Chapter Text
Stiles came to slowly, modulating his breathing and heart rate to hide his consciousness as best he could as while he collected his thoughts.
He'd be pissed later. And he would be very pissed, because someone actually got the drop on him.
Nobody got the drop on Stiles.
At least, not these days, until these fuckers, which. Honestly? What the actual fuck? And his wards hadn't pinged, which meant one of three things, in order of least to most likely:
Stiles' wards weren't good enough. They were, so that absolutely wasn't the case. Still, Stiles entertained the possibility. It didn't do to be overconfident.
They weren't actually malicious, (doubtful, exhibit 1: Formerly unconscious Stiles tied to a chair in nothing but the boxers he wore to sleep. This was generally not considered friendly behavior.)
Someone within the territory became malicious and worked with assholes on the outside to take down Stiles so they could get in without raising the alarm. Ding ding ding! We have a winner, folks. This is the one scenario most likely to result in his current conundrum.
So yes, Stiles was angry, because one of the people he personally vetted probably sold them out, despite their pack's reputation. And Stiles would deal with that, he would! But first? Info gathering. He peeked out under drooping eyelids to see a man rise from a chair opposite him.
"You're awake." Hazel eyes bore into him as he cursed his luck.
Stiles frowned, heaving his head up to rest against the back of the chair. He must be getting sloppy. "So," he eyed the man, took in the classic posture and subtle nostril flaring that lay beneath all that leather and gratuitous muscle. He cracked out a brittle laugh, playing the victim. "big bad wolf thought he could waltz in and steal the weakest link, eh?"
The man eyeing him scoffed. "Bullshit. You're the linchpin."
Stiles tensed. That cinched it; they knew. They must have someone on the inside. "And, what? You thought they'd just roll over and play dead after you stole their pack human? That it? Because I gotta tell you, tougher men than you have tried and failed." None quite as hot, though, he thought to himself. He met the man's eye as he brought the memory of Gerard Argent's fists to play in his mind, coloring his scent with fear, joining the lust he hadn't bothered hiding.
The man would see, and smell, exactly what Stiles wanted him to see: A scared captive susceptible to seduction attempts. If the man took the bait, this might not be so bad. Sex was infinitely preferable to torture, especially for info gathering. He might be the sort of piece of shit who had a hard-on for fucking bound captives. It was usually easy to fuck with that type, both literally and figuratively.
They also made the best noises when they realized they weren't getting out alive.
Then again, maybe he was one of those 'gruff on the outside, soft on the inside' guys. He liked that type. He'd play on their sympathy, then--
"We're not gonna hurt you." the man's eyebrows creased ever so slightly.
Stiles mentally pumped a fist in the air in victory. Door number two: Gullible softy. He pulled up more distressing memories, further souring his scent with fear and was rewarded as the man shifted uncomfortably. Stiles bit his lip, schooling his face into a semblance of fear. "Right, heard that before. Still have the scars." He met the man's eyes as the steady beat of truth pounded from his deceptive heart.
The man huffed, shifting his stance as he read the misinformation in Stiles' scent. His brows creased. "You don't have to be afraid of me."
Stiles huffed. "Right. You knocked me out, tied me up, and I'm supposed to, what? Assume you wanted to treat me to a full-suite spa treatment in an abandoned industrial building? Sure, buddy."
Leather dude narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. "Doesn't matter if you believe me." Stiles didn't need spells or werewolf hearing to catch that lie as the man's eyes trailed towards the door. It led out onto James avenue, out past the industrial district.
Stiles knew because he knew every single abandoned building in Beacon hills like the back of his hand, along with no small percentage of those within an hour's drive.
Hell, he still had trail cams sequestered away in the rafters after the whole revenant situation. Was he paranoid? Maybe a little, but times like this it paid off. He knew exactly where he was, knew the layout of the building, knew the exits, hell, they hadn't even bothered closing the door all the way.
He shifted uncomfortably. The ropes rubbed against his skin. Jesus, they were loose. Stiles almost felt bad for the guy. This dude was a fuckin amateur.
At least he was pretty, even if he was a tool. Stiles mentally dubbed him 'leatherman' in accordance with his kitschy presentation and sub-standard lackyism. Now, if only Stiles could cajole him into caressing his cock with that gorgeous damned face, hazel eyes peering up at Stiles as he...
The man cleared his throat.
Stiles blinked owlishly for effect, then huffed. "Shut up."
He swore he saw the ghost of a smile as leatherman's eyebrow raised just a hair.
Stiles tamped down on the urge to celebrate. His blush deepened. It wasn’t difficult, not when he knew the tell-tale tent of his boxers was clear as day to leatherman's freaky night-vision wolf eyes, even without the super-sniffer.
"Sure, go ahead and be a judgy mcjudgerson. I'd like to see you wake up to find a hot dude presented you with your favorite ropey fetish, like some fucked up wet dream. Bet you'd be horny too, asshole." Stiles met the man's eyes.
Those hazel eyes danced with amusement, tracing the lines of Stiles' bound form with hunger. It made Stiles' dick twitch.
He wrangled down his excitement, huffing out a breath; he had to play this right. Spooking the dude would be unbearably tragic, not just for Stiles' own overactive libido. It’d be pretty inconvenient for both of them, since Stiles had no intention of letting the man leave here alive as long as there might be a threat.
Stiles would really prefer to keep this man alive. At least, alive for now.
"You say that to everyone who kidnaps you?"
Stiles let his mouth slide open, feigning surprise. He tracked the way the man's eyes trailed down, focusing just a hair too long on Stiles' lips. Stiles licked them, slow, playing unsure. Nervous.
The man's eyes traced the movement.
Stiles let silence fill the air just long enough for awkwardness, then spoke. "Just the pretty ones." He lifted his gaze to meet the man's eyes once more, questioning. Inviting.
"You're not afraid anymore."
Stiles tilted back his head, closed his eyes, and breathed slowly, deliberately. The back of the chair bit through his hair, edging against his skull. "You're not a bastard."
He heard, more than saw, his captor shift uncomfortably. "You don’t know that."
Stiles didn't bother to hide his derision. "Naw. Real bastards get off on fear."
An affronted noise came from his jacket-clad would-be captor. "I could be."
Stiles broke out laughing, he couldn't help himself. This dude was fuckin adorable. He sorta wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and keep him safe in the basement where his own naivete wouldn't put him at risk of horrible, painful, violent death.
He finally got a handle on his laughter as the man glared at him. "Shit, sorry, just- yeah, you're about as genuinely menacing as Scott as a freshly bit beta, man. Which isn't a bad thing!"
Leatherman was starting to look genuinely disgruntled, and not in the "I'm gonna used you to get off to prove how big and tough and mean I am!" sort of way.
Sad-mad eyebrows definitely weren't a step in the direction Stiles wanted, not when they'd steer the man farther away from Stiles' goal of a spicy blowjob with all the appearances of dubious consent.
Yes, Stiles was probably a little fucked up. Probably a lot fucked up. But at this point it was a survival skill. And anyway, leatherman watched him still with those big serious eyes of his, and Stiles, Stiles tried to wrangle his brain back on track. Oh, right. He'd laughed at him. "It means you're not a bad dude. And, like, it means we're probably not gonna kill you. Which is a good thing."
Good job, Stilinski. Great. Stiles groaned internally. He was fucking this up big-time. This guy's grumpy eyebrows were getting to Stiles, which, ugh. Stiles just wanted to kiss them into smoothness as he rode the man into a warm, pliant heap of muscle quivering beneath him as he--
The man barked out a short, startled laugh. "You're really not afraid of me," The note of wonder-tinged skepticism soothed Stiles' nerves. Good, very good. Maybe he hadn't fucked it up after all. "You're tied to a chair and-- and you're thinking with your dick."
He licked his lips again. Intentionally, this time, tapping into his nervousness. Maybe he could use this guy's protective instinct to bring him in close and make some magic happen.
"I don't have to be the only one thinking with my dick." Stiles' eyes flicked to the man's crotch, met the man's gaze, and slowly raising an eyebrow. He couldn't actually see whether the dude had a literal hardon, but his body language suggested a certain amount of desirable discomfort packed into those painted-on pants.
The man huffed, deliberating. Stiles raised the other eyebrow, flicked eyes down to his own crotch, and met the man's eyes again; an invitation and a challenge.
Leatherman caved. He stalked over, oozing through the dimly lit room in that characteristic predator of the night way that all werewolves were so infuriatingly prone to. Stiles danced a jig in his mind; it was happening. Fuck yes.
The man leaned in, gently filling the space between Stiles' legs. He moved slowly, hesitantly, as if he still thought he could scare his supposedly helpless victim into hysterics. Stiles would have laughed, again, if he weren't so infuriatingly hard. Scaring him off would be a disaster. He needed that man's hands, or lips, or tongue, or, shit, anything he could get, like, yesterday.
The man's nostrils flared as he leaned in close, passing the range of the charm that helped obfuscate the more unique parts of Stiles' scent to outsiders. The man placed a hand on Stiles' thigh; his thumb gently traced up along the inside edge of Stiles' boxers, sending electric jolts of excitement through his bones.
Something flickered through the man's expression. Recognition, maybe? He stared, lips parted, and damn, Stiles was so tempted to surge forward and capture them with his teeth, but he had to wait, needed--
"Mischief."
The childhood nickname should have been a cold splash of water, but instead, something electric rode up his spine. He wracked his mind, trying to figure out who the hell this was, when-
"You grew up good." Derek's eyes, once guarded took on a certain sense of fond respect.
Stiles swallowed, still achingly hard. He eyed Derek again, appraising. Yep, he still fuckin liked what he saw. "You too."
His mind translated ancient-feeling memories from Sheriff's station barbecues and Talia's mayoral banquets, bored and burdened with endless energy as he dragged around a dark-haired Hale kid with the miraculous patience and energy required to keep mischief distracted and away from destruction.
"But you left! Why're you back here terrorizing the McCall pack? Or did you just miss me that much?"
The thought intrigued him. His curiosity was nearly drowned out by the drum of heat in his crotch, but that could wait. He needed to know.
Derek huffed out a laugh that sounded more like a sigh. His thumb still ran in infuriating little lines along Stiles' thigh. "Laura- I don't think she remembers you. She wanted to come home, but with the rumors, she- She's afraid they're all for show. It's a test. She's watching, gauging how Scott responds. If he passes, we'll ask to be part of his pack. If he fails..."
Stiles laughed. "Your sister's lucky you're pretty, you know that? And yeah, of course Scott'll come get me. He won't miss me until late morning though. We've got a few hours."
Derek smirked, warm and dark. "I guess we do."
Stiles grinned, cocky, questioning. "Don't suppose you'd let me out?" He pulled against the ropes for show.
Derek laughed, warm and low. "No."
Stiles whined, unabashedly shifting his crotch. "I swear to god if you're just teasing me-"
Derek caught his complaint with his lips. Stiles whined, squirming in the chair as Derek took in the smell of Stiles' frustrated enthusiasm, deepening the kiss.