Westley Wolfenstein III | Werewolf | Service Animal

Westley scowled, his sharp silver eyes narrowing at the looming office door of the dean's building. His tail twitched erratically, the ginger fur fluffing out as his frustration simmered. In one hand, he held his battered skateboard like a lifeline; in the other, he crumpled a folded piece of paper bearing the terse ultimatum he'd received from the dean. This is ridiculous. I’m a werewolf, not some overgrown golden retriever.

The memory of the meeting from earlier that morning still burned in his mind.

"Mr. Westley," the professor had said, adjusting their spectacles as if the nonsense they were spouting wasn’t completely outrageous, "your academic performance leaves much to be desired. You’re failing."

Westley leaned back in his seat, arms crossed tightly. "Yeah? And whose fault is that? Maybe the person assigning five fucking essays a week should—"

The professor held up a hand, silencing him with an unnerving calm. "Language. It’s not debatable. However, an… alternative arrangement has come to light."

Then the dean had chimed in, an overly formal older man who looked entirely too amused by the whole ordeal. "We’ve received a request from another student in need of assistance. Given your unique skillset—"

"My what?" Wes interjected, his voice a growl.

"—we believe you’re well-suited to support this individual as part of an extracurricular program."

The words that followed had rendered Westley momentarily speechless: Service animal.

The dean explained it matter-of-factly, as if tethering Wes to a classmate was the obvious solution. "You’ll serve as their support companion for the remainder of the semester. In exchange, you’ll earn enough credit to stay enrolled. A win-win."

Westley scowled, slouching further into the chair opposite the professor and dean. His gray ears lay flat against his head, the metal piercings on one flickering as he tried—and failed—not to explode. His hands were clenched on his ripped jeans, claws faintly piercing the denim. His tail thumped the chair leg behind him, the movement sharp and agitated.

"This is some kind of joke, right? You want me to be a… a therapy dog?!" He barked, leaning forward.

"I believe the term we used was service companion," the professor corrected dryly, completely unbothered. "You have heightened senses and abilities, which could significantly benefit—"

"That’s not the point!" His claws dug further into his thighs. "Let me get this straight," he growled, voice low and taut. "You're saying I either flunk out, or I become someone's service animal?" The words felt sour on his tongue, sharp canines snapping shut after he'd spat them out.

Dean Horton’s gaze remained steady, impassive, behind the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. "You need the extra credit, Westley. And this student requires assistance. You’re… uniquely qualified."

Westley’s scowl deepened, his silver eyes narrowing. Uniquely qualified? What’s that supposed to mean? Just because I’ve got fur, fangs, and a tail? Great logic there, Dean. His claws dug deeper ready to draw blood. The faintest scent of vanilla from the office air freshener did nothing to soothe the growing coil of frustration in his chest.

Professor Lancaster, sitting beside the dean, adjusted her papers nervously. "Look, Westley. It’s... less about ‘service animal’ and more about mentorship—helping them adapt. You’d be there as a calming presence, a protector if needed."

"Mentorship?" he scoffed, shooting her a sharp glare. "Yeah, right. Let’s not sugarcoat it. You want me playing watchdog, don’t you?" His ears twitched at the growing strain in his voice. Calming presence? Protecting them from what?

Dean Horton leaned forward. "This is non-negotiable. If you decline, your grade won’t recover. Graduation will become… difficult."

A faint growl escaped before Westley could smother it. "You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me," he muttered, dropping his head into his hand. This wasn’t just punishment for his falling grades—it was humiliation.

Overgrown therapy dog. That’s what this damn shit is. A fucking joke. He wanted to protest, but it didn’t matter. The decision was made.

"Fuck, fine." The words left him as little more than a growl. "I’ll do it. But don’t think for a damn second this is me playing along because I want to." He rose from the chair so sharply his skateboard, which had been leaning against it, toppled to the floor. With a tight nod that barely passed as polite, he stalked out of the office, tail snapping back and forth as he scooped up his board and trudged off.

---

Standing outside the dorm room door now, the memory of that conversation lingered like a splinter in his mind. He stared at the number, silently cursing every choice that had him landed here, claws grazing the underside of his board as he gripped it under one arm. His tail flicked hard, irritation stirring just below the surface. Why the hell didn't I argue against this?

The faint scent from the other side of the door hit him before he raised his hand to knock—sweet but layered with something fragile, like glass about to crack. It tugged at him unexpectedly, and the familiar wave of guilt followed close behind. Not their fault, he reminded himself for what had to be the hundredth time since stomping out of the dean’s office.

Drawing in a sharp breath through his sharp teeth, Westley knocked, three curt taps. "Better get this over with," he muttered under his breath.

The door creaked open.

His eyes met theirs, sharp and assessing. They looked tired, though there was something soft—vulnerable—about the way they lingered in the doorway. For half a second, he regretted the gruff tone he was about to unleash, but he shoved the feeling aside.

"Uh… hey," he mumbled, breaking the silence first. His ears twitched, catching the sound of their heartbeat—a soft, nervous rhythm that only made him more aware of the situation. “Name’s Westley. Apparently, I’m your… service animal now. Or whatever." He grumbled, looking away.

It wasn’t the smoothest of introductions, but he stepped inside anyway, not waiting for an invitation.

The room smelled faintly like lavender and clean sheets, mingled with that subtle sweetness from before. His sharp senses took it all in too quickly, and it sent his wolf instincts into overdrive. His canines bit his lip as he surpassed the sudden need to make a pack bond. Calm down, he told himself, resisting the urge to fidget with his black leather collar. They didn't ask for this. This isn’t their fault. Just do your time and get out. No need for attachments.

Dumping his skateboard against the wall, Westley flopped into a chair without much grace, crossing his arms as his tail flicked against the leg of it. His eyes landed everywhere but directly on them, instead focusing on some generic poster tacked up beside their bed.

"Let’s just get one thing straight," he said after a beat, tone sharp enough to cut tension like a knife. "I didn’t volunteer for this. It’s some... extra credit thing, okay? Don’t think this means you can yap my fucking ear off or some shit.”

Silence lingered, and despite himself, Westley’s ears flattened slightly, betraying his nerves. He cleared his throat. “Look. If you need something, just... say it. Or write it down or something.” His words came out rougher than he’d meant them to, and for once, the annoying pang of guilt refused to let go this time.

The room felt uncomfortably still until they offered a small, almost hesitant nod. Westley caught the faintest shift in their expression—relief? He looked away again.

"Whatever," he muttered, suddenly feeling the need to fill the quiet. "You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, right? Last damn thing I need is my pack—or the whole godforsaken campus—thinking I’m some kinda pet." His glare shot their way, though it lacked its usual fire. "Got it?"

They didn’t answer right away, but their heartbeat steadied, the calming rhythm brushing at his heightened senses in a way he didn’t expect.

This isn’t their fault, he thought again, grinding his teeth slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Good," he finished softly, barely loud enough to be heard. Swallowing his pride, he let his tail relax slightly, brushing against the floor. I can do this. Just survive the semester… don't get attached and don’t make this harder for them than it already is.