Dorm Room Fun!
By: Mikolai
"Did you see the new graffiti?" Rylan's friend Jasper asked, nudging him as they pushed through the heavy oak doors. Outside, fading shouts echoed across manicured lawns where some kids kicked a soccer ball toward the chapel.

"Not yet," Rylan murmured. He kept his gaze fixed on the worn hallway tiles beneath his polished school shoes. The corridor smelled faintly of lemon cleaner, and damp wool uniforms hung to dry nearby. His own dark fur, a deep honey-gold that seemed almost amber under electric lights, was slightly ruffled after a long afternoon. He could feel sweat cooling on his shoulders where his backpack straps dug in.

At fourteen, he still hadn't hit the growth spurt most boys did, leaving him lean and wiry. Standing barely five feet tall, he often found himself dodging taller classmates' elbows in crowded hallways. His height made him quick, though; he moved with a dancer's precision. The fur around his muzzle remained soft and short, showing hints of the white markings common among Shiba dob hybrids.

His honey-gold fur darkened along his spine, fading into cream on his belly and legs. Under harsh fluorescent lights, it shimmered like antique amber. He kept the longer fur atop his head trimmed short—almost military neat—to avoid the school matron's complaints about 'unkempt appearances'. Yet rebellious tufts always sprang forward between his ears, resisting pomade and brushes alike. Those green eyes, startlingly vibrant against his warm coat, scanned the hallway like searchlights.

Seriously? Jasper asked, flicking his wiry tail impatiently. The Dalmatian mix leaned in, his spotted muzzle wrinkling as he pointed out, "It's right above the trophy case in the East Wing. Someone painted a large pair of scissors, resembling dressmaker shears, cutting through the headmaster's portrait!" Jasper’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "And you know what the seniors are saying? It’s all about the new haircut policy."

Rylan’s bark-laugh echoed sharply against the stone walls of the corridor. "Scissors? That’s actually pretty clever," he snorted, his green eyes crinkling with amusement. "Old Withers finally lost it because Timothy’s topknot was ‘distracting the humanities class’?" He shook his head, his rebellious forehead tufts bouncing. "I bet it was Fiona—she's been sneaking ink pods out of art class since the term began." Even as he chuckled, a yawn split his jaw wide open. The weight of his calculus textbook pressed more heavily into his shoulders, and suddenly, the lemon-scented air felt thick and almost syrupy.

Jasper leaned in conspiratorially, his spotted ears twitching forward. "Nah, whispers say it’s linked to the fundraiser," he hissed. "The dean wants all donations earmarked ‘for essential grooming supplies’ now. Think about it—forced trims using our charity pennies!" He puffed out his speckled chest indignantly. Rylan just rubbed the bridge of his muzzle where exhaustion settled like dust. Jasper’s outrage washed over him like distant radio static. The image of his narrow dorm bed—the dented pillow smelling faintly of cedar chips and home—pulled at him with near-physical force. Each step towards the East Wing stairwell felt like wading through knee-deep mud.

"Look," Rylan interrupted gently, his voice raspy from fatigue. He paused near the stairwell, shifting his backpack strap, digging into his shoulder. Below them, muffled shouts drifted from the soccer field—a sharp whistle, then laughter. "I’m dead on my paws, Jasp. Calculus bled my brain dry." He offered a tired grin, his green eyes softening. "Tell me everything at dinner? Promise." Jasper’s tail drooped fractionally, but he nodded quickly, giving Rylan’s arm a friendly cuff. "Sure thing. Go recharge. You look like a chewed-up tennis ball." He bounded off toward the commotion, his own energy seemingly limitless.

Rylan climbed the worn East Wing stairs slowly. The cold iron railing trembled faintly with each footfall, vibrating through his paw pads. The air grew warmer as he ascended, carrying a comforting scent of aged wood polish and beeswax mingled with the faintest hint of wet dog fur drifting from an open laundry chute nearby. His ears flicked toward the muffled thump of a dorm door swinging shut somewhere above. He passed, landing after landing, each punctuated by identical oak doors lining shadowed corridors. Behind some, tinny music pulsed; behind others, muffled arguments or bursts of laughter echoed.

Finally, he arrived at the third-floor landing. His door was halfway along the hall, marked only by a slightly crooked brass plaque nailed onto the dark wood: *RYLAN SHAW & SYLVESTER PIPPIN*. Beneath the neatly printed names, someone had scratched a small cartoon rat face wearing a top hat into the varnish – Sylvester’s handiwork from last term. Rylan searched his blazer pocket for the worn brass key, feeling its familiar grooves pressing into his palm. The lock clicked open with a solid sound that always made it feel like shedding armor.

Inside, the familiar scent greeted him immediately, old paperbacks mingling with the faint metallic scent of Sylvester’s favorite horror-movie-merch spray cleaner. Their shared dorm was a narrow rectangular space with twin beds pushed against opposite walls, flanked by identical oak wardrobes and small desks. Sunlight, now softening into apricot hues of early evening, streamed through the tall window, casting dust motes that floated like tiny stars. Rylan’s side was a chaotic but organized shrine: posters of pixelated warriors leaping and blurry athletes frozen mid-dash decorated the pale blue wall above his bed. A small soccer ball trophy sat precariously atop his teetering calculus textbooks. His bedspread, a deep forest green fleece, was neatly tucked in—an effort to pass the matron’s inspections.

Sylvester Pippin, a mouse, ruled his shadowy realm across the room. He was sprawled on his rumpled black comforter, with his laptop on his knees, its eerie blue light casting angular shadows on his face. His wall was decorated with posters showing grinning skeletons, dripping spectral hands, and a disturbing close-up of a decaying zombie rat's muzzle with bared teeth. At fourteen, like Rylan, Sylvester had a sharp, wiry appearance. His sleek, dusty grey-black fur resembled charcoal mixed with ash. His wide, intensely purple eyes fixed on the screen, lit by the laptop. His hair was cut very short, almost buzzed, highlighting the sharpness of his ears and the delicate, intelligent contours of his narrow muzzle.

"Hey, Spooky," Rylan greeted warmly, despite Sylvester's grim look. His voice broke the quiet. He removed his shiny school shoes with a sigh of relief, the muffled thuds on the worn rug. Cold air brushed over his socked paws, a joyful relief after hours in leather. Rylan closed the door and set his backpack on the floor.

Sylvester kept his gaze fixed on the flickering laptop, his purple eyes unblinking while his fingers danced quickly over the keyboard. The room was filled with an eerie soundtrack of muffled whispers and discordant strings. He muttered, "Boss fight," as his thin muzzle tightened. "The Drowned Librarian keeps summoning ink specters."

Rylan rested against his wardrobe, a gentle chuckle escaping him. Watching Sylvester so deeply absorbed always made the mouse boy oddly charming—his nose twitching with concentration, his expressive ears tilting forward like satellite dishes, and the tip of his tail flicking against the mattress in time with his keystrokes. Truly, Sylvester in his purest form. But Rylan knew exactly how to break that intense focus. Fatigue settled in his bones like cold wire, yet a familiar mischievous spark flashed—bright and reckless.

He began peeling off his school uniform with practiced efficiency. First came the navy blazer, tossed carelessly toward his desk chair. Then the striped tie, unknotted with a single tug. The stiff white shirt followed, buttons popping open down his lean torso. Honey-gold fur, darker along his spine and creamy across his belly, caught the fading apricot light from the window. He kicked off his socks last, sighing as cool air kissed his paw pads fully.

His movements were unhurried, almost languid. Off came the grey trousers, which pooled around his ankles before he stepped free. Standing naked now in the center of their shared space, Rylan stretched, muscles shifting beneath sleek fur. His physique was wiry, adolescent-lean but hinting at future strength. Below the soft swell of his belly, his flaccid cock hung soft against his thigh—a thick, uncut cock nestled in a neat patch of slightly darker amber fur. The pubic fur was dense and springy, a warm contrast to the smoother fur covering his inner thighs. He scratched idly at it, a yawn cracking his jaws again. The faint scent of clean sweat and cedar chips clung to him.

He padded barefoot across the worn rug—cool threads beneath his paws—and settled onto his forest-green bedspread. The fleece felt incredibly soft against his furred back as he sighed with relief. Resting on an elbow, he observed Sylvester. The mouse boy stayed completely absorbed, the laptop's flickering blue glow highlighting the hollows under his cheekbones. His purple eyes followed the frantic movements on the screen. Occasionally, Sylvester let out a low snarl when an ink specter slipped past his defenses, or a triumphant huff when a spell hit its target. Soft clicking sounds came from his claws tapping the keys.

Rylan stretched deliberately, arms above his head. His lean torso arched, muscles pulling taut beneath honey-gold fur. Shafts of light caught the subtle ripple along his ribs, the darker amber fur tracing his spine downwards toward his tailbone. He shifted his legs slightly, letting the fading sunlight illuminate the dense, darker amber curls nestled at the junction of his thighs. The thick, soft shape of his flaccid cock rested against his inner thigh, a vulnerable intimacy in the quiet room. Dust motes drifted lazily nearby. Sylvester’s claws clicked faster.

A discordant screech burst from the laptop speakers—a sound like a digital ghost tearing through virtual pages. Sylvester hissed through clenched teeth, purple eyes narrowing in frustration. "Damned inkblot!" he spat, tail flicking against the black comforter. His gaze quickly shot upward, instinctively looking for Rylan’s reaction to his gaming loss—and then froze. The blue screen’s glow cast sharp angles on Sylvester’s charcoal muzzle, but his wide purple eyes dilated immediately, pupils engulfing the luminous irises. His nostrils fluttered subtly. The frantic keystrokes stopped abruptly. The librarian’s muffled, watery moan faded into the background noise.

Rylan met that stunned gaze steadily. He didn’t cover himself; instead, he shifted languidly on the green fleece. One knee bent slightly, drawing Sylvester’s wide-eyed stare downward. The fading apricot light spilled warmly across Rylan’s lean thigh, highlighting the dense amber curls at its root and the thick, soft weight resting against his skin. A slow smile touched Rylan’s muzzle. "Game over already?" he murmured, his voice husky with fatigue and with something else, low and thrumming beneath the tiredness. He scratched idly at his belly, drawing Sylvester’s hypnotized gaze upwards again. "My brain’s fried, Spooky… calculus feels like it sucked my soul out." He paused, letting the quiet stretch thick with unspoken tension. The scent of warm fur and cedar chips filled the space between them. "But my body," he added softly, letting his paw drift leisurely down toward his inner thigh, fingers brushing the dense springy fur, "woke up hungry."

Sylvester sucked in a sharp breath. The laptop slid sideways onto the mattress, forgotten, its eerie blue glow still casting harsh shadows across his face. His purple eyes were enormous, locked on Rylan’s deliberate movements. He swallowed audibly, the sound loud in the sudden stillness. A flush crept beneath his grey-black fur, visible even in the dim light, spreading from his muzzle down his slender neck. His tail twitched violently against the black comforter. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even seem to breathe—just stared, rapt, pupils blown wide. The tips of his ears burned crimson.

Rylan’s paw drifted lower, fingers tangling gently in the dense, warm curls at the base of his cock. He traced the soft ridge of skin beneath the shaft, a feather-light touch that sent a visible tremor through Sylvester’s frame. The mouse boy’s lips parted slightly. "Hungry?" Sylvester echoed, his voice thin and raspy, a mere whisper scraped raw. His gaze clung to Rylan’s paw, tracking every minute shift. He shifted awkwardly on the bed, knees pressing together as a noticeable bulge tented the front of his black uniform trousers. A faint, sharp scent—musky and urgent—blended with the room's familiar smells of paper and cleaning spray.

"Starving," Rylan murmured, his green eyes hooded, a smirk playing on his muzzle. He lifted his hips slightly, offering a clearer view. Dust motes swirled in the fading apricot light, catching on the sheen of honey-gold fur. His cock, still soft but thickening visibly now, lay heavy against his thigh. The silence stretched taut, charged as a storm gathering. Sylvester remained frozen, ears pinned flat, tail tip flicking wildly. "Seriously, dude?" Rylan finally yelled, letting impatience lace his tone. His paw ceased its lazy exploration. "Are you gonna stare all damn day?" He arched an eyebrow, a challenge flashing in his gaze. "Or are you gonna come over here and fuck me?"

The words shattered Sylvester’s paralysis. He lurched off the black comforter like a puppet whose strings were abruptly yanked. Fumbling wildly, he ripped at his own uniform buttons, fingers trembling against stiff fabric. His navy blazer sailed across the room, forgotten. The striped tie choked him briefly before flinging away. Frantic energy consumed him; trousers pooled around his ankles, white shirt tossed aside in a crumpled heap. He kicked free, stumbling towards Rylan’s bed naked, charcoal-grey fur gleaming under the window’s dying light.

Sylvester’s physique unfolded lean and wiry, taut with adolescent urgency. His chest was narrow, ribs visible beneath sleek fur. Below, nestled amidst dense pubic curls, the deep grey-black of storm clouds, his cock stood thick and rigid. Fully erect, it jutted proudly—a flushed, ruddy pink shaft stark against dark fur. The head flared slightly, slick with pre-cum that glistened in the apricot light. Veins pulsed visibly along its length, twitching with each rapid heartbeat. He was uncut, the foreskin tautly drawn back against the flare of the glans. The dense patch of wiry fur at its base was darker than the rest of his belly fur, thick and slightly coarse.

He scrambled back towards his bed, movements jerky and desperate. His sharp claws scraped against the worn rug as he dropped to his knees beside the dusty bed frame. Fumbling beneath the heavy oak wardrobe, Sylvester pried a loose floorboard free with frantic urgency. Shadows swallowed his frantic paw as it plunged into the dusty cavity. He withdrew two foil-wrapped condoms and a small, unmarked bottle of clear lube. The foil packets gleamed dully in the fading light. He clutched them tight, knuckles pale beneath his fur.

Across the room, Rylan pushed himself onto his elbows, honey-gold fur rippling. His gaze tracked Sylvester’s movements with hooded intensity. The apricot light caught the growing hardness between his thighs, the flushed tip already wetting the fur beneath. He shifted, rolling sideways with feline grace, snagging his discarded trousers from the floor. Fingers dug deep into the pocket, retrieving a sleek, black phone. The screen flared to life, bathing his muzzle in a brief blue-white glare. He tapped quickly, scrolling through playlists. A low, throbbing bassline filled the room almost instantly – deep electronic pulses layered beneath distorted synths. The volume climbed steadily, a wall of sound designed to swallow sharper noises: gasps, cries, the rhythmic slap of skin on fur. Dust motes danced violently in the sonic currents. Rylan puts the phone by his bed.

Sylvester scrambled onto the fleece bedspread, knees sinking into its softness beside Rylan’s hip. His charcoal fur was sleek with nervous sweat, the scent sharp and musky beneath the cedar-chip warmth. Breath came in shallow, rapid pants. He clutched the condom foil packet, fingers trembling as he tried to tear it, blunt claws scraping uselessly against the slick plastic. Panic widened his purple eyes further; the foil slipped, bouncing onto the fleece near Rylan’s thigh. Sylvester made a choked noise and lunged for it.

Rylan’s paw intercepted his wrist gently—a firm, warm pressure halting the frantic movement. “Whoa there, Spooky,” he murmured, his voice low and smoky, barely audible above the throbbing bassline. He traced Sylvester’s knuckles with a thumb pad, feeling the tremor beneath slick fur. “Easy.” Sylvester froze, pupils huge, lips parted. Sweat dampened the fur at his temples. Rylan’s other paw rose, fingertips brushing Sylvester’s sharp jawline, tilting his muzzle down. “You’re forgetting the best part,” Rylan breathed, green eyes locked onto Sylvester’s stunned face. “Slow down. Kiss me first.”

Sylvester froze for a moment, like a statue carved from panic. Then, a shudder ran through him. His eyes fluttered shut as Rylan’s muzzle touched his. The first contact was gentle, almost a whisper—warm breath blending, noses softly brushing. Sylvester could faintly taste nervous salt and the metallic tang of horror movie caffeine drinks. Rylan tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his lips parting to invite Sylvester’s. The mouse boy gasped into his mouth, a raw sound that was swallowed by the hum of synths.

Sylvester melted against him, trembling hands clutching Rylan’s shoulders. His claws pricked lightly through fur, grounding him. Rylan’s tongue slid against his—slow, deliberate, exploring the soft heat. Sylvester moaned low in his throat, the vibration humming against Rylan’s muzzle. The frantic energy bled away, replaced by a dazed urgency. He kissed back clumsily at first, all sharp angles and desperate pressure, mimicking Rylan’s movements. Then instinct took over. His lips grew pliant, moving in slow, seeking strokes. His tongue tangled with Rylan’s, a shy echo that bloomed into hungry reciprocation. Honey-gold fur pressed against charcoal grey, warmth radiating between them. Sylvester’s breath hitched, sharp inhales filling the pauses where their mouths briefly parted, sticky-wet.

He didn’t dare name the ache expanding beneath his ribs, this terrifying tenderness that made him want to press closer, closer still. It wasn’t just the slick heat of Rylan’s mouth or the scent of cedar chips and clean sweat filling his nostrils. It was the dangerous intimacy of Rylan’s patience, the confident glide of his tongue coaxing Sylvester past panic. This wasn’t frantic fumbling behind the chapel shed. This was Rylan anchoring him, slowing the frantic spin inside his skull. Sylvester’s fingers slid into the dense fur at the nape of Rylan’s neck, holding on like driftwood in a storm. He memorized the softness there, the curve of Rylan’s skull beneath his palm. The synth drone faded into meaningless static. All Sylv heard was the wet slide of their kiss, the frantic hammer of his own heart. Too much. Not enough. The conflicting thoughts warred as he deepened the kiss, chasing the taste that was uniquely Rylan.

Rylan broke the kiss, breathing ragged. A thin strand of saliva connected their muzzles for a heartbeat before snapping. His eyes, hooded and bright, scanned Sylvester’s flushed face. A delighted smirk tugged at his lips. "There you go," he murmured, thumb tracing the damp fur beneath Sylvester's eye. "See? Easy." He reached past Sylvester’s trembling hip, snatched the fallen condom packet and the bottle of lube. With practiced ease, Rylan tore the foil, rolled the latex sheath down Sylvester’s rigid length—the cool glide making Sylv gasp—and slicked his own fingers liberally. All without breaking eye contact. Sylvester stared, mesmerized, at the amber fur dusting Rylan’s knuckles as those slick fingers disappeared behind his own raised hips. Rylan’s gaze remained locked on Sylv’s stunned purple eyes. "Ready?" The word was a low rumble vibrating through Sylv’s bones.

Sylvester scrambled forward, awkward urgency replacing paralysis. He nudged Rylan’s legs apart with trembling knees, knees sinking deep into the plush fleece. The dense amber curls at the base of Rylan’s thickening cock brushed against Sylv’s charcoal belly fur, sending electric sparks up his spine. That intimate scent—musky, warm cedar—flooded his senses. He snatched the lube bottle Rylan offered, fumbling with the cap. Clear gel spilled onto his shaking fingers, cold at first, then warming quickly against his skin. He slicked his condom-sheathed cock clumsily, the excess lube dripping onto the forest-green fleece beside Rylan’s hip. His other paw, slick and trembling, reached tentatively between Rylan’s spread thighs, fingers seeking the hidden furl of muscle guarded by soft amber fur. He pressed a single slick fingertip against the tight ring. Rylan’s breath hissed out sharply between clenched teeth—a sound that wasn’t pain, but anticipation. Sylvester froze, staring at the point of contact, mesmerized by the yielding heat he felt beneath his fingertip.

"Slow," Rylan breathed, his voice thick, commanding despite its rasp. His hips lifted slightly off the fleece, offering clearer access. Dust motes danced wildly in the fading apricot light, slicing across them. "Use more… fingers first. Don’t rush." Sylvester nodded, gulping air that tasted faintly of ozone from the synth drone. He pressed again, circling gently as Rylan’s instruction sank in. The tight muscle resisted, then yielded incrementally under steady pressure. It swallowed his slick fingertip to the first knuckle—hotter than Sylv had imagined, impossibly tight. He felt Rylan’s body tremble beneath him, felt the reflexive clench around his finger, heard the low, bitten-off groan that vibrated against his own fur. Sylv added a second finger slowly, working them deeper with careful, scissoring motions, lube easing the glide. The scent of clean sweat intensified. Beneath him, Rylan’s cock thickened visibly against his belly, flushed tip glistening.

Sylvester’s own arousal pulsed, condom stretched tight over his aching length. His purple eyes flicked between their connected bodies and Rylan’s face—the way sharp canines dug into the boy’s lower lip, the flutter of dark lashes against amber fur. He crooked his fingers experimentally. Rylan jolted, a ragged "Fuck—!" torn from his throat. His paw shot out, gripping Sylv’s wrist tightly, forcing his fingers deeper. "There," he gasped, thrashing his tail against the bedspread. "Right… right there." Sylv obeyed, rubbing that spot with trembling diligence. The responsive twitch of Rylan’s cock against his belly, the way his thighs trembled—it unraveled something primal in Sylv’s gut. He leaned down abruptly, catching Rylan’s muzzle in another messy kiss, tasting salt and shared breath.

Then Rylan broke away with a snarl, shoving at Sylv’s shoulders. "Enough—fuck me already," he demanded, voice rough with want. His green eyes burned with impatient hunger, paws gripping Sylv’s hips hard enough to bruise. "I’m not made of glass, Spooky. Get your damn fingers out and put your cock in." Sylvester whimpered at the command, withdrawing his slick fingers with a wet sound. He wiped them absently on the fleece beside Rylan’s hip, too focused on the sight beneath him—the way Rylan’s hole glistened, slightly parted, clenching around nothing. His own cock throbbed in response. Fumbling for the lube, Sylv slicked himself hurriedly, the cool gel mixing with the heat of pre-cum beading at his tip. The condom stretched obscenely tight, veins standing out starkly. His cock in position to the boy's entrance.

Rylan hooked both legs around Sylv’s waist abruptly. His hips arched up, tail curling against the mattress—an unmistakable invitation. Sylv hesitated, pupils blown wide. The synth drone faded to white noise in his ears. "Fucking—do it," Rylan growled, wrapping a fist in Sylv’s chest fur for leverage. "Or I swear to god—"

Sylvester slid home in one ragged thrust.

The heat swallowed him whole—a vice grip of slick, clenching muscle that dragged a strangled whine from his throat. He buried himself to the hilt, his dark fur pressing flush against the honey-gold backdrop of Rylan’s trembling thighs. For a suspended moment, neither moved; Sylvester trembled violently above him, eyes screwed shut, every tendon in his narrow frame pulled wire-tight. His claws dug into the fleece on either side of Rylan’s head, shredding tiny threads.

Then Rylan exhaled—long and ragged—and rolled his hips experimentally. The motion dragged Sylvester’s cock impossibly deeper inside him, wrenching a choked gasp from the mouse boy. "Fuck, yes," Rylan groaned, his voice rich with approval. He arched his spine, savoring the stretch, the way Sylvester’s thick length carved space inside him. His toes curled against Sylv’s twitching tail. "God—feel that," he breathed, deliberately clenching around him. Sylvester sobbed.

The response was instantaneous. Sylv’s hips jerked forward instinctively, burying himself even deeper, his balls pressing hot against Rylan’s tail base. His claws tore fresh rents in the bedspread. Every muscle in his wiry frame locked rigid, fighting the urge to rut wildly—but Rylan’s thighs tightened around his waist, urging him on. "Move," Rylan commanded, breathless, his green eyes glittering. "Fucking move, Spooky."

Sylvester obeyed in shallow, frantic thrusts at first—uneven and clumsy, his rhythm shattered by the overwhelming heat squeezing him. Each withdrawal dragged desperate whimpers from his throat; each push back in punched the air from his lungs. Beneath him, Rylan’s body yielded perfectly, adjusting to the frantic pace with practiced ease. The scent of sweat and musk thickened, mixing with the synthetic cedar of the lube. The synth track swelled, bass vibrations thrumming through the mattress beneath them.

Rylan’s cock bounced obscenely with every snap of Sylvester’s hips—a thick, flushed arc of honey-gold flesh slapping wetly against the mouse boy’s stomach. Precum smeared dark streaks across Sylv’s charcoal fur, the slick trail glistening in the fading light. Their balls collided with each desperate thrust, the heavy slap of skin-on-fur punctuating the electronic drone. Sylvester whimpered against Rylan’s muzzle, his purple eyes glazed, pupils blown black with want. His thrusts grew bolder, deeper, each one driving Rylan’s cock harder against his own trembling belly.

The kiss was messy—all teeth and panting breaths and the slick slide of tongues. Sylvester tasted of adrenaline and salt, his lips trembling against Rylan’s with every ragged exhale. He kissed like he fucked: desperate, hungry, as if drowning in sensation. Rylan bit down gently on Sylv’s lower lip, dragging another choked moan from the mouse boy’s throat. His paws tangled in the dense fur at the base of Sylvester’s skull, pulling him impossibly closer, their chests pressing flush. The heat between them was unbearable—sweat-slick fur sticking, hearts hammering in tandem—but neither pulled away. Sylvester’s tongue mapped the ridges of Rylan’s palate like he was memorizing the terrain, his thrusts losing rhythm as pleasure coiled tighter in his gut.

Rylan arched beneath him, the thick muscles of his thighs flexing around Sylvester’s waist. He rolled his hips experimentally, dragging Sylv’s cock deeper inside him, savoring the stretch, the delicious friction. The mouse boy gasped, his purple eyes flaring wide—like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he might wake up any second. Rylan smirked against his muzzle. “You’re thinking too loud,” he growled, tightening around him deliberately. The reaction was instant: Sylvester’s hips stuttered, his cock twitching violently inside the condom. Rylan laughed—a low, breathless sound—and dug his claws into the soft fur of Sylv’s lower back. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

Sylvester’s restraint snapped. His thrusts turned rough, erratic—no longer tentative, but hungry. The bedframe shuddered beneath them, the old wood groaning in protest. His claws raked down Rylan’s sides, leaving faint pink trails in their wake. The pain-pleasure mix made Rylan’s cock jump, pre-cum dripping freely onto his belly. He clenched around Sylv again, coaxing a ragged moan from the mouse boy’s throat. The sound went straight to Rylan’s dick. He could feel Sylvester trembling above him, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps—close, so close.

Rylan reached between them, fingers wrapping around his own aching length. A few rough strokes were all it took—the sight of Sylvester unraveling above him, the brutal heat of his thrusts, the musk-thick air—it tipped him over the edge. His orgasm hit like a lightning strike, back arching off the bed as stripes of white painted his chest and Sylv’s fur. The clench of his body around Sylvester’s cock dragged the mouse boy over with him. Sylv’s hips stuttered, then stilled, buried deep as he came with a broken whimper, his entire frame shuddering violently.

For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the synth track’s dying echoes. Sylv’s forehead dropped against Rylan’s shoulder, his body limp, still connected. Rylan exhaled, running lazy fingers through the sweaty fur at Sylv’s nape. “Not bad, Spooky,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction.

Sylvester lifted his head—disheveled, dazed—and Rylan seized his muzzle in a sudden, bruising kiss. Their lips collided with messy hunger, tongues tangling before Sylv could even process the shift. This kiss wasn’t teasing or instructional; it was pure possession. Rylan’s teeth scraped Sylv’s lower lip, his paws gripping either side of the mouse boy’s face like he wanted to fuse them together. The taste of sweat and salt flooded Sylv’s mouth as Rylan dominated the kiss with a growl vibrating between them.

When Rylan finally pulled back, Sylv’s lungs burned. His cock twitched weakly inside Rylan’s heat, still half-hard despite his spent orgasm. Rylan smirked at the involuntary response, rolling his hips to milk another broken sound from Sylv’s throat. “Fuck,” Sylv gasped, forehead dropping against Rylan’s collarbone. His entire body trembled, oversensitive and wrecked.

The mouse boy slowly took his cock out, the condom slick with lube and the remnants of his climax. His fingers fumbled against the base, the latex clinging stubbornly to his softening length. Every movement sent aftershocks through him—his thighs shook, his tail flicking involuntarily against Rylan’s ankle. The withdrawal was almost painful, his sensitive flesh protesting the loss of heat. He whimpered as the final inch slipped free, his hole clenching around nothing, a wet sound punctuating the separation. Rylan hissed through his teeth, his own body twitching in response. Sylv stared dumbly at the used condom, the reality of what they’d done crashing over him in waves. His pulse pounded in his ears, louder than the fading synths.

Sylvester stumbled off the bed, legs nearly buckling as his knees hit the hardwood. The condom dangled precariously from his fingertips, threatening to spill its contents onto the floor. He lurched toward the wastebasket beside Rylan’s desk—a dented metal thing overflowing with crumpled homework and energy drink cans—and dropped it in with a wet plop. The sound was obscenely final. He stood there, swaying slightly, staring at the discarded latex amidst the trash. His reflection in the darkened window was a mess—fur matted with sweat, eyes blown wide, muzzle flushed dark. Behind him, Rylan stretched lazily on the rumpled bed, the picture of satisfied indolence.

The mattress dipped as Sylvester crawled back onto it, collapsing against Rylan’s side with a shuddery exhale. His nose pressed into the crook of Rylan’s neck, inhaling musk and cedar and the lingering ozone of spent adrenaline. Rylan’s arm curled around his shoulders automatically, pulling him closer until their bodies aligned—Sylvester’s slender frame tucked neatly against Rylan’s leaner one. The dog boy’s tail thumped twice against the fleece, a lazy, contented rhythm.

"You know," Rylan murmured after a beat, his voice rough but threaded with amusement, "for a guy who panics over torn condom wrappers, you fuck like a goddamn freight train." He nipped playfully at Sylvester’s ear, grinning when the mouse boy twitched violently against him.

Sylvester’s ears burned hotter than the fading sunset outside. He buried his face deeper into Rylan’s neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and cedar chips clinging to the dob boy’s fur. His pulse still hadn’t steadied—a frantic staccato against Rylan’s collarbone. "Shut up," he mumbled, but there was no bite to it. Just breathless wonder.

Rylan chuckled, the vibration rumbling through Sylvester’s cheek where it pressed against his chest. His paw trailed idly down Sylv’s spine, fingers catching on the raised welts his claws had left earlier. "What’s wrong, Spooky? Can’t handle the truth?" He tilted Sylv’s chin up with two fingers, grinning at the dazed purple eyes blinking up at him. "You came so hard you cried."

Sylvester’s ears flicked back, heat flooding his face. "I did not—" His protest died as Rylan’s thumb swiped beneath his eye, coming away damp. Sylv’s breath hitched. "...Oh." His tail coiled tight around Rylan’s thigh, claws pricking lightly at the dob boy’s hip. "Can we—" He swallowed, voice cracking. "Later. Can we… again?"

Rylan’s grin widened, sharp canines glinting in the apricot light. "After dinner," he conceded, nipping Sylv’s earlobe. "Gotta refuel." His stomach growled on cue, a loud gurgle that made Sylv snort. Rylan rolled his eyes. "Shut up. You wrecked me, Spooky. I need calories."

Their lips met again, softer this time, lingering. The synth drone had faded completely, leaving only their mingled breaths and the distant chatter of students heading to the dining hall. Sylvester melted into it, savoring the way Rylan’s mouth yielded under his, the way his fingers carded through Sylv’s tangled fur with uncharacteristic gentleness. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to this: the warm press of Rylan’s body, the cedar-salt taste of his tongue, the lazy circles his thumb drew against Sylv’s jaw. Perfect.