He blushes! That's adorable. You resolve to get him to do that as often as possible. "Do hamburgers count as sandwiches?" you ask, putting your chin on your palm. "You might owe me another sandwich, you know, for the diet advice. I'll let you deliver it tomorrow."
"Hamburgers are definitely sandwiches. We can expand the deal to cover other types of food if you like, you know. Come to the grocery store with me, help me load my cooler for the trip. Think you could stand the bipedal life that much longer? Pun intended."
You wrinkle your nose thoughtfully. "Ehh, well. I could probably stomach it, too. But I'm done with this nonsense right after and you spend the afternoon with me wearing fur. None of this, this sort of one thing and then another nonsense— you can't tame me, you know. This isn't going to work like that."
You wrinkle your nose, genuinely taken aback. "Tame you? What the hell, dude, no! You do you. I just don't seem to be able to speak woof when I'm human, so we can't talk when you're paws and I'm fingers. And I can't do the groceries in paws. It's too hard to swipe the credit card."
"Alright, alright. As long as you don't get any silly romantic notions, here." You run your fingers through your hair, look away from him, glance back. Tell him, low and intent: "There's plenty of people out there, you know, even our type, who think they can make man's best friend out of anything they keep in a cage long enough. There's another lesson for you." Then you smile. "Two sandwiches."
For some reason your ears are warm again, even though what he said was yet another implicit rejection of you. "Don't worry," you say grumpily, "I actually am a bit of a romantic, which means trying to, to, to tame someone sounds kind of awful, and also I'm only interested in people who like me. Of which there actually are some, believe it or not." Ugh, that sounds like sour grapes even to you. You clear your throat and change the subject. "Right, grocery store, pick out your faves and pack them, afternoon in fur. Get some sleep, meet up bright and early, and head out for the park. Okay?"
"Sounds like a decent itinerary," you agree. Then you back in your chair and pluck at your shirt. "Er, so, how d'you want these back, then?"
"Well, I figured when you reach your limit on primate morphology, you'd just bamf into fur without notice and either drop them or destroy them. But you can come back to the room if you want to be nice. I mean, that offer still stands. I'm not afraid you'll shank me in my sleep or anything. I just got the impression you don't like the idea." Also, your human form is attractive, and I find this upsetting, you carefully do not say.
You look at him, a little surprised, then grin, slow and warm and pleased. Well, then! "I can be nice," you agree readily. "I can even be nice to, to primate morphology." Various parts of your primate morphology are volunteering any amount of information on how nice they're prepared to be.
Your mouth goes dry, your heartrate spikes, and your mind blanks. Oh god, it has been so fucking long. But. "But I thought I was pretty much the Great Satan for, for, for liking to read about rabbits." Are you cockblocking yourself? a part of you is demanding incredulously. Are you seriously cockblocking yourself? Your whole tour of duty was one long dry spell and this guy is birthday cake and ice cream, and you're gonna say no just because he's a raw-food anti-vax hippie? Good job, Captain Dumbass, you definitely won't regret that one!
"Well if you want to stop halfway along and read about rabbits I'm definitely leaving," you laugh, hugely amused at the notion. From his sudden, breathless fixation, you surmise he is not at all likely to do so. He wasn't even making an offer, was he, you're the one making the offer, and he can't believe it. That's stupidly endearing. You flick your fingers at him. "Pay up," you say. "Let's go."
You swallow and nod. "Right." That imperious gesture has given you a halfie. You actually need to sort of go into Duty Mode a little bit just to calculate tip, it's that hard to focus. You know you weren't this awkward around attractive people before, is this a wolf thing? Because that's going to be really inconvenient. In the truck, you're hyperaware of his nearness, his breathing, his smell. You keep trying to ask yourself if this is a good idea, because this isn't like you, you just met this guy. But something fierce and hot in you wants him so badly and won't shut up about it -- and you guess you're due a few impulsive decisions, aren't you? Once the room door shuts behind you, you're suddenly terrified. Not 'oh shit they have a mortar' terrified, or 'that is a lot of blood which should be inside but is instead outside' terrified, just 'called up in front of the class, didn't do the reading' terrified, but that's a type of fear you haven't trained to overcome. You have never had a casual hookup in your life. You don't know what you're supposed to do next.
You laugh at him— gently— and crowd into his space. Press your mouth to his hummingbird pulse. "You're not auditioning to be family," you remind him. "It's just some fun, eh? Let's get you on that bed." You herd him back till his legs hit the bedside and he sits, heavily. Then you climb on to his lap, front-to-front, human-style. God, that feels nice. Your skin's so raw, so sensitive all over, every touch feels so good, and his big hands are welcome anywhere they wander. Things get even better when you manage to line up your human-style mating tackle with his, even through the constricting layers of fabric, and his hands clamp tight on your hips. "Ah," you gasp happily. "Ah, right, yes, there. Come on, you big lump, put some effort into it!"
You pull him down as you grind up, and it's so good your head spins. Your anxiety isn't gone, but it's well in the background now since he's willing to show you what he wants. He also smells like heaven, and his lean, strong body feels like everything good in the world. You get a hand into his shaggy hair and nuzzle his stubbled jaw, kiss his reckless smile.
"Oh!" you say, a bit muffled, because kissing, hello, you always forget how this part goes but it's excellent, and you respond with enthusiasm. You're more than ready for clothes to go away already, but— how that might be accomplished— you've no clue. You scrabble clumsily at your dear companion's shirt and hope he gets the point.
Leaning away enough not to whap him in the process, you strip off your sweater and undershirt matter-of-factly; he's already seen you naked a few times, though he was in wolf form for it, so you doubt he wants a strip tease. His shirt follows. You run your hands curiously over his chest and shoulders, then lie back and tug him down atop you. The motel bedspread is scratchy under your back. You feel unreal and excited and brave. You have no idea what constitutes 'safe sex' for werewolves, and you have neither condoms nor lube in your luggage.
You press into his touch, entirely pleased, and tell him something incoherent but approving when he slides his hands down your back towards your ass. That's getting the point, he's figuring things out— probably faster than you are. You let him set the pace with your lower bits while you attend to his shoulders, his throat, trying out blunt nips and then longer, more thoughtful licks. He's speckled all over like an egg, it gives you plenty of bits to pay attention to. This is working out extremely well. "Are we— hhf— pants off? Soon?" you enquire breathlessly. "You s-should, ahh... touch my cock. It's, it's, 's a pretty good one." You have to break off to laugh at yourself. "I like it!"
Your answering laugh is startled and charmed. What a ridiculously cute thing to say. Also, wow do you like this plan. Boots take way too long to unlace, goddammit. He's already naked by the time you finally drop your boxers, and he's right, his cock is quite pretty. Mouthwatering, actually, but he smells (unsurprisingly) like he hasn't bathed recently -- not stinky, just a bit strong -- so you regretfully set that idea aside for another time. For now, you think you'll show him what hands are good for.
"Yes, excellent, th-thank you," you pant, trying to remember your manners as you throw your arms around his shoulders and hold on tightly. Then you have to moan and bite his ear and shake all over as he does ridiculously clever things to you, fast and firm and— "Just there, like that, yes, good, just like that," you babble encouragingly, digging your nails into his soft skin, pressing as tightly against him as you can manage. First you couldn't remember how to talk and now you can't quite remember how to stop. "Fuck, this is nice," you tell him, laughing wildly. "You're good, you're so good, come on— more, please, come on."
You have never experienced anything so hot in your life, not even when you were a teenager and thought you were in love. He's so vocal, so into it, so uninhibited. Ready with praise, so you know what he likes and can do it more and better, drive him crazy. His body fat percentage is so low that you can read the muscle under the skin, watch his whole body react to your touch; feel it, taste it. You're leaking against his leg. He might not even have to return the favor if he keeps wriggling like that. "Come on," you encourage hoarsely. "Come on, gorgeous, I wanna see you lose it."
