#but...the fucking 'no one wants to work' of it all is such bullshit

[hazbinbabbling4ever]

Ah yes, let's listen and give space to the fascists saying that there's only two genders, let's be polite, respectful and civil while they strip away everyone's rights. Let's find compromises with people who quite literally want to violently repress all minorities, that worked so well these past 10 years. I definitely need to earn the respect of fascists like Trump and cronies.

Let's compare a thing that happened literally today (the two genders) with something that never happened and doesn't have the numbers to ever become a threat (who the fuck ever said we want to call all mothers breast feeders anyway???). "If you aren’t willing to listen to Trump et al. “because they’re wrong anyway, because they want to deport immigrants and kill trans people” dingdingding guess what? That’s fascism knocking at your door." Did I literally just read this stupid ass sentence?? He wants to deport immigrants, he's literally taking the steps right now. He's taking steps to take away all trans rights, starting with taking away protection for trans people in jail. Are you calling people not willing to listen to this crap and pushing back against all this,. fascists?? I have no words for how stupid this is. What's happening right now is not bigotry. That was maybe 10 years ago. We're now directed onto pure fascism destroying everything. It's exactly this kind of both-sides nihilistic bullshit that landed us in this climate. It's the millions of "oh he isn't that bad after all just listen to him" that allowed Trump to be elected. No one pushed back enough and now this. We definitely won't get rid of fascism by becoming pals and chums with violent people who sprout violent nonsense, standing by while they wreak havoc onto entire countries, or worse, by allowing them to take away the rights of this or that minority, as long as they promise to be really good to us.

it's true and you should say it.

[storiesforallfandoms]

extreme jealousy ~ thomas shelby;peaky blinders

word count: 2075

request?: no

description: in which she’s finally had enough of thomas shelby when he supposedly kills the man she’s been having a fling with

pairing: thomas shelby x female!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of death, use of y/n

masterlist (one, two, three)

Tommy was in his study when he heard the sound of his front door slamming shut. He knew exactly who it was. He had left the door unlocked for her, anticipating her appearance.

When she appeared in the doorway, her jaw was clenched and one of her hands was balled into a fist. Tommy simply glanced up from his paper work at her. “Hello, (Y/N).”

“You absolute fucking prick,” she sneered. “You fucking killed Alfie?!”

Tommy sighed, as if (Y/N)’s outburst was an inconvenience to him. “(Y/N) - ”

“No!” she cut him off. “I don’t want to hear whatever bullshit you have cooked up to tell me to try and justify what you did.”

If she was pissed off upon her arrival, then (Y/N) became furious when Tommy took off his glasses and placed them on his desk, then stood and calmly walked to his assortment of liquor. He picked up two glasses, without asking (Y/N) if she wanted one. He knew she’d just continue to throw profanities at him anyways. He dropped two ice cubes each into the glasses and poured them a glass of whiskey each.

Tommy didn’t have to ask how she found out about Alfie so quickly, because he had sent someone to tell her. The moment he knew he would have to kill Alfie, he called for Johnny Dogs to come with him. Johnny was confused at first, thinking Tommy was requesting backup for his meeting. However, when they arrived, Tommy explained he wanted Johnny to witness what was happening, and once it was finished, he wanted Johnny to go tell (Y/N) what had happened.

The news would’ve gotten to her either way, he knew. The smallest kindness he could give her was to make sure she knew right away, and that she knew the truth.

Mostly the truth.

When he offered her the glass, Tommy didn’t expect her to simply take it. He figured she would’ve hurtled the liquor at him, the glass too. He didn’t expect the offering to go well. To his surprise, however, (Y/N) looked at him for a long time before snatching the glass from his hand. She downed the contents in one gulp before handing the glass back to Tommy. Despite his amusement, Tommy knew better than to smile or chuckle.

“Alfie betrayed us,” he explained, as he handed (Y/N) his own glass and went to pour more whiskey into the empty glass for himself. “He gave Changretta information that led to Arthur almost getting murdered. You know I could not let the betrayal go, but especially not when my family’s life is on the line.”

(Y/N) scoffed. “You put your own family’s lives on the line all the time.”

“I never make them do something that could kill them. I calculate very move - ”

“Oh, bullshit,” (Y/N) cut him off. “I’ve known you long enough, Tommy. You don’t calculate shit. You send anyone out into the line of fire, and you get lucky enough that no one gets killed.”

There was a tense silence. (Y/N) had a moment of realization about what she said. She let out a heavy sigh and uttered a soft, “I’m sorry.”

Tommy simply took a sip of his drink. (Y/N) mirrored him, drinking this glass much slower than the last.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” she finally said. Her tone was a little more calm, but Tommy could still hear the anger.

“I had to prove a lesson.”

“You could’ve done that without fucking killing him, Tommy!”

“There’s no other way, (Y/N). If I just wounded him but let him live, it would put out a different message about me and about the Peaky Blinders. It would let everyone know that you can betray us and get away with it.”

(Y/N) was shaking her head. In the dim light of Tommy’s office, he could see tears welling up in her eyes. He had to look away from her so she didn’t see how much her upset was affecting him.

“It’s not just the betrayal,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I know it’s not. You were looking for any reason to get rid of Alfie since you found out about us.”

Tommy’s hand tightened around his glass.

It had been merely a month ago that Tommy had walked into Alfie Solomon’s office and found him with (Y/N) on his lap. Luckily, their clothes were still on and nothing indecent was happening. If he had shown up a few minutes later they probably would’ve been, but all he walked in on was the two of them making out. (Y/N) was quickly off Alfie’s lap and out the door after Tommy’s interruption, muttering something about seeing Tommy later. Alfie nonchalantly explained to Tommy that he and (Y/N) had been fucking around for a while now.

Even now, Alfie’s explanation made Tommy angry. “Fucking around”, not even “seeing each other”, which would’ve indicated that Alfie saw (Y/N) as more than just someone to call for a quick fuck. And Tommy thought she deserved more than that.

Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

“It has nothing to do with you,” he told her.

“Bullshit!” (Y/N) snapped. “You need to have control over everyone in your life. You never liked Alfie, even though you two are exactly alike. So when you realized you were losing control over me because I was with Alfie, you wanted a reason to get rid of him! It’s not fucking fair, Tommy! You can’t keep controlling everyone just because you think you’re fucking God! We are all human beings, we are not your playthings!”

As she ranted, Tommy approached (Y/N). He grabbed hold of her shoulders and forced her to look at him. “(Y/N), Alfie isn’t dead!”

(Y/N) stopped talking abruptly. She furrowed her brows at him, as if she didn’t believe him. “But...Johnny Dogs came to my place. He said he was there, he said he saw you shoot Alfie in the eye. He said...he said you left him on the beach.”

Tommy sighed. He hadn’t planned on telling (Y/N) the truth, that he hadn’t actually killed Alfie. The more people who thought Alfie was actually dead, the better. Just like with their plan to fake Arthur’s death. But he couldn’t stand to have (Y/N) here yelling at him over Alfie’s fake death any longer. He thought he could convince her it was the right thing to do, but the more angry she was, the more he was afraid he was actually pushing her away.

“The shot missed,” he admitted. “It grazed Alfie’s cheek instead. After I sent Johnny Dogs to your place, I went back to check for myself. Alfie was still breathing, albeit he was bleeding out quickly. I made some calls, had some people go get him and patch him up so he wouldn’t die. And I sent a message to him to get the fuck out of Birmingham once he was fully recovered. I may have let him live, but he still betrayed us and my message still needed to be heard.”

(Y/N)’s eyes were searching Tommy’s face, trying to see if there was a hint of dishonesty. Finally, she asked, “Where is he?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Fuck sakes, Tommy!” She broke away from him, her anger ignited again.

Now, Tommy was starting to get frustrated as well. He thought telling (Y/N) would mean she would drop the subject. That she would stop getting angry with him and they could move on from Alfie. So, he also snapped, “I don’t want you to see Alfie anymore!”

“Why?!”

“Because I’m in love with you!”

The whole room fell still. (Y/N) literally took a step back at Tommy’s outburst. He wanted desperately to take it back, but it was out there now. He turned away from her and went to filled his glass again, which had managed to go empty in the last few minutes.

(Y/N) finally broke the silence to say, “So...did you kill - try to kill Alfie...because you were jealous?”

Tommy let out a humorless laugh. “I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of the reason.”

“But...but Lizzie...”

Tommy sighed. Indeed, Lizzie.

The woman who was currently carrying his child. The woman who he held such a high regard for. The woman he had used when he was missing Grace a little and was heartbroken after seeing Alfie and (Y/N) together. A brief moment of vulnerability that resulted in a child.

“I intend to marry Lizzie,” Tommy admitted. “I have to. I respect her too much to let her give birth to a bastard child.”

“But you don’t love her.”

Tommy shook it head. “She doesn’t love me, either. We’ve both established that. We accidentally created a child together, and the right thing to do in this situation is to be married so that Lizzie isn’t a mother out of wedlock and the child isn’t a bastard.”

Tears were welling up in (Y/N)’s eyes again. “Well then, you’ve managed to break my heart twice in one day, Tommy.”

(Y/N) had turned and left his office before Tommy would comprehend what she had said. He was quick to put down his glass and race after her. She was taking quick strides to get to the door before he could reach her, but in the end Tommy was faster. He took hold of her shoulders again, stopping her in her tracks and turning her to face him.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Just let it go, Tommy.”

“No. (Y/N), what do you mean I broke your heart twice?”

She was crying now, unable to stop the flow of tears. She looked up into Tommy’s eyes and said, “The first time you broke my heart was when you sent Johnny Dogs to tell me you killed Alfie. The second time was when you told me you loved me and made me think I had a chance, before telling me you intend on marrying another woman.”

Tommy could hardly comprehend what he was hearing. There was no way (Y/N) was admitting to loving him back. It just seemed impossible. Moments ago she was screaming at him for killing the man she was seeing (”fucking around with”), and now she was telling him that he had broken her heart by telling her he intended on marrying Lizzie. It just seemed too good to be true.

“Can you let me go?” she asked, her voice small. “I don’t think I can be here with you anymore, Tommy.”

He didn’t let her go. Instead, he pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers. It was an impulsive decision. He couldn’t let her leave like this.

When she pulled away, he let her. He let go of her, even though it risked her running off. He wouldn’t force her to stay there if she didn’t want to, but he couldn’t let her leave thinking that she had no chance of being with him.

But she didn’t leave. Instead, all she said was, “Lizzie...”

“I can work something out with Lizzie,” he said. “Maybe not marriage, but something. It’s my child she’s carrying, she’s got personal connections to the Peaky Blinders. Even if I don’t marry her, I can still make sure she is protected and respected.”

“But you just said - ”

“(Y/N),” he cut her off. “If you want me, then you will have me. There will be no one else. All you have to do is say the word, and it’ll just be you.”

A chuckle escaped her lips. “Of course, Tommy.”

Tommy wasted no time in taking (Y/N) into his arms and kissing her again. This time, she leaned into him. She let him envelope her in his embrace and hold her completely to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close.

“I’m still a little mad at you for making me believe you shot Alfie,” she mumbled against his lips.

Tommy chuckled. “It’s part of the job, love. You’ll have to get used to it.”

“As long as you’re no the one getting shot in the face, then I think I can be okay with it.”

He kissed her again. He never wanted to stop kissing her.

[justhereforsubsevika]

can you write spanking with sevika please 🙏 preferably sub!sev 🫶🫶

This not gonna be written properly sozsoz but like a sub!sevi braindump i think yes

Contains: Spanking, brat!Sevika, use of flail, pussy spanking, ass spanking, use of the traffic-light system for consent (because checking in is importantttt), clit torture, denied orgasm :P

See because a lot of subs get thought about as fems a lot of public teasing is like

wearing a short skirt and bending over so your ass shows

wearing a low cut top and purposefully pushing your cleavage together

sevika is a butch. she does a butch version of public teasing

she'll look you in the eye while she pins a girl to wall between her elbows, flexing her biceps

she'll ask girls to spot her in the gym while she does squats just so you can watch as her spotter's eyes get trained on her ass

she'll even lift girls up just to see you seething when they giggle and grab onto sevis shoulders

(switching to proper writing)

so , what do you do about sevika teasing you all day?

She gasps at the way you force her down, acting all confused like she wasn't getting you worked up on purpose. "Baby-" she'll splutter as you pull her joggers from under her ass, grunting when you see the cotton of her boxers is damp. You see red, hand flying down onto her pussy before she can even begin to splutter out some bullshit excuse. She yelps and chucks her head back, her back arching as she grabs on to the armrest of the sofa you've laid her on.

"You think you can act like a slut and get away with it?" You seethe, harshly thumbing at her clit. She's soaked, you know she gets off on disobedience, you know how much of a fucking brat she is. She tucks her chin into her chest and looks up at you through her eyebrows, that dumbass smirk curling at her lip. "Mhmm, because I know it'll end up like this. With you p-punishing my pussy like I wanted."

You cease your movements entirely. What the fuck had gotten into her? She was no good girl by any means, but she was never this much of a brat. She clucks her tongue when you stare at her, heart racing, blood turning to flame. "Come on," and she grabs your wrist, grabs your fucking wrist, and starts making circles on her clit with your thumb. You're frozen. If you saw red before, you could only see the blood behind your eyes now.

You pinch hard on her clit, smiling sadistically when her teeth clench, seeing how her hand retreats to grab onto any part of the sofa. "You want to play it like this?" You slap her across the face and grab her up from under her chin, forcing her to look at you. "Fine, we'll do things your way. Flip over, ass up."

That smirk is wiped right off her face. She nods, her pupils wide and obedient, getting into position. You've never had to go this far with a punishment before, never had to concentrate pain onto her ass instead of stinging pleasure onto her pussy. But her behaviour warrants it.

"Do you need me to co-?"

"No I don't need you to count. I need you to shut up and take it."

You bring your hand down harshly onto her ass, the pain doubled since she'd hit her glutes hard at the gym to flaunt to whichever slut she picked out to taunt you with. That image pulses in your brain, both of your hands simultaneously coming down to spank either cheek of her ass. You grab at her flesh, pinching, squishing, whatever you please, before bringing down another harsh slap. One of her legs is bent up, her toes curling in the air. She grips at the pillows of the couch, crying out little "tch's" and "gah's" from between her teeth. You don't finish until her scarred ass is burning a deep shade of crimson.

But you don't stop there! No no, how could you when she disobeyed you so intensely, so purposefully, actually mocked your punishment?

Her head is fallen against the plush of the pillow, and, when you grab at her hair to pick up her face, you see where tears have wet the gray fabric. She looks up at you, sniffling, lip trembling, and you pout at her. "Poor baby," you deride, making her gasp out a sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I was bad," she chokes, grabbing at the grip you have on her hair. Concern hits you at her signs of distress.

"Sevi baby, colour?"

"Oh, green," she chuckles, "just hurts really fucking bad." You smile and rub your hand soothingly over her bruising skin. "Wait here."

****

You return with a toy you haven't yet used on Sevika. She's waiting, laid out on the sofa, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "What's that?" she asks, a hint of nervousness in her voice. "It's a flail. Give me your palm."

You place a few good hits onto Sevi's hand, watching as her eyes re-light with excitement. "Hurts..." she murmurs, seeing how her hand gets streaks of red drawn across it. "Mhm. It'll be worse on your ass." You sit beside her and drag the tails of the flail across her raw flesh, giggling when her muscles tense, when her breath hitches. "Poor baby. Shouldn't have acted like such a little bitch, should you?" You bring the flail down, making Sevika shriek in pain. Her crying picks up again, her whole body shaking. "No, no I should've been good," she stammers, her limbs limp against the fabric of the couch. "Mm," you hum, bringing the toy down, revelling in the way little lines cut across her ruined skin. You don't do this for long, just enough to get her really weak.

"Aw Sevi," you coo, bringing your fingertips to her face. Her cheeks are burning hot. She nestles against you, kissing your knuckles. "'m sorry.." she whimpers, "'m so so sorry."

"It's okay, sweet girl." You slide your thumb down between her legs and bite your lip at how wet she's gotten. "Love it when I hurt you, don't you baby?"

Her hand comes behind her back, folding it across herself, willing you to pin her down. She wants to feel like she can't escape the pleasure you give her even if she tried. "Love it so much," she chokes, moaning when you grab her forearm and pin her down. You thumb at her clit for a while. You know she'll be easy, she's soaked from her punishment, and she's pulsing hard against your thumb. "Need...please?" Is all she manages. You go a little longer, until she's really moaning, really whining, breathing hot and heavy.

And then you pull away.

She damn near screams at the loss of contact, and you can't help but laugh at the hyperbolic response. "Just edging me right?" She asks, a hint of panic in her voice. Poor Sevi, she's so far gone. "Nuh uh princess. Bad girls don't get to cum."

She flips over, immediately regretting her decision when her ass brushes your knees. "Ow, fuck- baby please, please I took everything so well," and she's weeping again, begging you with the biggest puppy dog eyes she can muster. "Yeah you did. Too bad you misbehaved all day, huh?" She shakes her head, kneeling over your lap and grabbing at your shirt. "Please?" You smirk and look away.

"No, Sevi, that's final."

She nods solemnly, like you just told her she has 3 minutes to live, sinking down onto your lap. You feel how messy she's making you, her wetness painting your thighs. But she's good, she doesn't even make a half-assed attempt to grind into you. Just sits.

And then, of course, you slather her ass in aloe vera, make her lay down on her stomach while you clean her pussy off. You take off her tank top, now drenched in sweat and tears, and remove her joggers and boxers. You leave her in her socks (her feet get cold </3) and massage her back, telling her softly what a good girl she is for taking her punishment so well.

Maybe you let her cum eventually, because you feel bad. Maybe.

ok maybe i did want to write this properly then lmfao

also PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE IF THE DIALOGUE IS CRINGY PLEASE+ not properly spell/grammar/ "does this definitely make sense" checked

[glossdebut]

everything i want (a take a bite drabble collection) | MYG ★ teaser

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader (TAB!couple)

✧ TEASER WARNINGS: references to pregnancy/trying for a baby, MC being an anxious mess, yoongi being a smartass, the slightest beginnings of dirty talk bc i can't give everything up NOW, nothing super explicit but definitely leading up to more, MINORS DNI

✧ AUTHOR'S NOTE: hahahahahaha surprise... aqua glossdebut is once again resurrecting her comfort couple, despite the looming POF4 deadline and long list of non-yoongi requests waiting to be finished. OOPS. anyway, this is going to be a collection of 5 drabbles centering around TAB!couple's journey into parenthood. this is from drabble 2. i'm hoping to get the whole work posted by wednesday so stay tuned and drop your feedback in my comments/inbox!!!

✧ TEASER WORDCOUNT: 610 words

You feel a little stupid.

Maybe it’s because you don’t know how to act now. Nobody told you that planning to have a baby would suddenly put so much pressure on sex, but now here you are, standing in the kitchen in a too-tight dress while you try not to burn dinner.

You never cook. That’s Yoongi’s job. But you don’t know what else to do with all this restless energy, don’t know how else to initiate the ‘okay, I’m ready, knock me up’ conversation.

You’ve talked about the important things. You’ve dealt with the birth control issue. You’re taking, like, vitamins and shit now. All that’s left is to… actually try, right?

Except you’re nervous as hell, have been since you woke up to the notification from your cycle tracker informing you that you’re in your fucking ‘fertile window’ (ew!), and you’re suddenly acting like someone you don’t even recognize. Christ, you wonder if Yoongi has been feeling like this, too.

Speaking of Yoongi… He isn’t home yet, and for a moment, you think it’s not too late to just get rid of all of the evidence. Do away with the self-imposed theatrics, order some takeout, and act like it’s just another night. It’s not like Yoongi would mind.

But you’ve already committed to these stupid fucking steaks. And candles. There are candles.

It is too late, anyway. Almost as soon as the thought begins to form in your brain, you hear the sound of keys jangling and a lock turning, and then your future sperm donor himself is slipping his shoes off at the front door.

At least, he’s trying to. He’s got one socked foot out, frozen in his tracks as he takes in the scene before him.

“Did I forget an anniversary?”

You scoff, eyes rolling despite the nausea building inside you. “As if you’ve ever forgotten anything in your life.”

“Point made.”  He kicks his shoes off the rest of the way, nodding his head in the direction of the candles on the table. “Wanna tell me what this is for, then?”

You shrug, poking at the steak sizzling in front of you with a pair of tongs. “I wanted to make you dinner.”

“You don’t do that,” he says, eyeing you suspiciously.

“Well, I felt like it tonight,” you huff in exasperation.

“Okay,” he says, rounding the counter. His eyes rake over your form shamelessly, now that he can see all of you. “And the dress?”

“A girl can’t dress up every now and then?”

“Hey,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “Not complaining, believe me. Just curious.”

You know you’re being a little bit testy. Evasive. But it’s not your fault. Is there a good way to say ‘I did all of this because I want you to cum inside me tonight’? If there is, you haven’t found it.

Instead, you settle on, “I just felt like it.”

Yoongi hums, sliding behind you so he can wrap his arms around your middle. “Just felt like it, huh?” he mumbles. You can feel his lips on the back of your neck, and it’s dizzying how quickly your body reacts to his proximity. “No ulterior motives?”

“Nope,” you say. It sounds like bullshit, even to you. But how are you supposed to spin a convincing lie when your husband’s hands are on you? Hands that slide from hips to waist to tits as his mouth grows insistent at your nape, making you shiver.

“Shame,” he murmurs, nosing at the curve of your neck until his lips reach the shell of your ear. “I was hoping you wanted me to fuck a baby into you.”

✧ TAGLIST: @sugar-snap @coffeedepressionsoup @butterymin @yourfavoritedeluluspot @angellekookie

@kkaetnipjeon @ktownshizzle @joonary @jajabro @pitchblack0309 

@ot72025 @futuristicenemychaos @tea4sykes @sugainmybowl @wobblewobble822 

@this-most-assuredly-counts @ohnothisnameisalreadytaken @sugafun @whoa-jo @amarawayne 

@kimsaerom @bangtangsworld @jimingirl95 @jadestonedaeho7 @notsevenwithyou

@perfctlyunstable @yoonmetogether @kpophosblog @chimmchimmm @nnybtitts08

@itsmina29 @sophia--915 @jeanjacketjesus @kiki-zb

[lexirosewrites]

Mafia au pt 2

So I'm on break right now at work so please bare with me

Moriah Harrington is not happy that she got the vacation homes, several cars and a large pay out after Richard died. She wanted it all, but his will said that his first born would inherit his business. She kept waiting to have kids because she was younger than him and still had time but look what waiting got her. A bunch of bullshit. Now some young omega brat bastard is going to be running the whole thing and she'll have nothing.

I'm not sure what role I gave Eddie but he is changed to being Richards personal assistant and now Steve's personal assistant. If I had him as a secretary or something else before ignore that, thanks!

Eddie is actually in the office with Steve when he discovers paperwork showing Richard hiding money from the group/"family". Eddie is surprised that Steve found the documents because that is what he had been looking for for so long. With this evidence they would have been able to kick Richard out and appoint a new leader but now he's dead.

Steve and Eddie continue to look at all of Richards documents and they show everything, eventually Eddie notices that Steve is leaning heavily against the wall even with his crutch so he grabs a chair for Steve to sit in, Steve gets a bit flustered and gently grabs Eddie's wrist as he sits down and thanks him.

Eddie acts casual and like everything is fine, that it wasn't a big deal but Steve is so pretty and has soft hands and seems so gentle that Eddie's inner alpha starts growling that they'll have to protect the sweet omega.

Steve is given some time off of school to deal with his loss and figure out what he's going to be doing with Richard's business. Everyone in the family knows that Steve actually is Richards thanks to the DNA test and all have different motivations for trying to get close to him.

Enter alpha hitman Billy Hargrove. He's so cool and suave that Moriah called him whenever Richard wasn't cutting it in bed and gifted him shit constantly. It should be so easy to fluster the young omega and mate with him so that way he can lead the family.

He waltzes right into the main office flirting past the secretary and holds out his hand introducing himself to Steve. Eddie gets out of his seat to help Steve stand because he was having a bad pain day. The two shake hands but Billy turns Steve's hand over and kisses the back of it with a wink and sits in Eddie's vacated seat.

Steve seems charmed and stammers asking how he can help Billy. Billy says how he was away on business when the funeral happened and didn't know about Richard's passing until he got back so he was just there to offer Steve his condolences personally as well as handing over his business card and promises Steve can call him anytime.

Steve takes the card and hides behind it giggling and thanks Billy for such a sweet offer.

Billy leaves and throws one more wink for the road. Eddie turns around from locking the door and hears Steve let out a big scoff. He's startled and turns around to find Steve super annoyed looking. He drops Billy's business card into the trash and rubs hand sanitizer onto his hands and Eddie can faintly hear him grumbling about stupid boneheaded knot headed alphas.

Steve snaps at Eddie how most alphas see him and think he's so fucking easy because he's an omega, a handicapped omega at that. He should be so lucky that they wanted to give him their time and attention. Steve rolls his eyes and scoffs again and looks up at Eddie "can you fucking believe that!?"

Eddie is blown away at how hot he still finds Steve even while ranting about annoying alphas. Eddie apologizes to Steve about how he's been treated in the past.

Steve waves him off, Eddie is a great alpha so he wasn't part of the problem, plus Steve shows Eddie the evidence of Moriah and Billy's affair and shows how he isn't dumb, he knows Billy wasn't really there for him.

Eddie isn't surprised to find evidence of the affair it was a poorly hidden secret after all the only thing is, the evidence wasn't found by Richards usual private investigator like Steve claims it was.

I'll leave it there for now I'm not sure if slick Sunday is happening tomorrow or not but I wanted to get this to you as I start planning up part three :D

(link to part one)

can’t wait for part three!💛

[l0relaii]

cockwarming with josh please please pretty please with a cherry on top 🙏🏻🙏🏻 or just misc. thoughts about him that you haven’t written about yet

oh well, since you asked so nicely i guess i have to write this 🤭

this is gonna be another long one, enjoy slutsss sjajw 🌝

you came home after a long day and found josh watching a psychology documentary for a college project

jeez he's so hot when he's all concentrated, his brows a bit furrowed and pretty green eyes so focused

you wish they'd stop for a second and focus on you instead

you decide to not disturb him, even though the ache between your legs only intensified when you leaned down where he was seated on the couch and landed a soft kiss to his cheek

he was startled a bit since he did not even notice when you entered his apartment, he didn't even hear you knocking over the old man that was speaking on tv, good thing he left the door unlocked

"oh hi babe, sorry if i ignored you, i was just so caught up i guess i didn't notice you"

"no problem josh, whatchu watching?"

"just some documentary for a project"

"that sounds.. fun"

"trust me, it's not"

he leans back on the couch cushions letting out a long sigh closing his eyes. after a moment he opens them and you can see a grin on his face when he notices you on your knees between his legs

"why don't you let me.. help you relax for a bit? i imagine it's veeery hard working when you have other.. problems"

your hand sneaks up his thigh and slides across his crotch the moment you say the last word

problems

huh, maybe he does need to relax a bit and let you take care of him.

no, knowing himself he'd forget all about the documentary and the project and he wouldn't get anything done if he surrenders to your offer

"as much as i appreciate your offer babe- i'll have to decline, at least until i'm done with this bullshit"

the little sly smirk on your face is replaced by a confused frown. what's wrong with him? he never refused you. maybe this project really is that important after all

"oh, okay then.."

you say as you lift yourself up and go around the couch heading for the bathroom

"i'm gonna take a bath"

"maybe if i'm done after that we can continue what we started"

"oh i like the sound of that.. in that case i'll take my time in the bathroom to let you finish"

it's been one hour. your skin got all wrinkly from how long you had sat in the water filled bathtub.

what were you expecting? for him to join you?

is that why you left the bathroom door wide open? or was it to listen and check if that goddamn documentary was finally over?

well it wasn't.

you could still hear that old man's voice from the living room, echoing through the hallway and into the bathroom

jesus, you wondered how could he listen so intently to him? you couldn't even process one thing that he said since you arrived home

maybe you just didn't care about anything he had to say, or you refused to listen to him out of spite for 'stealing' away your boyfriend, a childish way to behave but what could you do?

you came home from a long exhausting day and all you wanted was for josh to fuck you silly

you finally step out of the bathtub and wrap a towel around yourself before exiting the bathroom and heading back to the living room

if josh wasn't going to take a break on his own accord, you were going to make him

you move so fast, it's like you're possessed by something and can't control yourself. you step in front of the tv and drop your towel without even thinking

but then you snap out of your frenzy and realize what you've just done, your face heating up from the embarrassment

you can't even bring yourself to look at josh, but you don't have to do that to notice the way he's shifting on the couch

"come here"

"josh-"

"i said come here"

you obey him stepping towards the couch and only then you notice his pants and underwear are off. ohhh, so that's why he was shifting so much

"what has gotten into you, huh? can't even wait 'till i'm done baby?"

"i'm sorry i-"

"i don't think you are, i think you wanted this since the beginning sweetheart"

"josh, please-"

you don't get to finish because he's grabbing your hand and pulling you in his lap. your breath hitches when your back hits his chest. your skin is still a bit damp from your bath but he doesn't seem to care

"now, you're gonna sit still on my cock until it's all over and listen to every single damn thing, are we clear?"

"y-yes"

he lifts you a bit and drags his length through your already slick folds before nudging his tip at your entrance and pushing you all the way down

your breath hitches at the slight sting but you don't get to protest because he shoves a notebook and a pen in you hands

"maybe you could even help me a little with my notes, huh? you think you can do that?"

absolutely not. you spent the last hour despising the sound of anything from that documentary, and now you're expected to write down notes? oh hell n-

"yes josh"

"good girl.."

holy shit, what are you gonna do? how are you supposed to write anything with his cock pulsing deep inside you?

oh but that's not all.. the teasing bastard decided to start rubbing circles around your clit while nipping at your shoulder blade

"what's wrong babe..? is it hard? trying to do something and being constantly distracted?"

"mfuck, josh-"

his hand slaps down on your sensitive nub, not hard enough to cause actual pain, but hard enough to send a stinging feeling straight to your core

"ohh, d'you like that baby? you're squeezing me so damn hard, fuck-"

you can feel him throbbing inside you, is he close? jeez, and he hasn't even moved, and you're not sure he will with the iron grip his other hand has on your hip holding you down

"oh c'mon josh, this is ridiculous"

you say turning your head and trying to wiggle your hips a little. maybe you'll convince him to finally give you what you wanted all evening?

you feel another slap on your pussy, this time a little harsher than before

"eyes forward babe, you should be watching the documentary, not me. ohhh look, you haven't taken any notes?"

another slap.

"what a shame.. i guess we're gonna have to watch the whole thing again? maybe then you'll be a good girl and do as you're told.. how long was it? 2 or 3 hours if i remember correctly..? "

"jesus fucking christ josh, i'm sorry, look i'm writing please please don't start it over please"

you start scribbling down on the paper in a desperate attempt to make him change his mind

maybe you are gonna have to listen to this shit after all

and you notice that the old man's voice you heard from the bathroom is not that unpleasant at all, on the contrary, he captivates you

maybe that's why josh was so drawn to this thing in the first place

after you're done and you show him what you've written down josh praises you and actually starts moving his hips pulling you tightly into his chest

"that's my smart girl.. look at you darling.. maybe we should watch some more documentaries together from now on, huh?"

[genderqueerdykes]

i dont know how to explain this exactly, but i feel like this 'no you DONT experience this and you dont get to call it that' or the 'you have it SO MUCH BETTER than us' that the trans community has going on is a bit stupid? i cant be the only one. not only do we all have our own individual problems; trans women, trans men, non binary people, other genders and all, and intersex people too, but sometimes labelling them as 'no this is one specific type that only us face' seems a bit useless. dont get me wrong, we should of course have labels for this. but labelling them as 'exclusively happens to this group' seems weird. let me explain myself.

for example, transmisoginy. word for the transphobia that trans women face. it is a wonderful concept so that they can talk about their experiences, but i feel like transmisoginy affects all of us in a way. it is stupid to say 'only WE face this and the rest of you dont get it'. i am a trans man. and for a while, i was scared of going into the men's bathrooms, so i went into the women's. i am a rather androgynous person, and guess what, i noticed a lot of people giving me weird looks, one even asking me if i was a trans woman. how do i even label this? transandrophobia? these people werent harrassing me because i was a trans man, but because they thought i was a trans woman. on the other side of the spectrum, we could have, i dont know, a feminine cis guy who everyone asks if he has a pussy or something! or an intersex cis woman who people ask if she is transfem! cis black women not being allowed in women's bathrooms due to being ""masc""! like, it affects others.

i just dont know how to describe it, i feel like i am going mad. like, please stop infighting guys gals and pals i swear to god. this is stupid.

-words like 'transmysoginy', 'transandrophobia' and such are pretty useful when talking about our experiences, but it would be kinda cool if we could recognise how they might affect people outside of our demographic too, which i feel doesn't tend to be aknowledged much?

-for this. words like TME and TMA are bullshit. literally why would you use them. this is stupid. where do nonbinary and intersex people fall then, come on?

-the problem is transphobia and mysoginy. i feel like people forget that. it isnt some specific individual, o stereotype of trans person or something, it is transphobia.

-everyone has it fucked. instead of trying to compete for the martyr title, it would be cool if we could all just work on it together instead of pushing others down.

-how do others not get this. seriously. like how can you wake up one day and decide 'i am going to blame my troubles on my already troubled siblings!'. this goes to everyone by the way. trans men, trans women, non binary people, people with several genders or none, whatever.

-YOU ARE NOT INCAPABLE OF BEING TRANSPHOBIC AND A MISOGYNIST TOO EVEN IF YOU ARE TRANS. you could be a trans guy and put other transmascs down for their 'un-masculinity'. or a trans woman and be mysoginist. YOU ARE. CAPABLE. OF HARM.

-also more people should try to aknowledge how sometimes transmisoginy will affect black people too. i know, i know, i am a little white boy and know nothing about it, but we all should agree that a lot of black women are being harrassed by terfs for not achieving the white femininity they want them to have

i am going to admit it. i am a fucking sixteen year old. maybe all i said is bullshit and stupid or whatever. but how the fuck can adult trans people act like ignorant children like this. please. i am so tired oh my fucking god. why.

you popped right the fuck off, holy shit anon. you don't have to downplay yourself for being sixteen- that doesn't dictate your intelligence. you have a mature approach to this, and you can see it for what it is, which is something some people in their goddamn 20s, 30s and beyond on here can't do. you are extremely right in calling out adults for behaving like this. someone your age SHOULDN'T HAVE TO DO THAT. as adults, we should be doing our absolute best to fucking know better, and yet here we are.

i really hope other queer adults read this and feel fucking embarrassed if they behave and think this way. minors shouldn't have to be the ones calling out this behavior.

you said it all, i don't need to add a single thing because i do not want to distract from what you had to say. you summed it up perfectly. this is such a good ask, thank you so much. stay safe out there.

[hyperfix-wip]

The Price of Conviction

Pairing: Prowler!Hobie Brown x Fem!Spider!Reader

Word count: 2k

Summary: What happens when the Prowler finds out the spider vigilante all the criminals are hunting down is the love of his life?

Author's Note: The first post of 2025, and I decide to kick it off with angst of all things 🥲 I would say sorry, but I low key am not... Anyways, big shoutout to @pinksugarscrub for beta reading this fic! Also tagging @the-kr8tor , @frostbitten-writer , and @rexlroze for our one discussion a long time ago as well as @seasharkz for their comment on it 😇

Tags: Prowler!Hobie, Spider!R, Angst, Lovers to (Future) Enemies, TW Violence, TW Graphic Violence, TW Slight Body Horror, TW Thoughts of Death, TW Conspiracy to Murder, TW Anxiety and Spiralling, Brief Mention of US Healthcare System, No Y/N

This was supposed to be an easy job for Hobie.

That was what that bastard Kingpin told him earlier this afternoon. All he had to do was hunt down that spider hero that suddenly popped out of nowhere a year ago. That spider that started getting attention from everybody in the Underworld the first time they stopped one of Green Goblin’s attacks in Central Park. That spider that took down Sandman during one of his “freakout” sandstorms all over New York and sent his ass to Ryker’s. That damn spider that exposed the Sinister Six– the top people who controlled the Underworld– to the public, in turn fucking over the rest of the criminals as those blue pigs in the NYPD tried to hunt down every single criminal and enforce all security in every bank, jewelry store, politicians and CEOs’ houses or wherever money can be found.

That spider was fucking up everybody’s money– fucking up his money. Money he was trying to save up to finally leave this city, this life, behind him. To buy a damn boat and sail away from all the crime and violence in the Underworld. To invest in a prosthetic arm that wasn’t built by some scraps of plastic and metal and spite for the bullshit health insurance company policies.

But most of all, to finally give you– his girlfriend, the love of his life– the life you deserved. To live in your own home rather than pay rent at a shitty studio apartment. To go out on actual dates rather than just buying greasy pizza at that disgusting pizza parlor down the street. To buy you actual presents and nice clothes rather than stealing them from those ridiculously expensive department stores. To finally buy you a ring like the two of you always talked about for years, to get down on one knee in front of you and wait for you to say yes, to watch you walk down the aisle in a beautiful white dress he knew you always wanted to wear.

That damn spider was fucking all of that up for him, and if getting rid of that infuriating pest gave him all the money Kingpin was willing to shell out for a mere bounty, then he was signing that dotted line. He would gladly drag that spider by the neck, through gravel and broken glass, like a rag doll. He would gladly break that spider’s arms and legs and fling them over the tallest building to watch them splatter over the sidewalk. He would gladly stab that spider through the chest with his clawed gauntlet, watching their blood slowly run down his chromed arm while they gasped out the last of their breath.

This job was supposed to be fucking easy.

So why the fuck are you under that mask?

Why the fuck are you standing in front of him in that stupid red and blue suit? Why the fuck are you just standing there in the middle of your guys’ bedroom, giving him your usual beautiful smile? Why the FUCK are you just looking at him with the same hope and love in your eyes with that godforsaken mask in your hand?

The smile on your face started to falter the longer he stared at you in stunned disbelief. “Baby?”

God, don’t call him baby. Not when you’re in that damn suit.

Hobie continues to stare at you from his work desk, his hand clutching onto his fake arm that he was about to take off. Sharp tingles shoot up from his amputated arm, the base of his elbow screaming underneath his makeshift prosthetic, the metal around his limb chafing his skin and making the tingles worse. White noise screams in his ears, piercing through his rampant thoughts, while his body refuses to move from his spot.

You nervously squirm under his intense scrutiny as you glance down at the floor, suddenly finding the scuff on your shoe interesting while you ignore his eyes burning into your very being.

“I-I know this is a lot,” you swallow the lump lodged in the back of your throat before looking back up to the shadows hiding his eyes, “but I can explain…”

You slowly cross through the cramped bedroom, shuffling through the crack between his desk and the bed until you’re right in front of him. Your fingers curl into themselves, itching to pick at your cuticles through the web-lined gloves.

“So, uh… y’know how I got really sick right after I finished my story on Alchemax? The one about their new genetics department?” you start off, the ghosts of the fluctuating chills and hot flashes rushing down your spine haunting you, the muscle memory of your throat burning from dry heaving bile. “Something actually happened while I was there…”

Despite your sheepish reassurance, your hands still tremble as you slowly take off your left glove by the middle finger sleeve, exposing your skin little by little, until you peel it off and reveal two small dark bite marks with small web-like veins sprouting around your ring finger.

“I got bit by a spider over there, and I was fine the whole day until, y’know… I wasn’t.”

Hobie’s heart seizes as a flashback of finding you collapsed and convulsing on the bathroom floor, gagging and hacking out yellow-white foam onto the checkered tile, forces itself up the forefront of his mind. That moment still sends a wave of panic over his body.

“I mean, I got better the day after, but…” your voice wavers as you glance up at the ceiling, your heart rattling against your ribs, before you slowly curl your ring and middle fingers into the middle of your palm. Hesitation lingers in your fingers, but the moment you press them against your palm, a thick web-like rope shoots out of your wrist and sticks onto the ceiling. You swallow the bitter bile down your throat before you shakily wrap your free hand around the web and slowly climb up, catching the quick gasp from his lips while his eyes follow your dangling figure.

An overwhelming urge to scream bubbles up in Hobie’s chest as he continues to stare at this unexpected nightmare. His loving, sweet, normal girlfriend is hanging off the fucking ceiling, climbing and sticking herself onto the ceiling, crawling across by padding your hands onto the surface while wearing a stupid spandex suit like a child in a Halloween costume playing on the monkey bars.

This. Can’t. Be. Happening.

Your voice gradually muffles out through his ears while white noise starts to ring in his head again. All the news articles and rumors from the Underworld about that damn spider suddenly flood his mind, but denial still clings onto him.

You, his girlfriend? You, who would yelp and quickly smack his hand away for pinching your ass? Who would run away when a fly buzzes too close to your ear? Who would rather swallow needles than to tell a fast food worker they got your order wrong? Who would rather back off from an argument than to dig yourself deeper into it?

You stopped that crazy Green Goblin from destroying Central Park? You sent Sandman to Ryker’s? You took down The Lizard— one of the members of the Sinister Six— in front of the press and exposed the rest of them and the Underworld to the public?

You’re the one Kingpin put a bounty on? The one everyone in the Underworld is hunting down? The one everyone wants dead?

Horror trembles in Hobie’s eyes as the spider he had in his mind slowly morphed into you. The sick image of him dragging your body across the floor churns his stomach. The idea of your body falling down until you hit the pavement like a bouncing ball nearly makes him gag. The thought of the light in your eyes being snuffed out in front of you while blood from your fatal wound on your chest runs down his clawed prosthetic gauntlet, hanging limp by his hand, sends him to an overwhelming spiral of despair.

God, not you. Anyone but you.

Oblivious to Hobie’s inner turmoil, you unstick yourself from the ceiling and drop down onto the bed feet first, bouncing up in the air before landing back down on the spring mattress on your rear. Anxiety fills your eyes and chest as you keep your eye on his rigid figure, his knuckles turning white from gripping onto his prosthetic arm for dear life, before you frantically rush to his side.

“Hobie? Baby?”

For once your voice falls on deaf ears, and panic squeezes at your lungs. Your heart lurches the moment he flinches from your touch, your hands trembling as you try to pry his hand away from the makeshift arm with as little strength as you can without hurting him.

“Baby, please talk to me,” you whisper-plead to him while tears prick up in your eyes. “I need you to talk to me, please.”

When his hand finally lets go, you desperately thread your fingers through his and squeeze, and a small flicker of relief pricks your chest the moment he briefly squeezes back before you keep going.

“I know this is hard to believe, but I need you to.” Fear and heartbreak clings to your throat while you blink away some stray tears and kneel in front of him. “I’m trying to keep New York safe– not just in general, but for you, me, us!-- but I don’t know if something is gonna happen to me out there later on, or if something’s gonna happen to you–”

A sharp hiccup sneaks up your throat before you could stop it, and more tears drip down your face as you bite back a sob and press your lips against his knuckles. “I love you so much, baby, I can’t lose you…”

The moment you utter those words, Hobie finally manages to break through his spiral and pull you into his embrace, running his fingers through your hair while the prosthetic arm wraps around your waist and pulls you between his legs and against his chest. You tense up from the sudden movement, but as his warmth slowly seeps into your body, the rest of your tears finally stream down your face before you bury your face in his chest and strangle out another sob.

“God, I can’t lose you, Hobie,” your voice cracks with each painful breath, “I can’t do this without you, please don’t leave me–”

Anguish floods in Hobie’s glassy eyes as he clings to you for dear life, pressing his lips hard against the top of your head, silently praying that this whole ordeal is just a fucked up nightmare for him while you continue to beg him not leave you for lying to him for a year.

The sick, twisted irony of it all– you, a vigilante hero, agonizing over losing him. Meanwhile, just hours ago, he relished the idea of killing you for money.

Hobie nearly gags from the bile clinging to his throat, but he struggles to swallow it down as he shushes against your head and gently rocks you back and forth in his arms.

“It’s...it’s gonna be okay,” he finally croaks out, hating how the blatant bittersweet lie easily spills through his lips. “It’s gonna be okay, I’m right here. Nothing’s gonna happen to me, nothing’s gonna happen to us…”

His desperate attempt of reassuring you– and himself– only worsens your cries as you snake your arms around his waist and cling to the back of his shirt, repeatedly stabbing him in the heart with each tear running down your eyes and seeping into the cotton fabric. Guilt and despair looms over his shoulders as he hiccups his own frustrated cry, struggling to push away the intrusive temptation of the bounty and fear of losing you, but he continues to silently pray for your forgiveness while feeding you more poisoned sweet lies, if only for them to somehow miraculously become true.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to us…”

[winchesterwild78]

Second Take pt 2

Master List

Characters: Jensen x Reader (exs), Karl Urban, Eric Kripke, other characters from the set of The Boys

Warnings: Angst, Mention of loss of pregnancy, kinda infidelity, smutish.

A/N: Jensen and Reader confront their past in this chapter. The fallout from their kiss is still lingering and Danneel takes responsibility for her actions.

This is a work of fiction and does not depict real life. 

Reblogs, comments and likes are appreciated. 

Please don’t take my work and use it as your own or on any other platform. 

Minors DNI 18+

Jensen nodded and Eric walked away. Jensen took a steady breath and knocked on the door. “Hey, sweetheart, can I come in?” 

I stood in stunned silence. The door opened, “Y/N, are you in here?” “Yeah I’m here. Jensen, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with Danneel?” 

He walked in and closed the door. “Y/N, I’m where I need to be. We need to talk about everything. Danneel is going to the hotel. I’ll go talk to her later.” 

He walked up to me and turned my face to him. He looked at the side of my face where Danneel slapped me. It was still red and starting to bruise. “God, I’m so sorry. She had no right to slap you.” 

I pulled away from him. Being in his arms was too much. “No, Jensen. She had every right to. I kissed her husband.” 

“No, she’s a fucking hypocrite. She kissed me on set all those years ago, unscripted and that’s how things started between us. So her slapping you is bullshit.” 

I looked at him in shock. I’d never known what happened and part of me wanted to stay in the dark. 

Eric was right, however. Jensen and I needed to talk about everything. 

“Jens I’m going home. If you want to talk you’re welcome to come over. I’m exhausted and Eric told me to go home.” 

Jensen cupped my face and placed a soft kiss on my cheek. “I’ll be there.” 

Our eyes locked on each other and time stood still. My heart was beating wildly in my chest and my mind began to spin. I wanted to be his again. I wanted to tell him about our baby, how for the past 13 years no one has ever measured up to him and how no one ever will. I just looked at him and softly smiled. 

Jensen left and I grabbed my stuff and headed home. 

About 10 minutes after I got home there was a knock on the door. It was Jensen. I opened the door and let him in. 

Walking in he looked around, “The place looks great, Y/N. I see you still have the table.” 

He smirked looking over at the small wooden table in the kitchen. I smiled thinking about all the wonderful memories we shared with that table. 

The day we bought it in the middle of a snowstorm, the meals we shared, and even the day he bent me over it and took me so good I climaxed three times. 

My cheeks flushed red, “Yeah, it’s a good table. Can I get you something to drink, beer, soda, water?” 

“I’ll have a beer.” I nodded and grabbed two beers from the fridge. 

He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the chair. Then he sat on the couch. 

I handed him a beer and sat down across from him. 

Silence filled the room. I wasn’t sure where to start. “Jens, I’m sorry for causing problems for you and Danneel. I respect you and your marriage. I’m not trying to come between you two. You made your decision years ago and I live with it. I’ll keep things professional. I promise.” 

“Y/N, my marriage isn’t as perfect as everyone thinks. We’ve been having problems since before JJ was born. We almost divorced and then she ended up pregnant with the twins. I couldn’t leave her right after finding out she was pregnant again. We’ve been drifting apart ever since. I meant what I said to you yesterday, I never cheated on you. She kissed me on set and it wasn’t in the script. They loved it so much they wrote it in. Every time we did the take she would add something different to it and caused us to have to do another take. We started making out during one take and things heated up.” 

As he continued to talk I felt the sting of tears prick my eyes. My stomach was in knots and I felt like I was going to be sick. 

“I pushed her away and left for the day. I went to the bar and drank. I didn’t know what to do about the feelings I started to develop for her. I felt guilty about the scene, kissing her and making out with her. I came home and just needed space to figure it out. When I saw you so broken it killed me. I betrayed you so I let you think I cheated. I figured it would be easier for you to move on. It was stupid. I was stupid, because if I’m being honest I never moved on. Every single day I’ve thought about you. My wedding day I had to get drunk just to get through it. It should have been you there with me, not her. You should have given birth to my children.”

The tears I held back fell down my cheeks. Jensen sat his beer down and grabbed mine, placing it on the coffee table. His hands found my face. I leaned into his touch as he brushed the tears away. 

“Jens, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you fight for us? I would have understood. Sure it would have hurt, but nothing compared to this. I’ve spent 13 years not feeling like I’m enough. Like I’m not worthy of being loved. Jens I have to tell you something. You’re probably going to hate me, but I’m prepared for that. I’ve already lost you, so it’s not like I can lose you again. The day you left, that morning I went to the doctor. I found out I was pregnant. I had a dinner planned and I even bought a onesie that had “Dean Winchester is my Daddy” printed on it. I had it wrapped and I was planning on giving it to you that night. Then you left. About a month later I lost the baby. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, and I’m so sorry I lost our baby. I tried everything to keep them safe but I couldn’t even do that. I’m glad you got the babies you deserve.”

Jensen leaned in and his lips ghosted over mine. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.” My mind spun. I wanted him, I needed him, but he was married. I couldn’t do that to her, to his children. 

I placed my hands on his chest, “Jens, we have to stop. God I don’t want to, but I can’t do this to her or your children.” He leaned back and shook his head, “I understand sweetheart.” 

“Jensen, I don’t know where this leaves us. I’m still in love with you, so deeply in love with you, but I won’t be the other woman. I’m not going to make you or ask you to choose between me and your wife. I won’t take you away from your children, Jensen.”

Jensen cupped my face, “God you’re incredible. I’m sorry I left you alone in everything. I should have been there when you lost the baby. I’m still in love with you too. I never stopped loving you. I need to head to the hotel and talk to D, but I want to come back and finish talking to you.” He placed a soft kiss on my forehead and pulled me up as he stood. Pulling me flush to his chest. I inhaled his scent, that scent that is distinctly Jensen.

I didn’t want to let him go. He pulled back and looked in my eyes, “Baby, I’ll be back. I promise.”

I nodded and walked Jensen to the door. He pulled on his jacket and turned towards the door. My heart hammered in my chest. Screaming at me to not let him go, to beg him to stay and choose me for once. My mind kept telling me to let him go, to let him go back to his wife.

His hand on the doorknob I took a deep breath. I grabbed his arm, “Jens wait!” He turned around and we both closed the distance between each other. His hands in my hair and our lips crashing together. Our tongues fought for dominance and the kiss was deep, full of passion and need.

When we finally pulled away our chests were heaving, gasping for air. His eyes dark with lust, mine just as dark. He grabbed my waist and pulled me close to him, his lips on mine again. Our moans filled the air as his hands went under my ass and pulled me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he carried us to the couch. 

Jensen laid me down and hovered over me, “God you’re so beautiful. Baby I need you.” “I need you too, Jensen.” “Are you sure?” I nodded yes. 

I knew it was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but we couldn’t stop. 

Our lips were connected again. The kiss grew needier as Jensen’s hands ran up my shirt. I arched my back and moaned his name. Jensen leaned forward and took off his shirt. I bit my lip, god I forgot how incredible he looked. 

My hands ran up his chest as I grabbed his biceps. “Let’s go to the bedroom, Jensen. I need you, all of you.” Jensen climbed off the couch and pulled me up. I giggled as he pulled me flush to his chest. We started walking down the hallway, the anticipation building. Consequences be damned. Jensen and I tumbled onto the bed and he wrapped his arms around me. “I love you, Y/N. So much.” I smiled. For the first time in years I actually believed someone loved me, “I love you too, Jensen.” Our lips found each other again in a heated kiss. Jensen had removed my shirt, leaving just my bra, his lips trailing down my body. I tried to cover myself. It had been 13 years since he last saw me naked, and my body had definitely changed. “No, don’t hide yourself. You’re beautiful, I love these curves and fuck, these breasts are so supple” 

His lips continued down my body and he found his way to my pants. His eyes looked up at mine and I nodded. He slid my pants off and growled. I could see his erection through his pants and my walls clenched around nothing. I could still remember the way he felt, how he stretched and filled me up. How his hands and lips explored my body. 

I can still remember the way his tongue licked and sucked my nipples and how it felt when he ate me out like a man starved. He was very skilled with his tongue and his pouty lips. 

I could feel my arousal pooling in my panties as my mind remembered how he felt, how we felt when we made love. His fingers hooked the waistband of my panties and he pulled them down. 

My breath hitched as I felt the cool air fan over my wetness. Jensen used his legs to spread mine. “Damn baby, you’re already soaked. So ready for me.” He smirked. 

Jensen leaned forward and kissed my lips and I felt his erection pressing firmly against my thigh. Jensen leaned back and was positioning himself in between my legs. Laying on his belly I felt his hot breath across my exposed pussy. His fingers parted my lips and I gasped. “I can’t wait to taste you again. It’s been too long. As Jensen licked a strip up to my engorged clit I let out a moan and the shrill sound of his phone interrupted us. 

Jensen leaned up, “Fuck! He stood up and grabbed his phone. I grabbed the sheet and covered myself up. He looked at his phone and groaned. “Sorry baby, I have to take this.” I nodded as he walked out of the room. I looked at myself, naked and about to have sex with a married man. 

The shame crashed down on me. I quickly grabbed my clothes and put them on. Walking into the living room I heard him on the phone with Danneel. My heart clenched in my chest. 

“Yes, I’ll be there soon. I agree, we have a lot to talk about. Okay, bye.” He spun around and saw me standing there dressed, “Baby what are you doing?” “We can’t do this Jensen. You’re married. I can’t be the other woman. I want to be the only woman, I deserve that.” 

Jensen cupped my face, “Yes you do, baby. I’m telling her tonight I want a divorce. I don’t love her anymore. I haven't for a long time, and if I’m being honest I never loved her like I do you. I choose you, and only you.”

“Jensen, what about your kids? I can’t be the cause of you not being able to see them.” “Sweetheart, don’t worry about that. It won’t come to that, I promise. Please believe me I will find a way to make you happy again, give you that life we talked about and I’ll still have my kids in my life.” 

I nodded. He kissed my lips, grabbed his shirt and put it on followed by his jacket. “Can I come back later?” I nodded, “I’d like that, Jensen.” He pulled me into his arms and held me, kissed me again and we said our goodbyes. 

I took a deep breath and let it out. I felt like the pain from the last 13 years was starting to ease. It was still there, but I felt like we were starting to heal. 

Guilt crept in as I thought about Danneel and the kids, but I had to trust that Jensen knew how to handle everything. I was still deeply in love with him, and he was still in love with me. 

Jensen sent me a text when he got to the hotel.

Jensen: Hey baby. I’m at the hotel, I’ll text when I leave. I love you.

Me: Okay. I love you too, Jensen.

Jensen walked in the hotel room to find Danneel sitting on the couch. She looked at Jensen and he looked at her. “Hey, thanks for coming. We need to talk.”

Jensen nodded “I agree.” Jensen sat down in the chair across the room. “So where should we begin?” Jensen asked. Danneel took a deep breath, “Is she okay?” 

Jensen was stunned by the question, “What?” “Is Y/N okay? I don’t know what came over me. I never should have slapped her.” 

Jensen nodded, “Yeah, she’s okay. It’s going to bruise a little, but she’s okay.” Danneel shook her head. 

“Jensen, where do we go from here? You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been in a really long time.” “I agree. D, I don’t want to hurt you and I don’t want anything to keep my kids from me.”

“Do you love her?” Jensen looked at Danneel and nodded, “Yes I do. I never stopped. I’m sorry.” “Did you ever love me?” “Yes, I did, it was just different, and I’ll always love you as the mother of my children. No matter what happens between us, no one will take that away from you.”

Danneel took a deep breath, “This has been a long time coming hasn’t it? Things haven’t been good between us since before JJ was born. We were fooling ourselves. Jens, I’m sorry.” 

Jensen stood and sat beside Danneel, “Hey, no don’t do that. It wasn’t all bad. We have three beautiful children together, and there were happier times.” She nodded, “Jens, I think we are better off as friends. I love you, but I’m not in love with you, and I know you’re in love with her. I’m not mad. I get it. The two of you were supposed to get married before I came along.”

“D, I agree. I think we are better off as friends. Don’t worry about anything. The kids will always be taken care of. You have my word. I’ll come see them, take them when I can. They will always be my first priority.” 

She nodded, “Do you think you can tell Y/N I’m sorry for everything.” Jensen nodded, “Yeah I can do that.” Jensen and Danneel stood. She looked at Jensen and sadly smiled, “I guess this is goodbye.” “Yeah, I think it is.” He pulled her in for a hug, “I do love you D.” “I know Jensen, and I love you too, but it’s not enough when you’re not in love anymore. I’d rather split as friends than wait and split as enemies.” 

“I’m going to fly back home tomorrow. I’ll wait to tell the kids until you’re back and we can tell them together.” Jensen nodded. He walked in the bedroom and packed a bag, “You stay here tonight.” 

As Jensen put his hand on the door Danneel called to him, “Hey Jens, go get your girl.” Jensen smiled and nodded as he walked out the door.

Stepping in the elevator he pulled out his phone to send a text.

Jensen: Hey baby. I’m coming over, everything is done.

Me: Hey. Are you okay?

Jensen: Yeah, it went better than I thought it would. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there. I love you!

Me: I’ll be waiting, and I love you too.

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[aidentitycrysis]

On the left is an official document issued to the Chinese government by the American Embassy, shared on xiaohongshu and apparently believed by normal Chinese folk, that is filled with so many lies it makes me want to rage puke- and I'm not even American. On the right is the translation of this document into English. Here's a little tl;dr-

- According to the American Embassy, the average American household income is $1.2 MILLION. This is clearly a manipulated statistic, but the method of manipulation is interesting- because for this number to make sense as an average, it would mean the wealthiest people in America could make every household millionaires and still be millionaires themselves. I don't doubt that this is, indeed, the mathematical average of American income, which is disgusting considering the income of the average American.

-According to the American Embassy, social security provides adequate healthcare, childcare, social services and pensions to a majority of Americans. They are literally saying you guys get FREE HEALTHCARE. At this point, everybody in the Western world knows this is patently untrue, no matter which way you approach the matter.

-According to the American Embassy, recent surveys have shown that Americans don't even consider 'millionaires' to be rich anymore. I don't even know what to say about this one, I'm lost for words! Every American I know would consider themselves, at the very least, profoundly fortunate if they were a millionaire.

- According to the American Embassy, food costs account for roughly 10% of household income, and a 1.3% rise in the price of groceries recently is in line with recent wage increases and therefore effectively unchanged. Is this your experience of recent increases in the cost of food? Pretty confident the answer is "LMAO no, wtf?!".

Look, I know I'm not American, but I care about several American people personally, and I care about human beings generally. I've spent time in LA and seen the homeless camps. It breaks my fucking heart to know that many of the people in those camps have done nothing to deserve it except be unfortunate enough to require a medical procedure.

Much like an abusive partner, the American government- under BOTH Republican and Democratic rule- have maintained a long running campaign of information control and disinformation that has thrived on the inability of most American people to communicate with Chinese people. Think about it- the right wing hate China because of the so-called evils of communism, and the left wing distrusts China for a slew of alleged human rights violations, few of which have been substantiated by anyone actually inside of China since the 90s. I'm forced to wonder how much truth there is to many of the things I've learned from sources that I've now found out are happy to manipulate statistics and outright lie in official government documents.

Look, I'm British, my government is evil as hell, all day every day, it doesn't matter who we vote for, they stay evil. Not only am I sick to my stomach about what an insult to humanity these documents are, it makes me wonder what lies my own government has hidden in foreign languages, away from the eyes of my working class.

Luigi said "This is an insult to the intelligence of the American people". He's right. They are insulting you. They are insulting all of humanity with this bullshit. I'm not saying put aside all your differences with people on the other side of the fence to you, but I am saying that they keep us from working together the same way they kept this document a secret- by making it unlikely that we will come together to have a rational conversation, rather than a debate, and compare notes. It's the same way they are stopping us from making any kind of meaningful change for the better as a society.

Every normal person in the West is struggling right now. We are all FUCKED, and we are only getting more fucked as time goes on. But the rich are still getting richer. The businesses we owe our paychecks to in order to survive have experienced record profits as they tell us they can't afford to pay us decently or offer a fair and affordable price for their services. This isn't just inept and indifferent- it's fucking sadistic. We need to put aside the political arguments we've been taught to have and start having conversations across the divide so that we have a chance to scare these fuckers straight at some point in our lifetime.

[cakerybakery]

“Ten.” God’s voice hadn’t been this clear in Adam’s head since Eden. “Earn ten spots and you can return to heaven.”

Then Adam was groaning in the dirt. His chest ached and put a hand to it as he rolled and used two hands to push himself from laying on the ground into sitting on it. His head was ringing and he put a hand to it in an attempt to sooth his poor brain.

Everything looked weird. Things were drained of colour. Maybe he hit his head?

Could you go colourblind doing that?

He didn’t know, he wasn’t a fucking doctor.

Massaging his temples and face, Adam tried to will colour to come back. It didn’t work and he sighed, dropping his hands to his lap.

“Great. I’m also seeing double.” He closed one of his left hands and then one of his right. Repeating the process with his other left hand and his other right hand.

…

Adam screamed.

Four hands! FOUR FUCKING HANDS!

Why did he have four hands?

Did he have four legs too? He yanked up his robe and screamed again. There was only the two legs but they were very not human. More pointed, the joints were strange, as though he was permanently going to be wearing high heels. Like his arms they were all black, but Adam wasn’t sure if that was because they were black or because he was colourblind now.

For all he knew he was neon pink.

He pulled at the robe and he was the same there too.

Adam touched his skin, it was hard but pliable. A small gasp escaped his throat as pleasure tingled up into his brain.

The screaming seemed to attract attention and there was a surprised, “Adam?” From behind him.

His winged buzzed instead of flapped and Adam turned to look over his shoulder. A hard cover was split open and two gossamer looking wings had unfolded from underneath.

His wings! His beautiful wings! They were now gross bug wings.

Adam wanted to cry when something shiny caught his eye over his shoulder.

A golden spool of thread on the ground. He could see the colour. Adam looked to see where the thread went and didn’t have to look far.

It was tied neatly around the finger of Lucifer’s bitch kid and linked her to fucking Vaggie. What the shit was this? No one seemed to notice the thread at all. Lucifer passed right through it to walk towards him.

He had a thread as well. Black as the void of space and leading up toward the heavenly portal. ‘To Lilith.’ Adam realized. There were more strings.

The lovers had gold but that pornstar and some weird cat guy had one that was bubblegum pink and faded, weak. What’s his face, radio fucker, had an electric blue one that fizzed and popped.

“STAB!” A blur shouted as it launched for his face. Lucifer grabbed her and took the dagger coated in golden blood away.

“HEY! Is that the cunt that stabbed me? I’ll fucking kill her.” His wings buzzed and he zipped into the air with easy. Hovering much easier than he had with his feathered wings.

“WHOA! Whoa!” Charlie stepped between them before Adam could launch himself at the tiny bitch. “The fighting is over.” She took her eyes off him and approached the bug-eyed freak. “Niffty. He’s obviously not an angel anymore, so no stabbing. Okay?”

Her eye rolled towards him and she seemed to think it over for a second before cheerily going, “Okay.” And zipping out of Lucifer’s grasp with an easy that said she had been letting the king of hell hold her.

“And as for you.” She stepped towards him and held out her hand. “Seeing as you have no where else to go, why not stay here? Safer than the rest of hell. Free room and food as well.”

He landed on his spindly legs, but didn’t take her hand. “And what’s the catch? There’s always a catch.”

“Redemption.” She said in a halfhearted cheer. “Uhh, that is, we, you, would join us in redemption activities.”

God’s voice echoed back to him. He needed to earn ten spots to get back to heaven. But how?

Adam didn’t believe in this redemption bullshit. But what if there was something there that got him his spots? At the very least it would be a safe place to crash. And those threads probably had something to do with it. He couldn’t think of another reason why everything else was in black and white, except them.

Her hand started to droop and Adam sighed. “Fine. Deal.”

-

I was playing with my new pens and thought about drawing a pink bee since I was tired of using the yellow. And Lovebug Adam. He’ll have to help ten people with their love lives to earn his spots on his elytra (the hard cover over his wings) to fill up the golden heart he hasn’t noticed yet on his chest and earn heaven. But what happens when he helps Lucifer find love again and it’s him? Does he return to heaven or return Lucifer affections?

[martiandmichelle]

So this time it's Emily writing and it's also me in the photo. What do you think seeing me dressed like this? I'm a bit of a jeans and t-shirt gal so catching me in an outfit like this is unusual. But a client wanted to see me in such a getup so here I am trying to put on a sexy look.

And now confession time: in my heart of hearts I am purely lesbian, but my job - that I love to death - requires me to do some "escort" jobs with - yes - men. When I first started doing this with Marti and Studio M (now Mountain Media) a few years ago, I was VERY uncomfortable when I needed to do straight sex. I've grown into it since and have come to enjoy it. And, guess what - I actually do more "escort jobs" than any of the other ladies. They're reasons for that, of course. Marti is priced out of range for all but the richest clients. Maria has been our #2 escort girl, but she is also much more expensive than me and has a two night minimum. Willow is very picky. The other ladies are up and coming. And one little secret: I'm the only one our owners allow to do hourly escort! I don't do it very often but it's fun when I do. (I suspect Michelle will blow everybody else out of the water in terms of profit from escort in 2025 so I'm talking about 2024.)

So as my job as an escort - which I do feel is the second part of my job behind doing photo sessions and movies - it took me quite a while to grown into it, but as I did I began to discover who I was and what I preferred in straight sex. In doing so, I developed preferences much different from the other ladies. First and foremost: I developed a preference for older men: 50's, 60's, 70's. (I'm 36 as of this writing.) That's probably fortunate since it's mostly guys of that age that can afford Mountain Media and me. (It's important to understand that our owners set prices, not us.)

And here's another thing that's unusual about me and my sexual services (all the ladies say I'm weird so I guess this fits): I'm no size queen, like, say, Michelle. I honesty don't care how big a guy's cock is. Small is fine, maybe better. And my favorite thing is turning a soft cock into a hard one. I like to make a man cum quickly then spend time with his limp cock and empty balls in my mouth (maybe all together!) and work it over good until it's hard again. Kinda different, huh?

Oh, and YES, I love having guys enjoy my body. Like Marti, my favorite thing is watching and feeling someone (or someones) suck my nipples and play with my boobs. (Maybe that comes from me being a natural lesbian?)

One last thing and I'll quit rambling. And that's what was going through my mind the first time I had two guys at the same time or even being in the center of a gang bang. The first thing I thought was "What the FUCK am I doing?" But, I have to admit, being in the middle of two (or more) very horny guys is, well, interesting to say the least. I decided if I was going to be getting fucked by guys whether in a video or in my escort business then I think the more the better, right?!

Love you guys and sorry for making you read all this bullshit.

Emily

[k0nanharv3y]

OKAY I CANNOT LET THIS DIE

Part 1 of this bullshit

"Hero? Villain? or misunderstood mind?", "Has he done more good for Gotham than its own inhabitants? What Wayne has to say about it", "The reality of the situation; Statistics of the recent attacks on Wayne Enterprise and Gotham City"

Tim didn't read the newspaper, it was boring, he didn't like it and he didn't have time to read the latest gossip from Gotham when he was most likely there. And he didn't need a piece of paper for that, that was contamination, he could get all the information he needed with just one search. So, yeah, Tim didn't read the newspaper

But then Riddle was imprisoned without even knowing it thanks to the newspaper and so Tim set himself the task of checking every single newspaper that ever mentioned him. And damn... Reddit was a thing when it came to twisting things, but this? This is blatant show-telling

Some called him a villain who didn't know how to do his job (in the first cases, really understandable, Tim barely knew what he was doing), but he had never set out to harm Gotham and apparently some people got angry...? Because... because he didn't kill anyone? (Joker doesn't count, he wasn't anybody) ...???. Others dared to lump him in with the Bats (And God bless the spilled coffee he spat out while choking reading that) saying how come; Apparently Tim was seen as a good guy and the explosions and cyber attacks on Wayne Enterprises had not been him but another rogue who was defeated by Tim???. But the others called it "The Evolution of Batman" and refuted his statistics. Batman's way was to go out and beat them until they calmed down, Tim's way was to cut them off at the root (Joker exploding in a building was nothing more than poetry. But the trafficking networks were eradicated by giving legal and stable jobs to those who distributed it, Tim didn't take their lives, not the literal ones at least, Tim changed them)

He finished high school early and dedicated himself to helping Gotham. It wasn't even illegal (stealing from the rich isn't illegal, their mere existence is illegal and unjust) Tim wasn't a villain, the citizens of Gotham seemed to love him just like they loved Batman; and if some building had to be blown up, at least nobody lived there and it was only to piss off the Bats

Batman's attempts to stop him seemed to cease... But Tim was greedy once... just once, and that led him to mess with forces he couldn't control. And then there was a price on his head, and Shiva and Deathstroke were after him. Because Ra's doesn't find it funny that a 14-year-old kid hacks into his systems and steals money to give to the poor. Shiva ended up being kind of... weird? She didn't kill him, but she threatened him that she would sooner or later, when Tim is a real threat to her (Tim learned to fight, thanks Shiva, but fuck it, it hurt) and Slade let him live because...??? I mean, he slit his throat and gave him enough trauma to last a lifetime, but he let him live... Tim doesn't think he's that lucky, this was already playing god

And then Ra's killed his mother

///

The irony is that Tim didn't WANT his mother, of course, she was his mother and he loved her deeply, but... it was like, a love out of responsibility, Tim was a child who was presented with, look, these are your parents and you must love them and respect them because they are your parents. That Janet's death hurt him so much... it was more a matter of pride, Tim didn't want revenge because Ra's killed his mother, he wanted revenge because Ra's killed his mother

And now he wasn't going to stop Gotham from burning. He was going to create the fire for Ra's to burn with whatever it took

If Batman stopped him, he didn't care, Tim had nothing to lose. His mother was dead and Ra's would pay for it

///

This is... actually before Batman's death, but after Damian became Robin, I'm working on this as I write, I don't have anything planned so...

Someone: Oh! Plot Hole!

I throw a brick at them and make sure they don't move anymore

Me: You didn't see anything.

[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.

[cliophilyra]

Last Lines Tag Game

Tagged by @fanficsbysteve @jamieroyjamieroy @bangpop91 @nine-one-wanton and @inawickedlittletown - thank you guys!

The most recent lines written for the salbucktommy mpreg thing that I am currently obsessed with - also thank you to @rdng1230 & @sunnywithachanceofbi for help with plotting this. So far it seems to be working...

"He said he didn't believe I'd want him to be my "last"," he makes angry air quotes with his fingers. "Said it's not usually the way it works out and I'd end up wanting to spread my wings or some bullshit, that I'd break his heart," he grits his teeth against the familiar anger. "But fuck my heart I guess," he shrugs. Sal is looking at him with an odd expression. His eyes are unfocused. He swallows hard and takes a deep breath through his nose like he's fighting something down. "I'm sorry kid," he says and his voice sounds ever so slightly rough around the edges. Buck shakes his head. "No hey I'm sorry. That's not…didn't mean to unload all that crap on you." Sal smiles. "It's all good baby, I started it," he runs his fingers over Buck's curls. "I really really gotta go though. You…you take care of yourself ok?" He leans over to kiss him once more on the lips before he stands up. Buck smiles. "Mm…thanks Sal, for—" "You too Buck. Maybe I'll see you around." The words echo in Buck's head long after the apartment door closes with a familiar final sound.

NP tagging - @thecarrott @fuselsstuff @bucksbignaturals @littlepaws9 @thatmexisaurusrex @louciferssacrament @xtarmanderx and anyone else who hasn't already done it!

[lazyscience]

Dungeon Crawler Carl Challenge

So I've been feeling pretty low the last few months. I know I'm not the only one riding that struggle bus, that a good number of the friends and mutuals around these parts are also feeling um. Uninspired, by current events. Demoralized, saddened, angry, confused, bereft - some of all of that.

One of the things I've been enjoying over the last year or so have been the Dungeon Crawler Carl books; some of you are probably also familiar, given a number of tabletop RPG folks hang out around these parts. If you haven't tried them, I heartily encourage them - they're cartoonishly violent, thoroughly offensive to anything resembling a religious or socially conservative sensibility, laden with body horror, full of cocker spaniel slander, and wildly vulgar in a teenage-boy sort of way. They are also full of complex and interesting female characters, affirmative masculinity, kindness in great duress, found family, anti-capitalism, pro-skepticism and determination in the face of overwhelming odds. A LOT of shit blows up. And the hero's wisecracking BFF is a Persian cat who is half Real Housewife, half neglected child.

The point of all this introduction to say: the titular Carl's mantra with which he is surviving the dungeon is, You will not break me.

And damn if I don't think he's got a point.

Spraytan Hitler getting inaugurated and nominating his bumbling coterie of asskissers to the Cabinet? Fuck him. Not gonna break me.

Morons trying to take rights, safety and bodily integrity away from people I love? Fuck them, not gonna break me.

People at work making THEIR months of fucking around MY workload problem now? Fuck that, not gonna break me.

Stupid chronic pain? Fuck it, not gonna break me.

Stupid depression and anxiety? Fuck no. Not gonna break me.

Now, dear reader, your challenge, should you choose to accept (you don't need to be a longtime follower or a follower at all, just a fellow crawler in this bullshit dungeon that is currently our lives who would like to stick it to The Corporation/The Universe At Large)

The AI of the dungeon likes to give Achievements. These are snarky, profane, moments of catharsis when you've finished a quest or defeated an enemy describing your reward (frequently just 'you're still alive, good for you') And since I don't have the wherewithal to send you guys the Celestial Benefactor Boxes you're out there grinding for, that's all I can give you - but if you want 'em, tell me what quest you've beaten/mob you've splattered each day and I'll give you an Achievement.

Mobs can be tasks you've been dreading, phone calls you don't want to make, awkward conversations, doctor's visits you don't want to schedule.

Quests are good things you're doing for yourself. Working out/making opportunities to move in any way? Making art/crafting/writing/other creative endeavors? Learning a new professional or personal skill? Reading longform books (of whatever genre) instead of doomscrolling? Making an effort to heal your relationship with food in ANY way you think is appropriate FOR YOU? Treating yo' self? Pedicures are a buff in the dungeon! (it's probably best to not ask why)

Party up - when we're doing something with/for others - or letting others help us - we are stronger together than we are apart.

Some days, all you're up to is staying alive. Just staying alive is a worthwhile accomplishment.

I am going to try to every day for the next 30 to post at least one mob I've fought, quest I've been working on, or party I've joined. And anybody who would like one, reblog mine with yours and I'll give you an Achievement.

Now get out there, crawlers, and kill, kill, kill!