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March 2013

Sterek AU: Stiles Stilinski, cello prodigy and Derek Hale, world class pianist disagree on the emotional range of classical music. 

“You’re wrong. You’re so wrong.”

Stiles waves his bow at him, like he’s wagging a finger at a child, mouth spread wide in a teasing grin and it makes Derek want to strangle him. Or maybe, possibly kiss him.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Definitely strangle.

“Shut up. It’s not meant to be sexy,” Derek’s frown deepens at the mere notion, “and it doesn’t have to be. It’s classical music. It’s not being put to the latest video by Rihanna.”

Stiles laughs, in a way that means he’s pleasantly surprised Derek knows who Rihanna is.

“Yeah well, me and my buddy Bach are gonna prove you wrong.”

Derek snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. Stiles’ gaze strays on his bare forearms and Derek orders the blush that is tingling at his cheekbones the fuck away.

“I’d like to see you try,” he mutters, leaning back further against the Steinway, comforted by the press of the piano against his lower back.

“Oh Der-Der my man, you shouldn’t have said that. Now it’s a challenge. The gauntlet’s been thrown. The die has been cast. Elvis has left the…”

Derek straight up growls. Stiles cheerily ignores him.

“See, I don’t even have to venture away from the prelude. The most famous piece for cello of all time is about sex.”

Stiles leers in reply to Derek’s sound of incredulity and then runs his obscenely long fingers suggestively down the fingerboard.

It dawns on Derek that perhaps he should be worried.

“Well, maybe not intentionally, but it’s there if you look for it. All that’s needed is a little suggestive imagery.” Stiles spreads his legs wider around the cello and Derek can only stare, mouth going suddenly dry.

“See, you might think you’re just listening to some kickass baroque. But if you concentrate, it’s actually this like, narrative of two lovers, coming home and slamming the door shut, desperate to get their hands on each other and struggling to get out of their clothes.”

Derek is stock-still under the weight of Stiles’ eyes, his words. 

“And they’re kissing and touching, one of them teasing the other until they’re just about to come and then stopping, leaving them pleading. Then they start again, building them back up to the edge, unrelenting until finally…” Stiles pulls one of the strings, the deep, low note forcing Derek to repress a shudder. The bastard smiles and Derek refuses to panic because he can’t know, how could he know?


Turning his head away at last, Derek swallows. Stiles chews his lower lip and strokes his free hand over the curve of the cello again. Little shit.

“But hey, if I’m wrong and you’re right, I’ll buy you one of those ridiculous milkshakes you insist on calling coffee.”

The dig at his penchant for Frappuccinos makes Derek bristle and he manages to level a halfhearted glare in Stiles’ direction.  He’s just about to ask what’ll happen if he’s wrong and Stiles is right when he begins to play. [Music, opens in new tab.]

He regrets the whole conversation almost immediately.

There is a reason they’ve got Stiles here on a full ride. There is a reason they have him playing a Wolfgang Schnab.

Derek couldn’t look away if his life depended on it.

Stiles might go through the world at odd angles, with sudden, irregular motions but at his cello, Stiles is all fluid grace and meticulous precision. The music pours from him like water and when Stiles lifts his eyes to catch his gaze, Derek sees it. God damn him, Derek sees it.

The flurry of hands in the opening progression, the struggle to unbutton shirts and long, certain fingers lingering on his collar bone, his neck and chest. Stiles paints with notes the scene he’s already described and Derek can feel his skin flush, sweat starting to bead as Stiles looks at him and he knows.

It’s not two random lovers in his head. It’s Stiles’ mouth against his own, Stiles’ body moving against his, pinning him down, pulling moans and sighs from his lips like he’s pulling music from the cello right now. Then Derek can hear that peak, that first teasing push and pull from the edge and his face sinks again because Stiles would tease. Stiles would tease him to insanity.

Stiles is shooting glances at Derek like he can hear what he’s thinking. His bow flies across the strings and his fingers move with such effortless accuracy that it ought to make half the people in the program die with envy. It might just kill Derek as well but for different reasons.

He knows what’s about to happen only a moment before it actually does and his throat goes completely dry as Stiles fixes him with his eyes and won’t let him turn his gaze away. They are reaching the crescendo and all Derek can think of is Stiles on his knees, looking up at him with the same smirk he’s wearing now; Stiles leaning over him, pushing his shoulders down into the mattress, Stiles on top of him, under him, Stiles Stiles Stiles.

The music crests.

Derek has to remind himself to breathe. 

The last note has barely rung out through the now deafeningly quiet room before Stiles is up and moving. Putting his cello down with less care than a loaner demands, Stiles comes up to him, comes for him. His hands, his brilliant hands seek out Derek’s waist and Derek wants to offer himself up to them.

“You win,” he says breathlessly.    

“Yeah,” Stiles smiles and pulls him in by the scruff of his neck, “I win.”

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