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popjunkie42 · 9 months

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Gifts for WitchlingsandWyverns!

From your ACOTAR Secret Santa! @witchlingsandwyverns

I have had so much fun working on a story for you and getting to send you gifts and sneak peeks over the past few weeks! I have always loved your art and creativity and I really hope I can give you something you'll enjoy this holiday season.

I got inspired early on to lean into the fantasy and do a sort-of Lord of the Rings AU. This story takes place during the war 500 years before ACOTAR against the human slave lands and the human-faerie alliance. I imagine Feyre as a Spring fae, and she and Rhysand meet for the first time in the Dawn Palace's House of Healing. I was inspired by one of my all-time favorite fantasy couples, Eowyn and Faramir.

Blossoming in Winter - Chapter 1: Under the Wings of the Shadow (on AO3, the first part of Chapter 1 below) and tagging @acotargiftexchange

A million thanks to @witch-and-her-witcher and @temperedink for being my amazing beta readers!

Your story is mostly complete and will be four chapters long. I hope to publish every few days up until Christmas, but be patient with me if the final edits take a bit longer!

I've had so much fun being your secret gift giver and learning more about you! I hope you have an amazing birthday, and holiday season, and that you enjoy all the ACOTAR riches coming our way!

Love,

PopJunkie42

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

To Thesan, High Lord of Dawn and Commander of the Peregryn Legions:

Esteemed High Lord,

It is with great thanks and humility I write to you on behalf of Lord Tamlin, third son of Spring.

The Peregryn legion you sent to our aid was invaluable in our victory on the coast of the western Spring lands.Through whatever grand insight you possess, they arrived in the knick of time, as our armies were on the verge of being overwhelmed. The turn of the tide led to a grand victory on the side of Prythian. Though casualties were great, the land has been held successfully by our warband and will, we believe, provide strategic ground for both monitoring Hybern’s forces and maintaining a foothold on the shore, to prevent further ships and troops from docking in Prythian and adding to our troubles.

Indeed, if you’ll forgive me for my storytelling, I can tell you the sight of feathered wings will forever bring a surge of joy to the hearts of the Spring warriors, and the tales of the Peregryn’s bravery will long be told in our lands and at our tables. The legion’s arrival at dawn after the long night siege, the rising sun at their backs, was the stuff of grand tales, and seemed to us a blessing from the Cauldron and the Mother. Lord Tamlin (and myself) sincerely hope that his future court and the Dawn Court may remember this great victory and the strength of our combined partnership in the days and years to come.

Lord Tamlin wishes greatly to speak with you and the other High Lords further, once battles have ceased and Prythian is free of the stain of Hybern, about the future of our illustrious court and the question of leadership therein. Though the Prince has always valued the leadership of his father and wisdom of his brothers, their choice to ally with the King of Hybern shows their loyalties and interests lie outside of Prythian. After this war is won, Prince Tamlin wishes only to treat with those loyal to the lands of Prythian.

Though I write to thank you for your great kindness, I also am afraid I must use this letter to beg another courtesy. It has been heard that your illustrious Court has opened its doors to the High Lord’s families and those in greatest need of healing, to be blessed by the grand bounty of your powers and knowledge. It is with this in mind that Lord Tamlin humbly asks you to take in another patient: Lady Feyre Archeron, an archer in his personal guard.

Although Lady Feyre boasts no direct relation to the High Lords, perhaps word of her bravery has already reached your lands. For it was Lady Feyre who dared to enter the Middle and defeat the fearsome Sylvanus, the forest god, the last of the old gods walking among us. We know that all the High Lords and generals have knowledge of this beast, as he has split the land in two and his wrath and magic had prevented the joining of the northern and southern armies in our long-standing war. Although rumored to be immortal and impervious to death, even by the hand of a High Lord, the monster was single-handedly defeated by Lady Feyre. We have no doubt that her name will long be known throughout Prythian, and the grand tale of her conquest will be the subject of songs and poems. Perhaps if taken under your healers, you will get the entire story firsthand from her, as she has not spoken of it since returning to Spring. Such a tale would be the envy of the land, and certainly of your neighbors in Day.

Lady Feyre, though brave and strong, returned to the Spring Court wounded by the deep magic of the god. Her spirits fail her, and her body withers under wounds our healers cannot touch. Lord Tamlin beseeches you and your healers to care for her with your powerful magic, as her hurts go beyond the body and perhaps into the soul.

With much gratitude and hope in battle,

Lucien, Emissary of Spring

on behalf of Prince Tamlin, the rightful heir

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“Please, Lady Feyre…”

The warden of the healing wing scuttled behind the female, her steps brisk, his own faltering as he rushed in his voluminous robes.

But both came to a pause in front of the wooden door, one of many in the hall of healing. A cold fog of darkness, whirling and flecked with stars, was pouring from the crack at the bottom.

Feyre Archeron, her face pale and jaw set, looked upon the tendrils of darkness now lapping at her feet. With a deep breath, she knocked loudly and opened the door.

She did not pause at the wave of cold night that washed over her at the threshold, nor at the brisk “What?�� bitten out by the occupant. She only paused when the shadows cleared and she saw the patient clearly.

The Prince of Night sat up in bed, framed by outstretched, massive black wings. The span of wings was echoed in swirling black tattoos on his expansive bare chest, split by a wound covered in bandages across his shoulder. His face was fine, if a bit wan, and adorned by a vicious frown. His eyes quickly snapped to Feyre as she stood in the door. But it was the wings, gleaming iridescent in the light, that took her breath. It looked as if he sat upon a throne ensconced by those vicious and beautiful tokens of death.

At least, it did at first. Now that she took a breath she noticed the way his wings were scaffolded by light fabric tethers and a framework of wooden dowels. Covered in bandages and oily with salves whose scent filled the room and her nose. Blood, too, dripped to the floor and across his white silken sheets, and bled through the starched bandages. She saw gashes and holes in the thin membrane of his wings, the skin raw and irritated and covered in healing ointments.

Just like that, her determination wavered at the sight of his injuries. She had spent enough time in Spring’s healing tents to know his wounds were fresh, and to recognize his pallor and sheen of sweat upon his brow as tokens of his pain.

Feyre realized she had been frozen on the threshold of the room, staring at his wings. Dropping her eyes, she met the menacing stare of the son of Night.

The warden bustled past her and into the room, bowing deeply at the waist.

“Apologies, my Lord. She…”

“I thought I ordered you to let me remain undisturbed,” the Prince bit out, his voice hard and impatient.

“Yes, my Lord, but -“

“Are you Rhysand? Prince of the Hewn City and son to the High Lord of the Night Court?” Feyre asked.

The Prince’s eyes were upon her again, glowing in the dim light of the room. “I am.”

“Good. I’ve been looking for you.”

“And to whom do I owe this unwanted disturbance to my peaceful convalescence?”

Feyre swallowed. This was not going as she had planned, if she had a plan at all. She was the one who was angry, she was the one with demands.

“Well?”

“I am Feyre.”

“Well, that explains everything.” Her face turned to a scowl as his eyes roamed over her body, full of haughty judgment. A pang of embarrassment, and then anger tore through her as she considered her rumpled tunic, cut and tied to fit around her bandaged arm, her plain pants, her weather-stained leather boots.

Before the warden could start his bumbling apologies again, Feyre forged ahead.

“I am being kept here against my will. I wish to leave. And the warden,” she looked to him with what she hoped was utmost disdain, “told me you were the highest ranking fae here, while the High Lord of Dawn is away.”

Rhysand laughed. It was a bitter sound.

“Do I look like I am giving orders here?” he asked, spreading his arms against his outstretched wings. “Do I look like a lord of Dawn? I am as much a prisoner as you. Moreso, as I’m being kept in chains.”

The warden stood straighter as Feyre clenched her jaw. With High Lord Thesan gone for what could be the end of the war, and the nurses’ endless vigil in front of her door, she had no means of escape.

From his bed, Prince Rhysand sighed. She watched him wince slightly at the movement of his shoulders.

“And why would you want to be released from this gentle hall of healing? You look as if you’re in need of it’s services,” he said, his eyes again on her body.

She knew what he was seeing. Had seen it herself in the glass this morning, before she tilted it away from her bed in dismay at the grayish pallor of her face, her skin papery and thin, the blue veins beneath giving her a sickly hue. Her eyes had charted the scratches on the left side of her face and neck that refused to heal, stark red slashes on her skin.

Of her arm, bandaged and tied closely to her chest. Only her pale fingers, chalky white and withered, gave any hint as to what lay underneath.

“I wish to return to battle,” Feyre said, willing confidence and command into her tone. Surely a High Lord’s son couldn’t deny the war one more willing soldier. “I did not wish to be sent here and I do not wish to waste time waiting to heal. I only wish to fight.”

“Why do you not wish to be healed? A wounded warrior is of little use on a battlefield. And haven’t you heard that we all talk of victory and peace now?”

Feyre lifted her chin high, poured all of the confidence and pride she could muster into her face. Thought of Lucien, of Tamlin addressing his armies.

“I am an archer in Lord Tamlin’s personal guard. And battle is where I belong.”

The prince regarded her further. His anger had softened and the blackness swirling about the room had dissipated to soft shadows. He tilted his head. “Again, an archer who cannot use her bow isn’t much use to an army.”

“I have other skills to use, my lord,” she said, the last words dripping with ire. “Not everything heals. And I do not fear our enemies nor death on a battlefield. Indeed, to die in battle is an honor, is it not?” She wished desperately for him to heed her words. Every hour she felt the final battle rushing further away from her, like the ships traveling swiftly across the sea. Surely, a High Lord’s son would not deny the war another willing soldier.

Prince Rhysand swallowed. “An honor?” he laughed, low and dark, the sound pulsing across her skin. “I suppose it is. Certainly those bleeding on Prythian’s fields no longer have to face the horrors of what we have done or what will come next. Is that what you wish for, Lady Feyre?”

Feyre bristled at his tone. Whatever future waited for Prythian had little to do with her now. “I am a warrior pledged to battle, and the battle still goes on, and yet I am here.”

She wasn’t sure what it was, now, that look on his face. Silence filled the room.

“Well, Lady Feyre,” she chafed again at the term. No matter that she had explained to her nurses that she was not a lady, the epithet had followed her through the halls. “Whether it was the Cauldron, the Mother, or the old gods, our lives have been spared. And, as I have explained to you, I have no authority here in the halls of the Dawn Court. Even if I would grant you my blessing to send you to your death, the sentiment is meaningless here. So I am afraid we both will remain imprisoned, and live to see another glorious day.”

Feyre took in a deep breath through her nose. A second.

“Then you will not help me?” Rhysand wore a frown.

“Not in this.”

“Fine. Apologies for disturbing you, my lord.” she said, and turned on a clipped heel out the door.

Read the rest on AO3

#acotar #feysand #rhysand #feyre #acotar fanfiction #acotar gift exchange 2023 #lord of the rings AU

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mckennamayfairgoode · 3 years

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tried baptism but it felt like burning (c/w with @supremeinlilac)

Cordelia Goode x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: a recurring dream and the woman who saved you

Warnings: angst/fluff

A/N: written for @lanawinters-ily for the secret santa gift exchange :) Nico's your actual secret santa but we've both been insanely busy and my baby got pretty ill today so I finished what we started together and am posting it on our behalf. I hope you enjoy it despite its short length. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!! (Also a big thank you to @grilledcheeseandguavajelly for organising everything!)

Song: My Ego Dies At The End by Jensen McRae

You had the dream again. It’d awoken you in the dead of night while the moon bathed your bed in holy light but you hadn’t felt holy in a long time. You weren’t sure if you ever really had. It is cloying to lay there in a place you don’t belong. You tumble from the bed, escaping the tangled web of your sheets before they can choke you any longer. Fumbling for your journal hidden in the back corner of your dresser drawer, you just barely manage to cross the threshold before the panic can set in. The steps creak with every gentle press of your foot against the wooden staircase. Even after all this time, you can’t remember which spots to avoid. Maybe you’re unaware of doing it on purpose. An unconscious part of you wishes that she will hear you and wake from her slumber to feel that you need her.

By the time you reach the dining room, you can finally breathe normally again. You still feel wrong, messed up, twisted, but that is only because the dream amplifies the feelings of what you already are. Keeping a safe distance from the moonlight threatening to stream into the room from behind the bay window’s curtains, you slump into a chair in the darkest corner before beginning to write as you always do.

You don’t know how long you sit there, the tip of your pen scratching messily across the page. It comes naturally to you now, familiar with it as you are. The dream plays over and over in your head and even though you had escaped the room it suffocated you in, you can’t escape your own mind. Your own demons. How they chase you down the halls of your heart.

“What are you doing awake at this hour?”

Your heart jumps in your chest and you spin in your chair to find her dark eyes darker still in the shadows of the dining room. Maybe she had heard you. Was it the creaky staircase or had your soul been calling her name?

She takes in the haggard expression on your face and the desperate way your fingers cling to the corner of your journal, creasing the pages where your fingertips dig in. You didn’t think her tone could get softer until it does, sinking into your heart to make a home there. “What is it, sweetheart?”

You are not used to her kindness, even now. Tears jump in your eyes but you can’t remember how to speak. She eases into the room, gliding across the floor in her bare feet. An angel in a nightgown. Her fingers brush against your cheek, featherlight as if afraid she will break you if she presses too hard. “Can I see?” she asks, stroking away a tear that has broken free.

You look down at the pages, the remnants of your soul lay bare across parchment paper and smeared ink. You are ashamed of it, of the pieces of you not whole, but you can’t say no. Not to Cordelia. While your mind races with images you can’t forget, your soul screams out her name.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you manage to nod. It is timid but Cordelia passes her thumb over your cheekbone again and you settle into place a little more steady than before, She eases the journal out from beneath your fingers, gentle as if holding your very heart in her hands. You miss the feel of her against your skin.

Long, slender fingers pass over the pages, the sloppy slanted letters written in a panic night after night, smeared and smudged where your hand had passed over them before they had been fully dried. One after the other, she turns them and you think it is never ending to see them again, nearly identical over and over. They all say the same thing because they are all the same dream.

Cordelia’s breath tumbles from her mouth, shaky, desperate, not unlike the timid heart that beats like a hummingbird’s wings in your ribcage. “Sweetheart-”

Your watery smile is fake but it is all you know. “I think I’m broken,” you say.

The journal lands with a thud against the dining room table. “No,” she breathes and before you can blink, she has wrapped you up in her arms, fingers cupping the back of your head to keep your nose buried in her neck. She smells like the greenhouse, like flowers, like the life that has sprouted from the earth has been brought forth by the very hands holding you gently now.

You didn’t know what a relief it would be to be seen until she saw you. Tears fall from the corners of your eyes, dripping down your nose and landing on the bare skin of her collarbone. A piece of you melding into a piece of her. You cling to her on instinct, fingers curling into her robe to keep her close, to keep her heartbeat singing in your ears.

Her cheek presses into the side of your head, lips brushing your ear. You shiver in spite of yourself. “You are so whole,” she whispers. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

You take in a shaky breath and will the sobs dissipate because you know they will hurt when they finally purge themselves from your throat, sharp and deadly as they pull themselves free. You can feel them building there now. “You promise?” you whisper and it is as broken as you feel.

Cordelia brushes her hands down each side of your face, her palms warm and her rings cold against your skin. She pulls you back to look at her, her beautiful face appearing like a watercolour painting behind the tears you can’t seem to stop. You feel out of control, spiraling, twisting. The noises in your head are only a reminder of the things your mind can’t forget. You don’t know how long you’ve been so lost. “Look at me, baby,” she coaxes, pulling you out of the dark corner you’d started to tuck yourself back into. You don’t deserve the light. You are not holy. “I promise,” she swears, thumbs stroking down your face, your cheeks, your jaw, the dip in your chin. She lingers there, and you breathe in her life as if it will revive your own.

Your voice cracks. “How do I make it stop?”

“You trust me,” Cordelia says simply, as if it is that easy to be baptised.

Looking into her eyes, you can’t find a single reason not to. Your soul had sighed her name, lovingly, lamently, easily because it is the only name you have ever known. “Cordelia-”

“Shh,” she soothes, tilting your chin up. Her head ducks, blonde hair brushing against your face when she leans down. Your foreheads touch and your eyes close on instinct, giving into her all and letting her cradle you. “I’ve got you, darling.” You know that, can feel it as surely as you can feel your heart beating in your chest. It aches to be closer to her, to become part of her, to know what it feels like to be perfect and so very whole. You wonder if she is the remedy. If she is the cure to being broken.

Your lips meet, a slow and steady brush of your mouths and you think this is the most patient you have ever been in your life. She is as steady as summer rain, warm and soft and gentle. You want to tilt your head back and breathe her in and feel the drops hit your face. For a moment, you think they are. That Cordelia’s rain has deemed you worthy of redemption and is baptising you anew, but they are only your own tears flowing freely. But Cordelia does not find them disgraceful, does not turn up her nose and wish you would hide them away. Instead, she pulls you closer and kisses you for longer so that you might bloom beneath her mouth. You forget that your own broken pieces are not whole as she holds you together beneath her hands. The images in your mind grow distant.

It’s not until you both pull away to breathe that you notice the moonlight shining through the previously closed curtains.

It hits your skin and doesn’t burn.

Tag List: @lovelypeasantjellyfish @angelxsarahp @everyoneseesaghost @serawalkerwrites @vintagepaulson @lntlmate @billiedeansbottom @twistedpoeticjustice @goodeday2u @lucyintheskywithxanax @mrsdeanhoward @talulahmae If you’d like to be added or removed, just let me know :)

#spsecretsanta #sarah paulson #cordelia goode #cordelia goode x reader #sarah paulson x reader #american horror story #ahs fic #cordelia foxx x reader #ahs coven #ahs apocalypse #sarah paulson imagine #cordelia goode imagine

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eternalstereksecretsanta · 7 years

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Love Always, Sant

@theydraggedmein | AO3

Lily's Christmas wish is for her dad to be happy again, when she realizes it's something she can't do on her own, she writes a letter to Santa. Much to her disappointment it doesn't work out as planned, but then somehow, it works out even better.

“Lil, Don’t forget your backpack!” Stiles calls up the stairs, triple checking his carryon to make sure he has the perfect combination of stuff that will get both him and Lil through for a day or two in case their other bags don’t make the trip with them, he’s learned that lesson the hard way.

“C’mon kiddo we can’t miss our flight,” Stiles says, as he hears her little feet clomping down the stairs. He still can’t believe she’s seven years old, it seems like so much time has passed so quickly, he still gets a bit dizzy sometimes.

“Ready!” she calls back, her pretty blonde girls dancing behind her as she rushes toward him.

“Aht at, I don’t think so, lil miss. I know we’re in a hurry but you need your jacket and gloves and hat before you even think about stepping outside,” Stiles says, reaching into the tiny closet by the door of their condo. “I know it’s warm in California but New York in November isn’t . Besides, I don’t want to have to deal with you being all whiny and grumpy during the trip when you catch a cold.”

“Daaaad.”

“Yup, just like that,” Stiles answers, pulling his own jacket over his favorite red hoodie, tucking it tightly around him and zipping it up.

He shoves his way through the door, carrying his duffel on one shoulder and Liliwen’s backpack on the other. Their other two large suitcases are propped against the door as he watches, what he hopes is the cab he called for, turn onto their street.

Thankfully, the cab stops in front of the condo and Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief.

He hops out to help immediately, which surprises Stiles. He’s gotta be at least his dad’s age, probably older, but he moves quickly. He’s got bronze skin and a long grey beard, and a smile brighter than most.

“Here, let me help you with those,” the guy says.

“I got it, but thanks man.” Stiles says, images of the guy to pull something while carrying their bags fluttering through his mind. He turns to his little girl and nods toward the sidewalk. “Lil, wait right here while I get the rest of our stuff.”

Stiles heads back toward the door, making sure to lock it up tight before gathering up the last of their things. “How much does one seven year old girl need for a couple weeks in Cali?”

“Whatever, most of that stuff is yours, dad. Aunt Lydia taught me how to pack.”

Stiles grumbles under his breath that he wouldn’t have brought so much if the same Lydia didn’t disapprove of literally everything he wore, or at least anything he enjoyed wearing. He gets the bags put into the trunk of the cab as quick as he can and ushers his daughter inside.

“Buckle up, Lil.”

“To JFK right? You off to spend Thanksgiving with your family?” The cabbie asks, waiting patiently for Lily to get her seatbelt on before carefully pulling back onto the road.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Stiles swallows as the thought of being back in Beacon Hills washes over him.

He’s been avoiding it for a few years now, the memories of their life together haunt him so much more when he’s there.

The park where they played as kids.

The coffee shop where she got her first job and snuck him slightly stale muffins when he was a starving college student.

The bench in front of the town square where he quietly proposed and she lit up brighter than a Christmas tree.

The small house they bought together and spent every weekend for the next year slowly fixing it up.

Beacon Hills is nothing but a ghost town for him now, it feels cold and empty without her there.

He knows it isn’t fair to the people he loves, to the rest of his family but it’s still true. Four years hasn’t been enough time to settle his restless ghosts, he doesn’t know if he ever will.

But with Kira’s due date so close she can’t fly, which means Scott and Melissa won’t either. So, his dad gave him one hell of a guilt trip about the time he’s spent away and now Stiles is sitting in a taxi on his way to the airport, trying desperately not to have a panic attack and scare his kid.

Good Times.

----

Derek stares at the blinking cursor, his mind taking him somewhere else entirely, like it always does.

He should probably just give up, he knows that. It’s just that writing is his passion. Even now when he can’t seem to string more than one coherent paragraph together, it fills him up with warmth and frustration and a million other things. He’s never felt that way about anything or anyone else, not even her.

He opens the document and blinks a few times, then suddenly he’s pulled back to her, back to what she did, and how he had nearly lost everything.

Damn her! Damn her for taking this from him. Though he he’d rather lose his writing than his family. So instead of smashing his computer or beating his fists against the table, he tries to be grateful for what he has left.

He pushes back from the desk and scrubs a hand over his face.

It’s just a waste of time at this point so he stands up, grabs his coat, and heads toward the preserve. If he can’t write, then at least he’ll have something to take his mind off of it with a houseful of pack.

“Unca Derrrk!” squeals come at him as soon as he opens the door, but he just smiles. He picks the twins up, one in each arm and twirls them around.

“It’s my favorite niece and nephew!” he says, chuckling as they giggle through his spins. Lexie and Bash never fail to make everything feel lighter and brighter. When Derek finally sits them back down, even he is a bit dizzy. They stumble a bit but their quick reflexes keep them upright easily enough.

Derek leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “Who knows where they’re hiding the cookies?”

“I do!” Lexie says, bouncing on her tippy toes.

“Let’s go steal some,” he whispers, grinning wide at the toddlers.

He stealthily sneaks toward the kitchen, the kids following closely behind, mimicking his cartoon villianesque approach.

Just before he reaches the archway into the open kitchen where he can hear Laura and his mom talking, Derek turns back to them and puts a finger to his lips. They giggle loud enough that he knows they aren’t fooling anyone, but he doesn’t really care.

He inches forward, nearing the counter where Talia keeps the cookie jar, reaching out for as Laura’s head snaps around so quickly he can hear her neck pop. “Oh I don’t think so. You are not getting them hyped up on sugar and taking off again Der.”

“Who me?” He says, pathetically fake.

“I’m serious, Derek. They’re all angelic and innocent when you get here and screaming demons after you’re gone,” Laura answers, turning to pull him into a hug.

He accepts it gladly, chuckling at her. He shrugs toward the kids, making a dramatic show of it as he says, “Oh no, I guess we got caught guys...no cookies for us.”

He subtly winks at them when Laura turns back to focus on her work, this time actually trying to go unnoticed as he gently lifts the lid off the ceramic jar and pulls out a handful of his mother’s delicious triple chocolate chip cookies.

He passes one to each of the twins behind his back. They cackle and take off running. Laura glares at him but he just shrugs it off, smugly biting into a cookie of his own.

“Don’t worry, I was actually thinking about sticking around tonight, staying here. The loft is just…” he pauses, unable to cut Laura off before she pipes up with a sarcastic comment.

“A depressing hole of self loathing and misery?”

Derek tosses a piece of his cookie at her face, albeit a small one, not wanting to give up too much of it. There’s a glint of humor in his mom’s eyes so he doesn’t feel too awful about the waste.

“You know you’re welcome here anytime, Derek.” Talia says, pulling him into a hug once his hands are free. His mom’s embrace always comforts him, no matter the issue. Whether it’s because she’s his Alpha or his mom, he’s not sure but it relaxes him regardless.

“I know, mom. Thanks.”

“Oh hey, while I’m thinking about it. Jordan wants to know if you can cover his shift on Wednesday. We thought we’d do a quiet dinner at the house since he’s working Thanksgiving Day for the Sheriff.”

Derek scrunches up his face in surprise. He doesn’t mind working the shift, they don’t ask that much of him really, but it’s a bit of a shock considering the sheriff has worked pretty much every holiday except for Christmas for the last half a decade.

“Something wrong? John doesn’t usually take off until Christmas,” he asks, hoping there isn’t. The sheriff is a good man, one of the best he’s ever met if he’s honest.

“Nah, turns out his kid is coming home for a couple weeks so John’s taking Thursday off.”

“Really? What’s it been...Four years? Five?” Derek says, feeling a little angry on behalf of the sheriff. He doesn’t understand how someone can distance themselves so much from the people who care most about them. Maybe that’s colored by his experiences but Derek will never take his family for granted again.

“Why now?” he asks, reaching into the fridge to grab the milk, pouring himself a couple drinks to wash down the last of his cookies.

“Derek,” his mom said, and it sounded like a scolding. “Show some compassion. I raised you better than that. You don’t judge a situation you know nothing about.”

He feels about two inches tall at that, though part of him is still defensive on the sheriff’s behalf.

“Sorry,’ he says, as his mom looks at him coldly. She could probably hear his heartbeat skip over the word. “No I am, I just...I know how much it bothers John, how much it hurts that his family is literally on the other side of the country.”

“You have a big heart, Derek. I’ve always thought you take after your father that way. But maybe you should think about sharing all that loyalty and protectiveness you feel for him with his son and granddaughter, don’t you?” she asks in a way that leaves no room for a response before starting up again. “Even more so this time of year.”

Derek groans a bit, feeling as if he’s regresses into his teenage angst phase anytime he spends more than five minutes in his childhood home. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Just try your best to be understanding. That’s all I’m asking, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, mom. I’ll try,” he answers, escaping the warmth of the kitchen in favor of chasing down a couple rugrats to play with.

----

“Stiles, you know it’s okay to move on…” Scott starts, hating himself a little for saying it. He can’t imagine how hard it’s been on his best friend. Losing Heather wasn’t easy for him either, though he wasn’t head over heels in love with her, didn’t have a child with her, couldn’t even think about it being Kira instead without losing control.

But he knew Heather too.

She was his best friend too.

And he knows that she wouldn’t want this for Stiles.

“Yeah…” Stiles says with a nod, though Scott can hear the slight hitch in his breath and the wrenching break in his voice. “I get that I’m allowed to move on, Scott. That’s not the problem. I just, I can’t. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

He scrubs the pot a little harder than he should as he tries to figure out how to say what’s on his mind. It’s easy to see that Scott’s trying to help. The guy’s basically just a giant puppy who hates seeing anyone sad, especially him, he knows that. Hell, it’s part of the reason he left in the first place, not that he’d ever admit it.

Still, it takes him a few beats to find the words. But once he does, it feels like they’re not gonna stop. “It’s like a puzzle- No hear me out. Heather and I, we fit...we fit so well and for so long that our edges brushed together seamlessly. You could stare at the puzzle up close and it still looked like a painting, no jagged edges or marks to see that it wasn’t a whole.”

“When I lost her-,” Stiles has to swallow back the tears but he does it, used to having to hide it all inside himself . “Without her, the picture is broken and I’ve not found anything else that came close to fitting.”

“Stiles maybe if you just tried-”

Stiles raises his voice unintentionally, it’s just he’s heard the same lines over and over and they still hit him with a powerful punch. “Not so much as a spark, Scott. Nothing in four years. There are days when I still feel like I can’t breathe without her.”

“If it wasn’t for Lily, I’m not sure I would.”

Scott sighs, pulling Stiles against him and squeezing tight.

“I’m sorry, man...she didn’t make it easy did she? Setting the bar so high,” Scott says, smiling fondly as he thinks back on how much Heather seemed to light up around Stiles causing him to do the same.

They were as right for one another as he thought people could be.

Lily watches them quietly from the living room, frowning at the way her dad’s eyes get big and sad. It’s been that way pretty much the entire trip. She knows that being back in California reminds him of her mom and makes him sad, but she doesn’t know how to make it good again.

She’s seen it a few times in New York but not like it is here, not all the time.

It’s still a little early but Lily knows she’s gonna need some help so she’s calling in the big guns.

“Dad, do you have a pen or marker I can use? I’m gonna write my letter to Santa.”

“Already? Lil it’s not even December yet.”

“Well duh, I don’t wanna be stuck at the bottom of the pile,” she says, rolling her eyes at him. He laughs a little and it makes her feel better until he hands her the pencil and she sees that look again, but like he’s trying to hide it.

“Make sure you ask for somethin’ big. Somethin your dad can play with too, how bout an xbox?”

She knows he’s teasing but she shakes her head at him. “No, this year I’m asking for something special. It’s a secret.”

“Well okay, then.”

Lily runs upstairs, charging through the door to what used to be her dad’s room. She digs out some paper from her backpack and starts to write.

Dear Santa,

This will be the fourth Christmas without my mommy and the first one that will be just me and Dad.

I don’t think he wants to come back to California for Christmas.

I don’t even think he’d stay for Thanksgiving if my aunt Kira wasn’t going to have a baby.

The dad I have now, isn’t the daddy I remember from when mommy was still alive. He tries, he does good but he’s not just not the same. I don’t think he knows that I see how sad he is, but I do.

He went on a date once, a while ago, with the man who lives in the apartment over the cafe. Later that night, I heard him crying in the shower.

Don’t tell him, but I cried a little bit too.

At the beginning of my favorite book, The Christmas Bow, Annabelle loses her leg and doesn’t think she will ever walk again.

I think that’s what it’s like for my dad.

He doesn’t believe he’ll ever find love again.

I’m not asking for anything else this year. I don’t want anything else. I just want him to smile again, like really smile. The way he did with mommy. I want him to have someone to hold and kiss even when I say it’s gross.

So, if you could Santa. My Christmas wish is for my dad to get a girlfriend or a boyfriend or a g-gender-

“Dadd! How do you spell neutral?” Lily calls out down the stairs, impatiently waiting for her answer.

“N-e-u-t-r-a-l.”

“K, thanks!”

gender neutral friend.

He’s not picky.

I just want him to be happy again and I don’t think I can do it by myself, even though I’m gonna try.

He probably needs all the help he can get.

You’ve never let me down before Santa and now my dad needs you more than I ever have.

Bring back his spark.

Love Always, Liliwen Stilinski.

P.S. You can call me Lily

(read the rest on AO3)

#eternalstereksecretsanta17 #esss17 #sterek #fic #submission

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