fic spawned from a wonderful meme prompt. i've decided to put the fic here while i wait for an ao3 account (deciding to write tw fic sort of took me by surprise basically).

due to the power issues that would obviously come out of a situation & awful world like this, i want to try my best to portray the eventual derek/stiles as honestly as i can, which is as an unhealthy relationship. if it bothers anyone, i understand completely and you may leave this fic asap.

Stiles felt a sickening mix of confusion and fear hit his gut when a body pressed behind him. A palm pressed over his mouth, and an arm wound tightly around his body.

He jerked uselessly, screeching into a rough hand that nearly muted the sound.

A spike of frustration began to sink into his stomach, combining with everything else pulsing through him.

Frustration, because he had done everything in his power to carve himself the safe life his father had wanted.

He'd spent his eighteenth birthday making plans to move out, because the media had taken a huge interest in his father after radicals caused controversy by trashing him for his influence in lycanthropy laws. Stiles was confined to the house on multiple occasions, to avoid news cameras that his father feared would help to make him a target.

He had always understood the necessity, knowing his father often suffered through invasive interview questions such as, "How would you feel about lycanthropy laws if your son received the bite?"

And—ha, he had assured his father that getting his own place would be safe, that the biggest concern would be his health without Stiles to keep him eating salads. Stiles insisted he didn't need any gates or guards from radicals, because he had a low profile as it was.

Evidently not low enough.

He whined continuously against the hand covering his mouth, and glanced down at his hand holding the key, mere inches away from the doorknob. If he could just break out of the grip the man had—

A deep growl reached his ears. Great, this was definitely a werewolf. The claws were almost gentle against his cheek.

"Don't try anything," the werewolf grunted, and Stiles dropped his keys almost immediately in response. He felt a twinge of spinelessness for giving in so quickly, but considering the alternative was having his throat ripped out, he didn't have any other logical choice.

"Better," the werewolf said. Stiles shivered against him.

The werewolf guided him away from the door, towards the parking lot next to the apartments. He glanced around frantically for someone to notice, but if there was anyone around, he couldn't see them.

A Camaro entered his sight as he was forced forward, and of course that had to be where he was going. It almost felt like a re-enactment of a werewolf predator PSA he would have been forced to sit through in elementary school.

(but also the opposite because those were funny and cheesy but this was harsh and real and terrifying beyond anything he could have imagined)

He instinctively created more noise against the ever-present hand, mumbling into it his desperate begging. Once he entered that vehicle he wasn't going to be able to make some clever escape and be safely inside his apartment in a moment.

"Stop it," the werewolf spat at his ear. "If you don't want to be tied up head to toe for hours you need to cooperate."

He stopped trying to speak instantly in response to the threat, but couldn't help an anguished sob from escaping his throat, muffled.

To his surprise, his abductor forced him into the front passenger seat, fastening a seatbelt around him. He'd honestly expected the trunk, or at least the floor in front of the back seat, to hide him.

But then again, he always had a low profile, didn't he?

From the new position, Stiles was finally able to look at the werewolf fully, and a small wave of shock passed through him. He was frightening, but far younger than the hardened grizzly middle-aged werewolf Stiles had been suspecting.

And finally his mouth was free.

"Please, let me go," he blurted out, for the first time noticing the wet sting of tears on his cheeks. "I won't even report anything and you won't get into any trouble. You can have my wallet if you want, please."

He realized it wouldn't work the minute the words left his mouth, and considered with a shiver that he might have just shortened his lifespan by bothering the werewolf with his pleading.

"No," the werewolf said simply with an incredulous look, and Stiles felt his hope crumble as a small wave of relief passed over him that he didn't seem offended to the point of violence.

He did take Stiles' wallet, however. He slipped it out of the pocket of Stiles' hoodie unceremoniously, though it made Stiles jerk backwards.

"Anything else on you?"

"No, nothing," Stiles promised, shaking his head quickly.

The werewolf regarded Stiles silently once more, and walked around to the trunk of the car, apparently satisfied with the response.

Stiles briefly considered unbuckling and running while the door laid open, but immediately quashed the thought because duh, it was a werewolf he was dealing with.

Fuck.

The werewolf came back with duct tape in hand, wrapping it liberally around Stiles' wrists, and then his ankles.

Stiles watched his face twist in concentration during the act, not daring to protest the treatment. The earlier threat of getting completely tied up laid heavy on his mind.

Then, finished, the werewolf slammed the door harshly and a moment later opened the opposite door to get into the front seat, and oh god this was still something that was happening and escalating quickly.

As the engine roared, he bit his lip and flexed his hands a bit, testing his movement allowance. They were unbearably tight against one another.

After the car left the parking lot, leaving his home, it hit him that the werewolf's face was somehow familiar in an eerily distant way.

He couldn't help but say, "I've seen you."

The werewolf didn't react.

"Who are you?" he pressed on, his voice quiet beyond his own recognition.

The werewolf turned his eyes away from the road for a moment to look at Stiles pointedly.

"Derek," he answered finally.

It hit Stiles like a crash of bricks.

"You're a Hale, fuck." He dipped his head down towards his bound hands. "Oh my god, of course."

He was going to get killed. Or get killed after being used as a bargaining chip. Or turned, maybe, to make some sort of statement, but that was too optimistic for even him to truly consider.

He stayed silent for a few moments more, letting his misfortune settle into his mind. He was being kidnapped by the most radical pack of werewolves in the world. After the death of a huge portion of their pack, there was nothing they wouldn't do.

They would especially jump at the chance to kidnap and murder an anti-werewolf politician's son.