Pitch awoke to the sound of snuffling at his left ear.
At first, he thought Koz was awake and trying to irritate him into having a little “fun” far too early in the morning, especially considering everything they had done last night. The twinges of pain that tingled up his spine was a credit to the oaf’s stamina, to be sure - but it always left him drained and hypersensitive the day after, and he wasn’t in the mood to be left a shaking mess in the sticky, crinkled bed linens. The man had a lust for him that was never-ending, and while on some days that was immensely flattering and wildly enjoyable, on others Pitch just wanted a nice quiet morning to stay in and cuddle, and maybe even recuperate. He hadn’t seen his neck without a bite mark or a hickey the size of a plum since the two had first fallen into bed together, and he was tired of wearing turtlenecks and scarves in the summer. He certainly wasn’t going to wear makeup to cover them; he’d never hear the end of it from anyone if he did.
Pitch pulled away from the tight grip encircling his stomach, now dotted with purple bruises and teeth marks, and nuzzled further into the pillow. He was hoping to feign sleep for a little while longer, and maybe open up an escape to the bathroom later to clean off and apply some antiseptic to the tender, broken skin.
It was only when tiny feet padded on his nose that he opened his eyes.
The ugly little pug that Pitchiner so adored was attempting to climb over him to his daddy, and failing rather miserably. Tarminator (a plebeian name for a plebeian punter, in his opinion) was huffing and grunting and trying desperately to scramble over to his master, aiming to wake the massive -
No. No that wasn’t it, was it? Pitch mused, as he watched the dog strain his neck towards the bed posts. He was trying to reach the half-eaten beef jerky dangling out of the pocket of Koz’s leather jacket, carelessly tossed on one end of the headboard and left to hover and tempt the little bugger for what must have been hours. Pitch was actually impressed with his tenacity, especially at having managed to climb up onto the bed without waking either of them until now - and then he shook himself clear of those thoughts. Pitchiner had apparently kept his promise last night of - oh, what had he said? - “fucking his pretty little brains out”. He was sure he wouldn’t be thinking positively about the little mutt otherwise.
A tiny black paw slipped and kneaded his forehead, and Pitch batted the little brute away, smirking as the pug tumbled down the pillow and got tangled in the comforter. Once righted, he stared in indignation at the pale, peaked human, and huffed.
“Well what do you want me to do?” he murmured, snuggling back into the pillow. “You’re not my pet. You’ll just have to wait for him to wake up.”
Baleful brown eyes gazed up at him, gleaming with a pathetic ire in the early morning light. Pitch pointedly ignored him and attempted to fall back to sleep, even when he felt the little terror scooch closer.
Five minutes later, he cracked one eye open to find a pink tongue sticking out of a scrunched face, hovering unerringly close to his eye. Not moving at all - just lingering there, a silent threat. He groaned.
“You really are your master’s dog, aren’t you?” A tiny tongue swiping over his eyebrow answered him, and he sighed. “Fine, then. Let me escape first, and I’ll get you some food.” The pug smiled at him, eyes bulging amidst the wrinkles, and he bounced in place as Pitch slipped free of his boyfriend’s heavy-handed grasp, having to prod at some of his more ticklish spots in order to wriggle away.
He pulled on the first article of clothing he could find - a massive red t-shirt, clearly Koz’s - and felt around for some slippers, self-consciously pulling the shirt down at the hem every so often. It may have fallen past his thighs, but he’d rather not have all and sundry revealed to the rest of the world, in case Proto actually had set up webcams throughout the apartment. He wouldn’t put it past him, really.
He gently eased out of the room, almost dancing over the creakier floorboards, and held the door open for Tar to follow. When he didn't hear the usual clickety noises of dog-on-wooden-floorboards, he turned around to hiss at him to hurry up -
- only to find him standing happily on the bed, panting. Pitch stared.
He couldn’t get down again.
Pitch shuffled over and huffed at the quivering ball of wrinkled black fur. “Really?” He got a tongue dangling out the side of its mouth for an answer. Cheeky little beast, he thought, as he scooped up the puppy and dangled it from his arms. At least Pitchiner could feed himself. Usually.
He dumped the dog on the kitchen tile and idly searched the cabinets for the usual bag of puppy chow, as Tar danced around his feet. Tiny claws skittered loudly as the snuffling menace circled his legs and occasionally slipped off course into the stool legs. He managed to sort himself out quickly enough though, as Pitch knelt down with the bag of ‘Puppy NomNoms’ (really now, what sort of name was that for processed, dehydrated pig parts?) and poured it near to overflowing in his neon green bowl.
As the little pug snuffled and grunted into his food, Pitch remained hovering nearby, balancing delicately on the balls of his feet. He pulled the shirt up onto his shoulder (smothering the murmur of irritation as it slipped off again), and watched the dog for a moment longer. He tried to stop the smile that eased over his sharp features and failed miserably - but found he didn’t seem to mind. Pitch slipped a slender hand over the floppy ears and gently massaged the skin under the collar, tucking the other hand under his knees.
In a quiet moment like this, when everything was slow and silent, and there were no plays or Piki or Proto to clutter up his head with worries and frustration, bitter denials and defenses, the little dog was rather… tolerable. He only really got mad because the little devil was underfoot all the time, and Koz hadn’t fully trained him yet. He also couldn’t watch him all the time at the apartment, which meant the tiny menace got into things he shouldn’t. Like when he peed all over the sofa, or used his new vest as a chew toy.
Tar wasn’t all bad in his mischief though. Pitch snorted when he thought of the time Proto walked in and saw the pug getting a little too "personal" with Mr. Pickles. That had been months ago, and the stuffed ferret still hadn’t reappeared to haunt them.
Pitch felt some teeth gnawing at his fingers, and he wiggled them free, tapping at the puppy’s nose. “None of that now. I did get you your food.” The little dog jumped back, then hopped forward, his whole body swaying side to side as his coiled tail bounced back and forth. “You are grotesquely adorable, did you know that?” The pug wriggled in place and yipped, jumping up and down to nip at the air. Pitch just smiled and scratched beneath Tar’s chin. “No wonder Pitchiner’s so attached to you.”
A flash flickered out of the corner of his right eye, and Pitch’s head shot up in horror to find his boyfriend standing at the counter, camera in hand and a toothy Cheshire grin plastered over his face. He sauntered over and took in the sight, while the theater major stared at him wide eyed from the floor, fingers skittering over black fur.
“Told ya he’d grow on you,” Pitchiner grinned. “And is that my shirt?”
Pitch had no answer for him; he was too busy feeling his soul slipping out of his body in complete and absolute mortification at what Pitchiner had just seen. He was never going to live this down. He was never going to escape this. Ever.
He began to hyperventilate on the kitchen floor.
He jumped a mile in place as muscled hands clamped down over his shoulders, massaging at the sore tissue. "Calm down, babe. Breathe. I'm not gonna hold this against you." Pitchiner pressed his tongue to his skin, and swept up to his ear to whisper, "But I might just hold you in my clothes forever."
"What, as punishment?"
Pitchiner snorted, causing Pitch to jump at the sensation, before easing a broad hand beneath the collar to tease at a sorely abused nipple. “Nah. It looks good on you, babe - but I have a pretty good feeling that it would look a helluva lot better off you. Luckily, I have a way to test that hypothesis.”
An arm slipped around his waist and pulled him to his feet, before Pitchiner began to suckle at his jaw, the pug hopping about his slippers. Pitch let out a frustrated groan, one that quickly turned into a high pitched keening as teeth scraped lightly over day-old hickeys, and a large hand slipped up and under the hem of his temporary nightgown.
So much for a quiet morning.