#you little kids needs to get your grimy little fingers off of fanfic writers' works

[lilrainbowcloud]

its 7 in the morning people and i have to say

I GIVE NO PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, COPY & PASTE, REPOST MY WORKS INTO ANY FORM AND IN ANY PLATFORMS.

thank you.

[whumphoarder]

⭐️?

You Broke Tony was originally going to be told from Peter’s POV instead of Tony’s, but I decided to change it so that we see more of Tony’s confusion and less of Peter’s anxiety, giving it a more lighthearted feel.

If you’re interested, I still have the original draft from Peter’s POV:

“Hey FRIDAY?” Peter called out tentatively as he limped into the entryway of the building. He was hesitant to move any further. “Is Mr. Stark home?”

Her voice answered immediately. “Yes, Peter. Would you like me to alert Mr. Stark of your presence?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks.”

FRIDAY was silent for a moment and Peter assumed she was relaying the information. “Boss says he’s working on something in the lab but to let yourself in and that there are those pudding cups you like in the fridge. Butterscotch, since you’re 16 going on 80.”

“Oh, uh, tell him thanks. But I’m kinda… messy.” He looked down at the white marble he was currently staining crimson. Dizziness washed over him and he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “Do you know if Mr. Stark has any old towels I can borrow? Ones that can get stained?”

“There is an ample supply of towels in the linen closet at the end of the hall, to the right of the first guest bathroom.”

“Oh.” Peter glanced down at his soaked Spider-Man suit, and then behind him at trail of sticky red footprints. “That’s really far away.”

“Do you require assistance, Peter?” the AI asked.

Peter wasn’t exactly known for taking people up on their offers of help, so his instinct was to say no, thanks, he would be fine. But realization was hitting that even if he could manage to limp to the linen closet on his throbbing ankle without incident, it would only make an even bigger mess. He figured he was in enough trouble as it was. “Um… maybe,” he admitted.

The AI was quiet a moment again before responding, “Mr. Hogan is on his way.”

Peter acknowledged the information with a grunt. The headache he’d had since being slammed into the store counter earlier was ramping up now. He wanted to lean against the wall, but he couldn’t bear the thought of messing up Mr. Stark’s pristine walls as well as his floor. He settled for carefully lowering himself down on the entryway floor and letting his head rest on his knees.

It was several minutes before Happy stepped out of the elevator, carrying two towels and looking pissed as always. “Not sure why you think I’m your butler now,” he grumbled as he approached, “but FRIDAY said you needed…” Happy’s eyes went wide and he froze midstep. “Aw, shit! What did you do?!” 

“Wha..?” Peter had started to doze off in the time he’d been waiting. He lifted his head and blinked at the gaping man. “Oh, hey Happy. How’s it going? Sorry about all this...” he rambled.

But Happy wasn’t listening. He closed the distance between himself and Peter quickly while ordering at the AI, “Tell Tony to get his ass up here ASAP. Code red—the kid’s in trouble.” Dropping the towels to his side, he bent down and grabbed Peter firmly by the shoulders.

Trouble -- the word rang in Peter’s aching head. The last time he was in trouble with Mr. Stark, he gotten his suit taken from him. Peter was panicking now. His head felt fuzzy and his words were coming out slightly slurred. “I’m sorry! I’m really sorry! I’ll clean it up, please don’t be mad!” He reached for a towel, but Happy swatted his hand away.

“Shut up and hold still, kid,” Happy barked. His hands were running over Peter’s body now, patting him down like he was searching for something, which Peter thought was strange. When he touched the lump on the back of Peter’s head, the kid let out a hiss.

“That hurts?” Happy questioned. “Did you hit your head?” 

Peter nodded. In a small voice, he asked, “Is Mr. Stark gonna be mad?”

“I’d say that’s a good possibility,” Happy replied curtly.

Peter hid his face back in his arms and moaned softly, internally cursing himself for coming to the tower in the first place. If not for this stupid headache, he was sure he could have figured out a better solution than involving Tony, but the day’s events had left him not exactly firing on all cylinders. 

Just then, Mr. Stark came bursting out of the elevator doors, still dressed in the grimy old jeans and T-shirt that he only wore in his workshop. “Jesus Christ, kid,” he swore. In a few quick strides, he was kneeling at Peter’s side, his eyes scanning Peter up and down. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter whimpered. “I’ll clean everything, I swear, I jus-”

“What. The hell. Happened.”

It was the same scarily calm voice that Tony had used on the ferry. All of sudden Peter was back on the dock, getting chewed out by the one person he looked up to most. “Th-There was a mugging,” he tried to explain. His throat felt tight and his eyes stung. “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I tried to stop him but-”

“Where are you hurt?” Tony demanded. He pressed the spider insignia on the front of Peter’s suit and the fabric loosened around him.

Both Tony and Happy were working now to pull the suit off him, and all Peter could think was that Spider-Man was being taken from him again, right here in the lobby. He kept rambling, tears slipping out now, “I’m so sorry about the mess and the suit and-

Mr. Stark paused. “Hey, hey, look at me, kid.” Tony touched Peter’s chin and tilted it up to him. Peter blinked at him. The anger that he had expected to see in his mentor’s eyes wasn’t there. Instead, there was fear. “I don’t give a shit about the floor or the suit. I need to know where you’re hurt.”

Happy spoke up. “He’s got a head injury, but I don’t think that’s where the blood is coming from.”

“Then where is it coming from?” Tony shot back.

Peter frowned, confused. Blood? Was he bleeding? Looking down at himself, something finally clicked in the teenager’s addled brain and he realized why everyone was so upset.

“Guys, this isn’t my blood,” Peter said simply.

Both men stiffened immediately. “Whose is it?” Happy asked, looking horrified. 

Peter shook his head. “No, no, sorry! I mean it’s not anyone’s! It’s not real.” The adults looked unconvinced so Peter licked the arm of his suit, staining his tongue bright red. “See? It’s like colored corn syrup and glycerin or something.”

The two men relaxed, but only for a millisecond. 

Tony was the first back on the offensive. “Alright, we are backing the fuck up here. Then why in god’s name are you sitting on the floor of my lobby covered in fake blood? Because if this is some kind of prank…”

“Not a prank.” Peter closed his eyes and groaned softly. He took a deep breath. “I was on patrol. There was a mugging going on in the alley between Walgreens and… uh, you know those temporary stores that pop up around Halloween and sell costumes and decorations and stuff?”

“Yeah, go on,” Tony prompted.

“One of those,” Peter continued. “Anyway I tried to web the guy up but my web-shooter jammed and he got away and ran into the costume store. So I ran in after him but he had a gun and-“

“Did he shoot you?” Tony interrupted.

“Well, he tried but-”

Immediately, Tony started trying to pull the suit off again and find whatever injury Peter was hiding.

“No, no Mr. Stark, he missed!” Peter said quickly. “But when I jumped out of the way, I sorta crashed into this display shelf and knocked a bin over, which was full of these little plastic bags. And then I landed on them so some of them burst open...”

“Let me guess.” Tony sighed exasperatedly. “Fake blood.”

“It was everywhere,” Peter said miserably. “Kinda hit my head on the counter too…” He ran his fingers over the lump on his skull, wincing.

(A/N: You’ll note at this moment in that a wild Bruce appears. I do not know where he came from and he did not make it to later drafts of this story lmao)

Bruce frowned and tilted Peter’s chin up towards him. With the other hand, he held up a finger and traced sideways across the teenager’s line of sight. Peter tried to follow with his gaze, but it only made him feel dizzier. Bruce pulled a penlight from his chest pocket and shined it at the boy’s eyes.

“What’s the diagnosis, Doc?” Tony asked.

“I’ll preface this by reminding you I’m still not a medical doctor…” Bruce began. 

Tony waved his hand indicating he should go on.

“Pupils are blown, and he’s having a hard time tracking. I’m guessing mild to moderate concussion, but we should get him to Medbay and run a CT to be sure.”

Tony nodded. “FRIDAY, be sure to alert a real doctor of that and send someone up from medical with a stretcher.”

“Right away, sir,” the AI replied.

“Mr. Stark, I can walk-“

“Finish your story, Pete,” Tony cut him off.

Peter closed his eyes and obeyed. “The blood was all over and I think the guy thought he’d hit me because he started running back out. So I jumped up and webbed him — it worked this time. And then I webbed the gun up too and left them both for the cops.”

“What about your ankle?” Bruce questioned.

Peter blushed. “Oh. Uh, on my way out I sorta… slipped.” 

“You slipped?” Tony clarified.

Dropping his gaze to his feet, Peter muttered, “...On the blood.”

At this detail, Tony let out a snort of amusement. He quickly turned it into a cough though, as both Happy and Bruce shot him disapproving looks. “Sorry, kid,” he said through coughs. With a smirk, he added, “But you gotta admit that is a fantastic image.”

Peter only groaned in response.

I much prefer the vibe of the story from Tony’s POV, but Happy was fun to write in this and he sadly got the cut :(

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut

[bhaalpit]

hey boy, you make me want to write a song

Also available on ao3

-

It’s been literally six years since I posted a fanfic, and I've always wanted to be writer so we might as well START.

DISCLAIMER!!: The song that Derek “writes” in his head is actually a Thomas Rhett song that I modified the pronouns on bc I was too lazy to write an original song plz don’t hate me or sue me Mr. Rhett. In this AU Thomas Rhett doesn’t exist lmao.

-

He doesn’t want to be here. After an eight hour work day at the pool Derek is tired, still grimy even after a hasty shower, and just wants to sleep until he has to work again tomorrow. But, after bailing on their previous outing, his friends had successfully guilted him into coming out to what looks like an impromptu bonfire beach party.

He scoops up his grocery bag (case of cider, a three-quarters full bottle of vodka, a bag of chips), and pumps himself up for at least a few hours of social interaction before exiting his car. 

“Derek!” Shielding his eyes against the glare of the setting sun, just starting to dip below the lake’s horizon, Derek spots Erica waving frantically at him. He heads in the direction of the fire and scattered blankets, sand already between his toes and under his heels. “You came!” As soon as he’s within distance, Erica flings her arms around him.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes good naturally, but hugs her back. His friends are pushy in just the right ways, and Derek loves them all fiercely. “Don’t chirp me about it or I’m leaving.”

“I’ll hug your legs if you try,” she threatens. “Try me, loser.”

Isaac comes up behind him, ducking under Erica’s reaching arms to take the bag from Derek. “Hey Der, nice to see you - Erica, watch it - lemme put these in the cooler.” After Erica has finished thoroughly annoying him, Derek extricates himself, grinning despite himself, and wanders over to where Boyd is lounging on a frayed serape blanket

“Hey man.” Boyd presses a wet can into his hand. “Still alive, I see.”

“Despite Erica’s attempts at smothering me.” He pops the can open, chugging the cheap, bitter beer. He grimaces, wishing he had had the forethought to refrigerate his cider beforehand.

“You love me.” Erica plops down into Boyd’s laugh and he wraps one arm around her waist while keeping his beer from spilling. He blows a raspberry into the back of her neck and she giggles, squirming away from him.

His chest swells with a bloom of affection as he watches the two of them tussel, expertly moving his beer around their flailing limbs. He takes another sip of beer and holds back a gag. “Ugh. Isaac, can you pass me a cider? You can have the rest of my beer.”

Isaac snorts. “Sure, man. The cider’s still room temperature though.”

“Anything is better than this. I’m literally begging you.”

Isaac snickers, but fetches a can out of the cooler. “Here, you big baby.” The cider is barely anything colder than when he brought it from home, but at least he won’t gag after every sip. Beer is nasty and no one will ever convince him otherwise. “Scott just texted me. They’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”

 Derek is well into his second can of cider, loose limbed enough that he is slumped comfortably into Boyd’s side, when Scott and the others show up in a beat-up blue jeep and an old red convertible. They spill out, laughing and waving at them from the parking lot. It’s almost too dark to distinguish their figures from the darkness of the night settling around them.

As they approach, Derek recognizes almost everyone in the group, except for one broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped lanky boy with amber eyes, a ski-tipped nose, and a smattering of beauty marks. Although there is something vaguely familiar about his eyes, Derek is sure he hasn’t met him before. He would have remembered.

Feeling suddenly too warm and too big for his skin, Derek stumbles to his feet. It’s nearing the end of August, so the air is still heavy and thick as it settles around him. Derek rolls his shoulders, the fabric sticking slightly to his back.

The group of them finally reach the bonfire, and Derek waits for the introductions, stupidly. They’re a bunch of teenagers and twenty-somethings - no one does introductions, you either know someone or you fumble your way into knowing someone. The amber-eyed boy meets his gaze for a short moment before his eyes skitter away. Derek swallows, hard.

“-erek. Derek?” His head snaps up guiltily. Kira is wiggling her fingers in front of his face.

“Yes? Sorry, I zoned out for a second.” He has to physically stop his head from turning to follow the figure walking at the peripheral of his vision. 

Kira narrows her eyes, considering. “Hm. Distracted by something?”

He dangles his can of cider in front of her. “I am drunk ma’am.” He tilts the can up, frowning when nothing comes out. “And I am out of alcohol. Please excuse me.” He attempts to bow, and judging from her giggle, looks ridiculous for it. 

Also, the boy is by the cooler and Derek desperately needs to know his name. He tosses his can into the garbage bag, pinned into the sand with several large rocks, and heads toward the cooler. Scott is there, one tanned arm slung around the boy as they stand directly in his way. Derek would be annoyed if he wasn’t so smitten. 

“Hey.” Does his voice sound normal? Oh, God, he hopes he sounds cool. “Uh, could I get in there -?” He gestures to the two of them, hoping for the boy to slip in his name.

“Oh!” The amber-eyed boy jumps a little, shuffling away from Scott guiltily. “Sorry about that!”

Derek flashes a smile. “No worries.” He waits for a few beats, then turns to rifle through the mess of half melted ice. When he turns around with a wet can in his hand, the amber-eyed boy is digging his elbow into Scott’s stomach.

“Derek, this is Stiles!” Scott exclaims, suddenly and a bit too loudly. The other boy, Stiles, elbows him again, but turns to face Derek. “Uh, I realize you probably hadn’t met him. And, uh. Yeah.”

Pulse racing, Derek nods at Stiles in a hopefully-cool way. “Cool. Yeah, I don’t think we’ve met before? I’m Derek.”

Stiles smiles, a bit shyly. “I’m just here for the summer. Scott and I have been friends forever so he’s showing me around.” His fingers, wrapped around the neck of a brown bottle, are distracting. 

“Oh?” He shuffles closer, belatedly realizing that Scott is heading away from the two of them. “Where are you from?”

“Not far from here - I live over in the next county, but I lived here in Beacon Hills until I was, uh, ten. And then we moved.” He scratches the back of his neck, his face tight with what looks like discomfort. “But Scott and I stayed really good friends.”

Derek has a sudden, vivid flashback of a thin, waif-like child wearing a hoodie down to his knees with a bandaid across the bridge of his nose. Sitting in a hospital waiting room across from him. “I -  I think I remember you?” Stiles’ eyes widen. “Did you have a Mets sweatshirt when you were a kid?”

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” Stiles says quietly.

Dirty white sneakers, knobby knees, a packet of - “- Reese cups?” When Stiles smiles, his eyes crinkle. “I hadn’t thought about it in years. I think I forgot about it because - well.” Derek cuts himself off before he can put a complete damper on the conversation. “I just forgot, I guess.”

Stiles smiles, a little bit sadly and a lot in understanding. “You seemed so cool to ten year old me. I think you had a walkman and I was so jealous of you.”

Derek snorts, grasping at the new conversation thread in relief. “I was probably listening to Green Day or something equally ‘edgy’.”

“Definitely cooler than me, then.”

They’re interrupted by someone yelling “Derek!” He sighs, turning to see who’s yelling at him this time. It’s Isaac, brandishing - his guitar? Derek had left it in the backseat of his car, but clearly he had forgotten to lock it. “Come play some tunes, man!” Everyone by the fire turns to look at him, expectant.

Stiles makes a noise beside him. “You can play guitar?” Stiles asks. Then, under his breath, “of course you do.”

Derek shrugs, the back of his neck prickling with the sudden attention. “I’m alright, I guess. You coming?” He jerks his head over to the fire and Stiles nods frantically.

“Abso-lutely.”

He settles once he’s sitting down with the guitar under his hands, fingers lazily sweeping over the strings as he tunes the old thing. The guitar is old, gifted to him by his mother, but it’s well-made and will last Derek many, many more years.

“Any requests?” Derek asks, strumming a few chords. He starts to play Wonderwall with a shit-eating grin, Isaac flips him off, and Boyd gets up and starts dramatically walking away from the fire.

Kira snickers and offers “Van Morrison?”

“Brown-eyed girl it is,” he confirms, strumming a G chord, and then they’re in it. Derek might hate being the center of attention, but it’s different when he’s playing like this. With the flow of music under his fingertips, the singing voices cresting on either side of him, he feels a part of something. He’d never ever perform, but this? This warmth, sitting in a circle of familiar and not-yet-familiar faces, all of them suspended in this moment, together? He could do this forever.

Derek cycles through the usual fireside songs - Billy Joel, Fleetwood Mac, John Denver, Eagles, Tracy Chapman, Howie Day, Gavin DeGraw. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Derek catches Stiles’ gaze across the flames, his eyes luminous with the reflection of fire in them, and very nearly forgets to keep playing. And then Derek has to fight against the urge to start strumming an entirely different song, one about whiskey and smoke and stars and falling to his knees.

His fingers fumble on the fret and he hastily looks away, focusing on something safe - the fire, which reminds him of how it had looked reflected in Stiles’ eyes, so he looks at the sand instead. Dark blue in the shadow of the night sky, except for where the fire cuts across it in swaths of glowing orange.

After what feels like hours of playing, the energy of the circle has dipped and levelled out to something mellow and relaxed. Derek’s playing has mostly become background music to a number of side conversations, and at least one makeout session, so he starts strumming Closing Time before he puts his guitar away.

Someone snickers from beside him; Stiles has moved from across the fire to beside him. He was concentrating so hard on not staring at him that he somehow missed Stiles moving from his spot. “Very subtle,” Stiles says.

Derek grins over at him. Stiles is staring at his fretboard, his lashes dark against his cheek. “I’m glad someone appreciates my very subtle song choices.” Derek carefully packs his guitar up, considers leaving it on one of the unoccupied blankets, but decides to keep it on him. 

The night is so clear that the moon’s path is reflected on the rippling surface of the lake. The sky is dripping in stars and Derek desperately wants to walk along the shore of this moonlit lake, wants to hold Stiles hand while he does it because he is, apparently, the world’s sappiest twenty year old guy.

“You want to go for a walk?” Stiles asks. He’s already slipping out of his flip flops, chucking them carelessly over to the side, so he misses Derek’s (probably besotted) look in his direction.

“You read my mind.” Derek digs his toes past the warm sand into the cooler layer underneath. Stiles whoops and races for the shoreline, splashing into ankle-deep water. He is bathed in silver, splashing liquid moonlight everywhere. He looks like some kind of carefree, fae-like god, frolicking along the edges of a sea of stars.

Derek needs to stop writing song lyrics in his head and actually talk to the boy.

Guitar in tow, Derek follows suit and wades into the cold water. “Shit,” he swears, darting back out of the water. “It’s fucking freezing.” Stiles laughs at him as he sticks one toe back in the water.

“Didn’t you grow up here? Shouldn’t you be used to this?”

“I am a warm-blooded creature, thank you very much.” Derek gestures down the stretch of empty beach. “C’mon, I want to show you something.”

“Ooh, are you leading me to a secret hideout?” Stiles asks, excitedly.

“Well - no. But, it’s a close second.” This answer does nothing to deter Stiles’ enthusiasm as they splash along the quiet shore. After a few minutes, they come across Derek’s something - a small, hidden rocky cove out of sight of the rest of the beach. Most of the boulders here are wide and flat, perfect for lounging or sitting on. Derek leads them to a collection of rocks a little ways down, carefully setting his guitar case down and hopping up onto the rock next to it.

“Wow,” Stiles breathes, settling down next to him. “This is gorgeous, Derek.”

Derek is a cliche because he very nearly sighs out “yes,” in response while blatantly staring at Stiles. Instead, he forces himself to look at the scenery, which pales in comparison to the way the moonlight turns Stiles’ skin luminous and otherworldly. His skin is like the inverse of the sky stretched out above them; a pale, glowing canvas pricked with dark constellations.

“What song is that? I haven’t heard it before.”

Derek pauses mid-hum; he hadn’t realized he was humming anything. And then he realizes he’s humming the song that ‘s been writing itself in his head ever since he laid eyes on Stiles. Shit. “It’s original.”

Stiles raises his brows in appreciation. “You a songwriter as well?”

Derek shrugs, but can’t help the pleased grin that sneaks out. “I guess. It’s kinda unavoidable for me. Sometimes I just see someone - something, I mean - and I start mentally writing lyrics.”

Stiles hums, leaning back onto his hands. His legs, constant pendulums, keep shifting so that their knees knock together. Stiles pauses, letting his leg rest against Derek’s. “Will you sing me one?”

His guitar is in his lap before he’s even said the word “yes” out loud. He places his fingers against the fretboard, imagines places his fingers the same way against a set of ribs, a white throat, and begins to sing. He keeps his voice as low as possible, quiet and husky in the fragile not-quite-silence on this secluded strip of beach,

Hey boy, you make me wanna write a song

Sit you down, sing it to you all night long

I've had a melody in my head since you walked in here and knocked me dead

Yeah boy, you make me wanna write a song

And it goes like ooh, what I wouldn't do

To write my name on your heart, get you wrapped in my arms baby all around you

And it goes like hey, boy I'm blown away

Yeah it starts with a smile and it ends with an all night long slow kiss

Yeah it goes like this

Stiles’ eyes have gone a dark, molten amber; either due to being away from the campfire or something else, Derek doesn’t know. His hands are remarkably steady as he plays, despite his heart beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to leap out of his chest, directly into Stiles’ hands. Stiles has nice hands - long-fingered and strong-boned - and Derek thinks tt wouldn’t be so bad, probably, if that were to happen.

His thigh is burning through denim where Stiles is pressed close, no longer subtly brushing their knees together. When he’s finished strumming the last notes of the song, letting them fade into the sound of rolling waves, he decides it’s now or never. Gently setting the guitar aside, Derek leans forward to almost-whisper into Stiles’ ear.

“Hey, Stiles,” Derek whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you now?”

Stiles’ scrunches his nose up into a shy smile and he nods, swaying toward Derek.

Derek catches him behind the neck, thumb in front of one blushing ear, and rushes to meet him halfway in a bruising kiss. He’s just drunk enough that he feels loose and floaty, but not clumsy and sloppy. He’s clear-headed enough to feel the nerves and butterflies inside him roll into a low buzz of excitement as he leans into the kiss.

Stiles runs his tongue over Derek’s bottom lip, one hand sliding up into Derek’s hair and the other is warm on Derek’s thigh. He tugs gently, pulling Derek closer, and he moves into it. Kissing Stiles is like the waves sliding up on the shore, tugged by the moon’s gravity, except Derek is the water and Stiles is his moon.

When they separate to breathe and calm their racing hearts down, Derek keeps Stiles close with an arm settled around his waist. He looks breathtaking in the moonlight, with his hair unruly and his lips reddened, so Derek tells him. Stiles flushes, squirming a little, but beams at him. “Derek Hale, are you a romantic?” he teases.

“Only around you,” Derek replies honestly.

“Oh, you’re so unfair.” Stiles ducks his head down so blow a raspberry against Dereks’ throat in apparent retaliation. He kisses the same spot right after and Derek shivers.

“What?” Derek’s lost the thread of the conversation somehow.

“S’not fair that you’re hot and romantic and ernest about it,” Stiles explains. “You’re going to kill me.”

Oh. Derek smiles at him helplessly, shrugging his shoulders. He can’t think of anything funny to say back; his mind is writing lyrics again and he can’t focus on anything else. But before he let’s it run rampant, he has something very important to ask Stiles. He takes Stiles hand in his.

“Stiles, will you go out with me?”

That seems to startle a laugh out of Stiles, who appeases Derek’s offended look immediately. “Wait, wait, I’m not laughing at you, I just. You had your tongue down my throat five minutes ago and now you’re asking me out like a gentleman.”

“Well, I wanted to be clear that I, y’know, like you. Like in a date-you way not just in a this”, Derek motions between them, “way.” He sighs, his shoulders slumping a bit. He always messes things up somehow. “Nevermind, it’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not!” Stiles holds their clasped hands up to his chest, speaking fiercely. “It’s really sweet, Derek. No one’s ever said that to me before, I was just caught off guard.” Any trace of the earlier teasing is gone, replaced by a very serious looking Stiles. “That was - you’re something else, Derek Hale. I mean that in the best way possible.”

“Oh.” Derek doesn’t know what else to do, so he just sits there while his cheeks heat up.

“And yes, by the way. I would love to go on a date with you.” Stiles smiles at him so softly that Derek wants to sing about sunlight and spring buds and early mornings. He doesn’t realize he’s started humming again, until Stiles asks him if he’s writing another song in his head. 

“Dammit,” he swears. “I can’t seem to help myself around you.”

Stiles looks impossibly fond and just kisses the corner of his mouth, asking, “will you play me another song?”

And Derek says, “always,” and he means it.