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The Giving Tree

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The scene’s the same – Stiles stepping through forest till he finds himself in a clearing, standing in front of the Nemeton. The lights come on, just like usual, and Stiles feels like he’s there, can smell the aroma of trees, moss, and forest growth. Dirt and twigs press against his feet, alternatively soft and cutting, and cold air brushes against his skin. This, it turns out, is the main difference, because this time, Stiles is naked.

He doesn’t scream, doesn’t try to yell at himself to wake up even as he pleads for it in his mind. Stiles stares, instead, watching the tree silently and just waiting because there has to be some reason he keeps coming back here. Nothing happens, for a while. There’s a quiet whisper of wind over the area and Stiles’ eyes adjust to the bright lights, but the tree stays still, and Stiles starts to wonder what the purpose of this is. Why is he here?

He can feel it though, that thrumming in his body. The Nemeton always echoes in his chest, in his veins, whatever he does, wherever he goes, but it’s strongest in his dreams, in these moments when he’s standing right before it. The Nemeton’s reaching out towards him, and Stiles isn’t sure if it’s worth fighting anymore. So he takes a step closer, frowning when he feels something in the air shift.

A root shoots out from the center of the trunk, darting towards Stiles and coiling around his wrist before he has time to process it. Stiles jumps, tugging too late to get his arm away from the vine as another one twists around his ankle. It happens too quickly, and by the time Stiles reacts to that root, another’s wrapping around his other wrist, and then another around his other ankle, tugging him forward as he tries to get his mind around what’s happening.

There’s no give to the restraints as they pull him toward the Nemeton. They’re earthen and slimy, but far from breakable, and Stiles, who already feels like he’s swimming through molasses, knows he’s not getting out of their hold. He’s stubborn enough to keep trying though, jerking in his binds as he’s pressed down onto solid wood. The trunk scrapes against his front, and his legs collapse beneath him, knees landing roughly in dirt and hips banging against the edge of the stump. Stiles flexes his hands, fingers twitching uselessly at air as he tries to get his arms from their hold, elbows clicking at his awkward motion.

Stiles feels some of the fog lift as reality breaks through, and he realizes he most definitely did something very stupid.

“Wake up.” He mutters, staring at the roots wrapped around his wrists. They’re like tentacles, and Stiles’ stomach clenches uneasily. “Come on, Stiles. Wake up.” He says more urgently.

The Nemeton shifts and another vine works its way out. Stiles’ eyes go wide, and adrenaline courses through his veins, urging him to run.

“Stiles, come on! Wake up! Wake up! ” Anything else from Stiles is cut off when the appendage covers his mouth, snaking around the back of his head and coming back full circle at his lips. The slick substance coats his mouth and Stiles gags. There’s no flavor to it, just oil and tasteless moisture, but Stiles’ body rejects it, the foreign substance entirely unwelcome to him.

Stiles’ feet dig into the ground as he tries to back away and a firm hold wraps around the back of his thighs, lifting him up and moving him so he’s resting fully on the Nemeton, butt arched indecently into the air and body exposed.

Stiles shivers, muffled sounds working their way past his gag. He feels like he’s being watched, like there are eyes out in the darkness, just past the spotlights on him, and he glances upward, trying to make anything out. He comes up empty and his attention’s quickly drawn to a light stroke over his cock.

Stiles lets out a shocked protest, hips twitching away from the touch. He can’t look down, the hold on his head keeping him relatively immobile and the vine blocking what little he could’ve seen otherwise, but he can guess what the slimy touch is. It comes again, the Nemeton stroking more firmly over his dick, and Stiles shudders, mostly in disgust and a little because he’s actually reacting to the sensation.

Now that Stiles is successfully trapped in the tree's grip, smaller, greener vines climb out and start exploratory caresses of his body. They move over his nipples, sending sparks through him, and they move down to between his legs, running over his testicles before ducking behind them, finding a bizarre pressure point that sends a shock of pleasure through him. One works its way between his buttcheeks and his eyes shoot wide, and his stifled objections are ignored as it pushes against his hole. Stiles clenches his eyes shut and tries not to feel it.

Slight as the intrusion is, it feels like entirely too much, burning on its way in. Stiles’ struggles start anew, pointless and futile as ever, and the root at his cock grows more eager, sliding against his slit and drawing out a reluctant moan. Tension runs over his nipples and perineum and Stiles jumps, hips rocking back onto the pressure in his ass and pushing the root in further.

Drools works its way down his chin as he loses the ability to swallow and his lungs start to ache when he forgets how to breathe. Another vine works its way inside of him and Stiles’ mind goes fuzzy, each touch pushing him further and further away from himself.

Stiles thinks he’s going crazy – well, more crazy – and all he can do is twitch ineffectually in his binds as his cock slowly hardens and the roots thrust inside of him, coating him in their odd moisture. It gets even worse when it starts to feel good, and he finds himself trying to thrust back to meet the invasion. He lets out a meek whine of protest when the vines – he thinks four of them now – pull outside of him. His hole twitches and he feels empty. The touch on his leaking erection abandons him too and Stiles gives a broken sob, shifting restlessly at the loss.

The small vines hold him open and the Nemeton quakes beneath him, something larger working its way back and pressing against his ass. It feels huge and a thrill of panic goes through him. It’s too big and it won’t go in, but it’s going in anyway, and Stiles freezes, chest moving shallowly as he takes in weak, frightened breaths. It hurts, pressing against him in ways he’s never felt before and stretching him far past his limit, and Stiles thinks he might break apart. His looks up wildly, searching the area for some sort of escape, but there’s nothing – nothing except fuzzy shapes out in the darkness, just behind the light fixtures. Stiles tries to tell himself that they’re trees. Stiles isn’t very convincing.

With a broken sob, Stiles’ fingers curl in the air and his body shakes, but he doesn’t try to break from the Nemeton’s hold, not daring to move for fear of encouraging the intrusion behind him. It’s an eternity as the bizarre tentacle works its way into him, and by the time it stops, Stiles is sweating, feeling stuffed and worn out. He’s not as hard as he was before. It’s a miracle he’s still hard at all, but as the tentacle starts thrusting, he’s sure whatever stiffness there is will quickly fade.

The tentacle goes out way easier than it came in, and it’s half relief and half fear for Stiles, because he knows he’ll have to take the fullness again. Getting filled hurts just as much the second time as it did the first, but it’s not as slow, the Nemeton working a rhythm now. Stiles powers through it as best he can.

The pain starts to ease up slightly, and Stiles starts to realize that there is a benefit to the root’s girth. Stiles’ prostate is hit with each motion of the plant, sending bizarre waves of pleasure through him, making his cock twitch and his toes curl. As much as it hurts, it also feels good, and Stiles isn’t sure which one terrifies him more.

The thrusting itself eventually starts to feel good too, punching hedonistic sounds out of him as he’s fucked by the Nemeton. Stiles tries to hold back, tries not to bow his back into each thrust or moan obscenely when sparks dance behind his eyelids and his ass squeezes around the root, but he feels like he’s drowning in it and he can’t help but respond. He’s still being watched and he can faintly make out eyes in the darkness when he manages to open his own, and fuck, but that makes him feel good too. And Stiles hates it, he really does, but he’s so close.

There’s another shiver from the Nemeton and Stiles feels something start to suck at his cock. He lets out a broken sob, terrified and aroused in turn, as his cock’s engulfed by liquid suction. He’s getting a blowjob from a tree, and that’s all kinds of messed up, and he can’t even laugh about it, because it feels amazing.

The root plowing his ass rocks him forward into the moist grip and Stile’s eyes roll up in his head, body getting lost in the sensations. The pressure in his abdomen builds by slow, maddening increments and all Stiles’ can feel is the way his hole responds to being stuffed and fucked and the way his cock throbs, each nerve blazing in pleasure.

Stiles’ orgasm echoes through every muscle, every fiber of his being, cum pouring out of him and being eagerly sucked up by the Nemeton. Stiles keens, a pained, horrified, defeated sound and he goes limp in the stump’s grip, staring unseeingly out of half-hooded, wet eyes.

When Stiles actually does wake up, he’s twisted in his bed sheets, still dressed in his pajamas. His hole’s twitching, feeling empty and swollen, and his cock feels sensitive and spent. There’s no cum in his boxers, though, and when he moves to sit up, he hears something crinkle. Upon searching, he finds a leaf, and when he looks up, he sees dirty footprints leading from the open window all the way to his bed. When he checks his feet, they're covered in soil.