
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/823711.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Alternate_Universe_-_Student/Teacher
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-30 Words: 23440
****** Getting Schooled ******
by veterization
Summary
     Mr. Hale is a pretty creepy English teacher, Stiles thinks, but he
     also happens to have a great ass.
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.
"What?"
"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.
"What?"
"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."
"More."
"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."
"What?"
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?"
"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."
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