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Sunday Mornings

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Stiles drifts into consciousness slowly, sleep-heavy and content.

Waking up here is still a novelty, even though it’s been a few weeks since Stiles gave up his place on the couch to share Derek’s bed. He can only manage to swing staying over two or three nights a week though, otherwise his dad would get suspicious and Stiles isn’t ready to have that conversation yet.

The room is warm, and the sun is rising outside into a clear blue sky that promises another scorching day. Stiles makes a mental note to bug Derek about putting up the drapes that Stiles made him buy for the bedroom. It’s way too bright already and it can’t be much past seven in the morning; Stiles knows that he won’t be able to go back to sleep now he’s awake, so much for a Sunday morning lie-in. He lies on his side and listens to the gentle sound of Derek breathing behind him. They aren’t quite touching but he can feel the heat of Derek’s skin, almost-contact that sends a tingle down Stiles’ spine.

He rolls over. The urge to look, to touch, is too strong to resist. The thrill of possession, of being allowed to do this is as fresh as ever. Stiles wonders whether he’ll ever start to take it for granted. He hopes not.

Derek is sprawled on his back, legs akimbo. The arm that’s further away from Stiles is lying palm up, fingers curled softly. His stubbled jaw is slack, lips slightly parted and the cage of Derek’s ribs rise and fall gently, almost imperceptibly with each slow breath. He’s lost in deep sleep, utterly relaxed, dreamless.

Stiles feels a smile stretch his lips as an idea occurs to him. It’s something he’s thought of before, but never quite dared to try. Derek can be grouchy in the mornings, never happy about being woken unexpectedly. But what the hell. Surely nobody could complain about what Stiles has in mind.

He wriggles carefully down the bed pushing the sheets down and off them both. They were only up over their hips anyway and Derek doesn’t stir as Stiles uncovers him. He moves to kneel carefully astride one of Derek’s thighs and places his hands lightly on Derek’s hips. Derek’s skin is warm to the touch, and the power of his muscle and bone are there beneath the surface, hard against Stiles’ palms.

Stiles just looks for a moment, relishing in the fact that he can do this now. Derek is his to admire. Stiles takes in the grace and beauty of his body, the pale skin, the sprinkle of dark hair on his chest that thickens into a line leading downward. Stiles swallows. Derek’s prick is soft, as relaxed in sleep as the rest of him, but generous even in its flaccid state. It lies gently in the groove where thigh meets body, his balls resting sweetly beneath, all surrounded by jet black hair.

Stiles lowers himself down, easing his body between Derek’s legs and places a soft kiss on the inside of one of Derek’s thighs. The coarse dark hair tickles his lips and he breathes in the musky, male scent as he nuzzles into the moist warmth of Derek’s groin. Derek stirs and mumbles but doesn’t wake, so Stiles moves on to his cock, licking it once before drawing it into his mouth and sucking gently. The salty tang makes Stiles’ mouth water and he can feel the pulse under the soft skin as Derek starts to lengthen and thicken, filling Stiles’ mouth a little more with each pull of his lips and swirl of his tongue. Stiles hums appreciatively, the sound muffled around Derek’s dick, and he shifts his hips, pressing his own erection into the tangled sheets as he sucks.

“Fuck... Stiles.” Enquiring fingers stroke his hair; a thumb grazes along his jaw and moves up to trace the stretch of his lower lip. “I thought I was dreaming.”

Stiles pulls off for a moment to grin up into sleepy green eyes. Spit drips from the corner of his mouth and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. “Not this time. This is the real deal.”

Derek smiles back and stretches, his hips pushing up as his muscles tense and relax. His cock flexes where one of Stiles’ hands is curled loosely around the base. “Carry on.”

Stiles licks his lips, and uses his hand to pull Derek’s foreskin back fully, squeezing and sliding a few times until a clear drop oozes from the slit. He catches it with his tongue, eyes fixed on Derek’s and pauses for a moment before parting his lips and taking him inside again. The long, hoarse groan and the squeeze of Derek’s fingers on his shoulders make Stiles flush with pleasure, sweat prickling at his temples and down his spine as he starts to move over Derek’s cock.

He really goes for it now, losing himself in the wet, rhythmic slide of his mouth as he takes Derek as deep as he can with every stroke, over and over, while his hand at the base works the couple of inches that are too much for him to manage. The muscles start to burn in Stiles’ neck and jaw but he doesn’t stop. Derek is thrusting up to meet him, his little broken sounds of pleasure and need are Stiles’ reward. His own cock is a lazy ache against the mattress, neglected but not forgotten as he brings Derek closer and closer with each suck, with each stroke of his tongue.

“God, Stiles... fuck,” is all that Derek manages to bite out before his cock swells and pulses, filling Stiles’ mouth with hot spurts. Stiles does his best to swallow, but his mouth is so full of spit already that some of it escapes. It slides down onto his fingers and slicks the movement of his hand as he works the last drops out of Derek, pulling off to watch them spill out and licking them off greedily as Derek jerks and twitches beneath him.

Stiles’ dick is wet and sticking to the sheets; he’s so fucking close without even being touched. He lets go of Derek and reaches down. “Oh Jesus,” he moans as he gets his fingers wrapped around the hot, silky hardness.

“Get up here,” Derek’s voice is still hoarse with sleep and sex. “Let me...”

But Stiles can’t wait. He manages to push up onto his knees, awkwardly lurching forward to straddle Derek’s thigh as he jerks himself off urgently, his hand a blur of movement. He’s so wet he doesn’t even need spit or lube, he just needs to come right-the-fuck-now.

Derek’s hand cups Stiles’ balls and squeezes, and Stiles is done. He comes with a cry that’s so loud it would be embarrassing if he wasn’t past the point of giving a shit. His come lands on Derek’s groin in sticky strands, stark white against the dark hair and one particularly large blob ends up on Derek’s softening cock. Derek growls and curls his fingers around himself, stroking and smearing Stiles’ mess into his skin, and that’s way hotter and much less icky than Stiles would ever have imagined a few weeks ago. He hasn’t been dating a werewolf for long, but he’s already totally used to very messy sex.

When he laughs, Derek grabs his hips and flips him over onto his back so that he can lick Stiles’ dick clean. When he’s satisfied, Derek crawls up Stiles’ body and crushes their lips together. The kiss is slow and thorough, one of those kisses that says a lot without any words being exchanged.

The smell of sex is everywhere, the bed imbued with the mingled scents of their sweat and come. It’s dirty and perfect and wraps around Stiles like a warm blanket. He knows that it must be ten times stronger to Derek’s superior senses. It smells of togetherness and comfort and home. Finally the kiss stops, but they still hold each other close. Derek’s head is on Stiles’ chest and he looks like he’s getting sleepy again when Stiles’ stomach growls making both of them laugh.

“I guess I need to feed you, huh?” Derek tilts his head up and Stiles grins back at him.

“Yep.” Stiles strokes the dark stubble on Derek’s jaw with the palm of his hand. “It’s your turn anyway.”

Derek sighs heavily and hauls himself up and out of the bed. Stiles ogles his ass shamelessly as he pulls on a pair of sweatpants. Derek turns and Stiles’ eyes drop to his crotch. The sweatpants hang so low that Stiles can see pubes, and the thick line of Derek’s dick is blatantly obvious through the fabric. Maybe breakfast can wait... but then his stomach rumbles again.

“Are eggs okay?” Derek asks. Stiles drags his gaze back up to Derek’s amused face.

“Yeah, eggs are perfect. And coffee. People need coffee.” Stiles yawns and stretches luxuriously as he watches Derek’s retreating back.

Sunday mornings are fucking awesome.