Stir the Blood 🐺

The man is stark naked, but that's not the first thing you notice about him. Not even if you might have had a lifetime of longing and whatifs trailing out behind you like an unused wedding train. To the point any romantic or lustful tendencies long since atrophied, and your greatest satisfaction is ensuring every strand of hair in your tight bun is placed with military, even geometric precision.

It might be corny to say the first thing you notice is his eyes, but it might also be true. Even if the rest of his features are putting up such strong competition. His eyes are very dark. It's hard to tell if this is their natural colour, or if they are, for example, darkening with rage, or darkening with lust. The way they do in books.

Arabella has not read any such books for a long time. Doesn't even have them in the house. Lot of nonsense.

She knows, as not many do, that the eyes of a werewolf are usually a brilliant, piercing blue. That is, while he's human-shaped. They do darken, sometimes (as with this one) to completely black.

Arabella knows many things about werewolves that others don't know. She has studied them for a long time. In books and otherwise. Her first round of experiments ended in an abject failure that haunts her to this day.

This beast is her second chance. He might be her last chance. So she has to be very careful. No mistakes this time. No woolly thinking.

She brought him inside, heavily sedated, at five o'clock this morning. It would be unseemly if she had a naked man Collared and chained in her garden shed, and besides, her garden fence doesn't offer enough privacy. For this he needs to be indoors.

Here he is then, manacled to the wall of her boxroom. The sedative is wearing off, but the silver is still doing its work. The Collar is gone, his blisters healing.

The moon is waning, and its hold over him has weakened. It takes effort, now, to Transform, and he is denied it by the circles of silver inlaid into the manacles. When he pulls against them, there's an indrawn hiss of pain. Arabella writes this down in her notebook with a very sharp pencil.

What else about werewolves? Hmm. Their hair is usually (not always) dark. At least while they are young. It silvers more quickly than their human counterparts. The mop on this one is jet black. Oh, he's a beauty, alright.

It's not in a beast's nature to feel fear or shame. He wears his nudity with ease, almost child-like in his unself-consciousness. Except that a child was never so dangerous.

Must be easy to to be so assured in your own skin when you're in that kind of shape. He is impossibly lean. Arabella knows that it takes a tremendous amount of energy to Transform, which means he is often ravenous and has no fat to spare. Quite literally nothing is left to the imagination. Every muscle and even some of his bones laid bare, his skin a paltry cloak that fails to hide his anatomy.

She's given some thought to this, and she thinks she knows what she has to do. The needle is ready. Why is she hesitating?

He looks... langurous. If not for the silvered manacles, he would be lolling in those chains the way a movie star might lean against a billboard. There's a knowing quirk around his eyes and mouth, as if he suspects what she is here for. What she wants. What she will do to get it.

He's watching her, seeing right through her probably, and finding it funny. Whatever she does, he will get pleasure from it. Whether she does what she came for, or turns tail and flees the room.

Have you ever seen a dog with his jaws wide and tongue lolling out the side? Have you ever got the impression that he is laughing? That's how he looks.

It makes her want to hit him with a rolled up newspaper, or rub his nose in something unspeakable.

Maybe this sardonic expression is because he doesn't want her. His body doesn't respond to hers. Ha. Good luck with that, is what he must be thinking. Maybe he is waiting for her to bring him something he will respond to. She will not. She made that mistake before. Never again.

Arabella shakes her head and sets her jaw, banishing the memory of the pretty waif with the wide, trusting eyes and half-eaten legs.

No, it has to be this way. Artificial. Scientific. Neat. Safe.

Arabella flexes her fingers to stop them shaking, and takes up the needle. She advances on the man-shaped beast, forcing herself to take measured strides. This is no time to be a shrinking violet.

God, she hasn't even been able to bring herself to look at that. Not yet. She'll have to now.

She dips her head, not a gesture of respect, only hoping to hide the blush that is rising up her cheeks.

She kneels.

Thank you for reading!

Part 1:

Part 2: