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mychoombatheroomba · 3 months ago

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Fade Out

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 53

You and Leon are questioned following the events on base.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

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Chapter Index

TW for angst and government manipulation but what else is new?

You didn’t really know where you were, only that the room was familiar. A one-way mirror. A simple table. A recording device. An empty chair across from you. A little TV on the corner of the table.

You’d been in a room like it once before, when you gave your report on what happened in Finland over a year ago.

Now, here you were, history repeating itself; returning to you in new clothes but with the same violent intentions. You’d thought you had been cresting a hill in feeling your pain ease. Now you knew that you’d just been the unknowing fool strapped to a wheel, turning up to see the sun only to get crushed against the ground once more.

So you let yourself be pressed down by the weight, wishing you could well and truly sink into the earth. It was easy to fall into that mindset by yourself, you found.

In the days following this newest nightmare, you and the others had been isolated. A safety precaution to prevent the spread of the virus, and to keep anyone from taking action. Now, though, you’d been escorted from your quarantine and taken to this room, where you knew questions would be waiting for you. You didn’t want to talk about what had happened now any more than you had after Finland. You didn’t want to speak into reality what was already building a cage around your mind.

Not that you had a choice.

The door opened without you being ready for it to. A man walked in, carrying a manila folder. Tall. Brown hair. Pale, gaunt cheeks. Another fine-pressed suit, complete with one of those stupid ties that only cowboys should wear, but assholes from old money always seemed to love.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” he greeted, already sounding like he knew everything in the world.

Then there’s no need to talk to me.

You didn’t speak back as the man settled into the chair opposite you, clicked the record button on the machine in front of him, holding the folder in his lap. He spoke your rank and name into the air, alongside the word “debriefing” as if that’s what this was. “Presiding officer: Derek C. Simmons.” He fixed his gaze on you, then, and it began.

⧫⧫⧫

Leon knew the man across from him.

He knew that aged face, the hair that was already beginning to gray, the rectangular glasses. Hard to forget a person who forced you into military service. Who had weighed your life against information you possessed and deemed you the lesser of the two.

He half expected Adam Benford to find some new, horrible way to threaten him. As the agent took a seat and started the recording, Leon kept waiting for him to bring up Sherry, or even you and the others. He waited for some terrible new hammer to fall, because that seemed to be the way of things.

Instead, it was just questions.

Familiar questions, all revolving around one central theme: tell me what happened that night.

So he did. He relived on tape every agonizing detail. Each moment.

- a shriek and a cracking of bone as it connected -

- the laces of his boot colliding with a skull -

- no time for surprise to even register on his face -

⧫⧫⧫

“All of that, and you weren’t infected,” Simmons mused, stroking the goatee on his chin. “Nearly everyone on base turned, and you-”

“I didn’t eat the same food as everyone else,” you said dryly, because you’d had plenty of time over the last few days to put together that much. “That’s what it was, wasn’t it?”

The man gave you a look that might have been approval, even if it was still filtered through a discerning veneer. “It was. And how convenient that you happened to avoid it. Just as you managed to avoid being infected during the incident at Dorne Base.”

Anger. It lanced through you as soon as Simmons spoke. “If you’re looking to make accusations, don’t waste your time. Did you find Reed’s body with the others?” You didn’t even need Simmons to confirm it, you were so dead set in your belief. You were certain beyond any shadow of a doubt.

⧫⧫⧫

Benford shook his head, and Leon knew you’d been right. He could feel it, even if your explanation had been rushed and delivered in near mania back on the base. How could it not have been? You’d watched another home fall in the same brutal way. You’d endured your nightmare a second time.

Another horror for you to relive.

Another horror for Leon, because every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was a smoking rifle barrel and that look of emptiness on your face-

“How did this happen?” Leon asked, because when he wasn’t thinking of the blood and fires, he was thinking of that one question. “How did you let this happen again?”

The wrinkles already present on Benford’s face deepened as he frowned. There was more guilt there than Leon would have expected. “We put our trust in the wrong person,” he answered, and Leon couldn’t have scoffed more at the understatement.

The wrong person. A man who’d had his run of the base. The authority to do as he pleased.

“Reed was in charge of handling all incoming and outgoing mail. It’s fair to say that’s how he got the virus samples. It would have gone through him first,” Benford admitted, and again Leon was floored by how easy it had been, in hindsight. All Reed had to do was wait until Krauser and Hellman were away . . . “What we don’t know for certain,” the agent went on, “is whether Reed acted alone.”

Leon had been exhausted for days. Sleep evaded him, no matter what he tried. His mind was addled with the fresh poison of memory and nightmare. Even so, even with the stupor he was in, he felt his hackles raise as soon as Benford spoke the words.

“You think someone on base helped him?”

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility.” Some terrible feeling in his gut told Leon who they suspected even before your name was spoken into the air. “You’re quite close with the Sergeant, aren’t you?”

“You can’t be serious.” What other response was he supposed to have? “Are you just throwing accusations around for the hell of it? Or have you found any evidence?”

⧫⧫⧫

“No, we haven’t,” Simmons surprised you by answering honestly, but his intake of breath told you that he wasn’t done. That much was proven further when he lifted the folder he held, and a jolt of adrenaline shot through you. “We did find these, though, hidden under the mattress of your bunk.”

Fuck . . .

He flipped the folder open, and you immediately recognized the printed words on the first page.

𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙾𝙾𝙽 𝙲𝙸𝚃𝚈 𝚁𝙴𝙿𝙾𝚁𝚃 - 𝚂𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁 𝟸𝟽𝚝𝚑, 𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟾

⧫⧫⧫

Leon looked down at the pictures of the reports and felt a new pit open in his stomach. He recognized them. He’d spent a fair amount of time reading through them, under your supervision, after all.

“These same reports were missing from Major Krauser’s office,” Benford began, and Leon didn’t know what to do.

What to say. Telling the truth would implicate not only you, but-

“The Major was adamant that he gave the reports to the Sergeant,” Benford explained, and Leon felt his heart sink. “He asked that punishment be his alone to bear. Claimed that he was the only one responsible for this breach of intelligence.”

⧫⧫⧫

“He lied.” It wasn’t your best performance, but you had to try. Had to do something, or Krauser would take the fall for your curiosity. Another casualty that you could have prevented if you’d been smarter. If you’d just put the fucking reports back when you were done reading through them in the first place. Now, all you could do was pray that your bluff would work. “I took them from his office the night before the attack. Check the camera footage, I was in the officer’s barracks. He’s just trying to cover for me.”

Simmons, for his part, just seemed intrigued by your words. “Really?” he said, raising a brow. “And what reason would he have to do that?”

⧫⧫⧫

Leon knew the reason. He had been ignoring it for long enough, but he knew now. The Major’s service was everything to him, his life in the military all that he had. Still, he’d risked it for you. It all became unavoidable, then; why Krauser had been so harsh with Leon after Fort Benning. Why he’d been taking such an interest in your training. Why he’d given you classified information. Him keeping your secret, his late nights with you, all of it.

Krauser cared for you. More than he should have.

And Leon knew.

If he said as much, if he spoke that truth, Jack Krauser’s career would be over.

Krauser’s feelings for you were a breach of the balance of power. Leon knew that. He would be justified in reporting it . . . but Krauser had never acted on those feelings. At least as far as Leon knew. He cared for you, that much was obvious, but he’d never acted on it. And Leon knew he wouldn’t. For all the harsh training, for every bruising lesson, Krauser was a good man.

A man that Leon, despite himself, cared for.

A man who just wanted the best for those under his command.

Still, a choice had to be made.

Leon wasn’t a liar. He had never been good at it. He’d always spoken the truth, when he could help it.

But more than that, he’d always defended those he cared for.

“He’s loyal to his men,” Leon answered, his voice smaller than he would like. It was true, he supposed. Even if loyalty may not have been all the Major felt towards you. “He would lie to keep them protected in a heartbeat.”

⧫⧫⧫

“And you are loyal to him, it seems.”

You knew where this was going, because Reed had made the exact same implication the other night. It made you want to scream. This whole ordeal did, because it was what little remained of your world being torn apart once more. The dogs and carrion birds had come to tear at the remains of you. It left you on your back heels, trying desperately to defend yourself and your Major both. “I’m loyal to everyone I serve with.”

“Not to your country?”

“To the government that signed off on a deal with Birkin?” you hissed, shaking your head. “That let an Umbrella agent slip under its nose? How can I trust that country when anyone could be working for the enemy? How the fuck can I even know that you’re not with Umbrella? Another asshole on its payroll?” You were seething, now. Swinging blindly at an enemy you couldn’t see, hoping to land any blow.

Simmons regarded you, then, his eyes calculating.

Up until now, everything felt scripted. Like he had been given a loose list of questions to ask you.

In that moment, you felt him break from it.

⧫⧫⧫

“I understand what the Sergeant has gone through,” Benford said, his tone more sympathetic than Leon had ever heard it. “I know that what you both endured might have brought you . . . closer. I know that you likely trust the Sergeant. I’m trying to determine if we can.”

Leon’s jaw clenched. “You’re crazy if you think that anyone who watched their entire base be destroyed, who lost the people most important in their life, who nearly died because of Umbrella, would ever work for those bastards.” Because you wouldn’t. You would never have done this. He didn’t understand why they would even think-

“You were close with Lieutenant Logan Alenko, were you not?”

Benford’s question eviscerated Leon. Dug in before the younger man could even prepare himself.

“Yes,” he answered, numb. “I was.”

“And the Sergeant was too, am I correct?”

Leon winced, the memory of your smiles and wry humor clashing brutally with that newest memory of you. The one that Leon could never and would never forget.

“Yes.”

“But you reported that the Sergeant killed him anyway.”

“He . . . was infected.”

“Infected but not turned, correct?”

“. . . Yes.”

Benford nodded, thinking for a moment. “You may speak freely, Leon,” he said, the eyes framed by glasses piercing but sincere. “Do you think you can trust an individual like that? One who is comfortable committing treason and executing allies?”

Leon knew what answer was expected of him.

⧫⧫⧫

“I suppose you can’t,” Simmons admitted, seeming to mull something over. In the end, he looked towards the one-way glass, towards where other agents and officers were no doubt watching the debriefing, then back to you. “So allow me to be transparent with you.” He leaned forward, his hands clasping together and his elbows resting on the table. “Many of these reports that you’ve read crossed my desk. I was aware of the dealings being made with William Birkin. I was aware that Agent Reed was facilitating that communication.” You didn’t get any satisfaction from that confirmation. Not as Simmons continued. “I oversaw the operation to obtain virus samples when Birkin went silent, and when the situation in Raccoon City became uncontainable, I counseled its destruction.”

You didn’t even have time to process the information. One hundred thousand deaths, deaths that bore down on Leon’s conscious, on your own, in a way . . . lives snuffed out in an instant, all because of this man. Some asshole in a suit. What truly made you feel empty, though, was what Simmons said next.

“And I think you understand why I did it,” he said, and you wanted to look anywhere but his eyes. It felt impossible, though, as he peered at you from over his clasped hands. “You killed Lieutenant Alenko for the same reason.”

You nearly flew across the table at him. Nearly tore his throat out. “It is not the same-”

⧫⧫⧫

You’d done it because you had to. Because Alenko would have turned if you hadn’t. You’d done it, Leon knew, to spare him. It wasn’t heartless of you . . .

⧫⧫⧫

“Oh, but it was,” Simmons shook his head. “It was ugly, but necessary. You kill a friend to keep him from turning into a monster. I destroy a city to keep a nation sleeping peacefully at night. I think you would have done the same thing, in my place. And I think you and I share a similar resentment for the organization that forced our hands.”

The only thing that stayed your rage was hearing it mirrored in Simmons’ voice.

⧫⧫⧫

You did what you had to do.

⧫⧫⧫

“Umbrella has upset the balance of our entire world. We did the same thing once before, developing the atomic bomb. We changed war forever. Now, it will be changed again. As much as we have tried - as I have tried - to keep the knowledge of what Umbrella has developed from the rest of the world, I know that news is already spreading. Our enemies are clamoring for their share of a weapon that can destroy a military base, a city. We will need individuals who can do what must be done,” he said, and you felt the chains clicking into place as he looked at you. “We need individuals like you.”

“I thought I might be responsible for all this?” Bitterness flavored your words because hadn’t he just suggested that you were the plant? That you were working for Umbrella?

Simmons nodded, pensive as he lowered his hands. “I was asked to interrogate you on your potential involvement in this most recent attack, that is true. But you’re right. I think it’s a waste of time. You’re loyal to the men and women you serve with, I believe you when you say that. Unfortunately-” he drummed his fingers against the reports- “you have put me in a difficult situation.”

Because even if you hadn’t been involved in the attack, you had absolutely done something wrong besides. You knew too much. Just as Leon knew too much, when he’d been tracked down after Raccoon City.

They’d threatened a child to force his loyalty. Told him not so subtly that he and Sherry would die if he didn’t agree to give his life in service.

What would they do to you?

“If you’re not with Umbrella,” you began, “then you don’t have anything to worry about from me.”

⧫⧫⧫

You would never hurt anyone unless you had a good reason. Leon knew that truth in his heart.

⧫⧫⧫

“I believe you,” Simmons said again, “but unfortunately, my superiors feel otherwise.”

“I’m offering you my cooperation-”

“And you’re being forgiven for committing treason,” Simmons pointed out. “You’ll forgive them for being cautious.”

“Oh I will?”

“You will,” Simmons nodded. “Because your Major admitted to committing that same treason on record. A record that I can strike or can act on. Just as I can ignore your fraternization, or act on it.”

“I’m not fraternizing with the Major-”

“I wasn’t referring to him. Well, perhaps not only to him.”

You’d been through this enough times by now that it was no longer a shock; that realization that you hadn’t, in fact, been careful. That despite your best efforts, there were precious few ways to hide from eyes that were everywhere.

So, as Simmons reached towards the little TV on the corner of the table and turned it on, it wasn’t shock that overtook you, this time. It was a dark acceptance.

You looked at the screen, seeing the image come to life, low-quality, but unmistakable. Leon’s hair - that fucking ridiculous hair that he refused to cut - made it impossible to think it was anyone else. The shape of you was just as clear as you watched a familiar scene. You knew exactly what day it was. In your gut, you knew. The day you and Leon had faced Krauser together in sparring, right before the final test. The day you’d lamented that you wished to be going into service with Leon. You schooled your expression as best you could as you watched the recording, seeing you both walking back to the barracks, stopping, and then Leon folding his arms around you in a comforting embrace.

⧫⧫⧫

He loved you. However much horror you’d endured, he loved you.

⧫⧫⧫

You watched as, after a moment, your own arms came up to hold him in return.

When you were with him like that, it was easy to forget the passage of time. Comfort had that effect, you supposed. Now, though, each second that embrace lasted on screen seemed to be a lifetime long.

It was always going to turn out like this. You’d known that going in, hadn’t you?

“Is this supposed to be a threat?” you asked, your voice becoming hollow once more.

Simmons shook his head. “It’s an observation. You and Kennedy care for each other. The Major claimed to have no knowledge of anything between the two of you, but Hellman and Reed’s reports both surmise that you two are close.” He tilted his head, opening his hands in a questioning motion. “Just how close are you?”

“He asked me to teach him how to fight,” you said, holding Simmons’ gaze. “We’ve trained together. We’re friends. Nothing more.”

“Really? No deeper feelings at all?”

⧫⧫⧫

He loved you.

⧫⧫⧫

“There’s nothing.”

Simmons didn’t believe you. You could see that much written plainly across his face. Still, he nodded. “Good. I’m sure you’re aware of the importance of Leon’s continued service. I wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize that.” The threat was plain. Barely disguised.

“Nothing will.”

Because if Leon wasn’t in STRATCOM, if he wasn’t an agent for the government, he would be a liability. A man who knew too much.

That much was spelled out for you now, clear as day. If he was thrown from service, his life was forfeit.

Krauser’s career, Leon’s life . . . all riding on you not misbehaving.

The shackles were in place, your path forward clear. They were your weaknesses – the gaps in your armor. Simmons had found them without trouble. He would use them against you, if you gave him cause to.

So long as you were all entangled together, they would be in danger.

In the recording, you and Leon finally stepped away from each other. You watched out of the corner of your eye, numb.

⧫⧫⧫

He hated what you’d done, but he loved you.

⧫⧫⧫

“You want someone who will do whatever it takes? Who will bury Umbrella in the ground? You’ve got them.” If that was what you were put on this Earth to do, then so be it.

You could be their weapon. That was what you’d been training for.

⧫⧫⧫

“Leon,” Benford spoke again, and Leon just wanted the nightmare to stop. He wanted it all to stop, even if just for a moment. “Do you honestly think we can trust a person like that?”

The question wouldn’t have fazed him a week ago. It would have been ridiculous. Insane.

Even now, it wasn’t that he didn’t trust you. He did. He always would.

That didn’t change the fact that he had hesitated in his answer. Something had held his tongue, even if only for a moment. Something he never, ever wanted to associate with you, but he found it there all the same. He found it in the memory of your hollow expression, your blank stare as you lowered the rifle.

Fear.

He’d been afraid of you, in that moment.

Or, perhaps, he’d been afraid for you.

“It had to be done.” Leon was trying to convince the man across from him as much as himself.

So yes. He trusted you.

Even if he would never forget what you’d done.

⧫⧫⧫

Hearing those words, Simmons smiled. “I’m glad we understand each other.” With that, it was done. The agent stood and left, and a few seconds later, soldiers came in to lead you out of the room.

You passed him in the hallway as you were escorted back to your room.

The universe loved its shitty timing, didn’t it?

Leon’s eyes widened just a touch as he saw you. Blue framed in bruising. Still beautiful, just as he had been when you’d seen him across the mess hall. Just as when that bruising had been dealt by your hand and not just a lack of sleep. Maybe that lack of sleep was your fault, too.

You hoped it was.

You hoped he hated you for what you’d done. You certainly did.

It wasn’t hatred that you saw in that gaze, though.

No. Instead, you glimpsed uncertainty. Concern.

Fear.

And what did you give back? What did you spare the man you loved? The man who had saved you the night of the attack and long before then?

Absolutely nothing.

You kept walking, your eyes focused forward as you passed him.

You didn’t even blink. Not until you were back in your appointed cell, finding your belongings there. Fatigues, rucksack . . . and a radio that you shouldn’t have had. One stolen in an act of petty retribution. One that had been your companion as you watched others training for a war that was yours.

Only yours.

It should have only been yours.

You took the radio in your hands. Flipped it on.

A guitar. Drums. A voice that seemed to strain against the very words it sang.

Cracked eggs, dead birds,

Scream as they fight for life

You’d known. You’d known from the start it couldn’t end any other way.

I can feel death, can see its beady eyes

If things could be different . . . if you were anyone, anywhere else . . . but you weren’t. Wishing didn’t matter, not when you were faced with the reality before you. Leon could have your love, or he could have his life. You knew which one he would choose. So you wouldn’t give him the choice.

All these things into position,

All these things we’ll one day swallow whole

Your hands tightened around the radio, your eyes stinging.

And fade out again . . .

Your teeth clenched so hard you thought they might break, just as the plastic on the radio began to groan under your constricting fingers.

And fade out-

Plastic and wiring splintered against the wall. The radio kept playing, even as you dashed it against the concrete. So, you brought your heel up. You knew how to silence something that wouldn’t die. You knew better than anyone.

You brought your boot down and there was a crunch, a warping of voice.

Then, finally, silence.

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insanityclause · 6 months ago

Text

“It must have been in about 1979, I was in New York on holiday. I was sitting up with a friend, and we were both stoned as owls.” Jane Wymark was retelling her brush with a piece of theatre history. She recalled the sound of a telephone cutting through the sour, rising smoke. Wymark answered. Distant and absurd on the other end of the line, a telegram message from her mother. “It said something like: ‘Wonderful job. Hamlet, please come home.’”

After several minutes of laughter, it occurred to Wymark that the call might not be a joke. “So I rung my mother up, and said ‘I’m really sorry if I’m waking you up in the middle of the night for no reason, but is this real?’ And she said, ‘Yes, come home right now, because they want you to play Ophelia.’”

Wymark was being parachuted into a production of Hamlet that was being talked about as among the best of the century. Derek Jacobi, a Shakespearean actor then in his forties and recently made famous by his star turn as the Roman emperor in the television series I, Claudius, was in the title role. In some quarters, Jacobi’s poetic, volatile performance was being talked about as the Hamlet of his generation.

A film of the production would be broadcast in America and viewed by more people at once than any in history. When The New York Times asked Jacobi how he felt knowing that a generation of viewers would come to consider his interpretation definitive, he replied: “That way lies madness.”

One night, Wymark recalled, the cast were taking their bows in the furnacelike auditorium. “By the time we got to the end of the show we were pouring sweat,” she said. “Well I wasn’t, because I’d been dead for a while, but Derek and the guy playing Laertes were just sopping. We’d done all the usual curtain calls and everything, and then Peter O’Toole comes wavering on to the stage.”

O’Toole, then almost 50 and skeletal-gaunt, was carrying in his hands a little red book. As the audience hushed he explained that the book was given to the actor who was considered the definitive Hamlet of his generation. When O’Toole had played the part in 1963, the actor Michael Redgrave had given him the book. Redgrave had been given it by someone else, a great actor of the previous generation, and now O’Toole was passing it on to Jacobi, who in turn could give it to whomever he pleased.

The notion that each generation has its definitive Hamlet is a critical will-o’-the-wisp that has dogged the play almost since it was written. The Edwardian essayist Max Beerbohm called Shakespeare’s most famous part “a hoop through which every eminent actor must, sooner or later, jump”, but only one actor in thousands gets to “give” his or her Hamlet in a professional production. “Everyone — great, good, bad or indifferent — wants to play Hamlet,” the actor Christopher Plummer once said.

Why? The question feels redundant. If you are someone who needs to perform, you are someone who needs to perform Hamlet. In Withnail and I, the 1987 cult comedy film about actors and their ambitions, the bloated, fey, lecherous character known as Uncle Monty has a short speech on the subject: “It is the most shattering experience of a young man’s life when, one morning, he awakes and quite reasonably says to himself, ‘I will never play the Dane.’ When that moment comes, one’s ambition ceases.”

Earlier this year, I set out to find the red book.

As a trophy, a tradition, a secret succession, it seemed to embody some of the most romantic ideas about the part. I felt that in mapping its passage from player to player, I could trace a shadow history of the thing that has been driving the whole theatrical world for centuries: ambition.

This is what brought me to ask the retired Wymark about her encounter with the book. And this is how I eventually came to be standing outside a rambling, gabled cottage in north London, uncertain about whether to ring the bell until a vast Shakespearean sneeze told me I was at the right place. The door opened and I shook hands with a neat, elderly man who looked just like Derek Jacobi. The living room, decorated with antique furniture and hung with flower paintings, left an impression of a precisely chosen life. I said that I wanted to ask him about a red, leather-bound book, handed down from actor to actor, that had passed through his hands decades ago. I said he might be the oldest living actor to have held it in his hands. He furrowed an alpine brow and fixed his pale blue eyes on a tiny point just past my left eye. “Oh God,” he moaned, in an agony of remembrance. “It was a little copy of Hamlet . . . ”

Of course, there is no definitive Hamlet. This is true, and so obviously true that people have been saying it for hundreds of years. “There is no such thing as Shakespeare’s Hamlet,” wrote Oscar Wilde. “There are as many Hamlets as there are melancholies.” This is true! Hamlet is sour, obedient, suicidal, sarcastic, self-indulgent, flip and outright murderous before the end of his second scene. Modern scholarship has been wincingly keen to stress the heterogeneity of possible responses. As I once heard a professor say in a university seminar, should we be speaking of Hamlets, rather than Hamlet?

Perhaps. But we should also be honest: that sucks and we hate it. We also can’t ignore the genealogy of great Hamlets that exists, stretching all the way back to Richard Burbage, Shakespeare’s star performer and business partner, for whom the role was written. That the character and the play are both radically unstable and look totally different in different hands seems to have made us more eager to pinpoint a single actor’s performance as the one. Producers, theatre managers, actors and journalists have connived to reinforce that idea.

Hamlet does offer an actor a scope and centrality that no other part does. “It’s the great personality role in Shakespeare,” Jacobi explained when we were sitting down, his hands conducting the silence around him as he spoke. He had settled in a winged leopard-print armchair, like a portrait of himself. On the side table was an Olivier Award, a small bronze sculpture of the great Laurence Olivier himself, the man who won both Best Actor and Best Picture for his 1948 film of Hamlet, and then launched the National Theatre in 1963 with a production of the play. “You use much more of your own personality as Hamlet,” Jacobi said, “rather than becoming Hamlet by going out and acquiring things. . . Hamlet will look how the actor looks, sound how he sounds, move how he moves. You play yourself as Hamlet.”

Jacobi first came to prominence as a teenage Hamlet, in an eye-catchingly serious schoolboy production at the Edinburgh festival fringe. In his early twenties he joined the germinal National Theatre and played opposite O’Toole’s Hamlet as Laertes. In his forties, he was given the red book by O’Toole, filmed in the role and toured the world. He was sworn to revenge under sheets of pelting rain outside the real Elsinore castle in Denmark. He soliloquised and played mad by the Egyptian Sphinx as the sun set.

A particular challenge of playing the part, Jacobi told me, is delivering lines so famous they risk breaking the audience’s suspension of disbelief. In his production, the second act began with Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy. Unusually, it was played as a speech delivered to Ophelia, rather than on an empty stage. In Sydney, at the end of the tour, Jacobi was waiting nervously in the wings. “I thought, ‘This is probably the most famous line in all drama. What if I forgot it? What if I went on and my mind went blank?’ And I went on, and I started . . .

“To be, or not to be, that is the question/ Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer/ The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune/ Or–

Or–

Or–”

Blinded to the astonishment of a thousand spectators by the force of the footlights, Jacobi realised he’d dried. Dried completely. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten the words. It was like he’d never known them. An entire minute of silence passed, until he was audibly given his line by Ophelia. Somehow, he got through the performance and the rest of the run. Afterwards, Jacobi didn’t go on stage again for two years. When I mentioned the incident, his eyes turned tight and hooded. He asked to talk about something else. Sensing my cue, I returned to the red book.

“Oh God. Rich!” he called into the next room. “Who did I give the book to?”

“You gave it to Ken Branagh,” called Richard Clifford, Jacobi’s partner, from offstage.

“Ken! I gave it to Ken,” said Jacobi. Then, calling back: “Who did Ken give the book to?”

“Tom Hiddleston!”

“Tom! He gave it to Tom.”

I asked how he had received the book himself and he went back into the trance of remembrance. “Now, I was playing Hamlet at the Old Vic. And at the curtain call one night, Peter O’Toole came on to the stage with this book and gave it to me. And he had originally been given it by . . . Oh . . . ” He trailed off, unable to remember Redgrave.

“Oh!” cried Clifford from the kitchen.

“Oh!” cried Jacobi in the living room.

Johnston Forbes-Robertson. That was the name of the first owner of the red book. Forbes-Robertson was a legendary Victorian actor who played Hamlet into his sixties. The book itself was a Temple Shakespeare, a handsome reader’s edition of the play printed around the turn of the century and bound in red leather. He probably bought it in a West End bookshop, pacing around between rehearsals. Or so I’m told by Russell Jackson, an emeritus professor at the University of Birmingham. “It would have been instantly recognisable,” he told me. “You can hold it more or less in the palm of your hand.”

In 1996, Jackson was working as a script consultant on a film of Hamlet directed by Branagh, who was then in the middle of a hurtling, flame-tipped ascent to near-unprecedented eminence among Shakespearean actors. As a leading man who had run his own theatre company and could direct and star in internationally released film adaptations of the plays, there was no one to compare him to but Olivier. He was now at work on a princely four-hour fantasia, shot amid fake fallen snow at Blenheim Palace with himself in the starring role.

He had cast his old hero, Jacobi, as Hamlet’s murderous uncle Claudius. On his last day of shooting, after the traditional applause that follows a final take, Jacobi asked for silence. Jackson kept a diary at the time: “[Jacobi] holds up a red-bound copy of the play that successive actors have passed on to each other, with the condition that the recipient should give it in turn to the finest Hamlet of the next generation. It has come from Forbes-Robertson, a great Hamlet at the turn of the century, to Derek, via Henry Ainley, Michael Redgrave, Peter O’Toole and others. Now he gives it to Ken.”

Hamlet had been a pivotal document in Branagh’s life. As a teenager in 1977, he had seen Jacobi play the role at the New Theatre in Oxford. In his memoir, he remembers it as one of the moments that inspired him to become an actor. “I didn’t understand it at all, but I was amazed by the power of it because it seemed to be affecting my body. I got the shakes at times.”

Two years later, Branagh went to interview Jacobi, who was then playing Hamlet at the Old Vic. “I got a note from someone called Ken Branagh, saying, could he interview me for Rada’s magazine?” Jacobi told me, referring to the prestigious London acting school Branagh attended. “He was a personable young man. He asked good questions. As he left, he said: ‘I’m going to be playing Hamlet one day, and you’re going to be in it.’”

“Ken,” Jacobi added with a smile, “wasn’t slow in coming forward.”

It was no secret that Branagh had set his sights on matching, even reanimating, Olivier’s career. With his movie of Hamlet, he was threatening to run away with the crown. But while the film won plaudits from some critics, it made back only around a quarter of its budget, and Branagh was nominated only for best adapted screenplay at the Oscars, a curiously backhanded compliment for a Hamlet that advertised itself as the complete text.

Branagh held on to the book for more than 20 years, passing over several acclaimed Hamlets (David Tennant’s agonised spectre foremost among them) in that time. “I took special pains to make sure it was preserved,” said Branagh, who was reached with written questions via an agent and an aide during the shooting of his new film. “I felt the book was something rather treasured and private, and not something that you in any way crowed about. You were a temporary custodian.” In 2017, he finally handed the red book on to the actor sometimes thought of as his protégé, Hiddleston.

So there it was. Redgrave to O’Toole to Jacobi to Branagh to Hiddleston. But still, something wasn’t adding up. I began desperately ringing round old actors asking for snippets of information about the red book, and started reciting the list of names from Jackson’s diary entry: Forbes-Robertson, Ainley, Redgrave, O’Toole, Jacobi, among others. Every time I read the list, everyone said the same thing. Where the hell is Olivier?

Here is a story about Laurence Olivier. Once upon a time, in the early 1800s, there was a great Shakespearean actor called Edmund Kean. He was the Hamlet of the Romantics. Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote that watching him was “like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning”. Kean was also renowned for playing Shakespeare’s other great soliloquist, Richard III. As the hunchbacked villain, Kean would rage and swagger and strut about, swishing a great sword in his hand. That sword was passed to William Chippendale, a member of Kean’s company. Chippendale gave it to an actor called Henry Irving, who gave it to the great Ellen Terry who, we understand, gave it to her great nephew. His name was John Gielgud. Gielgud gave the sword to his contemporary, Olivier, telling him to pass it on to the great actor of the next generation. And Olivier kept it.

He is rumoured to have been buried with it. Certainly, the sword has not been seen since his death. (One of the last people to see it was Jacobi, who confirmed to me that Olivier still had it as a very old man.) Is Olivier really lying in his grave with no tongue between his teeth and Kean’s sword beside him? If he is, it feels like a little parable about the sharp, inward points of ambition. Here was a man who got everything and more from a life in the theatre. But he couldn’t bear to part with a prop sword.

The question of why Olivier never received the book becomes more pressing when you read the letters he received playing Hamlet from the Edwardian actor Henry Ainley, the book’s second owner. On opening night, January 5 1937, Ainley telegrammed Olivier in his dressing room: “THE READINESS IS ALL.” Later that night he wrote: “You, my sweet, are the Mecca . . . Pay no heed to the critics, they do not know. You are playing Hamlet; therefore you are a king [ . . . ] You rank, now among the great.”

Ainley’s hornily free-associating letters seem to imply a physical affair at times. “Larry darling, I have been tossing (now now) about at night thinking of you,” he writes in one of the letters, currently kept by the British Library.

“Well, you know what you did. I can’t walk [ . . . ] And the child has your eyes.” Yet it is Olivier’s fame that Ainley most obviously covets. “Soon you will be like [me],” he writes in another. “Your public, your following all gone, dear old boy! The harlequinade. We do not endure!” There is no mention in their correspondence of the red book. Whether Ainley had already given the book away, or felt compelled to hang on to it, or simply had forgotten it, remains a matter of speculation.

It’s not the only agonising gap in the archive. In 1963, an older Olivier cast Peter O’Toole in the production of Hamlet that would open the National Theatre. O’Toole had already played a wild, revelatory Hamlet at the Bristol Old Vic in 1958, in which he famously climbed the proscenium arch mid-performance. It was an interpretation that harnessed the young actor’s modernity. “He’s a lean, lank, individualist Teddy Boy!” one reviewer enthused.

But in 1963, Olivier had other ideas. “It was very strange,” remembers Siân Phillips, O’Toole’s then wife, now aged 91. “Larry [Olivier] had talked him into this terrible costume. He looked like Little Lord Fauntleroy, with a Peter Pan collar and clean, beautifully cut dyed blond hair.”

Phillips thought Olivier seemed to want to trim the edges off her husband. “Larry had this new kind of concept of a very tidy Hamlet, which was the opposite of what [O’Toole] did best. But he had such regard for Larry, who was flattering him enormously. He just did everything asked of him.” Phillips had put her own starry career on hold to let O’Toole have the spotlight. She did his filing and kept track of gifts he had been given, making sure people were thanked, which was why she found it strange that she’d never heard of the red book.

Together, we wondered if the unhappy production had made it a sore point for her husband. “The thought did cross my mind once or twice that Olivier might be trying to sabotage him,” she said. “But how could he want to do that on the opening night of the National Theatre?” On the other end of the phone, I thought of Kean’s sword.

Perhaps this is harsh. Perhaps we can understand the desire to have and hold on to a physical token of fame, strength, adulation, applause, youth — the things that slip away from even the greatest artists. All performers live in fear of unemployment and redundancy, and even the successful ones are loved, fiercely and temporarily, for being someone they’re not. “Today kings, tomorrow beggars, it is only when they are themselves that they are nothing,” wrote William Hazlitt, the English essayist.

“British theatre has traditionally privileged innovation,” the Shakespearean scholar Michael Dobson told me. In France, he explained, you could see Phèdre performed with the same gestures, the same intonation, for hundreds of years. “The British are always inventing new things, like gas lighting and ways of doing ghosts with mirrors. It’s never the old, boring Hamlet your parents used to like. It’s always got this young, original, absolutely real actor in it, instead of those stylised old geezers.”

In which case, let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories about great actors who fell from fashion. It was Burbage who first delivered Hamlet’s acting advice to the players: “O’erstep not the modesty of nature: for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature.”

Until the modern day, actors didn’t play big roles just once or twice in their careers, in a long run of performances. They performed them frequently. Even in Shakespeare’s time, actors became associated with certain parts in the minds of spectators. Burbage died in March 1619, and the funeral baked meats were hardly cold when he was replaced by another actor, Joseph Taylor.

An unreliable but enticing story has it that Burbage taught Taylor, and Taylor taught the next great Hamlet, Thomas Betterton. Betterton was the Hamlet of Restoration theatre, among the first to play opposite women. Confronting his father’s ghost, Betterton’s Hamlet could “turn his colour”, as though his face had drained of blood with fright. Betterton made his face “pale as his neck cloth”.

Betterton died in 1710, immortality assured. Within a few decades his reputation had been all but vaporised by the greatest actor of the century, David Garrick. Garrick was almost a religion among theatregoers. “That young man never had his equal as an actor, and will never have a rival,” was the poet and critic Alexander Pope’s verdict. Garrick was both a shameless showman and pioneering realist. He played Hamlet in a mechanical fright wig that made his hair stand on end when activated.

Garrick was replaced by John Philip Kemble, a severe and statuesque Hamlet. In the early 19th century, Kemble was outmoded by Kean, whose ascendant star was quickly selling out theatres. “Places are secured at Drury Lane for Saturday, but so great is the rage for seeing Kean that only a third and fourth row could be got,” wrote Jane Austen, struggling to get seats. Out with the old. Next came Samuel Phelps, the actor-manager who first made a point of performing the original texts of Shakespeare’s plays. He was toppled by Henry Irving, a drawn and gothic actor. Irving was supposedly the inspiration for Dracula; his theatre manager was Bram Stoker.

Enter the melancholic, effeminate figure of Forbes-Robertson, the first owner of our red book. His Hamlet, first performed in 1897 and still being revived into his sixties, was in some ways the last definitive stage performance in this unofficial, highly debatable but surprisingly enduring tradition. “Nothing half so charming,” George Bernard Shaw wrote of his performance, “has been seen by this generation.” Orson Welles described one recording of Forbes-Robertson as the most beautiful Shakespearean verse-speaking he ever heard. You can still listen to it on YouTube, uploaded from an ancient LP.

“The next reference to the actor’s art,” creaks the old voice above the hiss of imperfectly transcribed sound, “is Hamlet’s advice to the players, written, obviously, by an actor who has complete command of his calling.” In a voice ponderous with time but still capable of lightness and precision, he begins the passage in which Hamlet gives notes to a theatrical troupe. “Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue.”

Forbes-Robertson would have seen more clearly than many of his successors how rapidly the galaxy of theatrical ambition was expanding. He was the first great Hamlet to play the part on film, in a lumpy silent production in 1913. If that film looks stagey and stylised to modern eyes, then looking back at these nested revolutions in realism, it’s also obvious that old actors have always looked that way in the eyes of their successors. Naturalism is just the style each era brings with it.

Hamlet’s advice was itself part of this reach towards the endlessly receding goal of the real. To an Elizabethan audience, the travelling troupe with their heroic verse and stagey couplets would have seemed obviously to belong to a previous generation of players, one playwrights like Shakespeare, and plays such as Hamlet, were making redundant. Hamlet says to the players what the theatre is always saying: be young, be modern, be new.

You can’t ask too much of very famous actors. Basic professionalism demands that they don’t tell you anything too interesting. They live like criminals, travelling under pseudonyms and booking the front seat on aeroplanes. We abhor in their personal lives the basic human latitude we praise in their work. “I am myself indifferent honest yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me,” Hamlet says to Ophelia. “What should such fellows as I do, crawling between heaven and earth?”

I had hundreds of questions for Hiddleston, the 43-year-old star of the Marvel Cinematic Universe and current holder of the red book. Unfortunately, Hiddleston is not an easy man to reach. As the man who plays Loki in the Marvel series (global gross about $30bn), he has been watched at his craft by an unimaginable number of human eyes. He does his work in green-screen and widescreen settings that would also have been unimaginable to 90 per cent of the people named in this article. Where Burbage played Hamlet without an interval, Hiddleston’s fame is a postmodern mosaic, put together in franchise films with an average shot length of two seconds. Given that he commands multimillion-dollar fees for these acts of cinematic pointillism, you may imagine his time is precious. I was able to reach him by phone for 15 minutes during press week for Loki season 2’s Emmy campaign. “Good morning,” he said, dialling in from Los Angeles. “I mean, sorry, good evening.”

Hiddleston played Hamlet in a fundraiser production for Rada directed by Branagh in 2017. He told me how he had left drama school and joined Declan Donnellan’s Cheek by Jowl theatre company, standing out as Cassio in a somewhat legendary modern Othello, in which Ewan McGregor played Iago opposite Chiwetel Ejiofor in the lead. Branagh saw the production and persuaded Marvel studios to let him cast this relative unknown in Thor, which then grossed almost half a billion dollars. Afterwards, they sat down for lunch and Branagh suggested Hamlet. “And I said, ‘I would absolutely love to do it with you. What an honour.’”

The production played for three weeks in Rada’s tiny theatre, with tickets that were won by lottery. Among the critics, Michael Billington, Britain’s most decorated theatre writer, was one of the few to have got a seat. “If I had to pick out Hiddleston’s key quality, it would be his ability to combine a sweet sadness with an incandescent fury,” Billington wrote in his review. On Saturdays, Hiddleston remembered, there were gala performances for graduates and theatrical somebodies. “I think at the first one almost everybody with the last name ‘Attenborough’ in the UK was in attendance.”

On one of these evenings, a glass was clinked with a spoon. Jacobi began to speak, explaining something about a book that had passed from actor to actor. “And then Ken was at the microphone, explaining that the responsibility of the keeper of the book is that they pass it on to the next generation. And suddenly Ken said, ‘I’d like to present it to Tom.’”

We were 10 minutes into our 15. I looked at my list of questions — on frontispieces, annotations, signatures, printing quirks — about the red book. Hiddleston was in LA. The book was in London. He was not contractually obliged to talk to me, as he was to the other journalists who were waiting on iPhones all over the world. All that was sustaining this conversation was the actor’s private enthusiasm for the kind of acting he is rarely, if ever, able to do anymore.

Hiddleston began to talk at length. He said the gift of playing the part was to be presented with the most beautiful, profound poetry written in English about the question of being alive, of death, of the possibility of spiritual life after death.

An email arrived saying our time was up. “It has the effect of making me feel more alive,” Hiddleston was saying. “Learning and internalising those great soliloquies, and having to perform them, there is no escaping those big questions of what it means to be alive,” he went on, the minutes ticking by. “And actually I find it very reassuring to ask those questions. I find it repetitively reassuring to say those words. Because it actually makes your life mean something.”

#tom hiddleston #kenneth branagh #Derek Jacobi #hamlet #the red book

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christinesficrecs · 1 year ago

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Hello! Do you have any fics like “Let’s build a beehive” by GreyHaven?

Thanks for all you do!

Hey! I definitely got off track but here are a few similar fics.

Let's build a beehive by GreyHaven | 25K

Ten years after he last saw Derek, Stiles' life is in ruins and he has nowhere else to turn. He has Derek's address but will he be welcomed?

Not Quite Lost (Not Quite Found) by alocalband | 25K | Explicit

A year after the nogitsune is defeated, Derek is living a quiet life in the mountains above a small town in Colorado.

Then Stiles shows up.

The Sun Comes Crashing In by pinetreekate | 18K | Explicit

Coming back to the moment, the guy says, “So, you got a plan for all your canning? A big family, or lots of friends and co-workers?”

“Not really,” Derek says wryly. “It’s a … new hobby, I guess, and I got a little carried away.” A little, he thinks, that’s a laugh. Hugely carried away, is more like it. “I have way, way more than I know what to do with.”

“Happens,” the guy says, smiling into his eyes. Derek’s heart skips a beat as the eye contact lasts a second longer than it maybe should. “I’m Stiles, by the way,” he says, holding out a hand.

Derek shakes his hand, has to remind himself to let go. “Derek,” he answers, and feels his ears warm up.

Inertia by apocryphal | 21.6K | Mature

The last thing Derek and Cora are expecting to find outside their motel room is a gaunt Stiles Stilinski, lacrosse bag on one shoulder and the weight of the world on the other.

Gracious In Defeat by yodasyoyo | 18.1K | Mature

Stiles needs to get away from Beacon Hills after the end of his senior year. Derek offers to let him stay with him in São Paulo, and they finally act on the tension that has always simmered between them.

The thing is, when it’s time to go home- Stiles doesn’t want to leave.

The Moon’s Gonna Follow Me Home by turningterrific | 82.8K | Explicit

Derek doesn’t want to call the window repair guy. He doesn’t want to sweep up the glass. He’ll inevitably miss a few shards and pull them out of the bottom of his bare feet for weeks.

He doesn’t want to try to make this place feel like home when it isn’t.

Derek stayed in Beacon Hills and tried to make it work because he wanted pack, wanted purpose. He gave his best effort and found himself back where he started: alone, with a few begrudging allies. He’s tired, and even though his werewolf body heals quickly, he feels the weary ache down to his center.

He packs his car with the few things he cares about enough to drag them from place to place. He locks the loft and calls a realtor about listing the building he’d bought in a misguided attempt to secure a future.

And then he leaves.

Pretty Melody by thepsychicclam | 30.5K | Explicit

Stiles hasn't seen Derek in six years, so when he shows up at the bar where Stiles works, claiming to be some indie rock star, Stiles can't believe it. Stiles has even more trouble believing that he and Derek are about to have a one night stand.

Soon one night turns into two and three, and seeing Derek causes old wounds to open for Stiles. As Stiles reconnects with Derek, he finds himself painting things he's been avoiding, and he thinks maybe he'll finally start to heal.

hyper heart alone by hito | 34.5K

When Stiles returns home to help his father recover from an injury, he discovers that things have changed somewhat in his absence: Derek is working closely with Stiles’ father, around the house and underfoot, generally annoying and disconcerting Stiles with his presence.

Well, Stiles isn’t sure you could call all the sex they end up having annoying, but he isn’t really willing to call it anything else, either.

The Hollow Moon by thepsychicclam | 180K

It’s the summer after Stiles’ first year of college, and he’s working a crappy job and dealing with nightmares and anxiety - but he’s okay, he swears. He makes it through most days without too much trouble. Then, a certain werewolf comes back into town. Which Stiles doesn’t care about, nope, not at all.

A Californian Werewolf in New York by dancinbutterfly, knight_tracer | 16.3K | Explicit

When Derek finally realizes that there’s nothing left for him in Beacon Hills, he goes back to New York, gets a life, falls in love and finds his home.

there's a ritual for that by Spikedluv | 34.6K

Six months after Derek and Cora leave Beacon Hills, Stiles gets a text from Cora – they’re in trouble and need help. Turns out that Derek is being wooed by a neighboring pack. The Alpha remembers his mother fondly and would love to have a Hale in her pack. Especially if that means she might breed in the ability to change into a full wolf. And she’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer, even when Derek lies and tells her that he already has a mate.

Except Derek didn’t lie. When Stiles shows up to help with the emergency, he inadvertently discovers that he is Derek’s mate. Stiles tries not to think about it (he knows that the mate bond isn’t written in stone, just look at Scott and Allison) as he (and Lydia, and Deaton) research mates and the challenges to the mate bond (because, of course there’s a ritual for that) and try to keep the Alpha of the Palmer pack from discovering Stiles’ connection to Derek.

Home Is Wherever I'm With You by aussiebee | 9.9K | Explicit

Stiles goes backpacking across Europe and eventually settles with his family in Poland to go to uni there. He's trying his hardest to forget the drama of the past, and to get over a certain werewolf he once knew, but it turns out that's not as easy to do as he'd hoped.

#asks #sterek fics #ficrecs #derek leaves #derek comes back #stiles comes back #how stiles and derek got together #domestic sterek

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hazyange1s · 6 months ago

Text

MC: Ronan Sharp

Basics

Full name: Ronan Finley Sharp

Nickname(s): Ron (pronounced with a hard o), Sharpie, Prince Charming (by Sebastian)

Gender: male

Species: wizard/Selkie

Date of birth: September 21, 1874

Nationality: English and Irish

Blood status: pureblood

Wand: laurel, unicorn hair, 13 in, reasonably pliant

Appearance

Hair color: dark auburn

Hair style: loose, short waves with some curtain fringe

Eye color: hazel

Skin tone: fair; often with a light tan

Height: 6’1”

Body type: lean and toned

Clothing style: wears all colors (but especially loves light neutrals, warm tones, and black), prefers comfortable and unique fabrics (flannel, cashmere, fur)

Accessories:

Wears the Sharp family signet ring

Enjoys the occasional hat

Keeps his mother’s picture in his pocket watch

Other distinguishing features:

Freckles (of course)

Scar over his right eye (tried to Apparate at thirteen and splinched himself — still has poor vision in that eye)

Personality

Traits: friendly, enthusiastic, fun-loving, clever, sarcastic, perfectionistic, bossy

Likes: shakespeare, comfort food, medicine/biology, fall, making people laugh, generosity, genuineness

Dislikes: superiority complexes, dishonesty (from himself and others), large birds, flakes

Hobbies: chess, healing, charm creation, archery

Fears: the BIRDS man, abandonment, not being good enough

MBTI: ENFJ-A

Enneagram: 2w3 (268) so/sp

Zodiac: virgo sun, cancer moon, sagittarius rising

Temperament: sanguine

Archetype: the Caregiver

Similar characters: Apollo, Cedric Diggory, Richard Gansey, Lily Potter, Padme Amidala, Derek Shepherd

Family/Friends

Father: Aesop Sharp

Potions master and Slytherin alumnus

Stern with high expectations but well-meaning

Married his step mother when Ronan was five

Mother: Kassady DesRosiers (Fallon)

Pureblood

Dragonologist, Gryffindor alumnus

Killed when Ronan was 15 — he never got to meet her

Sibling: Raegan DesRosiers

Half-blood (same mother, different father)

Technically twins — Ronan was conceived and born first, but they shared a womb for 7 months

Gryffindor

Don’t meet properly until their sixth year

Pet: Apollo (tawny owl)

Received after his Hogwarts letter

Sort of the “communal owl” that all of his friends “borrow”

Gets into fights with the other owls oops

Friends: Poppy Sweeting, Diana Blackwine, Arthur Plumley, Adelaide Oaks, Ominis Gaunt, Garreth Weasley, Leander Prewett, Natsai Onai

Magic

Boggart: ostrich (lame)

Patronus: seal

Polyjuice: turns light green and tastes like fennel

Amortentia: lemon, butter, sage, frankincense

Special abilities:

Selkie blood — passed down from his father’s side and dilute enough to present rarely in a bloodline. Allows him to hold his breath underwater for extended periods of time; great swimmer, affinity for sea-dwelling creatures

Does not possess ancient magic

Exceptional and instinctual Healer

Backstory

Ronan was born in Cambridge, England in secret. His mother Kassady had hidden him from her abusive husband — as well as the fact that he was the product of a love affair with her former suitor; Aesop. Ronan grew up not knowing his birth mother (or the fact that he had a half/twin sister); raised by his father until Sharp married when his son was five.

He had a relatively happy childhood, though Ronan always felt slightly out of place. He was not the overly studious, serious type, which caused misunderstandings between him and his strict father… especially when Ronan is sorted into Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin (the Sharp family’s ancestral House).

But as he grows and learns more about his past and his family, he begins to come into his own as he becomes a Charms prodigy and a guiding light for the next generation of Keepers 😉.

Academics

Best Subject: Charms, Magical Theory

Worst subject: Ancient Runes

Favorite teacher: Ronen and Kogawa

Least favorite teacher: Sharp (he’s harder on him than the rest oop)

As a student:

Very popular and personable; gets along with pretty much everyone (but isn’t a pushover)

His dyslexia causes him some trouble. Overall his intelligence and hard work helps him find ways around it

Mischievous — sort of a “thief in the night” that nobody suspects

Future

Career: Mediwizard

Ronan desires to make something of himself; to make a difference and be somebody useful in society. After seeing the impact that the goblin rebellion had on people and watching his sister/friends struggle with all manner of ailments (both mental and physical), he changes his career path from an Auror to Mediwizard.

He’d always had an interest in biology and medicine. The job allows him to dive deeper into those fascinations while giving him the adventure and variety Ronan secretly craves — he winds up traveling around Europe after Hogwarts under the employment of St. Mungo’s. Specializes in curses and mental illness.

Future spouse: undecided for now (side note: I’m always open to MCxMC ships! Ronan is pansexual so we’re not picky 😂)

#finally started fleshing him out and I gotta say this is the ideal man #rae stop making mcs you’re in love with.#hogwarts legacy #harry potter #hogwarts legacy screenshots #hogwarts legacy mc #hl #hufflepuff #ronan sharp

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justanothersterekficgirl · 1 year ago

Text

The Sweetest of Words (Have the Bitterest Taste) by Omni

Explicit | 9k | 1/1

“Ah, yeah, Desiree, I told you I was meeting someone. Well, that someone is Derek. My boyfriend. We’re totally in love.” His heart was racing and Derek was holding him so tight it was difficult to turn enough to face the young woman. What he did see of her had his breath catching on fishhooks in his throat. She was normally a relatively pretty girl, with cute round cheeks and large dark eyes, but in that moment she looked…terrifying. Her cheeks seemed gaunt, her eyes glowing like they were little windows peeking into a deep pit of raging flame.

(Or: Five or so years after the show. Stiles is in college, and finds himself getting stalked by a succubus. Derek's determined that the best way to thwart her is to prove that he and Stiles are madly in love. It's not really as much of an act as either seems to think.)

#sterekrecs #sterek fics #ao3 sterek #sterek #eternal sterek #jasfgrecs #sterek au #derek x stiles #derek hale/stiles stilinski #derek hale #stiles stilinski #collegeau #fakerelationship #toberead #sterek<10k

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ewritesfanfics · 7 months ago

Text

The Swan Prince

The latest installment of my Krexie Fairytales series! I'm so sorry this one took so long, I'll try to have the next one out quicker.

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55694506

The Swan Princess, but make it Krexie. --- Inspired by the 1994 film with touches taken from the ballet. Featuring Krel as Odette and Douxie as Prince Derek (or Sigfried, as the prince was originally named in the ballet).

Up Next: The Princess and the Frog

Excerpt because these just keep getting longer, way too long for a tumblr post:

Douxie emerges onto the shore of a sparkling lake. Its beauty is breathtaking, and something about it makes his magic swell in his chest, lighter than air.

But admiring it will have to wait. He’s chased this damn swan across half the forest it feels like, and he will take it down.

He looks around for the creature and spots it as it gracefully flutters from atop a rock to settle lightly on the surface of the water near the shore where he stands.

What is it doing?

Doesn’t matter.

He aims one last time. This ends here and now. Take it down. Figure out what it did to Krel. Kill it.

A louder fluttering distracts him for a moment, and at the far end of the lake, three more swans appear out of the tree cover, alighting on the water.

He turns his eyes back to the glowing swan just as pure moonlight hits the lake, turning the water brilliant silver.

The water around the swan glows cyan, and Douxie watches in awe as it starts to swirl around the swan, lifting higher and higher in a shimmering curtain until it falls away with a splash, leaving in the swan’s place…

“…Krel?”

He stands shin-deep in the lake, his pant legs soaked through and the entire now nigh unrecognizable suit in muddy tatters, covered in streaks of dirt and stains from grass and foliage, and he’s already lost weight in his frame and face, though the gauntness is exacerbated by the deep circles under his eyes and the devil-may-care state of his hair, his circlet nowhere in sight. He looks less like a prince and more like a wild, half-starved forest-dweller. But it’s undeniable—Douxie would know him anywhere, in any state, come rain or shine.

The next word, said in a hoarse, choked, desperately relieved voice confirms for him though that it is exactly who he thinks, and not his mind playing a trick on him.

“Douxie.”

His bow and arrow clatter against ancient, cracked stone.

Douxie takes off into the water, and the moment he reaches Krel, he picks him up and swings him around, his heart singing with joy. When Krel’s feet meet the ground again, Douxie doesn’t waste another second, pulling him into a deep kiss, holding him in a tight embrace.

Krel presses in just as close, wrapping his arms around Douxie’s shoulders, tears beading at the corners of his eyes.

When they finally break apart to breathe, Krel says with a quiet laugh, “I never thought I’d get to do that.”

“I should’ve done that years ago,” Douxie says, pressing his forehead to Krel’s. “I’m sorry for being so stupid.”

“We were both stupid,” Krel says. “I’ve missed you so much.”

#krexie #krel tarron #hisirdoux casperan #little bit of jlaire #krexie fairytales

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fandom-imagines-stories · 1 year ago

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Interventions Part Two

Season Two Episode Seven

Dr. Spencer Reid x Reader (Aaron Hotchner’s Sister)

Words: 4430

Series Masterlist

Summary: Derek brings the reader back to the BAU after a tenuous reunion. The people who love her band together to mend her broken spirit.

Notes: Alright, here is the second half of one of my favorite episodes I think I’ve had the idea for. Exploring the relationships with every character is something I’ve always wanted to do and I’m so glad I was able to do it here.

Alcoholism, suicidal thoughts/actions, depression, PTSD, etc. (I told you guys in the last one, so ye have been warned)

You felt that it should have worked by now. That you should feel new and better and unbroken. But even as Derek pulled the car into the parking garage, all you could feel was the coldness of the concrete, the depth of the sunless dark corners, as if your mind were melding with the space outside of you. It was stupid. You’d spent so long studying the human mind and yet you still expected to magically feel like everything was fine the minute you stepped into the building.

But you didn’t.

Instead, that crushing weight of panic on your chest crumbled into numbness. A defense, you thought, to force yourself to keep walking in those doors.

You didn’t see them. Only a glimpse. Derek walked you right to Penelope’s den of an office without so much as stopping to check in with the others.

In the glass of the window, you saw your reflection.

Gaunt was the only word that came to mind.

You didn’t remember putting the scarf around your neck and yet the shock of purple broke up the blankness of the rest of you, from your face to your jacket. Like you were burying yourself but the memory of him wouldn’t let you completely.

Stop analyzing yourself, Y/N.

Is this how it felt to lose your mind? Is this how your mother felt when she stirred that poison in with the sugar?

Empty?

“Garcia’s going to sit with you for a bit while I talk to Hotch,” Derek said.

“Can’t we just get this over with so I can go home?” You knew the real reason you were here was for them to figure out if you were a risk to yourself or others. The BAU’s version of suicide watch. “There are some things that still need to be taken care of. Come on.”

You glanced over your shoulder again, hoping and dreading you’d see him. Either of them. But you didn’t.

Derek opened the door.

Penelope

The head of puffy blonde hair whipped around as soon as the latch clicked. Penelope shut off her screens, but you still caught glimpses of your info displayed on several monitors.

“Oh my god, you’re here,” she exclaimed. “I-I was so worried we wouldn’t find you. But you’re here and you’re okay and-”

“Penelope,” Derek said firmly.

“Right, sorry. Deep breaths.” She stood up and opened her arms. “Is it okay if I hug you?”

“Yeah, Penelope. You can hug me,” you laughed, but only slightly. The other woman pulled you into her arms and you felt a slight spark in your chest cut through the numbness.

“You okay if she stays in here while I go talk to everyone?” Derek's eyes conveyed a plan and she nodded in understanding.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll make us some tea. Do you want tea?”

“I’m okay, thanks.”

Derek looked at you one more time and you felt something pass between you. Whether it was thanks or dread, you couldn’t tell. He closed the door behind him.

“I have snacks around here somewhere. You’re probably starving.” Penelope rummaged through her drawers. “Have a seat. Make yourself at home.”

You did as she said, but didn’t say anything. You were still imagining the two men in the other room. What were they thinking? What were they talking about? Were they angry? Relieved? Did they wish you’d just stayed vanished?

“Hey,” her sweet voice cut through the trance of negativity. You blinked and refocused on her face. “I’m not going to ask if you’re okay because that’s a stupid question.”

You just looked at her, blankly, not even nodding to understand you understood, but somehow she knew you did.

“I don’t know if Reid ever told you, but I almost died last year. It would have been around when you guys started seeing each other, but before you and I met. I was shot by a guy I went on a date with. I thought he liked me, but he was just using me because of this whole other thing.”

You remembered Spencer talking about his friend being in the hospital, but you had no idea it was something like that.

“Penelope, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay.” Her lips tugged to a sad smile. “I survived. Just like you did. Not that we went through the same thing, of course, but I just thought you should know that about me. Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh, right.” She put a hand on yours. “I’m not going to tell you everything is going to be okay. I’m not going to tell you that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel or something else cute and cliche like that. I’m just going to tell you three words that you can take however you need to.”

She watched you from behind her colorful frames. Somehow, even in the darkness of the moment, she radiated the same light she did when you met her, warm and bright. Penelope’s grip tightened gently.

“We love you.”

Something beneath your ribs jerked.

You pulled your hand away. “I know that.”

She shook her head sadly. “I don’t think you do.”

“Penelope-”

“We love you.”

“What are you doing?”

“We love you.”

Each time she said it, it was like searing shards cutting into your chest. No. The numbness. It protected you. She was breaking it down, burning it up.

“Stop it.”

“Y/N,” she cried. A tear slipped down her cheek. “We. Love. You.”

It didn’t make any sense, the power of those three words. The repetition, like a spell consuming your thoughts. You couldn’t move. You couldn't. even speak. Your lip only trembled with the sobs threatening to escape.

She patted your hand. You didn’t remember her holding it again.

“I’m going to go get you that tea now, okay sweetie?” She stood and stopped at the door. “Think about what I said. I mean it.”

Thankfully, she didn’t say it again. The click of the door echoed through the room. Or maybe just in your head. You couldn’t tell.

Reid jumped to his feet. Morgan entered Hotch’s office with a graver expression than he left with.

“Where is she? Is she okay? What happened? What did she say?”

“One question at a time, kid,” Morgan said. He corrected himself. “Reid.”

Hotch stood. “What is it?”

Morgan looked between the two of them and swallowed. “She’s here. I wanted to bring her here in case…”

“In case you thought she’d kill herself,” Aaron finished, closing his eyes.

“From what I could figure out,” Morgan said, speaking slowly, “she isn’t currently suicidal. She thinks she needs to be stopped, even if that means her death, but I don’t think she’ll take her own life.” He exhaled, hating the feeling of helplessness in his heart. “But she is hanging on by a thread, Hotch.”

The three men all looked at each other, each of their hearts filled with love and terrible worry.

In Penelope’s office, you sat and waited for her to come back. The effect of her words still lingered in you, the tearstains on your cheeks as proof. You tried to fight it off with the anger you’d reserved for yourself.

“I get it,” you called out. “She’s good cop. You're bad cop.” You started pacing back and forth. Your eye caught Penelope’s row of trinkets on her desk and revoiced those three little words that drove you mad. “If we’re playing this game, you might as well come out, Morgan! Come on. Let’s get it over with!”

Still, nothing but silence. It was too much for you. You slammed your hand on her desk.

“Damnit Morgan, come back here!”

The door handle turned. You took a deep breath that hitched in your throat when he stepped inside.

Spencer

You stumbled back, hitting your leg on the desk corner. You leaned against the wooden surface to keep from falling.

“You’re not Morgan,” you managed to blurt out.

Spencer’s lips formed a thin line and he nodded. “And you don’t usually call him that.”

You hadn’t even realized you’d made the switch. You tried to shrug it off, an attempt to resemble something nonchalant.

“I’m probably just detaching,” you said. “My mind’s way of dealing with being here, maybe.”

“That would make sense.” He made the same face, with the same nod.

Neither of you said anything, the tension of the room succumbing to that all too familiar awkwardness.

“So…” Spencer started. “Are you going to start calling me Reid?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I don’t think I could.”

“That’s good because I would hate it.” His lips tugged at a smile. He stepped towards you. You skirted away, knocking over one of Peneolope’s decorations. He stopped.

“I have something for you,” you said, moving to your jacket hanging over the chair. You pulled the soft purple scarf out of the pocket and jutted your arm out to him. “I’m sorry I took it.”

He didn’t move for a moment, just staring at your outstretched hand and the article of clothing. You stared at it, too, looking anywhere but his eyes. Those big, brilliant eyes that were filled with questions and guilt and pain that you caused.

“I didn’t even realize it was gone,” he whispered, finally. Spence reached for the scarf. His fingers danced across your palm. It ignited something, a new burning to go along with the embers Penelope left in your chest.

You jerked away and sat down, keeping your eyes planted on the turned-over trinket on the desk.

Spencer set the scarf aside and rocked back on his heels.

“Did I ever tell you about Phillip Dowd?” He asked.

You finally looked up at him, if only to show your confusion. “What?”

He took a seat across from you. “Four years ago we investigated a long-distance serial killer that suffered from Hero Syndrome. When we narrowed it down to Dowd, he took the entire E.R. hostage, including me and Hotch.”

You watched him and vaguely recalled Aaron telling you something about the incident at the time. You remembered him talking about the agent he was helping renew his right to carry and how the young man had saved his life and the lives of all of those people.

“I killed Phillip Dowd,” Spence said. “I shot him in the head with the gun I got from Hotch’s holster. I had just turned 24 and I had never killed anyone before.” He looked down at his hands. “I remember being scared because I didn’t feel anything at first. I thought there had to be something wrong with me. I mean, I literally just ended someone’s life and I didn’t feel anything.”

“Spence-” you started, but your voice caught in your throat.

He continued. “On the plane back, Jason Gideon sat across from me and he told me, ‘Not knowing how to feel, that’s not the same thing as not feeling anything.’ He said, ‘This is going to hit you and when it does, there are only three facts you need to know.’” Spencer stared passed you as if watching the memory unfold while you felt tears run down your face. “‘You did what you had to do and a lot of good people are alive because of what you did.’”

He stopped, taking a moment to collect himself.

You leaned forward. “What was the third thing?”

His eyes snapped back to your face. His voice cracked as he spoke. “He told me he was proud of me.” Spencer inhaled sharply, the tremble of his breath betraying the sobs he was holding back. “And I’m sorry I never told you that. I’m sorry for never telling you that no matter what happened, you did what you had to do. I’m sorry that I never said I was proud of you for fighting to get back to me, to your brother, when it meant becoming the thing you feared the most.”

Spencer kneeled in front of you, taking both of your hands in his. “I’m sorry that you felt like a killer and I didn’t do enough to help you.”

The lump in your throat stopped you from speaking, not that you could find the words to begin with. Slowly, you slid off of the chair and let him envelop you in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, feeling the damn beginning to break. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You muttered it over and over like you were praying. With each crying apology, he returned with three words that shattered you.

“I love you.”

You collapsed against him, hands clinging to the back of his shirt while your arms locked tighter around him.

“You can’t.” You screwed your eyes shut as he pushed back to look at your tear-stained face. “Spencer, I’m… broken. And I don’t know how to put myself together again like I did before. I can’t force you to be a part of that. I can’t be with you if I don’t know how to be me anymore.”

He laid a hand on your cheek. “You aren’t forcing me into anything. I want to help. I want to be a part of your life,” he took a deep breath, “even if that means we can’t be together while you figure things out. I still want to be there for you every step.”

You opened your eyes. “I don’t know how long it would take, or even if I can.”

Spencer flattened your hand against his chest, pressing it to his beating heart. “I can wait.”

“Spence…” For just a moment, you could see who you used to be in his eyes. But then it faded into the future you couldn’t give him.

“Y/N,” he said, “you’re the love of my life. I’m not going anywhere.”

Spencer pulled you back to him, lips pressing a ghost of kiss to your forehead while you melted into each other’s arms. He whispered more sweet things to you and you tried to hold them like coins slipping through your fingers.

With the numbness fully surrendered, you knew what you had to do. And there was one more person you needed to see.

Aaron- Three Years Ago

You sat at your desk, grading papers from your Psych 101 class.

You’d been teaching at a local community college while you continued working on your doctorate. You were even thinking about getting two.

Things were going well. You liked your job, you hadn’t seen or heard from Dr. Calvin in years, and you were eighteen months sober.

Still, the sudden sound at your door made you jump and reach for the box where you kept your gun. Until you heard his voice.

“Y/N, it’s me. Can I come in?”

You stood up straight, head tilted. “Aaron?”

“Hey, I know it’s late but… can we talk?”

You shuffled across the floor in the slippers Haley got you last Christmas and opened the door. Your oldest brother looked awful. His eyes were sunken from not sleeping, harsh lines framed the frown on his lips, and he shivered against the autumn air you welcomed through your open window.

“You look like you could use a drink,” you said. He frowned. “That was a joke, Aaron. Come in.”

Aaron immediately began pacing around your living room, arms crossed and frown deepened.

“Okay,” you said, stepping in front of him. “Spill it. What’s going on?”

You both sat down. He ran a hand over his face and sighed.

“I don’t know how to do this.” He rubbed something with his thumb and you realized it was his wedding ring.

“Did… something happen with Haley?”

“No, it’s not her, it’s…” He turned away from you, hunched over like he was praying. “It’s him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know how to not become… him,” Aaron whispered. From the desperate look in his eyes to the trembling in his hands, it didn’t take you long to understand. “How can I become a father when all I’ve known was ours?”

Of course. He and Haley were expecting their first child, your soon-to-be nephew. All this time, you’d been so excited, you hadn’t stopped to think about everything going on in his head.

“Aaron-”

“How many people have I brought in that went through what-what he did?”

“Abuse isn’t a path that everyone walks the same way, Aaron.”

“No,” he took a deep breath. “But it is a cycle. How do I know I’m going to be the one to break it?” The break in his voice sent a pang through your chest.

You took his hand. “Because you are the man that found a fifteen-year-old girl at the darkest moment of her life and you helped her out. You’re the man who faces the worst in humanity every day and still believes in good.” You looked into his eyes with firm reassurance. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, Aaron. And you’re going to be a damn good father. You’re already the best brother I could’ve dreamed of.”

He let his face fall into his hands, taking in everything you’d said while still battling with the gripping fear in his heart.

You laid your head on his shoulder. “You deserve to be happy. Don’t let him take that from you.”

There was a beat, a moment where the world went still as your words won their battle in his mind. He shifted and pulled you into his arms like a drowning man holding onto a life preserver.

Neither of you said anything for a while. He only muttered something against your shoulder and kept holding you.

“I’m so glad I found you.”

They seemed to trust you enough to let you leave with Spencer. He took you back to your apartment and you packed a couple of bags. He stood with his hands in his pockets, trying to keep a supportive smile on his face, when really all he wanted to do was lock you in the room and never let you out of his sight again.

When his phone rang, he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He gave you a nod.

It was time to go.

Spence insisted on walking you to the car and carrying your bags.

“I’m not going to make a break for it, you know,” you teased, trying to get both of you to smile a little. You knew it did nothing to hide the nerves shaking every atom of your body.

He nodded, the corners of his lips lifting just slightly. “I know.”

The two of you descended the stairs with nothing said. You didn’t need any more words. Everything both of you wanted was so close, but the fear in your head wouldn’t let you hold on and you knew that could never be fair to him. And he knew you needed time and he knew he just needed to give it to you.

Outside, there was the car.

And there was him.

You stopped in the doorway, looking out at your brother through the glass. Aaron stood up straighter when he looked up from the pavement and saw you.

“Do you want me to go talk to him?” Spence asked.

You shook your head. Heat in your cheeks burned red with shame under his gaze. “No. If this is going to work, I have to do this.”

Spencer nodded and opened the door.

The late November air filled your lungs and sent a welcome chill over your skin. Fall was on its last breath and winter would be here soon. A time for sleep.

Aaron opened the back seat and helped Spencer with your bags. You turned back to the apartment building. In those walls awaited the life you almost threw away. While you knew you couldn’t just wish things back to the way they were, you knew that that life would still be here, waiting for you when you came back.

If you ever could.

“All set?” Aaron asked. His voice made you jump, the motion making the tears welling in your eyes slip down your cheek.

You hurried to wipe them away. “Seems like it.”

He glanced between the two of you and put a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. The younger agent gave him a look with such pleading sadness he couldn’t help but feel for him. Hotch nodded reassuringly.

“I’ll start the car,” he said, leaving the two of you alone.

You stepped toward Spencer. “Spence… I’m so sorry.”

“‘All of the variety, all of the charm, all of the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow,’” he said.

You smiled. “Is that what this is? Shadow?” You thought it was the train.

“No,” he shook his head, “this is the light. You just have to find it again.” His fingers fiddled with the strings of his sweater to distract him from the sinking in his chest. “And I’ll be there for you until you do.”

You breathed a shaking breath. “Spencer.” With a quiet cry, you through your arms around him.

He enveloped you in a tight embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“I love you. Nothing is going to change that,” he whispered.

You took everything in from his warmth to his smell to the feeling of his shirt against your cheek. And then you pulled away.

He opened the car door for you and you climbed into the passenger seat. You watched him through the window and mouthed a final ‘I love you’ before Aaron pulled away from the curb.

Aaron- Now

“There are extra towels in the cabinet there and if you want another pillow, there’s some on the top shelf,” Aaron said. His tone was oddly calm like you were visiting for the weekend. He lead you into his office where an air mattress sat in the corner. “I’m sorry I don’t have something better. There’s the couch in the living room, but I thought you’d want the privacy, especially when Jack’s staying-”

“This is fine, Aaron,” you interrupted with an awkward smile. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” He nodded, setting the stack of sheets and blankets on the edge of the mattress. “Let me know if you need anything else.” He started for the door.

“Is that it?” You scoffed.

He stopped and took a deep breath. “Do you want it to be?”

The whole ride here, you’d sat in silence, waiting for his lectures, his worries, and the conditions for living with him. And now he was just saying goodnight as if nothing was wrong?

You leaned back on his desk. “Since when are you so diplomatic?”

Aaron’s gaze darkened and his voice broke. “Since I spent my day picturing my little sister cold and dead and alone on a motel floor somewhere.”

“Aaron-”

“I’m not going to yell at you if that’s what you’re waiting for,” he said. “You aren’t nineteen anymore and I don’t think either of us have the energy for that.” Aaron ran a hand down his face. He was right. He looked exhausted. “I’m glad you’re okay and I’m glad you’re here. I’m going to take some vacation time to help you settle in-”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

The two of you looked at each other without saying a word. Then he said goodnight and left, closing the door behind him.

He walked towards his room, mind racing with pleas to go back and force you to see all of the reasons you were wrong. But he knew he couldn’t. It had to be you. He walked a little slower.

The office door opened, pooling light into the dark hallway.

“Aaron?” You gulped. Your voice was heavy with the sobs you were trying to hold back. He turned around. You stood with your arms hanging limply at your sides and your shoulders shaking.

There, in that doorway, he saw that terrified teenage girl he met what seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Yeah?”

Your words came out as a pleading cry. “I’m scared.”

Aaron wasted no time crossing the space and pulling you into a protecting embrace that kept you standing. You sobbed in his arms and he felt tears of his own fall down his face.

“I am too,” he breathed.

“I-I tried not to feel it. I didn’t want to feel it anymore, but it’s always been there,” you cried. “D-drinking didn’t make her go away like it did before. She’s still there and now she’ll never go away.”

“No,” he said. He pulled away, keeping his hands on your arms to steady you. “She won’t. But how you fight her is up to you.” His hand moved to your cheek and he gave you a small smile. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

You dabbed at the moisture in your eyes with your sleeve. “But I’ve already hurt all of you. I stopped talking to you. I lashed out at everyone. I abandoned Spencer and now I can’t even stay in our home.”

“Reid knows that this is going to take time for you.”

“What if it’s more than just making him wait? What if I can’t get better?” You asked. “What if I can never be who he deserves?”

Aaron’s brows drew together. “Y/N, is that what this is about? You think you aren’t good enough for him? For the team?”

You looked at the floor. “I don’t know if I can ever give him what he wants. Even if it’s what I wanted with him.” The last part you hadn’t meant to say, but it just came out. You didn’t even realize it was true until the words formed on your lips. You wanted it. You wanted that life with Spencer. But you didn’t know how anymore.

He nodded in understanding. You leaned against the wall, body finally succumbing to the exhaustion you’d been fighting off, and slid down to the floor. Aaron sat next to you.

“I’m only going to say one more thing,” he said, taking your hand in his. Aaron turned to look at you, the caring look in his eyes bringing more tears to yours. “You deserve to be happy. Don’t let her take that from you.”

Your lip trembled from holding back another sob and you closed your eyes, your own words from all those years ago echoing in his voice.

You laid your head on his shoulder, feeling the brush of his lips on your forehead, and finally drifted off to sleep.

The In-Betweens series: @amywright; shesoperfectt; hereforsmutbcicantgetenough; violetbossler; hyper-half-blood; i-bitch-you-bitch; xcastawayherosx; preciousbabypeter; @jori21; @sol-48; @murdermornings ; @ staygoldsquatchling02; @ ara-a-bird

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagines #dr. spencer reid x reader #derek morgan #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #dr. spencer reid #david rossi #penelope garcia #matthew gray gubler

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persephinae · 1 year ago

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"Sorry I scared you,' he said as they left the building. She rolled her eyes. "You're not that scary." Relief washed through him. He bared his fangs at her, pretending to snarl. "Ew. Drool. Nothing you do scares me, Derek. Deal with it." "I'll have to try harder then." "You do that." - Ilona Andrews (Magic Stars)

#ilona andrews #magic stars #kate daniels series #derek gaunt #julie olsen

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triskhellion · 1 year ago

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Thunder

Rated: Explicit (12K)

Relationship: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, minor OCs

Tags: POV Derek, Alpha Derek, Werefox/Thunder Kitsune Stiles, Post-Nogitsune, Angst & Fluff & Smut, Alternate Universe, Past Derek/Kate, Hale Fire, Violence, Some canon events but often with different timelines, outcomes or other details, Full Shifts, Derek is from NY, Stiles Leave Beacon Hills, Stiles Has a Fake Name, Depression, Getting Together, Self-Lubrication, Rough Sex, Knotting, Biting, Claiming, Cuddling, Various Sex Acts, Mates Derek/Stiles, Angst with a Happy Ending, Music

Summary: The one in rural Montana where two strangers — a depressed, lonely Alpha Derek and a haunted post-Nogitsune Werefox/Thunder Kitsune Stiles — leave everything behind and end up finding each other.

Soundtrack. (Every section has lines from 2 songs. A reverse songfic? The story mostly came first and the music chosen to fit it, lol. I recommend at least listening to track #1, "Roscoe." 😉)

Mead Moons prompts: Claiming, Full Moon, Hay, Hot & Thunder. @sterek-and-stuff-events

Sterek Weekly prompt: Attract (also Midnight & Clothes.)

Shadow thrown from light unknown, calling on the hearts. To challenge the alive and summon the asleep.

Oh, they’re a little like you, they’re a little like me.

The first time he laid eyes on the fox it was an afternoon towards the end of May and Derek knew nothing other than that the hardware store, Rock Creek Lumber, had a new stock boy. One that he’d never seen around before.

Not that he spent a whole lot of time around other folks, but he’d been here long enough, getting on 5 years now, to recognize the locals. Derek didn’t notice him in a back corner at first, was too busy mumbling to himself while looking for the right screws for the section of fence he needed to fix, but then he turned around and they locked eyes. There was an intense and puzzled expression on the kid’s face.

Although “kid” didn’t seen quite right. He was young — probably two or three years out of high school, maybe four — but there were dark circles under his whiskey brown eyes that made him seem older. Haunted. Knowing. Derek could see wiry muscle layered over his slender frame under the snug black company T-shirt.

He wasn’t gaunt, but much of the softness he’d once possessed had clearly been stripped away. There was a sharpness to him. High cheekbones and almost a point at the tips of his ears. The angles of his posture; a tilt to his head and hips and the jutting elbows leading to long fingers tightly clasped against his chest. In his clever eyes.

Both of them seemed to realize they’d been staring at the same time, Derek saying “Uh, howdy” and the stock boy straightening up and asking if he needed help finding anything.

“Looking for a screw,” he said, after tearing his eyes away and scanning the aisle again. He was already groaning internally when the words were halfway out of his mouth and the new guy — Sean his name tag proclaimed at another glance — snorted before asking what kind while trying to keep a straight face.

Once the damn things had finally been located Derek moved on to the other couple-three things he needed this time. He caught Sean watching him a few times more and sighed, frowning with concern. There was nothing wrong with being attracted to men — so was he — but it could be dangerous to be so obvious about it out here.

He didn’t look back after Leann rang him up and he headed for the door, but he felt the prickle of eyes upon him, an itch between his shoulder blades, and he wanted to. Later that evening the thunder began.

Who would want to hear about the wanderings of my mind? This wasn’t supposed to be my life.

We’re not all the same in this town.

When his family, his pack, had moved from upstate New York to what he’d once thought a “small town” of 30,000 called Beacon Hills Derek had stayed behind, already into his sophomore year at college and living in his own apartment. A space-craving middle child with his own life. Some great aunt that no one knew about had passed away and left his mother a large plot of land with a slowly deteriorating, but surprisingly functional house that they’d set to fixing up.

He’d been surprised when Peter had gone too, his uncle always reveling in the cosmopolitan, but apparently the territory was special. Something about a big old magic tree. Derek’s eyes would glaze over once he got going.

Yeah, it turned out the place was “special” all right. Whatever woke up again after Great Aunt Hilda died started calling all manner of supernaturals, often of an unfriendly sort. That in itself likely would’ve been manageable until they figured out how to shut the damn beacon (har de har) off again, but with “animal attacks” and “mysterious deaths” on the rise so came Hunters.

Derek visited the new Hale House on a handful of occasions, the last and longest time a few weeks the summer before his senior year of college. He’d been out at a bar, still thrilled at being old enough to enter one despite alcohol doing nothing to intoxicate him, when this pretty dirty blonde with a wicked grin came up to him. There was something unsettling about her, a harshness to some product she wore, but the older woman was all confidence and laughter and playful aggression and he was captivated and full of hormones, so they stumbled off attached at the face and took a rideshare to some sketchy motel.

They hooked up three, maybe four times while he was there, Derek always taking care to shower with a scent neutralizer after because he didn’t want any shit from his family. And then he was heading back to New York, texting “Kay” or “K” or however she spelled it goodbye and setting his mind to the next few weeks of end-of-summer parties and the classes that were to start on their heels.

A couple evenings later he was watching some new sitcom when he felt first his father and then his mother die in the span of what was probably a few minutes, but seemed much longer. He booked a flight as soon as he could, finally getting a hold of Laura before leaving for the airport early the next morning. She told him they’d been attacked, the house circled in mountain ash and set ablaze as she was on her way home.

Cora was okay, had been on the other side of where twin fires started and trapped their parents in between. She’d managed to escape out a window when a piece of debris or something must’ve disrupted the ash line. Peter though she’d found severely injured. Burned and pretty much unrecognizable, though still alive.

That same afternoon during his layover in Seattle he felt her die too and ran to the bathroom retching and trying to hide his flashing eyes. It couldn’t be. Not his sister too. Not Laura. What the fuck was going on?!

His wolf wanted to howl for the death of his closest packmate, the loss of two Alphas in two days, but he couldn’t. Not there in the airport. He couldn’t cry then for Laura and his parents either knowing that if he started he wouldn’t stop. Would fall apart.

Derek forced himself to calm down enough, outwardly at least, to get on the second, mercifully short flight an hour later. Caught up in traffic he didn’t make it to Beacon Hills until after 7:00pm, driving the rental straight to the address that Laura — oh God, Laura — had given him. There he found his reportedly horrifically burned uncle looking very much like himself with the exception of some scars on the side of his neck and red eyes.

Maybe if the first words he’d said to Derek had been “I’m so sorry” or “I didn’t mean to” things might’ve gone differently. Whether he didn’t because that would’ve been a lie — intentionally killing Laura while she was no doubt trying to care for him — or because he didn’t think he needed to apologize if he’d been truly out of his mind, Derek would never know.

Because when Peter opened his mouth all that came out was a bunch of hand-waving about the “unfortunate situation,” a promise that things would be okay (things would never be “okay” again,) and how they were still family — only three of them left now — and had to stick together. Derek too, even though he had consorted with a Hunter, but not to worry, he had wasted no time taking care of the ones involved.

The shock of the last statement had been enough to snap him out of his overt, incandescent rage and Peter continued with how he’d recognized the scent of one of the lackeys and got him to spill on the others. After getting rid of Unger he took out the Argent Hunters — Kate — and her father, and then finally Reddick.

Slowly, Derek approached him, the elder wolf likely assuming he’d been overcome by guilt or deep in a daze (both of which weren’t far behind) and expecting a show of submission to accept him as Alpha. Perhaps that he’d been seeking comfort or forgiveness. A hug.

He was starting to say something about expanding the pack when Derek tore out his throat.

Roaring. Ringing. Static.

Afterward, when he came back to himself, he tried to find Cora, but she’d fled when Laura died. Her phone was likely in the smoldering ruins of the house and his own forgotten in NY, possibly in the cab. He did run into Christopher Argent, an incredibly tense encounter that consisted of tersely exchanged information and twitching claws and trigger fingers.

Apparently, the Hunter hadn’t been aware of his sister’s plan, which his father had approved. Both were indeed dead. Peter was dead too because he killed Laura. No, Derek wasn’t staying. It brought some measure of relief to learn that based on a discovered journal the scheming had begun before his visit, that the attack wasn’t because of him somehow, but the guilt and shame, the disgust and self-hatred for having slept with someone so evil remained.

Then he realized that that harsh scent clinging heavily to the human now in front of him, a scent he’d picked up slightly from her, must’ve been wolfsbane. Derek fell to his knees, thankfully not getting shot when the Hunter flinched, as guilt slammed back into him. He’d never actually encountered it before, the Hunters in New York having enough to deal with to bother supernaturals who weren’t causing harm, but he couldn’t stop wondering “what if?”

What if he’d taken an interest in tagging along to the formal meetings with other packs and Hunter representatives with Laura and his mother? What if he hadn’t showered so thoroughly and someone brought it to his attention? It probably wouldn’t have changed anything other than him never leaving with her or him fucking her fewer times, but now he’d always wonder about the off chance that they might’ve been more alert. What if, what if, what if.

Cora, who he finally got in contact with after returning to NY, had much of the same feelings toward him herself once he haltingly explained what he’d found out. She was angry at everyone and everything, refusing to come back to him and eventually ending up in South America and joining a pack down there. They talked once, maybe twice a year. Confirmed the other was still alive and had some painful or awkward conversation (usually both) where she’d inevitably refer to Kate as his “psycho ex-girlfriend” and he’d want to shout that they were never dating, but didn’t. And that was that for the Hales.

It’s such a long swim and now there is no sight of land.

So I’ve come here to wait for the end of it all.

As was pretty much always the case when he had a new project, Derek had to go back to the hardware store in between his regular visits to town every week or so for something he’d forgotten or only realized he needed after he'd started. And so two days later there he was again, being helped by Mike, the clean-shaven 50-something owner, but watched not so surreptitiously by Sean. Until the young man knocked into a display trying to keep him in view as he moved to go down another aisle, that is.

Derek's lips curled ever so slightly upward as he pretended not to notice the scrambling to pick up or straighten the disarrayed products going on behind him. He could see Mike shaking his head in his peripheral vision, muttering under his breath about how maybe he should start drug testing. It took everything in him to keep from reacting to something he shouldn’t be able to hear. Poor Sean. People looking he was used to, but he’d never made a person run into something before as far as he knew. It was flattering.

This time when he felt that keen gaze upon his back as he left he turned his head while stepping through the door, finding Sean absentmindedly holding a wrench with his lips gently parted. He nodded, causing the short-haired brunet to hastily duck his head like the length of metal had suddenly called his name. Derek swallowed thickly as he walked across the parking lot thinking of those cupid's bow lips.

It wasn't like he was immune to the younger man's charms either, from the broad shoulders to his cute, upturned nose. If Derek was someone — something — else he'd be up for having a go, see what those long fingers and that smart mouth (he just knew) could do. Find out what he looked like under his clothes and felt like with those nice long legs wrapped around him. Maybe lay out in the field and look up at the stars after and get to know each other.

But he wasn’t.

Derek sighed as he climbed into his outfit, a gray, no-frills, 2-door 2017 F-350 with four wheel drive capable of towing a 3 horse trailer even on rough terrain. He tucked his new Texas Fence Fixer underneath the passenger seat and sought out some music to distract himself.

The one thing he bothered to add to the truck after a year with only the radio was an after market stereo that also gave him the option of bluetooth, usb port or aux input. Derek used the latter, still having a working discman as he preferred to collect physical media when possible both for the higher sound quality and so he didn’t have to worry about things getting yanked from a streaming service for whatever reason. They were his.

Derek flipped through his cd booklet and slipped out The Trials of Van Occupanther by Midlake. The first track, fittingly titled “Roscoe,” was a new favorite of his and he’d been surprised to learn that the album had come out in 2006 because it sounded like something decades older. Like something his dad might’ve listened to as a kid driving around with his own father back in the 70s. A pang of grief ran through him.

He pressed play and headed back, singing along and trying not to think of enthralling brown eyes and mole-spotted skin.

“Ohh, and when the morning comes we will step outside. We will not find another man in sight. We like the newness, the newness of all, that has grown in our garden soaking for so lo-o-o-o-o-ong.”

The music helped for a while, but when Derek arrived he trudged inside the quiet house, new tool forgotten in the truck. He sank down onto the plain beige couch and cradled his head in his hands. When he eventually looked up his gaze was drawn to the painting hanging off-center across from him.

Despite the fact that one of the ways he brought in income was taking photographs of wildlife and the great outdoors he only had one piece of art on his otherwise bare walls and it wasn’t one of his. No, it was a relatively large painting of a ship sailing before a rocky outcrop in a storm, rough dark waves and lightning flashing, that he spied in a free pile on the side of the road after an estate sale. He’d found it compelling and all too relatable, even more so having been discarded after belonging to some now dead person.

He imagined himself tossed overboard, battered by waves as he watched the imperiled, but infinitely preferable vessel get farther away. Trying to stay afloat, to breathe, between bouts of being knocked under. Into stone. Growing tired and heavy in the cold water. Limbs slowing. Water closing over his face for the last time. Sinking.

Green eyes stared until everything was gray.

Bring me a day full of honest work and a roof that never leaks. I’ll be satisfied.

There’s a new wild feeling dancing in the air.

Derek never pretended that he’d always been from here, would even say where he’d come from (gasp, New York) should someone bother to ask, but this place seeped through his skin and into his bones. The mountains and the plains and the great, big sky. Like how the rain soaked into the thirsty earth in summer where it didn’t turn to gumbo. He didn’t have a “spread,” had no desire to play at being a rancher like most of his distant neighbors were, but he had a nice stretch of gently rolling prairie leading up to forest and the Beartooth Mountains.

He’d wandered a while before deciding he wanted to buy land in rural Montana with most of his portion of the life insurance money. And now for something completely different, came John Cleese’s voice in his head. His dad had been a huge Monty Python fan.

There’d been another plot that he stumbled across online that seemed particularly appealing, but there was no way in hell he was living somewhere named Argenta. He checked out a few other potentials, including in person, but then he saw this place and knew. Roscoe, unincorporated Carbon County, MT. Population 16 as of the most recent census. Well, it was 17 now.

When he first arrived there’d been some months where he saddled up at the Grizzly Bar a good nine or ten times, desperate for the presence of other people despite his opposing desire to get away from it all. A city boy soothed by the chatter of the regulars and those who came out the 70-odd miles from Billings or even farther away just for a bite of fresh beef: steak, burgers, or prime rib. Talking about nothing at all with someone plunked down on a stool nearby or with the bartender serving him his usual whiskey ditch. Even just the sound of some bullshit calling itself news on the tv. Baseball or something.

There’d been other months where he hadn’t once darkened the doorway, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling or ghosting around his property, burning through his supplies until he got hungry enough to run down some burrowing critter or a speed goat if a herd came through and he happened to get lucky. Those suckers could run up to 55mph in short bursts if they saw you coming, fastest land animal in the hemisphere. The tawny, white marked ungulates with dark bits on their faces were also known as prairie goats or pronghorn antelopes despite being neither goats not antelopes, but something closer to the okapi and giraffes in Africa than anything else left alive. That was Montana for you.

It helped when he got his first horse, a gray gelding named Gable (say that 5 times fast) and had to get up to take care of another living being. A companion of sorts to spend time with and do stuff for and touch. Werewolves didn’t usually go feral without a pack like a lot of the stories said, but it certainly wasn’t good for them to be alone.

He evened out to around once a week at the Grizzly, usually stopping by on his way to or from the closest real town (a whopping 1200-1800 folks depending on the season) for one thing or another. Red Lodge wasn’t far, about 20 miles away, but he often made a day of it. Maybe catch a movie at the one screen Roman Theater, which opened in 1917 and was the oldest continuously operating one in the state. Derek picked up all kinds of tidbits like that along with the slang and even the accent to a certain extent.

He’d walk around and pass the flower shop he hadn’t felt a need to go into so far, maybe get something fancy from the bakery or one of the cafés. Buy random crap from the dollar store, supplies for building or maintenance from Rock Creek Lumber, and groceries from Beartooth Market or the farmer’s market. Takeout from the Chinese restaurant or the pizza shop or the taqueria (or occasionally all 3) for later.

A handful of times a year he’d drive up to Billings for the things he couldn’t get closer. Less common cuisines, indie flicks, speciality items, etc. One night stands or even more furtive and frenetic hook ups, though he had’t bothered the last few times. He’d get eyes from the local ladies, some of them very much married, but he kept away from the free ones who he might’ve fancied as well.

In all likelihood starting anything would mean either trying to have a relationship while hiding half of himself or winding up shot for being a monster and having to abandon his property, assuming he wasn’t killed by a particularly well-placed bullet. Even the guns had guns out here. Same issue with the local men he noticed were so inclined only with the addition of them almost certainly being Narnia-level closeted (wardrobed? whatever) and teaming with notions about manhood that would only cause pain. So that was that for love. Not like he deserved it anyway.

It wasn’t a bad life. He made enough to get by without dipping into the other money doing odd jobs and remote temp work along with his photography. There was breathtaking beauty and all sorts of projects to keep his hands busy and his body active. Responsibility and enjoyment interacting with the horses and books to occupy his mind at least some of the time.

Yeah, that’s what he told himself anyway. It was true enough on the surface, but underneath it all he had an emptiness inside bigger than the sky.

A sky which was now, from the sound of it, soon threatening to dump a river’s worth of water on his head despite there not being a mass of dark, heavy rainclouds anywhere in sight. Only a smattering of wispy ones on a mostly sunny day. What in the world?

Regardless, he quickly guided his spooked horses inside the stable barn, the bay mare sisters Ada and Jessie joining Gable a couple years ago. Three was a good number. Company for each other and able to keep him busy for at least a few hours a day, but manageable.

Derek stroked the agitated creatures in turns, along their necks and between their ears and over their snouts, speaking gentle nonsense to try to calm them. They all had white markings on their faces: Ada’s looking kind of like a leaf print, Gable’s like a streak of paint, and Jessie’s, unfortunately (or amusingly,) like a large bird shat on her forehead.

He was on edge himself from the strange wild power dancing in the air, nervous but also feeling alive, more present and in his body than he’d been in some time. He stayed with the horses as they trembled together until the unnatural thunder ceased.

When I look into your brown eyes I struggle to pull aside. I’m wanting you more within my life.

What sort of pressure, and what kind of force must there have been to drive you here?

It was over a week into July and Derek had made another half dozen trips or so to RC, always torn between wanting to see Sean, get to have a bit of a chat or a joke, and hoping that the mischievous younger man he found increasingly attractive didn’t have a shift that day. He could’ve just gone to Ace Hardware instead and avoided the situation altogether, but he couldn’t bear to stay away long. He’d skipped one week and ended up going twice the next, so he decided to just leave it up to fate. A rather dangerous prospect given his life so far.

Twice he’d been absent when Derek was there, including the last time. It was just as well because he’d been in a foul mood, dirty and cursing and damp after slipping in mud and falling in a puddle on the way to town. It was hot as hell — mid-90s — and had just finished raining when he’d stopped to try helping some out-of-towners get unstuck.

They’d pulled off the nice paved road just beyond a chicken foot and into the fresh sludge beside it for some goddamn reason. It was a futile attempt even for his truck without having gravel or wood or something to let the car regain traction while being pulled. The group was waiting on a tow truck when he left.

He thought he caught movement in the back of the store out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned around there was nothing there. Nothing he could see anyway. What he could smell a few moments later was another matter entirely.

Derek had no idea what it was, but it was rich and intoxicating and called to his wolf. His eyes flashed red involuntarily and it had startled him back under control. He hadn’t slipped like that in years and thankfully neither Leann up front nor the older man browsing at the end of the aisle were paying him any mind.

Cautiously, he took a couple deep breaths, but still couldn’t identify the scent, which was now just beginning to dissipate with the back door being open. Wait, when did that happen? Derek shook his head, trying to refocus his senses. His thoughts. Was he losing time? Imagining things? Or was something messing with him?

He fell into into an uneasy vigilance. Whatever the cause something was going on and he felt the need to get out of there. He didn’t really have to get anything today anyway and did his best to casually head for the door, a goodbye called over his shoulder.

Derek cut his outing short and headed straight home, feeling nervous the whole drive back. He kept an eye and an ear and his nose out the rest of the day and into the wee hours until he finally conked out close to dawn. If there’d been anyone around they’d probably tell him he was overreacting, but it was precisely because there wasn’t anymore that he expected the worst. He stuck to the house and only ventured out to check on the horses.

He didn’t let his guard down until a few days later, exhausted and feeling foolish. Of course that’s when they came.

Derek hadn’t noticed the diesel pickup until it was already coming up the driveway due to yet another sudden, noisy storm nearby. This one at least seemed more normal since it was actually raining.

It was late in the evening and he’d hurried out the back door to circle around and scope them out. He didn’t want to risk his wolf eyes giving him away, so at first he could only make out that it was three figures that were probably male. Then they stepped into the light by his front door, the one on the left reaching out to knock as the others scanned around with hands in their jackets.

Even before the wind changed direction it was clear from the way they moved and dressed that they weren’t cops. Not regular cops, cow cops, tree cops, feds, or any other kind. And then there it was again, the scent of wolfsbane. The knocking Hunter dropped his hand and joined the others in looking around.

“Hale, we’re not here to harm you. We just need to talk. You have my word,” the stocky, sandy-haired man shouted.

Derek snorted quietly. That one might be telling the truth at the moment, but what about the others? As if reading his mind, the same 30-something guy — the actual leader or a decoy? — nudged the taller men who were now on either side of him. He could practically feel them eye-rolling from here, but they too made the same assurances if with more hesitation.

Finally, the first man mentioned the reason for their visit. They’d tracked a dangerous creature to this area, a killer of several people and likely the cause of the freakish weather. Some kind of kitsune.

Derek’s eyebrows flew up. Now that was interesting and perhaps worth the risk. He might not have more than a passing acquaintance with anyone, but he didn’t want to just sit back and watch folks get slaughtered.

He didn’t want to get pumped full of wolfsbane either so he made a point of crunching the gravel beneath his feet as he slowly started to approach. The guy on the right, mid-20s with a narrow face and long, dark hair, still whirled around with his gun raised and Derek made sure to keep his own truck between him and them. The talker hissed at the man, who lowered the weapon somewhat. They stood sizing each other up and ignoring the rain for few moments before Talker asked if he knew the whereabouts of a recent arrival.

After a couple interjections from Young Gun they gave a pretty solid description: A 20 year old white man, 5’10”, with short dark brown hair, brown eyes, and moles on his face. Last seen in Red Lodge.

“Huh,” he muttered, pretending to search his memory even as his stomach plummeted.

Maybe Derek was being irrational and letting his crush or whatever it was affect his judgement, but he just couldn’t believe that Sean, which was likely not his real name, was running around murdering people all willy-nilly. Not without some type of proof beyond the word of Hunters. There was something in his past, a sense that he’d been touched by darkness, but he didn’t seem like a source of it himself.

Oh and you’re such a great judge of character? his inner critic said in Cora’s voice. Heh. Well, he had picked up something unsettling about her. It’s just that he was going through life as a typical college student back then and thought it was in a “might get super insulting or jealous and controlling“ kind of way and not a “genocidal and will kill your family for fun because she thinks you’re abominations yet will still fuck you” kind of way.

He clenched his jaw minutely and then looked Talker in the eye.

“Sorry, I don’t know where he is,” he stated firmly, which was entirely true. Derek knew where he’d been, but he had no idea where he was now or where he would be. Obviously, if they weren’t just waiting to follow him from work or something Sean was already aware that they were here. Maybe there’d even been some kind of confrontation.

Once again his insides flipped at the thought. Sean could be injured. Or long gone and never to be seen again.

The third man, a lanky grizzled 40-ish blond who’d been silently watching the proceedings, narrowed his eyes.

“If you’re hiding this monster, Hale—“ he began, before being cut off.

“Surely, he knows better than that,” Talker said, smiling with too many teeth. He reached into his pocket, opened his wallet, and wedged a business card in the door jamb. “Well, if you do see him, give us a call.”

“You betcha,” Derek said mildly, lying to his face. He felt a moments’ amusement at finally using the ubiquitous phrase. The Hunters started walking towards their truck and he took that as his cue to back away, never taking his eyes off of them.

“We’ll be seeing you,” Young Gun called with a sneer before climbing in the driver’s seat.

Well that was ominous. He didn’t respond and waited until they we were well down the road before going back inside, throwing the card straight in the trash. Even if it turned out that the stock boy did need to be…to be neutralized Derek would be damned before handing him over to the likes of them.

But now he had to worry about Hunters knowing about him — and how exactly did that happen? — and he was alone and vulnerable. Couldn’t he catch a break? He sighed heavily.

Derek thought about running, but a lot of his money was tied up in the land. He’d settled in and accumulated stuff. Had horses. The idea of starting all over yet again was not just daunting, but soul-destroying. Enraging. Overwhelming. Impossible.

And then what, just wait for the next time? Spend the rest of his life as he’d just done the previous few days; stressed out, on high alert, and looking over his shoulder? Clinging to this scrap of existence? He was tired. Beyond tired.

The odds weren’t great to say the least, 3 vs 1 assuming they were weren’t more of them lurking around, but Derek wasn’t going anywhere. One way or another he was done. Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d be particularly incompetent and poorly trained. Yeah right. Maybe he could take one or more of them down with him. That was more likely.

The next morning he made sure the horses had access to extra feed and water and called up the farm supply store in Roberts, asking the manager, Wes, if he’d be willing to do him a favor. To call if he didn’t hear from Derek by noon every other day for the next while and if he didn’t by the time the store closed at 6pm to come out and check on the horses. Charge anything he saw fit to his account. The generally jovial middle-aged former linesman listened quietly until he was done.

“You got some type of trouble, Hale?” he asked, gruff with concern.

“Could be,” Derek replied numbly. He thanked Wes and hung up without elaborating.

The following night there was another storm, brief, but closer and much more violent than before. A truly awesome display in every sense of the word, bolts of colorful orange lightning flashing when he peeked out before heeding the urge to keep away. When he was sure it was over he brought treats out for poor Ada, Jessie, and Gable.

The next time Derek went to town a couple afternoons later he passed by the hardware store, but didn’t stop in case he or it was being watched. It was no surprise, but when he saw the Help Wanted sign in the window his left hand clenched into a fist, the tips of his claws piercing skin until blood dripped onto his denim clad knee or down to the floorboard. He wondered where Sean went. If he was even still alive now.

That evening Derek was at the Grizzly flipping through an abandoned copy of the weekly regional newspaper — July 15th, today’s edition — when he saw that three men had been found dead yesterday. Out-of-towners from California who had all managed to get electrocuted wandering around a field by Roscoe. A freak weather occurrence the night before. Huh.

Well that takes care of that problem. There were no pictures of the deceased and he would follow up on the story to make sure, but he had a feeling that he wouldn’t, in fact, be seeing those Hunters around. As for what else was going on, he guessed he’d have to wait and see.

Follow me down a fox hole in the ground. Don’t delay.

Everything is moving so fast. I am unlimited.

The full moon fell on another scorcher two days later, the air still warm and muggy a couple hours after the sun finally deigned to set around 9:00pm. Derek was tending to his horses, waiting until the temperature wasn’t sweltering anymore, but still sweating through his shirt after mucking out their stalls. Putting out fresh straw and climbing up into the hayloft and back down again multiple times. He wanted to have bales ready for tomorrow and maybe the following day and gave his interested audience a snack of hay and apples as well.

Derek wasn’t sure if he was gonna stay close tonight or go ranging once the moon was in full effect shortly before midnight. The Hunters were gone (he’d confirmed it online that morning) and he hadn’t been up to it the previous month, so he was leaning toward going out for a bit and seeing how it went. He felt the moment when the alignment occurred, the moon’s power calling to his blood, to his wolf, who responded with an interested, but rather mild wag of its metaphorical tail.

Derek sighed remembering how exhilarated he used to be, champing at the bit to run wild and reveling in his full shift. I should be grateful I feel anything at all these days. He finished up and was petting Ada goodbye when he heard the clock in the house strike midnight. It was another free box find, beat up, but with a functional pendulum, which he liked since he could know what time it was from any of the buildings on his property and a good chunk of the land without having to wear a watch. It could be silenced at night or whenever else he wished otherwise it would’ve ended up back in a pile.

On the seventh chime the lights inside the barn started flickering and that strange energy was in the air again, full of wild, dangerous potential. There was a moment of laden silence and then something moved in the brush outside. Derek’s hair stood on end.

He looked at his nervously whinnying horses and was glad that he’d been waiting until the check-in tomorrow to tell Wes not to bother with them anymore instead of calling him today. They would hopefully survive this even if he didn’t. He took a deep breath and walked into the night.

Lightning flashed high in the sky, confined to the rapidly congregating clouds for now, but Derek cringed nonetheless. A human-shaped shadow materialized from the darkness beyond the floodlights on the other side of the building, otherworldly eyes glowing a burnt orange. Moments later Sean was sauntering around the outskirts of the illuminated sphere wearing a sharp-fanged grin, wind blowing his not-quite-as-short hair as it whipped around and behind him.

Instead of relaxing at the mostly familiar face that he’d spent weeks daydreaming about Derek tensed even more, wondering if Sean thought he’d helped those Hunters. Or if they were actually right about him and he’d come to finish off his prey. Derek couldn’t think of another reason why he’d be here like this. At this time of night, looking like that. His wolf was still and alert.

He had increased strength from the moon, but he couldn’t fight lightning. Honestly, without the animosity he reserved for Hunters he didn’t really want to at this point. He was tired. Of the isolation and loneliness, even with his horses. The grief and guilt and pain. Of living. The emptiness that was gonna swallow him whole some day anyway. Even as the rest of him still rebelled at the idea there was a rather large part of him that felt relieved while staring death in the face.

The air stilled again momentarily and Derek closed his red eyes, breathing deeply as that intoxicating scent reached his nose for a second time. The scent of Sean. A final mystery solved as he waited for the end. At least it should be quick.

Oh, the fox came for him all right, but not at all in the way he’d expected. Derek kept his eyes closed even as footsteps raced toward him and moments later a body was colliding with his. The next thing he knew he was laid out on the ground, air knocked from his lungs and flat on his back with Sean straddling him. Purring.

To say he was shocked was an understatement. Shocked, but starting to get turned on.

Hands planted on his chest, Sean leaned forward and sniffed at his neck, giving it a lick and sounding pleased when increased arousal flooded through him. He licked some more and nipped at Derek’s jaw, Inhaling again. The fox grinned mischievously and sat all the way down on his tenting crotch, grinding on him. Lying on top of him and rubbing himself all over, getting Derek all riled up.

He was content to let the fox have his way with him, but then in the blink of an eye Sean was standing and peering down at his confused form. Backing away towards the tall grass with swaying hips and a heavy-lidded gaze, licking his lips. Derek leapt to his feet, tracking every movement and matching step for step. He began to growl as Sean neared the rustling, wind-whipped vegetation and slowly turned around. Mine his wolf declared hungrily. The fox looked over his shoulder and smirked before taking off into the field.

Dirt flew as Derek tore after him, beta-shifted as he crashed through the grass. It was tall, but not enough to hide someone of their heights, yet he couldn’t see even a head floating above it. With the erratic wind still blowing it was also hard to discern that movement from one caused by someone ducked and passing through. He was going to have to rely on his hearing and smell, which were superior in wolf form. Quickly he stripped down and shifted completely, setting off again.

Lightning flashed again, thunder deafening, and he snapped his jaws at the sky. He dropped his muzzle to the ground, sniffing for where the fox had touched the earth since he couldn’t get a good scent from the air. He came across the trail and sped along it, that unique aroma growing stronger. Derek burst into a small bare patch of land where the scent was concentrated, but instead of catching Sean he only found a pile of discarded clothing. Clever. Despite his frustration he was impressed. Either he’s crawling around naked on his hands and knees, which is entirely possible — the thought went straight to his cock — or he’s a shifter too.

Derek was betting on the latter and this time he also looked for paw prints and snapped stalks lower down while trying to move quietly himself. During a break in the distracting weather, which seemed to be winding down, he heard what sounded like the brief tangling of a smaller animal up ahead. Stalking closer he saw a glimpse of brightness in the moonlight and rushed forward. The fox gekkered and started running again, Derek howling in pursuit.

Twisting and turning they darted through the drying blades of grass, his muzzle nearly touching a tail or leg on more than one occasion. Then Sean shot out into open ground, Derek too close behind to successfully double back to the more advantageous environment. His quarry in full sight with no where to hide he put on another burst of speed and began to gain on the other shifter, nostrils flaring at the musky scent. Earthy and sweet. Derek wanted to roll in it, but he had to catch him first.

Closer and closer he came and he could see more clearly that Sean was a beautiful multicolored fox, bright orange and black with patches of what might’ve been gray or silver. He had every intention of finding out later in the daylight. Finally, he deemed it near enough for a good tackle and he leapt, carefully landing over the wily creature and immediately dropping his weight on top of him. Derek took the scruff of his wiggling prey in his jaws and clamped down, but didn’t break the skin as the fox panted and whined beneath him. Mine.

His wolf was rearing to go, the overwhelming urge to thrust and bite and claim, but there was no way he could fuck the much smaller animal even if he’d wanted to. Thankfully, Sean began shifting back, thick, fluffy fur receding and becoming an expanse of dotted skin as he rapidly grew in size. Derek followed suit and soon he was pressed against the younger man, still gripping the skin of his neck in his mouth. He replaced his teeth with a firm, possessive hand and used his other arm to push himself upward to view what was his.

Panting with arousal as much as exertion now, Sean rested low on his forearms and knees and spread his legs in clear invitation. The youth glistened between his thighs and Derek ran two fingers there before sliding up to his sopping wet hole and the source of the richer ambrosial scent. Groaning, he slipped one and then two digits inside Sean’s tight heat, trying to give him some measure of prep before mounting him as his wolf demanded to do.

The impatient shifter whined and growled, bucking back on his fingers, which were now up to three. He turned his head and snapped at Derek, so he withdrew them taking the hint. If Sean was so desperate for his cock he was going to give it to him. Coating himself with the wondrous slick he lined himself up and pushed inside, hole fluttering around him as it worked to accommodate his girth.

Draping over his back and eyes closed in pleasure Derek immediately began to thrust, wrapping an arm around Sean’s chest to hold him close as he balanced with the other. He ran that hand soothingly along the whimpering shifter’s flank as he pounded into him, too much wolf to be gentle now that he finally started. He adjusted his angle though and soon the breathy, higher pitched sounds became low, throaty moans and Sean dropped down to his shoulders, lifting his ass in offering for more.

The fox tried to sneak a hand down to his cock, but Derek snarled and grabbed it, holding both hands down with his own. He thrusted harder, making him cry out and push back wantonly. Derek wanted him to cum from his cock alone, but he wasn’t cruel. If his fox couldn’t get there before him he would help things along.

When he started to knot, he took the back of Sean’s neck between his jaws again, an instinctual need to keep his mate in place. Whining and gasping the youth spread his legs even wider as Derek worked it in with short, jerky movements until he was locked inside. Growling lowly he switched to grinding and it wasn’t long before the fox tensed up, a piercing shout before rhythmic clenching began around his knot, the scent of cum hanging in the air.

Sean continued to milk him and then Derek was tipping over the edge himself, shooting his load deep within the otherwise lax body. Releasing the bruised skin to howl in triumph, his fangs then descended and he was clamping down once more, this time sinking into flesh and spilling blood to claim the writhing fox. Still coming as the budding connection snapped into place, he turned them sideways and began alternately licking the slowly healing wound and marking up the skin around it. Mine mine mate.

Won’t you tell me how I will not feel so lonely?

Thought we were due for a change or two around this place.

As he came back down to earth from the high of their mating, their breaths slowing and heart rates returning to normal, his human self likewise returned more assertively to the fore as the animal receded into the background. The wolf was happy, calm, and satisfied, but the man began to fret and doubt even as he held on more tightly to the young man in his arms whose body he was still buried to the hilt inside.

Did the fox want to be mated to him or had he just been expecting sex? And if he did was it only because his wilder, instinctual side was in control or was all of him truly onboard? Derek himself hadn't known he was actually going to bite him until right before it happened, though it was something his entirety wanted very much despite how he’d normally try to deny it.

Before he could sink deeper into worrying about having tied the fox to him beyond the immediate way a hand crept back to rub the nape of neck.

"Hi," whispered his mate, the first words spoken between them tonight. In something like two weeks now.

"Hi," he whispered back. "You okay?"

"More than," the fox chuckled weakly. "I could just hear you thinking so loudly "

He noted the scent of content amusement, which dialed his concern down a notch. Still he took a deep breath. "About me…biting you…”

"I wanted you to."

"Yeah?" Derek asked softly, almost disbelieving.

"...I came to you and initiated a chase on the full moon."

He grinned at the snarky reply and mouthed at an earlobe, nipping it and grinding himself into Sean's prostate again. The fox moaned and turned his head to nip back at Derek's nose before continuing.

"I might still be fairly new to all this, but I knew that much. That you would probably bite me if you felt... " There was a sudden shift in his scent. Uncertainty and a hint of guilt. "But you..."

"I wanted you too. The moon is strong, yes, but if I truly wasn’t interested, didn’t want you, I could’ve made myself stay where I was. Walk the other way.” Derek felt his sigh of relief and inhaled contentment once more. Good. “So what brings you to Gopher Crotch, Montana?”

“I hadn’t heard that one yet,” Sean replied, laughing before growing quiet. Derek grimaced, chiding himself.

“S’okay, you don’t have to tell me. I don’t even know why I asked. It just popped into my head and I guess my filter is pretty non-existent at the moment.” He sighed. “Folks end up out here and it’s rarely puppies and rainbows they’re coming from.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Yup.”

The fox grabbed his left hand where it was idly running up and down his side and pulled Derek’s arm across him, intertwining their fingers and holding his hand against his chest.

After several moments he started to explain that he came here to try to learn to control his power in a sparsely populated area. He’d done a sacrificial ritual with some friends to save his father and a couple others, leaving himself vulnerable, and was possessed by a dark kitsune. The sadness evident when speaking of his friends grew thicker as he described the damage his hijacked body had done. Hurting and killing people. They finally managed to get rid of it when a werewolf friend bit him, but he ended up becoming some hybrid kitsune/fox shifter after.

“The Nogitsune can’t be two things at once, but apparently I can. Or I don’t know, maybe it assumed I’d be a wolf and bounced before realizing. Maybe it was something it left behind that made me change into a fox after starting to turn. Or maybe it was just me.” The younger man shook his head and snorted.

“Who knows? Whatever the reason, it happened. I knew other shifters, mostly werewolves and a coyote. Had a kitsune friend too. But none who were both.”

He spoke of the distance and awkwardness between them after. The looks. His guilt and grief. The nightmares. And then how he accidentally shocked his father when he tried to wake him.

“He survived. Recovered okay last I heard, but I-I couldn’t…” Sean trailed off, choking up.

“I know,” Derek said, squeezing his hand and waiting as he gathered himself.

“I once visited a great uncle out this side as a kid — not here, way more East — and after a few months on the road I thought of that. I had this old Jeep that belonged to my mom, named it Roscoe. There was no way it could make a trip like this, so I left it behind rather than have to ditch it somewhere in case some day…” His mate sighed. “So when I saw that on the map, well, I couldn’t help but stop nearby. Like it was sign.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Here I was about a week or so, got a job at RC, and then you come strolling on in. Immediately I was aware of you, drawn like a moth to a flame. I’d been…I’m not sure how to describe it, but like, buzzing inside from my power and eventually it’d grow until I’d have to let it out. But then I got this strange feeling of calmness with you there. And of course you were hot as fuck too.“

Derek blushed and grinned, dropping his face into the crook of his mate’s neck before responding.

“I was drawn to you as well. Intrigued. I didn’t know what to do with that, figured you were one more thing — or person — that I couldn’t have. Every time I saw you I was attracted more and more…” he shook his head ruefully. “Couldn’t stay away. So each time I pulled up I’d hope you weren’t there, but then was happy when you were and disappointed when you weren’t.”

The fox made a noise of amused commiseration.

“Our animal sides can be on some crazy shit at times, but there are definitely others when the human just gets in the way and you have to let the fox, or wolf, lead.” He purred and rubbed himself back against Derek and he rumbled back, setting his teeth gently over the mating mark.

“Apparently. Mine’s been pretty quiet for a while now, except sometimes when I’m hunting or if go running on the full moon. Not much for him to react to, you know? No pack, no other shifters nearby or even passing through recently. Even with the Hunters he was more in the background. Giving me information, but not trying to take point.

“And then you were all over me and took off with that look in your eye and he came roaring awake.” Derek chuckled at the smug satisfaction emanating from the fox. “So I take it you knew I was a wolf right away?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Huh. I couldn’t pick up anything supernatural about you until tonight.” Shoulders shrugged against Derek’s own.

“It seems to be a kitsune thing. A defensive measure that keeps you hidden unless you consciously drop it or when you’re actively using your powers.”

“Huh. And are fox abilities pretty much the same as wolves?”

“I think so, but sometimes weaker or stronger.”

“Hmm.” He was curious and looking forward to learning more about his mate. He knew that they existed, but had never actually known a fox shifter before. Or a kitsune. Both were significantly rarer than werewolves, at least in the States.

Derek figured it was his turn to share, so he gave a basic rundown of his own story. His lost family. How he stayed in New York when they moved away. The fire. Laura. Peter. He braced for judgement, if not for his naiveté with the Hunter then for killing his uncle, but the fox only turned their still clasped left hands over and kissed his palm.

He mentioned his estranged little sister and how he’d been resigned to being alone. When he was done his mate was thrumming with anger.

“Fucking Hunters,” Sean said, bitterly. “If they’d stick to their supposed code it’d be one thing, but so many of them clearly don’t. I ran into some before here too, back in Beacon Hills—“

Derek froze, heart racing as his mind tried to process those words. Surely he hadn’t heard that right. Or it was some other place with the same name. There was no fucking way. He’d been able to tell his story with a certain amount of detachment, but he hadn’t spoken the name of that cursed place. Could hardly bear to think it. Laughter in a bar. His claws red. The smell of charred wood and melted plastic when he made himself see the house before he left.

A concerned voice calling out to him broke him out the spell.

“—okay? Hey, what’s wrong?”

He swallowed several times trying to work the dryness from his throat.

“Beacon Hills…California?”

“Yes…” Sean responded hesitantly.

“No fucking way,” he breathed. “That…That’s where my family moved.” Where they died.

There was a sharp inhale.

“The house in the Preserve...There wasn’t much known about what happened. I hadn’t thought to connect the name because I didn’t know they were wolves.”

“Really? Your wolf friend never ran into Christopher Argent?”

“Allison’s dad? What does he have—oh my god! Her aunt and grandfather disappeared around that time. They were the Hunters?!”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit. No, Allison and her parents moved away soon after. They never knew about Scott. Some other dipshits came through a while later, tried to intimidate some of Satomi’s pack — she’s the Alpha who helped Scott with the wolf stuff. She and most of her pack live in Nevada, but a few were attending the county college for their veterinary program and noticed there was another wolf around, thank God. It was a lot to deal with on our own, trying to find actual information and keep him secret and in control.”

While his mate recounted throwing lacrosse balls at his packless friend the memory of Peter’s last words flashed in his head. He gasped as another piece of the puzzle slotted into place.

“Was your friend also Bitten around the same time?”

“Yeah, we never found out who—“

“I think it was my uncle. He was saying something about expanding the pack right before I…I didn’t know. His Alpha instincts must’ve had free rein to just attack some kid like that.”

“Holy shit,” Sean repeated.

“Holy shit,” Derek agreed. He knew he was going to dwell on this revelation for a good while, want to know all the details and about the new wolf, but he didn’t want to start that now. This time was for them. He shoved his train of thought back on track to where they’d left off.

“So those three Hunters…”

“I didn’t know I was being tracked, but I tried to be careful. Moved around, kept an eye on the weather to try to blend in with forecasted storms, but I’d have to put on a light show every so often when there weren’t any. Obviously they caught up to me when I stayed here so long...such beautiful scenery and all,” he said flirtatiously before getting serious again.

“Fuckers ran me right off the road. Tried to run me over really. I heard them behind me in time, but they followed me off the shoulder and destroyed my dirt bike right after I bailed. I had just saved up enough to get it before I came here too,” he hissed angrily.

“I hurt my leg and side when I landed so I ducked into an old shed nearby to try to buy some time to heal more. They taunted me outside, wouldn’t listen to me. Said no one ever escaped a nogistune before so I must still be possessed, but that even if I wasn’t I’d be an abomination anyway.”

Derek growled from deep within his chest and nuzzled the younger man. Fucking Hunters and their genocidal bullshit.

“When two of them were getting closer to the door I got small and foxy and crept out a hole by the ground in back. I guess they didn’t realize that I could shift too, so it took the other one a few moments to notice and react. Then I was running into the field, trying to find cover as they shot after me. They kept coming and I couldn’t run at my usual speed, so…” He shrugged. “Boom.”

He tightened his hold on his mate. Killing was rarely pleasant even if it was necessary or well deserved and he knew the fox already carried so much guilt from the lives his body was forced to take.

“It was self-defense.”

“I know. I mean I’m not happy about it, but I don’t exactly feel bad either, especially since I heard one of them mention coming back for you after ‘taking care of their fox problem.’”

Derek closed his eyes and shuddered. He’d figured as much, but it was another thing to hear it for sure. It didn’t matter that he was minding his own business and not a threat to anyone. He wasn’t human and so shouldn’t exist.

“Thank you,” he said, throat tight.

“De nada, mate.”

Mate. He was thrilled to hear it out loud for the first time.

“Oh hey, what’s your name? Other than Hale?”

“Derek,” he replied, amused that they’d gone this long without bothering to ask. ”And what’s yours? Not actually Sean I assume?”

“Well…it’s Myeh-cheh-swaf. But I go by Stiles.”

“Nice to meet you, Stiles,” he said, voice low and syrupy, grinding into him again. Stiles giggled.

“If you keep doing that we’re gonna be stuck out here forever, dude.”

“Not seeing the problem.” Derek grabbed an ass cheek and then gave it a playful spank. “And don’t call me ‘dude’. I ain’t been no city slicker in years,” he drawled with an exaggerated accent.

Stiles snorted and started squeezing his knot in retaliation, making Derek groan. He slipped a hand between them to feels where they were connected, trailing two fingers through the slick. The fox made a cute little noise.

“I have to say the whole, uh, getting wet thing was quite the surprise.”

“Mmm, I like it.”

“I can tell.” Derek could hear the smirk in his voice. “I bet you’ll be happy to know the first time it happened was the last time you came in to the store before things went to hell. You were all sweaty and dirty in that basically see-thru tank top looking like a walking wet dream. Then without any warning there was leaking happening. I froze and then ran to bathroom thinking I must’ve ate something off for lunch and was having some kind of problem.”

A belly laugh erupted out of Derek shaking them both.

“I fell into a big muddy puddle trying to help some folks that were stuck. Took off my button-down to try to get the worst of the muck off and wiped myself down. I was annoyed as hell and lost in my head when I got there and then all of a sudden I smelled something amazing. Didn’t know what it was or where it was coming from.”

“Yeah, that seems to be from my, uh, regular fox side. Which is totally a thing I just say now. Anyway, I kind of freaked out when I saw you turning and I guess I did something kitsune-ish so you wouldn’t notice me? But using my power meant the usual concealment stuff went away and you could smell my full scent. And, um, that.”

Ah, so that’s what happened. He refrained from mentioning his own freak out thinking he was either losing his mind or that something potentially bad was happening. The paranoia that ended up being warranted, but not because of him.

“It’s weird and I’m still getting used to it, but I have to admit it’s very convenient. I would’ve had to stop for lube or something last night otherwise.”

Derek laughed more, imagining a glowing eyed Stiles followed by a miniature lightning storm stopping by the general store for some K-Y and Miss Ginny getting on the phone right after being all “I’m pretty sure the new boy down at RC is some kind of demon, but anyway I saw him buying a bottle of ‘you know what’ and I just have to wonder who for…”

“Mind sharing with the class?” Stiles asked curiously when he continued to crack himself up. Derek told him and then they were both dissolving into giggles, causing his now mostly soft cock and shrunken knot to finally slip out. Stiles made a soft whining sound and then stretched before turning toward him. They drank each other in face to face.

“I figured you probably wouldn’t be small, and yeah, no way that was going in me dry, especially not having taken a cock before,” Stiles added, blushing, before snuggling up to him again.

Derek froze.

“Yeah, I’ve slept with some folks, but they all happened to be of the female persuasion. So, yeah. First guy.”

A pleased possessiveness flashed through him mostly — but not entirely — from his wolf, but then Derek frowned, feeling more than a little guilty.

“I was rough with you.”

Stiles pulled back to look him in the eye. “Again, I knew what I was getting into. Full moon, Alpha wolf. And I liked it. A whole lot.”

Derek hmmed. “And you’re not…hurt?”

“You weren’t that rough and I was, you know, ready for you. Sure, I was pretty sore at first right after because virgin ass plus knot even with everything, but just very slightly now. In a nice way. While my healing isn’t as fast as yours it’s still pretty quick.”

He sighed in relief.

“I guess I make up for it by running faster than you,” Stiles teased.

Derek huffed. “I seem to remember catching you.”

“I seem to remember letting you. Gotta stoke that Alpha ego.”

There was no blip in the fox’s heart beat. That little shit.

“Plus I wanted to get fucked already. You were…” Stiles sighed dreamily. “I wanted you so much.”

Well then.

“But if the Big Bad Wolf is still worried about traumatizing little ol’ me with an epic dicking and you want to give me an apology blow job or something to feel well and truly forgiven, I wouldn’t stop you…”

Derek laughed again. He’d already laughed more in past 10 minutes or so than he had in weeks. Laughed harder than in longer than he could remember.

Agreeing that that was a great suggestion he rolled them over so that Stiles was on his back and then slid down his body, tasting the grass stained skin of his chest and abdomen and belly, venturing on until he reached his prize. Derek grasped the base of the still hardening cock and rumbled as he licked off the evidence of Stiles’ previous orgasm before he took it in his mouth and suckled the head. He was rewarded with louder moans of pleasure from his mate when he sunk further down, bobbing up and down shaft while reaching to fondle his balls with his other hand.

After a couple of minutes Derek gave the delicate sack one more squeeze and then moved his hand lower to gather slick from between soft inner thighs. The moans turned to gasps and when he pushed two fingers inside the fox’s quivering hole, jacking the shaft after pulling off to watch as his load trickled out along with fresh slick. Derek growled at the sight, thrusting faster and aiming for that sweet spot.

When his mate was getting close he descended once more on the now leaking cock, continuing to finger him while engulfing him deep, until the tip was nestled in his throat. He made a humming sound and then Stiles was coming and crying out. Derek greedily swallowed his release and cleaned his cock until he was sensitive and whimpering. Grabbing him by the hips he then hoisted him up so that only his head and shoulders remained on the ground, tongue pressing against the furled entrance of the weakly moaning fox and lapping their mingled fluids until he was satisfied.

“Um, wow,” Stiles said breathlessly when he finally set him down.

“I want to fill you up again,” Derek rasped, his eyes a steady red as he kneeled between trembling thighs, stroking his own aching, eager cock.

Stiles’ eyes flashed orange in response and he spread his legs wider, folding them up and holding himself exposed for Derek. So trusting and willing, this alluring and powerful creature who could blast him into next Tuesday, fry him to crisp and blow away the dust, but so readily submitted to him. Wanted him. His heart felt like it could burst.

He crawled forward to bracket Stiles in his arms, leaving marks on his throat. Filling in some of those blank spaces that he couldn’t reach the last time. He rubbed his beard against the tanned skin, nuzzling and scenting him and when he couldn’t wait anymore he coated himself with slick and pushed in again with one steady motion, both of them moaning. Flush together and wrapped in heat, Derek closed his eyes and took a moment to just savor the feeling of being snug inside his mate.

Affection and a sweet desire coursed through the bond and then Stiles was leaning up to kiss him, wrapping those long, strong legs around his waist. He started off slow and deep, rolling his hips sinuously as they explored each other’s mouths for the first time. Eventually he sped up, the fox’s writhing and little sounds spurring him on, and Derek held his gaze as he drove in faster and harder.

Stiles’ eyes took on an eerie glow, the same one as before the chase. A darker shade than the previous flashing yet more shimmery. Uh-oh, here it co—

Lightning flashed high in the overcast sky, the boom of thunder only a split second behind. Startled, unhappy neighing sounded from the barn.

Derek shook his head at his sheepishly grinning mate. He adjusted his position to get use of an arm and hiked an ankle crossed at his lower back higher to rest over his shoulder. Then he spat in his hand and grasped Stiles’ cock now that enough time had passed to give his new favorite toy a break.

“Think you can manage to stop scaring my horses?” he asked with a smirk, jacking him.

“Mmm…maybe with…the proper…motivation.” The pleasure drunk fox rubbed his other thigh against his side. Derek started thinking of all sorts of fun ways of training and testing his control. He nibbled at an earlobe and let go of his mate’s erection to twine their fingers together, pressing the backs of Stiles’ hands into the earth.

“Oh is that so?”

“Mmhmm.”

He picked up the pace again and Stiles answered, rocking his hips in a matching rhythm. Hungrily they attacked each other with their mouths, licking, sucking, biting anywhere they could reach. The lightning ceased, but then it immediately started raining.

Shaking with laughter they slowed but didn’t stop, grinding as the heavy droplets cooled their feverish skin. He took Stiles' face in both hands and kissed him deeply between giggles. As they ramped up again and his knot began to swell arms wrapped around to hook on his shoulders. It wasn’t long before claws were scratching down his back and when Stiles came he buried his fangs into Derek’s flesh, leaving a mating bite of his own between shoulder and neck.

He whined from the delicious overload of sensations, thrusting erratically a half dozen times more before locking, teeth still embedded in him. Rain collected in the dips of their bodies and rivulets of water, sweat, blood, saliva, and cum ran off of them into the thirsty ground.

When they were done — his knot going down more quickly the second round — they got up and ran naked and laughing toward the house, Stiles shifting halfway and taking off with a playful yip. Derek followed suit, howling as he tried and failed to close the distance. He was definitely gonna have to do some training himself, futile though it would probably be. If he could only arrange a chase long enough he bet that he could win on endurance. Wolves typically traveled much farther than foxes after all.

In the meantime, at least he knew his mate would take pity on him — or get horny enough — and let himself be caught sometimes. Not this time though.

When he reached the stoop at the side of the house the fox was casually lying there waiting for him with his tongue lolling out. Derek chuffed and nipped his muzzle before licking his right cheek and ear fondly. Little shit. Shifting back he turned the knob and held the door open for his mate to scamper into their home, following after with a grin bigger than the sky.

Come morning, miles along, gathered round, those remained. With bird in hand and a cry for the land, joy to gain.

We have all we need.

Thanks for reading!

Here's the previous fic (unrelated) for this event/series: Second Chance Strays.

#sterek #sterek fanfic #teen wolf fanfiction #mead moons #mead moons claiming #mead moons full moon #mead moons hay #mead moons hot #mead moons thunder #sterek & stuff events #sterekweekly #sterekweeklyattract #mead moons trisk

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