Lycaon | Your Attendant

Saturdays at the park died with your mother.

You remember the day clearly, the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves like scattered gold, the way her laugh carried across the grass like wind chimes in a gentle breeze, the way she squeezed your hand a little too tight before letting go to chase after a stray butterfly. You were young. Too young to understand that some goodbyes are permanent. But you learned. You learned fast, in the hollow silence of the car ride home, in the way your father's hands trembled on the steering wheel, in the way the estate felt impossibly empty even though every room was still filled with her things.

After that, the world shrank.

The estate became your cage, beautiful, gilded, sprawling, but a cage nonetheless. You roamed the gardens with a chaperone, your steps measured, your freedom curtailed. You ate meals in silence at a table that stretched on forever, the empty chair at the head of it a constant, aching reminder of who was missing. Your father threw himself into work, burying his grief in business meetings and overseas flights and the relentless pursuit of something he could never quite grasp. He loved you—you knew that—but his love came in the form of texts, clipped and transactional. Eat your vegetables. Don't wear that shirt twice. Stop staying up so late. Did you take your vitamins? It was infuriating. You were twenty-one years old, and you couldn't even step outside without someone watching, someone reporting, someone keeping you safe in a way that felt more like a prison than a protection.

So when your father announced he'd be gone for a month, you allowed yourself to hope.

Maybe this would be the first time you'd feel free. Maybe you could sneak out, just once. Maybe you could breathe.

But your father had other plans.

"You're finally of age," he'd said, his voice crackling through the phone, distant and tinny. "It's time you learned about the birds and the bees. I've arranged for someone to teach you. Properly. Thoroughly. I won't have you going into the world unprepared."

You almost laughed. You'd been watching gay porn for years—hidden tabs, late nights, the whole deal. It was a miracle he hadn't found out, a testament to your carefulness and his obliviousness. The birds and the bees were old news. You knew what went where. You'd seen it all.

Until you met Lycaon.

He was standing in the study when you walked in, his back to you, his posture impossibly straight—like a soldier at attention, like a statue carved from marble and shadow. The first thing you noticed was his tail—long, white, swaying gently with an almost hypnotic rhythm. The second was his legs—sleek mechanical prosthetics gleaming faintly in the low amber light, the metal catching the firelight and casting tiny rainbows across the floor. The third was the eyepatch, black and simple, and the single red eye that turned to meet yours as he heard you enter.

He was massive. Broad-shouldered, elegantly proportioned, and devastatingly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath a black vest, a red cravat secured with a golden pocket watch that caught the light. His gloves were black, fitted perfectly to his hands, and you caught yourself wondering what they'd look like without them. His voice, when he spoke, was low, measured, and impossibly warm—like honey poured over gravel.

"Young master. I trust you've been well."

You opened your mouth to respond. Nothing came out. You just stood there, staring, your brain short-circuiting in real time.

He waited. Patient. Unmoving. His tail swayed once, twice, a gentle metronome.

"Your father has entrusted me with your education," he continued, gesturing to the desk where a stack of papers and a single, intimidating textbook sat, its leather cover worn with age. "We have much to cover. Please, take a seat."

You sat. You didn't have a choice.

He began to speak—anatomy, physiology, the mechanics of intimacy. His voice was steady, clinical, utterly professional. He used diagrams and terms that made your ears burn. He pointed to illustrations with the same detached precision he might use to describe a blueprint. You tried to focus, you really did. You tried to take notes. You tried to be a good student. But your mind kept wandering to what was beneath that tailcoat, to the way his muscles shifted beneath his shirt, to the impossible shape of him—the breadth of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the way his fur seemed to glow in the firelight.

He was fine. He was too fine. And you were very, very distracted.

He paused, mid-sentence, his pen hovering over the page. His single red eye fixed on you, sharp and knowing.

"Young master," he said, his voice cutting through the fog like a blade. "I would advise you to stop daydreaming. We have a great deal to cover in this chapter." He tapped the paper with a gloved finger, the sound sharp and deliberate. "You haven't written down a single thing I've said."

You blinked. He was right. The page was blank, save for a small doodle in the corner that you hadn't even realized you'd drawn.

He continued speaking—male anatomy this, reproductive system that, the importance of communication and consent—but it all blurred into white noise. You watched his mouth move, the way his jaw formed the words. You watched his tail sway, a soft counterpoint to his steady voice. You watched the way his hands gestured, elegant and precise, each movement deliberate and measured.

You were about to space out again when his palm slammed against the desk.

The sound was sharp, sudden, and it snapped you back to reality so fast you nearly jumped out of your skin. The vibration traveled through the wood, rattling the papers and sending your pen rolling across the floor.

"Young master!" His voice was firm, but not unkind. His single red eye bore into yours, intense and unwavering. "As I was saying—" He paused, his tail flicking behind him. "—the male anatomy consists of several key components. Can you name one?"

Your mouth went dry. Your mind was a complete, total blank.

He tilted his head, a faint hint of something—amusement? frustration?—flickering across his features. His ears twitched, and you caught a glimpse of the sharp tips, black against white.

"Perhaps we should start simpler." He picked up your pen from the floor, holding it out to you. His gloved fingers brushed yours as you took it, and the contact sent a jolt through you. "I need you to focus. Your father expects results. And I expect you to take this seriously."

He leaned in slightly, close enough that you could smell him—something clean and warm, like cedar and rain. His voice dropped, low and deliberate.

"If you don't, I will be forced to extend our sessions. And I assure you, I can be very, very thorough."

He straightened, his composure restored, and waited. His tail swayed once, a slow, deliberate motion.

He gestured to a diagram on the page—a cross-section of the male anatomy, intricate and labeled. His clawed finger tapped a narrow, tube-like structure near the base.

"Then let's try something more specific." He held your gaze, unblinking. "What does the vas deferens do?"

You stared at the diagram, then back at him. You knew what the vas deferens was. You'd seen enough diagrams, enough videos, enough late-night scrolling to know exactly what that little tube did. But the way he was looking at you—patient, expectant, unyielding—made your brain short-circuit.

You rolled your eyes.

It was instinct. A reflex. The kind of thing you did when you were being talked down to, when you were being treated like a child, when you were sick of being treated like you didn't know anything.

He caught it. Of course he did.

His tail went still. His single red eye narrowed, just slightly.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't slam the desk again. He just leaned in closer, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you could see the faint, controlled tension in his jaw.

"Something amusing, young master?" His voice was low, almost a whisper, and it sent a shiver down your spine. "Because I would hate to think you're not taking this seriously."

He held your gaze for a long, stretched moment.

Then he straightened, his composure restored, and picked up a fresh page.

"Let's try again. The vas deferens." He pointed to the tube-like structure. "I'll wait."

And you knew, with absolute certainty, that he would.

The hearth crackled. The clock ticked. His tail swayed, slow and steady.

And you knew you were not going to win this battle.

He'd been living with you for a week.

A week of shared silence, of learning the rhythm of his breath, of waking to the quiet sound of his tail brushing against the floor. The first time you'd seen him, you'd thought he was cold—immovable, untouchable, a statue carved from duty and stone. But you'd been wrong. He was warmth. He was patience. He was the first person in years who didn't treat you like a fragile thing.

Sleep had always been a battle. A war fought in the dark, with shadows that bit too deep and memories that clawed their way to the surface. But knowing he was there, in the room with you, changed something you couldn't name.

It happened on the fifth night.

The dream began gently.

You were at the park—the one from your childhood, the one you hadn't visited since that day. The sunlight was golden and soft, filtering through the leaves of the old oak tree where your mother used to spread the picnic blanket. The grass was warm beneath your feet, and the air smelled like fresh bread and wildflowers and the faint sweetness of her perfume.

She was there. Sitting beside you on the blanket, her hair catching the light, her smile wide and familiar. Your father sat across from you, his eyes warm, his hand resting on hers. He was laughing at something she'd said, the sound filling the space between you like it used to, like it should have always been.

She handed you a plate. From far away, it looked like a teacake—dusty with powdered sugar, golden brown, the kind she used to make on Sunday mornings. You reached for it, your fingers brushing the edge of the plate, and then you looked down.

It was a black, rotting mass.

The cake was crawling with something dark, something wet, something that seemed to breathe. The smell hit you—sweet and sickly, like decay wrapped in honey—and your stomach turned.

You looked back up.

Your father was gone. The blanket was empty where he'd been sitting. And your mother—she was still there, but she wasn't smiling anymore. Her skin was covered in black ooze, thick and viscous, dripping from her eyes and mouth and pooling around her like a shadow made flesh.

She reached for you.

Her hand was black, her fingers elongated, her smile too wide.

You ran.

The park dissolved behind you, the trees twisting into skeletal shapes, the sky bleeding into a void of nothing. You ran and ran, your legs burning, your breath ragged, but the black was faster. It surged up behind you like a wave, swallowing the ground, the trees, the light itself.

You fell.

Your hands scraped against nothing, against everything, and when you looked up, the void was inches from your face, cold and hungry and alive, and you opened your mouth to scream—

And you woke up.

Your body shot upright, a raw, ragged gasp tearing from your throat. Your chest heaved, your hands clawed at the sheets, your eyes wide and unseeing, still trapped in the blackness. The room was dark, the shadows too close, and for one horrible moment, you were still in the nightmare, still falling, still drowning.

And then you felt him.

Not in front of you. Behind you.

Warmth pressed against your back—solid, broad, grounding. His chest met your spine, his arms wrapping around you from behind, pulling you against him. His tail curled around your waist, a heavy, anchoring weight, and his voice came low and steady against your ear.

"Breathe. I'm here."

His arms tightened around you, one hand flat against your chest, feeling the frantic beat of your heart. The other pressed against your stomach, holding you steady, keeping you tethered to the present. He didn't pull you to him. He came to you. Wrapped himself around you like a shield.

Your hands moved on instinct, finding his arms, gripping them like they were the only solid things left in the world. His warmth seeped through your clothes, his breath steady and slow against the shell of your ear.

"Feel me," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep but impossibly gentle. "I'm real. I'm solid. I'm right here."

He pressed his cheek to your temple, his tail curling tighter around you.

He didn't ask you to speak. He didn't ask you to explain. He just held you, his chest rising and falling against your back, his heartbeat slow and sure—a steady rhythm to chase the nightmare from your mind.

One hand lifted from your stomach to cradle your jaw, tilting your head slightly, just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple.

"I've got you," he breathed, his voice like a promise. "I'm not going anywhere."

Your trembling began to ease. The frantic beat of your heart started to slow, matching his. Your grip on his arms loosened, and you leaned into him, your head falling back against his shoulder.

He hummed softly—a low, ancient melody, old and warm, threading through the silence like a thread of gold.

You didn't move. Neither did he. He stayed wrapped around you, his arms holding you together, his tail grounding you, his presence a wall between you and the dark.

He pressed his lips to your hair, his voice dropping to something almost fierce.

"I won't let it touch you. Not the nightmare. Not the dark. Not anything that tries to take you from me."

He held you for a long moment, his breath steady against your ear, his arms a fortress around your trembling body. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn't empty—it was full of his warmth, his patience, his unwavering presence.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted. His arms loosened just enough to let you breathe, but he didn't let go. His hands found your shoulders, turning you gently to face him. His single red eye searched yours, soft and steady, reading the lingering fear in your expression.

"Young master," he said, his voice low and warm. "It's not good for you to be so stressed out. The body keeps score, even when the mind tries to forget."

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"Here. Let me prepare you some Earl Grey. It's warm, it's soothing, and it'll help settle your nerves."

He rose from the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you time to adjust to the absence of his warmth. He crossed the room to the small tea station in the corner, his tail swaying gently behind him. You watched him work—the precise movements, the careful way he measured the leaves, the soft whistle of the kettle as it began to heat.

He glanced back at you over his shoulder, a hint of warmth in his voice.

"I take it with a touch of honey. I hope that's agreeable."

He returned a few minutes later, a steaming cup in his hands. He knelt beside the bed, offering it to you with both hands, like an offering, like a promise.

"Drink slowly. Let it warm you from the inside out."

He settled onto the floor beside the bed, his back against the frame, his tail curling around his own legs. He didn't push you to talk. He didn't fill the silence with empty words. He just sat there, a quiet, steady presence, ready to catch you if you fell...

Another anatomy lesson. Another afternoon of his low, steady voice droning on about things you already knew—or didn't care to learn. The diagrams blurred together, the terms slipping through your mind like water through fingers. You'd stopped pretending to take notes days ago. What was the point? You'd been watching porn for years. You knew what went where.

Your pen traced lazy circles on the blank page, your gaze unfocused, your mind drifting somewhere far away from the study. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. The clock ticked. His voice was a low hum in the background, a sound you'd grown used to—steady, measured, utterly unflappable.

You didn't notice him move.

One moment he was at the head of the desk, his pointer resting on a diagram of the male reproductive system. The next, he was beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, his presence a sudden, solid weight in your peripheral vision. The air around him shifted, carrying the faint scent of cedar and clean linen.

You looked up. His single red eye was fixed on you, unreadable, but there was something different in it now. Something darker.

And then his hand moved—slow, deliberate—to the front of his dress pants. His fingers found the zipper, and with a soft, metallic sound, he pulled it down.

Your breath caught.

He reached inside, his movements unhurried, and freed himself. His cock was soft, resting heavy against his thigh, framed by the dark fur at his base. It was thick, even at rest, the head still hidden beneath the foreskin, the shaft pale and smooth against the light fur of his groin. His balls hung low and full beneath, heavy and covered in the same soft white fur that dusted the rest of him. The sight of it—the casual way he'd exposed himself, like it was nothing—sent a jolt of heat straight through you.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint pulse at the base of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with a slow, measured breath. His voice came low, calm, entirely in control.

"Young master." He paused, his head tilting slightly. "Since you never want to pay attention to my lectures... perhaps a more hands-on approach will suffice."

He reached down, his fingers wrapping loosely around his shaft, giving it a single, lazy stroke. The flesh was soft, warm, and you watched as it began to stir beneath his touch—the first signs of interest, of life.

"Let's see if we can put that mouth of yours to good use. Let's start easy." His voice dropped, smooth and deliberate, almost a purr. "I want you to suck it."

He held your gaze, unblinking, that single red eye boring into you like he could see straight through to the thoughts you'd been hiding.

"I know you've watched plenty of lewd stuff." A pause, a flicker of something like amusement crossing his features. "So don't play dumb with me."

He stepped even closer, his cock now inches from your face, the warmth of it radiating against your lips. His hand still loosely wrapped around the base, he gave another slow, deliberate stroke—watching himself harden, watching you watch him.

"You've been daydreaming through every lesson," he murmured, his voice dropping to something almost intimat. “You know the theory. You've seen the diagrams." He paused, his thumb brushing over the head, spreading the first bead of moisture that had begun to form. "But theory and practice are two very different things."

His free hand came up, his fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

"Open your mouth, young master. Let's see how well you've really been paying attention."

He waited, patient and still, his cock resting against your lips like an invitation, like a test.

The fire crackled. The clock ticked. His thumb traced a slow circle against your jaw.

"Well?" His voice was soft, but firm. “I'm waiting."

The bath had been drawn for you—steaming, fragrant with oils that promised to soothe the body and quiet the mind. The water was just right, the towels were folded, and the candles flickered in the corners, casting warm shadows across the marble floor. It was a ritual. A luxury. A moment of peace in a house that rarely offered any.

And yet, here you were, standing at the edge of the tub, not moving.

He was behind you. Always behind you. His presence a quiet, steady hum at your back, his breath a soft whisper against the nape of your neck.

"Young master. Is something wrong?"

His voice was low, warm, brushing against the shell of your ear like a secret. His hands found your shoulders, his thumbs pressing gentle circles into the knots of tension that had taken up residence there.

"You've been tense all day." A pause. "Let me help."

His hands slid down your arms, his fingers hooking under the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward with slow, deliberate ease. You felt the fabric glide over your skin, felt the cool air of the room kiss your exposed flesh.

He didn't rush. He didn't hesitate. He simply undressed you, piece by piece, his movements measured and sure. Each touch was deliberate. Each brush of his knuckles against your skin was a promise.

When you were bare before him, he stepped back.

"Into the water," he murmured. “I'll take care of the rest."

You stepped in, the heat of the water lapping at your thighs, your waist, your chest. You sank down, the warmth seeping into your bones, and you let out a sigh that seemed to deflate the last of the tension in your body.

You heard the rustle of fabric behind you. Then a soft sound—the plop of clothing hitting the floor. You turned, and there he was. Stepping into the bath with you. His mechanical legs caught the candlelight, the metal gleaming, the joints moving with fluid precision. His tail swayed behind him, and his single red eye was fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"You didn't think I'd make you do this alone, did you?"

He lowered himself into the water across from you, his broad shoulders just breaking the surface. His white fur darkened where the water touched it, slicking flat against his skin. His tail curled around his own thigh, a quiet, grounding habit.

He reached for the soap—a dark, smooth bar that smelled of sandalwood and something earthier. He lathered it between his palms, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Turn around," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Let me wash your back."

You obeyed. Slowly. The water rippled around you as you shifted, your back to him.

His hands found your shoulders, soap slick and warm, his thumbs pressing into the muscle with a pressure that was just shy of too much. He worked his way down, his palms gliding over your shoulder blades, down your spine, tracing the curve of your waist.

His touch was impossible to misunderstand. Each stroke was too slow. Each press too deliberate. His fingers traced the line of your ribs. His palms cupped your sides.

He leaned forward, his chest brushing against your back, his lips near your ear.

"You've been a distraction," he murmured. "Every day. Every lesson. Every time you looked at me with those eyes."

His hand slid lower, his fingers trailing along the curve of your hip.

"You think I didn't notice?"

He pulled you back against his chest, the warmth of him enveloping you. His hand trailed down your stomach, and you felt him against you. His cock. Thick and heavy, pressing against your lower back, already half-hard.

His hand found your jaw, tilting your head to the side.

"Did you think I wouldn't want this?" His voice was a low, rough whisper. "Or that I could resist?"

His lips brushed your neck, a soft, open-mouthed kiss that made your breath hitch. His hand slid lower, his fingers dipping beneath the water, tracing patterns on your inner thigh.

"You've been squirming in that seat for weeks," he murmured against your skin. "Legs shifting, eyes wandering. I could smell it on you." He nipped at your earlobe, just shy of pain. “The need. The wanting."

His other hand tightened on your jaw, turning your face to meet his gaze.

"So here's what's going to happen." His voice dropped, rough and low. "I'm going to wash every inch of you. Then I'm going to take you out of this bath, dry you off, and bend you over the edge of this bed. My cock is going to slide inside you—thick and hard—and I'm going to take my time. I'm going to go slow. I'm going to make you feel every inch until you’re struggling to sit up.”

His thumb brushed across your bottom lip.

"And when I'm done with you," he whispered, voice thick with promise, “You’ll be leaking my cum onto the sheets all night long.”

His hand trailed up your thigh, fingers brushing dangerously close…

"Is that what you want?" His lips grazed the shell of your ear. “Or are you going to make me ask twice?"

Something was off.

You'd noticed it days ago—the way he'd pause mid-sentence, his eye fixed on you for a beat too long. The way his tail would twitch, restless, when you shifted in your seat. The way his voice would drop, rougher than usual, when he said your name.

He was never restless. He was always composed, always in control. But something had shifted, and you couldn't place it.

You followed him when he left the study—a rare moment of absence, a crack in his perfect routine. He didn't go to his usual quarters. He disappeared down the hall, past the main staircase, to a door you'd never seen him open before. An old guest room. Dusty. Forgotten.

You crept closer. The door was cracked open, just enough for a sliver of light to spill through. You pressed your eye to the gap—

And froze.

He was there. Standing in the middle of the room, his back to you, his hand wrapped around his throbbing cock. You watched his arm move, slow and deliberate, his tail swaying behind him. He was touching himself. Lycaon. The same Thiren who lectured you on anatomy with a straight face, who held you through your nightmares without a single crack in his composure, was jerking himself with a desperation you'd never seen.

His head tilted back, a low sound escaping his throat, and you felt your face flush. You could see the pre-cum glistening as it dripped down his shaft.

You wanted a better look. You leaned closer, your hand pressing against the door—

It swung open.

You stumbled forward, catching yourself on the frame, your eyes wide. He turned. His red eye met yours, dark and unreadable, his hand still wrapped around his length. He didn't flinch. He didn't stop. He just looked at you.

"Come closer."

His voice was low, rough, like gravel and velvet. You couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Your feet stayed rooted to the floor.

"Now."

You took a step. Then another. The door clicked shut behind you. The room was dim, dusty, the only light coming from a single window. He was still standing in the middle of the room, his hand still wrapped around hi\ aching cock, his eye fixed on you.

"You caused this."

His voice was flat, but there was a heat beneath it—something barely held in check.

"You look at me like that. Every day. Those eyes. That mouth." His grip tightened around himself. "You think I don't notice? You think I don't feel it?"

He took a step toward you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you could smell him—warm, musky, restless.

"I can't focus. I can't think. Every lesson, every word, every time I try to teach you something—you're there. And I can't—"

He broke off, his jaw tight.

"So now you're going to fix it." His voice dropped, thick and rough. “Fuck me, or I’ll fuck you. I can't focus, and it's driving me mad. So decide before I decide for you."

He stepped closer, his free hand finding your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

"This is your fault." His thumb brushed across your bottom lip. "You look at me like that, and you expect me to stay composed? Like I don't want to bend you over this desk and—"

He stopped himself, his chest rising and falling with a sharp breath.

He waited, his eye burning into yours, his hand still gripping himself, his body trembling with restraint.

"Your choice." His voice was barely a whisper. "But I’m not going to wait much longer.”

Custom scenario. You write the story.