#clip of Christmas Clichés

[jymwahuwu]

you posted something about reca watching office box bomb and made think about that tktk trend:

"You're [your name] biggest fan I bet you have many merch!!"

Mr Reca with a photo album and film tape that's just your 2 minute background appearance in a horrible 3/10 Christmas movie printed on it: that's all I got. that's all I got. 💧

Mr. Reca insists on watching the entire movie out of respect…but this movie has all the clichés, the inexplicable make outs, the pointless long shot of the Christmas dinner, 20 credits worth of low quality special effects, canned laughter. After he finished watching the ending where all the characters danced together…he couldn't control his frustration and flew into a rage right there in front of the home theater screen. (You'd be scared too if you saw him like that…)

The only thing that comforted him was your appearance for 2 minutes. At least you have a nice look and a smile. You didn't skimp on your acting skills. You are so wonderful even in a box-office bomb movie like this.

He places orders and customizes your fan clothes, bookmarks, photo albums and more. He goes over clips about you every week, but he needs a little more mental preparation before he can invite you to participate in his movie… (he is already a well-known director in the universe, and you are just an unknown actor).

[adamwatchesmovies]

A Cinderella Story: Christmas Wish (2019)

While I didn't enjoy this film, that doesn't mean you won't. No matter what I say, the people involved in this project did it: they actually made a movie. That's something to be applauded. With that established...

Sometimes people exaggerate and say that trailers give away too much, that from the clips shown, they can tell you what the entire movie will be. When talking about A Cinderella Story: Christmas Wish, saying that the advertisements reveal too much is a simple fact. Showing any clips from this teleportation pod experiment gone wrong tells you everything you need to know. It’s a generic Christmas-themed rom-com mashed together with the Cinderella fairytale. You could write this plot in your sleep.

Katherine "Kat" Decker (Laura Marano) dreams of becoming a singer-songwriter. Unfortunately, her father’s recent passing has left her in the care of her evil stepmother, Deidra (Johannah Newmarch) and her stepsisters Joy (Lillian Doucet-Roche) & Grace (Chanelle Peloso). They force Kat to work at a Christmas-themed entertainment park. There, she befriends Dominic "Nick" Wintergarden (Gregg Sulkin). She has no idea he’s the son of a billionaire.

If you weren��t convinced before, this settles it. Cinderella doesn’t work in modern times. Kat has access to the internet, to a friend who is willing to help (Isabella Gomez as Isla), to a cell phone, to school counselors, to the police, etc. There is no reason she couldn't escape the enslavement she suffers under Deidra's rule. Her stepmother and stepsisters are so cartoonishly cruel they even capture Kat being mistreated on film. It would be easy to get sent away to a better home if Kat had any motivation to do so. Or maybe she's just dumb. She’s just a few months away from turning 18 and still she doesn’t understand that her stepmother hates her and that the rest of the family will do all they can to make her miserable. How else can you explain the obvious traps she walks into or her inability to keep secrets from them? I don’t want to blame the victim but at a certain point, it’s you that’s the problem, not them.

This fifth (?!) installment in the A Cinderella Story franchise dispenses away with all the magic normally associated with the fairytale. Consequently, Kat's beautiful dresses are whipped up out of nowhere while the rom-com clichés are taken to the extreme. At its core, Cinderella is about two things: a rags-to-riches story and a couple who fall in love without knowing each others’ identity. As part of the modernization package, Kat and Nick meet well ahead of the "royal ball" but for them not to know each other, neither of them ever sees each other without the costumes they wear at work. I guess you might excuse Kat for not recognizing Nick. He’s got a beard and Santa hat on. How he doesn’t recognize her, I don't know. At least Superman puts on a pair of glasses when disguised as Clark Kent. Kat wears elf ears and a hat. No one in the world wouldn’t recognize her.

Now I get to talk about the musical aspect of this picture. When people aren’t singing, you’ll be so bored you’ll wish a fairy would show up and turn you into a pumpkin just so you wouldn’t have to keep watching. Writer/director Michelle Johnston makes 15 minutes feel like ten times that many. When the music kicks in, you’ll want to be turned into a vegetable to avoid dying of embarrassment for the performers. All the numbers are obviously auto-tuned and badly lip-synched, the lyrics haven’t an ounce of creativity and the choreography makes you wonder how desperate the actors must’ve been to agree to this.

If we went in-depth with every offense this film commits, we’d be here until the stroke of midnight so let’s rapid-fire through a few: the token non-white characters who are only there so the film isn’t as white as a fresh Christmas morning; the nonsensical plan by the villains to take Kat’s place at the ball, the ridiculous final music number - complete with perfectly choreographed, spontaneous dance moves; the picture’s fixation on a snow globe that ultimately serves no purpose; Nick’s useless friends that are only there story-wise to crowbar a third act breakup between him and Kat. I know this movie’s for little girls but there are literally dozens of adaptations of Cinderella out there. You could throw a dart at a board and find a more suitable piece of entertainment. This is 86 minutes of torture. (July 2, 2021)

[tuliprry]

sunbeam

prompt: ballerina!yn x barista!harry, y/n is a ballerina and harry works at the café in the same building, both have a little crush on each other

warnings: fluff, mentions of ed, christmas

word count: 1.7k

part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

the pointe shoes clicked and clacked around her, she was sitting down still wearing her leather split soles with ribbons. most of the girls in this class were more advanced than y/n, this was her fourth month in this ballet class for adults, truth be told the first time y/n walked into the ballet class she was looking for the yoga room, right next door, but the teacher was nice and convinced her to try at least just one class.

so here she is in a pink maillot, pink tights, beige wrap skirt and the beige coloured sole shoe with matching ribbons, her hair is up in a bun with her curtain bangs falling out, the brown warm-up shrug sat on top of her dance bag. outside, london was covered in rain, y/n could shiver just thinking about walking to the tube in this weather, she quickly smiled to herself thinking about getting a latte downstairs from the cute barista.

harry. harry is his name, he has messy curly brown hair, usually partly up with a black clip, he is tall, like way too tall compared to y/n that says she’s 153cm but she’s actually 3cm shorter than that, he is always singing while making orders, y/n thinks he sounds like an angel, she also thinks it’s the most cliché thought she’s ever had. 

he has the schedule of the classes on his phone, he likes to know when y/n is coming, his heart fluttered when she came in the other day to work, he peeked a little and asked her what she was doing, he learned that y/n was a photographer and her latest project was women from various ages and their portraits, from a 6 year old to a 81 year old. he was so intrigued, he wanted to be a writer, a poet even but would find himself without a single thought in his mind and a blank page in front of him. so he envied y/n for a hot minute, for being a photographer and a ballerina and for keeping his mind racing thinking of her… most of the time.

the class ended and y/n put her skirt and sole shoes in the dance bag, dressed a pair of white sweatpants, white sneakers and the brown warm-up shrug, holding a big brown coat on her arm, to be only worn once she left the building. the other ballerinas ran outside to smoke, y/n hasn’t been able to befriend none of them, mostly by lack of trying, she liked her own little cosy space and getting out of her shell wasn’t easy. also she doesn’t smoke. or has even tried. the feeling of being out of place is always there, the pointe shoes, the smoking and her maillot being a size extra large.

“if i have to make another special christmas baby jesus toasted white mocha i’m quite literally going to commit a crime so big” harry sighed to his co-worker, charlie, “y’might want to calm down harry, your ballerina is coming downstairs right now”, harry immediately turned around, trying to fluff his hair and accidentally hitting the black clip, “fucking christ”, he whimpered hoping she hadn’t seen his stupid moment. “hello harry” she smiled at him still gripping onto the dance bag. “y/n! i didn’t know you were coming today” liar. “d’ya want your usual? please don’t ask me for a santa inspired drink i’m so tired of those”, y/n just smiled at the man in front of her, he was usually expressive and that was something that got her hooked. “actually, can you make me an oat milk hot cocoa? it looks freezing out and i need a boost before i go on the tube” harry looked to the glass doors to make sure the weather was still shit and then mouthed a small okay. 

 “y/n i was wondering, would it be okay if we exchanged numbers? i mean, i want to ask you out and fuck i mean-“ harry’s words are slurring in front of her, she’s still drinking her hot cocoa in a heart shaped mug and so is harry, taking his 10 minute break to just make a fool out of himself in front of y/n. “when do you wanna go out?” she says placing the mug back on the table trying to look calm and collected. “are you free tonight?” 

harry had never seen y/n out of her ballet clothes, he had tried looking for her on instagram but it seemed impossible having only her first name and knowing she lives in london, he was so eager to see her coming out of the convent garden station, “not nervous shits, not now” he thought to himself, he was leaning on a lamp post, to y/n this was a scene out of a 00s brit rom-com, indulged them so much as a child she now craved a story like that for herself.

speeding up the stairs from the tube, she was wearing a silk pink dress with a square neck and long sleeves, flowing to her wrists, sheer tights and cognac platform mary janes, the same long brown coat from earlier today, on top a light brown shoulder bag, matching her shoes. harry was wearing dark brown pants with lighter brown stripes and a rosy beige shirt with the same light brown stripes, y/n could see him from inside the station, he was adjusting his almost to the feet long black coat and rubbing his hands to try and warm them up a bit.

then he saw her, loose hair with long curls that fell on her shoulders like pieces of a puzzle, walking up to him with a smile on her face, he took close attention to all details about her, the lipstick that matched the dress, her eyeliner that he would swear it has to have taken her forever to do and the pink leg warmers he knew so hell peeking out of her shoulder bag. “hey! can we please walk to the place? it’s freezing and i didn’t have where to sit on the tube to put my leg warmers on”, he was still mind fucked about her presence, she was like a sunbeam on the london dark rainy evening, “hello…. yeah, do you want my help? ..for the leg warmers? i can hold your stuff”, harry felt little, even thought he was 30 centimetres taller than the girl in front him. 

-

harry was on cloud nine learning about this girl, she was also a vegetarian, making his little heart do flutters at a shared love for animals, she has a cat named oli, she thought oli was a boy and named it oliver so y/n changed the name to oli, harry also has a cat, a little patched tabby cat named poppy. “what is speaking to you?” harry asks pointing at the menu, “ummm the fiori di zucca repieni di ricotta sounds too good to pass on, do you wanna share?” his mouth opened, speechless, “you speak italian?” he asked, “yeah i did erasmus in rome!” she said enthusiastically, “i trust you, let’s share then” 

the dinner was filled with laugher, lots of sharing their food and drinking really good wine, they even shared a pistachio gelato afterwards, even though it was freezing out and the news had mentioned a possible storm. “do you ever think.. of what you want to do outside of being a barista?” y/n asked, her hand was intertwined with harry’s as they walked outside convent garden market, “oh all the time, i really want to be a writer, a poet. my muse just has been asleep lately, every time i try to write it’s like my mind gets blank”  he’s honest, writing has been the last thing on his mind, working part time at the café as well as doing a little freelancer for some newspapers and magazines harry has little to no time to fully write, “it’s a curse being creative harry, i get it. i really do.” they’re walking past the royal opera house and y/n stops, lets go of harry's hand and just stares, as a child it was a dream to be part of the royal ballet and perform right there, instead she takes an adult class with other people that couldn’t attain that dream. she doesn’t resent herself or the dreams she used to have, she loves her life right now, it’s just that little tingly feeling of tiny y/n wanting this so badly.

“what are you thinking about y/n?” harry asked, placing the now lonely hand on her back, gently caressing it, "sorry, i just haven't walked past the royal opera in a bit", y/n turned to harry with an it's okay look on her face and grabbed his hand again, "dance for me", harry blurred out, he didn't really filter his thoughts at this point of the night, he wanted to see her dance so badly his heart was finally speaking over his brain, "right here? in the middle of the street?" y/n is a little perplexed but the idea grows inside of her.

they're now at harry's house, y/n opened spotify on her phone and pressed play on better version by sabrina claudio, this isn't what she usually dances to but she feels free with harry, taking her shoes off, standing barefoot in harry's cedar coloured carpet.

i made the perfect you in my head, cause physically you are the blue print

her hips moved to the rhythm and she found herself repeating what she had been rehearsing fot the last four months in class, harry was mesmerised, not that she was the greatest ballerina in the world but she was to him, he could not get his eyes off of her, following the movement attentively, almost like burning this moment on his brain so he would never forget, the core memory of actually falling in love with this girl

when the song ends, harry pulls y/n to his lap and just whispers sweet nothings in her ear, brushing his fingers through her arms and hair, just enjoying her late night company, he's a hopeless romantic and has been finding the right moment to kiss her and tell, tell everyone possible in the world that he has kissed such a pretty girl it has the pasta on his stomach doing flips. 

"can i kiss you?"

"fuck yes please"

[small-strong-bookish-butch]

Okay, so I know that sword earrings are kind of a cliché, but…

I look so good aaaah!!! 🗡✨

Image description: a photo and a video of a white person with short brown hair and big glasses, wearing a blue plaid shirt and a gray shirt underneath it. In the photo, they’re smiling, and you can see their one sword earring. The video doesn’t have sound. It’s captioned, “I’m trying on two of the clip on earrings my mom got me for Christmas, and I really like them!! I feel very queer 💕”, and it shows them smiling and slowly moving their head from one side to the other, to show a spike earring on their earlobe and the sword earring slightly higher up on the other side of their ear. /end description

[d-criss-news]

Darren Criss Announces First-Ever Holiday Album Featuring Songs with Adam Lambert, Evan Rachel Wood

Darren Criss wrote original song "Drunk on Christmas," which features country star Lainey Wilson, for A Very Darren Crissmas

The holidays are closer than you think!

PEOPLE can exclusively announce that Darren Criss will be releasing his first-ever holiday album A Very Darren Crissmas on Oct. 8, filled with covers of holiday classics, new songs and collaborations with stars such as Adam Lambert.

"I always knew that if I ever made a Christmas album, it would have to be much more than just a collection of songs you already knew," the 34-year-old actor tells PEOPLE. "I'd want it to be a journey through songs that not only had a personal significance to my life, but also a unique introduction to songs folks had never heard before, and a re-introduction to a few they might think they know – but have never considered differently."

"Every eclectic choice led this album to feel astutely true to its namesake: a very, indisputably, 'me' Christmas," Criss adds.

A PEOPLE exclusive trailer of the album also teased the variety of tracks on the upcoming record.

"So... Darren Criss... made a holiday album," the trailer starts as clips of each song play in the background. "With songs you know, songs you don't, songs you thought you knew... and songs you never knew you needed."

And the album's cover art? Darren Criss can be seen portraying his own family: his brother Chuck, his mother and his late father opening presents on Christmas morning.

Along with dropping first single "Happy Holidays / The Holiday Season," Criss will also release jazz track "(Everybody's Waitin' For) The Man with the Bag" alongside Lambert, "Somewhere in My Memory" with Evan Rachel Wood and the original song "Drunk on Christmas" with country star Lainey Wilson.

"Drunk on Christmas" is set to merge Christmas-ready cocktail jazz sounds with Wilson's signature country style for a "dazzling glimpse into Darren's sensibilities as a songwriter," according to a press release.

The Christmas LP is his first album ever and a follow-up to his solo EP Masquerade, which dropped on Aug. 20.

Here's the album's tracklist:

"Happy Holidays / The Holiday Season"

"I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas"

"(Everybody's Waitin' For) The Man With The Bag" feat. Adam Lambert

"St. Patrick's Day"

"River"

"Welcome Home"

"All Those Christmas Clichés"

"The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire"

"Somewhere in My Memory" feat. Evan Rachel Wood

"Drunk on Christmas" feat. Lainey Wilson

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"

"New Year"

A Very Darren Crissmas is out on Oct. 8, and available for pre-order Sept. 8 at 12 a.m. EST.

[gedankenspaziergang]

Diversmagazin Interview  Translation

Diversmagazin released an interview with director Sarah Blaßkiewitz and Head-Writer Jasmina Wesolowski today. Read it here in German.

Jasmina (she/her), DRUCK writer since season four and head writer since season six together with Jonas Lindt. In a writers Room with Paulina Lorenz and Raquel Kishori Dukpa (Jünglinge)

Sarah (she/her) director of the last four episodes from season six

I’m leaving out the general introductory questions.

Alicia: Can you talk about the writing process? And what’s the most important thing for you while writing and telling stories?

Jasmina: We especially wanted the profound exchange with young adults who represent our protagonists. For season six we had the challenge that we wanted to tell the lovestory of a Gambian-German girl and a Vietnamese-German girl, perspectives that aren’t represented in the writer’s room. That’s why we talked a lot to research partners, to make up for our lack of knowledge/ experience, but we also talked to the actors and actresses.

Alicia: Why do different directors work on DRUCK?

Sarah: We try to produce as much in real-time as possible. And of course, we have to pre-produce but still have to work [overlappingly]. While one director is already in the editing phase, the next one already starts to shoot. Another reason is of course, that this way, also in the writer’s room, there’s more space for diversity.

 Alicia: It’s similar to the writer’s room. You’re also dividing the writing of scenes between different people. … Are you working together with racism and LGBTQIA+ experts?

Jasmina: I think we all have blind spots and that it’s absolutely impossible to end up with a perfect result. It was an important first step, that the Jünglinge collective joined. They are big advocates for queer BIPoc representation in German media. They were always present for feedback loops and made all of us, crew, actors and actresses, participate in an anti-racism workshop. We were lucky to have the brilliant author and anti-racism trainer Arpana Berndt, who advised us on these topics. On top of that, we did a lot of research on different topics. I think now it should be the only way to produce movies and shows this way, with an intensive research phase. This way you don’t appropriate the stories of others and also don’t tell inauthentic stories or, in the worst case, use hurtful clichés/stereotypes. It was helpful and needed that Black perspectives were present also behind the camera – Sara as a director, but also in the social media team, make-up department or costume design. But we are also aware that more can be done.

Sarah: It’s important to me to highlight the make-up and costume design department. When I, an afro-German person, joined this project and met other afro-German women in those departments, who can relate to me, the character of Fatou and Ava, I was really glad. I can say from many years of experience that that’s not a given.

 Alicia: How about experts on LGBTQIA+ issues?

Jasmina: To talk a bit about the process: We were set on Fatou being a lesbian pretty early on, and that was already discussed in the earlier writer’s room, where that perspective wasn’t present yet. In the beginning, those were loose ideas, and we had to implement them with the casting. The casting team Raquel Kishori Dupka, Melek Yaparak and Angelika Buschina worked closely with the directors and contacted different institutions and specifically asked for actors and actresses who could be queer. At this age this is of course a super sensitive topic. You don’t want to force young people to [define themselves/come out]. It’s a huge challenge to handle that with care and it was extremely important that the Jünglinge collective was part of the casting process.

But also, apart from the casting process, we profited a lot from the queer people in the writer’s room in the cast.

Sarah: For my part I asked the authors and queer people “What would you like? What is nice? What hurts? What’s important? Or what have I never seen before?” And then I put those different experiences into the different scenes. On top you of course need common sense (?) to portray something that you haven’t experienced yourself.

 Jasmin: I just thought of a small really beautiful example: How Fatou was given these rainbow socks as a Christmas present. You immediately notice, that was the idea of a queer person who knows what non-queer parents give to their kids as gifts. The fans notice: Queer people were in the writer’s room. Or “Ah, these actresses know, what they’re doing.“ And those are the small things that make a difference.

 Alicia: For sure! In DRUCK you notice that queer people were part of this in really subtle ways, and that [resulted] in really nice fan-moments. I can confirm that.

Right now, the community is discussing the conflict between Mailin and Ava a lot. What role does that conflict play for you and what does it teach us?

 Sarah: I’m editing the last episodes right now, so I really feel it, also because you already see the reactions online.

For me, the conflict is important because it shows over a long period of time, that not everything is always only good or only bad. That it takes a lot of time, patience and confrontation to understand all nuances of that kind of conflict.

That Ava could be prevented to outright say what’s bothering her, because we’re talking about a really serious trauma of exclusion. How do you even tell people really personal stuff when you were bullied for years? And now we have that conflict, that seemingly takes forever, and you’re always asking yourself: “Why aren’t they talking to each other?” But it’s only in real time that you realize how hurtful this conflict is. How hurtful it is what they experience. What racism means, and also what it means to [deal] with that topic as a white  German girl. And I think it’s really important that everyone is going through that with this season. That takes time and sometimes hurts. And you don’t always understand Ava and you don’t always understand Mailin. When we really [dedicate ourselves to understand this conflict] then I think, we can experience what for example a person like me experienced their whole adolescence. I’m not saying I was bullied my whole adolescence, and maybe it wasn’t because of the color of my skin, but because of something else. But that went on for half a year. After being bullied in school for half a year you’re not up for school and your classmates anymore. And you don’t talk to them anymore. And if people realize that because of this season then I’m glad. I think it’s really touching that this conflict takes up so much space.

 Jasmina: I found it really interesting what you said about the nuances, because it was a real process for me to learn how many facets this conflict has. And especially that us white people, who grow up in a society with structural racism, have a particular idea about what racism means. And that’s not a detailed and uncritical perspective of that topic: As soon as you call me racist, I feel attacked and start defending myself.

The role that this conflict played for us was to show how incredibly exhausting it is as a Person of Color, to always have to deal with these problems and that there’s a kind of fatigue, that you don’t want to talk (or should want to talk) about certain topics anymore, especially if you have other things going on in your life on top of it.

On the other hand, we have Mailin, who has a strong desire to understand. She’s not aware of her privileges as a white girl. We want to take this journey together, when she starts to realize things and when she goes through different stages; until she understands, what it is really about. We also have an arc there that isn’t finished. Because in real life, you have to deal with some topics over and over again. We think it’s especially important to show that it’s not the job of Black people to explain racism to their white  friends. By now, they have all the resources to educate themselves and to talk with other white people about this topic, to unburden Black people.

 Alicia: That’s really interesting! The lovestory of Kieu My and Fatou is an important part of season six, which many queer young adults love. How is the relationship between Fatou and Kieu My representative for a generation?

Sarah: I can actually also see it in an older generation. When I send the cuddle clip of Kieu My and Fatou to my grandpa, he says “Wow, how amazing that a Viet-German and a Afro-German girl are lying in bed together, talk in German and are in a relationship.” This generation hopefully isn’t alone anymore, for example in the sense of: being the only Afro-German person in a small city. That changed and now we see it in that second and third generation. And that’s why it shows me something very real and beautiful.

 Alicia: Which scene are you really proud of and why?

Sarah: My favorite scene, and one I’m really proud of and that was really important concerning the pressure of school, was with the main character Fatou. It’s about a path of finding yourself from Fatou and a [Reinigungsmoment] with her brother. Two people, who know each other from the moment of their birth, are sitting together. When I read that scene I thought yes, I can relate, I can feel that, and when we shot that, a world opened for me. And that was partly because of the music, which was decided before we shot this scene. Then we shot it and it was fucking cold, but we shot it again and again but every time we really felt it like the first time. And when I now watch that scene while editing, it really is the perfect moment. Every facial expression is perfect, every reaction. And that’s that kind of truthful (?) moment you’re looking for as an actor, actress, director or author. When everything fits.

 (There’s a script for every social media part, What’s App Chats and ideas for social media stories. )

 Alicia: When can we expect the next season and what will it be about?

Jasmina: For now, DRUCK is finished and we have to wait how it will continue. Fingers are crossed and of course we’re hoping for a new season.

[Note by me: We‘re not gonna spiral, Jünglinge looked for more writers, Black writers, on facebook a while ago. Nothing is safe but they probably don’t want to make any promises]

[lulus-shattered-life]

BREAKTHROUGH

My inner space is basically an attic with bedrooms on the sides and a hangout space in the middle. Bedrooms all have different styles. The hang out area is very cozy. Lots of Christmas lights, posters, tapestries. Stuffed animals. Blankets. Bean bags. Gaming system. So many snacks. It feels like a sleepover. I could see/feel the others hiding in the shadows. There were several closed doors (the bedrooms were mainly just archways off of the main space. No doors) one had chains on it and caution tape. Ngl i giggled at the cliché but then felt nothing but dispair so i snapped out of it really fast. My heart is still pounding but I'm ok.

This is kind of the asthetic

I put it together after two 'dreams' almost in a row and just trying to focus on making the memory more clear and it slowly started coming into focus in my head. I'm not sure if i mentioned the first incident so I'm going to copy what i wrote in a group. I'm trying to keep all important info on here so bear with me. 😬

I'm still very new to this and working on getting an actual diagnosis but my life is FINALLY starting to make sense. I'm starting to tap into myself and getting to know the headmates so to speak. I'm really really rambly right now so I'll apologize for the length but if i don't hurry up and get it all out i think I'll lose it.

My question is can they talk to each other in dreams? Is that a thing? Or is it just them letting me into their space for once?

Since I've been trying to open up and find ways to communicate I've been waking up with the feeling that they have been getting to know each other.

Two nights ago i woke up with a 'video clip' of a room with some bean bag chairs a couch. Posters. Christmas lights. Really cozy place and there were people sitting all over the place and one girl was falling over laughing saying no wonder she's upset you can't spell her name correctly. It was like a stereotypical girls slumber party set up but i couldn't see their faces. At least one was a male. The rest were female and were all different sizes but close to the same body type and my little was on the floor coloring.

This morning i woke up with a little speech in my head like remembering a dream and it felt like the same space as last time even though i didn't see it. A Sleep over. She was perky and giving a pep talk about the first group therapy session that was offered to us yesterday. She was basically saying it was something we really needed to do and that the building was our safe place so it was going to be ok etc. It ended with we can do this! Let's go! And i swear i could almost feel her doing a specific cheerleading arm move.

So I'm thinking these are my alters and this seems to be their inner world but communicating is hard. I hear them making random comments on what I'm doing throughout the day and can feel when one of them comes forward and we're both in front but i don't know how to actually talk to them.

[twinrowcitizennews]

snapshot

Note from the editor:

This is the first letter of this nature that I’ve received from someone who wanted their question published. Other than editing for formatting and grammar, it’s in their own words and their own words alone. Please send an email or ask if you know how to solve their problem-- and quickly. 

I have to warn you, this letter isn’t for those who are put on edge easily. Reader discretion is advised. 

I don’t know if I’ll still be around by the time this is posted, but that doesn’t matter. So long as this reaches whoever might need it. 

I first saw it last October. The 27th, I think. Kind of cliché for this sort of thing to be happening right around Halloween, but truth is stranger than fiction. It was late in the evening, almost nighttime, when I saw this stray dog roaming around in my front yard. I grabbed my dog’s leash and went to get it, thinking I could keep it in my backyard until I could find the owners, but the second I left the front step, it started off towards the bike trail. I sped up to a jog and followed it, hoping not to scare it off any further. 

The bike trail veers away from the neighborhood and through this piece of undeveloped land that separates the suburbs from a nearby farm. The dog was mostly sticking to the path, moving along at a trot, stopping every once in a while to look over its shoulder and wag its tail, like it was waiting for me to catch up before starting off again. After a few minutes of this, I called for it-- tried to whistle, asked it to heel, etc. It came over when I pretended to have a treat in my hand, holding my fist out like there was something inside. When it leaned over to sniff, I clipped a leash on its collar, a simple fabric band without any tags or ID. I’d never seen the dog before, so I got out my phone and took a picture of it to post to the neighborhood Facebook page, asking if anyone knew its owner, before walking it back to my place and letting it out in the fenced back yard. After feeding my own dog, I sat down to check Facebook to see if there was any response. 

No one recognized the dog from the photo. One comment asked me who was standing in the background. 

There hadn’t been anyone else in the woods, as far as I remembered, but I double-checked the photo anyway. In the background, about 20 feet away, it looked like there was a figure-- vague, kind of person-shaped if you squinted-- standing just to the side of the bike path. It was all indistinct and fuzzy. Probably just a smudge on the lens. I responded to the comment before trying to clean off the lens on my shirt, then taking another photo down the hallway to see if the smudge was gone. There didn’t seem to be anything. The rest of the night was relatively normal. 

The next morning, I ended up trying to clear out my camera roll, to save some room for any pictures I might take of my baby cousins in their costumes. I deleted a bunch of screenshots, old photos, and the image of the dog, before going to delete the hallway picture. 

The smudge was still there. Like before, it was around 20 or so feet from where I’d been standing when I took the photo, around the size and height of a person. Unlike before, it was peering around the corner from the door to the bathroom. 

I was freaked out some, to be honest.  I scrubbed the lens down with a Lysol wipe and took another photo down the hallway, trying to prove to myself it was just some sort of shadow. Nothing that would show up in the daylight. And it didn’t-- nothing strange, no smudge, just a block of sunlight from the windows. I didn’t delete the picture from the night before, though. Just in case. 

It was a few more weeks before I took another nighttime photo. My cousins are too young to stay up late, so they’d been out trick-or-treating around 5:00 in the evening, back before it was even dark, so I didn’t really take anything on Halloween. The dog was returned to its owner a few days after, so nothing there, either. 

It was around the middle of November when I ended up catching it again. I was on a nighttime walk and passed the home of this older couple down the road who always put up their outdoor Christmas decorations about a month too early. I wanted to get a picture of the setup-- they had this new animatronic Santa, sitting on a throne and waving to the road. I can promise that no one else was in the yard. I used the flash (on accident, but still), and if someone was there, I would have seen them. When I got home, I sent the picture to a friend of mine for her to make fun of. She messaged back with a few laughing emojis before asking who took the photo.  

(ID: Two texts from my friend reading “lol” and “really who took it”. My response says “wdym?”. She responded with two texts saying “I see you in the background, genius” and “just vibing by the garage”. End ID.)

I checked the photo again. By the house’s garage, a little under 20 feet from where I’d been, was a clearer, more distinct figure. For once, I could make out its face. 

I don’t know who or what it is, or how it got there, but it definitely looked like me. It was even wearing my clothing, had its hair done the same way, everything. Just standing there and smiling for the photo, like someone just out of frame was telling it to say cheese, looking right into the camera. 

I immediately turned all the lights on that I could reach. I almost deleted the photo, staring at it for too long, before closing out of Photos and reopening my camera. I figured this had to be some weird hallucination or something I was making up, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. I aimed the camera down the hall and took a video. Nothing. I checked it, sliding the scrub bar back and forth to inspect each individual frame. All of them were just empty, illuminated hallway. That didn’t shake the feeling, though, so I turned the hall light off and tried again. Nothing showed up on this video, either. I took a photo. 

It was there. Again. It wasn’t peeking out from around anything, just standing in the middle of the hallway, the same distance it had been from the camera in the yard. 

I didn’t sleep that night. Or the next few. 

I ended up searching the internet as much as I could for anyone with similar experiences. I saw things about ghosts, things about illusions, things about solid doppelgangers that people saw with their own eyes and not through pictures, but nothing like this. Over the weeks and months that followed, I took investigating into my own hands. 

My fears were quieted some-- some-- when, after the first few nights, I realized that it wasn’t hurting me. It never even moved, staying in the same poses each night. The only change was, no matter where I was, inside or outside, it was always the same distance away.

I started taking pictures almost obsessively. Every day, every night, I tried something new. I tried every condition I could think of to see when and where this thing would show up. It became a part of my routine-- almost a companion. I’d even jokingly wish it goodnight. 

I could put walls between myself and it. At one point, I stood inside my closet and took a picture, only showing racks of coats and clothes. It could be seen through windows, if there was no room for it to appear indoors. I could take pictures out my bedroom window to show it standing right there outside the window on the front walk. It always looked exactly like me, down to the smallest detail, except for the face. It never had any expression other than a smile. No matter where I was, inside or outside, it could be there. I got pictures of it at home, at work, out of town. It never showed up in well-lit photos. Things in the dark with flash were okay, but it would just be a little indistinct. Dimmer lighting, pictures taken at night, all of that was free game. I never got a picture of it in daylight. 

Around February, I sat down and tried to sort all the successful photos into one album to clear up my camera roll. At this point, it was mostly just pictures of the thing, since I was sometimes taking up to dozens a night. I deleted all the failures, saving all the pictures of it into one album. That’s when I noticed.

It was getting closer.

I guess I had ignored it over the first months. It had been too gradual for me to notice, only an inch or two each night, but looking at all the photos in order, it was obvious. Instead of being around 20 feet away, the thing was closer to 15, still just standing and smiling.

I had to tell myself it was coincidence, or something I was imagining, or I think I would’ve done something I’d regret later just then. Now that I knew it could move, I didn’t really think of it as a friend anymore. 

I kept taking pictures throughout the following months. Only at night. It stopped showing up outside my bedroom window-- in retrospect, probably because the ground wasn’t close enough for it anymore. It stopped lurking at the end of the hallway, drawing nearer until it was standing right there in the living room. It started putting its hands against the glass of the kitchen windows. Then it started showing up at the kitchen table. 

I got desperate, some. I tried everything. I burned incense, I tried to talk to it, I bought fucking crystals. I’m an atheist, but I even considered calling a priest or something. All spring, I was constantly scrambling to find some way to get that thing to leave, or at least stop moving. Every night I took more pictures, too many, before scrolling through my photo album with a looming sense of dread. Nothing worked. It kept coming, slowly, always dressed like me and always doing that smile. It got close enough that I could see the whites of its eyes. I almost wish I could say that there was something messed up about it, something that made it obviously inhuman or dead or anything, but there wasn’t. It was just me, just exactly like me, and somehow that was worse. 

I’m sending this in now because it’s really close and I don’t know how to make it go away or if that’s even an option anymore. These past few nights, it’s been right in front of me-- I could reach out and touch it, if it was solid. Hell, I could probably feel its breath, if it had that. I’ve been taking pictures every hour or so, sometimes every couple of minutes.

Last night, around the fifth or sixth picture I took, it wasn’t there. Just gone. I took a few more pictures, and it didn’t matter where I was, it just wasn’t there. I don’t know why I did it, but I turned the camera around to selfie mode and took a shot. 

That thing was standing right behind me.

One of its hands was hovering right over my shoulder, like it was about to touch me. I freaked out and took another picture. It hadn’t moved more than a hair. I turned all the lights on and haven’t slept. 

I’m not sleeping tonight. I’m not turning any of the lights off. It can’t get to me if the lights are on, or I hope so. If anyone knows what to do or what this thing is, please respond. It might already be too late, but I don’t know what this thing will do or who it’ll go for when it’s done with me. I don’t have much advice to give, other than to sleep with the fucking lights on.

[brionbroadway]

Today’s prompt is “snowflake” for the RWRB Winterfest. Enjoy! @rwrb-fests

---

If a room belongs to Alex, it’s known.

By the photos of him and June with gaps in their teeth and big smiles, by news clippings that declare Texas went blue, by stained coffee mugs that serve as artistic pieces. And currently, by the Charlie Brown Christmas tree Alex and June were in charge of decorating as kids, by the pointedly-not-Christmas-or-holiday-specific cards from Nora that line the windowsill, by the bobblehead snowmen his dad loved so much he declared them heirlooms.

Sometimes, somewhat sadly, Alex thought you’d hardly know that Henry lives with him at all.

Which is why it’s a surprise to come home and find their living room decorated with paper snowflakes, the kind Alex remembers from elementary school art class. They’re tied to string and stuck to the ceiling with scotch tape, and it’s so charmingly simple and sweet that Alex damn near melts to find Henry in the middle of it all.

Alex watches him for a second, biting his lip and intently focused on a video on his phone. Stepping closer, Alex realizes the video is literally called How to Make Paper Snowflakes, and Alex can’t stop himself from saying, “Baby.”

Henry startles, his scissors slicing through the paper with the sound of making a mistake. “Oh, Alex. Hello.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Oh Alex, hello?’ Do I not deserve a ‘Good evening, great love of my life! I’ve waited anxiously all day for you, during which I descended into a pit of paper snowflake madness—'"

“Are you finished?”

“I’m clearly not, but.” Alex pulls a chair up to where Henry’s set up shop on the coffee table. “I love this, obviously, but wanna share the inspiration?”

Alex watches Henry consider this because even still, even now, Henry doesn’t tell him everything, and that’s ok. As long as he knows that he can.

This time though, Henry turns to him, eyes and everything else fully open. “Last night,” Henry begins. “When you were putting up those dreadful bobblehead snowmen—”

“They’re heirlooms, thank you.”

“Well, right. Exactly. You started telling stories about your dad, and I remembered mine.”

Alex would soften if he weren’t already the consistency of a marshmallow. “Yeah?”

“I couldn’t decorate my room much, but at Christmas, we’d make snowflakes together. Probably hundreds of them, all hung around my room just like this. Tacky and totally inappropriate for royalty.” Henry grins. “And my dad would say something cliché about how I can be like the snowflakes, how I don’t need to be and shouldn’t be like anyone else. A bit uninspired but, you know. It helped.”

It’s not a new feeling, but Alex desperately wants to punch every alt-right douchebag who uses snowflake as an insult in the face. He channels that energy elsewhere, taking Henry’s hand in his.

“I just wish,” Henry says, and Alex hears the snag in his throat. Not a worrying one, not a sign he’s about to cry, but a snag all the same. “That he could know you. And you could know him.”

Alex could offer a cliché of his own about how Henry’s dad is always with him, watching over them, and probably knows more about Alex than he’d care to—and who the fuck knows, maybe that’s true—but he decides the truth is more helpful. “Me too.”

Alex takes a piece of paper, folds it, and gestures for Henry to pass him the scissors. He surveys the room as he works, all the beautiful evidence of the sweetest parts of Henry.

He’s glad this home belongs to both of them.

[kamosweasley]

Not that damn song again (George Weasley x Reader)

Description : It's Christmas time so a cute fluffy fic about it sounds right. And I'm a simp for George (and Christmas songs), I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Words count : 2.5K

Author note's : lyrics from All I want for Christmas by Mariah Carey are in italics.

Tag list : @memekingofwwiii

It's terribly cliché but you can't lie, you love Christmas. There is no better time of year, with snow, hot chocolate, big sweaters, cinnamon cookies and decorations everywhere, how not to love it ? You don't understand people who prefer summer with its sweltering heat and sunburn and all those damn mosquitoes. But unfortunately for you, your boyfriend is a man of the second category whereas you are a woman of the first category. Which makes some things a bit complicated, like you grumbling when he wants to pull you out in the July sun or like him not being able to stand the Christmas carols that you play over and over again from the first of November.

“Not that damn song again …” he mumbles, hiding his face in his hands. “Darling I love you, but if you play this song one more time ...”

“Come on Georgie, it’s Christmas time ! Listening to Christmas songs is essential to my mental health right now. It's either that or stuff myself with cinnamon cookies with the delicious icing and not fit into my favorite sweaters anymore. You really don't like it ?”, coming to give him a back hug with puppy eyes. He never resists you with those eyes, he loves to see them disappear to give way to a big smile.

“I'm sorry my love, but at the end of the fiftieth listening of your playlist I started to hate Santa Claus and the sound of the bells.”

You're both sitting on his bed, he's finishing his potion homework but he's not getting very far with you in the same room listening to the same songs for over a month. He hates it because he loves you with all his heart, but he's starting to wish he could go deaf so he can't stand those melodies which haunt him even in his sleep. He would love it as much as you do, but the more the days go by, the more he understands this will never be the case. And he doesn't want to put limits on how you enjoy this time, he knows how much it means to you.

You put your hands under his sweater to warm your hands, the contact of your cold skin on his abdo makes him startle as you let out a giggle.

“Sorry, my hands are cold and I know that your mother's sweaters keep me warm so I took advantage of it …”

“I know darling, it's absolutely not to satisfy your wandering hands.” he says as he turns his head to kiss you, “I'm going to ask my mother to knit you some mittens, since it's very warm.”

“Good idea, I'm freezing to death right now.” George begins to turn around with a grin on his face, ready to warm you up in his own way but you haven’t noticed his purpose, “I'm going to go make hot chocolate in the kitchen, do you want some too ? I can bring you a cup, I make the best hot chocolate you've ever tasted. No offense to your mom who must make really good ones too, but mine is better.”

You often take him by surprise, changing the subject or not noticing how the situation is turning out and he always found it charming. You make him think of Luna a little bit, on another level but just as clueless as her sometimes. Your boyfriend smiles at you, returning to his potion homework. “Anything to please you darling.”

“You'll see, it's fabulous! I have a secret ingredient, if you're nice I might tell you what it is.” you put on one of his sweaters that you take from his suitcase before you wink at him and leave the room. He should take advantage of the silence of your absence to finish his damn homework in a hurry but he can't concentrate. Potion is boring and he really loves it when you wear one of his sweaters, it's way too big for you and that's what makes you so adorable. And you will come to spend a few days at the Burrow, meet his parents as his girlfriend and receive your own sweater knitted by Molly. He hopes that you will continue to steal from him even if you have your own.

“Here it is ! Taste it and tell me.” you say while putting the cup in his hand. You already know what he’ll say of course, everybody loves your hot chocolate, there is no reason for your boyfriend not to do the same. He thanks you before taking a sip of the hot drink, ready for a chocolate too sweet with some spice in it. And it is, but he has to admit that it is particularly good. He nods his head before he smiles at you. “You're right, it's the best I've ever tasted.” He puts his cup on the bedside table and returns to his parchment.

“So why don't you keep drinking it ? It doesn't look like the best hot chocolate you've ever tasted.” You're sure George didn't lie to you, but you still hoped he would act on his words. When he tells you it's the best hot chocolate he's ever had in his hands, you wish he wouldn't let go of the cup until he's finished it. Maybe you have a misplaced ego but this chocolate is your personal pride and you want your boyfriend to treat it well.

He runs a hand through his hair, not even taking his eyes off his homework. “I've never been a big fan of hot chocolate or Christmas cookies and certainly not of all those bell-filled songs. I’m sorry darling but I never liked any of this.” You melt before his eyes, he is sincerely sorry he doesn't like what makes you so happy and you think it's too cute.

"I'm just not a Christmas person. It's good because we saw family and have presents but still don't get what you found in this period.” You come and join him on the bed, sitting in a suit in front of him. “It’s simple. Let it snow, Jingle Bell Rock, All I Want For Christmas, it’s all about a magical time.” In his eyes you can tell that he doesn't understand at all what you're talking about, which is amazing when you consider how much time he spent listening to all those songs. “We are wizards. Our whole life is magical, I'm not sure I understand you on that point.” You grab a roll of parchment and hold it as if it were a microphone, looking at him with a glim in your eyes.

The best thing you can do to help him understand is to show him. You’re not a good singer, at least George never complains about it, perhaps because he tries very hard to keep his mind upright since he doesn’t like your playlist. It's unlikely you'll be able to change his mind, but a little a capella karaoke should put a smile on his face.

“I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need. I don’t care about the present, underneath the Christmas tree.” While keeping your fake microphone close to your mouth, you point at your boyfriend with the same expression as Mariah Carey in the clip. “I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know ! Make my wish come true, all I want for Christmas is you !”

As it is impossible to sing Mariah Carey without playing the diva, you give it your all and when you see George's smile, you do it well. It must be your acting more than the words of love that make him smile like that, it's like he's trying to restrain himself from laughing.

“'Cause I just want you here tonight, holding on to me so tight.” On all fours you come and sit between his legs, facing him. He puts his cold hands on your hips passing them under the elastic of your jogging, a smirk on his lips. You shiver from the sudden cold on your skin but don't stop singing, your face getting closer and closer to his. “What more can I do ? Baby, all I want for Christmas is you ! You, baby.”

He's right in front of you. Your noses are touching, your eyes are immersed in each other and you melt like snow in the sun at the intensity of this moment. Damn you love him.

The hunger in his eyes devours you before his lips reach yours. A passionate, fiery, kiss that will get you high. Your head empties itself of all words and thoughts, your hands naturally place themselves in his hair and behind your closed eyes you imagine his smile, his eyes shining with mischief, his hand holding yours and all those little things that make you fall for him. Over and over again.

Gasping for air, the kiss is stopped. You're almost dizzy, head spinning with butterflies messing around in the belly. Liking George Weasley drives you crazy, there's no telling, you've never felt that way about anyone else. Before him you'd never been that high, you'd never had a simple kiss that made you tremble, you'd never dreamed of spending the rest of your life with someone. George Weasley is the kind of man you should treasure, marry and have as a father to your children. For the simple reason that he will be wonderful in all these roles, with him everyday life will never be boring, he will always have the words to make you laugh or smile. He will give love like no one else to his children, an exemplary father who will take care of his children as if they were the greatest wonders in this world.

You have no doubt about it, your boyfriend will offer a wonderful life to the woman he chooses. That's why you're not going to let him go. Your lover.

You suddenly open your eyes as you feel yourself tilted to the side with George, he's still holding you against him and you land softly on the comforter and pillows. You're lying against each other and George slips one of his legs between yours so that they get tangled up. “Now we’re good darling.” He kisses your forehead and plays with a strand of your hair, it's so peaceful. “I haven't finished the song.” You feel his mouth smiling against your forehead. “Who cares ? Certainly not me, I heard what I needed to hear. I think I understand now.”

“Do you ?”

“Yes, but I still hate Christmas songs.”

You lean on your forearm to look down on him, looking pouty. “C’mon ! You’re overreacting, this song is brand new. It's only been out for a month, you can't already hate it.” He grabs you by the shoulders and applies pressure to force you to lie down, not softened by your pouty air. “You listen to it all the time and if not, you sing it. Believe me, one month is enough to get sick of it.”

After being a diva a few minutes before, you're having fun being a diva again because after all, you can't talk about Mariah like that. And you can't help but defend the honor of your favorite Christmas songs. With a burning gaze, fists on your hips and a somewhat condescending tone, you fight back. “It’s Mariah Carey so it will be a massive hit, I’m sure of it. And at least, I’m sure you will think of me every time you’ll hear this song for the rest of your life.” Smiling at you, he adopts the same facial expression and flutters his eyes saying to you in a sweet voice: “The only way I'm going to hear this song again is from you. It's a Muggle song, no one is going to know it among wizards.”

Rolling on yourself to be flat on your stomach, half on George given the proximity that the bed offers you, you give him a charming wink as you rest your chin on your hands.

“That’s what I’m saying. At the end of each year you will hear this song many, many, many times and you will think of that moment when I sang it to you in your dorm at Hogwarts. You will see the scene again as you hear me singing it from the other side of our house. Because we're going to spend our whole lives together.” Since you're already half on top of him, he has no problem placing you on top of him, kissing both your cheeks and your forehead as you go by, making you giggle. “You’re a genius. You really thought of everything.”

You mess his hair before wedging your head in his neck, breathing in his scent. You smile against his throat and you know him well enough to know that it makes him smile back. “How could I want to live without you ? You know how to make yourself indispensable Georgie, it's almost annoying.” You love it when he runs his hand through your hair, it's the most relaxing thing ever. His other hand traces back and forth in your back, making you a little sleepy. This man knows how to deal with you. “Because you thought you were the only one who thought of everything? I would never let you go.”

If you could stop time and stay like this forever, you would do it without hesitation. You're comfortable in a bed, just the two of you, your hearts are beating at the same rhythm and you're in love. Then it smells like hot chocolate and you've managed to make him smile to a Christmas song. You never want to forget this moment. “Fine by me Georgie.”

You can't resist the temptation to hum Last Christmas, but George's caresses make you fall asleep little by little. You stop before the end of the song and in a few minutes you fall asleep on him. He kisses the top of your head, finding you absolutely adorable. You always manage to fall asleep quickly when you are being tickled, which makes him very tender and amuses him a lot. He often teases you about it, it always annoys you and he finds it even cuter.

Feeling your body rise slightly to the rhythm of your breathing, he starts humming the end of Last Christmas. He takes advantage of you being asleep, so you won't be able to talk to him about it someday. Continuing to run his hand through your hair and humming Christmas music, he smiles as he looks up at the ceiling. You are with him, alone and calm, in perfect harmony and he always liked to feel the beat of your heart when you cuddle. It's that kind of perfect moment. And he wishes it would never end.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, happyjuicyfruit!

For @happyjuicyfruit. I'm not going to lie, I saw your request and an idea was born and aside from sleep and work I wrote non-stop until this was done because it felt so good to write it. So cathartic. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing.

Read On AO3

*****

Falling into Place

“The best feeling in the whole world is watching things finally fall into place after watching them fall apart for so long.”

Unknown

The warm hum of the TV mingled with the sound of the running shower through the small studio apartment Stiles rented in Sacramento. He scrambled on his small double bed (tucked into the corner alcove opposite the bathroom door) to try and get his sweats on without applying any pressure to his injured foot. He awkwardly half-hopped on one leg, falling back on his ass on the mattress as he held the cuff carefully open to maneuver his bandaged foot inside. Mission successful, he star-fished on the bed, fully clothed at last, damp hair mussing the sheets and his foot throbbing.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the sounds of the shower, then forcing his eyes shut tightly to try and banish the image of exactly what body parts the less than average water-pressure might be crashing down on. Swallowing thickly, he hopped awkwardly along the narrow space, around the bookshelf he’d used as a divider at the end of his ‘sleeping area’ and into his roughly eighteen feet of living/kitchen space.

Careful not to clip his injured foot on anything, he managed to get the leftover lasagne out of the fridge and into the microwave with minimal disaster. He then frantically searched through the pile of unwashed dishes and cutlery to find enough for two people to eat with.

For some reason, it bothered him, the idea of Derek seeing his dirty dishes. He froze then, wondering if he’d left his laundry hamper spilling over. He didn’t have much time to panic, because the second he thought it, the shower shut off.

A few moments later, Derek stepped out into the room, steam billowing behind him, hair damp and…wearing Stiles’s t-shirt and sweats which looked a little tight in the shoulder and chest and across Derek’s thighs but mostly fit him just fine. Luckily Stiles preferred baggy. He didn’t realise he was staring until Derek started talking.

“I took them off the clothes dryer in the bathroom. I hope that’s alright? I washed mine in the sink. They had blood on.”

Stiles blinked, struck mute for a moment, still not really over the way his sweats clung across Derek’s hip area to form words. “Ah, no, sure, all good,” he managed at last, using the washing up to distract himself. “At least I’ve filled out a bit since the last time you had to borrow my clothes, right? And you’re lucky I had some spare. Laundry day is well overdue, to be honest. I’ve just been working on my assignments, which I got in on time, but then I found out about this case, the one with you in it and I had to find a way to convince them to let me in on it, to try and get you out, you know? So I’ve been so busy I just haven’t had time to–”

“Stiles,” Derek said, cutting his rambling off. “It’s fine. Really. This is hardly the worst place I’ve stayed.”

Stiles laughed. “Wow, ringing endorsement. Better than an abandoned bus station. Well, I’ll have you know this is a steal so close to HQ and it may be small but it’s just been done up. I am the first tenant to tarnish this kitchen. And because it’s one of the many investment properties Natalie Martin got out of the divorce, and of course Lydia is using emotional blackmail to my advantage, I can actually afford to live here without bankrupting my dad even further. Plus the roof-terrace, it’s amazing. I mean, I never actually go up there but some residents have this communal allotment and the view is amazing. Or, you know, it would be if I went there.”

Derek had crossed his arms, had rolled his eyes with that sigh, all of which weretelling signs Stiles was annoying him. And yet there was a little twist at the corners of his mouth that made Stiles’s stomach flip.

The microwave pinged then and Stiles came back to himself, prodding at the centre of the two chunks of lasagne to check they were heated properly before decanting them onto two plates. He went to offer one to Derek, complete with cutlery, before hesitating. He winced.

“Uh, would you mind carrying mine over to the ol’ dining area there? It’s a second hand couch but it’s in pretty good shape and I don’t wanna get lasagne all over it by hopping over there with my plate.”

Derek frowned at him for a moment, then down at his foot, as if he’d forgotten Stiles didn’t magically heal like he did from gunshot wounds – or, you know, splintered fragments of cement that had ricocheted off the wall from the gunshot that had largely missed him, but still. He’d been on the run again, Stiles knew, and before that likely just with Cora since he and Braeden had gone their separate ways. If their texts over the last few months or so were anything to go by, that is. He’d probably not spent much time with humans since last Stiles had seen him, except the ones trying to trap or shoot him.

Eventually, Derek took both plates and stepped back a little into the makeshift doorway between the wall and the shelf that stood as a screen at the end of the bed. It held his books, nicknacks and a TV that swivelled to face either the living area or the bed because Lydia was a goddess and a genius. Stiles hopped awkwardly passed him, supporting himself on the arm of the couch as he eased down onto it. Derek offered his plate to his sturdier lap rather than his hands, likely a survival skill taught after years of observing how erratic Stiles’s hands could be, before settling next to him on the couch.

The late night news was reporting the raid on the warehouse as a drug bust but they knew the truth. Thankfully, the FBI didn’t seem to know the truth, that the guy they’d been pursuing, namely Derek, was a werewolf. He thought they’d managed to get out of it without exposing that and hopefully, if Scott’s dad came through for them, Derek would be out of the spotlight soon enough.

Stiles had set it all in motion the second he’d seen Derek’s face on a slideshow of live suspects, but when he’d discovered they were planning on raiding a possible location of Derek’s, he hadn’t been able to wait for Rafael McCall. He’d made many contingency plans, but the one that’d ended up going into motion had been such a cliché he was almost disappointed in himself and the institution he was interning with.

He’d snuck in a spare FBI jacket and in the chaos, had managed to get Derek into it and offered up his cap and they’d literally walked out of there. Well, Stiles had been carried really, but semantics.

He hadn’t planned for there to be hunters there, who had happily started shooting the second the FBI had burst in looking for Derek. Derek, who had only been there because somehow those hunters were connected to the murders the FBI had linked Derek too. Stiles hadn’t gotten the full story out of him yet. But anyway, he hadn’t planned for there to be idiots there wanting to go on a shoot-out with the FBI, for bullets to be flying everywhere. He hadn’t planned for getting injured by exploding concrete, which was pretty much a bullet wound anyway.

That’s what his bosses were classing it as anyway – wounded in action pretty much. They were so pleased an intern that shouldn’t have really been there hadn’t been killed and that he was pretty much taking near-death in his stride that he thought maybe his reputation might have gained a few more points if anything.

And once Scott’s dad finished subtly helping Stiles’s team to connect the hunters to the murder instead of Derek, exoneration hopefully shouldn’t be too far behind.

“Where did you get this from?” Derek asked as he gulped down another mouthful of lasagne like a starving animal. Really, Stiles wondered when his last decent meal had been.

“Uh, I made it,” Stiles said with a mostly empty mouth. “I can’t afford to live off take-out, dude. I gotta live smart while I’m still an intern.” Even with the FBI an internship didn’t pay a luxurious dividend. “I can make a few things that can keep in the fridge for a few days. This is the last of the lasagne though, buddy, so if you want seconds the take-out menus are on the fridge.”

Derek blinked at him, looking almost owlishly startled which was sort of adorable on him really. He looked tired and confused and a few stray droplets of water trickled down his neck from his damp hair. “No, this is good. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Well, they haven’t given me my Michelin stars yet but I can eat a lot better than some of the other interns by being smart about it and thinking ahead.” Stiles finished the last few bites of his own and set the plate on the floor by his feet. “If I hadn’t learned to cook and make food stretch a little more, dad and I would’ve had to sell the house to keep us in take-out.”

Derek had gotten the larger portion, Stiles was a good host, so he was still eating and seemed to consider Stiles’s words for a long time before saying between mouthfuls, “Your mom taught you?”

Stiles offered a wistful smile.

“Yeah. Not gourmet or anything but cooking was our thing. I wasn’t the kind of kid that could sit down and watch TV while their mom cooked. I was always under her feet so she made me help, made me useful. Some things stuck, I guess. I learned enough.”

He thought that was going to be the end of it. They fell quiet and the late news bulletins had long-since finished and returned to some late-night comedy talk show. But then Derek spoke, quiet and distant, like he was somewhere far away, in a tone way Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever heard from him before.

“My dad was the cook. He didn’t really teach me meals, Laura always used to help him in the kitchen. But he did teach me to make his salted caramel brownies.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what to do with that.

It’d been a long day, a long few weeks for Derek, really. He looked both world-weary and yet less troubled than he had since Stiles had last seen him. He sounded at peace with a part of himself Stiles had only ever glimpsed in their two years or so of chasing monsters together around Beacon Hills.

“Those sound amazing,” Stiles offered with a little smile, because it was the truth. Derek’s face turned to him then, empty plate still in hand, the glow of the TV and kitchen light making his features soft and warm.

He studied Stiles for a long time, eyes roving his face as if he were relearning him, before he said quietly, “it’s really good to see you, Stiles.”

Stiles smiled and chuckled a little self-consciously, “well, you know, likewise. And hey, I’m always willing to put you up when you’re a wanted fugitive, you know this from experience.”

Derek raised a brow, lips twitching. “Did you mention that in your interview for your internship with the FBI?”

“Oh, we got a sense of humour since we last met, huh?” Stiles laughed, but as he put his foot down to rise, he winced, remembering his injury. “Holy shit,” he hissed, grasping his ankle in lieu of his throbbing foot, thinking of the medication the hospital had sent him away with, sitting on the kitchen counter.

When they’d made their initial getaway, Derek had literally skulked around in the shadows while Stiles reported to the field leader, before taking himself to the hospital. In matter of fact, Derek had taken him to the hospital, giving him sideways looks like he was equal parts pissed off and concerned. And he hadn’t left Stiles’s side until they’d come back to Stiles’s apartment and they’d taken their respective showers.

To be honest, sitting in Derek’s rental car while he picked up Stiles’s prescription was a bizarre feat he kept coming back to. Not an unpleasant one though. He was definitely more than capable of looking after himself, had proven that a hundred times over, really. But it felt nice, having someone there who looked worried, who took the dinner plates and set them in the sink, who brought his medication and water to take them with in the only clean glass and…oh god…

“Dude, you don’t have to clean my dirty dishes, you’re a guest–”

“Technically, I’m a fugitive in hiding,” Derek cut across him neatly, running more hot water into the sink, the last of it until the tank filled up again after two showers, Stiles thought. “Besides, you need to stay off your foot and if you leave these dishes another night they might run off on their own.”

Stiles glared at him as he drank from his glass and then downed his pills. “This is a small apartment, buddy, there’s only room in here for one wise-ass.”

Derek ducked his head as he started the dishes, but Stiles caught his smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

*

Stiles woke up with a little start, the kind you got when you caught yourself drifting off on the couch in front the TV. Except it didn’t look as if he’d caught himself. It looked like he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV and Derek had carried him to bed. The medicine must’ve knocked him out, Stiles thought, blinking blearily at the narrow strips of pre-dawn light peeking around his blind to the side of the bed.

He could hear soft breathing in the quiet from beyond the wall that the double-sided bookshelf made and it felt comforting. Even now, nearly a year-on from the event, he still had trouble with the feeling of waking up too quickly. He wondered why his initial panic hadn’t woken Derek, but then, he supposed Derek had been on the run for so long, again, it was no wonder he was dead to the world.

The fact that he felt safe enough to crash in Stiles’s place was another thing to think about all on its own. The insinuations and repercussions swirled around in Stiles’s brain as he fully came aware of himself, cursing the pain in his foot before sliding tentatively out of bed. He used the bathroom as quietly as he could, then realised if he wanted to take more medication, he’d have to eat something first and to do that he’d have to turn the light on in the kitchen to find something.

The sounds of Derek sleeping sounded so peaceful that he felt like a dick for contemplating it. In the end he crawled quietly back into bed, careful to keep the leg attached to his wounded foot out of the blankets and tried to ignore the pain.

It didn’t work. He fidgeted uncomfortably, the discomfort making him uneasy, letting his mind stretch to strange places, to worries that apparently simply had to be solved at 3am. It was cold in the apartment too which didn’t help, but Stiles was one of those defiant people that waited until he was cold enough to be wearing a beanie indoors before he would put the heating on – more blankets before heating.

He’d worked himself into a state wondering if maybe the nurse he’d seen earlier hadn’t managed to get all the fragments out of his toe and that was why it hurt so much, when he heard Derek shifting around on the sofa. On instinct, he squeezed his eyes shut, guessing he just wanted to take a leak, but his brow furrowed when he heard a click-clack sounds on his wooden floor. It reminded him of Scott’s old dog loping across the kitchen floor and it took him a moment to register what that noise meant until he felt a cold, damp nose snuffling around his foot.

An image came to Stiles behind his closed lids and he remembered the black wolf darting into the fray in the desert, eyes glowing blue.

He twitched at the contact, but Derek either thought that was an instinctive motion out of sleep or didn’t care if he was awake because he hopped carefully up onto the bed and draped his front legs over Stiles’s. One of his heavy, warm paws just rested over the place where Stiles’s sweats had ridden to expose his ankle and it was as if Stiles could feel all of the pain draining away from his throbbing foot through the place where Derek’s warmth rested.

Opening his eyes at the sheer relief, he of course found the same black wolf sprawled half over him, warm and soft and staring right back at him with piercing blue eyes that glowed in the dimness. Stiles could just make out his shape and without really thinking about it, he reached out to touch. It just occurred to him that maybe Derek didn’t want to be petted like a dog and that maybe he might give him a reproving nip when he felt soft, fine fur under his fingers and the pressure of Derek leaning into his touch.

Stiles stroked one downy ear and then, emboldened, scratched his fingers over the wolf’s head. It felt cathartic and he wondered absently about those therapy animals, before the flick of Derek’s tongue against his wrist.

A low, tired chuckle rippled out of Stiles, hoarse and sleepy. He thought in the pre-dawn dimness, in the little alcove the bookshelves created around his bed, that maybe anything was possible without complications. There were no rules, no posturing or pride or uncertainty. Derek had sensed his discomfort, his pain, maybe even his loneliness – maybe because it mirrored his own. The low, grumbling sound Derek made when Stiles stroked the side of his head and scruff told him Derek was as happy for it as he was.

Then Derek, still the wolf, laid his head down on Stiles’s torso, breathing evenly and Stiles fell asleep stroking his fingers over his fur. Fell into a slumber that was light and painless and full of dreams.

*

Derek was already gone from his bed when he awoke well into the morning. When he sat up and hobbled out of bed, Stiles found him doing push-ups in the space between his couch and the TV. He stared at him dumbfounded for a moment, still finding it surreal, a half-naked Derek Hale exercising in his tiny apartment with sweat beading between the muscles of his shoulders and down to the small of his back.

He had the terrible feeling that he was staring and that his lips were parted, as if ready to spill something embarrassingly appreciative so he quickly turned into the kitchen area – only to stop dead. It was spotless. The dishes were cleaned and stored away, the units were practically gleaming and to make it worse, there was a laundry basket in front of the fridge piled high with clean, neatly folded laundry.

Holy shit.

“Dude, please tell me you did not do my laundry?” he pleaded, dismayed.

Derek seemingly ignored him for a moment, pushing up from the floor, the tight line of muscles in his back drawing Stiles’s unwitting gaze until he eventually rose. He snagged the glass of water off the side and drank it down greedily.

Stiles couldn’t help but wonder how many push-ups a werewolf had to do before getting all sweaty. But then the thought drifted off on a tangent about how long a werewolf might have to do other things to get that sweaty. How long, how hard…

Oh god, his face was burning.

Green-hazel eyes considered him for a long time, bright with the sunlight streaking through the window and Stiles had the horrible feeling Derek could tell his thoughts by smell or something. Whether he did or not though, all he said was, “I had to wash the blood out of my clothes. It just made sense to take yours at the same time. It’s no big deal.”

“Even my dad doesn’t wash my dirty underwear, Derek!”

Derek snorted, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t roll around in them, Stiles, I tossed everything into two washers.”

Stiles spluttered at the idea of Derek rolling around in his laundry and his hands flailed. “You’re a wanted fugitive until further notice, you could’ve been caught!”

Rinsing the glass in the sink and setting it on the draining board to dry, Derek turned back to face him, leaning slightly against the units. “I went to the utility room downstairs. No one was going to be looking for me there. I don’t get what the problem is.”

Well no, Derek wouldn’t, would he? Because he’d always been awful at looking after himself. Because he hadn’t had to share space with a human since…forever and Stiles was hyperaware that Derek could probably tell his every activity for the last few weeks on his dirty clothes, that he could probably read Stiles’s mind from chemo-signals or whatever and Stiles was only just realising exactly how much he had to hide.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Stiles scrubbed at his hair and the back of his neck. “Ummm, you’re right, it’s nothing it’s…I still haven’t really woken up yet. Thank you, for…basically sorting my life out while I slept the morning away. You didn’t have to do that though, you’ve probably been under more stress, being on the run than I have doing an internship.”

“An internship with the FBI who have no idea about werewolves when you know pretty much everything there is to know about the supernatural sounds pretty stressful to me,” Derek offered lightly, glancing out the window and down at the city thoughtfully for a moment. He seemed to be struggling for the best way to phrase whatever it was that was on his mind, but then, Stiles supposed he hadn’t had much in the way of company the last few weeks.

He knew Derek had been with Braeden briefly, then Cora, then on his own when his life had turned upside down again. And there was a lightness to Derek’s face this morning that Stiles thought mirrored his own. Like last night had been the first time he’d slept well in a long time too. He looked more at ease than Stiles had ever seen him in his entire life and he was technically still a wanted fugitive.

Dragging his hand through his hair again to distract from his wandering thoughts as best he could, Stiles hobbled into the kitchen area properly and shoved the last two slices of bread into the toaster. Hmmm. He’d have to get some groceries. His foot was throbbing though.

“I have to report to work via video conference later, since I can’t really walk much.” He glanced to the crutches the hospital had given him on loan for a couple of weeks and tried to imagine scaling the insane amount of stairs he had to climb everyday. He’d probably end up with a broken neck. Luckily he had loads of paperwork, which he was good at and didn’t mind doing. They’d probably let him do it from home for a few days, if only so they didn’t have to do it.

His efficiency with the paperwork was probably a big part of why they liked him so much, since most of his classmates tried to beg out of it. But his single-minded concentration that came with his ADHD, as much as it was easing as he got older, was a godsend apparently. When it was a subject he had interest in, i.e. his job, he was like a machine.

“Can I stay?”

Stiles turned slightly to look at Derek, still staring out the window at the grey sky. “Until things are sorted out with the FBI. Can I stay?”

He sounded warm and awkward and almost longing, voice a little husky and Stiles swallowed tightly.

“Dude, stay as long as you want. You’re always welcome. Mi casa, es su casa, always. You don’t have to ask.”

Derek looked at him at last, lips slightly parted as if he were going to say more. In the end, his mouth closed and he nodded determinedly.

*

Work was pretty gracious about his request to work from home. He had reports to type up and some other paperwork to keep him busy for the rest of the week at least. Plus he was entitled to some medical leave if he couldn’t walk easily. Besides that, they were thrilled that one of their unsolved cases seemed to be coming to a close because of ‘his help’.

Rafael McCall had apparently planted the necessary evidence into the system to connect the guys they caught at the raid the other day to the murders Derek (although the FBI didn’t know his identity) was accused of. One of them with similar build to Derek had even sustained serious burns to his back during the raid, which Stiles had reasoned could be where the suspected tattoo was that they’d used to identify the unsub they were looking for. It was the idiot’s own fault really, for being an immortal hunter who murdered countless people, for packing a flamethrower and trying to turn it on the FBI.

Stiles had zero sympathy for people who wielded fire. Maybe it was just because he had seen what fire could do in the Hale house, on Peter Hale’s face before he’d healed himself. It was a dick move. Even if he’d technically done it himself once, he supposed.

So it all tidied up nicely, really and by the time the video call had ended, Stiles was sure Rafael had managed to erase any evidence with anything similar to Derek’s face or body. He should’ve felt bad using the guy, he supposed. But he’d never claimed to have scrupulous morals and besides which, it was Scott’s idea to ask for his help in the first place.

Daddy McCall had infinite favours to do before he could make it up to Scott, Stiles supposed. But in the mean time, as long as Scotty approved, he would use Rafael McCall’s powers for good and maybe the guy would get his head out of his ass along the way.

He’d shot a text to both McCalls, one a curt message of thanks, the other assuring Derek should be safe as soon as they were sure the guys they caught were going to stay caught. The only problem was, Derek had snuck out while he’d been on his conference call. He’d noticed mid-conversation with his boss and so hadn’t been able to act on it. The second the call came to a close, however, he shut the laptop and sprang up. Snatching his phone up, he dialled.

The phone rang and rang. Stiles was already toeing a shoe onto his good foot and reaching for his crutches when he heard the jingling of keys outside his door. He stopped dead at the sound, looking up just as the door opened. Derek stepped inside, arms loaded with brown paper grocery bags. He blinked at Stiles’s proximity to the door, as if surprised and neatly side-stepped him to set the grocery bags down on the kitchen floor.

“Where the hell have you been?” Stiles demanded.

Derek raised a brow, pausing in loading fresh fruit and vegetables into the fridge drawer. His expression said it all.

With a scowl, Stiles gestured to the front door. “For the next few hours you’re still potentially on their system as most wanted, Derek. You can’t just go for a walk around Sacramento.”

“Stiles, you have a grocery store around the corner – literally. I was in there for ten minutes. I wore your Mets cap. I kept a low profile – I know how to do that, I’m very practiced at it.”

Stiles hesitated. “You went to the rich people supermarket?” That was the only grocery store on his block. Sometimes Stiles hit it up on payday for their luxury cookie range when Lydia came to visit.

Rolling his eyes, Derek continued to load the groceries into the fridge and cupboards. It was all so domestic, the scene, the bickering and it made Stiles feel sort of funny.

“Nobody noticed me. There was no way you could manage the groceries on your own and you hopping around on crutches and fighting me over who was going to foot the bill would’ve made more of a scene that me going in alone.”

“Dude, I can be stealthy and I don’t need you to fill my fridge–”

“You do if I’m going to eat all your food,” Derek interrupted, tossing the paper bags into the recycling bin before turning to face him. His nostrils flared and he stared Stiles down for a long moment before shaking his head. “Sometimes you need help too, Stiles,” he breathed, exasperated and fond all at once.

Stiles swallowed thickly, darting his gaze to the side. He didn’t even like accepting his dad’s help at the best of times. With Lydia and Scott, loved them though he did, they had their own stuff going on and he couldn’t ask for their help either. Or he could but he didn’t want to. It was easier just to struggle through. And yet Derek was standing there, watching him expectantly, with that mixture of softness and annoyance on his face and Stiles didn’t want to reject the symbolic hand he’d been trying to grasp since he was sixteen. That had often come close but had never felt within his reach until now.

A sudden buzz on his intercom for the front door made Stiles jump.

“I also ordered Chinese,” Derek smirked, “think you can manage to get the door?”

Stiles muttered under his breath at the indignation of it, but still buzzed the delivery guy in.

“You don’t have to bribe me with food to let you stay,” Stiles said as they set the take-out boxes on the minute counter space a few minutes later. It smelled so good that the argument Stiles had been forming in his mind dissipated in the delicious smelling steam rising from the boxes. “You’re welcome here, even after your name is cleared for a bit, if you want.”

Derek huffed as he split the contents of each dish out equally. Because Stiles may have been human but he had the appetite of a wolf. “Nice to know, but this isn’t a bribe. It’s just something I want to do. Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay?”

Feeling like he was getting some of his equilibrium back, Stiles grinned. “Isn’t this like…a courting ritual, a wolf sharing food or providing food?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek barked, ears flaming. He snatched the bowls out of Stiles’s hand and carried all of them over to the sofa so Stiles couldn’t hop across with them and, most likely, risk sending it all to the floor.

Some old movie was on with Humphrey Bogart – Stiles’s mom and dad had liked watching his movies together so he left it on and they ate and Derek half-watched with a wistful little look on his face that made Stiles wonder if someone in his family had liked the movie too.

Stiles talked about Katherine Hepburn and how his mom had loved her, how she’d watched her movies with her mother. He talked about World War One’s impact on Africa and how he’d drifted off on a tangent about it in the middle of one of his papers about World War Two, and how his dad had just smiled quietly through the whole meeting with the teacher when he called his dad in about Stiles’s attention span. And through it all, Derek smiled slightly, that private little half-smile as he sucked noodles into his mouth and toed off his shoes in the middle of Stiles’s apartment. The apartment that Derek had cleaned and it just made Stiles feel so…warm. Comfortable. He’d never felt comfortable with someone and yet hyperaware of their every little movement at the same time.

Derek had polished off most of his chow mein and shifted back on the sofa a little as Hepburn dumped Bogart’s gin into the river, relaxing with Stiles until their knees touched.

Heat swelled in Stiles’s stomach and he covered up the little splutter he gave and distracted himself by chugging down some more noodles.

“I haven’t had good Chinese take-out since I moved up here,” he sighed happily, licking the sauce from his lips. He turned to Derek more fully then and swore he caught those eyes dropping to the movement of his tongue and back again. Huh. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight. We can alternate–”

“You’re injured–”

“And you’re a guest,” Stiles protested but Derek just shrugged, looking back to the TV.

“The couch is comfortable enough when I shift, and plenty warm. It’s fine, I’m not turfing you out of your own bed Stiles and that’s the end of it.”

Stiles’s tenacity was sidetracked by curiosity. He set his now empty plate down, sitting back a little to let his leg stretch out and relieve any pressure on his throbbing foot. He’d had medication with his food and it was starting to kick in. “Do you always shift when you sleep or is my couch just that uncomfortable?”

“It’s fine, Stiles,” Derek half-groaned, polishing off his rice now, thumb tracing the edge of the plate distractedly. He stared at the screen without really seeing it. His silence only lasted a moment longer than it should have, but Stiles noticed. He noticed everything, he noticed the way Derek was still relaxed next to him, not uncomfortable at their proximity, the way his mouth had a slight shine from his tongue and the way the light struggling to peak through the clouds touched his cheekbones.

“I don’t shift in my sleep a lot. But it’s…it’s like letting go, I guess. A release of tension.”

Stiles nodded. “It feels good. Like sinking into a hot bath or eating really good food. It lets you process stuff?” he suggested and when Derek nodded his own lips twitched. He couldn’t help himself. “So that’s why you’re so zen now, huh? You’re one with the wolf and the wolf is one with you?”

But Derek didn’t laugh, didn’t really seem to register the joke, he looked hesitant, oddly vulnerable even as he was obviously trying to guard himself. “I can control it. If it bothers you.”

“Nah, you do you. Just don’t shed on my sheets or anything.”

With a scowl, Derek watched as Stiles snatched the last prawn cracker out of the complimentary bag between them. “I do not shed. I’m a werewolf, not a dog.” But there was that fond exasperation again that made Stiles a bit giddy. It made him feel stupid and hungry and happy and brave and scared all at once.

He drummed his fingers nervously along his thighs as he chewed and swallowed, and then of course his mouth moved of its own volition.

“Thanks, by the way. For…you know, last night. Taking the pain? And, well…you know, I…” He looked at Derek for some sort of clue, because Derek hadn’t mentioned last night and Stiles was almost half-convinced it’d been a dream. That was until he saw the way Derek’s eyes were molten and so, so close.

Stiles gave a nervous, breathy little laugh. “You’re better than that crap the hospital gave me.”

Considering him for a beat, Derek seemed to scan every inch of Stiles’s face. “Probably not half as addictive anyway.”

Stiles wasn’t entirely sure about that.

He spent the rest of the day doing his paperwork while Derek seemed quite content to alternate between reading one of Stiles’s books, flicking through the TV and messaging Cora on his phone.

It felt like they’d always shared this, comfortable and easy and gravitating around each other. When Stiles finally went to turn in, he found himself hesitating. His hand rested lightly on the bookshelf as he turned back to look at Derek, who was curled up under Stiles’s blanket that he snuggled up under on the couch on the colder evenings. For once in his life though, words failed him and after too long staring at Derek on the couch, all he could say was “goodnight Derek,” before heading into the bathroom.

His head was buzzing as he watched his reflection scrub his teeth, eyes too bright and face a little pink. Because it felt like everything he’d thought he’d imagined between them, once Derek had left them in Mexico, had just picked right back up where they’d left off. The easiness, those little half smiles that made something twist deep in his belly. He spat into the sink and splashed his face and throat with cool water to try and compose himself. Then he turned on the extractor, just in case there was some whiff of Stiles’s emotions or whatever in there.

*

It took another forty-eight hours before he got the short, not quite curt phone call from Rafael McCall saying Derek’s appearance was officially off the FBI’s radar (and unofficially off their records completely, as if it’d never been). But Derek stayed. He watched Stiles as he finished the call and then as he hung up, he held his gaze as he asked simply, voice warm and almost husky, “can I stay?”

Stiles wasn’t even thinking about the way Derek kept his apartment clean and his laundry done as he said, “as long as you want.” He thought about the fact that they liked the same cheesy old movies, that Derek liked to curl up with Stiles on his modest couch in the evening to read, while their feet pretty much touched under the blanket because the apartment was still a touch too cold, but not cold enough to turn the heating on yet.

He thought about their bickering and the way he liked to listen to Derek breathing as he drifted off. But mostly he thought about the way Derek had looked at him in Mexico, as he’d gotten into that car.

Now he was as safe as he was going to be, Derek used his modest little rental car to give Stiles a ride to work, saving him from struggling on the crutches all the way there. There were lifts in the actual building so it wasn’t so bad and Stiles’s life returned to a new sort of normal, but one where Derek picked him up after work. Where, when Stiles was poring over something for work on his laptop, Derek went out for a run and came back sweaty and breathless, or brought home the fresh doughnuts from the bakery a few blocks away until Stiles sang his praises through a mouthful of delicious warm sugar and cinnamon.

Stiles’s toe was healed enough that he could walk without the crutches in record time (if he was careful), so he soon started walking to work. But his heart still skipped a little when he walked out of his work building one evening to see Derek leaning against one of the fountains, just across from the glass doors.

“Hey,” Stiles breathed, feeling warm at the sight of him. He stayed late, he always did and Derek knew that but he’d still waited. Only a few of his fellow interns walk passed, looking interested. Stiles watched as Derek cleared his throat, ducking his head a little as if embarrassed and wondered what they were whispering to put that look on his face. Stiles had to know, but Derek gave no clues of course.

“So there’s a sale on at the furniture place just on the edge of town. I was thinking, you know, if you wanted to stay for a while longer, we could pick up a decent sofa bed? Give you a bit more space to sleep? Because honestly, there’s barely enough room on that thing for me to sleep on and you’re just a tad broader in the shoulders.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Derek assured him as they walked and Stiles knew a little prickle of disappointment. Because of course Derek wouldn’t be staying forever.

“Yeah,” he offered, running a hand through his hair, eyes on the sidewalk. “You’re probably so ready for a bit more space. I mean my apartment is a bit small for a werewolf–”

“It’s not too small,” Derek cut across him, sounding as confused as he looked when Stiles glanced at his face. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Stiles. I only meant that I’m fine where I am. My family spent half our time sleeping out on the porch in the summer, or camping out in the living room in front of the fire. I don’t need a fancy bed or a bigger apartment. I asked you if I could stay because it felt right.” He looked as if that was a bit more than he wanted to say and quickly looked back to the path ahead, waiting at the crosswalk in silence.

Derek was pretty poor at self-care, always had been, worse than Stiles’s dad, really, but outside of the life or death situations that came with Beacon Hills, he’d never gone along with anything he didn’t want to do. If he wasn’t happy where he was, he’d tell Stiles so, or leave.

It wasn’t until they’d crossed the road and started round the corner that Stiles spoke again, mind grasping at the tangent he was spinning onto. “You’ve never really mentioned your family much, except for the essential stuff,” he couldn’t stop himself from saying.

“It’s easier to talk about the little things,” he shrugged, “I guess I’ve gotten used to talking about some things. When I spent time with Cora, she’d like to hear about them all the time. Everything I could remember. She was younger, didn’t really remember some of it. Not the good things.”

Stiles nodded, wondering how much of the good stuff he would’ve remembered about his mom if his dad hadn’t been there to refresh those memories.

“Is that like…your new anchor now or something?” When Derek looked confused, he continued, “just…your anchor was anger, wasn’t it? Only you’re not angry anymore, you seem…well you seem pretty amazing, if you ask me.”

He hated how fast his heart beat. The way Derek’s eyes flicked to him as if he’d heard. He probably had. Probably knew it wasn’t because Stiles had lied either.

“Not really. It hasn’t been anger for a long time. I can’t really pinpoint when, it’s not something that happens suddenly. It’s a gradual thing.”

Like grieving, like healing, like fighting beside someone everyday and missing them and only realising after they barrelled back into your life that you were falling in love.

It took Stiles a beat to realise his mind was drifting and Derek was still talking.

“…suppose I found myself in a situation, where someone was talking to me, maybe something I didn’t like, and I’d think…what would Stiles do?” Derek looked at him then, pausing on the sidewalk outside Stiles’s building and staring into his eyes with that wistful look.

Stiles’s stomach swooped and his head spun, even as Derek continued to talk.

“Of course, you’d always say something stupid or random–”

“Dude, you know me so well,” Stiles interjected, a little breathlessly, but Derek continued.

“–but whatever it was I felt…more focussed.”

 The chilly evening air whipped around them, picking up a little now and Stiles exhaled shakily, breath coming out in the lightest of mists between them.

Unbidden, the memory of being in the back of that van, with Derek and Liam came to him. Derek, trying to teach Liam to control his shift, both of them trying to tell him about anchors, about his focus. Back then, Derek had given him a look that Stiles had assumed was surprise at Stiles’s keen observations about werewolves and their anchors. Now he thought it had been a betrayal of a much more personal secret.

He tried to think back further, tried to think about their random text message thread over the last year, where Stiles had annoyed Derek as much as ever but Derek had always replied back. He thought about Scott and Allison, about Malia and him, the friendship their once-relationship had blossomed into. He thought about Jackson and Lydia and then he just stared at Derek as his scrambled thoughts fizzed out into quiet realisation. Like water rising up the bank where he’d camped with his assumptions of the world, until the flame he’d resigned himself to nurture there was swallowed up by the tide.

For just a moment, he felt like he was treading water again, only this time Derek was kickingback alongside him.

“You…you never said,” Stiles managed at last.

Derek stepped closer, the traffic going by, the glow of the streetlights and those of the business signs and windows all around blurred and inconsequential. It all wrapped around them in a flurry of sound and movement that fell away, as if they stood in the eye of the rush hour traffic’s storm, serene and untouched by the world as it passed on by. Stiles could feel the warmth radiating off of Derek and thought longingly of the solitude of the apartment above.

His tiny apartment that he loved but had also been a bit self-concious of. But now he supposed he knew why Derek loved it so much.

“It wasn’t…I didn’t…” Derek set his jaw, looking annoyed with himself. “I didn’t want you to expect anything from it. You were seventeen and I was…I was messed up, Stiles.”

Stiles glared. “I’m messed up. We’re all messed up, Derek, anyone who the Argents or the Nemeton or that goddamn town touched is messed up. What did you think I would like…jump you or demand a promise ring or something?!”

Exhaling impatiently, Derek shook his head. “I’d been on the run my whole life, Stiles and by the time I realised what was letting me keep my control, it’d all caught up with me at once.”

At that moment, Stiles thought of that Dire Straits song his dad loved, and that line, ‘When you gonna realise it was just that the time was wrong’ and he thought about what had happened. Probably happened anyway, if he could trust Peter’s story about Derek’s first love, and then his knowledge of what had happened not long after with Kate Argent. He thought about what that would mean for Derek, and how even a diminutive age gap with someone not quite of age would matter more to him than a lot of people. He thought about how angry and scared Derek had been when they’d seen him in the woods that day, when they’d been looking for Scott’s inhaler, and the man who stood before him now. He thought about the journey Derek had taken himself on after Mexico to get here.

Suddenly, the door to the apartment building opened and one of Stiles’s neighbours smiled apologetically as she stepped out onto the street between them and headed off down the sidewalk. The moment broken, Stiles shuddered as the chill crept down his neck and Derek tilted his head slightly, assessing him for an extended moment, before urging him inside.

They ate carbonara in front of the TV with Derek’s choice of a British series called Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, which Stiles felt a bit lost with, mostly because he wasn’t paying attention. He kept finding himself humming Romeo and Juliet without meaning to. This was so domestic. He couldn’t help but notice just how domestic it was and at the same time revel in it. Revel in the comfort of it and the tiny hope that maybe, if Derek had told him all this now, then that might mean this time he intended to stay.

Derek washed the dishes and Stiles dried, before excusing himself to the shower, if only for some space to process everything. Washing off the office was always cathartic too though, even if you did love your job. He dragged his hand across the surface of the steamy mirror as he roughly towelled his hair dry.

He couldn’t begrudge Derek his need for space or to process shit by himself after everything he’d been through after Mexico. He’d not exactly vanished off the face of the earth, except for the weeks he was on the run and understandably too busy for their usual text message sparring. There were so many things he wanted to ask, so many things he wanted to tell Derek and he wasn’t sure where to begin.

But amongst all that, among the repeated verses of Romeo and Juliet that just would not get out of his head now, he couldn’t help but keep coming back to the same question. If Derek had told him now, was that because it was okay for Stiles to expect something? Or…maybe not expect but…to want? Did Derek want?

Everything was still a blur when he opened the bathroom door, steam furling out around him – around Derek, who was standing right outside the door, in the narrow walkway between Stiles’s bed and the bathroom wall. There was nowhere to hide. Stiles was wearing his sweats and t-shirt and Derek was barefoot right next to his bed and the narrow space brought them so close Stiles could feel his heat. He was so perilously close and there were so many things he wanted to say.

He had plenty of time to say them.

Later.

Suddenly, there was nothing more important than showing this imperfect, verbally challenged man exactly how he felt. He stepped forward, effectively closing the minute space between them, exhaling in an unsteady breath as his eyes traced the shape of Derek’s mouth. His hands slid up Derek’s neck. As he cupped his jaw, as he traced his thumbs across the soft bristles on Derek’s cheekbones, Derek’s eyes slid closed as if the pleasure in it was almost unbearable.

It was like Derek shuddered without the movement of it and his hands, broad and so warm and gentle, slid up Stiles’s back, chasing the damp chill from his shower and leaving prickling bursts of heat in his wake. Derek tipped his head to press his forehead to Stiles’s, breathing deeply as he held Stiles close.

Stiles’s hands cupped the back of Derek’s neck, fingers threading through his short hair and Derek made a low sound like a groan deep in his chest.

“When I watched you get into that car, I felt like I lost something I never even really had,” Stiles murmured into the scant inch between their mouths. Derek’s hands slid warm up over the goosebumps on his back. He dragged his nose down the side of Stiles’s, across his cheek and jaw and chin, all without opening his eyes.

Even with his heart screaming in negation, Stiles drew back, just enough to turn them, so Derek’s back was to the bathroom and Stiles was standing in the gap beside the bed, using the shift in positions and minute space between them to say what he needed to. Derek’s eyes looked glossy and dark, considering Stiles with confusion, hands gripping his waist as he watched Stiles tried to find his words.

“I know why you had to go, then. But I really want you to stay now.”

Derek’s smile grew slowly, tentatively, but it dazzled him with its authenticity. He was still smiling when he started to lean in. Stiles wrapped his arms around his shoulders, the two of them pulling each other in close in tandem until their mouths slid together.

It was so sweet he felt himself sink into Derek at the same time that Derek pushed back. His bed had storage drawers underneath for his clothes so it was pretty high, high enough to scoot back onto and have Derek stand between his legs and just plaster the heat of his body against Stiles’s – all without their mouths separating. The slow press and caress of lips was like a question, like a request, like the shy affection of two people who had done this dance without even realising exactly what it meant until now and god, he didn’t expect Derek to be so soft.

They tilted their heads to press deeper and Derek dipped to nudge his jaw with his nose, graze the corner of his mouth with his lips until Stiles’s skin tingled pleasantly from his beard. It was like werewolf scenting and human kissing mixed up in a way that was purely just Derek until Stiles panted against his lips. He parted his lips slightly, shifting back and cupping Derek’s neck to take him with him until they were sprawled on the bed. The soft, warm shadowy place illuminated only by the glow from the lamp in the living area beyond the bookshelves.

The warmth they created between them lit Stiles up from the inside out. Derek rolled him on his double bed, tussling with him in his sheets. Stiles couldn’t help but think they must smell of them and that was maybe what was driving Derek crazy most of all. He tugged his shirt off between kisses, Derek catching his mouth the moment it passed over his head, pinning Stiles’s arms so they were still all caught up in the sleeves. He was ridiculous and perfect and making Stiles laugh at the awkwardness that felt so right. Derek’s answering chuckle against his lips and tongue was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

“I’ve never heard you go this long without talking,” Derek mused as Stiles lifted his head to nip at his jaw, to scrape his lips across soft, scratchy hair and relishing in the slight burn.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Stiles mock-chided, struggling, flailing out of his t-shirt at last and smoothing his hands up Derek’s back, all tight smooth muscle. “Just your shirt?”

“Mmm.” It was nonsensical but Stiles only had a moment to wonder what it meant before Derek kissed him with bruising force and drew back. He tugged his shirt off and dropping it somewhere near the end of the bed.

There wasn’t a moment of worship or godlike awe. Stiles didn’t doubt Derek had had his fair share of experiences like that. Stiles was too desperate for him to gape and gawk. He caught Derek’s shoulders and tugged him back down to him the moment his shirt was off, holding him close, bare skin sliding together hotly. Stiles’s hands gripped at his impossible shoulders and the small of his back in little spasms, wanting him everywhere, dipping between their bodies to stroke over his chest and stomach until Derek’s abs shuddered against his fingers. He groaned against Stiles’s mouth, bracing himself over Stiles’s head with his forearms, letting him touch everywhere and hold him close.

Stiles grinned against him, before nuzzling back into his cheek and wrapping his arms around him again completely.

He squeezed, pushing a little to roll them again until they were on their sides. Derek’s hands slid down his back so slowly, holding him, one hand sliding into his hair to cup his head so, so gently. Stiles nuzzled him again, just under his jaw and Derek pressed his nose into Stiles’s hair. They were both mostly hard and that was fine for now. This was what they both needed.

At some point as they lay tangled together, Stiles started to drift. He found himself half-over Derek, still wrapped in his arms in a messy sprawl but with the blankets over him now, warm and close and breathing only Derek in.

“You smell amazing,” Stiles mumbled, half-asleep. Derek’s chest jumped slightly under his hand with mostly silent laughter. He felt him press into his hairline sleepily, not as chaste as a kiss to his forehead, somehow more intimate in a way that sent little tendrils down Stiles’s spine.

“You feel amazing.”

Stiles muttered something about them not even being started yet but it was mostly smothered by his mouth smooshed against Derek’s shoulder and he definitely heard Derek say something about Stiles drooling. Stiles thought he fell asleep before he’d even finished laughing.

*

He was in that blissful place that wasn’t quite sleeping, just drifting pleasantly in relaxed consciousness. The calm tranquillity of someone just awoken, slowly drifting down to reality like a feather on a soft, warm breeze. There was something tickly nuzzling into the hollow of his neck. He groaned, stretching his limbs under the heavy blanket of heat, his arms coming up instinctively to wrap around broad shoulders and stroke clumsily until he cupped the back of Derek’s neck.

Derek was half-kissing, half burrowing into his neck and shoulder. He was only half awake himself, it seemed, and urging them both out of slumber in what Stiles thought was actually just the most fantastic way imaginable. Actually, he wasn’t sure even his imagination could come up with something this good. He felt his neck throb, as if Derek had been at it for a while and he squirmed. He tugged gently on Derek’s hair until Derek nosed across his adam’s apple and down to the opposite side of his neck to worry him there, just beneath where his collar would sit – if he ever put a shirt on again.

After a blissful eternity just lying warm and content under soft caresses, under Derek’s weight, held off him just enough by Derek’s arms either side of his head, he started to roll his hips into Derek’s soft, diminutive motions like a question again.

Derek lifted his head then, eyes glazed and dark and beautiful, hair sleep-mussed. Stiles was struck with how beautiful and soft he looked, asking for his silent consent. In answer, Stiles tilted his head and slanted their mouths together and rocked up against him until they were pressed together where they were both hard. They moved like that for a while, unhurried and lazy and perfect.

It was early morning and Stiles thought distractedly that he was going to be Derek’s workout that morning. He chuckled into Derek’s mouth and gripped Derek’s ass to pull their hips tighter together. It was firm and perfect and Derek went with it, with a little almost-growl, rutting into him even as Stiles clumsily tugged their sweats down, only just enough to bring their cocks together. He panted, tearing his mouth away from Derek’s to look down and watch them grinding together, both straining and hard and sticky.

Derek pushed up on one arm, the other coming down to hold them both together. The flat of his thumb danced under Stiles’s head as he stroked and Stiles shuddered, stomach quivering. He gripped Derek’s wrist, but not to stop him. He pressed his head back hard into the pillows as he fucked up into his hand.

He blinked bleary-eyed up at Derek, who was watching him through lust-blown eyes, half-lidded with thick lashes. Stiles grunted as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders again, holding onto him, rolling up into him even as Derek pushed back. They were just carried off fast and hard, as sudden and swift as Stiles’s heart beat and Stiles came in thick stripes between them. Hungry and shocked, he reached down to stroke them both as well, clumsy and urgent until Derek’s heat splashed over his own release before he’d even recovered himself.

He was shaking, he was pretty sure, still rocking as if he couldn’t help himself, even though he was sensitive. Derek kissed him everywhere like he was the most precious thing he’d ever seen – sweaty and mussed up and completely gone, drunk on Derek.

Derek had nice arms, Stiles thought dazedly, not for the first or last time. Those oh so nice arms scooped him up and held him close, sheets still tangled around them. Together, they fall into that soft, dreamy place that Stiles just realised only lazy morning sex could bring.

“Did you love me before I was your anchor?” he asked sleepily against Derek’s mouth sometime later. Derek liked to touch his nose to Stiles’s a lot, to drag it over his cheek and the corner of his lips so they lay at the same level mostly, on Stiles’s favourite pillow he’d brought from home that he couldn’t sleep without.

Derek opened his eyes then, hand warm on Stiles’s hip and he looked freer than Stiles had ever seen him.

“I think there was always something, an understanding or–”

“A spark?” Stiles mused.

Derek rolled his eyes but his lips were quirked in a little smile as well. “If you like. I can’t pinpoint when it changed exactly, it just…I started to change. And when I was stuck in that desert, I dreamed about you – I only dreamed about you, Stiles, and that’s when I knew.”

Stiles studied him closely in the muted light. “That I was your anchor?”

“Yes,” Derek said softly, so openly. “And I was messed up then, we both were and the timing wasn’t right, and you were seventeen and part of me felt like I’d never really stopped being sixteen but I knew that somewhere along the way, you’d become the most important thing to me.”

Stiles stroked his face. Derek was getting laugh lines around his eyes, and they were the most perfect thing he’d ever seen.

“I think I fell in love with you when you were hiding out in my room all that time from the sheriff’s department, even if I didn’t really understand what it meant.”

He still wasn’t sure he understood it entirely now, but they had plenty of time to figure it out.

He leaned in this time, bringing their mouths together just a split-second before his phone buzzed. No, Derek’s phone buzzed in the living room. They ignored it at first, then it started vibrating frantically, signalling a phone call in silent mode and Derek huffed in annoyance before hopping out of bed. He pulled up his sweats as he went, but not before Stiles got a glorious glimpse of that perfect ass. He couldn’t wait to see more of it.

As Derek answered, he stumbled into the bathroom and ran a washcloth under warm water, sponging himself down and wringing it out to take out to Derek, but as he turned, he found Derek in the doorway, phone still to his ear, a worried look on his face. Or a worried scowl at any rate.

“What sort of trouble?” Derek said to the person on the phone.

Stiles didn’t have super-hearing, but the apartment was quiet and Derek’s phone was loud enough that he heard a woman’s voice on the phone. Cora?

“You’re telling me that their whole pack was destroyed?” His tone was difficult to read and Stiles wasn’t sure if Derek was summarising Cora’s words for Stiles’s benefit, or just simply floundering in disbelief. Because Derek had just been on the run for months because hunters, the ones they’d helped the FBI catch, had annihilated an entire pack and somehow pinned the blame on Derek, who had stopped by to check it out at exactly the wrong time.

The second hit on a werewolf pack in less than six months was a bit of coincidence and usually hunters were a bit more circumspect about their attacks, even the crazy ones.

Genocide on a wider scale was harder to ignore.

Stiles glanced at his own phone through the doorway, sitting currently silent on his side table. His work may not be aware of it yet, or maybe they were, but interns weren’t privy to this sort of dangerous information – the kind of information that could start a wider scale of panic. There were people like Rafael all over the FBI and CIA, trying to keep the secrets of the supernatural world secret. They were either doing a really good job of it or the officials were being pretty secretive themselves.

Stiles wouldn’t have time to find out which it was. He just knew. Stepping closer, he pressed his ear close and Derek held the phone away from his ear slightly so they could both listen.

“They weren’t even careful about it Derek,” Cora’s voice said, sounding fast and afraid. “The pack I’m staying with are in contact with this one in Brazil everyday because they’re the alpha’s in-laws and communication completely stopped. When they sent some people to check it out, they were just…everyone is gone. It was a blood bath. A scale of attack no one could’ve defended against. We’re working on other packs, telling them to go underground, get into hiding so I can’t – I wouldn’t ask you, but you know there are kids in this pack I’m staying with, Derek, in some of these other packs we’re trying to get to safety and something huge is going on here and I need to know someone I trust is looking into it.”

Stiles swallowed thickly, hands shaking and Derek held his gaze, as still as stone. In the short time Stiles had known Cora, he’d never heard her this shaken and desperate. This was bad. They both seemed agreed on that.

“I’ll check it out. Send me the location,” Derek said.

“Just for reconnaissance,” Cora insisted, voice shaken but determined now. “You promise me, Derek. This isn’t a battle you can win alone. You stay out of sight, find information and get out.” When Derek didn’t reply she persisted more firmly, “you promise me.”

It was not a question.

Derek sighed and though his expression was tinged with worry, his eyes were soft and affectionate. Stiles had heard him talk about his time with Cora and the pack she was staying with fondly, so he thought they’d gone some ways to mend the fractures in their relationship. He couldn’t wait to find out more – once they got out of whatever mess was headed their way, because there was no question they were heading straight for it.

“I promise, Cora. I can be careful.”

Stiles swore he heard something like “yeah, now you can” muttered down the phone from Cora and he smirked in spite of himself.

“Don’t go alone. Are you still in contact with Chris Argent or Braedan? Or can Isaac meet you?”

“Isaac’s still in France, he’s…” Derek looked thoughtful. “He’s happy there, Cora. He’s got a whole life.”

“Argent or Braeden then,” Cora said impatiently, more like a mother than a sister. “You can’t go alone.”

Derek straightened a little then, staring directly into Stiles’s eyes without any reservations and with meaning so much more significant than his simple words suggested. “Don’t worry, I’ve got back up.”

*

They had to get a flight to Brazil. Luckily there was space on the next flight out with only one stop over and Stiles was thrumming with nerves the whole time.

On the last leg, Derek laid a hand over his on the arm rest to still his twitching fingers when it looked like the woman in the window seat next to them was about to kill Stiles.

He wondered if it were possible that Derek could anchor him as well as the other way around, because after that he did actually manage to get some sleep. He didn’t know then just how much he would need it.

*

The next seventy-odd hours of Stiles’s life were non-stop. He wasn’t even sure he could process it correctly for days, weeks, months after, but somehow, while they were checking the wide area the murdered pack had claimed as territory, he and Derek had gotten split up. The ‘hunting party’ that’d attacked the pack had disbanded but some were still in the nearby town and some, Derek had apparently found at the scene of the crime. All of course, while Stiles got into trouble with the former.

Stiles wasn’t even sure how but by the time Derek had met him back at their hotel, Stiles had already had most of the hunters he’d encountered taken in by local law enforcement as suspects and Derek…Derek had parked up out front in what Stiles was pretty sure was a stolen car.

“Oh my god!” Stiles declared more than gasped as he scrambled into the passenger seat. “Are you insane! There are Brazilian police all over this town now and you park up in a stolen car!”

Derek rolled his eyes. “It’s not reported as stolen, they didn’t live long enough to make the call.”

Stiles scowled, scanning the street anxiously but the police that’d made the arrests were gone with their charges now and those that’d been left to clear the scene still seemed to be inside.

“Dude, where have you been?! You were meant to be back hours ago!”

Pulling back out into the street with all the calmness of a man out on a morning stroll, Derek made the turn at the junction toward the airport. “I was a bit caught up. I text you as soon as I could.” Before Stiles could do much more than process that the fact that he himself had also not really had time to check his phone, Derek added wryly, “Looks like you’ve been pretty busy too.” His eyes followed the three police vans they passed, currently transporting their suspects to the local jail.

They might not stay there, Stiles’s dad had been brief and distracted when he’d put Stiles in contact with someone trustworthy in Brazil. He was probably working on a big case himself as he was very hasty to get Stiles off the phone, so Stiles still wasn’t sure exactly how much Detective Silvos, who’d helped Stiles get these guys nailed down, knew about the supernatural. He hadn’t really blinked at Stiles’s vague and suspicious story though. Not when Stiles’s dad had spoken to him on the phone.

He also hadn’t asked Stiles to give him his address or contact details or to stay in town while the investigation continued, which was standard even in another country, of that he was sure.

He had the nagging suspicion somehow his dad was involved in this, which was impossible, surely? How could he be involved in a hit on werewolves in Brazil and Mexico that were somehow linked?

And why weren’t Lydia or Scott answering their damn phones?!

He stared at Derek then and the sight he made. “Is that your blood? Dude,” he hurriedly stripped off his outer shirt for Derek to put on when they reached the airport. They did not need that kind of attention.

Derek set his teeth. “Get your phone out and book us on the next flight out of Brazil.”

Stiles studied him carefully for a moment before digging in his pocket for his phone. “Sacramento flights are–”

“Not Sacramento,” Derek cut across him, focussed solely on the road ahead, as if he dared not let his mind drift back to whatever he’d left behind.

Watching his face in profile carefully, Stiles waited for Derek to explain or clarify what he meant exactly. But the haunted look in Derek’s eyes as the street lights flashed by made the uneasiness at the back of his mind settle heavily in the pit of his stomach. “Derek?”

“Book the fastest route to Beacon County airport,” he said at last, casting Stiles a little sideways glance.

Of course whatever crap was going on here was leading them back to Beacon Hills, the place they’d both tried so hard to escape. Stiles was so getting his dad a job somewhere in Sacramento because his life expectancy was definitely going to go up with that move. He shot his dad a text to check in as he pulled up the flights options.

*

It was night when they landed in Beacon County Airport after a long two stop flight and the taxi they took from there dropped them off at the Stiles’s house. An uncomfortable sense of foreboding filled him when they found that his dad wasn’t there. Even as Stiles felt his panic sky-rocketing, even as he dialled his dad’s cell and the line rang and rang, Derek stood poised on the threshold of the front door, listening to the cool, quiet night.

Stiles watched him, knowing, just knowing somehow that he was picking up on something Stiles couldn’t have a hope of sensing.

“They’re in trouble – we’ve got to go,” Derek said quickly. Stiles snatched the Jeep’s keys off the rack in the hall. He hoped that the fact that Scott had left the Jeep here meant his dad was with him, or at least protected somehow.

“Your driving will get us pulled over in five seconds, we want to avoid attention not get shot off the road by the anti-werewolf militia,” Stiles said as he shut the front door behind them and darted for the Jeep. Because his brain had been working overtime on both flights and he was starting to put it all together now.

He thought as he pulled his seatbelt on and Derek wrenched open the passenger door with distaste, that Derek was about to argue, but then he stiffened as if he’d heard something, eyes going wide and he jumped in.

“Drive,” he barked, before he’d even closed his door.

Stiles floored it, going five over the speed limit the whole way despite the way Derek was braced forward in his seat and scowling at the rate of movement.

“Look, if they see us speeding down the street it’s going to draw even more attention than a werewolf running down it,” Stiles snapped, heart pounding, mind racing as he thought of his dad, of Scott and Lydia and everyone else.

Scott hadn’t had time for specifics it seemed, hadn’t even had time to finish the phone call properly or reply to Stiles’s messages. Stiles wondered if his phone had been caught in the crossfire again, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Derek rolled down the passenger window roughly using the lever and glared at Stiles as if daring him to make a dog comment as he inhaled the sharp night air.

“Turn right,” he barked and the Jeep protested loudly as Stiles jerked the steering hard.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Stiles snapped and Derek turned his head to level him with a withering look. Stiles wasn’t deterred. “It still hurts if you fly through the windshield doesn’t it? Now don’t lean too far out of the window or a streetlamp will take your head clean off, fido.”

He had the brief, glancing thought that it was good their bickering banter hadn’t changed. That, and that they made a pretty good team. He only hoped their success of the last few days, weeks really, was going to hold true for whatever they were getting themselves into now. It was Beacon Hills, after all.

Derek helped him follow Scott’s trail toward an industrial site and as Stiles pressed harder on the gas, even he heard the sounds of gunfire. His stomach dropped and he and Derek locked gazes briefly. He saw his own worry etched into Derek’s expression and swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

“Blood?” he breathed, not wanting to know.

“Not Scott’s. Not the pack’s, I don’t think but…” he frowned then and stiffened in his seat, grabbing for the door handle. “Keep going. Put your foot down.” With that, he leapt out of the door, landing easily on his feet.

Stiles swore, glancing repetitively in the wing mirror only to see Derek quickly keep speed alongside the passenger window, pushing the door shut hard.

A stream of gunfire pinged down from one of the rooftops to their left.

“Snipers!” Stiles shouted and Derek snarled, leaping onto the nearest structure and scaling the concrete, up and out of sight.

Ahead of him, Stiles could see the conflict now, a force of guns flashing in the dark, aiming for a barely covered alcove with wide open arches and he knew, just knew this was them. The militia that were trying to kill everyone he cared about. Maybe they even had? One man side-stepped out of the shadow of the building they were targeting, position prime for fire and Stiles knew without thinking the guy was preparing a kill-shot.

He floored the gas and slammed into him, sending the guy skidding forward with a crunch. Panting hard, Stiles turned out the still open window and saw Scott staring at him from his crouched position behind a pillar.

“You didn’t think you were doing this without me, did ya?” Stiles called out, a little breathless but with a wave of relief filling him at seeing Scott alive.

“Without us?” Derek added as he came up alongside the Jeep once more, evidently having disposed of the snipers that had sidetracked him. Movement just ahead, of more gunmen rounding the corner caught his eye though and his eyes flashed, fangs extending as he leapt forward.

If Stiles hadn’t been head over heels for him before, he sure would’ve been then. Because Derek wasn’t the same erratic, scared little kid in a man’s body. He was focussed, more dangerous and stronger now because of it. He may not have been an alpha but he was unstoppable. Maybe the others felt it too or perhaps their arrival had simply rallied their morale because he saw Malia move, saw Peter and for probably the first time, Stiles appreciated that they were wolves – a pack of wolves acting as one, all of them. He stood struck still as stone at the sight of them working together like a single force and didn’t really come back to himself until what was left of their enemy tore away with a screech of tyres.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about any of this, not a word not a single word,” he rounded on Lydia as the others moved toward…toward Deucalion, broken and limp on the floor.

“We had reasons, really good reasons,” Lydia muttered sheepishly, and as they moved, as Scott and the others focussed on Deucalion, she levelled him with a shrewd glare. “Why didn’t you tell me about Derek?” She challenged under her breath and Stiles wasn’t even sure how she’d known from just a glance, or if it’d only been a hunch that he’d confirmed with the full-facial flush he had absolutely no control over.

“Well that’s a…fairly recent development. Like…sort of shiny new…”

“Please, there’s nothing new about that,” Lydia scoffed under her breath.

He felt Derek tense as he came up behind them, Peter close by, Malia too and he wondered how much they had heard or if they’d been focussed on Deucalion’s last words.

“It’s already started, hasn’t it?” Malia asked.

Stiles frowned. How much had they missed here? “What’s started?”

“It’s an all out war,” Scott breathed, lifting his gaze from Deucalion to each of them in turn, as if confirming each and every member of his pack were unharmed after such a close call. An instinctive motion, Stiles thought, after years of running with wolves.

Stiles’s head was still spinning as Scott embraced Derek, relieved and glad to see him and so well, Stiles thought. Scott was the alpha but Derek represented a force of strength for Scott, a big brother figure and support that Scott didn’t have from anyone else. As they spoke, as Derek explained what had brought them there, Stiles suddenly found himself among all the conflicting feelings that had gripped him since they’d started heading back toward Beacon Hills.

Because their connection, this thing he and Derek had found together, their little den back in Sacramento felt so fresh, new and delicate like a bubble and whatever Beacon Hills touched, it fucked up. But standing there, watching Derek, watching Derek watch him with those soft eyes, he realised every inch of Derek was calm and collected. He was focussed because Stiles was there, anchoring him and whatever else happened, they were going to be okay.

“We found a pack slaughtered in Brazil, there were two words written on the wall, Beacon Hills.”

“You came back for Beacon Hills?” Scott asked, bemused.

“No,” Derek replied simply. “I came back for you.”

“We came back for you,” Stiles corrected.

Malia gave him a wry look. “Yeah, are ‘we’ going to explain that anytime soon?” Stiles honestly forgot how much she loved to tease him. He’d missed her, he’d missed all of them really and he felt a little giddy at the thought of sharing this happiness he’d found, this inner strength he’d cultivated, the person he’d become.

Derek moved to his side then, a subtle but distinctive movement. His eyes searching his, a smile touching the corners of his mouth as Stiles’s gaze dropped to it. It was like Derek felt invincible with Stiles beside him, and that knowledge was heady. The backs of Derek’s fingers brushed his where they hung limp at his side with such subtle, shy tenderness and yet Stiles’s stomach fluttered and he gave a nervous little laugh.

“Sure, we’ve got…stuff and you guys have stuff – a lot of stuff, actually. Huge stuff. But can we go somewhere with heat and light because I haven’t slept properly in like literal days and I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

Derek’s soft little burst of laughter, almost too quiet to hear, was a beautiful sound, a moment of calming clarity, like the last gulp of fresh air before diving into deep water. They had a war to win.

*

When the smoke cleared, when they had defeated the militia that had tried to wipe out anyone with supernatural blood, they stood together in the darkness.

Stiles watched Scott bring a freshly turned, freshly afraid werewolf into their protection, if not their fold. Watched the beginnings of their future unfold before them and for once he didn’t feel afraid. He glanced to Derek, who gave him that little quirk of a smile, saw his own future, as well as his pack and he couldn’t wait for the rest of his life to begin.

The Jeep couldn’t make the drive to Sacramento, so he left her back in Scott’s loving hands to drive the newbie back to the loft. Derek’s old apartment had been renovated by the pack into ‘pack ground zero’ and now housed quite a few of their newest recruits slash recues. Scott had only looked a little bit annoyed, mostly indulgent, when Stiles had called it ‘Scotty’s School for Gifted Youngsters’.

He climbed into the passenger seat of Derek’s Camaro, a new model, not the old classic that apparently Derek had left with Cora. Derek looked so good and Stiles wondered how much begging it’d take to get Derek to stop for a milkshake on the way home. He was guessing not much, Derek was pretty good at taking care of him. He’d even looked ready to take on their friends when they’d effectively outed themselves to everyone in Deaton’s clinic before the final showdown. It had been unnecessary though, as nobody seemed very surprised, except Scott, who bless his heart was oblivious about most things.

“Your dad gave me ‘the speech’ when you were loading the car earlier,” Derek mused as he pulled out onto the quiet main road. “It wasn’t exactly the ‘shotgun’ speech…”

Stiles cringed. “It wasn’t the safe sex speech either was it?”

Derek smirked. “It was more along the lines of, I’m glad it’s you and good luck you’re gonna need it.”

Stiles made a sound that was a mixture of outrage and amusement. “Oh my god, traitor! You guys are gonna gang up on me at Sunday dinners aren’t you?”

Derek’s quiet laughter caressed his ears as Beacon Hills fell away in a blur of twinkling lights into the darkness behind them. He reached out, stretching fingers across Derek’s denim-clad thigh and relaxed back into the seat, staring out at the road ahead where the headlights greeted the tarmac.

Derek’s fingers came down to cover his as he drove.

“Do you think another militia will pop up like that again?” Stiles asked after the lights of Beacon Hills had long since vanished behind them.

“I think it’s always possible. Hunters are still out there. People like Monroe are still out there,” Derek said thoughtfully. “But rumour is spreading, about the Beacon Hills pack, about the safety they provide, their strength. It makes anyone think twice about making an attack like that again, but it also means newly turned werewolves and people like them have somewhere to go instead of getting into trouble, instead of causing mayhem with powers they can’t control.”

Stiles nodded, “it actually helps to have so many people in the town in on the secret too, I guess. They’re like an extension of the pack.” Plus his dad had been elected sheriff again and he had never been more respected by the community. While that kept him rooted in Beacon Hills too for the foreseeable future, Stiles didn’t worry as much as he had before. The bitterness that had once tainted his connection to that town had dissipated somewhat, his bond with his hometown, with the pack stronger than before.

It was funny how it’d taken him and Derek finding each other, really finding each other to enable them to reconnect with the pack and the town the way they were meant to. They would always belong to Beacon Hills and the pack there, it would always be theirs, but what they had with each other was home. Home was wherever Stiles curled up next to Derek at night and the rest of the world was a better place outside because of that.

Stiles couldn’t even put his finger on why, exactly. He thought though, perhaps, that they’d both been two very capable but misguided kids. Two strangers that, for their own reasons, had been forced to learn to take care of themselves. And while they’d both managed fine, they hadn’t necessarily been good at it. They’d been drawn to each other from the start, had always known how to push each other’s buttons but also known that they were both missing something.

Now they were whole. Cracked, a little chipped here and there and definitely dented, but for all those flaws, they were together and complete.

They’d looked out for each other as allies in war, but now they looked after each other as partners, as equals. As the other’s most important thing, the anchor that held them tight, steady and sure no matter how rough the seas around them grew.

“You’re totally gonna rip my throat out if I open this bag of Doritos in your new shiny baby aren’t you?” Stiles mused as he tugged the aforementioned bag out from his backpack that sat between his legs in the footwell.

“With my teeth,” Derek agreed automatically, completely deadpan. But his hand squeezed Stiles’s gently where they were still connected.

Stiles grinned.

There was also the fact that no one quite enjoyed Stiles’s own special brand of crazy like Derek did. That sort of unconditional love was something more powerful than anything, supernatural or otherwise. It was hard not to feel invincible knowing that. And when Derek looked at him sometimes, even then when it was just a quick peek between keeping his eyes on the road, like he couldn’t help himself, he could see Derek felt the exact same way.

“So at the end of the month, my boss is holding this sort of…I guess the term would be a dinner,” he began as he gently wriggled his hand free from Derek’s to open the dreaded Doritos. “It’s like this unofficial thing he does, to sort of congratulate us all for our hard work. Like a work’s Christmas party except it’s way too early for Christmas. But anyway, we’re allowed to bring significant others.”

When Derek glanced at him again, Stiles waggled his eyebrows and stuffed some Doritos in his mouth. “How significant do you wanna be, Derek?”

Derek flushed but turned back to the road. Honestly he rocked the angry-embarrassed thing, Stiles was so gone for him.

“Is he going to recognise me?” Derek replied eventually, but as he did so, Stiles leaned over to poke a Dorito into his mouth, forcing him to partake in the desecration of the Camaro’s spotless interior and lingering new car smell.

“Only one way to find out hubby-wolf.”

“Oh my god, Stiles, no pet names.”

“I’m also thinking we can probably fit a queen bed in the apartment,” Stiles continued as if he hadn’t spoken. We should stop at Ikea tomorrow. Just something with a little more room for you to, you know, have at me with all your wolfie desires. The full moons are gonna rock.”

Derek made a noise that was torn between dismay and adoration and annoyance all at once and Stiles grinned, stuffing his mouth full again before poking another chip between Derek’s lips. He prodded it until it was almost fully in Derek’s mouth, but when Derek resignedly sucked it in fully, he nipped at the end of Stiles’s fingertip, looking both irritated and pleased with himself.

Stiles beamed and dusted his fingers off before starting to mess with the radio.

Derek had to know what he was in for, after all.

[crowdvscritic]

round up // NOVEMBER 20

Hi, I’m tired. Actually, my friend Celeste created a piece of art that puts the emphasis needed on that sentiment:

I’m very tired. November felt like it was three years and also felt like it went by in a blink and also I’m not sure where October ended and November began—how does time work like that? (I’ve yet to see Tenet, but maybe that will explain it.) But like Michael Scott, somehow I manage, and lately it’s been like this:

Late-night Etsy scrolling. Browsing beautiful, non-big-box-store artwork is very calming just before I go to bed. I’d recommend Etsy stores like Celeste’s chr paperie shop, which I know from experience is full of great Christmas gift ideas. 

Taking a day off of work to do laundry. I’m not sure if it’s more #adulting that I did that or that I was excited to do that.

Eating Ghiradelli chocolate chips straight from the bag. I actually don’t recommend this as a healthy option, but this is also not a health blog.

Watching lots and lots of ‘80s movies. One day I’ll ask a therapist why this decade of films is so comforting for me despite its many flaws, but for now I’m just rolling with it.

Reading. Have you heard of this? It’s a form of entertainment but doesn’t require screens—wild!

Memes. All good Pippin “Fool of a” Took jokes are welcome here.

Leaning into the Christmas spirit by ordering that Starbucks peppermint mocha, making plans to watch everything in that TCM Christmas book I haven’t seen, and keeping the lights on my hot pink tinsel tree on all day as I work from home.

This month’s Round Up is full of stuff that made me smile and stuff that sucked me into its world—I think they’ll do the same for you, too.

November Crowd-Pleasers

Sister Act (1992)

If in four years you aren’t in an emotional state to watch election results roll in, I recommend watching Whoopi Goldberg pretend to be a nun for 100 minutes. (Though, incidentally, if you want to watch that clip edited to specifically depict how the results came in this year, you’ll need to watch Sister Act 2.) This musical-comedy is about as feel-good as it gets, meaning there’s no reason you should wait four more years to watch it. Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 7.5/10

Nevada Memes

Speaking of election results, Nevada memes. That’s it—that’s the tweet. Vulture has a round up of some of the best.

SNL Round Up

Laugh and enjoy!

“Cinema Classics: The Birds” (4605 with John Mulaney)

“Uncle Ben” (4606 with Dave Chappelle)

RoboCop (1987)

I’m not surprised I liked RoboCop, but I am surprised at why I liked RoboCop. Not only is this a boss action blockbuster, it’s an investigation into consumerism and the commodification of the human body. It’s also a critique of institutions that treat crime like statistics instead of actions done by people that impact people. That said, it’s also movie about a guy who’s fused with a robot and melts another guy’s face off with toxic sludge, so there’s a reason I’m not listing this under the Critic section. Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 8/10

Double Feature – ‘80s Comedies: National Lampoon’s Vacation (1983) + Major League (1989)

The ‘80s-palooza is in full swing! In Vacation (Crowd: 9.5/10 // Critic: 8/10), Chevy Chase just wants to spend time with his family on a vacation to Wally World, but wouldn’t you know it, Murphy’s Law kicks into gear as soon as the Griswold family shifts from out of Park. The brilliance of the movie is that every one of these terrible things is plausible, but the Griswolds create the biggest problems themselves. In Major League (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 6.5/10), Tom Berenger, Charlie Sheen, and Wesley Snipes are Cleveland’s last hope for a winning baseball team. Like the Griswolds, mishaps and hijinks ensue in their attempt to prevent their greedy owner from moving the Indians to Miami, but the real win is this movie totally gets baseball fans. Like most ‘80s movies, not everything in this pair has aged well, but they brought some laughs when I needed them most.

This Time Next Year by Sophie Cousens (2020)

They’re born a minute apart in the same hospital, but they don’t meet until their 30th birthday on New Year’s Day. So, yes, it’s a little bit Serendipity, and it’s a little bit sappy, but those are both marks in this book’s favor. This Time Next Year is a time-hopping rom-com with lots of almost-meet-cutes that will have you laughing, believing in romantic twists of fate, and finding hope for the new year.

Double Feature – ‘80s Angsty Teens: Teen Wolf (1985) + Uncle Buck (1989)

In the ‘80s, Hollywood finally understood the angsty teen, and this pair of comedies isn’t interested in the melodrama earlier movies like Rebel Without a Cause were depicting. (I’d recommend Rebel, but not if you want to look back on your teen years with any sense of humor.) In Teen Wolf (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 5/10), Michael J. Fox discovers he’s a werewolf.one that looks more like the kid in Jumanji than any other portrayal of a werewolf you’ve seen. It’s a plot so ‘80s and so bizarre you won’t believe this movie was greenlit.

In Uncle Buck (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 7.5/10), John Candy is attempting to connect with the nieces and nephew he hasn’t seen in years, including one moody high schooler. (Plus, baby Gaby Hoffman and pre-Home Alone Macauley Culkin!) This is my second pick from one of my all-time fave filmmakers, John Hughes (along with National Lampoon’s Vacation, above), and it’s one more entry that balances heart and humor in a way only he could do. You can see where I rank this movie in Hughes’s pantheon on Letterboxd.

Lord of the Rings memes

This month on SO IT’S A SHOW?, Kyla and I revisited The Lord of the Rings, a trilogy we love almost as much as we love Gilmore Girls. You can listen to our episode about the series on your fave podcast app, and you can laugh through hundreds of memes like I did for “research” on Twitter.

Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson (2019)

Most adults are afraid of children’s temper tantrums, but can you imagine how terrified you’d be if they caught on fire in their fits of rage? That’s the premise of this novel, which begins when an aimless twentysomething becomes the nanny of a Tennessee politician’s twins who burst into flames when they get emotional. The book is filled with laugh-out-loud moments but never leaves behind the human emotion you need to make a magical realistic story.

An Officer and a Gentlemen (1982)

Speaking of aimless twentysomethings and emotion, feel free to laugh, cry, and swoon through this melodrama in the ‘80s canon. Richard Gere meanders his way into the Navy when he has nowhere else to go, and he tries to survive basic training, work through his family issues, and figure out his future as he also falls in love with Debra Winger. So, yeah, it’s a schamltzier version of Top Gun, but it’s schmaltz at its finest. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7.5/10

November Critic Picks

Double Feature – ‘40s Amensia Romances: Random Harvest (1942) + The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947)

Speaking of schmaltz at its finest, let me share a few more titles fitting that description. In Random Harvest (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8.5/10), Greer Garson falls in love with a veteran who can’t remember his life before he left for war. In The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 8.5/10), Gene Tierney discovers a ghost played by a crotchety Rex Harrison in her new home. Mild spoiler: Both feature amnesiac plot developments, and while amnesia has become a cliché in the long history of romance films, Harvest is moving enough and Mr. Muir is charming enough that you won’t roll your eyes. You can see these and more romances complicated by forced forgetfulness in this Letterboxd round up.

The African Queen (1951)

It’s Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn directed by John Huston—I mean, I don’t feel like I need to explain why this is a winner. Bogart (in his Oscar-winning role) and Hepburn star in a two-hander script, dominating the screen time except for a select few scenes with supporting cast. The pair fight for survival while cruising on a small boat called The African Queen during World War I (in Africa, natch), and the two make this small story feel grand and epic. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 9/10

Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949)

A young man’s (Dennis Price) mother is disowned from their wealthy family because she marries for love. After her death, he seeks vengeance by killing all of the family members ahead of him in line to be the Duke D'Ascoyne. The twist? All of his victims are played by Sir Alec Guinness! Almost every character in this black comedy is a terrible person, so you won’t be too sorry to see them go—you can just enjoy the creative “accidents” he stages and stay in suspense on whether our “hero” gets his comeuppance. Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8.5/10

Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife (1937)

What would you do if you found out you were to be someone’s eighth wife? Well, it’s probably not what Claudette Colbert does in this screwball comedy that reminds me a bit of Love Crazy. This isn’t the first time I’ve recommended Colbert, Gary Cooper, or Ernst Lubitsch films, so it’s no surprise these stars and this director can make magic together in this hilarious battle of the wills. Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 8.5/10

The Red Shoes (1948)

I love stories about the competition between your life and your art, and The Red Shoes makes that competition literal. Moira Shearer plays a ballerina who feels life is meaningless without dancing—then she falls in love. That’s an oversimplification of a rich character study and some of the most beautiful ballet on film, but I can’t do it justice in a short paragraph. Just watch (perhaps while you’re putting up your hot pink tinsel tree?) and soak in all the goodness. Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 10/10

The Third Man (1949)

Everybody loves to talk about Citizen Kane, and with the release of Mank on Netflix, it’s newsworthy again. But don’t miss this other ‘40s team up of Joseph Cotten and Orson Welles. Cotten is a writer digging for the truth of his friend’s (Welles) death in a mysterious car accident. Eyewitness accounts differ on what happened, and who was the third man at the scene only one witness remembers? 71 years later, this movie is still tense, and this actor pairing is still electric. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 9/10

The Untouchables (1987)

At the end of October, we lost Sean Connery. I looked back on his career first by writing a remembrance for ZekeFilm and then by watching The Untouchables. (In a perfect world I would’ve reversed that order, but c’est la vie.) In my last selection from the ‘80s, Connery and Kevin Costner attempt to convict Robert De Niro’s Al Capone of anything that will stick and end his reign of crime in Chicago. Directed by Brian De Palma and set to an Ennio Morricone soundtrack, this film is both an exciting action flick and an artistic achievement that we literally discussed in one of my college film classes. Connery won his Oscar, and K. Cos is giving one of the best of his career, too. Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 9.5/10

Remember the Night (1940)

Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck in my favorite team up yet! Double Indemnity may be the bona fide classic in the canon, but this Christmas story—with MacMurray as a district attorney prosecuting shoplifter Stanwyck— is a charmer. I’ve added it to my list of must-watch Christmas movies—watch for some holiday cheer and rom-com feels. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 8.5/10

Photo credits: chr paperie. Books my own. All others IMDb.com.

[howtodisassembleyourdeviant]

Valentine

I know, it’s just a holiday to capitalize on love, but as someone who has never received a Valentine that wasn’t out of obligation, I have dreams, dang it!

Was gonna post it ON Valentine’s Day, but I realized I was off work on Monday (Off work = Offline) so I didn’t account for the missing day when working on my stories for Cute Girls and Hot Androids Week. Anyway, this is a good warm-up for what is to come. I guarantee my next ones won’t be so PG, so be warned! 

He had never felt so terrified in his life. He has been in more life and death situations in his short life than most veteran officers. He fell off a roof to his death and helped free thousands of androids from the most powerful company in the world. None of that left him feeling as he did now. He was literally made for those kinds of situations, however, so why would he feel nervous as he does now? This was something so far beyond his comfort zone he was wondering why he was doing it. Then, you walk by, bright smile, eyes sparkling when they meet his, hips swaying in a way that demanded his rapt attention. He is reminded of why. He loves you, and this was all about showing just how much.

Valentine's day.

It was an odd holiday, with many variations. He studied up on it, coming across traditions and tips. He got distracted a couple of times, reading about a few homicides that happened on the same day. In the end, according to his research, there was a good chance you would not appreciate it if he didn't make a big deal of the holiday, and it could deal a blow to yours and his relationship. With the relationship being so young, not even a year yet, he cannot afford that kind of risk. He still thinks back to Christmas and cringes, hearing you shouting at him for scanning one of his gifts before he could open it. He could only imagine how much worse it would have been had he gotten to the others.

Still, that was then, and he had learned his lesson. He has studied up on the holiday and has started to construct a plan. It will be the most romantic night of your life.

..................

He was staring at the roses in the display case. Tradition dictates that a dozen red roses were the most romantic. His eyes locked on them and his body froze. He sees the trellis and the woman standing before it, tending to the blood-colored blooms. He hears her voice, condemning his every action. Disappointment.

"Sir?" A voice chimes from behind him. How long has he been standing here? "Is there something I can help you with?" The small woman smiled up at him. Her appearance reminds him of a garden gnome he had seen while walking Sumo. It only seems fitting that she should work here.

"Y-" he clears his throat, "-Yes. I'm looking to get a bouquet."

"Alright, well, let's start simple. Who's it for?"

"My girlfriend." It still felt like a foreign word from his tongue, but it made him smile nonetheless.

"I see. For Valentines?" She had an insinuating smugness about her face, "Well, roses are a fine choice,-" she saw him eye them, as if they would attack at any moment, "-however, sometimes sticking to traditions can be considered boring. Not all women like that. Instead, try focusing on what she would like."

What you like? Why didn't he think of that? Did you even like roses? Looking over memories, he noticed you commenting more on the different colors and their fragrance rather than the roses physical appearance. You liked them, but no more than any other flowers. You would choose by appearance, rather than by name. He started broadening his sights, looking at the many different blossoms the little shop housed. You like to show him things that spark your interests, so he tries thinking like you. What would you want to show him? He finds what he's looking for on a shelf. Would this be okay? 

"She has unique tastes, " the store clerk beamed, taking his choice up to the front.

"I suppose this is as far from tradition as you could possibly get, " he felt anxious about his choice. He knows you'd love it, but what does it have to do with Valentine's day?

"Then make your own tradition. If it's true love, then whatever you do will be perfect in her eyes." He smiled. This garden gnome was clearly wise beyond her years. What is the lifespan of a gnome? He was getting distracted again. 

"Thank you, Ms.-" Connor tries not to scan people off shift after Hank chastised him.

"Greta is just fine." Greta the Garden Gnome. Surely this can be no accident. "I hope your lady loves her gift."

"I'm sure she will."

............

Getting the chocolates was much easier. He knew your favorite brand and which ones to avoid. He had thought about making them himself, as tradition dictates that to be the most endearing, but his cooking skills were... Subpar. He was still adjusting to tastes and has learned he has a penchant for becoming distracted. He supposes his 'free thinking' mixed with his original program, to find out as much as possible in as little of time allowed, making it almost impossible to focus on one thing for too long.

 The little heart-shaped box only made his bizarre choice at the floral shop stand out. Maybe he shouldn't have taken the advice from a gnome to heart. It was too late now. Instead, he placed it in a small, red bag with pink tissue paper. At least this way it looked like a Valentine's present.

He walked towards your desk with his gifts in hand. When he didn't see you there, he assumed you must be running late. What he did see were several gifts stacked on top of your desk, along with a couple of bouquets and five separate boxes of chocolates. You had many... Admirers. It shouldn't bother him. He knew you were desirable to many. Yet, seeing all the blatant show of such affections, some even giving you their numbers, knowing you were already in a relationship. It rubbed him the wrong way. Still, he set his gift among the many flashier ones before heading to his own desk. 

He was shocked to find gifts addressed to him waiting for him, along with a bouquet of roses. Many of them were the same thirium-based chocolates, some of the only products made specifically for androids. He didn't particularly care for the flavor, the chocolate had a cheap, artificial taste compared to the chocolate syrup he tasted at your house.

 It was the roses that he was stuck on. He wants to remove them. Seeing them here, where he works, felt too much like they were barring down on him, waiting for him to make a mistake. He takes them and sets them on the ground, under his desk. Out of sight, out of mind. The rest of the gifts were shifted to the side.

You show up a few moments later. He was a little disappointed you did not come up to greet him, but you looked annoyed, so you might have chosen to spare him of your sour mood. You looked over your gifts, and Connor watched as you systematically dumped most of them in the trash, slamming it down before taking your seat and getting to work. That... Was not generally something people did when they received gifts. Only his gifts remained, much to his relief, though you didn't seem to pay them much mind either. A part of him was satisfied that you had ruthlessly destroyed all those people's hearts in one swift action, but he was astonished you would do something so tactless. Perhaps something happened to trigger your bad mood. He stood, hoping to help.

"Good morning, Y/n." Connor smiled down at you, standing next to your desk.

"Morning." You answered automatically, but it was brisk and clipped. You didn't even look up from your computer. Had he done something wrong?

"Are you alright?"

"Fine." He continued to stare expectantly.

"I said, I'm fine!" You snapped. 

He knows he should back off when you're like this, that he could only make it worse, but instead, he got down on his knees in front of you, taking your hands in his.

"Please, tell me what's wrong. I want to help." For a moment, he believes he had made the wrong choice, as you looked like you wanted to throttle him. Your gaze was intense, and he could see the red of his LED reflecting from your eyes. It takes a minute, but you lean forward and whisper into his ear.

"Why are you hiding the roses under your desk?" Your words were venomous, making a panic rise in him. You had seen him hide them, and he realizes that could be misinterpreted as concealing the gift so you wouldn't see it.

"I... I become distressed when I see red roses. I didn't want to look at them." He looked away, feeling foolish. What kind of person is afraid of roses? You knew of the zen garden, so you of all people would understand. "They remind me of her." You were quiet for a moment, your anger quickly melting.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" You buried your face in your hands, "God, I'm so stupid." You muttered to yourself.

"No, you're not." 

"I am! I thought, 'since you like clichés so much, you'll probably prefer the traditional gift for Valentine's Day.'" Wait a minute.

"The roses were from you?"

"Yes! Didn't you read the card?" He stood up, going to his desk and reaching under, grabbing the thin, glass vase the roses resided in. Riffling around them, he finds a card with a cartoon picture of a dog holding a heart on it. He flipped it over.

"My heart blooms only for you. Happy Valentine's Day, my Love. -❤Y/n" he could see the impression of your lips pressed into the card, making his thirium pump vibrate within his chest. Hiding your roses while he had only pushed the other gifts to the side seemed so much worse than hiding roses from a secret admirer. 

He heard a sniffling sound, seeing that you had turned back to your terminal, but your shoulders were trembling. You were trying so hard not to cry at work. Connor went back to you, pulling you from your seat and practically dragging you to the first available space, which happened to be the old records room. Before you could say anything, his lips crashed into yours, holding you tightly against him. He held your face, turning it slightly to get that perfect angle. Your hand went to the back of his neck, combing through his hair as your other one held his shirt in a death clasp, likely wrinkling the material, but he couldn't care less. He kept you locked to his ravenous lips until you were on the verge of passing out, pulling back as you gasped for air.  

"I'm sorry. I didn't know, " he murmured, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.

"I'm sorry, too. I saw you hide them and I made assumptions."

"You had no way of knowing. To be honest, I hadn't thought it was an issue until I was looking at them at the flower shop."

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No, another time, maybe. Right now, I want to get through the workday, then take my girlfriend out on a romantic date. She might even gift me with a kiss at the end of the evening." He winked, making you smile. 

"You just might get a little more than that, if you like. Valentine's Day has many traditions for couples." At that, you dipped the hem of your jeans slightly, showing a bit of lace that had Connor captivated. His hands itched to reveal more, but you readjusted your pants, snapping out of your hold over him.

"We should probably get to work, " you spoke. He pulled you close for another kiss before grabbing the door, letting you lead the way. Instead of heading to your desk, you went to his, grabbing the roses. 

"It's fine, you can leave them-" but you chucked them into the trash in the break room.

"I'm not gonna leave them if they bother you. Besides, I have another gift for you." You went to your desk and grabbed your bag, rifling around, "I was gonna wait until after work, but here." You handed him a package, wrapping paper covered in blue and red hearts with a gold bow over the top. He opened it carefully, and inside was a hand-made knitted hat. It was grey, with a blue heart next to the cute face of a St. Bernard. On top was a pom pom with grey, white, and blue strings. He smiled.

"I hope it fits. I used your other beanie as a reference." He slipped it on, the inside lined with fleece, making the hat much warmer and softer. 

"It's perfect. Did you make it yourself?"

"Mostly. Simon helped me. I wanted to make you something, but as you can't eat solids, I thought I'd ask him for his opinion. I've never knitted anything before, but he's a pretty good teacher."

"I love it, thank you." You smiled, looking bashful before remembering the bag on your desk. You picked it up.

"Careful, " Connor warned before you could shove your hand inside. Instead, you picked the tissue out and looked inside. 

"Oh my God!" You carefully took out the small teddy bear planter. Growing inside was a Bear Paw succulent, all bundled together with their pink little claws. "It's so adorable! Thank you!"

"I thought you might prefer this."

"I love it! What made you buy a cactus though?" Some might find that insulting for Valentines.

"A garden gnome." You gave him a look.

"A... Garden gnome?"

"Yes."

"Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that brain of yours."

......

I like thinking that Connor is a bit oblivious with anything that doesn’t have to do with detective work. I also seen a few posts where Connor has an aversion to roses, particularly red ones, so I thought I’d play off that idea. Was gonna have them go on their date and all that jazz, but I don’t know when to shut up, so the rest is up to your imagination! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

[freedomartspress]

Three Poems — Tongo Eisen Martin

Kick Drum Only

All street life to a certain extent starts fair

Sometimes with a spiritual memory even

Predawn soul-clap/ your father dying even

Maybe I’ve pushed the city too far

My sensitivities to landfill districting and minstrel whistles/

White supremacist graffiti on westbound rail guards 

-all overcome and reauthored

The garbage is growing voices

Condensed Marxism 

modal gangsterism for a warrior-depressive

Underpass in my pocket

because I am a deity

or decent bid on the Panther name 

revolutionary violence that chose its own protagonists 

or muted stage of genius

A merciful Marxism        

Disquieted home life 

Or metaphor for relaxing next to a person 

Who is relaxing next to a gun

I stare at my father for a few seconds 

Then return to my upbringing

Return to the souls of Ohio Black folks

Revolution is damn near pagan at this point

You know what the clown wants? The respect of the ant. 

Wants a pen cap full of bullets

Wants to see their ancestors in broad daylight

I am not tired of these rooms; just tired of the world that give them a relativity 

My only change of clothes prosecuted

The government has finally learned how to write poems

shoot-outs that briefly align…

that make up a parable

white bodies are paid well, I posit

do white men actually even have leaders?

all white people are white men

white men will only ever be metaphors

all I do is practice, Lord

A rat pictures a river

Can almost taste the racial divide

Can almost roll a family member’s head into a city hall legislative chamber

Knows who in this good book will fly

I have decided not to talk out of anger ever again, Lord

Met my wife at the same time I met new audience members for our pain

We passed each other cigarettes and watched cops win

A city gone uniquely linear

Harlem of the West due a true universe 

 “I will always remember you in fancy clothes,” my wife said 

so here I sit… twisting in silk ideation

  My rifle made of tar

My targets made of an honest language

This San Francisco poetry is how God knows that it is me whining 

Writing among the lesser-respected wolves

Lesser-observed militarization

Dixie-less prison bookkeeping/I mean the California gray-coats are coming 

lynch mob gossip and bourgeois debt collection

I mean, it’s tempting to change professions mid-poem

in a Chicago briefing, a white sergeant saying, “blank slate for all of us after this Black organizer is dead.”

standard academics toasting two-buck wine at the tank parade

bay of nothing, Lord

  nuclear cobblestones, gunline athleticism  

and the last of the inherited asthma

children given white dolls to play with and fear

facial expressions borrowed from rich people’s shoe strings

I can hear hate

And teach hate

And call tools by people names

And name people dead to themselves

no one getting naturalized except federal agents soon 

carving the equator into throats soon

I’m sorry to make you relive all of this, Lord

pre-dawn monarchy 

friends putting up politician posters then snorting the remainder of the paste

minstrel scripts shoveled into the walls by their elders

my children sharpening quarters on the city’s edge

For these audiences

I project myself into a ghost like state

For these gangsters, I do the same

every now and then, we take a nervous look east

Sleep becomes Christ

Sleep starts growing a racial identity

do you ever spiral, Lord?

has the gang-age betrayed us?

be patient with my poems, Lord

So much pain

there is a point to crime… 

There has to be if race traitors come with it

 Lord, is that my revolver in your hand?

Better presidents than these have yawned at cages

Have called us holy slaves

Filled the school libraries with cop documentaries

Baby, I don’t have money for food

I have no present moment at all

/

I Do Not Know the Spelling of Money

I go to the railroad tracks

And follow them to the station of my enemies

A cobalt-toothed man pitches pennies at my mugshot negative

All over the united states, there are

Toddlers in the rock

I see why everyone out here got in the big cosmic basket

And why blood agreements mean a lot

And why I get shot back at

I understand the psycho-spiritual refusal to write white history or take the glass freeway

White skin tattooed on my right forearm 

Ricochet sewage near where I collapsed 

into a rat-infested manhood

My new existence as living graffiti 

In the kitchen with

a lot of gun cylinders to hack up

House of God in part

No cops in part

My body brings down the Christmas 

The new bullets pray over blankets made from old bullets

Pray over the 28th hour’s next beauty mark

Extrajudicial confederate statue restoration 

the waist band before the next protest poster 

By the way,

Time is not an illusion, your honor

I will return in a few whirlwinds

I will save your desk for last

You are witty, your honor

You’re moving money again, your honor

It is only raining one thing: non-white cops

And prison guard shadows 

Reminding me of

Spoiled milk floating on an oil spill

A neighborhood making a lot of fuss over its demise

A new lake for a Black Panther Party

Malcom X’s ballroom jacket slung over my son’s shoulders

Pharmacy doors mid-slide

         The figment of village

                     a noon noose to a new white preacher

Wiretaps in the discount kitchen tile

-All in an abstract painting of a president

Bought slavers some time, didn’t it?

The tantric screeches of military bolts and Election-Tuesday cars

A cold-blooded study in leg irons

Leg irons in tornado shelters

Leg irons inside your body

  Proof that some white people have actually fondled nooses

That sundown couples 

made their vows of love over   

opaque peach plastic

and bolt action audiences     

Man, the Medgar Evers-second is definitely my favorite law of science

Fondled news clippings and primitive Methodists 

My arm changes imperialisms 

Simple policing vs. Structural frenzies

Elementary school script vs. Even whiter white spectrums

Artless bleeding and

the challenge of watching civilians think

     “terrible rituals they have around the corner. They let their elders beg for public mercy…beg for settler polity”

“I am going to go ahead and sharpen these kids’ heads into arrows myself and see how much gravy spills out of family crests.”

Modern fans of war

    What with their t-shirt poems

    And t-shirt guilt

And me, having on the cheapest pair of shoes on the bus, 

I have no choice but to read the city walls for signs of my life

                                                                                     /

The Chicago Prairie Fire

First, I must apologize to the souls of the house

I am wearing the cheek bones of the mask only

Pill bottle, my name is yours

Name tagged on the side of a factory of wrists

Teeth of the mask now

Back of the head of the mask now 

        New phase of anti-anthropomorphism fending for real faces

Stuck with one of those cultures that believes I chose this family

I am not creative

Just the silliest of the revolutionaries

My blood drying on 

   my only jacket

just as God got playful

the police state’s psychic middlemen

Evangelizing for the creation of an un-masses 

An un-Medgar

Blood of a lamb less racialized

or awesome prison sentence

Good God

Elder-abuse hired for the low

dog eat genius

Right angle made between a point

On a Louisiana plantation

And 5-year old’s rubber ball 

3 feet high and falling

like a deportee plane 

to complete my interpretation 

(of garden variety genocide) 

I am small talk

about loving your enemies

A little more realistically

About paper tigers 

And also gold…

I need my left hand back 

I broke my neck on the piano keys

Found paradise in a fistfight

Maybe I should check into the Cuba line

Watching the universe’s last metronomes

some call Black Jacobins

Just wait…

These religions will start resigning in a decade or two

Some colorfully 

Some transactional-ly

In a cotton gothic society

Class betrayal gone glassless/ I mean ironically/ my window started fogging over too 

Wondering which Haiti will get me through this winter

Which poem houses souls

Which socialist breakthroughs

Breakthroughs like ten steps back

Then finally stillness

Stillness

Then stillness among families

a John Brown biography takes a bow

I’m up next to introduce Prosser to Monk

I remember childhood

Remember the word “Childhood” being a beginning 

Scribbling on an amazing grace 

I rented this body from some circumference of slavery

Remember being kicked out of the Midwest

Strange fruit theater

Lithium and circuses

Likeminded stomachs 

The ruling class blessing their blank checks with levy foam…

                            with opioid tea 

Sentient dollar bills yelling to each other pocket to pocket

Cello stands in the precinct for accompanying counterrevolutionaries 

My mother raised me with a simple pain

A poet loses his mind, you know, like the room has weather

Or first-girlfriend gravity

Police-knock gravity 

Mind-game gravity

Or revolution languishing behind 

The sugar in my good friend’s mind

“The difference between me and you

Is that the madness

Wants me forever”

A pair of apartments

Defining both my family

And political composure

Books behind my back

Bail money paved into the streets

Playing:

Euphoria

Euphoria

Cliché

Bracing for the medicine’s recoil

Sharing a dirty deli sandwich with my friends

Black Jacobins

Underground topography

Or grandmother’s hands

Psychology of the mask now

Teeth of the mask again

—

Originally from San Francisco, Tongo Eisen-Martin is a movement worker and educator who has organized against mass incarceration and extra-judicial killing of Black people throughout the United States. His latest curriculum on extrajudicial killing of Black people, We Charge Genocide Again, has been used as an educational and organizing tool throughout the country. His book of poems, Someone’s Dead Already was nominated for a California Book Award.

[migleefulmoments]

lmao Abby is losing her shit because Darren is gonna be singing White Christmas with Lea on her new Christmas album. Apparently that song is "sacred" and can only be sang by Darren and Chris. She seriously needs to get a grip.

Anonymous said: "I can be upset, I think it is a complete slap in the face. there are like 3000 christmas songs, there are THREE that are sacred.   And yes, D should have sad no." Oh look Abby doesn't approve of something Darren is doing AGAIN. Seriously she claims to be his biggest fan but yet complains about everything he does.

Man, I didn’t see this coming. I’m amazed at how deeply emotional they are about a scripted, tv-show couple and a really old song! I might understand  if Abby was a lesbian teenager and this was 2011. It was empowering for gay, lesbian and bisexual kids and young adults to turn on network tv and see people that looked liked them. But times they have a changed. Klaine and Brittana pushed boundaries, but in 2019 there are LGBTQ characters on many shows, Netflix has LGBTQ programing and Ryan Murphy continues to create shows that specifically tell LGBTQ stories-ie Pose and he has created LGBTQ characters for all of his shows because that’s life. He’s continues to normalize LGBTQ characters on his shows: 911 has a main character who is a married lesbian, The Politician has gay characters and its been reported that Rock Hudson will be a character in Hollywood. 

So here we are in 2019 and Abby is devastated that the sacred White Christmas will be covered by Darren and Lea on her new Christmas album. First off, why is the song sacred? Abby mentioned the “Bryant Park riot”-a riot we know never happened. The people “holding the fandom together” were not in the cc fandom when Chris and Darren filmed in Bryant Park. Their “memories” of that day have all been created by watching a few moments of the 11-hour day. I’ve come to realize that the cc theory is built on slowed-down gifs and screenshots. Reality looks nothing like cc so they manipulate the facts to fit their needs. It’s a powerful method because it is so easy to con people into believing inane facts. I am sure that Abby and Flowers and Cassie and Leka fully believe everything they hold near and dear about CrissColfer.  It’s all a lie but they fully believe they are throwing out tried-and-true proven facts. Abby in particular is really baffled why we can’t see what she see. The difference between them and us is that we don’t listen with our eyes. We don’t get information about Darren and Mia by piecing together gifs. That’s it-gifs and screenshots from videos! Can you imagine if a lawyer a police officer  used a gif as evidence? 

Nobody set out to con the tinhatters into believing a fantasy that doesn’t exits-in fact, nobody is conning the fandom-they are conning themselves. They don’t look at the  evidence and form an opinion- they literally create the evidence. Zoom in a photo until you can crop out what you need or clip 1-2 seconds from a longer video, slow it down, add some text and suddenly *BAM* you have proof! Proof with all the drama and emotion to make it feel so much more important than it was. 

How the shit hit the fan:

Leka:

jaci3

I will definitely be purchasing this album! So much talent! Cynthia!! Darren!! Jonathan and Lea!!

notes-from-nowhere

I’m going to take this as a good news👍🏻

ajw720

But no, no, no no. Do not get me wrong, I am thrilled D is on the album, but no, no, no, not a K/laine song. Why?  There are so many Christmas songs out in the world and they chose a K/laine song?  

I have no interest, it can never live up.

I hate 2019.

DRAMA MUCH?

Thanks, but it’s a hard pass for me.

ajw720

I actually have tears in my eyes. This feels like a complete slap in the face. Sorry, but it is and it should not have been this song and I don’t care what you believe, Those songs are sacred to the K/laine fandom whether you think he is married to her or with C or something completely different.  

How many Christmas songs are there to choose from? If she wanted WC, she could have sang it with someone else.

With you @cassie1022 hard pass.  It may seem silly to be this upset about something, but this actually makes me angry.  I feel like K/laine fans are being discarded. That is his LEGACY, something he should be proud of, through that character and that pairing, he and C made a difference, and I do not understand why it needs to constantly be chipped away.  

I have to say the thing that strikes me the most is how obtuse she is about what Glee was the end. It was a mess. I loved Glee but most of the fun by the end was the amazing fanfiction, Fanon Klaine and fandom itself. It was fun to get the song sneak peeks and BTS photos and videos. It was amazing to be a part of a fandom of people who loved what I did. It is amazing to be part of the Chris and Darren stanclub.  But Glee...it was a disaster. .

Leka proves some context for “White Christmas is Sacred” and notice how how many are gifs: 

leka-1998

Excuse you.

WC is so much more than just a song.

(She does know this is a scripted moment right? Darren didn’t actually travel to NYC from Lima with Chris’s dad and someone told him when to skate, what to say, what to sing.). 

“It’s been a whirlwind, but amazing. We got to film at the ice skating rink in Bryant Park, which was just incredible. It was one of the best filming experiences I’ve ever had.”

- Ch/ris Col/fer

(Yes, Darren laid down on the carpet and took a picture of Chris which was  about the most cc thing that happened in 11 hours)

(I have no doubt that these three gifs were created from 1 or 2 seconds of real-time video. These images created the false impression that they spent the day together, gleefully skating and being intimate. Not too long ago, I read a cc post that claimed “Darren spent the day taking care of Chris”.  No, not true- see the videos below for a more realistic representation of the day). )  

#truly this really upsets me

(I guess she is reminding us of how much they mean to the world- eye roll.)  

I tried finding a long video on YouTube-ideally much of the day or even just big chucks of the day but *surprise* nobody bothered to upload that snooze fest. If the day was actually the cc riot the posse believes it was, there would be an 11-hour complication video.

I did find some video that accurately represents what I remember. Basically just imagine 11 hours of the following: 

Chris was pretty shaky when they started skating but by the time they filmed, he was much better. I cannot imagine being on skates for 11- shaky- hours.

Chris skating alone, trying to get more comfortable with skating before filming.

That’s it! That s the totality of what is posted on YouTube from the “Riot”.

The conversation continues; 

Anonymous asked:

White Christmas is literally one of the most cliché christmas songs. The album is just Lea's favorites. Darren has sung White Christmas before and he sounded amazing so it's only natural she would invite him to sing it with her. I get the a lot of things can be frustrating, but good god you all being THIS upset about it is the reason why everyone mock our fandom. It's not even baby it's could outside. At least we know for sure chris is going to be mentioned at some point during the promo.

ajw720 answered: (in victim mode)

Why do you care if I am this upset?  Seriously, let them mock me, they have blogs dedicated to hating me and posts multiple times a day.  I am over it, they are the ones with the sad lives who actually give me power.  

(Nope, not dedicated to “hating you”, I simply debunk your “facts” and “proof” beaus they are not evidence of CrissColfer; Yes, this is unfortunately a negative side effect to disproving your lies- you don’t care if the attention is negative or positive- you just like the attention. But pointing out the lies and misinformation is more important to me ) 

I can be upset, I think it is a complete slap in the face. there are like 3000 christmas songs, there are THREE that are sacred.   And yes, D should have sad no.  We sit here and swallow everything, including having “D” himself mock and yell at our fandom on SM.  And I virtually defend everything he does, probably to a fault, including holding out that person as his wife. This was easily avoidable.

(well at least you acknowledge that Darren calls out your fandom for their bad behavior on social media. Now would be a good time to really analyze why you think that is. Really sit down and think about why Darren would mock your fandom without a gif or a screenshot to zoom in on. What would drive him to be angry at a ccer?) . 

Sorry, not sorry, don’t like, post on your own blog and stop reading mine if you don’t like the way i represent. Happy to pace the torch. 

(Wow she is happy to pass the torch? Right. ) 

notes-from-nowhere

(Notes comes in and tries to soothe Abby’s fragile nerves).

So, I feel the need to say something. I’m not that much upset for the song mostly because I think it may be the song D picked out if those presented to him so I don’t fully like the idea but it could have been worse. At least all of the involved knows the meaning of the song.

What bothers me though is this kind of attitude, anon. This urgency to come here and to tell to another person what/how/when she should feel about something. Trying to put a weight on it or to dismissed the rightfulness of her feelings.

If this is how she (and everyone else) feels about this, she has the right and the freedom to say it out loud without having to face someone else’s judgement because maybe she has another opinion.

(and the anon has the right to say what she feels-see how that works?)

There are different ways to approach a person to communicate so please next time, think better.

ajw720

Thank you @notes-from-nowhere, hard to believe, the above was at least more respectful than this anon:

This is why I left the fucking fanbase. I still very much agree with the same views and ideas that all of you have, but jesus christ, it’s a SONG. Calm down. I’m just happy whenever D does something that doesn’t envolve PBB. Getting so upset because D is singing a song that he sang with C. Maybe he’s doing it because it reminds him of the Bryant Park shoot? Maybe? Good god, everything is the apocalypse to you guys. Leaving was the best thing I’ve ever done.

I want to remind everyone, I am the one, with a handful of people, keeping this fandom alive and supporting D&C daily,. And just like i can praise them, i can tell them when they hurt me.  This hurt. Maybe I am being overly dramatic and if this was isolated, i would say yes. This is not isolated, it is a continued effort to erase K/laine and CC.  As has been pointed out, not only did they offend K/laine fans in general, it is a knock at our fandom who still to this day celebrate the skating riot.

(Oh lord, she reminds us she is the HBIC, sacrificing everything to keep the fandom together. I love that she believes this is “supporting D&C daily”. Nobody needs to be told the suck everyday.  She support them and so she can criticize them but nonnie cannot criticize her. That makes perfect sense) 

Again literally THOUSANDS of songs to choose from.  Not even sure why L would EVER want to compete with C, but in this case, the fault doesn’t lie with her.  D should have said no.  

(I don’t think Lea is too worried about putting up her vocal chops against Chris’.  The both have great voices)

I am not going to say anything else and just accept that yet another of D’s 2019 projects is something i won’t ever see or hear.  

(once again it’s all about her and her hurt feelings. But this response is at least rationale-if you don’t like the project- skip it. It isn’t Darren’s responsibly to provide 100% Abby approved content)   

I really hope things are going to change, I really, really do.

(But they aren’t..they really aren’t.  This is Darren’s life and I know it’s super stressful because you are trying to hard to make his life work with yours and it just won't You both have very conflicting and opposing goals for Darren’s life. Here’s a protip: Go on a gif-free and zoomed-photo-free diet for a few months. Analyze the information at face value. Learn what PR really means and see how things look.If for no other reason than your own sanity. Stop trying to shove the square peg in the round hole 

#please do not send any more asks on this topic

#i am very upset

ajw720

My feelings aside, WHY in the world would LM EVER want to compete with this? Sorry, but it won’t be half as good. Stupid move and that is trying to remove my bias.

(Her thought processes never ceases to amaze me. Abby and Trump- they start criticizing and they just can’t stop. Lea gets to make her own decisions about what songs she sings, who she’s competitive with, whether she wants to take a chance and put herself out there or not. It just isn’t anyone else’s business. Chris has a beautiful voice but Lea has a stunning voice-she isn’t worried. This is right up there with her criticisms of TSG’s air conditioning, drink names, theme nights and every comment she’s made about a bar she will never go to.