Work Header

2 Cups Love, 1 Cup Sugar

Work Text:


“Today on it’s alive, I’m making ginger beer. How is ginger beer alive, I hear you ask. Well it’s fermentation baby!”


Peter carefully shaves dark chocolate into a porcelain bowl, listening to Stiles’ rambling explanation with an emotion he can only describe as a fondness. Peter has often found himself in the test kitchen when It’s Alive is being filmed - sometimes by accident, sometimes by choice - and Stiles voice has become soothing despite his penchant for going wildly off topic. Stiles meanders down the path of explanation, stopping to investigate every interesting avenue before arriving at the final destination. His videos are popular though, his personality and quirks appealing to a wide market. 


Peter scribbles a note in his notebook, deliberately not looking up when Stiles passes him. Stiles leaves a hint of woodsmoke and spice behind him, dampened by the suppressants he uses but still strong, at least to Peter. Not much gets past an alpha werewolf nose. 


Peter concentrates on his own recipe, aware of the camera and what it might capture. He’d prefer to keep his infatuation to himself, doesn’t need the eagle-eyed internet making inappropriate comments and accurate insinuations. 


Besides, he wouldn’t want to make Stiles uncomfortable. There’s no significant other as far as Peter can tell, but Stiles was unresponsive when Peter tried flirting and is seemingly uninterested in dating. Peter isn’t one to press his suit where it isn’t wanted. 




“So you want us to do Thanksgiving… in July?” Stiles phrases his question like this notion is beyond his comprehension. Peter snorts, stirring sugar in his coffee. May sunlight is streaming through the windows on the left side of the boardroom, illuminating the flecks of gold in Stiles’ eyes. Peter averts his gaze, turning his attention back to the meeting. 


Around the table are the main cast of the Bon Appetit channel. Alongside their standard recipe videos, they all have their specific niches; Erica, who specialises in unusual cooking methods; Boyd, who primarily does videos on sustainable eating; Kira, who makes gourmet versions of snack foods; Jackson, who ranks the most hipster eating places in New York; Isaac, who recreates famous dishes from sense memory; Stiles, who is responsible for fermentation and It’s Alive related content; and then Peter, who makes the most decadent desserts from the most expensive ingredients. 


Allison, the head of production, nods. “Yes, the episodes will come out around Thanksgiving but we need to film them now so they can be fully edited in time. The perfect pizza series was so popular, that we figured a Thanksgiving series would also appeal.”


“Dibs on the turkey,” Erica says, slapping a hand on the table, “and I’m trying the deep-frying method and none of y’all can stop me.” 


“Ooh I want to do cornbread,” Kira says, “or mashed sweet potatoes.”


“Guys,” Allison says, “we’re going to film this discussion.”


Everyone ignores her, debating what they want to do and how they want to do it. Peter sips his coffee, watching the chaos unfold. Jackson is arguing with Kira about cranberry sauce, both of them essentially agreeing but caught in miscommunication. Boyd is trying to dissuade Erica from setting up a deep-fat fryer on the roof of her building, clearly making the conscious effort to avoid using his alpha voice on her. Erica knows what he’s doing, smirking as she teases him about the hilariously dangerous things she might do. 


“We should do pumpkin pie,” Stiles says. Peter turns his head to look at Stiles, unsure where that comment was directed.




“Yeah,” Stiles replies, “I know for a fact that no one here wants to handle baking. Kira maybe, but she does that so much for Make it Gourmet, that she might want a break. I want to make pie dude. Also don’t want to get stuck with veggies or god forbid dinner rolls.”


It’s an opportunity to work with Stiles, something that Peter rarely gets to do. Yes, they’ll offer to taste each other’s food, perhaps even give the occasional constructive criticism, but they’ve never actually made anything together. 


“Yes, let’s do it,” Peter says, “although if you try to introduce any sort of fermentation into my pumpkin recipe, I will smack your hand with a wooden spoon.”


“That’s an incentive for me to sneak it past you.” Stiles grins, smug and charming and completely out of reach. 


“Just try, see how far it gets you.” 


Peter gives Stiles a smile of his own, the one he uses when he’s flirting with intention. The one that has charmed many people into bed and caused a number of omega’s pulses to quicken. Something flickers in Stiles’ eyes but its gone before Peter can name it. Stiles turns away as Allison manages to regain control of the room. 


Peter knows he’ll have to keep his feelings locked down if he doesn’t want to look like a complete fool on camera. Lovelorn is not a word Peter has ever been described as and he does not want to start now. He takes another sip of coffee, listening to Allison explain the next few weeks of production and pointedly does not look at the way Stiles is flicking a pen between his fingers. 




On the first day of shooting, Allison issues them both a challenge in the form of a golden envelope. 


“What’s this?” Stiles asks, taking the offered letter and ripping it open. Peter leans over the counter to peer at the typed card inside. He clicks his tongue at the contents. 


“You do so love to challenge us Allison,” Peter drawls, looking down the barrel of the camera. 


“You’ve been entered into a county fair pie competition in Denver,” Stiles reads aloud, “you have forty-eight hours to make the perfect pumpkin pie before your flight. First prize is $100.” 


“I’m not entering a pumpkin pie to a summer pie competition,” Peter says, “we will lose.”


“That cherry almond pie you made once was pretty good,” Stiles says dropping the card on the counter. “We should enter that.”


“Pretty good does not win pie contests.”


“Take the compliment dude. Anyway, s’not like we won’t win this thing. We’re going to make the best pies that this county fair has ever seen.”


“Almost certainly, and don’t call me dude.”


“Sure thing. Dude.”


Peter rolls his eyes, picking up his notebook to flick through to the cherry almond recipe. “I want to try making a rye flour base, and we’ll definitely need an immersion blender for the pumpkin filling.”


“You’re the dessert expert,” Stiles says, rubbing his hands together, “lets get cooking.”


They busy themselves with ingredients, coordinating recipes notes and testing different variations. Stiles’ scent has taken on an undertone of sweetness today; Peter has to remind himself not to be obvious in his scenting, resigns himself to a shallow breath whenever Stiles scent floats by. 


They toss ideas back and forth, easily bouncing off one another and finding little friction although Stiles is a much more experimental chef, willing to try anything to see if it will work despite Peter’s protests that baking requires a much more precise touch. 


The camera’s melt away, lost in the background as they work in tandem, almost hyper aware of each other’s presence yet comfortable in that awareness, even when it sparks moments of unintentional intimacy. 


Peter hands Stiles ingredients, their fingertips brushing for a mere moment. Stiles leans over to grab a pie dish, showing off the long line of his neck and shoulders, the muscles hidden beneath layers of plaid and gives Peter an odd smile when he catches Peter looking. Peter slices pecans into neat sections, noting how Stiles is observing the precise way Peter is using the knife. 


These moments are innocent enough that no one says anything. The camera keeps rolling, their banter making for excellent B roll footage if nothing else. It’s casual enough for Peter to forget etiquette. 


“Here taste this for me,” Peter says, lifting up a spoonful of cherry almond filling, cupping his hand underneath to prevent it from spilling. Stiles leans down, taking the offered bite and for a second time slows down. It’s just Peter and Stiles. Just the intimate act of hand feeding. Just the reminder of everything that could be and everything that isn’t. 


Someone clangs a pan against the stove top, breaking the moment and Stiles leans back, thoughtfully chewing. He swallows, tongue flicking out to catch the last morsels of flavour. 


“That tastes amazing, acidic but sweet. Honestly, I think we should try one cherry rye and one pumpkin rye, versus one cherry traditional and one pumpkin traditional.”


Peter clears his throat, dropping the teaspoon in the sink.


“Sounds good to me.”




“We won’t be able to use the footage of you feeding Stiles,” the director says. “We know it didn’t mean anything, but as a company, we can’t broadcast unmated alpha-omega interaction of that nature.” 


Peter nods. He doesn’t object, keeps his face neutral. 


“It’s nothing personal, but we’ll probably erase the footage, just to be safe. You know what the cloud is like.” 




The director claps Peter on the shoulder before drifting away to discuss resetting the lighting for the next shot. Peter’s attention drifts to where Stiles is throwing grapes at Erica for her to catch in her mouth. The image of hand-feeding Stiles flickers in Peter’s mind, the moment crystallizing as he tries to etch it permanently into his memory. 





(Head and shoulders shot of Stiles Stilinski against a white background. Stiles is wearing a maroon t-shirt and black beanie. He takes the beanie off, revealing messy hair, and throws it to someone off screen.)


Allison: (off-screen, words appearing as yellow subtitles) so why do you cook?


Stiles: (considers the question before answering) I just love it, you know. Like I got diagnosed with ADHD as a kid, so my grades were kind of all over the place in school but like cooking is the one thing that I can stay totally focused on. It relaxes me, like I guess yoga does for people. Cooking is my yoga. But also, my mom and dad both have Polish ancestry, so it’s a way to connect with that culture and the food history of Poland. But ultimately (Stiles pauses, looking down for a moment before looking back up at the camera) I think food is my love language. I think feeding people, like the effort that goes into making a meal to share, is an expression of love. You know, I want us to eat well, I want us to be nourished. Love is the ultimate ingredient, in any dish. (Stiles laughs). Did that make sense? 




The pies come out perfect; the right amount of tartness in the cherry, the whiskey in the pumpkin adding a richer flavour. The bases are simply flawless. Peter turns the beautiful cross-section towards the camera, using his bedroom eyes as he looks up. Stiles somewhat ruins the slight sexual overtures by picking up a slice of pumpkin pie and cramming almost all of it into his mouth. 


“So charming,” Peter comments, using a fork like a civilised person. Stiles swallows before grinning.


“The most charming. Also super delicious. Have to say I prefer the rye base, at least on the pumpkin. I feel like it’s distracting in the Cherry.”


“Noted.” Peter turns to the camera. “So tomorrow, before we get on our flight to Denver, because apparently our producers think we need jeopardy, we’ll make these delicious pies again. And then win the competition.” 


“Because we’re badass!” 


Stiles winks at the camera.




Stiles’ whole body softens, the onscreen persona retreating a little. He cuts himself another small slice of the cherry almond, the juice running down his forearm. He licks it, suckling the sweetness from his fingers. Peter carefully puts down his fork to avoid crushing it into dust. 




They just about make it to their flight on time. They’re the last passengers on board, everyone slumping into their seats, breathing heavily. Peter only notices once he’s buckled his seatbelt that Stiles is sat next to him, his woodsmoke spice scent tinged with faint anxiety and relief. 


“Genuinely thought we weren’t going to make it,” Stiles says, cracking a bottle of water open. 


“Well we would have been on time, had you gotten lost in the pantry looking for pecans.”


“We needed the best and the best are McCall’s. I don’t make the rules.”


The plane begins to move, the safety announcement pinging to life on the in-flight entertainment screens. Peter leans forward to pull his kindle out of his backpack, hoping to finish Station Eleven before they land. As he leans back up, he notes Stiles white-knuckle grip on the armrest. 


Peter isn’t sure what possesses him to do it, but he gently pries Stiles’ hand from the plastic, flipping it over to take it. He squeezes gently. Stiles squeezes back, smiling in a way Peter has never seen and can’t quite categorize. Neither one of them says anything, as if to name what is happening would ruin it. 


Stiles falls asleep as soon as they’re in the air, his head falling onto Peter’s shoulder, mouth parted slightly. He doesn’t let go of Peter’s hand until they land. 




Leaving the airport is chaos. An intern heads off to check them into their hotel while the crew rush over to the county fair to get there before the pie contest sign ups close. Stiles and Peter end up squished in the back of the van together, nestled in amongst the equipment. If Stiles tilts his head to the right, it would be under Peter’s chin, near his throat. 


Disentangling themselves is an adventure in elbows but eventually everyone is free, the camera is set up and they’re on their way. Peter barely has enough time to centre himself before he’s smiling into the camera, explaining where they are and what they’re about to do. He follows behind Stiles, primly holding the box with the cherry almond pie in it, as Stiles leads the way to the judging tent. 


Sign up involves talking to a group of elderly omegas and betas, who are all very excited to be filmed. Peter lays on the charm as he fills out the sign up sheet, has them practically eating out of the palm of his hand. He plays up a little bit for the camera, knows he’s appealing to his target demographic when he flexes his arms and uses this smile. 


“Here we see Peter in his natural habitat,” Stiles says, somewhat to the camera, somewhat to Peter, “being effortlessly charming in order to skew the judges opinion of him favourably.”


“I’m just being pleasant,” Peter replies. Stiles snorts, handing in his own sign up sheet. 


After their pies have been safely escorted to the judging tables, they’re herded off to do an interview with one of the county fair organisers. It goes as well as one might imagine, the alpha lady is polite and interesting but she only makes eye contact with Peter and changes her tone to something a little gentler when talking to Stiles. 


“I hate when alphas do that,” Stiles mutters. They’re a little apart from the crew, leaning against a low brick wall, having been given permission to explore the fair but only after they get a few minutes of B-roll footage.


“The soft voice thing?”


Stiles nods. “It’s weird, it’s like alphas are trying not to conform to gender stereotypes of being bossy so they’ve gone the other way to avoid using their ‘alpha voice’ on us, but that tone makes me feel like a child. Just talk to me like a regular human being.” 


Peter shifts so that his face is out of the sun, his body turning towards Stiles. “Does it happen often?”


Stiles shrugs, his whole body tight like a live wire. “Not like, in the test kitchen. But yeah, sometimes out and about. It’s either Knotheads trying to dominate me or soft Alpha’s trying to baby me. Even fans of the show, trying to tell me how to ferment stuff like I’m not a fucking boss at what I do.”


“Of that I have no doubt.”


“It’s all the old bullshit. Alphas are chefs, omegas are cooks, what’s with all this fermentation nonsense, don’t you know how to cook a Sunday roast?”


“That sounds… specific.”


Stiles sighs, folding his arms across his chest. “The last Tinder date I went on. I was explaining my job, kind of went off a tangent, and the guy just wasn’t into it. Whatever, I’m used to it.” 


Peter chooses his next words carefully. “What you do on It’s Alive, the way that you cook, the meals you create and the knowledge you have is fascinating. And one day you will find someone who appreciates that knowledge and admires you for it.” 


“That your honest opinion?”


“Stiles, I would never lie to you.” 


Stiles gives Peter a small smile. “That’s good to know.”






(A head and shoulder shot of Peter Hale against a white background. He’s dressed in a black v-neck.)


Allison: (offscreen, words appearing as yellow subtitles) so tell me, why did you cook?


Peter: Because I’m (BLEEP) fantastic at it. (Peter laughs) Are you going to air that?


Allison: (offscreen) Probably. Care to elaborate further?


Peter: As a werewolf, an alpha werewolf at that, my senses are somewhat heightened. Food that is made with inappropriate ingredients can be unpleasant for me. That being said, I am a glutton for desserts. I don’t believe in guilty pleasures, that’s a concept designed to shame people for what they enjoy. Desserts are deliberately decadent, they are meant to be enjoyed, why should I limit myself when dining on them? Food can be a truly intimate experience, feeding someone is an intimate thing. It’s a display of trust, one could argue. When I’m wooing a partner, I like to cook for them, not as necessarily a demonstration of providing, but as a way of sharing my passion. As a way of saying I want to give this to you, I want to show you how food can really taste. Also, I think alphas should cook for omegas, the antiquated notions about gender are dull. Alphas who don’t know their way around a kitchen are fundamentally useless. Omegas of the world, you can do better. Does that answer your question?




They don’t win. They don’t even place. Peter figures being out of town, media types might have worked against them. Still, the food on offer isn’t too bad and despite the blip earlier, Stiles seems to be alright, eager to try all the various cuisines on offer. Peter can barely keep up with him as Stiles rushes between stalls, chattering happily with the vendors.


“You have to try this fudge,” Stiles says, not waiting for Peter to reply before feeding it to him.  At this point the cameras are off for the day, so Peter doesn’t mind indulging Stiles desire to feed him. In fact, he might even enjoy it a little bit. 


“Tell me about your latest fermentation project,” Peter asks when they sit down to share a few pulled pork tacos. 


Stiles eyes light up. He finishes his taco, wiping at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Ok, so Orville Peck is coming in a couple of weeks. Have you heard his album? It’s brilliant. Anyway so like, we’re doing a video together, which I cannot wait, cause like I love his music and also he’s like a gay icon now. I don’t know if I could pull off the fringed mask, but maybe, not opposed to trying. Anyway, cowboys, so I’m thinking I might do a twist on elote.”


Peter listens to Stiles explanation, the late afternoon sun illuminating him from behind, as if Stiles is the patron saint of fermentation. Peter keeps his mind off of the implications of holiness, of all the decadence and divinity therein and just listens.




They get back to the hotel around nine, the sun almost fully set and the breeze starting to become thick with humidity. As the crew unpacks, Stiles and Peter head into the lobby where they are met by one of the interns who scurried off to book them in earlier. The intern, a pale faced and nervous beta, hands Peter a single key card. 


“So there was an error in the booking and you guys are um… sharing a room. Two beds but um, one room.”


“And why exactly is that a problem?” Stiles asks, steel-spined and razor sharp. 


“Well… um, you’re an unmated omega and alpha, sharing a room.”


“There’s two beds isn’t there?”

“Well, yes.”


“And I presume that you’re not telling me that Peter, as an alpha is simply uncontrollable around omegas, or that I, as an omega, am uncontrollable around alphas, so much so that we can’t share a room together.”


“No, I… that’s not, I mean.”


“I think,” Peter interjects, “that you should apologise now. I think you should also consider your personal biases, and we’ll say no more about it.”


The intern apologises sheepishly. Stiles clicks his tongue, grabbing the key card from Peter and stalking towards the elevator. Peter goes after him, managing to jump into the elevator before the doors shut.


“Un-fucking-believable,” Stiles snarls, “as if we can’t share a goddamn room. We’re not… I mean, you don’t want to fuck me right?”


Peter opens his mouth, closes it and opens it again. “Not without your consent.”


“Exactly… wait what?” 


“It can’t have escaped your notice that I’m attracted to you Stiles, body and mind so to speak.”


“Well… yeah I guess, but I didn’t think you were serious. No-one’s ever serious.”


“Stiles, that’s an incredibly depressing statement.”


“I… well... It's depressingly true. I didn’t think you were serious, I mean, you’re you.” Stiles gestures to Peter’s torso. “You flirt like you’re breathing.”


“I’m effortlessly charming, there’s a difference. Nevertheless, why wouldn’t I be attracted to you? You’re smart, funny, an incredibly gifted chef, not to mention handsome. What’s not to like?”


Stiles looks down at his feet. The elevator dings at their floor, the doors sliding open. Peter leads the way, Stiles trailing behind. 


“Why didn’t you say anything?” Stiles asks. Peter extends a hand. Stiles slaps the key card into Peter’s palm. 


“You made it clear that you weren’t interested.”


They enter the room, Peter flicking on the light. 


“It’s not that I wasn’t interested…” Stiles trails off as they get further into the room. 


“Ah,” Peter says.


“Well,” Stiles says, “fuck.”


There’s only one bed. A king size, but singular nonetheless. Peter sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 


“I’ll go back down to the concierge.”


“No,” Stiles says, grabbing Peter’s arm, “I want to talk about this, can you wait?”


Peter lets Stiles guide him over to the bed. They sit, facing each other, though Stiles won’t make eye contact. He twists his hands in the bottom of his t-shirt. Peter untangles Stiles’ hands, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles against Stiles’ skin. 


“I didn’t want to seem like an overbearing alpha, pressing my suit where it wasn’t wanted,” Peter murmurs, “I tried to keep my distance, attempting to be a good colleague.”


“I didn’t... I thought.” Stiles pauses, collecting himself. “I assumed that because you had stopped flirting that you weren’t interested.”


“Well then, this is me, telling you I am interested. I would like to date you, if you would like to date me.” 


“Yeah, that sounds pretty good to me.”


Peter tilts Stiles head up for a kiss, sweet and gentle. Stiles responds eagerly, his mouth soft but insistent. Peter wants nothing more than to drag him down into the bed but he forces himself to pull back. 


“We need separate rooms.”


“Do we?” Stiles says, his right hand coming forward to touch Peter’s bicep. 


“We do,” Peter says, pressing a kiss to Stiles cheek, “because I want to do this right. I’ll see you in the morning.”


“Fine,” Stiles says, flopping back on the bed. “Guess I’ll just masturbate then.”


Peter flashes his eyes, the alpha red bleeding through the blue. “Behave, Stiles.”




Peter smiles, unable to stop complete fondness infecting it. 






(Jackson, Kira, Erica, Boyd and Isaac are seated around a wooden outdoor table that has been freshly cleared. Peter and Stiles enter from the right side of the screen, Peter is holding the pumpkin pie while Stiles narrates and makes jazz hands type gestures.)


Stiles: Presenting the pumpkin pie that did not win, did not even place but is still the best tasting pumpkin pie you’ll ever eat.

Peter: I told them we shouldn’t have entered a pumpkin pie in July.


Jackson: Well you cherry almond didn’t place either, so what’s your excuse for that?


(Peter places the pie on the table, picking up a knife)


Stiles: (pointing at Jackson) Snarky people don’t get pie.


(Peter and Stiles share a soft, intimate smile as Peter cuts into pie.) 




For their first date, Peter takes Stiles to his favourite New York ice cream parlour. Stiles gets an obscene amount of toppings on his three scoops of mint choc chip, salted caramel and rocky road. When Peter offers him a taste of his earl grey infused chocolate chip, Stiles happily laps at the spoon, winking at Peter. Peter calls him incorrigible, stealing a few pecans from Stiles’ bowl.


Their second game is a board game cafe, Stiles absolutely thrashing Peter at several rounds of chess, though Peter definitely has him on the ropes a few times. Peter enjoys doing something fun for a change, there’s no need to be overtly showy or impressive. He feels comfortable just being, and hopes that Stiles does too. 


They go to theatre shows and bookstores, museums and art galleries, spend hours in the park, watch a Mets game and try each other’s favourite food places around the city. Peter has Stiles over to his apartment and vice versa; they cook in each other’s kitchens, occasionally bickering over ingredients but revelling in the way the dishes come together. Stiles gives Peter a sourdough starter scoby for his birthday, weaned from Stiles own, which was originally his grandmother’s. The importance of it nearly brings a tear to Peter’s eye.


Three months into dating, Peter invites Stiles to spend a full moon with him. Peter runs with some other New York werewolves who don’t really want to form a pack. This suits them just fine, running together in upstate New York, the feeling of being one but still independent. Stiles takes to it naturally, happily mock howling as he gambols along, surprisingly swift and agile. When asked about it later, Stiles grins and says “Cross country track star baby!”


Sometimes, Peter can tell that Stiles is waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Peter to turn around and behave like a typical alpha; become boorish and vile and remind Stiles why trusting Peter was a bad idea. Peter puts effort into making Stiles feel comfortable, actively asks about his projects, about his family, makes sure to check in during sex. They haven’t discussed heats. Peter knows that Stiles is on suppressants. He’s hesitant to bring it up, even though they’ve had sex, several times in several different positions. Peter is particularly enchanted with the way Stiles thigh quivers during penetration, his slack pink lips gasping with pleasure when Peter bottoms out. 


It’s Stiles that brings it up, over breakfast. Peter finishes plating the french toast, sprinkling cinnamon and icing sugar over the slices before carrying them to the breakfast bar. Stiles is guzzling coffee like its liquid ambrosia. 


“Cheers,” Stiles says, putting down his cup. “So, what do you think about maybe spending my next heat together?”


Peter sits down, pouring a little maple syrup over his french toast. “If that’s something you would like, then I would be honored.”


Stiles grins, pressing a syrupy kiss to Peter’s cheek.



Stiles in heat is a sight to behold. Peter presses a plump strawberry against Stiles’ lips, eyes fully red as Stiles takes the strawberry into his mouth, suckling at the juice on Peter’s fingertips. Stiles makes an appreciative noise, licking the corners of his lips before nuzzling at Peter’s hand to request more. Peter dips another strawberry in chocolate, tilting Stiles’ chin up with his other hand. 


Stiles steals a kiss before Peter can feed him. His lips taste like strawberries and Peter finds himself eagerly responding, licking into Stiles' mouth. Stiles slips a hand beneath Peter’s v-neck, his fingertips hot against Peter’s abs. Stiles has already stripped down to bare skin. His scent has taken on a spicy sweet note, the woodsmoke diminished but still there. 


Stiles leans back, pupils blown wide, lips slick. “God, I’m so fucking wet.”


Stiles is dripping. He leans back on the bed, legs splayed, looking coyly up at Peter. He slips a hand down his chest, taking himself in hand and stroking slowly. He’s still at the beginning of his heat, not overcome with need yet but Peter can smell that Stiles is close. He deposits the plate of fruit on the side table, dipping his fingers in the chocolate sauce. He presses those fingers against Stiles’ lips. Stiles laps at them, sucking them clean. 


“What do you want baby?” Peter asks, trailing his fingers along Stiles’ side. Stiles hums, letting go of his cock. His gaze is becoming a little unfocused, a little heat hazy. 


“Eat me out,” Stiles murmurs, “I want your tongue, please Alpha.”


“As you wish.” 


Peter spreads Stiles’ legs a little further, settling between them. Stiles’ scent is more intense here, as Peter pulls apart Stiles’ cheeks. He licks at the puckered flesh, at the slick dripping from Stiles’ hole. It’s a little sweet, a little salty, and Peter partially shifts so that his tongue is longer. His claws prick Stiles’ thighs, not enough to draw blood but enough to hold him still as Peter opens him up with his tongue. 


Stiles hand goes down to thread through Peter’s hair. Stiles’ thigh begins to quiver, his mouth falling open to let out a litany of pleased moans. 


“Fuck… ah, Alpha!”


Peter pulls back. “Does it feel good baby?”


“Feels so good Peter, fuck, can’t wait for you knot. Are you gonna give me your knot soon Alpha? Please, want it so bad.”


“Soon darling, do you think I would deny you?”


Stiles tugs Peter’s head to bring Peter up for a kiss. It’s sloppy and heated, full of desire and desperation. Stiles licks at Peter’s fangs, hips snapping up to grind against Peter. Peter rears back, shedding his shirt and unbuckling his pants. 


He slips a finger inside Stiles. It goes easily, Stiles whining as he rocks back and forth. Peter adds a second finger, revelling in how sensitive and responsive Stiles is. 


“On your back or your front, darling?”


Stiles moans softly, squirming on the sheets, dick jerking. “Don’t make me choose.”


Peter smiles, nuzzling beneath Stiles’ chin. “Want me to mount you darling? Hold you down and breed you?”


“Yes Alpha, yes please, Peter!”


Peter removes his fingers, flipping Stiles over and helping arrange him into position. Stiles breathing is hard, the back of his neck flushed pink. Peter places a sweet kiss behind Stiles’ ear as he pushes in, slow and sweet. Stiles slips on his elbow and Peter growls, nipping at the back of Stiles neck. Stiles bares his throat and Peter is sated. 


“My sweet little omega,” Peter murmurs, rolling his hips. Stiles has been reduced to whimpers and breathy gasps. The scent of need is thick in the air, Peter can practically taste it. “You’re so fucking perfect Stiles, so beautiful, taking me so well.” 


Peter rolls his hips, increasing the pace. The need to knot is starting to cloud his judgment a little. He nails Stiles prostate on every thrust, Stiles chanting Peter’s name as his cock drips over the sheets. 


“I’m going to knot you now darling, fill you up and breed you.”


“Yes, please Alpha, please!”


Peter’s knot begins to swell, popping past Stiles rim. It’s heavenly, the feeling of being inside Stiles, the scent of Stiles pleasure, Peter can’t stop himself from letting out a triumphant howl. Stiles gasps as he streaks the sheets with come, pushing back on Peter’s knot. 


Peter guides their sweaty bodies over to one side, hips twitching and pressing against Stiles’ prostate again. Stiles whimpers at the over-sensation. Peter nuzzles the back of Stiles neck, arm coming around to gently rub the skin of Stiles belly in a soothing way. 


“How are you feeling?” Peter asks, his voice a little raspy. 


“Feel good,” Stiles replies, “my heat is sated for now, but it’ll be back in a couple of hours.”


“Well,” Peter murmurs, rolling his hips again, “I’m sure we can find a way to occupy our time till then.”


Stiles laughs, tilting his head for a kiss. It’s sweet and unhurried, a lazy exploration of each other’s mouths. 


“I love you,” Stiles says, “I know I’m in heat, but I mean it.”


“I love you too.” 


Peter reaches down to pull one of the sheets over them, kissing the back of Stiles’ neck. They settle down for rest, safe and content in each other’s arms.