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Getting across the dancefloor to the bar looks like an almost insurmountable task. Stiles sets his shoulders and braves it anyway, because he can see Lydia's head stretching across the bar to order something, and Derek disappeared into the shadows over in that direction about five minutes ago, so it's looking like the place he needs to be.

It's all close bodies and heat and sweat-slick skin on the floor, and the total unmitigated chaos reminds Stiles a bit of the fight scenes in medieval movies like Braveheart or something, only, you know, there's less axes and blood and more hormonal dudes and sparkly shit.

He emerges without the plaid shirt he had on over his t-shirt-- sacrificed for the cause, or whatever-- and covered in glitter. Lydia gives him this weird half-sympathetic, half incredibly amused look as he slumps beside her at the bar, and slides over a shockingly pink drink in a martini glass.

"What is it?" he shouts dubiously.

"Just drink it!" she replies.

He does; it's sickly sweet with a weird bitter aftertaste, and she grins and slides a shot over to him immediately. It's just as frighteningly neon as the first drink.

"I haven't even eaten," he mutters to no one as he tips the shot back as well.

He can feel it going to his head almost immediately. Like, it's probably a lot to do with the loud music and crowds and adrenaline, too, but it's not like he does all that much drinking, so.

He looks around a little dizzily for Derek, because that seems like a good enough place to start; they're here for a reason, even if everyone but Stiles seems to have forgotten.

Derek's standing over by the wall to his right, arms crossed and scowling in what Stiles has come to think of fondly as his signature pose. It's kind of hilarious, actually. Stiles props an elbow on the bar and watches as Derek gets hit on in a pretty much incessant stream of guys. His method of dealing with it is apparently to glower until they go away, which. Stiles knows this crowd, okay, he's been here before, and sooner rather than later Derek's going to come across someone who isn't that easily deterred. He just can't decide if it's going to be worse for Derek or the poor guy.

Stiles rolls his eyes. The moron.

"Yo," he says, bouncing into Derek's view. "I have some advice."

Derek raises an eyebrow at him.

Stiles shakes his head and pokes his chest sternly. "You want to stop getting bothered so much, stop standing here looking like a broody GQ model. People think you want them to disturb you."

"I don't want anyone to disturb me," says Derek pointedly. "Ever."

"No, I know," says Stiles, ignoring the pointedness, as usual. He figures it's mostly for show, by now, or else Derek's really coming along with the whole curbing his violent impulses thing. "But they don't, so you know. Be proactive!"

"What?" says Derek irritably.

Stiles sighs and opens his mouth to try and explain. Someone's sidled up behind him though with their sights set on Derek, grinning predatorily and reaching out hand to-- to stroke his arm, or something, Stiles doesn't know, and he throws his arms around Derek's waist before he can find out.

"He's taken, sorry," he says, grinning brightly.

Again, he's not actually sure whether it's more for Derek or the dude's sake. Fifty fifty, probably.

Derek scowls down at him when the dude backs off. "Get off me," he says, shoving Stiles away.

"Just saving your ass, dude, you're welcome," says Stiles.

"I can handle myself," says Derek.

"Sure you can," says Stiles soothingly.

Derek looks for a moment like he's contemplating a violent reaction to Stiles' condescension, but in the end he just says, "What the hell is everyone doing?"

"Uh," says Stiles. "Blending in?" It's sort of true. Lydia is still at the bar, only this time it's Jackson's turn to suffer through the radioactive-pink cocktails. Scott is on the floor with Allison ostensibly along for "protection," which Stiles is pretty sure is a thinly-veiled excuse to get busy. He's not sure about the others, but they're nowhere in sight, so.

"We're here for business," growls Derek.

"Look, dude, a word of advice for future missions," says Stiles, "When you say 'recon,' I think everyone interprets that as 'have a good time and if you happen to spot the possibly-a-witch dude we only have a vague description of and who is also as far as we know only out to have a good time and not kill anyone like, say, a Kanima or anything, then yay for us!'"

"That's how they interpreted it," says Derek flatly.

Stiles waves a hand. "Something along those lines," he says.

Derek rolls his eyes and then focuses them sharply on Stiles. "What happened to you?" he says.

"Huh?" says Stiles, looking down at himself. "Oh. I sacrificed my shirt for the greater good of your mission, or, you know, trying to get across the dancefloor, and I guess glitter is an occupational hazard here, right? I think I rock it, anyway." He grins.

"You look ridiculous," says Derek, but his eyes are trained on Stiles' glitter-dipped collarbone, so that's…interesting.

"I look hot," corrects Stiles.

Derek rolls his eyes and looks away, back to surveying the crowd.

"Have you seen him yet?" says Stiles, craning his neck in the direction Derek's looking.

"No," says Derek.

"What if he's not here?" says Stiles. "Are you just going to stand here and stare the whole night? Because dude, there's something to be said for blending in, you know, what if he like, makes you because of how you're standing here like some kind of federal agent?"

"You just said I looked like a GQ model," says Derek.

"GQ models can work for the FBI, don't be so narrow-minded," says Stiles.

Derek shakes his head.

"Anyway," says Stiles, "My point is blending in, that's something you should totally do, at least a-- "

Stiles stops talking, mainly because he's suddenly being slammed against the wall and-- holy shit-- kissed. By Derek. Derek Hale is kissing him. In a nightclub. Against the wall.

Stiles tries to pinch himself surreptitiously. This is way too close to one of his more specific fantasies for comfort.

That done, he squirms and clenches his hands in the air just shy of Derek's biceps and wonders what the hell is going on.

"Stop acting weird," hisses Derek, pulling back a bit. "I saw him."

"Oh," says Stiles. He blinks. "For the record, I'm totally not the one acting weird here." He waves his hands to indicate their general state and situation.

"You said to blend in," says Derek blankly.

"…Right," says Stiles. "I did. And this is exactly what I meant. Oh hey, is that him?"

Derek darts a lightning-quick glance over his shoulder and says, "Yes," before bearing forward and kissing Stiles again. Which is what they do now when they spot their targets, apparently.

He hasn't even had a chance to gather his thoughts before Derek is pulling back again, making a face and frowning. "What the hell were you drinking?" he says.

Stiles boggles a bit. "Um," he says, "Lydia got them for me, I don't know. Are we not going to talk about-- mmph."

So, okay, apparently they're not, because Derek's kissing him again, licking into his mouth like he's trying to categorise every molecule he can taste in there, biting down on Stiles' bottom lip to open him up wider and pressing in to angle his head just right. He's just…relentless in a way that feels more than perfunctory, or well, at least Stiles thinks, because it's not like he's had worlds of experience in the whole fake making out area, or even making out in general. In the end he gives up on trying to figure it out, at least for the moment, because otherwise he'll miss how Derek's kissing him, and just melts a little bit helplessly into the safe solidity of the breathless space between Derek and the wall, finally curling his hands over Derek's arms and trying to kiss back.

"Cranberry," says Derek when he pulls back.

Stiles blinks at him, because uh, what?

"And lime and vodka," continues Derek. "A Cosmopolitan, Stiles, seriously?" He raises a judgemental eyebrow, the judgy asshole.

"Shut up, I told you, Lydia bought it," says Stiles. "Anyway, okay, that is totally beside the point right now but whatever, good to know. Um. Um. What the hell is happening?"

"I told you," says Derek, "Blending in. Didn't want to look suspicious."

Stiles stares. Of course Derek had to not want to look suspicious in the only place where achieving that meant making out with Stiles. That's just how Stiles' life goes, isn't it? Fucking hell.

He's trying to decide whether this is an example of his own advice backfiring on him spectacularly, or the complete opposite, when Derek glances over his shoulder again and then leans in to hiss, "He's still here, I need to watch him."

"Okay," says Stiles, "Do you-- "

But then Derek's manoeuvring them around so Derek's back is pressed to the wall and Stiles' front is plastered all against his and kisses him again, Jesus Christ, Stiles cannot keep up. When Derek pulls back Stiles says, "Is this seriously the optimum scenario from which to observe? Because you-- mmph." Of course Derek's cut him off again with his mouth. Stiles wonders a little hysterically whether this is ever going to stop now-- now that Derek's found probably the most effective way of shutting him up. He tries to ignore the way his mind immediately thinks fucking Christ I hope not.

"Seriously," says Stiles, when Derek lets him up to breathe again, "I'm kind of offended, are you saying I'm so totally not distracting you can make out with me and do your CIA level intelligence gathering at the same time?"

Derek rolls his eyes and ducks in to mouth along Stiles' jaw, presumably watching whatever's going on over his shoulder.

"Okay," says Stiles weakly. "Okay, whatever. Just so you know though, if I don't get to participate in the observation I'm going to participate in the making out, you get what I'm saying?"

Derek hums absently against his jaw and Stiles thinks, right, and worms his fingers under Derek's t-shirt a little bit vindictively, palming up over his stupidly sculpted abs.

Derek bites down on Stiles' neck in a way that feels kind of like it wasn't one hundred per cent planned, and Stiles grins, pleased, and spreads his fingers out wider over Derek's skin, dancing upwards til he hits his muscle-corded ribs.

"Stiles," says Derek, low against the side of his neck.

"I thought you were observing," says Stiles.

"I am," says Derek.

"Okay," says Stiles easily. "Carry on then." He rubs an exploratory, slightly hesitant (because well, it's not like he's ever done this before), thumb over one of Derek's nipples.

"Stiles," says Derek, part warning, part…something else, something a bit broken and thready.

"Sorry, am I distracting you?" says Stiles innocently.

Derek pulls back to glare at him.

Stiles grins brightly, then bites down on his lip a bit anxiously when Derek doesn't stop glaring.

"What?" he says anyway, defensively. "I told you, I'm participating. Helping you blend in, whatever."

"This is helping?" says Derek, glancing pointedly down at where both Stiles' hands are pushed high up under his shirt.

"I don't know," says Stiles. "Is it?" His hands twitch a little but he doesn't actually take them off of Derek's skin. He's not entirely sure why. Maybe partly because he just doesn't want to stop touching, it's all silky hot and smooth and something he kind of wants to get his mouth on, or feel pressed against his own bare skin, or-- or. Fuck. This is not good, especially with the way they're pressed so close right now, Derek could feel any potential…reaction. Not that he probably doesn't already know Stiles' heartbeat is through the roof, and he's sure he reeks of arousal. Although maybe that's disguised a bit by how ninety per cent of the people in here smell of the same thing, who knows.

"No," growls Derek, pushing Stiles away from him just so he can get him slammed up against the wall again.

"Okay," says Stiles breathlessly, holy shit, he has no idea what's happening and it's kind of the most awesome thing ever, "For the record, you started this."

"Shut up, Stiles," says Derek. He bypasses Stiles' mouth to go straight for his collarbone, which…huh, Stiles knew he wasn't imagining that earlier.

"Yeah," says Stiles stupidly as Derek licks, dipping his tongue into the hollow above the bone and then scraping his teeth downwards, oh God, who knew that would feel so good. "Do I taste glittery?" he adds.

Derek doesn't answer, just slides back up and kisses Stiles again.

"What do you think?" he growls into Stiles' mouth.

Stiles grins and bites down on Derek's lip to stop it getting too stupid-looking. "I think I taste like sparkly magical awesome," he says.

Derek rolls his eyes and bites into Stiles' mouth again. Stiles digs his nails into Derek's back and just fucking holds on.

Although, "Hang on a minute," he says.

Derek pulls back with this really hilariously pissy, impatient look on his face.

"What happened to the surveillance?"

"Finished," says Derek, leaning in again.

Stiles turns his head so Derek's mouth lands on his cheek instead. "Oh my God, he hooked up, didn't he?"

"No," says Derek, after a very long silence.

"He totally did!" Stiles crows. "I told you. Scott owes me twenty bucks."

"Stiles," says Derek. He pushes a deliberate thigh up between Stiles' legs. Stiles bites down on the most stupidly high-pitched, embarrassing noise he's ever made. "You want to keep talking?"

"No," says Stiles breathlessly. "No, fuck, talking is stupid, no more talking, let's-- mmph."

Fuck, he loves this whole Derek shutting him up with his mouth thing.

"You know," he says into Derek's mouth, scrabbling frantic hands over his back, sweeping up to clutch at his shoulderblades, "Shutting me up with your mouth is not really the best incentive to get me to stop talking."

"Would threatening to rip your throat out still work?" says Derek, pulling back a little.

"Nope," says Stiles happily. "Even if that still worked, which it doesn't, it'd be totally derailed by how I now know you want to get in my pants."

Derek looks sort of sarcastically pained. "I don't know why," he mutters, nipping at Stiles' mouth.

Stiles feels weird, like, all weightless and swoopy low in his stomach. Just. Derek's thought about this, about him, about…fuck, and he didn't deny it at all, just said it in a way like it was obvious why, even if he's not necessarily thrilled by it, and even though it totally isn't obvious, not to Stiles. He can't really get his head around that, or any of this. He thought he was the only one in that boat. Like, totally solo, so far out from the shore he couldn't even see it.

Apparently not though. Apparently it wasn't perfunctory at all.

"Hey," he says randomly when Derek moves to lick the glitter from his other collarbone. God, glitter is totally going to give him a boner now. He'd been so close to not being a gay stereotype, too. Or well, as close as you can get when you're crushing on the hot Alpha werewolf who spends the majority of his time looking broody without a shirt on. "Hey, can you row?"

Derek ignores him completely and slides both hands under his shirt instead, palming up over his stomach and sort of cupping them over his sides, thumbing at the soft skin dipping under the precipice of his ribcage. Stiles had no idea there were so many nerves attached to that area. Or attaching that area to his dick, shit.

"Oh God," he says. Derek's teeth are scraping along the sensitive muscles in his shoulders, the place where if you massage it feels really fucking amazing, and hey, turns out a mouth and teeth feel even better, who knew. "Fuck, Derek, your mouth-- come back here."

He's actually surprised when Derek listens to him and zeroes back in to kiss Stiles' mouth, licking inside ruthlessly, hot and fucking bruising. Stiles can feel how swollen his lips are and how raw his skin is getting from Derek's stubble. Tomorrow's going to be interesting, trying to explain away how he looks like he spent all night having sex with a dude in a way that won't give his dad an aneurism, but right now he couldn't care less, right now he just wants to spend all night having sex with a dude, with Derek, which, uh.

"Derek," he says urgently, "Derek, we're in a club."

"I know," says Derek blankly, pulling back and raising an eyebrow.

"I can't come in my pants here," says Stiles.

"You were going to?" Derek looks interestedly down between them. Stiles kinds of hates him, the asshole.

"Derek," he says. "What, did you think this-- this blending in wasn't affecting me? Just because you're all-- all stoic and unaffected, I'm a teenager, okay, I-- "

He breaks off when Derek growls and grabs his wrist to drag his hand down and show him how, wow, shit, he's definitely not unaffected.

"Oh," says Stiles weakly.

"Yeah," says Derek. He lets go of Stiles' wrist, but Stiles doesn't move his hand away, because well. That's Derek's dick, all hard and hot even through his jeans and because of Stiles, and he wants to get his hands on it properly. Or possibly his mouth. Fuck, his mouth. "You don't have to do anything," adds Derek. "Just."

"Shut up," says Stiles, thinking fast. "Can we leave? I want to blow you."

Derek makes an animal noise and closes his eyes, and when he opens them again there's this weird look on his face, like, part unadulterated want and part conflict. "You don't have to," he says again.

"Oh my God, if you go back on me now-- " starts Stiles.

"I'm not going back on you," says Derek.

"Then I don't know how to make myself any clearer, dude," says Stiles.

"You could try saying something," says Derek. He shakes his head, looking a bit rueful; apparently the irony isn't lost on him.

"Okay," says Stiles. "Hey, moron, I want you. Totally free will, not at all influenced by Lydia's terrifying drinks or the freaky hormones in this place, have wanted you since, uh, maybe the second time I saw you without a shirt on? The first time I was still too terrified of you to be turned on, but now I know you're secretly a big squishy werewolf with a heart of gold, so, you know, all good with the wanting, so we should get out of here and have sex, like, with orgasms and shit, which is generally what sex is, and I'd like to do it somewhere we won't get arrested or kicked out for public indecency, so-- "

Derek cuts him off with his mouth. Again. Stiles could get used to this.

"Okay?" says Stiles when he pulls back.

Derek watches him carefully for a moment. "Okay," he says eventually.

"Great," says Stiles. "Your place or mine?" He grins.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Mine," he says, and grabs Stiles wrist again, only this time it's not to touch his dick, which sucks, but then he's dragging Stiles towards the exit, which Stiles guesses he can live with, if it means sex with Derek is in his immediate future.