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Once his ears caught the sound of gentle footsteps on soft woodland ground, Saro looked up from his work - and immediately felt the smile touch his lips and spread across his muzzle. She strode into the camp, dagger hilted at her leather belt, a second along her thigh, a third at the underside of her arm; then her prized bow, crafted by Saro himself and then further honed by her hand, over her shoulder; and then, over the other, the body of a rather sizable feral buck.

A respectable result from a two-day hunt, especially considering that her companion carried the rest_of the result over his back, in the form of two more limp carcasses. Saro rested the arrow shaft he had been whittling back against his lap, letting his ears perk up with the quiet wave of gasp and wonder echoing through the camp at her arrival. As her younger brother, he had looked up to her practically for as long as he could remember; there _had_been some natural envy along the way, of course - being a handful of years older she received her hunting knife before he, and her bow, and her companion,_and her bloodrites - but once Saro had accomplished the same, most of those feelings faded away. Now he looked upon her as everyone else: a friend and a family member, a skilled huntress.

A woman. That part had shown itself in force upon her return from completing her rites, with her having torn: tradition in the tribe viewed the bloodrites as the sealing step into adulthood, the final transition once the biological, bodily changes had revealed and settled themselves. Noma had left the camp as a woman in everything save tradition - and then returned having forcibly torn her womanhood from tradition's jaws and wearing it like a weapon, ever-present, never avoiding notice, yet not always bared. A particularly graceful example of the rites; sometimes only the hunter returned, sometimes only the companion, sometimes neither. Noma had not always been the eldest sibling.

The specifics of the bloodrites remained personal and secret to each member to undertake it, although one underlying principle remained static: the hunter and their companion, first bonded on the hunter's first hunt as a child, are to head into the forest with no more than their dagger, their bow, five arrows, and the growing bond between them, and are told not to return until that bond "becomes as solid as the stone of the mountain".

Saro remembered his own, of course. He lifted his paw away from the arrow shaft and dug his fingers into the thick pelt of the feral wolf lying beside him, briefly turning his head away from the arrival to smile at the resulting satisfied rumble. No hunter could forget their own bloodrites. Surely Noma, his sister - now she stopped to speak with one of the other members of the tribe, his eyes wide at her haul - remembered her own quite well: Saro recalled when she had first returned from the rites so many years ago, and how even as a pup he had been able to recognize the immense change in both herself and her relationship with Stike, her companion.

Stike, too, was a wolf, much like the feral at Saro's side as well as the siblings themselves - but Stike was a monster of a beast, standing shoulder to shoulder with his huntress, and sharing the same bright yellow predator's eyes. As a younger pup Saro had thought the notable deepening of her bond with the feral had been exactly what the elders were looking for in the completion of the bloodrites... and then he had embarked on his own, and over the course of a week learned exactly where the little nuances and subtleties had come from. The way Noma shared Stike's gaze, how she touched him and he responded, the little things that others less accustomed might overlook...

These were the things that evolved between lovers. Saro knew because he shared the same with Hex, his own companion; his paw wandered up to scratch between his ears, and the feral titled his head and nuzzled into the contact. By now Hex had noticed the return of the other feral wolf as well, and struggled between enjoying the touch and indulging his curiosity: Noma had finished her talk and now strode further into the camp, no doubt to begin preparation of her haul. Stike plodded along behind her, large head low with ears and tail showing his comfortable relaxation.

Noma was quite lucky to have bonded with him in particular. Saro had devoted quite a bit of thought to that once he discovered the way his own feelings and attractions were blossoming, and up until his own bloodrites, had indulged in a bit of fantasizing as well: every part of Stike was suitably large, and the younger brother watched one of those parts in particular as it swung and jiggled between his hind legs with each step. That had been a source of ample envy as well, especially considering the look of satisfaction in his sister's eyes that obviously, to him, had nothing to do with the results of the hunt itself.

He looked back to Hex, and found warm amber eyes looking up at him though the feral's muzzle remained forward on his paws. Saro chuckled and brought his companion's head into both of his paws, gently lifting it so that he could touch noses with him: the feral thumped his tail against the ground a few times and drew his broad tongue across the hunter's lips, strengthening that chuckle into a full laugh. He had to admit to himself that he did still think and fantasize about Stike every now and then... but, then, Hex need only remind him that he already had everything he could want in a partner.

Sure, he wasn't as wildly large as Stike - but a feral companion whose shoulder came up to the center of his own torso was more than enough. Again, Saro knew: he had experienced it.

He watched his sister until she disappeared from sight between the hide tents, then let his eyes linger along Stike's tail and the bounty he knew it hid beneath its lax brush until those followed. Then, after letting his thoughts wander for a moment longer, Saro leaned over to bump the side of his muzzle against Hex's, and picked his arrow shaft and knife back up to continue. He had a hunt of his own to prepare for come the following morning.

~ ~ ~

The rainstorm made itself evident even before the two wolves set out into the woods: the first thing Saro noticed on leaving his tent was the solid blanket of smooth grey across the sky in all directions, and the noticeable feeling on the air, that cool wet weight that always showed incoming rain. That much he had been able to feel the previous night as well, as had Hex. This sort of thing, the animals always knew better.

Now the two of them lay back in their makeshift shelter beneath the wide roots of an ancient tree, soft earth beneath the behemoth having long since eroded away to reveal a small cave of sorts. Upon their arrival Saro could tell that they were not the first to have come here: the remains of a campfire stood in the center of the burrow, pit stones scattered and just a faint reminder of the charred wood and ash remaining, but the light blackening along the underside of the roots above showed the signs of smoke. The rain continued to pour outside, little puddles in packed dirt underneath showing the spots where the natural ceiling leaked.

Not much of a bounty had come their way today, although they had managed well enough to at least find something to eat before the storm and night set in. Saro lay back along Hex's broad side, the feral gently dozing in the warmth following his meal; the hunter, meanwhile, stared up at the ceiling of burrow, listening to the rain pouring down against old wood and older earth, the crackling of the fire, and the breathing of his companion.

Saro had stripped off his bow and belt, leaving them within arm's reach yet not in the way; for now he wore just the hide loincloth and sash looped over his shoulder to keep it along his hips. He might have been cold were it not for the steady growth of his own winter coat along with Hex's beneath him; the hunter turned his muzzle to the side to nuzzle into the fur near the feral's haunch, briefly tasting his scent. Such a comfort, that scent... smell of nature and woods and rainwater and grit and, beneath all of that, the so-familiar musty, musky aroma of strong, feral lupine male.

"Hex."

The wolf beneath his head gave a throaty grunt, but did not stir. Saro turned his head to the other side, saw amber eyes beneath heavy lids flick his way, then turned around again and blew a concentrated stream of air right at the wolf's leg. The fur spread beneath the artificial breeze... and then, as hoped, the feral squirmed and lightly kicked his leg, trying to banish the tickling. Atop him, Saro chuckled softly, and reached over to scratch at that same spot.

"Hex."

This time he felt him lift his head, and sure enough when he turned again, he had to look up to meet those eyes. The feral lapped at his chops, swallowed, let his tongue hang out of his mouth; Saro grinned and pulled himself up a little bit, paw still buried against the thick fur and muscle of his hind leg.

"There you are." He rested back again, letting his arm stretch out. Firm flesh and muscle turned to thick cords of taut tendons beneath supple skin; a moment later Hex brought his leg up, pushing at Saro's paw with the underside of his paw. "How long do you think this rain is gonna go for? Hm?"

The feral didn't answer him, of course. Not in words. When he looked at him again his companion watched his muzzle a moment, tilted his head one way, lapped his chops again, then looked out along the sheets of rain coming down beyond the mouth of the burrow. The storm and burgeoning night afforded perhaps five feet of visibility, before the rest of the world pitched into murky darkness.

Then, abruptly, Hex shifted, dumped his hunter's head off of his body, and shook himself off before padding over towards the mouth. Saro grumbled at the sudden lack of support, then pulled himself up to complain directly to the wolf - but found himself stopped by the sight that greeted him.

There it was again: strong, solid, confident wolf, broad of shoulder and stout of rump, angular muzzle, sharp ears, bushy tail, clean coat. Gemstone eyes, just like each of the polished amber bits in the bowl Saro had back in his tent - eyes showing a clear, crystalline intelligence, if of a sort and strain different from his own. Regal, beautiful, perfect. Saro knew that that was the culmination of the bloodrites, and the purpose of the bonding.

It was just... Saro rested his weight on his elbow, having no more wolf beneath him. So much _more_so often came of the rites, and the enhanced awareness and closeness between hunter and companion. He licked his own lips as he followed the smooth line of the feral's back, straight and solid towards the curve of his haunches, then down around the base of his relaxed tail... the slightest flash of puckered pinkish-tan skin, visible for the space of a second with that tail's sway, and the fair sack hanging beneath.

Eyes fixed in place there, it took him a moment to realize the wolf did indeed want something. Something different from what he himself did: he looked back up to Hex's muzzle, to see the wolf glance out into the rain, then back towards him, and again to the rain. The wolf shifted his stance, padding at the earth with his hindpaws.

Further realization took another second, delayed in transmission. The hunter-companion bond could only seem telepathic. Saro frowned. "What? Hex - you see the storm. It is wet, and frigid, and who knows what all is out there - we are both wolves; I cannot see or smell a thing."

The feral dipped his head and padded at the ground again. Saro's eyes drifted down to the curve of his leg, angled slightly back - and at the thick sheath that hung from his lower belly.

"You will get soaked, and you will stink up the entire burrow-" He rolled over onto his knees and from there stood the rest of the way up. Amber eyes shone up at him as he approached. "-and, no, you will not take care of that here, inside; that will stink even worse, and..."

And...

The two stood separated by hardly a foot of space, eyes locked yet Saro drifted off into thought. He had fitted his muzzle beneath Hex's tail and between those strong hind legs of his countless times before; he had rolled the wolf onto his back and slid his tongue into that sheath, had nosed up between those balls, had felt the weight of his hard shaft between his lips, had tasted - had drunk - the watery spurts of his seed... among _other_tastes that the feral had to offer. A broad, flat tongue dragging along the roof of his own mouth, curling around his own tongue, sliding along the interior of his cheeks; thick, stringy animal saliva clinging to his jaw, dripping down his chin, rolling heavily down his throat; and, at least twice before, having Hex's mark join that saliva in further sealing their bond.

Saro braced his paws lightly against the feral's body, balancing himself as he dropped back down to his knees. The first time had of course been during the bloodrites, in the heat of the moment and at the peak of passion following their first time together: the hunter still remembered the feeling of immense fullness beneath his tail, the insistent tug of pulsing knot against his tailhole, the strain, pressure, pull of it coming free, then the warmth of that seed dripping out of his used body and down the back of his sack. Satisfied and exhausted, he had dropped halfway out of all-fours and closed his eyes, basking in the relief and enjoyment... only to find himself on the receiving end of Hex's own relief and enjoyment, hind leg cocked and still-hard shaft twitching with the sprays of his mark across the hunter's back.

It had come as a surprise then, but not an unwelcome one. Now the hunter looked to the side, found his companion's gaze again, felt the understanding and interest pass between the two of them; Hex shifted, lowered his body a bit, and widened his stance, letting Saro wriggle himself into place beneath his body. The second time had been on Saro's own interest and urging, with the large feral turning a quizzical look on him when he'd tried to hoist his leg up for him, but once he had understood what was going on... Saro swallowed, looking up at the bounty directly overhead. He remembered what it had felt like to lie on his back, just like this, and let the anticipation thrum through him: to watch the way that Hex lowered his body down, just as he did now; to look across the balls jiggling slightly with his pulse and his breathing, to see the pucker of his tailhole repeatedly clench and relax; to see the slick pink tip of flesh slide out of the lips of that sheath.

Back then the excitement had pulsed through him and brought him close to his own edge even before the first spray of hot, acrid piss began. Now the excitement was still there, though he knew to tamp it down, to wait and enjoy the anticipation; one arm to his side helping hold Hex's hind leg up, Saro reached his other down to push his loincloth aside and work his own cock further out. His canid nose easily picked up the spice and sting of the feral's musk, natural lubrication and liquid arousal already glistening along the surface of his shaft when he pushed his sheath a little further back. The hunter rumbled softly to himself - Noma had tasted her companion's, as well: Saro knew quite well by now the punch that feral lupine mark carried, and his sister had returned to camp with it staining her scent before - and waited. This was nothing new, and nothing unfamiliar or uncomfortable to either of them: with a slight tilt of his muzzle he could see Hex's tail, partially raised as it swung in his own eager anticipation. Maybe for the release more than the enjoyment, but it always came with both.

The large feral didn't keep him waiting long. It started as a series of small drips, splashing into the fur of Saro's muzzle and cheek; then Hex adjusted his stance a little bit and leaned down a little bit further, angling his stream directly down against the hunter's bare chest when it first started. Saro was the one to let out the sigh of languid relief, feeling the rich, thick heat soak through his pelt and into the skin beneath; the scent hit him immediately, the same acrid bite that he already knew so well. It wrinkled his nose and filled his head, yet he still deeply enjoyed it.

"There you go..." he breathed, watching the rich yellow mark spray out across his body and darken his fur. The stream bounced and bobbed with Hex's panting, thoroughly blanketing the other wolf's chest and abdomen; he lifted up a bit, other paw still around the base of his own cock, and sighed again when the wet heat spread across his shaft and pooled down around his own sheath. "See? Isn't that better, Hex?"

The feral gave another small grunt, turning his head to look at his hunter between his legs. Saro held his gaze for a moment, indulgent smile on his muzzle, then straightened up a bit, tilted his head back... with his finger and thumb still in place along the feral's sheath he angled the tip down towards his face, let the hot piss continue along his neck and collarbone for a moment, and then closed that short distance. Immediately the heat, the taste, the sharpness filled his maw and his head, nearly enough to make him cough and splutter it right back out - but Saro tightened his lips around the tip of Hex's cock, swallowing down the feral's acrid mark as swiftly as it came.

Such a large wolf had a large bladder, of course. This wouldn't be the first time he had done something like this, but still Saro found himself struggling to catch his breath between swallows, the sharp, bitter piss flowing down his throat and filling his belly, staining his throat and mouth with its weight: even had he not had Hex's cock between his lips, even if his tongue hadn't been digging into the feral's sheath, he would have still been able to taste his piss on each breath, sharp and fast through his nose.

It was true that he didn't want to stink up the burrow with the feral's mark: were that to happen Saro wouldn't have been able to sleep all night, with thoughts of him keeping his mind and loins sharply awake. The small bit he had intentionally received across his chest and belly would serve as a good distraction later, without keeping him fully awake - hopefully; he could wash it off in a river once the storm blew over. For now, though...

For now the hunter closed his eyes against the continuing onslaught, throat repeatedly bulging with his swallows, muzzle wrinkled against the taste that threatened to bite back at him, needy breaths pulling in warm, thick air with the feral's balls hanging so close. Hex tottered a little bit but quickly caught himself, though in doing so pushed his sheath more firmly against the other wolf's lips; Saro missed a swallow and spluttered instead, splashing his face and nose with the same rich, acrid piss that flowed into and steadily filled his belly.

He could feel its heat sliding down his throat and gathering there, swishing and swirling with each little movement from himself or the feral atop him... Saro slid his paw up from around his own shaft to rub at his belly, not quite swollen with the volume yet, but definitely feeling like it should. Then he continued up, running his fingerpads through the slick of mark that he had received before sliding his companion's cock between his lips, the piss having started to turn sticky in the cool air; up along his shoulder and neck, above his head to squeeze and rub the skin of his sheath, and then from there further to cup the feral's heavy balls.

Each wolf did want something from the other, after all. Saro swallowed once more and relaxed his tongue, feeling the feral's stream start to die down and dribble to a finish. As it usually went between them, though, these two different wants came together into the same, after a bit of... _adjustment._Saro let a hot breath out through his nose, again pushing his muzzle further up onto the feral's sheath: he kept that last half-mouthful of fresh piss, hot and sharp and bitter, in his cheeks and swirled his tongue forward to lap off any of remnant drops from the slick tip still twitching between his lips.

Both Hex's mark as well as his cock felt as though they nearly burnt Saro's tongue - and, of course, he loved it. Yet again he shifted his position beneath the large feral, getting himself into a more comfortable position as the other wolf, predictably, widened his forelegs and started to thrust swiftly forward and down into the waiting muzzle. Again and again it came, that full sack swinging feverishly forward against the hunter's nose just as the shaft continued to slip out from sheath and onto tongue, cupped between there and the roof of his mouth.

Saro let out a low, satisfied moan, again letting his eyes flutter closed. Soon the so-familiar taste of Hex's shaft, of his musk and pre, joined the much sharper, brighter sting of his piss: that pre came in little jets, small sprays out against his tongue gradually adding to the mouthful he already held. With nothing for his front paws to grab on to, no shoulders or hips to balance himself against, Hex just bore down onto and into the other wolf's muzzle, lower body dropping down close to the ground; Saro strained a little bit in leaning his head back but eventually found a good spot, the tip of that cock nearly sliding down into his throat and forcing him to swallow.

In the space between thrusts he found the chance to catch his breath, and then did swallow that last mouthful of mark and pre. Another moan rumbled out with that; he lowered his paw back down from the feral's sack and started stroking himself again, enjoying the heat, the taste, the feeling, the knowledge of Hex's cock pumping into and out of his muzzle, between his lips, against his tongue. First it was just the end, the soft-fleshed tip; then came the first part of the shaft, wider, rounder, firm at its core; then the center, slick flesh thinning out somewhat approaching the knot; and then the bump of the knot itself, not quite hard and swollen but certainly still noticeable. That part kissed against Saro's lips, sealing the rest of the feral's cock inside his muzzle with a good inch or two in his throat, briefly blocking off his breathing.

Above him the wolf panted and growled as he thrust, still picking up his pace and energy. Saro tried to match his companion's rhythm on his own cock, angled up and away from his body towards the feral's muzzle, paw working fast and hard just like those hips against his head. His breath, first tainted by the so-strong bite of fresh canid piss, now carried the somewhat more muted touch of the feral's pre and the natural scent that kept the inside of his sheath slick and wet.

Look at you, Saro wanted to say; you can resist it no more than I can. It was a wonderful part of their deepened relationship following their shared bloodrites, all those years ago; Hex made sure to mark Saro as his hunter several times on their outings over the years, and each time, Saro went into it and received it a little more eagerly than the time before. This now counted no differently: he adjusted a little bit more, feeling another half-inch of the feral's cock sink into his throat and then pull back out, again and again.

Just as he had done to Saro's clenched paw so many times before, and just as he had done to his clenched rump. The hunter slid his paw down to push his sheath back past his own knot and squeezed there for a bit, imagining yet again what it might feel like to have one wolf pounding away at his mouth and throat like this while another went at his backside: maybe he could persuade his sister to let him borrow Stike for a bit, and have that beast on his back with Saro's muzzle between his hind legs, while Hex claimed his rear for his own yet again...

Beneath the rustling of fur on fur and the scratching of thick claws along the packed-earth floor, Saro's ears picked up the also-familiar sound of eager snuffling and grunting. He couldn't quite look to see what it was that had gotten the feral's attention, what with his head angled nearly parallel with the ground and some eight inches of canid cock keeping it that way, but the forceful pressure from strong hind legs pushing down against his face, the heavy sack straining against his nose, and the shivering in the larger wolf's body quickly led him to his answer.

And, then, the first of several spurts of Hex's load spraying right down into his throat reinforced that answer. The wolf's fat knot swelled up against the hunter's lips, hot and pulsing with each new spurt: just like with his piss Saro dutifully swallowed each little mouthful, though the task was made much less difficult with how the feral was already emptying his balls deep into his throat. Saro moved back across the ground just enough so he could breathe, and so that he could actually taste that load as it continued to come out, coating his tongue and filling his cheeks; he squirmed, sighed through his nose, bucked his hips into the air with his own stroking, and soon jerked in the beginnings of his own peak. He could imagine Hex enjoying the glow of his own orgasm with that eyes-half-lidded, tongue-lolling, ears-relaxed look he always got... and then Saro twitched and shook with the feral's tongue eagerly lapping up along his shaft, pulsing in letting out the last of his own.

Both wolves panting, both satisfied, Saro remained where he was for a moment, letting the last few spurts of cum gather in his maw. After a moment he let his own cock flop back down against his somewhat-damp belly fur, and reached up to run his paw along Hex's length. He held it in place there, scooting back even further until just the blunted end and pointed tip remained between his lips; then he slid his grip gently up, following the smooth contours, the barely-palpable lines of veins in the flesh, the wide bulge of full, swollen knot... then behind that the soft, wrinkled skin of his retracted sheath, and hanging balls past there.

Such a prime, beautiful_example of a feral male wolf. _I really am lucky to have bonded with him... especially on a day like this.

When Saro finally rolled out from beneath the feral, he sat up to find Hex looking back at him, ears perked and tail wagging. Still the hunter kept his companion's load in his maw; the two held each other's gaze for a moment, and Saro held his arms out - and Hex came forward, tail wagging faster, and gave Saro's muzzle the same treatment that he had just given his hard cock.

So he gladly returned the wet kisses, seed-slickened tongue grabbing and sliding easily across Hex's, the feral's thick, sticky saliva joining his own cum as well as the lingering taste of his mark in Saro's mouth. The hunter shivered yet again, one last spurt emptying out across his belly as he took Hex's tongue into his maw and suckled along it when he could, the feral wolf eager to drag it along the roof of his mouth and his lips.

Then, finally, Saro sat back on his haunches, still panting in the prolonged pleasure of their closeness. With him sitting back like this and Hex in front of him, he need only tilt his head down and to the side a little bit to see his sizeable length again, still pulsing and bobbing in the open air; Hex shifted his hind legs to face his hunter more fully, causing both that and his balls to swing a bit. Saro smiled, licked his lips, swallowed - he could feel Hex's drool in his own maw, clinging to the roof of his mouth, the insides of his cheeks, his throat - then did so again, and looked past the large wolf to the mouth of the burrow. The rain had only strengthened during their shared distraction and relief.

But, of course, he hadn't really noticed. The warmth of the wolf's brief marking had since worn away; Saro held his arms out again and Hex came forward, turning around in place in his embrace before settling down halfway in his lap.

Saro reached up around the large wolf to wipe at his mouth again - and to move his still-hard cock out of the way of where Hex had chosen to sit. "Guess we'll have to wait this out, then, won't we?"

Hearing his hunter's voice, Hex tilted his head back and met his eyes yet again. Saro smiled. He had seen this wolf bare his teeth and chase down a wounded hunt; he had seen him tear into still-warm flesh and soak his muzzle in crimson; he had seen him sit in the back of his tent contentedly watching the hunter go about his daily business; he had felt him squirm and wriggle and twitch in the depths of a dream, clutched in Saro's arms; he had felt his tongue along his cheek, his neck, his chest, his cock, his tailhole; he had worn his mark and his cum time and time again, and loved it for all of them. All of these times, he had loved. Hex was a beast, a friend, a wild animal, a lover, a companion.

The hunter leaned forward to rest his chin on his companion's shoulder, both looking out to watch the sheets of rain as it continued to come down over the forest. Even if they returned tomorrow empty-handed, this would still be a successful hunt. Even in the wake of Noma's double success.

Although, Saro thought, if I could head out with both Stike as well as Hex...