HEAR ME OUT

Living with a werewolf was a lot like having a dog — not always, not with every wolf, but definitely with this one specifically. Maybe it was because Justin wasn’t bitten; he was born a wolf but oddly socialized. He swore he used to be a normal member of his pack, well-behaved and obedient, but now Justin was . . . well, he was still obedient, at least.

Losing a pack was a traumatic experience. Chris was merely a human, not a werewolf, but he knew that much. He’d heard stories, seen the effects; rather than become some hollowed-out shell howling at shadows in hopes of hearing a familiar echo, though, Justin seemed to have grown outwards in search of meaning. The face he turned toward the world without the shape his pack provided him to fill was vibrant and colorful.

Shortly after moving in with Chris, an odd string of events that Chris could never relay to someone else in a way that made sense, Justin had asked if Chris could teach him how to do his makeup. “I never got to learn,” Justin explained, looking sheepish — a peculiar expression and demeanor for such a large, bulky frame.

So Chris sat Justin down in fits and bursts: the first time was the longest, Chris doing Justin’s entire face in makeup with input and feedback from the supernatural as they went. Justin had stared for a long minute and then grinned, a slightly unsettling sight with the lipstick stretched too far past his lips, but it had been so endearing. And kind of hot.

Within a few weeks, Justin was doing his own makeup pretty regularly — most of the looks bizarre, far from natural. Some days he couldn’t be bothered, of course, but he seemed to be in a better mood while he was done up in pale foundation. He didn’t go out in it, but that was because he didn’t go out at first. He wouldn’t talk about it, always finding something else, anything else to interject with when Chris tried to ease an explanation from him, but it was obviously something that haunted him.

Chris was haunted too, so he didn’t press the issue. If Justin didn’t demand that Chris bare his own ghosts, Chris wouldn’t demand a recounting of skeletons. He’d let the cobwebs settle if that was what Justin needed. 

“We should go out,” Chris said one day, offhanded and casual. They were cooking, Ricky due to come over soon — he had an odd banter with Justin but always somehow ended up perched on his knee, so Chris assumed they liked each other.

Justin glanced over at Chris and blinked at him like the words were impossible to translate into something that made sense. “Go out?” he echoed, and there was that curious little tilt of his head, a puppy dog angle that said Justin wasn’t entirely opposed to it, just confused.

A pause as Chris nudged at Justin’s shoulder with his own, a gentle herding out of the way so Chris had access to the pan. It was always convenient that he could angle his body a certain way, move in closer, and Justin would mindlessly drift in whatever direction Chris wanted. “Yeah, we could go get ice cream. You always eat all of the pints I bring home.” It was more amusing than anything, because no human could feasibly put away entire tubs of ice cream in an hour the way that Justin could.

Oh, that seemed to get Justin’s interest in full. He perked up, and Chris could almost imagine a tail lifting, wagging without reserve, the same way Justin’s wolf would swing their own when they saw Chris in the woods on a full moon — the only time Justin left the house, though that never felt like a proper trip, given it was from the front door to Chris’s car, then from Chris’s car to the woods near his place. 

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’d be up for it,” Justin agreed with a sort of levity that struck Chris as odd. He had expected resistance disguised as an absentminded detour, not an easy sort of acquiescence; that being said, he certainly wasn’t complaining. Ricky had a stubborn streak wide enough to satisfy any yearning Chris might have had for a brat.

Chris took Justin out for ice cream the next day. Justin was quiet the walk there, the time they sat at the booth, and the traipse back home. The door shut and then Justin made a face, shaking out his arms. “I forgot how many things smelled,” he commented, which struck Chris as odd. His house smelled too, but he could have been misunderstanding. 

“Did something stink?” he asked, toeing off his shoes and watching Justin pause mid-step as he scrambled to get his own off.

Justin shook his head, stopped, then snorted. “I mean, some guy reeked of Axe body spray. That sucked. But there were so many scents that I didn’t know. I guess I knew them, I could tell you what they were, they just weren’t familiar.” The attempt at the explanation was interrupted mid-sentence at one point, briefly, by Justin flopping on the couch.

Chris made a vague noise of understanding: Justin hadn’t left the house much since Chris had brought the shifted and wounded wolf home. In fact, as far as he knew, Justin had only ventured outside of the four walls to shift in the nearby woods once a full moon. 

“Was it okay otherwise? Besides the smells?” Chris asked, emphasizing the last word in the same manner Justin had. He was pleased that it made Justin snort, always enjoying when he could make the large man laugh — it was such a full sound, teeming with amusement and often joy. It contrasted sharply with the manner in which Justin would shut down, how he’d rarely but markedly withdraw into shadows cast by something Chris couldn’t see.

A slow, almost leisurely nod from Justin before his head rolled back to rest against the couch. “Yeah, it was okay. The ice cream was banger.” He gave a lopsided grin, then patted the cushion next to him. “I do have a weird favor to ask,” he added, as if most of his requests weren’t odd.

Curiosity was what pushed Chris to oblige without an immediate inquiry, settling much less emphatically than Justin. Though similar in height, Justin was thicker, but the disparity in size still didn’t quite seem to account for the difference in the manner of their movements. Chris often imagined how Justin might have moved and carried himself when hunting: a contrasting litheness that allowed him to move with subtlety and care, no longer stomping about and seeming to ensure his own safety through heft alone.

Before Chris could ask, Justin was hauling him in by the shoulder and nosing his way into Chris’s hair. It earned a brief, surprised tensing from Chris, but then he relaxed into it, trusting Justin to remain affectionate despite how bizarre and unexpected such a gesture was. “The new smells have me feeling weird. Figured something familiar might help.” He burrowed further into Chris’s strands and inhaled deeply enough for even human ears to catch the sound.

Chris laughed. “You could have asked,” he remarked, though he notably did not pull away or protest. In fact, a hand landed on Justin’s thigh, perhaps a bit higher on the thick, muscled limb than strictly necessary. He allowed Justin the chance to breathe in his scent uninhibited, tilting his head in bemused compliance when the werewolf nosed lower. A tucking in of his face against the crook of Chris’s jaw, and Justin seemed to settle there, content.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Justin announced, breaking the silence that had settled, softly accented by sniffling and the rustling of clothes as they both shifted around to find comfortable positions. “You have a werewolf right at your throat . . .” He moved then, lips barely brushing against Chris’s neck, over the ink-adorned skin. “. . . and you sound calm. Relaxed. Like we’re watching a dumb reality show together.” Chris was certain Justin heard the momentary jar in rhythm when teeth grazed flesh, though it certainly wasn’t a fear response.

Chris illustrated the effect it had on him by tipping his head and baring his throat further. Perhaps there might have been a risk there, had the wolf been anyone but Justin. Five months couldn’t reasonably justify such a deep-rooted trust, but something about the manner in which Justin unfailingly gazed at Chris had settled any reservations only weeks into having his bizarre new housemate. 

There was a remarkably tinted fondness for Justin, something Chris had hesitated to act on for the ambiguity of its nature. It was a peculiar sort of affection: there was undoubtedly a carnal sort of desire, twisted and hot, but Justin felt more akin to a pet at times than a partner. Perhaps it was cruel and unkind, but Chris was unable to shape it into something more appropriate.

Chris’s words were soft, and he felt Justin press a faintly-stubbled cheek to the column of his throat as if in search of the vibrations that shook his vocal cords. “I know you won’t hurt me.” The statement came with an unwavering, solid sort of assurance, and he punctuated the confidence by carding fingers through Justin’s hair but allowing him to continue mouthing at his neck.

One of Justin’s hands — a big, occasionally clumsy paw of a thing, all thick fingers and calloused palm — moved to Chris’s chest and slid down slowly. He kneaded at the hint of softness of Chris’s lower stomach, above the fabric of his shirt but still remarkably hot upon contact. For all of the remarks Justin offered about feeling cold, the chill that seemed to haunt him despite the reasonable temperature Chris kept his house at, every instance of physical contact had involved surprise at how warm Justin was.

“Yeah?” Justin rumbled, and there was a heat to his words now as well. He gave Chris’s skin firm kisses, a series of them down the length of offered flesh. “You think you’ve got the feral wolf tamed?” Chris found himself moaning softly at the feeling of a tongue dragging up, never one for restraining or concealing his own pleasure.

Chris laughed softly, though the amusement wavered a bit when it left his slightly-parted lips. “Feral, sure. Tamed?” He made a thoughtful noise, turning over the notion in his head. “Not quite yet, but I think it’d be fun to get you there,” he mused, giving Justin’s hair a sharp, short tug — meant to sting, not to dislodge him from his attentive, languid lavishing.

The way they settled into it felt easy and natural, even though they’d spent the past months merely dancing around the static between them. Justin’s gaze tended to linger for longer than Chris’s did, and there had been a sort of amusement sparked by it that led to Chris seeing how long it would take for Justin to break. After all, with how insistent Justin’s attention was, Chris was curious when that desire would boil over.

Justin’s hand moved to settle on Chris’s throat, and Chris started to turn toward the werewolf, but Justin was already there — he kissed Chris a little lopsided, growling low in his throat despite how he almost missed Chris’s mouth. He pulled back just enough for Chris to properly face him and proceeded to devour him, all lips and tongue and more than a little teeth. He leaned his whole body into it, the hand not settled on Chris’s neck shoving up under his shirt to paw at bare skin.

Chris found Justin’s appetite sparked his own. There was something about how eagerly Justin took — taking, not asking, not waiting for a wordless agreement, just surging forward and tasting — that made it easy to give in. Despite that, there was no question as to who was in charge; just to prove his point to himself, Chris broke the kiss and exhaled, “Stop.” It was barely audible to his own ears, but there was no doubt Justin caught the word.

The response was instant — Justin pulled back, panting softly, and stared at Chris with a hooded, starved gaze. For how his fingers twitched against Chris’s stomach, he didn’t move, just waited. Chris could feel the need buzzing beneath Justin’s skin, but that didn’t manifest externally in impatience or frustration. Despite the fact that Chris hadn’t tamed Justin yet, the werewolf still heeled beautifully.

“I am not fucking you on the couch,” Chris announced, and that statement did earn a whine — one that quieted the second Chris’s eyebrows rose. “We’re going to my bed.” Despite the fact Justin still had a light but steady grip on his throat, Chris’s voice was unwavering.

There was no hesitation on Justin’s part. He jumped up and tugged Chris with him by both hands in a gesture so innocently eager that Chris laughed. As Justin herded him like a lost sheep into his bedroom, Chris glanced back and smirked. He would have so much fun taking this hulking wolf apart until Justin howled on command, and there was no doubt Justin would come back for seconds.

Despite that lust, tinged at the edges in something almost mean in nature, there was also fondness in Chris’s chest. It swelled as Justin abandoned Chris to dive into Chris’s bed, burying his face in Chris’s blankets to blatantly inhale his scent. Justin continued to nose around and sniff as Chris flicked on the light, only lifting his head and blinking with a faintly puzzled expression when Chris cleared his throat.

“Oh,” Justin uttered, sitting up. “We were gonna fuck.” He sounded like he had genuinely forgotten, had derailed thoroughly once given the opportunity to bury himself in Chris’s scent, and Chris wondered if it could truly be blamed on the heavy-handed Axe scent from before. Certainly Justin had lingered close before, had lifted his nose slightly in a gesture Chris had no problem deciphering, but it had never been this full-bodied and enthusiastic.

Maybe Justin had harbored greater feelings than Chris had caught hints of.

Chris tilted his head with a challenge to his words. “Would you rather roll around in the sheets? I can go do something else.” As if Chris would be content with leaving this where it was, unresolved and burning in his own gut. As if Chris wasn’t determined to have Justin in every way possible, to sate the part of himself that had lingered on thoughts of how the werewolf’s cock would feel fucking him open.

Justin snorted. “Yeah, sure. Go fold towels. I’ll just jerk off in your bed.” As if to convey he was joking, he moved forward — clumsy despite his supernatural nature, something Chris found endlessly amusing — and grabbed at Chris’s sides. A far from gentle tug on Chris’s hips had Chris falling into the bed, laughing again. Justin didn’t hesitate, hands all but yanking at Chris’s clothes. “I need you naked,” he insisted.

Part of Chris wanted to chastise Justin for his demand, but Chris couldn’t deny he also needed them both stripped bare. He wanted his fingers and teeth on the parts of Justin he’d yet to see, desired mapping out those places that made Justin squirm or moan. There was an urge to press at the vulnerable bits, to get this wolf on his back and helpless, just to prove he could. 

It didn’t take much. The undressing part of the endeavor was clumsy and stuttered for how earnest Justin was, the way his hands fumbled and their limbs bumped into each other. Eventually, Chris pushed Justin’s chest until the werewolf laid on his back. “Stay,” he ordered. Since Justin was already naked, somehow, all he had to do was stand and finish peeling off his own clothes.

Once Chris stripped, he sat on Justin’s thighs and grinned down at him. It felt like a feral expression, something tilted and toothy, and it matched how he dragged his nails down Justin’s chest. He watched the werewolf’s back arch up into the touch, drinking in the low, rattling groan that emanated from Justin’s bared throat. The lines were bright red and vivid but faded almost instantly, and Chris frowned to himself.

“Do you always heal that fast?” Chris inquired, repeating the motion and watching the same process occur. When Justin nodded, he leaned down to dig his teeth into the strong line of Justin’s shoulder — a hard, deep bite that came without warning. It would have drawn blood if Justin had been human, but now it earned Chris another throaty sound and nails scrabbling at his own hips. He pulled back, caught the shadowed remnants that faded a moment later. 

Justin shrugged in odd contrast to his sharp, ragged breaths. “It takes a lot to mark me up. I don’t think anyone’s left something that lasted.” He was clearly lying: there was a scar on his right shoulder, close to the curve where it met his neck, raised tissue in the shape of teeth. Part of Chris wanted to press the issue, and he even brushed his fingers over what had obviously been a bite, but then Justin bristled and he decided to set it aside.

Chris found it far more enticing — and far easier — to introduce himself to Justin’s dick. It was certainly appropriate for the size of the werewolf himself: long and thick, a hefty weight in his hand as he wrapped his fingers around it and gave a few experimental pumps. “You know, I don’t usually choke on dicks,” he mused aloud, absentmindedly, ignoring the way Justin whined in the back of his throat and pressed up into his touch, “but I think you’d make a mess of me with this one.”

A soft, trembling breath left Justin. “Thanks? I think?” he managed. “Or please? Fuck, Chris.” The twist of Chris’s hand just below the crown had Justin shuddering, eyes scrunched shut against the pleasure Chris could feel thrumming through Justin’s body. His free hand wandered and groped, scratched and clawed despite the futility to it: there was something about the little bit of give above hard, firm muscle that made Chris faintly delirious.

But what a waste it’d be, really, to have such a large cock in his hand and not get fucked stupid by it. Chris released Justin’s dick and stood, laughing openly at how Justin whined and immediately sat up to chase him. He shoved at Justin’s broad chest, hard enough to make his point but nowhere near firmly enough to actually move him, and tried to give a stern look that was completely undermined by how funny he found the predictability of it all. “Stay,” he repeated.

Chris took his time getting the condom he’d forgotten earlier. He toyed with it for a moment, glanced back over his shoulder at Justin (who hadn’t actually laid back down but had at least stayed where he was on the bed), and held up the shiny foil packaging. “Do you want to use this?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. At least he could say he checked.

The answer was an emphatic shake of Justin’s head. “No. Jesus. You’ll smell like me if we don’t,” he replied instantly, groaning low in his chest at the very thought of it. He took a breath and shakily added, “Unless you want to.” It clearly killed him, the very thought of conceding that satisfaction, but it was so endearing that Justin pushed through anyways.

A soft snort was the only answer Chris gave. He dropped the condom back in the drawer, shoved it (mostly) shut, and made his way back to the bed. “Catch.” He tossed Justin the bottle of lube and watched him — somehow, potentially impossibly, given what Chris knew about werewolves — fumble it for a solid five seconds before snagging it.

“I didn’t know werewolves could be clumsy,” Chris mused, shoving at Justin to get him to move. He supposed it wouldn’t have been surprising if Justin was an exception, given how peculiar the man was in general. He stole a kiss that turned into five or six of them and ended up on all fours, then lowered to his elbows to present himself properly.

Justin laughed even as his free hand pawed at Chris’s ass, big fingers squeezing and kneading with a firm enough grip to make Chris shudder. “I’m fucking huge, Chris. Werewolf or not, I was born to be a big idiot who falls over all the time,” he argued, and he kept talking so casually that Chris actually jolted a bit when he felt Justin’s exhale against his hole.

There was a dusting of stubble on Justin’s cheeks and jaw, and Chris felt it prickle against his own skin as Justin buried his face and lapped at Chris’s hole — tongue thick and hot, dragging repeatedly and making a mess far faster than should have been possible. Chris’s breath left him in a sharp exhale when Justin pulled back, but any protest was forgotten when all Justin did was spit and then dive back in.

As much as Chris wanted to indulge in Justin eating him out like a starving wolf tasting tender, raw meat for the first time in months, he also knew that he wanted more. “I want your cock,” Chris managed, and it was meant to be a demand. The attempt at instruction came out far too shaky, though, and sounded a bit like a plea as Justin’s tongue pressed against his rim. “I want your knot.” 

That earned a response. Justin pulled away again, thumb replacing his mouth. It slid inside Chris easily, and Justin left it hooked inside him as he spoke. “Knots are actually an urban legend,” he informed Chris, the bed dipping and creaking as Justin shifted his weight around and sidled up closer.

Chris groaned and dropped his head. “Are you shitting me? It’s not—” Maybe it was greedy of him, to be faced with a cock the size of Justin’s and an undoubtedly earnest fuck ahead of him but still want for more, but Chris had always fantasized about it: some half-feral wolf taking him from behind, popping a knot and breeding him despite how futile it was to pump Chris full.

“Oh my god,” Justin interrupted, laughing so hard that it seemed to bounce off the walls. “You’re really that upset? You’re so fucking weird, Chris. People have been disgusted by my knot before, and here you are, whining about not getting it. I’m fucking with you, dude. I am absolutely going to knot you,” he promised, words punctuated by the click of the lube bottle.

It was hard to properly gripe at Justin when he was suddenly pressing two thick fingers inside him. Chris keened and fisted the sheets, bared his teeth in a wordless snarl at how good the burn felt. “I’m a — fuck — a monsterfucker, Justin. You should be able to tell that about me.” He licked his lips between heavy, shaking pants, angling his hips to better present himself.

Justin’s voice was deeper now, a hint of rumble to the words. “I mean, I guess that’s obvious. Sure as shit know how horny you are.” He worked his fingers haphazardly, pressing them knuckles deep and then withdrawing them just as quickly. There seemed to be more interest in stretching Chris out than taking him apart, but Chris’s own impatience left him uncomplaining. 

“I can hear you, you know,” Justin continued. “When you’re getting off in your bedroom. I hear your vibe, or the sound your dildo makes as you fuck yourself. You use so much lube, dude, I bet you make a mess. It sounds sloppy. And then there was that time you and Rick hooked up in the bathroom, like I wasn’t gonna hear you over the TV. It sounded like you gave some stellar fucking head. I’m gonna need you to blow me next time, actually.” All of it was said in one steady stream of words, no indication of filter.

It was almost humbling how difficult Chris found it to compose a coherent sentence. Justin certainly wasn’t helping his efforts, a third finger slipping in when Chris opened his mouth to reply. A hiss, even as Chris pressed back into the thrust of the digits, and then he managed, “I did it on purpose.” Chris wasn’t an idiot, and he’d been far too enticed by the thought of provoking Justin. It was merely a marvel that it had taken this long despite his best efforts.

Another laugh, this one far more akin to a bark than a bellow. “Of course you did,” Justin muttered, as if he truly hadn’t realized the intention behind such vocal mischief on Chris’s part. “Well, you’re getting your way now. Gonna fill you up so fucking full.” In an almost tragic sort of irony, Justin slipped his fingers out and left Chris empty and wanting, clenching around nothing and biting back a pathetic whimper.

Chris wasn’t going to grovel for the pet he was teaching to beg.

Justin muttered to himself, something about goth guys and cute asses and dimples (where was Justin seeing a dimple?), and grasped at Chris’s hip. He squeezed tight enough to draw a low moan from Chris, and then the head of his cock was teasing at Chris’s entrance and prompting a much louder and far more enthusiastic sound from Chris.

There was no need to encourage Justin, to demand more: Justin merely snagged Chris’s other hip in hand as the crown of his dick slipped past Chris’s rim, and then he was fucking forward in one smooth, aggressive thrust. It was so sharp and sudden and forceful that Chris gave some wordless exclamation; he very nearly fell on his face, and he took a moment to catch his breath when Justin went utterly still.

“Did I hurt you?” Justin asked, concern audible in his voice. He had even stopped his incessant, mindless kneading at Chris’s waist, every part of him taut with nerves.

Chris tried to laugh, but the sound that came out was far too breathless and thready. It sounded more like a wheeze, which certainly wasn’t comforting, but then he shook his head. “No, you didn’t hurt me. Just startled me. Most guys work up to pounding me into the mattress,” he said, glancing back over his tattooed shoulder and flashing Justin a grin.

Whatever Justin saw in Chris’s gaze seemed to settle his nerves and offered enough reassurance for Justin to grin back, wide and lopsided and with a hint of tongue poking out. He always looked like a dog convinced he was about to be given tummy rubs when he grinned like that, as if his treat was secured. “It’s a werewolf thing.” His tone made it impossible to tell if he was full of shit (again) or speaking factually — not that Chris found any genuine interest in the answer.

He simply let himself go loose and lax, bracing himself a bit better for the harsh rhythm Justin set. Sounds spilled from his lips freely, mingling in the air with the throaty snarls and soft growls that Justin uttered openly. Chris swore he heard the snap of teeth next to his ear as Justin draped himself over Chris’s back, hands moving to the mattress on either side to brace himself.

Justin nosed against Chris’s neck again, seemingly oblivious to the sweat that had strands of hair sticking to flushed skin. He inhaled and then rumbled with blatant pleasure, hips stuttering and then finally adjusting their angle — Chris shuddered violently when he hit his prostate, Justin’s name leaving his lips shakily.

“Justin, Justin, Justin,” Chris panted, encouragement he offered freely. He couldn’t reach to get a hand on his cock despite how he leaked and throbbed; he needed to plant his hands to not be shoved up against the headboard, and he wondered if Justin would have it in him to finish Chris while they waited for his knot to recede.

But then Chris felt that swell start, the faint catch at his rim, and his eyes rolled back in his head the first time Justin’s rhythm faltered with the effort it took to keep fucking him with long, deep thrusts. “Gonna fuckin’ fill you up,” Justin snarled as the knot caught and stuck, leaving him to just rut up into Chris frantically. It was a wet, desperate affair, and Chris was startled to find it enough to tip him over the edge.

Justin’s knot was so much bigger than he’d expected. It swelled to the point Chris ached, and it was that faint twinge of pain that made him spill. He clenched down around Justin, groaning loudly, and tried to rock back as best he could to encourage Justin to keep moving. The pleasure that thrummed in Chris’s gut seemed to pulse with Justin’s cock as the werewolf came; his seed was even hotter than the skin pressed flush to his back, the breath against his ear, and Chris’s vision blurred.

By the time Chris could breathe past the sensation of being filled so completely, Justin had collapsed on top of him — pinning him to the bed, flat on his stomach, the weight on Chris’s back solid and hefty enough to make breaths challenging to draw in. A few complaints and gentle elbows later, and Justin twisted them onto their sides.

Chris knew that knotting was an intimate affair. Aside from the act itself, the swelling took time to come down; they would be locked together for a notable amount of time, inevitable and not undesired, but he hadn’t quite envisioned it playing out like this. Rather than Justin dozing off against his shoulder or them exchanging soft, murmured check-ins like he’d expected, Justin was seemingly wide awake and intent on sniffing Chris until they could separate.

“I promise my scent’s not going to change,” Chris laughed breathlessly, closing his eyes. Despite the sounds in his ear and the way Justin occasionally flicked his tongue over Chris’s skin, he was comfortable. He sank back against Justin’s chest and allowed his limbs to relax. “You can’t actually breed me.” The reminder felt unnecessary, but he still uttered it, primarily to tease.

The noise Justin made suggested that it wasn’t an appreciated remark. “You’re gonna smell like me for a while,” he argued. “Any other wolf’s gonna know I fucked you.” He pressed a grin into Chris’s shoulder then, fingers tracing idle, meaningless shapes against the skin of Chris’s stomach. 

That raised a question, one that Chris had to examine and evaluate for a moment before vocalizing. “Do you want this to mean something other than us fucking?” he asked, each word followed neatly by the next. It was a calculated inquiry but a risk nonetheless — the last thing he wanted was for awkwardness to chill the room as they remained pressed flush for the next ten minutes.

Justin made a vague, noncommittal sound and gnawed on Chris’s shoulder. There wasn’t nearly enough pressure behind his teeth to break skin, and it seemed to be a mindless, idle gesture. “Want people to know we’re pack,” he muttered, as if the words left a bitter taste on his tongue. It was an odd sort of response — Justin hadn’t been required to offer honesty. He could have always avoided answering, or he could have given some half-truth or obscure, meaningless response that said nothing at all.

More than that, the notion of pack settled funny in Chris’s chest. It wasn’t a lack of desire for connection, but Justin had just skirted the concept so completely and insistently that Chris hadn’t anticipated it being an option for them, unconventional as it was to begin with. “We’re pack?” he echoed, rather than pursue any other line of thought.

Chris felt a soft hum against his back as Justin’s grip tightened, pulling him flush against his chest. “We’re pack,” Justin affirmed, as if that settled the entire debate.

Perhaps Chris should have protested. Such a declaration was heavy and important, meaningful in a way a human could never truly comprehend; certainly it warranted a discussion, not just a fuck and a decision on a hormone-drunk werewolf’s part. But it also felt right, and it settled onto Chris’s shoulders with a weight more comforting than drowning. “Am I the alpha?” he murmured, setting aside practical concerns for another time.

Justin snorted softly as he rocked his hips a little, earning himself a slap on the side. “Of course you are.”

Once Chris got an idea in his head, he would do damn near anything to see it through. Ricky should have already known that (he did, really, and often found it admirable), but he still resisted Chris’s idea as long as he could — pushed through the soft gazes as well as the nagging until he couldn’t anymore, and maybe the offer of an orgasm at the end had been enough to finally sway him. Maybe.

Something about how pleased Chris looked when he relented almost made Ricky soften, but his pride was fussing enough that he still managed a scrunched-up scowl. He couldn’t give in too amicably, though he couldn’t have named the reason for why not; he just knew that pushing back was what he did, and so he leaned on that habit now.

He leaned on it until they got home from tour, refusing to acknowledge their plans for the time they’d be spending in their shared apartment. Chris had offered space for Ricky to give feedback and input, to help him make the necessary purchases, but Ricky had refused to engage each time. He didn’t want to know, actually — as if that would change anything at all.

And it didn’t, to the surprise of no one. Chris gave them both two days to acclimate to being back home, to settle into their odd little routines and habits, before he brought it up. Despite knowing it was coming, the anticipation growing with what felt like every hour that passed, Ricky gave Chris a blank stare when he announced that he was ready to play dolls. 

Ricky was curled up on the couch, cheap little laptop perched on his lap. It was old enough that it needed to be plugged in for it to stay on, which meant he found himself wedged into the corner, against the arm. It felt a little uncomfortable, but he was cold and the blanket he had swaddled himself in helped, and he refused to adjust for fear of the chill that would spark goosebumps across his skin, as little bared as there was.

Despite the fact they were home and a real shower was available, Ricky had yet to take a proper one. He knew that most people would have turned up their noses at it, but something about doing it had him internally hissing and outwardly recoiling. He was wearing clean clothes and his worn-to-shit beanie, pulled on like it would hide the mess that was his hair, and he wondered how much of the procrastination was knowing what Chris intended to put him through.

Put him through, as if most people wouldn’t have considered the first part of the plan pampering. Ricky always bristled when Chris wanted to dote, and he refused to look at the response too closely — it didn’t really matter anyways, whether it was because Ricky felt uncomfortable with the attention or if it was for the novelty of the gesture.

Ricky felt his beanie disappear, plucked clean off his head, and glanced up with a sharp gaze. “What the fuck?” Something about Chris’s expression read as devious, even in spite of the warmth in his eyes — maybe it was how wide his smile was, the angle it was tilted at. That was the look of a man who was about to enact some sort of mischief, regardless of how well-intended and kindhearted it might have been.

“I said, Rick, that it’s time to play dolls. You’re the doll. That means you need to put the laptop down and come with me,” Chris announced, crossing his arms when Ricky just squinted at him. “You said you’d do this. Do I need to drag you by your scruff?” Despite the fact that it was a ridiculous statement, objectively, Ricky knew Chris wasn’t joking.

It was hard to remind himself to play nice now that Ricky knew he was about to spend however long uncomfortable and squirming. He heaved a sigh and went about saving his work (twice, to be safe) and then shutting down his laptop, only setting it aside when it went from soft chugging to a gentle hum.

And, as soon as it was placed off to the side, Chris was taking Ricky’s hand and pulling him to his feet. He ignored the curl of Ricky’s lip, just kissed the top of his head and grinned. “Come on, it’ll be fun. A little spa day.” As if anything about Ricky suggested that he’d want a spa day. 

Any comments died on his tongue as he was hauled to the bathroom, fighting the childish urge to dig his heels in — and only because Ricky knew it wouldn’t do him any good. There was a kitchen chair sat in the bathroom already, music playing from a CD player that had been dropped more than once and now would only play if they wiggled the power cord for a couple of minutes.

Ricky stripped and sat, bristling a little as the process began. Chris clearly had a vision, moving through the steps like he’d rehearsed them in his head (he probably had): chipped polish off; the ghost of makeup past removed; nails repainted, and a small karaoke session to the CD playing while they waited for it to dry; a shower, most of it spent detangling and then washing Ricky’s hair until a comb ran through it without a snag and it smelled, unfortunately, delightful (like Chris); and then the most thorough toweling off possible.

Despite Chris debating with himself out loud the merits of blowdrying Ricky’s poor, mistreated hair, he ended up doing it anyways. “You dripping on the floor would fit the miserable cat thing too much,” he explained, finally flicking the noisy thing off and setting it on the counter. Another brushing out of Ricky’s hair, and then Chris tilted Ricky’s face up with a few fingers beneath his chin to press a sweet kiss to his lips.

It always annoyed Ricky when Chris played dirty like that. How was he supposed to complain when he was chasing Chris’s lips, desperate for another kiss (or five)? How was he meant to pout and sulk when his face was flushed, when Chris was smiling down at him like Ricky was someone precious and treasured? Sure, Ricky hated being doted over, but it was hard to remember that in the moment, when each touch seemed to convey a love he still didn’t know how to sit with.

Ricky was grateful for the fact that Chris didn’t comment when the bitching stopped, that he didn’t remark on how pliant and relaxed Ricky was now. For all his protests and twinged pride, it felt nice to be clean like this — and maybe that brought a ghost of self-loathing with it, the fact he hadn’t been able to manage it on his own. He shouldn’t have needed another person there to make sure he didn’t look like he’d rolled out of a dumpster.

“Hey,” Chris hummed, frowning down at Ricky. He waited patiently as Ricky blinked once, twice, finally came back into the moment. “Don’t do that. You can wallow later. I don’t want my doll stewing in emo bullshit while I’m dressing it up.” The choice of pronoun caught like a bramble, lit Ricky’s limbs up in an unexpected way.

Chris clearly noticed, too. His lips curled into some devious smirk, lip rings glinting in the shitty bathroom lighting, and he arched his eyebrows like Ricky had started the whole thing. “What? Do you like being my plaything, Rick?” He paused, laughed. “As if that’s any different than usual, right?” he added, seemingly pleased when it earned a faint, halfhearted bristle.

It was hard to admit that Ricky was now far more invested in the theatrics to follow. He obediently stood at Chris’s behest, let the taller man bundle him in the towel and herd him into the bedroom. He was plopped on the edge of the bed as Chris bustled about the room, gathering what he needed and returning with a makeup bag as well as an armful of black fabric.

The bag was set off to the side, and Chris huffed for Ricky to stand up and drop the towel so Chris could dress him. The process itself wasn’t too difficult, even if the fabric felt odd against his skin and Ricky opened his mouth to bitch when he realized it was a dress.

Any words of protest were silenced by a finger pressed to his parted lips. “Uh-uh. Dolls don’t talk. You’re going to stand there like a good toy and let me have my fun, understand?” Chris tutted, narrowing his eyes and waiting until Ricky huffed loudly and gave a single, stiff nod. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to stay quiet, but we can at least try,” he added, and the glint in his eye told Ricky that it was an intentional provocation.

That knowledge made it easier to clench his jaw around the retort that formed. Ricky could keep his mouth shut, actually, even if the words scratched at his throat and demanded to be heard. It wasn’t as if he’d always spoken so freely — he’d spent much of his teen years wrapped in silence, after all. Perhaps it was the chance to finally be heard that led to him speaking so profusely, even in the face of his bandmates’ ribbing. For even as annoyed as they got with him, Ricky was never really ignored.

“I wonder if the panties will fit . . .” Chris trailed off and tilted his head as he frowned down at Ricky. “I guessed the size,” he mused to himself, “but now I’m wondering if I went too small.” He shrugged, eventually, and grabbed some scrap of black fabric that didn’t look nearly large enough to cover anything. Chris dropped to his knees smoothly, went through the motions of lifting Ricky’s legs for him to get the panties on and tugged up.

If Ricky tried to help, tried to do anything other than let Chris move him, he’d get a fussy little reminder to behave, so he eventually just lost himself in the sensations for lack of things to do. The dress clung tightly to his ribs, bunched a little at his waist, fell loose from his narrow hips; the panties were definitely snug, his half-interested dick neatly tucked away only for Chris’s commitment to the effort, and the scratchy texture of lace kept making itself known whenever his weight would shift — and particularly when he sat back down, blinking up at Chris expectantly.

Chris spoke to himself as he worked on Ricky’s makeup. For all of the planning he’d clearly done for the evening, it seemed he was still conflicted on what look he was going for. Or maybe he just liked the excuse to refer to Ricky as an it; every time the pronoun left his lips, his gaze would linger a bit too long, and Ricky became even more aware of how his own breath caught and his lashes fluttered.

What an appealing thought, really. Ricky let his thoughts drift as Chris worked, obediently allowing his face to be turned this way and then the other, chin lifted and eyes held open as instructed. He liked having no other responsibility than looking pretty and staying quiet. All he had to do was breathe and find stillness, and what he got in return was Chris’s gentle, warm touch and lots of quiet comments about what a good toy it was being for Chris, the words spoken like he wouldn’t even understand them.

Eventually, Ricky found himself floating. He assumed he continued to offer Chris the compliance demanded of him, but he wasn’t quite aware of the time passing. The stroke of an eyeliner pencil across an eyelid, the drag of lipstick across his lower lip — he caught snippets of sensations, the hum of Chris’s voice, but everything else slipped past him. 

Ricky didn’t even register the moment in which Chris finished painting his face; when he blinked back into the moment, things still hazy, Chris was looking at him with the kind of expression that suggested he’d completed the task several moments prior. It felt so nice to exist like this, but then Chris slid a hand down his chest, the touch peculiar and oddly stark for the unfamiliar texture of the dress, and settled his hand on Ricky’s dick through the fabric.

It wasn’t as if Ricky was throbbing by that point, too distant to soak in arousal, but he certainly felt himself twitch at the contact. Ricky gasped softly, cheeks heating, and he opened his mouth to speak when Chris cut him off. “You’re still not allowed to talk, doll,” he informed Ricky. Then he stepped to the side so Ricky could see his reflection across the room, details lost but overall impression clear: dark lips, pale foundation to match his already-fair complexion, flushed cheeks and purple makeup around his eyes.

The dress was layered, a sheer fabric covered with crosses draped over plain, silky black. It was off-the-shoulder, showing off the severe line of Ricky’s collarbone, and it laced up the front, tied with a neat bow. Sleeves clung to his biceps, billowed out at his elbows and brushed the tips of his fingers; the see-through material meant pale skin was adorned with the faintly gothic pattern. It billowed at the waist, flared out a bit and fell to just above his knees.

The whole look was so perfect, so exact, that Ricky found it didn’t quite read as real. With the faint exaggeration of his features, somehow achieved by Chris’s efforts, he truly did look like a doll: painted pretty to be played with and used. As Ricky stared at himself, he maintained the odd stillness that had settled in his bones, and he could see the appeal of such a sight: motionless, ready to be admired and touched as someone else desired, a thing to be posed and arranged.

Chris tilted Ricky’s head up by a fingertip beneath his chin, smiled down at him. “Now, I think I’ll use my doll.” The hand that returned to Ricky’s dick gave a small squeeze, a hint of friction, and then it was gone again. It was odd to be manhandled by someone who also wasn’t very large in stature, but Ricky supposed that was a consequence of being so slight himself: Chris got him on the bed, laid him on his back, and spread his legs with seemingly little effort.

The dress was clearly meant to stay on. Chris rucked it up around Ricky’s waist and left him exposed, cock stiffening at the faint rush cutting through the blur of thoughtless submission, as he moved around the room, clearly looking for something. Ricky didn’t watch him, just listened to his movements and the way items were shuffled about; he stared up at the ceiling without really seeing it, wondering what he looked like with his hair fanned out across the pillow. He almost wished that Chris would take a photo — an odd sentiment, given how much Ricky typically resented being faced with his own appearance.

By the time Chris had returned, Ricky had started to sink again. He was pulled back into his body by a tongue dragging up his cock, the sensation stark against it despite the panties absorbing the spit. He found he didn’t miss the wetness for long; a few more leisurely licks had the fabric damp, sticking to the underside of his dick, sparking a faint throb. It was hard not to reach for Chris’s hair, either to cling for composure or to wordlessly urge him for more, but Ricky kept his hands at his side, palms pressed flat to the mattress.

Chris took his time teasing Ricky, mouth drifting upwards. The head of Ricky’s cock had slipped from the panties, pushing past the waistband in its fullness as it leaked. A flick of a tongue, lips sealing briefly enough to make Ricky’s hips buck. Chris pulled back immediately, and Ricky nearly whined at the loss of such a pleasure-sparking sensation. “Dolls don’t move,” Chris reminded Ricky. “Dolls take what they’re given.” There was a sharpness undercutting his words now, a hint of a threat.

For a moment, Ricky wondered if Chris would abandon him like this, desperate and lusting for fullness and friction. Maybe disobedience would push past Chris’s typically unending patience, and Ricky would be left wanting. It had happened occasionally, once Chris learned that pain was far from a punishment; it always made Ricky bitch and whine, but Chris never budged. His boyfriend wasn’t mean often, but he was certainly cruel when the mood struck.

The risk meant that Ricky would simply have to obey. Rather than bristle and snarl in the face of that expectation, he found the idea easy to sink into. Chris wanted a toy, so Ricky would fill the frame of a thoughtless, malleable plaything — not even necessarily for Chris’s gratification, but to make sure the buzz beneath his skin continued to flicker and pulse.

Once it was clear that Ricky wasn’t going to push or bite, literally or metaphorically, Chris gave a benevolent little smile and stroked his cheek softly enough not to smear the makeup. “I can’t wait to use my toy. It’s so pretty for me,” he sighed, moving Ricky’s legs and then settling between thighs that threatened to tremble and twitch as Chris slicked his fingers in lube.

Ricky’s breath caught, though no sound escaped him, when Chris simply held Ricky’s panties to the side and pressed a finger in. There was no hesitation or waver to the movement, just a steady thrust that left him knuckle deep with a soft little crook of the digit. It occurred to Ricky that Chris might have been attempting to provoke a reaction, but that thought quickly slipped away. Such a notion didn’t matter; Ricky was still going to lay there and be a good toy.

That mantra made Ricky’s head fill with static. His inhales hiccuped in his chest occasionally as Chris fingered him open, but he simply blinked up at the ceiling and listening to Chris’s soft, loving coos praising his toy. Ricky only realized Chris had worked up to three fingers when they twisted a bit inside him, curled slightly out of sync to nudge up against his prostate. He felt his dick jerk but managed to clench enough to repress any other physical response.

The way he tightened around Chris’s fingers earned Ricky a low groan, a soft, “Fuck, doll.” And that was exactly what Ricky was in the moment, wasn’t it? A fuck doll for Chris to use in pursuit of his own pleasure. All Ricky needed to do was exist; he was allowed to sink, to fall, to melt.

As Chris eased his cock inside, no fanfare or teasing involved, Ricky had to remind himself not to moan. He bit his tongue, closed his eyes, focused on just breathing through the need to vocalize how fucking good Chris made him feel. “Ah-ah,” Ricky caught above the rush of blood in his ears, “a good doll needs to keep its eyes open.” When Ricky blinked them open, he found Chris staring down at him with some odd, intoxicating blend of affection and possessiveness.

Ricky felt like a treasured possession in that moment. He felt less than human, certainly, but the hands repositioning him touched his limbs with such care and reverence that he knew he was adored. It was communicated through Chris’s soft gaze, each point of contact, the slow and leisurely rolls of his hips. Ricky felt full, both with Chris’s dick — Chris settled to the hilt and then proceeded to grind up against Ricky — and some vague, shapeless feeling he couldn’t name.

It threatened to spill out of him, even as intangible as it was. Ricky grasped for it; he wanted to clutch it tightly, hold it close, and keep it internalized for fear of it slipping away entirely. Try as he might, it bubbled over, poured from his eyes in slow tears that he worried would smear the makeup Chris had doted over so attentively. A hitch in his breath as Chris’s eyes darkened, a hand settled at his throat, and Ricky wondered if Chris could feel the thudding of Ricky’s heart beneath his palm.

Still, Ricky wasn’t moving. He was silent as he cried, vision going indistinct, and that seemed to be obedient enough for Chris to keep fucking him. In fact, Chris crooned, “My doll’s so pretty when it cries.” He moved only fractionally faster, but he pressed in with more force. It felt as if urgency was pushing at the boundaries of Chris’s composure, and Ricky wished he could have more, get fucked harder.

Not that this was about Ricky. That was why he simply lay there as Chris dragged out the experience, speeding up a bit until Ricky felt a coil tighten in his gut — and then slowed nearly to the point of stillness, movements barely able to be felt for how careful and elongated they were. It happened more than once, and Ricky wasn’t sure if Chris was edging him intentionally or if it was merely a consequence of Chris teasing himself with orgasm.

Ricky realized it was the latter when Chris’s rhythm picked up and intensified but didn’t stop once orgasm swelled sweet on his tongue. He was fucked through his orgasm, and Ricky thought he might faint for the intensity of suppressing any physical or vocal reaction to it. Everything swirled in his head, grew tangled and twisted, and he only fell back into his body when Chris’s incessant thrusts tipped into unpleasant.

It would have been easy to stop Chris. A simple vocalization and things would have come to an end, regardless of whether Chris had reached his release. Ricky knew that, but he also knew that he wanted Chris to cum. Even as his body began to twitch — impossible to stop but tolerated by Chris, perhaps for that exact reason — Ricky kept his mouth shut. He simply stared up at Chris, tears spilling faster now, and hoped this was what Chris had been pursuing.

“God,” Chris cried softly, “I’m gonna fucking—” And that was it. The unpleasant, wrenching sensation of friction swelled as Chris hammered into him quickly, erratically, and then Chris’s movements found stillness and Ricky was able to relax. He felt boneless, all nerve endings and flushed skin, and he just blinked up at Chris as he pulled out.

Ricky wasn’t certain if he was allowed to speak now; Chris hadn’t given him back that ability. For all he knew, in lieu of permission, he was still playing the role of doll. Even as Chris covered his face in soft kisses, he panted as mutely as possible and kept his limbs still. Only when Chris asked if he was okay did he finally force himself to accept he had to once more be a person.

The concept felt odd, ill-fitting, discomfiting. Still, Chris repeated his question, and Ricky felt his own lips curl into a faint smile of their own accord. “Yeah,” he assured Chris, slowly lifting a hand to rest on Chris’s flushed, sweat-damp cheek, “I’m good.” He was slightly off-kilter for the adjustment to the end of the scene, but he was good.

“You did such a good job,” Chris gushed, and there was that sweetness that sometimes threatened to choke Ricky. He kissed him on the lips now, firm and fierce enough that lipstick ghosted Chris’s mouth when he pulled back. It earned a faint, delirious giggle from Ricky, and Chris laughed, seemingly without knowing where the amusement originated.

Ricky wished he had the confidence to vocalize every sentiment filling his head. They danced about in his skull with no urgency or anxiety to make their edges sharp, and he found he didn’t mind their presence. Still, he wanted to convey to Chris how that had felt. Good felt so insufficient, but gratitude felt vulnerable and cloying and embarrassing.

Instead of attempting words, Ricky wrapped his trembling arms around Chris and pulled him down, clutched Chris flush on top of him. Chris hadn’t had the opportunity to pull out yet, but Ricky liked the feeling of fullness without friction accompanying it. “You make me feel so loved,” Ricky murmured without thinking. He expected a sickening gut-drop as the words hit his own ears, but all he felt was a certainty settle into his chest. 

Chris nuzzled into the crook of Ricky’s neck. “I do love you. Even when you’re a brat. Even when you bitch and moan. Even when you push me away. I love you, Rick.” Each statement felt like some sweet, impossible promise that Ricky had never expected himself to be willing or able to accept. Now, though, he pulled those vows close and tucked them within his ribs, filled his aching and empty gut with them until he could quiet the voice that had already started up its whispers in the back of his head.

“I love you too,” Ricky replied — without hesitation and without the fear that one day Chris wouldn’t be there to hear the words. For as long as that sentiment lived in him, Chris would echo it back. And that, more than anything, helped Ricky swallow down the fear of being a person again. He was safe. He was safe.