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Dances of the Swans

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The man in question hums, mouthing down Stiles' chest with each button he unclasps. At least he's being courteous and removing Stiles' costume. God only knows the colossal fit Peter and Boyd would throw if anything were to be—stained.

Stiles moves his hand to grasp at Derek's hair, but when Derek drops to his knees, he merely rests it at the back of his head. Damn it. Stiles is too easy, he knows it. But, really, you can't blame him. Not with the way Derek's looking up at him, eyes sharpened by his black makeup. It shouldn't be a turn-on, but it is. Derek's hot at the Swan.

Derek starts mouthing at his bare thigh; Stiles squirms against the wall of the dressing room he's plastered against.

"Derek," he tries again. "If we get interrupted because Peter calls the cast for another departure meeting—and I have to go out there with a boner—I'm going to kill you."

He finally breaks away, tilting his head up to send Stiles a withering glance. "Please don't talk about my uncle when I'm about to blow you." Whoops. "Anyway, why would he call a meeting? We already know tomorrow's call time. There weren't any major problems during the performance that he'd need to address." His hands skim lightly along Stiles' skin.

"Okay, yeah. But he might want to geek out with me over getting approached by SFB's principal director."

Derek lets his forehead rest against Stiles' hip, which—thanks. Now there's going to be a black smear there.

He pulls away, and Stiles regrets saying anything at all. "Where are you going?"

He uses Stiles' waist as leverage to lift himself up, only to be promptly pushed back down by his shoulders. He levels a glare at him, but Stiles can't help but notice the pink gathering at his ears. A wave of smugness washes over him; Derek totally likes to be pushed around, doesn't he? Stiles is going to have a field day with that.

"You keep giving me excuses as to why I shouldn't go down on you in our dressing room," Derek points out, voice flat. "So—"

"I wasn't telling you to stop," Stiles explains easily, waving a hand. "I was advising you to proceed with caution. We're playing a dangerous game. Just wanted to make sure you knew the stakes."

Stiles predicts the exact moment when Derek rolls his eyes.

Instead of replying, Derek grasps Stiles' dick with his right hand, tilting it to the side so that he has access to the sensitive skin around it. His mouth his hot and deliberately wet; he sucks gentle kisses along the surface, driving Stiles mad. Shifting gears, he kisses the head of his cock, and when Stiles thinks he's going to take him inside of his mouth, he doesn't. Stiles' breath hitches as Derek slides his tongue along his length with thorough strokes, eyes searching Stiles' face.

"Jesus. You look so good on your knees," he babbles. He's pleased to see Derek flush, embarrassed. It spurs him into concentrating on putting his mouth around Stiles' dick. "Probably 'cause you like it so much."

Derek sucks in retaliation and Stiles' hips twitch, unbidden.

"Are you gonna tell me that you don't?" he continues, always willing to challenge Derek in every situation he can. "This is the third time in, what, less than twelve hours?"

The head of his cock brushes against the back of Derek's throat and he finally presses his lips together to barricade any noises that threaten to spill out. When he looks down at Derek, he can tell that he's feeling confident. To counter, he slides his hand back into Derek's hair and grasps, sliding out of his mouth and back in, down the slick path of his tongue—over and over again.

Derek takes it like a champ, closing his eyes and relaxing his throat. Stiles' slows his thrusts, deliberately rocking his hips when Derek's mouth tightens. He starts shuddering with each movement, curling slightly over the other. When Derek swallows, throat working over Stiles' dick, he curses, slipping out of Derek's mouth to stroke rapidly over his length. It only takes a good ten seconds until he's coming on Derek's face.

Blissed out, he misses the utterly shocked expression that Derek's wearing.

The last three times Derek blew Stiles, he'd let him come down his throat, which had been—amazing, for lack of a better descriptor. Watching him simply take it had been enough to spur on a ridiculous number of aftershocks, almost to see if he could swallow that too.

But tonight he couldn't help but wonder what Derek would look like in full swan makeup and come streaked across his features.

He's not disappointed with what he sees.

Derek hauls himself to his feet, looking into the mirror as if he has to confirm his suspicions. That, yes, Stiles had really just done that.

His expression melts into irritated offense. Stiles groans, rolling his head back against the wall.

"Did you seriously just—"

"What, are you gonna tell me you like drinking come? I know what it tastes like, man. It's not exactly pleasant."

"It's less of a mess," Derek defends, furrowing his eyebrows at Stiles' reflection.

"Oh my g—you have to wash off your makeup anyway! I don't see what the problem is."

When Derek merely huffs, petulantly grabbing for the makeup wipes, Stiles closes his eyes. Leave it to Derek to throw a fit and ruin his afterglow. Once he strips off the rest of his costume and slips into shorts and a tee, he pushes himself off of the wall and plops onto the stool next to Derek. He grabs for the wipe in his hand. Derek gives him a look, keeping his grasp tight.

"Please?" Stiles tries, meeting his eyes.

Derek relents.

He reaches for the other's face, lightly pressing the cloth against his skin. "Sorry. I should've asked first. You know that I did it because I knew you'd look hot as hell, right?" Derek shies away, turning his head, but Stiles keeps him in place with his free hand on Derek's jaw. "It'll take everything I have not to pop an association boner when I see you on stage tomorrow," he muses, a wry smile pulling at his lips.

His partner looks at him, amusement pulling at his features, and Stiles feels that same punch to the gut he'd felt the night prior. He feels serious, all of a sudden, like the kiss he's about to give Derek will be more important than it has any right to be.

Derek doesn't seem to find anything out of the ordinary, kissing Stiles back like he's comfortably settled in with the idea that he could kiss Stiles like this every day and he'd be nothing less than content—like he's not terrified at the prospect of falling for someone so easily.

He pulls away to resume washing off the rest of Derek's makeup, and when he's done, he inches closer, waggling his eyebrows. "You want me to repay the favor?"

"Later. I wouldn't want Uncle Peter to interrupt us."

Stiles rears back a little, affronted. He whacks Derek on the shoulder, who merely laughs.

Laughs. Like that's something he does. His eyes crease like they can't help it and his head falls back, exposing the length of his neck. Stiles watches, slowly sinking into the depths of helplessness.

He's so done for.