The Wolves
A/N: Don't even ask, because I don't even know. This is why you don't write having just done an eight-hour road-trip. For this.
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“I can’t believe you’re all werewolves.” Emilien mutters, staring in amazement at the five wolves bounding around in the snow, from Romain’s nearly-black wolf to Arthur’s puppyish far paler wolf, hilariously massive paws he nearly trips up over every now and again. “Some warning would have been nice before you just came out with ‘oh, yeah, we’re mythical creatures’.” He adds, even though they take no notice of him, distracted by their rough and tumble, re-establishing their pack order, Arthur by far the youngest and easily submitting to Romain’s snap at his muzzle, ears flattening against his skull, hiding amongst the fluff of his fur. He slinks over to Emilien after he’s put back into his place, presses his warm body to Emilien’s legs and looks up at him pitifully, eyes closing and tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth when Emilien absently scratches behind his ears, running his fingers through soft fur. The other wolves settle down fairly quickly after that, Charles the first to pad over and nuzzle up to Arthur, grooms the tufts Emilien’s created back into place, Arthur turning yellow eyes up to roll them at Emilien, putting up with his brother’s fussing as Jean-Eric lollops over too, drops a stick in front of Emilien and looks up at him hopefully, tail wagging enough to send snow flying over Jules, who shakes himself before moving out of the way of Jean-Eric. “Really?” He asks, frowns at them, leans down while trying to avoid being tripped up by the gangly wolf sat on his feet to pick up the stick, throws it as far into the darkness as he can and laughs as five wolves go gambling after it, Romain dropping it proudly at his feet, tail wagging as he jumps around, begs for it to be thrown again. Fetch proves a fun game for a while, laughing at the wolves scrapping playfully over the stick, snow flying everywhere as they roll around, yips of delight, the occasional pitiful howl when someone has the stick snatched from beneath their nose. “You’re not wolves,” he concludes, “you’re puppies.” Charles snaps his head round at the comment, tips his head to one side to stare at Emilien, before he pounces, licks a rough tongue over Emilien’s cheek, heavy, warm weight on his chest, tilts his head back to howl, cocks his head at Emilien again once the piercing sound stops echoing. “OK, you’re a wolf, you’re a wolf. Let me up, I’ve got snow down the back of my neck.” Charles lies down on him instead, wet nose against Emilien’s chin. “Charles, get off.” Emilien squirms, wriggles free finally and gazes longingly at the warm light of the chalet they’re staying in, still sat in the snow. “You’re lucky, you’ve got a lovely warm fur coat.” Jules jumps to sit on the porch of the chalet, peering in, nose pressed to the glass. “I presume you’re house-trained.” Romain yips to catch his attention and promptly pees on a tree. “Alright, come on.” Emilien scrambles up, lets the five into the warmth and sighs as he begins to get feeling back in his fingers, settles in front of the fire with the boys cuddled up to him, fluffy radiators pressed close to him and each other, and it’s easy to doze off when there’s a warm flank to rest his head on, a heavy head on his stomach, sleepily trailing his fingers through fur, and yet another wolf resting on his feet
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He wakes the next morning to find they’ve changed back in the time he’s been asleep, but they’re still sleeping on the floor with him, and he realises then that they’re not like Twilight wolves (and he should never compare them if he values his life, he makes a note to himself), their clothes are thankfully still on them, which doesn't make the morning quite as awkward as it could have been, thankfully. He feels quite loved in that moment, with a warm, gently breathing pillow and a just-as-fluffy-as-the-wolf Arthur uses him as a pillow, wriggles closer when Emilien absently pets his hair, laughing quietly at the stick Jules is still clinging to, even if Jean-Eric is reaching out for it in his sleep. “Crazy. Fucking crazy.” He concludes, Romain’s sleepy snuffle of a laugh interrupting the silence before the comfortable quiet envelopes them again.
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“I can’t believe you’re all werewolves.” Emilien mutters, staring in amazement at the five wolves bounding around in the snow, from Romain’s nearly-black wolf to Arthur’s puppyish far paler wolf, hilariously massive paws he nearly trips up over every now and again. “Some warning would have been nice before you just came out with ‘oh, yeah, we’re mythical creatures’.” He adds, even though they take no notice of him, distracted by their rough and tumble, re-establishing their pack order, Arthur by far the youngest and easily submitting to Romain’s snap at his muzzle, ears flattening against his skull, hiding amongst the fluff of his fur. He slinks over to Emilien after he’s put back into his place, presses his warm body to Emilien’s legs and looks up at him pitifully, eyes closing and tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth when Emilien absently scratches behind his ears, running his fingers through soft fur. The other wolves settle down fairly quickly after that, Charles the first to pad over and nuzzle up to Arthur, grooms the tufts Emilien’s created back into place, Arthur turning yellow eyes up to roll them at Emilien, putting up with his brother’s fussing as Jean-Eric lollops over too, drops a stick in front of Emilien and looks up at him hopefully, tail wagging enough to send snow flying over Jules, who shakes himself before moving out of the way of Jean-Eric. “Really?” He asks, frowns at them, leans down while trying to avoid being tripped up by the gangly wolf sat on his feet to pick up the stick, throws it as far into the darkness as he can and laughs as five wolves go gambling after it, Romain dropping it proudly at his feet, tail wagging as he jumps around, begs for it to be thrown again. Fetch proves a fun game for a while, laughing at the wolves scrapping playfully over the stick, snow flying everywhere as they roll around, yips of delight, the occasional pitiful howl when someone has the stick snatched from beneath their nose. “You’re not wolves,” he concludes, “you’re puppies.” Charles snaps his head round at the comment, tips his head to one side to stare at Emilien, before he pounces, licks a rough tongue over Emilien’s cheek, heavy, warm weight on his chest, tilts his head back to howl, cocks his head at Emilien again once the piercing sound stops echoing. “OK, you’re a wolf, you’re a wolf. Let me up, I’ve got snow down the back of my neck.” Charles lies down on him instead, wet nose against Emilien’s chin. “Charles, get off.” Emilien squirms, wriggles free finally and gazes longingly at the warm light of the chalet they’re staying in, still sat in the snow. “You’re lucky, you’ve got a lovely warm fur coat.” Jules jumps to sit on the porch of the chalet, peering in, nose pressed to the glass. “I presume you’re house-trained.” Romain yips to catch his attention and promptly pees on a tree. “Alright, come on.” Emilien scrambles up, lets the five into the warmth and sighs as he begins to get feeling back in his fingers, settles in front of the fire with the boys cuddled up to him, fluffy radiators pressed close to him and each other, and it’s easy to doze off when there’s a warm flank to rest his head on, a heavy head on his stomach, sleepily trailing his fingers through fur, and yet another wolf resting on his feet
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He wakes the next morning to find they’ve changed back in the time he’s been asleep, but they’re still sleeping on the floor with him, and he realises then that they’re not like Twilight wolves (and he should never compare them if he values his life, he makes a note to himself), their clothes are thankfully still on them, which doesn't make the morning quite as awkward as it could have been, thankfully. He feels quite loved in that moment, with a warm, gently breathing pillow and a just-as-fluffy-as-the-wolf Arthur uses him as a pillow, wriggles closer when Emilien absently pets his hair, laughing quietly at the stick Jules is still clinging to, even if Jean-Eric is reaching out for it in his sleep. “Crazy. Fucking crazy.” He concludes, Romain’s sleepy snuffle of a laugh interrupting the silence before the comfortable quiet envelopes them again.