#☆ eros mailbox | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

valentinsylve · 2 years ago

Note

🌻

Heyyyy I am really good at leaving asks in my mailbox, just thought I'd brag about that. Anyway, one thing I was thinking about is how I started writing stories down when I was about 4 years old, and even wrote "fanfic" of my favorite stuff (Somewhere on legal paper is an unfinished Eros and Psyche tale I started when I was no more than 7 -- the dialogue was largely plagiarized, but it was practice). The idea that one could "be a writer" was a constant one, and I wrote shit down all the time. However, when I got older, there was a somehow oppositional idea pushed at me that there was a "proper" way to "be a writer". My 9th grade English teacher, a true favorite and a good guy, the one who exulted over my bawdy portrayal of Mercutio and my analysis of Hawthorne and Crane, may have asked me or I may simply have told him because I was excited, what I happened to be reading outside of class. I was absolutely enthralled with this thick anthology of horror fiction I'd borrowed from my mom. And I had been writing Shirley Jackson-inspired macabre little short stories for a couple of years at that point, too. "HORror??" He was incredulous. THat was GARbage! "But what about 'The Turn of the Screw'?" Oh, that was an exception, it didn't count as horror either really, no true Scotsman (I didn't know that phrase yet and he didn't use it but you get the idea). It was discouraging! I kept on writing fiction, but it got really, really dry or else really jejune and damp. I took the "write what you know" way too literally, because when I went too far out into the realms of the weird, it got no response or a puzzled one at best. I was a huge nerd and teacher's pet. I thought I was going to be an academic at that point and was working my ass off to get there. Thing was, I wasn't exceptionally good at it unless I got very imaginative and syncretic and had a teacher who was into that sort of thing.

By the time I was 20, I was still trying to "be a writer" and I even got a summer scholarship to a prestigious master class program. Heavy hitters teaching. Sharon Olds, Rick Moody. I got to take a class with one of my short-story idols, Barry Hannah, who said I reminded him of one of his old students: "She wrote beautifully, but she didn't have anything to write about. Then she published her first novel, and it was excellent." That novel was The Secret History, it feels both important and weirdly humiliating to point out, seeing as I have not published a novel at all, let alone something that awesome. The story I was the most proud of writing that summer (not with Mr. Hannah's class) was a rural gothic about vampires. It was also about adolescence, family, and transmuting the hunger of hardship, grief, isolation, and longing into something comforting or at least nourishing. The notes I got on the story were puzzled. Why was I writing this lurid grand guignol stuff? Meanwhile there was an 18-year-old in my cohort who was impossibly sophisticated and had an internship at The New Yorker (and no, I didn't hate her, she was a delight, I just had no idea how she did it). I was clearly supposed to be writing the sort of short stories or poems that got published in The New Yorker. Literature. Otherwise why was I wasting my time and someone's money studying?

My writing petered out pretty quickly after that. I just felt this phantom scrutiny every time I picked up a notebook or opened up a blank document on the computer. There was no joy in it. I stopped, and felt abject for stopping. Over the course of my adult life I had my hand in journalism and even wrote a column for the paper in a small city for a couple of years. I became a crack shot at editing other people's fiction, and ran the short story section of a local magazine. My own shit, nope, never made it out of the gate.

Then, in the fall of 2020, I decided to give myself a birthday present. I took a little 4-week online writing class. The teacher was a TV critic from the school of Television Without Pity and the general heyday of media blogs. I started looking at the frivolous stuff I enjoyed with a writer's mind. I think that was my first real breakthrough into writing for fun again. Then I gave myself another present and took a couple of a friend's erotic writing workshops. I wrote a piece in ten minutes that made people gasp and want to hear it again and again. That was the juice.

In 2021, I fell in love with an arty murder show and when it came to its breathless conclusion, I lost my mind. I needed MORE STORY. That's how I got into reading Hannibal fanfic on AO3. Some of it was not my thing, but some of it was fucking electric. I started commenting. A lot. It wasn't really parasocial (except when it was), it was a passionate engagement with stories and how to tell them over and over in so many different ways.

Yesterday I was showing some of my fic to my sister, and I crowed about how I'd written 3,000 words of blistering smut and angst and banter in an evening, and pushed through when it was tough going. "I just thought I wasn't good at writing after all, but it turns out I just hate writing literary fiction. I was born to write GARBAGE." Glorious trash. Stuff that makes people laugh or gasp. Louisa May Alcott wrote her "sensation stories", and I'm writing my fic about the arty murder show. I am happier than I have ever been. Last night I wrote 2,000 more words.

And that's how I became a writer. :)

#thanks for the ask!#livejournalling on main #thank you arty murder show #on writing #fanfiction #mimicri

8 notes · View notes

fbfh · 5 years ago

Text

Light Up the Dark - [IV] Leo x reader

genre: romance + action + enemies to lovers kinda

word count: 2k

au: none

pairing: Leo x gothy!child of eros!fem reader

requested: nah

warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR HEROES OF OLYMPUS!!, normal reader being mean lol, mentions of abandonment issues, a breakup over skype call basically, reader uses seduction powers for fun and profit, i think that’s it

summary: You pull some strings to get a hotel room and some cash, the boys get to know you a little better, and you overhear something you probably shouldn’t have.

listen to: bad liar - imagine dragons

a/n: since the reader is a daughter of Eros, the characters are aged to 18+ idk i think i forgot to put that on the other chapters lol

also requests r open uwu

“What do you mean she’s not coming?” Leo asks, all the bad feelings quickly overtaking him.

“She said she wanted to sight see more, and that she’d meet us back at camp in a few days,” Jason says, trying to break the news as gently as possible, “I’m sorry, Leo.”

He bit back his heartache.

“Yeah, it’s…”

The door creaks and their heads turn to you, exiting the front door.

“Who’s driving?” you ask.

“Jason,” Leo replies. You open the passenger side door, gently place the coffin shaped box on the seat, and buckle it in. You can feel their inquisitive eyes on you, and you counter with a blank, resolute look of your own.

“This one’s special.”

You notice Leo seems… off. His whole mood seems to have plummeted. Leo reminds you of a buoy. Even in the worst storms, even if he gets caught under a huge wave, he always comes back to the surface. Based on his current vibe, someone nuked the buoy. Wheels turn in your head, and you hand him the trout mailbox.

“Could you put this in the back?” you direct your words at him, hoping the heat flushing to his cheeks would distract him from whatever made him upset. His hand brushes yours and you can almost feel his heart spasm. You make eye contact at him through your thick, dark eyelashes and he almost chokes. He agrees and you pull Jason aside.

“What happened?” you hiss.

“What?” he whispers back.

“What did you tell him to make him all lame?”

“Oh, uh…” he rubs the back of his neck and you shake your head, waiting for an answer, “Calypso’s… not coming back with us.” You wait in silence for him to keep talking.

“She said she wanted to see the world more, and she’d meet us back at camp in a few days.” You process this for a second.

“So he’s-” you catch movement out of the corner of your eye, “driving?” you ask Leo, who just came back from the trunk.

“Jason, I mean.” you clarify. He confirms, and you all get in the car - Jason up front, you and Leo in the back. You reach into your bag and hand Jason a cd that says ’fun sad angry music :)’. He stares at you through the rear view mirror. You stare back. You sip your coffee.

“Well?” you ask, “Are you going to put it in the player or eat it?” His eyes dart to Leo’s. “She gets to choose the music,” he explains. Jason mutters in agreement and fumbles the disk into the slot. A smile spreads on your face as the music plays and he starts to drive.

Leo watches you as you nod your head and mouth the lyrics. He can tell you love this song. You vibe to the music for a minute before glancing over at Leo. He realizes he’s been staring when you give him an expectant look.

“What.” you ask.

“Uh, this song is really good,” interest tints your face, and he’s relieved he recovered okay, “what’s it called?” You’re a little surprised he likes it.

“Mr. Doctor Man by Palaye Royale.” You two enjoy the music in silence, Jason focused on the road and GPS directions. A minute later, your curiosity starts to get the better of you. “How far is it?”

“Not far, a couple hours.” Leo replies.

“Is everyone there all… campfire songs and friendship bracelets? Cause I’ve never been like, a summer camp person,” your eyes flick to the side towards him for a moment, and he can tell you’re listening closely. He smiles a little.

“So what kind of person are you?”

“I’m more of a… cult documentaries and obscure unsettling 1960’s Czech animations type.” He’d never heard the words “1960’s Czech animations” sound so hot.

“What about you?”

He paused for a minute. Part of him was deciding how to respond, and the other part was just flattered giggling that she had asked him back. You talk for the next hour or two, Jason chiming in periodically, until he points out that it’s getting dark and you should find somewhere to stay for the night.

“Okay,” you reply, “pull over at the next truck stop.”

They’re a little confused, but Jason complies and pulls over at the next gas station/convenience store you come across. They watch you get out of the car without a word and walk into the store. You approach a guy near a soda display. He has on a fedora and a shirt with a kids video game logo on it. He stares at you absolutely transfixed. They can’t hear what you’re saying, but he has a dopey grin on his face and nods his head a lot. Your hand touches his arm gently, and he laughs so loudly (and nervously) they hear it from the car.

“Do I look that dumb around her?” Leo asks.

You tilt your head and he blushes and nods again. He hands you something and a second later, you two walk to the counter. The cashier looks up startled, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She stares at you for a second, then says something and fumbles with a cellphone you hand her. She hands you a paper a few seconds later. You give the guy his phone back. He walks to an ATM at the corner of the store. He walks over to you, but you’re in front of a display so they can’t see anything until you come back out. You get back in the car and hand Jason a piece of paper and a wad of cash.

“Got us a room at a Best Western like, ten minutes away. And some cash.”

They stare at you in silence. You lean toward Jason.

“The room is under your name, Kevin Grossman.” Leo bites back a laugh.

You finally get to the hotel, and Jason flips on his turn signal to get into the parking lot. “Park at the Walmart over there,” you point a block or two up, “under a light.” He turns his blinker off.

“Walmart doesn’t care if you park overnight. If someone sees our car at the parking lot of a hotel, we’re just leaving a target on our backs.” you explain. They don’t say anything.

“You said monsters are after us, right?”

“Yeah,” Leo said, “good thinking.” Jason agreed and you exit the car, remembering to grab the duffle bag with your clothes and other essentials. You all walk across the street to the hotel. You talk your way through checking in pretty easily. When the hostess asks to see your in app registry you hand her the printed ticket. “His phone died.” you say simply. The three of you are about to head up to your room, when you turn back to reception. You hesitate for a second, before leaning in to the receptionist.

“Can you put us as unlisted?” you ask quietly.

“Of course,” she replies sincerely, “let me know if you need anything.”

On the way up to your room, you tell Jason and Leo that if anyone asks, you’re not here. They seem impressed. Your room has a small seating area with a couch, coffee table, coat rack, and a phone. Past the half wall are three beds, a desk, a TV, and a doorway you figure leads to the bathroom. You walk into the bathroom and touch the mirror. You notice the space between your finger and reflection, and move on. You call to Leo to turn off the lights. He and Jason share a look. You may be a little weird, and incredibly intimidating, but you haven’t steered them wrong yet. Leo hits the lights, and you said quietly, “Listen for any weird buzzing or beeping noises, and look out for any out of place lights,” you creep around the room very quietly. After a minute you turn the lights back on and look at the ceiling.

“What was that about?” Jason asks.

“Bugs,” you reply, not looking at him, “and not the fun kind,” you mutter.

“Jason, can you reach that?” you point up at the smoke detector. He looked between you and the device on the ceiling.

“Don’t think so.” You looked between him and Leo. Your head might hit the ceiling if you Jason gave you a boost, but you could probably access it fine with Leo’s help.

“Leo,” you said, and he looked up from the wires he was fiddling with, “give me boost,” your gaze not leaving the smoke detector. He agrees, and you get up onto his shoulders. His hands rest just above your knees, and it takes all his focus to not burst into flames. You pop off the cover.

“This doesn’t look weird, right?” you ask him. He looks up and back at your face, hair angled down, and is reminded of the Spiderman kiss. He pushes away the thought and examines the smoke detector.

“About as non-weird as a smoke detector can look,” he confirms, and helps you down. He’s incredibly impressed that you thought to look for bugs - even he hadn’t thought of that, and he’s a son of Hephaestus.

“Where did you learn this stuff? The parking lot, being unlisted, checking for bugs?” You half exhale half scoff.

“When almost everyone in a five mile radius constantly wants to get in your pants, they can get… pushy… so you learn some stuff.” You grab your pajamas from your bag and head toward the bathroom. Leo and Jason meet eyes. It made more sense now, why you were always so intimidating. If he got constant unwanted attention, Leo would get pretty prickly, too.

Once everyone had showered and gotten ready for bed, Jason pointed out someone should IM Chiron, but you were way too tired, and collectively agreed to update him in the morning.

Right as he’s about to fall asleep, Leo feels like someone’s watching him. He opens his eyes, and sees Calypso’s face. His heart lurches. He pushes himself out of bed and sees the shimmery edges of the iris message. She opens her mouth and he holds a finger to his lips. He moves over to the couch, so he doesn’t wake the others. He sits down nervously.

“Hey, sunshine… I really miss you, what’s-”

“Look, Leo, I… I can’t do this.”

His stomach drops.

He knows what’s happening. He had it coming, he knew that. He knew that this was probably inevitable. Still, that didn’t make it hurt any less. He tries to sputter out something, anything. Why, what, can he do anything to fix this, but he’s too choked up.

“I need a break from this, from us…” she continues, “there’s so much of the world I haven’t seen yet, and you have your projects… I don’t want to hold myself back because I feel bad that you’re not with me. I want to experience everything.” He feels like he’s falling forward. His eyebrows knit and an unstoppable rush of memories of everyone who’s left him or kicked him out comes flooding back.

“Calypso,” his voice cracks. He can’t finish the sentence.

You wake up from the light sleep you had settled into, aware of an unfamiliar voice. You get up, throwing on the short black robe over your pajamas - despite their velvet material, the loose cami and shorts don’t provide much warmth. You tiptoe over to the seating area. Leo’s on the couch, staring at the floor. You walk up behind him and place a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?” you ask, your voice foggy with sleep.

“Who-” you briefly see the unfamiliar voice is coming from a shimmery image of a pissed off girl floating in front of him, but he quickly swipes his hand through, and the image vanishes. He rubs his eyes and his hands come away damp. You stay quiet. You don’t want to make him feel worse.

“Long day,” he mutters. He stands up and says goodnight without looking at you. You watch him get into bed, and you do the same. Even if you knew what was wrong, there wasn’t much you could do this late at night. You hope some rest makes him feel better, and tell yourself it’ll be dealt with in the morning.

Maybe over coffee.

You could use some coffee.

#leo valdez x reader #heroes of olympus x reader #hoo x reader #heroes of olympus #leo valdez #LV light up the dark

155 notes · View notes

letroadecjustice · 4 years ago

Text

“Justice Speaks,” vol. 5, issue 001

100 copies of this issue were left on the table in front of the library’s noticeboard Time: 6.20am

My dear readers, today I woke up late, at 6am. I had spent the entire evening finalizing our first issue of the semester. As my more dedicated readers may know, I have recently become concerned about the town lore, and thus this volume must reflect that. While I am quite certain about my research on the lore, there are bigger things at stake here, such as drama and gossip. So, let’s dive in.

TOWN NEWS:

A protest against the Vietnam draft is scheduled to take place this Friday, September 18th at noon in Baker Hall’s courtyard. All attendees are encouraged to bring signs. This protest is organized by le Troadec’s Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC).

This Saturday at 9pm, Topped Off is hosting a slam poetry evening. Entry is free and all participants get free coffee. Please go read your terrible haikus you wrote in your 100-level English course, I need a good laugh.

The parks department would like to remind all students that swimming in the Bayou is prohibited and that you will get eaten by an alligator. Again, it would be great for me if you did the opposite of what they said. Don’t let them impede your free speech! It’s your right to get eaten by an alligator.

GLOBAL NEWS:

The Beatles made waves last Friday by refusing to play in Alabama if their concert was segregated. As much as I hate the British, I would like to commend them for refusing to give into the South’s unbridled racism. That being said, they are scheduled to play TOMORROW in New Orleans and are coming from Cleveland, so there just might be a chance we’ll be seeing them driving through our own little town - keep an eye out.

Last Tuesday, Walter Ulbricht, leader of East Germany, allowed for elderly East Germans to cross the border and visit relatives in West Germany. We can imagine this is nothing but good news for our own geriatric East German, Dr. Dominick König.

Passed this summer, the Civil Rights Act finally went into effect for schools this past week, which had many opening their doors for the first time to an integrated student body.

I would like to remind all students of voting age to register now, as the election is only two months away! Check in with the SNCC to learn how to do so, and don’t forget to vote LBJ.

ACCORDING TO SOURCES:

While I cannot confirm these, I cannot deny them either. I just believe they are good enough to print, as always, if you’re mad about it, just put the newsletter down. It’s that easy.

Meredith Locke is the first cousin of Nikita Khruschev, leader of the Soviet Union.

How exactly did Dan Mercier get into le Troadec? Well, it wasn’t by test scores. His parents bought his way in.

The university’s current dean, Clarence Weinzapfel, is a closeted homosexual. I would say power to him, but we all remember how he shut down the gay rights protest last year.

Eros Illiades is a draft dodger; he submitted fake medical records in order to avoid being sent to Vietnam.

Emmett Clermont regularly abuses tranquilizers and spent one year of his youth at a rehabilitation center in central Montana.

Anyone notice how Charlotte Broussard wasn’t present in theology yesterday? That’s because she’s been booked on charges of conspiring to commit domestic terrorism. On top of that, she’s in a lesbian relationship with her roommate, Eve Hansen.

Sister Carlene, head nun, used to be an exotic dancer in New Orleans. I can confirm this one, this rumor was submitted with photographs that I have omitted for feminist reasons.

Natalia de Leon is currently taking antibiotics for a yeast infection she gained from having sex in S.L.U.G. Better luck next time.

and what I know all of you damn try hards with no lives have been waiting for...

UPPERCLASSMEN RANKINGS

Due to this being a new volume, I would like to let all new readers know that this is 100% accurate information, as I have an informant in the administration.

Emmett Clermont, 3rd year Philosophy + Meredith Locke, 3rd year History (a tie!)

Charlotte Broussard, 3rd year PoliSci

Jonathan Shimony, 4th year Engineering

Acacia Buchanan, 4th year PoliSci

and of course, closely following: Park Dae-Jung, Leonard Ramone, Natalia de Leon, Rue Pickens.

JUSTICE REPORTING

If you followed my paper over the summer, you will already be caught up with my research on the town’s mythos. However, if you’re a freshman or someone who isn’t a resident, you likely weren’t reading. So here’s my weeks update:

I still believe that the town legend of witches returning to walk the earth is based in fact. As I uncovered, witches truly were executed in Lucrece and there was a mysterious emigration among a large percentage of female residents immediately following. While I thought perhaps the day of reckoning would be in the future, I now believe that it is upon us right now. Has everyone else felt a shift in the air? Astrologically speaking, 1964 is not a good year for our town. Signs point to major upheaval. Perhaps this has to do with the Vietnam War, but reported sightings of spirits in the Bayou have gone up this summer.

As the full moon on the 21st gets closer, I recommend everyone wear some piece of silver jewelry and avoid walking alone at night.

AND LASTLY...

At the start of the term, I received a rather odd letter in my mailbox. It was the first direct interaction the administration has made with me, and I feel compelled to share its contents.

To the writer and publisher of “Justice Speaks,” Your circus has gone on long enough. The university has endured five semesters worth of libel from your publication. Your remarks on the university’s administration as well as the United States government could constitute as treason. Your so-called dedication to “justice” and “truth” is anything but that! You regularly publish rumors without evidence, as well as the class ratings that we have no idea how you’ve obtained them. There is clearly crime at hand here and we, as a university, are urging you to quit before you get into real legal trouble. Should you continue publishing, we will uncover your identity, you will be expelled, and referred to the police. Sincerely, Dean Clarence Weinzapfel

Well, Clarence, it’s been five long semesters and you haven’t found me yet! Here’s my response: get bent.

Have thoughts on the newsletter? Drop a note in my mailbox.

#| newsletter |

7 notes · View notes

eclipse-rpg · 4 years ago

Photo

RED HOOD has been casted in the Eclipse!

JASON TODD a 23 year old private investigator from SOLARIA has joined the cast! They bare a resemblance to PIETRO BOSELLI.

( Eros | He/They | 27 | GMT+1 ) Please check your mailbox for your exclusive member pass!

#marvel rp #dc rp #discord rp #marvel roleplay #dc roleplay #mcu rp #dceu rp #arrowverse rp #ec: accepted #jason todd #red hood

2 notes · View notes

erosjournal · 2 months ago

Note

Leo asks Jason “how’s the weather up there” CONSTANTLY

And Jason will tell him he’ll see what the weathers like down were Leo is and bend down and give him a kiss

awh 😚

#☆ eros mailbox #valgrace

25 notes · View notes

yingren · 4 months ago

Note

Eros picks up Infra soft and gentle. "M'baby. Love of m'life. Sweet, sweet boy.... oh, y'er here too, Ren. Hi love bug."

" he's going to bite you if you don't put him down. "

#draconicfool #mailbox.#/ he will actually eros watch out

2 notes · View notes

paintedrecs · 7 years ago

Text

302, I Love You

[Read on AO3]

It was a beautiful summer morning—mid-70s with a light breeze, ideal weather for soaking up the sun without fear of overheating. If anyone asked, that was why Stiles was sitting on his balcony with a book he hadn’t touched in the last half hour and a mug of coffee he’d been absently sipping from, his gaze fixed on the parking lot several stories below.

Coincidentally, one of his neighbors—Hot Dude From 302, not that it was relevant—had chosen the same morning to wash his stupidly flashy Camaro. Stiles wasn’t watching him. He was sitting on his balcony, which happened to face the back parking lot, and Hot Dude happened to be in his general line of sight. And anyway, if he had been watching him, it was only to document the details of his flagrant lease-breaking activities, in case Stiles decided to file a complaint with their landlord.

Washing vehicles in their parking lot was explicitly against the rules, along with smoking, loud parties after 11 PM, and leaving trash bags in the hallway for people to potentially trip over, rather than dragging them all the way to the dumpsters—which were also located in their parking area.

If pressed, Stiles might admit that he’d broken the latter two rules once or twice. And that there might be an overstuffed trash bag sitting in the hallway at this very moment—deposited there because the smell had started to bug him, but not enough to motivate him to put on shoes and non-pj pants and make the trek downstairs. But that was more like rule-bending. It wasn’t an egregious violation like the unnecessarily thorough car washing that took place every Saturday, like clockwork.

Obviously this guy wasn’t originally from California, or he’d know how important water conservation was, and how much his utterly unacceptable behavior made everyone else in the building grind their teeth. Beacon Hills was in the middle of a fucking drought. And there 302 was, spraying water not only over the car’s sleek black surface, but over himself, too, making his loose shorts cling to his thighs, his already too-tight white tank top plastering against his chest and abs.

What was the point of even wearing a shirt to begin with if he was just going to get it soaked through every time, leaving the fabric offensively sheer?

“So you want him to take his shirt off for you,” Stiles's supposed best friend Scott said, kicking his feet up on the railing and crunching through a handful of pretzels.

“Shut up!” Stiles hissed. He instinctively tried to duck down in his lounge chair—as if that would accomplish anything—but 302 didn’t seem to have heard the exchange. He was too busy stretching across the hood, his back to them, the fabric of his wet shorts leaving little to Stiles’s admittedly very active imagination.

“You’re drooling,” Scott said. “This is kinda gross. I thought we were gonna be watching cartoons, not this guy’s ass.”

Stiles spluttered indignantly, then, when Scott motioned at his face, wiped away the possibly-drool from his chin. That happened sometimes when he was tired, okay? He hadn’t had enough of his coffee yet this morning. “I’m judging him,” he insisted. He firmly shut his mouth and twisted it into his most convincingly judgmental face.

“Judging whether you can get into his pants,” Scott said.

“Judging him for...not knowing how to use his hose,” Stiles countered, scrambling for a reasonable comeback.

Scott was, thankfully, silent for a bit. He popped more pretzels into his mouth and chewed while staring at Stiles meaningfully. Eventually, he concluded, “So you wanna teach him how to use his hose.”

302 suddenly swore loudly from down below, and Stiles jerked in his chair, nearly knocking his coffee—and himself—over. Once he’d made sure his mug and limbs were safe, he leaned forward to see what had happened.

Point proved, really. 302 had somehow sprayed himself right in the face with the hose, which required a special sort of uncoordinated talent that even Stiles didn’t possess. Scott was right; the guy clearly did need some hose-handling lessons. He was dripping wet, his dark hair flattened, leaving it almost as shiny and black as his car. Even from this distance, Stiles could see the water streaming off the sharp cut off his cheekbones.

Despite all that, the idiot hadn’t shut the hose off —he was just standing there, frozen in place, holding it as water arced into the air, the spray catching the sunlight in a miniature, shimmering rainbow.

He looked absolutely pitiful. Stiles almost felt bad for him. At the same time, though: “You remember that fountain by the library?”

Scott nodded. Of course he did. It’d been major drama when they were starting middle school; the local PTA had campaigned to have it torn out, claiming it was “inappropriate” for a public building to house a lifesize reproduction of The Birth of Venus. The sculptor’s argument—that it was a classic work of art that could be found in multiple books within the library itself—eventually toppled under the ire of parents with too much time on their hands.

Stiles had mourned its loss, taking art classes throughout high school with the vague idea of using his inevitable fame to battle similarly misguided attempts at censorship. As it turned out, he had no artistic skill, and he’d gradually found better channels for his righteous indignation. He was wondering now, though, if his bisexual awakening would’ve happened sooner if Venus had been replaced by something like...Eros. Or by a recreation of the tableau currently spread out below him. He would’ve spent a lot of time studying by that fountain during his teenage years.

“I should take the trash out,” he decided abruptly.

Scott moved his legs so Stiles could clamber over him and back into his studio’s compact living room. “So I should just go home, then?” he called after Stiles.

Stiles was too busy pulling on presentable pants, twisting in front of the mirror, then switching to his tighter jeans, to reply. He was cramming his feet into his shoes when Scott came inside.

“You might as well take this,” Scott said, shaking the now-empty bag of pretzels in front of Stiles’s face. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to leave,” Stiles grunted, tying off his shoelaces and grabbing the crinkly bag as he stood.

“I really think I do,” Scott said. “Good luck. Please don’t text me any details.”

“I’m not going to hit on him,” Stiles grumbled after Scott rudely slammed the door on his way out. He wasn’t. Mostly because his knowledge of 302 boiled down to a few key facts:

- Overcompensating (that car, c’mon) - Environmentally unfriendly - Antisocial (Stiles had never seen him interacting with anyone, and the majority of their neighbors were annoyingly friendly; most of them had shown up, uninvited, to his last after-11 PM party. Which Stiles had definitely not thrown hoping that 302 would be among the attendees. He’d only posted the sign by the mailboxes as a courtesy notice, not an invitation. Technically.)

Perhaps most importantly, according to those same mailboxes, 302 was living with someone named “Laura Hale.” It was the only name listed, and although Stiles had snooped on the various packages that were too big to fit inside, he hadn’t managed to uncover any additional details. He had lurked in the entryway for long enough to see a beautiful dark-haired woman collect one of those boxes, which had smashed the final hope he’d deny he’d been harboring.

Expecting a guy like that to not have an equally hot girlfriend to ferry around in his douchey car? Dream on, Stiles.

He attempted to crumple the pretzel remnants—something he’d been planning to eat himself, thanks a lot Scott—into the trash bag, which only resulted in squeezing out a mess of banana peels and coffee-stained paper towels. Okay, maybe that rule existed for a reason, too. He sighed, wiped his hands off on his jeans, and heaved the bag up, beginning the trudge down to the garbage bins.

Once outside the building, Stiles stepped gingerly over the sudsy water snaking along the pavement, thumped the dumpster lid loudly enough to announce his presence, then oh-so-casually headed over to check on his Jeep, which was parked two spaces away from 302’s current location. Their building had unassigned spots—too few for the number of residents, leaving the rest to park out on the street. That created a headache sometimes, but it’d allowed Stiles—after some careful planning and light bribery—to set up this accidental meeting.

302 glanced at Stiles when he passed by, then fumbled his hose, spraying himself again.

“Wow,” Stiles said, attempting to hop out of the way, grimacing when that movement sent him splashing right into a puddle. “You have a serious problem, dude.”

“Sorry,” 302 said, in a soft voice that Stiles could barely hear over the water’s relentlessly wasteful flow. Now that Stiles was closer to his elusive neighbor, he was able to see the red shading those marble-carved cheekbones; he’d probably been out in the sun for too long, considering himself too manly to reapply sunscreen.

The thought brought back a sudden flash of memory: an afternoon in late summer; a sprinkler hissing in circles as Stiles jumped through the cool, stinging spray; a dark-haired boy laughing, the silver glint of his braces catching the sun as Stiles tried to flick water in his direction, convincing him to join the fun. Stiles’s mom had come outside then, tsking at him in feigned disapproval, then calling them both over for a fresh coating of smelly, sticky sunscreen that Stiles would immediately do his best to wash off.

Scott, Stiles thought, then: No. He hadn’t moved to Beacon Hills yet. That was when Stiles was younger, when his best friend was a quiet boy who’d always said—despite Stiles’s constant attempts to get him into trouble—that the Stilinski household was a lot more peaceful than his. He’d liked Stiles’s mom’s cookies, his dad’s stories about work, and—Stiles liked to think, anyway—Stiles’s magnetic personality.

“Derek,” he said aloud, and 302 jumped.

“What?”

“Sorry, I was just—” Stiles shook his head. Why was he thinking of Derek now? The guy had moved away ages ago. They’d exchanged letters for a few months, then Scott had moved to town, Stiles had started spending a lot more time noticing girls, and the letters had stopped.

302 was still staring at him, his multicolored—mostly green?—eyes wide. Looking at him for too long was making Stiles feel weird, like there was something pressing at the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite grasp.

“You should be wearing sunglasses,” Stiles said stupidly. The bright light reflecting off the pavement was making him squint, and he’d been out there for less than five minutes.

“You’re not,” 302 said.

“My eyes are darker; more melanin means better protection,” Stiles automatically countered—it was an argument he’d often used as a know-it-all kid who didn’t want to stop playing outside—then tried to restrain his wince. He was being obvious. You didn’t start out a totally innocent conversation with a hot stranger by talking about his eye color, for fuck’s sake.

But 302 smiled. He had front teeth that were a little too big for his mouth—something that he might’ve been teased about when he was younger, because he immediately ducked his head and rolled his lips together, pressing them into a line that didn’t hide the equally endearing dimples in his cheeks.

Damn, Stiles thought. The guy was supposed to be kind of a dick. Not...this. Maybe he avoided hanging out with over-friendly neighbors because he was shy? Stiles had to mentally readjust his entire battle plan, which had mostly involved snarky commentary and a few clever innuendoes designed to test whether he really was taken.

“I was gonna ask you to wash my car,” Stiles said, plunging after his first thought, but unable to resist a slight dig. “While you’re wasting all that water.”

“Oh,” 302 said. His smile dimmed; even the curve of the hose seemed dejected suddenly. He released his tight grip on the spray attachment, the noise in the parking lot fading to the hum of bees in the hedge next door and the metallic creak of swings from the playground down the street. “I guess I could. It’s the Jeep, right?”

“Um,” Stiles said. “Yes. How did you know that?”

302 slid his hand down the hose, like he was planning to start rolling it back up, even though there were still suds on the Camaro’s roof. “It looks like your mom’s,” he said. “I remember you always used to say you wanted a car just like it, once you found out ordinary citizens couldn’t get Batmobiles.”

“How the—” Stiles stared at him. This was new. He hadn’t had a stalker before; at least, not that he’d known.

302 met his gaze for a few seconds, then looked away, his mouth twisting—in disappointment, weirdly, if Stiles was reading that expression correctly. “You don’t remember me, do you.”

“Should I?” Stiles asked. Maybe he’d hooked up with the guy and forgotten him, but that seemed incredibly unlikely. He’d remember a jawline like that. And why the hell would they have spent the night talking about Stiles’s childhood? He didn’t get that personal in relationships until...well, he’d always figured he’d start digging into the really gritty stuff at about the year marker, and no one had ever lasted that long.

“I guess not,” 302 said. “It’s been a long time. Laura said you wouldn’t and that I should get over myself and be the first one to say something. I was trying to work up the nerve, but then, just now, when you...”

He trailed off, so Stiles repeated it. “When I what?”

“When you said my name,” 302 said. “I...didn’t imagine that, did I?”

Stiles looked at him again, like he was seeing him for the first time. That’s what he’d thought this encounter was, but...he traced his gaze over the guy’s inky black hair, drying in the sunlight and beginning to wave slightly at the tips; the delicate curves of his ears, which somehow seemed a little smaller than they should be; the unusual color of his eyes.

“Derek,” Stiles said slowly, pulling that memory back to the forefront, the hazy image of his friend overlaying 302’s features. He had to make significant adjustments for puberty and an apparent explosion of late-blooming attractiveness, but: “Hale. Oh my god. Laura’s your sister. The scary older one you never wanted us to hang out with. How did I not make that connection?”

“It’s a common name,” Derek said. “Not like Stilinski. It was a lot easier for me to connect the dots.”

“Goddamn,” Stiles said. “Good thing my dad talked me out of joining the force. I would’ve been a shitty detective.”

“I doubt that,” Derek said, as generous as he’d been when they were kids. He had so many of the same mannerisms, now that Stiles was paying attention. “I look a little different than I used to.”

Stiles snorted before he could consider whether that was rude. That brought up a sudden, unsettling thought. “Wait, does that mean I don’t?”

As a kid, Stiles had been 80% eyes and mouth, and always a head shorter than the other boys his age. He’d hit his growth spurt late in high school, then shot up to six feet during college, but if his face was still that recognizable...

Derek was shaking his head. “I told you, I saw your name. A few weeks after we moved in.” He hesitated, then added, “But I think I would’ve recognized you anyway. You’ve changed, but there’s something...”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He felt it, too. He’d first seen Derek about a month ago—or so he’d thought at the time—and had nearly been bowled over by the degree of instantaneous attraction. It wasn’t just the physical part, although that was undeniable. It was the sense that something about Derek felt right. Familiar, almost. He’d thought stupid things, like maybe soulmates weren’t as outlandish as he’d always assumed. Turned out all it’d meant was that some part of his brain was still connected to those old memories of Derek.

He tried not to let the disappointment wash over him. This was cool, too. It’d be fun to reconnect, to revisit the old times, like: he flushed suddenly, another long-forgotten image drifting out of the past. He touched his lips without thinking, remembering the dry press of Derek’s mouth against his, the brilliant green of his eyes as he pulled back, mouth still parted, looking terrified that Stiles would laugh at him.

“I just...wanted to try that. Before...” Derek had said. Then, before Stiles had any time to react or process it, Derek had revealed that his family was leaving town. He was gone the next week.

The red along Derek’s cheekbones was darkening. So he remembered it, too. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you think...” He started to turn away, coiling the hose in abrupt, jerky movements, like he was trying to figure out the fastest way to clear out of there. Just like he’d done after the kiss, dashing off, claiming he had to start packing.

“That last letter you wrote me,” Stiles said. Derek stopped, his back to him, shoulders tensed. “I didn’t reply. I’m sorry. I was a stupid kid; I didn’t know what to say.”

“I never knew if you’d stopped talking to me intentionally,” Derek said. “I tried a couple times, and then I figured if you wanted to get in touch again, you would.”

And Stiles never had. At first, it really had been that he was busy; middle school had seemed like the most exciting and terrifying thing in the entire world, and trying to navigate its treacherous waters while keeping Derek updated had proved too difficult to maintain. Then that third unanswered letter—the last one Derek had written—had arrived. Stiles didn't remember much of it. But he could still see its closing line, a shaky scrawl that looked like it'd been added at the last minute.

I’m sorry I made things weird.

The kiss had made Stiles feel weird, in a way he hadn’t been able to articulate. It’d taken a few more years before he’d really understood why, and by then, Derek was a distant memory. By the looks of it, the reverse hadn’t been true.

“I used to wonder why you did it,” Stiles said.

Derek finished putting the hose back, twisted the water off and removed the nozzle, then finally turned back around. “Why I kissed you? Or why I wrote you that stupid letter?”

Stiles touched his mouth again, watching as Derek’s gaze followed the movement. Things were a lot different now than they were back then. Odd lingering connection or not, they’d both grown into entirely different people. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t really need an answer to either.”

“So what’s your real question?”

“I liked you back then,” Stiles said. “A lot. I hated that you left me, right when everything started getting really big and confusing. I know you couldn’t help it, but every time I wrote you, it reminded me that you weren’t around anymore.”

Derek’s lips flattened a bit. He nodded, slowly. “So it was easier to let it go.”

“I don’t think it’d ever be easy to let you go,” Stiles said.

Derek’s mouth parted, his eyes searching Stiles’s.

“My question is,” Stiles said, taking a couple steps forward, then grimacing when that sent his sneaker splashing through one of Derek’s puddles.

“Sorry,” Derek said, but Stiles was already squelching the rest of the way over to him.

“So much for the seductive walk,” he said, close enough now for this to all go horribly wrong.

Derek hesitantly reached out, setting his hands on Stiles’s hips, then tightening his grip when Stiles reacted by leaning closer. “I remember the fountain, too.”

“The—shit, you heard that?”

“You’re pretty loud,” Derek said. “And hard to ignore.”

From most people, that might’ve seemed like an insult. The way Derek was looking at him, though, it felt like one of the nicer compliments Stiles had ever received.

“You weren’t here, though,” Stiles objected. “I remember, because that was the longest letter I wrote you. I think I transcribed half the town hall debate—the part I got to hear before my dad found me and kicked me out.”

“I remember,” Derek repeated, then cleared his throat. “I still have the drawing you sent.”

Stiles paused, his hands halfway up Derek’s chest—thick hair visible through the sheer fabric, as he’d guessed from his earlier vantage point—to his bare shoulders, which he’d been aching to touch for the last hour. The last month, if he was being honest. “Oh, the one of the fountain? God, I can’t believe you kept that. It’s gotta be barely recognizable.”

“I liked it,” Derek said. “It made me feel like I was there with you.”

It was strange to look into eyes this familiar, belonging to someone Stiles hardly knew anymore. He slipped a finger under the strap of Derek’s still-damp tank top, testing to see if it was as absurdly tight as he’d thought. There really was no point to him wearing this flimsy excuse for a shirt.

“You never asked your question,” Derek said.

“Right,” Stiles said. He had a lot of them, too numerous to delve into now. When Derek decided to move back, had he known Stiles was still around? Why had he returned? Was it for Laura, or was it his decision? And why had he ended up with a wet dream of a car, when he’d always been the practical one in their friendship?

For now, though, only one was pressing enough to ask. “Do you think it’s too late?”

“For what?” Derek asked.

“To try again.”

The first touch of Derek’s lips was hesitant, like it’d been all those years before. It was his answer—but a question, too, begun more than a decade ago.

This time, Stiles knew exactly how to respond.

“Okay,” he said after a while, setting a hand back on Derek’s chest but letting him chase his mouth for a few more lip-tingling moments. “You’ve gotten a lot better at that.”

“I should hope so,” Derek said, with a throaty chuckle that made Stiles feel warm all over.

“We should move out of the parking lot,” Stiles said reluctantly. “I’m not the only one with a balcony. And you should probably do something with your ridiculous car before anyone needs to back out of their spaces.”

“Not my car,” Derek said. He tangled his fingers with Stiles’s, dropping a very distracting kiss onto the tip of his nose.

“Not your—yes it is. You wash it every damn weekend.”

“It’s Laura’s,” Derek said. “I have a Camry. You probably haven’t seen it; Laura makes me park it out on the street so hers doesn’t get scratched.”

Stiles stared at him, processing that information. “Let me guess; she also makes you wash it for her?”

“It’s a trade-off,” Derek said. “She hates handling all the grocery shopping and apartment cleaning when I’m on shift, but she said she’d stop complaining if I spent an hour out here every Saturday. She claimed she was the one doing me a favor, but I haven’t been so sure about that.”

“She might’ve been right,” Stiles said, wondering if everyone in the building—everyone but Derek—had been watching this whole thing unfold. “Wait, what kind of shifts do you work? Are you at the hospital?”

Derek cleared his throat again, looking oddly embarrassed. “No, I uh. I’m at the station. I work with your dad now. He makes a pretty great Sheriff.”

“Deputy Derek Hale,” Stiles said. That part really shouldn’t have come as a surprise; Derek had always been the one hanging off stories from the station. While Stiles snooped around in his dad’s files, dreaming up exciting new criminal-catching methods, Derek had stayed by the then-deputy’s side, asking boring questions about procedure and policy. “For fuck’s sake. I can’t believe my dad didn’t tell me you were back.”

Derek’s cheekbones took on that pink tint again. “He said he, uh. Doesn’t like getting involved in your romantic life anymore. But that if we ever did figure things out, he wanted us to both come over for dinner.”

“Well,” Stiles said. “Then I guess we should get back to figuring things out.”

It took 207’s extended, irritable honking to finally move them out of the parking lot. Stiles was the one who ended up with a sunburn, as it turned out. But he didn’t mind that much, not when it came with Derek in his apartment, smoothing aloe vera onto the back of his neck, and then playfully kissing his nose again before smearing the gel along his lips’ path.

The next Saturday morning, the parking lot was quiet and still. Stiles was out on his balcony, a mug of coffee in one hand, the other resting lightly on Derek’s knee.

“Derek, look,” he hissed, nodding at the silver SUV that 401 was attempting to very quietly unlock. Rookie move; should’ve parked on the street if she didn’t want to be seen. “I bet you anything she’s sneaking off to the casino again before her husband wakes up.”

Derek didn't lift his eyes from the thick book he was reading—some boring examination of the history of European conflicts, last Stiles had checked. He hummed in the back of his throat, though, then rested his hand on top of Stiles’s to show he was listening.

Once 401 was safely on her way, revving the engine triumphantly as soon as she'd made it halfway down the block, Stiles drained the rest of his coffee. “Alright, I'm gonna take a shower.”

“Okay,” Derek said. He moved his hand and flipped a page of his book, still frowning in concentration at the dense, tiny text.

“You should join me,” Stiles said. “In fact, I think we should make that a habit for a while. It's about time you started making some serious strides in water conservation.”

“Honestly, Stiles,” Derek sighed.

But he set the book down.

#sterek #eternalsterek #sterekweek2017 #sterekmeetcute #derek hale #stiles stilinski #my fics

657 notes · View notes