#frogsandboxes

*

The best places in New York City aren’t sequestered away in derelict warehouses or lurking below dangerous street corners. In a city where there are buried treasures everywhere, the best of them can be found hidden just beyond plain sight, much like Diagon Alley in Harry Potter.

But this isn’t Harry Potter. At least not any version Stiles has ever read.

One of the City’s most exclusive dungeons is tucked away neatly between a hole-in-the-wall wine bar and an exclusive home furnishing store on one of the most popular shopping streets in this corner of West Village. In fact, it’s mere blocks away from Stonewall, where he’d gone the night before with Lydia.

The doorway looks like the entrance to yet another set of apartments clandestinely nestled between businesses. Stiles rings the bell marked with an H, written in inelegant sharpie. The announcement system buzzes with static before a female voice erupts from the speaker with a sharp, “What?”

It’s not the worst customer service Stiles has received in the four days he’s been in NYC. He smiles. “Wagon wheel 5678738.”

It’s the general password and the confirmation number Stiles has for his appointment. After a moment, the woman says, “You’re early,” like she’s aggrieved by his punctuality. The door emits a high screech as it’s unlocked, an affront to Stiles’ poor ears. He mock salutes at the announcement systems and heads up the stairs, the gun hidden under his waistband a comforting weight against his back.

On the trek up the steep old staircase, Stiles fidgets with the collar of his black t-shirt and tries to ignore the sweat gathering on his brow. His heartbeat ratchets up with every climbed stair, but it’s not just from fear.

His favorite butt plug is nestled deep in his ass and driving him slowly to delirium. He needs to stay clear-headed for this. Why did he think this was a good idea, again?

Oh, right. In case Master Hale’s services extend that far and he wants to take Stiles easily. It’s wildly out of protocol. The urgency in Stiles’ blood, built now to epic proportions after days of tracking Derek, has reached a dangerous pinnacle.

Stiles reminds himself to focus on the mission, yet when the butt plug scrapes deliciously over his prostate as he takes a step up, he helplessly clenches around the plug.

*

The woman behind the desk is a buxom blonde straight out of some kind of film noir, wearing a low cut sequin dress. The entrance room is minimalistic but welcoming with hardwood floors scattered with tasteful couches and chairs adorned with throw pillows. Stiles didn’t expect throw pillows to feature heavily in this experience. Unless, of course, they were under his knees.

“I have an appointment at 1:00 with Master Hale.” He makes sure not to adjust his glasses on his nose or smooth down his cardigan the way he wants to. Right now, he’s Alex, shy and responsible, not fidgety. Alex has done this before.

The woman grins, shark-like, at the same time that a door clicks behind Stiles. He whirls around to find Derek Hale standing in the doorway, muscled arms crossed in front of his chest, eyebrows quirked, and mouth turned up. Stiles didn’t even hear Derek’s approach. He must have supernatural level creeping skills.

But if what Stiles suspects is true, it might be supernatural. The thought doesn’t help tamp down on the arousal building in Stiles’ gut. Nor does looking at the man so close up. Jesus, this is much more problematic than he originally planned for. It’s made even worse when Hale’s nostrils flare and he inhales deeply, scrutinizing Stiles with a stare so intense it could dissolve the skin from his bones.

Derek takes a step closer, eyes dark, and Stiles can’t move.

“You can cut the shit, Stiles,” the woman says, much friendlier now than she had been earlier.

A lone drop of sweat creeps down Stiles’ back, collecting alongside his gun. He turns sideways to look at Erica from his peripheral vision.

His facade as Alex is blown.

Ever the smoothtalker, top tier FBI agent Stiles Stilinski's mind goes utterly blank as he looks between Erica Reyes and Derek Hale. He’s a spider ensnared in his own trap.

“You can follow me this way.” Erica rises from her chair with feline grace, like she hasn’t a care in the world. Which, with the millions she’s sitting on, she probably doesn’t. Then again, everyone has an Achilles’ heel. Maybe this situation isn’t as grave as Stiles’ churning gut leaves him to believe. He’s found a way out of even more dire circumstances.

Erica turns to walk around her desk and to an inconspicuous white door on the left wall. “Agent Stilinski, you can leave your gun on the desk.”

Strike that, the situation is even more of a clusterfuck than he feared.

Stiles wastes no time in removing the gun from his waistband. When he lays it down, it’s with a tremor that’s half-affected, half-genuine. The gun sits innocently against the mahogany of the expensive desk, glinting in the light.

“Move,” Derek says close to his ear. The deep, commanding pitch of his voice has Stiles closing his eyes and stuttering on his breath.

When Derek pokes him in his back, his eyes snap open and he approaches the door Erica is holding open for him. Her eyes are narrowed and her blood red lips are quirked up. “This is going to be more fun than I expected.” That doesn’t bode well for Stiles at all. Erica’s idea of fun usually involves sharp knives and rending people’s flesh from their bones until they talk. Or until they couldn’t.

Derek says, “Shut up,” and it sounds almost fond.

Stiles passes through the doorway while desperately hoping his handler notices him missing. However, that wish is futile considering that the mission technically didn’t start for another week and Stiles’ handler would have no reason to be keeping tabs on him.

He’s as good as dead.

The room on the other side is a lounge, all dark wood paneling and leather couches. “You want a drink, Stiles?” Erica asks, sashaying over to a sideboard and pouring a few fingers of whiskey into two glasses like they’re sitting down to an intense business meeting.

Stiles can’t help it: he laughs. “Really?” He plops down on a couch, crossing his ankles and settling back, nearly going cross-eyed with sudden pleasure from the butt plug in his ass. The zing has Stiles’ hips lifting minutely before he can even hold the tell-tale motion back. In all the drama, he’d almost forgotten about its presence. He inhales deeply. When he opens his eyes (when did he close them?), Derek is smirking at him in a way that is definitely predatory. Derek picks up one of the lowball glasses and moves to set it before Stiles.

When Stiles raises his eyebrows in challenge, Derek—Derek Hale, of the famed Hale mob and master extraordinaire—rolls his eyes and takes an exaggerated sip from the glass. After he swallows, a long and heavy motion Stiles watches in fascination, Derek sets it down in front of Stiles on the low table with a solid clink.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have already, Agent,” Derek says. It’s true, much as Stiles might not want to admit it. He picks up the glass, takes a long sip, and unwittingly closes his eyes once again as his mouth warms with vanilla, tropical fruit, and toffee.

Is this really his favorite Scotch that he hasn’t had in years?

How the fuck had they known?

“How the fuck?” he asks.

Erica grins at him. “I like you, Stiles.” She takes a sip from her own glass.

Derek walks over to pour himself a drink and admits, “It’s not bad,” before taking a sip.

Erica plops down next to Stiles, skirt of her dress riding up her thighs. “Don’t mind him. He’s just overly eager to impress you.” She laughs at Derek’s snarl. “He’s been drinking it for weeks, ever since he started preparing his dungeon for you.”

Stiles’ brow furrows against his will, but he quickly smooths it out.

Weeks?

How could they have possibly known about him for weeks? Sure, Alex had made his appointment at about that point, but there’s no way they could have known Stiles’ true identity then.

Stiles smiles, trying to loosen his tightening jaw. “A lucky guess.”

“We know all your favorites,” Erica murmurs, looking down at the red of her nails, which glint under the light much like Stiles’ gun had back on the desk. “The glass knotting dildo was especially hard to find.”

In the line of duty, Stiles has been sliced open under the sharp edge of a knife, seen colleagues dusted. He’s had his fair share of guns held to his head, has been captured and tortured for days on end. Yet nothing quite disarms him like this. How could they possibly know? His favorite scotch is one thing, but his penchant for dildos is entirely another.

So much for feigning nonchalance. He grits his teeth. “If this is some horrible attempt at blackmailing me—”

Erica smirks. “Sweetheart, we have no need to blackmail you.” She sips from her glass, leaving more lipstick stains on the rim. “We wanted to greet you properly.”

“Greet me?” Stiles laughs before taking a deep swig of his drink, relishing the burn. “You think you can—what—bribe me for intel? If you’ve done your research, you know who I am.”

Derek’s lips twist up into a smile. It looks a bit foreign on his face. “We have all the intel we need.” There’s no lie in his words and they’ve already demonstrated how much information they have. Stiles concedes the point. “What I’d like to suggest is a trade.”

Stiles’ eyebrow raises. “A trade.” He laughs, one sharp expulsion of air. “What makes you think I would trade with you when this place would probably light up like a Christmas tree if I had luminol on me.”

“I’m the best at what I do,” Derek says, his gaze intense. “You’re the best at what you do.”

Stiles shivers in his seat, but forces an eye roll in hopes of hiding it. “Which thing is it that you’re the best at? Killing people or mastering them?”

Erica interrupts with a wave of her hand. “Oh, Derek doesn’t kill anyone. He’s as removed from the dynasty as possible without being murdered for disloyalty. We have a code of ethics. One you wouldn’t begin to understand.”

“So you’re vouching for your skills as a Dom, then?” Stiles asks incredulously, licking his lips, staring at Derek.

He thinks of the pictures scattered on his hidden office wall, snapshots of Derek he shouldn’t have taken home. He thinks of all the personal reconnaissance he’s done to see where Derek lives, works, goes out. How often Derek doesn’t go out at all, preferring to stay at home with a foreign film or a novel. How overly invested he’s gotten in this case. How, all the while, Derek and Erica probably knew and have been playing him like a fiddle.

And for what?

“Don’t play coy, Stiles,” Erica says. Her grin is playful but her eyes are menacing. “You know what Derek does, and we know you’re chomping at the bit.” She flashes him an evil grin. Before Stiles can do much more than make an affronted noise, Erica slides a bit closer to him. Stiles stiffens, ready to go for the knife at his side if needed.

“We can smell it on you,” she purrs in a low tone, her breath warm on his cheek. “I know you know what we are.”

“Murderers?”

She laughs brightly. “Your reputation precedes you. We know you’ve collaborated with the supernatural division of the FBI, and we know you have a limited tolerance for hunters that don’t follow the code.”

Like every other facade Stiles had boasted when walking in here, it’s crumbled to pieces. He feels naked, and not in a good way.

Best to be blunt, then. Even if his identity had been revealed, it isn’t the first time and he hopes like hell it wouldn’t be the last. Brash and sarcastic it is.

“Werewolves,” he says, watching the curl of Erica’s mouth and her ever-so-slight nod. “I suspected as much.”

“Very good. Now, you’re going to hear the terms of our agreement. If you resist, I can make you listen.”

Derek growls, subsonic and rattling in Stiles bones. “No need for threats, Erica.” Stiles stares back at Derek with wide eyes. It’s true that he has collaborated on some supernatural cases and dealt with a nasty group of hunters, but he’s never properly met a werewolf before, despite his unhealthy curiosity about them. “Will you hear the terms of my suggested trade?” Derek asks.

Stiles swallows, mouth dry. He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“I need you to voice your agreement.” When Derek speaks, there’s an authoritativeness to his soft voice that wasn’t there before. The promise in it nearly steals all of Stiles’ composure. He fights not to squirm on the plug.

“Yes,” he says, dangerously close to offering a sir at the end, just to see if it will get him punished.

He sits up straighter, knowing he needs to play this smart so he can get the hell out of here.

“Good.” Derek smirks, like they’re playing a game and his victory is guaranteed. He shifts so that he’s sitting on the edge of the seat and looking directly into Stiles’ eyes. “My sister, Laura, has been kidnapped by the Argents.”

“What?” Stiles asks, mouth dropping open. Laura is well-known for clawing out of the dynasty, tooth and nail, and the FBI’s research indicates that she has sought harbor with another pack on a remote corner of Bear Mountain. “The Argents have been remarkably quiet the last few years.”

Derek nods. “Gerard is apparently at the helm again, and the Argents—well, at least some of them—are active.” Derek settles his clenched fists in his lap. “He knew he couldn’t touch me or Cora, so he went after Laura.”

Stiles bites his lip, unsure how to ask his next question, and hopes he doesn’t get his head ripped off by an angry werewolf. After a moment of thought he carefully chooses his words, with a plainitative hand gesture: “I’ve heard that wolves can tell when a member of their pack has been killed. Is that true?”

“It is.” Derek sighs, mouth turned down. “She’s still alive. Likely being tortured for information about us.”

Stiles nods. “You need our help to get her out?”

“You don’t like unfair hunters,” Derek says, “and you have more resources at your disposal than we do to lock up the Argents for good.”

“Or we could kill them,” Erica suggests from Stiles’ side, sounding positively gleeful at the prospect.

“So you want me to involve the FBI on anonymous, unevidenced intel, get them on Bear Mountain or wherever Argent is holding Laura, rescue her, and lock up all the Argents?” Stiles takes another sip of his drink. “Anything else while I’m at it?”

“That about sums it up.” Derek’s mouth quirks up.

“And in return..?” Stiles waves a hand.

“You’re saving the world. Or whatever bullshit it is you types like,” Erica says. Stiles turns his head in time to catch her heavy eye roll. “You help an innocent person, take down the Argents, and save other innocents in the meantime.”

“Fair enough.” With a twist of Stiles’ mouth, he taps a finger to his temple. “You do remember that I came here to infiltrate and lock all of you up, right? Or are we conveniently forgetting that?”

“It’ll be a non-issue,” Erica assures, cocksure. “Derek operates differently from the rest of his family, and, as I said, we have our own code of ethics. If you demonstrate your loyalty, we’ll demonstrate ours.”

Stiles blinks at her, not entirely sure of whatever underhanded ploy she’s doling out. She smiles at him, and he tries to find treachery in her deep brown eyes but finds none.

“To discuss the last part of the agreement,” Derek starts unceremoniously.

Erica and Stiles snap their attention to him in time for Derek to shoot Erica an amused glance. “Erica, I’d like you to leave.”

“What? You want me to leave you here alone with an FBI agent? Yeah, right, dumbass.”

“Erica,” Derek’s eyes flash red, “I said to go. I will text you later.”

“Fine,” she snarls. She turns to Stiles. “If you hurt him or fuck him over, you’re dead.”

“Duly noted.” Stiles salutes her and Derek lets out a huff that might be laughter.

Erica leaves her empty glass on the table and the room sits in grave silence until the slam of the door interrupts it.

“The last part of the agreement.” Derek stands, moving smoothly to sit next to Stiles on the couch. Their knees touch, warmth radiating through their clothes. From underneath the couch, Derek pulls a black velvet box and holds it out to Stiles.

Stiles reaches for it, drawn like a magnet. The velvet is soft to the touch. He knows what’s in the box without opening it and without his permission, his dick fills. He closes his eyes against how much this means and how quickly.

“Me, too,” Derek says, low. Stiles snaps his eyes open to study Derek.

“Wha—”

“I’ve investigated you as thoroughly as you have me. I’ve let you follow me, get to know me. I wanted you to.” Derek inhales again and this time he groans under his breath. “Fuck, you’re driving me insane.”

Stiles watches, absolutely floored. What?

“I researched everything you like,” Derek tells him, eyes taking on their haunting red glow. “Erica has bought everything I could possibly need for you.”

“How—?” Stiles licks his lips and tries again. “How do I know you’re not going to kill me the second you tie me up?”

“I’ll let you take me to the FBI right now,” Derek says, shrugs, holds his hands out in a display of supplication.

“That’s insane.”

Derek laughs. “It is,” he admits. “Although you’re one to talk.” Before Stiles can even address that, Derek asks, “May I touch you?”

Stiles is unable to stop himself. “Yes.”

Derek’s hand clamps onto the back of his neck, forcing it back ever so slightly. Derek leans closer to inhale. The tip of his nose brushes the crook of Stiles’ neck and Stiles shudders violently. Oh, God. “You came in here smelling of lube and you move like you’re inches away from orgasm.”

Stiles closes his eyes, moaning when Derek nips at the skin of his neck with human teeth. “You’re wearing a butt plug for me, aren’t you?” Another nip, soothed with a hot, rough drag of tongue. “You’re so easy.”

“Yeah,” Stiles admits around a long moan.

“That’s insane, too.” Derek kisses up to his ear, scruff scraping against Stiles’ neck. “Hoping that I’d fuck you. Coming in here without any kind of surveillance or backup.”

“It is,” Stiles admits. “Absolutely fucking insane.”

“Good,” Derek says. And then Derek asks permission, yet again, because he seems intent on destroying Stiles’ last shred of sanity. “May I kiss you?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“If you don’t ask for it, you won’t have it.”

Stiles eyes flutter open, meets Derek’s red gaze and groans. He grabs Derek by his hair and pushes their lips together, giving a nip of his own to Derek’s bottom lip when it’s caught in his mouth. Derek echoes his groan.

“You’re a menace.” Derek stares at him and presses his thumb to Stiles’ bottom lip. “Let me take care of you.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “You mean fuck me?”

Derek smiles. “That, too.” He looks down and the tips of his ears turn red. “I’d like to take care of you most of all.”

“That’s kind of sweet.” Stiles tries hard not to smile.

Derek grimaces, like maybe he’s revealed more than he wanted. “I can rescind the whole offer, you know. Call Erica back.”

Stiles smiles, reaching for the clasp of the box so he can admire his new possession. “You wouldn’t.”

Derek stares at him. “No,” he agrees. “I wouldn’t.”

Stiles opens the box, and inside, just as he had anticipated, there’s a perfect black leather collar.

This is insane, and he’ll have to think more on this later.

But for now, he meets Derek’s gaze. “I agree to your terms.” Derek’s shoulders slump in relief and his gaze falls back to Stiles’ neck. “Do you want to put this collar on me or do I need to do it myself?”

Derek ignores the challenge, eyes lifting from his neck in what looks like a painstaking task. “We need to discuss additional terms.”

Stiles sits up straighter, ready to discuss these terms before sealing the deal, but ends up moaning when the butt plug shifts in him. He’s worked up and no longer able or willing to hold it back.

Derek’s eyes flare a brighter red and those might be fangs peeking through his gorgeously soft lips. Stiles’ stomach flutters in anticipation.

Correction: he’s not going to be killed. He’s going to be eaten alive.

*