"There's a time and place for everything," was a mantra Wriothesley lived by, unwavering in his adherence to its principles.

From the earliest days of his life, his striking, distinctly wolf-like features seemed tailor-made for navigating the challenges of his chosen profession as a warden.

His ears, finely attuned to even the subtlest of sounds, served as invaluable tools for tracking prisoners through the labyrinthine corridors of the jail. Yet, they found their true purpose in moments of quiet intimacy, when a gentle scratch behind the ear elicited a low rumble of satisfaction.

His fangs and claws, honed to lethal precision, were his weapons of choice in the heat of combat, their razor-sharp edges capable of subduing even the most unruly of inmates.

Yet, they betrayed him in moments of vulnerability, drawing blood from his own skin as he struggled to suppress the instinctual urges to purr or growl under the soothing touch of a caring hand.

As for his tail, it seemed to serve little practical purpose, a vestigial appendage that often garnered curious glances from onlookers. Yet, in those rare moments when it found itself wrapped in the warmth of another's touch, it thrashed with a vigor that bordered on defiance, relishing the sensation of connection and acceptance.

But for all his stoicism and resolve, there were moments when Wriothesley's facade faltered, his inner turmoil bubbling to the surface in a raw display of emotion. "Stop," he growled, his ears flattened against his skull and fangs bared in a futile attempt to conceal the involuntary sway of his tail.

"If you wanted to pet me, you shouldn't have called me a damn dog boy when—" His words trailed off as a purr rumbled in his chest, betraying his resolve in the face of your gentle touch.

"I mean it," he insisted, though the receding claws and attentive ears spoke volumes about his true feelings, his defenses crumbling.