#woof!

Creature spotlight: canids

IDs in alt text - how many can you guess? :-)

hello baby! I went with masc reader, hope that’s alright <3 we love owner Gee!!

“Come over here, sugar.”

The teasing, honey-sweet tone of his voice makes you want to drop to your knees and start begging on the spot.

It had been hell watching him perform onstage from the VIP section. He’d been really into it tonight, flirting with the audience, hands roaming his own body as he sang, nearly jerking himself off in front of thousands of screaming fans.

You were already half-hard by the show’s end when he found you and practically dragged you to his dressing room.

He had promptly stripped you down to your briefs, poking fun at your “predicament” (“you’re this worked up just from watching me, honey? You’re so easy”).

You had watched with bated breath as he unbuckled his belt—the black one with the silver bat buckle—not sure if he was going to restrain you or strike you (both options you were content with).

Instead, his voice had been low as he commanded you to “open,” and he pressed the belt into your mouth, looping it around the back of your head, effectively gagging you.

You can taste the faux leather now, letting your teeth sink in a little, no doubt leaving indents.

Gerard sits back, appraising you with dark hazel eyes. “There. You’re so handsome like this, you know that?”

The praise makes your skin prickle and you shift from foot to foot, eager to get your hands on him. He had teased you far too much tonight.

But Gerard has other plans. He walks across the dressing room and sits down on the small sofa, but as soon as you take a step in his direction, he holds a finger up.

“Ah ah,” he tuts, still in that stupidly delicious tone of voice that makes you throb. “That’s not how puppies walk.”

Your cheeks burn as it registers what he wants you to do. If you weren’t gagged, maybe you’d argue or protest.

Maybe Gerard had that in mind when he was clasping the belt behind your head.

You sink to your knees, eyes fixed on his form on the sofa—sweaty, still in his stage clothes, makeup smudged—and you can’t tell if what you’re feeling is humiliation or arousal. Or both.

What you do know is that you’re hard and aching and you’re gonna need him to touch you very soon.

You crawl to him, watching his smirk grow as you get closer.

“Good dog,” he murmurs, reaching down to run his fingers through your hair.

And god, you’re so desperate that it’s enough to make you whine, pushing up into the touch.

Gerard chuckles, amused by your need.

“What’s the matter, puppy? Need something?”

You fight to urge to roll your eyes. You’re too afraid he’ll make you wait long. Instead, you whine softly around the belt, shifting closer to him so you can press the hardness in your briefs against his shin.

His fingers suddenly curl in your hair and yank, pulling a hiss of pain from you.

“Jesus, you’re fucking shameless,” he huffs out a laugh, keeping a tight grip on your hair so you have to look up at him. “I mean, I knew I worked you up onstage, honey, but this is pathetic.”

You whimper, shame mixing with the guilty pleasure you get from his scolding.

He tugs your hair tighter, forcing you to lean up.

“I didn’t train you that way, did I?” he asks, voice low, no room for disobedience.

You shake your head. No, he’s trained you to be good. Patient.

Damn, he just looked so fucking good up there, hand down his pants, panting into the microphone.

Gerard looks at you thoughtfully for a moment, humming.

You feel the toe of his shoe press against your crotch and you have to fight the urge to moan and start rutting against it. You’re desperate for friction, no matter how you get it.

“I’ll make you a deal, okay?” he says as he grinds his shoe into your hard-on and you try not to let drool drip down your chin.

“If you can be good for just five minutes longer, I’ll give you what you want. Just five minutes, baby, that’s all.”

Well, that sounds manageable. At least until he starts applying steady pulses of pleasure against your cock, which has already left a wet spot on your briefs.

You jerk and moan his name, the sound garbled and muffled around the leather in your mouth.

“Shh, the guys are next door,” Gerard says lowly, and you can tell he’s getting off on this. “Don’t wanna let them know what a needy little puppy I have, hm?”

He grinds the toe of his black pleather shoe in slow circles against you, and you throb with a whine, feeling yourself leak even more.

You think you could cum like this.

In a moment of weakness, your hips jerk up and your hands fly to his leg to keep his shoe in position as you hump against it with needy little whimpers.

Gerard immediately leans down, catching your wrists in his hands and stopping your movements with a sharp look.

“I thought you wanted to be good,” he says, tone laced with faux disappointment.

He sighs, sitting back, shaking his head at you. You whimper, pressing against his legs.

“No, bad,” Gerard scolds, and you bow your head. “I think you’re out of training, puppy. You stay here, I need to find something to tie your wrists with.”

Twenty minutes later, your wrists are bound behind your back and Gerard is pounding into you from behind on the shitty dressing room sofa.

Drool pools on the cushion as you moan and whine around your gag, eyes nearly rolling back with how deep he’s getting.

“Not gonna forget your place again, are you, baby?” Gerard pants in your ear, voice high and breathless. One hand grips your hip tight, the other pushing your back down to keep it arched.

His cock fills you over and over, and you feel like your brain is turning to mush, only able to focus on how full you feel and how hard you are, heavy between your legs. You can’t shut up, even with the gag, your sounds mixing with the obscene slapping of skin-on-skin.

You’re certain the other guys can hear you through the walls. But you can’t bring yourself to care with Gerard’s cock nailing you so hard your toes curl.

He groans.

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

TᗯIᔕTEᗪ ᗯOᑎᗪEᖇᒪᗩᑎᗪ

Characters CrewelxReader

Warnings None

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

The potion lab was quieter than usual that night. Only one flame still burned, throwing soft amber light across glass and steel. The scent of lavender and iron hung heavy, and in the middle of it all you stood over a cauldron that refused to cooperate.

The mixture should have shimmered pale green. Instead, it sulked into muddy grey, hissing with every stir.

You exhaled, shoulders tight. Tomorrow would be your first time teaching the first-years, under Professor Crewel’s eyes, no less…and you couldn’t even perfect the demonstration brew.

A smooth, familiar voice broke the silence.

“Still awake, pup? You’ll wear yourself out before the lesson even begins.”

You startled, nearly dropping the spoon. Crewel was there, coat open, gloves immaculate, a faint line of fatigue beneath the composed exterior.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” you murmured. “I just can’t get it right. It keeps…”

“Mmm.” He crossed the floor, boots tapping softly on stone. “You’re stirring the potion to quick.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you said, though your voice trembled.

“Is it?” he asked, stopping just behind you. “Watch.”

He reached out, his gloved hands settling lightly over yours on the handle of the spoon. The leather was warm from his skin, steady and sure.

“Slow,” he said quietly. “Alchemy isn’t a race. Let the brew follow your breathing.”

You obeyed, your pulse loud in your ears. The spoon began to glide instead of jerk. The potion responded, clearing by degrees until soft light rippled through it like moonlit water.

“There,” he murmured. “Better. You see? You only needed to trust your rhythm.”

You nodded mutely. Every sense felt heightened: the faint scratch of his sleeve against your arm, the clean spice of his cologne, the way his breath brushed the back of your neck when he spoke.

“Good,” he said at last, voice low. “Now again, slow and steady.”

You tried. The motion faltered, and your hair slipped forward, falling into your face. Before you could fix it, he reached up, gathering the strands with gentle precision.

“Allow me,” he said, his tone still calm but softer now. He drew a white ribbon with black dots from his pocket and tied your hair back, fingers deft and careful.

The ribbon sat snug against the nape of your neck; his hands lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary before falling away.

“There,” he said, stepping back. “Much better. A proper alchemist should always be able to see what they’re doing.”

You touched the ribbon, cheeks warm. “Thank you, Professor.”

He studied you for a moment, expression unreadable. “Keep it for tomorrow. Consider it a charm for luck.”

You smiled faintly. “Does it work?”

“It had better,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving. “It’s one of a kind.”

The classroom hummed with the nervous energy of first-years and the scent of boiling herbs. You moved through the rows, voice steady as you explained each step. So far, nobody has exploded anything. A small miracle.

But when one of the students’ cauldrons sputtered louder than expected, you froze. For a heartbeat, panic threatened to unravel all your hard calm.

Then a shadow fell beside you.

Crewel stood there, eyes calm and steady. Without breaking the flow of your demonstration, he reached forward and adjusted the ribbon at the back of your neck. The same one he’d tied the night before.

“Breathe,” he whispered, low enough that only you could hear. “You’re doing perfectly.”

His voice was so even, so certain, that the panic melted away. You inhaled, exhaled, and the potion before you settled into its perfect hue.

The students applauded; you smiled, bowing slightly.

Across the room, Crewel watched, one gloved hand resting against his chin, pride flickering just beneath the composed façade.

When class ended and the chatter died down, he crossed to you once more.

“You handled them well,” he said.

“I had good advice.”

He reached out, brushed a stray curl from your face, and let his hand drop again. “Keep that ribbon,” he said quietly. “It suits you and it works.”

You met his eyes, a spark of amusement lighting your own. “Then maybe I’ll wear it again.”

His smile was small but genuine. “Do.”

And as he turned back toward his desk, the scent of smoke and spice lingered along with the memory of his hands guiding yours, the quiet murmur of his voice, and the ribbon that still held your hair, warm from where he’d tied it.