kyrene_writes: (TW: stiles)
[personal profile] kyrene_writes
Title: Not Into Temptation
Author: [personal profile] kyrenekyorl
Pairings/Characters: Adrian Harris/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,454
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warning: underage
Summary: It was well after hours, mid-evening and dark outside, when he came across one of his least favorite people, just lying there at the edge of the lacrosse field. Arms and legs akimbo, eyes closed, lips parted, completely dead to the world.
Author's Note: teacher/student, somnophilia, just some mild bad-touches, nothing too explicit or non-con, well obviously an unconscious Stiles can't consent, but it's nothing too traumatizing, nothing below the waist, but be warned for bad-touches of an unconscious underage student by a teacher who ought to know better

"Not Into Temptation"
by someone-who-isn't-me

Adrian Harris had long ago given up thinking of himself as a good person. Once upon a time - a very long time ago - he'd had dreams, delusions, of becoming a noble teacher, a shaper of young minds. Years of dealing with actual students had certainly ground that ideal away into nothing but dust and lingering bitterness and there wasn't even enough heart left in him to regret this.

He was pretty sure he blamed the students. A dribbling, drizzling parade of mouth-breathers and troublemakers - sometimes both at once - who lived to make his life miserable. Or, even worse, didn't recognize him as more than a blip in their selfish, self-centered little days. He wasn't sure which was worse.

Almost certainly that second one, though.

And here he was on a Friday, grading papers late because he wanted to have the rest of his weekend free of anything job-related, not because he was so dedicated. Well, and there was the fact that he had spent the first part of the day hung-over.

Finally finished with his grading, Harris decided to head for home. He packed up and prepared to leave the school, headed for his car. He hadn't been in any hurry before, but now that freedom was in sight he couldn't get out of this place fast enough.

It was well after hours, mid-evening and dark outside, when he came across one of his least favorite people, just lying there at the edge of the lacrosse field. Arms and legs akimbo, eyes closed, lips parted, completely dead to the world.

When speaking sharply and poking the boy in the side with his foot garnered no response, Harris squatted down to make sure he was even breathing.

He was, and there was no odor of alcohol about his breath, but there were other ways he could have rendered himself unconscious, Harris supposed. Beacon Hills High was hardly an inner city school but there was still plenty of drug use. Even though Harris wouldn't have thought that this was one of Stilinski's many problems, he wouldn't have put it past him. He and that McCall kid had certainly seemed even more distracted than usual lately. And Stilinski was distracted at the best of times, though his work rarely seemed to suffer for it, the little asshole.

A good man, a noble teacher would, upon finding one of his students lying there insensate, make sure that the boy got to the hospital with all speed and got the help that he might very well need.

But this was Stilinski. The hyperactive little spazz with the quick tongue that was never still, with red lips that curved as pretty as a girl's, with a mouth that was always hanging open as though begging for something to be shoved in it.

Not to mention Stilinski was the son of the Sheriff and that man had it out for Harris. So if he got involved here, he had no doubt that the Sheriff would find some way to pin this on Harris' ass. When he hadn't done anything but find Stilinski.

He couldn't quite bring himself to just leave the kid laying there on the grass, open and inviting, exposed to the night air and anything that might happen along. Moving him was a bitch, because even though Stilinski was scrawny and Harris was no wimp, the kid's wiry limbs must be all muscle. But, still, he managed to drag his limp body inside and into the teachers' lounge. He definitely got extra points for that.

Once he had Stilinski up on one of the coffee-stained, cigarette-burned sofas, Harris considered his good deed for the day done. Hell, his good deed for the year, with what a thorn in his side Stilinski and his father had been.

But he still found himself pausing before exiting the room and leaving the boy to sleep off... whatever this was.

Stilinski sprawled, head tilted back slightly, mouth hanging open, though that last was nothing new because his mouth was always open, even when he was conscious and smarting off in Harris' classroom. His shirt had rucked up, exposing pale belly and a rather surprisingly thick and dark line of wiry hairs leading down from his navel, parading into his jeans.

Harris still had no idea what might have rendered Stilinski insensate. His breathing was clear and easy, his face peaceful at rest. He was quiet for once, and Harris took a moment to savor this, because he doubted he'd ever see it again.

Like this, Stilinski was almost pretty. Sure, he had a snub nose and an angular jaw. He was definitely masculine. But he also had thick lashes and sweetly curving red lips that any girl might envy. Combined with the way his mouth was always hanging open, he really did look as though he was waiting to have something shoved in and over his tongue....

Harris wondered whether Stilinski had ever sucked a cock. It seemed a crying shame if he hadn't, and he certainly came off as eager enough for it, the way he hounded that Mahealani kid. Then again, had Stilinski ever gotten laid? Harris snorted in derision, then squinted as he realized that while he had been standing here thinking, his hand had moved seemingly of its own volition and he was tracing a fingertip over the plump swells of Stilinski's lower lip in a caress far more tender than he was comfortable with.

"Shit," he hissed, withdrawing his hand. But then, as though impelled, he moved it right back, sliding the tip of one finger just a little ways into Stilinski's open mouth. He could feel the boy's breath breaking hot and moist over his skin. His lips were as soft as they looked, warm and a little dry. His teeth were a hard, sharp ridge, and then there was his tongue, not as soft as his lips but wetter, strong and supple under the pad of Harris' finger.

He liked Stilinski's tongue a lot better when it wasn't wagging in his class, Harris thought irritably. Then he realized what he must look like, standing here with his finger in Stilinski's mouth, touching his tongue, and it was equal parts ridiculous and inappropriate so he withdrew his hand, wiped it off with a faint curse, and made up his mind all over again to leave. Let Stilinski recover from whatever drugs or alcohol he had imbibed on his own. At least Harris had brought him in out of the elements.

But, then again....

He really ought to check the boy for damage, Harris told himself vaguely, staring at that strip of lean belly. There was a brown stain on the hem of his teeshirt and it was almost certainly chocolate... but what if it wasn't?

Internally sighting his tender concern for an incapacitated student, Harris bent and carefully lifted Stilinski's shirt. The skin of his stomach and chest looked all right, undamaged except for some rather extreme bruising in strange places. Those were no doubt a result of his lacrosse playing and whatever fuckery he got up to when he wasn't in school, Harris thought scornfully.

No blood, though, and while the bruising looked painful, garish on his pale flesh in shades ranging from purple-red to yellow with all the tones of blue, brown, and green between, none of them seemed to be anything that would cause this extended bout of unconsciousness.

So his duty was done, right? Harris was free to go home, start drinking, get his weekend going. He might stay in, he might go out....

And yet here he was, seemingly rooted to the floor, running his fingers over one of the largest bruises on Stilinski's chest, right at the top of his pectoral. That one looked like a handprint, and Harris fitted his own hand over it, curious and intrigued. It seemed unlikely to have been a result of a rough lacrosse practice. Maybe the Sheriff was getting rough with his son. As much as Harris disliked the guy, though, he didn't think that was a potential scenario.

If Stilinski had any game, Harris might have thought he had a lover with a heavy hand - literally - but Harris couldn't really see anyone being willing to put up with the kid's shit, even in exchange for a chance to use that mouth.

At any rate, the damage mottling his torso seemed to be old, nothing fresh enough to have occurred tonight. He was still insensate, but his breathing was easy. That was definitely just chocolate or something on his shirt, and Harris pulled it back down, covering the kid up. He'd done his duty here, and he really, really needed to be on his way.

He was still taking a chance, bringing Stilinski in here and then leaving. But he'd avoided all the spots where the school's security cameras were actually working and not just there for show, and he wasn't planning on leaving any sign of his presence.

Sure, the Sheriff might be able to figure out that he'd been here working late, but there was no way he'd be able to prove it had been Harris who had moved Stiles. Heck, it wasn't outside the realm of imagination that the idiot might have wandered into the teachers' lounge on his own before passing out; it wasn't as though the door was locked.

At any rate, Harris had more than done his duty, not leaving Stilinski on the cold ground. He couldn't have called the authorities, because the Sheriff would have found some way to place the blame on his innocent head. Nope, not going through that again.

Stilinski would rouse at some point, Harris was sure, and there'd be nothing to tie his presence here with Harris. Nothing anyone could prove, anyway. The temporary janitor had already finished his work and left, so Stilinski ought to remain undisturbed until morning. If he didn't regain consciousness sooner, that was. Harris still had no idea what had gotten him so limp and unresponsive.

Whatever it was, it wasn't Harris' problem. Hell, if the kid was dabbling in drugs, then Harris was doing him a favor keeping him out of the hospital, keeping his father unaware. As much as Harris hated the thought of doing Stilinski any favors or keeping the Sheriff from traumatic realizations about his only son.

One last thought struck Harris and he grimaced, loath to touch Stilinski again, but he shoved and wrestled him until he had him turned on his side. Just in case he vomited at any point during the night. Harris didn't want the kid dying on the sofa that he sometimes sat on.

There, that was at least three good deeds. He'd gotten Stilinski inside, had helped him hide potential drug use from his father, and made sure he wouldn't choke to death. Let no one ever say Harris wasn't there for his students; even the ones he despised above all others.

If Harris had believed in karma, he might have expected something nice to happen this weekend, he thought absently as he headed for his car and actually made it this time. But if he believed in karma he wouldn't be stuck in a dead-end job, dealing with a bunch of lack-wit, distracted teenagers every day. Ugh.

Roaring away from the school, Harris let go of curiosity and concern. Whatever Stilinski was involved in that got him bruised and rendered him unconscious, it was none of Harris' business. He'd already gone above and beyond this evening.

Now it was time to go home and treat himself to a beer. Maybe go out and find a pretty young thing. And forget the way Stilinski's fat red lips had felt so plush under his fingertip when he'd found himself tracing their swells.

He was done worrying about his student. He had a weekend to enjoy, and enjoying it was his only goal. Stilinski was a big boy; he could take care of himself.

Adrian Harris had long ago given up thinking of himself as a good person, but tonight he thought he had done all right by Stilinski, and that was definitely more than the little shit deserved.


Stiles came back to consciousness the same way he'd left it; abruptly and instantly.

"Damned fairies," he grumbled, sitting up and running his hands over his face. Of course, he had no idea if that was really what the pack was dealing with here, but until he actually caught one of the annoying little creatures and figured out what it really was, he was just going to call them fairies.

It might have been easier to catch one if their bite didn't have the unfortunate effect of rendering their victim unconscious. On werewolves it only lasted a couple of seconds, but Stiles was fairly certain he'd been out longer than that.

As he dug his phone out to check the time, he took in his surroundings with a confused blink. He was... indoors, when the last thing he remembered was chasing one of the fairies across the lacrosse field. He was indoors, on a sofa, and the air smelled of cigarettes, coffee, and despair.

He realized why after a moment, when he recognized the dark room he was in as being the teachers' lounge.

And how the heck had he gotten here?!

His phone told him that it was close to eleven, and he had twelve missed calls. Five from Scott, six from his Dad, and one from Derek.

"Oh crap!"

Stiles jumped up, legs a little wobbly, but otherwise he was feeling okay. Physically, that was, but he was dead meat now! He'd be lucky if he wasn't grounded for life, out after curfew and not responding to his Dad's phone calls. He didn't even want to check his voicemail, he was just going to head home as quickly as possible and hope his Dad was in a forgiving mood.

That seemed unlikely, given the six phone calls....

And yet, as Stiles made his way out of the silent school, through doors that were for some reason still unlocked, it wasn't his Dad or Scott that he called back.

Hey, he needed to let Derek know that the infestation had made it all the way to the high school, right? That was important information to know.

Maybe later he'd give some time to wondering just how he had made it from the field behind the school to the teachers' lounge. Right now, though, he needed to get home.

"Hey, Derek," he greeted as the Alpha picked up his call. "Think I could get a ride from you?"


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February 2015

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