With a Red Right Hand

He Ain't What He Seems

Stiles perks up when he hears the faint snick! of the hotel suite's door opening and closing. He closes his eyes and lets the warm spray of the shower wash over his face. Stiles has to hold back a moan at the thought of what he and Peter are going to do for the next twelve hours.

The mere thought of it makes Stiles want to drop to his knees.

Again.

Stiles' normally steady hands tremble slightly in anticipation. He soaps up quickly, calling out for Peter to come into the bathroom.

Silent, prowling footsteps stop just outside of the shower curtain and then Stiles hears an amused, "You caterwauled, baby?"

Stiles pokes his head out from behind the plastic curtain and pouts. "Now that's just mean, Peter."

Peter huffs quietly and rests his forearm against the wall next to the spot where Stiles is peeking out from, leaning forward until their lips are only inches apart. "Did you need something specific?" Peter asks seductively. "An extra pair of hands, perhaps?"

Stiles lets his face drift even closer to Peter's. He watches as Peter presses closer in response, the werewolf's eyes flashing blue and his breath hitching.

It's when Peter's cheeks flush slightly that Stiles lets his lips stretch into a cheeky grin. "Actually, no," Stiles answers, pulling himself back quickly. "I just wanted to ask you to bring my bag into the bathroom." Stiles winks and then yanks the curtain shut.

A feral growl fills the room, making Stiles laugh silently in victory.

"Mother Moon, you're a tease, aren't you?" Peter rumbles. Stiles can hear him grumble to himself, the words becoming fainter as Peter exits the bathroom.

Stiles has to bite down on his knuckles to keep his laughter contained when Peter stomps back into the room, dropping Stiles' duffle bag onto the floor in a way that can only be described as a werewolf assassin's blue ball-fueled temper tantrum.

Try saying that five times fast.

"Thank you, Daddy!" Stiles sing-songs cheerfully, voice warbling with suppressed laughter.

He showers off the suds on his body leisurely, shutting off the water before grabbing one of the towels hanging next to the bath.

Stiles pats himself down and tosses the towel over the curtain rail. He patters over to his duffel and scrounges through it, pulling out his favorite sleepwear set.

God, his Daddy is going to love this.

Stiles puts his clothes on the sink basin, running a comb through his damp hair before mussing it up artfully and letting it fall gently around his face.

He smiles to himself in the mirror before grabbing the bottle of lube he keeps in the side pocket of his bag.

Nimble fingers and an already thoroughly ravaged backside make his preparation quick, and by the time he's ready to get dressed, Stiles is already half under.

He breathes in and out slowly as he pulls on a fresh pair of panties, knowing deep down in his gut that this—this right here in a shitty Miami hotel room—is the start of something new. Something real and strong and likely to last the rest of his life.

Stiles isn't quite sure where the certainty is coming from, but it's there, thick in the air like the steam from his shower. He feels it in the ache in his chest and in the throb of his ass.

Stiles trusts it, whatever it is, because for a guy like Stiles, trusting his instincts is the only way to live.

He twirls a bit when he gets his underwear seated perfectly on his narrow hips. They're silk, a soft baby-doll pink, and bikini-cut. They're covered in artful layers of ruffles, and two bows hold the whole ensemble together where they're tied at his waist.