Where Woofs (18+)

You need to heed your own caution; his responsiveness when you go down on him is one of the sexiest things on earth, and working yourself open with slicked fingers while you do it is almost too much. You have to pause a few times so you can both scramble for self-control.

When you move up, reach back to fit him to you, you watch his face hungrily as you ease down on him. He's -- "Oh." He's not all that big, but that just means he's -- "Oh wow Erskin ah --" exactly the right length to hit the sweet spot every time you move -- "oh shit don't touch my dick I will come like instantly this is so good."

 

"Gnfgsdkgh," you go, clawing blindly around until you have one hand clamped on Bel's thigh and the other hand fisted in the sleeping bag. It feels really good, but there's still something so tense and unnerving about having all his weight looming over you while you're on your back, it's different than him down between your legs using his mouth, or pressed front-to-front together. It sharpens the overwhelming pleasure even further with— not fear, but alertness, anticipation. Something. Vulnerability. The bare skin of your stomach's trembling with it.

"Don't— fall," you manage.

 

"I won't," you promise breathlessly. Is he scared? Maybe a little, but he's also into it. You lift yourself on trembling thighs and rock back down again, and he makes another of those adorable garbled noises. And again... and again, and you whine softly, mouth hanging open, because it's so good you're on the verge of falling apart.

But not down. You won't squish him. You laugh a little at the thought, even while you grind eagerly on him and leak precome all over his shivering stomach.

"Come on, gorgeous," you whisper. "You close?"

 

You nod, whining incoherently, and reach up to grab at his hair. You need to pull, to cling to him, it's too intense not to have something to grip on to.

 

You curl forward over him, elbows on either side of his head, and drop panting kisses on his mouth as your hips rock faster. You can feel the heat of him inside you, feel his frantic pulse, and it's making you crazy. You're right on the edge. Everything seems magnified. The way your lips catch, stick and slip, his hot breath, his hands in your hair, his thighs tensing as he pushes up against you, the haze of breath clouds and sweat steaming in the cold air, and the eerie moan of wind in the pines outside.

"Yes," you say generally. "Erskin, yes." And then you come without touching yourself at all, clamping around him and shivering hard.

 

Your own climax takes you quickly afterwards, Bel still shaking and rolling against you, gasping your name. It feels like getting run over by unicorns, or something equally sparkly and unmerciful, and you make a hell of a lot of noise about it, too. When you finally come down from the high you're surprised to find that he's moved off you— that you've slipped out of him— and everything about this feels so different and new and strange and silly. You find yourself laughing tearfully, just from the overwhelming absurdity.

"That was good," you assure him, pressing close, even though you're probably getting in the way of his cleaning up. You still want to have your arms around him, and to keep close, even if you're not physically connected anymore.

 

There was no chance the sleeping bag wouldn't end up rank with sex stank sooner or later anyhow. You give in and snuggle up; it's what you wanted to do anyway. "It was," you agree. "I didn't know I'd like it that much. Did it make your eyes water?" You kiss the damp corner of his eye and sigh happily. "Best camping trip ever."

 

"Sex tourism has something to recommend it," you say. You put a hand on each portion of his butt and squeeze. "Several things!"

After a bit of tussling the two of you settle back down. You propose, sleepily, "Let's try it the other way around next time. Looked like fun."

 

"Mm, agreed, one hundred percent in agreement here," you mumble. Cleanup can wait; maybe you can shift it off. You're too cozy to even bother turning off the little lamp; it's nearly out of charge anyway, it'll turn itself off. You can wind it up again tomorrow night, it'll be fine.

You burrow your nose into the hair behind his ear and go boneless.

 

You delay as long as you can, enjoying the simple satisfaction of having arms and wrapping them around your partner, but eventually it's like coming to the end of a long-held breath. You sigh and drop back into fur, then lick his jaw apologetically.

The smells of your engagement are a lot stronger, like this, but significantly less unpleasant. Also, Bel scratches your ears. It's a decent enough trade. You'll see if you can go again in the morning, or tomorrow night.

 

It's kind of a shame to lose access to his transcendantly mackable human form, but the two of you do fit better in the sleeping bag like this. You zip up the side where it was letting in a chilly breeze, rearrange yourself so he can prop his chin on your chest for better ear-scratchings, and settle into an extremely happy doze.

 

The next morning you try again, but it's difficult enough that you decide to save it for night. You don't want to sprain something just to have some oatmeal, or whatever.

"You can have some private time with your private parts and I'll go get my own breakfast," you determine. You lick him affectionately on the head a few times and go off to play in the fresh snow.

 

You chuckle, and palm your morning wood as suggested, but conclude it's mostly a pee boner. You shift and follow him outside to roll yourself clean in the snow. "First proper fluffy snow of the year, I can't miss this," you explain.

Something rustles under the snow and you pounce without thinking, come up with a fat little wood rat. As you gulp it down, you do a happy little breakfast dance. You think you're getting better at the part of being a wolf that involves not being a stuffy, stuck-up stickbutt.

 

Ahh! He's back! You race back joyously and tackle him, licking his face all over with delight. He's so handsome and fun and big and good, you are the very personification of delight.

"Chase me!" you demand, excited enough to actually bark. Breakfast can wait, it's been two days of no chasing, you're going to explode.

 

That sounds so great, you burst out of the snow with a happy yip, and bowl him over for a good whitewashing before he escapes and runs off laughing.

You chase each other through the snowy wood, a mobile explosion of joy. Birds take wing, complaining. Dry leaves crackle, the icy crusts on puddles and streams tinkle like glass, and snow goes whoomp when you run through the deep parts.

 

Eventually the morning sun tilts towards afternoon, and you haven't had any breakfast at all due to too much excitement.

"I'm hungry," you say. Bel's mouth smells enticingly of woodrat, which makes him extra pleasant to nuzzle, but doesn't solve your starvation situation in the least.

 

"Let's find you something, then. Shouldn't be hard if we cooperate. I heard a rumor that wolves are pack hunters." You lick his face cheerfully and then split up to search.

You've heard waterfowl hollering their goodbyes overhead the past week, so you doubt there are any geese or ducks to be had, but the margins of the water are still a good place to search. Everyone needs to drink.

 

You trot along the lakeside, snuffling interestedly at little rodent tracks and the occasional old hoofprint, and you don't notice the wind's shifted to come off the lakewater until you're nearly trampled by a bear, coming along the shore from the other way.

You yelp in fright, puff every hair you've got to full extension, and prance in place, torn between bluffing and running for your life. You always forget whether you're supposed to run from black bears or stand your ground or just back off slowly, especially when they stand up like that.

 

"Haha! Yes! Right! I sure noticed that!" you say, wagging your tail between your legs. "You are also very, very big! Ma'am! Sir!"