Archive of Our Own

Some days, the beast slumbers.

It has been over a year since Kris was afflicted with her new state of being. It's better than being dead, of course, but it turns out that there are no handbooks about how to cope with the sudden reality of existing as a fantasy creature usually reserved for B-horror movies. She has screamed about it in the woods behind the house when no one else is home, cried into her pillow in the wee hours, tried to be logical in the shower. Like all things, the initial sting has mellowed into a sort of low-lying ache, her grief not necessarily shrinking but the rest of her expanding to make room for it.

Whether it is crueler to temporarily forget or to be haunted at all times, Kris can't say. She thought she would be used to it by now, curses herself for not being able to handle it at times. She has been known to conveniently forget that it's there, pretend that there is nothing lurking under the surface and go to the grocery store or work from what passes as her home office like an average person with nothing supernatural to fear. Maybe it's irresponsible; she could kill someone.

We won't. Not unless they give us a reason.

Kris sifts through the outgoing mail at the old table by the front door, making sure that there is indeed still time to get her vehicle registration updated and that the gas company is firmly aware that no, they are not interested in whatever weird payment plan they've concocted this month. A get well soon card for a coworker she doesn't even really like but feels obligated to send, a renewal application for a zoo membership. It's the kind of boring but necessary work that no one tells their children about when they dreamily talk of growing up; yes, you can feed yourself whatever you want for dinner, but you also have to send in a three page survey to the city asking you invasive details about the types of materials used in the construction of your home's plumbing so that some government employee at the capital can write an environmental health report that will go absolutely nowhere. She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose and looks out the window to the front yard.

It's winter. Not the hopeful, festive winter before the holidays, but rather the long stretch of gloomy misery that unfolds after the new year celebrations die down and there is little to nothing to look forward to for weeks. Lottie's birthday is in February, and of course they'll dredge up excitement for that, and yet a weary and dangerous boredom has already begun to settle into her bones. She has her hobbies, but even those lose their vibrancy when that is all you can do. At least the powder-dusted pines are nice to look at.

The sound of young, high pitched laughter follows the arc of a snowball whizzing by the front porch. Lottie's school has a delayed start this morning. It's the third one in as many days; the snow is falling faster than the plows can keep up with and it's all they can do to not cancel entirely. Karl complained to her the night prior that they ought to just give the kids a damn snow day, and Kris had smirked - she agrees, but she also knows that he'd complain if they cancelled, the story suddenly changing to some "back in my day" nonsense. He is somehow simultaneously erratic and oh so predictable, her husband.

Right on cue, the man himself somersaults into view only to hide behind the porch stairs and wait for his chance to strike. He's crouched like an honest to goodness soldier gearing up to launch a stealth mission. Kris thinks he takes such things far, far too seriously, but their daughter either doesn't mind or has inherited his outrageous sense of competition. She watches as Lottie runs across the scene, her little blue mittens caked in snow, clearly surprised to not find her father where she had expected him. She makes the fatal mistake of turning to look down the driveway instead of toward the house which leaves her completely helpless to the surprise attack.

A snowball, right down the back of her coat. Classic.

Lottie shrieks in indignation as Karl's barking laughter practically rattles the glass. Kris can't help herself; she smiles. She would join them, wants to join them, but the cold has her joints aching a little too much for comfort this morning. She's "too young" to have such ailments, her father drones every time he bothers to call, but what can she say?

It's a consequence of keeping the beast in check.

So instead she stands inside where it is warm, busying herself with whatever she can to keep the ennui at bay. It's not really so bad - Lottie and Karl understand. The latter has his own host of problems from the squirming parasite lodged in his chest cavity, after all; plus, if she really wanted she could join them, but she'd pay for it the next day. And tomorrow she has to give a presentation over Zoom that she really, really doesn't need a migraine to complicate.

Kris's watch vibrates. It's the reminder to get Lottie down to the road for the bus; she taps the window and waves at the pair, gesturing to the time. Lottie pouts before taking another handful of snow to the face.

Karl secures Lottie's backpack, her lunchbox. Kris watches him wrangle her, joking good-naturedly even as she twists in his grip and tries to run off into the snow with her coat only half zipped. They exchange a few words which, though inaudible, must have been quite funny as Karl's barking laugh practically shakes the window before he gestures for her to follow, the child hopping from foot to foot to land in the boot prints her father leaves ahead of her. Kris waits until they're out of sight around the cluster of trees that marks the bend in the driveway before exhaling.

Karl has always been remarkably gentle with Lottie, almost to a fault. It's a patience she, admittedly, assumed he would not have. In retrospect, she might have known better. Karl is - though he'd be loath to admit it - traumatized, angry, and rightfully so. But he is not cruel, nor is he stupid; beneath the person his "mother" tried to create was the man he always was, or might have been without her interference. Through no small effort on his part, he had dredged himself from the depths of the ruins he'd escaped and managed to do what few before him ever could: start over.

She's proud of him, she realizes. Well, no - it's not exactly a revelation as she's always known that. But something else colors the feeling this time, mixes with it, something she cannot quite put a finger on.

The home suddenly feels a touch too warm, and she is reminded that there are days when the beast is not so quiet. A tingle that begins at the nape of her neck crawls down the length of her spine and settles in her low in her gut where it begins to churn and boil like lava meeting the ocean. She gets a hold of herself and shakes her head, the nails that had been slowly elongating into claws without her noticing leaving yet more scratch marks on the table's surface.

"I need more coffee," she announces to no one before turning away and beelining for the kitchen.

January 9th: Science Fair, 12-4pm. January 10th: Empty. January 11th: Happy Hour? The dry erase calendar on the fridge stares back at her as she waits for the bubbling pot to fill. Maybe concentrating on normal things will keep it at bay, she thinks. Kris tugs at the collar of her oversized sweater, pulls at the fabric of her leggings where it bunches at her knees. Her skin still feels flushed, and the caffeine won't help, but she has to focus on staying "in the moment" or whatever the fuck all the so called mental wellness experts keep prattling on about. The busier she is, the less likely an accident is to occur.

There hasn't been one yet. Why worry.

We have a kid. We can't - I won't risk her. Not ever.

Kris has never fully figured out if the beast is separate from her, or some kind of manifestation of a different version of her, or just… her. It's not a question she wants to investigate, really; it's too existential and convoluted, the kind of thing where she knows whatever the reality is, it will be unsatisfying and even frightening. She's never told Karl about these conversations with it, both because she knows it will worry him but also because she does not want to admit to the abnormality, truth be told. If she internalizes it and keeps it a secret, even from herself, then she can pretend it's not really as bad as it may very well be.

She hasn't transformed fully in nearly a year. Kris holds onto that; it must be an indication of some level of control on her part.

And after all, it's not like Karl doesn't have a less than publicly acceptable form waiting in the wings should the mood strike him… but he's been able to get along more or less fine. Momentarily soothed, Kris turns her attention to the pour over carafe and inhales slowly. It's a dark blend today - notes of cherries and chocolate. Outside, a thin peppering of snow drifts down from above, the kind where she can't quite tell if it's actual precipitation or just what's already fallen being blown off the roof. She's barely enjoyed two sips by the time the front door is thrown open, a blast of icy air invading the otherwise cozy interior.

"Christ, it's colder'n a witch's tit out there."

Karl stomps his snow crusted boots on the rug before unceremoniously kicking them to the side. Kris considers nagging him about never actually putting his things away properly, but finds that neither the desire nor energy is there this time. He pulls back the hood of his deep green sweater shakes his shaggy, unkempt hair free, errant flyaways sticking up at all angles before noticing his idling wife and grinning in that manic way of his. Kris barely has time to set down her precious mug of hot caffeine before he's encased her in his arms and pinned her back against the counter, body radiating heat beneath the chilled fabric of his clothes.

"Hi." He looks down at her with a playful twinkle in his eye.

"Hey."

Mate.

Yes, that's our 'mate.' But we're a human so we're gonna call him our husband, capeesh?

Mate.

Ugh. You're hopeless.

She allows herself the indulgence of resting her head against his chest for a moment and she quickly feels the scratchy touch of his bearded chin on the top of her head. There are rarely these delicate, hesitant touches with him anymore; he is either all over her or so occupied with whatever he's doing that she's lucky to even get a quick peck before he's back to babbling incoherently about whatever home "improvement" project he's conjured up in the shower. It's not for lack of affection or love - Karl hasn't yet quite learned what to do with his freedom, and thus the novelty of being allowed to do as he pleases is still overwhelming. Trying to find their rhythm as an ostensibly normal family has not come without its speed bumps.

A tingle begins to make itself known along her spine. He is a solid wall of a man, yet the warmth that burns low behind his sternum teases something softer.

Karl nuzzles the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. His beard is thicker than he wore it before, back when they met; he'd complained about the upkeep when she mentioned liking it a touch longer, then the next day returned home with a couple of products meant to keep it soft and neat. He's not a man who uses his words well, but his actions are always deafening.

Kris can't help it. She lightly rolls her head to the side to let him press a trail of teasing kisses along her jugular. She hums, calls him a horndog under her breath, elicits an unbothered chuckle from deep in Karl's throat. Her thighs clench involuntarily. He tightens his grip on her waist and she's reminded that her husband is much, much stronger than he even appears, that he's holding back considerably as not to hurt her. When he pulls away to get a look at her, all the adoration in the world pouring from his gaze, she nearly whines at the realization that she's not going to entirely get what the beast- what she wants.

For once, he's not trying to start anything - just showering her in attention. It's sickeningly adorable and sweet, the kind of interaction neither one of them ever shows in public but that is commonplace within the safeguard of their home, much to their daughter's chagrin.

It's also not enough.

Karl jerks lightly in surprise when her nails - again growing sharper by the second - dig roughly into his chest, fingers curling around the thick silver chains of his necklaces and tugging him down closer to eye level. His lips part into a wicked grin, the kind that crinkles the edges of his eyes and makes him show his age. Kris leans forward and nips at his lower lip, careful not to use her canines.

"Someone's in a mood today," he chuckles. "What's the occasion? Did I do something nice that I can't remember?"

Kris gnaws at the inside of her cheek, unsure of how to answer. Her mind is starting to boil. Even she doesn't know what's gotten into her; her menstrual cycle has been all kinds of screwed up ever since she became not so human, and she hasn't quite gotten the hang of when to expect it yet. Maybe that's all it is, or at least she hopes the explanation is so simple.

As usual, when presented the choice of being vulnerable and honest or dismissing the inquiry with a blunt jab, she chooses the latter. "Was just hoping if I buttered you up that you'd finally get around to caulking that fucked up window in the laundry room finally."

It's a task she could easily do, but one she'd prefer to watch him perform. It's a much better view.

"Oh, yeah… that. I told you I'd get to it, doll, but so what if it's a little nippy? It ain't like you're hanging out in there for hours, right?"

"Well you certainly aren't, that's for sure." Kris fingers yet another oil stain on his sleeve; fascinating, considering he hasn't been anywhere near the garage yet today as far as she's aware. It's almost as if any and all discoloring substances in the vicinity simply magnetize to him from the moment he wakes up. "How the fuck are you always so dirty- sorry, covered in 'man' gunk?"

Karl laughs again. He reaches around her to fish his coffee tumbler out of the cabinet, moves to fill it with what Kris hasn't already poured. He's pushed his sleeves up his forearms as high as they'll go, which isn't much; the sweater is a little too small because Karl is just simply too big what with the muscles earned from decades of hard labor cushioned by a generous layer of fat. Something about the thought of those arms, coated in dark and greying hair and laced with scars, wrapped around her thighs while he feasts on her makes Kris's already fragile mental state fracture even further. Before her mind can even catch up to her mouth, she hears herself begin to speak unbidden.

"I'm gonna make sausage casserole tonight," she blurts out. It's one of his favorites, which is saying something considering how strongly he's taken to her Midwestern cooking. "Do you want it with the crescent rolls in it this time or on the side?"

Karl swivels his head, coffee halfway to his mouth. To her horror, he looks momentarily thrown off by the sudden change of subject before he gathers himself, shrugging nonchalantly as if food isn't the only thing ever on his mind aside from sex and making things explode.

"On the side's good." He takes a sip, the flick of his tongue on that plush lower lip of his feeling more sinful than it ought to. "Thanks. But, seriously, what's got you all sweet and syrupy today? You know you don't gotta ask me if you want to buy more crafty shit…"

Kris wants to beat her head against the wall. She doesn't know when exactly she started getting off on these little moments of housewife behavior, but here she is; her women's studies professors would be horrified to see her now. It's not like she's subservient - never - but the urge to make Karl happy by way of little domestic niceties keeps rearing its ugly head and she feels powerless to stop it.

"Well, if I didn't cook we'd be playing Russian roulette eating gas station hot dogs every night for dinner." Kris turns her back to him at last and moves toward her desk in the living room, afraid of the kinds of images her mind will conjure if she keeps her eyes on him much longer.

"Hey now! I've seen the teenagers at the corner mart check the temperature before! Once…"

They both laugh at the admission. Kris pauses to frown at the disaster of disorganized papers and pens sprawling over her keyboard. Combined with the faint pinging sound from the speakers which indicates her more enthusiastic coworkers are already up and at it, her lifted mood quickly sours. She doesn't want to work, doesn't want to work tirelessly on another story about the food bank or the local art galleries that no one will read, choosing instead to skim the most outlandish and catchy headlines. She turns on her heel to complain to Karl before he heads out for the morning only to find him right there yet again.

This time he bends her into one of those deep movie kisses before whipping her back upright and separating with a loud 'pop.' It's comically overblown and dramatic, as is almost everything he does. Before she can sputter an insult or slap him gently on the shoulder, he's already moseying away.

The war between giving him the satisfaction of seeing how desperate she is and tormenting him with her typical hard to get act rages behind the traitorous hammering of her heart. He'll take care of her later. He always does, but she still has a funny feeling that there's just something different about today, be it a simple matter of imbalanced hormones or something far more sinister.

For a brief second the edges of her vision darken. It stirs the memory of something, the seemingly countless hours where she relinquished control to the wolf against her will. Her heart seizes and her mind races ahead to weave all the worst possibilities that could be born from such a mutiny at this moment.

Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare.

Karl's teasing voice thrown casually over his shoulder as he exits via the side door drags her back to reality like she's being pulled out of a freezing mire, so intense is the sensation that she nearly gasps.

"Got a feeling we'll have some fun later, doll," he hums happily. Then, in a much grumpier tone, "one I get that damn Pontiac piece of shit working…"

Ah, the Pontiac. Dropped off by one of Karl's least favorite clients and only tolerated because the owner is so insistent on dragging it back from the edges of death that it generates a seemingly endless source of income. Kris has asked him once if it wouldn't be better and perhaps more ethical to just tell them that the thing is salvageable and likely totaled ten times over, to which he gruffly replied that it was going to end up paying for that new fireplace she wanted and she'd keep her trap shut if she knew what was good for her.

Again, he never means anything by it. It's always part of their little game, the one that everyone around them is subjected to without realizing it. Were she a better person, she might feel somewhat sleazy exposing people as unassuming as the grocery store cashier to what is effectively their endless foreplay routine, but oh well. Life is short.

When the screen door slams and the house is empty once more, Kris steels herself.

We have to work.

It's not a lie, but it's also not the whole truth. She has some freedom to work with in her schedule. No one is going to break down the door if she's away from time to time. But still, an understaffed local newspaper always has fires to put out and tasks to complete. Heaven forbid her boss pull out the "not a team player" line at their next 1:1. And so she sits, feet flat on the floor for all of 3 minutes before she draws her legs up and sits cross-legged in her second hand office chair, and spitefully logs in.

52 unread emails. It's not as bad as it initially seems. One out of office reply. Three actually pertinent contacts. Phishing attempt. The rest are advertisements and marketing materials from every local business she's ever come across in a professional capacity who all decided that she'd love to be added to their email list. Kris does her best to ignore the frankly staggering amount of memes her youngest coworker has flooded the team chat with overnight and gets to work on this week's story about the upcoming fundraiser to get the high school art department a new kiln.

For a while, long fingers glide effortlessly across the keys and her focus returns. She's lulled into a false sense of security; the strange sensations from this morning are relegated to nothing more than a one-off oddity. They are buried amidst the piles of hastily scribbled notes, barely legible post-its and incessant audio bufferings she has to sort through just to produce an 11 inch column. It's one thing about herself Kris has always been able to admire - she's frighteningly good at behaving as though monumental problems don't exist.

It's nearly lunch by the time she notices anything is amiss. Her knees nearly cry out when she finally straightens her legs and stretches, swirling the cold, last dregs of her coffee in a lazy motion. Time for a break - and food. She swipes her tongue over her teeth and-

"Ouch! The fuck?"

Kris's teeth have never been quite the same since it all happened, even at the best of times. Karl insists no one notices, but how could they not? Her canines in particular are measurably too sharp - not in the way that some people's teeth naturally are just a touch pointy, either, but in a way that gives people pause when she's caught off guard and gives a genuine laugh or smile.

But now. Now they're fangs, and bigger than they were this morning.

Come to think of it, it's terribly hot in the house again. She tugs at her shirt, feeling the miserable stickiness of the thin layer of sweat on her chest as it clings to the fabric. Pulse quickening, she stands up rapidly - too fast - and feels a rush of pressure from her head to her shoulders.

Am I getting sick? It's flu season. That has to be it. Lottie must have brought something home from school as children are wont to do, and next Karl will get it and she'll have to baby him back to health even though the Cadou won't let him die even if he wanted to. Maybe an ibuprofen will help; she stumbles down the hall into the bedroom and feels as though she's walking on the deck of a boat, though strangely she does not feel weak so much as she does get the impression that she's stalling on the precipice of something barely restrained.

The medicine cabinet door in the en suite bangs open so hard that Kris expects the glass to crack, though thankfully she only succeeds in taking a tiny chip of paint from the wall where there's already a small dent. She nearly knocks an entire bottle of children's liquid cough syrup to the floor as he hand swipes the shelves looking for a fever reducer.

God dammit. Claws too. She will not accept that whatever strange mold magic is keeping her transformations at bay might be failing. She won't go back to that prison, not now, not ever.

As is often the case in a state of panic, Kris's brain fails to make sense of any of the bottles and in frustration she slams the cabinet shut once more and ducks immediately to douse her face in cold water from the sink. She's frankly surprised that steam doesn't fly from her burning cheeks. It helps just enough to ground her by the toe, the tried and true mammalian dive reflex coming to her pathetic rescue. When she finally gathers the courage to look at her reflection, two things are abundantly clear.

One is that her eyes have begun to take on the more vibrant shade of green that they do when the beast takes over. Combined with her nails and teeth, she looks like a preteen girl's anthropomorphic wolf woman character doodled on the back of a notebook. All she's missing are the fishnet gloves and some rainbow fuzzy boots.

Secondly - and most important - she did not put on her own clothes this morning.

This is Karl's shirt.

Of course. She'd snatched it off of the closet floor this morning and paired it with leggings, unable to will herself to put together a more reasonable outfit. It's far too large, the logo of some tire company nearly faded off the front, and there are threads coming undone at the hem. He must have worn it before tossing it in there; it smells faintly of cigar smoke and something more musky. She hadn't consciously noticed before, but now as she slowly inhales she feels her whole body stiffen and tense, not out of fear but in preparation for…. well.

Ah. So it's like that, then.

"You're a grown woman." She jabs a finger at her reflection, chastising. "You're horny. Stop being dramatic and go make your husband cross-eyed for a while and you'll feel better."

There is a part of her that realizes this is an unusually strong reaction to such urges, but Kris is tired of puzzling out her body as it exists with its extra occupant. She's not ceding control to the wolf - just soothing it so it shuts the fuck up.

She doesn't bother with a coat, only throws on a pair of slip-on sherpa boots to stomp across the yard to the garage. The cold air feels good against her skin and her breaths come in short, cloudy huffs as she quickly formulates a plan. Not that she really needs one - Karl will fuck her whenever, wherever, with little to no foreplay even. But he does like a bit of a tease beforehand, and she has a feeling she needs him to be at his best to quiet whatever storm is brewing low in her abdomen.

"Karl?"

His garage is - unlike the house - actually far too warm in temperature. She has no idea how he stands it, or how he's managed to not burn the thing down with all the space heaters he's rigged up for the winter. The blast of hot air when she opens the door almost makes her laugh if not for her single-minded mission. Receiving no response over the eardrum-shattering sound of the radio blasting out what ostensibly could be called music, she makes her way inside, careful not to accidentally knock into any piles of precariously stacked junk that is apparently not junk but actually very important, thank you very much.

Kris forgets sometimes that this is very much his space. It's dark, it's stifling, and the heavy scent of metal and oil assaults her nostrils. She's only ever in here for fetch him, like on the numerous days when he loses track of time and needs to be reminded to come to bed. There's a corkboard against the back wall that - thank goodness - is lacking in any conspiratorial news clippings or notes but rather is mostly plastered in photos of her and Lottie. It's sickeningly cute, but he can never know that. A surge of desire rolls up her spine as she follows the narrow path around the beat up car he's tearing apart to find him standing before the open hood, glaring down at the engine bay like it's done him a personal offense.

Karl's always been built like some kind of grizzled, pre-hibernation bear - at least ever since Kris has known him. He likes to joke that she's responsible for it, "fattening me up to eat me one day," but it usually stops being funny when she forcefully reminds him that she's his boy's number one fan. He's at least discarded his sweater and stands only in what was once a white tank top and his cargo pants, silver chains around his neck swaying lightly as he mutters to himself and scribbles something on a small notepad. His hair is pulled back haphazardly from his face - grey waves falling out at all angles and some standing on end either from the heat or the abnormal amount of electricity coursing through his nerves, and his nose is scrunched in concentration. It isn't until she's laid a hand on his bicep that he seems to realize he's not alone.

"JESUS!" He nearly drops the pen in his hand. Without being touched, the volume on the radio drastically decreases until the song is actually recognizable - Black Sabbath, of course. "Trying to kill me? Thought the creepy lurking lady shit died with Donna…"

He jests, but Kris knows his feelings on his sister's demise are more complicated than that. Still, this isn't the time or the place for such a conversation. She rolls her eyes, though the heat of his skin and the feel of the hair on his arm against her hand nearly makes her instinctively put her mouth on him.

"Am I not allowed to visit my own husband anymore? Shall I make you a 'No Girls Allowed' sign so there's no confusion?"

Karl flips up his shades to retort when the words die in his throat. The icy steel of his eyes rakes her up and down, concern mixed with fascination and a dash of something she hopes is attraction but could just as easily be horror. He sets the pen and notepad down on a nearby stool and licks his lips, for once choosing his words with a bit of caution.

"Doll. You uh… don't take this the wrong way, but-"

"I know," she replies, too quickly. "I don't… I don't know what's happening."

Without asking, Karl grips her chin in his hand and squeezes her mouth open. His thumb - I ought to bite it off for not washing it - grazes over her fangs as he considers the predicament. "I feel fine," Kris interjects awkwardly, unable to fully move her lips in his hold. "I mean, mostly fine. Not like I'm going to go ballistic and start eating cattle or anything."

Karl snorts. "Well, s'pose that's good. Still… shouldn't be happening. Thought the vârcolac part was subdued 'cept for when I really manage to piss you off."

Her heart flutters in her throat. She had rather hoped he'd have a more comforting explanation, but she shouldn't have expected as much. Besides, she has a pretty good idea given what's happening between her legs now in such close proximity to him what will fix her woes. She wrestles from his grip and throws him an irritated look in hopes it will stop him from fussing.

"You don't want to test that theory and that's not why I crawled my way through your trash hoard, anyway. I said I'm fine." She blows an errant curl out of her face with a huff. "How's the clanker coming?"

Karl eyes her suspiciously before at last taking a step back and sighing in frustration. He lifts his shirt up to wipe the sweat and grease from his face. She should be irritated - it's disgusting, unseemly and a pain in the ass to get out in the laundry. But the sight of his plush, hair-covered stomach below the somehow even hairier expanse of his muscular chest nearly makes her lose all composure and tackle him to the ground.

Mate.

I know, okay? I fucking know. Chill for five fucking minutes.

"You know I don't like admitting that something might be toast, pumpkin, but I'm afraid I'm gettin' real close to having to call it a lost cause." Kris can barely make out what he's saying over the way her body is screaming at her to make him throw her over his shoulder and carry her off like some kind of caveman. "Damn engine's hydrolocked and at this point even I don't feel right tearing the old girl apart again. And you know it's bad when-"

"Yeah, that sucks, terrible." Kris wedges herself between Karl and the car, spreads her legs just enough as she casually leans back to accommodate him. "Anyway. How imperative is it exactly that you get this done today?"

Realization sparks behind Karl's eyes. He cocks a brow, that familiar and insufferable self-satisfied grin beginning to tug at his face. He casually picks up an oil-stained rag and begins cleaning off a set of pliers, pretending not to care about her advance.

"Hm. Pretty important." It never ceases to amuse her how he emphasizes his 'p's, 't's, and 'b's whenever he's trying to be convincing. "I got a reputation to keep, after all."

A reputation as the best but by far crankiest and most unpleasant mechanic in the tri-county area. Kris barely manages to hold her tongue as he pretends to become occupied with a schematic on his workbench, probably entirely unrelated to what he's actually doing. She's burning up again, eyes scanning and dissecting him like a piece of meat. It's a touch embarrassing, really; being this obsessed with him after years and years is simultaneously a blow to her tough, independent woman persona and a welcome change from the years she spent stuck in a passionless marriage.

"Yeah, might even have to make a run to the hardware store by the looks of it. Tsk-tsk, terribly busy day, I'm afraid."

"Karl. For fuck's… please. Can we not do this for once." Kris's voice comes out breathier and deeper than she expected, and judging by the look on his face, Karl notices. "I just… I want…"

She does something then that is uncharacteristic - she rushes forward and hugs him. Desperately. When she releases him she leaves her hands on his shoulders, unable or unwilling to break contact.

"Say it," he snarls.

"Fuck you."

"I said, say it. I need to hear you fucking say it."

Kris bares her fangs and presses her palms down harder onto his shoulders. If Karl is even remotely afraid, he doesn't show it; on the contrary, he hisses through his own teeth in a sort of half grimace, half cocksure smile as if in defiance, daring her to do whatever is boiling her mind and evaporating her sense. In a voice that both is and is not her own, the words claw themselves free of where they sit heavy at the base of her throat.

"Fine. I want you. Need you." She doesn't even care for once what this is doing to his ego. "Something's wrong. I think… I won't be able to stop if I start."

"That's what I'm banking on, pumpkin."

"Then stop fucking yakking, you big idiot, and prove it."

There's a horrible, terrible silence that seems to stretch on forever. The radio dies with a crackling sputter, and even the low hum of the heaters seems to fade into nothingness. She swears her heartbeat must be audible, the way it thrums mercilessly in her ears, and she almost gets to a point where she sincerely fears she's upset him. She backs up to the car again, spins her wedding ring round and round, bites her lower lip subconsciously in a rare display of submission. Kris's lips part to apologize for killing the mood when Karl suddenly shoves off the desk and storms to her, the sting of electricity already in the air.

He slams the hood of the car shut at her back and leans in and over her, caging her between his fiery body and the cold metal. Kris isn't one to back away from a confrontation - especially one of this nature - but she's still smaller than him and largely unable to avoid being pinned. She slides her ass back against the car until she's half sitting on it, braced on her elbows while Karl plants his hands firmly on either side of her head and leers down at her, jaw set and nostrils flared.

The beast is getting louder at the back of her skull, so visceral she swears the thing is looming behind her, its breaths coming in heavy, wet pants. She doesn't realize that her nails are digging into the hood of the car, leaving shallow scratches amidst a web of pre-existing damages, until there's an ear-shattering screech. She tries to throw back her usual look of annoyance bordering on indignation, but it falters as every fiber of her being begins demanding in sync for her to let him do with her as he pleases.

"You need my cock that bad, huh?" Karl's voice is dangerously low, nothing like the somewhat theatrical cadence he uses with most everyone else. "Couldn't even last a few hours before you had to come crawling out here and beg me for it? Thought you were tougher than that, princess."

So did I.

Take him - take him now. Need him to br-

"I can just leave if you're gonna be a dick." Kris's old self wins out in a moment of defiance as she leans forward until their noses are practically touching, her voice coming out ragged and rusty as if often does post-transformation. "Go fix the problem myself and leave you here to think about your behavior, little boy."

The sudden switch of control doesn't sit well with him. With a grunt, the flat of Karl's hand, he shoves her by the should back onto the hood of the car, so forceful that she's pretty sure he'll now have a dent to fix on top of everything else. He slots himself between her parted thighs and presses himself against her; there's already a not inconsiderable bulge in his pants grinding up against her clothed cunt and the sensation sends tremors through her fingertips.

A curtain of grey and white streaked hair falls forward to tickle her cheeks as he crawls over her, letting her feel the weight of him and how easy it would be to leave her to his mercy. It's something conveniently ignored in most of their relationship - how he could, if the mood struck him, undo her with a frighteningly insignificant amount of effort. He won't, not unless she had done something so unforgivable as to betray him to Miranda or something of equal moral bankruptcy, but the truth remains such all the same.

"Mouthy bitch." His tone is disappointed, vexed. "Is that any way to talk to the guy whose important work you had the audacity to interrupt for your selfish little problems? I was having a perfectly productive day and then you come over here and piss me the fuck off because you need to get filled like some kind of back alley whore?"

It's the way he used to talk to her before they were anything. If her mind was in a more stable place, Kris might have wondered if that meant he'd been flirting from day one or if his nasty little insults had simply evolved to become part of their games. All the while as he's talking, he bucks his hips ever so slightly against her and the hard line of him twitches and betrays his own barely contained want.

Kris should fling a barb right back, should frankly slap him for his impudence. But she can't - she doesn't even want to. For once she just wants him to make good on his threats and ruin her.

The hand that isn't pinned down comes up to his throat - careful to avoid scratching or puncturing his skin with her nails - and squeezes, hard enough to be threatening but not so vigorous as to actually hurt him. She releases her grip and drags her touch down until her fingers are tangled in his chest hair and she feels the strong, steady pulse of his heart beneath her fingertips. Kris looks up at him through her lashes, one of her fangs catching on her lower lip, before she shows a bit of her hand in a lust-fueled daze.

"I always need you, Karl. I love you."

"Fu-uck." It is, admittedly, cute how easily he unravels around her to this day, even when he's trying to put on a dominant show. Karl quickly realizes his mistake and wrenches her wrist away before swallowing any smart comments by enveloping her in a sloppy, all-teeth and no style kiss. It's the kind of makeout session usually reserved for inexperienced teenagers underneath the bleachers at a football game, but it's exactly what she wanted, she realizes. She wraps her legs around his wide middle, locking her ankles at his lower back, and quickly his gentle grinding morphs into full-on dry humping as he shifts between shoving his tongue into her mouth and rubbing his beard along her jaw and neck as if he's trying to cover her in his scent.

Kris tangles her fingers in his hair and tugs whenever he licks or sucks or grazes against a spot that has her involuntarily rolling her hips upward against him. If the garage was hot before, not it's positively stifling - if she isn't naked in the next few minutes, she might burst into flame. Karl, with a sound that sounds somehow more bestial than her, presses the flat of his tongue against her clavicle and licks a stripe all the way up her throat, eliciting a whimper that would have mortified her had she been in any other state.

Mate - need to mate with him. Enough play. Devour him, consume him-

I'm fucking getting there, dammit.

"Fucking perfect," he snarls before dropping his hands to knead at her tits hungrily. "You know that, right? Like you were forged just for me. Couldn't have made someone better if I'd drawn the blueprints up myself."

There's a brief touch of morbid humor in that, considering his past, but any amusement is quickly drowned out but what comes next.

"God, I thought you were perfect before, but have I ever told you how crazy it makes me that your tits got bigger after you had my fucking kid? Or your hips?" He drops he hands to anchor himself there and thrusts forward, hard, the strain of his cock against his trousers so intense it looks painful. "Still have to rub one out when you're not around every time I so much as think about it."

Kris is nearly going cross-eyed already. He's usually not so explicit with his words, preferring to show her instead what's going on in that wild, terrifying, beautiful mind of his. Judging by the looks of it, he too is wrecked already. She must have accidentally undid his ponytail at some point, as his hair is down again and already strands are starting to adhere to his sweat-slicked forehead. She takes the opportunity to sit up one last time, pull him into a deep and passionate kiss, before withdrawing and looking him dead in the eyes.

"Karl," she pants, "much as I enjoy it, no oral this time, no fingering. Just - just fuck me, please. Now."

She gets the feeling there's a barely swallowed "yes ma'am" complete with a salute hiding somewhere in the way his gaze lights up. His voice is muffled as the wolf roars in her ears, pent up frustration from the morning finally about to be doused and thrust out of her in the most delicious of ways. She tears her own - Karl's own - shirt off, realizing she hadn't actually worn a bra today at the last second, and falls back against the hood, grateful for coolness against the skin of her back. Karl's starting to talk and talk, like he always does when he's worked up like this.

"Fucking Christ." He wrenches her leggings and panties down in one motion, gaze lingering hungrily at the wet curls he reveals. "You really are in a fucking mood, aren't you? Look at this. Drenched for me. What's gotten into you? Or… is that the problem? You need me in you. Not just my cock - do you need one of my brats in there again? Maybe I should give you another one. Or two, if we're lucky. Give you something to do instead of bothering me all fuckin' day."

It sounds like an insult; it isn't. Behind his words burns the hot white light of lust streaked with a love undying. He cannot tell her that he wants another child, or two, or more likely ten, because he has only been allowed and able to show the open wound of his heart for a fraction of his unnaturally long yet unfairly short life. So instead he pretends to think of the idea with mockery, wields it like a blunted weapon against her. Kris feels like she's about to burst forth out of her own skin, turn into something that can pin him to the floor and use him til she's had her fill.

"Do it, then," is all she manages. Luckily, it's all the permission he seems to need.

Karl fumbles with his belt a moment in a hurried effort to free his cock from its canvas prison. It bobs under its own weight when he finally manages to get his pants and underwear out of the way, its thick length emphasized by a vein that pulses with need. There's a bead of precum already at the tip which he spreads with his thumb as he gives himself a few experimental strokes, as if he's somehow unsure if he's good enough for her yet.

Still, there's one more thing he needs to do.

"Your shirt." It comes out as a near purr, the kind of voice that can make him do absolutely anything. Kris bats her eyes at him for added measure and as if she were quite literally puppeting him, Karl quickly moves to toss the tank top somewhere it will be lost or forgotten for months.

He's so handsome. She sometimes wonders if he really is unaware, or if there's a part of him that's actually humble.

…he must just not know it.

His body, criss-crossed with scars both old and new, and most which have healed poorly, is a monument to the tireless effort and struggle he put in to obtaining his still newfound freedom. He's so, so strong, but so soft all the same. Fuck, she loves his stomach. It's her favorite fuzzy pillow and If he ever so much as loses a pound she'll force feed him an entire crate of ice cream, so help her God. It just… suits him. He's thick all over, just as he should be.

He rolls his hips experimentally against her cunt, letting his erection get slick with her. Whether they were built for one another or if they've simply molded to each other's forms, no one can say; Karl's calloused fingers trace the now faded streaks of the stretch marks on her lower abdomen reverently.

"You sure that's what you want? Don't fuck with me, baby…"

She swears she can hear the blood pulsing in his veins from where she lays. A silent confirmation passes between her and beast before she responds, a quiet understanding and acceptance that for once they are of one mind.

"I want to make you a daddy again."

It all happens so fast that for a moment Kris isn't sure what's just happened. One minute she's looking up into the adoring gaze of her husband, the next her cheek is pressed against the car and she's flipped onto her stomach. Karl's cock thrusts into her in one fluid motion - no gentle easing, no preparation. She goes from painfully empty to deliciously full in a matter of seconds, and the wind is nearly knocked out of her between the change in position and the sudden intrusion.

"Who am I to deny my pretty, pretty wife anything?" Karl growls into her ear before he sets his pace, brutal and wanting, almost immediately.

He usually prefers to see her face when he makes love to her; taking her from behind? This is something far more primal. It's all Kris can do to just brace herself against the car while he uses her. She tosses her head to position her curls over a shoulder so she can at least occasionally look back at him. His fingernails dig crescents into her hips and she's certain there will be bruises in the morning, but she's the furthest possible thing from caring right now.

"Karl-!"

"I've got you, baby, I've got you."

The hair on his stomach tickles her back and it occurs to her that it is one of many attributes that makes her insane. Of course, she cannot verbalize to him lest she come across as unhinged as he is, but the realization is stark all the same. His necklaces clink together as he thrusts, occasionally slowing to let her feel the drag of him against her cunt. One particularly well placed thrust has her seeing stars and is followed by a high pitched scraping noise which sounds eerily close.

She's ripping the metal, she realizes. Oh well. Karl even admitted the car's a lost cause, anyway. Karl either doesn't notice or doesn't mind - probably both. He's too busy using her like a fuck toy and frankly Kris is content to let him do it all day; the beast is mercifully quiet, drowned out by the sounds being torn from her throat and the swimming in her head.

The stretch of his cock against her walls burns in the most pleasurable way. The thick air is heavy with the scent of sex already and the windows are almost assuredly foggy; thank god they live far enough out of town that there's no danger of anyone wandering by and realizing exactly what's going on in here.

Karl's putting enough weight behind his thrusts that Kris bounces with his motions. She has to use her own upper body strength to push back against him and prevent herself from being pushed up to the damn windshield. After some back and forth, she manages to time it so that she's meeting his hips with her ass, eliciting a series of cusses and incoherent mutterings from her husband.

"Fuck-" Karl's voice is strained, almost like she still has her hand on his throat. "Did you get tighter somehow? That's a damn snug fit…"

He doesn't sound mad about it - quite the contrary. Kris isn't sure if the wolf is making her muscles clench harder or what, but it does feel particularly intense this time around. Karl snakes a hand between her and the car and presses his hand against her belly before dropping to rub tight circles on her clit.

"This one's gonna take. Ngh. I can feel it, can't you, baby?" Kris can only moan softly in reply and make a pathetic attempt to hide her face. "Fuck. If I'd known that's what you wanted I woulda never left you alone in that house. Would've just stayed in with you all day and filled you over and over until there was nothing left to give…"

"There's still time in the day," Kris manages. Karl laughs, but it's cut short by a groan of his own. His dick practically jumps inside of her as his pace falters slightly. He's clearly trying to stay in control and failing miserably. She feels a faint shift in the energy between them, a tiny gap where she realizes she needs to slip in and take the reins.

"You can let go, love," she ventures. "You can cum whenever you need to."

"I-I… no, fuck, you've gotta-"

"Don't you owe the mother of your babies everything she desires?" she breathes airily. Truth be told, she's close to the edge, too, and she has no doubt he'll get her there before or with him.

Make him fill you. Make it take root.

Karl whispers something inaudible as his pace somehow becomes more punishing and worshipful at the same time. Somewhere between the added pressure he gives to the motion of his thumb and the way he pinches his eyes shut to try to hold on, she gives way. She feels like she leaves her body temporarily, like she simultaneously feels every nerve in her body ignite and views it as an observer at the same time. Whatever sounds she's making, she doesn't know or care. Karl ruts into her only a few moments more before she feels the blossoming warmth of his spend deep in her cunt, filling her until the sensation of it leaking out hits her thighs.

At some point Karl falls forward and presses his full weight against her, making her attempts at regaining her breath all the more difficult. He whispers sweet things in her ears, paws at her hair and kisses her cheek adoringly while remaining firmly lodged inside her.

"Karl, you big oaf," she laughs after a minute. "What are you-"

Before she can finish her thought, she's rolled once more onto her back. Karl cups his palms under her ass and lifts her slightly, urging her ankles to rest on his shoulders. With a surge of warmth in her face at the realization that he is very much serious about this, she turns her head to the side to pretend to suddenly be very interested in the opposite wall.

"Gravity!" Karl announces as if it wasn't obvious. She'll pretend she doesn't understand basic science to humor him. This time.

"Brilliant," she mutters. "What would I do without you."

"That's a funny way of thanking me for taking care of your little issue."

"I'll be sure to run and get you a card once you let me up."

They stay like that for what could be minutes or hours. They've fallen into a comfortable silence, but one that's still heavy with things unspoken. Karl decides to break the tension with yet another horny observation, as is his way.

"You were so fuckin' hot when you were knocked up," he hums, drawing small circles on her outer thighs with his thumbs. "You're smokin' all the time, don't get me wrong, but it made me insane knowing everyone could tell who you belong to. I can't wait to enjoy that view again."

Once again, she ought to slap him.

Truth be told, she hadn't intended to make such a serious family planning decision today. They'd discussed it, of course, but nothing had been set in stone - rather, just danced around as is typical of two emotionally constipated, cranky assholes attempting to communicate. And given the myriad of issues surrounding the way Karl's "gift" effects his fertility, she has a feeling this is about to be the first of many times she gets her insides rearranged like this over the coming weeks and months.

Oh, well. Such is life.

Karl finally lets her go with a series of playful kisses. Kris rises shakily to her feet and turns to look at the state of the car before both of them exchange a knowing look and burst out laughing.

"Don't worry. I'll replace the hood," Karl snickers. "I've replaced basically everything else on the damn piece of shit over the last year, anyway."

"So it's like a Ship of Theseus vehicle at this point?"

"A fucking what? Sometimes I think that pretty brain of yours would be better put to work elsewhere instead of those weird flowery books you read."

"Never mind."

Kris feels calmer. More like herself - or, the version of herself she lives with these days. She pulls on her t shirt gingerly, her muscles already aching from how she had to brace herself against her husband's eager actions.

"So," Karl ventures as he hunts down his own clothes. "Your uh, wolfiness appears to be gone."

Kris's hand shoots up to her mouth. No fangs. No claws. She sidles past him to peek at herself in the car's rearview mirror and, sure enough, her eyes are back to their normal hue as well.

"Huh. So it is…"

Karl grumbles as his belt disobeys his attempts to secure it once more. "Got any idea what that was about, anyway?"

Kris sighs. She does, in fact, have her suspicions. But they were far, far too embarrassing to admit. Considering that Karl just railed her like a blow up doll against a stranger's car, though, what's the harm in throwing it onto the pile of humiliations? She drums her nails against the wall thoughtfully before speaking.

"You know how dogs… female canines, I guess, how periodically they go into… you know how when they ovulate, they… Ugh. Don't make me say it."

"Yeah," Karl pushes his hair out of his face with a large hand. "Yeah, that was kinda what I was thinkin' happened. Didn't want to say anything in case it, ah, offended you."

"Why would it offend me?" Kris laughs.

Karl throws his hands up in a dramatic display of defensiveness. "I dunno! Is there some kinda werewolf or vârcolac rights movement out there? You always know this stuff better'n me, fuck.

"No, there isn't, Karl." Because as far as we know I'm the only were-person outside of the crater that was the village in Romania. "But I appreciate your incredible capacity for cultural sensitivity and social conscientiousness."

He doesn't seem to catch on that she's teasing him, instead looking quite pleased with himself. She doesn't have the heart or the energy to tell him otherwise at the moment. She returns to his embrace, sinking into the warmth of his arms and breathing deeply.

Peace. For now.

"Mm. Say, what're you gonna do if this works?" She hums while he lowers his head to kiss her shoulder. "After all, I don't know how often this will happen to me… you're gonna end up with a baby army instead of a soldat army."

"Good. Perfect." Shockingly, he sounds sincere. "At the very least I need to beat Alcina and her three bug daughters."

"So this is all a weird byproduct of your competitive streak? You had me fooled. I thought you actually liked being a Papa."

Karl's cheeks flush. "You know… you know I do."

"I know, silly."

"Well then why did you - you know what, never mind. Bitch."

Kris snickers and wraps herself tighter around him. She does love him. He loves her, and their kids - both born and hypothetical. That's enough to make dealing with the occasional lycanthropic weirdness worth it. Karl pats her cheek to get her attention.

"So. Think I took care of the problem?"

"For now."

"For now?"

She detects the faintest hint of delicious, horny fear in his eyes.

"Mm. Don't heat cycles usually last days? I'd have to look it up, but I'm pretty sure they do."

"DAYS!?"

Kris shrugs. She gives his ass a light slap as she moves to leave the garage and punctuates it with a peck to his cheek.

"If you're not up to it…"

Karl swallows, Adam's apple bobbing beneath the scruffy grey of his beard.

"Oh. Uh, I mean. Yeah! Of course. What do you take me for, some old fart? I'll be ready, pumpkin - just uh… can you bring me the aspirin bottle? When you get a chance. No reason."