Chapter Text
The women in town have a saying: when your luck runs out, learn to ride the wolf.
When Stiles was a kid he didn't understand the esoteric phrase or why it inspired giggles and blushing. If asked, any adult would stammer and look away. It's a dirty myth, his teachers explained, like Zeus appearing to Leda as a swan, it's meant to be a lesson on morality and the laws of nature.
None of it answered his question, and all of it sent his imagination wild. Under the summer sky, Stiles would race across the meadow with a stick in his hand. In his mind, he was a barbarian warrior or even a knight, and the stick was actually a god-given blade that could cut down any foe. His quest was a noble one: to find his lucky lupine companion and mount him. Together, they would hunt down monsters and save maidens guarded by dragons.
The fact that dragons had been extinct for over a hundred years didn't bother him. No, what began to eat away at the fantasy was that maidens, the very concept of a sticky-lipped girl kissing him in gratitude, was boring. And girls don't like adventure or getting their dresses dirty, so what use were they to him? Saving boys was much more thrilling. Illicit, even.
That realisation ended his childhood fantasy and his preoccupation with the weird local saying. Stiles grew up, dated boys, and minored in mythology and folklore. If he said it in passing, there'd be odd looks and flushed faces but no one questioned it and no one explained.
It wasn't until he saw a painting of Leda and Zeus that he understood. An elegant white swan, its body entwined with Leda's body, a look of rapture on her face. Stiles stood in front of that mural, his book held in front of him to hide his sudden erection. Ride the wolf. A dirty myth, a local one.
The women of Beacon Hills fuck wolves for luck.
But not really. It took some time and a lot of baking to get the women of the book club to fess up and explain. It's not wolves so much as it is as a specific wolf, and he's not even a real wolf. It really was a metaphor for nature and all that bullshit.
The story goes like this.
Long ago, a witch desired a local hedge knight and struck up a romance with him. She desired him far more than he desired her, and when his interest waned, the witch cursed him to sleep eternal. Trapped between life and death, the knight lingers, unable to wake up or communicate. But the witch's cruelty couldn't be sated by that alone. She laid a second curse upon the knight: his body would never be able to refuse another lover. He would stay hard and aching, his body willing to please, until the end of time.
To protect their local knight, the villagers built a tower in the middle of the woods and placed their own magic upon it. There he was sealed away, passing into local legend to most of the population. Only a select few know the truth and the name of the knight.
Stiles can admire their dedication to someone who protected them. What he can't understand is how it got twisted over the years. How did the knight's fate get turned into a dirty joke by regular townspeople? Whether or not women actually ride the wolf is not in doubt; of course they are. Stiles can't blame them for that. It's depraved, sure, but the thought embeds itself in his mind, haunting him when he tosses and turns at night, trying in vain to sleep.
Leda's limbs intertwined with a swan's. Eyes rolled back. Legs wrapped around a furry waist.
The knight couldn't possibly be a wolf. Not really. It's probably just a mask or based on his heraldry. He's not an expert or anything but it doesn't seem possible for someone to actually ride a wolf's cock. Maybe he's taking the phrase too literally. Or maybe it's all bullshit spun by some old ladies who read too much romantasy.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Stiles shoves the sweat-soaked sheets off his legs. The night air chills them instantly, but it does nothing for the fire burning within nor does it quiet his mind. He needs to know for sure. If there's any truth to it, he simply must find out.
He has to ride the wolf.
Finding the tower takes weeks of research and too much hiking. When Stiles finally stumbles down a hill and finds it nestled next to small pond, he can barely believe his eyes. The ladies at the book club didn't tell him how creepy the place is. The tower is crafted from obsidian or some other black stone with veins of red wrapped around it. At first, he thinks they're part of the structure but as he gets closer, he sees that the red veins are part of a thorny vine of some kind. The thorns themselves are as long as his hand, with clear fluid glistening on the barbed edges. The soil around the pond is thick and black, and yellow-white bones litter the ground around the burbling water.
This place is not for him. He's read enough folk tales to see the signs without need to feel the prick of magic. The villagers built this place to protect their knight, so of course they built it to scare people off. Well, he's made of sterner stuff than that.
Above the entrance is a dragon skull, all curled horns and dagger-like teeth. It must be worth a fortune, and yet here it is adorning a tower in the middle of nowhere. Those villagers would have been better off selling it to pay for a cursebreaker. If they had, their wolf-knight might have recovered.
The wooden door is warped and rotted by time. The fact that it doesn't dissolve into wood dust and splinters when he pushes at it is nothing short of a miracle. Stiles takes a step inside, then another and another. Beneath his sneakers, leaves and small bones crunch. What was once a great fireplace is now water-logged and clogged with ash. Splattered across the stone walls is something that looks like crusty, dried blood.
To his left, a darkened archway looms. Stairs spiral upwards, the apex hidden in shadow. The air is still, as if the tower itself is holding its breath. It's been waiting for him. Hungry.
His next exhale comes out in a big whoosh. That thought was bullshit, pure and simple. He's not a witch, not a warlock, and sensing magic has never been possible for him before. There's nothing hungry here, just dust and illusions cooked up by people who died centuries ago.
The stairs are uneven and carved from stone. With his hand on the wall, Stiles begins his ascent. After he makes one turn, the light completely fades away. There's no windows, no enchanted scones to light his way. Dizzily, he stumbles forward, his sneakers slipping on the narrow stairs. The higher he goes, the more brittle they get, stones crunching together beneath him.
He doesn't find the door so much as he runs into it. The door springs open, and before he can catch himself, he falls into the room. Fuck. He gets up slowly, wincing when his knees pop.
Do women really visit this place for the promise of luck? Surely there are easier ways, ones that don't involve trudging through the woods and an enchanted tower. Then again, what the hell does he know? The reason he made this trip wasn't to escape or change his fate. His desperation is born from something else entirely.
Curiosity. Need.
The room is circular and small, with smooth grey walls covered with tapestries and banners featuring a giant black wolf with ruby eyes. In the centre is a four-poster canopy bed with wooden posts. Engraved into the wood are unfamiliar runes. When he traces them, his fingers tingle numb. Magic.
Behind the gauzy cloth is a still figure. The wolf.
"Hello?" he says, wincing at how loud his voice is. "Are you -" He cuts himself off, feeling like an idiot. What's the point? This is an enchanted sleep. If talking could break the spell then it would have been broken long ago.
Stiles swallows. This is it. With trembling hands, he brushes aside the canopy.
The wolf is completely naked, without even a sheet covering him. Dark hair is spread against his chest and down his abdomen. His sun-kissed skin is covered in battle scars that have long since healed. And affixed to his face, hiding the top half, is a snarling wolf mask made of gold.
Another mystery solved. That and the heraldry are why this enchanted knight is called the wolf. As for the rest of the myth, well, it appears to be true as well. Against the wolf's thigh is a thick erection, the tip already flushed. Clear fluid is puddling on the wolf's hip.
Ready and wanting. But what about the rest of him? Stiles pulls the wolf's legs apart. The inside of those pale thighs glisten. Gently, Stiles brushes his fingers against the man's hole, and they come away wet. Lube, he thinks as he rubs his fingertips together. The perfect victim.
If the wolf can feel anything, there's no sign of it. His breathing goes on steady and unaltered, and his fingers don't so much as twitch. The golden mask hides any clenched or fluttering eyes.
Stiles' erection throbs. This isn't quite like his fantasy of being entwined with a bestial lover, but how can he resist? Enough of the wolf's face is visible for Stiles to decide that he's handsome with a black beard, a sharp nose, and soft looking lips. What would kissing him feel like? Would that mouth stay pliant and slack?
Stiles leans down and presses their mouths together. The wolf's lips are warm and plush, but unmoving. It's surprisingly nice; there's nothing he hates more than someone slobbering all over him. He flicks his tongue into the wolf's mouth, delighting at the sweet taste. Their noses bump together, the cold edge of the mask brushing against him.
When he pulls away, there's a delicate blush barely visible beneath the wolf's dark beard. However the spell works, it hasn't left the wolf completely insensate. It'd be cruel to leave him like this, cold and wanting.
Despite the saying he grew up with, Stiles isn't ready to literally ride the wolf. He didn't think to bring any supplies, and he's not that in need of luck. Magic is entirely unpredictable, and mythology is almost never factually true. The luck could be as something mundane as a confident booster a girl needs before marriage, or it could be a pregnancy charm. He's not risking getting knocked up with an ass baby just to fulfil a childhood fantasy.
But a blowjob? Yeah, Stiles can do that.
Stiles climbs onto the bed, knees sinking into the soft mattress, and splays out between the wolf's muscled thighs. He presses his face against the wolf's erection and huffs in a ragged breath. Earthy musk and dried semen. Fuck. Stiles grinds his hips against the mattress, biting back a whimper. With his tongue, he traces a path along the shaft up to the swollen cockhead. The skin moves unusually - the wolf has a foreskin. He gives it nibble before slipping his tongue inside.
A jet of precome splatters against his cheek. Stiles swipes his fingers through the warm fluid and examines them. It's pearlescent and tacky, shining in the low light. Inhuman. This is where the luck comes from. Greedily, he sucks the precome right off his fingers, his eyes fluttering shut as his tongue begins to tingle. More, he needs more.
He sucks the wolf's cock into his mouth, slurping desperately, as he strokes the shaft with his hand. Precome and spit drip down his chin. It's like he's a teenager all over again, hurriedly sucking off lacrosse players in the locker room. Gods, he was such a slut back then.
The wolf's cock pulses. Come floods his mouth, sliding down his throat like honey. Stiles swallows as best he can, his eyes watering, but it's a never-ending fount. It spills from the corners of his mouth and over his fingers, filling him and filling him until it threatens to drown him. And in this moment, he can't think of a better way to die.
Heat spreads through him, from the base of his throat to his curled toes. Luck, he thinks giddily. When the flow of come finally ends, Stiles pulls away, coughing and gasping. "Fuck," he rasps out, resting his head against the wolf's sweaty thigh.
His own cock is painfully hard, pressed tight against the front of his jeans. When he readjusts himself, he can't help but rub the heel of his palm against his erection. His hips buck, and he whines in desperation. There's no way he can walk back, not like this.
Stiles pushes himself up to his knees. The wolf's cock is still hard and flushed, the base looking almost swollen. Fuck, it'd feel so good inside. Thick and long, pulsing inside him. But no, he can't. Not today. He tears at the fly of his jeans, reaches inside to pull his own cock out.
"I'll be gentle," he says as he shuffles forward, still on his knees. "I just gotta -" He hooks his elbows under the wolf's knees and pulls him forward. With the wolf's hips in his lap, Stiles thrusts forward, pushing his cock against that glistening hole. His cockhead slides over it slickly, nudging up against the wolf's swollen balls.
It's more than he can take. He lines himself up and his hips jolt forward, immediately bottoming out. The wolf clenches around Stiles' dick, and a glob of precome oozes from his slit. This feels good to him, too, Stiles realises. It's why he's here, ready and open and wet.
Stiles fucks into that slick heat, his fingers digging into the wolf's narrow hips. With every thrust, he pulls the wolf towards him, their bodies meeting with a lurid slap. Sweat beads on his skin, the humid air thick in his lungs as he grunts with exertion. Beneath him, the wolf shudders through another orgasm, come splattering up to his neck.
He comes with a gasp, back arching, hips bucking even as he comes into the wolf's ass. Around his cock, the wolf clenches rhythmically, milking him. Stiles falls forward, crashing on top of the wolf, their bodies still joined. Hot come soaks into his shirt, but he can't bring himself to care.
"I've been searching for you for so long," Stiles murmurs, face tucked into the wolf's shoulder. "We're finally together."
Derek Hale, cursed and comatose thinks and says nothing, but his knot throbs, ready to serve.