up the heat slowly, slowly, it will simply burn. Or: How these two idiots melt together, finally.

Afraid of the Light (12,063 words) by hippocrates460 Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: After everything, comes a time of quiet. There's cases, and Baker Street, and really, life is good. It gives John time to work through something he's been struggling with.

Below Zero (10,912 words) by Calais_Reno Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: 10,000 miles south of London, John Watson sits in a research station in Antarctica. 210 miles above London, Sherlock Holmes is floating in a space station. They are Earth’s only survivors.

Bloodsicles and Bay Leaves (10,724 words) by Zingiber Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade Summary: When Sherlock struggles to ask for John's hand in marriage, he turns to the animal kingdom for inspiration. Biology may be the key to John's heart - or it may kill them both.

Inktober 2019 (31-panel comic) by thinkanddoodle-batch Rating: NSFW (only 1 panel) Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: None given but this is an utterly charming friends-to-lovers story centered on Sherlock’s bed… which he is desperately trying to get John into!

#rec list #best

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

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Feeline Sad || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @mor-beck-more-problems & @deathduty

SUMMARY: Morgan and Deirdre try to unpack where they stand after the events in the woods.The death fam adds a cat to their ranks.

CONTAINS: discussions of death, dying, and violence; brief mentions of emotional abuse

Deirdre sat curled up in the passenger seat of Morgan’s Subaru, knees pulled to her chest and seat belt forgotten. She rocked with each brake, and teetered with each turn. Occasionally, she’d massage the bandages at her throat, but the memory of them there only served to anger her, and so she dropped her hands and would curl up again. Speaking was hard, and her accompanying whiteboard was useless in a car. Morgan couldn’t really stop to look over and read, even if Deirdre could think of something else to say. All she’d managed was the request to go to Lydia’s again, desperate and meak. She’d written it out, and she’d stomached the searing pain to ask in her own tiny voice. She’d thought it’d make her feel better. She’d forgotten about the traffic she’d have to sit and endure. She uncapped her marker and started on the whiteboard, remembered Morgan couldn’t read it while driving, and put it all back. She rocked forward at another stop. Considered a seatbelt; thought it was stupid, and teetered to the right as Morgan turned left. She reached down to fiddle with the radio, and through the static, a voice fizzled to life. Enthusiastic as he read the time and reminded everyone of the date, he proclaimed his listeners wouldn’t believe this next story; remember Eyes to the Sky? Well…

Deirdre hissed and shut the radio off. “How…” she croaked, wincing at the way she sounded---like crinkling paper caught in a breeze. Her accent didn’t help; the lilting quality of it was lost, and she fought against pain just to annunciate. “...long?”

Morgan could see Deirdre rustling beside her. She couldn’t look, not just because of the road, but because seeing her so pathetic and broken after what she had tried to do to Ariana made Morgan’s brain short circuit. She wanted to believe that Deirdre didn’t have it in her, that she would’ve taken one glimpse at the girl’s blood and stopped everything herself. It felt strange to be withholding forgiveness for something that hadn’t actually happened. But intentions mattered, and the knife had been silver, and if Deirdre couldn’t be present long enough to really discuss what had happened or anything else she’d done, maybe Morgan could hold onto what little bitterness she could to bolster her strength. She didn’t answer Deirdre’s question. There was traffic, holiday shopping and rubber necking near some minor accident, how was she supposed to know? “Put on your seatbelt,” she muttered. “Check the road on google maps.” She hadn’t been able to say no to Deirdre’s request, not when she could practically feel how she hurt and knew this was by far one of her more functional requests, but she didn’t have to fake a warmth she struggled to feel.

Referring to google instead of her girlfriend for directions was a strangely cold response, Deirdre wasn’t sure what to think. But it was apt, she reasoned. She deserved it. She knew what going to harm Ariana would mean for the two of them, and she had told herself that such sacrifice was what life demanded of her. This was why her mother said she shouldn’t have relationships of any sort with non-fae, this was it. Deirdre whimpered and obeyed the direction as though she’d been bound to doing it. She took her phone out and realized she didn’t know how to check. She’d never learned. She stared at the map blankly, watching their little blue arrow move--parts of the yellow road colored with red, heavy traffic. What did that mean for them? Normally she would’ve asked, for now she stuffed her phone back into her pocket and continued to cradle herself; a harder task now, with the seatbelt on. She uncapped her marker. I wish the wolf finished the job. She erased it with the sleeve of her sweater. I’m sorr-- Erased. Thank you for-- Gone too. Like that, filling the car with the sound of the marker squeaking across the board, she wrote and erased several sentences. After a while, they stopped making sense. After a few more, they stopped being English altogether. Squeak, squeak, squeak…. She could only hope that Morgan still liked her enough to let her know when they got there.

They rolled to a stoplight. The only sound was Deirdre scribbling away. Morgan couldn’t help but look over at them, her fury rising alongside her anguish. “I hate it when you do that,” she whispered, her voice more tired than anything else. “When you give up. I know you’re grieving, I know the hole she left hurts like nothing else has for you. I’ve been there plenty of times. You know I’ve been there. And you know, in this context I understand needing to do something for her, even something drastic. But every time you pull something horrible, something you know is horrible and hate yourself for like showing up to hurt Ariana of all people...you just give up and I have to be the one who decides to keep going. I hate that, I hate that you can’t fight for yourself, or for us, just a little harder than that…” The light turned and she kept driving. She turned off to take some side roads, the scenic route as her dad would’ve called it, and came around to Lydia’s street from the opposite direction they normally did.

“Look up, we’re almost there,” she said quietly. There were cars lining the street as usual, not good enough to roll onto the fancy drives, but as she drove further down the block, Morgan noticed more than a few police cars among them. Shit, they really couldn’t catch a break, could they?

Deirdre stopped mid stroke, shrill squeak deflating in the air. She rummaged around her jumbled head for understanding. Did Morgan hate her writing? Did Morgan hate her for being sad? Did Morgan hate her? She repeated the words—‘Ariana of all people’. Hadn’t she tried to explain to Morgan that Ariana was the reason Lydia was dead? Did her fondness cloud all criminal responsibility Ariana held? No, she hadn’t been there to do the killing, but didn’t that make it worse? She knew who she was sending. She knew. In some way, Deirdre wasn’t so mad at Athena. At least the warden acted the way a warden ought. Did Morgan hate her? Did Morgan hate having to console her? Was she wrong for feeling so terrible and lost? Deirdre wasn’t sure when it started, but she began to tremble and weep. She held trust that no matter her state, Morgan would care for her. It was the only reason she felt comfort in sharing herself. Did Morgan hate that now? Didn’t she know how hard Deirdre was trying? Deirdre heaved, searing tears trailed her face and she tried to sniffle them away. Morgan hated that, she told herself. Morgan didn’t want to see it. She wanted to look up as Morgan commanded, but her body seized with sobbing. I hate it when you do that, her mother jabbed at her. Stop crying, sit up straight. I hate it.

Deirdre struggled with the marker. HOME, she wrote shakily. Then erased. Morgan would hate that. They came all this way here, and now she couldn’t conduct herself enough to go? STOP, she wrote, quivering as she tried to show Morgan. Morgan would hate that. How dare she make demands, after her actions? The whiteboard clattered against the console, and fell to the car mats. She should look up, Morgan wanted her to look up. The vision of her stuck with glass on the floor of Lydia’s room, saying something about how Deirdre didn’t care, and should stop or go or both, burned in her mind. She didn’t want that again. She should listen. She should look up. “Stop...” she croaked, curling into herself. I hate it when you do that. “Sorry…” She didn’t want to cry, but it was divine mercy that she was too injured to make noise; the glass would thank her if it could. Deirdre turned to unlock her door, pushing it open. She lunged out, jerked back by the seatbelt, stuck in her seat like a child flailing and strapped in. She didn’t even want to be wearing the stupid thing. But maybe it was better, Morgan didn’t like her running away. She hated that.

Morgan realized her mistake as soon as she heard Deirdre sniffle. This wasn’t her normal, everyday girlfriend she was trying to hash it out with. This was Deirdre half woman, half child, and all grief. Grief that she hadn’t known was possible until she’d lived Lydia’s death in the worst way. And then spent her spare time living it over again on a loop. And Morgan needed her normal girlfriend, because she couldn’t live through eternity like this, standing between her and people she loved, and she needed to know if this was a phase or a fatal flaw in the life they’d built. She needed to know how many more times would she have to stomach Deirdre running away without a word. How many times would she hear her talk about murder in away that did not ring with the solemnity and reluctance of her duty or the wryness of her conditioning, but with a tone unhinged, bloodthirsty, almost cruel. But her normal girlfriend wasn’t here, and snapping off like she was wouldn’t help the Deirdre next to her heal back into that shape. “Fuck, I’m sorry…” she hissed. “I’m--babe?” She’d fucked up, yes, but Deirdre was going into a freefall of pain that seemed much bigger than anything Morgan had reckoned on. “Babe, talk to me. Get your--” The board clattered to the floor. Morgan groped for Deirdre’s hand and squeezed it tight. “I hear you,” she said, breathing deep to abate her own panic. What was this? What had she stepped on? What was happening now? “I’m gonna stop the car, I just need to get away from these cop cars so they don’t get suspicious. But I’m gonna. And then we’ll get close, and we’ll talk and we’ll figure things out.” She brought Deirdre’s hand up and pressed a hasty kiss to her knuckles. “I’m sorry I snapped. We’re gonna talk though, and we’ll try to make it okay.” She couldn’t hold Deirdre’s gaze the way she wanted. Just a desperate flash, I’m sorry. What’s happening to you? The rest of her attention was on the officers milling around Lydia’s front lawn and she imagined them discovering the missing book and rice dish. They were stupid things, useless things, but what if someone figured it out? Morgan breathed the way she’d taught Deirdre (In. Hold. Out.) She counted the trees, and finally pulled them to a stop around the corner. No cars along this side of the street except them, and half the houses had fancy walls hiding their front doors and windows. Morgan checked to make sure they were locked in, unbuckled, and turned to Deirdre. Stars above, she was in a bad way. It was hard not to see her own heavy breakdowns reflected in them, the rawness, the shame, the fear.

“Hey,” she said gently. “ I shouldn’t have said those things. I love you and I’m sorry. I need to know what all is going on so I can make it better, babe. But I want to take care of you first, if that’s okay.” She cupped Deirdre’s face, slippery with streams of tears, and tried to guide her gaze to hers, hoping she saw the sincerity and affection she held underneath everything, always. “I’m here, Deirdre. Can I climb over and be close to you…?”

Deirdre trembled, after struggling against her seatbelt, she shut the door and suffered with the stewing embarrassment of being sat there in her state. I hate that. She was sorry. She tried the straight back, empty-eyed look her mother praised, but couldn’t manage it with all her pain. In croaks and heaves, she tried to apologize. She shouldn’t have asked to come out. She should have stayed home, stuck in the dark corner she liked, trying to make Lydia appear in the shadows. Wasn’t this why her mother sent her away to White Crest in the first place? She was just so horrible with grief, she never knew where to put it. She shook herself free of Morgan and dove at the board, thankfully the marker was still in hand. DON'T TOUCH, she wrote, then shook her head furiously. Was this what Morgan felt at Lydia’s? This dissonance of care? STOP, she wrote under it, and then again and again until she filled all the space with her black marks. She wiped the surface down with her hand. SORRY, it was this time, just once. She kept her gaze on the board, trying to get the words right. Her hands shook so much, the marker slipped a few times and the board nearly jumped away. STOP, she wrote again; wiped both words down then stared. ARIANA KILLED LYDIA, she tapped the words with vigour. She gestured to Morgan, then tapped the board. YOU HATE ME.

Morgan did as she was asked and let go, but she scooted close until the console was pressing into her stomach and leaned against her chair, trying to get Deirdre to meet her gaze. “Okay,” she breathed, “Those are two very different issues, so I think we should take them one at a time. She held out a hand, not quite touching but close enough to if Deirdre changed her mind. “I don’t hate you, my love. I don’t think I ever could.” If she didn’t have it in her to hate Deirdre after seeing her brandish a knife at Ariana, she didn’t think she ever would. “I swear to you, I promise, I do not hate you. Not one bit. I promise I love you. We can’t guess the future, but I’m pretty sure I always will. Sometimes there are things that you do that upset me or scare me. I don’t always understand you as much as I want to. But that doesn’t mean I hate you.You are still my love, and you are still my favorite person. If we have to go through this awful grief, there isn’t anyone else I’d want to do it with.” She wished, in selfish lonely moments, that there was more of the Deirdre she was familiar with to go through this with her, but this was the Deirdre she had. There was no other, and how could she turn away from that? “Is there anything I can explain better about that, my love?”

Deirdre blinked, her crying had ceased for the moment, and she hated how easily quelled it was by some sweet words—like a child, she thought bitterly. She wiped the board and started again. YOU SAID YOU HATE THAT. She circled the ‘that’, surrounding it with question marks. Then she gestured at herself. Underneath it she wrote, ME. She was that. She wiped it again. THINK I GIVE UP??? Her writing was quick, grammatical sense thrown to the side. HARD. VERY HARD. Her trying, and her living, all of it. Her moving along, the sense she was trying to make, the place she wanted to make for Lydia. The revenge she sought. All of it, very hard. But to say she’d given up was wrong, was insulting. Deirdre cleaned her words. YOU HATE CARING ABOUT ME. She dropped the marker, scrambling to pick it up, jerking herself away from Morgan. TRUTH. She underlined the word.

Morgan gaped, horrified at Deirdre’s explanation. She remembered her words exactly. She thought she’d been clear. “That is not what I meant at all,” she said. “You are not a ‘that’, Deirdre. Not to me, never to me. I don’t hate you. Or caring for you. Caring for you is--” Morgan felt herself getting louder with desperation and stopped to breathe again. “ When I said that I… I saw what you wrote. About wishing that wolf had killed you. Maybe it was more unfair of me, since you tried to take those words back, but I was just...so hurt by the thought that you might rather be dead in the grass in front of me than try to hang on. And...fuck…” Morgan deflated, more mirror images of her own pain crystalizing into focus as she went on. “Fuck me, I know what that feels like too. I may not understand where it’s coming from for you right now, not exactly, but I know it.” she said, her voice low with recognition. “I’m having a hard time, because the people I love are leaving me or dying, or right on the edge of one of those, and here you are, and I get scared like it’s gonna be the same thing. But when I’m not in my head or acting out of fear, I know how this really is. I know what it’s like to want to be in the ground or the ether with what you’ve lost because the hurt is just so much to bear. I’m sorry, Deirdre…” Slowly, she lifted a hand to Deirdre’s cheek, and cupped it tenderly. Maybe she would slap it away, maybe she wouldn’t, but Morgan would try, and tell her the truth nonetheless. “The truth, my love, is that caring about you, for you, any of that, is the most important thing I have right now.” Her smile turned sad. This had been true since she died and found herself with nothing left, but in the wake of this new death, the fact of her need had turned frightening. How could they be stable when they were both falling apart? What did you fix hurt with when everything felt broken? Morgan had no answers for herself. She only knew that she had to carry them long enough for the two of them to figure their shit out together.

Morgan exhaled, a look of chagrin on her face as she thought of how long that might be and how much hurt might lay between now and then. (How had Deirdre done this when she died? Granted, her depression hadn’t included any attempted fucking murder, but still…) “I understand if you have a hard time believing that, right now. I haven’t been the best to you. I haven’t figured out what you need most yet, for this. I keep...wanting our life to snap back into shape, into how we were before. I want that for us so bad, but that can’t happen, not with her gone. And it’s not fair of me to do that to you. And I am so sorry for that too. I really am, Deirdre.” Somewhere along the way, Morgan’s own eyes began to water as she started to see her love where she really was, all the places she was bent with pain, not just along her body, but inside. Stars above, they weren’t coming out of this the way they’d come in. They couldn’t even if they’d tried. And they probably shouldn’t try, with how badly they were falling apart over misspoken words.

Morgan had thought, deep down, that not being alone would mean the hurt would stop, or she’d somehow be protected. She’d thought dying had been the exception, because who was supposed to live through that, but looking at the mess the two of them were making on each other, she felt a creeping sense of dread that some suffering was unavoidable no matter what. “I want to be better for you,” she said quietly. “Will you let me try, please?”

Deirdre sniffled. Her words had been so piercing then, that this apology sounded fabricated. She didn’t move to anchor them together, but she didn’t flinch out of Morgan’s touch either. She met her eyes finally, staring at her for a moment. She glanced down and flipped the board towards herself, having a lot she wanted to write. She started quick, erasing with hissed curses until her words looked right. She flipped the board back. You don’t understand. She continued to stare, then elaborated. Ariana killed Lydia. She had someone wait in the trees for me. She’s a coward and a hypocrite. She let the words sit there before she wiped them clean. I wish I was dea— she scrubbed it off before she could finish, staring at the whiteness. TERRIBLE. She wrote simply, and then left it there. Vaguely, she knew her penchant for sacrifice was not entirely fair to Morgan or the life they’d built, but she was raised no other way. And while she could feel the wrongness, she didn’t know better. She tried. She tried. It wasn’t fair to say she’d given up. But her pain, all of it—everything that bubbles up to haunt her—it had clear enough paths and beginnings to her. She wanted to be over with her training with Regan, she wanted to absolve herself for every murder or misdeed she’d done. She wished she was either a better person, or a perfect banshee; she could not be both. She tried. She tried it. She hadn’t given that up. She cleaned the board. JUSTICE FOR LYDIA. That she believed, that she trusted in better. She knew the feeling, and she stared at the words waiting for them to coil around her with its steadying energy.

Morgan took Deirdre’s lack of flinching away as a good sign and thumbed the line of her cheekbone in tender strokes. “I love you,” she said. “But I think Ariana is a kid who still doesn’t understand the rules of the world we live in, or who the people around her really are sometimes. I think she wants to believe things are better. And a lot of the time that’s a good thing. This time, it wasn’t. I disagree with you, about her culpability on this. And maybe that’s because I still love her, I am more than ready to admit that, but I do. I don’t need you to be on the same page with me where she’s concerned though, so long as you don’t try to hurt her again. She’s protected, and I want to believe you couldn’t really have killed her, and there are other people more directly responsible who are owed something for what happened to Lydia.” She winced, apologetic for her, well, lack of apology. But she couldn’t betray Ariana or break the honesty she and Deirdre held together by pretending to go along just because Deirdre was fragile and hurt. Not when the stakes were life and death. “But I do believe in justice for Lydia. I know I can’t fully understand what she meant to you, but I know enough, and I want you to have some of that, even if just little. I’m the last person who will give you shit about retribution as a principle.” She held her gaze, searching her face for an expression to read; it was so strange hearing her so quiet. “Can that be okay? If you and I are only partially aligned on this? Will you still let me try for you, Deirdre?”

Deirdre’s eyes grew wide, anger flaring her nostrils. She flicked the board back to her and wrote furiously. She sent a warden to Lydia. She tapped ‘warden’ repeatedly, emphasizing it. Others were there, yes. But where had they learned of Lydia? How did they know where she was going to be? Who created that opening for Chloe’s escape? The freedom of the humans she could understand, in some way, but Lydia’s death she could never. Deirdre’s mind was its own board of investigation, strung together by red string and the things she knew. She didn’t have Ariana’s confession in so many explicit words, but she had enough. All she needed were the other pawns in the scheme, Ariana hadn’t offered them up. Perhaps Athena would. She wiped the board. Not just any hunter. WARDEN. Bad warden. She sighed, wiped at the board again, even when it was clean. Why don’t you understand? Fresh tears renewed an old course down Deirdre's face. Morgan was always so good at understanding, and when she didn’t she tried, but it wasn’t like this. Deirdre considered then, realized it perhaps, that she was alone. Nothing to try anymore. Then she remembered what Morgan was saying about giving up, and she wiped the words down promptly. Walk outside? She paused, in the space left, she crammed more writing. No one is a child when they choose to take life. I was not. She is not.

Morgan sighed, her face too open to hide her disappointment. “I don’t know why she made that choice, with the Warden. I want to believe that maybe...I don’t know. But I would have done even more horrible things to save you, if you were trapped like that. I don’t know why I can’t…” Blame her. Be angry with her? Part of it was because of Chloe and her friends. Ariana was getting her retribution for all those crimes. And for three lives? Maybe if she was in Ariana’s place, that much pain seemed worth it. If she’d been someone who loved Chloe… But that wasn’t an honesty she could explain to this Deirdre. Morgan bowed her head, struggling with this moment. She felt like she was walking a fucking tightrope. She knew that the woman next to her wasn’t completely the Deirdre she knew. That woman had begged Morgan to be good to Ariana no matter what. And the woman next to her thought she was being clear and reasonable and justified. She didn’t even understand how she’d hurt Morgan when they’d pulled into that place outside of town. And she was so fragile, and so alone. What was fair, or right about this? At last Morgan said, “I’d like to take that walk, and put a pause on this so we can just be together, but before we do that...Will it make anything better for you, if I break off from her? If losing me is the price she pays? You don’t have to answer right away if you’re not sure, just...think about it, please. There’s more than one way to cause hurt.” She gave a pained, sad smile and brushed away Deirdre’s tears before getting out and coming around the side of the car to help Deirdre out.

Board wiped clean again, Deirdre wrote solemnly: you don’t understand. She stared off beyond Morgan with finality. She was alone; it echoed against her hollow body. She had to find peace for Lydia on her own. Maybe if there were some fae to rally, she could ask them—but with a warden like Athena around, and a judge like Ariana, it wasn’t safe. It would just be her, just her. Deirdre sighed, calmer now, though not any more relieved—only certain of her own grief fueled convictions. She freed herself from her seatbelt, leaving her board behind as she stepped out. Whatever she had to say now, she imagined it wasn’t plentiful, and she’d bear the pain of speaking for it. Maybe she’d figure out how to use the notes app on her phone, finally. “No,” she croaked as Morgan helped her, “you said you love her. I won’t control your life or relationships. It doesn’t matter to me.” Her eyes stayed on the floor, the grass was nicer here than their street. The houses big and fancy. Did Lydia think of the island as home? She certainly looked at home. “I changed. Lydia could’ve. Ariana didn’t even consider it. No one did. The non-fae are all…” She trailed off, her mind was heavy and she didn’t want to think anymore. She leaned against Morgan as they walked, and waited for the fog to crawl back over her mind and save her from herself. It was better to be in that discordant space, where memories and thoughts blurred. Ravaged by grief was almost a familiar feeling now, and the only way she managed to see Lydia again. “She cared about the supernatural.” Deirdre’s voice crackled, giving out on those words. She coughed, knowing it was wise not to speak again for a while. She let her mind wander instead.

“I do,” Morgan admitted. “I don’t want to lose her, and maybe that makes me a coward. But I think she loves me too, and I would sacrifice that love if doing so would truly help you heal.” Especially if it saved the young wolf’s life too. “I have lost people who were nearly my whole world before. I want you to be able to heal.” Deirdre’s dismissal of the offer wasn’t as reassuring as she might have thought. It didn’t feel like affection so much as resignation. As Morgan put her hand in Deirdre’s, giving her a careful squeeze, she felt the question of Ariana cordoning them off, another film of distance between their efforts to hold on. “No,” she said in a whisper. “No one considered it.” Ariana had reason to see her as only one thing, and that made sense. But Lydia had been leaving. The humans could have been freed and maybe with the safety of distance, with her life thrown upside down, maybe… Morgan shuddered. “I wish we’d gotten a chance to try and convince her. Help her. Maybe I didn’t explain it well enough, or maybe if she’d had you to help her… she really did love her friends. I’d hoped that with enough time, with the right approach… I really did hope for that…” Her voice trailed off. She realized she was trying to convince Deirdre of something, but she wasn’t sure of what. This new, grief-stricken version of her had so many doubts sprouting up from her pain, it was hard to know what she could trust to be believed about herself, what she could trust to stay the same in Deirdre. Morgan pressed a kiss to her shoulder and kept walking. Maybe uncertain was just how being with this Deirdre felt like. “What do you need right now, my love?” She asked after a while.

Sophie liked to walk atop an old stone wall on their way home from school. The wall was only a little taller than Deirdre had been at that age, and yet it looked so much taller with someone wobbling across it. Sophie took each patch of eroded stone with such great confidence, Deirdre never thought she would fall. She walked as if she wasn’t seven, and had known the stones for years. Well, she had fallen one day, Deirdre watched her arm break. But the peculiar bit wasn’t the falling but the return to form, she never stopped walking on that wall. Deirdre thought Lydia was a bit like that, walking on her own wall, even when she knew she’d break her arm. The wall was a disaster waiting to happen though, the middle portion overlooked a harsh drop. Why’d she keep walking? Why didn’t Lydia answer her phone? Deirdre stirred to reality at the sound of Morgan asking her a question, over the last few days, she’d done good to pick up on the auditory clue of it. Snapping herself back into place just quick enough to make it seem like she’d been there all along. “Walk,” she grunted, then surmised that wasn’t an adequate response and considered it. “Lydia—“ Her eyes trailed away. “Bird. Tree. Grass is nice. Did we need to mow the lawn?” She never knew what she needed, that was partly her problem. “Look around.” She beckoned, maybe the answers were hidden. Maybe there was a magical rock they needed to upturn. She couldn’t remember why they’d come here in the first place. Must have been for the magical rocks. “Look.”

Morgan didn’t have the knack for knowing when this Deirdre was slipping into the mazes that twisted around her mind, but she could tell when she was already there. Something went vacant in her eyes, like the part of her that mattered really was floating off into the astral plane or somewhere else. Morgan could see her still there as she tried to answer her question. “I think the lawn is fine,” she said. But, trying to follow the slipstream Deirdre was on, Morgan looked. “Oak. Pigeon flying. Leaves snowing: brown, brown, yellow, brown. Birch. Lamp crackling. Bench resting. Love walking.” She was looking at Deirdre as she said that, though she wasn’t sure if the gesture would be heard. There was still life here, that was always the most terrible and the most comforting part of loss. Nothing around stopped or faltered, only you. Morgan continued to look, wondering how long it would be before the wheel of life’s turn became a comfort again. She looked again, and stopped short. “Babe. Come back to me, babe. You need to look at this with me.”

The black patches of fur hid Lydia’s cat in the shadows well when she was curled up, but something had caught her attention and Niamh’s bright green eyes blinked out from under the bench. Morgan tugged on Deirdre and drew them closer, slowly, but closer. There was a scratch on her nose and built up crust around her eyes. There was no one to pick them out for her, with Lydia gone. She meowed quietly, so soft Morgan didn’t hear so much as she saw her small mouth part for an instant. How long had she been on her own? How frightened was she? Morgan felt a pang of guilt as she remembered Deirdre’s plan so many painful days ago. They were supposed to take care of her. Save her. But she was as lost as they were, waiting to come back to a home that didn’t exist anymore. Morgan knelt down and held out a hand, trying to coax the creature out.

“Love…” Deirdre mused the word in her mouth, played with its sound and ran her tongue over its meaning. She met Morgan’s gaze with a soft, temporary, smile. “Love.” But it wasn’t exactly what she was looking for. There was something here, she knew it. Like death, but all in her head instead of her body. Something missing. Something….cat. Deirdre’s eyes turned to Niamh. They shed tears instantly at the sight of her; skinny and shivering. She knelt down and, like Morgan, slowly reached her hand out. You remember me, don’t you? She asked gently with her eyes. The days Niamh had curled up in her lap, or used her long legs as a pillow. The nights Deirdre ran her fingers through her soft fur, the purring she got as a happy response—playing with her, or feeding her treats. The moments they spent together, with Lydia...surely the cat remembered? Niamh stuck her head out, cautiously sniffing the air. Her big eyes stared out at Morgan and Deirdre. Deirdre inched her hand closer, and when the cat didn’t flinch away, she seized the opportunity to scoop her up. “We should take her to a vet,” Deirdre said, ignoring the sting of speaking. Niamh looked up at her, as if she understood, and didn’t like the idea. Deirdre laughed in a cough, and whispered to the cat that she knew, doctor visits could be terrible. “Just to make sure she's okay. Then we can—can we take her home?” Deirdre pleaded, her own eyes a mimic of the cat’s wide greens.

Morgan sniffled as she scratched Niamh under the collar and picked debris out of her fur. It had been an awful few days for her, Morgan could only imagine. Maybe the home invasion of the rescuers frightened her away, or the police. Maybe she’d tried to come back and had gotten lost, or realized everything was wrong and no one was there to feed her. It didn’t matter now, she supposed. Niamh was nuzzling Deirdre’s hand and trying to make a bed for herself in her arms, the big baby. Not everything she’d lost had stayed gone. She was safe. Morgan met Deirdre’s eyes with a watery smile and brushed her cheek. “Of course we can,” she said. “She’s family, right? And we help each other.” Her eyes lingered on Deirdre’s meaningfully. And I will help you, they said, a silent promise. “Let me help you up so you don’t have to put her down, okay?”

Deirdre gaze dissolved into the distance. “Family…” She frowned, then looked down at Niamh. Lydia was family. This cat was too. But she wasn’t so sure Morgan understood it. “Family looks out for each other. Avenges each other…” But she wouldn’t let the rage-tinged acid that Ariana left in her mouth to taint this reunion. Deirdre shook her head, meeting Morgan’s gaze with her own attempt at something soft. “Okay,” she agreed, letting Morgan help her to her feet. Niamh mewed as she wobbled, leaning on Morgan for support. “Thank you, my love.” She smiled, “I don’t say that enough.” Those she didn’t say much of anything anymore. Deirdre gestured with her head to the car, asking silently if Morgan was good to drive---Lydia’s house forgotten in her mind.

Morgan swallowed her discomfort at the mention of revenge. She would save the discussion on the finer points of a just revenge for another time. The immediate danger had passed and Deirdre needed her now. She pulled on what reserves of calm and strength she had, trying to remember how Deirdre had carried and soothed her when she felt broken before. Morgan braced her girlfriend up and walked them back to the car. “You don’t have to,” she said softly. “Thank me, I mean. I appreciate it, but I do this as a matter of course, as an honor. That’s what it is to do something with you, for you.” She gave her a squeeze as they neared the car, opening the door for the pair and half kneeling in the grass as she secured them inside. What was it Deirdre had said once when she was on the floor? One day at a time? Morgan looked into the eyes of her grief stricken girlfriend, her pain only abated for the moment, her ache for retribution only festering under her wounds. “It’s okay, Deirdre. Or if it’s not, it will be. We’ll take this one day at a time until it is.”

“I don’t know if that’s true…” Deirdre mumbled; about the thanking, she’d meant. About it being a matter of course. “You were so hurt...on the floor that day…like you’d leave…” But where her thought would go, she didn’t know, she didn’t remember. And so, the idea drifted away and Deirdre turned all of her mind to the cat; to what good reamined of Lydia. Maybe there was someone out there who’d find it funny that Lydia could treat an animal so kindly, but would neglect to do so for a human, but it all made sense to Deirdre. Only fae understood each other. And the fae; their ties to nature were undeniable. “One day at a time…” She repeated with a rasp, running her bandaged fingers through Niamh’s fur. “...I don’t know if that’s true either.”

#feeline sad #wr deirdre #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #wickedswriting

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camillemontespan · 4 years

Text

texas forever [drake x camille] [my last fic before i go on holiday]

This will be my final fic before I leave the UK on Monday. I thought it was only apt that this fic be a cute fluffy Drake x Camille thing. It’s just them, no friends, no babies, just Drake x Camille before their universe grew!

I’ll be on tumblr this weekend reading fic and reblogging but this is me signing off from writing. I’ll be sure to post pictures of my holiday as I’m away for 4 weeks :)

Warnings: NSFW.

@moonlightgem7 @emichelle @ibldw-main @mskaneko @katedrakeohd @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @sirbeepsalot @burnsoslow @jovialyouthmusic @dcbbw @rainbowsinthestorm @saivilo @argylemnwrites @loveellamae @walkerswhiskeygirl @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore @drakesensworld @kingliam2019 @pug-bitch @gardeningourmet

************************************************************

It was the magic hour. Drake could tell it was because the setting sun was shining low, casting Camille’s skin in rose gold.

She was driving. Usually, Drake would have balked at the idea of letting his fiancee get behind the wheel but she had insisted; she had never been to Texas before and she wanted to soak up the whole experience.

They were driving a convertible with the top down. Camille had her dark hair pulled up into a messy bun with a silk scarf wrapped around her head; she wore sunglasses shaped like cat eyes. She was wearing Drake’s denim shirt, wearing it like a dress with a belt wrapped around her waist, an outfit that made Drake want to do things to her in the back seat. Drake could smell her Chanel perfume, the scent of jasmine and musk mixing with the heat in the Texas air and the sun cream layered on their skin. It was the smell of paradise.

Camille had chosen the music. She was singing along to Lana del Rey, softly: ‘Now my life is sweet like cinnamon, like a fucking dream I'm living in..’

Drake smiled to himself. This was all he had ever wanted. To be free. Free from Cordonia. Free from the people who had always looked down at him and treated him like the shit on their well heeled shoes. It was made even better with Camille by his side.

They had chosen to visit his mom this summer so Camille could meet her before the wedding. They had arranged to have their wedding at the Walker family ranch and it was to be a private and intimate affair. No press. No publicity. A typical wedding.

Liam had understood. When he had accepted Drake and Camille’s relationship, he was happy to leave the couple to do what they wanted. He had gifted Camille a duchy, followed by a title. He was too generous for his own good. Camille had protested but Liam ignored her; he wanted to show that there were no hard feelings. Camille swallowed her new title like a pill: Duchess of Valtoria. Soon, Drake would be the Duke.

He could laugh at how insane his life had become. Who would have thought the commoner of the court would become a Duke? Actually, who would have thought Drake Walker of all people would be engaged to the most incredible woman to ever grace the court? She was dynamite. He loved everything about her and he still couldn’t believe that he had managed to get her.

This woman who wore his denim shirt like a dress and Converse on her feet. This woman was the real Camille. The Camille he knew that nobody else did. Everyone else saw her wearing elegant outfits and with her hair arranged in a pretty chignon; but Drake knew it was all part of the facade. Camille had told him that she hated looking like a Stepford wife at court. This, right here, was Camille being her true self. Drake felt honoured that he was allowed to see her. As in, really see her.

Camille caught him looking at her with a dopey smile on his face. ‘You okay, Drake?’ she asked.

Drake chuckled. ‘More than okay.’

Camille grinned and reached out to squeeze his hand. ‘Okay, I’ve hogged the music,’ she said. ‘Your turn to pick the tunes. What do you like to listen to in the car?’

‘I don’t really like music..’ Drake lied. He couldn’t admit the truth to her. He couldn’t admit that he was a sucker for 80s rock. Camille could see right through him though.

‘Drake, come on. Be honest. You’ve already heard my terrible taste in 90s boybands so I promise I won’t judge!’

‘Noooo..’

‘Draaaaake, pleeeease!’ she protested. ‘Tell me or I’ll take both hands off the wheel.’

‘Nah, we’ll keep listening to your stuff-’

‘Okay, both hands off the wheel now,’ Camille interrupted, raising her hands in the air as she drove. Drake bolted forward to grab the wheel.

‘Jesus, Montespan!’

Camille giggled. ‘I like to keep you on your toes. Now, music. Tell me what you like.’

Drake sighed. ‘Fine. God, please don’t tell anyone or I am breaking off our engagement.’

Camille gasped. ‘You wouldn’t dare! You love me, Drake Walker!’

Drake smirked, knowing he was beat. ‘Argh, fine, yes, I love you. Okay. Prepare yourself.’

He reached out to take her phone that was connected to the car media system and scrolled through Spotify to find a song. He swallowed and picked it, wishing he had better taste. For a man who had good taste in whiskey, he had truly abysmal taste in music.

The opening bars began to play. A smile began to spread across Camille’s face.

‘Oh my God..’ she whispered. ‘You like…’

‘I do,’ Drake groaned. ‘Damn it, Camille, they’re my guilty pleasure.’

Camille burst into song with the singer. ‘TOMMY USED TO WORK ON THE DOCKS!’ she sang loudly. ‘Union's been on strike, he's down on his luck, it's tough, so tough!’

Drake began to laugh as he listened to Camille sing along to Bon Jovi. He felt the weight lift as he realised that Camille would never judge him. He often forgot that she wasn’t like anybody else he had ever met. She wasn’t going to make fun of him. With this realisation, Drake let go and started to sing along with her, his voice raising higher as he got more into it. Camille hit the steering wheel with her hand like it was a drum.

‘WOAAAAAAAH WE’RE HALFWAY THERE!’ they both hollered. ‘’WOAAAAAAH! LIVING ON A PRAYER!’

Drake raised his hand in the air to make a fist as he sang at the top of his lungs. Camille watched him with wide and excited eyes. She loved it when he relaxed and let go. She liked seeing Drake be silly and lose his inhibitions; she hoped she could encourage more of it.

They drove along the long and empty road, singing to Bon Jovi, with the setting sun casting them in its rose gold glow.

***************************************

Drake and Camille reached the ranch an hour later. The sky was turning purple and blue with the faint glimmer of stars beginning to appear in the velvet twilight. Drake’s mom greeted them at the door.

‘My babies!’ she said, pulling them into a tight hug. ‘I’ve made lasagne. Are you guys hungry? How was your drive? Did you go to the city?’

Drake smiled. His mom was always full of questions.

‘Austin is amazing,’ Camille told her, following Bianca into the kitchen. ‘I love how vibrant it is but still so relaxed. It’s a different pace to New York.’

‘And definitely different to Cordonia,’ Bianca said, giving Camille a nudge. ‘Shame you can’t live here.’

They dished up the lasagne and sat down to eat. Drake poured Camille a glass of wine, pressing a kiss on the top of her head as he did so. Camille flashed him a happy smile.

Drake listened as his fiancee and mother talked about everything. He was so relieved they got on well; not that that was ever going to be an issue. Camille got along with everyone and Bianca was just happy that her son wasn’t destined to live alone forever.

‘So, wedding plans,’ Bianca said, turning serious. ‘Whatcha guys thinking? It’s to be here but what theme do you want? Food? Music?’

Camille took Drake’s hand in hers as she told Bianca what they had been thinking. ‘We would like to hold the ceremony out by the lake,’ she said. ‘So the ‘altar’ can be at the jetty. We figured Liam could officiate. Bertrand will give me away.’

‘It’s gonna be simple,’ Drake joined in. ‘We don’t want anything to take away from the love. Our relationship.. That’s what matters.’

Camille cast her eyes down and smiled. She loved how passionate Drake was.

Bianca studied them for a moment. ‘You know I’m all for this,’ she finally said. ‘But is it a good idea to have this wedding in Texas? You are going to be the new Duke and Duchess of Valtoria. Cordonia might appreciate a public wedding so they can see you and feel involved. You know how petty they can be if tradition isn’t followed-’

‘Fuck tradition,’ Drake interrupted. ‘Camille and I are doing this our way. We are never gonna be traditional so why start now? This wedding is ours. We’re doing it for us, not for Cordonia.’

Bianca smiled. ‘Okay, babe. You do you.’

Camille’s eyes met Drake’s. ‘How have I got you?’ she murmured. ‘How did I get so lucky?’

Drake blushed.

*******************************************

After dinner, Drake and Camille went down to the lake. Drake could see the fireflies playing. He had a blanket in his arms while Camille was holding the most precious of items - a bottle of whiskey. They settled down on the blanket by the lake. Drake pulled Camille into his side as she unscrewed the bottle cap and took a deep swig before offering it to Drake. He took the bottle gratefully.

‘Texas is gorgeous,’ Camille whispered. ‘I feel so at peace here.’

Drake squeezed her tight. ‘I’m glad, baby,’ he murmured. ‘I’m glad you like my home.’

‘Our home,’ Camille corrected him.

Drake chuckled. ‘We don’t live here.’

‘No, but maybe… we could? Like, in the summer?’ Camille suggested, her voice hopeful. ‘It would mean we could get away from Cordonia for a while. Our summer holiday. Besides, your mom would love to see you more and our kids would need to see their grandma-’

‘Our kids?’ Drake asked, his eyes widening. They had never discussed children before. Never.

Camille turned red, regretting her words. ‘Oh. Yeah. I mean, we don’t have to have kids, I guess I just always pictured myself as a mom.. I get it if you don’t want them, I know they can be bratty and full of tantrums and it’s a lot of responsibility..’

She was babbling now, panicking that she had scared him. When Camille panicked, she couldn’t stop talking.

‘And I guess they’re a drain on finances and they shit everywhere but I suppose I’d love to see you as a dad. I think you’d be really good at it but I understand if you don’t want them. No pressure! I just thought-’

‘Camille,’ Drake interrupted, his voice steady. ‘Relax.’

Camille let out a breath. Without a word, she took the bottle of whiskey from him and took a deep gulp. Drake laughed.

‘Okay, wanna hear my thoughts?’ he asked.

Camille shrugged, trying to play it cool. ‘You don’t have to.’

‘I guess I do want kids,’ Drake told her honestly. ‘I’ve always wanted a family. But I never saw myself having a family because hey, it’s me. I was always alone. But now.. I’m re-evaluating everything. I’ve got you. You’re my family. Do I want to have babies with you? Miniature Camille’s? Fuck yeah.’

Camille giggled. She was looking at him now, relieved that he hadn’t abandoned her by the lake and flown back to Cordonia to escape from her baby brain.

Drake looked out towards the lake as he spoke. He wore a look of intense seriousness on his face. ‘Do I see myself here with my kid teaching them how to fish? Yeah. Do I see myself teaching my kid how to set up a tent and toast s’mores? Yeah. I do. I have never imagined that sort of thing before, Camille, but ever since I’ve been with you, I’ve allowed myself to think of these things. I’ve given myself permission to just.. Dream.’

Camille snuggled into him now, resting her head on his chest. ‘I’d love to see you teach our kids how to toast s’mores. And to fish. Just all of the cute outdoor things. Normal things.’

Drake smirked. ‘Our kids are going to be so fucking normal, it will cause genuine pain to the Cordonian nobles.’

‘Ha!’ Camille laughed. ‘Yes. Can you imagine the outrage?!’

Drake rolled his eyes then got serious again. ‘I’d love it for Texas to be a place where we can just relax with our family and get away from all the pressure. I’d love it. And yeah, my mom would love to see our kids. She would be such a cool grandma.’

Camille grinned as she listened to Drake talk about their future. She was so happy. She was going to have a family; that was all she had ever wanted.

*********************************************

They drank more whiskey and talked more about the future. They made plans that they swore they would never break. Drunk off the amber liquid, Camille leaned close to Drake and held out her pinkie.

‘Pinkie swear,’ she slurred, keeping her brown eyes fixed on his. ‘Pinkie swear that we will always put us first. We’ll be a team.’

Drake held out his pinkie and said solemnly, ‘I swear.’

Their pinkies connected.

‘I will be a wife and mother first, Duchess second,’ Camille said, looking very serious.

Drake grinned. ‘I will be a husband and father first, Duke second.’

Camille now looked satisfied. ‘You pinkie swore which means you can’t go back on that.’

Drake threw back his head as he laughed. ‘Camille, why the fuck would I go back on that promise?’ he asked. ‘That’s a fucking good promise to keep.’

Camille smiled and helped herself to more whiskey. She eyed Drake over the rim of the bottle. ‘Y’know,’ she said, licking her lips with her tongue which made Drake’s eyes dart to her mouth, ‘I like talking about babies with you.’

‘Oh really?’ Drake said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Does the idea of me being a dad get you off?’

Camille giggled. ‘Sort of! I mean, you’re going to be a DILF, let’s not beat around the bush here..’

Drake’s eyes flicked down to her crotch. ‘Well..’

‘Oh my God, Drake!’ Camille squealed, pushing him gently. ‘You’re such a perv!’

‘I’m gonna be your husband, I’m allowed to perv!’ Drake protested. ‘Also, you started it!’ He took the whiskey from her and swigged. He could feel Camille watching him. She edged close to him and kissed his cheek lightly.

‘Camille, if you want to jump my bones, you can just say so,’ he teased. ‘I’m not stopping you.’

Camille reached out to take the bottle of whiskey. Drake thought she didn’t need anymore but was surprised when she placed it on the ground beside her. ‘Drake,’ she murmured, her voice like caramel. Drake looked at her; he knew what she was thinking. He could tell from the glint in her eye.

Drake watched her as she stood up, slightly unsteady on her feet, and began to undress. She pulled Drake’s denim shirt that she had made into a dress off before slipping her feet out of her Converse. She stood before him, bathed in the moonlight, in her rose pink lace underwear. Drake felt his jeans tighten.

‘Fuck, Camille..’ he groaned.

Camille reached up to untie the scarf around her head. Her messy bun fell down in loose waves and she shook her hair out. She smiled at Drake’s heated gaze on her. She slowly unclipped her bra. Her hands pulled down her thong, discarding the garments to the ground. She was naked, in all her glory.

‘Come here,’ Drake croaked.

Camille smiled like she had a secret. ‘You better catch me first,’ she whispered. Before Drake could reply, she turned and jumped from the jetty into the lake.

*********************************************

Drake practically ripped his clothes off. For one thing, he wasn’t sure she should be swimming in her current drunken state, but he also really really needed to touch her. She couldn’t leave him hanging like that. Not after her little strip tease and the way the moon had illuminated her body to make her look like an angel.

He jumped in after Camille.

She had swam a little further out and was now floating in the water. The moon shone down on her wet skin, making her glimmer. Drake reached her and gently pulled her across to him; their chests pressed together as their mouths collided.

Drake’s fingers dragged through her wet hair as he pulled her in as close as he could. It was a heated, desperate kiss with pent up frustration. When they pulled away for air, Drake gently pulled her towards the shallow part of the lake so he could find his footing. Once stable, the kissing recommenced.

Camille wrapped her legs around his waist; her hand reached down to grip his cock.

‘Jesus Christ, I don’t deserve you,’ Drake growled in her ear.

‘You deserve everything,’ Camille replied. She positioned herself so Drake could slip inside her easily. ‘Take it, Drake.’

He needed no further prompting. He plunged into her and Camille let out a guttural cry. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she felt the impact as he filled her entirely. Drake let out a harsh groan as he felt her tighten around him and her breath in his ear as his hips bucked against hers.

‘Oh god, oh god..’ she breathed.

Drake’s teeth tugged on her lower lip, making the heat in her core turn to fire. Their eyes met and Drake pressed another desperate kiss on her lips as if he could tattoo his touch on her skin forever.

The pace became more rapid. The water around them was making waves from their movements. Camille’s walls tightened further and her fingernails scratched his back as she began to feel the wave in her stomach build up.

‘Drake, I’m gonna-’

‘Come for me, Camille,’ Drake groaned, driving harder into her. ‘Let go.’

Her body spasmed. She bit into his shoulder as she cried out, her voice echoing across the lake. Drake fell apart.

For a long moment, everything was still. The lake became placid, the fireflies had stopped their dance, the sky was clear. All they could hear was the other’s breathing as they calmed down.

They untangled themselves. Drake cupped her chin with his fingers as he kissed her softly now.

‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘If this is what my life is going to be like, then I’ll die happy.’

Camille blushed. ‘I love you too,’ she whispered back. She reached out to wrap her arms around his neck. ‘This is your life, Drake. This is it.’

*************************************************

They spent the next few hours drying off on the jetty. Drake had wrapped the blanket around the two of them; Camille settled in his lap, her back against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. Together, they looked out onto the dark water of the lake and the fireflies that darted in the night sky, acting like little lights.

‘I want to stay here forever,’ Camille murmured.

Drake squeezed her tightly. ‘In the summer,’ he assured her.

‘I wish it could be all year.’

Drake smiled. ‘Texas will always be here,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Texas forever.’

Camille snuggled into him and rested her head back on his shoulder. Her lips brushed his neck as she whispered back, ‘Texas forever.’

#drake walker #trr fanfic #drake walker x mc #the royal romance

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wxlawson · 3 years

Photo

[ WAGNER ‘WOODY’ LAWSON. 42. CISMALE. HE/HIM] is here! They’ve lived in Silver Lake for [ THREE YEARS ] and are originally from [ TENESEE]. They are a [ MANAGER AT A DUDE RANCH ] and in their downtime love [ COLT STARTING ] and [ TAKING NAPS IN THE HAYLOFT ]. They look a lot like [ MILO VENTIMIGLIA] and live [ IN OASIS APTS ]

Name: Wagner ‘Woody’ Lawson

Age: Forty-Two

Birthday: January 25, 1979

Sign: Aquarius

Home: Quaint two-bedroom home with a small yard

Occupation: Manager at a dude ranch

Character Quote: “Sometimes I feel like Jesse James / Still tryin’ to make a name / Knowing nothing’s gonna change what I am” ~Troubadour by George Strait

Pos. Traits: Hard-Working, Steady, Humble

Neg. Traits: Blunt, Firm, Dissonant

Likes: farm work, aged whiskey, loping through the open country

Dislikes: people who push around others, well-done steak, warm beer

Aesthetic: tennessee whiskey, the smell of fresh hay, roping

~bio~

Born in Tennessee Wagner Lawson was raised along the banks of Mississippi mud, never given a chance to be anything but the down-home country boy, which had always suited Wagner just fine. His daddy was a colt starter and former rodeo champion, having won national titles for roping and reining. From the moment Wagner could waddle he was following his daddy around everywhere, at first just watching as his father worked and as he got older helping with the chores himself. He found that spending time tending to the many horses cathartic and volunteered for just about any chore that would get him around them. Never once did he need to be asked to pitch in to do what was needed at the family ranch, from picking vegetables in the garden for his mama to helping his daddy check the cattle fences. As far as most childhoods go, his was pretty perfect. Sure, sometimes his dad drank too much and sometimes his mom just would not stop fussing over him, but he had no cause to complain.

His father, seeing his boy take an interest in horses at such a young age decided to help Wagner begin to follow in his footsteps. As a kid he enrolled Wagner in the pee-wee portion of rodeos where his wife would take pictures of the young boy struggling to stay on the back of a wildly running sheep, but in the end, he stayed on. He almost always did. With natural talent like that his father was quick to get his son started on the path to becoming a bull-rider. His mama threw fits and got into fights with his daddy, it was too dangerous, he could be hurt, killed even, but as he got older and started to have a mind of his own there was nothing that he wanted to do more. So he practiced, and practiced. By sixteen he was competing on broncs, a safer alternative to the bull, and was cleaning up at junior rodeos, his room becoming full of belt buckles, the tack room full of all the special made trophy tack he had won. But being bucked was far from his only talent. At age ten he had broke his very first colt and at twelve he was winning local roping competitions. He even became adept at helping his dad sort and catch cattle, something he was never fond of but did anyways as it was expected of him. Despite how it sounds, his childhood wasn’t all work. While never the best in school he managed to get passing marks and had a group of boys he roughhoused and fucked around with who were constantly getting him into trouble as a teenager.

Fast forward a few years and he was one of the hottest young bull riders to hit the circuit. But his career as a rider didn’t last as long as anyone would have hoped. The reason? He fell in love. Some would have called the pretty woman he fell in love with a buckle bunny, what with her affinity of dating all the big rodeo stars, but when him and her spent one night together the rest was history. Now twenty-two and married with a baby on the way, Wagner knew he could not be as hell mell as he had been for the past few years. He now had a family to think about; and so, he quit bull riding and switched exclusively to broncs. It was still dangerous, but the risks less than if he was on the back of a bull. Life went on and for the most part the little family was happy, until tragedy struck. On the night of his twenty-eighth birthday, with his wife and little girl in the stands, he overtightened the strap around his hand. At first everything seemed to be going well, he had one of his best times, but as he threw himself off the bucking bronco his hand caught. It was an instant disaster. The animal began to panic, bucking harder and higher, with Wagner hanging on for dear life. His only blessing was that the first hoof to his head knocked him out cold. He was rammed into the side of the fence and drug for minutes before those in charge of wrangling the horse were finally able to calm it down. In the midst of the chaos, his wife, fretting over her husband, had not noticed her daughter slip down through the stands calling out for her daddy. No one noticed her presence in the ring until it was too late. All it took was one wrong move from the frightened animal and the sunshine of Wagner’s life was no more.

The blow to Wagner’s own head had been so severe that he was kept in a medically induced coma for two-weeks, giving the wounded flesh time to heal. When he awoke, his whole world was shattered. He grieved, and as he did his grief turned to anger. Anger at the situation, anger at the long arduous healing process, and anger at himself. But all that anger had to go somewhere, and with the only person around during his recovery being his wife, she took the brunt of it. It took him a little over a year to fully heal physically, and during that time he began to develop a dependency on his pain medication. He spent his days sitting in front of the tv drinking beer after beer on top of the opiates as his wife worked in a small diner to try and keep the roof over their heads. One day, a year and half after the tragic accident, the woman had decided that she had had enough. She gave Wagner an ultimatum, get help or she was gone. It led to largest fight yet, a massive blowout that made it clear where Wagner stood.

At that point he was nearing thirty and with nowhere else to go moved back in with his parents. His father though older now was still tough as nails and no patience for his son’s pansiness as he called it. He put Wagner to work. Sober or not he was expected to help, and if he didn’t, God help him. At first he railed, his rage boiling over and eclipsing everything. Rather than argue with his son, the elder Lawson simply gave him a new task. It would be his only job- start the colts. It was something Wagner had used to excel at, but his anger and rage at the horse’s mis compliance made things difficult. The gentle animals became scared of him and began to lash out. One colt in particular, a beautiful bay, resented Wagner more than any of the others, and he let him know it. That was Wagner’s wake up call. He ended up forming a bond with that colt that pulled him out of his stupor and set him back on track. His special relationship with that animal also earned him a nickname, Woody, because wherever Woody went, Buzz followed. Buzz and Woody quickly began racking up wins in roping and reining competitions, and for the next years, Woody allowed himself to feel the happiness that had come into his life. The two traveled all over the countryside, with Woody picking up odd jobs such as stable hand or working cowboy. Until one competition where in the middle Buzz came up lame with an injury too bad to fix, leaving Woody the tough choice of having to put his beloved companion down.

The loss of his friend sent Wagner ass-first back into the destructive patterns of his life, drugs and alcohol once more waging war inside his body. Only this time he wasn’t a young man, and the substances were taking a heavy toll on his health, not that he cared. His parents, unable to reach him, packed his things and kicked him out. Woody’s father, unable to completely give up on his son, reached out to an old friend who owned a dude ranch an hour outside of LA. For over a year Woody lived there, forced to claw his way back to sobriety through back-breaking labor. The option was always there for him to quit the job, fend for himself, but the company of the horses and being the source of looking after their well-being brought him back from the brink much like it had the last time. A year and a half later he was completely back on the wagon, though he can be known to slip with the drinking whenever the subject of his daughter is brought to the forefront of his mind, mainly around birthdays, his and hers, as well as holidays.

Wanting more independence Woody turned in his resignation, thanking his father’s friend for getting him back on his feet. Much to his surprise, rather than accept his two weeks notice, he offered Woody a promotion: to oversee the entire running of the dude ranch. It is a big job and one he takes very seriously, knowing that the overall welfare of the horses depends on him, even if he is no longer responsible for their day to day care. That was three years ago.

Since then he’s moved into an apartment at Oasis Apartments in Silver Lake, a place where he could have his freedom yet still manage his responsibilities. Anyone who’s ever been inside his apartment will say it looks like a country movie blew up, with saddles scattered on stands throughout the place and rodeo memorabilia hung up throughout, but for him, it’s the closet thing to home.

#tw death.#tw alcohol #tw addiction #tw drugs #tw death of a child #tw death #about || wagner lawson #bio

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elizabeth-234 · 3 years

Text

The Hourglass

Previous Chapter Twenty: Home

Hi all. Hope you're doing well. Happy New Year and Holidays. This is the penultimate chapter!

Chapter Twenty-One: Turning Back Time

“I’m Spiderman.”

He paced back and forth in front of the couch overcome with an odd wave of déjà vu. Peter couldn’t bear to look at them once the words spilled forth from his lips. Would Tony’s eyes crinkle at the corners like when he was trying to solve a tough problem? Would Rhodey smile despite the tension in his forehead? He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, thankful despite the anxiety surrounding him that they had thought of getting him new clothes.

Tony spoke first and Peter’s breath held, pent up in his chest. “Kid, you’re full of surprises but a tad too late. Nice first suit though. Way better than mine.” 

“Shut up, Tony.”

Peter turned to stare at them all wide eyes and gaping mouth. They chuckled but motioned for him to move closer. He settled at the end of the couch, once again touched by their thoughtfulness and speechless waited for them to talk.

“We know you, Peter. We’re family and we’re going to help.”

His throat burned under Rhodey’s concerned appraisal and at Tony’s admission. How could he have forgotten? The word family, the concept of family was just as foreign to him as the apartment was on his arrival back to 2017, but he should’ve known they wouldn’t let him forget for too long. They were a family, a team, and Ross was threatening to take it away from him. Peter couldn’t let that happen. To have something so previous torn away once he’d just gotten it back would ruin him forever.

“We need to get him.” His shaking hands mirrored the tremors in his voice. “He has to pay.”

Peter remembered the first time he saw Ross, the eerie way he entered his apartment, the disdain and hatred in his eyes piercing into him. Bile rose in his mouth as he remembered the careless way he nudged May’s side as she lay on the ground. But then his eyes turned to Tony and Rhodey who staring at him not with pity but understanding, acceptance. Peter thought of their lives what they could be and what he wanted his to be. No grand fight with Ross was included. Somewhere remote and safe with the three of them is all he wanted. More than revenge, more than his fear and hatred. Peter just wanted to live a normal life.

“Wait,” He whispered. “I don’t care about that. We need to run or go somewhere he can’t find us. I want to be normal. I can’t even remember what that feels like now but is it too much to ask for?”

“That may not be possible,” Tony replied in slow intervals. “See, we haven’t been sitting around on our laurels for 25 years. We’ve been trying to pinpoint Ross’s motives and reasons. Why he was targeting certain people and what his next moves are.”

“He found you from the hospital because of the blood loss you had.”

“You actually got the blood of one of the Hulk progenitors. We did some digging at the hospital, thanks to a donation, and found out that only that would work with your… shall we say arachnid leaning blood. Ross, the bastard he is, found this out as well and traced you through time. He found out the connection between us and the future. So, it’s all because of you”

“It’s always about me.” Peter gripped his knees until his knuckles were coiled tense.

“No, don’t listen to him.” Rhodey said. “Your connection to us certainly added to the intrigue but it’s hard to say if he would have stopped you from going back for any other reason. We really don’t know that yet.”

“But we will.” Tony said and nodded at his friend serious and solemn until a tinge of excitement entered his eyes. He turned to face Peter fully. “But we’ve found him at long last. Of course, it was too easy to find him after all this time so we know he revealed himself on purpose. He probably knows you know everything. We hadn’t planned on coming back here so our attempts to neutralize his surveillance is mediocre at best.”

“Sorry I was hypothermic and not thinking straight.” Peter said sarcastically while his eyes roamed around the room as he could spot any hidden cameras. “Okay, so when do we turn him over to the police?”

Tony snorted before raising an eyebrow. Both of them hold similar expressions that made Peter’s neck heat up.

“What? Have you hit you head harder than we thought?” Rhodey said in a quiet tone.

“Kid, we don’t need the police and Ross probably owns them anyway.”

Peter narrowed his eyes at them, trying to gauge how apt they would be to a fight but he couldn’t get the winkles on their faces or the small bits of grey hairs out of his mind.

“But you guys are old now and, no offense, probably couldn’t fight them the same as when you were younger.”

“Ouch Peter. That’s harsh, isn’t it Tones? I think we’ve got some fight in us left.”

“Kid, you do know who we are, right?” Tony’s eyebrows were raised so high and Peter could tell he was on the cusp of full-bellied laughs, but it do anything to jog his memory.

“Tony and Rhodey?” He said with an uncertain waver.

“Holy shit. Holy shit you will never live this down. I will never let you live this down. Rhodey remind me to remind Peter about this every day for the rest of our lives. I forgot you have this weird homeschooled vibe going.”

“I was not homeschooled!” Peter said hotly wanting to get the conversation over with.

Tony nodded at Rhodey who leaned over the arm of the couch and picked up the hamburger phone. They ignored him when he muttered a demand for them to tell him and expletive.

“We told you, Peter. We haven’t just been sitting around these years.”

Rhodey finished dialing on the phone and hung it up. Nothing happened for a moment and another curse was on the tip of his tongue when the wall moved. His jaw dropped. The wall opened up. Peter couldn’t help but wonder if he was in the bat cave or something like it because there inside the wall in fancy, gleaming glass cases was the Iron Man and War machine suits.

Maybe he had hit his head or maybe Peter was out of touch because it was like the fog had cleared in his head. How had he never connected that? How had he not seen through it?

“Holy shit. You’re…What… Really??? I’m a dumbass.”

“You said it not us.”

Peter thought back to when they first met, the ease at which Tony broke free from that place with him in tow. Their means financially and knowledge of himself. It all made sense in a strange way but Peter couldn’t help the awe he felt. The strange fate he’d seemed to have fallen into. His family was special. They were heroes, something Peter always wished he was. But they were special not because of that but in addition to that. They had found Peter, cared for him from nightmares, sleeping and waking. He’d journeyed across time for them and they had waited for him.

Peter smiled and grabbed their hands squeezing tight. He felt the stirring of sand across his skin but ignore it. He was here now and nothing could stop them.

“Let’s do this.”

The tension hummed between them at all hours of the day, followed them and cloaked their actions in an ineffable awareness of what was to come. Instead of eating breakfast like they used to with a full table and laughter at every course, the table was laden with plans, serious discussion, and too few waffles. They whispered about that place; painfully went through their time there although that particular conversation left them all with damp eyes and heavy hearts.

The apartment, twisted with time and now with a new unfamiliarness, left Peter at ends with himself. He wasn’t moving through time anymore but time was moving through him. Plans were made and contingencies were cemented, and all the time Peter felt like he needed to fight, to let out a scream. They were so close but the biggest hurdle was left in front of them.

It unfolded like so many things in Peter’s life. In a blink of an eye they were in the suits they spent hours fixing. Red, gold and silver stood on the hill overlooking the lake. It was fitting, he supposed, to have the final showdown be there overlooking the icy waters holding the sand he’d fallen into.

They’d woken up to an alarm blaring through the apartment, invading the halls and the living room where they had taken to sleeping in sleeping bags on the floor and couch. With cold precision they got into their outfits hoping the suits would bolster their nerves and create an impenetrable strength.

Ross stood at the base of the hill, looking with a cool detachment at them. His white mustache stood out in the dust light along with the hordes of men on either side of him.

“You would do well to abandon any hope of success. You know you can’t win this fight. I know you can’t win.” Peter fisted his hands at his sides and took a step forward. Tony placed his in front of his chest.

“Careful now, Peter.”

“As my mother used to say,” Tony said projecting down in his confident airy manner. “You’re too damn stubborn for your own good. You won’t get away with what you’re planning.”

“Time works mysteriously, doesn’t it? Maybe I already have.” Cold pooled in his stomach. Ross knew about the time travel but did he know how? Peter didn’t even know how it happened. They all tensed at the implications. Was their fight lost before it had even begun?

Tony growled under his breath. But it was Rhodey who remained silent in his calculations, almost too still until with a burst of movement his blasters ignited and he was off toward Ross.

“Rhodes! Shit.” Tony yelled. He was down the hill following his friend. Peter was frozen where he was. Heedless of his nerves and the will to fight, fear pooled in his stomach. It didn’t matter how many times they went over plans, how many hours they spent in anticipation. Something held him back for a moment. But a second was all it took. Rhodey impacted with the first man who protected Ross and Tony was right beside him before too long. They used every weapon and trick in their arsenal including the teamwork they’d honed through the years. Person after person rose up as they fought the previous down. All the while Peter saw that Ross was smirking. His cool, grey eyes watching with a sick glee as Tony and Rhodey fought on, tiring themselves out.

Peter realized he was playing with them. Using their battle for his pleasure. Ross’s eyes flickered up to where Peter was standing and then he pulled something out of his pocket. The metal glinted with the light of the setting sun and chaos around them. It looked familiar in its shape but Peter couldn’t quite place it until it was put into us. Ross moved like a feline, confident and strong. The men parted around him and razor fast he was in front of Rhodey. He plunged the device in his neck and Rhodey coughed, sputtering blood before falling without anytime to counter or defend himself.

Tony turned his head and let out a strangled scream. He swore at Ross and fought harder to get where Ross was standing. This time Ross let his opponent come to him with a smile on his face. Tony, emboldened by anger and despair, ran toward Ross not noticing the others were letting him through, not caring this was the plan.

Peter felt a shift of the sand around him and tugged against it harder, willing himself into movement. It was giving way against his efforts and as Tony stood in front of Ross, he was let free. Peter began running down the hill, breath stammering in his chest. He watched as Tony punched Ross, got the upper hand, and then witnessed as Ross smiled again, cold and deadly, before he spun Tony around and pressed the metal device against his neck. He whispered something to Tony before pressing it further into his neck. Blood ran down the corners of his mouth. Tony clawed the hands squeezing his neck. Ross pressed harder. Peter ran faster but he was too late. Tony’s eyes rolled back into his head. Iron Man suit and all, slipped out of Ross’s arm and fell to the ground.

Peter fell to his knees in front of his friends. Their eyes unmoving in unnatural stillness. He reached out his hands and placed them on their cold metal suits. How could they be down so easy? They were Avengers, they were fighters and they were gone.

He glared at Ross burning with anger. Ross’s smile moved not an inch. He stepped toward them and nudged Rhodey’s side causing his arm to flop over. Flashbacks of May’s apartment, f that day rose in his mind.

“Leave them alone! Leave me alone!” He screamed and tried to gather them away from Ross. Ross bent forward and plucked Peter up, too easily for any normal human. He sneered at Peter heedless of his flailing arms and dragged the metal down his side. Burning pain erupted in his stomach. His hands clutched at the wound, the blood beginning to drip down and staining his red suit dark maroon. Ross twisted the metal device in his gut before dropping Peter to the ground next to the two fallen Avengers.

“I don’t want you. I told you, Peter, death will always follow you. Time and space are no concern because of who you are and nothing will ever change what is to be. Have all your efforts ever changed anything? Look what happened,” He said motioned to them in his arms. “Your friends are dead and there is nothing you can do to stop it. I knew you were the key. We had planned for it to be done so much earlier, when Stark was going to die by suicide and James would fall and freeze in this damned lake but then something happened. You happened and nothing we did would change the outcomes. They lived despite our plans. But then we discovered you. It’s ironic you led them to their demise at the end when you worked so hard to save them earlier. I told you to remember those words, Peter Parker.”

He stared at the man’s grey eyes. The cold glint in them tinged with glory for his cause. To rid the world of two good men, two men who would do anything, including give their lives for their friends and the world. But Peter wasn’t the same boy he’d been in the apartment with May all those years ago. He had spun through time itself to get back here. He had traveled years and space to be right here. The sand spun around him and he knew it he could win. Peter believed everything had led to this moment.

Peter knew time now. Could see the hourglass in the reflection of those evil eyes. It was within his reach. Sand particles gravitated toward him like an old friend. The lake completely iced over behind them seemed to hum in Peter’s ears.

He hugged his friends closer for a moment. Staring at their empty eyes and faces devoid of a smile. Ross laughed at him, basking in his triumph and Peter took a deep breath. He held his stomach and felt the blood seep out of him. Death indeed did follow him through life, dogging his steps and shadowing him but he had to do something before it could take him as well. His time wasn’t over yet. He could save them.

Peter concentrated on the sand pieces around him, falling and settling on his person, and stilled it around him like a cloak only he could see. The sand floated there before he closed his eyes and concentrated on reversing its direction. The sand began falling upward. Peter poured everything of himself into the motion and prayed it would be enough.

He opened his eyes and could see as time reversed. Ross was laughing and walking away from him. He was standing and moving toward the bodies of Rhodey and Tony. And their bodies moved, they got up from their resting spots. The fight began again in knew. Peter watched himself run back up the hill before he walked to were Ross was, invisible to all in the cloak of the sand. He waited with a strange calmness until the sand stopped rising. He smiled when it fell down again and Peter let go of his concentration.

The urge to kill Ross grew strong. He stood behind the man who was unaware of his presence. The act would be so easy. It almost consumed him but then he remembered Ross’s words. That wasn’t the life he wanted to lead anymore. Death would follow him no longer. Peter drew back his hand and brought it forward with as much strength as he could muster.

Not even seeing who brought him down Ross crumpled on impact. Undignified and ungraceful, he fell to the ground. All the men froze where they were as their boss was suddenly not awake. Rhodey and Tony blinked as he, for a moment, was in two spaces at once. They jerked to look at the top of the hill where he was still frozen before, in a blink of an eye, he disappeared.

Tony punched the man in front of him before smirking.

“And I thought one Peter was enough.”

“The fuck is this?” Rhodey said finishing off the people around him with ease. Their confusion led to an easier fight and soon there were none left standing.

They ran toward him, each taking a side of his face in their hands. Their thumbs wiped under his eyes and Peter realized tears were running down his face.

“What happened Peter?”

“Are you okay?” They said at the same time.

“I’m okay, guys. I’m…” He gasped as his side pulled. The wound felt hallow and full at once. They all glanced down at his stomach. He peeled his hand away and felt a wave of dizziness overcome him. The blood was still there. It hadn’t been erased after all.

“You are not fine. We need to get him to a…”

Their words filtered out of his ears and something was weighing him down. Peter took a step forward. His knees crumpled but there was no impact. Arms enveloped him and the burning in his side disappeared. He smiled and sent a thankful thought to the lake behind him.

They were safe and alive, and for now it was enough. The sand cloaked him in a thin layer and Peter fell into darkness.

Thank you!

Next chapter Twenty-Two: Finale

#peter parker #tony stark #james rhodes #Rhodey #iron man #war machine #spiderman #avengers fic #avengers time travel #MCU AU #hourglass #time travel

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stereksecretsanta · 5 years

Text

Merry Christmas, @softderekhale!

I hope this fulfills all your holiday hopes and dreams!

Read on AO3

*****

I'll Be Home For Christmas (you can count on me)

“So, I live here now.”

Stiles drops his duffel bag in the entryway, kicking off his boots and letting the cold wind pull the door closed behind him. His voice is thick with false cheer, and Derek can smell the distress rolling off him, completely at odds with the nearly manic beaming of his face.

Derek sips his coffee and turns the page of his newspaper. He wants to say it’s too early for this, but it’s nearly 10 am, and also he’s been looking forward to Stiles’ return for the holidays more than he’d like to admit.

“You don’t,” he points out calmly, but Stiles doesn’t even bat an eye, draping his damp coat haphazardly over the coat rack and skidding forward on his sock feet to throw an overstuffed-to-bulging backpack at the foot of the end table.

“I do now ,” Stiles informs him, flinging himself onto the couch. He sighs luxuriously, wiggling his toes and stretching his arms over his head.

Derek gives up and looks over, his gaze catching on Stiles’ wrists, bony but large from an unexpected late growth spurt that hit when he turned twenty. Stiles’ forearms are heavy with dark hair, as thick as Derek’s own in spite of Stiles’ very human status, and Derek wants to touch them, wants to wrap his fingers around them and see how warm they are.

“God bless your expensive taste in furniture, Derek, really,” Stiles sighs out. “I thought my back would never be the same after the dorm couches, but this baby’s gonna heal what ails me.” He pats the couch vigorously and stretches again. Derek averts his eyes as Stiles groans out in pleasure, flopping over onto his stomach and burying his face in a throw pillow.

There’s a holiday gift market downtown this weekend; they’re shutting all the streets. It’d be a good place to pick up some gifts for the pack, Derek thinks, checking the time on his phone, but it doesn’t open for another hour.

Derek turns back to his paper, because what else is he supposed to do?

---

scarfwaif: i saw stiles’ jeep parked at your apt when i drove by this afternoon derek - is he back in town?

Sourwolf: Yes. He got in this morning.

scarfwaif: did he stop by to say hi?

Sourwolf : is typing

Sourwolf: No. He walked in my door and announced that he lives here now.

scarfwaif: :laughing_face: :laughing_face: :laughing_face:

scarfwaif: but why, derek?

Sourwolf: I have no idea

scarfwaif: oh come on, he must’ve said something

Sourwolf: You know what Stiles is like when he doesn’t want to talk about something.

scarfwaif: oof, yeah. avoidance champion of the year, 2013-2019 running

Sourwolf: Exactly.

scarfwaif: well, it’s nice for you to have the company. you hole up in there too much anyway. tell stiles to take you out for regular walks. :laughing_face:

Derek tosses the phone aside and goes back to folding the laundry spread out on his bed. He should’ve changed the names back long ago, but he hasn’t had the heart to correct them, not when every incoming text reminds him of Stiles drunk and warm against his side, stealing Derek’s phone and changing all the contacts to increasingly ridiculous monikers while he presses himself into Derek’s arms.

Derek sighs to himself, free to indulge in a moment of self-pity while he’s alone in his room. It’s not that he doesn’t want Stiles here; that’s never been the case. And, as Isaac points out, it’s nice to have someone just… around. Now that the pack’s grown up and gone to college or started full-time jobs, he doesn’t see them as much, even the ones who live nearby. It’s healthy, Derek thinks, and he himself does get social interaction, contrary to popular belief. He volunteers at the library twenty hours a week, and makes a point to see each member of his pack at least once every fortnight, whether for lunch or at their regular monthly pack dinners or just to hang out and watch a game or whatever. But… it’s not the same as having someone in his space, it’s not like the restlessly reassuring noises Stiles makes thumping around down in the kitchen while Derek matches his socks.

Still. Derek frowns. It’s the holidays. Stiles is supposed to be with his dad - that’s how he always does the holidays. It’d be selfish for Derek to let Stiles spend the time with him, even if the thought of his smile in the glow of Yule tree lights makes Derek’s cheeks warm.

It’s not right; Stiles should be with his family. Derek’s just got to figure out how to fix whatever it is that’s going on.

“There!” Stiles slides the wrapped box down the length of the table, his grin spread broad across his face. “That’s all seventeen.”

Derek stares. The wrapping is perfect - the corners crisp, the tape minimal, the paper tight. The pattern of the paper even lines up on the bottom.

“How…” he starts incredulously, and Stiles laughs.

“My mom was a gift-wrap perfectionist. I used to help her when I was a kid,” he says, and spins the tape dispenser around his finger in a sharp circle, holding it out like a pistol and blowing the pretend smoke off it before waggling his eyebrows at Derek. “And I’ve always had really good small-motor skills.”

Derek takes the package and turns away so that the heat in his cheeks is hopefully invisible. He’d like to know about these small-motor skills, maybe first-hand, but even more than that he’s taken by the thought of a tiny Stiles folding colored paper carefully around present-shaped boxes.

“Thanks for your help,” he says, setting the wrapped box into the large crate of other pre-wrapped presents by the door. “It usually takes me hours to do them all.”

“You do this every year?” Stiles’ voice is curious. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah.” Derek shrugs awkwardly. “I don’t really talk about it.”

“How did you get started?”

“Um,” Derek rubs a hand through his hair and reaches for his coat. “You want to come with to help drop them off?”

“Sure.” Stiles yanks his sweatshirt over his head and shoves a cookie into his mouth, holding it between his teeth as his hands fumble through his sleeves. “Where do you take them?”

“The family assistance center down on State street.” Derek grabs his keys and gloves, glancing over at Stiles. He knows better than to think that Stiles’ previous question will be forgotten, so he focuses instead on opening the door and hefting the crate full of gifts through it. “Grab the door?”

Stiles bounds out behind him, pulling the door closed and stepping forward to balance the crate while Derek locks up.

“My family’s always been well off, Stiles,” Derek says, and can’t bring himself to meet Stiles’ eyes. He knows what he grew up with, and he knows what growing up under a single parent with a government job and leftover medical debt looks like. “But my parents weren’t assholes. The family center asks for volunteers to buy gifts for needy families in town, so my folks always signed us up for the large ones, because we could afford it. Each of us kids was in charge of buying for a family, and then we’d wrap them all together and drop them off before Christmas.”

“And you still do it,” Stiles states, his expression unreadable as he steals Derek’s car keys and pops the trunk so Derek can load the gifts into his car.

“Yeah.” Derek shrugs, a bitter taste in his mouth as he situates the gifts so they won’t slide around. “I’ve still got money. The pack will only let me spend so much on them, and I don’t have any family other than Cora.”

“So you’re a good Samaritan.”

“I guess?” Derek shuts the trunk and climbs in, fishing out his keys to start the car. “It’s not like the money’s doing anyone any good just sitting in a bank account.”

Stiles fastens his seatbelt, nodding, and is uncharacteristically silent for the whole ride. Derek tries not to take it personally.

In the evening he takes Stiles with him to his weekly sports night with Boyd and Erica, shoving a worn San Jose Sharks sweatshirt at Stiles even as he pulls a blue-and-gold Warriors holiday sweater over his own unassuming black t-shirt.

Stiles looks at him like he’s grown a second head, so Derek shrugs. “Erica’s house rules,” he says. “Everyone must come properly attired.”

“Who are you,” Stiles breathes reverently, staring at the bright yellow snowflakes marching across Derek’s pecs, but he obediently pulls the proffered hoodie on, shoving up the sleeves which are a little too long, and fuck. Derek really should have thought about what it would mean to his wolfy brain to have Stiles wrapped up in something that smells so strongly of him. He pauses, takes a steadying breath while Stiles dashes around to grab his wallet and keys and phone, and is settled enough to give a bland smile when Stiles meets him at the door.

“Shall we?” he asks, and offers his elbow. Stiles snorts, his eyes dancing, but he takes it. Derek feels the heat of his palm all the way to the car.

Erica greets them both at the door, her teal and black manicure impeccable and the sounds of the hockey game loud behind her.

“Warriors, Der?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow. “It’s hockey night. You know the rules.”

“I haven’t caught the dubs game versus the Rockets yet,” he shrugs, “thought maybe we could toss it on after the Sharks are done getting their asses handed to them. Besides,” he steps aside so that Stiles comes into view, “I had to loan out my hockey shirt.”

“Batman!” Erica throws herself into Stiles’ arms. He catches her easily, laughing and twirling her around as she pounds on his back in excitement. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles sets her down, and she grabs both their wrists, pulling them into the small apartment she shares with Boyd. Derek nods at him where he sits on the couch, and Boyd tips his head at Stiles and makes a questioning face. Derek grimaces back before he’s pulled into the kitchen where Erica is shoving mugs of well-seasoned eggnog at them both.

“I’m staying with Derek now,” Stiles is saying, and Erica shoots Derek a look that he knows means they will be discussing this later.

“Oh,” Erica says, her voice cheerful and sharp. “How fun for both of you!”

“Sharks are on the powerplay,” Boyd calls from the living room, and Derek suppresses a sigh of relief at the interruption. Boyd is dependable, Boyd is astute, Boyd always was the best of his betas, Derek thinks as Erica shoos them both into the living room and onto the large sofa.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it later,” Erica warns with a smile, and Stiles shows her all his teeth.

“Of course,” he agrees, eyes flicking to the TV as he points. “Oh look, some guy did a thing with his stick!”

“So,” Erica says, turning to Derek the second Stiles is down the hall and out of earshot in his quest for the bathroom. “Spill.”

Derek spreads his hands. “Spill what? I don’t know anything.”

“Why is Stiles staying with you? I knew his fight with his dad was bad, but I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“I didn’t even know they had a fight.” Derek shrugs helplessly. “He walked into my place and dumped his stuff, said he lived there now. What was I supposed to do, tell him no?”

Boyd shoots him a sympathetic look. Derek’s feelings for Stiles are not a discussed topic, but given even the relatively low level of emotional bleed in the back bond, Boyd and Erica and Isaac have had a few years of knowing that Derek, well… that Derek feels something for Stiles, anyway. He suspects the details are generally written all over his stupid face.

“Hm.” Boyd loops an arm around Erica’s shoulders, his face thoughtful. “Must’ve been a bad one. Did the sheriff say anything to you about it at work?”

“No,” Erica wriggles until she’s comfortable tucked under Boyd’s arm. “But it was work, you know. He just mentioned that he’d talked to Stiles.” She looks pensive. “But he was in a bad mood all week, stomping around and slamming things. I figured either they’d patched it up or else Stiles wasn’t coming home - I’d never have thought he’d come back but avoid his dad.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and stares at his hands. “They’ve always been so close.” He tries not to think of his own family, gone more than ten years now, but it’s impossible. They’d always been so close, until they weren’t.

Erica slaps him on the leg, beaming as her acrylic claws stab into the meat of his thigh. “Well!” she announces cheerfully as the toilet flushes and the bathroom door opens down the hall. “I guess you’ll just have to fix it, Der!”

It’s only 10:30 that night when Stiles starts to yawn, but he must’ve gotten up at some ungodly hour in order to make it from Berkeley up to Beacon Hills as early in the day as he did, Derek figures. Also, it’s just past finals, so no doubt he’s got some sleep debt to pay down.

Sure enough, it only takes another few minutes before Stiles is rubbing at his eyes and mumbling something about sleep, my glorious mistress , before digging in his bag and emerging with a toothbrush and pajama bottoms. Derek chews his lip while Stiles brushes his teeth and changes, but by the time Stiles returns to the living room in his sock feet Derek’s mind is made up.

“Hey man, you got a pillow I can use or something?”

“You should sleep with me,” Derek says, and then immediately chokes on his tongue as Stiles’ eyes go wide. “I mean, my bed is big and the couch isn’t great for sleeping. You can just share with me.”

“Uh,” Stiles says eloquently, and Derek can feel his face burning. He looks away, pointedly casual as he flips through articles on his tablet.

“You don’t have to. Obviously. But it’s a King-size, we wouldn’t run into each other even if we tried.”

He can feel the weight of Stiles’ gaze on him, can almost hear his brain ticking over as he considers the options.

“Fine,” Stiles says after a long pause, voice resigned. “I’m fucking tired, so what the hell. I’m gonna brush my teeth and go to bed. You coming?”

“In a minute,” Derek tells him, rereading the first paragraph of the article he’s staring at for the fifth time. “I sleep on the right, so you should take the left. You don’t need to leave any lights on for me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles flaps a hand absently at Derek as he gathers his stuff and heads for the stairs. “Freaky werewolf powers, I know.” He yawns again, scratching absently at his belly and scuffing his toes against the hardwood of the apartment floor.

“Go to bed before you fall over,” Derek tells him, trying desperately and failing utterly not to picture Stiles spread out asleep in his bed, skin pale in the moonlight and limbs lax with dreams.

“Kay,” Stiles murmurs, shuffling off toward the stairs. “See you in the morning, Sourwolf.”

“Night,” Derek manages, eyes firmly on his tablet. He listens as Stiles climbs the stairs and then climbs into bed, flopping around restlessly for a long moment until he falls all at once and altogether into sleep, his breathing going even and heartbeat slowing.

Derek breathes out slowly, and stays up for a very long time before making his way to bed.

Stiles is already up when Derek wakes the next morning, and Derek is profoundly grateful because it means that he can give in to the urge to lean over and bury his face in the pillow Stiles used, inhaling the scent of Stiles mixed with his own laundry detergent in over his teeth and closing his eyes.

If he had a tail right now, it would wag, he thinks, and he’s too half-awake yet to feel the automatic embarrassment that usually accompanies any thought of his wolf’s unbridled possessive joy.

He takes another deep breath, closing his eyes and letting it wash over him and sink into his hindbrain before he forces himself to get up. He showers and dresses and heads downstairs; it’s the 23rd today, and Christmas is suddenly imminent instead of abstractly “several days” away. It’s not like he needs to prep for a holiday party or anything, but there’s still stuff to do: he needs to wrap the presents for the pack, and he’s been meaning to drag out his little fake tree, and he’s still somehow got to figure out what’s wrong between Stiles and his dad.

“Mornin’, Sleepywolf,” Stiles says cheerfully, pressing a warm cup of coffee into Derek’s hands as he clears the landing. “I was wondering when you were going to get up.”

Derek hums into his coffee which is, well, surprisingly good. “I thought all you drank in college was that hideous tea-brewed-with-coffee mixture that Isaac taught you about and energy drinks.”

Stiles looks briefly insulted. “First of all,” he tells Derek, waving a spatula at him indignantly, “I spent ten years before I moved out making coffee for my dad, so it’s not like I don’t know how.”

“Sure,” Derek interrupts, “but I’ve tasted the coffee at the sheriff’s station. I’m not convinced your dad has tastebuds at this point."

“Point,” Stiles says, pouring eggs into a pan, and Derek’s heart aches at how at home Stiles looks here in Derek’s kitchen in his sweatpants and bedhead. “But I also spent many years studying with one Lydia Martin, and I’m sure you’re familiar with her standards regarding anything she puts in her mouth.”

“Well,” Derek says, taking another drink, “there was Jackson.”

The noise Stiles makes is priceless, bending over the stove, his shoulders shaking as he laughs helplessly. “Alright , point ,” he says, waving the spatula vaguely in Derek’s direction as he snickers, “but let’s call that the exception that proves the rule.”

Stiles plates two omelets and slides them onto the wood-topped island in Derek’s kitchen. “So,” he says, settling onto a stool across from Derek, reaching blindly behind him until he snags the coffee pot and hauls it over to pour refills for both of them. “What are we doing today?”

“You use a fake tree?”

“You’ve been to my place over the holidays before, Stiles, you know this.”

“Yeah, but,” Stiles gesticulates wildly at the three-foot table tree Derek is currently fluffing into shape. “I thought it was a fluke!”

“I like my tree.” Derek lets a little of the defensiveness he’s feeling bleed into his tone, because honestly, who gave Stiles the right to show up in his house and sleep in his bed and piss all over his holiday decorations?

“Okay, Sourwolf, there’s nothing wrong with your tree ,” Stiles backpedals, and Derek suppresses a smile, “it’s just that you’re, you know. Rich. Hot. A supernatural nature being. I figured you’d be offended by the very scent of a fake tree or something.”

“Laura and I bought it our first Christmas in New York,” Derek tells him, straightening the point at the top. “Pass me that tin of ornaments?”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and his voice is soft as he grabs the ornament bucket and hands it to Derek. “Well, I think you’ve gotten your money’s worth at this point. That was what, ten years ago now?”

“Something like that,” Derek agrees, not wanting to give that sad, desperate holiday more thought than he can help. “Here, dig through and find the star.”

They pass a couple of minutes peacefully, Stiles rifling through the old popcorn tin of ornaments and providing a muted running commentary on everything from the age to the stylistic choices to the number of sequins involved in the contents. Derek wraps the lights around the tree, winding them evenly and with the confidence of long practice which allows him to finish with the end of the strand wrapped around the tippy-top of the highest branch.

“So,” he tries eventually, “what sort of holiday traditions do you and your dad have?”

“Well,” Stiles starts, distracted by a one-eyed clothespin reindeer he’s just unearthed, “my mom’s side of the family is Jewish, at least in theory, so we’d do a menorah when I was little. Dad stopped after she died because he didn’t know the prayers and can’t read Hebrew, but he always makes killer latkes.”

“Yeah?” Derek smiles at the thought of the sheriff flipping potato pancakes. It fits; from what he knows of John Stilinski, he’s always prefered reassurance and emotional expression of the tangible kind. It’s something Derek relates to, something he wants to be able to provide, both for Stiles and for his pack: a safe space, a comforting environment, care provided through concrete action. “What else?”

Stiles shrugs. “You know. The usual. We’d get a tree, decorate it. Hang stockings. I don’t think I ever actually believed in Santa, but we pretended I did so Dad had a reason to fill them.”

“Aren’t you going to miss all that if you stay here?” Derek asks, steadfastly not looking at Stiles as he fixes a wobbly angel near the top.

“Subtle like a sledgehammer, Sourwolf,” Stiles mutters, but there’s an unmistakable thread of tension beneath the teasing.

Derek sighs. “I’m just trying to help, Stiles. He’s your dad; I’m sure he wants you home for Christmas.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, he can see that the second he turns and catches the look on Stiles’ face, the sheen to his eyes. He holds out his arm and Stiles comes to him without protest, and Derek hauls him close in apology. It’s just like any other member of the pack, he tells himself; wolves are tactile and so is Stiles, and if he holds him a little closer or a little softer or a little longer than he would Boyd or Isaac, that’s between him and the tree.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles mumbles thickly into Derek’s shoulder, and Derek just nods.

“Okay,” he says, and rubs a hand briskly over Stiles’ back as he forces himself to let go, to put some space between them. “But if you change your mind…”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, rolling his eyes and reaching for another angel, “I know. Thanks, Sourwolf.”

“So Stiles is staying with you?” Scott asks, and he and Derek have been at peace with each other for years, even if they’re not really what Derek would call friends, but there’s always that edge of suspicion in Scott’s voice that makes Derek have to force his hackles down.

“Seems to be.” Derek keeps his voice bland and shovels another french fry into his mouth. He’d stopped by the Argent-Lahey-McCall household ostensibly on a fast food run, but also in the hopes of gathering more information. Stiles had been deep into an internet deep dive on the particulars of homosexuality in mated penguin pairs (which was honestly fascinating, but Derek needs what info he can get from Scott and Allison) when he left, so Derek’s got a solid couple of hours before Stiles realizes that it doesn’t take this long to get drive-thru.

“I wonder why he didn’t come here?” Scott’s voice is a little mournful, and Allison rolls her eyes.

“Because we have three adults and a nine-month-old in a two-bedroom apartment,” she says, and Derek suppresses a snicker.

“Yeah, but…” Scott starts, and Allison shakes her head.

“I know you’re his best friend, but I’m sure Derek’s couch is infinitely better than our shitty air mattress in the baby’s room.”

Derek nods into his soda, carefully not mentioning the part where Stiles hasn’t been on the couch at all except for naps and video game marathons. “Do you know what they fought about?”

Scott shakes his head, looking even more mournful. “No, I don’t know the details. I know it’s about school, but he hasn’t really said anything else. And I don’t really see the sheriff these days, even if he is dating my mom.” He picks at his burger and looks mildly defensive. “She’s been on day shifts all year so they can see each other, but I’ve been working nights at Deaton’s so that Allison and Isaac and I can all trade off taking care of baby Vicky.”

“It’s okay,” Derek tells him, pushing down the pang of disappointment. He’d known that Scott and Stiles weren’t necessarily as close as they had been since Stiles had gone away to college and Scott had stayed around, but he’d thought Stiles would still keep Scott in the loop on something as big as this. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Tell him he can always come here,” Scott declares, face firm, and Derek nods easily, refusing to acknowledge the tiny swell of pride that grows beneath his sternum at the knowledge that Stiles chose him over his long-time friend.

“I will,” Derek promises.

Allison catches him as he’s packing up to leave, shoving Stiles’ share of the curly fries into a paper bag with a burger.

“When Stiles and the sheriff have fought before, it’s usually because there’s a miscommunication,” she says, passing him a sleeping Vicky so she can open the cupboards and pull out a bag of cookies. “It’s not really that they disagree about much, but they’re both really stubborn, and if one of them takes something the other says the wrong way, it can be hard for them to figure out where it went wrong.”

Derek nods, pressing his nose against the softness of Vicky’s hair. He’s eternally grateful for Allison’s understanding of born wolves, regardless of how she came by it - having young wolves around to care for and protect is an essential part of a healthy pack, and he misses holding and playing with his little cousins as much as he misses his siblings and parents.

“You think they misunderstood each other, and now are too hurt to talk it out?”

“Yeah,” Allison sighs, packing several cookies into the bag. “They were honestly probably trying to protect each other from something, if you want my guess. Either one of them was keeping something from the other ‘for their own good’,” she makes air quotes and grimaces, “or else one of them is trying to sacrifice something for the other. They always put each other first, and it doesn’t always work out.”

Vicky stirs in Derek’s arms and he bounces her without thinking, her solid weight warm against his chest. “Yeah,” he agrees, “that does sound like them.”

Allison smiles at him, and holds out her hands. Derek reluctantly passes Vicky over and takes the bag of food she proffers instead. It’s a chilly substitute, and his disappointment must show, because Allison’s smile softens and she reaches out to grip his arm.

“You can do this, Derek. Stiles trusts you; he’ll listen to you.”

“Ha,” Derek snorts. “Sure.”

“You matter to him, Der,” she says, “or else he wouldn’t be at your apartment right now, waiting for you to come home.” Her grip on his arm releases, her eyes kind. “Don’t be a stranger, Derek. You’re always welcome here.”

“Thanks, Allison.” Derek leans in to kiss her cheek, and then the top of Vicky’s head. “I’ll try not to be.”

Derek wakes in the night to Stiles curled around him, one lean arm wrapped across Derek’s chest and their legs tangled together. He’s not sure what woke him at first, but then Stiles shifts restlessly against him, and knees him hard in the soft meat of his thigh.

Derek suppresses a wince, reaching down to gently guide Stiles’ sharp kneecap away from his leg. Stiles’ fingers are twitching and clutching at the sheets and his own skin, and his face is caught in a sharp frown. Presumably he’s dreaming, and not peacefully, so Derek untangles their legs and turns onto his side, pulling Stiles against him and setting up a soothing stroke of his hand over Stiles’ head and down his shoulders and arm. It takes a moment, but Stiles relaxes against him, breathing evening out and fingers clutching at Derek’s sleep-shirt instead of his own palms.

It’s easy like this, thoughtless, the communication of their bodies beneath the covers, the intersection of sleepy instinct and unconscious trust. It’s what Derek has dreamed of softly, quietly, for years. It’s what he longs for when he sees the casual intimacy of Allison with Scott or Isaac, when he sees the gentle devotion between Erica and Boyd. It’s what he remembers from his parents, and he wants it, wants it with an unabashed fervor that seems too much for daylight but feels at home here in the dark, here with Stiles in his arms.

It’s not real, though. He has to remember this. Stiles isn’t here because Derek asked him; he isn’t here because he wants to be with Derek. He’s here because he’s on the outs with his only family, because he needed somewhere to go when he couldn’t go home.

If Derek wants this for real someday (he does, oh, how he does), he can’t settle into it now. He has to fix this, has to figure out how to let Stiles go so that maybe, maybe, Stiles will want to come back.

Derek’s hand slows its rhythm and Stiles murmurs softly in his sleep, pressing his face to Derek’s arm. It’s sweet, and Derek closes his eyes before he chokes on the piece of his heart that seems to be lodged in his throat.

They’re making cookies when Stiles finally spits it out, the late morning sun slanting in through the windows and the smell of ginger and vanilla thick in the air.

“My dad told me not to come home,” he says, using a wooden spoon to stir cookie batter with a violence that belies the casual tone of his voice. “So I’m not going home.”

Derek lets the words fall for a moment, suspended in the warm air of the kitchen. He checks the oven temperature, then pulls out a baking sheet and greases it.

“He told you not to come home?” he asks eventually, voice carefully neutral. “How come?”

“Because he doesn’t want me there, obviously!” Stiles bursts out, thumping the bowl onto the counter. “I told him I wanted to come home after graduation, think about what I want to do next, and he told me not to! He said,” Stiles breaks off for a long, suspiciously damp breath before he continues more calmly. “He said not to bother, that there’s nothing here for me.”

Derek hums thoughtfully, carefully scooping cookie dough in even lumps onto the tray. “So,” he starts, “this was about coming home after graduation?”

“Yeah,” Stiles rubs at his eyes with his sleeves, then resumes beating the batter like it’s personally offended him. “He wants me to go to grad school.”

“ You want to go to grad school,” Derek points out, and Stiles sighs.

“I do,” he admits, and lets Derek take the bowl of batter from his hands, replacing it with a rolling pin and aiming him at a mound of sugar cookie dough. “But I want a break.” Stiles exhales hard, shoving the rolling pin against the pale mound on the counter. “I’m graduating Honors with a double major, two minors, and a certificate, from Cal. It’s been… it’s been a lot. And I don’t know for sure what I want to do next. And I miss being home, I miss seeing everyone, and Scott’s got a kid now that I’ve barely been able to see, and my dad’s getting older, and-”

“Breathe, Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles does, dropping his head and pulling in a deep breath.

“I’d like some time to regroup. Get a job, save some money, figure out which grad program I want to do. Some of them would let me be remote, and only go to campus a couple weeks a semester. But my dad…”

“He’s worried you’ll lose momentum,” Derek says, and Stiles nods.

“I know, but I need a break. He doesn’t get it, he doesn’t see what… I just want to come home .”

“He didn’t mean for you to not come home for the holidays, Stiles,” Derek says gently, taking the rolling pin from Stiles’ hands and setting it aside.

Stiles leans over and thunks his head against Derek’s collarbone, and Derek gives in to the urge to wrap his arms around him. “I know.” Stiles goes quiet, his breathing deceptively even but his heartbeat still fluttering in Derek’s ears. “But I can’t go home. I’m just so angry , and so…”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and smoothes his hand up and down Stiles’ back. “It’s okay, Stiles. You’re always welcome here.”

Stiles shudders against him, hands clutching at the back of Derek’s shirt, and Derek rubs his cheek across the top of Stiles’ head without thinking, reassurance through touch the language he speaks best.

Sourwolf: Hey Lydia, do you have a moment?

Red Baroness: I’ve always got time to listen to drama about you and Stiles

Sourwolf: Technically, it’s only drama about Stiles…

Red Baroness: Oh, I’m sorry, is this not about him staying at your place indefinitely?

Sourwolf: I was thinking of it as more about his fight with his dad…

Red Baroness : So this is about the cause of the drama between you and Stiles, okay. Yes, I’ve got time.

Sourwolf: ...thanks. I think.

Red Baroness: What did they fight about?

Sourwolf: From what Stiles said, it sounds like the sheriff told him that he wants Stiles to go away to grad school immediately after he graduates, but Stiles was planning to come back here for at least a year while he figures out what he wants to do.

Red Baroness: Oh, Derek, honey. You know better than anyone how sensitive Stiles is. His dad told him he wants him to go away? How do you think he’d take that?

Sourwolf: Like way more of a rejection than the sheriff intended. I’m not stupid, I know how much that would hurt him.

Red Baroness: The sheriff probably thought it’d make him angry enough to accept the grad school offers just to be a pill, but he miscalculated.

Sourwolf: Yeah. But it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, and you know how close they are. I can’t stand to see Stiles muscle through tomorrow all sad-sack without his dad. How do I fix this?

Red Baroness: You’ve tried talking sense into Stiles?

Sourwolf: Of course. It went as well as you’d expect.

Red Baroness: He does have his moments, especially these days. But yeah, okay. You have to talk to the real adult involved in this, then.

Sourwolf: The sheriff? You think he’d listen to me?

Red Baroness: Sure. He’s very good at listening, and he respects you.

Sourwolf: ...sure.

Red Baroness: Don’t sell yourself short, Derek, it’s not a good look.

Sourwolf: Not all of us have the innate sense of our own worth that you were gifted with, Lydia.

Red Baroness: Oh, I’m aware. Nonetheless, the point stands: don’t sell yourself short, especially where Stiles is concerned.

Sourwolf: What do you mean?

Red Baroness: Of all the places he could have gone when he couldn’t go home, he came to you.

Sourwolf: Yeah, I’ve got the best couch and no small children or disruptive work schedules. Of course he came to me.

Red Baroness: Derek.

Red Baroness: You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to say you want things. We all know that you’re head over heels for Stiles; it’s okay. No one thinks any less of you for it, least of all him.

Red Baroness: He’s as crazy for you as you are for him, he always has been.

Sourwolf: Finding me attractive is not the same thing.

Red Baroness: No, it wouldn’t be. But he’s been in love with you for ages, Derek. Fix this for him, and then sort that shit out. You two are getting too old for pining to be cute.

Sourwolf: ...thanks, Lydia.

Red Baroness: Don’t mention it. :)

Derek wakes with Stiles in his arms before dawn, the stars still bright outside his window as Stiles snuffles softly in his sleep and clings to Derek’s side. He takes a long moment to breathe in Stiles’ scent, letting it ease his fear, his worry. Even if he doesn’t get to keep this, he has it right now, and so he lets himself feel it, lets himself sink into the sensation of being wanted, being held, before he eventually forces himself to pull away, carefully extricating himself from Stiles’ grip to dress and head out into the pre-dawn chill.

He finds the sheriff at the diner downtown before his shift. Dawn is only just beginning to lighten the sky with fingers of pink and purple, and the sheriff raises an eyebrow when Derek slides onto the stool next to him at the diner’s long counter.

“Morning, Hale.” The sheriff nods politely, and Derek returns it, pausing as the waitress settles a cup of coffee in front of him.

“Morning,” Derek answers, then pauses. He’s not entirely sure how to go about having this conversation.

“My kid’s not wearing out his welcome at your place already, is he?”

“Never,” Derek says without thinking, then hunches his shoulders at the dry chuckle the sheriff gives in response. He takes a deep breath, concentrating on gentling the grip he has on his coffee cup. It’s rude to snap the handles off mugs you don’t own. “But he should be with you, sir.”

The sheriff sighs, lifting up his hat to run a hand through his hair before replacing it again. “Did he tell you what I said to him, Hale?”

“Yes,” Derek answers honestly, “the paraphrased version. But he’s taking it very hard.”

The sheriff closes his eyes. “I know. I know.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “But Stiles… you’ll get it if you ever have kids, Derek. Stiles is the best part of my life, and all I want is what’s best for him.”

Derek nods at the sheriff to continue. This much he knows already.

“I want better for him than this. He’s so goddamn smart, he deserves to be out there in the world making a difference, not stuck here in some backwater town because of me.”

“Sir,” Derek says evenly, taking a sip of his coffee. “You’re everything to him.”

The sheriff sighs, fiddling with the fork on his plate. “That’s how it’s supposed to be when they’re little; you’re their whole world. But Stiles is too old for that - I’m his past. He needs to find his future.”

“You’re his home ,” Derek says, catching the sheriff’s eye and holding that. “Don’t take that away from him.”

The sound of the diner fades away as the sheriff holds him in a measuring gaze. “You could be, too, you know. His home.”

Derek’s heart gives a traitorous thump in his chest, but he schools his expression and shakes his head sharply, once.

“Not like this. Not because he’s running away.” He drops his eyes and plays with the edge of his jacket, where the material is starting to fray, then forces himself to look back up, not caring about what may be splashed across his face. “I want Stiles to come to me because he’s coming to me , not because he’s leaving someone else.”

“Goddammit,” the sheriff mutters, and drags a hand across his face. “When’d you grow up so much, Hale?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so Derek bites his tongue, swirls some cream into the coffee in his mug.

“Fine,” the sheriff grumbles after a moment, and Derek tries not to smile. “Fine. Dinner at my place at four, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek agrees easily, and downs the rest of his drink. “Pleasure talking with you, sir.”

“Not sure I can say the same,” the sheriff comments dryly, but flaps a hand at him in farewell. “See you tonight, Hale.”

“See you tonight,” Derek says, tossing some cash on the counter for his bill, and tips his head as he goes.

Stiles is still asleep by the time Derek gets back from his chat with the sheriff, so Derek busies himself with wrapping the last few presents and making dough for sticky buns. He’s kind of at loose ends after that, but he feels restless, uncomfortable in his skin and sad the way he always does this time of year, so he goes for a run.

It’s a good choice; the weather is clear and cold, but crisp in his lungs as he runs, first as a human and then as a wolf, bounding tirelessly through the woods of the Preserve before shifting back outside the parking lot to drive home. He climbs the stairs to his apartment on shaking legs, dripping with sweat, and walks straight into the shower.

The heat and steam are refreshing, and by the time he gets out, Stiles has the coffee pot burbling happily away. He hands Derek a cup wordlessly, and Derek takes it, settling at the kitchen island in what he realizes with a bittersweet pang is their new normal, watching as Stiles does something to eggs in a pan at the stove.

Stiles is cheerful enough but quiet, and Derek can see him pulling back as the day goes by. They watch TV and make fun of the characters in the holiday romances; they play a couple rounds of backgammon; but by the time it’s rounding three in the afternoon Stiles’ face is sliding into resigned sadness and Derek’s heart just hurts.

He puts the backgammon set away, pretending not to notice the way Stiles stares past him out the window, and heads to the kitchen. If there’s anything he’s learned from dealing with the pack in general, it’s that sugar heals a multitude of ills.

“Hey,” he says, pressing a mug of hot chocolate into Stiles’ hands a few minutes later. Stiles takes it with a smile that has misery lurking in the corners, but he presses his head against Derek’s side for a moment in gratitude.

“Thanks,” he says eventually, his beautiful eyes caught on Derek’s face, and it feels like the tip of the iceberg of what’s unsaid between them.

“You’re welcome,” Derek replies, instead of I love you, don’t leave .

He lets Stiles finish his hot chocolate, the silence thick but not uncomfortable between them. The lights of the tree glow dimly in the living room of his apartment, the heavy dusk starting to settle in the corners of the room as the sun slides down into the west.

“Come on,” Derek says when the ceramic of his mug has gone cold as well as empty. “Let’s go.”

The pale crescent moon is low over the horizon, the evening star hovering not far from it as Derek drives them into town. Stiles must know where they’re going, but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t say anything at all as they pull up in front of the Stilinski house.

Derek turns off the car and silence falls again, so he opens his door and climbs out, going around to pull Stiles’ door open too, and reach out a hand. Stiles takes it like a lifeline, his long, rough fingers clutching onto Derek’s own with a grasping intensity even as his face is still with concentration.

They climb the steps to the low porch, Stiles’ hand still gripping Derek’s. The door opens before they have a chance to knock, and John Stilinski stands in the doorway, his face tired and open, haloed with the warm light of the hallway.

“Stiles,” he says, and Derek feels Stiles’ grip on his fingers tighten in anticipation or fear, but then the sheriff opens his arms and Stiles’ breath hitches audibly. “Welcome home.”

Stiles doesn’t quite fling himself at his dad like Derek knows he did when he was younger, but he steps forward without a second thought, wrapping himself in his father’s arms as the sheriff rubs at his back and murmurs into his ear.

It’s close, intimate, and all too sharp a reminder of what Derek doesn’t, can’t, have, so he gives them a moment, then clears his throat.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” he starts, and begins to step away, but then Stiles is peeling himself out of his father’s arms, eyes big and earnest as he reaches for Derek’s hand.

He captures it, weaving his fingers between Derek’s like there’s nowhere else they should be, and Derek’s heart hiccups like a traitor in his chest.

“No, Derek,” Stiles says, his face happy and his smile sweet, “stay?”

#softderekhale #stereksanta19 #*fics19 #*gifts19

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crownandwriter · 5 years

Note

yo! if its alright with you, id love to request hcs for ralph, daniel, rupert, and jerry (just one if thats ok! i dont mind adding more if otherwise!) meeting the readers family? preferably with their family being very supportive and accommodating! somethin happy, yknow? if thats too many androids id be alright with just ralph!!! have a nice day!!

You got it, boss! Hope this is ok for you!

Ralph

-It’s taken a long time to get to this point. Really, even knowing your parents, you’ve been surprised at their willing patience and understanding. You had expected them to grow tired of waiting for Ralph to grace their presence, but months and months went by with nary a second mention of a visit. In fact, they didn’t bring it up again until you did.

-Even when Ralph did come to meet them, you made sure to prepare the house accordingly. By this point, it’s been a long time since Ralph felt the need to wield a knife in self-defense, but you always considered he might one day become fearful or stressed enough to be pushed back to that feeling.

-When Ralph does come over, your parents wait patiently in the living room while you give him full tour. Enclosed spaces are safe spaces–but only when they’re his and he knows his way around. Once Ralph feels he knows his exits well enough, he shakilly returns to sit in the living room with you–across from your parents with plenty of leg room for him to run should he feel the need.

-It goes…surprisingly well for a first meeting. Your parents keep their tones calm and pleasant, and all things considered do a very good job of not making any sudden, spook-worthy movements. Ralph is always allowed as much time as he needs to respond to any questions, and you all keep a slower conversational pace should he decide to jump in to make a comment.

-Truth be told, you might have expected his trust in them to take much longer to develop than it did, but within two or three visits Ralph is hoping to help your parents whenever he can–nearly gave one of your folks a scare when he appeared suddenly over their shoulder at the stove, asking to help stir the pot while they make the bread.

-If you ask him about it later, he may have some sort of jumbled explanation of the similarities between you and your parents. The more you’re like them, the easier it is for Ralph to develop a relationship with them.

Daniel

-Daniel is one of the more apt to meet new people, but a family is something he’s not quite as good with, for obvious reasons. You’re his family, and he doesn’t think he needs anyone else now.

-But he can see how much this means to you, and with some time will come around to the idea of meeting your folks at least. He even dresses up a little snazzier than usual for it, and brings some home cooked food with him for the meeting.

-Your parents already knew all about him at this point, of course, down to the last detail of his manufacturing if they can get their hands on the information. When Daniel comes over, he’ll find some equipment related to his model stored in the spare bedroom where the two of you stay the night, just a little something to make him feel more cared for, and honestly those little things go a long way to gaining his trust. (This meeting also goes over a lot more smoothly if your parents have another free android–who either lives with them as family or as a paid employee–someone Daniel can get a second, more relatable opinion from on them.)

-Even if he doesn’t really like your parents right away, Daniel is at least on his best behavior and tries to be amicable–although a few curt or short responses might be heard in response to certain questions and subjects. Luckily for your parents, Daniel is an easy enough android to get a read on and apologizing for bringing up these topics is a good band-aid for any wounds they might prod.

-Socializing with your parents goes a long way to helping Daniel hela his social skills–or at the very least improve his social circle by a small margin. If your parents are older he might take some extra duties up at their home to help out. Just the two of you hardly makes a mess at your own home, and helping around there helps to sate the urges of his original programming as well as it fosters a bond with the rest of your family.

Rupert

-Rupert has an easy time integrating with your family life–even the extended one. He doesn’t do huge family gatherings, but he’s not all that afraid of humans after the political and social climate start to calm down. Once he’s a free android, and he’s got you? Well, there will always be some bad humans, but he’s a happy individual. Your assurance of your parents’ kindness and support is all he needs to agree to meet them.

-For his own subconscious comfort, however, you probably have your parents meet you in the park. You set up a little picnic at one of the benches while Ruptert stands over at the lake throwing out peas and lettuce for the birds, and when your parents suddenly show up and see him from a distance they tell you immediately that they get it.

-Rupert, even when friendly, isn’t the best conversationalist, but he nods along to your parents story-telling and joke-making, even responds with the occasional smile or chuckle. When he’s hit his social limit for the day, he allows their handshakes and even their curt hugs.

-Sometimes your parents visit your place, and they’re happy to meet all of Rupert’s birds–and even happier when the friendly pigeons let your parents dote on them with pets and scratches. If they’re enthusiastic enough, Rupert will take great pleasure in teaching them all about birds, and before you know it he’s uncle Rupert to all the kids on Holidays.

Jerry

-This probably goes without saying that Jerry is by far the easiest to merge with your family. Just months into the relationship, he brings the idea up himself. Even if he’s one of the more abused and broken Jerry models, he loves family life–and the larger, the louder, the better!

-Jerry adds your parents to his immediate social circle right away. First meeting, he’s throwing his arms open for a hug, and if your parents respond in same, oh boy, you’ve never seen such a happy twinkle in his eye.

-If you have younger siblings or cousins, even better! He immediately becomes the favorite at gatherings and reunions. The kids love him because he’s fun, and the parents love him for his kindness and gentleness (and because he keeps the kids busy.)

-But more importantly, Jerry loves spending quality time with your parents. He might go out for errands one morning, and when you go to visit your parents later that evening he’s already there helping them bake or decorate some new DIY project. If your parents allow it, he will definitely start calling your parents Mom/Dad accordingly.

-Unfortunately, there’s less to say in regards to Jerry here because of just how fucking smoothly this all goes. Honestly it’s like he was part of the family the whole time.

#detroit become human #dbh headcanons #dbh ralph #dbh daniel #dbh rupert #dbh jerry #dbh rupert x reader #dbh daniel x reader #dbh ralph x reader #dbh jerry x reader

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lovemesomesurveys · 4 years

Text

When was the last time you let someone know you truly love him/her? Today.

Do you complain when you are bored, or look for something to do? Sometimes, but usually I just still do the things I normally do. Sometimes those things just don’t cut it, though, and I end up lying around watching mindless TV or sleeping. That’s usually when I’m just extra moody or feeling extra sad and down and don’t feel like doing anything.

Do other people’s complaints ever get on your nerves? Yes. If someone is constantly complaining about everything that gets real annoying real fast. I try not to complain a lot. I keep a lot to myself or save it for a survey, ha.

Generally, what is your favorite ride at an amusement park? I used to like the water rides, you know like the Splash Mountain type rides or the ones that are like white water rafting. I like the swing ride, too. I’m not into the water rides anymore, though. That doesn’t leave much for me at most amusement parks. I love Disneyland because there’s so many rides and I can enjoy a lot of them. There’s so much for me to do.

Who is your favorite 90’s musical artist? I love a lot of music from the 90s.

Do you think that music was better when your parents were young, or now? I enjoy various genres and songs across the decades.

How did you develop your specific taste in music? My parents, grandparents, what was popular, and discovering stuff on my own.

If you drink coffee, how do you like it (with cream, black, etc)? Flavored creamer or cream and sugar.

Did your parents sign you up for things like piano lessons and ballet? I did some piano lessons.

What is your favorite children’s song? Nursery rhymes and songs from what I watched as a kid. I was a hardcore Barney fan haha.

Are you good at telling jokes? I’m the worst haha.

Are you uptight, or are you easy going? I think I come off easy going to people that don’t know me well. And I can be with certain things. Like while on vacation or deciding on what to do, I’m a go with the flow kind of person and just go along for the ride so to speak. However, I’m a moody person that gets irritable, frustrated, and overwhelmed. My family wouldn’t say I’m easy going ha.

Other than gas, what do you frequently purchase at a gas station? I don’t purchase gas cause I don’t drive, but I like getting coffee or a Starbucks Doubleshot energy drink sometimes.

What is one concern you have about the present state of the world? The corona virus. Even though it’s like the flu, which is also a serious concern every year and we need to take the same precautions. I guess cause it’s like the newest thing and it’s being talked about constantly, so it’s become a big issue.

Ten years ago, did you think that this was how the world would turn out? I’m not sure how I thought it would turn out. I don’t think I gave it much thought.

Ever think you might be better off living in a different time period? No.

Do you drink regular or diet soda? I’d go for the regular if I’m going to drink one.

What CDs would you take with you on a road trip? I wouldn’t. I have Spotify.

Think of your favorite band? What album by them is your LEAST favorite? I don’t have just one favorite band.

Have you seen your favorite band in concert? If so, how was it? I’ve seen some of them.

Do you walk regularly? No. Or at all.

Did you take a Health class in high school? How was it? Yeah, freshman year. I liked parts of it because we talked about psychology and stuff.

If you could have the answer to one question, what question would that be? Hmm.

Do you like any bands from other countries? Yeah.

When was the last time you mailed a handwritten letter? I have no idea.

Do you still receive Christmas cards? Yeah, a couple.

Do you know anyone who is really hard to please? Yes.

What gets you through the day? I just...do.

Do you have a Before Bed routine? I like to listen to ASMR and do surveys. Describe your stance on religion in general? I’m a Christian.

If you found out your bf/gf was homosexual, how would you react? Well, we’d obviously have to break up. That would be hard of course. I’m assuming I was in love with them. I would be supportive and be there for him, though.

If you are homosexual, and you find out your bf/gf is straight, then what?

Have you ever sung karaoke? What songs? Was it fun? Yeah, just for fun with friends at one of our houses. I’ve never done it in public. There’s no way in hell.

Do you study for big tests? I studied for every test.

What makes you nervous? A lot of things. Ha, that reminds me of the cute shirt I got at Disneyland with Rex from Toy Story on it that says, “I’m a nervous rex.”

Have you called anyone today? What did you talk about? No.

When was the last time you went bowling? Yearssss ago.

Do you drive around the neighborhood to look at lights around Xmas? Aww, we used to do that every year when I was a kid. We drove all over town.

Why are so many single people bitter on Valentine’s Day? They become painfully aware of how single they are because of all the lovey dovey stuff and couples everywhere and feel sad and lonely, I guess.

What holiday is a big deal for you? Christmas.

What is one tradition you hate participating in? I like the ones my family and I have.

Have you ever been sledding? No.

Do you have acne? I get a couple pimples now and then. I had it worse in high school and my early 20s.

Have you made a fool of yourself today? Not yet. The day is young, though.

Is there someone you wish you could talk to, but you’re too afraid? Not anyone currently.

Do you have a favorite cookie? Sugar.

When was the last time you did something for someone else? I helped my dad with something.

Do you let other people choose the radio stations in your car? We play Spotify in the car.

Would you say that you are an accepting and openminded person? Yeah, I think I’m pretty openminded.

Have you ever been convinced to try something you didn’t want to do? Yes.

What happened? How did you feel about your choice? I wasn’t happy about it.

When was the last time you cheated–at anything? Uhhh. I don’t know. I’m not a cheater.

Do you play any online computer games? If so, what? Nope.

What food can you not seem to get enough of? Wingstop’s boneless garlic parm and lemon pepper wings.

When you are mad at someone, how do you show them? I become distant. If we interact and talk, I’m very short.

Do you like to think that you are better than other people? Absolutely not. I know I’m not.

When was the last time you felt you had a reality check? Hmm.

Have you ever felt out of touch with reality? Yes.

Have you ever been sick to the point of possibly dying? No, but it definitely felt that way at times.

Have you ever had a tooth pulled? Yes, my wisdom teeth and one other.

How long do you you usually chew a stick of gum? Until the flavor runs out, which doesn’t take long.

Did you chew gum in school, even if it was against the rules? I don’t think so. I was a goody-goody.

Did you take a foreign language in school? I took Spanish all 4 years in high school.

Did you attempt to make Honor Roll? Did you make it? I was always on honor roll.

What was your favorite school project? Hmmm. There were a few I enjoyed throughout my school years.

Did you attend any school dances? Yeah, a few.

Were you in any after school clubs? Yes. Was there any teacher that made life living hell for you? No.

How about any student(s)? No.

When was the last time you felt overwhelmed? I feel that way quite often.

Which parent are you more apt to go to if you’re upset? My mom.

Do you have any coffee mugs with funny pictures/sayings? No.

Describe your favorite t-shirt? I have a pretty big collection of graphic tees, all of which are my favorite.

Describe something strange that you own? Uhhh.

What do you like to do on a friday night? I don’t do anything different.

What do you like to do on a sunday night? ^^^^

Are monday’s a drag for you? Most days feel that way.

Do you think graffiti is a valid form of artistic expression? I don’t approve of it when it vandalizes property. If it’s a mural or something like that, then yes.t

Do you ever worry about where the world will be in 20 years? I just take things day by day, man.

Do you know what you want your funeral to be like? Well, this took a turn.

How often do you think dirty thoughts? Not often, honestly.

Can mere images turn you on? How about words? Photos, sure. And I guess words, too, in the sense that I’ve read books with sex scenes that were hot haha.

Do you give a good back massage? I’ve never given one.

Do you think that feet are disgusting? Ew yes lol.

When was the last time you screamed? I honestly have no idea.

What is your political affiliation? We’re not getting into that.

Are you registered to vote? Yes.

Are you GOING to vote? Gahhh. Everything is so bad right now. Like it’s really a big joke.

Do you think you would enjoy living in college dorms? Nooooo.

Have you ever been to the YMCA? It’s fun to be at the YMCA. haaa. Anyway, no I haven’t.

If you ditched school, where did you go? I stayed home, ha.

Have you ever been offered drugs? What, and by who? Yeah.

Are you afraid to walk places at night if you are alone? I definitely would be. I never go anywhere alone, though. I certainly wouldn’t at night.

What’s in your school backpack? I don’t have a school backpack, I’m done with school.

Are you put off by overly social people? >> No. I’m easily exhausted by very extroverted, exuberant people, is all. Doesn’t mean I don’t like them as people. <<<<

What do you think of people who are shy? Well, I’m very much one of those people so I can understand.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

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homiegeesus · 5 years

Text

The Year of Magical Thinking, Ch. 4

Summary: Francis Sinclair believed Arthur Morgan had not finished living. In a second chance at life, Arthur discovers what it means to love himself.

At the edge of a precipice and nowhere to run, Arthur concedes defeat. In an extraordinary turn of events, he is sent through the ether to another time where his path crosses with a group not too unlike his own family. After discovering the fate of those he loved before, he races to find a way back. But what if he realizes that there is something worth staying for in this new world? Can two people separated by nearly a hundred and twenty years of living find their happily ever after?

AO3 Link

Author’s Note: First of all, thank you TheTiniestTortoise AKA @shallow-gravy for betaing this mess of a story! Your insight has been invaluable!

So sorry for the wait. I got sick last week then had to play makeup at work so life has been busy. Things should start slowing down during the holidays, and I'll have more time to post. I already started the next chapter and should have it up very soon. The chapters should be longer in the future as I start to get into the nitty-gritty of the plot.

Thank y'all so much for reading. Constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated.

The Year of Magical Thinking

Chapter 4 - Pace Post Bellum

“I loved you when I saw you today and I loved you always but I never saw you before.” - Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls

In the serenity of a quiet meadow, a buck dips his massive twelve-point head into the calmly moving spring. The early morning sun casts an ethereal glow on its surroundings. A branch breaks in the distance causing the buck to lift his head in an abrupt movement.

A rifle shot resounds.

Arthur’s eyes opened as he took a deep, unsteady breath. The fog of sleep leaving him, he sat up straighter as he remembered where he was. A faint melody wafted through the air, a sad-sounding duo singing about a girl from the north country. This was more to his taste, if he had one, than the ear-killing music that had assaulted him earlier.

Cool air flowed over Arthur’s face and arms, a nice contrast from the heat outside. He felt grimy and so tired, the old wound in his shoulder irritated from sitting in one position unmoved. He glanced at his traveling companion. Steven, head leaning back against the seat, hummed the tune quietly, seemingly unaware he was being observed.

Good-looking enough, Arthur admitted, with a strong jaw and dimples when he smiled. The man had a kind face. Too trusting in the eyes, the outlaw noticed, inadvertently looking for any crack in the young doctor’s façade that he could exploit. Inwardly chastising himself he thought, not this man; he’s been kind to you, ya fool . Looking away from Steven in self-disgust, he took in the surrounding environs outside the vehicle. Tall pines had given way to flat, mostly empty fields smattered with oak trees dotting the landscape. Random buildings, some large, passed by in a blur before he could describe their features. A lake that Arthur remembered well came into view along the horizon. Steven finally noticed the other man was awake.

“Hey, you get any rest?” He asked.

Arthur nodded, “Yeah. ‘M fine.”

Looking towards the fast-approaching Flat Iron Lake, Arthur glanced at the other man.

“We gonna catch a ferry, or –,” he trailed off.

Steven just shook his head. “Nah, they built a bridge a while back.”

“’Cross the whole lake?” The outlaw replied, a little amazed at the ingenuity of such a feat.

The other man shrugged, “At least the fork part of it, or whatever.”

Silence eclipsed the cabin as both men looked across the lake. Arthur, lost in thought and a little mesmerized by the passing water, didn’t hear when Steven began speaking again.

He turned his head, “What’s that?”

“I said that I spoke with that friend of mine, while you were sleeping.”

“Okay,” Arthur nodded. “And?”

Glancing between the road and his passenger, Steven elaborated, “she said to come on over.” He huffed out a small laugh. “Ada’s like that, ya know, taking in strays and such.”

What an apt description of himself, Arthur thought. The only thing close to a home he’d ever found was with his people, and even that had sometimes seemed alien.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Steven continued. “Quick-tempered if you rile her, but a good person.” He regarded Arthur with a look the outlaw knew well. Distrust and wariness. “She’s like a sister to me, more family than my own blood.”

The tone and intent was loud and clear: don’t you think about hurting her . Holding his stare for a moment, Steven finally looked back to the road. Silence once again descended. Arthur had only a few minutes to wallow in shame before they crossed the long bridge. That’s when a sight that would stick with him for a long while came into view.

In the distance, buildings even taller than those he had seen in Chicago once upon a time. Standing upon the horizon like eerie monoliths, they were a testament to progress.

Arthur leaned forward in his seat. He exhaled a breath, “What the –”

Steven looked over at him. “Yeah. They’re somethin’, aren’t they?” Receiving no response, he continued, “That’s downtown Blackwater.”

Peeling his eyes from the skyline, Arthur turned his head to the other man. “Yer kiddin’,” he replied, unbelieving.

One corner of Steven’s mouth ticked up, but he said nothing.

____________________________________________________

Arthur could hardly believe the sheer amount of people that now populated Blackwater. Steven had explained that an oil boom in the early to mid-1900s had caused rapid economic growth in the area. With all that money came all the people. And good God, there were a lot of them. Blackwater had become a veritable center of industry in the midst of the otherwise empty Midwest.

Feeling out of his depth and overwhelmed by all the visual stimuli, he breathed a silent sigh of relief when they drove away from downtown to a calmer, tree-filled neighborhood. Great big old-growth live oaks and pecans littered each oversized front lawn, while a mix of attractive Victorian and newer build homes sat far from the curb of the street.

“It’s a really old neighborhood,” Steven said. “A lot of the houses are from your time, some early twentieth century.”

He explained that this Ada woman had inherited her house from her now-deceased grandmother. When Steven spoke of this girl that would take him in, Arthur could not help but imagine her as a well-to-do heiress, riding the coattails of previous generations’ success. Dutch’s populist ideals had been ingrained into him from a young age, and despite all his good intentions, Arthur could not shake them.

They stopped in front of a pretty little house with a small balustraded stairway that led up to a semi-wrap-around porch and a stark red door. The porch started in the center of the house and continued to wrap around to the left. To the right was a bay of double-pane windows with the upper halves decorated in a simple stained glass. Unadorned brackets dotted the eaves of the house, with two high-peaked gables holding small single-paned windows. Light beige siding with white trim made the blood-red entry stand out all the more. Looking familiar to any city house he would have encountered in his time, Arthur felt an iota of comfort.

He glanced at Steven, waiting for an indication that they should exit the car. The other man turned the vehicle off, removed the key and leaned slightly back in the seat. He looked over to Arthur and asked, “You ready?”

No, he wanted to say, I ain’t ready for any of this. False courage won out. “Sure.”

Apparently reading Arthur’s mind, Steven gave him an encouraging smile.

“Trust me when I say she’s a good person. I mean, she’s been through shit of her own. You should get along famously.” Steven was obviously trying to reassure him, but Arthur took no comfort in his words; he wondered if trust would ever come easy to someone like him. Still, the young doctor pressed on. “How ‘bout this? You have any reservations when you go in, I’ll take you to get a room at a hotel. I just really think you should have someone with you, ya know?”

Embarrassed and feeling like a child, Arthur grumbled, “Nah. This is fine.”

Steven nodded, “Good.” He waved a hand, “Come on, let’s go then.”

Exiting the vehicle, Arthur followed the other man down the walkway towards the stairs. Before they could reach the door, it opened. If the old outlaw had been drinking at that moment, he would have unceremoniously spewed it all over this nice porch. He immediately recognized the girl from his would-be memories seen during his journey to this place. She had painted nearly every frame, with her long blonde hair, bright smile and apple cheeks. Though the visions had not done her justice. Even from a distance, her moss-colored eyes stood out underneath fine brows. Plump lips thinned with her toothy smile below a button nose, all encased in an attractive oval face.

Arthur distantly heard someone say his name. Realizing he was staring at the poor woman like a degenerate, he cleared his throat and looked to his boots. He felt a slight annoyance at Steven’s light chuckle.

“Did y’all stop at the Stockyards in Cowtown on the way here, or is it already Halloween?” The girl joked in obvious sarcasm.

Arthur lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at her. I ain’t no cowboy, he wanted to say. Well, not really.

Steven motioned between the outlaw and the girl. “Ada, this is Arthur. Arthur, Ada.”

“Ma’am,” was all Arthur said with a slight nod.

The blonde smirked. “You can call me Ada,” she laughed lightly, making Arthur feel a fool before pointing over her shoulder. “Come on in.”

Following the pair, Arthur crossed the entry into a narrow foyer. He was immediately hit with the scent of baking bread. Nearly salivating at the smell, he’d only realized in this moment that he was starving. Passing by stairs to the left and a cozy sitting room to the right, they stopped near the rear of the house. A large open kitchen, with different strange-looking metal contraptions, sat next to a living room full of drape-covered floor-to-ceiling windows. A single door seemed to lead to a porch out back.

“Dinner’s about ready if you’re hungry.”

Arthur stopped his observance of his surroundings and looked to Ada. Realizing she was staring expectantly at him, he gave her a small nod.

She turned to Steven, “You sure you can’t stay? I made plenty.”

Steven gave her a reproachful smile, “Nah, sorry I can’t. Nick would kill me if I stood him up.” He then tilted his head towards the back door. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Ada glanced between the two men, “Sure. Arthur, make yourself at home.” She gestured to the open living room before walking out the door onto the back porch outside.

Steven paused for a moment before addressing Arthur, “We’ll just be a minute.”

The outlaw nodded, and the other man walked out and closed the door behind him.

Itching for a cigarette to calm his nerves, his hand once again went to his side and found nothing. Looking for another outlet for his anxiety, he decided to look around. Forgoing the couch, Arthur spotted some photographs on the mantle of a fireplace sat between windows facing the backyard. He walked over to get a better look, boots sounding heavy on the dark wood floors in the quietness of the room. Photographs of all shapes and sizes crowded the shelf, but a solitary unframed picture caught his eye. Picking it up carefully as not to disturb the others, he looked closer. An older woman with long silver hair and a kind, cheeky smile sat wrapped in the arms of a younger version of the girl he had just met. Ada had that same look that Arthur had seen in his visions and had haunted him since; in brilliant color a smile so bright, he hardly believed anybody could be that happy.

He flipped the photograph over. Written in a distinctly feminine script: Gramma Signy & Adeline, ’08. It took his mind a moment to register that it meant 2008, not 1908.

Eyes automatically going to the girl in question through the window, he found her looking right back. Feeling as if he’d been caught doing something nefarious, he immediately returned the photograph to its place. He turned and marched straight to the plush couch and took a seat to wait for the two friends to finish their talk.

About ten minutes later, Steven and Ada walked back into the house. Standing up from his spot on the couch, Arthur looked to the other man for a clue on how the talk went but found only a dimpled smile.

“Well, I’m gonna head out. Have to get to Uptown in, like, an hour.”

“That far away?” Arthur had no sense of direction in this place.

Steven shook his head. “Nah, ‘bout thirty minutes in traffic.”

Arthur nodded and then turned his attention to Ada. It seemed in the last fifteen minutes she had developed a semi-permanent furrow in her brow. She looked at him like he was alien, and maybe he was. Made uncomfortable by her stare, Arthur averted his gaze.

Steven cleared his throat. “Uh – well – if everything’s all set here, I’m gonna head out,” he repeated.

Arthur remembered his gun belt. “I’m gonna need to get my – er – things outta yer automobile.”

“Oh, yeah. Just, uh, follow me out then,” Steven replied.

They stepped outside, Ada only following to the doorstep. Steven had given her a tight hug, and Arthur had barely heard her whisper “I trust you” into the other man’s ear. Feeling like he was intruding on a private moment, he continued the walk towards the vehicle.

Steven appeared beside him a moment later. The younger man took a deep breath and placed his hands on his hips. Staring straight ahead, Steven addressed the man to his right. “Ada’s like a sister to me.” He finally turned to look at the outlaw, “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Understanding where this conversation was going, Arthur's gaze lowered to his boots.

Steven continued, “I’m trusting that you’re a decent man – considering.”

“Not gonna lie to ya. I ain’t a good man.” He looked up at Steven. “But, I don’t bite the hand that feeds me if ya get my meanin’. And I sure as hell ain’t gonna hurt no woman.”

Steven smirked and nodded. “Well, you might think differently after a day or two,” he said with a small laugh as he lightly slapped Arthur’s shoulder. “Let’s get your stuff.”

After retrieving his gun belt and shaking hands in that ancient show of masculinity, Steven was off. Looking up at the darkening cloudless sky, Arthur could not see any stars. Just as he had imagined, the developed world had blotted out the heavens and replaced it with a colorless haze. An unconscious yearning for belonging came over him, and Arthur felt his gaze being pulled towards the house. Ada stood in the doorway, waiting for him. Watching each other for a moment longer, a small smile pulled at her lips. With a motion of her hand, she beckoned him inside and he followed.

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