(can be avoided)
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Summary
Derek Hale doesn’t do routines, but somehow the loud-mouthed, tattooed menace behind the counter at Poké Me Gently quickly becomes a habit he can’t quite shake.
Stiles is nothing but trouble wrapped in sarcasm and sharp-tongued lewdness, all clever wit and easy charm, and Derek can’t help but let him in; into his apartment, his bed, and into his guarded, lonesome life. In the end, it’s not the potential for heartbreak that haunts him at night, no. It's the certainty that, even after ruin, he’ll still want Stiles with a hunger that outlives any betrayal.
Sometimes Derek wonders if his entire bloodline was forged specifically to keep therapists employed for the next hundred years.
Maybe happiness decided to skip him on purpose? Like it looked at the Hale family tree and said: nah, way too fucking flammable.
It would be just his goddamn luck.
Or: Trust is a blade, and Derek keeps handing it to people who smile when they twist it. He doesn’t know if Stiles will end up being one of those people or not, but it wouldn’t exactly surprise him.