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Sugar & Spice

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It’s been nearly a month since Chris sent her away, humiliated and limping, and Lydia’s no closer to an answer about who this “Sugar” is than she was then. It’s driving her crazy—the longer he avoids her, the more convinced she is that there really is someone else. She’s never gone this long without his cock in her mouth, not unless you count the last time, when he told her he had someone on the side.

Of course, it could just be a game he’s playing. Chris is more than smart enough for that. Or it might be part and parcel to her punishment—making her wait, go without so she’ll be more obedient in the future, play by the rules. It’s not a bad strategy, but Lydia knows better than to fall for it—underneath all the stoicism and control, Chris is a hedonist. The man likes pleasure, and nothing brings him more than sticking his dick in someone he shouldn’t.

She’s obsessing over it, she knows, but she can’t help it. The boys she used to play with aren’t appealing anymore. They bend to her too easily, and can’t make her come as hard. (Jackson might’ve been able to, would at the very least have been open to learning, but she doesn’t dwell on what-ifs.) She’s wondering if she needs to expand, start looking into older men, but she knows her age is a problem right now. She’s technically still a minor—even if only for a few more months—but it’ll make potential partners wary.

(She briefly considered going to Peter, once—the man’s fantastic to look at, and would probably be tolerable if his mouth was doing something other than talking—but she won’t sink that low. She has too much self-respect.)

She sighs, looking out the window of the coffee shop before finishing her drink. She doesn’t know what her next move should be. She refuses to be at anyone’s beck and call, ordered and punished like an errant child, but she can’t find any leverage. Allison hasn’t noticed her dad spending time with anyone, and whoever this girl is, she and Chris have been infuriatingly discreet. Unless she decides to start calling in favours, she’s stuck. Stalemate.

It’s as she’s weighing the pros and cons of asking Danny to hack Chris’s computer that she sees him. Or, rather, his bike as he whizzes down the street. Lydia’s not a fan of motorcycles, but there aren’t many in town and Chris’s is distinctive. But what catches her attention is the girl behind him, plastered against his back.




Stiles is absurdly grateful Chris introduced her to the wonder of Epsom salts, because she wouldn’t be walking normally otherwise—and trying to explain a sex-limp to boundary-challenged werewolves on a Monday morning is not her idea of funtimes had by all. But, instead of the werewolves she’d feared and prepared for, it’s Lydia who ambushes her after first period demanding answers.

“Why were you on the back of Mr. Argent’s motorcycle?”

Stiles blinks, thrown. And then her brain catches up with the question. “Uh, he was giving me a ride home?” It’s actually true.

Lydia’s eyes narrow, and Stiles wants to shrink in on herself, even though she’s a head taller than the other girl. “Really. And why would he do that?”

She shrugs, and wills herself to stay calm. She’s been extra-careful, because she doesn’t think Allie would forgive her for landing her dad in prison. There’s no reason for Lydia to be suspicious, aside from the fact that they live in Beacon Hills. “My Jeep is in the shop again, and I needed a ride. He likes his bike, and—I’m not sure if you noticed, all those years you were busy ignoring my existence— but I really like doing things I’m not supposed to do.”

For some reason, her answer makes Lydia’s expression go sharp. “And, what, exactly, were you doing that you weren’t supposed to?”

She pulls an exaggerated face. “I was on the back of his motorcycle. A method of transportation which my father, the Sheriff, has cursed the existence of many, many times, and made me promise to never so much as think of riding.”


It’s flat and a little disappointed. Stiles hitches her backpack higher up her shoulder. “Okay. Good chat, let’s not do it again.”

And then she heads to her next class, proud of the fact that she kept a lid on her urge to nervous-babble. Chris says it’s one of her tells.




Lydia spends second period plotting how to approach Stiles a second time. There’s no question that it was Stiles on the back of Chris’s bike—no other girl would wear that hideous plaid—even if she hadn’t admitted it.

But, then again, the fact that Stiles did admit it is what doesn’t make sense. If she really was sleeping with Chris, why would she admit to getting a ride from him? Her story is plausible—the Jeep isn’t in the school parking lot, so she must’ve gotten a ride from someone else to get here today, and Stiles has always been the kind to go looking for trouble. Breaking her word to her dad for cheap thrills sounds right up her alley.

But maybe that’s the problem, Lydia thinks. It sounds like something the old Stiles would do—the Stiles that didn’t get weekly adrenaline rushes from things that go bump in the night.

She glares at her notes. Something doesn’t add up, and she’d bet her Louboutin’s that Stiles is “Sugar”. She just has to figure out how to prove it.




In the end, she decides to go for the direct approach. She’s a busy banshee, and her time is too valuable to waste, especially now that she’s dealing with supernatural shit shows on the regular. She catches Stiles on the way to cafeteria. “I know.”

Stiles squints. “About?”

She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “About you and Chris Argent.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open for a moment before she goes back to shoving textbooks into her locker. “What about him?”

She pauses for a moment, deciding it’s best to just rip off the Band-Aid. “Look, sweetie, I know that you’ve been sleeping with him, and I don’t blame you, but you have to know that he’s using you.”

“What?” Stiles sputters, flailing a little.

She nods. “He’s using you, Stiles. He’s trying to get back at—well, it doesn’t matter who. You don’t deserve to be treated like that. You’re not leverage.”

Lydia doesn’t expect that to get her an eye-roll. “Okay, first of all? I have no idea what you’re talking about, and what you’re spouting sounds crazier than the existence of our furry friends.” She looks around, and lowers her voice. “Like, thank you for worrying about me? But I’m not being taken advantage of, and definitely not by Allison’s dad.”

Lydia huffs, frustrated. “I know, okay? You can stop lying. Just tell me the truth so I can help you get away from him!”

Stiles closes her locker, an odd expression on her face. “What’s really going on here?”

It’s a fight not to scream. “What’s going on is that you need to admit you have a problem, so we can get help!” she whisper-shouts.

Stiles looks at her for a moment. “I don’t think I’m the one here with a problem,” she says, before shouldering her backpack and heading towards the cafeteria, leaving Lydia where she is.

Which. That’s fine. There are a number of reasons she might not want to admit what’s going on face-to-face. Lydia will text her later, give her one last chance to come clean, to sort out this mess. If she doesn’t take it, well.

Lydia will make her wish she had.




Stiles leaves the guidance counsellor’s office so furious she doesn’t see Allison until she smacks shoulders with the other girl. She looks up and plasters on a smile. “Sorry.”

Allison gives her one of those looks—the ones that remind Stiles of Chris, in how perceptive they are, but is pure Allie in its kindness. “What’s going on? Is it Lydia again?”

Her eyes narrow. “You know about that?”

Allison shrugs, and starts walking in the direction of the parking lot. Stiles trails behind, wondering suddenly what her friend’s still doing here nearly 20 minutes after the bell set them free. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with her, honestly, but I know she’s been focussed on you lately. The bad kind. She won’t tell me why, and you haven’t brought it up either, but I wanna know what’s going on. My best friend is waging war on my other friend, and while I don’t want to be in the middle of it, I think I might be able to help end it.”

Stiles chews her bottom lip as she tries to think about what she can tell Allison. She can’t afford to make Chris’s daughter suspicious. But, by the same stroke, she might be able to use the truth—or parts of it—to her advantage. She sighs, and hopes she’s doing the right thing. “From as near as I can tell, Lydia’s upset that your dad gave me a ride home on the back of his bike. All of this started after she saw me, and she was asking all these weird, passive-aggressive questions.”

She looks over, and Allison is nodding encouragingly. She licks her lips and keeps going. “I told her what happened—that he gave me a ride home—but she just. I dunno? I don’t want to say anything bad about her.” Stiles ducks her head.

As she hoped, Allison reaches for her, smiling. “Hey, no. Say what you need to, okay? She’s my best friend, but she’s also being an enormous bitch right now. I still can’t believe she started that rumour about us kissing, just to get Scott mad at you.”

She nods. “Thanks. I just. It’s kinda crazy, but like. I think she thinks I’m lying to her? She keeps telling me that if I just tell her the truth, she’ll stop, but I don’t actually know what she wants to hear. I just know I need her to stop, because she’s driving me crazy.”

They stop by the Jeep. “Were you in the guidance office to get help dealing with her?”

Stiles can’t help it—she laughs. “I wish. Apparently there’ve been some rumours going around that I’m pregnant? So, yeah, they wanted to talk to me.  Especially since one of the rumours is that it’s Finstock’s.”

Allison’s eyes go wide. “She didn’t?” She pauses for a moment, and then sighs, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Never mind, I know she did. I just—let me see if I can help? She shouldn’t be doing this.”

Stiles is more than a little touched. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

She gets a dimpled smile. “You’re my friend, and we’re pack. I can’t do nothing.”

Stiles hugs Allison before they get in their respective cars. She has serious doubts that Allison will be able to stop Lydia’s witch-hunt, but the effort makes her feel less alone, reminds her that there are people on her side.

(She just hopes Allison doesn’t make it worse.)




Lydia feels victory burst sharp and sweet across her tongue when Chris asks to speak with her for a moment. She’s supposed to be picking Allison up for a day at the mall, but apparently her best friend is still in the shower. She kind of hopes Allie takes her time.

“Yes?” she purrs.

But Chris doesn’t take the bait. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She blinks, annoyed. “Waiting for your daughter so we can go shopping.”

He shakes his head, arms crossed across his chest. He’s not a particularly large man, but Chris Argent can be intimidating when he wants to be. “I’m talking about the way you’re treating Stiles.”

For a brief moment, her brain freezes. She didn’t expect this. She honestly didn’t think Stiles was the kind to play tattletale. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, chin lifted defiantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chris’s eyes narrow. “That’s not how I heard it.” He takes a step closer, and Lydia quashes the urge to back up. “A little birdie told me you’ve been making life quite difficult for her.”

She scoffs. “I can’t believe you’re taking her side.” Impotent rage burns so hotly in her chest that she feels like she could breathe fire and smoke. “Does she really have you wrapped that tightly around her finger, or did she break out the crocodile tears?”

Chris moves swiftly, pinning her to the wall by her shoulders. “She didn’t say anything, but my daughter did. Funnily enough, Allison’s pretty upset that her best friend is attacking one of her other friends for no reason. So let me ask again—what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Lydia’s heart is beating double-time, fear and elation thrumming beneath her breast-bone. “I know you’re fucking her,” she spits. “Using her to make me jealous.”

Chris chuckles, stepping back and letting go of her. “Really? That’s what this is all about?”

Lydia waits. And, when all she does is stare at him, he sighs. “Stiles is Allison’s friend, and her dad isn’t home much. I’ve told her she can stay here when she doesn’t feel like rattling around her house all by herself. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she’s a real sweetheart.” His tone shifts, turning low and mean. “You, on the other hand, are a spoiled brat. I tell you ‘no’, and you decide to throw a tantrum and take it out on a friend?” He shakes his head. “That’s disgusting, and you’re lucky you’re not my daughter or I’d be marching you over to the Sheriff’s house to make amends. The least you can do moving forward is apologize and knock it off.”

She opens her mouth, but Allison comes down the stairs, so they leave. Lydia’s quiet on the drive to the mall, and while she blames it on a need for coffee, she can’t stop thinking about what Chris said. On the one hand, he’s right—he’s the one she’s angry at, for trying to manipulate her and make her jealous, but Stiles is the one paying the price.

But, on the other hand? Something feels off about the way he responded. About the fact that he decided to confront her about it at all. Her gut’s still saying that Stiles is “Sugar”, and Chris and Stiles are acting almost too normal for it to be genuine.

It would make sense, for Chris to warn her off if she was getting close.




“What’s going on, kiddo?”

She hugs him. “Someone’s trying to bully me by spreading rumours.”

The Sheriff grunts and kisses the top of her head. “Need me to knock some sense into this punk?”

She can’t help her grin. “Thanks, but no. I’m capable of throwing my own punches, if it comes to that.”




Lydia knows what she’s doing is underhanded, okay? She knows. But if Stiles had just come clean and told her the truth—or if Chris hadn’t involved her in his stupid games—it would never have come to this. But she hadn’t, and he did, so here they are.

The fact that Stiles’s past actions are grounds for a sexual harassment case are what make this believable, even if she’s been extremely good at keeping her eyes and comments and gift-giving impulses to herself since they became pack. Lydia doesn’t miss it, exactly—it was annoying , having to constantly ignore the attention and wait for Stiles to get a clue, already—but she sort of liked the way it made her feel powerful. Once, Stiles would have done anything she asked.

The fact that she won’t anymore is—well, it’s vaguely disappointing. And Lydia doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that it’s happening at the same time Chris is having an affair. In fact, the more she thinks about it, the more likely it seems that Stiles’s attention is focussed somewhere else, on someone else, because Lydia’s never seen a girl so desperate for validation.

Too bad the girl’s looking for it in the wrong place.




Stiles stumbles into the loft’s parking lot, numb. She doesn’t realize she’s called Chris on autopilot until she hears his voice in her ear.

“Hey, sugar. Don’t you have a pack meeting to be at?”

It makes her choke a little. “Derek kicked me out.”

There’s a pause, and then, “Stay where you are, I’m coming to get you.”

It makes the heat prickling her eyeballs coalesce into tears. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, sugar. Sit tight, I’ll be right there.”

She’s not entirely sure how long it is before she hears the roar of his bike, but it feels fast. Then again, the bike gives him more manoeuvrability. She doesn’t know, and doesn’t really care—just lets him hug her tight and settle the extra helmet on her head before climbing on the back of the motorcycle and clinging to him.

He doesn’t ask where she wants to go, just takes her back to his place, which is fine with her, honestly. Allison’s back at the loft, and was busy siding with Peter and Scott for her (and wasn’t that bizarre?) when she left. Chris waits, gets her inside and curled up next to him on the couch before asking, “What happened?”

She shakes her head, doesn’t want talk about it. Unfortunately, Chris won’t be deterred. “Sugar, it’s rare to see you this upset. Let me help.”

She knows it’s messed up, that he’s basically ordering her to accept help, but weirdly, it makes her feel better. If he’d asked—hell, if anyone had—she’d probably have told them “no”. She’d have insisted that she can take care of herself, can handle her problems.

And she can, but. Just this once, some help might be the best solution. “So, it. I didn’t expect Derek to kick me out, but he. He said—” she breaks off, breath hitching.

Chris’s palm is heavy on her back, and he drags it up and down her spine slowly. He doesn’t rush her, doesn’t ask. It helps. “He said that sexual predators aren’t welcome in his pack,” she whispers.

Chris goes still, and she can hear his heartbeat pick up where her ear’s pressed to his chest. “An understandable sentiment,” he says evenly, “but I’m not sure what it has to do with you.”

She gulps down a shaky breath, and decides to just spit it out. “Lydia. She—”

“What’s she done now?” he interrupts, his voice lower and colder than she’s ever heard it.

It should scare her. It doesn’t. “She told the pack that I’ve been harassing her. I’m not—I don’t know what exactly she said, Derek wouldn’t even let me in the door. I just know Scott and Peter, of all people, were agreeing on something.”

Chris huffs an almost-laugh. “And what was that? That Derek is an idiot for believing her?”

She shrugs a little, not looking up at him. “Basically. Allison was saying that I deserved the chance to respond, that they should ask me before jumping to conclusions, but Derek wasn’t gonna budge. Her heartbeat was steady, and that—that was enough for him.” She can’t help sounding bitter. She’d hoped Derek would have more faith in her than that, but apparently not.

“Does this have anything to do with her recent bullying campaign?”

Her head snaps up so fast her neck cracks. “What? I—but—how did you find out about that?”

The look she gets is dry. “Did you really think I wasn’t going to find out?”

Stiles’s shoulders hunch as she curls into his side. “I just—I didn’t wanna bring it up. I’ll deal with it. It’s not your problem.”

The hand he settles on the back of her neck helps, and her shoulders drop down where they belong. “It is my problem, because you matter to me. From here on out, I expect to be updated about the state of things between you two. I have ways of reining her in that you don’t.”

It goes against everything in her to bite her tongue. Just—no. She nods, says, “Sure.”

His pale blue eyes narrow like he knows she’s bullshitting. “You either tell me if and when she’s giving you trouble, or you don’t get to come in my mouth.”

Her jaw drops. “You can’t be serious!”

“Try me.”

She shakes her head, because she’d really rather not. If she also feels relieved that she now has someone to talk to about this awful mess, no one has to know.




Peter’s waiting for her in her bedroom when Chris takes her home, something sharp and lupine about his features even without the shift. It makes her cautious. “Peter.”

He stands, dipping his chin. “I’m not here to make things difficult for you—rather the opposite, in fact. You could almost say I come bearing gifts.”

That takes her caution and rockets it into full-blown suspicion. “Okay,” she says slowly, drawing it out and making it an almost-question.

Peter seems to find her reaction amusing. “I managed to knock some sense into my nephew. Literally. He’ll come by in the morning to hear your side, and offer a proper apology.”

Bizarrely, it makes her nerves settle. “I didn’t ask you to beat the shit out of him for me,” she says dryly, but she’s pleased. There’s warmth gathering in the pit of her belly at the thought.

Peter chuckles, and takes a small step forward. She lets him, doesn’t retreat. Not yet. “No, but you do deserve at least that much, and, to be fair, if I hadn’t, someone else would have. Likely the little huntress.”

Which, yeah, okay, that sounds about right, except—“So why are you here, then?” Because something’s not right with him, she can tell. There’s no overt sign of anger or tension, no closed fists or jerky movements, but it’s like she can feel it burning in him from across the room.

The smile he gives her is hungry. “Because I thought you might be open to persuading. I’m in a mood that demands blood on my claws or come in my mouth, and I think you’d like to come until you scream.” 

It makes her heart start beating double-time, and not for the reasons it should. “You’re feeling a little wild, huh?” Her voice is soft, and he nods, staring at her with eyes that are too bright.

He prowls closer until he can rest his hands on her hips. It’s a fairly innocent touch, but it makes her throb with want. “What do you say, sweetheart? Will you let me make you feel good?”

And, okay, it’s not like she’s never thought about wiping that smirk off his face with her cunt, but she never really believed she’d have to opportunity to do exactly that. Never mind that she’s . . . well, something with Chris. “Um, lemme just check something real quick?”

He rumbles a purr in her ear, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Of course, darling.”

She nods and books it to the bathroom. She needs a few minutes in there anyway, if she’s gonna let Peter do what he wants. But, while she’s there, she pulls out her phone and sends a text to Chris.

Peter’s here, wants to eat me out. Apparently he beat up Derek?

The reply she gets back makes her flail so hard she nearly drops her phone. Good. Let him—he’s good with his mouth

Which. What? How does Chris know that? But, more importantly—You’re okay with it?

You’ll still be mine, sugar. I just want a report after.




The next morning, skin bruised and heating at last night’s memories, she texts Chris.

Peter gets full marks. He really did make her scream when he tongue-fucked her.

Chris’s response—Did he now? I’ll have to keep that in mind—makes her touch herself before she gets in the shower. She’s five minutes late to school, but. Worth it.




Lydia knows that she’s about to cross a line, but she doesn’t care. They’re trying to make a fool of her, and no one’s allowed to do that. Stiles doesn’t get to take what’s hers, and Chris doesn’t get to manipulate her with impunity. It never needed to come to this, but they've forced her hand.

All she'd asked for was a little honesty and common decency.




The only reason she doesn't scream as she waits for the school's officer to finish going through her stuff is that she knows that's what Lydia wants. The vindictive little bitch wants her to pitch a fit and make a scene, prove that she got under Stiles's skin.

Well. That and the fact she knows her dad is coming, after that phone call. The last thing she wants to embarrass him or make things any harder for him than they already are. She also doesn't want what she's doing with Chris come out in the wash, here, but it might if the administration’s involvement makes the Sheriff dig too deeply.

So as much as she doesn't want to, she knows she's going to have to tell Chris. If for no other reason than he'll be furious with her when he finds out from someone else. And she knows it’ll be “when”, not “if”.

She's broken from her thoughts by her dad's voice. “What the hell’s going on here, kiddo?”

She gives him a tight-lipped smile so she doesn't cry. “I'm sure they told you when they called.”

His eyes narrow as they take in whatever she looks like right now combined with the contents of her locker all over the floor. “Yeah, I didn't ask about that cock and bull story I was fed about you supposedly stealing some girl's underwear. I asked what was going on.”

She has to duck her head, because the urge to laugh at the principal's outraged face is almost too strong to ignore. But before she can respond, said outraged administrator cuts in. “Excuse me, Sheriff, but we have to take accusations of theft seriously. We have a zero tolerance policy for—”

“And where, exactly, was your zero tolerance policy last week when my kid was being bullied by another student?”

Hearing her dad defend her is what makes the crying actually happen. She knew he had every right to be skeptical, because she's been breaking laws since she hit double digits, and he's despaired of having raised a delinquent more than once. He notices, and wraps an arm around her shoulder, glaring harder at the principal, who's suddenly spluttering.

“We weren't aware of any bullying taking place, or—”

“Or what, exactly? Even with the fact that Stiles apparently kept quiet, I’d still have expected you to put the clues together, given how many times your administration has called me in the last month. I mean. Disputes over missing tests and pregnancy rumours? Does any of that sound like my daughter to you?”

The principal swallows. “No, sir.”

“No. And, while we’re on the topic, what led you to search her locker?”

Stiles curls against her dad’s side, both because she knows how to play into his Hardass Cop routine, and because it lets her hide her face against his uniform shirt. And also because it means the principal and school officer can’t drag her into this and dodge having to deal with her dad themselves.

The school-stationed officer shoots a glance at the principal that is very interesting, and answers. “We had a student make a report that she saw Stiles taking the item in question.”

Her dad nods. “Did you ask the student if she was actually missing anything of hers? Or did you jump straight into searching my daughter’s locker based on nothing more than a teenager’s say so?”

The officer winces. “I don’t know, sir. I was just asked to do the search, as per the principal’s request and the protocol for situations like this.”

The Sheriff nods, and Stiles sees the sympathetic look she gets from the officer. It’s an unexpected kindness, so she smiles and squats to collect her stuff. The bell’s gonna ring in a few minutes, and she doesn’t want to be in the middle of a spectacle when the halls flood with students.

But, of course, that’s what the principal objects to. “No one said you could do that.”

She glares at him, holding his eyes as she stands. “Did you find anything in my locker that you can prove doesn’t belong to me, or is against school rules?”

Before she can put him through the wringer properly, her dad rests a hand on her shoulder. “You go ahead and pack up your stuff, kiddo. I’m still waiting for an answer on whether or not they double-checked to make sure anything was missing.”

There’s a long, tense moment where the Sheriff and the principal stare at each other, and Stiles gathers up her books, hoodie, binders and notes. Finally, the principal grits out, “We didn’t want to wait—if the item had been stolen, we wanted to catch the culprit with it so we’d have proof of the theft, and,” his eyes dart to her, and she knows he’s doing his best to use neutral language, but her dad’s a cop, so it won’t win him any brownie points, because the Sheriff can read between the lines. “So that there wouldn’t be any time for the thief to hide or get rid of it.”

As predicted, her dad is giving his most unimpressed face. “So what you’re telling me is that someone told you my daughter stole a classmate’s underwear, and you immediately went after her without bothering to confirm that anything was, in fact, stolen.”

Stiles hides her grin as she dumps what she needs into her backpack before standing back up. The Sheriff is shaking his head, and immediately puts a hand back on her shoulder once she’s upright. “Who accused my daughter of stealing?”

The school officer opens his mouth to answer, but the principal cuts him off with a hard glare. “I can’t tell you that in front of Stiles, Sheriff. Our zero tolerance policy also includes acts of retaliation, which I fully expect her to engage in.”

The grip on her shoulder tightens. “That being the case, I’m pulling Stiles out for the rest of the day while you get to the bottom of this. I expect a phone call from you later with the name of this tipper, and an explanation of what you’ve done about the situation.”

She lets him steer her out, and gets into the cruiser quietly. She can ask for a ride back to the Jeep later. For now, she’s just grateful that they managed to get out of the building before the halls flooded with students.

But of course the reprieve doesn’t last. “So, who the hell is behind this bullshit?”

She bites her lip. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know? Also: thank you for believing in my innocence, it was much appreciated with Principal Douchebag back there.”

He snorted. “One: even if you did steal a classmate’s underwear, you’d never get caught with it.”


“And two,” he goes on, “I do not for a second believe that you don’t know who’s behind this. You told me that you had this under control, but—why didn’t you come to me before?”

Stiles slouches down in the front seat. She could handle him being angry so much easier than this. She’s a sucker for guilt-trips and he knows it. “I didn’t think she’d go this far, and I didn’t want to drag you into the middle of my petty bullshit. You have more important stuff to deal with.”

“Language,” he murmurs, more or less on autopilot. Then, after a long moment, “Nothing is more important to me than you, okay? You’re my kid. I want to be in the middle of whatever’s going on with you.”

She blinks and does not cry. “Okay.”






Once her dad drops her off, she texts Chris. Lydia accused me of stealing. Dad got called, locker got searched, the works.

His reply comes quickly. I’ll handle this. Be ready in a couple hours, I’ll pick you up.

Her brow furrows. She taps out I can come over now—Dad pulled me out for the day.

She gets Trust me, sugar. I just need a little time.

She doesn’t know what that means, exactly, and she’s not sure what he thinks he can do about Lydia, but—crazy as it is—she does trust him to somehow make this situation better rather than worse.




A dark, vicious glee unfurls in Lydia’s stomach, spreading outwards when she gets the text from Chris. The fact that it’s a curt Come here after school, Allison has practise doesn’t faze her.

It worked. That’s the only thing that matters.




Stiles is curious, maybe even a little suspicious, about being picked up on the back of Chris’s bike. She’s not complaining—even if her lace panties are soaked by the time they get back to his place—it’s just. Odd. She’s quiet as he leads her inside, but when he ushers her into Allison’s room, she has to ask. “What’s going on?”

She gets a sharp smile, but she knows the edges aren’t aimed at her. “We’re going to deal with Lydia’s attitude problem. I just need you to be good for me, and wait here until I come get you, okay? We’ll take it back to my room, I just need to get everything in order, first.”

It makes anxiety and anticipation clash unpleasantly in her gut, but she nods. She trusts him, and that means waiting and doing as she’s asked until he gives her a good reason not to. Since he hasn’t given her one yet, she thinks it’ll be okay.

That, and she’s curious. She knows she’d stay for that reason alone.

He kisses her briefly, and then goes back downstairs. She sprawls across Allison’s bed and waits.




Lydia knows better than to think he’ll be happy with her when she shows up. She knows she bested him at his own game, and she had to go through Stiles to do it, so she tries to look contrite when he ushers her inside, and doesn’t worry too much at how his eyes narrow at the sight of her.

She does, however, allow herself a private smile as she follows him upstairs. The fact that he leads her to his bedroom is an excellent sign.

The look on his face when they get there, however, isn’t. “Look, I know you’re mad at me—”

“Strip,” he barks, and she blinks. He’s never been that sharp with her before.

But then she realizes she’s probably in for some kind of punishment, something designed to make him feel like he has control again, and she nods, more to herself than in obedience, but he doesn’t have to know that. She strips quickly, making sure to show him her best angles, even if she doesn’t make it a tease the way she could. She pauses when she’s down to her underwear and heels. “All of it?”

He tips his head for a moment. “Keep the heels.”

She nods, and smoothly unhooks her bra, ducking her head so he won’t see her face. She’s unsettled—he’s never been this . . . reserved. It’s not just that he hasn’t touched her, it’s that his face is hard, closed-off. She realizes that this is what he’s like when he’s angry. He’s truly angry with her, and it doesn’t look anything like the last time, when he’d bent her over his desk and told her that the consequences if she crossed him again would be worse. It doesn’t even look like when he’d told her he was disgusted with the way she was treating Stiles.

She schools her face once she’s naked so the uneasiness doesn’t show. She tosses her head, pretending a confidence she doesn’t feel as she rests a hand on her hip. “Where do you want me?”

He doesn’t speak, just moves towards her. He doesn’t slow down, so she starts backing up—but he keeps going until she’s run out of places to go, backed up against the closet door. Then and only then does he look down at her and murmur, “Here.”

He holds her eyes as he slowly lifts first one wrist, and then the other, buckling them into a pair of cuffs over her head. She wants to look up, see where the hell they came from and what they’re connected to, but then Chris speaks, and she can’t look away. “I warned you, princess, about what would happen to if you kept being a brat and a bully. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” she whispers, unease making her skin prickle and her pulse pick up speed. She tugs at her bindings, but there’s no give. The cuffs around her wrists are thick, durable, and they’ve been done up too tightly for her to pull her hands free.

He nods, and then crouches down. His eyes stay on her face, though. “Yes, I did. And then you decided to be a spiteful little cunt because you didn’t get your way. So congratulations, princess—you’ve thoroughly earned what you’re about to get.”

He looks away, then, down at another set of cuffs that he’s buckling into place around her ankles, and Lydia swallows, determined not to give into the dread that’s clenching in her stomach. She can—she can fix this. He just needs to think she’s learned her lesson. “What’s my punishment?” she whimpers.

He smiles at her, shoving her feet apart and attaching a T-shaped piece of metal to her cuffed ankles. “Effective.”

As much as it pains her admit, Lydia concedes—if only to herself—that she’s miscalculated, and badly. She licks her lips, and swallows her pride. “I’m sorry.”

For some reason, that makes him chuckle, and he drops a hand between her legs. She jolts as he traces a finger over her slit. “Not yet, you’re not.”




Stiles had been idly playing with herself, one hand down the front of her jeans when Chris finally comes back to get her. She blushes at his raised eyebrow. “You were taking your sweet time, and I didn’t wanna waste the bike ride.”

He chuckles. “Oh, don’t worry, sugar. It’s not gonna get wasted.”

She’s about to ask what that means when she steps through the doorway of his bedroom and stops dead at what she sees.



She doesn’t need Chris’s confirmation, but it’s kind of amazing to have it. The girl who’s made her life a living hell is naked, bound and spread, making angry noises behind a ball-gag. She looks at Chris, who shrugs. “She’ll get a chance to apologize to you after. But, since she wanted to argue with me for giving her what she deserves, she lost the right to speak.”

Stiles wanders closer, unable to help herself. As she does, she sees that the spreader bar has an attachment—the raised arm is holding something inside Lydia. “Is that she really a punishment?” She points, just to make sure Chris knows what she’s referring to.

He gives a pleased hum as he joins her. “Oh, it absolutely is. See,” he reaches out with one hand, peeling open Lydia’s folds, “I gave the fiery little ginger a taste of her own medicine.”

He pushes against whatever’s inside her, and Lydia squeals behind the gag. It clicks, then. “Ginger? You—you put ginger inside her?”

“Sure did.”




She knows that if it weren’t for the gag, she’d be screaming. There’s no getting away from the burning ginger, because Chris—the sadistic bastard—raised the metal arm too high, and because of her heels, she can’t even go up on her toes to find relief. She glares as he dips his thumb inside her, just to pull it out and smear it over her clit, spreading the fire.

Lydia pulls against her bindings, snarling. Chris tuts. “Now, now, princess, you brought this on yourself. You only have two choices now: you can be good and take your punishment quietly, or you can fight about it and make it worse for yourself.”

Lydia desperately wants to know how, exactly, it could be worse than this, but mostly how long he plans to keep the goddamn devil root stuffed inside her. She turns pleading eyes on Stiles, but the girl’s eyes are glued to her crotch, so she completely misses it. “She’s so wet,” she breathes, touching Lydia’s inner thigh, just below where a trail of slick has leaked.

“Of course she is. That’s the ginger’s doing.”

He moves away from her, and cups Stiles’s face, sliding his thumb into her mouth. She sucks it absently, eyes widening as she clues in. Stepping back, she looks at Lydia with sharp understanding. “Oh, I see. I guess that’s why it’s considered an aphrodisiac.” A slow smile spreads across her face as she leans against Chris. “So, what’s the plan for the evening, sir?”

And, suddenly, her hope of finding an ally in Stiles disappears.




Chris hums, and starts to strip her slowly. Stiles does her best to ignore the fact that there’s an audience for her naked. “Well, sugar, I thought first, I’d get my mouth on you. See if I can’t make you scream.”

She nods as she shimmies the rest of the way out of her jeans. “I am on-board with that plan.”

“Next,” he hooks a finger in her bra strap, dragging it down her shoulder, “I want to show the little brat over there just how pretty you are taking my cock.”

She ducks her head at that, and he unhooks her bra, pulling it off. “I’m—”

He kisses her softly, eating the rest of her protest. “No need to be shy, sugar. I want her to see exactly how much you matter to me, and how easy it’d be to kick her out the door and never think about her again.”

She shivers as he drags her lace panties down her thighs, leaving her naked. “You want to fuck me to teach her a lesson?” That’s not—she doesn’t know how she feels about that.

Chris nods, then picks her up and sets her down on his bed. “In part,” he murmurs, kneeling. Her legs fall open for him, and he smiles as he drags his hands up her thighs. “But I also want to make you feel good, after everything she’s put you through, and I want her to see exactly how special you are.”

She’s blushing, she can tell, because her cheeks feel like they’re on fire. But he’s still there, looking at her and waiting, willing her to understand. She glances at Lydia’s indignant, uncomfortable face, and something dark and vicious stirs to life in her belly. It makes her spread her thighs further, and arch her back, offering herself up to him. “Please, sir?”

She sees him smirk for a moment before his tongue skates across her folds, and her eyes shut, breaths uneven because he doesn’t waste any time—after that first swipe, he starts flicking at her clit and suckling gently. When she hears Lydia’s muffled grunt, she can’t help the way her hips roll against Chris’s face, and he chuckles, but doesn’t stop.

He slips a couple fingers inside her, and it turns every breath into a moan—a little chorus of oh oh oh—as she clutches at his head and trembles. She opens her eyes to Lydia’s jealous glare, and an unexpected bolt of heat goes through her. She arches shamelessly as a breathy, “Please,” falls from her lips.

Chris makes a hungry sound and starts pushing against her g-spot in earnest, lips sealing around her clit to suck firmly, and between how good he is at what he does—and he is, it would take a stronger woman than Stiles to try to deny how good he is with his mouth—and the sharp, prickly pleasure of flaunting what Lydia wants and can’t have and tried to punish her for, she comes. It’s not one of her long, drawn-out ones—this hits hard and fast, leaves her panting and limp.

Chris pulls away reluctantly, tsking in mock disappointment, but his eyes glitter with amusement. “That was awfully fast, sugar.”

“’m sorry, sir,” she whimpers. She saw how much he liked it when she called him that earlier, and she’s not against giving him something he wants—especially when it’ll make Lydia even more outraged than she is already.

He flexes the fingers still buried inside her, and she gasps, jerking. “You feeling needy, baby?”

She doesn’t have to fake her blush at that. She was—still is—but she doesn’t like drawing attention to it. He coos at her, fingers twisting as want burns under her skin, even though she came less than a minute ago. “It’s okay, sugar. You know I’m happy to give you what you need.”

Lydia makes a loud noise—stomping or maybe kicking the closet door, Stiles can’t be sure—and Chris’s eyes narrow. “Oh, I know you’re needy,” he says, tone suddenly icy where it was warm and playful just a moment ago. “But if you weren’t such a spoiled little brat, making demands and throwing tantrums instead of asking for what you wanted and following the rules I laid out, you wouldn’t be in that position.”

His fingers pull and stretch, and Stiles knows what that means, knows he’s opening her up for his cock, and she has to bite her lip so she doesn’t start begging. If she maybe also wants to hear Chris read Lydia the riot act, well, Stiles has always been petty.

She does whine when he slides his fingers free. Luckily, it’s so he can strip. She stares at him as he unselfconsciously peels out of his button-up and jeans, eyes narrowed at Lydia the whole time. “I can’t wait for you to see just how sweet she is for me. Pretty little thing loves taking my cock like no one else, and I love giving it to her. You’re gonna get to see it, princess, and I want you to pay to close attention. Because it would make my life so much simpler to kick your bratty ass to the curb and keep her. Dear, sweet little sugar, who knows how to keep a secret and do what I ask.”

He turns to her then, and she doesn’t quite expect what he says, but it almost feels like it. “Roll over for me, sugar.”

She obeys, and feels his hands on her hips, urging her up. “Up on your knees, that’s it. Now, I want you to stay right here for me.”

She does, and wonders why, exactly, he’s walking away, until she hears a drawer opening. He’s back and touching her with slick fingers before she figures it out on her own. Lube.

She’s kind of surprised—he doesn’t use it often, but he’s big, and the lube will ease the stretch. Of course, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t choke on a gasp as he eases inside. It’s good, it’s so good, but he’s big, and it’s always hard, to get used to the overwhelming way he fills her. His grip holds her in place as he slowly sinks in to the hilt, and then he pauses, lets her catch her breath as he runs a hand up her back. “You ready for me, sugar?”

Stiles drags in a deep breath, and then murmurs, “Yeah.”




She can hardly believe what she’s seeing. Stiles is on her knees, chest on the bed, moaning as Chris fucks her from behind. And the little slut’s enjoying it.

She’s actually enjoying having that massive dick shoved inside her—because Chris had gripped her hair and turned her to face Lydia, and the half-panted moans and little cries with that expression don’t add up to pain. That’s all pleasure, though it doesn’t make any sense.

The slap of flesh-on-flesh as he thrusts—he’s being rough, and it almost makes her want to cringe—makes her throb around the ginger. She’s never been this aroused in her life, and it feels like if she doesn’t come soon, she’ll explode. She doesn’t want what Stiles is taking—she wouldn’t feel one ounce of the pleasure the Sheriff’s daughter is somehow managing to find in being reamed—but she wants to be the focus of Chris’s attention, wants to be the one panting and crying his name as he makes her come.

She doesn’t want to be Stiles, but Lydia wants what she has. She wants Chris finding pleasure in her body, wants to get it back from his, to have those big hands on her skin and that voice in her ear. She wants him back, for all that she he wasn’t really hers in the first place.

And it’s that realization—the fact that he was right, when he told her she’s replaceable, that there are others who’d give him more, appreciate him better, cause him less trouble—that makes her breath catch, and it has nothing to do with the gag in her mouth.




Stiles knows she must look ridiculous—flushed and panting, mouth open and eyes scrunched—but she doesn’t have it in her to care. Not when she’s so close to coming, when every slap of Chris’s hips against her ass has him pushing against all the places inside that make stars burst behind her eyelids.

“You close, sugar?”

She whines a “yes”. Or something that’s meant to be “yes”, anyway. It makes him huff a laugh. “Touch yourself for me.” She gives an embarrassed whine, one hand creeping between her thighs. “That’s it, baby, rub your little clit until you come on my cock.”

It doesn’t take long—she was too turned-on when they started, is too sensitive, too full, to last once she starts rubbing circles around her clit. She buries her face in the bedding as chokes on a sob, her whole body shuddering as she clenches around him and comes violently.

She’s trembling, skin damp and her sides heaving as he carefully eases out and turns her over. His fingertips brush her hair back from her face, and she forgets about Lydia, basking in the soft touches he likes to lavish on her after sex. She gasps, eyes flying open, when licks between her breasts.

“What was that for?” she giggles.

He gives her a mischievous smile. “Felt like it. You have great tits.”

She’s never really thought so, and with Lydia, naked and on display less than twelve feet away, she can’t humour him the way she usually does. “Glad you like ‘em.”

Unfortunately, he’s too perceptive. “Oh, no, baby. You’re not getting away with that. Up.”

Stiles licks dry lips, and carefully gets to her feet. Her legs feel like rubber, and she has no idea what’s going to happen, but she knows better than to argue with him when he sounds like that.




Lydia watches as Chris leads Stiles over. The girl won’t look up from the carpet, and is clearly fighting not to cover herself with her hands. Which is patently ridiculous, since every person in this room is as naked as the day they were born.

Chris doesn’t stand for it, either—wrapping a hand in Stiles’s thick hair, he pulls her head back until she’s looking at Lydia. “Look at her,” he murmurs, and Lydia feels eyes slide over her like a touch. If she wasn’t so uncomfortable, and if she could move, she’d preen. She knows she’s a work of art, and she takes good care of her skin.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

At that, Lydia’s eyes snap from Stiles’s face to Chris’s. She hadn’t expected to hear praise once she’d been cuffed, and it makes her wonder what he’s playing at right now.

Stiles scoffs. “Of course she is. Look at her.”

“Mhm,” he hums easily. Too easily. “I have good taste. Now,” his eyes meet hers, and Lydia knows, suddenly, what he’s about to ask. “Lydia, don’t you think Stiles is lovely, too?”




Stiles is trembling, breath held as she rolls her lower lip between her teeth. Her gut quivers with hurt, that Chris would put her on the spot this way. That he’d strip her bare, fuck her apart, and hold up the pieces for someone to pass judgement on. And not just anyone—but Lydia, the girl who’s spent the last several weeks making her life a living hell.

She’s expecting a sneer, an eyeroll, maybe a toss of that shimmering strawberry blonde hair. She expects dismissal and spite, the same thing she’s gotten from Lydia all the years she’s known the redhead. And she doesn’t need that, doesn’t want it, and squeezes her eyes shut so she can pretend it isn’t what she gets.

Even without seeing her face, Chris seems to know, because his big hand splays across her stomach as he murmurs, “Eyes open, sugar. This is important.”




Lydia doesn’t have words for everything she’s feeling. All her anger’s been burned out, replaced by the need to prove herself. Make herself as important to Chris as Stiles obviously is.

But she’s also more than a little ashamed of the look in Stiles’s eyes as Chris tells her to look at Lydia. The girl looks like she’s bracing for a blow, and well. It’s not like Lydia’s been shy about dealing them, lately. It was just easier to ignore what that meant when she was thinking of Stiles as collateral damage and nothing else.

She can’t smile with the gag in her mouth, can’t reach out or gesture with her hands bound over her head, but she gives as soft a look she can, and hums an affirmative. It’s not an apology, and it won’t make up for what she’s done, but Lydia’s not going to cause Stiles any more hurt.

It also happens to be true.




She sags back in Chris’s arms. She doesn’t know what to do with that, so she nods.

Chris doesn’t give her long to recover, though. “Told you, sugar. I have good taste.” And then the hand on her belly slides lower, his foot nudging her ankles until she’s widened her stance. His other arm wraps around her, hand sliding softly into place around her throat. “How many times do I have to tell the both of you that what I say, goes?”

His fingertips dip inside her, and she gasps. “Sorry, sir!”

“I think you should make it up to me.”

It’s hard to think with his callused trigger finger scraping back and forth over her clit. “W-whatever you want,” she eventually stutters out, twitching as much as his grip on her allows.

He gives a pleased rumble, rubbing over where she’s still wet and open. “That’s my good girl, my sugar.” He guides her forward, and she feels the head of his cock rubbing against her folds. “What I want is for you to uncuff our princess there, and then brace yourself—she can help. I’m going to make you come again on my cock.”

The shock of it has her looking over her shoulder at his face. He’s serious. She licks her lips and considers her words carefully. “I don’t think I can come again, sir.”

He gives her the same smirk he gave the day he stripped her in his bathroom, slipping his fingers inside her as he asked, you achy, baby? “Oh, don’t you worry about that. You leave that to me.”

And, because she knows a losing battle when she sees one, she nods and avoids Lydia’s eyes as she unbuckles the cuffs. She hasn’t quite finished when he pushes inside her, and she nearly falls, catching herself on the door behind Lydia, burying her face in shimmering hair.

Chris snaps his hips once, and then pauses. “C’mon, sugar. Do what you’re told.”

She hauls in a shuddering breath, and scrabbles blindly until Lydia’s other arm drops. She gets her forearm braced against the door just in time—Chris starts thrusting as soon as both of Lydia’s arms are free, and he’s really putting his back into it.

Her legs are shaking, her lungs burning—she’s panting, but it feels like she’s not getting any air—and all she can do is take it as he jackhammers at her. Pleasure so sharp it hurts starts building in her pelvis, and the only thing keeping her up are the hands on her hips, around her shoulders, and the closet door.




Lydia wraps aching arms around Stiles’s shoulders, doing her best to brace the girl against the pounding she’s taking. She’s crying softly against Lydia’s neck, and shaking so violently Lydia’s actually a little afraid of what’s going to happen when she comes.

Because it’s not a question of “if”—Chris has made that clear. It’s absolutely “when”.

She meets his eyes over Stiles’s creamy shoulder, and understands. Stiles isn’t her competition; she’s the place he can drive all the force in his compact, whipcord body into pleasure and have that force be welcomed. Because the wavering cries in Lydia’s ear aren’t of pain—not yet, though they might get there soon, if she doesn’t come, if he doesn’t stop.

What Lydia has with him is more delicate. Finer. Still enjoyable, but it requires more of his control. Control that she has to respect and reward, if she wants the pleasure he can give her.

She breaks eye contact with him when Stiles’s cries break into high-pitched pieces. Lydia suspects she’s at the end of what she can take, and tries to give her a helping hand, so to speak, but Chris barks, “Don’t touch her.”

She looks up, torn, and his teeth are bared, skin shining and muscles straining. “She’s close, and she’ll come on my cock like I told her to, because she’s a good girl. Aren’t you, sugar?”

The “yes” that comes is a sob. Chris huffs as much of a laugh as he can, with how little breath he has to spare. “C’mon, sugar. Come for me like the good little cockslut you are.”

That does it—Stiles’s body locks, and then shakes, jolting with the force of his thrusts. Chris is kind enough to pause as she rides out the last of it, before easing out and carrying her to the bed. But as he does, Lydia sees that he’s still hard, and shakes her head. The stamina on this man is ridiculous.

She’s not sure what she expects—though she’s hoping he might want her finish him off somehow—but it’s not to slide into Stiles’s mouth, or for her to hum softly before making obscene noises. He cups the back of her head as he groans, spilling. Stiles swallows and then collapses, panting.

Chris sits, eyes closed. “I’ll get to you in a minute.”

It’s not ideal, but at this point, her hands are free, so she removes the gag and massages her jaw, but doesn’t speak. She dimly notices that, while she’s still so turned on she can’t think straight, the ginger’s stopped burning. That’s not to say she’s comfortable—she’s pretty sure her calves will cramp if she has to stand like this any longer—but it’s a minor improvement, and she’ll take it.

Luckily, she’s not left waiting long. Chris comes over and looks at her silently for a moment, gripping her chin and turning her face. She knows he’s checking for marks, but she knows he won’t find any. Still, she’s quiet and biddable when he runs his hands down her forearms. “Squeeze my hands,” he murmurs, slipping his fingers into her palms. She does, and he nods.

“You understand that this was punishment?”

“Yes,” she whispers, nodding.

“You understand why you needed punishing?”

Her gaze darts to Stiles, who’s still sprawled across Chris’s bed, and her cheeks heat. “I do.”

Chris grunts, and then lowers the metal arm, pulling the ginger free of her body. “Stiles?”

She hums absently, not moving, and Chris gestures her over. She gets up reluctantly, leaning against him, eyes flicking over Lydia’s body and away. Chris wraps an arm around her and uses his body to make her look at Lydia, who he gives a pointed look. “You have anything you want to say?”

She thought he might do this. She takes a deep breath, and holds Stiles’s gaze. “I’m sorry. What I did to you was—awful. I was manipulative and cruel, because I was angry and you were an easy target. I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, or forgive me, but I promise I’ll never do something like that again.”

Stiles is quiet, eyes searching her face, and Lydia waits. Finally, she whispers, “Okay,” and the relief makes Lydia lean against the closet door for support.

Chris gives a pleased nod. “Now that that’s settled, there’s one more thing to take care of.” At that, Lydia looks up sharply, wondering what the fuck is happening now, but she stays quiet.  “Since this is punishment, and sugar here was the injured party, I think it’s only fair to let her decide whether or not you get to come.”

She blinks. Once she realized he was going to punish her, she’d just assumed that she wouldn’t be allowed. Hearing that it is, apparently, on the table—but in Stiles’s hands—well. She doesn’t hold her breath.

There’s a long moment where no one speaks. Stiles looks tired and a little dazed, which is understandable. More surprising is the way she looks at Lydia. There’s no malice in her dark eyes, none of the anger Lydia can admit she deserves.

When Stiles drops her gaze, Lydia realizes she’s staring at the mess the ginger made of her. Stiles looks back up as she drops to her knees and drags her tongue up Lydia’s inner thigh. Lydia gasps, eyes closing. She’s so sensitive it won’t take much to make her come. She nearly falls when Stiles licks a broad stripe up her folds and across her clit, whimpering, “Please?”

She stares, wide-eyed and lost as the girl at her feet smirks. “Ginger and desperation suits you.”

Stiles’s voice is husky and cracked, far sexier than she’s ever heard it. Lydia’s so confused right now. “What does that mean?”

Stiles rises, and rests a gentle hand on Lydia’s neck. “That I want the lesson to stick, and I’m not completely over how you treated me, so—no. Not tonight.”

Lydia’s eyes close, and she nods. Stiles steps away, and Chris tells her to use Allison’s bathroom, and Lydia to hold onto his shoulders as he frees her ankles. She didn’t expect Stiles to say she could, but—she didn’t expect Stiles to touch her, either.

She doesn’t know what to think right now. Especially about the fact that the only reason she didn’t rub Stiles’s clit and make her come was Chris telling her not to.

She squeaks as Chris picks her up, clutching at his shoulders as he carries her into the bathroom. He sets her on the edge of the tub and kneels to slip off her high heels. “If you can be good, I think the three of us could have some fun. I’d love to teach the two of you how to play. But that’s only possible if you actually learned your lesson this time.”

She looks away from his face. “I meant what I said. I know I was wrong, that I treated her badly, because I could. I won’t do it again.”

“Happy to hear it. Because this is your last warning.” Her eyes snap to his face at the sharp tone, and he nods, smiling grimly. “You decide to lash out at Stiles again, and not only will that be the last time I bother with you, I’ll make sure Allison drops you, too.”

She knows he can make it happen—her own vendetta will work against her, not to mention the time Allie saw Lydia throw herself at Chris. She nods. “You can trust me. I can be good.”

A reluctant smile spreads across his face. “I don’t expect you to be her, princess. Sugar is very sweet, and I like that about her, but you’ve got a little too much fire to be sweet like she is.” His hands squeeze her calves. “I actually like that about you, in small doses.”

She gives a little smirk. “Good to know you do actually like me for more than my blowjob skills.”

He snorts, and drags a finger through her folds, before sliding it into her mouth, and ginger bursts sharply across her tongue, mixing strangely with the bitter-tangy-musk she usually hates. “Brat,” he says fondly.