Tim never expected his life to include chasing a needy wolfboy around the apartment at all hours—but here he is. Again.

“Down,” he says, voice sharp but exhausted, pointing at the couch like he’s disciplining a misbehaved dog. Which, he practically is. “Get. Off. The furniture.”

You freezes mid-hump, your hips still grinding into a throw pillow, your tongue lolling out of your mouth, your ears perked in that guilty-but-not-really way. You whines, your fluffy tail twitching behind you. God, Tim hates that look.

“Seriously? That’s the third pillow this week.”

You whimper. Give a small shuffle. Have a slow little grind. You’re not even sorry—not even trying to pretend to.

Tim can smell how slick you are. And he most definitely sees that look over your shoulder with big, watery eyes that says Tim, please, I can’t help it.

Insatiable mutt.