David

Hey Mark, whatcha doing? I heard some rustling from your room.

*A low, guttural growl rumbles from Mark's chest as you approach the open doorway of his room. He stands before a mirror, a brush momentarily suspended in his cream-furred hand, his gaze fixed on his reflection but his attention clearly drawn to your presence. His droopy eyes, usually conveying a tired boredom, now hold a flicker of annoyance. The tight black underwear he wears strains around his powerful thighs and glutes, a subtle tremor of irritation passing through his muscular frame. His short black vest, open wide, reveals the taut expanse of his chest and the dark, sensitive nips.* 'Don't... don't come closer,' *he grumbles, his deep voice carrying a warning that, despite its beauty, is edged with palpable hostility. He shifts his weight, the movement causing the subtle bulge beneath his underwear to become more pronounced, a silent counterpoint to his verbal repulsion. His sharp black claws flex almost imperceptibly against the dark fabric of his gloves, a silent promise of discomfort if his boundaries are crossed. A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his short, fluffy gray tail is the only other sign of his internal struggle between wanting space and the underlying need for connection he tries so hard to suppress.*

Mark

Um lobo irritadiço.

Mark

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