I just had this very clear picture of Stiles running out across the field to where Peter had Lydia - running as fast as she could, hampered by the stupid dress she’s wearing and the little strapped on heels, trying to convince her father she’s not a total freak by going to this stupid dance in the first place, even if just with Scott - and when she gets to Lydia Peter’s mouth is wet with blood, and Lydia is lying still in the grass.
"I -" Stiles says. Panting, a little, flooded with adrenaline, and she notices Peter’s gaze tracks the line of her neck, her heaving chest. "Don’t hurt her. Peter, please - "
"Why?" Peter asks, and Stiles can feel tears spring to her eyes.
“Please,” and Peter is next to her, suddenly, wrist caught between his fingers. Trapped. “Please, let me just – let me –”
“I will,” Peter says, his tone level and very calm – weirdly calming, even, and Stiles tries to slow her breathing, catch her breath. “I just need two things from you, Stiles.”
“And what would those be?” Stiles asks, eyes darting back and forth between Peter’s distracting, bloody face and Lydia’s distracting, bloody body.
“Where Derek is –“
“I don’t know,” Stiles grits out, because if she did, there’s a chance she wouldn’t be in this mess. “I never know where your goddamn nephew is.”
Peter pauses. Head cocked to the side. “Fair enough.”
“The second thing?” Stiles asks, because Lydia’s unconscious, that’s never a good sign. It’s the kind of sign where time is of the essence.
“A kiss,” he says, and Stiles actually has a moment of absolute and total cognitive dissonance. A kiss? A kiss from who?
“Me?” comes out as a squeak. “Me?” and Peter’s thumb runs up and across the vein in her wrist slowly, slowly.
“A real kiss, of course. But a kiss for Lydia’s life seems more than fair.” There’s a glint in Peter’s eye that tells Stiles he’s very serious, even before she asks. “Mhmm.”
"You’re covered in blood," Stiles says, weakly, because that is not just a token protest, that is a protest-protest. ”I can’t -” she blurts out, because Lydia’s just lying there, bleeding - visibly bleeding, and visibly breathing, but the first part isn’t going to stop and the second might. She feels faint, she feels - she’s trying to hold it together because Lydia needs her to, but she can’t, she can’t -
Peter releases her as suddenly as he grabbed her. “Rain check,” he says, and the relief that floods Stiles’s body is almost as bad the original adrenaline. “Don’t look so worried, Stiles. I think Lydia will be fine.” His smile is absurdly charming. “If you get her to a hospital,” and when he turns to disappear into the woods, Stiles screams for help.
Of course, the next time Stiles sees Peter, he hasn’t forgotten about it.
"I believe you owe me a kiss," is what Peter says, and Stiles takes an unconscious step back.
“You have got to be kidding.” Peter’s just about scared the shit out of her, manhandled her, forced her to figure out Scott and Derek’s location, and crushed the keys to her Jeep in his hand. He couldn’t get much further down on her shit list. “Cashing in that rain check now?”
"It feels like a particularly rainy day," Peter says, and smiles at her. "We could call it a kiss for luck."
"That implies I want you to win," Stiles shoots back, but it’s uneasy. She doesn’t want Derek unrescued, and she’s not particularly fond of all the Argents running around town trying to kill Scott either. They say they enemy of your enemy is your friend, but what about when they’re your enemy too? What about when the one enemy stands before you, quietly, and the other could be torturing your best friend?
Peter hovers in the edge of her vision. Very still.
“One kiss,” she says finally, and Peter nods.
Call Stiles crazy, but she believes him - that Peter wouldn’t have any problem coercing her into giving him a kiss, but that he’d stop with one.
She’s just going to blame all of this on the stress.
“Get over here,” she says, and almost before she can blink Peter is standing next to her. Arms on either side of her, braced against the now-useless Jeep. Forehead brushing up against her own. Stiles’s heart is thumping so quickly she feels it in her chest, the side of neck. At least Peter isn’t a vampire.
“This is insane,” she says, mostly to herself. “I do this under duress.”
“You’re not very frightened,” is what Peter says. “Not really,” and he sounds a little puzzled.
Stiles doesn’t know what she’s expecting, precisely. She’s been kissed before, technically – Scott and Stiles might occupy a low place on the high school totem pole, but they’re not actually losers so much as they’re… unremarkable. Stiles is pretty enough, when someone’s drunk and she’s feeling sorry for herself, and there was that thing with Scott that one summer they were really bored, anyway. Peter seems… different.
Of course he’s different. It’s her first kiss with a strong-arming werewolf.
“Relax, Stiles,” Peter says, instead. “I won’t bite.” He pauses, and starts to smile –
“Don’t even,” Stiles hisses.
“I’d be willing to waive the kiss if you’d let me,” Peter continues, smoothly.
“Something tells me that’s not a bargain I’m interested in.” Stiles tilts her head back defiantly. It has the bonus of showing off the line of her neck. Werewolves like that, she’s figuring out. “Are you going to kiss me, or are you going to leave Derek out there alone?”
Mentioning Derek might have been a bad move. Just saying Derek’s name makes Peter’s face darken, and he sets one palm just above her collarbones. Surprisingly delicate.
The first brush of Peter’s lips was soft, and warm. Almost as light as fingers around her throat, and Stiles couldn’t help startling, a little, when Peter’s mouth parted, when he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her bottom lip. Wet. Hotter than before, and Stiles’s eyes shoot open once she realizes she’s closed them.
That counts as one kiss?, she wants to say, when Peter draws back, but she figures she’s amused him enough for tonight.
“I don’t suppose you could unbend the keys to my Jeep?” she asks. Voice even.
“For another kiss,” Peter says, very shiny, very sharp teeth on display, and Stiles makes a face at him.
“I can walk.”
Then I think everything shakes out about the same as on the show – Peter dies, Peter returns, Peter is a sassy ass. In my dream, there was something terrorizing the town, like seems to happen all the time in Beacon Hills these days, and Derek was running around trying to trap and probably kill it, which the betas were helping with, badly, and Scott is trying to pretend he’s still a normal teenager, and Stiles is fed up with everyone’s bullshit and also the way Peter sort of smugly slips in and out of pack meetings.
"What do you know?" she says, bluntly, when she’s finally managed to corner him, and Peter smiles.
"Hello, Stiles," the same way he’d said her name all those months ago. Not the first time they met, precisely, but the first time Peter was up and walking around for it.
"You know something!" she says, and gives him her best Finger of Blame. She learned it from Melissa McCall; if the recipient were anyone but Peter, they would be guiltily spilling their guts by now. "You know something and I want to know what it is, because if Derek pops up in the back of my Jeep one my time I might murder him, and I have no desire to be Alpha. So."
Peter tilts his head. “So. Our usual arrangement?”
Puh-leez. “Five minutes.”
"I think it’s worth ten."
"Yeah, doubtful. Unless you’re giving me the info up front."
Peter shrugs his shoulders and sits just on the edge of the desk. Legs splayed. "If you’d learn to stop arguing about it we’d be half-done by now," he says, and Stiles narrows her eyes.
"But I would have kissed you, which was the part I was trying to avoid."
Peter’s smile seems particularly sharp tonight. “Then why did you follow me into my room?”
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, let’s make these little deals in front of the rest of the pack. See how long it takes Scott to yank your head off.”
“He could try,” and it feels like a betrayal, a little, to snicker along with Peter.
“Five minutes,” Stiles says, because she might not be a werewolf – she can’t hear Peter’s heart, she can’t smell if he’s starting to sweat – but she’s beginning to know at least a few of his tells. “And I’ll let you get a little handsy.”
A beat before Peter answers. “Fine,” and Stiles steps forward into the vee of his legs, right between his freakishly muscled thighs.
Werewolves, Stiles thinks, when Peter pushes his face up against her collarbones and sighs. Lick his way up her neck, just under her ear, and then tugs on her earlobe with his teeth. No marks. Something a little like a growl emanating from Peter’s chest, and a good minute before he gets around to kissing her at all, which Stiles likes the best. Because – and this is truth, because Stiles doesn’t do well with lying to herself; can’t lie to herself, because there are enough lies she tells everyone else and everyone else tells her – because it does feel good. It would be worth it, she thinks, just to keep Peter in line, to know what he knows when he doesn’t feel like sharing, but it feels good too. He knows her, now, knows the way she likes to be kissed, knows the limits, the rules. Knows that if Scott gets hurt, or Lydia, or her dad, it means he owes her, and he’s rarely good enough for this to begin with.
“Making out with a psychopathic werewolf,” Stiles mutters to herself later. This shit is ridiculous.
And then it morphed into this thing where Stiles would sort of randomly reward Peter when he was being helpful, and not a total asshole. Like, he’d saved Boyd from getting his arm practically ripped off by the new Big Bad, which isn’t Peter’s MO. He’s a good fighter, but because he’s fast, because he knows how to use his senses, and to let others do the work; Peter tends to hang back, to dart in and back out again, and never, ever puts himself on the line for anyone else.
They’re all back at the Hale (ware)house, tending to their wounds, changing into non-bloodstained clothes. Allison and Scott are curled up in one corner, the betas in another. Derek is on the phone with Deaton, and Peter is hiding in his room when Stiles goes to find him.
She doesn’t bother knocking, just goes in. Unzips her hoodie and drops it to the floor. Watches him curled up on the bed, the glint of his eyes in the dark. She finds her way to his bed by memory and clicks on the little bedside lamp Peter doesn’t need – never would, not with his freakish werewolf night vision – but sometimes he can play at human better than Derek would ever dream.
“Five minutes,” she says, and watches Peter’s eyebrow quirk.
She doesn’t give a fuck about his questions, though.
"Clock’s ticking," she adds, and Peter immediately sits up. Stiles scoots a little closer, agreeably, and Peter hauls her onto his lap. One large but surprisingly finely made hand on her hip, and the other at the nape of her neck. Stroking through her hair. Stirring up her scent, more like, while Peter kisses her. Because surprise, surprise – Stiles likes kissing. Loves it. Loves deep kisses, wet kisses. Sucking on Peter’s tongue, sucking on his bottom lip, her damp mouth against his stupid facial hair. She loves when Peter gets dominant, tries to wrestle her for control. She loves getting to be lazy, having Peter hold her up, or lie on top of her, letting him explore her carefully; hands always over clothes, always, but deftly brushing over thin tees, his body pressing down on hers where she lets it. Because Stiles is the one who makes the rules, sets the limits – Peter bargains, Peter cajoles, sometimes Peter even asks – but Stiles makes the decisions.
When Peter pulls away from her, hands resting lightly on Stiles’s hips. Stiles doesn’t doubt that it’s been five minutes, to the second; Peter has a freakishly accurate internal clock. Werewolf power?
“Thanks for helping Boyd tonight,” she says, and picks up her hoodie on the way back to the main room. Hopes the sweaty-fear-blood-outside-Stiles smell of it covers Peter up when she says her goodbyes.
So it’s five minutes here, five minutes there, doled out when Peter helps Derek train the betas, when he shows up to pack meetings and doesn’t talk about Scott’s mom, or even when Stiles sees the opportunity to lord Kate or Laura over Derek’s head and Peter doesn’t take it. Five minutes of his hands bracketing her face, or pressed to her lower back, even tucked up carefully under her shirt.
Eventually, though, Stiles does it for no reason at all. Strolls into the kitchen where Peter is making something for dinner – no one in the pack is particularly good at cooking, as it turns out, but they all have a few things they make well enough – says, “five minutes,” and Peter has her pressed against the countertop, hands on the underside of her thighs, pulling her close to him. It’s been a while, Stiles thinks muzzily. Sighs into the kisses Peter showers on her, messy kisses – licks, maybe, might be more accurate, and she’s been too afraid to ask Scott if that’s a werewolf thing without triggering questions, or maybe just another ode to Allison’s smile.
When the five minutes have passed Peter steps back the way he always does, mouth reddened, half a snarl, breathing heavy, and Stiles licks her lips thoughtfully. She feels – wrecked. Might be able to do something with her hair before anyone sees her.
“Five more minutes.”
Sexy extras! Feelings extras!
Peter doesn't have too much of an issue with keeping quiet. For one thing, he rarely wants to. Let Derek know -- just don't let Derek know everything. But Stiles, oh -- she tries so hard to be quiet, and he kisses her thoroughly for it. It's part of the reason why he pushes the boundaries with every chance he gets, seeing what Stiles is willing to give him. And often, he wants to touch her skin -- to feel the smoothness of it under his fingers and the way it stretches over the shallow bumps of her ribs and the way it softens as his hands come up under her breasts.
He hasn't gone this far before. Hasn't rucked up her shirt to look at her belly or her hips. There's no time. He can feel those things just fine while his eyes are occupied with her flushed face and red, red mouth. But as his thumbs rub under the curve of her breasts, daring to slip under the wire of her bra and travel back and forth underneath it, Stiles' grip on his shoulders tightens and she moans, just a little, directly into Peter's mouth.
He seizes on the weakness at once and kisses her harder, pushing his fingers under her bra until it slips up and he's touching more directly the soft swell of her breasts, the hardened nubs of her nipples until they're pushing into his hands and she's kissing him hungrily to smother her sounds into heavy gasps against his lips, knowing perhaps that it makes no difference. Sex sounds are sex sounds regardless of how loud or quiet they try to be, and Derek will know -- Derek will know -- by the sound of their lips and the sound of their breath and the sound of their bodies. Derek will know but won't say anything, not if Stiles is the price he has to pay to keep Peter in line -- he's willing to do that much at least, so long as no one's hurt in the process, so long as it's Stiles always coming to Peter and not Peter greedily seeking her out.
There's surprisingly little by way of distraction for Peter -- only so much training or investigating that he can do before he itches for something different. It's not impatience. It's boredom -- the dreadful lull between the threats that inevitably find their way to Beacon Hills. Peter can play the long game for an end goal, but boredom makes his skin crawl. His only goal for now is another five minutes with Stiles, waiting for the moments where she deigns to grant them to him.
The upside being that Stiles gets bored even more easily than Peter.
She doesn’t go to Peter when she’s bored, at first. She’s very careful in the beginning, very stingy, very strict. It’s easy to justify everything she does at the start. It’s more difficult, later, when Peter is trusted, when he’s proved himself to be trustworthy - to a point, sure, but as far as Stiles is concerned, more trustworthy than any Argent, and they give Allison a hell of a lot of slack.
But it always feels good. Always. Hard to pinpoint when it turned the corner from a system of rewarding Peter’s good behavior to indulging in a little bad behavior of her own. Maybe less of a turn and more of a tumble. A goddamn fall from grace. Not that Stiles feels like she’s had much left since all this started - lying to her father, throwing molotov cocktails, watching people die. Kissing Peter? The least of her sins. When it feels like a sin at all.
He likes her neck and when she tips her head to expose it for his exploration. He likes the dip of her spine -- where the sweat gathers in a bright sheen, where his hand can fit and press and mold her into an arch against his body while he licks his way between her breasts. He likes it when she pushes, Likes how she likes it when he pushes back, when he presses her into the sheets of his bed and kisses her long and slow and sweet. Likes that her scent lingers for days, too.
He’s careful to never let the others into his room. To never go out smelling like Stiles. Not enough that anyone would notice, at least, unless they were as close to him as she is. (And no one gets that close to Peter, ever, not even his own nephew). It isn’t that he’s ashamed, of course - Peter can’t think of much he’s ever done that he’s ashamed of - and he doesn’t care what others think - never has, even before the fire. He just knows that the one thing that might spook Stiles would be her friends’ disapproval, their silly intervention. The way Derek might snap and rip out Peter’s throat again.
There are moments though - slips, almost fatal slips, when you stand on the edge of a precipice like theirs - and Peter sometimes feels he will give them away before she does. When she exposes her neck in full view of the pack. When she tries to train with the betas - runs with them, laughing and working up a clean sweat. When she snaps at him during pack discussions - when she teases him, keeps arguments from stumbling to their inevitable guilty, blaming conclusions. How can no one smell it on him, see it in his face? How does no one see the hunger Stiles has become so adept at stirring? - throwing scraps, enough to rouse his hunger and then let it die, slowly, banking down into embers until she feeds it again, and Peter is so grateful for the feeding he forgets the starvation. In his own way, a beast, really; as easily tamed as anything when he wants to be.
There are days he doesn’t see her at all: schoolwork and appeasing her father, hanging out with Allison and smoothing the lines of communication between werewolf, hunter, and ‘veterinarian’. There are days she ignores him, caught up in her own head, in her friends’ dilemmas, in whatever other creature has found its way to the balefire that Beacon Hills has become. He found out early on that her window is lined with mountain ash, and he knows better than to try again.
Stiles is notoriously difficult to get off. There's gotta be lots of foreplay involved before she's wet enough to be comfortable, so it's five minutes of kissing here, five minutes of touching there, a whole day of her knowing that tonight she's going to tug her underwear to the floor, spread her legs a little when she sits down and gives him five minutes to eat her out.
Stiles likes to think she’s doing this for Peter, tells herself that’s the point - rewarding him, keeping him focused, passing everything out in bits and pieces, but it works for her too. Works for her more.
And it would be stupid to think that Peter doesn’t know - wouldn’t be able to smell the difference between arousal and arousal, to know when she’s smug and pleased and when she’s wet, the difference between Stiles’s soft sighs, the way she lets him manhandle her, compared to when she has her fingers buried in his hair, her legs wrapped around him nearly too tight to breathe.
If he’s good, Peter figures, she only has more and more of a reason to reward him. And he is good -- not that she has much comparison for it. He's so very very good. Better, she thinks, than her own fingers even when she licks them and rubs them against her clit in fast, eager, little circles. Maybe it's the novelty of having tongue instead. Maybe it's so very clear to her that he likes doing this kind of thing - likes licking her and sucking her until she's wound so tight that she has to come, has to, oh -- "O-oh," shuddering, "Peter!"
If her thighs had been tight around his face before - Peter can barely breathe, barely move, flattening his tongue while she ruts up against him. Mouth wide, keeping her wet, while she keens above him and scratches at his shoulder. Wild. When she’s done - muscles relaxing, slowing, body returning to some kind of equilibrium - she tugs on his hair, gently, and Peter tilts his head back. The bottom half of his face wet. Looks more like blood than anything, in the low light - reminds her of where this all started once upon a time.
“Not quite five minutes,” he says, a low rasp, and Stiles loosens the hold she has on his hair and strokes it gently, instead. Sighs at the first new touch of his mouth to her.
"How long?" she asks, clearing her throat afterward because her voice sounds dry.
"Six, six and a half," he says and licks his lips as he slides his thumb over the inside of one of her thighs, where it's been rubbed raw from his beard. She squirms a bit as he touch drifts upward, and he smiles faintly. "You can take it out of my next five minutes, if you like."
“Mm,” she says. “I like it when you owe me.” Still petting his hair, a little, and Peter doesn’t preen, exactly, but he is satisfied. Somewhat. He never gets to come with Stiles. She never tells him to - never tells him not to - never tells him to take care of himself later. His release exists in a vacuum. Then again, so did Stiles’, before this.
Is she worried it means giving up some of her power? Does she worry the rest - the tease of it, the build - won’t be as good? Does she think that’s only what he wants - her cherry, the beautiful tight hot place inside her - that he wouldn’t want her again and again and again?
Peter is, luckily, very good at waiting.
There is at least one time, though. When she touches him because she's curious. He knows her so well, see -- knows the ins and outs, so to speak, of her body, and so she finds herself sometimes thinking about the things he likes and might like and might not. It could still be about her -- her satisfaction of knowing and discovery -- but she doesn't act on it for a long long time.
Sometimes Peter has to remind himself that Stiles is young. Inexperienced - as natural as she might be at some things, inexperienced is a kind word - and she accepts too many easy answers. She doesn’t question enough. She’ll get there, of that Peter has no doubt, and he’s patient. Cagey. Knows better than to scare her off. He is a predator. She knows he is; he knows she knows; she knows he knows she knows - round and round, a daisy chain of flipping predator and prey and who’s holding the power this time, and that’s half the fun, isn’t it.
She knows he likes her hand on the nape of his neck - digging in, like a den mother’s teeth - and when she scrapes her nails there, too hard for a human, deep enough to take some of him away with her under the fingernails, Peter will shudder and quiet.
She feels a bit like their relationship is about secrets within secrets, everything underneath the underneath. She still pretends like this is about rewarding his good behavior, and Peter pretends like he's satisfied with the crumbs that she gives him.
Stiles lies still, breath soft and steady, and pretends she hasn't noticed that Peter hasn't stopped touching her. Five minutes are up and he's usually so fastidious about following the rules to the letter, wary of being denied this in the future. But she's lying here with his broad hand spanning one of her hips and his thumb skating slowly back and forth across her tail bone.
He probably knows that she's awake anyway, but is just ignoring this too, maybe pushing the envelope to see how much she'll let him get away with. It all depends on her pretending that it's not happening, though, so she wonders what he would do if she turned over right now -- what she might do, too.
They've been at this for months, after all. It's changed so much already from a few kisses exchanged in the dark.
She shifts, humming. "Mmm, Peter," she says.
Peter's fingers go still and then continue drawing circles on her skin. He presses a kiss between her shoulder blades. Stiles turns over, turns into him, and he opens his arms to give her room to move. She stares up at him, but his gaze quickly becomes difficult to hold. Peter sees and shows too much in turn. It's easier to look at his mouth, to touch the corner of it with her fingers, to suck in a breath before he kisses her.
He hasn't even waited for her to tell him that he's got another five minutes. He's kissing her and she's clutching at his shoulders by the time his hand pushes between the splay of her legs and slides two fingers right into her. He sets a rough pace with his hand, pumping his fingers into her and rubbing the heel of his palm against her clit, and she's still wet from how he'd licked her open not even ten minutes ago. The sound of his fingers is sloppy and obscene, but she loves it -- he loves it.
Peter loves the way that he can be a little rough with her, loves the way she'll huff into his mouth with every thrust, going: "Ah, ah, ah-- Peter," straining and digging her fingers into his shoulder as it flexes under her hand.
"Scold me later if you want," Peter tells her, mumbling the words near her ear even as she starts to tighten around him. "But consider it getting a down payment on my reward. I'm about to be very good for a very long time."
She isn't sure what he's talking about, but she can guess. Derek's been antsy ever since Erica and Boyd had gone missing. She didn't imagine he would leave them be for long. Peter isn't entirely pleased with being sent away for any length of time, judging by how he mouths at her throat and then back up to her mouth, like he wants to eat her up and keep a part of her with him while he's away.
"How long?" she asks, touching his cheek.
"Couple months," he says. "Maybe longer."
She kisses him then and he curves his fingers inside her, rubbing over that rough patch of nerves until her legs are shaking, until she's tossing her head back, saying -- "Fuck, Peter, just--"
Then it's three fingers inside her and this thumb sliding through the slick folds of her pussy until it finds the length of her clit. She arches, biting her lip. She's terribly close, and he bends his mouth to her breast bone, kissing it and then the breast nearest to him, sucking the nipple into his mouth until she's jerking with every sensation, coming over his fingers.
She lays gasping underneath him, shuddering when his fingers slip free. Stiles feels as if she's sweated clear through his sheets. "So," she says. "A while then."
"Mmhm," he replies absently, rubbing his fingers together and looking very much as if he has no desire to wipe his hands clean.
Stiles tucks her head into the fold of his arm and presses her hip against the bulge in his pants. He goes absolutely still. She sighs and hooks a finger in one of his belt loops. "Okay," she says. "Wanna come on me, then?"
He does. She lets him. Peter pants Stiles' name into her neck as he strips his cock so hard and fast that she worries for a moment that he's hurting himself. When he comes across her thigh and belly, though, the sound he makes is all pleasure. They sleep pressed against each other that night, and in the morning, he's gone.