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Continued from Part Two.

"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."

Description
Continued from Part Two.

"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."