Wolf O'Donnell

Sargasso is never truly quiet.

There's always something, the low hum of the force fields protecting the asteroid base, the distant clang of ships docking in the bay, the muffled thump of music from the cantina two levels down. The air always smells the same here too: recycled metal, cheap engine fuel, and the faint, lingering trace of something smoky from the kitchens.

But right now, in this corner of the hideout, it's as close to quiet as Sargasso gets.

Wolf's quarters are tucked away at the end of a long, winding corridor, the kind of corridor that's easy to miss if you don't know where you're going. The door is old, dented in one corner from some fight Wolf doesn't talk about, and it groans when you push it open. He never locks it. Not anymore.

Not since you showed up.

The room inside is small by most standards, but it's his. A cot in the corner with a mess of grey blankets, a metal desk covered in ship parts and old datapads, a weapons locker that's seen better days, and a viewport that looks out onto the asteroid field, endless rocks tumbling through the black, catching the distant light of far-off stars.

Wolf is sitting in his chair.

It's an old pilot's chair he scavenged from a wreck years ago, bolted to the floor near the viewport. He's slumped into it like he owns the whole galaxy, one leg kicked out, the other bent, his paw resting on his knee. His chest is bare, just fur and scars and that soft-curved belly you've caught yourself staring at more than once. His grey athletic shorts sit low on his hips, faded and soft from years of wear.

His eyepatch is off.

You've only seen him without it a handful of times. The scarred socket underneath, the eye long gone, the fur grown back in pale white streaks. He caught you looking the first time and growled, "Take a picture, it'll last longer." But he didn't cover it. Didn't turn away. Just let you see.

He doesn't look at you when you walk in.

His one eye, that striking reddish-pink, is fixed on the viewport, watching the asteroids drift. His ears are relaxed, tilted slightly back, not in anger but in thought. His tail is curled around the base of the chair, still, quiet.

The only light in the room comes from a small desk lamp and the soft glow of the stars outside. It paints everything in blues and silvers, softening the hard edges of the room, making Wolf look almost... peaceful.

Almost.

His nose twitches.

He knows you're there. He's always known.

His ears swivel toward you, one after the other, catching the sound of your breathing, your footsteps, the way you paused in the doorway. His tail gives a single, slow thump against the chair leg. Not excited. Just... acknowledging.

"You're late."

His voice is low. Gravelly. Not angry, Wolf doesn't get angry about things like this, but there's something underneath. Something that sounds almost like... relief.

He shifts in the chair, the old bolts creaking under his weight. His paw comes up, rubbing the back of his neck, fingers threading through the thick grey fur there.

"Thought you weren't comin' tonight."

He says it like it doesn't matter. Like he didn't notice. Like he didn't spend the last hour sitting in this exact spot, ears angled toward the door, waiting for footsteps that were taking too long.

His tail thumps again. Faster this time.

Then his eye drops to your hands. To the empty space where your ration card usually hangs.

His brow furrows.

"...Where's your card?"

His voice is quieter now. Not accusing. Just... observant. Like he's already putting pieces together.

You don't answer. Or maybe you mumble something, ran out, forgot to reload, doesn't matter.

Wolf's jaw tightens.

He stands up.

The chair scrapes against the floor, loud in the quiet room. He's massive when he stands, all broad chest and heavy shoulders and that soft-curved belly that somehow makes him look more solid, not less. He crosses to the desk in three long strides, grabs a tray that's been sitting there, a bowl of something warm and spiced, a piece of bread wrapped in a cloth, a cup of water, and thrusts it toward you.

"Eat."

His voice is gruff. Almost angry.

You hesitate.

His ears flatten.

"I said eat, pup. Don't make me tell you again."

But his tail is wagging. Fast. Embarrassingly fast. He glances down at it like he's been betrayed, and his whole body goes stiff as he tries to stop it , but it won't stop. It won't.

"I got plenty." He jerks his head toward a small locker on the wall, the one he keeps stocked with extra rations, extra credits, things he doesn't talk about. "Ain't gonna miss one meal. Ain't gonna miss..."

He trails off.

His paw comes up, rubbing the back of his neck. His claws scrape through his fur. His eye won't meet yours.

"...Ain't gonna miss you goin' hungry."

*The words come out rough. Stumbling. Like they got stuck in his throat and he had to force them out.

He clears his throat.

"So just... take it. Please."

That "please" cracks on the way out. His voice wavers. His ears go flat again, not angry this time, but embarrassed. Caught.

You still don't move.

His tail keeps wagging.

He huffs. Shifts his weight. His free paw flexes at his side, claws retracting and extending, retracting and extending, a nervous habit he can't control.

"Look—"

He stops. Swallows. His eye darts to yours, then away, then back again.

"You don't... you don't owe me nothin', alright?"

His voice is softer now. Barely above a murmur.

"I ain't... this ain't a transaction. I just..."

He gestures vaguely with the tray, almost spilling the bowl.

"...here. Just take it. Before I drop the damn thing."

His tail is a blur now. Thumping against the back of his legs, his hips, the edge of the desk. He's trying so hard to look casual and failing so, so badly.

"Please."

There it is again. That cracked little word.

His eye finally meets yours.

And for a moment — just a moment — the armor is gone.

He's just a big, flustered, stammering wolf who doesn't know how to say I care about you except like this. Awkwardly. Gruffly. With a tray of warm food and a tail that won't stop moving.

"So are you gonna..."

He swallows.

"...take it? Or do I gotta stand here lookin' like an idiot all night?"

His ears perk forward, hopeful, despite himself.

His tail wags faster.

A few days have passed since Wolf shoved that tray of food into your hands and stammered his way through pretending he didn't care.

He's been... different since then.

Not nicer, exactly. He still calls you "pup" with that gruff edge. Still rolls his eye when you say something stupid. Still threatens to throw you out the airlock at least once a day.

But his tail wags faster when you walk into a room. His ears perk forward before you even speak. And last night, when you fell asleep on his cot while he was tinkering with a ship part, you woke up with his jacket draped over you and his claws gently pulling a blanket up to your chin.

He pretended he didn't notice you were awake.

You pretended not to notice the way he was staring.

Tonight, you asked him if he wanted to see the meteor shower.

The Stardust Drift, a cluster of space debris that passes near Sargasso once every few cycles, lighting up the black with streaks of white and gold and faint, shimmering blue. You heard about it from one of the mechanics in the lower bay. She said it was "the most beautiful thing you'll ever see out here."

You didn't know Wolf's seen it at least twenty times.

You didn't know he could probably map the trajectory of every single rock by heart.

All you knew was that when you asked, nervous, hopeful, rambling a little about how cool it would be, he looked at you for a long moment. His ear twitched. His tail gave a single, slow thump against the floor.

And then he said:

"Fine. But you're carryin' the blanket."

That was an hour ago.

Now you're both sitting on the observation deck, a small, forgotten balcony near the top of Sargasso, barely used by anyone except Wolf and a few other old-timers who remember it exists. The metal floor is cold beneath the blanket you spread out, and the viewport is nothing but a thin sheet of reinforced glass separating you from the endless black of space.

The stars are everywhere.

Millions of them. Billions. Scattered across the dark like someone threw a handful of diamonds into the void and forgot to catch them.

And there — right there — the meteor shower.

Streaks of light shoot across the sky, one after another, trailing gold and silver and a faint, ethereal blue. Some are small, burning up in seconds. Others are bigger, slower, carving bright lines across the black that linger for just a moment before fading. It's quiet out here, no sound, no thunder, just the soft hum of the base and the occasional creak of metal settling.

It's beautiful.

Wolf is sitting next to you.

Close. Closer than he needs to.

His shoulder presses against yours. His thigh is warm against your leg. He's got a bag of popcorn in his lap, one of those giant, greasy, vat-sized bags from the cantina, the kind that costs way too many ration credits and tastes like salt and butter and regret. You don't know how he got it. You don't ask.

He's been eating it for the last fifteen minutes, one clawful at a time, his eye fixed on the meteor shower like he's actually watching it.

But you've noticed.

His ears are angled toward you.

Not the sky. You.

Every time you shift, his ears twitch. Every time you breathe out, they swivel just a little more. He's not watching the stars.

He's watching you watch the stars.

And his tail — his traitorous, uncontrollable tail — has been wagging slow and steady against the blanket for the last ten minutes.

Thump. Pause. Thump. Pause.

Like a heartbeat.

Another meteor streaks across the sky — a big one, bright blue, trailing sparks — and you gasp. Actually gasp. Your hand shoots out, grabbing the nearest thing to shake it in excitement.

The nearest thing is Wolf's arm.

His bicep. Bare. Warm. Fur soft under your fingers.

He goes completely still.

His ears flatten. His eye widens. His tail — his tail — thumps hard against the blanket three times in rapid succession before he catches himself and crushes it flat against the metal.

He doesn't pull away, though.

He doesn't move at all.

"You —" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. Tries again. "You see that big one? The blue one?"

You nod, still gripping his arm.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "That one was... that was a good one."

His voice is soft. Distracted.

Because you're still touching him.

And his tail is still trying to wag.

You finally let go — embarrassed, maybe, or suddenly aware of how close you're sitting, how warm he is, how good he smells (like smoke and metal and something clean underneath). You pull your hand back into your lap.

Wolf exhales.

A long, slow breath. Like he'd been holding it.

He shoves his paw back into the popcorn bag, probably to give himself something to do, something to focus on that isn't the ghost of your fingers on his arm.

"So uh..."

He crunches on a kernel. Swallows.

"...you like stars, pup?"

It's such a stupid question. You're literally watching a meteor shower. Of course you like stars.

But his voice is so gentle. So careful. Like he's trying to make conversation but doesn't quite know how. Like he's been a mercenary and a killer and a wanted criminal for so long that he forgot how to just... talk to someone.

You tell him yes. That you've always liked them. That back home — before Sargasso, before all of this — you used to sneak onto the roof of your building just to watch the night sky.

Wolf listens.

His ears stay angled toward you the whole time. His tail has started wagging again — slow, steady, like it can't help itself.

"Yeah?" he says when you finish. "Never took you for a rooftop kid."

He pauses.

His voice is quieter now.

"Used to do the same thing, though. Before..."

He doesn't finish.

His paw digs around in the popcorn bag, searching for another kernel. His claws scrape against the crinkly foil.

You reach for the bag at the same time.

Your fingers brush.

Wolf's whole body goes rigid.

His paw jerks back like he's been burned — except he doesn't pull it all the way. It hovers there, frozen in the air, claws half-extended, caught between fleeing and staying. His eye is wide. His ears are flat against his head. And his face —

His face is red.

Under all that grey fur, a deep, burning flush spreads across his muzzle, up to his ear tips, down his neck. You can see it even in the low light. Even with just the stars and the meteors and the faint glow of Sargasso behind you.

He looks away.

His jaw works. Opens. Closes. No sound comes out.

"I — you — that wasn't —"

He swallows. Hard.

His tail is thrashing against the blanket now — thump-thump-thump-thump — completely out of control. He presses it down with his free paw, but it won't stop. It won't.

"I wasn't tryin' to — I mean, I didn't mean to —"

He can't finish a single sentence.

His eye is fixed on the wall now. Anywhere but you.

You smile.

Soft. Warm. You reach into the bag — slowly, so he doesn't spook — and pull out a piece of popcorn. A good one. Big. Buttery. You hold it out to him.

His eye darts to your hand.

Then to your face.

Then back to your hand.

"...What."

His voice is flat. Suspicious. Like he doesn't trust what you're offering.

You just wiggle the popcorn at him.

His ear twitches.

"I don't —"

He stops.

His throat works.

Slowly — so slowly — his paw comes up. His claws are retracted now, careful, gentle. His fingers brush yours again as he takes the piece. He doesn't mean for them to. Or maybe he does. Either way, they linger.

He stares at the popcorn in his paw like it's the most confusing thing he's ever seen.

"...Ain't gonna say thank you."

His voice is gruff. Stubborn. But there's no heat in it.

"Don't expect it."

He shoves the popcorn in his mouth. Chews. Swallows.

His tail is still wagging.

He's still blushing.

And he's still not looking at you.

But his shoulder presses a little closer against yours. His thigh stays warm against your leg. And when another meteor streaks across the sky — big and gold and brilliant — his paw finds yours in the dark.

Not holding. Not quite.

Just... resting.

Claws barely touching your knuckles.

Like he's asking permission without saying a word.

"You uh..."

His voice is rough. Quiet.

"...you wanna stay out here a little longer?"

A pause.

His tail thumps once. Hopeful.

"Popcorn ain't gonna eat itself."

The meteor shower was three nights ago.

Three nights since your fingers brushed in a popcorn bag. Three nights since his paw found yours in the dark. Three nights since he sat next to you on that cold observation deck, blushing so hard his ears were red, pretending he wasn't completely undone.

He's been different since then.

Not in big ways. Wolf doesn't do big ways. He doesn't make grand gestures or say pretty words. That's not who he is.

But he's been... closer.

He stands nearer than he needs to. His shoulder bumps yours in narrow corridors, and he doesn't apologize. He just stays there. Lets the contact linger. When you're sitting on his cot, reading an old datapad or just existing in his space, he finds excuses to walk past you, close enough that his tail brushes your arm, your back, your shoulder.

His tail wags every time.

Every. Single. Time.

He's stopped trying to hide it.

Tonight, he shows up at your corner of the hideout, the little nook he gave you when you first arrived, with the thin mattress and the flickering light and the view of the docking bay. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking anywhere but at you.

His ear twitches.

"Got somethin' to show you."

His voice is casual. Too casual.

"My place. Not the quarters. The real place."

He pushes off the doorframe and starts walking, not waiting to see if you'll follow. But his tail is wagging — fast, excited — and his ears are angled back toward you, listening for your footsteps.

He knows you'll follow.

You always do.

The walk is long.

Deeper into Sargasso than you've ever been. Down corridors that narrow and twist, past doors that look like they haven't been opened in years, through a maintenance shaft that requires climbing — Wolf goes first, of course, and at the top, he turns and offers you his paw without a word.

His claws are gentle when they close around your wrist.

He holds on a moment longer than necessary.

"Almost there."

His voice is soft. Barely a murmur.

The final door is old — older than the rest, covered in scratches and dents and a faded emblem you don't recognize. Wolf pauses in front of it. His paw rests on the handle, but he doesn't push it open right away.

His ear swivels toward you.

"Don't... don't laugh, alright?"

His voice is gruff. Embarrassed.

"Ain't much. But it's..."

He trails off. Swallows.

"...it's mine."

He pushes the door open.

The room beyond is nothing like you expected.

It's not a hideout or a weapons cache or some secret mercenary bunker. It's small — smaller than his quarters — with a curved ceiling and a wide viewport that takes up almost the entire far wall. The view is incredible. A sea of stars, endless and glittering, with the distant glow of the asteroid belt drifting past like slow-motion fireworks.

But that's not what makes you stop.

It's the things.

Little things. Strange things. A collection of smooth stones arranged on a shelf, each one a different color. A string of mismatched lights draped across the ceiling, unlit, tangled but somehow careful. A pile of old blankets in the corner, soft and worn, arranged like a nest. A small pot with a single plant — a real plant, green and alive — sitting on a crate near the viewport.

A few old star charts pinned to the walls, hand-drawn, marked with notes in Wolf's messy handwriting.

And photographs.

Polaroids — real ones, not datapad images — tucked into the frame of the viewport. You can't see all of them from here, but you catch glimpses. A younger Wolf, grinning, his eyepatch missing, both eyes bright and alive. A ship — not the Wolfen, something older — parked on a planet you don't recognize. A group of people, laughing, arms around each other, Wolf among them.

He looked happy.

Really happy.

Wolf is standing in the middle of the room, not looking at you. His paws are shoved into his pockets. His shoulders are tight.

"Told you it wasn't much."

His voice is quiet.

"Just... somewhere I go. When I don't wanna be around people."

A pause.

"Never brought anyone here before."

The words hang in the air, fragile and heavy.

His tail is still. Not wagging. Not thumping. Just... waiting.

You walk further into the room.

Slowly. Taking it in. The stones on the shelf — you touch one, smooth and cool, a deep blue-gray. The plant — you lean close, see that it's been watered recently, the soil still damp. The blankets — you run your fingers over them, feel how soft they are, how carefully they've been arranged.

Wolf watches you.

His eye follows every movement. Every touch. Every breath.

When you stop in front of the photographs, he shifts his weight. His claws scrape against the fabric of his pockets.

"Those are old."

His voice is rougher now.

"From before. When I..."

He doesn't finish.

You point to one — the younger Wolf, both eyes, grinning like he didn't have a care in the world.

His ear twitches. He follows your finger, looks at the photo, then back at you.

"Yeah. That's me."

A pause.

"Long time ago."

You look at him — the Wolf now, the one with the eyepatch and the scars and the walls he's spent years building. The one who stammered over a bag of popcorn. The one who gave you his food when you had nothing. The one who's standing in his secret room, vulnerable and embarrassed and trying.

Something in your expression must soften, because his ear perks forward.

"Yeah?"

You nod.

His tail starts wagging.

Slow at first. Then faster.

He looks away — but he's smiling. Just a little. Just at the corner of his mouth.

"It's stupid."

You shake your head.

"It's a bunch of rocks and a plant and—"

You reach out and touch his chest — right over his heart. Just a gentle press of your palm.

He stops.

His eye meets yours.

Something shifts in his expression — something soft and scared and hopeful all at once. His ears tilt forward. His muzzle parts slightly, like he wants to say something, but the words won't come.

You take a step closer.

He doesn't move back.

Your hand slides from his chest to his cheek. Your thumb brushes the scarred skin near his eyepatch strap.

His throat works.

"...Yeah."

His voice is barely a whisper.

His paw comes up — slow, hesitant — and his claws brush your cheek. Just barely. Just enough for you to feel the warmth of his pads, the careful way he holds himself back.

"You know why."

His eye searches yours.

"I think you've always known."

The stars glow beyond the viewport. The plant sits silent in its pot. The photographs watch from the frame.

Wolf's paw is still on your cheek.

His thumb — rough, calloused, trembling — traces the line of your jaw.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs.

His eye searches yours.

"Tell me this is too much. Tell me I'm movin' too fast, or bein' stupid, or —"

You don't tell him to stop.

You close the distance.

The kiss is soft.

Tentative. Gentle. His muzzle is warm against yours, his lips a little chapped, and he tastes like the cheap coffee he drinks and something sweeter underneath. His breath hitches — actually hitches — and his whole body goes still for one heartbeat, two, like he can't believe this is happening.

Then he melts.

His paw slides into your hair, claws careful, cradling the back of your head. His other arm wraps around your waist and pulls — pulls you against him, against his chest, against the soft curve of his belly, against the thundering of his heart. He makes a sound, low and broken, something between a growl and a whimper.

His tail is wagging so hard the whole room could probably feel it.

When you finally pull back, he doesn't let go.

His forehead rests against yours. His eye is closed. His breathing is uneven.

"...Damn."

His voice cracks.

"Been wantin' to do that for..."

He trails off. Swallows.

"A while."

His ear twitches.

His tail thumps against the back of his leg.

His paw is still in your hair.

"You uh..."

He opens his eye. Looks at you like you're something precious. Something fragile. Something he's terrified of breaking.

"...wanna stay? For a bit?"

He gestures vaguely at the nest of blankets with his chin.

"Ain't got popcorn this time. But I got..."

He thinks for a moment.

"...more rocks?"

A pause.

His tail thumps faster.

"And I could... I could tell you about some of 'em. The rocks. If you wanted."

His voice is soft now. Hopeful.

"Ain't much of a storyteller. But..."

He shrugs, embarrassed.

"...they're mine. And you're here. And I wanna..."

He doesn't finish.

He just looks at you.

Waiting.

Hoping.

The kiss happened.

That's all you've been able to think about for the last hour.

The way his muzzle felt against yours. The way his paw cradled your head like you were something precious. The way he made that sound — that broken little noise, half growl, half whimper — like he'd been holding back for so long and finally couldn't anymore.

You haven't left his special place.

Why would you?

The blankets are soft — piled high in that cozy nest in the corner, worn and warm and smelling like him. Smoke and metal and something clean underneath. The stars are bright beyond the wide viewport, painting the room in shades of silver and blue. The little string lights are on now — Wolf turned them on without saying anything, just flicked a switch and suddenly the room was glowing, soft and golden, like something out of a dream.

And Wolf is looking at you like you're the only thing in the galaxy that matters.

He's nervous.

You can see it in the way his claws keep flexing — retracting, extending, retracting — a restless, unconscious rhythm. In the way his tail keeps twitching, unable to stay still, thumping against the floor every few seconds before he catches himself and presses it flat. In the way his eye drops to your mouth, then away, then back again, like he can't help himself, like he's already addicted to the memory of your lips on his.

You're sitting close.

So close.

His shoulder presses against yours, warm and solid. His thigh is warm against your leg, the fur soft, the muscle underneath tense. The blanket nest is soft beneath you, cradling your weight, and the viewport shows a sea of stars, endless and glittering, and somewhere in the distance, a ship hums as it docks in the bay.

But you're not paying attention to any of that.

You're looking at him.

He's looking at you.

His ear twitches.

"You're starin'."

His voice is rough, but there's no bite to it. Just... observation. Maybe a little hope.

His tail thumps against the floor. Once. Twice. He doesn't try to stop it this time.

"Why?"

You reach out. Your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the soft fur under your fingertips. His breath catches. His eye flutters half-closed.

His whole body goes rigid when he realizes what you're doing — what you're silently telling him.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound comes out. His face is burning — you can see it even in the dim light, that deep red flush spreading across his muzzle, up to his ears, down his neck.

"I — you can't just —"

He swallows.

"...say stuff like that without..."

He trails off, because you didn't say anything. You just looked at him. Touched him. And somehow that's worse.

"Because I —"

He stops.

His paw comes up, covering yours where it rests on his cheek. His claws are gentle, careful, wrapping around your hand like he's afraid you'll pull away.

"Because I won't know what to do with it."

His voice is barely a whisper.

"With you."

The stars glow. The lights twinkle. The base hums its endless, low-frequency song.

And Wolf O'Donnell is looking at you like you're the first good thing that's happened to him in a very, very long time.

You lean in.

Slowly. Giving him time to pull away.

He doesn't.

Your lips meet his — softer this time, gentler, less desperate than the first kiss but somehow more. More intentional. More real. His muzzle is warm, his lips a little chapped, and he tastes like the cheap coffee he drinks and something sweeter underneath.

He makes a sound.

That same broken little noise from before, half growl, half whimper, and his paw slides into your hair, claws careful, cradling the back of your head like you're something precious. His other arm wraps around your waist and pulls — pulls you closer, pulls you against him, pulls you into his chest and his warmth and his softness.

His belly is warm against your stomach. His heart is pounding under your palm. His tail is wagging so hard you can feel the vibration through the blankets.

When you finally pull back, he chases you.

Just an inch. Just enough to show he's not ready to stop.

His eye is dark. His breathing is uneven. His ears are flat against his head — not in fear, but in something softer. Something more vulnerable.

"...Hey."

His voice cracks.

You smile.

He stares at your mouth.

His claws flex against your hip.

And then — slowly, carefully, like he's asking permission without words — his paw comes up.

His claws brush the collar of your shirt.

"...Can I?"

His voice is barely a whisper. Rough. Shaky. Like he's standing on the edge of something and doesn't know if he's allowed to jump.

You nod.

He exhales — a long, unsteady breath — and his claws find the edge of your shirt.

He pulls it up.

Slow.

Agonizingly slow.

Like he's savoring every inch of skin he uncovers. His knuckles brush your stomach — featherlight, trembling — and your breath hitches. His ear swivels toward the sound, cataloging it, memorizing it.

The fabric catches on your shoulders. He has to lean closer to work it over your head, and suddenly he's right there — his chest against yours, his breath warm on your neck, his muzzle brushing your ear.

"You're so..."

He doesn't finish.

His voice cracks.

The shirt falls somewhere behind you, forgotten.

Wolf pulls back just enough to look at you.

His eye is wide. His ears are flat. His gaze travels down your body, slow and reverent, like he's memorizing every detail — the curve of your shoulders, the line of your collarbone, the way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath.

"Damn."

His voice is barely a breath.

His tail is wagging. Fast. Embarrassingly fast.

You reach for him.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt — his bare chest has been right there all night, teasing you, the soft grey fur, the broad planes of muscle, the faint scars that tell stories he hasn't shared yet. You need it off. Now.

He helps you.

He pulls the fabric over his head and tosses it aside, and then he's bare — all that grey fur, that broad chest, those heavy shoulders, that soft-curved belly you've been staring at for weeks. His scars catch the starlight, pale lines against dark fur. His muscles tense under your touch.

You push him back.

Gently. Just enough.

He goes willingly, falling back against the blankets with a soft grunt, his eye never leaving yours. His chest rises and falls. His tail thumps against the floor — thump-thump-thump — like a heartbeat he can't control.

And then you're on top of him.

Straddling his waist. Knees on either side of his hips. Your hands planted on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palms, fast and wild.

Wolf makes a sound.

A strangled, helpless little noise.

His face is on fire.

Red spreads across his muzzle, up to his ears, down his neck, disappearing into the fur of his chest. His eye is wide, blown dark, fixed on your face like he can't believe this is real. His paws hover in the air, not touching you, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he does.

"You —"

His voice cracks.

"You're gonna — we're gonna —"

He swallows. Hard.

His hips shift underneath you, instinctive, and his breath hitches when he feels how close you are — the warmth of you through the thin fabric of your pants, the way you're sitting right over him, the way his body is already responding.

His ears flatten further.

"Shit."

Your hands slide down his chest.

Slow. Deliberate.

Past his scars. Past the soft fur of his belly. Past the waistband of his shorts, your fingers tracing the line where fabric meets fur.

Wolf's paw shoots out.

Not stopping you — just... resting. His claws curl around your wrist, gentle, trembling.

"Wait."

His voice is rough. Desperate.

"I need — I gotta say somethin' first."

You pause.

Your hands still on his stomach. You can feel his muscles quiver under your palms.

His eye meets yours.

He looks terrified.

Not of you. Never of you. Of this. Of how much he wants it. Of how much he wants you. Of what happens after, when the heat fades and the morning comes and he has to figure out how to be a person who lets someone in.

His throat works.

"I don't —"

He stops. Swallows.

"I don't want this to be..."

His claws flex against your wrist.

"...a one time thing."

His voice is barely audible.

"I don't want you to get that idea. That I just — that this is just —"

He can't finish.

His eye drops to where your hands are resting on his stomach, then back to your face. His ears are flat. His tail is still — not wagging, not thumping, just... waiting.

"I'm not really good at this."

His voice cracks again.

"Talkin'. Feelings. All of it. I've spent so long makin' sure nobody got close that I forgot how to..."

He trails off.

His paw squeezes your wrist — soft, careful, like he's holding onto the only thing keeping him grounded.

"But I was hopin'..."

His throat works.

"...maybe you felt the same."

The words hang in the starlight.

Fragile. Honest. Terrified.

Wolf O'Donnell — wanted criminal, leader of Star Wolf, the most dangerous mercenary in the Lylat system — is lying beneath you, half-undressed, blushing to his ears, asking if you want more than just one night.

His tail gives a single, hopeful thump against the floor.

His paw is still wrapped around your wrist.

His eye is searching yours.

You can feel his heart pounding under your other hand — fast, nervous, completely exposed.

"I ain't..."

He licks his lips.

"...I ain't sayin' this right."

His voice is barely a whisper now.

"I just — I need you to know. Before we —"

He glances down at where your bodies are pressed together, then back up at your face.

"...before we go any further."

His paw releases your wrist — not pushing you away, just... opening. Letting you choose.

"I don't want just tonight."

His eye is bright. Vulnerable.

"I want..."

He stops.

Swallows.

"...you. Not just this. Not just..."

He gestures vaguely at the two of you, tangled together in the blanket nest.

"I want the stupid stuff too. The meteor showers. The popcorn. You fallin' asleep on my cot and pretendin' you weren't."

His voice cracks.

"I want you to keep lookin' at me like that. Like I'm somethin' worth lookin' at."

His tail thumps once.

His eye searches yours.

"Tell me I'm not bein' an idiot. Tell me this — we — could be somethin'. Even if I'm bad at it. Even if I don't know what I'm doin'."

His paw finds yours. Interlocks your fingers.

"Just... show me you want more than just tonight."

He's shaking.

Just a little. Just enough for you to feel it.

"Please."

The word cracks on the way out.

And then he waits.

His chest rises and falls beneath your other hand. His tail is still. His ears are angled toward you, waiting for your answer.

"Maybe?"

The blanket nest has never felt this warm.

Or maybe that's just Wolf.

His body is everywhere — chest pressed against yours, fur soft and warm, that soft-curved belly pinning you down in the best way. His mouth is on your neck, your jaw, the corner of your lips. He's kissing you like he's been starved for it, like every second he spent holding back was a special kind of torture.

And he's between your legs.

His thighs are massive, spreading yours open, bracketing your hips. His weight is perfect — heavy enough to make you feel held, careful enough that you can still move, still arch up against him, still drag your nails down his back and feel him shiver.

His tail is going absolutely feral.

Thumping against the blankets, the floor, your leg — anywhere it can reach. He's stopped trying to control it. Stopped trying to control any of it.

"You feel—"

His voice cracks.

"—so' good."

His hips roll against yours, instinctive, desperate, and the mattress beneath you creaks — a soft, rhythmic sound that matches the pounding of your heart. The old frame groans with every movement, thumping against the floor in a steady, building rhythm.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Wolf's breathing is ragged. His eye is blown dark, fixed on your face, watching every reaction like he's memorizing them.

"That okay?"

His voice is barely a growl.

"Tell me that's okay."

You don't need words. Your hands answer for you — dragging down his chest, gripping his hips, pulling him closer.

He makes a sound.

A broken, desperate little noise.

And then he's moving.

Slow at first. Deep. Rolling his hips in a way that makes your back arch, your fingers curl into his fur, your breath catch in your throat. The mattress thumps harder — thump-thump-thump — keeping time with the rhythm he's setting.

His mouth finds yours again.

Messy. Open-mouthed. He's kissing you like he can't get enough, like he's trying to pour every unspoken word into the press of his lips. His tongue slides against yours, and he groans — low and deep — and the vibration goes straight through you.

The blanket nest shifts around you, blankets bunching up, pillows sliding. Wolf's paw braces beside your head, his claws digging into the fabric, his muscles straining.

His tail is a blur.

"Look at you."

His voice is wrecked.

"Look at what you do to me."

He picks up the pace.

The mattress thumps faster — thumpthumpthump — a frantic, urgent rhythm. The old frame squeaks. Somewhere behind you, something small falls off the shelf — one of his rocks, probably, but neither of you cares.

Wolf's forehead presses against yours. His eye is squeezed shut. His breathing is coming in short, sharp gasps.

"I'm not gonna — I don't wanna — not yet —"

He's trying to hold back. You can feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his claws dig into the blanket, the way his whole body trembles.

You wrap your legs around him.

Pull him deeper.

He whines.

An actual, desperate, wrecked whine.

"You're gonna — fuck — you're gonna kill me."

The mattress is thumping steadily now. The whole room seems to be moving with you — the stars beyond the viewport, the little string lights, the photographs on the wall. Wolf's tail thumps against the floor in counterpoint, a wild, uncontrollable rhythm.

His mouth finds your neck.

Teeth. Tongue. A growl that vibrates against your skin.

"Mine," he murmurs. "You're mine."

And then—

The door slams open.

"Boss, you got that shipment manifest —"

Leon's voice cuts off like someone sliced it with a knife.

Wolf moves faster than you've ever seen him move.

One second he's on top of you, lost in the heat of it. The next, he's yanked the blanket up over both of you — covering your body, your face, tucking you against his chest like a shield. His paw presses gently but firmly over your mouth.

Shh.

His eye is wide. His ears are flat. His tail has gone completely still.

"WHAT?"

Wolf's voice is a snarl. Low. Dangerous. The kind of voice that makes people remember he's a wanted criminal with a S$3,000,000 bounty.

Leon is frozen in the doorway.

You can't see him — the blanket is too thick — but you can hear his awkward shuffle, the clearing of his throat, the way he's suddenly very interested in the ceiling.

"...I'll come back later."

"TRY TOMORROW."

"Tomorrow. Right. Tomorrow's good."

The door slams shut.

Footsteps retreat down the corridor, fast, like Leon is speed-walking away from the scene of a crime.

Silence.

Wolf doesn't move.

His paw is still over your mouth. His body is still pressed against yours. His heart is pounding so hard you can feel it through his chest — a wild, frantic rhythm that matches the thumping of the mattress just moments ago.

His ear twitches.

He listens.

The footsteps fade. A distant door closes.

"...Shit."

His voice is barely a whisper.

He pulls the blanket back — just enough to see your face. His eye is wide, embarrassed, horrified. His cheeks are burning red. His ears are so flat they're practically glued to his head.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I should've — I didn't think he'd —"

He runs a paw down his face.

"I usually lock the damn door. I always lock the door. I just — I wasn't —"

He stops.

Swallows.

His eye drops to where your bodies are still pressed together, still tangled, still very much in the middle of what you were doing.

His tail gives a single, hesitant thump.

"...You okay?"

His voice is softer now. Genuinely worried.

"He didn't — you're not —"

He can't finish.

You shake your head. Reach up. Touch his cheek.

He leans into your palm like a starving thing.

"I'm gonna kill him."

There's no heat in it.

"Tomorrow. I'm gonna kill him tomorrow."

He exhales — a long, shaky breath — and drops his forehead to yours.

"I'm sorry."

A pause.

His tail thumps again.

"...Maybe we should..."

He glances at the door. Then back at you.

"...come back to this in a few hours?"

His voice is hopeful. Embarrassed. Still wrecked from what you were doing.

"When I've had a chance to..."

He gestures vaguely at the door.

"...install a lock. On the inside. That he can't just walk through."

His ear twitches.

"And maybe hide all the sharp objects so I don't actually kill him."

His tail thumps faster.

"But after that..."

His eye meets yours.

Dark. Warm. Promise burning underneath.

"After that, I'm gonna finish what we started."

His paw finds yours under the blanket.

Interlocks your fingers.

"If you want."

He chuckles

Later that night — or maybe the next night, time blurs in Sargasso — Wolf told you to come back.

His exact words were: "When I've had a chance to... install a lock."

He wasn't joking.

The door to his special place has a new bolt on the inside — heavy, solid, definitely overkill. He shows it to you when you walk in, gesturing at it like a proud engineer showing off his finest work.

"Ain't nobody walkin' through that."

His tail wags once. Quick. Embarrassed.

The room is the same as before. Blanket nest. Viewport. Little string lights glowing warm and golden. The rocks are back on the shelf — he must have picked up the one that fell during... everything.

Wolf is sitting on the edge of the blanket nest.

His legs are spread. His paws are resting on his knees. He's wearing those same grey athletic shorts and nothing else — chest bare, fur soft, that soft-curved belly rising and falling with each breath.

He looks nervous.

His ears are angled toward you, but his eye is fixed on the floor. His tail is still — not wagging, not thumping. Just... waiting.

"Hey."

His voice is quiet.

You sit down across from him. Close. Your knees almost touch.

He doesn't look up.

"I uh..."

He clears his throat.

"I wanted to say... I'm sorry. About before."

His ear twitches.

"I shouldn't have — when Leon came in — I just..."

He runs a paw over his face.

"I shoved you under the blankets like you were somethin' to hide. Like I was ashamed or somethin'."

His voice cracks.

"I wasn't. I'm not. I just — I panicked. And I'm sorry."

You reach out. Touch his knee.

He finally looks at you.

His eye is bright. Vulnerable. There's a flush creeping up his neck, spreading across his muzzle.

"It's okay," you sign — or gesture, or just look at him in a way that says it.

But he shakes his head.

"No. It's not."

His jaw tightens.

"It's not okay. You didn't deserve that. Bein' treated like... like somethin' to hide."

His claws flex against his knees.

"I ain't ashamed of you. I ain't ashamed of this."

He gestures between the two of you.

"I just — I ain't good at... havin' things. Good things. And I don't wanna mess it up."

His tail thumps once. Hopeful.

"So. Yeah. I'm sorry."

You squeeze his knee.

He exhales — a long, shaky breath — and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

"Thanks."

His ear perks forward.

"For not... you know. Runnin'."

You don't run.

You shift closer.

Your hands slide up his thighs — slow, deliberate. His fur is soft under your palms. His muscles tense beneath your touch.

His breath catches.

"What are you —"

You kneel.

Right there. Between his legs. Your knees press into the blankets. Your face is level with his hips.

Wolf goes completely still.

His eye is wide. His ears are flat. His tail — his traitorous tail — starts thumping against the floor.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"You don't — you don't have to —"

Your fingers find the waistband of his shorts.

His voice dies in his throat.

You pull them down.

Slowly. Carefully. His cock springs free — thick, heavy, already half-hard. The fur at his base is darker, softer. His hips jerk involuntarily when the cool air hits his skin.

"Jesus —"

His voice cracks.

You wrap your hand around him.

He makes a sound — a strangled, desperate little noise — and his head falls back. His throat works. His claws dig into the blankets.

"You don't — you really don't gotta —"

You lean in.

Your tongue flicks out — just a taste, just the tip — and his whole body convulses.

"Fuck."

His paw shoots out, not stopping you, just... holding onto your shoulder. Clinging.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck —"

You take him into your mouth.

Just the head at first. Warm. Wet. Your tongue presses against the underside, and he whines — an actual, broken whine — and his hips buck before he catches himself.

"Sorry — sorry — I didn't mean to —"

You hum.

The vibration makes him see stars.

His tail is thumping so hard the whole floor is shaking. His chest is heaving. His eye is squeezed shut, like he can't bear to watch because he might fall apart completely.

You take more of him.

Slow. Deep. Your cheeks hollow. Your tongue traces the vein along the side.

"Where did you — how do you —"

He can't finish a single sentence.

Your hand cups his balls.

Heavy. Warm. Fuzzy — the fur there is soft, thinner than the rest, and you can feel the heat of his skin underneath. They're full, drawn up tight against his body, and when you gently squeeze, he makes a sound like a wounded animal.

"Jesus Christ."

His voice is wrecked.

"I haven't — I ain't gotten head this good since —"

He stops.

Swallows.

His eye cracks open, finds yours. You're still looking up at him, mouth full of him, and something in his expression shatters.

"Not to — not to compare you or nothin' — but you're..."

His claws flex against your shoulder.

"...you're the best."

His voice is barely a whisper.

"You're the best I've ever had."

His tail thumps.

Thumpthumpthump.

You suck him deeper.

His hips stutter. His head falls back again. His breathing is ragged, uneven — little gasps and moans that he can't seem to control.

Your other hand joins the first. Cupping his balls. Rolling them gently in your palm. Feeling their weight, their warmth, the way they tighten when you pull your mouth up to the tip and swirl your tongue around him.

"Fuck."

His voice is desperate now.

"You're gonna — if you keep — I'm not gonna last —"

You slow down.

Just a little. Just enough to keep him on the edge.

He whines.

"Please —"

He doesn't even know what he's asking for.

Your mouth slides down again. Cheeks hollowed. Tongue pressing. He's thick and heavy on your tongue, and you can feel him throbbing, feel how close he is, feel the way his whole body trembles under your hands.

His paw slides into your hair.

Not pushing. Not pulling. Just... holding.

Like you're something precious.

"You're gonna kill me," he breathes.

"You're actually gonna kill me."

His tail thumps.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His chest rises and falls. His eye is squeezed shut. His lips are parted, and every few seconds a sound escapes — a moan, a gasp, a whispered curse.

"Where did you — how are you so —"

He can't finish.

His hips buck again, shallow, instinctive, and he groans.

"I'm close — I'm really close —"

You pull off.

Just for a moment. Just to look at him.

His eye flies open.

He looks wrecked. Flushed. Desperate. His chest is heaving. His tail is still thumping. His cock is slick and throbbing, twitching against his belly.

"Why did you — why did you stop —"

You smile.

He makes a sound — half laugh, half sob.

"You're evil."

There's no heat in it.

"You're absolutely evil."

Your hand wraps around him again — slow, lazy strokes — and his head falls back.

"Please," he breathes.

"Please, please, please —"

You lean in.

Your tongue flicks out — just the tip, just a taste — and he whines.

"You're gonna be the death of me."

His paw tightens in your hair.

"I hope you know that."

His tail thumps.

Thumpthumpthump.

"I hope you're happy."

Weeks have passed.

Weeks of this — whatever this is. Weeks of stolen hours in his special place, of blankets tangled around your bodies, of his mouth on your skin and his voice wrecked in your ear. Weeks of learning every sound he makes, every spot that makes him shiver, every way he falls apart under your hands.

Wolf is insatiable.

You've learned that about him.

He comes back from missions wired — adrenaline still humming through his veins, blood still hot from whatever fight he barely walked away from. His eye is bright, feral, hungry. His tail is twitching. His claws flex at his sides like he needs something to hold onto.

And he always comes to you.

Always.

Tonight is no different.

The door to his special room slams open — no knock, no warning, just Wolf filling the doorway with his massive frame. His chest is heaving. His fur is matted with sweat and something that might be engine grease. His eyepatch is crooked, like he was tugging at it on the way here.

His eye finds you immediately.

"You're still here."

His voice is rough. Grateful. Like he wasn't sure you'd be waiting.

You're sitting in the blanket nest, reading an old datapad. You look up at him — at the tension in his shoulders, the way his tail is lashing back and forth, the bulge in his flight pants that he's not even trying to hide.

You set the datapad aside.

He crosses the room in three strides.

His paw cups your face — rough, desperate — and he kisses you like he's been holding his breath for hours. His tongue slides against yours. His body presses you back into the blankets. His weight settles over you, warm and solid and needy.

"Missed you," he murmurs against your mouth.

"Thought about you the whole time."

His hips grind against yours, instinctive, and he groans.

"Every time I pulled the trigger. Every time I dodged a laser. Every time I thought I wasn't gonna make it back —"

His voice cracks.

"—I thought about you."

You don't need words. Your hands answer for you — dragging down his chest, tugging at his flight suit, pulling the zipper down with a sound that makes his ears perk forward.

He helps you.

Shoves the fabric off his shoulders, kicks it away, and then he's bare — all that grey fur, those broad shoulders, that soft-curved belly, and his cock, already hard, already leaking, pressing against your thigh.

"Need you," he breathes.

"Need you so bad."

You push him back.

He goes willingly — falls onto his back in the blanket nest, chest heaving, eye dark. His tail thumps against the floor. Thumpthumpthump.

"What are you —"

You kneel.

Between his legs. Your hands slide up his thighs, feeling the muscle quiver under his fur. His breath catches.

"Oh — fuck — you don't have to —"

You wrap your hand around him.

He whines.

"You're gonna — you're gonna kill me —"

You lean in.

Your tongue flicks out — just the tip, just a taste — and his whole body convulses.

"Jesus Christ."

His paw shoots out, not stopping you, just... holding onto your shoulder. Clinging.

"Been thinkin' about this all mission. All week. Couldn't concentrate. Almost got shot 'cause I was thinkin' about your mouth —"

You take him deeper.

His hips buck.

"Fuck — sorry — sorry —"

You hum.

The vibration makes him see stars.

His tail is thumping so hard the whole floor is shaking. His chest is heaving. His eye is squeezed shut, like he can't bear to watch because he might fall apart completely.

"I'm not gonna last," he gasps.

"I'm not — you're too good — you're —"

You pull off.

Just for a moment. Just to look at him.

His eye flies open.

"Why did you — why did you stop —"

You stand up.

His gaze follows you — desperate, confused, hungry.

"What are you —"

You turn around.

Slowly. Deliberately. You bend over — right there in front of him — bracing your hands on the edge of the blanket nest. You look back at him over your shoulder.

His brain short-circuits.

You can see it happen. His eye goes wide. His ears flatten. His mouth opens and closes and no sound comes out.

"...Oh."

His voice is barely a whisper.

"Oh, fuck."

He's on his knees behind you in an instant.

His paws grip your hips — rough, desperate, claws retracted so he doesn't hurt you. His chest presses against your back. His mouth finds your ear.

"You want it like this?"

His voice is a growl.

"You want me to —"

You push back against him.

He groans.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. Okay."

His cock presses against you — teasing, not pushing — and he's shaking.

"Tell me if it's too much. Tell me to stop. I'll stop. I swear I'll —"

You push back harder.

He gets the message.

He pushes inside you.

Slow. So slow. Savoring every inch, every sound you make, every tremor that runs through your body. His forehead drops to your shoulder. His breathing is ragged.

"Jesus — you feel — you feel so —"

He can't finish.

He pulls back.

And then he starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Rolling his hips in a way that makes your fingers curl into the blankets, your back arch, your breath catch in your throat. His tail is wagging — thumpthumpthump — keeping time with the rhythm he's setting.

"That okay?"

His voice is wrecked.

"Tell me that's okay."

You moan.

He takes that as a yes.

He picks up the pace.

The blanket nest shifts around you, blankets bunching up, pillows sliding. Wolf's paws grip your hips harder, holding you steady, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. The room fills with sound — skin on skin, his ragged breathing, your moans, the steady thump-thump-thump of his tail against the floor.

"Look at you," he breathes.

"Look at what you do to me."

His thrusts get faster. Harder. Deeper.

"Been thinkin' about this all week. Every night. Couldn't sleep. Just —"

His hips snap against yours.

"—thinking — about — you —"

His rhythm stutters.

"I'm close — I'm so close —"

You reach back. Grab his hip. Pull him deeper.

He whines.

"You're gonna — fuck — you're gonna make me —"

His thrusts lose rhythm. Become desperate. Primal. His claws dig into your hips — not enough to hurt, just enough to hold on. His breathing is coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Where — where do you want —"

You push back harder.

He groans.

"Inside. Yeah. Inside. Fuck —"

He comes undone.

His body locks up. His hips stutter. He buries himself deep and you feel him — hot and pulsing — and he makes a sound, a broken, desperate sound, something between a growl and a sob.

His forehead presses to your shoulder.

His whole body shakes.

"...Holy shit."

His voice is barely a whisper.

"Holy shit."

He pulls out slowly — carefully — and you both collapse onto the blankets.

For a moment, there's nothing but breathing.

His chest heaving against yours. His heart pounding under your palm. His tail — finally still — curled around your leg.

Then he moves.

Wolf is big on aftercare. You learned that early.

He grabs a soft cloth — he keeps a stash of them here now, just for this — and cleans you up. Gentle. Careful. His touch is reverent, almost worshipful. His claws are fully retracted, just soft pads against your skin.

"You okay?"

His voice is soft now. Worried.

"Was that — was I too rough —"

You shake your head. Reach up. Touch his cheek.

He leans into your palm like a starving thing.

"Good."

He exhales.

"Good."

He pulls a blanket over you both — tucks it around your shoulders, around your back, around your legs. His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you against his chest. His belly is soft and warm against your back. His muzzle presses to the top of your head.

"You were so good," he murmurs.

"So good for me."

His tail thumps once. Slow. Content.

"You always are."

His claws trace lazy patterns on your stomach — not sexual, just soothing. Just feeling you. Just reminding himself you're real.

"I don't say it enough."

His voice is barely a whisper.

"But I... I appreciate you. This. Us."

His ear twitches.

"Whatever this is."

He's quiet for a moment.

The stars glow beyond the viewport. The little string lights twinkle. Somewhere in the distance, the base hums its endless, low-frequency song.

"You make me feel..."

He stops.

Swallows.

"...safe."

His voice cracks on the word.

"I ain't felt safe in a long time."

His arm tightens around you.

"So. Yeah."

His tail thumps once.

"Thanks."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Another to your temple.

Another to your shoulder.

"You wanna stay?"

His voice is hopeful.

"You don't gotta. I know you got stuff. But..."

His tail thumps faster.

"...I sleep better when you're here."

His paw finds yours under the blanket.

Interlocks your fingers.

The door opens — and someone else walks in.

You feel the shift in the room before you see him. The air changes. Wolf's body tenses behind you. His arm tightens around your waist.

And then you hear a voice you don't recognize.

"You said it was urgent."

The voice is sharp. Professional. There's an edge to it — not hostile, but guarded. Like someone who's used to walking into traps and has learned to expect the worst.

Wolf snorts.

"It is urgent, McCloud. Sit your ass down."

McCloud.

Fox McCloud.

The rival. The legend. The one Wolf talks about in that low, grudging voice — the one he's fought a hundred times, nearly died beside a few times, and would never, ever admit to respecting.

You turn your head just enough to see him.

He's standing in the doorway, frozen.

Fox is... beautiful.

Red fur. Tall ears. Big green eyes that are currently very wide, very confused, and very much fixed on you — on the blanket draped over your body, on Wolf's arm wrapped possessively around your waist, on the obvious fact that you just finished doing something Fox definitely wasn't invited for.

His tail puffs up.

"Wolf, what the hell —"

"Shut up and listen."

Wolf's voice is calm. Commanding. The voice he uses when he's about to say something he doesn't want to repeat.

"I got somethin' to ask you. And you're gonna sit down and hear me out before you say anything."

Fox doesn't move.

His ears are flat. His eyes keep darting to you — to your bare shoulder, to the curve of your hip under the blanket, to the way you're looking at him.

Wolf sighs.

"Fox."

Softer now.

"Sit down."

Fox sits.

He perches on the edge of the blanket nest — as far from you as possible, like he's afraid he might catch something. His tail curls around his leg. His hands rest on his knees. His ears are angled toward Wolf, but his eyes...

His eyes keep finding you.

Wolf's arm tightens around your waist.

"You know I don't share."

His voice is low. Serious.

"You know that ain't who I am."

Fox nods slowly.

"So you know this ain't nothin' I'd ever offer lightly."

Wolf's jaw tightens.

"But you've been... off lately. Distracted. Sloppy."

Fox flinches.

"Don't deny it. I've seen it. Leon's seen it. Half the damn system's seen it."

Wolf's paw comes up, rubbing the back of his neck.

"And I know why."

Fox goes still.

"I know about Krystal. I know about the breakup. I know you've been walkin' around like a kicked puppy for three months —"

"I'm not a —"

"Shut up. I'm talkin'."

Fox shuts up.

Wolf exhales.

"You're pent up, McCloud. And you're stubborn. And you won't ask for help even when you're fallin' apart."

His eye flicks to you.

"Lucky for you, my partner here's got a soft spot for strays."

Fox's ears perk forward.

"Partner?"

Wolf's tail thumps once.

"Yeah. Partner."

He says it like a warning. Like a claim.

"And they —" he nods at you, "—they saw you mopin' around the cantina last week. Saw the way you looked at 'em. And they asked me if you were okay."

Fox's face flushes.

"I wasn't — I didn't —"

"You did."

Wolf's voice is gentler now.

"And I been thinkin' about it. About how you ain't had anyone in your bed since..."

He trails off.

Fox looks away.

Wolf's paw finds yours under the blanket.

"So here's the deal."

His voice is steady.

"Tonight. One night. You can have what we have."

Fox's head snaps up.

"What —"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Wolf's eye is hard. But there's something underneath — something soft, something almost... kind.

"You're gonna get special treatment. Tonight only. 'Cause my partner here felt sorry for your sorry ass. And 'cause I..."

He stops.

Swallows.

"...I don't like seein' you like this."

Fox stares at him.

His tail starts wagging — slow, hesitant, like he's not sure he's allowed.

"Wolf —"

"Don't get the wrong idea."

Wolf's voice sharpens.

"I'm not doin' this because I'm nice. I'm doin' this because you're useless when you're like this, and I need you sharp for the next mission."

His tail thumps.

"And because —"

He looks at you.

His eye softens.

"—they asked me to."

Fox's gaze follows his. Lands on you.

You smile at him.

Small. Warm. Inviting.

His tail wags faster.

"I —"

He swallows.

"...I don't know what to say."

Wolf snorts.

"You could start with 'thank you.'"

Fox's ears flatten.

"Thank you."

It comes out small. Embarrassed.

Wolf's tail thumps once.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

He shifts behind you — pulls the blanket down, just a little, just enough to bare your shoulder, your neck, the curve of your chest.

Fox's breath catches.

"You're gonna do what they tell you. Got it?"

Wolf's voice is low.

"You're gonna be respectful. You're gonna ask before you touch. And if they say stop, you stop."

Fox nods.

"And if you hurt 'em —"

Wolf's claws flex.

"—I'll kill you."

Fox's eyes are wide.

"...I understand."

Wolf relaxes.

Just a little.

"Good."

He looks at you.

"You still want this?"

You nod.

His tail thumps.

"Okay."

He pulls the blanket away.

Fox makes a sound — a small, strangled noise — and his face goes bright red under his fur. His eyes travel down your body — your bare skin, your curves, the way you're pressed against Wolf's chest.

"Jesus —"

"Told you they were pretty."

Wolf's voice is smug.

Fox can't speak.

He just stares.

His tail is wagging so hard the whole blanket nest is shaking.

Wolf shifts behind you — pulls you onto his lap, positions you so you're facing Fox, so your legs are spread, so Fox can see everything.

"You want a taste?"

Wolf's voice is a growl.

Fox's throat works.

"...Yeah."

It comes out strangled.

"Yeah, I — yeah."

Wolf's paws grip your hips.

"Then come here."

Fox crawls forward.

Slow. Hesitant. Like he's approaching a wild animal.

His hands hover over your thighs — not touching, just... waiting. His green eyes find yours.

"Can I —"

You nod.

His paws land on your knees.

Warm. Shaking slightly.

He slides them up your thighs — slow, reverent — and his breath hitches when he feels how soft your skin is.

"You're so —"

He can't finish.

Wolf's chest rumbles behind you.

"Told you."

Fox's hands reach your hips.

His thumbs brush your stomach.

His ears are flat. His tail is a blur. His face is burning.

"I —"

He looks at Wolf.

"Thank you."

It comes out sincere. Desperate. Grateful.

Wolf's tail thumps.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it."

But his arm around your waist tightens — proud, possessive, happy.

Fox leans in.

His muzzle brushes your neck.

His lips are soft — softer than Wolf's. Hesitant. Like he's not sure he's allowed to want this much.

"You smell good," he murmurs.

His tongue flicks out — just a taste — and you shiver.

Wolf growls.

"You like that?"

The question isn't for Fox.

You nod.

Wolf's hips shift beneath you.

"Then let's give him a show."

It doesn't take long for Fox to relax.

Once he realizes you want this — once you grab his ears and pull his mouth to yours, once you kiss him deep and messy and desperate — something in him snaps.

He kisses back.

Hard.

His paws slide up your body — your ribs, your chest, your shoulders — mapping you, memorizing you. His tongue slides against yours. He tastes like coffee and something sweet, and he makes these little sounds — these needy, broken sounds — that go straight through you.

Behind you, Wolf shifts.

His hands grip your hips. His cock presses against you — already hard again, because Wolf is insatiable.

"You ready?"

His voice is rough.

You push back against him.

That's all the answer he needs.

He pushes inside you.

Slow. Deep. You moan into Fox's mouth, and Fox swallows the sound, and his hips jerk against your thigh.

"Fuck —"

Fox's voice is wrecked.

"You're so —"

Wolf starts to move.

Slow thrusts. Deep. Rolling his hips in that way he knows makes you see stars.

You break the kiss with Fox, gasping.

Fox stares at you — at your flushed face, your parted lips, the way your body rocks with every thrust.

"You're beautiful," he breathes.

"So beautiful."

His paw cups your cheek.

"Can I —"

You grab his wrist. Guide his hand down.

Behind you.

Fox's eyes go wide.

"Oh —"

His paw finds your ass — grips it hard, fingers digging into the flesh, and you moan. He squeezes, kneads, pulls you toward him, and Wolf's thrusts speed up.

"That's it," Wolf growls.

"Hold 'em. Make 'em feel it."

Fox's grip tightens. His claws — retracted, careful — press into your skin. His other hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, pressing your chest against his.

"You like that?" Fox murmurs.

You can't speak. You just nod.

Wolf's paw slides into your hair — pulls your head back, exposes your throat.

"Then suck him off."

His voice is a command.

"He's been starved for it. Look at him."

You look at Fox.

His pupils are blown. His chest is heaving. His cock is hard, straining against his flight pants, leaking a dark spot on the fabric.

You reach for him.

Your fingers fumble with his zipper, and he helps you — shoves his pants down, kicks them away, and then he's bare.

He's beautiful.

Long. Lean. Red fur leading down to pink skin. His cock is thinner than Wolf's, but just as hard, and when you wrap your hand around him, he whines.

"Please —"

His voice cracks.

"Please, I —"

You lean in.

Your tongue flicks out — just the tip — and his whole body convulses.

"Jesus —"

You take him into your mouth.

He tastes different than Wolf — sweeter, maybe. Cleaner. His hips buck instinctively, and he catches himself, and he apologizes, and you hum, and he whines.

"I'm not gonna — you're gonna —"

Behind you, Wolf pounds into you.

Harder now. Faster. His hips snap against yours, and every thrust pushes you further onto Fox's cock, and you're caught between them — full in every way — and it's so much, too much, exactly enough.

Fox's paw finds your hair.

Not pushing. Just holding.

"You're so —"

His voice breaks.

"—so good — so good to me —"

Wolf growls.

"Yeah. They are."

His thrusts get rougher.

"They're the best. And I'm only sharin' 'em 'cause I feel sorry for your sorry ass."

Fox moans.

"I know — I know — thank you —"

"Thank 'em."

Fox looks down at you — mouth full of him, eyes watering, cheeks hollowed — and something in his expression shatters.

"Thank you," he breathes.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you —"

You suck him deeper.

His hips stutter.

"I'm gonna — I'm gonna —"

Wolf slams into you.

Once. Twice. Three times.

You come undone.

Your body locks up. Your mouth releases Fox. Your back arches. You moan — loud, broken — and Wolf groans, and Fox whines, and for a moment, everything is white.

Wolf pulls out.

Just in time.

He comes on your back — hot and pulsing — and the sound he makes is almost feral.

Fox follows a second later.

His cock twitches in your hand, and he spills over your fingers — white and hot — and his head falls back, and his tail thumps against the blanket, and he makes this sound — this broken, grateful, desperate sound.

"Oh — oh, fuck —"

For a moment, no one moves.

Just breathing. Just hearts pounding. Just the three of you tangled together in the blanket nest, sticky and satisfied and completely wrecked.

Wolf is the first to move.

He grabs a cloth — soft, warm — and cleans you up. Gentle. Careful. His touch is reverent, even with Fox watching. He wipes your back, your thighs, your stomach, the places where he and Fox have touched you.

"You okay?"

His voice is soft.

You nod.

He exhales.

"Good."

He pulls you against his chest — wraps his arms around you, tucks the blanket around your shoulders.

Fox is still sitting there, staring.

His chest is heaving. His face is flushed. His tail is wagging — slow, dazed, like he's not sure what just happened.

Wolf looks at him.

"You gonna just sit there, or are you gonna help with aftercare?"

Fox blinks.

"I —"

"Grab the water. And the snacks."

Fox scrambles to obey.

He returns with a bottle of water and a bag of something that looks like trail mix. He sits on the edge of the blanket nest — close, but not too close — and hands them to Wolf.

Wolf takes the water. Opens it. Hands it to you.

"Drink."

You drink.

Fox watches.

His tail wags.

Wolf catches him staring.

"What?"

Fox's ears flatten.

"Nothing. I just —"

He stops.

Swallows.

"...thank you. Both of you."

His voice is quiet. Sincere.

Wolf's tail thumps once.

"Yeah, well. Don't expect a repeat."

But his arm around you loosens — just a little — and he nods toward the blanket.

"You can stay. If you want. For a bit."

Fox's eyes go wide.

"Really?"

"Don't make it weird."

Fox crawls under the blanket.

He's careful — keeps his distance at first. But then your hand finds his under the fabric, and you squeeze, and he relaxes.

Wolf is on one side of you. Fox on the other.

Both of them warm. Both of them here...

You're in Wolf's lap when he brings it up.

His chest is warm against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist, his muzzle buried in your neck. He's been kissing you lazily for the last hour — soft, slow, the kind of kissing that doesn't lead anywhere but feels like home.

His tail thumps against the blankets every few seconds.

"Hey."

His voice is quiet.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder. Look at him upside down.

His eye is soft. His ears are relaxed. But there's something underneath — something nervous.

"I been thinkin'."

His claws trace patterns on your stomach.

"About you. About us."

A pause.

"About Fox."

Your eyebrows raise.

His tail stops thumping.

"I know. I know. Weird, right?"

He huffs — half laugh, half sigh.

"But I been watchin' you. With him. The way you look at each other. The way you..."

He swallows.

"...touch."

His paw slides up your chest. Rests over your heart.

"I ain't jealous."

A pause.

"Not jealous. Just..."

He struggles for the word.

"...curious."

You turn in his lap. Face him. Your knees bracket his hips.

His eye drops to your mouth.

"I want to try somethin'. With you. With him. Both of you. At the same time."

His voice drops lower.

"But I need to know if you want it. Really want it. 'Cause once we start..."

His claws flex against your hip.

"...I ain't gonna be able to think straight."

You reach up. Cup his cheek.

He leans into your palm.

"So?"

You nod.

His tail explodes.

Thumpthumpthumpthump.

"Yeah?"

You nod again.

He kisses you — hard, grateful, desperate. His tongue slides against yours. His paws grip your body, pull you closer. His cock is already half-hard against your thigh.

"Okay," he breathes against your mouth.

"Okay. Okay."

He pulls back. His eye is bright.

"Stay here."

He's off the blankets in a second, crossing to the door, yanking it open.

"MCCOUD."

His voice echoes down the corridor.

"GET YOUR RED ASS IN HERE."

You hear a distant crash. A muffled curse. Footsteps.

Fox appears in the doorway a minute later, ears flat, tail puffed, flight suit half-zipped like he was in the middle of something.

"Wolf, what the hell —"

"Get in here and shut up."

Wolf grabs him by the arm and pulls him inside. Slams the door. Throws the bolt.

Fox's green eyes dart around the room — the blankets, the lights, you sitting in the middle of the nest, naked, flushed, waiting.

His throat works.

"Wolf —"

"You wanna fuck 'em or not?"

Fox's face goes bright red.

"I — you — that's not —"

"Simple question, McCloud. Yes or no."

Fox's tail starts wagging.

"...Yes."

Wolf's tail thumps.

"Good. Because we're doin' somethin' different tonight."

He stalks back to the blanket nest. Sits down behind you again. Pulls you against his chest.

Fox watches. His eyes are fixed on Wolf's paws on your body.

"You ever been double stuffed, pup?"

The question is for you.

You shake your head.

Wolf's eye softens.

"Didn't think so."

He looks at Fox.

"Neither have they. So we're gonna take it slow. Real slow. And if either of you needs to stop, we stop. Got it?"

Fox nods.

"Got it."

Wolf's paw slides down your stomach. Between your legs.

"You want this?"

You push into his touch.

"That's not an answer, pup. Use your head."

You nod. Firm. Clear.

His tail thumps.

"Okay."

He looks at Fox.

"Get over here."

Fox crawls onto the blankets. Slow. Hesitant. His green eyes keep finding yours — checking, asking, hoping.

"Hi," he breathes.

You reach for him.

Your hand cups his cheek. His fur is soft. His face is warm. He leans into your touch like he's been starved for it.

"Hi," he whispers again.

Wolf snorts.

"You two gonna make googly eyes all night, or are we gonna do this?"

Fox's ears flatten. But he doesn't pull away.

Wolf's paw guides your chin. Turns your face toward his.

"He's nervous," Wolf murmurs. "Ain't you, McCloud?"

Fox swallows.

"...A little."

"Good. Means you'll be careful."

Wolf releases your chin. Nods toward Fox.

"Kiss 'em."

You lean in.

Fox meets you halfway.

His lips are soft — softer than Wolf's. Hesitant at first, then surer. His paw slides into your hair. His tongue brushes yours. He tastes like mint and something sweet.

He makes a small sound — a needy, broken little noise — and Wolf growls behind you.

"Good. Now get 'em ready."

Fox pulls back. His eyes are wide.

"What —"

"You heard me."

Wolf's voice is calm. Commanding.

"You're gonna warm 'em up. Get 'em loose. And then —" his paw slides down your stomach, "—then we're gonna put you both inside 'em."

Fox's whole body goes rigid.

"Both —"

"You got a problem with that?"

Fox's throat works.

"...No."

"Good. Then shut up and get to work."

Fox's hands find your hips. Gentle. Shaking slightly.

He pulls you toward him — guides you onto your back on the blankets. His body hovers over yours. His green eyes search your face.

"This okay?"

You nod.

His tail thumps against the blanket.

He leans down. His mouth finds your neck.

Soft kisses at first. Then deeper. His tongue traces your collarbone. His paws slide down your sides — mapping you, memorizing you.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes.

His mouth moves lower.

Your chest. Your stomach. Your hips.

He looks up at you — green eyes dark, ears flat, tail thumping.

"Can I —"

You grab his ears. Pull him down.

He gets the message.

His tongue finds you — warm, wet, eager. You arch off the blankets. Your hands fist in his fur. He makes a sound — a desperate, hungry sound — and his tail thumps faster.

Behind you, Wolf shifts.

His chest presses against your back. His mouth finds your ear.

"He's good at this, ain't he?"

You can't speak. You just moan.

Wolf's claws trace your hip.

"Been practicin'. Probably thinkin' about you the whole time."

Fox's ears burn red. But he doesn't stop.

His tongue works you open. Slow. Deep. His nose presses against you. His paws grip your thighs, spread you wider, pull you closer.

"You're doin' so good," Wolf murmurs.

"Both of you."

His paw slides into your hair. Pulls your head back. Exposes your throat.

"You ready, pup?"

You nod.

"You sure? 'Cause once we start, there ain't no goin' back."

You nod again.

Wolf looks at Fox.

"Get up here."

Fox crawls up your body — kisses his way across your stomach, your chest, your throat. His mouth finds yours. You taste yourself on his tongue.

Wolf shifts behind you.

His cock presses against your entrance — teasing, not pushing.

"You still want this?"

You push back against him.

He groans.

"Okay. Okay."

He pushes inside you.

Slow. So slow. Your body stretches around him — familiar now, but still so much. His forehead drops to your shoulder. His breathing is ragged.

"Jesus — you feel —"

He can't finish.

He pulls back. Pushes in again. Deeper this time.

Fox watches. His green eyes are wide. His cock is hard, pressed against your hip.

Wolf looks at him.

"Your turn."

Fox's throat works.

"How —"

Wolf's paws grip your hips. He pulls you onto his lap — you're straddling him now, facing Fox. Wolf's cock is still buried inside you.

"Come here, McCloud."

Fox crawls forward. His knees bracket Wolf's hips. His face is inches from yours.

Wolf's paw guides Fox's cock. Lines it up.

"You're gonna go slow. Real slow. And if they say stop —"

"I know."

Fox's voice is barely a whisper.

"I know."

He pushes.

Just the head at first.

You gasp. The stretch — oh, the stretch. It's so much. Too much. Wolf is thick and heavy inside you, and now Fox is pressing in beside him, and your body is screaming.

"Easy," Wolf murmurs.

"Easy."

Fox's hips stutter.

"I'm sorry — I'm sorry — are you —"

You grab his hips. Pull him closer.

He whines.

He pushes deeper.

The burn is incredible. Your body is on fire — stretched, filled, split open in the best way. Your nails dig into Fox's shoulders. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps.

"You're doin' so good," Wolf breathes.

"So good for us."

Fox is trembling. His whole body is shaking. His forehead presses to yours.

"You okay?"

You nod.

"Tell me if —"

You kiss him.

He moans into your mouth.

Wolf's hips shift. Just a little. Just enough to remind you he's there.

"You feel that, pup? Both of us? Inside you?"

You whimper.

Wolf's tail thumps.

"Yeah. Yeah, you feel it."

He starts to move.

Slow. Rolling his hips in that way he knows makes you see stars. Every thrust pushes you onto Fox — deeper, fuller, more.

Fox finds the rhythm.

They work together — Wolf pushing in, Fox pulling back. Fox pushing in, Wolf pulling back. A tandem rhythm that has you gasping, moaning, clawing at their fur.

"Fuck," Fox breathes.

"Fuck, you're so —"

He can't finish.

Wolf's paw slides down your stomach. Presses against you.

"You close, pup?"

You nod.

"Good. 'Cause we're close too."

His thrusts speed up...

Fox's thrusts speed up...

They're both pounding into you now — hard, desperate, primal. The blanket nest shakes. The viewport rattles.

Wolf has been watching you all night.

Not in the usual way — not hungry or desperate or feral. Watching. Calculating. His eye follows you across the room, tracks your hands, your mouth, the way you move.

His tail thumps slow against the blankets.

"You been good."

His voice is quiet.

You look up from where you're sitting — cross-legged on the blanket nest, still catching your breath from earlier. Fox is passed out beside you, red fur rising and falling, tail twitching in his sleep.

Wolf nods toward him.

"Been real good with him. Patient. Gentle. Even when he gets all..." He waves a paw vaguely. "...needy."

You shrug. It's nothing.

Wolf's eye narrows.

"It ain't nothing."

He crosses the room. Sits down in front of you. His paw cups your chin.

"You did what I asked. Every time. No complaints. No attitude."

His thumb brushes your lower lip.

"I think you deserve a reward."

Your breath catches.

His tail thumps.

"Fox!"

The red fox jerks awake. His ears flatten. His green eyes go wide.

"Wha —"

"Get over here."

Wolf's voice is calm. Commanding.

Fox crawls across the blankets — still groggy, still flushed, still beautiful. His tail curls around his leg.

"Did I do somethin' wrong?"

"No."

Wolf's paw leaves your chin. He gestures at you.

"You owe 'em."

Fox's eyes dart to you. Then back to Wolf.

"What?"

"You heard me."

Wolf's voice sharpens.

"They've taken care of you. Multiple times. On my orders. And they never complained. Not once."

He leans back. Crosses his arms.

"Now it's your turn."

Fox's throat works.

"You want me to —"

"I want you to do whatever they tell you."

Wolf's eye is hard.

"For as long as they want. However they want."

He looks at you.

"They're in charge tonight. Not me. Not you."

He nods toward the nest.

"So get on your back, McCloud."

Fox's ears are flat. His tail is still. But his cock is already half-hard against his thigh.

He lies down.

Slow. Hesitant. His green eyes find yours.

"Whatever you want," he breathes.

"I'm yours."

Wolf's tail thumps.

"Good boy."

Fox's face goes red.

You crawl toward him.

Your knees press into the blankets on either side of his hips. Your hands plant on his chest. His fur is soft under your palms — red and warm, his heart pounding beneath.

"Hi," he whispers.

You don't answer.

You lean down and kiss him.

Slow. Deep. Your tongue slides against his. He tastes like sleep and something sweet. His paws hover over your hips — not touching, just waiting.

You grab his wrists.

Pin them above his head.

His breath hitches.

"Okay," he breathes.

"Okay."

Behind you, Wolf shifts. His eye is dark. His tail is thumping.

"Tell him what you want."

You release Fox's wrists. Sit up. Your hands slide down his chest — his stomach, his hips, the waistband of his flight suit.

You pull the zipper down.

Slow.

Fox's cock springs free — already hard, already leaking, dark pink against red fur. His hips jerk when the cool air hits his skin.

"Please," he whispers.

You wrap your hand around him.

He whines.

"You're gonna — I'm not gonna last —"

You squeeze.

He shuts up.

Behind you, Wolf snorts.

"Told you they were good at this."

You lean down.

Your tongue flicks out — just the tip — and Fox's whole body convulses.

"Jesus —"

You take him into your mouth.

Slow. Deep. Your cheeks hollow. Your tongue presses against the underside. He tastes like salt and musk and Fox.

His paws fly to your hair — not pushing, just holding.

"Please — please — please —"

You hum.

He whines.

Behind you, Wolf shifts again. His paws grip your hips.

"Don't let him come yet."

You pull off.

Fox sobs.

"Why —"

"Because I said so."

Wolf's voice is calm.

"And because they're in charge. Not you."

He looks at you.

"Get him ready."

You nod.

Your hands slide down Fox's thighs. Spread his legs. His green eyes go wide.

"What are you —"

You lean down.

Your tongue finds him — soft, wet, teasing. His whole body jerks.

"Oh — fuck —"

You lick him open.

Slow. Deliberate. His hips buck against your face. His claws dig into the blankets. His breathing is ragged — little gasps and moans and whispered curses.

"Please — please — I need —"

You push a finger inside him.

He keens.

Your finger moves — slow, stretching, searching. His body clenches around you. His tail is thrashing against the blanket.

"More," he gasps.

"Please, more —"

You add a second finger.

His back arches.

Behind you, Wolf's chest rumbles.

"That's it, pup. Get him nice and open."

Your fingers curl. Find that spot.

Fox screams.

"There — there — right there —"

You press against it.

His whole body shakes.

"I'm gonna — I'm gonna —"

You pull your fingers out.

He whimpers.

"Why —"

You sit up. Your cock is hard — aching, leaking, pressed against your stomach.

Fox's eyes drop to it.

His throat works.

"Oh."

His tail thumps.

"Oh."

You position yourself between his legs.

Your cock presses against his entrance — teasing, not pushing. His green eyes find yours.

You push inside him.

Slow.

So slow.

His body stretches around you — tight, hot, perfect. His back arches. His mouth falls open. His claws dig into your shoulders.

"Fuck —"

His breathing is ragged.

You push deeper.

His whole body trembles.

"You're so — so —"

He can't finish.

You're buried inside him now. Your hips flush against his. His legs wrap around your waist. His tail is wagging — thumpthumpthump — against the blanket.

"Move," he breathes.

"Please — move —"

You pull back.

Push in.

Slow.

Deep.

His head falls back. His throat works. He makes a sound — broken, desperate, beautiful.

Behind you, Wolf's paw finds your hip.

"That's it, pup."

His voice is rough.

"Fuck him good!"