#so that's fine. but post that when the whole seventh wheel thing starts? it feels so underbaked and ill written

[snoppy]

leo valdez post link pls 🙏

oh no babe i meant post as in after tlh.... 😭

[ilovejevsjeans]

Daniel Ricciardo on his passion for combat sports, a walkout song and the time he asked Lewis Hamilton to ‘fight’

McLaren Formula One driver Daniel Ricciardo, who currently sits seventh in the driver standings heading into this weekend’s Spanish Grand Prix, is among the world’s best behind a steering wheel. But how would he fare if he swapped his racing gloves for boxing or MMA gloves?

“I’d love to do a charity boxing match or something just to feel that adrenaline of walking to a ring,” Ricciardo said. “It’s on my to-do list for sure. At school I had a few little fights but nothing crazy. Nothing I’d brag about here.”

Ricciardo says he learned the sport of boxing from a friend who fought as an amateur growing up. However in recent years his love of combat shifted more toward mixed martial arts, a sport that is “quite beautiful. It’s an art form and I was just taken by it.”

The Australian — who boasts 4.6 million followers on Instagram — rarely misses a fight night, whether that’s a small card or pay-per-view. Every Monday he gears up for multiple MMA podcasts to hear analysis on what just took place in the cage.

In an exclusive interview with The Athletic, Ricciardo opened up about his love for fighting, which driver would make the best opponent and why Lewis Hamilton turned down an opportunity to get in the ring against him.

You’re an avid fight fan. How did this passion for the sport start?

One of my best friends growing up, when he was growing up, he was doing amateur boxing and got very good at it. I was then doing my racing and he was doing his boxing. We were both on a bit of an unconventional path — both individual sports, not really the typical sports the kids at school were doing. We had that in common. Once I started taking my racing more seriously I began taking my fitness more seriously. So I started going to his gym to just train. I really enjoyed doing it. But the truth is — I don’t want to lie to anyone. I’m not a fighter. As much as I would picture beating the bully up at school, it’s not me. But I just fell in love with not only doing it but also watching it.

I enjoyed watching boxing but it was really when I got exposed to MMA … It just had me. It was back in 2011 when I started properly getting into it. It was the quickest sport I had ever been absorbed by. I was all in.

My whole YouTube feed is just all MMA shows, whether it’s press conferences, interviews, podcasts. It’s just full of MMA stuff. I’m a full nerd now.

Being in Australia and traveling a lot, are you forced to get up at weird times for fights?

The beauty was I was in LA when (Conor McGregor vs. Dustin Poirier 2) was on so it was prime time and I was happy. But normally in Europe, it’s 4 a.m. or 5 a.m., which isn’t as good. Any kind of sporting event that you look forward to, it’s always cool when it’s in the evening because you have all day to get ready and talk about it. If you wake up at 4 a.m. it’s like “ugh,” and then you’re straight into it so there’s not as much of a build-up. But it’s all good.

So do you still train at all?

No. To races, my trainer carries some pads and gloves just to stay a little sharp and change it up. If I’m getting my reflexes with some tennis balls, maybe I throw in a bit of a boxing combination or something. Again, I’m not saying I’m good or anything. But I just enjoy the whole movement part of it.

Boxing was cool and I enjoyed watching it growing up. But there was something with MMA where there’s just so many different disciplines and the matchups … as a contest it was so much more open and for that, exciting. I feel — I know it’s not always the case — you can kind of tell in boxing if someone is getting momentum, the advantage. It’s like “this guy is going to win the fight.” But in MMA, it’s like “this guy is winning standing but if this goes to the ground, it’s back to square one.” So I just loved it. I was really immersed by it all.

Did you have a particular fighter or fight that got you hooked early on?

One of the first events I watched was UFC 116. Chris Leben was on the card and I think he was losing the fight. And then he got a triangle with probably 20 seconds to go in the third round, so that was really exciting. Stephan Bonnar was also on that card and he got a really cool finish on “The Polish Experiment” Krzysztof Soszynski. That was a card for me where I was very taken from that. Then I discovered “The Ultimate Fighter.” I just binge-watched all of those (seasons).

In terms of fighters, Leben was a character, I liked him. Carlos Condit. I’d say Condit and Cub Swanson were two guys I got behind early on. Condit, I love his style and the way he carries himself.

Have you been to a lot of cards in person?

The very first one I did was the best for me personally. To this day, it’s my favorite sporting event I’ve ever been to: (Conor) McGregor-(Chad) Mendes. Vegas in July 2015. Obviously McGregor, but he wasn’t yet a champion and still kind of on the rise. It was the energy and atmosphere. It was just wild.

The whole event too. (Robbie) Lawler-(Rory) MacDonald, which had the fight of the year. Every fight on the main card I think was a finish, so I got very lucky at my first event.

I’ve done (Michael) Bisping-(Anderson) Silva in the UK. That was a great contest as well.

There are a lot of great fighters from Australia and New Zealand like Israel Adesanya, Alexander Volkanovski and Robert Whittaker. Have you had a chance to meet any of them?

I haven’t met them. A couple of them I’ve had interactions with on social media. But I love Whittaker, obviously Volkanovski is killing it. I’m fairly patriotic to the Aussie fighters. If they are fighting, 99 percent of the time I’ll be supporting them. But one of my good buddies is roommates with Luke Rockhold, so I got to know Luke the last couple of years. I was trying to do some training over Christmas with him but it didn’t end up working out.

I know you’re a big shoey guy. What do you think of Tai Tuivasa doing it after wins?

I’ve had a bit of contact with Tuivasa as well. It’s obviously great. But one thing I can’t get behind is spitting. That’s a little extra.

Plus he’ll grab some random fan’s shoe.

He definitely takes it to the next level. It’s cool that — as disgusting as it is — we have some traditions like this.

Shifting a bit to F1, have you ever gotten into any big fights on the track? What was the worst fight you’ve gotten in?

Earlier in go-karting there was a bit more. Unfortunately in F1, I guess because you’re on the world’s stage, even if you push someone you probably are going to get a fine or get penalized. At times it’s a little too clean. But I’m still waiting for the day that someone confronts me and I just lay them out (laughs).

You also just seem a lot more laid back than a lot of other drivers, so you’d probably not be my first choice of someone getting into a fight soon.

I’m all talk, it would be nice obviously to not have to fight anyone. But no one would expect it from me. Even when I tell people I’m a fight fan, people are like “oh really? You’re into that? You seem too nice to like that.”

But to get where I have in the sport, you need a bit of a killer streak in you. I do have it, but don’t always show it.

What other driver would make the best fighter?

I know some guys have done — for fitness — hit some pads. Randomly, he doesn’t have a seat this year, but Daniil Kvyat started doing quite a lot of boxing last year for his training. I saw a few clips and it started to look like he knew what he was doing. I would say he would be the guy who has the most idea. I’d put him and myself up there. The rest I don’t think stand a chance.

So if you had a charity event, you don’t have anyone in particular you’d want to go against?

To be honest, I actually asked Lewis Hamilton. At the beginning of 2016, he posted a video on his Instagram hitting pads. I was as well at the time, so I was like “hey, let’s do a charity fight.” I asked him in person. But he didn’t bite on that one so I was a little sad.

I might re-ask the question.

What about Max Verstappen? For people who watched the first season of the F1 show “Drive to Survive” on Netflix, I’m sure they would love to see you guys throw down at some point.

That would have been cool as well (laughs). Max would be a good competitor in the ring. The way he drives, he’s quite stubborn. He’d be a hard guy to put away. He’s probably the guy that you’d choke him and he’s going to sleep and not tapping. That would make an interesting one.

In contrast, is there an MMA fighter you’d like to race on the track?

An obvious one would be Conor McGregor. To hear in his Irish accent all kinds of things, that would make pretty good television. And he loves his cars. It’s obvious, but that would probably be the best.

How often would you say you watch fights now? Not just PPVs, right?

Unless I have something like work or another commitment, I’m watching it every week. Mondays I’m getting ready for every podcast. I sound like a real nerd but it’s just an addiction. I love it. Anyone doing that for Formula 1, I’d be like “you’re such a nerd,” but here I am doing it with MMA.

Is it hard to follow everything during the race season?

If I can’t see it live, then 100 percent I’m going to watch the replay or buy it later. But it’s also a good escape. If I’m traveling and I’m in between races, to get my mind away from my competition, I like to watch it. I also try to pick up things as well. Whether it’s from a mental point of view … I’ll look at the walkouts and how they are behaving. I try to figure out if they are really as calm and collected as they are portraying or if it’s a bit of a facade. I’m trying to work out what I can use in my events.

Do you have a walkout song prepared if you were to fight?

I’ve thought about it. The short answer is no. You typically have to have something heavy and fast, but I fell in love with Chris Weidman’s “Won’t Back Down.” It’s not typically a song that will pump you up but it’s so iconic and now it’s his, it’s very fitting.

I’d go for something more lyrically powerful as opposed to instrumental. I loved Max Holloway’s, I think it’s called Mount Everest (by Labrinth). (X)

[ineffably-good]

Too Close For Comfort

Just a little piece of fluff and nonsense inspired by this tumblr post the other day...

Enjoy!

Read this on AO3

It had been a perfectly ordinary Tuesday morning, Crowley thought. He’d slept in quite late, misted and shouted at the plants, and made and downed a total of seven espressos with his nifty new kitchen toy, a shiny espresso maker that somehow never needed to be plugged in or washed. He was just downing the seventh one, standing up at the kitchen counter in the way of true Italians, when there was a sudden shimmer in the air behind him and everything went haywire.

“You got DISCORPORATED?” Crowley thundered at the shimmering, misty shape behind him that still somehow managed to retain the distinct appearance of wearing a bowtie. “How in the everliving fuck did you get yourself discorporated??”

The mist that was Aziraphale couldn’t blush, of course, but it nonetheless managed to communicate the sensation that it was blushing. “I stepped in front of a bus.”

“You stepped in front of a bus,” Crowley repeated, deadpan. “And why was that?”

“Well obviously because I was distracted!”

“You were distracted!” Crowley scrubbed a hand over his face and hair, messing it up wildly. “Oh, fine, you were DISTRACTED. There’s just the small problem with the fact that Heaven isn’t likely to give you another body, you realize. They’re not particularly cooperative about these things now that we’re on our own side!”

Mist-Aziraphale made a shushing gesture and Crowley, never having been shushed by a noncorporeal being before, found himself quieting down just at the novelty of it.

“I know, my dear, I know,” Aziraphale said. “But I have a plan. Just calm down and listen to me for a moment, please? You can yell at me later.”

“Oh I WILL,” Crowley threatened, looking grim. He plopped down on a kitchen stool and folded his arms over his chest. “Start talking.”

 --

“I don’t know whether that plan is brilliant or stupid,” Crowley groused.

“In that case,” the mist said primly, “let’s go with brilliant. It will work, Crowley, I know it will.”

Crowley frowned and considered making himself an eighth espresso just to gain some thinking time, but he discarded the notion. His nerves were on edge enough.

“So you want to merge with me,” he said. “Angel and demonic in one corporeal shell. How do you know we won’t both explode? We couldn’t do it the last time you were floating around like this.”

“Well yes,” said the mist, “but we weren’t together back then. I think it’s safe to say that we have both gotten our corporeal selves much more used to each other’s essences now. I don’t think my presence will harm you at all. And if it seems to, I will back out quick as a snap. No harm done.”

“It’s not like you have much of another option, I suppose,” Crowley said, resigned to his fate. “All right, let’s give it a try.”

He braced himself on the kitchen counter and waited. And waited. And waited.

“Anytime now, angel,” he snipped, looking up. “What’s the hold up?”

“Oh,” dithered the misty shape. “I just feel… like I’m imposing on you. Are you sure you’re ready?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, hard. “Just get on with it.”

Mist-Aziraphale took a deep breath, managed to somehow look apologetic, and flowed into him.

No one combusted.

It was, Crowley thought, a positive sign.

 --

It was an unusual thing to be inhabiting a body with one’s boyfriend, thought Aziraphale. He had thought that he knew every inch of Crowley’s body rather intimately at this point, after over a year of dating and even once swapping bodies completely, but he found it was rather a different thing to be locked inside someone’s body while they were still in it. He found himself feeling unexpectedly shy, and rather unsure of the etiquette of the whole thing.

For example, when one wanted to take a turn using the vocal cords, did one just – do so? Or did one clear their throat politely first?

He decided to try the throat clearing trick. “Ahem,” he said politely. Crowley instinctively fought the sensation at first, then relaxed when he realized it was Aziraphale trying to speak. “I wonder, might we make a cup of tea? It’s rather… jittery in here.”

“Sure, angel, whatever you want.” Crowley headed for the kitchen and began filling a kettle.

“Ahem,” the other voice inside him said again. “Would you mind terribly if – that is to say – oh dear, this is complicated to manuever…”

Crowley turned off the water and put the kettle down. “You want to make the tea, don’t you.”

“Well, I do make it better than you do,” Aziraphale said politely. “Could I perhaps drive the body for just a moment?”

Crowley sighed and did his best to relax. “I suppose?”

Aziraphale manuevered around and happily took over the demon’s brainstem to control his physical movements; there were an uncomfortable few moments not unlike when you are changing gears in a strange car for the first time, but then everything proceeded smoothly as Crowley sat back inside his own head and watched Aziraphale put together the tea in the same fussy way he always did.

When the water had boiled and the bone china cup had been appropriately warmed before being filled with just the right amount of tea with just the appropriate dash of sugar and a saucer had been found and both had been carried to the living room and the angel-driving-the-demon had finally been seated and taken his first indulgent sip and let out a contented sigh, Crowley finally nudged at him to relinquish control of the steering wheel, so to speak, which the angel did immediately.

“Great,” Crowley said, back in control of the vocal cords. “Let’s move this into the office – I need to get on the computer.” Without waiting for Aziraphale to agree, he picked up the cup and saucer and sauntered them both into the other room, where he sprawled down in the chair and opened his laptop.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale complained, “I wanted to actually drink the tea.”

Crowley sighed and picked up the cup in a rather big hurry and took a huge gulp.

“That’s hardly the way to enjoy it, my dear,” Aziraphale said.

“Is that a pout?” Crowley said. “I absolutely refuse to let you make me pout, angel.”

He felt the angel sigh and release his control over the mouth muscles. “Very well,” he said primly. “Just give me a drink every now and then while you’re using the arms, ok?”

“They’re not ‘the’ arms,” Crowley reminded him, “they’re ‘my’ arms. And you are a guest in there.”

“I’m well aware, dearest,” Aziraphale said, sounding a little hurt.

Crowley stuffed down a vague sensation of guilt, which he was oddly aware that Aziraphale was well aware of, since they were sharing a brain, and got to work pulling up his infernal email account.

“Let’s get moving on this,” he muttered. “Time to contact the powers that be.”

 --

“I can hear you thinking,” Crowley said as he worked on writing his most threatening email to Michael, the archangel who had already demonstrated a slight moral ambiguity and willingness to play by slightly more shaded rules than the others.

“It’s just that you’re being so rude,” Aziraphale said. “Also you misspelled ‘wanker’ in line seven.”

“I’m being rude on purpose,” Crowley said, “it’s a threatening email.”

“Nonetheless, manners are important,” Aziraphale prodded.

“So, you’d like me to write a polite threatening letter.”

“It can certainly be done,” Aziraphale said. “If you’ll just give me control of the arms for a moment, I can make a few edits for you –”

Crowley shut the laptop lid. “Forget it. I’ll call her instead.”

“Oh well now, that’s a very good idea.”

 --

“Michael!” Crowley said jovially. “How’s tricks?”

“Demon Crowley,” Michael said coolly. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“Need to talk with you,” Crowley said. “You see, Aziraphale’s been discorporated, and you’re going to help us out with getting him another body.”

“And why on earth would I do that?” Michael asked. “I can’t think of anything that would possibly entice me to get that traitor another body.”

“Well you see,” Crowley said, “Aziraphale has set up shop inside my corporation for the moment.”

Crowley could almost hear Michael wrinkling her nose in distaste. “That sounds unpleasant, but is hardly my concern –”

“No,” Crowley cut in. “It’s quite largely your concern. Because I now have all of the powers of Hell at my disposal, plus all of Aziraphale’s grace. Imagine what I could do with that combination?”

Michael thought for a moment. “That’s preposterous. Such a thing isn’t even possible. Your base matter is incompatible.”

Crowley gave in to the incessant nudging and allowed Aziraphale to take over the vocal cords. “Was incompatible,” Aziraphale said. On screen, Michael blinked as Aziraphale’s voice somehow began emerging from Crowley’s mouth. “We have mingled our essences enough times prior to this, however, that this is no longer the case.”

“I really don’t need to be privy to that type of information,” Michael sighed.

“And you know,” Aziraphale continued, “I can’t really do anything to stop Crowley while he’s –” he stopped and grasped for the right word – “hosting me. I can take control for short periods of time but only if he allows it. And he’s quite right that he has access to all of my powers. And all of my knowledge of heavenly infrastructure. Battle plans and whatnot.”

Michael’s eyes glittered. “You wouldn’t dare let him have full access to your memory banks.”

Crowley nudged Aziraphale and took back control. “He certainly would,” he said, “and even if he didn’t want to, he couldn’t stop me.” He waited while Aziraphale quietly fed him a few alarming bits of information. “Taking a look around right now,” he said airily. “You have exactly 124 battle regiments at present, armed with – what is that Aziraphale? Oh, stop fighting me, you idiot. I’m going to see it anyways – armed with a combination of light and heavy –”

“All right, all right,” Michael shouted, leaning forward anxiously. “What is it you want me to do?”

“You’re going to steal us a corporation,” Crowley said. “The same corporation he’s had, I know you have extras. And you’re going to deliver it to the bookshop.”

“That will take some time,” Michael muttered.

“How long?”

“Forty-eight hours.”

“Fine.” Crowley gave a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Nice doing business with you, Michael.”

--

“Oh, can I drive?” Aziraphale asked as they settled into the driver’s seat of the Bentley.

“Can you –” Crowley sputtered. “Absolutely not! And if you so much as touch a single neuron while I’m driving us over to the bookshop I will wait until you’ve got a body again and then kick your ass. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” sniffed Aziraphale.

 --

 Crowley swung into the bookstore and headed directly for the liquor cabinet.

“I didn’t mean to,” Aziraphale said. “It was just – you almost hit that old woman and her cart!”

“Not my fault she’s out there taking terrible risks, is it?” Crowley said, uncorking a bottle of gin and taking a long swallow.

Aziraphale spluttered. “Oh, must you, my dear? You know I dislike the taste of gin.”

“My tastebuds, my rules,” Crowley said.

On the desk to their left, Frederick awoke from that deep stillness that meant sleep and examined his pointy friend.

WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I’VE BEEN HUNGRY FOR DAYS!

It had been six hours at most. Crowley huffed and went to the freezer for a mousicle. He took one out, popped it in the microwave to thaw, and turned his focus back inward.

“Anyway,” he said. “Don’t change the subject. You took control of the wheel and nearly wrecked us.”

“What was I supposed to do, close my eyes? That would have wrecked us too, since they’re your eyelids.”

“I don’t know,” Crowley sputtered. “just mentally read a book or something.”

“I will try that next time,” Aziraphale said consolingly.

The microwave dinged and Crowley made a disgusted face. “You feed him, angel,” he said.

Aziraphale, feeling agreeable, quickly popped the mouse into Freddy’s cage. “There you are, dear friend,” he said. “So sorry about the wait.”

Frederick reared up his head and examined Crowley closely.

WHY DO YOU SOUND LIKE THE FLUFFY ONE? he shouted.

Crowley took back control. “It’s a long story,” he said. “Suffice it to say that Aziraphale is in here with me for the moment.”

SOUNDS CROWDED, Frederick said doubtfully. DON’T GET ANY BIG IDEAS ABOUT PUTTING ME IN THERE TOO. YOU MIGHT HAVE EATEN YOUR FRIEND, BUT THAT’S ALL YOU GET.

“I didn’t eat him!” Crowley insisted.

LOOKS THAT WAY FROM HERE, SNAKEBIRD.

Crowley sighed and headed for the bottle of gin again.

It was going to be, they both thought in near unison, a long two days.

[drrameyfanpage]

101 Degrees

Author’s Note: This idea came to me before we found out MC and Ethan are going to Miami. I just kind of went with this idea. I’m also writing a part 2 that I might post depending on how this one does. This also the first time I’ve written and posted something M rated.

Rating: M (Mature)

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x MC (Dr. Alexandra Flynn)

Word Count: 8,125

Tag List:

@fangirlingmum  @radlovedreamer

101 degrees. That’s what the digital temperature read on the car’s dashboard. Ethan glared at it as he gripped the steering wheel and maneuvered around another sharp turn. The turn curved more than he anticipated and he tapped the breaks. The car slid slightly in the heavy rain but he kept it on the road.

He glanced at Alexandra who gripped the edge of her seat. He knew she was trying not to let on how upset she was with the situation. He cursed internally at the whole bloody nightmare this had all become.

It had been two months since they had done it. They had saved Naveen. Together they had worked long hours and many sleepless nights in Ethan’s office trying to diagnose the older doctor.

It had taken several months but one day bouncing ideas off each other as they drank their sixth cup of coffee for the day, Alexandra said one thing, Ethan played off it, and soon they had cause of illness.

The next morning, they had come clean to Harper about the secret. After the lecture she gave them, she had praised them. She had even seemed to be impressed with Alexandra. When it came time for Naveen to have surgery, Harper had let them both in the OR.

What Ethan remembered most about that day wasn’t the surgery it was the moment afterwards in his office. Alexandra all but danced around his office. He just stood there watching her. He wanted to tell her how proud he was of her, of how much she had grown as a doctor. Of how much he…

She had stopped in front of him and grinned up at him. “We should go to dinner and celebrate!”

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. “I can’t Harper and some board members are having dinner tonight and I’m expected to attend.”

Her face fell, “Oh, of course.” She stepped quickly around him.

“Maybe another night?” He asked against his better judgement.

“Yeah, maybe.” She and slipped out the door.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. For now he tried to put everything out his head and focus on a few patients before he could leave for the day.

For the next few days Alexandra had tried to stay far away from him. He finally had a free moment and followed after her down the hall, Harper passed her before making her way towards Ethan. He tried to keep walking but she reached out for him.

“Ethan, do you have a moment?”

He glanced after Alexandra but she had disappeared, so he nodded. She talked about how impress the board was with him and how he really did well at dinner. So good that between him talking Alexandra up and the diagnoses, it had sent Alexandra from seventh place to second place in the competition. He realized that he would play Harper’s game, only he would play his own. He would make sure the board saw that Alexandra was the most qualified person.

“I was thinking,” Harper said dragging his attention back. He had been so lost in his thoughts that missed her hand traveling up his arm or Alexandra standing at the end of the hall staring at them. “We could go to dinner just the two of us.” Harper smiled up at him.

“Sure.” He said trying to sound interested. He looked up making eye contact with Alexandra and froze. She looked at him hurt and disgusted before shaking her head and walking away. He longed to run after her, to tell her this was all for her. He didn’t and wouldn’t in the two months that would pass since that day.

“This rain is a nightmare.” Alexandra mumbled.

It was raining harder now. Neither of them could see more than a few feet in front of the hood of the car. Which on the side of a mountain with no cell service was terrifying.

“Hopefully it will end soon.” Ethan tried.

Alexandra whipped her head to look at him. “End soon? We’re in the beginning bands of a hurricane!”

“Look the GPS before it went out said there was town coming up, well stop there and see what we should do next.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest turned away from him.

At this moment he hated Harper more than he hated anyone. He thought back on the conversation in her office only a few days ago.

“Thank you both taking time to come see me.” Harper gestured to the two chairs in front of her desk.

“With the competition coming to end soon and the board feeling like we need some sort of outreach program, they’ve decided to send you both on a training exercise.”

“Outreach program?” Ethan questioned.

“Yes, the board wants to send in some of our specialty teams to teach and work with smaller rural hospitals. They thought this was a good chance to see how one of the candidates does outside of the hospital.” Harper looked annoyed.

Ethan knew it was because the board had chosen Alexandra over Aurora. That meant his plan was working. “Okay so where in Massachusetts are we going?”

Harper gave a humorless laugh. “You mean West Virginia.”

“What?” Ethan demanded. He couldn’t go off somewhere like that with Alexandra. They weren’t even speaking to each other at the moment.

“It’s about a week.”

“A week!”

“Yes, Ethan.” Harper was pleased to see him upset. “Now let me explain. There’s a hospital hoping to train its employees and bring in more jobs to the county. While you’re there you’ll train them on our producers and help figure out what we might be able to do to help. You’ll fly into a larger city and drive about four hours south to the town. Of course the hospital is covering all expenses.”

“Should we be worried about the hurricane coming up the coast?” Alexandra asked finally saying something.

“I asked about that. West Virginia never gets hit hard, so no need to worry.” She followed up with more instructions before dismissing them from her office.

“Alexandra.” Ethan called after her as she all but ran away from him. “We need to talk.”

She turned looking at him expressionless. “No, we don’t.”

He sighed. “I’ll pick you up for the airport at six.”

“No, I’ll meet you there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can pick you up.”

Anger flashed across her face. “I don’t need you.” She said firmly.

He felt like he had been punched in the gut as he watched her walk away.

The car tires slipped again and his knuckles hurt from the grip on the steering wheel. They both jumped as their phones went off with the emergency alert sound. Alexandra reached for both of them, silencing them.

“The county is under a severe thunder watch and a tornado warning.”

“That’s just what we need.” Ethan shook his head not taking his eyes off the road. There was at least an inch or more of water on the road and though it was only afternoon, it was dark from the storm.

“We must be almost there.” Alexandra said trying to sound hopeful.

Almost there, but almost there to what? They were only half way to their destination. The town that had shown up on the GPS had looked small and what if it was actually nothing. Ethan wasn’t sure if he could make another two hour drive on mountain roads in the worsening conditions. Besides it was driving him crazy being in the car with Alexandra and her not even looking at him.

They drove for another fifteen minutes before it seemed they were in between mountains. They came to a small bridge that had water flowing over it. They hadn’t seen any other roads in an hour, so it was drive over it or turn around.

He looked over at Alexandra as he inched closer the bridge. “Don’t look at me! This your decision.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel before deciding to go for it. He kept the car at a steady speed and managed to make it over. Eventually small cabins started appearing on the side of the road. Ethan was sure the main use was probably for hunting but it was a sign none the less.

The trees finally opened up and a small town, the smallest Ethan was sure he had even seen, appeared in their sights.

“Thank God.” Alexandra mumbled.

“How about we grab something to eat?” He pointed towards a diner and what looked like the only place to eat in town.

“Fine with me.”

Neither of them had rain jackets as they ran from the car to the door. They got soaked as it poured and thundered. Ethan pulled the door open for her and the smell of grease hit them both.

“Well you don’t look like you belong around here.” The older waitress behind the counter said.

Ethan wanted to ask her what gave it away but bit his tongue.

“Take a seat anywhere.” She pointed around the almost empty diner.

Alexandra took the lead and led them to a corner with a booth. She pulled a menu free behind the ketchup and flipped through the worn out paper. Ethan sat across from her doing the same. Nothing looked appealing to him.

“Hi!” Both doctors looked up their menus at the cheerful voice. “Welcome to town.” She smiled at Ethan.

Alexandra rolled her eyes.

“Thanks.” Ethan shifted under the attention.

“I’m Taylor, your waitress. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

“Pepsi.” Alexandra said as the waitress wrote it down but didn’t take her eyes of Ethan.

“Same.” He tried to stay away from soda, but he doubted the water wasn’t from the tap.

“Sure. I’ll give you a minute to look over the menu and if you have any questions, please let me know.” She quickly put her hand on Ethan’s arm before hurrying off towards the kitchen.

He looked up at Alexandra but she stared down at her menu. He wanted to tell her he wasn’t back with Harper. He wanted to tell her that he hadn’t stopped thinking about her. He wanted to tell her that he missed spending time with her and their inside jokes.

Their drinks were set in front of them and Taylor turned her attention back to Ethan. “Are you ready to order?”

“If she’s ready you can take her order first.” He was starving and yet nothing looked appealing.

“Chicken tenders and fries, please.” Alexandra ordered.

“You know,” Ethan closed the menu. “I’ll have the same.”

“I’ll put that order right in for you. Is there anything else you need? If you have any questions about town, I can answer those too.” She smiled down at him.

“Just the food for now.” He politely smiled back. He looked over to Alexandra, whose attention was on a small TV. The local news was on and weather alert warnings flashed across the bottom of the screen.

“It looks like the whole county is under a flash flood warning.” She said sighing.

“Which way did ya come in?” The older woman asked from behind the counter. Alexandra pointed north. “Surprised you made it here.”

“Why is that?”

“There’s a bridge that washes out constantly when it rains. Surprised it wasn’t gone by the time you came through.”

Alexandra glared at Ethan and he held his hands up. “Hey you said it was up to me.”

“God was on your side.” The woman said. “But I wouldn’t tempt fate and try to drive back over it.”

“We’re actually hoping to continue south.” Alexandra said.

“Where ya’ll headed too?”

“Parsonsville.”

“Ah, no good.”

“No good?” Ethan questioned.

“I wouldn’t drive over the next mountain range in this weather and I’ve been driving these roads some odd forty-five years.”

“That’s great.” Alexandra muttered.

“They call the mountains dead man’s road. Every year several people wreck off the side in good weather. Also you have the General Todd’s River to go over. That’s got to be flood now.” She shook her head continuing to wipe down the counters.

“Is it a large river?” Ethan asked not wanting to be stuck in this hell hole.

“Well considering the bridge that runs over it is about thirty feet high and usually with rain like this you can’t even tell there’s a bridge there.”

“That settles that.” Alexandra tapped the table. Taylor set their food in front of them. “Where’s the nearest hotel?”

“That would be old man Williams’ place. He owns the only motel between here and Parsonsville.” Taylor answered taking a seat on the counter.

“Our GSP and phones aren’t working. How do we get there?” Alexandra dunked her chicken tender in to ketchup. Glanced at Ethan who watched her trying to hide his distaste.

“Down Main Street.” The older woman pointed to where their car was parked. “When it looked like you’re about to head out of town take the left and it’s only a little ways down that street.”

The conversation faded off as Alexandra ate her food and Ethan picked at his. Taylor soon bought their check over. Ethan handed over his card before Alexandra could ask to slit it. Taylor returned with receipt for Ethan to sign. She dropped her voice and looked at Alexandra “Watch out for old man Williams he’s known to be… hands on.”

They both stared at her for a moment. “Thanks for the heads up.” Alexandra said slipping out of the booth.

Taylor stared after Ethan as he and Alexandra ran through the rain again to the car. “He’s taken.” The older woman said from behind her.

“Whatever does that mean?” They definitely didn’t come off as couple and besides they’ll be gone soon enough.

“It means don’t wonder by Williams hoping to run into Mr. City Boy. Besides the blonde might not realize it but he’s definitely interested.”

Taylor rolled her eyes and stomped off back to the kitchen.

“So,” Ethan said turning the car on. The rain did nothing to cool the 101 temperature out. Though they were both soaking wet, the car air conditioning did little cool them down. “I guess you want to stay here.”

Alexandra looked at him like he was crazy. “You want to risk driving? I don’t know about you but driving over more flooded bridges doesn’t sound like a good time. One night in a motel isn’t going to kill you Dr. Ramsey.”

He sighed. They were back to that. For a while she gotten use to calling him Ethan and now that was gone. “Fine, we’ll find this place.” He pulled out of the parking space, the car creating spray from how cover the roads were now.

“Can we stop there?” Alexandra asked as they made their way down the street. She pointed to a Dollar General.

“Why?” He asked annoyed.

“Because I don’t know about you but I’m not drinking tap water and doubt old man William’s gives out bottle water to its guests.”

She had a good point. He pulled into the parking lot next to a lifted old truck. She grabbed a basket as they entered. The store was muggy and all Ethan wanted was a cool shower.

He followed her as she filled the basket with random stuff. A box of Little Debbie brownies, a flashlight, a lighter, candles, and two plastic rain ponchos.

“Candles?” He questioned as she dumped at least six in the basket.

“Have you ever been through a hurricane?”

“Sure.” He shrugged.

She thought about the building he lived in and how it probably had a generator. She wanted to roll her eyes as it his perfect life. It made sense that he would go back to Harper. She was perfect too. Why would he be interest in someone younger, someone who definitely didn’t fit the perfect bill? “The power could possibly go out.”

“How romantic. No power and a motel. I wonder when Freddy and Jason are going to get here.”

She turned around and glared at him. “Grab that case of water.” She pointed to a lower shelf.

He did as she said and bent down and grabbed the 24 case of water. She watch as the light blue dress shirt stretched and clung to his arms. She needed to put her feelings for Ethan in the past. Every time she was around him, she found herself longing for him.

“Are you alright?” He asked concerned as she seemed to stare passed him and thought.

“Uh, yeah.” She turned away from him leading him towards the front of the store to check out.

She didn’t even trying to fight him as he paid for the items. He glanced over at her noticing her still lost in thought. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail but strains of it stuck to her face. Her shirt clung to her body and he couldn’t help but to wish it was white instead of black as glanced down at her chest.

“Sir, you can remove your card now.” The boy behind the register smirked at him.

He pulled the card out with force before ushering Alexandra out the door. The rain was starting to sting as it came down.

“I wonder if it’s going to hail.” Alexandra looked up at the dark clouds as Ethan drove the car in the direction he hoped the motel was.

It was hard not to miss old man Williams’ Budget Inn. The whole place looked like it was in need of a rehab. It made Ethan’s skin crawl as thought about stepping foot in the place.

“Charming.” Alexandra said reaching for the door handle as Ethan stopped the small SUV next to the front door.

A man who looked to be about her age sat out front in a lawn chair. He grinned at her as she made her way around the vehicle to Ethan’s side. Ethan stepped closer to her than he had been in the last two months feeling the need to protect her and opened the door.

The smell of tobacco and sweat assaulted them. The office was hot and he prayed that the rooms were cooler.

“Hi there.” A man closer to fifty stepped out from a back office staring at Alexandra.

Ethan didn’t like this at all. Part of him thought maybe they should stay in the car and just park back at the Dollar General.

“What can I do for you folks?” His eyes never straying from her body.

“We need rooms.” She said trying to come off as if his staring didn’t bother her.

“Two rooms then?” He grinned.

“One.” Ethan said firmly. “Preferably one with two beds.”

Alexandra wanted to protest. To tell Ethan he could shove it and she could take care of herself, but the man in front of her was really making her uncomfortable. They could share a room for one night. She would just lay down and go to sleep.

“Alrighty, let’s see what’s available.” The man tapped away on the older computer. “I’ve got you all setup. One room and one night?”

“Yes just one night.” Ethan said getting irritated.

The man did some more typing before grinning a little bit. “That will be ninety dollars.”

Ethan wanted to laugh. Ninety dollars for this shit hole! The grin on the man’s face told Ethan that wasn’t the normal rate. He held his tongue and handed his card over. A moment later he hand Ethan his card and a paper to sign.

“Sign here.” He pointed to the first line. “You’re agreeing to pay any damages you make to the room.” He points to the second line. “Sign here that you two are the only two going to be in the room.” He points the third line. “Sign here general hotel policy.”

“General policy?” Ethan questioned the pen in his hand hovering over the line.

“It’s the same policies you would find at any hotel.”

At this point Ethan could care less. He signed the last line and man hand two actual keys to Alexandra. “Checkout is at nine. The office isn’t open until ten, so just put the keys through the slot in the door.” The man looked Alexandra over one last time. “You’re room as at the end. Number eleven.”

Ethan guided Alexandra out the door, purposely walking behind her. He walked her to her door this time only going to his own side when she was safely in the car. He pulled the car down towards the end of the motel. They were two rooms from the end and that suited Ethan just find.

They quickly grabbed their bags before making it under the safety of the overhang. Alexandra fought for a second to get the key turned before finally pushing the peeling blue door open. She stopped just inside the door leaving Ethan stuck in the doorway.

“What’s the matter?” He asked looking over her. One bed. One not even a queen size bed. Ethan cursed under his breath before stomping back out to the car. He tossed his bag back in the trunk and she followed. He stormed back to the office.

“Problem with the room?” The man sitting outside questioned. Ethan ignored him and held the door open for Alexandra as they stepped back into the office.

“Back so soon?” The man grinned.

“I asked for a room with two beds.” Ethan asked anger lacing his voice.

“We’re all booked with those.”

“Booked? There’s no other cars here!” Ethan said raising his voice.

“If the room is a problem and I can put one of you in another room.”

“I didn’t need two rooms I need a room with another bed.”

“Is there a problem?” The man from outside had come in. “They bothering you Williams?”

Alexandra could see Ethan about to lose his cool. She reached out and gently grabbed his hand. “No.” She said softly trying to defuse the situation. “The one we’re in is fine.” She gently tugged Ethan after her who looked pissed as hell.

“This is absolutely ridiculous!” He said angrily as they walked back towards the room. The rain and wind was so loud he didn’t worry about his voice carrying.

“It’s one night. We’ll be fine.” She said trying to pretend that this whole trip wasn’t a total nightmare.

They carried their bags into the musty room. The bed was covered in a hideous worn flower quilt and the walls were an equally hideous orange color.

“I’ve always wondered what it was like inside of an orange.” Ethan dropped his Louis Vuitton duffle bag on the wobbly table in the corner.

She set her bag next his and the shopping bag on top. She went back to the door pulling it open and locking the rental car before locking the room door.

Ethan was crouched next to the air conditioning unit. His shirt clung to his sweaty back and she couldn’t help but to admire his ass. He turned the knob a few times and nothing clicked on. He looked over the unit hoping he was missing an on button. Being already angry, he hit the side of it causing Alexandra to jump but the unit came to life. It sounded on its last leg but if it at least got them through the night, Ethan would be thankful.

“My hero.” She joked as he stood back up.

“It’s the only thing I seem to be able to right.” He mumbled as he pulled a chair out from the table. She didn’t know how to respond, so she found the remote to the old TV. “You know remotes are the dirtiest item in a hotel.” He said watching her.

She ignored him and flipped to the weather channel. Jim Cantore was in Ocean City, Maryland. The ocean behind him wild but not what you would expect during a hurricane. “We got this one wrong.” The meteorologist said.

“You think.” Ethan said.

“If you’re west of the Shenandoah Valley, you’re getting pounded right and it’s only going to get worse as the evening goes on. Now is the time to start seeking shelter. We’ve already seen tornados with this storm as it moved across North Carolina. The good news is Hurricane James is moving fast and should be a category 1 by morning as it moves into Pennsylvania.”

Ethan listened to the wind outside, it had picked up considerably since they made into town. The rain still pounded away. As much as stopping was proving to be a hassle, he was glad to be here than on a two lane road on the side a mountain.

Alexandra handed him the remote and he took it with two fingers. He set it down on the little space left on the table. He watched as she made her way to the bathroom and wondered if she wanted a shower as much as he did right now.

She returned only seconds later. “Whatever our sleeping arrangements are, you might not want to be close to me because there’s no way I’m taking a shower in there.”

He looked at her horrified and pushed himself from the chair. She had left the glaring bathroom light on and he could see from the doorway that the pink tub was more mold and grim than pink.

For a moment he considered taking a shower with his shoes on. They were already soaking for the rain. He sighed and turned from the bathroom. Alexandra was laying on her stomach on the edge on the bed her shoes and socks discarded on the floor at the end of it.

He sat back down in the chair and kicked his own socks and shoes off. He left the Weather channel on but paid no attention to it. He looked at Alexandra, his mind racing with questions he so longed to ask. He didn’t though, he couldn’t risk her not understanding or worse denying him.

She got up eventually catching him staring at her. She glared at him as she rummaged through her purse. Her glared didn’t stop him from following her every movement. Soon she had her phone plugged in and was back to laying on her stomach not looking at him.

Alexandra gave up after a while of trying to get any app to work. There was no service. “Do you think Dr. Emery has been trying to get in touch with you?” She asked rolling on to her back causing her shirt to rid up and expose her midriff.

The question was innocent enough, but Ethan could hear the accusing tone. “Probably.” He shrugged.

“That doesn’t bother you that you can’t get in touch with her?”

“No, why would it?”

She didn’t respond and turned her attention to the TV. So, Ethan sat there staring at the wall bouncing his leg. They needed to talk. This was all such a mess.

After a while he pulled his phone out. It was going on eight and the storm only sounded worse. Part of him wanted to laugh about the situation. Here he was stuck in a crappy motel room in a hurricane in the middle of nowhere with the woman he had strong feelings for.

A text from Harper had come in sometime in the last hour but he ignored it and tossed his phone on to the dresser where the TV was.

“Everything okay?” Alexandra asked eyeing where the phone lay.

Ethan sat there for a moment staring at her. Maybe he was having a heat stroke as really the only thing the air conditioner did was blow around hot air. He stood up abruptly and went to the window. He felt around for a latch before focusing it open slightly. The sound of pounding rain was louder now and the curtain blew from the wind. It was still hot out and Ethan bet is was still almost a 101. He found a Bible and phone book in the bedside table and set it on the bottom of the curtain to hold it in place.

Then he turned and made eye contact with Alexandra as she watched him. “You know I’m not okay.” He said.

“Uh. Oh okay.” Alexandra hadn’t been expecting this reaction from her normally calm collected boss.

“Do you want to know why or are you going to make more assumption?” He demanded.

“Excuse me?” She asked sitting up on the bed.

“Isn’t that why you’ve been avoiding me for the last two months because you went ahead and made assumptions.”

“I made assumption?” She questioned standing up.

“Yes.”

“And what did I make assumption about Dr. Ramsey?”

“Don’t play stupid it’s not becoming.”

“Becoming!” She humorless laugh. “Wow, you are really something.”

“I’m something? You won’t even look at me, let alone be within five feet of me!” He said angrily.

“You say that like you’ve really gone out of your way to talk to me.” She started for the bathroom but there was a loud crash of thunder and then no lights.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Ethan said. He felt Alexandra push past him. Her phone lit up as she rummaged through the bag from earlier. She started passing Ethan candles. “What happens if the power comes back on and these set the smoke detector off?”

She flashed her phone light around the room showing that there was no smoke detector. She set two candles on the dresser and one on each bedside table. Before lighting the last one in her hand and going into the bathroom and shutting the door firmly.

Well that hadn’t gone like he hoped. He wanted to punch the wall at how all this had gone wrong. He sat back down in the chair. Without the unit to circulate the air, the room was heating up fast. His shirt and pants stuck to him. He started to worry about Alexandra in bathroom. It had to be hotter.

He stood taking a few steps towards the door. His anger hadn’t completely gone away from earlier but concern for her safety over road the anger. “Alexandra.” He knocked softly. “You can’t stay in there. It’s got to be hot. Look you can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor.” It was the last place he wanted to sleep but he would do it if it meant making things better.

She yanked the door open the lit candle on the counter behind her causing her blonde hair to shine. “You’re something.” She said again pushing past him into the room.

“So you’ve said.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” She looked back at him.

Even in the poor lighting he could see the disappointment in her eyes. He knew she was talking about Harper. “There is nothing to tell.”

“You tell me not to play stupid, but I really feel stupid right now. For months we worked together. I thought we had formed a friendship, I even thought you might be-“ She stopped talking shaking her head.

“I might be what?” He asked taking a step in her direction. She had walked over to the window. The wind outside tried to blow the curtains around.

“I thought you might be interested in me.” She said sounding defeated.

He felt his heartbreak at her tone. Had he been a fool? He chased her away thinking it was for her own good and now he had hurt her. If he was honest with himself he chased her away because what if she lost interest. What if he lost another person in his life? Did it matter now? It sounded like he had already lost her.

“I am interested in you.” He said finally saying the words out loud.

She laughed. “So what you’re just stringing Harper along?”

“I would have to be dating her to be stringing her along.” He said his voice raising.

“Well it sure looks like you are from where I’m standing.”

“Maybe everything isn’t always as it seems.” He stepped closer.

She didn’t seem to notice. “So what is it that you’re doing with Harper? Are you just sleeping with her?”

“No! I am not just sleeping with her. I’m not sleeping with her at all. I told you months ago that was all in the past.”

“Fine let’s say you’re not doing anything with her then why push me away if you’re interested?”

“Push you away? You’re the one that runs in the other direction when you see me.”

“You don’t exactly coming running after me.”

“Is that what you want? You want me to chase you down and create a scene in the middle of the hospital? You don’t give me the chance to pull you aside.”

“That’s a sorry excuse.” She pushed her hair off her face. “You could have texted me, if you really have wanted to make an effort.”

“You don’t get it!” He shouted. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done it for you and your future.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” She raised her voice back.

He threw his hands up. “I wanted you at that dinner with the board. It was to celebrate Naveen but because you were an intern Harper didn’t want to bring you. Trust me when I say I much rather have been at dinner with you celebrating.” In weeks leading up to that moment in his office, he imagined many different ways they could have celebrated. Granted most involved them naked and her under him.

“I spent that evening making sure the board knew the roll you played in diagnosing him. When Harper gave her recommendation to move you two second place, I knew that came from the board.”

“I appreciate your help but I think I can handle it.” She said still angrily.

“You don’t get it! You can’t handle it. The whole competition is rigged. Harper up until that evening with the board had a huge say in who ranked where on the list. She’s always viewed you as a threat to Aurora.” He was shouting again. “Getting the board to take an interest in you gives you the opportunity to prove yourself.”

He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “One dinner wasn’t enough. Sure it got you bumped up to where you belong but they had to keep hearing about you. If I didn’t fake some interest in Harper, she would have never kept inviting me to dinner with board members. Do you know how many boring dinners I sat through so I get the chance to talk you up? I even had to go to dinner with just Harper, so she didn’t become suspicious.”

Alexandra stood staring at him motionless. He didn’t seem to notice. Now that he started talking, he seemed to be on a roll.

“I wanted to reach out to you. I desperately wanted to explain everything to you. I knew I was hurting you and it killed me. We’re in the end though. We’re so close to this competition being over. I couldn’t risk starting something with you, only for it be used against you or for us not to work out. Your focus should be on winning the spot you so rightfully deserve.” He was breathing heavy now.

“So you’re not with Harper?” She had to be really sure.

He sighed loudly and turned around frustrated. “No. I want you to win but not that much.”

“And you like me?”

He turned back around to face her only to come face to face with her. She stared up at him, vulnerability written all over her face. The light from candles danced across the walls as thunder now continually rolled outside.

Ethan closed the gap between. His hands coming up to cup her face before he lowered his mouth to hers. She returned the kiss and he bit her lip drawing it between his lips. The kiss was possessive causing desire to pool within her. He pulled away just enough to talk. “I like you.” He whispered his breath hot on her face as his hands still cupped it. “I really like you.” Their eyes met in the awful lighting. “I want you.” He growled pulling her lips back to his.

He desperately wanted to touch her. Where to start he couldn’t decide. Dropping his hands from her face they found her hips before sliding up under her shirt. Her skin was warm and damp from sweating. He kissed his way down her neck stopping every few kisses to bite her gently. She tipped her head back exposing more of her neck to him.

“You have me.” She moaned and pressed herself against him.

Ethan tugged forcefully at her shirt before tossing it on the floor behind her. She held on to his shoulders to steady herself. He stepped back his hands not letting go of her. “Do you want this?” He needed her to say the words.

“I want this.” She rubbed a thumb over his lips. “I want you, Ethan”

He growled picking her up and tossing her on to the bed. She landed on the hard mattress with a soft thud but neither noticed. He stood at the end of the bed looking at her for a moment. He had imagined this moment many times in the last year, never did he think it would be in a crappy motel in the middle of hurricane while 101 degrees out with no power while sweating. The candles flickered, and the light danced across her exposed skin. If he was honest this was the hardest he had ever been and he found it all incredibly erotic.

“Ethan.” She whispered her voice laced with arousal.

He kneeled on the end of the bed and crawl up and over her. He grabbed her hands and held them over her head and hovered over her making eye contact. “Keep them there.”

She bent her hands and placed her palms against the headboard. Satisfied she wasn’t going to moved them he sat back. He dragged a finger down between her breasts and down her stomach to her jeans button before dragging both hands back up her sides. He moved one hand under her and managed to unclasp her bra. He pulled it free and tossed it somewhere. Her nipples were already hard, and he could feel his cock throbbing at the sight. He massaged her breasts but didn’t touch the hard peaks.

She shifted under him trying to create friction between her legs. She wasn’t able to move her legs much since they were trapped under him between his legs.

“Tell me Alexandra.” He rolled the r in his husky voice making her desperate for him. “Where do you want me to touch you?”

She closed her eyes in embarrassment to her feelings. “You know where I want you to touch me Ethan.”

He took his hands off her and placed them on the bed. She opened her eyes at the loss. Ethan leaned back over her. “That doesn’t tell me where.” He whispered as he bent down to kiss her.

She pushed her chest against his. Rubbing her painfully hard nipples against his dress shirt. She gave a little moan at the sensation. He let her find some relief as he kissed her. He plunged his tongue into her mouth and she sucked on it.

“Jesus.” He swore pulling away and she whimpered at the loss. Her eyes were closed again. “Look at me and tell me what you want.”

Her eyelids fluttered open. She opened her mouth a few times before the words finally slipped out. “Touch my… my nipples.”

Watching her being so shy was turning him on unbelievably so but her stuttering trying to tell him her wants, he lost it. He dropped his head to her chest and bit down hard on one nipple.

“Ethan!” She screamed in pleasure and pushed her chest to his face.

His hand not holding him up found her other nipple, twisting it and pulling it. Her hands left the headboard, one finding the back of his hair and the other bunching his sweaty shirt in her hand.  He bit and pulled before smoothing it with his tongue. He moved his month to other nipple giving it the same attention all while she moaned under him.

He pulled back enough to look at her. “Do you like that?” For a moment he wondered what had overtaken him. He had never talked like this during sex before.

“Yes.” She hissed her hands coming around to start buttoning his shirt. Her hands shook, and she couldn’t get the buttons undone. “Fuck it.” She whispered more to herself than him. She pulled at his shirt buttons flying. Once his chest was exposed to her, she scratched her nails down him.

He sat back and pulled at his sleeve to get his shirt completely off. She used his hands being occupied to run her nails over the large bulge in his pants. He hissed, and she worked on his belt. He finally freed his arms and grabbed her hands.

“I’m in charge. Back above your head.” He commanded, and she did as he said. “If you were this submissive at work, you wouldn’t be such a pain in my ass.”

She grinned. “You like my rebelliousness.”

He raised an eyebrow and instead of answering her ran a finger over the crotch of her pants. He could feel her dampness through the jeans. It took all his self-control not rip the remaining clothes off her and fuck her. No, he was going to take them both to brink and back. Make them lose it together.

His popped open the button on her pants before dragging the zipper down, she wiggled under him and dragged it back up. His hands went back to her nipples pulling on both at the same time.

“You don’t play fair.” She mumbled.

He grinned before his lips found her ear. “Would you want me too?”

She turned her head to kiss him. “No.” She said pulling away.

He sat back up. His hands went back to the zipper pulling it down for good this time. He moved so he was no longer kneeling over her legs but beside them. He pulled the fabric down. It stuck to her legs in the heat. Once they were off he tossed them, and they hit a wall.

His eyes traced over her. She was so gorgeous, and she was his even if it ended up being only for tonight. He pushed her legs apart and settled between them. He dragged his teeth over her thigh before kissing the inside of both. He kissed her lower stomach before his teeth caught the top of her black panties.

She pushed off the bed thinking he was going to remove them with his teeth, but he let them go and ghost his lips of the soaking fabric covering her. He pressed closed mouth kisses there. She shifted trying to push closer to his face. His hands gripped her hips and pushed them into the bed.

His fingers slipped around the thin band on her sides, he twisted the fabric and pulled. It gave away easily, and she looked down at him in surprise. He pulled the ruined panties from her and tossed them on the floor. He ran a finger through her folds and her surprise faded into whimpers.

“Alexandra, you’re so wet.”

“It’s your fault.” She grinned at him. His mouth that had been kissing her thigh was suddenly on her clit. “Ethan!” She cried out.

His member was so painfully hard now that he worried he would lose it completely the moment her entered her. He pushed the thought from his head shift against the mattress to create some friction against himself.

Alexandra caught on and raised her leg, slipping her foot under him and moving it against him. He moaned into her and pushed herself more towards his face. His stubble pricked her sensitive skin, yet it turned her on even more.

Ethan’s tongue lapped at her while two fingers slid up and down. She was panting and moving against his face. His fingers found her entrance and gently slipped in. She was tight around his fingers and he worried he might her hurt with his size. His fingers pumped in and out and her hand grabbed at his hair pushing his mouth more against her.

“Touch your nipple.” He commanded between licks.

She hesitated before bringing her other hand to her own chest. He watched for a moment as she rolled it between two fingers. Her breathing thinned, and he knew she was close.

“Ethan.” She whimpered when he pulled his fingers out and pushed away from her.

He sat back and looked at her naked body. She reached out for him and he went willingly. In that moment she could have gotten up and gone outside into the storm and he would have followed.

Ethan crawled up her again this time though with the intent to be buried inside of her. Her hand found his face pulling him in for a deep kiss. She wasn’t sure about kissing him after where his mouth had just been but there was something that just drew her in and she sucked his tongue again tasting herself.

“Damn.” He mumbled when she released his tongue.

Her hands made their way done to his partially underdone belt. Rubbing him through his pants. His breathing picked up and he shuttered when her hand slipped inside and wrapped around his hard length.

“Alexandra.” Her name came out in strangled cry.

“Take you pants off.” She whispered into his ear.

“I thought I was in charge?” He grinned.

“Then you better show me.”

Ethan was out of his pants and boxers and kneeling again between her legs. His length was long and thick, and she reached out shyly now that he was naked. He looked like some artist chiseled out his physique.

Alexandra’s hand wrapped around him and he groaned. She pumped him and ran a finger over the tip wiping at his precum. She brought her finger to her mouth and sucked on it. The act alone ready to make him cum right there on her stomach. He laid over her kissing her a few times.

“I’ve wanted you for so long.” He admitted.

She cupped his face. “I’m glad I’m not alone in my feelings.”

Ethan reach down between them, taking his cock in his hand. He rubbed it up and down her folds causing her to throw her head back. “Ethan you’re teasing me.”

“Am I?” He asked coating himself in her wetness.

“Yes.”

“I told you earlier tell me what you want.”

She growled in frustration. “Fuck me.”

He plunged into her with no warning and was met with resistance. She screamed and sank her nails into his back. He stilled stunned that he was sure he just took her virginity. Alexandra didn’t seem to notice and wrapped her legs around his back. “Ethan, move!”

Following her command, he pulled back in and plunged into her again, this time not as hard. After a few pumps he picked up speed. He wasn’t going to last long. She was tight around him and there was something that about knowing he was her first that turned him on more than he would have ever thought.

She moaned and whispered his name like a chant as he moved. He was close but was determined not to cum until she had. He reached a hand between them and found her clit. His thumb rubbed her hard.

They were both close. “Look at me Alexandra.” He wanted to look into her eyes as she came around him.

She opened her eyes and they made eye contact. Her nails were still biting into his back. “Do you feel what you do to me?” He asked his voice was commanding and she shivered.

“Yes!” She shouted as her walls clamped around him coming. “Ethan!”

He rocked into her hard before burring his face in her neck. He whispered her name as he spilled into her. Ethan struggled to hold himself up and rolled off her. He laid there on his back breathing heavy for a moment. His whole body was slick with sweat but that didn’t stop him from reaching over and pulling Alexandra to him. She went willingly and cuddled into his side.

She mumbled something into his chest as she drifted to sleep. He tightened his hold on her despite the heat and buried his nose her damp hair. His mind already racing of why this couldn’t happen again.

[houseki-no-suffering]

a lot of jumbled thoughts on ch 76

aka: shit is about to go down, oh boi oh boi, but let me ramble about stuff first 

also im late to the party but shhh we got another 3 weeks before the earth arc so its still okay

isnt it funny how we’ve spent six months speculating about Euclase’s shadiness while Phos told Aechmea they’re ‘amicable’? And isnt it funny how Phos contradicts themselves at the end of the chapter cause they’re scared Euc will see right through them? Will we ever know more about Euc? Please? Pretty please?

also, I’m surprised by the moon people’s efficiency. They have no idea if Phos’ plan is going to work, maybe they dont even know how long it’ll take for them to become nothingness if Sensei starts praying, and here they are, making arrangements to leave everything to the gems. 

Reminds me of chap 56(?), when Phos thought the gems should acquire lunarian technology. Can’t believe it was this easy and now Amethyst’s about to become a hybrid between a pilot and an engineer? Well done, Ame, nice character development. Evangelion crossover when?

Why did Phos pick Amethyst, anyway? Alex, Yellow and Padpa are incapacitated, Goshe and Cairn are unpredictable, but what about Dia and Benito? Maybe Benito already has their hands full with taking care of Alex. But Dia?

Dia’s interesting tbh. Even Phos knows that, given the choice, Dia might decide to stay on the moon. They started off as one of the main characters and then slowly slid to the background and they’ve been p much static for a long while. i wonder if they’ll ever change at this point.

Ah, the problem child. 

This part hurt, as it’s custom now with Cairn-centered pages. Yet i just adore the idea of Cairn blowing up the whole moon one disastrous experiment at a time.

ABOUT THE PROTECTIVE COATING! 

how does it work exactly? does it protect gems from cracking? does it increase their hardness/toughness? has somebody thought of using it on Phos cause, yknow, they’re still mostly made of brittle phosphophyllite and they’re going in what’s basically enemy territory unharmed?? can somebody please care about Phos for once?

“My friend has time”

That’s the face of a man who doesn’t, in fact, have time. Aechmea is every bad boss you’ve ever had, he just doesn’t care. But bribing people with pasta is smart, i know i’d hardly resist. 

Also please let’s skip over how Aechmea is putting literal guards so that Barbata can’t hit on his shiny rock wifey. If anyone still believed Cairn has made nothing but independent choices so far please stop being delusional, you’re only hurting yourself.

Yeah, uhm, i’m gonna die (and my species has no concept of death so i have no idea what that means) for this totally good guy i’ve known for at least a few months (and my species lives forever so a few months is nothing, really) and that i’ve married (yeah, still trying to wrap my head around this marriage thing. also wife. everyone calls me wife and princess for some reason). This is fine.

also, if Shittymea’s gone and become nothingness he wouldn't be able to miss you, Cairn. but has anyone taken the time to explain it to you? Anyone?  

On another note. Is it just me or Cairn’s wife-outfit is way less revealing than Cairn’s bitchy girlfriend-outfits? Even when you don’t consider the lab coat. I wonder if Cairn’s still choosing them. 

Maybe Aechmea wants them to dress in a way that’s more appropriate for a wife/queen? Or maybe his possessiveness has started to extend to something more than having Cairn surrounded by guards at all times.

FINALLY WHAT VENTRI SAID IN CH 8 MAKES SENSE! 

And goddammit, this is one of my favorite theories and you’re telling me they already used it and discarded it? Is that why the lunarians experimented on gems? is this why the gems went mad? what about the human particle? THEY’RE STILL EXPERIMENTING, I FEEL IT

what was there for the moon people to gain? they already had admirabilis to experiment on (the criminals) and they most likely breed them to keep their population stable. Why’d the lunarians need more? this explanation doesnt match Ventricosus’ and it doesn’t really hold up. 

Thought it was impossible at this point, but Aechmea just earned 10 more untrustworthy points. I wonder why he’s hiding information from Phos

HOW VERY CONVENIENT

“I’m going to do everything I can.”

So this means this is Phos’ final attempt. This is it. If it doesn’t work out they’re gonna quit. 

Shit is about to go down during the next arc, an Earth arc. And this is exactly why i think Phos’ll acquire the seventh treasure during/at the end of this arc. More about this in a future meta cause this thing is already too long.

i’ve read a couple of posts already about this sentence. The translation is a little awkward, and it’s still ambiguous in Japanese. 

Knowing Ichikawa’s stories, i’m tempted to say it’s foreshadowing, a metaphor for what’ll happen next. It might even be that the story is coming to a close, it’s very hard to say.

MORE LUSTROUS SCRIPT SAMPLES! 

sorry, my inner linguist took the wheel. Yet i’d pay to see the actual lunarian manual. and the lunarian script. nngh. 

but yeah, “it’s not japanese/chinese” confirmed, “it’s not just alex’s bad writing” also confirmed, “it’s mongolian” not confirmed. but it def looks like it. a little. a tiny little bit. i love it. 

Also let’s take a moment to appreciate everyone’s cuteness in these pages cause the end of this chapter hurts. And was Phos joking? are they really planning to call Benito? When did Benito become a main character?? I’m so proud of them

“don’t act rashly” is a recurring piece of advice among gems. Even Padpa told Phos to keep cool and think, while Cinnabar is constantly observing and Alex clings to a 400 years old hatred.

It makes sense for a society that’s as stagnant and conservative as the lustrous’ to value contemplation over action. These rocks live forever, there’s no need to rush into things after all. Interesting.

Once again, Phos is carrying all the burden on their back. A child, one of the youngest gems, they’ve lost partners and pieces of their body in a short time, unveiled unsettling truths, betrayed their family multiple times, sided with the enemy, had partners and friends turn their back on them. All for the greater good.

They’re pushing themselves to their own limits, breaking them over and over, destroying their mental stability in the process. Why are they doing this? What’s the point if every answer just elicits new questions. 

It’s heartbreaking to feel Phos’ regret. How dare they think of Sensei’s kindness? How dare they envy their old self? After everything they did, after betraying Sensei? They can only move forward now, for all the people who didn’t make it or that count on Phos. It’s just heartbreaking. I feel so much for them.

[mushyyroom]

To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before (1/?)

This amazing edit was made by the even more amazing @persongoingslow

Read on Ao3// TRAILER PARODY PLS CHECK OUT!// and @evaeselgreatest made a version of this story thats awesome too so I highly recommend checking it out!

I’m just getting around to posting this on here! I hope you like it! This version is more based on the book than the movie so hopefully you still like it!

Next Chapter// Word Count: 5209 

Summary:

Cyrus writes love letters. Letters that he writes when he feels emotions so strong that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. There are 5 letters in total- one for each boy that he has ever loved before.

There was TJ, the popular basketball captain, Gus from homeroom, Marty from the party, Walker from the art gallery, and Jonah, the boy with the cutest dimples, but he was Andi’s boyfriend.

These letters were never meant to be seen by anyone else but Cyrus himself. Until one day they are.

Jonah is Andi’s boyfriend, but everyone in their group was a little in love with him. Before he was Andi’s boyfriend he was just Jonah Beck. Older, Amazing, ultimate frisbee playing, something to look at from afar, Jonah Beck. And by some miracle, he started hanging out with their ragtag group of friends.

Buffy liked Jonah because he could stand his ground. She didn’t mind having him invade their little group as much as she did with other people. He was someone she could arm wrestle with and not give in right away. Cyrus assumed that Buffy always wished that he and Andi were more athletic. She loved them for who they were, but he knew that she wished that she could fully share that part of her life with them.

If Cyrus had to take a guess as to why Andi was enamored by Jonah, he would have to guess that it was because Jonah was damn near perfect. He was always polite around her parents and grandparents, they adored him, and he was always friendly to everyone. There was absolutely nothing that he couldn’t do. Okay there probably were some things he couldn’t do, but he seemed almost invincible most of the time. His smile could end wars. Wars!

He used to have a crush on Jonah. But that was long gone now. He had made peace with the fact that Jonah and Andi were just going to be a thing and not just a phase a long time ago. It was the right thing to do, to let go of it.

He had even wrote a letter. The kind of letters he’s written only four other times in his life. A letter he writes when he has a crush so intense that he can’t function until he does something about it. And they were for his eyes only. They were stored away in a T-Rex shaped container he had gotten as a child and they were only taken out when Cyrus felt like taking a self pity trip down memory lane. Jonah’s goodbye letter was in there along side the one for TJ Kippen from seventh grade, Gus from homeroom freshman year, Marty from the sophomore party, and Walker from that art gallery (who was now one of his close friends). Those were his most secret possessions. Not even Buffy or Andi knew about them, and he intended to keep it that way until they were older and could just laugh about it.

“Cyrus? Are you okay?” Buffy nudges him out of his thoughts. The Spoon was half full with people they didn’t know and the sun was just beginning to go down.

Cyrus shook his head and popped a tater tot into his mouth, “Yeah. Just lamenting over the fact that we have to start school tomorrow.”

Jonah slightly jumped when Andi put her fingers in her ears, making noises, “La la la la! Shh! Cyrus we’re not supposed to be talking about it. We have to just have a nice last day of summer before the worst year of highschool ever!”

Cyrus forgot that they agreed not to talk about the impending junior year of doom. But it’s not like that was what he was actually thinking of. He blamed himself for not being able to come up with a better lie. Buffy laughed beside him at her friends antics, “Although Andi is right, while were still on the topic,” she turned to face Cyrus, “You’re driving me tomorrow right?”

Shit. He forgot about that too. Although he got his license a while ago, Cyrus still paled at the thought of having to drive. Buffy still had to go through the whole process and since Andi only had her motorbike, a motorbike for one person that is, it was Cyrus’ duty to take himself and Buffy to and from school. Why did he agree to that again?

“I can always give you guys a ride if you need,” Jonah smiled, his eyes filled with light and all things heavenly. Jonah really was his savior.

Buffy shook her head, “No need Jonah. Cyrus needs to defeat this fear of driving that he has. But just in case I got this,” She ducked under the table for a second before smugly presenting a bike helmet.

“You got a new bicycle?” Cyrus raised a skeptical eyebrow. Last time he checked Buffy said she’d rather run all the way to school then get a new bike. She wasn’t too fond of them after their seventh grade fiasco. But if she was planning on riding to school instead he was more than happy to celebrate.

Buffy fit it snuggly on her head and clicked the strap on under her chin. She grinned, “Nope. I brought it for the car ride.”

“Well that does wonders for my self confidence,” Cyrus said sarcastically.

“Can’t be too prepared!” Buffy replied in a chipper manner.

“Well I guess Jonah can drive you home tonight!” Cyrus swings his legs out from under the booth, promptly standing, “I should get going.”

Andi groaned, pouting a little as she watched him tug on his coat, “Aw! Okay fine! See you tomorrow?”

“Of course!”

Buffy called after him as he left, “This is the year Cyrus!”

She was right. They’ve already decided on this a while ago. This was the year that everything was going to change. This was the year that they would check a bunch of stuff off of their old bucket lists before creating a whole new one just for senior year. They were going to make the best of a supposedly crappy year. That was the plan, and if Cyrus loved one thing, it was a good plan.

The bell dinged and the air was still warm from the summer sun. Cyrus walked around the corner from the restaurant where his beat up little car was waiting for him to drive the 5 minutes back to his house. He could do it! Or at least that’s what he kept chanting to himself as he buckled up and turned on the engine. Why was he so scared of driving? It wasn’t like he was a risky driver like some of the kids in Shadyside. He just couldn’t help the heart racing rush of anxiety he got when he was behind the wheel.

He really didn’t want to have to drive Buffy to school everyday. Andi was a much better driver than he was, she should just drive them in her mother’s car everyday, it’s not like Bex didn’t walk to work anyways. She could handle the pressure of controlling a machine that could kill someone in the blink of an eye.

Maybe it was because Cyrus was so hyper focused on his impending dread that he didn’t notice himself drifting into a fourway stop, or that he was running a stop sign, until another car made a deep dent in the side of his passenger door.

For a moment all Cyrus could register was his own screaming and his heart trying to escape his chest. With his eyes still squeezed tight, Cyrus moved to put his car in park before shaking his leg. Alright well those were still working at least.

The pavement beneath his feet felt like jello as he took a shaky step out of his car, only to be faced with an annoyed woman. She was older looking, older than his mom but not quite as old as Cece, and she was wearing the typical soccer mom outfit.

“Didn’t you see the stop sign?” She questioned, and oh boy did she look pissed.

Cyrus shook his head fastly, he was sure it was just gonna fly off at any minute, “N-No mam! I’m so sorry.”

The woman must have seen the scared look on his face because she just sighed and her countenance morphed into only a slightly perturbed look, “You kids and your phones. Well my car doesn’t look like it was damaged, do you want to report it?”

He shook his head again. He could not live with himself if he already had to report an accident as a beginner.

“Okay, well do you want me to stick around for you to call help?” She raised an eyebrow. She sure was nice.

But Cyrus didn’t feel like he needed two people looking disappointed at him at the same time so he just said, “No. It’s okay, thank you so much mam.”

The woman just drove off after that. And while her car might have been fine, his had a giant dent in it.

How could he do this? His parents always said to drive with a clear mind and focus on the road, two things he obviously did not do. They were going to kill him! All four of them!

He sat down on the hard curb and just stared at the car. He knew he wasn’t ready for this kind of responsibility. He still needed his mom to drive him to far away places and relied too much on everything in town being walking or biking distance. God, why was he so useless!

His eyes were wet and he knew his voice was the complete opposite of calm when he pulled out his phone and went to his contacts list. It rang three agonizing times before it was picked up, “Jonah! C-Can you help me?”

He was crying on the phone. To his old, secret, forbidden crush. The crush whose letter rested in his dinosaur box with the rest of his dead crushes. Could this situation get anymore embarrassing?

Jonah, by some miracle (or curse) since he was usually such an oblivious boy, picked up on it, “Cyrus? What’s wrong?”

“I was in a car accident. Can you come help me?” Cyrus’ voice was still wet.

“Woah! Dude, are you okay?”

“Yeah I’m not hurt or anything, can you just come get me? Without Andi and Buffy?” He didn’t need his friends fretting over him. He just wanted to get home as soon as he could.

Jonah sounded more relieved as he continued, “Of course, Uh...Where are you?”

Cyrus looked around at the houses, “463 Wesmyer road. At the intersection.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can, just,” He paused for a moment and Cyrus could hear him mumble something to, presumably, Andi and Buffy. “Stay there.”

The line went dead and Cyrus almost wished he asked Jonah to stay on the phone with him. But then he started to cry again so he was happy he didn’t. The silence was almost haunting and he wasn’t too keen on being left alone with his thoughts to mull the whole situation over.

“Underdog? Are you okay?” That wasn’t a name he had heard in a long time. His head popped up at the voice. TJ Kippen squinted at him with a questioning look. He was driving one of those jeeps without doors, because of course he would driving the death trap 2.0 with one hundred percent confidence.

Cyrus just nodded and looked back down, hoping TJ would take that as a sign to just leave. And he was almost certain that TJ did just that until he hears the jeep pulling over to the side.

“Wow. You really did a number on your car,” TJ whistled, “Did you get the other person’s insurance?”

“No,” Cyrus dared to look up. He was sure that his eyes were unattractive puffy and his nose needed a fluffy tissue, but if TJ noticed, he didn’t say anything.

TJ plopped down beside him, “Why not?”

“It was my fault,” Cyrus shrugged, unsure of what else he could say.

“Did you call triple A?”

Cyrus shook his head and added, “But someone is coming to help me.”

He could see TJ nod to himself. They used to be friends. Close friends. TJ used to be apart of his little seventh grade group. The boys were TJ, Walker, Jonah, Kip, and himself. The girls were Andi, Buffy, and sometimes Amber if she was around and felt like ‘hanging with the younger crowd’ as she put it. It’s funny how it all worked out. But it’s not until you’re older that you realize how much of it was by fate. The universe. TJ and Buffy couldn’t even stand to be in the same room at first. It took them months to make up. Kip had once just been a random guy that they had seen around school a few times, and then suddenly he was around all the time. Walker had moved into their school district not even after three months of meeting him at a middle school mixer. And Amber was once an enemy as well, those Kippen siblings had a thing for trouble it seemed, but she made her peace.

By the time highschool came, they split into different crowds. Kip had outgrown their little group and started to hang out with what he considered the in crowd, leaving Cyrus to start highschool without someone he considered to be a good friend. Not that Buffy and Andi let him be deprived of amazing friendship though.

They’re not friends anymore either, Cyrus and TJ. So it was weird to be near him again after so much time has passed. But it was a familiar weird.

TJ’s phone buzzes and shook his head, annoyed, before pulling the device out of his back pocket. He reads it and reluctantly said, “I gotta go.”

“Where?” Cyrus couldn’t help but ask. Curiosity did kill the cat and all that jazz.

TJ sighed and shoved his phone back where it was, “To Kip’s.”

“Oh, you better get going then. He’ll be mad if you’re late.” It was weird for Cyrus to tease like that, but TJ just brought out that side of him. The playful and confident side. It was one of the reasons Cyrus loved being around him back in middle school. He often wished that their friendship lasted longer just because of it.

TJ rolled his eyes, “It’s not like he owns me or anything.”

“Hey! If you got married then his name would be Kip Kippen!” Cyrus remarked like it was the first time he had ever thought of it. He, Buffy, and Andi had laughed about it a bunch when they heard about the two’s relationship from the high school news grapevine, “Although, he might let  you have his last name. He’s generous like that, isn’t he?”

“Goodbye Goodman,” TJ just let an amused smile slip onto his face before turning to his car. He paused though, like he forgot something, and turned back around, “Are you okay now?”

“Yeah,” Cyrus could feel himself smiling too, “Thanks for stopping, it was really nice of you.”

“Of course,” TJ nodded firmly and turned back towards his car again, this time for good.

TJ was a character out of an old movie, timeless. He could be a debonair spy that had all the bad guys falling for his trap. He could be sipping milkshakes with another person at a diner bar and cruising down the street all slow like in an open air car. He was picturesque. There was just something that a lot of people liked about him.

He was Cyrus’ first kiss with a boy. The one he considered to be his first real kiss. It seemed like a distant memory. Or maybe something more akin to a fever dream. But it was only four years ago.

Jonah arrives a few minutes later, standing in front of Cyrus, as Cyrus is replying to Buffy and Andi’s worried texts. He looked at the house behind him, “This is 436. You told me it was 463.”

“No! I said 436.” Cyrus said with the leftover confidence he had from his encounter with TJ.

“Dude, you definitely said 463,” Jonah shook his head. He nodded towards his car, “Let’s just get going.”

Cyrus mulls over how he’s going to tell his parents after they call triple A. They weren’t going to be too crazy about it. He was supposed to be responsible. He was the son of four shrinks.

But it turned out that they weren’t too mad about it. The car had to be brought into the auto shop of course, but other then that hassle his parents didn’t seem too upset. They were more relieved that he wasn’t seriously injured.

Buffy was not happy about it though as Cyrus rung her doorbell at 6:30 AM. She gave him a tired glance and pushed right past him. He had to jog a little just to catch up.

“Hey! Don’t be too mad at me!” He wailed as he trailed after Buffy, her pace not changing.

Buffy stopped short and he almost bumped his nose against her backpack, “I don’t get why you insisted that we don’t ask Jonah for a ride. Now I have to get up earlier than before.”

“I’m sorry!” Cyrus groaned, “It’s just embarrassing! You’re my best friend, can’t you just understand?”

“Whatever,” She rolled her eyes and started walking again, but this time at a more normal pace, “I’m still annoyed at you but I’m too excited to tell you what I found out last night! Guess who broke up.”

“Who?”

Buffy leaned in like she was telling him a CIA secret, “TJ and Kip! Kip dumped his sorry ass.”

“Woah,” Cyrus’ eyes widened, “Why?”

Buffy shrugged, “Details are still fuzzy. But the most popular theory is that Kip met some college guy. Guarantee you he’s been cheating on TJ all summer.”

“That’s terrible.” Cyrus looked horrified. How could one human do that to another one?

They chatted about it all the way up until first period, which was gym. Cyrus stood next to Buffy as she did her warm up stretches. And by warm up stretches, he meant full on splits.

Cyrus thought he was imagining it when he saw TJ staring at him. But all three times that he looked up TJ was looking his way. TJ had been playing basketball with a few of his friends when he passed the ball over to someone and started jogging towards them.

“Hey, can I talk to you?”

Buffy and Cyrus share a look as she stands up. “Him or me?” Buffy raises an eyebrow.

“Cyrus.”

Buffy wraps her arm around Cyrus’ shoulder in a protective manner, “Whatever you have to say, you can say it to both of us.”

“I really need to talk to him in private?” TJ just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Buffy gives Cyrus one last glance before huffing, “Fine. I’ll start jogging. But remember Kippen, I run fast so if you try anything!”

“Buffy!” Cyrus screeches out, motioning frantically for her to just go.

She looks at TJ threateningly before turning around and running off.

TJ leans down to whisper, “Just so you know, I don’t have an STD.”

What the fuck? Why the fuck? Cyrus was a little taken aback to say the least, “I never said you did.”

“I also don’t always eat the last baby tater!” His whisper had a bit more bite to it.

“TJ, slow down,” He tried to put up placating hands, “What are you talking about?”

“You said that. In your letter! How I’m just a overly confident guy who goes around giving out STDs! Remember?”

“I never wrote you a letter!”

Wait. Yes. Yes Cyrus did write him a letter. But it couldn’t possibly be the same letter. That letter was safely hidden away!

“Yes you did! I got it in the mail, to me from you!”

He was dreaming. That was the only logical explanation that he could come up with. There was no way that TJ had seen the letter.

“Cyrus?”

Or maybe he wasn’t. TJ was holding the letter. That letter that was supposed to never be seen by anyone else but him. But there it was! His handwriting and everything!

“How- How did you get that?”

“Mailman dropped it off yesterday,” TJ sighs and starts in a lighter tone, “Listen, it’s fine just don’t go gossiping that I-”

“The mailman? Like the one that comes to your house?” Cyrus squeaked out, interrupting TJ.

“Yeah?”

Cyrus feels his breathing begin to quicken. He feels as if he's about to faint, his head dizzy and light. If only he were lucky enough to just faint and escape this situation.

He could feel himself break out into a sweat, letting out a rushed, “I wrote that a really long time ago!”

“Okay.”

“Like really really long ago. And I don’t even remember what I wrote! It’s from like, middle school! I don't know how it got out, can I see it please?” He tried to act casual and calm as he held out his palm. But everything about Cyrus in that exact moment screamed the opposite.

Instead of doing what he’s asked, TJ smiles widely for the first time in their whole conversation, “Nah. I wanna keep it, i’ve never gotten anything like this before.”

Cyrus takes a leap of faith and jumps for the paper. Unfortunately TJ was, and probably always will be, the more agile one out of the two and he swiped his hand away, “Why do you want it?”

“Please!”

“Fine,” TJ handed it over, chuckling softly, “It’s all yours.”

“Thank you,” Cyrus said promptly, the paper starting to crumple in his hands from how nervous he was.

Cyrus started to turn away when TJ grabbed his arm. This time he looked a little more sheepish as he scratched the back of his neck, “Wait. Listen, I didn't mean to steal your first kiss. I mean, I didn’t realize that-”

“It’s totally fine!” Cyrus rushed out. Was this conversation over yet? “Forget about it! Have a nice day TJ! Buffy wait up!”

And then Cyrus bolted towards Buffy, who conveniently just lapped them, leaving TJ to stand there awkwardly.

It wasn’t until he was safely drifting off in history class, it was only the syllabus so it was fine, that Cyrus pulled the letter out.

Dear TJ K,

First of all, I know you think you’re so cool when people call you by your last name. But you’re not. It makes you seem weird and it’s confusing most of the time.

Did you know that when you kissed me that I would fall for you? Love you? Sometimes I think you did it on purpose. You definitely did it on purpose. You know how I know? You think EVERYONE loves you, TJ. I hate that about you. I hate it because it’s true. Everyone does eventually love you. Including me. Well, not anymore.

You do things like push people around and put on this defensive shell because you don’t care. But you do care. You care a lot about what others think of you.

You always take the last baby tater without asking. Rude much?

And you’re perfect at everything! Too good. You could give others a chance to be good, but you never do.

You kissed me for no apparent reason. Even though I had my suspicions that you liked Kip. You had your suspicions that you liked Kip. Kip had the suspicion that you liked Kip. But you still kissed me. So I ask you this: Why? Why would you do that to me? My first real kiss was supposed to be fireworks and rain. Something perfect! But thanks to you it was none of that.

The worst part of it is, that stupid nothing of a kiss made me realize that I liked you. I never really thought of you that much before. And maybe that’s why you did it. Because you wanted me to be like everyone else and see you in that way. And your trick worked. From then on, every time I saw you my heart wouldn’t stop going Baboom baboom baboom at lighting speed.

You’re so good looking it’s unfair. Truly unfair. I think it’s your eyes. Or maybe that rare soft smile.

Even though I don’t think you deserve it, I’ll list the things I like about you:

You started to talk to me, even though I was some dorky kid and you were the captain of the basketball team. Why did you do that?

You helped me get a muffin. More than that, you had faith in me that my friends never did. You gave me confidence.

You’re unfairly tall. It’s no wonder you’re amazing at basketball.

You apologized to my best friend and let me help you. You let me in, and I could tell you don’t do that a lot. It made me feel special.

After that kiss I went on loving you for the rest of seventh grade and most of eighth. It hasn’t been easy, I nearly broke when I heard that you and Kip were official. It was even harder to see it with my own eyes. You probably make him feel special, right? Cause that’s what you’re good at.

You probably don't know what it’s like to like someone so much but know that they would never feel the same. People like you don't have to worry about stuff like that. At least it was easier since we stopped being friends. At least I don’t have to see it all the time.

And now that the year is almost over, I know for sure that I’m also over you. You can’t phase me anymore TJ. I can’t be effected. And I am proud to say that I’m the only person at school who as probably made it out alive after falling for your charms. Now I won’t have to worry about falling for you ever again! That’s a relief!

Even if I did kiss you again I bet I’d probably catch something. Although this time, it’d probably be an STD!

Cyrus Goodman

Why did he have to mention the whole kissing thing? It really wasn’t all that special.

But Cyrus still remembered that day clear as ever. They were at Andi’s house, with no parents.  Bex had to go do something and trusted them to be alone. He had worn his best outfit that day, new shoes included, even though he’d just end up taking them off as soon as he got there. Nothing even really happened! No impromptu game of spin the bottle or seven minutes in heaven like he was dreading but secretly hoping for. All that happened was that they watched a movie then played monopoly until Buffy flipped the board.

It was slightly disappointed for Cyrus, who lived for romantic stories.

He and TJ were the last to be picked up and they sat on the porch as they waited. Cyrus kept tapping his foot as he awaited a text from his mom and TJ just played on his phone with a bored expression.

And then, out of nowhere, TJ said, “You know, your eyes remind me of chocolate.”

“Thanks!” Cyrus took it as a compliment, “I’ve always thought they were more of a mud bro-”

Then TJ leaned right in and kissed him, leaving Cyrus stunned.

He hadn’t thought of that moment in a while though. But if TJ got his letter then did Walker? Gus? Marty?

Jonah.

Oh no! Jonah!

Cyrus ran home from school as fast as he could once the bell rang. Clothes and knickknacks went flying everywhere as he tore his room apart. Where was that box? He couldn’t find it anywhere. When he asked his mom she smiled apologetically and said “It probably got sent out with the donation stuff. I didn’t even know you still used that thing.”

His phone buzzed. It was a text from Jonah.

Hey did you need a ride? Buffy’s with me right now.

Cyrus just ignored it and collapsed onto his bed. He couldn’t even imagine Jonah reading that letter. He couldn't imagine Andi's reaction to it! Closing his eyes and hoping for the best for the next day.

Like Andi’s dad always said, the universe decides everything. So it was the universes fault that Cyrus couldn’t open his locker and dash to his first class like he planned. It was the universes fault that Jonah had woken up late. And it was the universes fault that TJ had to go in to meet his math teacher whose office was right by Cyrus’ locker.

“Cyrus,” Jonah scared Cyrus as soon as he closed his locker, “Can I talk to you?”

Shell-shocked, Cyrus just nods.

“What is this?” Jonah holds out the letter, “I don’t understand.”

“I have no clue...” Cyrus laughs nervously. He felt like his spirit had ascended to the heavens and he’s just watching his body in some terrifying movie.

“I mean, you are the one who wrote it right?”

“Oh wow!” Cyrus feigned surprise and took the letter back, fighting the urge to crumple it up and never look back, “Where did you even find this old thing?”

“I got it in the mail,” Jonah’s face was eerily serious. His expression was usually sunshine and lollipops, “How long ago was this written?”

“Long long time ago!” Cyrus let out an uneasy laugh, “Don't even remember when that's how long ago!”

“Right...” Jonah still looked confused, “But you mentioned ultimate camp, and that was only a few years ago.”

“Time is just a concept!” Cyrus tried to play it off casually. Fuck the universe! Why did this have to happen to him.

“So then... do you... or did you have feelings for me?”

“I mean, yeah I guess you could put it that way,” Cyrus rushed out, wanting to just drop the subject ASAP, “But that was before you were with Andi. So like, basically back in the jurassic period!”

Then Jonah asked the one question Cyrus was hoping he wouldn’t, “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

He’s looking at Cyrus like a confused first grader. A sad, confused first grader. and Cyrus panicked, so naturally he said the first things that came to his mind, “I’m dating someone!”

“You are?” Jonah’s eyes widened, which only made Cyrus panic more.

“Yep! Someone I really like so please just forget about this?” He pleaded, “And don’t mention it to Andi! I was super confused when I wrote it. I don’t need it causing problems in our relationship.”

Jonah hesitantly nodded, but that wasn’t good enough. Cyrus needed to make sure that nothing came in between him and his two best friends, “Do you swear? Swear on ultimate frisbee that you won't say a word!”

“Okay I swear dude,” Jonah still looked out of it though, “Who’s the guy?”

“Guy?”

“The person you’re dating?”

And that’s when Cyrus spots TJ coming out of his math class, “TJ Kippen,” The bell rings and Cyrus pushes past Jonah, “Gotta go!”

“Wait!”

Cyrus runs to TJ like he's never run before. TJ looks confused as he sees him sprinting towards him. At the last possibly second, Cyrus leaps at him, wrapping his legs around TJ’s waist and his arms around TJ’s neck. Cyrus had never been that close to another person in his life. TJ is understandably shocked, raising an amused eyebrow,  “Cyrus? What are-”

Cyrus cuts him off with a kiss.

I hope you liked it! Im here on tumblr to chat anytime so feel free to send me asks/prompts if you’d like! Or just plain old message me! I need friends

[still-we-go-pumpkins]

An amazing fan tribute to Weiki. Unique facts compilation 👌🎃

I've just found the post on DeviantArt. As great Weiki fan also, I can confirm that he's really that marvelous just as the author describes him. This will make you feel warm and will set smile on your face as well as you will check Helloween vids/lives while exploring this facts. So, here we go.

Further credits : SamWeiki

100 Reasons I love Michael Weikath

Possible – scratch that, definite – Fangirling ahead (I tried to keep it to a minimum and I probably failed)

1. He has the most gorgeous blue eyes. [right off, I told you – Fangirling]

2. The songs he writes are so unique and AMAZING. Most of them mean quite a lot to me, as well. I’ve always been drawn to them. They just have a certain special quality to them that I love.

3. He wrote “Keeper of the Seven Keys” for cryin’ out loud!

4. His “thanks” section in the Unarmed booklet.

5. He’d pick Judas Priest over Iron Maiden in an instant.

6. The way he sometimes answers questions. For instance, he was asked about what fans could expect from The Dark Ride and his response was: “Well....hmmmm you can expect that it will be standing in stores and it’s very likely you can buy it when you find it there! hahahahahaha apart from that I don’t know if it’s going to say anything but you can go there and buy it, listen to it, and use it, because it’s a CD and it usually makes a lot of sound if you put it into a CD player......but probably doesn't work if you put it into a toaster.....hahahahahaha.”

7. If he wasn’t a musician, he says his life would be dedicated to cartoons.

8. He dedicated the Hammond version of “Burning Sun” to the great Jon Lord.

9. He’s an artist. His little skull and pumpkin drawing is beautiful.

10. He makes the best faces in concerts.

11. I love watching him in the High Live video, especially during “Steel Tormentor”. [I did not just say that]

12. He made the frog noises at the end of “Nothing to Say”.

13. So many people have blamed him for things over the years, when he did nothing wrong, just because they feel it's easier to blame him. I experience that quite a lot and have for several years, so I understand what it's like but he seems a lot stronger than me about it, as it's very hard for me to get over a lot of that stuff. He's sort of my hero about that because it seems like he hasn't let that really stop him.

14. How he totally told off that Phantom guy. His responses were awesome.

15. A part of “Do You Know What You Are Fighting For” is Deep Purple’s “Stormbringer” backwards. There’s actually a lot of Deep Purple in that song. Makes me love it even more – both songs.

16. He played on Uli Kusch’s cover of “Eyes of the World” from the Rainbow tribute album and he played all the guitar on that song. “Yeah I played on Eyes Of The World. So I did all of the guitar work on it. Uli told me that he did not expect me to have the guitar work as close to the original song as I had it.”

17. The seven pronged star on the cover of 7 Sinners was his idea. And what a damn fine idea it was because it makes a freaking sweet album cover! It was a lot of fun for me to draw, as well.

18. When writing “LAVDATE DOMINVM”, he called upon his old Latin lessons from school and actually got to work with his old Latin teacher on the lyrics. Weiki hadn’t worked with Latin for a bit, so he had to relearn a few things and he even managed to correct something his teacher had written.

19. His response to what animal he would be: “A lion, 'cause I could be lyin' round lazy and have my food brought to me by other people.”

20. Helloween would not be Helloween without him, plus Markus and Andi wouldn’t let him quit in 2000/2001.

21. He drew the logo and original pumpkin.

22. How beautiful the lyrics to “Windmill” are. Example:

"Don't feel alone and depressed

Someone will come, at last

To soothe your storming mind

To keep it away from the evil storms."

23. You can clearly hear the man singing in “White Christmas” and he’s the most fun to listen to.

24. “Introduction” never fails to make me laugh very loudly, especially the lyrics to “Rock n’ Roll All Day”.

25. He likes Spinal Tap.

26. The way he sang “Gorgar will eat you” in the Keeper Legacy interviews.

27. He was asked what his motto in life was and his response was: Be as friendly as it comes; have fun, make money and spend it on charity to help people. ~Sei so freundlich wie es geht; Spaß haben, viel Geld verdienen und es für wohltätige Zwecke ausgeben, um Leuten zu helfen~ (it was originally in German)

28. His black and white outfits in the ‘80s and ‘90s, especially those awesome star-printed pants.

29. The entire story of the Keeper of the Seven Keys and Master of the Rings.

30. The Jacuzzi scene in the Keeper Legacy Road movie.

31. He likes Aphrodite’s Child, Nektar, and Camel. He’s cool.

32. I really don’t think I’ve heard him say anything bad about anyone.

33. The moment when he switched his guitar off and “played” a solo after he was introduced in The Legacy concert.

34. “All right… That’s enough! Now, I want to hear Dani’s drum solo!” *rapid fire – BLAMBLAMBLAM!* The first time I watched the “Smoke On the Water” bit from Hellish Rock, I nearly fell to the floor laughing.

35. About the time Pink Bubbles Go Ape came out, in an interview, Michael Kiske said something about they weren’t Metal, they didn’t do that “Heavy Metal” thing and Weiki says, “I thought we were Heavy Metal”. And Michi completely just stopped talking for a second.

36. The way Weiki messed around with Michi and Roland during the interview mentioned above.

37. How much fun he looked like he was having in the “Kids of the Century” video.

38. Every time he dances around on stage.

39. His love for Gibson Les Pauls.

40. He was reading “A Hat Full of Sky” and even recommended it.

41. He says that his writing “Keeper of the Seven Keys” kept him alive and he considers it a major turning point in his life to have come up with the idea for it.

42. The hairspray scene in the Hellish Rock road movie.

43. He actually got involved with the DJ game when they were in Japan (Keeper Legacy road movie) – the whole arcade scene was great.

44. The way he just looks at a camera sometimes and doesn’t say a word – he just starts making faces and looking off in different directions. He can be funny without saying a single word.

45. His guitar solo in “Back On the Ground”.

46. He played most of the guitar on the Better Than Raw album.

47. Weikath Syndrome is the coolest thing to catch.

48. During the German Top 6 video (1993), he was drinking a Capri Sun. I think it may have even been Wild Cherry.

49. A Gibson Les Paul looks absolutely perfect on him. I also love the way he holds the guitar.

50. How his hair has always been shoulder length (at least) since the late ‘80s (and beautiful).

51. He thinks of the younger viewers/fans.

52. All the love for him in the Hellbook.

53. I don’t how much of the lyrics to “Dreambound” he wrote, but he has a credit on that song and OH MY GOD, is it flipping incredible! I must make special mention to how amazing “the Saints” is, too.

54. He wanted to talk to Michael Kiske when they met at a festival in 2012/2013, so they could try and work things out a little.

55. He wanted “Livin’ Ain’t No Crime” to be a single.

56. His song “Number One” and how uplifting and positive the lyrics are, especially the chorus.

57. When they were on the Ferris wheel, they didn’t start REALLY laughing until Weiki did.

58. How he introduces himself as “de Michael Weikath of Helloween” and he even got Dani to do it with him.

59. He contributed a guitar solo to the German Rock Project’s “Let Love Conquer the World” (the long Metal version) but went all incognito with it and is credited as “a member of the Seventh Key”.

60. The fact that he wanted a flute in “Raise the Noise” and it sounds totally awesome!

61. The sexy witch on the cover of Better Than Raw was Weiki’s idea.

62. His makeshift rocking chair.

63. His spoken part of the Dezperadoz song “First Blood” (and “Echoes of Eternity”, too).

64. How funny was in the two Nuremberg interviews from the ‘80s that are on YouTube.

1987 – He lights a cigarette, he passes it Ingo, Ingo passes it back, and Weiki passes it back to him. Ingo then proceeds to throw it on the ground and Weiki attempts to lightly hit him but only manages to hit his hair. xD

1988 – The FUNNY one! He was so frickin’ funny in that one. I won’t give away the end of it if you’ve never seen it, but it involves a balloon and a cigarette. (by the way, Michael Weikath takes his sunglasses off and puts them back on 13 times, 10 of which are in the first three minutes).

65. After an interviewer thanks him for being there, “Ja, that’s not so much I can do about it, because somebody put me on this Earth and I went out of my mother and suddenly I was there and now I have to deal with this crap.”

66. During the Indianapolis Hell On Wheels concert, during “Halloween”, Michi passes the mic over to Weiki and Weiki does the “I’ll show you power and glory” part. Michi then makes a disgruntled face at him and rubs the mic with his shirt, causing Weiki to make a face back at him!

67. Also from the same Hell On Wheels concert, during “A Tale That Wasn’t Right”, he was stepping on the skeleton and making Ingo laugh.

68. Speaking of “A Tale That Wasn’t Right”, that song is incredible and very powerful.

69. He let the other members of the band help out on “Mission Motherland”. That song is very quickly becoming my favorite song of theirs.

70. His backing vocals in the “Sea of Fears” demo.

71. All of his little pins that he wears: the pumpkin, the W, the stars…

72. This comment he made about the Hellbook: “With the hardcover you can better smash your naughty brother... and you can with the regular as well, just maybe not as effective.” I have actually made that joke to my brother before. xD

73. Someone at a meet-n-greet in 2008 showed the band an old picture of the guys, which they all signed. It was an old picture. Kai was stunned, Markus laughed his ass off, and Michael actually said he remembered where it was taken and when. The picture was taken in 1986, so that is kind of impressive.

74. He helped me become a big fan of Deep Purple. Yes, I will admit to only becoming a major Deep Purple fan after becoming a Helloween fan - and it was all because of Weiki. And now I'm really happy because I never realized how awesome Deep Purple is. Same thing with Wishbone Ash.

75. He’s given me several phrases to use whenever applicable.

- “Impressive, isn’t it?”

- “You have to listen with your ears.”

- “It’s nice, cold, windy, sunny weather.” (which pretty much describes Florida in the winter sometimes)

76. He can still sing with a cigarette in his mouth and not drop the cigarette.

77. The intro to “Halloween”. I’m not sure if he played it on the original recording, but when he plays it live… OH MY GOD.

78. His guitar solo in “First Time”.

79. He’s fun to watch in the “When the Sinner” video when he’s shown, especially when he’s playing those power chords in the beginning (even though he played no guitar on the song) and the part in the saloon.

80. How amazing “Les Hambourgeois Walkways” is.

81. He’s written a couple songs that he has dedicated to groups of fans ~ “LAVDATE DOMINVM” for the Latin speaking fans, and “Born on Judgment Day” for the people of Brazil.

82. How he’s so easily able to make Sascha laugh behind the camera.

More here 💜

[ebhenah]

Inevitable

Fictober18 Day 3

Prompt 3: “How can I trust you?”

Voltron fanfiction. Post season 07. Klance. Keith/Lance

Rated T for Language

“You get close, then you get scared, and then you BAIL, Keith,” Lance snapped, rounding on him, “it’s who you are. So, what am I supposed to think now?”

Keith’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. What was he even supposed to say to that? It was true. It was easier to leave than to be left behind. 

Lance shook his head. He stomped around the room. He pushed his hands through his hair so many times it was all sticking up at weird angles. It was like he’d been hooked up to some kind of power source and all that energy had nowhere to go. “This isn’t fair,” he snapped, “you know that, right? You’re timing is SHIT.”

“I know,” Keith managed to say. “I know it is.”

“How long?” Lance demanded.

“What?” he blinked, that was so not the question he was expecting.

“How. Long,” he repeated, anger flashing in his blue eyes. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

“Umm... how long for me, or how long for you? Because there’s a diffe-”

“Are you KIDDING ME?” he snarled, “just answer the goddamn question Keith- you were the one who started this conversation in the first place!”

“Fine... I guess... since Nyma and Rolo stole the Blue Lion,” he sighed, “that’s the first time it, like, clicked.”

Lance froze. He went from frenetic, agitated constant motion to stock still in less than a heartbeat. His eyes bored into Keith with such intensity he could FEEL the rage there impaling him, inch by inch. 

“But... it probably started before that... and I kind of tried to convince myself it wasn’t true for longer.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Oh my God Keith... Why did you try to convince yourself it wasn’t true?”

“Oh... I didn’t want it to be true. It hurt.”

“It hurt,” he repeated, shaking his head, “it hurt, he says. So, MONTHS before we even knew the Blades of Marmora existed, you knew?”

“Yeah,” he crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the floor. 

“Is that... Is that why you bailed on the team?” Lance hissed, “oh my God, it IS isn’t it? Rather than fucking talk to me, you abandoned all of us.”

“I didn’t abandon anyone,” he argued, “there were good reasons for me to go with the Blades... and Voltron had Shiro...”

“You say you loved me,” Lance breathed, “love me... and you left anyway. You just walked away. Like I was NOTHING.”

“No! It wasn’t like that,” Keith insisted.

“Wasn’t it?” Lance took a deep breath, “I don’t understand how you manage to KEEP doing this shit to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You really have your head stuck so far up your own ass you are blind to everything, don’t you?” He shook his head, “what was the point of telling me this? Now? What did you think was going to happen?”

“I...” he shrugged, “don’t know, really... I just... I couldn’t NOT say it any longer.”

“Did you think I’d be happy? Overjoyed? Flattered? What?”

“I have no idea what I thought... I didn’t think you’d be furious, though.”

“Well, that’s what you got. I’m furious,” he threw his arms wide. “My life is pretty good right now... but here comes Keith fucking Kogane... ready to blast everything apart AGAIN. I’m so sick of rebuilding my life around whether or not you are in it, Keith!”

“What does that even mean?” Keith was clearly confused, visibly perplexed.

“You...” he snarled, shaking his head, “just... YOU... you’re like some kind of Lance McClain-specific booby trap. You don’t even DO anything and you fuck my life up. I was a really happy kid. Did you know that? When I got to the Garrison, I was sickeningly happy. Good student, big, happy family, best score on that testing sim in my whole school. I was going to go the Garrison like my big sister. I was going to find a gorgeous girl to fall in love with, be a fighter pilot, have lots of friends, get married, have kids and explore the solar system... and then.. YOU.”

“How the hell did I stop any of that from happening?” Keith demanded.

“Because my happy, straight little ass took ONE goddamn look at you and your stupid mullet and fell head over heels in love with you, the hot shot who just. Kept. Beating. My. Scores. and never even knew I was alive, and that turned my whole life upside down.” He made a noise that was very close to a growl, “I spent my whole first year in crisis, trying to make sense of what I was feeling... and when I eventually came to terms with that, suddenly you were GONE, and I had to figure it all out again, so my whole second year was me scrambling and just... missing someone who literally had no idea I even existed. I got that under control and bam-look who is back in my life- no recollection of me, no clue who I am, and now I’m stuck in space fighting a goddamn war, and YOU are one of a literal HALF DOZEN people I interact with on a regular basis... and once again, my never-quite-good-enough ass is stuck in your fucking orbit and you STILL don’t see me! You look right through me. For months- I am nothing. I’m the dumb one. I’m the screw up. The dead weight. The seventh wheel... and then- somehow, you start to see me and I think, maybe... jusssst maybe... and then you are gone. Gone.” His hand scrubbed at his face and came away wet. Hot, angry tears streaked down his face, but they didn’t slow him down. This needed to be said. It had been eating away at him for too long to go unvoiced. “So, I adjust. Again. And you come back... and it just keeps fucking happening.... and I know. I KNOW it’s stupid and hopeless... and so I keep just... trying to change my focus. Concentrate on the job. Pursue anyone who catches my eye. Train. Hang out with the others. ANYTHING. Just... try to push the rubble that is my life into something that looks kind of like it might work. YEARS! Years I have been trying to figure out how to function around this massive, humiliating unrequited bullshit... and now you do THIS! So, yeah. Furious... because it could have been so different. It could have been AMAZING. But now- the one thing I know better than anything else in this entire universe is that Keith Kogane WILL destroy me, one way or another. So, here you are, saying exactly what I have literally dreamed of you saying, and all I can think is ‘how can I trust you?’ How can I trust you not to bail again? How can I trust you not to set off ANOTHER bomb in my life? And no matter how desperately I wish it was different, I know the answer is... I can’t. I know I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“Lance-” he looked stricken. Heartbroken. Ashamed.

“No! YOU did this! You don’t get to be all sad-puppy now. You LEFT.”

“I came back,” he said weakly. 

“To stop Lotor,” Lance almost laughed, it was just too sadistically perfect. This was exactly the kind of thing just being around Keith did to his life. “Not good enough.”

“No- I was gone two years,” he insisted, “and I promised myself I would tell you. I would make things right with you. I would put myself out there. The whole thing with Lotor... that’s totally separate... and it was important and time sensitive.”

“The game show. Stranded, floating in space. Days and days of travelling in the Lions. How many times were we staring down death and you STILL never spoke up? You said nothing. You don’t get a pass for that.”

“I was scared,” he said, his voice small. “I was terrified and I didn’t know how to get past that... and I am really sorry. For all of it.”

“Oh wow, Keith,” sarcasm dripped from his words, “thank-you for your magical apology. I feel heaps better now.”

“You’re in love with me?” it was barely more than a whisper.

Lance rolled his eyes, “not like it’s some kind of secret. It’s humiliatingly obvious, because I am a complete disaster and I just keep handing you knives to gut me with.”

“You’re focusing on the wrong things, Lance. You’re in love with me. I’m in love with you. We’re in love. That matters.”

“But it doesn’t, though... because I might be the dumb one, but even I know not to risk this. I can’t trust you.”

“You can,” he pleaded, “Lance... please... give me a chance to prove that you can trust me.”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes shifted, meeting Keith’s and it was enough to give Keith hope.

“No more Blades. No more running. No more closing myself off,” Keith promised. “I don’t expect anything. Just... please... be my friend, let me show you that I am here to stay... and if I do. If I prove that. If you trust me... THEN we will talk about all this. I love you. I’m in love with you. That didn’t change in all the time I spent with the Blades. It didn’t change in two years of being away from you, stranded on a space whale. It isn’t going to change. I love you. I love you more than anything.” 

“God, I am such a fucking idiot,” Lance muttered, striding towards Keith, “and a goddamn masochist.” He clasped Keith’s face in his hands and pulled him down into a kiss. He’d probably regret this, but not as much as he’d regret NOT doing it.

[elsewhereuniversity]

Library Services at Elsewhere University: A Guide and Compendium; Part Two: Staff Handbook - Circulation Services

Crossposted to AO3

Pages fall under the jurisdiction of Circulation Services, the most concrete and visible department in the library. Most student pages work the day shift, and are paid an hourly rate by Campus Services’s payroll. They are part of the non-academic staff union, with all the protections that entails. There are some work experience placements where hours worked may be traded for course credit, for favours, for knowledge, or as part of the payment of a geas, curse, wager, or other obligation. Work experience students are not paid an hourly rate, and will be limited to supervised shelf-reading on floors three to six, and pre-sorting the shelving carts.

Applications for student positions can be dropped off with the administrative assistant on the eighth floor (getting safely to the eighth floor and back again is considered to be the first part of the application process), submitted electronically through the library’s website (navigating the deepest corners of the library website and emerging without losing small fragments of your short term memory and forgetting what you were there for is considered to be an alternate first step to visiting the eighth floor), or delivered to the bees in the rooftop garden by whatever means necessary. Kindly note that carrier pigeons do not fare well. Students enrolled in undergraduate library science courses, or with prior library experience, may be considered for part-time term circulation clerk positions.

Day shift student pages are always sent out in pairs, and will sign in and out together at the beginning of each shift. They are expected to wear closed-toed shoes, and fill their pockets full of salt packets and library-issued paperclips before leaving the circulation workroom. Most of the shelving carts are steel, and like all shelving carts in libraries everywhere, tend to have a mind of their own that can only sometimes be attributed to the one wheel that won’t stay straight. The carts have their share of dents, scratches, and mysterious arcane markings that may or may not be graffiti. If your shelving cart locks up and refuses to turn down a particular aisle, or through a certain doorway, pay attention.

For safety reasons and to promote a culture of professionalism and public service in the library, headphones are not to be worn in public areas. While working in back rooms and offices, headphones worn in one ear may be permitted. However, if you find yourself using your headphones to block out unsettling noises in your general vicinity, consider contacting a supervisor or other senior staff member on shift to report the disturbance. We are all responsible for maintaining a healthy and safe workplace. If the oozing signs of the great ichor beast infestation of 2003 had been caught sooner, the third-floor carpet may not have needed to be replaced quite so soon.

Day pages are encouraged not to wear non-medical adaptive lenses while working. There are some things in the library that it is safer not to see. Night pages have already seen it all.

Night shift pages shelve throughout the library. Officially, this covers floors one to six, sub-basements one and two, and special collections including the ninth floor. Unofficially, the books on floors ten through twenty-three also need attention. An accurate system may yet be devised for self-shelving books, but it would not be a very safe system. The pages keep order by walking the boundaries as much as by putting the books back in the proper spot.

None of the student pages are ever assigned to shelve on the seventh floor. Instead, the seniormost person working in the circ department is tasked each night with taking up the full shelving cart and leaving it outside the elevator with exactly two-thirds of a cup of the real coffee cream from the staff fridge, always in a ceramic mug, a shot of Bailey’s in a saucer, and whatever button B9 on the vending machine by the fourth-floor study carrels has chosen to dispense. Often, it’s a chocolate bar with a wrapper in a language that you swear you used to know. Other times, fresh flowers that are just as familiar and maddeningly undefined and unnamed, sealed in a 750 ml pop bottle. One night last winter, it was a small jade carving of a salamander. In the morning, the empty cart is always waiting in the exact centre of the elevator.

The cart for the seventh floor is one of the only remaining wooden shelving carts in the library. (There is one more down in Bibliographic Services with the cataloguers, and a third up in Special Collections.) Most days, this is unremarkable, but there was one morning last spring when the morning circ staff opened the elevator to find that the seventh floor cart had sprouted into small branches, bearing tiny white flowers that smelled like a cross between hawthorn and lilac. By sunset, the twigs had grown brittle, and the floor was littered with petals, and by closing, all traces were gone, except for the sprig that still sits on the Circulation Manager’s desk. She keeps it in an old-fashioned ink bottle, inherited from her predecessor, and the brnach has started to put out small tendrils and shoots. Eventually, it will be transplanted to the rooftop garden. There is a reason for all of this, but it is not a secret that can be shared.

The Circulation Manager (commonly known as Circulation) oversees the circulation desk and staff responsible for check in and check out, the pages, membership services including fees and fines, co-ordinates wards and security for main-floor entrances and exits with building maintenance, ensures the borders are patrolled, an efficient and effective workflow of materials is upheld throughout the library, and a high standard of customer service is maintained by her staff throughout the library.

She has conversations with freshman pages about appropriate footwear (it’s admirable when those who have come back… different still show up for their scheduled shift, but barefoot is not acceptable for safety reasons while working), ensures to the best of her considerable abilities that no-one loses their arm in the book drop abyss, comes in after-hours several times a semester to arrange staff meetings by seance for the night pages, and co-ordinates and heads up the search parties into the Deep Library on a regular schedule that is posted by the photocopiers and study room sign-up sheets.

She wears a chain of linked paperclips wrapped twelve times around each wrist. It looks whimsical. The paperclips look like everyday cheap steel wire. It is neither of these things. One wrist is iron, and the other is silver. The number of paperclips vary. Rumour has it when she was on the bargaining team during the last round of union contract negotations, at the end of it all she’d gained a handful of coloured paperclips on the right (iron) wrist, and the number of silver paperclips had dipped by half. But the negotiations didn’t go to arbitration, and the library didn’t lose any staff–none of the day pages have vanished en route to their shift between the dorms and the library since.

She values efficient workflows and common sense, good customer service, strong coffee, the protective power of an iron-tipped javelin of indeterminate origin that’s stashed behind her office door, and keeping all beverages in containers with a lid while working at the circ desk. There are rumours that she has eyes in the back of her head. (She doesn’t. She just borrows other sets of eyes as needed.)

The library diviner has foreseen that there will come a day of sacrifice where, gaunt-faced and battle-worn, she will be down to a single chain of paper clips around each wrist, facing down an unseen foe with a broken javelin–or there will not.

There are three senior staff (one library tech, two full-time clerks), nine part-time clerks on the desk, and nine in the back. The pool of student pages is a shifting total.

The library tech in circulation is responsible for the scheduling, for training the pages, updating policies and procedures, acting as shift supervisor, arbitrator and sentinel as needed, and ordering supplies. He’s a relatively new grad, and is still getting used to the ins and outs of the job and the library. He’s braver and more resourceful than he thinks he is. Last Sunday shift, he broke up two make-out sessions, called Campus Security to deal with a third incident that had gone rather further than making out, and informed a large, wet black horse that was dripping on the marble floor in the foyer that offering rides to students is considered to be soliciting goods and/or services and prohibited by library policy.

Circulation staff in the back process returned items that arrive through the book drops, intercampus mail, and dropped off on the library doorstep in the dead of night in a padlocked trunk or in a wicker basket swaddled in blankets embroidered in a script that twists and writhes when you try to read it. There is a whole new level of blasé to odd-things-found-in-books when a bacon bookmark is positively mundane, and some of the more archaic items may actually take off a finger. Safe work practices on material handling, ergonomic workstation adjustment, and rudimentary cursebreaking are part of the core training for the position.

Circ staff need to be fast, efficient, detail-oriented, and have the focus to not be lulled into a false sense of complacency by often-routine work. A logical mind with just the right sort of twists, and you can untangle the oddest errors in the circulation records. Enough experience, and you can tell when something’s off with a book just by the feel of it in your hands, whether it’s the subtle swell of water-damaged pages, or the lingering pins and needles of a forbidden tome returned without its library-issued protective envelope from special collections.

The main book drop has affectionately been nicknamed the abyss, partly due to its often-unending nature, and partly because of the strange treasures that will surface from its depths on occasion. Crumbling manuscripts and scrolls with no library markings appear regularly, as do engraved stone tablets, elaborately beaded woven cords, and silk fans. Pre-Cambrian fossils appear to be in vogue this fall, dropping in with the overdue reserve material at a rate of two or three a day. Items such as these that are returned in error from other libraries are placed on a reserve shelf waiting to be claimed for a period of no less than one lunar month before being moved to the lost and found.

The self-checks are temperamental. There are rumors that they’ve developed artificial intelligence and are conspiring to recruit the photocopiers next. It will still take one of the clerks on the circ desk, however, to troubleshoot your missing book that you swear you returned (shelf checks for claims-returned items are entrusted to the night pages) and waive your overdue fines (temporal shifts are mapped at the beginning of each semester, but have been known to ebb and flow, often in correlation with the phantom trains’ unfathomable schedules), figure out why your card and PIN won’t let you into the aggregated database searches for journal articles (often the price is too high to be paid for database licenses).

The circulation desk staff are the keepers of the Lost and Found. There is always the mundane detritus of water bottles and mittens, forgotten notebooks, and iron washers plaited into lanyards for the campus rec centre. Sometimes, there are more arcane items. This week’s finds include: a small linen bag stitched in red thread, full of yellowed bird bones and a smooth, round river rock; a perfect replica of an original NES Gameboy, carved in petrified wood; a string of twenty-seven broken mood rings, hung on a leather cord; and two kilograms of an unidentified substance that looked like marijuana but smelled like raspberries, which was turned over to campus security for further investigation.

There is always a stash of plastic beads in one of the drawers at the circ desk, along with a mixed handful of coins and dried leaves, keys to several filing cabinets and doors that no longer exist, another labelled key that will actually open a door that doesn’t exist, date-due stamps that continue to appear like talismans though the library hasn’t used paper cards and stamps for sign-outs since the late eighties, and the one little-used lower filing cabinet drawer that is sometimes full of handwritten overdue notices from seventy years ago, sometimes opens on a swirling, screaming void, and occasionally contains green moss, mushrooms, and a faint bioluminescent glow. Don’t eat the mushrooms–they’re a protected variety making a slow comeback from the brink of extinction. Don’t drop things into the screaming void–that’s just inconsiderate.

The circ clerks need to be fast, accurate, have a head for multiple policies and procedures, the good judgement to know when to follow the rules, and when to bend them. They need to know when to turn a blind eye to the seven-foot thorn-crowned figure frowning at the book return, and when a faint whisper behind them while unjamming the photocopier is cause to whip out the emergency salt box from behind the desk.

As everyone in the department will tell you, Circ is the life-blood of the library, and keeps material flowing through its vast and beating heart. The Library would grind to a stagnant and useless standstill without the Circulation Department.

Notes: Somewhere along the way, this has turned into a love letter to libraries and the people who work in them.

Part One, Part Two Part Three (Parts Five to Seven forthcoming)

x

[welllpthisishappening]

Tripping Over the Blue Line (8/45)

It’s a transition. That’s what Emma’s calling it. She’s transitioning from one team to another, from one coast to another and she’s definitely not worried. Nope. She’s fine. Really. She’s promised Mary Margaret ten times already. So she got fired. Whatever. She’s fine, ready to settle into life with the New York Rangers. She’s got a job to do. And she doesn’t care about Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers. At all.

He’s done. One more season and he’s a free agent and he’s out. It’s win or nothing for Killian. He’s going to win a Stanley Cup and then he’s going to stop being the face of the franchise and he’s going to go play for some other garbage team where his name won’t be used as puns in New York Post headlines. That’s the plan. And Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations isn’t going to change that. At all.

They are both horrible liars.

Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Swearing, eventual hockey-type violence AN: I broke my own schedule because starting work again is nuts and that’s just my life now. Here are some more characters. As always, @laurnorder, @distant-rose & @beautiful-swan are gifts I do not deserve. 

Also living life on Ao3, FF.net & tag’ed up on Tumblr. 

“Make a fist.” Killian lifted his eyes away from his phone – and the fifteen text messages he had – to stare pointedly at Ariel and he tried not to groan. She didn’t move. Of course she didn’t. She never moved. She was a wall, impenetrable to groans and glares and Killian’s desire to get out of this chair and back on the ice.

“Red, I have made a fist ten times today at least,” Killian sighed, doing it anyway as soon as Ariel raised one eyebrow and brushed her hair off her shoulders.

He knew that look.

He’d already lost.

“So do it eleven times then,” she said, tapping on his wrist for good measure. He did it, making a face to to hide the face that, somehow, this still managed to hurt. Ariel noticed – of course – tilting her head slightly in a way that almost looked she was about to dive into a string of pity that was wholly out of character and wholly unnecessary.

It was fine.

His hand was fine.

So it still hurt and he still couldn’t really touch his thumb to every finger without wincing just a bit, but he could hold his stick and shoot the puck and after that first vaguely horrible practice, Killian had found his on-ice footing again.  

Three weeks into the preseason and he hadn’t actually punched Will yet – despite that look on his face that practically screamed he knew something – and they’d whittled down the roster to an almost league-regulated size and Arthur’s whistle didn’t actually make him cringe anymore. He’d gone to PT on time for the last two appointments and almost, almost,  had a full conversation with Gina about a contract extension before rolling his eyes and having to deal with her muttered opinions about throwing his life away.

And, in news that was absolutely, totally unrelated to anything regarding Killian’s sudden positive approach to everything going in within the confines of the New York Rangers organization, he’d saved Emma Swan’s number in his phone.

She’d texted him and he texted back and he wasn’t sure when it had become a thing,  but Killian was glad that, somewhere in the last four days, it had. She asked about practice and he asked about wedding planning and it was...nice.

That was a stupid word and every single person on this entire stupid team would have probably cackled if he said it out loud, but it was.

It was nice.

She was one of the fifteen text messages he hadn’t responded to yet.

The other fourteen were Anna and Elsa demanding to know more about his sudden shift in personality, but that had nothing to do with Emma.

None of it had to do with Emma.

Of course not.

He was, simply, taking a different approach.

To win a Cup.

Obviously.

It was definitely about the Cup.

And not even remotely about the name and the number in his phone or the way his breath caught in his throat every time his phone made noise now, nerves on almost constant-edge that she might have texted him.

That would have been absurd.

His phone went off – lighting up and vibrating on the edge of the chair he’d thrown it in a few minutes before, and Ariel’s eyes nearly fell out of her head when she saw the name flash across the screen.

Swan.

“Oh my gosh,” she laughed, bordering dangerously close to hysterical already. “Are you for real?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled in Ariel’s direction. Killian shot her a glare and she didn’t shut up, laughed even louder when he swiped his thumb across the screen and pressed the phone in between his shoulder and his ear.

“What?” Emma laughed and he squeezed his eyes shut. Ariel had actually thrown her head back in laughter. “I didn’t actually say anything yet.” “That wasn’t actually directed at you, Swan.” “Good to know,” she said. She was smiling. He could hear her smiling. He was an idiot. “Hey, are you busy right now?” “PT, why?” “Oh, never mind then.” He sat up a bit straighter and Ariel tapped on his wrist, tugging his fingers apart. He was only dimly aware of what she was doing until she pressed her thumb against the back of his palm and he hissed in his breath sharply. “Jesus, Red,” Killian muttered.

“What was that?” Emma asked at the same time Ariel practically shouted, “Did that hurt?” “I’m fine,” he said, pulling his hand out of Ariel’s grip and readjusting his phone with the curve of his shoulder. “What do you need, Swan?” “The kid is here.” “Already?” Emma hummed in the back of her throat and he knew she wasn’t smiling anymore. She might have been leaning against the wall, mouth twisted in frustration and fingers tugging on the ends of her hair.

He shouldn’t know that already.

“There wasn’t as much traffic as they were planning on,” she continued, voice a bit rueful at the idea that a second-straight community event had ended up slightly off schedule. “He was supposed to get here after you guys got on the ice.” “Who?” “The kid.” “Wait, wait, wait, I thought it was a group.” “No, didn’t I say that?” Killian shook his head – Ariel’s eyes heavy on him, he ignored her. “It was going to be a group, but then, well like twenty other things happened, and now it’s just one kid and he’s here and…” “And?”

“And he’s got a Jones jersey on.” “I’ll be right there.” Emma exhaled slightly and it only then hit him that this would be the first time they’d actually seen each other since they’d been in her office on Thursday and somewhere in the dozens of text messages and seemingly never-ending conversation, they hadn’t really actually talked about it. Either time.

They didn’t have to.

It didn’t really need a definition. It could just...be. It was good as it was.

They were, quite obviously, attracted to each other – they were just acting on that attraction. And talking nonstop and she was calling him for help now.

Killian refused to dwell on that. If he did, he was certain, it would be decidedly overwhelming and Ariel would probably start laughing at him again.

No definition. Just more kissing. Oh, fuck, he wouldn’t be able to kiss her when he saw her.

That was probably easier, less complicated, less against the rules they were absolutely breaking. If they gave it a definition, it became something and Killian didn’t need something else – and he absolutely didn’t need a something that made him want to stay in New York.

That was the part that made Regina mumble about throwing away his career and he hadn’t actually told anybody else.

Elsa probably knew, because Elsa seemed to know everything, but she hadn’t actually said anything and Killian had only brought it up with Regina a few weeks before the season started.

He wanted out.

He’d win a Cup – or at least try and win a Cup – and then he was done. He was done with New York and the noise and the distinct lack of noise as soon as he got back to his apartment. He was done being the face of the franchise and everything that went along with it and he was done with teammates who kept calling his brother to provide updates on his seventh-wheel status.

He was done.

He’d finish out the season and then it was on Regina. He wanted to go to Colorado. He wanted to find an apartment and some air that didn’t smell like garbage every single day of the year and he’d be able to play Chutes and Ladders with the twins in person instead of whatever system they’d managed to develop over FaceTime.

Regina thought it was a stupid idea.

You could get a max deal. They love you here. You could probably take over the team if you wanted to.

He didn’t.

Killian didn’t want any of that. He just wanted to stop feeling guilty for...everything. And he was ninety-nine percent certain he’d be able to do that in Colorado with a piece of garbage hockey team that no one really cared about.

There was a metaphor about the mountains and wide open spaces in there too, but even Killian had to draw the line somewhere on sentimentality.

He hadn’t told Liam yet.

And he’d pointedly ignored that tiny little voice in the back of his mind that claimed he had a family here,  even if the air always smelled a bit like garbage, and Emma Swan had told him he didn’t need to feel guilty anymore.

“Killian?” Emma asked, voice muffled a bit and she sounded like she was crouched in a corner.

“Yeah, still here,” he said quickly, refusing to meet Ariel’s persistent stare. “Where do you need me to be?” “Are you done with PT?” “I am now.” “Killian,” she repeated, but this one sounded a bit like a sigh and the sound seemed to reverberate in the back of his head, like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear it. The line between real and sentimentality had just blurred a bit more.

“Where, Swan?” She didn’t answer immediately and he would have bet a good chunk of his salary that she was tugging on her hair again – a tell,  Emma had a tell and now Killian could picture her in front of him even if he closed his eyes.

Maybe he wanted to define it just a bit more than he was letting on.

His phone vibrated in his hand, a short, quick series of buzzes that had him biting his tongue so he didn’t actually groan or fall back on the table in the middle of Ariel’s office. They were probably all from Anna.

“What was that?” Emma asked.

“Nothing, love, it’s fine,” Killian said. Ariel nearly fell out of her chair. “Come on, I’m halfway out Red’s door already, tell me where I’ve got to go or I’m just going to wind up wandering around sections in the arena and that’s just depressing.”

She laughed. And that felt a bit like a victory. “We’re in the store now, getting our fill of team-branded merchandise and then...I don’t know…” “What?” “Maybe take him in the locker room?” Killian narrowed his eyes at that, not entirely certain springing a Garden of Dreams appearance on the entire locker room ahead of the last practice before the preseason opener was really in the best interest of anybody. He could see the headlines now Rangers ruin small child’s innocence by swearing every other word and planning out all the different ways to cross-check Soyer without getting whistled for it.

That probably wouldn’t fit in print.

“ How old is this kid?” he asked.

“Eleven.” He shifted his weight between his heels and clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth as he ran his hand through his hair. “Get your hand out of your hair,” Emma mumbled. He nearly dropped the phone.

“What?” “Was it not?” “What?” Killian asked again. Emma laughed, soft and knowing and the line was totally gone now, he’d fallen face first into sentimentality. “I mean, yeah, but...how?” She must have shrugged because he could hear her hair brush over the end of her phone and she was still laughing when she answered. “You have a tell,” Emma answered simply. “It’s a good thing you have to wear a helmet on the ice or everybody’d be able to know exactly what you were thinking before you crossed the blue line.”

He scoffed, but it was true and Emma knew it was true and Ariel, who was absolutely listening to this conversation, knew too. “Give me five minutes to walk downstairs, text Locksley and make sure Scarlet is on his best behavior and we can bring the eleven-year-old into the locker room and he can stick around for practice.” “And sign his jersey?” “And sign his jersey.”

“Thank you,” she said softly and her voice was low and serious. It made his heartbeat do something ridiculous and Killian wondered when the last time was someone had done something nice for Emma Swan.

She seemed consistently surprised to encounter it in New York.

“Five minutes, love.” “Ok.” He hung up, ignoring the dull buzz of another four text messages from Anna or Elsa or maybe even Regina, and stuffed his phone back in his pocket, moving towards the door and a set of stairs at the far end of the hallway. “See ya, Red,” Killian mumbled, hoping beyond hope that he’d be able to get away that easily.

Of course not.

“No, no, no,” Ariel sputtered, reaching out to tug on the back of his t-shirt. “What was that?” “There’s a GD kid here.” “You called her love.  Was that Emma? Are you calling Emma Swan love now?” Ariel’s voice picked up with each question and this was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. Killian leaned against the doorway, grabbing his phone again and typing the message to Robin, making sure he was aware of the plan and his duty as babysitter of a vaguely foul-mouthed defenseman.

“I’ve got to go to practice.” “No, you just said you were going downstairs. What is going on?” “Nothing that concerns you.” “Ohhhhhh,” Ariel said, wide-eyed and knowing and Killian huffed before he could stop himself. “Who else knows?”

“Knows what?” “That you’re totally in love with Emma Swan.” “Jeez, Red.” “I’m serious!” “I know you are, that’s the problem. Listen, I’ve got to go meet this GD kid and then I really do have to go to practice. I’ll see you when we get back from Pittsburgh, ok?” Ariel grumbled, muttering something that sounded distinctly like I’ll ask Mary Margaret,  and Killian rolled his eyes, stepping back into the office and letting his hand fall on her shoulder. He bent over before he’d realized what he was doing, head tilted slightly when he kissed her cheek and Ariel didn’t seem quite as frustrated with him anymore.

“Just…” he said, not quite sure what he would actually describe it as. His vocabulary wasn’t that impressive.

And Emma Swan had managed to get under his skin in three weeks and a half a dozen text message conversations and he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing her again.

Ariel nodded once, pulling her hand back up to wrap around his wrist and squeeze – tightly. “Yeah, ok.” He made it down the stairs in seventy-four steps and two minutes to find the main lobby of Madison Square Garden relatively abandoned.

Relatively in the sense that the seemingly ever-present, camera-sporting tourists were taking pictures just inside the doors and there were two people in tickets and one security guard who’d probably walked the same figure-eight path for the last four hours.

And Emma.

He could just make out the top of her hair over a rack of Knicks t-shirts, leaning against a display of knockoff sticks, head turned towards someone...who wasn’t taller than the rack of Knicks t-shirts.

Killian’s hand was halfway back in his hair before he realized he’d stopped walking and had never actually answered Anna. She’d probably call soon.

He shifted on his feet again and he never quite got used to this – people, kids,  wearing his jersey and wanting his autograph and Garden of Dreams was always telling him about someone or something or some group that wanted him to sign several different things because he was everyone’s favorite. Will made fun of him for it and Robin smiled knowingly as if being captain of the New York Rangers wasn’t enough responsibility, he needed to be something else for a group of kids who didn’t have anything.

He didn’t ever say that out loud.

He hated even thinking it.

Killian had been lucky – the Vankalds had given him everything and Liam had given even more and the least he could was sign some GD kid’s jersey.

Jeez, he was an ass.

He took a step into the store, nodding towards the one attendant that was there in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of September and someone gasped when they noticed him. “Whoa,” muttered a kid a few feet away, sporting a Cup finals jersey and a smile so wide Killian was actually nervous about the state of his jaw.

“Hey,” Emma said, a smile on her face as well when she took a step towards him. “This is Aurora, she works for GD. She helped get Henry here.” Killian stuck his hand out towards the woman in front of him – brown hair and soft eyes and an enormous ring on her finger. “It’s so nice to meet you,” Aurora said, hardly letting him take a breath before diving into introductions. “Phillip talks about you non-stop.” “Phillip?” Killian repeated. “Like rookie Phillip?” Aurora laughed softly, nodding. “He’s trying to come to terms with that nickname. It’s a work in progress. I think he’s mostly just happy to still be on the roster.” “So you’re…”

“Fiance.” “Right,” he said, but it came out as a sigh and Aurora’s smile was just a bit tighter than it had been during the handshake. Emma rolled her eyes and made a face at him and that, somehow, felt significant.

“Anyway,” Emma continued, tugging the jersey-sporting kid closer to her side and his eyes hadn’t gotten any smaller. “Henry, this is Killian. Jones, this is Henry. He’s your biggest fan.” “That so?” Killian asked, earning himself an enthusiastic nod. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Henry. Swan said you’re eleven?”

Another nod, this time with an additional noise that sounded a bit like Henry was wavering on the specifics. “Almost twelve. I’ll be twelve like a week after the season starts. You guys play the Bruins that night.” “Look, Swan,” Killian muttered, eyes darting towards Emma. “He tells time like we do.” “Obviously it’s the best way to do it then,” Emma said.

“So, Henry, what’d you get then?”

He took a step back, head snapping up and he looked a little stunned at the question, like no one had ever really asked him that before. “A new jersey and a stick and gloves. I’m gonna get to watch some of practice, too.” “Some?” Henry shrugged. “Emma said maybe the locker room too?” “Yeah, yeah, of course. We’ll get ‘em all to sign your stick.” The wide-eyes were joined by a gasp and Henry’s jaw actually cracked when his mouth dropped open. Killian could feel Emma’s eyes on him and he resisted the urge to move half a step closer to her, instead opting to crouch down until he was level with Henry, hand falling on the shoulder of the jersey. His jersey. The kid was wearing his jersey.

“You ever been on the ice before, Henry?” Killian asked.

The kid’s eyes were going to fall out of his head, Killian was sure of it, but Emma was smiling, teeth tugging on her lower lip and maybe that had kind of been the point. “I don’t know…” Aurora said slowly, eyes darting between all of them. “We need parental permission for something like that. There’s insurance issues and…” “I don’t have any parents for you to ask,” Henry mumbled, but Killian heard him as perfectly as if he’d enunciated every single letter.

“Well, that settles that, doesn’t it?” he asked, squeezing Henry’s shoulders and nodding encouragingly towards him. “Come on, Kristoff can find you some skates and you can run warmups with us. Arthur won’t mind.” Aurora opened her mouth to argue again, but Killian shook his head deftly, slinging his arm around Henry and tugging him towards the door. “We’ll see you on the ice, Swan,” he called back, turning just enough to find her still smiling at him. “We’ll be the ones scoring all the goals.” Kristoff didn’t just give Henry skates.

He found him a practice jersey that didn’t quite make it past his knees or swallow him up whole and a helmet that, somehow, managed to fit and Will didn’t swear once while Henry was in the locker room.

In fact, no one swore or mentioned anything about Pittsburgh or cross-checking and Henry couldn’t seem to stop smiling, head on a swivel as he tried to take everything in and make sure he didn’t trip over his skates.

And, so, maybe Killian was a pushover and one sentence and a distinct lack of parents and parental supervision had changed his entire view on whatever situation he’d been roped into that afternoon, but Emma kept smiling and she’d asked him for help and Henry didn’t want to wear the new jersey they’d given him.

It wasn’t Killian’s.

He wanted to wear Killian’s jersey.

It was a miracle he managed to skate once they made it to the ice, a mess of thoughts and emotions and practices weren’t usually open – with the exception of the few times near the end when a camera would come in – but he saw Emma as soon as he stepped onto the rink, feet twisted up underneath her in one of the seats at center ice.

She waved, hand moving quickly, arm still pressed up against her side so no one would notice and Killian barely managed to keep his balance.

“You’re going to corrupt this kid,” Robin mumbled, coming up short as he tapped his stick on the back of Killian’s legs.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Of course not.” Robin moved his stick again and this one was less a tap and more a jab, nearly making Killian’s knees buckle. “You showing off?” “Hmmm?” “Alright, I know you don’t want to talk about it and that’s fine, don’t talk about it if you don’t want to, but I’ve got one question for you.” “What’s that?” “Is this serious? Because there’s a kid here who won’t take off your jersey and you got him on the ice and somehow got Arthur to be cool with that the day before a game, so I’m assuming, this has to be pretty serious. Or at least you think it’s serious. Which is impressive considering it’s been three weeks.” “You honestly think I’m using a GD kid to get a date?” Killian asked, twisting his neck to stare at Robin who just shrugged in response. “Jeez, no, Locksley I’m not. And you asked like three questions and made several wide-sweeping statements just now.” “Any of them stick?” “No.” “No in response to the questions about you and that look you got on your face when she waved at you or no to the other question?” “You’re a very frustrating guy, you know that?”

Robin hummed in the back of his throat and made a face that seemed to scream I know and Killian rolled his head back, eyes closing slightly so he didn’t have to look up at the enormous screen and remember he was in the World’s Most Famous Arena.

Arthur blew his whistle – as shrill and obnoxious as ever – and Killian breathed an almost audible sigh of relief. There was some mention of skating and circle to circle, but Killian mostly ignored that, leaving Robin without an answer to any of the half a dozen questions he’d asked as he moved towards Henry.

He was pressed up against the glass, just to the right of the only net they’d actually brought on the ice – practices before games, even preseason games, weren’t much more than glorified walk-throughs and Killian had known Arthur wouldn’t have cared.

Henry, however, seemed just a bit overwhelmed by it all, eyeing the players with a mix of awe and fear and anxiety that Killian understood well.

“You’ve never skated before, have you?” Killian asked and Henry made a noise that should probably be patented by every eleven-year-old boy in the entire world. “How’d you end up a Rangers fan?” He made the same noise again and tried to scrape the back of his blade into the ice, nearly falling over in the process. Killian gripped his arm tightly, tugging Henry back up and he muttered something under his breath.

It was always loud on the ice – even in a glorified walk-through before a preseason game – skates scraping and pucks hitting sticks and crossbars and, when there wasn’t an eleven-year-old kid there, more swearing and jabbing and screaming than some sort of raucous port tavern in a 1950s pirate film.

And, usually, Killian loved it. He loved the noise and the organized chaos that was this stupid sport, but then, with an eleven-year-old standing next to him, muttering under his breath and looking just a bit overwhelmed, he wished it was a little quieter.

Henry looked like he could use some quiet.

“You know,” Killian chanced, digging the toe of his skate down. “I wouldn’t have been able to get parental permission either.” Henry’s head snapped towards him, wavering just a bit on shaky legs and not-quite-stable skates. “What?” Killian hummed in the back of his throat and ignored the feel of Robin’s stare from the other side of the rink.

They didn’t really publicize it.

And no one had ever really asked who the two very nice, very respectable people standing in the back corner of every single press conference either Jones brother had ever attended were. People just assumed.

They were normally wrong.

“My brother and I were on our own for a little while and, well, we got very, very lucky and we found a home, but they weren’t ever really our parents. I remembered my mom still, despite all the things they did for us. So, well, I get it.” He should have been better at this – this emotional conversation he was having with an eleven-year-old in hushed tones so the rest of his teammates wouldn’t actually hear him – but he wasn’t. He was an awkward, stuttering mess with half a smile on his face and the hope that, maybe, it would make Henry feel better.

“Emma said the same thing,” Henry mumbled.

He hadn’t been expecting that and something that felt a bit like betrayal shot through Killian's system – which was just as absurd as it sounded, even in his head. He hadn’t told Emma she couldn’t say anything, especially to a parentless kid from Garden of Dreams. He just...hadn’t expected her to.

“Swan told you about the Vankalds?” Killian asked, falling into the nickname without even realizing it.  

“Who?” Killian blinked once. He’d lost complete control of this conversation. “The uh...Vankalds. The ones...Liam and I lived with them. Wait, what are you talking about?”

He might not have been able to push off the glass or even keep perfect balance on his skates, but Henry was perceptive and Killian knew he wasn’t going to get a straight answer as soon as he saw the eyebrows move. “We were just talking.” “Yuh huh.” Arthur’s whistle blew again and they were going to run drills and plays and Henry really couldn’t be on the ice anymore. Emma had moved from her seat, back behind the door that swung open and the hallway that directed back towards the locker rooms – on the other side of the ice. Henry took a deep breath, scrunching his nose at the expanse of ice and required skating in front of him.

Killian felt the ends of his mouth tick up, memories of that rink at Chelsea Piers and a patch of ice in Central Park, and he moved back away from Henry quickly, half a foot in front of him now. “One foot in front of the other,” he said, nodding towards the skates. “And don’t lift your feet. That’s how you fall.” “Don’t you lift your feet when you breakaway?”

“You gotta walk before you can run,” Killian laughed. “Push off so you’ve got some momentum going.”

Henry nodded, bending his knees as he moved and Killian thought he heard him take a deep breath before he pushed away from the boards. He didn’t fall – immediately. He made it to the edge of the faceoff circle before the front end of his skate got caught up underneath him and he landed, very soundly, on the ice.

“Fuck,” Killian mumbled under his breath, moving quicker than he had all preseason to grab Henry and pull him back to his feet. “You ok?” He was laughing.

The kid was laughing – bits of ice stuck to the front of his jersey and, somehow, a few pieces had found their way into his hair and he looked like he’d just won the goddamn Cup. “Great,” Henry promised. “Can I try and score?” Arthur blew his whistle again and Killian shook his head quickly, smile threatening to overtake his entire face at this point. “Maybe next time. Arthur’ll kill me if I don’t get you off the ice.”

“Next time?” “Sure.” “Is that how it normally works?” Killian shrugged. It wasn’t. Normally the GD kids showed up and he never really thought about them again, but none of them had ever come on the ice either. Or refused a brand-new jersey so they could keep wearing Killian’s.

“Let Swan and I worry about that, ok?” he asked, moving around Henry to push on his shoulder and move him across the ice.

Henry nodded, ice starting to melt in his hair, as he took a cautious step through the doorway in the boards and grabbing Emma’s outstretched hand. “You ok, kid?” she asked, eying his now-damp jersey critically.

“Great!” “We’ll watch for a little while and then Aurora’s got to get you back downtown, ok?” “Ok,” Henry agreed, but there was a disappointment in his voice that made Killian’s eyes dart towards Emma. He wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t push. There were rules and lines and invisible walls that he was certain prevented him from asking about what she’d told Henry in the team store. He wanted to know. “Hey, Killian,” Henry continued, turning back around quickly towards him. “It’s because it’s always been there.” “What has?” he asked.

“Hockey. That’s why I like the Rangers. I’ve been able to watch the games, or at least some highlights, in every house I’ve ever been in. It’s there.” Killian’s throat felt too tight and it was, suddenly, too warm on this ice and he should have been able to come up with something to say, something profound or role model-y. He didn’t. He just nodded.

Emma was biting her lip.

“Let’s go, Jones,” Arthur shouted. Killian flashed an apologetic smile Henry’s direction, but he didn’t seem too put out by the practice going on in front of him.

“Don’t forget your stick’s in Kristoff’s office.” “I won’t.” “Good. See ya, Henry.” “Bye!”

He was totally showing off.

It was supposed to be a walk-through, moving through plays and possible defensive schemes they’d see in Pittsburgh the next night and Killian was absolutely showing off – flying through run-throughs and past barely-trying defenders and Will kept rolling his eyes dramatically enough that it was obvious what he was doing even behind his visor.

Killian had beaten Phillip the Rookie five times.

Henry cheered on the last one.

“You’ve answered my question, you know,” Robin said, lining up against him in the faceoff circle. Arthur actually sighed, mumbling curses under his breath. His accent was even stronger now, frustration audible in every syllable, even the ones he didn’t want his players to actually hear. “God, will you two shut up?” he muttered. “You know they have the best faceoff man in the league in ‘Burgh?” “Jeez, are we calling it ‘Burgh, now?” Killian asked, glancing up at a visibly amused Robin.

“And it’s a preseason game, Arthur,” Robin reasoned. “No one’s actually going to try in faceoffs.” “You are,” Arthur said and it sounded a bit like a command. “That is, after all, what your wife touted as your greatest strength during contracts last season. Prove it.” Robin glared at Arthur long enough to miss the puck drop and Killian won the faceoff easily. “Again,” Arthur hissed. That was a command.

They went again another two dozen times until Robin had won six straight and Arthur finally seemed, relatively, satisfied. And when Killian glanced back up at the seats, Emma and Henry were gone. It shouldn’t have been nearly as disappointing as it was.

The flight was scheduled to leave three hours after practice – a hop from JFK to Pittsburgh – and by the time Killian finally got off the ice and out of his practice gear, all he wanted to do was sleep for the hour and a half they’d spend in the air.

That, however, seemed impossible as soon as he stepped in front of his locker, ends of his hair still wet from the shower and team-branded t-shirt just a bit baggier than usual.

Robin was already there, phone in one hand and and bag at his feet as he lounged on the bench with his feet stretched out in front of him. “You want to talk?” he asked, but the look on his face seemed to prove he already knew the answer.

“Nope,” Killian answered, shoving Robin out of the way as he grabbed the sweatshirt just behind his shoulder. “And there’s not anything to talk about, you said I already answered your question. Seems fairly wrapped up.” “Anna texted me. Said you’re ignoring her.” “Oh my God.” “Are you?” “I’ve been kind of busy. Camp and practices and...stuff.” “Stuff?” “Yeah stuff.” Stuff, in this case, were hour-long text message conversations with Emma that seemed to be cutting more and more into his allotted eight hours of sleep each night, but Killian wasn’t about to announce that fact in the middle of the locker room, even with Robin staring at him.

Killian rolled his eyes, sighing loudly and he heard the footsteps before he felt them – a six-year-old colliding with the side of his leg again. He bent down to grab Roland around the waist, slinging him over his shoulder and he felt the tension that had settled at the bottom of his spine ebb just a bit when he felt the laughter.

“What are you doing in here, Rol?” Robin asked, tugging on the sleeve of his son’s shirt. “You know the rules. You’re supposed to wait outside.” “Gina was talking to somebody. And I wanted to see Hook. Hi, Hook!”

Killian winced slightly when the greeting was screamed in his ear, shifting Roland’s weight on his shoulder until he’d induced a fresh round of laughter. “Hi, Rol,” he said. “You watch practice?” “No, I had to go to school.” “Lame,” Will said, his own bag slung over his shoulder, and Robin shot him an exasperated look. “Don’t do that anymore, Rol.”

“You’re no help at all,” Robin muttered. Will just shrugged. “Who was Gina talking to, Rol?” “Your friend from before.” Roland hummed against Killian’s shoulder, kicking slightly against his chest. “Descriptive,” Killian laughed. “What she look like, Rol?” “She had yellow hair. You were talking to her before when we were at practice.” He almost dropped Roland, stuttering slightly at the description and Will laughed under his breath, doing his best to turn it into a cough when he faced the combined glare of both Killian and Robin. “Go,” Robin said, nodding towards the door. “I mean you did already answer my question.”

Killian nodded once, grabbing his bag off the ground and stuffing his phone in his pocket and he was out the door in six and a half steps, coming up short when he found Emma sitting cross-legged on the ground in the hallway.

Gina was gone – probably trying to find her kid or talk to someone about Killian’s career-ruining idea – and Emma glanced up when he heard the sneakers on the hallway, smile inching across her face when she met his gaze.

“Hey,” she said.

“I, uh, I thought you’d be gone,” Killian stumbled, eyes tracing down the line of her, leather jacket on over a light-colored shirt and dark-wash pants and boots that hit just below her knees. She shifted against the wall, propping her head on her hand and eyeing him speculatively and it was even louder in this hallway than it had been on the ice.

“And pass up the chance to actually meet Regina?” Emma asked, laughter tinging her voice. “Did Roland find you? He was very concerned about that.” “He did. And his dad, which is probably more important in the grand scheme of things. Gina’s going to lose her mind when she finds out Rol worked his way into the locker room. He broke about eight different rules on that one.” “Eight? That’s impressive.” “Yeah, well, he’s not supposed to come into the locker room.” “You’re like a picture of parental control up there.” “I don’t want to get yelled at by Gina.” “She did seem kind of intimidating.” Killian barked out a laugh, tossing his bag back at his feet and sinking next to Emma, arm brushing against hers when he sat down. She tapped her fingers against the back of his hand and he did his best to resist the very real urge to lace his own through them, to squeeze her hand or wrap his arm around her shoulders.

“She’s not always like that, just when Rol’s concerned,” Killian said.

“And your contract.” “What?” “She mentioned you’re a free agent at the end of the season. I didn’t know that.” It didn’t sound like an accusation, but he could have been at the other end of the hallway and still hear the change in her tone. The way her eyes ducked away from his and she pulled her arms across her chest were just an added bonus.

“It’s not exactly something we’re broadcasting, love.”

“Are you worried?” “About?” Emma shrugged. “Throw a dart. FA’s not exactly a set-in-stone kind of thing.”

She was right and Killian hadn’t entirely considered what would happen if the Av’s weren’t particularly interested in letting him live out some sort of grizzled-veteran fantasy for the final few years of his career, or what the response would be like in New York when he just packed up and left.

Or what Emma’s response would be.

“I'm not worried,” Killian said, another almost-truth. “Gina’s good. It’ll be fine. I’m mostly just concerned about the season.” “That was good,” Emma mumbled.

“What was?” “You’re PR-perfect response for when you’re inevitably asked that after every game.” “Were you interviewing me, Swan?” “Not intentionally.”

She tried to smile at him, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes and only made it about halfway across her face before she tugged her arms even tighter, leather crinkling a bit at the movement. He didn’t think. He couldn’t let himself think. If he did he’d lose his nerve and probably realize this was pushing and he wouldn’t be able to grab her hand and tug her arm back towards his side and wrap his fingers around her.

Emma didn’t flinch, didn’t even turn her head completely to look at him, but the smile was real now and she twisted her wrist slightly until her fingers were twisted up in his. They hadn’t actually moved off the floor yet.

“You want to take a walk, Swan?” Killian asked, nuding his shoulder against Emma’s.

“Don’t you have a flight to catch?“ “Not for awhile.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just pushed himself back up and didn’t let go of Emma’s hand and she was next to him half a second later. “Come on.” They moved back down the hallway, the opposite direction of the pre-flight noise and the vague chaos that came with the very first – preseason – game of the year and he’d walked them back into the arena without even meaning to, just looking for somewhere that was quiet and close and Killian didn’t really care where it was as long as Emma didn’t let go of his hand.

“You just trying to show off your ability to sneak into the rink?” she asked, laughing slightly when he moved them towards the bench. The tension was back in his shoulders in half a breath and a few words and the sound of her laughter and Emma lowered her eyebrows when she saw it all play out on Killian’s face. “What?” “I am,” he said, sounding a bit like he was admitting to something. “Showing off, that is.” “Yeah I kind of figured when you started scaring Phillip the Rookie for life.” “He’ll get over it.” “He better tomorrow or Arthur will probably make him run sprints in full pads.” “You could be the coach, Swan.” She rolled her eyes, leaning back slightly on the bench so there was room next to her. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“What?” “Show off.” “Youngest child syndrome,” he said, sitting down next to her and his heart absolutely didn’t stop when Emma turned towards him.

“Even so. You don’t need to. You’re two-for-two on saving events of mine, so consider yourself with several marks in the hero column.”

Killian made a face, but he couldn’t bring himself to argue with her, the way her hand fell on top of his and his scarred fingers without even realizing it. And maybe he should figure out a way to ask her to take a walk in a way that didn’t entirely seem like he wanted to date her, but also like it did and he just wanted a few minutes alone with Emma Swan.

Away from hockey.

That was a strange change of pace.

“You did all of this, Swan,” he said, leaning forward half an inch until he could make out just how green her eyes were and he couldn’t focus on that too long or he wouldn’t be able to get a single word out. “This wasn’t anything I did, this was back-to-back things you’ve saved, even when they’ve all changed in a moment’s notice.” “Charmer,” she mumbled, ducking her eyes towards her boots, but her hand didn’t move away from his.

“The truth.” “Today was a complete disaster. There were supposed to be five kids and it was like eighteen different reasons for why they couldn’t come and GD wanted to move the whole event since there’d only be one kid, but it just didn’t seem right to switch everything. Even if it was just one kid. He...he deserved to get his day.” Emma smiled sadly, like she was remembering a memory or a moment and Killian’s mind danced back to what Henry had told him. That’s what Emma said.  He didn’t ask. He wanted to, wanted to know every single goddamn thing about her, but it had only been three weeks and they couldn’t seem to define this and he didn’t ask.

“It was not a complete disaster,” Killian countered, arguing instead of asking. “You made sure a kid got what he wanted. That’s as far away from a disaster as it could possibly be.” “You helped.” “Ah, well, you asked. And I think we make quite the team, don’t you?” It felt like it happened in slow motion – Emma’s eyes moving back up his face and meeting his gaze and darting back down towards his lips, her hand pulling out from underneath his until her fingers found their way to the back of his neck and the bottom of his hair and Killian wasn’t entirely convinced he was still breathing.

Eventually he’d look back on that moment, in the weeks and the months and the everything that would follow, those few seconds spent on the bench in the arena, and he knew that was the moment when everything changed and things seemed to shift or recenter and, well, she’d asked. So, Killian did whatever he could to fix it and make sure it worked and it was a trend he didn’t particularly mind continuing.

Three weeks and a few moments and this moment and he was, officially, a lost cause.

Emma shifted again, sliding a bit closer towards him until her other hand had fallen on his chest and her thigh was pressed up against his. “Thank you,” she mumbled, leaning forward and Killian could practically feel the words in front of him.

“I wanted to.” “Well, for what it’s worth, you looked fairly good showing off. All goal-scoring and everything.” He chuckled under his breath and he could have rested his forehead against Emma’s if he moved another half an inch, a breath of space between them that was too much and too little all at the same time. “Is that the technical term, love?” “Not your love,” she mumbled.

He moved or she moved and they might have even moved at the same time, but the words were no sooner out of her mouth than they were a mess of hands and lips and, fuck,  teeth and his fingers worked their way under the edge of her jacket and the bottom of her shirt. She gasped when he hit skin and pressed his palm against her back, pulling her even closer and it didn’t really need a definition if it kept ending up like this.

He was wearing more than she was – a sweatshirt and team-branded t-shirt and grey sweatpants that cost some ridiculous amount in the store Henry had been in before – and Killian was fairly certain he hadn’t heard anything he enjoyed more than the sound of Emma’s vague frustration when she tried to work through the layers of fabric.

Three weeks and one set-up in the corner of the restaurant and he still didn’t know enough about her or anything more than what she was willing to share via text messages, but Emma didn’t seem to mind and Killian couldn’t think about anything but the heady way she kept rocking against his front, like she was trying to desperately find some friction.

If he were still slightly coherent he’d add this to the reasons he should ask Emma somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t the Garden or the practice facility upstate or a surprise party she didn’t want and Killian cursed just about every religious figure he’d ever heard of when her foot wrapped around his calf.

“You are just…” she mumbled, a bit breathless when she spoke. Emma groaned slightly when she couldn’t come up with the word, hand falling away from the front of his sweatshirt to push against the top of his pants and he nearly jumped off the bench when her fingers landed on the curve of his hip.

“What, love?” Killian stuttered, calling her that on purpose, just to see her eyes flash up at him. “What am I, exactly?” “Infuriating. And just…” He pulled away from her face, studying her for a moment and she looked as conflicted as she sounded, eyebrows pulled low and breath coming in short pants. “What?” Killian prompted. “I mean we’ve already covered charming.” Emma rolled her eyes, but she didn’t move back onto the bench and she wasn’t really sitting on the bench anymore, balanced more on his thigh than anything else. “We’re breaking the rules,” she muttered, whispering out the words as her head fell against Killian’s shoulder. “I just…” “These half sentences, Swan,” Killian said, doing his best to keep his voice light as he nudged his shoulder up. She still wasn’t looking at him and that feeling of dread was back in the pit of his stomach, a stark contrast to the metaphorical tsunami of feelings he’d experienced when he was kissing her – again.

“I’m not sure I care,” she whispered, tugging her gaze back up towards his.

Killian felt the smile practically explode across his face, moving before she could as his lips crashed against hers. Emma rocked against him again and he bit back a groan, squeezing his eyes shut as his hand worked its way back into her hair and across her neck and if they never left this bench it would have been ok.

“Me either,” he added, mumbling the words against her neck and appreciating how she shivered just a bit.

His phone went off. Of course his phone went off, the buzzing sounding almost ridiculously loud in the arena with the added bonus of vibrating against the bench through his pocket. “Ignore it, ignore it,” Killian muttered, tugging Emma back towards him. It was probably Anna anyway, the phone call he’d been certain was inevitable after he’d ignored over a dozen text messages.

The noise stopped – and started again five seconds later, somehow sounding louder and even more insistent.

“God fucking damnit,” he said, earning a quiet laugh out of Emma as he shifted slightly to pull his still-ringing phone out of his pocket.

It wasn’t Anna.

“What?” Killian snapped as soon as he held the phone up to his ear.

Robin clicked his tongue on the other end of the line and it was the most fatherly thing Killian had heard in the last week – including the moment Liam had tried to discipline one of the twins while still on the phone with him two days before.

“People are asking where you are,” Robin said.

“And?” “And where Emma is. So, you know...put two and two together and come back here because we’re going to leave soon.” “Hours. We weren’t going to leave for hours.” “Bumped up. Something about a storm and wind. I don’t know, I’m not a pilot. I’d just get back here before people start talking even more and Roland remembers what he saw in Tarrytown.” Killian’s mouth hung open and Emma looked at him quizzically, one eyebrow lifted. “Your kid’s got a very big mouth, you know.” “I know nothing,” Robin promised. “Just that you’ve been ending up alone with Emma several times now. I’m just trying to make your life a little bit easier.” Killian sighed dramatically, head falling forward slightly. Emma’s fingers ghosted over the back of his neck and that made it a bit easier, even if six-year-old Roland Locksley saw something and people were talking.

This wouldn’t happen in Colorado.

Except Emma Swan wasn’t in Colorado.

“Like five minutes, Killian, tops,” Robin said.

“I’ll be right there.” He didn’t even try to put his phone back in his pocket – certain it would probably just start ringing again anyway – and Emma, finally, moved back to the bench, smile tugging on the corners of her mouth.

“You’ve got to go?” she asked.

“Something about a storm and a bumped up itinerary and a search party to find me.”

“Ah, well, they can’t lose their captain, can they? Insert cliche about being a fearless leader here or whatever.” “Definitely whatever.” Emma scoffed and tugged her shirt back in a slightly more respectable and even direction. “Can I ask you a question?” “Of course.” “Why does Roland Locksley call you Hook?” It wasn’t the question Killian had been expecting, so, naturally, he probably should have. He hadn’t really expected anything to go the way it had in the last three weeks. “Oh,” he laughed. “Two reasons actually. When I got hurt my hand was in this huge cast for like months and then there was a brace and it was just this ridiculous contraption and, according to Rol, he remembers it looking like a hook. He was young, barely even over a year old, and the memories are mostly what Locksley and Gina have told him and photos, but he knows so no one really argues with him.” “What’s the second reason?” “I throw a very good right hook.”

Emma’s laugh made her whole face shift, bright and happy and shoulders rolled back just a bit when she stood up to look at him like he might actually be the most interesting person she’d ever met. “I didn’t think you were the fighter on this team.” “Only when the situation calls for it.” “You think it will tomorrow night?” “It’s a preseason game, Swan.” “That’s not an answer.” Killian shrugged. “We’ll see.” Emma nodded slowly, lower lip pushed out slightly and he wondered when he’d been able to start reading her thatwell. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” “Swan.” “Just, you know, be careful or something.”

He stood up at the way her voice shifted, eyes falling back to the ground and the small pile of used paper cups in the corner of the bench. His hands moved up and down her arms, leather bunching underneath his fingers and Killian ducked his head to force himself into her eyeline. “It’s a preseason game, Swan,” he repeated. “I won’t even get ten minutes.” She hummed in agreement, forehead brushing against his shoulder.

“Let me know when you land?” Emma asked, eyes widening and breath catching just a bit when she realized what she’d asked.

“Of course,” Killian said. He kept his voice even, doing his best to sound as sincere as he was, while still managing to walk that fine line of two people just breaking the rules and not actually talking about it. It all kind of proved pointless though when he brushed his lips over her forehead and that didn’t seem like whatever.

“You should probably go.” “Probably.” Killian’s hands felt back on her hips and he had to actually bend his knees to reach her when he kissed her, but he could still feel Emma’s smile when he did. “I’ll text you later, ok?” Emma nodded, lips on his cheek and standing on tiptoes and if he said he didn’t think about that moment the entire hour and a half he was on the plane to Pittsburgh, it would have been a lie.

[katranga]

Part 1: The Miracle of Revision

Same disclaimer applies: Fic is for fun, and these tips are just suggestions!

Intro: Yes, you can write words!

Hello, I am back with more writing tips! This time I’m covering Motivation: AKA Can’t The Words Just Put Themselves On The Page? (As well as a detour into scene building, because that’s always helpful).

So! Stories need to be told. They aren’t going to appear out of nowhere, they need you to be seen and enjoyed by the masses!

So, just in time for NaNoWriMo, I figured I’d share my tips for actually writing the darn thing. I’ve never participated in NaNoWriMo, but I did write a 40k novella in a month once, and that’s aaaalmost the same lol. Anyway, for that I was kicking out about 2k a day, which is a LOT, and not what my usual word count per day just fyi. But that experience did convince me that I was fully capable of writing that much in a day—as long as I knew where I was going with the story, and just. didn’t. stop.

Don’t Stop Writing

That’s my main secret. Just don’t stop writing! Obviously you don’t have to write an epic in one sitting, but set a goal, and stick to it. Whether that be 100 words a day, or a 1,000. Don’t like going by word count? Set a timer. Write without stopping for 10 minutes. Or write one page a day. Anything is better than nothing!

Honestly, there are some days where all my “writing” is just—write a sentence, scroll through tumblr for 20 minutes, remember I’m supposed to be writing and get out a few more paragraphs, head back to tumblr to reward myself, rinse and repeat the whole day. On those days I’m shocked I ever get anything done.

But that’s the thing. Anything is better than nothing! 100 words a day is going to be a finished product eventually! Writing nothing will get you nothing.

It Doesn’t Have to Be Good

Now of course there’s the question: Cool, but how is setting a timer gonna help me?

Because you have to write. Take off your critique glasses and put on those author lenses! Don’t worry if it sounds good or not! First drafts are not about being good. It’s about starting.

Better writers than me have said editing it like sculpting, so the first draft is you getting together a huge hunk of clay that you can carve away and pick at later to make something beautiful. But you can’t carve air! And readers can’t read what you haven’t written. Try to keep that in mind.

So, so far we’ve got: set a goal, don’t worry about it being good.

Have a Map

To write without stopping for ten minutes, we need to know where we’re going, right?

Have a plan. That 40k novella was the most planned-out thing I’ve ever written. And sure, it changed a lot while I was writing, but I had a beginning, middle and end set out for the characters. I had settings, I had plot points, I had characters in mind (and for fics, a lot of these things are already there for you!)

Know where you’re going. Have a vague plan. Preferably more nailed down than ‘they fell in love’ because uhhh that’s almost every fic.

Some questions to think of beforehand:

How are they going to fall in love?

When are they going to realize it?

How will they react? (To their own realization and/or the other’s confession)

What are they going to do about it?

Why are they falling in love?

That’s a good one for motivation—I know we all think our OTP should be together, but why should your specific iteration of the characters fall in love? I like being convinced!! And it makes for a stronger story.

Of course you don’t have to have it written down (unless you want to!), but if there are a lot of little details, or fun dialogue exchanges you don’t wanna forget, you can definitely jot those down, and then write towards those moments.

To help plan out a fic, I recommend Max Kirin’s How to Plan a Novel video. Now, you may not need to plan out a fic, but if you’re having trouble with inspiration (which admittedly, I rarely do anymore—I’ve just got too many damn ideas) this could help, because it starts from the ground up. Honestly, I love anything by Max, so if you’re gonna spend your time not-writing, you may as well be watching their writing videos!

And if you don’t know exactly how the whole thing is going to end, that’s fine. At LEAST have an end goal in mind for the scene/chapter you’re writing. Every scene you write should have a point. It should move the story forward (or just be cute fluff, this is fic we’re talking about).

But if the fic is about them falling in love/realizing their feelings etc, each scene should getting them closer to that moment where they confess their true feelings (or come to whatever resolution the story has been heading toward).

This usually means the characters getting to know each other better, sharing their pasts and secrets, being vulnerable with each other etc.

And each scene should build on top of the last, so that the ending of the fic could never have happened without all that middle.

Under the cut we’re digging into a scene from Voltron, to look further into scene building.

Scene Building

We’re getting into the nitty-gritty of scene-building, because having a clear picture of how scenes work will hopefully prevent you from writing yourself into a hole of “what is happening here on this day, what am I even writing” (which has happened to me plenty of times).

The beats to hit in any scene are obviously beginning, middle, end, which can also can be treated as

Intro (why this is happening)

Build up (how the characters are reacting)

Climax (peak of the scene/decisions made)

Denouement (how characters react to the resolution, which can mix in with climax for short scenes)

Let’s go over the PINNACLE OF ROMANCE that is the scene from Voltron S3 where Lance stops by Keith’s room for support. I know anybody who’s seen it has already obsessed over it, and there have been a thousand posts about it already.

But let’s talk about why it’s such a well set-up scene.

Background: Lance is coming to Keith because he feels like a seventh wheel now that Shiro can fly the black lion again.

This is building on previous scenes—Lance has been feeling insecure for a while, but now that there are six paladins and only five lions, he’s really feeling worried, and he wants some comfort. Just like he offered to Keith, when Keith was freaking out about being the leader. Lance wouldn’t have come to Keith without these previous scenes to build on.

So, Lance explains his feelings, show his insecurities to Keith and asks for help.

Now, a character in Keith’s position could do a few things:

Tease him for being vulnerable

Dismiss his concerns

Address his concerns and assure Lance he’s needed in the team

Now… Keith kind of does the second one, with a dash of the third.

(He does NOT do the first, which would’ve meant a serious downturn in their relationship development. Which isn’t always bad in a fic, there needs to be obstacles, right? Sometimes one character pisses another off, and apologies need to happen to strengthen the friendship back up.)

But that doesn’t happen here, thank god.

We get Keith Trying His Best.

This ties in to his characterization—Keith isn’t super great with words or emotions. He’s clearly surprised that Lance came to him (but pleased all the same). In dismissing Lance’s concerns, Keith is TRYING to ease them. He’s trying to help.

So the basic outline of this scene is:

Lance: Keith, I need help. (Math speech--more pilots than there are lions)

Keith: No, you don’t. (”Things will work themselves out.”)

Lance: Oh. Okay ): ): (”Okay. Thanks.”)

Keith sees that Lance is disappointed when he’s leaving, so he says the ICONIC line of “Hey Lance? Leave the math to Pidge.” Which roughly translates to:

Keith: You don’t need help :) :) :) <3

And then there’s the subtext of Keith wanting to tell Lance he’s an important part of the team, but he’s socially awkward so he doesn’t, blah blah blah, we all know that.

And a good scene usually has subtext, an underlying current of what the characters aren’t saying—especially if they’re bad with their feelings, or just holding them back (which is like every fic ever).

Now, we can debate over whether or not that convo influenced Keith into leaving to join the Blade, but in a fic, that would DEFINITELY be a cause and effect situation, because Keith would want to solve Lance’s problem.

Lance: There are too many paladins. You guys don’t need me :(

Keith: I’ll leave. Now there are five paladins again. All fixed! :)

Which is obvs not what Lance meant but HEY, stories have conflict.

So, to review:

Intro: Lance has a concern and wants Keith’s input

Build up: Math talk, Lance asks Keith for reassurance that he isn’t useless

Climax: Keith tells Lance to stop overthinking, things will work themselves out; Lance isn’t satisfied with that, which Keith notices

Denouement: leave the math to Pidge (Keith trying his BEST)

Aaaaanyway, the point of this tip is, if you know where your scene is going (AKA why you’re writing the scene and why it’s important to the fic at large) then everything will go a lot smoother for you!

Distractions--Get Rid of Them

The final tip is about distractions, and besides locking yourself in an empty room with a good playlist, I’ve got some helpful apps/sites that suck out any distraction. Obviously both free.

Fighter’s Block – Website, super cute. You decide how many words you wanna write, and you keep typing, or the dragon defeats you. A health bar goes down when you stop typing, and goes up when you keep typing, to keep those fingers on the keys. (Don’t worry, even if the health bar gets to 0, your writing will not disappear, and it’ll save it for a while, too.)

Focus Writer – Free downloadable app for your computer. Basically fills your whole screen with a blank page so you’ve got no distractions. Totally customizable, you can pick the font, upload a background pic, turn off spellcheck, set goals for the day that it’ll keep track of so you can set a streak. Saves your documents. Basically, if you don’t have MS word or any other writing program, you can totally use this for all your writing.

Both of these are really useful when you know what you want to write, but you just can’t focus. They help me, at least!

-

So, that’s all I’ve got! Again, this got way too long, but I hope it helps! If you’ve got any questions, shoot ‘em my way, and I’ll do my best to help out.

[ntrending]

Bruce Kirby's Laser sailboat | Popular Science

New Post has been published on https://nexcraft.co/bruce-kirbys-laser-sailboat-popular-science/

Bruce Kirby's Laser sailboat | Popular Science

On a slate-gray day in September, 89-year-old Bruce Kirby leans against the ­pinstriped first-mate’s seat of Lulu as it motors in slow circles on Long Island Sound. Just outside the elegantly varnished cockpit, a fleet of small sailboats races by, its formation loose and shifting. Kirby follows the boats through a pair of binoculars. One, Jack, belongs to him; he’d be out there competing if it weren’t for his ailing back. But all of the boats are Kirby’s design.

Known as Sonars, Kirby drew their shape in 1979 with a day just like this in mind. The Noroton Yacht Club, Kirby’s home port in the suburban town of Darien, Connecticut, wanted a craft for its members to race—something nimble and fast, but also sturdy and well-behaved. The Sonar is a “one-design boat,” meaning its specifications and equipment are governed by strict rules to ensure that competing in one is a test of skill, not money. Sailing remains a sport of the wealthy, and left unchecked, they can take things to extremes. The superyachts of the America’s Cup have nine-figure R&D budgets, and crews who wear crash helmets and body armor to protect themselves at new limits of speed and performance. In contrast, a used Sonar can be had for under $10,000, and is stable enough that it’s been used by Paralympians since the 2000 games. Out on the sound that afternoon, 37 boats are ­vying for the Sonar North American Championship, with a few former Olympians among the skippers. The whole event is buoyed by ­Kirby’s presence.

Kirby is a world-class sailor and Olympian himself—he represented Canada in ’56, ’64, and ’68—but he is most famous as the designer of a slew of boats known for their swiftness, and also their clarity and simplicity. The epitome of his ethos was a blockbuster, one that defined his career and the course of sailing more broadly: the ­single-​­person racing dinghy known as the Laser.

Back on land, Kirby looks on as the competitors come off the water, windblown and skipping toward the toilets. A collision left one Sonar with a dinner-plate-size hole in its stern, and Kirby leans in for a closer look. The regatta’s press person asks him to do it again for the camera. During the awards ceremony, organizers call Kirby up to the stage for pictures with the winners, and the photographer makes everyone take off their shades, “­except the rock star; he can leave his on.” The teasing is apt; among sailors, there are few bigger celebrities than Bruce Kirby. He comes by their affection honestly. His boats are a blast. “Who wants to design a slow boat?” Kirby likes to ask. “Or own one, for that matter.”

The wheel was a Neolithic invention. It appeared on the scene 5,000 or so years ago, part of a suite of advancements in agriculture. Sailboats came earlier. Australia was settled at least 50,000 years ago, and the first humans didn’t arrive on the continent by foot. Three thousand years ago, Odysseus himself was “sailing the winedark sea for ports of call on alien shores.” Christopher Columbus crossed the Atlantic, by sail, in 1492—marking the start of several hundred eventful years of wind-powered global travel. Only in the past 200 years have the steamship, ­internal-​­combustion engine, and jetliner erased the sailing ship’s primacy as a means of transportation. Sailboats themselves, however, have held on, not as necessity but as sport.

No surprise then that in 1969, when Bruce Kirby got a call from his friend, the Montreal-based industrial designer Ian Bruce, about drafting a new sailboat, the brief was for a piece of recreational equipment—a “car-topper” to go along with a line of outdoor gear (tents, cots, camping chairs) for the Hudson’s Bay Company retail chain. “I didn’t even know what a car-topper was,” Kirby recalls. The craft had to be easy to transport and rig in order to make it as painless as possible to get out on the water.

The dinghy wasn’t the first boat Kirby had dreamed up, but he wasn’t designing them full time. He was working as an editor at a sailing magazine, living (like now) on the Connecticut shore. As a designer, he was self-taught, nicking a copy of Skene’s Elements of Yacht Design, originally published in 1904, from a family friend and understanding, he estimates, about a third of it. But Kirby had “three-­dimensional eyeballs,” as he describes it; he had no trouble envisioning the shape of a hull. And as a world-class racer of small boats, he knew what a fast one should feel like.

Kirby sketched on ruled paper as they talked. When they hung up, he brought it to his 7-foot drawing board and began to tinker. He knew he had to “get the numbers right.” His first consideration was what’s known as the prismatic coefficient, which defines the shape of the vessel. Is it a tub or a knife? Or, in the language of yacht design, is the hull “full” or “fine”? A rectangular barge has a prismatic coefficient of 1 because its hull entirely fills the prism made by its length, beam (or width), and draft (its depth). Most sailboats have a coefficient between 0.5 and 0.6, meaning about half that volume. If the prismatic coefficient is too high—if the boat is too fat—it will be slow, especially in light wind. But if the coefficient is too low—if the boat is too skinny—it will slice through the waves rather than ride up on top of them, or “plane.” A sailboat that planes well is fast, but more important, it’s fun. High up out of the water, wind and sail become more than the sum of their parts. Kirby settled on 0.55, a just-right number to make a well-balanced boat: fast but stable, neither too tippy nor too tubby.

But only if the sailor worked for it. Dinghies depend on “live ballast,” i.e., a person leaning, or “hiking,” out over the side. A big sail makes a boat zip, if its sailor can keep it flat. Basic physics says that their ability to do so depends on their weight, which of course varies from person to person. So, Kirby had a second number to choose: the ratio of sail size to the hull’s displacement, which depends on the weight of the boat plus its human. Kirby dialed in his ­dinghy to perform best with 180 pounds of flesh—in his words, “a good-size guy working like hell to go fast.” The decision was in part selfish; it described Kirby at the time.

Within a couple of weeks, Kirby had a sketch for Bruce. “He was in a bit of a hurry,” Kirby says. When Hudson’s Bay decided against selling a boat at all, Kirby told Bruce to hold on to the design: “I put a little more oomph in the boat than you asked for. It’s going to be a pretty hot little boat if we ever have a chance to build it.”

The chance came soon enough. In October 1970, Kirby’s magazine planned a promotional regatta for sailboats that cost less than $1,000, to be held at the Playboy Club in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Kirby and Bruce built a prototype of the car-topper and rigged it for the first time the day of the race. They came in second place. The bend of the mast didn’t match the shape of the sail, so they recut the cloth that night and won the next day’s contest. The little boat was fast and looked it, with a low profile that kept sailors close to the water. Spectators tried to buy it right off the beach.

Back home, the friends began work on a second prototype, mailing plans back and forth across the border. They built it with an adjustable mast so they could play with different configurations. By December, it was ready for final testing. Doing laps on Lake Saint-Louis near Montreal, they moved the mast forward a few inches, cut its height, and took a foot off the end of the boom, looking for just the right feel. By the end of the cold weekend, they decided their hot little dinghy—13 feet, 10½ inches long—was ready for market. All it needed was a name. At a celebratory dinner, a sailing friend—a McGill University student—​­suggested it should be something youthful and international. “Why don’t you call it something like ­‘Laser’?” he asked.

Ian Bruce had a small boatbuilding shop, and the men decided that he would manufacture the dinghy, while Kirby would receive royalties for the design. Bruce priced it at $695. At the New York Boat Show the next month, they collected orders for 144 Lasers. “We didn’t know what the hell was happening,” Kirby recalls.

There were societal factors at play. Postwar prosperity and the construction of new highways led to a boom in ­second-​home ownership in the 1960s and ’70s. Many of those new residences were along lakes and reservoirs, and there were more of those too: Between 1933 and 1968, the Tennessee Valley Authority created more than 10,000 miles of new shoreline, while the Bureau of Land Management created 200 reservoirs. A new swath of the middle class could afford a lake house and, apparently, were ready for an inexpensive sailboat to go with it.

As intended, the Laser was cheap and easy to transport, rig, and bang into a dock. “From a technology standpoint, it’s a very simple boat, and just a great, great boat to learn how to sail fast,” says Scott MacLeod, a sailor at the Noro­ton Yacht Club who twice won the North American collegiate Singlehanded Championship in a Laser—1983 and 1985—and topped out at seventh place in the Worlds.

Laser sailors first organized themselves into an international class in 1974, codifying Kirby’s design into strictly defined specs, and setting the craft on a path toward the Olympics, where it debuted in Atlanta in 1996. In the ’80s, the introduction of a smaller sail, known as the Radial, allowed lighter sailors to be competitive in heavy winds, and became the standard for women’s Laser racing. The sport of sailing is said to be in perpetual decline, but Laser racing has persisted. The 2018 Laser Masters World Championships, held in Dún Laoghaire, Ireland, had 302 entries from 25 countries. (The apogee was the 1980 Laser Worlds, in Kingston, Ontario, a legendary event with 350 entries.) But there are also thousands of smaller weekend regattas, held everywhere from Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn, New York, to the Victoria Nyanza Sailing Club in Kampala, Uganda.

All told, more than 220,000 Lasers have been built by licensed manufacturers on five continents. (Ian Bruce sold his boatbuilding business in the 1980s. He died in 2016.) With the exception of alternative rigs with smaller sails, like the Radial, the Laser has hardly changed. There have been slight upgrades, each one documented and approved in a “construction manual” maintained by the International Laser Class Association, a kind of worldwide club of Laser sailors. Each Laser factory is audited for conformity.

“Because it’s such a one-design boat, it really comes down to the sailor,” says Sarah Douglas, a contender for the Canadian 2020 Olympic sailing team who recently came in sixth at the Laser Worlds. “It’s not equipment differences or sail differences; it comes down to what the sailor is able to do out on the water,” she says. “At the end of the day, you can’t blame your boat. It’s just you. It is all you.”

For decades, Kirby and his wife, Margo, lived in a house on Connecticut’s little Five Mile River, just upstream from where it empties into Long Island Sound. It had a deepwater dock out the back, and Kirby’s Laser—sail number 0—was laid out on the lawn. (It’s now at the Mystic Seaport Museum.) But recently they moved a few blocks away, to a more modest Colonial with a two-car garage. There are still moving boxes to unpack, yet the walls are already hung with old photos of Kirby sailing his designs, and boat models known as half hulls mounted on plaques. The Laser gets pride of place. Next to the front door, there’s a framed action shot of the “hot little boat” at its best: in the sail position known as a reach, with spray skirting off the bow as if it had a jet engine underneath.

The Laser’s simplicity makes it something like the platonic ideal of a sailboat, like a child’s drawing with a line and a triangle—but enabled by the postwar innovations of fiberglass (for its hull), aluminum (for its mast), and Dacron (for its sail). It is the sort of definitive and lasting design that comes around only rarely, such as the iPhone or five-pocket bluejeans. Except bluejeans and iPhones are constantly being tweaked, evolving along with human taste or ingenuity. Each change widens the aperture of possibility. The object does a new thing, looks a new way, or serves a new purpose.

But a Laser is a sailboat. It moves by the power of the wind along the surface of the water, a function that hasn’t changed in millennia. Granted, Lasers rarely go anywhere, except in circles. They satisfy a basic human desire for speed and competition, each high on the hierarchy of pleasures. It’s all the more remarkable, then, that among innumerable variations of small sailboats over all time, the precise design of the Laser has ridden up on the wave of history, and stayed there, for 50 years—and counting.

This article was originally published in the Spring 2019 Transportation issue of Popular Science.

Written By Andrew Blum

[justsomebucky]

Ten Years (Part 10)

Summary: AU. When a major account is on the line at work, reader is forced to revisit some old connections at her ten year high school reunion for a chance at success. Will she let the past consume her, or will she see the future in her grasp?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 2,786

Warnings: language, fluff, confrontation

A/N: Tags are closed. This part was over 4K words long, so I split it into two. I’m sorry. Reader takes some steps to make everything right again, but Bucky Barnes is nowhere to be found.

You have always hated Mondays.

It wasn’t so much that a new work week was starting, although that certainly didn’t help.

No, your hatred of Mondays went a little deeper than that.

It all started with Sunday nights. Sundays were the bane of your existence, to put it mildly. Everything about them felt uncomfortable, like you were waiting for your freedom to be taken from your grasp. You’d watch as it was dragged away to a slow, painful death, with the clock ticking the hours down relentlessly. You never slept well on Sunday nights, either. It sort of felt like the last night of summer vacation before a new school year started, only it happened once a week.

That feeling lent itself to your hatred of Mondays. You were always tired from not sleeping well the night before, you were sad that the weekend was over, and you had five whole days until you had the chance to be free again.

As you got older, it shifted to include a new facet of hatred: each Monday became symbolic for your lack of a meaningful relationship.

Sam would show up and talk about this great time he had with friends. Wanda would come strolling in with another hopeless romantic story. It seemed had something going on that would make the Monday headlines at work except you. There were only so many times you could smile and say, ‘Nothing exciting happened, how was your weekend?’

This was the first Monday morning in your entire life that you dreaded the question, ‘How was your weekend?’ because of events that actually happened, instead of what didn’t happen.

When you arrived on the seventh floor that particular Monday morning, you kept your eyes straight ahead. Maybe if you walked in like nothing had happened, no news would be good news, and you’d make it through the day without issue.

Sam Wilson naturally had a different idea. “Hey, Big Shot! How’d it go?” he asked cheerfully.

The tone he used was so infuriating, but you knew he couldn’t help it. Never in his wildest dreams could he have guessed the drama that went down last Saturday.

“Fine,” you muttered, logging into your laptop.

Right away, you had two goals to accomplish. The first was to draft a memo to management to explain Bucky’s lead on the new bid, along with Pepper’s contact information.

The second goal was to draft your resignation letter.

“You don’t sound fine to me.” Sam pushed his wheeled chair over to you, reading over your shoulder. “Whoa, a memo already? You got the meeting? That’s great, Y/N!”

“Yeah.” Was he going to do this the whole time?

“Hold up. Is it that they won’t let you participate, or are you removing yourself?”

“Is there something I can help you with, Sam?” you asked in a fake, sugary-sweet voice. “Because I’m here trying to concentrate. I don’t need a play-by-play on what I’m writing.”

“You can’t let them remove you from the meeting, Y/N, it was your score for the company.” One look at Sam’s face proved he was dead serious. You knew he meant well, but he just didn’t have the details.

You shook your head, eyes flitting back to the screen. “It’s Bucky’s meeting to run.”

“That’s not right, do you want me to go to-“

“I’m quitting, Sam,” you interrupted, turning in your chair to look at him again. “After everything that happened this weekend, I realized that I just don’t belong here. I don’t want to work here anymore.”

He stared at you, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he found his voice. “Quitting? What are you going to do for work then?”

“I haven’t thought that part out yet,” you admitted, turning back to the screen. “I’m sure I’ll find something. It’s a big city, right?”

You meant to think of something on Sunday, but you’d spent the whole day lying in bed with Mr. Fuzzypants, feeling sorry for yourself instead. It was most definitely hypocritical after the pep talk you’d had with yourself on the way home from Long Island, but you were just so tired.

Wanda had tried calling you for details. Your parents had called to ask how it had gone. Your sister messaged you on Facebook to find out why you hadn’t posted any updates with your ‘sexy boyfriend,’ and worst of all, the reunion page began posting pictures of everyone, making you relive it over and over again.

You had ignored them all, not wanting to talk to anyone. You shut off your phone, stayed off of Facebook, and had a Netflix marathon all day.

Secretly, you’d been hoping to hear from Bucky, though. You couldn’t tell if it was an ego thing, or if you’d grown so used to his company that you just missed him, but when he didn’t call, you added that to your pity party reasons.

“Thought what out yet?”

You cringed. Wanda was here, right on time, for her update in person.

“Y/N got the meeting with Stark, and yet she’s quitting,” Sam filled her in.

“WHAT!?” she shouted.

Every single person nearby stopped to see what was wrong with Wanda. She waved her hand sheepishly at them, before moving into your cube to lean against your desk, arms crossed indignantly. “You’re quitting? What the hell happened this weekend, Y/N?”

Since you obviously weren’t going to be able to accomplish your goals here, you saved your progress and shut your laptop. “We got the meeting, and after that, I realized I didn’t want to work here anymore.”

“But why? You probably just saved the entire company, let alone your own job!” Her eyes were huge, and she looked so confused. “This is a huge deal for you. This will get you noticed from people at the top!”

You leaned back in your chair. “There were conditions to getting a meeting. Long story short, I can’t be on the account because of my connections. It wasn’t just Natasha that I know at Stark Industries. So, if Wakanda, Inc. expects to get a meeting, I have to step away. They don’t want any more trouble over this.”

She shook her head. “That isn’t fair, though, you worked really hard, and-“

“I didn’t, though,” you refuted, grabbing your laptop and standing up to move past them. “I didn’t work really hard. Bucky did. To be honest, I took every chance I got to make life harder at the reunion. So, if you’ll just excuse me…” You turned to leave, not wanting to continue this conversation right now.

Sam and Wanda were left staring at your retreating form in disbelief.

---

Luckily, the fifth floor, the one with all the accountants, the floor that Bucky had sent you to on your first day of work as a hazing joke, had a rarely-used conference room. The only reason you knew it existed was because of your little elevator adventure with him months ago.

The memo about the meeting took less than five minutes to finish, and you clicked send with a breath of relief. You reread the last two lines again:

At the request of Pepper Potts, Tony Stark’s top assistant and Chief Operating Officer, I am withdrawing my name from the management of this account. Bucky Barnes will remain as the lead manager, and I am certain that with his guidance, Wakanda, Inc. will receive a contract with Stark within the week.

The entire account manager team, including Bucky and T’Challa, were copied on it. Bucky received all the credit, and you meant what you said about his ability to land the deal.

Your resignation was kept short and sweet, too. In it, you thanked management and T’Challa for the experience and opportunity to work at Wakanda, Inc., and mentioned that you felt it would benefit your career and personal life to move on. You wished everyone good fortune for the future as a closing line.

This one was a little harder to send.

It was scary to jump off into the unknown, especially with rent and other bills due each month. It’s not like your savings account was loaded. What if you didn’t find anything? You could always move to Florida with your parents, you supposed, or to California with your sister.

New York City was the greatest love of your life so far, though, and you didn’t want to leave. Your final paycheck from Wakanda, plus vacation payout, could buy you some time to job hunt.

At the last second, you added another contact to the email under bcc. With a single click, you sent your resignation off to management.

You let your head fall onto your arms on the desk, just needing a moment to yourself.

---

When you made your way back to your desk, you had not only your work laptop with you, which you were going to strip of personal pictures and data, but you also had a giant empty box for your belongings.

Unfortunately, your plan to clean out your desk and sneak away to T’Challa’s office was put on hold. There were about ten people, including Wanda, Sam, and T’Challa, milling around your cube.

“There she is!” Sam pointed at you, standing up at his desk.

“Where did you run off to?” Wanda asked, her eyes frantic. “We’ve been looking everywhere!”

Damn, rumors spread fast here. You turned to T’Challa. “Sir, I take it you got my memo?”

He nodded. “I also received the second note, but we can discuss that later. For now, I need to know where Barnes is.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“He didn’t show up for work today. He put in a request for a sick day and didn’t say another word about it. He’s not answering his work phone or his personal number. If we truly have a shot with this meeting, I need him in here ASAP.”

“Maybe he is sick.” You shrugged and moved through the small crowed to your desk, setting the laptop and box down. “If he called off, I’m sure he had a good reason. I’m not his keeper.”

“You both returned the rental car yesterday morning. He didn’t mention calling off to you then?”

“I didn’t come back with him,” you admitted, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I caught a ride back to the city Saturday night.”

There was a low murmur among the group, and you immediately felt your face heat up. Now everyone was definitely going to be spreading gossip about this weekend. You were almost relieved that you were quitting, if only to avoid this office bullcrap.

“Can we discuss this in your office?” you asked your boss quietly.

T’Challa shook his head. “I have to get some people started on this pitch for Stark, I don’t have time to play babysitter. Your resignation is not accepted until you find Barnes.” He turned on his heel, and everyone but Wanda and Sam shuffled after him.

Wanda turned to you the second they were out of earshot. “You didn’t even ride back with him? What the hell happened on Saturday, Y/N?”

“This is bad,” you muttered, ignoring her as anxiety began to seep into your system. “What if something happened to him? It’s so unlike him-”

“Earth to Y/N!” Sam called out. “Start with his emergency contacts.”

“You’re right,” you breathed out, sitting down and opening your laptop. You found the number for the HR department, and explained over the phone that you’d been tasked by T’Challa to find an emergency contact for Bucky.

They gave you his parents’ number in Connecticut, and a number for Steve Rogers, his best friend, also in Connecticut.

You leaned back the second you hung up. “I don’t want to call his parents. I’ll try Steve.”

Wanda and Sam weren’t about to let you work to find Bucky in peace, so you let them listen in on your side of the conversation. You used your personal cell to call Steve.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Steve? Steve Rogers?”

“Yes. May I ask who is calling?”

This was so weird. You felt like you were digging too far into the realm of what was allowed for a coworker-slash-fake-girlfriend. “Steve, this is Y/N. I know we don’t know each other. I’m calling because-“

“Y/N! No way,” he spoke over your voice happily. “I was wondering when I would get to talk to you! Bucky went on and on about you the other night, and I kept trying to ask when he was going to bring you home to Connecticut, but he avoided the subject.”

“Steve, I need to know-“

“He adores you, by the way. I can hear it in his voice. The pictures you guys take are great, too. He talks about you like you set the stars in the sky. I know getting to know him probably wasn’t easy for you, but I’m so glad he has you. He’s been so hurt before, and-“

“STEVE!” You couldn’t handle his friendly rambling anymore. Time was of the essence here. “I need to know if you’ve heard from Bucky in the last two days!?”

“You mean you haven’t heard from him either?”

“He didn’t come to work today. No one can reach him.”

“Have you tried his mobile?”

“Our boss has,” you confirmed, pressing your lips together in a thin line.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Why haven’t you? Did you guys have a fight?”

“Something like that. Listen, I need to know if you have any other way to find him.”

“Have you tried his apartment?”

No, no one had tried there. You smacked your hand against your forehead in frustration. “I don’t know where he lives,” you admitted sheepishly.

“W-what? How can you date someone and not know where he lives?”

“It’s a long story, Steve. I promise I’ll explain everything, but for now, can you please give me his address?”

“Okay, but I expect answers.”

You motioned for Sam to hand you paper and a pen, and when he did, you took down Bucky’s address as Steve recited it.

“Thank you Steve, I promise we’ll clear everything up. I just have to find him first!” You hit the big red end call button before he could say another word.

“Do you want us to come with you?” Wanda asked gently.

“No. I’ve got to find him on my own.” You gave her a sad smile. “If he really is just ditching work, I have a feeling that I’m part of the reason he didn’t want to come here today. I’ve got to make things right. Thank you both, though.”

“If you need us, we’re here,” Sam added.

With a sharp nod, you grabbed your bag and took off for the elevators, clutching Bucky’s address in your hand.

---

His apartment was empty, as far as you could tell. No one came to the door when you knocked, and no one was shuffling around inside. As you left the lobby, you stopped to ask the doorman if he saw Bucky leave earlier this morning. The doorman had seen him leave, but there had been no sign of Bucky since.

You trudged back out on to the street. It was a little bit windy today, but otherwise it was warm enough to go traipsing the city for that idiot coworker of yours, assuming he was even still here.

Facebook was the only other connection you had to him at the moment. He was still listed as your boyfriend, and you had access to see his recent activity. But, when you pulled up his page in your mobile app, there was nothing new. No check-ins, no pictures, no activity of any kind.

This was so unlike him to ditch work and disappear, so out-of-character that even his best friend couldn’t predict where he would go or understand why he was doing this. You were starting to get anxious with worry again, so you headed for the one place in the city where you could sit and think.

And let’s be real, you’d take any chance you could get to see your beloved Lincoln Center Fountain, even if for a moment.

Just as the corner of the fountain came into view, your breath hitched in your throat at the sight before you.

Your eyes locked on his figure almost immediately. He was so familiar to you now, you could pick him out in a crowd with ease.

Bucky Barnes was sitting at the edge of the fountain, leaning with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. He was staring up at the Met.

You hesitated for just a moment, then started walking toward him.

---

Part 11

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[cinnamonbuneliza]

Disney

John Laurens x Alexander Hamilton Words: 2,149 This was going to be my first fic for the Hamwriters Write-a-Thon but i came up with a better idea, meaning i can post this now!

I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it. 

As well as working on my Write-a-Thon stories, i’m hard at work on requests, school music stuff and a lot of other things! I promise i’m not abandoning my writing duties, but i am busy with a lot of other things at the moment. 

I’m going to post the next chapter of Youtube soon, so look out for that!

but concluding this short post, i’m super excited for you guys to see what i’ve been working on! I love you all xx

keep your requests coming!

Masterlist

~

A kiss under the fireworks at Disneyland was all John and Alexander could wish for.  Unfortunately, life got in the way.

Five years into their relationship and stuck with two children… well not stuck, exactly. John and Alexander had begged their friend Eliza to be a surrogate for the two children, as they figured it would fill the emptiness of their house. However, Eliza was busy with her engagement to her girlfriend, Maria Reynolds, when they had first asked.

John remembered standing outside of Eliza’s house and getting down on one knee, begging for her help. He remembered tugging on her arm and whining, letting all the words inside his brain loose as he tried to convince her. He never had been good at persuading, or talking in general, that was Alexander’s thing.

After many days of John’s incessant pleading, Eliza finally agreed. Nine months later, the Hamilton-Laurens family was blessed with a little girl: Charlotte.

Her face splattered with freckles, much like John’s, and her eyes were a rich mocha colour. Alexander often pretended that they came from his side of the genes. John often had to remind him that that was impossible, to which Alexander remarked:

“Nothing is impossible John, and I should know. I managed to get with the most beautiful man on the planet.”

John’s cheeks would always redden at that statement.

But as the two men soon realised, raising a child was expensive. Things like school, clothes and recreational activities sucked their bank accounts dry. Their beloved dream of the kiss at Disney postponed itself, along with several other dreams that were pushed out of their heads by the loud crying of their newborn baby.

It was Charlotte’s first day of school that brought the two men back to their previously empty state.

“John, I think I have an idea… you feel the emptiness as well, right?”

“I feel like my only child has left us forever. Today, she starts school. Tomorrow, she’s smoking drugs and dancing for money… oh god what have we done?”

“Woah! Our child will not be participating in drugs, or dancing for small amounts of money. If we raised her correctly, and I’m sure we did-“

“You dropped her as a baby.”

“Then we’ll be absolutely fine. Besides, it was only a second on the floor… plus no one saw it, so that counts for something right?”

John shook his head in amusement, getting back into the car. “No, it does not count for anything. But, I think we’ve gone off track. Can you fill me in on this idea?” He asked, resting his head against the steering wheel, jumping when the horn went off.

Alexander snickered. “And you call me the bad parent,” He muttered, climbing in the car and leaning back in the passenger seat. “Don’t give me an answer yet, just… think about it?”

John nodded, turning to Alexander and taking his hands.

“So I was thinking, maybe now that Charlotte will be at school and I’ll be at work, you might start to feel a little lonely around the house. Maybe we could let someone new join our family?” Alexander suggested.

“We’re finally getting a dog?” John asked excitedly. Alex chuckled, shaking his head.

“No, I meant let’s have another baby,” He replied, squeezing John’s hand. “Can you imagine it? I would bring Charlotte home and you would be sitting in the new baby’s room, feeding him or her while you rub your eyes…”

“I don’t exactly want to go through the whole child thing again Alexander. I lost so much sleep, we lost so much money, and we lost Disney. Do you remember the first time we planned that trip? I had the perfect proposal planned… but suddenly you lost sight of that and you got caught up in this whole children thing. You said that children would fill the holes in our lives, make us happy… but I just feel lost,” John said, letting out a soft sigh at the end. “It’s not that I don’t love Charlotte, it’s just… I have so many other things I want to achieve before I find myself with another child in my arms.”

The smile on Alexander’s face fell. He dropped John’s hands, looking down at his feet. “I understand,” He mumbled, glancing out the window with a longing in his heart.

As the weeks went by, John slowly saw less and less of Alexander. His head would poke out of his office every now and then, demanding food or water. Sometimes, Alexander would stay at work until the early hours of the morning.

John would try his best to try and distract Charlotte from his strange behaviours, but he never had been good with children. His feeble attempts did nothing to take his child’s mind off her missing father.

John had been cooking dinner when the questions began. Charlotte, who was usually playing with her toys most of the time, had made her way to the kitchen and managed to seat herself on one of the stools. “Daddy, where’s Papa?” She asked softly, fiddling with her sleeves as she glanced up at her father.

John thought for a moment. He couldn’t tell her the truth, for he didn’t know that himself. So John decided to use the most realistic lie he could come up with.

“He’s buying you a present to celebrate your second month of school. But you can’t tell him I told you, okay? You have to act surprised when we give it to you.”

A wide smile spread on Charlotte’s face. She seemed to believe the lies that spilled from his lips, that was good enough for John. He knew now he would have to buy her a present, which didn’t help their financial situation greatly, but he would do anything for that girl.

“That’s exciting Daddy! When will he be home?” Charlotte asked, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Soon, princess. I promise he’ll be home soon.”

But soon took its time to arrive. Soon turned into days, and then into weeks. Finally, on the anniversary of Alexander’s disappearance, the door swung open and in walked John’s long lost husband.

John didn’t know what to do when their eyes met. He wanted to embrace Alexander, and he wanted to press their lips together and feel the fiery love they held together. The other half of John wanted to punch him in the jaw and lock him out of the house. But John couldn’t make a decision, and so he stood in the kitchen, frozen.

Alexander gulped, taking off his bag and hanging it on the coat stand. “We need to talk,” He said, taking a seat on the couch closest to the door. He was ready to run again at any given moment.

“I agree. You missed a lot considering that you left for a month,” John said, biting down hard on his lip. He had no idea what to say to the man in front of him. The one thing he knew was, this was not the same person he fell in love with.

John took a seat on the couch opposite to Alexander and fiddled with the hem of his shirt absentmindedly. The two sat in silence for a moment, until Alexander decided to clear his throat.

“John, I’ve been keeping a big secret from you, and I need to let it out. Do you remember the day I asked you about a second child?”

A nod.

“Well, I wasn’t in the right mind that day. I made a terrible decision and I know the outcome of it is going to hurt you and Eliza…”

John raised his eyebrow. What did Eliza have to do with this?

Alexander paused, taking a long and deep breath. “We have another baby on the way… but this one was an accident. I… I had sex with Eliza’s wife.”

In life, we often have moments when the world around us falls apart. For John, this was his moment. He felt tears running down his cheek as he tried to figure out what to say. He never was good with words. That was Alexander’s thing…

But now, as John found himself alone in the world again, he realised he would have to learn.

“I’d like it if you left. Please make sure you take all of your things, and don’t speak to Charlotte. I will explain this to her at a later date. I’m sure you can stay with Gilbert until you’re back on your feet.”

Alexander’s mouth opened for a second, but then it shut again. For the first time in a long time, the man was without words. So in the silence of the situation, he stood and picked up his bag, leaving the house with a slam of the front door.

That was when John realised he was truly alone.

Two years had passed since John and Alexander’s split. John had decided that for Charlotte’s seventh birthday, he would do what him and Alexander had never managed to do. He would take her to Disneyland.

Unfortunately, John would not be able to propose as the fireworks shot into the sky, but he could spend the day with his princess.

If there was one thing John learnt from Alexander, it was that fairytales are make believe. Nothing that comes out of them is true or realistic. Their love was like a fairytale… it was fake, and broken behind the scenes. None of the Disney writers had perfect lives. That’s why Disney movies are filled with so many villains.

As they walked through the gate, a wide smile spread on John’s face. He had finally made it. He could cross something off his bucket list. He squeezed Charlotte’s hand, walking further into the park.

“So what do you want to do first princess?” John asked, looking down at his daughter whose face carried a massive grin.

“The teacups Daddy!” Charlotte exclaimed, smiling her toothless smile. That made John smile too.

The two made their way to the iconic ride, waiting in line for what seemed like forever in the summer’s heat. When they were finally let inside, John frowned slightly as he saw no spare seats. He looked around, smirking when he spotted the final empty cup. He picked Charlotte up, carrying her to it but freezing when he realised another family had the same idea.

A man and his small child climbed into the cup before John could even protest. John sighed, knowing the only thing he could do was join the stranger. He wasn’t very good at socialising… that was Alexander’s…

That was Alexander.

John cautiously stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Uh, hey stranger. Mind if we join you?” He asked softly, putting his hand on the edge of the cup.

Alexander looked up, and for a moment, his eyes filled with fear. He nodded slowly, opening the door of the cup and allowing John and Charlotte to slide in next to them.

The park was filled with cheery music, but the only thing that John could hear was the deafening silence between the two of them. He sighed, deciding to make the first move. “It’s been a while.”

“It has.”

“How have you been?”

“...good.”

Charlotte sighed. “Daddy, be nice to Papa. I miss him. Maybe if you’re nice, he’ll come back,” She huffed, crossing her arms.

Both men softened their gazes, turning to each other. John felt like he had fallen in love all over again. He had promised himself that he would never fall for Alexander again, but once their eyes met, he was helpless.

“I missed you. A lot. The house wasn’t the same without you,” John whispered, placing his hand on top of Alexander’s.

“T-This is John. Well, John Junior. I call him JJ for short,” Alexander mumbled, patting the head of the three year old beside him.

“Why would you name him John?” John asked in confusion.  “I thought I meant nothing to you.”

“Well, you deleted all the pictures of us from social media, so I had nothing to remind me that you were once mine. I named him John so I could remember how horrible I had been to you… so that I could realise that I was the one at fault. But... even though he’s not our child, I wanted to honour you. Because I know for a fact, you’re a better father, and person, than I’ll ever be.”

A few tears managed to make their way out of John’s eyes. He wiped them quickly as a small smile creeped onto his face.

“M-Maybe we could spend the rest of the day with each other? A-As a family?”

“I’d love that.”

[1989dreamer]

Writer’s Commentary for: HKN, Five-Two Count, Perfect, and ixnay on the ickenchay

This is the writer’s commentary I did for my four stories:

HKN

Five-Two Count

Perfect

ixnay on the ickenchay

Warning: what the writer was thinking and doing may damage view of story. Or it might enhance it. Whichever works for you.

HKN

Disclaimer: I own nothing from Teen Wolf, Facebook™ or Youtube™

No Beta--all mistakes are my own.

Note: I know nothing about knitting. I researched a bit, but I’m sure I’ve gotten it all wrong, so please, don’t hesitate to correct any mistakes you find.

From this post.

Taken from bleep0bleep's prompt: au in which derek hale, professional knitter, has a popular youtube channel where he teaches everything from beginner’s stitches to complicated tutorials for all types of knitwear. his most popular video is the one where he knits a sweater for himself and puts it on to test the fit, and when he takes it off his shirt comes off with it.

Many thanks to all who participated in that post; I haven't finished a fic in quite some time (or in such short time--eight and a half days!).

--

“So, if you hold the project like this,” Hot Knitting Neighbor says, demonstrating as he moves his hands back and forth, showing the camera exactly what he’s doing, “place your right hand needle through the first stitch. Pull it through, loop it, and there! Voilà! You’ve done the first step of your bind-off! Okay, now do the second stitch. Once you’ve got two on the right hand needle, use the left hand needle to pull the first stitch over the second and off the needle. Continue like this until you’ve reached the end of your project. Now, once you’ve got only one stitch left on your right hand needle, set aside your left hand needle. You can trim down the tail of your project until it’s about fifteen-and-a-half centimeters, like so, and then loosen the final stitch. Pull it off the needle, wrap the tail around it and tuck the end through the loop. Pull it tight and there you are! If you need to trim the tail further, you can. All right! That’s all I have today. So, enjoy the rest of your day, and remember, keep knitting, your projects need you!”

(Voilà was supposed to be Derek’s catchphrase. It was just something he would say when he transitioned something, like “Here you have a nearly completed thing. Do this and, magic! Now you have a fully completed thing.” The way he talks the viewer through the bind off process is based off of me watching instructional videos (which do not have much if any talking) and putting the visuals into words. The sign off is based off the TV shows I used to watch as a kid (and American Top 40 with Casey Kasem) where there is a signature send off for every episode.)

Stiles stares down at the mess of yarn, a pretty green that had matched Hot Knitting Neighbor’s eyes in the first video. He sighs dramatically, casting it aside to click back to the previous link, which taught how to knit in patterns. He was trying to make a potholder for his father. And who better to teach him than Hot Knitting Neighbor, a totally chill and swell dude with killer style and sweet needle-moves?

(How did Stiles discover Derek’s videos? One of them went viral. It’s never really stated that the family deflects calls from local news stations that want to know why Derek started knitting, where he gets his ideas from, all those sorts of things. Talk shows, man.)

Of course, he could have just asked the grandmotherly owner of Nana’s Knitters where he picked out the yarn with a bit of advice from said owner. She often sits at her counter and knits while she watches everyone in her store like a hawk. Although, having her teach him would have meant that Stiles wouldn’t need to watch HKN and that’s not something he wants to deal with right now.

To be honest, despite not really catching onto to the whole knitting thing, Stiles likes watching the videos of Hot Knitting Neighbor—his Youtube channel, not that he’s not, y’know, hot. ‘Cause he is, like whoa! Temperature a billion and one degrees and Stiles has seriously actually jerked off listening to HKN describe how to make a rose out of needles and yarn.

Anyway, the videos; Stiles likes them. HKN doesn’t make anyone feel like an idiot and always links back to his previous videos. Over time, nearly five years and almost two hundred videos, the camera gets better and HKN gets more comfortable, needles clacking contentedly as he explains this stitch or that pattern or his favorite movies and games and songs. Sometimes, he sings as he knits, conversing with himself and serenading a handful of pregnant (always the same one) or angry looking women (although, they only look angry, really HKN treats them as if they are pleasant as peas) as they pass through his videos. He never introduces them, just says, “I’m filming today. See?”

(Once Stiles discovered the videos, he back-watched them all. I will often skim and watch videos on channels that I like. My brothers, however, once spent a few weeks watching dozens of videos a day just to catch up on a channel they loved. It makes me feel like Stiles is acting within the realm of reality.)

The oldest, and never pregnant (and almost never angry), woman often stops to watch him work before kissing his head and moving on. It reminds Stiles of his mom and he pauses the video whenever it happens, just to clear his eyes and maybe stare at the way HKN closes his eyes and leans back into her touch.

HKN’s real name is Derek, but Stiles never calls him that around his friends. He always calls him by his acronym, but he knows they’re suspicious. Especially when he starts begging off meetings on Thursdays as HKN typically uploads a new video that day.

(Now, why no one else tried to watch a video just to get the name of the vlogger Stiles is obsessed with comes down to the simple fact that none of them are as interested in HKN as Stiles. This, I find, is true within groups. Often, the fandoms I follow are vastly different from those of even my best friend and I cannot get into their fandoms just as they cannot get into mine. So, another reality marker.)

Scott and Kira are usually the loudest protestors to Stiles skipping date-dates, but he always points out his date-less nature and points at each couple in turn. It’s actually gotten to the point where Stiles says, “Today is Thursday,” and Scott responds with, “Date-night. Have fun with HKN.”

This Thursday, he’s ducked out of a group date where he would be the seventh or ninth wheel to his friends—he doesn’t know if Erica and Boyd are joining the groupings again as he always manages to miss the group thing. He wanted to finish the potholder, before he royally screwed it up, and of course, watch the main attraction.

When he checks HKN’s channel, he finds a new video uploaded about two hours ago. If he hadn’t been at work two hours ago, he would have lamented the missing of the posting.

As it is, he feels vindicated for skipping hanging with his friends. They have him on the weekends. No one needs to see Drunk Stiles on Thursdays, especially since he works early on Fridays and can’t actually get drunk but might attempt it if he’s a seventh or ninth wheel.

Stiles puts the ruined potholder back in its box and clicks on the newest video. He sets it to his preferred settings and lets it buffer a bit while he tucks the box on his project shelf. HKN’s idea: have a space where one can keep all the projects one works on so nothing gets buried by life. Ignored, yes, forgotten, no.

(Some advice Derek got from Deaton.)

The video opens with blurry focus that slowly sharpens as Derek’s opening titles—his name and the current project and date—flash across the screen.

Derek waves at the camera, grinning.

“Hi, I’m Derek, and today I’m going to teach you how to make a sweater. Now, the major difference between a sweater and a sweatshirt is that a sweater is knitted together while a sweatshirt is sewn together, whether or not those pieces are knitted. Often times, another distinction between sweaters and sweatshirts is that a sweater can be opened in the front. Usually by way of zippers or buttons. Sweatshirts are not as easily opened. But, I digress. Anyway, for this project you’ll need to select your needle size. Since I’m going for a more ‘store-bought’ look, I’ve chosen a size one-point-five needle set. You’ll also want to have the circular set. This will be especially helpful as you knit the collar. And you won’t have to stitch together two pieces of ‘cloth.’ Bonus!”

On screen, Derek scoots his chair back, showing off the skeins of maroon yarn lined up on his desk. He points to each one, a total of ten.

(These skeins are definitely maroon.)

“Ten is maybe a bit generous,” he admits with a laugh, “but the color was so pretty! And I promised to make Laura another baby blanket with what’s left over. Also, this is the high end stuff.” He plucks an end out and shows it to the camera. “It’s really fine. Because I’m trying to make the sweater look as store bought as possible. With the baby blanket, I’ll probably double up the yarn. If you remember,” he waves at the corner of the video over his right shoulder and a link-box pops up, “I did that with the other two blankets, but with different colors. Laura has until I’m done with this project to choose if she wants another color in there. You can leave suggestions in the comments.”

He sits back, casting on easily and starting to wrap yarn in elegant fashion.  He explains what he’s doing and momentarily stops so he can gesture over his left shoulder for a link back to the tutorial on circular knitting. Stiles absolutely doesn’t stare at his fingers as they move. Nope. Not a bit. After he straightens his stitches and starts knitting in earnest, he starts talking again, saying, “Now, this is going to take a bit longer than normal. My sister’s graduation is coming up, so is my parents’ anniversary. And it’s a longer project with all the intricacies. But, don’t worry. You’ll get to see every step of the project. I just might not upload all the videos right away. Anyway, excitement! There’s a surprise at the end of this project! I’ll have more details closer to the end of the project so stay tuned.”

He settles into his groove quickly, humming a bit as he keeps knitting. He’s going so fast. Already Stiles is certain he won’t take as long as he’s planning. Even with the interruptions he spoke about. Someone knocks on the door that is perpetually off screen, and Derek sets aside his knitting to embrace the (again) pregnant lady, who steps into frame.

(It’s never quite clear, but the setup of Derek’s room means the door is off to his right. His shelf with the in-progress projects is behind him, and his bed is to his left.)

“We’re almost ready to go,” she says, softly, like she knows he’s doing something important. “You can finish recording when we get back.”

“Yeah, that’d be cool. Let me just sign off and I’ll be there in a sec. Love ya.”

She smiles and heads off screen, the door clicking shut behind her.

“So, yeah, it’s going to take a little while to get going. I’ll talk about the type of stitches I’m using next time, and I’m really sorry to do this to you, but I’ve got to run. So, enjoy the rest of your day, and remember, keep knitting, your projects need you!”

The subscribe link flashes briefly before the video ends a bit abruptly.

Stiles sighs. It wasn’t nearly long enough to tide him to next Thursday. He really hopes Derek takes his sister (Laura, the pregnant one is always Laura. Stiles remembers Derek knitting her bouquet for her wedding in the first few videos)’s advice and uploads another video tonight.

--

True to his word, Derek uploads several shorter videos throughout the weeks of the project, and the shape of the sweater is easy to see almost immediately. Derek expounds the importance of measuring everything. He even jokes that maybe he should account for the weightlifting his (always angry) sister Cora is making him do for her graduation present. Some kind of hiking project she’s been badgering him to go on since she graduated high school. Stiles doesn’t sigh at the thought of Derek shirtless and sweaty, lifting weights and chugging water or protein shakes.

He also doesn’t sigh at the figure Derek cuts sitting in his chair knitting in a blur as he tries to cram an hour’s work inside of twenty minutes while he discusses the proper way to frost cupcakes for one of his nieces’ kindergarten classes.

“Frozen,” Derek advises with a twinkle in his eye. “Definitely Frozen. It’s got plenty of stuff boys and girls like. Cora would disagree as she’s the one who actually has to do the decorating since I’m busy.”

(That reference firmly places this story as taking place after 2013. I did the math a couple of times: I think I set the year as 2018 or 2019. It’s a future fic as well as an AU.)

Stiles misses several more get-togethers with his friends, including one on a Saturday (that Boyd proposes to Erica at…while no one’s looking of course) because Derek promised (and fulfilled that promise) to live stream nearly an hour of uninterrupted knitting. “Derek-time, my dad calls it,” he confides, winking at the camera. “I think, when I get to the cuffs, which should be really soon,” he laughs and demonstrates how he’s got one arm almost done, “I might do something special. I like thumbholes. Thumbholes are good.”

(This story was spawned/prompted from a .gifset of Tyler Hoechlin speaking about his role as Derek, wearing the infamous sweater from De-Void. And, yes, Tyler H. did have his thumbs through the thumbholes as he gestured.)

--

Three weeks later, Derek shows the camera the finished project. It’s beautiful, and if Stiles hadn’t spent the past month watching him knit it, he wouldn’t have believed human hands had made it. It really does look store-bought.

“Put it on!” he chants through Derek’s bind-off process. “Please, dear God! Just let him put it on!”

Derek finishes his bind-off calmly, trimming his tail neatly and setting his needles and the scissors off screen. Then he grins wickedly and shoves back his chair. He leans forward slightly, pulling the material over his head and sticking his arms out into the arms. He looks ridiculous and hot and adorable and maybe a little flushed when he finally pokes his head out through the neckline.

His hair is mussed and a bit static-ky, but his smile is soft and he looks good in maroon.

Then, Derek sticks his thumbs through the little thumbholes he’d made. He’d explained his choice to include them as, “Sometimes your hands get a bit cold. Now, you can just slide your thumbs through here and voilà, warm hands!”

Stiles’ heart flutters at the figure Derek cuts as he stretches his arms above his head and out to the sides, testing the give of the sweater.

Derek scoots forward again and shrugs. He laughs softly. “It’s a bit of a tight fit, eh? Knew I should’ve accounted for all those days weightlifting!”

He spends a few minutes talking about how the project went for him, what he’d like to change, and how it might be easier for beginners to try this way instead of that. Stiles drinks in the cadence of his voice, the waving of his hands. Then Derek stops and settles his hands in his lap, grinning at the camera. “So anyway. It’s actually really warm, so I’m going to take it off now. Hang on a sec.”

He grabs the edge of the shirt and pulls it off over his head. Unfortunately for him, and way too fortunately for Stiles, his t-shirt sticks to the sweater and peels off with it. Almost immediately, there’s a loud bang off-camera (Stiles identifies it as the door) and someone shouts, “Mom! I told you he was stripping for attention!”

“Cora!” Derek shouts back, his face panicked and thoroughly red. Stiles hates Cora for him right then. Derek pulls his t-shirt free from his knitted sweater and pulls it on as his mom comes on screen.

(Here is where bleep0bleep’s prompt actually comes into effect. The entire story was structured around this moment, although, if I recall correctly, I wrote it in the order it appears.)

“Derek?” she says, a bit concernedly, and Derek refuses to make eye contact, staring at his lap morosely and smoothing his thumbs over the sweater. “I’ll get Cora to apologize to you. Now, wasn’t there something you wanted to do with the finished project?”

Derek perks up a little at his mom’s words, turning back to the camera, still blushing hotly. “So, you remember when I first started this project, I said there’d be a surprise? Well, it’s a little contest! Here it is: you could win this sweater! All you have to do is follow the link in the description below to my friend Jordan’s Facebook page where you’ll take a quick HKN quiz. First thirty people to answer all questions correctly will get their screen names entered for a chance to win. When I put up the next video, those thirty names will be entered into a random drawing—which my friend will facilitate. At the end of next week’s video, we’ll announce the winner. The sweater will be mailed soon after that. So, there!”

Stiles pauses the video and quickly clicks on the link to the Facebook so it opens in a new tab. If only thirty people get to register for a chance to win that sweater that was actually on HKN, then Stiles isn’t wasting any more time.

Since he’s been obsessed, and okay, yeah, trying and failing at knitting despite Derek’s stellar instructions, he aces all the questions perfectly. A .gif pops up after the last question, Derek smiling at the camera and flashing a thumbs up. Stiles saves it to his hard drive, in the shameful little folder that houses all Derek’s videos and as many screen caps of him from his friend’s Facebook that he can access.

Hey, at least he doesn’t have porn anywhere (that his dad can find) on this computer.

Jerking off over that one shirtless picture Jordan posted of Derek when they were at the beach about a year ago totally doesn’t count as porn. And, yes, Stiles does feel extremely guilty about using an innocent, totally sandy and grinning Derek for masturbatory purposes.

He also feels guilty about acting upon the arousal Derek’s voice inspires in him some (most) days.

He thinks about the short show of bare, well-defined abs and pecs and licks his lips. He’ll grab a couple screen shots to add to his not-porn folder. Another surge of guilt over using Derek’s body that way washes over him. He buries it. It’s not like Derek’s a real person at this point.

Objectively, Stiles knows that Derek is a person, but it doesn’t feel the same as if he were jerking off over pictures of Isaac or Jackson.

(Stiles is a do-things-now-feel-bad-later kind of person (except when he deletes that video of Peter in his alpha form in season one (The Tell)), so it makes sense to me that he would give in to his arousal inspired by Derek and then feel bad almost immediately afterward. Not enough to stop doing it, but enough to hide it thoroughly.)

Once he’s done with the quiz, making sure to use his official “Stiles” username, and staring at Derek’s perfect everything, he reads some of the comments, finding that approximately sixty thousand girls have decided to simultaneously spam Derek’s friend with “Ur so hott!!1!!1!!” messages.

(That little exclamation point overload with ones mixed in? Inspired by someone I admire. That’s all I’m going to say about that.)

He also discovers that only the ones who answer all questions correctly get the .gif.

He counts how many people have posted so far about that .gif, and realizes that he’s the twenty-eighth. Hope blossoms in his chest, and then is so ardently dashed when someone else, the twenty-ninth by the timestamp, declares that he (Matt Daehler is a guy’s name, isn’t it? And why is it so familiar?) received another .gif in addition to the smile and thumbs up. Something about Derek and confetti.

At least six of the other finalists also claim to have received that .gif.

Stiles logs out of Facebook dejected and sad and goes back to the video, noting that there’s about thirty seconds left before it ends. Predictably, it’s Derek’s sign off, “So enjoy the rest of your day, and remember, keep knitting, your projects need you!” Unpredictably, his mom stays with him and kisses the top of his head as she usually does.

The video ends and Stiles sits back.

He has no doubt that Derek will be back to posting on Thursdays. Cora has graduated and dragged Derek on that hike that he showed a few pictures of a couple of weeks ago. The anniversary has come and gone. And Derek’s already started matching colors with the maroon for the new baby blanket. So far the general consensus is plain maroon or even a suggestion to mix burgundy.

Well, he ventured a chance on the contest, and that’s all he’s going to say on the matter. Now, he really needs to make it up to his friends for skipping out on last Saturday.

He hears Lydia and Jackson also got engaged.

(This time when everyone was looking because they wanted the attention. Erica and Boyd did not.)

--

The bowling alley is packed.

Apparently, there is a birthday party and a sort of bachelor party (and Stiles really hopes Scott lets him choose something low-key like this for his inevitable bachelor party. Jackson and Lydia have already chosen a fancy restaurant hardly any of them can afford. Boyd and Erica are just going to order pizza and host a gaming tournament).

(Obviously, the birthday party is Cora’s. The bachelor party just exists to make it too crowded to see from one side of the bowling alley to the other.)

There’s a skeevy-looking fella running around taking pictures of the birthday party—too many people for Stiles to really see whose it is.

Skeevy-guy snaps a picture of their group before Boyd can scare him off, and Jackson threatens litigation.

“Easy, man,” the man says, grinning crookedly at them. “I’ll send you the pics if you want them.” He sneers at Jackson before offering a kiss to the hand of all the girls. All of them look grossed out and uncomfortable.

“What’s your name, asshole?” Jackson spits. “I’ll call my dad right now and we’ll start drawing up the charges.”

“Matthew Daehler,” the man says. “Would you like me to spell it?”

Daehler? Stiles thinks. Like that guy from Derek’s friend’s Facebook quiz? Can’t be a coincidence. Not too many Daehlers running around, much less with the first name “Matt.”

“Nope,” Jackson smirks at him, “I got it. Now buzz off, asshole. We’ll be in touch with the subpoena for your arrest.”

Daehler laughs uproariously at that, running off to circle the birthday party again.

“Hey, so we’re not actually going after him, are we?” Stiles asks the group at large. No one answers him. They, uneasily, go back to bowling, finishing quickly. The couples opt to go to a hole-in-the-wall diner while Stiles heads home and out of habit checks HKN.

He’s surprised to see a new video. He’d thought for sure Derek would definitely head back to his Thursday posting as he’s started looking rundown and ready for a break from constant knitting. He clicks on it, pausing it so he can set it on the highest resolution available and sitting back to let it buffer a good few seconds so he can watch Derek’s announcement of a new project without interruptions.

When he clicks play, he notices that the camera is a handheld model that sort of shakes as it skims around the room. Stiles feels his chest seize as he recognizes the bowling alley he and his friends go to at least once a month. The one they were just at. And there, squished into the opposite corner from the camera, he can just make out Lydia’s red hair and Allison’s bright pink sweater Isaac gave her last Christmas.

(No one mentioned Lydia’s hat—because it didn’t exist yet at the time I wrote this—but everyone pretended she bought it online—from Marta’s Etsy store!—no, kidding—because it was gifted to her by her roommate, who Stiles does not know is Cora. Why doesn’t Stiles know that Cora is Lydia’s roommate? Because all his friends decided they wouldn’t get his hopes up to know about his six-degrees-of-connection to HKN only for HKN to (rudely) never contact him. They are protecting Stiles, but I don’t think Stiles is going to see it that way when he finds out. If he finds out.)

He pauses the video again to hyperventilate for a moment. He was in the same town, the same building, as Derek HKN and didn’t go say hi?! What’s wrong with him?! Also, why was Derek even in Stiles’ town? Doesn’t he live somewhere else with his family? He recalls Derek mentioning something about Chicago once or twice.

Derek waves at the camera, holding up three fingers and folding each one down slowly. “So, you remember my sister Cora, right? Well, today’s she’s the birthday girl, and she’s made a special request.”

“Demand,” Cora cuts in. “Never mistake my demands as requests, Derek. You might start not obeying them.”

“Demand,” Derek amends with a fond if a bit pinched smile at his sister. “Well, her demand is that we announce the contest winner here and now. So, Jordan, if you would?”

Jordan waves at the camera, pulling out a ball cap from a bag next to his pregnant wife, Laura. For her part, Laura passes him a stapled stack of papers and a bunch of strips of colored paper.

The camera focuses back on Derek, who accepts the stack from Jordan and starts reading from it: “So, the contest rules were posted on Jordan’s Facebook, right above the big button for the quiz. Rule number one: no cheating. This was a bit hard to enforce at the top of it, but an immediate disqualifier was to post any answers in the comments. So that means the first six people to answer all questions were removed from consideration.

“Rule number two: no posting what comes at the end. So, out of all who answered the questions, only one didn’t do that. It seems a bit unfair, and if I had more energy, we’d do the contest again.” Derek shares a weary look with Jordan who shrugs and smiles weakly. Derek turns back to the camera. “As it stands, the winner of this maroon-colored, hand-knitted sweater is user name Stiles Stilinski.”

“Stiles, please enter a private chat with me on Facebook, and we’ll get your sweater shipped out as soon as possible,” Jordan says.

“Stay tuned for more news,” Derek says, setting the papers down and shrugging with that same weariness. “So, enjoy the rest of your day, and remember, keep knitting, your projects need you.”

Stiles falls out of his chair. He finds the link to Jordan’s Facebook page and sees that he’s still online. He’d sent a friend request within the first two weeks of watching Derek’s videos. He opens the chat and quickly types, Hello.

It takes a few minutes, but Jordan responds with, Hi.

Before Stiles can think of anything else to write, Jordan types, What’s your address? We’ll get the sweater out to you in the next couple days or so. Before we move.

Actually, Stiles types, maybe it would be better to hold off on it until after the move? You guys must be busy and you don’t need any added stress right now.

Five minutes pass before Jordan responds, simply, Thank you.

A few minutes later, Stiles switches to his email and notices that he has another notification for a new video for HKN.

Derek must have just posted it.

He loads it up quickly.

It opens on Derek sitting in his knitting chair, staring listlessly into the camera. Over his face, his name, ‘news’ and the date cross the screen.

“So, you’ll remember at the end of last video, I said I had some news. Well, here it is: I’m moving. My nana is retiring, after sixty years in the same business. If you remember all the way back in my 100th video, you’ll recall that my nana’s the one who taught me how to knit.”

Derek leans back from the camera and runs his hands over his head, combing his fingers through his hair. “So, I’m exhausted. It’s been a busy month and a half. I don’t think I’ll be able to start a project—the baby blanket for my new niece or nephew—until I’m settled again. There will still be weekly videos, but it might be more like check-ins than anything else.

“I really do appreciate all of you for all the support you’ve given me over the years. So, until next time, enjoy your day, and remember, keep knitting, your projects need you.”

Before the camera quite cuts out, Stiles hears Jordan ask something, and Derek responds, “Just tired, I think.”

It worries him that Derek doesn’t just look exhausted as he’d said, he looks like a steady breeze could knock him down, drag him all over the world with a single blow.

In fact, ever since the hiking trip for Cora’s graduation, he’s looked progressively more rundown. Stiles is glad, then, that he opted not to have them worry about sending him the sweater.

Maybe he can convince them to re-do the contest. He’d like to win fairly next time instead of through disqualifications.

Although, he can’t help the smug feeling he gets from Skeevy-Daehler’s DQ.

He shuts everything down and collapses on his bed, tired enough himself not to change out of his jeans and button-up shirt.

At least he doesn’t have work tomorrow.

--

A few weeks later, Jordan sends him a private message requesting his address again, and Stiles assumes, with video evidence, that the move has happened, and Derek is almost settled.

He types it out quickly and forgets about it.

He’s got Scott’s impending nuptials to plan now that his best friend has confided that he’s getting ready to propose to his girlfriend.

Kira has also confided to Stiles that she’s planning to propose to Scott.

He’s trying to set it up so they propose at the same time. He’ll laugh his ass off forever if it works out.

Now, he just needs Allison and Isaac to get over their fear of commitment and all his friends will be as-good-as-married.

(As little as they are in the story, I do like how the dynamic works. How they all remained friends through college—or lack of it. I don’t think Isaac or Boyd went to college. Not enough money/interest).

--

Stiles is running late for a lunch date with his dad. They live in the same town, but their schedules are so different that it’s hard to meet up any more since Stiles moved out after college.

It’s his dad’s birthday tomorrow, and the potholder is finally done—and it looks like Derek knitted it, if Stiles does say so himself.

He flies out the door and crashes right into a solid wall.

He groans in sort of pain and sits up to stare at what he hit.

It’s HKN.

It’s Derek.

It’s HKN!

It’s Derek on his doorstep!

And he’s impossibly hotter in person than on camera. Wow!

“What?” he stutters intelligently.

Derek smiles shyly, ducking his head and blushing slightly.

He’s holding a plain brown package. “It’s the sweater,” he says, and his voice is a lot softer than in his videos. He hands it to Stiles and then helps him stand up.

“So, I moved to town a few days ago.”

Stiles nods. “I saw,” he says. “You posted the video of the apartment yesterday.”

Stiles resolutely, by the skin of his teeth, didn’t take a screenshot of Derek’s bed during the quick tour of his apartment. He doesn’t need to actually see where Derek sleeps and maybe jerks off.

Derek nods too, blushing more, almost as if he knows that Stiles is now imagining him naked on his bed. “I noticed that your address wasn’t too far from my nana’s store, so I decided to walk it over. I hope you don’t mind? I know it’s kind of creepy, and I can totally forget your address right now.”

“No, no, I appreciate it. It’s really kind of you to bring it to me.” He unfolds the flaps, staring down at the maroon shirt. He strokes a finger over it. It’s so soft! Most of Stiles’ projects are hard and lumpy. He’d worked so hard on the potholder to make it perfect.

“Maybe you should keep it?” he ventures, watching as Derek blushes again. “I mean, it fits you pretty well.” Like, orgasmic-well, Stiles means. He’s jerked off a lot in the past few weeks over the various pictures he’s saved of Derek. He’d even rubbed one out over a perfectly innocent picture of Derek eating bacon-wrapped crudités.

(One of Tyler Hoechlin’s friends needed a model for a cookbook. Guess who volunteered? Yeah, so that’s what that picture is referencing. I don’t have any links on me at the moment. Sorry.)

Having the man standing before him makes his guilt triple, and suddenly, he doesn’t want anything more to do with him than to obsess over his videos and wax poetic about his skills as a professional knitter. It’s a bit much that the man is truly standing in front of him, blushing and stuttering adorably. Frantically, Stiles tries to rein in his thoughts as he wonders what Derek would sound like in the midst of an orgasm.

(Stiles is really fighting himself at this point because he knows he’s attracted to Derek, but it’s been in his head for so long that it still isn’t real that Derek is standing before him. Plus, there’s no indication that Derek is interested in Stiles because they’ve just met. They do not know how to read each other. That is why Stiles is…waspish, I think I described it. He’s not mean just short. Also, Stiles knows nothing of Derek’s past. To him, it is a bit creepy that Derek showed up. For Derek, he doesn’t fully understand why it seems like Stiles is mad at him.)

“Look, I’m late for an important meeting,” Stiles says, a bit sharply, watching as Derek’s face shifts from shy to sad and then closes off entirely. “Maybe you can come by another time? I’m usually free on Saturday mornings.”

“Okay,” Derek says, nodding. “Keep the sweater.” He all but runs off, disappearing around the corner as Stiles just watches him go.

He fucked up. He knows he did. But, he hasn’t had a great track record with encountering objects of his affection, much less one he’s fantasized about almost constantly.

He puts Derek out of his mind and shoves the box with the sweater in his backseat. He keeps his mind blank as he drives to the restaurant where his dad is probably waiting.

When he gets there, he finds his dad in their booth, already halfway through a stack of potato pancakes. At least he has the decency to flush in shame when Stiles glares at him. He barely makes it three seconds before he sighs tiredly and sits with a thump in the seat across from his dad.

“What’s the matter, son?” his dad says when Stiles slumps across the table and clutches at his head.

“You know that Youtuber I really like?”

His dad nods, laying his silverware down. “That knitting fiend.”

(To be fair to John (always John. Noah can suck it!), he’s had to listen to Stiles wax poetic about Derek for about three and a half years. I know I said something about five years, but that was referencing how long Derek has been recording and uploading videos.)

“Dad, he’s not a fiend…Never mind. Anyway, turns out he moved to town here. He’s taking over his grandmother’s store.”

“Oh, yeah, Nana’s Knitters. So, your Youtube crush is Derek Hale, huh?”

“Nana’s Knitters?!” Stiles mutters. He glares at the wrapped potholder. He got the yarn from her. The needles. The recommendation of the color after he described what he was after. Oh, God! The woman knew—she knew!—that he was after her grandson this whole time. That’s why she always had a sly smile and a sharp barb for him.

She must have guessed that Stiles wanted to bend her grandson over his kitchen table and fuck his brains out.

Stiles moans in embarrassment. He’s so dead the next time he goes to Nana’s Knitters. Although, vindictively, he hopes Derek changes the name. Something more appropriate for a twenty-something year old man.

“So, what’s with the box?” his dad asks, and for a moment, Stiles thinks he means the sweater Derek gave him. Then he looks up and notices his dad side-eying the potholder like it’s about to engage in an armed robbery.

“For you,” he says, pushing it over. While his dad meticulously peels off the tape and unfolds the garish paper Stiles bought at the dollar store, Stiles steals the rest of his pancakes, almost inhaling them while his father digs through the multicolored tissue paper.

(Silent eating. Well, as silent as one can be “inhaling” food. Slow down, Stiles, you don’t want to choke. Fun fact: I had potato pancakes when I was a freshman in college. Absolutely divine. None of the ones I’ve since sampled have been as good as that first stack. But, I still love them, hence why they get a mention.)

“A potholder,” he finally says, and Stiles tries not to feel hurt at the dismissive way he says it. “In the shape of a—what is this, Stiles?”

“It’s a frog,” Stiles says sullenly. It looks exactly like the potholder Derek knitted in video #133 for his cousin Marta’s birthday. Marta loves frogs. Apparently, his dad doesn’t. “Look, if you don’t like it, I’m sure I can find someone else who will.”

“No,” his dad says. “That’s not it. I just don’t know why you would give me a potholder. I mean, Stiles, I don’t cook.”

“You could,” Stiles says. “Or I could. You know, if you really don’t want it, I can get you something else.”

“It’s not that,” his dad says again, a bit of anger bleeding into his tone. “Stiles, it’s really not that. I just thought you were making me something with all the hints you were dropping. How much did you have to pay Hale to get him to give you this?”

What? Stiles’ mind blanks. His dad doesn’t think he made it himself? Seriously, what?

“What?” he says. “I did make it. I watched those videos over and over again until I finally got it. It took me forever to get the stitches right, never mind that I had to adapt with different needles and yarn and everything and that the first dozen didn’t look right.”

(If I learned anything from watching my sister knit it’s that you can take an old project, unravel it, and knit something new from it with little problems (aside from a bit of rumpled yarn).)

His dad doesn’t look like he believes him, but at least he puts it back in the box and sets it on the seat beside him.

“So, since Hale’s in town, are you going to pursue him?”

Stiles glares at him. “No,” he says shortly, shoving the empty plate back to his dad’s side.

“Why not?”

“Why should I? If he hadn’t come here to take over his grandma’s store, I wouldn’t have met him. I see no reason why I should ‘pursue’ him if our paths wouldn’t have naturally crossed anyway.”

His dad shrugs, conceding Stiles’ point. Then he glances down at his watch and winces. “I’ve got this new deputy to show around, so I’ve got to run. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay, kiddo?” He reaches out and runs his hand through Stiles’ hair, messing it up and grinning when Stiles splutters at him. “Thank you for the potholder even if I don’t cook.”

(Totally Jordan getting the tour.)

“Yeah, see ya.”

They both drop a five to cover the pancakes and then Stiles is on his way back home. Halfway there, he decides he’ll make another potholder to go with the frog. Nana’s Knitters is the only yarn store in Beacon Hills, so despite not wanting to ever run into Derek again, he’s got little choice.

When he pulls up to the quaint building, still atrociously splashed with red and yellow paint made to emulate strands of yarn, the parking spaces out front are absolutely empty. An oddity to be sure.

(This is related to the panic attack Derek had. Nana stared everybody out. As much as I don’t like her (I’m glad a lot of readers seemed to like her though), she will do anything for her family. Probably especially Derek.)

He slips inside, glancing around like he’s a spy because it feels so wrong that it’s quiet. At least Nana is still in charge, he notes when she pins him with an angry stare from her stool. Stiles returns the glare, pointing toward the wall of colors.

“Don’t pick green again,” she says, nastily.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Nana,” a familiar voice says, and Stiles ducks around a corner quickly before Derek sees him, “how are you still in business if you treat all your customers like criminals?”

“That one is a criminal. A thief. Keep your eye on him, boy.”

Derek snorts and says, “Nana,” warningly.

Stiles finds a burgundy skein that might actually match with the sweater Derek gave him. Oh well. It’ll make another great frog.

He turns around to head to the register and comes face to face with HKN.

Derek looks shocked for a brief moment before he schools his features into a blank mask. “Sir,” he says politely, while his grandmother snorts loudly. “Are you finding everything okay?”

“Yeah-yes,” Stiles stutters, clutching the skein to his chest. God, Derek’s even more gorgeous now than he was standing on his front porch. “Uh, so I need to pay for this?”

Derek smiles, and waves him toward the register. Then, he gently nudges his still-snorting grandmother away and hits a few buttons. “It’s four-thirty,” he says.

Stiles wordlessly passes over his debit card, staring at the way the fluorescent lights make little green highlights pop in Derek’s eyes. His skin is washed-out looking, but Stiles had noticed that in his videos too, so he decides not to hold it against the store. Yet.

“Your receipt,” Derek says, handing back the card and a slip of paper.

“So my dad thinks I should ask you out,” Stiles says, and promptly clamps a hand over his mouth. That was not what he wanted to say!

Derek looks confused. “You brushed me off earlier,” he says.

Nana stabs a finger at Stiles’ chest and says, “See? Thief!”

“Okay, I give,” Derek says, turning to her with a frosty expression. “What did he steal?”

“Your heart!” she chirps and then cackles.

“Nana!” Derek blushes. Hard. His face turns so red Stiles fears blood is going to come rushing out of his nose.

“Do you want to?” he says through his fingers, cursing inwardly as that was another thing he didn’t want to say.

“Want to what?” Derek asks. He blanches just as fast as he blushed and he sways on his feet. Stiles grabs his arm and holds him from across the counter while Nana shoves herself under his other arm. “You want to date me?”

“Hmph, thief,” Nana mumbles, but she stops glaring at Stiles and pushes Derek onto the stool.

“Uh,” Stiles says, rubbing the back of his head with the hand not still holding Derek’s arm. “Yeah, I wanna date you.”

“Okay,” Derek licks his lips nervously, blushing lightly again, “how?”

“In all the ways.”

“That’s not very descriptive.”

“See,” Nana says, and Derek shushes her quickly.

“Dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” Nana says, a glint in her eye. Stiles gulps while Derek blushes again.

“Yeah,” Derek confirms, ducking his head and peeking up at Stiles through his lashes. “Hey, Nana,” he continues, smiling sweetly. “I guess Stiles isn’t the only thief in your store.”

--

Dinner is fantastic. Derek is sweet and kind and shy with everyone they encounter, from the waitress who recognizes Derek from his videos (“My mom loves the dishtowels I make her. You’re so talented!”) to the annoying couple who insist on having him autograph a pattern they randomly have.

The next day, his dad stares woefully at the burgundy frog Derek knitted quickly for his birthday, setting it on the microwave with the one Stiles made him.

Time marches on, and before Stiles knows it, they’re celebrating their third anniversary. (And all his friends are celebrating their first wedding anniversaries. Stiles plans not to be too far behind them—he’s already pestering Derek to teach him how to knit “jewelry” so he can propose.)

The store gets renamed. Obviously. Now people can actually purchase their knitting needs from Hot Knitting Neighbor: The Store! and Stiles gets an honorary name badge too.

He never does delete his secret stash of not-porn of Derek, but he doesn’t use it anymore. Not when he’s got the real deal in his bed, waiting for him with a pair of needles and a bright smile. And the maroon sweater with adorable thumbholes.

~ Fin ~

Note 2: This was supposed to be a really short one-shot (maybe a thousand words at best). Instead, it ballooned into over six thousand, and turned into a series. I have planned (but not written yet) a series of sections (another one-shot) from Derek’s perspective (and it will be darker).

Also, if something wrong jumps out at you, don't hesitate to let me know.

Thanks for reading!

(Thanks for reading…again!)

Five-Two Count

Disclaimer: I own nothing from Teen Wolf, Facebook™, Youtube™, or Klonopin™

No Beta--all mistakes are my own.

Note: I know nothing about knitting. I researched a bit, but I’m sure I’ve gotten it all wrong, so please, don’t hesitate to correct any mistakes you find. Same goes for any medical issues.

For more warnings, please read the end notes.

--

Still inspired by this post.

--

Derek is an odd child. Laura calls him lonely. His uncle Peter calls him precocious, mockingly, as he steals Derek’s books and drops creepy crawlies down the back of his shirt.

Derek reads Dad’s dictionary to find out what his uncle means. He doesn’t like being called names, and the way Peter says it is being called names.

No one notices him much anyway because Laura is always off exploring, and getting stranded in weird places, like the cliff with the yucky name, and Cora is trying to join the junior football league even though she’s only seven and the boys in the league don’t want to play with her. And Peter, when he’s not making Derek miserable, is “acting out” because Grandma and Grandpa died a few years ago. He still has Nana (his grandmother, but Nana doesn’t seem to like Peter much).

(The “yucky name” cliff is Makeout Point—which probably does exist in canon. Pretty sure it’s where Peter was overlooking Beacon Hills in Season One and where Scott went to howl for Derek later that season.)

Derek spends his days wandering the backyard and finding hiding-holes so he can disappear when Peter decides to find him. Mom and Dad are too busy with Laura’s first (that they know of) boyfriend (candy is an awesome bribing tool) and Cora’s first tackle-resulting-in-a-broken-bone-and-a-threat-of-litigation.

(Totally, Jackson is the boy whose arm was broken. No, the Whittemores did not sue the Hales. The adults prevailed but Cora received a seven-week ban—as long as Jackson’s arm took to heal.)

The day before he turns ten, a strange woman steals Derek from his reading spot by the wobbly gatepost.

She uses a help-me-I’ve-lost-my-puppy-rouse with an actual puppy that Derek finds for her. He’s so proud, carrying the small dog to her car when she smiles crookedly at him and throws a hood over his head. He wails once, dropping the dog, and then she punches the air out of his lungs and he loses time.

(The dog is some pup (unknown breed—Derek may be precocious but he doesn’t like mess and so doesn’t like dogs and wouldn’t know it anyway) Kate picked out at the Clinic to “adopt” and then promptly never gave a shit about when it inevitably ran away after Derek dropped it. It is a boy though.)

When he comes back to himself, he’s sitting cross-legged against a wall, arms over his head in what must be shackles, with a bit of rag stuffed into his mouth.

He starts crying, begging to go home. He can barely understand himself, and the woman, sitting at a lopsided table under a dirty window, scraping the peel off an apple with a dull knife, ignores him.

(I know it’s hard to visualize (my fault for not describing it well), but they are in a basement, with one of those narrow windows at the top of the wall. I have a memory of hiding under my kitchen table when I was five or six, looking up at the window the table was underneath. That’s what inspired this setup. Obviously, though, my table wasn’t in a basement and the window only looked like it was high and narrow.)

They spend the better part of a week like this. Derek sitting against the wall crying and struggling to breathe, the woman reading or eating at the table.

Occasionally, she’ll stick a bucket under him and pull his pants down. She doesn’t touch him, but he still feels shame burn his face whenever he releases his bladder or bowels.

Once a day she takes the rag out and makes him drink two things. The first is a bottle of water. His mom buys the same kind, so he thinks they must still be in Beacon Hills. The second is a mug of broth. It tastes like chicken and Derek really hates it.

(There’s a little comment I made to someone about the actual first date that included something about chicken, I think. I’ll dig it out later in the story. Anyway, because of the broth, Derek hates chicken with an utter passion. It makes him sick and panicky and, basically, reset and have to work through his issues again and again. I had an idea to do a few snippets where he encounters chicken and others learn of his aversion. One was he gets sick and Scott brings some of Melissa’s homemade chicken noodle soup to help Stiles cheer him up only to get upchucked on and yelled at by Stiles—who gave everyone a cliff’s notes version of the notebook (mentioned in that comment) that stated Derek’s triggers. Another was a great-aunt of Stiles’ demanding chicken at Stiles and Derek’s wedding (about five years after they started dating) and Stiles telling her to either suck it up and eat the options provided or un-invite herself.)

He starts blinking and snapping awake when the broth starts being yuckier than usual, something almost dirt-tasting sticking to the dregs. Sometimes he wakes up to find she hasn’t replaced his pants, and he shivers under her gaze.

(Trigger warning—skip this note if sensitive to sexual abuse of minors: Kate did not intend to molest Derek, but she realized that here was this kid completely dependent on her (her fault) and unable to stop her if she wanted to touch him. And she did want to touch him after a few days in close proximity. She’s going through an episode at this time. I have a few story ideas and head cannons that go with them. One of which is Peter was distinctly abusive toward Derek during their childhoods whether that was sexual or otherwise, and another is that Gerard was sexually abusive of Kate during hers, hence her inherent desire for high school aged boys. The dirt-taste is drugs. No specific one. I’ve had the fortune to never be drugged without my consent and have no idea of what any would taste like. It is perhaps another flavor Kate adds to hide the essence of the drug she’s using.)

More time passes, evidenced by the growing number of containers piling under the table. It has been so long that Derek’s cried himself out, and the woman doesn’t bother with the gag anymore.

(At this point, I think Kate’s had Derek for about a month. A month. And he spent his birthday with her. I don’t recall, I’ll try to find it, but I think my idea for this story was it took them hours (possibly nine) to realize Derek was missing. By then, the trail was cold which is why it took so long to find him.)

She’s getting bolder, muttering under her breath. Something about the mayor race Mom’s in. Something about making him pay the price. She pokes him hard, flicking his nipples through his t-shirt, laughing when he cringes. She’s engaged in such an activity, one hand twisting a nipple painfully while the other is braced against his bare upper thigh, when he arrives.

The window above the table breaks apart and a canister spitting thick smoke rolls to a stop against his knee. She says a bad word and covers her mouth and nose, already running for the door. A tall man with a star pinned to his chest and a thick mask over his face says the same word when he notices Derek.

(He is obviously Deputy Stilinski and he is supposed to come in like an apparition. Just appearing out of thin air (he took the stairs) like a guardian angel.)

Derek coughs weakly, rattling his wrists in the shackles the woman never takes off, and then his world goes dark.

(*Singsong tone* knockout gas.)

--

He wakes up in a hospital. At least, he thinks it’s a hospital since it doesn’t smell like home or the kitchen with the strange woman. It’s cold and clean with hints of bleach and starch. There is a different woman with tied back black curls and ugly blue pajamas with a pocket over her heart leaning over him and he panics, wailing loudly while something else screams along with him.

(Melissa in scrubs! But, you already knew that.)

His mom and dad come running in, the tall man, no more mask on his face, on their heels.

They all look sad, so he tries to stop crying, but it’s too hard and he lets himself fall into the dark again.

--

The next time he wakes up, Laura is curled up next to him on the bed. She’s reading out loud from the third Harry Potter book, the one he’d been reading to Cora before the strange woman took him.

(Cora can read. She’s seven. She just likes to listen to Derek when he reads. And, Derek likes to read to her. It’s the only way they get along, too close in age not to be rivals—he’s going on ten when the story starts.)

In the corner, holding onto each other are his parents. His mom looks…destroyed with smudged eyes and pale lips. She’s crying and Dad is trying to hug her.

“It’s my fault,” he hears her whisper, and he wonders, how could it be? He was the one stupid enough to let himself get taken.

He interrupts Laura to say this, and she glares at him. “Don’t let Mom hear you say that,” she snaps. He flinches and she looks sorry.

Mom and Dad come over then, Mom shooing Laura away with Dad while she perches on the bed and leans down to kiss his forehead.

He doesn’t mean to do it, but he can’t help himself. Mom reels back when he hits her, and he sobs as she looks at him with worry.

“Baby?” she says. He shakes his head, crying harder. “James!”

(I like consistency in my stories, so when I settled on the name James for Papa Hale for another story—which I promise, I am trying to write—I decided to keep it. The other thing I do is if I expand the Hale family to lots of kids for Talia and James, there’s the same seven kids: David, Aurora, Laura, Derek, Daniel, Cora, and Isadora.)

Dad and the pajama-nurse come back in. Peter and Laura peer in from the open door. Mom holds up a hand and stops the nurse while she switches spots with Dad so he’s the one leaning over and offering a brief kiss to Derek’s forehead. He clutches at him, burying his face in his neck and sobbing even harder. He can’t breathe and his chest hurts and he wants to go home.

(What Talia has noticed that no one else has yet is that Derek is responding with panic and fear to females’ presences, minus Laura. That’s why she stops Melissa from approaching and trades places with her husband.)

“It’s okay,” his dad says softly into his hair, pressing more kisses to his head. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe.”

(I don’t know why I have both Talia and James call Derek ‘baby’ but I do know they do it for all their kids, not just him.)

Derek doesn’t believe him. Not one bit.

(Fun fact: I (expletive) hated—absolutely hated—the phrase “one little bit” when I was a kid. It was usually in the form of “Jane did not enjoy it. Not one little bit.” I chose “one bit” over “one little bit” probably because I still kind of (expletive) hate the phrase.)

Laura ducks under Peter’s arm and slips the book to Dad before she smiles sadly at Derek and leaves again. Mom and the nurse hang back while Dad smoothes some hair off Derek’s forehead and opens the book to Laura’s shimmery green ribbon bookmark. He lets Derek hold it while he starts reading to him. Cautiously, eyes on Mom and the nurse, Derek slides his thumb into his mouth and chews on it.

(I sucked my thumb until I was twelve—that is my reasoning for this detail. It is a comfort thing for Derek right now. So is holding the bookmark. I imagine Derek to be stroking it with the thumb not in his mouth while he drifts off, but he’s not aware he’s doing it. However, he still remembers being trained not to suck his thumb—my parents used cayenne pepper as a deterrent for my older siblings but just didn’t care by the time I was around to do it with me too—hence why he side eyes Talia to make sure she won’t stop him.)

He falls asleep maybe thirty minutes later, curled into Dad’s side, still sucking his thumb.

--

The psychiatrist Dad takes him to is a woman, but she’s dark haired and coffee skinned with a leather jacket and a white smile. Dad stays with him the first eight sessions, letting him stay pressed to his side while the woman asks gentle questions about what Derek likes to do for fun.

(In all Derek’s ten years experience, James is the only one who hasn’t done something to hurt him—although Talia’s only crime right now is being a woman—and that is why Derek is able to be in contact with him. The reason Marin Morrell gets to be the therapist now instead of Deaton is that I honestly liked her character better. Yes, she was the emissary for the Alpha Pack and she did questionable things to Derek and Scott, such as sealing them in the vault with the moon-mad werewolves. But, I truly feel, if they asked her a question, she would have given them a straight answer. They just didn’t ever ask the right questions. Also, she’s almost the opposite of Kate in looks, meaning he does not associate her with what happened to him. Obviously, James stays with him.)

“I knit,” he says quietly, during the sixth session, staring at his hands. “My nana taught me last year.” He doesn’t say his hands shake too much to hold the needles and he hasn’t started a new project in nearly three months.

(Meaning since before Kate took him. He’s doing weekly sessions so this is six weeks, a month and a half, and Kate had him for a month, two and a half months. His stay in the hospital was short, maybe a couple days. Meaning for half a month he hadn’t knitted. Probably because Peter made fun of him for the dishcloths he made, lopsided squares with uneven stitches and practically ready to fall apart the moment someone uses them. Talia keeps them in a box in her bedroom with a few cards Laura made and some pressed flowers Cora gave her.)

Dad brushes a hand over his back, encouraging him to keep talking. He draws in an unsteady breath and tucks his thumb into the corner of his mouth. Dr. Morrell looks a bit worried but ignores it in favor of asking his favorite color.

“Green,” he mumbles. “Although, sometimes I like black or blue or purple.”

“What about white or pink?” she prompts and he shrugs.

“They’re okay. I like orange better though.”

(Shameless self insert: green is my favorite color. Dark blue or red is a close second with black following up. I’m okay with white, do not like yellow or orange or pink or purple. Derek is reevaluating himself and that is why his favorite color keeps changing. Although, I imagine he’ll keep going back to his initial answer as his true favorite.)

On the ninth session, Dad stays outside the room while Dr. Morrell watches him struggle to cast on and knit one row of stitches.

(It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, sitting there with Morrell watching as he takes the whole hour just to knit one row of stitches so bad they fall off the needle when he puts it back in the bag he starts to carry everywhere. It’s green yarn and it eventually ends up as a scarf so distorted Derek hates it and Talia has to rescue it from the trash every time he finds it when she hides it in the house. Sorry, just thought that out. Don’t know if it would make a good addition to the story or not, probably too interrupting.)

Every session after that, Derek brings in a ball of yarn and different sized needles. They talk easily about everything but what happened to him and by the time Dr. Morrell has decided he’s ready to move to once a month sessions instead of every week, she has a menagerie of knitted animals on her desk.

(And Derek is a little more proud of his stitches. He’s able to sew his knitted squares now.)

The next week (almost two years to the day he was taken), the trial starts and Derek starts panicking again.

The judge, an older fellow with a granddaughter about Laura’s age, lets him knit on the stand while he talks. It’s the only way Derek does talk.

(Eighteen at this point, if you’ve been keeping track. The judge remembers when she went through something similar to Derek (abuse, not kidnapping) and his wife taught her how to knit as an outlet for her emotions. He still carries the handkerchief she knitted when she was a freshman in high school.)

The woman, named Kate, of all things, goes to prison for a long time.

And then they move away.

To Chicago.

To a place where no one knows what happened to Derek (because he was too young to have his name printed in the papers) and where no one cares (except his family who tiptoe around him as if he’s going to break down again).

(This, I feel is a mistake on the part of the Hales. They don’t treat Derek as if he’s a person, but rather someone on the edge of a mental breakdown. And maybe he is. But, he doesn’t deserve to have conversations halt the instant he walks into a room. He doesn’t deserve the pitying looks Talia and James send his way. The guilt clearly written on Laura’s face. The anger etched into Peter’s, the jealously on Cora’s.)

Dr. Morrell recommends visiting a new psychiatrist and emails a few recommendations.

Dr. Deaton is just as enigmatic as Dr. Morrell, but he too lets Derek knit during sessions.

Slowly, the years pass until Derek’s graduated from both high school and college and is taking a year off (he’s only 20, give him a break, please) before he starts working toward his Masters degree in business. He still sees Dr. Deaton once a month to deal with the crippling anxiety that popped up (again) shortly before his second graduation ceremony.

(He worked himself too hard and too fast. It wasn’t made obvious until later (and maybe not even then, sorry) that Derek did online schooling. That he was not able to attend public school. That they didn’t even try to enroll him.)

Dr. Deaton makes a suggestion, as he packs away all the knitted things Derek’s left in his office, to maybe film some tutorials, to pass on the knowledge Nana gave him.

(Deaton is a dick. I do not believe he was a good therapist to Derek. That is not to say he didn’t have some good breakthroughs with Derek, but rather that it took him much longer to accomplish the same goals as Morrell. Fun fact: in my other story, Broken & Beautiful, it’s the exact opposite: Deaton is a good therapist while Morrell isn’t.)

Derek worries that Kate will find him, afraid that she’s going to check a computer and it will announce his location. He spends the next three days cocooned in blankets hiding from the world while his mom and dad try to coax him to at least eat at the table. Peter sits on the foot of his bed for an hour every day and tells Derek how he should have stayed gone, how he’s complicated everyone’s lives by coming back, how he’s a useless waste of space.

Mom kicks Peter out while Laura’s boyfriend spends the time talking to Derek about Dr. Deaton’s idea for recording videos.

Dr. Deaton had made it sound like Derek would have to post the videos immediately. Jordan says, “Hell no! They’re for you.”

(The first mention of Jordan! Laura met Jordan at her college. He served a tour in Afghanistan and came back to be a Chicago PD officer. He was also the first person that Derek got to tell what happened to him, and the first person to not look at Derek with guilt, pity, anger, or hatred. He was the first person to treat Derek as if he was still a whole person instead of something broken. As much as he became Derek’s best friend, he still balanced his job and his relationship with Laura too, which made Derek admire him more.)

Dad gives him his old digital camera and Derek, with Jordan acting as a cameraman, films the first ever video.

Cora, a snipe-y seventeen year old, declares it barely passable and promptly steals it to use in her public speaking class.

Somehow, that makes it easier, and Derek and Jordan spend a good three months filming videos and testing camera angles and picking out names.

In the end, it’s Laura who says, “No offense, Derek, but you look like the hot knitting neighbor next door.” And it sticks. Overall, Derek doesn’t mind being called HKN—he minds Hot Knitting Neighbor far too much, according to Cora.

(Here’s the sense that Cora’s jealously is morphing into hate—not that it was stated she was jealous. It was implied that Derek got all this attention, that they moved halfway across the country just for him with no regard to their other children. And it makes Cora angry at Derek.)

When he uploads the first video—casting on and basic knit and purl stitches—Jordan takes him for ice cream at the parlor around the corner from their apartment. Peter moves back in while they eat pistachio cones.

(Fun fact: my mom hates pistachio flavored things. I don’t know if she hates pistachios themselves. That’s the only reason they are eating pistachio ice cream.)

No one talks about it, preferring instead to gossip about Jordan and Laura’s blossoming romance (they’re both planning to propose come New Year’s Eve), Cora’s proclivities toward violent sports (another boy with a broken bone courtesy of her overzealous tackling), and Derek’s videos. Which are up to about three uploaded and ten views apiece.

(Blossoming, my butt. They’ve been in love at first sight. They just managed to hide it from everyone, except Derek, but Derek didn’t understand the implication of falling in love and so thought it completely normal. Plus they bribed him with candy…again. Although, on the plus side, no one threatened to sue Cora this time around.)

Derek finds he enjoys making the videos, enjoys figuring out how to adapt a pattern so he can teach nameless, faceless people how to knit easier. He also spends a ridiculous amount of time teaching himself how to knit left-handed so he can replicate some of his more popular patterns.

(I think the only reason Derek is able to continue filming and making videos is because the viewers are faceless. He gets a comment one day about someone lamenting the fact that they can’t switch/flip the pattern and knit left handed and he decides he wants his patterns to be accessible for all his viewers. Fun fact: my mom taught my sister and me to knit at the same time but because I am left handed (and rather stupidly so—cannot for the life of me flip anything a righty does so I can do it too—even now) I never picked up on it. Crocheting was also out the door. Although, I do all right on one of those spool things with making the long woven cords.)

--

Laura and Jordan get married the spring Derek goes back to school, and he spends a whole week filming videos of knitting flowers for the bouquet, all Laura’s favorites like forget-me-nots and gypsophila and a robust daisy-flower called zinnia. He also teaches himself to crochet, like Jordan can, and they spend almost two days making Laura’s veil.

(I have this scene in mind of Derek watching Jordan crochet and then mimicking him until he can crochet just as well—one of my brothers taught himself to crochet just so my sister wouldn’t be the only talented one in the family—and they spend time leaning against each other on Derek’s bed while they work. Also, zinnias are my favorite flower, bright, vibrant colors with little scent (allergies). The bit about them being in the daisy family is true.)

He’s so nervous the day of that he throws up harder than Laura, who’s already pregnant. He’s Jordan’s best man and he panics when the microphone is passed to him.

(Laura is approximately two and a half months pregnant when she and Jordan wed.)

Hyperventilating and wheezing and crying just isn’t a good place for him. He barely manages to choke out, “They’re amazing and I love them and you should too,” before his mom ushers him from the room.

Laura apologizes before they leave for their honeymoon, and Jordan sheds a few tears too when he hugs him goodbye.

He sees Dr. Deaton every other day for three weeks. Cora, in a rare fit of compassion, takes over Jordan’s job and helps him upload videos on Thursdays.

--

Three years pass quickly, a mess of panic attacks due to stress from his Master’s degree and more projects. Nana hires part time help so she can visit more often to help with Laura’s baby and second pregnancy, spitting vitriol about one of her customers, a young man who antagonized her by buying needles and yarns and then destroying his projects due to nervous energy.

(This is probably when Stiles’ obsession with Derek began.)

Derek suggests to her to teach a class and see if the boy, “Son of a Sheriff!” she snaps like it’s an insult, will improve.

Jordan buys him a new camera for his birthday. The first video he uploads with the new camera has half a dozen comments from someone called “Spaztastic Batman.” The comments range from, “Damn that honeycomb stitch was sooo badass!” to “You know, I never realized just how multicolored your eyes are. The first camera showed them as really, really green. They’re beautiful either way. Man, keep doing what you’re doing!”

(Stiles’ username comes from the fact that Derek called him a “spaz” in Season Four and the conversation Erica and Stiles had in Season Two. I’ll have to find it again to confirm though. It totally seems like something someone would call Stiles and that he would take and make his own.)

Derek tries not to feel anything when Jordan shows him the best comments—usually left by Spaztastic Batman—but something flutters in his chest whenever he sees the username. Nana watches him with knowing eyes, and before she goes back to Beacon Hills, she gives him a small pendant made of a stone polished to match his eyes. It makes him think of Spaztastic Batman.

(Nana is an old witch. I do not like her character at all. Not the least because in this universe, she was part of the reason Peter was such a jerkish asshole to Derek. Nana played favorites hard. Her favorite grandchild is Talia. Her favorite great-grandchild is Laura (Derek’s a close second though). She’s a necessary part of linking the Hales back to Beacon Hills, but Goddamn it, she’s a judgmental bitch with a superiority complex.)

--

Whenever Cora visits from college, they always have her favorite meal. Actually, it’s everyone but Derek’s favorite meal.

He doesn’t particularly like meatloaf although he doesn’t hate it.

He also dislikes the way his mom makes him help every time she makes it, like he doesn’t know that Laura and Jordan (and baby Monica) are on a pseudo date at the garden center where Laura works, and Dad’s busy with racecars or something engine-y.

(Laura went to college too. Nursing. But, she’s not comfortable enough to put herself in situations where she might encounter another Derek, another child ripped from its family and abused. Instinctively, she knows she’s wasting away, working retail, that she’s not happy, but she (also in therapy although no one ever mentions this, possibly, they don’t know, except Jordan. Jordan would know) can’t make herself seek out what she wants to do without feeling guilty.)

Peter hangs around too, making comments under his breath that Derek can’t quite catch but make his mom glare at her younger brother. It’s why she won’t let Peter “babysit” him unsupervised. That and his stupid stunt a couple years ago.

Anyway. Cora’s visiting tonight. She’ll be here the whole weekend. Derek frowns at the thought. He loves her, he really does, but she’s almost as bad as Peter sometimes. She doesn’t respect his boundaries, which is really sad.

Even Peter knocks before entering Derek’s room anymore, and he’s usually trailed by one of Derek’s parents. Cora just bursts in, insults him or what he’s doing, and then waltzes away again. He envies her fluidity with people.

If he’s startled, he’ll stutter. If he’s embarrassed, he blushes. If Cora scents his weakness, she exploits it.

“I need to record the last stages of the bears, Mom,” he says, softly. She turns from where she’s discussing the frontrunners for the upcoming City Council election with Peter to stare at him. He flushes under her gaze.

(Even in Chicago, Talia can’t get away from politics. She pretends she doesn’t feel guilty when she goes to the City Council Meetings where she’s working her way up to integrating back into running for mayor. She does a lot of charity functions, but so much of it is left unsaid because she doesn’t want to trigger Derek. Another instance of her treating him as a still un-whole person.)

“Are you sure?” she asks, just as softly.

“I’m sure. I was almost done when you called me anyway. Jordan said he’d help me make a Facebook page tonight if I completed it.”

She smiles, watery, at him, hurriedly wiping her hands on the towel Peter thrusts at her. “Oh, honey, I’m so proud,” she says, wrapping him in a tight embrace. He holds his breath and tries not to squirm. Over her shoulder, Peter rolls his eyes at them. She pats him on the cheeks, pressing a dry kiss to his forehead before she shoos him back to his room. Peter opens his mouth as Derek leaves the kitchen, and Mom says, “Don’t speak. For once in your Goddamn life, don’t speak.”

Once in his room with the door shut—no lock, the one concession he’s okay with as it lets his dad find him in the middle of the night after a nightmare—he finds his project, a series of connected, multicolored bears meant to represent different countries. It’s a rather popular project, if the views are anything to go by, and he’s thinking of giving it to his cousin Marta to sell in her Etsy store.

(Marta sells avant-garde decorations and is forever begging Derek to let her sell off his completed projects. Because he’s uncomfortable about it, she hardly gets anything from him, all the other cousins (who lived out there anyway, which is why the Hales decided Chicago) getting first dibs since they won’t sell it with the caption “Look what my famous, hot cousin made!!”)

He’s on the last bear; this series is the Allied Forces in World War II. It’s in memory of his grandfather, a man Derek personally doesn’t remember. Laura often tells stories of Grandpa Valens holding him above his head and marching around the house proudly while Derek squealed. Laura, as a girl, never got the same attention, and he sometimes thinks she was jealous of their relationship.

(Grandpa Valens, James’ dad was a misogynic man, hardly ever affectionate toward his granddaughters while outright favoring his grandson. He also blamed Talia for making his son “less of a man” since James was the primary caretaker of the kids while Talia pursed her political career. Never mind that James absolutely loved staying home and honing his skills as a mechanic. Talia always came home to a video recording of her children doing cute things while James narrated them. Derek doesn’t remember Grandpa Valens because he died of a heart attack when he was three.)

He boots up his computer and checks the camera on its tripod while he untangles the yarn. He doesn’t remember putting it on the bookcase where he keeps his unfinished projects so Jordan or maybe Laura put it away for him. He’ll have to remember to thank whoever did so.

He records quickly, wrapping yarn and clicking needles and chattering softly about some of the switching of the colors. He finishes everything just about the time Jordan and Laura come back. The meatloaf is still cooking, so Derek explores the channel, seeing another comment from Spaztastic.

This time Spaztastic is outlining the finer points of Derek’s last video—the one that started the bears—extolling the technique Derek chose to use. He really hates to burst people’s bubbles, but if he were going to do the project again, he wouldn’t do it the way he did.

(Derek always wants to change everything he does. He never does a blanket the same way twice. He may use some of the same elements, but everything is new, improved, or sometimes not, and fresh.)

He checks out Spaztastic’s profile and finds not much but there is a link to a Facebook page.

Apprehensively, Derek clicks on it. He’s bombarded with a series of bright pictures and stupid quotes and pretty people. He thinks there’s way more information available to him than a normal profile should have. He forgets sometimes that Jordan has his own Facebook page automatically signed in. Apparently, Spaztastic Batman and Jordan are friends. And apparently, Spaztastic Batman’s real name is “Stiles Stilinski,” which honestly does not sound any more like a real name.

(Derek is starting to branch out and explore his interests. He likes that Spaztastic Batman always says something nice and something constructively criticizing. He feels a kindred spirit in him. It’s the whole reason he decided to be bold—although the gumption he had to store up when Jordan talked about the Facebook page probably helped him a bit.)

He picks out three candidates in a few photos. There’s a tall, thin man with a smattering of moles along his jaw, a shorter, more thickly muscled young man with coiffed blondish hair, and then there’s a solid linebacker-looking man with a shaved head and kind eyes.

He discards the women easily, certain his anxiety won’t let him even imagine being attracted to one.

(Which is purely a Derek-thing. He has come to realize that not only can he not feel attracted to women, but he actually gets nauseous if he thinks about them for too long. Deaton is supposedly helping with that.)

As he scrolls through the pictures, the cursor slides across one of the photos with all three candidates for Stiles and a little text box pops up. It’s on the coiffed blonde and it says “Jackson Whittemore.” The next one over, with the moles, is “Stiles Stilinski.” The linebacker is “V. Boyd.”

(Now, I may not be an avid Facebook user, but if I recall correctly, if you are tagged in a photo, your name appears when the cursor hovers over or near your tag. No one has corrected me yet, so I guess I was right!)

Derek goes through the pictures and isolates one of Stiles without his friends. He’s standing outside the Sheriff’s Station in Beacon Hills, and next to him, arm around his shoulders, grinning at the camera is the tall man who rescued him from Kate.

He shivers and closes the window. He takes it a step further and shuts the computer off. Ridding the temptations.

(Of following Stiles’ pictures to see more of the Sheriff who is still mystic to Derek, of following Stiles’ timeline to see what he’s like, if he’s that nice in real life or just to Derek. And to deal with the overwhelming return of panic at the fact that here is someone who knows what he went through when Kate took him. Derek is not good at dealing with things.)

Then he climbs on his bed and pulls his pillow over his head.

He muffles the whimpers with the mattress, fighting back the burn of tears. It’s been years since he thought of his savior, who is now apparently a sheriff, and he’s glad to see he’s doing well, considering. It’s a bit disconcerting that Derek’s got a fan from his hometown, much less that it’s the son of the man who rescued him. It makes him even more certain that when Kate gets out, and he has no doubt that she will get out, she’ll be able to track him down via his channel.

His door flies open and Cora yells, “Get out here, loser! It’s supper time.”

(Token protests don’t stop someone from doing something. Yes, Cora is bullying her brother. At this point, she is frustrated that when she says or does something, everyone (except Peter)’s response is to immediately tell her not to do that, not to upset her “delicate, sensitive, still-healing” brother.)

He hears his mom chastise her. It’s not enough to stop her from doing it again. It never is, but all the same, he drags himself off his bed and to the dining room. Mom pats the seat next to her and he sits. Dad pins Peter with a steady glare until he sits next to him while Laura and Jordan take the chairs beside Derek and Cora the one next to Peter.

(James can and will tell Peter to shut up. That’s why Peter sits next to him. Derek has advanced enough in healing to sit next to his mother and across from Cora.)

Mom says grace quickly and everyone digs in, passing dishes around the table. Derek takes very little food, and Mom looks sad.

(The Hales are not particularly religious, rather it’s a ritual they go through just because they can.)

“Anything interesting going on at school?” Dad asks Cora. She grunts through a mouthful of potatoes and meatloaf. Monica burbles happily in her highchair while Laura feeds her the homemade baby food Mom makes. No one else says anything for a long moment.

(Monica is the second baby for Laura and Jordan. Their first-born, Emerald, is having some quality bonding time with her cousin Helen, courtesy of Michael (oldest son of a sister of Talia’s, and the single father of Helen.)

When her mouth is clear, Cora leans forward so she can grab some of Derek’s green beans. Mom says, “Cora,” and she sits back, smug look on her face.

(Cora is always stealing food from Derek’s plate because he eats too slow or leaves large portions untouched. Talia is exasperated, but she never really does anything to stop her, hoping that Derek will one day stand up for himself.)

“I made Dean’s list this quarter,” she says, chewing loudly. She points her fork at Derek’s chest and he glances down to make sure he hasn’t spilled anything. He hasn’t. When he looks up again, she says, “My roommate needs a hat.”

(Such a blasé way to say she’s smart. But, notice that no one, not even Derek, congratulates her on making Dean’s List. It’s expected of her.)

“I don’t do commissions,” Derek says quietly. He’ll make stuff for his channel, for his psychiatrists (he still sends Dr. Morrell a different animal every Christmas to add to her menagerie, and a monthly email update on his life), but for no one else. Marta only gets to sell what he lets her.

She huffs. “You can call it my Christmas present.”

(Her way of saying, pay attention to me.)

“I wasn’t giving you anything this year,” he counters. Which is not true, but it’s not like she needs to know it.

“That’s not fair! Mom, tell him he has to give me something!”

Mom looks like she’d rather not tell anyone anything, rubbing at her temples as if she has a headache. Again. With the upcoming election, she always seems to have a headache anymore.

It’s Dad that says, “Derek is under no obligation to give you anything, Cora. If your roommate needs a hat so badly, either buy one or learn to make one yourself.”

“But, Dad,” she whines, “Derek already knows how to knit, and I know he’s hoarding shit.”

(Boxes of finished projects waiting for the perfect opportunity to gift to people. For instance, he has a hanging banner depicting their first dance for his parents’ wedding anniversary.)

“Language,” Laura cuts in, covering Monica’s ears.

(Laura is absolutely the one to stub her toe and spend a good half hour cursing everything under the sun and then flushing guiltily when Emerald asks her what it means when the side table is a Goddamn motherfucking cocksucker. She’s trying to be more careful with Monica, whose first word is still “Shit.”)

“Oh come off it,” Cora spits back. “She’s too young to understand me.”

“Maybe so, but if you don’t change your language around her, she’ll understand soon enough.”

“May I please be excused?” Derek asks. He hates that these fights of Cora’s usually come from him refusing to do something for her. He knows she’s manipulating the family, and it’s gratifying that they usually take his side, but Mom’s busy with re-election, with budgets, with everything else all the time now and Dad looks sad whenever he has to reprimand his baby girl.

“Once you’ve eaten everything on your plate,” Mom says, slapping a hand down onto Cora’s so she can’t take anything else. “And, Cora, you’ll be doing the dishes tonight.”

“But it’s Derek’s turn!”

“Cora,” Dad says warningly. “It was Derek’s turn until you decided you could stomp all over your brother.”

“Are we seriously still treating him like he’s some fucking fragile flower?! It’s been thirteen years, Derek. Get over it!”

(Much as it was wrong of Cora to say it this way, this is the ultimate goal Derek has been working toward. This is also why I dislike Deaton as a therapist (psychiatrist, actually). His goals are his own, and it’s not to help Derek heal. I thought how the show handled the character of Deaton was always suspicious. Their treatment of all the characters was suspect, but while everyone had a redeeming quality, Deaton was left as a mysterious emissary who did not help the family he was supposed to. I know, emissaries are advisors, but at any time after the fire, he could have approached Laura and offered her resources. And when Derek came back, he could have reached out then too. Instead, he was already moving on. There was no guarantee that there would be another werewolf pack in Beacon Hills, and he still chose not to offer his advisement to someone who probably could have done well with a helping hand. It would not surprise me at all if Deaton blamed Derek for the Hales’ deaths (I have a story bopping around where he actively tries to kill Derek because Derek survived and he was the Hale Deaton hated the most). It doesn’t help that in Season Two, after Peter rises, the first thing Deaton tells Derek is, “You’re still an alpha. But, as usual, not a particularly competent one.” WTF, Deaton?! This kid has just been drugged and used in a ritual without any autonomy. Hell, you had to pull him back from the brink of something (limbo?) with a fucking dog whistle, which you took pleasure in doing because it hurt him, and you have the nerve to blame him for what happened? You are a class A jerk, Deaton. Go fuck yourself. Sorry, I just really intensely dislike Deaton.)

“Cora!” the whole table, sans Derek and Peter (and Monica), says.

Derek stands up, shoving his chair back so hard it falls. Monica starts crying at the noise it makes, and he shoots an apologetic look at his niece. “I’m going…” he doesn’t know where he’s going. He can’t stay here but he’s not sure he wants to go outside either. “I’m going for a walk,” he decides quickly, the lesser of two evils. Cora is supposed to be here all weekend, after all. He picks up his chair, kisses his mom on the cheek, and grabs the jacket with the five dollar bill Jordan always puts in the pocket.

He walks quickly, aimlessly, until he finds himself standing outside the ice cream shop. During the winter, they sell hot chocolate, and while he’s not overly fond of it, he decides today is a good day for one. Comfort food.

(Derek does not like drinking hot liquids—stems back to his time with Kate and the chicken broth.)

The clerk smiles at him when she hands him his change, and he blanches, staring wide-eyed as her smile falters and she stares at him in confusion. He stumbles outside to head to the park about five blocks from the apartment. He sits on a bench and sips his rapidly cooling drink, observing the packs of people moving about the area. There’s a group of college students that catches his eye, and he ducks his head so they won’t notice him staring.

(He’s feeling frayed and the clerk’s femaleness is what scared him. It’s really nothing else.)

He recognizes some of the faces from Stiles’ Facebook page.

What are kids from Beacon Hills, California doing in Chicago?

Jackson Whittemore looks even more coiffed in person, and V. Boyd looks more like a Mack truck than a linebacker, especially with a much smaller blonde girl hanging off his back. A redhead in a purple coat hangs on Jackson’s arm and directs them to Derek’s bench.

“This seat taken?” V. Boyd inquires and Derek shakes his head quickly, standing up so both couples can sit.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” the blonde girl smiles, sharp, knowing, and Derek feels ice flood his veins.

(It’s a Kate-esqe smile. Erica seems like a sharp personality when she lets herself be, hardened by the way she’s been treated. Also, all of them are aware of Stiles’ crush on HKN, and since Lydia is Cora’s roommate (yes, I’m aware Lydia is a junior/senior right now while Cora is a freshman/sophomore so rooming is probably illogical), she wants to take advantage of this connection for Stiles.)

“I—Yeah, I-I guess s-so,” he stutters, and her grin widens, looking predatory. Suddenly, an arm wraps around his waist and he turns to find Jordan standing next to him.

(Jordan waited to follow Derek because the family had a quick discussion about how they would go forward with how they treat Derek. He got to the ice cream shop and asked the clerk—with whom he is on good terms due to the frequency of his visits—and she told him Derek seemed off, which is an indicator that he would go somewhere comforting, like the park. His next logical choice to search. Jordan’s a good officer.)

“Hey,” he says, and Derek nods at him. Jordan eyes the group carefully, cocking a hip so they can see his badge. “Making friends?” His tone is light, but Derek can hear the tension in it.

“Um, not really,” he says. The redhead jumps up again, thrusting out her hand. Jordan shakes it.

“Lydia Martin,” she says, smiling pleasantly.

“Ah, Cora’s roommate,” Jordan says, eying her distinct lack of a hat.

(Derek is the only one unaware of what goes on in Cora’s life because Cora can’t talk to him without insulting him so he avoids her when possible. He loves her, but he’s not sure she loves him back. Hint: she does, she just can’t reconcile the differences in the brother she remembers to the one she has now.)

Lydia turns the same knowing look from the blonde on Derek and he squirms uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “You must be Derek,” she finally says, offering her hand to Derek. He doesn’t shake it. “Cora talks about you all the time.”

“She does?” Jordan says harshly. Lydia holds up her hands.

“Hey, all good things,” she says.

“I find that hard to believe,” Jordan replies sharply. He grips Derek’s hip tighter and starts moving them away.

“So, anyway,” Lydia continues, following them. Jackson, V. Boyd, and the blonde also come with. “I have this friend who is so into Derek’s videos, he’s actually taken up knitting.”

Derek thinks back to Nana’s visit. He tugs on Jordan’s jacket and whispers into his ear, “Son of the Sheriff.”

“It’d be really neat if you would be willing to sign an autograph for him or something.”

Jordan shakes his head. “We don’t do autographs.”

(Marta’s fault. She wanted him to sign his work, or a little card to go with it, when she sold some things of his. She was a little overzealous in how she asked him. She’s no longer allowed to visit without warning.)

“Hey, now,” the blonde says, stopping them by jumping into their path. Derek jerks back and hides behind Jordan. They are the same height, so if he stands a little off center he can still peer over his shoulder.

(Yes, I looked this up. They are both listed as being 6’ tall. Which includes their heads. So, if Derek stands behind Jordan, he would definitely be able to see over his shoulder, as long as he didn’t move enough to use Jordan’s head to block his vision.)

“Get away from us, right now,” Jordan snaps. He tugs his badge free and all but shoves it in her face. She steps back, and Jordan, grabbing Derek’s hand and squeezing it tightly, stomps past her. Derek keeps his head ducked, but he still hears the blonde say, “What the fuck?” to her friends.

When they get back to the apartment, Jordan pries the crushed—when did he crush it?—cup from Derek’s hand and throws it away. Mom and Dad are waiting on the couch. Jordan deposits Derek between them and goes to the room he shares with his wife and child. Cora and Peter are nowhere in sight.

(Cora went to stay with Michael for the night while Peter was kicked out to a motel.)

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mom prompts after a brief silence. Derek shakes his head. He grips her hand and leans into Dad’s side.

“I don’t want to, but maybe I should?” He feels his dad sigh and presses deeper. “Cora’s right though. It’s been so long; I should be…not over it but somewhere on the path to healing.”

His mom lifts his hand to her mouth so she can kiss it. “You are on the path to healing,” she says, squeezing his hand gently.

(This right here, if anyone asks, is my favorite part of this story. The simple act of sitting between his parents and being able to hold his mom’s hand after he’s been feeling on edge all day, primed for a panic attack. This shows really just how far he’s come, that he didn’t really panic much. That he was able to remove himself from an uncomfortable situation twice (from the apartment and from the shop). Yes, he needed Jordan to rescue him from Lydia and Erica, but that was more because they were unfamiliar people who were acting as if they would hound him until he did break down. And then to come back and realize he wants to be better, he wants to work at making himself healthy.)

He smiles at them both, kissing them good night and heading to his room. He detours to brush his teeth quickly. In the midst of crawling under his blankets, he realizes that because of the way supper ended up, Jordan never set up that Facebook page. Derek decides he won’t remind him about it.

--

Morning comes fast, and with it comes Cora barging into his room to apologize about last night, his mom on her heels.

He wonders if she’s going to get the Peter-treatment now.

Breakfast is stilted with no one saying anything. Derek retreats to his room again and practices signing his name in a notebook he keeps stuffed under his mattress. He wonders about the friend Lydia mentioned, wonders if it really is Stiles Stilinski, bane of his grandmother’s store.

(This notebook is the start of Derek’s notes on himself. Jordan already has a few books filled with notes on the whole Hale family, like, motor oil is the best gift for James because he’s always testing the efficiency of it at the garage he works at part time, and don’t start talking politics with Talia because she will rip you a new one if she finds out you didn’t vote because you felt uninformed and she will inform you on everything. He has Laura’s pregnancy cravings down, and Cora’s secret weakness for old style pocket watches. He has notes on avoiding Peter. And, he keeps note of what is a trigger for Derek.)

Jordan knocks around noon with a plate of sandwiches and half a dozen ideas for the channel. He makes Derek boot up the computer and log in so he can direct Derek how to change the colors and change the welcome video. Derek makes faces at him when he’s not looking.

Spaztastic Batman—Stiles—is back with his comments, bemoaning the fact that knitting is far harder than Derek makes it look. Although, he’s quick to comment again that Derek explains everything thoroughly, it’s just some people don’t have the fingers, hands, skills for it.

It gets Derek thinking, and he pulls out a skein of black yarn twined through with silver tinsel thread. He grabs four two-millimeter double-pointed needles and sets everything down on his workspace. Jordan watches him silently for a minute before turning on the camera and focusing it.

(You’ve probably noticed that I use centimeter and millimeter in this story—that’s because, although hailing from the United States of America, land of the inch and the foot, things in knitting are done in centimeters and millimeters. It flows more naturally as well. Fun fact: I had to train myself out of using “grey” when I wanted something to be colored “gray.”)

He holds up four fingers and folds them down one at a time. When all four are down, Derek breathes deeply and forces himself to smile into the lens.

“Hi, I’m Derek,” he says. He doesn’t know why he says that every time, but the viewers and commentators seem to like it. “Today, I’m going to knit a hat on double-pointed needles.” He holds up the needles, briefly explaining what to expect when using them. While he does this, Jordan digs around in the computer desk, pulls out the cloth tape measure, and sets it by the yarn.

Derek flashes him a grateful smile. “So, usually, you’d take measurements of your subject’s head. Since I’m doing this as a gift, I want to surprise the person. I’ve met the person once, but if you’ll remember, I’ve got a good eye for measurements.” Jordan holds a pink square of paper over Derek’s left shoulder. It’s their agreed cue for inserting links back to previous videos. In this case, it will be the one they filmed on New Year’s when Laura, Cora, and Marta made Derek guess their head and shoulder sizes. Jordan had officiated, to make it fair.

It’s one of the more popular videos, Derek supposes, because it shows more of his home life than just the workspace opposite from his computer desk.

(They filmed it on the couch in the living room, watching the ball drop. Derek can still taste the cherry soda (a rare occurrence for them to drink soda at all) they were drinking because Cora was underage and no one wanted her to feel left out.)

He casts on, all the while explaining what he’s doing, why he chose the size of needles he did, and his choice of yarn. He knits quickly despite the fact that he’s manipulating multiple stabbies, as his baby cousin Helen likes to call his double-pointed needles.

“If you’d like, you can have a quick refresher course on how to knit with double-pointed needles,” he says, and Jordan puts the pink square over his right shoulder. If Derek points, they don’t use the paper, but Derek likes the paper, makes the link feel real.

He grins at the camera. “Now this project might take a couple days since I’ve already decided that the top of the hat will be a silver pom and it might take me some time to find the perfect color of yarn.”

(It’s in the little shop between his dad’s garage and the candy store on the other side. It’s run by a gay couple (Rafael and Darryl) who absolutely, though they admit to watching his videos and loving his channel, do not make Derek feel uncomfortable. They are also Derek’s first idea that he doesn’t have to be “normal” like Laura and Jordan, doesn’t have to seek a relationship with a woman just because it might be expected of him.)

Jordan pulls up the computer chair and watches him work silently for a few minutes. “So, how’s about that movie you liked so much?” He winks at Derek’s unimpressed glare.

Then they both turn to the camera and say, “Spoiler alert!”

“It was good, yeah,” Derek says, feeling the blush spread over his face. “I really liked the visual of the world, the whole building of it, and how it was executed. I think they did a good job with it.”

“It’s not without fault,” Jordan says, and Derek nods.

(Totally talking about Inception here. Jordan takes every opportunity to gently tease Derek about his fanboying over the film. I myself liked it well enough. Not enough to point out anything major about it, so it’s left intentionally vague.)

He runs into a tangent on major plot points he wishes would have been improved before stopping to smile fondly at the camera, saying, “I think Mom was just so excited that I wanted to go see it three times in theaters.”

“You gorged yourself sick on popcorn,” Jordan remembers. “And I had to buy you those caramel bite things.”

“Milk duds, Jordan, they’re called milk duds.”

(Well hello there, Sweet-Tooth-Derek-trope. Nice to see you again.)

“I thought you’d get a cavity. Hell, I thought I’d get a cavity just from watching you.”

Derek pauses his knitting to show the camera his progress. “So far I’ve got the band that goes around the forehead. Jordan, if you would?” Obligingly, Jordan unfurls the cloth tape measure and holds it so Derek can measure the band. “And we’re right on target. Perfect. Another few rounds of this and I’ll be ready to switch onto the next section.”

“Sorry to burst your knitting groove, but your mom wanted us to make supper tonight. I was thinking spaghetti and meatballs.”

“And some kind of vegetable.” Derek lays the project down gently, leaning forward so his face fills the frame of the camera. Three years and he has it down, finally. “So, enjoy the rest of your day, and remember, keep knitting, your projects need you.”

(I honestly do not remember why I chose this sign off for him. I just wanted him to have something he said every time at the outro of his videos. Sort of like that painting show with Bob Ross on PBS or American Top Forty with Casey Kasem.)

Both he and Jordan wave before Jordan shuts the camera off.

“So, spaghetti, you?”

“Yeah.” Derek isn’t terribly talented in the kitchen, not like Jordan or Laura, but he can pass muster, unlike Peter or Cora, who both don’t have the patience for cooking. “Corn?”

“Corn’s good.”

“We’ll have the bear video to edit before Thursday, and I wanna get a teaser up with it about the hat.”

“Okay.” The nice thing about Jordan is he never tells Derek they can’t do one of his ideas. “But, in exchange, you’ll have to learn how to do the back-links.” He just makes Derek learn more of what he does for the channel. “By the way,” Jordan continues, “what made you change your mind about the hat?”

Derek doesn’t answer, instead pulling the notebook from under his bed and showing Jordan where he’s signed about twenty times, trying to get his signature neat and precise.

“Son of the Sheriff?” Jordan raises an eyebrow, but it doesn’t feel judging, just questioning.

Derek nods, a bit miserably. He doesn’t know why he wants to give Stiles an autograph. He thinks it might have something to do with who his father is.

(Spoiler alert: it kind of isn’t.)

He doesn’t say another word the rest of the night, and Mom and Dad exchange worried glances until he retires to his room.

--

Cora says Lydia squealed at deafening levels when she gave her the hat. Derek just grunts and retreats to his room to stare at the notebook of signatures. He knows he chickened out on the autograph thing, but maybe it’s something he can bring up with Dr. Deaton at their upcoming session.

(At this point, Derek only sees Deaton once a month unless he specifically needs more help working through an issue.)

Surprisingly, Cora and Derek get along much better after that, and she stops calling him names and stands up to Peter for him.

(Cora realized that she was wrong with how she approached the fact that Derek’s recovery had stagnated, but she is very impressed with the sudden steps he is making, which have always been coming, just hidden underneath his complacency with the status quo.)

Derek knits her a series of dolls from her favorite television series for Christmas. It’s popular on the channel too.

(Totally talking about Doctor Who here, both the original run and the rebooted one.)

--

Suddenly, it’s April, and Cora’s out with a study group while Laura, Marta, and another cousin, Michael (father of Helen), are having a parents’ night in. Peter’s been going out with a lady from work—he teaches anthropology at College of DuPage—and he’s on a date right now. Jordan was invited to the parent-thing since, obviously, he’s a parent of at least two of those munchkins, but he’d opted to stay with Derek for a new, exciting project. Derek’s parents are watching them with their practice run, waiting on their reservation for their anniversary dinner.

(They loved the banner Derek gave them earlier. It inspired the quick parents’ night in as they all decided they wanted memories like what Talia and James have.)

Jordan and Derek are working on camera angles for the longest scarf knitted in two hours (a total waste of yarn, if one asks Peter, but no one ever does). Derek already knows he’s going to rip it apart, after setting the record, and knit scarves for the shelter by Jordan’s precinct. He’s planning to do it anyway even if he doesn’t set it. They’re practicing with stand-ins for the official observers’ cameras and crew that will be present the day of, and Derek’s getting far too nervous.

He sits in the knitting chair he’s dragged out and set in front of the television, facing his parents on the couch, trying to pretend, and mostly succeeding, that they are strangers he’s never met, come to watch him knit. It’s unnerving and he can’t quite catch his breath.

Jordan, manning a lamp impersonating a camera, keeps shooting him increasingly worried glances, while Mom keeps clearing her throat like she wants to say something.

Dad suddenly stands up and goes to the bathroom. His movement startles Derek and he lets out a little gasp.

His hands are shaking too hard to cast on, and he’s staring through a wall of tears. He can’t do this. He really can’t.

Dad returns and sets a bucket on his lap, taking the needles and yarn away. Just in time too, as Derek dry heaves and then vomits into the bucket.

(Most of James’ support comes from being silent and there. So, it wasn’t a surprise, I hope, that he was the one to go get the bucket, to realize that Derek was about to break. Of course, Jordan and Talia noticed, but Talia isn’t sure Derek wants her comfort, and Jordan hasn’t dealt with this kind of panic, induced by attention.)

“You don’t have to do this, Derek,” Mom says softly. She stays on the couch while Dad puts an arm around Derek and rubs his arm. “You’re at a limit, and it’s okay to settle back and observe it for a bit.”

Dr. Deaton’s words.

(Oh, so he is good for something. Sorry, still mad at him.)

He’s the one who trained them all on what to do when Derek had panic attacks. He’s also given everyone a little booklet of phrases to tell Derek that he’s not a failure. Derek has one himself that he reads sometimes, when the stress of his Master’s gets a bit unbearable.

“I’m sorry, Jordan,” he whispers. “I really thought I could do it.”

“It’s okay,” Jordan says. “What matters is you. If you don’t feel ready, you’re not ready. The record can wait another time.”

Derek draws in a shaky breath, but the thing is, now that it’s been voiced by someone outside of his head, he feels relief. He knows he’s not ready, but what worries him is that he’ll never be ready.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and Jordan hugs him tightly. Dad checks his watch and shakes his head, but Derek squares his shoulders. “Go,” he says to his parents. “I’ve got Jordan.”

“Baby,” Mom says softly. But, they go out anyway.

Derek and Jordan spend the night on Derek’s bed crocheting an afghan for Laura and Jordan’s anniversary next month.

Derek doesn’t panic the rest of the night.

--

A couple months later, Derek is browsing Stiles’ Facebook, wondering at the fact that he’s only a year younger but so much more than Derek will ever be. He comes across a series of pictures from a trip Stiles took with his friends to celebrate their graduation from college. They went to a beach.

Stiles looks really good in a pair of red-and-black board shorts and sunglasses. He grins smugly at the camera whenever he notices he’s in frame.

Derek feels a flare of something spike low in his stomach. He glances down at it, pulling up his shirt to trace where he thought he’d felt it, only to find that it was lower, so much lower.

(So, that is actually Derek’s first experience with arousal or attraction.)

Flushing in embarrassment even though he’s alone in his room right now, he lets his shirt fall down and goes back to scanning Stiles’ pictures.

A few scenes later, or earlier, depending on how this posting thing works, he comes across a photo of Stiles climbing out of the ocean, chest glistening in the sunlight, water dripping down from his hair and off his arms. His shorts dip low, and his happy trail is plastered to his skin. Also, his sunglasses aren’t anywhere near his face, and Derek can just make out the burned almond tone of them.

(I have issues with how Stiles is described and/or portrayed in most fics. I’m probably crueler to him than I need to be considering I don’t hate him, he just frustrates me. One of the most infuriating things to me is how he eats, always moaning and groaning like he can actually orgasm from a really good bite of broccoli. Yuck. No. Most people eat silently. I also have trouble with his eye color. I don’t hate the generally accepted “whiskey-colored” but I strongly dislike using it. Hence the burnt almonds. Also, the silent eating of potato pancakes in HKN.)

He nearly stops breathing at the intensity of the flare that surges through…that’s his groin. Definitely his groin. Oh, God, he panics silently, attention firmly on his rising penis.

He closes out of the window and shoves his chair back from it. He throws an arm over his eyes and tries breathing exercises, but he can still feel the panic crawling up his spine, can still feel his penis getting excited.

A few moments later, he manages to calm down, breathing wetly through his mouth and wondering what it would feel like to have Stiles slide his hands over his body. To taste the seawater on his skin, the sweat of it.

He’s never been sexually inclined, had even confided to Dr. Deaton that he was unable to obtain or maintain an erection.

Dr. Deaton had given him a pamphlet of terms and told him symptoms apply but labels don’t.

It’s been comforting to know that Cora is possibly bisexual with a preference for male partners while Laura is strictly heterosexual. Symptoms-wise, at least. He honestly has no idea what either of them identify as and he’s certainly not going to ask them. He heeds Dr. Deaton’s advice, though, and doesn’t put a label on himself, though he thinks he’s strictly homosexual.

(A quick chat with Rafael or Darryl was so enlightening, to find that it was okay he didn’t want anything from anyone. Darryl is a youth counselor in his spare time, and he spent a whole two hours discussing Deaton’s pamphlets with Derek.)

He thinks again of Stiles, picturing his mouth, imagining kissing it.

His cock plumps a bit more, and he spreads his legs so it has more room.

He’s just decided to see if he can make himself ejaculate with his hand when his door flies open and Cora stomps in.

“Dinner,” she says shortly before freezing and staring at him, wide-eyed. She snorts in disgust and stomps back out.

Derek feels numb, hand halfway on his flaccid, completely flaccid, and uninterested cock, flushing in embarrassment. To make matters worse, she’s left the door open, and he notices Peter staring in at him, a smirk on his face.

He jerks his hand up and sits up, moving stiffly to head to the bathroom to wash up before taking his seat at his mom’s elbow in the dining room.

Conversation flows around him while he picks at meatloaf.

“Oh,” Cora suddenly says, turning to Mom and grinning, “I caught Derek masturbating.”

Derek chokes on the green beans he’s managed to put in his mouth under his mom’s watchful eye. The whole table goes silent for a long moment, and Derek feels the blood rushing to his face. He manages to swallow his mouthful and peeks up at his mom, seeing if she’ll excuse him before he has to endure any more surprises.

She smiles at him and says, “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful!” Then she turns to Cora. “Apologize for embarrassing your brother.”

“He didn’t apologize for traumatizing me!” Cora snaps. She stabs her food viciously before glancing up and catching Derek’s eye. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ll try to remember to knock next time.”

(Derek has come a long way, and so has Cora. Talia is proud of them both but of course, Peter opens his mouth before she can say anything, too choked up to speak at first.)

“Well, that’s a new one,” Peter says. He raises his glass as if he’s toasting, and points at Derek with his fork at the same time. “We shame people for doing normal things but we praise him for doing something shameful.”

“Peter,” Dad says. “How many times have I walked in on your masturbatory sessions?”

(Dear God, I do love snarky James. That man will not tolerate his babies being hurt especially by his bratty brother-in-law.)

Peter flushes and drops his fork. “I’m going for a walk,” he announces and stalks out.

“Masturbation isn’t shameful,” Mom says. Derek knows she’s talking to him, so he watches her out of the corner of his eye. She pokes at her own food before waving at the table so they go back to eating. “We’ll talk about this later,” she promises. “I’d really like to be here for you.”

Later, when he’s washing the dishes and Mom’s drying them, she explains some of the health benefits for masturbation.

He blushes each time she opens with another point. “Is it wrong to use a real person, though?” he asks, and she looks puzzled.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s a commentator on the channel’s videos with a Facebook page. I think I really like him. He’s—” he cuts himself off to hide his face in his hands. The warmth of them doesn’t disguise the heat of his face. “I feel so guilty,” he says.

“Derek,” Mom says, “let me tell you the story of how your father and I met.”

“I thought it was during a hot air balloon festival?”

Mom laughs. “No, that was a few months after the first time. The first time we met, Nana’s husband had hired your father to paint our house. He caught me masturbating when he was on a ladder, scraping old paint off the wall around my room.”

(Nana’s husband is not Talia’s biological grandfather. Her biological grandfather passed away of a tragic accident. The attending physician introduced her to the morgue attendant and Nana was gone. Sadly, the mortician has since passed away, a result of cancer from some of the chemicals he’d used in his profession.)

Derek blushes harder at the thought of it, the second-hand embarrassment for both his parents. Mom notices and hugs him tightly.

“Know what I was thinking about?”

“No,” he mumbles.

“The hot painter working on our house. We ran into each other again at the hot air balloon festival.”

“So, it’s normal?”

“It is, but don’t be intrusive in how you do it. Don’t purposefully search his page for images that you then stare at when you’re hot and bothered. If you find an image you like, you can remember it when you play with yourself.”

“Please stop using analogies for masturbation,” Derek implores her. “And please stop talking to me now. I think I’ve got it. Thank you for telling me. I’m just going to go die on my bed now.”

Mom hugs him again and kisses his head. “We still love you.”

Dr. Deaton says the same things (about masturbation not that he loves Derek) at the session Mom takes him to the next day.

So, if he doesn’t save the picture, according to Mom (Dr. Deaton says it’s okay sometimes—he gives Derek another pamphlet), he’s finally exhibiting normal behavior. He still feels guilty jerking off over Stiles’ sea-photo-image. But, that doesn’t stop him from rubbing himself raw over the next few days, now that he can maintain an erection.

--

On Derek’s twenty-forth birthday, Peter brings home an unannounced guest.

Her name is Julia or Jennifer and she gravitates to Derek, clinging to his arm and simpering about how she absolutely loves his videos. Derek whimpers when her fingers tighten. Peter glares at him while the rest of the family looks stricken.

(Why, yes, that is the Darach, thank you for noticing. She’s really just trying to suck up to the family by picking out the weakest member and latching on. She’s had months to listen to Peter rant about his stupid family circling the weakling and babying him.)

Even Cora looks terrified.

Finally, Mom steps between them, dislodging her hand and forcing Derek a few steps back. Immediately, Dad wraps an arm around his shoulders and squeezes.

“Peter, you know we don’t mind you introducing your friends to the family, but a little warning would have been nice.”

“She’s not my friend,” Peter spits, “she’s my fiancée.”

“Mazel Tov,” Cora intones. “Now get the fuck out before you trigger my brother any more than you already have.”

Jennifer or Julia looks absolutely confused as Peter ushers her from the apartment, saying, “If she’s not welcome, than neither am I.”

Once the door slams shut behind them, Dad sits Derek at the couch where his little cousins crowd around, petting at his arms and shoulders. Cora claps her hands loudly and says, “Good riddance.”

And that’s how Peter, thirty years old, finally moves out of his sister’s apartment.

Even more embarrassing than panicking just because someone—a woman—touched him is the fact that Jordan was recording the whole thing.

(No, this was not posted online, was never intended to be, but I state later that it was used as evidence to why Kate should remain behind bars. Talia is ruthless when it comes to her babies.)

--

Derek works at getting better. Finally, Dr. Deaton doesn’t say, but the relief he minutely shows when Derek talks about maybe getting some medication to help with the panic attacks so he can be off by himself without a family member chasing him down is loud enough.

(Deaton probably subscribes to the “help yourself” theory of getting better. He’s given the Hales some tips on dealing with Derek’s panic attacks, but other than that, his sessions with Derek do not seem to help at all, and the only reason they stick with him is because he is familiar.)

When Cora bugs him about a hiking trip she has planned as a graduation gift to herself, he agrees, with minimal persuasion on her part, to go with her.

Immediately, she details a training and dietary plan for him. His only consolation for the sheer number of abdominal crunches she expects from him after a three-week period is that she’s pushing herself just as hard.

On his twenty-fifth birthday, he starts a new project, and, for once, in front of the camera doesn’t feel like a chore or whore-mongering himself for the satisfaction of Dr. Deaton. He truly loves what he’s making even if he’s on the tired side with his adjusting medications and his own completion of his Master’s degree.

Marta begs him to allow her to sell the sweater in her store, but Derek overhears—spies really—on Cora talking about radio contests one day, and he approaches Jordan with doing something like that too.

(Marta is and always will be that kind of person that sidles up to you, throws an arm around your shoulder, and then tries to manipulate the hell out of you by name-dropping. She’s from Peter’s father’s side of the family.)

Jordan is thrilled but he makes Derek write all the rules. And enforce them too.

The final video of the project goes up on a Thursday, and that was one of Derek’s never to be repeated ever, ever, ever, on pain of death to everything holy and good, ever again. Derek had actually thought he was going to die of embarrassment after Cora’s comment, but the number of views is almost quadruple what his other videos have. The only reason he’s unhappy is Spaztastic Batman, Stiles, hasn’t commentated at all. It makes his chest ring with hollowness in time with his heartbeat when he thinks about it too long.

(So, insight: Stiles totally didn’t comment because all he could type was, “God, your bod totally rocks! Wanna rock with me?” and he didn’t want to come off as creepy…creepier than he already was.)

He and Jordan spend the weekend after the video was posted scouring Jordan’s Facebook page, reading comments and marking down who won, who was disqualified, and who is just plain creepy. Hint: if Matthew Daehler comes anywhere close to the family, Jordan has a blanket restraining order ready to go.

(Matt is such an easy villain. Shove a camera in his hands and have him make creepy comments. Ugh. Although, I wish he would have escaped from Gerard’s deathly clutches longer. That geriatric (my favorite insult for him because it’s true!) bastard (for being a cancer-ridden bastard) had too much strength and was almost mystical in his ability to teleport. It would have been cooler to have Matt become the kanima and have Jackson transition into a werewolf. But, I digress.)

He also flags several of the comments detailing nothing but “compliments” for Derek’s looks.

Turns out Stiles Stilinski is the first (and only) person to succeed at the contest, and Derek can’t help the fuzzy feeling that swells in his chest (and his groin, if he’s honest) when he sees his name.

Jordan clicks on Stiles’ profile, searching quickly. “Well, he didn’t post anything about the quiz, just said that HKN was his top entertainment for this past year.”

Derek peers over his shoulder, taking in the lithe man dancing his way through his new photos. “He’s really cute,” he admits softly, blushing hotly when he realizes Jordan heard him.

“Yeah, I guess,” Jordan says distractedly. Then he stops moving and turns to Derek. “Did you just?” he asks, making Derek blush more. “Dude, that’s awesome! You should totally send a friend request.”

“I don’t have a page,” Derek reminds him. Jordan snorts. “No. I’m not making one. It’s bad enough you make me moderate the channel. What if she comes back?” he shudders. “I don’t want her to find me.”

“She’s still in prison, Derek,” Jordan says. He knows this; Mom keeps tabs on her appeals and always goes to speak to the parole board. She sometimes takes video of his many breakdowns. He knows for a fact she showed them the one of his birthday with Peter and his fiancée.

(Talia had documents drawn up to make it legal to show to the parole board.)

“Look, do you want to talk to this ‘Stiles’ or not?”

“Yes,” Derek says before he can think better of it. He immediately claps a hand over his mouth and stares wide-eyed as Jordan signs out of his Facebook page and opens a new profile. “Don’t,” he begs. “Please don’t. I didn’t mean it!” Jordan starts typing in Derek’s information and he panics, chest tightening, mouth and throat drying out. His breath starts whistling and Jordan stops to stare at him fearfully.

“Mom!” Jordan yells, closing out of the window. He shoves his chair back so he can kneel next to Derek and grab his hands. Talia throws open the door and rattles the bottle of Klonopin to get their attention.

(As much as Derek trusts James in a situation like this, everyone else trusts Talia. The roles have almost reversed. Where James was a stay-at-home dad in their early childhood, Talia now does so in order to keep an eye on Derek. That doesn’t mean that she doesn’t still go out and do her political hobnobbing, but it means that she’s the one who’s home right now. Also, I love how Jordan transfers from “your mom” to “Mom.” He is really and truly a member of the family.)

“Breathe with me, Derek,” she says, shouldering Jordan away so she can run her hands over his arms. She sets the bottle in his lap and counts to five. She inhales loudly, holds for a bit and then releases. “It’s a five-two count, baby,” she says. “Just follow along.”

(Five-two count, heh. It’s probably an extremely ineffectual way to regulate breathing, but she picks that count because that’s the count Derek knits in sometimes. I didn’t include it in any of the patterns he makes here. Sorry. It was supposed to be very meta.)

Within a few minutes, Derek’s breathing has settled and he hands his mom the bottle back. He glances around the room, finding Jordan sitting on the computer chair, a guilty expression on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and Derek tries to smile but his face still feels numb. “I won’t do that again, I promise.”

Mom glances at him sharply before tugging Derek to his feet and leading him to his bed. She tucks him in and sits with him. Jordan shuts down the computer before leaving the room, leveling one last guilty look at Derek.

“Want to talk about it?” Mom asks, and Derek shakes his head. He’s tired now, usually is after a panic attack. He’s glad that he didn’t have to take any medication for this one. It means his tiredness is just a reaction to the excess adrenaline his body produced earlier, instead of the loopy, fuzzy mess he usually is after the Klonopin.

(I remember researching this bit with the adrenaline, but I don’t remember if Klonopin really makes a body into a “loopy, fuzzy mess.”)

“Derek, please.”

“Jordan was going to set up a Facebook page and I panicked. It’s not his fault.”

“I know, baby, but remember it’s not your fault either.”

“Mom,” Derek whispers, “do you think I’ll ever be better? Well enough to be on my own? Well enough not to need so much care?”

Mom leans down to press a kiss to his hair, and he shudders as her lips touch his forehead. She straightens up, looking down sadly. “Maybe, Derek.”

“It’s been years,” he continues. “Dr. Deaton told me when I started therapy with him, if I wasn’t well by then, I likely wouldn’t be.”

(And there is the reason Deaton didn’t even try. Hah, I knew there was a reason I hated him so much in this story.)

“And did you take his words to heart and stop trying?”

Derek feels tears burning his eyes. Mom blinks rapidly too.

“I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did. The same way Cora was mean to me, or the way Peter hurt me. If you didn’t, you’d have kicked them out and never let them see me.”

“Peter doesn’t still talk to you, does he?”

“Not since he moved in with his fiancée.”

Mom sighs. “Derek, I don’t know. Do you feel better?”

Derek thinks about this for a long time. Mom gets up and goes to start supper. She leaves his door open and he can hear his niece and nephew playing just outside.

(Yes, Laura and Jordan have a third kid. And a fourth on the way. Woo, they’ve been busy!)

Eventually, on his own, he gets up and goes to his computer. He boots it up, leg jerking up and down with nervous energy. It takes him three tries to get his password right, and then he opens a browser, logging out of Jordan’s Facebook page as it automatically signs in.

Despite the severe shaking of his hands, he manages to muddle through and make his own page with just his name and the highest privacy settings. Thoroughly exhausted, he closes out of the page and shuts his computer down.

Baby steps, he reminds himself. Then he goes to help his mom make lasagna. She doesn’t comment on the fact that he sits on a stool at the island and just rests his head in his hands instead of actually helping.

--

For Cora’s birthday, they go to visit Nana in Beacon Hills, and for once, Derek actually comes with. Jordan is excited to see Laura’s childhood home and the creek where she fell in when she was six. All the other times the family has gone back, he’s stayed with Derek in the apartment in Chicago.

(I really feel like I shunted Laura into the background and made her a baby machine. She didn’t have the character development that I would have liked to see, but she wasn’t a shell either. She just was the least present member of the Hale family that lived in that apartment, and I’m sorry for that.)

While they’re in California, Derek looks up Dr. Morrell, who looks remarkably the same. He initiates the hug, and when they pull apart, her eyes are shining with tears.

(Sort of a play on Bianca Lawson’s ability to play teens well into her thirties.)

“You’re on your way,” she says. “I always knew you could do it.”

He picks up the first animal he ever knitted for her, a lumpy wolf made from the blackest yarn in Nana’s store with little blue bits of felt for eyes. He’d remade it half a dozen times and sent each new incarnation to her, and yet, it’s his first that holds the place of honor.

(Obviously, this is full-shift Derek. The reason that Morrell keeps it instead of all the others he sends her (which are in a box in her closet at home) is because to her that is the progress marker for Derek. It was when he first trusted her enough to share something of himself, and though he keeps sending more things to her, and she can see the healing in them, she still loves this one for being the first. See? More awesome of a therapist/psychiatrist than Deaton.)

“Nana is retiring in October,” he says, setting the wolf down and taking a seat in the chair in front of her desk. “She’s going to ask me to take over for her.”

Dr. Morrell sits behind her desk and folds her hands so she can rest her chin on them. “And do you want to?”

Derek thinks of all the people he would have to interact with, all the ways he would have to rely on himself. “I don’t know that I’m ready, but it’s early. I can learn, I think.”

“There’s an opening for a deputy at the Sheriff’s station, and I’m certain Laura can find work here too,” Dr. Morrell says. “Your house is still available to live in. It would be perfect for three children.”

“Everyone’s lives are in Chicago,” he says, thinking of Mom sitting on City Council, of Dad’s garage, and Peter’s impending marriage. Cora is fairly transient right now with her recent graduation as a personal trainer.

Still, Laura does complain about working at the garden center, and the way she and Jordan keep making babies means the apartment is getting crowded quickly.

“You’d be my therapist again,” he says, and Dr. Morrell smiles at him.

“That’s something I think we can arrange. I have a feeling you’ll be just fine though.”

Derek spends the evening, at the bowling alley with beer (“I’m finally legal, Mom, stop glaring at the poor bartender.”) and family, thinking about Dr. Morrell’s confidence in him. After he’s begged off his turn half a dozen times—somehow, never going out makes one a very bad bowler, plus the crowded nature of the establishment is sapping his tolerance—Cora leans over and shouts in his ear.

(They do not notice Matt Daehler creeping around them. In this story, he has a different target than Allison. As much as he stalks all the girls, it’s Cora Hale he’s going after. And, that was Cora talking to Talia about the beer, in case it wasn’t obvious. She’s the only one right around 21 anymore.)

He startles badly, sloshing beer over his hand and the floor.

“Sorry,” she says with a grin that means she’s not really sorry at all. “But, you remember that contest thing with your sweater?” He nods. “I want you to announce the winner here. Now.” She reaches down into the ever-present diaper bag Laura always lugs around even if the kids are at a babysitters and pulls out Jordan’s handheld. She gets it set up quickly and shoves it at Mom.

“Oh, are we singing ‘Happy Birthday’ now?”

“Nope! Derek’s gonna do a video for his channel now.”

Mom looks so happy, and Dad so proud, that Derek hasn’t the heart to tell them he’s starting to panic.

Jordan gives Mom a few points on how to do an intro for the video, and she spends a good thirty seconds skimming the people of the alley—Jordan will edit it later. Derek thinks he catches a flash of Lydia’s hair over by the far wall but dismisses it as coincidence, with her being the only redhead he knows but not the only one in existence.

(Derek is latching onto familiarity to keep his panic down. It’s the only logical reason to think of Lydia when he sees red hair even though he met her only once.)

When the camera pans back to him, he holds up three fingers and folds each one down in facsimile of what Jordan usually does for him. “So, you remember my sister Cora, right?” He never introduces the people that march through his videos. He still remembers the last one where Cora interrupted him and Mom had to stay with him just so he could finish filming.

“Well, today’s she’s the birthday girl, and she’s made a special request.”

Cora leans close to him and says, “Demand. Never mistake my demands as requests, Derek. You might start not obeying them.”

He smiles fondly at her, aware that his anxiety is probably making him look like he’s got something sour tucked in his cheek. “Demand,” he says, to appease her. “Well, her demand is that we announce the contest winner here and now. So, Jordan, if you would?”

He expects Jordan to step up to the camera and recite the rules they’d made for the contest. Instead, Jordan waves his hello and then promptly digs into Laura’s bag again. He pulls out a hat and Laura passes him a stack of papers and colored strips of paper. Derek raises an eyebrow.

As far as he was aware, they only had one qualifier, so he doesn’t understand the need for all these props. Then he notices the camera’s back on him, Mom beaming at him from around the flipped-out LCD screen.

“So,” he all but stutters, letting Jordan hand him the stack of papers, from which he reads, “The contest rules were posted on Jordan’s Facebook, right above the big button for the quiz.” He peeks up through his lashes to find Mom still grinning at him, emotion bright on her face. “Rule number one: no cheating. This was a bit hard to enforce at the top of it, but an immediate disqualifier was to post any answers in the comments. So that means the first six people to answer all questions were removed from consideration.

“Rule number two: no posting what comes at the end.” And filming that short video that Jordan had turned into a .gif was almost as embarrassing as always announcing himself at the start of his videos, speaking of which, he forgot to do today. Oops. “So, out of all who answered the questions, only one didn’t do that.” He frowns, thinking, and lowers the papers from his face. “It seems a bit unfair,” he says, because it is, but screw it. “And if I had more energy, we’d do the contest again.” Jordan stares at him incredulously before shrugging. Derek turns back to Mom and the camera. “As it stands, the winner of this—” Cora holds up the sweater, smirking at him “—maroon-colored, hand-knitted sweater is user name Stiles Stilinski.” Cora and Laura mime clapping.

“Stiles, please enter a private chat with me on Facebook, and we’ll get your sweater shipped out as soon as possible,” Jordan says.

“Stay tuned for more news,” Derek adds, tossing the papers onto the little table where they’ve been keeping score. He shrugs as Jordan did, and feels the tiredness weighing him down. “So, enjoy the rest of your day, and remember, keep knitting, your projects need you.”

Mom shuts off the camera while Cora jumps up to hug him. Dad claps him on the shoulder and says, “Proud of you, son.”

Derek smiles tiredly. He just wants to go home now. He also wants to discuss Dr. Morrell’s offer with Jordan and Laura.

--

Jordan sits at the computer after they’ve uploaded both videos. Discussion was good. Laura is thrilled that the pharmacy is accepting applications, and Jordan will inquire at the Sheriff’s Station about their openings.

Derek lounges on the bed, drifting off as he organizes, mentally, the things they will have to do for the move. It should be simple to move back here, he thinks, and difficult. He still remembers the wobbly fence post in the backyard where Kate took him. But, he wants to do this, is certain it’ll be a step in the healing direction.

“Hey,” Jordan says, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Stiles is online, and he just messaged me.”

Derek scrambles to his side and peers down at the screen. A simple Hello sits innocently in the chat box.

Before Jordan can do anything, Derek leans over him and types hi. Jordan hits enter when Derek can’t. They both blink at the screen.

Then, Jordan types, What’s your address? We’ll get the sweater out to you in the next couple days or so. Before we move.

Stiles responds quickly, Actually, maybe it would be better to hold off on it until after the move? You guys must be busy and you don’t need any added stress right now.

Derek sits back, wondering at the generosity and kindness this young man is showing them. He blinks back sudden tears that have nothing to do with panic and everything to do with the fact that he’s in Stiles’ hometown, his hometown, right now and could, if he was anywhere near ready, just find Stiles’ house and ask him, proper-like, for a date.

Jordan watches him from the corner of his eye before slowly typing Thank you and sending it to Stiles.

(So many comments on Jordan’s friendship with Derek, and even though I am the author, I have to agree with them. I like this dynamic where Jordan knows when to push, when to protect, and when to let Derek figure it out for himself.)

--

When Derek meets Stiles in person, he has an autograph tucked in his back pocket and the rehearsed words for asking for a date on his tongue. As soon as he sees Stiles, a bit flustered, definitely in a hurry, and carrying a box wrapped in paper patterned with dancing neon llamas, the words crash (literally since Stiles runs into him and knocks himself onto his butt) right out of his head and tumble away while he stares gaping at Stiles, beautiful, perfect, more Stiles.

“What?” Stiles snaps, and Derek thinks even his voice is perfect, if a bit waspish.

Derek ducks his head when he feels a smile quirk his lips and a blush stain his cheeks. He pulls the sweater from behind his back and hands it to Stiles. Then, remembering Mom’s insistence that he be a gentleman, he helps him stand up.

“So, I moved to town a few days ago.” His blush stays strong as he remembers Stiles’ comment that the section of the house dedicated to his apartment was “cool diggs, yo” on the moving video he uploaded.

Stiles nods knowingly. “I saw,” he says. “You posted the video of the apartment yesterday.”

Derek nods as well, blushing hotter, imagining Stiles jumping on his new bed, trying it out with him…nakedly. He clears his throat softly. “I noticed that your address wasn’t too far from my nana’s store, so I decided to walk it over. I hope you don’t mind? I know it’s kind of creepy—” almost Daehler levels of creepy, if Derek’s honest with himself “—and I can totally forget your address right now.” Except he kind of can’t…or he doesn’t want to. He really needs to go see Dr. Morrell, see if she can help him stop being so creepy.

(I don’t know if you know this, but Derek wanting to be naked with Stiles is a huge, huge, BIG DEAL. He will probably panic the first time they get that far, but the thing is he wants to get that far. He doesn’t want to stick to masturbating the whole time.)

Stiles flinches a bit, and Derek snaps his mouth shut. “No, no,” Stiles says, almost reassuringly, “I appreciate it. It’s really kind of you to bring it to me.” He opens the box, staring down at the shirt like it’s not what he expected to find at all despite the fact that, oh, right, he never said what he’d brought. He’d just assumed Stiles would know what it was. God, he’s an idiot.

Stiles traces a finger over it, and Derek worries that it got snagged on something in transit. “Maybe you should keep it?” he says suddenly, and Derek’s heart drops straight through his stomach. Stiles looks unfriendly, face pinched and mouth tightened into a line.

Derek doesn’t even know what he did to elicit that response. Surely dropping off the sweater wasn’t that bad of a faux pas, was it?

“Look, I’m late for an important meeting,” Stiles snaps sharply, and Derek knows his face is closing off—it’s doing that because he’s trying not to panic. He’s got the Klonopin in his other back pocket but he’d rather not have to take anything if he can help it. He’s supposed to start learning the ropes with Nana today, and he can’t do that if he’s loopy. Or so panicked he can’t breathe. “Maybe you can come by another time?” Stiles softens his tone considerably, and it doesn’t set Derek entirely at ease, but maybe he really did catch Stiles at a bad time?

“I’m usually free on Saturday mornings.” That’s a good thing, right? This might be what he misses most about Jordan always escorting him—there’s almost no way for Jordan to misinterpret like Derek does.

“Okay,” he finally says, nodding almost mechanically. “Keep the sweater.” He hurries away before Stiles can do more than look at him with a confused expression.

He’s almost crying when he gets to Nana’s Knitters and Nana drags the story out of him one syllable at a time. Then she sends him to the back to catalog the skeins while she deals with the few curious customers rubbernecking at a grown man wiping snot and tears off his face.

By the time he’s calmed down enough to trail after Nana while she shows him how to stock items, the store is blessedly empty.

Mom likes to say Nana can terrify God. Well, Derek thinks the customers are probably easier and more plentiful.

(Talia doesn’t like Nana either. Just an FYI.)

Back at the register, he’s tallying up some figures for Nana so she knows what to order for next month’s shipment, when the bell above the door pings loudly. Derek sees Stiles and drops to the floor, hoping he didn’t see him. Nana shoots him an unimpressed look before turning a baleful stare at Stiles.

“Don’t pick green again,” she says, angrily, and Derek raises an eyebrow, asking for an explanation. Nana doesn’t give it to him.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Stiles spits back with his waspish tone. Derek shudders.

“Nana,” he says, a bit louder than he was planning to, and he blushes when she stares down at him, “how are you still in business if you treat all your customers like criminals?”

“That one is a criminal,” Nana retorts. “A thief. Keep your eye on him, boy.” Then she reaches down and hauls him up by his collar.

“Nana,” he says, warningly, and great, now he’s his dad. He goes around the corner, sneaking down the aisle with the needles. He glances back at Nana, and she shakes her head at him, pointing about three aisles over to the cheapest skeins. He slips over to it and comes face to face with Stiles.

Startled, he blurts, “Sir,” as politely as he can while Nana snorts loudly. “Are you finding everything okay?”

“Yeah-yes,” Stiles stutters, hugging a skein of burgundy (or maroon, really, the two tones are so closely related they might as well be one and the same) to his chest. “Uh, so I need to pay for this?”

(Yay! Research. I have near perfect color recognition, and seeing skeins of yarn or swaths of cloth—they look similar enough to be mistaken for each other. Online, though, is a completely different story.)

Derek steps back and waves him to the register, struggling not to smile as he trip-walks toward where Nana’s glaring again. He steps behind the counter and nudges Nana so she’s not in front of Stiles while he taps a few keys on the ancient register. “It’s four-thirty,” he says, taking Stiles’ card, ignoring the way he’s staring at him.

“Your receipt.” He hands the tiny strip of paper to Stiles. Their fingers brush against each other, and Derek pulls back, surprised when the contact doesn’t immediately make his chest seize. It does make his groin surge in interest, and he thinks, Not now! at it.

“So my dad thinks I should ask you out,” Stiles blurts and then slaps a hand over his mouth.

Derek is confused. “You brushed me off earlier,” he says, slowly.

Nana leans across the counter to poke at Stiles’ chest. “See?” she says triumphantly. “Thief!”

Derek has had enough of this “thief” business. Stiles paid for his yarn. And promptly too! “Okay, I give,” he says, a bit cold. Nana doesn’t appear fazed. “What did he steal?”

“Your heart!” she cackles like the witch she is.

“Nana!” He blushes hard. The heat coming off his face might just be enough to melt the polar caps. Stiles looks worried.

He opens his mouth and says, “Do you want to?”

The confusion works to combat the blush. Maybe a bit too well, as Derek feels a bit unsteady on his feet. “Want to what?” he almost whispers. Stiles grabs his arm and holds him upright while Nana squirrels underneath his other arm. “You want to date me?”

“Hmph, thief,” Nana grumbles, but she stops glaring at Stiles long enough to shove Derek onto her stool.

“Uh.” Stiles rubs at the back of his neck with his free hand, blushing lightly. “Yeah, I wanna date you.”

Dr. Deaton, Mom, and Jordan’s voices all clamor in his head, and he finds himself saying, “Okay.” Then he thinks about that. He’s never been anywhere without an escort, usually Mom or Jordan. Except for earlier today. Maybe it won’t be so bad? He looks up at Stiles through his lashes, watching as the blush deepens. “How?” he asks.

“In all the ways,” Stiles replies, waving his hand a bit. His other hand flexes on Derek’s arm, a warmth that helps keep him grounded despite the fact that he feels as if his head is truly going to detach from his shoulders and float away. “That’s not very descriptive,” he hears himself say, and honestly, how is he still capable of conversation currently?

“See,” Nana interrupts, and Derek shushes her. He can sense her glare, but he’s focused on Stiles right now. He doesn’t have time for a batty old woman who takes pleasure in scaring people away from her store.

“Dinner tonight?” Stiles says.

Nana, a mischievous glint in her eyes says, “Yes,” a bit enthusiastically.

Stiles gulps and Derek blushes under his almost frightened gaze. “Yeah,” he confirms softly. Then, boldly, he turns to Nana. “Hey,” he tells her, “I guess Stiles isn’t the only thief in your store.”

Nana cackles again while Stiles blushes with him.

(Derek is being forward and working through his panic. And maybe actually meeting Stiles was that switch, although I don’t really feel like their interactions were really anything great.)

--

Derek meets with Dr. Morrell once a month. And with Stiles by his side, attends Kate’s latest parole hearing. She doesn’t get out, but her bug-eyed stare when she sees him makes him think maybe she’s just as afraid of him as he is of her.

He also knits a potholder from the burgundy (the skein’s wrapper said it was burgundy, so they call it burgundy) for the Sheriff’s birthday the day after their first date. Jordan gets the job at the Station and Laura ends up being a nurse at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. Stiles frames the autograph Derek finally gives him a year after dating.

He still posts videos to HKN, and he renames the store, once Nana is settled in Chicago and fully ensconced in making things for Marta’s Esty store so she can’t come back to rage at him. He finds it amusing when people stop by just so they can buy a small item and say his tagline to him.

And three and a half years after moving back to his hometown, Derek says yes when Stiles proposes with a too-big ring knitted from some green and burgundy yarn.

~ Fin ~

Warnings: Kate sexually assaults Derek during his captivity with her but is interrupted by Sheriff (Deputy at the time) Stilinski before things go very far. Because of this, Derek experiences extreme anxiety, especially when faced with females. He also does not feel sexually inclined until stumbling on Stiles' Facebook page.

He suffers varying levels of panic attacks with others around him working to dissipate them.

Cora was seven when Derek was kidnapped. Laura and Peter were both sixteen. Laura is the only one mature enough to not blame Derek for their subsequent move to Chicago. Cora does come around, although she still has a few rough spots with Derek. Peter never quite comes around.

This is not meant to be shaming of anyone in any way, shape, or form. If you feel I have attacked you or yours, please let me know.

One last disclaimer: I am not a medical professional. I do not work with challenged individuals. If I have made a grievous error in depicting Derek's journey, please do not hesitate to let me know.

If something about the story doesn't make sense, let me know, and I'll try to explain it. I will probably not write more for this series.

As always, thank you for reading!

--

(So, there’s that. The end of a monstrous one-shot. I kind of wish I’d had more detail in the first go around, but I wrote it so quickly that while I had time to come up with a lot of the background, there wasn’t room to incorporate it. Hopefully, if you’re reading this writer’s commentary, you found it interesting. So, yeah, Gremlins out!)

Perfect

--

(I have a little notebook that I keep on me when I’m not at home or near my computer and I use it to write down little snippets of ideas that cross my brain. One day, I scribbled out a quick fic of Derek masturbating and Stiles walking in on it. It wasn’t necessarily set in the Hot Knitting Neighbors Universe until I added the last line when I was typing it up on my computer. Then, it slotted in nicely.)

The first time Stiles catches Derek masturbating, he enters Derek’s room without knocking and just stares at Derek lying on his bed naked, one hand curled around his cock, the other under him, his fingers in his hole.

(They live together, but I always thought Stiles moved into the old Hale house where Derek lives with Laura and Jordan and their brood of kids. Derek is used to leaving his door unlocked so that people can check on him. He usually locks the door if the kids are home because what kid respects “Just a minute!” but the kids aren’t home, so he felt safe leaving it open. And then Stiles walked in.)

Stiles blinks, blushes, and backs out with a quiet, “Sorry.” Then he knocks on the door. “Can I help?” he asks. Derek sighs, fighting the burn of embarrassment as he wipes his lube-covered hands on his discarded t-shirt. “Please?” Stiles begs. “I’d really like to see you pleasure yourself, to see what you like.”

(Stiles was actually wondering if Derek wanted to watch a movie and then he realized what Derek was doing and thought that was more interesting.)

“We’ve never been naked with each other,” Derek says. “I…Maybe?” He pauses, thinks about that answer, about his still-hard cock, his empty hole, about Stiles’ hands, Stiles’ smile.

“Maybe?” Stiles prompts, and Derek makes up his mind. He crosses to the door and throws it open, stepping back as Stiles falls into the room. “Maybe—yes?” he says, softly, once he’s regained his feet.

(Stiles was totally leaning against the door, trying to hear what Derek was doing. He may have been tempted to stay there if Derek hadn’t let him in.)

“Yes,” Derek says. He grabs Stiles’ hand, folds their fingers together, and leads him to the bed. They settle quickly, Stiles sitting against the headboard while Derek kneels over his lap.

(I think this would be an awkward position to reach around and finger, but it’s awkward to finger solo too, so it works, I guess. Also, in this position, they can kiss and Stiles can watch Derek’s face to gauge how it’s going for him.)

“I like,” Derek mumbles, tracing the lines on Stiles’ palm. “Please?” He reaches for the container of lube on the bedside table, popping the cap and squirting a healthy amount onto Stiles’ fingers. Stiles inhales sharply, letting Derek guide his hand between his legs, skimming his cock and touching his hole.

(Derek’s way of saying he’s been thinking about Stiles’ fingers in his hole for a while, that he really is okay with Stiles participating.)

It’s still loosened from his interrupted fingering, and slowly, together, they work one and then two of Stiles’ fingers into him.

Derek sighs in relief, sinking down so his bare knees bracket Stiles’ jean-clad thighs. He braces his hands by Stiles’ head. He raises himself and then sits, still moving slowly. He hisses at the burn, raising and lowering himself with gradually increasing speed.

“So beautiful,” Stiles murmurs, crooking his fingers and stroking deeper. Derek whimpers when he brushes over something that makes him feel like he has to pee.

(Description I once heard about prostate stimulation.)

“Like that, babe?” Stiles says, smugly, smashing their mouths together while he rubs that spot until Derek pulls away, sobbing at the sensation. It’s then he notices the semen covering Stiles.

(Two things: 1) Stiles saying that is supposed to be edging into dirty talk. I don’t really care for it, but it’s better if Stiles does it than Derek, and 2) I read somewhere (someone had done the research and presented it really well and I’m mad I can’t remember the exact link) that prostate ejaculations are less of a “shooting” of semen and more of a “seepage.” I think that makes Derek being unaware of having ejaculated realistic. In fact, I’d found that fact after I’d written this, so I felt justified in leaving it this way.)

“I…?” he hiccups.

“You did,” Stiles says, smiling. “And you were perfect.”

~ Fin ~

(This was an experiment in two ways: 1) I do not write smut. I wanted to try my hand at it. I still don’t like writing it, but I didn’t totally suck at it. 2) I wrote this a long time ago, but recently (and it’s probably more Omega and/or Pregnant Derek stories than others) Bottom Derek stories have been bashed as not being “good” stories or their authors as being “sick and twisted.” Here’s a heartbreak for you: I hate (HATE FUCKING HATE) bottom Stiles, omega Stiles, pregnant Stiles. It’s (overdone) campy and sucks for me. I cannot see Stiles Stilinski willingly letting anyone in his asshole without him keeping control. Derek, on the other hand, was set up as a fucking punching bag. It makes sense to me that he would let someone he thinks he loves do those things to him without question. This story failed to bring on the trolls, but don’t worry, I’m working on some stories that might. Because, let me tell you, as much as I hyperventilate after posting, I do not give a fuck if you hate my work. You will not deter me from writing. I survived my family. I can survive you too.)

(Thanks for reading. And sorry if the rant at the end bothers you. But, hey, if I ever start doing requests, at least you know what not to ask for! Gremlins out.)

ixnay on the ickenchay

--

(This story is straight from the comments with a few tweaks. Title is supposed to be clever. I wanted to do the whole phrase in Pig Latin, but “ixnay onyay ethay ickenchay” just doesn’t roll off the tongue as nicely. And it’s more common to hear “ixnay on the ankblay” anyway.)

For their first home-date, Stiles makes a chicken dish. He's not a bad cook, but he's not particularly thrilled by it either (same as Derek), so making something is a BIG DEAL for him. He's so excited, bouncing around and singing out loud, waiting on the pasta and the peas and Derek. He's never been this excited, not even when he found a job right after returning from their graduation trip (he's a security consultant for a law firm a few blocks from the Sheriff’s Station).

(Stiles did not have a job in the first three stories—by that, I mean he worked but I didn’t know what he did until I was typing the comment.)

Derek's late. First, his outfit, chosen by Laura and her oldest daughter, gets ruined when he burps the youngest and gets spit-up all down his back. His second outfit isn't nearly as flattering as his first, and Jordan has to talk him out of a panic thinking that Stiles won't be pleased with him. (He liked you when you were wearing everyday clothes, Jordan says, nothing's changed.) Then, Derek realizes his socks don't match, and that the tie he was going to wear isn't clean either, and he needs to comb his hair and wash his face and-and-and! (Breathe, Laura advises, with a gentle but firm push toward the door. Don't keep him waiting too much longer, little bro. Jordan's right, he likes you for you, not for your clothes.)

(I absolutely love stories that include dialog without making it dialogue. I’m currently working on two stories that incorporate this technique. They’re going all right. Maybe you’ll see them soon?)

When Derek finally gets there, everything's ready and Stiles greets him at the door with a shy smile and a sweet kiss. And then Derek smells the chicken.

(Chicken broth. The terror of Kate looming over him. Chicken. Fun fact: when I was growing up, my family exclusively ate chicken. Boiled chicken. My sister and I had to pick the meat off the bone. I can eat chicken but only under certain circumstances. I chose chicken as the culprit because I absolutely loathe it.)

Stiles doesn't know where Derek went. One minute he was welcoming his about-to-be/already-is boyfriend into his house, the next he was left alone while said boyfriend ran away.

Stiles cries all night, thinking Derek's changed his mind or just doesn't like him anymore.

Derek cries harder. Lost in the residential area of Beacon Hills, trying to fight the demon of Kate, hoping Stiles didn't mean to hurt him like that. It doesn't occur to Derek to call anyone until he's already walked all the way home, the directions from that little old lady on the park bench very handy.

(This little old lady is probably Mrs. Halvershiem (from Broken & Beautiful) and from another story (tentatively titled The Gravel Road for James Newton Howard’s composition of that name—which you will get to see…eventually). I’m sure you’ve noticed by now: I create a cast of original characters that then will be inserted into whichever universe I’m writing.)

Jordan immediately drives him back to Stiles' and makes him wait in the car while he takes the notebook (the one he's been working on since he joined the family) and goes to talk to Stiles.

Stiles asks for a few days, and Derek worries that he's being dumped. Dr. Morrell spends the three days Stiles reads the notebook consoling Derek and watching him knit the baby blanket. Derek's shaking so hard he keeps dropping stitches he doesn't mean to and has to start over and over again. By the time Stiles calls to see if he can talk to him, he only has the cast on right.

(Stiles spent those three days reading and rereading the notebook, reading up on how to help with traumatic events, and speaking with Morrell about his own insecurities. By the end of it, he realized he would always regret breaking up with Derek if he didn’t give the relationship a fair trial.)

Stiles returns the notebook to Jordan, offers his services as a babysitter to Laura, and takes the whole family out to a steak, more steak, and most steak restaurant where Isaac and Boyd work as cooks.

(Stiles was supposed to be trying to win favor with Derek’s family so that if he does screw up again, he’ll have someone there who will care to explain it so that he can avoid it—which, Jordan already did by giving him the notebook.)

The dates get easier, and Stiles starts his own notebook, filled with the things Derek can do and the things he can't. For example, chicken is so far off the list of okay, it's on the No! List seventeen times and underlined all seventeen times with multiple exclamation points. However, Derek loves nose kisses, rubbing his chin over Stiles' shoulders, and bubble baths.

(It’s always sat with me that Derek was affectionate and kind to people he cared about. After the fire, it was harder for him to let himself out, to trust people not to use him the way Kate (and ultimately Jennifer) did.)

Stiles can work with this. And if he has to take a guys’ night at Scott's where they do nothing but gorge on chicken nuggets and Chicken Parmesan and chicken noodle soup, well, he just brushes his teeth more thoroughly before he goes back to Derek.

(They do this once a week for about a month, and then they move it to monthly occurrences. Derek is aware of it, but it doesn’t hurt him. It never has bothered him if other people eat chicken. He just can’t be around it.)

For his part, Derek tries to eat chicken. Finds out, he's okay with fried chicken, but any time he can smell it cooking, he hides in the bathroom and throws up. Stiles starts cooking it at his dad's, using the pot holders and ignoring his dad's complaints that if it's cooked at his house, he at least should get to taste it. (C'mon Stiles, don't deny me some pleasure in life!)

(I like this version of the Sheriff. He’s long-suffering and sort of tolerant of the shenanigans his son pulls on him. And he knows just when to kick Stiles in the britches to get him moving. He totally was a defining moment in Stiles’ minor crises at the start with the chicken. Hell, he probably suggested the chicken night at Scott’s. Pay no attention to the Diner’s take out bags he buries in his trash. No, really, Stiles, that’s always been there.)

(They totally move in after three months of intense dating. The notebooks branch into seven different books, and Derek starts writing one for Stiles too.)

(And then, five months after they start dating, something different happens. And it’s absolutely Perfect.)

end

(Yes, I shamelessly linked one of the stories in the not-story itself. I’m not sorry. It was a (coughs) perfect moment.)

(Thanks for reading! Gremlins out!)

And there is the writer’s commentary for all four of the stories in the HKN Universe. If I write more, I will be sure to update this post. Sorry that it got so long.

Thanks for reading!

Gremlins out

[howardlyontx]

2019 Lexus ES: First Drive – Cars.com

Now when Lexus launched in 1989 it only had two models in this lineup and one ofthem was the ES, so the ES has a long history with this company and thebrand-new redesigned 2019 ES is actually the seventh generation of the car and ithas been changed inside and out with a new platform new powertrains and updatedstyling. Now the ES shares the most in common with the Toyota Avalon which wasalso redesigned for 2019 and the two share more than a passing resemblance. They have the same wheelbase, the same overall length and mechanicallyidentical power trains just with some slight tuning differences from the side. Even the two models look fairly identical but the ES does have a fewstyling cues that let you know that it’s a Lexus starting with the grille. Nowmost versions of the ES will come with this spindle grille with verticallyoriented slats. If you opt for an F Sport model you will get a more aggressiveoverall look but also this 3D kind of chainmail mesh grille that looks muchmore aggressive. Now the ES will be offered in gas and hybrid versions andthe gas version of the car will get a 3. 5 liter V6 that makes just over 300horsepower. Now the car that we’re here with is the hybrid and that featureswhat Lexus is calling a fourth generation hybrid system. It has a totalsystem output of 215 horsepower and it’s fuel economy matches the Avalon’s at 44mpg combined. Now acceleration from the gas engine is adequate, I wouldn’t saythat is mind blowing and that actually makes me prefer the hybrid versionbecause you get that big advantage in fuel economy. Now there is one catch toogoing for the ES and that is it’s gonna be front-wheel drive only. Pretty muchall the other competitors offer some sort of all-wheel drive so it’s weirdthat Lexus wouldn’t choose to put some kind of system in the ES and it makes itstick out for the wrong reasons. Now the Lexus ES also benefits from the moveto Toyota’s global architecture, much like the Camry and the Avalon did overthe last couple years. The new platform means that the ES rides better, is lesssloppy in turns and is just overall a better driving experience. Lexus has alsoincreased stability by adding a v-shaped brace right behind the rear seat and itdoes help calm down the rear a little bit especially under braking but whatthat does mean is that you can’t fold down the back seat. There is a smallpass-through for longer cargo but it’s not very big, I wouldn’t be able to fit asnowboard through there so for those of you who like winter sportsyou might have to get a roof rack or something like that for a longer cargo. Like I mentioned before, power from the two powertrains is what I would calladequate. I’m driving the hybrid right now and while it’s not fast, it’s enoughpower for passing and it’s a smooth powertrain that transitions veryseamlessly between gas and electric modes. Now the Lexus ES also benefitsfrom a very quiet cabin and you can make it even quieter still by opting for anultra luxurious package which comes with 19-inch wheels that are designed to bequieter than other wheels. They’ve cut a channel out of the wheel and they saythat helps to mitigate some of the road vibrations and noise and when I drove avehicle with those wheels equipped it was noticeably quieter than the car thatwe drove this morning. Now the 2019 ES also introduces the F Sport version ofthe car and what that has is more aggressive styling stiffer anti-roll barin the front and its own Sport Plus drive mode it also comes with anadaptive variable suspension that Lexus says can firm up the ride to make itmore dynamic in turns. I didn’t necessarily find this to be true I thought thatthe F Sport actually drove pretty similar to the non F Sport models whichmeans that what you’re getting with the F Sport is mostly an appearance packagealong with some sports seats that do have nice bolstering but don’t expectthe F Sport to suddenly become a sports sedan. The ES is pretty quiet andcomfortable most of the time but there is one situation in which that getsbroken up and that’s when you really lean into the throttle on the hybridversion. Now the hybrid models actually come with some specialized sounddeadening which are meant to filter out the higher pitched noises that you getfrom the electric drivetrain however that sound deadening doesn’t do much forthe four-cylinder drone that you get when you really lean into the car likethis. Another thing that’s much improved onthe ES is this new interior and that’s both from materials and a stylingperspective. Now the cabin materials are taking a big leap forward. I would saythis actually feels like a bonafide luxury interior now whereas the previousES felt upmarket but not quite luxurious. The model that we’re sitting in alsocomes with be available twelve point three inch screen which is highresolution and high up on the dash so it’s easy for you to see while driving. Now all of these things on the ES are big improvements over the old model butthere is one key way in which the new ES hasn’t taken a step forward and thatwould be the multimedia system. Now our biggest gripe with the multimedia systemis not actually the screen itself it comes with how you interact with it andthat is through what Lexus calls a remote touch interface and thatbasically means you use a glorified touchpad here in the center console tonavigate the menus and submenus found on the screen. Now using a touchpad and acursor is fine if you’re on your laptop in a coffee shop but not so much ifyou’re driving and you have kids in the back and you have traffic and carsmoving around you, it’s just a lot to take in if you’re driving and it’spretty much impossible to use without looking down at the screen. Lexus did addApple CarPlay on Amazon Alexa integration to the ES however there arecaches to both of those at launch. The car is gonna come out in September butit looks like Apple CarPlay won’t be standard on the car until after October. You can get it on ES models with navigation but if you don’t wantnavigation you won’t be able to get Apple CarPlay until you buy a car thatwas built after October 1st. On the Alexa side, the Amazon app that’srequired by Lexus to use the full Alexa functionality in the car won’t becertified on the App Store until November. However it will be availablefor those who have Android phones so while you might not have Android Autoyou will get to enjoy full Amazon Alexa integration before you’re friends withiPhones. Now this pre-production model that we’re in actually does come withApple CarPlay and we had a chance to play with the system and we think thatit works quite well here. The screen is very wide and Apple CarPlay is actuallyable to fill the whole thing so you get more icons than you do normally on thehome page and we think that it’s actually a good direction for Lexus totake in the future with this system if they want to stick with a touchpadbecause Apple CarPlay uses large icons that are easy to see while the Lexusmenus are smaller and you have to go through more steps to find what you want. Now there’s no question that the 2019 Lexus ES is a massive improvement overthe 2018 version of the car. I think that it’s more stylish, I think that it drivesbetter and I think that the interior is more luxurious. It also has a massivebackseat that can fit two adults comfortably over long voyages and thismakes the ES a great road trip car, much like the 2019 Avalon. Now thecaveat is you’re stuck with that multimedia system. And this is somethingthat we could say about most Lexus products is that without that multimediasystem they would actually be a more compelling buy. For me is it adeal-breaker? It just might be in this car because everything else seems sogood that that sticks out like a sore thumb. Now we’re still waiting onofficial pricing figures for the 2019 ES. All that we can tell you is that itwill start at around $39,000 with hybrid modelscommanding a $3,000 premium on top of the gas versions. Official pricing should come closer the cars on sale date in fall of 2018.

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