#I fear this is mostly nonsense but hey

[pukefactory]

sprout x reader who is awkward and likes to scream. hear me out! sprout says something flirty and reader is just standing there awkwardly. turns around. runs away. not even a minute later you can hear extremely loud and giddy screaming. please and thank you. *slides you three cents and half a burger*

Oh my god, I got my three cents back and half a burger—truly, divine intervention!

‎♡‧₊˚✧ CLOCKED OUT ✧˚₊‧♡

𖦹 Summary: Sprout accidentally makes you a bit too flustered

𖦹 Character(s): Sprout Seedly (Dandy’s World)

𖦹 Reader pronouns: Not Specified

𖦹 Genre: Short story, Fluff, SFW

𖦹 Word Count: 444

𖦹 Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

𖦹 Image Credits: Qwelver

It starts like any other day. You and Sprout are walking together, his scarf shifting slightly with each step as he rambles about a new baking project he’s been working on with Cosmo. You’re listening—sort of—but mostly, you’re hyper-aware of how close he’s standing. Close enough that if you moved even slightly, your arms might brush. Not that it means anything. Probably.

You’re not exactly good at… handling things like this. Social interaction. People. Or Sprout specifically—because he has this way of saying things so bluntly, so casually, that your brain short-circuits every time.

And then, he does it.

“Y’know,” he says, glancing at you with that usual no-nonsense expression, “you’re kinda cute when you get all awkward like that.”

Silence. The air freezes. You malfunction.

Your entire body locks up as you stare at him, wide-eyed and unblinking. Your brain is screaming, but your mouth refuses to cooperate. The words take a full five seconds to register.

Sprout raises a brow, half confused, half concerned. “Hey, you good?”

You turn. You run. Full sprint. No words. No explanation. Just immediate escape. Fight-or-flight response at full capacity.

You don’t even make it ten steps before—

“AAAAAHHHHHHHH—!!”

A piercing scream echoes through the entire area, but not one of fear. Not one of distress. Just pure, unfiltered, giddy chaos.

Sprout stops dead in his tracks, blinking as the sound of your delighted shrieking rings through the empty halls of Gardenview, bouncing off the walls like some kind of siren.

“…What.”

He doesn’t move, just listens as your voice continues echoing in the distance. Then—silence. A pause. And suddenly—

“HE CALLED ME CUTE!!”

Another scream. Louder this time. Probably scaring off any signs of life nearby.

Sprout drags a hand down his face, trying (and failing) to fight off the warmth creeping up his neck. “Oh my Stars,” he mutters, exasperated. “You’re actually ridiculous, haha…”

He debates going after you. Decides against it. He’ll wait.

Sure enough, not even a minute later, you come sprinting back at full speed, skidding to a dramatic stop in front of him, completely breathless and visibly trying to compose yourself.

He crosses his arms, looking both smug and flustered. “You done?”

“…Maybe.” You wheeze, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down your heated face.

He stares. You stare back. The silence stretches for an unbearable second before you make the mistake of remembering why you ran in the first place.

Your face turns scarlet.

Sprout sighs. “You’re just gonna run again, aren’t you?”

Your eye twitches.

And then you turn. You run.

Somewhere in the distance—

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHH—!!”

Sprout groans, tugging his scarf up over his face. “This is my life now, huh.”

[bb-blu-love]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆when the world is asleep⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

tags: idol!bangchan x reader, established relationship, fluff, slight hurt comfort (really just a couple doing their best in a bad situation), reader has ~anxiety~

3:00 AM in the quiet part of town is your favorite place in the world. On the outskirts of the city, where only families and old folks live and the streets are empty this time of night, you have found what seems like the only place in the world where you and Chan can feel truly at ease.

You’d been waiting for him to come over all day, so when he finally called around ten saying he just left the studio you became giddy with excitement that soon turned into anxiety. It’s not like he had never been to your apartment before or that you felt uncomfortable around him; it’s just that you can never shake the fear that this time is when everything will go wrong. That this is the night you’ll be caught by photographers or fans and soon everyone will know and your relationship will change forever. That your whole life could change forever. These worries echoed in your brain as you went down to the entrance of your building to let Chan in. 

Your nerves were obvious; you didn’t hug him as tightly as you wanted to--trying to maintain the illusion that you could just be friends should anyone see you--and your smile twisted into a grimace as you kept an eye on your surroundings.

The summer night air ruffled the hair that stuck out from his hat “Hey, Baby!” he said with a soft smile “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m glad you could come over tonight,” You shyly smile, still not being able to shake the tight feeling in your stomach. 

He hummed a response and, sensing how on edge you were , looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was around before asking, “Should we go upstairs? I brought ice cream,” and lifted up a convenience store bag in his hand.

After heading up to your apartment the two of you spent hours just talking in your room. You were mostly catching up—you hadn’t seen each other in a couple of days due to your schedules—but eventually, it dissolved into a mess of inside jokes, you showing him all the Tik Toks you’d saved for him, him showing you videos of the boys messing around in dance practice in return, and whatever other nonsense made you both smile. Even though your relationship could be stressful, actually being with Chan was the easiest thing in the world. Honestly, you would be happy staying here forever; cuddled in his arms in the dim light of your bedroom, listening to his laugh get all squeaky as he worked himself up over some dumb video you won’t even remember in the morning. 

What you will remember, however, is how hot you are right now. Turns out your fourth-floor apartment with one broken AC unit could spell quite the sweathouse in the summer—especially with the amount of physical contact you two are prone to after some time apart. Chan had already shed his shirt sometime in between his first and second popsicle, and you had all of your fans on high pointed at your bed where you both laid tangled up with each other.

Chan, after finally calming down from his laughing fit, let out a sigh as he stared up at your ceiling. "You know I love you, right?"

"Yeah, why?" You asked, confused by his sudden declaration.

He continued quickly, "And you know that I really like coming over to your place-"

"Yeahh?"

"-because of the lack of roommates and overall better smell?"

"Also, I have HBO."

"Yes, also that—so will you not take offense if I, hypothetically, say that I’m going to die of heat stroke if I stay in here any longer?" He looked over at you with a rueful smile.

You laughed silently as you looked into his eyes. "I’ll go get my shoes."

He let out a triumphant "Yes!" and pumped his fist into the air as you got off of the bed, satisfied with the result of your banter. As you continued to get ready, he moved to the edge of your bed and was brought back to how anxious you seemed when he first arrived. "We don’t actually have to go out if you don’t want to, though," he said, scratching his arm as a nervous tick. "I know that we both get all paranoid when we’re not in private, and I don’t want to ruin the night or anything."

You turned to face him and put a reassuring hand on his arm, whilst you tried to shove your own concerns to the back of your mind."Don’t worry about it. I was thinking we could go to that one spot—you know, where we went on your birthday?"

"Yeah, that sounds perfect." He said with a relieved smile.

And that’s what brought you here; after checking for paparazzi from your apartment windows, and after you went outside and checked again, ensuring you both had your incognito face masks and baseball caps on. Finally, you were able to make the epic journey two blocks down and one over to a small playground surrounded by some trees and a fence: your safe haven. Taking in the warm night air as the wind lightly blows across your face--gently wicking the sweat on your brow--and hearing the leaves softly rustle as you both sit on the old swing set and let your legs dangle. You did what you loved to do most with each other: you talked.

"I’m sorry it’s always like this," Chan said as he looked at his feet, the toe of his shoes sputtering over the rubbery ground as he swayed, "that we can’t just get together and go to restaurants and the movies or—I don’t know— win you a big teddy bear at a carnival," he laughs half-heartedly, "or whatever regular couples get to do."

You smile sadly. "I’m sorry too. Maybe I’m just being overly cautious." 

He reaches over, grabs your hand, and rubs gentle circles on the back with his thumb, letting you know he isn’t mad and that he doesn’t blame you for anything. 

"I could tell the company, and they could release a statement or something." His tone hitches up at the end, almost like it’s a question—or maybe just the only thing he can think of to ease your guilt.

Not wanting to worry him, and always the best at avoiding the hard topics, you raise your eyebrows and sarcastically remark, "Oh yeah, and that would go over really well."

"Hm, yeah, you’re right. What do you think they would say, though?"

You lower your voice and attempt your best soulless executive impression. "'How could you, Chan?! You’re being so selfish by having desires and feelings! How do you expect us to monetize you when we can’t sell you as a fantasy boyfriend? Blargh rargh raa!'" You both chuckle at the absurdity of your situation: "And then of course you’ll get punished by your company, and everyone on Twitter is going to eat you alive when they find out, and you’ll get a tidal wave of hate thrown at you-"

"Oh, for sure." He nods along to your pessimistic prophecy (and excellent impression).

"-and I’ll be, like, assassinated by a bunch of teenagers whose identity hinges on the fantasy that they are secretly your one true love." You finish with a breathy chuckle.

He smiles at the ground. "Hey, Stays are much more than that," he says in an only half-serious defense.

"Heh, not the ones that I’ll have to deal with," you reply, almost to yourself. He seems to draw back at that comment, whatever clever response he had lined up dying on his lips.

You press your toes into the soft ground and push your swing over to his so that your shoulders touch. "I’m joking, Chan," you say in a soft voice.

"No, you're not." He shoots back in defeat. You sigh and try to meet his evasive eyes.

"You’re right, I’m not," you sigh, leaning in closer to him, "but that doesn’t mean I regret any of this. I can wish things were different while still loving how they are now." He finally meets your eyes, and his gaze goes soft. You share a fond look and, without words, reach an understanding: you're the best thing that has happened to each other, and eventually your love may see the light of day, but for now, just this is more than enough.

He brings your hand up to his mouth and lightly kisses your knuckles before letting your arms fall in between the both of you. "You’re right. I love this too. I’ll love anything as long as we can do it together." His words are full of tenderness and a rom-com sincerity that only he can do right.

"Except sit in my hot apartment." You smile as you lean towards him, and he smiles too as he goes in for a kiss.

"No, I loved that too. Just a little less than this." His lips touch yours, gentle and grinning, as your giggles float up into the night sky and you feel truly at ease once more.

[storiesfromafan]

Car Trouble

A/N: I've been sick with a head cold, plus needed a break from what I've been working on. So I came up with this 😊

Pairing: slight Benny x Reader

Warnings: fluff? Ooc Benny, spelling/grammer mistakes

Words: 2208

Of all the days for your bad luck to arise was a warm summers day. The bad luck, your piece of shit car breaking down miles from town, while on your way to a family gathering. Which you obviously won’t be making.

So here you were, dressed in your best sun dress, car bonnet up and your car steaming. The heat from your car and the summer sun causing beads of sweat to form on your brow. You don’t know why you lifted the bonnet, as if you knew what could be wrong with the shit box. But you leant over the engine with a confused and frustrated look. Hoping you’d have an epiphany and figure out the issue.

In the end you stood up, hands on your hips as you glared at the metal hunk of junk. Taking a few steps to the side of the car, you kicked the wheel in frustration and letting out a small scream. You had to let it out. Or else you’d probably cry.

Funny thing was just as you kicked the wheel and screamed, a couple of motorbikes rode past you. Their riders watching your actions, before turning around and coming back to you. Hearing the roars coming back to you, you turned and felt fear creeping up. And it only got worse when they pulled up in front of your car, engines cutting before getting off.

You’d heard many stories about motorbike riders, and how many of them were in unsavoury clubs. The two before you were obviously in a club from their patches. They shared a few words, which you couldn’t hear, before moving toward you. You were standing by the wheel you’d kicked, part of you thinking you could run, if need be, yet realistically you wouldn’t get far.

“Hey Miss" came a gentle voice from the man wearing a white bandana around his head, and sporting a dangling earring. “Got some car trouble?”

His voice, and even the sweet smile he sported, surprised you. Maybe even helped ease the fear a tad bit. But his friend, he wore this blank look upon his face, but his eyes were staring at you. He was gorgeous, probably the most gorgeously rugged man you’ve seen. But the intensity he gave off, it didn’t ease you one bit. Not liking his heavy gaze on you, you turned back to the first man. Who was still smiling at you, and you managed a sheepish smile.

“W-well, yeah...I do" you said softly. “Was just driving along when this piece of shit began to chug along and then there was steam coming from the bonnet...”

The smiling man’s smile dropped at your words, he nodded his head. “That don’t sound good" he mused. “You fine with me takin’ a look?”

You slowly shook your head, a little surprised and relieved.

“Great! I’m good with machines" bandana man said, as he moved to the engine of the car. “I’m Cal, by the way. And that’s Benny".

Looking from Cal, you looked to Benny, who nodded his head. Something told you he was the silent, intense kind of guy. “N-nice to meet ya both...I’m (Y/N)”.

After that you stood there watching Cal assess your car’s engine. He checked various things, which you had no clue what they were called or did. He was sweet to make small talk, mostly telling you about other cars and bikes he’s fixed over the years. It was calming to hear him talk about something you had no knowledge on. Cal could be spewing nonsense about the vehicle and you wouldn’t be any wiser. Soon you leant comfortably against the car, not as afraid as you had been.

Every now and then you would cast a look to Benny. He had stepped up next to Cal, his blue eyes looking over the engine also. The pair sharing a few words about something with the engine. The moment Cal suggested filling up some part with water, did Benny look to you before moving back to their bikes. He returned with some water, and Cal filled it up. Benny moved down to the ground, he was there for a while before getting back up.

“Looks like the radiators got a crack" came the gruff words from Benny, sending a shiver down your spine.

Cal nodded. “That’s what I thought” he sighed before turning to you. “Not much we can do out here for it doll. Best that can be done is nurse it back into town, and your place. Benny and I will follow ya, just to be safe".

“Oh no" you fussed waving your arms around. “You’ve done a lot for me already. I couldn’t take up any more of ya time, really...”

“We don’t mind, sweetheart" Benny said stepping back as Cal closed the bonnet. “Don’t want ya bein’ stranded again".

Unable to argue with them, as they wouldn’t take no for an answer, you moved to the driver’s seat. The car kicked over, sounding good but you knew it wouldn’t last. With the road clear, you turned around and headed back for town. Looking in the revision mirror you saw both men on their bikes following you. True to their word, both Cal and Benny followed you all the way back to your house. Thankfully the shit box held out, only starting to steam after you parked in your drive way.

Collecting your bag, you got out of the car just as both men parked out the front of your place and got off their bikes. Cal went back to check the engine, letting the small bouts of steam free. Benny stepped up beside you, as you watched Cal do his thing.

“See, it was best we followed you" Benny stated with that delicious voice of his. “Otherwise you might not have made it home".

You didn’t say a word, knowing he was right. Once the steam seemed to settle, Cal closed the bonnet with a slight grim look. He informed you, you’d need to get it seen to asap. He even gave you an estimated price on what it would cost for the part and labour. Which surprised you at the price, then a sombre look crossed your face. You wouldn’t be able to afford it, not right away.

“You alright, sweetheart?” Benny asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

You sighed. “I appreciate the help today. And thank you for the estimated cost...I just won’t be able to fix it for a while".

You hated to admit your short comings. But a lot of people were struggling. Both men understood that. Your job just covered rent, bills and food, with a bit of spending money if you were lucky. Silently you began to think of what you could do to save more money, a few luxuries would have to be cut from your grocery shop for a while.

“Thank you both so much, I really appreciate it" you said with an honest smile. “Please, let me get you both a drink. You must be thirsty".

Both men shared a look before agreeing. You headed inside, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of pop for each of them and yourself. You sat on the top step of the porch, while Cal sat on the second last step, and Benny leant on the railing. It’s funny how scared you’d been of both men, while now you felt like you’d known them for ages.

You giggled. “It’s funny, I was terrified when you both pulled up and got off your bikes".

Cal laughed, “understand doll. We can be frightenin'”

Benny nodded, but remained silent.

“I’ve heard many things about the Vandals...but after today I can say you both aren’t so bad".

Once more Cal laughed, but this time Benny laughed too. You blushed, feeling a little silly for saying that. But you were grateful for their help. You wondered if there was anything you could do to repay them. Maybe make them a cake or cookies? No, that would be stupid. All you could do was thank them again when they finally headed off. You watched them ride down the street, and turn down another, gone from your sight. Heading back inside you wondered if you’d see them again, maybe you’d hopefully get to see those baby blues of Benny’s again.

For the rest of the week you were back to taking the bus to and from work. Which was Hell. Having to be up earlier, and leave earlier so you’d get the right bus to be on time for work. Thankfully your boss was good, understanding of the situation. She even gave you a ride home, thanks to her boyfriend, after work. Getting home before it started to get dark was nice, a reminder of when your shit box worked and didn’t give you financial stress.

But it was Saturday morning, after nine, when you were alerted to noise coming from your front yard. It was light banging and curses that lead to you rushing out onto your porch. You panicked seeing someone under your car. Your first reaction was to grab whatever you could – a couple of cans from the box on your porch – and hurling at the body sticking out from under the car, while yelling at them to get lost.

You halted the moment you saw Benny’s gorgeous face. Stunned, you stood there mouth agape. “B-Benny? W-what are ya doin'?”

Running his hand threw his hair, Benny looked uncomfortable, like he didn’t think he’d get caught. “Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t think you’d hear me" he confessed sheepishly. “I was just swappin’ out ya radiator...”

That floored you. Looking from Benny to the car, and then back to the man before you. This man was taking it upon himself to fix your car. “W-why?” You asked in disbelief.

Benny shrugged, leaning against the front of the car and deciding to have a cigarette. “I saw you takin' the bus a few times this week. And figured you could use some help to fix it...”

Benny looked away from you as he took a drag of his cigarette, then slowly released the smoke. He didn’t look like a big bad biker. No, he looked like a shy teen. The intense man from back on the road seemed to have disappeared. Maybe this was the real Benny. Shy and caring person. You smiled, liking this Benny a lot.

You decided to let him do the job he set out to do. But you said you would bring him something to drink, even make him lunch. Really you were just so grateful that you’d happily fuss over the man. You watched him work, asking some questions, which Benny did his best to answer. It was nice. His presences and his words.

Once done, you both sat on your porch steps. Benny was happily eating the sandwich you’d made him, along with drinking a beer you’d had in the back of your fridge for those long days in the hair salon. You giggled at how he ate like a starved man, like he didn’t come by food often.

“I take it, it’s good?” You asked with amusement.

Benny nodded casting his gaze to the ground in embarrassment. “Yeah, it is".

You smiled warmly. “I’m glad. Any time you want a home cooked meal, feel free to drop in. It’s the best I can do, for you fixin' my car".

Benny returned your smile. Happy to have your invitation. Yet, he kind of had something else in mind. But Benny has never been good with voicing what he wants to say, let alone tell a woman he was interested in her. And he very much was interested in you. The moment he’d walked up to you on the side of the road, seeing you in that sun dress and your beautiful face, Benny was a goner. He wanted to take you out, even if it was for a few drinks at Grand and Division. Or, if you’d let him, take you for a ride on his bike.

Clearing his throat, Benny put down the plate beside him before turning to you. His baby blues set on you, his face serious yet not scary. “I was thinkin' maybe you could make it up to me by goin' for a drink, or with me for a ride?”

Poor Benny's heart was beating so fast he worried it might leap out his chest. And the silence from you wasn’t helping. Maybe he’d stepped over the line, or you weren’t interested in him like he was you. Maybe he was an idiot. Maybe he-

“Sure, I’d like that too. Maybe we could do both?” You smiled sweetly at the man before you.

Yes, Benny was a Vandal. Yes, he would be considered rough around the edges. But this scary at first man has shown you that he was actually a sweet guy. And when he looked at you, and that voice of his too, you got butterflies in your stomach. You’d happily go out with him. Even if he hadn’t fixed your car.

You leant in and place a soft kiss to Benny's cheek. “Pick me up around eight tonight?”

Benny beamed. “Sure, sweetheart”.

[lilacxquartz]

JJK x READER DRABBLES I Asking them if they would still love you if you were a worm

a collection of reader insert scenarios in which the jjk characters are faced with a strange question.

w.c: each piece is under 600 words

themes: fem!reader, mostly fluff, some nsfw mentions but light, slight plot, silly scenarios, crack

included: satoru gojo, suguru geto, toji fushiguro, naoya zenin, choso kamo & also sukuna

mdni • semi nsfw • ao3 link

Satoru Gojo:

“Satoru?” you whined in a questioning tone, suddenly seeming genuinely upset about something out of the blue.

It was bizarre, really. One moment you were both watching reruns of your favourite show, perfectly entangled in each other’s arms and the next, you were using that tone with him.

Was he in trouble?

“Huh?” Satoru warily replied, propping himself up so he could get a better look at you. “What’s wrong, baby?”

He stared at you as your expression seemed deep in thought with a topic he could only pray made sense. He couldn’t tell if it was going to be another strange trending question from the internet or if you were truly upset with something serious this time.

It was always a fifty-fifty chance with you but he loved every bit of it, if he had to be honest.

With a furrowed brow, you mustered up the courage to ask a question, “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

For a while, Satoru had no idea what to tell you as his eyes involuntarily drifted up to the ceiling in disbelief as he held onto stifled laughter. He seemed to recognise his fatal flaw the longer he didn’t reply to you though, so he finally broke the silence with an escaped snort.

“For real…?” he asked, squeezing your shoulders as he held onto you, checking to see if you were pulling his leg or not.

You folded your arms as you signalled to him that this was in fact a serious question to you, tilting your head back to watch those icy blue eyes gradually widen into a burning panic the longer he put off giving you a real answer.

“Uh, hey, look, listen I’d uh…” Satoru immediately scrambled, knowing that he had to answer you sooner than later, choosing to offer you the best answer he could possibly think of, “I’d buy you the highest quality tank, alright? It’ll have the best soil and rocks and I’ll buy you premium-grade gourmet worm food, yeah?”

You slowly thawed as he continued to spout distressed nonsense into your ears, soon finding yourself slowly relaxing as you melted back into his arms.

Confused but strangely relieved, Satoru let out a deep sigh knowing he passed yet another one of your insane tests, deciding to pull you in as close as possible so you wouldn’t doubt him for even a second longer ever again.

Suguru Geto:

Phasing in and out of sleep, you watched how Suguru cleaned your shared home with nothing but fascination in your stare. Your eyes narrowed as you caught glimpses of him meticulously sweeping dust out of existence, ensuring his home would remain perfectly well manicured for his family to enjoy.

You continued to tune into the waking world as the whirring hum of the vacuum cleaner coursed nearby; your eyes slowly widening as your sights focused onto your phone.

Returning as nothing short of a sweaty mess but ultimately fulfilled, Suguru sat at the foot of the bed while you studied him with a specific question in your mind.

Noticing the focus painted on your face, Suguru knew that this had to be good, “What’s up?”

“Hey, Suguru,” you yawned, “you’d still love me if I was a worm, right?”

He narrowed his eyes as you asked him such a strange thing. Furrowing his brows into something that could resemble annoyance, Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose in mock disbelief before finally humouring you.

“Is this one of those trends you’ve seen on tiktok again?”

“Maybe,” you replied as you confirmed his fears, “answer the question?”

“As much as it pains me,” he began as he clenched this jaw, realising that there was no plausible scenario in which this strange idea could ever manifest into reality to begin with, “yes, I would still love you if you were a worm.”

Your face lit up, “Really?”

Suguru ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to further calm himself down and gave you a tight nod instead.

He couldn’t help but exhale a loud sigh as you genuinely seemed thrilled at his answer to your insane question; feeling himself grow tired from both cleaning all morning as well as what it meant to truly be with you.

He loved it secretly even if he was stoic at times.

It was your silly side that drew him in, after all.

Toji Fushiguro:

You walked side by side with Toji on the way to the locks park. In one hand you carried a red fleece blanket while he carried a wicker basket.

He reluctantly agreed to go on a picnic with you during his time off because he knew it would make you happy even if he didn’t quite look forward to sitting on some grass out in the exposed open field.

Upon arriving to the destination and setting up shop though, Toji lasted maybe just under ten minutes before he grew restless and started ripping out chunks of grass in a huff.

“Babe,” he sulked as he tried to get your attention, swatting a fly away from his face, “I’m bored. How long do we have to be here for?”

“You promised you’d tolerate it for at least fifteen minutes,” you sighed, supposing you should have been thankful that he entertained the idea of it at all.

“You keeping track?” he quizzed you, his eyes training onto the basket. “How about we eat then we go? I’ll take you on a nice walk instead.”

You nodded in a resigned manner despite not quite opposing his idea and as you tucked into the packed sandwiches, your gaze settled on a worm writhing between the blades of grass.

Staring at it, you decided to torment him.

“Toji?” you asked.

He hummed in response with his mouth full of bread, making him sound muffled as he replied, “Whath ith ith?”

“You’d still love me if I was a worm, right?” you asked, pointing at the earthworm.

“I already have one of those,” he said as he swallowed his bite, “don’t need another, especially since you wouldn’t be able to do much.”

“I’d be useful,” you defensively replied.

“Yeah?” he asked, staring at you with a strangely fond look in his eyes.

“I’d be your personal little compost worm for your garden,” you proudly announced.

“Garden? You think I can afford a place with a garden?” Toji laughed, tugging your wrist to pull you closer to him.

“…Hypothetically,” you reminded him.

“You are such… a menace sometimes,” he sighed to himself as he reeled you in even closer, “if I tell you what you wanna hear, can we get out of here sooner?”

You nodded, “Yes.”

“Then by all means,” Toji beamed, “hell, I’d even make sure your compost bin looks like a little worm mansion.”

“Good,” you smiled, “it’s what I deserve.”

“God, you and your weird questions,” he sighed as he held you closer, not caring that you were in public, “just keep them to a limit though, I don’t want to go grey before forty. Got it?”

“Got it,” you smiled.

Naoya Zenin:

Sitting from across the dining table sat your stoic and distant husband, Naoya Zenin. Your marriage to him had always been questionable at best, but you didn’t complain too much as long as he kept his promise to provide for you.

On some days, you weren’t too sure how you felt being paraded around as his arranged trophy wife, but surprisingly you both somehow complimented each other quite well.

Initially, he didn’t care for what you had to say at all, finding your words to be pointless. However somewhere down the line, he would allow for you to talk if you truly had to do so, provided that you ceased talking when he told you to.

He wouldn’t admit it to you directly, but he was actually growing quite fond of you as the time passed you both by.

“Naoya?” you asked, swirling a crystal goblet of wine in your hands, raising it to meet with the light.

He set his fork down and leaned his chin over his palms with feigned interest. Just by that tone alone, he could tell it was time for your daily torment of asking useless questions. That was the type of relationship you developed with him; you liked pissing him off with conjured up bullshit while he liked putting you into place in bed later.

“What is it, woman?” he asked, as dehumanising as usual. Maybe one day he’ll call you by your actual name.

“Would you still keep me around if I turned into a worm?” you asked.

“I would not,” Naoya scoffed, his smile widening on accident before falling flat, “you’d be lucky if I didn’t step on you right then and there.”

“Bit mean, don’t you think?” you asked as your head titled off to the side.

Snapping just a little at the ridiculous question, he narrowed his gaze, “What use could I possibly have for a worm?”

“None, I suppose… but it’d still be me,” you gestured dramatically, pulling the wine glass to meet with your lips and taking a sip.

“No, it wouldn’t be you,” he corrected you with a huff, “it would be a worm and I don’t have a use for a worm. I’d step on you and find someone else.”

“So heartless,” you commented, “not even hypothetically?”

Naoya’s expression darkened at your persistence, feeling his patience finally run out. He was already annoyed that you dared to ask such a stupid thing of him. The only reason he even tolerated you to begin with was because you were easy on the eyes and compliant enough—he’d say you were light on the ears but not with this drivel you were subjecting him to.

“And? My point stands,” he replied.

“But-“

“—cease,” he hissed, momentarily losing his composure, “you’re… not turning into a worm. Not even hypothetically, so be quiet.”

You faltered for now as you resigned into hushed submission, thinking about what question to bother with him for tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Naoya sighed at last as this conversation was finally over. He was absolutely going to punish you for making him listen to such garbage; maybe putting that pretty mouth of yours to use in a way that didn’t result in pointless rambling for a change.

It wasn’t like you were using that thing to do anything useful with that thing, anyway.

Choso Kamo:

As you both basked away on a beach during the peak of summer, Choso wasn’t taking the heat too well at all. Not only was he tucked away, clinging onto the shade cast by the parasol but he was also quite literally congealed in what could have been an entire bottle of sunscreen.

He reluctantly tagged along with you for a beach trip because you informed that, to his horror, you'd be lounging around in a public place with just a bikini on. Choso wasn’t possessive by any means he thought (he was wrong), but he didn’t feel quite right for you to do so alone without his protective watch.

As a result, he felt just a little agitated even if he didn’t let it show. Both from the rowdy company that occupied the coast as well as the relentless sun prickling away at his skin.

So when you spotted a worm wriggling around in the sand and he had to witness you fling it back ono the grass with a stick, it seemed that he finally reached his tipping point of what he could handle on such a hot day.

Not quite realising that he was on a descent into madness, you spoke up with a playful tone, “Choso?”

Slowly, he turned his neck around, shuddering at how stiff it sounded. It was as if he was made from stone as his joints swivelled; his eyes settling on you with a questioning hum.

“…Yes?”

“Do you think you’d still love me if I was a worm?” you asked, staring at the sky through your shades.

“A-a worm…?” he asked back, not quite sure if he was hearing you correctly. Maybe he wasn’t and this was his sign that he finally slipped away into madness.

But then you spoke up again, confirming that the question was real, “Yeah, you know, like those long slimy wiggly things.”

“I-I know what a worm is,” he stammered, slowly grounding himself as he listened to you talk. As nonsensical as you were being, he found himself growing calm with the help of your voice.

“That’s good to know,” you snorted, “so… would you?”

Choso sighed softly to himself, a small smile tugging at his lips. He couldn’t help but stare at you with a strange mix of wonder, love and frustration all at the same time. Was this what being in love was like for everyone else?

In an instant, he forgot about the rest of his worries, choosing to take your question very seriously as your reliable boyfriend.

“Yes, I-I’d love you especially if you were a worm,” he replied with a strong hint of determination, not realising that he had already fumbled his answer with a strange choice of words.

“Especially?” you laughed as you turned over to your side, pulling your sunglasses down to get an even better look at his silly state.

“Oh… Oh! N-no I meant…” he scrambled, his brows furrowing in slight panic, “I would love you no matter what form you took on because I’d know it was you and I love you.”

“You’re so sweet,” you laughed. “I would love you no matter what, too.”

Sukuna:

You remained propped up on Sukuna’s lap as he wrapped a secure hold around your form with his lower set of arms. With the top half of his limbs, he held onto a branch of grapes as the other gently petted you, feeding you with a fond look in his eyes.

It was admittedly a little strange the first time he first talked you into these sorts of sessions, but you supposed that they were pretty nice. Quiet and almost intimate moments where he fed you all sorts of fruits all the while he held onto you as though you were some sort of prized possession.

Neither of you ever talked during these interactions, as this was purely an act of not quite affection, but assuring your devotion to him.

However, your mind remained fixated on something from earlier on in the week and it was starting to conflict with the grapes he wanted to feed you.

Just a few days ago, you heard him trash talk humans to Uraume and call them insects, wondering if he felt that way about you too.

Noticing your torn expression, Sukuna sighed as he pulled the grapes away at last and fed you a look of slight disdain.

“Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?” he observed, tweezing your chin to face him as he studied the way you reacted to him, “Speak.”

“I-it’s fine,” you murmured, trying to ignore the issue.

“Don’t take me for a fool,” Sukuna warned, “your secrecy mocks me.”

Figuring that he wasn’t going to drop the subject unless you told him exactly what it was. you decided to work up the courage to ask the question that had been eating you from the inside.

“Do you see me as an insect?”

Sukuna immediately understood what you must have been referring to and rather than berate you for filling your mind with such useless worries, needing to keep you calm for his desired time with you, he shook his head in response instead.

“I do not, my pretty one,” he replied, letting go of your chin at last, “you’re above that. You’re mine.”

“So… if I turned into a literal worm, I still wouldn’t be an insect to you?” you asked, unsure what point you were trying to make exactly.

“You’re pushing your luck here, brat,” Sukuna replied in a serious tone despite surrendering to an amused smile.

“So I wouldn’t be…?” you asked with some hope.

“Ideally, you wouldn’t become such a disgusting thing to begin with,” he replied in a mock shudder, “but I suppose you would have been the only worm I’d have ever liked.”

Seeming satisfied with his response, you finally relaxed once again and that’s right about when he pressed the fruit to your lips to continue from where you both left off.

[fairytales-and-folklore]

Meet Me At My Window

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: Meet Me At My Window

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Mature (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: Stiles accidentally falls in love with Derek. Derek begrudgingly falls in love with Stiles. Derek has trust issues and an aversion to romantic entanglements. Stiles lacks tact and would very much like to avoid a painful, embarrassing, werewolf-related death. Stiles and Derek end up spending the better part of a year in each other's company, pretending to despise every minute of it. In short: Stiles and Derek are awkward, stubborn, angst-ridden, life-ruining idiots who can't seem to work up the nerve to admit that they're in love.

Derek sighs, rolling his eyes and nudging Stiles's cheek with the tip of his nose. "Stiles, you annoying little shit, I love you. Against my will and better judgment, I do. And I was stupid and wrong and all sorts of fucked up for having pushed you away like that, and I hope you can forgive me, because I'm really, really sorry. Okay?"

Read On AO3 | Read On Tumblr:

The first time Stiles Stilinski meets Derek Hale, he's rendered with a peculiar combination of all-consuming fear, respect, and sympathy (and, admittedly, arousal…but hey, let's just shove that embarrassing fact to the side and stick a pin in it, shall we?) And of course, because Stiles wants absolutely nothing to do with the sociopathic sourwolf with the burned and broken past, and because his life is just a big pile of nonsensical bullshit, that's the exact opposite of what he gets.

After a while, Stiles starts to lose track of the number of times he ends up saving Derek's life, whether it's reluctantly agreeing (under the threat of a brutal mauling involving the removal of his head from the rest of his body) to cut off Derek's arm so that the poison from a Wolfsbane laced bullet won't spread to his heart…or harboring Derek in his bedroom to keep him hidden from the authorities while on the run for false murder charges…or holding onto a temporarily paralyzed two-hundred-and-something-pound werewolf in the middle of the Beacon Hills swimming pool for hours on end to keep him from drowning while, oh yeah, fighting off a homicidal were-lizard…

He isn't exactly sure which one of those times had officially sealed the deal, but somewhere along the line, Stiles actually starts to give a damn about whether Derek Hale lives or dies.

• • •

After his brief romantic entanglement with Kate Argent (read: the horrific incident that had lead to the death of his entire family and the destruction of his home in an inferno) Derek Hale is, understandably, a little reserved, a little distrusting, and generally, all-around unpleasant company. 

For years following the incident, Derek had mostly just kept to himself, locked away from the rest of the world, skulking in the shadows in the ruins of his old home, fraught with all-consuming guilt and regret, only poking his head out when his older sister had all but dragged him into the Camaro to take them on destination-less road trips across the countryside, whenever the memories of their old life became too much for them to bear. 

They were all each had anymore; all throughout those long and lonely years, Laura had been Derek's alpha, his anchor, the only thing that kept him tethered to his sanity, the one and only person that Derek swore he would ever trust…that is, until she'd been taken from him, too. 

Nearly six years after the fire, mere hours after he'd buried the last remaining member of his family (not counting, of course, the power-hungry uncle responsible for her death) a boy called Stiles Stilinski had come along and utterly demolished that carefully crafted facade that Derek had worked so hard to build. 

Mind you, not all at once. After all, Derek's first impression of Stiles hadn't exactly been all that positive. Even now, after everything they've been through together, how in the fuck a loudmouthed, loquacious, opinionated, irritating whirlwind of a person could have possibly woven his way so deeply under Derek's skin is still beyond him. 

Although, admittedly, the fact that Stiles had saved Derek's life more times than he can count could possibly have something to do with it.

No matter how hard he tries, Derek can't seem to escape the memory of one of those nights in particular, his mind reeling on repeat, piecing together every infinitesimal detail with perfect clarity.

Blood red satin and dark blue denim hugging saturated skin. Beads of water rippling down his pale, freckled face, neck, and shoulders, caught on the edge of his reddened lips. The rhythm of Stiles's heartbeat thrumming against Derek's back, reverberating through the hollow of his chest as he'd held him close, head tipping forward to rest against Derek's shoulder, warm breath ghosting over the shell of his ear, sending shivers down the length of his spine. 

The sound of their ragged breathing echoing across the hall of the swimming pool as they fought to stay afloat. As Stiles fought with every last ounce of his strength to keep them both alive. Stiles clinging to Derek for dear life, arms coiled tight around his torso, like he's afraid to let him go. And then—

Paralysis. Submersion. That all-consuming fear of abandonment he'd come to know so well, at war with the blissful desire to welcome the darkness that threatened to envelop him as he'd sunk to the depths of the pool. And how poetic, really, that he should die in a way that's almost polar opposite of the fiery death he'd so narrowly escaped last time. 

And then, just moments before he'd lost consciousness — the terrifying realization that someone actually cares enough about him to keep him from drowning. 

Because Stiles had come back for him. 

Because Stiles had plunged to the bottom of the pool and pulled Derek back to the surface. 

Because Stiles had saved Derek's life. 

Again. 

He could have run, could've heeded Derek's warning and gotten himself to safety, could've just let go and left Derek to die, could've saved himself instead of exhausting all of his strength just to make sure that Derek didn't drown. But he hadn't. Unlike everyone else in Derek's life, Stiles had stayed.

Initially, Derek writes it off as the intrinsic, primal, entirely human need for self-preservation, because Stiles is smart enough to know that Derek is integral to his survival. After all, a werewolf with supernatural strength and agility stands a far better chance of protecting itself against a murderous reptilian hybrid of a monster with the ability to incite full-body paralysis with a single swipe of its claws than a skinny, defenseless human does. For Stiles, keeping Derek alive means keeping himself alive. 

It's survival instinct, plain and simple. 

At least, that's how Derek keeps choosing to rationalize it.

Can't you just trust me, just this once?

No!

Hey, I'm the one keeping you alive, okay? Have you noticed that?

And when the paralysis wears off, who's going to be able to fight that thing? You or me?

What, so that's the only reason I've been holding you up for the past two hours?

You don't trust me, and I don't trust you. You need me to survive, which is why you aren't letting me go.

But then, Derek can't help but wonder why Stiles had saved his life countless other times before that night, well before the kanima had ever become a threat. In spite of a seemingly endless running commentary of sarcasm and unconvincing threats to leave him for dead, Stiles had looked after Derek when he'd been shot with a Wolfsbane bullet, had given Derek sanctuary when he'd been on the run for a false murder conviction (thanks, Scott.) He didn't have to do any of that, but he still did it.

And the strangest thing of all is that it keeps happening. Stiles keeps saving Derek's life, over and over again in a multitude of different ways, often risking his own life in the process, and never expects anything but Derek's trust in return. 

Stranger still is the fact that Derek keeps inexplicably seeking out Stiles, of all people, whenever he's in trouble, despite his insistence that he doesn't trust him. He'll talk a big game with intimidation tactics and threats of bodily harm, yet his first instinct is always to protect Stiles, to make sure he's safe, to push him out of harm's way at the first sign of danger, even from his own pack, his own family.

It's only after that night that Derek begrudgingly comes to accept the fact that he not only doesn't mind having Stiles around, but might actually even like him, his stupid, traitorous brain keeping tallies of every positive quality Stiles possesses.

Like the fact that he's brave, and loyal, and compassionate, and clever, mind racing at lightning speed, a hundred different ideas, plans, and theories bouncing around inside his head at any given moment.

Stiles is a challenge, a constant battle of wit and fury to rival his own. Unlike everyone else, Stiles doesn't give Derek the chance to intimidate him, always at the ready to prove that he isn't afraid of him, seeing right through Derek's bullshit tough guy facade to the fragile ego underneath, throwing his own weak threats right back in his face, and giving just as good as he gets.

Stiles is comfort in the form of foolishly optimistic reassurance, shaky laughter, and self-deprecating humor, staving off the never-ending waves of fear and desperation that threaten to consume them both in every seemingly hopeless predicament they find themselves in.

After a while, scenario after mad, perilous, life-or-death scenario, time spent in each other's company becomes almost addictive, exhilarating, rather than vexing and obligatory. Melodramatic death threats carelessly thrown without cause start to lack conviction. Playful banter and lighthearted shoving all but replace heated bickering and power moves. After a while, thrusting Stiles up against hard surfaces becomes so much more than a necessity for garnering respect and gaining favor; it becomes a game.

• • •

They're outside of a club one night, tracking down the kanima's latest potential target, and Derek has got Stiles pressed up against the jagged brick wall of the building, black leather jacket and tight-fitted jeans crushed against worn plaid flannel and dark blue denim. His hands are fisted in the front of Stiles's shirt, canines grazing his ear as he growls out weak threats detailing all the things he's going to do to Stiles if tonight's plan goes awry. 

It's nothing out of the ordinary, nothing Derek hasn't already done before, (most effectively, he muses, against Stiles's own bedroom wall) except that, this time, something feels different. Something about Stiles smells different. Without thinking, Derek presses in closer, buries his nose into the curve of Stiles's neck, and breathes him in, catching notes of cinnamon, woodsmoke, and black currant wine, twisting into an intoxicating helix and radiating throughout his entire body, swimming in his veins, inexplicably evident with every pulse of Stiles's heartbeat as it thunders against his ribcage.

Derek would be lying if he said that he hadn't caught a hint of that scent before; a subtle, lingering aroma, hidden just beneath the surface of Stiles's skin, every time Derek had gotten too close for comfort. Before now, he had never quite been able to place it, had never concentrated hard enough to bother with riddling it out, always too preoccupied dealing with the monster of the week. 

Never before had it been this potent, this intense, this…

Oh. 

With a sharp twist, the cogs inside Derek's head finally start to turn, and he realizes that he is a complete fucking moron, because in that moment, Stiles smells like pure arousal, like all-encompassing desire, and really, how had it taken him this long to figure it out? After all, it's not like Stiles has ever responded to any of Derek's threats like a normal person.

"If you say one word," Derek warns as he shoves Stiles against his bedroom door, hands fisting into the front of Stiles's shirt.

"Oh what, you mean like, 'Hey dad, Derek Hale is in my room, bring your gun'?" Stiles says cooly, and just like that, the threat dies in the back of Derek's throat, fear and vulnerability slipping through the cracks just long enough for Stiles to take notice; invisible to anyone else, but glaringly obvious to the detail-oriented observer standing right in front of him.

"Yeah, that's right," Stiles asserts, a cocky smirk tugging at the corners of his lips like Derek's the one pinned to the wall, caught in a compromising position. "If I'm harboring your fugitive ass, it's my house, my rules, buddy."

He swats Derek's shoulder with the back of his hand, and Derek just stares down at it, dumbfounded. When he looks back up, Stiles's eyes are trained on his lips, and Derek finds himself momentarily frozen by the sight of Stiles's tongue darting out to lick his lower lip, struck speechless by the way his pupils scatter to the edge of his irises as he locks eyes with Derek, the faint uptick of Stiles's heartbeat threatening to jumpstart his own. He swallows thickly, unable to give anything more than a curt nod, before releasing his grip on Stiles's shirt.

But he can't just concede, can't just let Stiles win. He gets one last petty jab in, straightening Stiles's jacket with a harder tug than he knows is strictly necessary. But Stiles, it seems, is just as determined to not let Derek have the upper hand, reaching forward to grasp the collar of his leather jacket, and tugging down just as hard. Derek has to fight the foreign burst of laughter bubbling up inside his chest at the soft "oh my god" that escapes Stiles's mouth as he dodges Derek's glare and nearly topples over his desk chair.

Or—

"Start the car, or I'm gonna rip your throat out…with my teeth," Derek growls, emphasizing the threat with a flash of his teeth that he hopes come across as intimidating, rather than the wincing grimace it actually is.

Stiles stares at him for a few moments, fixing him with narrowed eyes and a glare that nearly calls his bluff, silently screaming 'do it, I dare you,' before heaving a long-suffering sigh and swiftly turning away to expose the long, pale canvas of his neck as he gives in to Derek's demands. 

And even though he is literally dying, and should probably be more concerned about the fact that he's bleeding out all over Stiles's passenger seat, Derek spends far more time than he cares to admit wondering if that wasn't an invitation.

It hits him with all the force of a tidal wave, sweeping him under the current. In that moment, Derek finds himself inexplicably drawn toward Stiles, like he's sunlight dancing across the surface of the water, a fresh breath of salty sea air in the lungs of a drowning man. As the seconds tick past, Derek finds it increasingly more difficult to let Stiles go, driven wild by the desire to press himself further into Stiles's personal space and drink in that warm, inviting scent, to nuzzle against the curves of his neck and collarbones and mark Stiles with his own scent. And it's that fact that sends a jolt of absolute terror spiking through Derek's chest, because he's never wanted to do that with anyone before.

He reigns himself in just long enough to shove Stiles away from him, tearing his gaze away from Stiles's retreating form as he makes his way back into the nightclub in a flustered huff. Once he's certain that Stiles is safely tucked away inside, Derek makes a run for it, bolting back to his hideaway and locking himself in his makeshift bedroom. He slides down the doorframe to the cold concrete floor and buries his face in the palms of his hands, shoulders shaking with the stirrings of a breakdown.

• • •

The next morning, Derek wakes with a cold, calculating satisfaction, convinced that feelings are stupid, that opening yourself up to that kind of vulnerability only leads to self-destruction, and that his interest in Stiles Stilinski is merely that; an interest, an infatuation, a distraction; hoping like hell that these foreign feelings will falter and disappear on their own. 

Because Derek simply refuses to allow himself to even entertain the idea of ever falling in love again, far too broken and haunted by the ever-present guilt of losing his family, of loving and trusting someone so much and so blindly that it had cost him everything and everyone he had ever loved. After Kate, after…the incident, Derek had written off romance for the rest of his foreseeable future, promising himself that he would never again make the mistake of falling for someone as hard as he had fallen for her.

It's in shameless illogicality and childish avoidance that Derek places the blame (at least, partially) on Stiles. Convinces himself that he hates Stiles for making him feel this way. Hates himself for having fallen victim to Stiles's maddeningly adorable charm, for having foolishly let him weave his way under Derek's skin in a way that even Kate never could. Finds his fear of the thought of what inevitable heartbreak Stiles could cause him if he were to give in to his feelings as perfectly justifiable grounds for taking out all of his aggression and unresolved tension on Stiles.

Repeatedly shoving him up against walls at random. 

Shouting at him for no apparent reason other than because he can. 

Using any excuse he can think of to get closer to Stiles, to pull him deeper into pointless, repetitive arguments, just so he can spend more time in his company. 

Delighting in the way Stiles's heartbeat thunders against his ribcage, the way the rush of emotion paints his pulse points and the hollows of his cheekbones. 

Relishing the fact that he is the cause, that he has the power to elicit such an impassioned response in this infuriating, silver-tongued little shit. 

Reveling in the way Stiles's clever, zealous words rip through Derek's skin, latching onto every fiber of his being and lighting up his nerves like a live wire.

It's easier this way, pretending that this innate connection between them, this weird brand of accidental flirting that straddles the line between intimidation and sexual tension, doesn't exist. That it's merely a figment of his imagination gone rogue, a looming nightmare hell-bent on capturing him and swallowing him whole, just as viciously as it had the last time. Only this time, he's not going to give in. He won't allow himself to fall victim to his own vulnerability. He's determined not to.

Besides, even if Derek could entertain the idea that he's even capable of having romantic feelings for someone else, let alone Stiles, of all people, there's still the complication of it being—

Unrequited.

Because Derek knows full well that Stiles is, and always has been, madly in love with Lydia Martin. And how does Derek know that? Because Stiles never shuts up about it. So even if he wanted to, there's no way in hell that Derek could ever convince Stiles to change his mind, to choose him instead, because, as Derek finally comes to realize one quiet afternoon spent in the company of his pack, loving someone isn't a choice. It's not something you can just will away through sheer spite, either, burying it deep down and pretending it doesn't exist. Love takes a hold of you whether you want it to or not, and Stiles, Derek realizes with a resigned sigh, has dug his claws in deep.

Not that it matters.

Although, sometimes—

Sometimes, he'll get foolishly hopeful. He'll catch a hint of that familiar, intoxicating scent, paired with the quickening pace of Stiles's heartbeat every time they accidentally touch, a simple brush of skin against skin that sends an electric spark through Derek's chest…but, because Derek is stubbornly self-deprecating, he simply writes those moments off as coincidence, as Stiles's inherent nervousness and awkwardness, chalking it up to sheer curiosity and raging teenage hormones. 

And even if, by some miracle, the near-constant aroma of Stiles's arousal is because of Derek, well…that alone isn't enough. There's no affection or deeper meaning to be found in lust, after all. And one night with Stiles isn't what Derek is after. If Stiles ever chooses to be with him, what Derek wants is a long-term connection…life-long, if he's being honest…if he should ever be so lucky. 

Still, the nagging notion that he'll never be good enough, that he isn't whole enough, that he hasn't healed enough, to be the kind of companion that someone like Stiles truly needs, eats away at him, stops him from wishing and wanting, from trying. Despite Stiles's infectious optimism that could change the hearts and minds of even the most stubborn, foolish, and broken of people, Derek isn't certain if he'll ever be capable. So he resolves to keep his affections hidden, waiting in vain for someone who will likely never want him as he is.

• • •

Time wears on, and in the summer that follows Scott and Stiles's sophomore year, after the events surrounding Gerard Argent's death and Jackson's transformation from kanima to werewolf, permanently binding Lydia and Jackson as soulmates, Stiles finds himself rapidly losing interest in his pursuit of Lydia Martin, convinced that he never had a chance with her to begin with, and is honestly just content with the fact that she finally seems happy, even if it isn't with him. 

The imposing threat of the alpha pack ends up being much less dramatic than they had originally anticipated. Apparently, the alpha pack is comprised of a makeshift council, containing alphas from each pack in the surrounding area. According to Peter Hale, there have been several werewolf packs living in secrecy across the west coast for quite some time now. 

They'd primarily kept to themselves…that is, until the kanima threatened to expose the existence of their kind. The council traveled to Beacon Hills with the sole intent of putting an end to the problem in the only way that they saw fit: by putting down the abomination, ending the reign of the alpha responsible, acquiring the remaining members of their pack, and dividing them amongst the alphas of the council and their respective packs.

In a rare moment of bravery (or perhaps stupidity) Peter takes it upon himself to negotiate a compromise, and travels to the hidden location of the council. Consequently, the alpha pack is never heard from again, nor is Peter Hale. It can only be assumed that one of three things happened: either the council mistook Peter for the alpha of the Beacon Hills werewolf pack and killed him on the spot, living up to their legend; Peter somehow escaped their conviction and is currently on the run; or, more likely, sassy, silver-tongued Peter Hale talked his way into joining a new pack, and he now runs with an entirely different class of werewolves. Whatever the case, Derek is relieved to finally have his creepy, murderous, meddlesome uncle gone.

In the beginning of the summer, Derek forges a peace treaty with Chris Argent, agreeing to work together in the event of future catastrophes, and the group of reckless, misfit adolescent werewolves and humans becomes a hybrid pack. Derek, Stiles, Scott, Allison, Lydia, Jackson, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd spend the summer lounging around in the ruins of the old Hale house, regarding Derek's rules, regulations, and attempts at training them with reluctance and rebellion. 

On the edge of summer's end, Derek finally gives in to Stiles's relentless insistence that Derek might actually require Stiles's help reigning in his newly formed pack. And so, much to Derek's indignation, Stiles becomes the official designated researcher of all things supernatural, and, annoyingly enough, Derek's go-to guide for advice and assistance.

• • •

Over the course of his junior year, Stiles and Derek are wrought even closer, collaborating over ideas for pack activities and training exercises. And, staying true to his new role in the group, in nearly no time at all, Stiles becomes incredibly well-versed in pack dynamics and werewolf lore, presenting Derek with detailed sketches of his plans for strengthening their senses to full peak, exercises in anchor grounding and emotional control, agility and strength training, physical defensive and combative strategies, and, most importantly, pack bonding activities. 

Slowly, gradually, the tension between the two of them shifts, builds, ever so subtly with each passing day, and before Stiles can even register what's happening, his attention veers, rather aggressively, toward Derek Hale. 

And, okay, just so we're clear, it's not like Stiles has never noticed how attractive the guy is. He's not one to dismiss physical beauty worthy of a statuesque god so willingly, even if its owner happens to be a snarky, sassy, surly sourwolf with a penchant (or perhaps a kink? no, shut up) for shoving him up against hard surfaces like his own goddamn bedroom wall as a means of intimidation. 

(And seriously, his traitorous body needs to stop reacting to that kind of shit in all the wrong ways, because one of these days, Derek is going to notice and then he'll die of embarrassment before Derek even has the chance to rip his throat out.)

So yeah. Obviously, it's not lost on Stiles that Derek Hale is hot. He gets it. He's well fucking aware of the fact that Derek is…ugh, really fucking gorgeous, actually, in an almost sinful how the hell are you not Photoshopped kind of way, with his perfectly sculpted body, his dark tousled hair, devil-may-care five o'clock shadow skating across his chiseled jawline, not to mention the fact that his eyes are this indescribable combination of blue, green, and hazel that Stiles can't even put a proper name to, but sometimes he kind of wants to paint it…

So.

Yeah.

He's always known Derek was attractive. It's just…it's getting a little harder to ignore lately, that's all.

Okay, so maybe it goes a little beyond simply finding Derek attractive. Maybe he'd imagined that night at the club more than a few times while he was in the shower, and maybe he'd called out Derek's name in a low, throaty moan as he'd climaxed. But it's totally not his fault, okay? It's just, you know, hormones and shit. Just because Stiles sometimes thinks about Derek in a non-platonic way doesn't mean that he's like, in love with him, or anything.

And even if, hypothetically speaking, he was starting to develop actual real feelings for Derek during all the time he'd been spending with him lately…it's not like it matters. It's not like he could actually do anything about it. It's not like he has a shot in hell of ever making that fantasy a reality.

First of all, there's the obvious attraction factor. Stiles, in comparison to Derek, with his short brown hair that's slowly growing out at awkward angles, his gangly physique, and his constant flailing, fidgeting, and anxiety-induced word vomit, isn't exactly the most alluring romantic prospect. (Or so he keeps telling himself.)

Second, there's the somewhat complicated matter of their age difference. Derek is basically a whole college and master's degree older than Stiles, and though he would argue that Derek is every bit the immature, sarcastic little shit that Stiles prides himself in being, Stiles knows for a fact that his dad would never approve. In fact, Stiles is fairly certain his father would rather shit in his own hands and clap than let his son date an older man. A convicted felon, no less. (Granted, it was a false accusation and the charges were dropped, but still.)

Third of all, Derek is…complicated. Mercurial. Cynical. Reclusive. Reticent. And Stiles gets it, completely. Because he knows what Derek has been through. He'd snuck into his dad's office and read the Hale house fire case so many times he's practically got every detail memorized. He knows full well why Derek is this broken shell of a man, drowning in undeserved survivor's guilt, haunted by his past mistakes and regrets. He's skeptical and distrusting for good reason, and probably only tolerates Stiles's company because Stiles is useful to him. 

Which brings him to fourth of all: Stiles isn't entirely certain of the exact nature of their relationship. Derek doesn't really do feelings…or even friendship, probably, for that matter. At least, not with a guy like Stiles. And certainly not willingly. They aren't enemies, exactly (never were, really, more like reluctant partners in crime) nor are they anywhere near the same level of friendship and trust that Stiles shares with Scott. 

So he's not about to test their constant-state-of-flux boundaries and budding friendship by confessing that he is possibly sort of completely in love with him. It would be awkward and embarrassing to the point of torture, and Derek would probably definitely rip his throat out…with his teeth (and ugh, Stiles really wishes that he could stop finding that particular interaction so goddamned hot, because he really shouldn't, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him.) 

Worst of all, it would mean no more Stiles and Derek bonding time, which Stiles has grown rather fond of. So, despite the fact that Derek has become a near-constant presence in his life and Stiles really, really wants to act on his stupid, dumb feelings every time Derek so much as looks in his direction, Stiles promises himself that he won't breathe a word to Derek, that he'll keep his mouth shut and keep his feelings a secret, even if it kills him. 

Stiles can manage to not talk about something, right? 

It's fine. It'll be fine.

• • •

Over time, as hard as he tries to pretend otherwise, Derek begrudgingly comes to terms with the fact that Stiles has become something of a permanent fixture in his life, and, terrifyingly enough, the one person he's come to trust most in this world. Which would explain why, over the course of the year that follows, Stiles also becomes the one person Derek comes to whenever he's wounded. 

Unfortunately, that tends to happen quite a lot, given the number of times Derek crosses paths with rogue werewolf hunters, or accidentally strays into another pack's territory. The majority of Derek's injuries are the direct result of involvement in foreign pack drama, which is difficult to avoid, given how reckless and impulsive Erica and Jackson can sometimes act.

But, despite the constant string of curses and complaints, Stiles always takes care of him. In fact, Stiles becomes so accustomed to playing werewolf doctor that he starts keeping a makeshift first aid kit hidden under his bed for just such occasions, courtesy of Dr. Deaton, local veterinarian and supernatural specialist. The kit is filled with all manner of cure-alls, from Spiderman Band-Aids, to gauze, to dissolvable stitches, as well as twenty-seven different poison antidotes, a dozen lighters, and spare Wolfsbane bullets. Sometimes, if Derek is on his best behavior, Stiles will even share a pint of Ben and Jerry's with him as he tucks Derek into his bed, because, obviously, ice cream is the cure to everything.

After a while, Stiles stops freaking out about Derek's Black Widow level skills of agility and finesse, stops flailing and whisper-screaming holy shit, wear a fucking bell every time he turns a corner in his house and Derek is suddenly just there, slinking out from the shadows with a self-satisfied smirk on his stupid handsome face, and stops reprimanding Derek for his inability to use the front door like a normal person, as opposed to climbing through Stiles's bedroom window at all hours of the goddamn night. 

Sometimes, Derek will drop by with special research projects for Stiles, deciphering strange symbols or concocting antidotes. Sometimes, it's to ask for his help in planning sessions for pack training activities and exercises. But then sometimes, more often than not, Derek will just show up on the ledge of Stiles's bedroom window without rhyme or reason, claiming that he's bored and would rather spend time in Stiles's company than stay at home by himself. 

The first time it happens, Stiles just stares at him for a few seconds before choking out a disbelieving Really? And Derek just rolls his eyes like it's not a huge fucking deal that a hot alpha werewolf doesn't have anything better to do on a Saturday night, shrugs his perfectly sculpted shoulders, and asks if Stiles is any good at making grilled cheese. 

He is. Stiles makes a mean grilled cheese, he'll have you know, despite what a certain sourwolf might claim otherwise. And no, they totally don't spend an entire hour making a huge stack of them, bickering over the merits of cheddar vs. mozzarella. Which definitely doesn't lead to an argument about which is better: cookies vs. brownies. How Stiles ends up with a kitchen countertop filled with all manner of baking supplies, insisting that they bake a batch of each from scratch (and one batch of cookie-brownie hybrids, you know, for science) so they can settle the debate once and for all, remains the greatest goddamned mystery of our time.

Derek's patience lasts all of five minutes as he watches Stiles struggle to open a bag of flour, before he's reaching for the bag so he can just do it himself. But Stiles won't let him have it, insisting that he's got it handled, that he'd just be loosening the pickle jar for Derek at this point, even though it's a flimsy paper bag, Stiles, not a pickle jar, but Stiles stubbornly refuses, playing keep-away with the bag of flour. They end up in a sort of vertical wrestling match over it, literally slapping each other's hands out of the way. 

And then the bag of flour bursts open and explodes in both of their faces, scattering the kitchen countertops, the sink, the fridge, the floor, in a blanket of white powder. Stiles blinks it out of his eyes and chances a glance over at Derek, who looks utterly ridiculous with a thick layer of flour coating his facial hair and embedded in his big surly eyebrows, and Stiles presses his lips together in an effort not to laugh, but ends up inhaling a mouthful of flour and a cloud of it puffs out of his mouth as he exhales. And Derek is just staring at him, not saying a word, and uh oh, he thinks, there I go pissing off the alpha again, never thought I'd die covered in baking ingredients, but here we are. 

But then something incredible happens. Without warning, Derek doubles over and bursts out laughing, just full belly laughing, eyes crinkling around the corners, and it's the most surreal experience because Stiles is not used to seeing this side of Derek, this lighter, happier, unencumbered version, and the sight of it sends a pang through his heart, making him ache for the person Derek probably was before the fire, for the person he probably could have been if his life hadn't been turned upside down. In that moment, Stiles vows to make it his personal mission to try to make Derek smile and laugh like that as much as he possibly can.

By the time they take the last batch out of the oven, the kitchen is an absolute war zone, mostly because, after the flour incident, they'd basically devolved into a low-key food fight, flinging chocolate chips at each other and swiping icing across each other's faces. And then Stiles realizes that it's nearly four in the morning and his dad will be home within the hour and will totally kill him if he sees the mess they've made, so he starts begrudgingly taking out the cleaning supplies and setting to work mopping the floor, while Derek tends to the giant tower of mixing bowls stacked in the sink. The kitchen gleams when they're finished, the Sheriff is none the wiser.

Stiles keeps expecting it to just be a one time thing, some weird twilight zone alternate universe where Derek is nice and they actually get along and like each other. But for some reason, it keeps happening. Derek keeps showing up outside his bedroom window, asking to come in. And no matter the time of night, or how much it kind of freaks Stiles out (because, really, Derek Hale wants to come over to his house and just…what, hang out? Like two normal people? Like they're friends? Or— no, oh my god, calm down, it's not a date) Stiles always obliges, immediately dropping whatever he'd been doing and leading Derek down to the kitchen for another round of experimental baking.

Or sometimes, they'll set up camp in the living room, and spend the evening curled around opposite ends of the couch with a bowl of popcorn between them. Hesitantly, like he's afraid one wrong move will send Derek running, Stiles turns toward him, manages a shaky, so, have you ever watched Doctor Who? and gets this impish little gleam in his eyes when Derek shakes his head. (Derek can't help but laugh and roll his eyes whenever Stiles insists on singing along, very loudly and off key, to the lyric-less theme song.)

Derek never really cared too much for television, but he likes watching Stiles binge his way through his favorite shows and movies, likes the way Stiles will look over at him every few minutes with a bright smile on his face to see if Derek's enjoying the content just as much as he is, the way Stiles gets so worked up over seemingly insignificant details, his entire body flailing as he delves into twenty-minute monologues about all the plot twists and character growth in BBC Sherlock, Supernatural, and the MCU.

And then there are those rare, magnificent moments in between. Nights when they don't watch anything at all. Instead, Stiles talks about his mother, about the illness that took her life, about all of the different destructive and detrimental ways in which his father had dealt with his grief, about how Scott had been there for him, every step of the way…and sometimes, Derek shares tiny little fragments about his family, too; brief glimpses into the life he'd led before the fire, before Kate Argent had stolen it all away from him. 

It's those moments that are the most difficult for Derek to admit he covets, and maybe that's what makes them so precious. Because Stiles is the only one who seems to understand the constant, all-consuming pain and self-inflicted guilt that Derek has been going through for over seven years now. 

Because Stiles is incredibly easy to talk to, and even easier to listen to. Because Stiles doesn't force Derek to open up about his past, doesn't expect him to continue, even if he'd stopped speaking mid-sentence, eyes glazing over as he disassociates. 

Because Stiles fills the silence where Derek had trailed off with his own words and memories, gently tugging Derek back to the present. Because Stiles is the first and only person with whom Derek feels comfortable enough to talk to about his family. 

On more than one occasion, Derek has to stop himself from wandering into the dangerous territory of time rewritten, imagining what life would have been like if Stiles could have met them, if Derek could have met Stiles's mother, if neither of them had been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the hollow heartbreak that death often brings.

Because, it's like Stiles always says, "Death doesn't just happen to you. It happens to everyone around you. To all the people left standing at your funeral, trying to figure out how they're gonna live the rest of their lives without you in it." 

And he's right, because it does. The loss of a loved one latches onto you, eats at you until you're just an empty shell. And Stiles is the first person he's come across who truly understands what that feels like.

In those moments, Derek can't help but admire how brilliant Stiles is, how well he keeps his own brokenness hidden from the rest of the world. Can't help but find solace in the fact that maybe, he doesn't have to anymore, that neither of them do, now that they've got each other to confide in. And that's…Derek doesn't want to call it hope, exactly…but it's definitely something.

• • •

As the months stack up and fall semester bleeds into spring, Stiles grows accustomed to finding himself in Derek's company more often than he spends the night alone, slipping into a cozy routine, night-owl movie marathons and kitchen adventures a tradition in the making. It should feel weird, shouldn't make sense, but somehow, it does. It feels…oddly natural, comfortable. 

So comfortable, in fact, that sometimes, Derek will fall asleep on Stiles's shoulder mid-marathon, his heavy, sprawled-out form sinking into the couch cushions as he coils his arms around Stiles's waist, his grip like a vice, all but pinning Stiles to his seat. And then Stiles is left with the impossible task of trying to coax a sleepy, surly werewolf upstairs before his dad comes home, threatening Derek with the task of having to explain to the Sheriff why Derek is practically lying on top of his son at such an ungodly hour of the morning. (Because, let's face it, there's no way they're going to be able to talk themselves out of that one.)

It's to no avail, though, because once Stiles finally does manage to drag Derek back up to his bedroom, Derek proceeds to fall asleep in Stiles's bed, leaving Stiles to curl up along the very edge of the mattress, because Derek apparently likes to sprawl. And the worst part about it is that, after Derek leaves in the morning, Stiles's bed always smells like sourwolf, his blankets, pillows, and sheets embedded with Derek's scent. Never mind the fact that it's actually an oddly comforting, earthy fragrance…like petrichor, like rain-soaked grass and autumn leaves, like an early morning run through the woods…not that Stiles would ever admit to that. Instead, he just pretends that it annoys him, especially when his best friend starts to take notice.

One afternoon, Scott comes over after school to study for an upcoming history exam. Scott is doing slightly better this semester than he had been all last year, but he still needs Stiles's help, or he is definitely going to fail the majority of his classes. Scott barrels into Stiles's bedroom and stretches out on his bed, burying his face into the comforter and pretending to cry over the mountain of notes and textbooks that Stiles has laid out in front of him. 

And then, mid-groan, Scott suddenly freezes, all traces of playful banter traded for alarm as he bounds up and glares at Stiles's comforter, head cocked to the side.

"Dude," he says, wrinkling his nose. "Why does your bed smell like Derek Hale? Has he…has he been sleeping here…with you?"

Of course, Stiles's initial reaction is to lie through his goddamn teeth, because how the hell is he supposed to explain their little domestic routine to Scott? But then he remembers that Scott is his best friend, and that, oh yeah, he also happens to possess supernatural werewolf senses, and could catch him in a lie just by listening for the subtle shift in his blood pressure. Plus, there's no way that he can deny the fact that his bed smells like their alpha. Scott would recognize Derek's scent anywhere. So Stiles puts on his best scowling face and starts rambling, hoping his racing heart and flushed skin are mistaken for irritation rather than nerves.

"Ugh, I know, dude, it's totally weird. So, you know how Derek is like, always getting himself into trouble, right? Well, the bastard always ends up coming to me, with like, no regard to the time of night. And I always fix him up, because, you know, the whole not wanting to get mauled to death by a werewolf thing. And, because he's always out all night playing werewolf Batman, the guy never gets any sleep, so he decides my bed is the perfect fucking place to crash, I guess, so that's why it always smells like him…no, don't look at me like that, it's not like he sleeps with me, okay, I just…I mean, it's my own fault, really, because I should probably just lock my window. Of course, Derek would probably just break it and come in anyway…"

No, hang on. That makes it sound like Derek would resort to vandalism just to get close to Stiles, and that's…no, that's not how Derek works. (Probably. He doesn't actually know. It's not like he's had ample opportunity to test that theory. He's just always left his window open for Derek to climb through without a second thought.) 

But then…come to think of it, Stiles isn't entirely certain why Derek always chooses to come to him, of all people, anyway. It's not like Stiles is the only person who's capable of fixing Derek up after a fight…there's Deaton, and Isaac, and Erica, and Boyd…people who've studied werewolves for far longer than Stiles has even been alive…people who actually are werewolves…

Stiles interrupts his own internal word vomit and glances over at Scott, hoping like hell that his short attention span has already moved on to other, more distracting topics (Allison…Lacrosse…Allison) and has already forgotten the fact that Derek's scent is not only all over Stiles's bedroom, but also all over Stiles himself, which, yeah, okay, he knows what that probably looks like to Scott, but Scott's got nothing to worry about, because that is so not ever going to happen because, well…Stiles just isn't that lucky. 

But Scott's got this look on his face like he's genuinely concerned and a little bit uncomfortable and definitely grossed out to the point where he might actually start crying for real, and he's fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and averting his eyes and then, horror of all horrors, he asks, "Are you and Derek dating, or something?"

Stiles splutters, issuing a series of choking noises that have got Scott legitimately worried now.

"I…what? No, of course not! That's…gross, Scott. Why would you even say that?" Stiles chokes out, the discordant crack in his voice completely giving him away. And now he's screaming internally, all-consuming mortification and relief at having finally been caught in the biggest lie of his life (because, hey, pretending not to have feelings for someone is exhausting) waging war for control inside his head. 

Scott raises his hands in surrender, offering Stiles his most convincing innocent puppy dog eyes (there's a joke in there somewhere, but Stiles doesn't have the patience to make it right now.)

"Okay, fine. So you're not dating Derek. I get it. But then…" Scott trails off, reaching underneath his ass to pull out a slightly lopsided stuffed wolf that he apparently hadn't realized he'd been sitting on.

"Why do you have this?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. Without thinking, Stiles launches onto his bed and rips the little plush toy out of Scott's hands, stroking the top of its head and pressing its little black nose into his cheek.

"Dude, don't sit on Sourwolf," he scolds, and seriously, he's going to murder Scott for the ridiculous grin that spreads across his face at the mention of the wolf's name.

"…isn't that what you call Derek?" he asks, biting back laughter.

"No…maybe…whatever, fuck you," Stiles says, shoving Sourwolf under his pillow and pacing the length of his bedroom, striped socks slipping across the hardwood floor. And then he pauses, realization dawning on him as he catches the wide, shit-eating grin unfurling across Scott's face.

"Oh my god," Stiles gasps. "You're fucking with me, aren't you? You know."

"What do I know, Stiles?" Scott asks, his voice dripping with mock innocence.

"Okay," Stiles sighs in defeat, dropping down onto the bed to sit beside Scott. "So, exactly how long have you known that I've got a crush on Derek?"

Scott merely chuckles and tilts his head to the side, studying his best friend with a look of pure amusement.

"Probably a lot longer than you have, buddy," Scott laughs, fixing Stiles with one of his signature heart-melting crooked smiles.

Stiles lets out a little sigh of relief, anxiety uncoiling ever so slightly in the pit of his stomach at the notion that his best friend not only knows, but approves.

It's a nice moment.

And then Scott opens his mouth and ruins it.

"I mean, it's kind of obvious, you know? You just get really stupid around him. Like your whole brain just stops functioning whenever Derek's around. It's like someone took your brain, threw it into a jar, and shook it really hard."

Stiles maintains that Scott more than deserved getting punched in the arm.

• • •

One evening in late April, during a thunderstorm dredged up from the deepest depths of hell, Derek catches Stiles walking home in the pouring rain…or rather, Derek rescues Stiles from the potential threat of pneumonia. 

Stiles's Jeep is in the shop again, his dad is working late at the station, and he's just missed the last bus, so he's resorted to walking home from lacrosse practice, in the middle of what can only be described as a soft-core hurricane…without an umbrella, or a raincoat, or even proper footwear…just a pair of muddied-up sneakers and a bright red, rain-soaked hoodie.

Derek heaves a dramatic sigh as he pulls up along the sidewalk, rolls down the windows of his Camaro, and shouts, "Get the fuck in the car, Stiles." 

Stiles jerks up at the sudden noise, his eyes lingering on Derek's darkened features through the sliver of the window, before a huge, ridiculous grin spreads across his face and he immediately jumps into the passenger seat of Derek's car, shrugging out of his sweatshirt and splashing water all over the pristine leather. Derek winces, on the verge of telling Stiles off, but stops dead at the sight of him—

Rainwater dripping down the length of his neck, connecting the smattering of freckles and moles between pale patches of skin like constellations in the night sky.

White shirt clinging to every curve of his torso, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination (but that doesn't stop Derek's from running wild.) 

His tongue darts out from the corner of his mouth to lick a stray drop of water from his lips, and Derek nearly whimpers. 

And then he's arching his back into the heated leather seats, moaning his appreciation in a way that sends a jolt like a shot of whiskey through Derek's chest, and Derek grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white and he thinks, this is it, this is how I die. 

Somehow, miraculously, Derek doesn't crash the car, keeping his eyes averted as he drives Stiles home, berating and lecturing him the entire time about how stupid he is, and how he'll probably catch a fever, and when he does, he can drag his own sorry ass out of bed to get himself hot tea and a bowl of soup, because Derek sure as hell isn't going to be the one to do it. Stiles bites back a laugh, taking it for the bullshit lie it so clearly is. 

Finally, they pull up in front of his house, and while Stiles's eyes are averted, Derek allows himself a moment to really take him in…rain-soaked clothes clinging to his lightly toned muscles, trickles of water streaming down the surface of his skin, lips stained red, blushing from the tangled mix of hot and cold air, steam clouding up the windshield as Stiles breathes out spirals of heat against it. It's intensely beautiful. Stiles is intensely beautiful, and it makes Derek want to lean in and smother him in kisses until the day he dies, to cover every inch of his pale, gorgeous skin with his tongue and his teeth. 

Stiles turns back around, fixing Derek with a curious expression as his fingertips toy with the handle of the door.

"Derek, I—" he begins, sounding just as breathless as Derek feels.

"Don't—" Derek interrupts him, clearing his throat and cursing his voice for having gone so weak. "Don't ever let me catch you doing that again, got it?"

"Oh my god," Stiles says slowly, a brilliant smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You actually do care about me, don't you?"

Derek freezes, breaking his transfixion and rapidly readjusting the hinges of his mask…he can't lose control…can't let it show…not after he'd worked so hard to keep his feelings hidden. He's got to stay calm. Nonchalant. Casual.

"Of course I do," he says, with as much composure as he can manage. "You're pack."

Stiles bites his lower lip to keep his smug little smile in check, and it's so fucking adorable that Derek just can't help himself. Before Stiles can open the door, Derek fists one of his hands into the front of Stiles's shirt and pulls him close.

"If you die from pneumonia, or whatever the fuck you might've caught out there walking around in the freezing rain like a dumbass, I will kill you, and that's a promise," Derek growls, the ghost of a smile skating across his lips.

Stiles merely rolls his eyes, fighting back the urge to laugh, and climbs out of the car, stumbling onto the pavement like his limbs are at war with gravity. He reaches the front door and turns his key in the lock, looking back with a hopeful grin, and gives Derek a little wave before he steps into his house. Derek drives off in a make-believe huff, while Stiles sinks down the length of the door once he gets inside, slumping to the floor with a ridiculous smile on his face, hardly caring that he's freezing and soaked to the bone. Nope, none of that matters, because Derek had just admitted out loud that he cares about Stiles. And that's definitely something.

• • •

One thing that Derek absolutely hates about Stiles is his taste in music. Stiles blasts the shit out of his Jeep's speakers, singing along with a truly horrible excuse for music at the top of his lungs. After one too many dubstep remixes, Derek has no choice but to insist that they take the Camaro out on their pack training sessions instead. The alternative is smashing Stiles's iPod to bits, which Derek would normally have no qualms about doing, it's just…well…Stiles had worked really hard to be able to afford that iPod, and Derek would feel terrible if he broke it. He did try hiding it once, but Stiles found it almost immediately, nearly tearing off the pockets of Derek's leather jacket in the process.

The summer before senior year, Derek decides he wants to take the pack on a road trip up to the mountains for a couple of weeks of private, intensive training sessions. The entire trip had been planned several months in advance, a collaborative effort developed by Stiles and Derek to make the pack stronger, more alert, and more tightly-knit via training exercises that Stiles had charmingly christened packtivities (Derek has developed a bad habit of smacking Stiles across the back of the head every time he uses that word. And he's definitely going to detach a retina if Stiles makes the Camping! It's gonna be in-tents! joke one more fucking time.)

Unfortunately for Derek, since Stiles's Jeep is far roomier than Derek's Camaro, Derek, Stiles, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd all pile into the powder blue death-mobile for one agonizingly long drive up the mountainside, with far too much exposure to Stiles's terrible taste in music. (Erica is an evil little instigator; she sings just as loudly and off-key as Stiles does.)

Meanwhile, in the disgustingly adorable couples' carpool, sits Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson. When all of them finally arrive, they set up camp at the edge of the mountain, in a secluded little clearing surrounded by pine trees and berry bushes. The tent-sharing set up goes as follows: Scott and Allison to the first tent, Lydia and Jackson to the second, Erica and Boyd to the third…leaving Derek, Stiles, and Isaac to share the last tent (at least they'd all thought to bring their own sleeping bags.)

Once everyone has unpacked and settled in, Lydia and Allison light up a campfire, while Stiles and Derek drive five blindfolded betas to the very top of the mountain for their first trial in tracking scent. Stiles gives Scott, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Jackson two items of clothing: one with Stiles's scent, and one with Derek's. Their instructions are to wait at the top of the mountain for a full hour, taking time to get acclimated to their surroundings, and giving Stiles and Derek plenty of time to trek their way back to the campsite. Then, after their sixty-minute period is up, they can take off their blindfolds, and find their way back to the campsite, using only their sense of smell to track Stiles and Derek down.

As they turn to leave, Stiles puts on his best Capitol accent, and says, "May the odds be ever in your favor," earning a sarcastic eye roll from Derek.

"This isn't the Hunger Games, Stiles. It's not like they're fighting to the death."

"Dude," Stiles says, shamelessly gaping at Derek. "You actually got that reference? I don't even remember watching that with you."

Derek responds with a simple shrug, sliding into the passenger's seat of the Jeep.

"So," Stiles muses as he climbs into the driver's side. "How come you didn't tell me you were a closet fanboy? I'd always thought you were just humoring me, you know? Watching all that sci-fi and action hero stuff with me. But it would appear that I have converted you."

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek sighs, a small smile creeping its way across his lips.

"You know, I've got the trilogy in hardcover, if you ever want to borrow—"

"Shut up and drive, Stiles."

Stiles does as he's told, but his smile is as smug as ever.

As they drive back down the mountains through verdant woods, golden rays of the sun bleeding into the citrine skyline as the rolling hills of the mountainside swallow it whole, the two of them sink into a comfortable silence, neither of them feeling the need to fill the void with idle chatter. Stiles has, thankfully, turned the volume of his iPod down to a soft lull, and is no longer trying to balance driving with conducting the score to The Avengers. 

Stiles stares straight ahead, his fingertips drumming along the edge of the steering wheel in a steady rhythm, a small, contented smile on his lips. Derek focuses his attention on the patches of dirt embedded in the carpet of the passenger's seat, most likely his own doing over the past two years, and absentmindedly scrapes his black leather boots over the tears in the fabric, somehow managing to make them even worse. He keeps his head down, resting his chin against his palm, and slowly, ever so slightly, lifts his eyes to peer over at Stiles from underneath his lashes. If Stiles takes notice, he never lets on.

When they park the Jeep in the clearing at the edge of the mountain, they notice that the campfire has recently been put out, its remaining embers a dull orange, melting into the charcoaled ash of the burning tree bark. Lydia and Allison have, by the looks of it, retreated to one of their tents for the night, waiting for their boys to come back to the campsite. 

Stiles gets an inkling that Derek has no desire to go anywhere near the campfire until it's died out completely, so he perches atop the hood of his Jeep, lies back against the windshield, and pats the spot right next to him, arching his eyebrows suggestively. Derek gives him an exasperated glare, rolling his eyes and shuffling over to the car, before vaulting onto the hood in one smooth, graceful motion, and easing into the space beside Stiles.

Neither of them say a word as they lay there, staring up at the star-strewn sky through a tangled web of tree branches, shoulders and thighs pressed against one another's. By the time the betas return to the campsite, Derek and Stiles have already fallen asleep, and the image of Stiles's head draped over Derek's chest, Derek's arm wrapped tight around Stiles's waist, both of them softly snoring on the hood of Stiles's Jeep, is enough to send the five of them into hysterics, Erica hissing loudly at them all to shut up so she can get to her phone and snap a photo before they wake up.

Even Derek's signature death glares aren't enough to quell all the giggling he has to endure for the entirety of their two-week trip.

• • •

One morning in mid-summer, a few days after they'd returned from their camping trip, Stiles arrives at Derek's house with a determined look in his eyes, arms overflowing with home makeover catalogues, DIY brochures, and stacks of paint samples. As expected, Derek slams the door in Stiles's face. 

It takes all of two days and an endless barrage of okay but what ifs for Stiles to convince Derek to reconsider, pointing out that renovating the Hale house will serve as a fantastic pack bonding activity, that fixing the broken remnants of his home won't chase away the memories that Derek has of his family and of his old life…instead, it'll make way for new memories, for Derek's second family, his new pack, to weave their way into his life. It would become a place for all of them to assemble, to come and go as they please, and maybe then, Derek wouldn't feel so lonely. (The detailed visual of Jackson scowling and covered in paint might have been the determining factor that tipped Derek over the edge.)

The moment Derek finally agrees, Stiles sets the plan into motion, and the pack spends the rest of the summer tirelessly working together to rebuild the Hale house, sanding hardwood flooring and plastering scuffs and scrapes and holes, reinstalling plumbing and electric, choosing furniture and carpeting and repainting the walls. Each week, they devote their mornings and afternoons to working on a different section of the house, celebrating their hard day's work with pizza and takeaway, and piling onto Derek's recently purchased leather couches for movie marathons and Mario Kart tournaments in the evenings.

When it's all finally finished, Derek and the rest of the pack decide to throw a surprise party to celebrate Stiles's 18th birthday, complete with flameless candles stacked onto a massive three-tiered chocolate hazelnut cake. As a sort of thank you, Derek decides to bake Stiles's birthday cake entirely from scratch, whipping up the ingredients from muscle memory. 

It's a recipe they'd found together on Pinterest ages ago, always joking that if they ever ended up on a tag-team baking competition together, that would be their finale-winning show-stopper. It takes him hours, and he's fairly certain that if he didn't have werewolf healing, he'd have developed carpal tunnel just from the piping alone, but the look on Stiles's face when Derek carries it out, the way his eyes flutter closed when he takes his first bite, the way Stiles leans against him and whispers, dude, this is amazing, thank you so much, is totally worth it.

• • •

It's the last day of summer, the last day of freedom before classes kick back up and the majority of the pack is pulled back into the dismal routine of high school, homework, and after-school activities, and of course, Stiles can't sleep. Sure, the dangerous mix of Adderall and Red Bull he'd had the night before were probably the culprits, but mostly, Stiles reasons, it's nerves. Because, here's the thing: once classes resume and everyone's lives go back to being ridiculously busy, now with the added worry of college applications to potentially stir up pack drama, the lot of them won't be able to spend nearly as much time together as they had been all summer. Worst of all, Derek will be left all alone again, and Stiles can't help but worry what that's going to do to him.

Dragging his fingers through his ruffled mess of hair and deciding that there's far too much daylight pouring through his bedroom window for him to even consider trying to go back to sleep, Stiles springs up from his mattress and makes his way downstairs, hoping for something, anything to distract him from stressing out about Derek Hale's hypothetical emotional state. What Stiles gets instead is an eyeful of his father kissing Scott's mom. From the looks of it, she'd stayed the night…and from the casual comfortability of their embrace, it would appear that this has been going on for quite some time.

Stiles should be shocked, really, but given the Sheriff's odd behavior as of late, the way he drifts off mid-conversation with a goofy smile on his face, the hint of really familiar perfume clinging to his clothes, and the occasional smudge of a lipstick stain on his cheek, Stiles is honestly just relieved to have finally figured out his dad's secret.

After a few seconds, Stiles composes himself and quietly clears his throat, and the two of them immediately break apart, Melissa wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, the Sheriff attacking a phantom itch on the back of his head. Stiles presses his lips together, biting back a nervous laugh.

"So…this is new," he says, shoving his fists into the pockets of his pajama pants and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"I'll just…get your coat, then," the Sheriff mumbles, averting his eyes from Stiles's expectant gaze.

"It's summer. I didn't bring a coat," Melissa reminds him, lips curving into a small smile. "Morning, Stiles."

She waves an awkward goodbye in Stiles's general direction and quickly slips out the door, Sheriff Stilinski close on her heels.

"We're gonna have a nice, long chat about all of this after I've dropped Melissa off at work, alright? Promise," he says, closing the door behind him with an audible click.

Stiles sighs and retreats to the couch with a big bowl of fruit loops balanced in his lap, lounging around the living room while he waits, lazily flipping through the channels until he lands on BBC America, which only serves to remind him of his all-nighter sci-fi movie marathons with Derek. 

Since the beginning of summer, they'd been spending all of their free time with the rest of the pack, which had left little time nor reason for Derek to come by Stiles's house…a fact that shouldn't bother Stiles as much as it does. Sure, Derek still came over from time to time to get Stiles's pre-approval of certain video games and movies for pack bonding nights, still crashed on his bed whenever he'd stayed too late and didn't feel like venturing back home…but not nearly as much as he used to.

Fifteen minutes later, Sheriff Stilinski strolls through the door, setting down his keys and flopping down onto the opposite end of the couch, sighing and rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"So, when's the wedding?" Stiles asks, smirking.

"Stiles, that's not—" he starts, but Stiles cuts him off.

"I mean, it's not like it would make much of a difference, really. Scott and I are basically already brothers, anyway. You marrying Melissa would just make it, you know…official."

"Stiles," he sighs, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "Look, I'm sorry you had to find out about it like this. It's not like we were trying to keep it a secret from you and Scott, it's just…we didn't know if we could actually make this work, you know? We've been friends for so long, we've both got our baggage. We wanted to test the waters a little bit, keep it under wraps until we knew for sure that what we have is a good thing, for the both of us, and, most especially, for the both of you. And I didn't want to upset you, Stiles, because ever since your moth—"

"Dad, it's fine, really," Stiles sighs, cutting him off before he can make any more absurd apologies simply for having found love with someone other than Stiles's mom.

"Look, I know what you're going to say, and yeah, it's still a little weird because of…because of mom, okay, but no matter how long you wait and no matter who you end up with, it's always going to be weird, because I know that you'll never love anyone else the same way you love mom…but if I had to choose someone for you, not that I ever would because that would just be, like, super awkward and weird, but if I had to…I'd choose Melissa, because honestly, it kind of makes sense, you know? And, what it comes down to is…well…I haven't seen you this happy in years, and…and you deserve to be happy, dad."

Sheriff Stilinski stares at his son in astonishment, studying his expression intently, searching for the fault line…but in all honesty, there isn't one. Because there is nothing that Stiles wants more than to see his father happy.

"Thanks, kid," he says, pulling Stiles into a bone-crushing bear hug.

"Suffocating me, dad," Stiles laughs, squeezing his dad back even harder. When they finally pull away, Stiles mock-punches his dad in the arm and says, "Hey, you didn't have to keep it a secret from me and Scott, you know. We would've been fine with it."

Sheriff Stilinski rolls his eyes and shoves Stiles right back.

"Right," he says. "Like you've never kept any secrets from me."

"I know, I know," Stiles sighs dramatically. "I shouldn't have kept the whole werewolves are real and my best friend is one of them thing a secret from you for as long as I did, but hey, it's all out in the open now, right? You know about werewolves, I know about you and Melissa. So, we're good now. No more secrets."

"Huh," Sheriff Stilinski huffs thoughtfully. And then—

"You left out the part where your boyfriend's a werewolf, too."

Stiles gags on his cereal.

"Ew, Scott's not my boyfriend."

"Not Scott," his dad dismisses with a grimace. "I'm talking about Derek Hale."

Wait.

What.

"Look, son, I'm not mad," he says, pretending not to notice the fact that Stiles is literally sinking into the couch cushions in a vain attempt to disappear. "Granted, I'm not too thrilled about the age difference, but he seems like a nice enough guy, and you're an adult now. You're perfectly capable of making your own decisions. I'd just like to know that you're happy with him, that he treats you right, that you're using protect—"

This isn't happening. Thisisnthappening. This conversation is so not happening.

Stiles's entire body is on fire.

"Oh my fucking god," he splutters before he can stop himself. "Derek is not my boyfriend. Why does everyone keep saying that about us?"

"Probably because that's exactly what it looks like," the Sheriff says, barking out a laugh.

"Okay, fine, whatever. If me helping Derek plan pack training exercises is the equivalent of me dating Derek, then, yeah, I guess we're dating. But don't tell him that, unless you want your only son to die a very painful, embarrassing, werewolf-related death."

"Uh-huh. Yeah, I'll believe that when the werewolf in question stops climbing through your bedroom window at all hours of the night, or staring at you like a lovesick puppy-dog when he thinks I'm not watching. And don't give me that look, Stiles. I know perfectly well what goes on when you boys think I'm not home. I can't even begin to count the number of times I've caught you two asleep on this couch together…god only knows what you've been up to."

At that last line, Sheriff Stilinski crinkles his nose, shifting uncomfortably on the couch cushions like he's worried he'll find something unseemly hiding underneath them. Stiles, now properly shocked and more than a little paranoid, mouths wordlessly at his father, arms at the ready for another bout of flailing. 

Sheriff Stilinski shakes his head, sighing heavily as he hoists himself up off the couch and reaches for his keys. He's nearly out the door and on his way to work when he doubles back suddenly, fixing Stiles with an affectionate smile, and says, "You know, Stiles…you deserve to be happy, too."

• • •

Later that evening, after Stiles has calmed down from his incredibly awkward (and emotionally scarring) conversation with his father, the pack meets over at Derek's house to celebrate their last night of freedom with a cheesy, romantic comedy movie marathon. 

Scott takes the news of their parents dating just as Stiles had thought he would, with a surprised, "Really? That's awesome!" and gives Stiles a high-five, musing over their potential speeches as groomsmen (the more embarrassing, the better, obviously) and getting far too worked up over a wedding that hasn't even been announced, let alone discussed between the couple in question.

At around 11PM, everyone starts to clear out and head home, complaining in low, grumbling voices about their inevitable workload for the upcoming semester, comparing each other's schedules with excited squees and exhaustive groans. Stiles stays behind to help clean up, just like he always does, collecting plates covered in pizza sauce and glasses half-filled with soda and bringing them into the kitchen, where he does the washing up and leaves the clean dishes in the rack beside the sink to dry, while Derek lurks in the living room, pretending that he doesn't know how to work the dishwasher. 

As Stiles makes his way to the front door, he finds that his path has been blocked by the alpha. He tries to skate around him, but Derek just darts in front of him like the weirdest game of keep-away Stiles has ever had to play.

"Dude, come on, I don't have time for this right now. I have to get home," Stiles says, arching his eyebrows for emphasis, but Derek just continues to stand there, blocking Stiles's only exit like a giant, stupidly handsome wall of muscle. 

Several seconds pass before either of them say anything, and then finally, Derek speaks, shuffling his feet and wringing his hands like he's…like he's nervous. How is that even possible?

"I just," Derek starts, clearing his throat with a brusque sigh. "I never got the chance to thank you for convincing me to fix up the house," he says, his eyes darting around the finished walkway, from the polished, cherry oak hardwood floors to the scarlet runner carpet dancing up the stairwell, to the freshly-plastered walls concealing old scuffs, scrapes, and holes, covered in coats of warm, comforting, sunset hues. 

In reality, it isn't the finished house itself that Derek appreciates, or even the effort that Stiles had put into making the house a more livable place. It was because Stiles had helped give Derek a family again, a home.

"So…thank you," he says softly, locking his eyes onto Stiles's and fixing him with an intense stare, hoping that it's enough to convey everything he hadn't said aloud. They're only a few inches apart now, and Stiles can almost taste the warm, inviting scent of Derek's breath against his lips, urging him closer. 

Stiles worries his lower lip, drags a hand to the back of his head to attack a phantom itch, and says, "Yeah, of course, man…I mean, it's no big deal, really…I just…I care about you, too, you know? You deserve to be happy."

It happens in a matter of seconds, in a whirlwind of nerves and tension that had been plaguing the two of them for the better part of the last year, in a rush of adrenaline grounded in misguided confidence and the optimistic possibility that maybe, just this once, something could actually work in his favor. 

The sight of Derek's lips curving into a hopeful, heart-clenching smile is what draws Stiles in, pushing him over the breaking point until he's lost all semblance of common sense, giving in to his villainous hormones and clandestine desires as he presses his lips against Derek's, fisting his hands into the neckline of Derek's shirt and pulling him closer, pouring every last drop of affection, passion, and frustration into that kiss, delighting in the delicate moan that he conjures out of Derek's mouth as his teeth graze the alpha's lower lip. 

In an instant, the mood shifts from euphoric to tempestuous, and Stiles can feel the muscles of Derek's body tense against his own, the realization of how vulnerable and submissive Derek had just made himself sound rapidly sinking in. Derek pulls back abruptly and pushes at Stiles's shoulders, nearly knocking him to the ground as he fights his way to the bottom of the stairwell.

"We can't do this," he says, almost too quiet for Stiles to catch. "I'm sorry, but I think you should go."

Without so much as a backward glance, Derek races up the stairs and rounds the corner, disappearing down a distant corridor. There's the telltale slam of his bedroom door, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. 

Stiles shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at the empty stairwell, lost for words. A small, disbelieving sob rips its way through his chest and crawls up the length of his throat, and Stiles scrunches up his face as the searing pain of having to hold it all back winds its way through the bridge of his nose. The muscles of his legs start to tremble, giving out as he stumbles to the hardwood floor. 

With a grimace, he grasps the brass doorknob and indelicately wrenches it open, practically throwing himself out onto the front porch and into his Jeep. He turns the radio dial to full blast, drowning out the rest of the world in mottled beats and bass lines, and runs three red lights on his way home, traffic laws be damned. The moment he's safely concealed inside his room, Stiles collapses face-first onto his bed, which, seriously, fuck his life, because his sheets and pillows and blankets all smell exactly like Derek, and right now, that scent is pure torture.

In a fit of frustration, Stiles grabs Sourwolf and throws him across the room, where he collides into the wall with a pathetic little thump. And, of course, because Stiles is a fucking bleeding heart, he actually feels bad about having hurt the little plush toy, and quickly rushes over pick it back up and gently place it on his bedside table. Because really, it's not the inanimate bag of fluff's fault that Derek is a gorgeous, convoluted, life-ruining asshole.

Stiles glances at his phone, his brain churning out a thousand different clever one-liners that he could send to Derek, but instead, he simply lets it fall to the floor, into a rumpled pile of clothing that he's pretty damn sure contains one or more of Derek's shirts. There's nothing he could say that could possibly fix this. Because Stiles has fucked up. He's fucked up big time. And there's no coming back from this.

Stiles doesn't sleep well that night. He gets maybe a good twenty minutes in before his alarm clock starts screaming at him to wake up. He's about as surly and sour as Derek himself that first day back at school, biting back bitter comments when people tell him how exhausted he looks (which, quite frankly, is just rude, because telling someone they look tired is just a polite way of saying they look like shit.)

So instead, he plasters on a fake smile, trudges through the hallways, comes home, and collapses onto his bed, falling into an uneasy sleep and trying his damnedest to ignore the way his phone distinctly doesn't light up with one of Derek's texts, or the way Derek's scent still clings to his bedsheets. The rest of his week follows in a similar pattern, and dust collects on the ledge of Stiles's bedroom window.

• • •

It's Friday, less than a week after Stiles's humiliating encounter with Derek, which, miraculously, no one else in the pack seems to have found out about. He's parked his tray at a table in the corner of the school cafeteria, waiting for the rest of the group to show up. 

At the moment, his only company is Danny Mahealani, which is a little awkward, because Stiles has never actually had a proper conversation with the guy before. But Stiles suspects that that's all going to change soon…after all, Danny is well-versed in werewolf lore by now, due to the fact that Jackson had clued him in the night he'd turned…which makes it so much easier, honestly, not having to hide a secret that isn't even his from yet another person. 

But at the moment, Stiles is too damned exhausted and irritable to scrounge up good conversation material, so he just sits there in uncharacteristic silence…which apparently bothers the shit out of Danny, enough that he's actually willing to talk to Stiles for once.

"So, about the alpha," Danny prompts, because of fucking course Danny would want to talk to Stiles about werewolves right now. After all, being the only two humans in a human-werewolf hybrid clique that aren't romantically linked with any of said werewolves finally gives them something to talk about, something that they have in common.

"It's um…it's Miguel, right?" Danny asks, but his cheeky smile would suggest that he already knows otherwise.

"Oh, right. Um…yeah, sorry about that," Stiles says, sighing heavily. "I lied. He's not my cousin…and, um…his name is Derek."

"Derek Hale? Lone survivor of the Hale house fire? Tall, brooding…gorgeous. Yeah, I kind of figured the alpha wasn't actually your cousin…but then…he did spend an awful lot of time in your bedroom…" Danny trails off, and oh my god, is he really going to go there after what had happened between him and Derek last week? Does Stiles really have to deal with this shit right now?

Yes, as it happens, he does.

"So, humor me, Stilinski. Are you and him…you know…" Danny asks, arching his eyebrows suggestively. Stiles groans, burying his face in his hands.

"No, Danny. Derek and I are not dating," he sighs in a dejected deadpan voice.

"So, he's available, then?"

Stiles full on spasms, his head snapping back up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash, and fixes Danny with a wide-eyed glare.

"Oh my god, Danny, no, you can't have him," Stiles blurts without even thinking. Because, unfortunately, Scott is absolutely right. Derek does make him stupid.

"That's what I thought," Danny says, a smug little smile edging its way onto his lips, like he's the fucking all-knowing love guru of Beacon Hills…which, admittedly, he might as well be. 

Luckily, to save Stiles from further embarrassment, Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson finally show up, followed closely by Boyd, Isaac, and Erica. The eight of them immediately launch into a discussion about their classes and the mountain of homework they all have to do, which serves as a nice distraction…for a little while, at least, until they all start raving about some house party that's apparently going on this weekend. 

Scott, all smiles and sunshine and fucking rainbows, throws an arm around Stiles's shoulders and says, "You're coming, too, right?"

Stiles scrunches up his nose in disinterest, earning a disapproving look from the rest of the group.

"Aww, come on, dude," Scott whines. "You've been acting miserable all week. Might be good for you to get out for a little bit."

"Yeah, come out with us tonight, Batman," Erica jests, flashing him her best smile. "Maybe a drink or two will wipe that sad little frown off your face."

"We've all been pretty worried about you," Allison chimes in, and Stiles nearly dies at the look of absolute pity she gives him, well-intentioned though it may be.

"Everything okay, man? You smell like…I don't even know. It's kind of hard to make out," Isaac says.

"A little bit like hopelessness. Yeah, I've been getting that, too," Boyd agrees.

"Me? No, I'm fine. I am completely one hundred and three percent fine…it's not like anything happened to make me, you know, not fine. So…yeah. Everything's…great," Stiles says, placing special emphasis on the t, like he's mocking it just for existing. The pack falls silent, glancing around at each other awkwardly.

"O…kay. Well, good. So…everything's fine, and you're definitely coming with us tonight, right?" Scott asks. 

Stiles groans and buries his face in his palms, scrubbing his fingers through his hair and reluctantly nodding his assent. Scott whoops and punches the air in triumph. Oh joy, Scott managed to talk Stiles into being dragged to yet another horrible social event. Another affair of couple-focused bullshit, serving as a cruel reminder of the fact that Stiles is still painfully single, and that less than a week ago, all because of his stupid, rash decision-making, he'd been rejected and had lost a really great sort-of friend all in one go. 

But Scott thinks he's done right by Stiles, thinks that, somehow, a lame high school party will solve all of his problems, and he absolutely hates making Scott sad, so Stiles will just have to suck it up and pretend like he's having a good time, no matter how much he knows he'll end up despising this evening.

• • •

Derek Hale is freaking the fuck out. 

Okay, so maybe storming off in a terrified huff wasn't exactly the best way he could've handled that situation…but then again, he hadn't ever expected Stiles to kiss him like that, much less…well, ever. No matter how many times he'd imagined that exact scene playing out in his head, over and over in a multitude of different ways until he'd all but perfected the fantasy, he had never expected that Stiles would be the one to make the first move. 

He'd been so caught off guard by Stiles's bold, forward, fervent willingness, that for a moment, he actually thought he'd been dreaming. Stiles had taken complete control of the situation, of Derek himself, to the point where, if he truly wanted to, Stiles could irrevocably destroy him, could tear down the walls he'd worked so hard to build, brick by brick, before Derek could so much as blink. And he couldn't…no, he wouldn't…let that happen. Not again.

Because Derek had spent the past year convincing himself that he could never have this, that nothing could ever happen between the two of them. Because Derek knows that he would never be good enough for a guy like Stiles. Because Derek is reckless and stupid, especially when it comes to his emotions, and he's bound to fuck this up, and he can't risk wrecking the first real, deep connection he's had with someone aside from his own family since the fire.

And the worst part of all of this is that that exact commentary had been running through his head as he'd kissed Stiles back that night, seeking solace in the comfort of Stiles's embrace, weaving his fingers up the length of Stiles's neck, lightly tugging on the strands of his tousled dark brown hair, longer now than the buzzcut he'd worn when they'd first met, swallowing back Stiles's groans of pleasure like he was starved for them. And like the selfish, needy bastard that he is, he hadn't even tried to stop it. 

And then Stiles had done something amazing with his tongue and his teeth that had fractured all logic and reason, unraveling Derek in a way he'd never experienced simply from kissing someone. In that moment, Derek had felt himself surrendering everything to Stiles, reveling in the stomach-flipping euphoria of feeling wanted by someone he loves, and the very notion of sinking to that level of vulnerability all over again had scared the ever-loving shit out of him.

Over the course of the week that follows, Derek vows to stay away from Stiles, to give him the space he tells himself they both need, allowing himself plenty of time to recover, to think everything through. After five days of critical self-analysis, involving heavy bouts of conscience-bashing and repeatedly slamming his fists into his suspended punching bag, Derek arrives at the first sensible realization he's had about himself in nearly seven years: he's being fucking stupid. 

Because Stiles isn't some ticking time-bomb with a secret ruse rooted in vengeance and bloodlust. Stiles isn't going to use him and his vulnerability to destroy him and everything he holds dear. By now, Stiles has more than proven his worth, more than earned Derek's trust and respect and affection, and Derek is a fucking idiot for turning him down, for denying both of them the one thing he's spent years desperately craving. 

Confirming that Stiles's slightly dented, powder blue Jeep is still parked in the driveway, Derek scales the side of the Stilinski house in one swift, fluid movement, just as he'd done hundreds of times before, and perches atop the little ledge outside of Stiles's bedroom window. He holds back laughter at the thought of what Stiles would say about his super sleuth secret agent sneak attack skills, at the image of Stiles's startled expression when he opens the window and casually climbs into his bedroom, just like old times. 

But, much to Derek's disappointment, Stiles's room is empty, door closed, all lights extinguished, crescent moon casting eerie shadows on the walls as it slips in and out of the view of the curtains, bathing the room in darker shades of its usual grays and blues. The only light in the room is the soft glow of the little white apple adorning Stiles's laptop, the only sound the gentle whirring of the motor as it sleeps, waiting for its owner to return from…well, wherever he is. Derek quietly slips into the room and paces the hardwood floor, searching for signs that might clue him in as to where Stiles has gone tonight.

He runs his fingertips along the battle scarred edges of the wooden desk and dressers, across the soft fabric of Stiles's blankets and sheets that have long since lost Derek's scent. He frowns, realizing just how long it's been since he'd last stopped by, and makes a mental note to scent-mark the hell out of Stiles's bed, reclaiming it, and consequently, Stiles, as his. Derek strolls to the edge of the bed and takes up his usual spot, sinking into the mattress like his shape belongs there. He collapses backward onto the soft, plush pillows, inhaling the lingering remnants of Stiles's scent. 

He catches hints of worry, restlessness, and anxiety, and he can't help but grimace, hoping he'll soon be able to fix that. To fix Stiles. Derek had been purposely avoiding him all this past week, and it's going to take a hell of a lot to convince Stiles to forgive him, but he's willing to wait. After all, in a way, he'd been waiting for Stiles all this past year, waiting for something that he thought would likely never happen. He would wait all night if he had to.

• • •

At around three o'clock in the morning, Stiles bursts through his bedroom door, staggers toward the nearest piece of furniture, and clings to it for dear life. Derek startles awake, watching as Stiles kicks off one shoe, and then the other, laughing like an idiot as they collide with his bedside table. He stumbles in the semi-darkness, collapsing onto his bed and snuggling into the comforter, accidentally smacking Derek across the face in the process. Derek swears loudly, rousing a muffled scream from Stiles as he leaps off of the bed and crashes to the floor.

"Holy fucking shitballs," Stiles shouts, scrambling backward on his hands and knees. Derek rushes to his side, grips him by the collar of his shirt, and snakes an arm around his waist, hoisting him upright so his head doesn't hit the floor. Stiles's eyes grow wide as he takes in the sight of Derek's scowl, a mixture of frustration and concern contorting his features in the muted moonlight. 

Derek can hear the erratic thrum of Stiles's heart pounding in his chest, can practically feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Having lost all control of his limbs, Stiles just lies there on his bedroom floor, staring up at Derek with an odd combination of adoration, embarrassment, and shock. He clears his throat once, twice, three times, shifting his weight so that the back of his head is pressed right up against Derek's chest.

"Heeeey, Derek," Stiles says in what he probably imagines is a casual tone, raising his hands in a vain attempt to tame his tousled mess of hair. In his current state, however, his hands miss his head by several inches, and he ends up flailing and high-fiving the air instead. Derek rolls his eyes and tries not to smirk. Then he catches another scent, a sharp, sickly sweet scent that's so strong it makes him wince, rolling off of Stiles's breath in waves.

"You smell like a fucking brewery," Derek growls. "How much have you had to drink?"

Stiles starts counting on his fingers, holds seven of them up to Derek's face, and says, "Couple of shots of vodka, I think…I lost count after the fourth. Oh, and then I had sex…on the beach…which was awesome…oh, wait, no, not like that, I didn't mean…the drink, obviously…I meant the drink," he slurs, hiccoughing and giggling to himself.

"Where were you?" Derek asks, eyebrows knit in confusion, trying to ignore the prickle of a blush that had burst across his face at the sound of Stiles's voice wrapped around the word sex, or the swell of relief that Stiles hadn't spent the night with someone else.

"Party. Biiiiig party. Laaaaaame party. Everyone was paired off by the end of the night, making out in various corners of the room…everyone but me," Stiles sighs dramatically.

"Right.Okay. You need sleep, like, right now," Derek decides, dragging Stiles up by his underarms and carrying him back toward the bed. He lays Stiles down gently, cradling the back of his head in the palms of his hands.

"Wait, what are you even doing here?" Stiles asks around a stifled yawn. "I thought you hated me."

Derek winces, a suffocating ball of guilt manifesting in the back of his throat.

"Don't be stupid, Stiles. Of course I don't hate you," he says, fixing Stiles with a wounded glare.

"Oh," Stiles says softly, like he doesn't quite believe it. "Well, how come you're here, then? Pack meeting's not 'til tomorrow."

"I'm not here because of pack stuff. I'm here to talk about us, Stiles. But that doesn't matter right now. We can talk about it when you're sober," Derek says, pulling back several layers of blankets and sheets and coaxing them around Stiles's stubborn legs.

"Hah…nope, I don't buy it…because I'm here to talk about us is totally not something the real Derek would ever say to me. See, Derek doesn't do feelings…he's about as emotionally constipated as Dean Winchester…which I guess makes me Cas…but anyway, yeah, I'm just going to assume that none of this is actually happening and that my brain is just playing another cruel trick on me…okay, Dream Derek?"

Derek sighs audibly, rolling his eyes and shrugging off the blatant insult.

"Whatever gets you into bed," he says, and then instantly regrets it.

"Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you, Dream Derek?" Stiles growls, shrugging out of his t-shirt and throwing it across the room, where it lands in a heap with the rest of his laundry. Stiles is now drunk and shirtless, and he's being incredibly cheeky and flirty, and Derek is hovering just mere inches above him…this can't end well. Stiles's fingertips move to unbutton his jeans, but Derek stops him before he manages to slide them all the way down, hands ghosting over his hips. Stiles closes his eyes and groans miserably, quickly covering his mouth with the palm of his hand as another wave of nausea hits him full-force.

"Yeah, that's so not going to happen right now. Even if you weren't seconds away from throwing up, you're still drunk. Come on, Stiles, get up. You need to put pajamas on. I know you how much you hate sleeping in jeans," he urges, but Stiles doesn't budge, lying flat on his back with his hands fisted into the sheets, his eyes squeezed shut. 

"Fuck no," Stiles groans. "Seriously, dude, I'm so goddamn dizzy right now, if I open my eyes for even a second, I'm gonna hurl. Feels like I'm on a ship, and not in the fun way."

"Alright, fine," Derek grumbles. "Just lay still and let me tuck you in before you flail out of control and give yourself a concussion."

"That's mean," Stiles whines, rubbing his fingertips against his aching temples.

"Where's the lie though?" Derek quips back, pulling the comforter up to Stiles's neck and tucking in the sides.

"Touché," Stiles mumbles. "But still…rude."  

Stiles rolls over, an appreciative groan escaping his lips as he snuggles in and curls an arm around a little black and gray stuffed wolf that Derek hadn't ever noticed before. With a heavy sigh, Derek lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, appointing himself as Stiles's official nighttime guardian, and studies the steady rise and fall of his chest as he drifts off to sleep, arms wrapped tightly around the little wolf as he nuzzles into its fur.

"Stiles, you ridiculous, adorable little moron…what am I going to do with you?" Derek says, a bit louder than he'd meant to, causing Stiles to startle awake, snorting and mumbling something unintelligible.

"Didn't catch that, sorry," Derek says, at which point Stiles huffs and sighs theatrically.

"I said, you sound just like Derek…all rugged, and sexy, and Alpha Sourwolf," Stiles mumbles, baring his teeth and biting at the corner of his pillow for dramatic effect.

"What did you just say?" Derek barks out a laugh, a furious blush creeping across his cheekbones.

Stiles wrinkles his nose and shakes his head back and forth against the pillow.

"Nothing. I said nothing. I am definitely not talking about Derek Hale anymore. Oh, and, before you ask, for the last time, no, we are definitely not dating."

His eyes are closed, so Derek can only assume that he's still half drunk and half asleep, completely unaware of where he is and who he's speaking to.

"Who thinks we're dating?" Derek asks, making sure to speak a little quieter this time, lest he wake the entire household.

"Well…everyone, really," Stiles replies. "Even my dad."

Derek blinks a couple of times, struck speechless.

"And your dad, he's…okay with that?" Derek asks, hopeful. He takes it as a good sign that the Sheriff hasn't rolled up to his house and cuffed him yet, anyway.

"Yeah, I mean, I guess. He said he just wants me to be happy, and if that's with Derek, then, you know…cool."

"Huh," is all Derek can manage, until another nagging question pops into his head. "So, why does everyone think we're dating, exactly?"

"Ha…well…if you mean why as in why would Derek ever be interested in an awkward, gangly, ridiculously-unattractive-in-every-definition-of-the-word guy like me, then the answer is pretty obvious, my friend…he wouldn't."

Derek simply stares at Stiles, flummoxed and a little bit crestfallen. His words come out strangled, a muddled mess of hope and doubt.

"That's ridiculous, Stiles. Why do you think Derek wouldn't be interested in you?" he asks, swallowing thickly. "Seems like you're placing this guy on a pedestal, and…well, he doesn't sound all that appealing."

Stiles barks out a laugh and slowly shakes his head.

"No, dude, seriously, you don't understand. Derek is…" Stiles sighs, licking his lips and letting out a positively sinful moan in lieu of a response. Derek's heart beats wildly beneath his chest, clinging to Stiles's every word.

"Wait, what? What's Derek? What were you going to say?" Derek demands, shifting closer to Stiles.

"Nope, nonononono, I can't. Real Derek might find out, and there's no way in hell that he can ever know that I'm…nope. Not gonna say it."

Stiles covers his face with his hands.

"Stiles…Stiles, you can tell me, it's fine," Derek urges. "What about Derek?"

"Okaaaaaay, fine, but you have to promise me you won't tell Derek. Cause he'll totally freak out if he ever finds out that I'm kind of sort of completely in love with him."

Derek's eyes grow wide as he falls into a contemplative silence, biting back a ridiculous smile that threatens to fracture his evenly tempered veneer.

"Okay? Promise?" Stiles asks, snapping Derek out of his reverie.

"I…" he says, his voice soft and reassuring. "I promise, Stiles."

"Good," he says, playfully poking Derek through the blanket with his toes.

"Now cuddle me."

"I…what?" Derek laughs.

"Pleaaaaaase? I'm coooooold," Stiles whines.

"O…okay," Derek concedes, quickly kicking off his boots and crawling up the length of the bed. He slides under the covers right behind Stiles, curving an arm around his waist and pulling him flush against his torso, that same old feeling of euphoria blossoming across his chest.

"So, I'm going to tell you another secret," Stiles says after a few minutes of comfortable silence, his voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah?" Derek prompts.

"Last week, I sort of totally kissed Derek," Stiles confesses with a self-satisfied little smile.

"Oh really? How was it?" Derek asks, playing along, his smile so wide he thinks it might actually split his face in two.

"It was amazing. Seriously. I even got him to moan a little bit, which, oh my god, was so fucking hot, but…um…it didn't exactly end very well. Guess he finally realized what he was doing and who he was kissing and decided to book it the hell out of there. Can't blame him, really," Stiles says sadly.

"Stiles," Derek whispers, nuzzling into the back of Stiles's neck and pressing his lips to the soft little patch of skin behind his ear. "I'm so sorry."

"S'okay, dude. Totally my fault," Stiles yawns.

"No it wasn't," Derek mumbles, barely audible. 

The two of them lay like that for a few more minutes, Derek's guilt consuming him whole, until Stiles breaks the silence.

"Hey, so, I know this is going to sound weird and all, but…mind if I pretend you're Derek? Like, actual, in-real-life Derek? I know you're just a terrifyingly real-feeling hallucinatory figment of my imagination, but I thought, hey, might as well be polite and ask. I mean, I don't know if you've got some other place to be, or…" Stiles trails off, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Not at all," Derek chuckles, curling his arms tighter around Stiles's waist.

"Mmmm….you smell really nice…and you're really warm…fuck, you're so comfortable. How are you even doing that? You know what, don't answer that. I'm just gonna chalk it up to the fact that my mind is awesome. Totally loving this lucid dream sequence upgrade."

"Shut up and go to sleep, Stiles," Derek whispers affectionately, rolling his eyes and pressing soft little kisses against the back of Stiles's neck as the two of them drift off to sleep, perfectly content for the first time in years.

• • •

Derek wakes in a tangled mess of bedsheets, torso curled into the arch of Stiles's back. He's careful not to stir, lest he wake Stiles up, arms wrapped around the slumbering man's lanky figure, fingertips absentmindedly tracing a constellation of freckles and moles from the curvature of his collarbones to the dip of his hipbones. He buries his nose into the nape of Stiles's neck and places a soft, sweet kiss along the edge of his hairline. Startled by the sudden sensation of rough stubble brushing against his bare skin, Stiles opens his eyes, blinking rapidly and wincing like the sun has lit his retinas on fire, before rolling over and turning to face Derek.

"Fuck, oh my god," Stiles nearly shouts, flailing uncontrollably as Derek struggles to keep a hold of him. Eventually, Stiles's breathing stills, eyes tracing Derek's shadowed features, lingering for just a moment longer than is truly necessary on the curve of Derek's pouted, pink lips. He swallows thickly, vaguely aware of the relentless drumming inside his head.

"So, um…care to explain why we're half-naked and cuddling in my bed?"

Derek actually has the audacity to look down, lower lip jutted out and eyebrows arching up in confusion, like he's genuinely surprised to find himself shirtless.

"You were really drunk last night," Derek sighs sleepily, nuzzling into the crook of Stiles's shoulder.

"Um…did we…we didn't, did we? I mean, for your sake, because dude, that's some bad judgment right there," Stiles blurts out, his brain having apparently severed its ties to his mouth.

"Of course not," Derek snaps, wounded. "Do you really think I'd take advantage of you like that?"

"No! No, of course I don't. I didn't mean it like that," Stiles amends, rubbing at his temples with his fingertips. "So if we didn't…you know…what did happen last night?"

"Oh, the usual…you got wasted at some party and I ended up having to take care of you. I didn't think it was possible for you to be any more mouthy and annoying than you normally are, but apparently, drunk Stiles is quite the talker. I've got to say, though, I learned some pretty interesting things last night," Derek laughs, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Stiles's eyes grow wide in horror.

"Oh dear god. Please tell me I didn't—"

"Yup," Derek quips, popping the p.

"How much of—"

"Everything, I'm afraid."

Stiles shoves his face into his pillow and groans, loudly and miserably. Up until now, he genuinely thought (or perhaps, hoped) that he'd dreamt most of their conversation from the night before.

"So all of that…really happened," Stiles swallows thickly. "Including the part where I confessed that I'm kind of sort of completely in love with you?"

"Yup."

"Any chance you'd be willing to forget everything I said last night?"

"None at all."

"Fuck."

There's a small little pocket of silence, during which Stiles prepares for the onslaught of rejection. Again.

"Stiles."

"Yeah, Derek?" Stiles asks, wincing.

"You do realize that you're an idiot, don't you?"

Well, that's nothing new, but still…ouch.

"Excuse me?" Stiles scoffs indignantly.

"What part of me constantly coming over just to spend time with you, and me spending the night cuddling you and taking care of your stupid drunken ass, and telling you how sorry I am for stopping one of the best goddamn kisses of my life because I was too afraid to admit my own stupid feelings, do you not understand?"

"Well, that's not…oh. Oh. Oh my god."

"Yeah."

"You…do you?"

"I think you already know the answer to that."

"Yeah, but I still want to hear you say it."

Derek sighs, rolling his eyes and nudging Stiles's cheek with the tip of his nose.

"Stiles, you annoying little shit, I love you. Against my will and better judgment, I do. And I was stupid and wrong and all sorts of fucked up for having pushed you away like that, and I hope you can forgive me, because I'm really, really sorry. Okay?"

"Okay," Stiles says softly, a brilliant smile spreading across his lips. Derek kisses the corner of Stiles's mouth, drawing him closer as Stiles snuggles into his chest. The two of them slowly drift back to sleep, content to spend the rest of their Saturday morning wrapped in each other's arms.

[hockeyboysimagines]

can u do 1 and 17 of the smutty prompts with vince dunn please 🙏🙏 ur writing is so good

I got a little carried away, but here you are anon. I hope you like it🤍

There was nothing to be ashamed about in terms of lack of sexual experience. You’d been preaching it for years, mostly to convince yourself that you actually believed it, but also because you wanted to make it seem like you willingly didn’t have any.

That was not the case.

It was a you problem more than anything else. You just could not find anyone who got you going and the only person who would was emotionally unavailable.

You knew Vince well, through Jordan and Lauren Eberle, that you guys had become fairly good friends. In the past year you’d been hanging out quite a bit and while you liked him a lot, he was a walking red flag.

Not that he was a bad guy, he was in fact the opposite. You’d not met many people as sweet and caring as he was. And that was exactly the problem.

It was damn near impossible to dislike him and even if he had been a colossal douche, you still wanted him. You’d never made a move, for fear that he’d recoil like you were some kind of repulsive bug. Guys like him didn’t bother with girls like you.

But you were jarred from your thoughts when Vince himself materialized at your elbow with a small smile “Hey! When did you get here?”

“Just a little bit ago I-“

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I need a beer pong partner, come on-“

He grabbed your hand and you sucked in a sharp breath as he towed you through the people in the Eberle’s back yard to where two pong tables had been set up. The last time they’d had a gathering, you and Vince won 9 straight games and you’d regretted all of them the next morning.

“No way!” Jared yelled pointing at you “I’m not playing against her! That’s an automatic loss.”

“Ah! No backing out now!” Vince picked up the ball and chucked it at him.

It was a loss, and a humiliating one at that. If there was one thing in life you dominated at, it was beer pong. After your third win, your party mood completely died and all you wanted to do was leave. You tapped Vince on the arm “Hey I’m gonna head out.”

His smile dropped and he slouched “What? Why?”

You shrugged and jingled your keys “Just not feeling it is all. I’m tired.”

“Well. I’ll come with you.”

“No you don’t have to just stay-“

“Nah. I wanna hang out. Come on.” He once again reached for your hand and you felt a little flutter as his fingers intertwined with yours. This was extremely unusual for you and you felt a little uncomfortable. It wasn’t often that guys held your hand and you couldn’t really even remember the last time.

“So what do you wanna do?” He asked as you walked to your car. You glanced at him and then down at your hand, which he was still holding and took a breath.

Hes drunk. It doesn’t mean anything you said in your head, hoping he couldn’t see the redness pooling in your cheeks.

“Oh idk, whatever.”

You guys ended up in his apartment, seated in front of the sofa and two large windows that overlooked Seattle.

“Are you okay?” He asked handing you a glass.

“Yeah why?”

He frowned “It seems like something is bothering you. You can talk to me you know.”

“It’s fine. It’s a ‘me’ problem.”

“Come on. We’re friends, tell me.” He leaned forward a little “Maybe I can help.”

You chuckled “No I don’t think so. It’s just-I don’t know. Gets old being single.”

“That’s what’s bothering you? Being single? I thought you didn’t want a boyfriend, or is that not what you said?” He furrowed his eyebrows in thought “I kind of remember you being in the ‘no sec’ mindset or am I wrong?”

“I didn’t say I was against sex. I just said I wasn’t having any, and not because I don’t want to.”

“I don’t follow.” He shook his head and took a sip of his drink “If you want to have it you should, and don’t come at me with any nonsense about guys not wanting to date you, because it’s not true.”

“That’s not the problem. I don’t want to date them therefore I’m not having sex.”

He paused eyebrows raising as he glanced at you “Wait are you a virgin?”

“No I’m not a virgin, I’m just not…experienced is all.”

He stared at you blankly “But like…what do you mean?”

Your face was burning from the alcohol but mostly the embarrassment of having this conversation with anyone but especially him.

“I’ve had sex okay. Once and-“

His mouth fell open and he let out a breath “Once? Bullshit.”

You shook your head “No really but it-“

“Lemme guess.” He said holding up a hand with an eye roll “There was no orgasm.”

You looked at your feet and shook your head responding with a very small “No.”

He shook his head “Fucking figures.”

“What?”

“Just a guy thing. Most guys don’t really give a shit if their partner orgasms or not, just themselves. And it pisses me off that someone treated you that way. If you were my girl, I’d make sure you did every time.”

You coughed and crossed your legs “Well. As nice as that is it’s not your problem it’s mine.”

“I mean.” He looked out the window “It could be my problem. If you want it to be.”

When you didn’t answer he continued “Maybe i could give you your first.”

Your mouth fell open “I’m sorry what?”

“Why not? We’re friends. You’re hot.”

“You think I’m hot?”

“I have eyes don’t I? Of course I think you’re hot.” He rested a hand on your leg and leaned forward “And I wanna do this.”

You glanced at the large floor to ceiling windows and then back at him “Really? right here? you know people are going to see us...”

“So? Let them look.” He leaned forward suddenly, lips pushing right up against yours. You froze for a minute, shocked, until you felt his tongue swipe across your lower lip, and you melted like butter, kissing him like you’d never kissed a guy before. You felt dazed as one of his hands came up to thread through your hair. There was nothing that you’d experienced that even came close to kissing Vince. In fact you were so distracted by it you didn’t even realize that he was leaning you back on the sofa, tugging at your shirt. In no time, he had you down to nothing, right in front of the windows, where you were sure all of Seattle could see, but you didn’t care. Your breath felt heavy as he shed his boxers and settled himself between your legs, pressing a kiss to the base of your throat.

“Ready?” He breathed in your ear.

Unable to speak you nodded, eyes sliding closed as he eased in. You let out a long breath you didn’t know you’d been holding in as a wave of pleasure swept through you, and your head fell back as you arched up off the bed.

He pulled out and pushed back in, soon finding a rhythm. Your whole body felt like it was a live wire, nearly ready to catch fire. He bottomed out, and you let out a strangled moan, tensing up momentarily at the small ache of pain, and then loosening up again.

“You’re doing so good love” he said leaning down to kiss you again.

You felt a warmth begin to pool in your abdomen and your body started to shake. He smiled widely and started to push faster.

An orgasm, or at least you thought that’s what it was, washed over you in waves of euphoria and your eyes closed and you let out a long, low, throaty noise as it did, nails digging into his shoulders. His breath was warm on your neck as his pushes slowed down, and his head fell forward. You were a sweaty, shaky mess as he pulled out and leaned back, handing you a blanket to cover yourself with.

“So?” He asked smiling at you “How was your very first orgasm?”

You opened your mouth and then closed it finding the words after a minute “It was great, but I think my second one could be even better.”

Vince smiled and leaned forward to kiss you.

Maybe being inexperienced wasn’t so bad after all.

[sparklesdogs]

A Drabble for TF: One

First off: A warning.

This drabble WILL contain spoilers from TF: One. Everything that is a spoiler will be under the -keep reading- line. This, unfortunately, includes the summary because I couldn't think of any other way to describe what I'll be writing about.

And hey, if people enjoy this, maybe I'll write more? Can't help it, I love this type of AU and it was the first thing that popped in my head. Starscream's appearance SLIGHTLY made that AU-itch happy.

Summary: Something that D-16, Elita One, and Bumblebee didn't realize when they encountered the mecha-deer herd on the surface was that they had a care-taker.

Characters: D-16, Bumblebee, Elita One, Orion Pax

Background: In this AU, D-16 was more rebellious and participated in the race himself. Orion Pax does not exist in the mines. More will be explained in the drabble.

Without further adeu:

Cybertron's surface was truly beautiful. Despite the fear they initially felt from the unknown and the constantly shifting surface, when you took a moment to just look, you could see why everyone used to live there.

Mountains grew and disappeared in a blink. Old structures were hidden and unveiled in moments.

Wild turbo-foxes and mecha-deer hunted and grazed in the rolling fields. Cyber-wolves prowled along ridges, seemingly able to tell how the terrain would shift before it even began.

This was the surface that greeted D-16, Elita One, and Bumblebee after their train crashed.

Despite their initial crash from the unexpected tsunami of metal, it was stunning.

D-16 idly recalled the ancient texts that had been smuggled to him during his few breaks or right before recharge. He knew that, once, Cybertronians didn't need to hide underground. Back in the times of the original thirteen Primes, Cybertronians had been divided into tribes.

The ever-graceful Seekers. The quick and musical Polyhexians. The stern and no-nonsense Praxians. The violent, but mostly misunderstood Warframes. The Pullers who relished in hauling large objects long distances. And so on and so forth. All nomadic, following the mechanimals that drove their way of life. All avoiding each other. All destroyed in the original Quintesson War.

It was assumed that large cities like Iacon and Kaon arose when the thirteen joined together and ushered the remnants of their tribes underground. They each recognized that their own tribe would only be able to survive through co-operation. And so, the surface of Cybertron was abandoned.

But as the small trio stared out over the vast open spaces, D-16 couldn't help but wonder why nobody had ever bothered trying to return. Yes, Sentinel Prime had said that the surface was uninhabitable and it was too dangerous, but had no one ever actually tried to return?

Maybe it was because mechs started emerging cog-less. It was dangerous enough for mechs to survive WITH their cogs. What chance did a cog-less mech have? If they couldn't transform to speed away from danger or to evade a rapidly-changing landscape? Somberly, D-16 brushed a servo over the empty hole in his chest. Right where a cog would be in a mech that had one.

"They're so.. elegant." Elita One suddenly whispered, yanking D-16 out of his thoughts.

"And friendly too!" Bumblebee chuckled, somehow having gotten close enough to one of them to swipe a servo over it's flank. Even more surprisingly, the mecha-deer didn't move away or even seem startled by the action. In fact, it turned to nuzzle it's face into Bumblebee's servo and started snuffling around, as if looking for a treat. They reminded D-16 of the cyber-hounds that only the most elite of the elite owned in Iacon.

"Yeah. How.. strange." D-16 said, shifting forward to hesitantly pet the mecha-deer himself. Despite being made of metal, they were surprisingly soft on the head and wiry on the rest of the body.

Unbeknownst to the trio that was now excitedly petting the mecha-deer (who was greedily lapping up the attention), they were being watched by someone far less friendly.

A pair of light blue optics glared at the group from where they were hidden in a nearby uncovered set of ruins. The figure that belonged to the pair of optics had darted into the ruins to observe the group as they got closer. Their eyes darted between the herd and the group, clearly wanting to keep an eye on both.

Suddenly, the mecha-deer jerked their head into the air, no longer responding to the petting. The other deer and the hidden figure shortly followed. One after another, the lights on the mecha-deer's antlers started flashing red and they bolted. They scattered in many directions, much to the frustration of the hidden figure. If only he still had his cyber-hound. Now, it'll take forever to round them back up himself.

His optics snapped to the trio who was just staring after the herd. It was only when they finally turned around did they finally see the danger looming above the clouds. Poor mechs seemed confused and startled. They began to run towards the ruins.

How ineffective, the figure thought. Why not just transform and speed away?

As the group raced by, the figure reached out and grasped one of them (the small, yellow one he silently noted) and pressed him up against the wall. The other two (the pink one and the gray one) quickly took note and, even though they glared at him in suspicion, followed his action.

D-16 observed this new figure with suspicion and surprise. The figure was primarily red and blue with silver accents. The most startling part of him were his light blue optics and splatters of.. paint? that stood out against his primary colors. He had seen blue optics before, yes, but none as bright and light as these. The strange paint was mainly splatters of purple, green, and white. They marked the mech in elegant (but messy) swirls and symbols he had never seen before.

The mech put a digit up to his intake, indicating that the group should remain quiet. Since this new mech seemed to know more about what was going on than they did, they listened. Even though they didn't need to breathe, every bot present held their breath.

Suddenly, one of the mecha-deer darted into the ruins. Almost immediately, a red light beam from above began to track the deer. The new mech's engine started to quietly growl before he quickly cut it off. After a few seconds of tracking the deer, the small red beam burst into a blinding light. Each mech was briefly blinded. When they looked back where the deer had been, the deer was gone. What looked like bits of metal and energon were sucked into the sky and the air returned to silence.

A small distance from the ruins, a red grid emerged from the sky. The red and blue figure's optics widened and he began to usher the group towards one of the buildings that still had enough of a roof to cover them. The trio saw where he was shoving them and nodded, quickly and quietly starting to run. They had to avoid stray red beams occasionally, but Elita and D-16 made it over quickly.

Bumblebee, on the other hand, was slower and more clumsy. The red and blue figure clearly slowed themselves to keep pace with the ex-trash-sorter, but was looking more and more nervous as the grid grew closer.

Finally, clearly fed up with the slow pace, the figure swooped up Bumblebee into a bridal carry. Both Elita and D-16 were shocked that the small, lithe figure was able to lift Bumblebee, let alone without slowing his pace!

Right before the grid reached them, the figure lunged towards a narrow beam that covered a small patch of ruins. The figure clutched Bumblebee as close to himself as possible and both they and Bumblebee closed their optics as the grid slowly passed over them.

When nothing immediately happened, they cracked their optics open just to see as the grid completely passed over the beam. The figure kept Bumblebee clutched to their chest until the beam finally disappeared. Even after that, they continued to hold Bumblebee for a few kliks before letting the small yellow bot drop to the ground with a yelp.

The figure then turned very angry optics onto the entire trio.

"Who are you?! Why are you here? Do you have any idea what you just caused?! Now I have to move the herd again!" The figure started shouting, pointing his index digit at the group angrily.

Unfortunately for him, the trio did not understand his language at all and only heard what sounded like rather irate clicks, whistles, and beeps. When he realized that the group was just staring dumbly at him, his irritation turned to confusion.

"Um, hello? Do you understand me?" He asked, optical ridges furrowed.

"Uh, hello!" Elita, ever the go-getter, responded first with a wave. The figure simply tilted his head and managed to look more confused.

"Great. Cybertronians who don't speak basic." He mumbled to himself.

"Do you speak Iaconian?" Elita asked.

"I-uh-cone-ee-an?" The figure asked, testing out the word in his intake.

"Yeah, Iaconian. You know? What everyone in Iacon speaks." D-16 piped up. The figure's gaze turned to him.

"I-uh-con?" The figure asked, olfactory sensor scrunching as if the words had a nasty smell.

"Yup! That's where we're from! Iacon!" Bumblebee cheerfully added.

"So I'll take it that you don't speak it based on your reaction to words most mechs know." D-16 stated gruffly. The figure may not have known what he was saying, but he could certainly understand the tone. His gaze turned to a glare again. As he opened his intake and raised his index digit again to likely start lecturing the other, Elita piped up.

"Ok! How about introductions? I'm Elita One." She said, pointing to herself with a smile. "Elita One!" She repeated.

"I'm B-127 or Bumblebee, but I'm trying to make Badassatron a thing!" Bumblebee said. When the figure only looked at him more confused, he chuckled and rubbed the back of his helm. "Bumblebee." He said simply.

"D-16." D-16 said simply. When three sets of optics turned to him, the figure responded.

"I'm named after the constellation Orion, but sometimes the others call me Pax because they say I'm generally one of the peaceful ones." The figure chuckled to himself.

"So.. Orion Pax?" D-16 asked. The figure- newly dubbed Orion Pax- shrugged.

"Close enough."

Ending note: Whew! That's all I've got. Let me know if this sounds interesting. I welcome all critiques and comments. Will probably post this on my AO3 in the morning too. Probably.

[stolasdearest]

Hey there!

Is it ok request an Alastor x overlord fic? Like Alastor made a deal with this demon(a goetia) and was to report to them every now and then. But, the fight happens and reader doesn’t hear from him for the 7 years, and when he dose see them, it’s because of that silly ad for the hotel, reader goes in and drags Alastor back to his house se where he teaches him a lesson on respect.

Thanks for reading my rant!

Alastor x Reader ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

ׂׂૢ Pairing : Alastor x Reader

ׂׂૢ cw : not Proofread

ׂׂૢ Reader is gender neutral

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. . .

Being a Goetia who happens to operate quite often in pride was not common, being seen as; odd for meddling with sinners. You already had power, what power trip were you feeling to associate with mortal souls? Your family couldn't help but side eye but you nonetheless continued with your business in the top Ring. Years before you however stumbled upon a refined new soul who was all too eager to ask for your assistance; even if it meant his soul was no longer his. Over the years he made his way to you to report important information within the ring, the other overlords were mostly what he spoke of.. However he suddenly went radio silent, with absolutely no updates— he wasn't even seen in the general public for nearing a full decade. But after another extermination you had noticed a certain someone at this so called "Hazbin Hotel" you sat and pondered why he'd waste his precious time there and even more why the overlord would risk his own life for something he clearly had shown no prior interest in. Hence why your hand is gently knocking on the now rebuilt hotel door, the creator of the hotel; Charlie Morningstar answered the door; almost instantaneously jumping back at what met her, a Goetia? Why were you here? You're not a sinner wh-

"Greetings, Morningstar! I have a friend here who I'd like to see!"

The princess looked around for a moment the uneasy expression evident on her paper white face; you had a feeling this had happened before

"sure! Who may I get for yo-".

"nonsense! I'll find him myself"

Immediately after you pushed pass the princess and set off to find the deer. And soon enough you did; a immediate wave of displeasure,shock and fear apparent in his eyes, the Radio Demon instantly stood up and straightened himself out— words clearly trying to make their way out but nothing came out as he saw your demeanor almost immediately change, like you had locked in on him as if he were prey— which fairly speaking he was in this context.

"Do I have to drag you out by the ear?"

"of course not! I'll be right behind you"

He knew that face, that posture..that tone. He didn't need to explain his absence, nor reason why— that didn't matter to you; He disobeyed— he avoided you and he knows he'll get to know what it means to stray from you.

He knew what he was in for when they left the safety of the public eye and a part of him was thrilled about it.

Authors note : AHHH I've been inactive for awhile I'm sossoosos sorry!!! Love you guys!!

Taglist : @anni1600 @d0nutsaur @ihavetoomanyfictionalcrushes @k1y0yo

[graciegoeskrazy]

frail state of mind

(Matty Healy + teen!daughter!r)

Warnings: panic attacks, crying, Matty being sweet, guys I wrote semi fluff AGAIN he’s such a sweet dad

A/n: this request has been sitting my inbox since last December. That’s right. For OVER A YEAR. I’m so sorry. But I think this is sweet.

You were absentmindedly scrolling out your phone in the green room the band shared. The thrum of bass from the soundcheck reverberated through the walls, and the chatter of crew members filtered through the door separating the room from the hallway. It was a scene you had been exposed to plenty of times, but today, the air felt heavier. Your chest was tight, your breaths shallow. Every sound- the clang of equipment, the static from a radio, even the distant cheers of early fans- seemed to press in on you all at once. The walls feel like they’re closing in. The muffled thud of bass from the soundcheck vibrates through your chest, too loud, too sharp. Voices echo outside the dressing room, overlapping and jumbled, blending into a buzz that drowns out everything else. Your heart pounds so fast it feels like it’s trying to escape your ribs, and your breathing is quick and shallow, like you can’t quite get enough air.

You listened every once in a while zoning in and out. They were talking about the next leg of the tour. Your Dad paced back and forth while your Adam leaned against a table listening to his nonsense. “I’m just a mess,” he muttered, his voice weighed down by worry.

Adam rolled his eyes as he tossed a snack in his mouth and started to walk to another room. “Well, you better get your act together before we do an entire tour in Europe.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Matty replied, rubbing his temples. Adam walks out and toward the stage for soundcheck and Matty’s eyes drift to you.

You’re curled up impossibly close to the corner of the couch, knees pressed tightly to your chest, forehead resting on them as you try to block it all out. But it’s no use. It’s too much. It’s always too much.

You don’t notice your Dad’s worry look on his face, not until you hear his voice- soft, gentle, and cutting through the chaos.

"Y/n?"

You don’t lift your head. Maybe if you stay still, he’ll leave. You don’t want to bother him. He has a show in a few hours. He doesn’t need this.

But he doesn’t leave. Instead, you feel the air shift as he crouches down in front of you. "Hey," he says again, quieter this time, like he’s speaking just to you. "I’m here. It’s okay."

Your breath hitches, and you press your face harder against your knees, trying to hold it all in.

"Can you look at me?" he asks softly.

You shake your head.

"That’s okay," he says quickly, his tone never wavering. "You don’t have to. Just listen to my voice, yeah?"

“Too much,” you gasped, chest tightening with each breath.

“Okay, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay,” Matty reassured, his hands trembling slightly as he tried to comfort you

“I can’t breathe,” you managed to choke out, fear evident in her voice.

“Yes, you can. It’s alright.” He looks between you and the couch. "I’m gonna sit right here," he tells you, lowering himself to the floor, crossing his legs. You can feel his presence beside you, steady and grounding. "You’re not alone, baby. I’m right here with you." His word hang in the air for a moment, trying to let you gain focus by yourself. Then he starts talking again, his voice soft and rhythmic.

"You know, I used to get like this all the time," he says, like he’s letting you in on a secret. "Before gigs, mostly. My head would go all fuzzy, and I’d feel like I couldn’t breathe. I’d convince myself I’d mess it all up- every single time."

That gets your attention. Slowly, you lift your head just enough to peek at him through the curtain of your hair. He’s looking at you, his expression open and kind. There’s no judgment there, just understanding.

“You know what helps me when it does?"

You shake your head, the movement small and hesitant.

"This," he says, holding out his hand to you, palm up. "It’s okay if you don’t want to, but sometimes just holding onto someone helps. No pressure, though."

For a long moment, you stare at his hand. Then, slowly, tentatively, you reach out and place yours in his. His fingers curl around yours, warm and firm, anchoring you.

"Good," he says softly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. "Now let’s try something else, yeah? Just breathe with me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. We’ll do it together."

He takes an exaggerated breath in, holding it for a count of four before exhaling slowly. You try to follow his lead, though your breaths are shaky and uneven. He doesn’t rush you or tell you to try harder. He just keeps breathing with you, slow and steady, until your chest starts to loosen, the tightness easing bit by bit.

"That’s it," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. "You’re doing so good, Y/N. Just keep going, one breath at a time."

The chaos in your head starts to fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of his presence. Your shoulders relax, and your heartbeat slows, no longer pounding quite so hard. Your eyes start to meet his again. “There she is.” He said smiling, whipping a tear off of your cheek. "Better?" he asks, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a small, absentminded gesture.

You nod, wiping at your damp cheeks with your free hand. "A little," you whisper, your voice hoarse.

"Good," he says again, his lips curving into a small smile. He slowly stands up and takes a seet next to you, sitting in the spot next to you. You opened his arms and you fell into him."You’re safe, okay? I’ve got you."

The weight of those words settles over you, warm and comforting.

"Sorry," you mumble, looking down at your lap. "I didn’t mean to ruin soundcheck."

Matty’s hand tightens around yours, just slightly. "Hey," he says, his tone firm but still kind. He took your chin in his hand, tilting it up to meet his eyes. "You didn’t ruin anything. You think I care about a setlist more than you?" He smiles at you. "You’re what matters, Y/n. Always."

[remylebeaugambit]

Hi :) love your blog as always! sorry for the negatively, but I'm really fedup rn. how do you deal with the Neverending stream of marvel (rogue) fans that always seem to want to criticize gambit, calling him ugly/dirty/smelly/effeminate/stupid, etc. and still claim they like him? I'm annoyed because it can partly be blamed on the writers (80s fanboys) disrespecting him, so the fans think they can too. it's annoying and feels like a running joke at this point and im about to quit buying because it stresses me out so much. what do you do to cope? what about gambit brings you joy? how do you defend him? any advice helps lol

Hey! Always a pleasure talking to you. Don’t be sorry, I feel negative too. To be honest, I just feel frustrated almost all the time. I haven’t really read people straight up calling him some of the adjectives you listed recently – although it was tragically common years ago, in the peak of nonsensical Gambit hate. But indirectly, yes, Gambit comes off as emasculated and devoid of agency and personality in current comics, and how some fans (supposed Romy fans) talk about him, write him in fanfiction and accept/seem to enjoy everything thrown at them as if having a real opinion is a problem is crazy. 80’s writers are to blame, and so are current (mostly female) writers. I know we, Gambit fans, tend to be pessimistic, but boy do we have reason.

Answering your question, I try to stay away from online spaces that are not good for me, like some forums and even here. Tumblr is extremely toxic, so I stick to my own corner. I’ve blocked a bunch of stuff although occasionally something slips through the cracks. I like writing, but not reading fanfiction because I usually disagree with how Gambit is portrayed, especially paired up with Rogue. So it’s hard to get a fix there. Still, writing helps me. There’s some pretty good fan art out there too, if you know to select.  

Also, going back to the good stuff helps me cope. I don’t usually get into arguments with random people online. It drains my energy and stresses me out in such an unhealthy way, even though bottling up hate inside isn’t good either, I know that arguing is worse. I think talking to people who share my opinions and understand my frustrations help a lot. But yeah, it’s exasperating and disheartening. I wish I could help but I don’t even know how myself. I’m just hanging on and have been hoping against hope for so many years. I still think a movie could turn things around, but at the same time I’m afraid that this Gambit, this shadow of Gambit, will be brought to the screen. Let’s be honest, Marvel is far from their peak and hasn’t really been putting out good material for years. I fear the X-Men will arrive too late and they’re going to blow their chance. 

If you’re thinking about quitting comics, maybe you should. Can’t say things will be better when you eventually return, but a hobby isn’t supposed to be stressful 🙁 But make that decision for yourself.          

[pouringmyheartoutforpaper]

heyy i have a request for the steve x dove universe bcos it’s literally my favourite thing atm

could u possibly do something like where their at a party and someone tries something on reader and they’re really pushy about it even though she keeps saying no. obvs steve cannot have anyone touching or upsetting his sweetest girl so gets the guy to go away. while steve is dealing with the guy maybe reader starts having a panic attack because that guy had really scared her and robin tries to comfort her but obvs the only person capable of that is steve. when steve’s done w the guy he notices how distressed reader is and just comforts her, holds her and just FLUFF.

i got this idea because i noticed how protective of r steve is and i thought this would be a good example of it😍😍🩷🩷🩷🩷

sorry it took a few days ! also this is not proofread because it is three am so my apologies.

warning! this contains depictions of harassment and a panic attack. if this is not something you feel like you can read right now, please please click away. there is no shame in setting boundaries with yourself. there are lots of other stories. please be safe <3

the lights in the house were an array of purples and blues. robin’s friend threw a party, and robin insisted that dove and steve both come so she wouldnt be alone. dove dances as much as she can, but after about an hour she ends up crashing into steves chest. theyre leaned against the wall, and steves hands are covering her ears from the loud music.

“stevie, gonna go get some water. ill be right back.”

he expected her to stay in his line of vision, and by the time she disappeared around the corner into the kitchen, he was in panic mode. the party housed a few unsavory characters, and his dove’s shyness could lead to disaster.

in the kitchen dove had asked the hostess where the water resided, and she had kindly gotten her a glass of water, making sure to fill it in front of her so she knew it wasnt tampered with.

unfortunately, the hostess was called away, and a man around five to ten years older than dove entered the kitchen. she offered a small smile, and he took that as an invitation in his drunken state.

“hey pretty thing” he slurred.

she ignored him, and tried to exit the room, only for him to grab her hand.

“where y’ goin? you don’t want to hang out with me, baby? if you didn’t want the attention you shouldve picked a different dress.”

she ripped her hand away, and she knew the only way to get him to back off would be to mention steve. men like this respect women not as people, but as property.

“i have a boyfriend. hes looking for me.”

“not very hard, he left you here with me.”

in the distance she see steves head of hair frantically searching the house for the kitchen, and as the man kept babbling about nonsense and trying to grab her waist, she yelled his name.

his head shot to where he heard her voice, catching her eye instantly.

“help,” she mouthed.

dove had never seen a man move so quickly in her life. it seemed a second before steve stood tall between them. he held her behind him, and dove knew that he would have to be scary. she closed her eyes and gripped onto his arm.

after many words were spoken, mostly from steve, the other man merely slurred nonsense. he pushed the stranger into the shelves behind him before escorting dove out of the room.

“it’s okay, it’s okay, i’m here, i’ve got you, we’re gonna go home,” he whispered assuringly as he guided her out of the crowded room, trying to ignore the urge to go back and hurt the stranger, knowing it would scare her more. he was plagued with guilt and fear. guilt that he had let her out of his sight. the sobs come from his dove quickly. he helps her into the back seat of his car and locks the doors.

“hey, hey, look at me, youre okay, tell me what happened” he said, his voice shaking.

“nothing,” she says breathlessly, “nothing bad- just-“ her breathing becomes panicked, and the words arent forming. she had told him about her panic attacks before, but he had never seen her experience one. luckily he had done research.

“panic attack” she forced out between short breaths. the air couldnt reach her lungs, at least it felt like it couldnt. steve was panicking, trying to regulate her breathing. trying to soothe while also digging through his center console for an inhaler.

“hey, look at me, try to take a deep breath with me. i know, i know its hard, i just need you to try.” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his chest, breathing in a long breath and watching her struggle to do the same. but after three breaths she was calm enough that steve could help her with the inhaler.

once her breath returned to her, she buried her face into his chest, apologizing profusely.

“you dont need to be sorry. you did nothing wrong.” he repeated the phrase like a mantra while he rocked her back and forth.

she looked up at him. “i love you”

“i love you too. so much. you feel better?”

“yeah i- he was just being scary and he kept- grabbing me and he wouldn’t let me pass. i- it just- it freaked me out.”

“im so sorry honey. are you hurt? i shouldve went after you.” he whispered.

“no! you didnt do anything wrong. im not hurt, just got scared.”

“yeah? how about i take us home and we can order food, maybe watch a movie or something? and then we can talk about it tomorrow morning if you want to.”

“yes please”

[nazrigar]

Hey question about All-Sparks au, so we know that Blackout is a member of the cons in your universe. So does that mean his bro Grindore is too?

Also, if that’s the case, are there any other beavers Deceptacon’s who have been given the G1 treatment in your universe?

His bro Grindor is indeed canon to All-Sparks! But there's a twist!

Grindor while a Decepticon early on, QUICKLY abandoned the cause when Megatron went from "we should reshape the system" to "I am going to destroy everything that even resembles the old way, including reverence for The Primes" and "I am going to obliterate everyone who gets in my way of murking the Prime"

He hangs about Soundblaster's mercenary gang as the logistician. (Soundblaster is Soundwave's brother, and is all flash and loud).

Mohawk is one, though mostly because he joined out of fear and that Megatron is one effing SCARY dude.

Berserker is basically one of the one-bot army attack bots of Decepticon forces. He's a very melee oriented dude who likes fighting equally large and powerful alien forces.

Nitro Zeus hangs about with Soundblaster's crew. He's Soundblaster's Shockwave counterpart being the local cyclops with big ol' cannon on one arm. Much like Soundblaster is Soundwave's personality opposite, so is Nitro Zeus to Shockwave. Shockwave here is more inspired by his G1 cartoon iteration, but still does horrible things in the name of SCIENCE. Nitro Zeus meanwhile blows things up because he thinks it's fun and/or funny. He is complimented by the much more no-nonsense but very snarky Slipstream, who is basically Soundblaster's Starscream.

[mermaid-trash]

hey!! could i get itto and a few other characters x traveler reader headcannons?? :D

like reader often does missions similar to the traveler, and maybe comes back hurt on one of them? :]

Hii!! Ofc, thank you for the request ^—^ these were so much fun to write (oh also reader is a resistance soldier in Gorou’s, not a traveller, I hope that’s okay!)

Characters: Itto, Kaeya, Gorou, Diluc (blatant favouritism towards Diluc in this one eeek)

Warnings: slightly gory descriptions of injury/blood, maybe a lil angsty but mostly hurt/comfort yaknow, gn!reader

Feel free to request something, check my pinned post for details!

Inazuma felt different when you weren’t around; Itto had been waiting for weeks for you to return from a mission overseas, and with every day that passed his frustration and desparation only grew, so the moment he heard that you had returned at last, he almost tripped over himself in his rush to see you. It was only when he noticed the grim look on Kuki’s face that he halted, confused. Gently, she informed him that you weren’t in the best condition right now, and suddenly the eager feeling in his stomach was replaced with a cloying knot of fear. Without another word, Itto took off at a sprint and didn’t stop or slow until he was by your bedside, engulfing you in a bearhug faster than the healer could stop him and rambling nonsensically about how happy he was to have you home. His heart pounded where your temple was pressed against his solid chest, and his oni blood tingled with relief now that he knew you were safe, albeit more scraped up than he would like, and back in Inazuma where he can protect you. He vowed, his voice shaking a little pitifully, that no matter how long your recovery may take, he would be by your side, and Itto always kept his promises to you. Every day, he brought foods and drinks helpfully sourced by Thoma, and spent hours sitting with you, either fussing over your bandages with worry pinching his brow or desperately goofing around just to see you laughing instead of in pain.

Evening was just beginning to settle over Mondstadt and the Cavalry Captain was on his way to Angels’s Share to warm a barstool for the remainder of the night when Noelle came running through the cobbled streets towards him, eyes panicked and gasping for breath. In a single rush of breath, she informed him that you had been found, unconcsious and bleeding profusely, outside of the city, and that a few knights had already taken you to Barbara. Familiar frigid cold engulfed Kaeya’s body, and all thoughts of bothering Diluc were wiped from his mind as all he could think of was you, whether you would be okay, whether he would get to hear your sweet voice again. With a short word of thanks to Noelle, he turned on his heel and climbed the stairs to the Cathedral quickly, as though to outrun the dread that nipped at his heels with every step. When he finally laid eyes on you, bruised and bandaged but awake and smiling weakly at Barbara, an involuntary sigh of relief escaped him. For a moment he stayed where he was and simply watched you, feeling the fear loosen its fierce grip on his heart gradually with every second that passed. Of course, he would have to tease you about your inability to dodge attacks aimed at you, but that could wait a few days at least. For now, he would be at your every beck and call, spoiling and pampering you as he felt you deserved until you recovered from your injuries- and then maybe a little while longer too, until Kaeya stops beating himself up for not being able to prevent your injuries.

As a soldier in the Watatsumi Army, you were bound to get injured sometimes; Gorou just hated that he had watched it happen, seen the sword slash the air as though in slow motion before it caught you in the ribs, leaving a deep gash in its wake. A scream tore from his throat at the same time as you let out a yell of pain, and suddenly his legs were carrying him across the battlefield to you, arms wrapping around you to prevent you from hitting the ground. As the battle raged on around him, he carried your weak body to the healer, muttering words of apology as you complained of the pain when his trembling hand pressed to your wound, applying pressure in the hopes of slowing the bloodflow. Even as the healer worked, the general clasped one of your hands in both of his and waited resolutely, only his pinned-back ears hinting at the fear that had seized his heart the moment he saw you in danger. Once you’re stable, Gorou does his best to put on a stern expression and chastise you for being reckless, but his voice shook too much and his hands clasped yours too tightly; you felt the anxiety and fear radiating from him, and squeezed his hand back in a subtle display of comfort. For weeks, Gorou insisted that you rest and avoid battle until you were fully recovered, much to your irritation; he knew that he was being ridiculous and overprotective, trying to prevent you from fighting for the resistance, but the general simply couldn’t handle seeing you get injured, and he would do anything he could to prevent it from happening again.

Diluc was plenty familiar with how the deep redness of blood marred his hands, staining the skin no matter how hard he scrubbed it away, and the sight of your blood was no different. Despite having scrubbed his hands until the skin was raw and pink, the ghost of your blood still glistened sickeningly in the shadowy, candlelit hallway that Diluc paced as he waited for the doctor to finish tending to you. The sun was beginning to rise over the Winery, and the Darknight Hero had not yet slept; just a few short hours ago he had found you among the remains of a hilichurl camp, barely conscious and with hot, dark blood soaking through your clothes. The events that followed had gone by in a whirlwind of panic; strong, gloved hands pressed against your wounds and familiar lips whispered pleas for you to stay with him, stay conscious, stay alive. But now, there was nothing left for the man to do but wait until he could see you; so, he paced. Back and forth, back and forth, right outside the only door that obstructed you from his view. Every so often he stopped, fists clenched tight, and fixed the wooden obstacle with a fierce glare, as though hoping it would simply shrivel up and move out of his way; when it finally swung open, Diluc steeled himself for bad news, but was elated to instead hear that you were stable. Letting out a deep breath, he sent the doctor away and stepped, slightly hesitantly, into the bedroom- the bedroom that you would not be leaving for at least two weeks, upon the doctor’s orders. It was, however, upon Diluc’s orders that you were treated like royalty for those two weeks, supplied with all of your favourite meals and all kinds of small gifts that Diluc insisted on buying for you, while a maid waited by your door at all times in case you needed anything. It was the least Diluc felt he could do, after he had failed to keep you safe from harm- a failure he would ensure never happened again.

[pipwasreal]

Day 13: demons + crossdressing

Characters: Crystal Palace, Edwin Payne, Charles Rowland

Content warnings: clubbing, underage drinking, flirtation, transformation

Crystal's pretty proud of herself for managing to convince the boys to have a night off. And not just a night off, but a night out.

She doesn't miss who she used to be, all spite and malice and jagged edges trying to hide just how scared she was all the fucking time. But she does miss dressing up and cutting loose.

She doesn't think Edwin's ever cut loose. She'd had to promise him that their first stop would be a gay bar where she was sure she'd seen some ghost patrons, just to tempt him out.

Charles hadn't needed convincing, but he had wistfully wondered aloud if there were any venues in London that still featured more brass than bass, so Crystal had found him a jazz bar. She has no idea if it's any good, but he seems excited to give it a go.

She spends longer than usual picking an outfit, aware that it'll look like she's out on her own. She decides to go a bit less flashy than she used to, more comfortable: a silky, sequinned mini dress and platform boots, dramatic make-up and a bunch of thin silver jewellery, but her natural hair and nails.

And she's feeling pretty fucking good, cocktail in hand thanks to her fake ID, with the music throbbing through her and the coloured lights pulsing down on the dancing, laughing crowd... until someone appears right behind Edwin and sniffs him.

Edwin freezes and Charles jerks forward, already reaching out to shove the stranger away, but one of their hands shoots out and grabs Charles' wrist, holding him still with no apparent effort.

Crystal's heart hammers in her chest. There's fear, sure, but she's mostly fucking angry. Tonight was supposed to be a break from supernatural nonsense.

"Hey asshole!" she yells, reaching out to grab their arm in turn. "Back off or I melt your brain."

The stranger chuckles, but does take a step back, hands raised. They're not tall but they are solidly built, with close-cropped silver hair. They're wearing boots, jeans and a leather vest with nothing under it.

Their eyes gleam demon-black.

"Sorry, kids," they say, voice smoke-rough, low and amused. "But your friend here smells like home."

Edwin had whirled around to face them. Charles hovers warily close, fingers inching toward his bag.

"You are a demon," Edwin says. "Of which level?"

The demon grins, slow and satisfied.

"Guess."

They're not Crystal's type, but their easy confidence is incredibly attractive. And they smell really good. Her face suddenly feels very warm. She takes a sip of her drink to avoid saying something stupid.

Edwin crosses his arms, expression unamused.

"What do you want with us?"

The demon eyes Edwin critically from bowtie to boots and back.

"Nothing, from you," they say, then pointedly turn their attention to Charles, looking him up and down.

"But I do feel like a change. And this one's got... potential."

Without warning, their form begins to bubble, skin and hair and clothes all glowing and warping, stretching and changing until...

"Holy fuck," says Crystal.

Another Charles stands before them, tall and slim and pretty, except for those creepy black eyes. And the outfit. The outfit is definitely different.

They're wearing a red corset top over a cropped tee, with black short shorts and boots. They've swapped out Charles' gold star earring for a silver cross, and added a velvet choker around that long neck.

Edwin gasps. Charles just laughs.

"Is that meant to be me?"

"You, only better," the demon croons, still in that low, smoky voice. "Genderfuck is in, honey."

Edwin's eyes have gone very wide and his mouth has fallen open. He seems, for once, speechless.

"Well, it's working for him," they say. "But he doesn't have the kind of energy I need..."

They grin and wink at Crystal instead. "What do you think, sweetheart?"

Crystal can hear her heartbeat in her ears, even over the music. Everything feels very warm and smooth. She licks her lips to reply.

"Oi, leave her alone!" Charles says, drawing his cricket bat.

"Calm down, I'm just testing out the new look. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've worked up quite an appetite."

[rubylarkspur22]

Hear me out Demon Slayer characters in Legend Of Spyro setting

... I like the way you think, anon!

Now, I'm gonna hold off on drawing, but I will spit out some story ideas! Mostly nonsensical rambling about some bits and pieces.

So, we have some obvious parallels. Tanjirou fits very well into the role of Spyro, as the hero of our story, and Muzan would fit quite well in the role of main antagonist and Malefor. And it only makes sense for the Hashira to be the Guardians. But what else can I come up with for this AU??

Muzan was originally only capable of wielding one element, but was very weak and sick when he was young. He gained access to more power through artificial means, which ended up leading to him developing use of Dark Elements in his thirst for power.

Yoriichi and the Kamado family are the only dragons capable of wielding more than one element, a trait passed down to the eldest son. The Kamado family was actually actively hiding in the mountains to prevent drawing the attention of Muzan and his army(who are all dragons who have been corrupted by Dark Aether, some more willingly than others).

Nezuko was initially just a fire dragon. But Muzan attacks the Kamado family to try and find the dragon in the family that can wield multiple elements. In the midst of his attack, some of his Dark Aether latched onto Nezuko. It didn't fully corrupt her, but it did affect her, giving her access to some Dark Elements.

From there, the story is a mix of LoS and KNY. Tanjirou goes on a journey to undo Nezuko's half-corruption, master his elements(having already fully mastered Fire thanks to Tanjurou!)

Oh, hey! Both protagonists get temporarily corrupted by the antagonists in their respective franchises!(Dark Spyro and Demon King Tanjirou)

Some ideas for elements some of the characters use, some more obvious than others:

Kie would be an Earth Dragon. Tell me I'm wrong. The rest of the Kamado children are either Earth like her, or got Fire from Tanjurou.

Giyuu is a Water Dragon, as are Urokodaki, Sabito, and Makomo.

Obanai is either a Water Dragon or a Poison Dragon(because snake venom).

Shinobu is also one of those. And she's also tiny, so she will go for your kneecaps and ankles.

The Rengoku family are all Fire Dragons, obviously.

Zenitsu, Kaigaku, and Kuwajima are Electricity Dragons, Kuwajima being a former Guardian and the boys being slotted to be his successors. Zenitsu only knows one attack(I'm thinking it's the Electricity Primary from The Eternal Night; the ball of electricity you can launch and then proceed to set off), but he's damn good at using it. Kaigaku, of course, went the corruption route. Dick.

Gyomei is Earth.

Sanemi is Wind. And Genya is either an Earth Dragon, or he has no element. A rare case, but I assume to not be impossible.

Nezuko's extra elements are Earth(from Kie), and I'm thinking Fear.

I'm not sure what Michikatsu's natural element would be, but Kokushibo also has Fear and Shadow at his disposal after being corrupted. As well as a little Dark Aether, to compete with Yoriichi in the great one-sided dick-measuring contest.

Douma is an Ice Dragon.

Inosuke is either an Earth Dragon or a Wind Dragon. I have no clue which I prefer. Either way, feral tactical assault dragon. He's the one raised by another creature entirely.

Akaza is originally Earth. Not sure what Dark Element he wields.

Hantengu uses Wind(natural element), as well as Electricity, Fear, and Earth

Gyokko uses Water and Poison

Gyutaro is a Poison Dragon, and possibly was one from birth. Ume's element(s) are undecided.

All others, I do not know for sure, but would love to hear some ideas!

[stagkingswife]

Hey there! I hope you're well today!

I was wondering if you have any tips on doing divination with a spirit for the first time. There's a spirit I'd like to reach out to whom I have not met before outside of dreams. I want to know if you have any suggestions on how I can prepare for a divination reading with an unfamiliar spirit, mostly in regards to protections and boundaries. This is my first time interacting with a spirit so I'd like to be prepared!

Also do you think the spirit would take offense if I asked a deity to be present for protection? I rely heavily on my deities in my practice and trust them strongly, but I don't want to potentially offend the spirit or make them feel like I don't trust them.

Thank you if you choose to answer and no worries if not. Hope you have a good day! :)

I know I took a while to get to this, so I hope I'm not too late for this advise to be helpful to you Anon, or if I missed the window with you, maybe this will helpful to someone else. I, personally, do not recommend involving a 3rd party in a first meeting with an unfamiliar entity unless you know for sure what the relationship between those two parties is. For example, if you are meeting Apollo for the first time and want to involve Artemis, that's probably safe. But if there's no lore to suggest that these two entities have a amicable relationship, or if the lore might be open to interpretation or depend on which aspect meets with which (Hades and Persephone, or Zeus and Hera, for example), I always opt or caution and approach the new entity on my own. The Otherworlds are vast and complex, you never know who has beef with who, and you don't want to upset anyone. (It is perfectly possible to work with two entities who dislike each other, you just need to balance it.)

The egos and personalities of spirits aside there is a lot that you can do in terms of protections to set yourself up for success on a first meeting. I always like to present myself to the entity as competent, but not scared or aggressive, which is a fine line to walk. I also like to approach them with trust, like I am expecting the best from our first encounter. For me that means that I leave my carefully warded home, as a sign of trust. (Because I live in an apartment, this just means that I go outside into the courtyard). I come equipped with reactive shields that will trigger on certain conditions that I have programed into them but I am otherwise unwarded until something triggers that shield. Some example conditions I build into my shields are "if the entity tries to hurt me physically" or "if the entity tries to make an attack on my Otherworldly form". I don't personally include emotional attacks such as intimation and fear, because I usually see those as posturing that I can respond to with my own communication and presence. I can also trigger the shields with a command word if I feel unsafe. If you want to involve your deity in your protection I would involve them in the building of a shield like this. It would give you the piece of mind of having them involved, having your back so to speak, but not actually present so there's no potential politics to worry about. I know engaging with an unfamiliar spirit with only reactive ward might not be everyone's cup of tea, it's just what works for me. So if you wanted to layer your protects you could also do that. Think of you baseline boundaries vs your break glass in case of emergency conditions - and then build a sustained ward, maybe on an enchanted piece of jewelry, for the baseline and the reactive shield is your emergency response. I can't really lay out for you what your baseline boundaries should be, they're different for everyone, and I admit to having a pretty high tolerance for spooky spirit nonsense. If you've warded you home and set up "house rules" that would be a great place to draw inspiration from! If you have specifics that you want to brainstorm, assume I'm not answering this too late and you don't mind coming off anon feel free to DM me and I'm happy to be a sounding board for specific boundaries for you.