This story involves Tommy Mickens (Sams little brother) after he gets angry with his family and runs away, down the road he finds comfort in an odd, but beautiful, place. OC and it will probably get pretty lemony later on. This is my first fanfic so review if you have suggestions or comments. Disclaimer: I own nothing except my character. Enjoy!
The sky hovers, dark and cold, over road in front of me. My paws scratch along the gravel making that very familiar noise. I couldn't think of anything but to run. I had to run away from the shit that is my life. Sure, Sam Merlotte is the offspring of my parents but he sure as hell is not their son! They get no credit for raising him, no credit for his success! Besides, I could own an even better bar! Then what would my mamma and pa think of Mr. Sam fucking Merlotte! It just ain't right; they're supposed to be proud of me. Whatever, it's not like it matters to me, I'm better than them anyways. I just need to forget about it. I just need to run!
The chill of the air rushing around my body settles my nerves and I sit just off of the country road to catch my breath. I start to hear the pitter-patter of rain in the distance; I need to find some kind of shelter before it gets to me. This is one of those instances where the heightened senses of my dog self comes in handy. The problem is, I don't know how far I've run, let alone where the hell I am. Shit! I feel the rain start to fall on my back and head, so I start to run. Why did today had to be the coldest this year in Arkansas? Hell, I don't even know if I'm in Arkansas anymore!
In the distance, hidden behind a few trees, I see a truck. I run quicker, desperate for the warmth of a house. At this point, anything would do!
I walk slowly, cautiously toward a small grey house. Its wood paneling is coming loose, and in places rotting away. There's a small porch in the front that would be perfect wait out the storm. I'd much rather wait out this storm than the angry, alcohol filled, storms at my home. At first I think the porch is empty, but then I see a figure sitting on the steps. It looks odd, big and round. I carefully approach, head down, trying my hardest to seem non-aggressive.
When I'm close enough to make out the figure, I realize it's a girl wrapped in a big fluffy comforter. All I can see of her body is her head and feet. Her face is beautiful. She looks at me, just looks. Her eyes are deep green but seem almost absent. Her dark hair is drenched, sticking together in wild clumps. I wish she would do something to acknowledge me, but she just stares. I sniff the air trying to gather any information I can. Her feminine musk is very prevalent in the air; she must be naked under the blanket. I feel myself becoming aroused, but I shake it off. I just need to get out of the cold rain.
I take a couple of steps closer, hoping she'll let me inside or at least onto the porch. She then reaches her hand out of the blanket, presenting it for me to come and smell. I always prefer this greeting to the human shaking-of-hands. I don't want to scare her, many people would be afraid of a strange bulldog, so I walk up to her hand slowly. I take a few sniffs, up close she smells almost floral but still salty of sweat. She smells good, not fake. Most girls smell artificial from perfume or lotion, but this is what a girl should smell like. I then lick her hand, showing my submission and trying to get her to smile.
Her eyes soften into a sort of sadness, she doesn't smile. She then stands and walks toward the door, blanket dragging along the ground. A whimper escapes my throat as I realize she is leaving me. She opens the door but doesn't walk inside, instead she looks at me and coos "Come." With my short little legs, I follow her inside.
The small house is not much of a relief from the cold, the chill still hangs in the air, but it's better than being out in the rain. There are two small, beat up couches in the center of the room and behind them was a little kitchen with deep red cupboards. It's still nicer than my run-down house. The mystery girl opens one of the cupboards and grabs out a yellow mug and scratched plastic bowl. She fills the mug with hot coffee out of the maker and the bowl up with something out of the pan on the stove. She then walks toward me and sets down the bowl. In it is chicken soup; I lap it up vigorously, spilling some on the wood floor.
When I'm finished I look back up at her. She is leaning against the counter looking at me and sipping from the mug. The look in her eyes is something I have never seen before. It almost looks like longing; like she wishes the muddy dog in her living room was something else, something more. Suddenly I don't want to hide no more, the feeling of shifting crowds my body.
I lose control, my body pulses and shakes into my human form. It's too late! Fuck!