It started with cuddling.

It always did, with Nine—soft, close, innocent enough at first. He’d sneak onto the couch beside them while pretending he just happened to need to sit down. Then he’d slide a little closer. Then a little more. Until, without fail, his head ended up on their shoulder, or their lap, or tucked beneath their chin like he’d found the only safe place in the world and planned to stay there forever.

Today, it was no different.

Nine had climbed up beside them after tea, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, hair loose and messy from an earlier nap. His gloves were off, and he kept fidgeting with the hem of their sleeve like he didn’t quite know where to put his hands.

They stroked his hair without thinking. The long, silvery strands slipped soft and warm through their hands, and Nine made a barely audible noise in response—something soft, low, content.

They expected him to shift, to hide his face, maybe go pink in the ears and start nervously stammering—but he didn’t.

He stayed right where he was. Quiet. Still. Warm.

And then they felt it.

A soft drag of lips—barely there—against the curve of their neck. A nuzzle. Then something more.

A press.

A kiss.

Another.

And then… a slow, deliberate nip.

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t a joke. There was no hesitation, no breathless rambling or preemptive apology. It was instinctive, unfiltered, quiet and sincere. His fangs grazed skin as he bit—not hard, just enough pressure to make their breath hitch.

Another bite. Softer this time. Lingering. And when he kissed over the spot, like trying to soothe it, his voice cracked.

He lifted his head just enough for them to see him—eyes glossy, cheeks flushed, mouth parted in something like a plea.

His pupils dilated. His breath hitched. And with one desperate, reverent motion, he surged forward, arms curling around their waist as he buried his face against their neck. Not to bite. Not yet. Just to feel.

They could feel him shaking—nervous, overwhelmed, but filled with the instinct to love, claim, mark. A good boy who just wanted permission to be a little bad.

“Can I?” he whispered, voice shaking. “Just once?”

They tilted their head for him.

And then—finally—he sank his fangs in.

Not deep. Just a gentle pinch. But there. Real. Possessive in a way Nine didn’t usually allow himself to be.

He whined against their skin as he did it, arms clinging tighter, like letting go would break him. The bite wasn’t hard enough to bruise. Just enough to say: you’re mine. You said I could. You’re mine.

When he pulled back, he looked dazed. Breathless. Pink-cheeked and teary-eyed.

“I—I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked in a rush. “I swear I held back! I can lick it better! Do you want me to—? Oh no, there’s a mark—wait, is that okay?!”

“…I’m a good wolf,” he mumbled, ears burning red.