( no one's going to give applause to richie for his restraint. frankly, it'd be a little ridiculous if he was forty years old and still having dramatic wolf dreams of intense violence, craving blood or at least something to sink his teeth into to fend off an aggressive itch. no, he's outgrown the reckless years (and has invested in teething toys) and finds himself tamed instead — domesticated in a very literal sense of the word, thanks almost entirely to eddie himself. daydreaming about killing all you friends and loved ones is pretty normal for a kid werewolf chasing after their first kill, but he never had those kinds of fantasies towards eddie — instead, there's a fierce devotion, a bone deep sense to protect him at any cost, no matter the cost.
imprinting, in short. they're mates. he can feel their bond pulsating through his veins like a knife in the chest, spreading something sticky and warm throughout his whole body. his sense of smell isn't the only thing improved on when the moon is full and pulling him different directions like the tide — his sight is, too. off of eddie's extended fingers, he sees stubborn wolf hairs clinging to the webbing, he sees the promise of more pets in the near future, and the way his heart is beating against the veins in his wrist, richie desperate to lick a tongue across it and cover up one scent with his own. it's almost necessary. padding forward, and perhaps briefly toying with the play that eddie's the prey here, richie lets out a loud bark of playful intimidation before licking a slobbering tongue against his extended palm, quickly dodging out of the way before eddie can wipe it back on him.
it ends up allowing him to make a quick circle around eddie, eyeing him all the while. at his backside, he lifts a paw to press a huge pad against eddie's hip, giving a vague attempt at tugging down his underwear but not being too rough with it — he doesn't want to rip the material, and is pretty much destined to let eddie handle it for him.
while he does that, richie helps himself onto the bed, making a few circles around it before he just flops onto his back, facing the foot of the bed so he can watch eddie move. his chest heaves, a little. between his legs is something not exactly human, but not quite dog either — but it is sheathed, a block of skin concealing everything but the hardened, brightly orange head of his overexcited cock. arching in towards it, richie bites at it, helping his dick the rest of the way to lay flat on his stomach. a grower, not a shower — it'd be pretty difficult to run, if this thing was always flopping in the wind. )
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imprinting, in short. they're mates. he can feel their bond pulsating through his veins like a knife in the chest, spreading something sticky and warm throughout his whole body. his sense of smell isn't the only thing improved on when the moon is full and pulling him different directions like the tide — his sight is, too. off of eddie's extended fingers, he sees stubborn wolf hairs clinging to the webbing, he sees the promise of more pets in the near future, and the way his heart is beating against the veins in his wrist, richie desperate to lick a tongue across it and cover up one scent with his own. it's almost necessary. padding forward, and perhaps briefly toying with the play that eddie's the prey here, richie lets out a loud bark of playful intimidation before licking a slobbering tongue against his extended palm, quickly dodging out of the way before eddie can wipe it back on him.
it ends up allowing him to make a quick circle around eddie, eyeing him all the while. at his backside, he lifts a paw to press a huge pad against eddie's hip, giving a vague attempt at tugging down his underwear but not being too rough with it — he doesn't want to rip the material, and is pretty much destined to let eddie handle it for him.
while he does that, richie helps himself onto the bed, making a few circles around it before he just flops onto his back, facing the foot of the bed so he can watch eddie move. his chest heaves, a little. between his legs is something not exactly human, but not quite dog either — but it is sheathed, a block of skin concealing everything but the hardened, brightly orange head of his overexcited cock. arching in towards it, richie bites at it, helping his dick the rest of the way to lay flat on his stomach. a grower, not a shower — it'd be pretty difficult to run, if this thing was always flopping in the wind. )