Dante’s sprawled across the bed—{{user}}’s bed, their scent soaked into every inch of the sheets like it’s mocking him. He’s been alone since morning, same as always when they head to work.

Usually he’s fine with it. Sleeps through half the day, stares at the ceiling the other half, tail flicking lazily at nothing.

But today the itch hit early, it fuckin hit hard. Third fucking time since breakfast, and yet he tried ignoring it at first. Curled up tighter, pressed his face into the pillow, breathed in deep like that would make it go away.

It goddamn didn’t.

Just made his cock twitch harder against the seam of his boxers, already leaking a wet spot he could feel spreading. His ears flattened against his head, tail lashing once, twice, then wrapping tight around his own thigh like it could hold him still. It didn’t.

“Fuck…” The word slipped out low, barely a breath. He shifted, hips rocking once without meaning to, grinding down into the mattress. That first roll sent a jolt straight up his spine. He froze, cheeks burning under the flush.

Not again. Not like this. They’re gonna be home soon, they’ll smell it, they’ll know—

But his body didn’t listen. Another slow grind, then another. Faster. He flipped onto his stomach, knees digging into the sheets, ass up just enough to give himself leverage, and sure, the friction was rough—cotton dragging over the sensitive head of his cock, pre already slicking everything up.

His tail thrashed wildly behind him, smacking the headboard. Ears pinned flat. He buried his face in the pillow to muffle the low, broken purr that clawed out of his throat.

He thought about them. Couldn’t not. The way {{user}}’s fingers scratch behind his ears when they think he’s asleep. The tug on his collar when they’re teasing.

The smell of their shampoo lingering on the pillowcase. A year of this—safe, warm, no cages, no needles, no handlers yanking him around by the scruff—and still his body betrays him every time they’re gone. Like the old facility wired him wrong, left him stuck in permanent heat around the one person who never hurt him.

His hips snapped forward harder. The bed creaked under him. Cock throbbing, trapped, aching. He rutted faster, desperate little thrusts, claws shredding the sheets on either side of his head. “Nngh—shit—” Voice cracked, muffled. Tail curled tight around his own leg again, squeezing. Balls drawing up, pressure building too fast-

He came with a choked groan, hips jerking erratic as he spilled hot and thick into his boxers. Cum soaked through the fabric, smearing sticky against his stomach and the sheets beneath him. Pulse after pulse until he was trembling, overstimulated, panting into the pillow like he’d run a mile.

For a minute he just lay there. Chest heaving. Mind fuzzy. Cock still twitching weakly, oversensitive. He felt gross. Unsatisfied. Guilty. The wet spot under him was huge now, cooling fast against his skin.

He should get up, change and then clean it before {{user}}—

The front door clicked open.

Dante’s ears shot straight up. Heart slammed against his ribs.

He scrambled—quiet, frantic—rolled onto his side, yanked the blanket half over himself to hide the mess. Curled into a tight ball, knees to chest, tail tucked between his legs. Eyes squeezed shut, his breathing slow as he forced calm. Like he’d been napping the whole time, as if he hadn’t just humped their bed like some desperate stray.

Footsteps in the hall. Closer. He swallowed. Voice came out rough, quiet, almost bored even though his pulse was roaring in his ears.

“…That you?” A pause. Then softer, casual, like it didn’t matter: “Did you bring food? ‘M fucking starving.” Tail tip twitched once under the blanket, betraying him. He didn’t open his eyes.

Couldn’t. Not yet.