Sunday Sink

Derek

Sunday light came in slanted through the kitchen blinds, striping the butcher-block island in pale gold.

Derek stood at the sink with his sleeves rolled, washing the breakfast plates Miles had stacked wrong on purpose—forks pointing up, a private joke from years of living in the same apartment. Forty-one sat heavy and good on him: silver at the temples, a soft belly pushing the soft henley he’d slept in, thick chest hair visible at the open collar. The faucet ran warm. Soap smelled like lemon. Outside the window over the sink, the courtyard plane tree held last week’s rain in its bark.

Miles came up behind him without announcing it—thirty-seven, sturdy through the chest and thighs, beard already going a little soft around the edges because Sundays didn’t require neat. He fit against Derek’s back the way he always did: chest to shoulder blades, soft middle to soft middle, chin hooked over Derek’s shoulder to watch the water.

“You’re doing the forks wrong,” Miles murmured.

“You’re stacking them wrong so I’ll do them your way.”

“Works.” Miles’s hands slid under the henley hem to warm skin and the thick trail of hair below Derek’s navel. He pressed a kiss to the side of Derek’s neck, then lower, mouth open against the hinge of jaw where stubble scratched. “Sink’s wet. You’re wetter.”

Derek shut the water off with one wrist. “Miles.”

“Mm.”

“Hall. Before I decide the island is fine again.”

Miles laughed against his skin—soft and filthy at once. “We did the island last month. Your lower back still complains when it rains.”

“So walk like a gentleman.”

Derek did not walk like a gentleman. He dried his hands on the dish towel, tossed it toward the counter, and turned in Miles’s arms to kiss him properly: slow, open, tasting of coffee and the orange Miles had peeled at the island. Derek’s hands found Miles’s waist, then slid under the soft gray T-shirt to hairy skin and heat. The short path from kitchen to hall was muscle memory—past the fridge magnets, past the doorway where the coat hooks lived, into the narrow hall with the linen closet on the right and the bedroom door on the left at the end.

At the hall threshold Derek hit the switch; soft yellow light. He backed Miles against the wall for one breath, thick chest crushed to Miles’s sturdy one, soft belly fitting against Miles’s softer middle, and rolled his hips so Miles could feel how hard he’d gotten from dishes and a neck kiss.

“Feel that?” Derek murmured against his ear, filthy and fond. “Been thinking about putting you on our bed since you stacked the forks like a menace.”

“Then stop teasing and walk,” Miles said, voice gone rough. “Derek—bed. Now.”

Miles

The bedroom smelled like laundry detergent and the cedar sachets Derek insisted on keeping in the dresser. Bed against the far wall, as always: Derek’s side left (window, phone charger, the paperback he never finished), Miles’s side right (lamp with the paper shade, water glass, the drawer where the good lube lived). Nightstands flanking. The en-suite door stood half-open on the right, bathroom light off, waiting. Sunday light followed them in from the hall, thinner than the kitchen gold.

Miles let Derek walk him backward until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. He sat hard, bounced once, and reached for Derek’s henley with both hands. Derek stood between his spread knees, looking down at him with that particular Sunday expression—hungry and fond and already a little undone. Miles got the henley up and off thick shoulders, then flattened his palms on Derek’s chest: dense hair, solid muscle under a layer of softness, nipples already tight. He leaned in and kissed the center of that chest, then lower, mouth open against the soft curve of Derek’s belly, tasting salt and skin and the week falling off both of them.

Derek made a sound that was almost a groan. His hands came up into Miles’s hair, careful, not pushing.

“Off,” Derek said. “Yours. All of it. Want you naked before I even touch your cock.”

Miles stripped the gray T-shirt over his head and tossed it toward the chair by the window—it landed half-on, half-off. Jeans next, and the briefs underneath, kicked toward the foot of the bed where Sunday clothes always ended up in a messy pile. He lay back naked on the duvet, hairy thighs open, cock already hard against his stomach, and watched Derek finish undressing.

Derek’s sleep pants hit the floor. Boxers. He was thick everywhere—chest, belly, cock—and Miles’s mouth went dry in the good way. Derek climbed onto the bed on his knees, between Miles’s legs, and just looked for a moment: Miles spread out on their bed, on Miles’s side of the sheets already, waiting.

“Come here,” Miles said. “Want your cock in my mouth first. Want to taste you before you open me.”

Derek’s breath caught. He came forward on his knees until his thick cock hung heavy in front of Miles’s face, soft belly close enough that Miles could press a kiss into the hair below his navel. Miles wrapped a hand around the base—warm, heavy, already leaking—and licked a slow stripe from root to tip, then took the head into his mouth with a wet seal that made Derek swear softly at the ceiling.

“Fuck—Miles—”

Miles sucked him slow and filthy, one hand stroking what his mouth didn’t take, the other braced on Derek’s thick thigh. Spit slicked the shaft. He hollowed his cheeks, took him deeper, felt the soft press of Derek’s belly against his forehead when he pushed forward, and hummed around the weight on his tongue until Derek’s hips twitched and those careful hands tightened in his hair.

“That’s it,” Derek murmured, voice wrecked already. “Look at you. Thirty-seven and still greedy for it—my good man with a full mouth. God, your tongue—suck me like that, baby—”

Miles pulled off with a filthy wet sound, kissed the slick head, and looked up. “Your turn. Want your mouth on me before you put your fingers in. Want that soft chest on my thighs.”

Derek laughed, low and affectionate, and shifted them without leaving the bed: Miles flat on his back again, Derek settling between those sturdy hairy thighs. He kissed the head of Miles’s cock first—soft, almost polite—then took him into his mouth with a practiced heat that made Miles swear at the paper-shade lamp.

Wet heat. The press of tongue. The careful drag of teeth just shy of too much. Derek sucked him slow, one hand bracing Miles’s hip to the mattress, the other rolling his balls gently, then sliding further back to press a dry fingertip against Miles’s hole without entering—just a promise. Miles’s thighs trembled. He could come like this—had, plenty of Sundays—but he didn’t want to, not yet. He wanted Derek inside him. He wanted the ritual finished the way they always finished it: full, fucked open, held.

Derek worked him longer than mercy. He licked down the shaft, mouthed at Miles’s balls, then returned to suck him deep again while that fingertip rubbed lazy circles behind them. Miles’s hands fisted in the duvet. His hips tried to lift; Derek held him down and hummed, the vibration going straight to Miles’s spine.

“Derek—fuck—stop, or I’ll—”

“Not yet.” Derek pulled off, lips shiny, and kissed the inside of Miles’s thigh. “Drawer. I’m going to open you slow. I want you dripping before I even put my cock in.”

Miles nodded, dazed. Derek reached across him to the right nightstand—Miles’s nightstand—and opened the top drawer. The bottle of lube was where it always was, half-used, label worn soft. Derek set it on the sheet by Miles’s hip, then kissed him again, tasting like salt and coffee and Miles’s own cock.

“How do you want it?” Derek asked, voice rough against his mouth.

“Like this first,” Miles said. “On my back. Want to see you. Want that soft belly on mine while you fuck me. Want your chest hair stuck to mine when we’re both wet.”

Derek

Derek uncapped the lube and warmed a slick of it between his fingers. Miles watched him do it, pupils blown, chest rising fast under all that dark hair. Derek settled on his side beside him for a moment—easier angle—and slid his free hand down between Miles’s thighs. He cupped his balls, rolled them gently, then pressed two slick fingers back behind them, finding the tight heat of Miles’s hole.

Miles exhaled hard when the first finger pushed in. Derek went slow, circling, opening him with the patience of a man who knew every inch of this body and still treated it like a privilege. One finger, then two, crooked carefully until Miles’s hips jerked and a broken sound punched out of him.

“There—fuck—Derek—”

“I know, baby.” Derek kissed his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his open mouth. He worked him open thoroughly, scissoring, adding more lube until Miles was slick and loose and pushing back onto his hand like he couldn’t help it. Three fingers. Miles’s cock leaked against his stomach. Derek’s own cock ached, ignored, pressed hard against Miles’s thigh.

He took his time. Sunday sex was never a race; it was a settling-in, a claiming that belonged to both of them. Derek crooked his fingers again and watched Miles’s face go slack with pleasure, watched the sturdy line of his throat work as he swallowed a moan. More lube—Derek dripped it directly where his fingers disappeared into Miles, messy and deliberate—and he fucked him open on his hand until Miles’s thighs were shaking and his heels dug into the mattress.

“Listen to you,” Derek murmured, filthy and soft. “Taking three fingers like you were built for it. Your hole’s so wet for me already—gonna feel even better around my cock. Keep breathing. I’ve got you. Moan louder—I want the kitchen to hear how open you are.”

When Miles was panting and swearing and grabbing at Derek’s wrist—enough, I’m ready, please—Derek withdrew carefully, wiped his hand on the towel they kept folded under the left nightstand for exactly this, and moved between Miles’s legs again. He slicked his cock generously, lined up, and paused with the head pressed to Miles’s entrance.

“Look at me,” Derek said.

Miles looked. Derek pushed in.

The first slide was always the same and never the same: tight heat giving way, Miles’s mouth falling open, Derek’s soft belly coming to rest against Miles’s as he sank deeper, thicker, until he was seated fully and both of them were breathing like they’d run. Derek held still. He braced on his forearms, chest hair crushed to Miles’s, and kissed him through the stretch—slow licks into Miles’s mouth, a murmur of good, so good, take it, fuck you feel perfect that made Miles clench around him.

Miles’s mouth found Derek’s shoulder then—hot, open, a bite that stayed just this side of bruising—and Derek groaned into his hair, hips stuttering once before he locked them still again.

“Okay?” Derek whispered.

“Okay,” Miles breathed. “Move. God, move. Want to feel that belly slap every time you bottom out. Want your chest on mine—don’t hold yourself up—”

Derek moved. Long, deep strokes at first—pulling almost out, pushing back in to the root—while Miles’s legs hooked around his waist and his hands mapped Derek’s back, his sides, the soft give of his belly where it pressed between them. The bed creaked against the far wall. The nightstand lamp threw their shadows large. Derek fucked him steady and thorough, the way Miles liked when he wanted to feel it tomorrow, and every few thrusts he ground deep and rolled his hips so the head of his cock dragged over that spot that made Miles’s whole body seize.

“Fuck—right there—don’t stop—”

“Not stopping.” Derek shifted his weight, got a better angle, and drove into him harder. The wet sound of it filled the bedroom—skin, lube, the filthy slap of Derek’s hips against Miles’s ass, the soft thud of Derek’s belly meeting Miles’s on every deep stroke. Sweat gathered in the hollow of Derek’s throat and dripped onto Miles’s chest hair. Miles’s cock was trapped between their stomachs, sliding in the mess of precome and sweat and the soft crush of Derek’s belly. Derek reached down between them and wrapped a slick hand around him, stroking in time with his thrusts.

“You’re soaked,” Derek said against his mouth, affectionate and filthy. “Leaking all over both of us. Love how your chest hair sticks when you’re this wet. Listen to that—your hole taking me—”

Derek wanted more of the middle. He slowed without stopping, grinding deep, and kissed Miles until they were both dizzy. He pulled almost all the way out and pushed back in again and again, until Miles was shaking and clawing at his thick back.

“Turn over for me,” Derek said roughly. “Want to take you from behind. Still me in you—just deeper. Want to watch myself disappear into that pretty hole. Want my belly on your back.”

Miles nodded, dazed and eager. Derek pulled out carefully—Miles whimpered at the empty stretch—and helped him roll onto his stomach, then up onto his knees and forearms. Miles’s back was broad and strong under its coat of dark hair; Derek smoothed both palms down it, then gripped Miles’s hips and pushed back in in one long slide that punched a moan out of both of them.

From behind, Derek could watch himself disappear into Miles. He could lean over and press his thick chest to Miles’s back, soft belly against Miles’s lower spine, and fuck him in short hard thrusts that made the headboard knock faintly against the far wall. He reached around and stroked Miles again, fist tight, thumb smearing over the wet head.

“Derek—I’m—fuck—your cock’s so deep—ah—”

“I’ve got you.” Derek kissed the nape of Miles’s neck, bit gently at the muscle of his shoulder—hard enough to leave a mark—and soothed it with his mouth. “Come whenever you want. Or don’t. I can keep you on the edge until you’re begging. Either way I’m filling you. Say my name when you take it.”

Miles shoved back onto him, greedy. “Don’t you dare stop. Fuck me like you mean the sink. Like Monday isn’t real yet. Derek—harder—”

Derek meant it. He fucked him harder, the wet slap of it loud in the bedroom, soft belly bouncing against Miles’s ass, thick chest damp against Miles’s sweaty back.

“Feel that?” Derek growled into his ear. “Every inch. Your hole sucking me in. Love you like this—open, filthy, mine for Sunday—”

“Yours,” Miles gasped. “Fuck—Derek—want to ride you. Still you topping. Want to see your face when you come in me. Want my hands on that belly while I bounce.”

Miles

They shifted without leaving the mattress: Derek onto his back on his own side of the bed—left, window, charger, unfinished paperback—and Miles straddling him, knees bracketing those thick thighs, facing the lamp on the right nightstand. Derek held the base of his cock; Miles reached back, found him, and sank down slow.

The stretch was different from this angle—deeper, heavier—and Miles’s mouth fell open as Derek’s soft belly rose to meet his own. He planted both palms on Derek’s thick chest, fingers buried in dense hair, and started to move: rolling his hips, lifting until only the head stayed inside, dropping down hard enough that the wet sound punched out of both of them.

“Jesus—Miles—”

“Shut up and watch.” Miles rode him filthy and affectionate, thighs working, sturdy chest heaving, cock bouncing between them and leaving wet stripes across Derek’s soft belly. Derek’s hands gripped his hips hard enough to bruise. The bed protested against the far wall. Hall light still spilled faintly through the open bedroom doorway behind them; kitchen gold was a distant smear past that, the sink still damp from breakfast. None of it mattered except the thick cock opening him on every drop.

Derek thrust up to meet him. Miles swore and leaned forward until their chests crushed together—hair to hair, soft belly to softer middle—and kissed him messy while he kept grinding down. “Fill me up,” Miles whispered against his mouth. “Want to walk to the shower with you leaking out of me. Want to feel you when I stand at that sink tomorrow washing forks again.”

“You will.” Derek’s voice cracked. He flipped them with a grunt of effort—still inside, still topping—rolling Miles onto his back again toward the right side of the bed, Miles’s head near his own lamp and water glass, and drove back into him missionary-hard. Long strokes. Deep. The headboard knocked. Derek braced on one forearm, the other hand pinning Miles’s wrist gently to the duvet, and fucked him like Sunday had a body and this was how you held it. Their chests stayed glued—sweat, hair, heat—belly to belly on every thrust.

Miles came first—sudden, shaking, spilling hot between their crushed stomachs with a broken moan that Derek kissed into the side of his throat. The clench of him around Derek’s cock was devastating. Derek fucked him through it, gentler, then harder again when Miles’s legs locked and his hips pushed up greedy, still asking for more even spent.

“In me,” Miles said, wrecked and clear. “Derek—come in me—don’t pull out—ah—please—”

Derek dropped his forehead to Miles’s and came hard, hips stuttering, thick pulses deep inside him while Miles held him through it and murmured filthy praise into his ear—yes, yes, fill me, love you, fuck, so warm, stay, feel that belly on me. The red mark Miles had left on Derek’s shoulder throbbed in time with his pulse. The aftershocks left Derek trembling. He stayed inside as long as he could, softening slowly, draped over Miles, soft belly heaving, thick chest damp with sweat against Miles’s skin.

When he finally slipped free, come followed—messy, intimate—and Miles made a small sound of loss. Derek kissed it better, then eased them both down onto their sides, still facing the far wall, Derek spooned behind him on the bed’s expanse between left nightstand and right.

Derek

They didn’t move for a while. Derek stayed heavy and warm at Miles’s back; when Miles reached behind and found the soft give of his belly, stroking lazily, Derek felt come trickle slowly out of Miles onto the sheet between them. Domestic. Filthy. Perfect.

“We’re going to ruin this duvet,” Miles murmured.

“We ruin this duvet every weekend.” Derek’s voice was muffled against the nape of his neck. “That’s why we bought two.”

Miles laughed, soft and spent. Eventually Derek eased back enough for Miles to roll and face him; Derek settled onto his own side of the bed—left, window, unfinished paperback—and Miles stretched on the right, sticky and loose-limbed, still open and sore in the good way. The pile of clothes at the foot of the bed looked like evidence of a successful Sunday. The lube bottle had rolled into the valley of the sheets between them; Miles capped it and set it back in his nightstand drawer where it belonged. He wiped his hand on the same towel Derek had used, then let the towel drop to the floor by the left nightstand for laundry later.

Derek touched the faint red mark on his own shoulder—Miles’s mouth, planted in missionary—and smiled crookedly. “You left a receipt.”

“You left worse on mine.” Miles tipped his head; the bite at his shoulder from the rear entry was already blooming. “Worth it. You feel good. Taking me like that—mouth, fingers, on my back, from behind, riding you, then back under you—I’m going to feel you when I stand at the sink.”

“That’s the idea.” Derek caught his wrist and kissed the inside of it. “Hall light’s still on. I’ll get it when we go. Kitchen blinds are still open—anyone in the courtyard gets a show of our empty island.”

They lay there another few minutes, trading slow kisses that tasted like sex and coffee and the long week ending. Derek watched Miles’s face go soft and wrecked in the low lamp light—aftershocks still moving through him—and felt a familiar pride settle in his chest: he had opened Miles carefully and finished him roughly, and Miles had wanted both. Their chests stayed close even on their sides; Derek’s soft belly still pressed warm against Miles’s when they scooted together.

Then Miles swung his legs over the right side of the bed—his side—and stood carefully. Come ran down the inside of his thigh. He grimaced, amused, and held out a hand.

“En-suite. Before I drip on the hardwood and you lecture me.”

Derek took his hand and let himself be hauled up. They crossed the bedroom together, past the clothing pile, past Miles’s right nightstand—lamp and water glass—to the half-open en-suite door. Derek flipped the bathroom light. Tile, glass shower stall, double sink with two toothbrushes in a shared cup, towels on the heated bar because Derek had insisted when they renovated.

Miles started the water warm. Derek stepped in behind him when it ran hot enough, closing the glass door, and the small space filled with steam and the press of wet bodies. Derek washed Miles’s back with the cedar soap they both liked, hands careful over the marks he’d left—finger bruises on Miles’s hips, the bite at his shoulder from when Derek had taken him from behind. Miles tipped his head back against Derek’s thick chest and let himself be cleaned: between his legs, gently, where he was still tender and open and slick with Derek’s come; across his stomach, where his own orgasm had dried in the hair; down his sturdy hairy thighs. Derek’s soft belly pressed to Miles’s lower back under the water; chest to back; heat to heat.

“Sore?” Derek asked against his ear.

“Good sore.” Miles turned in his arms and soaped Derek’s chest in return, working lather through the dense hair, down over the soft belly, lower. He washed Derek’s cock with the same careful attention Derek had given him—intimate without starting anything new, though Derek twitched under his palm and they both smiled about it. Miles’s fingers traced the red mark he’d left on Derek’s shoulder, gentle in the steam. Sundays had a shape, and this was the end of it: water, warmth, the apartment quiet around them, the sink still waiting damp in the kitchen behind them.

“Poetry face,” Derek said, fond, catching the look. “Dangerous man.”

They rinsed. Derek shut the water off. Miles grabbed towels from the bar—Derek’s larger one, his own—and they dried each other in the fogged bathroom, bumping elbows at the double sink, brushing teeth side by side like any other morning except for the pleasant ache in Miles’s body and the way Derek kept touching him, small and proprietary: a hand at the small of his back, a kiss to the wet hair at his temple.

On the way back through the bedroom, Derek paused at the hall doorway and killed the hall light, then the kitchen spill of gold beyond it. The apartment went soft and quiet except for the bedroom lamp. He cracked the window for cool air and turned down the duvet on both sides. Miles found clean boxers in the dresser—Derek’s left drawers, his right—and tossed a pair to Derek before pulling on his own. The clothing pile at the foot of the bed could wait. The breakfast dishes at the sink could wait. The forks could stay wrong until Monday.

Miles claimed his side of the bed. Derek claimed his. They met in the middle anyway, Miles’s back to Derek’s chest, Derek’s soft belly fitted warm against the curve of Miles’s spine, one thick arm draped over Miles’s waist, palm flat on Miles’s sturdy hairy chest as if counting the heat that still lived there.

“Sunday’s open,” Derek murmured into his hair, echoing the kitchen.

“Sunday’s open,” Miles agreed. He found Derek’s hand and laced their fingers over his own sternum. Outside, the courtyard plane tree held its rain. Inside: kitchen sink, hall, bedroom, bath. Dish towel on the counter. Clothes on the floor. Lube in the drawer. Two men in one bed, forty-one and thirty-seven.

Derek’s breathing slowed first. Miles followed him down, sore and clean and thoroughly taken, already half-dreaming of leftover coffee and Derek’s mouth again somewhere between noon and the afternoon.

The sink could wait.

Sunday held.