All Derek wants is one day where he can sleep without worry of being woken by gunfire, without the threat of death hanging over his head. He wants a full stomach and no pain clinging to his bones, no ache in his feet from months of running. He wants a shower, a safe place to put his head. He wants his family, the healing comfort of pack. He'll never have any of that again.
Bookmarked by Haildorothy
18 Dec 2018
“You've got something on your face,” Derek says, clearing his throat, resisting the urge to reach up and touch the scraggly beard, to get his mouth on it.
Stiles rolls his eyes but he still leans forward to bump a shoulder against his in greeting. “This thing,” he says, petting it. “Scott and I had a bet to see who could grow a better beard.”
Derek doesn’t even glance over at Scott, who he already knows is clean-shaven; he just holds Stiles’ unnerving stare, trying to figure out the look in those big brown eyes. It's something like innocence, but it's way too knowing, too sure, to be sincere. It's classic Stiles, really. Derek raises one eyebrow at him and strokes his own, better beard, making a show of luxuriating in how full and soft it is. “And you lost so you had to keep yours,” he says finally, fighting a smile.
Stiles tosses his head back in wide-mouthed laughter, and goddammit, Derek wants to lick, wants to taste, wants to feel. Stiles walks past him on his way to the dining room, patting him roughly on the shoulder, winking again. “I missed you too, big guy.”
Stiles missed out on seeing Derek's transformation, so a few days after Mexico, he goes to see for himself.
“Come on dude. You’re making me regret saving your life. Again.” Stiles grins and kicks his leg, knowing full well that Derek can hear his lie.
Derek rolls his eyes again and stands, peeling off his shirt, dropping it to the couch before unbuttoning his jeans.
“Oh, um, okay,” Stiles mumbles, looking away and slurping at his coke. He knew about the naked part, was expecting it. But expecting – imagining – Derek naked is nothing like seeing it happen right in front of him. Derek steps out of his jeans and walks towards the middle of the room in just his black boxer briefs. Stiles knows the rules of no homo means he shouldn’t look, but he’s always felt pretty damn homo when it comes to Derek, whose hands are resting at the waistband of his underwear, and Stiles doesn't just want to look, he wants to touch and lick and oh damn.
Stiles isn’t exactly sure how long he’s been sitting on the floor of his bedroom in the dark leaning against his bed, halfway undressed, throat raw, staring vacantly at the chaotic mess of red string, scribbled notes, and photos on his investigation board, not really seeing any of it.
A long time, he thinks, he knows, but he still can’t get himself to move, to finish changing into his pajamas, to crawl up into the bed and go to sleep, even though he’s exhausted.
Getting exposed to a supernaturally-jacked up distemper virus and nearly losing more of your friends will do that to you.
Looking down the barrel of a gun and into the eyes of a madman who’s about to kill you because you’re the only thing between him and your friends will, apparently, make you collapse onto the floor, borrowed t-shirt twisted around your wrists, practically catatonic.
Derek sighs, frustrated, not yet willing to resign himself to his fate of an arranged relationship even though it’s seeming more and more inevitable.
He forces the whole ordeal out of his mind and stares hard at his laptop, re-reading the same sentence over and over again, trying to stare it into submission, when a familiar scent distracts him, jolts him out of his pitiful attempt to focus.
Through the heavy haze of rich coffee and warm cookies that fills the café he can smell that weed-tinged spice and fresh citrus, cool rain water and the slight hint of another werewolf. Vivid memories flash and fill his senses: the way that scent sweetened with mouth-watering arousal, the solid, steady thrum of a wildly quickened pulse, running his tongue over intricate tattoos, throaty mewls of pleasure punctuated with muttered curses and pleas not to stop, a firm, tight ass bouncing against his thighs.
- Part 1 of The Only Exception