we have dandelions EVERYWHERE, they are basically our State Weed, it is absolutely impossible that my mom has never interacted with a dandelion before, this requires further investigation
So after extensive interrogation I have an update:
my mom is in fact aware that dandelions exist. she temporarily forgot the name and there was some miscommunication.
the truth is actually weirder
she’s aware dandelions look like this
she is familiar with this flower. she knows the name of this flower. she declines to believe, however, that these are also dandelions
she does not believe these are the same plant. I tried to explain, and she thought I was either misinformed or lying. so I asked her what exactly did she think the yellow ones were called?
she answered, with complete confidence: Daffodils.
you look like the kinda girl who'd open up ms paint back in the day select the spray paint tool and click and hold to watch it slowly turn into a perfect circle
katara is one of those impossibly cool people who “has a guy” for everything. like run into any sort of problem and she’s just like “hang on i gotchu. just contact this number and they’ll know what to do.” but half the time that guy is just sokka
genuine writers getting wrongly accused of using ai because of witch hunt and proper grammar/structure in their works must be what being a woman in the 1600s who is wrongly accused of being a witch because she can read and is intelligent feels like
Thanks for the tags @sunmontuewrites and @halestrom! Amusingly enough, I actually wrote something this week, so you get all 500 brand new words of it.
Peter waited until most of the Pack was lounging on the couches and floor of the loft before slinking down the spiral staircase to join them, as always. Sometimes it still made Scott flinch, even after all these years, and Peter had to get his kicks where he could.
After smirking at Scott's attempt to hide his surprise at his sudden presence, Peter let his nose sort through all the scents in the room, adding it to what he'd heard as they wandered in to make a picture of how the Pack had changed since their last meeting. He could tell that Scott thought he was in love again (he stank of a new perfume and puppy love), that Malia had spent most of the week as a coyote and was grumpy about having to wear clothes again (she smelled like the Preserve and sweat and annoyance), and that Jackson was fighting with Danny again (gym sweat, frustration, and self-loathing alongside a distinct lack of Armani). Nothing of note.
He was just starting to relax when the loft door opened and the scents of Stiles and his nephew wafted in. Underneath their usual mix of domestic bliss was a warm note that he hadn't smelled in over a decade, and it froze him in his tracks. Peter's mind rushed back to a warm kitchen filled with joy and laughter and the memory of 2 year old Derek asking, in his toddler vocabulary, why his mother smelled different. But the memory of Talia's voice quickly pivoted to what he always heard when he let himself remember her: the way she'd been screaming in his final moments of consciousness as fire engulfed their family.
A loud crack knocked him out of that memory, and he looked down to see the edge of the short bookshelf he'd been leaning on splintered by his claws. Peter schooled his face as he looked up, knowing the rest of the Pack would be focused on him. Decisively, he freed his claws from the wood, nodded at Derek, and said the only thing he could think of as he walked out of the loft as fast as he could without making more of a scene, "Congratulations, mazel tov! I need to be somewhere else."
Grateful that the Pack was used to his abrupt departures, Peter made his way deep into the Preserve before letting out a mournful howl. It still bothered him that the Pack would hear him and know his pain, but he had no desire to go far enough away to not be heard. He spent the night remembering and hurting and mourning, knowing that he had to leave it all out here. His nephew needed him, now more than ever. Peter hadn't ever been the nurturing type, but he was the only one who'd been an adult last time there'd been cubs in the Hale Pack, and someone was going to have to make sure Derek and Stiles were ready for a newborn werewolf.
Great fantastic how dare you throw this in my face and leave me to rot in my feelings about Peter Hale feeling things about new baby wolves in the pack?! You get back here this instant and soothe me damnit! I am not emotionally equipped for this!!!
this is why ao3 is superior 😭 I hope op has a copy of their work because, from what I’ve been told, wattpad won’t even warn or give you time to backup your work beforehand. they will just deadass delete your work. my friend once had their entire work—with multiple chapters—deleted by wattpad with no heads up. just a notification that says “your work has been deleted”.
seriously people, ao3 is your safe haven. there’s no censorship. no capitalism bullshit. you can post the most taboo, most shockingly messed up thing there and the site will protect you and your works. they even have their own team of lawyers to protect writers, writers’ works and writers’ rights to create whatever they want. no matter how controversial or taboo or explicit or dark or messed up your works are, they are protected and welcomed on ao3. stop wasting time with wattpad 😭
I had this littlr prompt idea, it could be where the hale family lives and so does Claudia. Stiles being either thr same age as Derek or a year or two younger. The idea of Derek telling others about how Stiles was so clingy when they were kids and stiles doesn't remember correctly and just agrees but mama's Hale And Stilinskis hear them as they talk to thr pack and bring out a photo album about how Derek was the clingy one and very territorial with Stiles.
Heyo! Hope this is okay ❣️❣️❣️
~~~~~~
The story always gets told the same way.
Derek leans back like he’s been waiting for the moment, one arm slung over the back of the couch, voice low and dry as he tells it - like it’s just another piece of history everyone should already know. The pack listens because it’s Derek, because he doesn’t usually offer pieces of himself so easily, and because Stiles is right there beside him, already narrowing his eyes like he knows he’s about to be betrayed.
“He used to follow me everywhere,” Derek says, glancing sideways at him, mouth twitching at the corner. “Wouldn’t leave me alone. Couldn’t go five minutes without asking where I was going or what I was doing.”
There’s a ripple of laughter immediately. Isaac snorts, Boyd grins, even Cora raises an eyebrow like she’s filing that away for future use.
Stiles, traitor that he is to his own memory, just shrugs. “I mean… yeah, that tracks. I was an adorable menace as a child. Very attached. Probably cried if you looked at me wrong.”
Derek hums like that confirms everything.
“He cried if I left the room,” Derek adds.
“Okay, wow, we’re embellishing now,” Stiles shoots back, but there’s no real heat to it, just easy familiarity, the kind that’s been built over years of shared space and quiet understanding.
Across the room, though, something shifts.
It’s subtle at first - the kind of stillness that only people who know each other too well can feel. Claudia Stilinski pauses mid sip of her tea. Talia Hale’s lips press together in a way that looks suspiciously like she’s holding back a smile.
Stiles doesn’t notice.
Derek definitely doesn’t notice.
Which is why neither of them are prepared when Talia stands, smoothing her hands over her skirt with a kind of calm, deliberate grace that always means something is about to happen.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says warmly, voice carrying just enough to pull attention. “Is that how you remember it?”
Derek blinks.
Stiles tilts his head. “I mean… I don’t really remember it that well, honestly. I was like, what, five? Six? I was probably annoying.”
Claudia lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh from her seat. “Annoying, yes. Clingy?” She exchanges a look with Talia that says entire conversations without a word. “That’s not quite the word I’d use.”
Now the pack is interested.
Isaac leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Wait, so he wasn’t?”
“Oh, he was attached,” Talia says, eyes sparkling now, the kind of amusement that only comes from years of knowing exactly how wrong someone is. “Just… not in the way Derek is describing.”
Derek straightens slightly. “Mom-”
But it’s too late.
Because Claudia is already standing, already moving toward the hallway with purpose. “Hold on,” she says over her shoulder. “I think I still have something.”
Stiles groans immediately. “Oh no. No, no, no. what are you getting? Why are you getting something?”
“Evidence,” Cora mutters under her breath, grinning.
Derek’s jaw tightens just a fraction. “We don’t need-”
“Yes, we do,” Boyd says, entirely too pleased.
A minute later, Claudia comes back with it.
It’s exactly what it looks like - an old, slightly worn photo album, the kind with thick pages and plastic sleeves, edges softened from years of being flipped through. She holds it like it’s precious, like it holds something important, which, judging by the way Talia’s smile widens, means it absolutely does.
Stiles sinks lower into the couch. “I regret everything already.”
“You probably should,” Cora says brightly.
Claudia settles beside him and flips it open with practiced ease, turning a few pages before stopping. Talia leans in, pointing lightly.
“Ah, there it is.”
And then she turns it so everyone can see.
The reaction is immediate.
There’s a beat of silence and then the room erupts.
Because the picture is… not what Derek described.
At all.
Stiles is there, yes - small, probably five or six, all skinny limbs and wild hair, wearing a t-shirt that’s too big for him. He’s sitting cross legged on the grass, looking perfectly content, attention focused on something just out of frame.
But Derek… seven year old Derek is practically on top of him.
He’s wrapped around Stiles like he’s trying to fuse them into a single being, arms looped tightly around his middle, chin tucked against his shoulder. His face is buried in Stiles’ neck, and even in the still image, there’s something unmistakably possessive in the way he’s holding him, like he belongs there and nowhere else.
Like he’s making sure everyone knows it.
“Oh my god,” Isaac wheezes.
Boyd actually doubles over, laughing.
Cora just loses it completely. “Oh my god, Derek. You look like you’re guarding him.”
“I am not-” Derek starts, but there’s another page being turned.
Another photo.
This one’s worse.
They’re inside now, sitting on the couch. Stiles is holding a book, clearly trying to read, while Derek is half in his lap, one arm hooked around his waist, the other gripping the fabric of his shirt like he’s afraid someone might try to take him away.
His expression is serious. Focused.
“He wouldn’t let anyone else sit next to him,” Talia adds mildly, like she’s just offering context. “Not even Laura. If someone got too close, he’d growl.”
“You growled?” Jackson chokes out.
“He snapped at me once,” Cora adds helpfully. “I still remember it. Mom had to physically pull him off. I couldn't remember the context for a long time, but now I remember why..”
Derek looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
Stiles, meanwhile, is staring at the pictures like his entire understanding of reality has just been flipped on its head.
“I-” he starts, then stops. “I don’t remember this.”
“Oh, you were oblivious,” Claudia says fondly, flipping another page. “You thought he just liked hanging out.”
The next picture shows Derek trailing behind Stiles in the backyard, fingers curled into the back of his shirt, literally holding onto him as he walks.
“Wouldn’t let him out of his sight,” Talia says. “If Stiles left a room, Derek followed. If someone else tried to take him somewhere, Derek went too.”
“That’s…” Isaac gestures helplessly at the album. “That’s the opposite of what you said.”
Derek drags a hand over his face. “I was a kid.”
“So was I!” Stiles shoots back, finally finding his voice. “And apparently I had a shadow I didn’t even know about.”
“A very aggressive shadow,” Boyd adds.
Cora grins. “A possessive one.”
Stiles leans closer to the album, squinting at another picture where Derek is glaring directly at the camera while clutching onto him like a lifeline.
“…You look like you’d fight someone,” he says slowly.
“He probably would have,” Talia says before Derek can respond.
There’s another round of laughter, softer this time, warmer.
And Derek - who’s been trying very hard not to react - finally exhales, shoulders dropping just a little.
Because yeah.
Maybe he remembers it differently.
Maybe it’s easier to say Stiles was the clingy one, easier to pretend it wasn’t him who needed something so fiercely he didn’t even understand it yet.
But the proof is right there.
In every picture.
In every moment frozen in time where he’s holding on just a little too tight, standing just a little too close, watching Stiles like he’s the center of his entire world.
Stiles nudges him lightly with his shoulder, grin crooked but softer now, something fond threading through it.
“So,” he says, voice quieter. “You were obsessed with me.”
Derek huffs, but there’s no real denial left in it. “You were small. Annoying.”
“Mmhm.”
“Got into trouble.”
“Obviously.”
Derek glances at him then, something old and familiar flickering in his eyes, something that’s never really gone away.
“…Still do.”
Stiles’ grin widens.
And this time, when their shoulders press together, Derek doesn’t move away.
Omg I love this piece. Grace the hanging man, content with his life but cannot avoid the changes coming; the ship his noose, the rope that binds him to his fate; the blood red stars beside him, Olesya and Yáo the angels haunting him in the background. Eva Stratt, the one who holds it all on her back, the world is literally on her shoulders, the Petrova line on her neck. She will not falter, cannot afford to move, and yet still she glares at us. Eva challenges us, daring us to ask if we could do better, if we could hold her burden for even a fraction of the time.
Eve, the mother of sin, who held the world in her hands and was cursed for not knowing.
Eva, director of the task force, who now holds the world, and still must curse man to save it.
In the end, it always falls on a woman. I could never hate you Eva Stratt
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