Any Shelter [Closed] - Printable Version
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Any Shelter [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-07-2017
![[Image: tgSvPmD.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/tgSvPmD.jpg)
RE: Any Shelter - SolitareLee - 04-07-2017
Bree was having a really shitty day. Like, even for her.
Life for her, the last few months, had been somewhat rocky. A certain Jean Cernunnos had re-entered her life, or to be more honest, she’d re-entered his. She had seen him three times in two months and she knew she was going to go back again. Every time she went, it took her half a week to get her head back on straight. She was sleeping less, which was a relief, because her dreams had been getting weird. Weirder.
She filled every second of every day with work. Because it was autumn now, her 23rd birthday looming on the horizon and with it, bringing the promise of eventual, inevitable winter. Which meant fewer work hours, fewer life hours. From here, it was all downhill. So she’d been working her ass off to do as much as physically possible now, while she had a solid 13 hours a day human. By the end of the month it would be 12, and before she knew it she would be down to nine short hours every day to cram in as much work as possible. She was basically a hermit all winter. She hated it.
For now, she’d figured out how to grade papers as a dog, made sure she had only 8-12 shifts at the library, and made sure all her classes were out by four. No more longer days on campus. Ugh. She needed some place closer, one of these days, the bus trip cut chunks out of her day every time. But the campus was closer to Old Town, and the apartments there were beyond expensive. She couldn’t afford that even if she was working instead of interning.
This should have been her life. Stressing about school, work, the shortening of days, her weird, uncomfortable emotions regarding the man who’d implanted himself in her mind when she was 18 and then refused to leave.
Instead, she was hiding in a park.
It was 8:30pm.
She was six inches tall.
There were wolves hunting her.
Like she said... shitty day.
There was a reasonable explanation for this. See, two days ago she had broken the face of a man who turned out to be a werewolf. This was not a first. What was a first was that he’d been like, a mafia werewolf or something, and she’d foiled a kidnapping, or a gang hit, or something, and they were coming after her. She’d realized they were following her when she left the library. She had been trying to lose them all day, not wanting to lead them back to her home. It just turned out it was very hard to lose a werewolf.
She’d made some progress because they got VERY distracted by her clothing pile, probably confused by the sudden change of scent. But. They were werewolves. They figured it out pretty fast.
She had very tiny legs. She could not outrun people, or wolves, or wolf-people. She had also never been out alone at night before. The world was very, very big. She was very, very small. Also, she was being chased by fucking wolves. She ran through the park in a panic, trying to keep close to people, but there were fewer and fewer, most of them leaving. A few took notice of her, but assumed she must belong to someone. Soon, all the people would leave, and the wolves would come out of hiding, and she would... Well. She didn’t know. She was very, very scared of finding out.
RE: Any Shelter - Tindome - 04-07-2017
The man now known as Jean Cernunnos was walking home after a delivery.
Of sorts.
Anyway. There had been books and invitations involved, and they had intrigued him enough to close shop early and go out for dinner. He was whistling cheerfully, and taking the scenic route home to enjoy the park. He still remembered when it had been woods. If he looked, he could probably find a tree or two with a familiar name carved into it. There were enough isolated areas that locals sometimes liked to engage in… well. A lot of things. And most of them interesting enough to make it worth wandering through, when given the opportunity.
He'd decided to wear a blue suit with a floral flocked waistcoat, white leather gloves and white shoes and a white ribbon in his hair. It was not as tidy as he could be, but he was willing to be seen. He thought the color flattered his eyes.
A familiar, bitter fear caught his attention. Usually, he was the target of this particular person's terror. Or maybe he only thought so because she so consistently found ways to be terrified in his presence, when she wasn't busy being indignant or mortified.
He was working on it. It was a project.
There were wolves about.
It was not necessarily a habit of his to go interrupting someone else's hunt, not if they were staying out of his business and keeping their trespasses brief. But the target – and he could only assume she was the target – was not their prey.
When he spotted the source of all that terror, he grinned wide.
What a wonderful turn of events. What a fantastic day.
She was running to and fro, frantically hunting for some kind of hiding place, circling under benches and scrabbling at trees, trying to follow strangers. She was too skittish for him to sneak up on her properly, but he had a height advantage, and it wasn't difficult at all to scoop her up off the ground. Little legs all flailing, tiny form all overwhelmed with panic. He tucked her against his chest, her ribcage resting on top of his palm.
"And who do you belong to, pretty puppy?" he asked aloud, as if he did not know perfectly well who she was.
Of sorts.
Anyway. There had been books and invitations involved, and they had intrigued him enough to close shop early and go out for dinner. He was whistling cheerfully, and taking the scenic route home to enjoy the park. He still remembered when it had been woods. If he looked, he could probably find a tree or two with a familiar name carved into it. There were enough isolated areas that locals sometimes liked to engage in… well. A lot of things. And most of them interesting enough to make it worth wandering through, when given the opportunity.
He'd decided to wear a blue suit with a floral flocked waistcoat, white leather gloves and white shoes and a white ribbon in his hair. It was not as tidy as he could be, but he was willing to be seen. He thought the color flattered his eyes.
A familiar, bitter fear caught his attention. Usually, he was the target of this particular person's terror. Or maybe he only thought so because she so consistently found ways to be terrified in his presence, when she wasn't busy being indignant or mortified.
He was working on it. It was a project.
There were wolves about.
It was not necessarily a habit of his to go interrupting someone else's hunt, not if they were staying out of his business and keeping their trespasses brief. But the target – and he could only assume she was the target – was not their prey.
When he spotted the source of all that terror, he grinned wide.
What a wonderful turn of events. What a fantastic day.
She was running to and fro, frantically hunting for some kind of hiding place, circling under benches and scrabbling at trees, trying to follow strangers. She was too skittish for him to sneak up on her properly, but he had a height advantage, and it wasn't difficult at all to scoop her up off the ground. Little legs all flailing, tiny form all overwhelmed with panic. He tucked her against his chest, her ribcage resting on top of his palm.
"And who do you belong to, pretty puppy?" he asked aloud, as if he did not know perfectly well who she was.
RE: Any Shelter - SolitareLee - 04-07-2017
She had been scrambling after a woman carrying a small child, praying to any god that might have been listening for help. The wrong god was listening.
She felt herself being scooped off the ground and utterly panicked. This was it, this was the end, oh god. She nearly wet herself--it was a lot easier to do in this form--but managed to twist to see what was holding her first.
No.
No, no, no, no, no, no no no. No. NO.
But, apparently, yes. For some utterly terrible, godforsaken reason, Jean Cernunnos slash Damien Lestrange slash whatever name he'd be going by four years from now, was walking through the park. And had seen her. And had picked her up.
This was the worst possible thing...
She heard a howling, in the distance.
This was the second worst possibe thing that could have happened.
But, small, confusing mercies, he didn't seem to recognize her. She'd kind of assumed he would be able to. If he'd been able to tell from a glance she could turn into a dog, couldn't he tell from a glance now that she could turn into a person? Perhaps he was just being condescending.
This was a strange feeling, being held close to a chest. She had been lifted before in the past, but always briefly, and as little as possible. Normally it was only when she'd managed to get stuck or injured as a young child. These days, if she got stuck, she was stuck there until dawn, because her mother couldn't bear the sight of her, let alone the touch. She'd certainly never been held against someone's chest. His hand was under her. Practically under all of her. It was... very strange.
She stared at him with wide eyes, trying to figure out if he was fucking with her or not. And trying to figure out how, in any case, she could convince him not to put her down and walk away. Because she knew Jean. She knew the mean sorts of things he did, and the nice sorts of things he did, and the confusing mean-things-that-felt-nice and nice-things-that-felt-mean in the middle. And she would take some torment over whatever the wolves had planned for her, any day.
Slowly, she opened her mouth slightly, and let out a somewhat quiet 'arf.'
RE: Any Shelter - Tindome - 04-08-2017
She definitely recognized him, and wasn't happy to see him. How ungrateful! Here he was, saving her life, and she didn't have the grace to be excited about it.
Ah, well.
"Arf," he repeated, teasing.
… she was still a person. She would be fully aware that he had 'arf'ed at her.
Hm.
He could hardly be blamed, anyway. They were such delightful circumstances! Once the novelty wore off it would be much easier to avoid saying or doing anything he would not be willing to do in front of a young woman.
"What tiny paws you have," he observed, tucking his cane under his arm so he could hold it between two fingers. Like they were shaking on an agreement. A tiny, tiny agreement. The night was cool, and he was warm; he still smelled like cologne and someone else's perfume. "It is not at all safe to be running around so late with such little feet. And no collar!" He tsked disapprovingly, and nuzzled at the fur on top of her head with his nose.
His nose seemed approximately as large as her entire face, quite frankly.
"I shall take you home with me," he decided, lowering his cane to resume walking. He chose a more direct route back toward his house, as he'd found something far more interesting than idle lollygagging. "We will decide what is to be done with you in the morning, yes? I am certain someone is missing you terribly, and worried sick. They will be so pleased to know that I have kept you safe!"
Two of the fingers on the hand holding her up scritched idly under her neck.
Ah, well.
"Arf," he repeated, teasing.
… she was still a person. She would be fully aware that he had 'arf'ed at her.
Hm.
He could hardly be blamed, anyway. They were such delightful circumstances! Once the novelty wore off it would be much easier to avoid saying or doing anything he would not be willing to do in front of a young woman.
"What tiny paws you have," he observed, tucking his cane under his arm so he could hold it between two fingers. Like they were shaking on an agreement. A tiny, tiny agreement. The night was cool, and he was warm; he still smelled like cologne and someone else's perfume. "It is not at all safe to be running around so late with such little feet. And no collar!" He tsked disapprovingly, and nuzzled at the fur on top of her head with his nose.
His nose seemed approximately as large as her entire face, quite frankly.
"I shall take you home with me," he decided, lowering his cane to resume walking. He chose a more direct route back toward his house, as he'd found something far more interesting than idle lollygagging. "We will decide what is to be done with you in the morning, yes? I am certain someone is missing you terribly, and worried sick. They will be so pleased to know that I have kept you safe!"
Two of the fingers on the hand holding her up scritched idly under her neck.
RE: Any Shelter - SolitareLee - 04-08-2017
Things were happening very quickly. For one, he was being... kind of cute. It was ridiculous, actually. He arfed back at her. He was smiling. He took her paw between two large--both in general and now, specifically--leather-clad fingers, as if admiring how tiny she was.
She was exceedingly tiny. She knew this. She was, at all times, extremely aware of how super tiny she was. Especially when being hunted, which was not a sensation she'd had quite so intimately before, and not one she wanted to repeat.
He... rubbed against the top of her head, with his face. His nose, specifically.
It felt very good. She became aware of her tiny, fluffy stub of a tail wagging. Stop that. Stop that tail.
It refused.
He smelled good. She could smell the twang of something she didn't care for at all, something sharp and unpleasant to her sensitive nose, but underneath it was a warm, dark scent she very much approved of. It smelled like his office, and his office was a good, safe place to be. Er. Relatively speaking. She liked it, was all.
And now she was being carried. He'd decided to take her home, just like that. There was no way he realized who she was, she realized. Or, likely, that she was even a person. He'd arfed at her, for god's sake. She would never have been able to imagine that before she'd seen it. And that pleased grin, a little glint of his teeth between his lips? He didn't show his teeth when smiling, unless he wanted to make a point--pun somewhat intended.
Okay. This could work. She'd just need to... wait for him to fall asleep, and then get out of his house. Werewolves wouldn't stalk her back to his place, she was fairly sure; he was scarier than them. From there, she could get home, and figure out what to do about her new wolf problem. Clothing would be an issue. She might have to steal some of his. But she could make this work.
His index and middle finger came up and rubbed her neck and chest. Her eyes slid halfway closed. Oh. Ohhhhhh. Oh wow. She leaned into the sensation. That was. Oh my. Yeah, that was. That was good. She shifted slightly so he'd hit an even better spot. Oooooohhhhh. Her eyes slid the rest of the way closed, and her tail began thudding against his arm in its limited way.
RE: Any Shelter - Tindome - 04-08-2017
She was calming down a bit, and that stubby little tail of hers was wagging furiously. The small size of it raised the possibility that she'd had a tail the whole time, and he'd just never noticed, not having been given proper access to her ass.
That was an amusing thought.
How had that song gone? I had an old dog whose name was Blue – he hummed it, better able to recall the notes than the words. It had never been a song for a man like him to sing, but he managed well enough on the violin, so long as he played it like a fiddle. Ages ago, now, that he'd played those kinds of games. Insinuating himself into places he should not have been wanted, with skills he should not have had. These days he played less raucous pieces, slow and pretty and better suited to home with no one in it.
"Shall I call you Blue?" he wondered as he approached his own front door. "You have no tags, tiny one, and so I do not know what to call you." He found his keys, unlocked his door to walk into the darkness and shut the door behind them. He headed immediately for the stairs, not even bothering to turn on a light. He did not hit a switch until he'd walked into his bedroom, humming all the while.
It was about what anyone would expect. Intricately carved mahogany furniture, polished hardwood floors, an enormous bed covered in lavender silk. He switched out the colors, depending on his mood, but lately he'd settled onto purple. His hair was lost in black, his skin lost in white, and red could seem a bit too dire on occasion. He thought lavender could be sophisticated and flattering.
The upholstery was all white, what he'd settled on when he'd decided that changing it every time he changed the sheets was a timesink. He had a fainting couch at the foot of his bed, a mirror above his dresser, more mirrors and a one folding screen set near the door to the closet. Another window seat, this one above the window in the storefront; he had always loved being able to sit in the window, and so they littered the home that had been built for him. And another violin, though this one clearly finer than the one he tooled around with in his office. Chairs and a rug sat in front of his fireplace, again above the one in what had once been his parlor.
"What do you think, little Blue?" he wondered. "Mais, look at these paws," he said, setting his cane aside so that he could hold and shake her paw again. "All of this running around has left you a terrible mess. I cannot let such a dog on my furniture. I have already allowed you to get dirt on my clothes! Unacceptable behavior." He meandered toward the bathroom, turned that light on as well.
He could probably not put her in the tub without her drowning. That was simple logistics. This was the only room in the house that he remodeled with any regularity, and it showed. The tub was freestanding porcelain, as wide as he was tall and completely circular, with all the fittings in gold. There was a shower stall all in glass, with white and gold tile and an enormous rain can showerhead. Two deep sinks, a vanity, large mirrors, and a new toilet which he was still enamored of because it had a built-in bidet and played a jaunty tune.
He only needed it when he'd actually been eating physical food, but it was the principle of the thing.
Cozy chairs, fluffy towels, fluffy rugs, fluffy robes. This was a bathroom for a man who loved baths, but who also enjoyed sharing them with guests. Many guests. Simultaneously.
He set Bree down into a deep white sink, and pulled off his gloves. "I hope you do not mind the water – you have been such a good girl so far!" Setting the gloves on the counter, he unbuttoned his coat, and shrugged it off his shoulders. "I promise I shall be gentle, tiny one."
That was an amusing thought.
How had that song gone? I had an old dog whose name was Blue – he hummed it, better able to recall the notes than the words. It had never been a song for a man like him to sing, but he managed well enough on the violin, so long as he played it like a fiddle. Ages ago, now, that he'd played those kinds of games. Insinuating himself into places he should not have been wanted, with skills he should not have had. These days he played less raucous pieces, slow and pretty and better suited to home with no one in it.
"Shall I call you Blue?" he wondered as he approached his own front door. "You have no tags, tiny one, and so I do not know what to call you." He found his keys, unlocked his door to walk into the darkness and shut the door behind them. He headed immediately for the stairs, not even bothering to turn on a light. He did not hit a switch until he'd walked into his bedroom, humming all the while.
It was about what anyone would expect. Intricately carved mahogany furniture, polished hardwood floors, an enormous bed covered in lavender silk. He switched out the colors, depending on his mood, but lately he'd settled onto purple. His hair was lost in black, his skin lost in white, and red could seem a bit too dire on occasion. He thought lavender could be sophisticated and flattering.
The upholstery was all white, what he'd settled on when he'd decided that changing it every time he changed the sheets was a timesink. He had a fainting couch at the foot of his bed, a mirror above his dresser, more mirrors and a one folding screen set near the door to the closet. Another window seat, this one above the window in the storefront; he had always loved being able to sit in the window, and so they littered the home that had been built for him. And another violin, though this one clearly finer than the one he tooled around with in his office. Chairs and a rug sat in front of his fireplace, again above the one in what had once been his parlor.
"What do you think, little Blue?" he wondered. "Mais, look at these paws," he said, setting his cane aside so that he could hold and shake her paw again. "All of this running around has left you a terrible mess. I cannot let such a dog on my furniture. I have already allowed you to get dirt on my clothes! Unacceptable behavior." He meandered toward the bathroom, turned that light on as well.
He could probably not put her in the tub without her drowning. That was simple logistics. This was the only room in the house that he remodeled with any regularity, and it showed. The tub was freestanding porcelain, as wide as he was tall and completely circular, with all the fittings in gold. There was a shower stall all in glass, with white and gold tile and an enormous rain can showerhead. Two deep sinks, a vanity, large mirrors, and a new toilet which he was still enamored of because it had a built-in bidet and played a jaunty tune.
He only needed it when he'd actually been eating physical food, but it was the principle of the thing.
Cozy chairs, fluffy towels, fluffy rugs, fluffy robes. This was a bathroom for a man who loved baths, but who also enjoyed sharing them with guests. Many guests. Simultaneously.
He set Bree down into a deep white sink, and pulled off his gloves. "I hope you do not mind the water – you have been such a good girl so far!" Setting the gloves on the counter, he unbuttoned his coat, and shrugged it off his shoulders. "I promise I shall be gentle, tiny one."
RE: Any Shelter - SolitareLee - 04-08-2017
He walked her the whole way to his house, though in truth it wasn't too terribly far, humming cheerfully the whole way. And petting her, idly, on and off. Every time he did, her little tail would start wagging it again. She couldn't help it. It was madness to her; over twenty years in this body and she'd very rarely had trouble controlling her tail. Her ears, yes, always had a mind of their own, but her tail? His house looked mostly the same, because the chest height he was carrying her at was similar to her own normal height. She was certain it would have been even more overwhelming than it normally was, had she been on the ground, but he didn't seem to be intent on setting her down. She was beyond relieved; she had been a bit worried he'd just stick her alone in his backyard.
She looked up at him, mildly offended, at the name suggestion. Blue? Did she look like a hound dog to him? He could at least have said it with a French accent, bleu. But no. Blue, like Blues Clues. Sigh. People should not be allowed to name dogs for this very reason.
She felt a thrill of excitement when he took her upstairs. Was he taking her to his office? A dozen rapid mental images skittered through her mind. Him at his desk, working, while she curled up underneath it. In his lap in that big leather chair, while he read. Sitting on the window seat as he practiced his violin. Her tail--her entire ass, really--thumped violently against his arm.
But instead, he took her into another room. She was confused for a moment, until he hit the light.
This was his bedroom.
Her ears hit her head, shock and embarrassment. It was stupid; she was a dog. But she'd never been in a man's bedroom before. And such a grand one. It matched his office well, similar aesthetic and the same smell. A huge bed, a windowseat she instantly longed for, oh! even a violin! And that fireplace! Her embarrassment was swept up in her admiration.
Wait. Mud on her paws?
He was taking her into the bathroom.
This was taking a weird turn, suddenly.
The bathroom was every bit as grand as the bedroom, a ludicrously huge tub, and shower, and god, just, it was bigger than her bedroom. By a huge margin. Like, four of her bedrooms would probably have fit in here.
And now he was putting her in the sink.
Her tail tried to tuck between her legs as she scrambled to maintain her balance on the porcelain. This was a very strange way to see a sink, and a very strange angle to watch him pull off his beautiful white leather gloves.
He pulled off his coat and she wanted to scramble out of the sink. But... where would she go? And she had to pretend to be a dog of relative, doggish intelligence.
But a bath would require him... at least rinsing her off. Possibly rubbing her. Her paws, legs, and underbelly, at the very least. She'd never received a bath as a dog, before, since skin was easier to wash than fur. She assumed there was a similar level of rubbing to washing hair, but what did she know?
In the end, it didn't matter. There wasn't really anything she could do about the situation. She just stood, mildly alarmed, in the sink, trying not to look as ridiculous as she felt. She would just hold very still and wait for it to be over, and try very hard not to think about the logistics of the situation. It wasn't as though he was bathing her. He was bathing a dog. It was very different.
RE: Any Shelter - Tindome - 04-08-2017
The games he'd been playing with her in exchange for the books she wanted had been working well. The mere suggestion that they might be going to his office had her filled with happy anticipation, her tail wagging even more furiously than before.
That all disappeared into mortified anxiety once they entered his bedroom, near panic in the sink. The poor dear didn't know what to do with herself without giving the game away. It might be in-character for a dog to try to escape, but she surely knew it would never work, and would only make the ignoble end a more humiliating affair.
Coat neatly folded and set off to the side, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, folded that as well. Loosened his tie, slipped it out of his collar. Then he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealed the dusting of dark hair on well-sculpted forearms.
He had fine wrists, and long fingers, and nice forearms. It wasn't vanity to be aware of the facts.
"Do not be frightened," he said as soothingly as he could, able now to run his hands all down her head and back. He scritched her head. "It will be nice, I assure you."
He ran the hot water first, knowing that it would initially run warm, giving him time to turn on the cold water and adjust it to what he assumed would be a comfortable temperature. Then he stopped up the sink and let it fill, petting her all the while.
It was not that he was obsessive about hygiene. It was only that he had spent quite enough of his life in filth, enough for ten lifetimes or more. He liked for things to be tidy, to feel nice against his skin, to be pleasing to the eye with a lovely fragrance. Didn't everyone? And if in this particular instance, it allowed him to touch someone who had not seemed aware that touch could be a marvelous thing – well. That was an additional benefit.
"There," he said, turning the water off. He smoothed water over her back, tried to wet the fur of her ears without getting it in her eyes. "It is not so bad, yes?" He hummed again, rubbed grit from the fur around her paws. "Go on Blue you good dog you – perhaps you would like another song better?" He chuckled as he grabbed a little jewel-colored handsoap full of flower petals, rubbing soap onto his hands so that he could massage it into her fur. "You are a pup of refinement, accustomed to only the finest things. You bathe in champagne, and your treats are caviar. Do you like the opera? Turandot, for you, I think."
"Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma! Tu pure, o, Principessa – that is you, if you did not know it." He switched between a full-throated tenor and his ordinary speaking voice with ease, no proper transition whatsoever. "Would you like to sing with me, Blue?" He laughed, rubbing under her chest and at her paws, rinsing them just as quickly. "Awoo – like that, yes? Can you sing?"
That all disappeared into mortified anxiety once they entered his bedroom, near panic in the sink. The poor dear didn't know what to do with herself without giving the game away. It might be in-character for a dog to try to escape, but she surely knew it would never work, and would only make the ignoble end a more humiliating affair.
Coat neatly folded and set off to the side, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, folded that as well. Loosened his tie, slipped it out of his collar. Then he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealed the dusting of dark hair on well-sculpted forearms.
He had fine wrists, and long fingers, and nice forearms. It wasn't vanity to be aware of the facts.
"Do not be frightened," he said as soothingly as he could, able now to run his hands all down her head and back. He scritched her head. "It will be nice, I assure you."
He ran the hot water first, knowing that it would initially run warm, giving him time to turn on the cold water and adjust it to what he assumed would be a comfortable temperature. Then he stopped up the sink and let it fill, petting her all the while.
It was not that he was obsessive about hygiene. It was only that he had spent quite enough of his life in filth, enough for ten lifetimes or more. He liked for things to be tidy, to feel nice against his skin, to be pleasing to the eye with a lovely fragrance. Didn't everyone? And if in this particular instance, it allowed him to touch someone who had not seemed aware that touch could be a marvelous thing – well. That was an additional benefit.
"There," he said, turning the water off. He smoothed water over her back, tried to wet the fur of her ears without getting it in her eyes. "It is not so bad, yes?" He hummed again, rubbed grit from the fur around her paws. "Go on Blue you good dog you – perhaps you would like another song better?" He chuckled as he grabbed a little jewel-colored handsoap full of flower petals, rubbing soap onto his hands so that he could massage it into her fur. "You are a pup of refinement, accustomed to only the finest things. You bathe in champagne, and your treats are caviar. Do you like the opera? Turandot, for you, I think."
"Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma! Tu pure, o, Principessa – that is you, if you did not know it." He switched between a full-throated tenor and his ordinary speaking voice with ease, no proper transition whatsoever. "Would you like to sing with me, Blue?" He laughed, rubbing under her chest and at her paws, rinsing them just as quickly. "Awoo – like that, yes? Can you sing?"
RE: Any Shelter - SolitareLee - 04-08-2017
This was just getting really weird, okay. Bree genuinely didn't know what to do with herself. She normally didn't have too much trouble getting overwhelmed as a dog; she liked to think she was no more a slave to her instincts as she normally was. Herself on four paws.
But he was stripping. She tried to look away, but there was a mirror. No escape. In a number of ways. Fortunately, he stopped after just rolling his sleeves up.
He had nice arms. Was that a normal thing to think? Probably not. God, help. Help. And he was going to be touching her, looking like that? She had limits, and that was about three light years beyond them. She scrambled at the side of the sink.
Then he ran a hand the down the full length of her head and back, and she froze. He did it again.
It was even better than she had ever imagined.
Like a full body massage, all at once.
She...
She could be allowed to enjoy this, a little.
Since he didn't know it was her. He was just bathing a dog. So she could enjoy it... as a dog. It'd be fine.
The water was warm but wet fur was uncomfortable even under the best of circumstances. She shivered, because she was a very small dog and shivering came naturally to her, but also, he kept petting her, so it wasn't too bad.
He sang, and she caught herself rolling her eyes--not a very doglike thing. But he rubbed soap into her fur, and it felt so good even though she was uncomfortable and wet. And he had such a fine life imagined for her! If only she could tell him she hid under the bed in a shitty, tiny apartment, ate American cheese and processed ham. Why he thought such fine things of her, she'd never know. Perhaps she looked like a designer breed.
He switched to another sort of song. She liked this one a great deal better. The bathroom echoed and filled with his voice, a smooth, deep sound. The soap smelled of flowers, and it was all she could smell right now, which was annoying, because she wanted a thick, heady smell of his office in her nose again. She wanted to roll in it. She slid her eyes closed, told herself it was to keep soap out of them.
She was not going to sing along.
She was not.
But he was so, so cute when he 'awoo'd.' More confirmation he had no idea she was something that could remember this. God, if only she could tell him. She could just imagine, the next time she saw him, looking him dead in the eye. 'Awoo, can you sing, Mr. Cernunnos?'
It would be absolutely worth the pain and humiliation it would bring.
She gave another quiet sort of arf sound. Because he was being cute. And because the petting felt so, so, so good. No other reason.
RE: Any Shelter [Closed] - Tindome - 04-08-2017
Despite herself, she was starting to enjoy it.
… having these feelings of a young woman coming from a tiny dog was peculiar. Obviously he wasn't about to go doing anything untoward with a dog, no matter how human she really was. His usual tactics did not at all apply to this situation.
Such a tentative little bark. "So meek, petite bleu!" He rubbed her and rinsed her and generally tried to get all of the soap from her, fingertips making little circles all over her back. "What a shy girl you are." He set the sink to drain, and grabbed a towel, putting it on an empty spot of counter so that he could set her on top of it. He rubbed at her to dry her off, aware of how much she was shivering.
He had never actually tried to wash an animal this small. Was it safe to wash them, even? For all he knew, at this size they could tolerate only dust baths without freezing to death. That would be unfortunate. Might be more worrying if she would be staying a tiny dog.
"I will not sing again if you will not sing with me," he warned falsely. He quite liked to sing. "You must howl," he said, practically buffing her entire body with the towel between his hands. "Howl to the moon, so she knows that you love her!" When she was as dry as he thought he could get her, he grabbed a spare hand towel, picked her up and wrapped her in it as if he was swaddling a baby.
How he assumed one swaddled a baby. He'd never had reason to. He did not care for children.
He tucked her into the crook of his arm, a tidy little bundle of towel with a dog's face poking out of it. "Nessun dorma," he began, rocking a little in the universal dance of a man holding a dog and singing to it. "Come, now, you must sing too – awoo. Let me hear your fiercest howl, to strike terror in the hearts of men."
… having these feelings of a young woman coming from a tiny dog was peculiar. Obviously he wasn't about to go doing anything untoward with a dog, no matter how human she really was. His usual tactics did not at all apply to this situation.
Such a tentative little bark. "So meek, petite bleu!" He rubbed her and rinsed her and generally tried to get all of the soap from her, fingertips making little circles all over her back. "What a shy girl you are." He set the sink to drain, and grabbed a towel, putting it on an empty spot of counter so that he could set her on top of it. He rubbed at her to dry her off, aware of how much she was shivering.
He had never actually tried to wash an animal this small. Was it safe to wash them, even? For all he knew, at this size they could tolerate only dust baths without freezing to death. That would be unfortunate. Might be more worrying if she would be staying a tiny dog.
"I will not sing again if you will not sing with me," he warned falsely. He quite liked to sing. "You must howl," he said, practically buffing her entire body with the towel between his hands. "Howl to the moon, so she knows that you love her!" When she was as dry as he thought he could get her, he grabbed a spare hand towel, picked her up and wrapped her in it as if he was swaddling a baby.
How he assumed one swaddled a baby. He'd never had reason to. He did not care for children.
He tucked her into the crook of his arm, a tidy little bundle of towel with a dog's face poking out of it. "Nessun dorma," he began, rocking a little in the universal dance of a man holding a dog and singing to it. "Come, now, you must sing too – awoo. Let me hear your fiercest howl, to strike terror in the hearts of men."
RE: Any Shelter [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-08-2017
Petite bleu. It was better than Blue. Not great, but better. Because it was French, and everything sounded at least slightly better in French. Her shivering doubled when the water drained; she was very wet and very displeased about being wet now that he had stopped petting her. At least it was over. Now she could... she could... Huh, she had no real idea. She'd have to just bide her time until he fell asleep, but until then, she was rather subject to his whims. And his whims, it was turning out, were very different with a dog than with a woman.
Well, thankfully. But that's not what she'd meant. She'd been thinking of his tendency to humiliate. To be cruel, seemingly for fun. He'd fixed her with a disdainful look again in her last visit, to express his displeasure at her work clothes. They were perfectly fine work clothes. She'd looked like a librarian. That the skirt was longer, looser, and that she'd worn leggings, was mostly due to the fact that the time before that, he complemented her legs. Which she had interpretted as him making fun of her, even though she actually liked her legs. So if you thought about it, it was really his fault, and also, he shouldn't look at her that way at all, ever.
Now, instead, he was doing things like arf-ing and awoo-ing and shaking her paws like little hands. And petting. And bathing. And now, buffing her entire body with a giant fuck-off white fluffy towel, which was a weird feeling just in how much larger it was than her.
He finished rubbing her, and she gave a very vigorous shake. It didn't do much, because she was already pretty much dry, but it felt necessary. She could feel her fur floofing out, light and fluffy and very clean. She probably looked like an explosion.
She let out a startled little snort when he rolled her up again, this time in a hand towel and for no good reason at all. She was pretty much dry! She wiggled her legs, but they were all bundled up next to her body.
This was very undignified.
Now he was dancing with her, sort of. He was really just rocking back and forth with her in his arm, but there was a rhythm to it that implied subtle dancing. What a night of firsts, for her, the tiny five pound dog that wasn't a grown woman right now and therefore couldn't really count any of them.
Except the petting. She was counting the petting, because she'd only ever really wanted that as a dog. She'd wanted it with the fierceness of any of her desires as a human, but it was gone with the light of the morning sun, leaving only an aching loneliness and vague desire for contact, for touch of any kind.
She was not going to howl for him. No matter how much he was being cute, which was very. No matter how much she enjoyed being petted. She was a small dog. Small dogs did not have noble sounding howls. She had been caught up in the instinct once or twice when she was younger, but she hadn't howled in years now. She wasn't even sure she remembered how. Of course she did. Dogs didn't remember things like that; they were just ever-present pieces of knowledge. Things her body knew.
But she wasn't going to. No matter how many times he awoo'd. This was ridiculous.
...She gave him a louder bark, hoping it would appease him and still be within the realms of canine understanding. She hadn't actually spent a lot of time around dog-dogs. It was unsettling, and she always felt like they could tell.
It felt sort of good to bark at him, so she did it again, louder. Ha! Yes, take that. Be barked at. He didn't know it had been an excited bark and not some other kind of bark, probably. She was all bundled up, so he couldn't even see or feel her tail waggling, probably.
RE: Any Shelter [Closed] - Tindome - 04-08-2017
He laughed, both at the barking and the subtle wiggle of her tail. "Better," he said, "but still not quite. Has no one taught you to howl? Perhaps you do not know."
Carrying her back into his bedroom, he unbundled her to set her on top of the towel on his dresser. She shook again, fluffing herself out, and he hunted for a comb he would not miss.
He had many, many combs.
"I do not have a brush for you, and so this will have to do," he apologized, attempting to neaten up her fur with it. He was an expert at the gentle working out of knots, never tearing hair. When he was done, he found some ribbons he could use in a seashell pink.
Could he get away with tying one around her neck? Or would it strangle her when she changed? Probably best not to risk it. Instead he gathered little tufts of fur near her ears, and carefully tied slender strips of silk around them. He left long, trailing lengths of it hanging down when he snipped it short – small scissors he liked to use for his nails – though not so long that she'd get caught up in them.
"There," he said. "A good, fine pup." He turned her around so she could she herself in the mirror. "Yes? I do good work." He bent, and kissed the back of her head. "Mwah. What a good girl." He ran his hand over her back again. What was it about all that fluff that made him want to give her little kisses? He was still not over the novelty of how tiny her paws were. Which was so tiny.
"The night is still young, petite bleu. Shall we go to the kitchen? You must be hungry after your big adventure today."
Carrying her back into his bedroom, he unbundled her to set her on top of the towel on his dresser. She shook again, fluffing herself out, and he hunted for a comb he would not miss.
He had many, many combs.
"I do not have a brush for you, and so this will have to do," he apologized, attempting to neaten up her fur with it. He was an expert at the gentle working out of knots, never tearing hair. When he was done, he found some ribbons he could use in a seashell pink.
Could he get away with tying one around her neck? Or would it strangle her when she changed? Probably best not to risk it. Instead he gathered little tufts of fur near her ears, and carefully tied slender strips of silk around them. He left long, trailing lengths of it hanging down when he snipped it short – small scissors he liked to use for his nails – though not so long that she'd get caught up in them.
"There," he said. "A good, fine pup." He turned her around so she could she herself in the mirror. "Yes? I do good work." He bent, and kissed the back of her head. "Mwah. What a good girl." He ran his hand over her back again. What was it about all that fluff that made him want to give her little kisses? He was still not over the novelty of how tiny her paws were. Which was so tiny.
"The night is still young, petite bleu. Shall we go to the kitchen? You must be hungry after your big adventure today."
RE: Any Shelter [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-08-2017
She knew how, he just wasn't getting it out of her. She had some dignity, she thought to herself as a very large man carried her out of his bathroom, set her on his dresser, and began to comb her fur. Which felt good, though she would have liked a softer brush. Yeah. Dignity. Sure.
Whatever dignity she had left, however, was put under great strain as he tied goddamn ribbons by her ears. Little fucking pink ribbons.
This was demeaning.
She looked at herself in the mirror, looking very unimpressed for a tiny dog, and then looked up at him, as if to say, really? Really, Jean? Someone needed to get this man a dog. A real dog, who wouldn't object to this sort of ridiculous treatment. He was clearly enjoying himself far too much, and this sort of thing was a complete pain to deal with when--
He kissed her head again. Her tail wagged.
You stop that at once.
She was hating this. He ran his hand all down her back again. Her tail wagged harder. Goddamnit.
She could get the ribbons out later, when he wasn't looking. It would be a very dog thing to do, pawing at things stuck in her fur. If she did it now, he'd probably just tie one around her neck or something.
The prospect of food was welcome, because she hadn't actually eaten since lunch. Did he have any idea what dogs ate, though? She'd have to be careful he didn't accidentally poison her. She wondered, idly, if rich people owned bacon, and if she could convince her to make some for him without breaking her cover.
She looked at herself in the mirror again, before he could scoop her up again. It was rare she got to see herself like this. There were no pictures, and there weren't any floor-length mirrors in her house. She hadn't seen her appearance as a dog in something like ten years. Little had changed. She still looked like a puppy, somehow; it was like she'd never grow up, and she hadn't gotten any bigger since she was a toddler. Stuck at five pounds. No matter how muscular she got in her human form, this one was always the same.
She was disgusted with herself, briefly. But it helped when Jean rubbed her head again, because it was hard for a dog to hate itself while being pet, no matter how human the brain between the ears.
RE: Any Shelter [Closed] - Tindome - 04-08-2017
Having scooped her up, he made an experimental attempt to hold her up and nuzzle at her belly.
Yes. Good.
Then he held her against his chest, and meandered back toward the kitchen. She really despised how much she was enjoying this. It was, once again, not a sensation he was used to getting from a dog. And none of this was usually how he got it from someone. This was the kind of orange blossom and oolong taste he might expect from, say, a particularly humiliating variation on sodomy with someone who thought they were better than he was, being forced to learn that they were horribly wrong. This was much less effort, and really hadn't earned it. Then again, he'd rarely done anything to really earn the depths of loathing hidden beneath her hats.
"Clean pups may sit on the counters," he informed her, setting her down as he flicked the light switch. He ran his hand over her back and kissed her head again. She was just so small! She felt so nice! It wasn't the same as idly petting someone's hair, but it was a different kind of pleasant. He just wanted to pick her up and squeeze her to death, which was a strange way to feel about a thing.
He went directly to the cupboard where he kept his crystal, and found the miniature champagne glasses he used to use for parties. The wide, flat bowls of the actual glass made them ideal for stacking into delicate arrangements on a tray, but in this case, it would be easier for her to get her face into.
A simple plate might work better, but where was the fun in that?
He filled one with water, and set it down in front of her. He wet his finger and ran it along the rim to make a brief sound. "Good crystal for good girls," he teased, patting the top of her ribboned head. Then he went to the fridge to find what he wanted: a glass jar of Ossetra caviar.
"What do you think?" he asked, setting the jar and the small stemware on the counter. He tapped the lid with a mother-of-pearl spoon. "I hope you are not offended that it has already been opened. You may be used to fresher fare, but here we must make do." He unscrewed the top, and gently spooned some of the caviar into the little crystal bowl. Then he rested the spoon in the jar, and slid the stemware beside the one with water. "See how you like it. Better to use your tongue than your teeth, but such rules are for men and not spoiled pups, oui?"
Yes. Good.
Then he held her against his chest, and meandered back toward the kitchen. She really despised how much she was enjoying this. It was, once again, not a sensation he was used to getting from a dog. And none of this was usually how he got it from someone. This was the kind of orange blossom and oolong taste he might expect from, say, a particularly humiliating variation on sodomy with someone who thought they were better than he was, being forced to learn that they were horribly wrong. This was much less effort, and really hadn't earned it. Then again, he'd rarely done anything to really earn the depths of loathing hidden beneath her hats.
"Clean pups may sit on the counters," he informed her, setting her down as he flicked the light switch. He ran his hand over her back and kissed her head again. She was just so small! She felt so nice! It wasn't the same as idly petting someone's hair, but it was a different kind of pleasant. He just wanted to pick her up and squeeze her to death, which was a strange way to feel about a thing.
He went directly to the cupboard where he kept his crystal, and found the miniature champagne glasses he used to use for parties. The wide, flat bowls of the actual glass made them ideal for stacking into delicate arrangements on a tray, but in this case, it would be easier for her to get her face into.
A simple plate might work better, but where was the fun in that?
He filled one with water, and set it down in front of her. He wet his finger and ran it along the rim to make a brief sound. "Good crystal for good girls," he teased, patting the top of her ribboned head. Then he went to the fridge to find what he wanted: a glass jar of Ossetra caviar.
"What do you think?" he asked, setting the jar and the small stemware on the counter. He tapped the lid with a mother-of-pearl spoon. "I hope you are not offended that it has already been opened. You may be used to fresher fare, but here we must make do." He unscrewed the top, and gently spooned some of the caviar into the little crystal bowl. Then he rested the spoon in the jar, and slid the stemware beside the one with water. "See how you like it. Better to use your tongue than your teeth, but such rules are for men and not spoiled pups, oui?"