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It was official.
Having the plague was the worst.
Seriously.
The worst.
“I don’t know, dude. Pretty sure it doesn’t qualify as the plague unless there has been a wild rat infestation or something,” Scott said thoughtfully, and Stiles harumphed, grabbing a tissue and blowing into it with the force of a thousand mighty trumpets.
“Dude! Gross!” Scott complained from outside the window of Stiles’ mercifully single dorm room, where he’d perched himself a couple of minutes earlier and had since been offering rather unsolicited commentary feebly disguised as concern for his best friend.
Stiles glared.
“Just be glad your wolfy immune system will protect you from catching this shit and leave me to my doom,” he snarked, flopping back onto his bed and letting out a groan.
“Ugh! Even thinking hurts!” he complained, massaging his forehead, and feeling entirely sorry for himself.
“Oh. That sucks,” Scott said sheepishly, and though Stiles was still a little bit miffed about being called out on his body’s honestly rather remarkable attempt to produce fluids in all colors of the damn rainbow, his ruffled feathers soothed quite a bit when he felt Scott’s fingertip on his temple and the pounding pressure in his head immediately lessened.
“Ouch! Dude, you should have called earlier,” Scott admonished him, letting out a little wolf whistle and sniffing noisily.
“Also, you should probably take a shower or something. You kind of ... uh ... reek.”
“Thanks! I can’t smell for shit right now, but I guess I’ll trust your judgment,” Stiles grumbled, letting out a complaining sound when Scott gently but firmly tugged away his covers and lovingly manhandled him into a sitting position.
“Dude, I’m so pooped I can barely keep my eyes open! Do you want to sponge bath me? Because there’s no way I’m taking a shower right now,” Stiles whined, and Scott – bless his heart – looked like he was actually considering it for a second.
Stiles sighed.
“Ugh. Fine.”
He got up, expecting the room to spin and noticing in relief that Scott’s pain-drain-mojo seemed to have not only cured his headache but also given him quite the energy boost.
Well.
He wasn’t going to run a marathon within the next five minutes – or ever, truth be told – but he did feel strong enough to make it to the bathroom down the hallway on his own and possibly even wash his hair.
It was a relief, honestly.
Stiles might not have been able to smell anything through his severely clogged up nose, but his hair was grimy and matted to his neck and he’d sweated through his pjs so thoroughly he could actually see wet spots.
It was time to reiterate.
Having the plague was the absolute worst.
Twenty minutes later, Stiles was clean and felt a little bit more like a person instead of a miserable blob, and when he shuffled back into his dorm room, he was touched to see that Scott had braved his tower of germs and actually cleaned up the tissues strewn all over his bed, nightstand, and even parts of the floor.
He’d also changed the bed, opened the windows, and though Stiles couldn’t smell the fresh air, it still lifted his spirits.
Apparently, he’d taken longer in the shower than he’d thought, because Scott had somehow also found the time to make tea and stick a bowl of chicken broth in the microwave.
“Eat. And after that, you should probably get some more sleep. You look rough.”
“Thanks,” Stiles said tiredly, but this time he actually meant it, and Scott smiled, looking genuinely pleased and also a little bit concerned.
“At least it’s Friday. That means you only missed one class and you’ll probably feel much better by Monday,” Scott declared optimistically, watching Stiles eat the soup like a mama bear overseeing her cub’s first attempts at slaying a hiker and looking quite pleased when Stiles finished the bowl without complaint.
“Could have imagined better ways to spend my weekend,” Stiles sighed, setting the bowl aside and taking a sip of his tea before lying back down again.
“Sorry,” Scott said earnestly, pulling up the covers and neatly tucking Stiles in.
If Stiles had felt better, he might have snarkily asked for a bedtime story, too, but being pampered did feel kind of nice after the past 24 hours he’d had, which had started with a funny feeling in his throat and quickly escalated to his nose running like a leaky faucet, his head pounding like the world’s most untalented but enthusiastic drummer, and his stomach twisting to the point where he’d barely made it to his trashcan before ...
Well.
All the colors of the damn rainbow.
The less said, the better.
=======================
When Stiles woke up on Saturday morning, he felt minimally better.
His nose was still more clogged than the communal showers on the third floor, his throat was scratchy, and his energy level was somewhere between meh and ugh, but his brain no longer felt like it was trying to burn through his skull and his belly’s grumbling was not a harbinger of multi-colored puke but a reminder that he hadn’t eaten anything substantial in at least two days.
Sighing, Stiles swung his legs over the edge of his bed and padded to his little mini fridge.
The loot was a bit underwhelming, but given that he still couldn’t smell anything, he figured that toast with a half slice of cheese would do for now.
He ate slowly, sipping from his tea cup every now and then when his throat gave out a little angry twinge, and by the time he was done, his legs felt like jello and his body was firmly telling him to get his ass back into bed.
Stiles complied, snuggling back under the covers and grabbing the tissue box from his nightstand to produce another impressive snot-load.
Afterwards, he palmed himself idly for a couple of minutes, eyeing the tissue box contemplatively and wondering whether the endorphin boost of a nice orgasm might be beneficial to his healing.
Ultimately, he decided against jerking off, however, mostly because he didn’t feel like cleaning himself up properly and also because his nose was getting stuffier by the second and he was pretty sure that wheezing himself to climax was too pathetic even for him.
He thought about reading for one of his classes, then, but quickly abandoned the thought when he remembered that he’d been supposed to attend a Christmas mixer at one of the fraternity houses later that afternoon and figured that trading fun with studying would be an insult on top of his already injurious illness.
For a while, he just lay under the covers, turning this way and that way and blowing his nose every point five seconds before he finally had enough and leaned over the edge of the bed to grab his laptop with a grunt.
He browsed tumblr for a bit, then reddit, and he’d just resigned himself to fall down into a YouTube abyss when a little icon at the bottom of his screen caught his eye.
It had, admittedly, been a hot second since he’d played the Sims.
A long second, actually, as he discovered when he opened the game and was immediately bombarded with ads for new game packs and expansions that had apparently been released since he’d last played.
He was tempted to buy the werewolf game pack, of course, but remembered at the last second that he was a broke-ass college student and had access to all the free werewolf shenanigans that his heart could have possibly desired.
Besides, he was only going to play for an hour or so.
One hour and a half, tops.
=======================
“Not my computer, damn it! Who even allowed you to play, huh? This is my house, Scott! Mine!”
Stiles paid for his outburst with another coughing fit, but it was a sacrifice worth making, since he simply could not with the pixelated version of his best friend, who’d invited himself over to hang out and had immediately run to the computer instead.
It was, of course, entirely possible that real Stiles might have been guilty of such behavior at times, too.
Still.
He might have coveted Scott’s laptop for a while during seventh grade, but at least he had never broken it.
“Replace computer for … you guys think I’m just rolling in Simoleons, don’t you?” Stiles exclaimed moodily, paying for his new computer and snorting when Sim-Scott happily declared that it was time for him to go home.
“Really shouldn’t have given you the cheerful trait,” Stiles huffed, making sure to lock his door for anyone other than himself once Scott had left and clicking on the phone icon to travel.
After all, even if he wasn’t going to go to a mixer tonight, there was no reason his Sim-Self couldn’t have a good time.
One infuriatingly long loading screen later, Sim-Stiles arrived at the Stargazer Lounge in San Myshuno, which wasn’t exactly the prettiest lot in the game but was always a good place to meet new people and maybe get a little flirt going.
Not that Real-Stiles had been planning to get a little flirt going tonight or anything, of course, but there was no harm in living vicariously through Sim-Stiles, was there?
Except …
“Hold on, Mortimer? Dude! He’s married! Yeah, just do sit-ups instead. That definitely makes sense!”
Stiles shook his head, making sure to cancel all future interactions with Mortimer Goth and reaching over to grab another tissue with prejudice.
By the time he looked back at the screen, Sim-Stiles was already autonomously putting the moves on someone else.
A rather familiar someone else.
Stiles gaped.
“Seriously? Seriously?”
On the one hand, Stiles had no one but himself to blame.
On the other hand, there was no way he could have possibly predicted that downloading the Pack-Sims that he’d made forever ago and putting them in his game would lead to Sim-Stiles making googly eyes at a flirty Derek Hale.
Correction.
A very flirty Derek Hale.
Who’d apparently just spawned randomly at the Stargazer Lounge because hanging out on rooftop bars and sipping cocktails in the middle of the day was clearly a very Derek Hale thing to do.
His eyes widening, Stiles watched as Sim-Stiles started flirting shamelessly with Sim-Derek, and judging by the quickly growing pink romance bar, Sim Derek was definitely into it.
Like ... really into it.
Ha.
Sul sul, indeed.
Still gaping, Stiles watched as Sim-Stiles took Sim-Derek’s hands and then leaned forward to whisper in his ear, followed by a hug that made something in Stiles’ heart twist and then-
“Are you kidding me? Not the mistletoe! It’s summer, what are you even doing?”
Sim-Stiles clearly hadn’t looked at the calendar, or perhaps he was opting for the only possible autonomous kissing option available to him at the moment because Stiles hadn’t asked him to run the interaction for First Kiss yet.
Either way, it was absolutely ridiculous.
Then again, Stiles obviously wasn’t going to stand in the way of his Sim’s rather shocking star-crossed romance.
Even if watching them kiss made the weird feeling in his chest get a little worse.
=======================
The thing was, Stiles was hopelessly in love with Derek.
Emphasis on hopeless, because he knew it was never going to happen.
For a variety of reasons that Stiles had long since given up on overanalyzing because there simply wasn’t a point to it.
It wasn’t going to happen, and Stiles was fine with it.
At this point, being hopelessly in love with Derek wasn’t so much a crippling desire but a part of his personality that he’d learned to accept.
He was fine with it.
Truly.
He was.
After all, they were friends now.
Friends, who bickered like it was an Olympic sport, sure, but also friends who knew without a shadow of doubt that they would always be able to depend on each other.
It was honestly much more than Stiles had expected they could ever be, given their rocky start and everything that life had thrown their way since.
They had worked through it, though.
Somehow, they’d even come out stronger for it.
So yes.
Stiles was fine with how things were between them.
Well.
There was probably an argument to be made that living out one’s own hopelessly unrequited infatuation in a pixelated fantasy world where people couldn’t even cook a grilled cheese without destroying half the kitchen and kept running to the computer every five seconds was not exactly the dictionary definition of fine.
As far as Stiles was concerned, however, the dictionary could suck it.
Going by the fireworks sounds coming from his screen, his Sim was rather fond of sucking, too.
He cleared his throat, his cheeks a little flushed as he watched his Sims hop out of bed after an apparently quite transcendent whoo-hoo session and go about their day.
For Sim-Derek, this apparently meant satisfying his needs and working on his currently quite abysmal cooking skill, while Sim-Stiles had made a beeline to the computer and was already playing again like it was a sport.
“Dude. You need a video gaming intervention, honestly! Also, can you please go to the bathroom or something? Your needs are terrible! Just take Derek as an example, he’s cooking, he’s eating, he’s cleaning up after himself, he’s... whoa! Hey! Why are you throwing up?! Hold on! What do you mean, congrats, why is Derek Hale expecting ... what?”
=======================
It was safe to say that Stiles had completely forgotten that he’d created a Sim-Derek who was capable of getting pregnant.
He couldn’t for the life of him remember what had possessed him to do so, but he highly doubted he’d been thinking “Gee, wouldn’t it be fun to get Derek Hale up the duff!” so he figured his poor decision making had probably been a combination of too many late nights during high school, too many post-werewolf-shenanigan jitters, and too much Adderall.
Alternatively, his cursor had slipped.
Whatever the reason, Sim-Derek was definitely in the family way and clearly not all too enthused about it, given the highly alarming number of times he’d already groaned, held his belly, doubled over, and gagged like he was thinking about barfing again.
Stiles dearly hoped he wouldn’t.
After all, his own Sim alter ego had regrettably acquired the Squeamish trait somewhere along the way and he really didn’t want to have poor Derek clean the toilet over and over again.
Not when he was already waddling everywhere and his needs were depleting quicker than Stiles’ cell phone battery.
Clearly, he was suffering enough.
Also, Sim-Stiles really needed to get a job, because while the baby bassinet was going to spawn automatically, everything else they’d need for the baby wasn’t exactly growing on trees.
He was going to get on that.
Right after he’d eloped with his Baby-Daddy, that was.
His super-pregnant Baby-Daddy, who was currently holding his stomach again and yelling “Yaaaaoooooouuuuugh” and ... was in labor, apparently.
Whelp.
The eloping definitely had to wait.
=======================
“Catherine? No freaking way!”
On behalf of all virtual and real Hales near and far, Stiles was absolutely aghast at the random name suggestion that had accompanied the cheerful pop-up that his pixel-baby was a girl.
“Nope! This definitely won’t do!” he muttered, blowing his nose again viciously and frowning as he gave the matter some thought.
Luna?
Too on the nose, Derek would probably murder him.
Lupita?
Derek was probably already sharpening his claws.
Adawolfa?
Perhaps, Stiles should just give up on baby-naming altogether.
He sighed, clicking the randomize button multiple times and shaking his head with a snort.
“Daphne? I’m not trying to recreate Bridgerton, thanks! Indiana? Ha. Might as well call her New Jersey, while I’m at it. Myrtle? Seriously? Ugh!”
He sniffed noisily, squinting at the game and nodding to himself decisively.
He was only going to hit the button one more time.
He did.
He gaped.
“Ernestine? Ernestine?”
He sighed loudly, shaking his head and sniffing again.
He was a man of his word, after all.
“Whoever programmed this algorithm does not deserve a raise this year. Alright, little Ernestine Hale-Stilinski, welcome to the ... what do you mean, it’s a boy!?”
=======================
So yeah.
Apparently, Sim-Stiles was a master breeder of some kind, as evidenced by the two wailing Sim infants that were clearly the neediest little pixels that had ever spawned under the sun and were currently ruining his entire life.
To be fair, they were probably staging a protest over being randomly named Ernestine and Herbert, and seriously, Stiles was going to write an email to EA about their random naming selection process as soon as he had recovered from his flu malady.
In the meantime, the never-ending wailing was completely ruining his life.
Well.
Sim-Stiles’ life, mostly.
Also, Sim-Derek’s, who’d already passed out five times because Stiles was obviously terrible at making sure the proud parents kept their needs up while trying to keep their two demon spawns from being taken away.
It was official.
He was never going to have kids.
Ever.
=======================
So.
Maybe, Stiles had been a little hasty, because despite his recent commitment to a childfree life, Pixel-Stiles apparently delighted in getting Derek pregnant.
Repeatedly.
In the bed, in the closet, in the shower, and in the godforsaken tree-house that Stiles had built out of sheer desperation to keep his rapidly growing brood of Pixel-children entertained.
Sim-Derek had complained about splinters in sensitive areas afterwards.
To be fair, so had Sim-Stiles.
Most recently, Sim-Stiles had managed to impregnate his baby-daddy in a bush, as evidenced by the purple pop up that had just informed him of yet another – and final – addition to their almost maxed out household.
Perhaps, he’d been gunning for a kid that would look like him, at last, because so far, all the kids had popped out with raven-black hair and green eyes.
In truth, Stiles was starting to feel a little bad, though he wasn’t quite sure if he should feel guiltier over the fact that he still hadn’t put a ring on it because the wedding pack was still broken as hell, or because of the names he’d stubbornly let the game assign to his pixelated offspring.
Well.
As far as he was concerned, the game was responsible for both.
Still.
Stiles was invested.
He blew his nose and then clicked on each member of his household, hoping against hope that they weren’t getting into any mischief but steeling himself for the inevitable.
To no one’s surprise, Sim-Stiles was playing video games on the computer, though Stiles figured he should probably be grateful his horndog of a Sim wasn’t currently in pursuit of the only other activity he seemed to be willing to do autonomously.
Sim-Derek, meanwhile, was playing guitar, and – Stiles was sorry to say – not exactly doing a spectacular job.
The twins – whom Stiles had aged up into teens as quickly as possible so they could help out around the house – were not doing their homework, as usual.
Instead, Ernestine was doing sit-ups and Herbert had parked himself in front of the television.
Well.
He wasn’t so much sitting on the sofa but actually standing around stupidly, but Stiles was willing to forgive his pixel-kid for not having figured out how to sit down because he’d chosen the cooking channel and his cooking skills were actually going up.
He clicked on Chester, his precious third-born and currently only child-aged child in the household, and groaned, because Chester was apparently going through a phase and had donned a bear costume until further notice.
Also, he, too, hadn’t done his homework.
“Like father like son,” Stiles muttered balefully, putting his kids on the right path with a couple of well-aimed clicks before turning his attention to his darling angel-toddler Priscilla, who was ... currently making a mess and splattering paint all over the floor and clearly not as angelic as her traits would suggest.
Groaning, Stiles decided to ignore his parenting duties for the moment and left her to her destructive devices.
This only left Ulysses, his sunny infant son who was apparently very hungry and about to be taken away.
Stiles sighed, coughing lightly before he sent his pixel-self upstairs to give the baby a bottle.
“Technically, your wolfy daddy can nurse you, apparently, but I already don’t know how I’m ever going to look Derek in the eye again after knocking him up five times, so I’m sorry Ulysses, but bottle-feeding it is.”
“Ulysses? Kind of pretentious, isn’t it?”
“GAH!”
Stiles almost threw his laptop onto the floor, his eyes widening as he jerked his head towards the window and saw Derek Hale casually swinging his tight-jeans-clad legs over the windowsill.
A second later, the pixel-baby on Stiles’ laptop let out another cry of protest, and Stiles hastily closed his laptop halfway, followed by a coughing fit that actually made his lungs hurt.
To his credit, Derek closed the distance between window and bed in three long strides, not exactly looking apologetic but at least a little bit concerned as he placed two fingers on Stiles’ heaving sternum until it no longer felt like his lungs were being shaved with sandpaper.
When Stiles could breathe properly again, he gave Derek a glowering look.
“Seriously, Derek! Doors! We’ve talked about this! It even starts with a d, see? D as in Derek, d as in door! It’s a match made in heaven, so I really don’t know why you keep resisting it!”
“Destined as star-crossed lovers we may be, but last I checked you still needed a student ID to actually manage to open the dorm entrance,” Derek replied easily, cocking his head and sniffing once before his lips pulled into a little grimace.
“Besides, be glad that I cracked the windows. The air in here can’t be good for your convalescence.”
“If that’s your diplomatic way of saying I stink, then you suck at diplomacy!” Stiles said mutinously, crossing his arms over his chest when Derek let out a soft chuckle.
“Yeah, well, I’d say that has long been established,” the werewolf retorted, followed by a little grin as he raised an eyebrow and gave Stiles an amused look.
“Speaking of diplomacy, though ... care to elaborate on just how, exactly, you knocked me up five times?”
Stiles’ smile froze.
Stupid werewolf hearing.
Stupid, stupid werewolf hearing.
“Ah. Uhm. So ... you heard that, did you?” he said as casually as he could, throwing a desperate glance at his half-opened laptop and contemplating whether he was too weak to just fling himself out of the window and make a break for it.
Nope.
With his luck, he’d probably brain himself while getting out of bed.
“Uhm ... for the sake of my continued convalescence, can’t we just pretend you actually didn’t hear it?” he tried, groaning inwardly when Derek’s lips cracked into a rather smug, sadistic grin.
A smug, sadistic, devastatingly attractive grin.
“We could,” the werewolf mused, shaking his head as his second eyebrow joined the first.
“However, you might say I’m nursing a rather profound interest.”
Sadistic.
Definitely, utterly sadistic.
“Ugh! No one’s nursing anyone!” Stiles exclaimed, opening his laptop to prove his point without even thinking about it and letting out a loud groan when he saw that ...
Well.
Ulysses was no longer in danger of being taken away.
That was something, at least.
“I swear I didn’t make him do it!” Stiles tried desperately, his cheeks reddening in mortification when Derek leaned forward beside him and gave the screen a curious look.
“Hmm. Skinny jeans and a leather jacket? Doesn’t really seem like sensible maternity wear to me,” he remarked, and Stiles groaned helplessly, slapping his hands in front of his eyes so he’d no longer have to endure the rather emotionally taxing contrast that was Real-Derek staring at him judgmentally and Sim-Derek being utterly and adorably pregnant while giving his stinking-cute Pixel-infant a bubble bath.
“It’s not like I was thinking about maternity options when I created you, did I? How was I supposed to know that Sim-You would be that into Sim-Me! It just ... happened!” he insisted, wanting to brain himself immediately because at this point it seemed like the only sensible course of action left.
Derek hummed.
“It happened quite a lot, apparently. Please tell me the other kids have decent names, at least,” he said at last, and when Stiles peaked through his fingers, the bastard was actually smiling, as though his mortification was the most amusing thing that he’d ever been personally fortunate enough to witness.
Sadistic.
Stiles really couldn’t say it enough.
“Uhm. Stiles?”
“Yes?” Stiles sighed, pulling down his hands at last and feeling his face go redder with every second as he watched Derek click through the members of his household with extreme prejudice.
“Why are half of these children named after Republican presidents?”
“Believe me, I’m going to write a strongly worded complaint to EA about it at some point,” Stiles muttered, wincing and giving Derek a desperate look.
“Also, can we please stop talking about this? It’s really not what it looks like!”
Derek hummed again, cocking his head and giving him a thoughtful look.
When he spoke at last, his voice was cautious but also soft.
“That’s a shame, then. I was hoping it was exactly what it looks like.”
Stiles blinked.
A lot.
“Uh ... huh? I mean ... what?”
“Our Sims are kissing,” Derek said in lieu of an answer, glancing at the screen before clearing his throat and giving Stiles a hesitant smile.
Stiles cleared his throat as well, barely noticing the zing of pain that followed as he stared at Derek.
“Uh ... yeah. They do that. A lot, actually. Which probably explains all the babies, but ... uhm ...”
He swallowed, giving the werewolf a nervous glance as his heart started beating faster.
“Derek? I’m not sure my plague-infested brain can make sense of all of this, so I really need you to be straight with me here. What’s happening right now?”
Derek smiled, moving a little closer and setting the laptop aside before giving Stiles an intent look.
“Are you sure you want me to be straight with you, Stiles? Because I’m actually quite in love with you and I’d much rather kiss you instead.”
It was official.
Stiles was done.
“Oh dear god, it’s a figure of speech, not ... hold on! What?”
Derek rolled his eyes, though his smile was utterly fond when he leaned forward and gently cradled Stiles’ face.
“Is that a no?”
Stiles’ eyes widened.
“What? No! Wait! Yes! Dude! I obviously want to kiss you, too! Heck, you must have known that I’ve been in love with you for forever, it’s just ... why now?”
“A number of reasons, actually,” Derek replied softly, gently caressing Stiles’ cheekbones and giving him a soft smile.
“I’ve actually been trying to tell you for months, but it turns out it takes a little more courage than I anticipated to tell someone you can no longer imagine life without them when you’re not entirely sure the feeling is reciprocated.”
Stiles gaped.
Hard.
“Not reciprocated? Are you serious?”
“Very,” Derek said quietly, gently stroking Stiles’ cheek again and letting out a hitched little exhale.
“I knew you wanted to have sex with me, Stiles. I just ... I needed to be sure you wanted the rest of me, too.”
“That ... makes sense,” Stiles admitted, swallowing a little guiltily as he gave Derek an earnest look.
“You’re sure now, though?”
Derek’s smile widened.
“I must admit, I had some lingering doubts, but now that I know you’ve been dreaming of knocking me up repeatedly, what decent wolf could ever say no to that?”
“Ugh! Derek” Stiles whined, feeling a little mortified, a lot overwhelmed, and a positively staggering amount in love as he gave Derek an imploring look.
“Seriously though. It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, because I do. I really, really do. It’s just ... I’m gross!”
Derek sighed.
“Not exactly the romantic prelude I was hoping for, but it’ll have to do,” he said gravely, just before his lips met Stiles’ in a tender kiss.
Stiles gasped, and Derek used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, pulling Stiles just a bit closer and letting out a soft hitched breath of his own when Stiles grasped at his shoulders.
When Derek pulled back, Stiles felt more dazed than his Sim after an alien abduction.
Also, he did not miss the way Derek’s nose wrinkled.
“Ugh! I told you!” he said with feeling, holding on to Derek a little tighter and trying his hardest to give him a reproachful look even though he could not stop himself from grinning rather stupidly.
“You could have done this at any time during the past couple of years, but you just had to choose the one day I tasted like snot and pestilence!”
Derek laughed, his nose wrinkling again as he leaned forward and pecked a kiss on Stiles’ forehead.
“I guess you’ll just have to do your best to get better as soon as possible, so we can have a redo at your earliest convenience,” he decided, gently pushing at Stiles’ shoulders to get him to lie back down and tucking in his blanket so he’d be warm.
It was, Stiles decided, utterly ridiculous.
It was also hopelessly endearing, and he was pretty sure he’d never been happier in his entire life.
Even if he still felt like absolute crud.
“For the record,” he yawned, sleepily watching Derek as he headed back towards the window.
“Just because my Sim is clearly a deviant, that doesn’t mean I have been fantasizing about knocking you up repeatedly.”
Derek paused mid-way through the window, turning to him and giving him a little smile.
“That’s a shame, then. Since it’s actually quite possible, I was hoping that one day you’d do exactly that.”
Stiles blinked.
“Wait? WHAT? Hey! Come back here, what do you ... what?”
Derek’s laugh would never not be a sound of beauty to Stiles, even though he was currently very much questioning why, exactly, he loved this infuriating man so much.
It was entirely possible that Derek was joking, of course.
It was also very much possible that he wasn’t.
“Ugh. Werewolves!” Stiles groaned, opening his laptop again and minimizing the game just long enough to order a large box of condoms because unlike his Sim Stiles had other hobbies beside impregnation, thank you very much.
When he opened his game again, he was entirely unsurprised that Sim-Derek had gone into labor in the meantime and there was a pop-up waiting for him to announce the arrival of his newest furry bundle of joy.
For a moment, Stiles just stared at the pop-up.
Then, he took a deep breath and started typing with a fluttering heart and a goofy little smile.
“Welcome to the world – Talia Stilinski-Hale.”