Game Changer & Make Some Noise
Claire Keane
macklin celebrini has autism
occasionally subtle
sheepfilms
Fai_Ryy
tannertan36
★
almost home
Xuebing Du
Sweet Seals For You, Always
tumblr dot com
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
NASA
hello vonnie
if i look back, i am lost
Love Begins
EXPECTATIONS
shark vs the universe
Andulka
seen from United States
seen from Chile
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seen from Brazil
seen from Poland
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seen from Russia
seen from Türkiye
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@gojosbigboobies
Moon !! 26 │ she/they │ JJK / HSR / LADS / GENSHIN │ ENFP !!
BLOG RULES │ MASTERLIST │ REQUESTS │ AO3 │ COMMISSIONS
Minors and ageless blogs please DNI │ leave any questions in my inbox!
primarily gojo based │ i love writing monster smut! │ lets be moots!
A SOOTHERS GUIDE TO TAIMING MONSTERS MASTERLIST
finally working on the next chapter of a soothers guide ♥ my lil hiatus is over, going to be adding those who asked to be on the taglist to it today <3
i might revamp my blog theme soon, i also need to rework my masterlist & work on the next chapter of a soothers guide.
i just needed to take a break from writing for a bit 🙂↕️ i love u all!
soothers guide.... your brain.... its so huge big sexy and wrinkly ... by God the amount of surface area you're packing up there..... I owe you my life for this gift you have given me.... may your pockets always be filled and your monster smut stash overflowing
AHHH thank you!! Hehe I’m so glad you enjoyed, I’m seriously loving writing the series so far my weakness is writing monster smut!! I wanted there to be something for everyone 🙂↕️
I remember having the idea driving home from the grocery store with my wife and getting SO excited about it since we were discussing cool visual novel ideas & one of those ideas became a soothers guide!!
I adore your user btw!! I love HSR!
☆ put this star in the inbox of your favorite blogs. it’s time to spread positivity ! 💫
(ik you’re busy so don’t worry if you don’t have time to respond/participate in this!! i just wanted to remind you how beloved you and your lovely works are <33)
thank you em!!! you're one of my faves too ♥ it made my day to login and see this in my inbox!
Please don’t rush! Take your time beloved, we got you <3
thank you lia!!! you're the best ily! <3
sorry for not really being around much and responding to comments and stuff, i've kinda been going through it mental health wise.
ty to my moots who rbed my commission post & those who show love to my work it really does mean the world to me
i should be back to my usual workflow soon hopefully, i'm so excited to write my next oneshot & working on the next chapter of a soothers guide ♥
sweet surprise │ mahito x f!reader │ wc: 6.6k │ sfw no major tags, just some fluff!!
this is my part of @cactusvolumes underrated secret collab for @heavenlysnail !! ♥
It was almost midnight when you and Mahito decided to go to the convenience store.
The store near your apartment was almost empty at this hour, the way it always was with its harsh fluorescent light buzzing overhead, washing everything in a pale, slightly artificial glow that made the colors of the packaging of each item look wrong. The fridges hummed. Somewhere outside, the subway rumbled through the ground beneath your feet, and a car passed on wet pavement.
It was the kind of quiet that only existed at this hour, when the city wasn’t asleep as much as it was paused.
You crouched in front of the refrigerated dessert section for far longer than any normal person probably should have, one hand resting against your knee, the other tucked into your sleeve against the cold drifting up from the open shelves below. Pudding cups. Parfaits. Slices of crepe cake stacked in plastic clamshells. Strawberry shortcakes wrapped in their cheerful packaging, mascot grinning at you from each one.
You had always loved sweets, considering them one of the few joys in life.
Mahito lingered nearby with all the restless energy of a stray cat pretending not to follow someone home though the two of you both knew well enough that he was always on your heels.
He wandered aimlessly down the aisle at first, picking random products off shelves only to put them back a second later, but you could still feel his attention lingering on you no matter how disinterested he tried to appear.
Eventually he crouched beside you, elbows resting loosely against his knees as he peered through the glass.
“You’ve been staring at these for almost six minutes now,” he said lazily, looking at you, at your focused expression as you debated between strawberry shortcake or a chocolate eclair.
You glanced sideways at him, your eyebrow cocked. “Were you timing me?”
“I was getting bored,” he groaned, crossing his arms and resting them on his knees, pouting at you like a child who wasn’t getting his way.
“You say that like it’s my responsibility to entertain you,” you said, rolling your eyes, turning your head to look at him properly.
Mahito grinned at that immediately; quick and sharp and altogether too pleased with himself.
“Isn’t it?” he replied, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Isn’t that the point in having a girlfriend?”
You rolled your eyes and reached past the front row, fingers brushing past the closer cups for the one specific one tucked in the back. It was a strawberry shortcake parfait, layered layered with whipped cream and sponge cake, half-hidden behind a wall of identical containers. “This one’s good, I used to eat it when I was a kid.”
Mahito tilted his head slightly, studying the label with visible suspicion, his mismatched eyes scanning the large yellow smiley face with a top hat printed across the packaging..
“The mascot is smiling,” he said, pointing, an almost disgusted look on his face.
“…Okay?” you responded, shooting him a look.
“Why do humans insist on putting faces on food packaging?” he asked, pouting again.
“It’s cute.” You said, smiling slightly, looking back down at the smiling mascot.
“It’s unsettling.” Mahito said, his voice flat
“You literally reshape people into monsters.” you huffed, narrowing your eyes at him.
“That’s different.” he whined, rolling his head back. “That mascot is creepier.”
You snorted before you could help it.
Sometimes Mahito said horrifying things with the same tone someone else might use to comment on the weather.You still weren’t sure whether that made him easier or harder to be around, but you had somehow grown to love the man so you didn’t mind it.
You grabbed a second dessert from the shelf - that chocolate eclair you had been eyeing - before standing again
“Come on,” you said. “I’m not standing here debating pudding ethics with you all night, I want to keep watching that show.”
Mahito followed behind you toward the register, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie while he looked around the convenience store with open curiosity, his gaze drifting from shelves of instant noodles to brightly colored candy displays with the same quiet fascination he always seemed to carry whenever he was observing human behavior.
Not understanding it, studying it.
The cashier barely glanced up when you approached the counter, as you paid with a quick swipe of your card.
Soon enough you were standing back outside in the warm summer night.
Rain threatened overhead, the air heavy with humidity, neon signs bleeding faintly across damp pavement.The bag rustled against Mahito’s hip as he fell into step beside you.
Mahito took the plastic convenience store bag from your hand before you could protest, a soft giggle escaping his lips.
“You walk too slowly,” he said, already walking ahead.
“You don’t even need to carry it.” you grumbled, walking faster to catch up with him.
“I know,” he said with a shrug, still grinning.
“Then why take it?” you asked, finally walking beside him.
He glanced at you sideways, expression unreadable for a fleeting moment before he shrugged.
“It’s what boyfriends do right?” he asked, his head tilted to one side.
You let out a soft puff of breath before nodding. “Yeah, they do.”
The answer shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did, the flush that creeped up your neck was harder to hide with the lighter clothes you had picked out because of the heat. Yet he didn’t say anything about it.
The walk back to your apartment passed quietly after that, though silence around Mahito never truly felt empty.
Sometimes he acted almost normal. Other times he looked at people like they were puzzles waiting to be taken apart. Tonight felt dangerously close to the first.
By the time you reached your apartment, rain was falling in slow uneven droplets, the first one cold against the back of your neck as you climbed the stairs - a reaction which of course made Mahito giggle.
Mahito kicked his shoes off carelessly near the front door - the left one always landed under the entry table, you’d stopped trying to correct it months ago - and sprawled across your couch like he’d lived there for years instead of appearing unpredictably whenever he pleased.
“You’re getting water everywhere,” you muttered while setting the desserts on the coffee table.
“You say that every time,” he whined, still not bothering to move.
“Because you do it every time.” you scolded, yet your voice had no real bite to it.
You sat cross-legged beside him and pulled the plastic spoon from your parfait while Mahito watched with interest, his chin propped lazily against one hand.
Not watching the dessert, but instead watching you.
You noticed that more often lately. Right now, for instance - the way his eyes tracked your fingers as you peeled the lid off the parfait, slow and careful so it wouldn’t spill. The way he registered, without comment, that you scraped the strawberries off the top first because they were your favorite part. Small things most people would never think twice about, he seemed to catalogue.It was unsettling at times, but you’d come to enjoy it. Sometimes it felt intimate in ways you didn’t know how to process.
“What?” you asked, blinking at him, your spoon still in the air, held out in offering.
“You smiled before you even tasted it.” he pointed out, one of his long fingers pointing towards your face.
“That doesn’t mean anything.” you said, with a puff of breath.
“It does.” He leaned slightly closer, blue eyes fixed on your face with unnerving intensity. “Humans react emotionally to food long before they actually consume it.”
You sighed. “Please don’t psychoanalyze my grocery shopping.”
“I’m not analyzing you.” His grin widened slightly. “I’m analyzing humanity.”
“That somehow sounds worse.”
Mahito laughed softly beneath his breath before finally taking the spoon you offered him, for a moment he simply turned it over between his fingers as though considering the concept itself before scooping up a bite of strawberry cream and cake.
You watched him bring the spoon to his mouth, and something in your chest pulled embarrassingly tight at the sight of it. Mahito eating a convenience store parfait. Mahito's mouth closing around the plastic edge of a spoon you'd just used. The mundane shape of him in your apartment after midnight, the dampness of his hoodie sleeve against your knee.
He chewed slowly. Slower than he needed to. His eyes flicked up and met yours mid-bite, and you realized he was watching you watch him - measuring, like he always did, the exact shape of what you wanted from this moment. You looked away before he could finish the calculation. It didn't matter. He'd already done it.
You watched him expectantly despite yourself, watching for his reaction, you wanted him to like the same things you did and Mahito noticed immediately. His eyes flickered toward you before he slowly swallowed.
“You’re thinking too hard about cake.” you said, picking up your own spoon and taking a bite.
“I’m thinking about the reasons why humans like it so much.” he said almost dismissively.
“Because it tastes good?” you said, taking another bite.
“That’s not enough of a reason.” he huffed.
You stared at him flatly. “You are exhausting to talk to.”
Mahito ignored that entirely with a roll of his eyes. “Children get sweets as rewards,” he continued thoughtfully while taking another bite. “Adults buy desserts when they’re stressed. Couples share them during dates even though they’re perfectly capable of eating separately. Humans attach emotional significance to sugar.”
“You sound insane.” you said with a pout.
“I am insane.” he said, laughing loudly, his eyes scrunching up at the corners.
The answer came so quickly and so matter-of-factly that it caught a laugh out of you before you could stop it. Mahito’s gaze lingered on your face immediately afterward.
There it was again, That look.
Not quite confusion, not quite fascination. Something quieter - you hated how difficult he was to read at times.
“You’ve eaten this before,” he said after a moment.
“Obviously.” you said, rolling your eyes.
“No,” he replied softly, eyes narrowing slightly as though piecing something together. “You eat this specifically when you’re tired.”
Your spoon paused halfway to your mouth “…What?”
“You only buy strawberry shortcake after difficult days.” he said, studying your face, gauging your reaction.
“How would you even know that?” you asked, putting your spoon back in the cup.
Mahito shrugged one shoulder lightly, though his attention never left your face. “I pay attention, you’re my girlfriend I’m supposed to pay attention to you.”
The simplicity of the answer made your chest tighten, your cheeks flushing again - because he did. Mahito noticed everything about people whether he wanted to or not, collecting information piece by piece until he understood exactly where to press to make them react.
Rain tapped steadily against the windows, soft and rhythmic against the quiet apartment while the city outside blurred beneath neon reflections and wet pavement.
Mahito leaned back further into the couch cushions, one knee brushing yours absentmindedly.
“My body doesn’t actually need food,” he said after a while.
“I know.” you said, shaking your head.
“But humans do.” He tilted his head slightly. “Which means eating is inherently vulnerable.”
You snorted softly. “Only you could make dessert sound threatening.”
“I’m serious.” His smile returned slowly. “Humans have to constantly indulge themselves just to survive. You’re fragile.”
“And yet somehow you’re the one eating convenience store parfaits on my couch,” you said, finally scooping more cake into your mouth.
Without really thinking about it, you reached toward him a few minutes later and brushed a smear of whipped cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb.
The movement happened automatically - instinctive. The second you realized what you’d done, your stomach dropped.
Mahito went completely still.
His fingers closed around your wrist before you could pull away - not rough enough to hurt but fast enough to make your pulse stumble hard against your throat.
For a second you didn't breathe. Your other hand was still gripping the parfait cup against your knee, the spoon forgotten somewhere beside you. His fingers were warmer than you expected. They always were - he ran warm in a way that always surprised you, considering what he was. You could feel the careful precision of his grip, the way he was holding you exactly hard enough to keep you there and not one degree more. He could have crushed your wrist. He wasn't.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Mahito’s gaze dropped to your thumb - to the cream which still smeared across the pad of it - and lingered there longer than it should have. Then it lifted to your face, slow.“That,” he said quietly, “was very human.”
Heat crawled uncomfortably up your neck. “You had something on your face.”
“I know,” he said with a smile.
“Then why didn’t you wipe it off yourself?”
Mahito’s thumb brushed shifted against the inside of your wrist. He found that soft place where you knew he could feel your heart hammering, and he simply paused there. Settle. Not stroking, just resting. As though he wanted to simply feel the rhythm of you against his fingertip.
“I wanted to see if you would.”
The rain. His thumb. Neither of you moving. You could hear yourself swallow, and you knew he could hear it too - could feel it through your pulse where his finger rested. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. He’d already told you the truth, and now he just wanted to see what you’d do with it.
The honesty in his voice unsettled you far more than teasing would have, because Mahito never lied. He tested people constantly, pushing and pulling at invisible boundaries just to see what they would do, and somehow, without realizing it, you had started participating in those little experiments right alongside him.
“You’re weird,” you muttered.
He didn’t reply, only scooping more cake onto his spoon and chewing with a smile.
At some point Mahito shifted closer without either of you acknowledging it. His shoulder settled comfortably against yours. One of his legs slid over yours, and you adjusted your weight without thinking about it, making room for him the way you always did, the way your body had learned to do without consulting you.
It should have felt invasive, instead it felt normal. Dangerously normal.
“I think I understand something now,” he murmured eventually, voice quieter than before as rain continued tapping softly against the windows.
You glanced sideways at him. “What?”
Mahito lazily traced invisible shapes against your knee with his thumb, attention fixed somewhere beyond the apartment windows where neon lights blurred against wet pavement. “Humans like things that make existing feel softer.”
The words caught you off guard enough that you stared at him for a moment, trying to decide whether he was teasing you or being genuine.
Mahito noticed immediately.
“There’s that look again,” he said, lips curving slightly.
“What look?” you said, your cheeks still hot.
“The one where you start treating me like a person instead of a curse.”
Your chest tightened faintly.
Before you could answer, Mahito leaned forward just enough to steal the last bite of strawberry cream directly from your spoon, smiling afterward when you glared at him.
“That was mine.” you whined, staring into your now-empty cup.
“You were hesitating,” he replied easily. “Which means you didn’t really want it.”
“That’s not how that works.” you said with a pout.
“Hm.”
He rested his head against your shoulder a second later with complete disregard for your complaints, arms loosely wrapping around your waist while he settled against you with the sort of absent intimacy that had long since become second nature between the two of you.
For someone who claimed not to understand humanity, Mahito had become embarrassingly good at seeking you out whenever he wanted comfort.
hi guys, me and my wife have ran into some financial issues so I've re-opened my art commissions!! you can find my prices & work on my vgen! <- I am only accepting commissions through my vgen
I'm also open to writing commissions as well, if you're interested please shoot me a dm!
I'm putting some examples of my work below as well!
Underrated Secret Collab Masterlist
A special collaboration event organised by yours truly entirely in secret (aka off tumblr), centred around writing for 'underrated' characters (defined as characters with 400 or less fics posted for them on AO3) - with particular emphasis on Mahito and Hanami because..
This was done particularly special in honour of @heavenlysnail, one of my dearest friends, who always seems to love the characters who get the least love
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Fanfics
Primping and pruning by yours truly ✩°˖ Hanami x GN!Reader
Terrorising by @cursedkisss ✩°˖ Mahito x GN!Reader
Fic name pending by @suganoms ✩°˖ Kirara or Hakari
Fic name pending by @claryeverlarkf ✩°˖ Mahito x GN!Reader
Fic name pending by @getorade ✩°˖ Shoko
The Witch and I by @lunulatalux ✩°˖ Hanami x GN!Reader
Fic name pending by @jiyuspassion ✩°˖ Hanami, Yorozu, Kenjaku
Fic name pending by @queenmimi2817 ✩°˖ Mahito or Hanami
Fic name pending by @yoonsucks ✩°˖ John Kaisen x GN!Reader
Fic name pending by @yoonsucks ✩°˖ Todo x GN!Reader
Fic name pending by @mononijikayu ✩°˖ Dr!Shoko x PT!Reader, Fem!reader
Fic name pending by @augennn ✩°˖ Uraume
Sweet surprise by @gojosbigboobies ✩°˖ Mahito x Reader
Fic name pending by @caramelluxe ✩°˖ Noritoshi, Yuki or Shoko
Fic name pending by @Kcandy-flosz ✩°˖ Hanami or Mahito
Fic name pending by @lilithkleia ✩°˖ Hakari x GN!Reader x Kirara
Fic name pending by @rosiestrudel ✩°˖ Kenjaku
Art
✩°˖ Mahito art by @paninsoup
SYNOPSIS ᯓ★ After months of cold shoulder from your boyfriend, the relationship finally comes to an end when a Reddit post spiraled into your best friend’s orbit, and the poster? Your own boyfriend. The embarrassment and shame brought onto your name began tumbling when he thinks you will come back —like you always do, he quotes— to him. However, this time your best friend had a plan in mind to prove your snobbish ex-boyfriend wrong. To set you up with her friend . . . Who is also going through a messy break up scenario of his own.
PAIRING ᯓ★ nerd! gojo satoru x fem! reader
TAGS ᯓ★ does not follow the original jjk plot . suggestive content . no smut (it is implied that gojo and the reader had sex, but will not be described) . gojo and the reader are in their 20s . pokemon lover gojo . gojo is a middle school student teacher . cursing . mentions of sex . naoya cameo . romcom stuff . fake dating . mentions of cheating (not done by gojo or the reader) . shoko cameo . suguru cameo . loneliness . slow updates
TAGLIST 𐔌 0 / 50 , open 𐦯 ᯓ★ . . .
NOTE ᯓ★ divider credits to @kthice & art credits to @dewbiscuits , logbook div made by me (raaaahh) ⟡ this is a rewritten version of my old CAITA, there will be a lot of changes in the plot because I didn’t like the original one when I reread it. Just a little reminder that this one will probably take longer, especially with my thesis and graduation coming up. Then I would actually have to find an actual full-time job and not internships (j#b, ew). Anyways, I really hope that everyone will like the new version of CAITA. Thank you for following the story up until this point sjkjkdjdkjs, enjoy!
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ℘rologue ， chapter one ， chapter two ， chapter three ， chapter four ， chapter five ， chapter six ， chapter seven ， more to be added ♡
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა side stories . . . tba
© v3is, 2026 ﾒ do not copy, reconstruct, or upload on another platform + do not feed my works into AI.
Fae satoru/ reader Bound By Silver & Sun │ Chapter 2 - memories │ WC: 5k
<< chapter 1 │ masterlist │ chapter 3 >> │ A03
Sunlight was the first thing you saw when you stirred, warm and golden as it filtered through the uneven panes of glass. The beams caught on the hanging crystals scattered throughout your room, splintering into shards of color that danced across the walls and ceiling in slow, shifting rainbows. For a quiet moment you simply lay there, watching the light move.
Then you turned your head, your gaze landing upon him.
Clemantis slept beside you, curled defensively into himself, knees drawn close and arms tucked in as though bracing against something even in rest. He looked smaller like that, less like a broken man and more like a whole person. Fragments of rainbow light flickered across his pale cheeks and snowy lashes, glinting faintly against the curve of his brow.
He was truly so beautiful.
And he looked peaceful - genuinely peaceful - his forehead smooth, the constant crease of worry absent for once.
You decided to let him sleep
Carefully, so as not to disturb the mattress too much, you slipped from beneath the covers. You dressed quietly in a simple pair of leggings and a green tunic pulled from your dresser, tying your hair back before easing out of the room and closing the door with a soft click.
You had things to do today - boots to buy, fabric to begin dyeing, small preparations that would slowly turn this house into his home too - an existence less lonely.
It felt… nice.
Working for someone else. Making something with intention.
You had always enjoyed helping others despite your prickly demeanor. It was not simply kindness. It was purpose. It was the shape your life had taken long ago.
You had not truly lived for yourself in a very long time.
The thought made something twist in your chest. Selfish, you scolded yourself softly. As though wanting anything beyond service was indulgent.
You had to make the trip into town. Before leaving, you scribbled a note in neat handwriting, leaving it beside his head.
“Clemantis
I have gone to town to buy you boots and some fabric. I will be back before 10. Please do not worry about my absence.
There is bread wrapped in navy cloth above the hearth and jam stored in a pink pot on the third shelf. Help yourself.
There are books in Fae on the messier shelf. Feel free to read whatever you like.
Your healer.”
True to your word, you returned before the morning had fully come to pass, the sun still climbing. The front door opened with a familiar wooden creak as you stepped inside. A spool of white cotton and a length of deep velvet floated obediently behind you, suspended in gentle arcs of magic, while you balanced a box tucked beneath one arm.
“I’m back. Did you eat?” were the first words out of your mouth as you stepped across the threshold, your footsteps soft against the hardwood floors.
Once you had pushed open the door he was sat there, a book on his lap as he sat perched on the edge of the old leather sofa, posture slightly hunched in concentration.
“Oh, I love that one. It was my favorite when I was a girl.” You said, kicking off your boots to step into the house proper, your feet padding across hardwood to meet him in the living room, the spool of dark velvet drifting neatly into your waiting hands. You held it up so the light could catch it, the fabric rich and deep - purple, just like he had asked for.
“Is this the right shade of purple? I saw it and thought it would be nice to make you a waistcoat. It will look pretty with some silver embroidery.” The velvet lifted from your palms and hovered in the air beside them as you placed the box gently into his lap. “Boots. I had to estimate your size, but I can use magic to resize them if they do not fit properly.”
“The purple is perfect, Thank you,” He said softly, his lips curling into what was almost a smile.
“Boots, I had to estimate your size, I can use magic to resize them if they don’t fit right,” you said, your head tilting to one sid
He just watched, those eyes like summer watching you as you babbled on about fabrics.
“I picked some that were closest in style to the Summer Court,” you added, lowering yourself to sit beside him. “It is not exact, but it is close.”
You watched him with quiet anticipation, your smile soft.
“I am thinking of embroidering the tops with your favorite flowers, if you would like that.”
"Moonflowers," he said quietly, his thumb tracing the material where embroidery might go. "They bloomed in the palace gardens at night. They were - they were my mother's favorite. I always thought they looked like they were iced onto their stems by a patisserie chef."
“Moonflowers.”
You nodded, your smile softening. “They grow in the garden in the fall. I hope you are here long enough to see them.”
Moonflowers.
Your grandmother had always said they grew where magic gathered thickest. Often they bloomed near the homes of moon faeries, drawn like a natural response to their presence. Pale petals that only unfurled beneath silver light, luminous against the dark.
They were beautiful flowers. Quiet. Luminous. Delicate - so full of life.
You could understand why Clemantis loved them - why his mother must have loved them too.
The thought stilled you.
Was his mother still alive?
It was not a question you voiced. Not yet. But you tucked it carefully away in your mind. You had one or two connections scattered across the Courts. A white-haired fae of the Summer Court was rare enough that someone would know of his family. It would not be impossible to ask without drawing too much attention.
A short silence followed and then Clemantis spoke again, "You mentioned a bath last night? I would appreciate that."
“A bath, yes,” you continued lightly, shifting the topic before the silence grew too heavy. “We do not have running hot water here. I am still trying to find the right spell scroll for it. So for now, we bathe in the stream.”
You set the fabrics down on the low table and turned on your heel, walking through the house toward the sun room. The large glass doors creaked softly as you pushed them open, stepping out onto the stone patio that wrapped around the back of the house.
In full sunlight, the garden was breathtaking.
It was early spring, yet color already flourished in careful abundance. Shades of lavender, cream, and gold brushed against one another in layered beds. Pink camellias swayed gently in the breeze, their petals trembling like silk. Fresh green shoots climbed trellises and curved along stone borders. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and something sweet just beginning to bloom.
You glanced back to see if Clemantis followed and smiled when you saw that he did.
At the edge of the patio, the stone gave way to the stream where it deepened. Clear water rushed lazily past, fed directly from the mountains rising behind the house. It caught the sunlight and shattered it into moving ribbons of light across the riverbed.
“It is quite cold,” you warned, amusement flickering in your tone. “But once you are in, you will not feel it as sharply. I can cast a warming spell to dry you afterward.”
Clemantis simply nodded, following behind you like a lost lamb.
You knelt by a large wooden chest near the ledge and opened it. From within you pulled a thick, fluffy towel, several small bars of soap wrapped in waxed paper, a jar with a sealed lid, and finally a soft washcloth.
“Soap and shampoo,” you explained, arranging them neatly along the stone. You lifted the jar slightly. “And in here is conditioner. It will keep your hair soft.”
You hummed to yourself as you stepped back inside briefly, returning moments later with a wooden sewing box floating behind you and a pair of large, gleaming silver scissors hovering at your side.
“I will sit here and keep watch,” you said simply.
Settling yourself on the edge of the patio, you let your bare feet slip into the icy current without so much as a flinch. Fabric lifted into the air before you, suspended by invisible threads of magic as the scissors began to slice clean, precise lines. Your brow furrowed in concentration as you adjusted measurements, reshaping pieces midair with small flicks of your fingers.
Clemantis undressed without a second thought, modesty forgotten in the rush to undress and get clean. His tunic was folded. The trousers folded. Set upon the stone with that same mechanical precision.
You watched for a moment, at the lack of shame he had for his own nakedness, after all, privacy had been nothing but a luxury for him for so long.
He was still for a moment, simply watching the slow and steady movement of the water, at the fish that swam beneath the surface before they flickered towards you, towards how comfortable you already looked, a grounding presence.
The water cold water crashed over Clemantis and he drew a quick breath through his teeth, a soft noise that you chose not to acknowledge. After a few heartbeats and after the initial shock, he settled into the current and let it move around him.
He washed methodically, starting at his wrists where the iron burns still marked him, working inward and across his body, washing away dried blood.
His long fingers went to his hair, untying the bun that it had been kept in, letting long silvery strands fall from their confines, falling around him like ribbons. He worked it through the length carefully, feeling the weight of it in the water, white strands fanning out around him like pale roots.
His gaze flickered towards you, and at the scissors floating in the air beside you.
After a few quiet minutes, you sensed it - the hesitation. Your eyes shifted subtly, catching the way his gaze lingered on the scissors. There was something sharp in that look.
“Do you want to borrow them?” You asked, already waving your fingers, the fabric laid out on stone and the silver in your hands.
“Would you cut it for me?” Clemantis asked, he gathered the length of his hair at his shoulder and held it there for a moment, “Please.”
“Okay, I’ll cut it.” You responded simply, gathering your skirts and tucking them into your belt then stepping into the cold water. It didn’t bother you so much anymore, the initial shock was maybe half a second before you waded through the water towards him and hummed.
His hair was long, It spilled over his shoulders and down past his thighs, a river of white that caught the sunlight and shimmered like fresh snow. It was long and straight, only the faintest curl at the ends where it brushed the water’s surface. You had known it was long from the bun he had worn, but seeing it unbound like this was something else entirely. It made him look even more otherworldly, like something carved from winter itself.
“Kneel?” you asked gently. “It will be easier if you are taller than me.”
Clemantis knelt, The stream pressed cold against his shins as he lowered himself, water swirling around his waist, yet another choice he had made.
It was a request, never a command.
When he lowered himself, your slender fingers reached forward, careful and deliberate. You gathered the heavy strands, letting the wet silk of it slide between your fingers. For a moment you simply held it there, feeling its weight.
Then you made the first cut.
The sound was soft but decisive. Long white tendrils slipped free and fell into the stream, carried away instantly by the current. They drifted downstream without resistance, vanishing like something finally released.
He watched the white strands drift and vanish. The stream took them away, heavy memories he could hopefully move on from.
Your grandmother had always told you that hair held memories
That everyone carried something with them, that hair was always one that remained unless it was cut.
Clemantis, you suspected, carried memories of a different kind.
How many years weighed in that length?
Cutting it now was ridding him off that burden.
You continued cutting with care, shaping the white river into something lighter. The scissors moved steadily while your free hand guided the strands into place. Gradually, his hair shortened to rest in soft waves around his shoulders. When you stepped around to face him, you tilted your head slightly, studying him through narrowed, thoughtful eyes.
You gathered the length that fell across his face into your hands and trimmed it cleanly, letting it settle just against his forehead.
You drew back.
A breath.
And then you smiled.
“It suits you,” you said softly. “You look more free, it suits you.”
Your fingers brushed lightly along the side of his face, adjusting a stray strand near his cheek. The gesture was gentle, absent of hesitation now.
Then an idea came to you.
“Do you want a braid like mine?” you asked, your tone brightening slightly. “I weave mine with magic. It carries a protection charm connected to my grandmother so she always knows whether I am alive or not. It could be the same for you.”
There was no pressure to your offer, only a sincere want.
“You’d feel my magic and I’d feel yours - safety.”
It was obvious he held some anxiety - years of trauma did that to you. The fear of being exploited, hit, or worse.
You guessed that he feared the danger that he would bring you, that the house he has come from would come after you, the fact that he could not sleep alone was enough proof to you, and you wanted to give him something, something that would ease that constant anxiety that he felt.
To survive something so horrible was not always a mercy.
He exhaled slowly.
"You give freely," he said, and there was something careful in his voice, not accusation but genuine bewilderment, in his own reserved way where he did not express so deeply and only had slight changes to his tone. "In my experience, generosity of this nature is... rare. I do not fully understand it yet."
A pause. The stream moved around them both, cold and constant.
"But I would like the braid. Yes."
His gaze met yours and held there with an openness that cost him more than you would know.
"I think I would like to feel safe."
“I do give freely,” you said softly, your free hand curled slightly, and a dark blue cord lifted from your sewing kit, floating into your palm. It was so deep a shade it was almost black, but silver fibers shimmered faintly within it, like stars suspended in a night sky.
Binding magic was what you knew best.
To bind things together. To draw a thread from one object to another, from one life to the next, and knot them so cleanly that even time struggled to fray the connection. It came to her as easily as breathing, as naturally as the tide answering the moon.
Your grandmother had once told you, when you were very small and your power had first begun to show, that it must have been something you had done in a previous life - something so significant that it had followed you into this one. Magic like that did not appear without reason. It echoed.
You had never questioned it. Not the past self you could not remember, nor what that version of you might have chosen to bind.
To bind meant permanence in a world where everything else slipped through fingers like water.
Permanence brought you comfort.
“Because I am like you,” you continued quietly. “Giving is all I have. It is simply in my nature to give. I have no reason to take from others, nor the desire to.”
A soft breath left your nose.
The truth of it sat heavy and familiar inside you. You were, in many ways, a selfish creature - one who had never learned how to live for yourself, only how to pour yourself outward.
You began to braid.
The thread wove seamlessly through the pale strands of his shortened hair, guided by steady fingers. Quiet whispers in Fae slipped from your lips, the syllables soft but precise. The air seemed to thrum faintly as you worked. That subtle connection Clemantis had felt before strengthened, warm and steady. The magic of the moon maiden rose around you - bright but gentle, constant like the celestial body that lent your power.
He could feel it.
Your life force brushing lightly against his own, not invasive, not consuming - simply there. A steady pulse.
“You will always be safe as long as my heart beats,” you murmured. “That was my vow to you. Not just healing.”
When you finished his braid, you knelt fully across from him. Without breaking the rhythm of your quiet incantations, you drew a small lock of your own crimson hair forward and began braiding it with the same dark thread. Your fingers moved with identical care, weaving the silver-flecked cord through your own strands.
Clemantis’ magic was faint - a flicker, fragile but present. You could feel it now more clearly where it brushed against yours.
Like something cocooned.
Waiting.
A soft smile curved your lips, warm and unguarded.
“There,” you said gently when you finished, lifting your own braid and letting it rest in your palm. The air between them hummed faintly, an invisible line stretching from one to the other. “Can you feel it?”
Your eyes met his - deep and endless blue, like the summer sky, or like the ocean whenever the sun danced upon it.
"I can feel it," he said quietly. "It is... warm. Steady."
A pause. His hand lowered.
"You speak so familiarly with me. I was not always a giver, My Lady. Perhaps I have been molded into one more than you realize." His voice was even, clinical almost, the way one describes a wound rather than a feeling. "I do not know what I am now. But I know this...feels right.
“Nobody is ever born a giver, Clemantis, we only become givers when the world has taken too much from us.” You said softly, your eyes crinkled at the corners.
His gaze moved to the braid at your temple - the first one, your grandmother's - and then back to your eyes.
"You honour me more than you know. I will try to be worthy of it." He let out a deep breath and then rose from the water then, slow and deliberate, the stream releasing him with a quiet rush. The cold air met his skin and he did not shiver.
"What comes next?" He stepped out properly, moving to wrap himself in a towel, gather his garments, then nod to you, "Is there a place I should leave these? You mentioned a warming spell?"
“Yes, a warming spell, after that I’ll gather you a clean change of clothes and get your boots,” you said with a nod, climbing out of the water your bloomers soaked through.
You glanced down at yourself, then at him, and a small breath left your nose.
“Yes… we are both soaked.”
You lifted one hand, fingers curling slightly as if you were feeling for something invisible in the air.
“Hold still,” you said softly.
The words were not a command - more like a quiet warning.
Magic gathered the way it always did around you, slow and steady, like the pull of a tide beneath the surface. The air near your palm shimmered faintly, the light bending as warmth began to build between your fingers. Your magic never burst into life. It spread gently, like heat from embers, constant and controlled.
A pale ribbon of blue-silver light slipped from your fingertips and hovered for a moment between you.
You turned your wrist, guiding the spell outward instead of toward just him.
The ribbon split in two.
One strand drifted toward Clemantis, coiling loosely around his shoulders before sinking into his skin, the cold vanishing wherever it touched. The other curled back toward you, winding around your waist and arms like a soft current of air. Damp fabric warmed instantly, the chill leaving your clothes in faint wisps of steam that lifted and disappeared into the morning light.
The magic spread until both of you stood in the same pocket of warmth, the air around you gently heated, like standing close to a hearth.
Your shoulders relaxed slightly as the spell settled.
“There,” you murmured, lowering your hand. “That should be better.”
Droplets slid from your hair and vanished before they could reach the ground. The last traces of cold left your skin, replaced by a steady, comfortable warmth that lingered without burning.
You flexed your fingers once, shaking off the last threads of energy, the faint glow at your fingertips fading slowly.
Clemantis stilled the moment the warmth settled around him.
At first it was only a flicker of surprise in his eyes, his shoulders drawing in slightly as if he expected the cold to bite again. But it did not. The heat spread evenly through his skin, gentle and steady, sinking deeper until the ache in his bones eased and the sharp chill from the stream disappeared entirely.
A faint breath left him, slower than before.
He looked down at his hands, turning one slightly as if he expected to see the magic still clinging to his fingers. A thin wisp of steam lifted from his sleeve and vanished into the air. His brow furrowed, not in discomfort, but in quiet disbelief.
“…It is warm,” he said, almost to himself.
His gaze lifted to you then, studying your face with a careful expression, baffled almost as if his mind were struggling to comprehend that someone could give without taking.
There was no fear in it this time. Only confusion… and something softer beneath it.
“Boots and clothes, I’ll be one moment,” You turned without another word, the lingering warmth from the spell still resting against your skin as you stepped back toward the house.
You moved with purpose, already thinking through what he would need.
You went to the old chest again, pulling a clean shirt free from the stack and shaking it out once before draping it over your arm. A second motion gathered a pair of trousers.
You stopped for a moment, eyes lowering to the cloth in your hands as if measuring something only you could see.
“…These should fit well enough.”
You adjusted the pile over your arm, simple undergarments, a dark shirt and pants, maybe they’d be a little short on him, he was rather tall after all. That would require rehemming it, an easy enough thing. Unfortunately the only resizing spell that you knew only materials that came from animals, like leather. Those were at least the harder ones to adjust by conventional means, and just in case, you made sure you had fabric that would match the trousers well enough.
A small breath left you through your nose.
You turned back the way you came, back into your flower filled garden.
By the time you stepped outside again, the warmth from the spell still clung faintly to the air around you, the clothes in your hands already beginning to dry from the lingering magic.
“I brought these,” you said simply, holding them out toward him. “They are not exact, but they will do for now.”
Clemantis took the clothes from your hands with careful fingers, as though he expected them to disappear if he moved too quickly.
“…Thank you,” he said quietly.
For a moment he simply held the bundle, looking down at the unfamiliar fabric before setting his folded garments aside on the stone. The towel around his shoulders slipped slightly as he moved, and he caught it absently, drying his hands one last time before letting it fall to rest across the ledge.
He dressed the same way he did everything else — deliberately, with quiet precision.
First the shirt. He unfolded it fully before putting it on, smoothing the fabric once between his hands as if checking for flaws that were not there. He slipped his arms through the sleeves, pulling the cloth over his shoulders and adjusting the collar with small, practiced movements until it sat properly against his neck. His wing slid through the open back panel.
Then the trousers.
He stepped into them carefully, balancing without thinking, movements steady despite the uneven stone beneath his feet. You watched him closely, gauging his subtle reactions and, from what you could tell, he didn’t seem displeased. He was getting used to how it fit, but as he finally fastened it in place, he tugged at it lightly. After a studying frown, he nodded - it seemed it sat correctly enough and he smoothed the fabric along his waist.
When he finished, he stood still for a moment, hands lowering slowly to his sides.
The warmth from your spell still lingered, faint but steady, keeping the damp from returning to the air around him.
He looked down at himself once, then toward you.
“…It fits better than I expected,” he said.
A small pause followed, his fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve, feeling the texture like it was something unfamiliar.
“I am not accustomed to wearing things chosen for me without my appearance in mind.”
His gaze lifted to yours, expression calm, but softer than before.
“…I like it.”
You watched him while he dressed, your hands loosely folded in front of you, the faint warmth from the spell still drifting through the air between you both. Your eyes followed every small, careful movement — the way he checked the seams, the way he adjusted the collar, the way he stood still afterward like he was waiting for someone to tell him whether he had done it correctly.
When he said he liked it, your expression softened immediately.
“I am glad,” you replied, your voice quiet but warm. “I was not sure what you would prefer. You did not bring much with you, and I did not want you to feel like a guest in your own clothes.”
You stepped a little closer, not hesitating the way you might have before, your gaze moving over the fit of the shirt and the way the fabric sat across his shoulders.
Your fingers lifted without thinking, lightly tugging the sleeve down where it had caught slightly near his wrist.
“You hold yourself very straight,” you murmured, half to yourself. “It makes everything sit differently.”
Your hand lingered for a second longer than necessary before you let it fall back to your side.
“The boots should be inside,” you continued, more matter-of-fact now, as if the brief closeness had not happened at all. “I was guessing your size, so they may need adjusting. That is easy enough.”
You turned slightly, then paused, glancing back at him again.
“…If something feels wrong, you should tell me.”
A small breath left you, softer this time.
“You do not have to endure things just because they were given to you.”
For a moment you held his gaze, steady and sincere, before looking away again, brushing damp strands of hair back behind your ear.
“Come,” you said gently. “You should try them before the warmth wears off.”
TAGLIST: @belov3d-blak3 @dulcitabella @netherqueen23 @starlight5cat @caramelluxe @hartistasinombre !!
V if you wanna be added comment! minors and ageless blogs DNI V
Well hello there fellow monster fucker, it's nice to see other like me^^ Ah and your blog theme are very beautiful i love it🩵
hello!! thank you!! I always love to hear from fellow monster fuckers!! We're all in our freaky boat together!
I love your theme too! I love blue sm!!
uwu hi Moon, my new monster-fucking mutual 🩷 how r u ~ ?
hello fellow monster fucker of AMAZING TATSE!! I'm doing great! I've been playing tomadachii life all week :D how are you?
just had a great nap, let’s see if i can write
now Toji is done I wanna write a lil Ishigori drabble since there's hardly any fics for my king, but with that posted I'm going to bed, I love ya'll!
A soothers guide to taming monsters │ werewolf toji! x f reader │ 18+ mdni │ AO3 │ 10k
monster fucking │ size dif │ heat/rut cycles │ knotting │ claws │ piv │ oral (f) │ vaginal fingering │ rough sex │ biting, lots of biting │ creampie │ unprotected sex │ standard fare for a werewolf fic │ light angst │ marathon sex
Each job was different.
Just how everyone else was different.
No two bodies carried the same tells - no two minds unraveled the same way beneath pressure. It was written into the work, into the quiet expectation resting on your shoulders. To adjust. To read. To soften where needed and stand firm where it counted.
It was your job to help creatures of all walks of life.
And some… required more of you than others.
“A werewolf!” she chirped brightly from your shoulder, her small hands warm as they patted your cheek with misplaced enthusiasm. “The contract this time wasn’t actually posted by the client, but the local hunters guild. He’s in heat.”
“Oh?” you prompted.
“Yes,” Kanna hummed, shifting beside you. The scroll in her hands was smaller than usual - noticeably so, which was usually a bad sign. “No prior soother contact either, no pack. He’s classified as an unaffiliated werewolf.”
Of course he was.
Your gaze drifted ahead, past her, settling into the dense brush and tangled undergrowth. The forest here was dark and unruly, branches knitting together overhead until even the light had begun to dim.
“A werewolf in rut is already a dangerous contract,” you said after a beat, “Let alone one without a pack.”
You paused, teeth catching softly on your lower lip as you considered it - the absence of structure, of family, of a place to call home, of anything to ground instinct when it surged too far.
Werewolves weren't solitary creatures unless something happened to make one leave.
“Do you want backup?” Kanna asked, tilting her head to look up at you, her voice soft. “It wouldn’t be hard for me to call the guild and get you a second soother.”
You exhaled slowly through your nose, steadying yourself before answering.
“No, it’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle,” you said, a small grin pulling at your lips. You drew in a deeper breath, letting it settle into your chest. “I’ll follow protocol. Leave a trail, just in case.”
A beat passed before you spoke again.
“But I can handle this, I’m the best at what I do for a reason.”
You had to.
There was always a proper protocol for each species. Rules written in experience, in blood, in the aftermath of mistakes made by those with less experience.
For canid types, it meant the smallest details mattered than the larger ones.
No perfumes. No sharp or strong scents that might agitate already heightened senses. No sudden movements. No direct challenges or deliberate provoking.
Nothing that could tip instinct into something feral and endanger your life.
~~~
You adjusted your approach the deeper into the woods you went - you slowed your pace, letting your footsteps carry their weight against the forest floor rather than muffling them. Making your presence known as to not startle.
The first sign of his territory came maybe half an hour into the walk.
Claw marks.
They were deep gouges dragged through bark at head height - your head height. That meant whatever made them, if what reports you got from the hunters were correct, that the marks were left almost lazily, an arm half-extended at most. The wood beneath was pale and raw where it had been stripped, fresh enough that you could smell the sap and pulp.
You paused then, pressing your fingers into one of the grooves. Four lines, evenly spaced, deep enough that the tree had split along the grain. It wasn’t frantic from a hunt, it was precise. It was the height it was because you were supposed to see it.
This was the perimeter. A proper warning.
“Kana,” you said quietly, “This is where you go.”
Kanna simply nodded, her tiny head dipping once before she vanished into a soft puff of pixie dust, the faint shimmer of it lingering in the air for only a moment before the forest swallowed it whole, leaving you alone as you stepped forward into the thicker, darker stretch ahead. The silence settled in around you gradually, pressing into the space she left behind, stretching between the trees and sinking into the ground beneath your feet as you moved.
The canopy above was dense, branches woven tightly together, allowing only a few thin rays of light to slip through. They filtered down in pale strands, just enough to illuminate your path without the need for a torch
The air felt heavier here, damp and close, carrying the scent of moss, bark, and something sharper beneath it, something faintly metallic that lingered at the back of your throat.
You noticed more claw marks the deeper you ventured. Deep grooves carved into tree trunks, uneven and rough, some higher than your head. The further you went, the more frequent they became, layered over one another until they formed a clear warning without needing words, a message etched into the forest itself telling you to turn back, to leave, to stay away.
Your gaze lingered briefly on one of the deeper marks, your hand hovering near the splintered bark before dropping back to your side, your steps never faltering. You kept moving because you had to, because turning back meant leaving someone like this alone, left to endure something that could so easily consume him without guidance or care. The thought settled heavily in your chest, tightening something in you as you pushed forward through the undergrowth, steady and deliberate.
You knew what happened to unaffiliated werewolves during heat, knew how quickly instinct could spiral without a pack to ground it, without structure to hold it together, without anyone to step in before it became something worse. Your breath remained slow, controlled, your posture relaxed despite the tension coiling beneath it, your senses alert to every shift in the forest around you.
He needed this, needed help, needed someone willing to follow the trail of warnings instead of running from them, someone willing to step into the dark and not hesitate. He needed someone who understood what this meant, what it could become if left unchecked.
He needed you.
The clearing found you naturally, before you could realize it was there.
The trees finally thinned, the dense canopy pulling apart just enough to let the light spill through in pale, uneven shafts. It was small - ringed by old oaks, the clearing scattered with different wildflowers, the bright blossoms a welcome sight.
You set your pack down at the base of the widest tree, and stood in the center of the open ground. The wind was blowing towards the deeper woods, and you knew that it was only a matter of time.
So you waited, but not for long.
There was no sound to announce him. No branch snapped or leaf rustled from the slightest glancing touch of fur. There was nothing to suggest that something large had gotten so, so close.
One moment the clearing held only you and your own steady breathing, the next, the air behind you changed. A weight settled into the space at your back, close enough that you could feel warmth radiating from the air by the skin of your back before any other sense registered him.
You didn’t turn.
That too, was a deliberate move you had to make.
“The guild sent you.” His voice came low and flat, more statement than question. It carried a roughness that had nothing to do with disuse or lack of presence like some voices that were tired did - no, this was simply a voice that was raw and frayed naturally, rumbling in a way a landslide did. He was close. Far too close for someone who you didn’t hear, see, or smell coming.
“They did,” you said evenly, keeping your body still, your breathing measured. “My name is-”
“Don’t care.”
A beat of silence settled between you, a weight in the air that was the unmistakable scent of this creature’s musk - a sharp, animal-like scent living somewhere between fur, shaved wood, and blood.
You let the scent settle over you, adjusting to it.
He moved then, circling around your periphery with a slow, unhurried stride, and the first thing that struck you was the precision of him, his existence. No wasted movement, no idle tension - every single shift in his weight was precise and purposeful, like watching a blade drawn from a master swordman’s sheath.
He was tall, taller than even the file had suggested, and he was unmistakably human in shape. He didn’t have the hunched posture of many canid, no lupine distortion of his limbs or spine. He stood upright, carried himself like a man, but moved like something far worse. The wolf was there in some ways, threaded through him in ways that made the human shape of him feel like something he’d outgrown.
Dark fur spread across his body in patterns that followed the architecture of his incredible musculature - dense across his forearms and the back of his hands, tapering at his wrists where claws fingers flexed with an idle, restless energy like they could strike at any time, an intentional reminder, no doubt. The fur climbed up his shoulders in a thick mantle, trailing down his torso and the ridge of his spine but fanning out at the front before it reached his chest and hardened planes of his abdomen, where a defined human muscle remained as tanned skin. The legs carried the same dense fur, thickening until they eventually met bare, callous feet with the canid style high ankle, looking as though he walked on the balls of his feet and always ready to pounce.
A tail, long, dark-furred, heavy, hung low below him, swaying in a low deliberate arc. It was not any kind of friendly wag, instead a careful and slow measurement, reading the air with no doubt the same precision most beasts used their ears.
Then there were the ears themselves. Set high on his head, pointed and furred black, they always seemed to track independently of his gaze - sure they faced forward, but you could see the occasional flick at the rare noise that broke the eerie silence, no, respect from the forest itself.
His face though…that was human.
That caught you in a way you hadn’t expected, the feature that kept you stilled for half a second longer than your training should have allowed. Beneath all of him - the fur, the claws, the sheer animal presence which seemed to radiate from him like a forge - his face was that of a man. A sharp jaw, high cheekbones, a nose that had broken at least once and healed without anyone caring enough to set it. Dark hair was cut short, hanging just above his eyes, damp at the temples with sweat. His eyes were sharp, the pupils beady and color thin enough you could barely see they were green and not black themselves, and they held the flat, patient calm that had clearly learned that everything in the world was either a threat or not worth his time.
Now, he was deciding which you were.
A scar hooked the corner of his lip, pulling slightly when his expression shifted, seeming to be caught permanently between a smirk and a snarl. More scars layered beneath the fur where it grew thinner - a jagged line curving along his ribs, another bisecting his left shoulder, dozens were mapped across him in the pale seams of skin between dark hair. Even this creature in learning to be as powerful as it was had been wounded, the greatest of which seemed to be a half circle of evenly distributed circles that seemed to be the long healed bite wound from something that could have once threatened to take off a third of his torso at the side.
What in the world could have done that to something like him?
His body was a record to violence so extensive each mark or scar seemed to stop being an impressive detail and instead became texture on him.
Everything about him was functional, honed, pared down to nothing but purpose. Nothing of his appearance was vain, he simply looked like what happened when something was designed exclusively to end things and then left running far past its intended use.
And right now, all of it was pointed at you.
He stopped a few feet away, weight settling onto one hip with a casualness that seemed out of place, until you saw that it didn’t reach his eyes. His tail swept once behind him, slow and heavy, then stilled.
“Leave,” he said, his tone almost bored.
“No,” you replied, just as simply. “You know why I can’t leave.”
The wolf raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you, something sharp and assessing settling into his gaze.
“You need help,” you pointed out, hands resting on your hips, your stance steady, unyielding in a way that did not invite argument so much as it dismissed it entirely.
You had been trained for this, shaped into composure, into stillness that did not crack under pressure. Fear had no place here. These people did not need screaming or panic, did not need another voice adding to the cruelty the world had already handed them. Whatever had driven him here, whatever had carved those marks into the trees and left him alone in this state, it was not something that would be soothed by hesitation or tears.
“Your pack. You aren’t with them,” you added, tone even, matter-of-fact, as if you were simply stating something obvious rather than stepping into something personal.
“Aren’t you supposed to be smart?” he shot back, his voice edged, a low sweep of his tail cutting through the air behind him. “Drop it.”
You exhaled quietly, shaking your head once. So you had been right. He had left them, or been forced to, though the reason still sat just out of reach. There was nothing about him that suggested weakness, nothing that hinted at shame. No, whatever had severed that bond had likely been something deeper, something rooted in stubborn pride rather than failure.
“I’d break a woman like you,” he said, lifting a clawed finger to point in your direction, the motion slow, deliberate. “You’re too soft. Not built for a man like me.”
He wasn’t wrong. You were human. Smaller. Softer in all the ways that mattered at a glance. But this was your work, and you were good at it, your confidence in your skills was a well earned feat.
“Toji,” you said, his name gentle on your tongue, your voice lowering rather than rising. Your knowledge of the name seemed to surprise him, his head tilting in a barely perceptible canid way. The hunters that went to him weren’t completely wasted in their efforts, “You understand the medical reality, right? What it means to have a prolonged rut without proper release.”
He huffed, a short exhale that stirred the air between you. Not agreement, not quite, but attention. He was listening.
“Escalating aggression. Mood swings. Cramping, swelling,” you continued, each word placed carefully, deliberately. “You’re uncomfortable, aren’t you?”
He lifted his chin in a small, almost reluctant nod, one of his ears twitching at the admission.
“The most dangerous part is the risk of mental collapse,” you went on, steady, unflinching. “If more people get hurt, they’ll send real hunters. Not the kind that negotiate. Muzzles. Sedatives. Containment. And even if you keep pushing through it like this, it won’t stop. You’re only dragging it out and hurting yourself for no reason.”
The sound that left him then was not anger.
It was laughter.
Rough, sudden, edged with something almost impressed as his lips curled into a sharp, amused smile. “You’ve got a mouth on you,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly as they dragged over you again. “Confident.”
He moved before you could respond, his steps slow, measured, the padded weight of them barely disturbing the forest floor as he circled you. Watching. Assessing. Those green eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, probing for weakness, for hesitation, for even the smallest fracture in your composure.
There was none for him to find.
You stood where you were, breathing steady, shoulders loose, gaze forward, letting him look his fill without reacting, without giving him anything he could use.
He came to a stop in front of you again, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned slightly closer, drawing in a slow breath. The fur along his neck shifted faintly, a subtle ripple betraying interest, curiosity, something more instinctive threading beneath it.
“Fine,” he said at last, tail flicking once behind him. “But it’s my territory. My rules. My terms.”
His gaze held yours, something sharper settling into it now, something that felt almost like a test being laid at your feet.
“You get one chance,” he added, voice lowering just slightly. “Otherwise, you’ll be lucky to get away.”
You let his warning settle between you without contesting it. There was nothing to be gained by matching his energy. Not now, not when the first real crack had already shown itself in the simple fact that he had said fine at all.
Instead, you moved.
Not toward him. Toward the wide oak at the clearing’s edge where you’d left your pack. You crouched, unbuckling the flap with practiced hands, and began pulling out what you needed. A wool blanket, dark, tightly woven, large enough to lay flat across the ground and still fold at the edges. Two canteens of water. A roll of clean linen. A tin of salve. A glass bottle of oil, warmed by the walk.
There was a grace to even this kind of ritual. Soothers needed to be practiced in many ways and, in truth, there was a great deal left to learn for you. You could practice the fine ways to perfectly move and maintain that gracefulness for simple acts like intimacy, massage, emotional regulation, and yes, even packing a bag and breathing for years. You managed more than well enough though.
You spread the blanket at the base of the oak, smoothing it flat with your palms, arranging the medical supplies at its edge in the same configuration you always used - water within arm’s reach, medical kit beside it, oil closest to center. The order mattered less than the muscle memory, after all, if your hands knew where everything should be, even psychoactive effects from a client wouldn’t stop you, and much less a conversation with someone to get them into the right head space.
Toji watched. He was clearly not one of those clients.
He hadn’t moved from where he stood, weight still cocked onto one hip, arms still folded. But his ears had shifted; they were angled forward now, tracking the small sounds of your work with an attention his posture was pretending he didn’t have. His tail hung low and still behind him, which told you more than movement would have. Stillness in a canid meant focus. He was deciding something.
You didn’t rush. A client like Suguru might have enjoyed you narrating the purpose of each of your tools, find comfort in it, but you felt that Toji already could guess it well enough. He could smell what the oil was, what the salve was for. Explanation would have been condescension, and condescension with a creature like him would cost you more than silence ever could.
That was a lesson you had to have drilled into you early on. Being comfortable in silence is one of the more important skills, and yes, there was a skill involved in it, a Soother can have. That was especially apparent when the weight of the stare from the self-admitted expert at killing felt so, so heavy.
It alone had a presence you could feel. Thankfully, it wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even predatory now, not in the way the file had warned you to expect. It was simply unwavering - the fixed, unblinking attention from a being that learned long ago to track every moving thing in its environment because anny of them might try to kill it. You were simply the only thing that was moving.
That was not a way to live, but you knew that that was not a choice most creatures had the luxury of avoiding.
So, you decided to change the dynamic of the engagement. You reached into the side pocket of your pack and pulled out a wrapped bundle of dried venison. Dark, salt-cured, dense enough to give it a slow, satisfying chew. You’d packed it specifically for this.
A feral in rut was most often running on adrenaline and hormones with nothing to blunt that edge. Their every sense would demand them to solve this burning need to reproduce in them. Hunger would sit beneath that aggressive need like kindling beneath a fire, ignored but able to add more fuel to the blaze. Addressing it by offering food without expectation or transaction caused a different hormonal response in a canid.
It was a feeling older than the rut, older than the flight response. It was a feeling from a part of the brain that remembered what it meant when another creature fed you instead of fleeing or fighting with you.
You could only hope that instinct existed in this exceptional case.
You held the bundle out to him, unwrapped, resting flat on your open palm.
He looked at it. Looked at you. His expression didn’t change, but one ear flicked backward in a micromovement you almost missed. Either that was irritation, or, you hoped, a genuine surprise that you’d considered it.
He took it without a word. His clawed fingers closed around the strips with a precision that bordered bizarrely on delicate despite the sheer size of him, his hands, his claws. He ate in the same way he moved, in that efficient, unhurried, but never wasted way. There was no savoring, no acknowledgement. Just fuel taken in because it was offered and his body knew it needed it even if his pride and heat refused to acknowledge it.
It served a second purpose you were grateful for. His focus shifted, fractionally, from you to the act of eating. The air between you loosened by a degree so small that anyone untrained wouldn't have felt the difference. But you did. That tight wire of attention - the one that made the space between you feel like standing inside a drawn bow - slackened just enough that your shoulders could settle without him reading it as weakness.
You used the time to finish arranging. Checked the blanket's edges. Tested the ground beneath it for roots or stones that might bruise under weight. Unstopped the oil long enough to confirm it hadn't thickened from the cold, then sealed it again.
When you looked up, he'd finished. His hand dropped to his side, and the stare was back, but different now. Fractionally. The raw edge of it had dulled from a blade of a sword to a blunt instrument of violence, still heavy, still assessing, but no longer searching for a reason to send you away.
"How long have you been out here alone?" you asked.
His jaw tightened. The scar at his lip pulled, "Long enough."
"Before the rut?"
"Does it matter?"
"It helps me understand what you need."
He exhaled through his nose - not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. Something between the two that lived in the back of his throat. "What I need," he repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. His tail swept once, slow. "I don't need anything. I handle what comes."
"And before, in the pack?" you pressed, not hard, but steady. It was a necessary press, the way you’d have to use force to work the deeper knots out from muscle, firm enough to find the shape of it without forcing through.
His eyes cut to you. Sharp. The fur along his shoulders lifted a fraction, a ripple of tension that traveled down his spine before he forced it flat.
“I was useful,” he said, flat. Final. It was the kind of answer that closed a door and bricked up the frame behind it. “That’s all anyone needed me to be, so it’s all I was. Now I’m only used for my own needs. Got a problem with that?”
You held his gaze and said nothing for a moment. That silence absorbed what he’d said, shaping it into something softer, more vulnerable than he intended.
Useful. Not valued. Not wanted. Useful the way a sword was, a tool kept sharp and fed and pointed at whatever needed killing until it broke or was replaced.
He hadn’t chosen for you to come here. The guild had sent you, and he’d agreed on terms that still made it clear he was ready to harm you in a moment’s notice if met his needs. Despite that, he had agreed, regardless of how tenuous. That mattered. Beneath the refusal, the posturing, the warning that you’d be lucky to get away, something in him had looped at an open hand not bitten it.
That was the opening you needed. That was where you started.
You rose to your feet, brushing the dirt from your knees, and faced him fully. Then you bowed. It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t subservient. It was a deliberate, measured incline of your head and shoulders that indicated formality but never fragility and deference.
“Thank you,” you said. “For your patience. And your willingness.
His brow creased. The expression was subtle, barely a shift, but you caught it, that confusion threading through with something he didn't seem to know what to do with. People begged before a sword, but they didn't bow to it. They certainly didn’t thank one.
You straightened, and as you did, you let your chin lift just slightly higher than neutral. For a being like him, it wasn’t a challenge, but an offering. The barest exposure of your throat - the pulse point, the vulnerability - held there for exactly long enough that the canid part of his brain would register it before the human part could dismiss it.
You stepped forward. The distance between you was less than an arm’s length. His warmth hit you first; he ran hot, hotter than the file had estimated, the kind of deep-tissue heat that spoke of a metabolism built to fuel something extraordinary. The musk was stronger here, sharp and animal, underlaid with something almost metallic, but you adjusted to it. It was simply him, the scent of a body that never learned to be anything but ready.
You raised one hand, slowly, and placed it flat against his chest.
His heartbeat hit your palm like a fist.
It was forceful. A deep, driving rhythm that pounded against your fingers with a strength that shouldn’t have been sustainable, even for a werewolf. The muscle beneath your hand was dense, layered, radiating that heat which seeped into your skin and settled in you. He was a furnace, burning fuel that would have killed anything less than what he was.
He was stronger than you’d calculated. Significantly so. The hunters hadn’t been lucky to escape. They’d been lucky to survive, given the chance to by the being before you.
Toji.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t flinch from that feeling. If you had, if your hand so much as trembled in the wrong way, then the restraint that he worked hard to keep would be strained hard by something older, less kind. Prey flinched after all. Prey ran. The predators of the wild that chased it did not ask questions.
You would not be prey to this man. He needed something stronger, something new.
So you held.
His hands came up.
They hovered at the edges of your body, not touching but close enough that you could feel the displaced air where his fingers hung. You looked at them, those massive claws and dark fur that ran across the knuckles, the sheer scale of them.
In them, you saw the tremor. It was fine. Barely visible. A vibration running through the fingers that lived deeper than muscle, deeper than the rut that made his hormones and instincts flare without his want. It was deeper, somewhere in the coiled center of him that had spent so long wound tight it had forgotten any other way to exist.
You realized what it was. He wasn't shaking because he was afraid of hurting you. He was shaking because his body couldn't reconcile the distance between what it wanted and what it had been trained to do, which was never to want at all.
You reached up and took his wrists.
His muscles locked under your grip in reflex. The tendons in his forearms stood taut beneath the fur, thick as the ropes of ships, and for one breath he was completely still in the way that large predators were still before they struck.
You guided his hands down, placing them on your waist. You held them there, your fingers wrapped around his wrists, your thumbs resting against the rapid flutter of his pulse.
You didn't let go. You held them there until the rigidity in his arms began to ease, until the claws that had curled inward softened against the fabric at your sides, until he could feel that you were solid beneath his hands, that you were warm and whole and choosing to stand here with his grip on you, that you weren't afraid of what those hands had done or what they were capable of doing.
The sound that came from him was certainly involuntary.
Low, rough, pulled from somewhere behind his sternum. Not a growl, not a word. Something between a breath and a wound. His fingers tightened on your waist, pressure that flared sudden and sharp enough that you felt the points of his claws dimple the fabric before he caught himself and loosened. His jaw clenched. The scar at his lip pulled tight.
"Don't hold back," you said. Your voice was steady. Quiet. Certain in a way that left no room for misinterpretation. "Be measured, but don't restrain yourself. Your strength isn't a problem. It's something I can work with."
He went still.
It wasn’t the coiled ready to strike stillness like before, but something different. Something that cracked open behind his eyes for just a moment - raw, not vulnerable, but exposed, like a nerve laid bare by a blade he hadn't seen coming. You'd found something. A wound he didn't know he carried, buried so deep beneath the scar tissue and the muscle and the years of being nothing but a thing that was used that he'd forgotten it was there.
"No one's ever said that before," he said. His voice was lower now. Stripped of the boredom, the affected disinterest, the careful architecture of not caring. What was left was rough and plain and more honest than anything he'd offered you yet.
"Then everyone else was wrong."
He held your gaze. His pupils were blown wide now, the green reduced to a thin, bright ring around black. His grip on your waist shifted, not tightening but just moving to feel another place on your back. The quality of it changed. The restraint bled out of his fingers and something else took its place, something that had intent behind it, direction, want that had stopped apologizing for existing.
His breathing changed. Deeper. The rigid architecture of his shoulders, that tension he wore like armor plating, the constant readiness to fight or run or kill, softened by a degree. Not gone. Not even close to gone. But altered.
His body stopped fighting itself and started moving toward what it needed.
His hands, now freed from your guiding touch, moved with a different kind of purpose now. They slid from your waist to your back, spanning the width of it with ease that reminded you just how large he was, the heat of his palms seeped through your clothes like a brand. He pulled you closer, not roughly but inexorably, closing the remaining distance between your bodies until you were pressed flush the furnace that was him.
You let him. This was the threshold, the inevitable shift from negotiation to engagement, and your body needed the signal that it welcomed the crossing.
But you also needed to prepare one more thing.
“Wait,” you said. Not a command, no, a request, spoken against the fur of his chest where your face had ended up. You placed your hand flat against him again, a reassuring touch. “One last thing to set up. Then, I’m yours.”
A low sound rumbled through him, patient, but he released you. His hands dropped to his sides and his claws flexed ones, a rough canid equivalent of grinding teeth.
You moved to the widest oak of the clearing’s edge, the one where you’d already staged your supplies. Your hands ran over the trunk - it was solid, old growth, roots deep enough that it wouldn’t shift under your pressure, and hopefully his. You positioned your back against it, testing its surety, then, satisfied, then grabbed a second, smaller blanket from your bag and placed it where your back would arch naturally against it, tying it down with a thin rope. It was makeshift, but functional.
The tree wasn’t a luxury. It was a necessity.A creature with his strength and mass, moving with the kind of force the rut would demand of him, would drive an unbraced body into the ground within minutes. Your blanket was nice, but the oak gave you something to push against, something to absorb the impact so your skeleton didn’t have to. It also kept you upright, facing him, which mattered for a different reason.
It would keep your mind anchored. The physical intensity of a normal canid lycanthrope encounter could overwhelm the senses to the point where rational thought dissolved into something purely reactive, and you could not afford to lose yourself. Not with him. Not when maintaining control was the only thing that kept this safe for both of you, and potentially others if he reacted adversely to this going poorly.
He watched the whole process with his head slightly cocked, one ear forward, one angled back. It was an assessing look. Something in his expression shifted, the confusion became a flicker of recognition. He understood what the tree was for, and of course knew more than anyone exactly what he was capable of.
"Your clothes," he rumbled, the words more vibrations than sound, something you felt radiate from the air between you before it reached your ear. “Lose the clothes before I tear them to shreds."
You met his gaze and saw the rut creeping behind it now, the primal need warring with the sliver of patience and control you’d earned. You gave a single, short nod, an acknowledgment of his terms, but not submission, and your fingers moved to the ties of your robe and tunic.
You undressed the way you did everything else in his presence - he required no performance that you may give others, just deliberate movements. The tunic lifted over your head in one motion and joined the growing pile of supplies on the blanket.Each piece removed had the same practiced efficiency you’d use to lay out the kit. First the tunic, then the underwear, then bra.
The air hit your bare skin and you could see the way his body changed the moment that last barrier fell. His tail, which had been still, began a slow, heavy sway behind him, his pupils swallowed the green almost entirely. A low guttural sound of approval broke from his throat, an involuntary sign that a canid’s hormones were responding well to a willing partner. Good. That response would make the next part easy.
The atmosphere changed. The time for professional analysis was over and now you needed to replace it with an almost savage sort of passion, the passion he needed.
He closed the distance before you could his hands running along your hips, your waist, your shoulders, mapping you with a grip that was forceful and thorough. He wasn’t gentle about it. You knew he was imprinting your shape into his hands, making you the way he did the trees, the contact awakening a part of him that had been dead for so long.
He bent down and planted his head between your shoulders, pressing his nose and mouth against the crook of your neck. You could feel the heat of his breath first, then his tongue, broad and slow on your pulse point. A shiver ran through you, not from cold but from the honest physical response of nerve endings registering the intensity of him scenting you, marking you, claiming the first territory of skin with nothing but heat and pressure and the low rumble of his breathing.
"You smell nice," he muttered against your throat, the words half-lost in your skin, "Good. Not forest-smelling. Not like fear."
That was the response you’d hoped for. His body was reading yours and finding none of the signals that would lead to aggression or chasing instincts. Instead he found warmth, willingness, a steady pulse that quickened with excitement rather than anxiety. His rut-addled mind was recategorizing you from intruder into something that he wanted close.
You let him scent you thoroughly. This was part of the work, the initial marking that would give a hormone feedback loop to help him regulate through his encounter. Each pass of his tongue on you, each press of his jaw against your skin, not only made you bite your lip, gasp, and sigh, but also served as his body anchoring itself to something that wasn’t just instinct and pain.
He eased you back against the oak, and you let the tree take your weight as his body covered yours completely. The press of him was immense - his muscle mass and coarse fur and heat that bordered on feverish - and you braced your feet against the ground, finding the stance that distributed your weight through your frame and into the trunk behind you rather than letting it collapse your center.
Then, with the position established, you noticed it: his fur was softer than you’d ever expect. Coarse mostly but the texture was not rough and odd combination with the solid muscle hidden underneath. .
He bent down and kissed your lips. It wasn't a soft kiss; it was a rough and painful kiss with teeth and tongues clashing. He tasted like the venison he had eaten and something darker underneath that was uniquely him. One clawed hand found your hair and held, anchoring you, keeping you exactly where he wanted while the other hand explored your body. His claws made patterns on your skin, tracing lines along it, without breaking it, and the knot of tension in your lower belly grew tighter, and the arousal and heat pooling between your thighs.
He broke the kiss and moved his mouth down the column of your neck, across your collarbone, and then lower. When his mouth closed over your nipple, the flat of his tongue circling around its tip, before gently biting down, you couldn’t prevent the gasp that escaped your chest. His hand slid between your thighs, and the sound he made when he found you were already wet, that low, satisfied rumble of a growl, vibrated through your ribs,
His fingers traced through the saccharine folds of your cunt, testing, learning the topography of you with that precision he did everything with, and it without training that sensation alone would have been mind-numbingly intense.
He paused there, fingers resting against your heat, a silent question. You answered by shifting your hips, widening your stance against the tree’s base - an open invitation.
He took it, his claws retracted and what was left were his fingers. which slid through your folds, testing your readiness. A low growl rumbled in his chest, clearly approving. He wasn’t being gentle, but he was being thorough. Of course, he found you wet, willing, and ready for him.
He shifted his weight lower, settling between your thighs, and when he looked up at you the hunger in his expression was stripped of every pretense. He looked at you the way a starving thing looked at the first meal it had been offered rather than hunted, like you were the first real meal in decades.
The first stroke of his tongue against your core was broad, flat, and unhurried, the taste making your hips jerk in spite of your training. He did it again, slower, and you felt him learning you in real time, cataloguing which pressure made you tense, which angle drew sound from your throat. His hands gripped your thighs, his claws pressing lightly into your skin, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. He explored you with his tongue, his movements deliberate and thorough.
When he found your clit and circled it with the tip of his tongue, the jolt of pleasure that shot through you pulled a moan from somewhere deeper than professionalism could ever reach. Your hands fisted in the blanket beneath you.
He focused his attention there, his tongue working in patterns that flicked and stroked, building the pleasure with each relentless pass. When he pulled back, just as the edge of climax began to blur your vision, you looked down and found him watching you; his eyes were nearly black, your arousal glistening on his mouth.
"Let's see how you take it," he said, his voice a low rasp. “Need to know you can handle me.”
He slowly pushed one finger into you, thick and slow. The stretch was significant - his fingers were proportional to the rest of him, and the sensation walked the line between fullness and too much. You breathed into it the way you’d been trained, deep belly breaths that relaxed your pelvic floor and opened you up for him in increments.
The feeling of it against your sensitive walls made your mind slow, each movement in and out making your body light up with sensation. Then the second finger came, and the burn of being stretched further drew a sharp breath through your teeth. It was overwhelming, it was incredible. He curled his fingers, found the spot that made every muscle in your body unravel at once, and you heard your voice break on his name before you could catch it.
“Toji-”
He understood. His pace increased, his thumb finding your clit and working it in time with the deep, curling strokes of his fingers. The dual pressure built up more and more, your toes curling, vision blurring, until it was almost too much. The pressure built, a flare of ecstasy running through your core whenever he stroked, whenever he pushed up, and soon it crested and broke over you in a rush of heat that whited your vision and clenched your body around him in waves of orgasm. The sense overwhelmed your body, your muscles stiffening, your mind growing foggy until stars started to bloom behind your eyelids as each rhythmic pulse of climax ripped through you. He didn't stop, his fingers continuing their assault through the aftershocks, drawing out every tremor, prolonging your orgasm until you were a writhing, breathless mess beneath him.
When he finally withdrew, he brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean without breaking eye contact. The satisfied rumble in his chest felt smug.
"Now you're ready. Let’s see if you meant what you said." he murmured, his lips curled into the only kind of smile his senses would allow - an arrogant, but undeniably hungry, smirk.
He settled himself between your legs and you felt the heavy, hard press of him against your inner thigh - he was thick, hot, and the knot at his base was already beginning to swell with arousal. He was somehow bigger than what you’d even expected. He took himself in his hand giving his thick girth a few lazy pumps, and guided the broad head to your entrance.
Your body knew what was coming. You prepared by adjusting your position against the oak, bracing your feet wider, pressing your shoulders into the blanket behind you. Your training told you what would come in theory, the controlled deep muscle relaxation, careful breathing, the specific angle that gave depth while protecting your cervix and lower spine from the force.
Theory was about to meet the reality of him, and you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a part of you, small, professional, and thrilled, that wanted to see if you were good enough to take him.
He pushed into you in one slow, unrelenting thrust.
The stretch was immense. A burning fullness stole the air from your lungs and kept it, his cock filling you so completely that for one suspended moment your body forgot if it should clench or yield. You made yourself yield. You breathed through it - in through your nose, long exhale through your mouth, the same way you’d practiced with progressively larger implements and training tools - and your body softened around him in stages, relenting inch by inch.
And that training rewarded you, transitioning the feeling from pain that came from taking something that would break most people from its sheer size, to absolute pleasure. He stilled once he filled you completely, his cock reaching all the perfect ridges and spots inside of you all at once. You could feel the restrained bottoming out cost him in the tremor of his thighs, in the tendons of his forearms standing taught where his hands gripped the tree on either side of your head. He was giving you this time, holding back the best he could. Not gently, not patiently, but deliberately because you’d told him his strength wasn’t a problem, and you knew that a part of him must be holding onto that. He stilled for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size, as if he knew that the sheer size of him was too much for most.
Then he began to move.
His pace was relentless from the start. Deep, driving thrusts that used every inch of him and hit bottom with a force that would have driven you into the ground if not for the oak. It absorbed what your body couldn’t, the bark groaning faintly with each push, and you braced against it and let yourself feel what he was giving you.
And god, did you feel it.
Every stroke dragged along the spots his fingers had already found, thick and relentless, filling you so completely that your body barely had time to adjust before the next thrust drove the breath from your lungs. The knot at his base bumped against your entrance with every push inward, thick and insistent, a promise of what was coming that made your cunt clench around him involuntarily each time.
You adjusted your hips - not pulling away, never that, but tilting at an angle that let him hit deeper without bottoming out against your cervix. It was a trained instinct at this point, the kind of miro-correction your body made without your brain, and the new angle rewarded you immediately. The head of his cock dragged perfectly against the front wall of you on every stroke and the sound that left your mouth was not professional in the slightest.
He noticed. His rhythm stuttered for a half a beat, surprise or maybe satisfaction, before he drove into you harder, chasing the sound, wanting to hear it again.
He lowered his mouth to your neck, and this time his teeth broke the skin. Not deep, surface bites, the kind that would bruise and sting for days, but they came one after another, marking a trail from your shoulder to your jaw. Each one sent a bright flare of sensation through you that tangled with the pleasure building in your core until pain and heat became the same thing, feeding each other, blurring together until you couldn’t separate them if you wanted to.His hands gripped at your hips and pulled you back onto him with each thrust, using you as leverage, and the force of it was staggering. You felt your grip on the tree shift, his strength was crossing the threshold from pressure into something that could do real damage if it landed wrong. You caught his wrist on the next stroke and guided his hand from the curve of your waist down to your hip, where the broader bone could take it. No interruption, no hesitation. Just seamless redirection that kept his incredible rhythm unbroken while moving the pressure to somewhere your body could absorb it.
He didn’t notice. He was far into the rut now, too deep in the feedback loop of your heat and your scent and the tight, wet grip of you around him. But your ribs would thank you later.
His claws found your back, dragging down your ribs in lines that lit your nerves on fire. The scratches would be visible for a week, even with proper care. You arched into them rather than away, pressing your body harder against his, because the sharp drag of them grounded you, keeping you present and gasping and alive rather than completely losing yourself in the overwhelming intensity of him.
And you liked the marks anyway. That part was just yours. Separate from the work, separate from the training, the hot sting of it and the way each mark felt was like proof that you were strong enough to be here. Each scar would be a trophy, and achievement.
"Look at me," he commanded, pulling back from your throat.
You opened your eyes and met his gaze. His pupils had consumed the green entirely, the ring of color swallowed by the black as he was overwhelmed by the rut. The calculated patience of years was spent. Beneath that animal drive though, something else surfaced in flashes, moments where the weapon fell away and the hungrier, more honest man looked out at you. The difference between fucking to release please and fucking because someone was letting him, wanted to.
That man wanted to see your face while he took you. It wasn’t the rut, that was him.
You held his gaze and let him see what was there in you. The effort, yes,the sweat at your temples, the flush that had spread down your chest and and across your stomach, but also the pleasure, open and unguarded on your face, and the steadiness beneath it all. You were here. You were feeling, and certainly enjoying, every inch of him, and weren’t running.
You too, after all, were losing yourself in the pleasure, losing yourself in him. The battle to keep yourself controlled was a hard one.
His thrusts grew harder. Faster. Each one punched the air from your lungs in short, broken sounds you’d stopped trying to control three strokes ago. The knot pressed against your entrance with each inward push, thick and insistent, and the stretch of it threatened your limits each time before pulling back.
You breathed through the resistance, the same deep relaxation technique but now with something much larger than his fingers, and your body softened in increments, opening for what it knew was coming.
When the knot finally breached you, the pop of fullness tore a cry from your throat that echoed off the trees. The sensation was dizzying, impossibly full, impossibly stretched, the burn bright and blinding at the edges. Your vision whited out as your body clenched around him, orgasm ripping through you in tight waves before you were ready for it, your walls gripping him in rhythmic pulses that made your thighs shake and your fingers claw at the bark behind you.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of satisfaction at your state, as his hips stuttered through one final thrust before the knot swelled to its full size and locked him inside you. He came in long, hot pulses that you felt everywhere, filling you past capacity so you flooded and the warmth seeped from around the seal of his knot, coating your inner thighs. His forehead pressed hard against the bark above your shoulder and his breath came ragged and raw against your skin, each exhale a shudder that ran the full length of your body.
For a long moment, the only sound was breathing. His rough and slowing. Yours, shaky at first, then steadying as your training pulled you back from the endorphin flood that wanted to dissolve you completely.
His hand found the top of your head. The touch was startlingly gentle from the hands that had just left bruises in their shape on your hips. He gave a single, slow stroke down your hair, like he was confirming you were still there and hole.
“Ten minutes,” he said, his voice raw. “Drink water, eat something.” He paused, just a moment, his hand staying on you before he finally withdrew, “I don’t want to break you.”
– – –
You used those ten minutes efficiently, though your hands trembled for the first minute and you let them. Water came first, long pulls that cooled you to your core. You catalogue your body as you went, checking the bites on your neck and shoulder and found none of them needed immediate attention. The claw marks down your back, stinging pleasantly, were still warm. The bruises in Toji’s hands’ shapes were already forming on your hip.
Then there was the ache between your legs. It was satisfying in the way hard work always was, the kind of satisfying only real exertion could be.
Everything was in parameters. Nothing broken, nothing torn.
He watched you from a few feet away, settled back on his haunches, his tail resting heavy on the ground. The rut still burned behind his eyes, but the manic edge had dulled. He was working on a longer fuse now, which likely meant the next round would last longer, hit harder, and require more of you.
The thought thrilled you.
You ate a strip of dried fruit, stretched your hip flexors, and applied a thin layer of oil where the friction had started to chafe. Everything practiced and methodical, the routine of someone who needed to treat the recovery as a part of the work, because it was. You caught yourself lingering on the feeling of the oil on your skin, the tenderness of places he’d been, the ghost-impression of his knot still vivid enough to make your breath catch.
He made a sound, low and curious, a half-humored scoff. You glanced and found him watching your hands, seeing how you moved.
“You’ve done this before,” he said.Not a question.
“It’s my job.”
“No.” A sharp, minimal shake of his head. “You’ve handled something like me before.”
You considered the answer. “Not exactly like you. I don’t know if there’s anything quite like you in this world,” you said, capping the oil. “But I’ve worked with strength before. I know how to take it.
The flicker came again in his expression. Not exactly amusement, but close. A kind of recognition, acknowledgement of someone who truly had a level of competence he respected.
“Good,” he said, and the word carried weight with it that had nothing to do with the rut.
– – –
The second round was longer. Harder.
He took you from behind this time, your palms braced flat against the oak, and the angle let him drive deeper than before. The first thrust punched a sound from you that was more shock than moan, the depth reaching places that made your vision swim, and you adjusted, curving your spine to preserve your lower back, your core engaged, breathing synchronized with his rhythm so your body accepted each thrust.
He was faster, the rut having stripped away whatever patience the first release had bought. You could feel every ridge of him inside you, every inch of that impossible thickness dragging against your walls, and the pleasure built in layers. Deep and structural, heavier, the arousal and build up of tension that gathered in your belly and radiated outward with each impact was different and wonderful.
His mouth had found your shoulder and bit harder this time, hard enough to make you hiss through your teeth and you were sure the mark would need salve and days to fade. You didn’t pull away though, you met his thrusts, and the sound he made against your skin was almost wounded, desperate in a way that the first round hadn’t been, as if releasing had cracked something open in him and now the need for you was pouring in the gap faster than he could handle.
When you came, it was with his teeth in your shoulder and his claws scoring lines down your ribs, and the orgasm pulled you in long, rolling waves that made your knees buckle. He caught your weight, continuing to chase his sensation without pause until your walls clenched around his cock in the final waves of your orgasm and he found his own.
– – –
The third was the one that broke the pattern.
Slower. Still intense but the frantic edge had burned itself out. The rut was finally settling, the hormonal surge easing enough that his movements became less about urgency and more about something deeper that he probably didn’t even know how to name.
He held you this time. Not braced, not pinned, held, his arms wrapped around your back, your chest pressed against his. When he thrust, it was deep and rolling rather than punishing, a rhythm that rocked through both of you, and the sound he made against your hair was closer to the one he’d made when you first placed his hands on your waist: the involuntary, almost pained exhale that had nothing to do with sex.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and let him set the pace. This was the part the manuals couldn’t ever fully cover, the part where technique gave way to something simpler, something that was just two bodies pressed together and one of them finally allowed themselves to be held instead of wielded.
The pleasure, once again, was different this time too. There was no sharp, overwhelming crest of the first round nor the deeper intensity of the second. This was a slow heat, building in gentle increments, your body so sensitized from everything before that even the smallest shift of him inside you sent sparks cascading through your nervous system.
You felt every inch of him, every pulse of warmth where his skin met yours, and when the orgasm finally came it wasn’t with a crash. It bloomed, spreading through you in waves that made you press your face into his neck and hold on.
He came quietly this time. A shudder, a long breath, his face buried in your hair, his arms tightening around you as if he expected you to disappear the moment the physical need that you were addressing, your reason for being here, was met.
You didn’t disappear. You held him through it, your hands steady on his back, until the tremor left his frame and his breathing evened out.
When his knot softened and he pulled away, you let out a slow breath and took stock.
Your body ached in ways it hadn’t before. That was, without question, the most you’d ever taken in a single encounter. You catalogued the damage with professional detachment despite how your muscles protested at you sitting up. Thankfully the only new wound was the deeper bite from the second round on your shoulder. You stretched, rolling your shoulders and releasing the tension from your calves and hips. You applied salve to your deeper wounds, the ones that would scar if left untreated. Clean linen pressed to the marks that were still seeping thin red trails.
He watched.
That same quiet fascination he had before remained, now stripped of its restless edge. While you worked through recovery, your occasional glance to him showed you an expression you hadn’t seen before, on him or anyone.
Not even other lycanthropes were this casual in the aftermath of a rut, especially one with him out of anyone. You could read that much in the near dumbfounded expression, or as much of that as he could muster. Every other partner would have left shaken, too bruised, too rattled to do anything but curl over and wait for it to be over.
You on the other hand rolled your ankles and checked your oil supply.
T0ji reached out, his large hand brushing over your neck, tracing the marks left behind. He was gentler now, studying you with an expression that wasn’t regret, more…surprise that you were here and whole.
“You’re unexpected,” he said at last, withdrawing his hand. He didn’t elaborate.
“Thank you,” you replied softly, rolling your shoulders as you stood, stretching out the stiffness in your limbs. You brushed your hands over the marks too, counting them out of habit. The dull ache between your legs was nothing new, something you had gotten used to quickly after starting your line of work.
A silence settled between you two that was different than every other one today. It wasn’t tense. It wasn’t loaded, simply quiet, like the aftermath of storm washing somewhere clean.
The golden light of the sun starting to come in through the canopy was in long, warm shafts, changing the clearing into something almost gentle.
“You come to this region often?” he asked.
Too casual. It felt almost telegraphed, something you’d seen in humans plenty enough and also happened in clients at times. The offhand phrasing of someone disguising just how important a question’s answer was to them. You nodded. “I do. My work takes me everywhere, but some places more than others. I like it, the traveling. Getting to see different parts of the world while helping people.”
He nodded, his ear flicked once, twice. He paused, his head dipping slightly, thoughtful again as he tried to find how to express emotions he clearly wasn’t used to expressing.
“And next time,” he said after a moment, “when my rut comes around again… if I put up the listing myself, would you take it?”
“Of course.”
You didn’t need to think about it, there was no hesitation inside your mind.
He exhaled, something in him settling further as he looked back up at the sky.The last piece of tension he carried uncoiled from a place so deep he didn’t seem to know it was there. He nodded once, sharp, and looked away.
Silence stretched between you for a few seconds before he pushed himself to his feet. When he looked back at you, there was something different in his expression, something more grounded.
“You’re the first person in a long time,” he said, “who’s touched me like I’m anything more than a weapon.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. His gaze stuck only a moment longer - a breath longer than was necessary, but gave you enough time to see just how green his eyes could be - before he turned, and his form slipped back into the dense forest, swallowed slowly by the trees until he was gone.
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A/N: Sorry this took me longer to write than expected, I got hit with the chronic illness thing where I spent most of the week in too much pain to write and had to spread a lot of my work out into a couple hour a day bursts rather than spending 6/7 hours for a few days working instead.
Thank you for your support as always! Reblogs, follows and comments are always appreciated & make my day!
