๑ Warning: Dog symbolism, cunnilingus, sex, pathetic Toby lol
Toby Rogers, the devoted mutt.
When he falls, he falls all the way down, straight to his hands and knees. Once he decides you’re his person, there is no halfway. He is yours the way a stray is suddenly, violently someone’s. Collar or no collar, leash or no leash, he will heel.
He steals for you, bringing whatever you want. A necklace he swiped from a pawn shop, his favorite hoodie that he knows you’d enjoy more, the last box of cereal from the pantry before anyone else can touch it. He drops them in your hands with that lopsided grin, pupils blown wide, waiting for the scratch behind the ear, the soft “thank you, sweet boy” that makes his whole body light up.
Every spare second is spent pressed to your side, head in your lap, cheek on your thigh, following the scent of you from room to room like he’s terrified the trail will go cold. If you leave the mansion for too long, he paces the doorway, fingers drumming against his thighs until you come back and he can bury his face in your stomach and breathe again.
And if someone raises a voice to you, looks at you too long, makes you shrink even an inch—Toby’s in their face before you finish forming the thought. He will kill for you with the same uncomplicated loyalty a dog tears out a coyote’s throat to protect his lamb. There’s no hesitation, no regret, just bared teeth and the horrid sound of devotion doing its job. He comes home blood-spattered, drops to his knees, and kisses your knuckles like it’s the most natural order of things.
He will tear himself to shambles for you.
You’ll be sliding under the covers and hear the soft drag of knees on hardwood, the drag of his belt buckle sliding open. He doesn’t walk to bed anymore, not when he knows that you’re waiting for him, so warm and inviting. When he reaches the mattress he rests his chin on the edge and whines, looking up at you until you let him up.
But sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you let him stay there, kneeling, begging with those cracked, pleading sounds while he noses your thighs apart. He slips trembling fingers under the fabric and drags your panties down with his teeth. He buries his face between your legs like a starving thing, tongue lapping up everything you give him, the gash in his cheek splitting wider with every hungry lick. Drool and tears mix, streaking down his chin, soaking the sheets, but he doesn’t care. He whimpers into you, muffled and so pathetic, hips rutting air because the only thing that matters is the taste of you on his tongue and the way your hand tightens in his hair like a leash.
He’ll stay there until his jaw locks, until his face is a shining mess, until you finally drag him up by the collar of his hoodie and let him curl against your chest, panting and shaking, licking the salt from your neck like gratitude.
He fucks like a whipped dog, too, belly-down, hips snapping hard and frantic the second you let him mount. Every thrust is a plea, begging to go deeper, harder, anything to hear you gasp his name. He bends to every shift of your body, every tug of your fingers in his hair, chasing the angle that makes you clench around him and scream your praises. Nothing exists except the wet heat of you dragging him in, the slap of skin, the broken whine in his throat when you finally shatter and he spills in hot, grateful pulses. He’s a good boy, still kissing your lips while he’s moaning and trembling, terrified the moment will end and he’ll never have it again.
But you always make sure to reward him. Again, and again, and again.
Toby Rogers is a lot of things—scrappy, trauma-ridden, fractured, half-feral and living off of fumes. But when he loves you, he is simply, violently, yours.
Waiting forever at your feet for the next command, the next ounce of affection, the next chance to prove he belongs to you and only you.
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