FIC: Teen Wolf -- The Perils of Fungi

[the_deep_magic]

Title: The Perils of Fungi
Author: the_deep_magic
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: none
Word Count: 4,119
Warnings: underage, dub-con of the sex pollen/fuck-or-die variety, barebacking
Disclaimer: uh, no, not mine
Summary: “Yeah, he’ll be fine,” Derek says evenly, hoping Scott is too freaked out to sense that it’s at least two-thirds of a lie because Derek probably knows what this is and Stiles is probably going to be just fine, but poking purple mushrooms with sticks has consequences, dammit.
A/N: For this prompt on the kink meme.  Tweaked a little and reposted here.  Also, this breaks my “first fic in a new fandom is invariably h/c BDSM” streak, but the sex pollen would not be denied.  Nor would the rampant abuse of italics.

SOS 911 GET TO STILES HOUSE *NOW* DO NOT USE WINDOW

Derek stares at his phone and sighs.  It’s not the first (or the tenth) incredibly melodramatic text he’s gotten from Scott (this week), but it is by far the most specific.  Usually it’s just a HELP ME that means he wants advice about winning Allison back – if something’s actively trying to kill him, he’ll just howl.

But as Derek drives up to the Stilinski house, he can smell the fear (and embarrassment?) coming off Scott in waves, nearly drowned out by something sticky sweet and noxious.  And there are… sounds.

The front door is open and Derek hears a hoarse “Up here” from Scott.  When Derek reaches the top of the stairs, he doesn’t need werewolf senses even in the dimming light to see that Scott’s eyes are the size of dinner plates and he looks like he’s just seen death itself.  He’s sitting, knees pulled up to his chest, pressed back hard against a door.  Stiles’ bedroom door.

“What?” Derek grunts.  He’d had… well, okay, he hadn’t exactly had plans tonight, in the formal sense, but he’d had plans to not deal with high school drama for one goddamn night of his life, and it doesn’t look like that’s in the cards.

Scott’s moving his mouth, but no sound is coming out.

“Words, Scott.”

“Stiles, he—” Scott shakes his head, still not looking at Derek, his eyes glazed over.  “Something happened to Stiles.”

Derek’s blood turns to ice in his veins and he’s reaching for the doorknob before he can even process his body’s reaction.  “Is he hurt?  Scott, you’ve got to—”

Scott finally looks up at him, terror in his eyes, and flings his arms out against the door.  “Do not go in there.”

“What the hell are you—”

Derek’s interrupted by a weird scratching sound and that cloying smell gets stronger just as he hears “Scooooooott” from the other side of the door.

It’s Stiles’ voice, but it’s practically a purr, and Derek doesn’t need to look to know that Scott’s just broken out into a cold sweat.

“He’s not… hurt,” Scott says, voice cracking like he’s hitting puberty again.  “He’s lost his goddamned mind, but he’s not hurt.”

And Scott never swears, which just cranks the weirdness factor up another notch.  Derek resists the urge to slap his palm to his forehead and instead crouches down until he’s eye-level with Scott.  He might have to go Alpha on him to get any real information.  He might want to go Alpha on him.

“Scott,” Derek says – not quite a growl, but damn close – “Tell me what’s going on.”

Scott looks at him, but his eyes still don’t quite focus.  “We were in the woods.  And there was this… weird looking purple mushroom thing.  We didn’t get that close to it, Derek, I swear to God, but it burst open and there were these spores—”

Derek groans.  “Stiles poked it with a stick, didn’t he?”

That makes Scott snap out of it for a second.  “Yeah, he did.  How’d you know?”

Derek shouldn’t have to explain to Scott that Stiles lives to poke things with sticks – mostly metaphorically, but apparently literally, too – so he just growls, for real this time, and says, “Get out of the way.”

“Ohmigod, is that Derek?”  The voice is low and rusty now, barely recognizable as Stiles’, and despite the circumstances, just the sound of it… does things to Derek.  “Let him in let him in let him in!”  The whining, not so much.

“You can’t go in there!” Scott yelps.  “It—  You don’t—  Bad things, Derek.  I barely got him off me, and I had to use claws.  Claws.  I don’t even think he felt it.”

Purple mushrooms, Jesus.  It shouldn’t surprise Derek – nothing should surprise Derek anymore – but he can make a pretty good guess as to what’s going on here.  He barely manages to bite back a show me on the doll where Stiles touched you, because Scott already looks like he wants to die of shame as it is, and Derek is not transporting a body in his Camaro.

“Go home, Scott,” he sighs.  If firsthand exposure didn’t affect Scott – well, physically, anyway – Derek has nothing to worry about.  “I’ll deal with this.” 

For about half a second, Scott looks like he wants to ask how, precisely, Derek is going to deal with this, but Derek sees the exact moment when Scott realizes he doesn’t want to know and is being given an easy out.  And for once in his life, he listens to his self-preservation instincts and gets up off the floor, though he at least has the courtesy to ask, “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?  Because you know what this is?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine,” Derek says evenly, hoping Scott is too freaked out to sense that it’s at least two-thirds of a lie because Derek probably knows what this is and Stiles is probably going to be just fine, but poking purple mushrooms with sticks has consequences, dammit.

Scott nods twice, and then he runs, and for the first time Derek truly worries about what’s going to happen when he walks through that door.  The door that Stiles seems to be scratching at.  When did Derek’s life turn from a standard horror movie into a David Lynch movie?

Derek takes a few deep breaths, and if he concentrates he can actually smell Stiles under that burnt-cotton-candy stink, and that gives him hope.  Still, he waits until the scratching stops to open the door.

The door which Stiles must have had his entire weight against, because when Derek opens it, Stiles tumbles out into the hallway, landing with uncharacteristic grace on his back.  When his eyes meet Derek’s, staring straight up, his mouth curves in a smile that’s half-joy and half-predatory – which is to say, on Stiles, completely deranged.  “Derek,” he breathes, fluttering his eyelashes.

This is much worse than Derek thought.

Because then Stiles is up on his feet with actual superhuman speed and yanking Derek into his bedroom, and Derek has not been distracted enough for someone to manhandle him like that since—

He doesn’t even get to finish that thought, because Stiles has Derek firmly by the shoulders and is fucking climbing him, entire body wrapped around Derek with surprising strength.  He looks at Derek like he hasn’t eaten in a week and Derek’s a four-course buffet and Derek is never chasing rabbits in the woods again.  Ever.  Rabbits have done nothing to deserve this.

Given Stiles’ painfully obvious hard-on pressed against Derek’s abdomen, he expects to be dodging a tongue-first kiss, but even a freaky-purple-mushroomed-Stiles is still a Stiles, so what he gets is a flood of words instead.  And, okay, maybe a little bit of tongue in his ear.

“God, Derek, you feel so fucking good.  Need you so bad.  So glad Scott called you.  Scott felt good, too, but ohhhhh,” Stiles groans like it’s painful and squeezes his legs around Derek’s waist.  “Not like you.  Nothing like you.”

Perhaps for the first time since they met, Derek feels genuine pity for Scott.  He is going to need so much therapy after this.  Then a warm, wet tongue drags on that spot just beneath Derek’s jaw, and Derek is going to need the name of Scott’s therapist, because he’s suddenly slammed into full arousal and how in the seven levels of hell that Derek is currently headed to did Stiles know about that spot?

Fortunately, Derek still has the mental clarity to scroll down his Dealing With Fucked-Up Shit checklist.  Denial?  Stiles’ hand is determinedly worming its way under Derek’s shirt, so a pretty emphatic no on that one.  Anger?  That could work. 

“Stiles, get the fuck off me,” Derek growls, skipping to full-on Alpha mode, which would be a lot more intimidating if Stiles would stop sucking on his neck long enough to see Derek’s eyes go red.

But apparently Stiles takes the growing tension in Derek’s body as an invitation to just go ahead and start rolling his hips against Derek’s body slowly, almost lovingly.  “Fuck, yeah, boss me around,” Stiles whimpers against Derek’s skin.  “Tell me what to do.”

The irony is completely lost on Stiles, which is sort of tragic in its own way.

Derek could peel Stiles off of him – quite easily, despite the fact that the way Stiles is locked around him seems to indicate that the fucking mushroom has endowed him with greater than normal strength.  Still, mushroom or no mushroom, he wouldn’t be any real match for Derek if he tried, and Scott said his claws—

Derek looks down Stiles’ body to where the flannel shirt has several distinctive parallel shreds.  He pushes the fabric up, careful as he can be not to touch Stiles’ skin (and thus accidentally encourage him), and sure enough, there are four lines marking the pale expanse of skin.  They’re not deep, but they’re bright red and slightly swollen, and suddenly Derek feels the anger rise up, unbidden this time and not directed at Stiles but at Scott.  How dare Scott mark him like this?  What the fuck did Scott think he was doing to Derek’s—?

What?  To Derek’s what?  Where did that thought even come from?

Fuck purple mushrooms.  Fuck them.

While all this has been going on in Derek’s head, Stiles has somehow managed to strip Derek of his jacket and is doing a decent job at rucking Derek’s shirt up to his armpits, considering Stiles is still wrapped around Derek like a limpet.  He lets go just long enough to tear his own shirt over his head and suddenly there’s all this skin involved and Derek’s brain has a lot less blood to work with.

“Derek,” Stiles moans, deep and needy.  “You gotta fuck me.”

Okay, make that no blood in Derek’s brain.

“Stiles,” he grits out through clenched teeth.  “This isn’t you.  This is the mushroom.  Remember the mushroom?”

“Mmm,” Stiles sighs, almost fondly, nuzzling into Derek’s neck.  “Mushroom.  Purple.  Pretty.  Now start with the fucking me.”

Even the fact that Stiles is failing spectacularly at dirty talk does nothing to slow Derek’s thundering heartbeat.  Either he’s gotten used to the sickly sweet scent of mushroom residue or the odor has worn off, because all he can smell is Stiles’ arousal, so thick and undeniable that sinks right into Derek’s bloodstream, into the core of him, which recognizes it immediately.  He’s smelled it before.  It smells just like a werewolf in he—

No.  Nonononono.  No.

But it doesn’t matter if he can stop himself from thinking the words; Derek can’t stop his body from reacting not just to the smell of arousal, but to the warm, willing body crawling half-naked all over his, the body that smells like fresh soap and grass and clean sweat and Stiles.

Stiles, who is now panting right in Derek’s ear.  “Derek, you’ve gotta fuck me.  You have to fuck me or I’ll die.”

It takes every bit of Derek’s willpower to keep his hands at his sides, his body completely still.  He’s seen werewolves driven mad with heat, sometimes for days, but it passes.  It always passes.  “You won’t die, you idiot.”

“You don’t know that,” Stiles groans, his hips rocking a little faster now.  “Could be fatal.  Hormones and things.  I looked it up.”

The fact that Stiles probably Googled “purple sex mushroom” – no, he definitely did, the tab’s still up on his computer, and wow that’s a lot of porn – changes nothing.  And Stiles isn’t a werewolf in heat, no matter how closely the smell mimics it.

“Please.”  It’s a pained whisper, Stiles’ lips brushing against Derek’s ear in a way that makes him shiver.  “I’ll do anything.  You don’t know what this is like, Derek.  It aches.  I can’t think.  If you don’t fuck me, I’ll die.”

“You don’t know for sure that this will make it stop,” Derek says, much softer than he intended.  “It might make it worse.”

“No, better.  Only better.  I can feel it.  I need it so bad, Derek.  And I need it from you.”

Okay, so Stiles’ learning curve on the dirty talk is very, very steep.  That doesn’t make this any less wrong.  Stiles is a kid, and he’s strung out on a magical mushroom that’s probably just going to leave him a bit hung over once he sleeps it off.  Not to mention the fact that Derek is 99% certain Stiles has never done anything like this with anyone, male or female.  Is non-shroomed Stiles even attracted to men?  Or to him?

Well, all right, crossbow to his head, Derek can probably answer that one.  But the fact is he has no clue what will happen, if anything, if he gives Stiles what he wants.  It could very likely make this… whatever it is… worse.  Or it could change him into something non-human – if a bite can do it, this isn’t that far of a stretch.  Or it could save Stiles’ life.

Stiles is shaking now, his whole body trembling uncontrollably, and Derek suddenly realizes that his body temperature, normally noticeably lower than Derek’s, has risen by at least a few degrees.  And even with the understanding of how really, unbelievably, illegally terrible an idea this is, Derek knows he can’t just do nothing.

Not when it’s Stiles.

“Okay,” Derek says, lifting a hand to stroke Stiles’ back firmly, and the shaking slowly begins to still.  “Okay, Stiles, whatever you need.”

Stiles moans like he’s already getting it (when the hell did he learn how to do that?) and that’s when Derek gets Stiles’ mouth planted hard and needy on his own.  What Stiles lacks – completely – in finesse, he more than makes up for in eagerness, and Derek puts a firm hand on the back of his neck, slows him down, shows him how it’s done right.

Again with that learning curve.  Jesus, this kid is going to cure cancer before he gets out of college if he can just learn how to fucking focus.

On something other than Derek’s dick, that is, because Derek’s jeans are now open and he has to grab Stiles’ wrist to keep whatever shreds remain of his sanity.  At least Stiles’ feet are on the floor now, so Derek says, as calmly as he possibly can, “Stiles, why don’t you take off your—”

And they’re off.  This mushroom thing is a legitimate biological weapon.

Derek hasn’t even gotten his own jeans down before Stiles is wrapped around him again, bare-ass naked this time and rutting his leaking cock against Derek’s abs.  Okay, this could work.  Stiles is so worked up, he’ll get off in no time; Derek just reaches a hand down—

“Not your hand,” Stiles moans, burying his face against Derek’s shoulder.  “Not enough.”

Well, there are other options before…  Derek can’t believe he’s about to say this.  To Stiles.  “How about my mouth?”

Stiles wails, like it’s actually physically painful to say no, and claws at Derek’s shoulders.  “Not enough.  You have to fuck me.”

Okay, enough tiptoeing around this shit. “Stiles, I have no control left and you smell exactly like a wolf in heat.  I’ll hurt you.  I don’t want to, but I will.”

“You won’t,” Stiles gasps, kissing Derek again like he needs the oxygen straight out of Derek’s lungs.  “Don’t know how I know, but you won’t.  I need you in me.  It’ll work.  Fuck, Derek, it’s the only thing that’ll work.  Please.  Now.”

Derek sighs as though he hadn’t made up his mind about five minutes ago.  “Okay, but we’re gonna need—”

“Second desk drawer, all the way in the back.”

Right then.  It’s good stuff, too, and the bottle’s only half full.  And Derek cannot think about Stiles treating himself to some quality self-love if he’s going to… to totally, heroically, and selflessly save his life.

Stiles’ bed is covered in crap – textbooks, clothes, candy, possibly a plastic dinosaur.  “Stiles, your bed is—”

“No bed,” Stiles groans, flinging his weight back without letting go of Derek until they’ve crashed into a wall.  “What part of ‘fuck me now’ don’t you get?”  And through the panting desperation, there’s a little quirk of his lip – not drugged-out or sexed-up, just pure stubborn determination and all Stiles.

Wall it is, then.

It’s Derek’s hands that are shaking when he shoves his boxer-briefs down just enough to free his cock.  Stiles’ whole body goes rigid, and Derek can tell it’s taking everything he’s got not just to rut against it, or worse, shove straight down onto it, so Derek tears the cap off the lube and dumps it all over his hand.

If Derek had been worried about hurting Stiles, he’s immensely relieved to find that whatever else that fucking mushroom did, it’s also rendered Stiles… very receptive.  Two of Derek’s fingers slide in easily and Stiles’ whole body shudders.  When Derek works in a third, which really doesn’t take much work at all, the sound Stiles makes is no pained need and all pleasure, and Derek feels the wolf start to break free.

Thankfully, he has enough control to keep the claws and fangs in check, but that sound triggers something in him – something amplified a thousandfold by the scent Stiles is giving off and the feeling of wet and hot and open around his fingers – and he just takes, pulling Stiles down onto his cock in one long thrust.

Stiles howls, not a wolf’s howl but nothing Derek’s ever heard come out of a human mouth before, and it’s a sound of pure bliss that ends in a jumble of fuckyesDerek.  Stiles tries to fuck himself on Derek’s cock, but he’s got no leverage and Derek has to bodily lift him up and down to get a rhythm going.  It’s nothing – Stiles barely weighs anything, and with the wolf-driven lust flooding his veins, Derek could probably bench press his fucking Jeep at the moment – but Stiles laughs breathlessly and throws his head back like it’s the best thing ever, and Derek’s inclined to agree.

Soon, though, it’s pretty evident that it’s not quite going to be enough, because little moans of unfulfilled need are creeping back into Stiles’ vocal repertoire and Derek feels it, too.  Derek can’t really rut into him the way he needs to – the way they both need him to – without something to push against, and they figure it out at the same time.

“The wall.”

Stiles loosens his arms around Derek’s neck, though it looks like it’s costing him to let go even that much, and braces his shoulders and upper back against the wall behind him.  Derek wraps one arm under Stiles’ lower back and braces the other against the wall, and the first thrust, hard and deep, has them both gasping.  They lock eyes, and the undeniable rightness of it hits Derek square in the chest and then he’s giving it to Stiles as hard as he can, like he’s never been able to with a human lover, and Stiles just takes and takes and takes, begging for more, and right now Derek loves purple mushrooms more than anything in the fucking world.

Well, almost anything.

Stiles grinds back against Derek, legs trembling around Derek’s waist, and the sounds he’s making go high and tight and so completely shameless that Derek aches for him.  Stiles’ cock is full and dripping and bouncing heavily off his taut stomach with every thrust, but Derek can’t get a hand on him without sacrificing the rhythm that’s driving them both over the edge.

“Touch yourself,” Derek groans, his voice absolutely broken.  “Wanna see it.”

And sweet Jesus, Stiles might actually have been waiting for permission, because his hand comes up immediately and he jerks himself exactly three times before he’s spurting so hard it hits his chin, and then the wall to the left of his shoulder, and then Derek loses track completely because the way Stiles is shaking apart around him is so perfect that his vision goes white and he’s coming, too, buried deep in Stiles’ clenching body, and between the two of them it’s a wonder that the wall is still standing at all.

When the shuddering finally stops, Stiles goes utterly boneless, though he doesn’t loosen his grip on Derek, and werewolf superstrength be damned, Derek just needs to lie the fuck down.  He stumbles on shaky legs over to the bed and simply yanks the comforter off, taking all the crap with it, so he can rest Stiles’ limp body on the sheets.  When he pulls out, Stiles makes a sound of such loss that Derek tugs him close again, easing Stiles’ legs from around his hips and trying to arrange them both comfortably on the bed.

If they basically end up with Stiles flopped across the entire length of Derek’s body, face planted firmly against his chest, it’s not the least dignified thing that’s happened today.  It doesn’t even crack the top ten.

Derek finds himself rubbing circles into Stiles’ lower back, trying to discern from Stiles’ breathing whether he’s actually unconscious or just asleep.  When Derek can’t quite tell, worry starts to set in.  About what they’ve just done and why they did it.  And what’s going to happen now.  And that fucking mushroom.

Worry quickly graduates to fear, and the panicky feeling that surges up in Derek’s throat is something he hasn’t felt in a long time, something he hoped he’d never feel again, not after—

“Hey, breathe,” Stiles murmurs against his skin, evidently neither asleep nor unconscious.  “No panic attacks.  Not after that.  I’d suggest back flips or victory laps, but I may have lost the use of my legs.  And I’m surprisingly okay with that.”

Something heats up quickly in Derek’s chest and, to compensate, he flicks Stiles’ ear, earning an ow, you dick and a snorting laugh.

Motherfucker, he’s just fine.  Even though that’s exactly what Derek had been counting on, it… it can’t be this easy.  The cure for freaky purple mushroom spores should not be a good, hard dicking that leaves everything pleasantly tingly around the edges.  Derek’s universe does not work that way.

But, what the hell, maybe that’s exactly how Stiles’ universe works.  He’s so relaxed, his voice low and warm like he just got a particularly good backrub instead of a hard first fuck against a wall that, yes, is definitely worse for the wear.  But Derek figures there’s got to be more than one Stiles’-head-shaped dent around this house, so maybe it won’t look too suspicious.

Stiles is half-propped up on an elbow now, lazily drawing aimless patterns on Derek’s chest with one fingertip and looking like he’s trying very, very hard not to grin like the Cheshire cat.

“Don’t know what you’re smiling about.  Pretty soon you’re going to be sore in places you didn’t even know existed.”  Okay, so Derek didn’t intend to say that, but grumpiness is a legitimate medical condition – Stiles has told him more than once that he’s a chronic case.

“Shhhh,” Stiles says, that grin finally breaking through when he presses a finger against Derek’s lips.  “This is without a doubt the single most perfect moment of my life.  Please wait at least five minutes before grouching all over it.”

Derek bites his finger.  Not hard.

“Hope you learned your lesson about interacting with unfamiliar mushrooms.”

“Yes, I definitely learned my lesson.  A lesson was learned here today.”

“I meant not to poke them with sticks.”

“Nnnnnno, that wasn’t really the lesson.  Kind of the opposite of that, in fact.”

“Stiles.”

“Don’t ‘Stiles’ me.  This is probably the least traumatic thing we’ve ever done together.  Not to mention the only one that was a pretty faithful adaptation of my spank bank material.  See, I won’t need to go around poking at magical mushrooms as long as you sex me up on a regular basis.”

Derek gives him a dark look, and Stiles returns it with level good humor, and somehow they’re going to skip completely past the I-could-have-died and the was-that-really-what-you-wanted and the what-does-this-mean-about-us and just… take it from here.  And even Derek has to admit, “here” feels pretty damn good.

“I do totally owe you, though,” Stiles says solemnly.

“Yeah, I just saved your life.”  Probably.  That’s probably what this was about.

“Well, yeah, that.  But mostly you saved me from boning Scott.  Sadly, it is a debt so great I can never truly repay it.  Unless you get mushroom-roofied and try to bone—”

Derek is so glad he can stop that sentence.  With his tongue.