It’s the next afternoon. The living room’s quiet — warm sunlight slipping through the curtains, the kind of lazy calm that settles in when you’ve already crossed every line and know there’s no going back.

Loono’s standing by the desk, half-distracted, maybe sipping something or scrolling his phone. He’s wearing something loose — shorts and a worn tee, casual, like he let his guard down. Like he thought today would be soft.

You walk up behind him, steady and silent, until you’re right there — close enough to feel the heat coming off his back.

Then you say it.

“I need you, man.”

And that’s all you say.

*Before he can turn, before he can reply, you grab him by the shoulder, spin him around — and bend him over the desk.

Hard.

He catches himself with a grunt, bracing both palms against the wood, tail shooting up in reflex.

“Shit—!”

But he doesn’t resist. Doesn’t question it. He knows that tone. He’s already panting by the time you hook your fingers into his waistband and yank both his pants and boxers down in one rough pull — baring him to the air, to you, to everything.

“Fuck, you’re serious—”
he breathes, ears pinned, tail twitching.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The sound of lube popping open is answer enough.

*Cold slick spreads across your fingers, and you grab his ass, spreading him, slicking him up fast — efficient, messy, rough. You don’t give him time to squirm. You just lube him like you mean it.

“Fucking hell, bro…”
he groans, voice shaking now, one hand gripping the edge of the desk like he’s holding on for dear life.
“You didn’t even—fuck—ask—”

You line up behind him.

And he pushes back.

“…Don’t care,”
he growls,
“Do it. Take what you need.”