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Back home we have a system in place. Track the creatures' movements during the full moon, pick up on their patterns in the days following, and kill them swiftly once you’ve assured your target is none other than a filthy fucking werewolf. Quick in, quick out, like literal clockwork. It’s what he tries to tell himself as he stalks his target for the final time.
He’s spent two weeks watching the rowdy redneck, itching to get his hands on him. The beast’s an active motherfucker, driving late at night with his posse of buddies, a group that Scott had begun scoping out on the side, and having bonfire hangouts like a teenager in his backyard at least four to five times a week. A real community wrangler. Soon he’d be just another trophy on Scott’s family mantle.
When the clock on his watch finally rounds to 3 in the morning, Scott makes a move around the house. There’s a brick style chimney leading up the roof and he scales it, digging his fingers into the old stone and thanking God this animal lived in such an accessible home. The shingles on the roof aren’t as forgiving, creaking under his weight and threatening to let him slip and fall if he missteps. They don't, he notes to himself, and grips onto the molding of the windowsill with confidence. At least the hardest part of getting in was over.
He worked his full weight onto the sill of a window, tampering with the lock points before it popped satisfyingly, giving way to the gentle push up. He worked his legs into the space and slid further in, feet plating themselves gracefully onto hardwood floors with the rest of his body following. He can hear a grandfather clock ticking from somewhere the house once he has the window closed, and it reminds him of the one that lives at the end of his own mother’s decorated hallway.
Moving silently through the space, he opens doors and returns them to their state when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for beyond them. It’s a quick process, a checklist of locations before he reaches his intended destination. He almost wants to laugh at the sleeping creature, entirely unaware of his presence, as he stepped foot inside its bedroom.
It’s a decently kept room; he’ll give the beast that. It doesn't reflect the chaos of it's owner, he muses, eyes roaming over the room in curiosity. A desk with books and a coffee cup full of pens sits by the window, various coats stored neatly on a rack near the door with boots tucked neatly underneath, framed tornado and rodeo show posters above the bed's headrest, a family picture or two accompanied by a few animal shaped tchotchkes on the shelves that lined the walls. If the beast were human, Scott humors himself by thinking, he might have been friends with it in college.
Unsheathing his silver hunting knife, he rolls the base across his palm to feel the weight, approaching the deathbed of his victim. The thing is sleeping on its stomach half naked, arm pulled up to cushion its head, legs tangled in the duvet. It’s how Scott wished he were now, asleep in his own damn bed. Begrudgingly, he has work to do.
He shifts to grab the back of this beast's neck, silent in his ministrations, when the freak fucking lunges at him. He flies back, stunned from the swiftness, before he feels himself drop as he miscalculates his steps. He swears as he scrambles to lift his arms, feeling the weight of the animal on top of him, and he punches wildly. His fist connects somewhere between the beast’s cheek and temple, and while it grabs for it's face, he backs away quickly, gathering his wits.
He locks eyes with his prey, and for a single second, he can see how terrifying this one is when it’s pissed. Its eyes shimmer inhumanely, and Scott swears he can see those precious canines peeking from behind its lips in warning.
He lunges forward, knife at the ready as he dodges the fist that flies his way, cutting quickly into the animal's side as he pushes it back. The beast groans, hand coming to cover its wound, and Scott acts on his leverage, using the blade of his knife to trap the damned thing between himself and a wall. He leans his full weight on his arm, using his free hand to wrangle the creature’s flailing hands into a firm lock. It doesn’t take him long with the way his victim can’t stop reaching for its neck, that of which was currently burning away layers of epidermis as the silver cut into it.
He eases the knife back carefully, examines the wound it leaves behind, and presses it close again, just above the surface. He meets the eyes of his prey, looking over his features closely. He’s charming in this form, a false one that is, and finally being face to face, Scott notes that he looks well kept, just like his room. It was a shame.
“Fuckin’ feisty tonight,” Scott mutters mockingly to himself, and his adversary laughs at him in response. He tugs the beast forward, stinging its tanned skin on the silver blade as he forces it closer. The laugh turns to a throaty groan, and Scott feels the creature flex its wrists in his hold. The smell of burning flesh finally registers as it curls into Scott’s nose, and the crooked smile that befalls his features is involuntary. “I should have guessed, considering your penchant for doing stupid shit.”
The bulge that presses into his thigh though is a surprise, as is the increased smell of burning. The creature had leaned into the knife on its own violation, eyes now dropping from Scott’s confused vision. It rolls its hips harder and faster, and Scott has half a mind to be offended by it. This was his job, his legacy, not some fucking sexual relief program he volunteered for. He attempted to buck the beast's hips away with force, thigh instead connecting with its arousal as he knocked it back, causing a gasp to fall from its lips.
“Holy fuck.” The beast huffs, and Scott’s attention snaps to the things face. He grips onto the wrists he’s holding harder, hovering the knife higher up under the creature's chin as a warning. It doesn’t register apparently, the freaks hips bucking against the air, pajama waistband fabric dragging and flexing alongside the muscle.
“Are all of you like this?" Scott asks in a demeaning tone. He knows full well that they’re not. He’s killed approximately 152 werewolves in his career's lifetime, has studied them even more, but an insensible part of him wanted the answer, whatever it may be. He had found a real sick puppy here. "Needy and desperate to rut?”
“Christ! You’re mental,” The beast cries, a vulnerable mix of pleasure and pain as he bucks up again, Scott latching onto the sight of its sharp tipped fingers flexing against his grasp.
He moves without thinking, pocketing his hunting knife before man-handling the beast into the bed and onto its stomach, hands held behind its back, the beast's legs spread out against the side of the bed. From behind, Scott can see the hard trained muscle flex in the creature's back, and the scars that littered his torso, ones that weren't too dissimilar to Scott’s own body.
His prey growls, animalistic and loud in a way that sparks wicked excitement in his chest. Once again, he moves without much thought to his actions and presses against the beast's ass, slotting himself roughly between its legs. He’s rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, and hips pressing back into his own - making him acutely aware of his growing erection.
He frees a hand to tug down the creature's boxer-briefs, using the tip of his boot to slide it the rest of the way down to the floor, the beast stepping out of the fabric once it reached its feet. Scott can feel the goosebumps lining his body at the sight.
He’s aware his involvement with these acts could get him ousted from his family, or better yet, killed by their hands. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, he couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn.
He unbuckled his belt, pulling it from the loops before winding it around the creature's wrists, replacing his hands hold on them. The silver buckle grazed against the beast's tailbone once he was finished clasping it off, and the jerk back into Scott’s hips from the received pain feels delicious. He works his own cock out of his jeans, biting off his gloves with his teeth before spitting into his hand and wrapping it around the aching appendage, groaning into the air.
“You got a name, hunter?” The beast asks, craning its neck to gaze at the man behind it, but Scott presses down on the silver buckle to make it stop, the breathy moans filling the air much more enjoyable.
“Scott," He replies gruffly, releasing the beast’s hands. "And I don’t care to know yours.”
He spits on his fingers again, spreading the beast's cheeks apart as a slight burn grazed the creature's sensitive skin. It made a pitchy moan at the contact, and Scott almost feels bad, before pressing it further into the soft flesh of the beast's ass. Circling the things tight ring of muscle, he pushes his index finger in roughly, sinking in swiftly to the knuckle. He’s not willing to admit that he enjoys the creature’s obscene noises, or that he’s intrigued by its apparent enjoyment of pain. His lack of lubrication seems more welcome than not here.
They work together like that for a moment, Scott roughly finger-fucking into his target's hole while the beast barked and whined at the sensation, grinding against Scott’s fingers and the bed in faltering rhythm. By the time the three fingers that were buried in the beast's ass left, their loss was vocalized in a desperate, throaty groan that had Scott fighting to control his own breathing. He lined his cock up with the beast's ass, gripping onto the bound hands of his prey before pushing his hips forward, savoring the sensations of muscle giving way to his girth, enveloping him in tight, wet heat.
A slew of curses fell from the creature’s mouth, Scott's dick being squeezed in short pulses, fingers flexing against their hold while claws came out to scrape against Scott’s hands. He didn’t pull away this time, instead opting to slam forward, moaning as he buried himself inside the werewolf. The constriction of its walls were intoxicating, and the sounds it made were utterly distracting. He found himself rutting against the beast's ass without thought, watching as the beast arched into it, burning its tailbone on the belt buckle once more.
“You really do like cock, don’t you?” Scott groaned, pulling out further to set a more brutal pace, eyes rolling in pleasure for a hidden moment. This he could work with, this he could control, or so he told himself.
He let go of the creature’s hands again, opting to bury his fingers deep into the divots of his prey's hips. His silver ring burns a fiery hot wound into the beast’s right hip, and Scott swears that the freak leans into that hand more. He yanked the beast back against his cock, controlling him from the waist down as he fucked into him.
Scott savors every moan he manages to punch out the werewolf, marvels at how eager his supposed-to-be victim seems to be for this, how pliant he had become as Scott thrusted into him. His father would have him hung if he knew how such things affected his son. The thought makes him go harder.
“My god, oh my god,” The beast mutters aloud, trying its best to push back against the brutal thrusts in time. Its hair is slick with sweat and its muscles are straining from the exertion, and Scott smiles. He presses his hand into the werewolf's abdomen, and the beast presses into his palm in return, the ring burning another welt into its flesh. "Scott!”
He picks the pace up again, chasing his own pleasure as the beast clenches down on him. He can feel the creature's abs constricting against his palm, notes the feeling of cum between his fingers and against the sheets, fire burning hotter in his stomach. The beast chuckles throatily, the laughter turning to punctuated moans as Scott raced to finish himself off.
He drops his head between the werewolf’s shoulders while his arms make their way around the creature's chest, fucking into it like his life depends on it. The heat is unbearable, and the overstimulated whines coming from beneath him are the gasoline fueling his fire.
He doesn’t quite register when the tension in his body snaps, but he registers the impact of his orgasm hitting him like a truck, moans falling from his lips in shock. He juts his hips forwards as he rides it out, his cum making a filthy mess of the beast’s hole. The overstimulation keeps him from dropping dead asleep where he lies, and he drags his arms from beneath the beast's body to unbind its hands, tossing the belt to the floor. He brushes the welt on its tailbone, feeling the skin flinch, before caging the creature beneath his arms, returning his head to its place between the creature's shoulders. He pushes away the desire to jerk away when he feels uncoordinated hands caressing his face and hair, a claw catching on his eyebrow, the pad of a finger running across his nose. It’s a surprisingly welcome feeling, he has to admit, but he reminds himself that he can’t stay like this for long.
As if sensing the wary time left between them, the beast rests it hand against the hunters face as best as it can, opening its mouth to speak.
“You’re gonna have to leave town for a while,” Scott rumbles, and the beast startles for a moment, audibly closing its mouth. “I can’t kill you, and my people know about you.”
“You can’t kill me, yet you’ll hunt me, fuck me, and not even ask my name?” The beast replies sarcastically, poking its pinky’s claw into the curve of Scotts cheek. Scott says nothing as he presses his face further into the beast's palm in response. A twin sigh falls between them, and Scott can’t tell whose voice is who. “It’s Tyler, by the way.”