Phantom: - while watching Swiss juggle every fruit from the fruit basket - How do I ask Swiss out successfully?
Ifrit: Well, first you....
Zephyr: Don't ask him, he asked me out in a McDonald's parking lot.
Phantom: And.... You said yes?
This became so much sweeter than what I originally had in mind but I do love a good kink as comfort
Pair: Zephrit
WC: 593
Tags: hurt/comfort, puppy play, no actual smut sorry
Summary: Zephyr will not let Ifrit burn himself out.
Ifrit wears his mask so well. So well that anyone in the abbey would assume he never has a bad day. How can he when he wears his blinding smile day in and day out?
But Zephyr's watchful eyes always know. They see right through him. They see the ghoul who simultaneously screams for someone to notice and prays to be spared the shame of being asked.
That is why they sit perched on the edge of their bed when Ifrit enters. He offers them a soft smile, something usually so full of love and adoration it makes their chest ache. But his heavy eyes tell Zephyr the truth, even if he will not.
Still, they wait. Wait to see if maybe he will let everything spill before the inevitable eruption.
When the silence stretches for far too long, Zephyr pulls their hands from behind their back. They lay the old thing on their lap, red and worn with a heart-shaped silver tag. The first one Zephyr ever put around his neck.
The flinch is subtle, but they see it. "Uh. Maybe not tonight, Birdie. Kinda tired after workin with Alpha all day."
"I know," they say it softly. All their usual prickliness nowhere in sight. "You trust me, don't you?"
Ifrit nods without hesitation.
"Then come here, pet." They hold out a hand for him.
He shuffles over to them, cloud of unease growing thick enough to choke on. Every single muscle is taut, like some unseen force found a loose thread and continues to pull on it. Yet he is as well-trained as ever. Ifrit takes Zephyr's hand to steady himself as he drops to his knees between their legs.
They stare down at him like he is the reason that the world is still spinning. They start to pet through his hair, talons gently scraping against his scalp. "My poor puppy," they sigh.
Ifrit's ears droop as he closes his eyes. "Zeph—"
"Shh. Hey," they coo, "it's okay. You don't have to think about it anymore. Just rest, puppy."
Their free hand thumbs at the silver tag. They will not force the thing around his neck. That is not what he needs. He needs this. To be reminded that he is so loved and so cared for. But it does not work if he is not receptive to it. They can pour their heart out, but unless his is open, then it is all in vain.
They resist the urge to breathe a sigh of relief when Ifrit bares his throat to them. They watch him swallow, watch the way all the muscles work before slipping the collar on.
Once they snap it closed, they cup his cheeks, thumb tracing just under the dark bruises around his eyes. "There we go. My good boy."
Ifrit whines, and when his eyes open again, they are wet and ready to burst. His lip quivers as he turns his head to nuzzle into Zephyr's palm.
A piece of them shatters. Always does when they see him like this. No pain can compare. Knowing that he refuses to feel until he breaks.
They swallow thickly, keeping their voice steady for him. "I've got you, puppy."
They sit like that together until time bleeds together, Ifrit with his head resting on their thigh. Zephyr's hands never still. They brush through his hair, trace every angle of his face, toy with the ring around the collar. They hold him together so he always knows someone wants him, even when he cannot bring himself to smile.
Can I request dog ifrit. Can I request my bb in a muzzle. My beautiful himbo dog boy. Have fun do what you wish
Ifrit's heart thuds slow and heavy in his chest, eyes wide and lips parted. He can't believe what he's seeing, what's being offered to him.
"Do you like it?"
Zephyr's voice floats through his ears, low and smooth, and Ifrit's breath hitches. He tears his gaze from the gift in his master's graceful hands to their face - Ifrit truly adores the view from his knees, it makes Zephyr's stern calm all the more tantalizing.
"The color will suit you," they continue, and a gentle clinking sounds as Zephyr pulls the thing from its box. "The hardware too."
Ifrit's steady heart leaps into his throat when Zephyr holds up the muzzle. It's beautiful, hand crafted from strips of rich burgundy leather and decorated with brushed golden rivets and buckles. It has extra space for his horns, and Ifrit knows it must have been a custom piece. Did Zephyr get Aether to make it for him? That had been the case with his collar, but that doesn't matter right now.
What does matter is the way his master pats their lap. Ifrit crawls forward without a second thought, until his bare knees touch their booted toes. He's warm all over, dressed in nothing but goosebumps while Zephyr unbuckles the back of his newest accessory. He's wanted one for ages, and the simple sight of it has him drooling like a hound.
Zephyr smiles when they've finished adjusting straps, reaching out to scratch at Ifrit's scalp until his tail starts to swish against the hardwood.
"Someone's excited."
They chuckle, raising one foot to nudge the ruddy head of Ifrit's straining cock. He shudders, whimpering, and Zephyr clicks their tounge.
"No complaining," they admonish, but the sparkle in their eye betrays their amusement at his suffering. Ifrit's balls ache. "Now be a good boy and come here."
Zephyr spreads crossed legs and pats their thigh, inviting him to curl up in his favorite spot. Ifrit obeys, always does, shuffling forward to nuzzle at the juncture of their hip. Zephyr hums, ruffles his hair, and two pats to the shoulder have Ifrit straightening right back up.
"I want you to take very good care of this," they instruct, settling the muzzle against his face. Ifrit's eyes roll at the scent of fresh leather, and again when Zephyr slides the straps around his horns. "Do you understand?"
Ifrit nods. He couldn't talk right now if he wanted to. They take their time securing it, testing the fit and making adjustments, and with every little motion Irfit dribbles onto the floor. His hips don't move an inch, a behavior long since trained out, but his cock still jumps of its own accord. He doesn't realize he's panting until Zephyr finishes the final buckle, resting a hand on his heaving chest instead, and the feel of their cool skin against his own is exquisite.
"It suits you," they praise, and it's only because of rigorous training that Ifrit doesn't blow his load all over the floor right then.
