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Power of Attorney

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“I, Stiles Stilinski, the undersigned, hereby appoint and make Scott McCall as my attorney-in-fact, who shall have full power and authority to represent me and make decisions on my behalf for only the following matters:

In the event of bewitching, enchantments, curses, pollen, or any other situation that requires sexual activity in order to one (1) break the curse/spell/enthrallment, (for “Sleeping Beauty Syndrome” see addendum 7), or two (2) otherwise remain comfortable for its duration.

Informing Peter Hale (if unavailable or unwilling see addendum 1) of my desire to consent to him performing the acts detailed in addendum 2 (see 2.1) according to the needs of the situation (see addendum 3) and his best judgement as outlined in the following—”

“Scott.” Derek sounded like he was two heartbeats from violence. “If you don’t stop reading we’re going to find out how long it takes tongues to grow back.”

Scott’s face had bypassed flushed, and was bordering on flaming. “Dude, I can’t. We pinky-swore that if he ever got magically roofied I have his power of attorney. I’m contractually obligated to get him laid.” He gave the gathered pack members his most serious puppy-eyes and held up his phone, the text of the document visible on the tiny screen. “It’s bro-code.”

Though he was currently tied to a chair to keep him from embarrassing himself, and gagged to prevent the enchantment’s thrall from affecting the rest of them, Stiles was nodding emphatically and pleading with big doe-eyes of his own.

Unfortunately, his disheveled clothes, flushed cheeks, and sweat-damp forehead didn’t do much to convince the gathered pack that he was still on the rational side of the witch's enchantment. Neither did the fact that he was also in his current position of all-tied-up-with-nowhere-to-go because he had tried to persuade Peter to help him—enthusiastically, with his mouth—the minute the oldest beta had strolled into the loft.

Peter watched Stiles twitch from a few feet away, attempting to keep a clear head through the overwhelming haze of sex hormones floating around. Despite his best intentions, the unintentional show that was a restrained, desperate, squirming Stiles was rapidly weakening his resolve. “And how long ago was this document created, Scott? Are you sure he hasn’t changed his mind?”

Scott looked a little shifty, like he was planning the route to the nearest exit, but trying to hide it with his serious face™. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, facing off with Peter and his skeptically arched eyebrows. “Technically he sent it to me like, two years ago? But he’s updated it a few times since then. There’s a kink checklist that he likes to keep current, and he added the second clause about Mr. Argent last fall, after those sirens came through.”

A throat cleared in warning on the side of the room. “Care to elaborate on that clause, Scott?” Chris’ expression was a struggle between carefully blank and intrigued. His gaze cut over to Peter, then back again, valiantly not looking at Stiles who was now making encouraging, but muffled sounds through the gag.

“Yeah, sure. Addendum 1.3. In the event that Peter Hale is still dating Christopher Argent, the aforementioned is welcome, but not obligated, to participate in any of the outlined scenarios that he feels comfortable engaging in (in particular, please note annex 2, items 29-35).”

Derek groaned and dropped his face into his hands, his entire body slumping in on itself. “Oh my god, I don’t need to know any of this.” Boyd patted him on the shoulder in stoic solidarity.

“No please, enlighten us.” Peter tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. His victorious smirk didn’t appear to be fading anytime soon. “What is annex 2, 29-35?”

Scott coughed a little into his clenched fist and gave Stiles—who was now wiggling hard enough to make the chair inch across the room toward Peter—a dirty look, before scrolling through to the correct portion of the document. “Ugh. I’m so bleaching my brain later, dude.” He raised a judgy eyebrow at the former alpha and the former hunter. “That’s the section on daddy kink.”

Everyone—minus Stiles—froze. There was a full ten seconds of silence, broken only by the thump of Stiles scooting the chair across the floor while the pack tried not to meet each other’s eyes. Finally close enough to bump into Peter’s shins, Stiles leaned against the ropes holding him in place and shoved his face into Peter’s stomach, nuzzling in an attempt to ruck the soft cotton up, and whining through the torn strip of Scott's t-shirt that was tied over his mouth. He might not be in a position to undress Peter, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying.

The assembled pack members stared, shifting uneasily. Erica finally spoke up.

“Baby boy is pretty hot. I’d let him call me mommy.”

Scott started gagging, while Derek looked like he wanted the building to spontaneously collapse on top of him.

Lydia was typing something on her phone, and appeared to be otherwise ignoring the circus happening around her. “Chris is in his contacts as DILF #2,” she offered off-handedly.

If there was a sound that conveyed the need for a retroactive brain-aneurysm, that was the sound Derek made.

Chris drew himself up to his full height. “Alright, everyone out," he growled, ushering the pack towards the door. His blown pupils made his eyes look very dark, and also made his stony facade basically pointless. “Peter and I will handle things from here.”

They all took the que—some more willingly than others—and started to flee the loft, ignoring Peter as he scritched his fingers against Stiles’ scalp, while Stiles hummed and rubbed on every part of him he could reach.

Except Derek. Derek seemed rooted in place, glaring at the ceiling.

“I live here.”

“Don’t worry, big guy. I got you.” Scott clapped a hand on Derek’s shoulder and helped Boyd steer him out. “Addendum 4.3. Once the undersigned is in the care of a consenting party or parties, Scott McCall is obligated to take Derek Hale out for ice cream and/or get him very drunk on wolfsbane whiskey in order to induce amnesia.”

“Oh, thank god.”

The loft door clanged shut.

Chris and Peter’s eyes met over Stiles’ head just as Peter’s phone pinged with a new alert.

Peter looked down at the message. “Scott forwarded me the email.” He tossed the phone across the room to Chris. “Read fast.” He started to loosen the ropes holding Stiles to the chair.

Chris locked the door and made his way back toward them, scanning the document. He stopped behind Stiles and settled a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing soothingly and drawing a heartfelt moan. “How long is the enchantment supposed to last?”

“No idea.” Peter looked at Stiles, flushed, gagged, squirming, and unable to offer any input.

Chris grinned and slid his hand to Stiles’ throat, tipping his chin up until he could meet Chris’ eyes. “I guess we’ll just have to be extremely through then, won't we, baby boy?”

Stiles let out a groan of agreement. He was giving this contingency plan an A+.

Best idea ever.