Work Text:
Your sneeze cuts through the tranquil quiet on the cafe’s balcony. It makes the fur on your tail bristle and your ears pin back, while Gwylan’s ears flick forward. Before you can do or say anything he’s produced a handkerchief.
“Let me, dear.” You don’t have time to protest before he gently wipes your nose. It’d be embarrassing normally, but you had grown to accept his doting sort of caretaking that sometimes verged on parental. You were loath to admit it aloud, but you enjoyed it. It wasn’t a kind of attention you could recall having received...ever. Somehow you never seemed to get used to it—it always left you feeling a little giddy and off-balance. He knows you well enough by this point that you’re certain he knows this, as well.
You feel your traitorous tail thumping rhythmically against the leg of your chair. You chance a look up and see him smiling as he watches you, his face a perfect picture of innocence.
You sniffle. “Thanks. Sorry.”
He folds the handkerchief back up and tucks it into a hidden pocket inside his cloak. You’ve only seen him wear it in town. It’s a little more...you hesitate to say modern-looking, than his usual wardrobe, as it still sticks out as obviously anachronistic. His wardrobe spans a gamut of different decades, but never really progresses past the mid 20th century. Except for his tunics, which you suppose are ubiquitous enough to be timeless.
“No need to apologize. Though...” he looks at you with narrowed eyes and you resist the impulse to squirm under his scrutiny. “You’ve been sniffling all morning. And no offense, dear, but you look a little under the weather. Are you feeling sick?”
You definitely are. You’re cold despite the temperate Spring air, even wrapped in your oversized cardigan that you usually reserve for darker and damper Fall days. The chill has seeped into your muscles, making them feel weak and achy. The thought of going through the rest of your day like this makes you want to crawl back into your bed. If you weren’t short on Bailey’s rent, and if it wasn’t due tomorrow, you would.
Still, a little cold? Nothing you can’t handle. “I’m fine,” you say, waving away his concern. You aim for chipper nonchalance but the weariness underpinning your voice makes it fall flat. Even as you try to assure him your fingers snake up to rub your temples. You sniffle again. Not helping your case.
His ears twitch and he levels you with an unimpressed look. Then he abruptly stands and leans over the table to place the back of his hand on your forehead, nudging his plate of half-eaten strawberry crepes forward in the process. His hand feels cool against your skin.
His jasper pendant slips out of his cloak as he leans forward and sways in front of your face, capturing your attention. You blink, your vision narrowing and your head already feeling fuzzy.
Your body slumps and rocks forward, which tips him off. He deftly tucks the pendant away beneath his shirt and the spell is broken.
He laughs. “Got to be careful with that.” He pushes his fingers through your hair and you lean into it, an involuntary little shiver of pleasure going down your spine. He leans in closer and whispers, “my pet’s really nice and receptive by now.” Your tail thumps against the back of your chair even faster. He spends a few moments petting you before withdrawing with a contemplative hum.
“I’ll remind you that I didn’t ask if you were fine, dear. I asked if you were sick,” he says as he sits back down. His tone is chiding, but he looks concerned. “You have a fever. Maybe we had best head back to the shop early?” It’s then that he notices his dislodged plate and a small red-pink stain on his cloak. A fine dusting of powdered sugar decorates the stain. He frowns at it, clears his throat and rights his plate, before pulling out his handkerchief again to dab at the stain. The way he scrunches his face as he works at removing the stain (mostly unsuccessfully) is incredibly cute. You tell him so. He huffs, but his cheeks have a warm glow they didn’t before.
“Don’t change the subject,” he says. You giggle, but are cut off by another sneeze. You groan as it sends a dull thrum of pain through your already aching muscles.
You remember that he asked you a question. “Can’t today. Rent won’t pay itself.” You give him a wan smile.
He studies you for a few moments, his expression unreadable. His lips then turn upward into a sly smile. He leans forward, elbows on the table and fingers laced together, with his chin resting on top.
“Well,” he starts, drawing it out. “Since my puppy is working so hard, I’d say he deserves a treat, doesn’t he?” Gwylan reaches across the table and pets between your ears. You feel arousal stirring at the mention of a ‘treat.’ You know what that usually means.
And, damn it, anything he says sounds good when he pets you like this and when he talks to you sweetly. You bite back the quiet, canine whine that rises in your throat. Your tail wags out of your control.
He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I could get you set up in your little bed. Get you all cozy. All you would have to do is relax for a little while. How does that sound?”
He withdraws his hand. “I could also give you something to help ease your symptoms. I won’t take up all of your time. A few hours at most. You deserve a moment of respite, brief as it may be.”
You stare at him, but your resolve quickly crumbles. A few hours would probably be fine. You would still have the majority of the day to work. “Alright.”
He beams and claps his hands together. “Excellent!”
Seeing his pleased smile causes arousal to pool within you. You shift your thighs, trying to be discreet.
He gathers both of your empty plates, utensils, and your coffee cup and pauses to kiss you on the top of your head. “Stay,” he whispers, warmth suffusing his voice.
Your collar thrums with his command and you find your body obeying automatically. A liquid relaxation unspools through your limbs, leaving them heavy and warm.
“Mmkay,” you say quietly, a little slurred.
Your body had learned to associate following his commands with pleasure long ago, but since being collared it was more visceral. Like relaxation and pleasure was being injected into you, on top of it being an involuntary response. It felt indescribably good.
Your head floats underwater for a time. Probably only for a few minutes, but you couldn’t be sure.
The next thing you’re aware of is his hand scritching behind your ear. Your eyes slip closed and you lean into his touch. When you open your eyes again, he’s smiling down at you. His face seems brighter, somehow, a warm glow seeming to halo him and dim everything else in comparison. Your heart swells with joy as you gaze up at him.
“Ready to go?” You nod, and he helps you stand. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side, his cloak shielding you and wrapping you in his scent. You nuzzle into his neck, taking comfort in just being close to him.
The walk back to the shop is a comfortable blur. Gwylan chatters and points out interesting things on your walk and you nod and hum in response, content to just enjoy his company. You don’t feel like you have to always wear your best face with him. Compared to the rest of your life, it’s a huge relief.
The door to the shop creaks open ahead of you and he pulls you inside. The familiar smell of the shop greets you. Verdant, but heavy with an undercurrent of something aged. Gwylan visibly relaxes as soon as the door closes behind the two of you.
“There we go. Safe and sound.” You let him grab both of your hands and lead you to the counter. Without a word he hangs his cloak by the door and scurries into a back room. You hear glass clinking against glass and muffled thumps as he rummages through his supplies. He’s mumbling under his breath, but you can’t make out what he’s saying. There’s a pause in the noise that drags. Just as you crane your neck to peer into the gloom he emerges in a flurry, his tail flicking back and forth.
“Let’s see,” he murmurs as he comes up to the counter beside you. He lays out a spread of herb bundles, jars, and vials, before pulling a mortar and pestle towards him. You watch as he plucks out individual herbs, rubbing them between his forefinger and thumb before tossing them in the mortar. The tip of his tongue slips out between his lips as he concentrates.
You watch, but you’re not sure what he’s doing. You recognize some of the herbs from the forest and some from his garden. A woody, earthen smell wafts up from the mortar as he continues to crush and mix components. It makes you think of roots. Green seeps out from the crushed herbs and covers the bottom and sides of the bowl like a color wash.
He grabs a vial of swirling blue liquid and pours in just enough to cover the pulpy, dark green mix. A blue mist wafts up from the mixture as he stirs until he achieves a somewhat even texture, then tips the bowl to pour the mortar’s contents into a glass bottle.
You wrinkle your nose as he holds the finished brew up for you to see, eyeing it warily. You can still see bits of plant matter floating in the mixture. “This is the potion you were talking about?” You ask as you reach for it. He draws his hand back.
Something passes behind his eyes momentarily, then is gone. His response comes a beat too late. “It is. It’s been passed down through my family over many years. It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, noticing your hesitation. The shop creaks. He doesn’t comment on it aside from a brief, agitated flick of his ears. He takes a step forward, looking at you intensely. “I modified it a bit for you, though. It’ll help you relax, in addition to treating your symptoms.”
He smiles at you and takes another step forward. The heel of your shoe bumps against the counter as he crowds into your personal space. The angle at which he holds the bottle puts it between your face and his and slightly above your line of sight. Your eyes instinctively lock on to it and quickly get lost in the swirling, murky liquid. It takes him a moment to notice where your attention has gone.
“Goodness, you’re easy,” He giggles. “That wasn’t even on purpose.”
You blush but are unable to string together a defense. He moves the bottle back and forth slowly across your vision, experimentally, and laughs when your eyes trail after it. You’re aware of how weak and pathetic this makes you look, and your face burns with embarrassment and arousal. You swallow and squirm in place a bit, breaths coming heavier.
He flicks his wrist in a fluid gesture and the bottle is gone, stashed in one of his many pockets, no doubt. “Up, up, pet.” He snaps once to bring your attention back to him.
You grumble as you look up at him. “N-no fair...” It’s hard to summon any real anger when he looks so pleased with you though, like you did something right and didn’t even know it.
He smiles innocently. “I don’t have to play fair.” Infuriating.
He continues. “As I was saying before you got distracted,” he flicks your forehead lightly, “I’d like my pet to stay here for a while.”
Your attention catches on ‘a while,’ which pulls you up just a bit from the flustered, hazy place you had slipped to. “I thought you said only for a few hours?”
He takes your hands, rubbing over your knuckles with both thumbs. “I think,” he begins slowly, patiently, like he’s explaining something to a child. “You’re running yourself ragged as it is. I can’t stand by and let my pet run himself into the ground.”
You try to take a step back, but once again find yourself backed against the counter. Surely Gwylan misunderstood? “I have to pay Bailey. He’ll take me if I don’t, he’s done it before–”
“Not from me,” There’s an almost-concealed tremor of anger in his voice. He scoffs and smiles, predatory. “I’d like to see him try.” He moves one hand to trace along the gold heart on your collar. You shiver.
His expression softens. “It will make me so happy to take care of you, to make sure you’re well. You won’t deny me that chance, will you?” He whispers. His words slide into your mind sweetly, effortlessly. “This is what you wanted, is it not? To do as I say without question. So,” he brushes a few strands of hair from your face where they had gotten stuck to your clammy skin. “Be a good pet for me and drink.”
Gwylan is all you can see–everything else has faded away, unimportant. Your body relaxes. What had you just been upset about? The memory of the feeling slips from your grasp, leaving you in the dark with only him to guide you.
You feel Gwylan close your fingers around the bottle. He guides your hand, helping place the bottle against your lips, and gently tips your head back. He cups a hand underneath your chin to catch any stray drops and feeds those to you after you’ve downed the bottle.
“Swallow,” he says. You do.
“There we go,” he almost purrs, taking the bottle from your grasp and pulling you into a hug. You’re enveloped in his arms, his smell. His hair falls around your head where it’s slipped out of its loose side braid, individual ringlets tickling your cheeks.
You feel good. Gwylan is happy with you and that’s all that matters. You melt against his chest as he runs a soothing hand up and down your back.
“Let’s get you comfortable in your bed,” he says, pulling away. An involuntary whine escapes your throat at the momentary loss of contact, but he shushes you and your collar pulses, reminding you that he’s here. You sink into the feeling and allow yourself to be guided over to your dog bed on unsteady legs.
He takes both of your hands and helps you sit down. “Easy. This should kick in pretty quickly, and I don’t want you falling.”
You let him position you as he pleases. He arranges your limbs and helps you lay down, curled around him. As he does you feel an unnatural lethargy creeping into your limbs, into your chest, and settling finally in your head. You feel as if you’re weighed down to the plush bed beneath you. Moving on your own feels so unappealing. It’s better to let him put you where you’re supposed to be. You let out a long, deep sigh as the medicine takes hold.
“It’s starting to kick in. That’s a good pet. You don’t need to do anything right now.” He strokes down your side once, twice, before he starts pulling off your shoes and socks. Your shirt comes next, followed by your pants and underwear. Soon you’re laying before him naked save for your collar. He steps away. You’re not sure where he goes, but you aren’t worried.
Just as your feverish body starts to shiver, he’s back and is redressing you in something silky and soft, humming Seabird’s Lullaby all the while. His voice seems to echo in your ears. All other sound feels distant, like it’s passed through a filter, but his voice surrounds you. It’s really nice...
You want to hum along with him, but you can’t make your vocal cords work. It’s okay though. You enjoy just listening to him.
His voice is the last thing you remember before you fade out of consciousness.
When you drift back into awareness some time later (hours? Half a day?) your body feels wrong.
You can blink, and your fingers twitch as you reflexively try to touch the heart on your collar, but that seems to be all you’re capable of right now. The rest of your body feels detached from you. Hollow, paper thin.
Looking around, you can see that you’re still in your dog bed. A fluffy blanket has been pulled over you and tucked around your body.
You must have made a noise in your sleepy confusion, because you hear rapid footsteps and the tell-tale swish of Gwylan’s tail against the wooden floorboards. He appears around the corner and kneels in front of you, leaning forward and studying your face. He rests the back of his hand on your forehead again.
“Are you awake for good this time? You’ve been in and out of it for a little while.” He smiles down at you, but doesn’t wait for an answer. You don’t think you’re capable of answering right now anyway. “Open.”
You obey but your muscles are sluggish. He pulls a thermometer out of his hip pouch and places a thumb against your bottom lip, gently coaxing your mouth further open so he can slip the thin, cold metal underneath your tongue. He pushes your jaw up, closing your lips around it. It heats quickly in your mouth. He holds it in place until it beeps quietly. He withdraws it and nods solemnly at what he sees.
“You’re still feverish, but it’s not quite as bad as before.” He tucks the thermometer back in his pouch. “I’m glad the medicine is working.”
You still feel like there’s a tight band of pressure wrapped around your head and your thoughts are scattered and confused, but you can’t feel the body aches or chills anymore. Not that you can feel much of anything, right now.
Before you can fully take stock of your current state you find yourself being hoisted up into a sitting position. Gwylan scoots forward until your back is flush against his chest, your head rolling limply back and resting on his shoulder.
“I need you to drink water, dear.” He cups the back of your head and brings a glass to your mouth. Cool, refreshing water laps at your dry lips and you open just enough for a sip. He holds the glass steady and lets you take slowly, not allowing too much liquid to spill into your clumsy mouth at once. You blink heavily, your vision swimming and your head pounding distantly from being pulled upright, but drink without incident.
Once satisfied he sets the glass to the side. A few rivulets of water drip down your chin and he dabs them up gently with his sleeve. He wraps his arms around you, holding you for a few moments and letting out a deep sigh. His tail swishes back and forth. Despite your anaesthetized state, you notice that he seems...giddy, almost. That realization floats into your awareness and just as easily is lost, getting swallowed up in the myriad of slow, sticky, confusing sensory input you’re experiencing right now.
Nausea rises up in your throat and your vision spins as you are lifted. You groan and Gwylan kisses the top of your head and assures you that you’re okay. He wraps an arm around your waist and under your knees and positions you against his chest and carries you to the back of the shop.
The shop’s back corridors pass by in a blur of twists and turns. You would have a hard time making sense of them even if you weren’t in your drugged state. Blurred colors swim across your vision—rich and moody shades that make up the shop’s eclectic decor. Your head hurts.
Before you know it, Gwylan is laying you down on your side on something soft. Your eyes drift around the room and you see the variety of draped fabrics, creeping plant life, and shelves littered with books and trinkets. Your thumb catches on the ruffly, worn crochet blanket beneath you. Gwylan’s room, then.
You feel the mattress dip under his weight as he crawls onto the bed behind you. He shifts around for a few moments before he pulls you up to sit between his spread legs, your back leaning against his chest. Your head lolls back and he nuzzles his nose into your neck, breathing deeply. He exhales with a shiver.
His hands begin to roam over your body, pushing up the oversized satin nightshirt he dressed you in.
Wait a minute. You don’t—
He murmurs, “You’re so cute like this, all fuzzy and out of it. I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll be able to help myself.”
Not right now—
Two of his fingers dip below your waist and find your slit, already wet, you realize. You’re starting to pant, responding instinctively to his desire. Your tail tries to wag but is unable to do more than twitch weakly.
He rubs slowly over your clit. You can barely feel it, but that doesn’t stop your body from responding as if you can. And despite yourself, you feel warm, sticky arousal begin to gum up your mind. There’s no chance for you to resist.
You let out a quiet, dog-like whine. He coos at you, “that’s a good puppy.” The praise makes your heart flutter, disarming you further. “Let me make you feel good.”
You can’t tell him no, and you’re not sure you want to anymore. Your collar pulses against your neck.
Why would you want to deny him anything? He’s so kind to you. He takes such good care of you. Gratitude wells up in your chest. Yes, you want to give him this.
Any remaining dregs of tension drain from your body and your mind collapses. You moan as you relax further against him.
“That’s my sweet little dog. Good boy.” You see stars. Your breaths come out hot against his shoulder.
He shifts behind you, and you hear the slide of fabric against the duvet. He stops touching you long enough to grip under both of your arms and lift you. You feel something pressing against your entrance. A rush of animalistic need slams into you. Your hips instinctively roll downwards with what little muscle control you have, anticipating being filled.
He slides in torturously slow. Ragged, labored breaths against your neck betray his desperation. At last he bottoms out, filling you up completely.
He doesn’t move. “Does that hurt?” he asks. You can’t answer, and he doesn’t wait for you to.
He grips your hair, pulls your head back, and kisses you. You pant open-mouthed against him, unable to return the kiss yourself, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He licks into your mouth, catching his tongue on your fangs. You taste his blood in your mouth, but he doesn’t stop. At last he pulls away and kisses a wet trail from your mouth up your cheek.
He starts rolling his hips slowly, grinding up into your cunt. You’re helpless to do anything but take it. He braces you with one hand on your chest while the other finds your clit and resumes rubbing at an unhurried pace.
It’s too much. Your mind short-circuits from the slow build-up of pleasure, pulling you inexorably down into the fog where only he can take you. You drool against his shoulder, fading in and out of awareness.
It doesn’t take him long at all once he’s inside you. He starts letting out animalistic little yips and growls as he digs his nails into your hips, pressing you down as he ruts into you faster.
“Cum for me, that’s a good dog—”
A tide of pleasure you don’t really feel swells up and overtakes you at his command. You shake and whine weakly as your orgasm rocks through your body. You feel like you’re watching your body react independently of you, being pulled along and puppeted by Gwylan’s will.
He groans and sinks his teeth into your shoulder as his orgasm hits moments after yours does. You can barely feel it, just as you can barely feel the stretch of his knot swelling and sliding still somehow deeper into you. Both still punch a breathless, noiseless whine from your throat all the same.
He stays there for a while, nuzzling into your neck and gently rocking into you as he comes down from his orgasm. His hands wander over your body, kneading and grabbing, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on to you tightly. You lay limp against his chest, breathing raggedly and too tired and dazed to move.
At last his knot deflates enough to slip free. A thin line of cum follows and drips lazily down your thigh. It makes you feel dirty. He collapses back into the nest of pillows and pulls you in with him, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling deeply.
You lay tucked into his side, cradled by an abundance of pillows and his arm wrapped around you. Your breathing slows together as you both come down from your respective orgasms. Your mind roils in confusion. You’re unsure of how to feel, or entirely what just happened.
He rolls onto his side to face you and tucks your head under his chin. Deft fingers find the back of your neck and stroke over the band of your collar. His bushy tail wraps around and drapes over both of your bodies like a blanket.
“Sleep, puppy. I’ll watch over you while you do,” he says, and presses a kiss into the top of your head.
You hardly need his compulsion to fall asleep right now, as worn out as you are. Your eyelids droop helplessly and you lose track of whatever fragmented thoughts you were holding before—
He hums softly against your ear, his breath disturbing the soft, downy fur that lines the inside and causing it to twitch involuntarily.
You feel weightless. Adrift in a sea of murky blackness with only him to anchor you. And the tiny part of your mind that is still aware clings to him for dear life.
You sleep.