backyard vineyard

Feb 8, 2017 -on a cold day in late Jan, two of the older hens…a White Plymouth Rock and a Black Australorp cross.. decided that rather than wander around outside in the cold with the rest of the flock, they would relax together in the chicken house, and enjoy the late afternoon sun that was streamihng in through the window -taken Jan 27, 2017

anonymous asked:

35 stydia pls

35. Before we jump

They’ve been talking for hours. It’s freezing cold on the roof of Derek’s apartment complex, and the blanket that Stiles had draped over Lydia’s shoulders doesn’t help much against the wind that is causing her hair to flutter chaotically around her face. She would mind, normally, because she’s sure it must look like a rat’s nest. But Stiles doesn’t seem to care. As a matter of fact, Stiles is looking at her like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, even in the orange light of streetlamps that barely reach them up here.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Stiles always looks at her like she’s the most beautiful thing in the world.


“So what was its name?”

Lydia’s voice is hoarse, although it usually is lately, and she wants to take another sip from her water bottle, but it’s mostly empty, and she feels like she’s saving it for something. The thing is, she and Stiles haven’t talked like this in forever. Maybe ever. He spills everything into her lap and allows her pick up the pieces of his mom, his anger, his relationships with his dad and Scott and the entire universe, which he wants to stick his middle finger up at most of the time.

“Uh, Boa Fett,” Stiles recalls, cringing at the look of mirth on Lydia’s face. “Come on, seriously, it’s not that bad.”

“It’s horrible,” she laughs, putting a hand up to her mouth to try to stifle the noise.

He smiles down at his lap, where both of their hands are sitting, tangled together in the darkness. Their crossed legs are pressed together as much as they can be, but Lydia can’t help but want to be more tangled up in him. She wants their limbs knotted together, bent and tied so that he can’t be pulled away from her. Not by anything. Not by the forces of the universe that both of them are so afraid of.

“You had a dog named after a clothing brand.”

“That was an excellent name.”

“Yeah, only if your pet didn’t get turned into a handbag.”

Lydia’s mouth drops open in indignance.

“Stiles!”

He shrugs unapologetically, drawing another heart on the palm of her hand. Momentarily distracted by the tickle, Lydia switches their positioning and draws his name on his own palm with her index finger, doing it in large, loopy cursive. She looks up at him.

“My name,” he guesses, and she nods. It’s cold on the rooftop, but Lydia doesn’t want to leave. Instead, she writes I love you in her handwriting, then looks back up expectantly. “I… didn’t get that one.”

She draws her name next. Lets it travel up to his forearm a bit, shoving his sleeve back, and he shudders at the feeling of her fingers on his skin. At her marking him. Stiles’ breath comes out in one long, shaky shot, and then he’s just smiling at her, small and intimate, like he has been for the past three and half hours.

“Are we done beating around the bush?” she asks softly. Stiles huffs slightly, his head knocking back as his eyes look towards the starts momentarily, sharing his thought with them.

“I was never beating around the bush. You were.”

“Mhm, yeah. Sure.”

“We’re out here for a reason,” he says, voice quiet.


“And we’re not leaving until we talk about it.”

“And we’ve talked about everything else in the whole world.”

“Did I tell you about the time that I was six and I—?”

“Yeah, your dad used to wheel you and your cousins around in a wheelbarrow in the backyard at your grandparents’ vineyard and one time you jumped out and took down some—”

“So you’ve heard it.”

“Lydia.”

“I want to be with you,” she says to their entwined fingers. “But I don’t want you to change your mind when it’s too late for me to walk away.”

“I wouldn’t ever change my mind about you.”

“Being friends isn’t the same as being together.”

“Yeah, no, I’m aware of that. Thank you very much.”

“I’m scared of letting you down.”

“I’m scared of letting you down.”

“And, Stiles, I’m not… I’m not good at any of this. I’m good at the sex part, not the pillow talk.”

“Let’s practice.”

She brings their hands to her mouth and kisses the top of his hand, then watches him as he leans in close, resting his chin on his arm close to her fingers.

“I’m grumpy sometimes.”

“Same.”

“And I don’t know… Stiles, if you’re doing this, you need to know that I don’t… I don’t look at love the same way you do. At least, I don’t think I do. I see it as something temporary. Something… decayed. Something that gets destroyed no matter what you do. And I don’t want how I feel about you to be ruined by life or time or anything, but that’s what makes it so terrifying. Because that’s… it’s starting to make me see it the way you see it. And Scott. And I might not be brave enough, all the time, to tell you that you’re stuck to me, even if I do feel that way.”

“I’ll tell you twice for both of us,” he says, grinning. “Lydia, please. I feel like… I feel like I’m living my life just waiting for you to tell me that it’s okay to leave the starting line. I feel like I’ve been ready to run forever, and I need you to just let me, if you feel the same way. Knowing that you want me… it’s making it so much harder to do this thing we’re doing. Something’s gotta give because I only feel right when I’m looking at you.”

She swallows.

“So you want to? Still?” He nods. “I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too.”

He moves closer, his eyes getting hooded.

“Are you going to kiss me?” she whispers.

“We’re jumping,” he says, and her eyelids flutter closed. A moment later, she feels his lips brush tentatively against her right eyelid, then her left. Lydia feels like she wants to cry. Stiles leans his forehead against hers. “You ready to jump, Lydia Martin?”