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Daddy, I'm Bad News (bad news bad news bad news)

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Stiles blinks her eyes open wide in frustration, yanking her headphones out a moment later. The stupid crooning sleep podcast only works, like, 8% of the time, but she can't give up on it. It's her last line of defense against going completely balls-to-the-wall-ptsd-induced-insomnia-sleep-deprived-nutso.

Well. Her last defense but one.

She sits up, rubbing her eyes in defeat, and turns to her tiny dorm room nightstand. Seriously, the damn thing is so small, it looks top heavy and ready to topple with just her alarm clock on it... not that she needs an alarm clock, seeing as how she never fucking sleeps.

Whatever.

The green numbers blink judgmentally at her.

2:36 … 2:36 … 2:36 … 2:37

It's way too late to call but fuck it. That's why the good lord invented text messages.

She stumbles across the room to her desk and pulls out her phone (sleep purity my ass), stopping to glare at her roommate, snoring away without a care in the world. Marissa could sleep through the apocalypse, that bitch.

She huffs a sigh, blowing her bangs up and off her forehead momentarily, and flicks out a one word text. She fumbles for her hoodie and slippers and lurches down the hall towards the bathroom, but doesn't make it more than ten feet before “I'm On Fire” (Melissa Etheridge's cover, of course; the bootleg was almost impossible to find but one thousand percent worth it) starts playing tinnily from the hoodie pocket.

Stiles can hear Peter pinching the bridge of her nose before she even says anything. Maybe she's developing werewolf supersenses from osmosis. Or something.

“Stiles, what?” Peter grits out, aggrieved.

“Look, if you didn't want to talk to me, you didn't have to call.”

“I thought it might be important. A mistake on my part, clearly. Now if you don't mind-” and yeah, Stiles knows she's kidding about growing werewolf hearing, but microphones are good these days, okay, too good maybe, because she can hear the rustle of sheets as Peter gets up and a sleepy, distressed little whimper coming from whoever owns the bed Peter was very recently in and that's just. Too much.

“It's not important,” she whispers faintly, the antagonism draining out of her in a rush. “It's—I couldn't sleep. I thought you could come over maybe. Whatever. S'not a big deal.”

Peter sighs, more annoyed than when she'd called in the first place. “Sleep is important, Stiles. Not ending up literally hospitalized from stress and exhaustion-”

“That was one time!”

“-is important. But I'm not fucking you five feet from your sleeping roommate again.”

“...I could fuck you, I guess?”

“You're too smart to play dumb. I'll meet you at my house. Can you drive?”

“Yeah, of course.”

A long, loud breath. “Stiles. When is the last time you slept?”

“Uh, Tuesday?”

“I'll pick you up. Ten minutes.”

“Close to campus, huh? I thought you'd be out of TAs by now.”

“Goodbye, Stiles.”

She hurries to hang up before she has to hear Peter kissing her latest goodnight. She knows perfectly well it's unreasonable, she doesn't have any kind of claim on Peter, she doesn't have any right, but she's still unbearably grateful she can't smell Peter's exploits.

It feels like an hour, huddled into her thin sword lesbian hoodie at the foot of her dorm building, but when Peter pulls up and she checks her phone, it's only been seven minutes. She can't help the brief, hot flush of pleasure at the knowledge Peter didn't make time for a lingering goodbye.

It's usually most of an hour from her school to Peter's apartment in downtown Beacon Hills, but she makes it in twenty minutes flat. The car swings hard and fast around the curves of the highway, lights flickering dimly through the dark, narrow spaces between the ancient redwoods. She can't help it, she feels more relaxed already, just being being in Peter's car, just being near her, the older woman's hand heavy on her knee between shifting gears, and her lax body slides this way and that under the seatbelt.

She blinks awake as the car glides smoothly into her park without ever realizing she was falling asleep. Cranky and discombobulated, she stumbles from the car, knees creaking.

“I can hear that, Stiles. You have to-”

She glares, eyes flat and flinty, across the roof of the car, cutting Peter off. She doesn't need to hear it again. “I'm doing my fucking best, okay, I didn't come here to get lectured.”

Her face looks soft, almost, for a moment. Probably just the light.

She walks around the front of the car. “I know, baby, let's get you inside so you can have what you did come for.” Stiles slouches down to fit under the outstretched arm, cuddling into her side, breathing deep to get the smell of leather and sweat.

“I'm gonna steal this coat someday, you know.”

Peter just hums, ignoring her, which. Rude. “When do you need to be back at campus?” she asks as they cross the parking garage to the elevator.

“I can probably sk-”

“Let me rephrase. When is your first class tomorrow?”

“Eleven.” She closes her eyes and turns fully into Peter's side, pushing the woman against the wall of the elevator. She's knows Peter is too strong for her to push around really, sturdy and thick, too strong for her to hurt even if she loses control, but she likes that Peter humors her. Lets her burrow under the leather jacket to rub her face on the soft, soft v-neck below. She could almost fall asleep like this, standing up, breathing deep and slow...

“Wake up, sweetheart. We're here.”

“Not sleeping. Don't call me that,” Stiles grouses, rubbing her eyes and tripping out of the elevator and directly onto Peter's couch.

“Nuh-uh. You're not sleeping there. You're not sleeping anywhere until you bathe.” She hears Peter's voice retreating, the rush of water turning on. “Go eat something while this fills up.”

She wrinkles her nose. Peter only has healthy food. Doesn't she know college students require a high percentage of salt in their diet?

She forces herself upright anyways, grabs a clementine from the counter and eats it leaning against the open fridge door, grumbling over her options. String cheese isn't too bad, so she grabs three and eats them in two bites apiece, washing them down with cranberry juice she chugs right from the bottle.

“Don't look so grouchy; this is nothing compared to what you force-fed your father all through high school.”

“Stop reminding me you knew me when I was fifteen. It's creepy. Besides, he has heart problems.”

Peter purses her lips but says only, “Bath is ready.”

Stiles shrugs and follows her to the bathroom, leaving her wrappers in a heap on the counter. Peter's tub is huge but her water pressure is ridiculous, so it all balances out.

Peter is naked already when Stiles turns the corner, and her mouth goes dry. She swallows once, twice, and her throat clicks. She's really never going to get used it—Peter's thick thighs and arms, the curve of her belly and the sparse hair climbing up it, the slope of her shoulders leading up to the shaven back of her head, her heavy tits drooping a little under their own weight.

Peter pulls her close, eases the hoodie off her shoulders, coaxes her arms up to get the sports bra off. She shushes her before Stiles can even start to complain (“No one's getting in my tub with clothes on, Stiles”) and drops to her knees with a soft thud to kiss her belly and pull at the drawstring of her sleep pants. Stiles opens her eyes when the sounds of movement stop, glances down, and Peter looks—looks worried, tracing the sharp lines of her hips with furrowed eyes.

“What?” she gripes.

“Nothing,” Peter answers, too fast. “Remind me to pack you a lunch.” Stiles wants to sass back at that, but she can't, because Peter is pulling her boxer-briefs down, following the elastic band with soft, wet kisses, and Stiles' brain absolutely short-circuits at the sensation. She grabs Peter's shoulder when she taps on her ankle, lifts each foot in turn, and then Peter is standing in front of her again, kissing up her neck and across to her mouth, holding her hand as she carefully guides her over the high wall of the tub.

It's a little much, honestly. A girl could get ideas.

Peter settles in behind her, tips her head back to pour warm water over her thick hair. She nips at her ear before she scrubs the shampoo in. “You should shave your head, baby. You'd look so cute, and we'd get to bed so much faster.”

“But then you wouldn't do this,” Stiles moans, melting as Peter's strong fingers rub firmly into her scalp. “Wait!” She spins around in Peter's arms, splashing water over the side and getting suds in her own eyes as she eyes Peter's stepped sides and short pompadour critically. “Your hair is like an inch long—do you keep this around just for me?”

Peter just hums noncommittally, that jerk, and wipes the soap off her forehead before turning her back around. “Duck.”

Stiles slips below the water, shaking her head to loosen the suds. She opens her eyes to see the tendrils curling around her like seaweed, feeling weightless and floating and free, like a mermaid, cradled in the V of Peter's legs, safe, and then surfaces immediately because that fucking stings, okay.

Peter pulls her back against her chest to comb the conditioner in with her fingers and twist the dripping strands into a pile on top of her head.

“You're so good at this,” she sighs.

“I had long hair.”

“When?”

“Before. Lean forward.” Stiles smells the fresh lime scent of Peter's fancy sugar soap, groans as her strong fingers rubs up and down her spine.

“Careful,” she manages. “I'm gonna fall asleep right here in the bath and then you're gonna be on the hook to explain to Scott why I am drowneded in your apartment.”

Peter scoffs. “Like they'd find the body. Lean back.” She reaches around Stiles to grab the loofah, squirts two pumps on it and lathers it up. She scrubs down Stiles' chest, efficient and businesslike, before washing Stiles' legs under the water, slow, luxurious. “Time to rinse.”

Stiles squirms around again. “But it's your turn!”

Peter quirks an eyebrow. “You realize that means waiting longer to get into bed, right?”

Stiles sniffs. “My hair isn't done conditioning. Now shut up and turn around.”

She shrugs and does it, slumping forward so Stiles can wash her back. She's not as patient as Peter, goes quick but thorough nonetheless. “I had a shower this morning, you know. Unlike you.”

“Yes, well, also unlike me, you were elbow-deep in skank all evening.” She blushes hot, incredibly grateful that Peter can't see. She didn't mean to sound so vicious.

“Didn't take you for the jealous type, baby,” Peter coos.

“I'm not!” She curses herself silently—she knows how to manipulate the truth around werewolves, and bald-faced lying is not it—but Peter's too polite or maybe too distracted to point it out. She turns them both around and tips Stiles back to lay against her chest, cupping water in her hands to rinse the conditioner out. She wants to sleep right there, but then Peter pulls the plug and she remembers why she really came here, splashing out of the tub and wrapping herself up in one of Peter's obscenely large towels.

She knots her hair into Peter's discarded t-shirt and scampers down the hall to the bedroom, laughing when she hears her complaining about wet floors behind her. There's almost nothing better in the world than Peter's fancy-ass silk comforter and expensive mattress, and she shrieks with glee as she flings herself onto the bed from across the room, groans in deep satisfaction as she sinks slowly into the memory foam.

Almost nothing.

Peter stalks into the room, dripping wet even with the towel around her waist, and pounces. Stiles learned the hard way not to move when she does that—not that she really wants to move right now anyway—and shivers all down her spine when Peter lands on hands and knees, caging her in on every side.

“Oh no. You caught me.” Her voice is a flat monotone with the barest edge of mirth, but she can't keep up the boredom act for long, because Peter flips her onto her back and gets her wolf teeth on her collarbone. “Ohh... f-f-fuck, oh my god, Peter, what are you doing?”

“Drying you off before you utterly ruin my duvet,” she states dryly, pulling off her towel to briskly rub at Stiles' cooling skin, face, shoulders, chest, stomach.

“Pretty sure you're the wet one, actually,” Stiles quips, eyeing the water running down Peter's abdomen to her thighs and finally to Stiles' knees.

“I sincerely doubt I am the only one in such a condition,” she volleys back as she finishes toweling Stiles' legs. She crosses the room to get a shirt from the hamper and throws it towards the bed.

“Is this dirty?” she asks, pulling the wide neck over her damp headdress.

Peter shrugs. “Not that dirty. And your—much dirtier—clothes are still in the bathroom.” She finishes drying her legs and throws her own towel in the hamper. “If you'd just let me buy you a bi-”

She rolls her eyes. “Shut up, Peter. And get over here.”

Peter knows her body well by this point, better than anybody does, really, and it's frankly too late at night for any kind of languid, take your time fucking. Marathon sex is for afternoons. So when Peter sits down on the edge of the bed and Stiles runs appreciative eyes over her, thinking smugly those are the kind of shoulders just made to throw your legs over, well, she does it.

Patience has never been one of her virtues.

If Peter is surprised, she doesn't show it. She does growl, low in her throat, and push Stiles' hips down so far into the mattress that she can't get any leverage at all, and then she goes to fucking town on Stiles' cunt.

She licks a wide, wet stripe from bottom to top and back down again. And then, maddeningly, she won't settle in one place long enough for Stiles to get off. She wraps her lips around her clit, sucks almost too hard, and then she's gone again, flickering her tongue against the bottom of Stiles' dripping opening.

“You're a terrible person,” she moans, squirming fruitlessly in Peter's iron grip. She feels her headwrap unwind as she tosses her head restlessly against the pillows, but she can't be arsed to fix it even if her hair will dry all fucked up without it. “Just let me—damn it—god, Peter, I fucking hate you, why do I ever-”

Peter pulls back to eye Stiles unamusedly down the length of her torso, moves one hand to pinch her clit between thumb and forefinger. It's not hard enough to hurt, but it's not light enough to not hurt, either.

“Is that how you ask?”

“Ugh.”

She tightens her fingers infinitesimally. “Wanna try that again, princess?”

A cloud passes over her face at the nickname, but it's gone just as quick and something—something goes out of her, and she slumps against the pillows. “Please,” she whispers, voice soft, body softer.

Peter loosens her grip, just slightly. “Please, what, baby?”

“Please, daddy, I need... I need to come,” she says in a small voice. She hates how vulnerable she sounds like this, how little, scared almost, but she wasn't lying—she does need it, and she won't get there unless she lets Peter crack her open and pour her out.

She takes pity on her, then, keeps one hand firm on her hip, presses her knuckles against the very top of her taint and holds her clit between her teeth, just lightly, sucks hard and then harder still, flicking her tongue over the head.

It would take a superhuman force of will to hold out against such an assault and Stiles is, after all, only human. She tangles her fingers in her own hair and wails, body coiling tighter and tighter, “Daddy daddy daddy please,” and then screams at the top of her lungs, wordlessly, screams herself hoarse as the tension rips through her, from her toes to the top of her head, rips through her and then right out of her. She collapses on herself, whimpering, petting clumsily at the side of Peter's head until she comes up to nuzzle into Stiles' neck.

“Better, baby?”

“You gave me a cramp in my foot,” she slurs.

“Oh no,” Peter tsks in faux-horror. “Need me to fuck it better?”

“Yes, daddy,” she agrees smugly, turning her face to the side in an attempt to hide her drunken grin in the pillows but, frankly, too incompetent to pull the move off. She watches through her eyelashes as Peter smiles indulgently down at her, stretching to pull her strap out of the bedside table. She'd turn away if she knew Stiles was watching, but she secretly loves the look on her face when she sinks the
fat kidney-shaped end into herself, the brief discomfort and then the satisfaction washing over her.

She murmurs, “Roll me over, daddy,” imperiously when Peter asks her how she wants it, hitches her own ass into the air when the wolf uses her clawed hands to flip her roughly. She knows how she looks like this, knees spread, cunt flushed red and swollen from orgasm, dripping with need. She's too far gone now to care. She might even, maybe, a little bit, like it, even if she'll blush and swear and hate herself for it on the drive back to school tomorrow.

Peter rocks the silicone head gently against her, getting it good and wet from the slick smeared all over her thighs, her ass. Stiles knows she's keeping it from catching at her skin or pulling anything that shouldn't be pulled and relaxes even further, trilling contentedly even as she hitches her hips back, seeking.

“Ssh, shh, I got you, baby, don't worry,” and she doesn't, she isn't, she knows, and then Peter's slip-sliding smooth inside her, fitting their hips together, carving out a space within her just for Peter. Her cock rolls into her, deeper and deeper, fluid and implacable, and she comes again, and then again, long waves crashing through her bones, one after another after another until she doesn't know where she ends and Peter begins. She floats out to the end of her consciousness, moaning without thought, without words, clinging to wakefulness until she hears Peter's sharp breath and broken moan, feels the stutter against her cervix.

She whines, discontent, when Peter starts to pull out, but quiets again when plush lips close over hers. She opens her mouth to say something, but...

* * *

Peter pulls the strap out, wincing, and curls her body around Stiles' limp one. She kisses her to soothe her grumpy whimpers and Stiles returns the kiss, just barely, before pulling back to complain, “Didn' 'ven fis'me,” words tripping over one another. Peter knows she's asleep, hears it in her pulse and her breath, but strokes sweaty hair back from the girl's face anyways, whispers, “In the morning, sweetheart, if there's time.”

She takes a minute or two for herself, hanging up the towels so they don't get musty, brushing her teeth and filling a glass of water to leave on Stiles' side of the bed, gently pulling the covers out from under her and tucking her in, before climbing in and nosing behind her ear, breathing slow and deep and steadfastly not considering why Stiles is the only person she lets into the apartment.