Derek’s bloody shirt.
#DEREK JUST WANTS TO HAVE A FEW NICE THINGS #SO HE BUYS HANES COMFORTSOFT WIFEBEATERS FROM WAL-MART #BECAUSE THEY SOUND NICE AND COMFY AND SHUT UP HE TELLS HIMSELF #THEY’RE JUST WIFEBEATERS WHATEVER THAT’S NOT WHY HE’S BUYING THEM #HE JUST HE #OKAY FINE THIS IS THE ONE NICE THING HE’LL LET HIMSELF HAVE#OKAY HE SAYS UNIVERSE JUST THIS ONE THING #NICE COMFY WIFEBEATERS THAT’S ALL I ASK #AND THIS #EVEN THIS CAN’T STAY NICE #EVEN THIS MUST BE RIPPED AND TORN AND COVERED IN PAIN AND BLOOD AND DIRT #JUST LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE IN HIS LIFE#ALL DEREK WANTED WAS SOME HANES COMFORT SOFT WIFEBEATERS #BECAUSE DEREK JUST WANTS TO HAVE NICE THINGS #BUT EVERYTHING ALWAYS GETS FUCKING RUINED
JFC I AM LITERALLY LAUGHING AT THIS AND IN PAIN BECAUSE THIS FANDOM.
I’VE HAD TO CREATE A SPECIAL TAG FOR SHIT LIKE THIS.
IT’S CALLED ‘WHAT’S ANOTHER KICK TO THE BALLSACK AMONGST FRIENDS?’.
Also, this is making me want a fic where, for their first Christmas together, Stiles buys Derek like the most ridiculously soft and comfy pajamas of all time. With the sort of vaguely fuzzy cotton bottoms and a long-sleeved jersey shirt that Derek is willing to bet is made of actual clouds. And they just sit curled up together on the couch all day, drinking coffee and hot chocolate and watching all the Christmas specials that are playing on TV.
And then the year after that Stiles gets Derek a snuggie because he’d noticed Derek’s toes curling up in hidden glee whenever he touches something fluffy and fleece-soft. And Derek will grumble but Stiles just looks at him and then Derek caves as Stiles wraps him up in nice and fuzzy things.
It’s only because it’s Christmas, he tells himself.
I bet he got his predisposition for soft fuzzy things because the Hale family was a family of cuddlers and they would all pile together on full moon nights and wriggle and snuffle into each other’s fur.
And while Derek tries to forget, his skin still can’t resist the feel of something soft and so he still goes out of his way to buy cottony wifebeaters even as he’s denying the real reasons why.
One of the reasons’ name was Eleanor.
She was Peter’s daughter, baby-fine hair and whisper soft pelt; and as the youngest ‘grown’ kid, Derek watched over her a lot.
He growled at it, and complained a little, but honestly he liked curling around her, in either form. She was tiny and soft and didn’t expect him to speak.
They would spend time huffing at each other as specks of afternoon sun floated around them, and then she would coo and laugh and Derek could understand her perfectly.
YOU DIDN’T JUST GO THERE. OMG I HATE YOU.
PETER HAVING CHILDREN WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU.
Sometimes Eleanor would try to munch on his hair like a little wererabbit and he’d complain long and loud about having to wash baby spit out of it but really, there was pretty much nothing the kid could do that he wouldn’t forgive her for.
She was a plump child and was always running after him as soon as she could walk, hanging onto his leg and screaming gleefully as he pretended to stomp around. Peter wouldn’t say anything but he would raise his eyebrows at them from over the top of the book he was reading and Derek would just shrug. Like, what am I supposed to do with this kid, do you really expect me to say no? Look at that face.
He doesn’t think about it much now, but when he catches a whiff of baby shampoo or see’s a glimmer of curly, soft hair out of the corner of his eye, he wishes briefly that he’d taken his own advice more often.
OF COURSE I WENT THERE. PETER LOST IT *BAD*, AND YET DEREK KEPT ON BELIEVING AND WANTING TO BELIEVE IN HIM. BECAUSE PETER’S FAMILY. AND THIS IS WHAT FAMILY MEANS.
So the soft things, downy short-haired fleece and cloud-soft fabrics, remain forever one of those things that hurts, even though it’s a balm, a relief. Like breathing. Like air after being withheld for too long, like glass down your throat. And Derek’s toes curl because these new things, these fresh things, smell ash-free; and some part of him still waits for the burning to hit.
And it hits like Peter’s gaze, like, my wife, my daughter, my sister-your-mother, your father, your niece— that baby. They’re gone, and I don’t care anymore. There’s nothing left that I’d wish to protect.
And Derek holds his gaze. He understands. He breathes like its a duty, because he’s the last Hale, depending on how you count Peter; breathes because death sounds easy and that’s how he knows it’s wrong. Because he doesn’t deserve easy.
These soft gifts that keeps being pressed onto him? They’re hard. They’re some of the hardest things he’s had to withstand and to let himself settle into. This handful of warmth, when he knows only too well how fucking fragile it is.
(When he breathes Stiles in, it feels like glass.)
I’M SHEDDING LITERAL TEARS RIGHT NOW. THIS FANDOM!
=D you’re welcome.
i haven’t been this upset with the fandom since the night derek became a potato
oh my god, the Peter feels. There are actual Peter feels going on right now. This fandom will be the death of me.