Word: Caprine
...
"If you don't help me down, I'm going to find some way to kill you!" Peter yelled.
"Hmm, tempting. But the answer's still no, Peter. You look positively caprine and I'm enjoying myself far too much," Lydia said with a sweet smile.
Peter decided that he was dating a psychopath. It was why they were perfect for each other, really: he fucked with her mind, she fucked his mind up in return, and they love-hated each other with a passion that normal couples would never understand.
"Caprine?" Scott whispered to Stiles, frowning.
"She means he looks like a goat," he replied, not bothering to whisper, smirking as he leaned back against Derek.
Peter let out a low growl of annoyance, trying to figure out a way to get down from the rocky cliffside. While he would have no compunctions about potentially injuring himself, he was wearing a Marc Jacobs suit and Lydia had threatened to kill him if he ruined it. Peter knew that she wasn't joking and the thought of Lydia being angry enough to kill him made the werewolf shudder in fear. It wasn't his fault they were chased by some sort of demonic creature (except that it definitely was; he'd been warned that the creature was sensitive about its hag-like appearance, and well, Peter just so happened to have a mirror handy).
Scott, Stiles and Derek had distracted the creature so Lydia and Peter could hide. While Lydia had done the smart thing and gone into the trees, Peter had decided that attempting to climb the cliff ravine was the best means of escape. He still stood by that decision, even if he couldn't get down now.
"I say we leave him there overnight as punishment for pissing the creature off," Stiles said.
"Seconded," Derek huffed, arms wrapped around Stiles as he nuzzled his neck.
"Bloody mating hormones. Tone it down, would you? I can smell you from up here, you lovesick puppies!"
"Naw, hear that, pumpkin? Uncle Peter's calling us lovesick puppies. And you said Uncle Peter didn't like nicknames, Lyds," Stiles said, turning to make out with Derek in pure defiance.
"I said I don't like nicknames. And stop it, you're ruining my concentration. Peter, move to the edge on my left."
Peter looked to the edge and shook his head. That was far too small, he'd barely be able to get a toe on it. Lydia put her hands on her hips and glared up at him.
"If you don't move in the next three seconds, you don't want to know what I'll do to you."
Peter winced, knowing all too well about her stock of wolfsbane. He made his way slowly and carefully down to the ridge she'd said, clinging on as he faced the cliff face, and telling himself that he would kill Stiles if he recorded this.
"Good, now there's another ledge to the right of your foot."
Fuck, he couldn't see the ledge for himself. That meant he was going to have to trust her completely for this. Peter had severe trust issues, and Lydia knew that, damn it. He moved his foot a few minutes later, clinging by the edge of his human fingers.
"Almost there, a bit further," Lydia called, and he almost sighed in relief when he felt the rocky ledge under his foot.
"What now?" he yelled.
"You can start by not yelling at me," she replied firmly.
"Sorry, dearest," Peter ground out.
"Mm-hmm. Right hand directly vertical from where it is now."
"Left foot on blue, right hand on red, and ... " Stiles was cut off abruptly by what Peter hoped was Derek's hand rather than his mouth. The hormones they were exuding was affecting his vision.
"Stiles, shut up. In fact, Scott, get them out of here. I can deal with this," Lydia said.
"Right. Uh, guys, can you stop now? I don't want to explain to my mum that you've traumatised me again," Scott said.
"But I want to watch Uncle Peter get past his numerous trust issues and the bonding experience he and Lydia are sure to share."
"Stiles, come on. We'll go home and test out the new sheets I bought last weekend," Derek offered, and Peter so did not need to know that.
"What are we still doing here, then? C'mon, 400 thread Egyptian cotton await us," Stiles called, already running ahead.
"Lydia, dearest? I'm still stuck here," Peter called, feeling his fingers slipping.
"I know that, Peter. Move your left foot down and to the right a bit," Lydia directed.
Peter had no idea how long it took, but he followed her instructions (even if he needed to bite back a sarcastic response every now and then), and eventually, he found himself standing on the uneven ground. He made his way over to Lydia, expecting a hug at the very least (look, his suit was still perfectly fine!), and instead he was hit very firmly with her Prada handbag.
"What the hell was that for?"
"You scared me! And you were told not to aggravate the creature! Why were you carrying a mirror around anyway?" Lydia demanded.
"You hate using your phone to check your reflection, but you always forget to bring a mirror," Peter said, shrugging.
Her angry gaze softened slightly, but Peter didn't dare presume that she had forgiven him. She let out a sigh and turned on her heel, heading back to the restaurant where their car waited.
"You're taking me home and we're having sex until I forget about the last thirty minutes, understood?" Lydia said over her shoulder.
"Yes, dearest," Peter said with a quick grin, running to catch up to her.
He loved when she got this way, and despite all the effort he put into not ruining his suit, Peter knew it would probably be torn off him when they got home.
...
End of word challenge.
Thanks for reading!
