Derek has always hated work parties. He especially hates work holiday parties; the tacky decorations seem to make everyone just that much more obnoxious. Luckily, he has Stiles, who loves the ridiculous banners and lights, the themed drinks and hors d’oeuvres, the “networking”--which is what he calls making friends with the gossipiest attendees and swapping stories that should really cost some people their jobs. Or at least their marriages.
It’s also nice that having Stiles with him at these awful events means that he has someone to do the talking when he can’t be bothered to be dragged into another inane exchanges of pleasantries. And it’s good to have a familiar heartbeat to tune into when the noise of a hundred-some-odd people all talking and laughing and eating gets overwhelming. Having someone to talk to about real things, and to dance with, and to make him smile… all benefits of bringing his boyfriend to an overly opulent ballroom to eat overpriced steak and pretend that Barnes from accounting isn't an asshole.
Right now though, it is not a comfort to have Stiles here. Right now, Derek is trying his level best to keep from shifting and leaping across the room to slash the throat of the man--the Alpha--that is currently leaning into Stiles’ ear to say something that makes him laugh. Derek's trying to focus on what Edith, the HR woman who must be at least a year or two past retirement age, is saying about her granddaughter, but he's a little worried that there's an “ I think you'd like her ” coming up any minute now. Mostly though, the way Stiles throws his head back when he laughs is distracting. When the other Alpha obviously traces the line of Stiles’ throat with a hungry leer, Derek’s control snaps.
He manages to excuse himself from Edith’s company semi-politely, but when he gets to Stiles he can’t quite keep his hand from gripping tightly at his hip when he wraps his arm around Stiles’ waist in a move that is unquestionably possessive. The aroused spike in Stiles’ scent is extremely gratifying, and the way the other Alpha’s nostrils flare just before his own scent sours with jealousy is even better. Derek hadn’t needed the assurance that Stiles’ interest wasn’t piqued by the other were, but it makes him preen nonetheless.
“Hey, babe. Having fun?” Derek asks, letting a growl into his voice as he runs his nose against Stiles’ temple, marking him as much for his own pleasure as for the sake of sending the other man a clear message.
Stiles hums, his amusement as clear as his desire. “And who is this?” Derek asks, letting his eyes flash ever so briefly at the other as he gives him his attention for the first time. He smirks when the insult registers on the Alpha’s face.
With an aborted snort, Stiles makes introductions. “Der, this is Lance. He’s visiting his aunt... Maura, wasn’t it? She’s in the advertising department.” Stiles nudges Derek with his elbow and an eye-roll, so he offers his hand to Lance.
“Nice to meet you, Lance. Derek Hale.” He knows he probably couldn’t have sounded less sincere if he’d tried, but he makes sure to let his last name hang heavily between them for a beat. Lance blanches slightly before straightening his stance and nodding at Derek, deferring to his status with a tilt of his head that bares his throat; technically, he should have declared his presence in Derek’s territory beforehand, and he knows Derek could cause problems if he were so inclined.
As it stands, the only thing Derek is really interested in just then is Stiles. More specifically, in getting Stiles naked and writhing on his dick as soon as possible.
“I’m afraid I must steal my mate away now. Enjoy the rest of the party, Lance,” Derek says dismissively, making the man’s name sound mildly insulting as he drags a willing Stiles toward the nearest exit. As soon as they’re out of the ballroom and in the hallway of the hotel, Derek pushes an amused Stiles against a wall and presses a heated kiss against his lips, reveling in the wet drag and pull of Stiles’ eager mouth against his own, and the sweep of his tongue as Stiles claims him right back.
A waiter bustling out of a nearby Employees Only door carrying a tray loaded with bite-sized fruit makes Stiles break the kiss with a startled laugh. Derek barely surpresses a growl at the interruption, and promptly ushers Stiles down a hall and immediately into a supply closet.
Stiles gasps deliciously as Derek hoists him off the ground and begins mouthing at his neck. He winds his legs around Derek’s waist and threads his fingers through Derek’s hair as he angles his neck to allow Derek better access to all the places that make him squirm. “Did you just-- mmnf-- break the doorknob so we could have s-- oh, fuck --please tell me we’re going to have sex, Der.” The last syllable is little more than a broken off moan, as Derek shifts so that their erections are aligned and begins to roll his hips, building friction that borders on torturous.
In answer, Derek licks a long stripe up Stiles neck to nibble at his earlobe, earning him a moan that makes his hard length pulse where it’s pressed against Stiles’, separated by what Derek thinks is far too many layers. “Not if you don’t take off your pants, we aren’t,” Derek rumbles into Stiles’ ear, spurring him into action. Only it isn’t his own pants that Stiles removes; his long fingers fumble at Derek’s belt, then deftly open the button and zipper, mindful of Derek’s arousal even through the fog of his own.
Stiles moans again as he reveals Derek’s cock, untangling himself from Derek and sinking to his knees in one fluid motion, his body dragging along Derek's, leaving pleasant sparks behind even through their clothes. Stiles barely gets out a mumbled, “Wanna taste you,” before he takes the head of Derek’s dick into his mouth. Derek bites his own fist to keep from howling as the slick warmth of Stiles’ mouth moves along his shaft with each shallow bob of Stiles’ head. He rests his free hand on Stiles’ cheek, his thumb near Stiles’ lips so he can feel where they stretch around him, the rest of his fingers curling around the side of his neck.
Stiles’ tongue dances along Derek’s frenulum, flicking maddeningly and pushing Derek’s desire ever higher, even as he takes more and more of Derek’s length into his mouth, his clever tongue still rolling against all the right places. Derek is bracing himself against the wall with one arm now, and Stiles’ hands are moving, exploring as his cheeks hollow and release, creating a glorious push and pull that has Derek close to coming in what should probably be an embarrassingly short amount of time but isn’t.
One expert hand teases at the junction where Derek’s thigh meets his groin, trailing down to cup his balls. Stiles rolls them slowly in his palm, and when he rubs his thumb and forefinger on either side of Derek’s seam, it draws a whimper from the back of Derek’s throat. Stiles makes a similar noise around him, and the vibration is a pleasant addition to the sensations that are sweeping through Derek’s body. He’s trying to maintain eye contact with Stiles, trying to keep watching the way his eyelashes flutter, and the way his lips are red and swollen, the obscene tent in his still unopened pants, but it’s too much. He wants to come inside Stiles, wants to mark him, claim him, leave no doubt in the minds of men like Lance that Stiles isn’t available (he knows there would be a lecture in it for him if these particular intentions were known, but sometimes instinct doesn’t bend to correctness), and watching the bob of Stiles’ head and the flex of his throat as he works over Derek’s cock is quickly pushing him toward climax.
The sides of Derek’s shirt fall away where Stiles has apparently unbuttoned them while Derek was distracted, and when Stiles’ other hand finds its way up to Derek’s nipple, scraping lightly over the sensitive peak, he reaches his limit, pulling Stiles up with a growl and taking his mouth in a desperate kiss, demanding an equal response from Stiles with carefully aimed thrusts of his tongue and his hips, and hands that know Stiles’ body as well as his own.
It’s short work to divest Stiles of his belt and have his pants and briefs around his knees. Derek slips a packet of lube from his pocket and uses a claw to slice it open, unwilling to tear his mouth away from Stiles, or remove his other hand from where it is kneading at Stiles’ ass, holding him flush against his chest. Stiles gasps into Derek’s mouth when he presses one lube-slicked finger against Stiles’ entrance, tapping and rubbing gently, teasing more than preparing, waiting for Stiles to ask for it. To beg.
He shouldn’t be surprised when Stiles teases him first instead. “Lube in your pocket?” Stiles asks on a huff of laughter, his voice gratifyingly breathy. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you-- nngh- -planned to fuck me in a maintenance closet.” Derek hides a pleased grin in Stiles’ shoulder, maintaining a steady rhythm with the finger circling Stiles’ rim. Waiting for-- “Oh, fuck. Please , Der. Please, I need you.”
Hearing how wrecked Stiles sounds sets Derek’s desire ablaze, and it’s only a matter of moments until Derek is working three fingers into Stiles’ slicked hole and Stiles is working himself back and forth in short thrusts, clutching at Derek’s shoulders and practically whining against his neck. Finally, he pants a needy “Der, want you in me,” into Derek’s ear, and Derek releases him, slipping his fingers carefully out of Stiles and kissing him again, all rough and wet and filthy, before spinning him to face the wall and pulling Stiles’ hips toward himself to angle him just right.
Once he checks that Stiles is braced properly against the wall, Derek anchors one hand on Stiles’ shoulder and pushes his cock into Stiles in one slow thrust, gripping his hip before starting to move in earnest, the time for teasing long gone.
The small space fills with the sound of heavy breathing, muttered curses, and pleasured moans. The steady pounding of Derek’s hips meeting Stiles’ ass is a near perfect match for the pulse beating in Derek’s chest. Derek lets his hand glide over Stiles’ hip to reach around and wrap around his leaking cock. Stiles swears and moans loudly, a broken-sounding “Please” falling from his panting mouth. Derek speeds his thrusts, but keeps them deep and hard, angling so he hits Stiles’ prostate everytime his hand strokes up his length. When Stiles comes with a shout of Derek’s name, his spend coating Derek’s fingers as his walls clench around Derek’s cock, Derek lets his control slip and comes into Stiles with a roar that he muffles by biting Stiles’ neck with his human teeth.
He collapses against Stiles’ back, nuzzling into the space between his shoulder blades and trailing kisses over the sweat dappled shirt that clings to him, his hands trailing up and down respectively to wrap around Stiles’ chest. They catch their breath together slowly. Stiles drops one arm from the wall to tangle his fingers with Derek’s, and the world slowly comes back into focus.
When they straighten up, Stiles turns in the circle of Derek’s arm and moves in for a languid kiss. He pulls away with a smile, and it’s particular tilt tells Derek that there’s a smart-ass remark coming. “Sooo,” he begins, and Derek groans in anticipation of what’s coming next. Stiles raises an eyebrow, and Derek knows he’s in trouble. “Mate, huh?”