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It's All Just So Ridiculous

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It wasn’t Stiles’ fault.

It wasn’t.

There was no way he could have foreseen all the little things that would've accumulated in the situation he was in now. How could he have known that in a matter of days, Stiles would go from being an undercover-investigator to an undercover-male-prostitute? Really it was all just a series of very confusing events colliding with some bad decisions that led him into a rather perplexing situation. He was supposed to be in college doing normal eighteen-year-old stuff that definitely did not involve playing hooker with his dad.

So as Stiles started to unbuckle his father’s belt while kneeling almost-naked in a lavish silk-covered bed, he really, really, really couldn’t comprehend where it all went wrong.

It wasn’t Stiles’ fault. It wasn’t.

Except it kinda totally was.


It started with three dead girls.

Of course it did.

It’d be strange if Stiles’ week didn’t start off with a couple corpses because Beacon Hills never failed to be anything but dull.

They only had one good month where nothing supernatural happened and no one could really even enjoy it. They were just waiting for the shit to hit the fan, for the other shoe to drop and Stiles ended up having to monitor some deeply paranoid werewolves waiting for the next thing to come jumping out of the bushes. It was not fun watching Derek slowly chew his bottom lip off out of anxiety.

That being said, the three dead girls were essentially why Stiles ended up playing spy.

And Stiles Stilinski was an awesome spy.

Actually, he was downright James Bond-ing the shite out of it. Well…there were fewer bullets and cars and more laundry and mopping but the general idea was that Stiles had successfully infiltrated a well-guarded establishment in less than twenty-four hours.

Although he admitted it wasn’t as glamourous as the Bond films.

Instead of pretending to be some billionaire with lovely ladies hanging off his arms, Stiles was pretending to be a financially desperate college student willing to clean post-sex bedsheets and pick up used condoms inside champagne glasses for cash. But hey, it paid well and it should considering the sheer amount of body fluids being excreted in the rooms on a nightly basis.

So yes, Stiles was working as the cleaning staff at Monroe Court, a luxurious pleasure hotel that provided goods and services for the wealthy and rich.

“I’m fine Scott, really.”

Stiles whispered into his cell phone as he pushed the cleaning cart down the hallway.

“Are you sure?”

“Seriously bro, I got it all under control.”

There was a nervous silence at the other end of the call.

“But Stiles…it’s a brothel, there are shady people there and you’re all by yourself.”

Stiles opened the supply storeroom and started to refill his empty disinfectant spray bottle.

“Scott it isn’t a brothel, it’s just a place for some rich cats to unwind and most of the time that just means cigars, alcohol and a good massage from a pretty lady. Actually, they’ve got a pretty swanky establishment going on here.”

“Stiles, you just told me you finished cleaning sperm off the window in room 47. It’s a brothel dressed up nicely.”

Stiles laughed at the increasing worry in his best friends voice and while it was endearing, it was more funny hearing Scott say the word ‘sperm’.

“Stiles! Stop laughing.”

Stiles stopped giggling and concentrated on getting his fingers through his disposable gloves.  

“Look, I’ve been here for a few days and so far nothing suspicious had come up. All I could get was a confirmation that those dead girls we found on Derek’s territory line were definitely working here as high-end escorts before they died.”

There was a sigh from Scott but Stiles knew his friend wouldn’t bother changing his mind.

“Well Deaton said the three girls drowned.”

Stiles frowned.

“Are you sure? I mean I know we found them by the river but they had blood and fleshy bits coming out of their mouths and noses. That’s not drowning. That looked like they threw up their guts and choked on it.”

“Well that’s exactly what I said, but Deaton’s certain that the cause of death was drowning. The gory stuff coming out of their nose and mouth happened after they died.”


“Get this. Apparently their lung exploded. The fleshy stuff we saw was actually parts of their lungs leaking out afterwards.”

Stiles took a moment to come up with a really graphic image in his head but then quickly shook it out if his mind. He didn’t want to add vomit on the list of things he had to clean.

“Dude, for real?” Stiles pulled grimace. “Why do something like that? I mean those girls were already dead.”

“Crime of passion?”

“Well at least we know ‘how’, now it’s just up to me to figure out the ‘why’ and if it’s going to happen again.”

“You don’t have to be a one-man army Stiles. The Monroe Court is way outside of Beacon Hill, technically it’s not even under our packs jurisdiction. We could just let the local authority deal with it.”

“Human authorities can’t help with this sort of thing Scott. Those girls definitely died by supernatural causes and for three weeks they washed down the river into Derek’s lands like clockwork. Repeated pattern Scott, it’s going to happen again.”

There was a sigh on the other end and Stiles could imagine those puppy brown eyes as if Scott was standing right in front of him. Stiles couldn’t have his friend worry about him needlessly.

“Look, you and Derek agreed we need someone in the inside to get more information. But since this entire building is completely surrounded in mountain ash that means only I can do the job. I’ll get some answers, have this wrapped up in a few days then I’ll be home in time for game night.”

“Alright but I’m going to be nearby so call if anything happens and I mean ANYTHING. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks bro.”


Telling Scott that everything was going to wrap up nicely in a few days was probably being a little too optimistic.

Stiles should’ve known better. He was from Beacon Hills: the freakin’ Bermuda Triangle of no-plan-ever-works and where bad luck was so common people wore it in their hair like a fashion statement. He really should’ve knocked on wood. But of course he didn’t because he was too worried he would catch venereal disease if he touched anything.

So things really started to get dicey when Stiles got promoted.


Stiles blinked at the woman with lovely green eyes and knew he looked ridiculous gawping at her from the floor with rubber gloves all the way up to his elbow.

“We need you to work tonight.”

She had a deliciously enticing Russian accent but her words were clear and clipped as she scrolled through her smart phone.

“Um…sure. Is there any particular rooms you wanted dressed down and cleaned?”

Stiles made a graceless attempt at standing and miraculously managed it without marinating both of them in soap suds.

“No. Tonight you do different job.”

“Err, alright. What kind of job?”

The Russian beauty finally moved her eyes away from the screen and directed all her exotic yet terrifying attention to Stiles. He resisted the urge to fidget, adjust his shirt or check if his fly was down.

She scanned him up and down then raised her eyebrow at his neon pink converse shoes.

“You will service our customers.”

Sorry what?”

She rolled her eyes.

“We dress you tonight, come showered and clean. You start at seven.”

When she began to walk away, Stiles realised what she meant and nearly squeaked. “What? Hang on, I’m not a prostitute. I’m just the cleaner, who cleans. That’s what I do. That’s all I do. I swear I’m lousy at giving anyone pleasure. I’m not a pleasurable guy.”

There was a beat of silence then the woman’s laughter was all that Stiles could hear.

“Silly boy.” The way she said ‘boy’ in her accent was unnecessarily toe-tingling. “No. We dress you in white shirt, black apron and you work tables. We are understaffed.”

After a few moments Stiles said a soft, “Oh.” He was sure he had turned an alarming shade of red. “Oh…so that's it?”

The tall beauty stalked closer and she leaned in till she was only a few inches from his nose. “Yes. However,” she scanned him again and lacquered smile revealed those pearly teeth and she said, “You do not seem completely unfit for…display.”

She laughed at his expression.

“Peace boy, there will be no pleasure taken from you tonight, except long hours and sore feet. The Madame only wishes to keep attractive staff on show. Public image is money and it is too short notice to find someone new. You will have to do.” Then she added, “I am Nadia and you will come find me at seven tonight, understood?”

Stiles just nodded mutely and watched her sashay out of the room with all the sass in the world. Suddenly he realised why she was so unsettling. Nadia was a female version of Peter Hale in a dress.

Stiles shuddered.


That night Stiles found himself wearing some classy black and white waiter’s outfit, serving in the main room.

It wasn’t so bad and the tips were rather generous considering that most of the clients were pretty rich. Stiles just kept his head down and did as he was told.

But halfway through the night, Stiles felt the base of his neck grow hot.

It was remarkably hard to ignore because he’s felt that hair-standing sensation before. Unknown eyes were trailing after him, like he was being hunted, cold gaze trained and narrowed onto his back.

Stiles balanced the tray in his hand and surreptitiously scanned the room. Nothing seemed out of place.

Stiles turned back to bar and refilled his canter, firmly ignoring the uncomfortable sensation blooming in his chest.


“So tell me, is Stiles really your name?”

It was his fourth night at playing a fancy-table-cleaner and Stiles was rubbing the glasses in an obsessive-compulsive manner when a man approached him with a-hundred-watt smile that set his Spidey-Senses tingling.

“Er, yes it is.”

“Really?” The man tilted his head, his eyes trailing down Stiles body. “How…unique.”

Oh god. He just got eyed. He just got eyed down by some sleazy guzzo with gross sideburns and a nose that rivaled Severus Snape.

“Haven’t seen you before, you new?”

No duh.

Stiles plastered on a painfully constipated smile and answered, “Can I help you with something? Another drink?”

“Oh sure you can help me.”

Yup, there was that rape face again.

The man leaned in across the counter and actually touched his hand, trailing his large fingers up his palm and resting on Stiles wrist. He resisted the urge to recoil away from heavy warmth against his skin. Urgh.

“You know I have a permanent room here with free service all year round. How about I show you? You and I can find out just how serviceable those rooms can be.”

I’d rather have stomach ulcers.

“Umm…if you need service I’m sure I can make a call and see that you have all you require.”

Mr Rape-Face suddenly tightened his fingers and pressed down on the delicate veins under his skin without losing that hungry look in his eye. Stiles honestly couldn’t say he ever had someone look at him like that. The attention wasn’t flattering at all.

When the man started drawing circles on his wrist Stiles just wanted to drop everything and run.

But most of all, he wanted to smash the broken edge of his champagne glass into the dude’s face and make a Picasso art of it.

“Oh sure Stiles, I’m make sure to tell them exactly what I need.”

Then the man suddenly let him go and stalked off like the cat that got the cream.

The smell of his pungent cologne remained lodged up Stiles nose for the rest of the night.


"Are you sure Stiles?”

“Yup. The Madame of the establishment is a succubus.”

“Seriously…a succubus?” There was paused then and sigh. “Did she have anything to do with the death of those three girls?”

Stiles hid behind the kitchen door and hushed into his phone.

“…I don’t think so. All I know is that she really, really doesn’t like wolves. Like at all. That’s why the entire building is surrounded by buried mountain ash. Also, I think she’s doing some weird lust thing to the guests who use her rooms. Like, I think she’s literally pumping supernatural aphrodisiac to make sure all her clients leave feeling satisfied by her service.”

“Aphro – Can she do that?”

“Honestly, I think the owner is just a business woman. From what I can tell, no one is doing anything they don’t want to do.”

So nothing on the girls?”

Stiles rubbed his face and said, “Well, I did find a connection. All three girls had the same last client. After they had sex with this dude they all died a day later.”

“Do you have his name?”

“Yup. A one Mr. Jim Grubs.”


“Yeah I know, he even sounds gross.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Sophia told me.”

There was a pause then Scoot asked, “Who’s Sophia?”

“Oh, she’s this awesome French escort that helped me out on my first day. She’s really nice and pretty and smart and it’s weird because she’s like a sexy hybrid of both Allison and Lydia but in an eastern European body. She said I had nice lips.”

There was another pause.

Stay away from the prostitutes Stiles. You can’t afford them. Give me a call when you have more info.”


Mr Rape-Face with the sideburns came back every night after that and Stiles realised with some despair that the man had to be a long standing patron of the hotel.

The good news was that he didn’t talk to Stiles again.

However the hot feeling of pins on the back of his neck never went away.


“We found another girl washed down the river this morning.”

There was a grim texture to Scott’s words and Stiles knew he was running out of time.

“Alright, okay.” Stiles sighed. “Don’t worry I’ll have it all figured out soon. Just hang tight.”

“Be careful Stiles.”


The whole thing started falling apart when Stiles decided to sneak upstairs to the restricted VIP levels.

He needed more intel on Jim Grubs. The man was the only common denominator in the murders and he knew Grubs frequently enjoyed his callgirls, so it was easy following his event schedule and finding out where he liked to spend most nights: The VIP parlour on the highest floor of the Monroe Court Hotel.

The problem was the VIP section was very restricted, so restricted in fact that it was a few armoured doors away from being Fort Knox. It hosted only the richest guests and the clients that wanted the most privacy…and had the strangest kinks.

It wasn’t a huge problem though. Stiles would just have to sneak his way in. Easy.

So Stiles stole a specific uniform only worn by the waiters that served on the top floor. It was clearly the wrong size because Stiles had to keep pulling down his shirt to cover the thin strip of belly that peeked through every time he moved.

The white gloves were kinda cool though. It made him feel like a fancy butler.

So Stiles casually carried a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and slipped into the elevator with little to no trouble. When the elevator doors opened, Stiles nearly gawped at the interior.

While the lower levels of the Monroe Court Hotel were glamorous, the top floor was clearly for those who could afford to stud their teeth with diamonds. It was opulent and lavish and Stiles felt like a street rat standing next to the black marble counter of the bar that could’ve doubled as a mirror. Even the curtains looked more expensive than anything Stiles had ever owned. There were people sitting around tables, laughing and drinking and generally enjoying themselves. Some of the escorts gracefully circulated the room, looking fabulous and cultured as they conversed and flirted with their clients and Stiles forced himself not to stare. He had a job to finish.

So he picked up a silver platter and carefully balanced champagne glasses on the tray and began working.

It took only five minutes to locate Grubs in a private alcove with a large-chested brunette sitting on his lap. After an hour of spying, Stiles slowly came to the disappointing conclusion that Jim Grubs was as ordinary as they came. He was dumber that a box of rocks and excessively hedonistic but definitely not supernatural in any shape or form. Of course Stiles didn’t rule him out completely, but his instincts were telling him that the man with wine stains on his collar, slurring words and spitting as he spoke did not kill those girls.

Pulling away from the marble counter, Stiles rapidly texted all his observations to Scott:

‘Grubs is gross but he’s a dead end.’ =[

‘Tan line on ring finger. Check if he has a wife. Might be a suspect.’

Stiles slipped his phone away and readied himself to quietly slip out, but before he could leave the main double doors opened.

It was like one of those moments in the movies where the mafia boss makes a dramatic entrance with all of his lackeys and the room goes totally quiet. They were a glamorously rich looking bunch but Stiles didn’t get distracted by their jewelry and fancy shoes.

Instead Stiles noticed three specific things:

The first thing was that despite how expensive their suits looked, Stiles didn’t miss the way their knives bulged under their clothes - rich criminal dicks by the looks of it.

The second thing Stiles noticed with extreme distaste was that Mr Rape-Face was among those men. His eyes zeroed in onto Stiles almost instantly and an unattractive leer spread across his face.

But the most significant detail Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away from was the last man trailing in at the end of the group.

He was in a fine dark suit, with a gun holster strapped by his waist. He looked uniquely normal in comparison to the rest of his companions who seemed to overcompensate outrageously in jewelry, hair spray and guns. The man walked into the parlour with a relaxed gait in his steps and with his hands casually in his pockets while the other guys grabbed at food and alcohol in an unimpressive scuffle.

Stiles noticed the last man in the room because he undeniably and without a doubt knew that face.

He knew those pale eyes and those stress lines at the corner of the man’s mouth.

Stiles nearly dropped his platter when his brain finally registered who just walked into a high-end brothel at ten pm on a working Wednesday night and he nearly choked on his own spit when that man sprawled himself onto one of the expensive couches like he own the damn thing, like all of it was supposed to make a lick of sense.

When those eyes finally looked up and found Stiles from across the room, he couldn’t help but finally put a name to the man with the wide blue eyes staring at Stiles like he was a trick of the light.

Hands shaking and disbelief swelling in his throat, Stiles whispered:





NOTE: Let’s be honest. Only Stiles would get into a situation like this.