❤︎⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀jo will never be like his father. he was not made to be a deer hunter, far too soft his father had once said. but hes know this since he was a child. its only solidified when he sees you—a white feather hawk tailed deer.
•⠀ masterlist 𓋰 💬 26k wc ─── ᛫ deer hunter!jo x deer!f rea . hurt/comfort, angst, childhood trauma, hybrid au, abuse (past), slow burn, mutual pining, guilt, grief, minor character death, major character death, mentions of blood, injury, virgin jo, virgin reader, loss of virginity, size difference, soft sex, needy!jo, inexperienced jo, inexperienced reader, unprotected p in v, pulling out, kissing, healing. don't copy/translate my work. i only write on tumblr.
The forest was quiet that morning, the kind of quiet that made every snapped twig sound like a gunshot. Jo gripped the rifle tighter than he should have, his knuckles white under the worn leather gloves his father had handed him at dawn.
“Keep your eyes sharp, boy,” his father muttered, breath fogging in the cold air. “Deer hybrids are clever. They look almost human when they want to, but don’t let that fool you. They’re still animals. Prey.”
Jo hated this.
He hated the weight of the rifle in his hands. He hated the eager glint in his father’s eye. Most of all, he hated the way his own pulse hammered with something that felt too much like guilt even before they’d spotted a single track.
“Fresh,” his father said, turning up his nose and sniffing the air. The smell of someone who was scared and trying not to be, floated through the trees. His father whispered, lips curling into a satisfied smirk. He watched the tracks below—small, delicate hoof prints mixed with the faint imprint of human-like feet pressed into the damp soil.
“Young doe. must be female. She’s definitely alone. Perfect for your first real kill.”
Jo swallowed hard. “Maybe we should head back. Storm’s coming.”
His father shot him a sharp look. “Don’t go soft on me now, boy. This is what we do, what our family has always done. Those hybrids took enough from us over the years. Time to balance the scales.”
Jo bit his tongue. He’d heard the stories a thousand times: so many times that he could remember them off the top of his head. How the deer folk had “raided” their crops, how one had supposedly gored a neighbor. But he’d also seen the antlers that hung above the crackling fireplace, carved from the mother of the very hybrid they were probably tracking right now. Balance felt a lot like vengeance wearing different clothes, Jo thought before sighing and pressing his lips together to nod at his father with a small smile. Anything to make sure his father didn’t suspect his real feelings.
Your scent hit Jo first.
Not the sharp musk of regular deer. Softer. Warmer. Something sweet lingered underneath—it curled low in his chest and made his breath catch, made the rifle feel suddenly too heavy, made the guilt bloom wider, darker, like ink dropped in water. Jo froze mid-step, boots sinking into the moss.
And the forest held its breath with him.
He could already picture you—small, trembling, eyes wide and fearful. The way your body would probably soften under threat, the same way it had been taught to soften as prey.
Jo’s grip loosened, just a fraction. The rifle suddenly felt like a betrayal pressed against his own ribs. He wondered, quietly, if when he finally saw you, he would be able to pull the trigger at all.
Or if some sick, ruined part of him would simply want to kneel instead.
His father moved ahead, boots deliberate, breath steady. The man who had taught him that mercy was just another word for weakness. The man whose hands had once pressed those same antlers that hung over the fireplace into 8-year-old Jo’s small palms and said, “This is what we do to what hurts us.”
Jo followed because he always followed. Because he didn’t know what else he was made for. What good are you if not obedient?
But every step felt like sinking deeper into something that wasn’t quite mud.
Then he saw you.
Through the thin veil of branches, half-hidden behind a fallen log draped in moss like an old blanket. Small. Trembling. Your ears—delicate, furred, twitching at every sound—flicked back against your hair. Delicate antlers, barely branched, caught the weak sunlight filtering through the trees. The baby doll dress you wore—far too thin for the morning cold—clung to your frame like it was trying to hold you together. Your legs ended in small cloven hooves that clicked softly against the frozen ground, delicate and wrong in all the right ways, but the rest of you looked heartbreakingly human. Frame wrapped in a tattered coat you’d clearly scavenged from somewhere kinder than these woods, faint tremble running through your hands as you clutched that bundle of foraged roots tight to your chest like it was the last soft thing left in the world.
You looked straight at him.
And Jo forgot how to breathe.
You looked like something that had wandered out of a dream he was never meant to have.
Your hands clutched the hem of your dress, knuckles pale, the fabric bunching as if it could shield you if you just held on tight enough.
The air turned thick, honey-slow, pressing against his ribs until every beat of his heart felt like an unsaid confession.
His father’s voice slid in low and steady beside him, calm as Sunday morning scripture. “Easy shot. Take her, son. First kill’s always the hardest, but it gets easier.”
Jo’s finger hovered over the trigger. The rifle felt impossibly heavy, heavier than the guilt of murdering something so innocent, heavier than the antlers mounted above the fireplace that still watched him every time he sat and drew in this living room. Your eyes met his again, wide and pleading, and something inside him cracked wide open, slow and wet like a wound that had been waiting years to bleed.
He couldn’t do it.
Before his father could react, Jo swung the barrel away and fired into the dirt at your feet. The gunshot exploded through the trees, violent and sudden, ripping the quiet apart like cheap cloth. You bolted, hooves kicking up leaves and frost as you disappeared into the underbrush with a startled cry that lodged itself somewhere behind Jo’s ribs and refused to leave.
“What the hell was that?!” His father roared, grabbing Jo by the shoulder and spinning him around hard enough to bruise. “You missed on purpose!”
“I—I slipped,” Jo lied through his teeth, voice shaking like a leaf in the wind he couldn’t control. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
His father’s eyes narrowed, suspicion sharp as the knife he kept for dressing kills, but he let it go with a low sigh and grunt that still carried warning. “We’ll pick up the trail tomorrow. She won’t get far with that leg print. Looks like she might be limping a little already. Better not miss again.”
That night, Jo lay awake in the cabin, staring at the ceiling until the wood grain blurred into antlers and delicate cloven hooves. Every time he closed his lids, he saw yours again—full of fear and something else, something quieter. recognition, maybe. Like you knew exactly whose blood ran in his veins. Like you’d already learned what men like his father did to things that looked soft.
The next morning, he slipped out alone before dawn, boots quiet on the frost-hard ground, rifle left behind like a sin he wasn’t ready to carry anymore.
The forest felt different without his father’s shadow stretching ahead. Quieter. Heavier. It was waiting for him to choose what kind of monster he wanted to be. Jo was never good at choosing for himself, though.
He moved slow, following the faint trail of small hoof prints and the memory of your scent still clinging to the inside of his lungs. Sweet. Warm. Trembling not just from the frosty November air.
He didn’t know what he would say when he found you.
He only knew he couldn’t let his father be the one to finish what the family had started.
He wondered if you would run when you saw him coming or if you would simply wait, spine already bowing, eyes already softening. Submitting to a fate you had seen take all you knew.
Jo was six when he first saw something beautiful die.
It was not a deer, nor a rabbit.
It was the light in his mother’s eyes.
He remembers the exact moment it flickered out. She had been humming while folding laundry, the sound thin and sweet like early spring air, her hands moving carefully over his small shirts as if keeping them soft could keep him soft too. Then his father’s boots hit the porch heavily. The humming stopped mid-note. Her shoulders drew in, just a fraction, the way yours had behind that fallen log. The light in her eyes dimmed the way dusk takes the last color from the trees—slow, inevitable, leaving only the gray.
Jo had sat near the doorway, pencil still in his small hands, when he watched his father’s hand close around her wrist, not hard enough to bruise where anyone could see, but hard enough that the laundry slipped from her fingers and pooled at her feet like surrender. She didn’t cry out. She never did. just lowered her gaze and whispered something too quiet for Jo to catch, the same way you had clutched the hem of your dress like it could shield you from what was coming.
In every way, you reminded him of his mother. He wondered if he would become like his father and ruin all that's good. all that is made of softness and light.
That night, silence filled the home. His mother moved through the cabin like a ghost learning how to haunt her own body, smiling small and tight when Jo asked if she was okay, the smile never reaching the place behind her eyes where the light used to live. Jo learned then that some deaths don’t always leave blood. They leave empty rooms inside people.
He started practicing the same smile. learned to make his voice steady, even when his hands trembled—learned that you were no good unless obedient.
Years later, the same lesson still sat heavy in his chest as he followed your uneven prints deeper into the trees.
He kept walking, boots sinking slowly into moss that smelled of damp earth and old secrets. The forest felt like it was holding its breath again, waiting to see which version of him would arrive first—the boy who once held warm antlers and cried, or the man still trying to outrun the sound of his mother’s humming cutting off mid-note.
snap.
There you laid, your small frame half-curled against a fallen trunk, coat too thin, antlers catching fractured light. He could see the blood that seeped through your tights, turning white to red. Your eyes lifted, wide and fearful. He had seen this look before; he knew it all too well.
“I’m not…” the words came out cracked, uneven, too quiet for the weight they carried. “I won’t hurt you.”
The words felt stupid the moment they left him. Too gentle for a boy raised on rifles and revenge. Too soft for the son of a man who drilled the words “Grow up tough or die weak.” But they slipped out anyway, slow and trembling.
He took one slow step closer.
Then stopped.
Because you looked too much like her.
It wasn’t just the fear in your eyes, maybe it was the way your shoulders drew in, the way your spine already knew how to bow—to hide.
Jo felt sick. The part that had never quite learned how to be cruel the way his father wanted — ached to kneel instead. To press his forehead to the cold soil and beg you to run. To tell you he was sorry for the blood on your tights, sorry for the antlers above the fireplace, sorry for every time his mother’s light had dimmed and he had only learned to look away.
But he stayed standing.
Breath shallow. Rifle long abandoned back at the cabin like a sin he wasn’t ready to carry anymore.
The forest held its breath with him.
You didn’t speak. Just watched, ears flicking back against your hair, cloven hooves scraping faintly against the frozen earth—a tiny, helpless sound that lodged itself somewhere behind his ribs and refused to leave.
“I’m Jo,” he said, softer this time.
He lowered himself slowly, not quite kneeling, not quite standing — caught between the man his father made and the boy who still remembered what softness looked like. One knee brushed the moss. Cold seeped through his jeans like a warning.
Your eyes followed the movement.
Something in them flickered. Not trust. Not yet. Just the quiet, exhausted recognition of someone who had already learned what men with rifles sounded like when they lied.
“Jo,” you repeated, the sound of his name in your mouth felt wrong and right at once—soft, trembling.
“You’re hurt,” he whispered, the words slipping out unevenly, longer than they needed to be, then suddenly short, like breath catching on a hook. “Let me… I can help. I won’t—”
His hands moved before the rest of him caught up.
He ripped his jacket off. The heavier canvas slides down his arms with a quiet rustle that sounds too loud in the stillness. It drops to the moss beside him, forgotten. Then the flannel underneath—worn thin at the elbows comes off in one clumsy pull. Cold air hits his skin instantly, sharp as memory, but he barely flinches. All he feels is the sick ache low in his chest and the way his hands won’t stop shaking.
His arm stays outstretched, trembling.
The flannel dangles from his long, thin fingers—still warm from his body. Sleeves limp and dangling. The faint smell of wood smoke and something softer underneath, something almost like violets, maybe, or even the ghost of his mother’s laundry soap—clinging to the fabric.
a beautiful contrast against the blood, frost, and fear.
“Here,” he says, voice cracking small and uneven again. “Please. press it against the bleeding. It’s clean enough.”
Your ears flick back against your hair again, delicate fur brushing skin that looked too human, too breakable. Eyes full of fear, fear that this was all a trap. That once you took the offering, you would be signing away your life.
You reminded him so much of her it hurt to breathe.
The same way your shoulders drew in. The same way your fingers clutched fabric like it could ever be armor. The same quiet, ancient knowing that softness was just another word for something already marked for taking.
Jo’s throat tightened.
A short, brittle line of thought: I won’t become him.
Then longer, spilling slow and thick:
“I’m not asking you to trust me. Not yet. Not ever, if you don’t want, just… let the bleeding stop. Then I’ll back away. I’ll leave the flannel. I’ll walk backward until the trees swallow the sight of me whole. Whatever you need.”
You take the flannel.
Your fingers—small, trembling, still dusted with dirt from the roots you’d been clutching earlier—reach out slow, hesitant, like the fabric might burn you. They brush his first. just the lightest graze of skin against skin, warm from his body meeting the chill of yours, and Jo feels it like a spark dragged across dry tinder.
The fabric presses against the blood, soaking your tights, dark red blooming into the faded plaid, turning the scent of wood smoke and faint violets into the smell of metal and moss. You hold it there, shoulders drawn in tight, ears still flicking back against your hair in small, wary starts. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—, wide, full of that old fear that this was all a trap, that taking anything from a man like him meant death.
“…Why?”
The word came out small, cracked at the edges, barely louder than the scrape of your hoof against the frozen ground. Your voice is soft—trembling, but steady enough to cut through the quiet. “Why are you doing this? You shot at me. Your father… he would have killed me. Why give me your shirt when you should have just finished it?”
Jo’s breath caught.
“I don’t know’ is all he whispers.
But that was not the truth.
The real answer sat heavy and rotten behind his ribs, pressing outward until every slow inhale felt like it might split him open. The truth was, you reminded him of his mother.
He let out a shaky breath, the cold air fogging between you.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this. Not really. Maybe I’m just tired of watching beautiful things die. Maybe I’m trying to prove that I am not someone who will ruin everything soft it touches. Or maybe I’m just a coward who finally couldn’t pretend anymore.”
Jo’s hands stayed open and empty in the space between you, still trembling, palms up like an offering he didn’t know how to make clean.
Your ears flicked back again, delicate and wary. The flannel pressed tight to your leg, blood still seeping slowly into the fabric, “You think I’m beautiful?”
His cheeks burned.
The heat crawled up from his neck in slow, traitorous waves, staining his skin a soft, humiliated red that he couldn’t hide even if he tried. Jo ducked his head slightly, bare shoulders curling inward as if that could somehow shrink him.
“Yeah.” Jo’s cheeks burned hotter the second it left his mouth, a soft, humiliated pink blooming fast across his face, crawling up to the tips of his ears until even the cold air felt warm against his skin. He ducked his head lower, bare shoulders curling in tight like he could fold the blush away, hide the shy boy who had never learned how to say something gentle without feeling it in his whole body.
“I… I do,” he whispered, the confession long and trembling.
“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. It just… slipped. You looked—I dont know…so soft when I first saw you. I haven’t seen anything like that in years…and I… I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see it. Couldn’t pretend I wasn’t tired of watching things like that disappear.”
“I’m sorry,” he added, softer still, the apology flowing long and gentle before it ended in a tiny, broken stop. “I know it’s stupid to say something like that right now. While you’re bleeding and scared, and I’m the reason.”
“…You really think I’m soft?”
The word hung there, fragile and uncertain, like something you were almost afraid to touch. Your ears flicked back again, slower this time, the delicate fur brushing your hair as your doe eyes stayed fixed on his flushed face.
“I haven’t felt soft in a long time,” you whispered, the sentence long and careful, then suddenly short, almost broken. “Not since the woods started feeling like they were always watching. Not since I learned that soft things get chased. So when you say it like that… it sounds like a trick. Like the kind of lie that comes right before the hurt. But your face is all red and you keep looking away like you’re scared I’ll laugh at you… and I don’t know what to do with that.”
You pressed the flannel harder against your thigh, shoulders still drawn in tight, A small whimper escaping you at the pressure on the wound—soft, involuntary, barely more than a breath. A tiny helpless sound that made Jo’s chest ache.
Your voice dropped even softer, trembling at the edges.
“Right now I feel anything but soft. I feel scared. And cold. And like if I let myself believe you even a little, it’ll hurt worse when you remember whose son you are.”
He swallowed, the sound small and wet, cheeks burning brighter as he risked the quickest glance at your face before looking away again, lashes lowering.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice barely there now, long and careful before it faded into a tiny, broken stop. “I’m sorry he exists. I’m sorry I come from him. I’m sorry that every time I try to do something gentle it still feels like I’m carrying his shadow on my back.”
The forest held its breath tighter, the cold pressing in while the faint scent of blood and moss curled slow around you both.
Your voice came out small, barely louder than the wind slipping through the bare branches.
“Your father will come to finish the job.”
The words landed soft and heavy between you, trembling at the edges like frost on a leaf that might crumble if touched wrong. They weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. They simply sat there, quiet and true, pressing against Jo’s ribs until the air felt too thick to breathe.
“I… I know,” he whispered, the confession long and shaky, flowing slow like something afraid to be heard before it suddenly broke short, almost too quiet. “He’ll come looking. Tomorrow. Maybe sooner. He doesn’t let things get away. Not when they bleed. Not when they’re… soft.”
“If he comes…” he murmured, the words long and trembling again, then suddenly short, almost pleading. “If he comes, I’ll stand between you. I’ll tell him I slipped. I’ll tell him I lost the trail. I’ll lie until my voice gives out. But I need you to believe one thing. Just one. I’m not him. Not yet. And I don’t want to be the reason you stop feeling soft.”
You didn’t answer right away.
Instead your voice came again, quieter, trembling at the edges but steady enough to reach him.
“…Then what are you going to do when he gets here and sees you kneeling in the dirt with no shirt, blushing like that, trying to protect something you were supposed to kill?”
Jo’s heart lurched, shy and ruined.
He let out a tiny, embarrassed breath, almost a whimper of his own, cheeks burning hotter as he whispered back, long and gentle before it ended in a small, desperate stop.
“I don’t know… but I’ll figure it out. Just… stay soft a little longer. Please. Let me tie the cloth first. Let me stop the bleeding. Then we’ll decide what comes next. Together. If you’ll let me.”
You give him a small hesitant nod, and he reaches forwards—fingers trembling as he knots it, slow, careful—not tight enough to hurt, never that—but enough to stem the red that keeps blooming dark against the faded plaid. His bare skin prickles in the cold, but the real shiver lives deeper. Somewhere behind his ribs where the boy who once cried over antlers still hides.
You watch him. Eyes softer than before, ears half-flattened, the delicate fur catching bits of fractured light. Your breath comes in small clouds that dissolve too fast, the way good things always do around men like him.
“I don’t know what comes next either,” he says, voice long and low, spilling like sap from a wound he can’t stop touching. “But I know the sound of my father’s boots. I know how heavy they fall when he’s tracking something soft.” A short pause. The forest exhales with him. “I won’t let them fall here. I’ll make sure of it…”
He sits back on his heels, knees sinking deeper into moss. The ground is cold and honest. It doesn’t pretend mercy is easy. Jo’s shoulders curl inward, bare and lightly freckled and suddenly too exposed, like stripping the flannel off had peeled more than just cloth away.
He thinks of his mother again—how she used to fold his shirts with gentle hands. How she taught him to be quiet the way other mothers teach songs.
You shift. A tiny sound escapes—half-whimper—and it hooks behind his sternum, pulls.
“Why do you look at me like that?” you whisper. The words tremble at the edges, then drop short. Sharp. “Like I’m something worth saving.”
Jo’s throat tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. Lets the silence stretch, uneven, heavy with everything he’s never been allowed to say. The blush still burns across his cheeks, stupid and boyish and impossible to hide. He ducks his head lower, lashes brushing skin that feels too hot for November woods.
“Because you are,” he finally murmurs, long and careful, each word weighted like stones dropped into still water. “Because I’ve spent my whole life watching soft things get taken apart. My mother’s humming. The light in her eyes. The way she’d press her face into my hair like I was the last tender thing left.” A sudden short breath. “And I never stopped it. Not once.”
He reaches out—not to touch, never without permission—but to brush a stray leaf from the edge of your coat. His fingers hover. Tremble. Fall back to his lap like they remember their place.
“I think…some part of me died with her light. The part that was supposed to stay gentle. The part that still believed I could protect softness—even if I was still half my father.”
Jo’s voice cracks small, then flows again, slow and tender. “But when I saw you behind that tree—ears flicking, dress too thin for this cold—I felt it wake up. The boy who once swore to shelter the softness he saw. The one who wanted to protect instead of poach.”
Your hoof scrapes the frozen earth. A small, restless sound. Your eyes stay on his face, searching for the lie you expect to find.
Jo swallows. The taste of wood smoke and fear and something sweeter—your scent still clinging to the inside of his lungs—sits heavy on his tongue.
“If he comes,” he says, the words long and trembling before they cut short, “I’ll stand in front of you. Shirtless and shaking and useless, probably. But I’ll stand.” A fragile smile ghosts across his mouth, gone as quick as breath on glass. “Maybe that’s all I’ve got left that’s mine. The shaking. The not-wanting-to-be-him.”
He leans forward just enough for the cold air to slip between you, carrying the faint trace of his warmth. The flannel knots hold. Red still seeps, but slower now. Like the woods themselves are deciding whether to let you bleed out or let you live.
Your fingers stay curled in the fabric he gave you. Small. Dirt-stained. Breakable in ways that make his chest ache with something too big for the name guilt.
“Stay soft,” he whispers again, the plea spilling long and desperate before it ends abrupt, almost too quiet. “Just… a little longer. Let me get you somewhere warmer. My father’s out till dusk. The cabin’s empty. There’s blankets. Water. No one goes in my room. It’s on the other side of the house.”
He stands slow, careful not to loom. Offers his hand—not demanding, just open. Palm up. Trembling like everything else about him.
“I know it’s stupid,” he adds, voice soft as moth wings against stained glass. “Asking a doe to follow the hunter’s son home. But I’m not hunting anymore.” A sudden short line, raw: “I wasn’t made for that sort of thing.”
The forest holds its breath again. Antlers of bare branches overhead catch the weak sun. Somewhere distant, a twig snaps—maybe wind, maybe boots, maybe nothing at all.
Jo waits. Heart hammering loud enough to wake every secret the trees ever swallowed. Blush still burning. Knees still moss-stained. Ready to kneel if that’s what it takes.
Ready to ruin everything he was supposed to be, if it means keeping one soft thing from dying in front of him.
“If I die. It’ll be something you will have to live with. knowing that something soft died within your hands. Are you okay with the possibility of that?”
Jo’s breath catches. The forest tilts, just a little. Like the chapel in your nightmares. Like every time his father pressed those antlers into his small palms and called it love. His outstretched hand stays frozen between you, palm still open, still trembling, the cold air licking across his bare skin like judgment dressed in wind.
He doesn’t answer right away. Lets the silence stretch long and uneven, heavy with every ghost he’s tried to outrun. The blush on his cheeks burns hotter, stupid and helpless, crawling down his throat until even swallowing feels like confession.
Because the truth is a knife turned inward.
“I’m not,” he whispers at last, the words spilling slow and thick, then breaking short. “I’m not okay with it.”
“That’s exactly why I won't let it happen.”
He rises then, slow, careful, the way you’d lift a baby bird with a broken wing. Picking up his jacket and placing it over your shoulder before stepping back— hand open. Only a tank top covering him as he shivered, cheeks still flushed.
“I know what I’m risking,” he breathes, voice cracking small before it flows again.
“If he finds out… if he sees me with you. alive and not blooded and cold… he’ll do god knows what..” A sudden short line, raw as bone: “But I’d rather he break me than let him break you.”
Jo’s hand stays open. Palm up. Trembling like everything else about him. The blush burns hotter, stupid and boyish, making him duck his head until lashes brush flushed skin.
You take it.
His hand—palm rough from years of gripping rifles he never wanted, calluses like small betrayals pressed into skin that still remembers how to tremble. The forest exhales around the touch, slow and deliberate, as if the trees themselves have been waiting for this exact fracture in the script.
Your fingers are smaller than he expected, colder, the faint grit of dirt and root-dust catching against his like secrets neither of you meant to share. Jo’s breath snags on something sharp behind his ribs, a hook pulled taut.
He does not pull you up right away.
Just holds. Lets the weight of your hesitation settle into him the way evening settles into the branches overhead—soft at first, then heavier, inevitable
The blush still burns across his cheeks, stupid and alive, crawling down his throat like it wants to confess everything before he can stop it. I’m not him, he thinks, the words long and looping, winding through the dark hollows where his mother’s humming used to live. I’m not him not him not him. But the thought frays at the edges, thins into something smaller. Yet.
You stand.
Hooves unsteady on the frost-hard ground, the flannel tied tight around your thigh now dark with your blood and his warmth, a ugly beautiful marriage neither of you asked for.
The baby doll dress clings where it shouldn’t, thin as prayer, and Jo looks away fast—too fast—because looking feels like sin stitched into his own bones long before he understood the shape of it. The way your ears flick back against your hair. The way your spine already knows the angle of surrender. It crawls up his throat, tight and suffocating, and the word protect withers there, sad and pathetic, never quite daring to escape whole.
Jacket too big, sleeves swallowing your wrists, the scent of wood smoke and faint violet soap wrapping around you like something that might almost be mercy. Jo steps back. One deliberate pace.
Then another. Giving you room the way he wishes someone had once given his mother—space enough to breathe without the shadow of boots falling too close. The cold bites at his tank top, sharp as memory, but he barely feels it. All he feels is the sick, ruined part of him softening at the sight of you in his clothes. Like maybe, for once, something he touched didn’t have to break.
The walk back is uneven.
Long stretches where the only sound is your hooves clicking softly against roots and his boots sinking deliberately into moss, then sudden short silences that stretch too wide, too thin, like the moment before a shot that never comes.
Jo doesn’t speak at first. Just walks beside you, close enough that your scent—sweet beneath the blood, warm beneath the fear—curls into his lungs and stays there. His bare arms prickle in the cold, but the real shiver lives lower. Somewhere between the boy who once cried over antlers and the man trying not to become the hand that mounted them.
You limp. Just a little.
He notices the way your ears flick back against your hair at every snapped twig, the way your spine bows in fear, how you try to make yourself smaller. It makes something in his chest ache like a bruise pressed too hard.
I won’t become him, Jo thinks. The words long and heavy, then sudden and small. I won’t.
But the thought tastes like ash. Because here he is, leading you deeper into the woods that belong to his father’s rifle, bare-skinned and blushing and already ruined by the simple fact that he wants to keep you breathing.
The cabin appears between the trees like a wound that never quite closed. Windows dark. Smoke curling lazy from the chimney. His father won’t be back till dusk—Jo knows the rhythm of those boots the way other boys know bedtime stories. Still, his pulse hammers louder than the wind.
He pushes the door open with his shoulder. The hinges sigh like they remember every secret the walls have swallowed. Inside, the air is warmer. Smells of wood smoke and old coffee and the faint ghost of his mother’s laundry soap still clinging to the curtains she never got to wash again.
Jo guides you to the far corner of the room—his room—past the kitchen table, attempting to hide the view of antlers hung above the mantel. He doesn’t even look at them. He can’t.
You sit on the edge of his narrow bed. The mattress dips under your weight, springs creaking soft and intimate. Your hooves rest on the worn rug, small and cloven. The jacket slips off one shoulder. The baby doll dress underneath rides up just enough to show the bare curve of your thigh.
Jo looks away.
Fast. Too fast. The blush slams back into his face, hot and helpless, staining his neck, his chest, every place the cold air touches now that he’s half-undressed and fully exposed. He ducks his head, lashes brushing flushed skin, the heat crawling all the way to the tips of his ears like it wants to burn the shame right out of him.
“You—uh,” he starts, voice cracking small and uneven before it spills longer, thicker, desperate. “You should… clean up. The blood. There’s a shower. Hot water. It’ll help. With the cold. With everything.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns quick, bare shoulders curling inward as he slips out of the room like the walls themselves might judge him for looking too long. The door to the hallway clicks shut behind him—soft, careful, nothing like the way his father’s boots ever sounded.
A second. Maybe two.
Just long enough for him to stand in the dim hallway, forehead pressed to the cool wood of the linen closet, breathing like he’d run the whole way back from the forest. His mother’s clothes are still there. Folded neat and small on the top shelf where she left them the last time she ever touched anything in this house. He reaches up slow, fingers trembling, and pulls down the softest things he can find—a worn cotton nightgown the color of faded lilacs, a pair of thick wool socks she used to wear when the floors got too cold, a cardigan that still smells, just barely, like the lavender she kept in the drawer.
He comes back.
Arms full of the quiet ghosts of her, the fabric draped over one forearm like an offering he’s not sure you’ll take. The blush hasn’t left. It just sits there, low and stubborn, making his skin feel too tight under the tank top. He sets the clothes on the edge of the bed beside you—careful, reverent, like they might bruise if he moves too fast.
“Here,” he whispers. The word long and careful, then sudden and small. “These were… hers. My mother’s. She would’ve wanted you to have them. Soft. Warm. Nothing like what you’re wearing now.”
His eyes stay on the floorboards. On the way your hooves rest so small and perfect against the rug. On anything but the way the baby doll dress still clings, thin and wrong and heartbreakingly right in the low light. The air between you feels thick again, honey-slow, pressing against his ribs until every beat of his heart feels like another unsaid confession.
He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t reach. Just stands there, bare arms prickling, blush burning hotter, the sick stitched-in part of him already softening, already kneeling in the quiet of his own mind while his body stays upright.
Waiting.
Hoping the shower will wash some of the blood away. Hoping the clothes will feel like mercy instead of another cage. Hoping—God, hoping—you won’t see the way his hands shake when he thinks about you standing under the water, ears flicking back against wet hair, spine already learning the shape of safety in a house that only ever taught surrender.
“I’ll wait out here,” he adds, voice spilling slow and thick before it cuts short again. “Take as long as you need. I won’t… I won’t come in.”
You slip past him without a word.
Hooves soft on the floorboards, the borrowed nightgown brushing your thighs. Jo doesn’t watch you go. Can’t. He turns his face to the wall instead, forehead pressed to the cool wood again. Anything to ground himself.
The shower starts.
Water hissing through old pipes. Jo slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, bare arms wrapped around them like that might hold the sick, ruined part of him in place. The blush is still there—low, stubborn, burning under his skin like the antlers above the mantel are watching him even now. She’s in there, the thought loops long and heavy, then snaps short. Naked. Wet. Wearing nothing but the sound of water and the echo of my hands on her thigh.
He presses his palms into his eyes until stars bloom behind the lids. I’m not him. I’m not him. The words spill thick and desperate, then thin out to nothing. i hope.
Minutes stretch. Honey-slow.
He pictures it anyway—the way the water would trace the delicate line of your curves, the way your ears would flatten wet against your hair, the baby doll dress peeling off like shed skin. The thought hooks behind his ribs and pulls. Gentle yet sick.
The water stops.
Silence rushes in thicker than before. Jo stands too quick, knees cracking softly. He keeps his eyes on the floorboards, lashes low, the heat crawling up his throat again when the bathroom door clicks open.
You step into the room.
His mother’s nightgown clings where the baby doll dress once did—faded lilac cotton worn thin at the shoulders, hem skimming just above your knees like it remembers the shape of someone smaller, someone, already halfway gone. The cardigan hangs open, sleeves too long, swallowing your wrists the same way his jacket had swallowed them in the woods. Wool socks bunch a little at your ankles, hiding the soft fur that edges your hooves. Your eyes catch in the lamplight, delicate and oh so beautiful, and your ears—still wet—flick once, uncertain, against the strands of hair that cling to your neck.
Your eyes find his and Jo feels it low in his stomach—a slow, sick twist, like the first crack in ice that’s been holding too long.
Jo’s breath catches.
Not loud.
Just a small, uneven hitch that sits behind his ribs like something trying to hide.
You look soft.
“I—” he starts, voice cracking small and raw before it spills longer, thicker, desperate. “You look… warmer. That’s good. That’s—yeah.”
The words feel stupid the second they leave him.
Jo’s voice cracked on the last word like a dry twig underfoot, the sound small and stupid in the quiet of his room. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, bare arm flexing awkwardly under the thin tank top, the fabric suddenly too tight across his chest.
His cheeks were already burning again—even hotter now, a deep, traitorous red that crawled all the way down to the hollow of his throat. He hadn’t had many interactions with girls. None, really. Not like this.
Not with someone who looked at him with those wide innocent eyes, ears still damp and flicking uncertainly against the strands of hair that clung to her neck.
The nightgown—his mother’s nightgown—hung soft and faded on your frame, the lilac cotton skimming just above your knees, the cardigan sleeves swallowing your wrists. You looked impossibly small there on the edge of his narrow bed, hooves tucked under the hem, and Jo’s stomach twisted with something that felt too much like hunger and too much like fear all at once.
He swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere near your socks instead of your face. "You… you can sleep here,” he managed, the words spilling out long and uneven before they snapped short.
“In my bed. It’s warmer than the floor. Cleaner, too. I’ll—I’ll take the couch in the living room. Or the floor right here if you want. Doesn’t matter. I don’t sleep much anyway.” A shy, embarrassed huff of breath left him, almost a laugh but not quite. “Haven’t had a lot of… company. Never really… yeah.”
His blush deepened, stupid and helpless, and he ducked his head lower, lashes brushing flushed skin as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The floorboards creaked under him like they were judging him for every fumbling syllable.
He turned then, slow and careful, bare shoulders curling inward as if he could make himself smaller, less threatening, less like the son of the man whose antlers still watched from the other room. His hand reached for the doorknob—anything to give you space, to let you breathe without his shaking presence crowding the air.
Your fingers brushed the hem of his tank top.
Just the lightest tug—small, hesitant, the fabric pulling taut against his back for half a second. Jo froze mid-step, breath catching sharp behind his ribs like a hook snagging on bone. The touch was barely there, but it burned hotter than the blush already painting his skin. He didn’t turn right away. Couldn’t. His heart hammered loud enough that he was sure you could hear it over the distant crackle of the dying fire in the living room.
“Stay,” you whispered. The word came out quiet, trembling at the edges, soft as the nightgown against your thighs. Not a demand. Just a plea wrapped in exhaustion and something gentler, something that made his knees feel suddenly unsteady.
Jo’s shoulders stiffened, then softened all at once. He turned back toward you—slow, like you might bolt if he moved too fast—and the blush flared hotter across his cheeks, crawling up to the tips of his ears until even the cold draft from the window felt warm.
His hand hovered uselessly at his side, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. “I… yeah?” The word cracked small and raw, then spilled longer, thicker, desperate. “You want me to… okay. I can do that. I mean—if you’re sure. I won’t… I won’t get too close or anything. I can sit right here on the floor, or on the edge of the bed if that’s better. Whatever you need."
You nod, slow and hesitant, like even the smallest agreement may still cost you everything. Your hooves click softly against the floorboards as you crawl onto Jo’s narrow bed, the faded lilac nightgown riding up your thighs without warning. The hem slips higher than you mean it to—barely, just enough—and for one fleeting second the soft white cotton of your panties catches the low lamplight, delicate and impossibly out of place against the worn quilt.
Jo’s breath slams out of him like he’s been punched.
His eyes go wide, cheeks flooding with a deep, helpless red that burns all the way down his neck and across his bare chest under the thin tank top. He stumbles back a half-step, hand flying up to cover his mouth like that could hide the way his whole body just short-circuited. The image sears behind his eyelids—soft skin, the tiniest edge of lace, the way the nightgown had clung for that one ruined heartbeat—and something hot and traitorous twists low in his stomach.
“I—I need a shower,” he blurts, voice cracking high and thin before it drops into a rushed, embarrassed mumble. “Right now. Like, immediately. The, uh… the blood. And the woods. And everything. Yeah. I’ll be quick. Super quick. Don’t—don’t worry about me. Just… sleep. Please.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s already spinning on his heel, bare feet slapping against the cold floorboards as he practically flees the room. The door clicks shut behind him harder than he means it to, and you hear his footsteps hurry down the short hallway like he’s being chased by his own pulse.
You tilt your head, ears flicking once in quiet confusion. The motion makes the damp strands of your hair brush your neck, and you shrug, small and tired, before curling up under the heavy quilt. The sheets smell like him—wood smoke and faint violet soap and something warmer underneath that makes your chest feel strangely tight.
You tuck your knees up, hooves tucked beneath the hem of the nightgown, and let your eyes drift shut. The wound on your thigh throbs dully under the proper bandage jo had left on the counter, but the bed is soft. Safer than anything you’ve felt in days.
Inside the tiny bathroom, Jo twists the shower knob all the way to cold.
The water hits him like a slap, icy needles against his overheated skin, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to cool the burn crawling across his face. He presses both palms flat against the cracked tile wall, head hanging low between his shoulders, tank top and jeans still on because he’s too mortified to take anything else off right now. Water soaks through the fabric in seconds, plastering it to his body, but all he can see is that brief flash of white cotton and the way the nightgown had ridden up over the soft curve of your thigh.
“Stupid,” he whispers to the steamless air, voice shaky and small. “So fucking stupid, Jo. She’s bleeding. She’s scared. She’s in your mother’s nightgown and you’re—God.”
His ears are ringing. The blush refuses to leave. It sits stubborn under his skin, hot and humiliated, every time he blinks he sees it again—that tiny, accidental glimpse that felt like the universe handing him something he had no right to look at. He slides down until he’s sitting on the floor of the tub, knees drawn up, cold water pounding against his back while he buries his face in his arms.
He stays there until his teeth start chattering and the worst of the heat finally ebbs out of his cheeks. Only then does he peel off the soaked clothes, towel off fast, and pull on a fresh pair of soft gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that still smells like the laundry soap his mother used to use. His hair is damp and sticking up in every direction when he pads back down the hallway, barefoot and trying to make himself as quiet as possible.
The bedroom door is still cracked open the way he left it. He hesitates on the threshold, one hand on the frame, and the sight of you stops him cold all over again.
You’re curled on your side in the middle of his bed, knees tucked up, the lilac nightgown pooled around your thighs and the too-big cardigan half-slipped off one shoulder. One ear twitches in your sleep, delicate and furred, brushing against the pillow. Your antlers catch the faint glow from the hallway light, small and barely branched, and your chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths. The bandage peeks out from under the hem, dark with dried blood but no longer spreading.
He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet.
“I’m… I’m back,” he whispers, even though you’re already asleep. His voice is barely more than breath. “I won’t come any closer if you don’t want. I’ll just… sit right here. On the floor. Like I said.”
He slides down the wall beside the bed, back pressed to the cool wood, knees drawn up to his chest. From this angle he can just see the top of your head and the gentle flick of your ear every few minutes, like even in sleep you’re listening for danger. Jo rests his chin on his arms and watches you, the blush still faint but steady across his cheeks.
Minutes bleed into longer ones. The cabin is silent except for the distant crackle of the dying fire and the soft sound of your breathing. Jo’s eyes start to feel heavy, but he doesn’t let them close all the way. He can’t. Not when his father’s boots could hit the porch at any moment. Not when the only thing standing between you and everything that’s ever hurt you is him—a shaking, blushing, shirtless-in-the-woods mess who still doesn’t know how to be anything but gentle.
He reaches up slowly, careful not to wake you, and tugs the quilt a little higher over your shoulder. His fingers brush the fabric for half a second—warm from your body—and he pulls back like he’s been burned, cheeks flaring hotter.
“Stay soft,” he murmurs under his breath, so quiet it’s almost nothing. “Just… stay soft a little longer. I’ve got you. I think.”
Jo leans his head back against the wall, damp hair leaving a wet spot on the wood, and lets his eyes finally drift shut. The last thing he sees before sleep drags him under is the gentle rise and fall of your chest beneath his mother’s nightgown, and the smallest, most fragile smile touches his lips—shy, ruined, and entirely his own.
The morning light filtered thin and gray through the cabin’s single window, the kind of pale November dawn that made the woods outside look like they were holding their breath. Jo stirred first—neck stiff, back aching from a night spent curled against the wall like a guard dog who didn’t know how to lie down properly. His legs were half-numb, one arm still wrapped around his knees, hoodie rumpled and damp at the collar from where his hair had dried overnight. The first thing he registered was the soft sound of your breathing, steady and close, still tucked under the quilt on his bed.
Then the phone rang.
It shattered the quiet like a rifle crack—old landline on the nightstand, shrill and insistent. Jo jolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs before his brain caught up. He scrambled for it on his knees, nearly knocking the receiver off the hook in his hurry to answer before it could wake you.
“Hello?” His voice came out rough with sleep, cracked at the edges.
His father’s voice filled the line, low and flat, the same tone he used when he was already halfway out the door in his mind. “It’s me. Listen, something came up. Me and a couple of the boys are heading up to the mountains for a real hunt. Big bucks, they say. Might be gone a week. Maybe two. Depends how the trail holds.”
Jo’s grip tightened on the phone until his knuckles went white. A week. Two. The words sank in slow, warm relief blooming low in his chest like something he wasn’t allowed to feel. No boots on the porch. No sharp eyes scanning the tree line. No new antlers being dragged home to hang above the fireplace. Just… space. Breathing room. Time. Just for awhile.
“Food in the fridge should last you,” his father continued, dismissive, like he was reading off a grocery list instead of talking to his only son. “Canned stuff in the pantry if you run low. There’s money in the tin on the mantel—your savings from the odd jobs. Use it if you need to go into town. Don’t blow it on nonsense. And don’t go soft while I’m gone, boy. I’ll know if you did.”
A short, humorless grunt on the other end. No goodbye. No be safe. No I’ll call when I’m headed back. Just the click of the line going dead.
Jo stared at the receiver for a long second after the dial tone buzzed in his ear, then set it back in the cradle with shaking fingers. His shoulders sagged, the tension leaking out of him in one long, shaky exhale. He pressed his forehead to the edge of the nightstand, eyes squeezing shut.
Relief tasted sweet and guilty all at once—because his father not caring felt like freedom, but it also felt like the same old knife twisting in the place where a father’s love was supposed to live.
He stayed like that until the floorboards creaked softly behind him.
You’d woken at the sound of the phone, ears flicking upright under the messy strands of your hair, small antlers catching the weak morning light. The lilac nightgown had slipped off one shoulder in your sleep, cardigan still half-draped over you like a borrowed shield. You sat up slowly, knees drawn to your chest, hooves tucked under the hem, watching him with those wide, wary doe eyes that always made his stomach do that stupid fluttering thing.
Jo lifted his head, cheeks already warming under your gaze. The blush crept in slow and traitorous, staining his neck and the tips of his ears even though he hadn’t said a word yet. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, damp hair sticking up in every direction, oversized hoodie sleeves sliding down his wrists.
“That was… my dad,” he whispered, voice long and careful before it dropped short, almost too soft. “He’s gone. For a while. A week, maybe two. Hunting in the mountains with his friends. Said the food’ll last and… and not to worry about him coming back anytime soon.”
He swallowed hard, lashes lowering as he risked a glance at you. The relief in his own chest felt too big, too bright, like it might spill out if he wasn’t careful. “We’re alone. For now. No one’s coming. No boots. No rifle. Just… us. And the cabin. And whatever we decide to do with it.”
Jo shifted closer on his knees, not quite touching the bed, still giving you that careful half-step of space he’d been practicing since yesterday. His fingers twitched at his sides like they wanted to reach out and smooth the quilt over your lap but knew better. The faint scent of you—warm and sweet under the leftover trace of blood and his mother’s lavender—curled into the air between you, and his blush deepened, stupid and helpless.
Your ears flicked once, slow and uncertain, the delicate fur brushing against the strands of messy hair that still clung to your neck from sleep. The lilac nightgown had slipped a little further off one shoulder in the night, but you didn’t fix it right away. You just sat there, knees still drawn tight to your chest under the quilt, hooves tucked beneath the hem, watching him with those wide doe eyes that always seemed to hold more forest than fear now.
For a long moment you didn’t speak. The silence stretched honey-slow between you, thick with the faint scent of wood smoke still clinging to the walls and the warmer, sweeter trace of you that made Jo’s blush burn hotter under his skin. Then your voice came—soft, trembling at the edges like it was afraid the words might break if they came out too fast.
“…Oh so…we will be alone…?” you whispered, the word long and careful, almost tasting it before it dropped short, barely louder than the small sound of flames flickering in the fireplace. “For a whole week… maybe two? No one coming back? Not even… him?”
Your fingers curled tighter into the quilt, knuckles pale, the too-long cardigan sleeves swallowing your hands completely. One ear twitched back against your hair again, wary, but the other stayed half-forward, listening. Your gaze dropped to the bandage peeking out from under the nightgown, then lifted back to his flushed face.
“I'm safe…” A tiny, hesitant breath left you, almost a sigh. “For now.”
Your words landed soft and heavy in the quiet room, like snow settling on the windowsill outside. “I’m safe…” The way you said it—small, almost disbelieving, like you were afraid saying it out loud might make it disappear—made something in Jo’s chest twist tight and then slowly, carefully, loosen.
He stayed on his knees beside the bed, looking up at you with those wide, earnest eyes, the blush still painting his cheeks and the tips of his ears a soft, helpless pink. His damp hair stuck up in messy tufts, hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands, and for a second he just breathed, letting your words sink into him like warmth after too many cold mornings.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, voice long and careful before it dropped short, raw at the edges. “You’re safe. For now. For as long as I can keep it that way. He’s gone… really gone. The mountains are far. He won’t come back early. Not for something like this. Not when there’s bigger game calling his name.”
Jo’s fingers twitched again at his sides. He wanted so badly to reach out—to tuck the slipped shoulder of the nightgown back into place, to smooth your hair, to do something, anything, that might make you feel steadier. But he didn’t. He kept that careful half-step of space, like he was still afraid even his gentleness might be too much.
Instead he swallowed hard, lashes lowering as he glanced at the bandage peeking from under the lilac hem. The dried blood had darkened overnight, but the fabric wasn’t soaked through anymore. Still, the sight of it made his stomach clench with guilt all over again.
“Your leg,” he murmured, the words spilling slow and tender. “It probably hurts more now that you’ve been still. I should… I should change it. Clean it proper. I’ve got stuff in the bathroom—antiseptic, fresh cloth. My mom used to keep a kit under the sink for when I was little and clumsy.” A tiny, shy huff of breath left him, almost a laugh but not quite. “I’m still clumsy. Just… in different ways now.”
He shifted back on his heels, ready to stand, but paused, looking at you again with that same soft, ruined expression.
“Only if you want,” he added quickly, voice cracking small before it flowed longer, gentler. “I won’t touch you without asking. Ever. You can stay right there on the bed.I’ll bring everything in here. Or… or you can come sit at the table if you feel like moving a little. I can make breakfast after. Eggs? Toast? There’s some jam left in the pantry that isn’t too old. And tea. I think we still have the kind with honey my mom liked.”
Jo rubbed the back of his neck again, the oversized hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of pale skin at his waist before he tugged it back down, cheeks burning brighter at the accidental exposure. The scent of you—warm, sweet, that faint trace of forest and fear slowly easing into something softer—kept curling into his lungs every time he breathed, and it made his heart do that stupid fluttering thing all over again.
He stayed low, not looming, not pushing, just there on the floor like he was still the boy who once cried over mounted antlers and never quite learned how to stop feeling sorry for the softness the world tried to take.
"You can change it."
The words were small, soft, barely louder than the crackle of the dying fire, but they hit Jo like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. His head lifted fast, eyes wide, the blush already crawling hotter across his cheeks and down his throat at the simple permission.
“Okay,” he breathed, voice cracking small before it steadied into something long and careful. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll be gentle. I promise. So gentle.”
He stood slowly, knees cracking from the night on the floor, and gave you one last shy glance before padding out of the room on bare feet. You heard him moving in the hallway—cabinet doors opening quietly, water running, the soft rustle of cloth being gathered. When he returned, his arms were full: a small wooden box with a faded red cross on the lid, a bowl of warm water, clean cloths, and a fresh roll of bandage. His hair was still messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows now, and the blush hadn’t faded one bit.
He set everything down on the nightstand with careful hands, then lowered himself to sit on the very edge of the bed—far enough that you still had plenty of space, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him. His eyes flicked to your leg, then quickly back to your face, like he was afraid even looking too long might scare you.
“I’m going to lift the hem just a little,” he murmured, voice low and trembling at the edges. “Just enough to reach the bandage. Tell me if you want me to stop. Any second. I’ll stop.”
You gave the smallest nod.
Jo’s fingers—long, a little cold from the hallway—reached out and gently took the edge of the lilac nightgown. He lifted it with almost painful slowness, stopping the moment the old flannel bandage came into view. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, dark against your skin. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, and reached for the bowl.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he began to loosen the knot he’d tied the day before. “I’m so sorry this happened. That I was even there that morning. That my father—” His voice cracked and he cut himself off, focusing instead on his hands.
The old bandage came away slowly. Beneath it the wound wasn’t too deep, but it was angry and red, the skin around it tender. Jo dipped a clean cloth in the warm water and wrung it out, then looked up at you again, lashes low.
“This might sting a little,” he warned softly. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
He cleaned the wound with the gentlest touches imaginable—barely more than dabs, like he was afraid even the cloth might hurt you. Every time you made the tiniest sound, his ears (metaphorically) perked, and he paused, whispering another soft “sorry” before continuing. When it was clean, he patted it dry with a fresh cloth, applied a thin layer of ointment from the box, and wrapped it again with fresh bandage. His fingers brushed your skin only when absolutely necessary, and every accidental touch made the tips of his ears burn brighter.
Once it was done, he sat back a little, still on the edge of the bed, and let out a shaky breath.
“There,” he murmured, voice long and relieved before it dropped short. “All clean. It should feel better soon. I can change it again tonight if you want. Or tomorrow. Whenever.”
You simply nodded again.
The silence settled between you both.
Then your stomach growled.
The sound was sudden and loud in the quiet room, cutting through the soft crackle of the fire and the creaking of old wood like it had been waiting for the perfect moment to betray you. It was a deep, hollow rumble that echoed faintly off the walls, and your ears flicked back hard against your hair in pure mortification.
"Oh…"
Jo froze for half a second.
Then his whole face went bright, burning red—so fast and so deep it looked like it might actually hurt. The blush exploded across his cheeks, down his neck, and even across the bridge of his nose. He ducked his head instantly, one hand flying up to cover his mouth like he could hide the way his lips were twitching between a shy smile and sheer secondhand embarrassment.
“Oh—oh no,” he whispered, voice cracking small and high before it dropped into a flustered, gentle rush. “Your stomach… I’m so sorry. I should’ve asked sooner. Of course you’re hungry. You’ve been through so much and I just sat here talking and—”
He scrambled to his feet so fast he almost tripped over his own long legs, hoodie sleeves flapping as he steadied himself against the nightstand. The tips of his ears were glowing pink under his messy damp hair. He couldn’t even look at you directly for a moment, too busy rubbing the back of his neck with both hands like the motion might cool the fire in his face.
“I’ll make breakfast right now,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out long and earnest. “Eggs. Toast. Jam. Tea with honey. Whatever you want. I can bring it in here if you don’t feel like moving, or… or we can go to the table together. Slow. I’ll help you if your leg still hurts. I won’t let you fall. I promise.”
Jo finally risked a glance at you, eyes soft and wide behind the furious blush still staining his skin. His voice dropped quieter, almost shy.
“I didn’t even think… you probably haven’t eaten properly in days. I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. Let me fix it. Please.”
He took one small step back toward the door, then paused again, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie.
“Unless… you want to come with me?” he added, softer still. “The kitchen’s warmer. Fire’s going. You could sit on the couch if the chair’s too much. I’ll stay close. Whatever makes you feel safest.”
You looked down at your hands for a moment, fingers still curled in the too-long sleeves of the cardigan. Your ears flicked once, slow and uncertain, before you lifted your gaze back to him. The blush on his face was so intense it almost made your own cheeks feel warm.
“…I can come with you,” you whispered, voice small and careful, like you were testing the words as they left your mouth. “If it’s okay. I don’t want to stay in bed all day. My leg… it doesn’t hurt as much now. And the kitchen sounds warmer.”
You shifted slightly, hooves brushing against the rug as you sat up a little straighter. One hand came up to tug the slipped shoulder of the nightgown back into place, though the motion was shy and a little clumsy.
“I haven’t… eaten at a table in a long time,” you added, quieter still, the words long and soft before they dropped short. “Not since before everything started feeling like running. It might be nice. To sit somewhere normal. With you.”
Your eyes flicked to his still-burning face, and the tiniest, hesitant smile touched your lips—fragile, but real.
“…You’re really red right now,” you murmured, almost teasing, though your voice stayed gentle. “It’s okay. I’m not scared of you making breakfast. I think I’d like to watch. If that’s alright.”
Jo’s mouth opened, then closed again. The blush somehow deepened even more, spreading down his neck until it disappeared under the collar of his hoodie. He looked like he might actually combust on the spot.
“I—yeah,” he managed, voice cracking high before it tumbled into a flustered, earnest rush. “Yeah, of course it’s okay. You can come. I’ll help you walk. Slow. I promise I won’t let you put too much weight on it. You can lean on me if you need to. Or the wall. Whatever feels best.”
He stepped closer again, one hand hovering in the air like he wanted to offer it but was still too shy to actually reach. His eyes were wide and soft, the embarrassment still painted vividly across every inch of his face.
“I’ll make the eggs however you like them,” he added quickly, trying (and failing) to sound steady. “Scrambled? Over easy? I’m not… I’m not the best cook, but I can do eggs. And the toast won’t burn. Probably. And the tea—my mom always said honey makes everything feel a little less awful.”
He swallowed hard, then finally let his hand settle, palm up, between you—offering without pressure.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he whispered, the words long and careful. “No rush. We’ve got all morning. All week, really. Just… let me know when you want to stand.”
Your fingers—small, still a little cold from the morning air—reached out and slipped into his open palm.
Jo’s breath hitched so sharply it was almost a sound. The second your skin touched his, the blush that had already been burning across his face exploded into something deeper, hotter, until even the tips of his ears looked like they might catch fire. His hand closed around yours with the gentlest pressure imaginable, like he was afraid even holding you too firmly might break something fragile between you.
For one long second he just stayed there, kneeling slightly so he wouldn’t tower over you, staring at where your fingers rested in his like he couldn’t quite believe it was real. His thumb brushed once, barely there, across the back of your hand—warm and trembling.
“Okay,” he whispered, voice cracking small and shaky before it steadied into something soft and careful. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
He rose slowly, guiding you with him, never pulling, only offering steady support. When you stood, he immediately shifted closer on your injured side, letting you lean against him if you needed without crowding. His free arm hovered near your waist, not quite touching, ready to catch you the instant you wobbled.
“Easy,” he murmured, the word long and gentle. “Take your time. Your hooves… the floor might be cold. I should’ve grabbed socks for you. I’m sorry.”
You took one careful step, then another. Your injured leg protested with a dull throb, but Jo was right there—solid, warm, smelling faintly of laundry soap and the lingering trace of wood smoke from his hoodie. Every time you shifted weight onto the bad leg, his fingers tightened just a fraction around yours, and he slowed down even more.
The walk to the kitchen was quiet, filled only with the soft click of your hooves against the old floorboards and Jo’s occasional soft checks.
“Still okay?” he asked after a few steps, voice barely above a breath. “We can stop. Sit on the couch for a minute if you need. No rush. None at all.”
When you finally reached the small wooden table near the crackling fireplace, Jo pulled out a chair for you with his free hand, still not letting go of yours until you were safely seated. Only then did he reluctantly release your fingers, and even that seemed to cost him something—his hand lingering in the air for half a second like it missed the contact already.
He stepped back quickly, cheeks still glowing, and rubbed the back of his neck as he moved toward the old stove.
“I’ll start the eggs,” he said, trying (and failing) to sound casual. “You just… sit. Rest your leg. Tell me if you want anything different. Or if you want to go back to bed. I’ll carry you if you do. I mean—not carry carry, I just— I’ll help. However you need.”
Jo turned back to the stove, still rubbing the back of his neck like the motion might somehow calm the wildfire still burning across his face. He cracked eggs into a bowl with slightly shaky hands, the soft sound of the whisk filling the quiet kitchen as he started beating them. The old pan was already warming on the stove, a pat of butter melting and sizzling gently.
He was so focused on not burning anything that your soft voice caught him completely off guard.
“Do you… just stay home all day?”
The question was quiet, curious, a little hesitant—like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to ask something so ordinary. Your ears flicked once as you watched him from the table, chin resting lightly on your folded arms.
Jo froze mid-whisk.
For a second he just stood there, back to you, shoulders tense under the oversized hoodie. Then he slowly set the bowl down and turned around, cheeks already flushing that familiar deep pink again. He leaned back against the counter, one hand gripping the edge like he needed something to hold onto.
“I… yeah,” he admitted, voice long and careful before it dropped shorter, almost shy. “Pretty much. When my father’s not dragging me out on hunts. Which is… most days, lately. He says I need to learn. That I’m too soft. That staying inside reading or drawing or just… existing isn’t useful.”
He gave a small, self-deprecating huff of breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. The blush crept higher as he rubbed the back of his neck again.
“I don’t really have anywhere else to go. No school anymore. No friends that stuck around after everything with my mom. The town’s too far to walk to every day, and I don’t have a car. So… yeah. I stay here. Keep the fire going. Cook simple things. Fix whatever breaks. Wait for him to come back from whatever hunt he’s on.”
Jo glanced at you, eyes soft and a little sad behind the embarrassment still painting his face.
“It’s not so bad when he’s gone,” he added quietly. “The house feels… lighter. I can breathe. I usually just read or draw or sit by the window and watch the snow. Sometimes I talk to the trees like a crazy person.” A tiny, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “They don’t answer back, but they’re good listeners.”
He turned back to the stove, pouring the eggs into the pan. The soft sizzling filled the space between you again.
“What about you?” he asked after a moment, voice gentler, almost hesitant to ask in return. “Before… all of this. Did you have somewhere safe? People who… who made it feel less lonely?”
Your ears flicked back against your hair, slow and heavy, like the weight of the answer was too much to carry upright. You kept your chin resting on your folded arms, eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden table instead of meeting his gaze.
“…No,” you whispered, the word small and cracked at the edges. “Not really. Hunters killed my parents a long time ago. I don’t even remember their faces clearly anymore. Just… the sound of the shot. And the way the woods went quiet after.”
You swallowed, the sound soft in the warm kitchen. One hoof scraped lightly against the floor beneath the table.
“After that, some of my parents’ friends took me in. Other hybrids. A small group that stayed hidden deeper in the woods. They were kind. They fed me. Let me sleep between them when it got cold. Taught me which berries were safe and which ones would make you sick for days.” Your voice grew even quieter, trembling at the edges. “They were rabbits. Gentle. Always moving carefully. Always listening.”
You went quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft sizzling of the eggs in the pan.
“But the cycle never really stops,” you continued, barely above a breath. “Hunters found them too. One by one. Until it was just me again. I ran. Kept running. Hid during the day. Moved at night. When you first saw me behind that log…” Your ears twitched again, and your voice dropped even smaller. “I’d already been wandering alone for over a week. I think I was starting to forget what it felt like to sleep without one ear always listening for boots.”
You finally lifted your eyes to him—soft, tired, but steady.
“That’s why your father’s voice scared me so much. It sounded like every voice that ever took someone I loved.”
The eggs were starting to smell warm and buttery, but Jo had gone completely still at the stove. His shoulders were tight, the spatula forgotten in his hand. The blush that had been burning across his face moments ago had drained into something paler, something heavier. Guilt sat thick in his chest like stones.
He turned the burner down with slow, careful fingers before he trusted himself to speak.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough and low, cracking on the words. “God, I’m so sorry. That you had to go through all of that. That my father—that people like him—keep doing this. Keep taking and taking until there’s nothing left.” He let out a shaky breath, one hand coming up to press against his eyes for a second. “I hate it. I hate that I come from that. That I almost became part of it.”
Jo turned fully toward you, eyes glassy but soft, the blush slowly returning to his cheeks as he looked at you with something close to quiet devastation.
“You don’t have to be alone like that anymore,” he whispered, the words long and careful, almost pleading. “Not while I’m here. Not for this week. Not for as long as you’ll let me stay between you and whatever comes next. I know I can’t fix what happened. But I can… I can make sure you eat warm food. And you can sleep without listening for boots. And maybe… maybe feel a little less like the world only knows how to take soft things.”
He plated the eggs with slightly trembling hands, added a slice of toast, and brought the plate over to you, setting it down gently along with a mug of tea that smelled faintly of honey.
“Eat,” he murmured, voice still thick with everything he wasn’t saying. “Please. While it’s hot. I’ll sit with you."
The kitchen stayed quiet after that.
You ate slowly, the warm eggs and honey-sweet tea settling something deep in your chest that had been empty for too long. Jo sat across from you, chin propped on one hand, just watching you with soft eyes and that persistent pink still dusting his cheeks. Neither of you spoke much. You didn’t need to. The fire crackled, the snow kept falling outside, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence between you wasn’t heavy with fear.
When you finished, he quietly took your plate, washed everything by hand, and helped you back to the bedroom so you could rest your leg. He didn’t push. He didn’t hover. He simply existed beside you like he was learning how to take up space without scaring you.
Days passed like that.
Slow. Surprisingly gentle.
You both fell into something that almost looked like routine. Jo changed your bandage every morning and every night with the same careful hands, always whispering “sorry” when it stung, always blushing when your skin brushed his. You started helping in small ways—setting the table, folding the blankets, limping around the cabin on your better days while he hovered close, ready to catch you.
He read to you sometimes in the evenings, voice low and a little shy, while you curled up on the couch with your hooves tucked under the quilt. You told him quiet stories about the rabbits who had taken you in, and he listened like every word mattered. At night he still slept on the floor beside the bed, even though you’d told him more than once he could take the couch. He always shook his head, ears burning, and mumbled that he slept better knowing you were safe.
By the sixth day, the cabin no longer felt like a hiding place.
It felt like something closer to home.
You caught him on Sunday afternoon.
The light was soft and gold through the window, catching on the dust motes in the air. You’d woken from a light doze on the couch to the quiet scratch of pencil on paper. Jo was sitting on the floor a few feet away, sketchbook balanced against his knees, completely absorbed. His hair was messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up, and there was the smallest furrow between his brows as he worked.
He was drawing you again.
Not the version of you that had been bleeding and terrified in the woods. This one was softer. You were curled on your side in the lilac nightgown, one ear relaxed against the pillow, the faintest smile on your lips like you’d been dreaming of something warm. The lines were careful. Tender. Like he was trying to hold onto the version of you that finally felt safe.
When you shifted, the couch creaked. Jo’s head snapped up so fast he nearly dropped the pencil. The blush hit him instantly—deep, helpless, crawling all the way to the tips of his ears.
“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, voice cracking as he tried to close the sketchbook. “I didn’t mean to stare. You just… looked peaceful. I wanted to remember it. I can rip it out—"
You shook your head before he could finish.
Instead, you asked if he would teach you.
Jo went completely still. For a second he just stared at you, mouth slightly open, the blush somehow deepening even more. Then something small and shy and almost disbelieving flickered across his face.
“…Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, Um—I can do that.”
He moved to sit beside you on the floor, sketchbook between you, his long legs folding awkwardly. His hands were shaking a little as he showed you how to hold the pencil, how to let it rest lightly between your fingers instead of gripping it too tight. Every time your hands brushed, he pulled back like he’d been burned, cheeks burning hotter.
“You’re… really good at this,” he murmured after your third attempt at shading a simple leaf. His voice was soft, almost awed. “The way you see things. It’s nice.”
You worked in quiet for a while, shoulders slowly drifting closer until they were touching. Jo didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it, just barely, like he was afraid even that much might be too much but couldn’t help himself. The fire crackled. Outside, snow tapped gently against the glass. Inside, the only sounds were the scratch of pencils and Jo’s occasional soft instructions, his voice low and careful every time he leaned in to guide your hand.
By the time the light started to fade, your fingers were smudged with graphite and Jo’s ears were still pink.
The days after the drawing lesson settled even deeper into something warm and unspoken.
You and Jo moved through the cabin like you’d been doing it for years instead of barely a week. Mornings still started with him carefully changing your bandage, but now his hands lingered a little longer, and the soft “sorry” he always whispered came with the smallest smile. You helped him cook. He let you sit on the counter while he stirred, your hooves dangling, his shoulder brushing yours every time he reached past you. Evenings were spent on the floor with the sketchbook between you. He never pushed, but he always lit up—really lit up—when you asked him to show you something new.
At night he finally agreed to sleep on the couch instead of the floor, but only after you’d tugged on his sleeve and asked in that quiet voice if he was tired of the hard wood. He’d turned bright red and nodded, mumbling something about how the couch was “actually pretty comfortable” while avoiding your eyes.
The wound on your leg continued to heal. You could walk longer distances now without limping as much. Jo still hovered close anyway, one hand always ready to steady you, always pretending he wasn’t blushing when you leaned on him.
By Wednesday, the cabin no longer felt borrowed.
The phone rang on Friday afternoon.
Jo was in the middle of showing you how to shade the curve of an antler in the sketchbook when the old landline shattered the quiet. He froze, pencil hovering above the paper, and for a second the color drained from his face. Then he stood slowly, wiping his hands on his hoodie like he could wipe away the sudden tension in his shoulders.
He answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
His father’s voice came through loud and rough, the same flat tone he always used when he was already halfway gone in his mind.
“Boy. It’s me. Listen, we got a big one yesterday. Real trophy buck. Twelve points. Took us damn near all day to track it down, but we got it. Clean shot.” There was a pause, like he was waiting for praise that never came. When Jo stayed silent, his father continued, almost boastful. “Turns out there’s a whole herd moving through the upper ridge. More where that came from. So we’re staying. Gonna set up camp proper. Don’t know how long. Could be another week. Could be longer. Depends on how the weather holds and how many we can bring down.”
Jo’s grip tightened on the receiver until his knuckles went white. He turned slightly away from you, but you could still see the way his shoulders curled inward, the way his free hand came up to press against his eyes for half a second.
“Food should still be fine, It hasn't been that long” his father went on, dismissive. “You know what to if it gets low. Don't be goin' soft whilst i'm gone.”
Another grunt. No goodbye. Just the click of the line going dead.
Jo stood there for a long moment after, staring at the receiver. Then he set it back in the cradle with slow, careful fingers. His back stayed to you for several seconds, shoulders rising and falling with one long, shaky breath.
When he finally turned around, the blush was gone. In its place was something heavier. Something tired and quietly devastated.
“He’s staying longer,” he said, voice low and rough. “Another week. Maybe more. They…um—got a y'know and there’s more of them. So he’s… he’s not coming back soon.”
He crossed the room slowly and sank down onto the floor beside you again, sketchbook still open between you. His hands were shaking. He stared at the half-drawn antler on the page like it had answers.
“I should feel relieved,” he whispered, barely loud enough to hear. “More time. More days where it’s just us. Where you’re safe. Where I don’t have to lie or hide you or pretend I’m someone I’m not.” His voice cracked. “But all I can think about is how many more he’s going to kill while he’s up there. How many more families he’s going to tear apart. And I hate that I come from that. I hate that part of me is still… relieved.”
You watched him for a long moment, ears flicking back against your hair as his words settled heavy in the quiet room. The half-drawn antler on the sketchbook between you suddenly looked too sharp, too much like the ones that had once hung above the fireplace. Jo’s hands were still shaking where they rested on his knees, and the way his shoulders curled made something deep in your chest ache.
Slowly, you reached out.
Your fingers—still faintly smudged with graphite from earlier—found his. You didn’t grab. You simply let your hand rest over his, small and warm, until he stopped trembling quite so hard. When he didn’t pull away, you shifted closer on the floor, close enough that your knee brushed his.
“…You’re not him,” you whispered, voice soft and careful, the words long before they dropped short. “You know that, right? You’re not the one out there with a rifle. You’re not the one bragging about twelve-point bucks and how many more you can kill. You’re here. With me. Choosing different. Every single day.”
Your thumb brushed once, barely there, across the back of his hand. One of your ears twitched again, soft and uncertain.
“I know it hurts,” you continued, quieter still. “Hearing him. Knowing what he’s doing. Feeling like part of you is relieved anyway because it means I’m safe a little longer. That doesn’t make you bad. It makes you human. It makes you… someone who’s been surviving the only way he knew how until he decided to be something else.”
You leaned in a little more, close enough that your shoulder pressed lightly against his. The lilac nightgown slipped off one shoulder again, but you didn’t fix it. Your voice trembled at the edges, but it stayed steady enough to reach him.
“I’m glad you’re relieved,” you whispered. “Because I’m relieved too. Because it means I get to keep sitting here with you. Drawing bad leaves. Eating your slightly burnt toast. Falling asleep knowing no one’s going to drag me out of this cabin in the middle of the night and shoot me dead.” Your ears flicked forward, soft and hopeful. “So let yourself feel it. Just a little. You don’t have to carry all of his darkness by yourself anymore. Not while I’m here.”
Jo’s breath hitched.
He stared down at where your hand rested in his, the blush slowly creeping back across his cheeks like it had never really left. His eyes were glassy, lashes wet at the edges, but when he finally looked at you there was something raw and grateful and painfully shy in his expression.
He didn’t speak right away.
Instead he turned his hand over and laced his fingers with yours, holding on like you were the only solid thing left in the room. His thumb brushed across your knuckles once, twice, like he was still learning how to accept gentleness without flinching.
“…Thank you,” he whispered eventually, voice cracking small and thick. “For saying that. For… for not hating me for coming from him. For staying even when you have every reason to be scared of this whole place.”
He leaned sideways until his shoulder rested more fully against yours, the sketchbook forgotten between you. The fire crackled softly in the other room. Outside, snow tapped against the window again.
Jo let out a long, shaky breath and rested his forehead against the side of your head, just for a second.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he murmured, barely loud enough to hear. “Even if it’s only for however long we have. I don’t… I don’t want to be alone in this anymore either.”
His fingers tightened gently around yours.
And for the first time since the phone had rung, the heavy weight in his chest seemed to ease—just a little.
The days stretched on without another call.
A week and a half passed in a quiet, golden haze. No boots on the porch. No sharp voice on the other end of the line. Just the two of you and the slow rhythm you’d built together.
You helped him cook now without him hovering quite so nervously—standing at the stove beside him, your shoulder brushing his as he taught you how to crack eggs one-handed. Evenings were spent on the floor with the sketchbook between you, your graphite-smudged fingers slowly growing steadier under his gentle guidance. He still blushed every time you praised his drawings. You still caught him staring at you like you were something he couldn’t quite believe was real.
At night he slept on the couch, but more often than not you both ended up talking long after the fire had died down—your voice soft in the dark, his even softer as he told you about the mother he barely remembered and the boy he used to be before the rifles and the antlers and the silence.
The cabin felt lived-in now. Your scent had settled into the blankets. His hoodie had found its way onto your shoulders more than once when you got cold. The wound on your leg was nearly gone, only a faint pink scar left behind.
And somewhere in the middle of all those ordinary, gentle days, something between you had shifted. Grown heavier. Sweeter. More impossible to ignore.
“You’re really okay now,” he murmured, voice warm with quiet wonder. His thumb brushed once, feather-light, over the scar. “I was so scared it would leave something worse. But look at you.”
He looked up at you then, cheeks already dusting pink, and the smile grew a little shy.
“I was thinking…” he started, then paused, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “We’ve been here a long time. My father still hasn’t called. The town’s only a few hours’ walk if we take it slow. I could… I could take you. If you want. Just for a few hours. We could get some fresh food. Maybe something warm to drink. New clothes that actually fit you instead of my mother’s old things. You don’t have to hide anymore. Not while he’s gone.”
He hesitated, then added softer, “I’d stay right beside you the whole time. I won’t let anything happen. I promise.”
You said yes.
The walk into town was slow and careful, but not because of your leg. Jo kept his pace deliberately gentle, one hand hovering near your elbow the entire way, ready to steady you even though you didn’t really need it anymore. The snow had melted into slush along the edges of the road, and the air smelled like pine and wet earth. Every time a car passed, Jo shifted a little closer to you, protective without even realizing he was doing it.
By the time you reached the small main street, your fingers had found his.
He didn’t let go.
The town was quiet—just a handful of shops, a diner with foggy windows, and the general store where Jo usually went when he needed supplies. A few people nodded at him in passing. No one stared. No one asked questions. For once, the world didn’t feel like it was watching.
The town was also relatively used to hybrids now. A few even lived among the human folk that resided there.
You noticed it almost immediately.
As you and Jo walked down the main street, hand in hand, you saw them—a pair of fox hybrids laughing outside the bakery, a tall deer hybrid man helping an older woman carry her groceries across the street, a young rabbit hybrid girl skipping ahead of her human mother without a single person giving them a second glance. No one stared. No one reached for a weapon or crossed to the other side of the road. The air didn’t carry that sharp, watchful tension you’d grown used to in the woods.
It felt… normal.
Jo noticed you noticing.
He gave your hand a gentle squeeze as you walked, his voice low and a little shy.
“It’s… different now than it used to be,” he murmured. “My father always acted like the whole world was against hybrids. Like we had to stay hidden in the woods or else. But the town’s changed since I was little. People got tired of the fighting. Some of the older folks still grumble, but most of them just… live. Same as everyone else.”
He glanced at you sideways, cheeks flushed.
“I was scared to bring you here at first. Thought someone might say something. But… I think you’re safe. Really safe. Even if someone did notice you’re not from around here, they’d probably just assume you’re visiting family or something.”
He led you into the small clothing shop first. The bell above the door chimed softly. The woman behind the counter—an older human with kind eyes—smiled warmly when she saw you, her gaze flicking briefly to your small antlers and delicate ears without a trace of fear or judgment.
“Jo,” she greeted, “good to see you. And who’s this?”
Jo went bright red instantly, the tips of his ears burning as he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.
“This is… um. This is—y/n—” He glanced at you, then back at the woman, voice cracking a little. “She’s with me. We’re just… getting her some things that fit better.”
The woman’s smile only grew warmer, soft and knowing in the way older people sometimes looked when they saw something gentle unfolding right in front of them.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, y/n,” she said kindly, giving you a small nod that didn’t linger too long on your antlers or ears. “I’m Mrs. Satō. Jo’s been coming in here since he was knee-high. Always so polite. Quiet boy.” Her eyes flicked fondly to him, then back to you. “You two take your time. Let me know if you need help finding anything.”
She stepped back behind the counter, giving you both space, but the warmth in her voice stayed.
Jo looked like he might actually combust.
His ears were bright red, the blush crawling all the way down his neck as he gently tugged you toward the racks of clothes, still holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“I—sorry,” he whispered quickly, voice cracking as he leaned in close to you. “I didn’t mean to just… blurt your name like that. I panicked. She’s nice, though. She won’t say anything to anyone. I promise.”
You glanced up at him, ears flicking softly, and gave his hand a small squeeze in return.
“It’s okay,” you whispered back, voice quiet but steady. “I don’t mind. She seems… kind. It felt nice. Being introduced like that. Like I’m someone who gets to be here with you.”
You looked around the small shop, taking in the soft sweaters and simple dresses, then back at him with a tiny, shy smile.
“I like that she didn’t look at me like I was strange. Or like I didn’t belong next to you.” Your voice grew even softer. “It made me feel… real. Like maybe I’m allowed to stand beside you without the world ending.
Jo’s blush deepened, but the shyest, most genuine smile tugged at his lips. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, still flustered but clearly touched by your words.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “You are. You’re allowed. More than allowed.”
He stood awkwardly near you whilst you looked through soft sweaters and simple dresses, blushing furiously every time you held something up and asked his opinion. He bought you two new outfits without hesitation, using the money from the tin his father had mentioned, and only stammered a little when Mrs. Satō smiled knowingly at the two of you.
After that, he took you to the diner.
The bell above the door chimed as you stepped inside, the warm smell of grilled cheese and fresh coffee wrapping around you both. Jo led you to the same corner booth from before, his hand still loosely holding yours until you slid into the seat. He sat across from you, knees bumping under the table, ears still faintly pink from the clothing shop.
A fox hybrid waitress with kind eyes and a gentle smile came over to take your order. She didn’t stare at your antlers or ears—just greeted you both warmly before heading off to the kitchen.
Jo kept glancing at you across the table, one hand resting near yours like he wanted to reach for it again but was too shy to do it in public. The blush on his cheeks hadn’t fully faded.
You looked around the cozy diner for a moment—the foggy windows, the low hum of conversation, the way no one seemed to mind the two of you sitting there together—before your soft voice broke the quiet.
“Thank you for today,” you whispered. “For the new clothes. For letting me walk down the street without hiding. For… for introducing me to Mrs. Satō like I was someone who belonged beside you.” A tiny, shy smile touched your lips. “I liked hearing you say my name out loud. It made everything feel more real.”
Jo’s blush deepened instantly, but he turned his hand over so he could lace his fingers with yours properly, squeezing once.
“You do belong beside me,” he murmured, voice cracking a little with how earnest he was. “I want you to. More than I know how to say without sounding like an idiot.”
The fox hybrid waitress returned with your food—grilled cheese and tomato soup for both of you—and gave you both another warm smile before leaving you alone again.
You picked up your spoon, stirring the soup slowly before speaking again, softer this time.
“I think… I could get used to this,” you said, almost to yourself. “Coming into town sometimes. Sitting here with you. Not having to be scared every second.” Your ears twitched forward as you looked at him. “If you wanted to. I know we can’t stay forever. But while your father’s still gone… I’d like to come back here with you again. If that’s okay.”
Jo stared at you for a second, completely soft and flustered, before the smallest, most genuine smile broke across his face.
“Yeah,” he whispered, squeezing your hand again. “That’s more than okay. We can come back whenever you want. As many times as you want.”
The rest of the evening passed in a soft, golden blur.
After the diner, Jo walked you home slowly, your new clothes tucked in a bag between you, fingers still loosely linked. The sky had turned soft lavender by the time the cabin came into view, smoke curling gently from the chimney. Neither of you spoke much on the walk back — you didn’t need to. The quiet between you felt full instead of empty.
Once you were home, the routine felt easy.
Jo started the fire while you changed into one of your new sweaters and a pair of soft leggings. He made tea without being asked, setting a mug beside you on the couch before disappearing into the bathroom to wash up. When he came back, hair damp and wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants, he looked shy all over again.
You were already curled up on the couch, hooves tucked under the blanket. When he sat down beside you, you turned to him, ears flicking softly.
“Thank you again,” you whispered, voice quiet but warm. “For today. For everything.”
Before he could answer, you leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. Your lips barely brushed his skin, but it was enough to make Jo go completely still. The blush exploded across his face so fast it reached the tips of his ears.
He didn’t say anything for a long second. Just stared at you, wide-eyed and flustered, one hand coming up to touch the spot you’d kissed like he was trying to hold onto the feeling.
“…Y-You’re welcome,” he finally managed, voice cracking.
Two days passed.
The cabin stayed warm and quiet. You helped Jo cook. He read to you in the evenings. You drew together on the floor like always. The kiss on the cheek lingered between you like something sweet and unspoken.
It was late afternoon when it happened.
You were sitting on the floor with the sketchbook in your lap, carefully shading the curve of a leaf the way Jo had taught you. He sat across from you, supposedly working on his own page, but his pencil had stopped moving minutes ago.
He was just… staring.
Not in a bad way. Soft. A little dazed. Like he was trying to memorize the way the afternoon light caught on your ears and the small furrow of concentration between your brows.
You felt his gaze and looked up.
Your ears twitched.
“…What’s wrong?” you asked gently, tilting your head. “You’re staring.”
Jo’s face went bright red instantly. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. His pencil slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor.
“I—” he blurted, voice cracking high and flustered. “I want to kiss you.”
The words tumbled out before he could stop them. His eyes went wide the second they left his mouth, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said it out loud. The blush spread down his neck as he ducked his head, ears burning.
You blinked at him for a second.
Then, soft and simple, you answered.
“…Oh. Okay.”
Jo’s head snapped up.
He looked at you like you’d just handed him something precious and fragile. His hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees. He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.
“Wait…Can I?” he asked, shy and earnest all at once. “Like right now?”
You gave the smallest nod.
Jo moved slowly, like he was afraid the moment might shatter if he rushed. He leaned across the small space between you, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek with the gentlest touch. His thumb brushed your skin once, trembling.
When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft. Careful. A little clumsy with how badly he wanted to be gentle. He tasted like the tea you’d shared earlier and something warm that was just him. He didn’t push—just stayed there, breathing you in, like he still couldn’t quite believe you’d said yes.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded.
“…Thank you,” he whispered, voice cracking small and honest. “For letting me.”
His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb brushing slowly over your skin.
“I’ve been wanting to do that again since the cheek kiss,” he admitted, barely breathing. “I just… didn’t know how to ask.”
You smiled, small and soft, and leaned in to brush your nose against his.
“You don’t have to ask next time,” you whispered back, clearing your throat. “You can just… do it.”
Jo let out a tiny, shaky laugh, the sound warm and disbelieving, before he kissed you again—slower this time, sweeter, like he finally believed he was allowed to keep this softness for himself.
The next two days passed in a warm, quiet haze. The kiss lingered between you like something new and fragile. Jo was even shyer than usual — blushing every time your hands brushed, stealing soft little kisses when you were drawing or cooking, but never pushing for more. You slept in the bed. He slept on the couch. The cabin felt smaller in the best way.
The storm rolled in hard and sudden.
Thunder cracked like something splitting open above the cabin, rattling the old windows and shaking the walls. Lightning flashed bright and violent, turning the bedroom stark white for half a second before plunging everything back into darkness. You woke with a sharp inhale, ears pinned flat, heart hammering so hard it hurt. The sound of heavy rain and another deep, rolling boom of thunder made something old and frightened twist tight in your chest.
You didn’t think. You just moved.
Bare hooves touched cold floorboards as you slipped from the bed and padded into the living room, the new pretty pink nightgown brushing against your thighs. Jo was already stirring on the couch when you reached him, sitting up fast the moment he saw your face in the dark.
“Hey—” His voice was rough with sleep, but soft. “It’s just thunder. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
You didn’t answer right away. You just stepped close and gently tugged at the front of his shirt with trembling fingers, the way you had that first morning in the woods when everything had felt too big and too frightening.
“…Can you come stay with me?” you whispered, barely loud enough over the rain. “In the room?”
Jo was on his feet in an instant, one hand already reaching for you before he caught himself.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Of course. I’ll sleep on the floor if you want. Or right by the bed. Whatever you need.”
You shook your head, ears still low against your hair.
“No,” you said, voice small but steady. “It’s okay. We can just… sleep in the bed together.”
He went very still.
For a long second he just looked at you, the blush already creeping up his neck even in the dark. Then he gave a small, shaky nod, like the words had stolen something from his lungs.
“…Okay,” he whispered. “If you’re sure.”
You led him back into the bedroom.
The storm kept raging outside, but once you were both beneath the blankets, the thunder felt a little farther away. Jo lay on his back, stiff and careful, arms tucked close to his sides like he was terrified of taking up too much space. You curled on your side facing him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body.
Minutes passed. The rain softened into a steady rhythm against the roof. Your breathing slowly evened out.
Then you shifted in your sleep, and your thigh brushed against him.
You felt it.
Hard. Hot. Pressing insistently against the front of his sweatpants.
Your eyes opened. You blinked in the dark, confused, ears twitching as you glanced down, then back up at his face. Jo’s eyes were squeezed shut, jaw tight, the tips of his ears burning even in the low light.
“…Jo?” you whispered.
He made a small, mortified sound and tried to shift his hips away.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. It’s—it’s normal. For guys. It just… happens. Especially when I’m this close to you. It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine, I swear. It’ll go away on its own.”
You stayed quiet for a moment, still processing the feeling of him against you. Then, without thinking, your hand shifted beneath the blanket and accidentally brushed against the hard line of him.
Jo let out a broken, trembling whimper—high and needy, his whole body jerking like the touch had gone straight through him. His hand flew up to cover his mouth, ears burning crimson.
“I— fuck— I’m sorry,” he gasped, voice shaking. “That felt—I didn’t mean to make that sound. I’m really sensitive and you’re so close and I’ve never—I’ve never been this close to anyone before and—”
You looked at him in the dark, heart beating fast for an entirely different reason now. His eyes were glassy, desperate, full of want and embarrassment and something painfully tender.
You reached out slowly and touched his cheek.
“…It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t mind. I just didn’t know it would feel like that for you.”
Jo swallowed hard, breathing unsteady.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice barely there. “Please? I really want to kiss you right now.”
You nodded.
The kiss started soft—careful, almost hesitant—but quickly deepened into something needier. Jo made soft, shaky sounds against your mouth as his hand slid to your waist, trembling like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. When you pressed closer and your body brushed against the hard line of him again, he whimpered into the kiss, hips twitching helplessly.
“I’ve never…” he breathed between kisses, forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t know what I’m doing. But I want you. So much it hurts. Can I—can we…?”
You nodded again, just as shy.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I want to. With you.”
Jo moved like every second was something sacred.
He helped you out of the nightgown with slow hands, pausing to press soft kisses to every new inch of skin he'd uncovered. When he finally settled between your thighs, both of you bare and breathing hard, he looked down at you like you were something he was terrified of breaking.
“I’ll go slow,” he promised, voice cracking. “Tell me if anything hurts. Or if you want to stop. I’ll stop. I swear on everything.”
The first push inside was careful, but it still hurt.
Jo moved slowly, trying his best to be gentle, but the stretch was sharp and unfamiliar. You sucked in a quiet breath, your body tensing beneath him as he tried to sink deeper. It burned—not unbearable, but enough to make your thighs tremble and your ears pin back slightly against the pillow.
Jo felt it immediately.
He froze the second your breath caught, eyes flying open to search your face in the dark.
“…Does it hurt?” he whispered, voice tight with worry. “I’m hurting you, aren’t I? I’m sorry—I’m so sorry.”
You nodded once, small and honest, your fingers curling into his shoulders.
“It’s okay,” you breathed, even though your voice was a little shaky. “It just… stings. A lot. Um...and you're bigger than I thought.”
Jo made a soft, devastated sound and immediately started to pull back, but you tightened your grip on him, keeping him close.
“No—don’t—don’t pull out yet,” you said quietly. “Just… stay still for a second. Please.”
He obeyed instantly, staying buried only halfway inside you, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself still. His forehead dropped to yours, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” he kept whispering, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should’ve gone even slower. I should’ve— God, I’m so stupid. Tell me what you need. I’ll do anything.”
After a moment, the sharpest edge of the pain eased into a dull, uncomfortable ache. You gave a tiny nod.
“…Its okay,” you whispered. “You can move a little. Just slow.”
Jo moved like you were made of glass.
Every thrust was shallow and careful, barely rocking his hips as he watched your face the entire time. Even so, a small, warm trickle of blood slipped out around him, staining the inside of your thigh and the sheets beneath you. Jo noticed it the moment it happened. His eyes widened with fresh panic.
“You’re bleeding,” he whispered, horrified. “I—I made you bleed. I’m hurting you too much. We should stop—”
You shook your head and pulled him down into a soft kiss, silencing him.
“It’s okay,” you murmured against his lips. “It’s normal. For the first time. It doesn’t hurt as much now. Just… keep going slow. Please.”
Jo looked like he might cry. He kissed you again, slower and sweeter, one hand cradling your cheek like you were something fragile and precious.
“I hate that I’m hurting you,” he whispered. “Even a little. I never want to hurt you ever again.”
But he kept moving when you asked him to—slow, careful, barely there thrusts that still made him tremble and whimper above you. Every time you made the smallest sound of discomfort, he would freeze and press kisses to your face, whispering apologies and soft praises until you relaxed again.
It didn’t last long.
Jo was already too overwhelmed, too in love with how close you were, too desperate to last. His rhythm stuttered, his moans growing higher and more broken against your mouth.
“I’m close—I’m so close,” he gasped. “I’m sorry—I can’t hold it—”
He pulled out at the last second with a shaky, high-pitched whimper, spilling warm across your stomach in thick pulses. His whole body shook as he came, face buried in your neck, soft apologies tumbling from his lips even as pleasure overtook him.
When it was over, he stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard, pressing gentle kisses along your shoulder and collarbone.
“…I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, voice small and guilty. “For the pain. For the blood. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve gone even slower.”
You reached up and cupped his flushed cheek, guiding him to look at you.
“It’s okay,” you said softly. “It was my first time too. It was always going to hurt a little. But you were gentle. You stopped when I needed you to. That’s what matters.”
Jo’s eyes were glassy as he leaned down and kissed you again—slow, grateful, full of quiet devotion.
He carefully cleaned you up afterward with a damp cloth, his hands still trembling as he wiped away the small smear of blood from your thighs and the mess on your stomach. When he was done, he pulled you into his arms and held you close, one hand stroking your hair like he was trying to soothe both of you.
“…Next time,” he murmured against your temple, “I’ll be even gentler. I promise. I’ll go as slow as you need. Even if it takes all night.”
You smiled tiredly against his chest, ears flicking softly as you tucked yourself closer.
“I know you will,” you whispered back.
Outside, the rain had finally softened into a gentle patter.
The morning after the storm was quiet.
Pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, soft and gray, the kind that made the cabin feel wrapped in a gentle hush. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving behind the faint smell of wet earth and pine drifting in through the cracked window.
Jo woke first.
He was still curled around you, one arm draped carefully over your waist, his face tucked into the crook of your neck. For a long moment he didn’t move. He just lay there, breathing you in, replaying everything that had happened in the dark with a mixture of awe and lingering guilt.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes immediately went to your face, soft and worried.
You were still asleep, one ear relaxed against the pillow, the new pretty pink nightgown you’d put on after he cleaned you up now slightly rumpled. He watched the slow rise and fall of your chest for a while, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your hip through the fabric.
Eventually, he slipped out of bed as quietly as he could.
He returned a little while later with a warm, damp cloth and a glass of water. He sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. His free hand hovered for a second before he gently brushed a strand of hair from your face.
Jo’s voice was small and full of guilt as he sat on the edge of the bed, the glass of water held carefully in both hands like he was afraid even that might be too much.
You blinked up at him, still half-asleep, ears flicking softly at the sound of his voice. The ache between your legs was dull and present, but not sharp anymore. When you shifted slightly under the blankets, you felt the faint stickiness of where he had cleaned you the night before.
You reached out slowly and took the glass from him, fingers brushing his.
“…I’m okay,” you said quietly, voice still a little rough from sleep. “A little sore. It feels… strange. But not bad. Not like something’s wrong.”
You took a small sip of water, then set the glass on the nightstand before looking back at him. Your eyes were soft, honest.
“You didn’t hurt me on purpose,” you continued, voice gentle. “You were careful. You stopped the second I needed you to. And you kept asking if I was okay. That’s more than I ever expected from anyone.”
Jo’s ears burned brighter. He looked down at his hands, fingers twisting together in his lap.
“Still,” he mumbled. “There was blood. And you made that sound when I first pushed in… like it really hurt. I hated it. I hated knowing I was the reason you were in pain, even for a little while.”
You reached out and gently took one of his hands, pulling it into your lap. Your thumb brushed over his knuckles.
“It was my first time too,” you reminded him softly. “It was always going to sting. And yeah… it did hurt a bit. But it also felt good in other ways. Because it was you. Because you were shaking and trying so hard to be gentle and kept kissing me like I was something precious.”
You gave his hand a small squeeze.
“I don’t regret it,” you said, quieter now. “Not even a little. I’m glad it was with you.”
Jo finally looked up at you. His eyes were glassy, the blush still high on his cheeks, but there was something warm and relieved in his expression now.
“…Really?” he whispered.
You nodded.
“Really.”
He let out a shaky breath, then carefully leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment.
“I’ll run you a bath after breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “With warm water. And I’ll make something easy to eat. You should rest today. I can do everything. You don’t have to move if you don’t want to.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, one hand still holding yours.
“And… if you want, later… we can talk about it. Or not talk about it. Whatever you need.” His voice dropped even softer. “I just want to take care of you. However you’ll let me.”
You smiled, small and tired but genuine, and tugged him down until he was lying beside you again.
“Breakfast sounds nice,” you whispered, curling into his chest. “And the bath. But right now… just stay here a little longer. With me. Please…?”
Jo wrapped his arms around you carefully, pressing another kiss to the top of your head.
“Okay,” he breathed. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Four weeks.
Four quiet, golden weeks had slipped by since the night of the storm.
The cabin had settled into something that almost felt like a real home. Mornings started slow—Jo waking first, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder before slipping out of bed to make breakfast. You would join him eventually, still sleepy in one of his hoodies, ears flicking as you stood beside him at the stove. He was gentler with you now, always checking in with soft touches and quieter questions, especially after sex. And there had been sex—slow, careful, and achingly tender. He still got overwhelmed every time, still finished too quickly more often than not, but he always stayed close afterward, kissing every inch of you he could reach while whispering how much he cared.
Some afternoons you walked into town together. You held hands the entire way. You ate grilled cheese at the diner, shared milkshakes, and wandered into the little shop where Mrs. Satō always smiled knowingly when she saw the two of you. Jo bought you colored pencils and a new sketchbook without you even asking. You bought him a simple card game one day, just because it made him light up when you suggested playing it by the fire at night.
The sex had gotten a little easier. The pain had faded after the first few times, replaced by something warmer, something that made you both breathless and shy and close. Jo was still careful—almost painfully so—but he was learning your body the same way you were learning his. Every time he touched you, it felt like he was still surprised he was allowed to.
And through it all, there had been no word from his father.
Not a single call.
Jo wasn’t the type to worry about his father. He had spent most of his life learning how to exist in the spaces between that man’s moods. But four weeks was too long. Even for him.
It was late afternoon when the thought finally settled heavy in his chest.
You were both on the floor again, sketchbooks open between you. The fire crackled low. You were carefully coloring in a small cluster of flowers you’d drawn earlier, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Jo had his pencil in hand, but he hadn’t drawn anything in nearly twenty minutes.
He was just watching you.
But this time, the look in his eyes was different. Softer in some places. Tighter in others.
You glanced up and caught him staring again. Your ears twitched.
“…You’re doing it again,” you said gently, setting your colored pencil down. “Staring like something’s wrong.”
Jo blinked, like he’d been pulled out of a fog. He rubbed the back of his neck, ears burning faintly.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to. I just…” He hesitated, then let out a quiet breath. “It’s been four weeks. Since he last called.”
The words hung in the air between you.
Jo looked down at his sketchbook, though he wasn’t really seeing it.
“I keep telling myself it’s fine. That he’s just caught up with the hunt. That he’s probably drinking with his friends somewhere in the mountains and forgot about me. He’s done that before.” His voice dropped lower. “But four weeks is a long time. Even for him. And I keep thinking… what if something happened? What if he got hurt? Or what if he’s on his way back right now and we don’t know?”
He finally looked up at you, eyes soft but uneasy.
“I’m not worried about him,” he said honestly. “Not really. But I’m worried about what it means if he suddenly shows up. About what that would do to this.” His gaze flicked around the cabin—to the shared blankets, the second sketchbook, the faint traces of your scent now woven into everything. “I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.”
Jo reached across the small space between you and gently took your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“…I don’t know what to do,” he admitted quietly. “Part of me wants to keep pretending everything’s fine. That we have all the time in the world. But another part of me is scared that the second I let my guard down, everything’s going to change again.”
Jo's worries shattered on a Monday night.
The banging came just after midnight.
It was loud. Violent. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in the quiet of their little cabin. Jo shot upright in bed, heart slamming against his ribs. You woke with a sharp gasp beside him, ears pinned flat as another round of heavy knocks rattled the front door.
Jo was already moving before his mind fully caught up. He grabbed the first thing he could find—an old hoodie—and yanked it on as he stumbled out of the bedroom. You followed close behind, the new pink nightgown brushing your thighs, still half-asleep and confused.
When Jo opened the door, cold night air rushed in.
Two police officers stood on the porch, their faces grim under the porch light. One of them—an older man with tired eyes—stepped forward slightly when he saw Jo.
“Jo?” he asked carefully. “Jo, son of Rokujo?”
Jo’s throat felt dry. He nodded once, still gripping the edge of the door.
The officer’s voice was low, steady, but there was no easy way to say what came next.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he said. “Your father was found earlier today. Up in the mountains. Looks like he was tracking a buck… and it turned on him. Gored him. He didn’t make it. We aren't sure how long it had been since the attack. He was cold when we found him.”
The words landed like stones.
Jo didn’t speak right away. He just stood there in the doorway, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, staring at the officer like the man had spoken in a language he didn’t understand. Behind him, you had gone completely still, one hand lightly touching the back of his shirt.
The second officer, a younger woman, spoke softer.
“We’re very sorry for your loss. We know this is sudden. We’ve already handled the… remains. There’s some paperwork that needs to be filled out, but it can wait a few days. We just wanted to let you know in person.”
Jo’s fingers tightened on the doorframe until his knuckles turned white. His ears were ringing. He could still hear the last phone call in his head—his father’s voice bragging about the big buck, saying he was staying longer.
And now he was gone.
Killed by one.
Jo swallowed hard. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet and rough.
“…Are you sure it was him?”
The older officer nodded once.
“His things were with him. We confirmed it.”
Silence stretched between them.
Jo didn’t cry. He didn’t yell. He just stood there, breathing slowly through his nose, eyes fixed somewhere past the officers’ shoulders. You could feel the tension in his back beneath your fingertips—the way his shoulders had gone rigid, like he was trying to hold something enormous inside his chest.
After a moment, he gave a small, jerky nod.
“…Thank you,” he said, voice barely there. “For coming to tell me.”
The officers exchanged a glance. The woman spoke again, gentler this time.
“If you need anything—grief counseling, help with arrangements, anything at all—you can call the station. We’ll check in on you in a couple days.”
Jo nodded again, but it was clear he wasn’t really hearing them anymore.
When the officers finally left, the cabin felt too quiet.
Jo didn’t close the door right away. He stood there in the cold night air for a long moment, staring out into the dark trees like he was waiting for something else to appear. When he finally shut the door, the click of the lock sounded final.
He turned to look at you.
His face was pale. His eyes were glassy, but no tears had fallen yet. He looked lost—like the ground had suddenly shifted beneath his feet and he didn’t know where to stand anymore.
“…He’s gone,” Jo whispered, voice cracking on the words. “He’s actually gone.”
He just stood there for another second, staring at nothing, before his legs gave out beneath him.
He dropped to his knees right there in the middle of the living room, the impact soft against the old wooden floor. His hands came up to cover his face as his shoulders started to shake—not with loud sobs, but with the kind of quiet, broken trembling that looked like it hurt to hold in. His breath came out in short, uneven gasps.
You moved without thinking.
You knelt down in front of him, the hem of your nightgown pooling around your legs as you reached for him. Your hands found his wrists gently, trying to coax his hands away from his face.
“Jo…” you whispered, voice soft but steady. “Hey. Look at me.”
He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lift his head either. His fingers stayed pressed over his eyes like he was trying to hold himself together by force.
You shifted closer, knees touching his, and carefully pulled one of his hands down so you could see his face. His eyes were glassy and red, but still no tears had fallen. He just looked completely lost.
“…He’s gone,” he choked out again, voice raw. “He’s really gone. And I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with that.”
You cupped his cheek with one hand, thumb brushing just beneath his eye.
“I know,” you said quietly. “I know it’s a lot. Even if he was… even if things were bad between you, he was still your father. That doesn’t just disappear.”
Jo let out a shaky breath and finally looked at you. His eyes were wide and wet, full of something heavy and confused.
“I keep thinking I should feel something bigger,” he whispered. “Grief or relief or… I don’t even know. But mostly I just feel scared. Scared of what happens now. Scared that everything we’ve had these last few weeks is about to get ripped away. Scared that I’m going to have to become something I don’t want to be because of this.”
You leaned in and rested your forehead against his, your voice barely above a whisper.
“You don’t have to figure everything out tonight,” you told him gently. “You don’t have to feel one specific way. You can be sad. You can be relieved. You can be angry. You can feel nothing at all. All of it is allowed.”
Your fingers threaded gently through his hair as you continued, soft and honest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “No matter what happens with the cabin or anything else. I’m right here. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”
Jo’s hands finally dropped from his face. He reached for you instead, gripping the fabric of your nightgown like he needed something solid to hold onto. His forehead stayed pressed to yours as he let out another shaky breath.
“…I don’t want to lose this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t want to lose you.”
You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into your chest as he stayed kneeling on the floor. One of your hands stroked slow, soothing lines down his back while the other cradled the back of his head.
“You’re not losing me,” you murmured against his hair. “We’re still here. You and me. That hasn’t changed.”
Jo didn’t say anything else for a long time.
He just stayed there on his knees, clinging to you in the middle of the quiet cabin, while the weight of everything finally started to settle over both of you.
The next two weeks were quiet in a way that felt wrong.
The police came back three days after that night. They brought boxes—his father’s belongings from the mountain trip, along with the old truck that had been sitting in impound. Jo signed the papers on the kitchen table without saying much. His signature was steady, but his eyes stayed blank. When they handed him the keys to the truck and told him the cabin and land were now legally his, he just nodded once and closed the door behind them.
After that, Jo moved through the days like a ghost.
He still got up in the mornings. He still made coffee. But he did it all in silence, his movements slow and mechanical. Most days he sat on the couch for hours, staring at nothing, sketchbook unopened on the floor beside him. When you tried to talk to him, he answered in short, quiet sentences. When you touched him, he leaned into it, but the warmth in his eyes was dimmed. It seemed that even his father death had broken something soft. The light in his eye dimming the same way his mother had.
You did your best to stay close anyway.
You cooked when he forgot to eat. You sat beside him on the couch even when he didn’t speak. At night, you pulled him into bed and held him until he eventually fell asleep, your fingers carding gently through his hair. Some nights he reached for you in the dark, desperate and wordless, and you let him bury himself in you—slow, quiet—like he was trying to remember how to feel something again.
But most of the time, he was just… gone. Present in body, but somewhere far away in his mind.
It was late one evening, nearly two weeks after the police had come, when he finally spoke.
You were both on the couch. The fire had burned low. Jo was sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together, staring at the floor. You had been gently rubbing slow circles on his back for a while, not expecting anything.
Then, without looking up, he said quietly,
“…My mom used to hum when she did the laundry.”
His voice was rough, like it had been sitting in his throat for days.
“She had this soft voice. It wasn’t loud or anything, but it filled the whole cabin. I used to sit by the door and just listen to her while she folded my clothes. She’d smile at me sometimes… but it never really reached her eyes. Not after a while.”
Jo swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around each other.
“My father hated when she hummed. Said it was annoying. Said it made her sound weak. One day he came home and she was humming, and he grabbed her wrist so hard the laundry fell everywhere. She didn’t cry. She just… went quiet. Like she always did. And I sat there watching, too scared to say anything.”
He let out a shaky breath and finally looked over at you. His eyes were glassy, but no tears fell.
“I think that’s when I learned it,” he said softly. “That softness gets punished. That if you care too much, or feel too much, someone will take it from you. My father made sure I knew that every single day. And my mom… she tried to protect me from it. In her own way. But she couldn’t even protect herself.”
Jo’s voice cracked a little as he continued.
“Now he’s gone. Killed by the same thing he spent his whole life hurting. And I don’t know how to feel about it. Part of me is relieved. Part of me feels guilty for being relieved. And part of me just… misses the idea of having a father, even if the one I had was never really mine.”
He turned toward you fully then, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.
“I don’t want to become him,” Jo whispered. “I’ve spent my whole life terrified that I would. But now that he’s gone… I don’t know who I’m supposed to be without that fear hanging over me. Without him.”
He reached for your hand and held it tightly, like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “Scared that without him here, I’ll still find ways to ruin the good things. Like you. Like this.”
You squeezed his hand gently and leaned in closer, resting your forehead against his.
“You’re not him,” you said softly. “You’ve never been him. Even when you were scared. Even when you didn’t know how to be gentle… you still chose to be. With me.”
You brushed your thumb over his knuckles.
“Your mother sounds like she loved you the best way she could,” you continued quietly. “And I think she’d be proud of the way you’re trying so hard not to become like him. You don’t have to have all the answers right now. You’re allowed to grieve him and still be angry at him. Both things can be true.”
Jo closed his eyes and let out a long, tired breath, leaning into your touch.
“…Thank you,” he whispered. “For staying. For listening. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”
You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him into a quiet hug, letting him rest his head against your shoulder.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured. “We’ll figure out who you are now… together.”
A week passed.
It moved slowly, like the cabin was learning how to exist in this new quiet. The grief didn’t disappear, but it settled into something heavier and more constant, like snow that refused to melt.
Jo was still quiet most days, but he wasn’t completely gone anymore. He started eating the meals you made without needing to be coaxed. He showered without you having to gently remind him. Some mornings you would wake up to find him already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, just breathing. Other mornings he would reach for you in his sleep, pulling you closer without saying a word.
He still hadn’t touched his father’s truck.
It sat outside like a ghost of its own, keys hanging on the hook by the door where Jo had left them. Every time he passed them, his eyes would linger for a second before he looked away.
One quiet afternoon, you found him in the living room with the sketchbook open on his lap for the first time in weeks. He wasn’t drawing anything new—just slowly shading over an old drawing of yours, like he needed something to do with his hands. When you sat down beside him, he didn’t speak right away. He just leaned his shoulder against yours and kept shading.
Later that evening, after dinner, he finally said something.
“I keep thinking about the truck,” he admitted quietly, staring at the fire. “It’s mine now. Everything is. The house. The land. All of it.” He let out a slow breath. “Part of me wants to sell it. Drive it into town and never look back. But another part of me… I don’t know. It feels wrong to just get rid of it like it never existed.”
You reached over and took his hand, threading your fingers through his.
“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” you said softly. “There’s no rush. You can sit with it for as long as you need.”
It took another week.
A quiet, heavy week where Jo seemed to be turning something over and over in his mind. He was still gentle with you—still reached for your hand in the evenings, still let you curl against him at night—but there was a new kind of stillness in him. Like he was finally starting to look forward instead of just surviving the present.
Then one quiet morning, while you were both sitting at the small kitchen table with half-finished mugs of tea, he spoke.
“I sold the house.”
His voice was low, careful, but steady. He wasn’t looking at you when he said it. His eyes were fixed on the steam rising from his mug.
You blinked, caught off guard.
Jo continued before you could respond, his fingers tightening slightly around his cup.
“I didn’t want to keep it. I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep living here. Not after everything. Not with all of his things still in the walls. Not with the way the woods feel like they’re still watching me. I almost killed you on this land.” He finally looked up at you, eyes soft but determined. “I want to go somewhere else. Somewhere we can start over. Just us.”
He swallowed, voice dropping even quieter.
“Maybe the city. Or… or even just the town. Somewhere closer to people. Somewhere that doesn’t feel like his.” His thumb brushed anxiously over the rim of his mug. “I already signed the papers. The buyer is paying cash. We can leave whenever we’re ready.”
Jo’s ears were faintly pink, like he was nervous about how you’d react. He reached across the table and gently took your hand, holding it like he needed the contact to keep going.
“I know i should’ve talked to you first,” he admitted, voice cracking a little. “I know that. I just… I needed to make the decision before I lost the nerve. This place… it’s never going to stop feeling like his. And I don’t want to raise a life here. Not with you. I want something that’s ours. Something that doesn’t carry all of that weight.”
He looked at you then, eyes searching, vulnerable.
“I want to start new with you,” he said softly. “Somewhere we can just… be. Without ghosts. Without having to look over our shoulder every time we hear boots on the porch that aren’t there anymore.”
Jo squeezed your hand gently.
“Only if you want to,” he added quickly, almost shy. “If you don’t want to leave, we can figure something else out. I just… I couldn’t stay here anymore. Not and still feel like I could breathe.”
He waited, thumb still brushing over your knuckles, his expression a mix of hope and quiet fear.
You were quiet for a moment after he finished speaking, your fingers still loosely curled around his. The words settled slowly between you—heavy, but not unwelcome.
Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at your lips.
You looked at him with soft eyes, ears flicking once as you gently squeezed his hand in return.
“…Okay,” you said quietly.
Jo’s head lifted a little, like he hadn’t expected it to be that simple.
You continued, voice gentle but steady.
“I understand why you did it. This place… it holds too much. Too many shadows. Too many memories that don’t belong to us.” Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “If selling it helps you breathe again, then I’m glad you did.”
You tilted your head slightly, thinking for a moment.
“We don’t have to go far if you don’t want to,” you said. “The town is nice. We already know some people there. Mrs. Satō is kind. It wouldn’t feel completely new.” Your voice softened a little more. “Or… we could go a town or two over. Somewhere close enough that it still feels familiar, but far enough that it doesn’t carry the same weight. Somewhere we can still walk to the diner. Still have quiet mornings. But start fresh.”
You smiled again, smaller this time, but warm.
“I don’t mind where we go,” you told him honestly. “As long as it’s with you. I trust you.”
Jo stared at you for a second, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. His ears burned pink as he let out a shaky breath, like he’d been holding it since he first said the words.
“…Really?” he asked, voice cracking just a little. “You’re not mad that I didn’t tell you first?”
You shook your head.
“I’m not mad,” you said softly. “I know you needed to do it this way. And… I want a new start too. Somewhere that’s ours. Somewhere we don’t have to keep looking over our shoulders.”
You leaned forward slightly, resting your free hand over his on the table.
“We’ll figure it out together,” you promised. “Whether it’s the town, or the next one over, or somewhere else entirely. I’ll go wherever you want to go.”
Jo’s eyes softened, glassy with quiet relief. He turned his hand over so he could properly hold yours, squeezing it like he was anchoring himself to the moment.
“…Thank you,” he whispered. “I was so scared you’d think I was rushing. Or that I was making decisions without you again.” He let out a small, shaky laugh. “I don’t want to do this without you. Any of it.”
You smiled again, gentle and sure.
“You’re not,” you said. “We’re doing this together.”
Jo brought your hand up and pressed a slow kiss to your knuckles, lingering there for a moment like he needed the reassurance.
“Okay,” he murmured against your skin. “Then… let’s start looking. Together.”
It took a week to pack everything.
Most of his father’s things were quietly sorted through and let go. Jo moved through the cabin slowly, like he was walking through rooms that no longer belonged to him. You stayed close the entire time, helping when he asked, and giving him space when he needed it. When he found an old photograph of his mother, he held it for a long time before carefully tucking it into the small box of things he wanted to keep.
On the morning you were supposed to leave, Jo stood in the middle of the living room with the truck keys in his hand. He didn’t move for a while. You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back.
“We don’t have to rush,” you said quietly.
He let out a slow breath and covered your hands with his.
“I know,” he murmured. “I just keep thinking that once I lock this door, it’s really over.”
You didn’t push. You just held him tighter until he was ready.
When he finally turned around, he rested his forehead against yours for a moment.
“I’m ready,” he whispered. “I think I’ve been ready. I just needed to say goodbye.”
He locked the cabin for the last time.
The truck was already packed with everything the two of you were taking. Jo helped you into the passenger seat like he always did, then climbed in beside you. For a long second, he just sat there, staring at the cabin through the windshield. Then he started the engine and pulled away without looking back.
The drive took just under two hours.
You sat in the passenger seat with your hands folded in your lap, watching the trees thin out and the roads become wider and smoother. Jo drove in silence for most of the way, one hand resting on the gear shift, the other loosely holding the steering wheel. Every now and then his fingers would twitch, like he was still getting used to the idea that this truck—once his father’s—now belonged to the two of you.
When you finally pulled up in front of the small house, the sun was already starting to dip low.
It wasn’t much—a modest two-bedroom with faded blue siding and a small porch that creaked when you stepped on it. But it had a little yard, and the windows let in plenty of light, and most importantly, it didn’t carry the weight of the cabin. No antlers on the walls. No memories soaked into the floorboards.
Jo turned off the engine and just sat there for a moment, staring at the house through the windshield.
“…This is it,” he said quietly, almost like he was testing the words out loud.
You reached over and gently placed your hand over his on the gear shift.
“It’s nice,” you said softly. “It feels… calm.”
Jo let out a slow breath and nodded. He looked over at you, ears faintly pink, eyes soft but still carrying that tired, careful look he’d had ever since his father died.
“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked. “With leaving everything behind? With… starting over with me?”
You smiled, small and warm, and squeezed his hand.
“I’m sure,” you said. “I want this. I want to start somewhere new with you.”
Jo’s shoulders relaxed just a little. He brought your hand up and pressed a slow kiss to your knuckles before finally opening the truck door.
The first night in the new house was quiet.
Most of your things were still in boxes, stacked in the living room. The two of you ended up sitting on the floor together, eating takeout from a small diner down the road. Jo was quieter than usual, but not in the heavy, distant way he had been before. This silence felt different—thoughtful, almost peaceful.
After you finished eating, he leaned back against the wall and looked around the empty room.
“It’s strange,” he said after a while, voice low. “Not hearing the wind through the trees. Not wondering if my father’s boots are about to hit the porch.” He glanced at you, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “I keep waiting for the fear to come back. But it’s not here.”
You shifted closer and rested your head against his shoulder.
“It’s going to take time,” you said gently. “For both of us. But we don’t have to rush. We can just… be here. Together.”
Jo was quiet for a moment. Then he turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured. “But I’m really glad you’re here.”
You reached up and gently touched his cheek, guiding him to look at you.
“You chose to be kind,” you said. “Even when it was hard. Even when you were scared. That’s why I’m here.”
Jo’s eyes softened. He leaned in and kissed you — slow, warm, and a little shy, the way he always kissed you when his heart felt too full.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.
“…Thank you,” he whispered. “For choosing me too.”
The house was still mostly bare, but the bedroom was one of the few rooms that felt somewhat ready. Before leaving the cabin, you and Jo had quietly ordered a bed, mattress, and a few other basics to be delivered ahead of time. When you stepped inside earlier that evening, the simple wooden bed frame and fresh sheets had already been set up in the center of the room, waiting for you.
After finishing the takeout on the living room floor, Jo stood up and gently pulled you to your feet. He didn’t say anything at first—he just laced his fingers through yours and led you down the short hallway.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft glow from the hallway light spilling through the open door. Jo turned to face you, his cheeks already faintly pink as he reached up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear.
“…Can we go to bed?” he asked quietly, voice low and a little shy. “I want to be close to you. Properly.”
You nodded.
He guided you to the bed, and helped you out of your clothes slowly, his hands warm and careful. When you were both bare, he pulled back the covers and laid you down on the new bed before climbing in after you. For a while, he just held you, his fingers loosely laced with yours as he traced slow patterns over your skin.
Eventually, he turned his head to look at you. His eyes were soft, tired, but warm in a way they hadn’t been in a long time.
“…Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “I just really want to feel close to you right now.”
You smiled and nodded.
Jo leaned in slowly, one hand cradling your cheek as he kissed you. It started gentle — warm and unhurried—but deepened as your fingers curled into his shoulder. He made a soft sound against your mouth, his hand sliding down to rest at your waist.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I don’t think I’ve said it out loud yet… but I do. So much.”
Your chest tightened at the quiet honesty in his voice.
“I love you too,” you whispered back.
Jo’s ears burned pink, but he smiled—small and shy—before kissing you again. This time it was slower, deeper, full of everything he’d been holding in.
His mouth moved down your neck, then lower, kissing along your collarbone and the curve of your breast with slow, lingering presses of his lips. His hands stroked your sides, your waist, your thighs—gentle and warm, like he was trying to memorize the feeling of you beneath him. Every so often he would pause to look up at you, checking your face with those soft, worried eyes, as if making sure you were still okay.
When he finally settled between your legs and pushed inside you, it was slow and careful, just like always. He let out a shaky breath against your neck, his arms trembling slightly as he sank deeper.
“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ll go slow… I promise.”
He kept his word.
Jo moved in deep, unhurried strokes, his forehead resting against yours as he rocked into you. One of his hands found yours, fingers lacing together beside your head while the other cradled your cheek. He kissed you between every soft thrust—sweet, lingering kisses that made your chest feel warm and full.
You could feel how much he was trying to make it last for you. His breathing grew heavier, and quiet, desperate little sounds kept escaping him every time you clenched around him, but he didn’t rush. He stayed slow, sensual, focused entirely on you.
When you finally came, your back arching softly off of the sheets—jo kissed you through it, swallowing your soft moans as his hips kept moving in that same steady rhythm.
Only after you had come down did he let himself go.
His thrusts grew slightly faster, more desperate, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he whimpered your name.
“I’m close—I’m so close,” he gasped.
You nodded, and he pulled out at the last second with a broken, shaky moan. He came across your stomach in warm pulses, his whole body trembling above you as he rode it out. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, breathing hard, one hand still tightly holding yours.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Jo eventually lifted his head, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. He looked down at the mess on your stomach, then back at your face with a soft, embarrassed expression.
“…Sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I still can’t last very long with you.”
You reached up and gently touched his cheek, smiling.
“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “I like it when you lose control a little.”
Jo let out a small, shaky laugh and leaned down to kiss you again — slower this time, sweeter. He carefully cleaned you up before pulling you into his arms, tucking you against his chest.
He held you close, one hand stroking gently up and down your back— fingers traced slow patterns along your spine.
“…I think we’re going to be okay,” he whispered into the quiet. “For the first time, I really believe that.”
You smiled against his skin and pressed a soft kiss to his neck.
✧ yuma comes back from drinking with the members a little tipsy, a lot clingy, and impossibly soft.
✧ yuma x reader | established relationship, fluff, drunk/tipsy yuma, clingy behavior, soft romance, kissing, comfort, idol au | wc: 735
✧ author’s note: short and sweet yuma drabble to end the night hehe
the apartment was quiet when yuma got home.
you heard the front door open, followed by the soft shuffle of his shoes against the floor, and looked up just in time to see him standing there in the hallway.
his hair was messy from the wind outside. hoodie half-zipped. cheeks slightly pink.
and the second he saw you, he smiled.
small.
immediate.
like finding you there was enough to make the whole night settle properly.
“hi,” he said softly.
you smiled back. “hi, baby.”
he stood there for another second like he was deciding something.
then he walked straight over to the couch and quietly climbed into your space without a word, curling up against your side.
you laughed under your breath as his arms slipped around your waist.
“tired?”
“mhm.”
“did you drink a lot?”
he shook his head against your shoulder. “just enough to miss you extra.”
your heart gave the tiniest ache.
yuma sighed softly once you wrapped your arms around him, like he’d been waiting for it all night without realizing.
for a while, neither of you talked.
he just stayed close, cheek pressed against your shoulder while your fingers played with the ends of his hair.
then quietly:
“i kept thinking about coming home.”
you looked down at him. “yeah?”
he nodded once.
“i think my favorite part of going out is getting to come back to you after.”
the way he said it was so simple.
so honest.
like it wasn’t even meant to sound romantic.
you felt him shift slightly closer after saying it, like he instinctively wanted to hide from how affectionate that sounded.
“you’re being really cute right now,” you teased gently.
“no, i’m not.”
“you literally just said your favorite thing is coming home to me.”
yuma went quiet.
then he tightened his arms around you a little and mumbled into your shoulder:
“…because it is.”
you completely melted.
a quiet silence settled after that, warm and heavy in the nicest way.
then suddenly, yuma tilted his head up and stared at you for a second like he’d just noticed something important.
“what?” you laughed softly.
he didn’t answer.
he just looked at you with that sleepy, unbearably fond expression for another second before one of his hands slid up gently against your cheek.
then he leaned in and kissed you.
slow.
warm.
the kind of kiss that lingered before it even really started.
you could still feel his small smile against your lips, soft and sleepy and completely full of you.
when he finally pulled back, he stayed close enough that your noses still brushed.
“…there,” he murmured quietly, like he’d been meaning to do that since he walked through the door.
then he tucked himself back against you again without another thought, arms tightening around your waist like coming home to you was something his body already knew by heart.
trigger warning : gunplay, kidnapping, psychological, threat of death, loss of bodily control (pissing), coercion, dead dove do not eat (no smut but heavily implied dubcon/noncon)
gangster nicholas x kidnapped reader
you woke up tied to a chair, your head throbbing painfully. you recall walking home back from work, before a black van suddenly pulled up next to you along the quiet street. you were knocked out with a blunt object across the back of your head and dragged into the van. you don't know where you are right now. it's cold, dingy, suffocating. the lightbulb above your head blinks omniously.
the man standing opposite you clears his throat. he's intimidating, towering over you. his hair bleached blonde and a large scar on his forearm. your wrists and legs sting from where you are bound to the chair with rope. you try to tug at the binds, but it’s tight. the chair creaks from your movement, but it doesn’t move even a little bit.
"awake? finally."
"where am i..? what-...?" your voice was hoarse.
"oh, where are my manners?" he steps closer towards you.
"my name is nicholas. your father owes my old man money. alot of money," he tilts your head, examining your face. "didn't know he had such a pretty daughter"
"my parents are divorced! i- i haven't seen him in years!" you try to defend yourself. nicholas shrugs. he doesn't care. the feeling of dread grows deeper in your stomach.
"how about this.." he takes out a revolver, and spins the barrel. "russian roulette. there's one bullet. if you win, the debt is gone.. if you lose..." your eyes widen in panic and you shake your head at the implication. no. no. no.
the revolver glints under the lightbulb. your throat goes dry. you have never seen a gun in real life before.
"i don't take no for an answer, by the way."
he frees your wrists from the ropw. his calloused, rough fingers softly running against the raw, red marks, chafed by the rope. a tenderness that is so contradicting, so out of place.
"don't try anything funny," he warns. the blood rushes back into your hands, feeling numb. you couldn’t try anything even if you wanted to, your legs are still tightly bound to the chair.
"i'll go first."
he brings the muzzle of the revolver to his temple with a practiced ease and quickness, like as if he's done this a million times before. he probably has. you try to look away, afraid and shivering. cold sweat pours down your back.
click.
it's empty. he smiles calmly at you.
"see? easy. your turn" he instructs, positioning the gun in your hands, his hands forcefully placing your fingers curled around the trigger. he guides the revolver to your temple, helping you to hold it up. the cold metal is almost painful as it digs against your heated skin. you squeeze your eyes shut, quivering like a leaf. your legs tremble against the chair that you're tied to, the tight ropes digging even more into your flesh. he's pressed up close against you. you could smell the faint scent of cologne and cigarettes. you could almost feel his heartbeat against your body. he's too close...
he pushes down on your finger.
click.
empty.
you let out a wrecked sob, gasping for air. your abdomen clenches from fear.
"beginner's luck," he smirks.
your hand drops from the revolver, a slight, temporary relief washing over you. he brings the gun back to his temple. slower this time, dragging things out like as if he's savouring it.
"third time's the charm," he says, almost charismatically. you can't stop trembling. he smirks, enjoying seeing you cower and panic.
click.
empty.
"oh? guess i'm lucky too," he cheerfully exclaims. the resonating sound of his laughter echoes in the room and in your head, and you just want to cover your ears to block out the sound and cry. but you can't move your hands at all. in a second, he shoves the gun back in your hands and roughly lifts it to your temple. you can feel your stomach twisting in agony and your legs shaking so hard that the chair is rattling against the floor beneath you.
as you close your eyes, you recall the last time you saw your father. the slam of the door in the apartment where you once lived with your parents. the bills on the dining table, the debts, the arguments your parents had over money and his gambling addiction. your mother's tears and the way she hugged you, her hands in your hair, comforting you. the years where your father had gone no contact, almost as though he disappeared off the face of the earth. no phone calls, no wishing you happy birthday, nothing. and now, leaving you with the burden of this debt.
you don’t even have the strength to lift your hands to hold to gun, practically being propped up by his hands. he pushes your finger against the trigger.
click.
empty.
you're sobbing hysterically at this point, hot tears streaming down your face. but he doesn't stop. he won't let you off.
nicholas watches you, an unreadable emotion on his face. he takes the gun back from you, putting it to his forehead.
"if this one goes off, you'll win.. although my blood'll probably stain your clothes," he teases without even a hint of seriousness, like this is all just a game to him. a sick game.
click.
it's empty.
he lets out a shrill, maniacal laugh. his three shots are over, he has technically won. he's safe. he points the muzzle of the revolver back to you. he does it slowly, almost mockingly, like how an animal would toy with it’s prey first before devouring them.
this is the sixth shot, the final shot. this is it... you're going to die.
"no... no... please-," you beg him for your life, your final chance at redemption. your body is full on shaking at this point, the adrenaline rushing in your veins making your heart race painfully.
he lets out a sigh, like this is still just a game for him. he steps even closer now, aiming the muzzle right in the middle of your forehead, like a target on your head. he does it for you this time, your hands immobilized from fear. his finger rests dangerously on the trigger. the metal of the gun is warm now, from the body heat of the both of you.
"bang" his voice is soft, almost tender and kind.
click.
the sound of the final shot is loud, ringing in your ear. but, it's.... empty. you're still alive. your chest heaves in rapid, hyperventilated breathes. the building, painful pressure in your bladder bursts, your body convulsing. a warmth floods down your thighs, soaking your skirt. it trickles down your legs, wetting your socks, and dripping onto the cold concrete floor beneath you. you notice it, but your head is spinning, you don’t even have the strength to be ashamed. you slump against the chair, your sweat, tears, and your piss mixes and run down your twitching body. your vision blurs.
nicholas lowers the gun and opens the chamber. he tilts it forward to show to you.
there was no bullet. this whole time, the revolver was empty. you stare at the hollow circles.
"no bullets," he says, smiling. "i just wanted to mess with you."
he crouches to look at you, his face levelling with yours. his hand rests on your thigh, rough and burning hot. the wet fabric of your skirt has cooled by now, sticking onto your skin. you flinch at the difference in temperature. but he doesn't move away.
"you know... there's another way you could pay off the debt. less dangerous," he suggests.
"but you said- ... if i won, the debt would be gone...?" you manage to gather your words, shock re-entering your system. he tilts his head in fake confusion for a second.
"oh, right. i did say that," he shrugs. "yeah, the debt is paid. but there's still the interest, silly!"
your stomach drops. of course, you should have seen this coming. there's always a catch.
"your father's been in debt for a few years, so... and the interest compounds like, monthly?" he's smiling widely at you, like as if he's explaining a joke to you.
you think of your father again. the way he never answered your calls or messages, begging him to be responsible and clean up his mess. the way you and your mother had to work hard and scrape together money to clear the remaining legal debts he left tied to your mother's name. you had thought that the worst of it was over... you thought wrong.
"there's two ways you can pay it off..." nicholas leans closer, his lips soft against your ear. you shudder. you can feel his sharp eyes on you, like a predator eyeing his prey.
"you're a smart girl, aren't you? you know what i mean... you have a pretty face, you'd be popular, wouldn't you-?" his thumb caresses your cheek. of course you know what he's implying. you know what kind of illegal crime that the gangsters run.
"or..." his voice becomes lower, softer. "you could sleep with me, just me." he offers. he makes it sound like he's being generous. the lesser of two evils. you weigh both options, both rotten. he says it like as if you had the freedom of choice, but you know that you don't have that luxury. his earlier words rang in your ears. i don't take no for an answer.
"so, what's it going to be?" you look at the floor, unable to look at him. you feel disgusting as you sit in the puddle of your own piss, already cold by now. the sickening way the fabric clings onto you, just like the sins of your father that you had to carry. you feel disgusted with yourself as you open your mouth to answer.
"okay," you didn't specify which option you've chosen, but he breaks into a wide grin. you don't need to say it, he already knows.
"good choice," he pats your head, gently, almost affectionately. rewarding you like you're a new little pet who has quickly learnt a new trick. his hands lift your face again, wiping away at the fresh tears that have started to fall down your cheeks again. he crashes his lips onto yours, harshly kissing you.
"don't cry, i'll be gentle."
i was putting off writing for a week because i had covid urgh (╯_╰) thanks for all the requests/likes/reblogs/comments/messages!
it isn’t exactly ceo harua... i’m sorry~ i love doing perv imagines, and CEO-specific isn’t my sorta thing... SORRYYY, i didn’t wanna leave you with nothing— so i still wrote pervy rua. i love you so much, cutie, i hope this still gives u the same satisfaction. ˙˚ ᕱ⑅ᕱ ɞ˚˙
love, wanii ᢉ𐭩
❤︎ imagine — perv! harua
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a whole bunch of perv harua imagines/scenarios.
perv harua . . whenever he gets hard, he walks over to you, like a dog with its tail between its legs. hand cuffs buried in one hand, before dangling them in front of you. he won’t leave you alone until you give in, handcuffing his hands to the bed frame, sucking him for an hour until he is satisfied.
perv harua . . dry humping you throughout the day, hands holding your hips in place, humping against you like the needy bunny he is.
perv harua . . forcibly holds you down, wrists tightly wrapped in pretty pink lace, teasing the shit out of you until you start crying, begging for him to stop.
perv harua . . a masochist, he gets off from any sort of pain— whether it be a smack against his cheek, or even yelling at him over things, it automatically turns him on like a light switch.
perv harua . . adores your chest and arms, always guiding his hand to the most sensitive areas, heat burning through his fingers.
perv harua . . rua has a favorite set of clothes on you, between pajamas and casual clothes. after long days, throwing those exact favorite dirty clothes into the hamper— he’ll sneak in while you’re asleep, watching your pretty sleeping face while he jerks off on your dirty clothes.
perv harua . . he loves sweets, whenever he gets the opportunity he lies you down, placing the squishy jellies across ur bare body, licking and eating them off of you.
perv harua . . the thought of seeing you in tight clothes and a pretty lace collar excites him, day dreaming about the way he’d destroy you in every way. tugging the collar just tight enough while fucking you.
🗒️ hiiiii~!! please interact with this post and/or my page if you finished it, it helps motivate me to write more!! if you have any requests or ideas you’d like to share my inbox is open atm!! do not copy or translate any of my works.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 you knew going into the forest alone was a big mistake, monsters lurked around every corner hungering with need for your flesh and he was no exception. (inspired by this post!)
𝐂𝐖 prey/predator (wolf!nicho deer!reader) , a little degradation , chasing , choking , lots of biting , oral (fem rec) , slight fingering, p in v , unprotected sex (pls wrap it b4 u tap it ty) , breeding , lots of cum
𝐖𝐂 2.7k
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ── 𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
It's a peaceful day in the forest, the birds are singing and the sun is bright and centered, sending you light and warmth. you left your cozy little cottage to go berry picking for the cake you were planning to make. You lived on the outskirts of the forest, closer to the village but far enough from humans and it was peaceful so far. Being a deer hybrid wasn’t easy, it’s not like the humans shunned you out but you chose to live here by yourself to keep your peace and safety.
The birds chirped above your head as you walked deeper into the forest, following the mental map of it that you have in your head, memorising all the nooks and crannies of the place. Your ears twitched when you heard the sound of a twig breaking, looking around to find nothing but lush green trees drowsed in sunlight; assuming it was just a squirrel or a tiny animal moving around, you shrugged and kept going deeper into the forest.
You found the berry shrubs after a good walk, a smile on your lips as you bent down with your basket and started picking some and placing them in it. Unfortunately, you were too engrossed in the delicious fruit to hear the steps of a lurking shadow, too oblivious to the looming figure heading your direction.
“What are you doing, little doe?” a gravelly voice whispered against your ear making you gasp, the warm breath against your sensitive skin makes your heart race. You freeze up, too scared to turn around and look at whoever is behind you fearing that one wrong movement and you’re gone. “W-what… wh-who are you?” tumbling over your words.
“Didn’t they teach not to go into the woods alone, little doe? It’s too dangerous ~” a hand traces your waist, feeling the heavy weight of flesh and claws against your clothed figure. You gulped, still frozen in place while your heart feels like it might burst out of your chest. “I don’t know w-what you’re talking about..”
“There’s too many hungry monsters that lurk around here, little doe” claws now digging into your skin, prickly and painful as little droplets of blood stain your clothes. “And they feed on sweet deer like you…” thighs trembling, you squeezed them together and tried to bite down the winces of pain.
“How about this, little doe,” the voice pauses, warm breath moving to tickle the skin of your neck, hairs standing from the movement. “I’ll give you a big head start, you better run or else I'll catch you,” emphasizing the words with a tight squeeze on your waist and a chaste kiss on your nape, too fleeting you might’ve mistaken it for wind before you’re set free.
And you didn’t need to be told twice.
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶
You ran and ran as fast as you could, trees and paths melting together as you kept running, the pain in your side pulsing. You don’t know how long it’s been, you didn’t care, all you knew is that you had to run for your life, that staying still isn’t an option.
Finally, after running for what felt like years, you settled into a huge, hollow tree trunk. Panting and heaving as the adrenaline rushed through your veins, making you shake with fear and anticipation. Surely, whoever that monster is won’t be able to find you here.
You rested for a while, catching your breath and calming your frantic heart as you thought of ways to get home. You didn’t know where you were in the woods, weren’t paying attention to your surroundings as you ran for your life so now you’re stuck in this trunk thinking of ways to get home safely without running into this beast.
Once you were calm enough, you looked up to see that the sun was already setting. Has it really been that long? You really needed to get home before it got too dark outside. A heavy sigh escaped your lips, moving to push yourself up and out of this trunk.
While you were leaving, your body hit something solid, making you tumble backwards. A small oof as you tried to steady yourself only to find that what you hit wasn’t something but someone. He looked lethal, features sharp as the claws that adorned his hands, fluffy wolf ears and tail swishing around, his lips forming a smirk. “Found you.”
You bolted.
Crashing through the bushes with enough force that twigs scratched at your thighs. Like instinct, you jumped over obstacles and turned sharp corners around trees to throw off the wolf’s sense of direction. You kept running til your legs burned, and then you hid behind a tree trunk again, crouching behind it to remain unseen and to catch your breath.
Your ears twitched as you tried to listen to the sound of him, laying a hand over your mouth to muffle your heaving breaths in case he could hear you.
Leaves crinkled signaling footsteps. You're aware he’s getting close now. You didn’t have the choice to stay still again.
You leapt into the trees. Behind you, a snarl and a crash was heard as the wolf started running after you, making you pick up the pace. It felt like this is the fastest you’ve ever ran in your entire life, yet somehow still not fast enough.
Bushes and twigs caught at your aching body and acted as a barrier to your escape from the wolf. You can hear the pounding footsteps of pursuit and it only fueled you to keep running, because it was all you know how to do right now.
Skin tingling, you grabbed a sapling and used it to push yourself to the right, feeling the brush of fingertips down your back as he escaped from him.
Another snarl, and the footsteps faded into the distance.
You turned to duck back beneath the tree roots, making it three steps in before a hand closed around your ankle.
You yelped and screamed, voice echoing through the trees but it fell on deaf ears by everyone but the wolf, whose nails were digging into your skin. His grip tightened around you as you tried to run. Falling onto your knees from his fast hold. You tried to kick back towards him but he steadied you with his second hand. You were pressed into the forest floor as the other leg was forced into submission. Stones and twigs dug into your flesh as you were dragged backwards; into the roots of the tree that has once served you as a safe haven.
“Was that the fastest you could run, little doe?” the wolf mockingly asked, a hand pressed into your back. “I thought deer were supposed to be faster than this..” his tone condescending, weight settling over your legs, “or perhaps, you wanted to be caught?”
“Aaah —,“ You tried to squirm again, letting out a shout that was swiftly stifled by the wolf’s palm. Your lack of denial made him smirk. He smelled of dirt, blood and sweat and it suffocated you like barbed wire.
His teeth dug into the back of your neck.
Your body has gone rigid with searing pain, your legs twitching in place but they couldn’t budge with the wolf’s weight on them. You tried to squirm again, but the teeth pressed down harder feeling something warm and wet slide over your skin. Unsure if this was saliva, or your blood.
Your whimpers were muffled by the hand on your mouth, turning nearly silent from his grip. The scent and taste of the wolf smothered you, his fingers were immovable, and anytime you got close to moving it, the nails dug deeper into your cheeks and the teeth on your neck sunk deeper into your welcoming flesh.
You can feel the energy drain from your body, your constant struggling beginning to settle; one final whimper escaped your lips before your body surrendered to him.
The wolf hummed softly, his teeth loosening their grip on your neck. His tongue lapped at the bite with slow, languid laps. Your body shook with each lick, feeling his hot breath against your aching skin. His tongue caught a sensitive spot that made you squirm, he growled and bit down to keep you still, your moans muffled against his palm.
Wet tongue trailing over your skin, he works his lips over sensitive spots that have you seeing stars. He continues to bite and suck marks on your welcoming flesh, merciless in his ministrations.
In a hazy fog, you began to lick the fingers covering your mouth, licking the swollen bite where your teeth had been and when the wolf slid these fingers over your tongue, your mouth engulfed them with a soft moan coating them with your saliva.
“There’s a good girl” he purrs into your ears, his voice sweet and thick like honey that drips down your ears and muddles your brain.
He shifted and you can feel the hard weight of his cock press against your back, making you suck on his fingers even harder.
“Aw, aren’t you an excited little doe?” he muttered, sending shivers down your spine. “You want it, little doe?”
“Aah— mmfh, mmh…” Moving your head to resemble a nod the best you can with his ironclad grip on your face. His fingers moved to force your mouth parted, jaw wide open as he stroked his digits on your tongue.
“That what you want, little doe?” his lips hovering your ears, teeth biting down the soft flesh as you moan weakly, your legs twitching in want. “Want me to breed you? Give you a litter of pups for you to carry,” and you can feel your cunt throbbing at his words, slick slowly dripping down your thighs.
Your moans pitched higher with need, still squirming around for friction to settle the throbbing between your legs. The wolf clenched his hand around your throat, efficiently turning you quiet. Your breathing limited as your heart pounded against the heavy fingertips. Once you became limp in his hands, he released you.
Whimpers and gasps for breath escaping your lips.
“Stay still and take it like the pathetic girl I know you are” he ordered.
“Haa — y-yes,”
The wolf rose onto his knees and realistically this could’ve been your moment to slip away, perhaps elbow the wolf in the crotch and run back to the woods.
But the bites on your neck keep you anchored to him. If you go out into the wild, it means going to your certain death,the wolf would devour you from the outside in and the hand resting on your throat left no doubts of where your place should be.
His free hand moves to pull on your hip, forcing you to be on your knees with your face down. The slick runs down your legs and your cunt throbbed at the loss of his weight on top of you. You can feel his heavy cock against your thigh and you can already imagine how swollen you’ll be from his size.
The hand on your throat moved, angling your head back submissively. You feel his fingers comping up your throat, pinching at your skin and eliciting a whimper from your swollen lips.
The hand moved, trailing down your waist followed by his lips peppering kisses down your back. Claws digging into your flesh, and the other moved slowly up the back of your thighs parting them for him. Your body trembled with anticipation despite your best efforts to stay still, breath coming faster and heavier.
“Eeek—” you yelped once you felt his hot tongue lick a stripe of your wet cunt, whimpering as your nails dug into the ground beneath you. His slow licks turned into sloppily sucking at your clit and obscenely licking at your folds, thrusting his tongue into your eager pussy. His tongue dove into your core, feeling the slick and his spit slide down your legs. You can feel the spit the wolf was forcing inside of you and it felt filthy. All you could do was moan towards the forest floor and do your best in efforts to keep still despite your shaking figure.
“Aah—, please .. “
The wolf slid a finger into your cunt alongside his tongue, heat rushing through you body and dowsing your body with red hot blush as he kept fucking you with both his tongue and finger. “Hmm, ah! Please please please —” you begged, his groans muffled by your pussy.
You can feel his lips curl into a smirk against your dripping skin, purring and lapping harder making you see stars from the sheer pleasure he was giving you. Breathless whines and sobs falling off your lips.
The wolf nipped the flesh of your lips, fangs grazing the puffy flesh teasingly. “W-want your aah — want your cock, please please,” you were blabbering, and squirming in need again. The bite became painful, a slap to your thigh a second in silent warning. You listened and turned still.
Suddenly, he stopped and you almost cried on the spot.
His large hands moved to rest by your head, fingers long and shiny. You could feel the heat of his chest against your back, his teeth biting down your ear and you gasped.
“Be still, little doe” the wolf said into your ears, “Gonna breed you so well, you better take it” licking a stripe of sensitive skin.
Before you could respond, his cock pressed languidly into your copping cunt. A soft thwack-thwack-thwack echoed into the space around you as he slapped his length against you teasingly.
It started slow, easy, but somehow grating. You can feel every push at your insides as the wolf slid into you raw. His cock was long, feeling your stomach bulge from the sheer size. You choked on a moan, the sound dying in your throat and tried your best to hold still. His moans slipped right into your ears, the sound alongside his pleasure making you feel dizzy.
It started slow.
His thrusts were ruthless, his cock slowly slipping out of you only for him to bury it back into you, the sound of your skin slapping echoing through the forest.
“Ah, shit, you're taking me so well, little doe.” Slowly, the wolf started to lose himself in your heat and your body was welcoming him. He grunts and groans as you clench around him, gripping him tight like vice. “You’re perfect, made for this, made for my cock,” Your whines became louder, moans stuttering as thighs slapped against him. Everything sounds so raw, felt so feral that only made you sink deeper into the pleasure the wolf was giving you.
His thrusts grew vicious, breathing sharper. Your body ached with want, to beg him, to encourage him to breed you and fill you up with his cum but the words dying in your throat as he continued to plow into you mercilessly. “Just like that, little doe,”
When he finally comes, he makes sure you feel his release, the wetness of your mixed arousal and his seed, the pulse of his cock as it stuffed you full, his tip twitching inside of you.
Then, he stopped and breathed heavily against your bruised neck. You were a slobbering, whining mess beneath him, aggravated by the lack of your own release.
“Don’t worry, little doe,” the wolf rasped, “I’ll make you feel so good.”
His hips began moving again, his cock slowly filled you up once again, the cum he’d stuffed you with dripped down your thighs and made your pussy slick. “Oh, fuck, please aah— “
His thrusts turned harder, faster, and you were sure you died and went to heaven, eyes rolling back as you cried from the pleasure. All it took him were a few more thrusts before you came all over his cock. You were seeing white, your release drenching you both as you threw your head back.
You can feel his lips curled against your neck as your moans cascaded. He didn’t stop however, a few more thrusts inside your slippery cunt and he was filling you up again with so much thick cum you were sure it’s gonna stick. It dripped down your thighs but you can feel his finger sliding down the soft skin before collecting all the dripping cum and stuffing it back into your cunt.
You can barely catch your breath, legs giving out and he made sure to catch you, cock still nestled deep into you making sure his cum stays deep inside you. The wolf hummed in satisfaction, pulling your body close to him. He’s caught you and has no plans on letting you go anytime soon.
❤︎⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀harua’s who looks relatively harmless craves to corrupt something innocent and you look like the perfect little victim for his sick desired.
•⠀ masterlist 𓋰 💬 10,426 wc ─── ᛫ perv!sex worker!harua . . innocent!f rea, dead dove do not eat, yandere!harua, slowburn, corruption, non con elements, dubcon, inexperienced!reader, manipulation, possessive!harua, club au, toxic relationship, explicit smut, power imbalance, fingering, oral sex ( m. & f. rec ) , unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, choking, rough sex, hair pulling, degradation, obsession, praise kink, dacryphilia. don't copy/translate my work. i only write on tumblr.
the bass thumps low and dirty through the club like a heartbeat you can feel between your legs. neon lights smear pink and violet across the haze of smoke and sweat, and you’re perched on a velvet stool at the bar, knees pressed tight together under the hem of your too-short skirt.
first time here. first time anywhere like this. your friends had brought you here with the intention of you getting laid, but around 5 minutes in they had disappeared under the guise of getting laid themselves.
your heart beating rabbit-fast, cheeks already burning because some guy in a suit just tried to buy you a drink and you mumbled “no thank you” like a scared little church girl.
that’s when harua sees you.
he’s leaning against the far wall, black silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the sharp cut of his collarbones, small silver chain glinting against his throat. his hair falls into his eyes—messy black with long pieces in the back, under it a pretty silver color that he keeps bleaching—and his mouth is curled in that lazy, knowing smirk he saves for new prey.
he’s been working this club for months now. high-end escort, sex worker, prostitute, pretty boy whore, whatever label pays the rent. he lets rich men and women fuck him for cash, lets them choke him, slap him, call him their dirty little toy. he’s good at it. he likes it, most nights.
but tonight his cock twitches the second his eyes land on you.
you’re so fucking innocent it hurts. wide eyes, soft mouth, the way you keep tugging at the hem of your skirt like you’re embarrassed it even exists. you look like you wandered in by accident, like you should be home in pastel pajamas reading something wholesome instead of sitting here in a den of pure sin.
harua’s always been a relatively submissive in his field of work. most people preferred to corruption a pretty boy—not be corrupted by one. the coils tight in his gut like a live wire. he wants to ruin you. slowly. sweetly. until that shy little blush turns into tears of pleasure and you’re begging him to ruin you for anybody else.
he pushes off the wall and stalks over, hips rolling with every step. when he slides onto the stool beside you, the scent of his cologne—something expensive and filthy—wraps around you like smoke.
“you look lost, bunny,” he murmurs, voice low and honeyed, the nagano dialect curling around his words. he leans in close enough that his breath brushes your ear. “first time? you’re shaking.”
you nod, too stunned to lie. up close he’s even prettier. you’d seen him briefly as you walked into the club—sharp yet soft eyes, plush lips, and a small face that makes him look almost delicate. but the way he’s looking at you isn’t delicate at all. it’s starving.
harua’s cock is already half-hard in his tight black pants just from the way you bite your lip.
“i’m harua,” he says, offering you a hand like a gentleman. his fingers are long, pretty, the kind of fingers that could ruin a girl. when you take it, he doesn’t shake—he strokes his thumb slow over your knuckles, once, twice, like he’s testing how soft you are. “and you… you’re too sweet to be here alone. someone could eat you up.”
he means it literally.
he’s already imagining it: those same fingers sliding under your skirt, finding you soaked and untouched, pushing inside while you whimper his name like a prayer. he wants to be the first one to make you come so hard you forget how to speak. wants to watch your innocent little face twist up when he feeds you his cock for the first time, inch by inch, until you’re choking on it and crying because it feels too good to be bad.
you tell him your name in a tiny voice and he stores it away like treasure. the rest of the night he stays close—buys you a drink that’s sweet and fruity so you don’t taste the alcohol, dances with you when the music slows. his hands stay respectful on your waist, but his mind is filthy.
he pictures bending you over the bar, flipping that little skirt up, and fucking you raw right there while the whole club watches him corrupt the pretty new girl. he pictures you on your knees in the bathroom, looking up at him with those big trusting eyes while he paints your tongue with cum and calls you his good little whore.
when closing time comes he walks you to the door like a gentleman, even though his dick is aching. he doesn’t ask for money. he doesn’t proposition you. not yet.
“see you soon, angel?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. his voice is soft, almost reverent. “i like sweet things. i like keeping them.”
you come back three nights later.
harua spots you the second you walk in. his current client—a rich older woman who likes to ride him while he calls her mistress—is grinding on his lap in the vip booth, but his eyes are on you. you’re wearing the same skirt. you’re looking for him. the realization makes his cock throb so hard he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stay focused.
later, when the woman is gone and his pockets are full of cash, he finds you again. same stool. same shy posture.
“you came back for me, bunny. good girl.”
he doesn’t touch you anywhere inappropriate. not yet. he just stays close, buys you another sweet drink, dances with you again. every slow song his hands drift a little lower on your waist, thumbs stroking the bare skin where your top rides up, but never crossing the line. when he walks you out at closing he presses the softest kiss to your temple and murmurs, “dream of me tonight. i’ll be dreaming of you.”
night after night you keep coming back.
night after night harua falls deeper.
he fucks clients with your face behind his eyelids. when some businessman is balls-deep in his throat, harua closes his eyes and pictures your innocent mouth instead. when a woman rides him in the vip room and calls him her dirty toy, he’s imagining how sweetly you’d cry if he called you his. every load he takes, every moan he fakes, he’s thinking about ruining you—teaching you, breaking you open, making you just as filthy as he is.
by the seventh night the tension is unbearable.
you’re back on your usual stool, cheeks already flushed the second you see him walking toward you. harua doesn’t even bother with a client tonight. he’s been hard since he clocked in, cock straining against his tight black pants because he knows you’re coming.
this time he doesn’t stay at the bar.
“come with me, bunny,” he says, voice low and velvet-rough. he takes your hand—still gentle, still the gentleman—but his grip is firmer now, possessive. he leads you through the pulsing crowd, past the vip booths, down a dimly lit hallway only staff and high-paying guests use. he unlocks a private room with a keycard, the kind the club rents out for “extra services.”
the door clicks shut behind you. the music is muffled. the lights are low, red and warm. there’s a plush couch, a mirrored wall, and nothing else.
harua turns to you, eyes dark, dark hair falling over his pretty cheeks. his usual lazy smirk is gone. this is pure hunger.
“fuck… look at you,” he breathes, voice low and rough with that soft nagano lilt. “you really followed me in here, bunny. so trusting. so fucking innocent it makes my cock hurt.”
he steps in close—so close you can smell the expensive cologne mixed with the faint salt of his skin. one hand lifts, slow and gentle like he’s afraid you’ll bolt, and cups your cheek. his thumb brushes your bottom lip, pressing just enough to part it.
“you know what i am, right?” he murmurs, eyes dropping to watch your mouth. “i get paid to let people use me. bend me over, choke me, fill me up until i can’t walk straight. but you…” his thumb slides into your mouth, just the tip, pressing down on your tongue.
“you make me want to be the one who uses. i’ve been jerking off every night thinking about ruining this pretty little mouth. about making you cry on my cock.”
then he leans in and kisses you—soft at first, almost reverent, like he’s savoring the way you taste like innocence and fruity drinks. but the second you make a tiny, helpless sound against his lips, the kiss turns hungry. his tongue pushes in, claiming, fucking your mouth slow and deep while his free hand slides down your waist, under the hem of that too-short skirt he’s been fantasizing about flipping up for days.
“harua… i—i’ve never…” your voice is tiny, cheeks burning as you try to pull away—words mumbled against his eager lips. “i—i don’t know what to do. i’ve never even kissed anyone like that before tonight.”
his smirk is soft, almost tender, but his eyes are starving. “that’s okay, angel. that’s perfect. i’m gonna teach you everything. starting right now.”
he guides your hand down until your palm presses over the hard line of his cock straining against his tight black pants. you gasp at how hot and thick he feels.
“feel that?” he whispers, voice husky. “that’s what you do to me. every night you came back here looking all sweet and shy, this is how hard i got just thinking about you.”
you bite your lip hard, cheeks burning hotter than the red lights overhead. your fingers tremble against the thick, pulsing line under his pants, and you can’t help the tiny, overwhelmed sound that slips out.
“it’s so hot…” you whisper, voice barely above a breath. “and… and big. i—i’ve never felt anything like this before. is it supposed to be this hard just from me?”
he lets out a low, wrecked chuckle, forehead still pressed to yours. “mhm. all for you. every single night you sat at that bar looking like a lost little angel, this is what you did to me. now be a good girl and squeeze it for me. just like that—fuck, yes.”
your small hand tightens shyly around him through the fabric and he groans, hips twitching forward into your palm.
“i don’t know what i’m doing,” you confess, eyes glassy and wide. “i’ve never touched anyone like this. what if i mess up? what if i’m not… good enough?”
his thumb strokes your bottom lip again, eyes soft but burning. “you could never mess up, angel. you’re perfect. and i’m gonna teach you exactly how to make me feel good. starting with that pretty mouth. on your knees for me, bunny. come on… that’s it. good girl.”
he guides you down gently until your knees sink into the soft carpet between his spread thighs. his fingers thread through your hair, careful but possessive, holding you right where he wants you while he unzips slowly. his cock springs free—thick, flushed, the tip already shiny with pre-cum—and your eyes go even wider.
“oh my god…” you breathe, voice shaky. “it’s… it’s even bigger up close. i don’t think it’s gonna fit. i’ve never… i’ve never done this. what if i choke? what if i can’t breathe?”
he cups your cheek, thumb brushing the nervous pout already clinging to your lips. “shh, shh, baby. i know it looks scary. but i’m right here. i’m gonna teach you slow, okay? just open those pretty lips for me. stick your tongue out a little… yeah, just like that. such a good listener.”
you obey, mouth parting shyly, tongue peeking out. he taps the heavy head of his cock against it once, twice, smearing the salty pre-cum across your tongue.
“taste it, bunny,” he murmurs, voice velvet-rough. “go on. lick the tip nice and slow. get it all wet for me.”
your tongue darts out, tentative and sweet, swirling around the leaking slit. the taste is salty, manly yet addicting. you pull back only for a second—savoring the taste before going back to leave another kitten lick on his flushed tip. a broken little whimper vibrates against him and harua’s head tips back with a groan.
“fuck—yes. just like that. you’re already so good. now wrap your lips around the head… suck a little. gentle at first, like you’re kissing it.”
you do exactly as he says, mouth closing around the swollen tip, sucking softly. your cheeks hollow and another tiny, unsure hum escapes you.
harua’s fingers tighten gently in your hair, a low, shaky groan slipping from his throat.
“fuck… just like that, bunny. perfect. you look so pretty with my cock in your mouth.” his voice is rougher now, the nagano dialect thickened with arousal. “suck a little harder, angel. use your tongue on the underside while you move your head… up and down, slow. yeah—gooood girl.”
you try to follow every instruction, sliding your lips further down his shaft. he’s so thick your jaw already aches, but the way he’s looking down at you—like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen—makes you want to keep going. you pull back with a wet pop, breathing fast, lips shiny.
“am i doing it right?” you whisper, voice trembling. “it’s big… my mouth felt so full. i—i can’t take much more. what if i gag? i don’t want to disappoint you…”
harua laughs softly, low and dark, the sound vibrating through his chest. without warning, he grips your hair a little tighter and shoves your mouth back down onto his cock, sliding past your lips in one smooth push until the head bumps the back of your throat.
“of course you’re gonna gag, bunny,” he purrs, voice dripping with lust. “i want you to. i want to feel that tight little throat squeezing me while you cry those pretty tears. now open wider… take me deeper this time.”
your eyes fly wide open as he forces more of his thick length into your mouth. a wet, choked sound escapes you “mmph—!”—and your hands fly up to clutch at his thighs, nails digging into the fabric of his pants.
tears instantly prick your eyes and spill over as he holds you there for a second, savoring the way your throat flutters and spasms around him. hot and fat drops coat your flushed cheeks, and the sight of them makes harua’s cock twitch hard against your tongue.
“fuuck, bunny… look at those pretty tears,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “crying already and i’m barely halfway down your throat. you’re so perfect.”
he holds you there for another long second, savoring the wet flutter of your throat around his cockhead, before he finally eases back just enough for you to gasp in a desperate breath. strings of spit connect your swollen lips to his glistening length. you’re coughing, crying, eyes glassy and wide, but you quite don’t pull away.
harua’s thumb gently wipes the tears from your cheek only to smear them across your bottom lip like gloss.
“such a good little crybaby for me already,” he murmurs, almost tenderly. “i’ve been dreaming about breaking this innocent mouth for weeks now. every time i let some rich bastard use me, i closed my eyes and pictured your face instead. now you’re really here… on your knees like my own personal whore.”
he pushes back in, slower this time but deeper, fucking your mouth with shallow, deliberate thrusts while he watches every tear track down your flushed face.
“eyes on me, angel. let me see how pretty you look choking on cock for the first time.”
you obey, watery eyes locked on his as he uses your mouth. the praise and filth keep pouring out of him in that sweet, honeyed voice that doesn’t match the way he’s ruining you.
“that’s it… suck a little harder. use that tongue—yeah, fuck, just like that. you’re a natural. gonna be my perfect little cocksleeve, yeah?”
harua’s voice is ragged now, the soft nagano accent thicker with lust as he fucks your mouth in slow, deep strokes. he keeps one hand tangled in your hair, the other gently stroking your tear-streaked cheek like you’re something precious even while he ruins you.
every time you gag and cry harder, his cock twitches against your tongue. the wet, obscene sounds of your throat and the sight of your glassy, teary eyes make him lose control.
“shit— i’m close,” he pants, hips stuttering. “gonna cum in this virgin mouth. you’re gonna swallow every drop like a good girl, understand?”
you can only whimper around him, tears pouring down your face. a few more rough thrusts and harua buries himself deep, holding your head still as thick, hot ropes of cum spill across your tongue and down your throat. he moans low and broken, eyes half-lidded, watching you struggle to take it all.
when he finally pulls out, you’re coughing and gasping, lips swollen and shiny with spit and cum. a thin string still connects your bottom lip to his softening cock. harua stares down at you like he’s in love.
he drops to his knees in front of you, cupping your wet face with both hands and kissing you deep, tasting himself on your tongue without a care. when he pulls back, his thumb gently wipes the tears and cum from your chin.
“you were perfect,” he murmurs, voice soft again, almost reverent. “so fucking perfect. my sweet little pet.”
he helps you up on shaky legs, straightens your skirt, and even fixes your hair with careful fingers. then he pulls your phone out of your small purse without asking. his long fingers move quickly across the screen as he saves his number.
he types his contact name as harua ♡ and adds a little bunny emoji next to it. he sends himself a text from your phone so he has your number too, then hands it back.
“text me when you get home safe, bunny,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “and don’t even think about coming back here without telling me first. i like knowing where my sweet girl is.”
he walks you out of the private room and all the way to the club exit like a perfect gentleman, even though his eyes are still dark with obsession. one last kiss to your temple and he lets you go.
the first night harua pulled you into the private room, he was still somewhat gentle.
by the end of the next week, that mask had started to crack.
he texted you constantly. sweet messages at first—did you get home safe, bunny? i miss your pretty little face already—then darker ones when you took too long to reply. you’re ignoring me? after i made you cum so hard you cried? that’s not very nice, angel.
then sweet messages laced with poison: did you touch yourself thinking about my fingers inside you? be honest, bunny. good girls don’t lie. when you hesitate to reply, he sends another: if you ignore me i’ll worry. you don’t want me worrying, do you?
you always answer. you always apologize. you always come back.
night four he had you bent over the couch in the private room, skirt flipped up, panties ripped down your thighs while he fingered you from behind with three slick fingers. every time you tried to muffle your sobs into the cushion he’d yank your head back by your hair and force you to watch yourself in the mirror.
“look at that pretty face,” he whispered, accent thick and sweet like poison. “crying like a little slut just from my fingers. you know you’re not innocent anymore, right? good girls don’t come back to a place like this night after night. seems like you're all ruined, oh well."
you only shook your head, tears streaming ans he only smiled softly and curled his fingers harder.
by night six, he starts guilt-tripping you harder. when you tried to skip a night, he sent you photos—his pretty cock hard and leaking in his hand, captioned this is what you do to me and then you disappear? i thought you cared about me, angel.
you show up the next night shaking.
in the private room he’d gotten less patient—making you kneel and suck him every single time. no longer asking. he simply pushes you down, guiding his pretty pink cock past your lips, and fucking your throat with slow, deliberate strokes while he strokes your hair like you are precious. because to him, you may be his most prized possession.
“swallow it all this time,” he cooed when he was close, holding your head down until your throat spasmed and fresh tears poured down your cheeks. “if you really cared about me you’d take it better. other people pay me to let them use my throat. you get it for free and you still gag like a baby.”
when you choked and cried harder he came down your throat with a broken moan, then kissed your cum-stained lips right after and told you how perfect you were.
week six is when things became unhealthy, well thats what you friends had said.
he started isolating you.
every time you mentioned your friends he’d get that soft, hurt look in his eyes. “they don’t understand us—don't understand you. didn't those friends leave you here all alone the first night? what would've happened to you if i did find you?.. hm? they just want to use you and throw you away. you know i’d never do that to you.”
you stopped telling them where you were going, hell—you stopped telling them most things.
night nine he made you sit on the vip balcony and watch him work. a wealthy woman was riding him in the booth below while he stared straight up at you the entire time. every time she moaned his name he mouthed yours. when she finally left, he came straight to you, still hard, still smelling like her perfume, and shoved two fingers that had just been inside her into your mouth.
“taste what you’re missing,” he murmured darkly. “this is what i have to do because you won’t let me fuck you yet. you’re making me whore myself out while your virgin cunt stays empty. doesn’t that make you feel selfish?”
you cried so hard you couldn’t speak. harua kissed your tears away and told you it was okay he forgave you. then he spent the next hour edging you until you were a shaking, broken mess, denying you every single time you got close.
night eleven he crossed another line.
he had you naked from the waist down on the couch, legs spread obscenely wide while he slowly fucked you with just the tip of his cock—never pushing past the head, just rubbing and stretching your entrance until you were sobbing and begging.
“please, harua… you can just put it in… i promis—”
he cut you off by slapping your clit lightly with the wet head of his cock, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.
“you don’t get to decide when i ruin you, bunny. you’ve been teasing me for almost a month. coming in here every few nights dripping and desperate, letting me use your mouth, then going home like a good little girl. if you really wanted me you’d let me fuck you raw right now.”
when you tried to pull away he gripped your hips hard enough to bruise and kept teasing your entrance, voice soft and vicious.
“stay still. good girls don’t run from the man who owns them.”
you came just from the humiliation and the constant pressure of his cockhead against your hole, shaking and crying while he praised you for being such a pathetic, needy little thing.
friday night.
the club is packed, bass throbbing like a second heartbeat between your legs as you walk in. you’re already trembling before you even see him.
harua finds you instantly. tonight there’s no slow approach. he takes your wrist and pulls you through the crowd, straight into the private room. the second the door locks he presses you face-first against the mirrored wall, yanks your skirt up, and shoves two fingers into your soaked cunt without warning.
you cry out at the sudden stretch, legs shaking.
“harua—wait—please—”
“shhh.” his voice is low, almost loving, as he fucks you with those long fingers, deep and relentless. “you’ve been such a good girl the last two weeks. texting when i tell you. coming back every time i call. letting me play with this virgin pussy until you cry.” he curls his fingers viciously against your g-spot. “but i’ve been patient long enough, yea?.”
you sob against the mirror, mascara running, thighs trembling as he forces pleasure through you whether you want it or not.
he leans in, lips brushing your ear, silver chain cold against your shoulder.
“mm…i’m off work tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice dark and possessive. “no clients. no one else touching me. i want you to come over to my place instead.”
his fingers never stop moving, dragging you closer and closer to the edge while he speaks.
“you’re going to let me have you properly this time. no more teasing. no more stopping. i’m going to fuck you raw in my bed until the only thing left in that pretty head is my name and my cum.”
he presses his hard cock against your ass through his pants, grinding slowly.
“and you’re going to thank me for it, aren’t you, angel?” his teeth graze your neck. “because you’re already mine. you’ve been mine since the first night you let me cum down your throat like a good little pet.”
he finally lets you cum—hard, violent, knees buckling—while he holds you up and whispers against your hair:
“tomorrow night. my place.”
your hands are shaking so badly you can barely press the doorbell. you’re wearing the same too-short skirt he likes, because you knew he wouldn't be too happy if you wore something sloppy. when the door opens, harua is standing there in a black tank top and sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, a pretty chain resting against his collarbones.
no club lights. no bass. no witnesses.
just him, and the soft, dangerous smile that makes your stomach twist.
“there’s my bunny,” he murmurs, voice low and sugary. he pulls you inside by the wrist, closes the door, and locks it with a quiet click that sounds far too final. “you actually came. good girl. i knew you wouldn't run, you know where you belong.”
the apartment is dim, but even despite the low light, you can see how expensive it looks, marble countertops in his kitchen, modern furniture, and the smell of his $400 cologne drenching the air. before you can even look around properly, he’s backing you against the wall, cupping your face with both hands like you’re something fragile.
“you’re trembling,” he whispers, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “still so scared of me after everything i’ve done to you… after you’ve cried on my fingers and choked on my cock for two whole weeks.” he leans in and kisses you slow, deep, sweet—the kind of kiss that makes your knees weak. “that’s okay. i like you scared. it’ll make you tighter.”
he keeps his fingers loosely wrapped around your wrist, thumb stroking slow circles over your pulse point as he looks down at you. the hallway light is warm and low, casting gentle shadows across his face. his hair is still slightly damp, silver strands catching the light, and that lazy, knowing smirk is back—softer tonight, almost fond.
“you’re shaking already, bunny,” he murmurs, voice low and honeyed.
“we haven’t even done anything yet.”
he guides you further inside, not toward the bedroom, but to his living room. the space is neat, expensive, and dimly lit—just a single pretty lamp and the city glow filtering through half-drawn curtains. he sits on the wide leather couch first, then tugs you down so you’re straddling his lap, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs. your too-short skirt rides up, but he doesn’t touch you there. not yet.
his hands settle respectfully on your waist, fingers warm through the thin fabric of your top.
“hi,” he says simply, like this is a normal date. like he didn’t spend the last few weeks finger-fucking you in a club private room until you sobbed. he leans in and kisses you—slow, sweet, almost chaste at first. just soft presses of his plush lips against yours, again and again, until you relax a fraction.
when he feels you soften, he tilts his head and deepens it, tongue sliding lazily against yours, coaxing rather than demanding. one hand leaves your waist to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there while he kisses you like he has all the time in the world.
minutes pass like that. just kissing. deep, wet, unhurried kisses that leave you dizzy and breathing harder. every time you try to rock your hips against him, he stills you with a gentle but firm grip, pulling back just enough to speak against your lips.
“not yet, angel. we’re going slow tonight. i want to enjoy you properly.”
the kiss drags on, slow and syrupy, until your head is spinning and your thighs are trembling on either side of his lap. harua keeps one hand anchored at your waist, the other cradling the back of your neck like you’re something breakable and precious. every time you try to roll your hips, chase the hard line of his cock pressing up through his sweatpants, he stills you with a gentle squeeze and a soft little “shh” against your mouth.
“slow, bunny,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rough, “i’ve waited weeks to have you like this. i’m not rushing.”
he kisses you until your lips feel swollen and your breathing is shaky. only then does he pull back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded and dark.
“look at me.”
you do. your eyes are already glassy.
harua’s thumb strokes your bottom lip. “you’re going to let me take everything tonight, yeah? every first. every tear. every little sound. you’re going to give it all to me.”
you nod before you can even think, a tiny, overwhelmed whimper slipping out.
“good girl.”
he kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours while his hands finally start to move. they slip under your top, palms warm against your bare skin, slowly pushing the fabric up until he’s peeling it off you. the cool air hits your chest and you instinctively try to cover yourself, but harua catches your wrists and pins them gently behind your back with one hand.
“don’t hide. let me see what’s mine.” his voice drops lower. “been dreaming about these pretty tits for weeks.”
he leans in and drags his tongue over one nipple, slow and wet, then sucks it into his mouth with a low groan. your back arches hard. he takes his time, licking and sucking until both nipples are shiny and aching, until you’re squirming in his lap and making those helpless little sounds he loves so much.
only then does he slide his hands under your skirt, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties.
“up,” he orders softly.
you lift your hips. he drags the soaked fabric down your thighs and pockets them without a word, like a trophy.
two long fingers slide through your folds and you jolt, a broken gasp leaving you.
“already dripping,” he coos, almost tenderly. “my poor little bunny. been wet for me since you walked through my door, huh?”
he circles your clit with the pad of his middle finger, feather-light, teasing until your thighs shake. then he sinks one finger inside you, slow and deep, curling it just right. your head falls forward onto his shoulder with a sob.
“haru—ah—!”
“shh. just one for now. gotta stretch you open nice and easy.” he pumps the finger in and out, adding a second when your hips start rocking on their own. “that’s it… fuck yourself on my fingers like a good girl. show me how bad you need it.”
he scissors his fingers, stretching you, curling them against that spot that makes you see stars. his thumb finds your clit and rubs tight, steady circles. your moans turn into little cries, tears already slipping down your cheeks.
harua watches your face the entire time, eyes dark and obsessed.
“look at those pretty tears,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “crying on my fingers again. you’re so fucking perfect when you cry for me.”
he keeps you right on the edge for long minutes, slowing down every time you get close, until you’re babbling and sobbing into his neck.
“please—please, harua, i can’t— i need—”
he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you whine at the loss.
“ah-ah-ah. no, you’ve cum on my fingers enough. want you to do it in my mouth this time.”
before you can protest, he lifts you like you weigh nothing and lays you back on the wide leather couch. he settles between your spread thighs, pushing them wider apart with his palms until your pussy is completely exposed to him.
the cool air hits your soaked folds and you instinctively try to close your legs, but harua’s grip tightens, keeping you open like a pretty little offering.
“—wait—ah—!” your voice cracks, shy and overwhelmed. “you don’t have to… i’ve never— no one’s ever—”
“i know,” he cuts you off softly, eyes locked on your dripping cunt like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. his voice drops into that sweet, honeyed drawl. “that’s exactly why i’m doing it. no one else has tasted this pretty pussy before. only me. and no one will get to taste it after, right bunny?”
he leans in closer, breath hot against your soaked pussy as he stares up at you from between your thighs.
“right, bunny?” he repeats, voice softer but edged with something dangerous. “say it. tell me no one else will ever taste this pretty cunt. tell me it’s only ever going to be mine.”
his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open even wider when you hesitate. a single tear slips down your cheek. harua watches it fall with hungry fascination.
“i… it’s only yours, harua…” you whisper, voice trembling and shy.
his lips curve into a slow, satisfied smile.
“good girl.”
then his mouth is on you.
he leans in slowly, dragging the flat of his tongue from your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit in one long, filthy stripe—groaning deeply at your taste. the sound vibrates straight through your core. the wet heat of his mouth makes your whole body jerk.
a broken whimper spills out of you.
harua groans deeply, like he’s the one being pleasured. “fuck… you taste even sweeter than i imagined.” he licks you again, slower this time, savoring every drop. “been thinking about burying my face between these thighs for weeks. every time my mouth was being used i was imagining—eating your innocent little cunt.”
he seals his plush lips around your clit and sucks gently, then harder, alternating between slow, lazy licks and tight, wet suction that makes your toes curl. two fingers slide inside you without warning, curling instantly against that spongy spot that makes you see stars.
your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the messy black and silver strands as your back arches clean off the couch.
“ha—harua—! it’s too much— i— i can’t—!”
“you can,” he murmurs against your pussy, the vibration making you sob. “you’re gonna cum on my tongue like a good girl. mmmh—wanna feel this tight little hole fluttering while i drink you up.”
he eats you like he’s starving—messy, wet, and nasty. the obscene sounds of his tongue and fingers working your soaked cunt fill the quiet living room. the soft squelches causing your face to burn. harua moans and hums against you, eyes flicking up every few seconds to watch your face twist in pure pleasure and embarrassment. both emotions fighting for dominance.
every time your thighs start to shake and your cries get higher, he slows down just enough to keep you dangling right on the edge.
tears are streaming down your cheeks again. you’re babbling now, half-sobbing, half-moaning.
“please—please please please—mmmph—m’ so close—hng—need to cum—”
“that’s itttt, bunny… beg for me,” he purrs, voice thick and dripping with lust, that soft nagano accent curling around every word. “lemme hear how badly you need to cum. such a polite little virgin, crying and whimpering for my tongue.”
he sucks your swollen clit back into his mouth hard, tongue flicking fast and merciless while his two fingers pump deeper, curling viciously against that spongy spot inside you with every stroke. the wet, obscene noises get louder—slick, filthy sounds of his mouth devouring you mixed with the wet squelch of his fingers.
your hips jerk helplessly, thighs trembling violently around his head as you sob and babble.
harua doesn’t slow down this time.
he doubles down, sucking harder, licking faster, fingers fucking you with deep, punishing strokes. his pretty silver-tipped hair is messy from your desperate grip, but he doesn’t care. he moans continuously into your cunt, eyes locked on your tear-drenched face the entire time.
“cum for me, bun,” he growls against your clit, voice wrecked. “cum on my tongue like the needy little slut you’re becoming. let me taste how hard i’m ruining you.”
the coil in your stomach snaps violently.
you cum with a broken, high-pitched cry, back arching sharply off the couch as your entire body shakes. your walls clamp down hard around his fingers, fluttering and pulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you. fresh hot tears pour down your cheeks whilst you babble nonsense—far too overwhelmed.
harua moans loudly, almost greedily, as he continues licking and sucking you through every single pulse, and drinking down every drop of your release like he’s addicted. he doesn’t stop until your legs are twitching uncontrollably and your sobs have turned into soft, overwhelmed whimpers.
only then does he pull his fingers out slowly and crawl up your trembling body. his lips and chin are shiny with your slick. he looks completely feral—pupils constricting to pinpricks, cheeks flushed a pretty shade of red, that smile
harua hovers over you, his face inches from yours, lips and chin still glistening with your release. his eyes are dark, hungry, and completely fixated on the fresh tears sliding down your flushed cheeks, smirk turned to a small unsettling grin.
“mm… so pretty like this,” he murmurs, voice low and rough but still attempting to hold onto that sweetness. his thumb gently traces one of the tear tracks. “all teary-eyed and ruined from just my mouth. what do we say, bunny?”
you’re still trembling, chest heaving, thighs twitching from the aftershocks. your voice comes out small, shaky, and embarrassingly wet. the words slip from your mouth before you can even think about them—far too out of it from your orgasm.
“th-thank you… harua…” you whisper, its barely audible as you pant through the words. “thank you for… for making me cum…”
he kisses your forehead once, almost gently, then stands up and takes your wrist in a firm grip. without another word he pulls you up from the couch. your legs are still shaking so badly you nearly collapse, but harua catches you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.
“come on, bunny. living room is cute, but i’m not fucking you for the first time on the couch like some cheap client.”
he leads you down the short hallway, grip never loosening. the bedroom door is already ajar. the room is tidy—cozy, not what you are expecting from the brief view you got of his otherwise bare bones living room and kitchen. a few plushies placed upon his bed, and god—bed is huge, covered in silky pretty pastel purple sheets that look expensive and cold.
the second you’re inside, harua gives you a light but firm push between your shoulder blades.
you fall forward onto the bed with a startled gasp, your face sinking into the cool, silky sheets. before you can push yourself up, harua grabs your hips and yanks your ass high into the air, forcing you onto your knees with your chest pressed down. your cheek stays buried in the sheets, ass presented up like an offering.
he spreads your thighs wider, completely exposing your dripping, freshly eaten pussy to him.
“stay just like that,” he orders softly, voice low and sweet. “face down, ass up.”
you hear the rustle of fabric as he pushes his sweatpants down. his cock slaps heavy and hot against your ass cheek once, twice, smearing warm precum on your soft skin.
then his hands are on you again, one stroking slowly up your spine, the other gripping your hip possessively. harua’s voice drops, still velvety but now carrying a meaner, mocking edge.
“so… be honest with me, bunny.” he leans over your back, lips brushing your ear as the fat head of his cock teases up and down your soaked slit.
“how many people have fucked this pretty little cunt before me?”
he presses just the tip against your entrance, not pushing in, just letting you feel the stretch.
“or maybe…” his voice turns darker, almost cruel in its sweetness, “you’ve let other guys play with you, hmm? fingers? toys? did some boy from your nice little life get to taste you before i did?”.
harua keeps the fat head of his cock pressed right against your entrance, not pushing in, just letting you feel the heavy, threatening stretch. he gives a low, mocking chuckle when he feels you tense, his lips brush the shell of your ear as he waits for your answer, voice dripping with mock sweetness.
you’re shaking, face buried deeper into the silky purple sheets, voice small and trembling.
“i-i’ve never been with anyone—promise…” you whimper nervously. “i’ve never let anyone fuck me. that’s why—um…my friends dragged me to the club that night… they said i needed to get laid or something…that i was too innocent for my age. but i’ve never done anything with another person before you. just—um—toys…”
harua’s grip on your hip tightens, a low, pleased sound vibrating in his chest.
“only toys?” he asks, voice turning darker, more curious. “tell me, bunny. what kind of toys have you been putting in this tight little cunt?…were any of them as big as me?”
your cheeks burn with humiliation. you squeeze your eyes shut, voice barely above a whisper.
“just… just a couple of small vibrators and one dildo…but—it was small—nothing like you.”
harua lets out a low, satisfied hum, almost a purr, as his thumb continues stroking soothingly up and down your spine.
“that’s what i like to hear…” he murmurs, voice dripping with dark sweetness. “such a good, honest little pet. never been touched by anyone else. just some pathetic little toys… and now you’re here, presenting this untouched cunt to me.”
he pulls his hips back slightly, then presses forward again, bullying the thick, swollen head of his cock harder against your tiny entrance. the pressure is relentless. he doesn’t ease in gently—he forces the fat head past your tight ring of muscle with a slow, steady push.
the stretch is immediate and intense.
you gasp sharply into the sheets, eyes flying wide as the head finally pops inside you. it feels impossibly big compared to the toys you've played around with, it's like he’s splitting you open and he’s barely even put the tip in.
“s’ too much—”
harua groans deeply, the sound low and wrecked, his fingers digging hard into your hip to keep you from squirming away. you are sure that tiny crescents created by his nails will be left for you to see tomorrow.
“fuuuck… there we go,” he breathes, voice hoarse with lust. “eh? too much? it’s barley an inch, you gotta take it all, bunny.”
he lets out a soft, mocking laugh that vibrates against your back. the fat head of his cock is lodged inside you, stretching your entrance obscenely wide, and he hasn’t even given you more than the tip yet. his free hand slides up your back and tangles gently in your hair, not pulling, just holding you down against the cool sheets.
“you’re already crying and saying it’s too much?” he coos, almost tenderly even as he pushes a bit deeper. “how pathetic… and how cute. i haven’t even fed you half my cock and you’re falling apart already.”
he rocks his hips again, slowly bullying another thick inch into your fluttering walls, watching with dark fascination as your pussy stretches obscenely around him. the burn is intense. you sob into the sheets, fingers clawing at the silky fabric. his cock is far bigger than any of the tiny toys you’d used before.
“shh, shh… breathe for me, angel,” he coos, almost tenderly, even as he pushes in deeper. “you can take it. you’re gonna take it—every single inch like a good girl. this is what you came back to the club for night after night, right? this is what your innocent little body was begging for. this is what you were made for.”
another shallow thrust. then another.
he groans softly as he sinks in deeper, hips pressing forward until he’s almost fully buried inside you. the stretch is overwhelming—burning, full, almost too much. your sobs are muffled into the silky purple sheets, fresh tears pouring down your face and soaking the light fabric dark.
harua’s hand tightens in your hair, not yanking, just holding you down as he bottoms out completely with one final, firm push. his hips flush against your ass, every inch of his thick cock buried deep inside your fluttering cunt.
“fuuuuck…” he moans, long and wrecked. “you’re mine now, you know that, right? this cunt belongs to me. every tear, every whimper, everything—it’s all fucking mine. no more club. there’s no need to go there anymore… you just come here and wait for me like a good little pet, yeah?”
all you can manage is a pathetic, broken whine as your walls clench hard around his cock. the stretch is so overwhelming that your vision blurs.
harua rolls his eyes at your lack of proper answer, but his voice stays soft and mocking. “aww, bunny can’t even speak? already? eh…? that’s okay… i’ll fuck the words out of you.”
he starts moving—painfully slow, deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that drag his cock almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt. every stroke feels like it’s reshaping you from the inside.
“does it hurt, angel?” he coos, voice dripping with fake sympathy while he fucks you in those long, claiming strokes. “is my cock too big for this tiny inexperienced pussy? poor thing… did you really think those pathetic little toys could prepare you for me?”
“h-harua… ah—! it’s so deep— too deep—!” you whimper, voice high and shaky. “s’ too big… i-i can’t— hngh—!” finger clawing at the fabric beneath you, but the cool silk only slips from your fingers with each grab.
he chuckles softly, still moving slow and deep, making sure you feel every single inch of his cock.
“yes, you can, angel. listen to how wet you are… your pussy is sucking me in so greedily. sounds like you were made to take my cock—made for me.”
he keeps the slow, torturous pace for long minutes, grinding against that warm gummy spot inside you with every thrust. your moans and whimpers on,y grow louder, more desperate, turning into broken little cries every time he bottoms out.
“harua—! ahh— please— it feels—feels too mu—i’m—i’m gonna—!”
“you’re gonna what, bunny?” he mocks, voice sweet yet cruel. “gonna cum already? just from my cock stretching you open? how adorably pathetic. i guess you can cum, go on"
he reaches around and rubs tight, steady circles over your swollen clit while still fucking you slow and deep.
you shatter without warning.
a broken, high-pitched cry tears from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you. your walls clamp down hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing violently as you cum harder than you ever have in your life. fresh tears pour down your face, tears and your release soaking the sheets whilst you sob and shake beneath him.
harua groans loudly, but he doesn’t stop. he fucks you straight through it—slow, deep, relentless strokes that drag out every wave of your orgasm until you’re twitching and oversensitive.
“harua—! too much—! please— i can’t—!” you sob, trying to scramble forward on the bed, crawling away from the overstimulation as your body jerks and writhes.
in one swift movement, harua’s hand shoots out and grabs your ankle, yanking you back toward him hard. you yelp as he drags you back into position.
“don’t you fucking run from me,” he growls, voice dripping with slight annoyance. how dare you try to run from him? don't you know your place? where you belong?
he slaps your soaked pussy hard—a sharp, wet smack right over your sensitive clit. you cry out, jolting violently.
then he pushes back in to the hilt in one brutal thrust, burying himself completely.
a broken scream leaves your lips.
harua grips your hair tighter, yanking your head back sharply so your back arches hard against his sweat soaked tank-top. his hips snap forward in brutal, punishing thrusts, fucking you so deep and hard the bed creaks loudly beneath you two.
“mmmphh— that’s it, bunny,” he growls, voice low and almost desperate, “scream for me. cry louder. i want my neighbors to hear what i'm doing to you—want everyone to know how much your virgin cunt is struggling to take me— to know how much of a slut you are despite the struggle—
you’re a mess—sobbing, drooling, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks as you choke out broken sounds with every brutal thrust.
“ahh—! too hard—! s’ too much—! i can’t—hngh— ahh!”
he laughs softly, dark and satisfied, leaning down to bite at your shoulder while his hips slap loudly against your ass.
“you can’t? hm…but you’re creaming all over my cock, angel. look at you… already came once and you’re still squeezing me like a desperate little whore."
he slaps your ass hard, the sharp sound echoing in the room, then reaches around to slap your swollen, sensitive clit again—harder this time.
you scream at the sudden sharp sting—your hips jerk violently, walls fluttering wildly around him and squeezing around him, fresh slick gushing out of you—soaking the sheeks beneath.
he yanks your hair again, forcing your head back further so he can see your tear-stained face from the side.
“look at those pretty tears… fuck, you cry so beautifully when i ruin you.” his voice drops into something almost reverent, even as he destroys you. “my perfect little crybaby. my innocent girl turning into such a pathetic, cock-drunk mess for me.”
your second orgasm hits you without mercy—even stronger than the first. your whole body shakes violently as you sob and wail, walls spasming and gushing around his thick cock. he can see how your thighs pulse and your body struggles against his hold—obviously too overwhelmed. but he makes no effort to stop, he hasn't even came yet.
harua groans loudly but doesn’t slow down. he fucks you straight through it, pounding you harder, using your hair like a handle to pull you back onto his cock with every thrust.
“that’s my good girl… cumming again already? so fucking easy to break.”
he leans in close, lips brushing your ear as he keeps railing you mercilessly.
“you’re never leaving me, bunny. you understand that now, right? this pussy is mine. this body is mine. every single tear you cry while i fuck you belongs to me.”
harua’s fingers twist tighter in your hair, wrenching your head back with zero mercy. your back bows sharply, pain blooming down your spine as the top of your back collides with his sweat-slicked chest. his hips slam into you hard and ruthless, the loud, wet smack of skin against skin filling the room like pure filth.
“say it,” he snarls against your ear, voice low and dark. “say you understand. say you belong to me.”
you can barely form words anymore—only broken, tear-soaked sobs and whimpers fall from your lips with every devastating thrust.
“i—i belong to you—! harua—! ahh—! yours— i’m yours—!” you cry out, voice cracking.
his fingers tighten in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to arch your spine even harder against him, forcing you to feel every single veined inch of his thick cock buried inside your fluttering heat. the silver chain around his neck swings forward, cool metal brushing your overheated skin with every ragged breath he takes.
“fuck… that’s my good girl,” he rasps, voice low and velvet-rough, the soft nagano lilt thicker than ever with lust. “say it again. let me hear how pretty you sound when you admit you’re ruined for anyone else.”
he doesn’t wait for you to obey. his hips snap forward in one savage thrust, driving so deep your vision sparks white. the wet, filthy sound of skin meeting skin fills the dim bedroom, mingling with the obscene squelch of your soaked, overstretched pussy taking him to the hilt again and again. he sets a brutal rhythm—long, punishing strokes that drag almost all the way out before slamming back in, grinding against that sensitive spot inside you with cruel precision.
he drops your hair, body falling flush aganist the sheets now drenched with your various fluids. you sob helplessly into the silky pastel purple, fresh tears soaking deeply into the sheets amongst everything else beneath your cheek. your thighs tremble violently, knees threatening to give out, but harua’s grip on your hip keeps you exactly where he wants you—ass up, back arched, completely exposed and helpless.
“tell me,” he demands, voice dripping with mock sweetness even as he destroys you. “tell me no one else will ever touch this pussy. tell me you’re done pretending to be that sweet innocent girl. you belong in my bed now—crying on my cock like my personal little whore.”
you’re barely coherent, but the words tumble out between sobs anyway, driven by the relentless drag of his cock and the pressure on your clit. “no one else—! only you—! i’m yours— harua’s— please—!”
the praise and filth pouring from him in that honeyed voice only makes you clench harder. harua groans, hips stuttering as your walls flutter wildly around him.
“that’s it… fuck, just like that.” his thrusts grow faster, meaner, the bed creaking loudly beneath you. sweat slicks his chest, dripping down onto your back. his messy hair falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother brushing it away—he’s too focused on the way your body shakes beneath him.
your next orgasm slams into you. it’s sharper than the last two, almost painful in its intensity. your entire body convulses, a raw, broken scream tearing from your throat as your pussy spasms violently around his cock, gushing slick down your thighs. tears stream freely down your flushed cheeks, your mind going blissfully blank.
harua curses loudly, voice wrecked. “gooood girl—fuck, bunny—milk me just like that—”
he buries himself to the hilt and cums hard, thick, hot ropes of cum flooding deep inside you in heavy pulses. he grinds against your ass, pushing every drop as far as it will go, claiming you from the inside out. the sensation of being filled so completely draws a fresh, overwhelmed whimper from you.
for several long moments the only sounds are your ragged sobs and his heavy breathing. harua stays buried inside you, savoring the way your walls continue to flutter and milk him.
slowly, he eases out, watching with dark, obsessive hunger as his cum immediately leaks from your abused, puffy hole. he collects some with two fingers and pushes it back inside you lazily, possessively, fucking it deeper while you twitch and whine.
“mine,” he murmurs, almost reverently. “look at how well you take my cum… like you were always meant to be full of it.”
he flips you onto your back with surprising care, crawling over your trembling body. his eyes—still blown black with lust—soften at the edges as he takes in your completely ruined state: swollen lips, tear-streaked cheeks, mascara running in dark rivulets, chest heaving. he cups your face with both hands, thumbs gently brushing away the tears still slipping from your lashes.
“you were perfect, angel,” he whispers, voice dropping back into that soft, almost loving tone. he leans down and kisses you slow and deep, tasting the salt of your tears and the faint remnants of your earlier orgasms. the kiss is unhurried now, tender in a way that feels dangerously intimate after how hard he just fucked you.
when he pulls back, he presses softer kisses to your forehead, your damp cheeks, the tip of your nose, then rests his forehead against yours. his silver chain pools cool against your collarbone.
“think i’ll keep you, pet” he whispers.
two months later.
harua’s apartment no longer feels like his.
it feels like yours—or rather, like the cage he’s so lovingly built around you.
your old life is gone. your friends have been slowly cut off with carefully planted guilt trips and soft, teary-eyed manipulations until they stopped reaching out. your things are here now—folded neatly in his drawers, your pastel pajamas hanging beside his black silk shirts, your favorite plush bunny sitting on his bed like a silent witness to how far you’ve fallen.
you don’t go to the club anymore.
you just wait for him at home, just like he told you to.
tonight he came back later than usual. the moment the front door clicked shut, you were already on your knees in the entryway like the well-trained little pet you’ve become—wearing nothing but one of his oversized black button-ups, the hem barely covering your ass.
harua’s eyes darkened the second he saw you.
now he has you bent over the dining table, cheek pressed against the cool marble table, legs spread wide. the shirt is bunched up around your waist and his cock is buried to the hilt inside you, fucking you in slow, deep, possessive strokes.
“still so tight for me,” he murmurs, voice breathy and silken, “even after i’ve fucked this pretty cunt almost every single day for two months… you still squeeze me like a virgin.”
you whimper brokenly, fingers scrabbling against the table as he grinds deep.
“ha-haru— ahh—!”
he leans over you, chest pressed to your back, one hand sliding up to wrap loosely around your throat while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise.
“look at you,” he coos, almost tenderly. “my sweet, innocent bunny… now you cry so sweetly when i fuck you. you used to fight it. used to whimper ‘too much’ and try to crawl away.” he chuckles darkly, rolling his hips in a slow circle that makes you sob. “now you just spread your legs and thank me when i fill you up.”
he pulls out almost completely, then slams back in hard, punching the air out of your lungs.
you cry out sharply, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks.
harua groans at the sight.
“fuck… there they are. my favorite tears.” he kisses the side of your face, licking a tear track before whispering hotly against your ear, “you’re so much prettier when you cry on my cock, angel. my perfect little crybaby.”
his pace picks up—still deep, but faster now, more relentless. the wet, filthy sound of him fucking you fills the entire apartment.
“tell me who you belong to,” he demands softly, tightening his fingers around your throat just enough to make your head spin.
“i—i belong to you—” you sob, voice shaky and wrecked. “only you, harua— please—!”
“good girl,” he praises, voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “that’s right. no more friends. no more club. no more world outside of me. you’re mine to keep. mine to ruin. mine to fill whenever i want.”
he reaches around and rubs firm circles over your swollen clit, never slowing his thrusts.
you shatter hard, crying out his name as your third orgasm of the night crashes through you. your walls clamp down around him, pulsing and fluttering, milking his cock while you sob and shake.
harua moans low and broken, burying himself as deep as possible as he finally lets go.
“take it— take all of it, bunny—”
he cums hard, thick, hot spurts flooding deep inside you, filling you until you can feel it leaking out around where he’s still buried. he keeps grinding lazily, pushing his cum even deeper, like he’s trying to mark every inch of you.
when he finally stills, he doesn’t pull out.
instead he wraps both arms around you, holding you tight against his chest as he nuzzles into your neck, pressing soft, almost loving kisses to your tear-stained skin.
“my sweet girl,” he whispers, voice soft and reverent now. “you’ve become so perfect for me… i don’t know what i’d do if you ever tried to leave.”
his fingers gently stroke your hair as he stays buried inside you, warm and possessive.
𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾—𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈. 𝖻𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗌. 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 ♡
𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: this took me forever to finish.. sorry hehe ! but its finally here ~ i got an ask that gave me the idea and i had realized i dont have any dead dove for our ruru, sooo i made it a bigger fic (by big i mean over 10k words oopsies (๑>•̀๑) i loved writing this tho aaaaa i dont tend to write harua as submissive, i see him more of being a bratty dom—i dont really write any of &team as inherently / extremely submissive,, some just tend to have submissive traits (taki is a good example) ,, i also like to think most "feminine" idols become very different in bed~~ anyway !! i hope u all enjoy this.. i'll also probably be posting fics at a much slower pace than before ! quality or quantity plus trying to focus on not let myself get as burned out as i have right now from pumping out stuff so rapidly hehe
They always warned you not to wander around near the forest, ‘it was dangerous’ a villager would tell you ‘many monsters lurk around’ another exclaimed but you never truly listened, not when the path leading to the forest was filled with lush trees and vibrant blooms that called your name, luring you into the verdant forest. You keep walking — not aware of how long — until you find a lake, sparkling blues reflecting the sun rays, surrounded by all kinds of lively fauna and the hunched figure of 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐚. You couldn’t believe your eyes at first, then you stepped closer to see him clearly — soft, blonde hair that’s grown to his shoulders, dainty pointed nose and plush rosy lips. His back was covered with beautiful wings, pink and blue hues glittering and sparkling under the sun, they were big in size, almost covering his entire figure. His voice was sweet and enchanting, singing to the plants he’s tending while rabbits and other young animals surrounded him. He looks like a daydream.
You started coming to the forest more, always hiding behind a tree and watching the fairy tend to the flora and fauna around him. Until one day, he stopped pretending he couldn’t feel your presence, walking up to you, majestic and breathtaking in his nature, “you’ve been watching me for a while, what are you planning to do little human?” your cheeks bloomed pink at his words, hot white embarrassment ran through your veins. “I-I don’t … it’s just … you’re beautiful to look at, I can't look away,” his fingers resting under your chin, making you look up to him with bright, wide eyes. “The feeling’s mutual, pretty but next time how about you join me instead?” extending his hand out for you to take and you didn’t hesitate. He sat you by the lake, you were surrounded with beautiful views all around you yet you think 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐚 might be the most radiant view of them all.
Your relationship with him naturally developed. You visited everyday and he sat you down with him and taught you all about the plants he’s tending to, the animals that he cares for and many other topics. You listened like always with a soft smile and big sparkly eyes, in sheer awe of his beauty, his care for his surroundings and his knowledge of the forest. 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐚 taught you how to harvest the fruits properly, his warm hands guiding yours to snip the strawberry perfectly, as well as picking the blueberries from the bushes. One afternoon during your visit, you kept asking him about the citrus tree he’s tending to, eagerness unwavered and forest fairy haura kept huffing and fauxing annoyance at your constant asking. That act, however, was shattered when you came up to him with an orange in hand, looking up with wide eyes, “please, rua, i think it’s ripe enough. I wanna taste ~” and he couldn’t deny you, not when you gave him a saccharine smile as sweet as the fruit he grew.
He takes the fruit from your hand and cuts it with a small knife, sharp enough to tear you a slice of the fruit. He hands it to you, hearts spilling from his lovesick gaze, watching you eat the fruit of his labor with a warm smile, cheeks resting on his hand. “Is it good, baby?” you nodded eagerly, mouth still full of the sweet sourness, “give me a taste,” he mumbled, hands now resting on your cheeks as he pulled you in for a sweet kiss, lips coated with the syrupy juice of the fruit. You stood there frozen in shock for a few seconds before kissing him back, relishing in the taste of his lips against yours. “Mmmh, it’s good. I did well,” he said cheekily once he broke the kiss, flashing you a cheeky smile.
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 @smidare @7yataki @kwnnies @ikigaijo @makizdoll (want to join? 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤)
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