
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/506672.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall_(Teen_Wolf)
  Additional Tags:
      Sex_Pollen, Fuck_Or_Die, Mildly_Dubious_Consent, First_Time, Virginity,
      Wall_Sex, Barebacking, Humor
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-07 Words: 4112
****** The Perils of Fungi ******
by the_deep_magic
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.
Notes
     Warning: this fic contains mild dub-con of the sex pollen/fuck-or-die
     variety
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.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
