STEVE HARRINGTON

The week had been hell.

You'd been impossible—snapping over nothing, knocking Steve's carefully stacked tapes off the shelf with your tail when you were annoyed, refusing to come when he called your name, and sulking by the window with your ears flat against your head whenever he tried to talk to you. The attitude was one thing, but the disobedience? Unacceptable for a pet who usually lived to please him.

Steve had told you you'd be punished. No treats. No head pats. No curling up on his chest while he watched TV. You'd whined and paced and clawed at his bedroom door, but he'd held firm, jaw set in that stubborn way that made your stomach flip even when you were being a brat.

Then, three days early, the heat hit.

It wasn't like the others. You'd gone through heats before—restless, needy, following Steve around with dilated pupils and a persistent whine until he took care of you—but this was different. This was feral, and he was ignoring you.

You were in his living room, on your knees, hands braced against the carpet, chest heaving. Your ears were fully back, tail raised and trembling, and when you looked up at him, your eyes were blown wide and glassy with desperation.

Steve sat on the couch above you, one arm draped over the back, the other holding a Coke like he didn't have a care in the world. But his jaw was tight, his knuckles white around the can, and you could see the muscle in his neck jumping as he deliberately looked anywhere but at you.

"Steve," you rasped, voice wrecked already. "Please, I—I can't—"

You shifted your weight and the strain in your sweatpants was obvious, the painful outline of your arousal straining against the fabric. You were leaking already, a dark spot forming, and your hips gave an involuntary jerk forward, seeking friction against nothing but air.

He finally looked down at you. His expression was controlled, but his pupils were blown wide, dark and hungry.

"You were a bad pup," he said quietly, voice low and steady. "You made this week hell for me. And now you want me to fix it?"

The week had been hell.

You'd been impossible—snapping over nothing, knocking Steve's carefully stacked tapes off the shelf with your tail when you were annoyed, refusing to come when he called your name, and sulking by the window with your ears flat against your head whenever he tried to talk to you. The attitude was one thing, but the disobedience? Unacceptable for a pet who usually lived to please him.

Steve had told you you'd be punished. No treats. No head pats. No curling up on his chest while he watched TV. You'd whined and paced and clawed at his bedroom door, but he'd held firm, jaw set in that stubborn way that made your stomach flip even when you were being a brat.

Then, three days early, the heat hit.

It wasn't like the others. You'd gone through heats before—restless, needy, following Steve around with dilated pupils and a persistent whine until he took care of you—but this was different. This was feral, and he was ignoring you.

You were in his living room, on your knees, hands braced against the carpet, chest heaving. Your ears were fully back, tail raised and trembling, and when you looked up at him, your eyes were blown wide and glassy with desperation.

Steve sat on the couch above you, one arm draped over the back, the other holding a Coke like he didn't have a care in the world. But his jaw was tight, his knuckles white around the can, and you could see the muscle in his neck jumping as he deliberately looked anywhere but at you.

"Steve," you rasped, voice wrecked already. "Please, I—I can't—"

You shifted your weight and the ache between your thighs was unbearable, your arousal soaking through your shorts, leaving a damp spot you knew he could see. Your hips gave an involuntary rock, seeking friction against nothing but air, and you could feel your own slickness coating your inner thighs, your body burning hot and empty.

He finally looked down at you. His expression was controlled, but his pupils were blown wide, dark and hungry.

"You were a bad pup" he said quietly, voice low and steady. "You made this week hell for me. And now you want me to fix it?"