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The first thing Shane notices when he pulls into the cottage driveway is that one of his deck chairs has been moved. He sits in his Land Rover for a moment, staring at it. It should on the left side of the deck, situated perfectly around his firepit, but it's currently on the right.
It's probably a pretty small detail to everyone else; Shane doesn't doubt that most people, after spending months away, would really notice or even care if some outside furniture moved. They're built to be left outside even during the winter months, the cushions tucked away in an outdoor storage box, to be placed once Shane starts settling in. It's entirely possible that a freak storm blew things around and moved something.
Shane eyes the normal looking furniture, his frown growing. Maybe his parents stopped by on the way to their own cottage, saw an upturned chair, and simply placed it where it had been displaced during said hypothetical freak storm?
He kills the engine to his car and grabs his bags, stepping out into the warm air with a long exhale. Besides the chair, evey thing is as Shane left it all those months ago, tidy and familiar.
The cottage smells exactly the same as it always does right when Shane arrives at the beginning of the offseason: the smell of lake water on the breeze as he airs the place out, fresh maple and the smell of sun baked stone accompanying it. It smells good to Shane; it chases the hundreds of chemically cleaned hotel rooms out of his mind.
For the first time in months, Shane feels something in his chest loosen. He leaves his bag by the floor temporarily, simply taking in several breaths as he makes sure the water is up and running. He is the only thing making noise here, no teammates shouting or reporters questioning his every decision. There's no coach to criticize him and no sponsors to pretend in front of; there is only Shane and the peace and quiet his cottage provides.
God, he really did need this. Especially now that the season from hell is finally over. A rough start, followed by the rush of finally finding their feet during the second half of the season. They pulled themselves together, made the playoffs as a true underdog, and then completely crashed and burned.
A first-round sweep, completely dead in the water after getting their asses handed to them by Boston in just four games. Months of work and rigid dedication ending in humiliation.
Afterwards, everyone kept talking about systems and coaching and unlucky bounces, while in reality, Shane spent the entire series dragging his team behind him like dead weight.
Score a goal, Shane. Fix the power play, Shane. Lead the room, Shane. Be captain, Shane.
Over and over and over again, be perfect, Shane. You have to be perfect, Shane, or you're a failure. There is no in between, not for him.
He closes his eyes, taking a moment to let out a shaky breath. When he told his parents he was disappearing for a month, a silent retreat at his cottage where he wanted to go completely without contact, his mother had looked personally offended.
"A month?" Yuna had asked, appalled.
"Yes."
"Shane—"
"A month."
"What about sponsorship shoots?"
"No."
"Commercials?"
"No."
"Interviews?"
"No, mom," Shane had replied, stressed and far too tired for a man who was only just turning thirty.
His mother had stared at him, bewildered. His father, unwilling to fuel the tension growing between mother and son, had wisely stayed quiet.
"I'm taking a break."
"You never take breaks."
"Exactly," Shane had snapped, only slightly regretting the tone he had used.
That had ended the discussion for the most part, his mom negotiating scheduled phone calls for twice a week, Shane putting his foot down on anything more than that. Shane had accepted because otherwise Yuna would probably show up at his door unwanted and uninvited, just to check up on her son.
Now, looking forward to being unreachable for at least the rest of the day and most of tomorrow, he turns his phone volume all the way down and turns off the vibrations as well. He tosses his phone onto the kitchen counter and immediately the relief is instant.
He shouldn't feel relieved about ignoring people who love him, but he does. It probably says something concerning about the state of his mental health, but he's very good at ignoring those kinds of thoughts; he's been doing it for years.
He gets to unpacking his things, starting with the groceries still sitting in his car, placing items into his cupboards at a relaxed pace. His supplements go in the same cupboard as his tea and coffee, the protein powder, too big to fit in the standard shelving, goes into a different cupboard with adjusted measurements. His clothes are just as easy to put in their proper place, shirts and pants separated, socks and underwear in the same drawer.
By the time he's done, the cottage feels like home again. Everything has been put away where it should be and it relaxes him, the tension in his muscles loosening now that he can finally truly relax.
He goes to bed feeling marginally more human than he has in months.
Three days later, he realizes he has accidentally recreated his entire in-season routine without even noticing. The point of it being the off-season seems to have slipped past him without his notice, a frown on his face as he sits at his kitchen table at six thirty in the morning, staring at his open laptop.
He hadn't even thought twice before opening his spreadsheet, typing in his calories intake from his breakfast this morning, the workout that followed, and his weight after it was all said and done. He looks at the color coded tabs and grimaces. He looks away from the spreadsheet, glancing out his window at the morning sun as it spreads across the lake's surface. He turns back to his spreadsheet, an insidious wave of dread threatening to creep up on him as he looks at the laptop screen. He glances back out the window before huffing and closing his laptop.
"What the hell am I doing?" he mutters to himself, the mumbled sound loud in the silence of the cottage's kitchen.
He has to look away from the closed device, a feeling of guilt sparking uncomfortably in his stomach, but the annoyance at said guilt is stronger, so Shane instead gets up and grabs a water bottle from his fridge, heading outside.
The lake is beautiful this morning, reflecting the colorful sky in a beautiful mosaic. The weather is perfect, only the smallest amount of clouds above him; it's picturesque.
Objectively speaking, this should incredibly be relaxing.
Instead, Shane feels like he has forgotten something. The feeling has persisted since he arrived, following him everywhere as he went about his days. It plagues him when he jogs along the hiking trail behind his cottage, while he's trying to read on his couch, and later, when the second day at the cottage had dragged along, when he was trying and failing to take a nap.
Shane takes a moment to sit on his now correctly placed chair and ruminates on the feeling. It's like his body doesn't understand how to exist without pressure. It's a problem, he knows, the forever lingering feeling of being 'always on' simply because that is what others expect of him. Hockey, as a whole, has become the method people use to keep Shane in line and loyal to the image they have of him in their heads.
Hockey stopped being fun years ago and he's only now realizing how utterly devastating that is for him. The thought makes his stomach twist, his brain shying away from the implications. Shane Hollander is hockey, has been hockey, will never be able to leave the cage that is hockey.
He is left in a melancholy mood and it follows him for the rest of the morning, a haze falling over the bright day. He reads the same page of his current book five times before he gives up on it, acknowledging the restlessness grinding away inside of him. By noon, he's packing up a little bag to take with him on his planned hike, the trails behind his home calling out to him. Water, snacks, and a small first aid kit—because his mother raised him correctly—are added to the bag before he's zipping it up, throwing it on, and heading out his door.
The trails around the lake are familiar to him, as he's been hiking them since he was a kid. The trails extending from his own property, past his parents', and all around the lake. He knows some of them branch out from the lakeside, leading deeper into the surrounding forests. He's not as familiar with those, his father's words to his younger self echoing in his head about not wandering too far or he might get lost.
Naturally, Shane wanders too far; the woods are peaceful. The farther he gets from the lake, the quieter everything becomes; he is left only with the soft sound of birdsong drifting through the trees, the occasional squirrel darting across his path, and the soft rustle of leaves as a light breeze floats above him.
The natural solitude of this place is what he was searching for at his cottage and so Shane goes deeper, seeking and yearning for the calm the forest seems to be offering.
By the time he checks his watch, he's farther from the cottage than he'd originally intended to go. He's not dangerously far out, just a little deeper into the forest than he would usually go. Shane considers calling it, turning around to make the trek back to his cottage, but the possibility of leaving the quiet of the forest has him continuing forward. The moment he stepped into the cottage he had relaxed, beyond ready to simply exist and do nothing else, but his anxieties and stress had seemingly followed him to his oasis, poisoning the sanctuary it had become over the years.
Now, as Shane walks down an overgrown game trail, those worries melt away. The trail winds through the forest before dipping into a low valley, the temperature cooling as the sunlight barely reaches the ground through the suddenly thick leaf canopy overhead. There is a surprising chill in the air, the temperature dropping just a little because of the coverage and lack of sun.
Shane stops, taking in several breaths as he simply stands there. He feels strange, standing in this shaded place, little beams of sun struggling to break through from above. He holds his breath, stopping himself from making any noise whatsoever.
The birds have stopped singing.
The woods have gone silent, no little critters scurrying around in search of food, no birds twittering from above, and the breeze has been snuffed out, unable to reach the secluded corner of the valley.
Shane's stomach tightens as he slowly starts moving forward again, cresting a hill and freezing at the sight that greets him.
"Oh," Shane breathes out before he can stop himself, staring wide-eyed at the gruesome scene.
A moose lies in the middle of a small clearing. The adult bull is massive, big enough that it would surely be even taller than Shane and weigh at least five times as much as he does. The antlers on the thing looks absolutely ridiculous.
It is also undeniably dead. Very dead, even, if the way it's throat has been violently ripped open is any indication.
Shane stares at the carcass for a long moment, his brain refusing to function properly at the grisly sight. Blood stains the grass beneath the moose, dark and wet. The wound really is horrific, and it just gets worse the longer Shane looks at it. It doesn't look like a particularly clean kill either, not something he would associate with someone who has been hunting out of season and looking to not get caught.
Something tore into the animal; that something was powerful enough to bring down a fully grown bull moose and eviscerate the shit out of its throat.
"What the fuck," Shane whispers to himself, his voice small.
The clearing offers no other answers, so Shane takes a cautious step forward to get a better look. The scale of the damage becomes even clearer, the moose's neck shredded and the visible shoulder covered in deep gouges. Chunks of flesh are missing from the moose's belly, half of its guts hanging out.
His skin prickles, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. What could have done this? A bear, maybe? Would a bear even be able to do this? Bears are huge, after all, it wasn't entirely out of the question that one squared up with this moose and the moose lost.
Still, something about it feels wrong. The aftermath of whatever occurred looks excessive, but contained to the moose itself. There isn't any upturned dirt or another patch of blood that might have come from an opponent that had to face a thousand pounds of muscle, antlers, and bad attitude.
Whatever killed it had to have been enormous.
Shane, coming to his sense, realizes he doesn't want to be here anymore. Like, at all. Every instinct he possesses starts screaming at him to leave now, immediately.
He backs away from the carcass slowly, keeping his eyes on the edges of the little clearing, surveying the surrounding trees with worry. Nothing is moving, not even the trees, and the silence is pervasive.
Goosebumps spread across his skin, his pulse quickening. Somehow, through no logical explanation, the air feels even cooler than before. It's the middle of summer; the thermometer nailed to the side of his house stated it was seventy-nine degrees when he set out around noon. The shade from the canopy is an easy explanation for some relief, but this chill—it sends a shiver down Shane's spine. It feels like spiders crawling under his skin, unexplained dread flowing through him as some type of long forgotten primal programming in his brain tries to scream at him.
It's a warning, Shane realizes, eyes darting around. Something is there. Shane can't see it or hear it, but something inside him has come to the conclusion that he has just become prey.
Shane swallows and then slowly turns and, finally, starts making his way back to the cottage. He wants to run, sprint back to the relative safety of his cottage, but he can't make himself pick up his pace. If he is prey, and he runs, doesn't that mean the predator will chase? Shane doesn't want to be a horror movie victim, running directionless in the woods only to trip over a root and meet his demise.
He is a professional athlete, a grown man, and a rational human being; he will calmly walk back home while glancing over his shoulder every thirty seconds. The break from the valley doesn't bring any relief; there is now cloud cover above his head, meaning it is just as dark in the more open parts of the forest as it was in the shaded parts. No sunlight penetrates the area, the clouds growing darker the closer he gets to his cottage. Shadows stretch between the trees, playing mind games with Shane's paranoia. Every fallen log looks like something waiting to move, the slow creep of tiny sounds returning only briefly before sputtering out again.
Shane hates this, deeply and viscerally, feeling shame for the fear that is keeping him moving.
Halfway back to the cottage, a branch snaps somewhere behind him. Shane whirls around, lungs tight as he stops breathing for a second, scanning the forest around him for any sign of what could have made that sound.
Nothing. There is just trees and more trees, bushes and grass and the shadows that connect them.
His heart pounds painfully in his chest as he finally takes in a shaky breath. "Hello?" he croaks, feeling and sounding ridiculous. Only silence follows. Shane winces, feeling very much like he is starring in his own horror movie, before he tries again. "Hello?" he calls out. "Anyone there?"
Once again, there is no response. Shane rubs his hand over his face, jaw clenched. Nothing is answering, Shane thinks to himself, because he is being silly. This isn't a horror movie and Shane isn't in some kind of—haunted forest? This is the same plot of land he's been on for years and it is just as normal as every other forest that is located in Canada.
Another sound; this time it's the sound of movement through brush, twigs snapping as something passes through quickly.
Shane freezes and the sound abruptly stops, the trees falling silent once more. Shane strains to listen, his pulse thundering in his ears. For several seconds, Shane hears nothing. His shoulders, pulled tight, start to release their tension and he takes a small step back, intent on turning around and forgetting his pride long enough to run.
A blur explodes from the undergrowth.
Shane barely has time to register movement before something slams into him hard, the impact driving all the air from his lungs. The world flips sideways, the ground rushing up to meet him, and he grunts when he lands, pain erupting from his shoulder. Dirt and debris fly, getting into his eyes, and Shane hisses at the pain, shaking his head violently.
Something massive lands on top of him. Shane's first thought is 'Holy shit, it's a bear.' The bear that killed the moose has followed him, has decided Shane is its next victim, and he opens his burning eyes to blurrily look at the animal on top of him.
It's not a bear.
A beast of a wolf stands over Shane, the animal towering over him effortlessly. Shane thinks it looks so big that, even if he were standing, the thing's shoulders might still be taller than him. The moose he saw earlier, the one he had thought was enormous, paled in comparison to the monster above him.
The wolf's forepaws pins his shoulder to the ground, the weight forcing the breath from his chest. Muscles bunch beneath the wolf's tawny and gray fur, it's muzzle stained a rusty red from what Shane can only assume is blood. The blood is crusted around the wolf's teeth, made visible by the slight snarl the wolf wears as it peers down at Shane.
Its eyes are a truly startling blue, sharp and watchful as the wolf examines Shane. A low snarl vibrates through its chest and Shane can only stare, dazed and breathless, pinned helplessly beneath a predator that looks more like a fairytale than what Shane thought an actual wolf should look like.
"What the fuck," Shane wheezes, eyes locked with the predator above him.
The wolf snarls again, leaning forward to sniff at his throat, his cold nose causing goosebumps when it brushes his neck. Shane stays frozen when it starts to move slowly down his body, releasing his aching shoulders, sniffing and nudging at him. It reaches his crotch and Shane squirms at the feeling of the wolf burying his nose right against his dick. Shane's heart is going double time as he starts glancing around him, panic gripping him tightly.
The wolf continues to nose around his crotch, little chuffing sounds escaping the hulking beast, warm breath dampening his shorts. Shane's eyes catch on a rock that looks like it is just within reach, small enough he could grasp it but big enough it would hopefully do enough damage to give Shane the opportunity to make a run for it.
He reaches for the rock, wincing when the wolf makes a particularly harsh shove against him. Shane's breath hitches when the wolf actually nudges his cock. To his horror, his body betrays him almost immediately, the soft appendage giving a little interested twitch at the stimulation.
Shane isn't a virgin; he's been with a couple women, enough to know he's gay, and a few men, enough to know he's definitely gay—and a bottom—but they've all been quick encounters in hotel rooms, short and impermanent. It's been a long time since he's had someone touch him intimately.
Mortified at the idea of an animal being that someone, Shane grabs the rock and sits up abruptly, upper body free to swing at the wolf, hitting it harshly across the face. The beast howls loudly, the sound haunting, and it jumps back to shake its head violently, little pained snarls leaving it.
Shane scrambles to get to his knees, faltering slightly at the pain in his shoulder, desperate to get up and run. He doesn't make it off his knees, the wolf on him and violently pinning him once more. He whimpers when the beast fits his entire neck in its jaws, teeth digging in when it tightens its hold slightly, a clear warning for Shane to stay still.
Shane does, pliant and terrified. The wolf releases him after giving him a little shake, the action feeling pointed and like he's being chastised. The wolf huffs before releasing him, taking the opportunity to sniff at spots on Shane's body that were previously denied to it. It huffs down his back until it gets to the seat of his pants, the wolf nudging at him again until it buries its nose between Shane's ass cheeks, burrowing as deeply as it can with his shorts and underwear in the way.
Shane can't stop the gasp that escapes him, the large muzzle easily splitting his cheeks obscenely, even with the clothing barrier. Shane stares in disbelief at the trees in front of him, hands coming up to grasp at the dirt beneath him.
"Hey, stop!" he shouts, his voice catching when the wolf pulls back and then rocks his nose forward again, the motion making Shane's entire body rock with it. He's horrified when he realizes he's getting hard, his cock twitching at the friction the movement caused.
"Please stop," Shane says breathlessly, eyes wide. He struggles to his knees, trembling.
The wolf doesn't stop, one of its massive paws coming to rest on Shane's back, pushing him completely into the dirt with his ass in the air. Shane feels his heart in his throat when the wolf growls loudly, a warm puff of air hitting his damp backside, before the wolf nips at him, shredding the seat of his pants like they're paper. He gasps, his hips twitching, as his hole is exposed to the wolf. Shane whimpers when warm breath glides across his hole, the feeling making him clench around nothing.
Shane knows what the wolf plans to do just before it does it.
Based on what Shane can feel, an obscenely large tongue swipes across his fluttering hole, saliva dripping onto him from the drooling wolf. It's incredibly wet and sloppy as the wolf laps at him, rough tongue sending Shane's hole into a fluttering mess. Shane can't keep the little breathless "ahs" from leaving him, his cock leaking from where its trapped in his underwear.
His face feels hot against the cool ground and he feels like he's going crazy, pleasure swiftly overtaking the horror he feels at being rimmed by an animal. The beast pulls its tongue back, sniffing briefly at his ass, and then returns to licking him; only this time, it forces its tongue inside Shane's hole, the sudden heat sending a shockwave through him. He moans loudly, his voice echoing throughout the forest, as the wolf assaults his insides, plunging in and out, wriggling around like it's searching for something.
Shane jolts forward the next second, his moan turning into a stuttering scream when the tongue brushes against his prostate. His mouth is open, practically gaping in shock, as this wild animals uses its tongue to assault him, playing with his prostate like its the wolf's new favorite toy. Shane is whining a high pitched sound, his cock throbbing in time with the wolf's thrusts, and he can feel the wet spot slowly pooling on the ground below his face, feeling struck dumb by the pleasure.
The wolf somehow forces its absurdly tactile tongue even deeper, pulling back to hit his prostate and then fuck into him, some of his teeth finally nicking Shane, the sharp burst of pain enough to send Shane over the edge, much to his surprise. He comes with a wail, his cock pulsing cum into his underwear, the waves of pleasure feeling never ending. He's gasping on the ground, his ass spasming around the invading tongue as it pulls him apart.
The forest around him disappears briefly as Shane takes in a deep breath, a little sob leaving him. What the fuck was that? he thinks hysterically, eyes watering. Was he just assaulted by a wild animal?
Shane doesn't get to really fall into the full blown panic attack that is threatening to overwhelm him, quickly distracted by the giant wolf mounting him. Shane is suddenly very aware of what position he has found himself in: on all fours with his ass presented to the beast on top of him.
"No, no, no!" he says, trying to drag himself forward, whining when he realizes he is stuck under the wolf's massive weight. "Please, please don't!" he begs, his breath hitching when something firm and slick brushes against his ass. He can't see behind him, can only feel, and what he feels has to be the wolf's penis; it feels huge where it rests on his skin.
"Please," he pleads again, shaking. "Don't do this. I'm not ready, please—"
The wolf ignores him.
The tapered end of the wolf's cock meets his puckered hole after a few seconds of aborted thrusts, and then Shane is choking out a cry, eyes bulging as the wolf thrusts forward, half of his cock suddenly resting like fire in Shane's guts. He's incredibly thick and long inside of Shane and his ass burns horrendously, even with the minimal stretching and spit from the wolf's tongue. He won't be surprised if he's already bleeding from being split open, because that is what it feels like. The wolf nudges his hips forward, humping slightly, forcing the cock a little deeper into Shane with each twitch of his hips.
Shane is fully crying now, unable to stop the tears from leaking down his flushed face. It hurts, its so incredibly painful, yet his cock is once again getting hard between his legs, aching and leaking into the mess already there from his first orgasm.
"No," Shane cries, breath catching with each thrust as the wolf keeps pushing in, the absurd girth and length of his cock bullying its way through his guts. He can't stop himself from drooling, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he pants, his chin wet from the spit.
His whimpers are caught in his throat when the wolf seemingly bottoms out, Shane's world narrowing down to the heft and weight buried in his ass, the wolf's cock searingly hot. It presses tightly against every inch of him, his prostate under a constant building pressure as the wolf simply stands there, buried inside Shane.
Shane hangs off the cock for what feels like minutes, but he knows it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Still, his mind feels fuzzy and dazed from a cocktail of lust, horror, and humiliation, his cries hitching when he shifts slightly and the cock inside him moves just the barest amount.
"Please," Shane slurs out the word, tongue feeling huge in his mouth. He doesn't know if he means please pull out or please fuck me. He feels disgusted with himself.
The wolf makes the decision for him.
He pulls his girthy dick out of Shane and then smoothly rams it back in, punching the air from Shane's lungs. He is stunned at the thrust, eyes wide and mouth still gaping. He feels like a whore that is being fucked dumb, eyes rolling back when the wolf starts humping vigorously into him. Shane manages to shakily get onto his elbows, giving him a little better leverage to avoid sliding across the ground, and he glances down, even though he knows his pants will block any view he might have.
He stares. His usually toned and flat stomach distends beneath his tight shirt, flattening out when the wolf pulls back, rhythm matching the thrusts exactly. The cock fucking into him is so big that Shane can physically see it distending his stomach as it rearranges his guts. Shane shakily lifts one of his arms and rests his hand on his stomach, biting his lip. The head of the wolf's cock meets Shane's hand through the walls of his stomach and Shane's orgasm stabs through him like a knife, cock jerking angrily between his legs, coming untouched for the second time in less than 5 minutes.
Shane is sobbing again, tears covering his cheeks as the wolf growls behind him, thrusts growing erratic as Shane's ass tries to milk the cock assaulting his insides. He chokes on nothing, the wolf pushing harshly forwards, Shane's ass slowly splitting even further.
It takes Shane a few more thrusts to realize that what he thought was the wolf's balls smacking his ass was actually the quickly forming knot. Shane's vision flashes white when the wolf forces the knot past his entrance with no hesitation, plugging Shane as he floods his insides with wolf cum. Shane can actually feel it, the copious amount of fluid filling him to the brim with a warm heat. He keeps his hand on his stomach, whimpering when he feels it distend even further from all the cum being unloaded inside him.
The wolf huffs behind him, pleased, and then leans down to lick at Shane's sweaty hair, a quiet content grumble leaving the animal's chest. Shane can smell the scent of dog breath and rust, the wolf's breath fanning along the side of his face. Shane drifts, blissed out and lost in the sensation of hanging vulnerably from a thick knot, being pumped full of seed.
Shane comes back to reality when the wolf shifts over him, flipping his hind leg so they're facing ass to ass. Shane blinks, confused, and then gasps when the wolf starts to tug at the knot, sharp pain racing through his senses. Shane gets to his knees quickly, pushing his ass back to make up the forced distance.
"No, please don't pull it out!" he begs. The wolf tugs again, walking forward several steps. They're still tied tightly enough together that it drags Shane across the forest floor, humiliation lancing through him. The entire experience has been degrading, him hanging off a knot and reduced to being tugged around by a dick in his ass.
"Please," Shane sobs, "please don't pull it out. I need it to stay in!"
The wolf finally pauses his tugging, much to Shane's relief.
Shane doesn't know how long he lays there, but eventually the knot does go down enough that the wolf can pull out with minimal effort, the wet feeling of a barrage of cum rushing out of his abused asshole an odd one. He gasps as he pushes even more out, stomach cramped and spasming as the torrent of fluid leaves him. He ignores the way his cum covered cock somehow finds the energy to twitch once more in interest at the feeling. Shane collapses fully to the ground, limbs numb, and he closes his eyes.
There is a rustling sound as the wolf moves, but Shane can't bring himself to look. He jumps slightly when warm liquid hits his ass and back. Shane flushes when his brain finally catches up: the wolf is pissing on him.
Shane wakes alone and ruined. He cries as he drags himself back to the cottage, arms held tightly around himself as he stumbles home in the evening light, sky clear once more. His legs are weak and shaky and his insides feel bruised and deformed. He wobbles through the forest, mind lost to the sensation of seed still trickling out of him.
When he manages to get into the cottage, the first thing he does is strip his ruined clothes off, throwing them weakly into the trashcan in his bathroom. He takes a shower to clean as much of the wolf off of him as he can, scrubbing harshly at his dirtied skin. Shane tentatively reaches behind him to touch his ruined hole, moaning as he gently pokes at the puffy rim, searching for any tears. By some unbelievable miracle, there is no tearing or blood, just a gaping swollen rim still somehow leaking wolf cum.
Shane shivers when he exits the shower, grunting in discomfort when he bends over to start filling the tub with hot water. He climbs in and shudders as his sore muscles are greeted by steaming water, his entire frame slumping into the tub after he takes a brief moment to adjust. He stays in the water until it feels chilly and his hands are pruned.
He lays in his bed for a few days, unable to eat or even move to do more than go to the bathroom, as he simply stares at his ceiling. He feels disgusted with himself; he only realizes now that after he used the rock, he didn't even put up much of a fight. He whimpered and begged and came like a little whore, creaming himself around the animal cock thrusting inside him.
He starts to feel restless on day three, eventually forcing himself to shakily get up from his bed, nervously looking out his windows. He can't bring himself to fully process what happened, ashamed that he came twice when being raped by a wild wolf. He feels gross and completely out of his body as he finally gets dressed, thick pants and a shirt more fitting for the winter months than the summer air.
He floats around his house, mechanically chewing on a protein bar as he stares blankly at nothing. Shane eventually falls back on the routines he was trying to leave behind this summer, switching out his usual jog outside for the treadmill located in his weight room. He tries to get himself moving to ward off his thoughts, reading to chase away any quiet moments that might let his brain start thinking about the fact that the more intense and satisfying orgasms he has ever had where when he was being raped and bred by a huge wolf.
Shane wakes up five days later, now established in his routine, hankering for something. His mouth is salivating as his stomach grumbles and Shane drags his feet as he meanders down his steps to make his way to the kitchen. He stares at the contents of his fridge, unsatisfied with the offerings. There's still plenty of things Shane would usually be more than happy to eat, but his craving is driving him to distraction, a visceral need for something eating away at him.
He opens his freezer, glancing around, and then zeroes in on a package of steaks. It's probably been in his freezer since last summer, brought to his place by his dad during one of their family dinners. Shane takes it out of the freezer and places it on a thawing plate he has only used twice the entire time he has occupied the cottage. He stares at the steak, standing stiffly in his kitchen. He zones out, nose twitching when the metallic smell of thawed meat finally grabs his attention. He glances at the clock on the wall and tries not to blanch at the realization he's been watching a steak defrost for over an hour.
He doesn't want to go outside, so he takes a frying pan and heats it, foot tapping as he waits for it to reach the correct temperature. He likes to add salt and pepper after his meat is cooked, so he throws the steak in the pan, mouth watering at the sizzling sound and sudden scent of cooking meat. Shane has made steak before, though not very often; it's not recommended for his macrobiotic diet, so he avoids it during the season. He usually likes it more on the medium side, the more red the middle is the more Shane gets uncomfortable at the thought of eating it, but he finds he doesn't actually care at this moment. He hasn't even cooked the steak for a minute before he flips it, eyeing the crust that has formed with hunger.
He doesn't wait any longer for the other side either, plating the steak and turning off the burner. He should deal with the pan, let the steak rest, but Shane's stomach is tight from hunger, so he ignores the dirty pan and turns to his steak. It's leaking juices, white plate tinted pink from the myoglobin. Shane's head is still in a fog as he reaches for it, the idea of grabbing silverware not even occurring to him. He grabs the still hot steak with his bare hands, not even flinching as he tears into it, pulling at pieces of beef with his teeth, greedily sucking at the juices that quickly cover his hands and arms.
He devours the blue steak, for once unbothered by the bright red uncooked center. He doesn't even mind that there is no salt and pepper on it; in fact, this is probably the best steak he's ever tasted, practically purring at the burst of flavor on his tongue. He's messy by the end of it, swaying on his feet as his stomach is comfortably full for the first time in days.
He licks at his arms, warm tongue tingly against his skin. He feels so satisfied he doesn't even move to wash his hands or run to take a shower. He grabs his phone and orders several bags of groceries to be delivered, the majority of it being different cuts of steak.
His insides burn as a cock is thrust inside of him, a warm chest plastered against his back. His cock aches from between his legs, dribbling so much spent cum that he's formed a little pool below him. His nipples ache, his chest feeling full as his tits swing with each hard thrust. Shane pants loudly, his breath steaming in the cold air. His alpha grunts behind him, reaching forward to grip Shane's hair and harshly pull him back, his spine arching with effort. His alpha pants wetly into his ear, murmurs he can't make out spoken into the sweat beading on his neck.
Shane whines when his alpha's knot catches against his rim, his hips instinctively pushing back to try and get the knot to catch. Shane needs it so badly, hates the feeling of an empty womb sitting inside of him. His alpha's other hand comes up to grasp at his tits, his fingers pinching Shane's sore nipples. Shane squeals at the sensation, shaking as his alpha pulls some of the milk from him. Their pup is old enough now to no longer need his milk, but Shane's chest is still so full, producing milk at a ridiculous rate. He hopes his next litter is bigger than his first, multiple pups pawing at his tits to feed, his alpha play wrestling with the pups while they wait their turn.
Shane's dick jumps beneath him, his alpha's cock rubbing deliciously against his prostate as he pushes in as deeply as he can, his knot finally forcing itself in and swelling to tie them together. Shane comes again, his cock shooting clear liquid as he squirts on his alphas knot.
"Thank you, alpha," Shane slurs, body trembling in his alpha's hold.
"Say my name, зайчик," his alpha growls, teeth nipping at Shane's shoulder.
"—," Shane moans, the love for his alpha fluttering within his chest. He smiles when he feels a rough tongue drag across his neck before fangs dig into his shoulder, one of a thousand bites his alpha has gifted him.
Shane opens his eyes as his body jerks awake, his dick kicking painfully as he comes in his sweatpants. He whimpers at the feeling, thrusting desperately against the soaked bedding beneath him. His balls feel tight as he humps frantically, his orgasm not stopping as he rubs his dick raw. The tight feeling in his bladder reaches its crest and Shane pants as he pisses all over the bed and himself, rutting his spent dick in little circles the entire time.
His ass feels wet from what he can only assume is sweat, slick and dripping just as much as his leaking dick. He collapses in his mess, wet breaths muffled as he lands face first in his pillow. He shakes as he lays there, body tingly and floating away as Shane slips back into sleep.
Shane is plagued by dreams the following week, waking up intermittently as he humps his bed and pisses himself when he grows overstimulated. He feels pathetic each time, whimpering and whining like a puppy as he leaks all over himself. He always passes out after and wakes up feeling horrendous, forced to peel himself away from his ruined sheets.
He's starts taking several showers each day, his first to get the previous night's debauchery off of him, and then anywhere from two to four showers when he starts to sweat through his pants. He tries wearing shorts, thinking he may be overheating, but his ass is still sweating like crazy. He has to fight not to shove his fingers into his damp hole each time he washes off, biting his lip bloody and raw as he resists the temptation. He tries walking around looking like fucking Winnie-the-Pooh—shirt on and no pants—but he just leaves wet patches that look disturbingly like snail trails all over whatever he's sitting on, so he returns to wearing sweats again, which take a bit longer for him to soak through.
He feels his paranoia worsen as the days go by, unable to make himself walk outside of his cottage. He makes a single attempt at the start of week three, venturing down toward the lake in slow, measured steps, but he sees a trail of giant paw prints at the water's edge and sprints back to his cottage, heart racing as sweat starts to form along his inner thighs. He's uncomfortably aware that the paw prints indicate that the wolf has been within spitting distance of the cottage, probably able to watch Shane through his too many windows. With how fresh they look, the wolf was probably there recently.
Just before the one month mark, there's a restlessness under his skin. His dreams turn fevered and blurred, losing some of the clarity, but adding a tinge of desperation to his already sweltering body. He doesn't know what the hell is wrong with him; the sudden craving for basically raw meat, the way his thighs grow sweaty and tacky, his asshole constantly damp, or why he feels so jittery as the night grows closer.
Shane stares out the window of his bedroom, the moon rising above the lake, and he twitches when he hears a loon's call echoing over the still surface. His eyes lock onto the bright full moon, unable to blink as his mind latches onto the moon's silver rays. It's almost captivating, the light shining down and dancing on the placid lake. He can almost see the light swirling around, his imagination conjuring whisps of starlight raining down through the beams.
Shane's brain is on fire.
His eyes blur as his head throbs painfully, his nose stuffed shut as he struggles to breathe correctly. He clutches at his head, an aborted scream cut off from his lips, before his eyes clear, his gaze sharper than it was before. It looks brighter too, like the moon is at 150%. His nose unclogs and he is suddenly assaulted with scents, his ears popping painfully. Some color has been lost to him, but the moon is just as beautiful as it was before.
He is on all fours, staring down at massive black paws, when he realizes the wolf that fucked him wasn't some freak of nature, long lost direwolf hybrid, but a werewolf. Shane hears another loon howl and his brain stops buzzing and focuses on the call.
That wasn't a loon.
Shane throws himself against the front door, barely even blinking when glass shatters and his reinforced door breaks open like paper under Shane's newfound bulk. He is racing out of the cottage immediately, running through the woods as fast as his four legs can carry him. He makes his way through the forest, instincts completely in control, and he recognizes where he ends up.
It is the exact spot where his alpha claimed him.
The spot hasn't changed at all in the month since Shane's claiming, the rock he had used in a misguided attempt to stop his alpha is even still laying on the grass. Shane huffs at it, his nose coming down to roll the rock away, dismissing it. He looks up and is unsurprised at what he sees: his alpha is waiting for him.
Shane drops both his body and his gaze, flipping over so his belly is in the air, his tail wagging slightly as alpha slowly approaches. His massive mate chuffs at him in greeting, sniffing along his paws and belly, leaving little nudging kisses with his nose as he goes. He licks briefly at Shane's sheath, but doesn't do more than that, laying over Shane with a grunt.
Shane's tail goes crazy at the weight, pure satisfaction flooding him as his alpha lays on top of him, his jaw coming to close around Shane's neck. Shane submits naturally, zero instincts telling him to fight. Shane is big and strong, will make a great protector for their pups, but he has no need to fight his own mate. Shane remains blissfully under his alpha, welcoming the warm tongue that starts to groom him, little nibbles accompanying it while his alpha removes any debris he accumulated while making his way to their spot.
Shane falls asleep like that, warm and loved, relaxed and happy for the first time in years.
He wakes the next morning, back to only having two legs, and is covered in dirt and dried spit. He turns and freezes when he sees an absolutely gorgeous man sitting a few feet away, naked and staring at Shane with a familiar blue eyes.
“Hello, puppy,” the man says in a Russian accent.
Shane shivers at the sound, something inside him going gooey and warm. “It was you,” Shane says, his voice shaking. “You raped me.”
“I claimed you,” the man says, tilting his head. “You smelled so sweet and ripe. I knew you would be the perfect mate for me.”
“I didn’t want it,” Shane says, sniffing as his eyes start to water.
“You came on my cock twice without me having to do anything, so I don't think that's true," the man says, his tone teasing. "Besides, it doesn’t matter what you want,” the man tells him. He moves from his sitting position, crawling until he hovers over Shane’s trembling form. “It matters what your alpha wants, and what I want is to breed you.”
Shane is terrified, tears threatening to spill, and his cock is so hard it almost hurts, already swelling against his stomach. The man smells just like the forest with just a tinge of rust mixed it, strong and overwhelmingly feral.
The man smirks as he glances down at Shane's growing erection, raising an eyebrow, amusement in his eyes. “Such a good slut.” He leans down to breathe in Shane’s scent, a pleased growl leaving him as he noses his way across Shane's vulnerable neck. “Ilya,” he says as he pulls away briefly, hand coming up to grip Shane's chin firmly.
"What?" Shane's mutters, his mind going fuzzy again as the man's grip tightens deliciously, prying his mouth open just enough so he can move his hand and shove two fingers into Shane's mouth.
"You need to know the name of the wolf that plans on filling you with a litter of pups," Ilya replies, a sharp grin accompanying his words.
Shane whimpers around the exploring digits, something in him squirming with pleasure at Ilya's attentions. "Sh-Shane,” he tells Ilya, doing his best to say his name without dislodging the fingers. He tries slowly sucking on them, unable to think straight as Ilya’s other hand starts squeezing at his tits.
"I know exactly who you are," Ilya says. "My pretty little breeding bitch."