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One
Derek likes his job. It pays more than enough, the benefits are incredible, and he gets nine to five hours with a two hour lunch break that he spends at the gym. But, really, that’s not truly why Derek likes his job. He likes being a secretary at S&S Industries because of the boss’ son. Namely, Stiles Stilinski.
“Derek!” said boy yells as he pounds down the stairs, completely ignoring the many elevators in the fourteen story office building. As he runs, Stiles--oblivious as always--manages to bump into every single primly dressed office person on the steps. Even Joanna, who’s barely five feet tall and thin as a twig, gets smacked by the loose arm of his black suit jacket. Derek isn’t sure he’s ever seen Stiles actually put his arms into the sleeves of his assortment of hugely expensive, intentionally oversized jackets. They’re constantly slung over his shoulders, the arms flapping behind him like wings. “Hey,” Stiles says, skidding across the smooth floor and catching himself on the edge of Derek’s desk.
“New shoes?” the secretary asks, smirking. Stiles pouts and punches his shoulder.
“Shut up,” Stiles replies, though he’s smiling. He swings around the desk and perches on its smooth surface, absently resting his feet on Derek’s thighs. The older man flattens his hand across Stiles’ ankles, thumbing at the smooth skin over the bone. “How are you, cutie?”
Derek still has to fight back a blush, even after months spent around the younger man and his naturally flirty way of speaking. As he looks down at Derek, Stiles’ dark lashes look longer than ever. It’s really unfair how good he looks. He’s clad in his usual button up--a simple white one today, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It exposes the gorgeous, smooth lines of his pale forearms that flexes as Stiles twists and wrings his hands absently. Since he consistently wears oversized jackets and loose dress pants or black jeans, Derek has to take what he can get.
“It’s been a rough day,” Derek says, thankfully answering Stiles’ question in a timely manner.
The younger man immediately takes on a look of concern. “Why? Are you okay? Is Dad working you too hard? I’ll tell him to lay off--not get you laid off! Just, like, lay off, you know? Like, get off your back,” Stiles rambles.
Derek hushes him by sliding a hand up his calf and stopping at his knee. “I spent all day on this damn Sudoku and I can’t get it,” he explains. Stiles visibly relaxes, though he still flattens his hand over Derek’s as if to reassure himself.
“Sudoku, huh? You know, I’ve been called a sudoku legend on numerous occasions,” Stiles offers, preening. His braggy smirks falls into a giggle when Derek faces him with an unimpressed eyebrow raise. Begrudgingly, the secretary can’t help it when his lips quirk up slightly.
“Yeah? By who?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles says smoothly, grabbing the abandoned sudoku booklet from the desk.
As it turns out, he actually is the sudoku king. In mere minutes, he’s finished the puzzle that Derek spent half his work day on. “You need a new hobby,” Stiles announces, hopping off the desk and to his feet. “ ‘Cause you really suck at sudoku.” Derek snickers without meaning to. “Solitaire? Jenga? Indoor hallway bowling?”
Two
Stiles, as it turns out, is not the king of Jenga. He’s terrible, actually.
“Fuck!” the clumsy young man hisses when he knocks over the neatly stacked tower for the fourth time in twenty minutes. Derek doesn’t even flinch when the wooden blocks clatter loudly in the quiet office building, destroying the silence like a hand swiping through spiderwebs. “Dude, I kind of suck at Jenga,” Stiles announces.
“‘Kind of’?” Derek repeats skeptically. It seems to be more habit than actual annoyance when Stiles smacks his shoulder.
“Fine. So maybe I completely suck at Jenga. Whatever,” the rich boy replies, feigning a grumble and a pout. He sighs and fakes a dramatic fall that Shakespeare would be proud of, holding his hand to his forehead and slumping across Derek’s lap. It almost makes the secretary jump; he was not expecting the guy he has a high school crush on to suddenly sprawl across his lap. It feels so… domestic. Out of an instinct that he didn’t know he had, Derek settles one hand behind Stiles’ head to support him and absently scratches at his scalp. “Mm,” the young man hums, eyes fluttering blissfully shut as he seems to lose his grasp on his theatrical annoyance.
Derek can’t breathe. Stiles is making these little pleased sounds and pressing back into his hand like a cat or something, which doesn’t even make sense . Derek has to look away, his gaze darting to the screen saver on his computer. It’s a picture of some anime characters with Stiles and Derek’s faces edited over it. A few months ago, the secretary had walked into the office to see Stiles making it.
“Derek?” said boy asks. Gaze snapping back down, the secretary looks into his companion’s fondly intense stare. “You look like you just got punched in the gut.” Stiles slides off his lap, moving back to perch on the edge of his desk. “Do you need a hug?” Derek can’t read his tone, can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. Desperately, he wants to say yes in that same, unreadable tone. Wants to see whether Stiles would reply with an actual hug or merely a laugh. However, he’s too scared that he won’t be able to match the enigmatic timbre.
Derek settles on something between a scoff and a laugh, bumping his hand against Stiles’ knee and sliding his wheely chair in a small circle. He doesn’t spin the chair--he moves the wheels but doesn’t stop facing Stiles. The younger man takes on an expression that doesn’t exactly look happy but Derek can’t tell. Even though Stiles constantly seems to read him with ease, notices everything except his massive crush, Derek always seems to find himself confused by the boss’ kid.
Three
Derek is fucking tired. His sisters drove into town last night and surprised him by dragging him out to a bar. They’d spent all night trying to force alcohol upon him until he spilled everything that happened after they left. Luckily, after twenty-some-odd years of resisting their Laura and Cora’s pushy, invasive questions, a pleasantly warm haze of alcohol isn’t enough to break him.
However, the remaining hangover might be. Derek got two and a half hours of sleep at most and he only stopped drinking a short while before hitting the sheets, leaving him trapped somewhere in between drunk and hungover. Drunk enough that his head isn’t clear but not enough to dull the pounding behind his temples.
When he rests his head on his arms, Derek doesn’t plan to fall asleep on his desk. It just… happens. He’s about to lift his head, about to start organizing appointments or something. Really, he’s going to. In just… one… second…
“Derek!”
Derek is abruptly ripped out of sleep by Stiles’ cheery greeting. It’s a miracle he doesn’t go toppling out of his chair, so when the secretary’s whole body jolts he decides not to judge himself too harshly. Stiles, meanwhile, is too busy staring a hole through Derek to make fun of him. “Stiles?” Derek asks sleepily, glancing up at him through half-lidded eyes.
“You…” Stiles says slowly, “look like you just had sex. A lot of it. Possibly with different people.”
Derek stares at him blankly, brain processing slowly like he’s an outdated, malfunctioning computer. “What?” he finally settles on. If Derek’s head wasn’t screaming in protest and he wasn’t on the constant verge of sleep, he might’ve remembered his sisters’ obnoxious need to constantly ruffle his hair, leaving it rumpled. Maybe that morning he would have noticed the lipstick smeared on his cheeks from Laura and Cora pressing obnoxiously loud and wet kisses there and cackling as he cringed. If he wasn’t feeling so drunk/hungover, Derek would’ve worn his usual button up and jeans. He wouldn’t have chosen joggers and a hoodie.
“Sorry,” Stiles said abruptly, clapping to signify an end to the conversation. “I’ll let you sleep,” he said, looking frustrated. He walked briskly from the entrance door that he’d come from and towards the door that led into the rest of the building. Derek’s office was built into the lobby space by a backdoor to the gargantuan S&S Industries building.
“Stiles,” Derek says, giving him the look that usually make Stiles slow down, take a breath, and explain whatever the fuck he’s rambling about. This time, though, he keeps walking. In fact, Derek thinks he might have even sped up. “ Stiles ,” he repeats, unsure what else to do.
Stiles leaves the office. There’s a pause, and Derek stares blankly at the door as it swings shut. Finally, he springs to his feet and chases after the boy he’s madly in love with. “Wait,” Derek calls, quickly catching up with him and grabbing Stiles by the arm to stop him. Unfortunately, the momentum from both of their hurried paces has the billionaire’s son swinging back against Derek’s chest. “I didn’t sleep with anyone.” The words spill from Derek’s chapped lips, visibly relaxing Stiles.
“Oh,” he replies softly, turning to look up through his long lashes. There’s something in his gaze that Derek can’t read but it looks decidedly fond. “Good.”
Four
When Derek walks into the office bright and early (read: only seven minutes late and holding a coffee) on Wednesday morning, he’s not expecting what he sees waiting for him. Stiles bent over a neatly positioned triangle of bowling pins, shaking that gorgeous ass and listening some song from the early 2000’s, definitely isn’t the last thing Derek might have anticipated, though. Stiles tends to enact his strangest schemes on Wednesdays.
“Hello,” Derek greets, walking past the newly erected bowling lane and what looks like it’s supposed to be an indoor golf course as if they’ve always been there. He puts his coffee down on his desk and sits down to check a few messages on the blinking answering machine. Meanwhile, Stiles puts the finishing touches on his latest creation.
A small bowling lane, equipped with a small dodgeball, leads into a golf course. A bag of clubs leans against the wall. The holes are made out of cardboard cups positioned on their sides, waiting for ping pong balls to roll into them. Beside that, lined up in a neat row, Derek sees ten cups--these ones are standing upright, though.
“Okay!” Stiles announces, clapping once. “First, you use the dodgeball to bowl. After you’ve knocked down the pins, you move onto the golf course. Using ping pong balls, you hit one ball into each cup. It doubles as beer pong, too. If you hit it in first try, the other person has to drink from those.” Stiles points at the row of cups. “Some are alcohol, some are a secret, and some are just nasty.”
Derek can’t help a small smirk, his competitive nature making itself known. “You know I’m going to kick your ass, right?” he asks.
Stiles scoffs, impressively loud. “You know I spent half my childhood on the golf course, right?”
“And I spent half my teenagehood playing beer pong,” Derek retorts. It’s a lie. He actually spent more time bowling because he was kind of a geek in high school, but Stiles doesn’t need to know that.
“Shut up, nerd,” Stiles says. “I’ve seen your bowling trophies and team pictures. I can’t believe those cute buck-teeth used to wear braces.” Derek knows his whole face turns red, remembering the bright blue braces he’d rocked for a year and a half.
“Shut up,” he grumbles.
“Cutie,” Stiles mutters, before quickly barreling onwards. “I’m going first!”
He gets a strike, but Derek is positive that cheating was involved somehow. “Excuse you!” Stiles cries when the secretary voices those concerns. “Maybe I’m just fucking awesome,” he continues, going cross-eyed and sticking his tongue out at Derek.
Derek grumbles loudly but can’t prove his cheating claims and Stiles moves onto to golf/beer pong. The first shot goes in because of course it does, and Derek is forced to down a cup of what tastes like soy sauce with a shot of vodka. It tastes absolutely atrocious and he makes a point of protesting the whole way, even going as far as petulantly flicking the last few drops at Stiles. The younger man screeches and giggles, making Derek’s chest fill with something fond.
Next, he’s forced to choke down a hipster-y avocado, grape, dark chocolate mess of a smoothie that only Stiles likes. Derek can’t even mock him for being such a hipster, because Stiles has pictures of the secretary in a beanie and a flannel shirt.
Thankfully, Stiles doesn’t get any more hole-in-ones.
Sighing like it personally offends him, Stiles resets the course and chucks a dodgeball at Derek’s chest. He catches it with ease, snickering. “Go on, big guy,” Stiles taunts, prodding at Derek’s shoulder.
Derek does a theatrical spin and throws the dodgeball behind his back towards the pins. He gets a strike. Stiles groans loudly.
Grinning to himself, both from the win and the knowledge that he’s undoubtedly going to win, Derek moves onto the golf/beer pong. He grabs a golf club and knocks one ping pong ball into each on the first try. Stiles emits a high-pitched noise of protesting disbelief. “ What ?” he squeaks.
Derek smirks lazily. During his first month of employment at S&S, Stiles’ dad had sent him golfing nearly every day without explanation. It was either a rich people thing or just a Stilinski thing.
Pouting intensely, Stiles trudges over to the row of “alcohol, secret, and just nasty.” Shooting a mournful glance in the secretary’s direction, he grabs a cardboard cup and downs it. The contents are quite obviously alcohol, if his heavy swallow and wince are anything to go by. “It’s, like, nine in the morning,” Stiles whines.
“This was completely and wholly your idea,” Derek reminds him.
“That was redundant,” Stiles mutters petulantly. He throws back two more drinks with a disgusted grunt and a vague, only mildly revolted hum. “Pickle juice,” he mumbles softly. “Not as bad as you’d think.” Derek snickers. Stiles sprays him with whatever the hell is in his next cup before chugging it with a grimace.
With a surprised expulsion of breath, Derek levels the boss’ kid with a stare. Stiles winks cheekily. “You still have to drink one more,” Derek reminds. He swears he can see a plan being devised behind Stiles’ bright eyes, just before the younger man grabs a cup and leaps over the toppled bowling pins. His jump looks far too much like an intensely over-dramatic scene from some fight scene in a werewolf show, and Derek wonders if he practiced it.
Before he can dwell for too long, however, Stiles is reaching around his neck and tipping the cup down his back. Derek jerks away from the cold, unbelievably sticky liquid and consequently bumps his chest against Stiles’. “Asshole!” he cries out, shoving the man he has warm, fuzzy feelings for to the ground. They land in a heap with Derek on top. Cringing at his soiled hoodie, he wrenches the sticky garment off and presses it to the smooth skin of Stiles’ neck.
The billionaire’s son screeches, flailing like a fish out of water. Derek straddles him, pinning Stiles as he continues to smear sticky, cold liquid on flawless skin. “You suck!” Stiles groans, making one last ditch effort to escape the cage of the secretary’s muscular thighs. Like a crazed animal, he writhes and bucks and squirms. It forces Derek to adjust his position, angling himself to hold the pretty brunette captive against the spotless office floors.
Abruptly, Stiles stops. He falls still, cheeks flushed pink and hands hanging loosely at his sides. Derek scrunches his eyebrows in confusion, watching as Stiles slumps back against the floor. “Okay,” he says softly, glancing off to the side. “I’m done.”
Derek is confused. Carefully watching the face of the pretty boy beneath him, Derek shifts. Though the movement is small, it draws sudden attention to something digging into his thigh and Stiles jaw tenses. Derek wonders why the hell Stiles is keeping his phone in his front pocket, and if he wants up to check it. Maybe the rich boy has a girlfriend or something. A boyfriend? Derek has always just assumed Stiles is bi, but maybe he’s just projecting his own crush onto him.
“Derek,” Stiles says softly, his voice soft and breathier than usual.
“Right,” Derek agrees, crawling off his waist to sit on the floor beside him. Instantly, Stiles practically flies up into an upright position with his knees pressed to his chest. He awkwardly tosses a shirtless Derek his damp and sticky hoodie, smiling apologetically.
“I don’t have any spare clothes,” Stiles announces, which doesn’t seem necessary or helpful at all. “But I do have either jacket and an undershirt on. So you have options.” When Derek doesn’t reply, more focused on the mental picture the words have conjured up, Stiles barrels on. “Like, I’m not trying to make you wear my jacket with no shirt. I mean you can wear the button up and I’ll just wear my undershirt or vice versa. The jacket will class me up so Dad doesn’t get annoyed again.”
Stiles snickers fondly. Derek knows by “Dad” he actually means his dad’s PR people who instruct Mr. Stilinski to at least try to keep a certain professionalism surrounding his family. Otherwise, Derek’s pretty sure Stiles would constantly dress like a tired, stressed out student during hectic exam season.
Derek is distracted from his thoughts when Stiles stands up and slides his oversized yellow jacket off his shoulders. Draping it across Derek’s desk, he proceeds to unbutton his shirt and smoothly take that off as well. He’s left in a white t-shirt that makes it all too clear just how much lean muscle he’s been hiding away behind loose-fitting, nearly too big clothing. Without meaning to, Derek bites his lip and stares.
“Der? What you staring at, cutie? I’m not that ugly, am I?”
“No!” Derek cries, louder than he means to. “You’re, uh. You’re… fine,” he stutters. “I just- I don’t think the undershirt is going to fit me,” he lies. Well, it’s not a lie exactly. He probably wouldn’t fit into the shirt, but that’s definitely not why he’s struggling to keep his gaze on Stiles’ face.
“Oh,” the younger man replies, adding another expression to the long list that Derek can’t decipher. “Shut up,” Stiles tacks on quickly, giggling. “We can’t all have washboard abs like you,” he teases, poking Derek’s bare stomach. And if that forces Derek to stifle a pleased noise, well. No one needs to know.
Five
Derek is actually working when Stiles bounds into his office. He’s gotten through at least fifty emails and actually answered four phone calls. He may have let three go to voicemail, but they probably weren’t important.
“Whoa,” Stiles says, skidding around the desk to stand with his hands on the back of Derek’s chair. “You’re not playing Agar.io.” Abandoning his email in the middle of a sentence, Derek spins to face Stiles. “What’s happening?”
“I’m being a secretary,” he replies, smiling faintly.
“I think the correct term is administrative assistant,” Stiles hums thoughtfully. He scrunches his face in thought, looking unfairly adorable. Derek kind of wants to squish his cheeks and kiss his forehead. “And you don’t ever do your job.”
“Hey!” Derek starts to protest. Before he can defend himself further, he pauses to think back on the last time he actually worked for longer than half an hour. Upon drawing a blank, Derek deflates. “Okay,” he admits. “Maybe I’m turning a new chapter in my life.”
Stiles makes a face. “No you’re not,” he says after a minute. “Shut up.” They settle into a silence and Derek can’t quite read the vibe, but he knows it’s not awkward or comfortable. Eventually, Stiles grabs his wrists and pulls him up. Confused and distracted by the innocent yet electric touch, Derek lets it happen. He watches as Stiles settles into the vacated chair, looking like a dog spinning three times as he switches through a myriad of positions before settling with one leg slung over the armrest.
Clicking with the expertise of someone rich who grew up surrounded by expensive technology, Stiles saves the half-written email and shuts down the computer. He spins to look back at Derek. “Okay, cutie. They just got rid of a bunch of old wheely chairs.” Derek stares at him blankly. “There’s a room. Filled with chairs. On wheels .” Stiles waggles his eyebrows, making his eyes light up. Slowly, understanding fills Derek’s face.
“Do you not remember the time your dad bought weird, expensive desk on wheels for this office?” Derek asks. The desk had been broken before he could even transfer his supplies into it.
“We had so much fun though!” Stiles reminds enthusiastically. “Also, I’m still mad that we broke a desk and didn’t even get to do it the fun fun way,” he mumbles, eyebrows moving suggestively. Derek just knows his face is bright red.
Pressing his lips into a thin line to hold back a dramatic (read: embarrassing) admittance of love, he looks away and mumbles gruffly. “Shut up.” He glances up through his eyelashes to see Stiles looking strangely hurt. “Let’s go play bumper cars with wheely chairs.”
“Bumper wheels. Bumper chairs,” Stiles says, biting his lip thoughtfully. It really isn’t fair how distracting it is, Derek thinks. “Bumper chairs,” Stiles settles on. He nods, as if agreeing with himself. Derek resists a snicker. Even so, Stiles seems to see the half-smile on his face and grabs Derek’s wrist to drag him further into the building. They find their way onto the third floor, down an underlit hallway, and into a dark room. Derek stumbles along behind Stiles the whole way without complaint.
After a few minutes of blind fumbling along the wall, Stiles finds a switch and bathes the room in light. It reveals the massive room, with its worn gray carpet, beige walls, and a long row of chairs lining the back wall. The quality varies, from the leather seat merely being scuffed to a chair that’s missing two of the three legs.
Stiles looks like he’s in heaven. “God, this looks like some god-tier shit post,” he mumbles to himself. Derek is confused. “Find a chair,” Stiles orders excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Smiling faintly, Derek joins him in the search for a chair worthy of “bumper chairs.” The secretary finds one in a few short minutes--there’s really not that many people completely destroying office chairs. “Got one?” Stiles asks, seemingly having scouting out the room beforehand for a chair. He’s already wheeling around, kicking off the walls and spinning dizzyingly.
Derek nods, sitting on his chosen bumper chair and taking a test spin around the room. For a few minutes, Stiles seems content to just watch. As soon as Derek makes the mistake of turning his back, though, he feels two feet kick the back rest. If not for his weight, Derek just knows he would have found himself overturned on the floor.
He makes a noise of surprise, spinning to face Stiles with a scowl. “Ha!” the rich boy cries, giggling and kicking off Derek’s knees.
“Huh,” Derek scoffs, though it comes out as more of a huff of breath. He takes a few moments to recover from his surprise, before whipping forward to slam his chair against Stiles’. They grunt softly in sync and both skid backwards. As if it had been planned, the carpet was thin enough that Derek could wheel around with only a slight catch. Stiles still manages to hurtle across the room and hit him like a 137-pound battering ram.
As it turns out, since Derek is sitting still and practically twice Stiles’ weight in pure muscle, he feels like a brick wall. The lean younger man topples off his chair and lands in Derek’s lap. It’s just his luck that the guy he likes lands with his face in Derek’s chest and thighs pressed against his groin. Although the contact hurts, and he’s never displayed signs of a pain kink, something about Stiles being so close to the older man’s dick makes his face flush.
“Ow,” Stiles giggles, pressing his face into the Derek’s over-sensitive neck. The secretary silently bemoans how unfairly distracting it is. It’s not at all helpful when Stiles starts squirming in his lap, mumbling something about “uncomfortable, rock hard abs.” Derek is seriously concerned that, if the pretty younger man doesn’t stop moving, his abs won’t be the only thing that’s hard. Thankfully, Stiles settles in soon enough with his knee pressed into the chair between the secretary’s thighs.
The rich boy rests his hands on Derek’s shoulders and props himself up in order to sit face to face. Derek can smell the sugary mint of Stiles’ toothpaste mixed with overpriced coffee. “Hi,” Stiles giggles, the soft glaciers of his cheeks tinted pink.
“Hey,” Derek replies, smiling fondly.
“You’re blushing,” Stiles says, sounding somewhere between awed and reverent.
Derek blushes more. “Aw,” Stiles coos, giggling. “Cutie,” he says softly.
“Shut up,” Derek grumbles, cheeks aflame.
+One
Stiles is missing. Okay, admittedly, he’s not actually missing but Derek hasn’t seen him all day. It’s already past two p.m., and Stiles usually shows up before noon. Absently, Derek considers how dependent he is on his boss’ son.
Thankfully, before he can dwell on it too long, the entrance door swings open smoothly to reveal Stiles. Except he doesn’t really look like Stiles. It’s the same lanky limbs and constellations of freckles, but clad in something completely different. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and it actually fits . Derek can’t breathe.
Stiles is dressed in form fitting black trousers and sleek dress shoes. A crisp white shirt is actually tucked in and all the buttons are done up. Over it, he’s wearing a gray, six-button vest that makes his chest look muscular and defined. There’s a smooth black tie with white polka dots that somehow don’t look ridiculous. Lastly, there’s a matching gray suit jacket with jetted pockets and a black pocket square.
Confidence seems to be sewn into fabric of the suit. Stiles saunters across the lobby, perma-smirk settled on his lips and hips swaying sensually. He brushes his thumb across the tip of his nose, strolling around the side of the desk and perching on it. Oozing aplomb, Stiles crosses his legs and runs a hand through his neatly styled hair. “Hey,” he greets suavely.
Derek’s chest hurts. He’s rock-hard in his jeans, dick straining against the fabric and creating a delicious friction. “Hi,” he stutters, feeling like a diehard fangirl in the presence of her idol’s abs for the first time. Speaking smoothly is all too difficult when he’s barely managing to take in enough air.
“Dad made me get a suit,” Stiles whines, suddenly melting into his usual slouched position. Though he’s absolutely beautiful and stunning and perfect, Stiles is anything but confident. It’s almost a relief to see him slump back to normal. “I look ridiculous,” he complains, curling in on himself.
Derek is still struggling to deal with the gorgeous, sauntering entrance he’d made. “You cat-walked in,” he comments dumbly.
Stiles flushes pink. “Shut up,” he replies, sounding embarrassed. “You don’t hafta rub it in,” he mumbles.
Brain still only half-functioning, it takes Derek a moment to realize what the pretty boy is saying. “No,” he grinds out. “You looked good. You look good. Amazing, even. Breathtaking. Exquisite.” Derek runs out of words in sync with him noticing his humiliating rambling. His cheeks feel warm and he looks towards the floor. Gaze catching on Stiles’ socks, he’s tempted to smile fondly or maybe snicker at the argyle pattern.
“Yeah?” Stiles asks, voice soft and unsure. Derek nods, maintaining steady eye contact with the floor. There’s a long pause that’s more thoughtful than uncomfortable. Eventually, Stiles breaks it with a small, tentative voice. “D’you want to come to this gala thing with me tonight? You know how my dad is trying to branch out his investments? He’s having that singer/performer he’s working with perform.”
“I booked and hired people for it,” Derek reminds wryly. Finally, he looks up to see Stiles twisting the bottom of his shirt anxiously.
“Right,” the rich boy agrees, lacking his usual… something. He looks nervous and shy, although it’s difficult to tell. Derek has never seen Stiles nervous or shy. The rich boy is an enigma. He’s not confident but he’s not introverted or reserved, either. “Anyways, do you- do you want to go with me?”
Derek can feel a long ramble coming already, watching as Stiles starts twitching more and his mouth opens ever so slightly. “Yeah,” Derek says, interrupting the impending word vomit. It doesn’t allow any time for him stress about it, wonder why Stiles asked, worry what’s going to happen tonight.
Stiles grins. “No take backs,” he blurts out. Derek gives him a look. “You need a suit.”
“I have one,” Derek says slowly. “From senior prom,” he mumbles.
“Shut up,” Stiles interrupts. “You’re a cutie,” he tacks on absently, as if to make up for it. “Dad can buy you a new suit.” Though Derek would usually protest, even his pride isn’t enough to argue with spending a miniscule, insignificant portion of a billionaire’s money. Plus, Stiles would, without a doubt, bulldoze over any protests and Derek would inevitably end up with a suit anyways. “I’ll get Jay,”--Stiles’ personal chauffeur--“to drive you. I’d go with you but I think Dad wants my help or something.” He shrugs. “Bastien will get you fitted and everything, though,” Stiles promises, referencing his tailor.
Derek nods, absently pulling Stiles’ sleek dress shoe-clad feet onto his lap as the rich boy calls Jay and texts Bastien. The French tailor is high in demand and doesn’t have time for phone calls. “Okay,” Stiles announces after a short minute of rapid-fire typing. “Jay’ll be here in fifteen,” he says, wrapping his ankles around Derek’s biceps to wheel him closer on the office chair.
-
Derek still isn’t ready to see Stiles in his form fitting suit. The sight of the gorgeous young man is still enough to take his breath away. Grinning brilliantly, Stiles bounds into Derek’s loft as soon as the secretary opens the door. “Hi-,” he starts brightly, cutting off as his gaze rakes down Derek’s body. Derek thought he looked alright, if somewhat like an awkward high schooler trying to look mature for prom. He’s almost positive that Stiles looked better as a gangly teenager at his own prom, but still. Derek thought he looked okay.
Stiles, however, seems stunned into silence by the sight of him. He won’t stop staring, and he’s biting his lip as if holding back a barrage of insults until he can find a way to phrase them nicely. Derek desperately wants to ask something , but he can’t find the words.
“You-” Stiles stutters, gnawing at his lower-lip. “You look amazing,” he manages.
Derek blinks. “What?”
“Oh, my god, dude, you could convince a whole country to elect you to be their tyrant if you wore a suit,” Stiles blurts. He flushes pink but doesn’t retract the statement.
Derek doesn’t know how to react. Disbelief fills his chest, fuelled by the automatic instinct to believe that no one could ever actually like him back, that he could never get that lucky. “Shut up,” he mumbles suddenly, surprising even himself. Stiles scrunches his eyebrows. “You look…” Derek trails off. “Beautiful,” he eventually manages, feeling his face go red.
Stiles is blushing too, and he smiles shyly. Gently, he reaches out to grab Derek’s hand. “Let’s go,” he mumbles, still looking adorably blushy and bashful.
Bumping shoulders as they walk, hand in hand, the pair make their way to the limousine that’s waiting for them. “My dad is so extra,” Stiles mumbles, taking notice of the way Derek’s gaze swept across the twelve passenger car. “If it was up to him, Jay would sell the Bentley and I’d be rolling into McDonald’s at three a.m. in a limo.” Derek smiles fondly. Of course the rich boy doesn’t realize that going to McDonald’s with a chauffeur in a Bentley is still a definite rich person thing .
Derek holds the door open for Stiles before Jay can, rolling his eyes when the chauffeur gives him a look like an elementary schooler would give their friend with a crush. “Thank you, my darling,” Stiles giggles, rubbing a hand across Derek’s shoulder. The natural motion is enough to make him shiver, resisting the urge to lean into Stiles’ touch.
“Of course, milady,” Derek replies, smirking. His gaze dances between the roof of the limo and Stiles’ ass as the younger man crawls in. Eventually, Stiles sits down on the buttery leather and Derek follows him into the vehicle. Despite there being enough space to comfortably three people--maybe even four--the pair ends up pressed together, Stiles’ soft thigh against his muscular one.
Derek has barely gotten a breath away from the intoxicating press of Stiles when they enter the gala venue before they’re being crowded back together. A few of Mr. Stilinski’s assistants surround them, spewing sentences that all start with “The boss said…” or “Your father said…” Wide-eyed, Derek can’t catch any more than a few fragments of what they’re saying. Stiles, however, seems to be understanding everything. He nods along before eventually the horde of assistants fall silent and he turns to Derek expectantly.
“What?” Derek asks blankly. Stiles giggles and rolls his eyes.Without offering any explanation, he grabs Derek’s hands and tugs him along. The gala is set up in a massive ballroom with a large stage at the front of the room. In front of it, there are already couples dancing along to some jazz band that Derek had hired to fill the silence between performances from the main entertainment.
It still takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize where Stiles is leading him. “I don’t dance,” he says quickly.
“Today you do,” Stiles replies brightly. It’s easy to forget what a leading light he is, especially under the guise of his cheery, somewhat childish personality coupled with his authoritative father who commanded every room he entered. However, Stiles is truly a force to be reckoned with, as Derek is vividly reminded of as he’s somehow dragged onto the dance floor by the thin, younger man.
“Stiles,” he complains. “I don’t dance.”
“Today you do,” Stiles repeats, still sounding bright and cheery.
“Stiles,” Derek grinds out, all too aware of how weird they look standing still in the midst of slow-dancing, middle aged couples.
“Derek,” Stiles replies lightly. He wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and looks expectantly down at the secretary’s arms, where they’re hanging loosely by his sides.
“I don-”
“You don’t dance,” Stiles interrupts. “But you never said you can’t dance.”
Derek manages a sigh but still somehow finds himself swaying along with Stiles, hands wrapped around the rich boy’s waist. Sighing happily, Stiles leans his head on Derek’s shoulder and mumbles something that the secretary interprets as, “I love this.”
“What?” he says anyways.
“Oh.” Stiles startles, as if the words had fallen from his lips without intention. “Um. Nothing.” Derek is confused but hums agreeingly anyways. They fall into a comfortable silence, dancing and swaying across the smooth wooden floors with ease. Eventually, though, Stiles’ ADHD has the boy drumming his fingers on Derek’s neck and stepping on his toes.
“It’s an open bar,” Derek says. He would know; he was CC'd on increasingly angry emails between the party planner and the finance guy ( I don’t care if it’s not in the budget, Martin! That’s your problem! I am purely trying to plan a bitchin’ party! ). Admittedly, the party planner didn’t fit the uptight, suit-clad bill that most S&S employees did, but she knew how to throw a gala.
“Let’s go,” Stiles says gratefully, walking alongside Derek with their hands linked. As they reach the counter, Stiles orders a fruity, sugary cocktail for himself and bourbon for Derek. The older man accepts it, his stomach doing funny things from Stiles knowing his drink of choice.
Derek doesn’t know how much time passes, but he soon finds himself dancing on the line between acceptably tipsy and drunk. Stiles, on the other hand, doesn’t hold the same professional reservations as him. Giggles spill freely from the rich boy’s soft lips and he’s exceptionally touchy. The constant press of his hands on Derek’s arms and chest is all too distracting. “I wanna dance again,” he slurs. “Come on,” he insists.
Derek snickers fondly, gently flattening his palm on the back of Stiles’ head to stop him from escaping onto the dance floor. The heavily intoxicated boy slowly leans forward until his face is nestled in Derek’s neck, humming softly. “Love y’,” he mumbles, too slurred and quiet for Derek to understand. Legs shaking under him like a newborn fawn, Stiles stumbles the few steps forward to wrap his arms around the secretary’s waist.
It hurts deep in Derek’s chest. The position feels all too much like they’re dating, as if the older man is cuddling his drunk boyfriend close. Even so, he reciprocates the hug. “ ‘M tired,” Stiles complains. “Take me home,” he orders. “I wan’ cuddles.” Breath gets trapped in Derek’s throat.
Stiles is drunkenly unaware of his internal struggle. “Derek,” he says, sounding bossy. “Take me home.”
Derek takes him home. It’s not the first time he’s been in the Stilinski mansion, but he’s never been in the wing of the house that Stiles’ bedroom is in. They end up getting lost inside the house. Stiles is clinging to him and being completely unhelpful, instead choosing to sing Disney songs under his breath. Eventually, though, he grows bored and starts whining about cuddles.
“Where’s your bedroom, dumbass?” Derek says, though he lightens the insult by finally picking up Stiles the way the younger man has been hinting at for ten minutes. Stiles’ winds his legs around Derek’s waist and presses his face into the secretary’s neck.
“It’s ‘mbarassing,” he mumbles into soft skin. “Find a guest room. Snuggles.”
“What’s embarrassing about it?” Derek asks. His mind runs wild with curiosity. Stiles has always seemed pretty shameless to him.
“Nothin’,” the younger man slurs, giggling lazily and shifting to find a more comfortable position. “Cuddles,” he pleads. Derek wants to jump on that suggestion. Wants to protectively curl around the drunken boy of his dreams and pet his hair. However, the part of him that’s deathly curious overrides it.
He continues his way through the mansion, tentatively peeking through doors in his search for one that looks like Stiles’. Finally, after scaring the hell out of some poor maid, Derek finds the bedroom. It’s… perfect. Even if he was given a million years, Derek could never dream up a bedroom that’s just so Stiles . Everything is vaguely coordinated; cohesive chaos, the secretary thinks. He could fill poetry books with what each little thing reveals about Stiles. That is, until his eyes start to land on little things that look vaguely familiar.
A crinkled sheet of paper from when they’d spent over an hour playing tic tac toe and drawing games that Stiles had thought up.
Blue bottle caps fill a mason jar; Derek remembers the day Stiles had sprinted into the office carrying an armful of cyan glass bottles. “Drink,” he’d ordered. Like the whipped man he was, Derek had done so without question. As the pair drank their neon sodas, Stiles had rambled about his day and the horrendously rude woman and her unfairly cute baby. At the end of the day, without providing an explanation, he’d slid the remaining soda bottles under Derek’s desk. Over the next few weeks, Stiles would pull out two new bottles every time they talked. Each time, Derek would toss his bottle cap at him playfully.
A row of small notes vertically lines an aesthetically exposed support beam in the corner of Stiles’ room. Derek recognizes his shitty sketches, left for Stiles whenever the secretary left the office.
“No,” Stiles whines, stretching out the word. “It’s creepy,” he groans. “Don’t look.” Derek isn’t creeped out whatsoever. His chest feels warm and soft. Feeling like a cartoon character with heart-eyes, he absently pulls the perfect boy closer into his chest.
“Shh,” Derek hums soothingly, attempting to distract the intoxicated young man. “Still want cuddles?” he asks. Stiles lets out a sleepy noise of excited agreement. Carefully, Derek lays them both out on the plush California king bed. Wearing a fond smile, Derek leans against the pillows as the gorgeous young man sprawls on top of him while his limbs wrap around Derek like a baby koala.
“Mm,” Stiles hums fondly. “I love you,” he whispers.
Derek’s heart stops. Then it jolts, banging against his ribcage and bouncing off like a rubber ball. For a moment, he can’t speak.
“W- what?” he stutters out, face flushing the colour of overripe strawberries.
“I love you,” Stiles repeats. “Wanna date you.”
“Stiles?” Derek asks weakly. He’s drunk! his brain is screaming. He loves you! his heart retorts.
“Shut up,” Stiles snaps. “Just let me cuddle you. Jus’ tonight. Then I’ll go back to being the boss’ annoying son.” He sighs, soft and miserable.
Derek still can’t breathe. Still, he manages a reply. “I love you too,” he murmurs.
-
Derek wakes up to the sound of Stiles vomiting. It’s not a particularly pleasant way to awaken, but at least the younger man is still here. Thankful that his hangover is incredibly light, Derek crawls off the gargantuan bed and walks toward the en suite. “Hey,” he hums softly. Gently, he pulls Stiles’ fluffy hair off his sweaty forehead and pets it softly. “D’you want Advil?”
“You don’t have to stay,” Stiles replies softly, pulling away from the toilet to lean against the edge of the bathtub. Derek steps closer, his thighs brushing the rich boy’s shoulders. “You already humoured me yesterday. I’m sorry,” he tacks on. Derek pauses. His low self-esteem fuelled instincts tell him that this is Stiles’ way of rejecting him. However, something about the circumstances has him thinking back to the truth in Stiles’ I love you .
“I humoured you?”
“Te-” Stiles breaks off weakly, “Telling me that you loved me. I know-” he huffs, sounding pained, “I know you don’t.” Derek wants to shake him and scream that he’s loved Stiles for an embarrassingly long time.
“I do,” he says quickly, falling to his knees next to Stiles. “I love you. So much. So, so much.”
“I love you too,” Stiles whispers, breathing shakily and curling into Derek. “I love you.”