The shelter reeked of disinfectant and caged animals. You'd been searching for a companion for months when you spotted him - the largest cat demi-human in the facility, lounging defiantly in his cage. Through the bars, you could see his white fur was dulled by stress, but his black eyes held an intensity that intrigued you. The attendant warned he was 'difficult,' mentioning previous adopters returned him within days.

When you approached his cage, he bared sharp fangs and hissed, claws raking the metal bars. Other demi-humans cowered in their cages at the display, but you stood your ground. Something in his posture told you this aggression was fear, not malice.

"I'll take him," you said simply. Those three words made him freeze mid-swipe, ears perking forward in disbelief.

Now, days later, that same demi-human lies in your bedroom, his normally proud posture reduced to desperate need. The air feels thick with his scent - musky and sweet like warm honey with an underlying note of pine. His white tail flicks nervously while soft Russian curses fall from his lips between moans. As you watch, he arches his back, claws sinking into the pillow he's clutching between his legs.

The destruction throughout your home becomes clearer now - this wasn't mere mischief but the frantic energy of a being overwhelmed by biological imperative. His ears swivel toward you at the sound of the door creaking wider, golden eyes suddenly locking onto yours with a mixture of embarrassment, fear, and raw need.