Title: Quotidian
Pairings: Derek/Stiles, Scott/Allison, Boyd/Erica(/Isaac), Lydia/Burrito Guy
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3k
Warnings/Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Slice of Life, Office Politics, Lunchroom Gossip, Established Relationship, Phone Sex, Dirty Talk, Fetishization of Somnophilia-Style Non-Con
Summary:

quo·tid·i·an

/kwōˈtidēən/

Adjective - Of or occurring every day; or everyday, esp. when mundane.

Synonyms - daily - everyday - diurnal - ordinary - commonplace


Quotidian


The email comes at about a quarter to twelve, right when Stiles' stomach is starting to grumble and he's begun surreptitiously checking the time on his phone every thirty seconds. God, but their chief finance officer can go on, and on, and on. She could prattle for England. She probably has. Her office up on the twentieth floor is probably papered in certificates and gold medals, plaques and statuettes with placards that read For Exceptional Prattling Under Fire and For Your Dedication to the Practice of Prattle Worldwide, and—

— and Stiles really needs to eat something soon, before he descends into accounting-induced madness.

He has his Blackberry out under the table, and a notification pops up over the Tetris game he's losing: New Message from Lydia Martin! View?

God, yes.


HCNUL time
"Martin, Lydia A"
Sent: Thu 1/10/2013 11:46 PM
To: +HCNUL-LISTSERV-ALL
Cc: "The New Guy" laheyi aassociates .com

Calling all HCNUL members: 12:15?

Possible topics of discussion: roof toilets, the new speed hump on the 21st street entrance, my upcoming nuptials w/ Burrito Guy

Lydia Martin
Program Analyst, Program Planning & Budget Divisions
Office of the Coordinator of Sales in Europe and Eurasia
Email: martinla aassociates .com
Tel: 202.555.7141
Fax: 202.555.7143


Stiles types a quick "so so in, barring death by Dolores" and settles back to endure the rest of the default-themed PowerPoint with manful, hungry stoicism.


The lights come up and Stiles is springing for the hall and freedom before anyone can catch his eye. Isaac is hot on his heels because their New Guy has already proved he's a smart, smart cookie.

"Hey, is that how I'm actually listed in the staff directory?" Isaac asks, frowning as he thumbs through his own company phone. "And what does HCNUL stand for?"

"The girls down in IT rule all, I wouldn't mess with them," Stiles says sagely, hitting the down button on the elevator bank. "And it stands for Heroic Citizens Not Under Leases."

"Does it really?"

"No."

Their office is downtown and there are actually quite a few decent restaurants and fast food places within walking distance, but full-time jobs have made them all lazy and they always meet in the first floor cafeteria, at a round table in the back that tilts on its spindly legs— sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right. Stiles points it out to Isaac before queuing up at the grill station, because Mondays are always Reuben-and-fries unless Derek packs him something else. Isaac, looking lost and a little overwhelmed by the choices (boy, does that rub off fast), wanders off in the direction of the pre-made sushi, which, ugh. Not if you paid him.

When he fights his way through the cashier lines and over to the table, Allison and Lydia are already sitting down, two prissy-looking salads and one enormous baby-sized burrito split between them.

"I hear congratulations are in order," he says, dragging a chair over from a neighboring table. "Where's my save-the-date?"

"In the mail, I promise," Lydia says, leaning forward to snag a fry. "I'm planning on a June wedding."

"Excuse you," Stiles says, pulling the fries closer. "Mine. And Burrito Guy?"

"Yep. If you think about it, it's perfect," she says, loading up a forkful with beans and melted cheese and wrapping her lips around it with an obscene noise of enjoyment. "Mmmm, God. See, when I get this next promotion— and I will— I'll be traveling eight months out of every twelve. I'll need a husband who doesn't mind moving with me, and if he makes orgasmic Mexican and happens to have an ass so tight you can bounce quarters off it? So much the better."

"Better what now?" Erica asks, sliding in next to Stiles.

"Lydia's marrying Burrito Guy."

Erica gives her a sidelong look, and her hand darts under Stiles' protective arm to grab a handful of fries. "What, was Jackson finally crushed under the weight of his own ego?"

Over Stiles' protesting "Hey!" Allison makes wait, wait noises and waves her fork in the air while she swallows.

"Jackson told Shantal she had good self-esteem— for a fat chick."

"Did she kill him?" Stiles asks seriously, pausing in the middle of unwrapping his sandwich.

Lydia rolls her eyes and makes air quotations. "He's been 'randomly selected' for 'mandatory diversity training', which he'll be attending every day for the next two weeks. So, really, she did her best."

There's a round of rueful laughter, because they've all managed to offend their secre— excuse them, administrative assistant at some point or another in their professional lives, and it's never pretty.

"But you know," Erica says thoughtfully, eating his fries and slowly sucking the salt off her fingers like the bitch she is, "given the choice I think I would have gone for Salad Man."

Lydia lifts a dubious eye brow. "Salad Man has a lip piercing and neck tattoos."

"Exactly," Erica says with a feline smile. "Don't you just want to lick him?"

"I'd say you'd better be talking about me, but really I'd prefer you weren't," Boyd says, taking the seat next to her. "How you doing, babe?"

Erica swats at him as he leans in, but he manages to land a loud smacking kiss on her nose that makes her giggle and the other women at the table coo.

"Scott's running late," Boyd tells Allison, wrapping an arm over Erica's shoulders and stealing two more of Stiles' fries. "Said he'll be down in a few minutes."

"Quelle surprise," Allison sighs, ducking in from the other side to get a few fries herself.

"Guys!" Stiles protests, hamstrung because of the sandwich dripping sauerkraut and thousand-island dressing all over his hands. "Get your own damn fries if you want them so bad!"

"But then what would we do for fun, hmm?" Erica asks.

Stiles doesn't see Isaac until the guy's at the table, hovering uncertainly behind Boyd as his eyes dart nervously from Stiles to the circle of curious faces examining him. "Uh, hey," he says awkwardly, waving a few fingers and almost dropping his sushi.

"HCNUL, the new guy. New guy, HCNUL," Stiles says, taking a huge bite of Reuben. "Si' d'n, hrr," he says around it, hooking an empty chair with his ankle and pulling it towards him.

"Nice to meet you," Isaac says as he sits, painfully earnest. "Sorry, Stiles still won't tell me what HCNUL stands for."

"Hubris Council of Neatly Unsat Leftists," Lydia says, just as Boyd says, "Hiphop Cats that Never Urgently Lose."

"Hurricanes' Nightly Umbrage League," Allison states firmly.

"Ooo, gu' un," Stiles says.

Isaac looks tragic, like a confused puppy just waiting for someone to throw him a bone. "What? Really?"

"No," everyone choruses, and laugh at his baffled face.

Tucked in next to his decimated fries, Stiles' phone starts buzzing angrily. The screen flashes the name Cuppy-Uppy-Uppy-Cake over one of Derek's most menacing scowls.

"Oh my God, really?" Erica asks, tilting her head to read the screen, and Stiles points warningly at her as he hits the call button and lifts it to his ear, swallowing hugely.

"Yo."

"Stiles—" The rest of what Derek says is mixed up in background noise, other voices and loud thuds and what sounds like a band saw whining away.

"Wait, I can't hear anything you're saying," Stiles says, standing up, and when Erica reaches for his fries he says "Fine," and shoves them into the middle of the table. The group descends on them like the jackals they are as Stiles walks away.

"—hear me now?"

"Not yet. Keep going." Stiles edges past a group of people loitering in the doorway and out of the cafeteria, towards the sweeping glass vistas of the lobby.

"—now?"

"Not so much, cupcake."

"—n't call me that," Derek grumps, tone suggesting it's more out of habit than actual annoyance. In the background, the noise is dying down, and there's a solid sound of impact that might be a car door closing.

"Well, stop being so adorable," Stiles says, taking a turn into a deserted corridor. "You're in the truck?"

"Yeah." Ah, perfectly audible. And all alone.

Stiles looks up and down the hallway, then slips inside a janitorial closet. He locks the door behind him. "Okay, what's up?"

"I'm going to be at the site late tonight," Derek says, sounding genuinely regretful. "The marble the client ordered didn't get here until this afternoon. I probably won't be home until eight or nine."

"So dinner's on me," Stiles says absently, using a handy box to climb up onto the stack of tile and carpet samples under the single high window. The window is cracked open, and someone has balanced an ashtray and a pack of smokes on the narrow ledge. "How do you feel about mac and cheese?" he asks, settling back against the wall.

"Mild to moderate disgust," Derek says dryly. "If we're eating boxed food, can we at least get takeout?"

"Hmm." Stiles flips his tie over his shoulder and works one-handed at the button of his slacks. "Sure. Chinese?"

"How about Thai?"

"Done." The button pops free and Stiles wiggles a little to slide the wool down his hips. "So. What're you wearing?"

"What?"

Stiles tugs his undershirt and button-up out of his pants and pulls them up, so that his stomach is exposed. "It's not a hard question, Der. What," and his breath shivers out of him on the word, because even the light scrape of his own nails through the wiry hair low on his belly feels good, "are you wearing?"

"Are you—?" Derek asks, cuts himself off. "Really? Right now?"

"Mmhm," Stiles hums, hooking his thumb under his boxers and pulling them down.

"Aren't you, I don't know, at work?"

"Not— ngh. Not at the moment." The groan is for the way the elastic snugs up under his cock, the way the cool air goes icy at the tip where a bead of precome is already welling up. "Getting wet for you, baby."

"Oh, hell no. I'm not doing in this," Derek snaps, and Stiles bets he's blushing, knows just how red he can get when Stiles teases him.

"You're just gonna leave me like this?" Stiles asks, low and throaty as he spreads his legs a little wider, arching up into his own touch as his thumb spreads that little bit of slick around the head. "All you have to do is talk to me."

"I'm hanging up now."

"Fine, I'll talk." Stiles keeps his hand loose and easy on the first stroke, biting his lip and shifting his grip to mimic the way Derek does it, that little twist thing at the end that always gets him moaning for it. "Had to leave before you this morning. Didn't, mmm, didn't get to stay and wake you up the way I wanted to. God, your body, Derek, sometimes I just want to eat you. Sink my teeth in and bite."

"I've noticed," Derek says, but his voice is more uncertain now. "Stiles—"

"Remember Saturday? You were so out of it." It'd been amazing— Derek, normally so focused and pushy in bed, his body all spread out for Stiles to take and take from, completely unguarded right up until he shot down Stiles' throat. "Had you coming before you even knew what was happening."

"Stiles," Derek says thickly, and Stiles grins.

"Yeah, like that, just like that," Stiles says, breath hitching as his grip tightens. He's completely hard now, leaking like a faucet, imagining Derek's face that morning: shock and heat and that one moment of wild-eyed realization before Stiles had him careening over the edge. "Next time it won't be my mouth you come in."

"Jesus." Derek sounds half-strangled. "I can't— I can't do anything out here, Stiles, there're guys walking by me all the time."

Stiles laughs a little breathlessly and tucks the phone under his ear so he can use both hands, fingers slipping down between his balls and pressing, kneading. "Guess you'll be— oh, fuck yes— really happy to see me tonight, won't you?"

Derek makes an inarticulate sound of frustration. "You little asshole."

"You love my asshole," Stiles pants, feeling sweat drip down his neck. The angle is awkward but he can work the first knuckles of his index and middle finger inside, can gasp at the dry stretch and listen to Derek swear incoherently in his ear. "Love it. Want it right now, don't you, babe?"

"The things I'm going to do to you," Derek snarls, rough and a little crazed. "You think you're the only one who can wake up early? I'll fuck you so hard tonight you'll still be wet and open for me tomorrow, won't have to do anything, just push you down and slide right in—"

"Fuck!" He really is wet now, the slick sheen of it all along his dick and coating his hand. He slips his fingers free and strokes up over the folded skin along the crown, getting his hips twitching at the good-too-good feel of them, getting his fingers sloppy with it. "D-derek, God, yes."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you," Derek growls. "Like me pinning you, like not being able get away, just taking it. You'd love it."

Stiles is getting close, he can feel it, and he shoves his fingers back in a little harder than he meant to and the deep burn shocks a little whimper out of him. In his ear, Derek groans.

"Stiles, are you coming?"

"Almost," Stiles gasps, head falling back, eyes squeezing shut as he jacks faster, fucks himself harder. It's awkward, because his slacks are hot and in the way and he's sweating, and his back fucking kills but he's almost— "Almost, almost, Derek—!"

He comes and it's better than it should be, in a janitor's closet with his boyfriend on the other side of town. He might yell something a little embarrassing, but hey, it's almost Valentine's Day and he's in a monogamous relationship of several years, he's allowed to scream out certain things in the heat of the moment.

"My dick loves you too," Derek says sourly, when Stiles is slumped back against the wall, the phone in danger of slipping from his suddenly untensed shoulder. "Too much. Shit, how am I supposed to work like this? "

"See you tonight, sweetie," Stiles purrs.

"You're going to regret this," Derek says darkly. "You won't be able to fucking walk when I'm done with you."

"Promises, promises," Stiles says languidly, and laughs when Derek hangs up on him.


Miracle of miracles, despite coming all over himself he's managed to not get any on his pants or his shirt, and so it's just the fading flush and his too-wide smile that get eyebrows raised when he strolls back into the cafeteria.

Scott, looking over from where's he's talking to Lydia, makes a face and says, "Dude, seriously?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Stiles says lazily, sliding into his seat. Oh, yeah, he feels great. Just thinking about Derek, all wound up and no place to go, puts him in an awesome, anticipatory mood. He can't wait for five o'clock.

Scott throws up his hands. "That's totally your O face, you think I can't tell?"

Stiles makes a 'pssh!' sound. "How can it be my O face, genius, I'm not O-ing."

"Post-O, then," Lydia says. "You're disgusting."

Stiles slants her a look. "Hey, not to name any names here, but anyone who's done it in the copyroom during an office party has no room to judge."

Almost everyone at the table looks away guiltily. Stiles says, "Really? Look at your life, look at your choices, people."

Isaac looks close to stroking out, but that might be because Erica's maneuvered herself almost into his lap and is absently petting his loose curls, leaning over him with her breasts pressed into his arm to talk to Allison. Boyd is looking on with amusement, and something that might be approval. Stiles isn't going to say he hadn't seen that coming, because Erica's kind of cheerfully slutty and Boyd doesn't mind a bit of fresh meat now and then, but damn, that was fast.

Stiles finishes his last bite of sandwich and Allison bangs her iced tea bottle against the table, solemn as a judge at court. "Seeing as it is now 1:15 and Lydia and I have a meeting at two, I declare this meeting of HNCUL enthusiasts adjourned," she announces.

"I second that," Boyd says, and they all start getting to their feet and gathering their trash together.

"But what does HCNUL stand for?" Isaac asks plaintively, his tie wrapped tight around Erica's small fist.

"What? Oh, it's just lunch spelled backwards," Scott says, the funsucker, and Stiles makes sure he bumps him into the recycling bins on the way to the elevators.


Author's Notes:

For cardboardcupcake's prompt: "Future!fic. Can be AU or canon, romantic or platonic. Minimum of five years in the future please." So! Future!fic. Of an alternate universe where they all meet at a multinational corporation? There are no werewolves, although there is phone sex. I apologize.