Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2300372.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Somnophilia, Intoxication, Comeplay
  Series:
      Part 2 of Ich_liebe_dich,_mich_reizt_deine_schöne_Gestalt
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-13 Words: 1406
****** je posais ma main sur des choses ******
by Cerberusia
Summary
     He's rewarded with a repeat of last time: the empty back bedroom, the
     boy on the bed, the door that locks.
Notes
     Title is from Andre Gide's 'L'immoraliste'. The full quote is je
     posais ma main sur des choses; je rôdais. In English, it means 'I put
     my hand on things; I went prowling'.
     The series title is from Goethe's 'Der Erlkoenig', spoken by the
     titular Elf-King to the boy he is trying to seduce: "Ich liebe dich,
     mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt; Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch
     ich Gewalt." - 'I love you, your beautiful body excites me; and if
     you are unwilling, I shall employ force.' Ian_Bostridge_sings
     Schubert's_famously_difficult_arrangement_of_the_poem_beautifully.
Stiles drinks too much at the party.
He knows he's drinking too much even as he does it, a nervous flutter in the
pit of his stomach: the double thrill of knowing he's doing something naughty
and anticipation of what will come once he's sufficiently drunk.
There hadn't been much evidence last time: just a tiny smear of come on his
side where it had been cleaned off his stomach and the hazy memory of someone
touching him with big, warm hands. If it weren't for the come, he'd have
dismissed it as a fragment of a wet dream - but no, it's clear that something
happened, and Stiles intends to find out just what.
With a bottle of cider inside him, he feels pleasantly tipsy. He remembers that
mixing your drinks is meant to get you drunk faster, so he accepts a cup of
something that smells like rum and orange and sips it slowly - he doesn't want
to actually pass out. Around the room there are people he vaguely knows in
varying states of inebriation. None of them immediately stand out, but that's
not really surprising. Stiles keeps sipping his drink.
Maybe twenty minutes later, he knows he's had enough: he's sleepy and confused,
and it takes all his remaining awareness to get himself to a bed to collapse
on. This time he'll stay conscious long enough to find out who it was. This
time he'll...
~*~*~
It seemed expedient to keep himself out of sight this evening; call it wolf
senses, call it a hunch, but Peter's survival instincts told him to keep a low
profile while waiting for his prey to come to him - no hiding in plain sight
this time.
He's rewarded with a repeat of last time: the empty back bedroom, the boy on
the bed, the door that locks. Stiles seems to have dragged himself in this
time, and there's no evidence of an accompanying friend. Good.
This time, the first thing Peter does is to steal a kiss. Stiles' lips are just
slightly open, affording him a glimpse of a tantalisingly pink tongue. Peter
dips in only briefly, a bird taking a sip of nectar, before turning his
attention to Stiles' pulse. He licks the skin, mouths at it, teasing himself
with the knowledge that he musn't bite because Stiles won't heal like he
should. He savours the steady, healthy heartbeat under the skin, traces the
throat muscles with his tongue. Under the jaw, Stiles's skin is just starting
to turn rough with incipient adult stubble.
Peter wants to kiss him all over, lick up his calves and thighs, bite him just
at the swell of his buttocks - but he hasn't the time, will probably never have
the time, and he has to content himself with Stiles' hand, drawing the fingers
into his mouth and wrapping his tongue around them, tracing the bones of his
wrist with his free hand. Each finger slowly disappears into his mouth: distal
phalanx, intermediate phalanx, proximal phalanx. Peter licks and sucks until
the salt is gone and the dull meat taste of flesh remains.
Stiles wriggles a little. Peter looks up at his face, half-convinced he'll find
those brown eyes open, but still Stiles slumbers on. He doesn't seem quite as
deep under as last time: Peter sucks on the pulse in his wrist, his wrists
prominent under the thin skin, and his fingers flutter.
There'll be no fucking tonight, then. But Stiles surely won't think much of it
if he wakes up tomorrow with a strange taste in his mouth.
Peter takes it slowly: the door is locked, the boy is passed out, the noises of
the party are muffled. The only sounds are the clink of his button and the buzz
of his zip. He kicks off his shoes before crawling up onto the bed, straddling
Stiles' chest. Stiles twists, then settles. His knees bracketing Stiles'
shoulders, Peter's breath comes fast as he presses his cock to Stiles'
slightly-open mouth. Those full lips part under the invasive pressure.
The teeth prove a trickier obstacle, but Peter wriggles his fingers into the
corner of Stiles' mouth and separates them enough for just the head of his cock
to slide in.
Given Stiles' total lack of participation, it's not even worthy of being called
a blowjob. Peter daren't push in any further in case he triggers Stiles' gag
reflex, so the head of his cock lies heavy on Stiles' plush tongue, surrounded
by Stiles' humid mouth.
He stays like that, feeling the muscles in his thighs flex as his hips make
tiny motions back and forth, not even proper thrusts, until at last he can no
longer stand it and has to pull out his cock to masturbate, stripping it
fiercely. He pants loudly: he is intensely aware of the heat of Stiles' body
beneath him, his soft breath washing over the wet tip of Peter's cock, the
animal physicality of sex. Stiles' dark eyelashes flutter on his pale cheek. He
slumbers on.
Peter falls forward to grasp the headboard in one hand, the other pressing his
cock to Stiles' parted lips. He feels Stiles shift beneath him and feels no
fear, only excitement. The sound of masturbation is loud and ugly in this spare
bedroom with its floral bedspread and chintz lampshade, which clash horribly
with Stiles' customary plaid. Peter likes it: Stiles should always stand out.
Stiles, he thinks. Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. He comes with a grunt, into Stiles'
mouth and over his lips.
He puts himself back in order watching his come dribble from the corner of
Stiles' mouth. He'd like to leave Stiles like this - a frisson runs down his
spine at the thought of Stiles waking up in the morning with his mouth still
full of semen - but that's a bad idea for so many reasons.
Peter braces himself over Stiles on all fours, and lowers his head to kiss him.
The taste of his own ejaculate is not particularly exciting, but Stiles' scent
mixed with his makes some primal part of him satisfied and calm. He explores
Stiles' slack mouth with his tongue, scooping out most of the semen.
He draws back after - some time, he doesn't know how long - his mouth buzzing.
There's still that little dribble in the corner of Stiles' reddened mouth: he
leans in again to get it.
A pink tongue appears to poke at the come; after a second it flicks out and
licks it off, promptly disappearing back into Stiles' mouth. Peter kneels over
him, frozen, listening to the momentary uptick in Stiles' heartbeat.
Stiles sniffs - shifts - subsides.
Peter dares to ghost a kiss over those lips before fleeing with supernatural
speed. His own heart beats too fast half the way home, when he regains his
common sense and sense of chivalry and turns around.
~*~*~
Stiles wakes up with a pounding headache and a funny taste in his mouth. Weak
early-morning sunlight filters through curtains he doesn't recognise. They're
pretty nice curtains, as curtains go: floral, like everything else in this room
he can see from his prone position on the bed. He manages to turn his head to
the right and finds a glass of water: it was probably left by the last person
who stayed here and is therefore be old as balls, but he'd drink that
disgusting blue Gatorade right now just to wet his throat.
The water is not stale. This probably has something to do with the pair of
painkillers left with it, still in their foil. Stiles assesses the probability
of them having been tampered with, comes to 'pretty damn unlikely' and pops
them with anticipatory pleasure. Chivalry is not dead, who knew.
He stops before taking the pills, arrested with one in his hand. He doesn't
remember being left the pills, but he does remember - no, he must have dreamt
that. But - he pokes his tongue around his mouth, dry-swallowing to bring up
that taste again.
Yeah, that is definitely not just alcohol. Wow. Kind of disgusting and
definitely unsanitary, but wow. Does this mean he's not a virgin any more? Or
does he have to get his own dick sucked for it to count?
He takes the pills and gathers the willpower to stand up, grimacing - he needs
to get back home before his Dad does. And then he needs to get on Facebook and
find out when the next house party is happening.
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