#only tumblr shall remain in the end

[thebat-musicman]

can we call up the uhc shooter and ask if they can get suckerburg as well

[n-agiz]

Are you the one that wrote a fic about yandere best friend Armin?

yes !! it was posted on my old blog, but i deleted it when i moved to this one

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

Anti's, Twitter Freaks, and Tumblr crazies seem to have this weird itch where they believe any women under 5'6" is "a literal child". And this shit has annoyed me for forever now. What's more this conversation always comes up in regards to Loli in anime and tall men with short women IRL. So here's a poll. And then more context.

Long story short, or rather as short as I can get it. I'm getting sick and tired of the idea that age somehow doesn't matter but, physical appearance of age does somehow matter instead. Especially when it comes with the context of anime. And even then more so I get frustrated at the fact that I have to talk with anyone about what is appropriate and not appropriate IRL.

The fact of the matter is and will remain that just because a girl looks like an adult does not in any way imply that it is okay to sleep with her unless you are also underage. (And I only make that caveat, because I know I can't stop young people from screwing around with one another.) But, when I see people whining about anime specifically I often end up with people who are fans of Ryoko from Kill La Kill or Kitagawa from My Dress Up Darling. Both of whom are minors. And if you like that, then you do you. Because I understand that with anime as an aesthetic they do have a tendency to look older or younger depending on how the people writing the story wanted them to come out.

However, a lot of people have a frustrating little quirk where if it looks like a character is too short, to flat chested, or has no back-end or thighs to speak of, they assess that that character is supposed to either be or look like a child (Ignoring they treat REAL women like this). Which also ignores this fun issue:

Because let's talk age of consent shall we. Sure, it's not universal across every country but it's pretty close among first world ones. But people make a big deal of characters that short with no bust, seek out people that like that character, and will literally treat that person as if they've harmed kids IRL. Yet are seemingly NEVER angry over the abuse of real kids. What's more they will claim something is pedophilia online, THEN SHARE IT saying something like "OMFG LOOK AT THIS EPSTEIN TIER ABUSER!", and I'm sitting here like, "I don't care how old you are if you're an adult you need to be punched in the throat and if your a minor, you and your parents need to be punches in the throat". (My reasoning here is simple. If you think something is CP why would you then share it to more people rather than just report it)

Epstein abused and trafficked MANY young girls and possibly young boys to a lesser extent. A person that likes this goblin?

Isn't even close to Epstein. Because:

This is a drawing

This drawing is humanoid but doesn't look like an actual human

This character is probably older than you are

This character is a dragon

This character is FICTIONAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My point for asking ladies heights is because I'm really sick of people more or less going, "as long as you look old enough it's fine" while not realizing they literally just made the argument that age is just a number and so long as you look of age you should be allowed to be sexually abused.

[noirvedette]

Chapter One: The Proposal

Satoru Gojo x Reader. (Royalty AU Series)

Synopsis: Wanting the best for your kingdom, you accept the marriage proposal sent by the Gojo empire to marry the new emperor Satoru Gojo. What you don't know is that he has been yearning for you since he came to know of your existence and is determined to make you reciprocate his affections. How far will he go to earn your love? Warnings: Explicit language, smut, slight angst, acts of violence(not between the main characters), war. Author's Note: Hi! This is my first writing on Tumblr and I hope you love this as much as I loved creating it! Honest feedback would be appreciated! Word Count: 1.1k words

Saying that the proposal was unexpected would be an understatement.

The day began like any other. Your two ladies-in-waiting, Miwa and Nobara, helped you dress, after which you had breakfast with your family in the main dining hall.

Being the firstborn of King Maximillian and Queen Eleanora of the prestigious kingdom Aveloria, your entire life consisted of cultivating you into the Queen that your people could rely on.

And here you were, _____ Amiria, at the bright age of only 22, the heir apparent to the throne, encompassing every quality a young royal should have. Not only did you excel in academics and eloquence, but you also thrived in war planning and wielding a sword. Your parents couldn't be more proud of the person you had grown into as they realized that the kingdom would end up in reliable hands.

There was little you wouldn't do for your kingdom. You loved the people, culture, traditions, and everything that made this land your home. Your citizens loved and cherished you, and it felt right that you did your best to ensure they lived a secure and satisfactory life under your rule.

You were discussing your kingdom's alliances and potential threats of war with your father when your emissary, Kento, stood at the entrance to the room.

"Your Majesties," He bowed in your direction before you beckoned him over. "Princess _____ has received a proposal."

"From who?" Your attention remained on the spread of documents on the table, as proposals were nothing new in your case.

Your pen drops from the previously strong grip of your hand when you hear his response.

"The Gojo Empire."

-

Since you turned eighteen, you had received countless proposals from suitors from kingdoms on the other side of the world.

But this was different. This was the Gojo Empire. The ruler of the largest empire the world had ever seen wanted your hand in marriage. This changed everything.

Now that the initial shock wore off, you sat in the drawing room with your younger brother, Heeseung, discussing the various details of the proposal.

"Satoru Gojo wants your hand in marriage. Interesting." Heeseung seemed to ponder. "This is clearly a move to form an alliance."

"That's a quick conclusion. You don't think he wants to marry me because I'm pretty?" You joked, poking your brother in the ribs.

"No, I don't, sister." He deadpans, causing you to glare at him. "Why would he want to marry a sewer rat?"

"You take that back." You laugh as you launch into a play-fight with your brother. The nineteen-year-old tried to overpower you but ultimately failed as you caught him in a headlock.

"Dearest, let go of your brother." Your mother chuckled as she walked in with your father.

Begrudgingly, you loosen your hold on Heeseung, muttering a quick 'only because Mama said so' before you let him go completely.

"Let's discuss the proposal, shall we?" Your father announced as he took a seat. "_____, what do you think?"

"Obviously, it's very beneficial for us. Being connected to the Gojo Empire means having ties with almost every kingdom in existence." You straighten your spine as you speak. "I think we should accept."

"A union will definitely bring benefits, but that's not what I'm asking, my dear." Your father's eyes soften as he looks at you endearingly. "Do you want this? Marriage is not a simple ordeal."

You take a moment to weigh your options. Love and similar nuances were never of importance to your rational mind. Sure, you read a few romance novels here and there, but that was simply for enjoyment. You never expected to experience love and being loved firsthand. It seemed that wouldn't change. Your kingdom and duties were of utmost importance to you.

"I'm sure, Papa." You sigh as you look at him. "As long as Aveloria is happy, I'm happy. We should accept."

"They have asked us to join them for tea next week." Your mother chimes in. "Shall we send an official reply?"

"Yes." You smile at her. "Let's do it."

-

Satoru Gojo. An emperor. A cold-blooded man on and off the battlefield. Revered by those who love him and feared by those who do not.

An absolute fool for you.

He first saw you at the coronation of his best friend, King Jaeyun, five years ago. He was in the midst of sharing a drink with the newly appointed king when something caught his eye.

Someone, he corrected himself.

There you were, laughing with Jaeyun's sister, Claire, looking absolutely enchanting in your emerald green dress. Your eyes glinted in the sunlight, but your smile was even brighter.

Feeling a pair of eyes on you, you turned, making direct eye contact. You smiled at him softly, just for a second, but that's all it took.

Satoru Gojo was a man in love. Not real love, he knew that much. But the array of feelings he felt when beheld by your eyes couldn't be described in any other way.

He had to know who you were.

Later that same evening, he asked Claire to tell him everything she knew about you. She would say it felt more like an interrogation.

_____ Amiria. Heir apparent to the throne of Aveloria. The woman of his dreams.

Since the coronation, he had only run into you once or twice, never making conversation. He thought the lack of interaction would eventually cause him to lose feelings.

How wrong he was.

He did everything he could to forget about you. He spent his time doing his duties and even considered courting other women, but to no avail.

They simply were not you.

Every new detail he received about you from his informants only made him fall deeper. Thoughts of you gripped his mind like a vice, unwilling to let him escape its clutches.

-

Within the Gojo Empire, an unmarried emperor was unheard of. Satoru was the first to break that tradition, facing a small amount of backlash from his people in the process.

As it had become a year since his coronation, he felt ready to look for prospects who could eventually be his wife.

He only had one person in mind. Only one person he truly wanted.

You.

And what the emperor wants, he gets.

-

[commanderyes]

The Commander Says Goodbye

I’m not going to lie, I’m extremely anxious as i’m writing this, out of what these news could mean to a lot of people, and my heart feels heavy enough it could drop down my ribcage any minute from now and squish all my other organs. But I’ve been dancing around this topic for a long time now, and I think i’ve finally reached a point where i can’t ignore it anymore, for my own sake.

I hereby announce Commander Yes has come to an end.

As I’ve mentioned plenty of times before, here and to many other people, when I began this comic all the way back in 2018 I was in a really bad, really low place in my life in every sense of the word, and it was a spur-of-the moment decision to cheer myself up, because Path of Fire had just released and my enjoyment of the game had reached fever pitch and I had been playing Guild Wars 2 alone since as far as launch, and none of my other friends had ever really gotten into it. I guess I just, dunno, cried out into the big maelstrom of the community, one voice amidst millions, because i wanted SOMEBODY to look at what i did and revel in the nerdery with me.

And somehow the snowball began to roll and people wanted more and more of what I could do, and I was being actively reached out to, and, well, some time after that I landed my first ever job, I discovered a lot of things about myself, and I found myself in communities that welcomed me with open arms, and many of the people in there have since become among the best friends I could’ve possibly encountered, kindred souls who i’ve shared joys and sorrows for many years and who I can’t imagine living without anymore.

And all the while I kept making the comics, and with every entry posted every week I’d keep having people stopping to comment on them, and whether they were dumb jokes or personal takes on the story, they’d all share how much what I do kept hitting them in the kokoro, and to this day whenever I play anywhere in the game I still get people who recognize me and thank me for doing what I do. It was wonderful, it IS wonderful, and seeing that response motivated me to keep going, because what did still mattered to people, out there.

But I did always say I planned to keep doing these comics until I ran out of energy for them, and I think i’ve finally reached that point.

Because ever since I actually landed that job I’m exhausted and sleep-deprived every other day, so much so that I only have time to work on the comic on saturdays and sundays, and it gets harder and harder to just sit and draw, and at that point it was just more work, and while I still enjoy and play Guild Wars 2 a lot, it no longer consumes my time and attention like I’ve used to and i’ve been having fun with more personal projects, and honestly the direction the story is taking these days does not sit right with me and it’s hard to find inspiration in that, and this might be borderline selfish but every year I find people care less and less about the comics and it really takes a hit to you motivation when hardly anybody responds after you’ve spent a whole weekend trying to squeeze a five-page comic out.

And, well, I have been doing these for six years straight, and I think that’s a good run. I’m tired, and ready to move on, at long last. Let it be someone else’s turn.

But that’s the beautiful thing about this community, isn’t it? Even if I’m hanging up the hat, there are a whole lot of fantastic artists out there, as we speak, still cranking out works of art, deserving of all the attention they can get. And think of all the artists yet to come! For every story that ends, another story is just about to begin!

The world keeps on spinning, one way or another.

I’ll be closing my patreon shortly after this, but the reddit archives and tumblr blog shall remain for people to browse whenever they feel like (or until they both go in flames, i guess, what social media isn’t about to these days)

I still don’t think I ever was that much of a big deal, but all the same, to everyone who’s ever supported me and helped me be the person I am right now, to everyone who’s been there from the beginning, to all the devs of this game that has captured us for nearly a decade now, to all my fellow players and artists out there

Thank you.

See you out there, fellow commanders. Still the stars find their way.

[telvess]

Record of Ragnarok Poseidon (relationship headcanons) 🔞

My first attempt in writing anything in… eternity. I’m not a native English speaker but trying to improve myself, sorry for all mistakes I've made. I didn’t write any major spoilers but used knowledge from manga. Also + still no clue how tumblr works.

Poseidon is such a adorable idiot.

SFW Not gonna lie, to catch his eye (not to mention eye-to-eye contact) there will be needed someone really specific. Someone similar to him in general, but unique in details. I think Poseidon is really good observant. Just because he’s indifferent to others, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t pay attention. He would notice nuances in behaviour, manners and gestures. His future s/o must be elegant, self-contained and pride. Maybe not in the haughty way but undoubtedly confident in her position as a goddess. Definitely not ‘damsel in distress’ type, she has to have guts to rule her sphere, protect her opinion and status. No other god or goddess shall stick their nose in her business. Unless they’re ready for harsh words or worse. In summary: a less extreme version of Poseidon. On the other hand, I don't think these qualities are enough to draw Poseidon's interest. It’s good base but potential s/o must get under his skin. Intentionally or no, she has to do or say something that would get his attention, and annoy him… He wasn't seeking her subtle chitchat, nor did he want to end up witnessing her fight! Congratulations, miss! You accidentally annoyed Tyrant of the Seas! Choose a burial place. Jokes aside, the best thing s/o can do here is ignore Poseidon. He thinks he wants that, but hey! Looks like he played himself. Now s/o annoys him even more and he cannot understand why. Such a useless bottom feeder and he can’t get over her?

She was like a sea: capricious and unpredictable in nature, always remained resistant to the expectations of others. But sea bend to his will like tamed puppy. He stamp his foot and it humbly part before him. That’s what he couldn’t stand - how little control he had over her, how unbearably free this woman was compared to other gods who ran away in terror as soon as he merely frowned.

Poseidon would catch himself thinking about her in the least expected moments. He used to almost never leave his realm, now suddenly is more present in social life. Still doesn’t care much, usually just staying in loneliness that nobody dare to disturb and observing from distant object of his contempt. As if nothing had changed, yet it did. Probably the only people that would notice he’s different will be Hermes and Hades. When first one won’t act on it nor share his observations, the eldest brother definitely won’t resist to make some ambiguous comments.

— Well that’s unusual of you, dear brother — said Hades. He toyed with his glass of wine, watching carefully Poseidon, who looked as unconcerned as ever. However he honoured him with one short glance. Hades couldn’t stop the corners of his lips to lift up. Did his little brother seem… disturbed? Or was that just his imagination? If Hades could pick one thing out of everything known in the universe that was unshakable and untouched by time or any other matter Poseidon would be his choice. Unaffected stability that did not leave any room for doubt and yet… something… someone push his stern brother out of his safe zone. Hades couldn’t wait to see what else the future may bring to them. He just hoped the intruder will be able to keep up with the challenge.

It will actually take a lot of time for Poseidon to realize that he isn’t annoyed with s/o but himself. Idea of being attached to another person is almost physically uncomfortable. It’s new and suspicious. The moment of understanding is the flash point of the relationship. At this point Poseidon would abandon distant admiration and start acting. He is still slightly annoyed but what’s more irritate him is the absent of that unbearable mouth of s/o. Poseidon would sit next to her or stand much closer at any events. At first she won't notice, but over time she'll start to connect the facts. She’s not dumb. Quiet neither. If she point it out, he may mock her.

— Why don't you just ask me to dance instead of deterring others? It would be a graceful way to start a relationship. Poseidon gave her almost cold look. — Such a audacity — his voice teetered on the verge of indifference - he thought so. She snorted. Her eyes weren’t darkened with anger, sparks of mirth still shone in them. Maybe even more after his refusal. Then she turned to face him and, with a subtle but promising smile, began to close the distance between them. Poseidon remained calm as she came within inches of him. He could feel the warm breath of hers, the smell of fresh air… — You know you want me — she whispered without hesitation. Something unbearably nagging was born in Poseidon’s belly. And that annoying heat under it… almost as someone wounded him. He frowned but didn’t move away. — How are you going to win me over if you can't stop fighting with yourself? — she asked innocently and didn't wait for an answer - just left him on the balcony.

Truth be told, Poseidon wasn’t made for small talks so s/o is doing most of the part and - to provoke a reaction - teasing him a bit. After a while, they both find the silence in their presence pleasant. Poseidon’s seduce tactic would mostly navigate around small gestures such as gifts. However he won’t send them like every normal suitor. If his s/o lives near the ocean or is often near it, she would probably find many beautiful pearls by chance. All of them in her favourites colours of course. Is she basking on the beach? The finest shells surround her. Is she admiring shoal of fish, coral reef or just the sound of the sea? There are no storms. And go on… It’s hard for Poseidon to overcome his pride and openly talk about his desire. When he finally bring himself to it, he’ll sound angry as if he’s doing something unworthy of him. Once s/o assures him that she wants to know more, Poseidon would relax.

— I want you to remind me every day how unbearable I am. How capricious… how impertinent… — she kissed his hand without taking her eyes off him and then put it to her cheek. Poseidon liked the cool touch of her skin — And still watch me with that quiet yet deep fascination.

Yeah, s/o has to make it official by saying out loud how she feels and Poseidon generously accept the offer…

NSFW For Poseidon to be in any relationship, especially romantic is almost impossible. He doesn’t get involved with others because, in his opinion, they’re not worth it. So nobody would force on him arranged marriage. He must be the one choosing that path. That’s why I don’t believe he would ever degenerating his s/o. The reason is simple - he would treat his wife with the same level of respect he treats Hades. Otherwise she wouldn’t be his wife; she cannot be someone less. I also don’t think he would praise her much, probably only when he’s in right mood she would hear complement here and there. His s/o must be good at reading his minimalistic facial expressions and body language. She may notice how his eyes widen in admiration, how he holds his breath for a moment or tightens the jaw muscles when feels really good. He’s not vocal; purrs or growls only on occasion. Poseidon has his moments where he shows desire for s/o. He won’t say it loud but won’t take his eyes off her as she undress in the evening. Yeah, she definitely gonna feel that burning look on her back. The only place where he become caring and warm is in bedroom, in private, far from servants’ eyes. These kind of moments are rare. Mostly because they both take their responsibilities seriously, which means they've been separated for a long time. Poseidon is calm, methodical lover. He’s detail-oriented - would leave no curve or plane untouched from his hands or tongue. He’ll enjoy every sound, shaking and blush s/o make, and act in accordance with the mentioned gestures. Poseidon prefers variants of missionary position to share eye contact though he wouldn’t say no to his s/o if she wants to ride him. In intimidating moment he enjoys challenging her to not close eyes when he thrusts deep into her. He starts with slow and almost annoyed pace that soon becomes raw and firm when they both chase their release. Afterward they usually lay in bed in silent, both satisfied and tired. Poseidon won’t say it loud but he really likes when his wife show him affections at that time. Slowly almost lazily massaging his chest, touching his neck and jaw, putting small kisses on his ear or cheek. Her tender words soft him. Poseidon doesn’t entirely return the favour but when she does all this to him, he caresses her back, pretending to be indifferent.

[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.

[suntreus]

𝘿𝙧 𝙍𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤 — "𝙋𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙎𝙪𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨" (𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙏/𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙊𝙊𝘾/𝙁𝙇𝙐𝙁𝙁)

PROLOGUE After passing a difficult course posed by Dr Elara (genius society member #78) in the intelligentsia guild, with a 10% completion rate. A colleague of hers, Dr Ratio has taken presumed interest in your intelligence. Hearing about your continuous pursuits into becoming a genius society member, Dr Ratio befriends you and encourages you to chase after that initial goal by offering you free tutoring lessons. Though brash, all Dr Ratio seeks, is a person who can surpass his intellect and prove themselves to be a true genius society member. Presumed age gap: 6-7 years. Reader is a legal adult (above 20) and is a student in the intelligentsia guild in hopes of finding leads on becoming a genius society member. 

!! DISCLAIMER BEFORE YOU READ !! << DR ELARA IS A MADE UP CHARACTER BELONGING TO ME! >> << MY ONESHOTS WILL ALWAYS REMAIN IN CHARACTER!! >>

@//donfeng_ on tt & @dcnfeng on tumblr <3 Do not use, repost my work without permission!

— 

“Claiming that you possess a high level of intellect as thoroughly proven by your transcripts, yet unable to pass my course, proves nothing but pure nonsense! Must I remind you that numbers on paper do not determine your intelligence as a whole?”  egged your professor, his brash and strict demeanour forcing tears to fall right out of your eyes. Thoughts of uncertainty raced through your mind, the never ending loop of questioning your abilities after a harsh scolding from your professor remained a stagnant process during each private lesson you had with him. He had offered you private tuition in hopes of you becoming a member of the genius society, seeing that you excelled in the teachings of another professor, who’s mannerisms were quite the same as Ratio’s, he had absolute faith in you. “So, do you wish to remain unmoving and weep? Or shall we move on and continue with our pursuits of excellence?” Ratio blew out an exaggerated exhale, returning to your side after pacing back and forth in attempts to ease his distress. Despite his childish endeavour of lashing out on you, all he wanted was for you to achieve success with his help and it angered him greatly to see you give up after he had posed questions that would be of great help to receive recognition from Nous. 

He noticed the look of defeat present on your person which led him to heave out an even heavier sigh. Ratio pulled a chair, sitting down right beside you, leaning a little closer to you with a more gentle expression on his face. Your silence was deafening and it ached him to see you in such a state. “Do tell, what purpose do you serve in becoming a genius society member, dear apprentice?” questioned the doctor, his reddish pink eyes, now less harsh, latched onto yours, eager to get a more in-depth understanding of your desire to join such a harsh environment for renowned geniuses around the cosmos. 

“I just want to .. relish in the fact that I’m ahead of others, maybe even prove people of my past wrong about my capabilities.” you confessed, your voice similar to the soft whispers of the wind on a chilly night. The scholar’s eyes softened, trying to sympathise with the pain of being tossed and discarded like trash by those who you thought you loved. Even if he himself had never experienced such a situation, he yearned to make all his students seek purpose, just, not like this. “You cannot let your past define you no matter the circumstance, do not use it as a means of pursuing intellects that even you yourself are not well endorsed in.” He stated, his words coming off soft yet sharp, a big gleam of disapproval in his gaze. Your heart sank in your chest, the implications of his words being that he wouldn’t give you such lectures if what you said was true.

“Bu–” “The genius society is a harsh organisation. Only those who possess a fixed mindset with analytical yet intellectual prowess are chosen by Nous. Now, tell me, do you wish to surround yourself in knowledge in every waking moment of your life without halt just to prove those who do not value you, a point? If that is your wish, I have no further objections and will do so to oblige to your request. Though, be aware that I will be unforgiving.” For once, your rationality sets in, leaving your mind an empty canvas as you begin to ponder the significant consequences of your actions that you hadn’t thought about before. Ratio takes notice of the pearly tears brimming on your tear ducts and he immediately takes your hand in his, ignoring the rustled notes that lay below both your hands. “Don’t fret on making a decision, as patience breeds success.” his words ring through your head as you drown yourself in the possible outcomes. Instinctively, you began to weep and sob yet again, feeling as if you’ve lost your purpose. Ratio says nothing, his condescending self melting away at the sight of you so broken and beaten by the jarring facts of reality. He wraps his strong arms around your waist, in a feeble attempt to soothe your heartache. The man sighs yet again, trying to console you with minimal effort, after all, he hadn’t gotten used to the concept of intimacy. Though, he was willing to learn from people who matter most, like you. As your sobs begin to die down, he rubs your back before giving it a few light slaps to snap you back into your senses. You felt incredibly embarrassed for soaking up his black vest, but he shrugged it off as your feelings mattered more. “Done deciding?” He shoots you a gentle smile, giving your head an affectionate rub, aware of the migraine going on after such a hard cry. The usual stoic display he posed was no longer visible and all that was left was a gentle personality of his that contrasted oddly well with his usual bluntness. 

“I don’t know what to do.” you stated weakly, unable to come up with a solution to your current issue. Ratio hummed in response, not giving a direct response as he continued grazing his thumb against the back of your hand, quietly thinking of a way to aid your looming confusion. After a while, he looks back at you, his eyes filled with understanding. “Care for a bath? When one’s head is stuffed with filth, your body is no cleaner. It helps relieve me on days where I am most perplexed. Of course, I will not indulge in any .. inappropriate activities with you, however, I’m here to provide you with ailment whenever you desire.”

You hesitantly accept his offer, in which he nods at, before standing up and letting you gather your notes. He stands by the guild’s classroom door, awaiting for your immediate response to come and join him for a relaxing bath. 

[nivea-ah]

I had started mha out of boredom back when the pandemic had just started (it's been four years!) and soon grew to be obsessed with it, but due to the never-ending woes of growing older and weaker (I hate you exams), I stopped reading the manga a year or two ago.

I would still visit the mha tag on tumblr and read what other's had to say about it but never really continued reading or watching it. Many said the writing was horrible and the random was even worse. They said the plot was too stretched out and repetitive and it's genuinely a very bad manga. I didn't believe it but I didn't really have a base to fight back on (in my head of course because I have better things to do than fight online) because I stopped reading the manga. But, today, I can finally say that I have caught up with the manga AND IT'S THE BEST ENDING YOU CAN EVER EXPECT OUT OF A SERIES.

The final war was of the perfect length, not too short to just be a quarrel, not too long to be tedious. There were developments and setbacks that made it even more exciting. All plot points were tied up nice and tight so that no side story was left incomplete. Everything was done wonderfully.

What I liked even more was that even with the ending of the war, we still got a lot of chapters on the mundane life of class 2-A and saw how they were holding up. Everything's going smoothly (maybe) and Shinsou's joined their class! Yay! We even got a wonderful scene between Izuku and Ochako which I so dearly loved <3 While I don't ship them, they most certainly are cute together <33

Finally, I shall talk about said 'toxic fandom'. MHA for a VERY long time has been called a toxic fandom because 'ew you ppl ship deku with any guy he's straight >:(' Okay. If you think he's straight, good for you <3 I, personally, like to think of him as bi because that helps me sleep well at night and I quite like my 8 hours of sleep. Sure, there are people who are crazy but there are crazy people EVERYWHERE in EVERY FANDOM. JJK is a good example. But it still remains a wonderful piece of literature because it is!! So, I think people should really move on from this 'MHA is hated a lot so I should too' because the wonderful story and the just as wonderful ending proved that it is truly an amazing series that will live in my heart for years to come because it is the only manga that made me feel so much, cry so much and enjoy so much. And with that, thank you for reading <3

[horanghxnni]

coffee shop meet-cute. - j.w.w.

PAIRING: Jeon Wonwoo x Reader

WORD COUNT: 3.1k

TAGS: meet cute, strangers to lovers one-shot, barista!reader, non-idol!wonwoo; pure fluff, oblivious pining

WARNINGS: mentions of food/eating; i tried my best to write as gender neutral as possible, but i haven't proofread this more than once so pls let me know if it's not; other than that none (please let me know if i've missed anything)

NOTES: this is my first post here on tumblr omg. hi! i've been a big fan of work here and i've been writing for a while (i shall not discuss my cursed wattpad days when i was younger) and thought i'd start posting here for fun. i hope you enjoy! <3

You had started working at this local coffee shop when you were 16, at first as a way to earn cash on the weekends to fund your high school escapades, and now, 7 years later, you grew to love the feeling of crafting drinks and managing the shop you now felt was like a second home. You worked every day, and opening the quaint little shop meant that the first hour or so was a quiet peace to yourself, filled with the smell of brewing espresso and baking croissants. 

The morning rush came like clockwork, beginning at 7:15 am and finally reaching a calmer pace around 8 am. Just when the busy atmosphere began to subside and the day reached its first slump, a clearly anxious man made his way to the front counter, hurriedly ordering an iced americano and holding out his card before you could even tell him how much it would cost. You rang him up, and he left the counter to stand in a corner with a polite nod to wait for his coffee, glancing at the clock. You make his simple order as quickly as possible and set it on the pickup counter, calling his name. “Wonwoo, iced americano?” 

He grabs his cup and thanks you quietly, before hurriedly leaving the shop, not even bothering to grab a straw. You don’t think too much of it and get back to filling the pastry case as the curious stranger becomes a distant memory by the end of the day. 

That is, until you notice he comes in every day, always at the same time, just before 9 am. He enters with the same kind of energy, always as if he’s perpetually running late, and orders the same thing: iced americano, and if he was feeling peckish, a blueberry muffin. He never talked much, and the only thing you knew about him other than his coffee order was that his name was Wonwoo, he seemed to have a horrible concept of time, and he must work in some office to be dressed in business casual every day. This Groundhog Day feeling encounter with him remained as a growing routine for you, until 3 weeks later when you began to anticipate his arrival, and you had his order ready and waiting for him by the time he reached the counter. Your interaction grew more efficient as time passed, with a single swap of his debit card for his coffee, and his transaction down to 30 seconds, handing him back his card in record timing. You figured it was helping him, right? He was late to work, or something time-sensitive at least, and you made his caffeine pit-stop easier. It was a win-win: you gained another regular, and he got his coffee without hindering his morning. 

He ruined your flow one Wednesday afternoon. Once again, he arrived just before 9 am, but he walked in much slower this time, and he was wearing much more casual clothes, a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, a brown messenger bag slung on his shoulder. As usual, his coffee was already done, and you almost dropped a tray of apple tarts as he entered almost as an entirely different person. You set them in the pastry case with renewed care, and met him at the register. 

“Not in a rush this morning?” You asked, clearly confused but friendly, as you pushed his cup towards him. 

He chuckled, shaking his head as his eyes roved over the rows of pastries and sandwiches you had displayed. “Nope, we started a hybrid schedule so I’m working from home on Wednesdays.” He met your eyes for a moment before shifting back to the sweets, thinking. “I’m thinking about trying something new, what do you recommend?” 

It took you a moment before you adapted to the fact that you’d heard more than two words from him. His voice was smooth and deeper than you expected, and it seemed to sink into your bones. “Um, well the apple tarts are new, and we make pop tarts in house.” 

He nodded and took one more glance before meeting your eyes. “I’ll take one of each, for here.” He gave you a small smile and slid over his debit card, once again catching you off guard. For here? He was staying? You nodded silently and began to warm his sweets as you rang him up. He thanked you and took back his card, settling in a seat a few feet down the counter, pulling out his laptop and beginning to type quietly. You couldn’t help but steal glances at him as you made his little pastry plate, not used to his presence. You were so used to his rush of energy that seeing him so still and calm was confusing. You decided just before you gave him his plate that you’d slip a cake pop next to the tart, you had made extras today anyway. With a nod, you place it beside his laptop and don’t even wait for an acknowledgement, leaving the pretty stranger to his work and busying yourself with cleaning some dirty cups from earlier this morning and wiping down the counters. 

“The poptart is good. Do you make them yourself?” His voice cut through the quiet lo-fi music playing over the speakers as you paused from your cleaning. You turned to see him already looking at you, the half-eaten poptart in his hand. 

You nodded and put down the rag in your hand. “Yeah, every morning. The flavor changes depending on what fruit I can get my hands on.” You see him nod in approval, and he sets it down on his plate as he turns his full attention to you. 

“Thank you for the cake pop. And for making my coffee so quickly every day, it really helps me out.” He appears more bashful now, almost bordering embarrassed, as his cheeks flush an almost imperceptible pink. “I know I seem pretty pressed for time most mornings.” 

You laugh at his comment, thinking back to the quiet whirlwind of his stressed aura that appears in the shop every day. “Of course, I don’t want to make you any later than you already seem to be.” You pause for a moment before speaking again, wondering if you should ask the innocent question in your mind. He seems open to conversation, and it’s not like anyone else was demanding your attention at the moment. “Where do you work anyway?” 

“Oh, I work at the Pledis building, I’m a writer there for content creation. I’m not technically late ever, but I like to get there at a certain time and I definitely overestimate the time I need to commute.” He answers sheepishly, and you smile. A writer for such a big company? Impressive. 

You spoke for a little bit longer before another rush began, learning he’d been working at Pledis for a few years now, and his friend Joshua had recommended this coffee shop to him a few months ago, but he hadn’t had the chance to come until a few weeks ago. Of course your favorite regular would have pushed him here, and little details seemed to fit into place as your small chats throughout the few hours he remained at the bar revealed more and more about each other. Around 4 pm, he left with a wave, trying his best not to distract you too much. You waved back, and with an offhanded, “See you tomorrow!”, he left the cafe, the door jingling behind him. 

_____________ 

The next morning, Wonwoo surprised you again. He came in at 8:30, standing at the register while you finished the last of the morning rush orders, you hadn’t even seen him walk in. You turned to take the order only to see a face that wasn’t supposed to be here for another 20 minutes. 

“Oh, you’re here early! I’m sorry, I haven't made your coffee yet.” Of course you hadn’t. You had timed your routine almost down to the second, and he had thrown off your entire groove. He simply smiled and shook his head. 

“It’s okay, I have some time this morning. I’ll get my usual and another poptart, it doesn't matter the flavor.” He points to the plate and pulls out some cash. “You can keep the change.” Wonwoo, without another word, moves to where he sat the day before, settling in and pulling out his phone. 

You make his coffee and warm his poptart, placing it in a to-go sleeve, placing both in front of him. “So, I finally get my routine down with you and you all of a sudden decide you want to switch it up?” You raise an eyebrow at him. 

He looks up from his phone, a small smile growing on his lips. “Figured if I got here a little earlier, I’d relieve you of the time constraint.” His smile shifts into a frown after a moment. “I’m sorry if it threw you off that bad, I didn’t-”

You wave a hand at him, shaking your head. “Don’t worry about it, I was just messing with you.” 

His body visibly relaxes as he reaches for his coffee. “Thanks, Y/N.” You couldn’t help but grin as you hear your name in his voice, and you nod and turn before he can see just how wide your smile could get. You make small talk as he finishes his coffee and pastry, asking about his work and new recipes brewing in your head for the next 20 or so minutes before he declares he is leaving to head to work. 

“This was nice, actually sitting down before work. Maybe I’ll do this more often.” He hands you his plate as you agree, placing it in the sink to deal with later. 

“Thanks for hanging out with me this morning. You’re welcome anytime, obviously.” You say your goodbyes, and with another small smile, he leaves, and you’re left thinking of the way his smile lights up his face for the rest of the day. 

_____________ 

For the next few weeks, Wonwoo arrives around 20-30 minutes early. Your new routine involves pleasant conversation as you work, and him becoming a taste tester for new recipes before they hit the pastry case. You become used to each other’s presence, and with every new interaction, he grows more and more talkative. He tells you about frustrations from work from the day before, or a movie he had just watched over the weekend. You tell him about your roommate endeavors and outings you’d gone on recently. You consider yourselves friends at this point, and it was nice to have someone like him around when the morning felt like too much to handle. 

You had offhandedly mentioned taking a few days off one day and Wonwoo encouraged rest, but through all the chaos of pushed forward deadlines at work, he had completely forgotten until he arrived at the cafe one morning to see someone completely different behind the counter. He was confused to see his usual coffee was still sitting waiting for him in its normal place with his name on it, set aside on the counter, yet he did not recognize the barista currently finishing up a latte. As he slowly stepped up to the pickup counter and grabbed his drink, the employee looked up and met his gaze. 

“Oh, you must be Wonwoo. There’s your iced americano, there’s a muffin in the bag beside it.” His demeanor was nonchalant, as he placed the other drink on the counter and called out the order. 

“Is Y/N not in today?” It was the first thing he could think of, despite the answer being obvious. 

The younger boy looked up from his work. “No, they're off all week. They left me a note saying a guy named Wonwoo would come in at 8:30 and that was your usual.” He shrugged and looked down again at his brewing espresso shots. “I guess that’s you. I’m Chan, I usually work afternoons but I’m covering for Y/N this week.” 

Wonwoo nods, still processing what he had just heard. Y/N’s gone all week? Why hadn’t they said anything? He suddenly felt stupid as he remembered a conversation from two weeks ago, where Y/N finally decided the week they would take a solo trip to Jeju to visit their grandmother: this week. “Right. Thanks, Chan.” 

Chan nods back at him and Wonwoo leaves the cafe still in a semi-daze after setting down some cash, suddenly feeling as if he was thrown off balance, an unfamiliar budding feeling of disappointment settling deep in his chest. He makes his way to work, suddenly feeling like his predictable coffee didn’t taste the same. 

The rest of his work day was surprisingly only getting worse: he had printed the wrong files, was late to a meeting he was supposed to lead, and currently Joshua was trying (and failing) to speak to him about a conference they were attending the following month as Wonwoo unintentionally tuned him out. Suddenly, he felt a light shove of his shoulder pull him out of his trance.

“Dude, what is wrong with you? Have you heard anything I said?” Joshua raised an accusatory eyebrow at his friend and coworker. Wonwoo’s eyes suddenly gained focus as he looked up to see Joshua leaning against his desk. 

“I-” he attempted to think of an excuse, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little distracted, my whole day feels thrown off.” He frowned and turned his chair toward the other man. “What were you saying?” 

Joshua’s mouth crept into an almost dangerous smirk as he took a glance at Wonwoo’s still full coffee cup, an unfamiliar handwriting scrawling his name on the top. “You didn’t see Y/N this morning.” 

Wonwoo almost choked on his own spit. “What? How- how do you know that?” 

The older boy rolled his eyes and pointed to the cup. “That’s not Y/N’s handwriting. I see them before you do most mornings, and they're not in town. They told me last week. I thought you knew.” 

“I did know, I just forgot, with everything going on at work.” Wonwoo couldn’t help but frown. Had not seeing them really thrown him off that much? “What does not seeing them have to do with anything though?” 

Joshua scoffed. “Dude, every time you come from that cafe, you walk in like you just won the lottery, and you see them every day. You like them, don’t you?” 

It was the last part that struck Wonwoo to his very core. He’d never even considered that to be an option before. Sure, Y/N was stunning, and kind, and he’d found great company in the barista, but like them? Romantically? Maybe it was more possible than he imagined. His face seemed to drop, as Joshua laughed at his rapid change in expression. 

“It’s okay if you do. They seem to make you happy. I think you should go for it.” With a grin that would rival the Cheshire cat, Joshua claps his friend on the shoulder before leaving his desk to return to his own, as Wonwoo’s brain settles on entertaining this thought that seems to bloom an unfamiliar feeling in his chest, replacing the heavy stone of disappointment from earlier. 

_____________

You were back after a relaxing few days with your grandmother, spending time in the sun and looking out on the ocean. Although the time off was needed, you couldn’t help but think about not only your cafe, but a specific regular you hadn’t seen since last week. You hoped Chan had made his usual for him as she said on the note, and you were excited to catch up with Wonwoo about the last week, and honestly, just to see him again. Spending the last few days without seeing each other triggered the realization that he was more special to you than you had initially thought, and though he may not feel the same, you were content with the friendship you had formed already. 

You opened the cafe without issue, and a sense of calm washed over you as you fell back into your routine. The morning rush felt like a breeze as you fell into a groove and before you knew it, 8:30 rolled around and the man you’d been thinking of walked through the door. He was early, as he now often was, but his anxious energy was back. He stepped up to the counter as you handed him his coffee, a fresh pop tart on a plate sliding his way as well. 

“It’s on the house today. I’m sure you missed my magic touch last week.” You joked, your smile widening. His mouth opened before it shut once more, mirroring your grin as he said a quiet thank you as he took his seat. You caught up on missed stories, with mostly you telling stories of your vacation as he sat quietly and listened as you multitasked. It wasn’t until you asked him a question and received no answer that you looked up at him from the espresso machine to see him simply staring at you. “Wonwoo?” 

You saw his eyes clear as his face rapidly turned a deep shade of red. “I’m sorry, I was listening. I just-” He paused, and your brows furrowed. 

“Are you alright?” You asked, putting down the espresso shot and giving him your full focus. 

“Do you want to, maybe, go to dinner sometime?” His eyes couldn’t meet yours at first, until suddenly the dark brown of his irises met yours and you melted at the adoration you felt behind his gaze. 

“Wonwoo, are you asking me on a date?” You couldn’t believe this was happening. You watched his cheeks redden further as he nodded and you couldn’t help the way you seemed to beam at him. “I’d like that very much. Maybe this Saturday, if you’re free?” 

You watched the anxiety leave his body in an instant as he agreed. He handed you his phone as he stood up, coffee cup and plate now empty. “Put your number in and I’ll call you?” 

You punched your contact information in and handed him the phone in exchange for his dishes, and watched as he clumsily pushed in his seat and grabbed his things. “Have a good day at work, Wonwoo. It was nice to see you.” 

“It was good to see you. I’ll call you later tonight, if that’s okay.” You nodded and if he smiled any wider, he thought his lips might start to crack. With one last goodbye, he left out the door, and his eyes didn’t leave your beautiful face through the window until he lost line of sight.

[idalenn]

Day 1 - Steer

Aftermath of the Crystal Tower. Alphinaud learns from a true businessman. (A Realm Reborn)

Full text below the cut if you'd rather read it on Tumblr instead of Ao3.

“And of the boy – were you successful locating his next of kin?”

“The documents provided by NOAH were bereft of evidence related to his origins. Unofficially, we’ve heard claims he may have familial ties within the Corvosi of southeastern Ilsabard.” The Elezen woman tapped a quill to the open, hide-backed volume in her hands. “But we are unable to confirm their validity at this time. It remains hearsay.”

“Then our efforts must be concentrated in a more scholarly direction. We cannot simply shrug our shoulders when it comes to Sharlayan. Having the loss of their pupil go unrecognized, or worse – underappreciated – will impact future endeavors. Reparations will soften the blow and secure fertile grounds for tilling.” With his own writing tool, edges leafed in gold and tipped with a brilliant ruby, Lolorito scratched his final signature onto the treaty.

A click of the inlaid jewel sent the tool’s end retreating into itself. Black ink dripped from the hole; blood from an open wound. One quick swipe with cloth made of finer material than Lillian would ever own picked it up without a trace left behind. Lolorito curtly tossed the cloth back among the ink pots. “A veritable drop in the ocean of spoils we’ve earned this day, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lillian felt a veritable ocean of sweat growing in her boots. Devoid of windows or any sort of opening to the outside save the single door combined with an abundance of crystal-lit lanterns, the Monetarist’s chamber buffered her and Alphinaud with a furnace’s heat. Even wearing gloves she feared taking the document in hand and drenching their hard work. The scars across her face ached under the pressure.

“Adamantite. Allagan technology. Wisdom beyond measure and reach, and beyond price some might claim, but there will be a price, and as sole owner of that crystal tower, the price shall be any figure negotiable.” The Lalafell chuckled to himself as he sealed the treaty with wax and sigil before sliding it across the desk. “And this is just the beginning. I know our contract was only for the tower’s acquisition, but I have grand plans in motion for future expansion, and you’re just the two to help see them bear fruit.” He spread his arms wide as though welcoming them into his embrace. “Care to stay for a time?”

Another cramp ran through Lillian’s leg. The chairs they sat in were perfectly Lalafell sized, undoubtedly Lolorito’s primary audience, but less so for the snow-haired Elezen child across from him, and unbearably small for the Miqo’te dwarfing every other soul in the room, whose legs were forcibly kept at such an angle between chair and desk that, if this meeting continued much longer, were liable to fall off.

“Other business calls.” She said.

“Of course. Scions and governments running you ragged must come first, but forget not my offer. And you, Master Alphinaud? From your quiet I must believe in some thought being given.”

Alphinaud took the treaty in a shaking hand. “Your assistance to the Crystal Braves is greatly appreciated, Lord Lolorito. If I may, I have but one more question, and after we’ll be on our way.”

“Then I take it you need time to consider.” Lolortio stroked his goatee, smiling with brilliant white teeth. The mask made interpreting his expression impossible. To Lillian it appeared a predator’s grin. “Very well. The floor is yours, my boy.”

“Care to share the details on how you intend to move forward? Specifically, I wish to know how you will honor the loss of G’raha Tia, without whom this endeavor would have ended in failure.” The Elezen aide narrowed her eyes. Lolorito’s smile never dropped an ilm.

“For effort contributed, I suppose you can be trusted with particulars. I am nothing if not fair, as Nald’Thal demands.” One of the lanterns flickered, and a glint off a gold-plated scale on the Lalafell’s desk caught Lillian’s attention. “G’raha Tia has no will, no family of note who can be contacted or given payment, and represents no organization outside of one within Sharlayan. Any and all possessions within NOAH’s hands will be returned to that organization. His share will, of course, be divided amongst all hired.

“Sharlayan will receive a lump sum of gil in an amount yet to be determined but no less than two hundred thousand. That previously mentioned organization will also partake of a sizable donation. Ah, but this name eludes me.” He snapped his fingers rapidly as if trying to light a spark. “I’m sure it began with ‘students’ something or other… the students of…”

“Baldesion.” Alphinaud finished through gritted teeth.

“It is refreshing, Master Alphinaud, to meet another so untrained in subtleties and be reminded I am not so alone in this world. As someone eyeing to hold a position of political power in our realm, you would do well to either hone a silver tongue or abandon all pretense of furthering your cause with it.”

“You only saw our friend as numbers to be counted!”

“Absolutely! Much in the same way you yourself only see the Syndicate in measures of usefulness and value to your coffers. Life is a series of numbers! You sought profits as well as I, my boy, and in doing so one must on occasion plan for declines. All gathered in this room have value, and all will be made equal should misfortune come to pass.”

Lolorito leaned forward over the desk, his hands folded together in a wall from which atop he stood a giant before Alphinaud and the Warrior of Light. “You captain an uncertain ship, Master Alphinaud, and unless you wish your company dashed amongst the rocks, you had best learn to steer.”

[signor-signor]

Trending 27th - June 2024

What gives you the motivation for not giving up on Wander Over Yonder?

Well, for starters, when Craig McCracken brought up the uncalled-for cancellation, he also brought up the existence of…

The Plans

Here’s what Craig said in his Tumblr post from March of 2016:

“About a year ago we presented a pitch for a season 3 arc that promised to bring our characters together in new, unexpected, and hilarious ways. And just as S2 evolved from S1, we had a really exciting approach to evolving S3 even further. We had plans for new characters, the return of old characters, and even a bit of backstory! We were all really excited about the new direction and so were our bosses at DisneyXD and TVA.”

“Unfortunately, the higher up bosses of bosses of bosses at Disney decided not to continue with the show. It's not that they didn't like Wander, they just felt that 2 seasons and 80 cartoons was enough and they didn't see the need to produce any more.”

“For the record, this decision had nothing to do with the ratings performance of S2. Truth be told, we were informed that we wouldn't be continuing before S2 even premiered.”

If what he said is to be believed, the mediocre performance of S1 on Disney XD made the “higher up bosses of bosses of bosses” think WOY shouldn’t continue after S2, so they decided to cancel it five months after the pitch, one week before The Greater Hater premiered. Big mistake. After nearly a decade, Craig still keeps the plans for S3 under wraps, but his talk of S3 is enough to pique my curiosity. He piqued it even more when he brought up Star Force Enforcement Force in 2021. Truth be told, he knows way more about that third and final season than he let on.

At first, I thought S2 would wrap up the show nicely. Boy, was I wrong - it wrapped up S2, but not the whole show. Once I checked out The End of the Galaxy, I knew right then and there that one more season was planned, because in the end credits, I saw…

The Cliffhanger

I will admit, I found the last couple of minutes anticlimactic. Dominator spurned Wander’s friendship, Hater is still cuckoo for conquering (much to Peepers’s delight), and the main four are practically back where they began. I reiterate, it wrapped up the season nicely, but not the whole show, because what I’m about to describe is indicative of the show’s unfinished business.

Dominator walks off in angry defeat, trying to peel an orange (or open a jar of jam if you prefer, assuming you looked closely at what she grabbed), and she grumbles, “They’ll get what’s coming to them.” Unbeknownst to her, she passes by a crash-landed space capsule with its door unhinged. Green lightning flashes, ominous Hater-themed music plays, and simian screeching is heard and fades into Hater’s evil laugh.

How is this anything less than an indicator of unfinished business? If stopping the show here is not a bad move, I don’t know what is. I’m positive English primatologist Jane Goodall would not be pleased with the decision to leave an ape stranded in space with no one around to help him. The question remains: who would find that space ape? Wander and the passengers aboard the Star Nomad or Star Force Enforcement Force? Only Craig and those who worked on the pitch with him would know and so would the bosses of Disney XD and DTVA. There’s also something that was on my mind after I watched the season finale. I shall now tell you about…

The Missing Pieces

I’m, of course, referring to parts that were absent from the episode and left unexplained. We’ve got the other villains, most of whom were last seen in The Bad Neighbors. Emperor Awesome made a silent appearance in The Sick Day, and that was it. As a certain @koskela13 indicated in a post 8 years ago, the villains never mustered up the courage to help the heroes fight against Dominator. There’s also Buster, the planet-sized puppy dog whom the Ballzerians call home. Since Beeza and the Ballzerians were among the refugees, he had to have fled from Dominator’s galactic onslaught. I found long ago that he’s supposed to be all right, but where he is remains to be seen. Same goes for Janet the Planet and her moon, Maurice; however, it was said that they were on their honeymoon, hence their absence in S2. Another thing that I think was left out was Wander getting to sing/play his banjo. Think about it, if the crew had wanted to stop after S2, would they have had Wander perform a glorious reprise of an upbeat song right after Dominator’s downfall? That was never done. It’s pretty obvious.

Moving right along, another thing that keeps me motivated is…

The Fan Content

Over the years, I came across countless fan pieces to make the Internet aware of the show’s existence, such as @wanderin-over-yonder’s calendars. It’s possible to come up with WOY-related activities, original characters, and meta gags.

Master Yisuko

Dr. Otmar Vunderbar

In case you haven’t guessed by now, the possibilities are endless.

I would expand more on the Star Nomad, but I’m sure you can find the information in my previous posts. As long as we’re talking fan stuff, let me refer to…

The Supporting Characters (and their VAs’ Longevities)

Apart from the five major characters, The End of the Galaxy had at least ten other characters speak solo (King Bingleborp, Destructor, the Cashier, Prince Cashmere, Neckbeard, the Lost and Found Guy, the Black Cube, Mittens, Major Threat, and Michelle). All the others barely had a chance to shine. For that reason, I put my effort into showcasing as many of them as I could in my fan fiction, The Eye on the Galaxy. What’s more, some of those characters are performed by voice actors over the age of 50. Stella Starbella was voiced by June Squibb, who was in her mid-80s while WOY was running. Today, she’s a nonagenarian, and if her performance in Inside Out 2 as Nostalgia is any indication, it’s not too late for her to reprise her role as that character. We might have until 2030 to revive the show, assuming June lives to be 100.

By the way, Major Threat was said to become a recurring character in S3, and we’ve yet to see him actually interact with Wander long after he put his days of villainy behind him.

Now I wish to bring up…

The Luck of the Other Shows

A vague and unconvincing reason for WOY’s cancellation was that two seasons/80 episodes were enough. I mean, really? Disney never felt that way about Fish Hooks, which I believe has three seasons and 110 episodes. Also, they allowed Star vs. the Forces of Evil to run for four seasons, putting it well over 100 episodes. And how about Big City Greens? Although not as frequently brought up as Gravity Falls, Amphibia, or The Owl House, it recently managed to get a whopping five seasons. They’re treating it like it’s the new Phineas and Ferb, although there’s no merchandising or presence in the parks. When I compare WOY to the aforementioned shows, it’s clear to me that it had the worst of luck. Heck, I wasn’t even sure if those other shows had pitches for later seasons. We can’t stand idly by while the plans made for WOY remain shelved. It just wouldn’t be right, y’know what I mean?

One more thing…

The Other Fandoms of Shows With Unfinished Business

I’ve noticed the presence of fans of shows that still have more to tell, including, but not limited to, Sym-Bionic Titan and Glitch Techs. One show that’s being resurrected as we speak is Sonic the Hedgehog (SatAM), which ran in the 1990s for a measly two seasons and, just like WOY, was left on a cliffhanger (in this one, Snively re-emerges in a different outfit and is raring to take his uncle’s place and put a stop to the Freedom Fighters, and behind him stands Naugus, who somehow managed to escape the void). Fortunately, a group called Team Sea3on are working on a S3 premiere titled “Return to Robotropolis.” You can find this group on just about any social media platform - their determination to right the wrong done to the show is truly inspiring.

Did I mention shows like Hey Arnold! and Samurai Jack got closure after years of being neglected and incomplete? The same thing could happen to WOY if we persevere. Invader Zim, which also only got two seasons, got its overdue closure (I think) in the form of a Netflix-exclusive movie. If a season is too much work, fewer episodes or a two-hour TV movie should suffice.

And I think that’s about it for now. I hope all this information was enough to keep you all motivated! Fight on for fairness, my friends, and to those of you who think of The End of the Galaxy only as a SEASON finale, I thank you.

#CanceledCartoons

[hwaightme]

Plagiarism.

Hello! Thank you very much for letting me know. Tagging other writers affected: @songmingisthighs @haihoneys

In addition, I am linking the recognition and call-out post in response to this case, by SMT, here.

Dear all, please find all relevant information below about @user777h, and do consider blocking them and reporting posts.

I personally would prefer for this to be dealt with in a regulated and organised manner. I do not tolerate this behaviour, and would highly appreciate a positive resolution in the favour of supporting original content.

General announcement:

Plagiarism of any form is not to be taken lightly, and does have a number of repercussions, including legal. When a work is posted on Tumblr, the copyright generally belongs to the original poster as the creator, meaning they retain ownership of their intellectual property. Any reposting and unauthorised use of the original poster's content can therefore be investigated as a case of copyright infringement.

Considering that two of user777h's posts contain work from 'Literotica', regulations and actions taken on the authors' end there should also be considered.

Below please find more detailed information on user777h.

General information on user777h:

According to Tumblr Archive, this blog has existed only since late January, at least according to when the first post was shared. There appears to be no information on the owner of the blog aside from the plagiarised work which shall be explored later in the evidence section.

To avoid any further speculation 'General information' section shall remain open for the time being, however it is important to note that as two of the works are of a mature nature, so additional scrutiny is to be applied concerning the age of user777h.

The above communication has been sent to user777h on the 2nd of February, 2025, asking them to voluntarily delete the plagiarised content, as well as warning them about further actions, should the request not be followed. Unfortunately, this message was met with no response as of yet.

Evidence of plagiarism committed by user777h

Please see below the evidence showing instances of plagiarism committed by user777h. In all instances, the left item presented is the original work, while the right is what has been plagiarised by user777h.

Exhibit (A) - 23:13 PM by @/hwaightme. Theft of moodboard. Original post date: 17th November, 2024. Plagiarised on January 28th, 2025.

Exhibit (B) - Baby Baby by @/songmingisthighs. Theft of moodboard. Original post date: 12th September, 2024. Plagiarised on January 26th, 2025.

Exhibit (C) - Afternoon Delight by @/haihoneys. Theft of moodboard. Original post date: 19th January, 2025. Plagiarised on January 27th, 2025.

Exhibit (D) - When Sir Gets Home from Literotica (link) Original posted on 17th August, 2023. Plagiarised on 26th January, 2025.

Exhibit (E) - A Wife's First Date Ch. 03 from Literotica (link) Original posted on 24th January, 2025. Plagiarised on 27th January, 2025.

The evidence list can and will be updated if/when necessary.

In closing

Plagiarism is not tolerated in any form.

user777h has plagiarised moodboards and writing of multiple creators, as can be seen in the evidence collected above, and has not made a voluntary move to apologise, change their behaviour and delete this content.

To avoid any further troubles and resolve this situation peacefully, I kindly ask of anyone who can to please report and block user777h.

Thank you.

[ravenstargames]

✦ Lost in Limbo Devlog #7 | 11.02.23

And November is here! 💜 This month has been packed with work for all of us and a few of irl events like birthdays, family vacations and so on! We hope October has been a good month for y'all—we have made some progress on different areas, so let's jump right into it, shall we?

For the spooky month we had Kayden work on both the Halloween Special Ravenstar icon and an art piece of our dear Master Gael enjoying the festivities! I wanted to feature this piece in the devlog as we only posted it on Twitter—my fault! I came back from a trip with my parents last saturday so everything was a bit chaotic and I didn't schedule the tumblr post T_T But here it is! We hope you like it as much as we do!

And now for the actual progress of the game, Raquel has finished Amon's CG and has been working on Envy's (we are giving you this little sneak peek!). She's also getting ready to work on Gael's, and we estimate that as soon as Gael's is finished, we'll be able to open our itch.io page! I have also been working on the itch thumbnails, covers, etc! 💜

We have also started working on the concept art of the first secondary character you'll meet in the demo. They had a sprite already, but we have improved so much it didn't sit right with us to just use the old sprite. We are redoing their design for it to be more attractive and unique!

In previous devlogs we talked about having six supporting characters in the first demo, but that changed along with the script. Don't worry—you'll meet them eventually!

The programming department (me) has been working hard to finish the last few screens of the demo, those being the Extras screen, the Gallery selection screen, each LI's individual gallery, and the credits. I have also been testing how to unlock the CGs and adjusting a few more things. This month I'm confident I'll finish the last screen left and then there will only be a few adjustments left. We'll see, hehe. I like to remain positive! 💜

The demo script is officially done and being revised by Allie, our lovely editor! As of right now, they have finished reading the script for the first time and we have already talked about having a meeting to discuss some things. We are beyond excited! I have also sent the script to a few friends who are interested in the project to gather as much feedback as I can, so hopefully I can start coding the script really really soon! 💜

In this devlog, you can tell some departments are finishing their work! Writing and Programming are coming to an end, so I (Seyl) will most likely move to other areas that need help. We are still working hard to bring you the demo around February, but we'll see how things work out for us. There's still a feeew things to do, but we hope you are as happy with our progress as we are!

See you all very soon! Remember to rest, take care of yourselves, and remember that your best and your worst looks different every day! 💜

[misty-doodles]

I really liked this post from @bubble-popping so I just had to write some dead Dream myself, testing out a different writing style

Read Here on ao3 or on Tumblr below.

There’s an unmarked grave in the Arctic Commune.

Houses wrap around in a half circle, one house farther back than the others. Next to the two-story cabin sits an unmarked grave nestled among rocks and farm buildings. The only proof there is a body beneath the frozen soil is the bundle of purple crocus growing. The man who houses the shallow grave once adored flowers in their color and beauty.

In his dying breaths, once vibrant eyes dull, all he’d wanted was to see the sky and plants. With blood staining his teeth and wounds crying, he’d forced his mouth into a faint smile as soon as a lone crocus pressed into his twisted hands.

There’s an unmarked grave in the Arctic Commune, and there’s no hope of it ever being marked. The man who houses the shallow grave shall remain unnamed in his final resting place, mourned by only two and hated by many. Should anyone find the grave hidden under the snow, they will not be satisfied with the dignified end. The fear that his body may be dug up and desecrated was not unfounded.

The man who lives in the cabin bloodied his own hands as he cradled the body of his friend and watched, helpless to save his life. The man, one of two to ever care, stood in the bitter, biting cold and dug. He dug until his fingers numbed and tears dried to his face. He dug until there sat a shallow grave nestled between rocks and farm buildings.

The second man, of blond hair and blue eyes, of care for their fallen third, had not yet arrived. So the man in the cabin wrapped his friend in his finest blanket, careful as he laid him in his new home.

The man had never had a home before.

The second man, who would soon come to live with the fire, dug away snow and soil with his bare hands until they stiffened and paled. He buried the purple crocus just a few feet above the buried man’s corpse, a golden chain nestled beneath the delicate roots. Its only now, many weeks since the unmarked grave had been made, that he weeps. He crawls into the bed of the man who owns the cabin, tears in his eyes as he mourns their third.

No one else seems to mourn. Only the man of blond hair and blue eyes, and the man who owns the cabin. The ones who kneel at the unmarked grave, who whisper words of love and regret into the empty air. To the man of green eyes and freckled cheeks in the shallow grave nestled between rocks and farm buildings.

There’s an unmarked grave in the Arctic Commune, and it belongs to Dream.

[salad-006]

Most Esteemed and Talented Artist Salad, I hope you're doing well. Allow me a moment to express my profound admiration for your work, which stands as a beacon of inspiration in my own humble artistic journey. Your inventiveness and boundless creativity are a constant delight, and I confess that this letter is penned with no small degree of dread, given the immense esteem in which I hold you.

It is with great reverence (and perhaps a touch of trembling courage) that I entreat your permission to embark upon a most joyous undertaking: a fandub of your splendid comic, Tally Hall vs. Evil Hall. My intent is to translate this delightful piece into the Spanish language, enlist the aid of my comrades in lending a voice to its characters, and share it with the world on the grand stage of Youtube.

Naturally, I would take utmost care to ensure that proper credit is given where it is most due. Your Tumblr, Twitter, and Youtube domains shall be heavily acknowledged within the description, and both at the commencement and conclusion of the video, thus directing all respect to your rightful domain.

I fervently hope that this request does not appear untoward or peculiar, for it stems solely from a deep appreciation for your craft and a wish to celebrate it in a manner that entertains and delights. Should you grant your blessing, I shall consider it the highest of honours.

Pray forgive the length of this letter; nervousness and enthusiasm have conspired to make me rather verbose. I eagerly await your response, and regardless of your decision, I remain ever a devoted admirer of your extraordinary work.

(Respectfully I am nervous to send you this ask, I tried to make it funny but I am as anxious as a chihuahua on the street/pos)

While i think itd be funny to just reply "no" , ill give you a legitimate answer

While I appreciate the respect and I'm glad you enjoy my work, I'll ask that you don't produce this dub. To put it simply, I don't want the comic to develop any larger of an audience. I'd like to let it fade into obscurity. If you were just looking for a yes or no, there. But if you want more of an explanation, continue reading.

When evil hall blew up, it put me in the spotlight pretty quick. I kinda became a bit of a celebrity within the Tally Hall fandom. And while it was cool initially, it pretty quickly became a bit of a burden. Multiple times I had people harassing me, borderline stalking me, I kept getting pulled into dramas, I had multiple friends turn out to be awful people, and generally I didn't enjoy just being "the evil hall guy." I didn't like being reduced to just my tally hall content. I also didn't like being set to this higher standard and treated like a celebrity. Not only did it create this weird barrier between me and my fans, but it also opened up a wave of people insulting me specifically just because I was the author of a popular thing.

I dont say this to try and garner sympathy, but rather just to help set the stage. In June I released a shitpost dub of the entire comic, and announced it would be the last thing Evil Hall I would do. Plain and simple, I no longer enjoyed working on the comic. What started as a passion project quickly became more of a burden, hense the indefinite hiatus (ironic) that happened after the last chapters finished by me. Infact I'd say those last few months were probably the most paranoid I've been.

With this in mind, I decided the only viable option was to just. Cut the rope. End Evil Hall, and quietly ask that the fandom respected my wishes in letting it fade into obscurity. Allowing it to continue existing would sort of leave me in this endless limbo, where I'd never truly be free from the comic. While I still get an occasional outlier, for the most part the fandom actually listened, which I am incredibly greatful for. I've been able to completely exit that bubble and return to an environment I'm much more comfortable in.

TLDR: Ive moved on from the comic and i really just want everyone else to as well, cause the tally hall fandom is hell