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Soft Saturday Mornings

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People assumed that sex with Derek would be rough. Stiles himself had assumed that, with all the brooding and the growling and the throwing Stiles into walls. Derek was a leather jacket full of barely or not-at-all restrained violence most of the time, and paranoidly possessive all of the time, so that behavior carrying over to sex made sense.

Stiles was fine with that; extensive online research had determined that his sexual preferences were more or less summed up with yes, please. Getting manhandled by Derek sounded great; and when it happened, it was. Derek marking him up, fucking him against a wall or in the middle of the room with nothing but his ridiculous werewolf thighs holding them both up while Stiles could do nothing but cling to Derek’s shoulders and take it? Again, yes. Please.

But what Stiles hadn’t expected, what no one else even imagined when they gave him knowing looks every time he and Derek went off together or when they arrived together still flushed and sated, was that that wasn’t all there was to sex with Derek. Not even most of it.


Stiles woke alone.

That wasn’t unusual during the week, when Derek slipped out of bed early to spend an hour going for a run, doing pull-ups, or engaging in other forms of exercise that seemed unnecessary, given his natural werewolf physique. He said he liked the way it cleared his head, though, and it wasn’t like Stiles had any complaints about that physique.

But it was a Saturday, and Saturday and Sunday mornings rarely started the same way as their weekday counterparts. Those mornings were for staying in bed until the last possible moment, warm and content and wrapped around each other.

Soft morning sex: an unexpected love of Derek Hale’s.

It was all languid touches and undemanding mouths; tender and slow and intimate. Sometimes that took the form of a handjob so gentle and easy and drawn-out that Stiles never would’ve believed he could have the patience for it if he didn’t have firsthand experience. The sleepy, meditative pace of it was too dreamlike for his distractibility to set in. The same was true when he had Derek’s mouth cradling the head of his cock and Derek’s finger slowly, slowly, slowly working him up to a climax; or when Derek rested full and heavy on his tongue, content to wait there for as long as it took the light suction every time Stiles swallowed to get him off.

If Derek wasn’t in bed for that, if his side of the blanket was tucked in as neatly as it could be when competing with Stiles’s mobile sleeping habits and the loft smelled like fresh, hot pancakes, that meant he wanted something else from his day off. No, different wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t anything different, it was just—more.

The sight of Derek’s almost bare backside standing in front of the stove, his flawless skin interrupted only by the line of his black apron string, would probably never stop being one of the biggest turn-ons in Stiles’s varied sex life. It was hot to start with, because Derek, especially naked Derek, was always hot. But he’d also developed a Pavlovian response to that particular form of naked Derek, because it always meant a special day.

Stiles went to the table and sat; Derek was there in moments, a plate of beautifully fluffy pancakes in each hand. “Good morning,” Stiles said, as quiet as he ever could be to match the calm morning. “Thank you for breakfast.”

Ducking his head in greeting and acknowledgement instead of saying anything, Derek set the plates down: one in front of Stiles, the other at the empty place next to him, where Derek sat his naked ass unhesitantly on the chair and started eating. His stack was about twice as tall as Stiles’s—werewolf metabolism and all—but he consumed them half as fast, so Stiles had plenty of time to just watch.

Once, when they’d first started together, Derek had been shy about the attention Stiles paid to him. Derek Hale, shy. Growly and deflective about it, but that was what it came down to. Complements were worse, more suspicious, because it had been an unforgivably long time since anyone said anything nice to Derek without wanting something from him.

Now, he settled under Stiles’s gaze instead, comfortable enough to be appreciated for his looks without doubting he had anything else to offer. His eyes crinkled with pleased pride when Stiles said, “You know, I’m pretty sure your pancakes are the best in all of Beacon County.” Maybe he thought Stiles was exaggerating—he wasn’t—and maybe he didn’t, but he didn’t have to worry about an ulterior motive.

And that was a beautiful thing, because a confident Derek was a Derek who was strong enough to let himself be soft.

When Derek finished his breakfast and put down his fork, Stiles reached out to wrap his fingers gently around Derek’s wrist and just held him there; not that Derek tried to pull away. He moved his gaze slowly from his plate to Stiles’s hand on him, then along the length of Stiles’s arm and finally up to meet his eyes. The whole way, his smile was a small slice of warmth that burst wider when greeted with its match on Stiles’s lips.

Lifting Derek’s hand to press a kiss to the palm, Stiles said, “Hey. Anything in particular you need from me today?” Derek shook his head and Stiles dropped another kiss on the inside of his wrist. “Go pick out a book for us to read, then, and I’ll clean up in here.”

If Stiles’s definition of clean up matched anyone else’s, including Derek’s, that might have raised an objection. Closeness was part of what they both needed out of days like that. But Derek just rolled his eyes and untied his apron as he stood, then draped it over the back of his chair before padding almost silently over the the bookshelf, because he knew Stiles would be following shortly.

Sure enough, it only took a few seconds for Stiles to gather up the plates and forks and drop them into the sink: clean.

Then it was over to Derek and the book on the couch. He was about to fold himself into the corner next to Derek when a hand on his waist stopped him, nudged him to stand in front instead. Derek’s eyes asked the same question as his fingers on the band of Stiles’s pajama pants, and it was great of him to ask, of course, but the answer was never not going to be yes.

Stiles did say, “oh,” first, a little thrown by the change in plans, but he quickly followed it with, “okay. Yeah, absolutely, just it might need a minute to get—”

But Derek had tugged the flannel down at the first agreement and his mouth was hot and wet and tender around Stiles’s mostly soft cock before he could finish apologizing for not being fully prepared to perform. Derek didn’t seem bothered by it, so he didn’t bother restarting the apology once he recovered enough brainpower to do it.

He just dropped his hand into Derek’s hair and let the rest of the thought go as a contented sigh as Derek sweetly coaxed the blood where it was needed.

“Oh, shit, that’s nice. That feels so good, fuck,” he praised, stroking through Derek’s hair, stopping briefly to scratch softly at his scalp. Derek’s moan was half whine, trembling around him, and Stiles kept petting him until Derek stopped pushing up into the contact and just relaxed under his touch.

Fully hard by then, Stiles took over as Derek stopped licking and sucking his cock. He eased himself in and out of Derek’s mouth; not rough or fast, never that on a soft Saturday morning, just enough so that he could feel Derek and Derek could feel him. Not once did he stop caressing Derek or murmuring, “you’re beautiful,” “so good, Derek, so good to me,” “I love you, I will always love you, I’ll always be here, I’m yours,” until after he’d come and Derek had swallowed it down and licked him clean, then rested his forehead against Stiles’s hip with a shuddering sigh.

Since Derek’s dick showed signs of interest between his spread legs, though not the full and desperate arousal that sometimes followed blowing him, Stiles offered, “Can I do something for you?”

With a kiss that was definitely part nibble to Stiles’s hip bone, Derek pulled back and shook his head, picking up the book and passing it over: Dandelion Wine.

Situating himself in the corner of the couch, pants discarded because mutual naked time was the best naked time, Stiles waited for Derek to settle against him before he opened the novel and started reading, “Scene: A small, Midwestern American town circa 1928...”