#i get why someone would react badly if a stranger said that but Dick's known Tim for years and they're legit brothers
It blows my mind that people act like Dick suggesting Tim go to therapy is a bad thing, like bruh tell me you didn't read RR without reading RR. Tim needed therapy that whole run, Dick is literally in the right here.
764 notes
·
View notes
The Choices We Make - Chapter 2
Description: When Virgil Raines disappears, Roman decides to go after him. But he may find more than he expected. And more than he could ever want. (Aka what happens when a dnd character concept goes too far)
First | Next | Masterlist
Read on AO3
Chapter Description: Virgil runs into someone he never expected to, and meetings are less than friendly
Chapter Warnings: Running away, alcohol, gambling, suggestive language, cursing, start of a panic attack, weapons/blades, fire, bar fight, death mention (Let me know if I need to tag anything else)
Word Count: 2903
-
Virgil sat in the darkened corner of the tavern, content to finally be off of his feet and with a warm meal and place to stay for the moment, even if the stew and ale were both watered down to the point of barely having any flavor at all, though he really didn’t expect much else, given how out of the way this place was. He’d been careful to stay away from the main roads, hoping to avoid recognition by any of the traders or caravans that his aunts worked with. He was probably going to be found eventually, but he just needed to put more distance between himself and the capital before that happened. He had to get far enough away that whoever found him couldn’t stop him from reaching his destination. Once he got there, then and only then could he go home.
Virgil surveyed the room as he ate, trying to listen for any rumors from Vrens, though he couldn’t get much. There were one or two patrons at the bar, both deep in their cups with the tavernkeep trying to tend to them while also keeping an eye on the rest of the occupants of the room, who were watching a gambling match with vested interest. Virgil couldn’t exactly tell what was going on, both due to the small crowd and the fact that he’d never been much of one for games of chance, but he could see that the game seemed to be between a burly, brutish man and a figure in a dark cloak. Judging by the reactions from the crowd, it appeared that the man was badly losing, though the cloaked figure seemed almost bored with the game, or rather, like they were playing a game far more interesting to them than the one in front of them.
As Virgil continued surveying the crowd surrounding the players, his gaze stuck to one man in particular and he stiffened. How could Roman have caught up to him so fast? How did he even find him? What was he going to do? Would he insist that Virgil go back to Vrens? How would he even respond to that? He missed Roman and his family dearly, and Logan was the only real friend he had aside from a few of the travelling merchants. Leaving them had already been enough to set him on edge, even without the constant threat of being found at any moment. But he was no closer to solving his problem than he had been when he left. He had to keep going. Maybe if he was quick and quiet he could leave without being noticed. Not being able to spend the night in a bed would be a shame, but better than being sent back to-
Virgil’s thoughts ground to a halt and then scrambled all over again as the man turned, and he realized that it wasn’t Roman, but instead someone who looked very similar. He had the same tanned skin and chestnut brown hair, but where Roman’s hair was neatly kept, this man’s was more disheveled, with uneven ends. He also sported a curled mustache that Roman certainly did not. He couldn’t be Remus, could he? He’d disappeared years ago, and nobody had heard from him since. What would he even be doing here? Why did he leave in the first place? What would he think about everything that’s happened since? What Virgil did? Would he try to send him back? The questions screamed in his head and he watched as the man was stopped by the cloaked gambler, who was staring at Virgil with a look of curiosity and suspicion. The man followed their gaze to Virgil, and with a look of recognition, bounded across the tavern with a smile and a wicked glint in his eye.
In that moment, Virgil immediately realized that even if this was Remus, he was certainly not the same boy he had known as a child. Although Virgil was always kept away from the Brightrose twins at court gatherings, it hadn’t escaped his notice that before his disappearance, Remus had gained a reputation for his ferocity and strength in tournaments, and people looked at him with hesitation and fear, especially since such fights were some of the only events he was ever seen at. Virgil had been reluctant to believe the rumors, especially given those he heard about himself, but now, seeing how this man’s demeanor spoke to an intimate knowledge of violence, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps they were true. It gave him just enough pause to pin him to his seat as Remus slid into another across the table from Virgil, grabbing his ale and taking a swig before grinning.
“And what would you be doing alone, all the way out here? Finally get tired of all the ass kissing? Really it almost could have been fun if they weren’t such dicks about it” Remus shrugged. Virgil’s continued to spiral and he began to hyperventilate, pupils blown wide, and wisps of purple flame started to lick over his hands. Noticing this, Remus dropped to an excited whisper “Oh shit! What happened? What did you do? Is there an assassin involved?” However, before he could interrogate Virgil further, shouting rose from the gamblers on the other side of the tavern, grabbing the attention of everyone in the room.
“Yer cheatin’!” the burly man screamed, rising from his chair with enough force to knock it over. “Yer a filthy, honorless piece of shit. And you owe me my money back” He said, towering over his opponent.
“Oh really? And could you prove that? It is a game of chance. It’s possible that you just lost. Every time” they replied in a smooth voice, smirking, clearly unimpressed by the man’s attempts to intimidate them.
“Oooo sit tight for just one minute. This is my favorite part” Remus winked at Virgil before hurrying back to the gamblers, whispering something in the man’s ear before ducking, swiftly dodging a blow that connected instead with one of the other spectators, who was too drunk to realize what had just happened as they dropped their tankard and swung back. As the fight grew, Virgil managed to collect his thoughts just enough to edge around the room and out the door, thankfully without being dragged into the brawl. He headed around to the back of the tavern to finish catching his breath and calming down, at which point he realized he was no longer alone. Standing across from him in the low light was Remus.
“Listen. I can’t go back to Vrens. Not yet” he said, pushing off of the wall.
“Yet? Why’d you leave if you’re going back?” Remus replied, eyes narrowing.
Virgil considered his answer carefully. Remus seemed to think he’d run from the pageantry of the courts, so he could probably play along with that. It wasn’t like he didn’t have more than his fair share of exhausting experiences, varying from disdain for his parents’ actions to pity for their deaths. But Remus hadn’t been found after he’d left. Maybe he could help Virgil from being caught, at least until he made it to the clearing. As Virgil thought, he saw a flash of light in the corner of his eye, and he noticed a dagger in Remus’s hand and an intense look in his eye. Again, Virgil’s thoughts raced, as he remembered that this was a stranger, who had just started a bar fight and then followed him out here to what? Threaten him? Worse?
His spiraling thoughts were interrupted as the back door to the tavern slammed open, revealing Remus, grinning and slightly disheveled, but very much not standing across from him. Virgil turned, blinking, and his vision shattered in gold light briefly, revealing the figure across from him indeed appeared to be Remus, though he now wore the smooth-voiced gambler’s clothing, and had a wicked set of scars across the left half of his face. Panic ripped through Virgil’s mind as, on instinct, his violet and black flames roared to life, wreathing him in dark fire. Meanwhile, the Remus in the gambler’s clothes scowled as they shifted, returning to the form they’d used in the tavern as they unclasped their dark cloak, letting it flutter to the ground, revealing an arsenal of blades strapped to their body. Another long dagger appeared in their free hand as they faced Virgil, ready for a fight.
“Virgil! There you are! I told you I’d be right back! And I was even careful to make sure nothing got thrown in your direction” Remus pouted, leaving the light of the tavern behind to approach the other two. “Oh! You met Jan-Jan! And you even managed to get under their skin! Not even I can do that” he continued, sounding almost impressed, and seemingly with no regard for the tension between the pair.
“Remus” the gambler sighed, though their gaze didn’t waver from Virgil. “Would you care to enlighten me as to who this is, why he was watching you, and just what is going on?”
“Don’t pretend that you don’t watch me just as intensely” Remus winked. “Virgil’s from that family I told you about. You know, the one my parents fucked over? He ditched those court dorks and is pretty freaked about it.” he said before gasping and turning to the gambler excitedly. “We should help him! Come on Janus, please!”
“First, I would like you to answer my earlier question. What’s so important that you’d leave Vrens but still go back? What are you doing here? And I would suggest not lying to me” they responded, pointing one of their blades casually towards Virgil as gold flashed in their eyes.
Sensing he wasn’t in immediate danger, Virgil’s flames pulled back, though they still danced over his fingers as he stared down the changeling. “I’m headed north on personal business.”
“And you were watching Remus so intensely because?”
“Maybe he wants to fuck! You could’ve just asked!”
“No!” Virgil screamed in frustration “I mean, how would you react if you saw someone who you hadn’t seen in probably 10 years. Someone who still looks remarkably like a person who you don’t want to find you just yet. And then they corner and interrogate you, and someone who looks like them threatens you! Do you think you would be calm in that situation?”
Janus narrowed their eyes at him before they relented, finally sheathing their daggers and picking up their cloak, though they continued to keep an eye on Virgil as they moved. “Whatever. Fine. Remus, would I be correct in assuming that we are not welcome to stay the night here?”
“I didn’t break a table this time! And I still think that winning the fight means they should have to leave, not us.”
“Yes. Well, we should find a place to make camp before it gets too dark. Preferably far enough away that when those thugs wake up and realize they don’t have any money to pay for a room, they won’t get any grand ideas” They said before setting their cloak around them and starting back towards the road. Remus grabbed Virgil’s arm, ignoring his lingering magic, and pulled him after them.
Virgil’s mind scrambled to catch up to what had just happened. He’d run into someone he never expected to. Who apparently had no intention of sending him back, and wanted to help? He briefly considered turning around and heading back to the tavern, but his thoughts kept circling back to the fact that Remus had remained hidden for 5 years. Maybe it was worth it to stick around, at least until they got further from the capital. Hopefully his friend wouldn’t kill him by then. And hopefully when Virgil did leave, he would be free to. He shook his head before his thoughts could spiral down yet another path of what-ifs that night, hurrying to catch up to Remus and Janus.
They walked for around 20 minutes mostly in a tentative silence before the sunset forced them to stop, and Remus went to gather some firewood while Janus and Virgil were left alone to set up the rest of camp.
“I realize that our meeting was not exactly friendly, but you can stop looking at me like you expect me to attack you at any time you know” Janus said, beginning to remove their weapons and dark leather armor.
“Okay, but you did almost try to kill me.”
“And you me. Just as you have your reasons for not revealing your entire purpose in being here, I have my reasons to be exceedingly suspicious, especially this close to the city. But Remus has decided he wants to help you, and I don’t control what he does. So long as you don’t cause problems and we don’t go any closer to the city, I don’t have a problem with it, so you can relax.”
“Relaxing isn’t really my style, but I get it” Virgil replied quietly, just as Remus returned with the firewood, arranging it before looking excitedly at him. He rolled his eyes before setting it alight, though Remus deflated a little when the flames burned a bright orange instead of Virgil’s purple. He shrugged, turning to finish putting out his bedroll.
“So, Stormy Night, what happened between you and Roman? Any juicy details?” Remus asked, cackling as a blush quickly appeared on Virgil’s face and he sputtered at the sudden question. “Oh my gods! I got it in one! I didn’t think he had it in him to disobey mommy and daddy after what happened last time. Did you know he has a birthmark on his-” he was interrupted by his bedroll hitting him square in the face.
“Do keep terrorizing him Remus. I’m so excited by the thought of him running off and you dragging me halfway across the kingdom to track him down. Speaking of, we need to talk about where we’re going.” They turned to Virgil, who gave them a grateful look as they continued, “You said you were heading north. You’re welcome to continue to be cryptic, though a vague description of how far would be helpful.”
“Just over the mountains.”
“And you were intending to make that journey alone?” They chuckled to themself “Even with what I saw of your magic, you wouldn’t make it through those mountains, unless you intended to sail around them?” they shot him a questioning look before continuing. “Well regardless, we probably have about a week’s walk ahead of us until we would have to decide, assuming we don’t run into too much trouble” they finished, looking at Remus.
“We should probably head out early tomorrow so we don’t run into your ‘friends’ from the tavern” Virgil pointed out.
“I mean, if they want to go again, who am I to deny them?” Remus smiled, that wicked glint back in his eye for a moment before he turned to Janus. “You didn’t have to cheat, you know.”
“Ahh, but where would be the fun in that? Besides, you needed to blow off some steam, and we both know that every coin of theirs was stolen from other travellers.” They responded before turning back to Virgil. “But you have a point. The sooner we put distance between us and Vrens, the better. I’ll take first watch, then Remus, then you” they finished, unsheathing one of their daggers before beginning to clean their nails with it.
Remus settled down quickly and soon after was snoring, though Virgil remained awake a little longer, his anxiety about the whole situation refusing to cease. Eventually he just gave up, joining Janus seated closer to the fire.
“By all means, stay awake all night. I’m sure that’ll go great for you. Even if you don’t require sleep, you should get some rest” they said, noting his pointed ears. “I thought we already addressed that I won’t try to kill you in your sleep, so what are you still worried about? I’m going to trust you enough to go to bed. Which, by the way, if you intend to disappear in the night, at least wake me up so those bandits don’t surprise us.”
“That’s the thing. Am I free to go? You said Remus would track me down and-”
“If you want to leave, I won’t stop you. As for Remus, he does what he wants. I’ve learned that there’s no use in trying to control him, and that’s a cruel thing to do anyway” they said, looking over at him fondly “He has an uncanny knack for finding people, even when it shouldn’t be possible, and I have a feeling that he wants to help you out of more than the goodness of his heart. That being said, if you really want to leave, he might just surprise both of us. That’d be a conversation to have with him though. For now though, you should try to get some rest, unless you’d like to take first watch instead?”
“Maybe that’d be better. I have a feeling I won’t settle for a while anyway”
“Be my guest. Trying to wake up Remus is a chore anyway. Good luck” Janus said as they got up, moving just out of the immediate brightness of the campfire before sitting against a tree and closing their eyes, dagger still resting in their lap.
20 notes
·
View notes
Merry Christmas, @Do-what-the-knight-tells-you!
Note: Title comes from Broken by Lovelytheband
Warnings: Character death (none of the heroes)
Tags: mail order bride Derek, Sheriff Stiles, dead Stilinski parents, dead Papa Hale, dead Hale cousins, werewolves are known, Peter is Peter, Mentioned Argents
Read on AO3
*****
I Could Be Lonely With You (maybe that makes me a fool)
Someone was playing piano. Badly.
Stiles sighed, buttoning his shirt. He’d have to talk to Erica about the people she let in her establishment. Too many drunkards thought they were Philharmonic-worthy and then someone else would yell at them, and then there would be a brawl, and as Sheriff of this stinking town, Stiles would have to break it up.
Great. Just what he wanted on a Thursday morning.
Well. No sense putting it off. The longer he took to get his butt downstairs, the more guns would be drawn by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs.
He grabbed his hat and gun on his way out, making sure they were both firmly in place and that his silver star was highly visible.
Perfect timing, he thought as he reached the base of the sweeping staircase that Erica claimed was the envy of the other three saloons in Beacon Territory but was probably only average, and he heard violence erupt.
“What’s going on?” he demanded as he stepped into the fray. Already, there were two men at each other’s throats, guns poking into the opposite’s belly like poorly shaped dicks. The rest of the saloon was waiting for something, hands hovering over their holsters. Stiles pushed the men apart.
“I said,” he drawled, hooking a thumb in his belt, “what’s going on?”
“He was banging a racket out,” complained one of the men. Stiles recognized him as the never-up-to-any-good nephew of the preacher, sent out West to get an education in manners by the preacher’s sister, Jackson Whittemore. The other man, Stiles didn’t recognize with his brown hair and bright blue eyes. He also had a down-right dirty smirk aimed at the preacher’s nephew.
“And you thought that was good enough reason to stick your piece in his gut?” Stiles asked.
Shamefaced, Jackson shook his head. “It’s just, it’s so early. Ain’t he got sense enough not to play that bullshit?”
“Sonny, you wouldn’t know music if it came up to you and kissed you,” the stranger said in a smooth, smarmy voice. Stiles pegged him as a dude, a city slicker come out West for the adventure and danger touted as the general fair of the western side of the country. Well, if trouble was what he wanted to stir, Trouble was where he’d go.
Stiles shoved a hand into Jackson’s chest to stop him from following the stranger’s words with his fists or worse, his gun. Erica had just had the floorboards cleaned from the last incident and Stiles had no desire to have another murder in his town.
“Listen here, partner,” Stiles emphasized his drawl, “we don’t take kindly to folks just waltzing in here like they own the town and damaging our eardrums in that manner.”
“Oh, don’t I own this town?” The stranger grinned. Stiles did not like the look of that smile, no sir. “Pray tell, Sheriff,” the stranger said like an insult, “who does own this fine town?”
“Well, I reckon that would be the Hale family,” Stiles said. “The largest railroading family this side of Colorado.”
“The Hales, right,” the stranger said. “Well, you’re in luck, Sheriff.” He stepped back from them and bowed with a little flourish. “Peter Hale at your service.”
Eloquently, Stiles said, “Fuck.”
“Peter!” someone else yelled. All eyes snapped onto the staircase where a young man, a stranger like Peter Hale, stood. He was glowering at Hale, nostrils flared, eyes looking distinctly blue.
“Oh no,” Stiles said, drawing his weapon. He pointed it at Hale’s chest. “We do not have any supernaturals in this town.”
“Why not, Sheriff?” Hale rolled his head, cracking his neck pointedly before opening his mouth to reveal a set of canines the likes of which Stiles hadn’t seen in years. He shot Hale.
“What, no wolfsbane?” the stranger from the stairs asked, rather blandly considering his friend had just been shot.
Hale writhed a bit on the ground before standing up. Immediately, every gun in the place was trained on him. It was credit to their curiosity that they all held their fire.
“Really?” Hale dusted off his shirt and plucked at the material where it was sticky with his blood. “Come on. I liked this shirt.”
“You have others. Go back to the room.”
“You’re not allowed to boss me around,” Hale complained.
“According to Mom’s orders?” the other man said. “Yes, I am.”
When Hale didn’t move, he pointed up the stairs. “Go. Go!”
As soon as Hale disappeared up the stairs, the stranger stepped forward, hand extended. “Derek Hale, son of Talia Hale.”
“And werewolf,” Stiles said, not shaking the proffered hand.
“And werewolf,” Derek repeated. “Look, my mom thinks that there’s been a lot of trouble this way.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “We have a whole town called Trouble. It’s about forty or fifty miles south of here.”
“Yeah. My sisters were sent there. That’s where the prison is, right?”
“Yep.” Stiles studied D. Hale, taking in his well-kept clothes, the silver chain attached to a pocket watch, chain threaded through the second button-hole from the bottom of his vest. Very dapper. Definitely better looking than his smarmy relative.
Stiles tamped down hard on that train of thought. He did not need to have a fascination with what amounted to the enemy. The Hales owned all the land right now and they had built the railroads which in turn had created the towns.
Derek and Peter out here along with Derek’s sisters could only mean one thing: the Hales felt like their control was slipping.
“You do know why we’re here, don’t you?” Derek smiled, amused about something. Supernaturals, man. Stiles had successfully kept them out of the town after he’d routed a wendigo nest about five years ago. All Stiles knew about werewolves was they had difference colored eyes. They had their human ones, yes, but they also had their true eyes. And Derek’s were blue.
Stiles had seen werewolves with yellow and red eyes. He’d never seen blue though.
“What does it mean that your eyes are blue?”
“It’s a distinct trait of Hale werewolves,” Derek explained. “All of us have blue eyes except my mom who has the red of alpha. It just means that we can transform into full wolves if we choose to.”
“Oh.” Stiles thought back to a black wolf he’d seen circling the town about a month ago. He had stationed patrols and set non-killing traps. The wolf had stopped coming around a few days after that. “Was that you?”
“Me?” Derek asked, but he refused to make eye contact, which made Stiles certain it was.
“You were a wolf here. You scoped out this town. Why?”
“My mother wanted us to see what each town was like without alerting the residents to our presence. I mean, you met my uncle. He wasn’t playing that piano long before someone wanted to kill him. He kind of has that effect on a lot of people. You shot him,” he reminded Stiles.
“Yeah.” Stiles touched his gun. “Regrettably.”
“About the wolfsbane or about shooting him?”
“Both? Yeah. Let’s go with both. Anyway. Why were you sent to observe us?”
“There’s a rival werewolf pack in the area. There’s going to be a challenge for the territory, and we don’t want the people living here to be caught in the middle if it turns into a battle.”
“How,” Stiles raked his eyes up and down Derek’s form again, making it apparent that he was finding him lacking in some indefinable way, “noble. And what’s to stop that other pack from attacking us?”
Surprisingly, Derek went red. “Um,” he coughed. “We, well, as werewolves who can fully shift, we, um, we don’t need outhouses. So, what my sisters, my uncle, and I have been doing is marking our territory.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “You’ve been pissing all over my town?” He raised one eyebrow.
“Not all over it.” Derek’s face turned even redder. “Just around it.”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, I would get you being insulted if I had actually peed on your bed or something. Instead, I peed about a mile from town. Now the other pack knows that this town is protected by a Hale.”
“Great,” Stiles muttered. Louder, he said, “So, you’re here. What do you need from me? As you can see, I’m the sheriff of this town.”
“Well, my mother wanted me to meet with you to see if you’d had any incidents lately.”
“And the purpose of bringing your uncle with you?”
Derek shrugged. “While werewolves are difficult to kill, it is not impossible. Therefore, we usually travel in pairs of two or more if we have to travel at all.”
“So, now that you’ve met with me, what else do you need?”
“Well…” Derek scratched at the back of his head. “Actually, it would be nice to show the other pack that we have the support of the humans in this area.”
“Well, unless your uncle happens to be in charge of human-werewolf relations.”
Derek laughed. “Yeah. He wasn’t my first choice either. My mom was busy though, so she sent Peter with me.”
“Shame. You could have almost convinced us non-supernaturals to join you.” Stiles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need coffee. It’s too early for this shit.”
He stalked away from Derek, leaving him standing in the middle of the saloon
~ * ~
Two mugs of Erica’s finest swill later and Stiles felt more like himself. He found the Hales sitting on the balcony of their room. Derek was winding his watch while Peter stretched out, a hat pulled over his face. Neither of them reacted to Stiles shoving the window up enough for him to crawl clumsily through. Werewolves must be as flexible as cats to fit through such small entrances. Stiles made a note to himself to never leave his window open, lest he wake up to Peter Hale standing over him.
Less concerning would be waking up to Derek, despite the fact that he’d pissed all over Stiles’ goddamn town.
“Ah, what’s that?” Peter asked from beneath his hat. He sniffed loudly. “Oh, that’s right. A conquest for your bed, dear nephew.”
Derek turned red faster than Stiles could draw his foot back and slam it into Peter’s knee.
“Oh, I’m sorry, were you using that?” he intoned as he ground his heel into the busted tendons, smirking at the howl Peter let out.
Derek laughed. “How’d you do that?” he asked when Stiles finally let Peter drag his wounded body and pride into the room.
“A little bit of aconite oil and a sturdy heel.” Stiles sat down in Peter’s spot. “So, about this meeting with the other pack, I’m in. As long as you leave the rest of my town out of it. I swore an oath to protect this town and I mean it.”
“I appreciate your dedication,” Derek told him. “It’s an admirable trait.”
“For what? A sheriff?” Stiles shook his head. “No, that’s just part of the job. I mean, who can you trust if you can’t trust the people hired to protect you?”
Derek eyed him oddly. “I’ve know quite a few corrupt lawmen. My mother has disposed of most of them.”
“And she can’t do the same to a pack of werewolves?”
“Not when they have the support of the largest hunting family in the whole country behind them.”
“Oh, shit, the Argents?” Stiles knew of them: they were the largest suppliers of firepower to any militia group that had enough gold—except for werewolves. They had a strict policy of shooting werewolves first and then interrogating them while they lay dying from the poisoned bullets. “They’ve aligned with a werewolf pack? I thought they never did that?”
Derek’s face shuttered, obviously trying to hide something. “Apparently,” he said bitterly, “they will if it means eradicating my family. They already attacked us earlier. My father was killed.”
“So why’d you pick Beacon Hills out of all the townships in Beacon Territory to represent the human side of the Hales?”
Derek sighed, patting at his vest until he found what he was looking for. Which was apparently a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it carefully, and Stiles felt his heart skip a beat when he realized what it probably was.
“Where did you get that?” he demanded.
Derek shrugged. “My older sister passed it on. She thought you might—”
“It wasn’t me,” Stiles said. “I mean, my friend, Erica Reyes—she owns this saloon—she was the one who wrote that. I wasn’t looking for anyone.”
“Oh,” Derek said, refolding the paper with the same care. Stiles sighed, not in relief, but from the way Derek slumped, he must have thought so.
“That’s not how I meant it,” he tried to explain. “Erica. She. Well, she thought I was lonely, just because I’m nearly 29 and haven’t been married yet. So, she drafted an advert and sent it back east. ‘Handsome sheriff seeking love.’ I hoped no one would respond, not because I’m not ready to find someone to settle down with, but because I thought the choice had been taken from me.”
“Have you had anyone respond?”
“If they have, Erica has kept them away from me. We have a few new faces every now and again, but most folks just pass through, heading for the gold mines along the rivers.”
“And what if I’m here as a prospective love for you?”
“No offense, but I find that hard to believe. You don’t know me at all. And all I know about you is that you’re a werewolf who can apparently turn into a full wolf and likes to piss around his territory.”
“Well, I do know that you enjoy your job as sheriff, and even though your job brings you into violence, you don’t like to resort to it yourself. Although, you did kind of like shooting my uncle.”
Stiles shrugged. “He’s an asshole.”
“Yes, he is. Anyway. I know you care about this town. But, I also know that you are lonely. I can smell it on you. And if your nose was a good as mine, you’d smell it on me too.”
“So, what, you want us to be lonely together?”
Derek gently knocked his shoulder against Stiles’. “I just want to know you better.” Quieter, eyes downcast to his lap where his hands were twisted together, Derek mumbled, “I liked how your advert made you sound.”
“Can I read it?” Stiles asked. “I never saw what Erica sent out because she only told me long after the fact.”
Derek obligingly dug out the paper and passed it over. Stiles unfolded it, using the same careful movement as Derek earlier. He was greeted with a detailed likeness of himself. Erica must have had her husband draw it. Boyd was a secret artist with a few high profile sales on the east coast.
Beneath that was an almost poetic description of Stiles, and to her credit, Erica had described him perfectly, using words like “stubborn” and “bullheadedness” and also “sweet” “charming when I’m not talking your ear off.” Apparently, he could cook “decent enough not to kill my guest” and he was “shy when it came to the bedroom.”
“Goddamn it, Erica, just because I was the only man who never bowed to your feminine wiles, doesn’t make me ‘shy in the bedroom.’”
Derek coughed suddenly, and Stiles turned to him. “Well,” Derek finally said when he had his breathing under control, “that makes one of us.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Derek’s face was so red that Stiles knew if he touched him, he’d feel the heat burning through his skin. “I’m not,” here he coughed again, looking pained, ��I haven’t. I mean, I’m not.”
Stiles put his hand on Derek’s, curling his fingers loosely enough that Derek could pull back if he wanted to. “It’s okay,” he said, and meant it. He knew what Derek was trying to say, and he didn’t care. “I wouldn’t just want you because of that,” he promised.
“Is this sap-fest over yet?” Peter called from inside the room. “We need to get to our meeting with Deucalion and his usurping hunters before they make a move we can’t stop.”
“One more thing,” Stiles called back. Before he could rethink it, he lunged forward and smashed his and Derek’s mouths together.
There was teeth and blood, and Derek’s nose got in the way of Stiles’ eye. It was altogether uncomfortable and a little bit the best thing Stiles had ever done. When he pulled back, Derek’s eyes fluttered open, his pupils expanded, irises iridescent with greens, blues, and browns that held Stiles’ attention.
“Let’s go, boys.” Peter broke the moment by grabbing Derek by the back of his neck and dragging him into the room. “We’ll meet you out front in five minutes.” And then the Hales were gone.
Stiles took a moment to compose himself, and wipe away the blood from his split lip, before he hauled himself back through the window and headed to his room.
~ * ~
Derek was holding the reins to a painted horse while Peter was already in the saddle of a mustang. Somehow, Stiles hadn’t expected Derek’s reserved or practical taste in horses. He would have expected a Hale to have expensive tastes. Peter was very much living up to that assumption, prancing about on his fancy horse.
“Should I get my horse?” Stiles asked, looking between the Hales. Derek had opted to don the brimmed hat from earlier while Peter was bareheaded.
Sunburn was not friendly, but if werewolves really did heal fast, as Peter had from the gunshot, and the destruction of his knee, then he’d be fine and Stiles refused to waste any more of his time on him.
“No need,” Boyd said, leading Stiles’ horse Roscoe from the barn. “I took the liberty of getting him ready.”
Roscoe whinnied, bumping his head into Stiles’ shoulder. Well, at least one of them was looking forward to the ride to Trouble.
“Thank you, Boyd.” Stiles swung himself up onto the American Saddlebred’s back. Roscoe had been a gift from Stiles’ mother, his parents in turn being a gift from her father, and Stiles took care of the horse though his mother was long gone.
Derek clicked his tongue and his horse moved up next to Stiles and Roscoe. “I know we said that we needed to show that we have the support of the humans in this area, but you don’t have to come if you think there will be too much danger.”
“I’m already here,” Stiles said. “You can’t get rid of me that easy. Besides, when was the last time you went to Trouble? Do you even know the way?”
“I do,” Derek confirmed. “But, it has been a while.” He smiled shyly at Stiles. “It sure would be nice to have a guide, Sheriff.”
“How charming,” Peter remarked, tone flat and bland but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “My nephew, the mail-order bride and his groom, the Sheriff of a dusty, backwater town. I’ll be certain to update your mother of the goings on, Derek. I’m sure she’ll be happy that her son is finally ready to marry.”
“Just because Derek doesn’t roll over for you doesn’t mean you can threaten him. Did you forget that you’re still in my town, backwater and all? I’ll shoot you again.”
Derek made a show of inhaling deeply. “And he’s got the wolfsbane bullets this time.”
Peter kept his mouth shut the rest of the ride that day.
~ * ~
They stopped to make camp when they were still about twenty miles from Trouble.
Derek set about gathering dry kindling and sticks while Peter laid out his bedroll and thumped down onto it, relaxing while Stiles took the horses down to a nearby creek for a drink.
When he returned, Derek had a fire going, a small pot suspended over it.
“Sorry, I only brought beans,” he apologized when he realized that Stiles was watching him. “Usually, when we travel, we just catch game and make do.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to rustle up a rabbit or two,” Stiles said. He cut a quick glance to where Peter was watching them. “Or someone else could pull his weight around here,” he said loudly in his direction. Peter raised a hand, a single finger lifted.
“Yeah, Peter’s never been very good at showing his prowess around humans. He prefers to lull them into a false sense of security and then spring out as a werewolf.”
“Bad news for your uncle then,” Stiles said. “I already know he’s a werewolf and I’m not impressed. Go hunt for us, Peter.”
Surprisingly, Peter stood up. “You’re just trying to get me out of camp so you can practice kissing my nephew,” he accused, but it sounded good-natured. Stiles shrugged, not denying it. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Peter told Derek and then strode off into the gathering dusk.
“Did you really want to kiss me again?” Derek asked, not looking up from his beans. In answer, Stiles leaned against him, resting his head on his shoulder while he stared into the fire.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “On one hand, I’d love to. But on the other, I think it’d be better to wait until after the meeting with the usurping werewolves. I really just want to get to know you better. I don’t even know how old you are or what your favorite food is.”
“I’ll be thirty come winter and I really like blackberries off the bush.”
“What a coincidence, I love blackberry pie.” Stiles smiled. “Do you just have the two sisters?”
Derek nodded sharply. “I had cousins though. They were killed by hunters years ago. The Argents have been spreading the rumor that blue eyes on a werewolf means that they’ve killed someone.”
“You said it was because you can change into a full wolf.” Stiles stepped back so that Derek could turn to face him. “How do the Argents not know that?”
“It’s not something we go around telling people. Or at least, we didn’t used to. Now we do it to keep other humans from trying to kill us because they think we’re a danger to them.”
“You’re not though, are you?” Stiles didn’t wait for Derek’s answer before he leaned in to slot their mouths together.
It went much better this time with no blood or poked eyes.
Derek kissed like he was unsteady on his feet, like Stiles had knocked him a good one. Honestly, Stiles felt the same way.
They moved away from the fire and to the bedrolls that hadn’t been unrolled and dropped onto them, still locked at the mouth.
Derek patted at Stiles’ back, a small whimper breaking free when Stiles pulled back to gasp a breath in.
“Well, you certainly got far.” Peter interrupted them by dropping a couple of rabbits on them. Stiles and Derek pulled apart, and Derek shot his uncle a hate-filled look before taking the rabbits to the fire and skinning them quickly using his claws. He stuck them on a spit made out of a whittled piece of firewood and began cooking them.
“Why’d you stop?” Peter grinned at Stiles. “It wasn’t on my behalf, was it?” He headed off to the creek to wash his hands.
“I’m sorry for my uncle. He likes to be unnecessary.”
“Hey, I can put up with him,” Stiles said. “It’s you I’m trying to kiss, not him.”
To prove his point, he kissed Derek again. Just a quick peck on the lips. After all, Derek was busy right now and did not need the distraction.
Instead, Stiles unrolled his and Derek’s bedrolls and checked on the horses.
Then, he settled onto the ground and watched as the rabbits sizzled and popped as Derek turned them.
~ * ~
The rest of the twenty miles passed easily, and when they arrived in Trouble, identical to Beacon Hills aside from the giant prison built sometime in the past five years with timbers brought down from Oregon.
In front of the gate, the warden stood, thumbs hooked in his vest pockets.
The Hales and Stiles dismounted. The warden nodded at them.
“Sheriff Stilinski, how nice to see you.” He spit a wad of juice from the corner of his mouth. Stiles bit back his grimace at the display. It wasn’t his place to tell the warden that it was disgusting and shameful to do that in proper company.
“Warden Enos, it looks like you were expecting me.”
“Indeed I was.” Enos spit again. “Thanks to these lovely ladies.” He jerked his thumb out of his pocket to jab it in the direction of where two women, both dark haired like Derek, were being led by another man Stiles did not recognize. From the way Derek and Peter both bristled, he would guess this was the challenging alpha.
The taller of the two women was dressed in an outfit similar to Derek’s, with a dark vest over a white shirt and a wide-brimmed hat. The shorter had chaps over her pants and a brown vest and no hat. The strange alpha was dressed in a three piece suit, and as dapper as Derek looked in his vest, he had nothing on this newcomer. Well, he may have been well-dressed, but Stiles wasn’t falling for it.
“Derek,” the taller woman called, “he’s part of Deucalion’s pack.”
Enos’ eyes turned red and he swiped his claws at Derek. Peter retaliated quickly, shoving Enos back.
“Now, now, boys, let’s not be hasty.” Deucalion pointed a gun at the women. The taller woman snapped her head side to side, teeth bared, eyes red.
Next to her, the shorter woman’s eyes were blue, like Derek’s.
“Now, there’s no reason to resort to violence,” Stiles said. He kept his gun pointed at Deucalion. “What’s this I hear about you trying to take Hale land?”
“I’m only trying to get back what is mine.”
“And how is this land yours?”
“Not the land,” Deucalion said. “Not even the gold or the railroad on top of it. I want the people.”
“And how are the people yours?”
Deucalion smiled, cold, emotionless. “Can you not feel the way your body is mine? The way your blood sings to be turned into your true potential?”
“If you mean let myself be turned by you, then no. I don’t want anything to do with that. In fact, if you’re going to be biting people without their consent, then I’m going to have to put you down like the rabid dog you are pretending to be.”
“Try me.” Deucalion rolled his shoulders and then leapt at Stiles, moving faster than Stiles could keep his weapon trained on him.
He was going to die, Stiles was certain. He shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to watch his flesh be torn asunder.
The pain never came, and Stiles opened his eyes to see Derek standing between him and Deucalion.
Derek gurgled, choking on something, but he stood firm. Deucalion wasn’t coming through him.
“What’s this?” Deucalion asked, voice sinisterly low. Something squelched and Derek whimpered. “Fallen in love with a human?” Deucalion tsked. “Now that’s just not proper.”
“And who are you to decide what’s proper or not?” Peter asked. “Remove your filthy hand from my nephew’s chest.”
“Wait, what?” Stiles peeked around Derek. Deucalion’s hand was deep in Derek’s chest. As Stiles watched, he twisted it, and Derek made that gurgling noise again. He was going to kill him. Stiles put his gun against Deucalion’s head and pulled the trigger.
Derek screamed as his chest tore open when Deucalion’s hand pulled free.
Peter helped Stiles hold Derek up. Together, they got him to the saloon. The two women, Derek’s sisters, easily dispatched Enos and brought up the rear.
Inside was chaos. A tall blond was dispensing drinks by chucking full bottles at people.
“The tyrants are dead,” he chanted, juggling glasses and rags with ease. “Thank fuck for the strangers and the sheriff.” He slid a full glass of beer to Stiles. “What can I do for our saviors?”
“You can start by fetching the doctor of this town,” Stiles ordered. He knocked the beer off the bar so that he and Peter could lay Derek there.
“Deaton!” The bartender yelled. A short man in a bowler hat and vest combo stepped up to the bar. “Help the sheriff.”
“Certainly.” Deaton thumped a bag down on to the bar next to Derek’s head. He pulled out a stethoscope, listening to Derek’s heart. “He’s strong enough that all he needs is some time to heal.”
“I could have told you that,” Peter snapped. “What I want you to tell me is if Deucalion left anything in him. He was killed with a wolfsbane bullet. Could residue have gotten inside my nephew?”
Deaton shook his head. “The shot was instantaneous, correct? Head or heart?” Stiles nodded. “Then he should be fine. If he doesn’t start healing properly inside of half an hour, we’ll try the ashes method. For now, what he needs is rest. Isaac, are the rooms upstairs decent?”
The blond shrugs. “Decent enough,” he replied, tossing a key at Deaton. “Tell him thanks when he’s conscious.”
“Will do. Thanks, Isaac.”
The taller sister shouldered Peter aside and scooped up Derek. “Lead the way, Doc.” She and Deaton disappeared up the sweeping staircase, an exact replica of the staircase in Erica’s saloon.
“I’d better stay down here and make sure the rest of Deucalion’s pack doesn’t ambush us.”
Peter and the shorter sister exchanged glances. “We’d better stay down here then,” Peter said. “We can hear anyone coming, and we can fight them off.”
“Besides,” the sister added, “you’ve already proven you can take care of Derek.”
“What do you mean? He got hurt because of me.”
“Derek will, misguided though it might be at times, defend anyone and everyone. He didn’t get hurt because of you; he got hurt because he stepped into the path of an alpha werewolf intent on killing a human.”
“And you trust me to stop whatever threat makes it past you too?”
“Absolutely,” the sister said. “I’m Cora Hale.” She stuck her hand out. Stiles shook it heartily.
“Sheriff Stilinski—Stiles.”
“Well, Stiles,” Cora said, “take good care of my brother. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Stiles tipped his hat to her and headed up the stairs.
He hoped it didn’t come to that—to have to meet her again as they crossed the river into the afterlife. If a fight did break out, Stiles did not want to have to kill someone else. Deucalion was going to kill Derek, so that was kill or be killed. Stiles could get behind that kind of sanctioned murder.
Less so if he was shooting someone in cold blood.
“Hey,” the other sister said when Stiles entered the room, the door having been left open for him. “So, Derek’s already starting to heal.” Deaton nodded his agreement. “You take the first watch.”
“That’s all well and good,” Stiles said, his hat in hand, “but do you really trust someone Derek just met to watch over him?”
“You just shot an alpha werewolf in the face because he was killing my brother. Of course I’m going to trust you. I’m Laura, by the way.”
Stiles shook her hand. “Stiles Stilinski.”
“Stiles,” Laura said, a mischievous smile cracking her face. “Nice to meet you. Take care of my brother.”
“I will.”
“Good. See you in about two hours. Don’t do anything Peter wouldn’t do.”
“What does your annoying uncle have to do with anything?”
“Well, let’s just say that if you like my brother and you were Peter, the fact that he’s unconscious wouldn’t be a deterrent.”
Stiles looked to the bed where Derek lying still, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with a slow, steady beat. Then he looked back to Laura. “Something is very wrong with your uncle,” he told her.
“Don’t I know it,” she laughed. “Anyway. I’m going to get some grub. Deucalion, before his timely passing, wasn’t a great host. I haven’t had anything more substantial than a mouse in two days.”
“That I believe.”
As soon as Laura left, Stiles settled in at the desk.
“If my services aren’t needed anymore, I’d like to settle my tab.” Deaton hefted his bag, sticking a bowler hat on his bald head.
Stiles dismissed him with a nod. And then he just sat in Derek’s room, trying not to feel like he was doing something wrong when he watched him sleep.
As soon as Laura came to relieve him, he jammed his hat back on his head, headed downstairs, and saddled up.
“I’m going back to Beacon Hills,” he said to Cora when she stopped him. “My town needs me. If it gets out that I helped bring down Deucalion, either my town will be overrun with wannabe alpha werewolves or people seeking revenge or people who’ll want me to solve their werewolf problems.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Cora promised. “My mom won’t let it. Deucalion was an outlier, bolstered by the Argents and their firepower.”
“As long as the Argents exists, then there will be no peace. I can’t stay here any longer. What if my town is under attack right now?”
“It’s not,” Cora said, “but if it makes you feel better, we’ll send Derek there once he’s healed.”
“Sure. You do that.”
Stiles clicked his tongue and Roscoe started walking.
The idea of Derek in his town was…not as displeasing as Stiles might have expected. As long as Peter wasn’t part of the deal. The poor town wouldn’t be able to withstand his personality, much less his piano playing.
Derek on the other hand…
Derek could spend every minute annoying Stiles and he wouldn’t feel the need to shoot him like he had Peter.
Oh god, he was in love, wasn’t he?
Roscoe didn’t answer aside from a whinny. Stiles agreed and upped their pace. They had a long journey ahead of them.
~ * ~
It wasn’t surprising to find Beacon Hills still standing, but Stiles wished that his town could have missed him just a little more since he’d been gone for about half a week.
After putting Roscoe up in his stall, brushing, and feeding him, he walked into the saloon and was greeted by Boyd tossing Jackson out on his ear.
“And stay out,” the gentle giant said, dusting off his hands, standing there unconcernedly while Jackson picked himself up and dusted off before limping off to crawl back into his uncle’s guest room. “Welcome back, Sheriff.”
“Boyd.” Stiles nodded at him. “Wanna explain what’s going on?”
“Jackson was caught cheating at cards. Again,” Boyd said. “Erica told him he was on his last leg and that she wouldn’t protect him anymore.”
“About damn time,” Stiles muttered. “Got any grub left?”
“For you,” Erica called from behind the bar, “always. Just let me get my fine dishes out.”
“Nah, the bar is good enough,” Stiles joked back. “Thanks,” he said genuinely when Erica set a plate of warmed beans and eggs in front of him.
“So, tell me, Sheriff,” Erica pretended to wipe the bar clean, “what was it like traveling with the Hales?”
“It was great aside from the fact that I haven’t been riding enough so I’m saddle-sore. Also, I think I met my husband thanks to you.”
“Your husband?” Erica repeated. “Because of me? How?”
“Do you remember that advert you took out about, what, six months ago?”
“Vaguely.” Erica blushed. “I try not to think about it, honestly.”
“Well, thank you. Apparently, the Hales saw it and now I’m going to marry—”
“Not Peter Hale,” Erica gasped. “Please not that asshole.”
Stiles smiled. “No, not Peter. Derek.”
“Oh thank god.” Erica sagged, looking relieved. Then she perked up again. “Am I invited to the wedding?”
“Of course,” Stiles said. “Why wouldn’t you be?”
“Because I put out that advert without your approval. I know you were mad at me.”
“You’re one of my best friends,” Stiles told her, “and more than that, you’re my family. You and Boyd. You’re both invited to the wedding. Whenever it is.”
“That’s really sweet of you,” Boyd intoned. “Does Derek know you’re getting married?”
“Possibly.” Stiles scratched at his chin. He’d have to shave tomorrow if he wanted to remain presentable. “I mean, I would guess so. His sister seemed to think that Derek and I were compatible.”
“Well, if you are, good for you,” Erica said. “And if you aren’t, please don’t kill me when you remember the advert.”
Stiles laughed, handing her back the empty plate. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Now, I’m sorry, but I’m absolutely tuckered. I’m going to grab some sleep. Wake me up if anything happens, or Jackson tries to get back inside.”
Erica and Boyd mock-saluted him and he dragged his tired body up the stairs and to his room.
He didn’t remember toeing off his boots and face planting onto his bed. He also didn’t remember if he dreamed.
~ * ~
Stiles woke up when his window creaked open. He was aware in an instant, pointing his gun at the startled face of Derek Hale.
“Goddamn it, Hale, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? I still have the wolfsbane bullets loaded.”
“Oh.” Derek slunk into the room, standing with his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see you again.”
He shuffled closer to the bed as if he was afraid that Stiles still had the gun trained on him. He didn’t. Had dropped it when he realized it was Derek who was sneaking into his room.
And then, quicker than Stiles could see, Derek dropped something on the bed and was out the window. By the time Stiles was up and following him, he was already gone.
Shaking his head, Stiles returned to the bed, sitting down and making sure his gun wasn’t cocked. Then he noticed what Derek had all but thrown at him.
It was a package wrapped in thick cloth, cut from Derek’s vest, and tied with a piece of twine. When he undid the string and opened it, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a locket and a shiny rock that reminded Stiles of Derek’s eyes, aventurine and beautiful. Underneath it all was a note written in surprisingly spindly and frankly cute handwriting.
Stiles unfolded it, reading it quickly.
It was a proposal. From Derek.
Stiles looked up to the window. Still empty.
He turned the paper over and grabbed a pencil from the desk. He wrote a single word and then folded the note back into the cloth minus the other items. Then he tied it tightly and threw it out the window. It landed in the dusty street. Derek was still nowhere to be seen.
Stiles sighed and hauled himself back inside. Before he’d even sat down again, he heard a soft voice ask, “Do you really mean it?”
Stiles looked up to see Derek standing just inside the window, the cloth shredded, the note clutched in one hand.
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I mean it.” He looped the locket around his neck, and Derek, smiling broadly, closed the clasp for him.
“Thank you,” he said, “for saving me, and for saying yes.”
“Yes, well, thank you for asking.”
This time, when they kissed, there was no Peter to interrupt them, and Stiles quite enjoyed exchanging spit with Derek, because, werewolf or not, almost thirty years old come winter, that boy looked debauched by a thorough kiss.
He knew he’d enjoy being married to Derek. Every minute of it. And when Derek sighed as Stiles pulled back to look at him again, he knew Derek would enjoy it too.
Stiles sent a mental thank you to Erica for her hand in bringing them together.
She deserved it.
And Derek deserved another kiss. Eagerly, Stiles dove in.
~ The End ~
18 notes
·
View notes
THAT WAS A TEST
i was asked by lovely jess to discuss the bit in rocketman when elton john yells "that was a test" in bernie taupin's face. i believe she meant a short comment, not really appreciating how much i can go on about rocketman once i start to think about it. so i'm sorry all, this is a very long and chaotic post about what this scene makes me feel. i can be wrong about everything and will be stating the obvious a lot.
tl;dr: elton john yells "that was a test" in bernie taupin's face because he's behaving like a childish asshole. and this is why i love him so goddamn much:
can we please first and foremost notice how all scenes when elton is being a dick to bernie take place straight after his interactions with his mother?? because i feel it is important.
so when elton tells bernie to just write the lyrics and stop telling him how to do his job he's obviously not testing him, he's too high and too emotional to even think about it. it is just after his mother tells him he will never be loved properly. just after he gets punched in the face and pushed around by the person he thought loved and cared for him. both sheila and john just want to see him perform, they do not give a flying fuck about a single thing he feels; and this brings us to the scene when he literally practices performing his feelings in front of the mirror and he puts so much effort in masking himself it will make your teeth hurt. and then bernie dares to criticize this effort and suggesting this could be done differently?? after elton is already so deeply lost?? it's too late, PEOPLE DON'T PAY TO SEE REGINALD DWIGHT, THEY PAY TO SEE ELTON JOHN. but what i really love in this scene is how he manages to compose himself and say sorry before going on stage, because he knows bernie is the only person who's left at this point. and bernie knows too.
when his mother storms into his house like she was on a zoo trip, bringing virtual strangers to his home, pratically comanding him to give them a fucking tour, he locks himself in with alcohol and drugs. let's just add that john treats him the very same way like his mother does: like an annoying, sulking kid that needs a push now and then; who is, in fact, insufferable, but can provide him with certain benefits.
and then bernie comes in, all smiles, pristine clothes, beautiful girl under each arm, party mood in place (actually showing him off as a zoo exhibit not much unlike his mother!). and that's not something elton can deal with at the moment, because why everything is so glorious for everyone else while he is in so much pain?? and he is hostile; he doesn't stop bernie from going out and getting a drink, he encourages him in fact. and this is where bernie actually fucks up by leaving him alone, just confirming that no one there cares for elton as a person (of course bernie didn't have to stay, he had valid reasons to leave, not saying that anything that happened afterwards is his fault). and if going out, loudly announcing his suicide attempt as "his next trick" and falling to the swimming pool in front of a literal crowd is not the loudest and gut wrenching cry for help, i don't know what is, really. he must've known they won't let him die; he didn't want himself dead, he wanted himself noticed and touched and taken care of. (and let's just say that john calling him a self-indulgent prick while he is being taken away breaks me every time).
now, when bernie says he needs a break, just look at this mess of an elton reacting to it. HE NEVER STOPS BERNIE FROM LEAVING, NEVER*, even though this is obvious that he is completely lost without him (even at the beginning when bernie leaves his side to party with heather) (fuck, when i think about it even that troubadour scene in which he locks himself in the bathroom is important here, and he is mad at bernie for telling him that famous people are at the bar and for being excited; jesus shit, bernie much?? and what bernie does is not trying to convince him to go out but is being like fiiiine, just let's cancel everything - i actually think that would work bc elton would never agree to that, but then the ray storms in and the rest is history. but what i'm trying to say is i suppose elton really needed someone to chase after him to feel valid). but let's get back to the plane scene, elton again clearly feels sick at the thought of being left alone but doesn't say so because guess what: talking about your feelings is a waste of time and he shouldn't be soft).
and then there comes the sorry seems to be the hardest word/goodbye yellow brick road sequence. he's just heard from his MOTHER telling him that 1. he was just lucky, never had to work hard for anything 2. she was the one who made all the sacrifices 3. it is so dissapointing to have him as a son she wishes she never had him. when bernie opens his mouth and something remotely resembling a lecture comes out elton loses his shit and goes straight to defense by attack. he has to fucking defend himself, okay, this is too much, and he still cannot let himself to be soft even though he is a total goo inside by this point.
when bernie asks elton when he gave up, elton looks like he's been slapped. when bernie asks elton how he expects people to care about him if he himself doesn't, and that punches just in the right place, because elton probably sees it as polar opposite - how the fuck is he supposed to care a bout himself if no one else in the world does?
and can we appreciate how he uses the same words that hurt him so badly mere minutes earlier in that scene to hurt bernie in return? how he says he was working his balls off and that bernie is in fact ungrateful? and of course he knows this is bullshit, because when bernie throws his own words at him - just write the lyrics, i'll take care of everything - how can he deny that he said that? THAT WAS A TEST is such a desperate and childish attempt to shift responsibility to bernie and to shelter his already hurting self from aknowledging he actually refused to be helped, that a lot of this shit he's into is his own fault. and this when bernie stands up and leaves, because it is really impossible to have a meaningful discussion with elton at this point; he really is self-indulgent prick (but he's not a villain for it, and i love it so much). and this is just where elton looses everything and destroys himself.
elton expects people to give him this kind of love his parents should give him; the kind of love no one should have to work for, the one that you gain simply by existing - and he never received it. that's also why, after he owns his bullshit like a boss and goes to therapy, his devil costume not far away from a picture of phoenix raising up, it ends with him hugging his boy self close, because damn, this child needed to be loved and accepted so badly (plus he aknowledges the fact he should've say bernie he needed him instead of expecting to be saved).
my heart hurts. move along.
*except when he runs after him from the restaurant and doesn’t even beg him to stay, he keeps attacking him because he still can’t admit he’s vulnerable, damn it, you can see how he suffers and is unable to find different way to cope.
18 notes
·
View notes
Chapter 14 is up!
Reflections is available at the $1 tier. You can read the first chapter of Book 1: Reflections of the Desperate and Dumb for free here. Here is the summary of the 2nd Book:
Justin’s back at it again, “it” being drinking a little too much, trying to cobble together rent this month, and having awkward sexual encounters with strangers. Justin’s newest conquest is a Russian-speaking, cigarette-smoking bad boy that’s just another flavor of Justin’s usual type: too cool for school and completely allergic to the commitment Justin secretly craves.
However, just as Justin settles into the routine of his fast and casual lifestyle, he runs into Thad Farley: a sweet-natured boy from Alabama, a science whiz, an amateur musician, and an unabashed do-gooder. Together, they stumble into the strangest yet most sincere friendship that Justin has ever known, one that pits Justin’s old baggage against the type of person he yearns to be. Apparently an old dog can learn new tricks– and fall desperately in love with someone he doesn’t think he deserves.
For more info, artwork, and chapter archive, go here.
Excerpt:
“You won’t ruin me,” Thad said gently, like he was speaking to a scared animal.
“How do you fucking know? No offense, but you’re a virgin. You’ve never dated. You think you know what it’s like but you don’t. You’ve never been hurt, or lied to, or taken advantage of.”
“I have definitely been hurt,” Thad snapped back, a bit angry now.
“By a boyfriend?”
“No, but I’m not some precious angel child or whatever! I’ve been through things, and I’ve been to therapy for them. Why do you think I live with my nana? CPS took me away from my mom, and for years I wasn’t even allowed to contact her. And to be honest, most of the time I don’t want to contact her, because she traumatized me and I had symptoms of PTSD for years! So, like, don’t try to tell me I’ve never suffered, okay?”
If there was any way to deflate my rage, that was it. I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I stood there awkwardly in the center of the living room, trying to think of a good reply and coming up empty. What came out was a pathetic, “I’m sorry.”
Thad sighed, slumping back on the couch, arms crossed over his chest. He suddenly looked exhausted.
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I know, Justin. And I get it. But you seem to think you’re poison or somethin’, which pisses me off, cuz you’ve, like… you’ve been the nicest person I’ve met since I moved here, and I don’t know who keeps tellin’ you otherwise. Probably jerks like Duncan.”
“I’m a dick to him,” I muttered.
“Yeah, cuz he insults you. Like other people in your life have insulted and hurt you. You ever think that maybe you’re not a mean person but that you just surround yourself with people who get you upset? And then when you react the way anyone would, they can then turn around and say you deserve to be treated badly? Because you’re just so mean? And maybe that’s how they convince you to keep wasting your time on them?”
“You don’t—you only see one side of me. You haven’t seen the other—”
“I’ve seen the side of you that matters.” At this, Thad unfolded his limbs and stood, which made me tense up. “I ain’t afraid of you.”
2 notes
·
View notes
I Could Be Lonely With You (maybe that makes me a fool)
for @do-what-the-knight-tells-you
Title comes from Lovelytheband’s Broken
Tags: mail order bride Derek, Sheriff Stiles, dead Stilinski parents, dead Papa Hale, dead Hale cousins, werewolves are known, Peter is Peter, Mentioned Argents
Sterek Secret Santa
Posted on AO3
Warnings: Character death (none of the heroes)
~ * ~
Someone was playing piano. Badly.
Stiles sighed, buttoning his shirt. He’d have to talk to Erica about the people she let in her establishment. Too many drunkards thought they were Philharmonic-worthy and then someone else would yell at them, and then there would be a brawl, and as Sheriff of this stinking town, Stiles would have to break it up.
Great. Just what he wanted on a Thursday morning.
Well. No sense putting it off. The longer he took to get his butt downstairs, the more guns would be drawn by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs.
He grabbed his hat and gun on his way out, making sure they were both firmly in place and that his silver star was highly visible.
Perfect timing, he thought as he reached the base of the sweeping staircase that Erica claimed was the envy of the other three saloons in Beacon Territory but was probably only average, and he heard violence erupt.
“What’s going on?” he demanded as he stepped into the fray. Already, there were two men at each other’s throats, guns poking into the opposite’s belly like poorly shaped dicks. The rest of the saloon was waiting for something, hands hovering over their holsters. Stiles pushed the men apart.
“I said,” he drawled, hooking a thumb in his belt, “what’s going on?”
“He was banging a racket out,” complained one of the men. Stiles recognized him as the never-up-to-any-good nephew of the preacher, sent out West to get an education in manners by the preacher’s sister, Jackson Whittemore. The other man, Stiles didn’t recognize with his brown hair and bright blue eyes. He also had a down-right dirty smirk aimed at the preacher’s nephew.
“And you thought that was good enough reason to stick your piece in his gut?” Stiles asked.
Shamefaced, Jackson shook his head. “It’s just, it’s so early. Ain’t he got sense enough not to play that bullshit?”
“Sonny, you wouldn’t know music if it came up to you and kissed you,” the stranger said in a smooth, smarmy voice. Stiles pegged him as a dude, a city slicker come out West for the adventure and danger touted as the general fair of the western side of the country. Well, if trouble was what he wanted to stir, Trouble was where he’d go.
Stiles shoved a hand into Jackson’s chest to stop him from following the stranger’s words with his fists or worse, his gun. Erica had just had the floorboards cleaned from the last incident and Stiles had no desire to have another murder in his town.
“Listen here, partner,” Stiles emphasized his drawl, “we don’t take kindly to folks just waltzing in here like they own the town and damaging our eardrums in that manner.”
“Oh, don’t I own this town?” The stranger grinned. Stiles did not like the look of that smile, no sir. “Pray tell, Sheriff,” the stranger said like an insult, “who does own this fine town?”
“Well, I reckon that would be the Hale family,” Stiles said. “The largest railroading family this side of Colorado.”
“The Hales, right,” the stranger said. “Well, you’re in luck, Sheriff.” He stepped back from them and bowed with a little flourish. “Peter Hale at your service.”
Eloquently, Stiles said, “Fuck.”
“Peter!” someone else yelled. All eyes snapped onto the staircase where a young man, a stranger like Peter Hale, stood. He was glowering at Hale, nostrils flared, eyes looking distinctly blue.
“Oh no,” Stiles said, drawing his weapon. He pointed it at Hale’s chest. “We do not have any supernaturals in this town.”
“Why not, Sheriff?” Hale rolled his head, cracking his neck pointedly before opening his mouth to reveal a set of canines the likes of which Stiles hadn’t seen in years. He shot Hale.
“What, no wolfsbane?” the stranger from the stairs asked, rather blandly considering his friend had just been shot.
Hale writhed a bit on the ground before standing up. Immediately, every gun in the place was trained on him. It was credit to their curiosity that they all held their fire.
“Really?” Hale dusted off his shirt and plucked at the material where it was sticky with his blood. “Come on. I liked this shirt.”
“You have others. Go back to the room.”
“You’re not allowed to boss me around,” Hale complained.
“According to Mom’s orders?” the other man said. “Yes, I am.”
When Hale didn’t move, he pointed up the stairs. “Go. Go!”
As soon as Hale disappeared up the stairs, the stranger stepped forward, hand extended. “Derek Hale, son of Talia Hale.”
“And werewolf,” Stiles said, not shaking the proffered hand.
“And werewolf,” Derek repeated. “Look, my mom thinks that there’s been a lot of trouble this way.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “We have a whole town called Trouble. It’s about forty or fifty miles south of here.”
“Yeah. My sisters were sent there. That’s where the prison is, right?”
“Yep.” Stiles studied D. Hale, taking in his well-kept clothes, the silver chain attached to a pocket watch, chain threaded through the second button-hole from the bottom of his vest. Very dapper. Definitely better looking than his smarmy relative.
Stiles tamped down hard on that train of thought. He did not need to have a fascination with what amounted to the enemy. The Hales owned all the land right now and they had built the railroads which in turn had created the towns.
Derek and Peter out here along with Derek’s sisters could only mean one thing: the Hales felt like their control was slipping.
“You do know why we’re here, don’t you?” Derek smiled, amused about something. Supernaturals, man. Stiles had successfully kept them out of the town after he’d routed a wendigo nest about five years ago. All Stiles knew about werewolves was they had difference colored eyes. They had their human ones, yes, but they also had their true eyes. And Derek’s were blue.
Stiles had seen werewolves with yellow and red eyes. He’d never seen blue though.
“What does it mean that your eyes are blue?”
“It’s a distinct trait of Hale werewolves,” Derek explained. “All of us have blue eyes except my mom who has the red of alpha. It just means that we can transform into full wolves if we choose to.”
“Oh.” Stiles thought back to a black wolf he’d seen circling the town about a month ago. He had stationed patrols and set non-killing traps. The wolf had stopped coming around a few days after that. “Was that you?”
“Me?” Derek asked, but he refused to make eye contact, which made Stiles certain it was.
“You were a wolf here. You scoped out this town. Why?”
“My mother wanted us to see what each town was like without alerting the residents to our presence. I mean, you met my uncle. He wasn’t playing that piano long before someone wanted to kill him. He kind of has that effect on a lot of people. You shot him,” he reminded Stiles.
“Yeah.” Stiles touched his gun. “Regrettably.”
“About the wolfsbane or about shooting him?”
“Both? Yeah. Let’s go with both. Anyway. Why were you sent to observe us?”
“There’s a rival werewolf pack in the area. There’s going to be a challenge for the territory, and we don’t want the people living here to be caught in the middle if it turns into a battle.”
“How,” Stiles raked his eyes up and down Derek’s form again, making it apparent that he was finding him lacking in some indefinable way, “noble. And what’s to stop that other pack from attacking us?”
Surprisingly, Derek went red. “Um,” he coughed. “We, well, as werewolves who can fully shift, we, um, we don’t need outhouses. So, what my sisters, my uncle, and I have been doing is marking our territory.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “You’ve been pissing all over my town?” He raised one eyebrow.
“Not all over it.” Derek’s face turned even redder. “Just around it.”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, I would get you being insulted if I had actually peed on your bed or something. Instead, I peed about a mile from town. Now the other pack knows that this town is protected by a Hale.”
“Great,” Stiles muttered. Louder, he said, “So, you’re here. What do you need from me? As you can see, I’m the sheriff of this town.”
“Well, my mother wanted me to meet with you to see if you’d had any incidents lately.”
“And the purpose of bringing your uncle with you?”
Derek shrugged. “While werewolves are difficult to kill, it is not impossible. Therefore, we usually travel in pairs of two or more if we have to travel at all.”
“So, now that you’ve met with me, what else do you need?”
“Well…” Derek scratched at the back of his head. “Actually, it would be nice to show the other pack that we have the support of the humans in this area.”
“Well, unless your uncle happens to be in charge of human-werewolf relations.”
Derek laughed. “Yeah. He wasn’t my first choice either. My mom was busy though, so she sent Peter with me.”
“Shame. You could have almost convinced us non-supernaturals to join you.” Stiles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need coffee. It’s too early for this shit.”
He stalked away from Derek, leaving him standing in the middle of the saloon
~ * ~
Two mugs of Erica’s finest swill later and Stiles felt more like himself. He found the Hales sitting on the balcony of their room. Derek was winding his watch while Peter stretched out, a hat pulled over his face. Neither of them reacted to Stiles shoving the window up enough for him to crawl clumsily through. Werewolves must be as flexible as cats to fit through such small entrances. Stiles made a note to himself to never leave his window open, lest he wake up to Peter Hale standing over him.
Less concerning would be waking up to Derek, despite the fact that he’d pissed all over Stiles’ goddamn town.
“Ah, what’s that?” Peter asked from beneath his hat. He sniffed loudly. “Oh, that’s right. A conquest for your bed, dear nephew.”
Derek turned red faster than Stiles could draw his foot back and slam it into Peter’s knee.
“Oh, I’m sorry, were you using that?” he intoned as he ground his heel into the busted tendons, smirking at the howl Peter let out.
Derek laughed. “How’d you do that?” he asked when Stiles finally let Peter drag his wounded body and pride into the room.
“A little bit of aconite oil and a sturdy heel.” Stiles sat down in Peter’s spot. “So, about this meeting with the other pack, I’m in. As long as you leave the rest of my town out of it. I swore an oath to protect this town and I mean it.”
“I appreciate your dedication,” Derek told him. “It’s an admirable trait.”
“For what? A sheriff?” Stiles shook his head. “No, that’s just part of the job. I mean, who can you trust if you can’t trust the people hired to protect you?”
Derek eyed him oddly. “I’ve know quite a few corrupt lawmen. My mother has disposed of most of them.”
“And she can’t do the same to a pack of werewolves?”
“Not when they have the support of the largest hunting family in the whole country behind them.”
“Oh, shit, the Argents?” Stiles knew of them: they were the largest suppliers of firepower to any militia group that had enough gold—except for werewolves. They had a strict policy of shooting werewolves first and then interrogating them while they lay dying from the poisoned bullets. “They’ve aligned with a werewolf pack? I thought they never did that?”
Derek’s face shuttered, obviously trying to hide something. “Apparently,” he said bitterly, “they will if it means eradicating my family. They already attacked us earlier. My father was killed.”
“So why’d you pick Beacon Hills out of all the townships in Beacon Territory to represent the human side of the Hales?”
Derek sighed, patting at his vest until he found what he was looking for. Which was apparently a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it carefully, and Stiles felt his heart skip a beat when he realized what it probably was.
“Where did you get that?” he demanded.
Derek shrugged. “My older sister passed it on. She thought you might—”
“It wasn’t me,” Stiles said. “I mean, my friend, Erica Reyes—she owns this saloon—she was the one who wrote that. I wasn’t looking for anyone.”
“Oh,” Derek said, refolding the paper with the same care. Stiles sighed, not in relief, but from the way Derek slumped, he must have thought so.
“That’s not how I meant it,” he tried to explain. “Erica. She. Well, she thought I was lonely, just because I’m nearly 29 and haven’t been married yet. So, she drafted an advert and sent it back east. ‘Handsome sheriff seeking love.’ I hoped no one would respond, not because I’m not ready to find someone to settle down with, but because I thought the choice had been taken from me.”
“Have you had anyone respond?”
“If they have, Erica has kept them away from me. We have a few new faces every now and again, but most folks just pass through, heading for the gold mines along the rivers.”
“And what if I’m here as a prospective love for you?”
“No offense, but I find that hard to believe. You don’t know me at all. And all I know about you is that you’re a werewolf who can apparently turn into a full wolf and likes to piss around his territory.”
“Well, I do know that you enjoy your job as sheriff, and even though your job brings you into violence, you don’t like to resort to it yourself. Although, you did kind of like shooting my uncle.”
Stiles shrugged. “He’s an asshole.”
“Yes, he is. Anyway. I know you care about this town. But, I also know that you are lonely. I can smell it on you. And if your nose was a good as mine, you’d smell it on me too.”
“So, what, you want us to be lonely together?”
Derek gently knocked his shoulder against Stiles’. “I just want to know you better.” Quieter, eyes downcast to his lap where his hands were twisted together, Derek mumbled, “I liked how your advert made you sound.”
“Can I read it?” Stiles asked. “I never saw what Erica sent out because she only told me long after the fact.”
Derek obligingly dug out the paper and passed it over. Stiles unfolded it, using the same careful movement as Derek earlier. He was greeted with a detailed likeness of himself. Erica must have had her husband draw it. Boyd was a secret artist with a few high profile sales on the east coast.
Beneath that was an almost poetic description of Stiles, and to her credit, Erica had described him perfectly, using words like “stubborn” and “bullheadedness” and also “sweet” “charming when I’m not talking your ear off.” Apparently, he could cook “decent enough not to kill my guest” and he was “shy when it came to the bedroom.”
“Goddamn it, Erica, just because I was the only man who never bowed to your feminine wiles, doesn’t make me ‘shy in the bedroom.’”
Derek coughed suddenly, and Stiles turned to him. “Well,” Derek finally said when he had his breathing under control, “that makes one of us.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Derek’s face was so red that Stiles knew if he touched him, he’d feel the heat burning through his skin. “I’m not,” here he coughed again, looking pained, “I haven’t. I mean, I’m not.”
Stiles put his hand on Derek’s, curling his fingers loosely enough that Derek could pull back if he wanted to. “It’s okay,” he said, and meant it. He knew what Derek was trying to say, and he didn’t care. “I wouldn’t just want you because of that,” he promised.
“Is this sap-fest over yet?” Peter called from inside the room. “We need to get to our meeting with Deucalion and his usurping hunters before they make a move we can’t stop.”
“One more thing,” Stiles called back. Before he could rethink it, he lunged forward and smashed his and Derek’s mouths together.
There was teeth and blood, and Derek’s nose got in the way of Stiles’ eye. It was altogether uncomfortable and a little bit the best thing Stiles had ever done. When he pulled back, Derek’s eyes fluttered open, his pupils expanded, irises iridescent with greens, blues, and browns that held Stiles’ attention.
“Let’s go, boys.” Peter broke the moment by grabbing Derek by the back of his neck and dragging him into the room. “We’ll meet you out front in five minutes.” And then the Hales were gone.
Stiles took a moment to compose himself, and wipe away the blood from his split lip, before he hauled himself back through the window and headed to his room.
~ * ~
Derek was holding the reins to a painted horse while Peter was already in the saddle of a mustang. Somehow, Stiles hadn’t expected Derek’s reserved or practical taste in horses. He would have expected a Hale to have expensive tastes. Peter was very much living up to that assumption, prancing about on his fancy horse.
“Should I get my horse?” Stiles asked, looking between the Hales. Derek had opted to don the brimmed hat from earlier while Peter was bareheaded.
Sunburn was not friendly, but if werewolves really did heal fast, as Peter had from the gunshot, and the destruction of his knee, then he’d be fine and Stiles refused to waste any more of his time on him.
“No need,” Boyd said, leading Stiles’ horse Roscoe from the barn. “I took the liberty of getting him ready.”
Roscoe whinnied, bumping his head into Stiles’ shoulder. Well, at least one of them was looking forward to the ride to Trouble.
“Thank you, Boyd.” Stiles swung himself up onto the American Saddlebred’s back. Roscoe had been a gift from Stiles’ mother, his parents in turn being a gift from her father, and Stiles took care of the horse though his mother was long gone.
Derek clicked his tongue and his horse moved up next to Stiles and Roscoe. “I know we said that we needed to show that we have the support of the humans in this area, but you don’t have to come if you think there will be too much danger.”
“I’m already here,” Stiles said. “You can’t get rid of me that easy. Besides, when was the last time you went to Trouble? Do you even know the way?”
“I do,” Derek confirmed. “But, it has been a while.” He smiled shyly at Stiles. “It sure would be nice to have a guide, Sheriff.”
“How charming,” Peter remarked, tone flat and bland but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “My nephew, the mail-order bride and his groom, the Sheriff of a dusty, backwater town. I’ll be certain to update your mother of the goings on, Derek. I’m sure she’ll be happy that her son is finally ready to marry.”
“Just because Derek doesn’t roll over for you doesn’t mean you can threaten him. Did you forget that you’re still in my town, backwater and all? I’ll shoot you again.”
Derek made a show of inhaling deeply. “And he’s got the wolfsbane bullets this time.”
Peter kept his mouth shut the rest of the ride that day.
~ * ~
They stopped to make camp when they were still about twenty miles from Trouble.
Derek set about gathering dry kindling and sticks while Peter laid out his bedroll and thumped down onto it, relaxing while Stiles took the horses down to a nearby creek for a drink.
When he returned, Derek had a fire going, a small pot suspended over it.
“Sorry, I only brought beans,” he apologized when he realized that Stiles was watching him. “Usually, when we travel, we just catch game and make do.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to rustle up a rabbit or two,” Stiles said. He cut a quick glance to where Peter was watching them. “Or someone else could pull his weight around here,” he said loudly in his direction. Peter raised a hand, a single finger lifted.
“Yeah, Peter’s never been very good at showing his prowess around humans. He prefers to lull them into a false sense of security and then spring out as a werewolf.”
“Bad news for your uncle then,” Stiles said. “I already know he’s a werewolf and I’m not impressed. Go hunt for us, Peter.”
Surprisingly, Peter stood up. “You’re just trying to get me out of camp so you can practice kissing my nephew,” he accused, but it sounded good-natured. Stiles shrugged, not denying it. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Peter told Derek and then strode off into the gathering dusk.
“Did you really want to kiss me again?” Derek asked, not looking up from his beans. In answer, Stiles leaned against him, resting his head on his shoulder while he stared into the fire.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “On one hand, I’d love to. But on the other, I think it’d be better to wait until after the meeting with the usurping werewolves. I really just want to get to know you better. I don’t even know how old you are or what your favorite food is.”
“I’ll be thirty come winter and I really like blackberries off the bush.”
“What a coincidence, I love blackberry pie.” Stiles smiled. “Do you just have the two sisters?”
Derek nodded sharply. “I had cousins though. They were killed by hunters years ago. The Argents have been spreading the rumor that blue eyes on a werewolf means that they’ve killed someone.”
“You said it was because you can change into a full wolf.” Stiles stepped back so that Derek could turn to face him. “How do the Argents not know that?”
“It’s not something we go around telling people. Or at least, we didn’t used to. Now we do it to keep other humans from trying to kill us because they think we’re a danger to them.”
“You’re not though, are you?” Stiles didn’t wait for Derek’s answer before he leaned in to slot their mouths together.
It went much better this time with no blood or poked eyes.
Derek kissed like he was unsteady on his feet, like Stiles had knocked him a good one. Honestly, Stiles felt the same way.
They moved away from the fire and to the bedrolls that hadn’t been unrolled and dropped onto them, still locked at the mouth.
Derek patted at Stiles’ back, a small whimper breaking free when Stiles pulled back to gasp a breath in.
“Well, you certainly got far.” Peter interrupted them by dropping a couple of rabbits on them. Stiles and Derek pulled apart, and Derek shot his uncle a hate-filled look before taking the rabbits to the fire and skinning them quickly using his claws. He stuck them on a spit made out of a whittled piece of firewood and began cooking them.
“Why’d you stop?” Peter grinned at Stiles. “It wasn’t on my behalf, was it?” He headed off to the creek to wash his hands.
“I’m sorry for my uncle. He likes to be unnecessary.”
“Hey, I can put up with him,” Stiles said. “It’s you I’m trying to kiss, not him.”
To prove his point, he kissed Derek again. Just a quick peck on the lips. After all, Derek was busy right now and did not need the distraction.
Instead, Stiles unrolled his and Derek’s bedrolls and checked on the horses.
Then, he settled onto the ground and watched as the rabbits sizzled and popped as Derek turned them.
~ * ~
The rest of the twenty miles passed easily, and when they arrived in Trouble, identical to Beacon Hills aside from the giant prison built sometime in the past five years with timbers brought down from Oregon.
In front of the gate, the warden stood, thumbs hooked in his vest pockets.
The Hales and Stiles dismounted. The warden nodded at them.
“Sheriff Stilinski, how nice to see you.” He spit a wad of juice from the corner of his mouth. Stiles bit back his grimace at the display. It wasn’t his place to tell the warden that it was disgusting and shameful to do that in proper company.
“Warden Enos, it looks like you were expecting me.”
“Indeed I was.” Enos spit again. “Thanks to these lovely ladies.” He jerked his thumb out of his pocket to jab it in the direction of where two women, both dark haired like Derek, were being led by another man Stiles did not recognize. From the way Derek and Peter both bristled, he would guess this was the challenging alpha.
The taller of the two women was dressed in an outfit similar to Derek’s, with a dark vest over a white shirt and a wide-brimmed hat. The shorter had chaps over her pants and a brown vest and no hat. The strange alpha was dressed in a three piece suit, and as dapper as Derek looked in his vest, he had nothing on this newcomer. Well, he may have been well-dressed, but Stiles wasn’t falling for it.
“Derek,” the taller woman called, “he’s part of Deucalion’s pack.”
Enos’ eyes turned red and he swiped his claws at Derek. Peter retaliated quickly, shoving Enos back.
“Now, now, boys, let’s not be hasty.” Deucalion pointed a gun at the women. The taller woman snapped her head side to side, teeth bared, eyes red.
Next to her, the shorter woman’s eyes were blue, like Derek’s.
“Now, there’s no reason to resort to violence,” Stiles said. He kept his gun pointed at Deucalion. “What’s this I hear about you trying to take Hale land?”
“I’m only trying to get back what is mine.”
“And how is this land yours?”
“Not the land,” Deucalion said. “Not even the gold or the railroad on top of it. I want the people.”
“And how are the people yours?”
Deucalion smiled, cold, emotionless. “Can you not feel the way your body is mine? The way your blood sings to be turned into your true potential?”
“If you mean let myself be turned by you, then no. I don’t want anything to do with that. In fact, if you’re going to be biting people without their consent, then I’m going to have to put you down like the rabid dog you are pretending to be.”
“Try me.” Deucalion rolled his shoulders and then leapt at Stiles, moving faster than Stiles could keep his weapon trained on him.
He was going to die, Stiles was certain. He shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to watch his flesh be torn asunder.
The pain never came, and Stiles opened his eyes to see Derek standing between him and Deucalion.
Derek gurgled, choking on something, but he stood firm. Deucalion wasn’t coming through him.
“What’s this?” Deucalion asked, voice sinisterly low. Something squelched and Derek whimpered. “Fallen in love with a human?” Deucalion tsked. “Now that’s just not proper.”
“And who are you to decide what’s proper or not?” Peter asked. “Remove your filthy hand from my nephew’s chest.”
“Wait, what?” Stiles peeked around Derek. Deucalion’s hand was deep in Derek’s chest. As Stiles watched, he twisted it, and Derek made that gurgling noise again. He was going to kill him. Stiles put his gun against Deucalion’s head and pulled the trigger.
Derek screamed as his chest tore open when Deucalion’s hand pulled free.
Peter helped Stiles hold Derek up. Together, they got him to the saloon. The two women, Derek’s sisters, easily dispatched Enos and brought up the rear.
Inside was chaos. A tall blond was dispensing drinks by chucking full bottles at people.
“The tyrants are dead,” he chanted, juggling glasses and rags with ease. “Thank fuck for the strangers and the sheriff.” He slid a full glass of beer to Stiles. “What can I do for our saviors?”
“You can start by fetching the doctor of this town,” Stiles ordered. He knocked the beer off the bar so that he and Peter could lay Derek there.
“Deaton!” The bartender yelled. A short man in a bowler hat and vest combo stepped up to the bar. “Help the sheriff.”
“Certainly.” Deaton thumped a bag down on to the bar next to Derek’s head. He pulled out a stethoscope, listening to Derek’s heart. “He’s strong enough that all he needs is some time to heal.”
“I could have told you that,” Peter snapped. “What I want you to tell me is if Deucalion left anything in him. He was killed with a wolfsbane bullet. Could residue have gotten inside my nephew?”
Deaton shook his head. “The shot was instantaneous, correct? Head or heart?” Stiles nodded. “Then he should be fine. If he doesn’t start healing properly inside of half an hour, we’ll try the ashes method. For now, what he needs is rest. Isaac, are the rooms upstairs decent?”
The blond shrugs. “Decent enough,” he replied, tossing a key at Deaton. “Tell him thanks when he’s conscious.”
“Will do. Thanks, Isaac.”
The taller sister shouldered Peter aside and scooped up Derek. “Lead the way, Doc.” She and Deaton disappeared up the sweeping staircase, an exact replica of the staircase in Erica’s saloon.
“I’d better stay down here and make sure the rest of Deucalion’s pack doesn’t ambush us.”
Peter and the shorter sister exchanged glances. “We’d better stay down here then,” Peter said. “We can hear anyone coming, and we can fight them off.”
“Besides,” the sister added, “you’ve already proven you can take care of Derek.”
“What do you mean? He got hurt because of me.”
“Derek will, misguided though it might be at times, defend anyone and everyone. He didn’t get hurt because of you; he got hurt because he stepped into the path of an alpha werewolf intent on killing a human.”
“And you trust me to stop whatever threat makes it past you too?”
“Absolutely,” the sister said. “I’m Cora Hale.” She stuck her hand out. Stiles shook it heartily.
“Sheriff Stilinski—Stiles.”
“Well, Stiles,” Cora said, “take good care of my brother. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Stiles tipped his hat to her and headed up the stairs.
He hoped it didn’t come to that—to have to meet her again as they crossed the river into the afterlife. If a fight did break out, Stiles did not want to have to kill someone else. Deucalion was going to kill Derek, so that was kill or be killed. Stiles could get behind that kind of sanctioned murder.
Less so if he was shooting someone in cold blood.
“Hey,” the other sister said when Stiles entered the room, the door having been left open for him. “So, Derek’s already starting to heal.” Deaton nodded his agreement. “You take the first watch.”
“That’s all well and good,” Stiles said, his hat in hand, “but do you really trust someone Derek just met to watch over him?”
“You just shot an alpha werewolf in the face because he was killing my brother. Of course I’m going to trust you. I’m Laura, by the way.”
Stiles shook her hand. “Stiles Stilinski.”
“Stiles,” Laura said, a mischievous smile cracking her face. “Nice to meet you. Take care of my brother.”
“I will.”
“Good. See you in about two hours. Don’t do anything Peter wouldn’t do.”
“What does your annoying uncle have to do with anything?”
“Well, let’s just say that if you like my brother and you were Peter, the fact that he’s unconscious wouldn’t be a deterrent.”
Stiles looked to the bed where Derek lying still, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with a slow, steady beat. Then he looked back to Laura. “Something is very wrong with your uncle,” he told her.
“Don’t I know it,” she laughed. “Anyway. I’m going to get some grub. Deucalion, before his timely passing, wasn’t a great host. I haven’t had anything more substantial than a mouse in two days.”
“That I believe.”
As soon as Laura left, Stiles settled in at the desk.
“If my services aren’t needed anymore, I’d like to settle my tab.” Deaton hefted his bag, sticking a bowler hat on his bald head.
Stiles dismissed him with a nod. And then he just sat in Derek’s room, trying not to feel like he was doing something wrong when he watched him sleep.
As soon as Laura came to relieve him, he jammed his hat back on his head, headed downstairs, and saddled up.
“I’m going back to Beacon Hills,” he said to Cora when she stopped him. “My town needs me. If it gets out that I helped bring down Deucalion, either my town will be overrun with wannabe alpha werewolves or people seeking revenge or people who’ll want me to solve their werewolf problems.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Cora promised. “My mom won’t let it. Deucalion was an outlier, bolstered by the Argents and their firepower.”
“As long as the Argents exists, then there will be no peace. I can’t stay here any longer. What if my town is under attack right now?”
“It’s not,” Cora said, “but if it makes you feel better, we’ll send Derek there once he’s healed.”
“Sure. You do that.”
Stiles clicked his tongue and Roscoe started walking.
The idea of Derek in his town was…not as displeasing as Stiles might have expected. As long as Peter wasn’t part of the deal. The poor town wouldn’t be able to withstand his personality, much less his piano playing.
Derek on the other hand…
Derek could spend every minute annoying Stiles and he wouldn’t feel the need to shoot him like he had Peter.
Oh god, he was in love, wasn’t he?
Roscoe didn’t answer aside from a whinny. Stiles agreed and upped their pace. They had a long journey ahead of them.
~ * ~
It wasn’t surprising to find Beacon Hills still standing, but Stiles wished that his town could have missed him just a little more since he’d been gone for about half a week.
After putting Roscoe up in his stall, brushing, and feeding him, he walked into the saloon and was greeted by Boyd tossing Jackson out on his ear.
“And stay out,” the gentle giant said, dusting off his hands, standing there unconcernedly while Jackson picked himself up and dusted off before limping off to crawl back into his uncle’s guest room. “Welcome back, Sheriff.”
“Boyd.” Stiles nodded at him. “Wanna explain what’s going on?”
“Jackson was caught cheating at cards. Again,” Boyd said. “Erica told him he was on his last leg and that she wouldn’t protect him anymore.”
“About damn time,” Stiles muttered. “Got any grub left?”
“For you,” Erica called from behind the bar, “always. Just let me get my fine dishes out.”
“Nah, the bar is good enough,” Stiles joked back. “Thanks,” he said genuinely when Erica set a plate of warmed beans and eggs in front of him.
“So, tell me, Sheriff,” Erica pretended to wipe the bar clean, “what was it like traveling with the Hales?”
“It was great aside from the fact that I haven’t been riding enough so I’m saddle-sore. Also, I think I met my husband thanks to you.”
“Your husband?” Erica repeated. “Because of me? How?”
“Do you remember that advert you took out about, what, six months ago?”
“Vaguely.” Erica blushed. “I try not to think about it, honestly.”
“Well, thank you. Apparently, the Hales saw it and now I’m going to marry—”
“Not Peter Hale,” Erica gasped. “Please not that asshole.”
Stiles smiled. “No, not Peter. Derek.”
“Oh thank god.” Erica sagged, looking relieved. Then she perked up again. “Am I invited to the wedding?”
“Of course,” Stiles said. “Why wouldn’t you be?”
“Because I put out that advert without your approval. I know you were mad at me.”
“You’re one of my best friends,” Stiles told her, “and more than that, you’re my family. You and Boyd. You’re both invited to the wedding. Whenever it is.”
“That’s really sweet of you,” Boyd intoned. “Does Derek know you’re getting married?”
“Possibly.” Stiles scratched at his chin. He’d have to shave tomorrow if he wanted to remain presentable. “I mean, I would guess so. His sister seemed to think that Derek and I were compatible.”
“Well, if you are, good for you,” Erica said. “And if you aren’t, please don’t kill me when you remember the advert.”
Stiles laughed, handing her back the empty plate. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Now, I’m sorry, but I’m absolutely tuckered. I’m going to grab some sleep. Wake me up if anything happens, or Jackson tries to get back inside.”
Erica and Boyd mock-saluted him and he dragged his tired body up the stairs and to his room.
He didn’t remember toeing off his boots and face planting onto his bed. He also didn’t remember if he dreamed.
~ * ~
Stiles woke up when his window creaked open. He was aware in an instant, pointing his gun at the startled face of Derek Hale.
“Goddamn it, Hale, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? I still have the wolfsbane bullets loaded.”
“Oh.” Derek slunk into the room, standing with his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see you again.”
He shuffled closer to the bed as if he was afraid that Stiles still had the gun trained on him. He didn’t. Had dropped it when he realized it was Derek who was sneaking into his room.
And then, quicker than Stiles could see, Derek dropped something on the bed and was out the window. By the time Stiles was up and following him, he was already gone.
Shaking his head, Stiles returned to the bed, sitting down and making sure his gun wasn’t cocked. Then he noticed what Derek had all but thrown at him.
It was a package wrapped in thick cloth, cut from Derek’s vest, and tied with a piece of twine. When he undid the string and opened it, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a locket and a shiny rock that reminded Stiles of Derek’s eyes, aventurine and beautiful. Underneath it all was a note written in surprisingly spindly and frankly cute handwriting.
Stiles unfolded it, reading it quickly.
It was a proposal. From Derek.
Stiles looked up to the window. Still empty.
He turned the paper over and grabbed a pencil from the desk. He wrote a single word and then folded the note back into the cloth minus the other items. Then he tied it tightly and threw it out the window. It landed in the dusty street. Derek was still nowhere to be seen.
Stiles sighed and hauled himself back inside. Before he’d even sat down again, he heard a soft voice ask, “Do you really mean it?”
Stiles looked up to see Derek standing just inside the window, the cloth shredded, the note clutched in one hand.
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I mean it.” He looped the locket around his neck, and Derek, smiling broadly, closed the clasp for him.
“Thank you,” he said, “for saving me, and for saying yes.”
“Yes, well, thank you for asking.”
This time, when they kissed, there was no Peter to interrupt them, and Stiles quite enjoyed exchanging spit with Derek, because, werewolf or not, almost thirty years old come winter, that boy looked debauched by a thorough kiss.
He knew he’d enjoy being married to Derek. Every minute of it. And when Derek sighed as Stiles pulled back to look at him again, he knew Derek would enjoy it too.
Stiles sent a mental thank you to Erica for her hand in bringing them together.
She deserved it.
And Derek deserved another kiss. Eagerly, Stiles dove in.
~ The End ~
0 notes
1 (more coming) I'm a little confused about your situation. I understand that you don't feel comfortable disclosing all the details with people online, although I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that you're asking for donations. I realize mental health plays a big part in the reason why you're unwilling to get a job, but... If I were in your shoes, and I was stuck in a toxic environment, I would be doing whatever I could to ensure I was out of that situation.
[CONTINUED] Sure, offering resources for small fees can be helpful, but there are people out there giving them away for free - so how far can that really get you? Eventually, you’re either going to have to put yourself in an uncomfortable situation and do what’s best for you, so you can escape the toxicity, or you’re going to be stuck there forever. Personally, I think it’s time to grow up and realize you’re not going to make a living off of selling resources. I just think it’s very unfair to those of us who are working for our own money, and I believe you’re completely capable of going out and seeking employment. Yes, you have issues - but so does everyone else. There are people who are way worse off than you are, I’m sure. I’m not trying to be rude, but I’ll admit I’m a tad bit suspicious. A piece of me believes you’re just trying to get whatever you can out of the community, as if they owe you something. You’ve been known to lie before, therefore I just can’t trust your story and accusations. Sorry.
i actually wrote a long ass reply to this but because my computer crashed right before i was about to post it, i lost everything and need to start again lmao. ANYWAY. i never once thought that in a community that is branded to be a “safe haven” and an “escape from life” that i would be thrown some bullshit like this at my feet, making me feel anything but safe or comfortable. honestly there are few messages i have received during my time on this account that made my stomach drop to my feet. this includes messages coming straight out and telling me to kill myself - that i can handle.
but something like this, honestly made my stomach drop and i hope you’re happy because when i first read this last night i began gagging/feel nauseous and then had a full blown anxiety attack and breakdown. now i’ve had some sleep and i’m not reacting as badly as i did at first to this message but i’m still shaking and feeling incredibly sick because: fuck you. now i really hate explaining myself and trying to “prove” myself to people that really do not deserve the time of day from me, but i guess i should have expected this because there are some really fucking toxic people in this community. lets get to the fun part, my actual replies to the points made in these horrible messages !!
POINT A: “if i were in your shoes i would be doing anything to get out of your ~toxic~ situation” --- first of all, be fucking thankful you are not in my situation because it SUCKS. it really sucks and experiencing this level of pain on a daily basis whilst trying to remain positive is really fucking hard. and guess what? YOU’RE NOT IN MY SITUATION. therefore you have no right to sit back and play commentator on everything i have said and done. let’s get that straight. now i have fucking tried to get out of here. let me make you a nice fucking list because you probably won’t settle until you have all the information from me.
>>> i have applied for ten jobs in the space of two days, all of which i was qualified for or they offered training for if i wasn’t. all of the answers were the same: we have filled the spot or you’re not what we’re looking for. and i have to admit my resume is pretty fucking lit because of all the things i achieved before my mental health destroyed my life. >>> i have babysat for a woman who years ago traumatized the FUCK out of me one day and i don’t want to go into specifics but it was really hard to put aside the fact that she made me run home in tears to my mum when i was 12 for a stupid reason. >>> i have considered asking my sister if i could move in with her. get this, any other time i wouldn’t even think of it because: a) she lives in a small three bedroom house - by small i mean really fucking small. b) she has a 3 year old daughter and a 1 year old daughter as well as herself and her boyfriend so you can imagine how much space they have already taken up. OH and she’s having another baby so they would be struggling to even fine space for them. c) i know that if i live with her i will only be able to have a suitcase of my possessions and would have to sleep on the floor, yet i still consider it and am close to asking. d) i have practically lived with her for a month and had a complete breakdown at the end because i was treated like a babysitting machine instead of a human and being an introvert, when spending so much time with people i need time for myself to regenerate but because the house was so small and the children wouldn’t leave me alone - i broke down. >>> i have done things to get $5 that i do not want to talk about because i know that if i even told my family i would immediately be disowned and i am not proud at all about what i’ve done to EAT FOOD. JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE. >>> and lastly, i’m asking complete strangers for money - something that i have struggled with all my life is asking people for money, even asking my mother for $5 for school when i was younger invoked anxiety. but here i am.
POINT B: “sure you can offer resources for money but how far is that going to get you? people already make them for free” --- do you REALLY think i came into this thinking that selling resources was going to pay my rent? do you REALLY think i’m dumb enough to believe that i could actually live out on my own with just commissions from people online in exchange for pixels that will be meaningless in a few years? HOW DUMB DO YOU THINK I AM? you know what, $5 every now and again isn’t going to pay for my funeral insurance or my wedding in a few years, but $5 NOW is going to buy me a pretty decent fucking meal for once, it’s going to buy me a part of a ticket out of this small town. in the long run, $5 a week is going to add up and its going to HELP. also, there must be a reason more people are taking commissions each day - because there are actually people in this world who are fucking KIND and i like to believe in those people. paying commissions isn’t even buying my resources to me, because i know these people can get it anytime they want for free. no, it’s like a pat on the back or like paying someone a tip. IT’S JUST BEING FUCKING THANKFUL. if i had money i would be tipping my friends all the time. but i don’t.
POINT C: “it’s unfair for those of us who are working for our money” --- i’m,,, sorry. IS MY MENTAL ILLNESS A FUCKING INCONVENIENCE TO YOU? DID MY MENTAL ILLNESS DESTROY HALF OF Y O U R LIFE, MAKING IT ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO EVEN FUNCTION PROPERLY IN THE WORLD? DID MY MENTAL ILLNESS DESTROY Y O U R RELATIONSHIPS WITH YOUR OWN FUCKING FAMILY? DID MY MENTAL ILLNESS DESTROY Y O U R FRIENDSHIPS? DID MY MENTAL ILLNESS TURN Y O U R CHILDHOOD AND ADOLESCENTS INTO APPOINTMENTS WITH A PSYCHOLOGIST, ANTIDEPRESSANTS AND FINDING WAYS TO MAKE YOUR SCHOOL LIFE MORE COMFORTABLE SINCE YOU WERE LITERALLY TWO STEPS AWAY FROM KILLING YOURSELF IN THE MIDDLE OF CLASS? DID MY MENTAL ILLNESS MAKE Y O U WANT TO KILL YOURSELF MORE TIMES YOU CAN COUNT ON ONE HAND? DID MY MENTAL ILLNESS MAKE Y O U ATTEMPT SUICIDE TWICE BEFORE YOU WERE EVEN SIXTEEN? DID MY MENTAL ILLNESS EFFECT Y O U IN YOUR WORKPLACE TO THE POINT WHERE YOU WERE CLOSE TO GRABBING THE NEAREST PLASTIC BAG AT YOUR REGISTER AND PULLING IT OVER YOUR HEAD AND SUFFOCATING YOURSELF? DID MY MENTAL ILLNESS MAKE Y O U BULIMIC AND ANOREXIC? DID MY MENTAL ILLNESS MAKE IT HARD FOR Y O U TO LOOK AT YOURSELF IN THE MIRROR WITHOUT WANTING TO FUCKING DIE? DID MY MENTAL ILLNESS DESTROY Y O U R BODY IMAGE? FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU.
POINT D: “you’re capable for going out and looking for employment” --- please refer to my next answer to another anon who is a fucking dick too.
POINT E: “you’re just trying to get shit out of the community cause you think it owes you something” --- again... FUCK YOU. what the fuck have i done to make you believe i’m that shitty of a person? and if i was trying to scam this community out of money or whatever the fuck you think i’m doing, IT MUST HAVE BEEN THREE FUCKING YEARS IN THE MAKING, BEFORE I EVEN KNEW I COULD MAKE A FEW CENTS USING ADF.LY LINKS. i have lied about things in the past, but things that i a) owned up to and b) were NEVER about my mental health or my living situation. i’mm fucking SURE that if you go through my blog you will find me talking about how fucked i am in life. this isn’t some story that i shit out yesterday for money, for fucks sake. if it seems like i suddenly have all these problems - i’m fucking great at pretending i don’t want to be alive and that i hate myself.
POINT F: “i’m not trying to be rude” --- YES YOU FUCKING ARE. IF YOU WERE NOT TRYING TO BE RUDE YOU WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SELF AWARE OF IT AND PUT YOURSELF ON ANONYMOUS, FOR FUCKS SAKE. IF YOU KNEW THAT THIS WASN’T RUDE, YOU WOULD HAVE COME OFF OFF OF ANONYMOUS, FOR FUCKS SAKE. but of course this isn’t fucking rude it’s just picking away at my life and trying to make it sound like i’m a fucking asshole because i am literally suffering in my own home :~)
you know what? there is no way i can possibly come to a nice conclusion about this message in a sentence or to. so here is all i’m going to say: a) i’M NOT COMING TO YOUR DOORSTEP AND ASKING YOU SPECIFICALLY TO HAND ME OVER $2 SO I CAN BUY DRUGS OR WHATEVER THE FCUCK YOU’RE THINKING and b) YOU DON’T EVEN FUCKING DESERVE AN EXPLANATION FROM ME BECAUSE YOU ARE A FUCKING ASSHOLE. i don’t know what the fuck you want from me. my family is in $7k debt from my mum’s boyfriend’s mum’s funeral a month ago. do you want the fucking death certificate? do you want to see the flowers we got from her funeral insurance? DO YOU WANT A WHOLE FUCKING LIVESTREAM OF HER DEAD BODY BEING LOWERED INTO THE FUCKING GROUND? OH FUCKING HELL, DO YOU WANT TEXTS THAT GO BACK YEARS BETWEEN ME AND MY CLOSEST FRIENDS AND FAMILY OF ME CONSTANTLY TELLING THEM I WISH I WAS FUCKING DEAD? DO YOU WANT ME TO RECORD WHAT I EAT IN A WEEK? DO YOU WANT ME TO RECORD MY MOTHER TELLING ME I’M BEING FAT AND TO STOP EATING? DO YOU WANT ME TO HANG MYSELF IN PUBLIC JUST SO YOU CAN FUCKING SEE HOW SERIOUS THIS IT? i don’t know what the fuck you want from me and what your great plan was when sending these messages, but i hope you’re fucking happy.
0 notes