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Canon in D Major

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It’s three in the morning and Derek is starting to wonder if he’s really the only supernatural creature in this room. He’s stupidly tired and his eyelids are drooping like the treacherous bastards they are. It’d be so easy to just, for a second, close them and sink into sleep in Stiles’ ridiculously comfortable chair.

Uncle Peter’s laptop is on the desk, every once in awhile sputtering out sounds like the last breaths of a dying man. Derek wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what they are. Peter likes to pretend he’s more tech-savvy than Derek, but Derek knows that laptop is basically a brick with a screen. It’s why he brought it over to Stiles to hack into and copy its content onto an external hard drive. It might not be very nice to steal someone’s laptop while they are recovering from wolfsbane poisoning, but Derek stopped dealing in nice with his uncle a long time ago.

If he could just ... five minutes, that’s all.

He blinks his eyes wide open when Stiles looks up from his laptop, still sitting on the bed, playing some game with zombies and flowers like sleep is for the weak. He smirks, and Derek knows he’s fooled no one. Again.

“You can totally –– oh no you don’t, you motherfucker, no one crosses my pool ––” Stiles jabs his keyboard viciously, then relaxes. “You can totally have a nap if you want. I had, like, coffee and Coke with my last Adderall dose so I’m gonna be wide a freakin’ wake for the whole night. We can swap places and I’ll sit at my desk, since, you know, my desk. You can lie down and I won’t tell anyone how you twitch in your sleep while you dream of chasing bunnies.”

Derek considers him, thinking of all the ways he can threaten Stiles and how little good that usually does, but the idea of a bed, of a comforter and pillows that don’t smell damp, well.

He must be glaring without really meaning to because, “Or you know, I can just sit here and talk at you. I can talk a lot, did you know that?”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“Of course you know that. Like, I got a job, for the summer, I’m gonna be working at a barber shop.”

That piques Derek’s interest. “A barber,” he says, putting as much disbelieving inflection in it as he can. “Who the hell is gonna allow you near knives?”

“I’m perfectly capable of handling a knife,” Stiles sniffs. He must’ve paused his game because Derek gets his full attention.

“Hm. I’m sure you peel potatoes like a pro,” Derek says and Stiles laughs, surprised.

“No, I’ll be making appointments over the phone and sweeping up and shit. I know it’s not glamorous or anything but I need the money.”

“Beats flipping burgers,” Derek says. It does. He knows. “Now hutch up.” Derek rises to his feet and Stiles gapes at him.

“You’re actually ––” He scrambles around, gets tangled in his laptop and the power cord but manages to make it off the bed in one piece. “Yeah, sure, be my guest. And I was totally only kidding: what happens in Stiles’ bedroom stays in Stiles’ bedroom. Not that anything ever happens here apart from the, um, obvious. Yeah.” Stiles gestures at the mattress and Derek sits. “I’ll shut up, you sleep.”

Derek stares at him, reluctantly amused.

“Okay then,” Stiles says and he sets his laptop down on the desk next to Peter’s. When he twists the chair to face the keyboard, Derek can see that the back of his neck is red.

Isaac’s foster family are first timers, and they’ve decided to show their trust in him by going away for the weekend. So, like the typical teenagers they really aren’t, they’re having a movie night. It takes Derek an inordinate amount of time to work out that’s what it is, that he’s just been invited to sit and eat crap while watching seriously bad TV, instead of being milked for information he doesn’t have.

They’re waiting for Lydia and Allison, who are supposed to be bringing pizzas, and Scott is making popcorn in the kitchen. Stiles sits on the couch beside Derek and Isaac is sprawled by their feet, talking to Stiles. “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t let you go near my throat with a blade.”

“I hear you dude,” Scott yells from the kitchen.

“Hey,” Stiles protests. “I happen to be really good at it. Believe you me I’m as surprised as you are, but Mr Carosso’s been teaching me, and the guy is like, a hundred but he’s really awesome. And it’s cool. I get to sharpen the knives and everything.”

“Still,” Isaac says, tilting his head back onto Stiles’ knee to look at him, “no fucking way.”

“Aw puppy,” Stiles says, putting his fingers on Isaac’s jaw, “you’ve got cheeks like a baby’s bottom anyway; you probably won’t grow any scruff until you’re thirty.”

That Danny kid is lounging in another chair. He’s been hanging out with the pack more and more since Jackson disappeared –– Derek’s been smelling him all over them –– but because Derek’s not sure how much he knows, he says nothing when no one else mentions the scruff Isaac has no issue sprouting once a month.

“Now you on the other hand,” Stiles says, suddenly rounding on Derek, and he has to make an effort not to lean back. “I’d love to get my hands on that face of yours.” He goes red, but he’s twisted away from everyone in the room so Derek’s probably the only one who sees it. He soldiers on when Derek ignores his embarrassment. “I bet you’ve got to shave, like, twice a day to keep those whiskers away. You should totally let me. I mean, after hours or something. You know, in case I accidentally do cut you, no one will witness you killing me to death.” Danny snorts from his chair in the corner.

“Is that so,” Derek says, staring at Stiles.

“Hm,” Stiles hums. “I close up at five every Wednesday through Friday. You should come by.” He turns away and doesn’t look at Derek for the rest of the night.

It’s the Thursday after that which finds Derek staring into the stained and broken bathroom mirror of the train depot. He hasn’t shaved in three days, and even though it goes away within five minutes, the rash he gets from the cheap razors he buys by the dozen is really annoying.

So he waits until it’s nearly five and then drives around downtown literally sniffing out the place Stiles works.

Stiles comes out with a backpack slung over his back, fumbling the keys when he tries to close up because he’s got his phone wedged between cheek and shoulder.

“Oh,” he says, when Derek appears by his side. “Um, I’m gonna be a bit later, Dad. I’ve got, uh, another customer.” Derek hears the Sheriff’s tinny voice but can’t make out what he says. “Okay,” Stiles tells him. “Love you.” He hangs up and bends down to retrieve the keys. “So you came. I didn’t think you would.”

“It’s in the interest of humanity,” Derek grumbles, following Stiles inside. “It’s best if you practice on someone you can’t actually kill.”

Stiles stares at him like he’s unable to work out whether Derek is joking or not, and really. Really? He’s not that bad, is he?

“Ha,” Stiles says. “Ha ha. Very funny. Okay. So, we’re doing this?”

Derek shrugs, aiming for a nonchalance he’s not really feeling. “Sure.”

“Take a seat.” Stiles gestures to what vaguely reminds Derek of a dentist’s chair and disappears around the back, coming back with a black cape. Derek looks at it with distaste.

Stiles rolls his eyes, “I know, oh fashion icon of our age, but I don’t want to get soap all over your clothes. Which will happen, by the way. I am still too focused on the blade to pay attention to where the suds land. At least it’s black. It hides the blood of my victims, you know,” Stiles laughs weakly.

“Fine,” Derek says, leaning forward so Stiles can drape it over his chest and tie it up. It’s silent for a while, Stiles fiddling around with things behind him, and Derek avoids looking in the mirror.

“Okay.” Stiles appears in his peripheral vision. “This is a hot towel to make the hairs soft. It’ll feel nice, I promise.”

It’s odd to be handled so delicately, and Derek can tell Stiles’ hands are shaking slightly. There’s an invisible cloud of nervousness around him, rubbing off on Derek until his blood is humming with it.

“Relax,” Derek says when Stiles peels the towel off his throat and jaw. “Even if you do nick me, I’m not gonna turn.”

“Sure,” Stiles says but it’s like he’s just humoring Derek because he doesn’t become any less tense. Derek’s telling the truth though. Stiles hasn’t been on his threat radar ever since a certain rave night.

“I’m sure,” Derek says.

“Good, because I like my skin unbruised. I’m like a peach, really.”

“More like an ugli fruit,” Derek tells him. Stiles snorts.

“You gotta stop with the jokes dude, or I’ll start to like you and then where would we be.”

Where indeed, Derek thinks, watching the flush rise to Stiles’ jawline with fascination. He forgets about it when Stiles presses a wet towel to his face and then begins to lather up a small brush. He goes completely still and rethinks the saneness of this idea when Stiles flips open a straight blade razor, and he realizes he’s going to be baring his throat to Stiles. While he scrapes a knife against it.

Instead of the stab of self-preservation Derek expects to have to fight down, he feels a thrill of excitement. Stiles swivels him around, puts his hands on either side of Derek’s shoulders, and says, “Are you really sure about this?” as if he knows what Derek’s thinking.

“Just get on with it Stiles. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve been to a barber,” he lies.

Stiles’ cheeks puff on a blown out breath. “Okay,” he says, and grabs the towel again to wet Derek’s face before applying a thick layer of lather with the brush.

Derek probably looks like an idiot, but he doesn’t have time to think about it, because with sure fingers, Stiles tilts his head to the side and then the blade is at Derek’s cheek. “Don’t move,” Stiles says and Derek wants to tell him how he’s really not planning to, but wisely decides against it.

The advantage of this is that he can shamelessly look at Stiles. At the way the flush on his cheeks creeps steadily higher while his eyes remain intent on what his hands are doing. From this close, his nose is more turned up than Derek realized but it’s ... cute. He has long eyelashes that frame those beta-colored eyes and that mouth. That mouth.

It’s slightly parted, and every once in awhile Stiles licks at it, pressing his lips together right before he does it. If Derek concentrates he can hear Stiles breathing over the scritch-scratch of the blade, and if he concentrates harder, he can hear how Stiles’ heart beats slightly out of sync whenever Derek looks at his mouth.

Stiles doesn’t talk, which would be a mercy on any other day, but this time his silence fails to provide distraction from the way Derek can feel his own body respond. He’s breathing slightly deeper and faster, his heart has to work a bit harder, and he has to make a conscious decision to stop gripping the armrests. This is arousing him, he realizes, just as Stiles puts a finger under his chin and lifts it. The blade drags slowly down and Stiles’ eyes widen, flicking up to meet Derek’s when he makes a noise. Stiles freezes, is about to lift the blade away, when Derek minutely shakes his head and bares his throat further.

Maybe Stiles can see the way his pulse is jumping in his neck, maybe that’s why he swallows hard before he continues. It takes a few more long, tense minutes, Derek’s jeans getting uncomfortably tighter as they pass –– and isn’t that ironic, that it takes this to stir his blood again after all these years –– and he can’t help the sigh of relief when Stiles dabs at his face with a dry towel.

“That was only the first pass,” Stiles croaks, sounding strangled. His eyes roam Derek’s face. “I have to do it again, in the other direction.” Derek doesn’t say anything. “But we can, we can stop, if you want.”

“No.” Derek tries to relax, to sink back into the chair. He closes his eyes, maybe that will make it easier. “Go on.”

It’s not easier at all. Everything’s amplified, especially when Stiles tips the chair farther back, holds one hand on Derek’s jaw, and begins to slide the blade over Derek’s throat against the grain. His thumb rests forgotten to the side of Derek’s mouth, driving him slowly insane.

For all that Stiles’ hands are steady, the nervousness emanating from him increases. Derek opens his eyes and sees him take sharp, uneven breaths through his mouth. Sometimes his fingers will linger, and sometimes his eyes will trail down the line of Derek’s throat.

Derek has noticed Stiles blushes when he’s around him, when he accidentally drops some innuendo or other that he imparts freely on everyone else without batting an eyelash. Derek feels like he can’t be blamed for not catching on earlier: it’s not like he’s had a lot of opportunities like this in recent years, even if he’d wanted them. Which he hadn’t.

“I’m done,” Stiles says, like it’s not the first time. His hand is still on Derek’s face and he’s looking down at him. His fingers are trembling again.

Derek pushes the chair upright and Stiles backs away so he can look in the mirror. His face looks smooth and feels even better.

“Here,” Stiles says. “It’s a cold towel, it will close the pores on your skin or whatever, I’m just gonna––” He backs away but Derek snatches his wrist and holds him where he is. When he takes a deep breath he can smell the spice of their mingled arousal and Stiles’ eyelids fall shut, resigned. “Fuck,” he mumbles, tries to pry his wrist loose but Derek won’t let him go. “Look, I’m sorry?” He’s getting mad but it’s from embarrassment, nothing else. It’s a familiar look on him, and Derek doesn’t understand how he hasn’t noticed this sooner.

Stiles is squirming to get away and when Derek drops his gaze, he sees why. “Oh god,” Stiles whines, pressing his free palm to the thigh of his jeans, trying to pull them down. “I can’t help it, okay? Can you please let go of me now? Shit, I am so sorry, I’ve probably made you so uncomfortable. This really isn’t what I meant to happen when I asked you –– god, you’ve got to be so skeeved out.”

“I’m not skeeved out, Stiles,” Derek tells him gently. He lets go of Stiles’ wrist because he’s not going to keep him there if he wants to go, but Derek finds himself hoping that he won’t.

“No?” Stiles swallows, looking doe-eyed and small. “No of course not, it’s not like, I mean,” he huffs, laughing without humor, waving a hand in Derek’s direction, “you probably get this all the time.”

“I don’t,” Derek says, the corner of his mouth lifting. He holds out his hand again, beckoning.

Stiles looks at it and then at Derek like he can’t believe his eyes, like he’s somehow misinterpreting this. Derek pulls the black cape thing off him and adjusts his jeans. Stiles’ eyes bulge.

“Holy crap,” he says, staring. Derek tries not to feel self-conscious. “It turned you on too.”

Snorting softly, Derek closes his eyes and shakes his head. When he opens them again, Stiles has taken a step closer.

“What was it?” He asks, when Derek leans forward and takes his wrist again, guiding him gently closer. Stiles goes easily, so Derek slides one hand up over his forearm, puts the other one on his stomach, rubbing lightly. “Was it the idea of the knife at your throat? Or, or something else.”

“Something else,” Derek says, even if that’s not entirely true. It was the idea of Stiles and the knife. He pushes his nose into Stiles’ belly and feels the air rush from his lungs. A pair of hands tentatively comes to rest on Derek’s head.

“Your hair is so soft,” Stiles murmurs. “I always want to touch it.” He combs his fingers through it, massaging Derek’s scalp a little. Derek makes a noise and he feels Stiles laugh. “That nice? Do I have to make a puppy joke now?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Derek says, the sound muffled by Stiles’ hoodie. He groans and clutches at it when Stiles digs his fingers into the muscles of Derek’s neck, his shoulders.

“What are we doing?” Stiles asks, like he’s genuinely curious and Derek wants to say, fuck if I know.

“You ever kissed anyone before?” he asks instead, re-emerging from Stiles’ hoodie. Stiles shakes his head. “You want to?”

“With you?” Stiles asks, grabbing Derek’s face. “Now?

“If you want.” Derek shrugs, trying to hide how badly he’d like to. It’s up to Stiles.

“Fuck yes,” Stiles says in a rush. “Oh my god, you want to make out with me? Of course I want to, jesus, like, holy––”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, grinning. Stiles’ mouth drops open and it only seems fair to take advantage of that. Derek rises to his feet and starts walking him backward to the wall behind the sinks. It’s gratifying how he can’t keep his eyes off Derek’s lips, no matter how hard he tries to keep eye contact.

“I don’t know what I’m––” Stiles begins but Derek interrupts him by rubbing his mouth over Stiles’.

“Just follow my lead,” he says and closes the final gap. Stiles’ hands bunch up Derek’s henley at the small of his back and Derek tilts Stiles’ jaw until he gets the right angle. He gently kisses his mouth a few times, each time a little longer until Stiles’ lips part and he can feel the heat and moisture inside.

For all that Stiles has never kissed anyone –– and it shows –– it’s been a long, long time for Derek. He doesn’t think he’s made out with anyone for the sake of making out since he was in high school and he’s forgotten how nice it is.

Stiles has his eyes closed and he can’t quite work out his breathing, so Derek backs off a little. “Guh,” Stiles complains, clutching at Derek’s shirt like he’s afraid it’s over already. Derek waits until he opens his eyes.

“All right?” He asks and he laughs a bit when Stiles hums, pulling Derek back in. Derek cups Stiles’ face with both hands and goes in for the kill. The noise that comes from Stiles’ chest vibrates against Derek when he slides his tongue home and it takes about ten seconds to set a rhythm and another ten for Stiles to start breathing through his nose like a racehorse. He breaks away, gasps, moves back in before Derek can ask him if he’s all right again. He’s not following Derek’s lead anymore, but arranges them any way he wants.

Derek won’t admit it, but he kind of likes it. Kissing’s a fairly innocent thing to let someone else be in charge of, so he lets Stiles have at it.

“I did,” Stiles mumbles, mouthing his way down Derek’s jaw, “an amazing job here. Oh my god, so soft.”

Derek laughs, but he has to agree. His hands roam a little while Stiles explores and he accidentally ends up with a palm on bare skin. Stiles shudders, turns his head to chase after Derek’s mouth again, and kisses him a bit frantically. His arousal spikes sharply between them, and he shoves a hand under Derek’s shirt, let it wander all over, making senseless noises all the while.

It’s becoming intoxicating and Derek should back off before either of them reaches the point of no return. He finds he really doesn’t want to, though.

“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” Stiles gasps, sucking in deep breaths, forehead pressed against Derek’s temple, one hand clutching and releasing Derek’s hair, “any second now.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” he tells Stiles. “It’s perfectly normal. With time you’ll––”

“Oh my god, can we please not do the sex talk right now?” Stiles protests and he laughs. His fingers flutter a tremor against Derek’s side before they slide from underneath the shirt. There’s a second’s hesitation and then his hand is on Derek’s ass, gingerly pulling him closer. “Fuck, fuck, you’re so hard,” he mumbles and Derek looks up.

“Of course I am,” he says, not understanding how Stiles could be surprised by that. He looks flushed all over and Derek was wrong, it’s not just his hands that are trembling, Stiles is shaking everywhere. “Do you want to come?” Derek asks him, dropping his voice a bit. This is probably not a good idea, but it’s hard to resist.

Stiles’ eyes are wide and he chews his bottom lip, looking straight at Derek, and then he nods.

“Okay,” Derek breathes, feeling a thrill of anticipation, or greed, or something equally sinful, anyway. “Okay.”

He takes both of Stiles’ hands in one of his, grips them tight, and lifts them above their heads, pressing them into the wall. Stiles moans and tries to hide his face. “Let me see you,” Derek says. He follows the lines of Stiles’ body with his free hand, reaching up and under to touch skin when he’s at the seam of his jeans and sweater. “I want to look at your face.”

Stiles is actively panting, and he closes his eyes but tilts his head back so Derek can see. Derek kisses his jaw, his throat, looks between them at the wet spot on Stiles’ jeans. He pops a button and drags the zipper down.

“Are you going to come as soon as I touch you?” Derek asks and Stiles nods, laughs a bit self-deprecatingly.


“Okay, well then.” He closes in on him, drags his hand up the underside of Stiles’ arm until their fingers are entwined, clutching hard. Then he insinuates his leg against Stiles, just right. “Go for it,” he says and falls on Stiles’ mouth, kissing him with all he has, making it as good as he knows how.

Stiles only needs a second to work out what he means and then he’s rubbing off on Derek’s thigh, Derek pressing back, the friction so amazing. It’s not long before Stiles is gasping brokenly, his mouth open in invitation for Derek to do with as he pleases.

“Come on,” Derek murmurs in his ear, “harder.” Stiles bucks, lets out a high-pitched keen and Derek leans back just far enough to see the look on his blushing face when he orgasms. With his eyes closed he leans forward, lips parted, searching blindly for Derek’s mouth and Derek kisses him until he calms down, lowering their still clutching hands.

“Do you want?” Stiles asks, touching Derek’s belt.

“Next time,” Derek says. He doesn’t move away though. He doesn’t want Stiles to think he’s rejecting him, or that he didn’t find this ridiculously hot. He’s just ... not ready, however stupid that may sound.

“There’s gonna be a next time?” Stiles asks him, eyes wide and so hopeful Derek has to laugh.

“If you like.”

“Are we dating now?” Derek must look like a spooked horse because Stiles starts to grin. “Can I wear your leather jacket to school? Will you take me to dinner so we can go park after? I totally get to drive the Camaro now, don’t I.”

“You will not,” Derek says, because it’s the easiest one to respond to, “ever, lay your hands on my car keys, Stiles. Unless it’s to wash it.” He’s afraid he’ll admit that all the other things sound oddly appealing.

“Want me in a wet t-shirt, do you?” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows and his hands come to rest enticingly on Derek’s hips.

“I am seriously regretting this decision,” Derek informs him, eyes already on Stiles’ mouth again.

“Are you?” Stiles sounds vulnerable suddenly, his voice soft and Derek’s eyes snap up to look at him.

“I probably should,” he says, cupping Stiles’ jaw and rubbing a thumb over his mouth. “but I don’t.”

“Me neither,” Stiles says shyly, looking down. “I’ve kind of wanted this for a long time.”

“Yeah, I just worked that out, actually.” Derek is smiling, so he hides against Stiles’ cheek.

“Really? I thought you knew.” Stiles brings his arms up and wraps them around Derek in a really nice, simple hug.

“I didn’t,” Derek tells him, holding him close. He might have done something about it sooner if he’d known, he thinks. He waits for Stiles to settle his head comfortably on Derek’s shoulder with a contented sigh and then squeezes him a little tighter.