i can read :)

snail - 24 - she/her - retired people think im cool - pfp: @luvrevue

[anxi-aashi]

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tartaglia x reader - pirate au! - chap 4

about me :)

this is a side blog! i may reply from @wailsnail

got a degree in film. i have 3 jobs now. wish I could live in a village and have a horse

I am a victim of the oikawa hater -> kin pipeline 😔

currently obsessed with: wuthering waves, love & deepspace, csm reze arc, LEON S. KENNEDY, ADULT ZUKO

pls bear w my infrequent posts

tags: #snail.recs, #snail.updates, #snail.requests, #snail.answers, #snail.problems, #snail.writes, #snail.rambles

[petrichorium]

Do love the concept of yan blade coming back from planarcadia so warm and affectionate and human in ways you never experienced before and now—even tho you’ve been basically held captive as a comfort doll for when he was in the throes of mara—you’re starting to really fall for him bc those glimpses of someone who truly cares for you are no longer just glimpses…

[petrichorium]

When Blade returns to your shared bedroom from whatever errand he’d been sent on, his first words to you are: “Have you eaten?”

The question is almost stilted. It tumbles from his lips uncertain, hesitant, but his hands are warm and steady as they cup your face, rough thumbs brushing softly against the apples of your cheeks.

You’re at a loss. It’s been weeks since his sudden and inexplicable—or, at least, not explained to you—change of heart, but after years of routine it still feels horribly new.

(When Kafka had dragged you from your shared bedroom to greet him, you’d braced for the same song and dance as every other time he’d returned from a mission. But instead of tossing you over his shoulder and heading for the bedroom, he’d greeted you sweetly—a cradled face, a tender look, a kiss to your brow. Not freedom, not a change of heart, but… something so close to devotion it made your heart ache.)

Today, when you shake your head no, rather than throwing you onto the bed ass-up, he quietly reaches for your hand and turns for the door. You follow him dutifully through the dim corridor of the current safe house until it opens up into the main room, a comfortable shared space where Kafka and Silver Wolf are occupying two sides of a wide, plush sofa—Blade does not spare them a passing glance, but a helpless look from you on the way past only gets you an impish grin from Kafka and a waggle of Silver Wolf’s fingers.

You’ve long given up hope for help from them. Blade’s companions have only ever been too eager to throw you at him, a bone to a particularly vicious hound. They only seem to intervene when his gnawing risks breaking you for good.

But right now his fingers around your wrist are hardly bruising as he guides you into the kitchen. His hands remain gentle when they find your waist to lift you and place you on the counter; they linger, trailing down your thighs when he pulls away and turns to the fridge, one squeezing the meat of your calf just enough to make you twitch before his touch is gone.

The fruit that he pulls out is vibrant purple and alien. Whatever it is, he knows exactly how to handle it, setting about peeling its wrinkled skin with a paring knife, standing so close his elbow nearly brushes against your knee with each movement.

You don’t often get the chance to explore the rest of the safe house. Blade typically only slips out of the room when you’re too fucked out to follow, assured that you’ll remain exactly where he’s left you when he returns. Fingers curling over the edge of the counter, you recall the first night—when you’d dragged your exhausted body out of that much-too-small bed and to the adjoining bathroom for some semblance of tidying yourself up, only to be caught by a savage arm around the waist and manic eyes like smoldering embers in the dark.

The eyes that regard you now glow just the same yet feel anything but, heavy-lidded and aged, curtained by strands of hair that seem greyer than they were when he’d left.

Without thinking, you reach out to brush them away, the pads of your fingers grazing his forehead. His lashes flutter as he leans into your touch.

“You’re different,” you say boldly. It earns you a quirk of a brow, an expression horribly endearing for a man who once stole you from your bed in obsessive madness. “You’ve changed since you came back from Planarcadia.”

“Much happened while we were away,” is the cryptic response you receive. He pinches a slice of that fruit with thumb and forefinger, holding it out to you. Your mouth opens instinctively. Its taste is bright, the flesh nearly melting upon your tongue, and when his hand pulls away you’re left with the sweet juice upon your lips.

“And I won’t get an elaboration on that?”

“A weapon dulls and must be reforged. The craftsman and tool are tempered together, born anew as one, transformed through a thousand shatterings.”

“Right. Whatever that means.” You lift a leg to tuck your knee beneath your chin. “And does this reforged weapon no longer feel the temptation of flesh?”

The movement of Blade’s finger stills. He goes rigid, tensing in an instant, taut as a strung bow—but his eyes, quite pointedly, do not meet yours.

A complaint sits on the tip of your tongue. You will not voice your desires, not in these circumstances; you refuse to beg your captor to touch you. And yet, if he won’t let you go…

“The least you could do is satisfy me,” you sneer. “You haven’t so much as touched me in—”

He fills your open mouth with another slice of exotic fruit. It tastes tarter now, messier, the nectar spilling over your lips and down your chin as you let out a squeak of surprise. Blade closes the distance between you before you can blink, and even as you swallow the mangled flesh around his fingers they lag within your mouth, the rough pads of his index and thumb dragging along the soft plane of your tongue. You close your teeth in pitiful protest, grazing the skin of his knuckles and pretending not to notice how his eyes spark with heat.

Still, when that thumb drops to wipe the sticky juice that glistens on your chin, your mouth feels dry. He brings it to his own lips, which part to let his tongue find it, throat bobbing with a swallow. Your breath hitches, and his eyes jump to meet yours.

Then he surges forward. You nearly slam your head into the upper cabinet behind you, so startled by the sudden movement, but catch yourself with an elbow. He has you cornered now, broad chest and ashen hair crowding your vision, thick arms at either side, and there is nothing to do as his head drops and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You can feel his breath there, hot against your skin.

And his lips, brushing just barely at your neck as he speaks, “this blade can never satisfy its hunger.”

His teeth sink into the meat of your shoulder.

[anxi-aashi]

hey shhh dont cry *defies physics and slides u a physical internet link* pirate tartaglia

[anxi-aashi]

working on chap 4 btw 😁

[anxi-aashi]

hey shhh dont cry *defies physics and slides u a physical internet link* pirate tartaglia

[manicsho]

Of Fallow Grounds and Feral Hearts

The Snow Beast and The Stray Farmer pt. 2

yandere!hybrid!Gojo x hybrid!reader

wordcount: 12300~ (got a lil carried away)

tw: MNDI, Farm!AU, Hybrid!AU, SMUT-heavy: chapter (dub-con, grinding, handjob, pussy eating and worship, rimming, fingering - vaginal and anal, size-kink, biting, cum play, breeding and pregnancy talk, this one is nasty), yandere, obsessive/possessive behavior, some fluff and angst, predator/prey dynamics, non-human anatomy (he is a leopard hybrid but has a knot for the story purposes, aha), Gojo is down bad for the little stray (us).

(If you find some more, please let me know.)

As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!

NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Not proofread. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Not proofread. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes. Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.

The week drags and folds over itself like a heavy heat haze – long afternoons soaked in cicada-song, the metallic sting of sweat on your fur, the air swollen with the smell of hay and dirt. 

You can feel it building with every sunrise: the soft, electric burn that crawls down your spine, the faint ache twisting behind your ribs. Your ears flick at sounds you shouldn't care about. Your tail curls when something brushes your thigh. Every scent sticks to you too long. Every shift of fabric over your breasts makes your breath shorten. And lately, the world smells like him. That thick musk that hits the back of your throat and won’t leave.

Gojo’s scent.

Sharp as frost, warm as sun-baked fur, impossible to ignore. He leaves it everywhere now. The fence post where you sit, observing the fields, the porch railing where you nap in the shade, the doorframe of your room, faintly dusted with the wild, bright tang of male leopard heat. You know he does it on purpose. He pretends it’s an accident, but you’ve caught the way his ears perk when you sniff the air. 

He takes up space like it’s his job – that big, strong body, broad shoulders, rolling stride. Gojo is physically so much larger than you, it is almost comical: he is tall enough to make you tilt your head back, hands big enough to span your waist, tail thick and heavy, patterned with those dark spots. There is nothing subtle about him.

He often goes out shirtless, purely because he knows he can. He likes to claim it’s more natural for hybrids to be naked and that the two of you should embrace your instincts together, like stripping in the yard is a spiritual practice.

Of course, today is one of those days.

The sun has barely reached its peak, and he’s decided to climb the roof of the chicken coop, barefoot, tail flicking with absolute confidence. Satoru’s patching the old tin plates Nanami meant to fix later, humming under his breath, squinting against the glare. The muscles along his back ripple with each movement, the lean stretch of them cut in gold light. You tell yourself you’re just watching because you don’t want him to fall like the last time, and definitely not because you like the way his body catches the sun like polished bone, not because that deep ridge of muscle at his side flexes every time he swings the hammer.

“Stupid,” you mutter under your breath, flicking an ear to chase the heat rising to your cheeks.

He looks down at that exact moment, as if your voice is a magnet. The grin that stretches his lips is wide and sharp, fangs flashing white. His eyes lock onto you with the focus of a predator. “You watchin’ me, kitty? Looking at what’s all yours?”

You scoff, but your throat feels too dry for real venom. “Just waiting for gravity to do its job.”

Gojo only laughs at that. “You’ll catch me this time, right?”

You want to tell Satoru that if he falls, you’ll bury him under the coop, but he’s already swinging down with the kind of grace that should be impossible for someone his size. His feet hit the dirt softly, tail swaying behind him in a lazy arc, fur glinting faintly silver. A suffocating wave of male readiness radiating off him reaches you before he does. Satoru stretches, hands behind his head, and every inch of him glows with that predatory vitality. The scent of impending heat from your smaller frame must be hitting him full-force, because his pupils blow wide instantly, his nostrils flaring slightly, his tail stiffens and gives a single thump on the ground behind him.

“You smell so good, pretty kitty.” his voice drops an octave, becoming a hungry sound. “Wanna go somewhere I can taste it?”

“Ew.” You tear your gaze away and angrily stomp back toward the barn, the throb low in your belly intensifying with every step.

The rest of the week doesn’t help.

It’s small things – the little moments that make your insides unnaturally warm. The way Gojo lifts the heavy feed barrels like they weigh nothing, tail twitching for balance as the veins in his arms rise, blue and bulging beneath his pale skin. 

The way he takes your chores without asking. When Nanami tells you to help move sacks of grain, Gojo just steps in, smiling like a fool, and hefts the 3 of them onto his shoulder with insulting ease.

“I can do it just fine,” you growl.

“I know you can,” He winks at you, clearly amused by the display, ears twitching. “But with me around, you don't need to.”

You hate that your heartbeat stutters at that. You hate that the warmth that floods your chest isn’t entirely sexual this time.

And the worst part is, he keeps bringing you things. Nothing grand, truly – a handful of raspberries from the forest, still warm from the sun. A rock he found in the river that happens to be the exact shade of your eyes. Once, a crumpled page from a children’s book with a drawing of a cat in a field, staring at the blue sky. 

“Where did you find it?” You stare at the crumpled piece, trying to read the complex letters.

“Doesn't matter.” Gojo shrugs. “Jus’ thought you’d like it,” he says, awkward and flushed, his tail thumping against his leg like a drumbeat. You roll your eyes, but your fingers carefully smooth the page flat when he isn’t looking.

Satoru’s ridiculous, and sometimes, he doesn’t even bother pretending to be human. You see it when he trains the young guards of your farm.

It’s late afternoon, sun dropping low, the field behind the barn turned into a square of gold and dust. Your friends, Yuji and Megumi, stand in the middle, breath already a little ragged, shirts clinging to their backs, ears and tails twitching with focus. They’re around your age, not young enough to be called pups, but not old enough to even try to compare to Gojo. Hm. On second thought, nobody here is strong enough to even try to.  

Satoru prowls a lazy circle around them, barefoot in the dry grass, stripped down to sweatpants low on his hips, again. His chest gleams with sweat, shoulders rolling with every stretch, tail drawing slow arcs behind him. His ears are perked forward, sharp, his hair a wild white mess that catches the light like frost.

“Remember,” he drawls, voice easy, eyes not. “You’re not just swinging your claws like idiots. You sniff the wind. You listen with these.” He taps Yuji’s floppy ears, then flicks Megumi’s wolf one when it twitches. “Body tells you everything.”

You perch on the fence a little ways off, pretending you’re just there because the wood is warm and the sun hits your fur just right. You’ve got your chin in your hands, your stubby tail curled around the rail, ears angled forward despite yourself. 

Truth to be told, you should be doing something else. Folding laundry. Cleaning bowls. Watering plants. Anything that isn’t this. But Gojo moves, and your gaze follows, without meaning to.

“Come on, you two,” Satoru calls, baring his teeth in a grin. “Hit me like you mean it. I’ll even pretend you have a chance.” Cheeky as always.

Yuji barks something and charges. Megumi hangs back a beat, then flanks, clever as always. It doesn’t matter. Gojo’s faster. He’s older. He’s terrifying. He moves with a dancer’s grace and a predator’s economy, letting them graze him on purpose, you realize, just to build their confidence. He lets Yuji’s claws skim his side, lets Megumi almost catch his wrist. Lets them think they’re reading him.

Then he reminds them who he is.

Satoru pivots, grabs Yuji by the front of his shirt and uses momentum to flip him clean over his shoulder, slamming Itadori into the grass with such practiced care that the dog hybrid bounces more from shock than pain. In the same breath, he catches Megumi’s wrist before his claws can connect, spins him around, hooks a leg behind his knees, and pins the shocked male face down with laughable ease, forearm planted across his shoulder blades. 

Two future guards, flat on their backs, panting.

“Dead,” Gojo singsongs, tail flicking smugly. Sweat drips down his throat, slides over his chest, and disappears under the band of his pants. 

And watching him does something awful to you. Your body starts cataloguing. 

Strength. Agility. Endurance. Awareness. Good fighter. Good provider. Good defender.

Good mate.

The thought slips in without knocking, and your heat-hazy brain hums in agreement, smug and low. Your instincts curl around the idea, purring: strong male, big territory, sharp teeth, warm den, healthy kittens, safe place.

You bristle at yourself, ears flattening, eyes narrowing. No. Absolutely not. Still, your pupils swell, swallowing color. Your thighs press together automatically, pretending you’re just getting comfortable on the fence and not trying to ease the ache building there. Your tail gives a traitorous twitch.

They go again. And again. And again–

Leopard hybrid corrects them, that infuriating mix of teasing and competence. He shows them with his own body – shifting their stance, nudging a knee, adjusting a shoulder, demonstrating where to sink their weight when something lunges. He doesn’t pull rank, doesn’t crow about how easy it is. He just… teaches. 

That, somehow, only makes it worse.

Your mind starts layering pictures over reality, sick little visions that aren’t so good for your shattering ego. When Yuji manages to jump on Satoru’s back again, arms locked around his neck, Gojo laughs and drops backward, slamming them both into the grass, rolling, thrashing in a tangle of limbs. His muscles flex, his body moves with that same unstoppable, grinding force–

Your breath catches so hard it hurts. The field goes fuzzy at the edges.

Suddenly, it is your back in the dry grass, your thighs are wrenched open to receive all of him. His hands bracket your head, not to spare you, but to pin you in place with his body, his teeth bared in a feral snarl. His hips began to pound down, tearing you open so good, thick knot swelling thick and hot at your entrance. Your hands, useless against his broad shoulders, are pulling him closer even as you gasp against the pain of the nastiest mating press, your screams trapped as breathless moans. His scent pours over you, his growls follow his hips in a feral rhythm, thundering against your ear as he lowers his maw to your neck.

One moment, you’re on the fence. Next, It’s your spine arching off the earth, not Yuji’s. Gojo’s weight is what drives the air from your lungs in a choked sob and his hands are like vise around your wrists, pinning them above your head, his fingers digging in deep enough to bruise the bone. There’s no gentle guidance here, only the crushing certainty of his hold. His knees force your thighs apart with a single, brutal thrust of his hips, spreading you wide on the dusty earth. 

His muzzle drops to your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse. "Mine," the growl vibrates through your very bones, a sound felt more than heard. "Gonna ruin this pretty little cunt for anything else." And then he slams home.

That tears a ragged scream from your throat – a scream that dissolves into a guttural wail. He’s huge, splitting you open with a heat that borders on agony, and your body betrays you instantly, clenching and fluttering around the invasion, greedy for it.

He doesn’t wait for you to adjust. His hips set a punishing, animal rhythm, pounding into you with the same effortless power he used to throw Yuji. Each drive is a claim, a brutal re-mapping of your insides. You can feel every ridge, every vein of him, the brutal friction stealing your breath, building a coil of hot pressure deep in your belly. Your claws are out, scoring helpless red lines down his sweat-slicked back, your legs locking around his waist to pull him deeper, to take more.

And then you feel it – the thick, hot swell at his base. His knot. It pulses against your stretched entrance with each thrust, a delicious promise of being locked together, filled to bursting. He snarls, hips stuttering, driving harder, needing to force it inside.

"Gonna knot you right here," he grunts, breath hot and ragged in your ear. "Fill this tight little hole so deep you’ll taste me for days. Let them all watch. Let them see who you belong to–"

Megumi yips when Gojo's hand crushes into his ribs... and the sound makes the picture disappear, feeding your mind with a new vision. It melts into your mind like honey, sweet and slow, chasing away the sharp edges of the present.

You see the same sun-drenched field, the grass warm and soft underfoot. Satoru is there, a mountain of sun-kissed skin and lazy strength, stretched out on a thick blanket. The afternoon light gilds his white hair and turns his smile into something unbearably soft.

And this time, its not just two of you.

Three small bodies orbit him like joyful little planets. They look like human children, around four years old, save for the ears that twitch on top of their heads and the tails that curl and flick behind them. Their fur is a beautiful mix – your tabby stripes visible on their limbs and tails, but overlaid with the silver-dusted thickness of Satoru’s fur.

Your daughter, a tiny queen with Satoru’s arresting blue eyes and your delicate nose, is perched regally on his broad thighs. She pokes a small finger at his chin.

“Papa, your teeth are too big,” she declares, her nose wrinkling.

Satoru’s laugh is a contented rumble. “That’s ‘cause I need them to protect you all!” He leans down, nuzzling her cheek, but a big fang scrapes the velvety fur of her ear.

She lets out a tiny, indignant yip and scrambles off his lap, her little tail puffed up. “Mama! Papa’s teeth are too big!”

Your heart swells. You are already moving from your spot at the edge of the blanket, opening your arms. “Oh, come here, my love. Let me see.”

She barrels into your chest, and you gather her close, peppering kisses over her offended ear. “Shhh, it’s okay. Papa didn’t mean it. See? All better.”

Over her head, you see Satoru’s face. The playful confidence is gone, replaced by genuine remorse. “Baby, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and teary. He reaches out, his hand enormous next to her small back, and strokes her hair with a touch so gentle it makes your breath catch. “Papa’s a clumsy oaf. Forgive me?”

Your daughter sniffles once, then turns in your arms, looking at him. A slow, forgiving smile spreads across her face. She holds out her arms. “Hug?”

Gojo melts, scooping her from your embrace and settling her carefully in the cradle of his legs, wrapping his arms around her small frame. “My perfect girl,” he whispers into her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He then meticulously licks the pad of his thumb and smooths down the tiny, ruffled fur on her ear, grooming it back to perfection with a focus usually reserved.

Meanwhile, your boys are a tangle of limbs and quiet mischief near the blanket. The larger of the two, a tabby-striped rascal with Satoru’s mischievous grin, is attempting to climb Satoru’s back as if his papa’s a mountain. “I’m king of the forest!” the boy yips.

The smaller kid, who has Satoru’s sleepy blue eyes but your thoughtful expression, is sitting cross-legged, carefully tracing the letters in your well-loved alphabet book with a solemn focus. He looks up at his brother’s antics, sighs with four-year-old exasperation, and goes back to his studying.

“C,” he says, focused on studying, “if for the “cats”. Like us!”

“Hey,” Satoru says softly, not moving to dislodge the little climber. He’s gazing at you over your daughter’s head, his blue eyes soft and full of a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun. “Look what we made, pretty momma.”

You shift closer, the grass tickling your legs, and lean into his side. Your daughter immediately reaches for you, one hand fisting in your shirt, so you’re all connected – her, you, and Satoru. You feel the solid, steady beat of his heart against your shoulder.

“We did good,” you murmur, watching your son on his back finally tumble into the blanket with a gleeful giggle. The studious one scoots closer, leaning against Satoru’s thigh, his quiet way of asking for contact. Your mate’s hand flies to your son’s head immediately. 

“The best,” Satoru agrees, his voice a vibration through you. He turns his head, his nose brushing your temple. His whisper is for you alone, a low, intimate thread of sound. “Makes me think… we’re pretty good at this.” He pauses, and his next words are flavored with a playful, loving heat. “Wanna make the team bigger, pretty momma?”

A flush heats your cheeks, but it’s accompanied by a deep purr that starts in your chest. Before you can answer, your daughter tugs your sleeve. “Hug!”

Satoru doesn’t need to be told twice. “Alright, my little princess, your wish is my command!”

In one smooth, powerful motion, he shifts. He gathers the climbing boy with one arm, tucks the quiet reader against his other side, adjusts your daughter on his lap, and then his arms wrap around you, pulling you firmly against him, into the circle of his warmth.

You are enveloped. A pile of love on a sun-warmed blanket. Your children’s soft scents – milk, sunshine, and their unique smell of your family. Giggles erupt as they squirm into the group hug, small hands patting your face and Satoru’s chest.

Satoru rests his chin on top of your head, his arms a secure fortress around his entire world. He lets out a long, satisfied sigh. “Mine,” he rumbles. “All mine. And I’ll never let anything cold or scary touch you. Ever.”

In the vision, you are safe. You are loved. You are home, in the purest, most fluffy sense of the word. Your family is a warm, breathing, purring tapestry woven from trust and adoration.

The gut-twist of want that follows is deep and aching – a longing for that permanent, sun-drenched peace.

On the field, as if he hears your thoughts, Gojo throws Yuji off with a growl and straightens in one smooth motion. His chest is heaving now, sweat beading along his neck, dripping down between his pecs, disappearing into the band of his pants. His tail lashes when he sniffs the air.

Then his head turns. His eyes find you in an instant, like there was never any doubt where you were. His nostrils flare. His pupils swell, swallowing the blue until his eyes are mostly dark. He slowly, tongue flicking against the back of his teeth like he’s tasting the air.

You know he can smell you. Your arousal, the early, sharp edges of your approaching heat, the way your body is all but broadcasting readiness even as your brain screams “no”.

He grins, and you break first, jerking your gaze away, nails biting into the fence. Shame and want snarl together in your throat. You jump down instead, landing harder than you need to, almost stumbling. You don’t look back. You stalk away toward the house, ears flat, tail puffed in embarrassment.

You can feel his eyes burning holes into your skull.

The rest of the afternoon is calm. By evening, the sky has gone soft and purple, cicadas screaming from the trees. The fields are shadows and silver edges. You creep out to the back porch with your notebook, the one with your clumsy letters and uneven lines, and sit on the step, trying to ground yourself in the simple shapes of letters. The pencil feels clumsy between your fingers. Your tongue sticks out at the corner of your mouth as you hunch over, ears angled forward in that tight little way they get when you’re trying too hard.

Slow, careful strokes. Curves. Lines. Nanami’s name, then yours, over and over, the letters a little different each time but close enough that you’d almost call it progress. The world narrows to black on white, the scratch of graphite, the tiny knot of concentration between your brows.

Behind you, the boards complain under his weight.

Your ears twitch backward despite yourself. Your shoulders tense. Your tail wraps tighter around your thigh like it wants to protect you from the intruder.

“Kitty~”

Gojo drops down behind you, big body folding up with lazy confidence, his legs spreading to bracket yours. His thighs flank your hips, warmth radiating through the thin fabric of your shorts, his knees on either side like a cage.

His chest is a solid wall at your back, a breath later, heat and weight and the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart pressing into your shoulder blades.

Then his chin comes down on the top of your head.

You jolt, fur puffing. “Get off,” you grumble, ears flattening under the weight of his jaw.

“Nah,” he says, voice a lazy rumble that vibrates through your skull and down your spine, obnoxiously pleased. “Head’s comfy.”

“Die,” you say automatically, but it comes out too thin to have any real bite.

Satoru chuckles. You feel it more than hear it – a low purr of sound that starts in his chest and rolls through your back. His breath ghosts over your ears, warm and steady. Gojo adjusts his chin, nuzzling it just a fraction deeper into your hair like he’s trying to rub his scent in.

His tail curls somewhere behind you, the tip flicking lazy figure-eights on the porch.

Your hand tightens around the pencil. You scratch the next line too hard. The graphite snaps.

“Fuck,” you hiss under your breath.

The purring stops, and he hums curiously. “Language, mewmew,” he chides, not sounding disapproving at all. His chin shifts, his jaw scraping lightly against the base of your torn ear. “What’s got your fur all standing up, hm?”

“You,” you snap, tossing the broken pencil stub aside and reaching for another. “You’re heavy. And loud. And in my space.”

“Oh?” His long arms move, coming around you, hands planting on either side of your hips. He leans in a little more, caging you in the circle of his body. “Too bad I'm not goin’ anywhere.” He presses his chest subtly harder against your back as he says it, just to prove his words. 

You grind your teeth and hunch further over your notebook, pretending you can’t feel the way his warmth seeps nicely into the line of your body, the way your muscles instinctively want to soften, to lean back into the solid support.

“Whatcha writin’?” he asks after a moment, breath puffing across the fur of your torn ear.

“Homework,” you mutter. “Nanami told me to practice.”

“Homework,” he repeats thoughtfully, like it’s a brand-new word. “Nerdy, neeerdy alley cat.”

One of your ears twitches. “Shut up.”

“Can’t,” he says. “Was born with mouth open.”

Satoru goes quiet for a beat, then you feel him shift again. His chin lifts just a little, leaving the top of your head, and for a half-second, you’re stupidly hopeful that he’s going to go away.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he dips his head a fraction to the side and puts his mouth on your ear.

At first, it’s just a nudge – the soft press of his nose against the base, an absent little bump that makes the fur there ruffle. Then he scoffs, and his lips part and his tongue drags up along the outer edge in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts like someone plugged you into a socket. Your toes curl against the wood. The notebook wobbles on your knees.

“Satoru,” you snap, voice a little too high. “Stop–”

“Mm,” he says, ignoring you completely. “You’re flicking them like crazy. Lemme calm you down.”

He licks again, slower this time, following every curve, every fold, his tongue hot and rough and indecently thorough. His breath is warm against the damp trails he leaves.

He makes a soft, pleased noise. “There we go. Nice and taken care of.”

“I am going to claw your face off,” you say through your teeth, but your voice wobbles on the last word when he catches the torn edge between his lips and sucks, gently, just enough to make your thighs press together instinctively.

“Rude,” he murmurs around a mouthful of ear, sounding utterly unbothered. “I’m grooming you.”

“I can groom myself,” you growl.

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, releasing your ear with a soft pop. “But do you do that?”

Before you can answer, his mouth moves. Satoru switches to the other ear, his nose brushing through your hair, his breath hot against your scalp. He takes his time, tongue drawing lazy patterns, lips smoothing down ruffled fur, teeth teasing along the sensitive edge just enough to make you twitch.

You hate that it feels good.

Your shoulders, tight as wire all day, slowly start to loosen under the attention. Your head tips forward without your permission, making it easier for him. Your grip on the pencil loosens. The world narrows to heat and tongue and the grounding weight of his chest at your back.

His hands finally move.

They slide off the wood and onto you – big, rough palms skimming down your sides, over your hips, fingers spreading wide, thumbs hooking into the meat of your thighs. He squeezes experimentally, like he’s testing ripeness.

“Hey,” you bark, trying to jerk away.

“Shh,” he croons, utterly unconcerned, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the inner curve of your thighs, perilously close to the place that’s been aching for hours. “I’m working. You’re all knotted up, kitty. Gotta knead you out.”

“I’m not bread,” you snap, fighting the urge to arch into his touch.

“Pretty sure you are,” he says, and with the next words, his voice curls into a possessive lilt. “Everyone wants a slice.”

Your tail lashes once, then drops back down, betraying the way your muscles are starting to melt despite your irritation. You can feel your own scent getting heavier, curling up between you, mixing with his.

His thumbs move in slow circles on the inside of your thighs, sometimes moving higher, sometimes dipping lower, never quite touching where your body wants him most. And it’s somehow worse than the time when he tried to fucking mark you with his fucking piss.

Then, casually, in a voice low and amused and frayed at the edges:

“You like what you saw today?”

Your hand freezes over the page.

“What?” you say flatly, not looking up.

“Training,” he clarifies, his thumbs pressing a little deeper into your thighs. “Out in the field. Me and these pups.” His nose nudges your hair aside so his lips can find the curve where ear meets skull. Satoru inhales there, slow, like he’s dragging your scent straight into his lungs. “You stared so hard I thought your eyes were gonna fall out.”

You scowl at your own crooked handwriting. “You were loud.”

“And you were almost drooling.”

“I was not–”

His breath brushes the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to a filthy murmur. “Did it get your little kitty pussy all nice n’ wet for me?”

The pencil skids so hard across the page that it tears through the fabric. Heat rushes to your face so fast your vision whites out for a second. Your ears go blazing hot, flattening so hard they almost hurt. Your tail fluffs at the base, mortifyingly obvious.

“Fuck off,” you rasp. Your throat is dry. “You’re disgusting.”

He laughs, quiet and pleased, the sound rolling through his chest into your back like a purr.

“Yeah,” he says. “Little bit.”

For a while, Gojo just stays. His hands keep up that slow massage, kneading the tension out of your thighs, working at stubborn knots in the muscle, easing little shivers out of you every time his thumbs dig in just right. His chin returns to the top of your head, heavier this time, his jaw relaxing against your skull. His breath evens out. Even his tail calms, the tip flicking lazy arcs against the porch.

The cicadas scream. The farm noises blur. The pencil starts moving again, your hand a little shaky but stubborn.

He watches over your shoulder, quiet, his eyes tracking every crooked letter. You can feel the weight of his gaze on the page, on your fingers, on your shoulders, like his attention itself is something physical.

After a while, his voice comes again, softer.

“Hey,” he murmurs, lips brushing the fuzz at the top of your ear. “Write something for me.”

“No,” you say, but the protest is weak. 

“M-m-m… Mean mewmew...” His fingers tap gently against your inner thigh, syncing with your heartbeat. “Just one thing. Promise.”

You roll your eyes, but something in his tone makes you exhale instead of spitting something mean.

“What do you want me to write?” 

“Write my name,” he says quietly. “Please?”

Your hand hesitates over the page.

Then, slowly, you put the pencil down. S. Your claw tip almost tears the paper. A. T. The curves are clunky, a little too big. O, smaller, squeezed in like it’s shy. R. And shaken U.

The bigger male goes very, very still behind you. Then his chest expands against your back on a long inhale, and the sound he makes is… different. 

“Oh,” he breathes, so soft you almost don’t catch it. “That’s how it looks like...”

His chin lifts off your head so he can lean forward, over your shoulder. His hair tickles your cheek. You can feel his eyes on the letters, heavy and bright, like you just etched something holy instead of scribbling four clumsy symbols. His hand leaves your thigh to hover over the page, fingers twitching like he wants to touch the lines but doesn’t quite dare.

“You’re so smart,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing left. Just concentrated pride that hits you like a punch. “Look at that. You wrote all of it. In order.” His throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing in awe. 

“It’s six letters,” you mutter, face burning. You feel the shift before his hand lands again – his scent spiking, his body pressing in closer, the muscles under his skin pulling taut like a drawn bow. His palm comes down on your leg again, heavier this time, fingers curling into the flesh of your thigh with possessive warmth.

“Six letters more than I know,” he says, low, like he’s talking to himself as much as to you. “Six letters that’re… mine. Just like you are.”

Your stupid heart lurches. Your cheeks burn hotter. You hate the way your chest swells, the way something inside you uncurls just a little at Satoru’s praise, showing its soft underbelly like an idiot.

“Stop saying weird shit,” you mumble.

“Not weird,” he argues, but lightly. His chin settles on your shoulder now, closer, his nose almost brushing your jaw. “True.”

His breath fans over the side of your neck. He inhales there, greedily, shamelessly. You shiver. Gojo dips his head, mouth trailing down the side of your throat, and buries his face in the vulnerable space where your neck meets your shoulder.

You feel his lips press against your skin, not quite a kiss (you don't think that he knows what it is), more like a breath held too long. His nose pushes into the curve, nudging your shirt collar aside, making more room for him. His arms wrap fully around your waist now, forearms crossing low on your stomach, dragging you flush against him. You’re completely enveloped, swallowed by heat and fur and muscle and that wild, too-much presence that is all Gojo Satoru.

“Are you scared of me?” he asks into your skin, voice low, stripped bare of bravado.“Is that why you keep running?”

Your throat closes. You stare at the page, at his name, at the way your hand is starting to shake again.

“Yes,” you whisper. Then, because that doesn’t feel quite right: “No. I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Why?” he prompts. “Because I’m bigger? Stronger? Another breed?”

You let out a humorless huff. “Bigger means meaner. Stronger means more dangerous.” The words come out blunt, bruised edges still attached. “That’s what the streets teach. The ones like you took whatever they wanted. Food. Warm. Space. Lives. You give them room, or you get your face kicked in. You don’t catch their eye. You don’t make them curious. You definitely don’t turn your back on them.”

You can feel his heartbeat, rabbit-fast for a moment, then slowing as he leashes it, breath coming in controlled pulls against your neck.

“Do you understand,” he concludes eventually, and his voice is different, “that I will never hurt you?”

You scoff, the sound too brittle. “You say that now. It can change any time–”

“No,” he insists, and there’s a steel there you don’t hear often. His arms tighten around you, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel exactly how strong he is, how easily he could break every bone in your body if he wanted. “I mean it. I mean it in the way we mean things. Not some… human promise you can snap in half when you get bored.” His lips brush your skin as he speaks, each word a warm puff against your neck. “Not after what you did.”

Your brows knit. “What do you mean?”

Gojo huffs a laugh against your shoulder, the sound rough. “You really don’t get it, do you?” There is a fraction of a second, as if he is trying to breathe in some courage to say the following words.

“You saved my life.”

The memory flashes behind your eyes, unbidden – the night, the blood, the way he’d been sprawled on the ground like a fallen statue, his fur matted, his breath ragged, his eyes glazed and wild. How huge he’d looked even then, how your gut had screamed run, run, run while your feet stayed where they were before seeking out Nanami for help.

“You were half-dead,” you say slowly, staring at your own handwriting to anchor yourself. “How did you end up there?”

“I was stupid,” he murmurs. “Picked a fight I shouldn’t have. Thought being strong meant I didn’t have to think. Should’ve died there, honestly. Big cat, bleeding out under a night sky. Kinda poetic.”

Your fingers curl in your lap, claws biting into the meat of your palms because now you just couldn't imagine leaving him there.

“But you came,” Satoru goes on, voice quiet. “Tiny little thing, eyes too big for your face, shaking so hard I could hear your teeth clicking.” His arms squeeze you gently, like he’s trying to hold the memory and you at the same time. “Could’ve abandoned me. Every instinct in you was screaming at you to do that. And yet you brought help. You sat there while human patched me up, poking my face every few minutes to make sure I hadn’t stopped breathing.”

“You were making weird noises,” you mutter, blinking hard. “I thought you were choking.”

“I was,” he says dryly. “On my own arrogance, perhaps.”

A breath of a laugh escapes you, unwilling and thin.

Satoru takes it like a gift.

“So yeah,” he says finally, more cheerful than before. “My life belongs to you now. That’s how it works. You pulled me back when I was already halfway gone. I don’t walk away from that. I don’t get to hurt you after that. I only get to guard you. That’s the deal.”

Your eyes sting with salt at the sheer sincerity in his voice, even hidden under the layers of playfulness. The feeling that coils somewhere between the ribs is funny and very warm, soothing like your mother’s last lullaby, sweet like candies that nannies from the city kindergarten gave you when you were a tiny stray kitten. You blink hard, focusing on the blur of ink until it sharpens again.

“I don’t want your life,” you mutter, lacking venom.

He huffs a soft laugh into your skin. “Too late,” he says. “You got it.”

Before you can brace, Gojo moves, pulling you sideways, away from your notebook, into the circle of his arms. The world tilts. The notebook slips off your knees and flutters to the boards. Your hand snatches at something solid, and you end up clinging to his forearm, your claws denting his skin.

One moment you’re sitting on the step. The next, you’re sitting on him.

Your hip lands on his lap, your side hitting his chest again, but at a new angle. His thighs spread under you to make room, one knee bracing on the step, the other a warm, solid line under your legs. His arms wrap around your waist, big forearms crossing under your ribs, palms splayed over your sides, anchoring you in place.

You squirm, ears flat, tail whipping once, then getting trapped between your thigh and his. “Let go.”

“Nope,” Satoru says mildly, tightening his hold just enough that you feel the strength in it. “You’ll run off and hide in your room.”

“I’ll scratch you.”

“You already did,” he reminds you, sounding annoyingly pleased. “Still here.”

Satoru catches your left wrist as you twist, his fingers wrapping around it easily. He brings your hand up, not out of his space, but to his chest.

He presses your palm flat over his heart.

It thuds against your skin, hard and fast, like it’s trying to punch its way out. Too fast for someone as relaxed as he seems.

“Feel that?” he murmurs, dipping his head until his forehead almost brushes your temple.

You swallow. Your fingers twitch unconsciously, claws grazing his skin. He sucks in a sharp breath, but doesn’t pull away.

“You did that,” he says. 

You snort, but your voice comes out thin. “I didn’t build your heart, idiot.”

“You might as well have,” he says. “It wasn’t doing shit before you dragged me back. Jus’ pumping blood.”

You force yourself to look up.

He’s already looking down at you.

Satoru looks wrecked.

There’s a desperate softness in his expression, a kind of awe that has nothing to do with your shaky letters and everything to do with the fact that you’re here, in his lap, with your hand on his heart and not clawing his eyes out. His mouth is parted, his breathing uneven. His ears are tipped forward, straining for every little sound you make. The tip of his tail thumps in an irregular rhythm against the boards.

You see it, finally, for what it is: hunger, yes, wild and filthy and coiled tight under his skin. But layered under it, through it, like veins in marble, is something so stupidly simple it makes your throat ache. You have no name to put on it, but you instinctively understand what that look means. 

He leans in until his forehead touches yours.

The contact is small, almost chaste, but it short-circuits something in you. The heat of his skin, the way Gojo exhales shakily when the bridge of your nose bumps his – it all pours into you like honey, slow and thick.

Your ears angle back to make room. Your lips almost brush. Your breath mixes, hot and shallow.

“Not scared of me,” he says, barely audible. “Scared of what I can do... Right?”

You could lie, but you don’t.

“Yes,” you breathe.

His hand on your palm tightens, dragging your fingers harder against his heart. His other hand slides lower on your waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh above your hip.

“But I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says, and there’s a frantic edge to it now, like he’s promising it to himself as much as to you. “I’m gonna make it better. I’m gonna… I dunno. Guard your stupid books. Kill whatever looks at you wrong. Whatever you want, kitty. Whatever you need. I can do it. I can learn it. I’m not just claws and teeth, promise.”

You are, you think. You are exactly that. But there’s more now, too – pencil letters carved into your sketchbook, your scent baked into his lungs, a debt he refuses to stop paying.

Your other hand, braced on his knee, shifts. Your fingers slip a little, tracing the line of muscle up his thigh, following it higher. The heat under your palm intensifies. You hear his breath catch in his throat.

“Kitty,” he whispers, warning and plea in one.

You don’t answer.

Your hand edges lower on his chest, down over the planes of his ribs, the dip of his sternum, feeling the way his muscles jump under your touch. His skin is hot and a little slick with the remnants of the day. There’s a faint scar tissue that your claws catch on, raising goosebumps in their wake.

His pupils are blown black. His mouth hangs open, panting just a little. His tail has gone stock-still, the tip trembling. The yearning in his eyes is so raw it’s obscene.

You drag your hand lower.

Your palm brushes the hard ridge of his abs, the faint trail of hair leading down into his pants. His hips jerk, just enough that you feel the thick length pressed against the underside of your thigh jump in response.

Your fingers hover on the edge of his waistband, claws resting lightly on the elastic.

His heart slams under your other hand. Your own is beating just as hard, just as wild, somewhere between terror and want.

You look up at him, meeting his gaze head-on.

He looks back, and you see all of it – the hunger, the restraint, the desperate hope, the bone-deep devotion. A big, brutal animal trying so hard to be gentle with something small that he’s shaking with the effort.

“Wanna see more~?”

Your head jerks toward him, ears flicking back. “Huh?”

His grin widens, that stupid but hopeful sparkle in his eyes. “You heard me.”

You should say no. You should hiss, tell him to quit it, but the words stick. His gaze drags over you – impossibly focused, reverent in its own reckless way.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say. “Show me.”

Gojo exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years. Then he moves suddenly – one arm snakes under your knees, the other around your back. You gasp, claws instinctively catching on his shoulder, but he only laughs, a low rumble.

“Hold on tight, kitten.” 

The wooden stairs creak under his weight, his tail brushing along the banister as he climbs, your heartbeat matching the rhythm of his steps. When he reaches the hallway, he pauses before your door – the one with the new lock Nanami installed. 

You don’t even get to say anything. He nudges the handle with his hip; the latch gives with a click that sounds suspiciously easy. 

“W-wait! Put me down!” you whine, scared of what this all means.

Gojo doesn’t. His grip is steady and tight, his massive hands hold you as if he is afraid you might evaporate. Those gorgeous blue eyes only deepen in color, the usual joyful glow replaced by a focused intensity. The click of the latch sounds too final, sealing you into your absurdly pristine room – a sanctuary curated by Nanami, all softness and order where it felt like you, a creature of scars and alleys, didn’t quite belong.

When Satoru sets you down on the edge of the soft mattress with its mountain of pillows, you scramble back in instinct, retreating until your back hits the headboard, putting as much distance as possible between yourself and his predatory figure. 

Bigger hybrid stands there for a heartbeat, his shadow stretching across the sickeningly sweet comforter, his chest heaving as if he has just run for miles. His massive figure looks dangerous in the dim light of your room, so violently out of place amidst the softness, plushies, and the smug-looking rabbit that watches the whole scene from his place near the headboard. 

But for once, you don't feel like the Gojo is going to force himself on you.

And after a heartbeat, he confirms it.

“I promise you,” he breathes in a low voice that vibrates through you. “Just this once, pretty kitty… I won’t go after this sweet pussy, but–” he pauses with an almost crazed glint in his eyes, “–bet if I play with you today, you'll be begging for my knot tomorrow."

With this, you are stunned, but glad that he at least… tries (?) to control himself. 

Gojo takes your silence as a sign of permission. His hands drop to the waistband of his sweatpants, and with a single motion, he tugs them down. The heavy cotton slides over the sharp jut of his hips before pooling on the soft rug.

The thing that springs up against his stomach is fucking horrifying – a brutal length of muscle that makes you mewl in genuine shock. Sure, it's not the first time you’ve seen it, but it is the first time you can really take it in.

And damn…

His dick is nothing but a masterpiece of biological aggression. It’s rock-hard, terrifyingly long, crimson at the head, weeping a glistening stream of pre-cum that wets the mushroom tip obscenely. A ropy vein traces the entire length of the shaft, throbbing with every frantic beat of his heart. The sheer girth of it is ruinous. It looks like it is designed to tear a female open, to deliver his hot seed right into your empty womb, to stake a claim that can never be undone. At the base, the promising swell of his knot waits. The obscene weight of it, the way it curves predatory towards his stomach, is utterly feral. 

The perfect breeder. You won't be surprised if it takes on the first try.

“You like what you see, m?” he murmurs, his voice thick with a needy purr. “Just say a word, and it'll get inside you…” 

The greatest performer he is, Gojo gives a slow thrust with his hips, his dick slapping against his lower abs with a wet thwack. “…breeding you nice and full of my kittens.”

The heat in the room is dizzying. Your pupils are blown so wide they swallow the color of your eyes, and your tail lashes against the pastel sheets in a frenzy of arousal. Slowly but surely, your mind is starting to check out, leaving only the primal instincts. 

And it's not too long until they take over. 

Sliding off the bed, your feet hit the wooden floor soundlessly. So in a dream-like state, you begin to circle him slowly, nose twitching, taking in the overload of his scent – sheer male musk, intensified by lust.

You never saw someone so big and yet so safe, so honestly eager to protect you, to mate with you, to what was that word, love you. 

Gojo lets you. He doesn’t follow your movements, holding himself rigidly still, but straightens his posture a bit, making the muscles roll under the skin. As you pass behind him, he unconsciously flexes his glutes, tightening the firm mounds of his ass His tail moves, curving in lazy motion, the tip gently lashing near your ankle. 

You stop at his side, your eyes drawn to the knot of muscle in his bicep. It is dense, the skin smooth over the power underneath. As if in a trance, you reach out curiously and poke it with one finger.

The effect is electric.

The predatory control shatters for one instant, revealing the raw, untamed animal beneath. A sharp, guttural gasp tears from his throat. His entire body jolts as if struck by lightning. 

The trance breaks, flooded with a shot of adrenaline. You leap back, a startled mrrow! escaping you, your own tail fluffing out. 

“Shit– shit,” Gojo gasps, words crumbling into a whimper. He covers his face with a hand, his proud posture folding. “I’m sorry, kitty, didn’t mean to– my nerves are just– fuck.” He sounds genuinely panicked, even desperate. “Please don’t run. Please.”

You stare, ears pinned flat, every instinct humming with the urge to bolt. He sees it. He reads the fear in your scent, in the tense coil of your limbs.

And as a skilled hunter, Gojo decided to switch tactics. 

Instead of going after you, he rolls on your bed, across the center of the pink comforter, a breathtaking expanse of skin and sculpted muscle that starkly contrasted the frilly innocence of your nest, and goes utterly pliant. His snow-white hair fans out against a pastel pillow, and a jealous part of him seethes that another male had provided this softness where he now willingly lays himself bare.

Nevertheless, Gojo bares his throat, his stomach and your eyes slide down from the hollow of his collarbones, down past the tense ridges of his abdomen to where his cock lies heavy and weeping against his belly. His legs fall open, relaxed and non-threatening. His tail rests limp beside his thigh. 

Vulnerability as an invitation.

“See?” He tilts his head, exposing more of his neck. His ice-blue eyes are huge, dark with want. “No threat. Just me. Your Satoru.” He arches his back in a slow, sinuous stretch, offering himself. The image seems almost surreal: the forest’s lethal predator, submitting atop a bed fit for a storybook princess. 

“Back then, I was so cold. Just a lonely, poor cat...” He lets his head loll to the side, watching you with adoring surrender. “That’s why went to my mate. You looked so warm and comfy in your bed that I just couldn’t help but join you.” 

His chest rumbles with a deep, continuous, inviting purr that makes the weak stray in you yield. The need to comfort, to claim, to answer that honest display, surges up and drowns the fear.

The soft mattress groans softly as you crawl onto it, settling your weight onto his powerful thighs. They are like heated marble beneath you, trembling with the force of his restraint. 

“C’mon… taste what’s yours,” he begs, and, flustered, overwhelmed, you start with what seems safest: his hair. Your fingers sink into the shock of snow-white silk, and a shudder wracks his entire frame.

Gojo purrs louder, the sound that vibrates up through your palms as they find the base of his leopard ears. They twitch violently under your touch. His eyes slam shut, a low groan tearing from his throat. His hands fly to fist the soft sheets beside his hips, tendons standing out in stark relief, knuckles bleaching white.

“Now,” he rasps, the word strangled, “lower.” His jaw is clenched so tight that you see muscles jump in his cheek. His tail moves around you, lashing metronome against the mattress, the thick, spotted fur bristling.

You obey – but on your own terms. Your hands drift from his ears, tracing the sharp, predatory cut of his jaw, the column of his throat where his pulse hammers a wild rhythm. As your fingers find the sculpted, broad planes of his chest, he flexes. The muscles leap and roll, bulging provocatively under your palms, showcasing their power. 

You let your claws extend, just a little, just to rake them, slowly – savagely slow – across the perfect expanse of his pecs. Four thin, stinging pink lines bloom in their wake, a claim etched into his skin.

Gojo hisses, and the look he gives you from beneath snow-white lashes is one of a glittering victory. 

Driven by a hunger that mirrors his own, your hands slide lower, lower, lower. Over the defined ridges of his abs, each one rock-hard and trembling beneath your touch. You mark these too, following the tantalizing path of his white happy trail, a beacon leading south, to the main treat of this evening.

His hands fly to the fat of your thighs, when your sharp nail traces a line from the base of his straining grith to the weeping tip. “There you are,” he purrs, but it’s not soft. It’s a predatory sound, soaked in lust.  “Right where you belong. Dripping for it. In this pretty pink cage human built you.” His head tilts, snow-white hair falling over those obscenely blue eyes as he looks you over like a meal. “Doesn’t suit my slutty little kitty.”

The fog in your head makes the world tilt. You sway, drunk on lust, and lean forward, placing one hand on his chest. “You… you talk too much,” you slur, trying for defiance, but it comes out breathy.

His thumb presses against your bottom lip. “And you don’t talk enough. Not the right words, anyway.” His eyes are searing blue coals. “Now, kitty, you have ten seconds. Use those pretty little hands, or–” His grip on your thigh becomes almost painful. “–be a brat, and I’ll flip you over, press your pretty face into that mattress, and pound you till you forget any other name but mine.”

You try to summon defiance and get up, but your head is foggy with need, your words slurring slightly. “Y–you told me you wouldn’t touch me. Your words, Satoru.”

“I said I wouldn’t touch your pussy,” his hand slides from your thigh to your ass, “You have other holes, kitty.” He squeezes the fat of your flesh, as if to emphasize his point.

“So here are your choices. Option A: We play humans. You’re giving me a handjob so good I see stars. Then I shove my tongue in your honey pot until you cum your brains out. Then we snuggle in your little… den. Nice, right?” His eyes, glowing like blue frost in the dark, gleam with wicked intent. 

You shuffle atop of him, but nod skittishly.

“Option B:... ” he singsongs. His hand snaps up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. “We play leopard and his bratty little mate. I’ll have you on your hands and knees, tail up, these perfect little holes presented. I’ll mount you and scruff you with a nice deep bite that’ll make your limbs go liquid. I won’t fuck your pussy yet, nuh-uh~“ Gojo licks the drool that threatens to slip from the corner of his mouth and continues, ”A promise is a promise. So I’ll grind my cock against your pussycunt until its nice and slick. Then,” his grip in your hair tightens, making you mewl pathetically, “I’ll take your ass, pounding it until your guts are stuffed with my cum. I’ll hammer my knot into you, again and again, until the muscle gives up and you’re left gaping like a sloppy whore,” he laughs, delighted at the possibility. 

“You’ll vomit my seed, kitten. You’ll taste my lineage as it comes back up your throat. You’ll crawl away, my cum and your own piss leaking down your legs. ”

He lets go of your hair, and his other palm slides from your ass to your lower abdomen, pressing down, making you acutely aware of how small you are, compared to him. “And that pretty cunt of yours? If it’ll throb pretty enough, I’ll feed that jealous tiny thing a finger or two. But I won't knot it, no-no-no!” He pats your pelvis gently, lovering his voice into a whisper. “Because a smart leopard doesn’t wear out his breeding hole before the season. We'll have to wait until your heat comes... have to be respectful to the place where my litter will grow. I'm a gentlecat, after all… .” 

His grin turns feral as he looks up at you, pools of black staring into your shaken soul. “So choose, kitten. Now. Be my sweet little mewmew or my anal breeding bitch.”

The threat thrills through you, a dark promise that makes your core clench violently, more slick, soaking the already damp fabric. 

“You’re… impossible.” It’s the last shred of your defiance, thin and brittle.

“For you,” he snarls softly, licking his lips, “always.”

Driven by his threat to destroy you and a need deeper than pride, your fingers finally slide down to curl around his dick. And the tastiest part that makes your neglected hole sing – they don’t even meet around the sheer thickness of him. 

He watches you, eyes shimmering with a tiny bit of disappointment. “There you go,” he croons, his voice rough with approval. “Just like that. Show me how a real predator deserves to be worshipped.”

“You’re drowning me in feromones,” you whisper, and your own voice is husky.

“Then drown.” Satoru’s eyes snap to yours, blown black with lust. “C’mon, use both hands. Feel how full I am for you.” He’s begging, his claws shredding the sheets. “Touch my balls. Squeeze them. Feel how full they are for you. Ready for mating.”

You obey, your palm cupping the tight sack beneath his shaft. Gojo howls, his hips pistoning into the tight circle of your fingers. “Yesss… god, you were made for this. Made to milk me dry. I can smell how wet you are.” A hot ache pulses between your legs, a desperate throb that matches the frantic beat of your heart. Helplessly, you grind down on nothing, a pathetic roll of your hips against the air.

Gojo sees it. Of course he does. His nostrils flare, drinking in the scent of your want. "Is that it? Are you rubbing that pretty little pussy on the thought of my knot?" His hands fly to stroke your trembling hips. "Don't be shy. Use me to get off, kitty."

You're too far gone to disobey. You shift, sliding forward to seat your aching core directly on the hard muscle of his thigh. Rocking against him, a broken moan escapes you as his leg provides perfect pressure.

"That's it," he groans, one hand flying to join yours on his cock, his larger fist enveloping your hand, applying more pressure. "Look at you. My greedy, shameless mate. Humping my leg like a bitch. You want it that bad?" He pants, his breath hot in the midnight air. 

“Y-yes!” You whimper, your strokes on him becoming sloppy, too overwhelmed with lust.

"I'm going to give it to you. I'm close, kitty. So close," Gojo babbles, his body tensing, bowing like a drawn arrow. "Right there–!"

Driven by instinct, you let go of his spasming balls to cup the swelling bulge forming at the root of his shaft. It feels impossibly hot and rigid under your touch and you squeeze it, guided by instincts.

Satoru yowls.

“Fuck–fuck–fuck!”

His release is violent – hot, thick ropes that stripe his stomach and ribs, glimmering in the moonlight. The sheer volume of it is shocking, a torrent that pools in the hollows of his abdomen and drips onto the ruined sheets beneath him. Hybrid’s body convulses and arches through each pulse, his cock throbbing like a live thing in your combined grip.

He collapses back, gasping, but his piercing eyes are already locked on you. The brilliant blue of his irises is still swallowed by blown-wide black pupils. Pure and predatory, they focus. On your hips, still making those tiny, desperate circles on his thigh. On the dark, unmistakable wet patch spreading on your pants. Even as the last pearly stripes of his own cum paint his taut stomach, Gojo pushes himself up on wobbly arms that cord with muscle, his white tail lashing behind him in an impatient rhythm. 

“Aww, look at you,” he coos, voice scraping right over your feverish nerves. He swipes two fingers through the mess on his abdomen, holding them up to catch the dim moonlight. They glisten, obscene and tempting. “My pretty little kitty…” His eyes never leave yours, pinning you in place. “Open up.”

Your mouth falls open on a desperate whine that is pure instinct. He paints his taste onto your tongue – salty, wild, uniquely Satoru. It’s a primal claim, a direct line from his flesh to your core, and you suckle on his long fingers like you’ve been starving for it, eager little tongue working around his digits until they make you gag. 

“Good girl,” he breaths, tugging his fingers out of your mouth with a wet pop. 

“S’good,” you whine, licking your lips, chasing the fading trace of him. Your own tail twitches helplessly. Your bones feel like liquid, your mind a buzzing static.

Gojo chuckles. “‘Course it is.” His hand – big, warm, calloused – cups your jaw, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip, pressing down insistently. “Now, want me to take care of this pretty little pussy?”

Your body answers for you. Scrambling back off the bed, your legs shake violently, barely holding you. Your fingers fumble with the loose waistband of your sweats, shoving them down your thighs in a graceless tug. The cool air hits your soaked panties, and you shudder when a fresh wave of slickness coats your inner thighs. Lacy white fabric between your legs is ruined by now, a translucent window to your swollen cunt.

“Don’t you worry,” Gojo purrs, moving from the bed with a lethal glide of muscle and intent. “Gonna take care of you.” He drops to his knees on the floor before you, the motion so fluid it’s like water flowing downward. His big hands clutch your bare hips and his face presses into the damp lace at the apex of your thighs. He inhales, a long, deep drag that makes his entire body shudder, his eyes rolling back in pure ecstasy. When he pulls back to look up at you, a string of saliva connects his lower lip to the fabric before it snaps. “Fuck. You smell like heaven.”

“Please, Satoru… it hurts. Everything hurts…” 

“I know, baby, I know.” 

With a feral growl of triumph, Satoru jumps back to his legs and manhandles you – an effortless flip onto your belly, with your legs hanging off the edge of the bed. He kneels behind you, and his hands glide over the plush curve of your ass, possessive and rough, squeezing the flesh. “Now, let’s get a proper look at my feast. Show me what’s mine.”

You, a mess of sweat and need, drunk on your own hormones and his overwhelming proximity, reach back. Your own asscheeks feel hot under your touch as you obscenely part them, presenting the dripping, swollen flesh between your thighs to his feverish gaze. A fresh bead of slickness drips through the soaked lace.

“Well, hello there, pretty girl…” Gojo breathes, his voice thick with awe and a hunger so deep it cracks. “Look at you, all puffed up and weepin’ for me.”

A hot flush burns your face. “S-Stop talking to it like…” You trail off, dizzy, your own ears flattening slightly against your head in a mix of embarrassment and want.

“Like what?” He grins, all sharp canines and predatory delight. His own ears are perked forward, focused. “Like she’s the most important part of you? ‘Cause she is right now, kitty. She’s in charge and she’s honest.” He nuzzles the soaked fabric, his nose nudging your slit with maddening pressure through the lace. “See? She likes the attention. Don’t you, sweetheart? You wanna be fucked silly? Eaten out until you’re sore?”

“Please,” You can only whimper, wiggling your ass needily. The pre-heat fog is a heavy blanket, smothering reason.

“As you wish.” 

Feral with lust, Gojo doesn’t use his hands. He sinks his teeth into the lace at your hip and rips. The fabric tears like tissue, a shocking sound that jolts through you, baring you completely to the cool air and his hotter gaze. A thin string of your arousal connects the torn lace to your glistening folds for a second before snapping. 

“Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect,” Gojo croons behind you. 

One finger, calloused and warm, traces the air just above your dripping slit, not touching, making you shiver and whine. “Fuck, such a nice fat cunt with a nice, tight hole…” He leans closer, his breath a hot brand on pussy lips. “Gonna be a biiig stretch, sweetheart, but don’t you worry. I’ll make it fit. I’ll open you up so sweet and slow, you’ll beg me for more.” His finger trails higer, circling your tender, untouched asshole. It flutters under his attention, a nervous pulse that makes him salivate. “And this shy little cutie. Never been kissed, has she? Gonna ruin that too. Gonna make my promise come true. Gonna make you feel me in places you didn’t know you had.”

“Then stop talking,” you whine, tortured by his breath on your cunt, pushing your hips back, spreading your thighs wider until the stretch burns and you feel exposed, vulnerable, offered like a finest prey. “And do something!” you sob.

“Please, please, please~”

Then his mouth is on you.

Gojo’s tongue is broad, rough and devastatingly perfect. He spears it inside your cunt, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts, lapping at the flood of your arousal with desperate, hungry, gulping sounds, like he’s trying to drink you whole. One big hand clutches the fat of your ass, right near your own trembling palm, kneading the flesh, fingers digging in possessively, while the other slides between his own legs. The wet, rhythmic shlick-shlick-shlick fills the room, a filthy metronome perfectly in time with the thrusts of his tongue.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunts against your slit, the words slurred and vibrating maddeningly against your sensitive flesh. “So fucking tight and sweet. Dripping so much. You’d drown a lesser male.” He nuzzles deeper, his nose pressed firmly against your swollen hole, when he suckles your clit and goes back to your opening. 

“And this…” His stroking pace picks up, rhyming up to the pace of his licks, his breath hitching. “This is all for you. Every fat inch. Gonna stretch this pretty hole around my fingers first… get you ready for me… fuck, you taste fertile, baby. Like you were made just for me. Mgh~”

You scream, back arching, toes curling into the rug when he thrusts a thick finger into you, immediately finding the spot inside. He moans into you, the sensation doubling, tripling, the vibration traveling straight to your core. The rhythmic sound of his fist on his cock grows frantic.

“You like that, eh? You like how I fuck this greedy little hole?” Gojo rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His mouth and chin are gleaming with your slick when he licks a broad stripe from your dripping entrance all the way up to your clenched asshole. 

“Yeaaash~” A salty sob that catches in your throat is the only thing you manage, drooling into the sheets, shed of all dignity. 

Satoru grins in delight, working your tight pussy open as he shifts his attention to the puckered entrance of your ass. “Mmm, what about here? Do you feel left out? Jealous of your slutty sister getting all the attention?”

His tongue, wet and relentless, circles the sensitive ring. He flattens it, presses, and then spears the very tip inside – just a curious little dip that steals the breath from your lungs. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s a new, shocking brand of pleasure that makes you see stars.

“Satoru! There, please, please, I can’t–!”

“Shhh, I got you, I got you, pretty kitty,” he soothes, hungry and owning. He presses the flat of his tongue against your pussy again, drinking everything you give with an obscene slup-slup-slup, while the finger inside you curls just right and pumps relentlessly. 

With a new interest, Gojo brings his thumb to your asshole, slicking it thoroughly with the mixed mess of his saliva and your copious wetness. You feel the blunt pad of his thumb against the tight entrance, applying steady pressure when he murmurs: “I’ll take good care of you… gonna be a good mate… gonna fill you with strong kits, watch your belly get round with me… gonna feed you ‘til every sharp edge softens, ‘til you’re nice and fat, milk rich and warm for our litter…”

The filthy promises, the dual assault, obliterate you. The pressure gives way, his thick finger sinking into your ass in a slow, burning, glorious invasion just as he crooks the one in your cunt perfectly and bites the swell of your asscheek. 

Your world fractures into pure, white-hot sensation, and this release is something to remember. You come with a shattered, guttural cry, your vision whiting out. Your cunt convulses around his finger, gushing a fresh flood of release that he drinks down with starving gulps, groaning like a dying hybrid. Your ass clutches his invading thumb, a tight, hot, rhythmic pulse around the intrusion. In your ecstasy, you let go of your own asscheeks, to grip the sheets, and the soft weight of you settles back, trapping Satoru’s blissed-out face in the sweetest trap ever known to the hybridkind. He moans, reveling in the suffocating softness.

“That’s it, good girl, all mine, mine,” he grunts, his words vibrating against your oversensitive cunt, helping you to ride out your pleasure. 

As your orgasm begins to subside, leaving you twitching and delirious, you go limp, melting into a sobbing mess on the mattress, utterly spent. Only then does Satoru pull his fingers from both of your holes with a simultaneous, lewd, wet sound that seems to echo in the scent-heavy air.

“Open your mouth, kitten,” he commands, his voice shattered. You obey, turning your head limply on the sheets. He brings his soaked fingers to your lips – fingers glistening with you, the scent musky and intimate. “Taste. Taste how good you are for me.”

You suck them clean, whining high in your throat at the overwhelming flavor of your own arousal, his saliva, your shared animal musk. Gojo watches, mesmerized, his other hand working around his weeping cock, stroking fast and rough.

““Gonna–gonna mark you now–”,” he pants. His hips stutter. The wild thing beneath the surface is breaking through, his breath coming in open-mouthed pants. His tail lashes wildly, hitting your thigh a couple of times, and he leans forward, his body looming over your prone form. The slick, weeping tip finds your quivering pussy cunt, coating himself in you, groaning at the sensation. “Fuck, look at that. She’s kissin’ me hello. Wants me in.”

“Satoru… wha–?” you mewl, confused, oversensitive, feeling the thick pressure at your forbidden entrance.

But Gojo doesn’t push inside That’s for sweet baby-making, after all. Instead, he shifts, the blunt head nudging past your sensitive folds, higher, pressing against the fluttering entrance of your asshole, still wet and loose from his finger. But he skips it, sparing his tired little mate, humping the cleft of your ass instead.

“Shhh, just… just need to claim,” he grunts, desperate, feral, his voice barely human. With a ragged roar that is pure animal, he ruts his fat, leaking tip against that impossibly tight ring once, twice, thrice–

“Fuck!” 

Thick, hot ropes of cum erupt, painting your lower back, your trembling ass, your leaky pussy, the backs of your thighs. Gojo violently shudders through it, his forehead dropping to rest between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in hot gasps that fog your skin, his body collapsing heavily over yours.

“Fuck…”

The room reeks of sex, sweat, and wild animal, when he relaxes above your spent form. Then, a slick, obscene sound. He is licking his lips, then his fingers, cleaning every trace of you from himself. 

“Such a tasty kitty,” he rasps, a dark, utterly satisfied laugh in his voice. Gojo leans over your spent form again, nuzzling into the mess on your back, licking a long, clean stripe through his own cooling semen, a stark contrast to the feral violence of before. 

“When your heat hits,” he pants, “I’m gonna fill this perfect pussy ‘til it takes. Gonna keep you fed and safe and fucked so nice you’ll forget any other touch,”his teeth grazing your shoulder, leaving a bleeding trace. “Gonna be the best daddy to our litter… and you…” He kisses the scrape on your shoulder, lapping at it, “you’re gonna be the prettiest, roundest mama–”

The door explodes inward.

Gojo moves in a blur of primal fury, crouching fully above you in one fluid motion, like a shield placed between you and the intrusion. A low, continuous growl rumbles from his chest, shaking the floorboards. His ears are flattened against his skull, his tail puffed and lashing and his teeth are bared at the intruder. 

Everything to protect his mate.

You hear a threatening growl from his chest and pathetically curl yourself under his broad body, staring at the opened door.

Nanami stands frozen in the doorway, his usually impassive face a mask of shock. His gaze is trapped, cycling from Gojo’s snarling stance, to your form on the bed, to the torn lace on the floor.

His silence is heart-shattering.

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Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! Taglist is closed for this one. (sorry~)

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Tabby!reader core:

I know I promisted the Toji chaper, but um... I couldn't help put go back to our white-haired acroundel hihi! Sorry it took so long though. I tried my best to squeeze out the nastiest (for now) smut scene I can. Hope it's to your liking, my loves!

And Merry (late) Christmas!

Of Fallow Grounds and Feral Hearts series:

Intro/Series masterpost (Nanami x Hybrid!reader)

Headcannons (Yandere!Hybrid!JJK x Hybrid!reader)

The Snow Beast and The Stray Farmer (SnowLeopardHybrid!Gojo x Hybrid!Reader)

The Feast of Flesh (TigerHybrid!Sukuna x Hybrid!reader)

Cat-astrophe (SnowLeopardHybrid!Gojo x Hybrid!reader)

The snow beast and The Stray Farmer 2.0 (You are here)

...

[manicsho]

hello! really enjoying your yan gojo series <3

could i req some more yan gojo but snow leopard hybrid with domestic cat hybrid! reader? she keeps trying to bat him away with his persistent advances but ends up giving in because he does provide good and is rich and all (also both kinda slightly scaring and flattering her with how desperate he is) so she accepts.

Of Fallow Grounds and Feral Hearts

The Snow Beast and The Stray Farmer

yandere!hybrid!Gojo x hybrid!reader

wordcount: 4500~

tw: MNDI, explicit sexual content including non-con/dub-con, Farm!AU, Hybrid!AU so animalistic behaviour, yandere, obsessive/possessive behavior, somnophilia, dry (or not so dry) humping, size kink, predator/prey dynamics, non-human anatomy (he is a leopard hybrid but has a knot for the... story purposes) Gojo uses cringe nicknames, it is implied that reader was a stray.

(If you find some more, please let me know.)

As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!

NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Not proofread. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Not proofread. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes. Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.

The sun was a warm weight on your back, but now it was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple and fiery orange. A day of hard work on the farm was coming to an end, and the air, heavy with the scent of hay and turned soil, was starting to cool. Sweat, a slick film on your skin, clung to the cotton of your simple clothes. You moved through the mowed grass, a bucket of fresh chicken feed clutched in your hands, ears perky on your head. The routine had become a steady, comforting rhythm, a stark contrast to the frantic, unpredictable chaos of your old life. You felt safe here, with the quiet hum of the farm settling for the night. From the farmhouse, a faint, familiar sound drifted on the evening breeze: the low murmur of the television, a testament to Nanami's tired presence inside. 

As you approached the treeline, where the chicken barn stood, the peaceful hum of the afternoon was shattered. Your ears twitched on their own, a soft fur standing straight because of a low, guttural sound, not of any of the farm animals or other hybrid inhabitants, cutting through the settling quiet. It was a sound of agony and immense power, like a beast fighting for its last breath.

The fear was immediate, a cold hand squeezing your chest, a primal jolt that sent your blood roaring in your heart. The woods were a place you mostly avoided, a place where predators still roamed, and your instincts, honed by a past you couldn't forget, screamed at you to run. The sound of a dying beast didn't just scare you; it unlocked a floodgate of memory: the terror of being hunted through alleys, the sharp, blinding pain of a bite, the helpless whimper of your own broken body. For a fractured second, you were no longer on Nanami’s safe farm; you were back on the grimy asphalt, a small, pathetic thing waiting to die. 

But then another part of you, a part nurtured by Nanami's quiet kindness and steady presence, stirred. It was the part that had been saved from a similar fate, a part that knew what it was to be in pain and alone. That part felt a desperate pull to help. You hesitated for a moment, torn between the old terror and this new, strange compassion. With a deep, shaky breath, a conscious effort to push back against the panic, you placed the bucket down in the soft grass. The familiar scent of the chicken feed was a grounding comfort, a small anchor in a world that was suddenly tilting back toward chaos. 

But you weren't a feral, scared stray anymore; you were a partner, a domestic helper, brought back to life by care and love and forged into something stronger by the hard work of the farm. Your hands, once useless for anything but survival, were now steady and capable. You could mend a fence, plant a garden, and even soothe a scared animal. This wasn't the blind, helpless terror of a creature backed into a corner, not anymore.

So you slipped into the shadows of the forest, your legs steady despite the tremor in your hands. The fence at the edge of the woods, a simple boundary of wood and wire, felt like a chasm between two worlds. On one side was the peaceful, ordered life Nanami had built for you; on the other, the wild, unpredictable danger you had so desperately left behind. As you crossed that line, the air grew colder and stiller, the sunlight a fractured mosaic on the damp earth. The trees seemed to close in, their branches a tangled, shadowy canopy, and the silence, punctuated only by the occasional snap of a twig beneath your feet, was a far more menacing sound than the farm's gentle rustle. You broke into the small, blood-stained clearing, and the sight that met you stopped you dead in your tracks when your gaze laid upon a suffering figure. 

He was a magnificent, terrifying creature, a snow leopard hybrid of a size you had never imagined possible for your own kin. His fur, a stunning, snowy white, was matted with blood, but it was still somehow breathtaking, a pristine white against the dark red that stained the ground. His powerful, corded muscles were coiled in a feral desire to fight off the intruder. He lay on his back, a deep, jagged gash running across his chest and a terrible, mangled tear in his thigh. The hybrid was panting, his broad shoulders rising and falling with desperate, rattling breaths. A low, pained groan escaped his lips, a sound of profound agony. His long, thick tail lay limp behind him, flicking weakly, and his beautiful, unnervingly blue eyes were half-lidded, clouded with pain. You stood frozen, your own breath catching in your throat. He was a predator of a different world, an apex hunter brought to his knees.

What could have done that to him?

As you stared, a low, guttural sound, not a roar but something else entirely, came from his throat. It was a strangled, rasping attempt. The roar was almost human, a desperate plea from an animal that should have been nothing more than a beast, and it shocked you more than the sight of his broken body. 

For a silent moment, he just watched your thinking figure. His eyes, though clouded with pain, held a terrifying, burning intensity. They were magnificent, like shards of ice under a winter sky, and they were fixed on you. It was as if no one else existed in the world. He ignored the blood, the pain, the rustle of the trees; his entire focus was on the small, scarred creature who had dared to come into his territory at the time of need. You were his only hope, his last chance, and the raw, pathetic longing in his gaze was a physical weight on your chest.

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your instincts screamed to flee, but your feet were rooted to the spot. He was so big, so powerful, but so clearly dying if left alone. In that moment, you saw your past self in him: a creature alone and broken, with an animal need for help. Your own desperate, final hours on the street flashed through your mind, the memory of a pain so profound it had nearly killed you. You saw yourself in his clouded eyes, and the sight of it made your heart ache, a deep, silent sob of recognition and compassion.

He was a predator, a danger, but he was also just a creature in pain.

You took a step back, your voice coming out in a strangled whisper. "I will be back," you said, your voice shaking but firm. 

"Just promise to stay alive for five more minutes!" His blue eyes, which had been half-closed, snapped open fully, a flicker of something like understanding or hope passing through them. The pained sound stopped, and he just watched you, a silent, unblinking promise in his gaze. You turned and sprinted back to the house, your small, scarred hands gripping the edge of the sofa where Nanami rested, as you tried to explain, panting and barely able to form coherent words.

Nanami listened, his face a mask of tired concern. "A snow leopard hybrid? In the woods?" he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He knew from your frantic terror and quiet plea that this wasn’t a normal situation. Your owner saw the way your hands trembled, and he simply put on a pair of old work gloves, grabbed some clean rags, and followed you back to the woods. When he knelt by the hybrid, his expression was grim.

 "He's lost a lot of blood. And that… that looks like a territorial dispute," he said, his voice low. Gojo, sensing the new presence, opened his eyes. The pain-filled groan softened to a low rumble, a strange, low sound that seemed to vibrate in the air between you. Nanami, with a grunt of effort, managed to lift Gojo onto his back, poor man’s muscles straining under the massive weight. Gojo, despite the pain, kept his head turned, his impossibly blue eyes never once leaving your form as Nanami carried him, a silent, heavy burden, into the house.

Your owner laid him down on the thick, woven rug in front of the crackling fireplace. The warmth of the hearth filled the room, but it did little to ease the shuddering tremors that ran through Gojo's body. Blood was still seeping from the torn gashes, a dark stain spreading on the rug, and his breathing was a desperate, ragged rasp. Nanami barked an instruction to bring in the aid kit, his face grim with the urgency of the situation. He was no longer just a tired man but a focused healer fighting against time. 

You knelt nearby, your heart aching with a profound, painful recognition. As you reached out to press a clean rag to the deepest wound, the hybrid's body tensed, and a low, guttural whimper tore from his throat. A sound so raw in its distress that it broke your heart and made the Instinct take over. You held his massive hand, your small fingers wrapping around his. You started to purr, a low, shaky rumble from deep in your chest, a sound you usually made when Nanami scratched your back. It was a melody of comfort and reassurance, an ancient language that promised you were there, that he was not alone. Gojo's body relaxed minutely. He turned his head and nuzzled his nose into your side, his magnificent hair brushing against your thigh. His groans quieted, replaced by a low, desperate purr of his own, a deep vibration that shook your body. 

Nanami worked quickly, stitching the worst of the gashes, while you cleaned and bandaged the smaller cuts. As you tended to his face, wiping the blood from his cheek with a damp cloth, he let out soft, low murmur.

The beautiful hybrid fell asleep right there in front of a fireplace on that night. You pulled a soft pillow under his tired head and a warm blanket over his battered body. Nanami tended to his wounds over the next few days, and he slowly began to heal. The speed of his recovery was unnerving, truly. Where a normal person would have been bedridden for weeks, Gojo was up and moving within a few days, his body rebuilding itself with a supernatural ferocity. His wounds, once deep and ragged, were now thin, angry-looking cuts. 

The first time he actually spoke to you was on the fifth day. It happened in the morning in the chicken coop. You were gathering eggs, humming a quiet tune to yourself, a soft, murmuring sound that Nanami had heard a hundred times but Gojo had never. 

When you felt a sudden, cold breeze, you turned around to see him standing in the doorway, his massive body blocking the light from the outside. His crystalline blue eyes were fixed on your hands as you carefully placed an egg into the basket. A low, gravelly voice, no longer raspy from disuse but deep and resonant, rumbled from his chest.

"You have such pretty little paws, kitty," he commented, and you jumped, startled by the perfectly articulated words. 

"Uh, thanks? I'm just… gathering the eggs here," you said, your heart still hammering against your ribs. “Wanna help?” He watched you for another long moment before he began to move, his tail flicking with a lazy rhythm. He stalked around the coop, his sharp steps clicking softly on the wooden floor. He started to paw at the chickens, batting them with a playful gesture that was terrifying with his size. You let out an angered, high-pitched hiss, the sound rattling in your throat as your own ears flattened against your head, and he stopped immediately. His head tilted to the side, his big ears stood up upon hearing the aggressive sound. He let out a questioning purr.

"What's wrong, little mewmew?" he asked, his tone now laced with concern and mischievous interest. You cringed at the nickname.

"Don't hurt them!" you whispered, your own chopped tail twitching with anxiety. He watched the chickens for a moment before he let out a low sound, a soft purr in his chest that meant he was thinking. "I won't," he promised. "You care for them, after all."

From then on, Gojo didn't just watch. He started to "help". And his attempts were very chaotic. He would try to help you carry things, only to snap them in half with his immense strength. He would try to help Nanami with the fence, only to tear a massive hole in it, his long claws making short work of the wood. 

"That's it," Nanami said, his voice flat, straightening up from his work with a sigh of finality. "I'm not keeping a snow leopard the size of a damn bull hybrid on a farm."

The words felt like a physical blow for some reason, a cold, sharp feeling twisting in your stomach as you sat nearby, curled into a fleece blanket. You didn't have to look to know Gojo had heard Nanami. You felt the scent outside shifting as the hybrid's body tensed, jaw clenching, and the quiet purr that had been a constant presence for weeks vanished. Gojo rose from his place by the threshold with a soundless motion that was more terrifying than any rush. Nanami continued to mutter under his breath, something about predators and nature, words that sounded less like a statement and more like a verdict. Satoru padded across the hallway into the living room and came to a halt directly in front of you. 

When you finally dared to look up, his eyes were not on you, but on Nanami. Cold, calculating, and with a flicker of something like bitter envy. Then, in a deliberate and almost shockingly obedient gesture, he dropped to his knees beside you. Satoru rested his heavy head on your thigh, burying his face in the folds of your blanket, his breath slow and deep against your leg as if he were intoxicated by the scent. One arm, long and heavy with muscle, wrapped around your hips, anchoring you to him like a tether. Nanami watched, his jaw flexing, a flash of uncertainty crossing his tired face. Gojo saw it, and a strange, gentle quality entered his voice when he spoke. 

"If I'm leaving, I'm not leaving without her, human," he said, his eyes still fixed on Nanami. Your heart leapt into your throat. Gojo turned his head, nuzzling into your stomach, his mouth curling into a smile that was all teeth and feral instinct. His claws tapped a rhythm over your hipbone, a careless, intimate threat. "I can protect my little kitty better than anyone. Better than you," he whispered. 

"I can feed her. Serve her. I can scent-mark the whole damn valley if that's what it takes," Nanami stood up sharply, seemingly angered. 

"Enough," he said, but you heard the hesitation in his voice, the reluctant retreat. He was too protective to send you back out into the world, but he also didn’t know how to pry away a predator who had already crawled into your shared house. Gojo rose to his full, unholy height, a massive presence that filled the space between you and Nanami. 

"Tell me what I have to do," he said, his voice still deceptively gentle, a predatory smile on his lips. "Tell me how to stay here and how to earn her love. I'll do it." He took your hand, his massive fingers curling around yours, and your palm felt fever-hot in his grasp. Nanami didn't answer. Your cheeks flushed with heat.

After this incident, Gojo quickly proved his true worth. One frigid night, the mournful bleating of a sheep woke you both from a fitful sleep. Gojo was a white flash, a silent blur of motion, disappearing into the dark faster than any of the two guard dog hybrids. When you and Nanami arrived at the pasture, a massive wolf was standing over a young lamb, its snout dripping with saliva. Before Nanami could even raise his rifle, Gojo was a whirlwind of claws and teeth. The fight was quick, brutal, and over almost before it began. Gojo, though still a hybrid in a man's body, was a creature of immense strength and instinct. He returned to you a few moments later, a victorious purr rumbling in his chest, his magnificent fur barely ruffled, blood on the pale face. He nudged his head against your shoulder, smearing the crimson on the cotton fabric, a silent request for praise. You licked at his clean cheek, and his face lit up like fireflies at sunset.

After that, his helpfulness became more focused. He was an excellent guard, his very presence a potent deterrent. No other animal, no bear, no fox dared to venture near the farm. Satoru also learned to harness his strength. He was a silent, unyielding presence as you mended a fence, holding a post in place with one powerful hand, his eyes never leaving you as you worked. He would use his sharp claws to dig planting holes in the stubborn earth with surprising precision. And, to top it all off, he was an unmatched hunter. He'd bring back massive prey like wild boars and deer and lay them at your feet, a bloody, primal offering, his way of providing for you. Nanami, though still grumbling about the "nuisance," had to admit Gojo was more of a partner than a pest now. 

He had no idea, of course, what was happening behind his back.

You, meanwhile, were caught in a terrible, flattering trap, a gilded cage built of his desperate affection. You'd try to shoo him away, swatting at his hands as he followed you to the well, his gaze a burning weight on your back. He'd watch you mend clothes, his big ears twitching with an attention so profound it was unsettling. His pathetic longing was hard to ignore, especially when you would spend time with the guard dog hybrids or the flemish rabbit hybrid. During those times, Gojo'd sulk in the background when you spend time with your friends.

He'd follow you as you fed the chickens, his long, powerful tail flicking behind him, and watch you with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration. It was terrifying. You were a small, fixed thing, a stray who had found a home, and he was a beautiful, powerful beast who wanted you. His desperation was both scaring and strangely flattering. He would rub his cheek against your neck, leaving his potent scent on you, a clear claim of ownership. The virile, potent scent he carried was overwhelming, but it was also a scent of safety, a sign that he was close, and no other predator would dare to come near.

One afternoon, as you were mending a torn sack of grain, he settled behind you, his massive head resting on your shoulder. He began to groom you, purring loudly. His tongue, a coarse rasp of muscle and papillae, felt rough as he licked a patch of your neck. You froze, startled, your instincts screaming for you to pull away from his sharp fangs that hover near your windpipe. But he was so gentle, so utterly focused on the task, his purr rumbling a deep, reassuring vibration against your back. Gojo even kneaded his massive paws into the soft fabric covering your tummy, his claws sheathed, a clear sign of deep contentment. He was simply caring for you, an act of affection that disarmed you completely. You found yourself relaxing into his chest, letting his rough tongue clean your sweaty skin, his powerful body a comforting, heavy presence.

You felt safe around him. 

On a night like any other, you woke to the prickle of being watched. A heavy, burning presence pressed against your back, a slow grind of heat and hunger stirring you from the half-dreaming haze of sleep. You blinked into the moonlit dark, the faint chirr of crickets just outside your window swallowed by the low, hungry moan slipping from a familiar mouth. A cold nose nudged the curve of your neck, then the warmth of a large, rough tongue dragged along the hollow of your throat. You flinched, your breath catching and heart vaulting up into your chest like a rabbit sensing the snap of a trap.

Gojo, very aroused and very naked, lay behind you.

You scrambled, twisting in the tangled sheets, but he clung like a starving animal, his powerful arms tightening around your figure. His long, bare body curved behind yours, all shaking, leaking with need. You could feel it, the hard weight of his cock caught between your plush thighs, pulsing against the heat of your panties, pressed just so that the slick, angry head dragged against your puffy slit with each thrust of his hips. You hissed his name, but it only made him louder, his voice hoarse and trembling with arousal.

"Don't run, pretty kitty," he moaned, rutting between your thighs, as if trying to keep himself from something. "You're so warm... so soft... I just wanna feel you, just a little bit, yeah? Just let me hump you like this, you don't even gotta move, your big strong mate will do all the work."

You lay still, caught in the thick heat of his scent – snow and musk and something heady and aching beneath it, that ripe hybrid scent. Your ears, pressed low against your scalp, betrayed you, and so did the slick soaking into your panties, warmth pooling between your thighs as the instinctual hum of a potent male's hormones made your whole body respond. It was involuntary, animal, the heat of him calling to something deep in you.

Gojo's hands clamped hard around your hips, claws flexing into the softness of your thighs like he was holding back the urge to tear into you. His entire body was rigid, trembling, every muscle straining as he ground his cock against you in slow, agonizing thrusts, rubbing between your thighs like a starved mutt.

"I can smell it," he rasped, his breath searing against your neck. "I can smell how wet you are, my kitty. You act like you're scared, like you don't want me, but your body's fucking begging. So slick and soft. Bet you'd suck me in like you were starving. Something nice and meaty for the main course, yeah?"

You tried to move, but his grip was iron. His hips rolled again, deliberately now, dragging the swollen, leaking head of his cock up and down against the heat of your clothed pussy, slow enough to smear slick all over your panties. He hissed through his teeth, tail beating behind him like it burned.

"Aha… You're killin' me, pretty girl," he groaned, voice shaking with restraint. "All day, all fucking day, I watched you out tending to the soil in the sun with your ass in the air, that small, cute bump of a tail twitching like you wanted to be hunted. Licking that popsicle like you knew I was watching. Bent over, panting, sweating, oh fuck! My cock's been hard since noon. I milked myself dry behind the barn like some feral freak. You made me like this."

He rutted harder, each thrust more violent, breath hitching into low whimpers that warbled between pitiful and threatening. His knot bumped your hole through the cloth, painfully close, too fat and swollen enough to tease you with the weight of what could happen.

“So be a darling and touch my cock,” he growled, louder now, fangs bared against your ear, "just once. Wrap your cute little fingers around my cock, and I'll give you everything. My food, my territory, my fucking life. I'll guard the door like a filthy mutt, I'll kill for you, and I'll piss on every inch of this house just to prove you're mine. I'll hump your pillow in front of Nanami and then let him fuck me on it if that's what gets you hot and bothered. I don't care. Just, fuck, please, just pet it."

His voice cracked into something guttural and terrifying, not human. His tongue slithered over your nape again, dragging wet heat up your spine as he inhaled deeply, like he was tasting your pheromones through the air. His grip tightened. You could feel the exact moment he lost control.

"I want you riding me," he continued, voice low and shaking. "Want you bouncing on my cock 'til I stuff you full and you're swollen with my kits. I want you to look me in the eye when I fill you up, feel my knot stretch you nice and open. You'd scream, wouldn't you? Claw at my back like the little pissy kitty you are, but beg for more even when it hurts. You don't even know what I could do to you. What I will do," he humped desperately, like a beast trying to earn your favor through performance, through proximity, through pathetic pleading.

"I'd clean the whole barn with my tongue if you told me to, knotkitty," he choked, thrusting faster, more erratic now. "I'd let you leash me, bite me, hell, I'd bark if it meant you'd just ride my face one time, suffocating me with those luscious fucking thighs. I just wanna be yours. Over you. Under you. Inside you. Wrapped around you like a fucking curse."

He sobbed, suddenly – but the sound wasn't soft. It was raw, a wail of frustration and reverence, like your body was a god he was desperate to worship, his knot pulsing against your slick underwear.

"No- no, wait, don't-!" you shoved him off hard, rolling him from the bed. His cock slapped against his stomach with a filthy smack, leaking onto the sheets as he fell to the floor, stunned and gasping. You flew off the bed on the shaky legs.

Gojo grabbed blindly for your ankle, fingers shaking, but you kicked his seeking hand off. Your breath was ragged, your thighs soaked with mixed slick, your cheeks flushed and hot with fury and humiliation. You stumbled from the room barefoot, trying not to sob, ignoring the tremor in your legs.

You fled down the hallway, desperate, unsteady, your thighs sticking with wetness as you padded toward Nanami's room. You didn't knock and just slipped in silently, crawled into his bed without a word, and curled into his warmth like a frightened kitten. He stirred only briefly, murmuring your name, and tucked you closer without ever opening his eyes.

His human senses didn't notice the scent of another male on you. He didn't comment on your flushed face or damp panties. He didn't ask why your breath trembled. And you didn't say a word, because you didn't want to be a burden, and Nanami was a quiet, steady safety, and you needed that more than anything.

Back in your room, Gojo lay on the floor, dazed, staring at your empty bed like it had swallowed you whole. His cock throbbed against his stomach, thick and flushed and weeping, and with a broken, animalistic grunt, he crawled back into your space. He buried his face in your pillow, inhaling your scent like a drug, grinding himself against the cotton until he finally, shamefully, exploded with a cry muffled into your sheets. He fell asleep onto the cum-stained fabric that faintly reeked of your arousal. 

The next morning, Nanami installed a lock on your door. When he kissed you goodnight, Gojo stood outside your window, tail swaying, eyes glowing in the dark. He tapped a claw softly against the glass, a feverish smile on his face as he whispered through the screen.

"Lock it all you want, my pretty kitty," he purred, the sound of a silken rasp that seemed to brush against your skin, "you still have a window."

His words shouldn't make your legs press together, shouldn't make your pulse catch in your throat like a swallowed moan, shouldn't make something tight coil low in your belly. 

But the merciless spring was just around the bend, and with it, the undeniable throb of your rising heat neared.

.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! Taglist is closed for this one. (sorry~)

Of Fallow Grounds and Feral Hearts series:

Intro/Series masterpost (Nanami x Hybrid!reader)

Headcannons (Yandere!Hybrid!JJK x Hybrid!reader)

The Snow Beast and The Stray Farmer (You are here)

The Feast of Flesh (TigerHybrid!Sukuna x Hybrid!reader)

Cat-astrophe (SnowLeopardHybrid!Gojo x Hybrid!reader)

ahem, he is not rich in this one, but definitely desperate~

Also, you can enjoy my other yandere!Gojo x reader series.

[manicsho]

Creatures Features

You and me baby ain't nothin' but mammals So let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel!

Bloodhound Gang - The Bad Touch

MNDI – NOT SUITED FOR MINORS

Primal instincts take the lead!

In this series of oneshots, hybrid characters from Genshin Impact and Honkai: Star Rail just can’t resist you. Different features, different creatures, same hunger.

List of the creatures:

Red Riding Hood & The Big Bad Pie – In which Red Riding Hood gets the creamiest of the pies! (werewolf!Varka x reader)

TWs: MNDI, PWP, fairy tale vibes, predator/prey, size difference, age gap (he calls reader lil' Red, but reader IS NOT a minor) possessive behavior, manhandling, implied kidnapping.  NSFW: non-con to dub-con to con, virginity loss, knotting, breeding kink, dacryphilia, creampie, Varka is in heat, oral sex (f receiving), a tiny bit of rimming and anal play marking/claiming, serving pussy so good he sees Celestia.

Pride Rock (Hard) – In which photographer's focus shifts from wildlife to wild life! (LionHybrid!JingYuan x reader)

TWs: MNDI, implied stalking, abduction, predator/prey dynamics, claiming, forced bonding, power imbalance, size difference, manhandling, blood (from biting), and an itty-bitty plot twist at the end. NSFW: non-con to dub-con, spanking (x2 cause i'm freaky), fingering, oral (m receiving), face fucking, headlock, mating bite, creampie, breeding, cervix bullying, body betrayal (forced orgasm).

My Kitchen, My Rules, Your Face – In which an overworked girl suddenly adopts a feral himbo! (RaccoonHybrid!Caelus x reader)

TWs: Slice of life, breaking and entering, yearning, tsunder-ish reader, , hurt/comfort (just you both being stupid), stalking, possessiveness, jealousy, reader is an overworked office girlie so ummm grumpy x (kinda dumb) sunshine dynamics. NSFW: oral sex (f receiving, face sitting), dirty talk, praise kink, begging, coming untouched, lingerie kink (man in lingerie yall), PiV, protected to unprotected sex (which is really irresponsible dont do that pls), marathon sex, messy sex, exhibionism (kinda? you talk to your boss thru the phone while Cae be pounding), overstimulation, marking, pussy drunk raccoon bum.

Prey 4 D1ck – In which a smol bunny bullies (his way into the) big pussy. (Bunny!Lohen x Lynx!Reader)

TWs: yandere Lohen, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, non-con touching, graphic violence, he threatens one guy, blood, knife play, kidnapping (sort of), manipulation, predator/prey dynamic (reversed hihi). NSFW: dub-con, Lohen is a sadomasochist, riding (cowgirl), oral (m and f recieving), face-fucking, cum play, implied heat (reader), collaring, choking, spanking, degradation and humiliation, cum marking, a bit of edging, blood as sexual stimulus, edging.

H2O: Just Add... a Sovereign – In which a fisher girl takes the bait – hook line and sinker! (Merman!Neuvilette x reader)

TWs: manipulation, power Imbalance (god/devotee dynamics), possessive behavior, drowning/asphyxiation, size difference, forced transformation, forced mating, Neuvi breaking corals (DO NOT DO IT). NSFW: dub-con elements, PiV, come marking, belly bulge, he has 2 monster cocks so double penetration (in one hole), oral sex (m and f receiving), overstimulation, cervix fucking, face-fucking, wet and messy, eggpreg, breeding.

FFS! Fox, Feast… Spouse? – In which a certain lonely fox spirit ties the knot... or knots! (Kitsune!Jiaoqiu x reader)

TWs: Lost in the woods trope, manipulation, drugging, forced marriage, heavily implied murder and cannibalism, graphic descriptions of violence and wounds, eye trauma mentioned, drugging, transformation (u lose ur sight but earn uh... some other body parts...), he also turned out a bit yander-ish and ooc lol, erotic horror basically, reader is not okay… this one is pretty dark. NSFW: Non-con, shibari, gag, period sex, blood kink, body betrayal, breeding, creampie, forced orgasm, biting, dacryphilia, sadomasocistic Jiaoqiu, stockhom syndrome (kinda?...).

Just what the Doctor ordered – In which putting all your eggs in one basket doesn't end well! (???Dottore x DoveHybrid!reader)

TWs: Dottore, abduction, captor/captive, cold to possessive dottore, a bit of medical horror, size difference, forced proximity, fearplay, degradation, nesting, death threats, malnourished + petite reader. NSFW: Non-con, monsterfucking, fuck or die situation (for the reader), loss of innocence, oviposition, and egg laying, marking, oral sex (m resieving), twisted aftercare.

2 bulls 1 cow – In which two bulls thoroughly befriend their farmer's prized cowgirl! (BullHybrid!Phainon x CowHybrid!reader x BullHybrid!Mydei)

TWs: Polyamory, love at first sight, size difference, manhandling, praise and degradation kinks, innocent reader, implied cubby reader. NSFW: breeding kink, lactation kink, exhibitionism (outdoor sex), oral sex (m and f receiving), squirting, creampie, overstimulation, dacryphilia, spanking, full nelson, double penetration

Note: order and tags may change, but animalistic behaviour and penetrative sex + possessive behaviour are constant ones.

Your honor, in my defense, I'm an ovulating freak! Also, my birthday is coming up and I've decided to kinda treat myself as well my darlings to some animalistic smut c:

Btw, do tell me if i need to create a taglist for this one.

Upd: Leave a comment under this post if you want me to tag you.

Aaaand, I might add more characters as well c:

[souliloqui]

"You blush from your ears," you tell Sylus, like you're presenting him with groundbreaking knowledge. "It's never from your cheeks first, always your ears."

Sylus blinks, resisting the sudden urge to touch his ears.

"I don't blush at all, sweetie."

You hum, eyes sparkling mischievously.

"Of course you don't, oh big bad leader of Onychinus."

That small taunt earns you a soft swat to the bottom which you easily evade, delighted giggles pouring from your lips.

"Brat," he murmurs around a smile as you wink at him. "One usually has evidence along with their accusations."

You don't reply to that, don't say a single word but you look thoughtful and Sylus instantly knows that he's gotten himself into trouble.

The next morning, Sylus walks into the living room and stops right in his tracks when he's greeted by a blown up image of his face. The shot has been taken at just the right angle to show one of his ears. His ear which is flushed a deep red, the striking colour bleeding into the pale of his cheek.

Sylus stares at this photo for a long time, long enough for you to stroll into the living room with two mugs of coffee in hand. You pass him one, smiling victoriously when he silently accepts it.

"You asked for proof." Is all you say before you're sipping from your mug like the winner you are.

Sylus doesn't know whether to be proud, irritated or aroused.

He settles on all three.

[isaut]

𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆— f!reader x sukuna. 5.3k. ao3.

you run into sukuna looking for your antipsychotics on day 8 of the apocalypse. you have something you can give him. tw: mentions of rape & violence. divider by @/saradika-graphics | brainworms by @/saintshigaraki :)

The door chimes when it’s opened. Isn’t that silly? The world has ended and the door to the pharmacy still chimes. 

You never particularly liked the Fallout series, never watched the show, never played the game, and it feels like it’s come back to bite you. Perhaps if you had paid better attention, you would have been more prepared for the nuclear fallout that happened hundreds of miles away from you. It had been a domino effect, soon everything had gone to shit. And now you were alone, moving from place to place, seeking shelter away from other people. 

Today, you’ve lingered into the pharmacy. It’s already been raided of everything useful: bandages, ointments. Gone. The rows of makeup hadn’t been touched, which you found somewhat amusing. As if nuclear fallout had been the final drag to break the makeup industry’s hold on women. 

But you’re not in the pharmacy for any ointments or Welly bandaids with cute little planets on them. All you have on you in your fanny pack that you take with you on walks, filled with the essentials: notebook, pen, lighter, ereader. You’re hunched behind the pharmaceutical counter, pouring over the different bottles of medication. 

The opioids and painkillers are gone, along with the Xanax. But you’re not after that, you’re after your dosage of antipsychotics. At least your bare minimum dosage. 

Then again, maybe you should let them run out. Succumb to the paranoia and eventually kill yourself after going mad from lack of sleep. 

But the door has chimed. You freeze from where you’re rooting around in the medicine. 

“This is my territory,” comes a rough, low voice. Calm, even. The opposite of your beating heart. “Come out and I’ll think about sparing you.” 

The man’s boots crunch over glass. You don’t know what possesses you as you stand up and come to the counter. You reach down for your crowbar, your weapon of necessity during these trying times, and swing over the counter. 

You come to the front of the store, standing face to face with the man— Undercut, light pink hair. Ferocious and clean tattoos over his face, disappearing into his compression shirt. His hands are in the pockets of his cargo pants. His boots are heavy duty against the floor. 

He laughs. “Look at you.” 

You readjust your grip on the crowbar. “I’m not here for anything valuable.”

“Everything’s valuable nowadays, doll,” the man says. His eyes linger over your body, over your sorry excuse for clothes– jeans and your walking shoes and a thick, burgundy henley that looks out of the men’s section. “I’ll cut you a deal. What are you after?” 

You chew your bottom lip. What’s there to lose? “Risperidone,” you admit. “Nothing, nothing mind altering. I mean, it is, but it’s not in a fun way.” 

The man crosses his arms. He’s broad all over, shoulders wide and muscles thick. Built from before everything went to shit. On his face, interrupting his tattoos, there seems to be a heavy acid burn. He’s still handsome. 

“Risperidone,” he repeats, even keeled and a scary mix of nonchalant and serious. 

You nod, then explain yourself: “It’s an antipsychotic.” 

He takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a big sigh. “You’re a pretty thing, you know that, right? All the crazy ones are pretty.” 

“I looked better before,” you say. True statement. You had access to showers. Thank god you showered the morning of the nuclear drop. 

The man laughs at that. “I bet you could do crazy things to that face and hair of yours in two hours.” And for a second he imagines it– ungreased hair, a pretty dress. Women always look good in their favorite dresses, some heels. He misses the way women would get dolled up. 

“Yeah, I could,” you admit, looking down at your feet. When the world ended, you were hungover from a night out, looking the kind of pretty that he’s alluding to. 

The man uncrosses his arms, placing a hand over his chest. “Sukuna.” 

The world is scary out there. The man is scary. Sukuna is scary. 

He takes a step closer, hands back in his pockets. He has a gun strapped to his thigh and a machete hanging off his belt. He stands in front of you, then leans down to look at you face to face. 

“What do you call yourself?” 

Part of you wants to lie, like you’re at a bar. But you’re not at a bar. You haven’t heard anyone say your name in eight days and you crave it. So you tell him. 

He repeats it back, as if savoring a particularly good oyster. 

“Interesting. Very pretty.” He begins to circle you like a hawk about to clamp down against a sugar glider. “Very pretty.” 

You swallow. 

“Don’t be scared,” Sukuna says, though it feels like a joke. He reaches out for your hand and you don’t pull away. “Let’s play house.” 

There is nothing left for you anymore. Your neighbors broke into your apartment and you couldn’t save your cats from being their dinner. It’s always three days before you start wondering what your next door neighbor has… and you had two cats and a week of freshly made meal prep. 

Now you have nothing. You have the whisperings of things in the corners of your eyes, remnants of your lack of medication. You have the crowbar, stolen from a hardware store. Taken. Is it stealing if there’s no society left? 

Your crowbar leans against the counter of the pharmacy again. Sukuna is with you now, the two of you pilfering through left behind medications. Glancing over, he looks concentrated on the task at hand. He looks like he knows what he’s doing a little too well. Perhaps, before all of this went down, he was siphoning off dosages into little orange bottles and asking for birthday and address to verify the pick up. Hard to believe with all the tattoos. He was probably siphoning off cocaine. 

“What dosage do you need?” He asks. 

You tell him your dosage. He nods at the information, then goes back to his container searching. He finds what he’s looking for, calling your attention to him. 

He stands up straight, then shakes the bottle. 

“What’s it worth to you?” 

“I have a hard time living without it.” 

“I think we’re in for a long, hard life,” Sukuna notes. He looks down at the bottle, reading over the information on it with vague interest. 

“This would make it a lot easier,” you try. Would he withhold this from you? What do you have to exchange for it? Maybe luck would be on your side again and you’ll best him in a hand-to-hand fight. 

He does have a gun. 

Maybe death wouldn’t be so bad. 

Sukuna rests the bottom of the bottle against his tattooed chin. “You know, you’re going to need someone to help you maintain this expensive need of yours.” 

Another thick swallow. “I thought you wanted to play house.” The idea of it is probably your only chance at survival, and this Sukuna is handsome, he seems like he can fight. And that’s what you need, isn’t it? Someone who can fight? 

Satisfied, Sukuna smiles like a pleased tiger. He drops his hand to hold the bottle normally. “Good.” He walks past you, picking up your crowbar. “Now follow me.” 

You scamper after him. He has your weapon, after all. 

The streets are desolate. A surprising amount of people had chosen suicide at the end of the world. Somehow, you were exempt from that percentage. Cars are littered on the roads, abandoned. You trail a little bit behind Sukuna, head on a swivel. You hadn’t been ambushed on the way to the pharmacy, but you’d left before the sun rose. Currently, it sat low in the sky, casting the streets in the harsh morning rays. 

Sukuna whistles as he walks, which makes the hair on the nape of your neck stand up with anxiety. He’s practically calling people to you. 

“Stop that,” you whisper. 

“Hm?” Sukuna looks over at you with his brows raised. Well, a brow and a half, as half of one has succumbed to the burn. “Why, are you scared?” 

“I don’t think it’s smart to be drawing attention to ourselves,” you frown. 

“Doll, you have nothing to worry about,” Sukuna says. “Everyone’s scared shitless and hiding. Probably going to die of starvation. No one has the guts anymore to kill.” 

He swings the crowbar around lazily in a circle, using deft fingers to move the metal. He moves it like he’s worked with tools his whole life. 

Suddenly, he stops. He swings the crowbar at you, stopping just before making contact with your temple. Your breath hitches as adrenaline courses through you. 

“Say, have you killed anyone with this?” He asks with great interest. 

At least the whistling has stopped, even if it’s replaced with the sound of your heart beating. 

Your mouth opens and closes for a moment. He looks back at you, eyebrows raised. He gently taps the crowbar on your shoulder to prompt a reply. 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

He raises it again, lightly tapping your temple. “Right here?” 

“Eventually,” you admit. You try not to think about it too hard– you’d swung the bend at him, missing, then again, missing, then catching him on his cheek, ripping flesh, then, while he howled in pain, devastatingly across his temple. 

He fell on you. Heavy. Bigger than you. Painful. 

Sukuna smiles. “Good girl.” 

Your core twists at the praise in a way that simultaneously upsets you and delights you. Sukuna lowers the crowbar, towards your stomach, offering it back to you. You grasp around the elbow of it. When you pull to take it back, Sukuna pulls you closer to him with it. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you close by his side. Somehow, he still smells good, deodorant or cologne or maybe even a shower of some sort. 

He whispers in your ear: “If you try to use that on me, remember: I’m quicker.” The warning doesn’t need to hang in the air for it to be heard. 

The two of you approach an abandoned strip mall that you used to frequent when you were a small child, since there was an arcade and movie theater on the lower half. You remember it fondly: rainy afternoons and your hand clasped in your father’s, running across the parking lot and being lifted over the big puddle because the drain was never clean. Then, inside, there was an ominous Verdin street clock that loomed in the center of the entryway. 

It creeped you out then. It creeps you out now as you breach the threshold with Sukuna. The halls have always been empty, and they are even more so now. The escalator that normally miraculously runs despite the abandonment of the building, is out. Unsurprising. Sukuna gets on it to descend without hesitation. 

You stop at the top of the escalator and watch as Sukuna continues to descend. There’s darkness down below. The thick sole of his boots against the metal of the escalator create this all-too-loud clanging sound. He stops when he realizes you aren’t descending either. 

Turning, he looks up at you. His eyes drift over your figure once more. Are you attractive to him? Is that what’s saved you? 

“Remember, we’re playing house,” he reminds you. He offers his hand out to you, for the taking. “Let me feed you.” 

You’re not sure you should trust him, but he’s holding the bottle of risperidone in his hand. He has food. He has shelter. So you descend down the escalator, sliding your hand in his. It always feels weird to walk on a moving escalator, and now is no different. 

There’s the telltale sound of fire crackling that reaches your ears as you descend. It comes into view: a small fire, nothing big. Just enough of an ember to be activated if needed. Beside the fire lies a sleeping bag with a pillow– a pillow– and some camping cooking gear. 

You wonder how many people Sukuna killed for these items. 

“You hungry?” He asks. 

Nine days ago, you would have said no. But now… “Yes.” 

Sukuna nods. He leads you over to his little camp, which rests up against a wall so he can prop himself against it. He sits on the cool tile of the abandoned building, and pats the spot next to him. You take it, then look around. 

“You’re pretty exposed here,” you note. 

Sukuna gestures to the escalator. “Only way in and out. I welded the emergency exits shut.” 

“Were you a welder before all this?” You ask with interest. 

“Yeah,” Sukuna says. He doesn’t offer anything else. Instead, he pilfers through his cans and finds one of baked beans. He offers it to you. “Does this look good?” 

“Anything looks good to me right now,” you admit. Your stomach rumbles. 

Sukuna nods. He cracks open the can via the pull top and scoops out a sporkful of them. He holds it up to your lips. 

As you open your mouth to protest, he’s pushing the spoon in. You’re too hungry to try and back away, in fact, the beans mix with the uptick of saliva in your mouth as you chew. 

“We’re playing house,” Sukuna reminds you gruffly. If not for the desolate environment, you’d feel like a school child. Or a teenager who’s snuck her boyfriend over while her parents aren’t home. He readies another spoonful. “Just sit there.” 

You don’t have it in you to protest. Sukuna gently feeds you bite after bite until you find yourself surprisingly and pleasantly full of baked beans. The feeling feels almost like you're seven years old again and have eaten nothing but baked beans at the family cook out. 

Only they’re cold, you’re in an abandoned building with a strange man, and you don’t think anyone from that cook out is still alive. 

Sukuna downs the last third of the baked beans, straight into his mouth from the can. Instead of discarding the can like a cowboy would, he does use the spork that had just been in your mouth to scrape the sides. 

“So you were a welder,” you start. “Did you go to trade school straight out of high school?” 

Sukuna glances over at you. “I found it later in life.” 

“How old are you?” You ask. 

“Thirty-five,” Sukuna says. “I’ve been welding for the past three.” 

“What were you doing before that?” You continue to ask. 

Sukuna glints a grin at you. “Are you sure you want to know?” 

That catches you off guard. You lick your chapped lips. 

“I’m a reformed man,” Sukuna says, reaching into a backpack for a stick of lip balm. He offers it up to you. “You can’t keep it, but you can borrow some.” 

“Thank you,” you say, accepting the stick happily. You apply some as delicately as possible, running it over the fat of your lip and then smacking your lips together. Handing the balm back, you thank Sukuna again. 

“Here,” Sukuna says, getting a water bottle out and handing it over. SmartWater. “Drink up, we can always get more.” 

Hesitating, you accept the mostly-full water bottle. You haven’t had water in a while, which is a big difference from how you were always toting around three of those Stanley water bottles of varying sizes– one with regular water, one with electrolytes, one with a Diet Coke. It all seems so silly now. 

You take a few demure sips of water. It’s warm, but it tastes amazing. Refreshing. 

Instead of gouging yourself, you take your final through pulls and then hand the bottle back to Sukuna. You watch his tattoos, these bands of thick black around his wrists and fingers. 

“What do your tattoos mean?” You ask. 

“They look cool,” Sukuna says.

You giggle a bit at that. Giggle. It causes Sukuna to raise an eyebrow, looking you up and down. He lifts his knee up to rest his arm on, facing you. 

“You into guys with tattoos?” He asks. 

“I think they’re a nice touch,” you reply.

“I’ve got them all over,” Sukuna says with a conniving flash in his eyes. “Do you have any?” 

“I’m scared of needles,” you admit. “I can’t even get blood drawn.” 

“But you don’t have an issue with blood.” 

“I’ve recently gotten over it.” 

Sukuna hums at that. “Tell me about who you killed.” He asks with genuine interest. 

You chew on your bottom lip. “Why do you want to know?” 

Shrugging, Sukuna looks around the abandoned mall. “Just making conversation. Since we’re going to spend so much time together.” 

“I don’t have much to offer,” you admit. You guess there’s sex; you can offer sex but that’s it. Sukuna knows how to read, you hope, and you can tend to a garden but there are no gardens anymore. You like to write, you like to paint, you like the arts, but there’s no room for the arts now. 

“You’ll have to figure out what you can offer,” Sukuna says. “Maybe you’re a cold blooded killer. What happened? Tried to take your food? Tried to rape you? Just didn’t like how he looked?” 

“Second one,” you murmur. You look over at him, suddenly getting a gust of bravery. “And he was bigger than me too, so don’t try anything.” 

Sukuna laughs at that. He takes a sip of the water. “Sex isn’t fun like that,” he muses. 

“It would be a pretty abysmal time to get pregnant,” you tack on. 

Chuckling, Sukuna nods along. “It would be.” 

You draw your knees up to your chest and fold in on yourself. You watch the escalator, which is quickly becoming more and more swathed in darkness as the sun rapidly sets. Sukuna tilts his head back, closing his eyes. 

“I could kill for a cigarette,” Sukuna says. 

At the same time, you ask him, “Do you not get freaked out by how big the space is?” 

The two of you pause, looking at each other. You move first, grabbing your fanny pack from where it rests on the ground and pulling out a vape. In the firelight, it glints yellow and green, the liquid inside sloshing around and mostly full. 

“And you were just saying you didn’t know how you’d be helpful,” Sukuna chides, accepting the device. 

“It’s lemon flavored,” you say, reaching over to fiddle with the bottom of it to turn it back on. It blinks to life, the digital interface a reminder of times that would take decades to return. 

Sukuna takes a deep, long drag of the vape, exhaling it slowly. “Always used to make fun of people who vaped,” he says, taking one last sip before handing the device back to you. You turn it back off and put it away in your fanny pack. “But here it is, saving the day.” 

“Then I’ll have to hold onto it so I’m always useful,” you say. Perhaps this is your sundown, your last few hours of living. It doesn’t make sense for Sukuna to keep you alive alongside him; you’re just a drain on his resources. 

“I think you have other talents that you aren’t telling me about,” Sukuna says. He looks you up and down. “What did you do before all of this?” 

“I taught high school,” you reveal, your heart suddenly beating a thousand miles away in your chest. You feel your heart begin to get crushed as you think of all your students, kids, just kids and what fate they must face now. “And, um, I was getting my yoga instructor certification.” 

“Damn, they let you teach high school?” Sukuna blurts out. His eyes go wide. 

You furrow your brow in offence. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He whistles, mocking like a wolf. “If I had teachers like you in high school, maybe I wouldn’t have dropped out.” 

“Oh my God,” you laugh and roll your eyes. “You sound like every other guy at the bar when they find out what I do.” 

“And they’re seeing you all dolled up,” Sukuna groans, tilting his head back and covering his eyes with his hand for a moment. He drags it down, over his face, in a grandiose show of FOMO. “So what, you’re from around here?” 

“Yeah,” you say. “Are you?” 

He confirms with a nod of his head. His gaze flits down to your hands, to the nails you have on right now. Long, painted with cherry blossoms. 

“Nice nails,” he comments. 

You nod a little bit in acknowledgement, bringing your hands up so you can observe them in the dim lighting. 

“Thank you. I just got them done.” 

“How do you do shit with them that long?” 

You laugh at that, lighter than needed for the ambiance of the world around you. “I’ve adapted. I’ve had long nails since I got my first paycheck. I, ah, I always thought that the most beautiful women had long nails.” 

“They fake?” 

“Yeah.” 

He nods a bit. 

You put your hand closer to him, showing off the design. “My nail tech practiced to do these little faces on them.” 

Sukuna takes your hand in his, then brings it closer to the fire so he can see it properly. “They’re cute. Cute what you were going for?” 

“I guess so,” you hum. 

Sukuna’s hand is warm in yours. Or maybe that’s the fire. Eventually, your hands find their way out of each other’s polite, inquisitive hold. You lose yourself in your thoughts– not too many though. 

The only light source eventually becomes the crackling embers in front of each of you. At this silent reminder of the passage of time, Sukuna makes a big show of yawning, stretching his arms up above his head. 

He turns to look at you. “So can I trust you with first watch?” Sukuna asks with a grin. 

You blink at him, stomach dropping. It does make sense, you suppose. There are two of you, even if Sukuna is clearly the more formidable one. You could rouse him should anyone come down that broken escalator. Then, he laughs. “I’m kidding. No one’s coming down here.” 

He shifts from where he’s leaned against the wall, getting more comfortable. He shuts his eyes. When he doesn’t hear you move next to him, he cracks an eye open to look over at you. 

“Woman, I’m giving you the sleeping bag,” he grunts. “Get your damn crowbar and go lay down in it.” 

“How do I know that you’re not just going to use it to kill me in the middle of the night?” You ask. 

“How do I know you’re not going to try to kill me in the middle of the night?” Sukuna volleys back. “We’re strangers. You’ve killed someone already. Who’s to say I have?” 

“With my luck, you probably killed people before all of this,” you huff, though you do stand. You stretch your arms up over your head and then bend forward, groaning a bit as you feel your spine decompress a bit. 

Sukuna watches you with leveled eyes. “And what would you think, if I have already killed people?” 

“I don’t have much choice to care now, do I? You’ve killed, I’ve killed, and it’ll probably happen again, won’t it?” 

You stand fully, and Sukuna watches the graceful movements carefully. Yoga instructor. Fitting. He takes in your shoes, which are muddy and certainly not built for the life they are living now. 

Picking up your medication, you take your dosage dry– no water to wash it down. 

“Take off your shoes before getting in my sleeping bag,” he says, eyes still following you. “I’m trying to keep some things clean.” 

“Got it,” you say, nodding a few times. You set the medicine back down beside him. 

Toeing off your shoes, you crawl into the sleeping bag. It’s warm. The pillow is the softest thing you’ve rested your head on in days. Sukuna leans over and grabs your crowbar, and for a second fear flashes in your heart. Then, it’s laid down beside you, and you reach out to put your hand around it. 

“Don’t unarm yourself too quickly around me,” Sukuna huffs. “You’re too trusting.” 

“Sorry,” you murmur. 

Sukuna hums, closing his eyes again. “And to think you’ve been on your own, this entire time…” 

You’re not sure if he finishes his thought, because sleep overcomes you in moments. Something about being with another person, even if he’s also sleeping, brings comfort to you. You love sleeping, really sleeping, with other people surrounding you. Sleep overs, phone calls, you can’t get enough of it. 

When you wake, the fire is still crackling. However, Sukuna is no longer leaning against the wall across from you. Immediately, you sit up, the sleeping bag unzipping some along with your movement. Your hand flies to your jeans, feeling how your button and fly are still done up. You look around with wide eyes, and appear to be entirely alone. 

Then, there’s clanging on the escalator and you turn, watching as Sukuna descends. He stretches his arms above his head, letting out an all-too-comfortable groan. 

“You up, doll?” He asks with a smile. “You’ve been out for a while. Sun’s been up for a while.” 

You use your pointer finger to pull sleep from the inner corners of your eye. “Yeah. I’m up.” 

Sukuna comes and stands in front of you, then drops down to crouch in front of you. “You look good,” he says. 

“Just slept well,” you admit. Your meds, the sleeping bag, the pillow, the other person. 

Sukuna places his finger, crooked, under your chin. He regards you, searching your eyes in the dim lighting. You regard him back, his tattoos, his burn, which goes over his facial markings. 

“I like this look,” Sukuna hums. His gaze is lewd, but there’s something else there too. “This will be fun.” 

Fun. He certainly has a funny definition of it. 

With a surprisingly gentle hand, Sukuna drags a finger over your cheek. You’re still so soft, so gentle, and now, so well rested. It feels in part like the touch a lover would leave, but also the touch a butcher has over a piece of meat before hacking it away from the bone. 

Sukuna takes you out with him to the shoe store in the same strip mall. You hold your crowbar and he holds his machete as you enter through the crashed glass doorways. You’ve been to this shoe store frequently, it’s where you buy all your nice flats for work, but have never been in the work boot section. 

There are still wool socks left behind in the shoe store. Sukuna grabs a few pairs, putting them into his backpack, which carries a water bottle and two granola bars. The rest of his food and water has been stored behind a loose tile at the strip mall. 

You linger by him, and he looks over at you. “I’m sure it’s safe in here.” 

“Are you sure?” You ask him. 

“Maul them to death if it’s not the case,” Sukuna says. He pauses, then takes a better look at you. Scared, nervous, on edge. He sighs. “I’ll follow you.” 

“Okay,” you say, a little life tapped back into your eyes. You head into the depths of the shoe store, towards the more practical shoes. There are work boots, which you regard with a bit of disdain. They’re all so ugly, a far cry from your usual casual heel. 

“These are good,” Sukuna says, stopping in front of a pair. Carhartt. Will be a bitch to break in, but will last you a while. He crouches down and looks at the sizes. 

You regale him with your size. Sukuna finds a half size bigger for you, pulling them out of the box. 

For a moment, the store is bustling around you. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and for some reason you need work boots. Maybe to visit Sukuna at work– he’s a welder. Welding stuff together. And work boots, Sukuna knows. He pulls them out of the box and motions for you to have a seat to try them on. 

Then you’re back in reality as Sukuna takes off his backpack and opens up a pair of the wool socks he found at the front. They have little llamas on them. 

“Put these on before you put those boots on,” Sukuna says. “Your socks aren’t thick enough.” 

You toe off your walking shoes and switch out your socks. The boots are tight and a little uncomfortable. Sukuna does up the laces, tying them like bunny ears. But they fit just like your nice Ariat boots did when you first got them. You stand, only to be immediately pulled down by Sukuna, his hand immediately clamping over your mouth.

Your eyes go wide at the urgency. Sukuna grins. 

“I like this,” he whispers, unsheathing his machete. 

You whimper, looking from him to the weapon. Is this it? Has he brought you this far just to kill you in the aisle of a Shoe Carnival? Can you at least be in the Steve Madden section? Chinese Laundry, at least. 

Instead, Sukuna leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. It makes your heart skip a beat, brain racing to figure out what is going on. 

Then, Sukuna’s standing. Your eyes follow his every moment, the way he takes a deep breath, chest moving with it. 

“Leave,” he says, firm and demanding. Like he’s had this power before– this is not the first time he’s wielded it. This is not the first time that he’s staked his territory. It’s crueler and meaner than it was in the pharmacy. “This is not worth it.” Maybe there’s a difference to him of someone scavenging for medicine than shoes. 

“The place isn’t yours, pal,” comes the voice of another man. Then, he laughs. There’s the sound of a gun cocking. 

Then, it goes off. You half expect Sukuna to drop dead beside you, leaving you to fend for yourself in shoes that need to be broken in. Instead, he side steps, then laughs. The bullet embeds itself in the wall of the building. 

“So you’ll die over a pair of shoes?” Sukuna asks, heading towards the man. You watch as he goes around your aisle and out of your eyesight. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears. The crowbar– it’s nearby, right next to the backpack. Can you reach it without causing any sound? 

“I’m not going to die,” the man says. 

Sukuna laughs at the lie. “You don’t think you are?” 

“Just take what you want and leave,” the man amends. 

“I think I’ll take my time here,” Sukuna says. 

You wait for another gunshot. It comes, along with the shattering of bone. Then, there’s the sound of knife against flesh and bone, sounding like the time you listened to your uncle process venison. There’s a scream, and you can’t tell if it’s that man or if it’s Sukuna– you’ve known Sukuna for less than twenty-four hours– and another sound of the venison-processing. 

Gurgling. Gasping. Gurgling. 

Then Sukuna is walking back towards you. You look up at him with big eyes, hand clamped over your mouth. His machete is covered in blood, down to the hilt and onto his hand. He crouches down in front of you. 

“You made a good choice, coming along with me,” Sukuna says. He offers you a lopsided smile. 

Right. The Saturday afternoon in the busy shoe store. Sukuna sheathes his machete and reaches out to pat your foot. He squeezes around the top, fingers on the arch. 

“Do the shoes feel like they fit?” Sukuna asks. 

You nod shakily, hand still over your mouth. 

“Shh,” Sukuna coos, reaching to gently lower your hand, his hand coming around your wrist, encompassing all of it so easily. This hand isn’t bloody. “You’re my wife, remember? We’re playing house.” 

You swallow thickly. Right. 

He still has that lopsided smile on his face. It’s comforting, even if you know that in the doorframe there’s the lingerings of death. 

“We’ll keep your old shoes while we break these ones in,” Sukuna says. “C’mon, let’s head back home.” 

Home. Alright. Home it is. 

[ethereal-shyt777]

Leon Kennedy x Civilian!Reader PART 2 💕

tagging @cloudxluv and @gabithefanwriter <3

summary: Leon tries his luck with Tinder dates and thinks it didn't work out, but ends up finding the right person by accident instead. This is before R9, basically a little fanfic on how Leon met his wife (you)

warnings: none I think, just pure fluff <3 maybe a lil swearing somewhere

The coffee shop, even though crowded because of the weather, was nice and cozy. Many people came and went, but you and Leon kept sitting at the table, not even planning on leaving yet. It felt as if only minutes had passed, when in reality it's been over two hours since you've walked in. The conversation topics changed every few minutes, from funny situations of the past week, discussing more places like this one, contemplating the coffee choice, to the design of the cafe.

And then came the topic.

Leon had been trying his best for the past hours. He didn't want to get too excited at meeting you. It didn't work out for him today with the Tinder date, perhaps he should take this as a sign... but then again, you showed up so unexpectedly, and he enjoyed your company every second. It was getting harder and harder not to let his imagination wander when you had so much in common... in his head he was already taking you out on another date. Picking you up properly in his car this time, taking you to some rich restaurant and giving you fresh flowers, not already half-wilted peonies that were meant for someone else. He tried his best, really, but when you excitedly mentioned a cat being over in your very own house? That was just another point crossed from his little future dream list. It sounded silly even to himself, getting excited over such a small thing like it meant anything, but to him it very much did...

"You have... a cat." He spoke softly, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes!" You answered with a huge smile on your face, already fumbling with your phone, scrolling through your gallery just to hand it over, showing him the precious ball of fur that you mentioned seconds ago. "Isn't he adorable?"

"He is..." He answered, his mind already elsewhere. He tried his best to fight his own mind, but that image that he had in his head for the past few months? Now the person greeting him was not an unknown silhouette, not a faceless woman that he hadn't met yet... it was you. You and that silly little cat that you seemed to love so much.

He felt pathetic, really. It's been only... what, almost three hours since you sat beside him on that bus stop bench? He was already smitten. He already adored you. Every single thing you said seemed to make it even worse. He's never met a woman he had so much fun with... and so much in common.

"Sorry, am I talking too much? I tend to ramble a lot sometimes." You said, gently slipping your phone back into your own hands as you saw his reaction. His answer was short, voice quiet, and he didn't even say anything else, just... stared at the pictures as you swiped.

The thing was, he didn't even realize.

"What?" He snapped out of it, looking at you in confusion, only then realizing he's been awfully quiet... probably because he was drifting somewhere completely else. "Oh, no... no, I don't mind." He quickly corrected himself.

He shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortably, not with you, of course. Uncomfortable with his own mind. Here you were, innocent as ever, probably just enjoying your time on a simple coffee that you didn't have to spend alone, and he was imagining a future with you. This wasn't even meant to mean anything. Hell, he felt like a creep now. He offered it just like that, to cheer you up, to make you a little happier about the sloppy weather and even worse valentine's day. But he fell into his own trap.

He didn't realize how lonely he must've been until now...

"I... considered getting a cat too." He added quickly, nodding to himself. "Never became more than a plan, though. I wanted to have one so the house wouldn't be so quiet, but I'm away too much... and I don't really have anyone that would want to take care of one while I'm gone."

Don't have anyone in general would've been a better phrasing. He couldn't name a single person who would actually want to... come over and talk to him, spend time together in a non work-related matter. Let alone burden them with a whole ass cat to take care of every few weeks.

"I did the same thing. I was lonely after moving into the city, so I got a cat." You stated, turning off your phone and putting it aside. "I thought about getting a dog, but... you know. Cats are cats. They don't need much attention as long as they are fed and pampered. Then comes that one special evening when they come to snuggle with you on the couch, if you're worthy of it." You said jokingly, which you both laughed at.

"Yeah, well... I'm away long enough to neglect the feeding part too sometimes." He answered, which intrigued you. You never really asked where he worked. He didn't say much about his life in general... interests, yes, but not what he does or who he is.

"Hey, that's not a problem at all. If you ever decide to actually get the cat, you can just drop it off at my place. I don't mind taking care of another one." You smiled as you saw his surprise, like he didn't even consider it a possibility. Because he didn't. Yet here you were, offering help. "Where do you work, then?" You changed the topic, making him freeze. Not even letting him process the first part...

Right. He forgot for a moment. He was here, in the coffee shop with you, but outside of it, he was still just... agent Kennedy. Just an old, grumpy dude who didn't have a life outside of work. Somehow, he pushed that into the back of his mind for a while...

"I'm..." Should he lie? Brush the topic off? Tell the truth and keep the details to himself?

The first one was the safest, but for how long? Of course, if this was a one-time coffee date, he should just lie. Should throw some lies about working in finance or business and go on with the date. But that just didn't feel right. If his mind was set, if he really was starting to believe that this might work out as something more, he had to be honest. He couldn't change the topic or make a half-assed excuse, he couldn't hide the truth... Of course, he couldn't reveal it all either, but she had to know at least a part of it. For now.

"I'm a federal agent." He said finally, immediately reaching out to grab his cup and take a sip of his coffee.

The words felt heavy now. Normally, usually on missions, he threw them around while stopping criminals, reassuring civilians or alarming other agents... Not meeting a nice girl in a corner coffee shop, when she probably thought he was just a regular guy. When she had no idea what he's been through in his life and what emotional baggage he was carrying.

At first you looked at him in confusion, then let out a forced laugh. You waited for him to smile and laugh too, and then change the answer, like he did many times earlier, but he didn't. He just stared at you. Waiting.

"Oh... you're serious." You said, eyebrows knitting together. "Like... like FBI or some shit?" You asked in confusion, not sure how to understand or interpret his answer. You didn't expect it, that's for sure... and you didn't know a lot about stuff like this, or how it works exactly.

"No. Not FBI. I can't tell, though. It's classified." Something in his stomach turned when he said that, nervously looking out the window. Of course, it was just a simple look... Leon Kennedy was never nervous, no. Not about something like this. He would not care if you got up and left right now, surely. "Maybe... maybe one day.."

"No, it's fine, I... get it? I guess. I don't know how that type of stuff works." You frowned to yourself, not because you were upset, but because you didn't get it. In your head, you only had the image of what you saw in movies. Sure, you heard a lot about secret operations since the outbreaks had started, but only what they showed on the news, which was... barely anything. "I'm... not being investigated though, right?" You squinted your eyes at him, attempting a joke.

It seemed to surprise him, but he immediately smirked. A little different than the other little smiles he gave you. It was both playful, but also relieved, in a way.

"I don't know. Didn't you see me taking notes under the table?" He asked jokingly, which you both snorted at. He seemed to relax again, the tension in his shoulders easing, making them drop forward a little.

"Oh no. What did you write? Am I being arrested?" You raised an eyebrow at him and he followed the lead, leaning both elbows on the table, propping his chin on his knuckles. He hummed to himself, looking you up and down.

"Let's see, well... I definitely wrote down you're way too funny and have way too many talents. Definitely fishy. Who taught you all that?" He squinted his eyes at you. "You also have a terribly cute cat, amazing taste in coffee and a beautiful face."

He only realized what he said when he saw your reaction. The way your face seemed to light up a little... that small smile that seemed to move the corners of your lips, the blush spreading on your cheeks.

You didn't seem... weirded out, though. You seemed to like the compliment. And that was good, because he could tell you a hundred more right on the spot, just after two hours of conversation.

"Unfortunately, I think your informant sucks, Mr. Kennedy." You grimaced, trying to cover up your confusion with something funny. As much as you liked the banter, the sudden compliment sent you panicking. Was he flirting, or was this just a regular compliment? You couldn't tell... but you appreciated it either way.

"Mm, I don't think so. I know what I'm saying." He pushed. He should've settled for the first one, but he still pushed... trying to let you know he was flirting.

"Thank you..." Was all you managed to say as you reached out to take your coffee, taking a nervous sip. An embarrassing ring of foam formed on your upper lip, which made him bite his lower lip to stifle a laugh.

"...Here." He said, handing you a tissue from his side of the table. He watched you wiping it off in a hurry, the redness on your face just increasing. He pretended to look out the window again, not wanting to make you feel even worse. "It's late..." He pointed out, "And it's not raining anymore. We should probably get going, huh?"

He said it against his own will. He wanted to stay longer... talk to you a little more, get to know more. More of you in general.

He hoped for another date, though, and he didn't want to push it. It was going too well to rush things.

"Did I scare you off by the foam mustache?" You asked, glancing into the mirror on the other side of the wall, thankfully with nothing on your face anymore.

"Not at all. It was cute, actually." He admitted, once again, pushing his luck. He just couldn't help it. "Hey, uh... do you want me to walk you to your house? It's already dark outside."

You side eyed him at the proposition, and he already sensed a teasing joke, right before you even managed to open your mouth to speak. "Trying to find out where my house is, huh? I'm really being investigated."

"You're not." He reassured, giving you a deadpan look. "I'm just being a gentleman, as I said earlier." He got up, standing awkwardly next to the table as he watched you finish your coffee and get up from your seat.

He walked over to the counter, paying for both of your orders, as he insisted before you even ordered. One thing you were sure of, since you two started talking, was that when his mind was set on something, it was set. Probably the thing that would lead to arguments in the future, because you were just as stubborn as he was.

He opened the door for you on the way out.

Held your hand when you had to walk through an uncomfortably huge puddle of rain on the way home.

Laughed along with you as you tripped on absolutely nothing just moments later.

Offered you his suit to drape over your shoulders when he saw you shiver.

But as much as you've had more fun than ever with anyone before, one thing sat constantly in the back of your mind... the idea of not being able to know him fully, ever. Perhaps this was a one time meeting. Perhaps you'd never talk again, and then you'd wonder who really was that guy that unexpectedly took you on a date. Or perhaps this would grow into something more... and then what? Would he ever open up, or would he stay like this? Shielding himself, or you, from the truth?

He shun those thoughts away in one simple gesture, as you stopped in front of your house.

"You know..." He started, wanting to say so much, but unsure how to start. He wasn't good at things like these at all... opening up was a real issue when you weren't taught to do it, and when you never had anyone around who would be your safe space. He wanted to try, though, and right now it didn't matter to him too much if you wanted him back or not. He just needed to try. "I don't remember the last time I've had so much fun with anyone."

"Really?" You said, smiling a little wider at his words... not only because you felt warmness spread in your chest at the admission, but also because you felt the same.

"Yeah... well, living as an agent is... not easy." He started, choosing his words carefully. He couldn't say too much, but didn't want to scare you off with overdone secrecy. "I can't fully trust people and people can't fully trust me." He continued, and you listened, not daring to stop him right now. "I know this might be... weird. Unusual, maybe even... scary."

"It's... alright." You said, shrugging. "I mean, I... never met anyone who's an agent before, but I've had a really nice coffee with you, Leon."

"Yeah, well... still, I believe I should clarify. Keeping things in secret is not permanent. I might open up in some time, but I need you to understand I need to be sure." He spoke in a serious tone, and you nodded, even though you weren't sure where this was going. "Keeping things out from close ones is... unfortunately a huge part of our life. Not only because we don't want to reveal too much, but also because we want to keep them safe. Do you understand?"

"Yes." You said, nodding again. You tilted your head right away, asking the most important question. "I don't understand what you're getting at, though."

"I'm implying I... would want to take you out on another... proper date. If you agree, I'll pick you up whenever you're free." He said, hesitantly reaching out to take one of your hands. "But... you need to be sure you want this. I don't want to put you in an uncomfortable situation, or-"

"I'd love to go on another date with you." You spoke up, cutting him off now without shame. He seemed surprised, his hand freezing in air before he could fully hold yours.

"You're... sure about this? If this is ever too much, you can always change your mind, of course-"

You cut him off again with a little laugh, stepping closer.

"I'm sure, Leon. I'm hundred percent sure that I'd love you to take me out on a proper date."

"That's... good." He said, once again looking relieved. He didn't brace himself to take your hand, though, putting it right back into his pocket like he'd hurt you at the simple touch. "You're really unlike anyone who I've ever met before."

"Really? Me?" You said, pointing at yourself. "You're the one who's a... federal agent. I mean, I don't think I've ever met one in my life."

"Fair point..." He chuckled, "Well... I think it's best if I get going. I will call you tomorrow, alright?"

"Alright." You hesitated, before feeling a little, tiny wave of confidence. You reached up, pulling him down for a kiss. Not on the lips, not yet, but you did place a small kiss on his cheek, leaving a stain of your favourite lipstick right there.

"I'll see you around, Mr. Kennedy." You said, pushing the jacket of his suit into his hands as you turned around, rushing to your house before he could fully respond.

You still saw him stand still, completely stunned for a moment when you looked over your shoulder while opening the door.

[ethereal-shyt777]

Pre R9 Leon Kennedy x Civilian!Fem!Reader

I haven't checked the typos and it's midnight so keep out, also this is only part one and PART 2 IS IN THE MAKING

Summary: Leon tries his luck with Tinder dates and thinks it didn't work out, but ends up finding the right person by accident instead. This is before R9, basically a little fanfic on how Leon met his wife (you)

warnings: none I think, just pure fluff <3 maybe a lil swearing somewhere

Leon was not a stupid man. He knew that handling a partner in his line of work would be hard, if not impossible. The idea of a family or at least a person he could come home to everyday was foreign, but he did find himself thinking about it sometimes.

He wondered how it would feel, finishing an exhausting, life-threathening mission and coming home to something else than silence and his own thoughts. The vision was simple, but he found himself dreaming about it every time he sat on his couch, alone, mostly drinking, bored out of his mind. The image of himself walking inside to the smell of fresh cooking and a sweet, floral scent instead of dust and stench of alcohol. Walking further into the house he would be met with a silhuette of a woman, reaching out to hug him right away. Happy to see him. She would hold him on the couch, running her pretty hands through his hair as he would talk about everything that happened, everything that hurt... or not, if he didn't feel like it. It wasn't easy to explain these feelings sometimes, even to himself.

He wasn’t exactly fond of the idea of children… not that he didn’t ever want them. He was just already too old and too caught up with his work. If he ever were to have a little one, he’d rather be fully present in their life, not disappearing on constant missions for weeks. Perhaps they would just settle for a cat. A little ball of fur that would be equally as happy to see him as his wife. Hyphothetical wife, because he didn’t know a single woman that would enjoy his presence enough in his entire life. He did consider adopting a cat now, but who would take care of the little thing when he was away?

He didn’t know why, but he found himself cracking under the pressure of that vision. He started feeling like this might be his last chance… that maybe, just maybe, if he tried to look, he’d find what he had wanted for so long. Meeting anyone new was difficult though, after so much time being alone, so he settled for the internet. He felt ridiculous being on Tinder at his very grown age, but he did manage to text a few women. He wasn’t necceserily good at it, but… eventually he found someone who, at least as he thought, was a perfect match. She was a little younger, with gentle features that made him think she might be a nice, soft woman. He found himself fooled by that perspective, as the little angel turned out to be an asshole in disguise.

He waited for an hour, looking around, checking if she wasn’t approaching. Maybe she was just late. Maybe something happened. He didn’t know much about her, after all. Didn’t even know if she had a car. Maybe she got caught up in traffic? He thought about every single possibility, before seeing two messages appearing on his screen. He certainly didn’t expect such harsh words, as well as didn’t expect getting stood up on his first Tinder date. If it wasn't enough painful, on 14th of February. Guess it wasn’t the day of love, after all. Not for everyone, that’s for sure.

He was tempted to just throw the flowers he’d bought into trash the second he read those humilliating, insulting messages from the girl that he thought might be his chance for a different life. He didn’t imagine anything with her yet, let’s be real. They only talked for three days on a dating app, so he kept a little bit of a distance… which didn’t mean he didn’t get his hopes up. He found himself walking home alone with the flowers, getting looks from people that probably saw this as something entirely different. Oh, what a gentleman for getting flowers for his girlfriend. Maybe he was a gentleman, but where did that lead him?

If it couldn’t get any worse, a sudden downpour stopped him at a nearby bus stop. He could’ve just walked home, it wasn’t far away, that’s why he didn’t drive there. But let’s just say his immunity system was not as good as it used to be many years ago, especialy after getting infected several times. He was sure he’d catch a cold right away, so he just waited. He cursed under his breath as he took a seat, looking up at the sky, then the soaking street. Couples walking under umbrellas, driving together in cars, sitting in the cafe on the other side of the street. Embracing one another, pulling the other one closer to fit under the umbrella's roof, making sure they were both shielded from the rain. Laughing, smiling, holding each other. While he was all alone.

A sudden sound of heels clicking on the wet sidewalk snapped him out of his thoughts, making his head turn to the side. He saw a younger woman, proably in her late twenties or early thirties, running under the little roof, trying to escape the sudden rain.

You only wanted to take yourself on a nice little date. Finding yourself in a new town, it wasn’t easy to meet anyone, so of course, Valentines were spent all alone this year… same as the other few past, actually. You wanted to get yourself some coffe, maybe something sweet on the side, maybe even buy yourself some flowers on the way home… It’s all about self love, right?

“Fuck…” you cursed, shocked by the weather’s change of plans. It was supposed to be sunny today, not… whatever the hell this was.

“That’s a one way to put it.” He commented, making you flinch. You weren’t aware someone was around… You felt an embarrased blush covering your cheeks as you let out a nervous laugh, fixing your soaked hair.

“Sorry, I didn’t notice you…” you apologized, taking a seat beside him. You eyed the flowers in his hands, feeling a tug of your heart. It was sweet, seeing someone put effort into buying someone such a pretty bouquet… “Lucky girl.” you commented, offering a smile.

He looked at you for a moment, before he stared down at the flowers. He looked like they had personally offended him in some way… That’s when you realized you might have misinterpreted the situation. “Well, too bad she’s not going to get them. Her choice, I suppose.” he shrugged, but there was a hint of sadness in his voice.

“Why not?” You spoke before you thought, immediately correcting yourself “If you want to tell, of course…”

“Got stood up.” He explained shortly, letting out a sigh before he got an idea. He hesitated, putting the flowers from one hand to the other, cotemplating... before handing them out in your direction. There was no better use for them anyway… “Here, take them… I don’t have anything to do with them anyway. I’m not good with plants.”

You stared at the bouquet, a little dumbfounded. This was honestly the last thing you expected… You didn’t think you’d get anything today, let alone pretty, pink peonies with a matching bow keeping them intact. You hesitated, your smile subconsciously growing bigger. “Are you… sure? I mean, those probably cost a ton.”

“Eh, I don’t really care. At least maybe someone else will have a better day.” He shrugged again, like it was nothing. You gently plucked the flowers from his hands, eyeing them like it was something entirely different, not just a few tied up flowers. Perhaps that’s how he viewed them, but to you, it was something much more. You felt so much nicer, knowing that for the first time in such a long while, you got a little present… even if it was just from a stranger.

“That’s very kind of you.” You commented, smelling the flowers. They smelled beautiful, especially now, in the rain. You always loved peonies, what a coincidence. He smiled a little at the sight, before forcing himself to look at the streets again. “Whoever she is, she’s missing out.”

“Well, as I said… Her choice.” He murmured, trying his best to keep focused on the passing cars. He had to admit, you kind of intrigued him, and he would lie if he said he didn’t find you really pretty. He figured you were going on a date though, so dressed up. He was not going to hit on a taken woman. He needed to clarify, before he'd startle you. “I hope your boyfriend won’t be mad that you got flowers from a random man.”

You perked up at that, shaking your head almost immediately. “Oh, no. I don’t have a boyfriend.” you laughed out, still playing gently with the pink bow.

“No? Figured you were going on a date.” He found himself asking out of curiosity. It was better to talk than sit in complete silence, as there was no way the rain would subside anytime soon… besides, you didn’t seem too startled by his presence, after all.

“I mean... guess you could say that. I'm taking myself out. You know, a simple walk, coffee, that stuff… just alone.” You mumbled, gesturing dramatically around. “I mean, I would, but now I’m soaked and as much as i could go get a coffee, I'm not in the mood anymore. Besides, the waitresses would kill me if they saw me soaking up the place.”

He laughed at that, finally bracing himself to look at you. He didn’t know why, but he felt a strange warmness in his chest at the sight.

But most importantly, he noted that you weren't taken.

"Fair enough..." He murmured, hesitating again. Would it be too forward to offer a coffee? He was a little scared of rejection, but then again, he already had been rejected once today. He could handle another one, yeah? And it was better to try, than regret not doing it later. He found himself unconsciously playing with the watch on his wrist, before finally hummig to himself once, speaking up. "What's your name?" He asked, starting carefully.

"Y/N." You answered shortly, not having to ask before he hummed, giving you a small nod, and spoke up himself.

"Y/N... I'm Leon." He tried his best to push through that hesitation, as well as stop fidgeting with the damn watch. It was ridiculous, he felt stupid, being a whole grown man and still nervous about asking a girl out. Besides, it didnt even have to be like that... Just a simple coffee, like you said. "Are you sure you're not in the mood anymore?" he finally asked.

You looked up at him again, tilting your head curiously at the question. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... we're both alone anyway. We could just go get the coffee together." He offered, pretending to look around and watch the cars again. He didn't want to look at your reaction. Didn't want to see any disgust on your face, if he creeped you out.

"You mean it?" instead of disgust, he heard excitement. Your eyes finally met again, and he almost melted at the happy smile on your face.

"I mean... better than wasting the day, right?" He offered you a smile and got up, pushing his hands into his pockets. You followed suit, still a little surprised at the offer... and the whole interaction in general. This was definitely not how you expected your day to go, but.. you certainly did not complain. "The cafe is literally on the other side of the street. It's raining, nobody's gonna care if we walk in a little wet." He rolled his eyes playfully.

"I... guess you're right." He was right. You should've just walked in there and get a nice, warm coffee, instead of sitting on a cold bus stop... You were just too worried of going there alone. Which was now a solved problem.

"So? Do we wait a little longer, or do we run?"

"I say we race. The second one to get there pays for the coffee." You offered, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Race? You sure you wanna run in those?" He asked, raising his eyebrows as he nodded his head at your heels.

You shrugged, already clutching your purse and the flowers a little closer, so they wouldn't get in the way as you ran. Your mind was set, he realized.

"What could possibly go wrong?" You joked, and he stepped beside you, shaking his head.

You really were interesting.

"Alright. Ready?"

You nodded, and he began to count. When he yelled "Go!" you both sprinted, making sure there were no cars passing the streets at the moment. You laughed as you tried to make your way through the rain, Leon right beside you. He wasn't slow, quite the opposite. He started off so fast it shocked you, and you wondered where the hell he learned that. He slowed down not far away from the cafe, though, which was weird, because he didn't look tired at all. You, on the other side stopped next to the door looking like a panting mess.

"I won!" you gasped out, holding the bouquet up in victory.

"Looks like you did..." He said nodding with a knowing smirk. That's when you realized he let you win. There was no way you'd beat him in this, especially in heels. You decided not to point it out, until he spoke up again. "Guess I'll have to buy you coffee."

"Oh, come on. There's no way I actually won." You said, your shoulders slumping. Neither of you stopped smiling, though. It was hard to, you coudln't tell why. You hadn't laughed like that in a long while, let alone with... practically a stranger. "I can buy it myself."

"Don't be like that. What kind of guy makes a woman pay for her coffee?"

"You're ridiculous." You laughed, as he finally walked to the door, opening them for you.

"I'm a gentleman." He responded, gesturing you to walk inside.

You rolled your eyes and did just that, making a few heads turn at the sight of both of you, completely soaked and messy. A total contrast to the couples siting across the room, dressed neatly, completely dry, warm and comfortable.

But hey, at least you had fun.

[clemenchives]

hey baba I have a request 🫡 I have been YEARNING to see a re9 leon fic where him and y/n are at the office late doing whatever DSO does, and it eventually leads to playful banter, which eventually leads to confession of feelings where it’s like: “I liked you back then,” & “I like you now.” EEK anyways just a suggestion 🫰🫰

can't help myself around you 𖦹 leon kennedy.

⤷ summary: it was one of those late nights in the office where it’s just you and leon left behind. you do anything but the paperwork you’re supposed to accomplish and instead fall into a conversation that uncovers something you’ve been feeling for a while—which leads to leon finally admitting his feelings for you. (3.4k words) ⤷ pairing: leon kennedy x female!reader ⤷ genre: friends-to-lovers, extremely mild angst, slight slow burn ⤷ tags: RE9 Leon Kennedy, reader is his mission partner, reader is in her late 20s/early 30s, slight mentions of wounds and bleeding, unspoken feelings, leon is slightly emotionally constipated but they resolve it in the end

🚏masterlist

You barely notice the other agents and employees filtering out of the office floor some few hours ago, leaving to go home to their families, or just their own, barren apartments.

Glancing at your wristwatch on the table, the time read 10:39 in the evening. A slow, exhausted sigh leaves your lips, especially when you begin to feel that subtle ache in your lower back from sitting on your desk for hours on end now. 

The culprit? An unfinished report.

It was an oversight that you weren’t intending to neglect, but it just so happened it slipped from your mind without you even noticing. After all, it was one mission after another, and you’ve practically lost count on how many times you’ve gotten deployed in the past six months whether locally or halfway across the world. 

It was routine at this point. Expecting the next call, the next briefing, the next report waiting to be written. You’ve thrown yourself into the rhythm of work, and being in your prime meant you were in this constant momentum that rarely had you home just in time for dinner (with yourself).

But it was eventually catching up with you. You’ve only realized how exhausted you were when you slumped against your swivel chair, which was no less uncomfortable for your back and shoulders that were beginning to feel stiff as the night carries on. 

You stretched your arms outward, cracked your knuckles, and resumed typing away in your company-issued high-tech laptop. 

“I’m back.”

You nearly jolt in surprise. 

That low, gravelly voice has you turning your head, craning your neck as you look expectantly at the corridor. Leon emerged holding two cups of coffee, mirroring the same exhaustion you held in your body, though he’s more subtle about it than you were.

He approaches your table and places the cup of coffee near your hands. His fingers brush against yours lightly, and you feel a subtle tingle in your skin, which you ignore before he notices anything. It wasn’t the first time he lingered near you—why did it feel a lot more different right now?

“Thanks,” you say instead, reaching for the cup and sipping from the lid carefully, grasping the temperature. “How’s your report doing?”

Leon’s desk was right across yours, with a half-wall dividing the cubicle. While yours was filled with different memorabilia from your missions in different countries along with a few photos were pinned on the corkboard you kept behind your laptop, images of you and colleagues over the years, Leon’s desk was almost devoid of anything, except for the occasional souvenirs you got for him, and that one framed photograph he’d kept hidden away, which you’ve always been curious about.

The swivel chair creaks as he sits on it, leaning back while the laptop screen illuminates his face in the dim light of the office floor. It was just you and him now. All your other colleagues went home long before the sun was down. 

“Halfway through it,” Leon answers you. “I’ve got a thing or two coming up if I don’t submit this tomorrow.”

You huff out a sound—something half-amusement and another half-sympathetic. Because you knew your superior would expect more from you and Leon. “Remind me again why we forgot about this report.”

Leon shrugged, before straightening up, squinting slightly as he returned to his laptop. “After getting constantly shot at for two days straight, paperwork wasn’t exactly my priority,” he replied, before the familiar click of his keyboard began filling the air.

“You mean near-death experiences don’t motivate you?”

He clicked his tongue, his gaze zeroing on his screen. But he looked slightly amused. “Shockingly, no.”

You laughed softly into your coffee cup, and from the corner of your eye, you caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at Leon’s mouth, as though he’s amused that you’re laughing at him. 

Setting your cup aside, your fingers find the keyboard once again, the words blurring as you try your best to weave coherent sentences together. You and Leon fall into a rhythm of keyboards clacking and the occasional sigh every couple of minutes, either out of exhaustion, dread, or a mixture of both. 

Despite the grueling task of finishing this report, you find the silence comforting. Without having to say anything at all, you know Leon’s in this with you, as you are with him. Somewhere along the road, the lines blurred around being mission partners into good friends, and eventually, the lines had ebbed away slowly into something more meaningful.

Something far more dangerous than the bioweapons you’ve encountered had unraveled between the two of you, and you know when and where it began, but the how completely slipped past you, because you don’t exactly recall feeling something for Leon other than mutual trust. 

But it was that mission in Romania that completely changed things. 

It was the first time you had gotten terribly wounded, with a piece of shrapnel wedged on the lower side of your abdomen. You were bleeding profusely just as Leon hauled you up and held you close until you were quickly and safely extracted from the rendezvous point. At that point, you were losing a lot of blood, so when he helped you up to the chopper, he had you lying down on the floor, pressing against your wound to stop the bleeding. 

The image was vivid inside your head. The blurriness around your eyes, the black spots lingering in your vision, but all throughout there was an anchor tethering you to the world. Leon held you tightly when he pulled the shrapnel out of your skin, and you distinctly remember the fear that lingered in his gaze when he heard that cry tearing from your throat. 

He stayed beside you. Even when they wheeled you into the hospital, he stayed close—close enough that the doctors knew what happened to you because Leon was practically shoving the information into their hands, anything to get you urgent care and attention. 

Leon disregarded his own well-being for yours, and it was a sacrifice he was willing to make, just so he knows you’re there for another mission, for another time of braving through the monstrosity of the world with him. It was a close call—the blood loss could’ve seriously taken you away from him, and that thought scared him more than he’d like to admit. 

You have become an integral part of Leon’s life without you even knowing it. You have blended seamlessly into the routine he’s built for years on the weak foundation of isolation and individuality. It all started with one mission. And another. Until he’s realized he had fallen for you the way a person would fall asleep—slowly and then all at once. 

What’s not to like about you? You were so full of life, so independent and brave. You weren’t just an idealistic agent, you knew how bad things would get and braved through the storm with him. Even when he was being difficult and stubborn, you’ve worked hard along with him with that no nonsense attitude of yours that Leon found incredibly sexy. 

Somehow, you’ve managed to get under his skin as he’s gotten under yours. But you’re sitting there, unaware of the fact that the reason why Leon couldn’t finish the damn report is because he’s thinking of you, sitting across from him with your pretty, lower lip being bitten by you as you focus hard on the report in front of you. 

“Something on my face, Kennedy?” You ask him suddenly, breaking him out of the bubble of thought he’s been floating on for a few minutes now. “You’re staring.”

Leon huffed out a sigh. He’s been caught. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were.” You tilt your head to the side as if deciphering his expression. “You’ve been staring at me for like… thirty seconds.”

Leon leans back in his chair, looking rather unimpressed. “That specific, huh?”

“You’re dodging the question,” you counter, a small smirk plastered on your lips. You like knowing you could get him flustered, even when he tries to hide it beneath a thin veil of ignorance. 

His eyes flicker briefly toward the unfinished report on his screen before returning to you. “I could’ve been thinking, you know.”

That piques your interest. “About what?”

There’s that slightest pause, and that pause lingered and meant a lot of things all at once. You almost hold your breath while waiting. Waiting to see if he’ll admit that he was most likely thinking about you, as you were thinking about him too. 

“Work,” Leon says after a second. 

You snort softly at his deflection. “Yeah, sure. Thinking about work while staring at my face for almost a minute? You’re not so slick, agent Kennedy.”

Leon shrugged, before the corner of his lips pulled up in a lazy smirk. “Mocking a federal agent feels unwise, you know.”

“A federal agent who got caught staring?” You grin this time, feeling amused at the way he’s trying to avoid the conversation with his usual dry humor. 

He lets out a breath, almost a laugh but not quite. “You’re enjoying this too much. Don’t you have a report to finish?”

“Don’t you?”

You watch as Leon pursed his lips. “Fair point,” he concedes. 

There’s a silence that takes over you. It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but you felt as though the air was thick with a lot of things unspoken, and somehow, the atmosphere felt conducive enough for you to prod, if Leon would allow you to poke at the privacy of his thoughts, if not his feelings. 

“But really… what were you thinking about?” You ask him after a second, your voice softer this time. 

You observe him—he pauses, his face illuminated by the screen of his laptop, highlighting his features which you can’t help but inspect more closely, thoroughly. As if he alone was the subject of your thoughts. 

“I was thinking about Romania,” he confessed after a heartbeat. 

You swallow hard. You and him were both thinking about the same thing.

Clearing your throat, you shift in your seat, trying to act all unbothered. “What about Romania? Did we miss something in the report?”

Leon shakes his head. “No, no… we didn’t. I just… I was thinking about how I…”

“How I almost lost you.”

The air was thicker than it already had been. This is the first time you’ve heard him admit something to you that wasn’t an oversight or a mistake he might’ve made during his missions. No, this felt more raw—something unguarded and intimate in a way that it almost made you feel like you weren’t supposed to hear it.

At the same time, the words felt as though they were meant to be heard by you. And only you. 

“You didn’t lose me,” you exhale a quiet laugh, as if trying to diffuse the situation. But when you look at Leon’s expression, you suddenly realize that you being wounded affected him more than he let on. “I just happened to have a misstep and it almost cost us our directive.”

“Fuck the directive,” he muttered under his breath. “You were bleeding. A lot. You were barely conscious and you had wounds all over you—”

“Leon—”

“And I should’ve been paying more attention when we left the building. But I didn’t. I was too confident that we’ve gotten what we came there for, and you got hurt because of my complacency.”

You fall quiet in front of him. Suddenly, the report didn’t matter. The deadlines didn’t mean anything to you, not when you’re being exposed to the vulnerability in Leon’s entire demeanor—something you hadn’t seen before. 

He blames himself for what happened in Romania. 

You haven’t noticed it until now, but in your recent missions, he’s become more cautious. More careful. Always taking the lead in leaving and entering premises and making sure he’s covered all the bases before he declares an area as clear or safe. You almost pointed it out, wanting to say that he didn’t have to hover or worry about you when you’re more than capable, but hearing him now, your perspective shifts entirely.

“Leon, I’m okay now, I swear.” You tell him reassuringly. “I’m healed. The doctor cleared me after two weeks, didn’t he?”

“Doesn’t make it less frustrating to think about.” He answered, his voice low and quiet, as if he’s resigned to himself.

He looked so torn. Almost at war with himself in a way you’re not used to seeing. You hate being the reason for it, especially because you rarely see him like this. In fact, this might be the first time he’s shown you this side of him that you never thought existed. 

It rattles you more than you expect. 

“You didn’t lose me,” you say, quieter this time. “If you did, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

Leon exhales a short, quick breath. “I almost did. To me, that’s as good as losing you itself.”

Silence envelops you again. 

You don’t recall how your conversation shifted from just some playful banter, to something more serious. All of a sudden, you feel as though you were in the wrong for asking, for pushing further. It fueled your guilt, because you didn’t know what to tell him. You were completely flustered by the gravity of his words that they almost passed as a confession to you. 

You decided to stand up, the wheels of the swivel chair scraping lightly against the floor. Rounding the corner, you come close to him, carefully, as though you were approaching a delicate situation. Which you were, in a way.

Leaning against the space on his desk, you fold your arms across your chest. You watch as Leon avoids your gaze, brows furrowed and lips set into a tight line as he looks anywhere but you. He’s avoiding you again. Retreating. 

“Don’t do that,” you murmur. “You say all these things to me and then you’re suddenly just… pulling away.”

“I’m not avoiding you.” Leon stated as a matter of factly. His expression softened just a bit when he finally decided to glance at you. “I just… I worry about you often.”

You shifted your weight a bit, until you were nearly sitting atop his sturdy desk. “I know.” 

Unable to stop yourself, your eyes linger around his desk. Your eyes find that framed photograph behind a few stacks of folders and paperwork, and you reach out to it instinctively. A knot forms in your stomach when you realize what that photograph was.

It was a picture of you and Leon before you got deployed halfway across the world. You stood next to him, and he had his arm loosely wrapped around your shoulders, while he had his free hand in a thumbs up gesture. Both of you were in your mission clothes and gear, all small smiled and reluctant gazes.

But it felt… almost intimate. Almost deliberate, as if he’d wanted you to see it. 

You set it aside immediately, a flush creeping up your cheeks, just as your heart begins to race. Why does he have that photo?  

He notices your reaction almost immediately. 

Leon stands up, the swivel chair moving back as he suddenly crowds your space. His hands are flat against the surface of either side of your thighs, and his head was closer to yours than it ever was before. Hands braced against the desk. Still far, but a considerable new development from your usual proximity. 

Your breath hitches in the back of your throat, and you suddenly feel your heart skip a beat. His eyes don’t leave yours this time, as if finding courage to face you. 

“You don’t know anything,” he murmured, his eyes flickering from your face to the picture frame you’d set aside. “You’ve kept me up at night more than you think. Especially after Romania.”

A pause, and then his voice drops slightly. “I kept asking myself what is it about you… that makes me lose control like that.” 

“You lose control because of me?” The question slips past your lips before you even stop yourself from saying it. 

“All the time.”

Another wave of silence settles between the two of you again. This time, it was heavier. Not awkward, not distant, none of those things. It felt thicker than ever, almost having you run out of breath without intending to.

It was just… charged. With something you weren’t ready to accept, but you were willing to explore. You try to breathe, but it feels completely different now. Even though there’s ample space between the two of you, it feels as if you’re trapped in a box with him, and there’s no way out until you find the answers yourself.

“Leon…” your voice comes out quieter than you initially expected. “That’s not—” you cut yourself off, suddenly unable to figure out what to say next.

You have absolutely no idea what you’re trying to say. That it’s too much? That it doesn’t make sense at all? That maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t feel that way towards you? The problem is that you do believe him. And that’s worse, because now, you’re compelled to confront the feelings you’ve thought you’ve buried a long time ago. 

Leon exhales a slow breath this time, like he’s only just realizing what he’s said out loud. His hand shifts slightly on the desk—not retreating, but not advancing either. He’s mindful of your space, even though he wants nothing more than to be close to you right now.

For once, he looks unsure of himself. “You asked.” He says quietly.

A beat of silence elongates into another, before you speak again. “When did it start?” 

That makes him pause completely. As if the question lands somewhere deeper than the others, as if he isn’t expecting you to suddenly explore the confession he just admitted to you. Leon’s eyes flicker to yours again, and you can see exactly the way his pupils dilate just by looking at you.

“Romania,” he says finally. “But before that… there was already something there.”

It’s a simple answer, but it changes everything completely. You knew deep within your heart what transpired in Romania. The close proximity. The easy camaraderie between the two of you. Until you got wounded, and he never left your side ever since.

“You’re telling me that this has been going on since then?” You find the courage to adjust your position, your hand falling flat near his own. Your fingers brush, and you inhale a sharp breath.

Leon doesn’t answer immediately, but when he does, it’s quiet. “I tried not to think about it.” he admitted. “I kept telling myself it was just proximity. It was just us and our shared missions.”

A humorless breath left him. “It made sense at first, until it didn’t. It was you getting hurt that changed things for me completely. I shouldn’t have waited around to watch you almost bleed to death to accept the fact that you and I, there’s… something there.”

“What does that mean?” You prod, your voice barely above a whisper in the quiet floor of your office. 

“It means… I stopped lying to myself about it.” He finally admits. It was only a couple of words, but it hit you more than it should have. 

Leon pauses, and then, “you know, I… I liked you back then.”

It knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You swallow hard, your heartbeat thrumming louder beneath your chest in his confession. You tried to ignore the way he says it—as if it’s in the past and nothing more in the present and the future, but it’s his next words that completely take your breath away.

Your eyes meet. There is a certain intensity in the way Leon looks at you, as if he’s trying to understand what’s going on inside your mind right now. His gaze searches yours, and you unconsciously bite your lower lip, to which his eyes follow the moment almost deliberately. 

“And I still like you now.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. 

Your heart feels as if there’s a bird trapped inside a cage, begging to be broken free from its confines. The words vanish from your tongue, and you know you should say something, but even forming a single syllable feels a great amount of effort from you right now.

Overwhelmed by emotion, you decide to do the one thing your brain has been telling you to do over the last couple of minutes. You lean up, your head tilting slightly as you push yourself towards him just a bit. Leon’s eyes widen when he sees you moving towards him.

“Don’t do something you’ll regret,” he whispered, and you can feel his warm breath fanning over your lips.

You look down at his mouth, before you gaze up at him. “Never.”

The space between you collapses on its own, and Leon’s defenses crumble before he can even blink. 

Then, without warning, you meet him for a kiss.

⤷ a/n: i've been in a slow burn mood lately, and this feels a bit similar to a fic i've written, but i think this is more direct to the point, which is also straightforward in its own way. i did enjoy writing this, so i hope you enjoyed reading it as well 🫶 it's a bit over the word count i initially intended to write, but i just couldn't help myself haha

anyway, i hope you guys like this one! let me know your thoughts in my asks or in the comments 🤞 i always look forward to reading all your thoughts, so please don't hesitate in sending/commenting/reblogging them!

my taglist is open if you're interested in being part of it, and i'm putting a pause on my requests for now. but if you want to stop by and chat, please don't hesitate! i'm working on requests right now, so i do have to hit pause on some of the requests i received in my inbox.

nonetheless, thank you so much again for reading and i hope you liked it 💗 sorry, this is such a long author's note 😅 anyway, have a wonderful day, wherever you are in the world! 💐

🔖 taglist: @rednnedy @eu4rialy @jqsjournal @ce98ne @itimisu @danigirls-missions @hugeblanket @midnightsummerrain @kennedysbbyy @achinglygentle @cakeofhorrors

note: dividers are from @/cursed-carmine.

clemenchives © all rights reserved.

[srenifty-deactivated20260522]

── ★ have to get this off my chest, im telling you today

miya atsumu x reader , atsumu tries to ask oblivious!you on a date

જ⁀➴ requested here!!

Atsumu had decided something important.

It was great—honestly, amazing—that you didn’t pick up cues from anyone else.

Because it meant the flirting that floated around you never stuck.

Not with the loud guys who tried to act casual. Not with the ‘accidental’ bumpers in the hallway. Not even with the way some people’s eyes lingered a beat too long when you weren’t looking.

To Atsumu, that was proof of two things :

You were safe.

You couldn’t be tempted.

So he told himself he didn’t need to try too hard—he could just be there, be himself, and let the universe do the rest.

Which is why it was so infuriating when his plan started failing anyway.

Because the moment he decided he wanted you to be his, he realized you were the world’s most committed oblivious person.

The first time it happened, he didn’t even mean to confess.

He just…got a little too bold. More than his usual self.

After practice, everyone was dispersing. You were packing up slowly, humming like the day was already over.

Atsumu leaned against the wall like he had no thoughts in his head.

Then he pushed off.

“Hey,” He said, grinning. “Ya free tomorrow?”

You glanced up. “Mm, probably. Why?”

He paused, then pointed at you like he was announcing a dramatic rule. “Because I’m taking ya out.”

Your face stayed neutral with absolutely zero romantic alarm. “Like…to eat?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu said quickly. “To eat. To hang out. In general.”

You nodded, already relaxing like this was normal best friend behavior. “Okay. What time?”

Atsumu’s smile faltered for half a second.

She’s not even suspicious. He thought, horrified.

He cleared his throat. “Uh…after school. Or—whenever ya get out. I’ll text ya."

You beamed. “Cool!”

Atsumu stared after you as you walked away.

He opened his mouth to say something—anything—then closed it again because he didn’t want to scare you.

He just figured : Alright. Easy. I’ll try again, but more obvious.

So he tried being more obvious.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The next day, he showed up early. Like, early early. He had snacks. He had a route picked out. He even had to look ‘casual’ while his heart went feral.

When you arrived, he greeted you like you were the main event.

“Heyyyy,” He said, voice extra sweet. “Ready?”

You shrugged on your bag. “Yep! Where are we going?”

He gives up.

Atsumu hesitated. “Ya don’t—like—feel it?”

You tilted your head. “Feel what?”

He gestured vaguely at everything—the carefully picked out snacks, the attention, the fact that he was acting like a boyfriend for absolutely no reason.

“Like…” His ears warmed. “That I planned this fer ya.”

You smiled, completely earnest. “You always plan things for me.”

Atsumu’s soul left his body.

“Yeah,” He said faintly. “But… I’m serious serious.”

You laughed. “I know you’re serious, ‘Tsumu.”

He stared. “Yer not hearing me.”

“I am!” You said, then added, “You’re asking me to hang out, right?”

You continued, completely oblivious. “But you’re calling it ‘taking me out,’ so it sounded more like a hangout. Are we doing something fun-fun? Or like… study-fun?”

Atsumu pressed his palm to his forehead.

He muttered, voice strained. “Please. Please let me take ya out, I mean it.”

Your blink was slow. Like, processing a math problem, slow.

He groaned. “Not the way ya think!"

You frowned, thinking. “Okay…so how do you mean it?”

“I mean…” He swallowed. “I mean—if I say I want to spend time with you…I—'cause I like ya.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then you smiled like he’d just said something sweet and normal.

“Aw,” you said. “I like spending time with you too.”

Atsumu stared.

“I mean—” You added, sincere as ever. “You're my best friend!”

Atsumu’s entire body went still.

Then he laughed once. A short, desperate sound.

“Okay,” He said slowly. “Yer not pretendin' not to get it, right?”

“No?” You said. “Why would I—”

“Because,” He interrupted, helplessly pointing at himself, “I’m literally handin' ya the clues, and yer just—”

You looked genuinely confused now. “I don’t understand.”

Atsumu inhaled through his nose.

“Okay.” He said, voice quiet but determined. “New plan.”

He straightened up, grabbed your hand—just for a second, guiding you toward the place he’d already picked.

“Yer gonna come with me,” He said, softer. “And if people come up to ya, ya tell them to go away.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He smiled, like this was the easiest request in the world.

“Because if ya let other people flirt, yer gonna make me have to fight them.”

You stared at him. “You’re jealous?”

Atsumu paused.

He could’ve lied.

He could’ve played it cool.

But he was already failing spectacularly anyway.

So he just nodded.

“…Yeah,” He admitted. “I am.”

Your expression softened, and you finally—finally—looked like you felt something.

But you still didn’t turn it into romance instantly. You just looked up at him and asked, gentle and curious.

“Do you want to be more than best friends?”

Atsumu’s breath caught.

“Oh my god,” He said, laughing with relief and terror at once. “Yes! That’s what I’ve been tryin' to say.”

You smiled, shy now. “Then you should’ve just said that in the first place.”

Atsumu pressed a hand to his chest like you’d murdered him with logic.

“I did!” He insisted.

You laughed. “You were being dramatic.”

“I was being clear!”

“…A little.” You admitted.

Atsumu leaned closer again, the desperation finally turning into something bright.

He said. “So, will ya let me take ya out on a date?"

You nodded. “Okay.”

He grinned like the world had finally given him the one thing he needed.

a/n - you guys love oblivious!reader so much 💔

જ⁀➴ haikyuu!! masterlist, masterlist

[heich0e]

"c'mere."

katsuki was so... normal all evening. so subdued. dinner with your friends was nice in a familiar, comfortably unremarkable way. everyone who gathered around the table at the restaurant had chatted happily, getting each other up to date on any developments in their personal or professional lives. jokes were made about the high school days, and failed romantic endeavours (mainly denki's), and tenya's new haircut that he doesn't quite like.

then the bills were paid, and rides were arranged, and katsuki walked you to the car with a hand on the small of your back.

it was normal. everyone was normal.

but now katsuki's like this.

he has you pinned up against the wall just inside the barely-closed door of your shared apartment before you can even take off your shoes. his mouth is hot on yours, licking messily into your mouth in a way that makes you dizzy.

"katsuki, wait—oh!" your head thumps back against the wall behind you as your boyfriend hitches one of your legs up around his waist and grinds the defined musculature of his upper thigh between yours.

"done waiting," he grunts out quietly against your parted lips, pressing your bodies even closer together.

this isn't like him; the freneticism, the almost stifling haste with which katsuki is trying to devour you. he's usually more reserved than this. more trepidatious. katsuki has always treated you like you were precious. too precious, you sometimes think. like an antique sake set made of porcelain so fine that it could shatter in a too-tight grip—like something he couldn't afford to break.

"what's gotten into you?" you ask as katsuki's mouth trails white-hot down your throat towards your collarbone, the kisses he presses against your skin searing as he moves on to the next.

his only answer is to slip his hands up underneath the skirt of your dress, hooking his fingers underneath the waistband of your panties and tugging them down your thighs.

"katsuki!" you gasp in surprise as the cool air kisses the slickness of your newly-exposed skin.

the pad of katsuki's thumb brushes your clit, and your knees nearly buckle.

"katsuki, stop."

it's quiet after you push him away from you, the air heavy as you laboriously draw it into your aching lungs.

katsuki stands at arm's length, frozen in surprise. in spite of his strength—overpowering you in every possible physical way—he hadn't resisted you in the slightest when you instinctively pushed against him. if anything, he'd willingly taken the step back to give you the distance you need.

he looks at you though his lashes, his chin tucked down towards his chest, half-hurt and half-guilty.

"sorry," he says quietly, mumbled through pursed lips as he shuffles another half step back.

your hand shoots out towards him, grabbing him by the lapel of his unzipped jacket.

"hey," you say, equally quiet but less sheepish than his own words. "don't do that."

katsuki lets you pull him back into your space as effortlessly as you'd pushed him away. you like it when he's close like this. like when that soft, sweet sort of smell that always clings to him envelops you too.

"i'm happy to let you take off whatever article of my clothes you want, i'd just like to take my shoes off first," you say to him, so close your lips are almost brushing. the tops of katsuki's cheeks are rosy, and his lashes are fluttering as he listens to your words. you smile a little. "if that's not too much to ask."

katsuki helps you out of your heels, and then clings to you all the way down the hallway into your bedroom where the two of you go toppling into bed. your boyfriend is normally militant about not letting 'outside clothes' into the sheets, but he says nothing about either of your outfits on the soft cotton as he pulls your body on top of his.

but nothing about katsuki is normal tonight. you've already figured that much out.

you just can't quite understand why.

"you're raring to go tonight," you say with a laugh as katsuki's hands slip up under your dress again, this time with you ensconced upon his lap. your panties are somewhere in the genkan, so this time there's no barrier between his touch and your skin.

"what's wrong with that?" katsuki bites back, but even in his snark he's still soft with you. deftly, his hands slip around to the back of your dress, sitting up so the two of you are chest to chest in bed, and tugs the zipper of the garment down. the material slips down your arms until the dress is left pooled around your waist, nothing but your bare skin left on display. it's hard to make out the colour of katsuki's eyes in the dark, but it's impossible to miss the desire in his gaze as it traces over your newly exposed chest. "what's so wrong about me wanting you?"

you pause for a moment as you consider his unexpectedly earnest words. "there's nothing wrong with it," you finally reply, reaching up and tracing your fingers through the blonde hair at his temple. "it's just a little weird."

"weird?" katsuki echoes, but his repetition sounds incredulous.

he uses a hand on the small of your back—just like how he'd walked you to your car after dinner, but this time a bit more forceful—to pull your body back against his. you brace your hands on his shoulders as you sit in his lap, staring down at him.

"i've been in love with you since we were fifteen," katsuki says. it's ardent. insistent, even. like he's desperate for you to understand. "i've wanted you since we were fifteen. there's nothin' weird about it."

you blink. a little dumbstruck. a little lovesick.

and suddenly you understand his behaviour a little more. it's all a bit clearer.

you dip down, pressing a featherlight kiss to katsuki's lips. then another; deeper and longer.

"you were feeling nostalgic, huh?" you murmur breathlessly against katsuki's mouth, cupping his face between your palms. his cheeks are burning hot underneath your touch. it makes butterflies lick in the pit of your stomach.

you'd caught katsuki's eyes on you a few times tonight at dinner, but really hadn't thought much of it. at one point you'd moved seats to chat with momo about her upcoming wedding (and to admire the ring on her finger) and more than once you'd met katsuki's gaze from the other end of the table where he was seated with the boys.

katuski kisses the back of his teeth, tilting his face away from you slightly.

"fuckin'... izuku said something earlier that just..." he seems to be struggling to find the words. you give him the time he needs. "said some sappy shit about growin' up. about how we all ended up happy."

you feel a twinge in your chest as katsuki mumbles the admission. he's struggling to meet your gaze, and instead leans his forehead against your chest.

"and i looked at you across the table, 'n i just... i kept thinkin' about being a fifteen year old brat staring at you across a classroom. kept thinkin' about how he'd never believe it if i could tell him how we ended up."

it's quiet for a moment as katsuki holds you. and you hold him. the hot, hot flush of his face against your bare skin.

"fifteen-year-old you probably would've tried to kick thirty-year-old you's ass."

katsuki laughs, a warm wash of breath breaking against your skin.

"yeah, probably." he nods, finally lifting his head. he stares up at you, his hands patting gently up and down your back. he smirks a little. "woulda popped a boner at the thought of seein' you like this, too."

"so the two of you have that in common, huh?" you tease him, wiggling your hips a little in his lap where proof of your accusation presses against you.

katsuki kisses you to hide the smile on his face, twisting both of your bodies to lay you down against the soft sheets of your shared bed that katsuki dutifully launders every sunday. he slips your dress down your hips to leave you bare, and tugs his own t-shirt off to join it on the bedroom floor soon after.

"katsuki?"

the man suckling a bruise into your throat groans a little at your quiet call of his name. "if you push me away again i'm gon—"

"i love you too, y'know."

you feel him swallow hard, his face still tucked into the crook of your neck. his hands are trembling a little—just like the first time he touched you, a few years after graduation when your paths crossed again. you can feel his heart thundering in his chest.

your own beats just as loudly underneath it.

because fifteen year old katsuki wasn't the only one sneaking glances across the room. and katsuki isn't the only one who feels so grateful about how you two ended up happy together.

[mintmatcha]

restaurant au where bakugo is the tattooed kitchen asshole who you LOATHE... but you're also insanely attracted to because he yells at customers who yell at you

[mintmatcha]

a table called you a fucking idiot and he ripped their plates off of their tables SO forcefully that their waters spilled everywhere-

and it was the sexiest thing a man's every done for you

[mintmatcha]

i have been thinking and I think he tragically has a girlfriend who he CONSTANTLY has blow up arguments with and does NOT like you at ALL

[mintmatcha]

cw: smoking, fighting, reader has dietary restrictions

You and Cami find each other behind the restaurant. You vape in hand, her with a cigarette. She says nothing when she lights up, leaning against the stone wall of the restaurant. You lean against the dumpster and try to make yourself small. The silence before the storm of service-- you both savor it, despite the fact she doesn't even fucking work here. No, Cami comes to watch the shitshow and add fuel to the fire.

The back door swings open and Bakugo steps out. He's a dream, blonde hair slicked back with sweat, white shirt dotted with sweat.

"Yo- family dinner's in the back." He nods to Cami, then finally, tragically looks your way. He nods, casual, nonchalant-- neither of you are trying to poke the bear.

"There's a special one for you to the side."

"Nice." You try not the smile, but it happens anyway. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

On cue, Cami sighs, much too vocal to be natural. She waits a moment, then does it again-- then again. Bakugo tries to walk away, but with every grumble he slows, until he's turning back around with a groan.

"What, Cams? What is it?"

"Nothing." She looks away, mouth screwed into a little pout. It's unfortunately cute, something she pulls off naturally well.She holds her cigarette between two lithe fingers, twirling and twisting it in clear demonstrations of thought.

"Jesus fucking Christ-- what?"

It's awful how beautiful she is, how even her sneer is stunning.

"You didn't cook me anything special," She brushes her hair over her shoulder. "You never make anything for your own fiance."

Fiance. God, that word stings a bit. His grandmother's ring sits on her finger, shined to a perfect glimmer.

"Are you fucking--? I made you dinner last Sunday and you didn't even fucking eat it."

"Oh, but you said it was dinner. Just dinner. It wasn't-" She glowers at you. "'Special.'"

"Do I have to label everything fucking special for you? Is that it? Cami needs to feel special?"

"No, you just have to stop calling the things you make for other girls special."

"She has food restrictions, you absolute psycho." Bakugo groans as he leans over himself, hands on his hips like he's about to vomit. "You're giving me an ulcer. I make dinner for my whole fucking staff-"

"So, I'm not as important as your staff? Really?"

"Cami, what the fuck is wrong with you?" The vein in his neck is thick with anger, "You need to get a fucking therapist, I swear to god-"

"Go fuck yourself, Katsuki." She's screaming now, voice to high and cracked that you jump at the sound. "I hope you fucking choke and die."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He sucks in air through his teeth. "Starve, I don't give a fuck."

"You-" Cami starts, but is quickly cut off.

"I don't give a fuck!" Bakugo breaks. He's screaming too now. "I don't give a single fuck, Cami!"

Before he turns, he looks your way one more time, and you swear he looks sad. Then, the door slams behind him.

"You know he goes home and fucks my brains out after we fight like this, right?"

It takes you a second to process that Cami's talking to you.

"Excuse me?"

"It's foreplay." She takes a long drag, then breathes out all at once. It's halfway done, but she drops the cigarette to the ground and lets it smolder. The ember burns crimson against the macadam. "He yells and screams and then fucks my brains out all night."

Hearing it hurts, but this isn't new information. He loves her enough for a ring-- you never thought you'd be competition to that. Her eyes narrow when you don't respond. "You think you're winning with this nice girl act, don't you?"

She leans against the wall again, arms crossed with a smug satisfaction. "Well, he doesn't like nice girls, he likes cunts like me."

You walk back towards the restaurant, then stop just in front of her, chin tilted high. She doesn't blink, doesn't flinch, not even when you bend over and pick up her cigarette butt. In a smooth motion, you smush it against the wall beside her, extinguishing the flame before tossing it into the make shift ashtray beside her.

"I don't think I'm winning." You wipe your hands on to your pants as you speak. "But I think you two are both losing."

[cam-leaf]

Oh you ate this up mint

[meanao3thoughts]

i genuinely think that any reader of fanfiction should write and post something once. not just because it would really illustrate to them the amount of work it takes and how terrifying it can be to bare yourself to the internet and how disheartening a lack of interaction can be, but also how fun and exhilarating it is. how amazing some kudos or a single comment can make you feel for weeks. this account is for being mean, yes, but i cannot stress how consistent and wonderful a hobby writing fic has been for me since i was a young teen.

[singse]

suggestive | aang x gn!reader

summary: you make a big discovery after a passionate night with aang.

The morning finds you all nice and pleasantly sore with a quiet ache in your muscles. It had been a wonderful evening last night, one that ended with you cockdrunk and sobbing as Aang groaned his pleasure into your mouth.

Recalling those memories has you squeezing your thighs together, body heating as it remembers how his hands grasped and held you. How they left bruises shaped like fingers on your hips and thighs. How they sent you into a daze that had you incapable of higher functions.

You hide your warm face into your pillow, a wide smile curving your lips, before you're getting yourself up and out of bed. Your knees wobble a little, a testament to Aang's power, and you try your hardest to ignore last night's essence dripping down your thighs.

You also try not to think about how hot that feels because you need to get ready. Aang has, most likely, been out of bed since the break of dawn and left you slumbering because he's a sap who finds it hard to disturb your sleep.

But you have things to do; Katara wanted you to accompany her into Central today and—

Your foot catches on the lifted up corner of the rug in the middle of the room. You're stumbling forward with a yelp, unable to find your balance because Aang had to wreck you so hard your legs are too weak. The wooden floors are getting closer as you fall and you close your eyes, bracing for impact when...there's none.

Slowly, you open your eyes and see that you're...levitating. Just floating there, above the floor.

Your first thought is Aang and you turn to look for him but he isn't there. No one is here in the room with you, especially the only person in the world who can manipulate air like this. Your brain struggles to come up with a reason for this but nothing makes sense.

Aang is the only airbender and you don't have ability do bend air.

So how on earth is this happening?

You stare at the floor, wishing you could stop floating and suddenly, your body's on the floor.

You're back on the floor.

Because you wanted to stop floating.

A crazy thought whirls through your mind and you sit up quickly, eyes wild as you look for something to test this seemingly impossible theory. You spot the book on your bedside table, stare it down before flicking your wrist.

The book opens and a few pages turn with a gust of air.

Your jaw drops.

You...can airbend.

---

Aang is in the middle of talking with the Air Acolytes when he feels it.

The soft caress of air against the back of his head.

He ignores it, concentrated on answering a question when it happens again.

Except this time, it's a hard push of wind that hits him like a smack.

"Ow!" Aang shouts as he rubs the back of his head, brows furrowed. The Air Acolytes look at him funnily, causing Aang to wave them off. "It's nothing. It's just...it felt like I was being slapped by..." A big revelation hits him. "...Air."

Immediately, Aang turns around with an all too familiar hope in his chest. That hope that often tricks him into believing that there is another airbender out there. That he just hasn't looked hard enough to find them.

The first thing he sees is you, standing a few feet away with your arms crossed and an unreadable expression on your face.

That hope diminishes like blowing out a flame but is replaced by the bursting joy of seeing you. He excuses himself from the Acolytes, starts running towards you because it's been too long without having you in his arms.

But then he watches you fall into a familiar bending stance and Aang barely has time to be confused when the air is pulled up underneath his feet. He acts fast, using the air to steady himself and Aang is about to ask you what's wrong when it clicks.

And it must be visible on his face because you're grinning at him.

"...You...airbending?" Aang asks in disbelief and you nod happily. "How?"

You shrug but there's mischief in your eyes. "I have my theories but I can't, in good conscience, say them out here." You then wiggle your brows. "Let's just say you entering the Avatar State during certain activities has some crazy side effects."

Aang stares at you, still in disbelief, until your words sink in and his entire face turns a lovely dark shade of pink.

You laugh loudly, delightfully amused.

"Come on, Avatar. We have a lot to talk about.