It was the eyes, if Stiles is honest to himself. The blue fading from clear to stormy and that didn't count the radiation day-glo of Beta blue. Or maybe the bottom lip, the way it was poutier than the top and got put to good use for just that reason... either one. Then again there were his hands and Peter's hands had a tight grip on Stiles at the moment.
Stiles claws at the back of the couch as Peter spreads his ass cheeks wider and licks a long stripe from his balls to the dimples over each cheek. His jeans and underwear are tight around his thighs, button undone but the zipper somehow firmly shut and Stiles can't get away if he tries (not that he would, dear god this was wrong but felt so fucking good).
He's had exactly .5 sexual encounters at this point that don't include his own hands and fingers and he doesn't like to dwell on the fact that the one person who wanted to before is... "Stiles, I can hear you starting to panic. Shall I stop?"
Solicitous, kind Peter is new and Stiles hangs his head between the prop of his elbows and shakes it. No he doesn't want Peter to stop. he should, age, werewolf, bad blood almost literally everywhere but he doesn't. 'Don't."
There's hand on the small of his back and his ass feels lop-sided now, hanging open like a broken screen door. "Stiles, some fear is healthy but let me assure you I don't want..."
"To scare me like this," Stiles forces himself to look over his shoulder at Peter. "I know and I get it but don't stop okay? I want this."
Peter stares at Stiles, right hand absently kneading his ass, left making soft circles on his lower back. He's looking at Stiles like he can read his soul and who knows, it's fucking Peter. Maybe he can. He leans forward after a moment and kisses Stiles between the shoulder blades.
"You want me to take you apart, Stiles? I mean we should make this good," he rasps against Stiles' skin. "Your first time and all."
Stiles drops his head between his elbows again and shudders. "I want... everything."
Peter laughs and nuzzles the back of his head. "Not in one night. You enjoy it and we'll have a repeat performance."
Stiles doesn't have time to process 'repeat performance' before Peter's tongue is back on his asshole, lapping broad strokes and generally making his lungs stop working. If feels weird and amazing and Stiles whines, hips tilting up. He's going to have bruises on his hips and ass, he knows it.
He didn't mean to decided to fuck Peter Hale, it just happened. They were alone, which made Stiles nervous and therefore more confrontational than usual. The maps they were comparing, looking for hot spots and telluric currents weren't jiving with each other and the arguments started. Somewhere in all that Stiles got in Peter's face and Peter riased an eyebrow. "What are you afraid of, Stiles? This isn't like you."
Stiles had exploded. "Being a damn virgin, thanks! Whoever is doing this is killing them in case you hadn't noticed!"
Needless to say Stiles hadn't expected Peter to clutch him close and kiss him like he was trying to own his soul. "You... you're a dirty old man aren't you?" Stiles had sputtered, leaning back Not his best work but he'd been surprised.
"A dirty old man who's willing to rid you of your troubling concern, Stiles. Yes or no?" Peter had asked.
Stiles thought about it for less than ten seconds. "How long will Derek be gone?"
"At least four hours," Peter had said. "But unless you want him to smell this we should take this back to my place."
"I... yeah okay," Stiles said. "Meet you there."
Stiles had been surprised to find himself actually driving to Peter's apartment and knocking on the door ten minutes later. Peter had swept him inside and...
And here they are.
Stiles is sweating now, unable to do more than gasp and shake. Peter's tongue presses in and Stiles cries out. His fingers claw at the couch again and his cock spurts precome against his belly. There's a vibration running through his body something subsonic Peter's doing, like Stiles is the best thing he's tasted in years. It should be gross but he's watched too many videos of rimming to do anything but take it happily.
"Please," he whispers, "God, please."
Peter pulls away with a sloppy, wet sound and chuckles. "Please what, Stiles? You have to tell me."
"More, I can't believe I'm saying this," he whines. "But more. Fuck me, Peter, I need it."
"If you are serious," Peter says, draping over his back. "Then you promise to not tell anyone, right?"
Stiles barks out a laugh. "Jesus Christ, who would believe me?"
Peter chuckles and moves away which is the opposite of what Stiles wants. He sinks down onto his knees and carefully palms the head of his cock. He watches Peter disappear into the bathroom and hears his rummaging around. He's really going to do this, he's going to fuck Peter "Repeat" Hale because his teenaged libido is firmly out of hand. He should really be safer than this and hitch his pants up and get out of there. But his hand is slick with precome and his legs are starting to lose feeling from his jeans. He fumbles with them to get them open but Peter's suddenly there, hand on his wrist.
"Leave them," he says smirking.
Before Stiles can formulate a reply Peter's behind him again, hauling him back into position over the back of the couch. He's got time to take a deep breath before a finger is breaching him and the air gushes out in a rush. It's hot and twisting around inside him, and he's really gone to far to back out now. In fact if he tried he's pretty sure his cock will rise up in a revolution and strangle him in his sleep.
Peter's silent and Stiles is sure he's watching where his finger disappears into his body. He's probably getting off on Stiles at his mercy and frankly that's just fucking fine. When he adds another finger Stiles hisses and thrusts back. Peter puts that hand on the small of his back again with a 'tsk' of warning. He thumps a fist on the cushions but holds still while Peter twists and spreads his fingers for ages it feels like. A cold shock of fresh lube has his hole fluttering around Peter's fingers and earns him a gasp from the older man.
"Jesus, Stiles," Peter husks and Stiles preens that he can do that to him. "I need to be in you now, okay? I need to be fucking you right now."
"Yes," Stiles croaks and writhes as Peter stretches him wider.
Peter's fingers pull out and there's a rustling of fabric. Stiles is fucking wet, his belly shining from all the leaking he's doing. His mouth is dry and his skin feels too tight an loose at the same time. He's really having sex and it's the definition of hate sex because he hates Peter, is pretty sure Peter hates him, doesn't trust him but he's going to get fucked by him and Stiles really needs to sort out priorities.
"Hold yourself open, Stiles," Peter says, his voice like a velvet glove stroking his nerves.
Stiles bites his lip and does what he's told, shaking hands spreading his ass open. He feels the blunt head of Peter's cock rub against his hole and he knows it's twitching and grasping for it. Then it's pushing in and Stiles bites his bottom lip hard. It burns and aches but Stiles holds as still as he can. Peter is unrelenting, pushing in steadily. Stiles isn't sure he can take it, the muscles of his arms and chest aching.
Then Peter's in and batting Stiles' hands away. He shoves Stiles shirt up and over his head momentarily blinding him until Stiles shakes it to the floor. Stiles feels limp, arms dangling down the back of the couch, as he tries to adjust to Peter's cock. It feels enormous, deep inside him. He is officially no longer a virgin he realizes and he can't help the little laugh that comes out of him. Peter returns the chuckle and drapes along Stiles' back. His shirts gone as well and he feels warm and heavy. Stiles relaxes, hands moving to rub against the arms bracketing his. So of course that's when Peter starts to thrust. Stiles' breath just disappears and he arches against the weight of Peter's body.
Lips brush the back of his neck and Peter rumbles like a contented lion. Stiles shifts and everything changes, electricity jangling along his nerves. His hands tighten on Peter's arms and that must be some sort of cue because Peter starts thrusting harder. Stiles let's himself drift, letting the feeling of each thrust roll through him. Peter's grunting and nipping at his neck. Stiles feels own completely and he lets the thrill of that coast him over the edge. He ought to be embarrassed but it feels so good to come like this, Peter shoving into him over and over, forcing his orgasm out of him.
Peter growls and bites his shoulder. Stiles cries out, arching back. He's shaking and twisting in Peter's grasp, not sure if he's ever going to stop coming. Then Peter stills and snarls in his ear and Jesus, he's officially ruined for whoever he sleeps with next. Peter goes back to gnawing at his shoulder until his cock slips out and the back of his thighs are slicked with come.
It takes forever to get his breath back, Peter too, apparently, judging by the pants of air ghosting along his neck. Then Peter pulls away again and Stiles nearly blacks out when he's scooped up. "What the holy hell?"
"We're a mess," Peter says. "So time for a shower."
Stiles buries his face against Peter's shoulder and hides the smile. "This is really Prince Charming of you. I have no idea what to do."
Peter drops a kiss on Stiles' head, shocking him more than even the agreement of sex had. "Don't get used to it."
Stiles smirks. "Don't worry, I won't."