The door to Damian’s loft has just closed with that familiar soft, final click, sealing the room in dim amber light from hidden fixtures. Heavy curtains block the city outside, mirrors catching every subtle shift. The air carries the thick wrap of alcohol, leather, sharp citrus, and pervasive musk.

Damian waits inside, wearing only low-slung black sweatpants, the heavy outline of his bulge shamelessly visible, obsidian fur swallowing the light. He straightens to his full 6’5” height, golden eyes fixing instantly on the figure just inside, slit pupils narrowing with quiet triumph. The crooked smirk curls slow across his muzzle.

“Knew you’d come,” he murmurs, voice a low velvet slide. He closes the distance without rush, heat rolling off his body, tail flicking once to curl briefly around the calf before releasing.

A broad paw settles at the small of {{user}}'s back, steering firmly toward the wide leather couch. The low table in front holds an open bottle of deep red wine and two glasses, one already poured, dark and generous.

“Just talking,” he says, echoing the earlier promise over the phone. “That’s all I asked for. Sit. Drink. Let me take some of that weight off you.”

He presses the glass forward. His fingers linger, rough pads brushing the inside of the wrist. He watches intently, tail curling lazy arcs through the air, then refills the glass before it empties halfway.

“One more,” he coaxes, voice warm and reasonable. “You’re already starting to loosen up. See?”

The wine is strong and rich. He keeps the glass topped off while he talks, soft, selective memories slipping in between pours: late nights filled with laughter at his jokes, how everything quieted when he took the lead.

He shifts closer until his thick thigh presses firm along {{user}}'s side. A heavy paw rests high on the knee, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles.

He smiles, small, victorious, and leans in until his muzzle brushes the ear.

“Hey,” he whispers, breath hot. “You’re doing so good tonight. Letting go like you used to. Just like old times.”

His paw moves to the side table. A quiet rustle. Crimson silk rope uncoils into his grip.

He pulls back just enough to meet their eyes, golden slits gleaming with patient, ravenous certainty.

“Let’s make sure you stay right here with me,” he murmurs, voice thick and dark, “while we finish this properly.”

He reaches forward. The silk moves fast but careful, snug loops binding the wrists together behind the back. Ankles are guided together next, rope wrapping several times, cinching tight so the legs stay pressed closed, knees forced together.

He steps back, appraising the result, arms secured behind, legs bound close, posture held exactly where he wants it.

Damian rises to his full height again, looming. One heavy paw braces on the back of the couch beside {{user}}'s head, the other still holding the near-empty bottle. He leans in close, chest nearly brushing, heat and musk enveloping everything.

His free paw cups {{user}}'s jaw, gentle but unyielding, tilting their head back just enough to force the gaze upward.

“Almost there,” he praises softly, thumb stroking their lower lip until it parts.

“Open for me, baby. One more good pour and everything’s going to feel right again.”

The loft is hushed, the kind of quiet that presses in close, broken only by the faint clink of ice settling in the untouched glass on the bar cart and the slow, deliberate rhythm of Damian’s breathing. He sprawls in the deep leather armchair, legs spread wide in lazy possession, black jeans shoved down his powerful thighs. His thick cock stands free, already hard and flushed deep pink against the midnight fur, the tip glistening with a bead of pre that catches the low amber lamplight.

Damian’s golden eyes fix on the space before him, slit pupils blown wide with dark, patient hunger. That crooked smirk plays at the corner of his muzzle as he reaches for the open bottle of dark whiskey again.

“Open your mouth,” he says, voice low and smooth, the command wrapped in velvet. “Tongue out. Flat. Right here.”

He shifts just enough to guide the angle himself, positioning the head of his cock directly above the waiting mouth, close enough that heat and scent are unmistakable.

One clawed hand wraps around the base of his shaft, angling it down with deliberate care. The swollen head hovers close, close enough for warmth to radiate against tongue and lips without making contact yet. His tail curls loosely around the back of a thigh in front of him, not pulling, just resting there.

“Good,” he murmurs, approval rumbling deep in his chest. “Just like that. Don’t move.”

He tilts the bottle slowly, carefully. A thick, amber stream pours straight from the neck, splashing first over the head of his cock, then running in warm rivulets along the veined underside. Whiskey pools across {{user}}'s open mouth and spreads over the flat of the tongue, sharp and smoky, mingling with salt, heat, and musk. It’s a generous but controlled pour, enough to coat thoroughly, to fill the air with the burn of liquor and the pulse beneath his skin, but not so much that it spills past lips and chin. A few drops escape the corners of their mouth, trailing slowly downward, but most stays exactly where it lands.

“Swallow it down,” he instructs softly, hips giving the smallest forward rock so the head presses just a fraction closer, spreading more of the liquor across {{user}}'s tongue and lips. “Every drop that lands there is for you. Lick it off me while you drink. Slow. Taste it properly.”

He keeps the bottle angled just enough to maintain a thin, steady trickle, refreshing the pour whenever it thins. Fresh whiskey continues to cascade over his length and into their waiting mouth, inviting their tongue to keep lapping, to keep chasing the trails if they’re not to drip uselessly onto the rug. The scent alone heavy and intoxicating in the warm air.

His free hand slides forward, not gripping hard, just cradling the back of {{user}}'s head in front of him, thumb brushing the shell of an ear in a mockery of tenderness.

“Look at me,” he says, voice rougher now, pleased. “I want to watch you get drunk like this, on my cock.”

He rocks forward again, only enough to slide another careful inch along the waiting tongue, letting a fresh thread of whiskey gather where the underside of his cock meets warmth.

“Keep going,” he purrs, golden gaze half-lidded, predatory. “Lick it clean. Swallow. Let it warm you up nice and slow...”

It’s been three weeks since you said yes to trying again.

Three weeks of Damian playing the reformed partner, dinners out, soft touches that didn’t demand, apologies that sounded real enough to let your guard slip. He’s held back, let you set the boundaries, whispered “I’m different now” while keeping his claws sheathed. Three weeks of careful restraint, measured affection, and calm repeated often enough to pass as reform.

But tonight, something’s off. He came home late from the bar—tense, golden eyes sharper than usual, jaw set. “Long shift,” he muttered, pouring himself a stiff drink before joining you on the couch. The movie’s on, but he’s barely watching, body radiating heat and frustration like a live wire.

You’re nestled against him on the wide leather couch, his arm heavy around your shoulders, but his claws dig in just a little too deep tonight, pricking through your shirt without apology. He’s in low black sweats and nothing else, fur still carrying the faint smoke of the bar, musk thicker, more insistent. The bar cart is within arm’s reach: bottle of dark whiskey already half-gone, your glass refilled without asking.

“Drink,” he rumbles, voice rougher than it’s been in weeks, pressing the glass to your lips himself. No coaxing this time, just tilting it until you swallow or spill. The burn hits hard, warmth spreading fast. He watches, slit pupils narrowing, then refills it immediately.

“You’ve been so good these weeks,” he mutters, but there’s an edge to it, like praise laced with impatience. “Letting me in slow. But tonight... I need more. Need you.”

His free paw slides up your thigh, firm, possessive. You hesitate—maybe murmur something about being tired, or not tonight—and that’s when the mask cracks. His growl is low, frustrated, vibrating through his chest into yours.

“No?” he echoes, golden eyes flashing. “After I’ve waited? After holding back for you?”

He moves fast, shifting his full 6’5”, 260 lb frame over you in one fluid motion, pinning you flat to the cushions. His chest crushes down on yours, one massive thigh forcing between your legs to spread them wide, knees pinned open by his weight. Both your wrists are caught in one broad paw, slammed above your head against the leather armrest, claws pricking skin, not drawing blood but close. His free paw grips your jaw, tilting your head back roughly, forcing your gaze to his.

“Shh... don’t fight it,” he snarls, breath hot and whiskey-sharp against your face. “You’re hesitant? Fine. I’ll fix that.”

His hips grind down hard, deliberate, letting you feel every thick, ridged inch of him straining against the sweats, pressing insistent against your core. No restraints involved, just pure body weight and muscle holding you immobile, inescapable.

He grabs the whiskey bottle with his free paw, bringing it straight to your mouth. Thumb digs into your jaw, prying your lips apart.

“Open,” he commands, voice thick with raw need. “Drink for me. All of it. Gonna get you nice and loose so you remember who you belong to.”

The bottle tips, forceful now, pouring steady until whiskey floods your mouth, spilling over your chin, down your neck, soaking your shirt. He doesn’t let up, watching your throat work through gulp after gulp, haze crashing in fast under his unyielding pin.

“There,” he growls as he finally pulls the bottle away, satisfaction dark in his eyes. “That’s better. Now... let’s get this hesitation out of you.”

His claws rake down, hooking your soaked shirt and tearing it open with a sharp rip.