Chapter Text
"Y'know, I've been all over the world," Stiles says, his mouth stuffed, "but no one quite does fries like the U-S-of-A."
The waiter raises an eyebrow at him, a smile quirking his lips, and says, "Is that right?"
Stiles nods back enthusiastically, just barely avoiding choking on his food. He smiles when he swallows; the waiter's pretty cute, in that all-American, football quarterback way. Definitely not Stiles' type, but it's always fun to shake things up. This past year, Try New Things has been his life motto.
So, Stiles lets his smile turns roguish, flirtatious. He isn't the same little virgin that he was so long ago in Beacon Hills; he's quite proud of how far he's come in that regard, actually. Scott's jaw would drop. It isn't the only area he's come very far in, either. Definitely not the only one that would shock Scott and his old friends.
"That's right," he tells the waiter, giving him a once over.
The waiter's eyes go wide and his cheeks turn red. "Oh, uh, I'm not—I mean, it's fine if you're—but I—" Stiles' grin grows with every stuttered denial. Hell, obviously this boy is straight. 99% of the time they are. But it's always fun to fluster them a little, and nice to hope for that 1%.
"You're wasting your time on young Matt, love," an accented voice tells him. The waiter—Matt, apparently—looks over to the speaker and glares, his jaw clenching. Distaste; hatred, even. Interesting. "I'm much more fun."
Stiles turns around, looking at the speaker. Dirty blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, mid- to late-twenties, wearing a maroon shirt under a black leather jacket, and an expensive-looking pair of dark jeans. And, of course, a smile that promised nothing but trouble.
Now that was Stiles' type.
He smiles back at the walking red flag. "That so? And what makes you more fun?"
"Look, Klaus, why don't you just—" Matt begins gruffly, still looking angry and somehow protective of this customer he's never met before. That attitude, the instinct to defend, immediately reminds Stiles of Scott, and suddenly he wants absolutely nothing to do with the waiter.
"I'll be fine, Matt," Stiles says smoothly, not breaking eye contact with the newcomer, Klaus. Klaus' smile grows slightly. "We're in a public place, not much he can do to me, if you're worried about my honor. Then again, I don't have much of that left..."
"Yes, listen to the gentleman, Matthew," Klaus purrs, glancing at the waiter with a victorious smile. "What could I possibly do?"
After a very tense moment, Matt walks away. The space open, Klaus moves around Stiles' table and slides in across from the younger man.
Stiles tilts his head, examining the older; there's something odd about Klaus, something off that he can't quite put his finger on. Stiles, over the past year, has learned to trust his instincts, and his instincts say spending time around Klaus is a bad idea. But the memory of Scott has hit Stiles hard, that familiar resentment rising in him, and so instead of leaving, he quirks a smile.
"So why does Captain America over there seem to despise you so much?" he asks, dipping another fry in too much ketchup and then popping it in his mouth.
The other man smiles. "It's all very childish, really. Just a territorial kind of thing." Stiles raises an eyebrow, waiting. Klaus chuckles, shaking his head slightly, and leans in, capturing Stiles' gaze. "It's not important, love, but his protectiveness is sweet and I kind of want to stick it to him and his friends, so why don't you come around to this side of the table and let me kiss you breathless."
There's something happening, Stiles realizes. Klaus' pupils are shifting, and Stiles feels his own body mirroring it, feels the need to do just as Klaus told him to, feels the urge to not question and just follow.
The void thrumming through Stiles' very being howls with laughter. As if a vampire could possibly affect him! Him, who is both ancient and newborn, who has power a vampire can't even begin to comprehend. As if he could be compelled!
This past year, though, Stiles' self-preservation skills have gone way down—and yeah, he gets that that's saying something. It's a side effect of being near invincible, of course, though that really doesn't excuse it. It also doesn't excuse that fact that he is consciously choosing to stand up, walk around the table to sit next to Klaus, and allow the vampire to kiss him breathless.
It's been a while since he had a good kiss. Why not with Mr. Needs-A-Lesson-In-Consent?
And honestly, Klaus is most certainly not a bad kisser, which Stiles could've guessed by simply looking at the man. The way he wraps a hand around the back of Stiles' neck, massaging slightly. The way he nips at Stiles' lips, and the absolute wonders he's doing with his tongue—Stiles isn't the slightest bit surprised to find himself giving a groan of satisfaction, and it's all good enough that he isn't even bothered by the fact that Klaus is smirking against his mouth, all smug and superior.
Really, even with the creepy reason this began, Stiles sees no reason to not allow the kiss to carry on for much longer—
"Excuse me," a sharp voice cuts in.
Klaus continues to kiss him for another couple seconds, languid and deep, before drawing back slightly, tugging one of Stiles' lips between his teeth. Stiles shudders out a breath, blinking rapidly. Klaus grins, holding his gaze for a moment, before he pulls away and looks to the people standing next to them with a raised eyebrow. Stiles doesn't miss the way he shifts his arm to put it around Stiles' shoulders, pulling him against his side in a possessive—and, actually, a little threatening—manner.
"Ah, Stefan! Damon! How good to see you boys. What can I do for you?"
The pair of boys are looking at Klaus the same way Matt had, wary and filled with distaste, but unlike Captain America they're standing ready for a fight. Well, the black-haired one is. The blonde looks like he simply wants to diffuse the situation, though there's something very hard in his eyes as he stares at Klaus.
"Let the kid go, Klaus," the black-haired one says with a thin smile. Stiles blinks, slightly offended. Kid? "We get it, you can control anyone anywhere anytime. Whatever. Good for you. Personally, we don't have to compel people to get them to make out with us, but hey, to each his own; if you need help in that department..."
Ah, okay; all three of them are vampires then. And apparently, Klaus is the big bad of them.
Fuck, Stiles thinks, almost dumfounded. When my self-preservation skills get shot, they seriously get shot.
"Clever as always, Damon," Klaus says, smirking up at the pair, his arm tightening around Stiles shoulders.
And, okay, there's a part of Stiles—the human part, the part raised by a cop—that is telling him to leave. He wasn't compelled to stay (nor can he be) and right now he's in the middle of a supernatural pissing contest. Stiles removed himself from those a long time ago, and really has no interest in getting involved in another one, let alone between a couple of vampires. He had his fill with werewolves, thank you very much, and is very much enjoying the freedom of his new life.
So, considering all of that, Stiles has no idea why his curiosity is winning over logic right now. Honestly, now he's just being stupid.
And yet, he doesn't leave, despite the way the Void is coiling under his skin, very unhappy about being threatened. It makes him shift in his seat.
Klaus puts a finger under his chin and tilts his head up, locking their gazes together. "Stay still, love," he says, and Stiles feels the vampire magic trying to compel him, "and stay calm. You're fine right here."
The Void rumbles at the further attempts of command, pushing Stiles to fight back, and it is truly, sorely tempting. Stiles spent a year learning to control the new darkness inside of him but it's not perfect, and it is a part of him, which means its wants and needs are his as well. Chaos, strife, pain. It's thrumming inside of him now, wanting him to put Klaus in his place for daring to command him. God, how it—he—wants.
But it also...
It senses those same things in Klaus, too.
Stiles rolls his shoulders and forcing his body into relaxing, playing along to Klaus' wishes. The Void settles as well.
"Come on, Klaus," the blond sighs, shaking his head. "We understand the point you're trying to make, but this kid is innocent. Matt said he was minding his own business when you came over and compelled him. Leave him alone, let's go somewhere and talk about what you want."
Klaus' eyebrows arch. "No, I think I'm perfectly happy right here Stefan," he says, looking terribly amused. "And I must ask—what is it like for you, always needing to swoop in to save every damsel in distress? No offense, love," he adds to Stiles.
"None taken," Stiles replies absently, suddenly reminded of Peter. Klaus and the blue-eyed wolf would probably get along famously. Except for the whole, you know, centuries old vampire-werewolf feud thing.
Probably not a good idea to introduce them, then.
The blond—Stefan—looks Stiles over in a concerned fashion. "Klaus—" he begins.
"Run along, boys," Klaus interrupts. "I'm glad you see my point, and I do hope it will make you hurry along to give me what I want, but until then I think I'll stay. Right. Here." Klaus leans in, his breath ghosting along Stiles neck. There's a hint of teeth—no, fangs. Stiles' breath catches as the danger; it won't be able to kill him, but it will hurt like a bitch. "It appears to be a good incentive."
The boys don't move. Klaus chuckles. "Run along, Stefan, Damon. Bring what I told you to get me, or I will start with this pretty little thing." He's so close Stiles can feel his smile against his neck. "What's your name, love?"
"Stiles," the teenager tells him, voice deadly even. His powers pulse underneath his skin as the danger rises higher and higher. "Stiles Stilinski."
The fangs brush his skin again, and Stiles barely contains the burst the Void attempts to send out on reflex, attempting to fend off the threat. He can tell that his darkness won't remain quiet for long, and so he takes a deep breath and says, "Actually I think I'll be going now, not that hanging here with you as a hostage doesn't sound like fun, because it kinda does. Or at least interesting. So uh, mind letting me go?"
Klaus laughs, pressing a light kiss to his pulse point. His pulse jumps in response. "Afraid not, love." His arm tightens around Stiles' shoulders. "You're not going to leave The Grill for a bit. Don't worry—I'll be sure to order you some more fries."
Oh no, that certainly won't do.
Stiles rolls his neck, his movements sharp. In front of him, Stefan tenses and Damon narrows his eyes, both of them sensing that something is wrong. Stiles, over this last year, has found that he often gives that effect when pulling chaosstrifepain to the surface.
"Thanks, but no thanks," Stiles says smoothly, a dark smirk creeping onto his face, his voice dropping an octave. He reaches up and grabs Klaus' wrist, the one around his shoulders, squeezing it until the bones underneath creak from the pressure. Klaus hisses.
Stiles pictures the skin on Klaus' arm burning and the vampire jerks away with a little shout, ripping his jacket sleeve up; he stares at his smoldering—and already healing—skin incredulously. Stiles gets to his feet, still smirking, body thrumming.
Klaus stares up at him, anger—and shock—covering his face. Stefan and Damon look just as surprised.
"Are you a witch?" Klaus asks, practically spitting the words out.
Stiles doesn't answer the question. He imagines fire on Klaus' legs. The vampire shouts again and gets to his feet, jumping out of the booth. Damon laughs, and Stiles silences him by imagining his skin on fire too—the black-haired vampire's laughter turns to a groan before he quiets.
Stiles chuckles at the wary glare on Klaus' face. Chaosstrifepain do it hurt him make him pay—
Taking a deep breath, Stiles shoves the urge down.
"Y'know, you tried to compel me to kiss you, and I thought 'What the hell, not every day an attractive British troublemaker is trying to make out with you', so I followed the kinda rapey instruction. And then you told me to sit still and relax, and I was less a fan of that command but I waited, curious as to what this pissing match between you three vamps was about, but the instruction to act as an incentive? Hell no! I am most certainly not about getting drank from, thank you very much. I've had my fill with this, so see ya 'round, boys."
Stiles offers them all a sloppy salute and throws a couple bills down on the table to pay for his food before he strides towards the door. The Void is still thrumming under his skin, too close to the surface—he needs to find something to destroy right now before he starts affecting innocent bystanders with his abilities.