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Continued from Part One.

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.

Onto Part Three!

Description
Continued from Part One.

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.

Onto Part Three!