It’s not that the idea of Stiles talking about him doesn’t make his stomach wrap itself in knots, it’s that it does just that. It makes him unbelievably uncomfortable and he doesn’t quite know why. He’s twenty seven years old, he pays taxes, he takes his mother out for lunch on Sundays; he is a grown up. But he’s getting weird butterflies when he glances over his shoulder to look at Stiles and a heat in his chest that feels something like what he supposes want must feel like.
I don't remember the first thought I had about this. No wait. I do. I thought I had read this before. Like ages ago. But thank god I hadn't. So yea.
But the one tought that kinda stayed with me in this was how Derek was demisexual and how no one gave a fuck or made a big deal about. Seriously. Thats just. Yea. I really liked how the whole thing wasnt written about that and shit. Really, really liked.
Maybe the only thing that I didn't really understood was how once again a succesfull, bublished author is working at library. Again. This is probably a third one like this I have read this year. Maybe. I dont actually even want to keep a track of stuff like that. It feels wrong.
The whole meaning of this fic is about how they are both artists in their own field and somehow all that helps them to fall in love. And somewhere there is a book thingy and art thingy and happiness. Yup.
And somehow I kinda finished reading another fic in the middle of writing this blog entry, so yea. Dunno what else I was suppose to say. So without more bullshit, Read, Comment and Leave Kudos ❤️
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