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morticiansdiary · 24 days ago

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you ever draw someone so hard you ride them?

pairing — star player satoru x broke artist reader

synopsis : after months of being your muse, satoru finally flips the table and makes you his canvas—reverent, hungry, and utterly devoted. you spent weeks capturing his form; now he worships yours, whispering that you are the masterpiece.

wc — 3.5k tags — smut, fluff, university au, pining, finally touching, soft dom satoru, service top satoru, hand worship, oral (f receiving), mirror sex, slow burn payoff, first time, established relationship, emotional smut, he loves you so much it’s sick, you lets yourself be loved, gentle filth, satoru is down so bad it’s pathetic

a/n: yes. this is the smut for free throws & figure drawings. i couldn’t add smut in the original oneshot, but these two never left me alone, the part two which includes their life after college is still in the making!

eight months in.

that’s how long it takes before satoru touches you like this.

not because you weren’t ready. not because he wasn’t. but because he’s a golden-retriever-faced menace who waited—waited—until your need outweighed your pride. he could tell. he always could. and he never pushed, never asked, never made you feel cornered. just circled closer every day like gravity, like fate. one teasing comment at a time. one lazy smirk, one thigh brush, one perfectly timed stretch of his jersey in your face. every moment so casual. calculated. loving. he gave you time to breathe, time to bloom.

he made it a game. but not one he ever planned to win fast.

he’d kiss you slow in the halls, hand in your back pocket, mouth curling into your neck just to feel you twitch. he’d crawl into your bed after practice, shirtless, smelling like sweat and mint gum and expensive laundry detergent. he’d grin like a devil and mouth at your collarbone like he was innocent. always stopping short. always leaving you throbbing, breathless, caught between a gasp and a growl. and he’d laugh when you shoved him away, cheeks pink, thighs pressed tight, muttering something vicious under your breath. and then he'd say something stupid like, "it's cute when you fluster," as if you weren't already melting inside.

satoru gojo is shameless. but he’s also patient. reverent. completely and utterly yours.

he never tried to touch what you weren’t ready to give. not once. not even when you straddled his lap in the studio, thighs framing his hips while you adjusted the light for your latest sketch. not when you fell asleep with your hand in his shirt and your face in his throat. not when your breath hitched the first time he kissed the base of your spine, or when your hips unconsciously pressed against him during a late-night cuddle. he’d grin, yes. he’d tease. but he’d always stop. always wait. because he wanted you to feel safe. he wanted you to choose.

because he knows how much you overthink. how long you spent folding your love into corners, how tightly you hold your own body together, like it’s a project you haven’t quite finished. you’re an artist—your hands are your pride, your purpose. and he knows that too. better than anyone.

he fell in love with them first.

long before you ever let him in, he was already watching the way you curled your fingers when you thought, the way you rubbed your thumb over your pencil before sketching, the way paint smudged the edges of your knuckles like a secret only he was meant to see. he watches them like a man starved. kisses them when you let him. cradles them like they might shatter. memorizes the little freckle on your index finger and the groove of your palm. calls them magic. says they saved him.

"you know you could ruin me with these," he’ll murmur sometimes, his lips brushing the heel of your palm. "all that talent, all that precision, and you use them to paint me?" his smile is crooked. adoring. "no one's ever been so lucky."

and when you look away, flustered, pretending not to care, he kisses the dip of your wrist and whispers, "i’d let you wreck me. just say the word."

but he waits.

days turn to weeks, then months. your sketchbooks fill with him. you pretend they don’t. he pretends not to notice. he starts bringing snacks to your sessions, then full meals. makes you take breaks. kisses the stress from your forehead. lays his head in your lap and lets you draw in peace. he runs errands for you. he fixes your squeaky cabinet. he folds your laundry, badly. he doodles in your margins when you aren't looking and gets scolded every time.

he never asks for more.

and still, he waits.

until one night, you pull him into your bed.

not like usual. not with the intent to sleep. not with your body curled toward the wall and his arm tossed carelessly around your waist.

no. this time, you kiss him first.

this time, your mouth is open and soft and wanting, your hands sliding under his shirt like you’re memorizing the ridges of his stomach. and for one suspended breath, he freezes. just to make sure you mean it. his lashes flutter. his breath stills. his hand hovers above your thigh, waiting.

and you do.

because for once, you aren’t overthinking. you aren’t afraid. you want him. you trust him. more than you’ve ever trusted anyone.

and the moment your back hits the sheets, he’s all over you.

knees planted wide between your legs, hands everywhere, mouth hot and eager as it trails kisses down your body. his eyes are bright and ravenous, that blue burned down to smoke, lips already slick from the kisses he's stolen. his hands shake, just barely. like he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch. like he doesn’t want to ruin anything by rushing.

"took you long enough," he breathes, voice shot to hell as he watches you peel your shirt off. his gaze drags over your chest, reverent. like you’re light. like you’re art. like you’re his. something in him breaks a little, seeing you like this. bare. willing. glowing.

"you’re so annoying," you mutter, breathless, smiling despite yourself.

"mmhm," he hums, nuzzling against your neck. "but you’re still letting me fuck you. can’t be that bad."

your glare doesn’t land. not when he’s pressing you into the mattress, nosing at your jaw, whispering, “been dreaming about this. you, under me, making all those noises you try so hard to hold in.”

he kisses your hands first. of course he does. each finger, with reverence. your palm, with warmth. your wrist, with devotion. he presses them to his chest like they’re sacred. says something about how they’ve built whole worlds. says he wants to earn every touch.

he doesn't just want you.

he cherishes you.

and fuck, you are noisy.

it drives him insane.

satoru hears it before his mouth even touches you. that soft, hitched breath when his hands slide beneath your thighs, calloused fingertips dragging slow and reverent like he wants to learn the shape of your tremble. the little gasp you try to swallow when he kisses the sensitive skin above your knee, letting his lips linger there too long, humming softly as if he's savoring something decadent. the sound that breaks from your throat when his thumb barely brushes over your folds and finds you soaked — it has him swearing under his breath, jaw going tight, shoulders tensing as though he’s barely keeping himself leashed.

his groan is guttural, lodged deep in his chest, like it takes effort to keep himself from diving in right then. his eyes are hooded, lashes clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown wide beneath strands of silver hair that stick to his damp temple. his mouth is parted, a bead of spit catching on his bottom lip—already pink from where he's been biting it raw. his expression flickers, moment to moment: awe, hunger, something like devotion. he looks like a man seconds from prayer and sin all at once.

“mm,” he hums low, dragging a knuckle through your slick. his thumb ghosts over your clit but doesn’t linger yet. “you always get this messy when i just look at you?”

your thighs twitch. your jaw clenches. your hands fist into the sheets, trying not to give him the satisfaction. but your eyes flutter half-shut and your lips part around a breath that catches anyway.

“don’t narrate it,” you mumble, voice shaking, already unraveling.

he laughs into your skin, hot breath ghosting over the inside of your thigh, and his grin is all teeth and mischief.

“can’t help it,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth lower. “you’re too fuckin’ cute when you try to be mad at me.”

his palms slide behind your thighs, thumbs smoothing over your skin as he eases you apart, spreading you open like you’re something sacred—his. the air hits your wetness and your body jerks, but he’s already lowering himself, settling between your legs like it’s his home.

his eyes roam every inch of you before he even touches. he stares, quiet for once, like he wants to memorize the way you look right now, how flushed you are, how your chest rises with shaky breath.

“shit,” he whispers, licking his lips. “you’re unreal.”

you breathe his name again, soft, tentative. he glances up, and when your eyes meet, his smile softens into something molten.

“shhh,” he says, lips brushing your skin. “just lemme taste you, baby. wanna make you feel good.”

and then he devours you.

no teasing. no hesitance. just tongue, mouth, hunger.

he groans like he’s been starved, like every inch of his body is aching to have this. he buries his mouth in you and licks like he’s drowning and the only thing keeping him breathing is you. his tongue is hot and slow at first, dragging between your folds, mapping out every part of you. and then deeper, messier, hungrier.

his nose nudges the crease of your thigh and he exhales sharply through it, groaning as his tongue circles your clit and flicks just right. your hips jump and he grins, lips curved against your skin.

when you moan, broken and high-pitched, his lashes flutter and his eyes roll back, like the sound of you is enough to undo him. he tightens his grip on your thighs, keeping you still while he feasts. you feel his jaw flex, the sharp edge of his cheekbone brushing your thigh with every movement.

he pulls back just a moment, lips slick, breath ragged, eyes glazed.

“you make the prettiest sounds,” he breathes, voice thick, reverent. “c'mon, don’t hide them from me. wanna hear everything.”

his tongue returns, more focused now, lapping and sucking in rhythm. you twitch beneath him, thighs clenching, and he lets out a low, gravelly noise of satisfaction. his lashes flutter again, mouth working hungrily, jaw moving with purpose.

“mmm,” he hums against you, smirking. “tastes better than any fuckin’ sweet i’ve had. should’ve done this sooner.”

your hand flies to his hair, tugging without thinking, and he groans loud—vibrating straight through you. his shoulders shudder, like he wants to grind himself into the mattress just from your sounds alone.

“fuck,” he breathes, and the tip of his nose bumps your clit again as he speaks. “pull harder. make a mess of me.”

then—without warning, without mercy—he sinks two fingers inside you.

thick. slow. deep. curling like he knows exactly where you need him.

your back bows. your breath stutters. your body arches up into him, and you make a sound he’s never heard from you before—wrecked and raw. his free hand anchors you down, palm spread flat against your stomach like he’s holding you to the earth.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes flicking up to watch your face. “so fuckin’ tight. like you’re made to take me.”

his fingers work a slow, maddening rhythm inside you, knuckles dragging firm as his tongue flicks your clit in sync. the room is too hot. your vision swims. your thighs shake beneath his mouth.

he watches every twitch, every breath you catch, every expression you can’t hide. he looks wrecked—hair damp and curling against his temples, lips swollen and slick, jaw sharp with tension.

he pants against your cunt, voice breaking.

“close,” he murmurs. “i know. i can feel it. fuck, baby, gimme it. let me have all of it.”

you shatter.

legs trembling, voice cracking. your orgasm crashes through you like thunder, loud and bright and soaked, and he moans into it—desperate and unfiltered, mouth still moving, tongue still pressing through every wave. your body jolts with every aftershock, thighs shaking around his head, hands twitching against his shoulders. your fingers go slack in his hair, your voice frayed.

his fingers don’t leave you. they ease, slow, coaxing every tremor from your body with tenderness. his mouth lingers, placing soft kisses now, like he’s trying to soothe you through the comedown.

your hands push weakly at his shoulders, breathless, spent.

and he loves it.

he finally lifts his head, breath warm against your thigh, chest heaving like he just ran through a storm and found peace in you. his pupils are blown wide, nearly eclipsing the soft blue, hair disheveled and damp with sweat, strands sticking to his flushed forehead. his lips glisten, raw and parted, breath shaky as though your taste alone stole every last thread of his composure. his tongue drags across his lower lip slowly, like he’s still savoring the flavor of you, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smug, breathless grin.

he looks wrecked. and radiant. wild with need and dripping with adoration.

“you okay?”

you nod, barely. dazed. lips swollen, eyes glassy, pupils unfocused. your lashes flutter as he kisses up your body—delicate presses, reverent, like each inch of skin is something sacred, like he’s anchoring himself in the world by mapping every place he’s made you feel good. he doesn’t speak at first. just hums, low and satisfied, murmuring quiet praises into your skin like they’re instinct. like worship.

his mouth finds yours again, and he kisses you deep—wet and warm, a slow press that melts into something messier. he lets you taste yourself on his tongue, groaning into your mouth as your hips roll against him without meaning to. when you whimper, he exhales through his nose, kissing you deeper, his fingers slipping beneath your thighs to anchor you down.

“mm,” he exhales, voice syrup-thick as he shifts beneath you. “not done.”

his hands settle at your hips, palms steady, guiding you effortlessly into his lap like you’re weightless. your back meets his chest with a slick press, your sweat-slicked skin sliding against his. his arms coil around your waist, strong and grounding. his chest rises and falls behind you, a little too fast, like he’s barely managing to keep himself from dragging you under.

the mirror is in front of you.

angled just right. angled perfectly. and god, he made sure of that.

his cock, flushed dark and twitching, slides between your folds as he shifts his hips beneath you, letting the tip nudge against your clit before gliding through your slick. the friction alone makes your head tip back, a choked sound escaping you.

he watches your reaction in the mirror, that infuriating smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. you feel it—his amusement, his awe.

“look at that,” he purrs, voice heavy with affection and mischief. “haven’t even put it in yet, and you’re already fallin’ apart on me.”

he kisses the side of your head, nose brushing your temple.

“breathe, baby.”

his fingers dip down again, slow, teasing circles over your clit. featherlight, just enough to make your stomach tighten. your head tips back, body twitching in his lap. your nails scratch lightly down his arms, the only defense you can muster.

then—

he pushes in.

inch by inch.

thick, stretching you open like it’s the first time. because it is.

your breath shatters. your whole body jolts, hands flying to his forearms. your nails dig deep. your thighs strain to close, but his arms hold you open. you gasp—a helpless, breathy thing that breaks before it ever becomes a word.

“shh,” he coos, voice gentler now, lips grazing your ear. “s’okay. i got you. just breathe. you’re takin’ me so good already.”

he groans—low, shaky. your walls flutter around him with every inch he sinks in, the stretch making your whole body shiver. his hand doesn’t leave your clit, rubbing slow, steady circles to ease the burn.

“fuck,” he moans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “you’re squeezin’ me like a vice. gonna make me lose it before i even move.”

you try to speak, to say something biting—but the words collapse into a soft, keening sound as he bottoms out.

his hand finds your chin and tilts it forward.

“nuh-uh,” he murmurs. “don’t look away. wanna see how fuckin’ pretty you look like this.”

your eyes drag open, hazy and wet, and meet the mirror.

you barely recognize yourself—flushed and shining, lips parted in a stunned gasp, your skin glowing with sweat. your brows are drawn, mouth twitching as your walls flutter around the thick weight of him inside you.

he starts to move.

slow. dragging. deliberate.

your breath stutters. your knees twitch, thighs trembling.

“that’s it,” he hums, breath hot on your neck. “just like that. god, you’re makin’ the cutest faces. y’know that? fuckin’ adorable. you sure you’re not the one obsessed with me?”

he rolls his hips deeper. you cry out, barely a sound, just air and heat. your hands tremble where they grip his thighs, too overwhelmed to speak.

“what’s that? no smart little comment now?” he teases, kissing your shoulder, his voice drenched in adoration. “thought you were tough, angel.”

he grinds up into you again. your mouth falls open.

a whimper.

a moan.

and nothing else.

he laughs. delighted. wrecked.

“knew it,” he whispers. “knew i’d turn that sharp mouth of yours to mush.”

his thrusts quicken. deepen. his arms wrap tighter around your waist, locking you in place as he fucks up into you, smooth and controlled. the mirror shows everything. your body bouncing with every roll of his hips, his cock splitting you open again and again, the muscles in his abdomen flexing as he moves.

“look at you, baby,” he growls, picking up the pace. “fuck—how’re you this gorgeous and still act like i’m the muse?”

his voice cracks with it. because you are—your expression undone, jaw slack, eyes lidded and wet. your thighs tremble with each thrust, every sound that escapes you more broken than the last.

“don’t hide from me,” he pants, breath sharp and quick. “keep watching. wanna see the exact moment you fall apart.”

you try.

but your eyes blur. your vision swims. your body rocks helplessly in his lap.

your orgasm coils tight in your belly, sharp and violent.

“satoru—please—i’m—”

“that’s it,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “let go. let me feel you, baby. wanna watch you fall apart all over my cock.”

you break. again.

your body collapses against him, your scream breathless, voice cracking. every muscle pulls taut, trembling. your walls clench hard around him, and he groans—deep, raw, as he fucks you through it, chasing his own edge.

“that’s it. fuck, that’s it—”

he spills into you with a strangled cry, hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside, thick and so much it spills out around the edges. his arms crush you to him. he moans again, low and broken, like he doesn’t know how else to react. he doesn’t thrust again. just stays buried. trembling. like finishing inside you knocked every last thought out of his head.

his arms wrap around you like he’s trying to anchor himself—like if he loosens his grip, he might float away. his palm is pressed flat against your belly, grounding you, fingers twitching like they still don’t know how to stop touching. his forehead rests against your shoulder, breath ragged and warm, strands of hair clinging to the sweat-damp skin of his temple.

your bodies breathe in tandem. chest to back, sticky with sweat and afterglow. his cock twitches again inside you—a slow, pulsing aftershock—and you feel the lazy, inevitable trickle of his release starting to slip out around him. your thighs twitch. your toes curl. your reflection in the mirror shifts, barely perceptible, trembling like the rest of you.

“you okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

“no thanks to you,” you mumble, your voice thick and flat with exhaustion. it lacks the bite you were aiming for.

he laughs—quiet and hoarse—and kisses your jaw. “so mean,” he croons, nuzzling against your cheek. “and here i was, giving you the best night of your life.”

“shut up,” you whisper. your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. “i can’t even feel my knees.”

“that’s a good thing,” he says, smug now. “means i did it right.”

you groan, shifting just enough to smack his thigh with the back of your hand, weakly. “you’re insufferable.”

“you love it,” he replies, kissing your temple. he still sounds dazed, too satisfied to be cocky for real. “gonna run you a bath soon. hot. lavender oil. bubbles.”

“don’t make promises you’re too tired to keep.”

he exhales a breathy laugh, the sound low and melted. his hand trails up your stomach, then down again, soothing, thoughtless. his thumb traces just beneath the curve of your ribs.

“give me five minutes,” he murmurs. “then i’ll carry you. princess treatment.”

“mm. better.”

he adjusts his hold on you slightly, only so he can tuck his nose into the crook of your neck, exhale slow and deep like he’s trying to memorize the way you smell like skin and sweat and everything he just did to you.

“but not yet,” he says, the words nearly lost in your skin. “just let me stay like this. hold you a little longer.”

and he does. he stays wrapped around you like he was carved to fit there.

like if he lets go, the world might stop.

a/n : i missed writing them—missed how individual they are, and how their chemistry feels like a natural consequence of who they are, not just the romance. free throws & figure drawings is still the piece i’m proudest of, and this feels like a little love letter to that <3 also: i toned down the explicitness in this one—not because they aren’t filthy, but because i really wanted to center the intimacy over the porn teehee :3

#read later!!!!!#loved loved loved the first one #will definitely read this later #jjk gojo

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morticiansdiary · 27 days ago

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drowsy 🪼

— (rafayel)

my baby my babyyyy or however it goes

#oUGHHH HES SO YUMMY HERE #lads rafayel

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morticiansdiary · 28 days ago

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cuteness aggression

#CUTEE #I LOVE THE WAY YOU DRAW CALEB #lads caleb

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morticiansdiary · 28 days ago

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i was possessed by a demon to draw caleb in this pose <3

#need to lay on him #lads caleb

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morticiansdiary · 2 months ago

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Shared Walls, Shared Heat

Pairing: Alpha! Satoru Gojo x Omega! Reader

Description:College wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. As an Omega determined to carve her own path, the last thing she expected was to be forced into a new living situation,especially not one involving a too-handsome, too-smug Alpha like Satoru Gojo. Aloof and infuriatingly hot, he seems like the last person she’d trust with her secret. But Gojo has secrets of his own… and instincts he’s been holding back. What begins as reluctant cohabitation slowly spirals into something deeper, hotter, inevitable. In a world that expects her to fall into place, she dares to fall in love.

roommates AU, omegaverse, modern fantasy, slow burn to HOT burn, mutual pining, scent kink, protective/possessive Alpha Gojo, non-traditional Omega reader, emotional heat, soul-deep bond, claiming/bite, post-heat cuddles

⚠️ Warnings: Omegaverse dynamics (heat/rut, claiming, knotting, scenting), NSFW/explicit content, emotionally intense scenes, dominance/possessiveness (consensual), light breeding kink, gender-neutral reader language in parts but female-coded anatomy implied, mild angst and past discrimination themes

w.c. 5.8k

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

Life as an omega was hard. It always has been.

You weren’t the delicate, sweet-scented kind that made alphas swoon and governments comfortable. You were sharp, stubborn, and worst of all ambitious. Your existence made people uncomfortable because you refused to be grateful for the box they'd tried to put you in.

From your very first heat, you knew the world had already made its decision about what kind of life you were meant to live: quiet, mated, marked, and out of sight.

But you had other plans.

At twenty, you’d done the unthinkable: applied to Jujutsu University. Not for a husband-hunting degree or some decorative arts program, but for a brutal, sleep depriving double major in biology and chemistry. You didn’t want comfort. You wanted autonomy.

Your suppressants worked well enough. The scent-blockers were top shelf, illegal to import without a license. And for the first four weeks, you thought you’d pulled it off. Two friends, Shoko and Utahime, both sharp tongued betas with no patience for alpha or omega drama. A studio apartment you could just barely afford. A schedule full of labs and lectures and no time for anyone to notice what you were.

Until the day your landlord let himself in for a “routine inspection” and didn't bother hiding the way his nose twitched. Thirty minutes later, you were standing on the curb with your textbooks in a trash bag and your omega status fully exposed.

You hadn’t cried, although your eyes shined with unshed tears. You didn’t argue. You were too used to people making decisions for you the second they smelled what you were.

And now?

Now you were on a stranger’s doorstep with your phone at 4% and your backpack digging into your shoulder, ringing Shoko’s buzzer at ten minutes past midnight.

She’d said it would be fine. She’d said she had space.

The door creaked open, casting a sliver of warm light across the dark hallway.

He filled the frame lazily. Tall, shirtless, tousled white hair falling into sleepy blue eyes that barely registered you for a second. A faint clink sounded as he shifted, the silver chain around his neck catching on his collarbone. He looked like he’d just woken up from the kind of nap that only people without real problems got to take.

And then his nose twitched.

It was subtle. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The way his jaw ticked once, almost like a reflex.

“...You’re the omega,” he said, voice low and flat.

Not hostile. Just observational. Like you were the answer to a question he didn’t remember asking.

You didn’t have the strength to answer. Not properly.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it, and you hated that it was the first thing he heard from you.

You were crying.

Not sobbing, not messy, not dramatic. Just silent, relentless tears that blurred your vision and soaked the collar of your shirt, born from exhaustion and rage and the bitter sting of being reminded that the world didn’t want you unless you were obedient.

He stared at you for a second. Not unkindly. Not kindly either. Just seeing you. Like he was reading something behind your eyes that you didn’t want anyone to know was there.

You dragged the back of your sleeve across your face and forced out something like, “Yeah. And you’re not wearing a shirt.”

The smirk came instantly, practiced and slow. “Guess we’re both a little exposed, huh?”

He didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t say you looked like hell, even though you did. Instead, he stepped back and opened the door fully. “Well, come in. You’re dripping on the welcome mat.”

His tone was dry, bored.Like letting in stray omegas at midnight was a weekly event.

You hesitated in the doorway.

He didn’t reach for your bag. Didn’t crowd you with fake concern. Just turned on his heel and walked down the hall, voice echoing casually behind him. “Sho said you’d be crashing for a while. Room on the left’s empty. Sheets are clean.”

You stepped inside, shutting the door quietly, the lock clicking louder than expected in the silence. The apartment was warmer than you thought it would be. Lived-in. Someone had stocked the kitchen with snacks. A spare hoodie hung over the back of the couch.

You tried not to fall apart again when you realized someone had put a box of tissues on the nightstand in the spare room along with a small chocolate bar.

You weren’t sure if it was Shoko or him, but either way, you’d been expected. Not welcomed, maybe. But not unwanted either.

From somewhere down the hall, his voice drifted again.

“Try to keep the crying down after 2 a.m., yeah?”

A pause.

“And drink some water before you pass out. You smell dehydrated.”

You let out something between a laugh and a sob, pulling the door shut behind you. Maybe this wouldn’t be the worst place to fall apart after all.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

Two weeks in, and you’d almost convinced yourself that living with Gojo Satoru was fine.

Sure, he was loud in the mornings, had a weird habit of opening the fridge 10 times in a row as if that would magically make a snack appear, and walked around the apartment like pants were optional. But he hadn’t crossed any lines.

If anything, he was... surprisingly easy to live with.

And that was the problem.

Because Gojo Satoru didn’t act like an alpha who’d been forced to room with an omega. He didn’t leer. He didn’t comment on your scent, even when you’d gone a little too long between suppressants. He didn’t hover. Not obviously.

But he noticed.

Shoko technically still lived there, too. But most nights, she was holed up at her girlfriend Yuki’s place on the other side of town. The apartment still smelled faintly like her beta-neutral sandalwood shampoo, but her laundry basket hadn’t moved in a week. The only sign she hadn’t moved out entirely was the occasional shift in the fridge contents and the echo of her sarcasm in your text history.

Which left you and Gojo. Alone. Constantly.

The first time, it was subtle. You’d forgotten to eat, late lab, two exams, and when you came home half dizzy, there was a takeout box on the counter with your name scrawled in Gojo’s messy script on a sticky note. No explanation.

The second time, you’d gone to leave the apartment without your coat. It was cold, but not unbearable. Still he’d watched you reach for the doorknob and tossed your jacket at your back without looking up from his phone.

“Wear that,” he muttered. “You smell thin.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean.”

He never said omega. Never flaunted the biological advantage, never made it feel like a power thing. But he watched you in that quiet, infuriating way that said he knew more than you wanted him to.

And worse?

You were starting to notice him, too.

You told yourself it was nothing, the way his voice sounded too warm when he called you “princess” just to piss you off, or how your stomach twisted every time he stretched in the kitchen, shirt riding up to show a sliver of toned skin.

But it wasn’t nothing.

He was stupidly attractive. And worse, he smelled good. Like cedarwood and fresh air and something expensive you couldn’t name. The scent clung to the apartment. The couch cushions. The back of your throat.

And it was starting to drive you insane.

Because your body knew before your brain did. Every time he passed behind you, something in you tensed. Not in fear but awareness. That low, instinctive itch that whispered he’s strong, he’s close, he’s paying attention.

You caught him watching you once. Late at night, the hum of the fridge was the only sound between you. You were bent over your notes, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows, gnawing the cap of your pen, and you felt it, his gaze on the side of your face.

He didn’t look away when you glanced up.

Just smirked faintly and said, “You smell stressed. Eat something.”

You threw a granola bar at his head.

He caught it, one-handed.

“Violence,” he sighed dramatically. “How you show love.”

You rolled your eyes but the flush on your face didn’t go away for a full hour.

He was annoying. And bossy. And far too smug.

But he noticed when you were cold. When you were hungry. When your eyes were glassy from not sleeping enough.

And sometimes when he walked past you in the hall, too close, too casually, you noticed that his scent changed. Just slightly. A little deeper. A little sweeter.

And you weren’t sure if it was you reacting to him, or him reacting to you.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

Gojo’s P.o.v

She fell asleep at the kitchen table again.

Gojo found her there around 1 a.m., face tucked into the crook of her arm, pen still in her hand. Textbooks spread out like a battlefield. Half a granola bar flattened under her elbow.

He stood in the doorway for a minute. Didn’t move. Just watched.

She was curled up tight: hoodie too big, knees pulled to her chest, a frown ghosting across her face like she’d fallen asleep in the middle of being frustrated. He could see the edge of her scent suppressor patch poking out from under her collar, slightly askew.

Probably forgot to change it.

Again.

His nose twitched. Her scent was bleeding through faintly, warm and soft and fucking distracting. Not the full hit, not even close, but enough to make something low in his chest tighten.

Gojo rubbed the back of his neck, leaned a hip against the counter.

He shouldn’t care. It wasn’t his job to care. They weren’t even friends. Not really.

Except he knew her class schedule now. Knew she chewed her pen when she was anxious and tapped her foot when she lied. Knew she always tried to look tougher than she felt.

He also knew she hadn’t eaten anything but caffeine and vending machine trash in two days.

He moved before he thought about it. Quiet steps. Careful hands.

Tugged a blanket from the couch and draped it over her shoulders. Not too close. Not too intimate. Just enough to keep her from waking up stiff and freezing.

He reached to straighten the suppressant patch.

Paused.

Didn’t touch it.

Didn’t trust himself to.

Instead, he pulled the box of them from the cabinet and dropped it next to her notes. No comment. No lecture. Just a quiet reminder.

And then he left. Not because he wanted to.

Because staying would mean inhaling her scent again.

And thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

You woke up with a blanket draped over your shoulders again.

Second time this week.

And, like clockwork, your box of suppressants was sitting beside your notes, unopened, just far enough from your arm to say I didn’t touch you, but close enough to say I noticed.

Gojo never mentioned it. Never teased. Never hovered.

He just... did things.

Moved your laundry from the washer to the dryer without asking. Left your favorite ramen on the counter with a post-it note that said don’t skip lunch. Adjusted the thermostat at night when he thought you were sleeping cold. Always brushed past you in the hallway with a casual You good?, but never pushed if you weren’t.

It was starting to get hard to pretend you didn’t notice. Or that your stomach didn’t flip a little every time he did it.

And now you were heading to a party with him.

Well not with him. Shoko invited you both.

Apparently, Yuki’s best friend was throwing something “low-key” for the department’s upperclassmen. Shoko had waved off your half-protest with a wine glass in hand and a lazy grin. “Come on,” she’d said. “You’re overdue for a night where your blood isn’t 70% caffeine.”

So now you stood in the mirror, half-nervous, half-curious because it wasn’t often you got the chance to wear something nice. You’d gone simple: soft makeup, perfume light enough not to clash with your suppressants, a fitted dress that stopped a few inches above the knee. Classy. Subtle. A little daring for someone who lived in hoodies and sweats.

You heard Gojo’s voice from the hallway. “You ready yet? Shoko’s gonna start pregaming without us—”

The second you stepped out of your room, his words died in his throat.

He blinked. Once. Twice. He breathed in deeply before speaking.

“…Wow,” he muttered.

You shifted your weight. “Too much?”

“No.” His voice was low, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “No, you look good.”

The ride to the party was quiet, except for Shoko mumbling in the back seat about Yuki’s inability to remember which apartment she actually lived in. Gojo didn’t say much. Just glanced at you once or twice like he was trying not to.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

The party was packed.

Sweaty bodies, loud bass, someone already spilling something sticky on the floor. You stuck close to Shoko until she predictably disappeared into the hallway with Yuki, laughing over some inside joke that involved tequila and a stolen salt lamp.

You found yourself by the kitchen, fiddling with a drink, trying not to notice how many people were there, and how many of them were alphas.

You weren’t in heat. Your patch was fresh. But that didn’t stop the attention.

“Hey,” a voice said behind you, smooth and too-close. “Haven’t seen you around before.”

You turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a grin just a little too confident. He stepped closer, his eyes raking down your dress. “You here with anyone?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “My roommate.”

“Oh?” he smirked. “He your boyfriend?”

“No. Listen, I'm really not interested…”

“Then he won’t mind if I—”

You flinched as his arm wrapped itself behind you, his hand brushed your lower back, fingers dipping just low enough to make your stomach twist. You stepped back in fear and shock.

And then he wasn’t touching you anymore.

Because Gojo was there.

Fast. Quiet. Close.

His hand curled around your elbow, not hard, but firm. His voice low, almost lazy.

“She said she wasn’t interested.”

The guy scoffed. “Chill, man. I was just talking—”

Gojo smiled. It wasn’t nice.

“That wasn’t talking. That was a mistake.”

For a second, the tension was thick enough to cut. Then the guy muttered something under his breath and backed off, disappearing into the crowd.

You exhaled shakily.

Gojo still hadn’t let go of your arm.

“You okay?” he asked, finally looking at you, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded uncertaintly, pulse skipping. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you,really looked, and something in his expression shifted.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to drag you out of the party or kiss you against the fridge.

Instead, he leaned closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for you to feel his breath by your ear.

“You smell scared,” he murmured. “I don’t like it.”

And then he was gone,disappearing into the crowd like nothing had happened.

But your heart was still racing.

And his scent sharp, grounding, alpha still lingered around you like a promise.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

The party had thinned out by midnight, and you were tired, buzzed, but not drunk, and still wound tight from the incident in the kitchen. Shoko had waved you off with a wink and mumbled something about “staying the night at Yuki’s, obviously,” before disappearing into an Uber.

Which left just you and Gojo.

The car ride home was quiet.

Not awkward, not exactly. Just… loaded.

You could still feel where his hand had gripped your arm, where his voice had dropped into something dangerous something protective. You kept your eyes on the window. The streetlights smeared into gold streaks, but you weren’t really seeing them.

He didn’t say anything until you were almost at your building.

“That guy’s lucky I didn’t break his hand.”

You blinked, turned toward him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I did.”

Silence again.

Then, as he pulled into the lot and put the car in park, he added more quietly, less sure of himself, “You looked good tonight.”

You swallowed. “Thanks.”

“Not just the dress,” he said. “You. You just... looked good.”

That made your chest tighten.

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it, but you did.

“I noticed you watching me.”

He looked over at you, sharp blue eyes catching yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly. “Not just tonight.”

His jaw flexed, and for a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Then he cut the engine.

You didn’t speak as you walked up to the apartment. Your heels clicked against the stairs. The tension between you stretched like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point.

When you reached the door, you fumbled for your keys.

And that’s when you felt it.

Him.

Close.

Too close.

He was right behind you, just enough that his scent brushed along your back, thickened slightly with something sharp and warm and undeniably alpha. You froze.

“Gojo,” you said, warning, breath catching.

He didn’t touch you.

But his nose dipped low, barely an inch from your hairline. Just one long, slow inhale.

You felt it like a shiver down your spine.

“You changed your patch late,” he murmured, voice husky. “I can tell.”

You turned your head. Not enough to face him. Just enough to ask, quiet and unsure, “What are you doing?”

His breath was warm against your neck.

“Nothing,” he said. “Not really.”

But you felt it when he leaned in just a little closer. Just enough for the tip of his nose to skim the curve where your neck met your shoulder.

You swore the air itself went still.

“You smell like someone touched you,” he whispered. “Someone else.”

Your heart thudded, loud in your ears. “He didn’t really, just grazed me with his fingertips.”

“I know.” A beat. “But the scent’s still there.”

And then he did it, barely there, not skin to skin, but he dipped just low enough that his scent pressed over yours. Just a breath. Just a flicker of possession.

Your knees nearly buckled.

He stepped back first. Like it cost him.

“You should wash up,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “That guy’s scent, it’s annoying.”

You stared at him, pulse fluttering wildly.

Gojo opened the door like nothing had happened. Tossed his keys on the counter. Wandered to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water like it wasn’t still crackling in the air between you.

But his scent lingered. Hot. Thick. Claiming.

And when you passed him on the way to your room, he didn’t look at you.

But you felt his eyes on the back of your neck the entire time.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

The next morning, you tried to pretend everything was normal.

You woke up late. Took a long, scalding shower. Changed your suppressant patch early, even though the old one still had hours left on it. Just to be sure. Just to feel like yourself again.

But Gojo’s scent clung to you like phantom heat.

The worst part?

You didn’t want it to wash off.

He was already in the kitchen when you emerged, dressed in a hoodie and sweats, barefoot, mug in hand. You paused in the doorway, awkward, heartbeat stuttering.

He didn’t look up from his coffee.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Took a step forward. “About last night—”

“Nothing happened,” he cut in.

It stung more than it should have.

You folded your arms. “Didn’t feel like nothing.”

Silence. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

You shifted, suddenly angry. “You scent-marked me.”

“Barely.”

“But you did.”

His gaze finally snapped to yours, sharp, heated, cornered. “Yeah,” he bit out. “I did.”

You flinched. “Why?”

Another beat of silence.

Then, quieter: “Because I couldn’t stand that someone else did.”

You stared at him, breath catching. “Gojo…”

His name felt different now. Heavy with knowing.

He ran a hand through his hair, finally breaking. “I’ve been trying not to want this. You think I haven’t noticed how you smell when you're stressed? How you hold your breath when I get too close? You think I don’t know how you fake normalcy just to survive in a world that makes omegas feel like liabilities?”

Your chest tightened. “You make me feel safe.”

His breath hitched.

“And I don’t think I realized how much I needed that,” you whispered. “Until you.”

That finally broke something in him.

Gojo crossed the space between you in two strides, didn’t touch you, but hovered close. His voice dropped, lower than ever. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’re not mine.”

“Then say it,” you said. “Say you want me.”

His nostrils flared.

“Say it, Satoru.”

He growled deep in his chest and pressed his forehead to yours. “I want you,” he whispered. “Not just because you’re an omega. Not just because you smell like comfort and fucking home. But because you’re you.”

You shuddered, breath stalling, heart thudding.

Then carefully, achingly he brought his lips to your neck.

And this time, he didn’t hold back.

It wasn’t a full bite. Not yet. But it was a press of his mouth to the curve of your throat, warm and deliberate, teeth just barely grazing over sensitive skin. The mark he left was temporary. But his scent—

His scent drowned you.

Hot. Safe. Possessive. Yours.

You exhaled shakily, hand fisting in the front of his hoodie. “I want you too,” you whispered.

He pulls himself away from your neck to bring his lips to yours in a heated, messy kiss.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

And smiled.

But it wasn’t cocky, not this time.

It was reverent.

Like he’d been waiting forever to hear that.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

Things changed after that.

They didn’t explode, not right away. There wasn’t some dramatic claim or frenzied marking. Just a shift, subtle, constant, undeniable.

You were dating. That was clear.

Or at least, you were doing everything that looked and felt like dating:

Gojo started sleeping in his own bed less. Then not at all.

His hoodies migrated into your closet, and you stopped giving them back.

He’d come home from class, kiss the top of your head like it was second nature, toss his shoes next to yours by the door. Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you from across the room like he couldn’t believe you were real. Other times, he’d just silently pull you into his chest and breathe you in, fingers curling around the back of your shirt like he wanted to keep you there.

And the scenting?

He was shameless now.

Not in public, not yet, but every time you left the apartment, he’d hug you just a little too long. Let his scent stick to the back of your neck, the collar of your sweater, the inside of your wrists.

“You’re mine,” he’d murmur casually. “Just making sure people know.”

It made your heart flutter.

Made your body ache.

Because you knew it was coming.

Your heat.

The last few cycles had been short and mild, mostly regulated by the patch. But this one? It was going to be different. You could feel it in your bones, in the way your skin buzzed under his touch, in the way your scent was already shifting.

Worse still?

He could feel it too.

He was tense lately. Even more protective. Growled when guys stared too long at the library. Gave your professor a death glare when he touched your shoulder. Carried your bag. Checked your patch levels. Made you eat. Drink water. Sleep. Rest.

You caught him sniffing your laundry once. He didn’t even look guilty.

“You gonna tell me what’s in your hoodie drawer or do I have to break in?” he teased one night, lying sideways across your bed like he owned it. You were brushing your teeth, wearing one of his shirts, slouchy, soft, scented.

You spat and leaned in the doorway. “Literally just your hoodies.”

“Oh,” he said, smirking. “So I was right to check?”

“You checked?”

“Every day,” he admitted, like it was no big deal. “You smell better in them than I do.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“I’m your weirdo,” he grinned, arms open.

And like always you melted into him.

He pulled you into his chest like he was born to do it. Nuzzled your temple. Pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your hairline, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. Not sexual,not yet, just possessive.

And underneath all of it was the tension.

He smelled too good. Woodsy and fresh and sharp. You found yourself curling into him deeper, inhaling him like you were starved for it.

You were, in a way.

He caught it.

“You getting close?” he murmured.

You didn’t lie. “Yeah.”

His jaw tensed against your temple.

“We need to talk about it.”

“I know.”

“If I stay,” he said, “I’m not going to hold back.”

You shivered.

He exhaled roughly, and the sound of it near your ear made your thighs press together. He noticed that, too.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I can already smell the shift starting.”

You buried your face in his neck. “Then don’t leave.”

His arms tightened around you instantly. He growled. Low. Deep in his chest.

And when he spoke next, his voice was barely more than a whisper:

“I wasn’t going to.”

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

It started in class.

You were trying to focus. Scribbling notes, nodding along with the lecture, pretending everything was fine. But your patch had started to slip. Literally and figuratively. A dull burn had settled low in your belly hours ago, and now it was turning sharp, liquid heat spreading through your limbs, fogging your brain.

You could feel it happening.

Your scent was changing.

And worse, you weren’t alone.

Gojo was waiting outside.

The moment you walked out of class, it hit you like a freight train. He turned toward you with that usual lazy smile and then froze. His pupils dilated instantly. His nostrils flared. You could see the shift behind his eyes: instinct, raw and undeniable.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re—”

“Go home,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Now. I can’t—”

He was already moving.

He didn’t say a word. Just pulled you to his side, threw his jacket around your shoulders, and practically marched you out of the building. People stared. You didn’t care.

You were shaking.

You didn’t even make it through the apartment door before your legs gave out.

Gojo caught you,arms around your waist, lifting you like nothing.

“You waited too long,” he growled, voice rough with restraint. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You buried your face in his neck, whining softly. “Didn’t want you to feel pressured.”

He carried you straight to the bedroom, kicked the door shut behind him, and laid you down carefully on the sheets. The scent of him flooded around you,rich, heady, grounding, and you felt yourself unraveling fast.

Your voice cracked. “It hurts.”

“I know, baby,” he whispered, crouching beside the bed, one hand smoothing down your arm. “I can smell it. You’re burning.”

Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes. “Please…”

That was it.

The last thread of his control snapped.

Gojo climbed onto the bed slowly, like you were something fragile he was terrified to break. But his body said something different his scent said something different. It wrapped around you like smoke. You whimpered and turned your face into his hoodie—his scent all over you, his hoodie, his bed, his body.

“Tell me what you need,” he said, voice low and guttural.

“You,” you breathed. “I need you. Satoru, I need you.”

He let out a low, hungry sound half growl, half whimper and leaned down to nose at your neck. “Say it again.”

You curled your fingers into his shirt, hips arching. “I need my Alpha.”

That was it.

He kissed you like he was starving, possessive, deep, desperate. His hands were everywhere: mapping your skin, soothing your trembling, pulling you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between your bodies.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped. “No one else. Just me.”

Your scent filled the room, sweet and slick and overwhelming. He rutted against you with a groan, every inch of his restraint slipping through his fingers.

“You want me to claim you?” he murmured against your throat. “Want to be mine?”

You whimpered helplessly, needy.

“Yes. Please. Want to be yours.”

The second the words left your mouth,“I want to be yours”,he snapped.

Not violently. Not uncontrolled. But with purpose.

Gojo surged forward, pressing you down into the mattress, his body trembling with restraint he wasn’t going to bother holding anymore. His lips crashed to yours again, messier now teeth, tongue, need. Every sound he made was low and rough and Alpha.

“Say it again,” he groaned against your mouth. “Say it’s mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Satoru, I’m yours.”

That lit him on fire.

He nosed at your throat, dragging his mouth down the curve of your neck, sucking kisses into your skin like he was already staking a claim. His hands slid under your borrowed hoodie,his hoodie,ripping it off in a single motion, scenting the skin underneath like a starving man.

“You smell like me,” he whispered reverently. “Fuck, you smell so perfect.”

You whined, writhing under him. “Please,please, it hurts—”

“I know, baby, I know. I’ve got you,” he murmured, one hand bracing your hip, the other slipping down, finally, to where you were soaking, swollen, ready. “Let me make it better.”

You arched with a gasp as his fingers slid in easily, heat spiking at the contact. He groaned at how wet you already were,slick and pulsing and desperate. His scent wrapped around you even thicker now, heavy and heady, like musk and fire and safety.

“This all for me?” he rasped. “Fuck, you were made for me.”

“Only you,” you choked out. “Need you—need your knot—”

That broke the last of him.

He lined himself up, hands gripping your hips like he owned you because he would. Soon. Forever.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growled. “Breed you so good. Knot you so deep no one’ll ever think about touching you again.”

You cried out as he sank into you,slow, deep, thick,and the stretch of him was perfect, the relief so blinding you nearly sobbed. He went slow at first, grinding in deep, dragging every ounce of friction against your walls.

“So good,” he whispered. “You take me so fucking good.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop—please—want your bite—want to be yours.”

Gojo’s breath stuttered.

“Yeah?” His voice was shaking now. Unhinged. “You want my mark? You want to belong to me?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please, Satoru. Bite me.”

He snapped his hips forward hard once,twice,then leaned down, mouth brushing the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Mine.”

Then he bit.

The pain was sharp, bright, perfect. A flood of pheromones burst through your system the second his fangs pierced you, sending you both over the edge. You screamed his name as your body clamped down around him, your climax tearing through you with a sob.

He followed instantly groaning your name, knot swelling, locking you together with a desperate, grinding thrust that drove him as deep as he could possibly go.

He stayed there.

Buried in you. Breathing hard. Arms around you like a shield.

His mouth left your neck only to kiss it tenderly now, as he licked the blood from your bond mark. “You’re mine now,” he whispered. “My Omega. My mate.”

Your vision blurred, heart hammering, body aching—but safe. Sated.

Loved.

You smiled softly against his jaw.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

The world had gone still.

You were tucked beneath the comforter, his arms wrapped tight around your waist, bare skin against bare skin. Gojo’s knot was still nestled deep inside you, keeping your bodies locked, and neither of you minded. It felt right. Like the place you were meant to be.

His breath was warm against the back of your neck. He hadn't said much since the bite. Just small things:hushed praise, murmured reassurance, the occasional kiss pressed to your shoulder as if to prove you were real.

You rolled to face him slowly, carefully. His eyes,normally teasing and bright,were softer now. Blown wide. Worshipful.

He stared at you like you were everything.

“I was scared,” you whispered, your voice small in the silence. “Not of you. Just… of this. Of being an Omega. Of being claimed.”

His brows furrowed. “Why?”

You hesitated. “Because people act like that’s all we’re good for. Like we’re made for heat and nesting and breeding and nothing else. I thought if I let this happen, I’d lose myself.”

Gojo was quiet for a long time.

Then, slowly, he reached up and brushed your hair from your damp forehead. His touch was reverent.

“You didn’t lose anything,” he said, voice low. “You chose me. That’s not weakness.”

You looked away, embarrassed. “But I’m not like other Omegas.”

He smiled.

“I know.”

That made you glance back at him. “Do you?”

He nodded once, firm. “You’re smart. You’re stubborn. You’re brilliant. You’re reckless sometimes, but in the way that makes people pay attention. You work harder than anyone I know, and you fight twice as hard just to exist the way you want. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Heat prickled behind your eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m saying it because you need to hear it. You're not just an Omega. You’re my Omega. And I don’t want you small, or quiet, or safe. I want you. All of you.”

Your throat tightened.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“They don’t get to decide who you are,” he whispered. “But I do get to love you for it.”

You let out a soft, broken sound and curled into his chest.

He held you like the most precious thing he’d ever touched. “You’re not a bond mark or a heat cycle. You’re a person.You’re mine.”

You smiled into his skin.

“And you’re mine, Alpha.”

#I’m SO starved for omegaverse x readers so this is SOOO good #I love it sm #kicking my feet twirling my hair reading it #jjk gojo #omegaverse

263 notes · View notes

morticiansdiary · 2 months ago

Text

𝄞 bloodhound

𓍯𓂃 hybrid sylus x female reader

(10k wc) ✦ summary: demanding, old, hostile— just a few of the warnings the man at the local shelter gave you before opening its cage. but it doesn’t matter. so long as he can protect you, all else can be forgiven. yet he’s more wolf than dog. more… man than wolf.

✦ content hybrid! sylus, nsfw/smut, hints of violence (not between mc/sylus), tension, kind of enemies to lovers-? he warms up to mc, knotting & adjusting to it, feral behavior, cunnilingus, slight somnophilia (not detailed), hinted age gap (all parties are 18+), possessive behavior, size difference,

✦ sidenote as by popular demand we have the latest installment of the lads hybrid collection 🙂‍↕️ i apologize in advance bc even as a wolf-man creature i made sylus older, because yall already know i love me a good ol’ fashioned dilf. dont ask me what bro is in dog years just know he’s scruffy! anyways do enjoy this lil thing while u wait for the caleb fic which i am busting my ass for :] 💕 ALSO sorry. he’s not feline this time… >_< this is def not my fav piece but i hope some of the girlies will like this one :] i did work hard on it it’s quite long. i gave it plot but tbh the smut is straight up filthy 😖 ig all we have left to do is hybrid rafayel! but that boy’s gonna have to wait lol :,) i do hav an idea for him tho ;D

With every step, it feels as if the walls of your apartment are closing in on you.

By your feet, at the front door you hardly have the coordination to close- blundering with the lock- lay a bouquet. Scattered. Flowers strew themselves across your hall as you kick the clasped bunch with the tip of your heel and glide from room to room, warily ducking into each one with your hand braced in front of your body, ready to beat and thrash and fight for your life.

In your other hand- a note. Crumpled, now. Shaking between your fingers.

You don’t think he’s gotten inside again- it seems the new home security measures you installed have thrown a wrench in his plans- for the moment, at least (although your spare key is still missing)- but you’re not wholly convinced you’re safe, either.

And to be clear, it’s better to be that than sorry: You’ll check each and every cranny of your little flat if it means reclaiming your peace of mind.

Your life is a different story though, as of late; threatened yet not something quite as simple to take back. Living with bated breath is no way to exist- neither with the perpetual looks thrown over your shoulder on the short trek back from the bus, the seemingly harmless creaks at night hurling you whole feet from your bed.

Because of that fear, you can hardly even bear to look down at the tiny paper in your hand to read it.

I loved that outfit on you yesterday babe. Can you blame me for taking a little from your wardrobe? ♡

Strangely, though, your drawer is just as you left it when you slide it from its framework almost fast enough to pop its screws, fearing the worst.

Clothes- your tee shirts, blouses for work and lacy bras, pencil skirts- fling across your bed, yet nothing is… amiss.

That outfit from yesterday.

With a gasp, you twist around to look at your hamper, and-

Sure enough, the lid is open.

✦

“-get a few new ones a week. Gets hard to keep up with ‘em all. All the personalities and quirks- a lot of them won’t even eat their kibble unless you look the other way.”

The cold brick walls and all the sounds bouncing off them (grunts, woofs, and nails against tile) become humdrum as the worker, waving a hand as he talks- rants, really- leads you through the pound.

The fluorescence lighting the place flares, whirs overhead. Everything about the setting is harsh. Obviously, you’re in no danger- but as you trail alongside him, you feel a sense of foreboding in your gut all the same. Like you’re walking into a dungeon.

The colorless walls swallowing up most of your vision make that silly threat seem an ounce realer.

You swallow, head on a swivel- yet not for fear, but sympathy as you pass an assortment of fenced-off pets. Some track you with a snarl. Some with eyes that plead. Still, they all share the undeniable tinge of distrust.

What an awful place, you think to yourself.

…But coming here had a purpose.

Your heels clip against the scratched floor and echo in rounds, a certain emptiness existing around you that seems misaligned with all the noise and sights.

Dogs in their cages— some upfront, teething at the metal, others: cowed to their corners, lying on thin blankets not quite as worse for wear.

To sum it up- creatures sapped of will. Defeated in life.

A distinct sorrow weighs in your chest, even as the employee happily drones on, a half-eaten tuna sandwich in one hand (the other: gesturing emphatically), hardly paying you any attention. To be fair, you’re giving him very little as well.

“-I mean, some don’t even eat at all. Picky things.”

Picky? You question quietly. Or without hunger? Their appetite for cheap, bagged kibble robbed right along with their appetite for life.

Your nails dent into your palm as you clench it.

It’s hard to get a word in edgewise as the man chatters away, but you manage to pile down your need to be polite for long enough to get in a:

Hey, excuse me, I asked what kind of dog you’d recommend for prot—

Clack, clack… Clack.

You come to a pause, dead-center in the walkway. The dull rhythm of his shoes remains where yours doesn’t.

“Heh. We got one a couple of months back who thinks this place is his own damn gourmet restaur-“

When he notices you’re not arm-to-arm, he, too, stops.

“Ma’am?” He turns.

“That one,” you breathe, just vaguely registering as the worker sidles up to you and glances at the cage you approach. The glint in your eye wins his interest.

For once since you entered the building, he shuts his mouth.

When he looks at ‘that one’ in question— a silver shock of fur, immersed in a shadow against the far wall— his eyes almost bulge from his skull.

A sharp laugh.

“Ah, little lady. Don’t wanna bite off more than you can chew, now. See-“

As he falls back into drivel (albeit, you lend an ear, curious now), you eye the pooch.

He looks a little wilder than the rest, a little more weathered, tucked to the corner of his cage but not quite ‘cowering’- no, he’s a touch too big and threatening for it to seem that way. More like… brooding.

…Yet you wonder all the same if that’s what he feels, too. Scared like most if not all of the others.

Your chest stirs again with that wisp of sadness.

If you could, you’d clip their collars to a leash and walk them all home, cramming them into your apartment with no thought and all heart. For reasons- countless reasons (having to do with your tiny home and even tinier wallet)- that’s not possible.

In a place as cold and unfortunate as this, he’d have every reason to be frightened, you think, but when your eyes soften with pity at him, his own narrow.

Thoughtfully, you blink.

As the worker rattles off his minor crimes around the playpen- and the hole he eats through their budget, what with his size- you can’t help but marvel at him.

Concerningly massive. With thick, silvery fur matted in certain areas, patchy with scars in others, and eyes that glow an unnatural shade of red- you can wholeheartedly say you’ve never seen the breed before. Less dog-like and more wolfish.

It warrants a raise of the brow, just what he’s doing here. Did he have an owner before? Was he abandoned by them? Or… was he just pulled from the street?

And if so, how many elephant-sized tranquilizer darts did it take to haul him here?

“So,” he says, stuffing his hand in his pockets, “Honestly, Ma’am, he’s probably not what you’re lookin’ for.” Giving your clacking heels and airy sundress a once-over, he sighs.

“We do have a Samoyed though- he was brought in just yesterday. Super playful. Great personality. Domesticated. He definitely won’t be here for long. Uh… this one here, though,” he snickers. “He’s unpredictable at the best of times. Growls when ya feed him- then growls some more ‘cause he’s still hungry... tsk,” he glances down at his hand, then. Evidently, there’s no mark there, but you think he’s imagining one that could’ve been.

“He’s on the older side, too. Can’t teach him any new tricks. And… big, as you can see. With his temperament, he’d probably tear a hole in your apartment. You, uh, you got an apartment, you said-?”

Right now, you should be thankful for all his advice- at the very least, relieved his chatter has become more meaningful, relaying all the pooch’s unruly habits. Yet you tune it all out, slightly cocking your head at the beast dog- a movement that, if you’re not imagining things, his scruffy one mirrors.

“He’s…”

“Yep. Like I said-“

“Perfect,” you breathe, falling to a crouch.

The man beside you coughs on his own spit. “What-? Uh, little lady, I seriously don’t think— hey, watch the hands! Don’t stick ‘em through!”

“-How much?”

You manage to pry your gaze from the ominous thing tucked a number of feet into his prison, cloaked and out of the light, to look up at the man. For all of the warnings and, really, defamation made against the animal— to his defense, he doesn’t lunge. Bark. Claw at the bars or slip his snout through to bite the harmless hand you extend in the space there.

No. With a lift of his whiskers, he watches.

Tuna-sandwich blinks. Eyes widening to twice their original size before he scrubs the lower half of his face.

Eventually, he shrugs. Takes a moment to process it.

As he does, you await the price with a hand already dipping inside your purse. I mean, you hope not to spend a small fortune during this outing- but it’s also an investment worth your while. There’s no saying when your stalker will show his face again. If tomorrow he’ll be waiting under your bed or in your closet for your return- hell, right now, the hackles on your neck are raised as if he could be lurking still.

A word relieves you of worries for naught.

“Nothing.”

…Wait- No, that can’t be right. Nothing? The- your future good boy is worth nothing?

“E-Excuse me?”

He sighs, exasperated. “You’d be doing us a favor,” is all he gives as an explanation. “You can have him for free.”

Dumbfounded, snapping your head back to the cage, you’re met with two crimson eyes that look almost hellish as they catch in the shifting fluorescence- and a pass of surprise on its face that appears almost… human.

“But, are you-“

“Haaaaah. Maybe it’s for the better. You’re like his savior, you know,” he comments, sparing a rather indifferent glance to the animal, “he oughta be thankful for you coming in here.”

And there, fucking again- like a blade wedged between your ribs and twisting—

“Too much longer and we would’a had to put him down.”

A squeeze of your heart.

Jaw fluttering shut, that morsel of information wipes the entirety of your hesitance out. Belatedly, you nod, perching your bag above your hip once more, a sense of determination smoothing out your features.

“When can we get him out of this cage?”

You ask without looking his way.

The sound of keys jingling on a ring has the silver-furred creature perking his left ear ever so slightly- a movement you track with curiosity as the beast’s chest swells in. It’s like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s seen countless people just like you filter in and out, pass him by, and ultimately land on a different pet to jailbreak take home.

“I can get you sorted right now,” he quips, helpful, “Just… You might wanna back up.”

Weirdly enough- and despite knowing you really should be cautious with a veritable beast from the local shelter, scarred to no end and skulking- all the tiptoeing around him is endearing in its own right.

He’s a good boy, you’re sure of it. Misunderstood, probably, like the rest of the poor, trembling things here— just in need of a nice, loving home and maybe a scritch or two behind the ear. And you’re positive, if nothing else, he’ll do plenty a good job at keeping your stalker at bay.

It takes a handful of minutes to loop the rope (not leash: rope) around his neck- yet the worker treats it as a pleasant surprise, muttering something about how he’s just a whit more cooperative today.

“Thank you,” you chime a bit breathlessly. Sure, your main goal in coming here was to find a suitable guard dog, but you can’t deny the excitement that flutters within as the gate closes to a now-empty cage, your new pet springing free.

Anticipation thrums in your chest as you eagerly accept the rope from him- “careful,” a snigger- and—

The ground beneath you all but gives way.

“Oh, sir- one more thing! What’s his name!”

He stops for a moment to turn halfway over his shoulder. Long, overgrown nails skittering across the floor as the leash tugs harshly and you’re rapidly propelled out the front door, into sunlight.

However, you do catch him shrugging.

“No clue.”

✦

A number of days pass. Those days drag by with an eagerness to get to know each other that seems only one-sided- and a caution on his end that borders uncanniness.

You buy him a fluffy dog bed (the biggest you could find; he��s bigger still). Quality food, not the rubbish they fed him at the pound. And you give him your patience; small, gentle smiles that you’re not entirely sure an animal can understand— but when you offer out your hand for him to smell, a sign that you mean no harm, he growls and retreats to his corner. He chooses one part of your tiny apartment to hunker down in and outright glares when you get too close.

This is your house.

This… was your house. Maybe you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. As a week moves on, you concede to your bedroom or the sofa and watch him with resignation as he watches you back- and contemplate if you made the right choice.

Does he seriously hate you that bad? How can you make him understand that you don’t harbor any bad intentions for him-? I mean, aren’t animals supposed to have that preternatural kind of instinct anyway? to spot malice?

What is he spotting in you?

Curled up on the couch, you hang your hand off the arm and release the new brush you’d bought days ago. It’s seeming more and more like a useless purchase, yet after countless attempts to bathe and brush him- all for naught- it’s only now starting to settle.

Work was long. That one coworker was grating on your nerves more than usual and you could’ve sworn you heard a second pair of footfalls trailing yours after the bus back- but you can only look over your shoulder so many times without attracting the attention of people who start to wonder if you’re batshit crazy.

But you're not crazy. That- That psychopath is, and his countless notes and uninvited visits to your apartment while you’re gone are all proofs of that.

But that’s changed, now. If your dog hates you, he’ll hate an intruder even more.

You sigh, holding your head in your hands as you lean forward. Like a flower wilted, folded in on itself, too heavy with its withering to support its own weight. You rub your temples when you grudgingly glance up to the wolf-sized beast sulking in the corner.

He stares, of course; buttery light twinkling in imposing, ruby eyes in a way that almost makes him seem tame. Mellow.

Not quite.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to dislike him, or regret taking him off the pound’s hands— for all his stubbornness, the hostility he barely conceals, you know all too well that fear manifests itself in strange ways. Like when you almost snarled at your deskmate today for leaning over your shoulder again to review your work- the proximity too startling to handle. You’re irate. On alert. Scared. And it’s making you do unreasonable things as a way to calcify your soft skin into a protective shell. You start to think that you must be hard: the climate calls for it.

The mutt that broods behind your armchair is the picture of ominous- big and bad and threatening long before his lip even curls in warning. Everything about him screams see, look at my scars- my sharp teeth and nails. Don’t touch me. Don’t hurt me.

Your heart stirs.

Tiredly, you offer a small smile. “You are perfect, you know,” folding your leg over the other as you pat the open space of the couch beside you. It can fit four to six people if they cram together, but you know he’d take up the three cushions beside you if he sprawled out entirely.

He regards you with a microscopic flick of his ears. “Even if you don’t like me, that doesn’t change what I think about you. If you just let me give you a bath… I’ll let you sit on the couch, deal? I’m sure it’ll be comfier than what you got now,” you offer, gesturing harmlessly to the dog bed that lays unused by the table— for this reason or that, perhaps just as a way to show you he’s completely rejecting you, he’s avoided it.

Yes, he’s just a tatterdamelion, forgotten animal, operating out of instinct and whatever feels right.

Yes, you still had to mask your hurt over it.

You sigh. “I mean, I haven’t even thought of a name for you yet. And I’m sorry, I just…” Trailing off, you give your head a small shake and stand to your feet. In your mind, with no small amount of discontent, you realize you’ve reached a watershed here— one that separates your old, normal life from a sense of great uncertainty that rests on the horizon.

And you’re terribly concerned. And tired. But God forbid you start venting to a dog about it.

“Nevermind. Goodnight, boy,” you wave your doubts off dismissively, deliberately leaving the lamplight on lest he get scared in the dark. Sometimes, you think you see eyes staring back in it, too, so you put no judgement on him.

Pattering with heavy, sock-clad feet down the hall, “Sleep tight. Just tell me if you hear anything at the door-“

A labored sigh.

Nails clacking behind you— and for one awful second you fear the worst: You’ve turned your back to a beast.

Your breath hitches with the realization, yet as you swiftly spin around- half prepared to bolt or at the very least shield your head with your vulnerable, just as fleshy arms- you’re mistaken.

There, he stands, as a massive silhouette against the living room light angling into the narrow, dim hall. He’s like a bull in a china shop- monstrous, sharp claws etching lines into the lacquer of the maple wood floor, his tail sending fur gusting behind him as it falls. You become clear of two things, then:

One) you must sweep, and soon. And two)

He’s tilting his head- in an uncannily shrewd way- towards the ajar bathroom door beside you, and as he noses it open and stares at you, it’s with expectance.

Oh, and then three—

When you don’t respond right away, he steps around you and impatiently nudges you in- headstrong as ever- through the bathroom door with a throaty huff.

✦

He smells of strawberry shortcake. Vastly sweeter than what he really is, you think with a wry but endeared smile, when you extend a slow, ever-cautious hand to pet.

To your surprise, he lets you.

Call it a truce between you both. A comfier place for him to crash at for a little more peace of mind on your end.

With all the dirt and dried muck lathered out from his coat (it took an hour or so, and patience- as he flung water and stubbornly tried to readjust in the small tub- lots of it), you’re given the chance to finally see the beauty of his breed.

Chalky white fur, soft as the cashmere sweater stowed in your closet on standby for the chilly autumn weeks ahead. His hair is long, perhaps overdue for a trim- not that you’re deluded enough to believe he’d allow a groomer anywhere near him- and easily covers most of the scarring underneath.

Convincing him it was safe to let you clip his nails was an even harder task than getting him in the bath- but he… cooperated. In a looser sense of the word.

None of your limbs are missing. That’s a small miracle in itself. You’re thankful for the little breakthroughs with your new pet, even if it feels like you’re walking uphill all the while.

He hops up on the sofa beside you. True to your word, you allow it, the springs dipping beneath you both as he settles.

If the couch fell through the floor and onto the one below in a mist of crumbled drywall, you’d have no right to be surprised. None at all.

Trying not to show a fraction of your joy as he sets his head on your lap lest that deter him, you bite back a grin and rest a hand on his back. You avoid needless contact with his head- you get the feeling that’s a iffier place for him. You’d respect it, of course. Your show of patience has been nothing less than outstanding in the past week. Now that you’re finally making headway with him (and yes— his letting you bathe and sit with him is headway), you’re encouraged.

Besides…

Unpredictable. The forbidding advice of the shelter employee rings in your head.

Ahem.

It’s late.

Tomorrow, you’ve another long day of work and second-guessing your surroundings and the people in them. Whether or not you’ll be attacked in your own home by your persistent ex-boyfriend who couldn’t stop meddling with your life even if it meant saving his own.

The doubt, momentarily, is pushed to the back burner.

You smooth your hands through his velvety fur. A strange layer of peace drapes itself over you, warming your chest like a fleece as his back rises and falls, your quiet breaths punctuating his own heaving ones.

“You’re a good boy, you know,” you murmur contentedly as you lay your head back and drift off. A crimson set of eyes regards you carefully, peering up through fine, snowy lashes.

From the barrel of his chest, he lets out a deep rumble like he understands. You know he doesn’t.

Half awake, you weave your fingers along him, “You are. You are a good boy,” as if it’s come as an epiphany to you- made realer as it’s spoken.

Before you let sleep take you entirely, you murmur with a ghost of a grin, teasing despite knowing it’s ridiculous because your words aren’t coherent to him- just a swooning, soft sound to bitten ears—

“Hey… I could tell you didn’t really like Cookie, or Sweetie, or Dragonfruit, but… what about…”

A moment passes. Barely, you register his snout lifting from your thigh.

“Sylus.”

Before dozing off, you’re fairly certain- for his sake- you’d left the lamp on that night.

…But when you wake the next morning to your alarm blaring in the room over, all that lights the living space is the sun streaming through the blinds.

✦

You blink and autumn is in full throttle.

You blink and you’re trading your thin sleep shorts out for pajama pants and slippers- layering your work blouses with wooly cardigans.

Days leap over one another like cards of a rolodex— yours, on your cubicle desk: filled with doodles of the unruly pooch waiting at home for you. Idling over him is all that you can do to ease your mind as anxiety gnaws through.

You worry for him when he’s home alone. Not because you heed the warnings you were once given- ‘he’ll tear a hole in your walls’- but because you care for him, and with that brings the inexplicable want to see him as soon as possible.

Of course, he can’t speak, but he shows in his own way that he misses you too when you’re gone.

Once your shift ends, you do as you did the day before. You quickly take the jacket off your wheely chair and gather your things, waving to the select few coworkers who don’t make you want to rip your hair from the root.

Perhaps if you’re quick enough, you’ll even make it off the bus, to your complex, before the sun sets. You appreciate fall for its colors. Not for the darkness it brings far too early to be comfortable with.

Every alley appears with teeth, in those eerily quiet moments when you make the short trek back home. Cars purr beside you on the congested roads, and despite cursing traffic on the ride to your stop, you’re grateful for it now.

At least more people are out; potential buffers to stave off your crazy ex from putting his hands on you…

Potential witnesses if he does.

Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. Every evening you can’t help but wish you could just- take Sylus with you to work. But for so many reasons that’s just not possible.

Stuffing your hands in your pockets, you breathe out a fine mist and pick up the pace.

You can’t escape dusk from falling- but you can take advantage of the early moments of it right before night comes swinging.

You nervously glance up to the sky, a fiery swatch of orange sat under starry blue, and tell yourself it’s fine.

…It’s fine- and yet you swear on all things holy you can hear boots pacing behind yours—

A gasp. You turn around and get ready to rip your pepper pray from the scabbard that is your pocket- for naught. Emptiness greets you. Sneering and quiet. In the distance, deeper into the city, a car honks. Where you are now though, you’re more or less alone.

You wet your lip where it’s dented from biting. You turn around, and press back on.

It’s okay. You’re almost home. Just a bit further. Within ten minutes you’ll be crooning to your ‘puppy’ and itching behind his ear while he rigidly thumps his tail, closing his eyes indifferently as if he wasn’t hurrying to the door as soon as he heard the lock.

Yes, that’s right. In ten minutes- on the dot (you know because you’re toying with your watch to calm yourself)- you’ll be slipping off your jacket and refilling his water bowl, tossing him scraps as you prepare a nice steak dinner in celebration of your weekend commencing. The fancy wine you’ll pair with it is to help wash it all down and pretend you’re financially better off than you are. Not to help your nerves.

…Even Sylus, the creature who doesn’t understand you even if sometimes it seems he unexplainably does, would be hard-pressed to believe such a feeble lie.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Your heels. A dull, monotonous rhythm against pavement, one you relish now because it fills the crisp, silent air.

Then-

Tap tap tap.

Your heels- “Hey baby, wait up- where ya going?”- with the sound of another and the bone-chilling revelation that every suspicion you had was grounded—

You don’t even turn around. You don’t reason with, stick up the bird to, or even hastily shout a fuck off, creep, over your shoulder because you’re not sure you have the luxury to.

By the sounds of it, he’s already close.

“Oh no you don’t. Come on, baby, just let me fuckin’ talk to you!”

-Closer and gaining still.

Fear rattles through you. It goes from zero to one hundred in a breath- yet how to breathe becomes a distant memory as your lungs still. The pulse in your throat drums, and suddenly your cardigan isn’t enough to save you from the ice eating you from the inside out- a cold sweat already forming at your nape.

You’re in such a panic you even forget about the spray in your pocket- the assortment of makeshift blades (keys, pens that grow knives when you click them) tucked in your purse. You have a small arsenal in there. Yet your mind spins.

“Stop-! I haven’t even been able to visit you lately because of that fucking asshole- since when you’d get a new boyfriend, baby? Do you really not care about me anymore? I just wanna talk!”

No. No no no- and new boyfriend? What-? All thought is dashed from your brain, his hollers becoming static. No, just ignore him, it doesn’t matter what nonsense he spouts to try and get you back- you won’t so much as glance behind you. After all he’s done to hurt and twist and outright disgrace you and your home, you don’t think he deserves it.

You break into a sprint. The concrete path pushes beneath you. You feel like you’re running in a dream, you’re so terrified- but you do run. You run like hell. You run like a girl.

You fiddle for the key in your purse, shaking as the door opens and you slam it behind you. His hand almost gets stuck in it, the knob jiggling loudly just a millisecond after you lock it.

As the reality of what could’ve been settles, you’re horrified. Cold in the face.

Sylus is there, leaping over to reach you. You wonder if the fury you catch in his wide ruby eyes is your imagination or reality; if he has the inexplicable knowing- based on your frazzled state or the noise- that something is terribly wrong.

“Sylus-“

You breathe with relief, but you don’t linger. You skitter past to the kitchen for a weapon- a real, proper one. A snarl rips from his throat as you leave him behind you, shouts sounding in the hallway behind your door. He barks at it. Ferocious and lupine. Surely not the make of a dog, of a pet meant for four walls and a roof— no, it’s a separate beast entirely.

Hostile, unpredictable, growly- dangerous. Oh, you’ve no choice but to hope all the labels on his package are true. That he’ll rip your ex-boyfriend a new one if he finds a way in.

Hyperventilating, limbs like jelly, you stagger over. In the short span of time it takes you to turn out the kitchen and down the corridor, you contemplate either opening the door and saying go boy, go— or simply staying back to ‘defend.’

You turn the corner and blanche.

Someone’s in your house- not the creeping, painfully familiar face, however, no- and he’s naked.

And then, everything you’d been working so hard to build with your froward pet over the months, the foundation of trust and patience, the hard-earned truce made between you both… As red eyes flash at you in warning, a hand taking the shaking knife from your own before he opens the door— it all shifts.

The bottom falls through.

The man opens the door, and perhaps you should be thankful that he takes the squabble outside because you’re sure that the blood spraying from your ex-boyfriend’s nose as it breaks would be impossible to scrub from your walls.

✦

“Relax,” he grouses with a tsk, “I’m not gonna bite.”

With split knuckles, a long leg crossed over the other where he sits on your couch, canines just a little too sharp as they catch in the lamplight- that’s hard to believe.

The blade he’d taken from your hands lies on the cushion beside him, and while you don’t make a grab for it, you think he sees the way you eye it- and the knife block in the kitchen- as you clench your fist to keep yourself from fainting while you gawk.

“Y-You’re not my dog.”

One of his brows lifts with amusement- or challenge, perhaps- as you deny the truth laid out before you. It’s impossible. Of course it’s impossible. He-

That can’t be Sylus.

For a moment you believe he’ll agree. Nod his head and say, no, I’m not your dog- I’m a person; because that’s certainly how he looks. But he doesn’t.

“I simply changed forms,” he explains. “Not who I am to you.”

With nothing else to say- no real rebuttal- you can only flounder. “N-No. You’re not Sylus.”

That pulls a soft huff from him, “Oh, kitten,” he grins a tenuous grin, “I’m wounded. And here I thought your kindness had no takebacks. You gave me that name, didn’t you? Sylus.” He sighs, a heavy, affected sound- like this is no more than a theater play to him as he adjusts on your sofa.

“I guess I’ll just have to settle for something else, then… Is Dragonfruit still up for grabs?”

D-Dragonfruit? How does he…

The way he looks at you then, with a lift of his chin as he angles his brow in provocation, a smirk only touching half his mouth- makes you freeze. The little hairs on your nape rise.

…Yet he’s just as scarred as your pet, with the silver hair and the gemstone eyes— massive, over six foot tall and muscular- and the air about him is… familiar. Too much to be comfortable with.

“Y-You’re not-“

Before you can splutter out another denial, he sighs and drops the bravado. He spares the weapon beside him a dismissive glance, stretching one arm across the back of the couch.

“Look, if you don’t believe me, that’s your choice. I won’t try to convince you,” he states, “I’ll just let my actions speak for themselves in the course of the next few days.”

…What? The next few days? Does he plan to stay? What- no. No no no! This mysterious, albeit helpful stranger (helpful in the way that he shook your persistent ex from your doorstep- through violent means, of course) can’t seriously think you’ll just let him crash at your place after feeding you such a ridiculous lie. He’s not your dog. He’s- he’s not some werewolf that can shapeshift on a whim- those only exist in fairytales and teenage romance novels.

Not in your tiny apartment.

“N-No. You- you’re crazy. You have to leave. You have to! I’ll- I’ll call the cops!”

Not-Sylus seems unfazed. Perhaps even a little offended at your bluffing: the vehemence is there. But the certainty is not.

Sure, the department wasn’t having your stalker drama- but an intrusion you’re actually witnessing like this can’t be easily ignored. If your crappy ex ends up snitching (you doubt it, what with his involvement)- all the more evidence, right?

He all but rolls his eyes, saying like it’s obvious, perhaps even with a mite of amusement, “I’m on your side, kitten. Don’t get all…” he looks you up and down, and you hate the flutter of your heart that’s more than just fearful— it’s self-conscious. “Hissy now.”

You punch out a scoff of disbelief. “You’re some stranger in my house! Look- I appreciate what you did, okay? I really do,” you start. You have to pause in between to take a breath because God knows you mean the words you say- you’re just inwardly afraid that the fix was only quick, not permanent, and with the sudden disappearance of your dog? Good luck protecting yourself now. Fuck, you don’t even know where he went- maybe he booked it out through the door when you were too distracted by the chaos to notice.

But then… why the hell would he leave? He- He’s never done that until now!

You rub your face and stare at him. The fear lends itself to a distant echo the more you realize you’re no longer in immediate danger. The guy is an unwelcome (and flashy, literally) intruder, yes, one your pooch would waste no time in maiming, but he’s not an active threat... You just have to figure out how to get him to leave.

“But my dog is a dog. Not a human. Not… you.” That you even have to say it out loud is ridiculous.

Even if, the longer you stare, the more you begin to believe it.

The scarred skin, the unmistakable, red eyes, and the somewhat bitten ears- his body weathered from what you suspect to be years of tussling in underground fights (evidently: winning them, not without the cost though)…

And that arrogant little air he carries with him, the one that first endeared you so.

Sylus, it all says.

But no. No- this is insane. Months of being stalked and living like a bug under a microscope have made you worse for wear. Impaired your judgment.

He draws you back to the present with his rumbling voice. “Your dog is more than just some animal,” he huffs. “Don’t tell me after all you’ve experienced with the stalker that you’re… frightened of this side of me? Really? Of all things?” His chuckle is as rich as it is short as he shakes his head.

Frightened? No… that becomes a more distant word. You’re more so stunned than anything else right now as the pieces start to fall in alignment with each other.

“Well, how about this,” he offers at your silence, waving his hand. “Let the week pass. By the end of it, you can decide for yourself if I’m real or truly just a figment of your imagination, sweetheart… You…” he lowers his gaze, then. Uncertain, almost.

“You can even decide if you want me to stay.”

He rubs nothing between his fingers, glancing up again with a pointed brow. “Deal?”

And if you say no? If, on the off chance you’re wrong and you kick him right back to the curb- to a sorry life of abandonment and bloody illegal brawls and God knows what else?

Your mouth wavers. “I- I don’t believe it.”

You do believe it. But it’s crazy.

He almost snorts. “You’d better start. But with that pest taken care of now… I think you’ll catch on quite fast,” he grins. “I’m here for you, kitten. Isn’t that what you wanted me for? Protection? Don’t tell me once I serve my use you’ll throw me out?” He laughs. But then he sighs right after, pursing his lips and looking down to his lap where he makes no effort to adjust the thin blanket that covers his nakedness as it nearly slips.

Headstrong. Cocksure. Bored with his surroundings in a way only mature folk really tend to be. The sage advice of that employee flashes in your mind— ‘he’s on the older side, so naturally he’s a bit grumpy, snippy’; really, you shouldn’t gasp at his temperament but with your current situation it’s a little hard not to when he clips out-

“So? Do we have a deal or not?”

And, well, what’s the harm in giving him your couch for one night?

Or several.

✦

A wintry chill pricks up your neck. Along your arms. Down your limbs where they bundle beneath the covers- to the tips of your toes as you respond with a shiver.

It rattles you in tandem with pleasure.

Upon waking, a few things blitz through your mind too fast to catch. For one, you’ve woken before your alarm- meaning you’ll be miserable in the minutes or hours of consciousness before it actually does go off. Secondly, the bed feels heavier.

…As do your bones.

Third— Sylus is not on the couch like he’s been for the past few months. He’s with you, in the comfort of your own bed, and as the wooly blanket slips down your upper half- leaving you to the cold air- it reveals to you a head between your thighs.

Pried open. One held up for a soft kiss while the other is pinned down— both wet. Sticky with- with you.

You gasp. “Sylus-“

You’ve no time to even rub the sleep from your eyes, big weathered hands anchoring you in place, because he lifts his head from his plate for a millisecond when you try to stop him and does something he hasn’t for months.

He snarls.

“Quiet. I’m eating.”

Protective. Territorial. That isn’t your pussy he eats from, lapping fervently at it as if it wasn’t just a number of hours ago you were hand-feeding him steak cubes from the cutting tray— no, it’s his.

He blocks your hand from interfering when it slips beneath the cover. So when that doesn’t work, you attempt to clamp your legs shut (quavering, you realize, on either side of his lupine face). All your efforts- bogged by sleep and the simple fact that he was leagues stronger- are for naught.

‘Good try’, his eyes seem to tease, though, glittering devilishly at you as his tongue flicks your clit. And then, when you hesitantly lie back and rest a hand in his hair- ‘that’s it, kitten.’

“Good girl,” he practically purrs.

He’s got a big appetite. You’ve known that.

Not as much as you do right now.

“Sylus, wait wait wait,” you moan. Life has thrown so much your way, especially in the past year or so, but you never went belly-up for it. You fought and resisted and squared up.

But right now, half of you almost wants to take him lying down- let him take his fill of you and then pin you down to take some more. Let him have his way with you, whatever that may entail.

But you- You have work tomorrow, and- and responsibilities—

“Hush,” he goes, voice muffled, having some preternatural ability to tell just what you’re thinking. He drifts a hand up your belly to splay over the valley of your breast. Your heart thumps beneath his callous palm like a metronome. Like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds or hours before you need to get up and get ready. Start a day in which you leave home, leave Sylus, and spend the rest of it longing to get back.

“Just take the day off.”

Grudgingly, you lie your head back. It’s… not a great idea, but as your rationale clouds, it seems like your best one.

“O-Okay.”

As a hot, long tongue stripes up your pussy and then his other hand, the one he used to comfort you in his own weird way, slinks downward again- the ceiling becomes too boring to bear.

So you glance down.

He’s handsome as all get out. Really, a couple months ago when he first appeared to you as a human, that was all you could think as days passed and you became grossly aware that you were sharing a confined space with a man. That you had been all along— and your prancing around the apartment half-naked was just one of the countless spectacles he’d seen.

He never pounced, though. Never lunged. Never bit you like a dog or hurt you like a man, even when every bit of his crude exterior screamed hazardous. He was a good boy. And you don’t care what form he takes; he took you as you are, didn’t he? When you were scared of your own shadow and a little snippy because of it. He let you hold the leash to his heart and snarled at anything that came too close- protected you against your piece of crap ex without prompting. Turned your fear into a mellow thing.

Warmth prods at your heart. Loosens your legs up where they clench around his head.

That day at the pound turns in your memory like a spindle.

You could’ve lost him. He- He could’ve been gone forever hadn’t you showed.

…But you did show. For the shitty time you’d been having, Sylus was your one silver lining. You were there for each other as a shoulder to lean on and a hand to hold.

Your fingers tug gently on his scalp. Fruity shampoo breathes out from the blanket when you flip it over his head to allow him better access. Nerves eat you from the inside out. You’ve seen the looks, the hungering glances and felt the fingertips that linger in seemingly innocent touches:

Finally experiencing the culmination of his quiet longing is a whole different game, though.

Slurps ring out from your thighs. Your sighing, candied words- spoken in that ridiculous tone reserved only for him- make his ears perk atop his head.

“Good boy,” you breathe. “Y-You’re perfect.”

He rewards your obedience with a finger, thick and delightful. You gasp and arch your back into his hands- or, his one hand- a throaty moan rippling from his open mouth. The several little muscles in his face go lax when you coyly guide him deeper into your cunt and he melts.

“You taste delicious,” he whispers. “Sweet girl. I can-“ a deep, shivering inhale. Not from you- from him. “I can smell how much you want it…. You’re soaked.”

You mewl his name and almost reach full relaxation ‘til you glance back down and, with the covers off, spot where his other hand disappears. He’s naked- not in the boxer briefs and sweatpants you’d bid him goodnight in- and holds his fat, upright cock in his hand.

And his hand is big. Can dwarf every part of you with its hold.

His cock is somehow bigger.

Your heart leaps from your chest as he eyes you. He’s daunting. Every bit intimidating and then some- especially as you realize he won’t be just content with kitten licking your pussy, delicious as it is, and ending the intimate moment right afterward.

Dogs will always take the bowl if you slide them one: and then look to you later for seconds.

Point is- he’s insatiable.

You shiver as raunchy images flash in your brain— rough fingers pinning back your thighs as he rams inside you, setting a relentless pace as he bites and sucks and claims.

In your imagination, he doesn’t pull out when he comes.

…What really takes your breath is the engorged knot at the base of him, though, flushed an impatient red. Fattening by the second.

Cum- not pre- dribbles from the tip. For how long he’s been at this, you don’t know.

“Sylus-!” You mean to shriek it, but you can only manage a whispering scream. “Wait, wait, wait! what do you have in your hand-!“

A grin plays at his lips. Crooked, recalcitrant.

Challenging.

He’s hardly lucid, what with the delicious heat emanating from the slick lips he stuffs a second finger in, to acknowledge your question, so it’s surprising when he pulls back a centimeter to make an answer. Lust grips him tight— the need to fuck and take and mount— but that concerned, cute little bump in your brow is one he wants to smooth.

It’s the least he can do.

“Take a guess,” he sussurates, licking slowly up your inner thigh. Torturing you. “It’ll be in yours soon though, kitten, so get ready.”

Your eyes bulge from your skull.

His response: a low chuckle paired with a moan.

From that point on, even as he suckles expertly at your puffy clit, working you to a sniveling mess as you scream on his fingers, you’re focused entirely on what he’s doing below the blanket. He palms at himself- it’s all he can do to relieve the ache as he wrestles with his fraying self-control- massaging his balls and knot as they throb.

When he withdraws his digits from you, eyes drooping at the cream coating his knuckles before fluttering back at the taste of it— you lie back down and gulp.

Taking work off today is a good idea. You can already think of a few excuses. Not being able to walk properly is one of them. Being unable to get out of bed… Feeling so sore and feverish after he’s fucked you into pyrexia that you can’t even move an inch without being reminded of it.

He straightens. The cover slips off him entirely and he’s tall. Hulking. Painting you in his shadow- but the moonlight brings out the sheer hunger on his face, and you alight with warmth all over again.

You hope he’s primed you. You pray he’s done good to prepare you for what’s to come. Because oh, it’s coming. You know that.

“Now,” he heaves, dragging your legs either side of him as he kneels. You can tell he’s not well off, trying to muster a cocksure grin but failing as he perspires at the temple. “To the good part.”

You frown at that, almost- a pang of hurt weaving through the haze of desire and the smell of your musk on his fingers as he licks them clean again, ever thorough. He notes the flicker of your brow with a thoughtful pause and then a sigh, shaking his head as he grabs your jaw and angles his front down.

He chuckles, and you experience a singular flash of softness when he goes, “Oh, so sensitive… Don’t pout. I thoroughly enjoyed the opening too, kitten.”

You’re shaking. Insides molten with the pure want for him to just- to just do something already. There’s no opportunity to come down from your high because you feel his cock bob against your tummy as he sets himself up, and you burn anew.

Oh, you love him. You really do. He’s endearing in all the places he shouldn’t be. He’s charming and strong and willing to fight for you. So you don’t care if he’s a little old and slow on the uptake when it comes to new tricks- territorial and intimidating. He’s yours.

Eyes half open, you lift your hands to trail from his pecs to his firm, scarred belly. With a hiss, he trembles. Catches your wrists and tuts at you a second later, saying, “It’s better to keep those at your side. Once you get me going, I won’t be easy to stop.”

And you’d be half tempted to tease him some more, you know, but fuck if he isn’t massive. And fuck if you aren’t a little scared for it.

So you clutch the sheets as he drives himself inside with a grunt, and settle below him. You trust he’ll take care of you.

The entrance is, at first, surprisingly smooth, what with the natural lube you’ve provided for him. You let him lift your ass and bend you into a bow-shaped thing so he can hit deeper- and that’s when there’s some turbulence.

Your fingers curl into the cotton fabric. You brace and wait for the sting to subside. When you realize your eyes are clamped shut, though, you open them to see his expression and pall at the sight of him.

He’s gorgeous. Even when he looks like he’s ready to sneeze- brow scrunched and jaw slack as he dragoons himself inside, tormentingly slow- he’s nothing less than charming through your lens. But you’re thankful for the time he gives you to adjust because you need it.

Frankly, if he intends to put his knot inside— and he fucking won’t, there’s just no way— the walls of your pussy need the patience on his end.

For several seconds, Sylus does not breathe. You’re sizzling hot; when he eventually bottoms out, he can’t tell where he starts and you end- all he knows is that it’s gooey and warm and so fucking tight his balls throb. He deliquesces between your thighs. You welcome him, your body like a landing pad.

He supposes, right then, you’ve always been very hospitable.

Sylus curses. “Ngh, you’re tight... Loosen up,” he presses his forehead to yours and hisses out through his teeth. His eyes glitter like rhodolite in the dark. Reverent hands run down your side and clasp your hip. With your slick still coating his lips- tangy sweet, you find, as he presses them to yours- you realize he’s worshipful. The moonlight pouring in the blinds makes his silhouette glow a true blue.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, swiping over your bottom lip with his tongue. “Sweet, and soft. And a very good girl. I’ve got your back. You know that, don’t you?” Then, he draws his hips back and—

Your little bed judders. But the squeak that sounds out is yours as he ruts back inside and your labia brushes with his knot.

He won’t put it inside. He won’t. You’re sure of it. Mutts only do that when they’re mating. Mutts only do that. Sylus is- is so much more than that, and….

“Mmm,” an uncontrollable moan escapes you as he begins to move, like really move, and your eyes roll.

With some difficulty, he continues. “You’re naive. Plucking something like me from its cage. But I admire your bravery, kitten, so— f- uck— let me just show you, hm? How far my loyalty goes?”

Void of words, you nod.

The reindeer-patterned bedsheets aren’t enough. Your hands leave them in favor of Sylus, grasping around his back so tight your fingertips can make out the raised scars there. Planes of muscle flexing with divots with every thrust forward.

Offhandedly, he hits that sweet spot inside you. Your nails dig in by accident, and you say his name, stringing out the syllables in a delightful, dizzying mewl.

The floodgates- they burst open. Something in him gives.

He rams forward, abandoning his restraint altogether as his furry, salt-and-peppered tail whacks the mattress beneath you. That fat swell below his cock teases at your sweltering hole with every pump inside, and Sylus burrows his nose into your sweaty neck to whimper.

You’ve never heard such a noise escape him before. Huffs, grumbles, long, exaggerated sighs he makes whenever he finds a nice spot to lay down (usually on you), as if he pays the rent around here— but never that.

He whines, words strained, “Think you can take my knot? Hah… Nod your head for me, kitten- because I don’t think that I can stop it. I can’t wait any longer. I need you to…” he shudders, “take it.”

One moment you’re nervously glancing down to monitor him- and the next he’s nudging your head back with his nose before crashing his lips to yours. Your eyes widen when he flips you over, presses his chest to your back, and thrusts inside with vigor.

With the new angle, you stretch around him with a mewl, but every bone in your body locks when his hips slam flush to your ass and—

His knot pops inside with a gasp.

Throwing your hands to the strong ones he latches around your midriff, you wail. He clings to you like a limpet, his thighs trembling behind yours as he moans endlessly in your ear. Pointed teeth graze at the nape of your neck. He doesn’t bite- but amidst the warp of pain and a pleasure so intense it gives you vertigo, you distantly realize that he probably wants to.

He holds himself off. Breath hitching as his pelvis claps into you. Euphoria rolls across him, shocks him like a static bolt, every fiber of his being awash with it as his jaw falls open and he succumbs to you.

When he comes, it’s so hard his ears ring.

The walls of your pussy become less hospitable, then, clenching around him so tight as you both cum that for a moment, he can’t even say a word to ease you. He aches inside you- you can feel it. The girth of him twitching as your heat swallows him up with a spasm. His knot takes all thought from your brain. Stuffed inside your poor hole, tumid and veiny.

You feel him coalesce with you, too. Eagerly rutting his seed inside (ensuring it sticks, you realize when he drops a finger to your folds, checking for leakage), releasing rope after rope of hot cum as you go limp and take it.

You offer up a choked mewl when he kisses at your spine, brushing your hair aside just to access your neck where he licks and sucks. You trust Sylus not to get carried away with a bite if he did, to lose out to what he’s been taught.

Evidently, he doesn’t trust himself.

Your fingers dig into his thick, scarred forearm and he sighs behind you- a long, feeble sound. He’s barely able to keep himself draped over you- let alone support your own position beneath him, what with the soup you’ve made of his brain- but he manages.

Silence sprawls out as you attempt to steady your breaths. All that comes in between it is the occasional, wet squelch and the gusting inhales he takes at the column of your neck.

“It… hurts. So good…” he hisses after several beats. Only marginally brought back to reality, you flutter your eyes open and offer a yip back. “You’re doing so well, though… Just-“ He twitches inside you, then, throbbing like a second pulse point, his cock undulating in your walls, greedily taking up all the space.

“Fuck. Stay still, sweet girl,” he grunts, harebrained. His eyes crinkle and close. “I want it all inside. Don’t wanna see so much as a drop escape that perfect, tight pussy. Hah- you hear me?”

“Y-Yes,” you quiver back. Speaking is too difficult, you realize a second later, shoving your open mouth into the pillow as you pant for air.

Yet, you can’t help but ask with a slur, “Sylus- when- when will it be over?”

He moans, right in your ear. Goosebumps run up your naked body- all that clothes you.

“It’s too big,” you cry.

“No,” he quips. “It’s just right.”

As if on cue, your cunt gives another squeeze around him, milking him for all he’s worth. In response, he bows his forehead into the crook your shoulder and jaw make to bury a whine, and your mind spins when you register his balls, hanging fat against your ass, lurching. And oh, you’re spilling, you can feel it, beginning to ooze profusely from your puffy lips even as he keeps it plugged; really, even if Sylus wanted to separate from you (he doesn’t), he couldn’t.

There’s nothing in him that wants the distance. The idea of self-autonomy. The idea of independence. No- he’s all yours.

“We’ll wait it out,” he breathes. Coasting a hand along your belly in an effort to placate you. He knows it can’t be easy for you. But the world— that stupid, irksome ex-boyfriend of yours— needs to understand where your heart belongs. There’s no better way to show that than to demonstrate it first with the body.

And you—

(Bitten by his branding kiss, supple skin covered with the divots of his teeth, your belly full of his veritable seed-)

Well. Nobody should look at you, he decides in his spirit right then, and come to any other conclusion but the one that you’re his.

Unmistakably, irrevocably, his.

“It’ll subside soon enough,” he soothes with a peck to your throat, a surprisingly chaste move. He loops his arms around your waist again and carefully- mindful not to exacerbate the heady ache- maneuvers on his side, pulling your back to his front. He whispers at your ear, “So long as you don’t move or stir me up, we’ll be fine.”

Yet, a set of canines brush at your jugular, and again- there’s that inkling, this time in better clarity, that passes your conscience. You know he wants to bite. To mark. To claim. You know it and have the vague idea of all it entails, yet he… won’t.

With a frown, cursing as you turn ever so slightly and his fat knot shifts inside you, you hazily meet his eyes.

His are practically glowing, laying heavy on you. Charting across your face the moment they make contact, observing every brief flicker of your expression to try and assign a feeling— happiness, he hopes, contentedness— to it. His lashes totter and you burn with shame when a lewd suck rings between your legs, his cock wet all the way down to the slight plush of his abdomen.

You don’t mean to pout, “why won’t you-“

“Not yet, Kitten,” he scolds. Trying to swallow down a pit of self-consciousness in your throat, you murmur, “What, do you not want me?” Sylus huffs as if offended. His eyes drag from your lips to your searching eyes.

“Really, kitten? …What, should I give you an equally stupid answer?”

Oh, you’d tug his tail if you had the luxury of moving right now-

“Of course I want you. Can’t you tell?” He sighs, then, burrowing his nose into your neck almost to hide. His ears droop along his head, donning a relaxed look.

“So. Did you like it..?”

“Y-Yeah…” you murmur, carefully looping a hand back to stroke behind his fuzzy ears. “But, I just… I thought you’d really do it, I thought you’d really tie us together-“

He chuckles richly. “We’re already tied together, kitten,” peppering another kiss below your jaw, licking appreciatively at the sweat that clings to soft skin. “I’ve belonged to you for some time now, haven’t I?”

Your heart skips a beat when you realize he’s right.

“I- I guess so. Yeah.”

“So no more whining,” he lifts his chin to sample your lips, this time- his knot still throbbing white-hot and insistently inside you (albeit the ache is lessening)- eyes lidded as he conveys his affections.

“I’ll do it when we’re both ready. When…” He pauses to swallow.

In that short frame of time before he next speaks, you’re drawn to all his scarring. The faded ligature marks around his neck, the seemingly permanent gnashes along his body (which was a touch too lean before you familiarized him with good food). The nip taken from one of the ears sat atop his silvery, mussed locks. In that moment, you don’t see the misshapen, loveless thing he was beaten into— but rather the softness he worked to regain for you.

“When I know it’s manageable.”

If he feels unsure of himself- whether he can remain… civil, for lack of a better word, amidst the fervent haze that a mark would bring about— then you suppose you could wait for a bit longer.

“Okay,” you murmur with a faint, understanding smile, caressing one half of his face dotingly. You tilt your head slightly to plant a firm, benevolent kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“But you’ll always be a good boy to me, okay? I trust you. I told you before- you’re perfect-“ Rather roughly, he noses your head back into the pillow, readjusting his iron hold around you as he grumbles into your hair.

“…Hush. Now close your eyes and go back to bed. I’ll tell you when it’s ready to pull out.”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

#oohhhh this is hot #this is so so so good #im not a sylus person but this? chefs kiss #NEED more hybrid stuff like this….#the way u wrote the knotting….ough….so fucking good #lads sylus #favorites of the mortician

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