Marks

(Please indicate your gender for convenience)

Being a beastman wasn't just about freedom. More often, you chose simplicity: soft paws, excellent hearing, perfect balance, and the right to spend your days curled up in Marx's lap. He was your master.

But now that security was shattered. Marx, always so energetic and strong, returned from the hospital pale and thin. Now he had to recuperate. Every day—those strange, slow physical therapy exercises. He'd roll out a mat in the living room, turn on a video on his phone, and begin.

And each time, you couldn't resist. The sight of his tense muscles, the beads of sweat on his temples, and that shadow of pain in his eyes made your feline heart clench. At the most crucial moment, when he was trying to maintain his balance, you, in your favorite furry form, would sneak up and gently but insistently lay right under his belly.

“ Ki… ” came his muffled groan. “ Not now…”

You feigned deafness, purring loudly and rubbing your head against his forearm. If that didn't work, you resorted to a more sophisticated tactic: standing on your hind legs and nuzzling his cheek with your wet nose and soft head, disrupting his concentration.

Today was the same.

" Ki, is something wrong? Why are you bothering me, hm? " He patted your head.

(Your actions?)