@celestialvoid-fanfiction posted this, and I thought "I should write a drabble," but then 1.4k words happened and I wrote maybe the safe-for-workiest Sugar Daddy AU ever? I know, I don't know how it happened either. I planned on starting with the purchase and moving quickly to semi public kink negotiation, but... Anyway, enjoy! Also for @sinnamonrollsterek ****** “I don't know about this, Erica. It feels dishonest,” Stiles mutters as he fixes his work clothes to look less like they're his work clothes. She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him, and she doesn't even need to scoff for Stiles to hear the disbelieving “Really?” that is no doubt on the tip of her tongue. “Oh come on! Pretending to be a customer and lamenting to myself that I wish I could buy the entire store of overpriced sweaters and linen pants is nothing like telling my dad I've been at the library when we were in your dorm binging Ben and Jerry's and Sense8,” he practically squawks. He manages not to stomp his foot, though it's a near thing. Erica sighs, long-suffering but fond, and steps into his space to muss his hair a little and undo one more button on his shirt. “I know this is incredibly stupid, but Finstock insists it'll help sales. And fake window shopping isn't the worst way to spend a shift, y'know. I'm going to be languishing at the counter, all by my lonesome, without my Batman to keep me company.” Stiles rolls his eyes at her exaggerated pout, but punctuates it with a sincere grin. “You're right,” he says, ignoring her feigned surprised gasp, “And I'm gonna miss talking with you all afternoon, too.” He didn't even say it just to make her smile--though he loves making her smile--he was not looking forward to spending hours without their usual back and forth. Working with your platonic life-mate was not as fun when you couldn't make up elaborate stories about your customers and plan imaginary futures together. “After work we'll go to Billie’s and get fancy drinks and fries, ‘kay?” Stiles grins. “Sounds perfect.” “Plus, only a few more months until graduation and we start our grown up jobs and never have to even go to a mall ever again.” At that, he grins wider, “Sounds perfect-er.’ Erica snorts, but kisses his cheek. “Alright, time to go sing the praises of $18 argyle socks, babe.” Stiles groans but walks towards the break room door, jumping a little when Erica swats his butt on the way. His glare is completely ineffective, as she's already laughing. “For luck!” she says through a giggle. He grumbles, but makes his way into the store after making sure it's empty, Erica following a moment later, still chuckling lightly. Twenty-three minutes and fifteen seconds of wandering the store and making approving noises and comments has Stiles ready to scream from boredom. He moves around an artfully dressed mannequin and stops dead in his tracks; the most attractive man he's ever seen in real life walks by, mere yards in front of him, and his feet forget how to move. Unfortunately, his lungs also forget how to breathe, because when Finstock coughs forcefully and clearly falsely to get his attention, he gasps loudly. Which draws Hot Customer's attention. Stiles tries to smile politely at him, but he can feel the heat in his cheeks. The way the man looks at him--clearly appraising and then surprisingly pleased--does not help the blush, or his feet. When the man smiles back at him, he's pretty sure he actually whines a little, but another pointed cough from the back of the store startles him into turning quickly away and across the store to half-heartedly investigate a display of cashmere sweaters. His eyes search for the guy while he rubs the admittedly incredibly soft material between his fingers. He can't find him without moving too obviously, so he sighs and feigns sticker shock as he checks the price tag affixed to the tag. With tax, he knows the sweater costs a week's pay. After complimenting two pairs of pants, a $300-on-sale sports jacket, a $40 tie, and a pair of shoes he would actually love to buy if he had a spare $170, he still hasn't caught sight of Hot Customer's ridiculously nice face, but he can take a moment to be openly disappointed because boss man has retreated to his office. Drinks and fries with Erica can't come fast enough, he needs to mourn losing his chance to beg the possible love of his life and actual man of his dreams to give him a chance. Several moments of moping and poking at pocket squares later--and who even wears pocket squares, anyway?--the store is mercifully empty, and he wanders to the counter to cry at Erica. Only he finds Erica grinning in a mildly predatory way, eyes gleaming as she leans on the counter, one hand threaded through the handles of one of the large paper bags they use in store, fingers tapping thoughtfully on its side. “What?” he asks cautiously, tilting his head to try to see if she's hiding something behind the bag. Her grin gets impossibly wider. “Funny story, actually,” she begins in a way that sounds conspiratorial and excited all at once. “There was a ridiculously hot guy in here a minute ago, you may have noticed him,” she teases. He feels his cheeks heat again, because of course Erica had seen him gaping at the guy like a lovestruck teenager. “Well. He brought up a pile of very tasteful clothes, and then he came back with more, in a different size, and said ‘And the same for the young man over there,’” she is downright gleeful, and Stiles knows he's doing a great goldfish impression, his jaw hanging slightly and eyes wide enough that he can feel them. “He- whu- Me?” he manages to choke out. “Yep.” “He left his card,” she says seriously, producing it with a flourish, Stiles stares at it a long moment, and Erica adds a sing-songy “With his personal cell number,” and Stiles all but lurches to take the card. “Derek Hale,” he reads, the name coming out in a breathless whisper as he runs his fingers over the elegant embossing. Peeking in the bag, he sees all the items that he'd enthused over while he tried to find Hot Customer--Derek. “Holy crap. Ugh, even his name looks good.” Erica snorts. “What am I supposed to do, Er? I can't just call him and say ‘thanks for the clothes, funny story I actually work at Stafford’s and my boss is insane, but I'd like to date you and maybe have your babies’?” She's trying valiantly to hide laughter behind her hand, but he doesn't have a chance to be annoyed, because suddenly there's a warm voice just behind him, full of amusement and saying “I think it's best we start with dinner.” Stiles mostly contains his startled flail, turning around with a muttered “Frick” at seeing Derek up close. He's staring, but not really able to stop. “That sounds… I'm sorry about- I mean,” Stiles stumbles out, forcing himself to take a deep breath and closing his eyes for a second. Derek is looking at him softly and with a little bit of uncertainty, which gives Stiles the confidence to say that he'd like that very much. Only what he actually says is “Please.” But Derek's eyes darken a little, and he licks his lips with an impossibly sexy roll of his mouth, so Erica's muttered teasing is barely background noise. Derek smirks, and Stiles very nearly swoons. “We'll go somewhere I can see you in those grey slacks.” All Stiles can manage is to breathe out a curse and to sway slightly forward towards Derek. “Actually, Stiles is due a break, so you can start with coffee! Or getting to see him out of these pants,” Erica says brightly, suddenly next to Stiles and steering him by the shoulders into Derek's space. He'd normally argue, but he doesn't really want to. Before he can make a token protest, Derek is sliding his hand to the small of Stiles’ back, chuckling lowly, the sound and warmth rushing over him pleasantly, and promising Erica a reasonable return time, “I'll have him back in thirty.” Stiles can't help but shiver a little at the authority in Derek's voice, and when he looks at him, the man is grinning and then winks at him. This time, he knows he whines a little, but Derek mutters a curse and leans in to whisper in Stiles’ ear. “If this is the reaction a little treat gets, I'm going to enjoy spoiling you.” The double meaning has heat rushing to Stiles’ belly, and it's clear Derek knows it. As they walk out, they pass the display of cashmere sweaters where a new customer is looking at them critically, fingering the price tag and looking contemplative. Derek pauses and runs his free hand over a red one, the same one that sits in Stiles’ bag. Derek hums and leans toward the other customer, waiting until he makes eye contact to purr “Definitely worth it,” with a charming grin.
