Work Text:
There’s a dog in the woods.
It’s not that weird, there are strays in Beacon County, and why not hide where the humans can’t hurt you?
But.
Stiles swings his bat, trying to look big and intimidating. It's a technique that's supposed to scare off most creatures, leveraging your height, the length of your reach against them. The dog seems to have been stalking him anyway, barely rustling bushes and moving in such a way that he only catches it in the corner of his eye. He’s seen the vaguest outline of it once, enough to know it’s a dog.
There’s no reason to feel this freaked out, he tells himself, following the runed line of trees that mark the magical boundary of Beacon Hills Preserve. It’s just a dog.
He wouldn’t be out here alone, but Isaac bailed to have date night with Allison, of all people, and Stiles was really not supposed to be out here alone according to Scott but he can handle himself! It isn’t really fair that literally any other pack member, he’d most likely trust, but that’s the downside, isn’t it? Lydia is an alpha, so she gets a pass, but also gets a pass from patrols anyway because reasons that may or may not include Scott being terrified of her. The fellow werewolves get passes because werewolf, and Stiles’ only other human and omega packmate is Allison. And Allison can and will fuck them all up because of hunter things.
So anyway. There is a dog in the woods, and Stiles will absolutely not admit to feeling intimidated, nervous. He swings his bat to clear some brush, whistling loudly. The dog should have gone by now, right? It should be intimidated by Stiles puffing up his chest, by Stiles being noisy, right?
Stiles finishes walking the boundary line, pressing his palm to the last of the runes, and begins to head back to his Jeep. He refuses to be the one that gives, and he absolutely does not walk faster than normal.
He definitely doesn’t walk across the clearing for the sole reason that he doesn’t think the dog will pounce on him, leave the treeline while he purposefully crosses the gap in the trees. The ground is soft, grassy and moss covered and a little bit damp.
In his confidence and his hurry to leave the fucking preserve, Stiles doesn’t anticipate what happens next. He doesn’t anticipate the triumphant snarl from the leaves, he doesn’t anticipate the huge paws meeting his back, and he definitely doesn’t anticipate getting scruffed by the dog-that-is-way-too-big-to-be-a-dog.
The thing is huge, and it uses the freeze reaction it’s created against him. While Stiles goes limp, unable to fight a scruffing when he wasn’t anticipating it, his omega biology betraying him, the dog-thing uses sharp claws and shreds his top and jeans.
By the time Stiles has regained enough of his wits to fight, he's naked and the dog-thing is stood on top of him. It’s huge, paws practically the size of dinnerplates pressing his shoulders heavily into the earth, its powerful jaws still pressing sharp teeth into Stiles’ neck.
“Wolf,” he breathes, feeling it hunching, rubbing its length against his back, his ass. Stiles reaches fingers out to his bat that lies on the ground in front of him, nestled in the green, but his fingers glance off of it, and it rolls. It rolls. Away from him, into a more secure dip, and the wolf radiates smug superiority. “Fuck,” whimpers Stiles, because he could really do without this. He’s about to get raped by a wolf and he’s trapped. He can’t wiggle forwards, because occasionally the teeth threaten more threateningly, the sharp points digging into his skin, and the pinch sends unfortunate messages through his body that tell him to submit give in calm down. Beside that, he’s still being pressed into the ground, and his cheek rubs on a soft bed of moss, the scent of chlorophyll catching in his lungs, and really, it could be worse, he could be getting mounted and poked and prodded by sharp sticks, but that’s the only silver lining he can find here and-
Stupid scruffing response. The wolf seems to have sensed his mounting panic, tightening its hold on his neck and giving this little shake that has all of his muscles unspooling, effectively trying to shortcut its way to putting Stiles in floaty omegaspace.
Stiles knows full well that if he goes all the way into omegaspace, then he’ll just submit and let the wolf mount him which- yeah- that’s seeming more and more likely to happen with each passing second, each needy twitch of the wolf’s hips. There’s slick wet trails of precum spreading across his skin, over his back and his ass. He kind of wants to throw up, disgust and fear rolling through him, slowly detaching from his body and all but the most basic of responses. The most he’ll get (probably) is to choke a little on the bile that might flood his mouth. He’s not even slick and he’s going to tear and it’s going to be the worst, the most awful.
There’s a heartbeat or two before Stiles struggles again, fighting against the haze that threatens his mind. He needs out, he needs to get away, he absolutely cannot, will not submit to a fucking wolf. It’s an animal! No higher brain functions! But the animal part of his brain, the most basic of the instincts tells him to go very, very fucking still when a growl explodes from somewhere deep in its chest, and he can feel his brain starting to dump chemicals that give him rushes of pleasure for being sweet and compliant.
Stiles is- he’s never hated being an omega, ever, he’s long hated the stereotyping and the dynamicist bullshit and the way others treat him when they find out he’s an omega, but in that second, he utterly fucking despises his own biology. Tears of humiliation build, and they leak from the corners of his eyes when he feels his hole throb in that particular way that means He’s getting wetter than Niagara falls. It feels like a betrayal, like his own fucking body is here to play against him. He can’t get the leverage to push this wolf off—how strong is this fucking animal—and his flailing legs aren’t doing him any good, not when it feels like pushing through syrup now that his body is calling for him to relax and to get himself into position to be mounted and bred.
It’s the worst.
The sensation of warmth is starting to roll through him in a wave. It’s calling him, and the wolf is growling, but this time it’s smug, low, a gentle rumble against his back. Stiles can feel his eyelids going heavy, his limbs weighing themselves down, and that’s when the wolf begins to rut in earnest against him. It’s like it can tell, like it knows his heartbeat is smoothing out as all the anxious fear slips away. He barely whimpers, barely struggles when the surprisingly big cock notches against his hole, just sliding away at the last moment.
Submit, whispers his own mind to him, and his hips tilt as he presses his front tighter to the ground. Submit, it says as the wolf tries again, this time catching his hole. Tears squeeze out of Stiles’ eyes again, forming twin trails across his heated cheeks. Submit, it tells him, and Stiles goes soft and a little limp, finally letting the wolf spear him on its cock, shame burning in his stomach.
It feels huge, his hole only used to his heat toys, and there’s nowhere to go as the wolf shoves itself in, hard and desperate. Stiles curls his fingers into the ground, greenery pushing under his nails. It’s too big, and he’s whimpering as his hips jerk away. The wolf increases the pressure on his neck, the scent of blood rising into the air, paws pressing him harder into the ground.
“Please,” he says, even though the wolf clearly won’t hear him, “it hurts.” His voice is small and snotty, high pitched in the typical timbre of an omega to be soothed. He doesn’t know what about his demeanour appeases the wolf, doesn’t understand what might make it begin to groom him, to offer comfort in its own wolfy way, but it helps more than it makes him want to push the wolf off in disgust when it starts to run its tongue over his face and into his hair. The release of scruffing helps a bit too, the lack of enforced freeze and enforced pliability, but the hormones have already pushed into his blood. He’s as docile as it gets outside of heat now, arching and letting his body take over. He can’t even really try to scrabble away, not with the pressure and the weight of the wolf on top of him. Fur brushes against his feverish skin, soft on the wolf's belly.
It doesn’t pull away or pause though. Its hips keep rabbiting, pushing its dick deeper, filling and filling and just filling him more and more. Powerful leg muscles tighten and release in rhythmic pulses, keeping that frantic pace, tensing against Stiles' thighs. He can feel the knot in a removed kind of way, the bulb on the wolf’s dick that’s slowly filling, slowly rounding out over time.
The knot, oh god, the knot. Panic floods him, giving him a little adrenaline to try and break through the haze of hormones before the wolf butts its head against his ear, growling with that deep threatening rumble that makes Stiles go limp.
God, at least it’s an animal. If it knots him, he can’t get pregnant, won’t get pregnant. Omegas can’t get pregnant by canids, right?
A deep thrust that skims past his sweet spot makes Stiles lose his increasingly hysterical train of thought. There’s no words that can roll through his mind when pleasure fizzles up his spine. He’s slowly getting used to the size; can feel the pressure easing off, aside from the growing knot that slips in and out of his hole, needing increased pressure each time. It's like the wolf knows just how to push Stiles away from his thoughts, past the haze and into the clouds.
Time goes wonky, viscous and sticky, and the wolf lets out a triumphant howl as he secures his knot inside Stiles, before sinking his teeth into Stiles' shoulder. The flash of pain would normally- Stiles would normally fly out of that soft space at the slightest pain, but instead it just sends shocky bolts along his nerves, overstimulating and forcing him higher, further into the fog. It's secondary, really, that Stiles' orgasm washes over him. It leaves sparkles in his blood, through his body, and he can't help but lock the knot inside, using muscles that only ever get used during his heat, when his orgasms are there to encourage breeding. It feels a little like that, just more detached. That's really saying something, given that Stiles spends his heats in a sticky limbo of arousal, brain feeling boiled in his skull.
He feels the pressure inside himself, the sensation of being full like he's eaten too much, only… lower. Stiles' hand slips to caress his lower abdomen, moaning at the stretch of sensitive skin, his womb drinking in every drop of seed, savouring endorphins and the way his one-track omega mind insists baby, a baby.
He'll be horrified later, muses Stiles in that same giddily detached way. He's floating in omegaspace, so deep that he's not sure he'll ever escape it. A wolf's bitch. He gets soft, hazy sensory images of a den, soft fur on warm skin, babies suckling, being protected-
The wolf snuffles into his ear, licks, and it's enough to pull Stiles back to himself, just a little. His heart pounds in his chest, and the wolf whines, trying to soothe.
"No-" Stiles begins in the most horrified voice he can conjure whilst omegaspace tries to pull him back into its peaceful embrace. "Oh god, oh fuck."
There's another whine, an appeasing tongue that laps across Stiles' jawline.
Refusing to listen, Stiles scrabbles in the moss again. The rough thrusts have pushed him closer to his bat. He knows that if he reaches out, he'll be able to touch it.
With a deep breath, he forcibly relaxes as many muscles as possible, weakening the lock on the wolf's knot. This is still going to hurt like a bitch, and he's going to need soothing creams for weeks, but he refuses to stay here, trapped under the weight and warmth of the wolf covering his back. He takes another deep breath, grabbing the bat and swinging with as much power as he can muster from beneath the wolf. It's enough to hear a heavy thunk and what could potentially be the crunch of the wolf's skull. He doesn't think about it, refuses to think about it, as he yanks himself free of the wolf's knot.
He screams, it hurts. But the wolf is blessedly unconscious, slumped to the ground, barely even breathing.
It takes only a moment for Stiles to look around, get his bearings—he’s still facing the way he was when he first crossed the clearing, clawed lines in the dirt like arrows—before he races off to Roscoe, shivering under the night air.
He misses the electric blue eyes watching his escape as they slide open for only mere seconds, closing before the wolf can even contemplate struggling to his paws.
The wolf has a lot of healing to do.