Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf.
Notes: Sometimes I have the strong urge to make a quilt out of beautiful Peter/Stiles graphics and make everybody who doesn't ship it climb onto the quilt that will then turn into a magical carpet, and as we soar over all of the wonder that is Peter/Stiles I sing A Whole New World and watch them convert to this evil, evil ship that doesn't let you go. Instead I end up writing lots of oneshots that apparently will never make it under 10K again.
Stiles has a certain image in his head of what English teachers are supposed to look like, an image nurtured by a propensity for all of his teachers to be old and wrinkly and have soft croaky voices whose lectures sound like endless excerpts from the textbook that Stiles has the tremendous skill of droning out. By the time they get through the first quarter, Stiles is doodling transformers and scribbling random llama factoids on his tests. He gets enough answers right to still average a B and his teachers say nothing other than idly tell his father that his son is hopelessly unfocused. It works, up until he gets Mr. Hale in sophomore year.
The guy isn't old, isn't nursing a bird's nest of flyaway white hair, and isn't hanging his reading glasses over his neck on a shiny chain. As a matter of fact, he's rather attractive, but about twice as creepy.
There's something amiss about his smile, the way it touches every facial feature but seems much more wolfish than it does genuinely pleased. It makes Stiles feel like he's secretly a felon who's masquerading as their mentor after eating their real teacher in the copy room as a pre-lunch snack, which isn't the most reassuring feeling in the world when Stiles settles into his seat next to Scott.
He actually gets there late, which isn't exactly sending the best message on the first day of school, but seventh hour English really sucks and he can't really be motivated to hustle to class when he's had a day full of teachers telling him exactly how much rigorous coursework is coming his way in the incoming school year. He's exhausted, and his backpack is full of textbooks he desperately wants to dump under his bed to never look at again, but instead he has to still suffer through yet another syllabus and grammar constructs in seventh period. By the time he shows up, the entire class is sitting rigid in their seats and the entire room is silent, Mr. Hale leaning against the desk with his eyes raking over the student list. He looks right up at Stiles, a quirk to his lips, and Stiles' plan of slinking into the back unnoticed crumbles as he shuffles awkwardly into the empty seat next to Scott.
He catches sight of the plaque on the teacher's desk, neatly engraved with the name Peter Hale, turns to Scott, and whispers, "Do you think he'll be one Hale of a teacher?"
Stiles very quickly learns that he likes the last row. It's out of sight, and as far as he's concerned, if he can't see creepy Mr. Hale, Mr. Hale can't see him either. He sits there with Scott in the corner normally sticking his head in the textbook, which is the usual routine for him followed by a quick power nap if it wasn't for the fact that there's nothing slow and soothing about Mr. Hale's voice. It's sharp and demands the attention of the entire room, not to mention that he's the type of teacher that delights in calling on random students otherwise distracted by their phones or their purses to keep everybody on their toes.
Stiles is definitely on his toes.
The first book they read is Lord of the Flies, which Stiles read last year and enjoyed as much as he could when it came to homicidal prepubescent boys, and knows intrinsically that Mr. Hale will find ways to make it interesting. Some teachers look too deep, analyzing every moment and every color until the book is reduced to nothing but the twenty-six letters of the alphabet jumbled together in various meaningless ways meant to exhaust Stiles' eyes, and nothing about Mr. Hale predicts such an outcome.
"What we're looking at here," Mr. Hale says from where he's sitting on his desk, "is an elaborate analogy for war."
"Are we honestly supposed to believe that boys who haven't even learned their times tables yet could ever get that bloodthirsty?" Jackson asks with a heavy note of cynicism in his voice from the front row.
"Jackson," Mr. Hale looks up from his book. He's smirking, he's always smirking, but Stiles doesn't mind it so much when it's not aimed in his direction. "After you spend a few months on a deserted island, come back and we'll have this conversation again."
Stiles stifles his laughter in his fist while Jackson's ears turn red and he fumes in his desk. Okay, maybe Mr. Hale isn't so bad. At least, until he starts picking on Stiles.
It's a totally innocent comment. He's sitting there listening to Mr. Hale read aloud the fifth chapter trying his hardest to ignore all of the homosexual subtext while Scott sits oblivious to all of it next to him because he's texting Allison under the table. He taps Scott on the shoulder and leans over to his desk to whisper, "Ten bucks says the entire book's conflict could have been resolved if Jack and Ralph just got down and dirty on the beach."
Scott laughs, and Stiles thinks he's hilarious, but then Mr. Hale stops reading and is staring directly at him like he's heard him across the classroom. There's a smile on his face like he's torn between being amused and staying professionally disappointed in his immaturity, but then he's folding his book closed over his thumb and a light of recognition flashes over his eyes.
"You must be Stiles," he says. Stiles has no idea how he knows his name considering he has yet to force his students to play a sixth grade name game or even so much as take a roll call that extends beyond the effort of counting empty desks, but he looks at him like he's heard countless rumors in the teacher lounge and all of them are coming together now as he's taking in Stiles' appearance.
"Everything you've heard is a total lie," Stiles tells him through an awkward smile. He has no idea what sort of gossip filters through the staff, but he can imagine that Harris has used quite a few expletives to describe him before. Finstock's probably responsible for starting that rumor that Stiles is the one who's written all the gay porn on the bathroom stalls in the locker room. He writes one essay about circumcision and suddenly he's obsessed with dicks, apparently, by Finstock's logic.
"I hope you live up to my expectations, Stiles," Mr. Hale says with a grin, and suddenly Stiles is left to wonder who on earth has been praising him in the staff room and exactly what expectations he's expected to live up to.
Stiles is dinking around on the Internet when he first decides to look up Mr. Hale on Facebook. He's a full believer in using the Internet to his advantage when it comes to gaining information about new people, no matter how creepy some other people find it, and he finds Mr. Hale without too much digging. He saw the engraved plaque on his desk with the crisp name Peter Hale carved into it, and after scrolling by an accountant from Michigan and an adolescent kid whose profile picture is a bathroom selfie, he finds him.
He almost doesn't recognize him at first, because he looks nothing at all like Mr. Hale, who's always fiercely concentrated on what he's teaching. He looks like a regular person, and when Stiles clicks on his protected profile he can do little but stare at his profile picture and surmise what he can about him from the details there. He's smiling, a genuine smile that crinkles by his eyes, and is leaning next to a giant stone lion that's guarding the front of the New York City library in a white v-neck that reveals a smattering of chest hair that Stiles' eyes zero in on like specks of gold in a pile of mud. He looks relaxed and well-rested, the look on his face a grin that should be illegal. Turns out that smug upward tug of his lips is perpetual.
The name Peter fits him perfectly, Stiles thinks. He looks like a Peter. Like a hidden prankster with a past full of travel and sticking his foot out to trip bigger, beefier men. He never thinks of his teachers outside of their confinements, almost as if they sleep under the desks of their classrooms and wake up and put their mattresses in the storage closets that not even the janitors can open with their ring of endless keys. Peter clearly has a life outside of being Mr. Hale, and it makes Stiles wonder if he's married or has children or an entire life built around a family and making marshmallow s'mores with his children every night. It seems like the kind of life Stiles would want in on only because it assures him that he can still be the same goofy facsimile of a real person when he's forced to grow up.
Not that he's jealous of whoever Peter spends his life with. He does, however, wish he knew who rests underneath Mr. Hale.
Maybe one day I'll see him at the supermarket, Stiles thinks as he closes Facebook. Or watching some lame movie at the theater with the bucket-sized popcorn that nobody can ever finish.
Naturally, none of that happens. But other stuff does.
Stiles has a routine he follows every year without fail in which he flunks the first test teachers hand out, just to see if anybody will notice that all of his answers are quotes from Robin Hood or if they'll only skim for enough scribbled words to merit credit. And every year, without fail, there's always one teacher who gives him one hundred percent on all of his homework no matter what words he writes on his paper, whether it be explicit porn or Shakespearean sonnets. Mr. Hale is not one of those teachers.
They have their first quiz over Lord of the Flies two weeks into the quarter. Stiles knows the book well enough—tons of boys reduced to barbaric tendencies without adult supervision on a dinky island—but he ends up writing about the ludicrous werewolf lore he found himself up the night before reading instead of well-deserved sleep on all of his questions. Behind him, a girl with all the answers scribbles desperately on her paper as if she doesn't have enough time to write everything down. Stiles takes his time and even adds a small illustration of a werewolf transformation on the corners of his test to create a delightfully small flip book. It's a definite A for effort.
Mr. Hale, clearly, does not agree.
School's actually looking up from the disaster that was his freshman year, especially considering he isn't starting this year with a zit on his forehead and Lydia's latest rejection fresh in his mind, an optimism that gets dented when Mr. Hale slaps his test on his desk with an angry red F inked onto the top.
"I'm not sure what Sparknotes you're using," Mr. Hale breathes into his ear, a hand curling around his shoulder as Stiles stares in indignation at the failing grade burning into his eyes, "but I'd consider finding a better source."
His fingernails dig into Stiles' shoulder through his hoodie for a moment, a wordless admonishment before he straightens up and continues handing out papers to anxious students while Stiles stares at him slip through the aisles. The paper is breeding grounds for red ink, four pages of admittedly hard yet irrelevant effort with absolutely no appreciation for his creativity, whether it be his witty answers or sketching skills. His reply to question four, describe Jack and Ralph's relationship as the book progresses, answered with How much wolf must a wolfman wolf for a wolfman to werewolf?, a tongue twister he's particularly proud of, has written next to it: much too easy to say five times fast.
Damn. He's been completely outwitted, and it's totally his own fault considering that he should have pegged Mr. Hale as the type of teacher to scrutinize tests and papers rather than blindly mark them through personal bias from the moment he first walked into his class. A hand taps on his desk and he looks up to see Mr. Hale nonchalantly poised over his desk while students groan over the grades in various corners of the classroom. He lays his palms flat on the desk and leans close, close enough that Stiles is sure he can smell the gum in Stiles' mouth, and looks at Stiles expectantly as if waiting for him to complain about his grade and throw an unnecessary tantrum. Stiles proves his expectations wrong by remaining resolutely still and speechless in his seat.
"You should know, Stiles," he tells him, "that you can't pass this class on a whim."
"How about raw charm," Stiles offers, fiddling with a pencil that keeps his fingers occupied. He watches his hand fidget after looking up and finding Mr. Hale's eyes to be inexplicably close, a bright blue color that implores answers and makes his palms sweat. "Or maybe a killer sense of humor?"
"You can show me exactly how charming you are in detention tomorrow night," Mr. Hale says, tracing the red F with his fingertip before flashing Stiles a toothy grin that reminds him so much of a wolf luring a rabbit into its den that Stiles is vaguely terrified of detention tomorrow.
Stiles comes into class the next day as the epitome of good student behavior, not stumbling into his seat two seconds before the bell trills in his ear and without the usual mock salute in lieu of an actual hello. Maybe the apple, though, was a little much.
"Mr. Hale," Stiles calls out as he walks into class and tosses the apple in his direction. It's perfectly ripe and ruby red, the type that would perfect any pie and has a promising crunch as its first bite, and Mr. Hale catches it with stellar reflexes as he examines the apple in amusement. "Here you go."
"Handing a teacher an apple is a little heavy-handed," he says dryly, rolling it between his fingers. "Don't you think?"
"It's a symbol of my appreciation," Stiles says with a cheeky grin as he readjusts the strap of his backpack and lingers by his desk. "As well as a symbol of education."
"Clever," Mr. Hale says slowly, rolling the apple in his palm again before setting it atop his pile of ungraded papers. When Stiles doesn't move from where he's perched expectantly by his desk, Mr. Hale smirks at the shiny apple and fixes him with a look that's much too unimpressed for Stiles' liking. "But you still have detention."
"What if I told you I have lacrosse practice after school?"
"Then I'd tell you to join the team of a real sport," Mr. Hale says. "Nice try, though."
Stiles doesn't let the disappointment poke at his face as Mr. Hale grins at him like he's both endeared and dissatisfied with Stiles' ingenuity, sliding his backpack off his shoulders when he sits down in the back. Scott's already there, leafing frantically through the last three chapters of their book as a clear indication that he's forgotten about last night's reading assignment, and Stiles takes pity on him and summarizes the plot in the two minutes they have before the bell.
He has to cancel the video game marathon he had planned with Scott for tonight in favor of his immovable detention that's taking a generous chunk of time out of his previously pleasant evening, but he figures that scratching gum off of desks and clapping erasers while he hums Star Wars to himself for two hours can't be any worse than Harris' detentions, which include Harris' beady eyes watching his every breath and twitch from the throne he's built himself at his teacher's desk. If he's lucky, Mr. Hale won't make him resort to menial labor at all and let him get a head start on his math homework instead.
Halfway through class, after Mr. Hale is done lecturing chapter fourteen and everybody's left to pack up in silence, Stiles catches the sound of an apple's first bite echoing through the walls and glances up at Mr. Hale. The apple, sitting innocently in his hand, has a bite mark carved into its side, and Mr. Hale smirks back at him.
"All right, I'm here," Stiles calls out when he trudges into history class after he spends as much time as possible loitering around the parking lot with Scott before his watch ticks to 3:15. The whole room is empty, not even a bookworm student left behind complaining about the unfair percentage of their A paper, and Stiles wishes Scott had misbehaved too if only to make this situation more bearable. They'd make a paper football and flick it back and forth the lab stations in Harris' class all the time last year before Harris decided to confiscate all things fun from their possession and left them in separate corners to mull in their the guilt of their wrongdoing, and now he's here as a solo troublemaker with nobody but himself to flick origami sports equipment at.
"Nice to see you made it," Mr. Hale murmurs from where he's sitting at his desk reading. It's not a school book, a thick tome the size of Stiles' face, which surprises Stiles, because most English teachers are so jaded about literature thanks to their bored students that most of them never want to pick up books again unless it's to prepare for a class lecture. He considers the option that maybe Mr. Hale really likes reading, genuinely enjoys it, and snatches a peek at the spine.
"American Psycho?" Stiles reads from the cover. "Sounds thrilling."
He dumps his backpack on the floor and sits in the front seat. After spending countless hours in the very back and having his vision obscured by various hairstyles, he quite likes the unobstructed view of Mr. Hale sitting serenely at his desk absorbed in a book.
"It's a psychological thriller about a bloodthirsty businessman," Mr. Hale comments idly into the book. "Christian Bale didn't even butcher the part at all in the movie, from what I've heard."
"Was that a pun?" Stiles asks cheekily.
"You said. Butcher. It was—never mind. So," Stiles says a moment later when Peter reaches for his bookmark. "Am I cleaning gum or can I just do homework?"
Mr. Hale smirks, sliding his book away and looking at Stiles like his expectations of him to be like all the other high school teachers is quite frankly, adorable, and a little disappointing. Normally it would make Stiles feel demeaned and a little underestimated, but then Mr. Hale pulls out a worn copy of Lord of the Flies and grins at him like a shark.
"Neither," he says, flipping his book open. "You're not here to be disciplined, Stiles, you're here to be taught what you clearly missed. Not that I don't appreciate you taking the time to read up on lycanthropy lore."
Stiles feels a blush crawl up his ears. All he's used to are teachers like Mr. Harris, the teachers that delight in watching their misbehaving students do hard labor like third world slaves and scrub crust off of chemistry beakers, and here's Mr. Hale acting like he actually wants Stiles to learn. The concept is a little new to him.
"You're kidding," Stiles says slowly as he watches Mr. Hale pull out his stack of notes. His handwriting is messy, tiny scrawls of elegant loops and long dashes that Stiles tries to read upside down, but then he's pulling out Stiles' old test out from underneath a stack of paper and placing it directly in front of Stiles like it's his ticket out of here if he manages to reverse his F into something that won't plummet his grade in the class.
"I know a secret about you, Stiles," Mr. Hale says, barreling over whatever incredulous complaints Stiles had at the ready. "Do you know what it is?"
"That... I used to run naked through my neighbor's sprinklers when I was younger?" Stiles offers, slumping in his seat. Mr. Hale has a leather jacket slung over his chair, black and sleek, like he's going to ride home on a motorcycle when he's done with this detention, and it makes Stiles wonder what else he doesn't know about Mr. Hale's personality.
"Interesting, but no," he dismisses. "I know that you're actually quite smart. That you're a resourceful boy with a lot of uncultivated intelligence that could have been put to good use, but your other teachers find you so insufferably unable to focus that they've given up on you. Dreadful, isn't it?"
"A little depressing, actually."
"I'd say so," Mr. Hale says with a wry smile. Stiles hopes this isn't an intervention, because he has absolutely no plans to start putting in extra effort into his schoolwork, especially economics.
"What, so you want me to retake the test?" Stiles says, picking up the paper lying in front of him.
"Not exactly," Mr. Hale says, promptly taking the test back. "I want you to tell me what Lord of the Flies is about."
"You heard me before," Stiles says through a thinly veiled snort. "It's about unresolved homosexual tension."
"Probably," Mr. Hale says with a slight shrug of his shoulders. He leans in closer over the desk. "But what is it really about?"
"The evil in people," Stiles racks his brain for more symbolism from two-hundred and fifty pages of boys with spears. "And... how it's in everybody and is totally unavoidable. Really a happy go lucky novel."
"What does the pig head symbolize for us?"
"It teaches us not to leave meat outside unless you like it covered in flies," Stiles shrugs. "Aren't you the teacher here?"
"Tell me what it means," Mr. Hale coaxes. His voice is deep, demanding answers without question marks needed and Stiles sighs and complies.
"It means that humanity is rotting. That without rules we're all just Satanic little monsters."
He's paraphrasing and butchering what is clearly a deeper plot line, but Mr. Hale looks impressed nonetheless, like Stiles and his mockery of a test have exceeded his expectations when challenged. He's silent for a moment.
"If you want to know a secret, Stiles," Mr. Hale says after a beat. "Most of your classmates don't know any of what you just told me. So why didn't you write any of that on your test?"
"Why are you working so hard to get my grades to improve?" Stiles grumbles, slumping in his chair and ignoring his probing questions. "I've seen Scott's, and his are worse than mine."
Mr. Hale smiles and leans in. Stiles finds himself mirroring the movement. "I like you, Stiles," he says. His hand reaches out, as if to touch his face, but nothing but the pad of his thumb brushes over Stiles' chin. "You have... so much potential."
Mr. Hale pulls his hand back to his own body, his fingertip flitting over his jaw in the process. Stiles watches his hand retreat. He's never had a teacher touch him with purpose before and Mr. Hale's hands feel like speechless praise being transmitted through their skin in a language that only his flesh understands.
"Haven't heard that one before," Stiles says. Mr. Hale tilts his head at him as if mentally calculating who he is and who's pretending to be, and then he leans back and breaks the eye contact.
"You know I worked in junior high before this?" Mr. Hale says grimly, looking very much like he's not amused at the cosmic joke his teaching career has become. "I thought for sure sophomores would be better. Then I met Jackson Whittemore."
Stiles can't help it; he laughs. Mr. Hale laughs with him, a few chuckles that break his face into laughter and pull away the lingering eeriness Stiles had seen in his expression before. He looks younger when he laughs, even if it pulls the wrinkles out of his forehead and tells tales of all the times he's laughed before this, at students, with teachers, alongside family members, and Stiles realizes his teacher is actually quite good looking. Stiles stomps out the blossoming of that thought before it takes on a life of its own.
"Let's not see you in detention again, Stiles," Mr. Hale warns him. Stiles might feel threatened if he hadn't just seen the man throw his head back with raw laughter, as if the creepiness behind his eyes has now been erased. "Do your homework properly."
"If those are the conditions, you'll probably see me again," Stiles says with a shrug, and as he grabs his backpack and books it to the door, he swears Mr. Hale actually winks at him.
When Stiles is eight, he has a third-grade teacher who is, very simply, going to be Stiles' future wife if Stiles had anything to say about it. She's in her thirties with a soft voice and wavy dark hair that she tucks behind her ears when she was teaching, and Stiles makes her a card with extra glitter on it when Valentines' Day comes around. She has a pretty picture framed on her desk of her grinning in front of the Eiffel Tower in a sun hat and sandals that Stiles likes to stare at when he's supposed to be identifying subjects and verbs in his sentences, and he instead lets his mind wander to imagine how beautiful she'd look smiling like that in a white dress like the one his mother wore in her wedding picture that's up on the mantle, but then he graduates from the third grade and his dreams of charming his teacher into loving him for more than just his choppy poetry about doughnuts are cruelly ripped from him when long division starts taking up all his attention.
A few years later in seventh grade, no longer a tiny boy with gangly knees but rather an adolescent willing his body to speed up on the growth spurt and ease up on the acne, Stiles gets a tiny crush on his PE coach. She even makes track suits look good and can score a half-court shot alongside her students instead of the teachers who sit on the sidelines in a lawn chair nursing a can of soda blowing their whistle whenever they spy foul play from afar. She works Stiles so hard he almost goes into what feels like an asthmatic coma after running the pacer, and then, when he's sprawled on the ground and she's looming over him, face swimming in and out of his vision and blonde hair tickling his arms, he wants nothing more than to surge up and kiss her right on the mouth. His muscles, however, have gone on a coffee break ever since he pitched himself on the ground after passing the seventieth lap on the tape, and refuse all his attempts to cajole his body into sitting up. It probably saves him from a detention.
Three years later he's sitting in English class drowning out everything Greenberg is saying about last night's reading in favor of devoting all of his attention to staring at Mr. Hale's ass as he scribbles on the chalkboard, and he comes to the dreadful realization that he has yet to grow out of having crushes on his teachers.
It's a little disconcerting, considering that the last two made perfect sense —beautiful women with unbridled knowledge and without any fear of ordering others around—and now it's a man catching his attention. He's had his moments of ogling Zac Efron like all people forced to watch High School Musical, but this is different. Mr. Hale is a fully grown man who happens to creep him out with the way he stares with a fierce intensity and catches his eye across the classroom, nothing gorgeous or feminine about him like the others. Maybe what's appealing about him is the way he looks like he would never take it easy with Stiles, that he'd slam him against his desk and tease Stiles' hole with fleeting fingers and tell him when he's allowed to come and not a moment before. Even just the look in his eyes sparks previously dormant and undiscovered kinks to make themselves heard in Stiles' brain.
Mr. Hale shifts, twisting around to halt Greenberg's rambling before he takes up all period with his thoughts, and Stiles follows the wrinkles in his dark pants like he's staring into an abyss of possibilities that start with Stiles tearing them off. He never thought he'd be too aggressive in bed, too busy turning off the lights and covering himself with the sheets to pounce and bite, but he's pretty sure that he'd have to be brazen with Mr. Hale if only to avoid being mauled past coherence first, like lions staring down their prey and waiting for a twitch of movement.
It's a really nice ass, Stiles thinks as he rests his chin on his palm and at it from an angle, and that should be enough reason to justify all his fascination. He's seen his fair share of asses in the school hallways, how Lydia's skirt always tucks over hers and how most boys have their pants hanging under theirs, rendering their belts useless. Mr. Hale's ass fits perfectly in his tailored pants, two firm globes of muscle that sway and flex with every movement for Stiles' eyes to feast on. He never knew he liked asses, never really paid much attention to his own and focused mainly on boobs whenever they glided past, but right now all Stiles can think of is what it would be like to grab Mr. Hale's ass in his hands and how pleased his answering noise of surprise would be.
"—think about that?"
Mr. Hale's voice pierces through his reverie as Stiles snaps himself back to reality. The entire class is quiet, eerily so, and that's when he realizes that they're all staring at him over their shoulders like they've all been reading his mind for the last five minutes. For a fleeting moment where Stiles considers it, his palms sweat and slide on his textbook, and then a moment later he realizes that Mr. Hale just asked him a question that has a long overdue answer.
"What," Stiles says, very eloquently, righting himself in the chair so he looks less like the slouching slacker copying off of Danny's notes and more like he was actively paying attention. Somebody in the room snickers, and Stiles is about to glare at Greenberg when he realizes it was Mr. Hale.
"You weren't dozing," Mr. Hale says slowly, "were you?"
"Absolutely not, sir," Stiles says, and picks up his pencil if only to look productive. "What was the question?"
The bell rings, the sweetest sound Stiles has heard in a while, and he grins at Mr. Hale in his victory of dodging a question he probably wouldn't have answered correctly.
"Stiles," Mr. Hale says as Stiles is hustling out the door after the bell, and Stiles is almost positive he's earned himself another detention when instead, Mr. Hale steps away from his desk and hands him a freshly graded homework assignment. He takes it, fully prepared to face the wrath of the red grade slashed into his paper, and is promptly met with a neat B next to his name. Underneath it is written, in tiny handwritten like it's a secret, impressive.
"Seriously?" Stiles flips through it looking for the hidden D. It's not there.
"You're incredibly bright, Stiles," Mr. Hale tells him, and he's looking at him almost reverently, like he wants nothing more than to nest in Stiles' brain and test the waters of how deep his cleverness actually runs when he makes the effort. "That is, when you try."
His hand lands on Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles is sure it's supposed to be a fatherly pat, but his thumb is brushing his neck and the line of his collarbone and making Stiles lean into the firm touch. "Make sure to do your homework tonight."
"Sure thing," Stiles promises him, and then, the moment he peels out of the parking lot and heads up his driveway, he does the exact opposite of homework and somehow, miraculously, ends up in the porn section of the internet instead of buried dutifully in rhetorical terms.
His backpack sits next to him like the guilty reminder of the work there is to do for class, but it's squatting in the corner muffled by Stiles' hormones as he files through seedy videos. Mr. Hale's ass has his brain in a bit of a spin, wondering what it feels like to touch a body that isn't his own and isn't curvy and soft in the stomach but full of nothing but unadulterated man. He imagines it'd be hairier, rougher, minus all the soft, feminine moans and instead replaced with primordial growls.
But the truth is, that's all he can guess. He's only ever touched his own dick and has, obviously, liked it, so who's to say that he's not a fan of touching other dicks as well. That's when the curiosity gets the best of him.
He starts using Google in ways he never has before, careful to erase his history after every single click. He starts with his fingers lingering over the keyboard, completely unsure what to type, and once what's gay sex like comes out the rest comes out of his fingers like questions projectile vomiting from his brain, and next thing he knows he's clicking a link that turns out to a be video.
It nearly startles him out of his chair when the video pops up, two men stark naked while one of them pushes the other against a wall and starts fisting his dick. Porn, he realizes then, certainly doesn't beat around the bush, and he whips around the room to make sure nobody's there peeking over his shoulder watching him investigate gay sex. When the room stares back at him, completely empty, he goes back to the video feeling only slightly less guilty about his research methods. There are lots of R-rated moans that Stiles has trouble believing are real that ruin the authenticity, but when he mutes the video and zeroes in on the sex portion of the video, his pants tighten and he starts to see the appeal behind gay sex. There are two men, close enough to lick the sweat off each other's bodies, both with demanding hands that grab without asking and are keening into each other's touches, nothing at all like their female counterparts. There are no boobs and no long silky hair, just two men with hints of defined muscles in their chests and fingers that claw down each other's backs as encouragement.
It looks amazing, like the sort of thing sex should be even in high school when everybody's too nervous to be naked unless they're alone and no mirrors are around. Despite the fact that these men are sitting in a sleazy hotel being filmed as they have sex, Stiles is still entranced at this new corner of porn he's never seen before. Suddenly one of the men slides down and Stiles is watching a blowjob like he's in the front row of a brothel, watching with eyes as wide as beach balls as the man wraps his lips around the other guy's erection without a moment's hesitation.
There's spit and it looks messy as he moves his mouth steadily up and down, but Stiles wonders what it feels like. If it's as thrilling as it seems to have a mouth leaving sticky kisses on his dick and licking away the precome. He slides his hand down his chest and palms himself through his jeans, the bulge in his pants arching into his touch as he unzips his jeans and strokes himself in his boxers. He can imagine all kinds of nameless faces ducked between his legs biting hickeys into his thighs and swallowing down his cock, trying his hardest to use the power of imagination to envision what that type of wet heat would feel like when all he's ever had is his own hand slicked with lotion or shower water. He matches the rhythm in the video, the way the man bobs his head and sucks at the head of his partner's dick mirrored with Stiles' palm sliding up and down his erection.
The men on the screen know what they're doing, that much is obvious, and it's giving Stiles all kinds of fantasies that include experienced men and the tricks they've learned with their tongues. He never understood the appeal of older men before, always too fascinated with the fine female specimen that wandered past him in the school hallways, but as he thinks of the idea of his first time not being an uncoordinated dance of unbalanced bodies but rather a slow, intimate, meticulous tearing apart of his sanity as somebody teaches Stiles everything from blowjobs to fingering, he starts getting an idea of how advantageous it might be to have a seasoned partner. He imagines the stubble burning his legs, the teeth grazing his dick and the strong hands gripping at his hair and yes, this is exactly what he wants. He tips his head back and thumbs the head of his length, smearing around the precome there and licking the dryness from his mouth as he speeds up.
The video doesn't matter anymore, the pictures in his head vivid enough to bring him closer to coming. His hand moves faster, jerking his dick almost aggressively as the faceless man kneeling in front of him starts taking shape in his mind. Strong arms, lean legs, a mop of hair perfect for holding onto. Stiles comes at the idea of being manhandled onto somebody's lap, riding a dick and losing himself in the sensation, and it takes him almost two minutes to catch his breath again.
It's one thing to watch gay porn; it's another to come at the sight of it. Stiles stares down at his lap, boxers already sticky with the aftermath of his masturbation session, and closes his laptop to hide his laundry in the hamper and open his window so the smell of sex wanders out of the window. To Stiles, it smells more like the longing to be touched.
That night, Stiles dreams of a man who takes him apart just like in the porn video, who pushes him onto a table and unbuttons his shirt. His shirt is full of millions of buttons and it takes forever to shuck it off, but when he finally gets to pulling off his pants, the man sits up and shows Stiles his face. Stiles takes it in slowly, the face blurry through the shaky details of his dream, but then he recognizes a familiar smirk and nearly comes right there.
When he wakes up, he pretends he didn't just have a sex dream about his teacher and decides no more porn for him after seven p.m.
Stiles hasn't gone to a parent teacher conference since he was in second grade when, under the influence of curiosity, he pleaded to come with and then promptly regretted the decision when he realized that all it meant was another hour spent sitting in school in a tiny, plastic chair without cookies while his teacher showed his father everything from his scribbles in art class to his spelling tests. It's much more fun to stay at home while he whips up dinner out of whatever isn't expired in the cupboards so his father is always blinded by the tastiness of his homemade spaghetti rather than focused on chastising Stiles on his grades. His grades are fine, or at least, they totally would be if Stiles gave them as much effort as he gives to playing Halo.
Now he's sixteen and is stuffing his shirt into his pants and sniffing his armpits in front of his bathroom mirror, the realization that it looks like he's getting ready for an eighth-grade dance alarming him enough to yank his shirt out of his pants once more. He's not eleven and hoping to get invited to Lydia's birthday party. He's a developed teenager that's ready to tag along to his parent teacher conference like the one student who sticks out like a sore thumb among a crowd of stressed parents because he he wants to see Mr. Hale.
Okay, so he may be able to admit that he has a problem.
"Stiles!" his dad hollers up the stairs while Stiles runs his hands over the short hair tickling his hairline. Naturally, it doesn't move. "C'mon, we're gonna be late!"
Stiles sends one more roguish wink at his reflection to boost his confidence before he's thumping down the stairs and landing in front of his father, displaying his readiness with open arms. His father fixes him with a look like he doesn't buy any of this enthusiasm for a school-related function.
"I thought only kids who were failing had to go," he says, crossing his arms. He looks thoroughly confused as to what Stiles' ulterior motives are when it comes to listening in on his teachers admonish his lack of study habits and general lack of concentration. "You know there aren't going to be cookies."
"Yes, dad, I know," Stiles says, ushering him to the garage as he speaks. He also figures that the general atmosphere of friendliness has disappeared since second grade, that now the classrooms are full of grim teachers staring down their hundredth parent of the day while they desperately try to remember anything memorable concerning their child instead of finger paintings of ducks on the walls. He's still willing to come along.
Half an hour later, after running into a frazzled Mrs. McCall clutching a handful of her son's truly dismal report cards and enduring the agony of having to sit at the same table as Mr. Harris as he proceeded to critique everything about Stiles from his penmanship to the crooked way he highlights words, Stiles is sitting at a table across from Mr. Hale, who looks not even the slightest bit surprise that Stiles is here today. There's something about him, something in his eyes like x-ray vision that always manages to see what Stiles is thinking, and it has Stiles sitting there for a good ten minutes wondering if he's ever picked up on the porn he's visualized in class or the way he fantasizes about his ass when he's walking up to the chalkboard while his father peruses his assignments.
"Is this the test that earned you a detention?" his father asks gruffly while thrusting a brilliant F paper under his nose. Stiles smiles guiltily and leafs through the pages, shrugging as he tries to slide it back into the pile of homework without further question.
"Your son has quite the active imagination," Mr. Hale says. His hands are on the table, one finger looped around a red pen like he's been grading in between conferences, and Stiles watches the way his knuckle curves around the lid. "But we smoothed over that problem in detention. Didn't we, Stiles?"
"What?" Stiles snaps back to reality. "Oh. Yeah."
Mr. Hale smiles. Once again, it seems to bore into Stiles' very soul as he looks at him and hands over Stiles' report card.
"Not bad, Stiles," his dad says as he peruses what, all in all, is an average report card. Stiles is a little surprised, considering that he fully expected his F test to drag his grade into the mud that wouldn't see the sun until fourth quarter.
"I expect his grades to improve with time," Mr. Hale says, and after a pause, corrects himself. "Actually, I demand his grades improve."
Stiles' dad laughs, like the idea of a teacher having that much faith in his diligence to loyally do homework is laughable. Stiles can't really blame him.
"Your work is cut out for you," Mr. Stilinski says. Stiles feels a little bit like he's the invisible third wheel sitting at the table, but he supposes that's what he risked by tagging along to an event that generally remains exclusively adult-based. "What makes you think he'll improve?"
"Stiles is exceedingly smart," Mr. Hale says. "The sooner he realizes his effort could be spent productively, the faster he'll start reaping the rewards of his success."
Then there's a parent sidling up to the table who keeps checking her watch in a way that lacks all the subtlety that comes with signaling how busy she is, and Stiles' dad pulls them up from the table to make room. He shakes hands with Mr. Hale, leaving Stiles with all sorts of questions like what kind of success am I supposed to be searching for and how on earth is effort spent productively, but most importantly, why the guy has so much faith in him.
He doesn't think anybody, from his friends to the authority figures in his life, has ever shown so much blind trust in his intelligence. It's odd and in Stiles' opinion, completely unfounded, but Mr. Hale seems sure like he knows things about Stiles that Stiles has yet to figure out. He doesn't quite know what to do with the knowledge that somebody out there is one hundred percent supportive of him and his potential, but it makes him feel he has something to work up to, somebody to impress. It's a challenge.
"So is he an all right teacher?" his dad asks on the way to the parking lot as he rifles through a handful of mediocre report cards. None of them are as bad as Scott's, though, who may be failing gym, so Stiles feels accomplished enough. "Don't tell me that detention thing is gonna become routine with him."
"Nah, he's cool," Stiles says. "I really like his ass. Shit, class."
His dad pauses halfway into opening the door of the car, looking at Stiles over the hood with furrowed eyebrows like he has no idea what to think of his son. To be honest, Stiles doesn't know what to think either.
Stiles isn't exactly artistic, but his skills of ass sketching have certainly improved ever since English class.
It probably isn't the talent he was supposed to develop after months of studying rhetorical devices and banging out in-class essays before spending the next half hour watching Scott nurse his aching wrist back to health, but it is. Greenberg's in the front arguing about Hamlet's motive for killing Polonius and how many loopholes Shakespeare is guilty of while Stiles draws the shading of a firm right globe of an ass behind the safety of his palm. It's an odd obsession, especially when horrible caricatures are normally his thing, but it passes the time even if it does absolutely nothing to relieve Stiles' frustration. Mr. Hale's pants are clinging to his ass in a way that they shouldn't for moderately tailored trousers and Stiles is feeling an artist spring from his chest like his hormones have finally succeeded in bringing forth useful talents.
His pencil moves jerkily while Greenberg continues babbling, tuning out most of the words in favor of concentrating on sketching the details. A wrinkle there, a curve of a thigh over there. It's not half bad and certainly better than the stick figure cartoons he used to draw of Mr. Harris being pelted with bird droppings.
Ten minutes later he turns in his homework and goes to stuff his drawing of a heavily shaded ass into the trashcan only to find it missing. Two desks ahead, as if in slow motion, Danny is passing their row's pile of homework ahead to Mr. Hale and Stiles feels his stomach drop into his toes, oozing out into his socks.
That's it, then. He's going to have to change schools.
"Mr. Stilinski, at this point you're just taking up space. You're fine."
Nurses are supposed to be nice, Stiles grumbles to himself mentally as the nurse aggressively stuffs a couple of saltines in his mouth as a parting gift and begins zipping up his backpack for him. He had set up quite the sanctuary here in the nurse's office, ready to skip all of seventh period under the pretense of a mind-numbing migraine that earned him a spot on a cot behind a curtain decorated with tiny geese while he attempted to beat his score on Angry Birds, up until the point that, as always, a kid stumbling out of PE staggered into the office clutching a bloody nose and needed the room. Stiles knew that he should have gone with "sick to his stomach," which is much harder to kick out of a cot than "headache." All he would've had to do is clutch his stomach and run into the bathroom at odd intervals to sell the authenticity of his supposed nausea and he wouldn't be forced to so much as spend a second in English class that day.
"Awww, please," Stiles begs, rolling his face into the pillow that smells like Pepto Bismol. He can't face the mortification that is turning a drawing of his teacher's ass into said teacher when he's just a young, innocent boy of sixteen. His plans of camping out in the nurse's office during seventh period the rest of the year is already falling a little flat. "The light, it burns. Your very voice cracks my skull."
"Mr. Stilinski," the nurse says in a no-nonsense tone. "Get off this bed."
He squints up at her, peeking out from the scratchy pillow at where she's staring sternly at him. He has to hand over a quarter every time he so much as asks for an aspirin and isn't allowed to nap off a nonexistent migraine in peace, what kind of education system is this?
He grumbles, but he gets up nonetheless to make room for the freshman who's pinching the bridge of his nose and staring at the ceiling like the Red Sea's going to come out of his nostrils if he tips his head down. Stiles has a shred of sympathy for the poor dude before he remembers what he's facing, a prospect much worse than a tiny nosebleed. He makes the walk back to seventh hour as tortuously slow as possible, stopping at the vending machine for a pity snack before he arrives in the English hallway a good ten minutes later with only a quarter of class left.
"How nice of you to join us, Stiles," Mr. Hale says the moment he slips inside. Mr. Hale is staring at the chalkboard, but the eyes in the back of his head seem to zoom in on Stiles the second the door creaks shut. Stiles waits for the ground to swallow him one limb at a time, and when that plan fails, he slinks to his seat and doesn't take a single note all class long.
When the bell rings, Stiles all but runs to slide into the middle of the herd of students stampeding out the door, attempting to conceal himself behind Danny, who is hardly amused at being used as a human shield and steps swiftly aside. Stiles curses every one of his classmates, and then, just when the door's in sight—
"Stiles, can you come see me for a moment?" Mr. Hale's voice weaves through the crowd as Stiles tries to disguise himself behind Scott, and his insides deflate. This is the moment. The moment of utter embarrassment that everybody talks about as the reason they hate high school. "You missed some notes while you were in the nurse."
Stiles lets out a breath that's keeping his entire body caged in like it's been duct taped into one immovable pillar that doesn't have room to breathe. "Notes?" he parrots slowly. "I can get those from Scott."
"And make sure to start reading Native Son and finish the first part for tomorrow," Mr. Hale says.
"Got it," Stiles says. The door is so close. He inches toward it.
"One more thing," Mr. Hale says, and suddenly he's standing right before him with a familiar penciled picture drawn crudely on the back of a homework assignment. It is, unmistakably, Mr. Hale's ass, right next to the chalkboard, noticeable even through Stiles' terrible artistic skills. Drawing the desk with the name plaque Peter Hale was probably an unnecessary detail to add to the drawing.
"Well, shit," Stiles mutters to himself. And then Mr. Hale is right there, holding the assignment under his nose, all sense of teasing smirks gone when Stiles looks up at his face. There's something else in his expression, something like hunger, a frustration that's completely different from anger and disappointment at Stiles' immature sketches. Mr. Harris would have him on his knees scrubbing toxic chemicals off the lab stations and Finstock would have tossed him into the principal's office after ridiculing him in front of the class. Mr. Hale is just looking at him.
"Are you always this artistic," Mr. Hale asks him in not much more than a whisper. "Or does it take a... special subject?"
"Or, um," Stiles says, struggling to find the right excuse. Looking Mr. Hale in the eye is a little too intense right now. He looks like a cannibal, his eyes fixed on Stiles' mouth and his hands and everything vulnerable like he's ready to attack. Suddenly Stiles remembers why this guy creeped him out the first day of school. "Boredom. Boredom does it too."
"Hmmm," Mr. Hale says, examining the picture and dragging his index finger down the line of his own poorly sketched leg. "You must have been very bored. It's extremely detailed."
God, why did Stiles have to shade so much. Actually, if he's asking questions, why did he even feel the need to draw anybody's ass in the first place?
Mr. Hale shifts, closer still, and Stiles doesn't even have to look up at him to be level with his eyes. It certainly makes him feel like more of an adult than he did in third grade when he tried to flirt with his teacher and his grand height would bring him up to her waist, Mr. Hale's eyes boring into his like he's trying to see through them directly into his skull where the truth simmers. Stiles resists the urge to close them if only for the tingles to stop lacing themselves up his spine, and then Mr. Hale's hand is encircling his wrist and brushing over the pulse point there.
"Stiles," he murmurs. "Is there something you want?"
God, yes. If this would be anybody else asking Stiles would be thinking of barbeque chips and no homework for the rest of the semester, but the way Mr. Hale says it, like he's asking Stiles to divulge a secret that he can drink directly from his throat, it makes only one thing run through his mind. He wants Mr. Hale, to touch him, kiss him, push him against the rickety desk in the front row and unbutton his pants.
He opens his mouth to answer, but Mr. Hale is already kissing him. It takes him a moment to process that there's a pair of warm parted lips angled against his and a tongue dipping into his mouth, the kind of kiss Stiles sees on television and scrutinizes for tips. He always thought he'd never know what to do with his tongue or his mouth or his hands, but it seems easy now with Mr. Hale leading the way, his slender fingers clawing into Stiles' hips and mouth rubbing against his. He brushes their tongues together and Mr. Hale's answering groan is that of a man long denied a secret pleasure, the same one Stiles lets loose when he comes or gets a bite out of a freshly baked pie.
"This is new to you," Mr. Hale mumbles on his lips, pulling back and leaving Stiles' mouth wet and seeking out more. The taste of Mr. Hale's tongue is still sitting on his lips and Mr. Hale's hands are still flexing on his hips like he's exerting all his self control to keep himself restrained and all Stiles can think of is is it that obvious.
"You've never kissed someone before," Mr. Hale says, almost reverently, his thumb sliding over Stiles' lower lip. "Have you?"
"Uh, no," Stiles says. Mr. Hale's lips are shiny from where Stiles licked them in his quest to give as good as he got, and if this is what kissing feels like, he gets why people never want to stop. "Almost. Seventh grade dance. But then we didn't because the Macarena came on."
Mr. Hale doesn't care, and neither does Stiles, actually, because it doesn't matter how many times he almost kissed a girl in a sweaty junior high gym when he's in the middle of kissing somebody right now. Mr. Hale is leaning in again, catching Stiles' lower lip with his teeth and biting. It catches him off guard when the pain shoots through the flesh of his lip, but then Mr. Hale is distracting him by sliding his palm up his shirt and drifting it over the small of his back where it's ticklish. It's the best moment of Stiles' life, like every rejection and night spent jacking off alone has led up to this moment, and naturally, that's when there's a knock on the door.
Stiles springs back like he's been electrocuted and promptly rams into the nearest desk, toppling over himself and landing spectacularly on his ass while Mr. Hale watches like he's never even seen such a show at the circus. Stiles curses the desk and curses the person knocking on the door while he gingerly gets to his feet and pretends he didn't just fall on his ass after his first official make out session.
"Uh, sorry," a familiar voice says, and that's when Stiles realizes it's Scott's unruly head poking in the door staring back and forth between the both of them. "I left my pencil."
Left his pencil, Stiles thinks incredulously while Scott wanders around the aisles of desks looking to spot his writing utensil. Stiles never interrupts when Scott's making out with Allison in the back of her car or calls when he knows they're out bowling together, not that he'd ever let Scott know that he was just in the middle of kissing their English teacher.
Oh god, his teacher. He looks at Mr. Hale, leaning against his desk and watching as Scott rummages around on the floor, mouth kissed slightly pink and hands white-knuckled on the rim of the desk in what Stiles can only guess is a sexually fueled desire to sink his teeth into Scott's neck for interrupting at such an inopportune moment. He's supposed to be mooning over Lydia from his locker and chasing her down the cafeteria trying to buy her lunch, not daydreaming about his twice-his-age teacher slamming him over a desk and deflowering him. He has problems. Psychological problems.
"Got it," Scott says, holding up a stubby yellow pencil that surely could've waited finding until tomorrow. Stiles licks his lips and idly wonders who's saliva he's licking as Scott comes up to him. "Uh, can I get a ride home?"
"Sure," Stiles says. A part of him desperately wants to say no and continue his make out session until his dick is as satisfied as his mouth, but another seriously conflicted part of him wants to run frantically away before the police start pressing their noses against the window and arrest Mr. Hale for statutory rape. Considering that his dad is the sheriff, it's not that far off of a prospect.
"By the way, Stiles," Mr. Hale says with an amused grin just as Stiles is halfway out the door. "I think you're quite artistically talented."
Stiles shuts the classroom door as fast as physically possible and is beet red in the face during the entire walk back to the car. He's still a tiny bit half-mast and if he keeps mentally rehashing the past few kisses his dick will be flagging down taxis, which isn't a great thought as Scott walks in step beside him and clambers into the passenger seat in the Jeep.
"You're welcome, man," Scott says, and Stiles stares at him in utter amazement at what he has to be thankful for at the current moment. "I thought I'd rescue you from Mr. Hale in case he was grilling you for being at the nurse so long and I totally succeeded." Stiles stares some more as Scott, thoroughly proud at his ingenuity, buckles up and gets comfortable.
"You're unbelievable," Stiles says flatly.
Scott takes it as a compliment.
The amount of articles about teachers imprisoned for hitting on their students is a little baffling.
Stiles is staring at his computer where Google is providing him with page upon page of scandalous stories of seemingly harmless high school teachers molesting their students and then being unceremoniously carted off to jail. He clicks on one link despite his better judgement and reads the whole thing, about how the teacher had been at the school for seven years and had Friday poker evenings with the whole staff and how the student even swore that he consented and how none of it mattered when the police ushered the guy away in handcuffs. It dries up Stiles' entire mouth at the thought of being the next Beacon Hills scandal, that all it would take is one Peeping Tom peering into the classroom at the wrong time and Mr. Hale would be in court while Stiles would be pointed at in the hallways because he's the boy who gets off with men twice his age.
He lets out a full body shiver at the terrible prospect. He would never be able to look his father in the eye again. Or Scott. Or anybody in the entire town.
Jail sucks, from what he's heard. The food is worse than the sewage slew they're served in the school cafeteria and the other inmates try to sell you parsley as weed. No matter how much of a troublemaker Stiles is or plans to be in the future, he's going to fight tooth and nail when it comes to staying out of prison. It's a fate he wouldn't wish on anybody else, even that douchebag Jackson Whittemore, and sending a teacher to jail because he couldn't control his own rabid hormones feels like the sort of thing that will come back to kick him in the ass karma style thirty years from now when he's a CEO and one of his secretaries takes his humor the wrong way and reports him for sexual harassment.
He finally shuts down his computer when the articles turn bleaker and bleaker still. If he was eighteen and desperately crushing on his ruggedly handsome college professor, the illegality would be much better, but no, Stiles has a propensity for searching out the worst possible situations ever in every moment of his life. He's unbelievably lucky that way.
That night, after being thoroughly discouraged with the Internet, Stiles does the unthinkable and actually starts doing his homework.
He digs Native Son out of his backpack and starts reading in the solitude of his room while his dad watches reruns of Cops downstairs without him while pigging out on potato chips. He hears the muffled sound of the television waft into his room, but he ignores it in favor of throwing himself into a literary world where the main character, as usual, struggles with life and tries to rationalize that in comparison to such a horrible fictional world, his reality is much better. The story's about a boy named Bigger who feels the burden of racism on his shoulders and then proceeds to kill the daughter of the wealthy white family he works for and throw her body into the furnace after cutting off her head. It's bloody, gory, and everything titillating horror movies are made of, and it still doesn't distract him from Mr. Hale.
"All I'm saying is, if he hadn't been so careless about the bodies, he never would've gone to jail."
"You really think nobody would've blamed him in the end anyway if only because of his race? It's set in the 1930s, for heaven's sake."
Listening to Jackson and Lydia bicker through the class book discussion is not as fun as it used to be, Stiles thinks as he hides himself behind his chemistry textbook. He supposes it has something to do with the paranoia plaguing him today that Mr. Hale's eyes are looking through all five-hundred pages of dull chemistry theory that Stiles is using as a shield to watch him and the fact that his mind is tortuously replaying every detail about how Mr. Hale kissed him in this very classroom next to that very desk that Jackson's sitting in and used his tongue and teeth and everything else.
"God, Mr. Hale assigns creepy reading," Scott is muttering next to him as he's leafing through last night's pages with wide eyes. "How did he even manage to saw through her neck?"
"Werewolf strength, obviously," Stiles mumbles into his book where a picture of two students, much too happy to be anything but staged, combining chemicals at a lab station is staring back at him.
"What? The main character's a werewolf?"
"Yes, and his best friends are all unicorns," Stiles says. When Scott doesn't question him, only rereading the summary printed on the back of the book in awe to double check if he missed this tidbit, Stiles takes pity on him. "No, he's not a werewolf, and nobody's a unicorn."
"Stiles," a voice says that's suddenly yanking away his chemistry book and looming over his desk. "Would you care to join the class discussion?"
It's not a question, even if Mr. Hale phrased it like one. He's standing expectantly right over his desk, and all Stiles can focus on is how it would feel to lick into his mouth and how his eyes are so blue he feels like he's drowning in them right now, and he fumbles to appear alert and jump into the conversation. He would ask why he's not picking on Scott, who was equally busy not paying attention, but if the smug look on Mr. Hale's face is any indication he knows exactly why he's the class target today.
"Um," Stiles says. "I agree with Lydia."
"That's a surprise," Jackson snorts from across the room.
"Because," Stiles barrels on, pausing only to glare at Jackson, "if he hadn't been stopped and the book would've been different, he might have killed more people. And—and people don't get away with breaking the law. They just don't."
Mr. Hale is looking at him now with a curious glint in his eyes that Stiles hopes is just the fluorescent light fixture above.
"So you don't think it had anything to do with carelessness?" Mr. Hale asks him. He's staring directly at Stiles, cataloging his every nonverbal response, and Stiles stares directly back.
"My dad's the sheriff," Stiles says. Mr. Hale actually smiles. "He doesn't miss a thing. And he always catches the bad guy."
"Well, Stiles," Mr. Hale says, leaning closer to his desk. "Bad guy is a term that's always up for interpretation."
Jackson is still snorting at the other end of the room, but Stiles isn't concerned with glowering at him anymore. He has the distinct impression that Mr. Hale isn't talking about the book anymore, or murder, or anything but the metaphor he's created. Stiles knows what he's talking about, knows the hints in his direction that Mr. Hale is a rebel and likes taking risks and that Stiles should push aside all of his doubts about being caught and jail and all the other horrors that could arise if this goes badly. He never thought this hard about having a crush on a teacher before; it was innocent fun, sexual reveries enjoyed from the safe distance of a student desk. With somebody actually willing to indulge in his fantasies, Stiles feels like he's being challenged to come and get it.
"Are you speaking from experience?" Stiles asks him. Mr. Hale tilts his head and grins.
"Why don't you come see me after class," he suggests.
And despite his better judgement, Stiles does.
He has no idea how they ended up making out.
He had a plan, a solid plan to calmly explain that his father was head of the Beacon Hills Police Department and wouldn't hesitate to blast Peter full of military-worthy ammo if he ever found out that he was boning his son. It's intimidating and straightforward and appeals to Peter's sense of the law that he should, as a role model to adolescent airheads, respect. Somehow, it doesn't work.
Stiles is pressed up against the chalkboard with an eraser lodged into his back while Peter murmurs approvingly into his mouth at his responsiveness, completely the opposite of what he was trying to achieve when he first agreed to stay after school. He meant what he said, he meant that bad guys always get carted off to jail and that this makes either him or Peter or both of them very, very bad guys.
"Such a bad idea," Stiles is mumbling against slick lips. This might be the single greatest moment of his life and he still can't enjoy it because Mr. Hale keeps ignoring the issue at hand. "Mr. Hale—"
"Peter, for god's sake," Mr. Hale says in between kisses that's leaving Stiles breathless much too fast. "My name's Peter."
"Shit, Peter," Stiles gasps out when a hand worms between their bodies and hitches up his shirt. The name rolls off his tongue like Stiles' mouth was created for the sole purpose of saying Peter's name, reverently, ardently, over and over and over again, but before he can so much as say anything more Peter's pushing his tongue into his mouth again and swallowing all of his complaints.
"We won't get caught," Peter says, pulling away to stare at him. His eyes are even closer than before, an even more intense blue than Stiles remembers, like a pond under the sun that Stiles could skip stones into. "If you listen to me and do this my way, we won't get caught."
"Your way?" Stiles parrots back at him. They're the same height and not even Peter's smirks can make him feel infinitely younger right now with Peter's hands sliding over his stomach and his lips wet where Stiles' tongue has been licking it.
"All you have to do," Peter says, tugging Stiles' left ear lobe into his mouth, "is do as I say."
"Hell no," Stiles says, not even the tongue sliding up his ear stifling his defiance. It can't be surgically removed and it certainly can't be pleaded away with severely distracting kisses. "I'm really bad at taking orders."
"Stiles," Peter growls. It already sounds like his patience is growing thin, a sign that this secret affair of a relationship is already off to a great start, and Stiles looks forward to pushing his buttons. "Shut up and touch me."
And miraculously, Stiles obeys.
As it turns out, doing it Peter's way is pretty much a one-way ticket to trouble.
Stiles gets called out of third period chemistry with a pass beckoning him to the counselor's office, but halfway into dancing down the hallway celebrating the reduction of time spent watching Harris scribble notes on the blackboard, he's pushed against a wall and a mouth is crashed into his.
He doesn't even have to look, he just chastises Peter for being such a mindless exhibitionist and tries not to feel funny inside his chest just because Peter's legs are slotted neatly between his own.
"Love the way you say my name," Peter murmurs onto his neck. Yes, it's the middle of the period and the halls are typically deserted but Stiles doesn't put it past a freshman with an extraordinary sense of timing to choose this very moment to wander out of PE into the hall right about now to skip running laps in the rain. "Say it."
"Peter," Stiles breathes out dutifully while Peter growls into his collarbone at the syllables of his name sliding from Stiles' parted mouth, so of course that's when they first hear the footsteps.
And that's how they find themselves cramped into a tiny janitorial closet ten minutes later with no discernible light switch nearby with Stiles pressing his ear against the door eavesdropping on the uproariously funny conversation the two nice old ladies from the attendance office are sharing while desperately trying to telepathically convince them to take their gossiping spree elsewhere.
When he agreed to start this thing with his teacher, he did not agree to becoming a walking cliche that hides in cupboards to avoid authority because they were necking like insatiable teenagers in the hallway. Considering that Peter isn't the insatiable teenager here, he should really have better self control.
"They're talking about starting a knitting club," Stiles says faintly from where his ear is pressed into the door. The closet is dark like a pitch black night, but he knows Peter is close from the weight lingering behind him. "I blame you for getting me into this. I was into girls my age before you came along."
"You mean like the incredibly intelligent and extremely out of your league Lydia Martin?" Peter says from the depths of the closet, sounding far too amused.
"How did you even know that?"
"I know lots about you, Stiles," Peter drawls. Stiles reaches into the dark to try to latch onto a shirt or a nose to decipher his location but succeeds in doing nothing but knocking over a cleaning solution. "The staff talks."
"I knew it."
"Do you know when I knew I liked you, Stiles?" Peter says idly into the black abyss like it's story time at camp and they aren't squatting in a closet during third hour. It still beats chemistry. "When Adrian Harris told me to be wary of you."
"Of course he'd say that," Stiles mutters. A hand lands on his thigh and squeezes, closer than Stiles had anticipated. "He's just upset because my dad gave him a speeding ticket once."
"I always think it's a nice, almost tragic touch to our love story that your father is the sheriff," Peter muses. "I keep remembering that I might have to kill him."
"Tell me, are you very fond of your balls?" Stiles asks, latching his own hand into Peter's thigh after he makes out his outline through the shadows and digging his nails in. Peter chuckles.
"So endearing," he says like it's secretly a back-handed compliment. "Are they still there?"
Stiles crawls over to the door, where the echoes of elderly chortling have vanished. He gropes through the dark until he finds the door handle and creaks it open so a sliver of light shines into the closet. A moment later after Stiles is celebrating the clear coast, Peter pulls him back in and shuts the ajar door.
"What are you doing?" Stiles asks as the light slips out of view again. There's a soft exhale gusting over his cheek that tells him Peter's face is close. "Does the light burn your skin because you're secretly a vampire?"
"What outlandish things they must make you read in school to entertain such myths," Peter tuts, hands encircling Stiles' wrists to slide over his pulse points. "Whatever happened to a good historical fiction piece about regicide and blood?"
"Macbeth," Stiles deadpans.
"Very good," Peter murmurs. "I thought you were too busy drawing my body parts to pay attention in class."
Stiles feels a warm blush crawl up his cheeks that he's glad the darkness eclipses. He's a gangly, clumsy boy of sixteen and yet he has a hunk of a man pressed into his chest right now, and he wonders what saint-like deeds he accomplished in a past life to deserve this. This is the high school experience that dreams are made of. "I have the feeling you kept that picture."
"Up on my fridge, naturally," Peter tells him, and Stiles can't resist the laughter. Peter's always ineffably smooth, sarcasm his native tongue and teasing built into his body language, and he has no idea what attracts him to such dangerous weirdos.
"Can we get out of here now?" Stiles wiggles against the door until he feels a hand curl possessively around his ass like Peter has other plans.
"I called you out of third hour," Peter says on his lips, biting down when Stiles rolls his lips. Even in the dark, Peter always knows. "Third hour isn't over yet."
Peter kisses him and his tongue hits a button on the roof of his mouth that successfully shuts down all his thinking, nothing but the slide of Peter's lips over his and his tongue dipping into his mouth interesting him anymore. The door knob is pressing into his side and the entire room smells of toilet cleaner, but Stiles feels a hand crawl down his ass and no longer cares.
He doesn't emerge until fourth hour is over.
"Dude, number four is wrong," Scott tells him during lunch a week later. He's peering over Stiles' shoulder while he's in the middle of inhaling his breadsticks, staring at his English homework. "And so is number eight... and nine. Stiles, you've got almost everything wrong on here."
Stiles shoots him a look around his water bottle like Scott isn't in any position to be correcting other people's homework errors when he still misspells the three different types of there, their and they're when he texts Stiles, but he also doesn't exactly want to share why he's trying so valiantly to be pulled aside after class.
"Are you trying to piss off Mr. Hale?" Scott asks.
"Something like that," Stiles says, and promptly stuffs his homework out of sight before Scott can ask more questions.
"The teachers in this school already hate you enough," Danny says coolly from the other end of the table. "Unless you're actually trying to get detention."
Stiles doesn't want to pursue this conversation with Danny, or anybody else for that matter, but especially Danny. He feels like if anybody in the school's going to figure out him and Mr. Hale, it'll be Danny, who listens in on conversations when everybody thinks he's absorbed in something else and is so observant he probably knew about Stiles' homosexual tendencies before Stiles did. He's fixing him with this look like he's fully aware what Stiles' plan is and then proceeds to snort in his Styrofoam bowl of fruit without offering any opinions. Stiles is grateful.
He wouldn't be reduced to ridiculousness like this if Peter was the average teenager who he could pick up for Homecoming dances and take out for pudding on the weekends. Sometimes his dad gives him these looks over dinner like he wants to ask Stiles how his flirting is going or if a girl at school has the hots for him since after all, high school is loads better than junior high when it comes to starting a relationship that's foundation isn't sharing awkward hugs in the hallway, and sometimes Stiles wants to blurt out that he's not as pathetically single as he looks, but his logic reels that urge back in. He'd like to blame Peter for all the secrecy that a normal relationship would never force him into, but Peter does give amazing make outs so he isn't up for accusing him of ruining his life just yet.
He answers question number eleven, What was the name of Hamlet's love interest? as Mrs. Hamlet. He is definitely getting detention if he keeps this up.
"Trying to get yourself detention is one of the riskiest things I've ever seen you do," Peter mumbles as he stares at the sad excuse of a homework assignment Stiles tried to turn in as grade-A work. "I'm impressed."
Stiles smiles cheekily from where he's sitting in a desk five minutes after three, most of the hallways stampeded empty by now as the parking lot steadily empties. From the window, Stiles sees Scott bicycling through the bushes and Jackson speeding out the exit and completely ignoring a stop sign. Stiles doesn't care if a party bus cruises by the window as long as the parking lot turns vacant and the school files out.
"These answers are pitiful," Peter says, flipping his homework over. "You know I'll have to punish you."
"I know the book like the back of my hand," Stiles dismisses.
"I know. So I guess I'll have to find something else to teach you," his grin should scare Stiles, but then he pats his desk and all Stiles can think of is hustling over there as quickly as possible as Peter stands close enough to touch but seizes his hand before he hooks his fingers around Peter's belt loops.
"By the way," Stiles says. "Danny probably knows about us. It might be his gaydar."
Peter wrinkles his eyebrows together as Stiles tries to loop his arms around his neck and gets promptly denied the contact once more.
"Stop trying to digress from your punishment," Peter leans in, close enough to kiss, and brushes their lips together when he speaks. "Do you know all of your rhetorical terms?"
"No, but I can sing the alphabet backwards," Stiles says. Peter indulges him with a bite to his lower lip.
"You know what, Stiles," Peter murmurs, lips brushing his chin as he drags his mouth up to his ear. "I'll suck your cock if you answer all my questions right."
Something jolts through Stiles at the thought, and Peter must feel the way his heart beats against his chest from their proximity as he chuckles by his ear and flits his hands down his sides over his sweatshirt. He knew, just knew that slacking on his homework would pay off eventually.
"Suddenly wishing I had studied my terms," Stiles mumbles. Peter's hand squeezes his ass and pushes him toward the door.
"Lock the door, and then come back and lay on the desk."
Stiles listens. He hates taking orders, hates having Harris command him to clean the lab stations and Finstock demand for him to do suicide runs around the track when all he did was fiddle with Danny's goalie equipment from the bench, but there's always a reward sitting expectantly behind Peter's orders, the sort of thing Stiles is happy to work for to revel in his earnings. He snags Peter's keys off the desk and triple checks the door's locked before he hops back on the table on top of the stacks of papers and the pens. He couldn't care less if there were hedgehogs pressing into his backside right now as long as Peter gets to work on taking off his pants.
"Good boy," Peter murmurs from where he's watching him a foot away. Stiles practically throws off his sweatshirt as the temperature in the room seems to skyrocket into the nineties with the way Peter's fixing him with a look of carnivorous hunger, propping himself up on his elbows as Peter approaches. He slides his tie off, a silky red that looks like musky wine, and smiles at Stiles. "Wrists."
Stiles holds out his wrists. He's staring up at the ceiling tiles, the bright lights burning his eyes, but nothing from the way the lamps are too strong or the pens are making indents in his spine is going to distract him from how Peter's running his fingertips up and down his elbows and then tying his wrists together with his tie. Stiles looks up at him, shirt no longer buttoned to the neck and tie gone, his entire demeanor suddenly much more sex fiend than professional teacher.
"Do you know how to give a blowjob, Stiles?" Peter asks him, pushing Stiles' bound arms over his head and sliding his nose down the crook of his neck. He pushes Stiles' shirt up to his nipples, pausing to lick over the right one and smirking on his skin when Stiles bucks upward. "It'll be my turn after yours."
"Fuck," Stiles breathes out. Giving his English teacher a blowjob after school is so wrong in so many ways, everything those rock songs about being hot for teachers talk about and probably never got to live out themselves, and Stiles is ready to share what he's about to learn. "Teach me."
"Not so fast," Peter's mouth fastens over his left nipple, biting down and lapping his tongue over the sting. "What's a synesthesia?"
"Peter, come on."
"Call me Mr. Hale, Stiles," Peter murmurs on his chest. His breath is warm and tingles over his sensitive flesh, and Stiles isn't sure if anybody's ever discovered tutoring through sex before, because he's pretty sure it'll be effective.
"It's, it's, uh," Stiles tries to focus when Peter's tongue trails down to his navel. "It's when you use one word that usually describes a sense when you, uh. Shit. Use it to describe a totally different sense."
"Correct," Peter says, and rewards him with a line of kisses down his stomach to his hipbone. They flutter down his skin, hot, open-mouthed delicacies that Stiles wants to mentally replay for months to come. He lifts his hips desperately to ask Peter to take mercy on him and slide his pants off, but Peter's hands press down his hips and stop him. "Tell me what an anaphora is."
Stiles groans, throwing his head back and hitting a stapler. He wants to fist Peter's hair and push him down into his crotch, but his wrists struggle uselessly against the knot of Peter's tie over his head, fingers curling into fists as his dick gets that much harder. "Repetition at the beginning of a phrase. Touch me already, goddamn."
"Do you talk to all of your teachers like that?" Peter smirks from between Stiles' legs, pushing them apart as he slides his pants down but leaves his boxers in place. It's almost embarrassing, his dick straining against the fabric as Peter pays no mind and licks through the obstruction of his underwear where his dick is while a wet spot forms where his cock is leaking precome onto his underpants. Stiles curls his hands into fists again and cries out. Peter slides a finger in his mouth to quiet him. "Shush. Don't want anybody checking on us, do you? Tell me what an epicrisis is."
He slides his finger out of Stiles' mouth, pausing to rub over his lower lip before trailing down his chest. He poises his fingers over Stiles' boxers and waits expectantly for his answer. He looks so composed, so put together that Stiles is already looking forward to watching him fall apart when Stiles returns the favor.
"Fuck," he racks his brain, pulling term after term through his memory. His entire brain is already losing coherency thanks to Peter's hands, tickling at his hips while his lips mouth at his dick through his boxers, but he grabs onto what's left of his sanity and garbles out an answer. "Commenting on a quote."
"Very good," Peter practically purrs, pulling down his boxers. Stiles feels himself spring free almost instantly, the cool air only a hint of relief on his erection before Peter slides his fist around the base of his dick. "You know, Stiles. There's a lot to learn about giving a blowjob. It's not all tongue and mouth."
"Gonna teach me, Mr. Hale?" Stiles asks, straining to look up. Peter looks delicious pulling on his dick, pumping his erection to a slow rhythm like kneeling between Stiles' legs reducing him to thoughtless murmuring is where he belongs. Stiles wants to grab him, grip his shoulders and ask for more, but his restraints stop him. The formal moniker does something to Peter, though, pulling out a part of him that flashes in warning at the name and clearly responds to Stiles' teasing.
"Who am I to deny an eager student?" he murmurs through a wicked grin, leaning in to lick a single stripe up his cock. "Have to watch your teeth. Keep your jaw steady."
Stiles looks up, groaning when Peter keeps eye contact as he slides his mouth around his length and takes him onto his tongue. The sight is enough to make Stiles' entire body shudder, from the way his cheeks hollow around his dick to the way Peter keeps his eyes glued on Stiles' the entire time, fingers working on the base of his erection as he presses his tongue flat against the underside of his cock. The hot, wet heat of his mouth is a dream compared to Stiles' jerky fingers, a handjob magnified by a hundred as Peter sucks on the head of his dick and swipes his tongue over the slit to sample a taste of the precome gathering there. He slides off a moment later and Stiles groans at the loss.
"I would tell you to take notes, but," he smirks and gently blows on Stiles' slick erection. "You seem a little occupied."
"You're forgetting who's in charge," Peter warns. "What's a paradox?"
All thoughts of English have left the building of Stiles' brain, but Peter's mouth remains teasingly far away from his dick, which any moment now is going to hold Stiles' body up at gunpoint if he doesn't give it what it wants. He drums up memories of his notes, hazy at best, and tries to create a satisfactory definition. Even Peter's hand has stopped moving on the base of his length, leaving his hips futilely bucking up for more.
"Doesn't make any sense," Stiles breathes out once his lungs let him. "But it does."
"Mmm, yes. See, Stiles?" Peter murmurs approvingly by his hip. "I always told you that you were smarter than you give yourself credit for."
Stiles huffs into the air at the compliment, but when Peter starts rewarding him by taking his cock back into his mouth and guiding it to the back of his throat, all he can focus on is the heavenly feeling of his dick being enveloped in the moist cavern of Peter's mouth as he fastens his lips around him and sucks. He looks sinful kneeling by the desk with his lips stretched around Stiles' leaking dick, the kind of thing Stiles wants to remember forever from the nitty gritty details of the beads of sweat by Peter's forehead to the way his fingers dance over his hips. He doesn't think his hand will ever be good enough for him anymore now that he's experienced the drug that is Peter's mouth.
"The most important part of a blowjob," Peter murmurs on the head of his dick as he pulls back, "isn't even breathing through your nose. It's enthusiasm."
And then he sinks back down on Stiles' cock again with a renewed fervor that has Stiles permanently leaving his sanity behind. This, he's sure, is all he'll ever need out of life. Peter's mouth slides steadily up and down his length, his teeth gently grazing the sensitive skin and drawing Stiles' closer to his orgasm. It's a sensation different from everything else Stiles has ever done, the kind that draws tiny whimpers from his throat and arches his back and curls his toes, and he memorizes every moment of it to repeat the performance on Peter's dick in a few minutes. He memorizes everything from the way his mouth suckles at his dick to the way Peter works his hand around what his mouth doesn't reach, every part of Stiles tended to as he tries his hardest not to cry out and alert the neighboring classrooms.
He comes down Peter's throat and Peter doesn't even pull back, milking his length for all it has to give and throat not missing a beat as he swallows down his come without a single spluttering cough. He's good at this, like it's not his first blowjob or even his second, and instead of jealousy all Stiles feels is the thrill of wondering what else Peter has mastered over the years. He musters up the energy he has left and lifts his neck to stare down at where Peter's grinning wolfishly between his legs, his lips shiny and his hands flexing on Stiles' hips, and tries to sit up when Peter pushes him back down and starts fiddling with his restraints.
"I'll untie you if," Peter says with a wicked grin, "you can tell me what an epistrophe is."
Stiles groans and squirms, but Peter only tightens the knot of his tie into his wrists until he complies. Stiles' glare is lacking all the heat that would make it intimidating because maybe he really doesn't mind being tied up at Peter's mercy.
"Repetition at the end of a phrase," he says, a tingle of pride running through his legs when Peter grins and slides his tie off his hands. Cool air hits his wrist as he pulls the silk away and tugs Stiles off the desk, running a hand over his scalp and nudging him to the floor.
"Very good," Peter says, brushing his thumb over his cheek. "And now it's your turn to show me if you learned anything."
Stiles obediently hits the floor with his knees. He normally doesn't test well, too busy concentrating on the sound of the one squeaky pencil in the classroom, but with Peter's eyes boring into his head and his fingers stroking encouragingly down his scalp, he's willing to give it a try if only to see Peter fall apart under his hands and the smirk fall off his lips.
He unbuckles Peter's pants and pulls them down to his ankles, taking a moment to appreciate the thighs in front of him. They're nothing like Lydia's creamy ones that he gets glimpses of when her skirt rides up in her seat, strong and demanding a presence as he stands in front of Stiles and tangles his hands at the bristles of hair at the nape of his neck. His underwear comes next and Stiles' confidence grows as he gets his first view of a dick that isn't his own that's not through a computer screen or a television or an accidental glimpse in the locker room after sweaty lacrosse games. This one is monumentally different, if only for the fact that Stiles gets to touch it, lick it, learn all of its secrets that nobody else in the entire class knows about Mr. Hale.
He dives in headfirst, figuring this is the only way to do this right, and lets Peter's cock slip into his mouth. It's a heady taste and an even hazier feeling, the weight of a dick on his tongue as he laps up the taste on the tip and lets his brain process it. It's not delicious, but sex isn't supposed to be. Sex is supposed to be messy and nonsensical, so Stiles pushes aside all those thoughts of logic and just lets his body take over. Turns out, his body knows what to do.
"Yes," Peter is hissing above him as Stiles takes as much as he can. He feels full, readjusting his mouth around Peter's length and sliding into a rhythm. "Watch your teeth."
Right, his teeth. Stiles is forgetting that there's anything in the world right now but Peter's dick in his mouth, making sure to watch his teeth and slowly let Peter slip into his mouth again. Peter doesn't mind doing the work, bucking his hips and letting his cock fuck Stiles' mouth as he doesn't little but grip Peter's thighs and lets him hit his throat. It's just like when he was younger and would try to eat carrots whole until they made him gag, except now Stiles is trying his hardest to control the way his throat convulses at the slide of Peter's shaft into his mouth. Peter doesn't expect miracles out of his first blowjob, though, the slide of his head onto Stiles' tongue while Stiles firmly pumps the base enough to reduce him to breathless panting.
"Good student," Peter compliments from where he's gripping onto the side of his desk. His hips are stuttering like they're aching to push deeper, right into the heat of Stiles' mouth, but he controls himself for the sake of Stiles' inexperience. Stiles pushes himself to the limit, remembering every detail about the way Peter's mouth enveloped his length and ran his tongue around the tip, replicating the specifics until Peter's groaning alongside the slick sound of Stiles' mouth moving in tune to the rhythm of his hand.
Considering that it's his first blowjob, Stiles is actually proud of himself when it only takes him six minutes to bring Peter to the edge. He pulls away when Peter comes, a drop of come splattering by his mouth and the rest landing on the floor when Stiles scoots aside to watch Peter's face, head tipped back and mouth open in the waves of his pleasure like it's the single best moment of his life suspended in time. Then he looks down at Stiles with a sated grin and swipes his thumb over the come on Stiles' cheek before slipping it into his mouth and letting him taste what he missed, Stiles licking off the flavor of bitterness until it's just the natural taste of Peter's skin left behind.
"What are my grades?" Stiles asks. His voice is wrecked, like he's just come out of dental surgery and his throat and jaw are still sore. Peter smirks and runs a hand through his hair again.
"B minus," he says after a moment's consideration, lips quirking when Stiles looks rather indignant. "I believe in allowing room for improvement."
"Isn't there a saying about students only being as good as their teachers," Stiles drawls before he pulls up Peter's pants and buckles them for him. Peter swats his hands away.
"There's always the next lesson," he says. Stiles zips up his own jeans reaches for Peter's collar to pull him forward and give him a few bites to the lower lip before he goes. "Oh, and Stiles. Stop failing your homework on purpose."
Stiles isn't making any promises.
"Do you want to come over tomorrow night?"
Stiles looks up from where he's helping Peter grade papers with his feet propped up on the nearest rickety student desk. It's so blaringly against the rules to have students grade papers that Stiles feels like a rebel as he marks up Lydia's paper, smart as a rocket scientist Lydia Martin's paper, even if he's going by the honor code here and is steadfastly refraining from giving Jackson a zero and writing a few choice comments in the margins. He should be awarded medals for his self control.
"What, like to your house?" Stiles asks.
"No, my cave. I've been waiting until now to tell you about it."
Stiles glares at the waves of sarcasm tossed in his face, sliding his feet off the desk to consider the offer. If he's right, which he almost never is, this is a glorified booty call disguised underneath something supposedly innocent. Stiles' body reacts to the idea before his brain does, because never before has he been invited to somebody's house under the guarantee that he'll leave with a few more successful orgasms under his belt. Considering that he's really only ever been invited to Scott's house, he's been okay with that.
"So that isn't a little risky?"
Peter rolls his eyes and grabs another paper from the pile that doesn't seem to be diminishing even though Stiles has been here for half an hour attempting to whittle it down. "Of course it is."
"I meant risky for you," Stiles clarifies. Peter doesn't seem perturbed at all. It gives him the distinct impression that Peter can see the future and knows for certain that there won't ever be any close calls, an impression that's so wildly untrue it does nothing to ease Stiles' nerves about the guy going to jail and Stiles having to coax his father into letting him out with greasy fast food as his persuasion techniques.
"Aren't teenagers supposed to jump at the idea of sex?" Peter murmurs idly as he scribbles a crisp C on top of another paper and peers over at Stiles' stack. "Are you being fair? Somehow I don't think you're an unbiased grader."
"Wait, so there will be sex?" Stiles has to make sure. Peter looks at him like he's slow, which he probably is, and doesn't bother answering.
"But it's a school night," Stiles says.
"Tell your father you'll be at Scott's house," Peter dismisses with a wave of his hand. "Oh, and bring some lube."
Lube. If that isn't a sign what's going down tomorrow night in Peter's lair, then Stiles isn't sure what is. A tiny thrill, the telltale tingle of sex that courses through him at the idea of having an adult sleepover, tickles his veins and has him excited enough to forget about the inevitable humiliation that'll come with buying sex equipment.
When Stiles drives up to Peter's driveway, he's considering camouflaging his entire car in undergrowth or driving it into the bushes so nobody can drive by looking to toilet paper somebody's front yard and see Stiles' very recognizable car sitting in a teacher's driveway. It's an inconceivable long shot, but Stiles doesn't exactly want to take chances.
He has his overnight bag stuffed with a change of clothes and a solid alibi to his father that says he's sleeping over at Scott's house, except that at Scott's house, Stiles packs a handful of video games and silly string, but at Peter's, he packs condoms and flavored lube. He slings his duffel over his shoulder and slinks up the driveway in case any nosy neighbors are looking for gossip through their windows, darting up the door and knocking. There's a tiny potted plant sitting by the door, and Stiles never pegged Peter as a gardener, but then again, he never thought much about who Peter is outside of the classroom.
"Did someone forget to turn in an assignment?" a pleased voice says from the door, and Stiles looks up to see Peter leaning in the doorway as his eyes rake down from Stiles' face to his bag. He's barefoot, actually barefoot, sockless feet resting on the carpet, and suddenly this entire visit feels personal in a way that has nothing to do with the sex and the fact that he's going to be gloriously naked for the next few hours.
"Actually just hoping to score some extra credit," Stiles says, trying hard to keep the grin at bay, and then Peter fists his shirt and yanks him inside, closing the door and using the opportunity to back him up against it with his pushy hands and demanding mouth. It's supposed to be a mild hello kiss, but Stiles still feels his bag slip from his fingers and his mouth respond like pinpricks of electricity on his lips are urging him to kiss back.
"Did you bring everything?" Peter murmurs on his mouth.
"Still can't believe you made me pick up lube," Stiles mutters as Peter goes from his mouth to his neck. He's leaving bite marks already, a silent promise that his entire body is going to breeding grounds for possessive hickeys tonight. He's not exactly a fan of wearing shawls and scarves around the house just so his dad doesn't start asking him questions about what on earth actually goes down on sleepovers at Scott's house, but the sensation of Peter's tongue licking swirls into the crook of his neck is too satisfying to push away. "It's so embarrassing. I covered it all up with floss just to feel like less of a shameful human being."
"I commend you for your dedication to your dental hygiene," Peter says, his voice muffled with Stiles' skin. His neck is already wet courtesy of Peter's tongue and they haven't even had dinner yet.
"What kind of boy do you think I am," Stiles says, even though his hands are curled around Peter's shoulders urging him closer and his dick is already stirring awake at the smell of arousal in the air. "Putting out before I even get to eat?"
Peter smiles on his neck, small and private, and steps away from his body with an almost gentlemanly smirk even as Stiles' body betrays him and seeks out his touch again. Maybe it's the thrill of being in Peter's house instead of his classroom, breathing in a scent that is distinctly Peter and Peter's house, the same smell that's on all of his clothes and on the papers he grades. Being in his house is like nestling inside his heart, every tiny detail of his personality shining through every piece of his furniture. There are frames up on the mantle that Stiles wants to analyze and an army of books on the bookshelf that Stiles want to leaf through, but then Peter is sliding his hand to the small of his back and leading him to the kitchen away from all the artifacts he wants to snoop through.
"Must have forgotten my manners," Peter drawls as he opens the kitchen door. There's a smell of cheese, deliciously melted cheese, and for a second Stiles feels like he's been courted with homemade meals and expects a plate full of meticulously crafted lasagna.
"Did you seriously cook?" Stiles asks, and then he catches sight of a beautiful pizza box propped open on the stove full of a meal he could bathe in, with pepperoni and extra cheese and exactly how he likes his pizza.
"No," Peter snorts, grabbing a slice of pizza. He's wearing a black v-neck that, in Stiles' opinion, could go deeper, and sleek black pants that are brilliantly contrasted with the oily pizza in his hands leaving spots of grease by his mouth as he digs in. Stiles wants to laugh at him if only because he doesn't expect this from the adults in his life. It's like someone told him when he was younger that adulthood means eating small appetizers and going to bed at seven o'clock and never reading any part of the newspaper that isn't news and completely bypassing all the cartoons, and he's never grown out of that misconception until now when he sees Peter devour his pizza like a ravenous twelve-year-old denied cookies before dinner. Stiles digs in too, so it's all right.
"Deep dish," Stiles mumbles around a string of cheese chasing his mouth. "Good call."
"Intuition told me you'd approve," Peter says, already grabbing for his next piece. His appetite is positively animalistic. "Next time, I say Chinese."
Oh god, next time. Stiles says a prayer around his next mouthful of pizza that fully encompasses his hope that these sleepovers won't end up on the front of the town newspaper while Peter catches his eye as he licks the grease from his fingers. It shouldn't be as distracting as it is to Stiles, but Peter's tongue is wrapping around his knuckles as he cleans his hands and all thoughts of May-December scandals are wiped from his mind.
"Chinese sounds awesome, man," Stiles says around an oily mouth. Peter kissed him over the pizza box and their lips slip and slide together with help of the grease liberally coating both their mouths. Stiles promptly drops his half-eaten slice over what he hopes is the pizza box, winding his arm around Peter's neck and moving all his attention to kissing him back even though they both taste like garlic sauce and pizza crust.
It's going to take a while to finish dinner.
They make it through dinner clothed, which is already a miracle in Stiles' mind. There's heat coiling in his toes that's steadily climbing his legs every time he looks at Peter and soaks in the atmosphere in his house, each room sharing more tidbits about Peter that he never would have guessed, cementing the myth that maybe walls do talk sometimes. There's a stack of papers in the corner that are patiently waiting to be graded, and Stiles takes his time perusing the stack while Peter drops Stiles' bag off in his bedroom and rummages around in the kitchen. He finds Scott's without too much hassle, snorting at some of his answers. He has half a mind to grade it for Peter when the rest of his house beckons his attention, from the pictures he wanted to look at earlier to how comfy the couch is.
The frames on the mantle are exactly what Stiles has been anticipating: grainy photographs of family members and mementos of traveling the country. There's one of a broody boy with dark hair with Peter's arm slung over his shoulder, another picture of who he assumes is Peter's sister as they sit around a massive Thanksgiving turkey together, and another of Peter eating a grilled cheese in front of the Seattle Space Needle. He looks younger in the pictures, a few years shaved off his eyes, but other than that he looks exactly the same. A wicked smirk borrowed from a Disney villain and slightly longer hair curling into his cheek that's now cleanly cut and accented with a smattering of facial hair on his chin. He's aged well, like life has been good to him, but then Stiles remembers that there's much more to Peter than he can surmise from a single photograph.
The books come next, lining a gigantic bookcase that shows exactly how much Peter truly does appreciate literature. It makes Stiles appreciate him even more as a teacher, sharing a passion versus doing a chore for the youthful generation that are too absorbed in their phones to know Shakespeare from Hemingway. The shelf is full of Stephen King and Kurt Vonnegut and all of the authors that Stiles has been earnestly told are responsible for changing the face of literature for decades, and Stiles picks a book at random off the shelf and flips through it.
"Your taste in literature is disturbing," Stiles hollers into the kitchen as he catches glimpses of a few gory horror scenes spelled out in bloody detail in front of him, but Peter's already standing next to him wrapping an arm around his stomach as he peeks over his shoulder at Stiles' book of choice.
"I have a..." Peter tickles his brain for the right words as he rests his chin on Stiles' shoulder, "...fascination with morbid books." He covers Stiles' hands with his own and guides them to close the book so he can catch a glimpse of the cover. "The Woods are Dark is one of my favorites, honestly. It may deal with torturous cannibalism of a few innocent hikers, but from what I've heard, there is no thrill in the world quite like taking another human's life."
"From what you've heard?" Stiles repeats, a little alarmed, going to twist around in Peter's arms before the hands on his wrists still him.
"Don't worry. I have absolutely no interest in murdering you," Peter whispers with a smirk in his ear.
"That makes me feel loads better," Stiles mutters dryly as he pushes the book back onto the shelf. "Now I remember why you creep me out so much."
"As long as I still turn you on," Peter murmurs, releasing his wrists and sliding his palms down his thighs instead.
"You are the biggest wannabe sociopath I know," Stiles says. In a way, it's funny, like maybe Stiles has figured out his pattern by now. Lydia is just as disturbing and cunning as Peter if he thinks about it, even if her cunning comes out through sharp-tongued rejections rather than an obsession with tales of serial murder, like he's attracted to danger and all the sinister side effects that come with it. He was probably right about that whole psychological problems thing. "Are you going to read me Grimm Brothers as a bedtime story?"
"Hmm, if you want," Peter says with a shrug that pushes his chest closer to Stiles' back. His chest is a warm cocoon against his body and his leg slips between Stiles' as he talks. "I had other bedtime plans, though, that we'd have to move around."
His fingers crawl down Stiles' leg like a spider before Peter palms his crotch through his pants. Damn his teenager hormones. He was quite ready to start dissecting the bookcase just to see if there was a single sweet fairytale hiding behind all the horror and then give Peter shit when he finds none before Peter's hands started entering the equation. His dick is much more on board with Peter's plan than anything else, and Stiles finds himself succumbing to the idea of early evening sex as he arches his hips into Peter's hands.
"Okay, fine," Stiles says. "Let's have sex."
"Works with me," Peter says, and then proceeds to whip him around and push him against the bookcase to continue his earlier task of mauling Stiles' neck. There's a novel digging into the back of his spine and Peter's hands are already pressing bruises into his ribs, but Stiles doesn't complain much more than a single groan of pain into Peter's mouth, focused too much on the way his hips press into his erection at an angle that allows for all the friction he needs.
They kiss for a while, and Stiles literally sinks into it because there isn't a single fear in his head that Scott's going to come poking in or a school bell will alert them into a distance again. It's just the two of them plus the books making indents in Stiles' shoulders, Peter's hands sliding up and down his inner thighs in teasing touches that have Stiles seeking out his tongue and grabbing onto the ass he's been fantasizing about for months. Pizza isn't even an aphrodisiac and still, Stiles is feeling his dick jump at every touch and every lick of Peter's tongue over his lips. He tastes like cheese and pepperoni, which shouldn't turn Stiles on at all, but everything is setting his body on fire like his body is begging to finally be rid of its pesky virginity.
Suddenly there are hands on his ass, lifting him up like he's nothing but a five-pound dumbbell to a professional weightlifter, and Stiles clings onto him and his lips as Peter growls into his mouth and carries him to his bedroom. The way he can lift him and urge Stiles to wrap his legs around his waist shouldn't be such a turn on to him, but it is, and Stiles lets Peter nip at his lips until he draws blood and dumps him on his bed, a soft bedspread meeting him as Peter straddles him and licks the hurt away from his stinging mouth.
"Careful with the merchandise," Stiles mumbles as he swipes his tongue over his own lip and tastes metallic blood, Peter grinning down at him from where he's sitting on his hips.
"Sorry," Peter says, rubbing his thumb over his swelling mouth. "Can't expect me to control myself around you."
And then he slips out of sight with one more slick kiss to Stiles' unsuspecting mouth, sliding down Stiles' torso and gripping his thighs. It's dark in Peter's room, curtains covering the light of the dusk and covering everything from the wooden dresser by the door to the body in between the V of his legs in black shadows, so Stiles stops relying on his eyes and focuses instead on the sensations of Peter's hands slipping the jeans from his legs and kissing up his ankle.
Suddenly, Stiles knows what erogenous zones are: total and utter surprises. Peter kisses under his knee and licks at the dip of his kneecap, squeezes his shins as he pushes his legs up and leaves bite marks on the underside of his thighs, and every time Stiles jerks and whimpers at the rush of endorphins, Peter smirks on his skin and does it all over again. It's cruel and wonderful and making his cock practically sob for relief only ten minutes in, his shirt starting to cling to his skin as his collarbone sweats and his chest heaves with the force of his own moans.
"You're so eager," Peter mumbles on his thigh. Stiles is trembling from the sensations of it all and Peter digs his fingernails into his leg. "Every little touch and you let loose these... delicious noises."
Peter's muttering things that sound like praises down by his legs, but Stiles' underwear is still on and so is Peter's, so he figures it's time to get to work instead of laying against the pillows that smell like Peter's shampoo and letting the scent lure him into submission. He sits up and pulls off Peter's shirt, tossing it into the darkness and kissing him as he fumbles with his belt. Peter hums on his lips, the vibrations coursing through all of his limbs as he lets his hands roam his chest and slide over his nipples, fingers touching him places that never so much as evoked an aroused whine out of him and leaving him panting for air now. Everything feels new to him, from the way foreign hands are tucking under the waistband of his boxers just to rub slow patterns into his hipbones and leave him bucking his hips as wordless requests for more to the way Peter kisses with a closed mouth and still manages to reduce Stiles to shivers.
"Did you know I was going to touch you today," Peter whispers into his ear when he slides his lips away from Stiles' and drags them up his jaw. "Did you know I was going to make you come, too?"
"Was definitely hoping for it to happen," Stiles says with a slight laugh that sounds breathless and hoarse in the darkness. He doesn't recognize himself like this, all roughed up with aggressive hands and kissed senseless until all the oxygen is spinning in his lungs, and he likes the new side of himself Peter's managed to unearth.
"Did you know I was going to fuck you?"
"Haven't yet," Stiles says, hands sliding to the nape of Peter's neck. The hair there is soft and tickles his fingers as he grabs onto it and tips his neck back. He should be stopping Peter from marking up his neck when he has to face the public tomorrow, not encouraging him, but he's never been this hormonally charged before in his life, like a bolt of electricity is bursting to be let loose inside his chest. "You're gonna need to take off your pants."
"Bright boy," Peter murmurs, kneeling over Stiles as he slips out of his pants and throws his boxers off as well. For a moment, Stiles wishes all the lamps were on so he could memorize the sight of Peter's erect cock on display for his eyes to feast on, but then Peter is bending over him and pushing his shirt up his chest so he can lick over every bump and crevice of his stomach like his tongue is memorizing every bit of his flesh. Stiles obediently raises his arms and lets Peter slide his shirt off as he pushes him down onto the mattress and the raw smell of Peter rushes out of the pillows and assaults his nose again.
Their lengths bump together when Peter blankets his body with his own, pulling more groans from Stiles' throat. All he can think of is how he's supposedly at Scott's tonight, stuffing his face with pretzels, and how much more awesome this is. It's no offense to Scott, more so the fact that he's very much aware that he's about to be fucked into a new world and is so excited his body's practically trembling with the thrill. He grabs Peter's ass, naked and arching into his grip, and digs his fingernails into the sensitive flesh to elicit a growl from Peter's throat. If only his father knew—
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to touch you like this," Peter says. He pinches Stiles' nipple hard enough for Stiles to cry out and rub his cock up against Peter's, his father flying from his mind. Peter does this to Stiles a lot, too much, the way a single touch or a single comment can make all previous thoughts soar from his brain. "It's been months of this, watching you in class, you and your hands, your tongue."
"Ha, you're one to talk," Stiles breathes out. It's getting hard to concentrate now with Peter's tongue licking up the canal in his chest. "You knew what you were doing to me."
Peter laughs, the sound rumbling through Stiles. "Maybe I did," he says softly, and then he's rummaging around for something under the bed. Stiles can only imagine what's down there, from handcuffs to blindfolds, but then it's the lube Stiles suffered humiliation for being flicked open in front of him. Peter's breathing hard now, just as hard as Stiles is, drawing his lower lip into his mouth with his teeth.
"Peter," Stiles says, hands scrabbling at his backside. "I've never, I mean, I—"
"I know," Peter tells him a moment later, and he sounds like he's just as excited as Stiles. "Never so much as fingered yourself, did you? I'll be the first to be inside you. God, Stiles, you have no idea."
He's pressing another hard kiss on his mouth that Stiles pushes into before he's grabbing his hips and flipping him around. Stiles gets with the program as fast as possible, kneeling on the bed and bracing himself on his elbows. Peter's pillows are nothing like his own, a soft red if Stiles can make the color out through the dark accurately and lacking all the frayed edges he's used to have scratching his cheeks. Then Peter's sliding a slender finger down his back, a path he traces with his tongue before he slides his finger over Stiles' ass and flits over his entrance. Stiles feels every touch tenfold, jerking when Peter's finger slips inside him to the knuckle coated with slick lube. It's the strangest thing Stiles has ever felt, and it's tight, too tight, but Peter seems to be remarkably patient as he works his finger in and out and eases the way until Stiles relaxes. He remembers how good it felt when Peter sucked him off or how electricity ran through him when they first kissed, how Peter will make him feel good through all the pain like always. He unclenches and lets Peter slide in another finger.
"Stiles," he rasps out behind him, and his voice sounds wrecked. "You look amazing, taking my fingers like a good boy. Knew you would."
He scissors his two fingers before adding a third, the intrusion a lingering twinge that has Stiles waiting for the pleasure. Suddenly there's a hand on his cock steadily pumping it as Peter sucks rapturously along the trail of his spine, his softened erection taking rapt interest once more. Peter's mouth is hot and slick as it makes marks on his vertebrae alongside the rhythmic movements of his hand on Stiles' dick and Stiles pants at the pillows, all his attempts to regulate his breathing with careful exhales stomped on as Peter's fist slides up and his shaft. There's too many sensations for Stiles to handle all at once, from the pressure of the fingers in his ass to the heavenly grip on his length, and Stiles already feels like blacking out from the world as his body overloads on all of it.
For a few fleeting seconds, there's a mouth licking around the knuckle-deep fingers sliding in and out of his entrance, tongue slicking the way and tracing the line of Stiles' rim that has Stiles blinking back tears of pleasure. Peter's being incredibly thorough and nearly meticulous in his touches, like Stiles is a gentle thing worth handling with delicacy before he fucks him without reserve, and Stiles sticks his ass out to symbolize his readiness. Peter's fingers slip deeper into his ass and yes, he needs to get fucked now. Peter gets the message and practically growls at Stiles' willingness.
"Remember to breathe," Peter says on the back of Stiles' neck as he slides his fingers out, Stiles nodding thoughtlessly along. He's ready to feel a cock inside of him, ready to give Peter everything they've both been thinking about for months, ready to hear the man lose control.
There's a sound of rustling foil and Peter slipping on the condom Stiles remembered to pack. All the embarrassment of having to buy condoms at his local drug store while his classmates roamed the other aisles and the cashier judged him is forgotten at the thought of having ardent, unbelievable sex, the humiliation overridden with an eagerness to get started. It seems to take forever for Peter to slip it on, Stiles' body begging for Peter's hands to return to their touches, but before he can so much as stroke himself as relief Peter's hips bump into his and he lines himself up with his entrance.
"You know it's going to hurt, right?" Peter says, but the tip of his cock is positioned at Stiles' hole and there's no way he's turning back now. He nods again, frantically, and Peter pushes in without any more questions.
And yes, it does hurt, like he's being slowly split into two, but there's something to the feeling of being incredibly full that Stiles' dick twitches and his brain spins at. He feels complete, like he's a finished puzzle no longer missing any pieces, and he gets why people like sex. Peter isn't just Mr. Hale anymore, the teacher he's been crushing on, he's the guy who took his virginity and whose cock is a like a drug that Stiles knows he'll want more of.
Peter doesn't wait. A moment after he's pushed in, he pulls out and leaves Stiles keening deep in his throat. It hurts like it should, but he wants more, wants to be fucked in reckless abandon, and he doesn't even need to voice his demands before Peter's sliding in again and slamming directly into his prostate.
"Oh my god," Stiles cries out. Sex is amazing, and he's sure something's wrong, because he's heard all sorts of horror stories about first times and how much they hurt and how much they scare people away from sex. Right now, with Peter buried deep inside him and starting up a steady rhythm of in and out, in and out, sex is already feeling like an addiction he can't turn away from. The sweat beads at his brow and his lungs struggle to keep up with the way every thrust pushes the air out of his body like a vacuum in his lungs.
Peter's hips speed up, snapping into him. It's a rough, nearly animalistic rhythm that still hurts, but every spark of pain is overwhelmed with the stars that burst behind his eyelids when Peter's cock nudges his prostate. His arms and knees don't feel strong enough to hold himself up anymore, the mattress moving along with Peter's frantic thrusts and urging Stiles to grip the headboard for support. He holds onto it tightly enough to break the wood, surely, but it survives the abuse of his relentless grip and Peter doesn't slow down for a second, fucking into him with all the pent up tension he's kept inside ever since Stiles showed up in his life. Stiles totally gets it, especially since he's been living in the same frustration ever since the school year began and he started skipping half of his lunch to jerk off to the thought of his English teacher in the abandoned bathroom in the theater hallway.
Peter's hand sliding up and down Stiles' cock tightens, wrist twisting as he uses every trick in the book to urge Stiles closer to the edge. He spent countless hours mentally wondering if Peter's age has slowed him down at all, but it feels like Peter is just as energized as Stiles is, hips keeping up a ruthless tempo as he changes the angle of his thrusts and suddenly hits his prostate head on. Stiles is sure he floats out of his body for a moment, completely suspended with pleasure, but then he comes, completely unexpectedly without the usual tingles of warning in his midsection, and it hits him like a punch of bliss to the brain.
He remembers Peter coming, cock deep inside him and nudging his abused prostate while Stiles' arms give out and he slumps his overheated face against the pillow. He curses the condom for the moment, wanting to feel every bit of Peter rushing inside of him and the drag of his naked cock as he pulls out, but he supposes eventually, he'll get the chance to feel every bit of Peter without any obstruction.
"I deserve extra credit for that," Stiles pants into the pillow. Peter's easing out of him and tossing the condom into a trashcan, hands massaging his sore ass and placing a trail of languorous kisses down his spine. All of it feels incredible, soft touches that mask whatever soreness is bound to awaken in his body overnight, and he lets himself drop from his knees onto the bed. He narrowly misses the wet spot where he came moments before and groans.
"Clean my classroom and I'll consider it," Peter says. He doesn't seem to care that Stiles has made half the bed unusable until his come dries and is washed off the sheets, nestling instead into the corner and pulling Stiles with him. His body feels too warm, too sticky for cuddling, but Stiles presses into him anyway and lets Peter pull the sweaty, humid sheet over their bodies. He's incredibly nude, more nude than he feels he ever has been, Peter's leg slung over his and his equally naked cock brushing his thigh, but it's not uncomfortably personal. It feels like their bodies are having their own conversation, skin whispering secrets that tingle Stiles' backside and the underside of his legs.
"You're a horrible teacher," Stiles says, but he slurs it through a yawn that makes his words undecipherable. Peter snorts into his hair and pinches his nipple as retribution, and that's all he remembers before sleep snatches him up.
Stiles wakes up to the ear-splitting sound of a Satanic alarm clock trilling in his ear, nothing at all like the soothing buzz of his clock at home, and that's Stiles' first clue that he's not in his own room.
His first instinct is to chastise Scott for not waking him up, and his second, after he rolls his nose into a pillow and a familiar smell wanders into his nose, is to jerk up in bed like someone's poured ice cubes down his front.
He spent the night at a teacher's house. A teacher's bed, to be more precise, and as expected, in the light of day—or at least the dull light of six a.m.—Stiles can find the spot of the bed he came on easily. There are clothes that aren't his folded neatly on the dresser and his own underwear is draped elegantly over the windowsill from where he enthusiastically flung it into the darkness the night before. He doesn't know if he should be feeling regret or concern or nausea, but hunger and a throbbing ass are pushing all those other emotions to the wayside. That's when he realizes that the shower's running in the bathroom, the reminder that somebody else is here with him, the same person who deflowered him less than twelve hours ago.
He revels in that for a second. He had sex last night. Actual, real, including-another-person sex. He feels like the most accomplished teenager in the world.
"Good, you're awake," Peter's voice says. The shower's stopped and Peter's standing in the door in a towel tucked around his hips with a cloud of steam following him. Stiles can't bring himself to entertain the idea of feeling remorse anymore. He didn't just have sex, he had sex with one of the most attractive men he's ever seen walk around a classroom in tailored trousers. And here he is, no clothes obstructing Stiles' view, and all of the muscles and long legs he missed out on memorizing last night in the dark are on display. Stiles checks the clock and no, he does not have time for a quickie before school. "Need a shower?"
"Yeah," Stiles says, slipping out of the bed and trying his hardest not to get distracted by Peter's body. They only used one condom last night and Stiles has plenty more up for usage in his bag that he could very imaginatively start practicing with right now. He resists the urge, like a real adult would, and heads for the bathroom.
"I would've suggested sharing showers," Peter says as he towels off his legs, "but I didn't want to be late for school. Some of us have reputations to keep up."
Stiles rolls his eyes but concedes to his point, and just as he's about to slip into the bathroom and wash the stink of sex and sweat off his body, Peter grips him by the chin and kisses him breathless.
"Nnngh," Stiles says when Peter pulls away and nuzzles his neck before stepping into his closet to grab a tie, dropping his towel. The sight of Peter's ass, firm and delicious and sporting a few spectacular marks from where Stiles dug his fingers in the night before, is yet another distraction that reminds him to take his medication before his school day ends up being nothing but his mind retelling the amazing sex he just had when he should be concentrating on homework.
Ultimately, the pills end up doing nothing to quell his daydreams that demand Stiles' attention during math when he should be graphing parabolas. The sex was pretty amazing, after all, and is definitely worth reveling in over parabolas.
The drive to school is probably the most awkward part of their entire sleepover for grown ups, and that's because Stiles is jumping in his seat every time he thinks he sees a familiar face or a teacher stop next to them on a red light.
"Would you relax," Peter says from the driver's seat. Stiles is wishing he had taken his own car and saved his heart from the beats it keeps missing every time he thinks he sees Jackson drive by in his Porsche and peer into Mr. Hale's car. Amazing how many douchebags in Porsches are in Beacon Hills that aren't Jackson that are choosing now as prime opportunities to cruise the roads if only to unnerve Stiles and his poor skyrocketing pulse. "Nobody's going to notice you."
"You know what I think?"
"I have a pretty good idea."
"I think you need to take this whole my-dad-has-access-to-guns thing a little more seriously," Stiles says heatedly from where he's shielding his face with his palm in the passenger seat. "You could get arrested, you know."
"For driving a student to school? What if you had a flat tire and ended up on the side of the road? I'd be a terrible role model if I didn't stop to help," Peter fixes him with a sickeningly sweet look of innocence, the same one he'd probably use on the police if ever questioned about this entire affair. Stiles doesn't think it would get him out of jail.
"You fucked a sixteen-year-old boy last night, you're already a terrible role model," Stiles deadpans, slumping low in his seat until his neck is cramping and his knees are pushing into the dashboard. Peter yanks him up by the collar and whacks him over the head as he swerves into the parking lot. If this was Stiles' Jeep, the tires would be screeching and the the engine would be making funny noises after being driven faster than forty miles an hour, but Peter's car, just like him, is incredibly smooth. Stiles would be asking to drive it if he wasn't so petrified of being caught right about now.
"We made it," Peter drawls as he starts looking for a parking spot. "No incidents, nobody calling the police, no—hmm, you might want to get down."
And then Peter's pushing Stiles down into the foot room by his head without another warning, Stiles spluttering indignant responses as Peter jovially waves at who Stiles can only assume is a member of the faculty who's cruising by unaware of the fact that Stiles is unceremoniously squeezed under the glove compartment right now. Stiles is already making plans to ride back to Peter's house in the trunk to avoid these moments that are currently succeeding in motivating his body into having a stroke.
"Okay, they've passed," Peter murmurs out of the corner of his mouth. Stiles huffs and makes no act to move, waiting until the car rumbles to a stop and all but rolling out of the car to freedom. Peter laughs, no sympathy for his plight, and tosses him his backpack.
"I hope you know, I didn't do your homework," Stiles hisses as he slings his backpack over his shoulder and tries to keep a distance from Peter as they walk in. His original plan had been to slink to the other end of the parking lot and walk in whistling as an innocent student completely unaccompanied by teachers standing suspiciously close, but Peter reaches out and snags his arm to keep him from wandering away.
"That's all right," Peter says. "I'll just give you detention."
"I hate you," Stiles mumbles, but he was planning on staying after school anyway to make out in the back of the classroom, so that's the extent of his complaining.
"This is a joke, right?"
There's an A paper in Stiles' hand right now, making him want to pinch himself out of the reverie he must be in, not a single scratch of angry red marker anywhere. Not even in his dinky introduction or his sloppy conclusion. Not to forget the body paragraphs. Or the cheesy title.
"It looks like I have nothing left to teach you," Peter tells him. He looks proud, proud like when Stiles' dad cheers him on during a lacrosse game or Scott does when he wins three games of Call of Duty in a row. Stiles wonders if he's finally lived up to the challenge of meeting Peter's expectations.
"It only took all year."
Peter grabs his chin, tipping his face up to meet his eyes. Stiles always gets nostalgic at the end of the year, and if the look on Peter's face says anything about his emotions, he is too.
"You know I won't be your teacher next year," he tells him. "I'll be teaching younger, fresh-faced sophomores again."
"Looking to replace me with someone more illegal, you big cradle-robber?"
"I was actually about to say that it'll be strange not to see your face in my class, but I take it back."
Stiles smirks and feels Peter mirror it a foot away. He wonders if they've rubbed off on each other the last few months and if Scott or his father have noticed at all. Aside from the idiosyncrasies, they'd be blind not to notice the glow of a well-sexed boy after Stiles spent sixteen years of his life in a slump of sexual frustration.
"You know that's not actually a bad thing, right?" Stiles says. Peter raises an eyebrow in question. "You won't be my teacher anymore."
"And," Stiles drags out, grabbing a handful of Peter's shirt, "this won't be nearly as illegal as it used to be. Well, it still will be because I'm not eighteen. But it won't be a teacher student affair anymore."
"Hmm," Peter says, and it sounds like he's hiding a smile. "Doesn't sound nearly as exciting."
"Don't worry," Stiles says, stuffing the paper into his back pocket. "I'm sure there's plenty left to teach me."