Stiles had the perfect amount of time between classes on Wednesdays to actually sit down for lunch and relax, and as luck would have it, Wednesday was also a treat day. Instead of schlubbing into Meal Hall and heaping a tray with whatever they were passing off as relatively nutritious but palatably suspect that day, Wednesdays were for standing in line at the Students’ Union Building food court and waiting eagerly for an order of greasy, delicious, golden goodness.
The SUB had a partially rotating menu, with daily specials in addition to their constant staples. Mondays, they did a mean spicy chicken burger. Fridays usually meant onion rings, but they always ran out of those at lightning speed. But on Wednesdays, there were always curly fries.
Technically, the food court also had a wealth of very fresh, healthy offerings too, made right in front of you: salads, sandwiches, stir-fry, all that crap. But Stiles had to physically and spiritually suffer through Dr. Pritchard’s droning for the rest of the afternoon on Wednesdays, which required some serious fortification to survive the entire lecture. There were few things that could get Stiles in a better mood quicker than an enormous order of perfectly crisp curly fries from the goddesses that worked the grill at the SUB.
It wasn’t even remotely surprising when, just as she was stepping out of her morning class and into the crisp, November air, Stiles felt the buzz of her phone vibrating in the pocket of her jeans. Peter had her schedule saved somewhere, quite possibly memorized; Stiles was pretty sure he got an alert on his phone whenever she was out of class.
A couple of years ago, that would have been immensely creepy. It was probably creepy now, even if they had been dating for months. But creepy was sort of her thing, apparently, since Peter checking in at precisely the right time was another one of those few, awesome things that pretty much guaranteed a happy Stiles.
Trying to avoid getting run over by obnoxiously distracted freshmen— and yeah, okay, so she sort of fell into that category at the moment too, whatever— Stiles pulled out her phone and beamed like a total doofus at the handsome, sleep-mussed face on the screen, accepting the call before it could get shunted to her voicemail.
“Hey, hey,” she said, shrugging more comfortably into her backpack and heading down in the direction of the SUB. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”
“Hello, Stiles.” It was patently unfair that Peter could just say her name like that, all deep and dirty, and immediately make her insides turn to goo. What was even more unfair was that she hadn’t discovered that neat little trick until after she’d turned eighteen, which had been less than five months before she’d had to drag her ass all the way across the country for college.
Who the fuck had ever imagined Peter Hale would give a shit about legally getting into Stiles’ pants? But apparently, avoiding getting shot by her dad had been a concern, among other things, like not wanting to be a dirty little secret. Which was fair, even if Stiles still wished she’d been let in on the whole plan a bit earlier.
Before April, Stiles had pretty much convinced herself that her teasing back-and-forth with their resident recovering murderer zombiewolf had been more of a one-way crush, mixed up with mutual respect for a fellow practical, capable person. Peter had made it clear a while back that he thought Stiles was significantly more valuable than the rest of Beacon Hills’ witless Pack and Pack-adjacent tag-alongs— clever, adaptable, more willing to do what was necessary. He’d told her that, with actual words, but also with how easily they worked together keeping the rest of the dumb little puppies alive.
He’d said he liked her right from the start, but he’d been mushy-brained psychotic and high on Alpha juice at the time, and a virtual stranger to boot, so forgive her if she’d taken that admission with a grain or two of salt. She hadn’t known he’d been skulking around Beacon Hills whenever he wouldn’t be missed from the hospital, keeping an eye on his nephew and his errant Beta, and by extension, watching Stiles too.
So, okay, yeah, Peter had maybe been less than subtle about his appreciation for Stiles: bringing her coffee and snacks to Pack meetings, giving her free access to his ever-growing library, and being immensely more helpful than Deaton when it came to learning anything. Spending time with her on purpose, like legit seeking her out, even when he didn’t need a favour, or whatever. Never making her feel like her presence was a deal-breaking, unbearable annoyance, no matter how spazzy she got after too little sleep and too much Adderall.
But he hadn’t actually made a move, and if there was anything she’d thought she was sure of about Peter Hale, it was that he wasn’t shy about getting what he wanted. He could be sneaky, sure, and would easily play the long game, but once she’d gotten over her initial freak out about her massive brain-and-lady-boners for the dude, she wasn’t subtle either. No testing the waters or persuasion required; she was good to go, full speed ahead to super hot werewolf sexing.
The first two months of her senior year of high school, she’d spent more time at Peter’s apartment than at her own house. She stole his clothes, wore a push-up bra for the first time in her life— and no, she didn’t have a lot to work with in the boob department, but between the bra and the way Peter’s v-necks had draped loosely off her shoulders, the overall look had really worked— and had just generally been as obvious as possible that she’d really, really like to get all up on that, without actually using her words. Because she wasn’t about to put herself totally out there, all vulnerable and bare-assed, even figuratively speaking. Not without some hint of reciprocation.
She hadn’t wanted to risk totally ruining the comfortable peace that existed between them, which meant no sneaking into his apartment— though it wasn’t technically a B&E when he knew she’d made a key— and waiting naked in his bed. No grabbing hold of that thick, biteable neck and hauling his sharp, snarky mouth down for a messy kiss. He’d have to either meet her in the middle, or just ignore her and she’d let it go.
He’d ignored her, treating her exactly the same as before, with all the shared jokes and banter, and the familiar touches that never went anywhere. So she’d let it go.
Until the night of her eighteenth birthday, when she’d been laughing and stumbling out of a restaurant with her Pack, Melissa, and her dad, and trying really hard not to feel hurt by Peter’s conspicuous absence.
Of course, it turned out he was lurking in the parking lot like an enormous creep, leaning against the hood of his car in a suit jacket and soft-looking sweater, with his legs stretched out long and sinful in tight jeans. And since he was still a total drama queen, even if he wasn’t a total psycho, he took that opportunity to ask her out in front of her dad, and her friends, and the rest of the universe at large.
She’d said yes— fucking right she’d said yes, he’d had a bouquet of flowers and enough muscled cleavage going on to make her lightheaded, for god’s sake— and her dad hadn’t been carrying his sidearm, so everything had turned out okay.
After that, they’d certainly tried to make up for what Stiles considered lost time, but university had always been looming like a stormcloud on the horizon. She’d already had her acceptance letter, her scholarships, and there weren’t that many schools that offered the hardcore mythology and folklore focus, along with the smattering of biochem she was looking for to really beef up the emissary training that Deaton insisted on being cryptic and unhelpful about.
Less than five months of frequent and enthusiastic sex, with a dude she kinda sorta really liked being around even when they weren’t fucking, had not been nearly enough time to appreciate the full benefits of finally dating Peter Hale, in Stiles' considered opinion. School was alright, even if most of the intro stuff she’d been exposed to thus far had waffled sharply between ridiculously boring and bizarrely stressful, but missing Peter felt like a splinter she couldn’t quite pull out of her skin. It ached sometimes, dull and irritating, and bit her sharply now and then. It generally just sucked.
They talked a lot. More than she talked to her dad, since her Pops was feeling weird about his empty nest and trying to give her some space to stretch her wings, while Peter was aware that her wings were well and truly stretched already, thanks. More than she talked to Scott, but then, Scott didn’t regularly talk her all the way to shaky, blissful orgasm, so.
“Stiles?” Speaking of talking, Peter was talking to her right that second, and Stiles had been miles away. By the mildly concerned tone of his voice, he might have tried to get her attention more than once. “Is something wrong?”
They had a handful of code phrases, if she couldn’t speak freely for whatever reason. If he asked if something was wrong, and she simply said everything’s cool, he’d know that everything was very much not cool, DEFCON 1, something was badwrong in Stilesville and required immediate assistance.
Since the only thing badwrong at the moment was the lack of Peter holding her hand, Stiles didn’t try to call in the calvary.
“Sorry,” she said instead, shaking her head even if Peter couldn’t see her. “I was thinking about orgasms. What’s up?”
Peter’s laugh was more a gust of air than anything else, releasing amusement and protective worry in one exhale.
“I see. Any particular orgasms on your mind, kitten? Or just a general theme?” Stiles bit her lip, not even bothering to glance around at anyone who might be walking nearby. She honestly couldn’t have cared less if somebody saw her getting flushed and squirmy on the phone with her painfully sexy boyfriend.
“Well, the night before last was pretty good. Definitely going in the spank bank rotation.” She grinned at the sound of Peter’s low, pleased growl. She was closing in on the SUB, and turned that same smile on the polite dude who held one of the main doors open for her to slip through. She sort of half-recognized him from one of her classes. “But I’ve got high hopes for tonight, honestly. No class tomorrow morning, y’know.”
“I do know.” Yep, she had the sweetest stalker. “No other plans for tonight, then?”
“I mean, if you’re busy I could study, or work on a paper, or whatever. But I was kinda hoping you wanted to have a bunch of sex. You could try making me cum so hard I start speaking in tongues again; that was fun.” The dude who’d held the door for her had apparently followed her inside; she hadn’t really noticed, until he walked straight into a soda machine a couple of feet away. The bang of the impact made her jump, and wow that was a surprising amount of blood. Must have broken his nose. Gross.
Stiles headed for the stairs— the food court was one floor down— leaving behind what was quickly becoming a gawking crowd around broken-nose guy. Lucky for him, the Student Health Centre was right down the hall, so it totally could’ve been worse.
“Hey, I might lose you for a sec,” she said, trotting down the steps. “Headed down for food, glorious food, and my reception is shit in this stairwell. But are we yea or nay on the whole lots of sex tonight thing?”
“My vote’s yea,” Peter said amicably, and Stiles punched the air, perfectly comfortable being an unapologetic dork when it came to getting orgasms from Peter Hale. “Which brings me to the reason I called.”
“What, you didn’t just miss my dulcet voice and sparkling wit?” She escaped the stairwell with only a slight echo warping the call, and that evened back out as she made her way towards the mouthwatering aroma of deep fat fryers.
Peter didn’t answer her, but the lack of a flippant, smartass jibe was enough to make her stomach feel warm and melty again.
“Are you in the SUB?” he asked, and she hummed a wordless agreement. “Good. Make sure to stop by the post office before you head to your next class.”
“Already got my care package on Monday, handsome. Remember?” Her dad put a bit of cash in her account fairly regularly, like she was still getting allowance, and he always asked if she needed anything whenever they talked. Peter sent her a little box of treats every single week without fail, mostly candy and maybe a book he thought she’d like, but occasionally something bigger. She was currently wearing the super soft, scarlet red hoodie with the fuzzy lining that he’d sent the first week of October, layered under her coat because North East weather was fucking bullshit of the highest order.
“Consider this a present,” Peter said. “For surviving your midterms and your roommate. How is Tabby, by the way? Still an unmitigated shitheel, or has she worked that stick out of her ass yet?”
“Down boy,” Stiles said, without any real reprimand at all. Tabitha was pretty much a total shitheel, unfortunately. She’d taken one look at Stiles’ short cropped hair and flannel shirts when they’d both arrived in August, and immediately made a big, squawky fuss about not being even a little bit lesbo, so Stiles shouldn’t get any ideas.
Stiles had a real-live boyfriend who Skyped pretty much every day, but that didn’t seem to make up for the fact that she almost never wore makeup and didn’t shave, legs or pits or anything between. No matter how many times she and Peter didn't even bother to wait for Tabitha to sexile herself before they started getting hot and heavy, the chick still seemed to be waiting for Stiles to jump her. The fact that Stiles had flat out said, multiple times at increasing volume and with decreasing tact, that she wasn’t remotely attracted to her psycho roommate made even less of a difference; Tabby had just gotten pissier about it.
It was immensely gross. Growing up in Beacon Hills, where Stiles had been cheerfully, openly, and enthusiastically bisexual since she was like twelve years old, and pretty fluid-but-leaning-masculine when it came to her gender presentation for even longer, without taking any serious flack about any of it, had not prepared her for this kind of crap.
“I still say you should just hex her.” Let it never be said that Peter was always the voice of restraint or good judgement in their relationship, despite the fifteen year age gap. “There should be something suitably gruesome in that spellbook I sent a couple of weeks ago. Consider it practice.”
“Nope,” Stiles said, audibly popping the p, and slipped into line for food, nabbing a plastic tray on the way by. “No hexes. But I’ll still take a present. Gonna tell me what it is? Give me a hint?”
“Not a chance.” Not surprising, but it’d been worth a try. Stiles didn’t pout, only because it would be wasted when Peter couldn’t see her. “And I don’t want you to open it until you get back to your room tonight.”
“What, seriously?” The line moved, and Stiles pulled the phone slightly away from her mouth as she ordered, giving her full attention to the woman behind the counter for a couple seconds. “Hi, could I get a bacon cheeseburger and curly fries, please?”
“Yes, seriously,” Peter said in her ear, and yeah, that was his serious voice alright, making her shiver from the roots of her hair, all the way to her toes. Damn. “I want you to wait ‘til tonight, and Skype me before you so much as peek inside. Promise me, kitten.”
“Okay, fine, I promise I won’t peek. It’s gonna drive me nuts all afternoon, you realize.”
“It’ll be worth it,” Peter said, with a dark laugh that proved he knew precisely how much the mystery was going to itch at her.
“I’m gonna go eat and consider why I put up with you,” she groused, reaching for the food being slid over the counter towards her, transferring the paper plate onto her tray. “Aha, gracias. Hope you ladies have a fantastic day.”
Thanking the food court staff always got her surprised but deeply pleased looks, because apparently too many of her fellow students were rude little shits. It also got her extra fries pretty much every time, but that wasn’t the only reason she did it.
“Hanging up now,” Stiles said, weaving her way over to the drinks’ fountain. “‘Cause if I drop my food trying to juggle like this, you know I’ll cry. It’ll be ugly.”
“I know better than to try and get between you and an order of fries,” Peter said, and she could hear his smile. “Enjoy your lunch, sweetheart. Don’t forget your present.”
“As if. Love you.”
“I love you, too.” She knew it was coming, but dear god that still made Stiles nearly trip over her own feet, every time.
She was out of breath by the time she collapsed into her room that evening, probably from having vaulted up three flights of stairs, two steps at a time. She had a goddamn stitch in her side, and the effort had been a total waste anyway, since now she couldn’t call Peter until she recovered. He’d be impossibly smug if he saw how much she’d rushed to get home.
Stripping out of her coat and hoodie, and kicking off her sneakers, Stiles debated the pros and cons of getting even more comfortable. Then she pulled her laptop and the UPS Express box out of her backpack, where the latter had been sitting like a lead weight, taunting her for hours, and the decision suddenly became much easier.
Her jeans and socks ended up in a pile, along with her t-shirt and sports bra. She was down to nothing but skin and plain black cotton panties, which she decided not to change out of. He’d tortured her for too long with that fucking mystery box to reap the benefits of one of the few nicer, skimpier pairs she kept for special occasions.
She did reach under her quilts, rummaging around until she grabbed a familiar wad of fabric, and proceeded to pull the henley over her head. It was white and thin, and if she kept all the buttons at the neck undone, it dipped low enough to see that she was definitely not wearing a bra underneath.
It had also smelled like Peter when she’d shoved it in her luggage, all earthy and warm with a hint of some kind of spice, but that had been way back in August. Now it just smelled like her own sleepy sweat and laundry detergent.
The shirt hung just past the tops of her thighs, and she yanked the sleeves up to bunch at her elbows as she did a little twirl in the full length mirror attached to her closet door. She’d always been slim, if a bit too wiry-muscled and broad in the shoulders to really be considered wispy, but she looked tiny in Peter’s shirt. Not like a little girl— she had the big brown doe eyes, sure, but the rest of her features weren’t nearly delicate enough to pull off the ingénue look, all elbows and sharp edges, and her flesh was a map of scars from years of being a squishy human running with wolves. And there were the tattoos, too: bands of runes thick around her left biceps, and a few sinister looking protective symbols spanning the soft flesh from her right wrist, all the way up to the crook of her elbow. She had a bunch more planned, once she learned the spells and got the designs perfect, and she was determined to find a completely fire-free way to put a couple on Peter too.
All told, she couldn’t pass as super young anymore, no matter what she wore. In Peter’s shirt, she just looked... small. Small enough to gather up and hold tight, and tuck close against the welcoming curve of a strong, broad chest. It was good.
Flicking on her desk lamp and plugging in the string of chili pepper lights she’d hung up as much for amusement as for ambiance, then turning off the harsh fluorescents on the ceiling, Stiles fussed with her pillows and blankets for about thirty seconds before she finally broke. The tile floor was cold under her bare feet, and that fucking box was laughing at her.
She’d rearranged the room very recently, and now her desk was perfectly positioned, perpendicular to the head of her bed. Her laptop could stay safe and plugged in, all while giving her webcam a perfect view of the entire length of her mattress if she angled it right.
Kneeling on the bed, Stiles quickly set up her computer, smiling when she saw that Peter was already online. She didn’t even bother with her cordless headset, turning the speakers up and hoping that her laptop’s mic was decent enough for werewolf hearing.
Peter accepted her call almost immediately, and Stiles leaned forward, her arms folded on the edge of the desk. It was barely past seven o’clock, and Beacon Hills was three hours earlier than that, but Stiles easily recognized the headboard Peter was propped up against. She ought to, considering how many times she’d had her hands tied to it, or had dragged her nails across the dark wooden slats.
“Show me,” was the first thing out of his mouth, without even a hello, and the tenor of authority deepening his voice sent a flood of heat washing over her. The chili lights glowed warm, backlighting her softly in shades of red and orange, which would probably help disguise the flush she could already feel creeping up her cheeks.
She knew what he meant, but she wasn’t about to play that easy. Leaving the package out of sight of the camera, Stiles leaned back until her ass rested on the soles of her feet, spreading her thighs and pushing the hem of her shirt up enough to bare her panties and the divot of her bellybutton. She didn’t glance away from the computer screen for a second, and the video was bright enough on Peter’s end of things that she could watch the way his eyes snapped sharply to her body, with predatory focus.
She spread her hand over her own stomach, teasing the tip of her baby finger just under the waistband of her underwear, and flexed her hips up once, goading. The shirt draped over the small peaks of her nipples, clearly outlined where they stood up tight and hard from the chill of the floor.
“Like this?” She hadn’t meant to sound quite so breathy so soon, but damn if having Peter staring at her crotch like he wanted to eat her alive from three thousand miles away wasn’t hot like the fucking sun. Her teasing question seemed to shake him out of his stupor, though, which was probably for the best if they didn’t want this to be over in ten minutes flat.
“You’re gorgeous when you’re eager, kitten, but you know that’s not what I meant. Show me the box—” He was correcting himself before she could make the joke. “The UPS box. Show me you were good today.”
Not show me if you were good. He assumed she’d kept her promise, even though he knew better than most what a crafty, defiant little shit she could be. She could’ve had the package open and closed up again without a single lingering hint of tampering after the fact, unless it was somehow boobytrapped inside, but she was pretty sure Peter hadn’t bothered to set up any sort of countermeasures like that. He’d known when he asked her that she could peek, and lie about it, and he’d never be able to tell for sure from all the way in California. But because it was him, and because it was only a couple of hours, she’d kept her word.
Sitting up again, letting the rucked up shirt fall but not bothering to smooth it back over her thighs, Stiles stretched forward and reached behind the laptop, grabbing the box off her desk and giving Peter a quick eyeful straight down her shirt at the same time.
She held the package out for his perusal, turning it around to show the sealed tape on both ends. She’d only peeled a little bit of the corner up while she was fidgeting her way through dinner at Meal Hall, trying and failing to distract herself through conversation with the classmates and quasi-friends who’d been sharing her table. She wasn’t terribly close with anyone here, to be honest; she had a Pack of friends already, even if they were scattered all over for a while, and Stiles didn’t have any genuine give-a-shit left to spare on new people. Her personal Dunbar’s number was pretty freaking small, and that was a-okay with her.
“That’s my good girl,” Peter said, fondly condescending in that way that put her hackles up and got her wet all at the same time.
“Can I open it now?”
“It’s your present, baby,” he said, as if the answer was painfully obvious. “Of course you can.”
“Oh my god, you’re such a dick.” She’d had the presence of mind to grab a knife before she’d made the call— not either of her athames, or her boline, but one of the switchblades she also really wasn’t supposed to have on campus. Walking around unarmed wasn’t an option, though; not when she was a nascent emissary with a potent Spark, bound to a Pack that was too far away to offer any real protection. Her ties to Beacon Hills were more of a big glowing arrow than a warning or any sort of safety net at this point.
Slitting the tape, Stiles closed the knife and tossed it onto the bedspread, before peeling back the cardboard flaps. There was bubble wrap inside, which she would definitely be popping the supreme shit out of later, cossetting a smaller box, and a folded square of pale, blush pink lace that turned out to be underwear, frilly and tastefully sheer.
Holding up the panties, dangling them off the tip of one finger, Stiles levelled Peter with a bland look. At least it was boyshorts, not a thong, but still.
“Just to be clear, is this more a present for me, or for you?”
Peter shrugged, eyeing the frothy spill of lace for a second before turning his attention back to Stiles’ face. “It’s not the most altruistic gift, I’ll admit. But I promise you’re going to enjoy yourself, sweetheart. Open the other box.”
There wasn’t any tape holding the smaller box shut, just a matte black lid that pulled off. Inside, there was a black drawstring bag, that turned out to be microfibre when she touched it, a white cord with an AUX plug on one end and USB on the other, and a little glossy booklet.
“Is this a present or a matryoshka doll,” she muttered, pulling out the little bag and feeling the sort of oblong, unevenly shaped weight inside. The thingy, when she finally dumped it out of the bag and into her hands, was fushia pink, and sort of shaped like a flower petal: about three inches long and a bit more than an inch across at it’s widest, and partially flattened out; it was bigger on one end, and tapered at the other. The smaller end had a little curl upward, like a slightly crooked finger.
No, not quite a flower petal, now that she’d had a better look at it. More like a tongue and a bullet vibe got together and had a pretty little pink baby.
“Okay,” Stiles said, turning the thing over, and rubbing her fingers over the soft silicone surface. “This looks like a present for me.”
Feeling the situation out, quite literally, Stiles immediately pressed down on the small, barely noticeable power symbol she found embossed near the fat end, expecting a buzz against her palm. When the only thing that happened was the glow of a tiny blue LED lighting up under the silicone beside her thumb, she looked back at Peter. He was usually a much better planner than this, damn it.
“Please, tell me you didn’t forget to charge it—” Peter lifted one hand, snapped his fingers, and suddenly the pink vibrator came alive with one long, deliciously strong pulse. “Jesus Christ!”
She nearly dropped it, flailing and fumbling desperately to keep it from tumbling onto the floor. Both boxes ended up going over the side of the bed in the commotion, along with the cord, the booklet, and the switchblade. The panties clung to her comforter, just barely avoiding a similar fate by virtue of the friction of the lace.
Peter was pissing himself laughing by the time Stiles got settled, cradling the now-quiet vibrator between her palms like a fragile, priceless treasure. She watched him wipe what might have been actual tears away from his eyes, but she was way too enthralled by her new toy to get properly annoyed with him.
“This is— Fuck. How does it work?”
“Would you believe magic?” Peter didn’t wither even slightly under the strength of Stiles’ unimpressed glare, but he did hold up his iPhone, showing her some interface of sliders she didn’t recognize. “The magic of technology. It lets me do this here—” He pressed his thumb against the screen, dragging it slowly along one of the sliders. The vibrator started up again almost instantly, much more gently this time, but getting stronger the more Peter turned it up. “And you feel it there. You’ll feel exactly what I want, exactly when I want it. Impressive, isn’t it?”
It was dizzyingly awesome, but Stiles still had some preliminary hassling to get out of the way first, before they could move on to the good stuff.
“It’s pretty impressive that you found a way to make mutually masturbatory phone sex a control freak’s wet dream, yeah. And quit wasting the battery showing off.” God, she was so slick already, just thinking about Peter taking her apart with an app on his fucking phone. “I’m telling you right now, I’m drawing a line at self-bondage. I don’t want to have to scream for my RA ‘cause I tied myself to the bedframe and can’t get the knots loose.”
“I’d get a flight out to rescue you before you starved, if it came to that.” She could already tell that she’d planted some bad ideas in his head, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to entirely regret it. Not when it made him smirk like that. “Though I wouldn’t want to leave you at Tabby’s tender mercies for too long. How is your lovely roommate? Anyone tear out her tongue and feed it to her yet?”
“Oh shit, yeah. I’ve got a surprise for you too.” Setting the vibe on her comforter for a second, making sure it was safely settled in a squishy cushioned nest in case Peter decided to crank it up again to be an asshole, Stiles turned the laptop around to face the rest of the room. Specifically, so Peter could get a good look at the empty shelves, bare desk, and totally stripped mattress on what was formerly Tabitha’s side.
“Ta-dah,” she said, leaning around into the side of the shot and waving one arm out dramatically. “Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Or, not actually dead, and to be honest, I find that song sort of distasteful now that I’m all magicked up. But, point is, Crabby Tabby is no longer my problem, wha-hey, Christmas came early.”
“Really? That’s good news.” Peter sounded surprised, maybe even a teensy bit disappointed, and Stiles had a pretty good idea why. Good enough to make an educated guess, anyway. Hauling the laptop around again, she leaned against her headboard, trying not to let the amused fondness she was feeling screw her face up into anything too adorable.
“I know you probably had a really ingenious plan in the works, honeybunny,” she said, ignoring the brief, sour twist of his mouth at the name. “And I appreciate the thought, but I told you, I got this. I had it covered.”
“You told me to leave it alone,” Peter said, without actually denying that he’d been scheming to get rid of Stiles’ heinous roommate anyway. “You said you’d deal with it. The way you said it, I thought you meant you were going to wait it out like a stubborn little idiot.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I was at first? She was annoying, and really awful, but it’s college. You’re supposed to have shitty roommates sometimes, and my RA is a joke. But things changed. She, uh.” Settling more heavily on her hip, Stiles started worrying the hem of her shirt between her fingers. She wasn’t nervous, or guilty, but talking about this made her agitated, like she could still feel the molten ball of anger pulsing in her gut, all bile and fire trapped behind her ribs.
“Sweetheart?” Peter didn’t look worried, not like a normal person. His expression had gone very still, blank and too calm. He’d obviously caught on that she was legitimately upset, and that was a quick way to lose his homicide sobriety chip. “What did she do?”
“She found out about my mom.” Letting go of the shirt hem, Stiles scrubbed her palm over up and down one arm, then sort of wrapped herself up in a clumsy hug. Peter might as well have been a statue; he wasn’t even blinking. “Don’t know how, but fuck, if I find out… Somebody told her, or she found out somehow, whatever. And then she tried to have this big talk with me about her revelation. Why I’m the way I am, whatever the hell that means. She, well.”
Barking out a bone-dry laugh, Stiles reminded herself that she never needed to clap eyes or waste a single thought on that complete douchenozzle again. “She said something about me not having a strong female role model and some other ridiculous shit, like she knows a single goddamn thing about my life, at all. I don’t know what the fuck she was smoking, pulling out all this first year psych crap— I wear a lot of plaid ‘cause I’ve got a dead mom. Two weeks ago she hated my guts, treating me like a fucking sexual predator in my own room, and suddenly she's acting all sly and smug like she gets me, and she's trying to be my shrink. Which is funny, since her nasty ass would’ve fit right in at Eichen—”
“Stiles.” She needed to breathe, so she did, long and deep. This was way too heavy for what was supposed to be a fun night of filthy sex, and Stiles blamed fucking Tabby for that too. “You know you’re so far beyond whatever puerile, small-minded bullshit that moron was trying to peddle. You know who you are. Now, tell me how you destroyed her, before you tell me why I’m hearing about all of this for the first time.”
It was a dangerous and wonderful thing, to be loved by somebody who could look at her darkest parts, and want to look deeper.
“You remember she wanted to be a psych major, right?” Peter hummed agreement, and Stiles didn’t bother to stifle the sharpness of her smirk. He’d never judge her for taking pleasure from a well-executed plan, no matter how bloody the fallout. “Well, she’s a first year dropout now. Failed every one of her midterms, and there was some chatter about plagiarism too, but I don’t know if they made that stick before she booked it. Moved out yesterday, all ugly crying and screaming into her cellphone. It was a very emotional day. And I didn’t tell you about it earlier because I knew you’d freak out, but I handled it, like I said I would.”
Stiles might have felt slightly bad about wreaking absolute annihilation on Tabitha’s entire first year of university, wasting all that time and money for her family, but the chick’s parents were obscenely loaded, and they were the ones who’d raised such an obnoxious dick of a daughter anyway. So no, there wasn’t an ounce of shame in this game— Crabby Tabby had gotten hers, fair and square. Stiles had even kept her homicidal werewolf boyfriend, who’d been known to hold a grudge, from hopping a plane all the way from Cali just to skin the chick alive, so that was pretty much her good deed for the year taken care of.
“How tragic,” Peter said, with his eyes glowing like bright blue embers. “Some people just aren’t mature enough to handle university.”
“Yep,” Stiles agreed, forcing herself to slough off the last remnants of that unwanted reminder of the unpleasantness of the last couple of weeks. She’d taken care of it, and now it was done. “It’s a real shame. But hey, it means I’ve got the place all to my lonesome, until the Rez Office assigns me a new roomie. Since you’re not here to fuck me sideways on Tabby’s bed, you wanna make me cum my brains out ‘til we exorcise every last speck of her shitty aura out of here?”
“I think I can handle that.” His eyes didn’t fade, flitting over her small, curled up form like he was cataloguing every inch. “Would you like to try your new toy?”
That was exactly what she wanted: to let Peter just make her feel, and help banish the ghosts from her head as much as from the room around her. She nodded enthusiastically, not bothering to play it coy.
“Alright, kitten,” he said, finally letting the cold brightness bleed back to human blue, seeming to centre himself as much as she’d done. When he smiled at her, crooked and oddly sweet, and ran his thumb slowly over his bottom lip, Stiles knew he was back in the game. “The panties will keep the vibe in place, and you’ll have your hands free to play elsewhere. Get ready for me, and I’ll give you what you need.”
Right. The panties. Stiles normally didn’t have a problem dressing up in fluffy little scraps of nothing on special occasions, particularly if those occasions were special by virtue of how good she was about to be sexed up. She didn’t have anything against lingerie, really; she just didn’t have the patience to bother with any of that crap on the daily.
Wearing a lacy thong under her jeans, with a pretty, perky matching bra, might make her feel like a secret sexy spy for about ten minutes, until she got a cooch wedgie, or the underwire tried to puncture her lung. Cotton was great. It stretched, it breathed, it was cheap, and Peter had never once complained about peeling her out of a pair of Fruit of the Loom.
But there was a certain appeal to something fancier, usually when she was going to be naked soon after. Peter enjoyed dressing her up almost as much as he loved tearing her clothes off, and it was nice to be pampered, sometimes.
At that minute, though, the tiny lace panties— which would be way more comfortable than they looked, fit like a dream, and not pinch or itch or bunch up anywhere weird, because this was Peter— made her heart clench in a really unpleasant, entirely unwelcome way. She wanted to shred them into little pieces, and she wanted to wear them every day for a week, letting the lace peek out above the sag of her jeans when her shirt rode up. She was staring at them like they were a snake she wasn’t sure was venomous or not, and she hated it.
“Forget about those, sweetheart,” Peter said gently, without a single note of teasing, and Stiles felt her eyes prickle hot entirely without her permission. God fucking damn it, she should’ve hexed Tabitha. “Anything snug will work. That sleek little pair you’re wearing now should—”
Absolutely no way was this shit happening. Stiles refused to have suffered three months of being stuck in an eleven-by-fifteen foot cell with that dickbag, only to let fucking Tabby get under her skin now that she was nothing but a bad memory. Nope. No way in hell.
Stiles grabbed the panties, squeezing them tighter than the delicate fabric probably deserved. “Forget nothing. I’m gonna be cute as hell in these, mister.”
“You’re always cute,” Peter said, so casually sincere it nearly killed her. “It’s very distracting.”
“Shut up.” She dragged her bottom lip through her teeth, still staring at the underwear in her fist, before she forced herself to look up. Of course, Peter was watching her like a hawk, with a carefully neutral expression slapped on his face. He was leaving it completely up to her discretion, exactly as she’d come to expect he would.
Well, that settled it.
“I want to be pretty for you,” she said, pitching her voice soft and sweet as spun sugar, urging Peter to take the hint and go with it. She didn’t quite know how to react when he didn’t rise to the bait, shaking his head instead.
“You are the most breathtakingly beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, Stiles,” he said, far too serious when she’d been expecting to play. “No matter what you wear, or what you do to your hair, or whatever else. Do you know why?”
“Oh god.” She pressed her face into her hands; the lace really was amazingly soft against her scorching cheek. “Are we really doing this.”
“It’s because you’re fierce,” Peter carried on, as if Stiles wasn’t one wrong word away from adding more immolation to their relationship when she actually caught fire. “And vicious, and entirely mine. Every gorgeous inch of you makes me ache. You’re velvet everywhere— I want to bury myself in you and never come up for air. You’re in my blood like the moon.”
“You can’t just— ugh, asshole. Weirdo, poetic asshole. Do you even hear yourself?” She sniffed wetly, tossing the panties aside before she got snot all over them. “Look what you fucking did now, damn it.”
She was crying, and it was every kind of awful. Not full-blown sobbing or anything so dramatic, but there were definitely tears on her cheeks, and her nose was running. She wiped it on the sleeve of Peter’s stolen shirt in feeble retribution, even though she was the one who’d have to deal with the laundry.
“I was promised sexytimes,” she said, waving one hand to indicate the blotchy mess her face doubtlessly was. “This was not on the menu. You suck.”
“Please. I’m amazing.” And they were back to the more comfortable climes of snark, but with a tender edge that wormed its way into her squishiest parts. “You love me.”
“I’d love you more if I could get an orgasm or three.” Wiping at her face again, Stiles scrubbed the dampness away with a softly worn sleeve cuff, smearing the white cotton with her own icky head fluids. “Just, Jesus, let me run to the bathroom for a sec. I’m all wet, and not in the good way.”
“I’ll wait here,” Peter said, while Stiles dragged herself off the bed and snatched up a pair of sweatpants from the top of her laundry pile, pulling them on and slipping her bare feet into flip-flops. Before she left, she leaned close to the laptop, taking a long look at Peter’s stupidly handsome face.
“I really love you, you asshole.” She grabbed her keys and darted off towards the door without waiting for an answer, but it wasn’t like he was going to let her get the last word that easily.
“I know,” she heard him call through the speakers, totally Han Soloing her like the dick he was, and she hoped the camera caught her flipping him off.
On a whim, she’d stuffed the lace panties into the pocket of her sweats before she’d left. When she came back from the bathroom, fresh-faced and calmer, she tossed the black cotton underwear toward her dirty laundry. Peter glanced up from whatever he was doing on his phone when she shuffled in, but if his attention tracked to the black, balled up projectile for even a split second, Stiles didn’t notice. It seemed as though he only had eyes for her.
“I feel better,” she said, before he had a chance to ask, or pointedly not ask. She didn’t know which option she prefered, so she kicked down door number three instead. “I’m okay.”
Kicking off her shoes and shimmying out of her baggy sweats in the same wriggling move, Stiles let herself get dangerously tangled without fighting the inevitable. She flopped belly-down onto her bed, trying to sell her graceless tumble as something approaching smooth.
She had to reach down to yank the sweatpants off where they’d stayed trapped around one ankle, but after that, she made sure the shirt was hiked up enough to put her butt on display when she canted her hips.
“See? Cute as hell.”
“Lovely,” Peter agreed, without a word about her awkward moves. Occasionally, he did know when to shut up. “Let me see, sweetheart. Let me look at you.”
Rolling over, Stiles got on her knees again, dragging the hem of her shirt up in a mimic of the first teasing pose she’d struck at the start of their call. This time, there wasn’t a vee of solid black cotton blocking the view, and Stiles couldn’t help but preen a little bit when Peter growled, deep and pleased, almost a purr.
The panties wrapped snugly around her hips and cupped her ass like his broad hands would, which Stiles certainly appreciated. Peter, unsurprisingly, was preoccupied by the dark thatch of her pubes, like a shadow behind the fine lace. He’d probably take more time to admire the spectacular things these boyshorts did to her butt later, especially since he wasn’t there to quite literally claw them off of her. Peter was damn lucky she wasn’t more emotionally invested in frouffy lingerie, considering how much he seemed to get off on ruining it, shortly before he ruined her.
He really liked all her hairy places, was the thing. Stiles hadn’t given it much thought since she’d hit puberty and pretty much popped a jungle in her briefs overnight. She’d meticulously shaved herself bare from the neck down once, when she was fifteen and curious, and still hadn’t really understood the appeal considering how much freaking work it was. Then, a couple of excruciatingly itchy days later, she made Scott swear to break her hands if she ever touched a razor again, except the electric shaver to buzz her head.
When she and Peter had finally gotten to bumping uglies, it wasn’t as though she was nervous about her wildly untamed nethers. By that point, he’d already known she didn’t shave her legs or her pits, so there was no way in hell he would have expected the full Brazilian, no matter what copious amounts of porn may have taught her.
Still, copious amounts of porn, and nary an untrimmed pube in sight. Hell, any hair at all was pretty much rare enough to make it seem like a fetish or some shit. So, she might not have been nervous, but Stiles had possibly been watching for a flinch the first time Peter wormed his hand down the front of her jeans while they were steaming up the windows of his cushy Benz. A moment of surprise; a lapse of that too-cool composure. Hesitation, or maybe even distaste, and if that happened she was determined to see, no matter how quickly he tried to mask it.
Peter hadn’t flinched. He’d just combed gently through her bush, huffing hot, hungry breaths against the crook of her neck as he parted wet curls and proceeded to rock her world with his ridiculously talented fingers. Then he laid her across the backseat and ate her out until she couldn’t feel her limbs. She’d left permanent tooth marks in the leather upholstery; it’d been their second date. He hadn’t flinched then, and he hadn’t flinched yet.
She’d teased him a little, a couple of days after that date, about being old enough to get nostalgic about the vintage porno look she had going on. After that, the lingerie started making appearances, all of it super classy and high-end, because Peter was Peter, even for what she figured was a joke at first. As it turned out, though, it wasn’t quite as much of a joke as she’d assumed. She sort of got off on being spoiled, on being treated like something precious, just about as much as Peter got off on spoiling her. Which led them neatly to one of the other revelations that dating Peter Hale had brought into her life—
“Like this, Daddy?” It was a thing that had just sort of… slipped out at one point, when she was squirming and strung out under Peter’s hands, and he was whispering a refrain of baby, and sweetheart, and kitten against her skin. It’d slipped out, and she’d never taken it back.
The constant awareness that Tabitha could walk in at any moment had made it harder to relax enough for this, and weeks of that tension had wrung her out. She needed this, and the predatory sharpening of Peter’s expression reassured her that she wasn’t the only one.
“That’s beautiful, kitten. You’re perfect.” Stiles might not be a walking werewolf polygraph, and Peter might be a maestro at weaving half-truths anyway, but he always sounded like he meant that. It made something hot and heavy coil behind her ribs, filling up some of the cold, carved out places that she tried not to think too hard about.
“Absolutely perfect,” he said again, making her toes curl up where he couldn’t see. “Why don’t you get comfortable, sweetheart? Get your pillows just right, and lay out on your back for me.”
She’d already piled a couple of pillows up against the wall, building herself a cosy little nest to sit back against and snuggle her shoulders into, angling her gangly limbs diagonally across the blankets. Trying to sleep, let alone fuck, in a single bed was bullshit, even with Peter in another state, but she made do. Positioned like this, with the laptop on the desk, Peter could see up the whole length of her, from her feet to her face.
Snuggling in, she pawed around the blankets until she found the vibe, rolling it between her fingers. The little blue light was still glowing, but other than that, the thing was quiet.
“Such a good girl.” Between the praise, and the sinister tilt of Peter’s smile, Stiles was more than ready to get this show on the road. Heat was already starting to pool between her thighs, throbbing hottest at her clit; all this anticipation made her squirmy.
“Can I?” Bending her knees, bracing her heels against the mattress, Stiles spread her legs. With her empty hand, she groped the soft flesh of her inner thigh, chasing feverish promise just out of reach. She was careful not to stray too far down, stopping when she felt the first hint of dampness on her skin. She was hyperaware of the sharp blue eyes watching her every move. “Please, Daddy?”
“Soon, baby,” Peter crooned, and the pink flash of his tongue wetting his bottom lip made Stiles’ fingers dig hard into the meat of her thigh. “I want to see how ready you are, first. Wet your fingers in that pretty pussy.”
Stiles didn’t need to be told twice, immediately shoving her hand under the waistband of the panties. Peter usually made her wait when they did this, teasing everywhere else until she was a shaking ruin, before he let her touch herself.
“Easy,” he said, and Stiles did absolutely nothing to stifle her reedy, frustrated groan. Sure, she still had neighbours and thin dorm walls, but she’d carved silencing charms into the baseboards back in September, when Tabitha was out for an afternoon. “Go slowly. How does it feel?”
“Good.” She pressed two fingers down, skating lightly around her clit, enough to make herself shiver. “Really… yeah. Really wet.” Stretching a bit farther, grinding up against the heel of her hand, Stiles curled just the tips of her fingers into herself, where she was even slicker and molten hot.
“Show me your fingers,” Peter said, then rumbled a wordless warning when she lingered at her clit a moment too long. Stiles bit her lip, her hips rolling restlessly as she withdrew her hand and held it toward the camera. Clear slick glistened on her fingertips and over her palm, reflecting the warmth of the chili lights.
“Would you like to taste, sweetheart?” Her enthusiastic nod earned her a chuckle. “Alright, go ahead. And slide your toy into your panties, too.” Stiles was shoving two fingers into her mouth before Peter finished speaking, sucking the tang of salt and musky sweetness off her skin. She dragged the vibe down her front at the same time, guiding it beneath her underwear and letting the curve of it settle neatly in place. One end curled just barely inside her, loosely anchored, while the fatter end pressed against her clit; Stiles squeezed her thighs together briefly, getting used to the feeling.
“You’re a greedy little girl tonight.” Peter’s voice was dropping, deeper and rougher, rolling over Stiles like a tide. She sucked harder on her fingers, pressing down on her tongue and humming in vague agreement. She was greedy, already aching for anything, for everything, and they’d barely started yet. More than anything, she wanted the raucous noise in her head to go quiet for a little while, to let her exist wholly in the present, without past or future or any worries at all, and trust her Daddy take care of her.
She felt uninhibited, completely free to let go in the privacy of her own dorm room, for the first time since she’d moved in.
“Push your shirt up,” Peter said. “I’m going to put those greedy fingers to work while I take you apart. Play with your nipples, as hard as you like; I want your little tits cherry red for Daddy.”
The henley was tacky against her skin already, thin fabric clinging to a faint sheen of sweat, but she resisted the urge to yank it off entirely. It might become too humid to bear before they were done, but Peter knew she got cold in her dorm, no matter how high she cranked the ancient thermostat. She probably wouldn’t notice at first, but she’d get a chill, even when she was revved up and showing off for her Daddy.
She shoved the shirt up, rucking it into her pits and around her collarbones, and immediately squeezed her breasts in two firm handfuls. There wasn’t much to grab, especially not when she was lying on her back like this, but they’d always been sensitive. The drag of her tight nipples against the calluses on her palms was downright heavenly, and Stiles arched her back, moaning softly as she pushed up into her own hands.
“That’s it.” Peter’s voice was barely louder than her own breaths in the otherwise quiet room. “Always so responsive, sweetheart. So good for me.” She tried to imagine him whispering against the shell of her ear, and the rasp of his stubble over the delicate skin of her throat. After giving herself another squeeze, Stiles moved on to what they both wanted, catching the peaks of her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and twisting sharply. It hurt beautifully, zinging through her nerves and making her breath hiccup. The fingers she’d been sucking on were still damp, and she paused to give her other hand a quick lick too, before getting back to business, spit slick.
“Close your eyes, baby girl.” She liked watching him while he watched her. She’d spent months revelling in every flicker of electric blue she could coax out of his eyes, and the rosy glow that crept over the apples of his cheeks as she shook apart for him, no matter how cool and composed he was otherwise. It was easier to pretend if she couldn’t see him on the screen, though, miles away from her, so Stiles didn’t even bother pouting.
The first buzz of the vibe caught her by complete surprise, sneaking in just as her eyes shut; it was so gentle, and over so quickly, she thought she might have imagined it. The second buzz went pretty much the same way, there and gone in a flicker but definitely not imagined that time, and Stiles whined impatiently.
“I’ve got you all night, kitten,” Peter said, sounding more amused than chiding. “We’ll get there.”
It started with more little jolts of vibration, skittering across her clit in sharp licks of pleasure, without any pattern that Stiles could predict. When he felt like being a dick, he liked to eat her out the same way, starting with barely-there flutters of his tongue that didn’t get her anywhere, except so keyed up she could sob.
“Look at you, my gorgeous girl.” Pressing her head back into her pillows, Stiles worked her nipples in a rhythm that the toy was denying her, and let the lush purr of Peter’s voice curl around her. “So sweet and ripe for me. We’ve barely started, and you’re soaking your panties already, aren’t you?”
Without warning, the vibe surged, and Stiles’ hips lurched up, lifting her ass off the bed. A few hard, steady pulses had her panting, humping up against empty air without her Daddy’s big, powerful hands to pin her down.
God, she missed the heat of him, pressed in close and humid, like a furnace all along the length of her. She missed his weight and his impossible, preternatural strength, making her feel caged, and kept, and utterly cared for.
“Is that what you wanted, angel? You want what I give you, don’t you. You want Daddy to make you feel good.”
“Yeah, yes—” There was a definite rhythm now; the toy was pulsing like a heartbeat, buzzing hard then soft, then hard again. Stiles scratched down her chest, leaving stinging trails even with her nails bitten down and blunt. “I want it, please, Daddy—”
It was too fast and not enough, but that didn’t seem to matter. Everything was already pulling taut, urging her closer to the edge as she pressed up into nothing. She was unmoored, but unable to hold together against this hot, unravelling feeling.
It was building like a static charge, ready to crackle, when the vibe quieted back down to a gentle, teasing flicker. Stiles wailed at the loss, clenching her feet in the quilts so hard they threatened to cramp. “No Daddy, please—”
“You were so patient all day, sweetheart.” The tiny frissons of vibration made her shudder even more than before, the lightest touch burning through her strained nerves. Even with her eyelids tightly closed, she could feel wetness leaking out, clinging to her lashes. She dragged her hands up to her own throat, restless and squirmy, pulling at the henley. “Just a little bit longer, baby. A little more. Daddy wants to make this so good for you.”
“I want it,” she said again, clutching at her neck, not hard enough to stifle her breath but enough to feel it. “I waited, I waited— I was a good girl—” She flexed her legs, hips rolling shamelessly, putting on a show. “It hurts, Daddy, please, make it better?”
The growl wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t human either, echoing weirdly through her speakers and settling in her bones. Her stomach fluttered.
“Alright, baby. Up, on your knees.” Stiles scrambled to comply, opening her eyes to keep from tumbling over the edge of her narrow bed. She glanced at the screen, where Peter was still sitting in his bed, watching. He looked perfectly cool and collected, while she was quivering and raw.
“Facing me,” he said when she hesitated, unsure. “You want it, kitten, and you’re going to take it. Ride your pillow.”
Stuffing a particularly thick pillow between her spread thighs, Stiles gained her balance and screwed her hips down. She didn’t expect the immediate burst of vibration to punch the air out of her lungs, making her hunch over, one arm braced on the mattress.
“Can I,” she said, once she caught her breath. She fisted her other hand in the hem of her shirt, tugging it up, dying for air on her skin. Peter hummed, and it was enough agreement for Stiles to yank it off, stripped down to nothing but panties. She twisted against the pillow again, working the slow, dirty grind that her Daddy always liked when she was in his lap, and was rewarded with another wave of power shuddering up through her.
“Take what you need, baby,” Peter said, low and dark, and Stiles wasted no time picking up a fast, rocking rhythm. The pillow pressed the vibe in tighter, almost too hard against her clit, and she ground down into it.
It didn’t take long after that— every thrust of her hips earned a hard pulse from the toy, without any teasing stops and starts, and Stiles knew exactly how to get herself off. The commentary helped, too: Peter’s voice was a constant stream of endearments and filthy compliments, husky and hot, dragging her under until she could barely breathe.
When he grunted, the sound shook her out of a heavy-lidded stupor. Focusing on the laptop, Stiles was treated to the sight of the tendons in Peter’s neck straining, and the shiny red head of his cock peeking from the bottom of the screen, glossy with precum. The angle was bad, but she could still see his foreskin sliding up, and the way he circled the wet tip with his thumb. She could see the blotchy pink on his cheeks, and the way he matched his rhythm to hers, fucking his fist as she fucked against her pillow.
She could see him watching, brazenly enthralled, like she was something so beautiful that he never wanted to look away.
“Daddy,” she said once more, high and breathy, and the world narrowed to a single bright point of pleasure as she came apart at the seams. The vibe didn’t let up, pushing her higher, making her gasp and jackknife forward, clawing at the bed for some kind of tether as her hips spasmed against the pillow.
“Gorgeous, baby.” Even bent in two, with her face nearly buried in the bed, Stiles could hear the feral rasp in Peter’s voice getting deeper. “Fuck, look at you, spread out so pretty for Daddy. You look like sin.”
The toy was still buzzing, quickly pushing her through bliss and into too much, but it wasn’t going to stop unless she asked, or her Daddy finished. Stiles twisted her shoulders enough that the camera could see her face, all sweaty and red, and canted her hips up, taking some of the pressure off her clit.
“So wet, Daddy—” There was no way her limbs would cooperate enough to turn around, not even to show off how she’d gushed, and the way the lace was clinging, soaked and obscene. “You make me so wet, so achy—”
Peter snarled, and Stiles answered with a loud, shuddering moan, grasping at the bedding.
“Need you,” she said, trembling with genuine desperation. “Need you so bad. I’m so empty Daddy, it hurts— give it to me, c’mon, fill me up—”
Striping his dick in a flurry of quick, punishing pulls, Peter came all over his hand and his dark shirt, hissing curses through clenched teeth. Stiles watched every second of it, teetering precariously on a fine line between tumbling over her own edge again, and hurling the toy across the room like it burned her. Peter solved that dilemma when he raised his hand, showing off the pearly cum between his long fingers.
“For you, kitten,” he said, almost breathless, then licked a swath over his slick palm. And Stiles was coming without warning, wrenched away on a second, almost painful swell of orgasm that felt even less controlled than the first.
She was whimpering, shaking all over, and she sagged in boneless relief when the toy finally stopped. Even her soft, cosy blankets felt too scratchy against her oversensitive skin, but that was easy enough to ignore compared to the floaty, hushed stillness in her brain.
“You broke me,” she mumbled after a few moments, ass still in the air. Peter’s quiet laughter felt like a caress.
“I promised you’d like it, didn’t I, sweetheart?”
Stiles prefered staying naked for as long as possible after sex, ideally with an equally naked Peter curled up around her like the big wolfy space heater he was. Without him there, though, she’d quickly felt the dampness on her skin turning to a chill. Her dorm was always so damn cold.
After a cursory clean up, including wiping the vibe clean and plugging it in to charge, and peeling herself out of the wet panties, she threw a couple of dry pillows up towards her headboard. She pulled on the discarded henley before wriggling under her thick pile of blankets. The shirt was soft, but the texture of it still made her shiver, curling up in a ball beneath the cool sheets. She reached up, dragging the laptop off her desk and propping it on top of the quilts, adjusting the angle of the screen so Peter wasn’t stuck staring at the wall behind her.
He was still in bed, but he’d lost his shirt. Stroking the image of his wiry chest hair through her screen seemed slightly too pathetic to contemplate, so Stiles refrained, if barely.
“Score out of ten?” he asked, and Stiles almost wished she could work up an answer believable enough to knock that smug fucking grin off his face. Almost.
“Eh, solid eight,” she said, and watched him roll his eyes dramatically.
“Well, it might have been higher if someone wasn’t such a spoiled brat.” Stiles bit her lip, warming up nicely from the unmasked fondness colouring Peter’s words, robbing them of any bite. “Next time, I’m taking my time with you, no matter how prettily you beg.”
“Round two only after snacks, handsome.” Stifling a yawn behind her hand, Stiles stretched to riffle through her desk drawer without getting out of bed, pawing blinding until she found the prize she was looking for.
“Snacks, and maybe a nap,” Peter said, raising his eyebrows at the sight of Stiles’ treat. The bag of Skittles had been part of her weekly care package. “I’m surprised you have any of those left.”
“Oh, come on. It’s only Wednesday, what kind of beast do you think—” Fishing her fingers into the Skittles, Stiles made a soft, sad noise when she found three measly candies rattling around in the bottom of the bag. To add insult to injury, all three of them were orange. “Damn it.”
Of course, her stomach took that opportunity to gurgle its displeasure at the lack of incoming candy, and of course Peter heard it perfectly.
“Did you have dinner, sweetheart?”
“Managed to throw something together at Meal Hall, yeah. It was even vaguely edible, in a soylent green kind of way.” She shrugged. “But hey, I did just work up a serious case of the munchies, if you’ll recall. So ease up with the frown, would you? I’ll nuke some Easy Mac in a minute, ‘cause I’m comfortable, and I’m not dragging my cute little ass out of this room again tonight.”
“Easy Mac,” Peter said, with a level of scorn most people reserved for finding dog shit on their shoe. “You know, there’s a very simple way to make sure you always have better snacks on hand than that garbage. Comes with several exciting bonus offers, too.”
“You’re not moving out here, Peter.” It hurt saying it, prodding something tender behind her ribs, but she soldiered on. “Next fall, maybe, but I’m spending my freshman year in the dorms. It’s like a rite of passage, or some shit. And it helps keep my dad from losing his mind.”
“It’s a rite of stubbornness and stupidity.” They’d had this discussion before, numerous times. Stiles staunchly refused to admit that her resolve was wavering more and more with every week alone, but she had a bad feeling that Peter smelled the blood in the water. “And you wouldn’t have to move out of the dorms, even if I got an apartment out there. I’d just be closer by, with a fully stocked fridge, and a quiet study space when your neighbours get too loud.”
“That’s what the library’s for,” she said, hopefully coming off as much more resolved than she felt. Maybe the homesickness— which is all it was, since it definitely wasn’t pining or anything that fucking stupid— would improve without a dick of a roommate breathing down her neck. “And do you honestly think that would work? That I’d actually stay in this drafty shithole if I had easy access to you and a king-sized bed, within a reasonable driving distance? I’d be moving in within a month, on purpose or not.”
Peter preened a bit at that, and Stiles rubbed wearily at her temple. “It’s not happening, Peter.”
“I suppose I’ll have to stay here, then,” he said, with exaggerated sincerity. She missed being able to pinch him when he got too smug; she even missed the merciless tickling that inevitably followed. “Since I can’t seem to tempt you at all. Not even with the promise of regular oral sex, an expansive private library of spellcraft and lore at your fingertips, and fresh-made breakfast burritos whenever you want.”
“Oh my god.”
“Such a shame, really,” Peter continued, tapping something into his phone, then turning the screen around to show her. “Considering how close to campus this lovely little two-bedroom is. Oh look, it has a balcony too, and a whirlpool tub.”
Stiles tried very hard not to think about wet, soapy werewolves, and several intriguing applications of bubble jets. She tried even harder to not to let her thoughts drift to any appallingly sappy shit, like sharing morning coffee on a balcony, sniping at each other in the supermarket, or even just falling asleep together, warm and safe, every goddamn night. She failed miserably.
There was an audible swoosh from Peter’s phone, two seconds before Stiles’ cell chimed on her desk, alerting her to a text. Probably the real estate link to whatever scandalously gorgeous apartment Peter had found.
“Ah, well. There’s always next year.” He smiled warmly at her, tilting his head. She wanted to bite his ridiculous butt chin. “Remind me, kitten: how many more weeks until Winter Break?”
Stiles groaned, flopping back against her pillows and burying her face in her arms. She was dating the actual devil, temptation shtick and all. It shouldn’t have been that much of a revelation, really.