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Rites of Passage

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Stiles cowers down lower in the bushes, tries to slow his breathing, forces himself to make as little noise as possible. Preying on a predator, it turns out, is much harder than he expected. The wolf hasn’t noticed him yet, he thinks, but it’s probably only a matter of time, despite Stiles being downwind. Its eyes and ears and nose are far more capable of detecting other creatures than any other animal in this forest. There’s a reason no one has ever come back from their initiation ritual wearing the pelt of a wolf, why everyone stays away from the pack roaming the forest.

It would be much, much easier to hunt down a deer for his first kill, to present that to his elders so they will welcome him amongst the ranks of men. It’s what everyone else who was sent on this hunt after coming of age has done, even Jackson, who had boasted about his courage. Stiles shouldn’t have listened to his jabs, shouldn’t have risen to the challenge, perhaps. A deer would have been a kill sufficient enough to prove he was no longer a boy, but the opportunity to upstage Jackson, to end his taunts once and for all, is too great to pass up.

No one ever said Stiles was particularly smart when it comes to making non-suicidal choices. Which this is. It’s insane. One wrong move and he is dead, that’s for sure. Once the wolf notices him, he’ll maybe get a second before it decides whether he’s a threat or prey, and either will not end well for him if he doesn’t manage to lure the wolf into the trap.

The wind changes, and Stiles can see the exact moment his scent reaches the wolf. His head snaps up, ears perked, body tense. He turns quickly, eyes fixating on Stiles in a second, staring him down. Stiles’ grip tightens on his spear, tries to ignore how it is slippery with sweat, swallows down the lump in his throat.

The wolf sniffs again, a low growl rolling through his chest, and then he charges towards Stiles.

Stiles yelps, scrambles backwards hastily, and he’s so sure he’ll do it when his foot catches on the rope meant to close the cage he had so meticulously built, and he goes down, hard. The wolf leaps over the bushes, and the trap snaps shut.

With Stiles still in it.

He backs up hastily until his back hits the branches he had used to built the cage, but he knows it’s of no avail. The cage is only just big enough for the wolf and him, he has nowhere to go, and the spear slipped through his fingers when he fell. It’s close enough that he could reach it, maybe, but he doesn’t think he’d be fast enough to pick it up and gather the momentum he’d need to drive it through the wolf’s chest. He dives for it anyway, because what other option does he have? If he doesn’t do anything, he’s dead anyway.

The wolf’s paws land heavy on his chest before he can get a hold of the weapon, knocking him down onto the ground with so much force all air is punched out of his lungs. Stiles wheezes, presses his eyes shut and waits for the claws to tear through his skin, for the sharp teeth to rip his throat out - but nothing happens.

He lies on the ground, shaking with fear, and takes another shuddering breath. And then another. The wolf’s weight doesn’t ease up, and he flinches when a wet nose touches his neck. Stiles freezes for a second, and then blinks his eyes open.

The wolf is nuzzling him.

“Uh,” Stiles says, “okay.”

The wolf continues, unperturbed.

“This is so not what I expected,” Stiles declares, even though there is no one near to understand his words. The wolf lets out an annoyed huff, like Stiles’ voice is disrupting his scenting session.

“Dude,” Stiles says, gathering his courage and poking the animal between the ribs, “you’re suffocating me.”

Since he doesn’t think the wolf understands him, he accentuates his words with another, more forceful shove. The wolf doesn’t move an inch at first, only lifts his head to level him with an extremely put-out look. Finally, a low rumble emanates from his chest and he moves his paws until they’re caging Stiles in on either side of his torso instead of standing on top of him. Which means Stiles still can’t escape or even try to move enough to reach the spear, but he can properly breathe again, so all in all it’s an improvement. It might be because he hit his head, or because of slight oxygen deprivation causing his brain to play tricks on him, but he imagines the wolf giving him a look that says ‘happy now?’ before ducking his head again and burying his nose in Stiles’ neck again.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, “okay.”

He’s still trying to process what is happening, why the wolf hasn’t killed him yet. Tentatively, he lift his right hand, buries it in the wolf’s fur right behind the ears, and scratches softly. The wolf stills for a moment, and Stiles holds his breath, thinking that now he’s done something to elicit a violent reaction, but all he gets in response is a yip and a lick of a rough tongue against the skin of his neck, so Stiles continues to pet the wolf, wondering where the hell he went wrong to have him end up in a situation like this.

He’s basically cuddling with an animal he’d intended to kill. There’s no way he’ll have the heart to kill that wolf now. He’ll have to find some other game; if he ever gets out of the trap that he locked himself and the wolf in.

Fuck his life, seriously.

He’s so lost in thought he doesn’t notice at first when the wolf begins to migrate south, nuzzling deeper into his chest, pushing up his shirt with his snout, sniffing his belly before, abruptly, sticking his nose between Stiles’ legs.

Stiles yelps and shoots upwards as much as he can, trying to shove the wolf away. “Oh no. No no no no no. Bad wolf.” He yanks at the fur, but it’s futile. And it’s not like Stiles doesn’t know canines often do this, smelling people where their scent is the strongest, but this time it leaves a heavy, dark feeling in his stomach.  

The wolf nudges his snout against his crotch again, more insistently, still not letting Stiles up. And Stiles - well, he can’t help it. He’s a healthy eighteen year old male who has only ever had his own hand touching his dick, and the nuzzling creates friction, and he’s still on an adrenaline high, so his dick twitches with interest, and he can’t be blamed, okay? It happens.

The wolf cocks his head, watches curiously, and lets out a rumble that sounds both smug and pleased.

He falls back onto the ground, groaning. “You’re the worst.”

In response, the wolf licks across his clothed dick. Stiles gasps at the sensation, every muscle in his body tensing. He should not be enjoying this, he really shouldn’t, but the wolf’s tongue makes the fabric warm and wet and the slide of it against his cock just rough enough to create a really interesting sensation.

The wolf grins up at him, or at least that’s what it looks like when he bares his teeth, and does it again.

“Shit,” Stiles curses, “oh fuck, fuck, fuck.”

In a spur of a moment decision, he scrambles for purchase, gets his hands on his trousers, fumbles with the laces and then finally, finally, when they unravel, pushes them down in a quick motion. They get stuck halfway down his thighs because he can’t reach any further. He wagers it’s far enough, anyway, and moves to push down his underwear as well, except the wolf is faster, hooking his teeth gently into the cloth and then - tearing it off completely. Of course.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, again, because it seems appropriate. “Sharp teeth in the vicinity of my junk should not be a turn on.”

The wolf makes a sounds that weirdly resembles a huff of laughter; the warm breath ghosting over Stiles’ crotch makes his dick jump, and he lets out a strangled shout when the wolf licks up from the root to the tip in a straight line, torturously slow.  It takes him no time at all to get fully hard, and he thinks if he could think straight his face would be burning with shame, but as it is, he’s too far gone to care even remotely. He’s already leaking precome, and the wolf laps it up greedily, making Stiles keen.

He spreads his legs farther to give him better access, moans shamelessly when the wolf turns his attention to his balls for a bit before diving even lower and licking Stiles’ hole. The rough tongue catches at the rim a little, and Stiles gasps, bucks his hips up, chasing the sensation. With the next lick, the tongue slides inside, hot and wet and perfect and Stiles comes with a shout, his legs thrashing with the intensity of his orgasm.

He’s pretty sure he knees the wolf in the ribs at some point, but the animal doesn’t seem to care, continues his administrations until Stiles is sobbing with it, gasping through the aftershocks. It’s only when he comes back down from his high that he realises the pressure against his leg, the wolf humping it, desperately seeking some friction. Stiles can see the little pink head peeking out from the sheath and swallows heavily, wondering how big it is when it comes out, what it would feel like in his hand, or inside him.

Maybe the wolf has the same instinct, or maybe he’s just reacting to the arousal that must be coming from Stiles in waves, but he clambers up his body, and his next thrust makes the fur of his belly brush against Stiles’ cock, still over sensitive, and he can feel the wolf’s dick slide against his balls.

“No, no, wait,” Stiles gasps out, and the wolf stills, looking up at Stiles questioningly. It’s a ridiculous notion, thinking that the animal understands his words, but it makes him feel a lot safer. “Not like this,” Stiles adds. “There is no way that is going inside me just with spit to ease the way.”

The wolf whines pitifully. And Stiles….fuck, but he really, really wants and...well, his chest is covered in his own spunk, and while that’s not really ideal either, it’s at least something. Stiles pats the wolf’s chest. “Back up a bit, dude.”

The wolf narrows his eyes at him, but obediently inches backwards, gives Stiles room to move. He slides his fingers through the mess on his chest, covers his fingers with his come, and then reaches back between his legs. At least this part is familiar; he’s fingered himself before, often enough to know that he likes it. In fact, the last time had been this morning, to take the edge off, work off some of the stress and excitement of facing his initiation rites. He’s still a little loose from then, he supposes, as well as relaxed thanks to his orgasm, and the wolf rimming him has helped as well, so the first finger slides in easily, and he can add the second one quickly, scissoring himself open.

Stiles bites his lips when his fingertips brush over his prostate, bites back a moan. His eyes snap to the wolf again when the animal lets out another low whine, needy and longing. The wolf is prowling back and forth before sitting back on his haunches, staring transfixed at where Stiles is steadily sliding his fingers in and out of his body. He knows the wolf is impatient, but Stiles takes his time, gathers some more of his come with his hand and works himself up to three fingers until he’s as slick and open as he can manage with the resources he has.

By the time he closes his eyes and takes a deep steadying breath, asking himself one last time if he’s really doing this he’s already half hard again. He withdraws his fingers, and a second later the wolf is back between his legs, licking over his opening and whining more insistently.

Yeah, Stiles thinks. He’s doing this.

“Okay,” he says inanely, “just lemme -”

He turns around quickly until he’s on all fours, sliding his knees apart as far as he can without losing his balance to give the wolf the best access possible. Immediately, the wolf is on him, draping his body over Stiles’ back, paws bracketing his ribs. The first few thrust miss their target, the wolf’s cock sliding down against Stiles’ balls instead. Stiles bows his torso down further, bracing his forehead on his arm, and preparing to reach back with his other hand to guide the wolf in, when, with the next thrust, the head catches at the rim and the wolf pushes inside.

Stiles gasps, buries his face in the crook of his elbow. It burns, but only a little; the wolf’s cock isn’t particularly thick, but it’s long and hot and it feels so much better than Stiles’ fingers. He’s not surprised when the wolf sets an almost brutal, fast pace, chasing his own pleasure with little regard for Stiles’. He doesn’t care. Every time his cock does brush against Stiles’ prostate he feels like his entire body is going to explode with the overload of sensation.

It doesn’t take long for the wolf’s thrusts to become even more frantic, and Stiles can feel him growing bigger inside him, his knot catching at the rim with each thrust.

“Yeah,” Stiles bites out, “yeah, come on.”

With one final push, the wolf shoves fully inside, locking himself in Stiles, and shudders. Stiles groans at the pressure of the knot growing even more inside him, increasing the pressure against his prostate. He swears he can feel the wolf coming hot and wet inside him in long, even spurts; the thought alone is enough to make him moan. He grinds back against the wolf, circles his hips to get the bit of friction that being tied will allows him and reaches a hand down between his legs to jack himself quickly and roughly. He only needs a few pulls until he comes, shaking with how overwhelming it is.

His legs threaten to give; he feels exhausted but also sated and content, calm and focused in a way he never has before. Who knew mind-blowing orgasms were a way of shutting his brain up? The wolf, surprisingly, stays on top of him instead of sliding off and turning the way Stiles has seen dogs do it countless times. It puts another strain on his muscles, but the weight is also warm and comforting, so he doesn’t mind too much. However, he sighs in relief when the knot goes down about ten minutes and the wolf slips out and off him, so he can finally collapse on the floor, turning onto his back to stare at the blue sky peeking through the thick foliage of the trees.

The wolf snuggles up to his side immediately, lays his head on Stiles chest, and Stiles chokes on a laugh, buries his fingers in the fur of his back. “So,” he says, “that happened.”

He has no idea what to do now. Get out of the cage, he supposes, hope he can still walk well enough to hunt down a deer before sundown, return to his village. He’s not entirely sure he’ll be able to meet anyone’s eyes.

He clears his throat, pushes the wolf’s head off gently and sits up, pulls up his trousers and tries not to wince at the feeling of come leaking out of him. He’s in the process of rising to his feet when he hears something that sounds like bones breaking behind him, and then a voice says, quiet and raspy, “Don’t leave.”

Stiles is so startled he falls flat on his ass again. He twists around in shock and what he sees inside the cage with him is now decidedly not a wolf, but a very handsome, very naked man.

“What the fuck,” he says feebly. There are stories, legends of men being able to change into whichever shape they chose, he’s heard them as a kid, but he never, not once, believed they were real. Except apparently, they are. “What the fuck,” he says again, because it seems worth repeating. “You’ve been a man all along and you fucked me like this?”

“You wanted it,” the man states matter-of-factly.

“Oh no, you don’t get to blame this on me, Mister,” Stiles says, pointing his finger at him angrily. “I wanted to kill you. You started it, with the sniffing and the licking and the -well. I was riding an adrenaline high. I have an excuse. You don’t.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t shifted back since - “ The man swallows heavily, averts his eyes. “Not since I lost my family.”

“When was that?”

“Six years ago.”

Stiles sits back, stunned. “Why did you do it now?” he asks hesitantly.

“Because you were going to leave. And I didn’t want that.”

“But why?”

“Because you … because I - “The man huffs angrily, but Stiles thinks it’s more directed at himself than at Stiles. “Because you smell of mate,” he bites out through clenched teeth. “My mate. That’s….I never thought I’d get to have that. And I couldn’t let you walk away. Not without at least trying to convince you to keep me.”

“Uh.” Stiles doesn’t know what to say. There’s too much happening today for his mind to process. “I...guess we can talk about that? I mean, I wouldn’t be totally averse to it?”

The man smiles shily. “I’m Derek.”

“Stiles,” he replies, holding out his hand stupidly. Derek eyes it a little dubiously, but eventually grabs and shakes it.

Stiles thinks that’s a good start.