Where Woofs (18+)

"Thank you," you smile against his hair, "I enjoy it. I love how squirmy you get, and your hands in my hair, and... and everything."

 

"Oh, and everything, very specific, I'll make sure to keep doing everything," you tease him. You yawn, stretch, wobble back from the edge of falling back into fur again, kiss his sweaty throat. "Here, what would you like?" you ask, and pet along his back. "Hands? Mouth— there's probably slick around here, somewhere, isn't there? But I shouldn't like to change by accident halfway through. That'd be a hell of a thing to have to explain to your dad, wouldn't it, just how, you know, attached. You've gotten. To your dog." You're giggling wickedly by the end of the notion.

 

When he mentions slick, you become very, very interested -- until the next sentence. "Jesus, Erskin, mood whiplash!" you wheeze. "I was gonna be like 'hell yes let's do' and then. Hee, oh no, you wouldn't, would you?"

 

You choke your laughter down on the pillow until you've got some control of yourself— it takes a while, the two of you keep setting one another off.

"No, no," you say, then amend, "not on purpose, and I assure you I'd be, I'd, I'd be equally— discomfited. Ha! Don't suppose it'd be much better the other way around, would it? Well, in terms of your father, I mean— I've— with a— er, you probably don't want to hear about it!" You scatter kisses across his face, still laughing, then reach for his hard cock. Well, not as hard as it could be. You give it an encouraging few strokes until it starts to recover from hypothetical canine-related trauma situations. Turned-werewolves generally take awhile to come around to doing it any other way than in human-shape, but the softness and sensitivity of this form really does have its own charms to recommend it.

"Fuck, you're pretty," you tell him fondly. "Look at you. Well, you can't, but I am. You're very pretty."

 

"No, you," you return happily, tangling your fingers in his hair and your legs together with his, the better to rock up into his fist. "Ahh you have such good hands. Sexy hands. Ngh, please don't stop."

 

You bite his ear, then lick it. "I don't have anywhere more important to be," you tell him, amused. "Come on, lovely boy, have at it." You get your free arm around his shoulder to pull him close, and kiss him sloppily. It's hard to remember what bits you're supposed to be licking when he makes noises like that.

 

There's something delightfully teenage-wicked about this situation, which you find unutterably charming. And also, knowing how wild he is (and how lethal you are), and having him here (being here) safe and cozy in your childhood bed -- the contrast is delicious. Makes it special. Kissing and panting, sometimes laughing a little when you bump noses or make a silly noise, you lose yourself in the moment. Whisper his name urgently, then stifle yourself with a mouthful of his shoulder as you come.

 

You shiver and whine when he bites you like that, finish him off with your fingers gone slick and warm, coax some beautiful, silly little noises from him as he comes down. Then you lick your hand off and push his discarded shirt down there for him to clean off with. As you nuzzle and laugh and pet each other you feel it again, the unstable pull back to wolf-shape, and you're panting when you get your balance again.

"Like you like this," you tell him, admit to him, lacing your fingers through his hair, sprawling across the sheets. You're warm and sensitive all over, he's kissing where he bit you, it's nice. "Nngh. I like this."

 

"Me too, oh, me too," you sigh, nibbling at his neck, kissing his jaw -- but when you look at his face, his eyes have gone yellow. "You need to change back, don't you," you say regretfully. "Babe, don't push yourself, it's not like we don't have all the time we want."

 

"Alright, alright, I suppose we do," you concede, nudging him to pull back a little, then fall back into fur as if knocked off your feet.

"Oof," you say, lying on your side panting. You get to your four paws and give a brisk shake, then hop off the bed to stretch out. Well, at least you're dry now, and very clean. You hop back on to the bed where Bel seems about finished with his grooming routine, and lick his cheek.

"Round two?" you enquire, teasing.

 

You snicker. "Tell me you didn't just say what I think you said." You pick hair out of your hairbrush, then look from it to him consideringly. "Hm, it's not designed for fur, but you wanna give it a try?"

 

You wag an interested agreement and lie down on your haunches, peering over your shoulder to see what he's up to.

"Oh, hello, that's excellent," you let him know, on the first pass of the brush, and after that it is mostly variations of 'hooray' and 'yes please' until you are a happy, well-groomed puddle.

 

The brush makes his fur gleam. "Good grief, you clean up pretty," you tell him. "You're a movie star. Gimme your tail, let me make it all feathery." And a minute later, "You're so fabulous, I need a picture. Where's my phone."

You eventually find your phone in your jeans in the bathroom hamper. "It's lucky you're so photogenic," you explain as you flop down beside him so you can take one of you together, "or I might've put my phone through the wash in the morning."

 

You pose majestically until he's just about ready to click the picture, then lick his ear. The photo is blurry but there's a clear enough rendition of his surprised face that you're deeply pleased with yourself. You roll over and laugh, then steal all the blankets and form yourself into a small wolf burrito.

 

"Pfff, you complete goober!" You toss your phone on the bedside table, turn out the light, and wrestle him for the covers until there's a sort of lumpy man-and-wolf burrito with legs sticking out of it.

Good enough.

 

In the morning you wake to find yourself in sole possession of the bed. Fuck, does Bel ever like to be up and at them early, but you read somewhere that human adults only need something like six hours of sleep in order to not die. Absurd. You can't imagine what they do with all that time.

You jump down from the bed, shake the sleep off, then go have another wander about the place to see where he might have gone. When you put your nose into the kitchen you find his father sitting at a table, though the smell is mostly paper and only slightly food. You go stand by his chair and wag. Maybe he knows where Bel is. Maybe he knows where breakfast is. At this rate you are going to get fat, and trot into Canada magnificently padded-out for the winter. It's a very pleasing notion.

 

You stare hopefully for more ear scruffles, then go to the door and examine the fastening. It's a handle rather than a knob, and easy enough to paw down while pushing. Then the door appears to work the other way, so you need to use your jaw to twist and pull, which is a damn nuisance.

You glance over your shoulder as you go outside-- Bel's dad has watched the whole thing, and door opening tends to strain the outer limits of most dogs' cognition. It also tends to be one of the few things humans know dogs aren't good at.

"Er.... Hurp durp?" You say, essaying a curly tail wag and a big grin. Then you clear out to go say hello to Bel.

 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you say as he comes out. You watched the whole thing, bloody hands in a bucket of goose water, mouth hanging open. "How did you open the screen door with your face?"

Your dad calls out, "Did you teach him to do that?"

"Nope, he's just a genius!" You nod at the tub of discarded guts and stuff. "Are giblets for breakfast satisfactory, monsieur le chien?"

 

You dance several wide, enthusiastic circles around him, then pounce on the tub of offal. When you've bolted all of it down you present yourself happily to Bel for a face-wash.

"I love you!" You tell him , and lick a somewhat bloody stripe across his neck.