Chapter Text
Stiles could not be attracted to Peter Hale. This absolutely, indisputably was not happening. There was no room in his life—filled to the brim with every letter of spook in the bump-in-the-night freak show alphabet as it was—to deal with being attracted to a thirty-three year old man. The dude was nearly twice his age! And a murderer! Granted, most of those murderees had deserved it, and Peter hadn’t killed anyone outside of self defense situations since rising from the fucking dead, but still! Murderer! His dick really needed to get with the program here and remember that being attracted to a man nearly old enough to be his father, with a body count, was not okay!
But then he thought about how Peter had looked earlier that night, with that psycho witch’s blood painting his claws and splattered across his face, and the razor sharp intensity of his glare, and- shit. His dick was definitely not getting with the program at all. His dick was skipping the Attracted (inappropriately) Anonymous meeting and instead going straight to organizing sex parties. Metaphorically, of course. Because Stiles was definitely not having any real sex parties taking place in his life. (God, he wished. Preferably with Pe—nope! Stopping that thought right there!) And, okay, Stiles was losing the thread here, but you couldn’t blame him when his dick was staging a god damn mutiny like this!
Fuck, Stiles needed to get a handle on things (mainly: his dick) before his brain got stuck thinking in italicized hysterics for good. And not handling in a fun way. Well- okay, maybe also in a fun way, because let’s be real here. Stiles was a hormone laden teenager and once the horny cat was out of the bag, there was no getting it back in. But he had to at least try! Because this? The whole suddenly finding himself crushing on a man wildly inappropriate for him? Not okay!
The worst part of it all was that Peter knew. Peter totally knew, and Stiles was never going to live it down.
It’s not like this mutiny came totally out of nowhere exactly. Stiles realized now that the last couple of months, when he had found his gaze unusually drawn to Peter more than a few times, weren’t just due to idle curiosity like he had originally thought. This seed of sinful, unspeakable evil had been growing inside him all along, entirely unbeknownst to Stiles. He had thought himself pure as the driven snow, only rightfully attracted to angelic strawberry blondes (and occasionally marble-sculpted younger Hales, because how could anyone look at Derek shirtless and not think damn. And maybe also Cora, Erica, Boyd, and—grudgingly—Jackson, because Jesus Christ did Stiles know way too many teenage supermodels)—ahem, only rightfully attracted to his fellow virtuous peers whose mere presences blessed him daily. But all the while that devil in wolf’s clothing had been slowly seducing Stiles into the pits of depravity!
(And now it seemed he had moved on from the hysterical italics phase into the hysterical poetry phase. Swell.)
The point was: Stiles was horny. He was turned on by those around him to varying degrees practically 24/7. Him smelling low grade aroused at any random given time was probably a constant of the universe for his furry friends by this point. So, normally, Stiles getting a flash of arousal towards one of the wolves during the heat of battle wouldn’t be an issue at all. They’d just chalk it up to Stiles being Stiles and everyone would move on with their lives. Ah, there’s Stilinski going off again, poor dude really needs to get laid, but definitely not by me. Y’know, just his everyday life.
Except this time.
This time, it had only been Stiles and Peter. No one else around to obfuscate which direction his unruly hormonal scent cocktail was aimed at. There was absolutely no question here over who, precisely, had triggered it.
Stiles had hung back at the rendezvous point while the wolves went scouting on ahead for the witch’s trail. She had been taking sacrifices in order to tap into the surrounding ley lines (as witches were apparently wont to do; this was the third one, Jesus), and the regroup point was the site of where her next victim was expected to be drained. What no one had accounted for, unfortunately, was the damn witch being able to mask her presence from wolves entirely. As soon as the Scooby gang had scattered, wannabe Morgana had slunk out of the shadows and gone straight for Stiles’ throat. Peter had still been close by enough to hear his (very manly, thank you) shriek, and showed up just in time to stop the hag from turning him into her next juice-up.
Seeing Peter stand protectively over him with the witch slumped lifelessly at his feet, striking and imposing and speckled all over in her blood, had left Stiles momentarily stunned. The adrenaline still coursing through his veins had put everything in vivid relief. It made time seem to suspend. When Peter turned to gaze down at Stiles it felt like a moment held in eternity on the sharp prick of a pinpoint. Peter looked dangerous, every inch the ruthless werewolf he truly was under all that charm and dry wit. Devastatingly lethal, but immaculately in control. His eyes were like fucking daggers with how sharply they looked Stiles over for injury—he could practically feel it like blades dragged delicately, carefully, over skin. Stiles hadn’t been able to suppress a shiver, his breath hitched. And when Peter’s eyes finally met his own, their intensity had brought a wave of arousal immediately crashing through his body.
Stiles had seen Peter’s nostrils flare—no doubt smelling the desire wafting off of him in plumes at that point—followed by the wolf’s gaze sharpening impossibly further. The twitch of Peter’s lips had caught Stiles’ eye next, and he had watched in mounting horror as they started to curl up into the slightest of smirks — right before Scott and Isaac had come crashing their way into the clearing, followed shortly by Derek from the other side.
Their arrivals had worked as the perfect distraction—saved by the bell! Thank god! But it had only rescued Stiles from that moment and whatever skeevy comment Peter had probably been about to make. It didn’t save him at all from the revelation of being attracted to the man, or from the hell Stiles just knew Peter would put him through now that Peter was also aware of it.
Peter was going to lord it over him forever, Stiles could already see it! Peter would turn tormenting him into a game and capitalize on Stiles’ attraction whenever it suited him. Lydia would pick up on what was happening immediately and never forgive Stiles for it! Erica would catch on nearly as quick and by the end of the day the entire pack would know!
Fuck. Stiles was so doomed! He was doomed by his traitorous dick! The treacherous, horny bastard!
And this was so totally not happening! Stiles had to get a handle on this fast—stopper this shit up immediately—because he could not be caught again panting after Peter-fucking-Hale. Stiles could probably smooth talk and worm his way out of it the one time, chalk it up to nerves and nearly dying, but that wouldn’t fly for long if he couldn’t control himself after. Stiles had to stop thinking about those piercing blue eyes immediately. And that broad, taut back. Fuck, or that ass.
…
God damn it. Stiles was so screwed.
This was so totally happening. Stiles was absolutely, indisputably attracted to Peter Hale.
Fuck.