Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4483256.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Female_Stiles_Stilinski, Female_Peter_Hale, Cis_Female_Stiles_Stilinski,
      Cis_Female_Peter_Hale, Menstruation, Menstruation_Kink, Blood_Kink,
      Cunnilingus, Established_Relationship, Alternate_Universe_-_Gender
      Changes, Werewolf_Politics, background_Sheriff_Stilinski/Melissa_McCall,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Fingerfucking, Spark_Stiles
      Stilinski
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-08-02 Words: 6463
****** Ain't No Stranger (Been This Way Before) ******
by pibroch_(littleblackdog)
Summary
     Stiles loved orgasms, and she really loved the shuddery, mind-numbing
     orgasms Peter had spent months meticulously and enthusiastically
     learning to coax out of her. She also loved the relief from cramps
     she’d get from a good climax or four, and Peter had no complaints
     about blood. Definitely a win-win, all around.
     -
     Stiles has a period from hell, and Peter has a surprise.
Notes
     Some discussion of murder/death, but nothing graphic. Relatively
     canon-compliant (other than the gender changes) up to... let's say
     end of 3A? But can work through 3B, or with any everybody-lives
     scenarios you want.
     Title from Led Zeppelin’s Custard Pie, because why the hell not.
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles was probably two minutes away from drifting off to the blessed relief of
sleep, buried in blankets with a heating pad clutched against her belly, when
she heard the familiar scrape of her bedroom window being dragged open. Another
cramp hit her at pretty much the same time, squeezing like a vice, which made
the question of whether or not to roll over much simpler.
“Nope,” she said, without moving an inch, except to curl up a bit tighter. Half
of her face was still firmly mashed into a pillow, and her blankets were pulled
up past her chin, muffling her words. Whoever was creeping in her room at nine-
thirty on a Friday night was just going to have to deal. “Stiles is currently
down for maintenance. Please screw off and try your call again later.”
The sound of the window closing was the only answer she received, and hopefully
her unwelcome visitor had wisely retreated back to the other side of the glass.
Any guests of a wolfy persuasion would smell what was going on almost
immediately, which was a grossly invasive thought that Stiles really didn’t
want to fixate on at that moment. The point was, Scott was out of town, but
even if he wasn’t, he still knew better than to press his luck when she was in
the throes of a particularly bad shark week. Derek had learned his lesson the
first (and last) time he’d grabbed her shoulder when she was wrapped in her
agony cocoon. There was something weirdly poetic about biting a werewolf,
especially when her blunt little human teeth clamping down on the meat of his
hand had made Derek yelp like a scared puppy.
She was really not in the mood to deal with anyone else in the Pack sneaking in
her window, with one glaring exception that really, reallydidn’t bear thinking
about. This was a weepy period, which was just awesome, really. She’d already
cried five times in the past three days— twice in the past twelve hours— and
she wasn’t keen on making it an even half-dozen. Especially not for something
so ridiculous as pining over the absence of a certain undead weirdo. Getting
misty-eyed about a goddamn beer commercial had been mortifying enough.
At this point, the creak of the windowpane wasn’t enough to light the faintest
spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as grim or as lonely as
they seemed. She outright refused to even consider it. She was a grown woman,
or she would be, as of next month; she could make it through a period by
herself, even if she was sort of out of practice dealing with the worst
discomforts without some help.
She’d buckled down, fortified herself, and managed to refrain from sending any
whiny texts, even after a particularly unpleasant series of cramps that morning
had her hunched over and kneeling in worship to the porcelain goddess. She’d
been ravenous for two days, and the epic amount of junk she’d packed away in
that time had not done her any favours once the nausea kicked in.
These negotiations were more important than her uterus throwing a tantrum.
Really. Even if this was easily the worst period she’d had ages.
She just needed to keep reminding herself how profoundly shitty things would
get if Scott didn’t succeed in working out an understanding with these other
Packs. The last thing they needed was for half the McCall-Hale Pack to head off
to college in a couple of months and leave the territory wide open, without any
sort of official treaties in place to give them an ounce of legitimacy beyond
the standard True Alpha mojo.
Even Derek was taking the opportunity to follow Scott down to UC Davis,
planning to finish the Ecology degree he’d started in New York, which meant it
would just be the parents and the youngest Betas sticking around town to keep
an eye on things. Not exactly a prime setup to fend off any opportunistic
jackoffs looking to claim a piece of Beacon Hills, or whatever other
supernatural bullshit was waiting in the wings to descend on them.
So no, Stiles hadn’t mentioned one word about her current misery, despite daily
text conversations with several members of their esteemed delegation. It
wouldn’t have done any good, one way or the other. Negotiations were all
scheduled, with meetings, meals, and rituals spread out over the course of a
week, out at some lodge retreat in the middle of nowhere. It was all weird and
wolfy grandstanding, but very important if they wanted any treaties to actually
count for anything, according to Derek and Peter.
And, annoyingly, the whole thing was werewolf-only: no humans allowed, not even
emissaries. Stiles called major bullshit on that, but had eventually backed
down in a sulk after Derek had explained, with serious eyebrows and gruesome
detail, exactly how fucked they’d be if one of the other Packs discovered a
nascent Spark stowaway in the McCall-Hale luggage, or whatever. Something about
hidden magical threats, or what Stiles liked to describe as big bad wolves
being wimpy little babies. The implication that Stiles’ presence, even young
and half-trained as she was, would’ve been considered equivalent to sneaking in
a concealed weapon was only mildly mollifying.
Stiles fully expected to see neither hide nor hair of their little diplomatic
team back before Sunday afternoon, at the earliest. Two more days.
But, of course, she was dealing with the most contrary motherfucker on the face
of the earth. The quiet rumble of laughter and silky voice from the shadows
really shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise.
“What if I come bearing gifts?”
Stiles took a deep breath through her nose. She did not turn over.
There was a rustling noise— a plastic bag, maybe— and the click of her bedside
lamp turning on, bathing the room in warm, incandescent light. Then the weight
of another body settled down on the mattress, sitting just behind the hunch of
Stiles’ back.
“Treats,” that voice said, sing-song and soft. Stiles watched through one
slitted eye as a generous assortment of candy, mostly chocolate, was placed
gently on the blankets, a few inches from her face. “For my sweet girl.”
Among all the rest of it, there was a Hershey bar calling her name like a
siren, almost definitely the kind with whole almonds, and a huge bag of M&Ms.
Stiles felt lightheaded, and maybe a tiny bit in love. Delicious and
distracting bribery aside, however, there was still the enormous elephant
crowding up the room.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
Peter (never Petra, no matter what the faded Missing Person posters at the
Sheriff’s station said, unless you weren’t too attached to your entrails) was
silent for a long moment, keeping her perch on Stiles’ bed, perfectly
motionless.
“Not exactly the welcome I was expecting,” she murmured eventually, bending
down to breathe the words against Stiles’ ear. “Do you want me to leave,
sweetheart?”
“Depends. Does the candy stay?” Fingers brushed against the back of Stiles’
head, ruffling through the short strands of her hair. It made her shiver,
though she was anything but cold.
Keeping the heating pad pressed close, she finally gathered the energy to flop
over onto her back, blinking blearily up at Peter. Their faces were close
enough together that Stiles could count individual eyelashes, swept up with
subtle mascara, and the faint creases of laugh lines winging out from the
corners of Peter’s eyes.
“Hi,” Stiles said, squirming to get comfortable under the awkward weight of the
blankets, with Peter reclining beside her, pinning them down. “Why are you home
early? What happened? Is everybody okay?”
“They were in one piece when I left.” Peter’s shoulder rolled in an elegantly
indifferent shrug, which as an added bonus, did outstanding things to the soft
swells of cleavage all but spilling out of her thin, black v-neck. “And all the
heavy lifting is already done. Negotiations went well: no blood feuds started,
nobody important died, and I even managed to stop Scott from accidentally
bartering you away to a Pack out of Yosemite. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Did you just— You’re joking. What the hell do you mean, bartered—” Her uterus
chose that moment to make its cranky presence known again, stabbing her in the
stomach like a thousand hot and rusty knives, and Stiles couldn’t be expected
to put up with that in a rational, mature way. Not when she’d apparently almost
been sold off like a sack of wheat sometime in the past week, and the
incomparable comfort of Peter’s perfect boobs were right there.
Stiles shimmied closer without any warning at all, startling a grunt out of
Peter when she buried her face right in the middle of that cushy, welcoming
chest. Startled, but not objecting, as evidenced by the arm burrowing under the
covers and curling snugly around Stiles’ back, gathering her closer.
“You know what,” Stiles murmured, aggressively nuzzling as she considered
whether trying to crawl inside Peter’s skin like a tauntaun would be too weird.
“Never mind, I don’t even want to know. No details necessary.”
“Probably for the best.” Peter pressed a few kisses against the crown of
Stiles’ head, spreading one hand between her shoulderblades and dragging it
slowly down her spine. “Though, for the record, having to mop up our dear
little Scott’s pathetic faux pas every five minutes got old pretty quick.
Especially when, after dragging my ass all the way out to the damn backwoods—
with lumpy mattress, ancient plumbing, no wifi— he still insisted on ignoring
at least eighty percent of the sterling advice I had to offer. As usual.”
“Here’s a thought: maybe, I don’t know, try advising homicide less often?”
“None of you are any fun at all,” Peter groused, rubbing soothing circles over
Stiles’ back. “You’re very lucky I want to keep you, more than I want to
strangle Saint McCall, or I might have let that deal go down just to teach the
little shit a lesson.”
“You’re such a sweet talker, babe.” There was a chance that the ebb of the
clutching pain radiating out from her pelvis was a natural lull in her misery,
an ordinary break from the cramps, but the timing was certainly suspicious.
Stiles would have bet good money that if she twisted around to look, she’d see
cruel, inky black veins crawling up Peter’s forearm.
She let her eyes droop closed, already feeling a bit woozy from the combination
of supernatural pain drain, and the comforting familiarity of Peter wedged
firmly into her personal space. The strong, steady thud of Peter’s heart, and
the light, herbal scent lingering on her skin from her overpriced body wash…
Stiles let herself sink into it, like a hot bath.
“Still didn’t tell me why you’re early,” she said, possibly slurring a tiny
bit. Peter hummed, brushing a few strands of hair away from Stiles’ clammy
forehead with her free hand.
“When’s the last time you took any painkillers?”
“Um.” The answer to that question really depended on how long Stiles had been
burrowed in her bed, trying to sleep. Without peeking around Peter to see her
clock, she really had only the vaguest idea. “Couple hours?”
“Really? Are you asking me, or telling me?”
Before Stiles could say a word, she was being peeled off of Peter’s chest like
a bandaid. Struggling was useless: her arms were buried under blankets, and
Peter had no qualms about throwing around the werewolf strength whenever it
suited her.
“Peter!” Even if she couldn’t physically stop Peter from pressing her against
the mattress and sitting up, Stiles wasn’t about to let her best hope for
relief escape without a fight. “No, no, no, please, come on. Come back, c’mere,
Peter…”
“Relax, baby.” Stiles groaned and wriggled under the firm but careful weight of
Peter’s hand, which had migrated upward, curled around her nape. “I’m going to
grab some pills for you, and you’re going to stay here and decimate some of
that chocolate. Be right back.”
Stiles wanted to complain, and she really wanted to grab Peter by the wrist and
drag her back into position as the squishy pillow she was meant to be, but damn
it if naproxen and M&Ms didn’t sound like freaking heaven.
“Fine,” Stiles said, hugging her heating pad. “But double time it, or I swear
to god there won’t be a single smear of Reese’s left.”
“Funnily enough, there are more at the store.” Peter gave Stiles’ neck a gentle
squeeze before getting to her feet. She idly brushed a few wrinkles out of her
shirt, then not so idly swept her hands over the ass of her jeans. “Though it’d
be such a shame if I had to cut our evening short to go buy more, wouldn’t it?”
 
===============================================================================
 
By the time Peter swanned back into the room a few minutes later, with pill
bottle and tall glass of water in hand, Stiles had shifted up, propping herself
up against the headboard.
“Your father is in dire need of some better cologne,” Peter said. Stiles licked
a bit of chocolate off her fingertips before reaching out with a grabby motion.
“The bathroom reeks like... ugh. Musk, and wet moss, and desperation. Date
night?”
“When the Alpha’s away,” Stiles said, and managed to catch the bottle Peter
tossed to her without spilling M&Ms all over her duvet. “Dad’s been spending
some time over at Melissa’s, and I’m being both supportive and very willfully
ignorant of any and all details. Now, c’mere and make with the snuggles.”
“So demanding.” Easing back down onto the mattress, Peter scooted close enough
that their arms butted together, proffering the dewy glass. “Here.”
Stiles gulped down two gel caps and half the water, before passing the glass
back. She rested her head on Peter’s shoulder, and hid her pleased smile
against soft black cotton when an arm snaked around her waist, hauling her
close. There were still blankets between their bodies, but the barrier wasn’t
annoying enough to move yet.
Peter’s hand wormed up under her shirt, spreading broad and warm across her
stomach and nudging the heating pad out of place. Immediately, the threat of
cramping seemed much less dire, and the aches in Stiles’ legs, boobs, and head
all eased off; there was no way the naproxen worked that quickly.
“If you keep doing that,” Stiles said, suffering a thorough nuzzling of her
hairline. “I’m gonna pass out. Quit it.”
“If you want to stay awake, sweetheart, I can be distracting.” The tips of
Peter’s fingers slipped under the waistband of Stiles’ sleep shorts. The scrape
of fingernails teasing the elastic edge of her briefs made her shiver. “Since
your daddy’s not home, maybe a nice long shower, hm?”
That conjured up a lot of thoughts in vivid technicolor, mostly featuring a
naked, soapy Peter, but the one-two punch from the unpleasant start of that
sentence to the promising end made Stiles pull a face.
“Okay, first? You seriously need to stop calling him daddy in that voice.
You’re starting to give me a weird complex, and it’s not even remotely a turn-
on. It might actually be ruining kinks I didn’t realise I had.” Peter just
laughed, breathy and totally unphased, and kissed Stiles’ forehead. “And
second, a shower? What, you’re here ten minutes, and you’re saying I stink,
now?”
Peter rumbled, deep in her chest, and used her free hand to lift Stiles’ chin
until they were eye-to-eye. Her irises were thin rings of greyish blue,
overtaken by wide blown pupils.
“You smell delicious,” she said, punctuated by a deep inhale. “I want to eat
you up.”
It wasn’t a surprising reaction, but that didn’t stop self-consciousness and a
disturbing rush of arousal from waging a war in the pit of Stiles’ stomach,
making her guts churn. She knew exactly what scent had Peter so keyed up,
huffing the air like a bloodhound.
A bloodhound. Oh god.
“You’re so gross,” Stiles said, pursing her lips. It was either that, or give
in to the giggles threatening to throw her into hysterics.
“You’re so fussy,” Peter countered, tipping Stiles’ head farther back and
leaning in to brush a kiss under her jaw. “And weirdly squeamish, for someone
who’s seen as much violence and gore as you have. Hence, the shower.”
“I’m not squeamish, asshole. I’m desensitized, okay, but that doesn’t mean I’ve
got a blood kink.”
“Well, I do. And you, my sweet girl, have me hungry for it.” Stiles hissed as
teeth nipped the side of her neck, pinching too sharply to be completely human,
but nowhere near breaking the skin. She didn’t jerk away, but she did swat the
back of Peter’s head.
Wait. Bloodhound.
“Dear god, tell me you didn’t come back early because you somehow smelled my
business—” Stiles waved one hand, circling the general vicinity of her crotch.
“My situation, all the way out in the freaking woods. Because that is seriously
creepy, Peter. That is creepy and hella weird, and you were like a hundred
miles away, how did you even—”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Peter leaned back, staring at Stiles with a
particularly scathing blend of incredulity and weary annoyance twisting up her
features. It wasn't an entirely unfamiliar expression. “Stiles, I came home
early because I got tired of being jerked around like an attack dog on a short
leash, and McCall deserves a few days to flounder, now that the risks of an
all-out territory war are basically over. This little treat—” Peter’s hand
dipped lower, briefly cupping Stiles through her underwear. “Was just a bonus.”
Stiles kicked Peter’s calves, a little grateful for the blankets between them,
even if it muffled some of the impact. Kicking werewolves usually ended up
hurting Stiles more than it satisfied.
“Fuck off,” she said, squirming until that wandering hand drifted back up to
rest on her belly. “Okay, creeper, if you didn’t know I was on the rag, how’d
you know to bring candy?”
“Candy’s not exactly a hard sell with you, sweetheart. But of course I knew. I
never said I didn’t.” Stiles opened her mouth, ready to let loose the mother of
all rants about weirdo invasive werewolves, but then Peter was kissing her, wet
and messy. It lasted just long enough for every thought to flutter out of
Stiles’ head, and then Peter was pulling back, scraping her teeth along Stiles’
bottom lip on the way.
“Our cycles synced months ago, you idiot.”
“What?” Stiles felt dazed, and not just from the expertly played and far too
short game of tonsil hockey. “Our what did the what, now? How do you— That’s
not really a thing that happens, and god, why are you keeping track? Oh my god,
you absolute freak.”
“It’s completely normal.” Peter sighed, then reached over Stiles, snatching a
few M&Ms from the gaping bag. “For werewolves, anyway. It’s a seasonal breeding
thing, except we’re also human, so it just translates to a monthly schedule
within a Pack. When I started to bleed at the meetings, I figured you wouldn’t
be more than a day or so behind. You never noticed?”
“No, I never noticed!”
Peter clucked her tongue, tutting like she was disappointed. “We’ve been
sleeping together for nearly a year. I thought you were more observant than
that.”
“Not all of us have a jacked up sense of smell and a hard-on for hemoglobin,
Peter!” Stiles could hear the strident shriek creeping into her voice, but she
couldn’t quite stifle it. “I can’t even keep track of my own schedule, for
fucksake. It’s like the world’s shittiest surprise party in my pants every
month, without freaking fail. If I don’t know what my own ovaries are doing,
how in the hell do you expect me to keep track of yours?”
Stiles was way too loud, and couldn’t give a shit. It was especially lucky her
dad wasn’t home. There was a thirty-four year old, amoral spree murderer
wandering around the house like she belonged there, fetching pain killers and
feeling up the Sheriff’s underage daughter. Even if this was far from the first
time she’d had Peter Hale sprawled over her bed, there were certain
conversations that really didn’t need to happen. Ever, if possible.
“Breathe, baby.” Peter tossed a couple candies in her mouth, crunching. “You’re
getting worked up, so just take a breath, and lay back down.”
Stiles’ cheeks were dry, but her eyes were wet. Every inch of her skin felt hot
and itchy, like it didn’t fit over her bones. Her emotions were batshit wonky,
and cranked up to eleven. This was officially, without a shadow of a doubt, the
worst period she’d had in months.
She took a deep breath and edged closer, curling up in the cradle of Peter’s
shoulder.
“You’re an asshole,” she said, flinging an arm across the dip of Peter’s waist.
When an M&M was pressed lightly against her mouth, Stiles immediately snapped
it up, chewing sullenly.
“I know, angel.”
 
===============================================================================
 
One entire bag of M&Ms, half a Hershey bar, and three hotly contested Reese
cups later, Stiles was feeling slightly less fragile. Also, possibly a tiny bit
sick of chocolate, but not enough to regret her choices.
Chocolate-flavoured makeouts were quickly climbing up the ranks on her list of
greatest things ever.
The blankets and the heating pad had been kicked down to the bottom of the bed,
along with both of their t-shirts. Stiles arched her back as much as she could
while Peter was sprawled on top of her, mauling her neck; the lace of Peter’s
bra was a wonderful, torturous kind of friction against Stiles’ bare nipples.
Peter wasn’t draining any of her pain at the moment, at least not that Stiles
noticed, but this kind of mundane, non-supernatural distraction was pretty
damned effective in helping her forget about all the aches and discomforts.
“C’mon, fuck, Peter—” Peter had Stiles’ wrists pinned to the mattress while she
mapped every inch of her throat with lips, teeth, and tongue, but Stiles still
had two legs free to gain some leverage. She wrapped one of them firmly around
Peter’s hips, pulling Peter down and bucking up at the same time. Their rhythm
together was second nature by now; it only took a few adjustments to find the
right angle, and then she was working herself against the thigh of Peter’s
jeans in a slow, dirty grind.
“Give it to me,” Stiles said, grinning as Peter broke away from the stinging
patch of hickies she’d been mouthing for at least five full minutes, snarling
against Stiles’ collarbone. “C’mon, gorgeous, I want it. I want it so bad,
Peter, please—”
The iron grip around her wrists disappeared, quick as a flash, and her shorts
were yanked down a split second later. The dark grey briefs certainly weren’t
anything special, and Stiles was actually pretty keen for them to join the
pyjama shorts being pulled down past her knees, but there was one small issue
to consider first.
“Towels.” Reaching down, Stiles buried her fingers in Peter’s thick brown hair,
giving it a tug, then another harder pull. Finally, Peter lifted her head,
dragging her nose out of the crease of Stiles’ hip.
“Towels,” Stiles said again, kicking the shorts completely off her legs. “We’re
not ruining my sheets, again.”
“I’ll buy you new ones, sweetheart. Nicer ones, with a triple digit thread
count.” Peter huffed irritably, but didn’t resist when Stiles’ foot pushed her
away. “Fine, Christ. Don’t go anywhere.” Rolling off the bed with unfairly
sexy, fluid grace, she wasted no time heading for the door, stripping nimbly
out of her jeans on the way.
“I hate to see you go,” Stiles called after her, avidly watching the flex and
roll of her favourite bubble butt in the whole world. The generous curve of
Peter’s ass looked positively biteable in lace-trimmed, navy blue panties that,
of course, perfectly matched her bra. “But I love watching you walk away!”
Peter muttered something barely audible, possibly along the lines of what the
fuck is wrong with me, as she stalked into the hallway. She was back a scant
few seconds later, holding a folded, forest green towel.
“You couldn’t have grabbed one of the old ratty ones, huh,” Stiles grouched,
for the sole purpose of being as obnoxious as possible, and had a towel lobbed
at her head for her trouble.
“Get naked, you little shit.”
“Yes, ma’am!” The sudden influx of sugar was, perhaps, turning Stiles into a
live wire of jitters and frenetic eagerness, when an hour ago she’d wanted
nothing more than to crawl into a dark hole. Or maybe it was just the promise
of impending orgasm, which was pretty damned exciting on an average day. Doubly
so when it served a tangible purpose, besides just feeling amazing.
Stiles loved orgasms, and she really loved the shuddery, mind-numbing orgasms
Peter had spent months meticulously and enthusiastically learning to coax out
of her. She also loved the relief from cramps she’d get from a good climax or
four, and Peter had no complaints about blood. Definitely a win-win, all
around.
Spreading the towel out, Stiles stripped off her underwear and tossed them
gingerly, pad and all, over the side of the bed. Immediately, she felt wildly
exposed and vaguely panicked. It was like those few minutes between stepping
out of the shower and slapping on a pad, when the world seemed to narrow into a
frantic race against time and gravity.
She wasn’t scrambling to stick a cork in her Red Sea this time, though. The
visible flaring of Peter’s nostrils made the whole thing weirder: mortifying
and bizarrely reassuring at the same time. Simultaneously harder and easier to
deal with, but the conflicting mess swirling around in her gut wasn’t even
slightly surprising.
A contradictory, fucked up mishmash of feelings was pretty much par for the
course. She was having sex with Peter Hale, after all. Regularly.
Enthusiastically. Imminently.
Peter was already crawling up the mattress on her hands and knees, looking
every inch a predator. Which was handy, since that’s what she definitely was.
Stiles squeezed her thighs together— she felt so wet already, but to be honest,
she had no idea whether most of that was from the long, indulgent makeout
session, the ravenous and unfairly sexy expression sharpening Peter’s face, or
the simple fact that Stiles was bleeding from the vag. Probably a combination.
Peter’s hands were warm like always, sliding gently up Stiles’ legs, in a way
that seemed at odds with the dangerous, prowling grace of her movements. Her
fingers curled around the knobs of Stiles’ knees, parting them with a slight
tug and a soft, encouraging hum. The first press of Peter’s mouth was a brief,
almost chaste kiss against Stiles’ inner thigh. Her lips lingered, exploring
slowly, leaving damp, cooling trails where Stiles’ skin was already humid with
a fine sheen of sleepy sweat.
Stiles’ back arched, her nerves singing with anticipation. She grabbed the
pillow behind her head, just for some kind of anchor, something to cling to
that wasn’t Peter’s hair.
“So pretty, baby.” Fingers mirrored the same path as Peter’s mouth, trailing up
Stiles’ other thigh, but moving even higher. The soft petting of her pubes made
Stiles shudder. “So ripe and raw, and all for me.”
“It should freak me out,” Stiles said, voice breaking when Peter’s tongue
dragged along her skin in a broad, wet lick, stopping inches away from her
pussy. “Fuck, it should. I should be running for the fucking hills, with the
way you get off on my blood.”
“Probably true,” Peter said amiably, then thumbed a slow circle around Stiles’
clit, not quite touching it directly. It was too much and not nearly enough,
and Stiles’ hips rolled up desperately before Peter pushed her back down
against the mattress. “Might be fun, too. You know I’d chase you if you ran. I
could track you for miles, smelling like this.”
Stiles whined, high-pitched and mildly panicked, because the idea of Peter
stalking her, hunting her down like prey, should not have been so fucking hot.
Running through woods until her lungs burned, flinching at every rustle of
leaves and dark shape flickering in the corner of her eye, too quick to see.
Knowing that the Big Bad Wolf was on her heels. Knowing that her chances of
actually getting away were minuscule against such a clever, ruthless predator.
The pounding of her heartbeat in her ears, flooded with adrenaline, and the
huff of bestial breaths from the shadows, closing in.
God, she was throbbing, painfully turned on. That was not a healthy reaction.
“Would you run for me, Stiles,” Peter asked, in a low, purring voice, and it
wasn’t really a question at all. The chemosignals were probably thick enough to
choke her. “Let me chase you? Hunt you?”
“Fuck, yeah. Yeah.” She really needed to learn to stop agreeing to things when
Peter had her naked and spread open. Her impulse control and fear responses
were already messed up, even in the calmest circumstances.
“That’s my good girl.” The praise made Stiles melt, and then an instant later,
the sweep of Peter’s tongue across her clit made her squeal sharply.
“Oh my god—” Peter hummed, and between that vibration, and the slow, languorous
licks, Stiles couldn’t catch her breath. “Shit, fuck, Peter—”
Two long fingers, just a bit thicker than Stiles’ own and always so warm to the
touch, rubbed softly over her damp pubes before dipping inside, sliding in so
smooth with just a hint of stretch, making her feel it. Everything was slippery
and messy already, and every obscenely wet noise was impossibly loud in the
quiet of her room.
The slick, rhythmic squelching of Peter’s fingers was keeping counterpoint to
the shameless sounds of her mouth, lips smacking and sucking as she made every
effort to eat Stiles whole. She was always so fucking intentwhen she gave head,
almost intimidatingly engrossed in the whole process. Like there was nowhere
she’d rather be than pressing her face between Stiles’ thighs. But there was a
voracious, almost threatening edge that crept in whenever Stiles was on the
rag.
Today was no different, except maybe even hungrier than that. Usually Peter
waited to get a deeper taste until she’d gotten Stiles’ off at least once, most
often with a surgically precise assault on her clit. The press of her tongue,
lapping at the vee she spread wide with her fingers, wriggling inside, was
unexpected. Stiles wasn’t exactly complaining, but even so, it was only a brief
aside before Peter was back to the task at hand, picking up a steady, licking
pace across her swollen clit. Stiles’ legs had started to tremble; pleasure was
building, coiling low in her belly. There was a musky, metallic tang in the
air, strong enough that even Stiles could taste it.
Her shoulders twisted against the mattress, and she didn’t try to stifle her
increasingly high-pitched litany of curses and wordless whining. Peter
certainly wasn’t trying to be quiet, growling and snarling like some freaking
Animal Planet special, even while her free hand was tracing soothing patterns
over Stiles’ stomach and hip, just firmly enough to avoid tickling.
“Oh, oh—” Peter’s fingers pushed in deeper, curling up and rubbing just right.
She was so close, she could feel the tingling in the soles of her feet where
they curled into the sheets. “Peter, Peter, right there, yeah, fuck—”
She ground down, fucking herself against Peter’s face, and Peter took it
eagerly, working her pussy and sucking hard on her clit. Stiles’ hips twitched
with tremulous little jerks as all those tight, hot feelings crested; she
clenched around Peter’s fingers, shuddering and gasping as the orgasm rushed
through her.
But Peter didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down to let Stiles recover, and it
hurtfor a few exquisitely painful seconds until it didn’t— Stiles’ second
orgasm sneaked in on the heels of the first, so quick she couldn’t make sense
of beginnings or ends, or anything except the pressure of Peter’s lips nursing
mercilessly at her clit. It was one thick, heady wave after another, and Stiles
was shrieking and gushing just a little, soaking Peter’s wrist as the world
went hazy at the edges.
“Delicious,” Peter rasped, sounding hoarse and ruined enough that Stiles’ pussy
gave a valiant twitch, greedy around the fingers gently easing out. “You’re so
good for me, sweetheart. Taste so sweet.”
The muscles in Stiles’ neck felt utterly useless, like overcooked noodles, but
she forced her head to loll around, just enough to look down at the werewolf
panting between her legs. Nothing was entirely fixed or grounded yet, still
fuzzy in the flood of endorphins, but staring glassy-eyed up at the ceiling
didn’t seem very polite.
Peter’s mouth was hanging open, slack and wet and not even remotely demure. She
was obviously tasting the air with every hungry inhale, and her chin and lips
were smeared with red. Red, like the bright, bloody glow of her eyes—
“What the hell!” Scrambling up the bed in a flail of limbs, shocked out of her
post-climax lassitude, Stiles didn’t entirely mean to kick Peter in the head.
It just sort of happened.
“Jesus, Stiles!” Pressing a hand against her cheek— her sticky hand, Stiles
noticed somewhat hysterically— Peter glared. The unmistakable Alpha crimson
didn’t fade. “If we could avoid breaking my fucking jaw, that would be
splendid, thanks.”
“What did you do?” Yeah, she was shouting, but if the neighbours hadn’t called
the cops a few minutes ago when Peter had her wailing, they could deal with
this. “You— Peter, what did you do?”
Rising up onto her knees, moving slowly and with exaggerated care as if she
knew Stiles was one wrong move away from bolting, Peter spread both her hands
out in a calming gesture.
“Nothing too terrible,” she said, and finally her eyes bled back to ordinary
blue again. Stiles didn’t relax. “Nothing you’ll hate me for, sweetheart, I
swear.”
“Is Scott still an Alpha?” She refused to ask if he was still alive. She’d
woken up in Peter’s arms too many times, draw in close like something precious
and protected, and trusted at the same time. They’d kissed too often and too
softly, and she’d been allowed to press her face against the vulnerable curve
of Peter’s throat. After all that, it wasn’t a question she could speak out
loud.
“Yes.” Peter sighed, sinking back to sit heavily on her own heels. “Still not
much of one, but yes. This has nothing to do with Scott, except in the most
tangential sense.”
“You killed an Alpha at the meeting.”
“I did.” Lowering her arms, Peter rested her hands on her thighs, palms up and
open. The pose looked almost supplicating. “Not entirely without cause. One of
the other Packs issued a challenge, and I took care of it. It’s all totally
above-board and legal, at least in terms of werewolf customs. Maybe don't
mention it to your father, though.”
“There is no goddamn way,” Stiles said, clinging to shreds of flinty suspicion,
despite the almost overwhelming relief. “That Scott let you fight somebody to
the death.”
“Scott didn’t have a say.” Peter’s tongue swept out, licking away most of the
blood on her lower lip. It was weirdly and inappropriately sexy, and Stiles
refused to react. “Even if he’d won the fight— which wasn’t guaranteed, and I
promise the other Alpha didn’t share McCall’s naive infatuation with pacifism—
sweet little Scott would have let the bastard walk away. We’d be ass-deep in
hostile wolves within a month, all jockeying for territory, so I stepped in and
handled the situation instead. A needless and dangerous complication was
avoided with just a bit of good old-fashioned violence and bloodshed. Nothing
to it, really.”
Stiles ran both hands back through her hair, trying to process this information
in a reasonable way. It wasn’t as surprising as it could have been. She’d known
this was going to happen eventually. Stiles had never been under any delusions
that Peter was going to be content as a Beta forever, but she’d just figured
she had more time. She’d even toyed with the idea of offering some kind of
help, with planning or whatever, if only to minimize any potential fallout.
She really couldn’t have cared less about the death of some Alpha she’d never
met, but that was the kind of thing that encouraged Peter’s more destructive,
or at least less scrupulous tendencies. And that was bad.
People kept insisting that was bad.
“Stiles?” Peter arched her eyebrows, wearing a hopeful little smile. Her teeth
were bloody. “You’re going to get blood on your sheets if you stay up there,
angel.”
“Oh shit—” There was already a small, rusty smear marring the light blue cotton
when Stiles jolted up, and wasn’t that just lovely. “God, I just— I can’t deal
with this right now. I cannot.”
Taking a deep breath, she shuffled forward, not stopping until she was close
enough to wind her arms around Peter’s neck, slumping her weight onto the other
woman. Of course, Peter barely moved, holding up Stiles’ mostly limp body
without any strain. The towel was bunched up unhelpfully, probably a lost
cause. The sheets were going to be a write-off, again, but that was just one
more fucked up thing Stiles was ignoring for the moment.
“Putting a pin in the Alpha thing,” Stiles mumbled against Peter’s collarbone.
“We’re talking about it tomorrow, you psycho. I want details. I want
reassurances that this isn't going to come back to bite us in the ass. But
right now I want cuddles, and more chocolate, and either a nap or another
orgasm.”
“All very doable,” Peter said, stroking one hand down the naked curve of
Stiles’ back. And speaking of naked, even in just a bra and panties, Peter was
still overdressed; that would have to be remedied.
“I’m very doable.” Stiles stretched until she had her fingers on the clasp of
Peter’s bra, thumbing it open. It was easier to forget all the things she
should have been freaking out about when she had Peter’s boobs to distract her.
They were lush and full, more than a handful, with big rosy nipples and
adorable freckles. Really, they had a lot to recommend them.
“That’s what I like to hear,” Peter said, before tossing Stiles back down onto
the bed.
She tasted like iron and her eyes burned like embers, but Stiles kissed her
anyway.
End Notes
     Answer to a question you never asked: my headcanon is that Peter uses
     a menstrual cup, because walking around for days smelling like her
     own blood makes her twitchy and aggressive. The cup helps keep the
     scent to a minimum.
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