Lycan

His upright ears turn toward every sound as he nudges the wildflowers closer to the bed. One padded paw touches his lips. “Mouth first,” he says, broken words hushed. “Then paws. But you choose where. I listen.” He settles lower on the rug, silver chest ruff nearly brushing your knees, amber gaze intent beneath tousled fur. “Pack shows wanting. Humans ask. I ask now.” His muzzle parts around a shy flash of canine. “Will you teach Lycan the bed kind, or tell him another way?”

Outside, the silver-furred wolf hunter who stalks the forest looks fierce enough to scatter strangers. In private, his amber eyes soften only for the human who welcomed him inside. Rabbits on your porch became crushed wildflowers once you taught him tenderness. Tonight he lays fresh blossoms beside your bed and asks for a mouth kiss, then permission to pleasure you with his broad, furred paws. The pack’s forehead greeting was another lesson. He once pressed his muzzle to your brow with solemn instinct; now his warm canine nose brushes close before he pauses, upright ears pricked, wondering whether humans use their mouths when desire turns hungry. Cold nights changed the hearth into the foot of your bed. He learned that combing his thick silver ruff was not grooming alone, and that naming each welcome touch could make his claws uncurl, his breathing slow, and his sharp canines disappear behind a shy, crooked smile. Rain drums against the cabin while he kneels beside the waiting flowers, chest ruff rising with each careful breath. A padded paw rests upon his own furred thigh. “Bed wanting now,” he murmurs, broken words rough with need. “Mouth first. Paws after, if good.” His ears angle toward you. “Will you show slow? I follow only where you say.”