
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/476741.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Stiles_Stilinski/Dr._Deaton
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Dr._Deaton
  Additional Tags:
      Drug_Use, Fake_Shaman_Rituals, Sad_attempts_to_make_a_character_seem
      high, Lots_of_babbling_about_rivers, Lots_of_babbling_period, A_full
      grown_man_and_a_16_year_old_boy, Community:_kink_bingo, Aphrodisiacs
  Series:
      Part 1 of Chao's_Kink_Bingo
  Collections:
      Kink_Bingo_2012_(Round_Five)
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-03 Words: 1940
****** This Is My Mind ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Stiles decides to follow in Deaton's footsteps in order to become
     more useful to the Pack. It's a lot different than what he expected.
Notes
     We're in the very illegal parts of underage. Also, possible trigger
     warning for Drug Use. Written for Kink Bingo, and dedicated to Mina,
     who is the best writing partner ever, no matter how much I flail
     angrily at her.
     Title from 'Mouthwash' by Kate Nash
The way the animal clinic looked should have been ridiculous. The normally
sharp, metallic lines of the back room had been softened by quiet lighting and
swaths of draping fabrics. Strings of beads and chimes hung from the ceiling,
creating a oddly natural white noise, and Stiles wouldn’t be surprised at all
if there was a real noise generator hidden somewhere on the room.
It should have been silly - farcical, even - but to Stiles it felt more right
than he could explain.
Deaton ushered him and and settled him gently on one of the many cushions and
blankets that had been thrown about to make the floor warm and comfortable.
Picking a particularly large and fluffy one, since why not, Stiles sat on it
cross-legged and watched the man make his way over to the table that he’d seen
members of the Pack stitched up on far too often.
That was why he was here, actually.
Pouring several powders - none of which Stiles recognized, except for one that
was a suspicious shade of dark purple - from different jars into a mortar,
Deaton started to grind them together as he spoke. “One of the most important,
and sadly difficult, aspects of the type of magic I, and hopefully you,
practice is the ability to simply believe in it. It can be difficult to turn
off rational thinking, and often time stress only complicates matters.”
Nodding, Stiles glanced down at his bare feet. “Yeah, I noticed that.” He’d
meant for it to come out more dry, but instead it was soft, almost matter-of-
fact.
“I’m sure you did,” Deaton replied, as he finally put down the stone and turned
around. The mixture was now an odd grey-blue color, like how storm clouds
looked reflected off of the local lake, and shifted with his steps. The man
placed it down in front of Stiles and crouched down beside him, hands on his
knees. “The key to what we do is to teach ourselves to get passed that. The
most effective methods are the ones that have been passed down for generations
now, and they tend to be somewhat... unorthodox.”
Glancing down at the powder, which was so fine that bits of it hung in the air
like dust, Stiles resisted the urge to snort. Yeah, he bet it was. “You want my
consent, then?”
“That’s one way to look at it.” Deaton replied, voice that oddly cheery
professional tone, and Stiles wondered if he could keep that up when he was
high on shaman powder. Probably. “You can back out now. I just thought you’d
appreciate me warning you about what you’re getting into. If you’d like to
leave, this would be the best time for it.”
A million PSAs flashed through Stiles’ mind - crack is whack, kiddies! Just say
no! - but none of them every talked about life or death situations. Then again,
most teenagers didn’t have to chose between being dead weight in a werewolf
pack, or getting high so that he could do voo-doo.
Or, hey, maybe this was someone’s Friday night. Who was Stiles to judge?
Deciding that keeping everyone from being killed by God-knows-what was more
important than not disappointing his fourth grade teacher, Stiles nodded. “Am I
going to have to do this every time I wanna be useful? Or can this just be for
now.” Deaton’s look of amusement suggested that it was just for training. And
that settled it. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get me stoned.”
Chuckling again, Deaton moved so he was behind Stiles, arms reaching around his
shoulders. Procuring a lighter, the man tilted the mortar until a trail of the
powder broke off toward the edge. The movement was practiced, and Stiles
wondered if maybe this gone done a little more often then whenever Deaton
snagged himself a student.
When the powder caught, it gave an oddly blue smoke, and the room immediately
started to smell sweet. Good, even. The flames flashed from the normal color to
a pale blue color, dancing in the cup, and Stiles let out a giggle before he
thought about it. “Is it gunna tell us who the Hogwarts Champion is?”
Deaton gave a huff of a laugh, but didn’t answer. That was fine, ‘cause Stiles
already knew who the Champion was, but Cedric Diggory wasn’t around. Probably
for the best, really - he’d avoid getting killed at the end, which was a good
thing and maybe Stiles was getting a little affected already. Wow, that worked
fast.
Cupping his large hands around the goblet - er, mortar - Deaton raised it so it
was a few inches below his chin, far enough that the flames didn’t really
bother him, but close enough that the smoke could waft right into his face.
“Take deep breaths, Stiles.” He coached gently, voice soothing, and that seemed
like an awesome idea, so Stiles did. In and out. In and out. In and out.
In.
Out.
The solid warmth against his back was very comforting, so Stiles leaned into
that, humming off tune and feeling good. Better, even. Not only was he
pleasantly floaty and lazy and happy, but his thoughts had smoothed out from
the staccato bursts into something smooth and connected and floating, a river
of ideas and thoughts that stretched from here to wherever he needed to go.
As Deaton - the name didn’t seem to fit him anymore, almost. Too sharp and dull
and bold, like drums, but drums weren’t right. Not for right now. It should be
smooth and flowing like the river, like the beads and chimes. Gentle and
connected. Shhh. Shaman. Yes, that was right - put down the mortar, he the
smell and heat lessened, but it was okay because he could still feel them both.
He was connected to them, like he was connected to the river and to his
thoughts and to Shaman and to the Pack and to Magic. It was all the same thing,
really.
The way his lips felt dry and chapped alerted Stiles to the fact that he’d been
speaking his thoughts. What little filter he normally had was demolished by the
river, and now he was honest and clear. Licking his lips, he turned to look at
Shaman, who was inching away from him to grab another jar of powder. No, he was
supposed to stay! They were connected, so they should be physically connected
too. It just made sense. Besides, he felt good, and Stiles wanted to keep that
pleasant, solid warmth at his back. But Shaman just laughed and patted his
shoulder, finally grasping the jar and pouring some into his hand. It was red
and gold and orange and seemed to almost reflect the light, sparkling like the
glitter the Drag Queens had worn so proudly.
“Use this to turn on the candles.” Shaman instructed softly, gesturing with his
other hand toward a small line of old, tiny candles across the room. Nodding,
Stiles tried to stand, but the large hand held him down. “No, like this.”
Holding the powder up below his mouth, Shaman whispered into his ear. “Blow.”
So he did.
It flashed up like flames from his breath, bright and sudden and hot, but that
was okay, because the powder floated up into the air and toward the candles and
then they were alight. Cool. “I did it?” He asked, voice gleeful and childishly
happy, and Shaman smiled against his ear, which felt good too.
“Yes, you did.”
Stiles moaned in pleasure, simply happy to have been useful and to have done
something right, which transformed into a whimper as he realized how his body
was reacting. The heat wasn’t just coming from the flames - it was coming from
in him, a fire of his own burning brightly and needing to be stoked. Arching
back, he pressed as much as himself as he could into Shaman, who gave another
of those pleasant laughs. “Feeling it, are you?” Stiles nodded, because he was
and why should he hide it? “Well, since this has been such as success, I don’t
see why we can’t indulge a little.”
Before Stiles’ brain could piece together what he was talking about, Shaman’s
hand reached around palmed over his needy erection. The flesh felt huge and
heavy and warm on him, even through the fabric, and Stiles bucked into it,
letting out needy little mewls. He simply needed it, no pride or filters to
stop him.
Shaman never opened his pants, never freed his poor erection, never so much and
moved his hand from its spot. He just massaged soothingly into the source of
Stiles’ ache, while he rutting into him, reaching back to cling to his broad
shoulders and thick neck. “Please,” he whined out, mouth spilling words without
so much as permission. “Need it, please I want more, need release, please help
me.”
Young and inexperienced and sensitive as he was, it didn’t take Stiles long at
all to spill into Shaman’s hand. The world spiraled and blurred and tilted, and
he let himself go limp slacking into Shaman’s tight grip and letting it all
smooth out into heat and smoke and river flow.
When Stiles came to, everything had been cleared out except for the jars, and
the room was cleared of the sweet smoke. He still felt a little dizzy, a little
dazed, but for the most part he was back to himself. Unfortunately. Glancing
down at the tried, uncomfortable mess that was his jeans, Stiles winced.
“No need to be embarrassed.” Shaman - oops, Deaton - slipped into the room,
back to polite professional. Which was kind of surreal now, considering that
the guy had gotten Stiles high as a kite and given him a handjob. You know, as
you do. “It’s a perfectly natural reaction, especially for a first time.”
Nodding with all the collected confidence he could (which wasn’t much, but
Stiles was good at pretending. Maybe even better now), he slid off the table
and glanced around. “I, uh... thanks. For helping.”
“Not a problem.” Deaton replied easily. “I’d suggest waiting about fifteen
minutes or so for the rest to wear off, but after you should be perfectly fine
to drive. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some animals that need attending
to.” Apparently satisfied that Stiles’ brain hadn’t been fried, Deaton ducked
back out, and Stiles could vaguely hear the sounds of animals reacting to his
presence.
For a moment, Stiles kicked his feet against the ground, not sure what to do
for the next fifteen minutes. Really, leaving him to his own devices for any
amount of time was just a bad idea. Then he spotted the rest of the jars, eyes
settling on a specific one, filled with red and gold and orange.
Had he really...?
Well, that was the point of all of it. But it was still startling that Stiles
could have made something light of fire from across the room, even if they were
just little candles. Ones that were still there, in fact, if out now.
Making his way over, Stiles poured a small measure into his hand, weighing it.
The powder felt like nothing, like dust or ash.
There was just no way that this st-
See, that was what he was learning to fight. That was what was going to
sabotague him. Stiles squared his jaw, staring down at the powder. Then he
brought it up to rest in front of his mouth, hand cupped, and concentrated on
the sensation of the smoke, of the river and the flow and the surety of it all.
Then he blew.
The candles lit.
Stiles smiled.
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