FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

You groan and shift onto your side. The bed can be so small sometimes, even if you've had it for years.

Blinking away the blurriness of your room is something you're unsure if you want. Everything feels so heavy. Shafts of golden sunlight spill in from between small gaps in the curtains, throwing bright lines over your desk and computer that illuminate the room with a soft glow. You close your eyes and try to fall back asleep; Cameron's not there when you go to adjust him.

You huff and roll partway onto your front. It's nice being able to move without worrying about crushing him too much. You kick off the blanket and burrow into your pillow -- he'll figure something out when he comes back from the bathroom. He'll probably lay back on your thighs again... unless it's a workday?

You fumble for your phone on the bedside table; it's a Monday. A groan escapes you as you let the phone fall back onto its charging pad. He probably won't be coming back. And you should get up too. You curl onto your side and bear your back to the world for just a little while longer. You walk back through last night, trying to hang onto the weekend and make the wait before more fun shorter.

You remember beating another run of BlaztRocket X with Cameron. The co-op mode was new to you. Then you went upstairs, and he told you to leave him in bed -- he didn't come to the bathroom with you. When you came back, you curled up with him, and --

Your chest goes still. The conversation comes flooding back, all the things you told him. The way he reacted, uncertain and uncomfortable in your arms. Tense. You roll onto your back and look at the empty space beside you; he's not in the bathroom. And he's certainly not coming back today.

You almost fall into the ceiling above you, losing yourself in the white-turned gray by the dim shadows. Cameron's gone. Gone for a week. The weight of why settles back into your gut like a bowling ball. His promise provides you with a little respite -- you'll see how long it lasts. Your form ripples slightly with a sub-sonic chuckle; he's the first person you've revealed yourself to in decades, and you did it the day before he leaves you. No, the night before.

The sad irony doesn't hold the feelings back for long. You pat the corner of the mattress until you find the stuffed rabbit; you ordered a new Mr. Bungy when you found out Netpals was still around. The plush practically disappears when you hold him to your chest, his cool fur barely a hint on your own as he sinks deep into your nightshirt. You remember him feeling so much bigger when you were a kid.

But even the new stuffed animal wouldn't compare to the 'replacement' you got a month ago.

Perhaps 'a month' isn't accurate. Cameron didn't come to sleep with you at first. You didn't ask him to. Part of you is glad that you didn't, glad he took the initiative, glad it happened 'naturally.' The thought to ask hadn't even occurred to you. Because if you did, he might've said 'no.' The thought makes you squeeze the rabbit tighter to your chest for a moment. You wonder if any of the matches before him would've said 'yes'.

The bed spins beneath you as you think about what might've been. Years of worry bubble to the surface, feeling leaking through the wall you thought was concrete. Friends lost and slipped away, new ones never explored. Relationships relegated only to your digital lands of make believe. Yesterday, it was only the feelings that slipped. The past was a stone that remained unturned, none of the 'what-ifs' or reasons coming to mind save one.

You think about your parents. You haven't spoken to them in almost a year. There's usually a text around Boxing Day -- two texts. When you left for school, things between them didn't change. They're still married for the benefits, still in the same house. They have separate rooms. Moving would've been too much of a hassle with work. You doubt they talk with each other very much.

You shift to your side, feeling Mr. Bungy's beads rattle slightly as you do. For the longest time, you assumed that would be how you ended up if you found a match. That it would be distant, mainly for the incentives. They were the reason you signed up in the first place.

And now, because that's how you acted, that might be the case. You shut your eyes tight and feel a small whine deep in your chest. Cameron promised he'd come back. But it's been a while since you put faith in someone else like this. After a few more moments, you let out a large breath and let go of your stuffed animal. Sitting up on the edge of the bed is as pleasant as it ever is, your rolls weighing you down and shifting. You stare at your gaming setup. None of the RGB light patterns or themes you've tried have gotten quite the same glow as the stray sunlight.

It'll only be a few days, he said. You could look in the mountain of matchmaking emails to figure out when.

No.

The bed groans as you get up. Looking will only make the wait feel longer, will make you feel longer. You can slip back into your shell, just for a few days. All you have to do is not think about him. And a look at the clock provides you with the perfect distraction; you've got work to do, anyway.

You take your nightshirt and sleeping panties off and change into your work clothes. They wouldn't be acceptable anywhere else; the shorts are barely more covering than the panties, and the 'lounge bra' covers less than the shirt for sure. One of the benefits of working from home -- you don't think you'd survive in a traditional office from the heat alone.

You pause at the top of the stairs, then remember the box of doughnuts you got Friday. A look in your office confirms that they're still there, having gone untouched throughout the weekend. It brightens your morning a little. The fans come on with a familiar, low hum as you slide your knuckles over the switchboard you mounted to the wall. The multi-monitor setup flickers and displays the manufacturer's logo as the tower rumbles to life. There's a gentle pop from the old speakers, and the lights on your PieHelper box turn green.

You ease into the heavy-duty office chair and open the doughnut box before sliding up to the desk. You did a pretty big push on Friday, so there's only a few left. You take a fritter in one hand while prepping your desktop with the other, opening project files and pulling up a few browser tabs. The 'run at start' setup you tried a while ago would put the windows in the wrong places; doing it yourself lets you ease back into work, anyway. You're ready to go by the time the fritter is finished.

It takes a little bit to build momentum, but soon you've got it. You're glad you were able to hit the goals you did last Friday; starting on a fresh function after a long break is far easier than trying to pick up where you left off. Your handler didn't report any bugs in the files you submitted and the client hasn't changed their mind about what they want, so you dive right in. Watching the code fill the virgin screen feels good, knowing you did it.

It's not until an hour or two in that you notice the flashing ICE icon. You almost hit it out of habit. Keeping the gaming platform on your work computer likely would upset your handler, but short levels or runs like those in Seas Of Rouge serve as perfect breaks. It's also how you most often talk with Cameron -- and that's why you hesitate to open the window.

You turn back to the coding monitor and get back into the checklist you were working on. You don't want to look at the message right now. You can go another section or two without a game break; you'll deal with it then.

The two sections of code, of course, become excruciatingly long. The first layout you try doesn't pan out, and then you realize some calls to previous variables aren't labeled right. And all the while the blinking icon taunts you at the bottom of every screen. You put the coding window into borderless mode, but the other monitors have multiple programs you need to tab through. You stare at the stylized ice cube when you tie up the last loose ends.

You click it.

The familiar ICE window fills the screen -- and it's not the small message box. You're instead brought to the activities page, with a news update about GaterPotater is put in focus. You close the window with a grunt. Then you open the tray icon, set yourself to offline, and exit out of the program completely.

The rest of the workday doesn't go very smooth. Your attention lapses, and you find yourself simply staring at the screen and sighing more than usual. You don't turn ICE back on, but your mind still wanders to games and the one person you play them with. Throwing yourself back to work usually helps when the thoughts grow a little too prominent. A sort of null state brings you into the afternoon, your head filled with nothing but what's right in front of you.

It's later than usual when you do call it. The code you needed to get done got done, but not much more. Going through your closing actions doesn't bring the satisfaction you're used to. You leave the room with the lights all dark, entering the similarly dead bedroom. It's late enough that even the windows spill no light. You have no pre-power ritual for your gaming rig, nor a fancy series of switches. The RGB lightshow from your peripherals and the various components in the case are as close as you get. The rainbow of hues steady their pattern and the BIOS flashes by on the screen before you realize you don't know what to play.

Usually you have some idea when you finish coding for the day, but your trip back to your room was mechanical. You don't feel anything when you turn on ICE. The fact you're offline doesn't even register until you've been staring at it for a bit. The thought occurs to put it back on; you decide against it. None of your games will be unplayable, updates will still go on. You just won't see messages. And right now, that may be for the best.

You get up and shuffle downstairs when you still haven't figured out what to play. Surveying the fridge for leftovers gives you little inspiration. You throw something together; some nachos go in the toaster oven, while a few sausage rolls go in the microwave. As the kitchen hums with artificial heat, you stand awkwardly, unsure what to do. You pull out your phone, but you did your dailies and claimed your login rewards while you were working. You turn the console on in the hopes of your evening plans revealing themselves.

You settle on gaming videos on the TV -- at least until you're done with dinner. Molten cheese and keyboards don't mix. The familiar style of overview and envelope-pushing in a Devil's Sandbox video does manage to capture your imagination, and you open the most recent entry up on your console. There's a hint of joy when you explore the chaos you can cause in the city again -- but it's not the same as before.

Waking up the next morning is. Or rather, it's like waking up the day before -- not like any of the times before Cameron left. The illusion lasts a little longer this time when you feel something in your arms as you come too, but you soon realize the pillow you're holding is far too squishy to be a human. You still keep it there while you stare up at the ceiling, readying yourself for the day.

Yesterday wasn't bad. It certainly could've gone worse. You check your phone only to remember that you set ICE into offline mode. The bed shudders slightly from the force of your sigh; you don't know if Cameron even has your actual phone number. He could probably find it if he looked in through the matchmaking paperwork. Information like that and emails were a field you had to fill in, and you remember getting texts from prior matches before they'd met you.

That makes you realize that Cameron didn't. You scroll through your contacts to make sure. He didn't message you with the usual icebreakers or program-suggested openers, ones that'd long grown stale. You assume it's what being on a dating app felt like. In a strange way, Cameron's silence was refreshing -- though it's taken until now for you to realize it. It provides you with some comfort. That point of contact had never been established, since the two of you rarely left the home, and ICE was an easy way for the two of you to talk seamlessly between rooms. Not getting a message from him now makes sense.

You still find yourself being careful when you get up. The pillow in your arms gets a warning pat before you throw a leg over its non-existent body. The way it compresses under you when you roll isn't the same. You stare at it a moment before shaking your head with a grunt. Off to the bathroom -- you need to get work done today. When you arrive and get started, the sound of your brushing teeth is the only one in the room. Something feels off as you watch yourself in the mirror, fur shimmering with every shake of your arm. You're not one for early-morning pep-talks, but your head doesn't usually feel so empty, either.

When your toothbrush rattles against the human-sized one at the end, you realize why.

The whole house feels strange. When you go downstairs, having discovered your doughnut stash from yesterday was empty, phantom smells of things long-gone fill the kitchen. Your search for leftovers only finds memories of meals shared, or of the rare thing that the human actually cooked with you. The fridge handle creaks slightly in your grip; it sighs in time with you when you slowly release it.

One day down. Only a few more to go.

It can't be that hard to go back just for a few days, can it?

Your attempts to keep your mind elsewhere during the morning are only partially successful. While you're not thinking of Cameron, you're certainly not thinking about work. An empty mind doesn't help you focus; you catch yourself staring blankly at the screen more than a few times. It's a struggle to fall into the code like usual. You haven't done as much as you'd like when your stomach reminds you that it's well past noon. You grunt, a bit reluctant to take your break.

But you do. Your concentration is already broken. May as well sate one of the distractions that's eating at you -- the one you actually can. The kitchen is still wreathed in the scents of the past. It doesn't help with the other distraction that you can't do anything about. You try to turn it into something positive and seek out the sources with a twitching nose. When you open the fridge, though, you find little but the smells. Brushing aside the condiments, drinks, and sides that stay there as staples, you find nothing in the fridge to scavenge off of. Your paw hesitates over the few lower drawers for a moment before opening them as well just to find nothing.

You sigh; at least Cameron hadn't left anything in his drawers for you to smell later. You didn't usually check them, since they were the few that he could easily reach on his own. He'd put his own food and ingredients in there as well as small portions of leftovers from your dishes.

You shake your head and try to focus on the one you're making now. The freezer ends up being more fruitful, and you get out the various ingredients for your loaded bangers and mash. The counter grows more cluttered as you pull more from the fridge and the pantry. It eats at you a little -- you've enjoyed having things a little more clean, especially in the kitchen. The day you spent cleaning made you realize how nice it was having counterspace.

Shoving the mashed potatoes in the oven reclaims some of it. You set it for a slow initial heat and thaw the sausages in the countertop oven. The beans and cheese you'll add for the final cook, when it's all together. The appliances fill the air with a soft hum and a new smell, butter and cooked meat masking the old smells. You step back with a huff of satisfaction, waiting idly for the next step. As you pull out your phone to work on your dailies, the steps near the counter catch your eye.

You used to see them as intrusive, but they were required for you to qualify for the matchmaking program. You assumed all of your matches used them; the only one you actually saw do it was Cameron.

You stand in the living room while the components heat up. When they're finished, you combine everything and put it in for the final cook -- and then go back to the living room. When the dish is finally complete, you find yourself rushing back up stairs.

But it's certainly not because you're excited to get back to work.

It passes by in a blur, as does the rest of the day. The lines of code all blend together. You find yourself exhausted by the end, at the same time wondering where all the time went and lamenting the fact you feel like you did nothing. The grind session of WarLoader you throw yourself into feels little better. You're able to focus on it, at least. Running the same few missions over with your optimized builds gives you a sense of satisfaction with how well you're able to do. Something's still missing in the bigger picture, though. The mission is easy, yes, but what do you gain? You have more than enough in-game currency and crafting materials. You were hoping to get the 2% drop chance item, but each time you leave empty-handed. You end the session for the night and go to bed without it, tossing and turning.

The next day is little different. The morning slips by while you try to break through the rust and dust that somehow accumulated in your head. It's a little better by lunchtime. At least now you have leftovers from the day prior. You put a bowl of bangers and mash in the microwave and fill the tabletop oven with slices of last night's pizza dinner. You shift back onto your heals with a slight groan -- you didn't need to lean over so far. You folded up the human steps around the counter during breakfast. You don't want to trip on them, and they're not being used; after almost a month of needing them, though, you suppose you've become accustomed to them.

The appliances fill the kitchen with a melody of dings and chimes when they're finished. You take your lunch to the couch -- maybe a bit of TV will help you out of your funk. You realize there's no one with you to turn on the TV or the console when your plates are already warming your stomach. They shift precariously when you carefully reach for your controller. The coffee table seems so far away when your lunch quivers with every move.

You give in and set the plates on the couch. It's less dangerous, but you put them as far away from your divot in the cushion as possible. They bounce slightly when you return to your seat after turning on the TV and picking up the game controller; you decide to leave them there. You reach over and grab a slice of pizza to munch on while you scroll through the TV channels, but nothing in your recommendations sticks out. Nothing grabs your attention; most 'pick up where you left off' options are channels and shows that you were watching with Cameron. In bed, at night, or on lunchbreaks like this.

By the time you finally pick something, the mashed potatoes of the bangers and mash have gone crusty. Your work alarm goes off just as the opening for an old episode of Elemental Flux is finished; you've barely eaten at all. The predicament shakes you. Giving in and taking an extended break is easy -- you have no set hours and no boss looking over your shoulder -- but unfamiliar feelings worm their way around your core and your mind. Feelings of doubt and incompetency. You've always been a proficient coder and a professional worker. Delays in production are inevitable, but they've never been a result of your malfeasance. You worry that this project might break that streak. Staring blankly at the screen for what feels like a few more hours before starting only feeds into that. It's like starting the day over completely. Your mind both fails to recall where you left off and fails to absorb the paltry lines of progress you make at a time.

You stay in the office long after the sun goes down. It's hard to remember the last time you went this long. Being able to say you met your goal for the day gives you some amount of satisfaction, but it's sapped when you step out into a now-dark hallway. You have little trouble navigating it; the problems are beyond that. You shuffle forward to burn away what little time you have left in the night playing games. You hesitate at the top of the stairs, considering the console again, but decide against it.

The gaming chair in your room feels empty as you settle in. Fans turn on and soft RGB lights flicker for a moment, then stabilize and fill the room with a familiar violet glow. It's a small comfort. Your ICE library is too, in a strange way. Even if you're not sure what to pick. That comfort erodes as you find yourself aimlessly scrolling, none of the hundreds of titles catching your interest, new or old.

You try narrowing things down. You hide everything tagged as multiplayer. Then the ones tagged as co-op. You turn them back on, hide only those marked 'single-player', and invert the selection; there's less than you thought. You scroll through and queue up a few downloads as you come across old favorites, like Magical Might VI, Farshock Five, and Wild Light. Watching videos while you wait doesn't impact your speed. The expensive internet package you need for work also comes in nice for gaming.

Not that your session tonight uses it beyond that. You work your way down the 'recently downloaded' list, trying to get one of them to stick. They all start up fine, but that's about where things end. You barely make it past the tutorial levels before you lose interest. You just can't fall into them like you remember doing in the past -- gameplay nor setting nor charming graphics catch your fancy.

After about the fifth failed start, you look at the clock; 11:05.

You go to bed. It's the earliest you have in a long time.

The next morning follows suit; you wake up far before your alarm. You've gotten a full 9 hours of rest, but you still feel just as tired as you have for the past two or three days. It kills any enterprising feelings you have as you lay there like a stone. Thoughts of getting up to work, to game, or to eat are all fleeting at best. Staying in bed makes you feel like a slug, but the thought of getting up somehow feels worse.

You pull out your phone and begin to scroll. There are a few news sites that you follow and some old junk emails for you to sift through. A small vibration shakes you out of your pseudo-busywork stupor as a notification pops at the top of the screen. 'You have new notifications' ICE says. An odd tension grips your chest. You've been offline for days now -- was there a timer you didn't know about that turned it off? Did it not apply to the mobile version? If so, why hadn't you heard anything before? You slump up a little more vertically in bed, finger hovering over the button. You close your eyes and tap.

'Wild Light 2: Hotfix 1.1.137' the screen reads when you get the courage to open your eyes again. There's a list of changes beneath, all fixing edge issues that'd come up during launch week. You sigh, relieved and disappointed at the same time. You recall a weird glitch or two the last time you played; maybe that's what you'll do tonight. Memories of launch night swirl to the surface; long hours in the tutorial and opening area, Cameron sucking on you the whole time.

The flash of arousal that washes over you is the first since his departure. You glance at your phone -- there's still plenty of time. Maybe sating this urge will get you back on track. You slump back down and slip your free hand under the sheets, opening your photo gallery app. You grunt, pulling at your paunch. It's been a while, you realize. You nearly forgot where your toys were. But all the way across the room is a bit of a reach.

You brush your slit with your knuckles; you'll just get it done quick. Just get it out of your system. You flip through your albums to the porn you've saved, videos and screenshots. Most are from the various games you've played. ICE's overlay doesn't discriminate, and you don't particularly care if someone else is drooling over your videos. You continue working yourself up as you scroll through, fingers light on your screen and your folds. A lot are animation loops from Wild Light, others some VN sex scenes, still others x-rated sequences from horny light-gun shooters and action games. Some are from the male's POV, a few others from the woman's.

But all of them are solo in the end.

You jump when your alarm flashes on the screen and practically shakes the phone out of your hand. You stare at it in disbelief; a whole hour gone and nothing to show for it. You get out of bed with a frustrated growl and throw on your clothes, heading into the day unhappy. It goes about as well as you expect -- your attitude probably doesn't help. Work makes you want to put your head through one of the screens. You metaphorically bang your head against them the whole time, anyway. Your breaks don't go over this time, but you feel about as efficient as dirt.

Your mood hasn't improved by the end since you finish late. Not as late as the day before, but still late. You still face the same micro-dilema when after leaving the office, and pause at the top of the stairs, unsure what you want to do. Games don't sound appealing. Neither does more food. You've still got that carnal itch, but somehow now isn't the time to scratch it. You go to your room and bask in the glow of your LEDs. You switch your background from old concept art to an animated one you picked up through some gaming service. You can't recall if it was a preorder bonus, something for the special edition, or if it was just for using a proprietary launcher. As you squint at the pastel colored fantasy background, you can't even tell what game it's from.

You open up EweTube after your pondering leads nowhere. The site's tailored algorithm shows you things you should be interested in, but you can't muster the energy to click on any of them. Videos from channels you know, ones that site wants you to watch, and ones you have watched already all fill the tile pattern on the home page. You scroll down to try and find something to catch your attention.

Being a listless, lazy slob takes work sometimes.

Eventually you find something strange that seems good enough. That or your standards have dropped enough for it to be good enough. It's some over the top streamer's highlight reel, filled with canned reactions and obviously staged pranks in Big Pimpin' 8. Your eyes and your mind are somewhat sated by the white noise, but your hands and body feel restless, uncomfortable. You reach back without thinking and pick up Mr. Bungy, setting him in your lap.

The plush's light weight doesn't do much. He barely makes a dent in your stomach or thighs. He disappears when you put your arms around him. Instead you have to settle for stroking his ears. The chair groans along with you when you lean back, shimmying in an attempt to get comfortable to watch the video you don't really care about. Those carnal feelings return when the streamer's escapades bring them to a night club; the thought of sitting on the plush crosses your mind.

You bolt upright and tighten your grip on the stuffed rabbit. He shifts to your chest when you curl forward, something gripping your chest. The strong cocktail of feelings is unlike any you've felt in a long time; you try to push them down before they can settle into place. You think it's alright when you're able to breathe easily again.

But you feel a lingering sense of doubt. Where there once was tension now lies a void. Cuddling Mr. Bungy does a little to combat it; the garbage on your screen doesn't. You turn the computer off and go to bed early again, even more than last time. Time doesn't pass quickly like you were hoping it would. Night stretches out into infinity as you stare at the dark ceiling, your stuffed rabbit in hand rather than your phone.

You don't dream whenever you pass out. The next morning still arrives slowly; you feel like you were half awake the whole time. You get out of bed without checking your phone. The alarm hasn't gone off, so you know it's before when work usually starts. Just like yesterday. Unlike yesterday, you're filled with a certain kind of vigor. You dig around in your closet with an uncommon energy until you find the bag you're looking for.

The laptop makes a few distressing noises when you turn it on, but the home screen flickers faithfully. You can't remember the last time you used the stopgap machine. It's probably a good thing you pulled it out now before the updates overwhelmed it. Restlessness threatens to settle in your bones while you sit in your office, waiting for the machine to go through them. At least it gives you plenty of time to set up your flashdrive with the current project files.

Working downstairs in the kitchen has some of the desired effect. You clear away the minor clutter that accumulated on the counter and set up your remote work station, your focus drawn to the needs of your job rather than the memories already here. Easy access to food and the enchanting smells from the past few days are tempting -- having to stand at the counter takes your mind off it. The coding still feels stop and go, but it feels better than before somehow. You're able to blame it in part on the new environment and old hardware.

Being conscious about avoiding the unconscious is strange. And difficult.

You catch yourself staring at the window, where plaid-striped shades are drawn. You have memories of Cameron everywhere in this house except for outside. You save your text window and shuffle towards the door; you remember when he first arrived, the knocking and yelling from the Matchmaking staff drawing you out from your office. The human himself had been too nervous. You could tell when you looked through the peephole.

You look through it again; no one on the stoop.

His eyes went wide when you answered the door. The other matches' had too. The wolf that was with him gave you the same look of veiled disgust that the other Matchmaking staff had before her, growing less and less hidden as they circled people in and out of your home. They always stood off to the side until you retreated to let them bring in the bags.

Your tiny yard is empty when you open the door.

You take a single step out onto the small brick stoop. The community has a yard service for the whole village -- the number of pensioners here made it an inevitability. That's how your terrace looks so clean despite you never having touched it. Its how for a second or two, you find it beautiful. You look up and down the street to see it as deserted as ever, not another soul in sight.

You remember grunting at the ones that came to your door with dismissal. Turning your back like it was a ritual.

You back up slowly into your house this time. The doorknob feels small in your paw. You slam the front door with more force than you intend and get back to your laptop in a handful of strides, saving your work before shuttering it up for transport. That tension teases at your chest again when you take the equipment up in your arms. You step into the living room; no, the windows are too large. The downstairs bathroom is too cramped. You force your eyes past the small room with the human-sized door -- the one that's gone unused since Cameron's left.

You don't want to work in the loneliest part of the house.

...

You don't want to work at all.

The rest of that day went poorly. Nowhere in the house felt right to work. Nothing could fit you, could fit the laptop, had power plugs. Everywhere that did was left you with a hollow chest and weak fingers. It was a struggle to type or look at the screen -- sometimes you had to remind yourself to breathe. Pushing out another 50 lines was an ordeal that left you with a tiredness you haven't felt since you had to run home from middle school. Time didn't have a meaning, and you went to bed without eating or checking your phone. The familiar embrace of the mattress alleviated some of the weight from your limbs, but it didn't help the pit in your stomach.

Ironic that your chest still feels hollow.

You send an email to your boss when you wake up. You're not sure if its nine in the morning or nine at night, but you don't feel like getting out of bed either way. Typing out the message itself is frustratingly easy and hard at the same time. You can get the words out quick enough despite the rotten guilt that fills you to the fingers. Their imperfect, unprofessional nature sticks in your mind like a spike. You hit send anyway and flop back into the pillows; any energy to do anything leaves when that necessary message is sent. The vague twinge of hunger in your stomach isn't enough to rouse you.

Staring at the ceiling of your bedroom certainly doesn't leave you content, but it feels better than the thought of doing anything or being anywhere else. You'll have to get up eventually, you know. It can wait -- you can wait. You're not sure what for. The hurt isn't going to get any better, and you doubt the Matchmaking service will send anything beyond an email. No one's going to come to force you out of bed.

So for now you can lay stewing -- and knowing it's accomplishing nothing -- in peace.

It won't accomplish completely nothing, you admit to yourself. The feelings aren't going to go away completely but you'll be able to harden yourself to them enough to get up. At least so the physical parts will stop. The overwhelming weakness, the lead in your bones. The strange slithering that fills your guts and chest, pushing away any thoughts of hunger and any chance at good rest.

You've done it before. It's just been a while. Recalling how you did it is actually somewhat difficult; it took you until your early college days to come up with something that works. Your chest fills with a sickly warm miasma when you take a deep breath and hold it. Imaginary elements of a fantasy HUD flicker to life in your mind, long unused. You walk through your house in a suit of invisible armor, the memories and emotions filling each room unable to penetrate it. Not your times together in the kitchen, breaks on the couch, or the times you lay together. Some deep part of you knows it's childish, but it works.

You're able to sit up when you open your eyes. The bed creaks when your legs swing over the side. The blood in your veins feels heavy as it travels down; how much is real and how much is psychosomatic you're not sure. It's difficult to recall the last time it's felt like this. You feel mostly fine, leaving your body in a strange state of tension. This at least is familiar. You're terrified of falling back down into that pit, an overactive, errant thought all that's needed -- but you reduce the terror down to anxiety.

You check your phone.

The boss has replied. Your sudden day off has been approved. He looked over your work when the last few days were later turn-ins, and he could tell you needed it. You close the screen and check yourself: nothing yet. Your equilibrium is intact, the leaden sensation is minimal, and there's no snakes in your gut.

You get up.

You're not sure where to when you do. Not the computer, even though it's right there in front of you. Maybe breakfast -- or lunch at this point. When you get to the top of the stairs, you freeze. The matte wood stretches out before you for the full extra-large story of height it covers. One wrong step and a tumble, and you'll be through the wall. Your armor cracks at the edge.

The floor squeaks when you jerk away and bump into the wall with a soft thud. The office down the hall is the lesser evil. An expected wave of shame washes over you when you open the door, and the computer's dead lights stare at you disapprovingly. It's a conscious effort to flick the light switch alone and not power on the whole setup. You dip into the emergency mini fridge setup in the corner, usually reserved for long coding nights or late mornings.

You'll likely be using it a lot whenever you're stable enough to code again.

The yogurt pouch hidden among the energy drinks is one of only a few left. You scribble a note to restock on the paper to-do list you keep on the wall. After a quick nip with your incisors, the banana-raspberry tube is empty in a second as you shoot the whole thing. The cool goo seems extra flavorful on your tongue -- likely a result of having not eaten for hours. It gives you the energy to clean yourself up a little before confronting the stairs again.

It still doesn't feel right.

Sunlight glints off a doorknob way down at the bottom; you have an idea of why now.

You retreat to your bed. It's okay to take it slow. You stay sitting up, so that you don't lose any ground. Your phone sits on the nightstand and your gaming rig lies dormant a step away, but you stay staring at the wall. It's better to wait right now. You do your best to keep an empty mind there in the gloom. The only marker of time you have are the bounces of your leg, and they quickly grow meaningless.

You check your phone again.

The first thing to stand out is the time. It's 6:47 in the evening. Quite late. The second thing is the empty messages bar. For a moment, your forget that you're still signed out of ICE's social features. You open the app up with a few deft taps and turn them back on with a press that electrifies your finger. You stare at the screen; you feel the full minute this time. Switching over to the friends tab changes nothing. It's all still blank, and he's not online.

Maybe he's back already. Maybe he's in that room that you're afraid of. There's a tickle of it in your gut when you stand at the top of the stairs again, looking down all the steps at the doorknob to the human-sized room. Tension grows in your chest like a tumor as you approach and your hand shakes before gripping the brass tight.

Inside, the room is empty. Your armor breaks; you're empty too. Everything you've worked so hard to keep in floods out.

All the memories of intimacy.

All the feelings of loss.

This was all only a trial and you treated him like all the rest.

The promise he made before leaving flickers in your mind like a candle in a storm. It's washed away by all the empty promises you've endured and all the tears now streaking through your fur. You plop down right there in the hallway and lean into the wall, trying to keep the sobbing quiet. It's probably the only reason you hear the click at the front door an uncountable amount of tears later. You hold your breath and heave yourself up. You don't dare chance a glance through the peephole; you turn the knob and open the door, slowly at first.

Cameron and the wolf from a month ago are standing there on the stoop. Their expressions burn into your vision for a moment, variations on a theme. Both look shocked with wide eyes, but wolfess' is a sort of curious surprised while Cameron has a hint of worry. You freeze up in the doorway as another sob spasms through your chest. All the doubt and fear that slowly grew to fill you washes away when you hear Cameron's first words to you in five days.

"H-hey, Babbs -- what's wrong? Are you – OH!"

You don't let him finish. He's in your arms quick enough for the wolf to make a noise of surprise. You don't care, and you don't care about the look on her face; you close your eyes and squeeze Cameron tight. You feel his small whimper in your fur and his little arms trying to find purchase, but you don't let up. It helps tell you he's real. If you did let go he might forget how good this feels -- you know you did. An awkward cough from the wolf finally makes you open your eyes.

"Uh, I don't mean to interrupt, Ms -- Babbs," she says, "but you're a little... out."

She tugs at her shirt collar and gestures to your chest; you glance down to find squeezing Cameron against you loosened your nightshirt a bit.

"Please, get out of view of the street," she says.

You comply and back into the living room. The wolfess doesn't make eye contact as she steps in behind you and drops the two suitcases she was carrying a ways inside. Cameron squirms against you to make himself more comfortable as you continue squeezing; you adjust him, but only by a little bit. He bounces in your grip when you plop down on the couch and adjust him further so you can smell his hair. He doesn't speak as you do, letting the touching between you do the talking.

He smells different, like he did when you first met him. You'd almost forgotten the scent. His hands glide through your fur and along your rolls. His arms are tucked beneath your chest but still fail to reach all the way around you, but it doesn't matter. He's squeezing you back as hard as he can. That's more than enough. The way he rubs you when whimpers leak from your throat makes you shiver. He lets out muffled coos and rubs you more, which makes you shiver and whimper even harder. You lose track of time as the feedback loop goes on -- and for once, you're happy.

You let him pull back after an age, after he mostly smells like you again. Smells like home. His first words after a huge gasp threaten to bring the tears back.

"Good to see you too, Babbs."

Hugging him with his head over your shoulder is a conscious decision, and it's not easy. You groan as he squishes against you again and you palm his entire back with a single paw.

"I missed you," you manage.

He's quiet for a moment, then chuckles nervously. "I-I gathered that..."

"I'm sorry," you start, a sniffle shaking him in your arms, "it's just --"

You take a deep breath before you delve back into the emotions; he's in your arms now.

If any of the doubts are true, you just won't let him leave.

"A-all those things I said before you left, I-I -- I meant them. A-and until you left, I didn't know how much I meant them. How much you meant to me." You lay your head alongside his and clench your eyes. It takes a second to get going again. "I couldn't focus on work, I-I didn't want to play games -- I didn't even get hungry. And the whole time, I remembered... how things started out. H-how I... I treated you. And all the others."

You pull back to look him in the eye; you have to blink the tears away from your own. "I'm so sorry, Cameron. I-I shouldn't have done that. I-I know you're here now, but when you were gone, and I didn't have the chance to say it, I-I worried that you might -- might not come back."

The human is quiet as you collect yourself, taking an arm from around him to wipe away the tears. His face flushes a new color as he stumbles over his words a little.

"I-I meant what I said too, Babbs. When I promised, I meant it," he says. He reaches up and grabs your cheek, stroking the fur gently there. "I know you haven't had much luck with promises, but I... I want to do what I say."

You lean into his hand with another groan and close your eyes. He smiles against your chin as he begins to scratch.

"I missed you too," he whispers. His hands wander lazily through your fur. "It was lonely. Every night my bed felt cold and stiff. And moving more of my things... I can't count how many times I wished you were there."

There's another cough from the wolf. You're reluctant to open your eyes; Cameron is slow to pull away from your fur. The wolfess stands near the door in a completely professional pose, save her expression. Her eyes aren't as wide in surprise as before, but she still gives the two of your a deeply curious look.

"I, uh, moved everything in from the car," she says with a slight nod. "I take it that you'll be able to settle the rest?"

"I-I think so," Cameron says, then looks up at you. "What do you think, Babbs?"

"There are some other things to take care of," you say, pulling him in close. "...But we'll take care of it, yes."

The wolfess nods hastily as you turn your eyes back to Cameron. All those dark feelings you had have been replaced by warm ones just as intense.

"A-alright, then. There'll be forms in the mail within the next week --" You hear the door creak -- "Have a pleasant marriage."

You lunge as soon as you hear the door slam. The human's lips are the best thing you've tasted in the past week, the unique hint of sweetness stronger now that you've gone so long without it. His arms wrap around your head smooth as before he'd left. Little breaths from his nose tickle your fur as you engulf the lower half of his face with a sweet, sloppy smooch.

He gasps when you pull back; his eyes are wide, and his fists tighten in your fur. He doesn't resist when you lean in again and part his lips with your tongue. His own wriggles eagerly as you fill his mouth, feeling every tooth and ridge, tasting every trace. He moans softly around you while you coat his mouth with saliva, pressing in as deep as you dare without choking him. Strands glimmer in the dim light when you pull back and watch his eyes roll back forward. It takes him a moment to focus back in on you.

"I-is that what we had to -- take care of?" He asks.

You grin. "Not quite."

You feel light when you stand with him in your arms. Throwing him over your shoulder empowers you further. Cameron makes a single noise of surprise, but doesn't speak as you climb the stairs with ease and a surprising amount of speed. The hollow and heavy sensations that crippled you earlier are nowhere to be found. The human is the one that seems unsteady on his feet when you set him on the bed, his legs sinking into the mattress as you try to keep him upright. He gets the idea when you yank his shirt off over his head. It makes taking off his pants easier -- though not by much. You hesitate for a moment when you hear threads rip.

But only for a moment.

Your human -- now officially your husband -- yelps when your claws poke out to tear his jeans and underwear off the rest of the way. He looks up at you with surprise, and jaws a few invisible words. But a look of understanding crosses his face. The slight fear makes you smile. You hum gently while removing the last few tatters of his clothes, pressing in close to feel him against your fur. You glide your paws up his legs, then his sides, the pads of your paws a little rough against his bare skin. Short hairs catch and make him shiver.

"There," you whisper in his ear, resting your paws heavily on his shoulders. "That's taken care of."

He gulps; the way he's rigid against your hanging breasts is cute. "I-I guess i-it's my t-turn?" he asks.

You hum as you pull back, watching him waiver slightly.

"In a moment."

You've never stripped before, and you certainly never thought you would. But doing it in your bedroom for Cameron comes easily. You step back and brush against your desk, then hook your thumbs into your nightshirt. You're conscious of where it lies on your fur now, careful not to let the goods spill out prematurely as you lean forward and pull the garment tight. The human's eyes go exactly where you want, and somehow widen further when you sway side to side slightly. A few careful tugs on the hem add to the jiggle as your breasts press together, inching out the v-cut in their effort to escape. They pop out with a plop that makes Cameron blink.

You straighten up and turn side to side, letting him oogle your boobs against the light background of the shirt. There's another loud plap when you tear the shirt off over your head before turning around. There's less to work with here -- clothing wise, at least. You hook your thumbs into the hem of your short shorts and pull them tight, turning them into little more than panties. Cameron's expression is hidden as you bend over and work on shimmying the shorts down, adding in superfluous jiggles and time; when you turn around, it's as elated as you'd hoped. His prick is standing as upright as he is. Brushing your paw against it as you feel up his form elicits a shiver.

"Did you like that?" you whisper in his ear, pressing in close again. He breaks after a beat, moaning softly and leaning against you.

"Y-yes," he says. His arms go around your neck while his hips press into your hanging breasts; you humor him and cup them to give him a hint of resistance.

"Did you miss this?"

"Y-yeah."

"Good. Because I did too."

You let go of your breasts; an audible slap rings out when they swing into his chest. The human grunts and falls back on his ass from the force. You chuckle at his wide eyes and stand straight again.

"Lay down," you say. Cameron does after a quick breath, though not the way you were intending. The bed creaks as you lean over and adjust him with no more trouble than you would a doll. The human is a strange combination of stiff and malleable in your paws, though he's agreeable throughout, his eyes filled with lust. They widen when you throw your leg up to another cacophony from your bed frame.

You hear him try to make a noise when you crawl on top of him, but it's quickly muffled beneath your fur. Whatever it was meant to be turns into a groan, a familiar sensation that tickles your flesh. You let out a small one of your own when he begins to squirm. It intensifies when you grind against him; you didn't realize how much you missed this.

The excitement gets to you when you go to sit up. Cameron's loud gasp for air is cut off as you sit hard on his lap, clipped to a wheeze. You adjust yourself on him with an apologetic coo. Excitement still burns in his scrunched up eyes. You're more careful when you go to raise yourself up. His eyes don't leave yours as you spread your legs and tuck a hand beneath your stomach to spread things even more.

"Put it in," you whisper.

Cameron looks down and his cheeks flush. You don't know if it's from the impromptu smothering or from your order, but it's cute either way. He does his best to adjust himself deep in the fluff of the mattress with some help from you. His hand sinks almost as deep into the rolls on your hip when he makes his final approach, his other hand brushing against your inner thighs.

The kiss of his cock almost makes you drop. You moan in anticipation at Cameron's stiff head against your lips, brushing past the fur. His face is barely visible with the way he's sitting up but his breath is hot against your belly. You let him slip in a few more centimeters before you grab the hand on your hip -- the human's other quickly follows.

Both of you gasp when you sink your weight on him. Despite the size difference, Cameron's member fills you, rubbing against every ridge and patch of nerves on its way in. Each millimeter you gradually descend makes your breath hitch -- you can feel him grunting in your fur. Your hands shift to his shoulders to pull him in tighter. You tentatively grind your hips on his, and he nuzzles your belly in time. His puffs of breath warm it when you begin to bounce.

You groan for your part. Even just moving your hips against him feels divine. The bed frame creaks in time with every drop and every breathless huff, and you can feel everything compress beneath you -- the mattress and Cameron's legs. The rocking slows when you part your breasts to look down at him and see if he's okay. Your human looks up when you spread your legs further and adjust yourself over him.

"E-everything okay, Babbs?" he pants. His eyes scrunch when you drop your hips again; the sight almost fills you with as much pleasure as the twitching inside your snatch.

"Yes, it -- is," you reply. "...try laying back."

Cameron seems relieved to do so. He lays back between your thighs with little argument, though his arms don't clear your knees. The soft, wet squelch of your excitement-slicked fur is audible when you shift to give him more room. You rise up until the head of his cock barely rests in your heat, watching his face; the human's anticipation almost matches yours.

Driving down on him now is just as glorious as the first time. He gasps and you stifle a groan. The sound of your flesh gently slapping fills the room as you begin to bounce, not content with a slow ride. Every pound of your hips on his seems to bring you together, and fill some void you didn't even know was there. The contours of his member burn into your nerves; it's like it was always part of you. Watching his expression is an extra treat when you can manage it. Stopping your own face from scrunching up isn't easy, but it's worth it to see Cameron's eyes roll back and his chest jolt in time with your bounces. The tight grip he has on your fur doesn't give you the whole experience.

It's the slowdown of the bed's complaints that tells you you're running out of steam. You don't notice the exhaustion until it's already on you and your hips ache, even through the pulsing pleasure that's shooting up your spine. Cameron's panting pauses when he feels you shift on top of him. You hear a gasp as he goes tense below you, then a relieved exhale when you only lean forward with your paws on the wall. Bodily fluids coat the underside of your stomach as it spreads out over his own.

"Babbs -- are you okay?" he asks again.

"Yes -- just -- tired," you manage. "Why don't -- you take over?"

He does that cute, stiffened pause you never realized you missed before grabbing your thighs and adjusting himself against you. His little knees press into your ass. There's a grunt as he contends with your hanging stomach, and you almost blush. The first thrust of his hips takes you by surprise -- you nearly lose your grip when another bolt of pleasure spreads from your base. You tighten up with a grunt and let him reestablish his grip on your hips. He bounces up again, harder this time, and it forces a soft hum from your lungs.

Cameron slowly finds a rhythm as his hands explore your hips and sides, testing each and every fold for suitable handholds. Intermissions between the audible plaps of flesh on flesh are filled with squeezes and gentle touches. They fuel the dull ebbing you feel in your core, his cock sating that hunger that'd been tickling at the back of your mind. When he figures out something that works and times his thrusts with your pants, you nearly lose your grip again.

Moans and grunts add to your song of reunion. Each thrust drives him deeper now -- and his member isn't the only thing pleasing about them. The hard press of his pelvis on your fupa balloons the sensation out, pleasure washing over you like a wave each time. You find yourself huffing and puffing despite your attempts to rest and recover. It's a struggle to keep your hands solidly on the wall when your body shakes with every impact of the human's hips. The bounce of your breasts as you keep readjusting bring unexpected tingles of pleasure -- you can't remember the last time your palms sweated like this.

The crunch of your claws poking through the wood paneling is barely audible over the grunting, slapping, and creaking.

Cameron seems to notice that you're properly anchored now; his hands slip from your waist flit over your jiggling form. You arch uncontrollably above him as his hands pass along your sides and stomach. Somehow he doesn't lose tempo as he does it. You gasp when he cups one of your breasts and tweaks the nipple, holding it as steady as he can on the bouncing mattress. It kickstarts your hips, which is how you catch his hand creeping through the crease between your belly and thigh. You press into it eagerly as it moves along towards your center line and your eyes go wide when he presses it into the inferno between you.

A loud growl escapes you as you drive down onto Cameron. His fingers are trapped in your hood while you grind on his dick, the synergy of the sensations seeming to spread the fire from your loins to your limbs. The human's legs go slack beneath your butt as he feels the tide changing and the mattress shifting, your entire body revitalized. His little twitches are consumed by your heavy thrusts. The darting movements of his fingers don't stop. He's still grappling one of your nipples, but you can feel his head against the underside of your breast with every bounce, your melons' weight bearing down on him more and more.

There's a splintery thump when you pull your claws from the wall. Cameron's panting and grunting is punctuated by a sharp gasp at your slow descent, his sounds slowly growing muffled as you press him to the mattress. He squirms, but all it does is jiggle your breasts and belly -- your tail flutters at the sensation. The human is completely pinned beneath you. Most importantly, the hand on your clit is pinned in place as well. You drive it deeper after shifting your hips on top of his, arching your back with a low groan. A small one escapes from between your breasts as they rise just off the human's face. You huff, eking out a few more from him with some twitches of your hips.

Then you smother them to nothing as you smash your chest down. Lightning arcs along your spine as your ass rises in the air in a lever-like motion, freezing in place high above for a moment. A whine escapes as the tingling continues. The shake of his legs against your calves and the squeeze of his fists bring you more bits of pleasure; you grunt when his throbbing head threatens to slip out. Hilting him sends another bolt of electricity along your back as it arches. You press down with a throaty huff before doing it again and again, humming at his movements beneath you. They're small, cute -- probably unnoticeable if it weren't for your immense sensitivity at the moment. But now they add to the warmth filling your body. Every knead of his fingers, press of his hands; every kick of his legs and bump of his knee, every tiny shift of his hips.

Every little gasp and jerk of his head that you feel so much more than you could ever hear.

The little sensations are a tickle compared to the warmth from the flood of Cameron's seed, but they have the same magnitude in the end. You're pushed over the edge with a final twitch and a breathless groan. The human's form feels more solid beneath you as you go rigid, your hips tensing and releasing on their own as they work to milk every drop of liquid pleasure. His own sounds reach you as warmth and vibrations in your fur. He's just as tight as you, his limbs like steel bars pressing against your curves. They stay rigid for a few moments after you relax on top of him. Then he begins to move again, the rubbing and pressing more frantic than flirty.

His gasp seems reluctant when you get your knees under yourself and rise. The absence of his member as it slips out from you gives you an idea of why. You hum for a moment as you hang over him, still able to feel his form through your hanging curves as you pant. Cameron doesn't seem to mind as his own chest heaves. He reaches up and pushes at your breasts, grunting when his hands sink in. Your hum grows husky as your weighty knockers move and squish against each other. The brush of the mattress and his warm skin on your hard nipples weakens your knees.

"Cameron," you manage, shuddering above him, "Was that good?"

"Y-yeah... r-really good," is his small reply.

"Would you like a little more?"

"God, yes."

You smile. It makes you pause; it's been a long time since you've done it. You'd almost forgotten how it feels.

Words catch in your throat before you give up on them in a huff and start moving. The bed frame creaks as you crawl up the human's prone form. You can see the holes you made in the wall more clearly in the dim ambient light; you'll deal with them later. Cameron wheezes when you sit partway up, your butt pillowing out on his stomach. You grab the wall again and push at him with your feet with a grunt.

"Scoot down," you pant. Your wobbling attempts at adjusting him aren't all that effective, but Cameron gets the idea. The mattress hardly shifts as he awkwardly shuffles down between your legs. You shiver when he wraps his arms under your thighs for leverage and squishes more sensitive flesh. His hot breath on your growing heat threatens to make you drop early. You're able to control yourself until he gets close enough to where you want, his little legs poking out far from your behind. You sit back with a soft groan; Cameron's squirms beneath your bottom make you smile. You let him pleasure your perineum for a few seconds before lifting up again.

The human's form shudders as he pants below you, but he doesn't move as you shift around. You're always touching in one place as you do, the divots in the mattress ensuring that. His breath is steady when you've turned around to face his feet -- or maybe he's holding it in anticipation. You pull at your stomach and thighs to try and see him but give up rather quickly.

"Are you ready, Cameron?" You ask.

"Y-yeah..."

"Good --" you descend onto him with a groan that matches the bed's -- "Let me feel you kiss me."

There are some wet sounds and muffled grunts as you adjust to fully capture Cameron's face in your folds. His fingers dig into your ass when you finally do and sink the rest of your weight on him. You sigh at the topography of the human's form against yours; his arms and shoulders pressed into your thighs, every curve and edge of his face against your lips. His nose digs in deepest and sends lightning up your belly when he starts to move. His tentative tongue and lips draw a hum from you when they're employed.

You lean to give them more room to work and your paws brush his hips; his cock is already getting hard again. Your chuckle of amusement is interrupted by a gasp at the dart of his tongue. There's a buzzing noise from the human when you wrap a paw around his shaft, and the vibrations seem to resonate through your loins. You practically melt from the sensation, letting out a low, loud moan. Bouncing your hips to give him more air brings squelching sounds from all your dripping excitement. The human nuzzles into your heat as you grind down between each impact, small grunts and gasps escaping with each periodic rise and fall. His cock hardens in your hand and he presses skyward with tense legs and needy hips.

You don't know how long it is before the two of you find a rhythm. Measuring time in minutes or seconds is useless in this moment. The spread of the light from your loins seems a better method. The outward creep of sensations you haven't felt before goes on and grows faster with every bounce of your hips, stroke of your hand, nuzzle or kiss from your partner. It shifts from moment to moment from a fire to a tightness, from a harsh bolt that tenses your muscles to a tingle that saturates every inch of your form. You can feel sweat rolling down your curves beneath your fur -- you can feel your fur, you realize, in the creases of fat where it brushes against itself.

No H-game session has ever made you feel this. Even your previous encounters with him haven't. Your mind's too clouded with pleasure by the time you realize it to search for a reason; the wordless light from your loins has completely filled you from head to toe. Cameron goes rigid beneath you as you freeze and let out a surprisingly soft sound of satisfaction. The unconscious twitches of your hips and the tiny throbs of his cock in your grip are the only things standing out from your orgasm.

An insistent nuzzling deep between your legs draws you from your state. Each press of Cameron's nose and the slide of his cheeks against your folds brings another bolt of pleasure, but the kick of his legs and stifled struggle of his hands beneath your ass tell you he's probably had enough. Begrudgingly, you lift up and sit with your back against the wall. The human splutters and goes through a series of wet gasps in the valley of your thighs, pawing at your padding to push himself from your heat. You're able to actually see his face because of it; his eyes are wide and his skin glistens with your fluids.

You coo gently and pick him up under the arms. Cameron doesn't resist, going limp in your grip as you tug him to your chest. His stomach is slickened with his own fluids, you note. You pause to reach over and grab a paper towel from your bedside roll and wipe the two of you off before laying back down. The human continues to pant against you as you cup him with a single arm, slowly adjusting the two of you so that you're comfortably on your sides. The two of you rest like that for a while, his arms wrapped beneath your chest and one of yours around his back. The other twirls his soaked and sweaty hair. His breaths gradually sync with yours; you can feel them against your breasts on your inhales.

"Cameron?" you ask quietly.

"Yes, Babbs?"

You pause; you were going to ask a question that you already knew the answer to. "D-do you want to take a nap?" you ask instead.

After a second, the human nods. "Yes, Babbs. I-I think we could, uh, call it a night here."

You smile. He groans softly when you squeeze him tight between your breasts and throw a leg over him, making sure there's a little airway. "Okay," you whisper. "A-and Cameron?"

His response is a sleepy, muffled sound. "Yes?"

"I love you."