#i remember painting this on my built in desk in my college apartment

[stuckyfingers]

I wish I had the motivation to write a 300k for this but here's the first chap ig 😭😭

Sarah Rogers was the most amazing and hardworking mother Steve could ask for- but even at the age of 34, the image of an art school brochure and a broken plate with spaghetti all over the floor, flashed before his eyes as he graded Labor Law papers.

It had been on a night of the last week of his senior year that he saw a side of his mom that he'd rarely ever seen before: and it was because she was breaking into pieces after seventeen long years of pulling it together for him.

He knew she was right. Painting and sketching wasn't a real job. There was no way he was not going to be trapped in debt for the rest of his life if he didn't find something that paid better than that.

And yet... he still expected that she would have just refused and given him another stern lecture about money. Instead, she began screaming so loud that the neighbors came knocking- so venomously that for a whole 24 hours after that, he still had trouble processing that it was directed at him. The one alleged joy of her life.

He hadn't considered himself spoilt, but that's what she had called him that night. She said he didn't deserve his friends, who certainly egged him on to be an artist - because it wouldn't make a difference to them if his life was destroyed or not.

Steve realized that he had been reading the same line over and over again with blurring vision as he dissociated.

Why am I thinking about this now?

Why indeed? He left everything like that behind that very week. He put his mind on the LSATs in the next few months and the rest was history- he earned enough to rent a nice apartment in Brooklyn and pay half his loans in just five years. Hell, he could even afford hospital bills and his medication now. Life was good.

But life was not happy. He tried to drown the peripheral emptiness of it all, in paperwork and assignments and fun activities with students. But he couldn't escape how there was a hole in his heart. A metaphorical one, although he also had a literal one.

A Bucky shaped hole.

Or maybe like, two Bucky shaped holes if you want to go there.

But Bucky had been his best friend- middle to high school, seven years straight. They shared so many things: interests, firsts, clothes, homework. Even a bed.

And they broke up even before they became a thing. It was like something crashing into a plane inside a hangar; it was technically a plane crash, but not in the way you imagine.

Steve remembered that too. He had cut off any communication with Bucky one fine morning, which was made convenient by the fact that high school was over. He had needed to let go of the fun things and focus on what he owed his mom. He needed to do what was practical.

He was now almost rich enough to fix the medical hole in his heart. And that's because he chose reality. Right?

His pen had made a perfect circle of ink where it had absently rested on a page, throughout the twenty minutes of his dissociation. There were other, more transparent wet circles on the page, which he realized were his tears. Blood rushed to his face in embarrassment as he jerkily began blotting the moisture off the page.

get yourself together.

His friends told him to get therapy. Sam Wilson was always one for that. The decorated veteran-turned-laid back college counsellor was one of the few reasons he didn't spiral into loneliness every week. Sam had revealed to him that under the handsome, funny guy behind the counsellor's desk, were neat piles of sanity as well as horrors in which he'd compartmentalize his trauma and process life through a perspective that he'd built from years of therapy.

And Steve took Sam seriously on that. He just didn't think he was that traumatized. Sam had literally watched his friend die in combat. Steve on the other hand had used one phone call to throw away the deepest friendship he'd ever had. It was embarrassing to act like he didn't have it easier than Sam or his mom.

And my flashbacks never interfere with my work. I can still function, right?

He shouldn't have said that.

The very next day, as he was heading to hand out the graded papers to his class- he saw something that got him rushing back into his office before he broke down behind the slammed door.

The new art professor was so handsome.

The new art professor was Bucky.

he teaches law he teaches art

stucky professors au

[hannahkoga]

Remember my first Taako fanart?

[shamefullymadethis]

The Mess You Made

Part 1/?

Todoroki x Reader

Art College AU

Word Count: 1671

Summary: Y/n has had their life under wraps at all times. They give little room for things to mess up what they’ve built when they have the control over it. So what happens when the new student, Shoto, indirectly starts to unravel the carefully crafted life Y/n has built for themself?

Trigger Warnings: None in this chapter.

If you guys wanna see more parts of this lmk and I’ll continue it. This has just been on my mind recently. (Update! I’ve decided to add another chapter. Check it out if you’d like! I’ll continue to post chapters if you are all interested :) )

Next Part

Good day sunshine

Good day sunshine

Good day sunshine

You hear a familiar tune play off your phone laying on the dresser beside your bed. You slowly open your eyes and grab your phone letting the song play out, but turning it down. The time reads 7:30am, you groan and roll out of bed. You connect your headphones to your phone and place it in your pocket as you get ready for your 8:30 painting class. As you get up you see your other 2 roommates quietly sleeping. You stretch, put on some clothes, and head to the kitchen. On the counter there’s a plate of cinnamon buns wrapped with plastic. Judging by the crumbs, one has already been taken. A note beside it reads: I made these last night! Feel free to take some -Ochaco. You smile as you grab one, wrapping it in a napkin, then placing it in the pocket of your portfolio. You head to the door and grab your keys, as you open the door you hear your one of your roommates alarms go off.

This is a normal morning for you. Everything is always perfectly timed and plays out the same each morning. You take comfort in the routine you have made for yourself. You head to the elevator and go through your playlist deciding on what best fit your mood for today. As the music starts to pick up, the elevator doors open and you wave to the guard at the front desk of your building. She gives you a tired smile and quietly says, “Have a good day, y/n.” You nod your head as you go to open the door, allowing the next guard to come in and relieve the current one from duty. You give a polite nod as they walk in and thank you. You walk down the street and around the corner, and everything couldn’t have gone more smoothly. You normally left for class 30 minutes before it started. With that time you are able open the door for the guard, go to your favorite cafe, grab some coffee and draw some of the regulars, then head to class given that it’s right next to the cafe.

Looking at yourself now versus who you were before you came to college, you wouldn’t even recognize who you were before. Most things had been out of your hand, and you hardly had control over the things that happened to you. But since getting to college you started to have more of a grip on the things around you. You have become a master of your own life, to a fault. You have carefully constructed the path you are on right now, down to every minute and breath. With that, it is a very delicate balance. But you have made sure to keep a guard up at all times, so as to not disturb the plans you have made for yourself. You are well known within your school and have many “friends,” because they admire how put together you seem. But there are only a few people who you actually trust within your life or plot. It is important to you that you maintain this distance with most people, as people tend to make things messy. You are happy with the neat life you have constructed, and it will stay that way as long as you have control over that.

You head to the coffee shop beside the building your class is in, and right on que you hear the owner call out to you as the small bell rings signaling your entrance.

“Y/n! Good morning, the usual I presume,” he asks while he already starts pouring syrups into a cup.

“You know it, thank you!” You reply as you stride up to the counter. You place a five dollar bill on the counter, and another barista, who you know as Mr. Sasaki, comes to put it in the register and hands you change. You take the change and place it in the tip jar. You make idle conversation with the owner and Mr. Sasaki. The owner’s name is Mr. Yagi, he is small in stature and one of the kindest people you know in this city. He spends time outside of work doing volunteer work and creating safe spaces for people. As Mr.Yagi hands you the cup he gives you his signature smile, and takes the next customer. You take a seat by the window and watch as people walk by. Your college is an open campus, so your school’s buildings blend in with the city around it. When you look outside you see every type of person from tourists, other students, and people heading to work. You grab a small sketchbook and pen from your bag and sketch out some of the passerby’s. As you do these gesture drawings, you notice another student with a portfolio headed towards the building your class is in. You don’t recognize this student, which would normally not bother you, but this person sticks out like a sore thumb. You freeze for a moment as you feel your brain trying to slow down time to study this stranger. His hair is dyed half white and half red, he was well dressed, and for a moment you thought you caught sight of blue eyes. You sit there for a moment, engraving this person’s face into your memory. You quickly turn to your sketchbook and sketch out what you could remember. You check the time, and jump out of your seat as you read the clock: 8:25am.

“Shit,” you hiss quietly.

You throw your sketchbook back into your bag, drink the rest of the lukewarm coffee, and bolt out the door giving a brief goodbye to Mr. Yagi and Mr. Sasaki. You grab your school ID from your pocket and flash it to the guard quickly as you enter the building. You walk down the hall to wait for the elevator. There are a few students, some which you recognize from your class, and of course the stranger who had distracted you in the cafe. You know that you shouldn’t blame him for your faulty timing, but a small part of you feels misguided resentment towards him. As the elevator stops on the floor you pile in with the other students. You reach to press the button for your floor, but at the same time the boy with half-and-half hair reaches for it as well. As he presses the button, you find yourself drawing your hand back a bit too late and accidentally brushing against his hand. You quickly turn your head to him and find yourself locked in eye contact with him as you both say apologize. Looking at him up close you could confirm that he has blue eyes. Eyes that are so startlingly blue that you almost feel cold. You find yourself getting lost for a moment, and then realize that you have spent an odd amount of time watching each other. So you quickly break eye contact and watch the numbers on the elevator climb.

Once it reaches your floor you excuse yourself through the people and realize that the blue-eyed person you had shared a brief moment with has also exited the elevator. Logically that makes sense given that you were both going to press the same floor, but you still found yourself feeling a bit more stiff than usual as you process to your class with him close behind. You get to the door and as you open it you realize that he is entering with you. Your classmates are all chatting and you see your friend Mina from across the room. She excitedly waves at you, “Y/N GOOD MOOORNING!” You smile and walk over to her, feeling the tension in your shoulders relax a bit. As you settle down at the table next to her you see the stranger stand idly at the front of the classroom, almost looking a bit lost. A few moments later your professor, Mr. Aizawa enters the room looking tired as ever. He stands at the podium placing a bag down on a table by the podium which immediately grabs the attention of the room.

“Settle down everyone, we have a new student today. Would you like to introduce yourself,” he asks while looking at the boy standing by the door.

The boy nods, “My name is Shouto, I just transferred here.”

“What’s your major,” Mr. Aizawa inquires.

“I’m a painting major,” Shouto replies shortly.

Mr. Aizawa nods in acknowledgement, and points to the empty desk next to you.

“That desk is open next to y/n, feel free to set up there.”

Without meaning to you held your breath as he walked towards the desk next to you. He quietly places his things down and starts to set up brushes, paint tubes, and charcoal on his desk. He looks over to you which then makes you realize that you’ve been staring this whole time. You look up quickly to try and play it off, but from an outsiders’ point of view it would have been obvious that you were staring. Your gaze moves to your other side to look at Mina. She raises an eyebrow in confusion, then gestures for you to take a breath by raising her hands near her chest and then lowering them while exhaling. As you finally breathe out Mr.Aizawa starts to explain the new assignment.

For just a second, you felt your perfectly crafted life start to crack. You decide to brush it off, thinking that it’s nothing but a bothersome thought. You never thought of a plan for what to do if it should fall apart, and you don’t feel like that is something to worry about as of right now.

[hedwigstalons]

High Expectations

This is a fic that I originally told myself I wouldn’t post any of until it was complete.   Evidently I lied.  It’s not complete but I do have 21k words and eight chapters built up already.  It was meant to be Gordon’s story of how he ended up in WASP but the other brothers have decided to put in an appearance too (I blame the boys and also @willow-salix​ for encouraging them)

I’ve also set myself a secondary challenge with this to produce a piece of art for each chapter.  I’m hoping to try out different styles and hopefully make some progress over time.  This first bit was very much about getting a feel for the tools (a challenge seeing as I first have to wrestle the drawing pad away from the small person who just likes being able to make rainbow glitter pictures)

Anyway....

xoxoxox

Summary: Jeff Tracy has very strong beliefs about what he expects from his sons.  Sometimes his expectations are at odds with what his sons themselves want from life, especially Gordon.  

Chapter One

The office was tiny, barely large enough for the single desk it contained.  It didn’t really matter.  This room no longer had a permanent resident. State wide cuts to the careers service and an investment in online guidance meant that careers advisors were stretched across districts; a few lonely individuals doing the rounds of the high schools to dispense reassurance and wisdom in statutory ten minute blocks.  As a consequence this area of the school hadn’t been refurbished in many years and had a general air of neglect.  The carpet tiles had been worn bald in a clear path to the two chairs in the room, one in front of the desk and one behind.  The painted cinderblock walls were covered in posters, bleached and faded by the California sun, bearing inspirational quotes.  

 You can do anything!

 Be the change you want to see

 Aim for the skies

 The posters mirrored the sentiments he had heard at home too many times.  Although at home they tended to come tinged with disappointment as he handed over yet another report card that didn’t meet the standard set by the siblings who had gone before.  Yale, Harvard and the Denver School of Advanced Technology had already accepted a Tracy.  Gordon just couldn’t match up to their lofty heights of academic success.  He was bright but that just got overshadowed by the glittering trio above him.  Anything he did had always been done better by at least one, but more often all, of his older brothers.  

 The pressure to achieve academic excellence had lessened slightly as his swimming training had ramped up in intensity.  As competitions progressed from local, to state, to national, to international the family had grown to accept that this was no passing hobby.  But Gordon still lived with the constant threat that he would be pulled out the pool if his grades dropped too low.  It was taking all his energy to keep on top of his school work to the required B- average insisted on by his father so that he could keep doing the one thing he felt truly good at.  The one thing that set him apart from his over-achieving brothers.

 At least the teachers didn’t judge him or at least couldn’t judge him against his more intellectual siblings.  As soon as John had graduated high school and started at Harvard, an accomplishment for which he was several years younger than the average after skipping a couple of grades, Jeff had moved himself and the youngest boys away from rural Kansas to Los Angeles.  The old farmhouse was retained but was no longer a permanent base for the family.

 The move to the city was a strategic decision by Jeff and one that was only delayed in order to allow John to complete his high school education without the disruption of an inter-state move.  For Jeff it meant the ability to site himself in the commercial heartlands expected of the business that was flourishing under his direction.  It also meant he was able to get back each night to care for his youngest children, even if he sometimes didn’t make it back to the apartment before midnight.

 It may have been expected that Jeff Tracy, an individual rapidly climbing the lists of America’s richest and most influential individuals, would have used the move as an opportunity to enrol his youngest sons in the finest educational establishment Los Angeles had to offer. But Jeff Tracy was a man raised in Kansas wheat fields.  A man for whom his own success and the successes of his eldest three sons had been built on the foundations of learning delivered in small town rural schools. What was good enough for him was good enough for all his children.  There were no private tutors or exclusive schools.  Gordon and Alan found themselves enrolled in the regular district school with its air of neglect and underfunding.

 A large part of Gordon really wanted to be back in his math class.  Not because he had any great fondness for the subject but because he found it hard in a way the others didn’t.  He was not above digging out Virgil’s old annotated English texts or Scott’s history files if he wanted a bit of extra insight for his essays but math was different. Any notes left by his siblings were generally an incomprehensible scrawl.  Not that any of them had made many math notes; they all seemed to just get it.  

 Gordon still remembered the first time after John had headed off to Harvard that he had called for help with his homework.  John had tried to be patient but there had been an unmistakeable tone of annoyance accompanied by a condescending eye roll clearly visible on the call screen.  Gordon had been left in no doubt that John found the idea of a Tracy struggling with algebra to be frankly insulting.  Virgil had displayed rather more patience and understanding but the pity that came with the help was too much for Gordon to take.  He didn’t want to find out what Scott’s reaction would be.  The golden haloed first-born was becoming increasingly distant and superior as his career in the Air Force progressed.  

 And so Gordon ploughed on alone.  Taking study guides to swim competitions to read between the heats.  Trying to juggle the conflicting demands of Team USA and Team Tracy.  The former striving for physical excellence and peak performance, the latter demanding excellence across the board.

 The careers advisor on the far side of the desk looked up at the young man sat opposite her.  The school records showed he was academically above average.  He had prospects.  

 The students that entered her office tended to fall into three broad categories.  There were the ones that didn’t really need their regulation advice session having already got their chosen career path mapped out, whether that involved furthering their education or just jumping straight into the local jobs market. There were those that were bewildered and clueless about where to turn next.  Then there were those that just didn’t seem to care and who drifted through her office much like they drifted through the rest of their school career. She wondered which she would encounter in this interview.

 “So Gordon” she smiled at the teenager, “have you considered what you want to do after you graduate high school?”

 The teen looked at her with a slightly surprised expression.

 “Swim, ma’am”  

 It was said bluntly and without preamble, accompanied by a mid-western politeness that the move to the city hadn’t shaken off. Stated as fact rather than as some hypothetical idea.  She had encountered plenty of teenagers with dreams of making it big on the sporting circuit but very few made it professional.  Usually the dreams were of football or basketball; swimming was a new one to add to her list.  

 “Swim?”

 “Yes ma’am, swim.  I’ve already got my qualifying time sorted.  Come the summer I’ll be at the Olympics.”

 Cogs clicked into place.  This was her nineteenth interview of the day and the students were beginning to blur together, even with the supplementary notes put together by the tutors that actually got to see these kids each day.  The low attendance scores suddenly made sense. Gordon Tracy, the rising star of the swimming circuit.

 “Of course.”  She flustered slightly over her notes.  It was a new experience to have a member of the Olympic squad sat before her. But she was obliged to be a sounding board for his career choice for the next ten minutes.  She couldn’t just send him back to class off the back of a one word answer.  She decided to stick to familiar territory; if they know the plan, find out the backup plan.

 “Have you considered what you will do after swimming? You have good grades here.  I’d recommend making a college application.”

 The youngster gave a hollow sort of chuckle. “Not good enough for anywhere that matters.  I think I’ll stick to what I’m good at, ma’am.”

 The interview was brought to a close by the final bell of the day and Gordon was glad to be able to scoop up his rucksack and escape the claustrophobic confines of the office.  He was sure the careers advisor meant well but he felt that the session was a pretty pointless experience.  Actually being in class would have been a better use of his time.

 As he reached the front of the school he spied Alan waiting for him in their usual spot.  The younger boy was scuffing his shoes in the dirt while waiting, the bored expression of his face breaking into smile when he saw his older brother.  They set off on the short walk back the apartment.

 “Good day, Al?”

 “Yeah, ok”

 “Much homework?”

 Alan grimaced.  He was about as fond of homework as Gordon was.

 “I’ll take that as a yes.  Well make sure you get on with it as soon as we get in.  No video games until it’s finished.”

 “Yes Sir!”  The response was accompanied by a mocking salute which earned Alan a gentle whack on the back of the head.

 “Hey, less of that.  I’m not Scott.  But seriously Al, just make sure you get it done.  I’ve got an extra training session tonight but only a short one; you’ll have the place to yourself until about 6.  I’ll sort us some dinner once I’m home.”

 “Will you be able to play video games with me once you’re back.”

 “Sorry, I’ll have my own work to get on with.”

 Alan’s shoulders slumped dejectedly and his feet dragged along the sidewalk.

 “Another quiet night then.”

 Gordon hated seeing Alan so flat.  The pair spent a significant amount of time together and, like all his brothers, he had a desire to protect the youngest.  He wrapped an arm around the shoulders of the shorter boy and was rewarded with a shove in the ribs.  Evidently anything even slightly resembling a hug in public was out this close to the school grounds.

 “I’ll see what I can do.”

 They had reached the apartment by this point. Gordon dashed inside to grab his swimming kit and left Alan with strict instructions to make sure he got all his homework done.  He didn’t like leaving Alan home alone but it was a regular occurrence now.  Their father wouldn’t be home for hours and with all the others moved away the youngest two had got used to fending for themselves.  He left Alan with a promise that they would spend some time together later.

 The training session passed in a blur of drills.  There were now more days with both morning and evening training in preparation for the Olympics and the extra workouts were taking their toll.  By the time Gordon reached the apartment his shoulders ached and all he wanted to do was stand under a scalding hot shower before collapsing in to bed.  Unfortunately he knew he had other responsibilities to attend to first.

 Gordon rolled his shoulders, plastered on a smile and scanned the entry system for the apartment.

 xoxoxox

 Normally weekday meals were Gordon’s domain or he was at least there to help out if Alan ventured into the kitchen.  But he had completed his homework quicker than expected and in the boredom of the empty apartment it had seemed like a good idea to start dinner.

 He took the pack of greens from the fridge, prodded the pan of pasta and gave the chicken a quick stir.  As he sliced the greens an acrid smell assaulted his nostrils.  The chicken, which had been cooking nicely until now seemed to have chosen the moment he took his eye off the ball to catch and stick to the bottom of the pan.  Carefully prepared strips of prime breast disintegrated and crumbled as he tried to scrape the dried out offerings from the base of the pan.  He cursed, turned out the stove, and went back to preparing the greens.  

 The clock ticked closer to 6pm.  Steam rose in billows from the pan of greens which had reached a rapid boil.  Perhaps he should have waited until Gordon was actually home before cooking the vegetables, the shredded leaves were starting to disintegrate.  

 At least the pasta should be ok.  

 The pasta which wasn’t boiling.

 More cursing filled the air as Alan realised his error. In his attempt to salvage the chicken he had turned off the heat under the pasta as well.  Perhaps he should have just let Gordon cook the whole thing. This was a mistake.  All he wanted to do was free up some time in the hope of getting a game in with Gordon and instead he had ruined everything.  He wondered if it was too late to dig out the emergency credit card and call for take out.  He would just have to make sure Dad took it out of his allowance rather than Gordon’s.

 The sound of the front door broke through his thoughts.

 “Hi Alan.”  The voice echoed up the hallway.  Footsteps approached, only pausing briefly as a kit bag was launched into a room, landing in a corner with a heavy thud.  Too late to salvage anything now, within moments Gordon was in the doorway.  “Hey, you cooked.  Thanks”

 “No need to sound so surprised.  Don’t thank me til you’ve tried it though.  It’s, um, not really gone to plan.”

 “I’m sure it’s fine.  Want me to drain these pans while you get the plates out?”

 Alan signalled his agreement by delving into the crockery cupboard leaving Gordon to drain and stir together the contents of the various pans.  He wasn’t exactly looking forward to the meal but Gordon seemed grateful to be spared the chore.

 Dinner was everything Alan expected it to be.  They sat opposite sides of the kitchen counter, Gordon shovelling down vast quantities of noodles while he picked at his own much smaller portion.  The meat was as dry as cardboard and stuck in his throat alongside the shards of undercooked pasta. Perhaps he ought to pay more attention in the kitchen, especially as Gordon was likely to be training more and more over the coming months.

 Gordon’s fork clattered onto the empty plate before Alan was even half way through.  He looked up to see eyes the colour of mahogany under the harsh kitchen lights looking at him with concern.

 “You ok?  You’ve hardly eaten.”

 “I’m fine.  Just wishing I’d ordered us a pizza instead.”  He waved a forkful of charred chicken to emphasise his point.

 This earned him a small chuckle and at least dispelled the worry.

 “Hey, no complaints from me over it.  I think my coach would have something so say about that too, we’ll save the pizza for the summer.  I’ll start clearing up while you finish off.  You still want that game?”

 Alan grinned.  Suddenly the pasta was a lot easier to stomach if there was a chance to thrash his brother in the goblin realms at the end of it.  

 xoxoxox

 As the clock ticked past midnight and into the small hours of the morning Gordon lay in the darkness, sleep refusing to come.  His normally comfortable bed felt too lumpy and he turned this way and that.  First facing the blank wall next to the bed, then the ceiling and finally the open room. A shelf of trophies glinted faintly in the light that managed to spill around the edges of the heavy blackout curtains.  Back in Kansas Gordon had rarely bothered closing his curtains; he had always been an early riser and was usually up long before the dawn in order to get to early morning training or fit in a gym session before school.  But the pervading yellow glow of the city from the ever present light pollution wasn���t like the peaceful moon.  On nights like this the city felt oppressive and he yearned for the open fields of home, as he still though of Kansas.  Gordon might now be able to access better training facilities and coaches which had enhanced his Olympic prospects but he had never embraced city life.

 He was exhausted.  The training session after school had been intense and he had thrown himself into the drills with maximum effort.  The gaming session had probably been a mistake but he hadn’t wanted to let Alan down.  The kid had gone to the trouble of trying to make dinner and save him a job.  Ok, the noodles had been still firm to the point of being slightly crunchy and the greens had been on the verge of turning to soup but it’s the thought that counts.  It was calories.  It was from his prescribed meal plan.  It was mostly edible.  He appreciated the level of consideration shown by a teenager who shouldn’t have any more pressing concerns than getting his chemistry paper completed and working out whether Ellen from World Studies class had a crush on him.

 His own homework had been its usual slog.  He wrote until his eyes became sticky and the notes he was reading became a jumbled blur.  Sleep should have enveloped him within minutes of climbing into bed but instead the words from his earlier interview kept churning around his head.  The thoughts drowning out even the gnawing ache in his overworked muscles.  

 What about after?

 He had always managed to stave these thoughts off before.  Whenever his father had made comments about future plans he has always managed to deflect the conversations.  He didn’t have room in his head for anything other than visualising the dream.  Why on earth should the words of a complete stranger, parroted from some state approved script, make life any different.

 He was a Tracy.  A name synonymous success and achievement.  He had found his calling in a way that set him apart from the others.  

 He was going to swim.

 He was going to represent his country.

 He was going to win.

 He ran through the visualisation that had been a constant companion in his head for years.  He could feel the flow of the water over his body as his muscles flexed in perfect synchronicity.  He could hear the roar of the crowd as the results flashed up on the scoreboard.  He rode the wave of emotion as the medal was presented.  This was the moment that would mark him out as more than just the fourth son of an astronaut.  Gordon Cooper Tracy.  A name in his own right.

 With the sound of the national anthem still ringing in his ears Gordon tried to visualise the next steps.  He tried to force the dream beyond its current conclusion but instead found only darkness.  

[are-you-jungood]

Hoodie Chapter 1

Shownu X Reader

Quick preface,

 I was inspired by the song Hoodie by Hey Violet to write this. Also, ya’ll can re-blog, just please don’t re-post somewhere else! If you do, at least credit me (please and thank you)! I hope you enjoy and there will be a more steamier part coming soon.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been at least two years since you and Hyunwoo had broken up. The excruciating pain that had radiated from your chest every time you thought about him after the initial breakup had now subsided to a dull twinge when you thought back to that time. You had moved on with your life, or so you had thought when the unexpected happened. 

You groaned as you reached onto your night stand to turn your alarm off. As you rolled out of bed and padded to the small bathroom in your shared apartment, you could hear your roommate, Emma, putting on a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Mornings were a time for silence, contemplation, and (most importantly) caffeine. After brushing your teeth and hair, you walked back to your room to get dressed and ready for the day. Though it may not have seemed that impressive to some, the matching dresser and vanity that your father had painstakingly designed, built, and painted for your sixteenth birthday is something that makes your heart swell with pride and love for your dad every time you see it. After sifting through the clothes you have stowed away in your dresser and closet, you finally selected a professional-looking plain black pencil skirt, crisp white button down shirt, and cherry red kitten heels. You glanced over to the clock and realized you only had about an hour before you needed to get to work. Hurrying through your usual makeup routine, you grabbed your purse and keys, waved goodbye to Emma, and rushed out the door to hopped in your rust bucket of a car to make your thirty minute commute to work.

“Good morning, Gladys,” you said enthusiastically to the secretary at the entrance of your office building. After graduating from college with a B.A. in Anthropology and a minor in Management, you found that it was difficult to figure out just what sort of industry would suite your talents. After going to interview after interview, you finally managed to snag a fairly decent paying entry-level position with a branch of your state government that pertained to human resources. In other words, a nine-to-five desk job. You didn’t mind so much that you weren’t using your degree exactly as you had intended (turns out field work isn’t the thing you’re best suited for). This job ensures you can pay the bills, and have some left over at the end for your various other hobbies that could only be considered nerdy (even to yourself). 

You arrived at your desk fifteen minutes before it was time to start working, so you pulled out the files you had been going over the previous day and turned on your computer to get started on the tasks you had awaiting you for the day.

“Knock Knock!’

You turned to see your coworker (and close friend), Hoseok Lee, standing in the doorway to your cramped office with an adorable smile on his face.

Turning in your chair, you wave at him and say, “Good morning, Hoseokie! How are you?”

Taking your question as an invitation to sit down, he made his way to an old, broken swivel chair you have in lieu of proper office furniture (what can you say, you’ve only just got an office) and plopped himself down with a thunk.

“I’m doing really good. Something weird just happened, though. You know that girl in accounting, Linda? She just gave me a giant bottle of herbal supplements, patted my left bicep, and told me to ‘keep up the good work.’ I don’t know how I should feel about this...”

Holding in a giggle, you put on your most serious face, and leaned closer to him saying, “She’s right, you should keep up the good work,” and proceed to squeeze his bicep. At this, you both erupted into a fit of giggles as Minhyuk strode through the door.

“I would ask what’s going on, but it’s way too early for this.”

He slammed his giant thermal full of coffee onto his desk (I never said you were the only one in the office). After dramatically flinging himself onto his desk chair, your office-mate set about getting his laptop out of his bag and then looked pointedly at Hoseok.

“I guess that’s my cue to leave, have a good day (y/n)!”

You waved goodbye to him, turned to Minhyuk, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“What?”

You rolled your eyes and asked, “Is their a particular reason you had to run him off like that? I thought he was your friend.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair, sighed, and replied, “He is, I just have a lot on my plate right now, what with the new higher and all-”

You cut him off mid-sentence at this shocking new information, “Wait, what new hire?”

“They didn’t tell you? He’s starting work today. Apparently Lucas is going to be showing him the ropes, so maybe we’ll catch a glimpse of him later. I heard you guys went to the same school, so maybe you already know him.”

Your heart beat started to pick up at this thought, filling your stomach with dread for some reason. Hoping to quell your fear a little bit (because it couldn’t possibly be who you’re thinking it is, right?) you asked him, “Did you catch what the guys name is?”

He squinted his eyes in concentration as he tried to remember what they had said in the briefing a couple of weeks ago. Giving up after a few moments, he replied, “Something like Sean or Shane I think.”

Feeling slightly relieved with that, you went back to work as usual.

Lunch is when everything went to shit.

Seeing as you only had an hour lunch break, you opted to go to the little Italian deli across the street that always has the best cold cut sandwiches around. After you paid and talked to the owner for a bit, you strolled back to your office to enjoy a little alone time while Minhyuk was off trying to spy a glimpse at the new hire. Apparently he had heard he was super handsome and wanted to appraise the man himself. You didn’t mind too much, it meant you could have some peace and quite from his normally incessant talking and get some work done. As you went to take a bite of your pastrami sandwich, the tomato and mustard that you had asked to be piled on fell in slow motion onto your pristine, white shirt. 

You put your sandwich down quickly to fish the tomato off of your shirt only to be greeted with a giant red and yellow stain hidden underneath. Knowing full well no dry napkin would fix the damage that had been done here, you sprinted to the nearest bathroom, making sure the few people who were still in the office weren’t looking as you did so. Once in the restroom, you took the shirt off, leaving you in a tank top, and sat about scrubbing that disgustingly yellow stain into oblivion. Just as you were squeezing out the last bits of water from your shirt, you heard the door swing open and slam shut with a lock.

You whirled around to see what was going on and came face to face with someone you knew all too well.

“Hyunwoo...”

Next Chapter | Masterlist

[artificialqueens]

Complex Love, Ch 1 (kamasia) - Crazy4Kameron

A/N: This is the very first thing that I have ever written and I just have to say a huge thank you to Mac and Alex, because without them this wouldn't have been possible. They patiently answered all of my questions and bounced ideas around with me, all while encouraging me. So THANK YOU a million times over!! I have never finished anything in my life, so I am very proud of this work and can't wait to see where it may go. Thanks hy-jinkx and imalwaysaslutfordrag for beta-ing this. Love both so much

St.Charles Recreation and Cultural Complex was built and sponsored by the Mathews and Daly Architecture Company. It was a huge blessing to not only the town but the community as well, providing tons of new jobs and a place for the kids of St. Charles to stay out of trouble. This thing had everything, including an indoor water park, ice rink, and state of the art gym, plus lots of office space to hold classes and meetings. There was even a kitchen for cooking classes.

Working at the reception desk at St.Charles Cultural and Recreation Complex was not exactly a dream job, but moving out for college with her roommate Monet who also happened to work at the complex and needing to help out financially at home meant that she needed the money. Asia’s real dream was to run her own costume design company, making outfits for theatres, dance groups, figure skaters. She was always designing new outfits for her little sisters’ dolls or fixing holes and tears in shirts and pants to make them last just a little while longer. Turning old scraps of cloth into something new and watching the way her sisters’ faces would light up when they saw the new dress-up costume Asia had made for them always seemed to make the time and effort worth it.  

 It was finally the end of the day, and Asia was looking forward to going home to make dinner, put on some music and study. It’s not that this job was hard by any means, but the days seemed to drag on and she could think of at least 20 things that she would much rather be doing. If she didn’t need the money to pay her rent, she never would have taken the job in the first place.

     Asia was just packing up and thinking about what she was going to make to eat when she heard someone tapping their nails on the desk. As she looked up she saw a tiny, perfectly put together girl. She looked more like a doll than a human, with her porcelain painted skin, long eyelashes and plump lips. Her platinum blonde curls lay perfectly down her back. Asia recognized her instantly, it was hard not to know exactly who this beauty was, she was impossible to miss. Blair St.Clair had gone to high school with Asia. The girl was a few years younger than her, but Asia recognized the stereotypical southern belle from the years of hearing tales about the pretty new girl from her fellow classmates. Everyone had been infatuated with Blair since her family moved to town in her ninth grade year. Asia didn’t blame them.

"Hey, Blair. Sorry, I didn’t see you there, sis." Asia said as she finished packing her bag.

“No big thing girl, I’m just waiting for someone. I love your hair, did you do something new?”

Asia reached up to play with loose waves that frame her face, “Thanks, but it’s the same as the last time I saw you. So, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you waiting for, cause I’ve never seen you here before. So he must be really special.” wiggling her eyebrows and giving Blair a playful wink.

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that! I’m just waiting for…” but before Blair could finish, the most beautiful girl that Asia had ever seen came walking around the corner. There was just something about the way her red ponytail swung from side to side in perfect time with her hips. Her muscular creamy arms were covered in tattoos, but Asia’s eyes immediately fell on a very large tattoo covering the girl’s ample chest As she got closer, Asia realized that she also had a tattoo on her neck too. It was hard for Asia not to stare.

Asia knew she must look like a pervert or something, the way she was ogling this fiery goddess from head to toe. Checking out the way her tights hugged every inch of her perfectly sculpted legs and hips, her shirt was just tight enough you could tell she had a toned stomach and cut low enough to get a perfect view of her full breasts. Something inside Asia just didn’t care, it was like her brain had short-circuited, and she no longer knew how to act human anymore. She prayed that the tattooed beauty wouldn't come over to the desk because there was no way that she was going to be able to speak anytime soon. How long has she worked at the center and why have I never seen her before? I would definitely remember seeing someone as radiantly beautiful as her. Just please, don’t come over here, please, please… Oh, fuck is she coming this way…?

It was just her luck, she was walking directly towards her. Asia knew she needed to reboot her brain into remembering words, she was an intelligent woman and words had never been something she was at a loss for, until now. Why was this redheaded goddess affecting her like this?

---

As Kameron walked out of the changing rooms, with her freshly washed hair in a ponytail and her bag on her shoulder, she was mentally trying to remember if she had everything that she needed when she noticed her sister talking to the girl at the reception desk. She had flawlessly smooth chocolate skin that made Kameron want to touch it, and the way her wavy brown hair framed her face was sinful. Kameron noticed the girl was staring at her and wondered if she had a stain on her clothes or if her shirt was showing too much cleavage and began to get a little self-conscious.

There is no way that she is checking me out. A girl like that would never go for a gym rat like me.  Definitely not checking me out.  Kameron was pulled from her thoughts when she reached the desk were Blair was waiting.

---

“Hello, Earth to Asia...are you okay?” Blair was waving her hand in front of Asia’s face.

Asia knew someone was talking to her but she was too lost in her thoughts to hear what they were saying fully only catching the end of the question. “What. Yeah. Sorry. I’m fine."

“You sure because you spaced out pretty hard there for a second?”

Asia looked over at the red-headed goddess again. “Positive,” she flashed her a bright smile.

“Okaaaay well…. I was saying I'd like to introduce you to my sister Kameron. Kameron, Asia, Asia, Kameron. Kameron is a trainer at the gym.”

"Hi, nice to meet you," was all that Asia was able to manage to get out as a smile she couldn't hold back crossed her lips.

“Hey,” was all Kameron could say as a shy smile crossed her lips and a blush began to heat up her cheeks. That perfect white smile was too much for her to handle.

There was an awkward silence as the two girls just stared at each other, Blair looking between them wondering if either was going to say anything else. Blair finally broke the silence. "Well we should get going, Kameron, we don't want to be late for dinner. You know how your mom hates it when we're late."

"What. Oh yeah, she does hate when we're late for dinner. " Kameron finally broke eye contact and looked down at the countertop, both of her hands held the shoulder strap of her duffle bag just so she had something to do with all the nervous energy she was feeling. "I'll wait out by the car for you." With a shy smile and a wave, Kameron made her way to the door before anyone else could say anything.

"Okay!" Shouted Blair.

Asia couldn’t help but take a quick look at Kameron’s perfect plump ass as her hips swung tantalizingly from side to side as she walked away, or at least she thought she had only taken a quick look.

“So, you enjoying the view? Blair chuckled.

Busted. Don’t let her know you were looking.

“I didn’t even know you had a sister till right now. Did she go to school with us?” Asia asked, tilting her head to the side and giving Blair a questioning look with a fading smile on her face. She knew she was avoiding answering the question, but she had to redirect the focus. She couldn’t let Blair know that she was indeed checking out Kameron, even if she had made it obvious.

“Technically she’s my step-sister, our parents married the summer before we moved here. And no, she was homeschooled… She’s around the same age as you.” Blair said as a sly smile began to form on her lips. ”But seriously though I really have to get going. It was so good seeing you again though. I hope you have a good night.” She said, grabbing her purse off the counter.

“Yeah, it was good seeing you again too. Have a good night, Blair.”

As Blair reached the doors she stopped and turned back towards the desk, “Hey Asia, just be careful with her. She might look tough, but she’s really shy and soft-spoken.”

“Wait what! I wasn’t even-” but Asia quickly realized that she was talking to herself, as the door closed behind Blair.

---

When Asia finally made it home and took her shoes off by the front door, she was not only met with the sound of loud music coming from the kitchen but also the unmistakable smell of burning; which could only mean one thing. That her roommate must be trying to cook, again. Making her way to the kitchen, Asia found Monet, waving a dish towel in front of the stove, as smoke was pouring out.

“What in Jesus’ name are you doing?” Asia asked as loudly as she could standing in the doorway, not only so she could be heard over the music, but out of fear that her roommate might actually burn the apartment down this time.  

Monet turned around suddenly realizing that Asia was home and turned the music off so that they wouldn’t have to yell to hear each other. “OH! Welcome home honey, how was your day? Good, good. Bitch I was trying to make dinner “  

“No, what it looks like you’re trying to do is burn our apartment down, and give me a nervous breakdown in the process.” Asia grabbed another dish towel to help clear the smoke.” You know full well you can’t cook, so why did you even try?”

“I thought I would be a good roommate and do something nice for you for once.”

“If you really wanted to be a good roommate you could have just cleaned up the apartment, instead of making a bigger mess for me to clean. I have enough things to take care of when I come home from work, cleaning up after your raggedy-ass, shouldn’t have to be one of them.”

Monet’s phone suddenly dinged on the counter, abruptly putting an end to their bickering. After a minute Monet put her phone back down with a smile on her face and continued to clean up the kitchen, with Asia’s help.

“Speaking of work, how was work? Anything interesting happen today?” Monet asked wiggling her eyebrows.

Asia’s thoughts instantly returned to Kameron. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what Blair had said. What did she mean don’t hurt her? Asia had only just met this girl and had no idea if she would ever see her again. But she knew if she told her friend about the beauty that she would never hear the end of it. “Nope, same old boring shit like every other day. Why are you asking?”

"No reason just looks like you had a hard day, so you go relax, I’ll clean up this mess and order food, I’ll let you know when it gets here." Monet was being suspiciously civil for some reason, but Asia couldn't quite put her finger on why.

After dinner, the girls decided to go watch TV. Asia had been thinking about Kameron all night. She couldn’t help but hope that she would see her again soon. She was actually somewhat excited to go to work now. Hopefully, the next time she saw her she would get to talk to her a little longer, maybe get to know her.  

 "So you still never told me how your day was?" Monet asked nonchalantly well flipping through the channels trying to find something to watch. “Normally you tell me about your day as soon as you walk in the door. You sure nothing happened at work today?”

“ I would have told you about my day if you hadn't been trying to burn our apartment down when I got home. I’m pretty sure I already told you though, my day was boring and long as usual,” Asia said trying to avoid the subject altogether.

“You just seem kinda out of today is all, you were really quiet at dinner. You sure you didn’t meet anyone exciting or interesting today?”

“I met new people every day, that’s kinda my job, Monet”

“Yes, but I’m more interested in whether or not you met a certain redhead.” Monet with a wicked grin spread across her lips.

Asia let out an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes, “Oh Lord, who told you!”

“Brianna, you know Cracks can’t keep a secret”, Monet could see Asia’s eyebrows raise with an unimpressed look on her face, “ who heard it from Vixen, who may have heard it from Blair after she left the complex tonight.”

“Seriously, y'all some grown-ass adults, why you still need to gossip like you’re in high school.”

“Look it’s just been so long since you’ve even been interested in anyone, we’ve all been worried about you. All you ever seem to do is go to school, work on your outfits, study and go to work. I’m happy that you’re living your dreams and all but you still need to take some time for yourself every once in a while. You know go out and relax, meet people, have a social life outside of me, maybe get a little action If you know what I mean.” Monet winked at Asia with a sly smile.

“I really don’t want to talk about this anymore, plus who I may or may not like is none of you or your chatty little friends business.” Asia let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose she took a breath to focus herself before she continued. “ But yes I do like Kameron. She’s beautiful, and I would like to get to know her better.” Asia pointed her finger at Monet to silence her as she continued, “But I DO NOT need any help from you or any of your friends. I don’t want you to interject in any way. I will do this in my own time and at whatever pace feels comfortable to me. And that’s even if Kameron likes me too.”

Holding her hands up in mock defence, giggling “ Okay fine, have it your way. I and my friends won’t get involved.”

“Thank you. Now if we’re finished, I need to go try and study before bed, so good night.”

---

Asia had been sitting on her bed, staring blankly at her open sketchbook for the past 20 minutes, nothing but thoughts of the nights' previous encounter with a certain redhead running through her mind. No one had ever affected her like this before. Why was this woman who hadn’t even said more than 2 words to her taking over her mind? Asia didn’t know but she knows that she needed to find out what it was about her that was doing this to her. She really hoped that she would get to see that gorgeous redhead again soon because she didn’t know how much more of this she could take.

[geneshaven]

The Smell Of Books

I was starting part 2 of my Olicity fic, Overdue and was suddenly overcome with a brutal dose of writer’s block. I started it, then I stopped, then I started it---but there was nothing there. So, I shifted gears and wrote this little story about having writer’s block.

 Spring had come, and Jonas Hiller sat at his computer in search of new ideas.

It had been a long winter, a time in which Jonas struggled with creation, shut up in his little house and ignoring the snow outside, falling from the sky like whispered secrets. All winter he had drifted through the rooms, stoking the fires he built all those months, eating his meals and dreaming his dreams. They left him with no rest. So many hours he spent hunched over the blank screen in front of him, staring at that white page as if looking for clues in an invisible mystery. Frost was in the air and it left him bitterly cold.

Now, sepia colors breathed and blossomed through his window as he sat once again at his station. Behind him, Jonas could feel the eyes of the Master’s upon him, lined up in his bookcase as if they were strict parents expecting the very best from their child. Shakespeare, Keats, Yeats---all rested impatiently in their dusty perches, waiting for Jonas to make them proud. But he could not make them proud.

He turned away from his desk and looked over at the bookcase. He could smell the aroma of leather and dust, familiar smells, like fresh bread baking in the kitchen of his childhood, his mother tied at the waist with her blue apron and giving his mouth reason to water. All through the lengthy winter, Jonas had no thoughts of his own, and reading those books brought him no closer to such musings.

More hours passed and he felt evening come, bringing its shadows to the world. He was exhausted by the absence of words and the tragedy of not being able to tell the simplest of stories. He pushed himself away from his desk and stood up with an unearned stretch. He thought about taking one of those books to bed with him, a nightlight for his mind, but it felt too much like cheating. Jonas gave a silent nod to the bookcase. Those were not his stories, but he wanted them to be. He wanted those tales to tuck him in and lull him to sleep.

He turned, clicked off the light and left his study. He would try again tomorrow.

*

           For he is superstitious, grown of late, quiet from the main opinion he held once, of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies

           -William Shakespeare-

 These words spoke in Jonas’s dreams. He awoke the next morning and saw them like crystal monoliths in his head. Again, they were not his words, but they were meant for him.

Outside, birds flew past his window, speaking to him in their own language. He could almost hear their heartbeats, their tales of flying and landing and taking off again. Two rooms over from his bed, Jonas’s study waited for him, a torture chamber of dead ideas and silent thoughts. The exuberance for life those birds sang about gave Jonas a brief flare of inspiration and he heaved himself out of bed, slipped on a bathrobe and went out to once again look for the edges of creation.

An hour later, Jonas sat in front of his computer. And sat. And sat. Waiting. Staring. Thinking. Hoping. There was nothing. The words in his dreams and the songs of birds had vanished. The blank page before him was the same one as yesterday---empty and lifeless. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours. Breakfast became lunch and dinner was just around the corner. Even the smell of books behind him did not bring any direction or advice.

“In Endymion, I leaped headlong into the sea, and thereby have become better acquainted with the soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.”

Jonas turned around at the sound of the voice behind him. An icy touch of fear stiffened his back. Sitting in an old cracked leather chair next to his bookcase was John Keats. He sat there and stared back at Jonas with soft, knowing eyes.

“I assume you are in search of advice,” he said to Jonas. “Little of it I can give you, but I have been on the edge of that green shore and felt the same fear that consumes you at this moment.”

Jonas sat speechless, wordless and senseless.

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. It is thy feeling of being alive.”

Jonas heard this quote come out of the invisible air. Keats also looked around. They both recognized the words, and suddenly William Shakespeare materialized in the room, standing behind the leather chair. Keats looked around and up at the great Bard.

“The only means of strengthening one’s intellect is to make up one’s mind about nothing---to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts,” Keats added.

“Nonsense,” Shakespeare replied. “Intelligence has nothing to do with expression”

Jonas had nothing to add.

Another voice drifted on the air. “Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer; things fall apart; the center cannot hold, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned; the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.”

W.B. Yeats joined the party and Jonas tried to remember his poetry days at college, but they were as transparent as his creative energy. The room was becoming crowded with philosophers. Jonas felt very small in their company.

He finally found his voice and spoke up. “Uh…I’m sorry, but what is going on here? What means of insanity is this?”

The three poets looked at Jonas, filled with their own importance.

“Have we eaten of the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?” Shakespeare quipped.

Jonas shook his head. “Oh…I know what this is. You are my frustrations playing tricks on my mind. I have been trying too hard all this winter to have my say and this is my mind telling me to ease up.” He did not think that hearing voices was crazy; indeed, it was a necessity of writing. But when specters were added to those voices, Jonas suspected that he was not to far away from the land of rubber rooms and butterfly nets. He closed his eyes, hoping that his delusion would disappear while immersed in blackness.

“The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails,” Keats chanted from his 1820 poem, The Eve of St. Agnes.

Shakespeare and Yeats chuckled at the young poet.

Keats went on, encouraged by their reaction. “And soft adornings  from their loves receive upon the honeyed middle of night.”

The other two poets lightly clapped their hands. “Not bad,” Shakespeare said.” Though a bit vague, it has rhythm and verve.”

“But little style,” Yeats harshly added. “Perhaps you find it easier to touch the face of God by speaking to Him with ignorance?”

“What do you mean by that, sir?” Keats angerly replied.

But Yeats only went on keeping his observations to himself.

Jonas opened his eyes and realized he was at the mercy of his delusions.

“A young man” Yeats suddenly spoke. “When old men are done talking will say to an old man, ‘Tell me of that lady, the poet stubborn with is passion sang us when age might well have chilled his blood.”

“Passion? Blood?” Shakespeare seemed to have his head on a swivel, turning it in refusal as he dismissed the persuasion from his peers. “A man whose blood is very snow-broth; one who never feels the wanton stings of motions of the sense.”

Keats cleared his throat. “Sirs, I cannot go on with this useless chanting,” He pointed over at Jonas. “Take heart in the wasted soul and be brave. Words are only small things compared to the majesty of God.” He winked out of existence, once again taking his poetry with him.

Shakespeare and Yeats did not seem to notice departure.

Finally, Yeats decided it was time for him to go as well. “I have enjoyed our voices, William. Once again you push from the sky the very touch of beauty and reason, shining in the secret shimmering of the stars. Adieu.”

Just before he winked out, Yeats turned to Jonas and added one more observation. “Remember---in dreams begins responsibility.”

He was gone.

Shakespeare also felt it time to go. He looked at Jonas and seemed satisfied.

“And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, and then from hour to hour, we rot and rot.  And thereby hangs a tale.”

He winked at Jonas and disappeared, taking his place back up on the dusty shelves of the bookcase.

*

Jonas sat alone in his study, night already painting it acknowledgement of another wasted day at his computer. Yet, there was no weariness or frustration from his lack of words. Perhaps the poets were right. Life and its paces should be enough to give him his own voice. Trying so hard to capture the essence of meaning and reason for it all could be why he does not see the obvious. Jonas turned back around and faced the computer again. He took in another large scent of the smell of books from the bookcase behind him. Leather and dust filled him, and with it, motivation to stand on the edge of what he wanted to say and what will eventually be said without him.

He clicked on the little lamp sitting next to him and began to write about the spring, of its sepia colors and fresh landscapes, once again uncovered by the melting of winter snows.

@memcjo  @it-was-a-red-heeler @swordandarrow @hope-for-olicity @vaelisamaza @gabriellamarie97 @almondblossomme @wordslovedreams

[orribuontheinternet]

Depression and Drawing.

When I was a young lass (I want to say around 7-8 years old), I saw my biological father drawing something while he sat on the porch. The details are fuzzy, but I do remember it being an equine of some sort. He was working in ink. Watching him was so fascinating that I decided that I too wanted to be an artist. To be able to imagine something and put it to paper was a foreign concept to me, one that I was excited about. Oddly enough, my first ever drawing was of an intangible concept: an emotion. I forgot why little me was so knee-deep in sadness at the time, but I remember doodling a self-portrait of a sad, crying baby Olive while holding back my tears. Underneath (or around, I can't recall) was a caption that kind of stated the obvious: "Olivia is sad." When I think about that moment, I wonder if that was a form of foreshadowing since I suffer from...well, Major Depression. But we'll get back to that later. I think this drawing was spawned from a conflict with my siblings, but I can't rightly recall. I do, however, remember that someone tore the picture to pieces. Then came the waterworks.

I want to pause for a second and let you know that I'm going to try not to throw a pity party. I'm not going to whine and stuff this note with melodramatic hyperbole. If you can stomach an emotional artist digging deep into her head and making her introspection tangible, I encourage you to keep reading. If not, I respect your decision to stop.

To segue on to a brighter note, I started drawing in elementary school. I remember the exhilarating feeling of finishing my work. My proudest moment, aside from a (not) Sonic-themed powerpoint, was a storybook I made in fifth grade. It was a flip book of some sort, and very colorful. I think it had something to do with James and the Giant Peach considering it was a book report. But that was an impression I left. Olive, the artist. This carried on into middle school, where I first discovered anime thanks to an art teacher who had the magic VCR/TV cart we 90s kids remember fondly. He showed us Princess Mononoke, one of Hayao Miyazaki's well-renowned works. It was um...horrifying. The film scared the everloving shit out of me, but I was intrigued by it. There was something really cool about the way the people looked, far different from the Ms. Frizzles and Rugrats I came to know. It captivated me, and when I got over the stomach-churning blood and guts the movie presented, I strove to attain that cool aesthetic. I was always doodling during my classes and lunchtime and recess. People came to know me as that kid that draws. Some of them flocked to me and asked me to doodle something for them. It was annoying in hindsight, but at the time it brought me immense pride. People were interested in something I was doing! This development boosted my motivation; I drew picture after picture, happily sharing it with anyone who was interested. It was invigorating! Then high school happened, and I realized I wasn't as amazing as I initially thought I was. In 2006 I was accepted into the prestigious Philadelphia Highschool of Creative and Performing Arts (henceforth shortened to "CAPA," as to avoid the apparent mouthful of syllables). I attended with a major in visual arts, which I took alongside my core classes, i.e., math, science, and English. The first few months were humbling, to say the least. I took ceramics, graphic art, and observational drawing. During this year, I also discovered the magic (to a 15-year-old anyway) of Naruto. That was my biggest obsession since the Dragonball Z/Rurouni Kenshin/Outlaw Star/Big O/etcetera days. Where I used to make "Dark Sonic" characters and the like,  I made a step towards creating a world of my own. Thus, after a painful defeat in an original character tournament, I decided it was time to start harnessing my writing and narrative skills, as well as my drawing skills. And so I strove to improve, even with those dents in my pride. It became something I was proud of, almost an obsession. I wanted to share it with the rest of the world, so I went for it.

(The first piece I’ve shared with the internet via deviantART.)

This is where my real artistic journey began. When I started, I had no idea of how mentally, physically, and emotionally tolling this would be. Half the time I've made things way more difficult than they've needed to be: sleepless nights, crouching over a desk, risky investments that granted little to no return and thus resulted in me digging myself into a deeper hole of debt, periods of psychological agony–I've experienced a great deal since I started creating these...things. In my naivety, I envisioned making money off of my creativity, having fun, meeting fans around the world, and hitting up cons like those really cool people I follow on the internet. I started comparing myself to more celebrated, experienced artists, to the point where I'd cry out of eye and earshot and wonder why I can't be as good as them. Why can't I be as skilled, or successful, I'd ask myself. This is when I should have realized that the Depression I suffer from has a voice. It'd tell me that I'd never amount to anything, let alone reach that level of expertise and fame. It was painfully merciless and cruel, and I was its punching bag. I'd start wondering what the point was and why I should even try to engage in this creative expression. Then, something tragic happened:

I realized I was falling out of love with it.

I didn't feel the same exhilaration I'd get when I finished something as simple as a little scribble. I didn't feel the warm burst of energy that I felt when I'd make a breakthrough.  I desperately scrambled for something–anything–that would rekindle my love for creating again. Then, after some introspection, I decided that I wanted to try for animation. It had always fascinated me during my time in grade school, so I did some research and even wrote a thesis about animation and why it inspired me. To an extent, the passion I have for the arts did come back a little, but it was just a spark. When I started college, I was reluctantly proud of myself. I started dreaming big again, thinking about how amazing it would be if I could create my own animated series and bring my narratives to life. And so, the dreams of being able to support myself and my family returned to the forefront of my mind, again. While I hopped and skipped through my first year at uni, I built a lot of friendships I never thought I'd have after a painful summer season. I thought back to how I tried and failed to start an art team and decided to go for it again. And thus, after planning gatherings and messing around with my friends, Exploding Fairies was born!

(Old Exploding Fairies logo.)

The Depression and my wounded confidence, however, wouldn't allow for anything to go past casual hangouts and being a nuisance to my teammates. Everything boiled down to three things:

1) I was unwilling to relinquish control of any of the facets of the alliance and our stories. To me, the story we worked on was my baby, and only I would have a say in whatever developments occurred. 2) I lacked the leadership and communication skills to collaborate with my partners effectively. 3) Considering the nature of my requests, I SHOULD have been paying my partners as an incentive. I lacked the money to compensate them for their time and talent adequately. I could very well be painting myself in a horrible light considering how terribly influential my depression is to my self-esteem. 

(The image above is by @cucoo.)

(Concept drawings of Dan’s actual identity.)

However, exposure and companionship don't necessarily pay the bills. Besides, I was still a "nobody on the internet!" I may as well have kicked sand in their faces. At least, that's what the disease told me. I grew bitter towards the world when Homestuck and a traumatizing anime gained the admiration of my friends. I became green with envy, wondering why my work didn't win such affection. That summer, I went into overdrive. I started an original character tournament of my own and gained a considerable following. I even found love again! 

After a busy three months, I jumped into my second year of college. This is when I finally collapsed under the weight of my mental ailments. Week after week, I stressed almost hyperbolically to the point where a single mistake could mean the end of the world to me. I officially started as an animation student (the first year was mostly core studies with elective and liberal arts on the side), and I wanted to bring my A-game to the forefront. I was going to wow everyone with my knowledge of technology while I navigated through the hills and valleys of my second year. I got to take a course in digital 2D animation, the media I've had my eyes on since I started my college career. Everything just hinged on whether I could manage my workload (I took 18 credits). Apart from the building stress, financial troubles, and impaired health, everything seemed fine. That notion, however, was shattered when I lost my progress on a 2D animation assignment. It was all over. All of that hard work that I put in (without saving, no less) was destroyed by a corrupted file. I didn't have a backup file ready for such an occasion. Admittedly, it was my fault for letting my guard down. I should have known better as a geeky artist!  To me, there was no way I could ever recover from that. I was an idiot and a crappy artist anyway! I was a failure! I was nothing! All of the horrible thoughts that my sickness cataloged was thrust into my conscious mind, impairing my ability to reason. Devastated and afraid, I called my crush and opened up about what happened. The pressure finally cracked me, and she had to talk me down from attempting suicide.

The turn of events affected everything, from my focus to my ability to complete my assignments. My crush advised me on what steps I should take while moving forward. I was hospitalized to prevent any harm I could bring to myself. I really DID want to escape from the unbearable pain my sick mind caused me. Eventually, I had to contact the dean of students and was referred to an affiliated therapist. After conversing with him and the dean, we all decided that it'd be best if I were committed to an outpatient program to start on the road to recovery. Fast forward to 2012 or 2013, when I completely lost faith in myself as an artist, and thus, my love for art. I didn't think it'd happen, but I hit what I conceived as rock bottom. I swore off drawing. It didn't bring me joy anymore, and why continue dabbling in something that I'd never be good at?

Unfortunately, the resulting slump turned out to be thicker than I'd imagine and I entered a state of deep depression. I rarely got out of bed, I overate and sometimes didn't eat at all, I never picked up a pencil or opened photoshop, never reached out to the people who I knew and who loved me...I was virtually dead to the world. Some good things happened that, in hindsight, I should have cherished. For starters, my crush became my girlfriend, and we lived together in an apartment in Center City. I was too smothered in the fog to show my appreciation and love for her adequately. She loved me and loved my work, which in turn brought back my passion for creating. If I couldn't financially support myself with my art, the least I could do is bring her joy and feed her imagination. 

(We both love semi-horror and anime, so our roleplays took that direction.)

Sadly, thanks to the disease even something as precious as her happiness wasn't enough. When I look back, I can see the hurt in her eyes, but during the time I had such horrible tunnel vision and was so disappointed about things not working out with my art that I couldn't sense that. Me, a self-proclaimed empath! My desperate greed and envy were my downfall, and I limped my way down the artsy-fartsy road. I'd draw fan art and create fan comics, only to become bitter about either the lack of replies or patrons on Patreon or the perceived disregard for any personal ventures I took. 

I did my first convention at Anime Impulse back in 2015, and after a pretty bad time in the artist alley, I swore off drawing again. I remember nights of staring blankly at the computer screen, smashing Command or Control +Z and ultimately throwing my stylus down, closing photoshop, and crying out of frustration. I remember pulling my hair and sobbing when I faced rejection. It was an incredibly painful time for me. That's not to say I still don't experience that now as I totally do, but something happened this year that strengthened my stride.

I posted something on Tumblr earlier this year about my frustration when it comes to creating art. It was specifically about how I get stuck in the "polishing" phase of building a webcomic page, but when I look back, I can actually attribute it to art in general. I became a "perfectionist." Nothing was impressive enough to finish or release, and I'd wind up with more works in progress than finished ones. My morale just kept dipping lower and lower, and finally, when picking up a webcomic project that I started more than a year ago, I vented my frustrations. To this, my crush, who became my fiancé some four years ago, replied with this:

"You polish because you’re not confident with your work because you're in an evolution phase. Fear holds you back. So you go back and edit. And edit. And edit. So stop the cycle. Kill the fear by not letting it have time to take hold."

Her words of encouragement and insight changed my perspective in ways I've never expected. It was almost like it triggered an epiphany or a breakthrough in my mind! I was reminded of her love and faith in me! With that came a ray of hope, that I could try again, and this time, throw my fear-induced caution to the wind! While my depression still has a voice and beats me down from time to time, I realize that it's just scared. I realized that when Brittany and I sat down and played through Celeste together. I related it to my sadness and anxiety surrounding art, and now I'm slowly getting back on my feet. I can't displace the blame and "use" my mental ailments as a scapegoat. I can't come up with excuses to give up on what I do. There is SOMETHING in creating visual media that breathes life into me.

(I started learning to let go.)

Looking towards the future, I hope I can look back on even these trying times and remind myself of where I was and how stronger I've become because of it. I'm still struggling with comparing myself to others and crashing into creative and motivational blocks, but someday I'll rise above it all. Besides, I should be doing it for me, right? The external validation should just be the topping on a sweet sundae.

That's why I keep drawing, in spite of the voice's apprehension. We're going to get through this together, I promise.

[eternium-complex-blog]

Eternium Basement: Robot Rock

   The cramped one roomed apartment echoed with the ending theme of the "Robo-Hero" animated series. Davis quietly hums along. On his desk, next to his small monitor, lays an unfinished model of the "Dragon-Rex". Legacy edition; the gold and black version. When not watching, studying, or designing his own mecha; Davis enjoys collecting and assembling various model kits of his favorite me has. His room is a shrine to this passion.

"The show is simple, but it's a classic. Robo-Hero is the standard of all mecha heroes." He's in the middle of a lecture given to no one. Inside his head he is a professor, but outside he’s as quiet of a student you can get besides not being in class at all. "Nowadays the shows focus more on the drama of the pilots. Which allows for more interesting stories and giving credit to the pilots finally. Robo-Hero had like four and hardly anyone even knew... But nothing is going to beat Robo-Hero fighting a new monster of the week while giving insightful wisdom."

   He walks from his apartment building to the college. It's a short walk. Saves him a fortune not having to get a car. It's always colder in the mornings than the rest of the day. However, weather rarely dictated his wardrobe. He always wore his replica mecha pilot jacket. It bore some of the patches of his favorite mecha pilots like DinoCzar, Ace, Overlord, and of course an old Robo-Hero patch.

"The culture changed. People wanted less aliens and giant monsters, and more realism and internal struggle. Of course this wasn't just happening to mecha shows, but all facets of media. Though I think if you want realistic mecha fights you should just watch the actual mecha league tournaments. The shows are just there to promote toys and Saturday morning entertainment. The point I'm trying to make is... leave my cartoons alone."

   Davis arrives on campus. What follows is a montage of sitting in classes, listening to professors, walking to classes, and completing homework as it's being turned in. His first class is Art Theory. They are currently going over character design and how to tell a story through a character's appearance. The teacher, harmlessly joking, points out Davis and how him always wearing the pilots jacket shows his commitment and passion. Davis nervously chuckles along not knowing how to respond. The other students also playfully laugh, but then begin analyzing themselves on what they wore.

"Take someone like the classic Robo-hero." The professor continues her lecture. "Just looking at him and you get everything you need to know about him. Broad shoulders, big arms and legs, and of course his cape. Waving heroically behind him. Now look at the current champion, Overlord. Much more intricate with spikes and more accurate proportions, and horns resembling a crown. He also has a cape, but his silhouette is much more foreboding isn't it. This fits his character. The contrast to the classical heroes of before. This will be important for all you future mecha designers and engineers." She looks again to Davis.

    It is a small class, so she always singled out students. Davis liked the class and her, but hated being used as an example. The next class after this is an advanced math course. A mandatory for engineer majors.

    After the class Davis has a waiting period of 40 minutes. So he goes to the commons.

"The show actually gets the colors wrong on Robo-Hero. He has a more orange coloring to him. Where as the show gave him a red paint job to appeal more to kids." Davis imagines himself saying back in his art class. He wishes he could be quick witted and able to say something whenever he's put on the spot. When he's with friends he's sharp, but around strangers and in public he shuts off.

    His internal lecture is interrupted by the empty seat across from him becoming inhabited.

"Hey you finish the homework?" His best friend, Matt, asks hopeful. Hoping to copy off of him.

"Yeah... before I turned it in." Davis responds.

"Shit you turned it in?" Matt asks desperately.

"Yes. I have the class before you. What you expect me to not turn in my work just so you can copy?"

"Yeah..."

"No, screw you. Don't make me your last chance to get your work done. Hell I was barely finishing it when I was turning it in."

    They both laugh and continue talking to eachother over their typical topics; mechas, shows, people they don't like, and classes. The two of them have been friends since middle school. They shared the passion for mechas and both agreed to follow their dreams together.

    Their passion however stemmed from slightly different motives. Davis saw them as real life heroes, and desperately desired to be just like them. Matt however was slightly less noble. Matt puts it simply; "chicks dig giant robots."

"Anyways, there's this bonfire party thing on the beach tonight. We should go. It should be fun. Get us out for a bit. Maybe find you a girl." Matt hops his eyebrows up and down.

"Ehh... I don't know." Davis thought about it. Parties really weren't his scene. "Besides, Uncle Mac is making sloppy Joes tonight."

    The man they were referring to isn't actually their uncle, but the overseer of their apartment building. Since most of the residence there are students who can't or for some reason refuse to live directly on campus; he took it upon himself to look after all of them. Wether it be simply feeding them, or waiving certain fees the students couldn't afford.

    The two of them debate about it. Their need for free food greatly out weightes their need for a social life. Despite this however, Matt came up with a compromise.

"Well the thing is like all night. We can go check it out after we eat."

    They both agree on the plan and go their separate ways when classes resume. They only share one class through out the whole day, Mecha engineering. Since Davis started earlier than Matt, his day ends sooner. He's back at the apartment by 3 o'clock. He stops by the community kitchen in the building on his way to his room. Uncle Mac is already in there slow cooking the pork. Another resident is also in the kitchen talking to Uncle Mac, Tai.

    Uncle Mac notices Davis and greets him.

"Ayy, Davy! How was your day?"

"Good." Davis never really knew how to answer that question. Even if he did have a bad day, he felt it easier and better to just say "good" anyways. Not mix anyone in his problems. "Matt told me about this bon fire party thing. So I guess we're going to that later."

"So you tellin me I made all this food for nutin?" Uncle Mac responds with fake agitation.

"Oh no. Believe me there isn't much that we'd miss your food for. Nah, we decided we'd check it out after we eat."

"Yeah you best not be skippin out on my meals." He laughs to himself as he goes back to stirring some gravy in a pan. "Tai you going to this party too?"

"No, no. I... i don't party." Davis could be quiet and shy when around new people or put on the spot, but this was nothing compared to Tai all the time.

"Boy what you mean you don't party? You too cool to party?" Uncle Mac begins to shimmy to music only he can hear. "Everybody party's. When I was your age you'd only find me at a party." Uncle Mac and Davis laugh together as he begins to show them how he would party. Within the confined space of the kitchen. Even Tai got a kick out of it.

"I just have a lot of homework and studying. Can't really party." Tai responds.

"Yeah no, that's important. Keep it up... I'm just saying don't be afraid to let loose a little. Shack em bones of yours. You're young use that energy.

    Davis remembers that he too has homework he has to get done before heading to the party. He takes his leave and heads for his room. He sits down at his desk and begins to work. He tells himself not to turn on the TV, listen to music, or use his phone until he at least finishes 2 assignments.

    Once he feels as though he's done enough to not feel guilty. He turns on his TV and starts work on his "Dragon-Rex" model, hoping to finish it finally. After awhile he checks his phone and sees a message telling him that food is ready. He heads downstairs to the kitchen and gets his plate. They eat outside in front of the building. This was their typical dinning area since they don't have one inside. Matt shows up a bit later and starts eating with them.

    Once they finished eating, Matt and Davis left for the beach. As they approach they could the various sounds of the party going on. They finally arrive and it goes about how they expected. The two of them off to the side together complaining about everything and making fun of everyone. Matt occasionally breaking off to get a drink or talk to someone.

    Things start to pick up when a "rival" of theirs, Gary a fellow mecha engineer major, showed up in a small mecha he "built himself".

"Wow look, Gary brought his own walker." Davis remarks enthusiastically.

"Yeah it's be impressive if it could the one thing you know... walk." Matt responds sharply.

    It is true the self-made monstrosity could barely work. Anytime it actually tried to walk it struggled and a loud grinding noise could be heard.

"Like why go bi-pedal if you don't know how to properly install hydraulics? Go treads and save yourself the embarrassment. I'm surprised he even got the balancing right." Davis comments taking a sip of his drink that he only filled once.

"You think Gary knows the meaning of 'embarassment'? Nah, he'd eat a bowl of shit if you told him it was gourmet." They both laugh and watch on.

"If you guys know so much why don't you go and tell him something." The voice caught them by surprise.

"What-?" They both respond turning their heads to the left where the voice came from.

    Instead of a formal response they are answered with the flash of a camera. Temporarily blinding them for a brief moment. The person holding the camera is a girl, taking a picture of the scene in front of them. Gary pathetically piloting his mecha with a crowd of drunk college students cheering him on. The girl lowers her camera and reveals her face. Her hair is a medium length and green with a cynical face.

"Why don't you guys go and show him up if you know so much? Or are your majors in talking shit and drinking?"

    Davis and Matt just stared at her for a second. Both trying to think of something witty to say. Davis is mostly taken back by her beauty.

"It's a minor." Matt finally spoke. Davis thought of the same thing but a second too late.

"How long have you been standing there?" Davis asks.

"Long enough to pick up your guys characters."

"Oh... so you're some edgy sociology major huh?" Matt asks defensively to someone proclaiming of knowing him.

"Maybe..." she takes another picture. Blinding Matt again. Davis saw it coming and closes his eyes in preparation.

    Davis sees his chance and wishes to talk more to her. She's the first girl he's talked to at the party and the first in months. However, he isn't quiet sure how to do so. He doesn't want to ask something stupid and scare her off.

"Umm... you want a drink?" He nervously asks her.

"Yours?"

"Wha-No, no someone else's." Davis quickly realizes his mistake and tries to correct himself. "I mean like another. Like a drink that hasn't been drink."

"Drunk, and sure." She gives an almost unnoticeable glance up and down. Checking out Davis.

    Matt seeing his friend trying to make a move takes his leave.

"You know what, you've inspired me camera girl. I'm going to go over there and apply my expertise to Gary's monstrosity." Matt steps forward out of their side-by-side line they formed. "Ayy Gary, looks like you could use some help..." Matt's voice trails off as he walks toward Gary and the crowd.

"Oh so what drink you want?" Davis asks.

"Oh, I really didn't want a drink... but I'll walk with you to go get you one."

"Okay," Davis looks at his drink. It's still halfway full. Davis not wanting to blow any chance he has begins chugging down all of it. He finishes and tries to hold in a burn, but it comes out as he speaks. "...let's go."

    The two of them walk and talk. Devils refilling his drink, but not taking anymore sips. As they continue to walk, she reveals that her name is Sora. Named after her parents favorite vid3o game character. Unfortunately Sora did end up having the same hair color as the protagonist. Prompting her to continuously dye it.

"It's actually suppose to be red." Sora adds.

"Well it still looks good. Green really looks good on you." Davis compliments her. Nervous about every word he says, but steadily becoming more comfortable. He enjoys her company.

"Thanks." Sora smiles at him.

"How come you don't just change your name?"

"Well... I don't want to spoil their fun. I think the dying is defiance enough. How about you? How are you with your parents, if you don't mind me asking?"

    Davis takes a moment to think. He didn't have some tragic background or interesting quirk about him. His family worked and never had to worry about money too often, and both his parents were alive and happily married.

"Umm, strict but supportive. When I told them I wanted to be s pilot, they said "go ahead, but be smart. Get a degree in something you can make money from" so... mecha engineer. One day maybe though, I'll have my own, but..." Davis stops. He doesn't know what else to say. The more he talks about his future the scarier it seems. A dream that's getting further away.

"Well that explains the jacket." Sora pinches the sleeve of his jacket. "But why settle for engineer? Why not just try to be a pilot?" The question strikes Davis harder than Sora intended.

"It-if... there isn't a lot of money. Only if I somehow become super successful. At least with engineering I have something to fall back on." Davis isn't even sure if he believes that. Part of him didn't want to admit that he was just scared to try.

"Yeah, but isn't it the same kind of risk? Being a successful engines for pilot. You're always going to risk something. So why not have it be on a dream?"

"What if a fail?" Davis asks trying not to show his cowardice.

"That's going to have to be up to." She responds sympathetically. She understands how he feels. She too feared the consequences of following a dream. An English major betting everything on being an author. The only difference being she had the tenacity to follow through. "Better to die trying, than to live having never tried at all" she tells herself everyday. "You have to start eventually... a mech isn't going to fall out of the sky for you."

"Mecha." Davis corrects.

    He takes a moment to digest everything they've disgust thus far. He looks around and realizes how far away they had walked from the party. Almost to end of the beach. To their right, away from the water, is a Forrest like area. It connects to a park not too far away. Davis remembers a shack inside the woods that he and Matt frequent months ago.

"Hey there's this totally awesome shack nearby, want to check it out?" Davis asks hoping to change the mood.

"I-is that like code for something?" Sora responds hesitant.

"No, it's just this random, abandoned shack out here that me and Matt would always check out."

"'Matt and I', and sure..."

    Davis leads her through the trees towards the shack. Sora begins to ask questions about it.

"What's so cool about this shack?"

"There's just always random stuff appearing in it. A couple of months ago me an-Matt and I were strapped for cash, so we started selling stuff we found in there."

"It ever occurs to you that it might be someone's storage?"

"Of course, but we never saw anything being moved and no one else seemed to know about it. Hey it saved our weekend."

    Sora laughs at how ridiculous the story sounds. They get closer to the clearing where the shack is. Though they are met with a surprise. Seemingly as if dropped on top of the shack, laid a mecha.

    At least 50ft tall, a white and blue paint job with red markings on the face plate. Most striking though about it, is it's figure. It looks very feminine in its design. Davis just stands in awe of seeing it. Easily the coolest thing to appear at the shack. Sora walks up next to Davis with her camera ready.

"You recognize it?" Sora asks him. He nods no unable to fully speak. He starts to walk towards it and Sora lifts up her camera ready to snap a photo.

    As she does however, the flash suddenly seems to activate the mecha somehow. It's massive body convulsing, like a person struggling to breath. This startles Davis and causes him to drop his drink. He starts to back pedal but stops. The mecha's arms flail around and knock what's left of the shack down. It starts to grab at it's face plate. Attempting to raise it up. After a brief struggle it finally retracts up and the mecha's true face is revealed. Pale white skin, with sharp blue eyes and no nose. It's mouth, a simple slit with no lips, but what appear to be uniform teeth hiden in its mouth. It looks around terrified and scans it's current location. As it does, it locks eyes with Davis.

[missingverse]

Missing Chapter Twenty Six

So by now the fic has moved quite far from the original idea and is moving closer to the issues surrounding the rest of Arnold and Helga's lives. I'm wondering if I should make this and the next chapter the last two and start another fic about the aftermath? What do the readers think?

Note: Obligatory suggestion to check out my novel on Kindle if you like my work: The Hothouse Princesses by S.A. Hemstock.

…..

Three months on:

Arnold knew his grandfather wasn't happy about letting Ambrose and Helga move into the boarding house, but financially he wasn't really in a position to refuse a paying customer. It looked like the adoption process was going through with no problems, and thanks to Helga's many donated funds she was able to get a ramp installed in the back of the house, as well as repairs done on the ground floor. Even Phil had to admit that it was a relief getting some of the old fixtures replaced.

Curtis Waring's trial was coming up, and although Helga was able to walk with a cane now she couldn't walk for long and would have a permanent limp thanks to a shattered ankle she sustained during her catatonia. It was decided for her own safety that she would stay in the hospital for the duration of the trial, to prevent any backsliding in her condition.

Ambrose moved into the two room apartment without her, and set about making it habitable for a man and a young girl. It hadn't been touched since the last person who lived there moved out seven years before, and had been neglected by both Phil and Arnold since they had all the other rooms to service. Ambrose stripped the dingy wallpaper, tossed the old moth-eaten furniture and gave the whole place a new coat of paint. By the end it barely looked like it belonged in the boarding house.

“Is Helga's trust fund covering all this?” Arnold asked when he stopped by to bring Ambrose a glass of iced tea.  

“I didn't touch none of her money,” Ambrose told him from the ladder he was using to paint the wall sconces. “I have plenty of my own.”

He drove back to his old apartment to collect his furniture and his dog, an old bloodhound named Della. Arnold helped him carry the stuff in, and he was struck by how many classic antique pieces Ambrose owned. Ambrose caught him staring at a particularly fancy chair, and laughed.

“Ed picked out most of this stuff,” he explained. “I didn't care so long as I could sit on the porch of an evenin'. But I figured Helga would like that chair.”

A set of pictures went up on the walls, most of them Ambrose's deceased partner or the two of them together with Della lying in front of them. Arnold liked the look of Ed; a chubby middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a quirky grin. It really was a shame that they'd never been able to adopt together, but he knew Ambrose felt like Ed had sent Helga to him so in some way she was their daughter.

“Ed would've loved her,” Ambrose said once. “He always wanted a little girl, especially a little spitfire.”

Ambrose was as good with Arnold's grandmother as he was with Helga. He was patient with her nonsense rambling, which had just gotten worse since the stroke, and he often helped her out with cooking in the evenings. Phil had been quiet, cautious around him at first, but even he came around eventually when Ambrose offered to take a look at any of the broken fixtures in the house.

“I'll take it out of your rent,” Phil offered. “Since you're saving me a repairman's bill...”

“Nah, keep it,” Ambrose shrugged. “I like to keep busy. Let Della warm herself in the kitchen and we'll call it even.”

But what was best about Ambrose moving in was that now Arnold had a lift every time he visited the hospital, instead of having to make the long journey by bus and staying in that crappy motel overnight. Phoebe hopped in with them sometimes, and even Patrick tagged along though he had a car of his own and was busy with college.

Helga was doing well. She had a good, safe place to live when she got out of the hospital, someone to take care of her the way she deserved and her friends nearby. She would have everything she needed. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Nothing.

…..

On the first day of the trial, reporters showed up on Arnold's doorstep and peppered him with questions as he and Ambrose were trying to leave. He heard at least one ask about him finding the murder scene and a few mentions of the words 'crime forums.'

“No comment,” he managed to remember to say as he barreled through them to Ambroses' truck.

They were worse at the hospital, and were wise to the trick of sneaking Helga out the back. Officer Plaskett covered her with his coat as Ambrose pushed her chair, and by the time they got her into the truck she seemed a little freaked out.

“They had cameras,” she murmured. “I thought they weren't allowed take pictures of me?”

“The gag order is up because you waived anonymity,” Plaskett explained. “Unfortunately, that's what it's going to be like for a while. I'll keep you under wraps as much as I can but realistically a few pictures are going to be released. This case is very high profile.”

Arnold saw her swallow, hard.

“Don't be too nervous,” Plaskett continued. “The defense has been warned to stick to certain topics and not to grill you. The judge will interfere if they get goady, and if you feel like you need a break you just ask for it. Don't push yourself too hard.”

The court was mobbed with reporters, onlookers and a handful of people holding up signs of support or condemnation. There was a pretty shocking amount of people that thought Helga was lying about Waring, and that his other victims were just human garbage that the world didn't miss. The court police cleared a path but they had to carry her up the steps, and Arnold had a feeling that that was an image that would show up on the news that night: Ambrose carrying her bridal-style up the stairs while Plaskett and Arnold lugged her wheelchair behind them.

They were allowed into the courtroom early, to make sure Helga was comfortable and ready. The judge even came in plain clothes to talk to her privately. He looked nice, a grandfatherly type of man, but Plaskett had warned that he was a hard man with a poker face you could never interpret. Waring's lawyer, wearing another painfully expensive suit, came in early too to discuss with the judge.

The jury trickled in, a distinct mix of young and old, men and women from all walks of life. Two black, three vaguely Hispanic, one Asian, four white. According to Plaskett that was a good mix. Spectators and support filled the benches, court reporters took their seats, the prosecuting lawyer arrived too late to talk to Helga but at least looked smart.

Finally, Waring was brought in. In a suit, not even handcuffed, groomed and trimmed to look as normal and nonthreatening as possible.

Even so, Arnold heard Helga draw in a ragged breath and saw her hands clench under the desk.

…..

For three straight hours, Waring's lawyer built up an image of a man who had been accused of nothing more than a misdemeanor. He painted a picture of a shy and quiet man whose desire to keep to himself and live a back-to-nature life in the woods lead to him being accused of murdering prostitutes. He made it sound like the girls who had gone missing from Pocaselas had brought it upon themselves by entering the notoriously risky job of streetwalking.

The prosecution brought up his dishonourable discharge from the military, but even this was dismissed as a petty act by a vengeful ex. By the time Helga was called to the stand, Waring was being painted as a saint with some spiteful enemies.

But even Helga's presence in the court dimmed the lawyer's hard work. The jury looked on sympathetically as she wheeled herself to the bench and was sworn in.

“Could you state your full name for the court, please?” the lawyer began.

“Helga Geraldine Pataki.”

“And, how old are you, Helga?”

“Sixteen.”

“How old were you when you claim to have been involved with my client?”

“I was eleven when he caught me.”

“Caught you? Am I to believe there was a struggle?”

“Yes, he threw something over my head and knocked me to the ground. Then he jabbed me with something.”

“That's a little vague...could you elaborate?”

“A needle. He jabbed me with a needle. Whatever was in it knocked me out.”

“I see....could you tell us where he caught you?”

“In the woods, the hills just outside Hillwood.”

“And what were you doing out there? According to your statement, this was just after dawn, am I right?”

“It was about 8am, I was trying to get downtown early. I spent the night up there.”

“You spent the night in the woods?”

“I had a hideout there, I slept up there sometimes.”

“I see, and what did your parents think of you sleeping in a cave in the woods?”

“They didn't know.”

Helga was impressively stoic on the stand, but Arnold's irritation with the lawyer was building. His rapid-fire questioning was clearly designed to knock her off balance.

“Is it safe to call you a runaway, in that case? Because you had gone hiding somewhere without your parent's knowledge?” he continued.

“I suppose so,” Helga shrugged.

“That's a risky thing for a little girl to do.”

“No riskier than staying at home, I thought.”

“Were you aware that there were other people in the woods at that time of day?”

“No. I'd been staying up there a long time, I hardly ever saw anyone else. It was rough terrain.”

“But the area was open to the public, so indeed anyone could have stumbled across you.”

“I suppose, but they would have had to try very hard. They would have had to been watching me for a while.”

The jury murmured, and the lawyer just about suppressed a frown.

“Let's go back; you were staying overnight in a public area without your parent's knowledge. That's a fact you have in common with a lot of these missing women.”

“I suppose so.”

“Would you have said you were a difficult child, Ms Pataki?”

“Depends on what you mean by difficult.”

“Well, I have some reports here....they use words like hostile, uncommunicative, defiant, rude....I could go on. Would you agree with those statements?”

“To that person, then yes. Maybe.”

“You had a habit of hanging around older boys, am I right?”

Arnold heard Patrick, just behind him, suck in a breath.

“What do you mean by 'hanging around?'” Helga asked.

“You were often seen in the company of older boys.”

“I was on the baseball team with a lot of older boys, so yes, I guess.”

“But outside of baseball, you saw some of these boys socially.”

“Mostly just one, the others I saw in passing if we were all doing the same thing. I was the only girl on the team so they looked out for me.”

“Forgive me, but it's a rare kind of boy that wants to be in the company of a younger girl without getting something in return, would you agree?”

“Then I was lucky, because the ones I knew treated me like a younger sister. Maybe the boys you knew were different.”

A wave of soft laughter echoed in the courtroom. Red spots of annoyance popped up on the lawyer's cheeks.

“Still, running away and hanging out with older boys, that's not a usual thing for an eleven year old girl, is it Ms Pataki?” he prodded. “That combined with these reports suggests you were pretty troublesome back then. Is that fair to say?”

“I didn't realize having crappy parents was such a crime,” Helga quipped.

Now, the courtroom didn't attempt to suppress their amusement; they laughed openly. But when the laughter died down, one person was still loudly chuckling. All eyes in the room turned to him.

Curtis Waring.

He had been blank-faced throughout most of the proceedings, but now tears of laughter ran down his face. When the judge banged the gavel and commanded him to be quiet, he calmed down, wiped his eyes. And then he looked directly at Helga and mouthed three words to her.

That's my girl.

[uptightcitizensbrigade]

Her black PVC raincoat strikes an argument with North Camden’s white fronted mansions. I follow the click clack of her stiletto heels across the pavement. She swings open a small wooden doorway, I climb inside. Eye contact was quickly established as our only means of communication. My unnamed, mute guide glares at a table in the corner of the half-lit warehouse so I shuffle across and pick up the giant pink pen. A two metre contract lolls off its four corners. I sign my name on the dotted line: I will not reveal anything that happens inside The Box until late September.

The 4-metre wooden cube stands in the middle of the empty warehouse like a lost garden shed. She knocks twice on its front before pushing open a square panel no higher than my stomach. Crouching to enter, I come up in a disorientating quasi living space coated crease to crease in thick neon pink paint. Two standing lamps illuminate a perfectly central white desk. In the middle of the desk, two bright white diner-style milkshake cups have been placed with precision. Behind the desk a woman sits up straight, silent and staring, in a black leather mini skirt and bra.

I pull up the chair opposite and meet her gaze. “Hello Annie, what a lovely pink box you have here.”

Annie Clark, best known as St. Vincent, has reached a stage in her career where even her interviews have become a manifestation of her fastidious artistic vision.

Surreal, thrilling art-pop as uneasy as it is danceable, Clark is on the cusp of her fifth album MASSEDUCTION. The record has a big space to fill. In 2014 Clark self-titled her fourth album for a reason. Refining every quest and quirk of her career to date, the singular vision of St. Vincent won her Best Alternative Music Album at the 2015 Grammys. (It’s worth noting that she was the first woman to win the award since its inception in 1991, when Sinead O’ Connor collected the gong. Though really, that says more about the music industry’s white male bias than it does about Clark.)

In the three years since the success of St. Vincent her profile and passions have expanded to fit. She’s inducted Nirvana into the Rock N Roll hall of fame, hosted a Beats 1 radio show, made her directorial debut with a horror short, acted as official ambassador for Record Store Day and become one of few artists invited to design a signature Ernie Ball Music Man guitar. Beck, Dave Grohl, Josh Homme and Taylor Swift all have a St. Vincent six string somewhere in their collections.

Prowess proven, how did she tackle the enormous challenge of superseding her own infallible benchmark fifth time around?

“I more or less prepared myself to make another record by doing completely different things,” she says, referencing her recent extra-curricular activities. “But I knew early on that I wanted to make a record about power and seduction, in all kinds of forms. Political, personal, sexual.”

The luxury of success has allowed Clark to release the details of MASSEDUCTION in micro doses. Much like the Lynchian confines of our not quite Red Room today, the album’s imagery is a shock of deceptively simple eccentricity. In one of its first photos she stands with a lacklustre stare, arms crossed, hip jutted in a neon pink room that has three pairs of bodiless legs clad in thigh high PVC stiletto boots sticking out the wall.

With paradoxical precision, the sonic accompaniment to her provocative disembodied limbs was "New York". A gentle piano ballad that zooms in on Clark’s vulnerability. “You’re the only motherfucker in the city that can handle me,” she laments.

Fans were quick to assume the album’s first single was a coded message to Clark’s former girlfriend, super-model Cara Delavigne. Their relationship thrust St. Vincent into new circles, where peak celebrity is peak content, devoured and concocted at an alarming rate. “I wasn’t really bothered by it,” she says of the cash, clothes and cameras. “If you’re in love you’re in love. I’m not going to change my behaviour. I mostly just found it very strange on a human level. How rabid people were for pictures and gossip. I don’t think that experience particularly changed me.”

It might not have changed her but it certainly affected her. In 2014 St. Vincent was our wiry silver haired cult leader. A digital witness, nodding with sardonic approval at our show-all, tell-all lives. Now she’s lived and loved through the eye of the storm, she’s returned to resuscitate her constituency with refined discontent.

True to her manifesto of “power and seduction” the album is a succinct and disconcerting picture of our times. Dystopian sugar-high electro, ballads of alienation, its thirteen tracks of pop phantasmagoria are as addictive and unsettling as the clawing social constructs we all, for better or worse, play along with.

“I think there might have been an expectation that whatever I released next would be some big, ostentatious banger,” she says of her decision to release ‘New York’ first. “Writing that song, I loved it. I thought it was really direct and emotional. People might have thought I was going to zig, so I zagged.”

St. Vincent zags, Annie Clark does not. Cultivating her own blend of passion, practice and perseverance Clark has pushed herself forward from a very young age.

Born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, to her social worker mother and stockbroker father, she was raised Roman Catholic. Her parents divorced when she was three and Clark moved with her mother to Dallas, Texas. Growing up one of eight siblings (some half, some step) Clark faced intense anxiety attacks from as young as six as she grappled with the “chaos” of the world. In her teens she began to question the internalised “culture of fear” fed to her by religion.

And how doth many a lost, pubescent mortal seek redemption? Music.

Thanks to the timeless combination of a friend’s rad Dad with a Stratocaster and some expert music supervision for the OST of a major blockbuster hit (for Clark it was Jimi Hendrix during Forrest Gump ) by 12 she had her first guitar.

From Hendrix to Zeppelin, Jethro Tull to Nirvana at their heyday and the local record store nerd who gave her PJ Harvey and Nick Cave, Clark quickly learned to respect her “inner weirdo.”

She got her first experience of life on the road with her uncle Tuck Andress and his wife Patti Cathcart, better known as jazz guitar and vocal duo Tuck & Patti. Their ubiquitous tour hand, teenage Annie was responsible for everything from flowers in the dressing room to the voltage on stage. Maintaining that she’s never worked harder, the real value came from the deeply spiritual connection her uncle had with music. An exemplary finger-picking guitarist, his talent, he insisted, came from an undoing of ego rather than a propulsion of one. She remembers watching the way their fans would listen, really listen.

Perhaps a shred of this sentiment caused her to drop out of Berklee College of Music in her third year. She realised she was being taught “every potential style of music,” she says, rather than how to develop one of her own. Aged 20 she faked it as a booking agent and moved to New York to tour the East Coast. Three months later she was broke and back at home with her parents in Texas.

Now a proficient guitarist, Clark rectified the situation with a memorable audition for choral rock troupe The Polyphonic Spree. Learning all their songs on guitar, she turned up to play them with a full guitar pedal collection and rig in tow. Joining the band on the road led to a tour spot with Sufjan Stevens and it was during one of Stevens’ UK shows in 2006 that a 24 year old Clark was spotted and signed by Beggars Banquet. Her debut album Marry Me came out the following year, on it she played 13 different instruments.

Space is important to Annie Clark. It affects the bones of her. By the time she reached third album Strange Mercy she had the means to facilitate her ideal writing conditions; a month alone, waking up in her hotel room and moving to the studio for 12 hours a day. In 2014 she told Rolling Stone she’d turned all of the books around in her New York apartment because their varying spines caused too much clutter, “There were too many different fonts next to one another,” she reasoned. Committed to a relentless touring schedule both before and after St. Vincent, by the time she came home in late 2015 she knew the only way to create a new record was to build the space to do it in first. “I just knew I needed a space to work. A space where I could really work.” How can she ‘really’ get to work? “Everything needs to have a purpose,” she says firmly. Did she live in the new studio? “Yeah, I mean, like, there’s a bedroom. And four rooms dedicated to music. It functions so every room is wired up to be recorded, except for the bedroom, which probably should have been, haha! It was just nice to have a space where I could do whatever I wanted. From the outset, I just did so many things alone.” 

Just under a year after the studio was built Bleachers’ Jack Antonoff came on board. As a producer he’s worked with Taylor Swift and Lorde. How fully-formed were the new St. Vincent songs before they reached him? “Sometimes really fully-formed,” she nods. “Some things intended as demos became parts of the actual album. ‘Fear The Future’ was pretty much formed as a song. The guitars in that are from my demo. But working with him, there was also a lot of back and forth, making sure that every song was the best possible version of itself.” 

The journey for some songs was simple. “'New York' was written on guitar,” says Clark. “And then we just had it played on piano by Thomas Bartlett."

The journey for others, not so much. “The genesis of ‘Pills’ was that I was having trouble sleeping,” she says of the album’s four minute mental pop opera. “I took like, an over the counter sleeping pill and I just started singing the song’s jingle. ‘Pills to eat / pills to sleep / pills, pills, pills / every day of the week.’ And I was like, oh, that’s a good one. I’ll take that! So many songs that we love are like versions of nursery rhymes, you know? So I knew that it was something. And then the second half of that song, I had this piece of music that I’d written for David Byrne’s ‘Colour Guard’ project. So I kind of had ‘Pills’ part 1 and ‘Pills’ part 2. I didn’t necessarily think they would go together but I kept refining both of them.”

“The first time I played it for Jack,” she continues, “it had both parts but it wasn’t really fleshed out as an idea. He was like, ‘that’s really cool, that sounds really ambitious’ and I was like, ‘hm. Ambitious is not what you want to sound like. Ambitious sounds like you’re really trying for something but you didn’t get there.’ So, OK. This needs to be something people can really dance to until they listen to the words and then they’re crying.”

It’s an adage as ancient as lyrical music itself. Words full of hurt, tunes full of hope, the ultimate sing-a-long catharsis. ‘How could anybody have you / how could anybody have you and lose you / how could anybody have you and lose you and not lose their minds too,’ Clark struts on the insatiable electro sleaze of "Los Angeles."

Considering her demi-God status as a guitarist, much of the swaggering pop on MASSEDUCTION is won by its dizzying synths, pushing the album closer to a dancefloor than Clark’s ever dared. Her gender fluid anthem ‘Sugar Boy’ sounds like Donna Summer singing "Blue Monday." “Yes. There’s a lot of synths,” she laughs. “Jack’s playing most of the synths. I never got, I mean, I can get a tone, but I never got good enough at playing that I would wanna go, like “here, I got this” for anything other than a demo. I did a little bit on previous records but that was because I was the only one in the room.” Of the guitar that we do hear, how much of that can be attributed to her new Ernie Ball signature? “I didn’t use any other guitar on this record!” she responds, gleefully. “And not for any other reason than I love it. I have all these vintage guitars. Obviously I love guitars. I have a lot of guitars! But this was just the most perfect, flexible, go to instrument. I did a lot of glam tuning with the slide!” Is this the first time she’s only used one guitar across a whole album? “It really is. I mean, on the last record I think I used like, Thurston Moore’s Jazzmaster – his signature from Fender. My old Harmony Bobkat. And my Music Man Albert Lee for a lot of the whammy bar stuff.” 

At some point during our conversation in The Box an abstract instrumental has crept on in the background. It’s an unsettling ambient drone, more Steve Reich than St. Vincent. As it quietly hums beneath us, I fall further from the reality outside The Box and closer to the one in it. Clark casually realigns the milkshake cups on the centre of the table.

I found an old photograph of you, I begin. She eyes me cautiously. I describe the find, 2004 Clark hunched over her guitar, the only female member of noise rock quartet Skull Fuckers but looking every inch the part in a black beanie, oversized t-shirt and jeans. “I was a kid in those photos!” she recoils. “It’s so horrifying to think of!” The cover art for MASSEDUCTION is a woman in pink tights and a leopard print thong, bent over, sticking her head through a bright red wall. Coupled with the PVC clad legs hanging through pink glory holes, this album features the most highly sexualised set of St. Vincent images to date.

“Yes, but I also think they’re funny,” she says. “Because there’s a level of absurdity. I couldn’t take myself seriously if it was just me and some sort of sexy outfit doing fuck me face.” I wonder to what extent she’s grappled with her own outward presentation of gender. She’s a long way from the girl with no make-up hiding under a black beanie. Last year she performed a gig dressed as a life-size toilet.

“Gender is performative,” she asserts. “And I think it’s very important to be cautious of the ways in which you unconsciously perform gender. Especially if the axioms that have been passed down to you through patriarchal culture are not fulfilling to your empowerment. But as far as the performance of sexuality on this record, it’s an exploration of power and seduction and to me, that does have an absurdist, humorous side.”

It also, quite clearly for Clark, has a vulnerable one. On "Happy Birthday, Johnny" she gently documents her relationship with a past friend or lover over barely there piano. ‘You saw me on magazines and TV,’ she sings. ‘What happened to blood / our family / Annie how could you do this to me?’

The album’s final lurching track "Smoking Section" placates line after line of crippling desperation, ‘Sometimes I go to the edge of my roof / I think I’ll jump just to punish you,’ with a cyclic admonition, ‘let it happen / let it happen / let it happen.’

“Songs are Rorschach Tests,” she says, looking me dead in the eye. “And no, I’m not lonely at all,” she adds, answering the question.

Suddenly there’s a sharp, triple knock and The Box door swings open. My PVC clad guide waits for Annie to finish.

“There’s so many instances where I act on instinct,” she says of the costume, colour and choreography that now envelop her work. “So I often act on instinct with form. And meaning comes later. In the words of Annie B Parsons who I love as a friend, my choreographer, ‘Form is spiritual.’”

Before leaving, I express my fondness for The Box in no uncertain terms. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it more than a hotel lobby,” she replies.

Outside is bright and fast and real and rubbish compared to inside The Box. I wish I was back in The Box, I tell St. Vincent’s publicist.

“You didn’t get any answers?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“She didn’t play you any answers?”

For the past forty minutes I’ve been cocooned in a neon pink wooden womb with St. Vincent none the wiser to her master plan. Turns out, if I’d have asked any one of the multiple questions on her hit list she’d have pressed a button, an automated interview answer would have played and I’d have been booted straight out The Box.

Oh the power.

Oh, the seduction.

[coyotequeens]

My darling @blacktofade‘s birthday was, uh, two months ago, so here I am, ten years late with her birthday present. ILU BB!! If this lil au seems like it should be a full-length fic, that’s because it desperately tried to be, and I had to keep chopping at it to keep it under control, like some kind of rouge hedge on meth. (Now on AO3!)

In the hours after the fight, Stiles drives and drives and drives. At first it’s late, and then it’s so late that it’s early, but he keeps on driving, fueled by anger, mostly in silence, though somewhere around the middle of Pennsylvania he thaws enough to put on some music. He stops at a rest stop just past the Ohio border to get a breakfast sandwich, and as he sits at a dirty table and eats, he thinks: shit.

Doubt begins creeping into his thoughts; maybe he’d been too hasty. Maybe he should have given Jay a chance to explain - but no, no, fuck that. He’d always made it really fucking clear that if their relationship ever got to the point where cheating seemed like a good option, he’d rather just be broken up with and yet look what fucking happened. Stiles scoffs scornfully, chucking the wrapper to his sandwich in a nearby trash can. Two and a half years down the drain.

Refreshed by a new wave of anger, Stiles heads back to his car and gets back on the highway. He manages to wrangle his phone from his pocket and, ignoring the multiple text and missed call notifications, he calls his dad, who picks up with a sigh.

“You know what time it is?” his dad asks, and Stiles looks at his dash guiltily. He’s been so worked up that he forgot about the time difference - or the fact that even on the east coast, it’s early, the sun barely above the horizon.

“Sorry,” Stiles says with a wince. “I’ll call back later.”

“It’s fine,” Dad says with another sigh. “I just got home from an overnight shift. Everything all right? You’re not usually up before ten.”

Stiles opens his mouth and then closes his mouth, startled by the raw ache in his eyes.

“Stiles?” his dad presses, somehow gentle and sharp at the same time; Stiles is worrying him.

“I’m - ” Stiles clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Um. How would you feel about me moving home for a while?”

Dad’s silent for a long moment. Stiles keeps his fingers tapping nervously at the steering wheel, eyes on the road. “Where are you?” his dad asks eventually.

“Hit Ohio about an hour ago,” Stiles says, and his father sighs for a third time.

“Guess I got no say in it then, huh?”

“Well - I can probably stay with Scott,” Stiles says anxiously. “If it’s - ”

“I’m messing with you, son,” his dad says gently. “You know you’ve always got a place here.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says quietly, that ache back in his eyes.

“You want to talk about it?”

“God no,” Stiles says, laughing to keep himself from - something. “Maybe in a few days.”

“All right,” Dad says ambivalently. “Well you keep yourself safe on the road, all right? And if you need money for gas or a place to stay along the way, let me know.”

“I’m fine, Dad,” Stiles says softly. “I’m - I will be fine. But thanks.”

“Just take care of yourself,” his father tells him. “It’s a long drive.”

“I will,” Stiles promises.

He makes it another two hours before he has to cede defeat; somewhere around Toledo, his anger ebbs and his eyes begin to droop, so he pulls off the highway and finds a motel where he can crash. The room smells musty but the bed feels like heaven; he’s asleep before he can think. When he wakes up in the early evening, he’s got more text notifications. Most of them are from Jay, and he sees the beginning of one message - look i’m sorry about what happened but you - before Stiles deletes it angrily; there aren’t any buts here. He might not have been a perfect boyfriend, but if Jay wants to try to blame this on him, he can get fucked. Stiles deletes all his texts, all his voicemails, and, for good measure, blocks his number.

Still. Stiles has to grin when he sees one message is from Scott: your dad says you’re coming back?! to stay?

For now, Stiles texts back. For a while.

Scott replies just as Stiles is crossing into Indiana: Dude we’re throwing you a party the moment you get back. Lydia’s already planning it

Stiles laughs, but it’s the last time he smiles for miles. The drive is long and boring, and without anything - or anyone - there to distract him, he’s left to stew. He keeps replaying everything in his head, remembers the stupid fucking look on Jay’s face when Stiles had picked up his phone and seen the texts from the other guy, remembers the way Jay had kept ricocheting back and forth between apology and anger while Stiles packed his bags. Stiles knows he did the right thing, but he doesn’t remember being single being this...lonely. He keeps seeing shit - a stupid license plate, or some driver makes an asshole move - and he keeps forgetting he’s alone, turns to point it out to Jay - and he’s not there.

The nights are worse. The lumpy motel beds seem huge when he’s got no one to share them with. He starfishes over the sheets and goosebumps break out on his arms, but he’s not cold. He’s furious and he’s hurt, and he knows he did the right thing leaving - he knows - but some small part of him can’t help but feel like he should be back in their cramped apartment, drinking warm beers out on the fire escape. He wonders if it’s him that’s fucked up; if his judgement is that bad.

It’s at least a four-day drive back to California, depending on how long he drives every day, and Stiles briefly entertains the thought that maybe he’ll take his time, see some sights; he hasn’t passed Yellowstone yet, or maybe he could wander down to Las Vegas. He’s spent too long in the car already, though, and he hates the silence. He just wants to go home.

It’s a good decision; when he comes down the Redwood Highway and sees the sign welcoming him to California, it feels like some of the weight comes off his shoulders. The rest of it disappears when he reaches Beacon Hills, and he turns down the street to his dad’s house and sees his dad waiting for him at the end of the driveway, all too casual with his hands in his pockets and pleased smile on his face. Stiles feels like he’s ten again, almost falling out of the car in his haste to get out and throw his arms around his dad.

“Can’t believe that old thing made it across the whole US,” his dad says, hugging him tightly.

“Twice,” Stiles says, his voice muffled against his dad’s shoulder.

“Twice,” Dad agrees gently, and claps him on the back.

Being back in Beacon Hills is strange. Stiles left for college and never really came back, just for a little while every couple of years for the holidays. It’s like living in a strange alternate universe version of the town he grew up in, familiar on the surface but different underneath; new neighbors in the houses on their street, different cars parked in the driveways. Old stores he remembers going to as a kid have closed their doors, standing empty and hollow, or new businesses have taken their place. There are empty lots where he remembers buildings, and buildings where he remembers empty lots. Main Street has traffic lights now, and the woods around the high school have been cut down to make room for more soccer fields.

Stiles seeks out his friends, and they’re familiar but different too. They all still live in town - some of them left for college, sure, but they all migrated back long before Stiles did. They throw him the party Scott promised, and Stiles gets absolutely hammered, and no one talks to him about Jay, and it’s perfect.

Life’s quiet in Beacon Hills, but he doesn’t mind. It’s strange to wake up every morning and not hear the constant grind of traffic and horns and sirens outside his window - takes some getting used to, after so many years in the city - but he likes that in the morning, he can go out onto the back steps with a cup of coffee, and all he can smell is fresh air, not the ever changing miasma that is New York City. Stiles doesn’t have much to do with himself; he called his boss and quit somewhere along the drive back - Ohio, he thinks - and he’s applying to jobs, but there’s not much call for a software engineer with a master’s degree up here, but it doesn’t really matter. This isn’t necessarily a permanent move, and he’s got enough of an emergency fund built up in the bank that he’s in no rush to find something.

Stiles mostly just hangs around the house, or at the station with his dad; he’s pulling a lot of night shifts to cover some gaps in staffing, and since the drive messed up Stiles’ sleep schedule like crazy, he doesn’t mind keeping his dad company. It’s nice to spend time with him, and the station’s one of the few places in town that’s mostly unchanged. There are a few new deputies, and the holding cells have been painted a pleasing shade of blue, but other than that, the biggest change is that the coffee maker in the break room has been replaced with a Keurig machine - life’s just that exciting in their small town.

Sometimes his dad picks him up at the house and they go out on patrol together, driving the quiet streets. If not, Stiles gets into the habit of swinging by the station around eleven with food; it’s quiet then, usually only his dad and someone running the front desk, with a skeleton crew out on patrol.

About a week and a half after returning to Beacon Hills, Stiles heads over to the station with a couple bags of food from the diner - in general, he tries to keep his dad eating as healthy as possible, but he’s all right with a treat once in awhile. He’s too busy trying to juggle the bags and their drinks to pay much attention to what’s going on in the station, so once he’s backed in through the doors, he just heads for his dad’s office, only to hear a sharp voice say, “Hey - hey!”

Stiles comes to a halt with a sigh, and turns to look at the deputy manning the front desk. He must be new, because Stiles has never seen him before, and he definitely would remember if he had, because the deputy is gorgeous, just straight-up angry underwear model gorgeous. Even the way he’s currently glaring at Stiles makes him a little weak in the knees.

Maybe he’s staring, because the deputy snaps his fingers and says, “Can I help you?”

Stiles blinks, a little amused and also now a little annoyed. “Did you just snap your fingers at me?”

The deputy gives him a belligerent look. “You want to answer my question? What are you doing in here?”

Stiles holds up the bags of food. “I’m here to see my dad.”

The deputy looks at the food and then at Stiles, and his frown only deepens. “No you’re not.”

Stiles stares at him, bewildered. “Huh?”

“His son lives on the east coast,” the deputy says suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“I’m Stiles,” Stiles says, almost at a loss for words. “I just moved back. I - you want to see my license? I’m not lying.”

To his relief, his dad appears in the doorway to his office, looking amused. “Everything all right out here?”

“Dad,” Stiles says, aggrieved. “Tell Deputy Diligence here that I’m your son.”

His dad stares at him for so long that Stiles actually begins to feel a little nervous, and then he smiles and says to the deputy, “It’s all right, Hale. He’s mine. He moved back to town while you were on vacation.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at the deputy, who narrows his eyes at him. “Told you.”

“He’s just doing his job,” Dad says genially. “Stiles, this is Derek Hale. He’s been with us - what, a year now, Derek?”

The deputy nods, his eyes still narrowed at Stiles. “Nice to meet you,” he says sarcastically.

“A pleasure,” Stiles harps back, and his dad rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, will you get in here so I can eat?”

“Fine,” Stiles says, with a showy sigh, sidling into the office.

His father shuts the door behind them, rubbing his hands over his face wearily. “Please don’t start,” he says.

“Start what?” Stiles asks warily, dumping their food on the desk.

“I know you,” Dad says accusingly. “I know you, and that - “ He stabs a finger in the direction of the front desk. “ - was flirting.”

Stiles stares at him, mouth agape. “I - that was not.”

His dad just shakes his head as he drops down into his chair. “I know you,” he repeats.

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes a few times before he hazards, “Well, he is pretty hot - ”

His dad waves his hands around frantically. “No! No. The last thing I need is you getting mixed up with one of my officers. I’ve got rules, Stiles; I don’t mix work with my home life.”

“Yeah, but I don’t work here,” Stiles says with a grin. Dad glares at him, and he throws his hands up in defeat. “I’m kidding. I’m not really ready for anything right now anyway, c’mon.”

His dad eyes him, his face softening. “Everything all right on that front?”

Stiles shrugs, settling down in a chair across the desk from his dad. “Fine as it can be.”

And, thinking about it later, he really is fine. Maybe it’s the biggest sign that there were more issues with his relationship than he realized, because after that initial first week of hurting, Stiles doesn’t miss Jay. He misses intimacy and the feeling of sharing a life with someone, and he misses sex, but he’s weirdly not upset. Angry still, sure, but he’s not sad. He’s certainly not ready to leap into another relationship, but the more he thinks about it, the more he begins to believe that maybe their relationship was over long before he left. He almost feels relieved.

The new deputy is at the station the next couple of times Stiles goes over there, and every time, Stiles says hello, but Deputy Hale never says a word in reply, just narrows his eyes at him until Stiles disappears into his dad’s office. Stiles usually wouldn’t be bothered by someone not liking him, but the station’s basically a second home to him, most of the deputies like family, so he feels like he’s got to make some kind of effort to make amends.

The next time he stops by the station, he’s got coffee for his dad - and for Deputy Hale, too. The deputy glances up at him as he enters the station, but returns his attention to his paperwork, not looking up as Stiles approaches the desk. He carefully sets the coffee down on the counter, and only then does Deputy Hale look up, first at the coffee, then at Stiles, unimpressed.

“What do you want?” he asks, his tone uninviting.

“Peace offering,” Stiles says, nudging the cup a little closer to Deputy Hale’s keyboard. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

Deputy Hale looks at the cup for a long moment. “There sugar in this?”

“It’s black,” Stiles says warily.

“Good,” the deputy says. He looks up at Stiles and a small smile plays around the corners of his mouth. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says weakly because wow, wow Deputy Hale’s smile has done something to him.

“You know, I knew who you were,” Deputy Hale says, picking up the coffee and taking a slow sip.

Stiles sputters, “What?!”

“He has a picture of you in his office,” Deputy Hale says dryly.

“You’ve been playing me!” Stiles says indignantly.

Deputy Hale just raises his eyebrows as the phone begins to ring. “Your dad’s waiting for you,” he says placidly, as he picks up the receiver.

“I’ve got your number, Hale,” Stiles says, starting to grin as he backs away from the desk. “This isn’t over.”

“Call me Derek,” Deputy Hale says, another faint smile hovering on his lips as he puts the phone to his ear. “Beacon County Sheriff’s Station.”

Stiles is still grinning as he steps into his dad’s office; he tries to hide it, but his dad still notices. His father sighs. “I warned you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, with as much dignity as he can manage. His dad puts his head in his hands.

Stiles tries to feel bad, but he really doesn’t. He’s bored and he’s lonely - most of his friends in town have normal lives, with jobs and families - and he doesn’t mind hanging out with his dad, but after two weeks of seeing him every night, they’re basically caught up on all the things they’ve missed in each other’s lives, so it’s kind of nice to get to know someone new. Now he knows that Derek’s got a sense of humor, he’s a lot more approachable and honestly, Derek’s like god-tier hot, so Stiles will happily take any opportunity to lean up against the front desk and ogle him a bit.

He takes to stopping by the front desk for a few minutes before he heads in to see his dad, and to his private delight, Derek doesn’t seem to mind; he’ll put aside whatever he’s working on, whether it’s paperwork or a crossword puzzle and give Stiles his attention, which, if Stiles is being honest with himself, feels really fucking good. Derek’s not much of a conversationalist himself, but the person Stiles begins to glean from him is a dry, sarcastic asshole - a man after Stiles’ own heart, basically.

He’s not looking for anything. That’s what Stiles tells his dad, and it’s what he tells Lydia when she offers to set him up with one of her friends, and it’s what he tells himself, too. It’s sort of true; he not looking for anything, and he thinks it’d be kind of insane to throw himself back into dating only a month after breaking up with his cheating boyfriend of two and a half years. He could probably use some time to just be alone. And it’s not like he expects anything from Derek - if they just end up as friends, that’s perfectly fine, it’s just - Stiles is horny, like, a lot, and Derek’s super hot, not to mention he’s the kind of guy Stiles would want to date if, you know, he was hypothetically on the market.

He’s embarrassed because his dad is right; he flirts with Derek. But the thing is - and he’s a little rusty here, so maybe he’s way off base - he thinks Derek’s flirting back. He’s at the station almost every night because, as he explains when Stiles jokingly asks what he’d done to be punished with desk duty, he was struck by a distracted driver during a traffic stop and fractured his pelvis. He’d been out on leave for a month, then on desk duty for another two, but that isn’t important - well, it is, and of course Stiles feels bad for him, but the important thing is that when Derek tells him he should be cleared for full duty within the next few days, and Stiles pretends (hah, pretends) to look disappointed and asks, “So does that mean I don’t get to see you anymore?”, Derek’s cheeks go pink and he says “It doesn’t have to,” and that, that is the important thing.

Of course, that’s when his dad comes out of his office and strongarms Stiles into going out on patrol with him, but things aren’t over. Stiles grins as they drive along the quiet streets. Things are just beginning.

-

Three days later, Stiles is getting out of the shower when he’s hit by a wave of lightheadedness so strong it nearly knocks him on his ass; he catches himself just in time and manages to sit on the edge of the tub, his head swimming. Maybe the shower was too hot, he thinks dazed, and then his palms start to itch and his mouth begins to salivate, and he dives for the toilet in time to heave up what little he’s got in him. When the wave of nausea has passed, Stiles shakily picks himself up and sits back down on the edge of the tub, breathing heavily.

There’s a gentle knock on the door. “Stiles?” Dad asks. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Stiles breathes. He swallows hard and grimaces. “Must be those tacos we got at the gas station last night.”

His father chuckles ruefully. “Can’t say those sat too well with me either. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m okay, Dad,” Stiles assures him, wiping at his mouth. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“All right,” his dad says warily. “I’m going back to bed.”

“I’ll leave the Tums out for you,” Stiles calls, and hears his dad laugh as he heads back down the hall.

That night, Stiles heads into the station with a couple salads - for his dad and Derek, because he’s still feeling the gas station tacos - but he’s disappointed to see another deputy at the front desk. “Hey man,” he says, sidling up to the desk. “Is Hale off tonight?”

“He’s back on patrol duty,” Parrish says, shoving disconsolately at a pile of paperwork. “I sure didn’t miss this.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, dismayed. “Oh. You, uh, want a salad?”

“You don’t want it?” Parrish asks, surprised.

“Nah,” Stiles says, tossing it on the desk. “I’m not hungry.”

He goes and hangs out with his dad for a while, watches him grumpily eat his salad, and it’s fine, but he’s bored. He wanted to talk to Derek - knows he could have made Derek smirk about the gas station tacos. His dad’s bored too; after he’s finished eating, he sighs and says, “It’s quiet here tonight. You want to drive around with me?”

Stiles sighs too. “Nah. I think I’m going to head home and go to bed.” Sleep sounds like a good plan; he’s still not feeling quite right. He stops in to use the bathroom before he leaves, and has to lean up against the wall when he gets hit by another wave of lightheadedness. It eventually passes, but it takes long enough that by the time Stiles comes out of the bathroom, his dad’s already left to go on patrol, and the building’s quiet. He decides to step into the break room to get a glass of water, and he’s startled to find Derek in there, leaning up against the counter. Derek raises his eyebrows when he sees Stiles.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “Your dad’s on patrol.”

“I know; he just left,” Stiles says. “Thought you were too.”

Derek nods toward the coffee maker. “I stopped in for a break.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “I was just heading out too - unless you want some company?”

He tries not to sound too earnest, but Derek doesn’t seem to mind; he gives Stiles a faint smile and says, “I wouldn’t say no.”

Stiles grins, buoyed, and steps up to the sink to grab the glass of water he originally stopped in for. “How’s it feel?” he asks as he fills a glass from the faucet. “Being back on patrol?”

“Not as boring as being here – present company excluded,” Derek says, picking up his cup of coffee. “I’m rusty. I’ve forgotten what my cop voice sounds like.”

“What, it’s not the voice you used when you accused me of impersonating myself?” Stiles teases.

Derek snorts and sets down his cup of coffee. He straightens, casually readjusting his utility belt, and it’s like something in him shifts; suddenly, he’s a cop, a tightness to his body that wasn’t there before. It occurs to Stiles that he’s never seen Derek out from behind the front desk. He swallows, struck by how even though they’re almost the same height, Derek’s wider in the shoulders, just the right amount of muscle on him. “What are you doing back here?” Derek asks softly, taking a step closer. There’s a note in his voice Stiles has heard before, plenty of times, when he’s watched his dad’s talk to suspects, but hearing it from Derek makes his whole body warm. “Civilians aren’t supposed to go past the lobby.”

Stiles swallows again. “But I don’t count, right?”

“You don’t count,” Derek confirms, dropping the cop voice. He’s still close. Stiles feels like a planet on a collision course with the sun.

“That’s - you got the voice down,” Stiles says, his eyes widening as Derek step in even closer. “Uh, do - do you want - ”

“Yeah,” Derek breathes, the space between them suddenly gone, their mouths meeting. Stiles is lightheaded again and it’s not the gas station tacos; it’s the feeling of a body pressed up against his, Derek’s hands curled against his waist, his mouth against Stiles’, hot, hot. Stiles folds his arms around Derek’s neck, his whole body thrumming. Derek smells just as good as Stiles imagined he would, and he’s delighted to discover that it’s not the heady, spicy alpha scent he expected, but the softer, richer scent of a beta, the one that makes his toes curl. He breathes it in deeply, tilts his head back as Derek kisses along his jaw, teeth grazing his skin. He’s already getting hard, starved for touch, for any kind of positive attention - and the realization is enough to bring him crashing back down, make him remember where they are.

He pushes at Derek’s shoulders until Derek pulls back, his brow creasing. “This is - we’re in the station,” Stiles hisses.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Derek murmurs. “No one’s going to see us.”

“What about Parrish?”

“If he notices, he’s not going to say anything,” Derek says. “Do you want to stop?”

Stiles chews at his lip for a moment, but he already knows the answer. “Nah,” he admits with a grin, and Derek smiles in response. He leans in to kiss Stiles again, slower and sweeter this time, his hands sliding up and down Stiles’ sides; it’s oddly soothing. They kiss and kiss until Stiles’ lips begin to feel raw from rubbing up against Derek’s stubble, and like he knows Stiles needs a break, Derek tilts his head and moves to Stiles’ neck, his kisses growing wetter, breathier. Stiles exhales shakily, pressing into Derek’s touch, his hips rising without him realizing it - and he can feel Derek’s hard too.

Stiles exhales again and slips his hand between them, cupping Derek’s dick through the rough material of his uniform, and Derek makes a choked off noise against his neck, hips jolting into Stiles’ touch. And - god, Stiles wants him; he wants Derek to bend him over one of the break room tables and fuck him until he can’t breathe - but as horny as he is, he doesn’t think he has the balls to do it in the station. He just - he curls his fingers tighter, eliciting another muffled groan from Derek. Maybe he doesn’t have the balls to go all the way, but he’s willing to do something.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Can I blow you?”

Derek pulls back to stare at him, wide-eyed, and Stiles, staring back at him, can only think about how gorgeous his hazel eyes are. “You - you want to?”

“Mmhm,” Stiles nods, licking his lips pointedly.

Derek’s gaze flickers between his eyes and his mouth and - briefly - to the break room door and then he nods slowly. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Stiles grins, hands going for Derek’s waist as he sinks to his knees, carefully setting his utility belt on the floor. “Trust me - this isn’t a mouth you want to miss.”

“Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Derek says sarcastically, though he looks a little nervous when he says it, stomach muscles tightening as Stiles unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants.

“Promise I won’t bite,” Stiles says, curling his fingers in the waistband of Derek’s pants and underwear. He pulls them down slowly, making sure Derek’s got plenty of time to stop him if he changes his mind, but Derek just exhales. Stiles is a little nervous too, mostly because he’s worried about his dad bursting in at any moment. He shakes his head a little and focuses on the task at hand, which is a really nice dick. He really wants to get his mouth on it, but Derek’s not quite fully erect, so Stiles curls his hand around him, jerking him off slowly. He watches Derek as he does, reveling in the way his lips part and his breath goes a little shaky, the way his eyelashes flutter like he’s fighting the urge to close his eyes. Stiles keeps watching him as he wets his lips and takes him into his mouth, and he grins at the way Derek groans softly.

“I’m not going to last very long,” Derek admits, closing his eyes.

Stiles shrugs his shoulders, pulling back to say, “Doesn’t matter, as long as you have a good time.”

Derek huffs out a weak laugh. “That’s already a guarantee.”

Stiles grins again before getting back on track, sinking his mouth down on Derek’s dick, just shallow little pulls at first, then deeper, testing how far he can go. He’s pleased to report that he can still deepthroat with the best of them, taking Derek in all the way to the base, the tip of his nose just touching Derek’s abdomen.

“Shit, Stiles,” Derek breathes shakily, one of his hands touching Stiles’ cheek then, tentatively, his throat.

Stiles pulls off him slowly, and grins up at Derek, lips slick with spit. “Told you,” he says cheekily.

Getting Derek to come is almost too easy; Stiles is nothing if not good at observation, and he tracks the different ways Derek reacts to the things he does. He likes the deepthroating, but if the way his breathing picks up when Stiles is blowing him shallow and fast is any sign, he likes that even more. Maybe he’s thinking about fucking Stiles, imagining his ass instead of his mouth; he’s certainly not alone in that, because Stiles is thinking about it too. He pulls at Derek’s hips, guiding him until he’s thrusting into Stiles’ mouth, holding his head in place with a gentle hand, and it feels so fucking good Stiles has to close his eyes and rub at the bulge in his jeans. He feels it when Derek’s getting close, because his thrusts falter, uncertain.

“I’m - where?” Derek pants. “Where should I - ”

“My face,” Stiles groans. “Fuck, please - “

“Shh,” Derek hisses. He takes a hold of himself, jerking himself off with quick, ruthless movements, breathing heavily between clenched teeth. Stiles gazes up at him, so turned on he feels like he’s on fire. Derek comes with a choked-off moan, striping Stiles’ mouth and cheek with come, and Stiles shudders with delight, gripping at his dick so he won’t come just yet.

Derek stands still for a moment after he’s finished, his chest heaving - then he lunges for Stiles, hauling him to his feet and smashing their mouths together regardless of the mess he’s left on Stiles’ face. His hands make quick work of Stiles’ pants, shoving them down to his thighs. Stiles nearly sobs when Derek gets his hand around his dick, hips jolting up into his grasp. Derek makes quick work of him, jerking him off until Stiles buries his face against Derek’s neck and comes with a muffled groan, legs shaking.

Derek holds him steady for what seems like hours, until Stiles’ heart stops racing and his legs feel steady again. “Holy shit,” Stiles mutters against Derek’s throat. Derek laughs quietly, taking a step back so he can look at Stiles, eyes lingering on the come still on his face.

“You sure are something,” Derek tells him quietly, pulling his pants and underwear back up.

Stiles grins weakly as he does the same. “Is that a good thing?”

“I think so,” Derek replies, smiling faintly.

Still grinning, Stiles turns to the sink, wetting a paper towel so he can clean his face off. Behind him, Derek picks his utility belt up off the floor and buckles it back around his waist. “Do you want a ride home?” Derek asks.

“I drove,” Stiles says, rubbing the paper towel over his face. “Thanks though.” He lifts his head. “All good?”

Derek snorts and takes the towel from him, dabbing at his forehead. “I made a mess.”

“I don’t mind,” Stiles says. He hesitates, watching Derek throw the paper towel into the trash, before offering, “If you ever get bored while you’re out on patrol, you could stop by the house.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “To play board games?”

Stiles grins. “Some kind of game, for sure.”

Derek laughs softly. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t make any promises - we do get busy sometimes.”

“Really?” Stiles questions sarcastically. He gestures between the two of them. “What was this, then?”

Derek smirks at him. “I got busy.”

Stiles tilts his head back and laughs. “Touché.”

They leave the station together - Parrish, at the front desk, waves them out; if he heard anything, he’s not saying - and head for their respective cars. Stiles grins as he drives out of the parking lot; he feels a little better knowing he’s still got game after two and a half years. It feels pretty good to feel desirable.

-

In the morning, while Stiles is brushing his teeth for a second time after having thrown up again - apparently the gas station tacos aren’t done with him yet - it occurs to him that if he’s going to start dating again - or at the very least, sleeping around, he should probably get an STD check because he’s got no idea how many other people Jay slept with while they were together, or if he was safe while he did it. He’s struck by a sudden flash of angry, and glares at his phone as if to dare Jay to try and call again, but the screen’s blank because he blocked Jay’s number, and there’s nothing from Derek because Stiles didn’t give him his number, just told him to show up to his house when he was free at an unspecified moment in time, like they’re in fucking middle school.

Stiles tsks and spits out his toothpaste. Not that there’s anything between them, he amends thoughtfully. He’s not even going to consider trying to figure out what they’re doing until they’ve actually done something. He’s fine with casual, he’s fine with just sex  - hell, he’s fine with nothing. He just doesn’t want to worry about anything right now, except making sure he’s clean, maybe. And also, his job interview because hey, he’s got one of those this morning.

It’s just a phone interview, but he still dresses nicely in case they change their minds and want to Skype, and he makes himself sit at the dining room table for the whole thing so he won’t be distracted. It goes well; Stiles ends the call feeling pretty confident, and he lets that positive momentum get him out of the house and over to the walk-in clinic to get tested before he can start feeling bad about it - and he shouldn’t feel bad, because he’s not the one who did anything wrong. He’s just being a responsible adult. It’s easy; he talks briefly to a doctor, pees in a cup, they tell him they should have results in a few days, and that’s it.

That night, Stiles forgoes visiting his dad at the station, waiting around a little nervously at the house to see if Derek shows up. He ends up falling asleep on the couch; when he wakes up, it’s to his dad coming through the front door, early morning light filtering into the living room. Stiles tries not to be disappointed; they probably had a busy night - or Derek just didn’t want to come. He knows it was wildly out of line to even suggest it. He’s got more important things to worry about, like the results of his job interview. And his STD test. Every buzz of his phone has him grabbing it anxiously, but it’s mostly just messages from Scott; he keeps sending dog memes. Stiles finds them oddly soothing.

Derek doesn’t show up that night, or the next, so Stiles gives up; he’s got the message. Derek’s not interested, or maybe not interested enough to risk his job by hooking up with him while he’s on duty. Don’t worry man, we’ll get you laid, Scott texts, and then he sends Stiles a photo of a dog that ate a bumblebee. Stiles is still laughing at it when his phone begins to ring - not another text from Scott, but an actual phone call from a local number - and he sobers immediately, clearing his throat before he answers.

“Hello?”

“Stiles Stilinski?” says a female voice on the other end of the line. “This is Dr. Boyer from the Beacon City Walk-In Clinic. Is this a good time to talk?”

To talk? Stiles thinks uneasily, a pit opening in the bottom of his stomach. If it were a simple all clear, she’d wouldn’t have said that, right? “Sure,” he says cautiously. “Is - am I - is everything all right?”

“Your STD panel came back clean,” the doctor tells him. “Nothing to worry about there. However - “ Stiles closes his eyes, holding his breath. “ - as part of our testing process, we also run a pregnancy test, and that test did come back positive.”

Stiles’ eyes fly open. “What?!” he croaks.

“If you’d like to schedule a blood test to be sure, that’s something we can set up for you,” the doctor says, in a placid tone Stiles deems to be way too calm for him to handle right now. “Your regular doctor could also - “

He hangs up on her. He hangs up and then for good measure throws his phone across his bedroom. It hits the wall and falls behind his dresser and then Stiles is standing in the middle of the room with his chest rapidly rising and falling, breathing frantically through his nose. This isn’t happening, he thinks. He doesn’t even know how - when was his last heat? When was the last time he’d had sex? How had this happened?

There’s a gentle knock on his door and then his dad sticks his head into the room, hair ruffled from sleep. “You okay?” he asks, yawning. “Heard a bang.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles says hurriedly, because he can’t handle this, and he definitely can’t have his dad see him break down. “Go back to bed.”

HIs dad grunts and disappears back down the hallway. Stiles waits twenty, thirty seconds before he goes flying out of his room and down the stairs, then out the backyard and into the trees, running until he can’t see any houses, and then he drops onto the damp ground and buries his head against his knees. He takes big, deep breaths, inhaling the smell of leaves and wet earth until his heart stops thundering in his ears.

Stiles flops back against the ground and stares up at the sky while he tries to work things through in his head. It has to be Jay’s; Stiles hasn’t been with anyone else, except Derek, and no baby could have come out of that encounter. His last heat was...Stiles counts on his fingers and curses. Eight weeks ago - two weeks before he left New York - and with everything going on, he hadn’t noticed that it was at least two weeks late. Fuck. As for the how - they’d played it safe...most of the time. Maybe a slip up here or there when they were drunk. Maybe a broken condom. Stiles scrubs his hands over his face. Double fuck. He needs to talk to someone about this.

“You’ve got a leaf in your hair,” Scott says later, at the bar.

Stiles isn’t drinking; he’s morosely chewing on the straw to his soda, though at Scott’s comment he scrubs a hand through his hair and feels a leaf crunch under his fingers. He sighs. “I’m a mess.”

“Aw, no way, man,” Scott says cheerfully, bumping his shoulder against Stiles’. “It’s a baby, not a life sentence.”

Stiles drags his hands down his face. “Do you not understand how kids work?” he asks despairingly. “They do tend to stick around for life, unless you seriously fuck something up.”

“Well, I mean, they don’t have to,” Scott says. “You could always put it up for adoption.”

Stiles sighs again. “I dunno, man.”

Scott takes a long swig of his beer and then watches Stiles for a moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Okay,” he says abruptly. “What are you thinking - like, right now? This isn’t a commitment, just - tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I can’t keep it,” Stiles says. “I live at my dad’s house - I don’t even have a job.”

“So let’s say you get a job,” Scott says. “What then? Do you keep it?”

“I - I don’t know,” Stiles says, confused. He shouldn’t, he doesn’t think; even if he finds a job, he’s still living with his dad, and Jay’s not exactly in the picture. Stiles had tried calling him; after his cool-down in the woods, he’d reluctantly unblocked Jay’s number and tried, but the call went straight to voicemail - Jay’s blocked him.

“Okay, okay,” Scott says, waving his hands around. “Step back. Big picture. Do you want kids?”

“I mean - yeah,” Stiles says. “But I always thought I’d be married first. I don’t really want to be a single dad.”

“Your dad’s a single dad,” Scott points out.

“Yeah, but - my mom was there for the first decade,” Stiles says, his throat tight. “She was there for all the formative stuff.”

Scott waves a hand dismissively. “My dad missed most of that, and I turned out all right, didn’t I?”

Stiles grins reluctantly. “Tell me the truth,” he says. “You just want me to have a kid so our kids can be best friends.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, man,” Scott says with a grin. “That’s definitely on my mind.” He takes another swig of his beer and adds, a little more seriously, “Seriously, though, whatever you choose to do, I’m here for you. We all are.”

“Thanks, dude,” Stiles says quietly.

“And you’re not going to stay single,” Scott says. “I mean, unless you want to, but you’re hot and smart - people love you. And if you have a kid, they’ll love your kid, too.”

Stiles snorts. “Why don’t you marry me, if you love me so much?”

“Already taken,” Scott says sadly, slinging an arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “Sorry man. But hey - you only broke up with Jay like a month ago and you already hooked up with that deputy. Maybe he’ll take you off the market.”

“Nah,” Stiles sighs. “I don’t think anything’s going to come out of that.”

Stiles leaves the bar without any real decisions made, but he feels a little better all the same. Scott’s got that kind of effect on him; he puts out so much confidence and goodwill that he can’t help but feel that everything’s going to be all right - and maybe it will.

It’s still relatively early when he gets home, and he briefly entertains the idea of going to see his dad at the station, but seeing as he was just out, as well as the fact that his dad can read him like a book, he decides against it, and collapses on the couch instead. He tries to distract himself with television, but his thoughts keep drifting and he really doesn’t want to be thinking right now.

A car pulls into the driveway, but Stiles doesn’t really notice; the deep hum of the engine sounds like his dad’s cruiser, and it’s not unheard of for his dad to stop by during a shift if he forgot something. The sound of a car door closing doesn’t catch his attention, but the knock on the door sure does. Stiles straightens warily, then slowly lifts himself off the couch and heads for the door. He peers through the peephole and his jaw drops; it’s Derek.

Stiles hurriedly unlocks the front door and pulls it open. “Hi,” Stiles says, and Derek offers him a small smile. “I, um, I didn’t think you’d show.”

“It’s been busy,” Derek says. “And I had to work up the nerve.” He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder at the quiet street. “Does your offer still stand?”

Stiles begins to grin. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah - I could use a distraction tonight. Come in.”

They don’t even make it upstairs. Many years ago, Stiles shoved a bottle of lube deep within the couch in case he felt like jerking off and was too lazy to go upstairs, which means he doesn’t even have to think when Derek guides him down onto the couch. He likes the way Derek strips him down piece by piece, methodical and unrushed, but with purpose. Derek doesn’t fully strip - and Stiles doesn’t blame him for that; he’s on the job, after all - but he leaves his utility belt and radio on the coffee table.

Stiles has never considered himself to have a thing for uniforms, because then he has to think about his dad and that’s not cool, but there’s something about the way the muscles in Derek’s arms flex against his shirt that gets Stiles’ heart racing. Although to be fair, it could also have something to do with the way Derek works him open in the same steady way he’d stripped Stiles, like this is just another part of his job - but he’s also breathing fast through his mouth, eyes flickering between his hand and Stiles’ face, constantly checking on him. It feels so good to feel wanted, like he can tell by the way Derek’s breathing that he’s trying not to go too fast, and being wanted makes Stiles want.

“Come on,” he breathes, because he can’t stand waiting, and he’ll be damned if the way Derek flushes as he fumbles with his belt in his hurry to get his pants down isn’t endearing. Stiles has to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from speaking when Derek leans over and pulls a condom out of one of the pouches on his utility belt because he wants to say it doesn’t matter, but that’s a road he wanted to avoid going down tonight.

Before he can start thinking about it, though, Derek’s kneeling there in front of him, one hand under Stiles’ knee, the other on his dick. He looks at Stiles for affirmation and Stiles nods, his body tight with anticipation. Derek pushes into him slowly, fingers digging into his thigh, and Stiles has to close his eyes, his head falling back as he sighs with pleasure; Derek’s dick’s just as nice as he’s daydreamed it’d be. Derek moves slowly at first, thrusting in and out of Stiles smoothly, but he falters when Stiles hooks his legs around Derek’s hips and opens his eyes, grinning faintly.

“That’s not really what you came here for, is it?” he asks.

Derek’s flush deepens, and he doesn’t say anything, but he puts his hands on Stiles’ hips and now they’re fucking, Derek driving into him hard and fast. Stiles groans happily, tugging at Derek’s shoulders until he leans down so they can kiss. This is exactly the kind of distraction he needed, and it’s just nice to get fucked stupid. Derek’s different from Jay in just about every way - his build, his smell, the way he fucks - and Stiles needs something new right now. Derek’s perfect.

“This is perfect,” he murmurs out loud, and he grins, pleased, at the way Derek’s hips stutter. He’s sensitive; Stiles likes that. He slips a hand between them, jerking himself off to that sweet flush on Derek’s face.

Derek breathes against his cheek, open-mouthed and a little frantic. “I’m - I’m going to come - “ he hisses.

“So come,” Stiles says. He grins at Derek, hand moving faster on his dick. “Do it for me.”

Derek exhales harshly, pining Stiles’ hips to the couch and punching into him, the sound of their skin striking loud in the quiet room. At the last moment, Derek sets his teeth against Stiles’ shoulder and he doesn’t bite down, it’s not a mating bite, but Stiles can feel the way his jaw flexes against his skin, and the shock of such intimacy is enough to send him over the edge into orgasm, his spine arching, pressing him harder against Derek’s teeth.

When that first glorious wave of pleasure passes, Stiles collapses back against the couch, boneless, small shudders of delight running through him. Derek half falls on top of him, catching himself by his elbows, and for a long moment they just look at each other, and it’s weird, but it’s not.

“That was good,” Stiles tells Derek. “Really good.”

Derek looks both pleased and self-conscious. “I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Stiles says. He looks down at their bodies, and the damp patches on Derek’s shirt from Stiles’ come. “Shoulda taken your shirt off.”

Derek follows his gaze and sighs dramatically, carefully shifting back onto his knees, Stiles grimacing at the loss of his dick and how gross he suddenly feels. “Next time,” Derek says, and then he seems to catch himself, looking at Stiles carefully. “If you want a next time.”

“Dude, yes,” Stiles says enthusiastically. Derek’s shoulders relax in relief. He gets to his feet, tucking himself back into his pants and examining his shirt ruefully. “You want to borrow one of my dad’s?” Stiles offers, watching him. “He’s got plenty.”

“It’ll be fine,” Derek says, still looking at his shirt. “I’ll be alone in my cruiser for most of my shift.” He glances up and catches Stiles touching the spot on his shoulder where Derek had not...bitten him, exactly, but it tingles. “Oh,” Derek says, looking embarrassed. “That - I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Stiles says, bending over to locate his clothes. “I liked it.”

“Oh,” Derek says, taken aback. “I’ll - remember that.”

Stiles slips on his boxers and looks up at him with a grin. “Good. Hey - you want a sandwich for the road?”

“Oh,” Derek says again. “I - “ On the coffee table between them, his radio crackles to life, the night dispatcher sounding out a code. “I should go,” he says reluctantly. “Can I...come back? Tomorrow, if I don’t get too busy?”

Stiles’ grin widens. “I’ll be here.”

Sex with Derek is the distraction Stiles needed it to be; he sleeps great that night, well enough that he doesn’t panic in the morning when he remembers that he’s pregnant. Even though he throws up in the shower - and the gas station tacos were consumed so long ago now that he knows they’re not to blame - he feels weirdly calm. He doesn’t really think about it; he lets it sit at the back of his mind and percolate while he adjusts to the idea of it, and focuses on finding a job instead. It works; two days later, he gets a job offer from the place he had the phone interview with, and he accepts. It’s nothing big, and it’s nothing challenging, but that doesn’t really matter to him right now. Derek comes over almost every night for two weeks straight, and Stiles just enjoys how free he feels.

Eventually, though, he has to make a decision about the baby. He’s been behaving himself since he found out - no alcohol, no coffee; he goes to his old family doctor and gets a second opinion, just to be sure. HIs doctor confirms it’s true - not that Stiles is really surprised, considering how much he’s been throwing up - but hearing it again out loud forces him to face the music: he’s got to make up his mind.

When he does think about it, it’s a surprise to him that it’s not black and white. Sure, he panicked when he first found out, and his first instinct was get it out of me, but now...he’s not sure. Logically, he knows this probably isn’t the best time to do it, and if he were still with Jay, it’d be one thing - but at the same time, part of him thinks why not? Yeah, he’s single, but his new job pays well, and the cost of living is a heck of a lot cheaper here than it is in New York City.

Maybe it’s the changing hormones or something, but Stiles feels weirdly zen about the whole situation. He always knew he’d have kids, so why not now? It’s not like he’s a teenager without any options; he’s got a good job and a support system, and half his friends have kids already. Stiles doesn’t rush into a decision, but the more he thinks about it, the more he finds himself leaning toward yes. There’s one morning where he wakes up and kills a little time daydreaming about what it’ll be like when his pregnancy’s further along - and it hits him: he’s already decided. This is happening.

Stiles exhales quietly and rolls onto his stomach, shoving his face into his pillow. He’s going to do it. Then he thinks no, no, this is crazy, right? It is crazy, but he wants this baby. He’s excited about this baby, god help him.

Stiles exhales again when he realizes that he’s going to have to tell his dad about this. No one knows yet except for Scott, and he’s put off telling his dad because he knows what his dad’s reaction’s going to be, and he wanted to come to a decision on his own. Dad’s not going to be happy with him; he’s always been very proud of Stiles for getting an education and building a career, and Stiles knows he’s going to think a baby’s going to derail all of that, but honestly, Stiles doesn’t think it will. For a little while, maybe, but Stiles fully plans on keeping his life on track, especially if he’s going to be doing this alone.

Still, he’s got to tell his dad; the truth’s going to come out eventually anyway, especially when he gets to the point where he literally won’t be able to hide it, so he might as well get it over early on and give his dad a chance to - hopefully - get over it. He could even do it right now - he can hear his dad taking a shower, but he’s going to be heading to bed soon, and Stiles would rather do it when he’s rested. He’ll do it tonight, he decides; he’ll stop by the station with junk food to soften the blow, and tell him then, and then he can bounce if his dad gets too upset. It’ll be fine, though...he hopes.

There’s another person Stiles knows he needs to tell, as reluctant as he is to make contact: Jay. It’s only right; even if what Jay did to him was fucked up, he’s still the dad, and Stiles doesn’t want him to find out years down the road and make a big deal of it. Stiles isn’t sure how he’s going to react - they once had a talk about kids, but it was in a vague, maybe someday way that wasn’t really conclusive. Jay’s still got his number blocked - Stiles has tried calling a couple times - but he’s convinced a friend of theirs to tell Jay to call him, and Jay does, while he’s sitting at work.

Stiles curses softly when he sees Jay’s number on his screen, but he steps out into the stairwell for some privacy and takes a deep breath before he puts to the phone to his ear. He’s not really ready for this; he’s still angry and hurt at what Jay did, but this needs to be done. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Jay says quietly, and the sound of his voice makes Stiles - he doesn’t know how to feel.

“Hi,” Stiles repeats tightly. He feels hot all over. He draws in a deep breath, but before he can speak, Jay gets there first.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “What I did was stupid and selfish, and I’m sorry.”

Stiles closes his eyes, biting back the anger that swells in his chest. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says crisply.

“It’s not?” Jay asks, sounding startled. “But - ”

“We’re done,” Stiles hisses. “I don’t give a shit if you’re sorry or not. If it makes you sleep better at night - fine, whatever, but I don’t care.” He takes a deep breath and continues, “I just wanted you to know I’m pregnant.”

“What?” Jay exclaims. “Are you serious? Is this - do you want to get back together or something, because I - “

“Fuck no!” Stiles snaps, then looks up and down the stairs guiltily. He says, voice lower, “I don’t ever want to see you again. I don’t want anything from you - I just wanted to give you the chance to decide if you want to be involved or not.”

“Oh,” Jay says blankly. “I - I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Stiles says irritably. “Just - think about it.” And he hangs up, his heart beating fast in his chest. He feels shaken; already, his time on the east coast had begun to feel like a lifetime ago, but hearing Jay’s voice had brought it all crashing back. He’s already regretting calling; what if Jay does want to be involved? What if he decides he wants custody? How would that work, with them on opposite sides of the country?

Stop it, he tells himself sternly. He hasn’t even had the baby yet; they’ll figure it out. He’s got bigger, more local things to worry about, like how he’s going to casually bring it up to his dad. Hamburgers are the best way to soften the blow, he decides; his dad would kill for a good hamburger, especially now that Stiles is back home and can monitor how much red meat he’s consuming, so that’s definitely the way to go. Maybe Dad will be so psyched about the burger that he won’t even mind that Stiles is pregnant.

When Stiles arrives at the station later that evening, he can’t help but look around for Derek. He’s nowhere in sight, though, and the parking lot’s mostly empty. He nods at the deputy on duty behind the front desk and heads for his dad’s office.

“What’s this for?” his dad asks suspiciously, when Stiles dumps the bag of food on his desk.

Stiles deflates a little; maybe his plan won’t work. “Can’t I treat my old man?”

Dad opens the bag and peers inside. “Not with - “ He inhales deeply. “Sweet potato fries. I thought I wasn’t allowed to have anything that’s touched vegetable oil.”

“Well, we all need a treat sometimes,” Stiles says defensively.

His father pulls out a hamburger and unwraps it, and there’s no denying the way his face lights up. “You’re up to something,” he says, and takes a big bite of hamburger, closing his eyes blissfully as he chews. When he’s swallowed, he waves the burger at Stiles and says, “What’s up with you? You’ve been more fidgety than usual lately.”

Stiles, who’d been anxiously jiggling his leg up and down, stills guiltily. “Nothing,” he says, trying to stall.

His dad shakes his head, taking another bite of hamburger. “Uh uh,” he says. “Spill.”

Stiles twists his mouth from side to side as he tries to work up the nerve. “Well, I…” He sighs. “I’m, uh, pregnant, Dad.”

His father stops chewing. He sets down the hamburger and then stares at Stiles, who shifts around in his chair uneasily. He looks down at his desk and then out to the lobby, gaze distant. He runs his hand over his hair and then looks at Stiles again. “Pregnant?”

Stiles nods nervously. “Yeah. I’m keeping it.”

“Pregnant,” his dad says again, almost to himself, thoughtful. “Huh.”

Stiles is confused - and a little concerned; this isn’t the reaction he expected. “Dad?” he says cautiously. “Did I break you?”

Dad shakes his head a little. “No, no,” he says. “I just, uh, wasn’t expecting that, I guess.” He considers his hamburger for a moment, brow furrowed. “It’s Jay’s?”

Stiles nods again.

“He knows?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re keeping it?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” Dad squints at him. “Really?”

“Yes,” Stiles says defensively, a little irritated.

“Huh,” his dad says again. “Well - congratulations.”

Stiles blinks. “That’s it?”

His father frowns. “What do you want me to say?”

“I thought you’d, I dunno, try to talk me out of it.”

“You’re a grown man,” Dad says patiently. “You get to make your own decisions. Do you want me to try and talk you out of it?”

“No,” Stiles says. “I mean - no.”

“Then come here,” his dad says, getting to his feet and holding out his arms. Stiles gladly gets up and goes in for a hug. “Weirdest thing,” his dad says, patting Stiles’ back. “Your mom told me here too.”

“What, about me?” Stiles asks, surprised.

His dad nods. “Yep. Not in this office - I wasn’t sheriff yet - but she brought me lunch and told me in the break room.” He smiles. “Must be a family tradition.”

They settle back in their seats, but Stiles still eyes his dad with some surprise and trepidation. “You’re really okay with this?” he asks. “You’re not worried about me?”

Dad sighs. “Son, I worry about you every day - but I’m a parent; that’s what I do. You’re your own person now; if you’ve thought about this and decided it’s what you want, then I’ll support you.”

Stiles blinks, his throat unexpectedly tight. “Thanks, Dad.”

His dad smiles as he picks his hamburger back up. “I do reserve the right to laugh at you when your kid turns out to be as much of a hellion as you were.”

Stiles snorts. “Fair enough.”

He leaves later feeling lighter; his dad having his back is an unexpected but very much appreciated turn of events, and knowing that he’s going to be there for Stiles makes the thought of doing this so much easier.  He’s still sure his dad isn’t as cool with it as he says he is, but Stiles will take what he can get.

Speaking of taking what he can get, Stiles has barely parked at the house when a cruiser pulls into the driveway behind him. Stiles grins as he hops out of the jeep, turning to watch Derek get out of the cruiser. “You’re here kind of early tonight,” Stiles says.

Derek shrugs. “I wanted to see you,” he replies.

Stiles is glad the sun’s already gone down so Derek can’t see how red his face gets. It’s flattering, all right? Derek’s been coming over almost every night, and Stiles isn’t going to lie to himself; he’s into Derek, and if he were to mention being interested in trying something a little more serious, Stiles certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it. The only thing complicating things now is...the baby.

Stiles doesn’t know whether to tell him or not. Like, it’s going to obvious in a couple months anyway, but he’s worried that if he tells Derek now, Derek might bounce - which is fine, he’s got every right to do that, but, selfishly, Stiles wants as much of him as he can get. And what happens if they decide to get serious? Derek should know so he can decide if he wants to deal with that - but then again, Stiles doesn’t want to bring it up if they’re not going to get serious.

He’ll wait a couple weeks, he thinks. Maybe it’s selfish (okay, he knows it’s selfish), but he’s waiting a couple weeks longer to tell his friends anyway, just to be sure he’s clear of the first trimester, so he figures he can tell Derek at the same time. His dad’s already promised not to tell the station until Stiles is ready, so there’s no danger on that end. He just hopes Derek will be cool with it; maybe he’ll luck out and Derek loves kids. Who knows.

-

Most of a week slips by, and even though it’s minute, he’s beginning to feel his body change. The morning sickness has mostly stopped, for one thing - thank god - and while his pants still fit, it’s becoming a great relief to get home from work and immediately change into sweatpants. He feels...happy, happier than he’s been in months. He still thinks this is crazy, but at the same time he’s proud of his decision, and to further cement it in place, he goes to the doctor for a check-up and gets an ultrasound. He grins when he sees it on the screen: his very own vaguely baby-shaped blob. The nurse gives him a printout, and after he’s finished work that evening, he heads over to the station to show his dad.

It’s still early when he gets there, the parking lot still somewhat full; most of the day shift hasn’t left yet. He’s a little surprised to see Derek standing halfway down the sidewalk outside the building, his head turned to look at the lot. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Stiles, but Stiles will stop to say hello - after he’s hidden the ultrasound somewhere. Stiles has to twist to reach it; it’s fallen off the passenger seat and onto the floor. When he’s straightened, hand reaching for the door handle, he sees that Derek’s dropped into a crouch, and he barely has time to register how weird this is before a young voice yells “Dad!” and a little boy comes running down the sidewalk and right into Derek’s arms.

Stiles stares at them blankly, frozen in the movement of opening the car door as he watches Derek swing the kid up into the air, both of them laughing. The kid can’t be any older than seven or so, and he’s basically a younger, softer carbon copy of Derek - there’s no way he’s not Derek’s kid, even ignoring the fact that he called Derek Dad. There’s a sinking feeling Stiles’ stomach, though; why wouldn’t have Derek told him he had a kid?

The why becomes apparent momentarily, as a dark-haired woman comes down the sidewalk from the same direction the kid had appeared from and Derek turns to talk to her, still smiling. The pit in Stiles’ stomach turns into a chasm. Derek has a family. Derek has a family, and he and Stiles have been fucking behind their backs.

Stiles curls into himself, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. “Fuck!” he hisses frantically. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” How could this happen? How could Derek do this to his family? How the fuck could he stand there smiling when just the night before he’d spent twenty minutes eating Stiles out before fucking his brains out? What’s wrong with him? And what’s so wrong with Stiles that he keeps attracting these fucking asshole cheaters? Derek’s just as bad as Jay - worse, even, because at least he and Jay weren’t married, and kids weren’t in the equation at the time. Even worse, Stiles told Derek what Jay had done a couple weeks ago, and Derek had sympathized. He’d known exactly what he was doing, and how Stiles felt about it, and he’d still done it, what the fuck.

Stiles grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white, struggling to pull in air. He can’t believe this is happening to him - again. And he’s not just the blindsided victim this time; he’s part of it, he caused this. He’s the one who flirted, who didn’t listen when his dad told him to stay away, the one who told Derek to come to the house. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking. He tries to calm down; he knows that stress isn’t good for the baby, but he can’t quite seem to catch his breath, the air rattling in and out of him. He can’t seem to catch himself; he’s falling down a hill, racing toward a panic attack - when a knock on his window surprises him into breathing again.

Stiles looks up, hoping to see his dad, but to his horror, Derek’s standing there, looking concerned. “Stiles?” he asks, his voice slightly muffled by the glass. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, no,” Stiles groans, scrambling to get his keys into the ignition. “No, no, no - “

“Stiles?” Derek says again. “Do - ”

“Get the fuck away from me!” Stiles yells, so loud Derek takes a startled step backward, giving Stiles the room he needs to throw the jeep into reverse and zoom out of the spot. He speeds the entire way home, fighting to keep his breathing even. When he gets back to the house, he makes sure all the lights are out and doors are locked before he goes upstairs and collapses into bed, because he’s got a feeling Derek’s going to try to stop by. Until that happens, though, he stays curled in bed, fighting off his thoughts. He wants to talk to Scott, but he’s too ashamed to even pick up the phone.

Stiles’ suspicion eventually proves correct; a couple hours after he gets home, he hears a car pull into the driveway, and a minute or two later, someone knocks on the front door. He doesn’t bother getting out of bed, because there’s no one else it could be except Derek. He knocks again after a minute or two, and a couple minutes after that, Stiles hears the car leave. Derek doesn’t get the hint, though; he comes back the next three nights, and Stiles ignores him every time he comes to the door. Stiles actually sees him the fourth night; he’s up in his room by the window and sees the cruiser come down the street, slowing by the driveway, but Derek doesn’t pull in, and Stiles sighs in relief.

It takes a few weeks - with no further contact from Derek - for the hurt and shame to wear off enough that he feels like he can talk to Scott about it, but when he does, Scott’s completely on his side.

“This is not your fault, man,” he says. “Derek’s the one who decided to cheat.”

“Yeah, but I encouraged him,” Stiles says miserably. “If I hadn’t flirted with him - ”

Scott shakes his head. “You thought you were flirting with someone who was single,” he argues. “Derek knew exactly what he was doing. That’s sick.”

Stiles sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Doesn’t feel good,” he says. “I liked him, man. I thought he was a good dude. I don’t understand how people can do shit like this.”

Scott slings his arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “Some people are assholes. Don’t give up; we’ll find you someone who’s actually nice.”

Stiles waves his hand wearily. “Don’t bother; for now, I’m just going to concentrate on having this kid.”

And for a month, that’s what he does. He works as much overtime as the new job will allow, because he’s determined to do right by this baby. It’s pretty easy to save money when he’s living at home and not paying rent. His dad insists that Stiles can live in the house as long as he wants, which Stiles will certainly think about, but part of him wants a space for himself and the baby, a little home just for them. Jay gets back in touch; he doesn’t want to be a parent, but he sounds guilty and worried enough about it that he offers Stiles money in support, which Stiles says he’ll think about accepting - he’s got his pride, but now he’s got a kid to think about, too.

Overall, things are good. The baby’s healthy, all his friends and family know and support him, and Stiles is happy - for the most part. He can’t help the way his thoughts sometimes stray to Derek - especially when he’s horny, but then he inevitably thinks about Derek’s family, and it makes him sick to his stomach. He avoids the station, scared of running into Derek there; he’s got an excuse now anyway, since he works a normal nine to five, and then the overtime on top of that, and he tells his dad he’s been going to bed early. He can tell his dad knows something’s up, but Stiles doesn’t have the heart to tell him - not after his dad warned him not to get involved with Derek. He’d known, Stiles thinks glumly. That’s why he’d warned Stiles off, and he hadn’t listened.

It’s - whatever. He’ll get past it eventually; the longer he goes without seeing Derek, the easier it is not to think about it, although one night he’s at the grocery store after work and he sees Derek’s wife, girlfriend, whatever she is, and he nearly has another panic attack, bending almost in half to stare at the navel oranges so she won’t see him. She’s got their kid with her, and they’re so close Stiles can hear them talking, the little boy reading off the labels in the exotic fruit section.

“Papaya,” he says proudly. “Per - per - Mom, what’s that one?”

“Persimmon,” the woman tells him. “You want to try one?”

“What’s it taste like?” the kid asks curiously.

“I don’t know; I’ve never had one,” the woman says, reaching out and picking one up. “Let’s try it.”

Stiles wants to melt through the ground. There’s absolutely no denying it now - the kid called her Mom and he already heard the kid call Derek Dad - and the worst part is they have no idea what Derek’s done to them. What Stiles has done to them. He should tell the woman so she knows, so she can leave him if she wants - Stiles has been in her shoes and god knows he would have wanted someone to tell him instead of finding out by accident. What if he’s not the only one Derek’s been with? He should tell her so she can get checked for STDs - but he can’t move. He’s worried about how she’ll react - and he can’t do it with the kid there, watching him, listening but not understanding. They move off through the produce section and Stiles rubs at his forehead, nervous sweat prickling at his temples. Maybe...he can write a letter, steal her contact information from his dad’s files; if they’re married, she’s probably Derek’s emergency contact. That’s what he’ll do. He exhales and chooses an orange. That’s what he’ll do.

Stiles puts it off. It’s not that he doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t know how to say it. He sits at his desk at work and gazes off into space, trying to compose the letter in his head. Dear ma’am, he tries. Too formal. To whom it may concern. Too impersonal. Dear Mrs. Hale. Too personal.

I’m a scumbag, he thinks, and scrubs his hands through his hair anxiously.

He puts it off for several days, and then the situation is completely torn from his hands, because Derek shows up at the house. Stiles is in the kitchen cleaning up after his dinner, so he doesn’t hear the car pull into the driveway, but he does hear the doorbell ring. It doesn’t even occur to him that it might be Derek outside; he thought that Derek had finally clued in on the fact that Stiles didn’t want to see him anymore, and anyway, Scott had mentioned he might stop by later, so Stiles opens the door expecting to see him, not Derek. For a moment, Stiles just stares; Derek is wearing civilian clothes, just jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, but Stiles has never seen him dressed like that, and it throws him. Then Derek opens his mouth to speak and Stiles remembers who he is - what an asshole he is - and tries to slam the door shut, his body flushing hot with anger.

Derek catches the door before Stiles can close it, though; Stiles pushes at it angrily, but Derek’s stronger than he is. “Stiles,” Derek says. “Your dad asked me to stop by.”

Stiles stops pushing at the door, but only so he can glare at Derek. “Why?” he asks shortly.

Derek holds up a plastic bag, putting it between them like a shield. “He said you’ve been working a lot and he wanted to make sure you’re eating well.”

“I don’t need food,” Stiles says flatly. “I just ate.”

“Well - ”

“Goodbye,” Stiles says viciously, and shoves at the door.

Derek doesn’t budge. “Stiles,” he says again, in a soft, careful tone that makes Stiles’ insides squirm. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry. I want us to be friends.”

Stiles lets go of the door so abruptly that Derek almost stumbles at the sudden loss of pressure. Friends, he thinks furiously, and something inside him snaps. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls. “What the fuck - friends? Are you fucking kidding me? After what you did?” He’s breathing heavily, all the rage and hurt he’d begun to pack away rushing to the surface, pouring out of him. “How could you do that to them? To - to me? I told you what Jay did to me!”

Derek looks bewildered and a little concerned. “What are you talking about?” he asks. “What did I do?”

“You can stop pretending like you’re innocent,” Stiles spits. “I saw you. I saw them - I saw your kid.”

Derek’s face darkens. “What about my kid?” he snaps. “That’s what this is about? You’re pissed because I didn’t tell you about him?”

“No, I’m pissed because you’re a fucking cheater!” Stiles yells.

Derek furrows his heavy brows at Stiles, his face flushed. “And just who did I cheat on you with?” he asks sarcastically.

“Your wife,” Stiles says coldly.

Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles. “I don’t have a wife,” he says shortly.

Stiles shrugs angrily. “Fine, your girlfriend, then. Whatever.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Derek says. He folds his arms over his chest. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Will you stop?” Stiles says, suddenly weary. “Just - stop lying to me. I saw you guys at the station. I saw her and your kid at the store - he called her Mom.”

Derek’s face slackens in sudden understanding. “Oh,” he says softly.

“Oh,” Stiles echoes sarcastically, then sighs. “Look - just get out of here. I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Stiles, listen to me,” Derek says. “That was my sister.”

Stiles scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Derek says. “My son’s mom is out of the picture. Cora’s been helping me with him since he was a baby. A couple months ago he decided he wanted to start calling her Mom and we’ve been trying to break the habit.” He stares at Stiles, eyes searching his face. “I swear I’m not lying.”

Stiles shifts uneasily, not sure what to believe. He never wanted to believe Derek would do this to him or his own family, but he feels so raw he’s not quite willing to open himself up again, afraid it’s just more lies.

“Ask your dad,” Derek says, sensing Stiles’ reluctance. “He’s met them both a thousand times.”

That makes Stiles pause; Derek wouldn’t say that unless it was true, because Stiles’ dad wouldn’t lie about something like that. Maybe Derek is telling the truth. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Derek looks at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Do you really think I’m the kind of person who’d do something like that?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs unhappily. “I didn’t want to think that,” he says. “But I never thought my ex was, either.”

Derek’s face softens slightly. “I get it,” he says quietly.

“No. I’m the asshole here,” Stiles says, and laughs, too sharp and high. “I guess I’ve got some shit to work on.” He reaches for the door. “Look, I - I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s okay, Stiles. I can see how - I should have been more clear.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, smiling uncomfortably. “You don’t owe me any explanation. It’s not like we were dating, anyway.”

Derek opens his mouth and then closes it, looking a little hurt. Stiles doesn’t have the energy to try and parse that reaction. He begins to close the door, but pauses when Derek says, “I still mean it. About being friends.”

“I - I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “I - don’t want to be your friend. I want - wanted - to date you.” He sees Derek begin to open his mouth, and hurries on, plunging over the edge of the cliff as it comes into sight. “It’s not a good time. I’m having a kid, so - ”

Derek’s eyes go wide. “A kid?” he says, and his eyes dart down to Stiles’ stomach, hidden under the loose tee Stiles is wearing. He looks back at Stiles. “Mine?” he asks hoarsely.

“Oh, no!” Stiles hurries to say. “No, no - it’s my ex’s. Not yours.”

Derek visibly relaxes, and Stiles finds himself irrationally offended by this, like he’d be so awful to raise a kid with; he’s a fucking delight. “Well,” he says tightly. “LIke I said, it’s not a good time right now, so…”

“Right,” Derek says quietly. He hesitates before saying, “If there’s anything you need - ”

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles says curtly. “You can tell my dad I ate the food.”

Derek gives him a long look. “If you were avoiding the station because of me,” he says softly. “You don’t need to anymore.” And with that he turns on his heel and strides off down the driveway, where an SUV - not his cruiser - is parked. Stiles doesn’t wait to see him go; he shuts the front door and then puts his back to it, sinking down to the floor. His hands are shaking as the adrenaline arisen from his anger leaves him; he feels cold suddenly, and small. He doesn’t know what to think or feel; he’s almost sure Derek’s telling the truth, but he doesn’t feel any better about the situation. He feels a different kind of guilt now, as well as regret for fucking up the possibility of any kind of relationship between them, even a friendly one - you don’t come back from something like this, you just don’t. Why would Derek want to be friends with a paranoid asshole who yelled at him in front of the whole neighborhood?

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Scott says a few days later as they stand in his backyard, flipping a row of burgers on the grill. “You made a deduction based off the information you had, and it was pretty damning. I mean, you heard the kid call him Dad and the woman Mom - what were you supposed to think?”

Stiles sighs heavily, watching Scott’s daughter stalk around the backyard with a super soaker, strategically assassinating her Barbies. “Yeah, but I could have just talked to him instead of, you know, avoiding him for weeks and then screaming at him like a lunatic. Like an adult.”

“You were angry,” Scott says. “You apologized.”

“Dude, you are being way too easy on me,” Stiles says. “I know you’re my best friend and you’re on my side, but I was an ass.”

Scott sets down his spatula and raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah? It’s not like that’s out of the norm for you. Why’s it bothering you so much?”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest uncomfortably. “I dunno,” he says. Then he sighs again, giving up. “Because I like him.”

Scott gives him an exasperated look. “So why didn’t you tell him that when he said he wanted to be friends?”

“Because I was still mad at him,” Stiles says.

“And now you’re not?”

“Now I just feel bad. About everything.” Stiles shrugs helplessly. “What do I do?”

Scott clicks his tongue, turning back to the grill. “I don’t know, man. I guess you can try talking to him, but don’t expect anything to come of it - this is a bell that you might not be able to unring.”

Stiles heaves one last sigh. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re probably right.”

“Is it even worth it?” Scott asks, flipping the burgers again. “I mean - what’s your goal here?”

Stiles hesitates. “I’m not sure.”

“You need to figure it out,” Scott says pointedly, “or else you’re wasting everyone’s time.”

Stiles blinks, a little candor - but then again, that’s what he’s here for. He knows Scott’s right. What does he want? “Thanks, man,” he says.

Scott grins at him as Kira steps out into the backyard, a bowl of pasta salad in her arms. “You know, your life seemed a lot less dramatic when you were on the other side of the country, dude.”

Stiles snorts, not offended. “You and me both.” He turns to say hi to Kira and sees it happen in slow motion: Scott and Kira’s daughter, having executed all her Barbies, turns to living targets, and shoots Kira right in the side with a cold jet of water. Kira shrieks in surprise and her bowl of pasta salad goes flying. Stiles ends up covered in oily spirals of rotini and veggies, but he’s laughing too hard to care.

-

Stiles gets his chance to find out the truth about Derek a couple nights later, when he comes home to find it’s his dad’s night off, and he’s made them a generous spread for dinner. Stiles raises his eyebrows as he comes into the kitchen and sees all the food.

“What’s all this about?” he asks.

“Made it all from scratch,” Dad says proudly.

“Yeah, but why?” Stiles asks, amused. “You planning on feeding an army?”

“I just want to be sure you’re eating right,” his dad replies, looking pointedly at Stiles’ stomach.

Stiles pats his little bump protectively. “I am,” he says defensively, narrowing his eyes at his father. “And you don’t need to set your deputies on me to make sure of it, you know.”

Dad at least has the grace to look embarrassed, but he says, “I told you, Stiles; it’s my job to worry about you.”

Stiles shakes his head, but he helps his dad set the table, keeping his mouth closed until they’re both sitting, plates full. He watches his dad scoop up a fork full of corn and then, before he can grab another, Stiles asks, “Why didn’t you tell me Derek has a family?”

His father looks surprised. “You two always talk when he’s at the station; I thought he told you.”

“You’ve met his kid, though?” Stiles asks.

“Sure,” his dad nods. “Will. He’s a good kid. Well-behaved. Likes bugs.”

Stiles smiles, trying to sound casual. “And - “ He thinks hard for a moment, trying to remember; he’s certain Derek said his maybe sister’s name. “Cora,” Stiles says with relief, almost snapping his fingers. “You’ve met her?”

“A couple times,” his dad says. “You can definitely tell they’re all related - a very solemn family, they are. I thought she and Derek were twins the first time I met her.”

“They’re siblings,” Stiles says quietly.

“That’s what I’m saying,” his dad says, waving his fork around. “And that kid of Derek’s, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree - ”

Stiles stares off into space, his dad’s voice fading as Stiles’ thoughts demand his attention. So he really was wrong. He’d freaked out and yelled at Derek, who hadn’t done anything wrong. No wonder he’d looked so confused and hurt. God, this is what Stiles gets for jumping - cannonballing to conclusions.

“Stiles?” Stiles blinks and looks at his dad, who frowns. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says awkwardly. “I’m fine. I’ve just - got a lot on my mind.”

Dad’s frown deepens; Stiles can almost see the gears behind his eyes begin to turn. He hurriedly shoves chicken into his mouth, but it’s too late; his dad asks calmly - too calmly, “Why all the questions about the Hales, anyway?”

Stiles swallows hard. He tries to reach for the dinner rolls, but his dad yanks the bowl away from him. “I was just curious,” he says innocently.

“Why not ask Derek?” Dad asks, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you two were friends.”

“Maybe not right now,” Stiles says, wincing.

His dad sighs and buries his face in his hands. “Stiles,” he groans. “I told you. I asked you for one thing - one thing - and you couldn’t listen!?”

“I - I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Stiles protests, which, okay, isn’t quite true. He wanted it to happen. But Derek was the one who made the first move, so it’s a little true, right?

“No wonder he looks so guilty every time I see him,” Dad says irritably. “What’s wrong with you?”

Stiles bristles at this. “You’re the one who told me I’m old enough to make my own decisions. It’s not your problem.”

“It is my problem when it’s one of my deputies!” his father says sharply. “If this gets messy - ”

“It already is,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Or - it was. It doesn’t matter now. He’s - professional, Dad. It’s not going to be a problem.”

Dad eyes him for a long minute, gaze sharp, too observant. “He hurt you?” he asks, some of the anger fading from his voice.

“No,” Stiles says, avoiding his gaze now, digging disconsolately at his chicken. “I hurt him.”

He can feel his dad watching him still, the dining room quiet. After another long moment, his dad asks, “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No!” Stiles says, horrified. “No - just - leave him alone, please. He’s probably had his fill of Stilinskis getting into his business.”

Dad forces out an unamused laugh, but he doesn’t argue; he looks relieved. “Are you going to try to work it out with him?”

Stiles sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

���Does that mean you’ll start coming by the station again?” his father asks hopefully.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You just miss having your dinner hand-delivered to you every night.”

“Caught me,” his dad says sadly.

Stiles does start going back to the stations in the evenings, though, because he does miss spending time with his dad. He doesn’t go almost every night like he used to, and the first night he goes back, he’s more nervous than he expected to be, scanning the parking lot for any sign of Derek (there is none), and breathing a sigh of relief when he steps inside and it’s one of the older deputies on duty at the front desk. He knows that he’ll run into Derek eventually, but in the meantime, he just enjoys the time with his dad again.

Inevitably, it happens; he gets to the station one night and he’s halfway up the walkway when the door to the station opens and Derek steps outside. Derek sees him immediately - it’s not like Stiles has time to throw himself into the bushes - and his mouth thins. Stiles stops walking, his body going hot; this is the moment he’s been dreading, and he has no idea what to say. Derek didn’t stop; he’s getting closer, so Stiles goes with the first thing that comes to mind, a weak “Uh, hi.”

Derek looks at him coolly. For a moment, Stiles thinks he’s not going to say anything at all, but then he says, “Hi,” and walks right past him.

Stiles stares after him, his heart racing in his chest. That’s it? he wonders, disappointed. It just doesn’t feel right. He trots after Derek, calls, “Hey, can we talk?”

Derek casts him an irritated look over his shoulder. “I thought you wanted space.”

“I don’t,” Stiles confesses. Derek stops in front of his cruiser and turns to look at him, his brow furrowing. Stiles plunges onward: “If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. I just need you to know I’m sorry.”

Derek looks exasperated. “I told you; it’s fine,” he says.

“It’s not,” Stiles says. “I was way out of line. I shouldn’t have treated you like that - I’m sorry.”

“I get it,” Derek says shortly. “What do you want from me, Stiles? You said you didn’t want to be friends. I left you alone. What do you want?”

“I know,” Stiles says wretchedly. “I know. I was still freaking out when I said that. I’m - things are really weird right now, all right? This - “ He gestures at his stomach, then at the world around them, as if to say everything. “ - is a mess. I’m a mess; I know that. But I really liked spending time with you - even before we started hooking up. So - I don’t know. You’ve got every right to tell me to fuck off, but I’d regret it if I didn’t tell you that I wanted to go back to the way things were - or just be friends. Whatever you want.”

Derek slowly sinks down to sit on the hood of his cruiser, brow still furrowed. Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and hovers there, watching him anxiously. “What about your kid?” he asks eventually, nodding toward Stiles’ stomach.

“What about it?” Stiles asks. “I don’t expect you to be a dad or anything. What about your kid?”

Derek snorts softly. “Touché.”

They’re quiet for another long moment, Stiles rocking on his heels to try and soothe some of his nervous energy. Eventually, though, Derek says, “I can’t do it.”

Stiles blinks, his heart sinking. “What?”

“I can’t do it,” Derek says again. “I can’t go back to where we were, and I can’t be your friend.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, disappointed. “Well. That’s fair. I - ”

“However,” Derek says, speaking over him. “I can take you out sometime.” He offers Stiles a faint smile. “Dinner, maybe?”

Stiles stares at him. “Seriously?” Derek nods, and Stiles starts to grin. “I - shit, man. That was sneaky.”

Derek looks pleased. “Is that a yes?”

“Hell yes,” Stiles nods, grinning widely now.

“Come here,” Derek says, gesturing at him, and Stiles closes the distance between them. Derek tilts his head back so he can meet Stiles’ eyes and says, “I’ve missed seeing you.”

“Me too,” Stiles says - and then, because he’s there, and because he can, he dips down for a quick kiss. Derek approves; he curls his fingers in Stiles’ belt loops and pulls him in closer and they kiss again, deeper, slower - only to jerk apart when a window bangs open somewhere behind Stiles and his dad yells, “Hey, hey - not in my parking lot! Cut it out!”

Stiles grins down at Derek, his face hot. “Dinner, then? Tomorrow?”

Derek smiles, his cheeks flushed. “It’s a date.”

[claramakesthings]

INTERVIEW.

what do you idealise most: happiness or glory?

her laughter’s like honey as she twirls a strand of her stick straight hair between her fingertips, and her smile stretches across her lips. “between the two? and if i’m being a liar today, i would choose happiness. i like to think i would choose the healthier option after all. no one likes think that they would hurt themselves.” she continues to offer that saccharine sweet smile. it’s almost not a smile though. her teeth are a little bit too clenched and she’s just a little bit too bright with it. “but i think we fool ourselves into thinking that we would choose to be happy with ourselves and the world.” she laughs. god only knows how long she’s tried for the same for so long. how she’s tried to be happy, tried to be content with that happiness, tried not to lust after the spotlight which she loved. but that sort of satisfaction wasn’t for her of all people. “i think everyone tries to put their happiness before everything else. it’s what we’re told to do from the moment we’re born.” she gives another honey coloured laugh, and then drops her hair between her fingers, just like she drops the pretty coloured smile. changing to an expression that showed nothing on her face. the smile change into one that’s more impassive, more sneaky, and she leans forward on the desk, white and golden fingers splayed out.

“but let’s be real here. when has anyone ever wished to just be happy. at the end of the day we look in the mirror, no matter how happy we are, and crave for more.” at this point she’s not smiling, but simply just speaking. the words are coming quick now. she’s racing after thoughts and letting them spill out in whatever way she wishes. “we want to be more, to be better. to be gods. good things come out of ambition and a lust for glory. i don’t prize a smile in the mornings and waking up alongside whomever i’ve decided to tie myself to. happiness only lasts as long as we’re alive. but glory will last forever. glory, is like godhood, you will never die as long as they remember your name. and the only way to get them to remember it is to be glorious.” she laughs. before leaning back in her chair again. “i like to think that i would prize my happiness over being remembered after i die… but that’s a stupid foolish dream. and i would have to be stupid foolish girl to believe i do. i would be lying to more than you. i would being lying to myself. so, yes. i prize glory more than i prize happiness. but i fought for my position. i scraped my knees and bled and begged like a dog. i ruined a couple lives even. i live to be more than what i am. and i may seem vicious for what i’ve done, but at the end of the day i’m no different than you or the mailman or anyone else. anyone, if given the chance, would take glory over happiness. i’m just more honest about it.”

how far would you go to protect your friends or those you loved?

“too far possibly.” she muses. the edges of her lips quirk up and she laughs a little, rolling her head around as if trying to stretch her neck. it’s the best she can manage to win herself time to think of a way out this question. “but wouldn’t we all? they’re our family, our loved ones. if you aren’t willing to die for them, then do you really love them? of course i’d die for the people i love, i’d die for my friends. they’d have to be special people of course. but isn’t that implied? i may have many many friends, but i’m not going to go die for some random child in college who isn’t even apart of pax aurea. Those who i take classes with, laughing and dancing all the time because they have the money too? I don’t owe them a damn thing, and i wouldn’t give them a thing.” She laughs again and sits up straight, adjusting the flowing legs of her pants and folding her hands over one another, then placing themon the table in front of the two of them. She gives the interviewer a smile, it’s soft and pretty and the sort that she gives to those who she hates the most. “But for pax aurea? I’d be damned if i didn’t fight for them. I fought to be their leader, i fought to become a queen and to make sure that they were mine. And i would be damned if i did nothing for them. I could burn down this world and it wouldn’t be enough. Fuck, i would commit a genocide.” She brushes a wild hair to the side and offers up a wild look in a her eyes with a click of her tongue and a bitter smile. “For my dad? I would do anything, if he asked it, i would do it. Even if he didn’t? I would do it. It matters to me, keeping those i love safe. They matter to me. If i refused to do anything for those i truly care of? Who would i be. You should be willing to do anything for those who love, anything at all. If you aren’t, then you should doubt if they really do matter to you. Do you really love them. In my opinion i don’t think you can love, really truly love a person unless you’re willing to give them the world, and then give them your world.”

which mythological god do you identify with?

laughter bubbles up like champagne, and she’s almost kneeling over in laughter, a hand to her chest covered in a sleek white shirt. her laughter is like a bubbling contagion, and her red mouth is twisted up into a smile. “oh christ. do i now have to take one of those awful quizzes?” she grins, it’s almost real this time too. “i never was a fan of those.” her hand lowers, and her head tilts a little in thought as she runs her teeth on the undersides of her mouth. she has a goddess in mind. of course she does. but her thought isn’t her trying to think of one, it’s her trying to decide if she should tell or not. she stops like a thought strikes her, and her lips are twisting into another smile as she begins to talk somewhat inconsequentially. “but i do like the star wars buzzfeed quizzes. especially that one about judging how hot the different actors were?” she’d thought adam driver was rather attractive to be honest. “i kept waiting for the ladies to show up. Imagine my disappointment when none did.” a sigh and a hand full of painted nails to her chest. “practically wanted to cry. i almost did cry in the last star wars movie by the way.” her head shakes, and her eyes turn sad. “oh… it was… just everything. I mean… carrie fishers death hit me so hard.” her words are now coloured blue in truth. once upon a time she’d been a little girl with two side buns shaped in the same formation as of a space princesses. a little girl who could rule the galaxy. she’d always wanted to be her. both of them to be honest. the woman who had the world in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and the princess who saved the galaxy. “i’ll miss her.” she muses, closing her eyes for a second, before popping them open and saying, “but back to goddesses. there are plenty i could name. i could call me an aphrodite for my flirtatious manners and ways.i could also say persephone because i seem to love the feeling of death and destruction and rebirth… i might even say isis because of her ambition. freya for her clever beauty and ability to wage war. maybe eriss because i’m spiteful. maybe hera even. she’s dangerously close to the sort of person i am… but i’ll go with the morrigan. i haven’t a need to be angry over some silly man. and i haven’t a need to be trapped to being a singular person stuck in a thousand year cycle of spite for a man i could kill.”

are you more optimistic or pessimistic?

“once more i think this is like asking me to choose happiness or glory.” she begins, her eyes roll in reply, and she smiles.. “i want to believe that i am an optimistic person, just like i want to believe that i would want happiness.” she starts, before laughing a little. “but honestly, do i look like one to you? Do i look like someone who would be so childish as to believe that things would always go right?” she shrugs. wishing for something to drink. this was getting boring to be honest. or at least in her opinion it was boring. “i’m more pessimistic than anything else. But pessimism is realism. I’m not simply sitting there hoping for a falsity that will never arrive.” a wave of a hand and now the smile’s gone. “it’s a habit built into me. if you assume the worst for every scenario then you’re always either right, or pleasantly surprised. and i like being pleasantly surprised. and i very very much like being right. optimissm is a tool for children, fools, and the religious. I’m none of those. The universe is random, there’s npothing looking out for us. And it just so happens that the good things rarely are what do occur. Pessism is the natural response to a world that’s neither for or against us.”

which of the seven deadly sins appeals to you most?

“asking me to pick a sin like some judeo-christian child.” she raises and eyebrow and smirks. “i thought we were beyond this simple worldview presented by religons that should be dead by now.” she sighs and replies. “anyways, what do you mean appeals to me? that suggests that i’m tugged towards these acts, acts of gluttony and pride and vainity. that susggests the devil might exist, that he might be tempting me one way or another. but that, once more, is silly. religon is an organised way of people banding together looking for more in the world because they’re unsatisfied with their very own lives. saying that one might appeal to me more than the others says that people are naturally faulty, and that these things are necessarily bad. but there are plenty of cultures out there which exalt these qualities and have yet to fall. for one, america is quite gluttonous. and i donm’t mean in the way of food. that’s a topic for another time. no. i mean in the way of money, greed, want. america is a capitalist society in which we exalt the so called ‘american dream’ which is just fancy words for being greedy and wanting enough that you will chase after what you want and do what’s required of you to get it. and yet, while here in america, it’s a fine fine things to have. you’re living up to what’s expected to you while here, and america, for all it’s faults, doesn’t fall. we may need to change things, but that greed? that greed is what allows people to rise to the top. so this idea of sin and appealing to me, is silly. it’s outdated. it simply doesn’t belong.”

do you think that people are basically good or basically evil?

“that suggests that i believe that people have an inclination one way or another and that i believe in the binary ideals of good and evil.” she scoffs and rolls her eyes. hadn’t they just heard her not seconds before. “one person’s good is another man evil. a good example of this is dexter. he’s a serial killer. automatically bad, but he only kills other serial killers who aren’t caught. now is that bad? your perception changes. now let’s look at someone like… oh… i don’t know… harvey weinstein.” she yawns and mocks, waving a hand around in thought “as a democrat myself, i liked him when he raised money for obama and clinton. the man pushed for universal health care, spoke out against a lack of gun control, spoke for aids. and all of this is good, it is almost undeniably good. but he sexually assaulted women. now you can’t say he’s good. but if you go and say he’s evil you’re forgetting all the good he’s done. granted, i still think he’s still a shit piece of humanity. but that’s how it works. we aren’t good or bad or inbetween. no one is. that’s not how the world works. that’s not how it’s ever going to work, and that’s not how it was made to work. you asking me if i believe if people are good or bad is like saying the world is black and white. and it’s not. cruelty comes from kindness and kindness from cruelty, we have no explanation for it, we just know that in the worst conditions people can beautiful and forgiving, and in the best we still have people like harvey weinstein and trump. and we have no explanation for this. for why people behave like this. if people were innately good then in good times we wouldn’t have people killing others, and if they were innately evil then people who were starving wouldn’t give food to other. people aren’t good or bad, at the end of the day they just are. they do some good, they do some bad, and they make their bed, and we should look at them like that. people who do things, some aborrant and some not, but never as a binary. good and bad always have circumstances surrounding them. and it’s silly to act as if they don’t. good and evil. black and white. it’s all false. none of it’s real. it’s just shades of grey.”

do you believe in self sacrifice for the greater good?

yes. i’m known to be quite machiavellian in that way. i believe that sometimes you have to give yourself up, totally and completely for a cause. for the betterment of the human race. i think that we can’t achieve a total good, the best good, without death. you’ll notice that every peace treaty that comes, comes after a large loss of life. now, i would say that it’s stupid that we fight for peace, it’s a paradoxical statement, and i know all about those, but we’re human. we’ve always fought for peace. according the human race, peace can only be achieved when people are homogenous. so peace will always be fought for. we’ve been doing it for millions of years. animals do it even. but back to sacrifice, i don’t think peace can happen unless death happens. and for all my love of drama and winning and everything in between, i do believe in peace. i don’t enjoy fighting, i don’t enjoy war. i don’t enjoy any of that. and while the human race is bad and awful and all of that. i would give myself up for the greater good. whether that be peace or something else. it would have to be a cause i believe in of course. but i would give myself up gladly for a greater good that i believe in. to give yourself up for something more than you, is great way to go. as much as i lust to be a god, i do realise that there are somethings, some causes, greater than myself, and i could give myself up for them, hand my soul and life over to it. and tying that back to the peace treaties, the men on the field who die? they know what they’re dying for. they’re dying for peace, where they think that’s a heterogenous or homogenous culture. they’re dying for whatever they think peace is. each and every single one of them. they know that peace is the greater good, and they are dying for their version of it. they themselves commit self sacrifice for the greater good. and for something as beautiful, as lovely as peace. i would too.

how honest are you about your thoughts or feelings?

“with myself? i’m painfully honest. i don’t believe in lying to myself. if i lie to myself what am i? i feel that if i lie to myself i’m a blind fool who cannot accept reality for what it is and for what i am. i’d be a child stuck in her fantasy world. the best way to describe it is that it’s like a singularity. you’re always headed towards the bottom, always about to rip the universe a new one, except you can’t, and you never know when. it’s an infinite hole. i don’t like to, and i don’t believe in, lying to myself because if i’m lying to myself god knows how far i’ve fallen? i’m heading towards an infinite bottom, but i can’t ever get out because this is a black hole. it’s the worst sort of threat to one's identity. gobbles it right up. and i, personally, very much like my identity. it’s a nice one too. as for other people? i lie to the plenty. people are…. people. they say you should always tell the truth to other people because then they can help you out of whatever hell you’re in. but i call bullshit. everyone is in their very own hell. they can’t me get out of mine because they can’t get out of their own hell to come over to my hell to help me out. lying, more than that, is useful. information, knowledge, is a very precious thing to hold in your hands, and if i give people my truths? they have apart of my identity. now, maybe it’s just me? but i don’t enjoy whoring myself out by selling some of who i am just to make somebody feel more comfortable around me. if they feel uncomfortable? well, they should. i’m not looking to be buddy-buddies with some vapid first year who thinks that if only i told them the truth they could fix me. i’m not some doll for anyone to pick up and fix. i’m myself. strong and true until the very end. and if someone thinks that me telling the true will alleviate my invisible guilt, or perhaps make me feel safer, then they’re wrong. once upon i told the truth, and it didn’t make me feel safer. the truth can set you free, but there’s a sort of comfort and freedom in being able to sneak around in the shadows.”

are you a listener or a talker?

“Both. Neither. I may be talking quite a lot right now, but normally i’m quiet. i think…. talking too much is a waste of words. it’s like the boy cried wolf, talk too much and people begin to block you out because you never stop. and people should always be listening when i’m talking. or at least that’s the plan. if people listen, then they hear, and then they know. i like it when people know who i am, what i like… all of the inbetween.” a snakish smile skirts across her lips. “but i do enjoy gossip with thomas or freddy, perhaps even imogen, on a day to day business. talking’s a past time in a lot of ways. i also just don’t enjoy talking, it’s… obnoxious almost ?? i’m not so narcissistic that i enjoy the sound of my own voice.” she says, before giving another bright and colourful laugh. “but in terms of listening, i am always listening. if you never listen you never learn. and when you learn you gain knowledge and knowledge is a very powerful commodity. but i try not to act like i’m listening. listening says i have respect for you, and i have respect for very few people at this school. so both and neither.”

[academersatz]

Travelogue: Astana - Day the Worst (Part 1)

To be fair, this wasn't travel for travel's sake, but rather a press tour covering the World Expo 2017 in Astana. You've been warned.

The trip started off great: I lost my passport! One of the airport workers in the Rovaniemi airport popped it in a separate bin without informing me, so right off the bat, I started sweating. (Sweat becomes very important later when I lose my luggage). Luckily, another traveler announced she had found it just after I realized I had lost it. While boarding the plane in Helsinki, my passport slipped out of my pocket. A flight attendant dutifully notified me. Luckily, that was the last time this trip that my passport attempted to leave me stranded at an airport. In Moscow, I arrived almost 45 minutes late, and had to run to my gate, which signs helpfully advised, was only 25 minutes away. The PA announced final boarding call from my flight about halfway through that. Eventually, I made it to Astana, incredibly tired (the 3 hour time difference meant it was still 3 a.m. by my internal clock), only to find that my luggage had vanished. A cheerful employee helped me fill out a reclamation form and sent me on my way.

The Press Tour program included breakfast and four hours of free time. I slept instead. My first order of business upon waking was to wash my socks. I had been wearing them all day, and anyone who knows me knows that that's a certified biohazard. I could smell the ammonia wafting up through the toes of my shoes even on the last flight. In retrospect, I should have done this before taking a 5 hour nap, but godsdamn I was tired. I checked out the apartment, one of many in the Expo City built especially for the Expo. It's like a college dorm before anyone moves in. Bare white walls, no iron, no hair dryer, no batteries in the remote. Everything is utterly new, but the workmanship is not inspiring. Paint on the floorboards and floor. Sockets sit crooked in the walls. Only one door actually locks, and the others require force to close. I can't imagine anyone wanting to stay here, save for the convenience of walking through a shopping mall to reach the Expo Gates "in only 10 minutes."

We had lunch at the Royal Hotel, but none of the organizers had remembered that I am a vegan (technically, I relax those standards when traveling because I'm lazy and don't want to struggle just to eat.) Google translate helped me relay the message to the wait staff. I was brought a plate of greasy white rice and a bowl of meat soup with the meat picked out. Nomnomnom. I sat at the table with the Iranian press, who spoke little English but were friendly to me for the rest of the trip.

After lunch, we headed to the Expo. Finally! 

But we weren't allowed inside. Because of security measures (many heads of state and other honchos were coming), Expo organizers instead ushered us into the media center, where there were a hundred computers on desks. No one gave us any guidance, so half the group just took a computer. I saw many, many instances of Facebook.  

Eventually, we were led to a room full of chairs, all facing the six or eight large televisions in the center. It was around 3 PM. The Expo organizers told us that the opening ceremony would begin at 8 p.m. "This is a room for relaxation," one of the many Expo volunteers told us.

I wandered outside and took pictures. But you couldn’t see much because of the security fence. Fellow journalist from the UK, Anna Franklin, treated me to a fried potato pastry. I drank my fill of disgusting carbonated water.

Finally the event started, and it was a pompous affair, which you can read about on the newspaper that sent me, Daily Finland. The media center was plagued with technical difficulties, though, resulting in many cameramen uprooting their tripods and glomming around the only working television. When the ceremony ended (well, kind of. It moved on to a concert and fireworks show), there was no organization about how to get back to the apartments. The press crowd dispersed, everyone taking their own way back to wherever they were going. But I had no idea where these apartments were, and so few police officers (of which there were hundreds) spoke English or were native to Astana. For a couple hours, I wandered around the outskirts of the Expo, searching for apartments that were only "10 minutes away."

Finally, a coalition of police officers, passers-by and Android maps apps succeeded and pointing me in the right direction. However, Expo City is comprised of six identical apartment complexes, each with seven 12-story buildings. Can you guess which one is mine? 

Me either. (Actually, I did go straight to the right one, but the gate security told me I had to go around to enter. There's not actually a way to enter except through that gate. #Goddammit) I found reception, who didn't have my name in their records, but by some miracle, one of the Expo organizers came in right behind me, offering to walk me back to my apartment. I even got my own key! Moving on up!

The two hours of walking around in soggy socks gave me a nasty blood blister on my left foot which would limit my movement for the rest of the Expo, which was great! The end!

Just kidding. Stay tuned for Day the Best (Part 2).

[ootb-posts]

On the Road to BeeCon 2017: Interview with John Newton

We are happy and honoured to have John Newton once again talking at BeeCon this year. And only that, this time we also got the chance to steal some time from his busy agenda for an interview, where he talks not only about the topics of his keynote, but also about movies, anthropology, books, machine learning, and secret projects.

Being the father of Alfresco, and with all the knowledge and ideas you have about content management, we could have you giving a full seminar at BeeCon, but we have to limit it to one talk. Given the limited time, how do you choose your topics for each presentation?

It's based upon trends that are going on in the industry and what interests me at that particular time. The Digital Transformation theme started with my time on the AIIM board where we had active discussions on where the industry was going. Lately, I am very intrigued with the rapid pace of evolution in machine learning and its impact on artificial intelligence. I hope to talk a bit about that at the next BeeCon.

Your presentations always feature a theme. I remember Bruegel and Renaissance Painting (BeeCon 2016), Star Trek (Alfresco Summit 2014), Back to the Future (Alfresco Summit 2013), Monty Python (Alfresco DevCon 2012), and James Bond (Alfresco DevCon 2011). How do you pick them? Is there any theme that you liked better than the others?

Sometimes its based upon the last movie I saw or the last thing that I saw on television before I started working on it. I try to find something with a lot of characters, images and situations that I can warp into fitting whatever I am working on at the time. My favorite was probably Star Trek because it was such an important influence on me when I was growing up.

What new feature are you working on at Alfresco which you are most excited to deliver to the market?

I am fascinated by how close search and machine learning are in terms of how they process information and their impact on understanding the content that we store. Also, machine learning and deep learning are evolving so quickly and will automate many things that are manual today. I think deep learning will change the way that we think about both content and process and automate the mundane and tedious elements out of both. It's hard stuff though to comprehend how it works. I wish I paid more attention to my mathematics and statistics courses in college!

In 2015, Alfresco announced support for Amazon Aurora. Has that platform been well received? What else is Alfresco doing with Amazon AWS?

A substantial portion of our new customers are deploying on AWS. Aurora is what we recommend when they deploy because it just has so much redundancy and performance built in and it's often not that much more expensive than MySQL RDS.

We are looking at a lot of services that customers can use on AWS if they choose to use that platform, but not at the expense of our on premise customers or other users of other platforms like Azure. It's a tricky balancing act sometimes. I will be talking more about it at BeeCon.

What use case for Alfresco has surprised you the most, and caused you to think "Mmm, I never thought you could use Alfresco for that!"?

It's so secret that I would have to kill you if I told you. ;-)

At Alfresco DevCon 2011, you described laptops, tablets and smartphones as the kitchen (where content is prepared), the dining table (where content is consumed), and the snacks (where information is quickly referenced). Does that analogy still hold? How has the consumption of content on mobile devices evolved?

That was an analogy that I got from Citrix that I thought really applicable back then. Tablets were so new and growing so fast. Since then tablet growth has slowed, but the whole planet is adopting smart phones. The more appropriate analogy was one that I was thinking of as well back then.

Look at the form factors. Phones are about the size of rock or hand ax. Tablets are the size of a hunting kit or book being the right size to carry under your arm or slung in a bag over your shoulder. Laptops and desktops reflect the size of the desks and writing tablets that we had to concentrate on writing down communication or grander thoughts. These are very human and evolving form factors, only the sizes remain the same.

I think phones (really they are so much more than that now) will continue to be used in task specific ways, just in a universal form factor. They will become the principal way to consume information for the world. Tablets need to improve on input, which I think will evolve to encompass recognizing gestures and eye movements. When that happens, they will take the role that paper notebooks have, recording our work and our lives, and become more of a source of preparation of content. Until then laptops have stopped evolving, but still play a crucial role in content creation.

Boy, that's a long winded answer.

You have had an interesting and successful career at multiple fast growth software companies. If software was not a career choice for you, what else do you think you would have done?

I came very close to going into the US Navy. I wanted to be an aviator like my dad and I was a midshipman (naval cadet) while I was at Berkeley. I tried to figure out how I could do computer science and still fly. I couldn't, so I took the hard, but worthwhile choice of starting my software career. I also was very early on in both databases and computer generated graphics. I actually considered working in the early days at Pixar and Silicon Graphics. However, the choice of following my professors into Ingres was really a no brainer.

I always wanted to start a company since I was about 8 or 9 years old, so suspect that I would have done something entrepreneurial anyway. Even so, my "minor" (Berkeley didn't do minor degrees) was in Anthropology. This was the time that physical anthropologists from Berkeley had discovered the Lucy fossils in East Africa, so it was a very exciting time. My interest in evolution was very much tied to my interest in artificial intelligence. Both of those have really gotten me interested in Behavior Science and Economics. I am seriously considering doing part time study in the subject.

What is one dream project you have thought about pursuing apart from your professional life?

I discovered an obscure and little known story related to Francis Drake's voyage around the world. I thought it was so fascinating, I started writing a screen play. When I am not reading about machine learning and behavioral science, I am taking online classes on screen writing. It's a pure folly.

What books have influenced you such that you would recommend them to the Alfresco community? We are interested in both professional and non-technical books.

I recently read a book called "Deep Work". It's written by a professor of computer science about how he doubled his research output. It's about how do you get a sense of "flow" while you are doing work. The number one take away - turn off email and get off social media cold turkey.

I also think that Daniel Kahneman's book "Thinking Fast and Slow" is one of the most important books of our time. It describes so much about how people make decisions and the role that biases play. It shows why it is so easy to get people confused and what it would take to get people to do the right thing.

I wish that I could recommend a book on Deep Learning, but a good one simply does not exist. I am reading the authoritative book on Deep Learning by Ian Goodfellow et al from the Open AI institute. It's comprehensive, but not very approachable. He writes it from a theoretical mathematician's point of view not a programmer's point of view. After rereading it about three times, I finally get it.

"Capital in the 21st Century" is a monotonous and tedious book with an annoyingly patronizing tone. However, the concepts of inequality are really important and Thomas Picketty is probably the biggest advocate that something must be done. He demonstrates in the book that inequality over the last several centuries is usually solved by war, depression or both.

What is a memorable place that you have visited in your travels?

OMG, I have been to 65 different countries, so it is almost impossible to say. I had never been to Japan while I was at Documentum, but finally got to go with Alfresco. It was so impressive that I took the family on a three week trip to Tokyo, Kyoto and Nara. Beijing is never what anyone expects, but I certainly will not forget the Forbidden City. St. Petersburg, where my son spent a semester in university, is quite a beautiful city and an eerie mix of Helsinki and Moscow.

But maybe the most memorable was a trip my son and I took to Albania. We took the hydrofoil from Corfu to Sarande and went to the ancient Roman and Greek settlements in Butrint. During the Roman Empire, Albania was known as Illyria. Butrint was known as Buthrotum and there was a thriving community by a large lake. During the Middle Ages, the lake became brackish and was largely abandoned. During the Communist period, the site was excavated, but no western visitors were allowed. It's now sort of like an unspoiled Pompei, but not destroyed, only abandoned.

John Newton will be giving his keynote "Alfresco Vision" at BeeCon 2017 on Wednesday 26th of April, at 09:30, in the Auditorium. Don't miss it!