a/n: now, I lied about the last piece to this verse being the last. this is the true last piece of this verse. I brings a tear to my eye to see this finally complete. hope you all enjoyed this journey with me. warning: contains NSFW scene. Snapshots of a life after Words to Me.
"Dude."
"I know. He's been like this all day," Peter sucks in a quick breath through his teeth and Stiles squints just slightly at him.
Because he can see them—the gears inside Peter's head oiling up and rearing to go for what's about to happen next.
And Stiles isn't sure he's ready for that.
Anything with Peter at this point is like opening Pandora's box.
"Go talk to him."
And there it is.
The reason why Peter calls him on a Wednesday morning yelling emergency.
"Dude, you're his uncle though? You go talk to him."
Peter, the devious fox, grins at him—all teeth and suave. "But I'm not his husband now, am I? I can actually get maimed and possibly dismembered. You, though? You'll probably get your ass spanked by him. And don't give me that look, I know the type of kinky bastards you two are."
Heat builds beneath his face, Jesus fuck. His and Derek's—err, sex life—is none of his damn business.
He definitely doesn't think about the way Derek holds him by his throat as he ravishes his lithe body.
Or the way Derek's face looks when he's on his knees between his thighs: a whimpering mess, eyes looking down at him—a concoction of a dilated glassy hazel—and Stiles really needs to stop think about this.
In front of Peter.
Goddamn Peter.
A Peter who just happen to have left him alone with a brooding Derek who is sprawled on the couch.
The way Derek's brow as knit so closely together you'd think they have the capability to kill on sight.
And maybe they do, Stiles doesn't want to risk such fate.
He hesitates to wander into the lounge for a second. Stiles knows a thing or two about wanting to be left alone with your thoughts.
But the thing is, according to Peter, Derek's been like this for the better part of four days.
And, yeah, Derek's been pretty short with him when they talk or text these past few days but he always chucked it up as being overly stressed about the latest tour or album recording.
He just never thought it would go for this long.
"Are you just going to stand there or are you going to come in?" Derek's voice is barely above a whisper, his eyes trained at the roof.
Stiles doesn't move. "Doesn't look like there's enough space for the both of us. Believe it or not, you've put on some muscle mass from all that weight lifting."
Turning his face to look at Stiles, he can see that Derek's eyes are red, puffy and swollen. And Stiles' heart breaks a little from the sight. It doesn't stop him from sending him a withering look. "That never stopped you from climbing on top of me before."
Stiles strides into the lounge, locking the doors behind him.
Because fuck you Peter.
He doesn't want that conniving fox to waltz in and not read the room like he's used to.
When he reaches the couch, Derek extends his arm—an invitation for him to come lay with him.
Now mind you, this sofa isn't the biggest but the make it work somehow. Stiles laying on top of him—yeah, he loves it when they cuddle and he gets to be on top, sue him—their bodies aligning perfectly to the contour of the other. Like perfect pieces of a puzzle.
He feels the way Derek's chest heaves up and lets an almost a long winded sigh before placing his chin on top of Stiles' head.
Derek's arm moves around his torso and ever so lightly presses Stiles closer to him.
He finds Derek's hand and gently entwines their fingers together. "Hey you."
"Hey," he feels Derek's words rumble through his chest and holds down a smile.
"You ok?"
"No."
"Want to talk about it?"
He waits a beat, then another, and another.
Stiles will wait all day if Derek wants to share, and he will stay like this all day if this is what Derek needs.
Derek shakes his head and simply buries his face against the nape of Stiles' neck, breathing in his scent in ragged breaths.
And with every breath he takes, Stiles feels the hot air tickle against his skin.
They stay like that for a while, just basking in each other's presence.
The rest of the gang doesn't even bother them the moment they get home.
They know when to intrude and when to stay away, and Stiles is so fucking glad that they at least have some common sense.
Later that night Derek tells him that earlier this week it was his parent's anniversary—the day they died.
And how he had forgotten because of the tour.
And how he felt like he let them down.
And it took everything in Stiles' power to drag Derek out of the hole he himself dug into.
/
Peter sends him a grateful text the next morning.
He even buys Stiles waffles for his trouble.
/
"I. Despise. You."
Really Stiles? You had to punctuate every word?
"That's oddly despotic of you."
"Despotic? Ha! Where did you learn that word from?" Stiles complains as he climbs back on his surf board, running a hand through his wet hair.
God that wetsuit looks divine on him.
And Derek wants to rip it apart, with his teeth. And sink them into the supple flesh underneath, marking Stiles for all to see.
"You needed to cool off. So I helped," Derek insists innocently. "It worked didn't it? And I learned it from playing Words with Friends with you!"
"You pushed me," Stiles corrects him.
"And?"
"And? Dude, rude," Stiles splashes him before paddling back to the shore in haste.
He wipes the sea water from his eyes and growls just threateningly enough for Stiles to yelp as he paddles faster. "Now, that's just rude."
Derek launches himself at Stiles the moment he reaches the shore, tackling him into the warm sand before there was any time to object.
Not that's stopping Stiles from fighting back, oh no.
No, no. He loves to play dirty.
Stiles didn't quite stop until Derek finally got him to stay still—and quiet enough to kiss him passionately and senseless.
You know, those kisses that rob your breath away and leaves your knees weak.
The type he loves to give and Stiles to receive.
/
Stiles drops to his knees the moment his eyes lock with Derek's.
His mouth watering ever so slightly at the sight of him, glistening in sweat from working out.
"Come," Derek orders from his seat, his voice a low timbre laced with hunger and want that makes the insides of Stiles do funny things.
Lustful funny things.
He crawls forwards.
Stiles takes his places on his knees between Derek's spread legs.
God, the reek of sweat and Derek's musk is enough to make his head spin.
Stiles runs his hands up Derek's gym shorts—brushing his thighs, feeling the way body hair and skin graze against the palm of his hand.
His breath hitches in his chest as he hears Derek's groans in heady approval. Stiles doesn't stop Derek from taking his hand and guiding him up to his crotch.
Fuuuuck.
Using Stiles' hand, Derek grips on his dick.
And all Stiles can do is shudder in anticipation.
"You want this, don't you?"
His throat clicks dry a reply. "Yes."
There, when their eyes connect, Stiles can see Derek watching him with eyes dark and hungry.
He raises his hips and Stiles doesn't hesitate to pull the shorts down.
Derek's cock stands thick and proud, engorged firm with lust.
The first thing Stiles does is take a whiff, his nose gliding up and down Derek's shaft—and down to the base.
Fuck.
Who knew that he would enjoy the smell of dry pre-cum and piss so much.
He swallows hard and wets his lips, eyes wide and greedy and fuck.
A bead of pre-cum adorns the head—and hello new kink, didn't know you were there. Hi.
"Suck," Derek commands as stern as he can, but his voice is ragged, hoarse and breathless.
Stiles begins to nuzzle his mouth against the length, enjoying the musk of it, going drunk of it and getting in the bead of pre-cum on his lips.
Derek exhales heavy with wanton and satisfaction, his hand coming to grasp at Stiles' hair.
There's always a gentle touch to it, Stiles knows that Derek wouldn't outright hurt him in any way, but that doesn't mean that he's made of glass. He digs a finger on Derek's thigh, and the grip on his hair gets a little more forceful.
Derek guides him up to the tip of his cock.
The prize.
Stiles takes the tip into his mouth, tonguing along the ridge and basking in the sounds that Derek makes.
His hands now cover the lower half of Derek's cock as he begins to slide down, tongue gliding along, taking him deeper and deeper into his mouth.
There, when his lips and hand bump into each other, his mouth full with Derek—senses being overwhelmed by all that is Derek, and that's exactly how Stiles wants it to be.
Being engulfed by Derek's everything.
He locks his eyes with Derek's.
And there it is, glassy hazels with a face that's a whimpering mess of pleasure and lust.
Finally closing his eyes, he bobs his head, Derek's cock sliding wet and slick from spit between his lips and down his throat—Stiles' tongue gliding down the shaft and swirling around the ridge and head.
Derek's moans and cries increase in intensity until a slew of swears leave his mouth.
And Jesus fuck, Stiles' never heard him curse so much.
"Fuck—ah, Stiles—I'm gonna!"
Fuck, yes.
Sucking harder, Stiles sees no reason to stop.
He can feel Derek's cock throb in his throat.
He can feel the way it stiffens.
And before he knows it, Derek pulls out of his mouth with a loud guttural sound coming from the pit of his stomach.
White strands burst from the tip of his cock, showering Stiles' face.
"Ahhhhh fuck!" Derek heaves, his chest rising and lowering fast.
The cum is warm and sticky on his face and Stiles wouldn't want it any other way.
Derek sighs, satisfied and wipes some of his cum of Stiles' face with his thumb and feeds it to him. "Fuck that was good."
/
Derek wakes up one November morning to the sight of Stiles' sleeping face greeting him between light snores.
Who knew someone so energetic could look so peaceful in their sleep.
He takes a moment to take it all in.
The parted lips.
The moles painting across his body.
The way his hair sort of looks kept in place from the night before even though Stiles no longer uses gel.
Which, impressive.
He stills remembers the way he proposed to Stiles.
All it took was one snoozing Stiles, a sharpie and Derek's imagination.
MARRY ME? (Y) (N)
Written across Stiles' forehead.
It didn't take long for Stiles to come into the recording studio with the (Y) checked.
It was the happiest day in his life.
Even though the ink didn't wash for a few days and the looks they got when they went out were priceless—Derek wouldn't have proposed any other way.
Cause let's face it, Stiles is a pain in the ass.
But he's his pain in the ass.
And that's why Derek finds himself with said sharpie that started it all and zero regrets to give later.
I love you. Pancakes for breakfast?