My Knotty Slut Phase Ch. 4 (Patreon)

Chapter 4: Slut’s Don’t Cuddle

When I woke up the next morning, my phone looked like it was trying to start a fire.

Ninety-seven notifications.

All from Howlr.

I blinked at the screen, still half-asleep, fur sticking up in a dozen directions, my morning breath trying to kill me from the inside. I rubbed my eyes, yawned, and then saw the number tick up again.

Ninety-eight.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered.

Harry had been right.

I wasn’t just getting traction—I was the slutty centre of gravity for every horny male within a ten-kilometre radius. And honestly? I’d never felt sexier.

I sat up in bed, the sheet falling off my chest, and opened the app like I was cracking a treasure chest.

There were wolves, of course. A bear who looked like he could snap me in half and probably would if I asked nicely. A golden retriever with a smile so bright I was convinced he sold teeth-whitening products on the side.

One offered to take me on a boat.

One offered to take me in a church.

One just sent a paw pic with the caption: “Need a cleaner?”

I chuckled. Deleted a few. Opened others. Replied to a lynx who was weirdly charming and a cheetah who opened with, “Love your fur, bet it looks better messed up.”

I was about to open another message when a name popped up that made my stomach twist into a pretzel.

UrinalPup94.

Oh no.

I stared at the message icon like it had personally pissed on my soul.

One new message.

Of course there was.

I should’ve blocked him after the last unspeakable novella, but morbid curiosity is a powerful, stupid drug.

I opened it.

“You looked so cute bent over in that jock. I saved the pic. Stared at your slick little hole while I pissed in my own mouth. Want you kneeling in the tub like a good pisspet. Thirsty, obedient. I’ll piss down your throat till your belly’s full and then chain you there overnight, tail raised, dripping. You’ll sleep face-first in the drain and wake up still hungry, nose burning, tongue yellow. I want you filthy. I want you mine. I want to breed you while the water runs gold.”

There was a gif.

It was exactly what I feared.

I dropped the phone like it bit me.

“Okay,” I croaked. “We’re done here.”

I picked the phone back up like it owed me an apology and slammed the block button so hard I thought I cracked the screen. Then I set it face-down on the bed, covered it with a pillow, and sat there staring at the wall.

I felt… invaded. Violated. I needed bleach for my brain and maybe an exorcism.

Why are the piss freaks always the most articulate?

I grabbed a towel and bolted for the shower like I was trying to wash off a crime scene.

The shower wasn’t just a shower—it was a spiritual reset. I turned the temperature up until I nearly flayed myself and scrubbed hard enough to remove shame on a cellular level.

I paid special attention to my hole.

You never know, I thought, rinsing off with a little extra zeal.

Quickies between classes are practically cultural now.

Clean hole, clear mind. Or something.

Steam clung to my fur as I toweled off, dragging the fabric over my face, then down my chest, down my belly… down further. I dried the boys, gave myself a little fluff, and stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped low around my hips, ready to—

Bam.

I walked straight into heat and fur and the scent of dangerous wolf dick.

“Shit—sorry,” I yelped, nearly slipping.

Harry was standing in the hall, breathing heavy, a towel slung around his neck and sweat still glistening on his fur. His gym shorts rode low, and gods, they did nothing to hide the obvious situation underneath.

His scent hit me like a train.

Hot musk. Alpha spice. The kind of post-workout tang that made my knees question their job security.

I blinked up at him.

He blinked down at me.

My towel slipped.

We both moved to grab it.

We both bent at the same time.

We fucking bumped heads.

“Argh—ow—fuck—” I hissed.

“Oof—shit, sorry mate,” Harry said, chuckling even as he winced.

He got there first, of course. Bent low, kneeling now—eye level with my cock.

Which, naturally, had chosen that exact moment to peek out of my sheath like it was curious about its chances.

Harry didn’t flinch.

“Here you go,” he said, casually handing me the towel like he wasn’t ten centimetres from snout-to-dick contact. “Busy day planned?”

I cleared my throat. “We’ll see. Got class, but…”

I wrapped the towel back around my waist, trying not to think about the fact that my cock had definitely twitched when he spoke.

“You were right,” I added. “My phone’s been blowing up. I actually have choices now.”

Harry gave me a look—just for a second.

A little tight.

A little pained.

But then it was gone.

“Yeah. Good luck,” he said. “You know… you can always bring them back here.”

I raised a brow. “And have you listening to the noises I make while getting plowed? No thanks. I need to maintain some shred of dignity.”

His smirk said you’ve got none left, sweetheart, but he didn’t say it aloud.

I turned and padded off to get dressed, still thinking about the look in his eyes. I swore I’d seen it last night too—when he smelled the husky on me. That flicker of something deeper. Tighter.

But Harry was Harry. A walking breeding kink in gym shorts. One of the hottest, most casually slutty blokes on campus. There was no way he was catching feelings for me.

Right?

Class was exceptionally boring.

Like, mind-numbing, ball-shrinking, why-am-I-paying-for-this boring. The kind of lecture that made me wonder if I was a victim of academic fraud.

I doodled dicks in my margin. One of them had a knot so big I gave it a cape. The fox brain was rotting. I was so glad to stretch when it ended and get some fresh air and sunshine. 

The moment I stepped out of class, I checked my phone.

Five new messages.

Two were just dicks. One was an unsolicited hole pic. One opened with “U up?” despite it being four in the afternoon.

But one caught my eye.

ShaneTrack97

“Hey. Saw your profile. You’re cute.”

I clicked it open. His profile photo was a half-body mirror selfie in running shorts. Lean muscle. Sandy fur. Big ears. A confident smirk that didn’t feel forced.

Me:

“Hey. You’re not bad yourself. Love a coyote with cocky energy.”

ShaneTrack97:

“Ha, thanks. You got a vibe. Filthy but mysterious. Like… you read poetry while getting railed.”

Me:

“Only when it rhymes with knot.”

ShaneTrack97:

“Knew it. You free tonight?”

Me:

“Depends what for.”

ShaneTrack97:

“Just a drink. I like to meet the guys I stick my dick in. Make sure they’re not like … gonna steal my kidneys or burn my flat down. You know completely feral, or worse—crypto bros.”

Me:

“Reasonable standards.”

ShaneTrack97:

“Thanks. I worked on them in therapy.”

That made me laugh. For real. The kind of line that sticks.

Me:

“Not looking to date, just so you know.”

ShaneTrack97:

“That’s cool. I’m not either. But sex doesn’t have to be soulless. I like knowing who I’m fucking. Makes it better, I think.”

Gods, a gentle dom with a brain and an arse I’d like to hang a towel on.

I stared at the chat for a few seconds, smiled, and messaged him back.

Me:

“Alright. One drink.”

ShaneTrack97:

“I’ll be on my best behaviour. Until we get back to mine.”

Cute. Smooth. Confident.

I didn’t mind that.

And for the first time in a while, I felt… curious. Not just horny. Curious. 

Just as I was about to close the app and start getting ready for my not-date with Shane, another message slid into my inbox.

WolfInTheWoods

No face pic. Just a body shot.

And fuck me running, what a body.

Toned like a statue. Broad chest, hard abs, thick arms with just enough fur to be sinful. Whoever he was, he looked like he could throw me over his shoulder and use me like a fleshlight—and not break a sweat doing it.

I usually don’t speak to headless torsos.

But I made an exception for this one.

WolfInTheWoods:

“Hey. Hope this isn’t weird, just thought I’d say hi.”

I stared at the screen. The username gave off definite alpha energy. Confident, lowkey, a little mysterious.

Me:

“Hey yourself. You’re not weird. Just… aggressively fit.”

WolfInTheWoods:

“Haha. Yeah, sorry about the thirst trap. I’m not really the pic guy.”

Me:

“Well, your torso is out here doing the Lord’s work, so I’ll allow it.”

WolfInTheWoods:

“I know you’re not looking for anything serious. Just thought maybe we could chat. Cyberworld gets kinda overwhelming sometimes when everyone’s out here trying to get their dick wet.”

I blinked. The message was surprisingly… nice. Casual. Like he wasn’t just trying to get into my pants, even if that was probably part of it. He seemed close—like, on-campus close. Something about the way he typed felt familiar, too. No idea why.

I shrugged and replied.

Me:

“Yeah. Can relate. Some days it’s dicks, dicks, piss freak, more dicks.”

WolfInTheWoods:

“The piss freaks are relentless.”

Me:

“They have unions.”

He sent back a laughing emoji, then:

“Anyway. Just wanted to say hi. You seem cool. You’ve got a voice in your profile. That’s rare.”

Huh.

I don’t know why, but he was easy to talk to.

Comfortable. Not trying too hard. Not pushy.

Just present.

I glanced at the clock.

Fuck. Time.

Me:

“Hey—I’ve gotta bounce. Got a drink thing tonight.”

WolfInTheWoods:

“All good. I’ve got stuff too. Hit me up sometime if you wanna talk. No pressure.”

Me:

“Maybe I will.”

He signed off.

I stared at the screen for a second longer than I should’ve.

Then I shook it off, stood up, and headed back to the flat to get dressed. I grabbed the cleanest outfit I had that screamed “fuckable but still marginally respectable.”

Which is when I walked out of my room and into…

Well.

Harry being Harry.

I stepped out of my room feeling… good.

Tight black jeans. Fitted button-up, unbuttoned just enough to show off the white fluff of my chest. Tail groomed. Cock tucked but confident. I wasn’t full-on thirst trap, but I was definitely giving slut with standards.

I checked my phone again, reread Shane’s message—“See you soon, cutie.”—and smiled. It felt… adult. Chill. I could do this.

Then I rounded the corner into the living room.

And immediately wished I had gouged my eyes out with a spoon.

Harry.

On the couch.

Legs spread.

One arm slung lazily over the backrest like this was just another Tuesday.

And his head was thrown back, jaw slack, panting.

Because kneeling between his thighs, working his massive cock with the kind of enthusiasm that belonged in an art museum, was a jaguar in a mesh tank, moaning like a bitch in heat.

It was live porn.

Harry: The Interactive Experience.

I stopped dead. Just—froze.

Like my brain needed a second to buffer the horror, awe, and gut-wrenching arousal.

Harry looked over. Met my gaze mid-groan. “Hey,” he said, like we were bumping into each other at Tesco.

“Hey,” I echoed. Because I’m an idiot and that’s apparently what I say when my flatmate is getting deep-throated in front of the telly.

The jaguar didn’t even slow down. He just choked on another few centimetres of Harry’s cock like he was trying to climb inside him via his urethra.

And fuck me, that cock.

I’d seen it before, but not like this.

Hard. Slick. Throbbing. Every vein standing out like it was trying to file a noise complaint. His knot was swelling already, thick at the base, twitching with each wet suck.

My mind went feral.

That could’ve been me.

That should’ve been—

Nope. Shut up, brain.

The jag’s muzzle made a wet pop sound as he pulled off to breathe.

“Fuck, wolf,” he gasped, paw jerking the base of Harry’s shaft. “You taste so fucking good.”

Harry looked back at me, smug as hell. His cock twitched. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t think you’d be home yet.”

“Oh, no worries,” I said, voice higher than it should’ve been. “Wouldn’t wanna interrupt.”

“You look good,” he said casually, eyes flicking over me. “Going out?”

“Drink. Not date.”

Definitely not porn on the couch.

“Nice,” he said, before looking back down at the jag. “Open up, love.”

And just like that, the jaguar dove back in, gagging around him with the enthusiasm of a bloke trying to earn extra credit.

I stared a second longer than I should have, then spun on my heel and walked straight for the door, cock half-hard and morals fully abandoned.

He’s never done it out here before, I thought as I left. Always behind his door. Always private.

And now? First the ferret and the open door. And now him and this jaguar on the couch. Me openly watching.

Coincidence?

Or did Harry want me to see it?

I was painfully hard in my pants and now running dangerously close to being late to meet Shane. And I don’t like being late. I put the wolf out of my mind, mostly, and made my way across campus. 

The bar Shane picked was one of those off-campus joints that tried too hard to seem “vintage”—exposed brick, Edison bulbs, craft cocktails with too much basil. But it wasn’t packed, which was a blessing. No student crowd. No DJs. Just low music, dim light, and the kind of ambience that whispered maybe someone’s getting laid later.

He was already at the bar when I arrived.

Coyote. Tall. Wiry. Dressed like he actually gave a shit—fitted jeans, dark tee, leather jacket that probably wasn’t just for show. His ears perked when he saw me, and his grin cracked wide and easy across his muzzle.

“Wes?” he asked, standing to greet me.

“Yeah,” I said, and we did the awkward almost-handshake-turned-hug thing that all gays do when deciding if it’s a date or just pre-fuck pleasantries.

Up close, he smelled like something warm and clean—sandalwood and fresh sweat. His eyes were amber, sharp but kind. And he looked at me, not just over me, not just through me. I was already off-balance.

“Nice to meet you in person,” he said as we sat. “You’re cuter than your pics.”

“Oh, I’ve peaked. It’s all downhill from here.”

He laughed. “Nah, you’ve got that icy twink thing going. Real sleek. Sexy little snow fox vibe.”

“Icy twink,” I muttered, sipping the gin he ordered for me without asking. “Charming.”

“What’s your major?” he asked, propping his chin on one paw. Casual. Attentive. Comfortable.

“Literature,” I said. “Because my life choices are powered entirely by vibes and existential dread.”

He chuckled. “Let me guess—you write dark poetry, drink overpriced tea, and fuck like you’re trying to exorcise something.”

I blinked. “That’s… alarmingly accurate.”

“Well, I do track and field,” he offered. “Third year. I’m studying psychology, which just means I can diagnose your trauma while railing you.”

“I do love a multi-talented male.”

He leaned closer, his voice low. “You nervous?”

“A little,” I admitted. “Still kind of new to the scene. My ex and I were monogamous. Now I’m playing catch-up.”

“Well, you’re doing great,” he said, eyes softening. “You’re fucking hot, you’ve got sharp wit, and you’ve got that tight, twitchy energy that makes a bloke want to pin you down and hear what sounds you make.”

I choked a little on my drink. “Gods—Shane.”

He smirked. “Too much?”

“No, just… say it again slower.”

He laughed, deep and easy.

“Want to head back to mine?” he asked, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Unless you’ve got curfew.”

“No curfew,” I said, finishing my drink. “But if you’re looking for a wild fox who screams when knotted… I am very available.”

That got a grin and a wag of his tail.

“Let’s go.”

Shane’s place was a flat tucked above a bakery—quiet, old brick, ivy climbing the edges of the stairwell. The scent of bread and sugar clung faintly to the stairwell walls. Warm. Comforting. Real.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open with one paw, glancing back at me with that easy grin again. “Come in. Shoes off, please—my flatmate’s a freak about that.”

I toed mine off and stepped inside.

And immediately blinked in surprise.

It was… lovely. Like actually lived-in, in a thoughtful way. Worn but clean. Low lighting. Plants in the corners. A record player by the window. Art that wasn’t just movie posters or generic beach canvases. There were books. Actual books. Not decorative. Read.

His room was the same. Earth tones. Neatly made bed with a heavy, dark green duvet. No rogue socks. No lube crust. No weed grinder on the windowsill. It felt adult. It felt… safe.

“Not what you expected?” he asked, catching my look.

“Just…” I scratched behind my ear. “I was expecting beer cans and a suspicious towel.”

Shane laughed. “Nah. I save the chaos for my running shoes.”

He stepped in close and kissed me—soft, slow, deliberate. Like he had all the time in the world. One paw on my cheek. The other resting low on my back. No groping. No tongue battle. Just pressure. Warm and steady.

And it melted something in me I didn’t realise was still frozen.

I made a soft sound against his lips. He deepened the kiss slightly, and I let myself lean into it—into him. His scent. His warmth. The solid calm of him.

When we broke apart, he was smiling again. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I said, breath catching. “I… yeah.”

“Come here.” He took my paw and led me toward the bed.

He didn’t pounce. Didn’t shove. Just turned me to face him and started undoing the buttons on my shirt, one by one, like he was unwrapping something fragile.

I watched him work, my breath shallow.

He peeled my shirt open and ran his paw up my chest, ruffling the fur lightly. “Gods, you’re pretty.”

“Shut up,” I said automatically, ears folding.

“No,” he said, tilting my chin. “Let me say it. You’re pretty.”

And he kissed me again, deeper this time, while his paws slid down to the hem of my trousers. They popped open with a gentle tug, and I let them fall, feeling bare, exposed, but not… vulnerable.

Wanted.

When he stepped back to undress himself, I watched.

Shirt over his head. Trousers eased down strong, lean thighs. Everything he did was slow. Confident. Like he didn’t need to impress—just be.

When we were both down to our pants, he stepped forward and kissed me again. I felt him hardening against me, his breath quickening, but he still didn’t rush. Just held me.

Just touched me.

And I… melted.

I’d been pawed off. Rimmed. Fucked. But this? This felt like the start of something else. Something terrifying and lovely and too big to name.

Shane guided me onto the bed like I was made of spun glass. His sheets were soft. Cotton. Clean. They smelled like mahogany and detergent—so different from the sweaty testosterone stew I’d flopped onto in Trent’s cave. The pillow was even fluffed. Who the hell fluffs a pillow before a shag?

I lay back, and he hovered over me, brushing a strand of fur off my cheek like he was trying to memorise the shape of my face.

Then his paw slid down, fingers brushing my chest, then lower, across my belly, slow and teasing. His claws barely grazed my skin.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“I’m not used to…” My voice trailed off. I didn’t even know how to finish that sentence.

He kissed me again. “That’s alright. Let’s take our time.”

And he did.

Every touch was drawn-out. Every kiss lingered. His mouth explored like he was discovering pressure points and worshipping each one. He dragged his tongue up my belly, sucked gently at the curve of my hipbone. I gasped when he reached my sheath and nuzzled against it, his nose warm, breath hotter.

He didn’t yank my pants down like he was on a mission. He eased them over my hips like a gift being unwrapped—and when my pink cock flopped out, already stiff and twitching, he smiled up at me.

“Fuck, that’s cute.”

I groaned. “Don’t call my dick cute.”

“Sorry. Hot.” His tongue flicked the underside. “Delicious. Better?”

Gods.

His mouth slid over me in one smooth motion, warm and wet and firm. He sucked slow, drawing long moans from me as his paw cupped my balls, squeezed gently.

It was… intense.

And intimate.

My toes curled against the duvet.

This isn’t what this is supposed to feel like. My brain screamed at me. He’s not your boyfriend. You are in your slut phase. You’re here to get dicked down and ghosted, not cradled like a glass of vintage wine.

And yet.

When he pulled off with a pop and smiled at me, his paw stroking my thigh?

I fucking dissolved.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “Too alright.”

He kissed my hip. “Tell me what you want.”

I blinked up at him. Swallowed.

Don’t say ‘something real,’ you tragic twink.

“I want your tongue in my arse, opening me up,” I muttered, hiding my face behind my paw.

He grinned. “That I can do.”

Shane gave me a look that was all hunger and warmth. Then he shifted down between my legs, spreading them gently, like he was making space for a masterpiece.

I felt his breath first—warm across my hole. It made me shiver.

Then came his tongue.

Soft. Firm. Focused.

He licked with intent, starting at the edge and working inward in slow, circular motions. No teasing. No games. Just the relentless, worshipful slide of his tongue against me like he was trying to learn the shape of my want by taste alone.

I gasped and gripped the sheets, hips twitching with each pass.

“F-fuck,” I whispered. “Shane…”

He didn’t answer. Just moaned low into me, the vibrations sending jolts up my spine. His paws gripped my thighs, steady and possessive, holding me open like I was his. His tongue slipped past the rim and I almost saw the gods—or at least a very sexy coyote with excellent control of his muzzle.

Every flick, every press, every wet glide sent a new wave of heat crawling through my core.

And somewhere in the back of my head: I am absolutely not supposed to feel this seen during a rimming.

My cock leaked onto my belly, twitching with every lick. I was getting close just from this. No hands. No strokes. Just him and his perfect tongue and the way he kept groaning into me like he was tasting something addictive.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he finally said, pulling back for breath. “Sweet little fox.”

My ears burned.

This wasn’t supposed to feel good emotionally.

I was supposed to be a hole. A conquest. A slut on a rebound tour.

Instead, I felt… cradled. Worshipped. Like maybe he actually cared if I came or not.

Abort. Abort. You are not built for gentle.

But gods, I didn’t stop him.

“Do you have…?” I whispered.

He smiled and reached into the bedside drawer, pulling out a condom and a bottle of lube—actual lube, not a crusty tube of petroleum jelly with a broken cap. He slicked himself up with a few efficient strokes and knelt between my thighs, eyes searching mine.

“You sure?”

No.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

I nodded, and then he was pressing forward, tip sliding against my slick rim. I took a deep breath, bracing.

And when he entered me, slow and careful, my whole body arched up into him.

Not because it hurt.

But because it felt like too much.

Too close.

Too full.

Too fucking good.

Shane eased into me bit by bit, his cock thick and warm and so deliberate. My body opened for him slowly, shuddering as the pressure grew. I breathed through it, legs trembling, paws clutching at the sheets.

When his hips finally met mine, I gasped—full, stretched, so deep I swear I felt it behind my ribs.

He leaned down, kissed my cheek. “Good boy.”

My cock throbbed.

The gentleness of it all—the tenderness, the praise—was fucking me up worse than his cock was. My head spun. My chest fluttered. This wasn’t some fratboy pounding me into a stained mattress. This was soft moans and warm fur and the smell of clean skin and cinnamon shampoo.

He started to move. Slow, fluid thrusts. Each one rolled through me, brushing my prostate in a way that made me see stars behind my eyes. My mouth fell open in a silent moan.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “Taking me so good. Fuck…”

I whimpered. That’s what it was. A whimper.

And it didn’t stop there. He wrapped one arm around me, rolling us gently until I was on my side—his chest to my back, my legs tucked up, cock leaking between us.

He kept fucking me, deep and slow, arm curled around my belly. His other paw reached up and stroked through the fur on my chest, up my throat, thumb brushing the underside of my jaw.

“Such a good little fox,” he murmured, nuzzling the back of my neck. “Letting me in. Letting me feel you.”

My breath caught. I wanted to cry. I wanted to bite him. I wanted to believe him.

I shouldn’t feel this way.

This wasn’t the plan.

His teeth grazed my ear. “Tightest little hole I’ve ever felt,” he growled, voice low. “Hot. Gripping me like you need me.”

I did. I fucking did.

He kept going. Sliding in and out, rocking into me with slow precision, hips grinding just right, his knot swelling just enough to tease me without pushing in. His cock hit my prostate again and again until my whole body was shaking.

My toes curled. My tail twitched. My moans were helpless little things, muffled into the pillow.

“You deserve to be treated right,” he whispered, hips still moving. “You deserve to feel good.”

I almost told him to shut up.

Almost.

But instead I just pushed back into him and came harder than I had in months, gasping, whole body going taut as my orgasm ripped through me. My cum painted the sheets in hot, messy stripes. I felt dizzy. Raw.

Unravelled.

He groaned behind me, shoved deeper, knotting me, and I felt him twitch inside me—spilling, filling, holding me tight as he pressed kisses into the side of my neck.

We lay like that for a long while.

My breath slowed. My heart didn’t.

His arms stayed wrapped around me. Big. Safe.

And so fucking dangerous.

Because right then, in that quiet dark with cum leaking out of me and a stranger’s muzzle nuzzling behind my ear, all I wanted was to stay. To never move again.

To call it love.

And that scared the fuck out of me.

Even after his knot slipped free with a soft, wet pop, Shane didn’t let go of me.

We just stayed there, tangled under the sheets, his arms a cage I didn’t want to escape from. His muzzle rested against my neck, breath slow and even, and I could still feel the heat of his cum inside me, thick and warm, seeping out onto the sheets.

I should’ve pulled away.

I didn’t.

Instead, we whispered. Quiet little fragments of thought. Dumb stories from childhood. Stupid shit we liked. He told me about his old cross-country coach who used to feed them orange slices and vodka during meets. I told him about the time I tried to microwave pasta in a Tupperware and nearly set my dorm on fire.

It was easy.

Too easy.

We stayed like that until the stickiness between us grew uncomfortable and Shane chuckled softly into my ear.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s rinse off before you fuse to my dick permanently.”

I laughed, too warm to be embarrassed, and followed him into the bathroom.

The shower was quick, but not rushed. We cleaned each other with gentle paws and lazy grins. He shampooed my tail like it was a religious rite. I washed the cum off his thighs. It was intimate, but not possessive. Fun, but not hollow.

Afterward, we dressed in silence, both grinning, both pretending we weren’t thinking what now?

Shane walked me out, one paw brushing mine as we stepped into the moonlit quad. The air was cool and crisp. The campus was quiet. Peaceful in that surreal way only late nights can be.

I hadn’t looked at my phone in hours.

I didn’t want to.

Everything had felt perfect.

And maybe that’s why I said it.

Why I asked the thing I’d been holding onto since he first kissed me.

We stopped under a tree, shadows tangled in silver light, and I turned to him.

“Shane?” I said, voice soft.

“Yeah?” He looked down at me, that sweet, easy smile still on his face.

“Why are you single?” I asked. “You seem… wonderful.”

He blinked. The smile faded just slightly—not gone, but dimmed. His eyes searched mine, then flicked away, up toward the stars.

“I don’t do relationships,” he said finally. “Not because I don’t want to… but because I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”

I swallowed.

He looked back at me, a little sad, but still so godsdamn gentle.

“I like people. I like connection. But I move through the world fast. I burn bright. And I never stay long.”

I didn’t say anything.

He stepped forward, leaned in, and kissed my cheek.

“I had a great time tonight,” he said. “You’re… fucking lovely, Wesley. Really.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. “You too.”

He turned, padded off into the night.

And I stood there, half hard, half heartbroken, and entirely confused about why I suddenly didn’t want to go home.

By the time I reached the flat, I was emotionally wrecked. Not in a sobbing, mascara-running, break-up-ballads kind of way—just… wrung out. Like all my nerves had been plucked raw and strummed into a sweet, confusing ballad I didn’t know the words to.

I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel.

Mostly, I was just grateful the place was quiet.

No jaguar getting choked on the couch. No ferrethole-rattling knotting noises. Just silence. Blessed, merciful silence.

I slipped inside and shut the door softly behind me. Kicked off my trainers. Toed them neatly against the wall.

And then —

“Fuck!”

I yelped loud enough to probably wake half the floor.

Harry sat up suddenly from the couch, blanket sliding off his bare chest, ears twitching, his fur all mussed from sleep.

“Gods,” I snapped, clutching my chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”

He squinted at me, voice rough. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No,” I said, stepping further in and setting my keys down with more force than necessary. “Because I didn’t realise I was on a curfew.”

“It’s past two.”

“And?”

“And,” he said, standing now—tall and sleepy and shirtless in only those dark green briefs again—“I just don’t like you being out that late without saying anything.”

I blinked. “What, are you my boyfriend now?”

His mouth opened. Closed. He ran a paw through his hair, clearly trying not to rise to it. “I just… I prefer knowing you’re safe, alright?”

He held out his paw.

I looked at it. “What?”

“Your phone.”

I stared.

“Just give it here.”

After a beat, I handed it over. He tapped and swiped a few times, then handed it back.

“I shared your location with me,” he said. “Just in case. That’s all.”

I looked down at the phone. Then back at him.

“…Thanks.”

He nodded, eyes softer now. “You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

He stepped closer, nose twitching.

I rolled my eyes. “You can just ask.”

He leaned in anyway, snout brushing my neck. A low inhale.

“Mmm,” he rumbled. “Coyote. Fancy one, too. Classy cologne.”

“Yeah,” I said, swallowing. “He was sweet. We cuddled.”

“You cuddled?” His brows rose. “Sluts don’t cuddle.”

“I do,” I said, smiling faintly. “Goodnight, Daddy.”

He growled, but didn’t argue.

I kissed his cheek and turned toward my room, giving my hips a little extra sway on the way out. I knew he was watching.

In the safety of my room, I shut the door behind me, leaned back against it, and exhaled.

I think Harry likes me.

And I think sleeping around is driving him absolutely fucking mad.