He loved GWU. He really loved it. He loved DC, as it turned out. It had cherry blossoms in the spring, winters with snow storms and functional fireplaces, and more supernatural variety than he’d ever seen before. It also had some really slammin’ gay bars, but with the nation’s highest level politicians all gathered here a good portion of the year, how could it not? Just last week, a junior senator blew him in the alley behind the home of one of his favorite drag shows ever. DC was absolutely fabulous. Especially after his breakup with Lyds last winter. It had really sucked that they didn’t work out, but after their initial rush of “I love you; I remember you” the last semester of high school, it just sort of settled into what it had been before the Hunt—slow and gentle and wonderfully platonic, and agonizingly long distance. It wasn’t what he wanted, and he’d lost all sense of self-preservation enough to actually tell his best friend that he didn’t want to date her anymore. It went over about as well as he’d expected it to, which is to say not well at all. Lydia had been furious—how dare someone think THEY could dump HER—and he’d tried to explain that this wasn’t so much a dumping as a suggestion to return to their former glory. She’d hissed and spit over the phone and accused him of meeting someone else down there and that person was probably a guy and WHY were all the men in her life gay or Scott McCall, which…He wasn’t gay. She was just more like his sister than his lover. That didn’t make him gay.
All her hissing and spitting about him liking dick more than her did make him kind of wonder for a minute, though. Derek Hale had left him with severe shame boners through most of high school, but he’d always just attributed that more to being a teenager with a kink side than Derek. Did he like dick? He decided to experiment with the rest of his freshman year.
It turned out he liked dick. He liked dick a lot. He liked giving dick. He liked receiving dick. He liked sucking dick. Hell, it turned out he even had a thing for rimming people. Definitely bisexual, him. Surprisingly okay with it, too. He didn’t bring it up at his next visit to Beacon Hills, though. He didn’t want to give BOTH his ex-girlfriends any more ammunition to sling at him, and Scott talked a good game about being open, but outside of Danny, whom nobody had seen since junior year of high school, and Jackson, who made it a point to have as little to do with Scott’s pack as possible, Scott’s friend circle was surprisingly hetero normative. It wasn’t particularly Scott’s fault, it was just the way of things around Beacon Hills. Stiles knew his dad would support him, but there had already been that awkward discussion in the tenth grade about how Stiles couldn’t possibly be gay because of the way he dressed. Stiles tried to spend a bit more time talking to Mason and Corey on his next few visits, but everything there just felt weird and forced, and he got the feeling that they liked their place on the very edge of the pack, so he let them be and just tried to casually hang with them more when nobody was looking. By the time he headed back to GWU to start his sophomore year, he and Mason had a pretty great streak going on Snap. He felt pretty good about that. Mason had even taken him back-to-school shopping for better clothes. Turns out the kid had a thing for fashion. His new clothes felt just as good as his old clothes, and suddenly his ass was A-MAZING. His first week back in DC, he snapped Mason a pic of the very large hand grabbing his ass through the jeans that were so tight they looked like latex body paint at one of the back to school shindigs. He got back a thumbs up and a cheesy grin.
He managed to score himself a better apartment than the one from his freshman year, but with more roommates than before. It was also a slightly longer bike ride to campus, which was going to suck come winter, but it was worth it for more space to move around in. His apartment last year had been roughly the size of a matchbox, and his roommate had a thing for bean burritos and clipping his toe nails during reruns of Friends. He did not miss Deacon at all. He barely knew the three other guys he was sharing the two-bedroom this year with, and he kind of hoped they could keep it that way. One of them was a vampire. He recognized the signs and characteristics, though the guy did a decent job of passing. He jumped at the chance to share a bedroom with that guy—they’d have opposite schedules, and he’d be able to bring more people home if this semester went anything like last semester did.
He woke up early for his third day of classes and took the time to actually make himself presentable for his first class at 10 am. (The fact that he lived off campus did not stop him from enjoying the old college-student stereotype of pajamas and bedhead for classes before noon.) He grabbed his travel mug, which was really more like a portable barrel keg if he was honest with himself, and his bike. When he turned to lock his front door, an envelope was taped to his front door. His name was pasted in letters from magazines to the front of that envelope. Interesting.
He locked the door and stuffed the envelope in the front pocked of his backpack, then took off toward campus. If he hurried, he could actually get the reading done for his 1 pm class.
It wasn’t until he was grasping around blindly for a pen at the start of his 5 pm class—and what kind of sadist sets a class on the criminal forensics of blood spatter patterns for dinner time?!—when the envelope from that morning fluttered out of his bag. He’d completely forgotten it was there in all the excitement of GI tracts and the merits of Jane Austin being feminist for her time and statistical analysis and the taco truck being on campus that afternoon. Wednesdays were one of his busy week days, okay? It wasn’t his fault that he’d forgotten an envelope taped to his front door that looked like it could be a ransom demand.
He opened the envelope carefully, ripping down one side of it instead of opening it on the flap—there could be DNA on the flap should he need to have it tested. He was the son of a sheriff. He was curious and scatter brained, but he wasn’t stupid. He also opened the end further from him and kept that end of the envelope angled more toward the ceiling. He held his breath as he ripped.
He couldn’t see any powder flying up, so if it held some sort of airborne toxin, it wasn’t released in a powder form. He went ahead and exhaled. If it wasn’t a powder, it was already scattered throughout the room. It’d get him whether he breathed normally or not. He set the envelope on the desk and waited a couple minutes, taking the moment to people watch. College kids were actually surprisingly boring in their natural environment. He was a little disappointed.
When nobody in the room turned purple or dropped dead after a few minutes of his new envelope sitting inert, he picked the envelope back up and peered inside. A single tri-folded 8x10 sheet of paper sat inside, a plastic card inside of that.
Even more interesting.
He went ahead and pulled out the piece of paper, the card staying where it was and coming out, too. When he unfolded it, he found a McDonald’s gift card taped to the top of the paper, a message pasted on to roughly a quarter of the paper using tiny little letters cut out of probably magazine articles, not headlines, and a photo copy of runes forming sentences on the bottom half of the page, though he couldn’t really tell if they were Elder or Younger Futhark. He should have opened this envelope much earlier in the day. This was a bit of a delight.
He read the pasted fine print first:
This gift card has $50 on it. It is to be used in the morning for breakfast. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I’m tired of you skipping it every day and then pouring that battery acid you call coffee down your throat. You’re going to end up with an ulcer if you don’t start eating first thing. I will know if you skip breakfast, and you have no excuse from here on. You could feed a third-world country with $50 at McDonald’s.
The runes you see below should prove very helpful to you. Translate them, then act on that translation. You are a brilliant young man. I expect you to want to better yourself in every way, and you’re certainly dressing better and pursuing your academic education to the fullest. It’s time to hone other things.
Don’t let me down, Stiles.
It was fairly stalker-y, fine, but this guy basically just gave him fifty bucks and said he was brilliant. This wasn’t the first creepy stalker he’s had to deal with, but it certainly was the most generous. He had no idea what those runes said, but his stalker knew he didn’t eat breakfast, liked his coffee strong and black, had gotten himself a new wardrobe, and was living the good life academically. The guy probably knew what would turn his crank when it came to new things, too. He’d get to work on the runes when he got home that night. He had a couple books he’d found online, a copy of the Eddas, and Google. He could do it.
He spent most of the class mentally playing “Rorschach” with blood spatter patterns and wondering how he could get in touch with his new stalker. It felt kind of weird to admit, but he actually kind of wanted to thank the guy. Ramen was getting old, he was too busy to get a part-time job, and county sheriffs pulled in surprisingly little money as compensation. He vaguely wondered if he should be a bit more freaked out about having a stalker, but then a spatter pattern reminded him of a puppy eating a butterfly and he tuned back in to the lecture.
That night, he pulled out his rune reference books, his copies of the Eddas, and his Google-fu to translate something on his own. He didn’t need Lydia for this. He could handle it.
The runes turned out to be Younger Futhark. They spelled out an advertisement for a 6-week class series on runes and warding, no magical training necessary. It listed the name of a local new age shop. That was it. No contact information. No times. No dates. He looked the shop up online. There was still twenty minutes until they closed for the night, so he called and told the person who answered that he’d found an advertisement for a class series he’d be interested in taking on runes, and then he had to call the store owner’s personal cell because the employee had no idea what he was talking about but “sometimes the owner does things without telling anyone else about it because he’s kind of flaky” and apparently this particular employee harbored no problems at all giving out his boss’s personal phone number.
The class was free to those interested, and he was interested, and it started in a couple of weeks. It would take up his entire weekend for that whole six weeks, but it sounded intensive enough that he wouldn’t feel terrible not socializing. He went ahead and signed himself up, telling the store owner that he would totally be down for going on a mailing list about any upcoming trainings and classes. He called Scottie after that, who was totally pumped that Stiles was going to be learning all about warding and told him he’d be pretty amazing at it. That was why Scott was still his best friend.
The next morning, he got up forty-five minutes earlier than usual and stopped at McDonald’s on his way to class, hoping his stalker would be pacified.
He ate breakfast every morning for the next two weeks. He had to admit that it did help his concentration and his will to do homework and class reading in his down time in the morning. He went to his first warding class on Saturday. By that Saturday night, he’d gone through two sticks of chalk, every rune in the Elder Futhark (repeatedly), two sets of flashcards, and the last few firing brain cells he had left after a week of Charlotte Bronte. He stopped at McDonald’s for a Big Mac on the way home. He figured his stalker would understand.
He managed to get all of four hours of sleep Saturday night, because the class was not a short one. He woke up Sunday morning at the time he was supposed to be leaving for the shop to the chorus of P!nk’s “Walk of Shame” blaring from his phone on a loop. He cursed, dismissed the alarm, threw on the same clothes he’d worn the day before, and hauled his bike out of the apartment. Another envelope was taped to his front door. His name was again spelled out in magazine cut-out letters. He grabbed it and stuffed it in his back pocket before racing off to the shop. Breakfast was going to have to wait, because apparently runes waited for no man.
It wasn’t until lunch that day that he was able to get around to the envelope in his pocket. He ripped it open and pulled out another letter, this one with a quarter slip of paper folded into it. The slip of paper was a gift certificate to the shop he was in. The gift certificate said it was good for $300. His stalker was rich. And generous. Holy shit.
He read the paper, which this time was just a typed letter:
Well done with breakfast, Stiles. Keep this up, and I may have to reward you. Doesn’t life feel better when you eat at the beginning of the day? Don’t worry about skimping on items to save money on the card. I’ll keep it filled up—at least until you’ve grown up a little and discovered that you actually have taste and standards that are more precise than fast food and curly fries.
I knew you would handle those runes, and I hope you enjoy this course. I suspect it will further you quite a bit in your supernatural endeavors. You may even surprise yourself a time or two. I’ve included a gift certificate for this shop with this little letter of encouragement. Please note it should be used for reference books to further your studies and any supplies you may need for your warding class specifically. Don’t get distracted and buy herbs or shiny crystals. Warding only. (And books, because I know how much you love your books, and I would never want to deprive you of joys in life.)
Keep up the work, you brilliant, beautiful boy.
That was…kind of sweet, actually. His stalker was willing to keep him in food and books. And chalk. He was going to need SO much chalk for this fucking class. He used up another couple of sticks and bought a box of forty white chalk sticks before he left that night. He considered stopping and using his gift card to buy food on his way home, but his stalker was pretty specific about when he should use it, and he’d already cheated the night before. This person was being really nice, and he wanted them to know that he appreciated it. He ate ramen over his kitchen sink at 3 am instead.
Juggling the warding class and all his school work wasn’t easy, but he managed it for the next five weeks. He’d even finished two essays for his psych 201 class that weren’t due till closer to end of term and read through the $150 worth of books he’d bought from the new age shop. Ray, the owner, had helped him pick the books out based on the interests he’d talked about during the class. There had been one or two interesting people in the class with him, but they stayed too busy to exchange information during class time and he had no free time to hang out with anyone. He’d only talked to his dad about once a week since the class started. The last time he’d talked to Scott on the phone was the night he’d signed up for the warding class.
His roommates turned out to be absolutely awesome, though. The four of them had started a little routine of taking turns fixing meals for a day for all four of them and just leaving them in the fridge to be eaten whenever. A sort of natural roster started in place, and by midterms, he was only eating ramen over his kitchen sink in the wee hours of the morning occasionally. He’d even confronted his vamp roommate about what he was. Kyle turned out to be 675 years old. He was an absolute expert in blood magic. It was apparently another discipline that non-magical people could still partake of. Kyle promised to show him the basics when his warding class was over.
The letters from his stalker came at regular intervals. They were all encouraging. They all pointed out all the great things he was doing. Some of them commented on something he was reading for his English class, some of them laughed about the inanities of the gender studies class he was taking (Why is gender so important to you people? Who actually gives a shit about the genitalia attached to a person’s body? The person is more important than the body, isn’t it? A person is multi-faceted, complex. Genitalia is simply procreation). Some of them complimented the new pair of dress slacks he’d picked up on sale somewhere or the fancier shoes he’d bought on clearance. Gift cards for clothing stores and music stores and Barnes & Noble started showing up, each one with specific instructions on what types of items he was to spend the money on. He honored the instructions, because he was quickly learning that his stalker knew what they were talking about. He got sweaters made of cashmere and dress slacks made of linen and undershirts made of some type of silk. It all seemed completely indulgent and ridiculous when he was purchasing them, but he had to admit that they felt amazing against his overly sensitive skin. He ended up wearing the undershirts almost constantly. He went into an actual tailor’s shop and got a bespoke suit. He hadn’t even known what a bespoke suit was before that letter. He got music from Indian Bollywood artists, Scandinavian folk music, salsa and Latin fusion music. He read books by Confucius and Plutarch, made his way through Don Quixote in Spanish, bought a leatherbound, oversize edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. He wondered if his stalker wanted to be his sugar…parent. He wondered if he’d mind having one.
When mid terms were completed and his warding class was done, he collapsed onto his brand new Egyptian cotton 500 thread count sheets and slept for three days straight. He studied the basics of blood magic with Kyle when his other roommates weren’t looking. He’d learned late in his warding class that he was actually innately magical. Deaton had spouted off that nonsense about everyone having a spark back in high school, but he learned that he had far more than a spark. By the end of the class, his activated wards could be used for offense against supernatural creatures and his latent defensive wards could keep even Ray out, and he couldn’t quite figure out what Ray even was.
When he woke up from his three-day nap, he found another letter from his stalker congratulating him on his hard work and a $600 gift certificate for Amazon. The letter said he’d worked hard and focused enough on breakfast that he deserved a little reward, so he could buy whatever he wanted. He had to count his fingers to make sure he was awake. He’d just been handed $600 to spend on whatever he pleased from an online store that sold EVERYTHING. He bought a PS4, an accessory pack, all his favorite FPSes, and a few new fantasy RPGs he’d been wanting to play.
He wrote a letter of his own after confirming the “Thank you for your purchase” screen on his dream cart. He took a cue from his stalker and pasted little letters on the front of the envelope reading For my stalker. Roommates, leave this here or I’ll kill you in your sleep.
Two days later, his letter was gone. The day after that, a new envelope waited for him. It was kind of like that time in third grade when he’d written to an address on the back of a comic book and gotten himself a pen pal from Italy, only this time the pen pal was apparently loaded and concerned for his health and well being. He was just as excited about a new letter now as he had been then, and now he could apparently WRITE BACK.
Thank you for the kind words and the gratitude, but I assure you they aren’t necessary. I have a bit more than I need, and I actually enjoy sharing it with others. You’ve been so good about following my directions, too. You didn’t have to follow them—I absolutely would have continued spending money on you, because I enjoy that look of wonder you get on your face when you realize that you get nice things, too—but you chose to follow them. You still choose to follow them. (I know how much you love your video games and how big an indulgence you find them to be. The fact that you spent your reward money on something you honestly feel is a reward didn’t escape my attention.) I love how willing you are to indulge me, to take direction from me even though I know how headstrong and independent you are. Thank you for that. That honest reaction is all I want in return. The truth is that I fancy myself a bit of a provider. If that translates to your mind as being a sugar daddy for you, I suppose I am, but the bottom line is that I have more, and you have always dealt with less, and maybe I feel it’s time that somebody takes care of you for a change.
You look very happy in DC. You seem brighter, somehow. Maybe it’s your magic shining through, but I somehow doubt it. I think the big city suits you. I think you needed bigger crowds to stand out in, and I like to hope that maybe you’re finally finding yourself among this sea of beings. You should consider staying in a city like this more permanently. Beacon Hills drains you, and I love seeing you exuberant and full of life.
Do pay attention to Ray’s list of offered classes. The man is an absolute genius in all things magical, and you always were a good student. Enjoy your video games. Write often.
He did write often. His stalker—his MALE stalker—wrote back every time. The man was clearly older—he was well versed in politics from both sides of the fence, he knew his way around supernatural knowledge, he loved Renaissance art and Wagner, and he could debate circles around Stiles.
Stiles may have fallen a little bit in love with him. Stiles may have jumped off a cliff headfirst and screaming into love with the guy. He didn’t feel right calling the guy his stalker anymore. “Stalker” implied something much more creepy than he felt was going on. Halfway through the second half of his first semester, he just switched to referring to the guy as Daddy. It didn’t feel weird or kinky. It actually made him feel kind of warm inside, so he just went with it. Daddy didn’t seem to mind, even switching to calling Stiles “Baby Boy.” Nothing about their letters was overly sexual. It didn’t feel like a kink.
Around the time Stiles would have gone home for fall break, Ray put out a new list of classes offered. The week of his fall break, Ray was holding a special-invitation-only seminar with a guest speaker known worldwide for healing magic. Ray’s email said Stiles had a special invitation if he wanted it. Stiles wanted it. The only problem was that the email said to call about prices, and Stiles knew that special seminars with world-renowned guest speakers wouldn’t be covered by the $150 store credit he still had. He called Ray to see if there was any way he could work the rest of the price off (probably for the rest of his life). Ray told him not to worry about it, the cost was covered. Stiles smiled at the phone and told Ray to put him down as a yes, then.
He left a message in an envelope on his door that simply said, “Thanks, Daddy.”
The note in the envelope he found in return told him to take notes because Daddy wanted to hear all about it. He called his dad and Scott to let them know that he wasn’t going to make it home for Thanksgiving. His dad told him he’d had to pick up a double on Thanksgiving because the new deputy originally scheduled had just had a baby, so he was relieved. Scott was annoyed, but Stiles explained that this was going to increase his magical ability and ultimately help the pack, so his bro from another mo eventually grumbled about that probably being a good thing.
The seminar was astounding. The healer could do things with herbs that Stiles didn’t know possible. Mistletoe could actually heal in certain situations. Belladonna could be used for things as mundane as stress relief. But it was more than that, more than just the herbs. The man could manipulate line energy or pull on the elements to physically heal wounds. He pulled from the earth to heal a paper cut in front of the whole room. And then he went on to EXPLAIN HOW TO DO IT. There were diagrams and flow charts and everything. Runes and circles and rituals and spell chants. For five days, Stiles immersed himself in the art of healing. He learned woods that would heal and barks that would harm. He learned basic potions to protect and poisons to damage. He literally lived at Ray’s shop the entirety of fall break. He slept on a couch in the corner of the shop. He ate food catered into the event. He’d turned his phone off an hour into the very first seminar and didn’t turn it on until he arrived back at his apartment the night before classes started again. He could use air and fire to physically fix somebody.
The first thing he did when he got home was transcribe all his notes and recordings and charts and graphs and recipes into a folder on his laptop. It took him six hours, but he got it done. He printed off a copy, stuffed it and a short note telling Daddy what a great time he had and how much he’d learned and thanking the man again into an envelope, taped it to his front door, and then collapsed onto his bed. Kyle had apparently washed his sheets while he was out. He could kiss that vampire.
The semester resumed. He learned blood magic from Kyle. He played Call of Duty and Halo with his roommates. He went to lectures and classes. He took two seminars on ley line magic and and a two-week course on ritual creation and preparation. He wrote letters to his daddy. He talked a lot about himself over the next month. He talked about the loss of his mother and how he’d felt like he’d lost his father at the same time. Daddy told him all about several losses in his life, including the loss of his own son, in return. He told him about being the only human in a pack of wolves, and how he felt completely inferior, more an outcast than all those people who didn’t know about the supernatural because he was kept on the fringes for so much of the fighting, like he couldn’t be trusted anymore to keep himself safe. He talked about how far away he felt from Scott, how much they’d drifted in high school and just never got back to with each other. He told him about the time Scott had actually believed that he’d been a murderer, how low he felt. Then he wrote something he’d never admitted to out loud before: He said that maybe killing somebody else on purpose wasn’t the worst thing a person could do. He’d had a lot of time to think over the years about death and ethics and just what he’d do to protect loved ones. If someone was hurting those he loved, would he really sit back and do nothing? He’d wanted to kill Theo. He’d planned to kill Theo. He could have gotten away with it. He hadn’t, though—not because killing Theo was morally or ethically wrong in his eyes, but because he didn’t want to lose Scott completely. He couldn’t take that chance. Was he any better in that instance than someone who went through with it and actually killed the person who had wronged so many someone cared about? He would have done it if Scott hadn’t been so morally righteous. Was he a better person than a killer because he had friends he couldn’t stand to lose? If someone were to kill Scott, Stiles would hunt them down and murder them without a second thought. He knew that. Did that make him a bad person?
His daddy chastised him in return. The man told him that he was too good a person to go down that road, that of course he was better than someone who’d actually committed premeditated murder because he’d found that one thing that held him back. He’d abstained, and in the end, that was all the moral high ground he needed to stay the good, pure person his daddy knew he was. He’d told Stiles that committing murder probably WASN’T the worst thing a person could do, but that he worked with criminals every day (his daddy was part of law enforcement or the judicial system, which was something new he’d learned about the man), and premeditated murder changed a person. He’d made Stiles promise that if he ever found himself in a position where planning and killing someone felt necessary to him, he’d tell Daddy and let him handle the situation, because Daddy never wanted him to have to change.
It was the single sweetest thing anyone had ever said to him. This guy, this physical stranger who knew him so intimately, had basically just said that Stiles was too good a person to ever have to lose his soul, and this guy would do whatever he had to in order to make sure that Stiles could keep his soul intact. Nobody had ever offered him that before. Nobody had ever even stopped to realize that he’d been giving away pieces of his soul just to keep up with everyone as time went on. He thought of Derek Hale, who had lost parts of his soul to a fire that he’d felt complicit in, then to deaths that he didn’t commit but still played a part in creating. He wondered how much he’d changed in the years since they’d really seen each other, actually talked. Derek was a good guy who’d been handed a shit life. What if he’d had someone to step in and handle it for him?
He thought of Peter Hale, whom he hadn’t actually talked to since the time in the train station with the Hunt. Peter Hale, who had killed so many with so much purpose, who never seemed to regret any of his actions. He wondered what Peter was like before the fire. When did he lose his soul?
He told Daddy that sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, if it was dark enough in his bedroom, he could still feel the nogitsune crawling around in the back of his brain. He knew it wasn’t physically there, that it had been put back into its box and was hopefully rotting somewhere dark and cold, but he could feel it back there, a niggling sensation that was like a remnant of power. He didn’t know what to do with it. He told Daddy that he still randomly stopped to count his fingers, that he still felt trapped in nightmares.
Two days before semester finals started, Ray called him on the phone and asked him what he was doing the first week of winter break. He’d planned on going home. Ray told him about a one-week course he’d convinced a warlock to teach on shadow magic that week, and that Stiles had a spot in the course if he’d wanted it. Of course he wanted it, so he rearranged his schedule and signed on. Scott threatened to head out there and hang for that week if Stiles wasn’t coming home, but he promised to live in Scotty’s pocket for the remaining three weeks of winter break, so in the end he shipped back the things he’d need in Beacon Hills for a month and headed over to his couch in the shop. The course was taught in fourteen-hour days for seven days straight. For those who’d paid extra, which apparently included him, the warlock offered tutoring sessions and practical labs for another four hours after the day of coursework. After that, he slept like the dead for five hours straight and then woke up on the couch and started again. He took careful notes, outlined practices, and wrote down hypotheses and actual results. Daddy liked it when he was detailed, and he liked Daddy. Besides, he discovered early on in this magical education that the more he noted and documented, the more he remembered. He could still draw the correct combination of runes to ward against any situation from memory, and he’d already forgotten half of psych 201, which he’d just finished seven days ago, so the details were working.
It wasn’t until his plane back to Beacon Hills had almost landed that he realized he had no way of contacting his daddy until he got back to DC. He should have left a letter for him before he took off, but thirty-five hours of sleep in seven days was absolutely exhausting, and surely the guy would understand. He was sorry he wouldn’t be able to communicate with the guy on Christmas, though. Christmas was usually both fun and lonely for him, and he’d have liked a new letter to keep him busy. The guy might not even celebrate Christmas, though. He could celebrate Channukah or Kwanzaa or any number of religions, really. Still. At least he had three weeks with his dad and Scott. He didn’t know what pack activities would look like, what with him and Lyds still being not so great. The combination of both his exes in the same room might be enough to bring him to tears. He wondered if Derek would be back in town. Scott had mentioned that Derek had come through a couple of times. It might be nice to catch up with him. Last time he’d seen the wolf, Derek had been traveling the world. It sounded nice. He loved history and culture, and it had always been a dream of his to visit other countries. Maybe he still could someday. He had skills now. If he kept working on them, he might be able to save up enough to spend a summer in Eastern Europe or Mongolia or somewhere. Maybe it wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg to travel with a tribe of nomads across the Sahara desert or something. That would be awesome. He’d heard good things about Morocco. Antarctica had penguins. He’d have to remember to ask Daddy if he’d ever traveled to other countries when he got back to DC. He was willing to bet the man had. His writing suggested he was the kind of snob who traveled all over. He was willing to bet the man had never even stepped foot in a hostel, either. It was probably all chauffeured cars and five-star hotels, which was just fine for a luxury vacation, but no way to actually experience a CULTURE. He wanted to see how people really lived, what they really ate, how they really worshiped. He was willing to bet it would be a great exercise to help connect further with the elements, too. The shadow warlock and the healer had both introduced him to working with the elements, and they seemed like they would be really powerful tools and allies. He texted Ray as soon as the plane taxied into the gate to ask about the possibility of setting up a class series on the four elements. It was something the dude would probably love. The man was a planner.
His dad met him at baggage claim and grabbed him so tight he had trouble breathing for just a second. At least, he was totally going with the idea that the hug was too tight. He hadn’t actually seen his dad since he’d left for DC in August. It was a long time for him to stay gone. He blinked back the suspicious wetness in his eyes and thumped his dad on the back a couple of times, then they separated and walked back out to his dad’s cruiser. Beacon Hills didn’t look to have changed at all in the months he’d been gone, and it felt good to be back, but it seemed so empty. The streets were quiet, the sidewalks were sparsely populated, and the storefronts all looked clean and homey. It was the same Beacon Hills, but he’d gotten used to noise. DC was always noisy. It was always bright. The atmosphere matched his brain, and he could think better. His thoughts always seemed to whizz by too fast in his hometown. He was always moving when everything around him was still. After the week he’d just had, though, a little bit of quiet and stillness might just serve him well.
He took in his dad while the man drove them home. He looked good, like maybe he’d lost some weight. His hair was trimmed, and that sweater he was wearing looked new. His face looked less stressed, too. Overall, Stiles was very pleased to see it. His dad had sounded good every time he’d talked to him, but having the physical proof calmed something in Stiles’s gut that he hadn’t even realized had been roiling.
“So, Dad, you seeing anyone lately? You’re looking like you might be.”
His dad smirked in his direction, and he just grinned back.
“I might be, kid. What’s it to ya?”
HA! His dad WAS seeing someone. This was an exciting little development in the life of a small town. “Whoozzit? Whoozzit? Is it Mel? Are you and Mel dating? Please tell me you and Mel are dating!” It would be so sweet if Scott’s mom and his dad got together. Then he and Scott could be actual brothers, and that would be awesome.
His dad laughed. “Nah, Mel and Chris are still doing their thing, and it’s actually a pretty good thing.”
That did not answer his question. He wondered if his father was purposefully avoiding his question, and if he was, why. “That is not an answer to the first question, father mine. Who ya dating?”
His father snorted and turned onto their street. “Who you dating?”
He was definitely purposefully avoiding Stiles’s question. However, it was an exciting question for him to answer, because he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer it. He should probably address the situation with his dad, anyway. It was a pretty damn good story, he thought. “Well, I’m not really DATING anyone, old man. I’ve got a pen pal, though, and that’s going pretty well, actually.” He had a pen pal he’d never actually met. He had a pen pal whose name he didn’t even know. He had a pen pal who knew his schedule and address and the fact that he ran with wolves. He had a pen pal he was truly, madly, deeply, head over heels in love with at this point. He just had to figure out what that actually meant.
His dad pulled into the driveway and shut the car off before looking over at him. “A pen pal?”
It wasn’t that difficult a concept. “Yes, Dad, a pen pal. You know, a person you exchange letters with over time? One of those. He’s a pretty decent guy, and I might be into meeting him in person and seeing where things could go.”
“What’s his name?”
Daddy. “We, uh, don’t actually use our real names. A safety thing. You know.” He flailed with a hand, hoping his dad would accept his answer. It was a safety-conscious thing to do. It made sense to do things that way. Stiles would never actually do that, but maybe his dad would be willing to let him have this.
“How do you know the letters are yours, then?”
Jesus, what was with his dad and this sudden logic? Since when was logic a thing they did outside of case work? “Our addresses and the words ‘pen pal.’ It gets the point across pretty well. And stop avoiding the question. Who are you dating?”
“How did you get this guy’s information, then?”
He didn’t have this guy’s information. He could tell his dad what Daddy dreamed about at night, what his favorite colors were and why, the fact that they both understood the deep chasm of loneliness that being surrounded by people could elicit, that the guy liked Wagner and detested Brittney Spears, but he couldn’t offer a name, a location, or a phone number. That should probably bother him more than it did.
“He wrote to me first, actually.”
His dad threw his hands up. “Well, then, how did he get your information?”
He apparently stalked Stiles until he felt comfortable leaving a ransom-demand type letter taped to an envelope on his front door that Stiles had been worried might carry anthrax or something. Stiles shrugged. “Off a website I’d submitted to looking for people in DC to befriend when I first moved to DC last year, I think. We didn’t talk about it a whole lot, Dad. Look, he’s really nice, and I haven’t gotten a creepy vibe off him even once—” Except that time he was worried about the guy being a stalker who might murder him with a bio weapon. “And we’ve both been totally safe in our communications and I kinda want to meet him for real, okay? Enough with the dad questions. It’s my turn to grill you. Now spill.”
His dad laughed and got out of the car. He grabbed his laptop bag and followed. Maybe a beer would loosen some lips, here.
His dad was dating some secretary over at the mayor’s office. The whole thing was apparently pretty hush-hush for some reason completely unknown to Stiles, but if it made his dad happy, he was happy. His dad said that the thing was too new for him to bring her home to Stiles, but her name was Anna. It had taken Stiles exactly five minutes on his laptop to find her online. She was pretty in a librarian sort of way. Her facial features suggested being around his age, and her Facebook page confirmed this. She was also apparently into salsa dancing and happy hour at Applebee’s. He wasn’t entirely too sure what these proclamations said about her. He let it go, though. At least his dad knew his paramour’s name.
He’d slept in his childhood bed for about four days straight, just long enough for the dark circles under his eyes to fade enough for him to pass as a human again, and then Scott had come over and leapt on his bed and woken him up for an all-day Final Fantasy gaming marathon that actually lasted for forty-eight hours straight and ended in squawking and throwing of controllers and Cheeto dust ground into his bedroom carpet. Damn, but it was good to be home again.
Then it was Christmas Eve and his dad had to work because of that same deputy with the newborn and he found himself yet again putting the tree and stockings up by himself. He missed the tinsel on the banisters and the mistletoe in the doorway and the ornaments in the windows and all the fanfare of Christmas they used to have in this house, back when mom was around. He missed the piles of homemade presents and the mounds of cookies and the homemade ice cream. It used to be a really big time in his life.
He’d just gotten the star on the top of the tree when his phone buzzed with a new notification. It was a text, and the number it came from was not one he recognized. It was a DC area code. He sat down on the couch and read the message.
Merry Christmas, Baby Boy. I hope all your stockings are hung by the chimney with care.
He about dropped the damn phone. The man had just texted him. From a phone. With a phone number attached to it. Did his daddy just give him some contact information? Was the man PSYCHIC?! That would explain so many things.
It never hurt to be sure.
Did you tell Santa what you wanted for Christmas? How was your week-long intensive?
Holy shit. He could still talk to his guy while he was home. He loved this man so much.
It was absolutely fantastic. The warlock was an amazing talent, and he knew how to guide us through physical exercises so we got a lot out of it. I have all sorts of notes for you, but I’m not in DC, which I suspect you already know.
Maybe he’d get an email address, too.
I told my dad about you. Sort of. I didn’t have a name to give him.
He drummed his fingers against the arm of the couch. Maybe he shouldn’t have suggested wanting a name. They had a really, really great thing going, and he shouldn’t have pushed. What if the guy doesn’t answer? Maybe he had a reason for not sharing his information. Stiles had time to rummage around for the remote control, turn on the TV, and find National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation on TBS and Daddy still hadn’t answered him.
Dennis Quaid was just letting Chevy Chase know the shitter was full when his phone finally buzzed again. He held his breath and opened his texts.
Did you, now? What did you tell him?
Well, he didn’t tell him that he called the man Daddy. He didn’t tell him that Daddy liked to spoil his Baby Boy. He didn’t tell him that Daddy supported him more mentally and emotionally than anyone at home ever did. He didn’t tell him that he was insanely in love with Daddy.
I told him that we were pen pals and that I wanted to meet you in person.
Oh, I love that, darling. I can be your pen pal. Get through midterms this coming semester, and I’ll arrange a meeting. But keep your GPA up, Baby Boy. Parents of all kinds value a good education.
Daddy just suggested they meet at midterms. He could meet this man in just a few months. He didn’t even care how old this guy was at this point. He could be eighty-five and Stiles was pretty sure he would still climb this dude like a tree. He was good at grades, if that was really a thing.
I am good with grades, Daddy. You know that already, because I’m fairly certain you’re psychic. I’m holding you to a midterm meeting.
He was going to meet his guy in early March. He could make it to early March. He needed a drink.
His dad hadn’t picked up any Coke before he got home. He sighed and got a glass of tap water. His phone buzzed.
I’m not psychic, baby. I just know you. Now, did you tell Santa what you want for Christmas?
How far did he want to push this tonight? There were a number of ways he could answer that question. He strongly suggested the man actually wanted to know what kind of presents he would request for Christmas, but he was REALLY not feeling that answer.
I was super busy this last month, Daddy. I haven’t had time to sit on ANYBODY’s lap this whole time.
He gulped his water down and debated taking this text string up to his bedroom. Chevy Chase was not anybody’s kind of spank porn, after all, and tonight seemed like a good night for Christmas miracles.
Well, why don’t you sit down on my lap like the good boy you are and tell me, then?
And there they were. He headed upstairs, already half hard in his jeans.
I would, but I squirm around a lot. You probably already know that.
He kicked the door to his room shut and unbuttoned his jeans with one hand.
I could hold you in place.
Oh, dear god, there was that manhandling kink he’d pushed down since high school. Hello, Old Faithful.
I’d like that, Daddy. I’d like that a lot. I’d be a very good boy for you.
He tossed his phone onto his bed and shimmied out of his jeans. They were too tight for all this. His phone buzzed on his bed, so he stepped out of the jean puddle on the floor and fell onto the bed, picking his phone back up and getting himself comfortable against his pillows.
I’m sure you would be, baby. But I’d still make you answer my question before I’d do more than hold you in my lap.
He could do description sexting. If his man wanted him to text out all the things he wanted him to do, he could do that. He liked to use his words.
What I really want for Christmas probably couldn’t be put in a box and gift wrapped. I’m betting it’s big enough to wrap in a bow, though. Would Santa wrap it in a bow for me, I wonder? Could I get it while you’re holding me down?
He regretted for just half a second not packing emergency lube in his carry on. There was absolutely no way his dad had any.
You’re being a naughty boy, Stiles. I’m inquiring about presents you’d like to see under your tree, and you’re not answering me. How can I get you what you want if you don’t tell me?
Now he was thinking about Daddy spanking him. That could be fun, too, although pain for pleasure wasn’t really his thing. He’d had enough pain during high school, thank you very much. But he could enjoy the hand of the guy he loved. That could work.
Are you going to have to spank my bottom now? I don’t mean to be naughty. I could stick out my lower lip and pout. You could spank my ass until it’s all loose and relaxed and then give me my Christmas present.
He licked his lower lip and reached into his boxers. His phone buzzed.
I am not doing this with you right now, Stiles. Get your hand out of your pants.
Holy shit. His daddy was totally psychic.
But Christmas sexting, Daddy! Don’t you want me to hang my stocking? You could trim my tree!
This was probably not the best way to get his guy to let him talk about rimming and rubbing, but these gems were too good to pass up.
If you would ever like me to trim your tree, ever, you will get your hand out of your pants and tell Santa what you’d like for Christmas.
Ugh, this guy was like Ebenezer Scrooge. And now he was was imagining Christmas Carol porn.
He fingered at his head just a little.
But Daddy could be psychic. Like, psychics were a thing that actually existed. They were rare, but they were out there in the world.
He sighed and pulled his hand from his pants. He was really looking forward to this guy trimming his tree.
If he wasn’t getting any guided self-love tonight, he was going to get some enjoyment out of this, and he could get timely responses now.
Oh, Daddy, I’m good. I’m very, very good.
I swear to the seven holy hells, Stiles, things are not going to go the way you want them if you don’t start behaving again. Bad boys don’t get big cocks.
His dick twitched into the next area code. His Daddy was an older man in some sort of law-enforcing capacity who enjoyed the finer things in life and HAD A BIG COCK. Now he was getting somewhere.
Just you, Daddy. I just want you.
He set the phone down on the bed next to him and waited a few minutes for a reply. Nothing came through. He pulled his boxers down and waited a few more minutes. Still not phone buzz. He wrapped a hand around his cock and eyed his phone suspiciously for half a minute. Nothing. So he jerked himself off, cleaned himself up, and turned the lights off through the house before going to bed. He left the tree lit and sparkling in the dim living room. He thought of his mom. He thought of trimming trees and kissing his Daddy under the mistletoe. He imagined a future where his husband hugged him from behind and kissed him as he hang the last stocking on the chimney. He wondered if Daddy wanted kids. He wondered if he wanted kids. He could probably ask now. He had a phone number. Shit, he could probably call that phone number to wish his one true love a Merry Christmas tomorrow.
He drifted off to sleep in his bed with thoughts of doing just that in the morning.
He woke up in the morning to a text from the number he’d saved as Pen Pal (just in case) that simply read You already have me, Stiles.
He dialed that number, but nobody answered. Daddy hadn’t even have a voicemail box set up. He pouted and texted back Then why didn’t you answer your phone?
He’d exchanged gifts with his dad, with Scott and with Mel, and even with Chris Argent and had sat down to a Christmas feast before his phone buzzed with a reply.
Merry Christmas, love. Enjoy your time with your family.
The rest of his break was spent in a flurry of Halo and Call of Duty and World of Warcraft and Scott and movies with dad and more Scott and then more Scott. A large portion of the rest of his break was also spent with Malia, because she and Scott were still surprisingly a very strong thing, and with Mason, who was no longer with Corey but still completely into fashion and design. He didn’t know his Gucci from his Versace, but he thought the kid had some serious talent. Mason had allowed him to take some screenshots of some of his designs to send “to a good friend” (which received a wink and several nudges from Mason, but no deep, delving inquiries), and he texted them to Daddy to brag to someone who actually cared about how things looked about his friend. It was cool, okay?
Daddy agreed that Mason had real potential, which he shared. If all went well, next year maybe Mason would go to design school with the right encouragement.
The day before he was scheduled to head back to DC, he was in the middle of wrestling Scott for the last peanut M&M when his phone buzzed. He let Scott have the M&M, even though he’d already licked it, and checked his phone to find a message saying that Daddy was looking forward to having his Baby Boy back in town. He must have smiled at it, because Scott tilted his head.
“Dude, you smell weird” was all Scott said. Stupid fucking werewolf noses. He’d forgotten about that whole smelling-emotions thing most all of his friends could do.
“Nah, man. It’s fine. Just got some good news.” He pocketed his phone.
“Bullshit! You smell like you used to smell around Lydia when we were in high school. You smell like lust and teenage boy right now, Stiles. Who was the text from?” Scott reached out to try and swipe his phone from his pocket. He laughed.
“No way, Scotty. You’re gonna have to wait to find out.”
Scott pouted at him. “Why? Come on, man! We’re bros! Who is she? Where’d you meet? Is it serious?”
He smiled. He should tell Scott something. He’d mentioned it to his dad, after all.
“It’s super new, Scott. I think it’s serious—it feels serious—but I’m not at the screaming it into the universe stage just yet, man. He’s a really nice guy, though, and I really like him.”
Scott blinked a couple of times and then smiled that sunshine smile at Stiles. “You like him, huh? You gonna at least tell me his name, then?”
He found himself torn between not getting judged and wanting to gross his best friend out completely. In the end it still felt too private to share with even Scott.
“You’ll get a name when I’m ready to make things public. It’s…complicated, man. We’re taking it super slow, and he’s really amazing with everything, but it’s not something I want to share with people right now. I promise that you and dad will be some of the first to know more about him, though, okay?”
Scott punched him in the arm and said that was fine and then they marathoned Die Hard until they’d both passed out from sugar crashes and the awesomeness that was John McClane. He caught his early-morning flight the next morning, promising his dad they’d call more and he’d be careful with his new “fellow” and he’d be careful with the magic stuff and that he’d focus on his education.
By the time he’d made it back to his apartment, it was early evening, he was starving, and he hadn’t heard from Daddy all day.
A greeting card envelope was taped to the door. It bulged slightly. His name stared at him in ransom-demand letters. He blinked and removed the envelope, ripping it open and tipping it over.
A set of car keys attached to a single key fob fell out of his hand. A folded piece of paper floated to the floor in front of him. He grabbed it and read the typed note:
These keys are not your Christmas present. They are a gift for acing your classes last semester. Good things come to good boys, as I told you. Go down to your garage and head to spot LL 132. These keys should allow you access to what is waiting there for you. I love you, and I’m proud of your hard work so far. You have exceeded absolutely all of my expectations.
He stuck his carry on inside the apartment door and ran to the elevator, punching the button for the lower level. Daddy liked to spend money on him, but surely he didn’t…
Stiles’s heart might have picked up a bit at the idea of his daddy getting him a car because he’d made the Dean’s List this past semester. His father had been impressed he’d done as well as he had, but always believed that good grades and a job well done were their own rewards. He’d never gotten gifts for doing well, and a CAR, well. It would be nice to not have to bike to campus and the shop in DC winters.
The elevator let him out, and he wandered the floor of the garage until he found LL 132 painted on the wall. In front of that space designation sat a shiny electric blue Jeep Grand Cherokee. It was almost the same color as the main body of his Jeep back home had been, but shinier and thicker. The windows were tinted, the plates were current, and a GWU parking permit and emission inspection sticker had already been stuck to his front windshield.
Another piece of folded paper sat tucked under one of the windshield wipers. His hand shook a bit as he took it and unfolded it.
You haven’t even clicked the fob to unlock the car yet, have you? What are you waiting for? It’s yours, I promise.
He looked up from the note and clicked the button to unlock the car. It unlocked with a gentle beep and a flash of the lights. He looked back down at the note.
You haven’t even clicked the fob to unlock the car yet, have you? What are you waiting for? It’s yours, I promise.
I know it’s not exactly the right color, but apparently they stopped manufacturing that color paint in 2002. Who knew? Your Christmas present is sitting on the driver’s seat. The gift on the passenger seat is just because I love you and I want you to think of me fondly at all times. Now get that absolutely adorable ass of yours in your car and check things out. Then take your just-because present upstairs and think of me for at least twenty-five minutes.
It was an odd request, but instructions, requests, and directions written on these pieces of paper usually ended in happy times for him, so he shrugged and opened the driver’s door. A piece of coal sat on what was very probably a real leather seat. God, he was beyond in love with this man. What was the step after completely and totally gone on a person? Because he was there. He chucked the coal out onto the garage floor and brushed the gray leather off before climbing in and sitting behind the steering wheel. The interior of the Grand Cherokee was a soft gray color. He snapped a pic of the passenger seat and console off to Mason that read what do you call this color gray before he slid the key into the ignition and cranked the engine.
The car around him purred quietly to life. It was quieter in that cabin than any other car he’d ever been in. The dashboard lit up in soft white light, the center of the dash giving him electronic readouts about mileage and gas consumption, but the rest of the gauges still showed as meters. The tachometer idled at about five as he sat there with the engine on, taking in this brand new car, with exactly zero miles on it, that now belonged to him. The stereo system was a full on LED display MEDIA system. In a car that belonged to him. Complete with bluetooth to hook his phone to and built-in wifi. He owned a car that was wifi capable all by itself. Shit.
He opened the glove box and found the owner’s manual, what (given what he knew of his daddy) was probably a custom created log for car care and maintenance, a receipt for a year of unlimited data/month paid for on the car, five $50 gift cards to the car wash place down the street from his apartment, a current insurance card in his name for this car covering the next six months, the registration with only his name and address on it, and the deed to the goddamn Jeep in his name and his name only. Not only was the car his, it was 100% his legally.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Daddy’s number. There was still no voicemail box set up, so he texted the man.
This is too much, Daddy. It’s beautiful and I love it, but I couldn’t possibly accept it. It’s too much.
It was an absolutely beautiful SUV, complete with all-wheel drive and the capability to handle dirt and gravel. It had room to carry things, and it would survive road trips. He could hook a bike rack to the back. He could attach a hitch and haul shit with this baby. This was the type of car one purchased after a major promotion or life event. It was expensive and decked out. It was not the type of thing daddies got their kids for making the Dean’s List one semester of school, not even Daddies looking to spoil their Babies. He rested a hand on the steering wheel, which had a “heated” feature for cold winter driving, and wished desperately that he could keep it. He couldn’t though. This guy may enjoy being a provider, but buying a new car for some good grades was some next-level shit that didn’t sit right with Stiles’s pride.
His phone buzzed.
Then sell it and buy whatever you want with the money. You deserve nice things, Stiles. I will keep saying and acting on this until you start to believe me. Your GPA came in at a 3.9 this last semester. That was on top of dedicating yourself to learning four or five types of magic, baby. That is an incredible feat, and it doesn’t matter if “but you enjoyed doing that so it wasn’t hard.” It WAS hard. The average person could not achieve what you’ve achieved this last semester, love. They would have given up or gotten sick and dropped one activity or the other. Not only did you keep up with both, but you kept yourself fed and hydrated and as well rested as possible, and you found the time to keep in touch with your father. That is remarkable, and it deserves a remarkable reward.
He could feel the heat rising up his neck and cheeks. The corners of his mouth pulled up so far and so fast that it actually physically hurt a bit, but he couldn’t relax his smile. He was remarkable. Someone else had said that he was remarkable. Someone else had recognized the fact that his hard work was HARD work. His Daddy actually watched him, actually looked at him. His heart pounded in his chest, beating stronger and louder every time he thought about the message. He was above average. He was remarkable. He was…
Clutching his phone to his chest like a teenage girl or something.
He lowered his shoulders and exhaled to ground himself in the car. He had worked hard last semester. He had learned and practiced and even worked on who he was as a person. Daddy had plenty, the man had said. Daddy felt better when he could provide. Daddy was so, so good to him without actually expecting ANYTHING back, ever. Daddy didn’t even respond to his advances because the man apparently wanted to “do this right.” This gift, this car was Daddy’s way of showing his pride and admiration, when Stiles stopped to think about it. It wasn’t like they were at a stage where Daddy could show him off to his older friends and brag about his accomplishments.
Maybe the guy hated the idea of Stiles biking to campus and the shop on snowy winter days as much as Stiles did. His nose twitched against his wishes. This man loved him. He wanted him warm and safe and comfortable. He was proud of him and was trying to show him that hard work could result in more than just internal pride. It was okay to rely on others for mental and emotional help; why shouldn’t it be okay to rely on trusted others for physical help when they were willing to offer it? Daddy had absolutely zero expectations toward him. Daddy made him feel capable and confident and respected his thoughts and opinions. Stiles was pretty certain that he could stop communicating with this man in two hours and the guy would just slink back into silent, harmless stalker mode. Daddy had even gone out and seen movies and read books that he’d recommended, and then they’d argued for weeks about themes and characters and the significance of plot points.
Behind these notes was a man who wasn’t being a creepy, dominant jerk. This man who’d found him genuinely cared. He wanted safety and warmth and comfort for a person he cared about (and someday Stiles was going to ask him how he’d found him and why he’d cared so much in the first place).
He wanted the car.
I suppose you’re right. I did sort of earn something really nice. I’ll keep it and use it, but only if you promise me that thinking about me staying warm in it on winter days will bring a smile to your face.
He slid all the documents except for the deed back into the glove box and closed it. His phone buzzed.
You truly are magnificent, baby, and it thrills me that you’re really almost mine. Thank you for understanding me. I don’t think anyone else has ever done that. I love you deeper and harder with every day that passes. Now take your other present and go settle in for the night. Nine am classes start early. I’m shutting off this phone for the evening now. Be good, and enjoy your first day back tomorrow. Check in with Ray. Remember my directions regarding that other present.
He locked the screen on his phone with a quiet chuckle and turned to the gift wrapped box on the passenger seat. It wasn’t an overly large box, maybe about the height of an inkjet printer box and half the width. He grabbed it. It wasn’t overly heavy, but it had enough weight on it that it would drop like a stone if he let it go. He pulled the ribbon off, chucking it toward the passenger seat, and tore into the Christmas wrapping paper. Daddy had gotten him a brand new SUV AND a lump of coal. This could be anything, really.
The paper slid off a really beautiful wooden box. Vibrationally, it felt like ash wood. It thrummed in his fingers, and he let the energy of the wood into his body. It soothed and excited at the same time, skipping along his skin like an eager six year old girl. It felt good. He smiled and hummed his thanks to the wood, because Ray’s healer had told him to always thank nature for giving him what it wished to give.
The corners of the box were rounded, and the lid was hinged to the box in beautiful, well cared for brass. The lid was carved with delicate swirling and spiraling silver filigree work along the corners and sides. A smaller, rounded off rectangle was etched into the box on the inside of the filigree work. In the middle of all that stood a big, bold, deeply etched triskelion. A single claw—or maybe a fang—extended from the end of each spiral, etched in as boldly as the triskelion itself. With a lighter touch, but no less craftsmanship, each phase of the moon had been etched into the lid, almost making a little square of its own for the triskelion to sit in. Everything about it screamed “werewolf.” The ash wasn’t of the mountain ash variety, though, so this didn’t seem to be a box for protection. It wasn’t a box designed to keep people out. It was beautiful, though.
He opened the lid. The hinges made no noise, and the lid stayed open on its own. The letters HBH were engraved into the inside of the lid, but that was the only decoration there.
A piece of paper covered the contents of the box. It sat evenly, at any rate, just on the edges of what Stiles could see was royal blue velveteen material. He didn’t have to move the paper to read the printed note:
You opened this in the Jeep, didn’t you? You were told to take it back to your room with you, and here you are, willfully disobeying those instructions. You’re a brat, but I love you anyway. Under this piece of paper, you will find a Christmas wish. READ THIS ENTIRE THING BEFORE YOU LOOK UNDER THE PAPER, STILES. I know you, and I have things to say before I lose you to the contents of this box. Even though you were being a very bad boy, Daddy still loves you and wants you to have everything your heart desires. Who knows, maybe if you’d been a very good boy on Christmas Eve you could have had the real thing on Christmas. (KEEP READING, STILES.)
This box has been in my family for ages. It’s one of the few things I have left of them, one of the few possessions I actually treasure. It was made by my great-great-great grandfather for his lover. He’d been committed to an arranged marriage just months before they met, but he loved this woman so much that he risked spite and wrath and the very likely possibility of an open war to be with her. He broke the commitment days before the marriage ceremony was due to be held. The woman’s family had been furious, and my family had to give up the land they’d held in Nevada to avoid an open war. Relations with that family have remained openly hostile since, but my forebear got the woman he loved in the end, and he went on to sire an absolutely huge brood of his own and cement the position of my family. He doted openly on his wife every day. His commitment and his loyalty were the only reasons I am here today to pass this box on to you, a treasure I can give to my treasure.
I want you to keep this piece of my past. I want you to know me. I plan on building my future with you.
And now you may look under the paper. Twenty-five minutes with it, thinking of me. Remember that, Baby Boy. And click the lock button on the fob three times to set the car alarm, please.
He didn’t look under the paper. He closed the lid instead, running his hand over the engraving and burning, over the inlaid filigree and running through the story of the box’s creation in his mind. It was no wonder that the wood vibrated with eager joy. It was no wonder he wanted to skip away when he held it. This box WAS love. It was made with love, out of love, for love. He closed his eyes and touched the box with his own energy. He’d never really practiced psychometry before. He’d never really practiced any method of divination before—his life was going to be what it was going to be, whether he consulted the cards or cast the runes or scryed for advice over it. He didn’t need warnings or clarifications or advice to live that life.
Still, this box was given to him for a REASON. “A treasure I can give to my treasure.” He wished it would give him more insight into the man that he was perfectly fine with building a future around him.
The box radiated love and acceptance. It unfurled that place in his chest he reserved for his dad and for Scott, for pack. It reminded him of those nights getting drunk around a bonfire, the family bonds and they love of his friendships. An image of his mom and dad—the last image he’d ever had of the two of them together—sprang unbidden to the forefront of his thoughts.
His mom had already been sick. She’d been so sick, and everyone knew she wasn’t going to pull through from this one. Even Stiles’s young brain had understood that by that time. He remembered coming back from the snack machine to whine about it eating his quarters and then just standing at the door and staring at the scene before him. His dad was still on the chair he’d rarely left by the side of Mom’s bed, but he was bent just slightly over her. Both her hands were gripping his, and his dad was crying. His dad never cried. Stilinski men didn’t cry. He could hear his mom making the same shushing noises she made to him every time he tripped over air and skinned his knees. He could hear the loud hitches every time his dad tried to inhale. He watched his mom press a kiss to one side of his dad’s forehead, and then his dad openly sobbed. He heard his dad tell his mom, “I’ll ALWAYS love you. Always. It’s always been you,” and then his mom had seen him and pulled away from his dad, and that had been the end of that.
I’ll always love you…It’s always been you.
He opened his eyes and grinned. This guy was a werewolf. He had to be. He was an older male werewolf with deep ties to family who’d suffered the loss of loved ones. He was rich and involved in the judicial system in some way, very probably more a lawyer or judge than an enforcement officer, given the rich part and his ability to successfully stalk at the level he could. He had a taste for the finer things in life, and he was a provider and a natural romantic, apparently. He legitimately wanted Stiles to feel better about himself, and Stiles was pretty sure the man really loved him. Stiles was getting closer and closer to his answers. He turned the car off and grabbed the keys from the ignition, hugging the box to his chest with one arm. On his way back to the elevator, he clicked the lock button on the fob three times and heard the chirp of the car locking followed by the short whirl of the alarm activating.
In his apartment, he grabbed his carry-on from its place beside the front door and walked into his bedroom. It appeared that none of his other roommates had gotten back yet.
He kicked off his shoes and sat down on the bed, opening the box again. He glanced over the second half of the note again and smiled at the warmth in his stomach it elicited before taking it out of the box and setting it on the bed.
Underneath where the note had been, nestled in royal blue velveteen, was the largest dildo Stiles had ever seen outside of those prank monstrosities and the massive double headers. It was big enough he was almost afraid to touch it. It looked realistic, the pinkish color a lot like his own dick took on when it was solid and aching. The dildo had what looked to be a foreskin thing on it. He’d never, ever seen a dildo with a foreskin. He’d never seen a dick with a foreskin. The whole idea of foreskin kind of freaked him out a little. It was weird, and the smallest thought of it reminded him of those tiny little dinosaurs in Jurassic Park who’d spit on Nedry and then eaten him alive. This dildo had foreskin, though. It looked fairly smooth, only little bumpy lines running along it instead of those ridiculous overexaggerated veins on most of the dildos he’d ever seen. The thing had to be at least ten inches long, and the height on it, maybe a full inch, had him a bit scared of the girth of this thing.
He reached out and touched it. It felt like high-grade silicon, but it was firm like no toy he’d ever touched. Most of the toys he’d ever touched had a bit of a jellyish feel to them when you poked them. This one had no give. He grabbed it and pulled it out of its resting place. The thing had to be a couple inches wide. It was less a dildo and more a size queen’s wildest fantasy/nightmare. He could almost wield it like a light saber. It was firmer than any toys he’d handled. It didn’t bend at all. There was hardly any give when he tried to wiggle it back and forth. And it was big and scary. He stood up and grabbed the tape measure from his desk drawer and suction cupped the dildo to the top of his desk—because the thing had a suction cup on it, of course it did—to measure it. It was ten and a half inches long, a little over two inches wide, and about an inch in height. And it had foreskin. That moved back and forth. It had better not spit on him.
What the hell, Daddy?
A Christmas miracle…give you what you wanted.
What do you want for Christmas?…Your cock.
If you’d been better behaved on Christmas Eve, maybe you would have gotten the real thing.
He raised an eyebrow to the dildo standing proudly on top of his desk. It was high quality.
Spend twenty-five minutes with it and think about me.
He’d seen the make-your-own-dildo kits before. That was a thing that could happen, though probably not to this level of quality. It had foreskin. He could feel it the moment his cock and his brain made the connection together. That freak show in front of him was a replica of Daddy’s cock. He had never really been a size queen. Cock was cock, and all cock was good cock. This monstrosity, however. This thing was intimidating. There was no way that beast was going to fit inside him. Especially not for twenty-five minutes at a time.
But Daddy had asked him to spend the time. Shit. Okay, Stiles. Just think about this for a minute. Maybe he could divide that time up, like use his hands on the dildo, maybe like go down on it or something. It would likely choke him to death, but if this was in fact a replica of the dick he was going to saddle himself to for the rest of his life, maybe it would be good to get the choking and spluttering out of the way on silicone instead of the real thing. And giving head was always easier to do while he was fingering himself, so he could, in theory, be nice and open and only have to spend a few minutes at most trying to feed that thing into his ass. He could do that.
He should record it. He was willing to bet Daddy would love watching it, even if the man wasn’t ready to actually talk about sex yet. The man was always praising Stiles for his creative genius, right? He should totally record it.
He pulled the dildo off the desk. That suction cup came with quite a grip, apparently, because he had to use both hands and most of his upper body strength to get it off. He knelt on the floor at one corner of his bed and then stuck the dildo against the bed post at roughly a height to match his mouth. He could hear the power of that stick. He grabbed the laptop from his desk and opened it on his bed, pulling up the camera and positioning the computer so the camera could clearly see the dildo and the empty space in front of it. He’d have to adjust everything when it finally came time to shove his ass onto that thing, but he’d worry about that later. He grabbed a pillow from the head of his bed and threw it on the floor in front of the dildo, then took the lube from his drawer and stripped himself completely naked.
He dropped the lube by the pillow, hit the button to start recording on his laptop, then dropped to his knees on the pillow and waved at the camera. Every part but his feet was visible to the camera. His heart hammered. He waved and smiled.
“Hi Daddy. I got your present. I wanted you to know that I followed your instructions, so I thought I’d record myself doing it and then give that to you. I hope you like it.”
He glanced at the dildo in front of his face and his nose twitched a bit as he figured out how he should do this. He’d never made a porno before. He was a talker during sex, though. Maybe he should use that.
He kept his eyes trained on the dildo. “It’s, uh, it’s big, Daddy. I’m pretty sure this is a life-size model of your cock, isn’t it?” He reached out and stroked two fingers along the side away from the camera. The silicone was smooth and slightly silky feeling, but still silicone. The material grabbed against the pads of his fingers. “I’m not going to lie, it’s kind of scary. I didn’t know they could actually get this big.” He grabbed the lube off the floor and held it up and closer to the camera. “It’s flavored lube, see? I tend to like to play before I give head or put out, and nobody likes skin catching against their dicks, so I always lube up before that, but I’m pretty damn into giving head, and unflavored lube makes me gag, so I always buy the flavored stuff—chocolate or vanilla when I can find it. You know I have a sweet tooth.”
He squeezed some lube onto his fingers, then discarded the tube without recapping it and spread the lube to cover one of his hands. He wrapped a hand around the foreskin and the bit of head poking out, flexing his fingers just slightly and gently pushing his hand back. The foreskin flap moved with his hand, so he loosened his grip and kept pushing back. The foreskin smoothed against his skin before falling back into place. He slid his hand all the way to the base of the dildo. With lube, his hand slid against it well. “I can’t even get my hand all the way around it, Daddy.” He twisted his wrist and slid his hand back up to the tip, covering the other side as much as he could on his return trip. “It feels good against my hand, though. I like the weight of it, the way it lays against my palm as I move it around.”
He gently fingers the foreskin. It’s soft and delicate, and it moves with his finger. He slides a finger under the foreskin, remembering to be as gentle with it as he can since he’s treating this like a practice run. “I’ve never been with anyone with foreskin before.” He rubs a bit against the head, circling a finger around it and then two. “I don’t actually know what to do with it, how to make that feel good.” He batted his eyes and looked into the camera as coyly as he could. Given what he was seeing, he thought he did a pretty good job of coy. He pulled his fingers out and ran both of them around the base of the foreskin. “I’m hoping you’d be willing to be a patient daddy and teach your baby boy how to effectively work foreskin into foreplay. I’d sure love to learn from you.”
A quick glance at the timer he’d set on his phone showed that little hand job, or whatever it was, took about five minutes. He could give head for fifteen minutes straight. He knew that; he’d timed it before. It would be an interesting experiment to see how much of that he could impale his throat on. Especially given that this was what his daddy’s cock was going to be like. His cock, which had bowed out of the proceedings as soon as he’d hit the record button, twitched at the thought of blowing this dick when it was attached to the man he loved. Would Daddy hold still when Stiles got his mouth on him? Would Daddy’s cock twitch against his tongue? What kind of praise would spill from his daddy’s lips as cum rained down his throat? If he practiced enough on this dildo, maybe Daddy could hold him down and fuck his face, telling him while he did it what a good boy he was, how nobody could take Daddy like he could, how his body was made to be his daddy’s. God, that would be awesome.
He wrapped his hand gently around the base of the dildo and flicked his tongue out, licking at the head. The slit was very defined, almost deep. He flicked his tongue again, aiming for that slit, letting his tongue settle into and against it before wriggling it just a bit and lapping up. He leaned forward more, wrapping his lips around the base of the foreskin. He could feel his own cock getting warmer, thudding a bit as it filled up more. He slid his tongue between the head and the foreskin, wriggling a bit and enjoying the dual sensations on his tongue. The foreskin was light and tickled a bit as it dragged against his tongue. The head was full and firm, a round, solid surface for his tongue to run against.
His dick pulsed a bit. He reached down with his free hand and pumped it once before letting go of it, feeling it fill completely up so that it stood up completely. He knew his dick was pretty. It was long and lean, though not quite as long as the dildo he had his tongue against at the moment. He’d clocked himself in at a good nine inches at full chub, and he knew how to use every inch of it.
He pulled his mouth from the dildo and looked into the camera. His whole face looked lust-drunk, his cheeks flushed and his mouth slightly agape. “Look what just the thought of you does to me, Daddy. God, the idea that this dildo in front of me could be your dick revs my damn engine. A couple flicks of my tongue and I’m already completely hard for the thought of you. Fuck, I want to suck your cock.” He turned back to look at the dildo. “Want you inside my mouth, inside my ass, filling me with your fucking cum and marking me for everyone to know I’m fucking yours.”
He surged forward, closing his eyes and giving the dildo a gentle yank before swallowing as much of it as his mouth could take. The suction to the bed held.
His mouth was nowhere near his hand at the base of the dildo, so he brought his other hand up and wrapped it in front of the first. He pulled his mouth back slightly to wrap his thumb properly against the silicone, then slotted his lips firmly against the skin on his hand before pulling his mouth back, flattening his tongue against the dildo as it dragged back. He knew Daddy couldn’t feel what he was doing, but this was a practice run. By the time he had actual skin against his tastebuds, he was determined to be able to swallow around that head.
He bobbed and ducked and licked and curled and lipped his way further down that dildo, occasionally opening his eyes and looking at his laptop screen as he did it. He was so hard he was starting to physically ache, but he knew he couldn’t take a hand away from this dildo to touch himself. He wanted to make it as good for Daddy as he could. He’d been a brat at Christmas, and Daddy was still nothing but fantastic to him. Daddy had told him something important about himself. Daddy had said he loved him. Daddy had given him his cock after he’d said that was what he’d wanted at Christmas. He wanted to show he could be Daddy’s Good Boy, too. His dick pulsed at the thought of being Daddy’s Good Boy. The head of the dildo bumped against his throat and he fought off the reflex to gag around it. He knew how good it felt when someone gagged around his cock, but he was trying to make this good for Daddy right then, and Daddy couldn’t feel his muscles contracting. He pulled off slightly and imagined Daddy petting his hair back, fingers big enough to belong on a body holding THIS dick stroking through his hair, a roughly whispered “good boy” filling his ears as dove back in, angling his head and feeling the tip slide further along the back of his throat. He relaxed his jaw as much as he could, knowing that would relax some of the muscles in his throat. He pulled all the way off the dildo and looked into the camera.
“Fucking love sucking cocks, Daddy. You have no idea.” His voice was raspy already, the sound scraping against his well fucked throat. “Love having something in my mouth, something to suck on and lick at while I open myself up.” He grabbed the lube back up and squeezed a fat dollop onto on index finger. “Love the feeling of being fucked on both ends, god.” He wrapped his lips back around the tip of the dildo, gently pushing the tip of his finger into himself, breaching himself just slightly before pulling his finger back out and squeezing more lube onto it. He pushed it back in, sucking more of the dildo into his mouth as his finger further breached. He licked and sucked and fucked his fingers into himself until he was four fingers deep and his lips bumped against the one hand around the base of the dildo, that firm silicone sliding down into his throat every time he thrust up into himself. His thighs shook. Sweat gathered at the base of his back, in the upper cleft of his ass. He moaned against the dildo in his mouth, his throat muscles constricting around the head as he moaned. He imagined a string of whispered curses from above him, that phantom hand curling around the back of his head and gripping there.
He thrust into himself one more time, hard, a whimper catching his throat along the shaft as it slid its way down again. He pulled his fingers out and wiped them on his carpet, then pulled off the dildo entirely, a string of spittle still connecting his lips to the head for a moment before it broke and swung down against his chin. The dildo bounced gently against the bed post. He glanced at his phone, and damn. He’d set a new record. The timer showed three minutes remaining, but he was hot and his balls were tight and he was so, so open. The sight of that long, wide dildo sent a different kind of shudder through him now. He smiled at the camera on the laptop. His whole face was flushed, his lips swollen and puffy. He could see the sweat beading on his forehead. That flush extended down his neck and into his chest, which was heaving with exertion at this point. His dick was long and flushed an almost angry purple against his stomach, swollen larger than he normally gets. His cock felt too tight, stretched thin enough it might break if he tugged on it at all. He wasn’t going to, though. He wasn’t going to touch himself this time. This was for Daddy, not for him. He knew Daddy would want him to get off, to chase his own pleasure, but Daddy had given Stiles his cock and told Stiles to think of him. He wanted to be Daddy’s Good Boy, and Good Boys should be able to come on Daddy’s cock alone. He knew his man would be able to bring him that way, so that’s how he was going to do this. He knelt back on his heels and swallowed once.
“Okay, Daddy, this is going to be longer than twenty-five minutes of spending time with your gift and thinking about you, but you did say AT LEAST, and I just need to see this all the way through. Give me a minute, though, because I have to move some things around.” He smiled into the camera and then stood up. His bobbing dick was camera level. He laughed. “The things you do to me already, and we haven’t even met. Look at me. This is seriously bigger than I normally get.” He stood where he was and yanked roughly a few times on himself now that he was a bit calmer. “I can’t wait to see you, Daddy. I can’t wait until this is your hand around me, working me off.” He let go of himself and pulled the damn dildo off the bedpost with his whole body. He almost fell over, and the whole fucking bed shook, but it came off. He knelt on the floor again, backside toward the bedpost, and then guesstimated the exact positioning he’d need and stuck the dildo back onto the bedpost before standing back up and grabbing the computer.
“Okay, Daddy, you’re just going to have to deal with the jostling and the movement and the boring for a minute, because I don’t want to cut away. I want you to see what a good boy I was for you, how much I love your present. I just have to get the laptop set up at a better angle, so let’s just…”
He grabbed his office chair and rolled it over beside the bed, angling the laptop camera down until the screen was filled with the space he’d need. Then we stopped at the bed and shut the timer on his phone off, tossing it back on the bed. He squeezed lube directly onto the dildo, in dollops and lines and swirls. He grabbed his t-shirt from the puddle of clothes on the floor next to his desk, realizing at the last minute that he’d need to protect the carpet from that much lube. When he was on his hands and knees, knees resting on the pillow they’d been on before, he looked over at the camera and smiled. “Are you ready, Daddy? All comfortable? I hope you’re touching yourself as you’re watching by now. I want to fuck myself on this replica of your cock while imagining your hand around the real thing. I’m gonna pretend I’m your hand, Daddy. I’m gonna wrap myself around your cock.”
He inhaled deeply. He could do this. He was as open as he’d ever been. He was excited and loose. He wanted this. He was in control. He could go as slow as he needed. He backed his ass up slowly, opening the space available with one hand as he did it and babbling about how much he wanted this and how much he loved his daddy and how good his daddy was going to feel around him and above him and inside him. The head hit him the tiniest bit higher than it should have. He raised his hips until it lined with his opening, cold lube squishing against his pucker. He pushed back just a bit more, until he could feel the pressure of the head actually pressing against his hole. He circled his hips slightly, moving that pressure around just slightly without actually pushing it in at all. “Would you go slow, Daddy? I bet you’d go slow. I bet you’d tease me, wouldn’t you? I don’t normally like drawing things out—I was going to say that you have no idea just how much I love cock, but you probably do, don’t you? I think I love that about you, that my Daddy knows everything there is to know about me.” He pushed back just a little bit more, the very tip of the head breaching, but not penetrating the muscle at his opening. He gasped and rocked back forward, circling his hips again. “I think I’d like your teasing, though. You’d know what I like, what I could take when.” He rocked back again, allowing the tip to breach just a little bit more. It felt so good, just that little bit of slip and slide, the smaller part of this beast pushing past the muscle. He rocked forward and inhaled. “You’d know how long to finger me open, how slow to push in.”
This was it. He had to go deeper this time, and he didn’t have anyone to hold his hand, to push through it while he gritted his teeth. He inhaled deep and held it for a second or two. He rocked himself back harder than he had on his exhale. The pressure and the width punched his breath out of him, but he pushed back more, baring down slightly. The head breached him completely, something brushing back as the dildo sank deeper inside him. He shivered at the sensation and the sudden burst of pain. He smacked on hand against the floor. “So goddamn big, Daddy. FUCK. So—”
He rocked forward just slightly, feeling the catch of the head and that slight brushing—the fucking foreskin. Jesus Christ. He didn’t think he’d actually notice something like that. Fuck. He rocked back again, pushing more into him and groaning. “Fuck, Daddy, so good. So, fucking, Christ.” He rocked back and forth, pulling more in every time, breathing through the pain and the pressure. There was so much pressure. He pushed himself through it, taking more in. That skin brushed against a spot on that push. His entire body clenched. His breath caught in his throat. His vision whited out slightly.
He hissed in a breath and looked down and back to see what he could see. His dick had lost interest in the pain. His dick always lost interest when pain was involved, but his balls swung slightly with the movement. He could still see some of the shaft of that damn dildo. He’d found his prostate now. He could keep going. On the other hand, he’d gone well over his twenty-five minutes and he didn’t want to actually hurt himself. He rocked forward a bit, a completely different brushing sensation sliding over his prostate. He cried out and clenched around the width inside him, hanging his head slightly and hunching his shoulders. It changed the angle slightly, putting more pressure on that spot that added pink stars to the white in his vision. He smacked the floor with the palm of one hand and bit his lip, rearing back in response. It slid in further, feeling like it punched all the way through to another fucking area code. He cried out, arching from the pain and pulling almost entirely off his new favorite fuck toy. He wheezed in a breath as sweat dripped down his elbows.
“Jesus, Daddy, need you to—” He rocked back, taking more in. “Need you to—” In and out and in and out. Back and forth and back and forth.
“Fuuuuuuuuck,” he breathed out. “Tell me I’m good, Daddy. Tell me what a good boy I am!”
He imagined those phantom hands from before steadying on his hips, holding him in his arch as that gigantic cock fucked further into him, slower and more drawn out than before. He took in a ragged breath as those phantom hands pushed him away, then pulled him in again, dragging and dragging and dragging against him until the sparks in his eyes sunk deep into his balls, drawing them up.
He was hard again. He was so, so hard. His arms were shaking. His thighs were shaking. His balls smacked against those gigantic silicone facsimiles. He’d done it. All ten and a half inches were inside him. He took a moment to take inventory. A warmth started in his ass and rose up his back, a fever spreading over his body. He’d NEVER been so full, stuffed farther than he thought he could be. He rocked forward an inch or so and then back again. The sparks faded, but his hard-on didn’t flag. He rocked forward further, keeping the drag slow and the angle high. A whine crawled up his throat and out of his mouth. Back fully again. Forward more. Back fully. Forward more, until the pain and the pressure lessened and all that was left was that full feeling. He leaned forward on his forearms. The head escaped with a squelch and a loud pop. He could feel the clench of his ass around nothing, the deflated, empty feeling. His dick was a pain and a throb beneath him, nothing but pulsing and agony. He pushed back again, taking every inch of it till it was fully seated in him again. He looked at the laptop screen. He was ass-deep in silicone. He was visibly sweaty and shaky, and the flush he could feel on his face stretched down to his knees. His hair was damp and sticking out at odd angles. He looked completely and utterly fucked out. He offered the camera a shaky smile. “You ready, Daddy? We’re gonna pick up the pace. Your hand’s gonna move faster now. I’m gonna strip an orgasm out of you now, and I’m gonna be such a good boy for you. I’m gonna come on only your dick, because your dick is all I need, Daddy.” He inhaled, then pronounced “here we go” on his exhale.
He fucked himself back on the silicone dick in earnest. He slid fast and hard, back and forth and back and forth, picking up more speed as he hit that magic spot every time. He panted and grunted and shoved and yanked in and out, up and down. He clenched down as hard as he could, gritting his teeth and arching his back in and down as he went. His chest constricted. His brain twitched. His balls exploded. His dick thumped in time with his heart.
He blacked out.
He blinked and found himself lying stomach-down in a considerable pool of stickytackygross. He was still stuffed full. His legs were jelly. His breaths were shaky. He huffed out a half-laugh and reached out to stop the recording, which was still going. It was out of his reach, so he found the motivation to push himself up to his hands and knees and crawled over to his laptop. His ass stayed stuffed full, and every step forward rubbed and grabbed and created more white sparks at the edge of his vision. He reached the laptop and smirked into the camera. He was completely fucked out, and it showed. He’d ridden hard. “I hope you liked that, Daddy. I know I did. I’m gonna do it again soon, too. Gotta practice taking you, after all.” He winked into the camera.
Then he turned around and wiggled his ass at the camera. The dildo stayed in his ass. “It’s still there. It fits so nicely, you know—stays so nicely inside me. I want to keep it up there forever, imagine you inside me forever.”
He turned back around and looked into the camera. “I’m going to stop this recording now, get cleaned up, and then save this to a USB drive and tape it to my door. I really hope that you stop by tonight so you can pick this stick up and watch it. I love you.”
He stopped the recording and did just that.
He managed to make it on time to his nine am class the next day by some miracle. It hurt to walk, it hurt to sit, it hurt to stand, it hurt to bend, and fuck the very notion of squatting, but he had his new Jeep parked in a parking spot on campus and was hovering in a seat when the prof walked in and kicked off his new school semester. He could have healed the burning and the edge of pain, but he’d already determined that he hadn’t seriously hurt himself, and that edge kept Daddy at the front of his mind, where he liked the man to be.
The envelope holding his USB stick of filth was gone from his front door when he’d left this morning. He hasn’t stopped grinning from that revelation. That video was the single filthiest thing he’d ever done in his LIFE, and he’d had a junior senator blow him by a dumpster in a back alley of a gay bar and had made it back inside in time to catch the drag show. Tonight he was going to ride the beast on one of their wooden dining room chairs. He’d totally bring the chair into his room first, at least. He was thinking about using Brian’s chair. It’d be fun to watch the guy sit there on it and quietly eat dinner, knowing it had been covered in lube and his cum at one point. He was still trying to decide if he wanted to record it and share with certain older werewolf judges when his phone buzzed in his shirt pocket. He had a new text message.
Holy fucking HELL, Stiles.
He smirked and then glanced up toward the front of the room. Nobody was paying any attention to him.
Did you like it? I take your instructions very seriously, you know, and it was a very nice just-because gift.
He slid the phone into his backpack and paid attention to the rest of the lecture.
It was lunch time before he had a chance to check his phone again.
I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard, dear boy. Ever.
I have watched this video twice now. I’m halfway through a third viewing. You are a little minx, pet.
You are a very good boy, by the way. The best boy I’ve ever seen. That mouth of yours is downright angelic. You take direction like nobody I’ve ever seen, and you suck cock you were made for it. You will always be my good boy, Stiles. Always.
His cheeks warmed at the last message. He was Daddy’s very good boy. Those words heated him up, settled his nerves, quieted the buzzing in his brain. Apparently he had a praise kink.
I love you, Daddy.
He did, too.
An envelope was taped to his door when he got home for the evening. His name was scrawled across it in real handwriting—capital and lower-case letters and everything. The paper in the envelope was yellow and lined and looked like it had been ripped out of a legal pad. Handwritten in all caps were the words Filomena’s—this Friday—7 pm. Dress nicely and bring an open mind.
He had no idea what that meant.