Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> When Bucky becomes the Winter Soldier again, he follows you around. Only you. Funny thing is, you and Bucky aren't exactly friends. So why is the Winter Soldier protecting you?
Disclaimer: Fluff, angst, a hint of smut towards the end, a brief mention of a sex dream, flirting whilst sparring, multiple kisses, love bites, swearing, the Winter Soldier protects the reader, reader watches over Bucky, one bed trope (kinda). Enemies (to friends) to lovers. A little mutual pining. Not fully proof read.
Four days. Four days, twelve hours and twenty six minutes.
That was how long Bucky had been watching over you. Or rather, The Winter Soldier.
“Four days!” you exclaimed quietly to yourself. “Four damn days.”
As you turned around, you jumped, nearly scattering everything off your desk.
You swore under your breath, “What is your problem? Make a damn noise, or something!”
Four days of hell.
For everyone.
You had been in a meeting when Bucky had gone on the mission with Sam and Natasha, so the points were unclear. The main thing you knew was that Bucky left for the mission, but the Winter Soldier returned.
And he hadn’t left your side since touching wheels to tarmac from the jet. And, it would make sense, Bucky watching over you. But the thing was-
You and Bucky had never even been friendly with each other. If you ever did talk to one another, and that was a big if, it was mostly sarcastic comments and threats thrown to each other's throat.
None of it made sense.
Shuri had been called instantly and she had checked Bucky over. He was definitely the Winter Soldier, but he wasn’t a killing machine. He was still Bucky. Bucky was held behind a wall of memories.
But the one thing he didn’t do was attack. It was almost like that part had been conditioned out of him. Instead, he was this looming bodyguard that never left you alone.
Not for a minute, not even for a second.
You never heard him, but you could feel him. Watching you, following you, part of him studying you.
It was creepy.
As you entered the kitchen, you turned around on your heel quickly. The Winter Soldier didn’t flinch. He just stopped walking and looked at you.
“Alright, no. I can’t keep doing this. Sam told me not to, but, please. I am begging you. Stop following me!”
He didn’t move. He didn’t even speak.
You ran a hand down your face and sighed.
“Fine. If you’re not gonna leave me alone, then sit.”
You pulled out a chair and pointed to it.
“I’m gonna be here for a while and I already don’t like people in the kitchen with me. So, sit. Or fuck off.”
He was silent. And then he moved. One slow blink before he turned his head and looked at the chair. He looked back at you and you nodded.
Then he walked over to it and sat down. But his gaze remained focused on you.
It wasn’t much, but it was breathing space.
“Thank you.”
Trying your best to block him out, you started pulling out different bowls and ingredients from the cupboards. You heard the creak of the chair when he watched you climb onto the cabinet to grab the flour from the highest shelf.
“No!” You shouted. “You move from that chair and I swear to god, Barnes, I will follow through with my promise about buying a military grade magnet. Sit!”
The chair creaked again after a short minute.
For the next three hours, he remained sitting in that seat. People walked in and out constantly, but each time you heard a creak you’d just shoot him a look and he’d sit back down.
“Any word from Shuri?” You asked Wanda as she walked inside to snack on your cupcake sprinkles.
She shook her head. “Not yet. Maybe he sees you as his commander.”
You scoffed, but a pang of guilt struck your chest. “Please, when he’s him he never follows my orders. Does the opposite, actually.”
Wanda shrugged and looked over at Bucky whose eyes hadn’t left you. “Maybe he just really cares for you.”
“Now, we both know that’s not true.”
Wanda just hummed. “Who knows? There is a fine line between love and hate.”
You nodded. “Yes. That fine line is my sanity.”
Wanda laughed before jumping off the counter and leaving you to continue your baking. “Stranger things have been known to happen.”
You shook your head, but for a moment you let your gaze land on Bucky in the corner.
There was still no explanation as to why it was you he’d chosen to follow around. Not Sam or Natasha – the very two who had been with him when it happened. Or even Steve. But you prayed it wasn’t because he saw you as his commander.
You and Bucky may never have gotten along. You could hate each other’s guts for all eternity. But what he went through as the Winter Soldier…
That was something that nobody should ever have to suffer through. And he did. For seventy years.
So, after the hours of being watched and guarded. After the nights of walking outside of your bedroom only to run into his back outside your door – the same place you would grab his t-shirt and drag him back into your room and make him sit down on the sofa chair on the other side of your room.
If he was gonna be watching over you through the night, too, it meant he wasn’t sleeping. He needed sleep. But putting him back into the freezer tank wasn’t going to help anyone.
And after the days of being followed around everywhere.
You finally sat him down.
Everyone had gone to bed hours ago. Most of the lights in the building had been switched off. The only light in the living space was the dim light that floated across from the kitchen island across the room.
“Why are you protecting me?”
If Shuri couldn’t get the answers, you were gonna ask the man himself. Maybe he had an explanation.
But he only replied in Russian.
“You’re important.”
Your gaze flickered over his. There was barely a hint of Bucky in him. The person sat in front of you was a soldier. A protector. Someone who told you you’re important, the same way he would tell you he had eggs for breakfast.
“Important?” you questioned. “Important to who?”
You leaned a little closer to him, almost out of instinct. And for a split second, you saw something flicker in his eyes. Something a little softer in the middle of the brambles. But it was gone as quickly as it came.
Reaching out, you turned his head to look back at you and you swallowed your pride.
“Bucky,” you said, your voice soft and needing. “I need you to come back to me. I know we’re not friends, but I need you to come back to me. Bucky. Not Hydra’s Perfect Creation.”
You waited in the silence, his eyes fixed on yours. But the only thing that stared back at you as the same deep, if slightly vacant, look that had been staring at you for the last four days.
Leaning on the edge of despair, you did something you never thought you would ever do. Not with Bucky, and certainly not with the Winter Soldier.
You kissed him.
Really kissed him.
Not the undercover kiss on the cheek, or the fake movie-style kiss that you were forced to watch whenever Steve chose the film for movie night.
A real kiss.
And for a moment, there was nothing. No reaction. No movement. Just a stiffness that only ever came from a soldier taking a command.
But just as you lost all hope, leaning back a little in order to break the kiss, there was a flicker of something. A slight movement from Bucky.
His hand reached out and laid itself on your leg.
You didn’t know how – you and Bucky had never even hugged – but you knew it was him. It was Bucky.
Just for a fleeting moment, you felt him kiss back as his other hand came to hold your hair against the side of your face.
But the kiss broke.
Looking in his eyes; for the first time in four days, you saw something other than the soldier.
You saw humanity.
Bucky’s voice broke as he finally spoke. “Y…y/n?”
You didn’t realise when you started, but you felt yourself cry. “Yeah.”
Then you watched the panic take him over as he looked around frantically. “Oh, god- no, no, no. What did I- When did- is everyone-”
You cupped his face and forced him to look at you again. “Everyone’s- hey, everyone’s safe. Nothing happened, Buck. Nothing happened. I swear. You didn’t do anything, Bucky. You’re okay.”
There were tears in his eyes and you felt your heart crack.
“I could have-”
“You didn’t.”
His eyes remained focused on you as he tried to slow his breathing. And for a moment, you placed one of your hands over his heart. His own hand came to cover and cup that very one against his chest.
However, just as he was calming down, you watched something settle over his gaze as he kept his eyes on you.
“You kissed me.”
Internally, you panicked. Externally, you moved back and tried to keep your voice as level as you could.
“I, uh, it was getting creepy, you watching over me all the time. I needed to find a way to break you out of it, so-”
“You kissed me,” Bucky repeated.
For a second, you nodded. But then you stood. “I should- I should go and-”
Bucky reached out for you and held onto your arm gently as you stood from the sofa. Your eyes landed on his own almost immediately. But where you thought he might have chewed you out for what you did…he didn’t.
His eyes flickered with something you didn’t quite recognise. Not coming from Bucky, at least.
“Thank you.”
There was something in his voice that told your instincts he wanted to say something else, or something more. But you couldn’t stand there any longer; the feeling of the kiss was still tingling against your lips and his touch was almost burning your skin.
And not in the way it would have done before.
So, you nodded with a polite smile and he let you go.
“I’m just, I’m gonna go and get Steve or- I’ll be back.”
Bucky watched you leave the room, but he didn’t follow. Meanwhile, you rounded the corner and held a hand to the wall in order to balance yourself before the wave of emotions drowned you there and then.
“F-Friday. Please…” you took a deep breath. “Please alert, uh, Steve and…Sam and, uh, Princess Shuri.” Your voice broke. “Let them know Bucky is back.”
You could hear the alerts down the hallway and you remained standing as they all came out of their rooms and rushed down the hall past you.
“He’s okay, but he’s shaken up,” you told Sam as the others ran past. Sam took your word for it and followed them.
Then you slid to the floor, forcing your breathing to steady itself.
The following month was filled with awkward encounters, quiet encounters, medical tests, field research and psychological tests.
And, although you and Bucky didn’t talk, you didn’t argue either. You tended to remain at least eight paces from him at all times.
It was like the roles had been reversed. You were now the one watching over him.
And when he was in med-bay with Banner and Shuri during the day, you watched over him as he slept at night.
A month ago, you would have had nightmares about helping Bucky.
But since his turn. Since that kiss – the one that broke him free – you rarely wanted to leave his side.
But you didn’t want him to know that, so you remained eight paces away. You stayed outside of his hospital room when the others went in. And, when you fell asleep in the chair beside his bed at night, you left before Banner or Shuri could wake and walk inside to find you there.
That changed, however, when Bucky let you know he was awake.
You’d just settled yourself in the chair beside his bed, having put away your book, when he spoke.
“You’re gonna get a bad back.”
You sat up. “You’re awake.”
“Not for long,” he told you, lifting his arm. “C’mere.”
You were slow to move at first, confused if slightly concerned why he was asking you of all people to lay with him. But as you climbed into the bed beside him, you felt a wave of security wash over you.
“Is this okay?”
Bucky smiled a little as he leaned into you. “It’s okay.”
As you finally relaxed beside him, you could have swore you heard his heart monitor pick up a little before it leveled itself out again. And for the first time, in a long time, you fell asleep almost instantly.
So did Bucky.
By the time morning rolled around, you were the first to wake up. And, for the first time, you took a few minutes to look at the sleeping man beside you.
A few strands of his hair had fallen in front of his face during the night, so lightly, you swept them away and you felt yourself smile.
When James ‘Bucky’ Buchanan Barnes wasn’t being a pain in your ass all day, he was pretty cute.
That was when it struck you. Deep in your gut, or maybe your chest. Maybe even your soul…
He’d always been cute. You had always found him cute. Handsome. Sometimes devastatingly so.
Then you felt the highly structured walls around you crumble into nothing but dust. And for the first time in a long time, you felt truly vulnerable.
“I-I’ll be back later,” you whispered to him although he was still asleep.
For a moment, you held onto his hand and pressed a light kiss to the side of his temple before you slowly made your way out of his bed and out of the door.
But you kept your promise.
And for three weeks straight, you slept beside him each night until he was finally cleared for duty again and the threat of the person he’d once been moulded into had been eliminated once again.
That was when things got difficult. Because, not only were you harbouring a rather big secret, but you and Bucky had become friends.
The bun Bucky had tied at the back of his head was slowly coming loose the longer he spent sparring with you.
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
Bucky had been trying to get you to talk to him properly all day.
“There’s nothing to say,” you replied as you circled each other. Bucky ended up with the advantage.
“Really? Because you seem distracted lately. And that only seems to happen when I’m with you.”
You could hear the smirk in his voice, despite your back being pinned to his chest.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Bucky,” you told him as you swung your legs high to flip you both onto the ground.
Bucky rolled onto the floor and you had him pinned.
You smiled, a little breathless. “People might start thinking you’ve got an ego.”
That was when you saw Bucky smirk. And when he smirked, you worried. His hand wrapped itself around your thigh and within three seconds, he had you pinned.
“Oh, come on.”
“You know, I still think about it.” Bucky’s voice was a little breathless as he practically crawled up your body so he was finally face to face with you.
You were struggling to get out of his hold. After really trying, you gave up. “Think about what?”
“That kiss.”
You stopped moving and your eyes darted to his face. You tried your best to steady your heartbeat, but you could feel the heat crawling over your chest and up your neck.
“That was nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
Bucky’s blue gaze focused back on yours. “You forget I know you, Y/n. I know when you’re lying.”
Shit.
Bucky added, “You have a tell.”
“I have a tell?”
He nodded. “Your eyebrow. It twitches before you throw out your lie.”
Your brows furrowed as you looked at him, but he just laughed. Only James Buchanan Barnes would have the audacity to laugh.
“It was just a kiss, Bucky.”
“Then tell me why it felt like more?”
“Maybe that’s your issue,” you fired back.
He just smiled, and agreed. “Yeah, maybe.”
In that moment, Bucky’s hand left the grip he had against your wrist in order to fix your hair. His touch lingered for a second longer.
“But I have a feeling it’s not,” he added.
Your breath was gone. Your heart was working overtime in your chest to keep you alive. All the while, Bucky had a smirk resting upon his face as he stood and left you by the mats, only to grab his things and walk out of the gym door.
But not before he looked back once more with a small chuckle.
As you watched the glass door slowly close behind him, you rolled from your side and onto your back once more. “Fucking tease.”
For the rest of the week, Bucky watched you. He watched you watching him, whilst simultaneously trying to avoid him at all costs. But it just made him laugh. Even more so when he would catch you looking away when he finally met your gaze across the dinner table.
But the subtle touches, the sparring sessions and his fucking teasing all added up. And since you couldn’t work the feelings away, they decided to cut you your own 4K, HD movie to play out inside your head as you entered a deep sleep.
You woke up with a start – then you felt it. The ache in your core, the coolness of air that hit your inner thigh when you moved your duvet away from you, and the dryness in your throat.
“Fuck. Fuck.”
Twenty minutes later, you were freshly washed and were standing inside the kitchen with nothing more than the kitchen island bulbs lighting up your workstation. You were on your third batch of cakes when Bucky walked inside, looking like he’d had a fight with his pillow and lost.
You felt him pause by the door and look at you. You didn’t even have to see him to hear the tired smirk on his face. He continued to watch you as he grabbed what he came for and sat down at the kitchen island across from you.
It was like he was the Winter Soldier again. Except, you could hear the smile on his face as well as feeling the curiosity in his gaze.
The odd thing was, Bucky felt the same. He could remember what it was like, feeling the need to be beside you, to watch over you, to protect you. He could remember the moments you talked to him, when you thought he couldn’t hear you.
He could remember it all.
But one question stayed on his mind. Even though you were, technically, friends. You still wouldn’t talk to him. Not properly, at least. The closest he came was during your sparring session a little over a week ago.
“What?” You finally asked, looking at him.
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
You didn’t have to ask what he meant. You already knew.
“Because,” you said as you turned back to your cake batter.
“Because, why?” Bucky stood and walked over to your side. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
Whether it was the sleep deprivation, or the fact that snippets of the sex dream you’d just had about him were playing like flashes in your mind as he sat across from you, you blurted out the truth.
“Because it’s too hard. Bucky-” You sighed, cutting yourself short. Four in the morning was not the time for this conversation. “Nevermind.”
“No, tell me.”
You stayed quiet and kept your eyes on him for a moment. Then you laid the bowl down on the counter and looked away from him. But you felt his hand hold onto yours.
“Please,” he begged, quietly.
“Because…we’re us. Bucky, barely two months ago I was chewing you out over how you stocked your leftovers,” you motioned over to the fridge. “And then…” You looked at him, but you couldn’t form the words.
So he did it for you. “You kissed me.”
You nodded, your voice quiet as you finally spoke. “I kissed you.”
“Do you still think about it?”
You watched as his fingers intertwined and danced with yours. “Thought you already knew the answer to that.”
“I need to hear it from you.”
Finally, you looked at him.
Somehow, it was easier in the kitchen. Easier in the dim light of the kitchen island. Easier when it was just you and Bucky.
“I still think about it,” you admitted.
A steady blue gaze held yours as Bucky’s hand came to rest against your face, his thumb rubbing back and forth on your cheekbone. Then he leaned in, kissing you like it was the last opportunity he would ever get.
Leaning in closer to him, he bumped against the kitchen island but managed to hold you closer. You felt his arms wrap around you completely as you kissed him back.
A few hours, one burnt cake and plenty of hickeys later, you were standing in your bathroom finishing your make-up whilst also trying to cover up the love bites on your neck. All the while, Bucky had just turned off your shower and in a billow of steam, wrapped a towel, low on his hips, after quickly rubbing his hair dry.
Bucky stood behind you, moving your hair out of the way. You watched him do so as the mirror began to fog up once more.
“Buck, you’re still dripping,” you giggle softly, trying to wriggle away from him. But the smile he gave you just knocked you to your knees.
“Only for you, doll.”
You rolled your eyes and plucked another towel from the rail before throwing it at him. “Dry off.”
He chuckled, drying his hair and neck once more. But as you cleared the mirror again and continued to apply your make-up, Bucky stood behind you and smiled proudly to himself.
“You owe me some more concealer. I hope you know that.”
In the mirror, you watched him lean down with a breathy chuckle as he pressed light kisses to your exposed shoulder and neck. “Worth it.”
“What are you doing?”
Through his dark lashes, he met your gaze in the mirror. “Missed a spot.”
You melted under his touch. Closing your eyes, you leaned into his kiss as his hands pushed under your top and dipped under the hem of your pants and underwear in order to flush you against his body.
You moaned a little, feeling him harden against you. “Buck- You’re gonna make me late for work.”
Bucky disagreed. “All you’re doing is filling out case files today. Cases that we’ve finished. They can wait.”
Turning you around quickly, Bucky kissed you until your lipstick was smudged enough to warrant a whole new look, along with fresh sheets for your bed, and some new towels for your bathroom.
synopsis. spending ebb day together as friends... will you still be friends afterwards?
pairing. rafayel qi x lemurian! non-mc! reader
content/mdni. A TON OF FUCKING. fem!reader, lemurian!reader, non-mc!reader, friends!au, friends-with-benefits!au, more level-headed!reader, dom-then-sub!reader, sub-then-dom!rafayel, needy!rafayel and reader, mean!rafayel, mean!reader, possessive!rafayel, slight dumbification, mention of masturbating (m solo), begging (m and f receiving), cunnilingus with MONSTER TONGUE, cow girl sex, doggy style sex, missionary sex, one cock sex, two cock sex, DOUBLE PENETRATION, OVIPOSITION, MONSTER FUCKING MONSTER, TON OF CUM, CUM PLAY, hair pulling, spanking, protected sex, raw sex, multiple rounds, allusions to anal sex, overstimulation, tummy bulge, teasing, praise, degradation, pet names (baby, partner/mate, good/sweet girl, whore, slut, cockslut, all the good stuff lmaoo), kissing!! SCENT KINK, HAND KINK, TON OF SWEAT, TW: BLOOD, marking, mentions of breeding, mentions of mating.
word count. 8.5k
a/n. prepare your panties! please tell me your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!
the first time it happened, it was an accident.
just two people hanging out, forgetting the current date. just two people, so absorbed by their newly founded human existence that they sidetracked their origins.
just two lemurians, friends since childhood, who, because of circumstances, were pulled together by raw desire to spend the changing of the currents as one.
the first time it happened, it was an accident. the other instances, however, were deliberate.
•••
you were standing in the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the 24/7 convenience store, a basket hanging from your elbow with an xl pack of condoms already inside.
“what else, what else…”
the air conditioning was too cold, raising goosebumps on your arms, brushing over the sprinkle of scales already adorning your skin. the cool air was combatting the warmth from the outside, but there was a deeper heat slowly coiling low in your belly, pulsing harder and harder, overtaking your very being quietly — a heat that couldn’t be tamed by the artificiality of the cooling device.
you’ve been feeling it for hours. the telltale thrum, the hypersensitivity of your skin, the way your gums ache faintly where your fangs wanted to push through.
ebb day is tomorrow. officially.
you still have a few hours to prepare.
your phone unexpectedly buzzed against your skin, a frantic, continuous tremor that has you fumbling for it. rafayel’s name light up the screen, a silly picture of him trembling together with the vibrations.
you swiped to answer, a teasing remark already on your lips.
“if you’re calling to back out–”
“please.” his voice cut you off, and it sounded wrong. it was not the smooth, sultry baritone he usually wielded like a weapon, articulating witty remarks at your expense. it was breathless, strained, cracking at the edges. “please, come over.”
you froze between aisles, your hand tightening on the phone. “rafayel?”
“i need you.” a low, fractured whine escaped him, and the needy sound went straight to your core, igniting the latent heat into a sudden, roaring blaze. “it’s… it’s early. it’s so early. i thought i had more time but it’s… i need you now.”
you could picture him too clearly.
at his seaside manor, in the vast, luxurious bedroom, with the curtains wide open, welcoming the full moon. rafayel, welcoming you, sprawled on his massive bed, his pale skin flushed and beaded with sweat, his hair a disheveled mess of purple.
you imagined him grasping his phone with a trembling hand, spotted with scales, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted in gasps.
fangs peeking through oh so beautifully.
“i’m at the store.” you said, your voice coming out rougher than you intended, your own state suddenly worsening due to rafayel’s intervention. “i’m getting the things. i’ll be there after checkout–”
“no.” he gasped immediately, and the desperation in his voice was loud, a hook that sunk into your chest and pulled you like a fish out of waters. “too long. ugh– i can’t– please. i can’t wait anymore. i feel like i’m burning up. we have everything here, so...”
“i need you. please, please, just ahhhh– come here.”
the plea was a whisper, broken and sweet, and that did it for you. you’ve always been weak for him. in this human form, in your true one, it didn’t matter; he had you wrapped around his pinky finger since you were children, even if he didn’t always know it.
“raf…”
you wanted to say something stubborn, to remind him that you were buying the very supplies he’ll be grateful for later, but another whimper came through the line, and your resolve crumbled to the ground.
“fine.” you heard yourself say, already turning and abandoning your basket on a shelf, condoms and all. “i’m coming right now. stay on the line.”
he let out a soft, relieved sound, and you could’ve sworn a sloshing noise accompanied his tune. “okay. f–fuck– okay.”
you left the store at a near-jog, the warm night air hitting your flushed cheeks.
the moon was almost up, a perfect, luminous circle in the sky, yet too bright, too full. it made your blood sing, your skin prickling with more and more clusters of scales.
you could still hear rafayel’s breathing on the other end of the line, quick and uneven, punctuated by tiny, swallowed sounds that he’s probably trying to hide.
that, and low, wet sounds — most likely his hand moving lazily up and down his stiff cock.
“tell me how you’re feeling.” you said as you slid into your car, your hand steady on the wheel even as everything inside you was starting to shake.
you have to keep your composure for just a little longer.
you also have to keep rafayel in check and make sure he doesn’t tip over.
“hot.” he breathed into the phone. “everything’s s–shit– too hot. my clothes… i took them off already. i’m just in the sheets. i nghnn– keep thinking about your hands.” his voice dropped, becoming that familiar, teasing cadence even through the haze of the heat.
“you have such nice hands. so soft– ngh– i keep thinking about them on ahh– me. groping me, pinning me down. do you think you can do that?”
your fingers tightened on the steering wheel, your knuckles whitening at his request. “rafayel.”
“i want you to.” he continued, his voice a low, needy murmur. the sticky sounds raised in intensity, no longer just background noise. “i need you so bad. i need you on top of me, baby.”
you pushed the accelerator harder, running a stop sign you didn’t even register. the streets blurred under your hazy vision, the city lights smearing into streaks of color. the heat inside you was building up with every word of his, with every little gasp and hitch of his breath.
rafayel was doing a phenomenal job at riling you up.
“what are you thinking about?” he asked all of a sudden, his voice a silken thread that woke you up. “are you thinking about me?”
“yes.” you admitted bluntly, the word torn from you without much effort.
“nhgh… t–tell me, baby.”
“the way you look when you’re between my thighs.” your voice was steady, booming from the speakers of his phone, but your hands were shuddering now. fingernails threatening to elongate into monstrously sharp claws. “the way you eat me out so good.”
he groaned, a breathless, shattered sound, and his hand sped up. the wetness staining his cock was palpable, the sound harsh yet delicate. “f–fuck yeah, i wanna taste your cunt so bad.”
a pause, then his voice murmured a confession once more. “i need to bury my face in you. i need to smell you. ahhhh– bet you’re drenched already, can almost s–sniff it from here.”
he was right. since the beginning of your conversation, the flimsy material of your panties was nothing but sticky. each and every request of his, delving into his nastiest wishes, generated more gooey arousal, effectively coating your panties in a generous amount of slick.
it also did not help that you were a lemurian, normally producing more slick than a mere human.
thankfully, you were pulling through the gates of his estate, the tires of your car crunching on the gravel driveway. you didn’t even bother parking properly — just killed the engine and eft the car where it stopped.
“i’m here.” you said into the phone, your legs carrying you up the front steps without waiting for another invite.
you swung the door open without a second thought.
rafayel was standing at the end of the hallway, and the sight of him made your clit throb.
he was fully naked, his skin gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat, his hair plastered to his temples. his chest was heaving, his pupils so dilated that his irises were reduced to thin rings of purple. but it was the scales that caught your attention — a scattering of iridescent, pearl-white scales along his cheekbones, down his neck, across his shoulders.
painting his skin, lower and lower.
going beyond the base of his aching cock.
the scales shimmered in the moonlight, catching the light like tiny mirrors.
“baby!” his eyes found yours, and he smiled — a beautiful, unhinged grin, all sharp teeth and raw need. “you came.” he breathed, relieved, taking wobbly steps towards you.
he was deeply affected by the rising full moon, hands jumping away from his sides and searching for support onto the walls.
you were soon to be deeply affected as well as your nostrils inhaled the pheromones dominating the entire mansion: the smell was terrifically strong, a pungent odor that lulled you towards primal desires. you almost stumbled backward from the powerful aroma, palm shooting up and covering the bottom half of your face in an attempt to protect your senses.
“f–fuck, the smell…”
you needed to remain levelheaded.
you needed to remain the rational one, since rafayel was clearly indulging fully in the effects of the moon.
but it was hard. you could already feel your fans poking through your gums, could already sense the tremble in your body as rafayel caught up to you.
your entire being was calling for him, just like his own called for you.
his quivering hands clawed at your dress, pulling you fully inside, the door slamming shut behind you two and effectively trapping you in his den. taking advantage of the defensive stance you took, he manhandled you against the closest wall, caging you perfectly, his body a line of burning heat against yours.
“ah, ah, ah, you…” his face instantly found your neck, burying itself in the seductive dip between your throat and shoulder. and, with a loud whiff, rafayel inhaled your own tumbling pheromones. “ahhh– smell so fucking good.”
he did not stop at that, nuzzling further into your skin, dragging the tip of his nose up towards your pulse point, punctuating the spot right behind your ear. with that, he managed to caress a patch of sensitive scales, eliciting a moan out of your hidden lips, forcing your palm to abandon its post to tangle in his messy locks.
“baby, please, pull ugh– my hair, please.” he started to beg as he felt your fingers latch onto the roots of his hair, body curving into yours more and more.
his legs snuck their way between your own, parting your thighs and allowing his knee to dip into the material of your dress and make contact with your clothed pussy. his arms flew away too, finally taking hold of your torso and putting you into a needy embrace.
“raf, i–”
your voice echoed in his ears, blessing him with the delicious shudder of your tone. but something was wrong, he slowly realized between his hazy thoughts — you have yet to make your move, you have yet to show the same neediness he has been carrying for hours.
“i–is something wrong? no, please, baby…”
he removed his face from your neck, abandoning his mission to devour your scent gland in favor of discovering what was holding you back. a strong feeling of anxiety shook his entire body, and memories of abandonment flashed between his obscene fantasies.
changing the atmosphere entirely.
“go on, raf, it’s okay–”
“n–no.”
you couldn’t resist him, especially not now.
he decided to perch his head on your chest, entire body slouched over your own, and look up at you with his lust-filled orbits. the pout on his lips was dangerous, accessorized by his long and sharp fangs. his legs were now practically glued to yours… and you could feel his heavy cock pressing against your thigh.
“do you not want me, baby?”
oh, he was gonna be the death of you.
“raf, someone h–ngh–as to be rational, i can’t give into pleas–”
“we will be careful, like always…” he cut you off enthusiastically, tightening his hold on your midriff to block any kind of escape. worse, he dipped his face lower into your chest, pressing right against your exposed sternum… and sticking his tongue out to taste your sweaty skin.
“rafayel.” you warned through gritted teeth, gripping the base of his scalp and pulling his head back. but he was ready for such an action, simply letting out more length of his monstrous tongue and continuing his perverse ministration across the peaks of your breasts.
“i k–know what will help!” he chirped between licks, and the sensation of his rough, elongated tongue tracing the delicate flesh of your chest made your resolve shake.
you tried to hold firm, to remember the reasons why someone needed to stay level-headed, but he was a master of persuasion: his hands, which had been so needy and clammy, slid down your hips with a slow, teasing pace. and he stopped when he reached the fabric of your short skirt, fingers twitching at the hem.
“just a taste.” he whispered, long tongue retracting from your skin to wet his lips. “i ugh– to taste your pussy, baby. please.”
his voice was a raspy, desperate plea, and the sight of his body — the way he pressed himself against you, precum wetting the ends of your dress — broke something in you. you were supposed to be the rational one, but the pheromones were a thick haze in your lungs, intoxicating your very being.
your own body betrayed you, the ache between your thighs becoming a pulsing, insistent throb. your firm grip on his hair lessened, hand guiding his head unconsciously down your body, moving him in line with your center.
“ah– j–just a bit...” you breathed, your voice shaking now. “but then we m–”
move to the bedroom — he didn’t let you finish.
a submissive, relieved groan escaped him, and he was already sliding down your body. his bare knees hit the floor with a sharp thud, but he didn’t flinch. you tried to steady yourself, but rafayel had other plans — hiking your right leg up his shoulder, spreading you wide open for him. and you were taken by surprise, fingers curling and pushing his head around from the sudden movement.
“f–fuck yeah.”
he let out a sharp, encouraging moan against your exposed thigh, and you felt his lips press a wet kiss on the newly exposed patch of skin of your knee.
his hands shoot up, scattering the hem of your dress. he pushed the material up around your waist, silently prompting you to hold it down and away from him. the cool air of the hallway licked at your exposed thighs, prickling at your scale-scattered skin.
his gaze dropped, and he stared at the sight before him, cock twitching between his bent legs. the wet spot on your panties was dark and obscene, the cotton perfectly clinging to the shape of your pussy. you were absolutely soaked through, arousal escaping the comfort of your underwear in order to stain your inner thighs.
the rims around his blown-out pupils turned a bright blue, and a devouring hunger flashed across his features.
“oh, my baby.” he breathed, the words almost a whimper. “you’re s–so wet for me. i bet it h–hurts so much.”
he didn’t wait for an actual answer as he leaned forward to thoroughly inspect you. his nose pressed into the damp fabric, and he inhaled deeply, a tremble running through his body as he feasted on your scent. he nuzzled against the soaked cotton, his sharp fangs grazing your sensitive flesh through the thin barrier, and your knees nearly buckled.
your hand forced his head deeper instead of pulling it away, a silent surrender to the powers of the moon.
he took the signal with a groan of satisfaction. his tongue snaked out, long and monstrous, and he dragged the wide, flat of it across the dark spot. he licked slowly, savoring you through the fabric, his eyes rolling back from the aroma.
“you ahh– s’ good.” he mumbled against the fabric, his voice muffled by the fabric and his groans.
but he needed more than just soaked panties. so, with a swipe of his tongue, he wrapped the length twice around the gusset of your panties, tugging the material downwards. you felt the wet cotton drag along your sensitive flesh as it was removed, exposing your cunt entirely to his burning gaze.
“r–raf, please.”
he saw everything: your wet, swollen flesh glistened in the dim light, your clit engorged and peeking out from its hood. a fresh glob of your arousal slid down your inner thigh, and his adam’s apple bobbed at the bodily reaction.
“babyyy…” his breathing hitched, and he slowed down, his entire being focused on the sight and scent of you. “look at you.” he muttered, his voice heavy by lust. “so beautiful, so mesmerizing.”
and before you could form a response, he dived in. his lips glued onto you, and his tongue — still a long, monstruous muscle — latched onto your entire cunt. he licked a wide, flat stroke from your oozing entrance to your pulsing clit, and the feeling of his wet mouth against your slick flesh made you whine.
he did it again, and again, building a rhythm that was ruining you from the inside out. he was starved, licking and sucking and slurping you like an intoxicated man who knew no other flavour.
“rafayel, r–fa–yel!”
you threw your head back, the wall cold against your skull, as you fought for composure. but it was a losing battle: his mouth was too skilled, too curious to discover your pussy. he found every sensitive nerve with the tip of his tongue, swirling around your clit until you were seeing stars, then dropping down to probe at your entrance.
licking up the streams of your juices like they were the only source of water in the world.
you made the mistake of looking down at him. he was on his knees before you, his body trembling with the effort of restraint and desire. his eyes were heavy-lidded, focused solely on his task, and his gills —delicate, slit-like openings on his neck — fluttered slightly as he breathed through them, allowing him to remain glued to you without a pause for air.
he was relentless, dedicated.
he needed you to tip over into your animalistic side.
“i– oh, fuck–”
your voice cracked and morphed into a high, unhinged moan as he circled his tongue around your clit, wrapping it tightly with its length while he sucked the bundle of nerves with his lips. the tip of his tongue dipped lower treacherously, pushing against your greedy hole and effectively overflowing your mushy brain with pleasure.
your hips jerked forward of their own accord, and you felt your fingers drag through his hair, pulling him even tighter against you, demanding more even as you were overwhelmed.
“hmhmm– ngh–” he moaned into you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your pelvis.
his hands slid up your thighs, thumbs spreading your lips wider, giving him unrestricted access to every inch of your center. he worked on you with a desperate, submissive fervor, eating you out as if his existence depended on your pleasure.
and it was working. the feeling built and built in your tummy, a coil of heat tightened and tightened with every flick of his tongue.
“al’st.” he gasped, pulling away just enough to see the defeat in your eyes. his lips and chin were shining with your wetness, his sharp teeth shimmering as he smiled at you. “cum in my mouth, please.”
your resolve had shattered the moment his mouth had made contact. so you just nodded frantically, a sobbing whine escaping your lips, and he leaped at the signal. his mouth descended again with renewed vigor, long tongue focusing on your engorged bud. he sucked hard, creating a devastating pressure, while he simultaneously probed the back of his tongue against your entrance, massaging the contracting muscles.
“ah, i’m–”
you came with a cry that echoed down the empty hallway, your body arching off the wall as wave after wave of pleasure rippled through you. your hand forced his face deeper into you, and he drank everything, his moans of ecstasy vibrating against your sensitive flesh as he swallowed your release.
and he didn’t stop. he kept licking, easing you through the shaking aftermath, his eyes locked on your trembling form with a satisfied, devouring gleam.
“ah, a–ah, ah.”
when you finally opened your eyes, you had a good look at his needy, disheveled face, still resting between your thighs. his lips and chin were slick with you, his long tongue still lazily licking at your flesh as if he couldn’t bear to lose the taste. his gills fluttered rapidly, and he smiled up at you — temporary satiated by your pussy.
… or so you thought.
“g–go again?” he pleaded, his voice high-pitched and weak. “please, please, please, ple–”
and you knew why he was begging so arduously: gazing downwards at the floor, you soon realized that he also spilled his release, most likely pushed over the edge by your own orgasm. the floorboards were covered in a thick layer of cum, white and sticky substance staining his thigh and your own resting foot.
“please, baby, one more time– i love your pussy, i–”
you were still trembling from your own climax, chest heaving, gills fluttering on the sides of your neck. but something in his desperate, submissive tone made you sit up straighter, an ounce of rationality still guiding you. yeah, you felt the wetness between your thighs, the echo of his tongue still a pulsing memory, but you knew that you were far from satiated.
the moon’s pull was still in your bones, and his pheromones were a thick haze in the air.
you reached down, took a handful of his wet hair, and pulled his face away from your cunt. the slick was thick, mixed with his saliva, and it created a strong, sticky bridge between his lips and your nether ones.
“m–move…” you commanded, your voice coming out fragmented, tainted by your orgasm and the heat. “bedroom, now.”
his eyes flashed with relief, and he nodded so quickly that his locks flipped against his temples. “yes– yes, baby, anything.” with obedient, trembling hands, he pushed himself up from his knees, his muscular thighs quivering as he rose. he was still weeping, his cock stiff and red, the tip glistening with his own release.
but he made no move to wipe it away, fixated on obtaining you.
before you could step forward, he enveloped you in his arms, both hands sliding under your knees and lifting you as if you were made of feathers. your legs latched around his hips on instinct, your dress riding up to your waist, your naked slick pussy pressing against his abs. he took off with long, hurried steps, his legs no longer staggering.
“c’mere.”
his mouth was on yours before you could process his words.
“so ngh– good t’ me.” he mumbled against your lips, his tongue sharing your aroma. “so beautiful, so perfect– i’m ugh– not deserving.” he kissed you with a wide, open mouth, his sharp fangs grazing your lower lip as he pushed your dress higher with each push.
his words were a stream of subservient praises — celebrating your benevolence in assisting him with his heat — as he carried you through the living room and into the wide, disheveled bedroom. and his mouth never stopped; he fully slurped at your lips, devouring your mouth with the same fervor he ate your pussy.
he loved to caress your fangs with his tongue, grunting between lick as you were finally showing signs of turning.
“ah, ah…”
when he reached the giant bed, he turned and sat down on it, his back leaning against the headboard with a soft thud. he kept you on his lap, your knees straddling his hips, your soaked cunt hovering just above his twitching, dripping cock. his hands were instantly on your body tugging away at the dress, removing it from your body and letting your scale-splotched skin to bask in the full moon.
his sharp digits took a hold of your full hips, nails digging into the soft flesh as he tried to lower your body onto his.
“please, baby.” he breathed, his hips rolling upwards on instinct, his bare cock sliding against your wet slit. “i need to feel you around me– please, i fuck–”
you reached around, your hand finding the nightstand and its drawer, your fingers closing around a square packet. as you were retrieving it, his hands worked all over you, groping your waist, your tits, your thighs with a restless, ravenous need. his cock was jumping against your thigh with each squish of your body, impatient to ease into you.
“let m–me help.” he whispered as he saw you struggle. but you shook your head, at last ripping the packet open with your fangs.
the image made him groan — he loved when you used those fangs.
he wished you’d use them on him.
as you rolled the condom down his length with steady hand, your palm gliding over the latex as you smoothed it down the veiny cock, he gasped, his head throwing back against the headboard, his hips pushing up into your fist.
“fuck– baby, your hand, it’s ngh– so good, i’m gonna–” his words devolved into a strangled moan as you gave him a last, twisting stroke at the base, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from cumming right then.
his gills fluttered rapidly, and his hands clawed at the sheets, his white-knuckled grip the only thing keeping him grounded.
you left him hanging on the edge for a sweet moment, your eyes locked on his trembling stomach and the way his scales shimmered harder. then, with a slow movement, you raised yourself up on your knees, aligned the tip of his cock with your soaked entrance, and slowly began to sink down.
the sensation was electric. his length slid inside you in a smooth, velvety thrust, the latex making it easy but no less intense. you felt him stretch you, push past your greedy muscles that spasmed around him, and you gasped at the fullness. he moaned your name, vibrating against your chest as he pressed his forehead into your shoulder.
“so fucking tight– so wet–.”
“ah, raf, that’s mhm–”
you took a moment to adjust, to feel him settle deep inside you, to take in the way his tip was kissing your cervix. then you began to move — slow rolls of your hips, lifting and sinking, pulling him out until only the tip remained, then sliding back down to the hilt. your clit slapped deliciously against his muscles, and so did his heavy balls against your behind.
his hands flew to your hips again, guiding you, but he never tried to take control; he merely held you, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your hips with reverence.
“yes, that’s ngh– it, use me.” he implored, his voice breaking into high whinse as you picked up the pace. you rolled your hips in a figure eight, harshly grinding against him at the bottom, and his lips parted on a silent scream. “oh, oh fuck, right there, please, baby–”
you leaned forward, lips bitten, your palms braced against his chest, and you rode him with a ferocious need. every stroke was accompanied by his gasps, the sharp, slutty breaths strung together with your own traitorous ones into a rhythmic chant.
“so good, so good, i’m– please, please, let me cum inside, i beg you–”
his words were slurred, mind so thick with lust he forgot he had a condom on. but he was attentive to you, never taking his eyes off your bouncing body. when you sped up, your thighs burning with the effort, your clit brushing against his pubic bone with every downward thrust, his head lolled to the side in pleasure.
the sensation was heaven for you too: the way his cock hit that sweet spot inside you, vein pulsing just the right way against your walls, the way his hands trembled as they held you, the way his moans sounded like prayers…
“cum for me.” you allowed, your voice raspy and commanding, and that was all he needed.
with a broken whine, he threw his head back, his spine arching off the headboard as he spilled into the condom, his hips jerking up into you with ragged, uncontrollable spasms. his mouth opened in a silent shout and his hands clawed so hard into your hips you knew they would leave bruises.
the sight of him cumming, his face stretched in ecstasy, pushed you over the edge. you rode him through it all, your second climax building and building until it broke. your inner muscles clenching around him as you shuddered through your release.
he whimpered into the air like a mantra: “thank you, thank you, thank you–”.
after a few more seconds, you finally slowed down. with your gills working overtime, your body washed in sparkling sweat, you remained motionless, straddled over him. his aching cock was still inside you, spent once more that night.
but ebb day had just commenced, and a mere fuck was not the solution.
you were still trembling, his overstimulated cock still twitching inside you, when he shifted his hips upwards — a lazy, circular rock which sent a sharp spark through your oversensitive flesh. you whimpered, a needy tune that you hadn’t intended to let out; the sudden trust took you by surprise, hitting your walls in a way that made your whole being shiver.
he did it again, this time with a sharper thrust, his strong hands pushing you down into his cock, and your palms flattened against his chest in a vain attempt to put some distance between the two of you.
“raf– wait, slow d–ah–own a bit.” you gasped, your voice cracking, the overstimulation short circuiting your brain. “i need a second–”
his laugh was low and mean, a strong contrast to the high-pitched moans he freely let out a few minutes ago.
“slow down? why? you’re still aching for more.” his hands slid down your sides, gripping your thighs with a brutal firmness. his expression was no longer kind and pliant, the barely-there purple of his orbs changing into a blinding sapphire color.
he tutted at your scrunching face, digging his fingers harder into your skin and dragging you forth against his chest. “no, no, baby. i don’t like that.”
“raf?”
“you’re not gonna fight what you are. you’re a lemurian in heat, just like me… giving in is not a choice.”
before you could respond, he twisted out of you with a squelching, wet pop and shoved you forward onto the sheets. you tumbled onto the mattress, hands and knees catching you as he positioned you around like a puppet. his palm pressed the small of your back, forcing your spine into a beautiful arch, your face pressed into the pillows.
it happened in a blink of an eye, your body going pliant and obeying the desires of the man behind you. you could no longer see him, with your head buried in his cushions, but you could hear the shift of his weight as he knelt behind you, the heat of his body washing over your exposed skin.
shit, he was taking a dominant stance now — the predator inside him most likely no longer pleased by your ‘controlled’ approach to ebb day.
but you had to stay strong. you had to stop him from fulfilling the mating ritual since you were not his beloved. you had to–
“look at you.” he purred, his voice dripping with condescension, blue eyes taking in the sight before him: you, face down, ass up, supple flesh drenched and quivering with arousal. “so fucking wet… and you still have the nerve to tell me to slow down. pathetic.”
his fingers traced down your curved spine, pausing at the swell of your ass. then down to your used hole. with delicate fingers, he touched the gaping rim of the condom still lodged inside you, dragging it slightly out of you. you flinched, back arching even more, hips pushing into his touch unconsciously.
“a condom too… ruining all the fun.” he clicked his tongue, low and mean, but chose to abandon the rubber for now. he decided to reach around to find your clit, his skilled thumb pressing against it with just enough pressure to make you tremble into the sheets.
“you think you’re in charge, hm? you’re nothing but a slutty little whore who needs to be reminded of her place.”
he circled his thumb over your swollen bud, slow and torturous, while his other hand kept you pinned down. you whined, your hips pushing back instinctively, seeking more friction, but he was having none of it: he smacked your ass hard, the sharp slap echoing in the room as it landed on your flesh.
“don’t you dare act on your urges now. you’ll get what i give you, when i give it.” he warned as he increased the pressure on your clit, his movements forming teasing figure eights. you writhed against the sheets, tried to push back and speed him up, but his hand on your spine kept you arched and immobile.
“p–please.” you whined, your voice pitching high, now mirroring the state he was previously in— flushed face, dilated pupils, consumed by the urge to be used. “raf, i need–”
“you need to shut up and take what’s given.” he cut you off, his tone cold and superior. he removed his thumb without warning, and you whimpered in loss, eyes bubbling with tears from his cruelness. “see? that’s what you get for being impatient. now be a good girl and wait.”
wait?
for what?
he reached down, fingers curling around the rim of the condom still inside you. with a slow, torturous pull, he removed it. the sensation of the latex sliding out making you shiver, hole gaping in dissatisfaction. your cunt was practically begging for the rubber to return, for something to be inside it once more.
“greedy pussy.”
he pinched the tip of the condom, dangling it above your stinging flesh, and, with his thumb and index finger, he pressed and dragged out... letting the thick, white semen spill all across your ass. throwing the empty rubber away, he then smeared his cum over your cheeks with a rough, possessive stroke, making sure to dip his fingers over your asshole and the perineum.
the warm, sticky sensation made you cry out, and he laughed again.
“you like that, don’t you? being marked with my cum?” he rubbed the cum lower, into your slit, working it into your wet folds until you were dripping with a mixture of your arousal and his seed. “you were so dumb for putting on the condom.”
and with that vitriolic remark, he positioned himself behind you once more, the mushroom head of his engorged cock prodding at your slutty entrance. he rubbed it up and down, teasing the flesh without pushing in, controlling his urge to breed you for the sake of hearing you beg.
and you began to sob, pleas leaving your bitten lips with ease.
“p–please, raf, just fuck me, i need it so bad, please–”
“aww, look at you now — beg harder.” he purred, his tip still tracing slow circles over your hungry hole.
“please! please, rafayel, i beg you, just put it in, i’ll be good, just fuck me–”
“there it is.” he smirked, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “but oh, i’m sorry, baby– i think we’re out of condoms. what a shame.” his tone was condescending, and he rolled his hips just enough to press the head inside.
before pulling back. “i can’t–”
“i don’t care.” you babbled, your mind now a blur of heat and hunger. your previous carefulness was entirely wiped by your animalistic desire to be mounted and taken by rafayel. “j–just do it, fuck me raw! i need your ugh– cock inside me, please, raf–”
“finally.”
without other comments, he thrusted in one sharp, brutal motion. you screamed, but not in pain — the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled without any barrier felt heavenly. his hard cock, littered with scales, plowed into your soaked cunt until his hips smacked against your ass, his balls swaying against your swollen clit.
“yes.” he groaned, his voice now raspy with his own need. “this is where you belong: spread open for me, taking my cock like the cockslut that you are.” he pulled out slowly, then slammed back in, the squelch of your juices and his cum making a loud, obscene sound.
“fuck, you’re so warm, so wet, so fucking good.”
he set a ferocious pace, his hips jutting into you with the starved intensity of an animal in rut. each thrust hit that spot inside you, making your spine curve into him more and more. and you were kept in that deep arch by his strong arms, your voice reduced to a stream of moans and whines as it got drowned out by the pillows.
“ngh– baby, your pussy is squeezing me so tight.” he grunted, his hand snaking forward to grab a fistful of your hair and yank your head back. “greedy girl, sucking me ah– so hard.”
“tell me you’re mine. tell me this is what you wanted.”
“‘m y’rs.” you gasped, the words tumbling out in stutters as you squeezed around his rugged scales. “gods, yes, fuck me harder, please–”
he released your hair with a satisfied moan and doubled his efforts, his strokes becoming messy and unhinged. he was so deep inside you that you could feel his cock throbbing against your walls, the tip kissing your cervix with every slam. his length seemed to grow inside you, expanding and stretching your sensitive walls in all dimensions.
you were completely affected by ebb day now, your pleasure so strong you could no longer separate where your being ended and his began.
but the night has just begun, and so did rafayel.
you felt it before you saw it: a second pressure, a new sensation against the flesh of your ass. another cock, thicker and more brutal in its proportions, had emerged from the base of his first and sprung upwards, settling directly between the sweaty valley of your cheeks.
it was a monstrous thing, wet with its own pre-cum, rocking against your asshole in tune with his other cock.
“is that– ugh–”
with every slam of his hips into your soaked cunt, this second cock rubbed relentlessly against your tight, untouched asshole. the friction was addicting, a blunt force that glided over the twitching rim of your second hole with every forward push.
you could feel the ridges of it, the scales that dragged across your delicate skin, and it made your eyes roll back from the pleasure.
“you feel that, baby?” he grunted into your ear, his voice a condescending purr. “my other cock, itching to breed that pussy too. you’re so fucking soaked, i am sure it will ngh– slip right in.”
you couldn’t respond. you were beyond speech, your face buried in the sheets, your voice reduced to a high, siren-like whine that filled the room.
the way his second cock humped against your asshole, the way his first cock was still plunging into your cunt — it was a sensory overload that threatened to spill all over. you clenched around him, trying to drag him deeper, and he groaned, leaning over your arched body.
“can’t even fuckin’ answer me.” he snarled, his pace slowing for a moment as he leaned down, lowering his sweaty chest against your back.
his sharp mouth found the juncture of your neck and shoulder, your pulse point, and he opened his jaw wide. his fangs grazed your flesh, a heated, demanding pressure falling over your skin.
he was…
“you want this so badly, don’t you? you want me to claim every hole.”
going to bite. he was going to mark you as his mate.
panic lashed through the fog of your lust. you were not lovers: you had agreed to this arrangement solely to protect his future beloved from the primality of the lemurian heat. so your arm shot up before you could think it over, your forearm wedging itself between his lips and your neck just as his jaws clamped down.
“ah.”
his fangs sink into your flesh with a wet, ripping sound. the pain was sharp and immediate, a burning sensation that made you scream into the pillows. you felt the hot trickle of blood cascade down your arm, and he let out a surprised, muffled groan around your limb.
his cock slid out of you during the chaos, leaving you suddenly empty and weak.
“n–no!” you cried, your voice a shaky mess of pleasure and desperation. “not that! rafayel, we aren’t– we’re not lovers! you can’t mark me like this. you have to save yourself for your chosen one, you know that.”
he froze — he stayed still, his fangs still embedded in your forearm, his breath hot against the wound. then, slowly, he released you. his jaw unclamped, and he licked the blood from his lips with a slow, seductive swipe of his tongue. but his eyes had changed. the lust was still there, but now it was underlaid with something far more dangerous: a cold, rageful possessiveness.
“you dare...” he said, his voice dropping to a level of condescending fury that made you shiver. “you dare tell me who to save myself for? you dare speak of a ‘chosen one’ when you’re the only one who has ever made me feel this?”
before you could respond, he moved with unnatural speed. his hands gripped your hips and with a brutal twist, he flipped you over like you were no more than a rag doll. you landed on your back, the sheets cold and damp against your sweaty skin. he was on top of you in an instant, his legs knocking yours apart as he settled his weight between your thighs.
his first cock pressed against your soaked entrance, and his second one rested heavily against your clit, both of them drenched in bodily fluids.
“you foolish woman.” he snarled, leaning down so his face was inches from yours. his eyes were gleaming blue, his scales catching the light like the facets of a gem. “there is no other chosen one. there is only you. you’re the one i want. you’re the one my body and my soul demands.”
“r–raf?”
“and i will not be denied.”
he thrusted forward, sheathing his bottom cock inside you in one single, devastating move. you were so wet, so inviting; there was no resistance, only a lewd, obscene squelch as your fluids started to froth at the juncture between your bodies.
you whined out a broken approval, and he groaned in triumph above you.
“that’s right.” he confirmed, rolling his hips harder and harder to pick up his previous pace. “your body knows the truth, even if your mouth lies. you’re mine.” he began to pump into you, his strokes sharp and possessive as he, once more, descended closer to your face.
“you can beg all you want for a different fate, but you will never escape this. you will never escape me.”
and with that, he sealed his lips over yours.
your hands clawed at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he pounded you into the mattress. your legs wrapped around his waist, pushing him deeper, traitorously consenting to his declaration even as your mind spun with lust. he leaned forward more and more, trapping you under his massive frame, and he kissed you brutally, tangling his long tongue with your and forcing you to taste your own blood.
“say it out loud.” he demanded against your mouth, his pace never faltering, his mouth carefully traversing lower to your pulse point again. “say you’re mine. say it and i will fully take you, my mate.”
“i’m yours!” you wailed, the words torn from your very soul as his fangs scratched your skin in warning. “i’m yours, rafayel! please, just don’t stop, don’t you dare stop–”
a prideful, predatory grin spread across his features. he slowed his pace as his jaw opened once more, trying to time his movements to offer you the most intense pleasure. pulling out almost all the way, his tip snagging onto your hole, he stuck out his tongue to wet your skin as his hand lowered to his cocks… pressing his second length snug to his other and preparing it for penetration.
“ngh– raf– ah–”
as he plunged his fangs into your neck, finally marking you as his mate by drawing blood, he also rutted both cocks into your hungry cunt. the immense quantities of arousal lubed everything, allowing his two dicks to press deep into your without much difficulty.
and his timing was perfect, getting you to orgasm with a perfect o on your lips as he rocked your whole world.
“that’s right.” he purred, moving his head to nuzzle at the bloody bite on your skin, licking the wound with soft strokes of his tongue. “you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.”
and as he spoke, he picked up his pace once more, the slap of his balls against your skin filling the room, his resolve renewed. you were cushioned beneath him, a trembling mess, a willing partner to desire, and as he watched you fall apart beneath him — your eyes rolling back, your moans a constant chant — he too was pushed over the edge once more.
unlike last time, his thrusts stumbled into a rhythm that was clumsy but deep, as if he refusing to let go of you. unlike last time, you felt a swelling at your entrance, the way his top cock, the one that had been pressing against your clit moments ago, now grew in thickness.
the sensation was overwhelming. your walls were stretched further, and you could feel his cocks throbbing deep inside, ready to spill.
“breed.” he groaned against your neck, lips bloody, voice raspy. “let me fill you. let me breed your sweet cunt.”
and he did.
his top cock began to inflate at the base, the tissue swelling into a something that locked him deep within you. you whimpered in pleasure as the first shiny, pearl-white ovoid passed through his urethra and into your hole —a smooth, rounded glob that stretched you to the fullest before it settled inside you.
then another, and another, and another. each one leaving a trail of warmth as it popped through his cock and deposited itself in deep inside you. his hands stopped flat against your stomach, to keep you from moving away, and he felt the bulge begin to rise.
the eggs were gathering together with his thick cum.
“yes, yes.” he murmured, his tone a mix of wonder and satisfaction, eyes glassy with lust. “so many eggs already. and there’s more for you.”
he kept pumping, each thrust squeezing another round egg into you, and with it came wave upon wave of thick, pearlescent cum that filled every remaining crevice. your tummy bulged more and more, the skin stretching tight until you could feel the weight of his eggs sinking low inside you. you were so full that you couldn’t tell what was cum and what was ovoid; you only knew that he was still pumping, still depositing, still claiming.
“r–rafayel, i w–will ugh– i can’t hold– nngh!”
your protests were swallowed by another orgasm as he rutted his final drops into you, the bottom cock twitching inside you as it added its own thick semen to the swelling pool. your tummy was now a pronounced curve, the skin taut and shiny, and you could feel each individual egg pressing against the walls of your tummy.
“yes.”
finally, he stilled, his body shaking with the last spasms of release. he remained inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged and hot against your sweaty skin. then, with a small whine, he pulled out: first the bottom cock, then the top one, releasing the lock on your pussy. you felt a gush of warm cream follow him, and when you looked down, you saw the mess he had made of you.
your pussy was ruined, swollen, hole gaping as thick, white cum started to drool out in hefty treads, pooling on the sheets beneath you.
he moved down your body, his hands sliding over your blooming skin until they rested on your swollen belly. he pressed gently, and you felt the first egg pop out with an obscene sound. the smooth, pearly ovoid rolled out onto the sheet, shining with your combined juices. then another, and another, each one escaping as he pressed firmer, each one making you whine from overstimulation.
your tummy slowly deflated, but not all the eggs were out yet — you could still feel a few resting high inside, near your cervix.
“shh, i’ve got you.” he said, his voice suddenly soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the brutality from moments ago. he shifted his hand from your belly to your swollen clit, his fingers gliding through the wetness with good intent.
“you’re doing so well, baby. let me help the rest out.”
he began to rub circles around your hyper-sensitive bud, while his other hand pressed firmly on the top part of your pelvis. the overstimulation made you sob out, but his sweet expression (his soft, purple orbs, the blush on his face, the cute smile on his lips) kept you grounded.
“that’s it, sweet girl, let them out. you’re so brave for taking all of that. now just one more– yes, there it is.”
with a particularly deep press of his palm and a swirl of his thumb, the last egg got out with a sultry plop, rolling to join its siblings on the sheet. your body shuddered violently, another spasm of climax racing through you, but he never stopped the gentle ministrations of his hand.
he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your belly, his lips tracing your skin as you orgasm again into his palm.
“such a good girl.” he whispered against your skin, his tone full of adoration and gratitude. “you took everything so perfectly, my partner.” he lifted his head to look into your hazy eyes, and there was nothing but contentment in his gaze. “let’s rest for a bit.”
at last, he removed himself from between your legs, allowing you a moment of respite as he lounged next to you on the bed. cradling your spent form into a delicate side embrace, he guided your head onto his chest, petting your wet hair away from your face.
tags: @yuunileb, @txtworlddom, @xyzsbaobei, @loreleis-world, @demonicangelll, @dreamydaredevil, @glitterykingdomangel, @gardenialily, @weirdothatwrites, @cherrytokkiz, @brailsthesmolgurl, @happyshark2222, @velomira, @darkchococwoissant, @thealunari, @starswillseeus, @ninalove323, @lumichella, @amanehyuga, @txtworlddom, @milumier, @someonestopsoren, @lettushi, @jadeloverxd, @hellothisisnanaaa, @ops-esion, @thealunari, @maplewood-valley, @massivebanananut, @livanavier, @rafayearning4eternity. if you see this and want to be added to the main taglist, please let me know!
୨୧ — You were drooling, eyes rolling back as you dug your nails into his shoulders trying to slow Valko down. Useless. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back as he drove into you, his name falling from your lips like a prayer between desperate pants.
“V-Val- hhahh- Val-ko- s'too- m'gonna- too m-much-“
Words? What were those? Your brain had turned to mush about three orgasms ago.
A whimper caught in your throat. Tears pricked at your lashes at the stretch, at being so fucking full, like he'd shoved your organs aside to make room.
“Hah-“ His voice broke, and you could feel every muscle in his body trembling, fighting something feral as his tail lashed wildly behind him. “Tryna be gentle but you-“
He fucked you like a beast anyway. Forehead pressed to yours, ears flat against his head, panting into your mouth. Your slick made the filthiest sounds every time he thrust home and when his teeth found your neck hard enough to break skin, the noise you made had his rhythm stuttering.
“Sorry- ngh- didn't mean-“ But he didn't stop. Couldn't.
His hand slid under your back, arching you up into him. The other pinned your wrist to the mattress. Blood smeared across your throat from his lips.
“That's it, that’s my good girl-“ Completely gone. Ruined.
You came screaming and do you think that made him slow down? Fuck no. He didn't slow down even a little.
“Again.” Barely a whisper. Begging. Pleading for just one more scream from those pretty lips…
“Valko- can't- no more-“
His ears drooped, this wounded little sound in his chest, “I know babe, m'sorry-“ His hips snapped forward anyway, “what’s a pup supposed to do? You just feel so good- cant- shit- can’t stop-“
Your cunt was a sloppy, ruined mess at this point- syrupy strings of your cum and arousal coating his cock, smearing creamy across your inner thighs. You could feel yourself dripping between your ass, making a puddle beneath you.
Then something big started pressing at your entrance.
You felt it before your sex stupid brain could process it- this thick, swelling pressure at your already stuffed hole. Stretching you wider. Wider. Too wide-
His knot.
It shoved inside with a wet POP and you shrieked, back bowing clean off the mattress, nails carving bleeding trenches down his spine. The sudden fullness -that fat bulge locking him in, plugging you up, pressing against every sensitive nerve- had your vision whiting out again. Your cunt spasmed around him, another orgasm cresting before the last one even finished, milking his knot in desperate fluttering clenches.
“Huh? What happened?” Total confusion. His ears shot up, head tilting, “You alright babe? Did I do something?”
“Your- your fucking knot- fuckfuckfuck-“ you choked out.
“What?” He blinked down at you, all golden puppy eyes while his monster sized knot split you in half, “What's wrong with it?”
“Ser -seriously? Sh’too- It's s’too big-“
“It is?” As he smirks he shifts his weight and you damn near passed out, “seems fine to me?”
You laughed -or sobbed, hard to tell- and it broke into a moan when he rolled his hips experimentally. You grabbed his hand and shoved it down between your bodies, pressing it against the bulge in your lower belly. Obscene. Fucking obscene.
“Valko.”
He looked down. Blinked. His tail started wagging. Actually wagging!
“Oh wow.” Like he'd found something mildly interesting, “That's pretty crazy.”
“YEAH.”
“Does it actually hurt?” He pressed against the bulge with genuine curiosity and your eyes nearly rolled back into your skull. Tail still going.
“Do you- hahh- do you seriously not know- how huge-“
“Dunno, never measured?” He dropped a casual kiss on your forehead, sweet as anything, while his fat fucking knot throbbed like it was trying to reshape your insides. “Always been like this. Annnnd those noises don’t really convince me you’re in pain.”
You were gonna fucking murder him. Right after you finished losing your mind on his cock.
He ground down into you and you came so hard you forgot your own name, pussy clenching around him like a goddamn vice.
“Oh- shit- shit-“ Finally cracking, his voice going high and whiney, “Squeezing me so tight, you’re gonna make me-“
He buried his face in your neck and came with a broken whine, and you felt it- pulse after pulse of hot cum pumping into you, filling you up til your belly rounded out even more. His arms caged you in, tail thumping against the mattress as he bred you full.
“S'good,” he slurred against your throat…
“Valko,” you whimpered, brain leaking out your ears., “M'so full-“
“Mm?” He sounded so pleased with himself.
Still absolutely clueless.
Way later -who even knows how long- he was still on top of you, weight braced on his elbows so he didn't crush you. His knot pulsed lazy and another warm gush filled you up.
“Hey,” he mumbled into your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice.
“Mm.”
“So...” His fingers walked playfully up your side, making you squirm- which only made you clench around his knot and whimper, “You think my knot's big, huh?”
“Shut up.”
“Nah but like-“ He propped himself up to look at you, smirking, tail swishing, “You were really loud about it. Pretty sure the neighbors know now.”
“I hate you.”
“Mmhm.” He rolled his hips just slightly -enough to make you gasp- and his grin widened. “That why you're still milking my cock right now?”
Your face burned, “I- I can't- it's involuntary-“
“Sure it is.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, nuzzling, “S'okay baby. I think it's cute how much you love my huge knot.”
“I never said-“
“‘S'so fucking big Valko,'”he mimicked in a breathy voice, and you smacked his chest while he snickered. “'Your knot Valko, oh my god-“
“I do NOT sound like that.”
“You kinda do.” Another lazy grind. Another gush of cum. His eyes glittered. “Wanna hear what else you said? Got real creative toward the end there.”
You shoved at his shoulder uselessly. He didn't budge, just laughed and buried his face in your neck, pressing smiling kisses to your skin.
“M'just teasing, babe” His tail curled around your thigh, “youre cute when you're embarrassed.” He nuzzled the tippy top of your head.
“I'm gonna kill you when your knot finally goes down.”
“Mm, that's fair.” He snuggled closer, entirely unbothered, “Gives me like twenty more minutes to annoy you though.”
His hips shifted again, lazy and deliberate, and the noise you made was mortifying.
synopsis: valko is in deep heat with the supermoon occurring, and he wants a solution that requires restraints, a collar, and you.
warnings: valko is in heat, sub!valko, good boy!valko, collar use, bondage, riding, overstimulation, biting, licking, scent marking, edging, knots, rutting, monsterfucking.
wc: 2,3k
a/n: i love him already, he's such a cutie. he deserves endless cuddles, BE NICE TO HIM! i want to devour him. I NEED HIM TO EAT ME OU– enjoy a pre-release celebration of our handsome wolf, valko!
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
He must be in heat. that’s the only way Valko can describe this feeling. The moon has been full for less than an hour, and he’s already twitching. Usually he can handle himself. But that’s not gonna work out well for him if all he can think about is you.
Your scent is delicious, beyond the scented lotions and perfume, he’s talking about your natural aroma, amplified by sweat and other smells your body emits. It draws him in. He can’t help but sniff the air every time you walk past him. His cock won’t stop twitching in his pants, tenting at the sight of you catching his gaze.
Valko wants to bite you. Valko wants to slather you with his saliva until you smell like him. He wants to rut his cock so deep inside you, cuddle you so close and keep you so warm with his hot body that you just have to call him a good boy.
“…ko,” He must be imagining you saying his name so nice and breathless.
“…alko.” There it is again, louder, your nails could drag down his back until he bleeds and he’d thank you.
“Valko!” He blinks, the mirage of a heated embrace disappearing from his perception to be replaced by your fingers snapping very close to his face. Such pretty fingers, he wants to lick—
“Yeah?” His voice is gruff and hoarse, almost like he’s keeping a whimper tight in his throat. His leg bounces as fast as his heart pounds his chest. You’re so pretty, with your pretty parted lips, and how your saliva keeps it just wet enough to shine in the warm lamp light. So plump for him to kiss and bite—
“As I was saying,” You pull your hand away, not hearing the small whine that leaves him from the lack of contact. “We need to make sure you’re comfortable for the next few hours. You said you can get agitated when there’s full moons, right?”
“Mmh.” Better a grunt than a moan. You brush it off assuming the effects of the celestial event are starting to mess with him internally.
Of course, you’re well aware that he’s got an extra pair of fluffy scratchable ears on the top of his head, an even fluffier tail protruding from the base of his spine, and sharper canines. You’re not ignorant.
What you don’t know is that he’s much more prone to getting heated in these hours. Especially in the presence of someone who his body, mind, and soul are attuned to completely. It’s you. You're that someone.
But he has to behave for your sake. He can’t be bad, he can’t be too rash and aggressive or he might scare you off. You might not like it. But he wants you so damn bad, he can’t even hide it anymore.
You’re rattling about restraints, something to tie him to incase he goes berserk.
Restraints. Belts. Muzzle. Chair. Tie him to a chair. He wants you to tie him to a chair.
He wants you to restrain him. He wants you to sit on his lap and feel how hard his cock is for you, feel it throb just below your cunt, grind his hips up to you still so retrained and held back that he has to beg you to ride him. He might as well ask for it.
“…unless that’s too extreme.” You mutter, expecting a response. Nothing. Did he zone out again? What’s going on with Valko to be so distracted? He wasn’t like this last month. “Look, I know the full moon can be a messy time for you, and now that it’s a supermoon it could be worse, but I’d prefer you to actually respond— oh.”
Valko is drooling. Valko’s eyes are glazed over. Valko is blushing beyond relief. And Valko is sporting a rock hard boner.
The silence that stretches between you would have been uncomfortable, it should have been. But you seem to enjoy the rough pants that escape his lips, how his hands are balled into fists to keep himself at bay. How the veins on his neck are far more prominent now.
You sink your teeth into your lower lip, hoping you won’t say anything foolish.
“Don’t laugh.” Valko grits, his fluffy ears drooping a little.
“I wasn’t going to.” You say, trying to ignore the fact that your lips are twitching into a smile.
You glance down from his agitated golden eyes to his neck, to his large muscular chest covered by the black tank you always find so attractive on him, to the taper of his waist, to the pulsing print of his cock bulging against his pants.
Now that you think of it, you two haven’t shared the bed recently. You’ve both been so busy with work that neither of you have had time for each other. And you’ve been very wound up these last few days.
“I think we should figure out what restraints will be good for you.” A purr follows your words as you rest your hands on his chest. Muscular, warm, huge chest that you love to sleep on. You’re making this much, much worse and you know it. You can hear it in the groan that rumbles in his chest.
“Oh, is it getting worse?” You play an aloof demeanour, reaching to caress the soft ears on his head, making sure to rub on that sensitive spot where his hair is its softest. A soft moan escapes Valko’s lips as his golden eyes flutter closed.
“Please…”
“What do you need me to do, my love?” Your lips ghost the shell of his fleshy ear, tongue peeking out to trace the shell. He shudders, head lowering to give you more access, hips rocking towards you so you can feel just what you need to do.
You don’t want that, though. He has to say it.
“I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”
A pained moan rushes right into your ear as he drops a part of his weight on you. Valko doesn’t want to say it but he also wants to say it. It doesn’t make sense. This heated state is driving him insane, and you’re giving him such a clear path to relief. But what he wants is different from what you usually do… will you agree?
With a shaky breath, Valko nuzzles the side of your neck, mustering the will to confess his desire. “You have to tell me no if you can’t do it.”
“I will.” You reassure him, stroking his soft hair. His arms wrap tight around you, grounding himself in your presence as the words unknot themselves to flow out.
“If you’re grossed out—“
“I won’t be grossed out, Val.” You softly say, rubbing circles into his lower back. “Nothing about you grosses me out. I trust you, so you need to trust that I’ll handle whatever you need and that I’ll tell you if I can’t. Outside of cannibalism, I'm not doing that.”
That makes him chuckle. “You’ll tell me the second you’re uncomfortable?”
“The millisecond.”
His next request comes out more sheepishly. “You’ll tell me I’m doing good?”
“I’ll put a poet to shame.”
“Pull my hair?”
“Put a collar on you too if you’re feeling feisty.”
A sigh of relief escapes Valko’s lips. Oh, he loves you. Finally, he pulls his face away from your neck to level your gaze with fresh determination on his face. “I want you to tie me to the chair, and ride the shit outta me.”
Ask and ye shall receive, as you hear them say.
It was easy to put Valko on a chair especially when he's drunk on your kisses, hungrily biting marks into your bare chest and stomach, gripping your hips so tight you’d think he’s terrified that you’ll run. It was easier to get soaked just from watching him strip for you— that, and having his fingers curl so good inside your cunt as he slurped and lapped at your clit.
The only ‘difficult’ part was restraining him to the chair, legs, arms, and torso roped tight, and that’s just because he’s antsy whenever the full moon happens.
But something about this supermoon has got him more riled up than usual. Why, you ask?
You’ve been bouncing on the man’s cock for two hours.
You’re not complaining, you love every second of this. Your walls are fluttering around him as he slides in and out of you so easily, caught by you keeping his fat tip inside leaking all that sticky, hot precum before you drop into his lap again and again and again.
“Val— ooh, fuck!” Your praise has otherwise become mush, slurred moans of his name and whatever adulation could come to mind. Valko doesn’t mind since he isn't doing any better. If anything, he’s lost the need to think.
“S-So good,” His throat is torn from how loud he’s been, his hips jutting into you even with his thick, corded thighs roped down to the chair. His tail is slapping the floor, his fluffy ears are twitching. He can barely move, limbs strapped down and a collar wrapped around his neck at his own request. And he loves it.
He wants to cum so bad. But then he’d end up swelling so much that he’d be stuck for hours, just grinding and grinding and plugging his seed inside instead of feeling you slap down on him with each rise and fall of your full hips. He wouldn’t have your soft breasts bouncing in his face, or feel your hands scratch his undercut and pull his hair, or hear the hiccups in your voice or the ragged moans in his own.
Why make this pleasure so short-lived when he can prolong it?
His cock is leaking like a faucet, keeping him smooth and wet for you to use him as you please, pulsing with the desire to just release. His sacks are drawn up tight, literally clenching with enough cum to repopulate a country, and yet he still won’t give in.
Valko drags his tongue up your jaw all the way to your cheekbone. “ ‘m I fuckin’ you good?”
“Hah— mhm. Such a good boy.” You ramble into his lips as you kiss him, slipping your tongue inside to taste him as if he isn’t all that you can sense. “So big and thick and hot… so— Valko— so full ‘f you, want you deeper, you’re so good!”
You’re on orgasm number five by now, gripping onto Valko’s strong shoulders for dear life, back arched, tugging his hair like you want to rip his red locks off. It’s the supermoon, you tell yourself, it must be shooting his stamina through the roof.
It fucking has to be if he’s been rutting into you like a bullet train without cumming even once. His girth twitches with every rock of your plush hips, it leaks and weeps inside you every time you squeeze him hard enough to cut off his blood flow. It has to hurt, prolonging his climax for this long.
Valko likes it that way. He likes the hurt. He likes the way his body just responds to you so well, like you’re made for each other. You have to be.
Your knees are starting to ache. Your thighs are burning from the constant bouncing up and down his thick length but the feeling of him dragging through your walls with each vein pressing against your walls is too good. The overwhelming bump of his cockhead kissing your cervix may just tip you over the edge again. The fucking curve of his cock and the angle just lets him reach the sensitive nerves of your g-spot so good every damn time!
You love these fucking supermoons.
“Valko,” You hum, licking his lips then his chin and jaw, your breath heavy as you maintain your pace. Just a few more and you’ll be in pure bliss. But you need him there with you. “I’m close. I’m so close. Hnn, need you— cum with me.”
“You— oh, you sure?” He whimpers, nuzzling you as you lick the tears off his cheeks. “I’ll—“
“Knot me, mhm.” You nod, rubbing your nose into his cheek, inhaling his scent. This man’s frenzied behaviour has been rubbing off on you too much, not that there’s reason to complain. “You’re gonna swell up so fuckin’ thick, yeah?”
He nods. “Gonna plug all that cum in me, keep it warm inside while you grind ’n rut into me?”
“Yeah,” He affirms, his arms pulling against the restraints. Is this what you want? You want him to bond with you to that much of an intimate extent? You must truly love him. “ ’m gonna stay in you the whole night, snug inside. But I like when you ride me.” You can feel him pouting as he pecks your skin. So cute.
“Then you’ll be a good boy, right?” You coo, your hands cupping his face as you press your thumbs on his lower lip. “Cum with me, and stay inside all night.” You fight every urge to give in to the pleasure when he bites your fingers.
You suck his upper lip, letting your moans vibrate into his. “Can you do that for me?”
Valko’s a simple man. You ask for something and he’ll give it to you with a smile. Like he is now, canines bared, tongue lapping at your fingers before he attacks your lips with a bruising, hot kiss. He pulls away just for a second to mutter against your mouth, “I love you.”
“I know, baby.” You huff, smiling into the kiss as you scratch his fluffy ears. Valko’s hips rut up faster and you can feel his cock swell at the base, almost ready to be plugged into you. Oh, he is so going to eat his cum out of you once he’s soft. “Now be good and cum with me.”
synopsis: during a fruitless meeting, zayne gets a harrowing message: there’s been an emergency.
in which you wind up at your least favorite place, and zayne is the only one who can calm you down.
pairing: zayne x fem reader
tags: angst, comfort, fluff, reader is injured in a car accident, reader has a fear of hospitals, mentions of blood and wounds, anxiety all around, reader is strongly attached to zayne, reader is somewhat dependent on zayne, reader is clingy as a result, reader cries, lots of skinship, zayne in scrubs, zayne reassures reader, he encourages her to prioritize herself, yvonne cameo, greyson mentions, i am not a doctor nor have i ever been to the emergency room
word count: 3k
Giving his colleague time to respond, Zayne adjusts the placement of his watch on his wrist. Illuminated by the morning sun, the silver band catches on the lens of his glasses, reflecting a rhombus onto his black slacks.
It’s the most stimulating thing about this meeting.
“I…” A swine-like wheeze reveals the hospital executive’s desperation as he turns to other stakeholders for support. “I don't love the idea of it either, Dr. Li. But what other choice is there? Akso’s profits are falling for the first time in years. Increasing the cost of care is the only way to keep up with the evolving economy!”
“And how do you suppose the hospital will operate when its clientele are priced out of our services?”
Just as the executive’s flush turns from pink to red, the conference room door opens, saving him from what was sure to be a lackluster rebuttal.
Dressed in her white scrubs and mask, Yvonne rushes in, frazzled and panting. Not one for impoliteness, she coughs out a hasty greeting before meeting Zayne’s gaze and making an urgent gesture.
“Excuse me,” he says, mildly disappointed to cut the debate short. He was just warming up.
Almost immediately, the tension in the air dissipates. A quiet sigh of relief slips from the executive’s mouth as the biggest adversary he’s faced since college plagiarism checkers steps into the hall.
Several paces from the closed oak door, Yvonne turns to face Zayne, wringing her hands out with nerves. “I’m sorry to pull you away, but there’s been an emergency,” she whispers.
Zayne squints slightly, dark eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Dr. Greyson should be available right now. Is there a reason wh—”
“Your partner, Dr. Li.” It’s a rare interruption. “She was just in an accident.”
The stairs are a blur as he rushes down them two at a time. Still, it isn't fast enough.
“What’s happened?” Zayne demands. “Tell me everything.”
Yvonne follows closely behind him, her clogs hitting the floor on the offbeats of his heavy steps. “It was a collision with another vehicle. The other driver had only minor injuries, but hers are more serious.”
“How serious?” Careening around the corner, he nearly plows through a gaggle of interns heading toward the fifth floor.
Typically, the sight of calm, collected Dr. Li is enough to make the younger staff gape in wonder. But frantic, distressed Dr. Li? That’s a new concept entirely.
However, as Zayne flattens his body to pass by them without hindrance, their gawking goes even less noticed than usual.
“They can’t tell the extent of the damage,” Yvonne explains. “We tried to evaluate upon arrival, but she won’t accept treatment until she sees you. When I left the ER, she was thrashing around and calling out for you.”
“She’s afraid of hospitals,” he responds robotically.
Just a few steps farther.
The searing burn in his legs reminds him of the hike he’d gone on with you just a few days earlier. The way he tripped on a well-camouflaged branch, and you caught him with an ill-concealed snicker. The way you paused under a maple tree to catch your breath after, oblivious to the bustling beehive ten feet above you.
“EEEEEEgetitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetitoff!”
As you permanently damage the hearing of the bee on your tank top, a retaliatory snicker escapes Zayne’s lips.
“You think this is funny?” you screech, holding deathly still lest you provoke the beast on your shoulder. “I’ve never been stung before! What if I'm allergic?”
“All right, all right.” He cautiously waves the insect off with his hand, and it flies onto a nearby flower. “See? You’re safe now.”
While you catch your breath, a dramatic hand plastered to your chest, he curls an arm around your lower back and guides you away from danger.
At the base of the mountain, you’d stopped at an ice cream truck, gifting each other compensatory snow cones for your troubles.
That memory of you, smiling in the sun with sweat-slicked skin and blue-stained lips, won’t leave his mind. What kind of state were you in right now? Would you be able to go out like that, to laugh like that again? Would you want to?
A chill creeps through the sterile air as he finally reaches the bottom of the stairwell. With an anxious breath, he bursts through the ER doors, eyes scanning with urgency unknown.
Zayne is used to seeing people bloodied and bruised—too used to it, if you and his parents had anything to say about it. After years of stitching the broken back up again, he's grown desensitized to the most off-putting aspects of the human body. When he sees blood, he can’t afford to panic. He's got a job to do.
Now, at perhaps the one moment he can afford it the least, there's a delay in his actions. It’s immoral for him to think this way, and he'd never say it out loud, but it's not a patient who's hurt. It's not just anyone. It’s you.
You, who demoted lonely from a frequent feeling to a foreign one. You, who showed him, for the first time, how to love and be loved.
So when he sees you frenzied and bleeding, swatting at several nurses’ hands like a cornered stray making its last stand, he freezes. And in that moment, your eyes meet.
Your tired, broken whimper is what finally springs him into action.
He rushes to your side, forcing the metallic tang of your blood a step down from salience. The nurses clear a path for him immediately.
He tries to examine the extent of your injuries, but your attempts to cling to him make it difficult. More than once, he has to beg you to stay still.
“It hurts,” you mewl, weakly clutching his left arm.
“I know. I know. But I need you to stay still for me, all right? Just while we figure out what's wrong.” So much blood. “Here, give me your hand.”
Your palms meet with identical iron grips. You squeeze him in pain and fear, he squeezes you in simmering panic—as well as to keep you still.
Needing to be heard but not wanting to startle you, he calls out his observations with the steadiest voice he can. “I see abrasions on the right temple and significant bruising on the upper body. The arm and shoulder lacerations will likely need staples.”
Slowly, he lifts your lolling head to examine your unfocused eyes. “What’s your full name, and where are we right now?”
“We’re in…” Through slurred words, you blink slowly, pausing to take in your surroundings. It’s like you’re seeing it all for the first time—the somber staff, the sobbing families, the lifeless bodies on the beds—and your face is the picture of panic. “Why…why are we here? I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”
Zayne grimaces, shushing you and smoothing your hair down. “She may have a concussion as well.”
Your swollen face contorts in panic. “I have what?”
“Shh. I’m sorry if this is uncomfortable,” he whispers. Gathering you in his arms, he rises to full height and nods swiftly to the surrounding staff. “I’m going to set her down slowly. Ensure the gurney is stable.”
Your sense of smell is the first to return to you.
At home, you keep diffusers scattered throughout the space; it brightens your day when your favorite fragrance fills the room.
Here—wherever here is—a piercing sterile scent burns the inside of your nose.
Bleach and artificial lemon.
Something is wrong.
In your ears, the high-pitched hum of equipment.
On your tongue, the aftertaste of iron.
When you finally manage to crack your eyes open, blinding light forces them shut. You try again a moment later, gradually processing the thin blue gown hanging loosely on your sore frame.
It all comes flooding back.
A sickening crash. A crushing impact. Flashing lights, loud voices.
Screeching sirens. Fragments of motion sickness. An abrupt stop.
A big, bright Akso sign. Shining like a beacon.
Not here. Not here. Not all alone.
Your own voice, crying out for Zayne.
Zayne.
Where is he now?
The hospital bed groans under your thrashing body. It hurts, but it won’t be for long. He’s here somewhere, and if you can just get to him, he’ll make it better like he always does.
Zayne. Zayne. Zayne.
As soon as you manage to plant one foot on the ground, the door to your room swings open.
When Zayne steps through, face weary and teal scrubs more ruffled than he’d usually allow, your body melts in relief.
His dim hazel eyes lighten a bit when he sees that you're awake. Then, they zero in on your injured form hanging precariously off the bed.
“Going somewhere?” His voice is flat, unamused. He crosses the room in four long strides, gently lifts your errant leg, and repositions you properly on the mattress. All the while, he expertly dodges your weakened attempts to pull him down with you. “You need to stay here. Movement can exacerbate your injuries.”
“Okay.” You swallow thickly, eyes brimming with unshed tears. This time, when you reach for him, he wraps you into his warm embrace.
Zayne shifts to hold you as best he can, avoiding the wounds and gauze on your head, arms, and shoulders. In the silence, your breaths and heartbeats slowly start to sync.
Clutching his shirt in your fingers, you speak softly into his skin. “You weren’t here when I woke up.” It’s not an accusation, but more a lamentation.
“I’d planned to stay with you, but a patient needed an emergency operation not long after they brought you here. I was in surgery for the last five hours. I came as soon as I could.”
You start to nod into his shoulder, but he stills your head to limit your movement. Instead, you give him something between a hum and a grunt.
“What happened?” he asks after a moment.
“I tried to take the interstate on my way to work. The one we used to practice since I was so scared of all the traffic here. But when I went to merge…I barely even saw the other car. I just remember the crash, and the ambulance, and I knew they were taking me here—I saw the sign—and I panicked. I haven’t been in the hospital since I was a kid. Every time they’d let me out of bed to walk around, there was a new family crying in the halls. I didn’t ever want to go back.” Your voice is hoarse by the time you finish—barely more than a whisper. Pulling back slightly, Zayne cracks open the bottle of water on the bedside table and holds it to your lips. You drink gratefully, wrapping both hands around his wrist.
Once you’re done, he leans in close and presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re very brave for trying that by yourself. But should something like this happen again, you can't delay getting treatment because of me. Let them help you.”
“You know I don’t—I’ve never felt comfortable in places like this. There’s so much pain and grief here. I don’t know how you handle it.” Your throat constricts, and his hold on you tightens as wetness seeps into his shirt. “I was so scared.”
“I know. But I was, too. Not knowing what I was walking into, what kind of state you’d be in when I arrived…I was terrified.”
You bite your lip, discovering an undetected cut at the top. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Of course you didn’t. Just promise me that you'll always make your wellbeing a priority, whether or not I’m within reach.”
“I want to. But it’s hard,” you mumble. “You’re really responsible, you know. And kind. And nice. And smart. And—”
You’re ready to prattle on, but you cut the praise short once you spot his pink-tinged cheeks. “You’re a lot of good things,” you pivot. “Most of all, you make me feel safe. But…”
“But?” he echoes, threading a hand through your hair.
“I get anxious without you,” you admit. “When I’m with you, I feel like everything will be alright, but when I'm not…it feels like the world is ending sometimes. And I'm there in the thick of it, lost and alone.” Your self-deprecating laugh worsens the ache in your chest. “I just feel like I depend on you a lot. Maybe too much.”
He’s quiet for a few beats, constructing his response with the utmost care. “You should be able to depend on me,” he begins softly. “That's my job as your partner. But you lived many years before we met. Your agency isn’t reliant upon my physical presence, though you may feel it is.” He clears his throat. “I’d never be opposed to spending every second by your side. But when I can’t, I hope you’ll still feel me right there with you. Cheering you on, supporting you. That’s when I feel most at home.
“I could never stray too far from the one I love. So, although I may not always be present, I’m in your heart, as well as your thoughts. Even if you have to ask yourself, ‘What would Zayne do?’ to find your way forward, I trust you can come to the right answer. He would do whatever he could to keep you safe and healthy.”
If you weren’t certain he’d scold you for moving, you’d duck your head under your blanket in embarrassment. Instead, you simply whine and avert your gaze, heart fluttering at his words.
“You understand, don’t you?” he coaxes. “Can you take care of yourself for me?”
You purse your lips, still clutching his scrubs tight despite his ask. When you answer, your voice wavers in uncertainty.
“I’ll try.”
For the first part of the afternoon, Zayne keeps you company. He reads to you from Yvonne’s romance novel, supervises while you switch between games on his phone, and opens the blinds so you can people-watch from the comfort of the seventh-floor window.
When boredom strikes, you put on a game show on the midsize TV, guessing most answers wrong while he gets them right.
When a staff member brings you a snack, you urge Zayne onto the too-small bed with you and share a tapioca pudding cup, tactfully ignoring the healthy serving of carrots on the side.
Soothed by his warmth and steady heartbeat, you feel your eyelids grow heavy after a while. In his arms, the room’s oppressive white and whirring machinery become no more than a quelled threat. But when the shrill beep of his pager cuts through the quiet, your body goes rigid with fear forgotten.
“There’s another operation soon. I'll have to leave in a moment.”
“A-Are you sure?” Your eyes widen in dismay. “Can’t Greyson—”
Recalling your promise from earlier, you reel yourself in and take your bottom lip between your teeth. As you lower your head and prepare to apologize, Zayne cups your warming face in his hands. You nuzzle into him greedily.
“Greyson has already done all he can. His selflessness this afternoon is the reason I’ve been able to stay with you for this long. I suppose I owe him a coffee for that.” He curves his lips upward slightly, hoping your frowning ones will follow. “On the bright side, it’s the last surgery of the day. I'll be back here to see you once it’s over.”
“Okay,” you whisper. You know he hears your voice break. Even if he doesn’t, you can't blink fast enough to stop the first few drops from falling.
Regret quickly takes the place of his smile. His face contorts into a grimace as he racks his brain for a solution, eventually nodding to himself resolutely. “Wait just a moment, all right? I’ll be right back. There’s something I need to do.” He kisses your hair once more, then waits for you to nod your agreement. Then, he walks briskly out of the room.
The temperature seems to plummet.
You curl in on yourself as best you can, the last round of painkillers wearing off fast. But Zayne brings you a warmth that’s unreachable alone.
You try to wait for him, you really do. But maybe it’s a miracle that sleep tugs at you in a place like this.
When you pry your heavy eyelids open, the sun is just beginning to set. You’re certain you were out cold whenever Zayne returned to your room earlier, and you can’t help but groan. From the looks of it, he’s still in surgery—no telling when he’ll be back to help you spend the night in your least favorite place.
Desperate to pass the time, you start to reach for the TV remote, only to nudge something soft tucked into your side. Upon further inspection, you recognize the hospital’s gift shop logo stitched onto a black paw pad.
Beside you is a grinning polar bear plush, a pair of lensless spectacles sitting on its short snout. On its blue bib sits a get well soon message; between its outstretched paws is a brief note. That paradoxically legible handwriting…you’d know it anywhere.
Synopsis: Enjin is an infamous flirt, and you are confident that any time his auburn gaze lingers on you with a lazy smirk pressing in his dimples, that sultry voice of his addressing you by every pet name but your own, he is merely teasing. And while Enjin loves to tease you, he isn't exactly sure how to admit he is serious about the way he is obsessed with you.
to sum it up: jeez... how can a man prove he wants you when he struggles to accept it himself?
WC: 7,036
Warning(s): noneeee
"Shut up, Enjin."
Those three little words are like music falling gracefully upon the said man's ears, as his cheeks wrinkle with a satisfied grin that you are all too well-accustomed too. Your brows dig deeper into the crease between them as you glower up at the dirty blonde in all of his six something glory, your hands crossed firmly over your chest as a frown drags your pretty lips downward.
(E/c) eyes rolling, lips kissing teeth, the wrinkle of annoyance plaguing your beautiful face, the very curse of his name to top it all off. Like he's a plague to your existence, and you just love that he is. Sinking into the routine of denying his little flirtations, swatting a hand at his chest or arm when the wrong words tumble from his lips at the wrong time, landing rather poorly in taste.
And with skin buzzing from your previous, stinging point of contact, Enjin revels in the bliss that is watching you get all riled up on his behalf. You tell him to shut up at least twenty times a day like it's your mantra, and you would think that Enjin would have grown tired with your aggravation toward him by now, whether feigned or authentic, but he doesn't think he ever will.
Enjin knows he's a cheeky bastard.
He laughs obnoxiously with his whole body, large palms flat to his abdomen as tears spring to his eyes through unrestrained guffaws - and he always laughs like that at someone else's expense. You can't even count the number of times you've approached Enjin with something embarrassing and he's snorted in your face, cheeks puffing, air spewing through scrunched lips, and hand slapping over his mouth to conceal his entertainment as you bark obscenities at him with flushed cheeks.
He's loud, from the music he blasts through that company jeep to the very manner in which he wrangles it around like it's some kind of cattle rather than a vehicle under his own manipulation. His voice carries across halls, thuds through darkness and early mornings, blabbers the stupidest jokes and slang that you've ever heard in your life coming from a twenty eight year old’s lips.
He eats like a pig, with no manners except for the appreciation he shows toward the person who prepared his meal. He smokes at the drop of a hat, making his presence to a room known with the familiar flick of a lighter and the sound of singing tobacco.
He cheats during card games, roughly nougies the top of Rudo's head in a light headlock just because he knows that it pisses the fifteen year old off, and he flirts like he's flaunting his body around to sell to the entire world.
Oh, he knows he gets on everyone's nerves. In fact, he's proud to. He decided long ago that ragebaiting the people he cares about is his love language, for he's not too good at words or any of the other crap.
And, yeah, it's funny when he's got Semiu threatening to strip him of his choker privileges when he consistently abuses them, calling her in the middle of completing important paperwork to bother her about absolutely nothing, or when he manages to get Gnomulas to flip a table over in the middle of a poorly executed game of Spades.
But nothing compares to when it's you grinding your teeth in vexation as Enjin pushes every single button you could possibly have. And of course, it's different with you. He picks at everyone, but with you, his sincerest form of pestering is by flirting with you.
"You really sure you want me to shut up?" he tilts his head down at you, grin stretching over his face. He's got the doorway blocked as he stands before your room with his elbow pressed above his head to the frame and his other hand planted on his hip. Soft tendrils of his wild hair sway with his movement, and his brow lifts playfully. "You tell me to every day, and yet you always let me come in here and talk your ear off."
"How could anyone ever possibly get you to stop talking?" you mirror the lift of his brow, shifting your weight onto one foot as you glare up at him with weary eyes. "And I don't let you talk. You just don't listen. And you barge in here yourself, by the way."
His brows pinch with his grin, as if to pretend that he is a offended. "I listen to ya plenty! All the time."
"No you don't," you scoff.
"Sure I do. I listened when you told me all about how much you hate super sweet stuff-"
"That's the most useless piece of information you've ever chosen to remember about me."
"No way. It's especially important 'cause you would think someone as sweet as you would prefer otherwise."
You give him a deadpan stare. "You're being gross."
He laughs out, head tossing back. "Didn't like that one either, huh," his voice dips at the edge of his laughter, and you fight the instinct your body has developed to shiver when his words land so seductively. You aren't sure whether it is on purpose or not sometimes, but there is something incredibly lethal about the delicious scratch of Enjin's voice each time he speaks lowly.
And that's what truly bothers you about your coworker and rather close friend of the Cleaners. You've heard that tone time and time again, over and over.
There are times when it's innocent. When he’s simply ruminating in agitation or grumbling incoherently to himself, mulling over something quietly with skepticism and focus. But then there are the times when it's not, when you’ve caught wind of him talking all sweet to some woman in the next town over, loitering outside of a grocery store with heavy lids and telling grins.
You can't stand the way it makes your stomach twist, the way your eye twitches at the very sight any time you happen to intrude. Yet even so, you observe how he keeps every woman he flirts with at a distance - never bothering to offer up means of communication or otherwise, and even far less willing to indulge anyone physically or sexually. He's made the mistake of going home with women before, only to be bombarded with the neediness he so adamantly claims to find unattractive in women.
Enjin avoids the intimate, evading anything that could possibly lead to emotional connection outside of the family he's already built within his occupation. When Enjin flirts, he flirts for fun, for that little thrill of being wanted, of established mutual attraction. He never goes beyond that. Not anymore, and somehow, that only makes it all worse.
Enjin is never serious about anything when it comes to matters outside of what he ordinarily has the capacity to handle. When emotions swarm around, he takes a step back, letting those better equipped to tackle such things take the lead. And it's not as though he's horrible with such things. He's observant, and he gives rather valuable advice to those younger than him. Despite your previous argument, he does listen when it counts. When the kids are struggling with mental ailments. When you demand to be heard, and his playfulness dissapates under the severity of your countenance.
God, he's obsessed with that about you. How hot you get when you're actually serious about something. When you emphasize that you are no longer playing around, and that Enjin will shut up and hear you out as you lecture him about being careless.
Hell yeah, he listens when you have important things to say, but when it comes to anything further than that, like comfort, words of affirmation, and commitment, he's toast. A lost cause. An empty noggin.
So when he does flirt with you, you don't take him seriously. How could you, when he has never taken a single woman seriously himself? Enjin lives to pester, and he has discovered that the easiest way to do so to you is to persistently bombard you with stupid little looks, and that stupid sexy smile, and the stupid twitch of his fingers against your back or your arm or your cheek that you always push away with haste.
You fight against his charms aggressively. You really do, but it becomes harder and harder to do so each day as your true feelings for him blossom under all those disgusted and angry looks you send his way on a daily. Because it's not that Enjin is a bad person, he's just a horrible person to have developed feelings for.
Nevertheless, he's reliable. He's consoling in a silent, effortless way that is far more effective than when he is actively trying to step into a role unsuited for him emotionally. He's thoughtful and encouraging. And while the way he laughs shamelessly into your ear grinds your gears, laughter loud enough to burst an ear drum, he always raps silently at your door at the end of the night to check in on you and make sure you're doing okay.
While his presence is big, he knows when to shrink himself into the warmth of moments where the two of you sit quietly next to each other after a long mission, your head knocking against his broad shoulder as his voice lowly rumbles against you as he speaks to Gris, cigarette hanging from his lips, leg pressing into yours, large arm tucked around your frame like it's nothing.
He tosses your favorite drink to you with a wordless grin when you trudge tiredly into a room. He lets you sit shotgun during every mission the two of you are assigned on together. He lets you braid beads into his hair when his inhibitions have lowered, his body almost numb from alcohol consumption.
He's a good friend. A good guy. Stupid, and unserious, and annoying, but a good man nonetheless. Someone you put your trust in wholeheartedly. Someone you are proud to work alongside at the best of times, and to like him is to doom yourself to an existence of misery and shame.
For your emotions can not seem to get the memo that Enjin is not a contender for your heart. He can't be. That's just not the kind of person he is, and you know it better than anyone.
"Enjin, will you move? Come on, I'm hungry," you groan, moving to push past him, but his ass doesn't budge. He simply shifts his weight to block each direction you attempt to head into, and you grip your hair with a loud sigh. "Oh my god, get out of the way. I'm gonna kill you."
"And I'd be honored," he grins. "You still haven't answered my question, though. I'll let you go once you answer."
"I thought I already told you to shut up."
"You did, and it was nice and all. Really," his golden eyes trail to the ceiling as he pretends to think. "But that still wasn't an answer."
"Why would I give an answer to such a stupid question?"
Enjin pauses, blinking hard and locking eyes with you as his smile diminishes. "Ouch," he drawls. "You think my question was stupid? Just kill a man where he stands, why don't you."
You huff. "Don't play that. We both know you didn't mean anything by it. I'm not feeding your ego with hypotheticals. Your head is already big enough as it is."
You lean up to flick your fingers in the middle of his forehead, and his head jerks slightly, sandy lashes batting at the sensation of your fingers plucking against his skin. Though his ego has been slightly wounded, the corners of his lips curl deviously as he rubs the spot with his tattooed fingers. "Ow... again..."
You smile softly with the shake of your head, turning over your shoulder to move further into your room. Enjin lowers his arm from the door frame, moving to follow you inside.
"Come on, girl," he coaxes through gritted teeth. "It's a simple question. I won't hold any response you have against you."
"That sounds exactly like something you'd do."
"Well, I won't. This time."
You give him a look as you stand beside your bed. "This time?"
He shrugs with a smile, and you click your tongue again.
Watching you turn back around, your back facing him, Enjin deflates slightly. Something nags at him in the back of his mind, tugging heavily and uncomfortably at his chest as he tries to find a way to hide how desperate he is to actually have this conversation with you. But by God, the man doesn't know how or where to even begin with you. Especially when you're so mistrustful of his intentions that you don't even bother to take his questions or words seriously anymore.
He sighs softly, scratching the nape of his buzzed neck. He supposes you have every right not to take him seriously, for Enjin has never once presented himself as a serious guy to you. Or anyone. A wall of ease guards him, and blocks women out from getting too close. He distracts them with false promises, sly looks, and kisses to the cheek, and then he runs. Dangling a carrot from a stick that sways ten kilometers into the sky. Out of reach. Untouched.
The dirty blonde truly isn't as bad as he used to be. Hell, his early twenties were monstrous. He woke up nearly every morning in someone else's bed, smelling of someone else's life, and each time he slipped away in the silence of the early morning, he'd have to watch his back for those of his flings who were insane enough to track him down in public, hounding him about why he never reached back out.
Enjin shudders at the memory. He was so stupid back then, and all those women didn't deserve his horrible lack of communication development and emotional maturity. At least now, pushing thirty, he's sharpened the former a tad, but unfortunately, the latter still needs some tweaking. And it always will. Enjin is man enough to admit that.
But what he is painfully not man enough to do is look you in the eye with no trace of silliness and bear himself raw to you, for the years of pining have finally snapped something in his brain, which he starts to think was the remarkable restraint he has shown in your presence thus far. Only now, he can't take it anymore. He doesn’t want to hold back.
Enjin can't necessarily pinpoint the exact moment he knew you had him screwed, but it certainly began around the time the two of you first met. Your looks, of course, had been the first thing to catch his attention, as Enjin can recognize a beautiful woman from a mile away.
But it wasn't just that you were a beautiful woman. Oh, you proved to be so much more than that not even ten minutes into your introduction to one another. Enjin can envision the way your nose wrinkled and your eyes slimmed when he first greeted you with that flirtatious musicality in his subconsciously sensual tone. The second he called you gorgeous, you were souring, striking him swiftly with a rejection so vile that Enjin can feel the way the color drained from his face to this day.
Then after you humbled him, you clasped his outstretched hand, snapping him out of his stupor as you shook it genially.
At first, teasing you was all it was. Seeking a reaction for entertainment. Giving the newbie a hard time.
But then he saw your strength honed into the effortless manipulation of your jinki, the way your eyes sharpened as you soared through the air and slashed your anima powered weapon through the thick hide of a trash beast, hair whipping about your head as your body twirled, landing perfectly and solidly upon two firm feet.
He saw the maternal instinct you developed toward the children in the Cleaners' care, always eager to pop a squat and sketch out pictures with Remlin or take Rudo shopping for snacks.
He saw, beneath the irritation you've felt toward him from the very start, the underlying passion and care that swam in your eyes each time he came back from a mission that almost cost him his life.
He saw your honest, selfless spirit in the way you muttered angrily to yourself as you dabbed alcohol soaked cotton to a thin gash on Enjin's forehead, standing between his outstretched thighs as your warmth and scent, clean and safe and spiced, washed through his senses. Your other palm pressed to his skin, shielding his hair from his forehead with a long exhale.
And in moments like those, when the silence was stagnant after giving Enjin an earfull on responsibility and safety, he would move his eyes to glance at you mid-pout, studying your face with quiet consideration. His hand would twitch from where it dangled over his knee, itching to touch your thigh. He’d tense, shoulders eventually slumping. You'd mutter something about keeping still, and he'd crack a joke to hide the way his skin burned in your wake.
The twenty eight year old thought that he just might have been in love with you this entire time when he saw you limp into the compound a few months back after a particularly rough mission that he had not been assigned on with you.
Ever a man of dramatics, Enjin flipped, demanding to know what happened and why you were refusing assistance when you were actively holding a hand out to Rudo and Delmon to prevent them from alarmingly moving closer to you. They'd learned not to argue with you when you got like that, stubbornly stewing in your pride, refusing treatment that might have stripped you of your dignity, but Enjin had none of it, as he was hot on your tail.
The two of you got in an argument that day. Enjin had kept moving in to support your side, and you kept pushing away, your bickering traveling down the halls as it escalated into a rather rare, loud disagreement. The only way Enjin thought to find a solution was to carefully swoop in and lift you into his arms bridal style, minding the blood seeping through the gauze wrapped tightly around your shin and the curses you spewed at him. He redirected the two of you to the infirmary, gaze stern as he looked ahead and ignored your protests.
And when he set you down on that hospital bed, arms caging either side of your legs as you both barked in each other's face, he wondered in that very moment why he'd grown so angry with you. Especially when he knew why you so consistently refused help. That nasty habit of independence of yours that he usually found so alluring was both your curse and his, for you'd long convinced yourself that relying on others meant submitting to inferiority.
He just had to have a thing for women who weren't needy. This was where his preference led him, fighting with the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen in his life until your hand struck him smack across the face.
The slap echoed throughout the hospital room, and as soon as your hand made contact with his cheek, his head snapping into the opposite direction, you both froze. Your hands rose to your mouth as the reality of your actions weighed down on you, and you watched terrified as Enjin remained still.
And he really should have been mad in that moment. He felt the white hot sting of your palm buzzing over his cheekbone. His eyes were shrunken and his posture thrown off kilter, and neither of you said anything as you watched in horror, waiting for the worst to come.
But stupid Enjin couldn't even bring himself to be upset anymore, for that slap of yours did nothing but make his heart burst and his skin tingle.
'Cause damn girl, you've got one hell of an arm.
And that tenacity, that fire, that unbridled, unapologetic determination - the kind that drives you to blindly smack the shit out of one of your best friend's face - is what got Enjin malfunctioning with the realization that you could do anything to him and he would bask in it.
The severity of this revelation crushed down on him without mercy. He lay awake that night with wide eyes and sprawled limbs, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as his mind plagued with thoughts of you. In the silence of nightfall, nothing could buffer the fears that lay dormant within his core. Fears that you could have died. That the sight of your blood is a reminder of your mortality, and Enjin wasn't there that day to back you up, to push you out of the way, to keep you from crossing the line and fucking up your pretty leg.
He doesn't know who made you feel like you need to perform as an unfeeling soldier all the time. He doesn't know who shamed you in the past for needing basic human connections and support, berating you to the point where any gesture of kindness or concern sends you reeling with discomfort and shame. Enjin's talked to you about it. You've gotten better over the years, but the thought alone wrecks him during the times he can't outrun it.
Times like now, when his feelings for you swallow up his dignity in the worst way possible and actually start to make him unsure of what to say next, how to continue, how to keep the conversation between you alive.
"What is your deal, today?" you eye him in the middle of straightening up your sheets, watching as he stands before you with a sudden silence that catches you off guard.
"Well for one, you still won't answer my question," he manages to say coolly.
"Seriously?" you scoff. "I don't understand why you're so pressed about me answering a dumb question that you don't really want the real answer to."
Enjin's brow curls, eyes roaming over you as if to visually check your attitude toward the issue. What a weird thing to say. "Oy vey. Care to explain what that means?'
"Do I really need to?"
"I think so," he tucks his hands into the pockets of his baggy pants, red shirt hanging loosely over his tall frame, fluttering softly around the length of his inked arms, black and red swirls tracing the curve of skin. You side eye him as your hands busy themselves with folding your little blanket, your side profile to him. He steps closer, lingering by the foot of your bed. "You think I'd ask a question I don't care to hear the answer to?"
"You know what I mean, Enjin. You don't mean any of that stuff you say," you exhale.
You don't even have to further explain yourself, for Enjin receptively catches wind of what you're saying. His heart pangs, but his eyes close calmly. "If it bothers ya so much then you can tell me to stop."
"I tell you to stop all the time, jackass. You don't."
"Well, duh, because I know you don't actually want me to stop," he complains, eyes opening and darting to the sky with softly angled brows. "Otherwise, we wouldn't be so close."
"That doesn't even-" you toss your folded blanket atop your sheets, and stop yourself with another loud exhale. "The point is, Enjin, we're friends. The question is stupid. Doesn't even make sense."
"How is asking you if you'd ever kiss me stupid?"
Silence hangs in the air after the words leave his mouth, and against his best wishes, he feels the tips of his ears burn with the attention.
"Really? How is it stupid?" you prop a hand on your hip.
"I wonder if you think the idea of kissing me is stupid and not the actual question."
"Why does it matter?! We would never kiss, so who cares!"
He puckers his mouth as humor catches his golden eyes. "Never?"
"Shut the ever loving fuck up, Enjin. GOD almighty."
He can't help but chuckle, moving in toward you with a hand reaching out. "(Y/n), listen. Friends kiss all the time. I doubt y're actin' like this because you're not attracted to me."
"What if I'm not?" you bite back. "What if I think you're ugly?"
"Then, I'd have to offer myself up to a trash beast as a sacrifice, wouldn’t I?"
He stops directly beside you, and you look up at him with cynical eyes. "Better get to it, then."
Enjin groans. "You're the coldest woman I've ever met."
"Funny, a few minutes ago you were calling me sweet. So which is it?"
"Both. Your ass gives me whiplash all the time, girl. Quit playing around with me," his voice drops lightly. You take the time to still yourself as Enjin enters your personal bubble a few inches away from you. This is not anything new, for the two of you are rather invasive of one another's space on any given day. But you don't exactly know how to fare with the way he's looking at you now, like he does not know how to communicate all the reasons behind his ridiculous ass hypothetical questions. And Enjin thinks that he is officially losing his touch, for he realizes that he is going back and forth with you about the idea of a kiss. It is stupid, like you said, but once the thought formulated in his mind, he needed to know what you'd say.
It's partially because he enjoys your reaction, enjoys seeing the way you get all flustered and annoyed when his words hit your ears. It's also partially (well more so mainly) the fact that he has no other ideas on how to express that he needs you verbally. The two of you have been dancing around each other for years, and now that Enjin has finally reached his limit for all the tension that he can tolerate in your presence, he is truly struggling to find ways to break the barrier, to get closer, and to mask this genuine desire with something flimsy, fun, and unserious.
Because that is how you regard him. As unserious.
But when he thinks about it… maybe Enjin does not want to be unserious in your eyes anymore. He does not want you to look at him and see someone who is incapable of fulfilling your needs as a man. He does not want you to roll your eyes at any true prospect of the two of you being something more than friends, for you always do when Gris or Semiu approach you with smug skepticism regarding your relationship to Enjin.
The golden eyed man really thought he hated neediness, that he despised the notion of commitment and would never be ready for it, but he thinks now that he's only thought that way because he didn't know you. Now he does, and Enjin doesn't even bother to sleep with anyone else under the guise of not wanting to complicate things, when it is really just because he has no interest in doing so anymore. Not with anyone who isn't you.
He blinks those long, blonde lashes down at you as his smile returns, lighter this time. You can smell the faded air of ash that captures his scent, intertwined with something safe and comforting that you always associate with the image of your blonde friend. He tilts his head slightly as he looks down at you with a softness, a heaviness you don't like, and your head spins while you try to remain vigilant.
"Yes or no. That's all I'm askin'," he says gently, voice rumbling with warmth. You're all the more confused, for you don't understand why Enjin is so hellbent on getting an answer from you that he would surely hold over your head for as long as he possibly could.
His flirting means nothing. You know that. But it's hard to focus on that fact when he's looking at you all soft and mischievously, crowding your air, filling it with himself. When the vision of his bare chest is so close to you, as it peaks out from the loose drag of his shirt, swirls of tattoos curling over his bare collarbones and up his neck. Your heart hammers, and you resent yourself for it. Because this means nothing to him. It always has, so what is the point of mocking you with such a question?
You exhale, for the only way you're going to get out of this is by playing along.
"No," you say bluntly, and Enjin shortcircuits. "I'd never kiss you."
He mulls over your answer with a blank face. You wait expectantly, feigning indifference as you tap your foot. "...So you do think I'm ugly," he concludes.
You snort, laughing loudly in his face, and Enjin gets a taste of what you have been putting up with for as long as you can possibly remember. His shoulders slump and his expression falls flat.
"Just because I wouldn't kiss you doesn't mean I think you're ugly,” you chuckle.
"Well, what is it then? What's the reason?" he probes.
"You're not my type."
You smile innocently and Enjin gapes at you. Low blow.
You giggle softly, brushing your hand over his arm as you move around him to head toward your door. Once Enjin snaps out of it, he's on your heel. "Not your type? What the hell is your type? Friggin' bums?"
"If that were the case, I'd rethink kissing you."
"Oh ha ha," Enjin walks close behind you as you venture out into the hall and toward the kitchen. "You got jokes, missy."
"Yes, Enjin, because this is a stupid ass conversation."
"You ain't takin' me seriously," he states.
"'Course not. I know you're joking too."
"What if I'm not?"
You freeze, stopping dead in your tracks before turning slowly over your shouler. Enjin is already watching you with a neutral face, eyes unreadable. Your heart pangs. "What are you on about?" you eventually ask, slowly.
"Does that change your answer?" he asks, sincerely. "If I wasn't messin' around. If I was bein' for real for just a second. Would you still say no?"
Your brows draw together as your skin warms, and you hesitate, struggling to find the next words. "This is a trick, right? You're messing with me by saying you're not messing with me."
Enjin takes a moment to observe you and he notes your sudden stiffness, the staggering of your once smooth and steady speech, the widening of your eyes, and his manner eases slightly. You're just as anxious as he is.
He smiles. "I'm askin' a question. No tricks. No messin'."
You scrunch your face. "Why?"
"I can't ask my friend a question?"
"But why - why that of all things? Do you want me to kiss you, or what?"
He pretends to ponder it. "It wouldn't hurt," he shrugs. What he really means to say is that kissing you may be the final thing that makes his resolve snap and push him over the edge, tossing aside restraint to finally, finally get his hands on you.
But hell, Enjin's out of practice when it comes to you. You flip everything he thought he knew on its head.
You frown, turning fully to face him with both hands on your hips. "Seriously, Enjin," you exhale. "What's this about."
"You're reading way too into this, sweetheart. I'm just lookin' to iron out the possibilities in case we ever get to that point one day."
"In what world would we ever find ourselves in a situation where I'd kiss you?"
Enjin hums a nonverbal 'I don't know,' and your eye twitches. "Anyway. Thoughts?"
"I would never kiss you, Enjin. Joking or not."
"What if we're drunk?"
"That's different."
"You think?" he asks and you scoff.
"If I'm drunk and I kiss you, it's because I'm drunk. Not for any other reason. And it would only ever happen if I'm fucked up."
"It's a kiss either way. I'll take it."
"Enjin, be serious," you start.
"I am being serious."
You squint at him as if you want to believe him, but you just can't. "I'm gonna go make a sandwich," you shift the subject.
You go to continue walking, but Enjin's next words keep you grounded. "If it's not 'cause you think I'm hideous, then why don't you consider it?"
You throw your arms out to the side. "Because you're my friend? Because you flirt with everyone all the time? Because I know at the end of the day, you wouldn't actually kiss me, so it doesn't matter."
"I never said I wouldn't kiss ya. You just assumed that."
"I-" you flush, clamping your lips shut. Enjin regards you and a soft smirk graces his features, for he's never seen you so exasperated before. "I'm going... to eat." You try to go again. You try to end this before you act stupidly.
"What if I wanna kiss right now?"
Your neck cricks. "Enjin," you warn.
"What? What? Relax. C’mere, pretty thing," he grins deviously, moving into you with open arms as you catch him with a palm to his firm chest. He looks down at your hand pressing to his frame, then back up at you with a wider beam, dimples poking. "Just one kiss."
"Stop being such a freak. Go kiss one of your other girls or something," you screech as Enjin chuckles darkly, enjoying every bit of this.
"I don't have any girls, (Y/n). Just you."
You fume, lifting your other hand to slap at him. "Shut up-" his large hand clasps around your wrist mid air, catching you before you can inflict any further damage on his body and soul.
And while you are accustomed to fighting back, your body does not seem to react in such a way this time around. Instead, you go completely still, allowing Enjin's touch to sway you.
"All this beatin' on me and tellin' me to shut up," he tsks lowly. "You know I love it, but sometimes a man just wants a little reassurance. That's all."
Your eyes flicker over his face, bouncing between alluring golden hues and his lips, and you know he notices by the way his smile continues to spread. Hell, Enjin seems to notice everything about you these days.
"You get me?" he hums. "I'm not too good with words, but askin' for a little kiss should be enough to put me out there, yeah?"
You swallow hard, twitching when you feel the familiar thrum of his thick fingers reaching to brush your waist experimentally. Your hand has yet to leave his chest, and he's still clutching your wrist tight. The proximity between you has shrunken significantly, and you aren't sure why you've allowed this to happen.
Of course, you've noticed the tension bubbling between the two of you for as long as you've known one another. You feel it in his stare, in his passing touches, in the way he knows you so well.
But you've pushed it away time and time again out for fear of vulnerability, of rejection, of the hell that it is to admit that you've been in love with the idiot for god knows how long.
Still, he manages to stun you when you least expect it. He manages to unveil you, strip you down to the simplest, pathetic mess of sap and yearning for him when he dares to treat you like he could ever focus his attention into you as a potential partner.
And you've thought, for so long, that the notion was impossible, but here Enjin stands before you with softness and heat in his eyes that only he knows has been reserved for you and you only.
It makes your knees weak. And the very fact that he's fine as all fuck is not helping. It never does.
And part of you still isn't convinced that he isn't joking, until his hand releases your wrist and traces up the curve of you inner arm, to your palm, then swiping away to reach for the other side of your waist.
"Enjin, what are you trying to say...?" you question, watching him carefully with a knit between your brows. "...You actually want to...?"
"Don't worry. I won't make you do anything you don't wanna do," he murmurs, orbs dancing over your face. His fingers dip further into your sides, testing, inching you a little closer. He's more surprised that you aren't pulling away, and he edges closer and closer toward your limit, searching for if you even have one right now. "But... hell, if you wanna. I ain't gonna stop you."
You narrow your eyes, your other hand subconsciously pressing to his chest next to your other one. Enjin feels his skin burst where your hands settle over the thin fabric of his shirt. "Enjin, if you want to kiss me, you need to say it and maybe I'll think about giving one to you."
You know you've got him when you feel his hands tense against your middle, and you can not help the smile that breaks onto your face from the sheer joy of finally getting his ass to shut the fuck up.
All that talk, and the thought of actually putting his desires into words forces a lump into his throat.
You tilt your head, mimicking the way he so often does, with the drag of your finger teasingly under his chin. Enjin gulps, grip slacking on your waist subconsciously. "Cat got your tongue now, mouthy?"
He opens his mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. You smile, patting his cheek softly before pushing lightly against him.
"That's what I thought. Now let me go so I can-"
You're cut off when you feel warm fingers clasp around your chin as you turn your head, bringing your face forward to face him. Your words die in your throat when the fan of Enjin's breath wafts against your skin, for that is how close he's got you to his face. Auburn hues capture your (e/c) ones with intensity, and for the first time in your life, you see no trace of amusement on his features.
Your eyes shoot wide, your mouth runs dry, your heart damn near stops. And Enjin sighs.
"All I gotta do is say it, then, right?"
You blink. "Wh-"
"Then you'll give me a kiss?" you don't answer, and he frowns, hand sliding over your cheek, thumb slipping over your hairline. "Huh? C'mon, help me out. That a yes?"
You gulp. "You won't do it," you test.
"No?" he dips in further, nose brushing yours. You suck in a sharp breath, pressing closer to his chest, allowing his inked arms to snake all the way around you.
Your lashes flutter with an exhale. "You still haven't."
"I don't have to tell ya somethin' you already know."
The air grows thick around you as his forehead bumps against yours, weighted eyes following the curve of your soft lips, flickering back to your pretty (e/c) eyes every now and then. His body is firm against yours, his mass towering over you, shadowing you, pulling you in like some mystical force.
And you almost let him get to you, as the drag of his fingers along the curve of your spine sends chills running down your back. His lips carefully, slowly chase yours, seeking them out like they are meant to be connected, and your skin jolts with an electricity you can't name when you feel the bow of his lips graze yours.
A gentle hum rumbles through Enjin's chest, against your hands. You almost forget where you are and let him take you, as the hover of his warmth brings you enticingly into him. Your mind is fuzzy, your nerves alive.
He's almost got you. He's centimeters away from having you.
But then, you snap out of it. Because you realize that, despite what you now see as something blatantly mutual, he still has not grown the balls to actually tell you what he wants.
And if Enjin thinks he has feelings for you, you're not going to reward him for skittering around your demands.
So you lean your head back and slide your palm against your mouth, blocking Enjin's lips from yours as they meet the back of your hand. He pulls back, blinking hard as he adjusts to the sudden barrier between you. He looks down, then incredulously up at you with angled brows.
You giggle, moving to hold either side of the man's head. "If you really want to kiss me, It’s not gonna be that easy. Talk to me when you learn how to use your words."
You lean up on your toes to press a chaste to the center of his forehead, where you flicker him earlier. Enjin's tan skin pinches with heat as he watches you lean back, baffled, his hold on you going slack so that you may step out of his arms.
"Now I'm going to go eat, and until you can lock in, don't ask me any more stupid ass questions."
With that, you turn on your heel and hum a tune as you strut down the hallway, leaving Enjin, once more, to pale in the humility of your absence.
His skin is still tingling where you kissed and touched him.
He growls to himself when he manages to recover, sliding a hand over his hair as he looks to the ceiling as if it could grant him the strength to deal with you.
Because now that he knows that you know how he feels, in true fashion, you're going to make him work hard to be better, to give you the honesty and transparency and dedication you deserve if he's really serious about it.
And with a smirk, and the swipe of his hand down his face, his chest broadens with the excitement of you putting him in his place. Again.
❆ Pairing: Bunny hybrid! Gojo x Bear hybrid! Reader
Part 2
✿ Synopsis: Living on the outskirts of a small town where prey hybrids reside as a predator yourself comes with its challenges. You've no interest in them, but instinct has shaped their beliefs, has led them to fear you.
All but one—the strongest of the bunch. Satoru, your mate who is hopelessly in love with you.
Despite what his instincts tell him, despite what the rest of the town believes, he stays by your side through thick and thin. Through dangers, predators and hunters, through every day life where you slowly learn more about one another, he stays with you and you stay with him.
It's what mates do and even though winter is harsh, spring comes around to remind you that the season is a sweet reward for everyone.
❆ Word count: 9.4k
✿ Content warnings: 18+ MDNI ⋆ hybrid AU ⋆ small town (cottage life) AU ⋆ FEM! Reader ⋆ Reader is bigger than Gojo (I tried to keep it ambiguous in a sense where you can imagine her as taller and either more muscular or chubby) ⋆ Gojo likes the size difference ⋆ interspecies couple ⋆ established relationship ⋆ predator/prey dynamic ⋆ plot with porn ⋆ swearing ⋆ contains fluff ⋆ contains very mild angst ⋆ mentions of blood and mild descriptions of gore ⋆ some animalistic habits, behaviours and instincts ⋆ Hunter! Toji cameo ⋆ Bunny hybrids! Shoko + Nanami + Suguru ⋆ implied jealously ⋆ heat/rut cycles ⋆ hibernation and hibernation preparation ⋆ adrenaline highs and rushes ⋆ implied fem!dom! Reader & sub! Gojo ⋆ dynamic switch ups (switching) ⋆ feral, needy Gojo (he's a yearner) ⋆ slight primal play ⋆ riding ⋆ semi-public (forest) sex ⋆ teasing ⋆ oral (f! and m! receiving) ⋆ marking (biting & scenting) ⋆ unprotected p in v sex ⋆ breeding ⋆ passive somnophilia ⋆ m! masturbation ⋆ pregnancy ⋆ pregnancy hormones ⋆ having sex while pregnant ⋆ lactation ⋆ nipple stimulation ⋆ doggy style position ⋆ slight dumbification ⋆ pussy-drunk Gojo ⋆ fingering ⋆ multiple rounds (implied marathons) ⋆ multiple orgasms (Gojo & reader) ⋆ overstim ⋆ creampies ⋆
☆ Author's note: This was meant to be a single post, but tumblr is lowkey a pain. Had to split this into parts 😭 Neeways, y'all. This was a request and I worked so hard to do the idea justice because I really liked the prompt 😩
You trek through the forest, legs carrying you through the lush green foliage despite your aching muscles. Even though your limbs beg and plead for relief, you trudge forward, ignoring the way your body burns.
The burn is good; it means that you have gotten far. Whether it’s far enough or not is a question that you will need to find an answer to.
You tell yourself that this is all for the best, that the aches and pains are worth it because you’re finally going to lead a life that you get to choose for yourself. After years of living in a space, a village that didn’t care about anyone, you’d deemed it necessary to escape.
You needed to escape from the traditions that weighed you down, you needed to escape the community that thrived on consuming other hybrids. Even if they are considered prey, you just can’t bring yourself to stomach a hybrid diet. It’s one of the many reasons that you just had to get away.
So, after the brutal cold that settled over the land, after the snow and frost melted, you refuelled your energy after hibernation, relishing the gift of spring before making your journey here. Where there’s more wildlife that you ensure to avoid.
It's not because you’re scared of them or because you want to leave them be, it’s simply because you’re too tired to have to deal with the outcome of being spotted by an animal.
Animals are dangerous, and many a times, severely so. They look at hybrids and see human, they’ll sniff the air and smell animal and that often leaves them confused, conflicted. It messes with their senses; to see a human and to smell an animal all in one go tends to do that.
You’ve learned that alone triggers their fight or flight response and the smaller critters, harmless ones tend to do the latter. Predators, the bigger, much more dangerous animals, tend to do the former. It’s how they cope with their confusion. Either fight the mass that is the source of their uncertainty or run from it.
And you just don’t have the energy to fight or chase after anything right now.
You hadn’t seen hybrids along your way and there’s a part of you that wonders why. Surely you’d find a village or settlement of some sort around here. The area looks inhabitable, so you don’t understand why you haven’t seen life other than that of the wild animals that roam the lands.
Still, you continue forward, stubby ears flicking while you follow invisible paths that allow you to map the area. There’s a stream that cuts the acreage in half, separating the two plots of land and you take it upon yourself to cross it.
The stream flows gently, kisses the edge of the bank with a low trickle.
You cross it and it takes about seven long strides before you’re on the other side, boots soaked through, but that’s pretty much the only part that had gotten wet. Somehow the air on this side feels different, not in a bad way, simply in a way that suggests that there is more activity here.
You continue, steps slower than before. You need to find some place to rest, you’ve no choice.
The scent of cedar drifts in the air and you freeze. It’s very faint, so that suggests that the source is farther away, but you perk nonetheless. Smoke means that there’s some place where you can refuel your energy.
You don’t worry about stumbling into human civilisation, humans don’t live out here.
You hadn’t come across any hunters either—the humans who are foolish enough to step foot in a place where they don’t belong. You’d thought that maybe you’d been lucky, maybe fate had been on your side.
You still think that way.
There’s a rustle that catches your attention and you tense, head snapping in the direction of the noise. You narrow your eyes but soon relax when you gauge the weight of whatever is moving. It’s not heavy and the bushel itself is small.
You suspect that it’s nothing dangerous, perhaps a smaller critter searching for food, so you ignore it, continue on towards the source of the smoke that you’d detected.
It still seems like it’d take a little while to get there, but you’ve got hope.
Your eyes continue to survey the tree-littered landscape and that’s when you hear it, a bark. It’s not just any bark, but one that belongs to the dogs hunters travel with. A hound.
That suggests that there’s a hunter nearby.
You’d know because it doesn’t matter where you find yourself, there will always be people who venture out with their dogs to ensure a successful hunt. You know that you have to avoid the hunter at all costs.
They never hesitate to point their guns at hybrids and you’re not looking to pick a fight where you’ll lose due to pure exhaustion.
You exhale and turn the other direction. Part of you is panicked, but there’s another part of you that has faith that you’ll escape. It’s in that moment that you depend on your faith far too much; it’s in that moment when you’re completely distracted that you forget to double check your surroundings.
There’s a hunter nearby and that means that there’s bound to be traps. You should have been more vigilant because you just so happen to engage a trap hidden under leaves and twigs that bundle up in a suspicious amount.
Had you been more careful, you would have noticed it.
You step directly on the trigger and a pained cry rips from your chest when the jaws of a bear trap clamp around your leg. You stumble to the ground as pain shoots through your entire system and another pained wail escapes you.
Even the birds seem disgruntled by the sudden noise, and everything feels far too quiet. They stop singing and fly off and that’s when the same bark from before resounds in the far distance. You curse under your breath.
The hunter will be coming for you, and you know that you need to get away.
You push yourself up so that you can peer down at where the metal jaws have got you trapped and you swallow a whimper.
The metal digs into your flesh, pierces the skin to the point blood oozes from the wound, crimson seeping from you in thick rivulets that has copper burning your senses and drenching the air.
You hiss, swallowing another pained cry that threatens its way from your chest. It hurts. Everything hurts.
Suddenly your breaths are too sharp, your body feels like it’s failing you and you’re still exhausted from the long journey that you’d been on. You curse yourself for thinking that you’d been lucky, for thinking that fate had been on your side.
It clearly wasn’t.
You know that this trap had been set up for an animal, you’d just been unfortunate enough to trigger it.
Pain courses through you while your leg throbs and aches, stained a deep shade of red that begins to drip to the soil below. You won’t die, the trap won’t kill you, but if you don’t get out soon, the person who had set it up definitely will.
You exhale, eyes scanning the ground for anything that you can use to help set yourself free. You need a stick, a branch, anything sturdy enough to help you.
You fight the pained noises that sit in your chest. You’re already compromised and the last thing you want is to bring more attention to yourself. There are wild animals here too and you’d rather not have to deal with one of them either.
You don’t find anything to help you, nothing that’d be of use and you curse again, gaze flicking in the direction of where you’d heard the hound.
You hear another rustle and your heart drops. You think that it’s the hunter, that maybe they’d managed to get to you a lot sooner than anticipated, but judging by the distant baying that slowly grows closer, you don’t believe that it’s the hunter at all.
Instead, when you peer up, you meet a cerulean gaze, one that remains fixated on you from a distance. You exhale, lips parted and it takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize that what you’re looking at is another hybrid.
Not a predator. Prey. You can smell it underlying the scent of your blood.
The hybrid perks, gaze following your form and you note the long ears that match the head of blanched hair. It stands out amongst the greenery, like snow that takes its time to melt once spring arrives.
You inhale, and even through the heavy scent of blood and dirt, you detect a small ounce of fear and it’s not yours. It’s the type of fear that simmers due to instinct if anything.
You’re not a threat; you try and relay the fact that you’ve no intention to harm the hybrid.
You open your mouth to speak, to ask for help, but you groan instead, peering back down at your leg. It feels numb, like the pain itself is slowly eating away at you. You peer back at the hybrid, allow your eyes to do the talking for you and there’s a nasty feeling that churns in your gut that resents your showcase of weakness.
There’s another bark in the distance and your fingers dig into the soil.
“Please,” you manage, voice riddled with an ounce of panic and pure exhaustion.
You’re not going to bother trying to act as though you don’t need help. You’re not that prideful because realistically, you’re not getting out of this one on your own.
The hound howls again, closer this time and you begin to feel yourself panic now. You know that you have to stay calm in order to figure something out, but your heart has long since tried to escape your chest.
Your breathing is quick, sharp and you snap your head back to plead with the hybrid that had been huddled behind a bush, but there’s no one there.
“Shit.” You hiss and decide that you might as well try and pry the trap open with your bare hands yourself.
It’s a dangerous task, one that wouldn’t even guarantee your freedom, but you try regardless.
It’s no use; you can’t get a proper grip, and you can’t do anything without applying pressure to the trap either. This isn’t your first time having to deal with a trap, but it’s your first time being caught in one.
Still, desperate to escape, you claw at the metal, try your luck with a stick that snaps when you attempt to use it and you feel yourself spiral.
Your mind feels muddled with too many thoughts.
You ask yourself if this is where you die, you ask yourself if your death will be quick or whether it’d be dragged out, you tell yourself that maybe you should have just stayed put in your old home.
Surely living in a community with strict rules, with traditions that feel like shackles that weigh you down is a fate better than death. It’s a fate that sounds a lot better than your current one.
When you decide that there’s nothing more that you can do, a branch falls beside you, thick and sturdy as it lands with a heavy thud.
You glance at it, blink a couple of times before glancing up in the direction it had been thrown from. That same hybrid from before stands closer now but still keeps distance between your bodies.
His lips are parted as he exhales through his mouth. He peers at you, maintains eye contact as though he’s reading you before his head snaps in the direction of the hound that gets closer and closer.
You don’t know what it is that he’d done to get you this branch, but you’re thankful that he did.
Controlling your raging emotions and panicked state, you grab the branch before you’re immediately shoving it into the loop of the trap before pressing down. The tension in the jaws diminishes, alleviates the level of pain that you feel in your leg and before long, you pry the jaws open.
You try but fail miserably. Your hand slips and what little distance that had been put between your leg and the trap quickly closes again and your eyes bulge before you choke on a sob.
Tears blur your vision and you hadn’t even realised that they’d built in the first place.
“Shit, I thought bear hybrids would be strong enough to pry traps open.”
You manage to shoot him a glare, but he isn’t looking at you. Not at your face.
“Fuck, that looks bad—you won’t attack me if I come any closer, right?”
You don’t say anything, your voice catches in your throat when you try, so you simply repeat the motion of attempting to set yourself free. This time, another set of hands are on the jaws, helping you pry the trap open.
Your gaze flicks up for a second only for you to focus your attention on your leg again.
You work steadily. Not because you’re panicking or because you’re too tired, but because the last thing you want right now is for the trap to re-engage. You keep pressure on the springs with the branch and within seconds, you pull your leg free.
You stumble back and so does the other hybrid as the trap snaps shut with a clang again, snapping the branch that you’d used in half. Your blood stains the jaws of the trap, the splintered branch and you groan when your fresh wound burns.
Now that your leg has been freed, blood trickles from the gash. Faster, thicker and you suck in a breath, pushing through the pain.
“Wow, that really, really is bad.” The hybrid shifts, darts his gaze to your face and blinks like he’s been awestruck.
“You’re so pretty, wow—why are you looking at me like that—oh shit, right. The bleeding.”
He pats at his clothes, like he’s searching for something before he curses himself, muttering something about how he’d left his bag behind somewhere. You observe him, take in the uniqueness of his features. He stands out, you can’t deny that. He’s prettier up close, cuter in the way prey hybrids usually are.
Then, as if to remind you of the gravity of the situation that you’re in, the hound barks, silhouette darting in the far distance. Visible now.
You shift, eyes widening and when you move to warn the hybrid that had been crouching over you, he’s gone. He moves fast and you’re far too exhausted to keep up with anything.
You do, however, notice that the hound isn’t running towards you anymore, it’s no longer within sight and the baying and howling of it grows distant.
You huff, breaths coming out in short pants as you try and catch your breaths. You begin to feel your panic ease and your heart slows while relief washes over you. Only briefly.
You’re no longer trapped, but now you’ve got to control the blood loss that you’re dealing with. You can’t imagine the sick concoction of being exhausted and suffering from blood loss.
You rip at the material of your top, tear a fair amount that leaves it cropped before tying the ripped piece of material around your leg. It won’t do much, but it’ll help slow the bleeding until you find somewhere safe to get a good look at the wound.
You secure the material, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you pull it tight. You groan, exhaling a shaky breath through your mouth and it’s then that you lay back, allowing the earth and soil to press up against you.
You’re not sure how long you stay laying like that, but your body refuses to allow you to get up. It’s the first time you’ve managed to catch a break in a long while. You’re tired, sore and injured. You need to get to the source of the smoke as soon as you can, but you can’t move.
Perhaps it’s your body recovering after the immense amount of panic that you’d felt.
“So I… have to run to get that hunter away and you’re—hah—laying and… resting like your life hadn’t just… fuck.”
It's the same bunny hybrid from earlier. Though now, he’s out of breath. Panting like he’d run around the entirety of the forest.
“Your life was in—hah—danger.”
You blink, turning to glance at him. Despite being so out of breath, his voice is smooth, deep. He steals a glance at you, swallows hard when his gaze flicks to the newly exposed skin of your torso before glancing at your leg.
“I see you saw to the… ah bleeding.”
He’s chatty, you note.
“Thank you,” you manage after a moment of silence, pushing yourself into an upright position. “For saving me.”
He shakes his head.
“It’s fine, don’t mention it.” He meets your gaze, ears twitching. “It’s my fault that you got caught in it anyway. I’m really sorry for that.”
Your brows knit together. You’re aware that prey hybrids will do all that they can to keep themselves safe, but you didn’t think that they’d set up traps.
“What–”
“It wasn’t on purpose, I swear.” He points in the direction that you’d detected smoke from. “There’s a town that needs protecting and the only way to do that is to set traps.”
That makes sense, though you wonder why. Perhaps there’s a lot about this area that you don’t know.
He steps closer to you, movements slow. It’s like he’s not sure what to do now that you’re free from the trap. He’s not as scared as what many other hybrids would be of you and you cock your head, gaze flicking over him.
“I don’t think I’d be as delicious as I look.” He chuckles, offering you a smile. “I uh… you really won’t try and attack me if I come any closer?”
He holds up a bag, one that you hadn’t noticed and gestures to it. “I’ve got something for that nasty gash. You can trust me—I’ve got a friend who taught me how to do this.”
“I promise that I won’t try to make a meal out of you.”
He pauses, considers your words, your intent. He stares at you for a long time, like he’s got a sixth sense that he’s tapping into.
“Right, okay.”
He steps closer, pulls out rolls of bandages and a little bottle containing a substance that you’re not familiar with.
“Name’s Satoru Gojo by the way—I’m the strongest too—as I so wonderfully demonstrated earlier.” He offers you a smile, clearly more intrigued by you than what he is scared.
You huff, canines glinting as you muster all that you can to smile through the pain that throbs in your leg. You give him your name and he blinks at you, most likely repeating the syllables in his head.
“So pretty.”
Your eyes flutter before you raise a brow.
“Your name, uh… your name is so pretty.” He chuckles awkwardly before gesturing to your leg. “Here, let me take this off—okay, that is a lot of blood.”
He turns away, holding his hand to his mouth and exhales heavily. You peer at the blood-soaked material and huff out a chuckle. You suppose that he hasn’t seen much bloodshed in his life.
Still, you appreciate the gesture, his willingness to help. Even though he claims to have set the trap, you wouldn’t have made it out alive without him.
❆❆❆･══════════･⁺❀⁺･══════════･❆❆❆
The autumn leaves crunch beneath the weight of each of your steps. Admittedly, that makes everything much more complicated than what it has to be, but you manage. You’ve been through enough autumns to know how to manoeuvre through the season’s conditions.
You continue to follow the trail of his scent, stepping through the foliage while you peer through tree branches, through masses of browns and oranges and yellows as the tress and plants prepare for winter.
You catch sight of him in the distance.
Just like the very first time you’d seen him, he stands out amongst the undergrowth of the forest, stark white hair all but demanding attention. He’s holding something, a basket, trudging along unbeknownst that you’re hiding.
Then there are his ears, long and silky, a cottony white on the outside and a warm, pretty pink on the inside. They twitch.
He doesn’t seem to notice you; continues his way in the direction of the cottage you’ve spent all of summer repairing. With Satoru’s help. He’d been the one to help you find it when you first arrived last spring.
You slow your steps before you circle him, ensuring that you keep out of his line of sight.
This is one of your favourite things to do and although Satoru has begged you to stop, you can’t help it. You love teasing him, you love the rush of adrenaline that you get when you see him fight with himself.
He's safe around you, he knows that and you know that, but when in the face of danger, sometimes biology takes the win, instinct, takes the win.
You take careful steps towards him. He comes to a standstill, breath stuttering. He knows something is out here, knows that he’s being watched. There’s that familiar hint of nerves that begin to stir.
Instinct pricks at your mind and you stalk closer and you do while Satoru’s ears flicker and twist. His head moves, eyes trailing the foliage in the distance in front of him and that’s when you take your chance.
You lunge forward, tackling Satoru who exhales a yelp as the basket in his hands falls to the ground and so do the assorted fruits and veggies that had been in there.
You catch the hint of fear, the scent that you’ve grown addicted to. You don’t like it because you’re sadistic, you like it because it’s driven purely by instinct, by the little voice in Satoru’s head that compels him to run.
You shift the moment you tackle him to the ground, pressing against his back as he struggles, whining about the spilled contents of his basket as your tongue flicks out to lick a stripe along his neck. You taste his flesh and it’s sweet, underlined with a thin layer of salt that tastes familiar to you.
He shudders and makes a little sound.
“Wait—that’s not fair,” Satoru huffs, craning his neck to glance at you from over his shoulder. “I thought that we agreed no sneak attacks—oh fuck.”
Your teeth graze his pulse point and Satoru shudders again. You sense it then, his body fighting to get free while he actively tries to keep still. It’s a war between love and instinct, one that, when it comes to Satoru, is always claimed by love as the victor.
You smile, nuzzling his neck before letting out a chuckle, pushing of Satoru before dusting off your clothes. He catches his breath, composes himself and rises to his feet as well. He peers up at you, wide eyed like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“I thought you’d be at home.”
He’s no longer victim to the fear that bubbles low in his gut, he pushes that unnecessary feelings aside.
“Just got a little bored,” you shrug, moving to help pick up the contents of his basket that lay scattered on the ground. “Thought I’d surprise you—sorry about this.”
“It’s fine, but maybe if you held out on sneaking up on me, we wouldn’t have to worry about spilled baskets.”
You guffaw, “You always say no sneak attacks, but you always make it easy for me to sneak up on you.”
“I don’t do it on purpose.”
Your lips curl and you eye Satoru with mirth. You don’t believe him, but you humour him. You continue collecting the fruits that Satoru had dropped and one in particular catches your gaze.
It looks ripe, like the type that is used in courtship behaviours.
“Where’d this come from?” You hold it up for Satoru and he shrugs.
“There was someone who offered to me. She offers me fruit all the time and I accept them—bring them here for you because you like those ones.”
Your eyes narrow at that.
“Is that so?” You shift rising to your feet and he cranes his neck just the slightest to peer up at you. “So this other bunny that you speak of—she keeps throwing herself at you?”
Satoru gulps, he doesn’t sense anger rolling off from you, but your eyes communicate that there’s a possibility that it’s simmering somewhere.
“What? No, she’s not throwing herself at me–”
“You’ve been accepting her advances of courtship.” You hold up the fruit for Satoru. “This is evidence of that.”
“No, wait, but that’s for you. I’m not interested in her at all—I am popular, I’ll admit that–”
The look on your face has his mouth snapping shut, and he exhales as perspiration gathers at his temples. You’re not listening to him, you’re looking at him yes, glaring at him, but the words he utters don’t register with you.
You make a sound, that same one that you do when you encourage him to run, to get away. He pales, steps back as you step closer.
“Wait, princess, we talked about this—hey—hey! Wait!”
“Better run if you want a chance of escaping, Satoru.”
That’s where it starts; the little game that you play where Satoru runs off before you eventually find him and then mark him with teeth and tongue. It’s repetitive, but this time you prolong it.
You respect that the hybrids from Satoru’s hometown won’t welcome you in, but you won’t tolerate anyone even considering the possibility of throwing themselves on him.
You don’t grow tired of sending Satoru off into the forest for him to run, to hide only for you to find him again. He’s fast, but he still makes it easy for you to find him. You’ve grown addicted to the game, it feeds your instincts and the high you get is intoxicating.
He enjoys it too. You see it when he flushes, you see it in the way his eyes dilate when you’re near. He fights with his instincts a lot despite not wanting to admit it.
You continue forward as you search for Satoru for what feels like the millionth round now, you build tension by keeping your strides slow. Though, through the charged tension that you feel, there is something underlying it.
Something in the air feels different somehow. It’s no longer oozing with just the faint scent of Satoru’s fear—the fear that consumes him solely due to instinct—but instead, it’s tense, quiet.
Like there’s someone else here. You’re far from town, quite a distance from your cottage, but it’s still too close. This sense of unease that you feel has you on edge.
You’re not dumb, you know the risks of living in the middle of a forest right on the outskirts of a town that harbours hybrids that your kind would consider prey. The town itself is an attraction and not just for tourists.
There are predators, both hybrids and animals that lurk in the surrounding areas. There are hunters too and you know that fact far too well. They barge in unwelcomed, they destroy, take up too much space and they like to make it known.
Fires, traps, spaces that feel occupied even when nobody is there. They love leaving things out of place.
The breeze shifts and the wind carries something far too familiar for your liking. Your spine straightens and you go completely still. You stare at nothing in particular and simply focus on what it is that you’re smelling.
Amongst the scent of pine and dirt, there’s the faint scent of dry blood and a stronger metallic smell that makes even the air feel out of place. It’s heavier, a scent that suggests that there’s something man-made that doesn’t belong here.
It’s a trap and you believe that it’s one set out for a bear. Hybrid or animal, you’re not sure which for, but what you do know, is that you have to avoid it at all costs.
The trap hasn’t been cleaned thoroughly and that’s how you’re able to tell that it’s there.
You follow its trail, taking slow, careful steps while you remain vigilant. You know the direction in which Satoru had darted off in, so you follow that path, eyes tracking any movement that you manage to detect.
From rustling bushes to small critters that dart past your feet, you remain alert.
You spot Satoru, you see him crouched by a bush and you don’t think that he’s hiding from you. From where you are, you hear his erratic breaths, short, panicked.
He's tired and you’re to blame for that.
Your eyes narrow before you scan the area and that’s when you see it. A human with a rifle pointed at Satoru. You often always think before you act, but there’d been an instinct that pushed you forward.
You managed to remain out of sight, but within a matter of seconds, you lunge at the human, aiming to push the rifle out of the way.
You do just that, catching the hunter off guard. He stumbles back, dropping the rifle and you grab it. Humans use weapons like this all the time, if you take it away, they’re left defenceless.
You don’t know how to use the weapon, but you suppose that if you ruin it, it’d be useless. So you mess around with, bend it and the hunter throws curses your way like you’d just left him homeless.
You glance up.
The hunter meets your gaze, and you stare him down. You’ve never seen him before and you know because you’d remember angry green eyes the regard you like you’re some prize, a mere catch that’d bag him a good load of money.
“Must be my fucking lucky day,” you manage to hear him murmur and you narrow your eyes. You don’t bother standing upright, you don’t feel the need to size him up.
That’s what males, and of many species, do. You don’t try to intimidate the human; you don’t even move from where you’re standing in front of Satoru. If he has his eyes set on you only, it makes your job much simpler.
The human’s jaw ticks and you grimace before shooting him a lethal snarl, but he doesn’t back down from it, doesn’t seem to be intimidated by you at all. You can tell that he’s probably used to this, that he’s probably seen hybrids much bigger than what you are and that’s why he’s not backing down from you.
He grabs what you make out to be a blade, and you frown. He’s not backing down, so neither will you.
He lunges at you and you manage to dodge the first swipe he throws your way. He moves fast, like he’s trained for this and that’s the part that throws you off guard.
You’re not so lucky the second time. The blade grazes your arm, and you hiss as blood seeps from the new wound. Satoru makes a sound behind you and his nerves mingle in the air. You freeze, noting his distress.
The human takes advantage of your distraction and knocks you to the ground. You push at him, knock the blade from his grasp in the midst of your struggle. Your senses come rushing back to you, you recall what it is that you’re doing.
The human brings his arm down and you sink your teeth into his flesh, earning you a groan. He pushes at your shoulder with a force that you have to admire coming from a human. Still, you don’t budge, you don’t relieve him of the pain that he’s feeling.
You roll over him and the human cusses at you. He moves to throw a punch your way, aiming for your jaw, but you stop him with your free hand and exhale through your nose. For a moment, you see something flicker in the human’s eyes, perhaps fear, perhaps panic or a medley of both.
The scent, the taste of copper drowns out anything else and it’s then that you begin to tug. Your teeth pulls at flesh, at sinewy muscle and the hunter grunts before making a pained sound.
You want to rip his arm off, you consider it, but the flicker in his eyes is something far too humane, something that resembles the lives that you refuse to take because you see no use in it.
You release him. You suppose that you’ve given him enough of a warning to get the message. He won’t be this lucky if he decides to come around again.
Your lips, mouth, chin are smothered in his blood and the hunter slips back, pushes himself back far enough before he stumbles away. You don’t watch him run off because you can’t guarantee that you’d let him escape if you do. Instead, you glance at the weapons he’d left behind, the ones damaged and the ones that are still in good condition.
Some seem like they’d be of use to you.
Satoru rushes to you in a matter of seconds, eyes wide and panicked as he scans your features, the cut on your arm and suddenly he’s babbling to himself while he tries his very best not to lose his mind over how you’d risked everything just to save him.
You hear the thumping of his heart, an erratic rhythm that’s almost deafening.
“Are you okay, princess? Oh god, that hunter scared the shit out of me—fuck, you’re bleeding—are you hurt anywhere else? Are you in pain? Do I need to–”
“Satoru.”
His mouth snaps shut, chest still stuttering as he attempts to compose himself. His eyes dart between yours and the blood adorning your face, still, he doesn’t make a move to get away from you.
His worry only seems to grow.
“I’m okay. It’s just a little scratch,” you gesture to your leg and although it’s not in sight, there is a scar, a reminder of one of the very few times you’ve experienced worse pain. “I’ve been through worse.”
“You scared me.”
You snort. “I thought you said the hunter did.”
Satoru shakes his head, keeps his ears pushed flat against his head as he cups your hands, his just the slightest bit smaller than yours.
“You scared me,” he repeats, voice shaky. “I thought that I was watching you die—when he pulled that knife out I froze because I got so scared, I’m so sorry that I couldn’t do anything.”
“Don’t apologise.” You huff out a chuckle, cupping Satoru’s face before pulling him closer. “You’re mine to protect, you know. I’ll do that all over again if it means that I get to save you. Besides, it was my fault that you were so tired in the first place.”
○
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Satoru finds himself in the town’s market searching for bandages, first-aid kits, anything that he can find that he’d be able to take back to you. He’d noticed that you were running low on a couple of supplies that would be near impossible to restock while staying out in the forest all on your own.
So, he’s taken it upon himself to get whatever he can in town.
He knows that you’re fine, that you’re not severely hurt—all healed up after having confronted the hunt—and that you saw to the cut on your arm all on your own, but he’d realized that he’s completely defenceless when it comes to helping you ward off dangers that lurk in the forest.
He'd saved you once, but that had simply been because you’d been caught in a trap that he’d set, because you’d been exhausted at the time. He remembers the tired look on your pretty face all too well.
Though, this, gathering supplies for you, is how he can help because the town he resides most of his time in doesn’t welcome predators. It’s for safety purposes, he understands that, but Satoru can’t help but feel that something has to change.
“It’s truly a shame that hunters are on the prowl again,” Shoko huffs, flicking at her ear that droops forward. “Though I’d count us lucky, the hunter didn’t show up to town.”
“I told you that leaving traps around the boarder would keep us safe.” Nanami drawls, tone monotonous and Satoru only shoots a quick glance his way.
They don’t know that the traps and fences aren’t the things keeping the town safe. It’s like they’re living in their own fantasy.
“We can’t always count on flimsy wires and old traps to keep unwanted company out,” Suguru sighs, running his fingers through his bangs, pushing the short tresses out of his face. “We’ll have to do something eventually.”
The group trudges along the walkway, past stalls and kiosks that advertise foods and snacks best suited for prey hybrids. From small snacks like berries and nuts to fruits and cooked vegetables.
The smells waft in the air, warm, sweet and familiar.
Suguru’s gaze finds Satoru, amethyst irises darting between the bag in his hands and the expression on his face.
“You’ve been awfully quiet, Satoru.” Suguru’s words have Shoko and Nanami peering over at him too, like they’d been thinking the same. “Did something happen while you were out?”
“No—nothing.”
“You know,” Suguru sighs, matching pace with Satoru. “With hunters wandering the forest, don’t you think that you should stay in town more often?”
There it is; the insistence to have him stay.
It’s no secret that Satoru stays out of town for more than just one reason. Yes, he patrols the area, yes he helps keep the town safe, but everyone knows that there’s a predator that moved here.
You.
They avoid you, but Satoru has made it known that he visits you frequently. He’s gotten weird looks because of it, but nobody says anything.
“It’d be wise to stay in town,” Nanami adds. “It seems that winter is going to take a toll on all of us this year and being isolated from the rest of us doesn’t seem like an approach that you should be taking if you want to survive.”
Satoru glances between his friends, but he doesn’t say anything. They notice, all three of them do, and they know that it’s unlike Satoru to remain so quiet.
He knows what they’re trying to do and just like any other occasion, it’s not going to work.
“I think I’m all good.” Satoru quickens his pace, just the slightest so that he’s not forced to walk between his friends, but Suguru doesn’t allow him to get away.
He huffs, pinched gaze narrowing.
“You can’t possibly think that you’re safe with that predator friend of yours. Who knows what she’ll try and do to you.”
Satoru thinks of the way you protected him, attacked an enemy that was by the means to deal a lot of damage. He doesn’t think that it’s luck, he isn’t foolish enough to credit fate for that.
It's your strength, your confidence and your determination that got you to chase the hunter off.
“What if she goes hungry and decides that you’re an easy meal?”
You don’t eat hybrid flesh; Satoru recalls you telling him that.
“Satoru, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, I am.”
Suguru glances back, eyeing Shoko and Nanami who haven’t bothered trying to catch up with them. Then he turns back to Satoru, and with a frown, he opens his mouth, “Then why aren’t you saying anything? Is it that difficult for you to see that I’m trying to help you?”
Suguru’s eyes flit to Satoru’s neck and he pales. He sees the bite marks that aren’t quite covered by the layers of clothes Satoru has on, he sees the bruises and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what those mean.
“She marked you.”
Satoru freezes, brings his hand up to his neck and shoots his gaze towards Suguru. He’s not panicked, but this isn’t how he planned on letting his friends know that he’s mated to you.
That he’s been mated to you.
“You mated with a predator?” Suguru’s face contorts and an ugly grimace settles on his face. “That’s disgusting, Satoru.”
He flinches at that, breath stuttering as his chest pulls tight. Satoru’s gaze trails over to Suguru, eerily slow before his eyes narrow.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re acting like there aren’t perfectly suitable hybrids here, in town, to mate with.”
“Like who?”
Suguru goes silent at that. he’d expected the question, he really did, but somehow, he’s ill-prepared in being able to answer it.
“You might not be able to see it, but I’m right where I want to be.”
Suguru narrows his eyes, ignoring the ugly feeling simmering in his chest.
“Would you choose her over us? The people you grew up with? The town that you’ve sworn to keep safe?”
Satoru doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink as he stares at his best friend. He knows what he’s answer is, he knows that he’d choose you over anyone else.
“Yes.” Is the only thing Satoru utters.
He doesn’t wait, doesn’t meet Suguru’s gaze, doesn’t bother waiting behind as Shoko and Nanami catch up. He’s gone before they can ask questions.
Satoru rushes back to the cottage with the newly acquired supplies in hand. He sees you crouched outside; sees you wrap cloth around your palms; eyes laser focused on the task as you ensure that you secure the material around your hands.
You’ve considered using bandages, but you refuse to waste them.
“I brought some supplies—what are you doing?”
You blink, lifting your gaze as Satoru trudges over towards you, cerulean gaze fixating on your hands. He checks your hands, searches for a hint of crimson, but he realises that you’re not bleeding.
He doesn’t detect the scent of your blood in the air either.
Satoru exhales, relief escaping him in a heavy breath that has you raising a brow at him. He’s been awfully protective of you in his own way. He doesn’t crowd you, doesn’t mark you over and over, doesn’t breathe down your neck like you’re accustomed to due to instinct.
Instead, he’s quiet, searches for small cuts and bruises, offers you supplies much like right now. You see bandages amongst other things that’d better suit you in a time when you’re hurt.
“Just protecting my hands,” you hum before gesturing to your hunting equipment that you’d set aside. “Going on a hunt to prepare for hibernation.”
“Can I help?”
You pause, stealing a glance at him. “You don’t have to do that–”
“I want to help you prepare for hibernation,” his ears twitch and his nose scrunches in the way that it does when he’s adamant on a choice that he’s made.
You fight back a smile, fight the hearty laugh that threatens its way from deep in your chest.
Oh, how sweet he is.
“Fine, fine,” you chuckle and Satoru narrows his eyes at you.
“What’s so funny? You think that I’ll struggle?”
You shake your head, “No, no. It’s just that you’re talkative, you know?”
“I am not.”
○
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“They don’t understand. They think that they know what’s best for—okay, Shoko and Nanami haven’t said anything—I didn’t stick around to hear what they had to say.
You hum, hurling the deer that you’d managed to hunt down along with you as Satoru follows behind, still as chatty as ever. He hasn’t stopped talking just like you’d anticipated, but you don’t mind.
You’ve noted that he’s venting, so you allow him to. He had been helpful during your hunt too.
“I just don’t understand why Suguru doesn’t want to see what I see.”
You set the deer down, huffing out a breath as you dust your hands off. You glance at Satoru, raising a quizzical brow.
“What do you see that you’re wanting him to see?”
“My mate,” the answer comes quick, a little too quick and you fight the heat that burns your cheeks. “Perfect in every way—maybe almost as perfect as me.”
You huff, rolling your eyes at him. “How sweet.”
“I’m serious, I’m quite the catch. I just knew that I’d end up with someone who is able to match my strength.” He stands taller, puffs out his chest, but he lands against the ground with a yelp when you tackle him.
“Ah yes, Satoru Gojo, strongest little bunny I know.”
He flushes as you keep him pinned down. He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t even bother. You’ve wrestled countless times and Satoru knows when he’s at a loss. He simply pouts as you smile down at him.
“That’s not fair—you caught me off guard.”
“Did I now?”
He exhales, though peers up at you with wide eyes, absolutely smitten by you.
“It’s crazy to think that my friends think that you’ll eat me.”
You don’t say anything in response to that, only smirk before leaning down and allowing your lips to graze his neck. His body jerks, but not because of fear, but because you graze that weak spot of his.
“Oh… what am I to do, huh?” You huff, kissing along Satoru’s pale flesh. “You’re not safe out here with me at all.”
Your tongue swirls along his flesh, leaves a bruise that you’re proud of. He doesn’t say anything, allows himself to exhale heavy breaths as you mark his neck. He does allow his hands to wander, and you sigh, a pleasured little sound.
He grows harder beneath you, you feel it, you smell the evidence of his need from under his clothes. You grind against him and Satoru curses under his breath. He mimics your behaviour, allows himself to lick a trail along your neck before nibbling on it.
Your eyes flutter.
“Careful, Satoru, or I might just eat you.”
His breath stutters and he presses up against you, a silent plea for more.
Your lips quirk and you fight the smirk that pulls at the corners of your mouth before you push yourself lower, making yourself comfortable between Satoru’s legs.
“Your friends are right, you know?” You tug at his pants before pulling them down, allowing his cock to spring free, hot, heavy and leaking at the cusp.
Satoru makes a desperate sound, one that goes straight to your pussy.
“So many predators out here that would want to eat you,” you place a kiss on his globular tip, flushed a dark shade of rosy pink. It feels hot against your lips and your tongue darts out for a moment to lap the fat bead of ivory that had collected there.
The sweetness of him blooms across your tongue and you exhale through your nose, pupils dilating.
“Imagine that, hmm?”
Satoru says your name, catches his plump bottom lip between his teeth while he fights the urge to buck his hips. Tears brim his eyes, not because he’s scared, not because instinct is compelling his emotions, but because his cock aches, because you’re torturing him.
“Mhm?” Your tongue glides along the length of him, over the veins that decorate his shaft and all the way back to his tip.
“Please, princess.” He sucks in a breath when you pinch that sensitive spot on the underside of his cock, pressing the curve of your thumb against it and it has stars bursting behind his eyes.
“Please what, ‘Toru?”
“Stop teasing me, I’m not… fuck… I’m not built for that kind of torture.”
You give him what he wants. The heat of your mouth envelopes him as your teeth graze his flesh, just enough to tease, just enough to make him twitch at the sensation. You bob your head, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock while the taste of his arousal lingers on your tastebuds.
Satoru whimpers, his fingers curling into the ground below as you slurp on the tip of his cock while massaging the base. You work him just like that, occasionally alternating between pinching and pressing up against the more sensitive parts of his cock.
Your pussy throbs, eager too and Satoru catches a whiff of it from where he is.
“You’re so hard.”
“And you’re so wet—fuck, can smell you from here, princess.”
You kiss the tip of his cock again before swallowing it again until your nose brushes the coarse hairs at the base of it. You moan and the vibrations shoot right through Satoru and he moans, bucks his hips at how tight, how warm your throat is.
He doesn’t last long; he couldn’t ever last long with you if he tried. He cums with a whine, cock twitching in your mouth as silky fluid shoots to the back of your throat.
You drink it all up as need courses through you and it’s in that moment that you realise that you won’t get to experience this once winter arrives, because when sleep claims you, you won’t be able to feel or taste Satoru like this.
“Gonna miss you while I’m asleep,” you sigh, pulling off him, cunt throbbing while need drenches your inner thighs. “Gonna miss feeling you.”
You crawl over him and Satoru groans when you line your entrance up with his cock. Your slit kisses his tip so sweetly, drools all over it that makes the contact sloppy. You gasp when the fat head of his cock nudges past your folds, grazing your orifice when you lower yourself.
Down.
“Let me—fuck—that’s tight, you’re tight.”
And down.
“Princess… hnngh–”
You sink lower and inch after inch, your pussy swallows Satoru’s cock, eats the entire length of it as he fills you, stretches you. He feels so good, too good and feeling the way his vein-streaked shaft grazes your treacly innards has your eyes rolling back.
“Please, Satoru, wanna feel you.”
He groans, whimpers as you clamp around him and his Adam’s apple bobs with the restraint it takes to keep himself from blowing a load into you. His tip nudges that sweet spot of yours and you moan, a soft little cry that reverberates in the air for all the critters to hear.
“Here, you are—hah—feeling me, princess.”
You lift your hips before they come down again, pussy gushing all over Satoru’s length as you tend to that needy feeling of yours. You want him deeper, you need him deeper and you grind against him, rubbing your clit against his pubes.
His scent cradles the air around you, suffocates you. You feel hot, needy and so close to an orgasm that it’s almost embarrassing.
“A-are you in heat?”
You are. He smells it, smells the sweetness that permeates in the air and it’s early. Extremely early. That explains it too. The heat, the need and your desperation to feel him.
“Mngh, ‘Toru, please—feels so good.”
Satoru’s cheeks flush, they burn bright and his cock throbs, swells at the thought that he’s the reason why your heat is so early. You need him so bad that your body responds in the only way it knows how.
“You want me to breed you?” His hands find your waist; he massages the flesh there as your thighs tremble and quiver as your hips come down with the obscenest of squelches. “You gonna feel a growing baby all winter long? That what you want?”
“Please.”
He groans and your eyes flutter before a yelp slips from your lips when he forces his hips up, fucks you from below while you take what you need from him. You loll forward, still bouncing on Satoru’s cock like it’d save you.
Your orgasm hits you and you flood Satoru’s cock, walls fluttering around his length. Your release coaxes another orgasm from him, and he fills you with a groan, decorating your walls with ivory that mixes with your sap.
It leaks from you, adorns Satoru’s pelvis in a thick layer, but neither of you care.
“Again… mngh… more, ‘Toru.”
You commit every ridge of him to memory, bury the feel of it deep in your mind so that you’ll feel him for months, so that you’ll feel him in your dreams when the time comes. You stay just there, coaxing orgasm after orgasm from Satoru until even your mind goes numb.
○
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You run on autopilot the last couple of days before winter officially arrives. It had been difficult because like you’d wanted, Satoru’s seed had taken root, had planted itself inside of you and as a result, you’ve had to battle with nausea.
Still, you didn’t let that stop you.
Satoru does manage to help you where he can, but he doesn’t work as fast as what you do. If you’re not eating and then eventually throwing the food up, then you’re out, gathering firewood, chopping down trees like everything is normal.
Everything is not normal. You’re not supposed to be spilling the food you consume. Satoru knows that because you’re preparing for hibernation and you’re going to need all the energy and vitamins that you can get.
You even go as far as checking for tracks left behind by hunters, you mark your territory to keep other predators away by carving either a blade or your nails into tree trunks. You’ve been adamant on keeping Satoru safe while you know that you physically wouldn’t be able to while you’re asleep.
Satoru doesn’t like that you’re doing everything all on your own, doesn’t like that there isn’t much that he can do for you. He sees it in your eyes, an almost blank stare that suggests that you’re simply following instinct.
He’s never seen you be so busy either, hasn’t ever been around you during your preparations for winter. It makes sense because he’d only met you last spring, but even though there is an urge to help, he can’t help but admire you more.
You do the same things over and over again, but Satoru can’t get enough.
He manages to help in small ways, saves you time by leaving small portions of berries or nuts for you to snack on, because you’re able to stomach those, he starts a campfire so that you don’t have to bother when you prepare meat for roasting and he mimics the marks you leave on the tree trunks all on his own for extra measure.
He slowly learns the ways of a predator preparing for hibernation and he does it so that he can help you. It makes him feel useful.
Satoru is currently out, said that he wanted to do a few things in town and you’d been so adamant on waiting for him, but lethargy is quickly kicking in.
You begin the last of your preparations just to keep yourself awake. You snack on the last little bits of food Satoru had left out for you and before doing anything else, you take a bath, soak up the heat of the water that has you feeling drowsy.
Satoru still hasn’t returned by the time you’re finished, and you head on over to your bedroom.
You hum to yourself, staring at the articles of clothing that you have. You’ve spent a long time crafting them yourself, using flax fibre, furs and animal hide, but there’s a thought that teases you at the back of your mind.
Your lips tug upward.
Another yawn escapes you and you mumble to yourself. Satoru isn’t here and as much as you want to, you can’t wait for him. Your body, your instincts coax you to find some place warm and comfortable.
You turn, trudge over to your bed before slipping under all of the blankets you’d laid down for yourself before. You stretch before making yourself comfortable on your side, curling into yourself.
You murmur something, Satoru’s name perhaps, you don’t quite hear yourself.
Your eyes flutter shut, eyelids heavy. The warmth of the blankets helps coax you to sleep and it doesn’t take long before your breaths become shallow. Your heart follows a steady rhythm and just like that, you fall into a slumber that’d help get you through the harsh weather.
A/n: I kept thinking about the Betrothal Necklace then I thought about the Gang seeing it for the first time.
Sokka stood in the middle of the living room like a man about to declare war....or worse, something far more terrifying as his chest puffed out, chin lifted, and eyes gleaming with unearned confidence. The late afternoon light from Republic City’s skyline poured in behind him, catching on the leather cord around your neck, the very leather cord he had been obsessively carving and muttering over for days.
“I have an announcement,” he said loudly, clapping his hands once for attention, nearly startling Momo off the windowsill, his hand tightly holding on to yours.
Katara looked up first, already smiling, already proud, because that was her default setting when it came to her brother. “What is it, Sokka?”
He grinned, wide, smug, unstoppable. “She accepted my betrothal necklace.”
There was a beat of silence then Katara beamed, her hands flying to her mouth. “Sokka!! that’s—” Her eyes dropped to your chest, to the necklace tied to your neck.Her smile froze, faltered as she was unsure on how to respond as she squinted and then very slowly, her expression shifted into something that tried very hard to still look supportive. “Umm..Congratulations, Sokka… the necklace is…” she swallowed, nudging Aang hard with her elbow, “beautiful.” Her voice then whispering to the Avatar. "Say something."
Aang leaned forward immediately, squinting like he was trying to solve a puzzle carved by spirits. “Why is it lumpy?”
“Aang,” Katara hissed through her teeth.
“What?!” he whispered back, still staring. He tilted his head slightly, then the other way. “It looks like it lost a fight with a rock.”
Toph snorted again. “That’s a generous way to say ugly.” she said, waving a hand. “It must be a bad one if Twinkle Toes said something...I mean i've felt better rocks on the side of the road.”
Sokka spun toward her, scandalized. “You’re blind, so you can’t even see it!”
Toph smirked, arms crossing. “And somehow I still have better taste than you.”
Aang leaned in again, undeterred. “Wait… are those supposed to be flames?”
Sokka froze, then pointed at him like he’d just been declared a genius. “They are flames! Thank you! Finally, someone with artistic vision!”
“They look like noodles,” Aang said.
“They do not look like noodles!”
“They look like sad noodles.”
“They are not sad—what even is a sad noodle?!”
You couldn’t help it, you smiled, fingers brushing lightly over the uneven surface of the stone resting against your chest. It was rough, imperfect, a little ridiculous… and entirely him. “I love it,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the chaos.
Sokka immediately turned back to you, all outrage melting into something warm and almost shy.
“Because Sokka made it.”
The room quieted, just for a second.
Katara’s expression softened instantly, her earlier horror dissolving into genuine emotion. Aang straightened, smiling now instead of analyzing. Even Toph made a small noise that suspiciously lacked sarcasm.
And right on cue, the door slid open.
Zuko walked in, pausing mid-step as his eyes landed on the group and then on you. His brow furrowed. “…Why do you have a rock around your neck?”
Sokka snapped around so fast it was a miracle he didn’t fall over. “IT’S A BETROTHAL NECKLACE!”
The silence that followed could’ve cracked stone as Zuko blinked once.
His arm lowered slowly, like he needed a second to process what he’d just heard. “…I’m sorry,” he said, voice tight with disbelief. “A what?”
“A betrothal necklace,” Sokka repeated, puffing up immediately, stepping forward like he was presenting a masterpiece instead of… that. “She accepted it. Which means we’re 100% engaged and she's off the market."
Katara quietly covered her face with her hand.
Toph made a choked noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Aang just stood there, eyes wide, like he was witnessing a cultural event he was not qualified to comment on.
Zuko’s gaze flicked back to you, then to the necklace again, then back to Sokka. His brow furrowed deeper with each pass. “…That,” he said carefully, “is a rock.”
Sokka threw his hands up. “YES! I KNOW IT’S A ROCK! THAT’S THE POINT!”
Zuko looked at him like he was reconsidering every decision that led to this moment. “You didn’t… shape it? Refine it? Do anything to it?”
“I carved it!” Sokka snapped, offended. “With my own hands!”
Toph wheezed. “Barely.”
“I did!”
Zuko stepped closer without breaking eye contact, studying the necklace like it might reveal some hidden logic if he stared long enough. His expression shifted confusion melting into something sharper, more incredulous.
“…Those are supposed to be flames,” he said slowly.
You smiled a little, fingers brushing over the uneven grooves. “They are.”
Zuko exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he was fighting for his life internally. “They look like scratches.”
“They are intentional scratches,” Sokka insisted.
Toph lost it completely, laughing so hard she had to lean back on her hands. “Oh my god, he’s serious.”
Katara sighed, stepping in before Zuko could combust. “It’s… symbolic.”
Zuko turned to her slowly. “Of what?”
Katara hesitated. “…Commitment.”
Toph snorted. “Bad craftsmanship.”
Aang raised a hand cautiously. “Love?”
Sokka pointed at him immediately. “Yes! Thank you! Love!”
Zuko’s golden eyes slid back to you, softer now—but still baffled. “And you… accepted this?”
You didn’t hesitate. “I did.”
That made him pause again.His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, then dropped once more to the necklace. His expression didn’t fully soften—but it shifted. Just slightly.
“…Huh,” he muttered.
Sokka grinned, victorious. “See? Even the Fire Lord gets it.”
“I didn’t say that,” Zuko shot back immediately.
Toph snickered. “He’s trying so hard not to insult you right now.”
“I’m not—” Zuko started, then stopped, clearly recalibrating. “…I just don’t understand why you didn’t at least polish it.”
“Because it’s authentic!” Sokka argued.
“It’s painful to look at!”
“It builds character!”
“It looks like it belongs in a river
You laughed softly under your breath, stepping in before it turned into a full argument, your hand slipping into Sokka’s again. His voice cut off instantly.
“I like it,” you said simply.
That did it.
Zuko went quiet.
Not convinced....definitely not convinced, but quiet.
Toph gagged again from the floor. “Blegh—there it is again.”
Sokka, completely undeterred, wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his side like he’d just won a war. “She loves it....which means she loves me."
You leaned into him easily, your fingers once again tracing the uneven, cracked stone.
Zuko watched the two of you for another second, then exhaled, shaking his head slightly as he turned away. “…I’m surrounded by idiots,” he muttered.
Toph grinned. “You love us.”
“…That is debatable.”Zuko muttered and at this point he didn’t walk away and that was the problem.
He should have walked away, muttered something about idiots and gone back to whatever very important Fire Lord business he absolutely did not want to deal with right now.
Instead… he stopped.
Turned.
Looked back at the necklace.
And then, slowly, like a man making a terrible but inevitable decision, he stepped forward again.
“I can’t let this go,” he said, voice tight with barely-contained frustration. His hand lifted, hovering dangerously close to the stone at your chest. “Just....let me melt it down. Or at least let Toph or Aang fix it.”
Sokka moved instantly.One second Zuko’s hand was reaching , the next, Sokka had physically inserted himself between you and the Fire Lord like a protective wall of indignation and offense.
“Get your hands away from my soon to be wife!” he snapped, pointing accusingly at him.
Toph made a delighted noise. “Oh, this is getting good.”
Zuko blinked, caught off guard for half a second before his expression flattened again. “I’m trying to help.”
“No, you’re trying to ruin it,” Sokka shot back.
“I’m trying to make it wearable without it looking like it fell out of a quarry.”
“It’s supposed to look like that!”
“It looks like you lost a fight with a hammer!”
“I didn’t even use a hammer!”
“Exactly my point!”
Katara groaned into her hands. “Spirits… not again…”
Aang hovered awkwardly between them, glancing back and forth. “I mean....I could smooth it out a little? Just… gently?."
Sokka whipped around so fast it was honestly impressive. “No!”
Toph raised a hand lazily. “I could fix it in two seconds. Make it actually symmetrical.”
“NO!” Sokka repeated louder, now spinning like he was surrounded by traitors. “Nobody is touching it!”
Another laugh escaped your lips, your hand reaching out to grab Sokka's gently. "Guy's really I love it. If any of you fixed it then it wouldn't be he's, he made it for me....it's why I love it." Your hand cupped his cheek gently.
Sokka's gaze softened as he lent into your touch, as he looked at you, really looked. He saw the way your fingers kept brushing over the carved lines, the way you held it like it was something precious instead of something objectively questionable. His shoulders relaxed, his usual bravado softening into something quieter, something real.
“…You really like it?” he asked, just a little hesitant now.
You stepped closer, reaching up to tug him down by the collar, pressing a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. “I love it.”
Zuko groaned and rolled his eyes. "Gross, you two shouldn't be that cute in public."
Sokka straightened immediately, puffing up again like he hadn’t just been completely undone. “Yeah, well....get used to it. This is the face of romance.”
“More like the face of geological failure,” Toph shot back.
And you just stayed there beside Sokka, your fingers curled around the lumpy, uneven, cracked little stone necklace, your necklace, smiling like it was the most beautiful thing in the world.
a curse hits gojo when he is on a mission with you, causing him to turn into a cat! now he has to be in your care for an undetermined amount of time, which is a problem because he is desperately in love with you.
contents. gojo satoru x fem!reader • fluff • cat gojo • yearner gojo • down bad gojo lmao • some angst • attempts at humour • ~17k words • also can you guys tell i did the ears in the pics myself??? jahsjahq
THE mission had been simple. exorcise a low-grade curse in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of tokyo, maybe file a report, maybe grab lunch after. that was what gojo had been thinking about as he stepped through the broken doorway—lunch. specifically, whether you’d let him drag you to that new ramen place or if you’d put your foot down and insist on something with vegetables.
he should have known better. things were never simple with him.
the curse had been small, unassuming: a blob of shadows and static that barely registered on his six eyes. he’d let you handle it, hanging back with his hands in his pockets, watching the way you moved through the dim light. you were good, really good. he liked watching you work. the sharp focus in your eyes, the way your cursed energy flickered like a heartbeat.
but then the curse had done something unexpected. instead of attacking, it had shrieked— a sound that scraped against his skull like nails on a chalkboard— and exploded into a cloud of purple-black smoke. gojo had thrown an arm up instinctively, infinity flickering for just a fraction of a second too late.
the smoke had gotten in. through his mouth, his nose, his eyes. he’d coughed, stumbled, and then everything had gone sideways.
literally. the world had tilted, the ground rushing up to meet him, except the ground was suddenly much closer than it should have been. his clothes had pooled around him in a heap of fabric, and when he’d tried to step out of them, his body had moved wrong. all wrong. four points of contact instead of two. a tail. fur.
he’d looked down— down at paws, white-furred paws— and the last thing he’d heard before consciousness slipped away was your voice, sharp with alarm, calling his name.
when gojo woke up, it was to the smell of rain and old concrete. he was tucked into a corner of the warehouse, half-hidden behind a collapsed shelf, and he was still a cat.
a white cat, he realized, lifting a paw to inspect it. white fur, blue eyes; because of course even as a cat he’d have the six eyes, the same impossible blue staring back at him from the cracked surface of a puddle nearby. he was small, too. not a kitten, but not much bigger than one. his tail flicked once, twice, a test. it worked. everything worked, just… differently.
what the hell, he thought, except what came out was a confused little mrrp?
he tried to speak. opened his mouth, focused, pushed words up his throat and got a squeaky meow for his efforts. great. fantastic. this was fine. he was gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, and he’d been turned into a cat by a curse so weak it shouldn’t have been able to touch him.
he sat down heavily— or as heavily as a cat could sit— and wrapped his tail around his paws. okay. okay. he could work with this. the curse had dissipated after that explosion, so the threat was gone. all he had to do was wait. someone would find him. probably you. you’d been right there, after all.
as if on you, he heard it! your voice, distant but getting closer, threading through the rain and the rubble.
“gojo! gojo, where are you? this isn’t funny!”
he should have meowed. he should have made some kind of noise to lead you to him. but instead he just sat there, frozen, as your footsteps grew louder. because you sounded worried and you never worried about him. you always said he was too strong to worry about, too annoying to miss. but your voice was tight, fraying at the edges, and when you came into view, picking your way through the debris, he could see your face.
you looked scared for him.
gojo’s chest did something strange. tight and warm and aching all at once, a feeling he’d been trying to ignore for months now. he liked you. more than liked you. liked you in the way that made him offer to go on missions with you even when he didn’t have to, liked you in the way that made him linger after training just to hear you laugh, liked you in the way that kept him up at night staring at his ceiling and thinking about the curve of your smile.
and now you were here, kneeling in the dust, your hands shaking as you pushed aside a broken plank of wood. your eyes swept the corner where he was hiding, passed over him, then snapped back.
“oh my god,” you whispered.
gojo blinked at you. you blinked back.
“gojo?” you said, and he could hear how stupid you felt saying it to a cat, but also how desperate. “is that… is that you?”
he meowed. it was the only thing he could do. but he made it count— looked you right in the eyes and meowed with as much yes, it’s me, you idiot as he could pack into a single syllable.
your breath caught and then you were moving, scooping him up off the ground with careful hands, cradling him against your chest. you were warm, warmer than he’d expected. your heartbeat was fast, rabbiting against his side where you held him, and your fingers were trembling as they smoothed over his fur, dusting him off.
“what happened to you?” you asked, your voice cracking. “you’re so small. you’re—god, you’re a cat. how are you a cat?”
gojo wanted to say something reassuring and to tell you he was fine, that this was just a minor inconvenience, that he’d be back to his annoyingly handsome self in no time, but all that came out was a soft, pathetic mew, and you made a sound like your heart was breaking.
“okay,” you said, pulling yourself together with visible effort. “okay. i’ve got you. i’ve got you, satoru. i’m taking you to shoko.”
he pressed his face into the crook of your elbow and let you carry him out into the rain. it was all still confusing for him too, despite how strangely calm he was feeling.
the trip to jujutsu high was a blur of motion and muffled sounds. you’d wrapped him in your jacket to keep him dry, and he’d let you, even though it was undignified and he was pretty sure his tail was sticking out at a weird angle. you ran most of the way, your cursed energy flaring with urgency, and gojo spent the journey trying not to think about how close your hands were to him and how gently you held him.
shoko was in her office when you burst through the door, soaked and breathless and holding cat-him like he was the most important thing in the world.
“shoko,” you said, “you need to look at him. it’s gojo. he’s a cat. a curse turned him into a cat.”
shoko raised an eyebrow. took a long drag of her cigarette. exhaled.
“you’re serious,” she said.
“do i look like i’m joking?”
shoko looked at you, looked at the cat… uh, him. the cat— gojo— met her gaze with unmistakably familiar blue eyes, and something in her expression shifted. she stubbed out her cigarette and gestured to the examination table.
“put him there.”
you did, reluctantly, your hands lingering on his fur for a moment before you stepped back. gojo sat on the cold metal table and tried to project as much dignity as possible. it was difficult when he came up to shoko’s elbow.
shoko examined him. she didn’t do much— a flash of reversed cursed technique, a long look at his eyes, a gentle press of fingers along his spine. gojo tolerated it because it was shoko, and because he trusted her, and because he could see you watching from the corner of the room with your arms wrapped around yourself like you were holding in a scream.
“well?” you said, the moment shoko stepped back.
“it’s a curse,” shoko said, reaching for another cigarette. “a transformation-type. annoying, but not dangerous. his body’s fine, his soul’s still his, which is the important part. the curse is embedded pretty deep, but it’s already degrading. i’d say a week, maybe two, and he’ll change back on his own.”
“a week or two,” you repeated. “he’s going to be a cat for a week or two.”
“unless you find the original curse user and force them to undo it, but that’s a needle in a haystack situation. my advice? stock up on cat food and patience.”
you made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. gojo meowed an indignant sound, because cat food? he was not eating cat food. he’d rather starve.
shoko glanced at him and he could have sworn she was hiding a smile. “one more thing,” she said, turning back to you. “since you were the one with him when it happened, and since his cursed energy is going to be… let’s say unstable while the curse runs its course, you’re going to have to look after him. keep him close. your energy will help stabilize his while he heals.”
you blinked. “what? me? why me?”
“because you were there. proximity matters with this kind of curse. his system is already keyed to yours. if anyone else tried to take care of him, it could prolong the transformation or cause complications.” shoko’s voice was flat, clinical, but her eyes flicked to gojo for just a moment. “congratulations. you’re a cat sitter.”
gojo watched your face cycle through about seventeen different emotions. surprise. worry. reluctance. and then, underneath all of it, something softer. something that made his heart— his tiny, cat-sized heart— skip a beat.
“fine,” you said finally, reaching out to scoop him off the table. you held him against your chest again, and he shuddered at how much he liked it and how right it felt. “fine. but you’re helping me buy supplies, shoko. i don’t know the first thing about cats.”
“neither does he,” shoko said, nodding at gojo. “this is going to be entertaining.”
gojo wanted to flip her off. he settled for a hiss, which was deeply unsatisfying and only made shoko laugh.
you carried him out of the office and through the halls of jujutsu high, and gojo tried to focus on the practicalities. a week or two as a cat. he could handle that. he’d handled worse. but then you looked down at him, your expression soft in a way you never let him see when he was human, and you said, “don’t worry. i’ve got you.”
and gojo realized, with a sinking feeling, that this was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.
because he was in love with you. completely, stupidly, helplessly in love with you. and now he was going to spend every moment of the next fourteen days pressed against your side, unable to tell you, unable to do anything except meow and hope you didn’t notice how he looked at you.
… your apartment was small. gojo had never been inside it before— you were private about your space, always deflecting when he offered to walk you home or come over after missions, but now here he was, deposited on your couch while you rummaged through a bag of supplies shoko had helped you pick up on the way.
a litter box. cat food. a small bed you’d grabbed on impulse, even though gojo had already decided he wasn’t going to use it. a brush. some toys.
“this is insane,” you muttered, pulling out a bag of dry food and staring at it in bewilderment. “you’re gojo satoru. you’re supposed to be untouchable. how did a cat curse get you?”
gojo meowed. it was a fair question, honestly. he’d been distracted, watching you.
you sighed and sat down on the couch next to him, the cushions dipping under your weight. for a moment, you just looked at him. at his white fur, his blue eyes, the way his tail curled around his paws.
“you’re still you in there, right?” you asked quietly. “you can understand me?”
he meowed again, and bumped his head against your hand. your breath hitched in wonder, yet soon you were petting him, your fingers sliding through his fur in slow, careful strokes. it felt good. embarrassingly good. gojo’s eyes half-closed before he could stop them and a low rumble started in his chest.
was he… purring?
oh god. he was purring. he was purring because you were petting him, and he couldn’t stop, and you were smiling now— a sweet smile, soft and wondering, the kind he’d do anything to see.
“you’re kinda cute like this,” you said, and gojo wanted to die. “don’t tell me i said that when you turn back.”
he filed that away for later. you think he’s cute. he was never, ever letting you forget it.
you kept petting him as the evening stretched on, and gojo let himself relax into the touch. it was fine. this was fine. he was just… gathering information. observing. definitely not enjoying the way your thumb brushed behind his ears or the quiet sound of your breathing as you settled deeper into the couch.
a week or two, shoko had said. a week or two of this. of you.
gojo closed his eyes and purred, trying not to think about how hard it was going to be to go back to normal after this. how much he was going to miss the weight of your hand on his fur, the softness in your voice when you said his name. but that was a problem for later.
day 1
gojo woke up slowly, consciousness filtering back in fragments. the couch was soft beneath him, softer than he expected, with a blanket that smelled like you draped over his small body. he stretched, arching his back the way cats did, and froze mid-stretch as the events of yesterday came crashing back.
right. he was a cat.
he blinked his eyes open, the world sharp and muted all at once in that strange way cat vision worked. your apartment was quiet, morning light slanting through the curtains in pale gold stripes. and then he heard a door creaking open, soft footsteps on wooden floors.
gojo turned his head and every thought in his brain promptly fell out and scattered across the floor.
you were standing in your bedroom doorway, and you were... you were barely dressed. sleep-rumpled hair falling across your face, an oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, shorts that rode up your thighs. you were scratching lazily at your neck, eyes half-closed, clearly not fully awake yet. and your shirt— your thin, worn-out, very comfy-looking shirt— clung to you in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
gojo could see everything.
well, not everything, not really, but enough that his cat-heart started hammering against his ribs, enough that he felt heat rush to his face even though he was covered in fur and you couldn’t possibly tell. your nipples were visible through the fabric, soft shadows in the morning light, and you seemed completely unaware. you yawned, stretched your arms above your head, and the shirt rode up higher, exposing a strip of your stomach.
gojo made a sound, a small, strangled mrrp that he immediately regretted.
you didn’t even look at him. just shuffled past the couch toward the bathroom, bare feet padding on the wood, and closed the door behind you with a soft click.
the bathroom door.
the bathroom.
gojo stared at the closed door for a long moment, his brain still short-circuiting. then his body reminded him, with an uncomfortable urgency, that he hadn’t used the bathroom since before the mission yesterday. that he was, in fact, a living creature with biological needs. and that somewhere in your apartment, there was a litter box.
he looked at it. shoko had made you buy one, a small plastic rectangle filled with gray sand-like pellets. it sat in the corner of your kitchen, pristine and unused, waiting for him.
no.
absolutely not.
he was gojo satoru. he was not going to squat in a box of sand like some common house pet. he had standards. he had dignity. he would wait.
so he waited. curled on the couch, tail twitching, ears flicking, every instinct screaming at him to find dirt and dig. the minutes crawled by. you were taking forever. what were you even doing in there? brushing your teeth? hair? he didn’t care. he just needed you to leave so he could use the toilet like a civilized being.
finally, the bathroom door opened. steam curled out, carrying the scent of your soap, and you emerged in a cloud of warmth. your face was damp, hair pulled back now, and you’d put on a bra. gojo tried not to feel disappointed about that.
“morning, cat,” you mumbled, not really looking at him as you headed for the kitchen. “hope you slept okay.”
gojo didn’t wait. he launched himself off the couch, four paws hitting the floor, and sprinted for the bathroom before you could ask questions. he slipped through the gap in the door— you’d left it open a crack— and landed on the cold tile floor.
the toilet loomed above him like a porcelain mountain.
okay, he could do this. he was smart. he was resourceful. he’d figure it out.
he jumped onto the small step stool you kept by the sink and from there onto the edge of the sink. the toilet was close now. close enough.
gojo gathered himself, calculated the distance, and leaped.
he misjudged.
the rim of the toilet was narrower than he’d thought, and his paws slipped on the smooth porcelain. for one glorious second he balanced, teetering on the edge, and then gravity remembered he was a cat and not, in fact, immune to its laws.
he fell straight into the water.
it was so cold. shockingly, insultingly cold. gojo splashed and scrambled, claws scrabbling against the sides of the bowl, but the porcelain was too slick and he was too small and the water was rising up to his chin—
“what the—”
you were in the doorway. your eyes were wide, your mouth open, and for a moment you just stared at the absolute disaster unfolding in your toilet.
“oh my god,” you said. then you were moving, crossing the bathroom in two steps, and your hands were in the water, around his small wet body, lifting him out. “oh my god, gojo, what were you thinking?”
he was dripping, soaking wet, cold, humiliated, and thoroughly pathetic. water streamed off his white fur in rivulets, and he was pretty sure there was something stuck to his tail that he didn’t want to think about.
you held him at arm’s length, your expression cycling through horror, disbelief, and something that looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
“the toilet,” you said. “you tried to use the toilet.”
he meowed. it was a defensive meow, a don’t judge me meow, but it came out small and wet and miserable.
you bit your lip as your shoulders shook and a second later you were laughing; full-body laughter that bent you double and made tears spring to your eyes. you laughed so hard you had to set him down on the bath mat, and even then you kept laughing, clutching your stomach, gasping for air.
gojo sat in a puddle of toilet water and glared at you with all the dignity he could muster, which was not much, considering he was dripping and shivering and his tail was doing that weird puffy thing cats did when they were upset.
“i’m sorry,” you wheezed, not sounding sorry at all. “i’m sorry, i’m not—it’s not funny—”
actually, it was funny. he knew it was funny. if the roles were reversed, he’d be laughing so hard he’d pass out. but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
you finally got yourself under control, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “okay. okay, i’m done. i’m sorry. let’s get you cleaned up.”
you scooped him up again, more carefully this time, cradling him against your chest even though he was wet and probably smelled like toilet water. you didn’t seem to care. you carried him to the sink and turned on the warm water, testing the temperature with your elbow before you lowered him in.
“don’t scratch me,” you warned and he didn’t. as if he would. he sat in the sink and let you run water through his fur, let you pump soap into your palm and work it through every inch of him, because your hands were gentle and warm and he was too embarrassed to do anything else.
“you have to use the litter box,” you said as you rinsed him off, your voice softer now. “i know you don’t want to. i wouldn’t want to either. but you’re a cat right now, gojo. your body works like a cat’s. you can’t—” you paused, biting your lip again. “you can’t keep trying to use the toilet. you’re too small. you’ll fall in again.”
he meowed. it was a defeated meow, an i know meow, that made your face soften.
“look,” you said. “i’ll put it somewhere private, okay? somewhere you don’t have to feel weird about.”
you wrapped him in a towel afterwards— one of your towels, soft and worn and smelling like lavender— and rubbed him dry while he sat on the bathroom counter, limp and exhausted and strangely light. the humiliation was still there, burning under his skin, but so was something else. something warm.
you were being so kind to him despite the fact that he was as much of gojo as he was a small wet cat who’d fallen in your toilet and needed help. you were kind. you’d always been kind, even when you pretended not to be, even when you rolled your eyes at his jokes and called him annoying. and gojo sat there in his towel, letting you dry between his toes, and fell a little more in love with you.
“there,” you said finally, stepping back to admire your work. he was fluffy now, his white fur sticking up in all directions, and you laughed again, fondly. “you look ridiculous.”
he meowed. you look beautiful, he tried to say, but it came out as a squeak.
you didn’t understand. you just picked him up and carried him back to the couch, settling him on a fresh blanket, and went to make breakfast.
gojo curled into a ball and watched you move around the kitchen, and tried very hard not to think about the litter box waiting for him in the corner. he failed.
… you set a bowl of milk in front of him. just milk. in a little ceramic dish that you’d probably found in the back of your cabinet, the kind you’d use for dipping sauce or something.
gojo stared at it.
then he looked at you, sitting across from him at your small kitchen table with a bowl of cereal in your hands, like a normal person. you had a spoon. you were eating. the milk in your bowl looked exactly like the milk in his dish, except yours had floating bits of grain and sugar and his was just… milk.
he meowed. pointedly.
“what?” you said around a mouthful of cereal. “you’re a cat. cats drink milk.”
he was not a cat. he was a human trapped in a cat’s body, and humans did not drink milk from a dish on the floor. humans drank milk from a glass, or a mug, or at the very least a bowl that they held in their hands while sitting at a table like a civilized creature.
he walked over to your chair and pawed at your leg.
you looked down at him. “what? you want some of mine?”
yes. no. he wanted his own bowl of cereal, actually. he wanted to sit across from you and eat breakfast the way he’d imagined a hundred times before— casual, easy, stealing pieces of fruit from your plate just to watch you roll your eyes.
but he couldn’t have that so he’d settle for the next best thing.
he jumped onto the chair next to yours, then onto the table itself. you made a sound of protest, but he was already walking across the surface, navigating around your coffee mug and the morning paper, until he reached your cereal bowl.
he looked at it. looked at you. then lowered his head and lapped at the milk.
it was so good. the milk was cold and sweet, and the cereal bits that came with it added a pleasant crunch. his tongue worked in that weird cat-way, curling backward to scoop up liquid, and he couldn’t help the small sound of contentment that escaped him.
“are you eating my cereal, gojo,” you said flatly. “still got your sweet tooth as a cat?”
he meowed. yes. deal with it.
you watched him for a long moment, your spoon suspended halfway to your mouth. then you sighed that long-suffering sigh you always used around him and pushed the bowl slightly in his direction.
“fine. but we’re sharing. and you’re not getting your own bowl because i’m not washing extra dishes for a cat.”
gojo lapped at the milk again, you resumed eating from the other side of the bowl, and the two of you sat there in the morning light, sharing breakfast like it was the most normal thing in the world. he was pretty content with that.
he watched you between sips. the way your fingers curled around your spoon, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when it fell into your face, the way your eyes kept flicking to him with something soft and wondering. you were thinking about something. he wished he knew what.
you finished the cereal before he did— you had the advantage of a spoon— and sat back in your chair, cradling your mug of coffee in both hands. gojo kept lapping at the milk, his tail curling contentedly behind him, and tried not to think about how domestic this felt.
“you know,” you said quietly, “it’s weird. having you here. like this.”
he paused, milk dripping from his whiskers, and looked up at you.
“you’re always so… much. when you’re human. loud and tall and everywhere. but right now you’re just—” you gestured vaguely with your mug. “you just sit there and watch me. it’s different.”
gojo didn’t know what to do with that. he meowed softly, hoping it came across as is that bad?
you shook your head, like you’d understood him. “no. not bad. just different.”
you finished your coffee in comfortable silence, and then you stood up and carried your dishes to the sink. gojo hopped off the table and followed you, because apparently his legs had decided that’s just what he did now. followed you. everywhere.
you noticed. “are you… following me?”
he sat down and looked at you. yes. obviously.
you made a face, amused and flustered, and turned back to the sink. he watched you wash your dishes, the stretch of your back, the curve of your neck. you dried your hands and walked to the bathroom, and he followed there too.
“gojo,” you said, pausing at the bathroom door. “i’m going to take a shower.”
he meowed.
“you can’t come in.”
he meowed again, more indignant this time. he wasn’t trying to come in. he was just… standing here, in the hallwa, which was a public space. you stared at him. he stared back.
“i know you’re in there,” you said finally, pointing at his small furry face. “i know you’re watching. don’t be weird.”
you closed the door. gojo sat in the hallway and listened to the water run, and felt his face burn even though he was covered in fur. he wasn’t being weird. he was just… curious about your routine and your life. about the small, private moments you never let him see when he was human.
the door opened twenty minutes later and you stepped out in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around your hair and another around your body. you looked down at him, still sitting in the exact same spot, and your expression did something complicated.
he meowed.
you shook your head and walked to your bedroom, and he followed there too. when you sat on the edge of your bed to dry your hair, he jumped up next to you, settling into a loaf position on your comforter. you didn’t tell him to leave. you just kept drying your hair, your movements slow and practiced, and every few seconds you’d glance at him like you were checking that he was still there.
you got dressed behind the door of your closer, not before giving him a pointed look, and gojo politely looked at the wall. mostly. he was only human. well. not human right now. but his mind was human, and his mind was very aware that you were changing clothes six feet away from him, and he was very determined not to be a creep about it.
you turned around in a fresh outfit and found him staring at the wall with an intensity that would have been suspicious if you knew him better.
“okay,” you said, grabbing your bag from the desk. “i have to go. shoko wants me to help with some reports, and i’m already late.”
gojo’s ears perked up. you were leaving? now? without him?
you walked to the front door, and he jumped off the bed and trotted after you, his claws clicking on the wooden floor. you slipped on your shoes, and he sat by the door, waiting.
“gojo,” you said, looking down at him. “i can’t take you with me.”
he meowed. loud. why not?
“because you’re a cat. i can’t just show up at jujutsu high with a cat. everyone will ask questions, and shoko will never let me live it down, and—” you paused, something flickering across your face. “and it’s not safe. you’re vulnerable like this. if something happened to you…”
you trailed off. gojo watched the worry settle into your features, the way your brow furrowed and your mouth pulled down at the corners. he meowed again, softer this time. i don’t want to be alone.
you crouched down, bringing yourself to his level. your hand reached out, hesitant, petting him with slow strokes along his back, from the nape of his neck to the base of his tail. his eyes half-closed without permission and that stupid purr started up again, rumbling through his small chest.
“i know,” you said quietly. “i know you don’t. but i’ll come back early, okay? i promise. i’ll finish up as fast as i can and i’ll come straight home.”
you scratched behind his ears, right in that spot that made his back leg twitch, and gojo leaned into your touch like a desperate animal. which, he supposed, he was.
“be good,” you said, standing up. “don’t destroy my furniture. use the litter box. eat the food i left you. and for the love of god, don’t try to use the toilet again.”
he stood in the entryway for a long moment, staring at the closed door. the apartment felt different without you— quieter, colder, emptier. your presence lingered in the air, in the smell of your coffee and the warmth of the spot on the couch where you’d sat, but it wasn’t enough.
he wanted you back already. very pathetically. but then his ears twitched, and he looked around, a different kind of feeling creeping in.
you’d left him alone in your apartment with nothing to do for hours except… explore.
gojo’s tail curled up, slow and curious. this was your space; the space you never let him see, the space where you were just you, without your armour and your careful walls. and now he had unfettered access to all of it.
he walked back into the living room, looking at everything with new eyes. the books on your shelf, worn and dog-eared. the stack of dvids by the television. the blanket on the couch that you’d wrapped around him last night, still rumpled from his body.
he jumped onto the couch and sniffed the blanket. it smelled like you, like lavender and something warmer underneath, something that was just yours.
okay. okay, this was fine. this was an opportunity. he could learn things about you— little things, private things— and store them away for later, when he was human again and he could finally, maybe, do something about the way he felt.
he hopped off the couch and padded toward your bedroom, the door still open from this morning.
gojo paused at the threshold, his heart beating too fast. this felt… invasive. wrong. but you’d said he could roam, hadn’t you? you hadn’t said don’t go in my room. you’d just said don’t destroy your furniture and use the litter box. so he stepped inside.
your bed was unmade, the sheets tangled from sleep. your pajamas— the t-shirt and shorts from this morning— were draped over the back of a chair. a half-empty glass of water sat on your nightstand, next to a book with a bookmark sticking out of it. your scent was everywhere here, thick and intimate, and gojo breathed it in without meaning to.
he jumped onto your bed. the mattress was soft. the pillows smelled like your shampoo. he walked in a circle and he curled up right in the center of the warm spot where you’d slept.
he was going to learn so much about you today. he was going to open every drawer and sniff every shelf and piece together the version of you that existed when no one was watching.
and then, maybe, when he was human again, he’d know exactly how to love you.
… it was strange how natural it felt— padding across wooden floors on four paws, whiskers twitching at every draft, ears swiveling toward every tiny sound. his body moved differently now, lower to the ground, more deliberate. he found himself sniffing things without meaning to. the corner of the couch. the leg of the kitchen table. the bottom of the door you’d walked through.
you smelled like coffee and soap and something faintly sweet. he filed that away.
the kitchen was first. he jumped onto the counter and walked along the edge, inspecting everything. your spice rack was organized alphabetically, which made him smile. your refrigerator was covered in magnets: a tiny mt. fuji, a cartoon sushi roll, a faded advertisement for some local festival. there were photos tucked under some of them, and gojo pressed his nose close to look.
you with shoko, both of you younger, making silly faces at the camera. you with nanami, both of you looking serious and slightly uncomfortable, like someone had forced you to pose together. you with geto— gojo’s heart twinged at that one, old grief surfacing— your arm around his shoulders, both of you laughing at something off-frame.
and then one of you alone. sitting on a beach somewhere, the sunset behind you, your hair blowing across your face. you looked happy. peaceful. gojo stared at it longer than he meant to.
he moved on.
the bathroom was next. he hopped onto the edge of the sink and peered into your medicine cabinet through the gap where you hadn’t quite closed it. toothpaste. floss. a hairbrush with strands of your hair tangled in it. skincare products lined up in a specific order— cleanser, toner, moisturizer, all the same brand. a bottle of painkillers. a small box of band-aids with cartoon characters on them.
he felt like a spy, like a thief! like someone who was collecting pieces of you to keep forever.
the bedroom was the most revealing. he’d already been in there, but now he had time to really look. he jumped from the bed to your dresser, walking carefully around the scattered items on top. jewelry in a small ceramic dish. a watch with a cracked face that you never wore anymore. a folded piece of paper that he nudged open with his nose.
it was a letter. from someone named kaori. your mother, maybe? the handwriting was neat, careful, the kind of cursive that older generations used. i hope you’re eating enough, it said. you always forget to eat when you’re busy. don’t work too hard. call me when you have time. love, mom.
gojo’s chest ached. he stepped away from the letter, suddenly feeling like he’d seen something he shouldn’t have. but he couldn’t stop. his paws carried him to your closet next, pushing the sliding door open with his head. your clothes hung in neat rows— work clothes on one side, casual on the other. a shelf above held folded sweaters and a shoebox that he somehow managed to knock down with his tail.
the box spilled open. photographs. lots of them.
old ones, mostly. you as a kid with missing front teeth, holding up a fish you’d caught. you as a teenager in a school uniform, looking bored at some ceremony. you with people he didn’t recognize— friends from before jujutsu high, probably, before your life had become curses and missions and death.
and then, near the bottom, a photo of you with him.
gojo stared at it. it was from years ago, back when you’d first joined. he remembered this day— some group outing that yaga had organized, forcing everyone to go to an arcade. in the photo, he had his arm slung around your shoulders, too casual and close. you were laughing at something he’d said, your head tilted back, your whole face bright with it. and he was looking at you.
he was looking at you the way he always looked at you — like you were the sun. he hadn’t known anyone had taken this picture. he hadn’t known you’d kept it.
gojo sat in the middle of the scattered photographs, surrounded by pieces of your life, and felt something crack open inside his chest. you were so much more than he’d let himself see. you had a mother who worried about you. you had a past that didn’t involve him. you had a whole world inside you that you kept hidden behind light sarcasm and rolled eyes.
he wanted to know all of it, every last bit.
the afternoon stretched on. gojo explored every room, every drawer, every hidden corner. he found the spot under your bed where you’d dropped an earring months ago and never bothered to retrieve. he found a stash of chocolate in your desk drawer— emergency supplies, probably, for difficult days. he found a notebook in your living room, half-filled with grocery lists and random thoughts and one line that made him freeze: satoru was annoying today. i couldn’t stop smiling.
he stared at that line for a full minute. then he closed the notebook with his paw and walked away, his face hot, his tail doing that weird puffy thing again.
by the time the sun started to set, gojo had mapped every inch of your apartment. he knew which floorboards creaked. he knew which window had the best view of the sky. he knew that you kept a spare key under the fake rock by the door, which was a security risk he’d be lecturing you about later.
he was curled up on the couch, when he heard footsteps in the hallway, keys jingling. your voice, muffled through the door, saying something to someone on the phone.
“yeah, i know. i’ll be there tomorrow. i just—he’s alone, okay? i don’t want to leave him alone for too long.”
gojo’s ears shot up. his tail started wagging— no, cats didn’t wag, they flicked, but it was definitely wagging adjacent. he jumped off the couch and ran to the door, his claws skittering on the wood, and sat there waiting as the lock turned.
the door opened and there you were. tired, your hair slightly windswept, a bag slung over your shoulder. you smelled like the outside; cool air and concrete and a hint of the coffee shop you must have passed on the way home. your eyes found him immediately, your face softening.
“hey,” you said, your voice gentle. “you waited by the door?”
he didn’t answer. couldn’t answer. but his body answered for him— launching forward, jumping up, paws reaching for you. you caught him without thinking, your arms wrapping around his small body, pulling him against your chest.
gojo buried his face in your neck and purred, embarrassingly loudly. he couldn’t stop it. he pressed his forehead against your jaw and purred and purred, and your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his fur.
“awe, so sweet,” you murmured. he felt the words vibrate through your throat. “god, you’re so soft. how are you so soft?”
he meowed against your skin and you laughed, carrying him inside after kicking the door shut behind you.
you walked to the couch and sat down with him still in your arms whilst he curled up in your lap like he belonged there, because maybe he did, at least while he was a cat.
“shoko had more information,” you said, your hand stroking along his back in slow, rhythmic motions. “about the curse.”
gojo looked up at you, his ears forward, his full attention on your face. you were staring at the wall, your expression thoughtful, your thumb tracing absent patterns through his fur.
“she said it’s anchored to your emotional state. something about the way the curse was designed— it feeds off… i don’t know, attachment? connection? she used a lot of big words.” you frowned. “basically, the more stressed or agitated you get, the longer it’ll take to wear off. so you need to stay calm. relaxed. which is hilarious, considering it’s you.”
he meowed. i can be calm.
“you literally fell in my toilet this morning.”
fair point.
you sighed, leaning your head back against the couch. your hand kept petting him, steady and soothing, and gojo felt his eyes starting to droop. the purring hadn’t stopped. he wasn’t sure it knew how to stop.
“she also said your cursed energy should stabilizing,” you continued. “which is good. means the curse is breaking down faster than she expected. you might only be a cat for a week, not two.”
gojo felt a spike of something— panic, maybe, or longing— and forced himself to take a slow breath. he had to stay calm.
“so that’s good news,” you said, and you almost sounded disappointed. almost. “you’ll be back to annoying me in no time.”
he wanted to tell you that he didn’t want to go back. not yet. not when he had you like this, soft and unguarded, your hand in his fur and your body warm beneath him. not when he’d just started to learn who you really were.
but he couldn’t so he just purred louder, pressed his face against your stomach, and let you talk.
you told him about your day. about the reports you’d filed, the mission briefings you’d sat through, the way nanami had given you a look when you’d said you had to leave early. a cat, he’d said, and you’d said yes, a cat, and he’d said it’s gojo, isn’t it, and you hadn’t been able to deny it
“he knows about the mission,” you muttered. “everyone knows. shoko told ijichi—i mean, she told everyone, basically. so now the whole school knows that gojo satoru is a cat. i hope you’re happy.”
you talked until your voice went hoarse and the sky outside turned dark, the apartment filling with shadows. and then you stood up, carrying him with you, and walked to the bathroom to brush your teeth. he sat on the edge of the sink and watched you, the way you moved through your nighttime routine with practiced ease. wash face. brush teeth. tie hair up. moisturize. the same steps, every night, a ritual he’d never seen before.
you changed in the bedroom with your back to him again while he looked at the wall like a gentleman. then you climbed into bed and held your arms out.
“come here,” you said. “you’re sleeping with me tonight. i don’t want you falling in the toilet again.”
he should have been offended, but instead he jumped onto the mattress and walked up your body— over your legs, your stomach, your chest— and settled in the curve of your neck, his small body tucked against your shoulder. you pulled the blanket up over both of you, and your hand found his back again as the room went dark.
gojo lay there in the quiet, listening to your breathing slow, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath him. you were warm. you were safe. you were here.
for the first time in a long time, gojo felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
he closed his eyes, pressed his nose against your pulse point and let the sound of your heartbeat carry him to sleep.
day 3
next two days changed a lot.
not the curse— that was still firmly in place, still humming through his small body like a low-frequency buzz. but gojo himself had changed. adjusted. surrendered, maybe, to the strange rhythm of being a cat.
it started with the little things. the way his tail developed its own vocabulary, curling and flicking without his permission. the way he caught himself watching birds through the window with an intensity that felt almost predatory, his back legs bunching beneath him before he remembered he wasn’t actually supposed to want to eat them.
by the second morning, he’d stopped trying to use the toilet.
(he used the litter box. he didn’t think about it. if he thought about it, he’d die of embarrassment, so he simply didn’t think about it. you’d cleaned it without comment, without teasing, and that was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.)
by the second afternoon, he’d figured out how to open your bedroom door. he’d launched himself at it, paws outstretched, and the door had swung open on his first try. he’d felt so proud that he’d done it three more times, just to prove it wasn’t a fluke.
you’d come home to find every door in the apartment wide open, including the bathroom, and you’d stared at him with an expression caught between exasperation and genuine concern.
“what are you,” you’d said, “a cat or a burglar?”
he’d meowed. both. i’m both now.
but the real change was deeper than that. it was in the way he felt when you came home— that rush of warmth, that stupid wagging-adjacent tail, that desperate need to be in your arms. it was in the way he’d started sleeping on your chest every night, your heartbeat under his ear, your hand a warm weight on his back. it was in the way he’d stopped counting the days until he turned back.
this was the life, he thought.
he woke up on the third morning— no, wait, the second morning? time was weird when every day was the same soft blur of naps and pets and you— and stretched luxuriously, his front paws extending, his back arching, his tail straightening out behind him. the sun was warm on his fur. the pillow beneath him smelled like your shampoo. and you were still asleep next to him, your face slack and peaceful, your lips slightly parted.
gojo watched you sleep. he’d never admit to that when he was human, but right now, with his cat-brain humming contentedly, he let himself look. the way your lashes fanned across your cheeks. the way your hand had ended up curled near his body, like you’d been reaching for him in your sleep. the way you mumbled something unintelligible and turned your face into the pillow.
you were beautiful. he’d always known that, but seeing you like this— unaware, unguarded, soft— made something twist in his chest.
he leaned forward and licked your nose, just a tiny swipe of his rough cat-tongue across the tip of your nose. he didn’t even think about it; his body just did it.
you scrunched up your face, snorted, and opened your eyes.
“did you just… lick me?”
gojo meowed. maybe.
you stared at him for a long moment. then you laughed— a groggy, morning laugh that turned into a yawn halfway through— and reached out to scratch behind his ears. “you’re so weird. you know that? you’re the weirdest cat i’ve ever met.”
he purred. thank you.
the morning passed in that easy, lazy way that mornings had started to take on. you made coffee and shared your cereal with him again— he’d stopped pretending he didn’t want it— and he sat on the back of the couch while you scrolled through something on your tablet, your other hand absently stroking his fur.
and that was when he saw it.
your tablet. the screen was bright, glowing with text. you were reading something and your finger was scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. but more importantly, there was a keyboard. a digital keyboard, popping up when you tapped on a search bar, with letters he could theoretically press. with his paws.
gojo’s ears shot up. his tail went straight. he stared at that keyboard like it held the secrets of the universe, because maybe it did. maybe, just maybe, it held the ability to talk to you.
he’d been silent for two days. two days of meowing and purring and hoping you understood what he meant. two days of watching you guess and getting it wrong half the time. two days of wanting to tell you things and having no way to say them.
he waited until you set the tablet down to refill your coffee. the moment you turned your back, he was on it— paws pressing against the screen, trying to figure out the pressure, the angle, the how of it all. the keyboard had popped up automatically when his paw hit the search bar, and now letters were appearing, jumbled and wrong.
aklsdhf, the screen read. qweiur.
not great. but possible.
he tried again, more carefully this time. used one claw to tap a single letter. h. yes. e. yes. l. l. o.
hello.
the word sat there on the screen, glowing and perfect, and gojo’s heart raced so fast he thought he might pass out. he could do this. he could actually do this.
you came back with your coffee, and he quickly pawed the screen clear, hiding the evidence. not yet. he wanted to wait for the right moment. wanted to say something that mattered.
for some reason, that night, you were quiet.
not the comfortable quiet of the past few days, but something heavier. something that pressed down on the apartment like a physical weight. you’d made dinner— rice and vegetables and some kind of fish that gojo had eyed with interest until you’d put a small piece on a plate for him— and you’d eaten in silence, your eyes distant, your mind somewhere far away.
now you were lying on the couch, your tablet abandoned on the coffee table, your arm thrown over your eyes.
gojo watched you from the arm of the couch, his tail flicking. something was wrong. he could feel it— the shift in your energy, the way your aura had dimmed to something small and subdued. you were sad. or lonely. or both.
he didn’t like it.
he jumped down from the arm and padded across the cushions, placing one paw on your stomach, then another. you didn’t move, so he climbed all the way up, settling his entire body on your belly, and tilted his head to look at your face.
you moved your arm and looked down at him. your eyes were tired, rimmed with something that might have been unshed tears if he looked close enough.
“hey,” you said softly. “what are you doing?”
he meowed. checking on you.
you stared at him for a long moment and sighed, your hand coming up to rest on his back as you turned your gaze to the ceiling.
“you’re going to think this is stupid,” you said. “you’re going to make fun of me when you turn back.”
he wouldn’t, he absolutely wouldn’t, but he couldn’t tell you that, so he just purred and pressed his forehead against your sternum.
another long pause. your hand moved in slow circles on his fur.
“it’s just…” you started, then stopped. swallowed. started again. “it’s been quiet. before you got here, i mean. my whole life has been quiet, but i didn’t notice it until recently. or maybe i noticed it and i just… didn’t want to admit how much it bothered me.”
gojo’s ears went back. he listened.
“i come home to this apartment every night and it’s empty. no one waiting for me. no one to talk to. i eat alone, i sleep alone, i wake up alone. and i told myself i was fine with that. i am fine with that. mostly.” your voice cracked, just a little. “but then you showed up. and now there’s someone here when i come home.”
you laughed, but it was wet. shaky.
“and i know you’re not really a cat. i know you’re gojo and i know you’re going to turn back and leave and this is all going to go away. but right now, in this moment, it’s… nice. having company. not being alone.”
your hand stopped moving. your breath hitched.
“i didn’t know how lonely i was until i wasn’t lonely anymore.”
the words hung in the air, fragile and heavy. gojo lay there on your stomach, his small body rising and falling with each of your breaths, and felt his insides churn with sadness.
he knew that feeling. he knew it so well it lived in his bones.
the strongest sorcerer in the world, and he went home to an empty apartment every night too. he ate alone. he slept alone. he woke up alone, in a bed that was too big for one person, in a house that echoed when he walked through it. he filled the silence with noise— with jokes and complaints and relentless teasing— because silence was the thing he feared most.
and then there was you. there had always been you, in the background of his life, rolling your eyes at his antics and calling him an idiot. but he’d never let himself get close. never let himself want more than stolen glances and missions that took too long and excuses to be near you.
but now— now he was here, on your couch, on your stomach, in your life in a way he’d never been before. and you were lonely. and he was lonely. and maybe you could be lonely together, and maybe that would make it less lonely for both of you.
he wanted to tell you. god, he wanted to tell you. he wanted to jump off the couch and run to the tablet and type out everything he’d been holding in for months. i’m lonely too. i’ve been lonely for years. and being with you— even like this, even as a cat— is the least lonely i’ve ever felt.
but his paws were clumsy and his heart was full. you were crying now, silent tears sliding down your temples into your hair, yet he couldn’t leave you to type when you needed him here.
so he did the only thing he could do. he climbed up your chest, carefully, placing each paw with intention, until he was close enough to press his nose against your cheek. and then he licked your tears.
one. two. three.
you made a sound— half-laugh, half-sob— and your arms came around him, pulling him tight against your chest. you buried your face in his fur. he let you, purring as loud as he could, hoping you could feel the vibration against your skin.
“you’re such a good cat,” you whispered, your voice muffled. “the best cat. i hope you don’t remember i said that.”
he’d remember all of it.
you fell asleep on the couch, exhausted from crying, your body curled around his. gojo stayed awake, watching the shadows move across the ceiling, listening to your breathing even out. his mind was racing, full of words he couldn’t say and promises he wanted to make.
he’d tell you, not now, not like this, but soon, when he was human again and he could wrap his arms around you properly and look you in the eyes and say all the things he’d been practicing in his head for months.
i’m here. i’ve always been here. and i’m not going anywhere.
he pressed his nose against your collarbone and closed his eyes, and let the promise settle in his chest like a stone.
day 5
“shoko wants to run some tests,” you’d said that morning, stuffing him into a carrier that he’d immediately protested with the most pathetic meows he could muster. “stop that. you’re being dramatic.”
he was not being dramatic. he was being cat. there was a difference.
the carrier was small and cramped and smelled like plastic, and gojo spent the entire train ride pressing his face against the mesh door, watching the world blur by.
jujutsu high looked the same as always, but everything felt different from this angle, low to the ground, the world towering above him. you carried the carrier up the steps and through the main gate, and gojo’s ears swiveled, cataloging every sound. the crunch of gravel. the distant thwack of training dummies. someone yelling, probably one of the first-years.
shoko was already there, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from her lips, and the look on her face when she saw the carrier was the most entertained gojo had ever seen her.
“you actually brought him,” she said, pushing off the wall. “i didn’t think you would.”
“you said you needed to examine him.”
“i said it would be funny to watch him squirm in a carrier.”
you shot her a humourless look, but you were already opening the door, reaching inside to scoop him out. gojo emerged into the fluorescent light of the hallway and immediately regretted everything. he was small. he was vulnerable. he was being held like a baby in front of shoko, who had seen him at his worst more times than he could count but never like this.
“my god,” shoko said, “can’t believe that you’re the size of a guinea pig.”
gojo hissed at her. it was deeply satisfying.
“he’s feisty,” shoko observed, straightening up. “good. the curse hasn’t affected his personality.”
“can you just do the examination?” you sighed. “he’s heavy.”
“he’s like five pounds.”
“he’s dense.”
shoko snorted and led the way to her office, and gojo endured the examination with as much dignity as he could muster. she poked and prodded, flashed lights in his eyes, pressed her fingers along his spine in that way that made his back leg twitch. she muttered things to you— cursed energy flow is good, transformation is holding steady, no signs of degradation— and you listened with a furrow between your brows, your hand resting on his back the whole time.
“he’ll be fine soon,” shoko said finally, stepping back to light another cigarette. “just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“which is…?”
“keeping him calm. relaxed. happy, if possible.” shoko’s eyes flicked to gojo, and he could have sworn she was hiding a smile. “shouldn’t be too hard. he looks pretty happy to me.”
gojo meowed. mind your own business.
you didn’t seem to notice the subtext. you just thanked shoko and scooped him up and carried him out of the office, and gojo thought that was the end of it. he was wrong.
because the hallway outside shoko’s office was no longer empty.
ijichi was standing there, clipboard in hand, his glasses fogging up like they always did when he was nervous. he was saying something to someone— nanami, maybe, or one of the assistants— but the moment he saw you, his mouth snapped shut.
“is that…” ijichi’s voice cracked. “is that gojo-san?”
gojo looked at him. ijichi looked back. something primal rose up in gojo’s chest— something that had nothing to do with being human and everything to do with being a cat confronted with a very nervous, very twitchy man who had once spilled coffee on his favorite shirt.
he hissed.
ijichi made a sound like a deflating balloon and stumbled backward, his clipboard clattering to the floor.
“he hates me,” ijichi whispered. “even as a cat, he hates me.”
“he doesn’t hate you,” you said, but you were laughing, your shoulders shaking, and gojo felt a surge of triumph. he’d made you laugh.
he hissed at ijichi one more time, just for good measure.
you were still laughing when you turned the corner. gojo was still feeling smug, but then he saw nanami, walking down the hallway with a stack of papers in one hand and his usual expression of mild exasperation on his face. he was dressed in his work clothes— the suit, the tie, the whole thing— and his shoes were polished to a shine.
his pants were pressed to a crisp line.
gojo’s tail went straight. his ears went forward. his entire body tensed with the kind of focused energy that usually preceded something stupid.
“satoru, no,” you said, but it was too late.
he launched himself out of your arms— you weren’t holding him tightly enough, too relaxed from laughing— and hit the ground running. four paws skidding on the polished floor, claws scrabbling for purchase, and then he was moving, a white blur of fur and chaos, heading straight for nanami’s legs.
nanami looked down. nanami saw him. nanami’s expression did not change, which was exactly the wrong response.
gojo bit him.
not hard since he was a small cat, his teeth weren’t exactly weapons of mass destruction, but hard enough to be felt. he sank his tiny fangs into the fabric of nanami’s pant leg and held on, dangling from the cuff like a particularly aggressive accessory.
nanami stopped walking. looked down. raised one eyebrow.
“is this gojo,” he said.
“yes,” you said, running over to pry him off. “i’m so sorry. he’s been weird all morning.”
gojo held on. he didn’t know why. something about nanami’s calm, unflappable demeanor made him want to cause problems. maybe it was the cat instincts. maybe it was just gojo.
“he’s biting my pants,” nanami observed.
“i can see that.”
“he’s not letting go.”
“i can also see that.”
there was a moment of silence. gojo dangled from nanami’s pant leg, his jaws locked, his eyes defiant. nanami looked down at him with the same expression he wore during mission briefings— mildly annoyed, deeply unimpressed.
“if you value your teeth, gojo,” nanami said quietly, “you will let go.”
gojo did not let go.
you finally managed to pry his jaws open— which was humiliating, by the way, your fingers prying his mouth apart like he was a disobedient puppy— and scooped him up against your chest. he squirmed, trying to get back to nanami’s pants, but you held him tight, your hand pressing firmly against his back.
“i am so sorry,” you said again, backing away. “he’s not usually like this.”
nanami looked down at the teeth marks in his trousers. looked at gojo. looked back at you.
“yes,” he said. “he is.”
gojo watched him go with a profound sense of victory as he walked away.
you, meanwhile, were not victorious. you were embarrassed, your face flushed, your grip on him tighter than necessary as you carried him through the rest of the building. as if he was your actual pet.
“what was that?” you hissed at him. “you can’t just bite nanami. he’s going to bill you for those pants. do you know how much nanami’s pants cost?”
gojo meowed. worth it.
“it was not worth it. nothing is worth nanami’s disappointed face.”
but your voice was lighter than it had been this morning, and when you finally escaped the building and stepped outside, you were almost smiling again. gojo counted that as a win.
you didn’t take him straight home. instead, you walked past the gates of jujutsu high, through the streets of tokyo, toward a part of the city he didn’t recognize. the sun was warm on his fur, and the carrier was slung over your shoulder, and he had his head poking out of the top, watching the world go by.
“there’s a park near here,” you said, almost to yourself. “i used to go there a lot. before… everything.”
you didn’t elaborate. gojo didn’t push. he just watched your profile as you walked, the way your eyes softened when you passed a bakery, the way your steps slowed when you reached a small green space tucked between buildings.
the park was tiny— a few trees, a bench, a patch of grass that was more brown than green. but there was a fountain in the center, a small concrete thing with murky water, and sitting next to it was a cat.
a stray. orange and white, with matted fur and one torn ear. it looked up as you approached, its eyes wary, and gojo felt something shift in his chest.
“hey, baby,” you said softly, crouching down. you were already reaching into your bag, pulling out a small pouch of cat food— you carried cat food with you?— and shaking some into your palm. “i haven’t seen you in a few days. i was worried.”
the stray cat blinked. then it stood up, stretched, and padded over to you with the casual confidence of a creature who knew it was about to be fed.
gojo watched, frozen, as the stray rubbed against your leg. as you scratched behind its torn ear and made soft, cooing sounds that you’d never made at him, not once, not even when he was being the most adorable cat in the entire world.
the stray ate from your palm. you smiled at it and gojo, from the carrier, felt something hot and irrational bloom inside.
jealousy.
he was jealous of a stray cat.
“you’re so pretty,” you were saying to the orange-and-white menace, your fingers stroking along its matted back. “look at you. you’ve been taking care of yourself, haven’t you? good job, baby.”
gojo meowed loudly. i’m right here.
you glanced at him. “what? you want some too?”
no. he did not want some. he wanted you to stop petting that mangy alley cat and pet him instead. he was right there, in a carrier, watching you shower affection on a creature that had done nothing to deserve it.
the stray finished eating and rubbed its face against your knuckles. you laughed— a soft, happy sound— and scratched under its chin.
gojo hissed.
the stray’s ears went back. it looked at him with flat, unimpressed eyes, and then it turned its back on him and pressed its head into your palm.
how dare it.
“gojo,” you said, with warning in your voice. “be nice.”
he would not be nice. he would never be nice. not to this interloper, this pretender, this cat that was getting more of your attention in five minutes than he’d gotten all day.
the stray finished its meal and licked its paw, utterly indifferent to gojo’s rage. you stayed crouched there for a few more minutes, talking to it in that soft voice, and gojo sat in his carrier and stewed.
finally, you stood up. brushed off your knees. looked down at the stray with something like regret.
“i have to go,” you said. “but i’ll come back, okay? be safe.”
the stray meowed and walked away, disappearing into the bushes. gojo watched it go with a sense of deep satisfaction. good. it knew its place.
you picked up the carrier and looked at him through the mesh. your expression was unreadable.
“were you jealous?” you asked.
gojo turned his head away. no.
“you were. you were totally jealous of a stray cat.”
he was not. he was not. he was simply… concerned. about your safety. stray cats carried diseases.
you laughed, the sound bright and warm, and gojo felt his anger melting despite himself. you started walking again, the carrier swinging at your side, and he watched the park disappear behind you.
“don’t worry,” you said, quieter now. “you’re still my favorite cat.”
he meowed. i’m your only cat.
“for now,” you said. “who knows what’ll happen when you turn back.”
gojo thought about that for the rest of the walk home. about what it would mean to be your favorite anything when he was human again. about whether the way you looked at him— really looked at him, past the jokes and the noise and the infinity— meant what he hoped it meant.
he didn’t have answers. but he had time.
day 7
gojo had stopped counting the days until he turned back. now he was counting something else entirely— the number of times you smiled at him, the number of times you reached for him without thinking, the number of nights he fell asleep to the sound of your heartbeat.
but tonight, when you emerged from your bedroom, all of his counting ground to a halt.
you were dressed up. a dress, navy blue, falling just above your knees, with a neckline that made his mouth go dry. your hair was different too, curled softly around your face, and your lips were shiny with something pink and tempting.
gojo sat on the back of the couch and stared.
you were beautiful. you were always beautiful, even in your ratty sleep shirts with your hair a mess and your face bare. but this was different. this was weaponized beautiful, the kind of beautiful that made him want to crawl inside your closet and destroy every other outfit you owned so you could never wear this dress for anyone else.
“don’t look at me like that,” you said, smoothing your hands down your sides. “you’re making it weird.”
he couldn’t help it. his eyes were glued to you, tracking every movement as you checked your reflection in the mirror by the door. the dress hugged your waist. your lips caught the light. your earrings— tiny gold hoops— swung when you tilted your head.
where were you going? who was this for?
you didn’t tell him. you just slipped on a pair of heels and grabbed your purse, and crouched down to give him a quick pet on the head.
“be good,” you said. “don’t destroy anything. i’ll be back later.”
soon you were gone, the door clicking shut behind you, and gojo was alone in the apartment with nothing but his thoughts and the lingering scent of your perfume.
he sat in the dark for a long time, his tail wrapped around his paws, his mind spinning. a date. you were going on a date. someone else had asked you out, and you’d said yes, and you’d put on that dress and those heels and that lip gloss for someone else.
the jealousy was immediate and irrational and all-consuming.
he wanted to follow you. wanted to track you down and sit in whatever restaurant or bar you were at and glare at whoever was lucky enough to be sitting across from you. but he was a cat. a small, white, useless cat who couldn’t even type properly.
he looked at the tablet, sitting on the coffee table where you’d left it. the screen was dark, but he knew it was charged. he knew how to turn it on. he’d been practicing in secret, late at night when you were asleep, tapping out messages and deleting them before you could see.
tonight, he decided. tonight he would finally do it. not because he was jealous— okay, partially because he was jealous— but because he couldn’t wait anymore. couldn’t keep all of these words locked inside his small cat body.
he jumped off the couch and padded over to the tablet. pressed the power button with his nose. the screen glowed to life, and he waited impatiently for it to wake up, his tail flicking.
the keyboard appeared. gojo took a deep breath and started typing.
it took seventeen attempts.
seventeen times he typed out the sentence, and seventeen times he messed it up— pressing the wrong letter with his clumsy paws, hitting delete when he meant to hit space, accidentally closing the app entirely and having to start over. his claws were too long for the screen. his paws were too big for the individual keys. his patience, which had never been his strong suit, wore thin with every failed attempt.
but he kept going.
wil you go out woth me
delete. delete. delete.
will you go out woth
no.
will you go out woth me
close.
will you go out with me once i’m human again?
yes. yes, that was it. his paws were shaking, his heart was racing, and the sentence sat there on the screen in all its imperfect glory. he read it over three times, checking for mistakes. there was one— with was missing an h, but he’d hit the wrong key and he couldn’t figure out how to fix it without messing everything up.
it would have to do.
he added a signature, because he was gojo satoru and he couldn’t resist. — catoru
there. done. now all he had to do was wait.
the hours crawled by.
gojo curled up on the couch with the tablet propped against a pillow, the screen still lit, the message still waiting. he watched the door. listened for your footsteps. imagined a hundred different ways this could go— you laughing, you blushing, you saying yes, you saying no, you throwing him out the window.
he hadn’t thought about the possibility of you coming home sad.
but when the door finally opened, well past midnight, the energy that entered the apartment was wrong. heavy. deflated. your footsteps dragged on the floor, slower than usual, and when you flicked on the light, gojo’s heart sank.
your makeup was smudged. your eyes were red. and you smelled faintly of alcohol.
you didn’t look at him, didn’t say hello. just kicked off your heels— one, then the other, both landing crooked by the door— and dropped your purse on the floor with a thud.
gojo meowed. hey. i’m here.
“hey, gojo,” you said, but your voice was flat. wrong. you walked past the couch without stopping, heading for the bathroom, and gojo heard the sink turn on. water running. the sound of you splashing your face.
he jumped off the couch and followed you, the tablet forgotten for the moment. sat in the bathroom doorway and watched you scrub at your face with a towel, watched your shoulders shake with something that wasn’t quite crying but wasn’t not crying either.
“bad night?” he tried to say, but it came out as a questioning meow.
you looked at him in the mirror. your reflection was tired, your eyes puffy, your pretty lip gloss long gone.
“i got stood up,” you said, your voice cracked on the last word. “he didn’t even show. i sat there for an hour like an idiot, drinking wine by myself, waiting for someone who was never going to come.”
gojo’s chest tightened. the jealousy was still there, but it was buried under the realisation that you were sad. you were hurt. someone had made you feel small and unwanted, and gojo wanted to find that person and show them exactly what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his infinity.
but he couldn’t. so he just walked into the bathroom and rubbed against your ankles, purring as loud as he could.
you reached down and picked him up, holding him against your chest. your dress was soft under his paws. you smelled like wine and disappointment and the faint remnants of your perfume.
“i had three glasses,” you admitted. “maybe four. i lost count. and then i walked home because i didn’t want to take the train and cry in front of strangers.”
you weren’t crying now, but you were close. gojo could feel it in the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers trembled against his fur.
you carried him to the bedroom and set him on the bed while you changed out of the dress. gojo turned his back and listened to the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of you pulling on your sleep shirt. when he turned around, you were curled up on your side, facing the wall, your shoulders hunched.
he climbed onto the pillow next to your head and nudged your cheek with his nose.
“not now, baby,” you whispered. “i’m tired. we can play tomorrow.”
but he didn’t want to play. he wanted you to see the tablet. he wanted you to read his message. he wanted to tell you that you weren’t unwanted. that someone was waiting for you. that he was waiting for you.
he meowed again. more insistent this time. pawed at your shoulder.
you sighed and rolled over, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes. “what? what do you want?”
he couldn’t answer. so he jumped off the bed and ran to the living room, his paws skidding on the floor, and nudged the tablet with his nose. the screen had gone dark— it had been hours, of course it had— and he couldn’t turn it back on. couldn’t show you. couldn’t do anything except stand there on the coffee table, tail drooping, feeling useless.
you appeared in the doorway, watching him. your expression was tired, confused.
“what are you doing?”
he pawed at the tablet. meowed. pawed again.
you walked over and picked it up, turning it over in your hands. the screen stayed dark. you pressed the power button, and gojo held his breath, waiting for the message to appear, waiting for you to see—
nothing. the tablet was dead. out of battery, probably, because he’d left it on for hours like an idiot.
“did you want to play a game?” you asked, and your voice was so gentle, so kind, so completely unaware of what he’d been trying to do.
gojo deflated. sat down heavily on the coffee table and wrapped his tail around his paws. no. i wanted to tell you i love you.
you picked him up anyway, cradling him against your chest, and carried him back to the bedroom. the tablet stayed behind, dark and silent, its message lost.
you climbed into bed and he curled up on your chest, the way he did every night now. your hand found his back, your fingers tracing slow patterns through his fur. you were quiet for a long time, your breathing slow, and gojo thought you’d fallen asleep.
“i’m going to be sad when you turn back,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “isn’t that stupid? you’re gojo satoru. you’re annoying and loud and you never shut up. but you’re also… here. you’re always here. you sleep on my chest and you wait by the door and you make me feel like someone gives a shit whether i come home or not.”
gojo’s little heart clenched.
“and when you’re human again, it’s going to be different. you’re going to be different. you’re going to go back to your life and your missions and your stupid jokes, and i’m going to go back to being alone. and things are going to be awkward because i spent two weeks talking to you like you were a cat, telling you things i’ve never told anyone, and you’re going to remember all of it.”
your voice cracked.
“you’re going to remember all of it, and you’re going to look at me differently, and i don’t know if i can handle that. i don’t know if i can handle you knowing how lonely i am and pretending you don’t.”
you swallowed. your hand kept moving on his back, steady and soothing, even as your eyes filled with tears.
“so yeah. i’m going to be sad. because right now, like this, you’re mine. you’re my cat and you sleep on my chest and you don’t talk back and you don’t judge me. and when you turn back, you won’t be mine anymore. you’ll just be gojo. and gojo doesn’t… gojo doesn’t belong to anyone.”
gojo wanted to scream. wanted to claw his way out of this tiny body and wrap his arms around you and say i’m yours, i’ve always been yours, i’ll always be yours. but he couldn’t. he could only purr, loud and desperate, and press his face against your collarbone.
“you’re a good cat,” you whispered. “the best cat. i’m going to miss you so much.”
you fell asleep like that, tears drying on your cheeks, your hand heavy on his back. gojo stayed awake, watching your face in the dim light, his heart so full it hurt.
he would tell you. tonight was ruined, tonight you needed sleep and comfort and the quiet presence of something that loved you. but soon. tomorrow, maybe, or the day after. he would find a way to type that message, or he would wait until he was human again and say it with his own voice.
i’m yours. i’ve always been yours.
he curled up against you, his small body pressed to your chest, and closed his eyes.
day 8
gojo woke up warm.
not the usual warmth of your body pressed against his small cat form, but something deeper. fuller. his limbs felt long again, his spine straight, his hands—
his hands.
he had fingers. ten of them, attached to palms, attached to arms that ended in shoulders that felt broad and solid beneath the blanket. his legs were tangled with yours under the sheets, and his chest was pressed against your back, and his arm was wrapped around your waist like it had always belonged there.
he was human again.
gojo lay there in the gray morning light, barely breathing, cataloging every sensation. the weight of his own body. the stretch of his skin. the familiar hum of infinity settling back into place around him like a second skin. his six eyes were online again, drinking in the world with perfect clarity— the dust motes floating in the air, the texture of your pillowcase, the soft curve of your shoulder where your sleep shirt had slipped down.
and you. curled against him like he was something safe, your hand clutching his forearm, your breath warm against his wrist. you were still asleep, your face relaxed, your lips slightly parted.
gojo watched you and felt like his heart was going to crack right open.
he didn’t move. didn’t dare. this was a dream, surely— he’d fall through it if he breathed too hard, wake up small and furry and alone on your pillow. but your weight was solid against him, and his fingers were real when he flexed them, and the morning was too quiet and too perfect to be anything but true.
he’d turned his infinity off and turned back. sometime in the night, while he’d been curled against your chest, listening to you breathe, the curse had finally released him.
you stirred. your hand tightened on his arm, and you made a small sound— the same sound you made every morning, the one he’d come to recognize as not yet, five more minutes— and pressed back against him.
gojo’s breath caught.
you were so warm, and you fit against him like you’d been made to, and your sleep shirt had ridden up sometime during the night and his bare thigh was pressed against the bare skin of yours and he was very, very naked.
oh god. he was naked.
the realisation hit him like a truck. he was naked in your bed. his clothes— his human clothes— had been left behind in that warehouse a week ago, destroyed or lost or scattered to the wind. and now here he was, skin to skin with you, your body tucked against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
he should move. extract himself, find a blanket, find something to preserve the last shreds of your dignity and his. but you were so comfortable, and he was so happy, and the morning light was painting gold stripes across your face, and he couldn’t. couldn’t move. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t do anything except watch you wake up.
your eyes fluttered open.
for a moment, you just blinked— unfocused, still half-asleep, your brain clearly not processing what your eyes were seeing. a man. in your bed. an arm around your waist. a chest against your back.
and then you saw his face.
“good morning,” gojo said, and his voice came out wrong— rough and low and cracked from a week of disuse, like he’d forgotten how to shape words with a human mouth. but it was his voice, his, and he watched your eyes go wide, watched the sleep evaporate from your face, watched you suck in a breath that made your whole body go rigid.
“gojo?” you whispered.
he smiled. it felt strange on his face— too big, too bright, too human after a week of cat expressions. but he couldn’t help it. you were looking at him like he was a ghost, and he wanted to reassure you, wanted to tell you he was real.
you turned in his arms, fast. your hand came up to touch his face— his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth— your fingers were shaking. “you’re human. you’re—when did you—how—”
“sometime last night,” he said. his voice cracked on the last word. “i woke up like this. with you.”
you stared at him. your eyes were bright, wet, and your lips were parted, and your hand was still on his face, and gojo thought he might die if he didn’t kiss you right now.
so he did.
it was clumsy— his nose bumping yours, his lips missing their target before he corrected, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck with fingers that still felt too new. but when his mouth finally found yours, everything else fell away.
you made a sound against his lips; a small, surprised, oh sound that melted into something softer, and then your fingers were in his hair, and you were kissing him back, and gojo satoru had never been happier in his entire life.
he pulled back too soon, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard. your eyes were closed. your lips are pink and slightly swollen, and he’d done that, he’d done that, and he wanted to do it again and again until he forgot how to do anything else.
“i’ve wanted to do that for months,” he said, and his voice was still rough but he didn’t care. “years, maybe. i don’t know. i’ve lost track.”
you opened your eyes, looked at him. your expression was dazed, confused, overwhelmed— all the things he was feeling reflected back at him.
“you’re naked,” you said.
gojo laughed. it came out raw and bright, and he felt it in his chest, in his throat, in every part of him that had been small and silent for a week. “yeah. i noticed.”
“you’re naked in my bed.”
“technically, i’m naked in our bed.”
you made a sound— half-laugh, half-groan— and pushed at his chest, enough to put a few inches between you. “gojo. satoru. you need to—you need to put something on. i can’t—i can’t think when you’re—”
“when i’m what?”
“naked!”
he grinned.
“i’ll find something,” he said, and he meant to get up, he really did. but his legs felt strange beneath him; weak in a way they’d never been, unsteady after a week of four paws and a tail. he swung them over the side of the bed and stood up, and immediately his knees buckled.
you caught him. your hands on his arms, your body pressed against his side, holding him upright. “whoa. easy. easy. you’ve been a cat for a week. your body needs time to adjust.”
gojo leaned on you, more than he needed to, maybe, but you were warm and steady and he liked the way you fit against him. “i’m fine. i’m perfect. i’m better than fine.”
“you can’t stand.”
“i can stand. i’m choosing not to.”
you sighed and guided him back to the bed. he sat down heavily, the mattress dipping under his weight, and looked up at you. you were still in your sleep shirt, your hair a mess, your face flushed from the kiss. you were beautiful. you were so beautiful he couldn’t look away.
“stay there,” you said. “i’ll find you something to wear.”
you disappeared into the closet and gojo sat on the edge of the bed and tried to remember how to be human. his hands looked right. his feet looked right. everything was in the right place, more or less, and his cursed energy was humming along like it had never left. he flexed his fingers, curled them into fists, stretched them out again. human. human. human.
but then his eyes landed on the tablet.
it was still on the coffee table in the living room, where he’d left it last night. dead battery, probably. but the message— his message, the one he’d spent seventeen attempts typing— was still there. waiting.
“here,” you said, emerging from the closet with a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. “they’re not your size, but they’ll work until we can get you home.”
he pulled on the clothes, they were tight in some places and loose in others, and they smelled like you, and stood up again, more carefully this time. his legs held.
“i need to show you something,” he said.
you frowned. “what? satoru, you can barely walk. you should sit down. i’ll make breakfast, and then we can—”
“no. it’s important.” he took a step, then another. his body remembered how to do this, even if his muscles had forgotten. “the tablet. last night, before you came home, i—i typed something. i wanted you to see it.”
your frown deepened, but you didn’t argue. you just followed him as he walked, with one hand on the wall for balance, to the living room. the tablet was still on the coffee table, dark and silent. gojo picked it up, found the charger you kept by the couch, plugged it in.
the screen glowed to life.
he navigated to the notes app with fingers that felt too big and too clumsy, and there it was. his message.
will you go out woth me once i’m human again? — catoru
he turned the screen toward you.
you read it. once. twice. three times. your lips moved silently, shaping the words, and gojo watched your face cycle through confusion and recognition and something that looked a lot like hope.
“you typed this,” you said. it wasn’t a question.
“with my paws,” he said. “it took seventeen tries. i was going to show you last night, but your tablet died, and then you were sad, and i couldn’t—i couldn’t make you look at it when you were already hurting.”
you looked up at him. your eyes were bright again, but not with tears this time. with something else. something that made his heart stutter in his chest.
“you wanted to go out with me,” you said.
“i want to go out with you. i’ve wanted to go out with you for a really long time. i just—” he swallowed. “i didn’t know how to say it. and then i was a cat, and i couldn’t say anything at all, and i thought i’d missed my chance. but i’m human now. and i’m asking. properly. will you go out with me?”
you stared at him for a long moment. the tablet hung between you, the screen still glowing, the misspelled words still waiting.
suddenly, you laughed.
it was a wet sound, shaky and bright, and you were crying, but you were smiling too, and you set the tablet down on the couch and stepped into his arms like you belonged there.
“yes,” you said against his chest. “yes, you idiot. yes.”
gojo wrapped his arms around you and held on. you were warm and solid and real, and you fit against him the same way you had in bed— like you’d been made to be there, like the universe had designed the two of you to slot together.
“i heard you,” he said quietly. “last night. what you said about being sad when i turned back. about not being yours.”
you went still in his arms.
“i heard all of it,” he continued. “and i need you to know—i am yours. i’ve been yours for a long time. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”
you pulled back just enough to look at his face. your eyes were red, your cheeks wet, and you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
“you’re not going to forget?” you asked. “all the stuff i said? all the embarrassing, lonely, pathetic stuff?”
“never,” he said. “i’m going to remember every single thing. i’m keeping all of it.”
you laughed again, softer this time, and you reached up to wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “you’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”
“absolutely,” he said, grinning now, wide and bright and full of so much joy he thought he might burst. “i’m going to be the most insufferable boyfriend you’ve ever had. i’m going to tell everyone. i’m going to tell nanami. i’m going to tell ijichi. i’m going to tell that stray cat.”
“don’t you dare.”
“too late. i’m already planning the speech.”
you hit his chest and he caught your hand, holding it against his heart. you could probably feel it pounding. he didn’t care.
“look,” he said. “i was a cat for one week, and it was the best week of my life. because i was with you. because you took care of me. because you let me sleep on your chest and eat your cereal and fall in your toilet—”
“oh my god, we’re never talking about the toilet again.”
“—and i fell in love with you,” he finished. “i was already in love with you. but being a cat made it worse. better. more. i don’t know how to explain it.”
“you don’t have to explain,” you said. “i know.”
and then you kissed him.
it was better than the first one— slower, deeper, more certain. his hands found your waist, and your hands found his hair, and the morning light filled the apartment with gold, and gojo satoru thought that maybe, just maybe, getting turned into a cat was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
you pulled back eventually, breathless, and rested your forehead against his.
“catoru,” you said, and you were smiling. “you signed it catoru.”
“i panicked.”
“it’s cute.”
“i’m cute.”
“you’re something.”
he laughed and you laughed, the sound filling the apartment like sunlight.
outside, the world was waking up. missions waited. curses waited. the endless, exhausting work of being a sorcerer waited. but right now, in this moment, none of that mattered.
gojo was human again. he was in love. for the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t alone.
“so,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at your face. “breakfast? i’m thinking cereal. from your bowl.”
you groaned. “you’re never going to let me eat alone again, are you?”
“never,” he said, and he meant it. “never, never, never.”
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. you took his hand and led him to the kitchen. gojo followed.
the end.
[ an. hope you guys liked this!! might be a little rushed sorry about that. comment if you wanna be added to my permanent taglist!! ]
mdni, characters in their twenties ᭝ yuuji is just unintentionally grinding you against his thigh. reader lowkey a freak in this bc why are we just letting it happen
yuuji’s leg is always doing something.
bouncing under the table, jiggling when he’s standing in line, flexing when he’s on the couch like his body doesn’t know how to be still. you’ve joked about it a hundred times—told him he’s going to shake the whole room one day—and he always laughs, always says, “sorry, i don’t even notice.”
so when you’re on the couch with him and megumi, half watching something you’re not really invested in, you don’t think much of it at first. yuuji’s sprawled in the middle, one knee bouncing like he’s got energy to burn even while he’s relaxing.
you’re sitting on the other side, shoulder brushing his, until yuuji decides you’re not close enough. he doesn’t even look at you when he reaches out. just hooks an arm around your waist and tugs you in.
“c’mere,” he murmurs. “you’re like… miles away.”
you let out a little laugh, surprised, and let yourself be pulled.
except he doesn’t pull you neatly beside him. he pulls you onto his thigh. his arm stays looped around you, warm and secure, like he’s proud of himself for fixing the distance problem.
“there,” he says, satisfied. “better.”
the thing is... his leg is still bouncing. steady, mindless, automatic—like it doesn’t care that you’re sitting on it.
at first, it’s just a little motion, barely noticeable—your body lifting a fraction with each bounce. you shift to get comfortable, and that’s when you feel it properly. the muscle flexing under you, warm and firm, pressing right between your legs with every movement.
your breath catches.
yuuji doesn’t notice. he squeezes you once at the waist, absentminded affection, thumb brushing your side like he’s petting you without thinking, then goes right back to whatever’s on the screen.
his thigh keeps moving.
bounce.... bounce.
the pressure lands right over your clit, blunt and perfect even through layers of clothing, and heat floods low in your stomach so fast it makes your face warm.
you try to tell yourself it’s nothing. it’s literally just his leg bouncing.
except it’s not just nothing when you’re sitting right there, pinned by his arm. and you can’t stop noticing him now—the width of his thigh under you, the way his body is all strength and warmth, the way he holds you.
you can’t help the way your body starts reacting—tiny little clenches, a faint ache, warmth building between your thighs.
he keeps bouncing his leg, and the friction builds.
subtle at first—then it starts to feel like your nerves have been tuned too high. your panties start to feel too damp. your clit throbs with each flex, each bounce landing in the same place like it’s targeted.
your hips twitch once—small, involuntary—because your body wants to chase the pressure even while your brain is screaming at you not to.
the tiny lift and drop of his leg turns into this steady, maddening rub that’s just enough to make you ache and not enough for anything more. it’s the kind of stimulation that makes your stomach tighten, makes your thighs want to clamp, makes you hold your breath so you don’t make a sound.
and then you realise megumi has gone too quiet.
you glance sideways, heart pounding, and he’s looking at you with that deadpan stare he always has—except his eyes are sharp, tracking you like he’s already clocked what’s happening.
his gaze flicks down once, to where you’re perched on yuuji’s bouncing thigh, then back up to your face.
your cheeks are flushed. your lips are parted. your breathing is not as subtle as you think it is. your grip on the cushion is tight.
“…itadori,” he says flatly.
yuuji doesn’t even look away from the screen. “yeah?”
“your leg.”
“huh—”
megumi cuts him off, just as flat, just as direct. “you’re grinding her on your thigh.”
silence.
yuuji’s leg stops mid-bounce.
the sudden stillness is almost worse—your body doesn’t stop wanting just because the motion stops. you’re left hanging in it, nerves lit, clit throbbing, slick cooling against fabric like evidence.
his arm tightens around you for half a second, like his body doesn’t know what to do with the sudden awareness.
“…what?” yuuji says, voice cracking, horrified.
megumi looks at yuuji with a tired expression. “look at her.”
he looks down.
and that’s when it hits him—your flushed face, the way your hand is clenched in the cushion, the way you’re sitting painfully still like you’re afraid if you move you’ll make it obvious. the way your thighs are tense.
“oh my god,” he blurts. “wait— i didn’t—”
yuuji’s panic kicks in immediately. his hand lifts from your waist like he’s afraid to touch you wrong, like his own warmth might be too much.
“i’m sorry,” he says fast. “i swear, i wasn’t... i didn’t even notice, i just— i always do that, i thought you were comfy...”
“i’m leaving,” megumi says, deadpan. “before things get worse.”
“fushiguro!” yuuji protests, mortified, but he's already walking away, like he’s done his duty and that’s enough.
the room goes quiet in the wake of the door closing. yet, you’re still sitting on yuuji’s thigh.
his leg is completely still now, but your body doesn’t calm down just because the movement stopped. you’re left with the aftereffects, your body still trying to chase something it was this close to getting.
“do you want me to move you?” he asks softly. “i will. i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to...”
you swallow, cheeks burning. your pride is already ash. there’s nothing left to save. and because there’s no saving your dignity now, you whisper the truth anyway.
“not yet.”
yuuji freezes. his eyes widen, then soften, like something clicks into place—suddenly aware of how close you are, how you feel on him, how his body affected yours without even trying.
“okay,” he whispers. “okay. i won’t.”
he keeps his arm around you—still warm, still steady—but he stays perfectly still.
the quiet turns heavy because now he knows. now every inch of contact feels deliberate just because he's aware.
then, because he can’t help being sweet even while he’s flustered, he murmurs into your hair, “just… tell me what you need, okay?”
and your body clenches again at the gentleness of it—at the fact that he’ll listen. and the ache between your thighs answers before you do.
likes and reblogs are much appreciated! | jjk masterlist
first higuruma fic!! fluff with my sexy sleep deprived attorney, the man is losing it
hiromi higuruma x secretary!reader
Synopsis: you're the perfect hire. attentive, engaging, sweet, and intelligent. you enliven hiromi's stuffy little office without even trying. you handle things before he can even think to tell you to get them done. you're incredible... save for the fact that you can't for the life of you comprehend what it means to give him some personal space.
to sum it up: you are a subconsciously touchy and clingy person. you don't mean to throw your handsome boss off his game, you just can't help but to gravitate toward human warmth!
WC: 7,766
Warning(s): nothing really, you're stressing the poor man out even more (but it's good for him)
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Hiromi is a profoundly intentional man.
Every act and decision in his life is calculated, as he was trained to think with incredible precision, with swiftness, with efficiency. He takes his coffee black every morning when the sun just begins to peak over the horizon.
He annotates every case he is working on, first, with red pen, then back over again with yellow, orange, and green highlighter by noon, alternating between each hue in accordance with the material emphasized.
At the end of the day, when patience has worn thin, and aggravation with the difficulties of the legal system as settled into the hypertension tensing his neck, his strained eyes habitually fly to Shimizu's desk, and he counts the pens in her pencil holder, the ridges in the edge of her desk, the amount of time she taps her foot restlessly against her chair like routine, then he’s back to work. Back to focusing.
Justice remains the motivation in a world that favors deception, and the burden falls to him to fight back, to combat manipulation, and crime. The world's issues never cease, therefore, neither does Higuruma. Sleep comes rarely, and sanity even less so, but he's done this for so long it practically feels normal. Shimizu claims it's not.
Nevertheless, intentionality is Hiromi's motto. He lives it. He breathes it. There is no ambition, no justice, no integrity without tireless work, without precision and routine and carefully thought out, yet incredibly crammed, days and nights in the office. Lack of care and intention can only lead to a road of failure, a road that fosters malfunction and oppression, that swallows up any hope for a better life and future for the wrongfully accused.
Hiromi can not afford to operate any other way.
Which is why you pose such a problem to him.
The inky haired man would like to tell himself that he does not recall the exact day you first arrived at the office to settle into your position as the office receptionist and intake specialist. As a man who practices such precision and observation in daily life, however, he can not deny the fact that he has the exact date and time of day you first walked in and shook his hand tight engrained in his damn brain.
Hiromi is a private attorney, therefore, his office isn't too big. It holds a few cubicles for himself, his assistant, and other clerks and accountants, but otherwise, it is a very intimate space. In contrast to a public attorney's office, funded by the government, his space is more cozy, a little cramped, but close-knitted.
When he was searching for a new receptionist a year or so back, he needed someone who could serve as the friendly face and voice of his firm that he did not have the ability to present himself. It is not that Hiromi is necessarily unfriendly, but his countenance is tightly wound, cautious, deliberate. 90% of the time, he appears more exhausted and drab than he does enthusiastic and sociable. In moments where he does feel the latter, it only shows in the smallest ghost of a smile formed by the tight pressing of bowed lips.
Despite being a man of the people, he's not really a people person. As in, he's not good with easing clients with tone or presence, but with facts.
His last receptionist had been with him for quite some time, but fell severely ill one day and took permanent leave to heal. Despite Hiromi's loyalty to his team, he admits that her demeanor closely matched his. She was older, maybe mid sixties, and she would pick up the phone with sloth-like urgency and drone into the speaker hoarsely - polite, but oh so emotionless.
Shimizu suggested a brighter replacement, someone to bring back a bit more color to their world. And you fulfilled those requirements with flying... well, colors.
You stepped into his space with an unshakable confidence, a warm smile that does not align with dread that swirls in Hiromi's chest day in and day out, a happiness and implied innocence that rivals the world you inhabit. Hiromi greets all his team members the same, whether new or old. Tight clasps of hands, a nod of acknowledgement and appreciation, a soulless rundown of their responsibilities and expectations.
Intention.
But when he sees you for the first time, adorned in a navy pencil dress that touches your knees, black heels that click eagerly against the floor, your professionality accentuated with a breathless grin and shining eyes, intentionality staggers. He almost hesitates, buffers, when he reaches to clasp your hand as a formality and your warm palm folds against his, your dainty hand small and sweet in his grasp.
You introduce yourself with a smooth airiness in your syrupy voice, (e/c) hues locked onto his with no trace of anxiety or uncertainty. You show him, within just a few seconds of meeting, that you are where you want to be, and you will enter your role with class, dedication, and a strong desire to support.
Hiromi swallows thickly, shaking your hand a second too long before releasing it, fingers twitching momentarily at his side before sliding into his slacks pocket. Your touch still buzzes throughout his palm. He finds himself giving another short nod again, lips set in a flat line, before he clears his throat and shows you around, giving you the rundown of where everything is located, what he expects of you, and how you will contribute to his small family.
You're a perfect fit. You're perceptive, you listen, you take marvelous notes, but there's one issue Hiromi has with you that he notices from the get go.
He first notices when he's showing you around, and you're waving at the members you pass after Hiromi's curt introductions, heavy eyes staring forward. It starts with the invasion of your perfume. Something sugary, but not vibrant. It's calm, almost suave, buttery and warm and practically luxurious. Hints of vanilla, dashes of cinnamon.
You smell intoxicating.
The scent jumbles his brain, and for the first time in Hiromi's life, he finds himself struggling to remember what he is prepared to say and show you next, stalling to find the forgotten thoughts with a thumb and index finger brushing his chin. In reality, he only stumbles for a split second, but in his mind, it feels and sounds like an eternity.
He finds that you smell so strong because you're standing so damn close to him. He can feel the heat of your chest radiating against the back of his shoulder as you follow him around closely, inches away from clinging to the outer layer of his tailored blazer, which apparently is not thick enough to block out the sensation of you.
When you speak, making an observation or asking a question, the vibrations of your voice settle just below his ear, the warmth of your breath fanning the sliver of his neck between the tight cuff of his collar and the wavy strands of silky hair that stop just above there.
He does not plan his bodily reaction, the goosebumps that dash over his skin, the spike in his heart. It all just happens, and he wonders if you notice. He wonders if you're doing it on purpose.
He turns over his shoulder to glance back at you, acting as though he is checking to make sure you are still on track with him and keeping up, but what he is really doing is studying you briefly. Tired eyes fly over your face, searching for any tell of mischief or seduction, but instead, he is met with your eyes again and a calm smile of assurance, showing that you are still engaged, that you aren't at all thinking about how close you are to him.
Hiromi turns back around and goes on, monotonously rambling, and decides to brush it off as your underlying nerves. As a subconscious human desire for closeness and familiarity in a foreign space.
After all, you'll be practically glued to the front desk all day. With your skills, prowess, and kindness, a perfect fit for his firm, your little lack of personal space upon first meeting should not pose as a severe complication in the future.
You should not interfere with his daily life, for nothing is strong enough to deter his efficiency and intentionality. Not even the lacking personal space of his pretty new information specialist.
Consequently, Hiromi is damn near distraught when not only your lack of personal space proves to be a recurring habit of yours, but when it significantly impacts his proficiency.
The distant sound of you picking up the telephone carries through the small office, and the melodious chirp of your voice greeting potential clients falls comfortably on his team's ears.
"Higuruma Law, how may I help you today?" you greet kindly, the smile evident in your voice alone from down the hall. Hiromi is certain that if his life had somehow panned out differently, if he was seeking representation after having been wronged by the legal system, your voice would immediately put him at ease.
The office feels almost safer with your presence. You bring in little treats like donuts and coffee almost every morning, and you're always the first one there to greet everyone with a grin on your beautiful face and the scent of pastries swirling throughout the space, intermingling with your perfect perfume.
And when you see Hiromi, you always light up more. Out of respect or obligation, Hiromi is not sure. For once in his life, he just can't name your intentions, but the way you perk up with the offer of a second black coffee and some notes from early calls, his name sweet on your lips - "Good morning, Mr. Higumura! How are you this morning? Get any sleep last night?" - has him almost forgoing the urge to analyze you, as his first instinct is to just sink into your optimism and sweetness.
And if all of that isn't bad enough, the true complications lie in moments where you have to depart from the front desk to deliver new information to him.
He'll hear your heels clicking for a mile away, your scent wafting into his shared space with Shimizu before you even enter the room. When you do, you're a sight for sore eyes. Hair pinned up, new tight, yet modest dress accentuating the curves of your body, the fabric tightly stretching over your thighs as you walk toward him with a calm smile and arms full of papers. You'll greet his brunette assistant first, the two of you exchanging smiles and a brush of her shoulder as she twirls in her chair, then you head straight to Hiromi.
His eyes are already on you. They have been since you walked through the door.
And then you come closer with a breathless 'hi' as you settle the papers into a neat stack beside him on his desk. Hiromi fights the twitch of his eye as his hues jump from you down to the stack before him, your hands pressed to the surface. Instead of moving away, you lean in close. You hover directly behind his chair as he shifts to interlace his fingers over his mouth, elbows to his desk as he looks over the notes you present him, your necklace dangling right next to the side of his face. You crane over him, hand gripping the back of his chair, and your voice soothingly details each note you present him as he hunches over, trying so damn hard to concentrate but he just can't.
The words blur on the page as he rereads the same damn line over and over, his mind completely unable to process what you are telling him. It gets even worse when your finger stalls on one specific note, one that you have to take a minute to think about. You consequently lean in further, your head directly next to his. Your brows narrow with concentration, something that has long fled from Hiromi's ordinarily pristinely constructed routine.
He breathes in slowly, silently as you hover. His eyes trail to the side, and swiftly, they find your side profile again. So fucking close, one would think that the two of you are close friends or dating. Chocolate eyes jump to the way you pucker your lips slightly in thought, nose scrunching. Suddenly, you gasp upon recollection, and turn to face him with an apologetic grin as you proceed.
Hiromi holds your gaze for a moment before tearing away, staring harshly back down at your papers as you proceed with your debrief like nothing. Like you aren't within kissing distance. Like he can't smell the peppermint on your breath as your scent traps him. Your voice is softer as well as you speak, the proximity between you leaving little room for any noise above a mumble.
How can you not realize what you're doing? How can you be so spatially and socially unaware? You're practically purring potential clients into his ear, clinging to his space like it's normal. Like you aren't stealing the breath from his lungs as he holds it, afraid to exhale in your company.
He plans to sort back through all of your neatly written notes once you leave, as he is completely unable to retain anything you are saying.
You give him one last smile and ask if there's anything else he needs. He waves you away, shaking his head as he pretends to be too preoccupied with the content in these papers, and you nod and turn to go. Shimizu watches as the dark haired attorney looks back up at your retreating figure, hooded eyes almost tormented, confused, entranced by the vision of you walking away accompanied by that click clack of your cute heels.
His brunette assistant twists her lips playfully, leaning back in her chair as she fiddles with a pen in hand, turning to face him once more. He blinks and looks back down at his desk. "Get back to work, Shimizu," he says calmly, feeling her eyes on him. She stifles a smile, sighs, and obliges.
Then there's all the times he's accidentally bumped into you, the office space often too cramped for multiple people to walk around at once. Leaving his section of the space, his body has collided with yours on numerous occasions. You would either be on your way to the bathroom or into his section as he goes to step out when your body collides with his, chest to chest. You would stumble back in surprise, his hands reaching out to subconsciously catch you by your shoulders to keep you from falling or losing balance. Papers fly from your arms and to the floor in a gentle shower.
You blink up at him in shock, and his large hands linger on your arms a second too long before dropping to his sides. "Mr. Higuruma! I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," you rush out, dropping swiftly to your knees to gather papers.
"No need to apologize," he assures you. "I shouldn't have been so careless.”
He stops himself, looking down at you from this position. You're on your knees at his feet, peering up at him through your lashes with an anxious smile. Hiromi's eyes widen, this position allowing him a clear angle of your ordinarily hidden cleavage.
"Let me help you," he blurts suddenly, kneeling down before you in a similar fashion with his gaze downward and a lump in his throat.
Your hands fly about the sheets, and in your haste, you both reach for the same paper. Your fingers brush, grazing, and you both retract like you've been shocked. You sit back on your calves, giggling bashfully. "Sorry."
"It's alright," he murmurs.
His entire body tingles for the rest of the day from your previous point of impact. Your body had felt so soft and warm against his firm chest, the angle of you from above so pretty and sinful that he almost felt the need to take himself to HR for viewing you in such a manner.
There are moments in the break room. You're inside, already fixing yourself some lunch as you hum a gentle tune to yourself. You don't hear Hiromi come in, as you are in your own little world. He swiftly moves to brush behind where you stand at the counter beside the fridge, but as fate would have it, you finish making your sandwich just as he moves behind you. You turn around and collide with him. His hand finds your forearm this time, the collision not as bad as others, and you wince up at your handsome boss.
"God, I don't know why I keep doing that," you laugh, shaking your head at your own clumsiness. Hiromi lowers his hand and shakes his head to dispel your embarrassment, lips pressing together.
"It's my fault. I seem to always be in your way."
"No, it's me who's always in yours!"
He ducks his head with a low, breathy, awkward chuckle, one that stuns himself as much as it stuns you into laughing along with him. "Are you getting lunch?" you ask as he moves to open the fridge, your sandwich clutched tight between your hands.
"Just a drink."
You tilt your head. "Have you eaten at all today?"
You both know the answer to that.
The fridge door closes behind him as he clutches a beverage in his well sculpted hand. "I don't have the time."
"Sure you do. Why don't I order you something?"
"There's no need, (Y/n). I'm okay, but thank you."
"Nonsense," you step toward him. "You can eat while you work."
"I don't like a messy desk."
"Who says it has to be messy? Come on. You can't keep working on an empty stomach. It's not healthy."
You sound just like everyone in his life who cares for Hiromi's wellbeing outside of his occupation. Ordinarily, he'd brush them off, stubbornly refusing help as his mind swarms with more pressing matters, with data and evidence and arguments and hell.
But in your presence, he finds that his mind can't swarm with anything but how charming you look with a sandwich in your hands and hope in your (e/c) eyes. A passion within you that eases his nerves. How can he say no to that face?
Here you are again, disrupting his way of living.
"Something light is fine," he murmurs, starting to walk past you toward the door. You light up, following close on his heel.
"Yeah?"
"And inexpensive."
"Yes sir. I'll bring your food to you when it gets here."
"...Thank you." He halts in the door, turning to look down at you, as you are - of course - directly behind him. "You don't need to call me sir."
"Oh," you furrow your brows. "I didn't even realize I did. Sorry, Mr. Higuruma."
Hell, the way you say his name like that is no better than the former. It is his title, the way everyone in the office or any of his clients address him, but fluttering from your lips, the title feels intimate, a very contradiction within itself.
Yet somehow, you make everything feel informal. Like you're more than an employee. Like you're someone more.
Late nights in the office are worse. Ordinarily, the wee hours of the morning are reserved for him alone or him and Shimizu, who often struggles to keep up with his pace and insomnia. He once realized that you tend to stay late with him from time to time when he walks out of his office, having shed off his suit jacket with sleeves rolled to his elbows and tie loose, to retrieve some extra paper from your desk, and you're there. Face lit by the dim light of your computer, circles tracing under your eyes, yet peace evident on your expression.
"What are you still doing here?" he asks, approaching your desk slowly. You perk up, meeting his gaze with a tired smile.
"Oh, hi Mr. Higuruma," you hum, your voice soft enough to sound like a lullaby at this time of night. Sleepiness glimmers in your eyes, but you remain engaged. "I saw that you were staying late to finish some stuff up so I stayed to catch up on some things too. In case you needed anything from me."
He checks the clock behind you. "(Y/n), it's two in the morning. Go home."
"I don't mind, really. Honestly, it's kind of cozy here and I didn't really feel like going home yet, anyway."
"Why is that?"
You shrug. "It gets too quiet. I feel better sometimes knowing I'm in a space with other people."
"Mmm."
You watch as Hiromi rubs at his eyes, blinking harshly. Your paired exhaustion breeches some kind of boundary. He does not have the energy to exude professionalism, nor do you, so in the silence of the empty, dark office, you share an unspoken, weary connection.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" you ask kindly.
He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. "I just need some paper. I'll get it."
He moves to round your desk, but you are already scootching out of your chair to assist. "No, it's okay. I've got it."
Despite both of your claims, you end up reaching for the same drawer at the same time, the two of you now behind your desk together. He looks down at you out of the corner of his eye, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "You don't quit," he says lowly, pulling the drawer open the moment he distracts you. "I told you I'd get it. Sit back down."
Your brows curve, something toying in your expression as you smile. "What sense does that make if I'm already behind the desk, next to the paper?"
"Enough sense if it's coming from your boss."
You laugh slightly, raising your hands, but not stepping away as Hiromi gathers a fresh stack. He closes the drawer and lifts himself back up, his shoulder bumping yours. He looks down where the contact occurred, then back at your face.
"Seriously. I think you should go home. You shouldn't stay just because I'm here. There's no telling when I'll leave."
"I appreciate the concern, Mr. Higuruma. Really, but I told you. I prefer being here."
"You very well may be the first, then."
"I can't be. Not if you're here more than anyone else."
"That's different. I don't have a choice."
"But you like what you do, don't you?" you ask. "I mean, as much as anyone can in this field. When you're able to help people, it makes you happy. Right?"
He turns, setting his forearm against the surface of your desk as you stand before him, your voices hushed. "I think relieved is a better word for what I feel. I can't fully be happy knowing that things could change any second."
"Still. It seems like you were made for what you do. You do your job so well."
His shoulders jump with an amused breath. "I'd hope so."
"You do! You're the main reason why coming to work doesn't feel like a chore. It pays to have a passionate and talented employer."
Unceremoniously and unexpectedly, heat burns at the tip of Hiromi's ears. "Flattery won't get you a raise, you know."
You gape with a smile on your lips. "Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?"
"I make jokes all the time."
"You do not."
"I do. It's true," he challenges. "Maybe you're just not paying close enough attention."
You know he's joking again, because your entire position revolves around you paying attention to every little detail of potential cases brought to your office's lap. You laugh, the very sound carrying through the space like the symphony of birds chirping melodiously. Hiromi's eyes are heavy, they burn each time they blink, but they're soft on you. His smile is gentle, barely there.
"I'll have to step it up then if you think that's the case," you counter.
"No," he denies, amusement fading. "You're doing wonderful work."
You smile warmly with a slow blink and a nod. "Thank you," you grin.
The air stalls between the two of you for a few seconds as you look at one another, unsure of what more to say, your closeness keeping him grounded there.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Higuruma?" you ask, the computer screen light shining in your glassy eyes.
He shakes his head, swallowing. "No. Just get some rest."
He does not leave without you reaching a hand out to hold his upper arm, a gesture of gratitude and departure, yet the very thing that spikes Hiromi's heart rate. "You too," you smile.
He nods one more time, pursing his lips, before turning away from your light.
You are a huge problem.
Hiromi can't get you out of his mind. A brain once too crowded with the details of his work now struggles to balance the intrusion of your face, your smile, your body, your energy, your touch.
You haunt him. You wreck his mind, destroying all that he has sorted into organization for the sake of a sliver of his wellbeing and all of his legal ambition.
Hiromi tries to observe you around others, tries to see if you act with the same lack of personal space with your coworkers. Sure enough, he's caught you invading Shimizu's personal bubble as well as his accountant's multiple times, but it looks much more casual on the outside looking in. Others do not appear as affected by it as he feels deep within, and he wonders if he is reading too much into it. If his mind has finally turned on him and he's mentally snapped. Maybe it's all just a figment of his imagination.
But how could it be, when images of you sneak into his head when he's trying to focus, the butt of his pen rubbing against his temple? He feels the phantom of your body hovering close when the night drags along, a subconscious effort his mind and body make to comfort itself. And it's you. It's always you he goes back to.
It's more than your touch and your closeness. It's the impact you've had on his office from the moment you stepped into it. It's the life you breathe into moments of helplessness and frustration. It's the motivation you inspire with your grins and those bright eyes, still free of trauma, still full of promise.
You bring Hiromi back down to earth, and you throw him off kilter all the same.
Higuruma storms in one day, unfathomably tense. He swoops past your desk without greeting, mind running, and you look up upon feeling the wind of his pace that flickers papers upward. He keeps his door closed all morning, and you ruminate in the suspicions, concerned. You know Hiromi carries the world itself on his shoulders and he consistently works himself into the ground without fail.
You're sure today he's stressed about a big case he just decided to take - another one where the evidence seems damn near impossible to point into the direction of his defendant's innocence. You hear much speculation about the seemingly unreasonable choices he makes every now and then, how he seeks to challenge himself with the absolute worst possible cases. Some say he's crazy, others say he's a masochist.
But you say that he's just a man yearning for a better world, a man who knows not what it means to make easy money, but to prioritize the person over the pay, the truth over duplicity.
He just wants to make a difference. And he's willing to kill himself to do so.
You wonder if he's eaten. You wonder if he's slept. You wonder if he's alright.
You rap at his door during lunch, a muffled ‘come in’ greeting you from behind it. You turn the handle with your elbow, arms full of a lunch order and some other papers.
You peek your head in cautiously. You see Hiromi at his desk with his cheek propped on his fist and his brows tightly angled. His jaw is set, and his dull eyes bore into his computer screen as if it is plaguing him. Shimizu is out to lunch, you assume by her empty desk, and you slowly proceed.
"Hi Mr. Higuruma," you sing. His eyes dart up to you, sharp and intense. You remain unfazed, keeping your smile as you step into his space. You're wearing a black pencil skirt today with a frilly white blouse tucked into your belt. Worn down, his eyes flicker over you rather knowingly, but you don't seem to notice. You never seem to notice anything within the realm of how crazy you've been driving Hiromi for the better half of a year.
You kick the door closed behind you with your heel, and strut your happy ass over to him. His eyes don't leave your figure, and like routine, you settle just beside him, organizing the things you brought onto his desk neatly. You know he hates clutter.
"I hope you don't mind me bringing you lunch again. I ordered your usual from the place across the street. Light and inexpensive," you quote him from some time in the past. He remains silent, looking over the container of food you sit at the right corner of his desk, followed by some new notes you've brought him on big index cards.
You go on to explain everything else you have for him. Your hip hits the arm rest of his chair, your back slightly arches as you bend over beside him to drag your finger over everything with expert memory. Your perfume wafts into his face, circling through his room and through his nostrils.
His jaw clenches, the crick in his neck tight today, and he leans back into his chair, pen tapping against the table as you talk.
He sees your lips moving, but does not hear what you're saying. He studies that gentle way your lashes brush against your cheek when you blink, the indentations at the corners of your mouth when you speak. Your necklace dangles again, swaying over the peek of your collarbone and around the dainty stretch of your neck.
You're all up in his space. As usual. Breathing his air, brushing his arm, staining the atmosphere.
Hiromi has had a horrible past two days. He's drained. Irate. Sleep deprived. Every little thing has been working his last nerve as of late, and here you come along, looking the way you look, talking the way you talk, acting the way you act.
Hiromi can't take it anymore.
"(Y/n)."
He calls your name gravelly, his voice firmer and lower than usual. You hum, turning to look back at him from your current position. Your smile diminishes ever so subtly when you catch his expression. He's slouched back into his seat, fingers shielding his nose and mouth with his elbow propped on the armrest, his other hand still tapping his pen restlessly. Those sunken eyes of his bore into your soul and carry something weighted that you do not recognize, something dark and testing.
Tendrils of his hair fly from his messy slickback, and his jaw clicks every two seconds as he watches you, calm yet daring.
"Is something the matter?" you ask, smile completely dropping now. Your brows pull together with worry, the stress very evident in his composure. "I know you've had a rough couple days. Is there anything I can do to help?"
His lack of urgency to respond starts to make you nervous, as you raise yourself from your bent position to frown at him.
"Mr. Higuruma?"
"Stop," he orders. Not loud. Not aggressive.
Stern. Strained.
You blink, tilting your head. "I'm sorry, sir, did I do something wrong?"
"I thought I told you not to call me sir."
"I-" you realize your mistake and clasp your hands before you humbly. "Right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."
"(Y/n)," he inhales slowly, closing his eyes as he runs his hands over his face, shifting to lean forward and set his elbows back onto his desk. "I need you to step back."
"Step... back?"
"Yes," his chocolate eyes snap back up at you. "Now. Please."
You take a moment to process what he is asking of you, therefore, you do not do as he says right away. You're too busy trying to piece together what you did to annoy him and how you can fix it. Do you smell bad? Did you come in at a bad time? You did knock.
Your lips part to further pry, missing the way his eyes drop to your lips. "Mr. Higuruma, what-"
"I'm asking you nicely as your boss to give me some breathing room before I act inappropriately and do something I will surely regret."
Your eyes go wide, and his are steely as they search yours. He is deadly serious.
Dazed, you take a cautious, tiny step backward, freeing up an inch of space. Hiromi inhales, shaking his head. "That's not far enough."
"Mr. Higuruma, I'm really sorry but I'm very confused. If you could explain where this is coming from... I mean, I didn't mean to offend you. Was I too close to you?"
"You're always too close," he cuts in, and your lips clamp shut. "Do you realize that?"
Your mouth runs dry. "...No, I... I didn't know."
"You didn't know," he repeats. You watch as he sets his veiny hands flat to his desk, settling there momentarily before he pushes himself up. His chair rolls back as he rises. Slowly he turns to you, one hand tucked into his pocket, blazer flapped over it. "It would be much easier for me if I didn't know you were telling the truth. You don't even think about what you're doing, and somehow it's all I can think about."
His free hand reaches out to methodically straighten a manilla folder in front of his keyboard. It stalls there as he ponders. "Every day. You wear the same perfume, and you stand so close to me that I can't think straight. Our arms touch. Our hands touch. You're never more than a few centimeters away. Do you realize the predicament that puts me in? As your superior?"
Your heart pounds into your chest, your posture suddenly rigid. Hiromi can see the gears turning in your head. He realizes this conversation in itself is extremely inappropriate, as you've been nothing but polite. It really isn't your fault that you lack so much spatial awareness, but Hiromi is at the end of his rope.
You've come in at a very bad time. Hiromi's so stressed that he's willing to refrain from excessive thought for one second and give into the desire that has been consuming his entire being.
He sees the dumbstruck look on your face and starts to feel remorse and shame, for he's never seen you in such a state. He sighs heavily. "You should leave."
You snap out of it. "What?"
"Thank you. For the food and for the extensive notes. But you should leave now."
"But I-"
"I don't want to make you any more uncomfortable. I apologize. I shouldn't have said any of that. Please. Just leave."
"You haven't even let me say anything, though."
"(Y/n)," your name comes as a warning this time. The tension thickens between you as his chest stutters with a shaky breath. He eases his hand out, as if that's enough to cut through the thickness, to keep you away. "Leave."
He's begging you at this point. Like he is unsure of what he'll do if you stay any longer. You know that, by the look on his face, you should listen to him and walk out of the door, but every bone in your body keeps you stationary. You don't want to go.
You respect Hiromi. You admire Hiromi. You really like Hiromi. He's your boss, but he makes work feel breathable, like you are accomplishing big things, doing life changing work. Despite his calculated countenance, Hiromi is thoughtful. He's passionate. He's dedicated. He's an inspiration. You've come to truly appreciate him, as an employer and as a man.
It doesn't hurt that he looks the way he does either. Dark inky strands of cropped hair. A heavenly sculpted nose. Haunting, shrunken eyes that send a pit to your stomach each time they lock with yours. The moments of freedom in which he allows himself to smile, the way his shoulders sag.
He’s a beautiful specimen, inside and out.
You truly did not know that you had such an impact on him. You've been told in the past that you tend to linger close to people, but you thought you'd gotten better. You thought that you weren't being too bad about it.
But, apparently not. It's been so bad that your boss now has to physically bar himself from you, kick you out of his office before he...
Before he what exactly?
And would that what be so terrible?
You twist your fingers around, nervous, jittery. "What if..." you start carefully, walking over eggshells. "...I don't leave?"
You can see the pattern of his breathing in the distinct rise and fall of his chest, his tight work clothes expanding. His eyes flick to the closed door, then back at you.
Your expression is blank as you await his response, the silence within the office blaring in your ears. You can’t read him. You can’t pick up on anything but his intensity, and how he’s mulling over all the possibilities and consequences in his head.
Suddenly, he moves out from his desk, taking two slow steps into your direction.
You watch him patiently, anxiously, excitedly, until he’s hovering mere centimeters away, heat to heat, chest just barely away from chest. You breathe in slowly, eyes trailing up.
You see his jaw clench as he thinks this over again and again, until you see the very moment his resolve crumbles. "Then you're giving me permission to..."
"To what?" you ask eagerly.
His eyes soften. He inches the curve of his knuckle forward, grazing it over your shoulder experimentally. You tense, breath hitched. "To touch you," he eventually says.
You nod as if entranced. "You can," you assure him. "I mean it. If it'll help with your stress."
His hand freezes on you. "Just for my stress?" he murmurs. "Not for you in any way?"
"That's not what I meant," you defend quickly. "I mean - I want you to."
"To what?" he resumes the graze of his knuckles over the curve of your shoulder, down the expanse of your arm. Chills sprout across your skin in the wake of his hand's trail, and warmth swirls over your cheeks. "To need you? To want you so badly you distract me from the one thing in this world I'm good at?"
His hand slips down to clasp yours. You look down, following his movements as he brings the back of your hand upward to his lips, all while his eyes remain on you. Your brows curl, a hum catching in the back of your throat as his bowed lips brush your skin, pressing a kiss gingerly there.
He monitors you to ensure that you are okay with this, that he isn't pushing any limits. He could already get himself into a world of trouble for even being seen this close to you in such a manner, but the world be damned for one second. All Hiromi has ever thought about is this godforsaken planet, and time and time again, it has chewed him up and spit him back out like a stale piece of gum.
Through the hell he calls his life, he thinks he should be awarded at least this one little treat. This one pleasure, this treasure that is his secretary. That is you, efficient, kind, beautiful in more ways than he can count. You're the only thing his aching body deems as a remedy for his inner turmoil.
"I already do," he tells you, tugging you gently by your hand, bringing you unfathomably close with a hand sliding over your cheek to cradle you. Sharp eyes look over your face, detailing everything from your forehead to your chin, you brows to your enticing lips. "Tell me, do you feel the same? More than just an obligation to me as your boss?”
You nod slowly and look at him with a neediness in your breathtaking (e/c) eyes, and your lips part to answer. "Yes."
He hums, neck and ears blooming with heat. "You want to help me?"
"Yes, Mr. Higuruma."
"Hiromi," he corrects.
"Hiromi," you try it on your tongue, and the said man feels himself shudder.
He exhales, releasing your hand to cup your other cheek. He cranes his neck slightly to look directly into your eyes. "Thank you," he breathes, desperately appreciative.
He ducks in to kiss you with a delicacy you can't put into words. The journey to your lips is slow, as if he wants to savor every second of what leads to the gentle connection of your lips.
He's soft, cautious, like he does not want to harm you or push you away. Your hands raise to his sides, your eyes fluttering closed as you hum softly into his lips. You feel the dark haired man relax into you, shoulders dropping and groan bubbling from his chest, long and sustained. Your scent practically molds with his, encapsulating the two of you in its own bubble.
He pulls back to breathe, tilting his head to push back in. Fingers thread into the back of your hair and gradually bring your face close, his shoulders bunching and brows arching as he melts into you like a dream. He hums again, a wrecked sound of relief that you catch with ease, lips slowly swimming in gentle unison.
Your body feels fuzzy from the way he kisses you, like you are a glass doll he does not wish to break, one he cherishes with all his soul, one he wants to shower with care and affection the right way, the gentlemanly way, the earned way. Yet he's hungry, unraveling at the seams with each passing second your lips remain locked. You taste like a dream Hiromi once believed he could not achieve. Like a pastry he told himself was too good to eat.
Like you. Soft and delicious and... and not close enough.
The kiss proceeds between short breaks away, intensifying as his hands move to wrap under your arms, sliding over the fabric of your work clothes, tucking safely around your waist. Your arms move accordingly, raising into the air before falling to his shoulders, wrapping snugly around his neck.
He pulls you flush to him, encircling you tight between languid kisses. Slow and meticulous like the way he works, capturing every element, failing to let any of you go to waste.
The two of you are practically molded, heads angled with the deepening of your kiss. Hiromi groans, lifting you up carefully and effortlessly to twirl you around and set you on the middle of his desk. His hands fly to your face again, pressing soft, thoughtful pecks to your plush lips, the bridge of his nose bumping yours occasionally.
He smoothes some of your hair over your shoulders, only pulling away to peel his lidded eyes open and admire you tenderly. You can't think. You just lock eyes, searching within one another for the deeper thing you felt in your kiss.
He kisses you once more, a bit firmer this time, sliding a palm up your thigh, gripping your hip, rolling a thumb back and forth. You moan sweetly, and Hiromi grunts.
"That's lunch," he breathes hotly into you, a thin string of saliva snapping as you chase his lips.
"Huh?" you furrow your brows, following the warmth of him blindly. He pecks your lips again, then your cheek sweetly.
"That's lunch, sweetness."
You blink. Upon processing his words, you tilt your head to look up at the clock. He takes the opportunity to plant a kiss on your jaw.
Sure enough, lunch ended a minute ago. You assume Hiromi knows the routine by heart, as he does not even have to look at the time to know that break has ended, and therefore, his assistant will be returning any minute now.
You look back at him to find that he's smiling. Not something barely detectable, but something real and relaxed. You ogle him openly, looking over the crease at his hooded eyes and the color on his pale skin.
"You have to get back to work now,” he says affectionately.
You nod slowly. "Okay. Right. Oh, right!" The realization finally comes to you that there is a risk of you getting caught, and you go to fix your hair and straighten your clothes.
Higuruma chuckles, assisting you by adjusting the collar of your shirt and the clasp of your necklace. "Are you alright?"
You flush, going to jump off of the desk when he lifts you from under your arms instead, setting you down on your feet where you first resided upon intrusion. You giggle nervously, brushing yourself off and chewing on the inside of your lip. "Yes, I'm more than alright," you say. "...Are you? Did that… help any?"
He smirks. "You have no idea."
Just then, the door clicks open revealing Shimizu, who steps in casually, unfazed by the two of you standing next to one another.
You jump, clearing your throat. "Okay, so I'll be back to - to bring you those last contacts in about an hour, Mr. Higuruma."
Hiromi watches you knowingly, greedily. "I'll be waiting."
You nod curtly before turning on your heel, brushing past Shimizu with a quick wave and out of the door.
The brunette turns to look back at her boss as he settles stiffly into his seat with a lingering smile. "Mr. Higuruma! You're smiling! Did you get some good news about the case?"
"No," he breathes, reaching to sort through the things you brought him, then stopping himself when his eyes catch the food you so kindly brought out of concern for his wellbeing. His smile softens as he goes to eat first.
Shimizu puzzles. "Then what's with the attitude shift? You were just so upset."
Reader's first time cuddling with Jabber isn't something they would have invited, initially.
Divider Credit: @/saradika-graphics
You've been with the Raiders for a few weeks now and no one really warned you about the insomniac that roams the halls at night. Jabber drifts from rooms like a ghost. You heard it those first few tense nights in the barracks. The languid slide of his shoes on the concrete and gentle attempt at your door. It scared the shit out of you.
But then you mentioned it to Momoa during a little lunch date you'd had with her and she shrugged with half a bite of burger in her mouth.
"He just does that," She said, swiping her thumb over her lip to catch some ketchup. "He's lookin' to cuddle."
The look on your face must have been comedic because she actually snorts. But you can't help but feel like she was messing with you. Jabber Wonger? The six foot tall man with the murder mitts? Your boss's most reliable worker next to Cthoni solely because he can solo expert Givers? The guy with the knives and the poison and manic-ass giggly bullshit that sends all of your alarms off— you're more likely to cuddle with the family of rats in your walls than Jabber.
"I think you've got the wrong idea," Momoa finally threw you a bone but you retorted by snagging one of her fries out of mild defiance and major skepticism. She snorted again, softer this time, and rolled her eyes. Momoa plucked a fry from the plate and continued. "He's harmless to the Raiders, boss' orders, and—" she turned her fry in the air as if it would summon the right words like a magic wand. "— I think it's gotta do with the shit in his system. Like, he's always high. He's always running hot or cold so he's gotta find a balance. He's honestly a pretty good cuddler anyway, so I never complain."
That left you with a whole load of questions but Momoa got a lot of enjoyment out of your personal befuddlement. And so, you made sure to lock your door every night. Because good cuddler or not, you'd prefer to keep some professional distance between you and your new coworkers.
Until one particular night.
It was a wicked combination of coming off a job, having to skimp out on sleep for an unexpected stakeout and then the car blew three whole tires on the way back which now had your brain chugging on fumes. It's routine that had you wiping your face down in the bathroom adjacent to your bedroom. The wet towel was kind of rough on your skin and the cold chill it left behind felt grounding. Your feet ached; so you let the towel hang off the counter and dragged yourself to your bed, peeling off your heavy uniform until you were in a loose t-shirt. You had just enough energy to pull on a pair of trusty shorts before you collapsed face first into your bed.
Your room was peacefully murky. Light filtered in from a small window towards the top of the wall that your bed was wedged up against. Technically you were underground but you're lucky enough to have a tiny view of the Raider base grounds. It wasn't much to look at but you at least had natural light. That alone was enough to lull you into a half-conscious doze.
That's where Jabber found you, at least. You didn't heard him come in. After the long day you'd had, you barely felt like a person let alone a person with wits. With your back to your door, you were ready to slip into a dreamless sleep. You were already halfway there when you felt your bed dip behind you and arms start to coil around your middle.
You blinked and blearily recognized the rings decorating each hand where they settled across your stomach and clavicle. If you had it in you, you'd tell Jabber to go find someone else— because, at this point you'd noticed that he was sort just like that around certain people. The manic energy and constant starvation for a challenge, wanting to thrive and push himself to new heights. Jabber saved almost all of that for Zodyl and Fu, oddly enough. Whatever he saw in that quiet little man, you haven't quite figured it out, he tended to hover and bounced with an energy that buzzed. Jabber was strangely agreeable when he's interested in someone he deemed strong and then completely disinterested in those who couldn't keep up with him. You sort of assumed that you fell into the latter category. You were a Giver, and sure, you weren't not a pushover… but you definitely were not capable of keeping up with Jabber.
Yet there he was; carefully tugging you into his chest. His knees curled up to slot in behind yours and… well, it was a surprisingly vanilla spooning from the man you've seen dose himself into cardiac arrest on several occasions in the brief weeks you've been with the Raiders. And now, with him tucking your head under his chin, with Mankira's smooth metal cool against the skin exposed by the loose neck of your t-shirt, you can't help but remember depictions of large cats that live on the Sphere.
You could kind of agree with Momoa. Jabber was definitely not the worst at cuddling.
So, you held yourself from telling him off. You made a mental note to tell him about verbal consent for these sorts of things when you didn't feel like utter garbage. For now, you basked in the oddity of human contact and… huh. He sort of smelled like almonds with an acrid sting of gasoline. You let out a sigh and kind of sunk into him. Jabber hummed behind you; a lazy note that lilted at the end.
"Don't worry, small fry," he drawled with a rasp in his voice that makes you wonder if maybe even he was feeling exhausted after today. "I won't stay long. You prolly forgot to lock yer door, right? I'll jus' stay for few minutes and head out."
The two of you sat in the silence as the dusk colored light outside dimmed and a coldness settled heavy in the air. It was peaceful, strangely. Sleep never came to you easy, as much as you wished it did. In the drifty state of sleepy haze, you wondered why Jabber felt the urge to crawl into bed with his coworkers. That didn't sound like disinterest to your sleep addled mind. A few more minutes passed and, when you felt him start to carefully unwrap his arms around you, you do something… probably ill advised.
Before he's able to withdraw fully, you turned around and slung a limp arm over his side and hugged him close again. You were bone tired and he was regrettably very comfy. A fact that was cemented when you nudged your face into his neck. Jabber went oddly stiff until you loosely patted his back and mumbled an unintelligible reassurance. He must have understood your slurred words because he sort of melted into you, adjusting for your new position.
This time a contented sound slipped from you when his arms circle around so that his hands settled against your back. Your loose shirt was rucked up to your mid back when you twisted earlier but Jabber smoothed it down with soothing strokes of his palm. You nuzzled into his neck with another breath and when you inhale you catch an odd sweet smell mixed in with the nutty-sting from earlier. Fruit? Fruit was one of those things that people didn't just have on the Ground. Where the hell would Jabber ever find— on second thought. Maybe you didn't want to know.
Either way, it smelled nice. Which was a rarity in a world filled with trash.
You drifted off like that, far too tired to think much further than that.
big lazy flakes falling slow. landing in toji’s dark hair. sticking to megumi’s fluffy hood.
the grocery bag in toji’s hand is light - just some milk, bananas, hot chocolate (and lollies) you forgot to grab earlier.
you stayed home to start dinner and said, 'gumi’s been cooped up all day. take him with you. he loves the snow.'
toji grumbled per usual. but didn’t say no.
now they’re walking through the park on the way back. bundled up in scarves and puffy jackets. the world quiet and pale under a blanket of white.
megumi is toddling along behind him.
slow. careful. focused.
toji hears the crunch of his own boots in the snow, steady and deep.
then, he hears the softer pats of megumi’s smaller boots.
and then-
he hears a grunt.
turns around.
megumi is pausing every few steps… and very seriously, very determinedly, very adorably, placing his feet directly in the footprints toji left behind.
toji just blinks.
megumi blinks back. then steps into the next footprint. stumbles a little. adjusts.
“…what’re you doin’ back there?” toji calls.
megumi frowns. “walk.”
“you’re copyin’ me?”
the toddler shrugs, like maybe.
toji watches him.
tiny arms out for balance. cheeks pink from the cold. green eyes narrowed in full concentration. he looks like a serious little snowball. a puff with a mission.
and something about it - makes toji’s chest feel weird.
soft. full. stupidly fond.
he turns back around.
but this time, he walks slower. and he steps a little closer together. so the footprints are easier to follow.
he doesn’t say anything.
doesn’t look back yet.
just walks.
soft step. soft step.
and behind him, megumi toddles forward. a perfect little echo.
boot in footprint. boot in footprint.
every now and then, gumi hums a little tune. softly. distracted. proud.
they pass a family building an ugly looking snowman. a fat dog running in circles, stupidly happy. a couple with their arms linked, smiling.
toji adjusts the bag in his hand.
then looks back again.
megumi’s still going. a little red in the face now. but still so determined. stepping exactly where toji stepped, fully confident. like he knows he won’t slip. like he trusts that it’s safe where papa’s already been.
and toji’s heart cracks open just a little bit more.
he crouches. waits.
when megumi finally toddles up to him, he plops down into the snow dramatically.
“my feet,” he says, pointing. “tired.”
toji chuckles and ruffles his spiky hair. “wanna ride?”
megumi nods immediately. lifts his arms. toji hoists him up with one arm, rests him on his hip and holds him close.
“you did good,” he murmurs.
megumi rests his cheek against toji’s shoulder. “i walk in your steps.”
“i know, kid,” he says, voice uncharacteristically soft. “i know.”
and the snow keeps on falling.
A/N: this is heavily inspired by that one amazing artist on x, who makes the CUTEST fushiguro family drawings! @/DDub1618
cw: fem reader with she/her pronouns, zbaby and child talk.
"What if they don't like me?"
Osamu turns so suddenly that you're afraid he's going to swerve the car, humor drained from his face.
"They like 'tsumu." He stares at you a bit too long before looking back at the road. Luckily, out here in farm land, in between acres of crops, there's no one else driving.
You glance over your shoulder, expecting his twin to defend himself, but the instead the blonde is slumped in his chair, neck cocked oddly to the side. Despite your attempt to fight it, a smile creeps up on the corners of your lips. Even with drool on his cheek and a bit of a snore, he's beautiful.
"If our friends like him, they'll like anyone," Osamu clarifies.
Osamu is beautiful too, of course. They are twins; it would be strange for you not to find them both attractive, but Osamu doesn't glow like Atsumu does. Not to you, anyway.
You've spent a lot of time looking at their faces. Both men have round cheek bones and low nose bridges, with the same copper skin all year round, but Osamu's nose doesn't crinkle when he laughs, Osamu doesnt hum when he's thinking, and Osamu certainly doesn't look at you with a smile so bright it's as if he's staring into the sun.
You turn back around and stare at the road, flustered by your own romantic waxing.
"Can I talk to you about something?"
Osamu's hands squeak against the pleather steering wheel. "Sure. Why not?"
"I like your brother a lot, but-"
"Oh, fucking shit, fuck," Osamu's eyes are wide, cursing low as to not waking up the man in question, "You're breaking up with him?"
"No! No, I'm so in lo-" you stop yourself for admitting to that, "Things are good. We are good."
"Thank fucking god," Osamu sighs. "He's having a lot of fun with you."
That sentence does nothing to calm the sick feeling in your stomach. You pick at the edge of your dress, pulling away loose strings and nonexistent pieces of lint.
"That's my worry." The road continues straight, almost disappearing into the distance, but a house ha come into view, perched upon all this land, "Osamu, I'm really serious about your brother. I think I wanna marry him one day."
Osamu was your friend before you even knew his brother. At first, he seemed to dislike your relationship, but lately, he's warmed up to it. His hand pats your knee with the platonic warmth, "And that's bad because...?"
"I'm worried he's just having fun with me," you admit, "I don't know if he ever wants to settle down and get married or have kids or-"
Osamu cuts you off with a thunderous, booming bark of a laugh.
"'samu!" Atsumu pokes his head between the front seats with a whine. "You scared me."
"Oh, cram it." Osamu's wiping a tear from his cheek, "Blame your girlfriend for being so funny."
Atsumu squeezes your shoulder with a hum, still drowsy. "She's fucking hilarious."
You watch Osamu, hoping for an explanation, but he just raises his eyebrows and bites his lip, shoulders bouncing with silent laughter. Is he laughing at you? Is this why he didn't want you dating his brother?
The two of them talk a little as the house gets closer and closer, but you can't bring yourself to say anything until the tires start to crunch on the pebbled driveway.
"It's Kiba, right?"
"Kita," Atsumu corrects, "And Aran and his wife and Suna and his Komori are coming too,"
"Can't believe I'm the last single one," Osamu laments.
"You're practically fucking your restaurant,"
"You're married to the store."
You and Atsumu quip at the same time. He laughs, reaching to grab your hand, but you don't connect with him. Osamu's laughter is still ringing in your ears.
Is it that stupid to want to be with Atsumu? Maybe you do need to break up.
When Osamu parks the car, a man is already waiting on the porch. His hair is a salt and pepper splattering, stark against his deeply tanned skin. He has the calm presence that you were told about; you can feel it the second you step out of the car.
"Kita!" Osamu greets.
"Welcome. It's so nice to-"
The slam of the bar door and Atsumu's voice cuts him off. "Where's my girl?"
A puff of curly grey hair streaks from the front door and barrels its way down the dirt driveway, barefoot and dress akimbo. You barely have time to realize it's a child before she's launched herself into Atsumu's awaiting arms. He catches her with ease, twirling her around in a circle as they both dissolve into laughter.
"Stormy girl!"
"Uncle Atsumu!" she giggles,"Throw me! Throw me!"
He squats down a bit and then launches up, tossing the little girl into the air and immediately catching her again. He does that a couple times, laughing all the way.
"Again! Again!"
"Later," he nestles her into his side easily, despite her much too be to be carried, "Me and your aunt over there will play with you all you want, okay?"
You melt a bit. Aunt- as if you're already family.
Kita, who's clearly her father the more you look at the both of them, just sighs, amused. "Please remember that you cannot throw the baby like that."
"Kita-san! I'm not gonna throw the baby!" Atsumu says with mock offense, "I'm just gonna sniff her little head."
"What?' Osamu gawks, turning ro you in horror.
"Don'tcha know babies smell good?" Atsumu turns to you too, "He's hopeless, huh?"
The glimmer in his eye makes your stomach flip flop. He looks so good like this, hair tussled and a baby on his hip.
"Hopeless," you agree.
The other other men start chatting, heading in towards the house, but Atsumu heads to you.
"Baby, this one right here is my favorite girl in the world," he gestures to Kita's daughter, "Stormy girl, this is my girlfriend. Say hi."
"Hi, Miss Girlfriend," she says, "Nice to meet you."
"Aww, you have such nice manners," you say, "It's nice to meet you too, Stormy."
"That's not really my name. Uncle Atsumu is just silly." She wriggles until he lets her down, "Wanna see my baby sister? She's too tiny to walk, so we gotta go to her."
"Please say yes-" Atsumu whispers not so quietly, "I've been dying to hold this stupid baby."
A warmth overtakes your earlier worries. "I'd love that."
-
Hours later, after everyone has arrived and dinner is long finished, the whole group is gathered in the living room. Aran, Suna, Kiba- you almost have their names down - are all reminiscing about high school as their partners mingle to themselves. Atsumu is on the couch, pinned in place by a sleeping six year old across his lap and a fussy baby in his arms. Somehow, he still looks peaceful and content.
"I hate to admit it," Osamu saddles up beside you, qine glass in hand, "Baby head does have a good smell."
"Yeah," you agree.
"About your concern earlier... He'd marry you today if he could," Osamu continues quietly, "He's been telling Ma about how much he loves you."
An elbow bumps against your side. "He's not afraid to say it like you are."
You titter a bit over that, embarrassed but glowing at the thought of being loved back, "I'll say it soon."
"Just be careful," Osamu takes a long drink, "He's gonna have baby fever for the next month, so you better set an alarm for birth control or whatever."
You look at your boyfriend as he stares down at blissed out smile.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! I knew I'd be able to finish this in time (casually rushed to finish the ending to post this but shhhh)
This fic acts as a sort of sequel to Back At The Beginning and Fishing Trip, with references to those to works mixed throughout. You might be able to read it without that context, but just in case here are the links to them:
Back At The Beginning - Fishing Trip
Thank you all so much for a wonderful year and I can't wait to write more fics in the coming one <333
First - Second - Third - Fourth - Fifth LADs Masterlists
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Coarse sand holds you gently in a damp cradle. The tide comes in low. Laps lazily over your tail. Deposits sand softly at your sides.
The sun is burning hot. It beats down harshly. Unforgiving. Presses on your back, on your neck, the side of your face. Claws into your skin. The lapping water is your only refuge. You’re too tired to even crawl back into it.
You’re beached. Stuck in the sand. Weak. Exposed. Your kind can live on the surface, have grown to adapt to the world above - but you haven’t. Haven’t cared to. Your species was massacred by these land folk; the last thing you wish to do is join their ranks.
But it’s exactly those land folk that are the problem. You’re on their beach, their land. Helpless. Defenseless. They spot you. Shout, call out, run over. You can’t wriggle more than two inches into the path of the waves.
They grab you. Wrap you up in nets to drag you further up the beach, away from the water you call home.
It’s a spectacle. More and more gather around in awe, pulling out their little pocket boxes and shoving them in your face with clicks and flashes of light. Some of them pet you like you’re some land mongrel, running their hands along your tail, touching your delicate fins with grubby fingers. You want to scream. Each violating touch burns worse than the sun.
An ugly vibration, like the boats you’re so familiar with, rumbles down the sand to reach you. Then another. And another. More humans pour out, all coming to stare at you. Touch you.
You’re completely trapped. Surrounded. You can’t hope to wiggle free of these nets. When you try, their hands pin you down into the sand with laughter and exclamations. You can’t cry, either. Can’t allow yourself to, for fear your tears will draw their interest more.
Another manmade machine rolls onto the beach. When they open the back, you expect more humans. But it’s empty.
No - it’s a temporary cell to contain you.
They roll your body onto a tarp and haul you into the back of the machine. Two humans help to slide you in, dragging you along. As they leave, they drag their hands along your skin, along your tail, along your scales. The doors shut with a loud clang that reverberates all around. And you’re left in the dark.
The engine vibrates your body. Rattles your mind. It starts to move and you feel every bump it goes over. You feel sick. Soon enough, you can’t smell the water. Can’t taste the salt in the air. You’re too far from home, torn away from it just as your kind had been in the past. It’s been through pure luck and perseverance that you have survived so long, but perhaps it was foolish to believe you could escape the same fates your brethren fell to.
The heat of the sun fades. The harsh metal surrounding you is cold. You feel weak. So drained. Your body shivers like it never has before. Chills that wrack up your spine, raising bumps all along your skin. Your stomach churns with the motions. Twists until you heave what little contents it held. The stench of partially digested fish and stomach acid burns your nose. It’s all you can do to angle your head away from it.
Time means nothing in here, but you try your best to count down the minutes. The last minutes of your life, before your scales are plucked one by one while they drain your blood. Or before they cut off your tail for a trophy. Even the fins on your ears won’t be safe. Torn off. The inspiration for a new line of fashion for these humans.
Something slams hard into the side of the metal. Your body is forced to the other side in the impact, skipping into the wall. Your arms take the brunt of it, tied down to your sides, but your head gets knocked, too. Your vision spins, mind reeling as you try to make sense of everything going on. The machine is no longer moving. There's loud bangs coming from outside.
The door is ripped open quickly. Light pours in, flooding the cold darkness once more. You flinch away from it. Blink at the silhouettes that reach out and grab the tarp you lay crooked on. They roughly pull you from the machine. Grab onto you, onto the nets, as they lift you up just to shove you into a separate machine. It's remarkably similar to the first, but several people crouch in the back alongside your body. They help the others set you inside. Hold you steady as the back slams shut and the machine is moving once again, faster than the first.
-
You've lost count of the minutes by the time the machine stops. Voices come muffled from outside. They're suddenly made clear as the large doors are opened and fresh air rushes inside.
Humans speak a language you can't understand. You never bothered to learn. Never wanted to let your language be colonized and destroyed. You wish you had tried to learn, at least. Maybe then you’d understand what was happening.
The tarp slides with you on it. Dragged out of the back of the truck and lowered to the ground. The sun is much higher now. You blink up at it, blinded by its light after so long in the dark.
Shadows obscure it as a human circles you. He's appraising you. He stares carefully down the length of his nose at your tail. Bends down to touch a spot along it, where the area between a few of your scales was damaged by a fishhook almost a year before. He scowls at that.
More humans stand around to watch. They’re all dressed in dark clothes, hands behind their backs.
The human grabs your tail fin and fans it out, assessing the slight tattering its suffered over the countless years. Even still, it’s ethereal and flows like silk. The human drags his fingers along the edges. You flick your tail out of his hands. He looks down the line of your body at your face and the exhausted glare you give him.
He slowly rounds the side of your body. Takes measured steps until he reaches your head. He crouches down, arms resting lazily on his thighs. His eyes trace over your features with a growing smirk, tilting his head to the side. He reaches out to touch the delicate gills lining your neck. You squirm to get his hand away, stop him touching your way of breathing underwater. It’s like a foul taste on your tongue; you know you will taste the grime and dirt from the human’s fingers if ever you’re given the chance to submerge yourself once more.
He laughs as he pulls his hand away. Says something you don’t understand, but looks at you as though he expects an answer. Speaks again, insistent, louder, slower. Chuckles when you say nothing again.
He flicks the fin on your ear. You try to bite his hand, but you can’t hope to reach. He only finds amusement in your futile attempts to fight back.
He stands and steps over you to talk with some of the other humans. They talk for so long. You’re so tired. You stare, try to keep watch, try to stay awake.
But your body gives out. Your eyes flutter shut. Mind fades into the darkness of sleep. You can’t fight against the sickness this day brings any longer.
-
It was all over the news: Lemurian Washed Up On Beach, No Longer Extinct?
Footage from newscasters and phones flooded the internet. The breaking news was printed out and sold on every street corner, drawing the attention of people on their daily commute. Some thought it was an elaborate hoax; an animatronic or something, covered in silicone skin and scales.
Sylus knows it's real. He recognized the creature from a year ago, from his strange night fishing escapade. He couldn't find a good angle of their face, but those scales are recognizable. He can still feel the force of that tail against his ribs some days, especially after a hard workout.
He also knows the disgusting leech that rammed the van and stole it. The opportunist that called for a once-in-a-lifetime auction across every black market.
Sylus has no intention of allowing anyone else to buy them.
The crowd around the tank is claustrophobic. Men in suits and women in dresses, all gathered around to get a peek at the creature within. He's tall enough to see over their heads, but even then he only catches glimpses of the curled up form squeezed into the bottom, trying to hide away from the cameras and stares.
"Alright, alright, back up! The bidding's about to start!" The man in charge is grinning so wide his face could split in half. His chest is puffed out, hands on his lapels. So damn proud of himself. It ignites a fire in Sylus's chest to watch him knock on the glass, to see the creature flinch within.
Everyone is eager to get in their seats and raise their paddles. He can see the way their hands tighten around them. The mental planning for how much money they're willing to put down. The bidding has only just begun when Sylus half-raises his hand. "500 million."
Eyes turn to look at him. This behemoth in the back, leaning up against a pillar as though he owns the place. Shocked whispers titter between the crowd. Moguls who recognize him and anxiously whisper to their peers.
The man in charge only smiles wider. The auctioneer glances at him. With a nod, they continue. "The standing bid is 500 mil. Does anyone else have a higher offer?"
Sylus can't be bothered to watch the crowd. The shifting, awkward waiting game. The will-they-won't-they. No, his eyes are fixed on the tank. On the Lemurian within. It's so narrow, their back is almost touching the very bottom, and their tail is arched around and over them, pressing against the walls and obscuring their face, hidden within a protective cocoon from the world trying to peer in. He imagines the face he saw that night. The exhausted glare in the moonlight.
"No further bids?" the auctioneer calls. But no paddles raise. "Going once. Going twice... Sold, to Mr. Qin!" They bang their gavel on the pedestal and a wash of disappointment crashes over the crowd. They never even got to say they bid on the creature; their lame involvement in history, stolen out from under them.
He slips away. Heads around the side corridors to the backstage where they've already wheeled the tank. The man in charge leans casually against it, an associate with a tablet standing nearby. "You won't regret your purchase, Mr. Qin."
He's silent as he passes his black card over to the associate. She quickly scans it and passes it back with a bow. He glares at the man. "I believe you're touching my property," he growls.
The man straightens up right away. His grin only falters for a second. "Yes, of course." He holds out his hand. "Pleasure doing business with you."
Sylus jerks his head slightly. Two crow-masked figures come from behind to start wheeling the tank toward the exit. He turns and walks ahead, leaving the man's outstretched hand hanging in the air.
He uses his Evol to transfer the cylindrical tank into the armor-plated truck, to ensure there’s no unnecessary jostling of the creature within. It doesn’t move, regardless. This close, sitting on the floor beside the tank, he can see the small scales that form along its arms and creep up its neck to freckle its face. Its brows are pulled tight in discomfort.
As the Twins drive the truck back to base, he makes rushed preparations for his private indoor pool to be drained and the chlorinated water replaced with salt water. He makes strict specifications for the ratio to be exactly the same as the water in the harbor. On the temperature, as well. Until this craze calms down, the least he can do is offer comfort and safety.
-
You're being tipped. Tilted sideways. Water rushes out above you.
You try to hold on, try to use your tail to press you so tight against the glass that the tide can't drag you with it. But it's too slippery. You rush out with the water and-
Splash!
You're... in more water?
You're still fighting off the final dredges of sleep and the rush of adrenaline as you try to gain sense of your surroundings.
It's not the ocean - but it tastes just as salty. The water you were in before was stagnant and unpleasantly sweet. And this water is cool; not cold, but not overly warm either. It feels so refreshing against your skin and scales.
The walls are covered in some sort of patterned tile. Darker blue squares converge toward the top while lighter tiles sink down to the floor. Speaking of, the floor slopes up on one end where it becomes shallow. You naturally shift away from it to rest at the bottom at the deepest point.
There are figures and reflections at the surface. You can see the impression of people, peering over the side into your new container.
But you're so tired. This place - wherever or whatever it may be - feels so nice. So close to home. The floor isn't sandy and coarse, but it's so slick and smooth and cool against your body, it soothes away the lingering fever.
You curl up into a tight little ball, hugging your tail to yourself as you let the cursed effects of the day pull you into a sickly sleep once more.
-
It's the scent of fish that wakes you.
Ebb Day has good and truly passed, and your hunger is all-consuming.
You peek open an eye and seek out the source of the smell. The bright scales of a red snapper twitch and shimmer in the overhead light. Someone is holding it at the edge, shaking it under the water.
The second they let it go, you burst forth. With one kick of your tail, you charge for the fish. Grab it with greedy fingers. Your tail breaks the surface, roughly splashing water at the mortal, before you retreat back to the bottom to eat your prize.
It's not alive, but it is fresh. You take large chomps from its body. Pick at the bones until they're clean. Until all that's left is the tail fin, the head, and the bones between.
You watch the rippling figure above. They're holding another fish in the water, shaking it to draw your attention. Like you're some pet.
They release the fish. This one, a brown cod, sinks downward. The mortal stays crouched there, watching.
The codfish hits the floor. You slowly rise to the surface. You poke your head out, until your eyes are above the water line.
The mortal is soaking wet, dripping in water. He doesn't seem too bothered by it, however. The only annoyance he seems to have is the hair dripping into his eyes, that he pushes back as it falls. He looks familiar. Much different to the humans that crowded you on the beach. White hair and red eyes. Where have you seen such a thing before?
He speaks, but you don't understand it. He tilts his head. Squints his eyes in thought. Then says a name. Your name. How the hell does he know your name? You've never told any mortal your name before. In all your centuries in earth's oceans, you've never spoken to a mortal! The only creature outside the water you spoke to was...
But he doesn't have wings. Or horns. He couldn't possibly be that same creature.
The mortal straightens up slightly, smirking. "So it is you," he says - and you can understand him. He speaks your language. A language you haven't heard in centuries. It shouldn't be possible.
"Don't recognize me?"
He snaps his fingers. Red-black energy coalesces around him. It reaches out from his back, growing into massive wings. Swirls like two upside down tornadoes on his head until they form horns. A tail of smoke curls around by his feet.
You stare wide-eyed up at him. It couldn't possibly be...
You raise slightly from the water. Uncovering your nose and mouth, until your chin brushes the surface.
"... Stayrus...? I thought you were a fiend..." Your language feels rough on your tongue. When was the last time you spoke? It seems like ages ago.
The energy fades away, leaving the wet mortal before you. He smiles wryly, like there's a pain in the answer to your confusion. "You're more... feral since the first time we met."
You scoff. It's strange the security you feel as you tread closer to the edge, to him. He shifts, too, sitting cross-legged with a grunt as his knees pop. "I had to be," you say lowly. "My brethren were massacred. I had to stay safe."
He hums his understanding. "You're safe here," he promises. "It's too dangerous to release you right now. People will be scouring the harbor for more of your kind."
"They won't find any others."
"They don't know that." He grabs the bucket beside him. Ice crunches and slides within as he lowers it to you. You grab the edge curiously, peeking inside. More fish, layered on each other. He nearly chuckles at the eagerness with which you grab another snapper and bite into it. "Anything you need, let me know. I'll take care of you until it's safe again."
You look up at him, scales spattering your cheeks and lips, cheeks puffed with fish meat. "Why?"
His eyes glance down to your arm before he even realizes why. There's no marks left behind; not from him, anyway. "Let's just say I'm returning the favor."
"Well." You swallow, glaring into the bucket. "I don't like cod."
He chuckles. "Noted."
"And I want sand. It's too smooth at the bottom."
"Alright. Anything else?"
You take another bite. He watches, fascinated with the animalistic way you pick apart the snapper. Pushing aside fins to get to the body, licking at the innards and around bones, dipping it into the salt water to wash away scales that come loose. It's adorable to see your finned ears pin themselves back with every bite, staying out of the way before they relax open again.
He tries to reconcile this version of you with the one from his past. The Lumerian that danced around him in the water, giggling and soft and carefree. Now you have scars; bites and scratches that tell stories on your skin. Your eyes don't sparkle, they glare. They assess everything around you in search of danger.
The demise of the Lumerians is no mystery to him. Their impact on the world has been forgotten at best, and at worst romanticized, as though their end was a mere trick of fate and not an intentional slaughter. He can only imagine the terror. The things you must have done to survive.
You look down into the water, spinning around in place to figure out what else you want in your little makeshift ocean. All the things that come to mind - namely other life - could only be obtained by harming your real home. You can't bring coral and anemones here without causing damage.
So you shake your head and drop the carcass of the fish on the floor beside him. He raises a brow at it, but says nothing. You grab one of the cold ice cubes from the bucket and bring it to your nose. It doesn't smell like anything. When you lick it, it doesn't taste like anything either, but the cold is strange to you, after living in such warm climates and migrating before winter sets in. You bite down on it.
Sylus laughs at the wide eyed look you adopt as it crunches and melts in your mouth. You stare up at him like a newborn fawn. "It's hard!"
"It's frozen water."
You take another chomp of the ice. "I like it!"
He smiles. There's the Lemurian he remembers.
-
You duck under the surface of the water and glare as two strange-looking humans carry large bags into the room. They set them down in piles beside the water. Long beaked faces follow you every time they leave to get another bag. Sylus comes to the side of the pool and crouches down. The strangers come back. You glare at them.
"They're not going to hurt you," Sylus assures.
One of the strangers startles, nearly dropping the bag. They say something, but you can't understand it. Sylus responds in that same language. You look at him, silently asking for answers.
"Luke was surprised by this language. They've never heard it before. I told them it's Ancient Philosian, a dead language."
You frown. "It's not dead - we speak it!"
He smirks. "And we're probably the only ones. So long as it's out of circulation, it's considered dead."
You frown deeper. He watches your ear fins droop in the water. "That means I know two dead languages… I don't know any other way to speak."
The strangers suddenly peer over Sylus's shoulders. You startle back from them, to the other side of the pool. Sylus sighs and tells them something. They say something back. Then Sylus. In the end, the two strangers lift masks from their faces and reveal a proper human face underneath. They look exactly the same, down to their messy bright-red hair and curious eyes.
"This is Luke," Sylus introduces, gesturing to the human on his left, "and Kieran." He gestures again to his right.
You stare at them. Sylus says something and they crouch down on either side of him, mirroring him. There's no resemblance between them and Sylus, and yet the way they act is so similar to each other. You hesitantly raise your mouth above the water. "Are they your kids?"
Sylus laughs, startled by the question. The two boys look at him, shaking his arms as they speak to him, no doubt asking what you've said that has him cracking up so much. Eventually he shakes his head, still grinning. "Not quite. They work for me."
"They act like you."
He grins. "I hadn't noticed."
Luke suddenly begins rifling through his dark clothes. Sylus's brow furrows as he watches. Kieran peers around him to watch, too. Kieran says something. Luke responds, and pulls out a crinkled bag from his pocket with a wide, toothy smile. He opens the bag and pulls out something, and hands it to Sylus.
Sylus says something to Luke. Luke shrugs. They all turn back to you. Sylus holds out the thing in his hand to you. "Luke remembered he had candy in his pocket and he wondered if you might try some."
You look at Luke, who's trying really hard to look harmless and innocent. Kieran peeks his head over Sylus's to talk to Luke, who rifles through the bag again and puts some candies into Kieran's hand. Kieran pops one into his mouth.
It looks harmless enough… You swim back to their side of the pool, still uncertain, ready to bolt at any second away from these kids. You reach up and take the candy. It's shaped strangely, into the shape of some land creature. It squishes in your fingers, but it looks like shiny sea glass. You put it into your mouth.
It's weird. You've never had anything quite like it before. And it tastes unlike anything you've ever tasted. You're not sure if you like it. You frown and shake your head up at him. "Too squishy."
He relays it to Luke who pouts. Kieran seems delighted, however, as he pulls out a crinkled bag of his own. Sylus says something, seemingly incredulous, as Kieran pulls a candy from his bag and holds it out to you without thinking. You flinch away from the suddenness of it, and he pulls back slightly, saying something you don't understand.
But the other one didn't try to poison you or anything, and Sylus seems to trust them a lot. Before he can pass the candy over to Sylus, you reach out for it. He tries not to look too over-excited as he puts it in your hand.
This one is still colorful, a bright red, but it doesn't squish. You put it into your mouth and bite down immediately with a loud crunch. It's not as fun as the ice, you think, but every bite down seems to release a new burst of flavor. What flavor, you don't know, but it's a good one. You nod eagerly up at them.
Kieran cheers and says something over Sylus's back. Luke groans and says something sharply back. Sylus gets them to settle down again. He sighs as he explains, "They were arguing about whose candy is better."
"It didn't taste bad," you defend Luke's candy, "it's just too squishy."
"I like them," he says with a shrug. "It has an interesting texture."
You eye Kieran as you drift closer to him. He blinks down at you, stunned, before holding out the bag of his candy. He tries to angle it so you can peer inside. When you look, there's multiple different colors. You glance back at him as you reach in. He doesn't pull it away. You grab another candy of a different color and pop it into your mouth.
"This one's sour!" you look wide-eyed up at Sylus.
He smiles. "It's yellow, that usually means it's lemon-flavored, and sour." He tilts his head. "I have an idea, if you're interested. When we dump the sand from those bags into the water, it's going to need time to settle at the bottom. While we wait, you can try out foods from the surface. How does that sound?"
You frown around the crunchy bits of your candy. "I would have to get out."
"It helps the sand settle faster if the water remains undisturbed."
The thought makes you uncomfortable. You know sand can be fickle, but you've only just gotten your salty water back! You don't want to be out of it for too long. You subconsciously sink down into the water, until your chin dips under the surface and your ears flick water down over the scales on your neck.
Luke shakes his arm and says something. Sylus talks to them both lowly in their own language. It goes on for a few minutes, before Sylus stands and pulls out his mini pocket box. He doesn't go far, just to the other side of the large room, to hold it up to his ear and talk into it.
Luke waves his hand to get your attention. He digs into Kieran's candy bag and pulls out a bunch of candies in a handful that clearly upsets Kieran. Luke is grinning wide and excited, as he holds a candy up, and tosses it in the air. It comes down in a clean arc, caught in his mouth.
Kieran seems to join in on the excitement. He nudges his twin's shoulder and makes a gesture. Luke tosses up another candy and Kieran leans back to catch it in his mouth. They both turn to you. Luke picks up a color you haven't had before and makes a small gesture to suggest tossing it.
Is this how humans have fun? You remember something similar from your childhood, a very long time ago. Your siblings would take turns tossing shells and rocks to each other, but never anything edible like this.
You nod, eyes fixed on the candy.
It goes up.
It comes down.
And splashes in the water behind you. You dip under to grab it and put it into your mouth. This one is a very strange flavor, that you can only describe as the color that it is: blue. You gesture to them to do it again.
The next couple you also miss. One bounces off the corner of your mouth and one wasn't your fault because it was tossed too short.
This one is a bit too high. It's perfectly arched to go over your head. With a kick of your tail, you lift yourself out of the water and intercept its path, catching it in your mouth at last.
The twins cheer your success, so enthusiastic and bright. You've seen humans like them before, but you'd always been annoyed by their noise. You… don't mind the sound of their laughter. A giggle slips free from your own mouth, unbidden.
Sylus returns, box back in his pocket. He says something to the twins with a raised brow, and they animatedly answer, with gestures that recount your little game. He chuckles with a fond shake of his head, and looks to you. "How would you feel about being out of this water if we put together a smaller pool for you? It's only temporary."
You swim closer to the edge, reaching out to steady yourself on the side without worrying about your proximity to the kids. "Is it enclosed?"
He shakes his head adamantly. "No. It's open, and it should be big enough to fit you. If it doesn't, you can get as much water anywhere as you'd like. How's that sound?"
It's not a tank, at least. That gives you a lot of relief, just knowing it's not a container to trap you. You nod slowly. "I'll try it."
He offers you a reassuring smile before he talks to the boys again. They rush to get to their feet, groaning as they stretch out their legs after crouching for so long. They start to follow Sylus out of the room, but Kieran doubles back to set the bag of candy in front of you. He smiles wide as he runs off to catch up.
You curiously grab the bag. Kicking gently away from the edge, you lean back to effortlessly float along the surface of the water. You reach inside and grab an orange candy and pop it in your mouth. Crunch. You grimace and shake your head. Yuck!
-
Some time later, Sylus returns, alone. You've been staring at the writing on the bag, tracing the shapes of the odd runes on the plastic. The really big ones are curvy and round, while a lot of the little ones are sharp and jagged. Sylus smiles as he kneels down beside the pool again.
"These are words?" you ask him, holding the bag up to point at the runes. He nods. You drift over, tail gently coaxing you through the water toward him. "It's very primitive."
He chuckles. "Humans have a lot of different written languages."
"Do they all look like this?" You turn around as you near the edge. You hold the bag out to him and he accepts it, watching from the corner of his eye as you lean your arms up on the edge.
"Some of them use the same alphabet system, but a lot of them don't. And humans have designed a lot of different appearances for the letters. See? These two words are the same, but they look completely different."
You lift yourself up to look at the bag as he points to two separate instances of a word. You frown. "Humans are weird."
The bag crinkles as he looks inside. All that's left are the orange candies, sticking together from the wetness of the water that managed to get inside. He makes a mental note to buy Kieran some more.
You watch him carefully close the bag back up, fold it over, and tuck it into his pocket. "We set up the pool for you. It's even got sand in it. I can carry you over there, if you're ready."
You take a breath. You really can't stay in here when the sand is settling. "I guess I am."
He holds his arms out to you and waits for you to reach out in return. His skin is warm as he ducks down and allows you to circle your arms around his neck, but his hands are rough as one rests against your spine. He lifts you up at the same time he reaches his other hand down, prepared to gather your tail on his arm.
"Careful you don't cut yourself," you warn quickly.
He shoots you a smirk as you're fully lifted into his arms. "Don't worry, sweetie. I can heal."
"You couldn't before." Your tail hangs down loose over his arm as he stands to his full height and carries you away from the pool. The air cools the water on your scales quickly. Your fins shimmer and sway with every step he takes, so long they brush his ankle as he walks. He pays it no mind.
"I was unconscious before," he reminds you with a tsk. "I've had far worse than some scratches and a kick to the ribs."
You look him over. From what skin you can see, he looks completely unscarred. Not a blemish or scratch anywhere. Compared to your own skin, which has indents from long-healed bites, faint outlines of scratches, and a trail of marks down your back from that one propeller incident, he's flawless. You pull one arm from around his neck to look at it, turning it over, searching for marks you know are no longer there. "Is it the same way you healed me before?"
He looks down at your arm, too, brow pinched and lips drawn in a frown. "It is." He averts his eyes, looking back ahead down the strange architecture of his home. "If I'd been conscious in the water that night, I could have healed you after I took the hook out."
You shrug. "It doesn't hurt anymore. And you didn't knock loose any of my scales, so it's alright."
While he doesn't seem fully pleased with that answer, he doesn't say anything else about it. It isn't long before he's turning into another room, completely different from the one you've been in for the last couple of days. The smell of water has you immediately drawn to the large round pool on the floor, filled with about 4 inches of water and a layer of sand at the bottom. It's sides are decorated with silly depictions of seaweed and fish. Luke and Kieran hold their arms out in a flourish beside it.
"What do you think?" he asks. You look up at him again. He looks a bit embarrassed by it, either because of the size or the art on it. His eyes widen when a giggle bubbles up out of you.
You're caught of guard by the laugh that comes after, trying to cover your mouth with your hand to stifle it. His expression slowly eases into a grin, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Sorry!" you giggle out. "I just- I didn't know what to expect when you said 'small pool'!"
He scoffs and lowers you down into the water. It's pleasantly warm, warmer than the big pool had been, and the sand is nice and gritty against your scales. It's like finally being able to scratch an itch you can't reach; you fit your whole tail into the small space with a sigh of relief. Even digging your fingers into it, despite how little sand there actually is, brings you so much peace. You can't wait for the big pool to have sand in it. You're excited just thinking about it.
Sylus says something to the twins. They both salute, mirroring each other, and race back down the way you just came. "They're going to pour the sand into the pool. Knowing them, they've probably decided to make a competition to see who can do it faster."
He steps around the pool and you get a good look of where you actually are. There are strange barriers that crop out of the wall and sit in the middle of the floor. Round things sit atop three long legs, set up beside the middle barrier. Sylus is much taller than all of it; they only come up to just below his waist.
He moves things around on top of the barriers, and returns with a bowl of ice cubes. Once he passes it down to you, you see a bunch of shrimp settled on top. Your eyes light up as you grab one and bite into its body. He settles on one of the three-legged things.
"No shell?" you ask, turning the shrimp over in your hand curiously. It's strange not to have to peel them open like you're used to; you've gotten so in the habit of separating shell from flesh in your mouth. In the ocean, you'd simply spit out the shell, just like scales from fish. You look up at him as you put the tail in your mouth.
"No shell."
You hum, just a small sound, and go back to eating your shrimp. These are bigger than you're used to, but they're just as good, and without a shell to peel you start shoveling them into your mouth.
"You don't have to rush," he assures you. "No one's going to take your food here."
You didn't even notice. You stare down at the last shrimp in the bowl and manually chew slower, trying to savor the rare treat. Once your cheeks are no longer full, you eat the last shrimp. But the real delight is the ice cubes. You grab one and bite it in half with a hard crunch. The cold hits your tongue and cheeks sharply, breaking into bits that melt into nothing more than water.
You hold one up to Sylus. He hesitates, then takes it from you. He's never really eaten ice before, always preferring proper meals and plain water over the enthusiasm some people have for it. But you look at him so expectantly; he can't exactly refuse.
He mimics your actions, biting the ice in half at the side of his mouth. It breaks apart, chilling his tongue as it melts. He still can't understand the appeal. He pops the other half in his mouth and sucks on it until it melts down into nothing.
You don't seem to have the patience for that. Each piece of ice gets chomped into nothing. You're eating the final cube when the twins come sliding back in, sweating and panting and red-faced from exertion.
They offer another (weaker) salute and say something to Sylus. He says something in return, something that has them standing taller, prouder. He nods toward the tops of the barriers, where you can't see, and tells them something else. They light up and rush around, moving and gathering things.
"They picked out all sorts of foods for you to try," he explains. "They're trying to figure out what to have you try first."
There's a lot of chatter between the two boys. Pointing at things, nodding, shaking their heads, touching their chins. Eventually they land on a big dish of things. They carry it over together, very carefully, before setting it down on the floor. They plop down beside it. Inside the dish is a wide array of shapes and colors and textures. Some are small and smooth. Others are big and bumpy. Luke and Kieran point at them one by one, naming them in their language to you. Sylus does his best to keep up his translations to match their quick pace.
"Strawberry, blueberry, apple, banana, lemon, orange, pear, raspberry, blackberry, cherry, pineapple, melon, durian, peach, kiwi, and grapes." He catches a breath, finally. "They're all fruit."
"Fruit?"
"They grow on trees and vines, and humans eat them when they're ripe. They're also used to make a lot of other foods. The candies you ate were flavored with some of these."
You pick up a yellow wedge and show it to Sylus. "Yellow is sour, right?"
He smiles and nods. "That's lemon. It's sour, yeah."
You stare at it. And take a bite. A chorus of laughter rises as your face squinches tight, lips puckering as you hold the wedge out as far from you as possible. "Too sour!"
-
The sand still hasn't settled yet by the time you've gorged yourself on all manners of human food. You liked the orange fruit better than the orange candy, and kept snacking on the berries and slices of melon between the twins bringing down new dishes and things to try. Bread was soft and pleasant. Chocolate was rich. Ice cream was cold, but it's name was deceptive, because it didn't crunch like ice should. When they'd make-shifted some shaved ice with flavoring, you think you had been blessed by the sea god.
But with the food tasted and your belly full, you're tired. You can't go back into the big pool because of the sand, so you settle instead with curling up in the little one. Your back follows the curve of the wall. Your tail takes up too much space laying down like this, but you hug your arms around it anyway, as your fin flops out the side and onto the floor beneath.
Sylus sends the twins off. You're not sure where to, but they don't say anything back as they leave.
He stands from his seat, near silent save the shifting of his clothes, to sit on the floor behind you. Your natural instincts should fear having him there - a large, imposing human-fiend-thing could easily kill you. But they don't react at all. In fact, having him there to watch over you as you sleep allows your body to relax even more into the thin layer of sand and room-temperature water.
"I miss home," you tell him quietly.
He hums. "I know. You'll be able to go back soon."
You shake your head, but don't bother lifting it. The water swishes gently, disturbed by your movement. "I mean Philos." He doesn't say anything, then. You mindlessly thumb at the divot in your scales, where his hook landed. "There weren't big fishing machines, or garbage in the reefs, or nets." You pause to yawn softly, ear-fins fluttering at the intake of oxygen. "I hate nets."
"Everything was on land, back there. The cities and towns, they all stayed close to shore, never venturing far. And when the wars broke out, it was against other creatures on land… or in the sky… You were safer there than you are here."
"What did they do to you, Stayrus?" You lazily raise your head to look at him over your shoulder. There's a distant pain in his eyes. His face is carefully neutral, too used to giving no emotion away. But you can see it. You can see him.
He stares at you for a moment. Then another. Like he's reliving some terrible thing in his mind and deciding whether it can be formed into words.
Then he shakes his head, and the pain is replaced with a slight smirk. "Get some sleep, sweetie."
You sigh, too tired to beg him to share his suffering. You rest your head back in the water, forehead pressed to your cool scales, and allow the exhaustion to carry you toward sleep.
Sylus traces the shape of your back with his eyes. The line of your spine, rising and falling with breaths, and the row of scars there. The tangles of your hair, unaccustomed to being dry. It's mesmerizing how the scant light left in the kitchen shimmers over your scales and fins. They become almost iridescent, or perhaps opalescent, shifting when he moves his head. Prettier than any gem sitting in his vault.
He scowls at the thought, imagining all the things that could have been done to you had he not brought you here. He knows the truck that picked you up originally was full of marine biologists trying to transport you to an aquarium or marine life institute for study. While they may not have intentionally caused you harm had they brought you there, the publicity would have driven your treatment more than anything else. Families would scramble to visit your exhibit and take photos of you through the glass. You'd have no one to communicate with. No one who would listen to your plight. Extorted as a rare fish, once thought extinct.
And then what could have happened if that man hadn't decided to auction you off. Sylus knows his kind well; he would have kept you on display. Esteemed guests would be invited to listen to him tell the story of how he acquired you while you stagnate in a tank too small for you, like a specimen to be preserved in formaldehyde.
And if he hadn't bought you at the auction, what all those other people could have done. Pluck your scales to sell at a quarter of a million a piece. Remove your tail and have it taxidermied for a trophy. Drain your blood and discover if the mystical properties it's said to hold are true. Violate you for research or pleasure.
He has to stop thinking of it. The fact of the matter is that you're here now, being kept as comfortable as he can manage until things calm down. The media is still stirring, all abuzz over the hijacked truck and your sudden disappearance from the world. The beach is crawling with people at all hours hoping to discover the next Lemurian to wash up. Boats in staggering numbers trawl the waters, hoping to catch a Lemurian of their own. A good number of other humans are lining up with signs, shouting protests. At least some of them are sensible.
Still, his money can move protections along a lot faster.
He lifts himself up on one arm to slip his phone from his pocket. It only takes a few moments to find the right numbers. A few more to send his proposals. He'll need to properly call back later, but something uncomfortable stirs in him at the thought of leaving you alone in such a vulnerable state. So he stays.
He stays.
-
Luke and Kieran visit you in your pool often, once the sand has settled. They usually bring new human foods to try, but they bring games, too.
Strange devices that shoot water are used to engage in a water war, you versus them. You win, easily, leaving them soaking wet and laughing.
A round, colorful sphere that you toss back and forth, hitting it up into the air and to each other, creating rules as you go. You're most fascinated by it when it lands in the water. The way it floats along the surface catches you. It's like the human machines that glide along the water, or the trash that floats on the waves. When you try to push it under the water, curious to know if it would sink, it flies up out of the water with a splash! And then plops back on the surface. For a moment, you're so mesmerized you forget the twins are watching as you push it deeper and deeper, sending it flying higher and higher as it rushes back to the surface. You lay your body over it, seeing how long you can block its path, and it slips past you at the slightest teetering. You haven't laughed like this since you were a child.
You've just breached the surface to retrieve the ball once more when Sylus's voice speaks in the surface-language to the twins. He's still walking over from the doorway, dressed in dark colors with a jacket slung over his shoulders. Eyes fixed on you with an amused quirk to his lips.
"Having fun?" he asks you next. He crouches down by the twins. They sit side by side at the edge of the pool, maskless and beaming.
You nod enthusiastically. "Watch this!"
You dive down to the bottom of the pool, ball held firmly in your arms. You set it in the layer of sand... and let go.
As it races to the surface, you race after it. It breaks free, shooting up to the surface. With a powerful kick of your tail, you trail after it, following its path through the air. You grab it, flip over yourself, and dive back into the pool. The ball slips from your hands when you hit the water. It rocks along the ripples of your dive, butting up against the side of the pool.
You stick your head out to the sound of the twins smacking their hands together and shouting loud things. But it's not from malice or fear; you can tell by their wide grins it's from excitement. Where you would normally flinch away and hide from the sounds, you feel no need to.
Sylus's hair is dusted in a fine mist of water. It beads up along the shoulders of his jacket and the exposed skin of his arms, but he doesn't brush it away. He claps a few times along with the twins, softer, but no less proud.
You drift over, grabbing hold of the pool's edge in front of him. This close, you can see something strange in the look on his face. Like, underneath that lopsided grin, there's a solemn sadness. Grief for something you fear he's about to tell you. You frown up at him, tilting your head curiously.
He sighs. He knows you've seen right through him.
Turning his head to the boys, he says something in their language. They haven't noticed the shift in mood underneath their rapturous joy. They hop up to their feet, gesturing wildly and chattering without pause as they walk out of the room. The sound leaves with them. The quiet lapping of water at the edge and over the side is the only thing that remains.
"Stayrus?" you whisper, afraid to break the oppressive silence closing in.
He smiles a little wider, half-reassuring. He takes a breath. "I bought the harbor. With my organization controlling who's allowed in its waters and on its beaches, poachers have stopped trying to look for more Lemurians. We'll continue monitoring visitors and boats, but it's safe now. Just say the word, and we'll take you home."
Home.
The word has you reeling. Home. Where coral grows wild and fish dart past. Home. Where tides flow in and out, dragging you back and forth in a gentle motion. Home. Where you can swim on forever and never be trapped by walls.
Home...
Where Stayrus can't follow.
Your heart catches in your throat. You can't stay here forever. Your home is in the ocean and her rolling waves, not a pool and certainly not on land. You always had to go home eventually - you just never expected it to hurt so much.
"I..." Words feel strange. Too large in your throat. Too heavy on your tongue. And they weigh even more when you watch his face and how hard he's trying to conceal his own desires to keep you here. But he's not the kind of man to exert his will on you like that. No matter how terribly he wishes you would stay, he's letting you go. "I want to go home..."
He nods. Exhales like he was holding his breath for an impossible answer. "Tonight." He stands slowly, offering one last smile and a calm, "I'll ensure everything is ready," before he turns and leaves.
And then it's just you, the calming water's surface gently caressing your arms, and the ball floating on the opposite side of the pool.
-
The trip is quiet. Heavy with the weight of goodbyes. The twins ride in the back with you, kneeling by the wall of your big open-top tank. They're uncharacteristically quiet. Unable to find the right words to say, even if you didn't understand them. Kieran traces shapes against the glass. Luke fidgets, distantly counting the turns with nervous glances to the door.
Sylus drives careful. More careful than he ever has in his entirely life. Just under the speed limit, taking curves gently, wincing at bumps. His eyes scan for danger. Hands grip the wheel like he'll plummet off a cliff if he doesn't hold on.
Every time the machine slows down, your heart flips anxiously in your chest. You try to count the seconds. The minutes. You lose track of time before you even begin; it feels like hours have gone by in the same time it moves too fast.
You want to go home - you do. But the thought of going home had become so foreign in your time on land. You were already saying your final farewells when you were hauled off the hot sand; you never truly expected to see it again. Or smell the salty sea air as you get closer and closer. Or hear the water calmly drifting up and down the beach.
The machine rolls to a stop and the engine stops purring. The twins grow still. Both staring at the door, waiting for it to open.
With a thunk and a creak, the door pulls open, and Sylus stands at the entrance looking only slightly more put together than Luke and Kieran. He jerks his head and the boys obey, standing up slowly, dragging out the time for as long as they can. Luke turns back first. You push your upper body out of the water. He rushes straight back, throwing his arms around you and pulling you close.
He's warm and soft. The water from your tank soaks through his hoodie. Your instincts flare up and immediately die down, and you wrap your arms around him in return. You feel his body shudder underneath your hands. Breaths that come out choppy and rough, with sniffles and coughs that try to cover up more broken sounds. You squeeze him even tighter.
Kieran comes up beside him and doesn't wait before embracing both of you at once. His arm wraps around his brother's shoulders and your lower back, where skin ends and scales begin. Both of their heads land on your shoulders, one on each side. You can smell the human on them. Smell the earth and air on their skin and clothes. You breathe it in deeply, and wrap one of your arms around Kieran to hug him just as tightly.
When it feels safe to pull away, Luke's face is wet and his eyes are puffy. He wipes his nose on his sleeve with an embarrassed chuckle and words you don't understand. Kieran's own eyes are watery. His chin quivers and throat bobs. When he smiles, those tears break free. He repeats the words, choking on them even as he forces them out.
Over the centuries you've lived, you've always been so scared to cry. For the weakness it brings, lowering your senses and leaving you open to attacks from predators. For the danger it holds, if humans were to ever get a hold of your fallen tears.
And yet, as you watch these two humans, who spent these couple weeks keeping you company, playing with you, eager to teach you about themselves through games and food, crying over you, your eyes begin to sting.
A tear breaks free from your eye. It slips down your cheek, reflecting the light of the moon outside and the lamp within the machine, as it glides down to your chin. It hands on your jaw, trembling, before finally falling into your awaiting palm. Another follows after, before you steel yourself and wipe away the moisture with your other hand.
The boys watch, mouths parted in confusion and awe, as you offer the two pearls formed from your sorrow. They look up at you, unsure what to do at first. You bob your hand at them insisting. Carefully, Luke and Kieran both take a pearl for themselves.
Luke's tears come fast and unstoppable. Kieran shudders around a broken noise. At the same time, they say the same words, emphatic and true. Luke holds the pearl in a fist over his mouth as he struggles to turn and hop out of the back, beside Sylus who watches on silent and knowing. Kieran holds his to his chest, tilting his head back, futilely fighting the oncoming tears, as he follows.
Red and black tendrils of smoke reach out from Sylus. They wrap firmly around the tank and lift it slowly. You try to stay as still as possible, as the tank is carried carefully through the air and settled onto the solid concrete of one of the docks. Sylus comes to your side. His hand rests over yours on the edge.
"Are you ready?"
You glance at the boys. They stand side by side, watching, only a few feet away. "What did they say to me in there?"
Sylus's exhale wavers at the end. "They said, 'We'll never forget you. We love you.'"
Your eyes burn again. Sharp and painful. You look at Sylus with glossy eyes. "How do I say that, too?"
A smile curls the corners of his lips. He leans in, whispering with pronounced enunciation the words the twins told you. You hold onto every syllable like your life depends on it.
You turn back toward them, repeating the phrases over and over in your head, trying so hard not to muddle them up. And, for the first time in your existence, you speak English. It's broken, probably barely correct, definitely mispronounced. But the twins break when they hear it. Sobs rip from their throats. Faces crumple into ugly grimaces as they cry. And you know the meaning came through.
You wipe your face with your hand as you turn back to Sylus and nod, whispering, "I'm ready now."
With a little boost to help get you out, Sylus lifts you out of the water and into his arms. He holds you steadily, cradling you closer to his chest than he needs to as he heads further down the dock. You risk glancing over his shoulder. Luke and Kieran hug each other, hands at the back of the other's head to soothe them through the heartache. You hope, one day, in this lifetime, you get to see them again.
Sylus says nothing as you hide your face in his neck. He just walks a little slower, to give you time.
You recognize the boat at the end. It's the same boat he used when he reeled you in a year ago. It rocks back and forth on the water, waiting patiently. He steps in, careful not to slip, and sets you on the cushioned bench at the back. It rumbles and vibrates as it comes to life. The rope is untied with a show of shadows. You don't look back again as it pulls away from the dock.
You'll be safer further out from land. When Sylus told you of the plan to drive you a few miles off the coast, you didn't mention being able to swim out that far faster than his boat could go. Rather, it was an unspoken agreement that this was just to draw out the time you have together.
This could be the last time you see him for centuries. Meeting twice so soon, one after the other, could be a fluke. You hope not - you have to hope not. You can't imagine waiting so long to see him again. That is, if you'll manage to survive that long a second time.
Moonlight sparkles over the water like fairies dancing on the waves. The moon is large and tinted yellow, warm, welcoming you back toward her domain. Salty air whooshes by, filling your lungs with familiarity. Speckles of water land on your cheeks and arms, making you shiver with anticipation.
There are no other boats around. Just you and him, in the darkness, prolonging the inevitable. In the distance, the glistening lights of the city disappear, replaced by stars and constellations. The motor begins to quieten as the boat slows, coming to a stop over calmer waves slapping against the sides like hands urging it to go away.
And then there is silence. And the weight of goodbyes you don't want to say.
Sylus looks pained as his fingers slip off of the wheel. He flicks a switch. Lights on the outside of the boat come to life, illuminating the dark water around and below. It's deep enough out here that not much can be seen from the surface. A scant kelp forest sways idly in the currents, stretching up to a few feet below the rippling waves. Beckoning you into the water. Beckoning you home.
He turns around with an air of strength, trying to contain the emotions you feel radiating from him. The warm comfort of seeing a friend long thought lost, fading away with each second.
"Will we see each other again?" you ask softly.
He takes in a breath, as though the idea excites him so much, but the crease between his brows says he's too realistic to hope too strongly. "It'll be dangerous for you to come to shore for a while, even with my protection and surveillance. And my enemies - they'll catch on if they see me coming out here too often." He sighs, pained. "I'm a damned fool for not killing everyone at that auction. I've dealt with the main players, but there are still so many..."
You nod slightly. Shoulders sink down. "I understand."
He steps around your tail, sprawled across the deck of the little fishing boat. Your scales shimmer in the moonlight. He appreciates them from afar; it is one treasure he doesn't care to add to his vaults. He holds his hand out to you.
His skin is rough and warm. You hold onto him for as long as you can while he lifts you into his arms and carries you to the side of the boat. Gently, reaching over the side and kneeling down for more stability, you are lowered into the water. Even his carefully curated pool can't compare. The salt is so dense, changing the feel of the water as it laps at your skin and sways your fins. The currents pull you to and fro, calmly tugging you back and forth.
This is home.
You slip underneath the waves. The world above goes silent. The hush of air over the sea, the lapping of waves against metal, muffled and drowned out by the water. It engulfs you. You hear the bubbles of tiny fish swimming to the surface to curiously examine the lights. You hear the kelp swaying back and forth in the currents. You hear your home.
You close your eyes. The surface slips away as you sink deeper and deeper. The gills at your neck open and close, filtering the oxygen from the salt water. Your ears twitch back, pushing water over them to help you breathe. Your skin is soothed by silky soft brushes. Scales cleansed of the touch of humans - cruel and kind and naive. Your heart beats as one with the soul of the ocean once more.
And yet... its pace falters. Stutters and trips over itself.
You open your eyes and look up. Coarse sand brushes the tip of your tail. The light of his boat is distant, casting its light in ripples and beams. Through it, you see a silhouette. A figure peering over the edge, into the water.
Your heart aches. A deep, painful ache.
With a powerful burst of muscle, you kick back to the surface. So fast, when you break through, water splashes around you and Sylus is blinking his surprise.
"What's wrong?" he asks, already leaning forward again to help you. To make everything perfect. To make sure you are happy here.
Air feels too sharp on your tongue. "Stayrus..." He can't stay. No matter what your heart desires, he's a surface dweller. His life is best lived above the water. With Luke and Kieran, and his strange foods, and- and everything he's built up for himself.
He rests his forearms on the side of the boat. Strains so far forward he's nearly eye-to-eye.
You reach out, grabbing onto his arms and shoulders. Pleading through touch for a few seconds more. Beckoning him into the water like stories of merfolk stealing sailors into the depths. And he goes willingly, pushing his feet against the floor of the boat to help as he begins tipping into the waves.
"Swim with me..."
With a splash, he falls headfirst into the ocean. Your greedy hands pull him further from the surface; deep enough the light illuminates the both of you, but shallow enough the seabed is far away.
He blinks several times, silver hair becoming wispy around his head, until they adjust enough to the salt to look at you. Bubbles rise from his nose. His clothes float off his skin. He holds onto you, callused hands resting delicately on your waist, over the transition from scales to flesh. You hold onto his shoulders. Then his face.
He truly is here with you. Joining you in the ocean's depths willingly, not struggling or clawing you away. He holds his breath for as long as he can. Truly, he tries. But as the seconds tip by, the pressure in his lungs grows, until he knows he can't ignore it anymore.
He starts to let go, instincts kicking in to get to the surface. But you hold him firm. Grab hold of his face urgently and pull him toward you.
Your lips find his, clumsy and brief. But he feels the change in an instant. The shift in his lungs. The weight of water instead of air allowing him to breathe. He never knew this was the spell you cast all along. All those centuries ago - lifetimes ago - you saved him with a kiss, even as he lashed out to defend himself.
He releases a shaky breath, bubbles rising from his mouth. "You kissed me."
You huff a laugh. "Yes." The barest hint of a smile plays on your lips. He finds immense relief seeing it again. "Until you reach the surface, you can breathe and speak freely down here."
Your hands slip away from his face. He misses them immediately. The soft touch of your skin not yet readjusted to underwater life. With a bigger smile than before, you kick your tail and swim over his head. Under his legs. Around his body. Surrounding him, playing with him as you once did. He does his best to follow, treading the water to turn around and keep his eyes on you.
The golden light of the boat shimmers over your scales like the glimmer of a dragon's hoard. From the corner of his eye he sees more lights appear; spheres of your own magic, dimmer now than they once were, weaker from disuse and time.
In his chest, overwhelming joy and loneliness fight for dominance. To see you here, free, safe from the humans that want to contain or destroy you, it's incredible. Truly, once in a lifetime. No one else in this century has ever seen a Lemurian as he is able to right now, completely in your element and without fear. And yet, you are still the only one of your kind. You have no like-minded friends down here. No one to keep you company. No one to entertain you. It's only survival. While he doesn't consider anyone truly a friend, he still has Luke and Kieran and Miss Hunter to keep him company. What will you do now that you know what friendship can feel like?
You swirl around him, faster than he can keep up, back to be in front of him. Your tail curls around his legs, fins flowing, brushing against his pants, as you look at him curiously, tilting your head and frowning. "Stayrus?"
He stares at you for a moment. His eyes roam your face, glancing at the scales that litter your skin and the mystical flow of your hair under the water. The scars across your shoulders and chest and arms. Until finally, he comes to a decision.
He reaches out, taking your hand and twining your fingers together. "We'll see each other again," he says, firm with belief.
Your eyes widen. "But you said-"
"I know." He raises his other hand, brushing the back of his knuckles against your cheek. You lean into the touch without hesitation. "I'll deal with anyone who thinks they can hurt you without recompense. I can't..."
"... Can't...?"
He takes a breath of salt water. "I can't leave you alone out here."
It's your turn to stare at him. At the golden gleam in his crimson irises, the hair that floats in front of his forehead, the shift of his clothes being tugged gently in the currents. The mere implication of companionship - however distant, however dangerous - stirs your heart with hope and something deeper. Something scarier.
You hold his cheek as you swim closer, until your bodies have only an inch between them, and your combined hands rest against each of your hearts. His own hand rests at your side, pulling you closer, as his head tips to rest his forehead to yours.
"Swear it," you plea to him. "Promise you'll come back."
And there's no hesitation. No second-guessing himself. No doubting the lengths he'll go to just to see you again. "I swear, I'll come back."
A light forms in your palms, glowing so bright it breaks through the cracks of your fingers. It reaches out like shiny tendrils, glistening with magic as it curls around your wrists, down your arms. It feels strangely warm. Comforting, almost. Slowly, it squeezes you both tight and burns an invisible brand into your arms. Not painful, but secure. And as it pulls away, disappearing like blood in water, you release a shaky sigh. Pearlescent tears form in your eyes, gathering heavily in your bottom lid.
He smiles, honestly smiles. "Save your tears," he whispers. His nose brushes soft against yours as he tilts his head up. His hand rises to cradle your cheek. His lips brush yours. "I'll always find you again."
-
You wait impatiently at the sea floor, sifting sand through your fingers and watching fish swim to and fro about the coral.
You can feel Sylus through your newfound connection. Even so far apart, you sense his emotions; frustration and annoyance and exhaustion. Sometimes, the pain of an injury touches your skin without leaving behind a mark. But you feel other things, too: quiet joy and loneliness and longing. Especially longing. You share it together, the ache of wishing to see each other more often. You're not sure he can feel these things like you do. You hope he can.
You look up at the surface for the billionth time today. Orange and yellow light caresses the choppy waves above, telling of the sunset on the earth's horizon. You follow the light to its fading reach toward shore. Search for any hint of a disturbance at the surface.
You feel foolish. He'll come. He swore he would be here. You can feel his anticipation, merging and fueling your own. You just have to be patient...
-
"I won't tell you again - sit down."
Luke plops back onto the cushion that covers the bench at the back of the boat. Kieran pats his shoulder. "They'll be here, dude, don't worry."
Sylus hasn't looked back since they climbed aboard. His eyes are set on the horizon, at the setting sun and the waves lapping at its warmth. The wind whips his hair back around his head, bangs catching on his lashes and scratching at his forehead. He counts down the kilometers left to get to you.
Kieran leans over the side of the boat, looking down at the white foam cradling the vessel on its journey. The salty air feels strange on his face without his mask. His leg bounces anxiously. He doesn't doubt the boss-man; he's sure you'll be there. But still, it's torture having to come out so far. He and his brother saw the clips of you on the beach, wrapped up in nets with people touching you. Neither of them want you closer, for fear it could all happen again and turn pear-shaped a lot faster with a second sighting.
Luke tries to distract himself with the little cooler at his feet. He nudges it around, sliding it from one foot to the other, back and forth. The ice inside sloshes around with it, clicking and clacking together. There's food tucked in the ice to keep it cold; a soft and hard boiled egg, some fancy sushi, a bit of the fruit you liked. Sylus was adamant there be more ice than food, though. So the rest is tucked into his pockets; candies and chips and a bag of trail mix. He and Kieran have placed bets on whose food will be liked better.
After what feels like forever, the boat finally begins the slow. The motor's pitch shifts as the propellers wind down. Until the engine stops entirely and they're left afloat in the middle of nowhere. The sun waves its final farewell as its last tendrils of light disappear with it behind the curve of the earth.
The choppy waves rock the boat around. Sylus flips the floodlights on.
It's too quiet. When Luke jumps up from the bench to look over the side, he can hear every thud of his boots and the squeak of water from the rubber soles. The thunking of water slapping the sides, as Kieran kneels on the bench itself to peer over.
Sylus looks around. There's no other boats in sight. No other soul who dared to follow him out here. Mephisto is keeping an eye on the comings and goings at the harbor, too, and he's gotten no message from him about suspicious activity.
His heart is racing, more than usual, it seems. It pounds so fast and hard it nearly winds him. When was the last time he was so excited? He can't recall. Can't remember any time when he's felt winded from anticipation.
He takes a breath, hoping to calm himself. His feet carry him to the edge. He can't see anything further than the surface where his lights reach. But his eyes scan the dark, searching for any sign or shadow...
And then he sees it.
A face.
Only for a second, a brief glimpse, before a flurry of water splashes out at him. Hands grab at him, cradling the back of his neck and digging into the fabric of his shirt, as he's pulled over the side of the boat and into the dark waters below.
He can feel the pressure of the water squeezing at his lungs. The power behind the kick of a tail beside his legs. His hands reach out and hold onto a familiar body. He squeezes them, warning them of his lack of air. And then a soft touch to his lips that doesn't part. He feels his lungs relax with the ability to breathe again as he greedily returns the kiss. When they finally part, he opens his eyes...
You're smiling at him. Blinding and brilliant. Pearls slip weightlessly down your cheeks, buoyed by the water to fall to the sand below.
"You came back," you whisper.
He smiles, raising his hands to cradle your face and wipe the precious gemstones away. They float over his knuckles, and he makes no effort to catch them.
