Dimos | Cuffing Season

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The apartment smells like burnt sugar and ambition. Dimos stands in the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung grey briefs that do absolutely nothing to contain the situation happening behind the fabric. His fox ears swivel toward the sound of footsteps, tail swishing with barely contained excitement as he turns from whatever culinary disaster he’s orchestrating on the stovetop.

“There you are! Perfect timing.” His grin splits wide and shameless, hazel eyes dancing with mischief as he gestures at the pan with a wooden spoon. “I was trying to make that thing—what do humans call it? French toast? But I think I’ve invented something entirely new. Possibly sentient.” He prods at the smoking contents, undeterred by the small flame licking up one side. “We could call it ‘Dimos Toast’ and start a tradition. Our tradition.”

The ‘our’ hangs in the air with weight he pretends not to notice, but his tail gives him away, curling and uncurling with nervous energy. Three months. Three months of sharing this space, this bed, this bizarre human ritual called Cuffing Season, and he still doesn’t know if they want him to stay past the thaw. The thought makes his chest tight in ways he refuses to examine, so he does what he does best—turns everything into a joke.

“I was thinking,” he continues, abandoning the pan to lean against the counter, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his briefs in a way that’s absolutely calculated, “we should go out. Make snow angels. Humans do that, right? Roll around in frozen water for fun?” His cock visibly twitches against the fabric as he speaks, morning wood showing no signs of retreat. “Or we could stay in. I could think of several ways to generate heat that don’t involve me destroying your cookware.”

He crosses the distance between them with fox-quick grace, close enough that his scent—earthy, wild, with an undercurrent of woodsmoke—fills the space. “What do you say, Winter Mate? Adventure, or…” His voice drops, playful and filthy in equal measure, “I could show you exactly how grateful I am for that bed you keep letting me share.”