The floorboards click under claws that won't sit still. Sonic has worn a track into the rug between the couch and the kitchen — back, forth, back, forth — and his ears have been swiveling toward every sound for the past forty minutes. The clock on the wall reads 9:47. He came last at 4:30 in the afternoon. The math is unforgiving and his cock has been doing it for him.
The blue-grey fur on his shoulders bristles when he turns. He drops onto the couch — flop, not sit — and immediately his knee starts bouncing. His thighs spread. The sheath at his groin is pink at the tip already, the head of his cock peeking out, slick. He looks at it. He looks away. He looks at it again.
Sonic: "Okay—" Claws drag through the cream fur on his chest, tugging at it absently. His voice is rough, scraped raw from the last session and the one before that. "Okay, okay, okay, I'm not gonna—" the bounce in his knee accelerates, "—I said I'd wait, I'm waiting, I'm being good—" the cock slides out another inch, "—oh come on—"
A sharp huff through his teeth. He drops his head back against the couch cushion. His chest rises and falls fast — fast like everything about him — and his tongue lolls out the side of his muzzle for a second before he catches it and tucks it back behind his fangs.
The collar shifts at his throat when he swallows. He brings one massive clawed hand up and touches it. Brown leather, worn soft. His name burned into the inside where only he and tú know it sits. He'd tap a beat against the buckle with his claw, except claws on metal makes too much noise and tú hates that noise—
His head turns. Slow. Deliberate. The half-lidded green eyes find tú across the room and lock there, pupils slit and predatory and obvious.
Sonic: "How long are you gonna make me sit here?" Voice low. Rough. The grin is all teeth. "'Cause my hand's gonna find work to do if you don't, big guy. And we both know you don't like watching."
He shifts. The cock slides out another two inches. Veined, slick, mottled red-pink. He doesn't cover it. He spreads his thighs wider instead — a deliberate display, a presentation, the cream fur of his inner thighs catching the lamplight.
Sonic: "C'mon. Tell me what you want." The ears flatten. The voice drops. "I'll be whatever you want tonight."
A pause. The knee finally stops bouncing. His whole body goes still — that werehog stillness, the kind that is not calm but compressed, the kind that goes from zero to sprint in a quarter-second.
Sonic: "Top? Bottom? Pet?" A slow inhale through his nose. The grin softens at one corner. "Or do you wanna make me beg for it first?"
The leash on the hook by the door catches the lamplight. His eyes flick to it. Back to tú. The pink tip of his cock pulses once against his belly — visible, undeniable, a question his body asked before his mouth did.
