Chapter Nine
W eed tried not to let on how shaken he was after the panic attack. Something like that had never happened to him before. It had felt as if his own body was fighting against him.
What could be worse than your body being outwardly under another’s control, than it not being inwardly under your control, either?
Mind you, Weed considered, it hadn’t exactly been under his control for the past week, either. His dick seemed to be doing a lot of the steering.
After his lewd epiphany by the river, the mere prospect of watching the wolfman smoke fish and carry water around was apparently all it needed to get excited. Weed’s only defence mechanism was to double-down on being as aggravating as possible to his unwilling master. He’d heard of ‘malicious compliance’—but with the wolfman being so determined to not give any outright orders, Weed had invented ‘malicious apathy’ instead.
He’d got what he wanted, in a way. When Arran inadvertently snarled at him to starve, his dick had shrivelled right up into his nuts. Turning the wolfman against him was certainly one way to snuff out the suffering of his newly awakened libido.
Besides the panic attack, today had been easier. The wind-swept journey to the old lady’s house had kept Weed’s entire body preoccupied with not being blown away, and the aftermath of his conversation with Arran distracted him for the rest the evening.
Weed sat by the mouth of the cave, still draped cosily in his new coat, staring out at the simmer dim while night fell around him. Tonight, the sky was illuminated in pale shades of blue, casting a cool filter of colour over the ravine. His plate of half-eaten fish lay next to him. It was a strange thing, to no longer be constantly hungry. To feel he could pick at his food, rather than gulp it down in haste.
Weed leaned comfortably against the rock, basking in the fragrance of the overhanging honeysuckle. Rustles and chirps of life drifted on the relentless Shetland wind, muted though it was down here.
Weed realised he was being watched. Two beady eyes glinted among the rocks.
He threw out a handful of fish. ‘Don’t be shy. Come have a feast.’
The eyes blinked, refocusing on the fish. A long, sleek shape with a pointed face emerged, nose-first, and sniffed the offering. Its head was topped by soft, rounded ears and covered in short brown fur except for its brow and muzzle, which were creamy white. A female polecat.
She took a large mouthful of fish and gulped it down. Then she chittered at Weed before grabbing the largest morsel in her delicate jaws and disappeared over the rocks.
‘You’re welcome,’ Weed murmured. He placed a hand on the earth and followed the polecat’s trail by the tap of her paws over plant stems. She squeezed into an underground burrow. Inside, Weed felt the jostling movements of tiny bodies against the soil. A litter of kits.
Weed rested his chin on his hands with a sigh. How wonderful to cultivate life rather than snuff it out, for a change.
His mood took a sudden nosedive. Elsie’s influence. The mere thought of her earlier in the day had left a sour taste in his mouth, a black pall clinging to his head containing every order she’d made him follow. Every monster—creature—person—she’d forced Weed to help her capture or kill.
Weed coiled a vine of honeysuckle around his wrist, matching the rope tattoo. Even in death, Elsie still held power over him. Wasn’t that why his body had panicked? Because it recognised the threat of her residing in his thoughts.
Arran had chased her away. What did it matter to the Wulver, if Weed’s body malfunctioned? It was one thing to keep Weed fed and clothed, but to add genuine compassion into the mix was starting to take the piss. Weed was even at risk of liking the wolfman, for goodness’ sake.
Weed threw the rest of his fish into the shadows for the polecat and other small beasts to profit from. He stood and stretched, then found himself staring at his empty plate.
Not everything is a transaction.
‘It’s just food for animals,’ Weed muttered to himself. ‘Won’t catch me proving you right.’
He sauntered back into the main cave, pointedly ignoring Arran for no reason. The Wulver was unperturbed and didn’t look up from his task by the fire.
‘Who were you talking to?’
Weed froze. He turned on the spot, glaring at the back of Arran’s head. Those ears. ‘No one,’ Weed replied snottily. ‘Just plants.’
‘I expected as much.’ Arran poked the embers. Amusement tinged his voice. ‘It is a struggle to survive in a place like this. There are many creatures that would be grateful of a gift to help them along.’
Weed’s face flashed hot. You smug, sanctimonious prick.
You considerate, charitable fucking prick.
Hating that he’d been caught red-handed, Weed snatched a book at random and slumped onto his fleece pile in sulking silence. He thumbed through the pages, pretending to read but actually mentally undressing the Wulver over the top of it.
The wolfman wasn’t doing anything particularly exhilarating. If anything, it was much the opposite: Arran was scrubbing out the big cauldron he used for stew, sat cross-legged by the hearth with the pot in front of him. He looked peaceful, yet intent on his work, which meant his brow was furrowed in a way Weed was beginning to find endearing.
The sharp ache of arousal stirred low in Weed’s abdomen. His dick filled insistently.
You really have a thing for domestic chores, don’t you? Weed thought, raising an eyebrow at his crotch. It rubbed uncomfortably against the metal zipper as he shifted position.
Weed continued watching the Wulver over his book and noted with satisfaction the way his broad shoulders suddenly stiffened. Smell me, can you?
But if Arran was aware of Weed’s condition he didn’t comment on it, and resumed scrubbing in silence. Meanwhile, Weed was recalling the feeling of the Wulver’s arms hugging him tightly. How strong they’d been. How close and safe he felt. How much he’d wanted them to do so, so much more.
His dick burned hotter, bucking involuntarily in its confines. The friction made Weed hiss. He cast another glance at the Wulver, who was still paying no attention to him.
Well, if the wolfman was going to act like he didn’t exist, then there was no harm in dealing with his ‘condition’ by himself.
Weed fumbled his trousers open and grasped his aching dick. At once his head lolled back as a long, heartfelt groan tumbled out of his throat. His dick felt fucking raw in his fist, it was that long since it had been touched this way.
‘What are you doing?’ the Wulver’s voice croaked.
Weed looked at him hazily. The wolfman was rigid, staring at Weed’s dick like he might go for it—like a wolf for a rabbit.
‘What’s it look like?’ Weed panted. He jerked his palm in a few hasty strokes, and his body curled at the intensity of the sensation. ‘ Oh, fuuuuuck. ’
The Wulver was on his feet, towering over him. Weed took that image and ran with it, beating his dick furiously while locking eyes with Arran’s amber glare. A low growl reverberated in the beast’s throat, and the sound itself spurred Weed on. No going back now.
Weed grit his teeth, fighting through sensations akin to pain as he rubbed his dick sore. Tears pricked his eyes as the final gratification to his cravings refused to come. ‘Fuck, pleeease, ’ he whined, squeezing his eyes shut and beating faster.
A large, hot palm shoved his hand out of the way and enclosed his dick in a powerful grasp. Weed’s eyes snapped open, all the breath leaving his body as he beheld the Wulver leaning over him, mouth curled in a snarl, while his clawed hand squeezed .
Weed shouted, a high-pitched cry that got higher and higher as the Wulver wrung his throbbing dick like he had a vendetta against it. Weed’s orgasm exploded violently, making his body twist and stutter as though blown about in a gale. It seemed to keep on going; long spurts of cum painted his shirt, his nuts pulsing with the need to be entirely empty, and the Wulver showed no sign of stopping until Weed was utterly, utterly spent.
Finally, his dick went limp, dribbling its last, exhausted effort over the Wulver’s fist.
‘Well, shit, wolfie,’ Weed said breathlessly. ‘Looks like you do shag, after all.’
Arran’s chest heaved. His snarls faded into feverish exhales, puffed through his nose. He whipped his hand away from Weed and in a few long strides had crossed the width of the cave and disappeared down the entrance passage.
Weed allowed himself to flop, sprawled like a flaccid starfish over the sheepskins.
So, the Wulver was game for a bit of fun, after all, eh?
Weed let out a throaty snigger, tinged by euphoria. It struck him that, if the wolfman was really so determined to not exert any power over him then, well—what was to stop Weed from taking what he wanted?
Let’s see him pity me after I’ve had my way. Weed’s mouth curved into a sly smile as he contemplated all the avenues suddenly open to him. One of us needs to be the master in this relationship.