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Mating Games 2014 Weekly Challenges (Director's Cut)

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Cora presses her cheek against the bark and closes her eyes, her claws sinking a little deeper into the trunk of the tree. She tries to think of soothing things: puppies, rainbows, rainbow puppies that rip the wings off harpies. Slowly. Like, one feather at a time. She tries to slow the racing of her heart, calm herself down, and yet…

“Could you go any fucking slower, Stilinski?”

She hears a snort somewhere below her, but doesn’t look down to see how far below. “This would be a lot easier if you would let down your hair so I could climb up.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Just a suggestion, but you may not want to antagonize the person who’s rescuing you,” he says, and there’s a crack and a crunch and a skitter that makes Cora’s stomach lurch. Stiles, however, sounds infuriatingly calm. “Food for thought. Also, human hair really does have some pretty impressive tensile strength. You know, if you had enough of it.”

“Stiles,” she says, trying to control her breathing, “no offense, but was there literally no one else they could spare? Someone of the werewolf persuasion?” She wouldn’t admit it under pain of death, but she… she doesn’t want him to see her like this. Not when what they have is still so new, so tentative.

“Mmm, sorry. Literally everyone else is fighting the harpies. You remember, the ones that put you up here in the first place? And since I can’t bite or shoot or do ostentatious backflips off of every available surface, they could spare me.”

It’s probably a lie – no doubt Stiles volunteered, but Cora doesn’t really feel up to parsing his motives so long as he hurries the fuck up. He sounds like he’s getting closer, and every time he moves up another step, the tree shakes a little. Not much, but a great deal more than Cora would like. But she’s held down her lunch so far, and she’s not going to surrender to the indignity of puking on Stiles, as momentarily amusing as that would be.

Stiles has to be very close to her now; she can smell the sharp tang of his sweat and hear a great deal of grunting and creaking until everything comes to a stop with a small jolt that makes her fangs drop.

“So,” Stiles says, and he sounds like he’s right in front of her now. “A werewolf who’s afraid of heights. How does that work?”

She forces herself to open her eyes and, in fact, Stiles is not even two feet away, perched on a branch on the opposite side of the tree. He’s got a coil of rope tossed over his shoulder and he appears to be tying one end of it to the branch on which he’s sitting. “We don’t spend a lot of time flying,” she manages to grit out. “How the hell did you get up here?”

“While you were farting around in South America for the second time, I was teaching rock climbing and rappelling for two years at summer camp. Plus, I really, really like to climb trees.”

His smile is crooked and bright, though there’s no hint of mockery in it and she could kiss him for that. Well. Once they’re safely on the ground, where nature intended all non-winged creatures to remain.

For a split second she’s worried he’s going to ask how she’s feeling, if she’s okay, and then she really might panic. But he just shifts until he’s standing on the branch and reaches out for her. “Okay, we can do this one of two ways. You could climb on my back and—”

“Nope.”

“Okay, we can do this one of one way…”

&&&

Later, Stiles only makes one fear-of-heights joke when Cora shoves his naked body onto the bed and climbs on top of him. She’s well aware that he goes pretty nonverbal when she’s riding him, so she makes that happen as soon as possible.

There are scratches and scrapes on the hands that reach for her, that gently squeeze her breasts and rub over her nipples. She arches into the touch and lifts her hands from his hips, giving him room to piston up into her. His breathing is erratic but his thrusts are steady, and she closes her eyes for the pleasure of listening to the sweet, helpless noises he makes when she clenches around him. Fuck him, he even sounds beautiful, even if she’ll never know how to tell him that.

He drops a hand down to fumble at her clit, too far gone to get the rhythm she needs. It won’t make her come, but it feels good, sends lovely little shocks of sensation through her pelvis as she rocks down on him. He’s saying her name now, over and over, which means he won’t take much longer, so she opens her eyes again. This is never something to miss, the way his eyes screw shut and his neck arches. She leans down to bite and he shouts, jolting beneath her as he comes.

Before she can even give him a proper hickey, he pulls out of her and makes quick work of the condom before yanking her forward on the bed. She catches herself on the headboard moments before he goes in for the kill, licking at her in long, flat swipes that have her pressing her hips against his face.

She feels open and hungry for two of his clever fingers, too worked up for the way his tongue is flicking so lightly against her swollen clit. She snarls and he laughs, the vibrations of it making her voice turn into an embarrassing whimper. But after that, he stops fucking around, puts his mouth right where she needs it most and rolls his tongue against her until she’s all but shaking with the need to come. Then he sucks and she falls right over the edge, riding out the hard shivers, trapped between his mouth and his fingers.

They end up, as usual, in a sweaty tangle with only the minimal involvement of sheets. Stiles pushes some wayward strands of damp hair from Cora’s forehead. “I kind of liked being the one to rescue you for a change,” he murmurs.

He’s giving her that tender look that she never quite knows what to do with, so she reverts to what she knows best: snark. “Don’t start thinking you’re my Prince Charming or anything.”

Stiles laughs, showily licking his lips that are still wet with her. “I’d like to see Prince Charming do that.”