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[statementfuckingends]

You've reached Timothy Stoker, leave a message at the tone and I'll get back to you.

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[statementfuckingends]

It's a little bit fun digging through the fur and finding that dense, soft undercoat, and his fingers comb through it carefully to give Jon long, languid back scratches.

"Suppose we should get you a shirt at some point, shouldn't we?" he hums dryly. Making no attempt to stop his scritches. "I do want to hear details."

[epistemological]

There's a pathetic noise as he sort of collapses against Tim ever so dramatically.

If he must.

[statementfuckingends]

Another oof as more wind gets knocked out of him, and he just starts rolling Jon off his lap.

"Christ you're heavy." As if he's having any actual trouble with Jon, but it's the principle. "I think this is the first time I've seen you looking properly fed."

He manages to stagger to his feet, but pauses mid-crouch at the sight of his closed bedroom door. "Shit - I've got Winnie here," he remembers out loud, looking down at Jon. "Is she gonna be alright? With you being like this, I mean."

[epistemological]

He stands up as Tim does, and he makes a thoughtful sort of noise, padding uncertainly as he peers at the closed bedroom door. Winnie was raised by him, an eldritch abomination, and with Lark nearby. He should be fine being near her but he's not sure he wants that yet, not like this.

Instead, he hops a little and pads towards the front door. Maybe he'll go and get changed?