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rocksaltandmountainash · 7 months ago

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Waking up in Beacon Hills - pt. 31

Chapter summary: kara works her case - there are strippers, and demons, and peter hale.

Series masterlist: can be found here.

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings/notes: swearing, canon (TW and SPN) typical violence, drinking, smoking, smut. Gif sources: One | Two | Three

Yakima, Washington (still):

Locking up, the sound of a whistle behind you has your body tensing in reflex. Instinctively, you spin around, keys clutched between your fingers, ready to lash out at whichever idiot decided a short skirt is an invitation. But instead of some random jerk, it's Peter standing there.

“What are you doing here?” you squeal, launching yourself into his arms. “I thought you were coming tomorrow?”

“Change of plans.” He plants a quick kiss on your lips before his eyes flick down, taking in your attire. “Where are you going dressed like that?”

“Jealous?” you tease, twirling playfully as he frowns. “Calm down, I’m working.”

“Really?” Peter arches a brow.

Now that he's here, you only want to drag him back to your room, but you’ve got shit to do. “Yeah, sorry. I made plans.”

You have a job and he’ll only be a pain. Still, an idea comes to mind, and you realize that having Peter along might be better than flying solo. Not to mention, his car is far more inconspicuous than your old clunker. Plus it’s just a really nice car - yours looks even shittier in comparison, “Actually, this is perfect. Come with me.”

Peter suppresses a groan. He'd rushed through this week, to you, pushing through obligations without a break. All he needs is to get inside, and be inside you. But your pouty, pleading eyes are his weakness.

"Please? You'll love it, trust me.”

He takes a breath, squaring his shoulders and plastering on a smirk to mask his exhaustion.

"Fine," he escorts you to the car, opening the passenger door, "Hurry up," he adds, allowing a hint of impatience to color his tone – better you think him grumpy than struggling to keep up with you.

As you chatter away in the car, buzzing with anticipation you catch Peter’s eyes wandering over your exposed skin, his grip tightening around the gearshift.

“Guess you approve, then?” you slide a finger along the hem of your skirt.

Peter’s hand twitches, eyes darkening as they follow the movement of your hand.

“Kara.” he growls your name - a low, throaty warning. That sound used to intimidate you, but now it just makes you smile proudly.

You had done your research, scoped out the club after talking to Ella. It became clear that your usual jeans-and-jacket combo wouldn’t cut it here. It took five stores and most of an afternoon to find a skirt short enough to show off your legs while still covering the scar on your thigh. Paired it with a fitted top that, judging by Peter’s frequent glances at your cleavage, did your tits justice.

“Turn right at the next intersection,” you instruct.

Peter follows your directions, then pulls into the entrance you point out. The bright lights of the club’s sign flicker across the lot. He turns off the engine and stares at you, “You’re working at a stripclub?”

“Please,” you wave away his disapproving expression as you sling your bag onto your shoulder and exit the car, “I don’t have the body or the rhythm to dance.”

Watching you cross the parking lot in a pair of high heels, your hips swaying beneath black fabric - Peter disagrees wholeheartedly.

“I could be a bartender, I think. Ooh, maybe a bouncer?”

He catches up to you, wraps an arm around your waist, “Well, if you can’t strip, you’ll have to find a sugar daddy.”

“Thought I already had one?” you grin, nudging the door of the Velvet Vixen Lounge open with your hip.

The air inside the club is thick with perfume, sweat, and the faint metallic scent of money changing hands. Neon lights drenched the room in sultry reds and electric blues. The bass thrummed through your chest as you find them—two men nursing drinks, their postures deceptively casual but always watching.

You’d played it cool in front of Peter, but, until a few nights ago, you’d never even set foot in a strip club. You survey the room; velvet booths line the walls, offering an illusion of privacy in the crowded space. The center stage glows under the spotlight, a dancer twirling gracefully around a gleaming pole, captivating her audience. At the far end, the bar is a sleek counter where bartenders in tight shirts serve drinks with speed, their hands a blur as they mix and pour.

You try to refrain from openly staring at the demons. Ella said they were locals—"nice guys" she’d known since high school—but they had only recently started frequenting the club. Every Thursday through Saturday posting up at a table, drinking and getting rowdy until closing. You had checked the papers, but there were none of the usual demons signs so you can’t figure what they’re doing here - embedded in like ticks but not causing the typical trouble.

Peter returns with drinks, sliding into the booth beside you, his hand immediately resting on your thigh. His breath is warm at your ear as he tilts to whisper, “You know, you’re the sexiest woman in here.”

“And you’re a gorgeous liar,” you laugh, your eyes darting back to the demons.

“No, I mean it,” his voice drops, “Everyone’s watching you.”

He pauses, his hand inching higher up your leg, “Including your friends over there.” he continues, his lips barely moving, nodding towards the demons' table.

Your pulse quickens, unsure whether he’s toying with you as usual or if he’s noticed something you missed. you turn to meet his eyes, you see the look that makes it clear he’s simply horny. You bite back a giggle - can’t take this guy anywhere.

“Seriously,” you say, your attention captured by a nearby dancer. “Is there, like, an extra muscle or joint I don’t know about? Look!” you tug on Peter’s arm, because pointing is rude, when she rolls again, waist and hips moving in a smooth flow, perfectly synced with the music, that you can’t stop watching, “How the fuck does she do that?”

Peter leans back with a casual air. “You do that.”

“No, I don’t.” You scoff, admiring her. There's no way you’re capable of something so sensual, so effortlessly in control of your body.

“Trust me, doll. You don’t see what I see.”

Noticing that Desiree is on her second song, signaling that Ella will be up on stage soon, you kiss Peter quickly, pulling away just as his fingers dip under your skirt. “Wait here,” you say, sliding out of the booth.

Weaving through the club that’s fast filling up, you head to the bar, “Excuse me?”

A petite brunette with delicate features, scantily clad in a pink sparkly bra and short shorts, turns to you and smiles wide.

“Could you take this to my friend?” you point over to where Peter is lounging with an arm thrown over the back of the seat, “Keep him busy?”

She nods, and you give her a bunch of notes, “Is that enough?”

“Honey, for him, I’d do it for free.” she says seductively, already tucking the bills into her bra and making you laugh. She winds, serpent-like through the crowd, and you’re awed by the power she holds over the throngs of men, turning heads the entire way. Peter politely declines her offer, scanning the crowd until she gestures over her shoulder at you. He peers around, raising his eyebrows in question. You nod and mouth ‘have fun’.

At the edge of your vision you see a change in the demons' behavior, their interest in you and Peter waning. They exchange glances before nodding to each other, their postures relaxing. One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shock of red hair, tips back in his chair and takes a long swig from his beer. He says something to his companion, and then they break into laughter. They probably clocked Peter as a werewolf, but have now decided you're just another couple enjoying a raunchy night out. With Peter occupied, and the demons chilling in their usual spot, all the pieces are in place.

****

You find Ella backstage, mid-prep, adjusting her bouncy curls and touching up the highlighter on her collarbones. Her hands tremble slightly as she adjusts the clasp on her sky-high heels for the third time.

“Here. As promised.” you hand over the envelope containing the fee, noticing the way Ella’s fingers hesitate before closing around it.

Ella blinks, looking between the envelope and you, like she’s regretting getting involved, “But I haven’t even done it yet.”

“I trust you,” you say. It's only now, seeing the tension in her face, that you realize she’s nervous.

“Hey,” you soften your voice, “you’ve got this.”

“Yeah?”

A flash of guilt hits you. Ella’s a dancer, and she didn’t sign up for this. For a moment, you second-guess yourself. But you remind yourself - this is the best play. Ella can get close to the demons without drawing suspicion, something you couldn’t manage. And while she may not be a hunter, she’s a stripper — surely not an easy profession — and is used to dealing with handsy patrons while keeping her calm.

Still, you feel for the comforting heft of your gun in your purse; no matter what happens, Ella won’t get hurt. This is on you.

“It’s just another shift,” you remind her, handing her the tiny trackers. “Dance, smile, and when they call you over, you slip these onto their jackets.”

She examines the tiny devices, pressing them to her fingertips as if testing their weight. “Like this?” she asks, mimicking the motion of clasping a lapel.

"Exactly! And I'll be watching. If anything happens—which it won’t," you add quickly when you see her face fall, "You’ll be fine. Just go out there, be your usual sexy self, and that’s it. Job done."

She nods, taking a steadying breath, but her hands still shake slightly as she tucks the trackers into her costume. “Okay,” she says, her voice firmer now. “I can do this.”

“You’ve got this,” you repeat, giving her a confident nod.

As Ella walks away, frustration creeps into your chest. The plan is in motion, but it grates that you’re not the one handling things. You want to be the one planting the trackers, or better yet, ending the demons right here and now. Sitting on the sidelines, relying on someone else, feels…wrong.

The scar on your side burns in memory, reminding you of the price paid for impulsivity. Not this time. You force yourself to breathe. This time, you’ll stay patient. You have to.

****

Ella takes center stage, her presence commanding, as you grab an espresso martini from the bar—needing both the alcohol to calm you and the caffeine to keep you sharp. One eye stays on her fluid movements as you drift back toward Peter.

He grins when you reach him, tugging you onto his lap without warning. Your cocktail sloshes, tipping over the rim.

"Oi!" you yelp, watching the sticky liquid trail down your leg.

“Sorry,” he mutters, though he seems anything but as he drags his fingertips through the spill, then pops them into his mouth, never breaking eye contact.

"Can we please get out of here?" he asks, impatience bleeding through after his lap dance, and too long without you. This should be a sexy little adventure for the both of you, but now he just needs to get you in private.

You swallow, feeling the heat of his strong thighs underneath you, but you don’t have time to indulge him. “Behave,” you tell him, snapping your focus back to Ella, who is approaching the demon's table. "Not yet, okay?"

“You’re killing me,” he grumbles, fingers digging into your hips.

“Mmm, sure.” You ignore him, can’t afford to be distracted. Not now.

In seconds, Ella makes the first drop, slipping the tracker on like she’s done this a thousand times before. She catches your eye and winks, spinning gracefully, drawing the attention of the entire room.

It’s working.

Your heart pounds in time with the pulsing bass of the club. Each beat feels like a countdown, tension winding tighter with every second. You’re waiting for—expecting—something to go wrong. For one of the demons to spot the tracker, for the whole thing to unravel. Or maybe it’s Peter, persistent as always, grinding up into you and trailing soft kisses along your shoulder.

You notice a man turning his head toward Ella, and your stomach flips. Is he watching her? Did he notice? You force yourself to breathe evenly, fingers tapping to the beat of the music, trying to drown out the rising panic. Your eyes lock onto Ella as she sidles up to the second demon, her smile dazzling as she leans in close. And just like that, she drops the second tracker, her hand brushing the demon’s jacket as she twirls away.

Ella finishes her routine with a triumphant grin. She catches your eye one more time, then gestures toward the back door, flashing ten fingers. Ten minutes.

You nod, exhaling in relief. The hard part’s over.

“Peter?” You shift atop him, feeling him stiffen beneath you, and smirk when you hear what sounds suspiciously like a whimper. “Car? I’ve got ten minutes.”

****

Peter hauls you through the club at breakneck speed, practically dragging you out the entrance and across the parking lot.

"Peter, chill. I'm in heels!"

"Sorry, doll." he slows his pace, begrudgingly, "Are you finished now - whatever this was?"

Glancing at your phone as you click clack over concrete, trying to keep up with Peter’s long strides, you open the tracking app. Two bright dots appear, both demons now marked and monitored. A grin bursts across your face.

“Yep! All sorted.”

You can’t hide the surge of exhilaration that bubbles up, your mood effervescent, and your scent glowing with victory and adrenaline.

When you finally make it to the car, he snaps, shoving you up against the door with a rough kiss. His hands find your waist as he slides his leg between your thighs, hot and insistent against you.

“Enjoy your dance?” you tease, breathless, as you break the kiss, your lips tingling.

“Was fine,” Peter murmurs, grip tightening as he rocks into you, “Just want you more than her.” he admits, voice thick with hunger, his eyelids heavy, clouded by your scent and the sensation of your hands smoothing across his chest.

You dip nimble fingers into his pocket to fish out his wallet, “Good answer…” you grin, holding up a condom as you press against him. “Now... unlock the fuckin’ door.”

It’s quick, rough, and dirty. Exactly the celebratory fuck you’re craving. The moment the door slams shut, Peter’s hands are on you, desperate and greedy, dragging you onto his lap. Your skirt hikes up as you straddle him, and his palms slide under your top, tugging it up just enough for his fingers to find your skin.

The windows fog and the enclosed space amplifying the sounds of your bodies moving together in a fevered rush. You grind down on him, stretching around his thickness, tight, burning sweetly. You’re all he can feel - wet, and hot, and his, and delicious.

“Shit,” he hisses, “You're so wet, doll.” capturing your mouth for more sloppy kisses.

His grip on your ass is firm, guiding you faster, deeper. The rhythm between you turns frantic. You’re gasping as you feel the tightening in your core, the impending release at the border of your senses, “Peter there, fuck, please…just there.”

He thrusts and smacks your ass, hard, too caught up in how your silky walls are enveloping him to be gentle, careful. His eyes fly to your face, concerned he’s hurt you, but he only finds you strung out along the edge of pleasure.

“More, pl-please.” you beg.

He yanks your hair back harshly at the same time he lands another severe slap, and it sends you crashing into his chest as you come, gushing over his lap, and shaking around him as you moan.

“Fuck…” he pumps into you, the quivering of your pussy perfect and irresistible, “So good, doll”

He holds you down by your thighs, tight, slamming into you as he groans out nonsense; “You’re so tight, fuck…coming, so fuckin’ beautiful doll, feel good, fuck….I’m coming.”

You perch there a few minutes longer, staring at each other, catching your breaths. Then you collapse around him, turning his wrist to check his watch as you let out a breathy giggle; “Look at that… Seven minutes in heaven, Peter.”

He chuckles, his hands still resting on your hips, “Damn right, darling.”

You’re divine, he’s devout. He pulls you in for another kiss, slower now that he’s satisfied, softly catching your bottom lip with his teeth. But before you can get too comfortable, Ella slips out of the club, her eyes darting nervously in the dim light of the alley. With a muttered curse, you scramble off Peter’s lap, adjust your clothes and hurry over to Ella.

“Did it work?” she asks, voice wavering slightly.

“Perfectly,” you reassure her, still riding the highs of success and Peter.

Ella lights up at your praise, and you pluck a cigarette from your pack before holding it out to her, “You want one?”

“God, yeah please.”

You flick your lighter before taking a deep inhale, the taste of tobacco joining the sweetness of him still in your mouth. For a second, you’re just two women sharing a smoke, the stress of the night lifting off you both.

Ella smiles as Peter approaches and she glances between the two of you, "This your man?"

She would have suggested 'partner', only you don't seem like any of the cops she knows, and this whole endeavor feels decidedly off the books. Plus, she can see the flush sitting high on your cheeks and Peter's adoring, slightly dopey smile – the look of a man utterly smitten.

Peter extends his hand, shaking Ella’s lightly. “Peter.”

It doesn't escape your notice that he doesn’t correct her, but then, neither do you.

Ella fidgets with her rings, casting a glance back toward the club. “So, um… are they dangerous?” She suspects something, and should have asked more questions before agreeing to this thing. But a grand, for barely any work was hard to say no to.

“Nah,” you say quickly, “A couple of days and they’ll be out of your hair.”

"Gonna arrest 'em?" she asks, her skepticism thinly concealed.

You nod, even though it’s obvious now that Ella is no longer buying your cover. You rummage through your bag, find a receipt, and scribble your number on the back. "Here. If you need anything, call me, okay?"

Relief crosses Ella’s features as she tucks the receipt into her bag, "Thanks… I better get back." She crushes her cigarette beneath her heel, with a finality that marks the end of this little covert operation.

Peter takes your hand as you head back to the car. Before he hits the key fob, he throws you a curious look over the roof, “Why’d you do that?”

"Do what?"

"Give her your number. You don’t need her anymore." It wasn’t that he wished Ella harm, he just didn’t see the point. The girl was a stranger, and strangers weren’t worth the risk.

You shrug, getting into the passenger seat. “It’s not about needing her. She helped me, so if she needs a hand, I’ll help her.”

He looks at you like you’ve just said something absurd, or claimed to have cracked time travel.

“I like helping,” you add with a small smile, buckling your seatbelt.

<- Previous chapter // Next chapter ->

#wakingupinbeaconhills #peter hale smut #peter hale x oc #supernatural x teen wolf fic #peter hale #peter hale fanfiction

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rocksaltandmountainash · 11 months ago

Text

Waking up in Beacon Hills - pt. 30

Chapter summary: kara and peter get closer, with unexpected results, and kara finds a case! set between Teen Wolf seasons 3b and 4, and Supernatural seasons 7 and season 8

Series masterlist: can be found here.

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings/notes: swearing, canon (TW and SPN) typical violence, alcohol use, smoking, smut (in person and phone). Gif sources: One | Two | Three | Four

Washington:

After days of Peter’s antics and with your side still hurting, Chicago seems an impossible distance. Once he deemed you healed enough, he’d certainly made up for his neglect; railing you for hours on end, antagonizing the shit out of you in the gaps between. You decide to head for Seattle instead - good markets, lots of coffee, and the birthplace of grunge? An easy call.

As you pass Goldendale, a loud rattle interrupts the quiet drive. You ignore it as long as possible but the clunk clunk grows louder, forcing you to pull off at the next exit. The sight of an auto stop a few minutes from the main intersection feels like a stroke of divine intervention and a smile forms as you read the sign - ‘Bonnie & Clyde’s Muffler Center’.

Grabbing your wallet, and preparing to grovel, your hopes fall as the woman behind the counter glances up with an apologetic look - they’re fully booked for the afternoon. But she offers a lifeline: leave your car, and they’ll try to squeeze it in tomorrow. You promptly accept, handing over your number, and a verbal stream of gratitude. Gathering your valuables from the car, you find a spot to wait for an Uber.

After checking in and taking a nap, you shower, and inspect your dressings - thankfully everything is still intact. Ready to explore, you plug in your earphones and crank up the volume, letting the music energize you. The evening air nips at your cheeks as you meander through the few blocks leading to the downtown area, thoughts of a decent meal and an early night pushing your steps.

The town - Yakima - is just the right size - the kind of place you could see yourself settling in someday. Small enough to feel cozy without neighbors prying into your life, but not so big that you’d lose yourself in the crowd.

Idly, you wonder what might come next if you and Samandriel don’t succeed. How long before you can admit that Dean isn’t coming back? How much more can you endure, chasing one pointless or dead-end lead, after another? The thought of carrying on without Sam or Dean, no one to guide you, is daunting. Beacon Hills was the only place you’d spent any chunk of time, but the idea of returning there feels hollow, leaves you cold. These thoughts cling to the edges of your mind like cobwebs, gathering dust. You shake them off, refusing to let them settle in.

Spotting a liquor store, you decide to search for the wine Peter liked at dinner. He liked the taste, despite it having no effect on him. You’d tasted it yourself, crinkled your nose in disgust, then handed him your glass. With a smirk, he’d called you a heathen.

“It’s from New Zealand, Kara.”

“It’s still gross, Peter.”

You’re smiling with the memory as two men exit the store, one of them glancing back to hold the door for you and you jog to take advantage of his chivalry.

“Thanks, man!” you call, ducking past him.

Inside, you stand in front of an expansive fridge, bright lights flickering overhead. It takes a moment for the faint smell to hit you—sulfur.

Rushing back outside, you scan the street, spotting the men dodging traffic as they slip into an alley. You hesitate a second before booking it through a gap in the cars, silencing your phone as you trail them.

The alley turns out to be a driveway leading to the large parking lot of a club with a line snaking out the door. Just two demons you can handle, but if this place is packed?

You force yourself to stop, heart still racing. Be smarter, safer—don’t repeat the mistakes of your last job. With a sigh, you turn back. Inside the store, you grab a pack of smokes and two extra-large cups of coffee, preparing for a long night of watchful waiting.

****

Inhaling the last puff of your cigarette and finishing the dregs of your second cup, you’re about to call it a night. Your eyelids are heavy, gritty, and the early morning chill only intensifies your need to pee. Finally, you see the woman you’ve been waiting for - tall, blonde, striking - stepping out a side door.

“Excuse me?” You flash a badge briefly in her direction. “Can we talk?”

She freezes like a deer caught in headlights. Even startled, she’s beautiful. If you were even a little less straight, you’d be just like all the other fools inside, throwing your money away and swearing she was really into you.

“No trouble. I just need to ask about some of your customers.”

She nods, small and worried, tugging her coat tighter around herself, clearly colder and more tired than you are. At least you’ve been able to chug coffee all night and haven’t had to fend off rowdy assholes with no manners and grabby hands.

“You like waffles?” you offer.

She smiles through her suspicion and nods again.

“I’m Kara.”

“Ella.”

“Alright, Ella, tell me—best breakfast in town?”

Peter’s in the motel lot when he realizes your car is missing. His texts about being close had gone unanswered, and a pang of irritation sharpens his mood. You better be here, or—well, he probably wouldn’t do anything, but he’d be pissy about it. When you finally answer the door with a smile, his annoyance dissipates instantly.

“Hi,” he greets, dropping his bag and pulling you in for a kiss. “Where’s your car?”

“In the shop,” you grumble, turning in his grip to lock the door. His arms stay wrapped around your waist, lips on your neck. “You’re early.”

“I texted,” he murmurs.

“Ah, sorry. I was busy.”

“Hmm.” He’s not really listening, already pressing himself against you and trying to slide a hand into your jeans.

“Stop, I’ve got to make a call.”

Peter groans, needy and impatient and nibbling lightly at your earlobe. “No, you’re done for the day.”

“I’m not,” you laugh, tapping his nose and ducking out of his arms. “Give me one second, and then I’m all yours.”

With another quick kiss, you shoo him away and grab your phone. Peter watches, torn between the urge to punish you for making him wait or just taking you fast and rough.

All yours. He grins at the thought, shrugging off his jacket. You dial the number, distracted as you catch Peter pulling his t-shirt off in the corner of your vision.

”Hey Rick, not sure if you remember me…” Lowering your voice, an automatic but useless instinct, you continue, “My name’s Kara. I’m a friend of Chris Argents?”

You sense the air shift around you, like daggers made of ice are being sent in your direction as you ask about the gear you need—trackers, small as possible. The tapping of Rick’s keyboard sounds distant compared to the rustling of fabric behind you, where Peter is undressing further.

“Any chance you can ship them? I won’t be back your way for a while.” You purposefully avoid looking at Peter.

“Thanks Rick, appreciate it.” You finish the call before rooting around in your duffel. Peter approaches and stands behind you as you pull notes from a wad of cash and put them in an envelope, setting aside the few hundred bucks Rick had quoted you. You tense, waiting for his usual caustic remarks that follow any mention of Chris.

“Hunting pays well,” he comments, determined to ignore all talk of Argent, wash away any interruption he might cause, as he pushes his hands up under your shirt.

You scoff. “This isn’t from hunting.”

“Rob a bank?” he spins you round and when you spot a smile curling over his lips, you’re calmed.

“I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but I used to have a job,” you quip.

Peter raises a brow, intrigued. “A real job? What did you do?”

You rake your fingers through his hair, short strands tickling your palm, and feel a tiny flip in your belly at how he tilts into your touch.

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t,” he seems uncharacteristically sincere, his gaze flitting across your nose, your mouth, as he tugs at your zipper, starts shoving your jeans down, “Promise.”

“I worked in IT.”

He tries to contain it but can’t stop it. The laugh bursts out of him, and you swat his chest.

“Peter!” you scold, but he catches your wrist, pulling you closer with a firm, yet gentle grip.

“Sorry, sorry, doll,” he chuckles before kneeling, pulling your jeans to your ankles, and stays there with knuckles skimming your inner thigh. A shiver runs across your skin, and you smile as he looks up at you with a playful glint in his eyes.

“Let me make it up to you?”

“Deal.” you grin.

You were on your elbows and knees beneath him, head down on the pillows, hands fisting the covers. The friction between your bodies is electric as you grind back against him.

Peter’s not sure what caused it. Whether it was the way your back curved under his hand, or how your hair fell over your shoulder, mostly hiding your face save for the glimpses of your teeth biting into the plush pillow of your lower lip.

Maybe it was your body responding to him as you pushed up on your hands to meet his thrusts harder, the sound of your hips knocking life into each other echoing throughout the room, or the vacuum of your cunt clenching around him, impatient and needy as ever.

Or the light glinting off the all too fresh, jagged scar snaking down and out from your left shoulder blade to wrap around your side. He grunts and strokes alongside the puffed up skin, wishing he could make it fade.

All he knows is one minute he’s looking at where he’s pounding into you, thinking Washington isn’t all that bad. The next his claws pop out, embedding into the soft flesh of your hips, five small indents on each side, marking you.

Gasping at the sharp sting, you crane your neck, curious, as Peter realizes what he’s done and makes to pull out, pull away.

Seeing the blood trickling down, your eyes go wide, pupils completely blown out when you lock gazes with him. Screaming his name, your body tightens around him, pulling him deeper. His glowing blue eyes, his change, the intensity—it pushes you over the edge.

Peter’s growl fills the room as he slams into you one last time, his claws still sunk into your skin as you convulse around him. He fights for control, breath heavy, before he scrambles down to gently kiss the pierced skin he’s left behind.

You made him transform. It made you come.

Later, when you’re laying naked except for bandaids, Peter sits tense at the edge of the bed, lighting a cigarette for you to share. He frowns, his tone suspicious when he asks; “How’d you do that?”

“I didn’t do anything,” you blow smoke into the air, a little defensive against what sounds like an accusation, “Has that happened before?”

“Once or twice… with other…” He trails off, unwilling to finish the sentence, not liking to remind you of the differences between you.

“I’ve heard of this.”

You tap the ash and look at him seriously as you offer up the cigarette. He takes a long drag, lets smoke reach deep in his lungs while he waits for you to explain,

“Magical vagina.”

Peter blinks in surprise, “Wh - oh, fuck off,” he mutters, but his shoulders relax, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You dissolve into giggles and swim in the sheets as he stubs the cigarette out, returns the ashtray to the table and pours himself another wine.

“That’s it isn’t it?” wrapping an arm around him when he returns to bed, you whisper “I’m so fuckin’ good at sex, I changed you.”

Impossible to stay mad when you’re like this, giddy and sweet and crawling to sit astride his pelvis. He’s only grateful you’re not trying to hide yourself any longer, that you disrobe at the sight of him and stay bare for days on end, only covering up when you drag him out to eat at another of your favoured, shitty diners.

“You know it’s okay, right?”

Running your hands over the breadth of his chest, you trace down his ribs, trying to erase the furrow in his brow. He flinches slightly, still not fully acclimated to the soft touches you bestow on him.

“I mean, I know what you are.”

He laces his fingers through yours, to hold you still and make you look at him, “Does it worry you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cos, I also know who you are.”

Peter is up before you, already moving about the room by six, searching for his clothes in the half-light. It’s earlier than he usually leaves and with the extra time in Oregon, he could only stay for one night.

“I know where to get wolfsbane - just saying.” you whine, yanking the covers over your head as he crashes around.

He ignores you, chuckling softly as you peek out from beneath the blankets, watching him as he moves—shirtless above a pair of well fitting trousers, his lean muscles flexing with every motion. You groan internally. When Peter looks like that—effortlessly handsome, threading his belt deftly with that quiet, sexy, confidence—it gives you ideas. Ideas about being more than just friends. Need to cut that shit out right now.

“Like the view, doll?”

“Shut up.”

You stay looking. Propped up against the pillows and sipping the coffee he brought you earlier as he pulls on a crisp white shirt, leaving it unbuttoned as he grabs cufflinks from a tiny blue box.

“Do you get your clothes tailored?”

Peter smirks, “Sweetheart, I get my clothes made.”

You scoff like he’s ridiculous, but holy shit if it isn’t money well spent. Every inch is perfect, elegant, and cut precisely enough to only hint at his build beneath, rather than showing off his assets like his typical slutty v-necks.

““So…. you’re like rich rich?”

“I do okay.”

“Oh my god, that’s such a rich person thing to say.”

He grins, but doesn’t elaborate and you feel a small flutter at just how little you actually know about him - so many pieces he keeps tucked away.

“What about you? Where do you get your clothes?”

You look down at your current ‘outfit’ - a pair of Beacon Hills High socks you pinched from Stiles one night you crashed at his house, no jeans because what’s the point when Peter’s here, and a t-shirt that probably once belonged to one of the Winchesters. Stretching out on the bed, you assess the length, guessing it must have been Sam’s given how far down your legs it reaches.

“Boutiques, obviously.”

Peter raises a skeptical brow. “Right. Straight off the runway?”

“Absolutely,” you deadpan, getting up to help him with the last cufflink he’s struggling with. As you slide the tiny piece into place, your fingers brush against his wrist, and for a brief moment, you feel the tension between you. It’s always there, simmering below the teasing, the question - what is this? What are we doing? You shake your head as you adjust the cuffs of his shirt.

“Why are you all dressed up anyways? Court date?” you joke.

Peter chuckles and pulls you into his warm embrace. You sigh sleepily and consider dragging him back for a few more hours of shut eye or more fun, “Actually….why are we even up?”

“I have an appointment back home,” he tells you, explaining the suit, and when he catches the way you’re ogling him, adds, “I can’t miss my flight.”

You frown, suddenly more awake. “You’re not driving?”

“How do you think I get to you every weekend?”

It just tumbled out. Another night of you has turned him slow, stupid.

“Wait, you fly to see me?”

Peter moves to the mirror to check his reflection, turning away so you won’t see his unease. You had never quite put the pieces together, and he gladly let the misunderstanding lie. Didn’t want you to get the wrong idea - that this is more than it is, that it’s something. It isn’t.

It isn’t, Peter reminds himself inwardly,

Mind still foggy with sleep, you only now realize that it makes total sense. You hadn’t really thought about the logistics before, about how he manages to be wherever you are with little notice, showing up at random motels or cities like it’s no big deal.

“But… sometimes I only tell you where I am the day before,” you say, confused.

He nods nonchalantly, “Mmm.” he murmurs and checks his jacket isn’t creased. Not like this place has a concierge if it needs a press.

“It must cost a fortune,” you think out loud, your mind now spiraling to images of him in airports, in crawling lines, renting cars just to see you.

Peter shrugs it off, but you won’t let it go. Panic crests inside of him, that if you think too much about this you might stop texting. Sure, he could always lean on Stiles to find out where you are, but the boy isn’t totally dense, will figure it out eventually if he asks too often, shows too much interest. Derek’s been watching him more closely since your accident.

So he answers without thinking, and in his haste to assuage your concerns, says too much, “It’s not that bad. I use a private plane.”

It triggers an awkward giggle out of you and he snaps his jaw shut because it’s exactly the wrong thing to say if he wants to continue the charade that this is still a no-strings, low-stakes, just-because-you’re-around type of thing.

“Peter!” you exclaim. He faces you, and for the briefest of seconds, looks almost timid. So unlike him. You take a few steps forward, but then he’s back to his typical aloofness.

“You’re…that’s…” The nicest thing I’ve ever heard? More than I deserve?

Stuck in front of him, you absorb that he’s putting in more effort than you had ever considered - he spends his free time and money to see you, to be with you. That creeping feeling inside, the one you’ve been pushing down, advances and makes your heart skip a beat.

“That’s insane,” you laugh, not intending to be mean, but simply don’t know what else to say - it’s a lot. His smile fades before you reach out and loop an arm around his neck, fingernail running under the small chain he wears, using it to draw him closer.

“Sorry. Just…you don’t have to do all that.”

“I know.”

Peter’s thought - I want to, don’t make me stop - stays trapped in his throat. He won’t look you in the eye, his jaw clenched as he tries to paste over his slip-up. You search his face, but it’s a mask of practiced indifference. The weight of his revelations makes your head spin, threatening to topple the careful balance you’ve maintained.

You take a deep breath, deciding on a calculated honesty, “I’m glad you do.”

Peter looks at you, something shifting in his gaze—surprise, maybe, or relief. He doesn’t respond right away, but you see the hesitant smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

That tiny crack in his facade is all you need. You lean in, kissing him long and deep, your fingers skimming down his pecs. As you feel him relax into your touch, you know you’ve successfully steered the moment back to safer territory - casual, just sex - silently reinforcing the lines of yours and Peter’s thing.

You keep your eyes with his as you move lower and slip your hand into his trousers. He curses under his breathe as you expertly, slowly pump him. When you raise up on tiptoes to suck along the hollow of his throat, he moans and his eyes fall to a close.

“I really have to go,” Peters attempts to sound stern and in control fail when your thumb swipes over his head and you both feel the buck of his hips. Removing your hand from his pants, you drop to your knees, working open his belt.

“What’s your personal pilot gonna do?” your voice teeming with sarcasm as you lick your lips, “Leave without you?”

****

Peter texts you once he’s landed in California. His message is simple, just a quick confirmation that he’s arrived safely, but you know him well enough to recognize the subtext. He’s thinking about you, probably more than he wants to admit.

You respond with a series of photos that make him cut his meeting short and speed home. He calls you as soon as he’s through the door, “You’re a menace.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to?” you reply innocently, and Peter can hear the cheeky grin on your face.

You snuggle deeper into the bed you’ve remained in since he left, doing research nestled under the covers. Not thinking about how his goodbyes are starting to sting, how they’re taking longer. Absolutely not.

“Christ. Don’t play with me right now,” he growls, putting you on speaker. With one hand he flicks through the pictures, the other pulling his zip down to wrap around his cock.

“Thought you liked playing?”

Moving your laptop off the bed, you stretch out, a familiar stirring coming to life between your legs, your body responding to his low tone that promises so much.

“Not when I have to leave early for a meeting - which, by the way, you disrupted,” he strokes himself, “I wasn’t done with you.”

“Mmm, so unfair huh?” you coo sympathetically and dip a hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.

Peter groans at the rustling of sheets, “Tragic” he agrees.

“Tell me,” you whisper, desperation threaded through your voice, going straight to his body.

“Yeah?” He’s done with the pictures now, only needs your honey tones coming through the phone, the breathless rasp making him throb harder.

“Please…tell me…what you’d do.”

Your plea has him leaking, and he spreads it over his head, letting himself drift back to the morning. Floating along to the memory feel of you, your tongue, his hands in your hair as he fucked into your mouth.

Peter’s breath comes out ragged, and he talks you through. Neither of you is patient, and your keening sounds hit his ear and have him shaking and spilling over his fist in a matter of minutes. When he hears the shuffle of movement, followed by the telltale click of a lighter, he asks, “Did you come?”

“Definitely,” you reply, giggling as you exhale smoke into the air, “You?”

“Yes,” he wanders to his bathroom to clean up, phone tucked between his collar and shoulder, “What do you use?”

“Just…you know…my hand.”

“Ah, the sneaky old fashioned.”

You laugh, “Well, your voice too.”

He feels a bolt of pride at that.

It’s easier now. Not only the horrendously dirty things that you find slipping out during, but the chats before and after. Maybe because nothing you’ve suggested has ever seemed to throw him. He’s never judged you, instead, he curiously asks questions, gradually uncovering your fantasies.

“How was your very important meeting?”

Peter starts unpacking, tossing his clothes in the laundry basket, he’ll need to send his now ruined suit to the dry cleaners,

“Very boring. Are you staying in Washington?”

“Yeah, for a bit.”

“See you on Friday?”

“Sounds good.”

He leans in to turn the shower on, waiting.

Feels like everything is back to normal. You’ve stumbled on a case to keep you busy and Peter is in Beacon Hills, returned to his teasing, easy, self. Firmly ensconced in the friends with benefits basket.

You grin, “Bye Daddy.”

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