Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts with a leather portfolio; a gift from Peter the day Derek is promoted to junior partner. It's left on Derek's desk with a Post-it note in Peter's meticulous script: Use it wisely, young padawan.

Derek flips through it carelessly, fingers brushing over a collection of plain white business cards, all adorned with a name, a number, and a code, like a PIN. Some are vaguely recognizable; a restaurant or two, the name of Peter's tailor, a hotel so exclusive it's not listed anywhere. His thumb brushes over one for Gotham Dream Cars.

He flips through the last few pages of cards slower, taking his time. Among them are several swanky nightclubs, a discreet gentlemen's club, a selection of the city's more opulent fetish clubs, as well as New York's most elite, and secretive, escort agency.

Laura bursts into his office before Derek can process what Peter's suggesting and he shoves the portfolio into a desk drawer at the same time she thrusts a magnum of champagne into his hands. She looks elegant in her wine red suit, but too thin in the face, with dark shadows under her eyes and a flat sheen to her hair. She's happy for him, though, careless with her hugs and the kiss on his cheek, arm looped through his as they look out on the city from the thirtieth floor.

"Dad would be proud," she murmurs, soft and sad.

He pulls her closer.

: : :

He feels like an associate again by the end of the next day, his caseload doubled in less than twelve hours.

The portfolio remains forgotten.

: : :

Derek knew going in that becoming junior partner would mean more; more billable hours, more associates kissing his ass. More business dinners and parties. Being forced to rub elbows with the city's royalty, hoping to score new clients for the firm. And he resigned himself to it, in order to be part of his father's legacy, to be there for Laura.

What he didn't expect is how it exhausting it would be, fending of handsy cougars and fawning bimbos. Men and women who see him as nothing more than a piece of meat in a thousand dollar suit.

At the end of any given dinner, Derek's cheeks hurt from the weight of his fake grin and he can still feel the ghost of Mrs. Gladwell pinching his ass a dozen too many times. Even Peter approaching him from behind spooks Derek.

"It helps if you bring someone," Peter says, reaching around Derek for the open decanter of scotch on the bar. Peter's glass is half full, but he tops it off anyway, eyes focused across the room where his date is on her cell phone.

"How am I supposed to find a date?" Derek growls into his glass, the hand tucked in his pocket curling into a fist. Peter is still too close, smells too much like his date's cloying perfume.

"Oh, Derek," Peter sighs, his hand brushing a speck of lint from Derek's shoulder in a pitying slide. "You'll figure it out."

: : :

Derek digs out the portfolio the next day.

It's a Sunday and Derek isn't required to be there, but the office is emptier than usual which means Derek can research his options without interruption.

The phone call takes longer than he expects, but the woman on the other end -- Lydia -- insists on being thorough. And her clipped, professional tone cuts through all of Derek's protests.

: : :

The first time is a month later; a birthday bash for Duke Payne, Peter's only other equal in the firm. The woman Derek finds himself set up with is tall and willowy, elegant with her long dark hair and big brown eyes. Her dress is an understated blue, her heels just shy of sensible. She calls herself Allison. Derek wonders if it's her real name.

She's nice and sweet, funny and beautiful, and plays the dutiful date to a tee, but there's a subtle in over her head undercurrent to her conversations that weighs Derek down. She's too wholesome for a society crowd like this, and it shows in the way she's too polite to the women dripping with diamonds, giving Allison too-sweet smiles and lavish compliments.

Though she's perfectly pleasant, gorgeous and smart, Derek gets the sense she doesn't fit in the city, let alone this profession. She belongs somewhere smaller, cozy. With someone who adores her, not someone paying for her time.

For however much she doesn't fit in this setting, she does manage to make the evening somewhat more enjoyable. At the end of the evening, Derek tips her and sees her to her car with a hand at her elbow and a kiss on her cheek.

"Thanks for the night," she says, her eyes as bright as her smile. "I hope it wasn't a complete waste." He's grateful for her keen intuition, for giving him an out.

Derek shakes his head, easing her into the town car. "Not a waste."

"Good." She squeezes his hand before he closes the door.

: : :

Lydia calls the next day, for what she describes as a routine follow-up. Derek feels weird about it -- it's not like Allison is a restaurant or hotel room whose worth is measured by a number (except for how he did pay for her company, his unhelpful brain supplies) -- but Lydia is insistent, prodding and prodding until she's satisfied with Derek's answers. She even persuades him to book another appointment, this one to celebrate the firm's twenty-fifth anniversary.

An hour and a half later, Derek gently settles the phone in its cradle, feeling like he's just run a few dozen laps around Central Park

: : :

Erica is a little bolder, all shiny teeth and dark-smudged eyes. Her dress more revealing, but still gorgeous. She knows the society crowd is looking down on her and uses it to her advantage. Derek appreciates her candor, but knows, too, that her snark and sass will not engender any goodwill for the company and Derek in particular. Especially from the wives whose husbands Erica insists on flirting with.

He thinks he could be friends with her though. She's quick and funny, smart once you get past her bombshell image. Derek can easily picture getting a beer with her on the weekend. Not that Derek ever has an official weekend off.

But, like with Allison, he won't be inviting her to another company party.

On their walk through the hotel lobby, she clings close, her breasts pressing soft against his arm. Something in him sizzles just under the skin, flaring hotter when she eases a hand in his suit coat to slip him her private number.

They end up outside the hotel lobby before the car arrives, shivering a little in the cold air. He turns to her then, about to ask her what her company's policy is on forming friendships outside the business relationship, and Erica is suddenly there, on her tip toes, kissing Derek.

Her lips are sticky with lipstick and cling to his in interesting ways, but there's too much aggression in the sharp scrape of her teeth, her slick tongue. Derek wants to enjoy it, but it reminds him a little too much of before. Of Kate.

Derek is careful, pushing her away with firm but gentle hands, and she looks up at him with a grin, thumbing away a smear of lipstick at the corner of his mouth. "Couldn't resist," she says with a wink.

Derek can't hold in his breathless chuckle. "Thanks," he says, feeling himself flush.

The car pulls up, then, and she smooths a palm over his chest, pats him once over his heart. "Hope you find someone who's a better fit."

He murmurs his agreement, watching her car slip away.

: : :

The next day, Lydia asks, "Just out of curiosity, how sexually fluid are you?" and Derek sighs.

: : :

Stiles, Derek decides, is the final straw. These parties are stressful enough without having to adjust to a new person at his side every time, trying to fit together in all the wrong ways.

At least this is the company masquerade ball, their annual New Year's Eve party, and Laura actually looks like she's enjoying herself for once, letting Boyd lead her through the crowd with one hand on her hip. Derek can't see the shadows under her eyes through the mask she's wearing, but her smile, the intimacy they share, is genuine. Derek is happy for her, really, if maybe a little jealous, too. He doesn't have time to dwell on it, though, as he turns into the tap on his shoulder.

Stiles is nothing and everything like Derek imagined; tall and slim, lithe and strong. Feminine and masculine, present in a way Derek can't quite put his finger on.

He takes in all of Stiles, from the artfully arranged bedhead to the sleek black suit to Stiles' glossy black Oxfords and up again, meeting Stiles' gaze. Derek feels like he's out of his depth already, and they haven't even exchanged a word.

"Lawyer party, right?" Stiles asks, twirling his mask between two slim fingers. "High society? Trying to woo New York's elite?"

Derek opens his mouth to chastise him, but Stiles stops him with a hand on his chest. "Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

Stiles fidgets like he doesn't, though; like he's never worn a suit in his life, but it's too late to turn back now, and they both raise their masks and step into the lion's den.

: : :

As it turns out, Stiles does know what he's doing. Either that or he's a firm believer in the mantra "fake it 'til you make it."

In between leading boring old biddies around the dance floor and holding his own with their blowhard husbands, Stiles manages to charm every single person in the room, including Peter and Duke.

In between dances and hundred dollar drinks, Stiles steals some time with Derek, too; blowing off a little steam while making it look like they're sharing a private moment, trading barbed comments about Mrs. Rossdale and her Yorkie, Mr. Gardner's wandering hands, Peter's creepy smirk.

It feels good to share the frustration, to have somebody so quick and elegant with their insults to keep Derek entertained. Also nice is how Derek doesn't have to deal with overly-affectionate socialites trying to glom onto him because he's single and one of the heirs to the Hale & Payne throne.

Mrs. Gladwell still tries pinching his ass, though.

Derek tries to hide his wince, but Stiles sees it, even from halfway across the room, and excuses himself to make a beeline for Derek.

"That looks like it hurt," he says, handing over a glass of champagne.

Derek mutters a curse and spins, keeping his eye on Mrs. Gladwell's every move. "Her nails are murder."

Stiles loops his arm around Derek's waist to lean in close. They're more or less the same height, which is different and kind of nice, especially when Stiles leans in and his lips brush against Derek's ear, soft and intimate.

"If she does it again," Stiles says, low, "I'll make sure to kiss it better later."

Derek chokes on his champagne and tries not to stare too hard at Stiles' ass while he walks away.

After that, the only problem Derek can find with Stiles is the mask. More specifically, how the mask draws Derek's attention to Stiles' pretty pink mouth. It's kind of driving Derek nuts, the way it shapes itself around words, how wide it opens when Stiles laughs, how his lips gleam in the low light every time Stiles' tongue sweeps out to wet them. More often than not, Derek finds himself losing track of the conversation because he's too busy watching Stiles' mouth and wondering to himself how it would feel against his own.

It's been awhile since Derek has felt the burn of attraction, not since Kate in his first year of grad school. And that failed so spectacularly, Derek was fairly certain he'd never feel like this again. But here he is on New Year's Eve, wanting to ditch his party not because he's bored, but because he wants to find out what Stiles tastes like. Even Duke has noticed the change in Derek, and Duke deals with Derek as little as possible.

"You don't have to stay," Duke says to Derek, one hand resting on Derek's shoulder, thumb digging into Derek's pulse. To some people, it might look fatherly, but Derek knows better. "It's New Year's Eve, Derek. You're young. Go have fun." Duke dismisses Derek with a nod of his head, angled toward where the crowd is parting around Stiles.

"He's right, you know," Stiles says, quiet, chin hooked over Derek's shoulder. The heat of Stiles' body pressed against Derek's back seeps through to his bones, a warm, comforting weight Derek leans into. "It's almost midnight. We deserve a little fun."

Derek turns his face to study Stiles' profile, wanting to figure out what, exactly, Stiles means by 'fun.' His hot, dark eyes tell Derek everything he needs to know. "Lydia said that's not an option."

Stiles grins at him, wolfish. "Surprisingly, Lydia's not the boss of me."

Derek swallows, pleased to see Stiles' gaze drop to Derek's throat. "I should at least tell Laura I'm leaving."

"Tell Laura you're leaving," Stiles echoes, "then meet me at the elevators." He gives Derek's elbow a squeeze before he takes off for the lobby.

: : :

The suite Stiles ushers Derek into is elegant, with sleek modern lines and a fantastic view of the city lit up beneath them. In the distance, Derek can make out the bright smudge of the Times Square ball, morphing through its kaleidoscope of colors.

Stiles approaches him from behind, ice clinking in the tumbler he offers Derek. "Come here often?" he says, lips quirked into a smirk.

Derek huffs a laugh, accepting the glass, and turns to take in the room behind him; the glossy wet bar, the long leather couch. A glass conference tables sits in one corner, flanked by a small command center. Everywhere Derek looks, he can imagine Stiles here with somebody else, each corner just dark enough for whispered words and dirty deeds. Including the wall of windows they're standing in front of.

Stiles bumps their shoulders together, drawing Derek's attention to his upturned nose, the moles scattered over pale skin. "I promise I don't bite," he says with a wicked glint in his eye. "Unless you pay extra."

Derek knows Stiles is only trying to break the ice, that Derek is frozen in indecision, now that they're alone and Derek has no idea what the etiquette is, but the reminder still makes him wince. He downs his scotch in one burning gulp.

"Dude," Stiles sighs, taking the glass to set them aside. His hands fall to Derek's tie, working the knot open careful and slow. "Can you relax? Just a little?" He glances up at Derek through his lashes, looking young and soft for the first time all evening. His lip turns white where his teeth dig into it.

"Nothing has to happen if you don't want it to," Stiles goes on to say, slipping the tie from around Derek's neck. His hand follows, fingers sifting through the soft short hairs at Derek's nape, and tugs Derek minutely closer. "But I'm really hoping you want it to."

His lips are slick and cool, soft against Derek's, swallowing the gasp he makes at the first touch. Derek's hands automatically fall to Stiles' hips, thumbs spanning their narrow width, to hold himself steady.

Stiles kisses him carefully, working Derek open with a shy precision Derek appreciates. His hand on Derek's chest is hot, a searing brand through wool and cotton. Dimly, Derek realizes Stiles is working Derek's shirt open, each undone button like a weight off his chest.

Derek's hands cling tighter to Stiles, dragging him closer, deepening their kiss. He sighs again, a rush of air that ruffles Stiles' hair as he navigates a path down Derek's neck with his teeth. It feels good, Derek can admit, to have a body tight against him, someone to push and pull and grab at, trying to figure out how to fit together right. Derek's been too busy to recognize how much he's missed it.

Soon, Stiles is palming wide swaths of Derek's skin, his hands skimming over Derek's ribs to get to his shoulders, pushing his shirt and suit coat off all at once. It makes Derek desperate for skin of his own to touch, but Stiles is too far ahead of him, peeling out of his jacket as he sinks to his knees.

Derek groans at the sight: Stiles' warm, wet mouth, nuzzling Derek's stomach while slim fingers fumble at the buttons of his own shirt. In the low light, with Stiles' open shirt in the way, Derek can't see much, but he imagines a matching spray of moles, dark on flushed skin. A map for Derek to memorize with his tongue.

Stiles' breath is hot on Derek's skin, damp where it seeps through his pants and boxer briefs. His fingers dip into Derek's waistband, thumbs tracing the edges of Derek's belt, and Stiles looks up, eyes liquid and dark; wanting. "You good?" he asks, his voice thick and rough.

Derek nods, once; pushes a hand through Stiles' hair to feel it between his fingers, soft and thick. He drags his nails along Stiles' scalp and is rewarded with a full body shiver.

"Do that again," Stiles rasps, darting a glance up. Derek does, watching as Stiles takes his time, working Derek's pants and boxer briefs over his hips, the flushed, hard line of his cock. Stiles gives him an experimental lick from root to tip, hands smoothing down Derek's legs to his feet to help Derek out of his shoes and pants. On the way back up, Stiles' fingers are firm, digging into Derek's thighs, holding Derek still to take him down.

The first glide is endless, a slick velvety heat that makes Derek shudder, his fingers clenching in Stiles' hair to keep himself grounded. Stiles seems to like it, giving Derek a subvocal groan, a vibration that winds tight around Derek's spine, leaving him edgy and breathless.

Stiles really gets into it, then, bracing himself with a hand on Derek's hip while he uses the other in tandem with his mouth, slicking Derek's cock with spit and precome. The first time Stiles hollows out his cheeks, sucking hard at the tip, Derek's breath stutters and he stumbles back. Stiles follows seconds later, eager to get his mouth back on Derek's dick.

Shocked by the touch of cold glass to overheated skin, Derek bucks forward, hands palming Stiles' skull, and chokes out a curse when he hits the back of Stiles' throat. Stiles' rough growl has Derek pulling back immediately, but then there are hands on his ass, yanking him closer, and Stiles is glaring up at Derek through the thick fan of his lashes.

"You're going to kill me," Derek gasps, trying not to focus on the tight, slick heat he's fucking into, or the hands pressing bruises into Derek's skin. He definitely doesn't think about Stiles' hips and how they rock in time with Derek's ragged rhythm.

Derek wants to enjoy this for as long as possible, has a faint thought of seeing if he can make Stiles come in his pants. But it's been too long and Stiles is too good, keeping his jaw loose, tongue working along the underside of Derek's cock. The sounds he's making, so wet and obscene.

Derek tries to warn Stiles before it's too late, but Stiles is stubborn, sucking at Derek with growling little grunts, taking Derek in until his nose bumps against Derek's pelvis. Derek punches out a breath and yanks at Stiles' hair, pulling Stiles off before Derek comes down his throat. Derek's hips fall into quiet little jerks, instead, as he slips out, coming over Stiles' parted lips, the swell of his cheek, his dark lashes.

Derek collapses against the window, spent, and watches Stiles through hooded eyes. He rises from his knees with a cat-like grace, long and lean and flawless, and there's a rosy flush to his chest that makes the scattering of moles stand out in sharp relief. Gaze traveling further south, Stiles' erection is rather obvious, too, but he looks intensely pleased with himself as he leans in to smear a smiling kiss over Derek's lips.

While Derek stumbles over to the sofa on shaky legs, snagging his boxer briefs along the way, his eyes follow Stiles' back until it disappears into the bathroom, door swinging closed but not shut. Derek drops onto the leather and tips his head back in an attempt to catch his breath, but his attention is drawn to Stiles moving around; the soft wet sound of him spitting into the sink, the quiet clink of an opened belt buckle, a slick rhythmic sound underscored by low gasping. Stiles comes with a hoarse groan a few minutes later, and takes his time cleaning himself up.

The entire process is an unwelcome but necessary reminder. One that dampens Derek's warm buzz, turning it into sour disappointment. Tonight was all about Derek, a fact he paid excellent money for, but that doesn't do anything to help the loss Derek feels at not getting to return the favor. Most people would be grateful to be doted on. Derek just feels a hollow twist in his gut.

Derek loses track of him after that, his mind finally slipping into a restless post-orgasm doze. He startles awake to find Stiles dressed and in his lap, lithe arms winding around Derek's neck.

"God, you look delicious," Stiles says, reverent. His lips are damp and cool when he kisses Derek, deeper and dirtier than before. There's a hint of salt there, on the flat of Stiles' tongue, and Derek groans, melting further into the couch, into Stiles' touch.

Stiles pulls back for a breath and Derek stares up at him, blurry-eyed and smiling. His mind is a little slow, still, but he likes Stiles' weight in his lap, the way Stiles' hips fit in his palms. He likes Stiles' soft, knowing smile and his hands in Derek's hair, his sharp nails setting Derek's nerves on edge in the most delicious way.

Derek likes Stiles. And that, he suspects, could be a problem.