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He’d come in seeking out a monster. And boy oh boy had he found himself one—all Buck had to do was wander helplessly. Let the thing give chase, silent as a mouse despite considerable bulk. Hot breath at the back of his neck, only to let him dart away until they were both wound up from the chase.
And now he’s laid out at the base of a massive tree, with a big lump of muscles and fur bracketing him and whispering in his head.
None of the stories mention this part: the deep voice of the werewolf inside his skull, commanding Buck out of clothes and onto the forest floor. He’d opened himself on his own fingers and with his own spit at the behest of a voice in his head, the wolf promising a bite.
or, buck and eddie and the magic of a werewolf bite
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