He looked so /strange/ as a werewolf. Yet it was just looks. She lifted a hand to brush the fur on his face, touched the heavy brow ridge, slid a fingertip over his mouth. The fangs — she wasn’t sure about the fangs. Or — she glanced down — the claws.
“Your eyes are so beautiful,” she whispered, hardly aware of what she was saying. She hesitated to kiss him in this form; he wouldn’t /want/ to hurt her but how did you kiss someone with a mouthful of fangs anyway? It wasn’t frightening, but she wasn’t sure how she felt about all of it. Then a sly smile quirked her mouth. “So how do you feel about baths in this form? Or sticks?”
Nobody had ever touched him with such tenderness in the form, and he had grown to expect pain and suffering outside of his pack, but this was wonderful and it the contact calmed him instantly. He stilled then and allowed her to explore to her heart’s content, a blush stealing over his lupine features at the praise.
He barked out a laugh then and he rolled his eyes, curling into the touch as he eyed her playfully. “I still love baths, and don’t even try to throw a stick for me, I’m warning you!”
She grinned wholeheartedly. “No leash? No doggie bed on the floor? Chew toys?” She ducked her head into his shoulder. “So this is why you can just pick me up? Healing, and pain-taking, and strength, and what else?”