Sun Mote Copse Steal from the rich, give to myself.

He remained still—looking directly at her, more for the sake of her being able to read his lips when he spoke. She gushed now, about having a cherry on top of a cake, and while he wanted to add in some dirty innuendo, the words were swept from him as she once more grazed her muzzle to his—drawing him to silence once more before he could even speak. This was unlike her. Their relationship never involved touching. Banter, absolutely. But never this, and Pippin found himself navigating what he could see as potentially a minefield.

“You’re awfully chipper today,” he finally did remark, his wolfish brows lifting to reveal his surprise. That was when she asked him about their previous retorts, and his muzzle tipped, understanding finally dawning on him.

He was careful for a select moment, contemplating her request. Chipper, yes. Horny, he assumed. She didn’t smell like previous she-wolves he had come across when they wanted to mate—and so he didn’t see potential danger that lied there.

Typical, he felt he held worldly knowledge when in reality, he knew fuck all. He should have known this was the onset of a storm that was coming.

A slow grin worked its way across his muzzle. Of course he would supply to this demand—it was harmless. “Need some stress relief?”