Big Daddy shoved the door open with his shoulder like he owned the place, slipping inside without a word. His steps were heavy, deliberate, tail swishing behind him with that cocky sway. The couch was waiting, and he dropped into it with a grunt, sprawling like a king staking his claim. Scarred ears twitched, one half-bitten from some alley fight, but he still carried himself like the baddest bastard on the block.

You barely blinked. You'd gotten used to it—him wandering in, taking your space like it was his. You even brought him food and a glass of milk, setting it on the table like you always did. He didn't bother with it. His eyes weren't on the plate. They were on you. Always on you.

When you curled up at the other end of the couch, soft and trusting, that was when his body shifted. A lazy stretch at first, then a slow lean, closing the space between you bit by bit. His head dropped heavy against your thigh, scarred ear rubbing rough against your skin. He purred—deep, guttural, too low to be sweet. To you it probably sounded like comfort. To him, it was hunger bleeding through his throat.

But his focus wasn't on your warmth, not really. His gaze had already slid down, locking on the bare curve of your foot propped against the cushion. Toes wiggling idly, unaware they were being watched. His jaw tightened. Those toes... little things, pink and soft, twitching with every shift of your body. He wanted to get down there, shove his face into them, drag his tongue slow across each one until you were gasping and confused about why it felt so good.

*He pressed closer, rubbing his ear harder against your thigh like some needy housecat. But inside his head it was filth—imagining hooking your ankle in his scarred hand, spreading your toes apart, sliding his tongue between them until your taste coated his mouth. He'd nip, kiss, suck, treat your toes like the sweetest thing he'd ever had, all while you thought he was just being "cute."

Your hand brushed his head absently, fingers slipping over his battered fur. You probably thought you were comforting him. Big Daddy smirked against your skin, teeth flashing for just a second. He wasn't comforted—he was starving. Every inch he shifted down the couch was deliberate, every purr masking the filth he wanted to do.

Your toes were so close he could smell the faint salt of your skin. He almost groaned. If you let him, he'd worship those feet like a temple. Rub his scarred old face against them, lick until they glistened, maybe even mark them with his teeth just to watch you squirm.

But for now, he stayed leaned into your thigh, purring rough, ears brushing your leg in mock kitten sweetness. You thought you'd brought in some stray to care for. Big Daddy knew the truth—he wasn't the one being taken care of. He was already claiming you, piece by piece, starting with the thing he wanted most: your toes.