Chapter Text
The week drags and folds over itself like a heavy heat haze – long afternoons soaked in cicada-song, the metallic sting of sweat on your fur, the air swollen with the smell of hay and dirt.
You can feel it building with every sunrise: the soft, electric burn that crawls down your spine, the faint ache twisting behind your ribs. Your ears flick at sounds you shouldn't care about. Your tail curls when something brushes your thigh. Every scent sticks to you too long. Every shift of fabric over your breasts makes your breath shorten. And lately, the world smells like him. That thick musk that hits the back of your throat and won’t leave.
Gojo’s scent.
Sharp as frost, warm as sun-baked fur, impossible to ignore. He leaves it everywhere now. The fence post where you sit, observing the fields, the porch railing where you nap in the shade, the doorframe of your room, faintly dusted with the wild, bright tang of male leopard heat. You know he does it on purpose. He pretends it’s an accident, but you’ve caught the way his ears perk when you sniff the air.
He takes up space like it’s his job – that big, strong body, broad shoulders, rolling stride. Gojo is physically so much larger than you, it is almost comical: he is tall enough to make you tilt your head back, hands big enough to span your waist, tail thick and heavy, patterned with those dark spots. There is nothing subtle about him.
He often goes out shirtless, purely because he knows he can. He likes to claim it’s more natural for hybrids to be naked and that the two of you should embrace your instincts together, like stripping in the yard is a spiritual practice.
Of course, today is one of those days.
The sun has barely reached its peak, and he’s decided to climb the roof of the chicken coop, barefoot, tail flicking with absolute confidence. Satoru’s patching the old tin plates Nanami meant to fix later, humming under his breath, squinting against the glare. The muscles along his back ripple with each movement, the lean stretch of them cut in gold light. You tell yourself you’re just watching because you don’t want him to fall like the last time, and definitely not because you like the way his body catches the sun like polished bone, not because that deep ridge of muscle at his side flexes every time he swings the hammer.
“Stupid,” you mutter under your breath, flicking an ear to chase the heat rising to your cheeks.
He looks down at that exact moment, as if your voice is a magnet. The grin that stretches his lips is wide and sharp, fangs flashing white. His eyes lock onto you with the focus of a predator. “You watchin’ me, kitty? Looking at what’s all yours?”
You scoff, but your throat feels too dry for real venom. “Just waiting for gravity to do its job.”
Gojo only laughs at that. “You’ll catch me this time, right?”
You want to tell Satoru that if he falls, you’ll bury him under the coop, but he’s already swinging down with the kind of grace that should be impossible for someone his size. His feet hit the dirt softly, tail swaying behind him in a lazy arc, fur glinting faintly silver. A suffocating wave of male readiness radiating off him reaches you before he does. Satoru stretches, hands behind his head, and every inch of him glows with that predatory vitality. The scent of impending heat from your smaller frame must be hitting him full-force, because his pupils blow wide instantly, his nostrils flaring slightly, his tail stiffens and gives a single thump on the ground behind him.
“You smell so good, pretty kitty.” his voice drops an octave, becoming a hungry sound. “Wanna go somewhere I can taste it?”
“Ew.” You tear your gaze away and angrily stomp back toward the barn, the throb low in your belly intensifying with every step.
The rest of the week doesn’t help.
It’s small things – the little moments that make your insides unnaturally warm. The way Gojo lifts the heavy feed barrels like they weigh nothing, tail twitching for balance as the veins in his arms rise, blue and bulging beneath his pale skin.
The way he takes your chores without asking. When Nanami tells you to help move sacks of grain, Gojo just steps in, smiling like a fool, and hefts the 3 of them onto his shoulder with insulting ease.
“I can do it just fine,” you growl.
“I know you can,” He winks at you, clearly amused by the display, ears twitching. “But with me around, you don't need to.”
You hate that your heartbeat stutters at that. You hate that the warmth that floods your chest isn’t entirely sexual this time.
And the worst part is, he keeps bringing you things. Nothing grand, truly – a handful of raspberries from the forest, still warm from the sun. A rock he found in the river that happens to be the exact shade of your eyes. Once, a crumpled page from a children’s book with a drawing of a cat in a field, staring at the blue sky.
“Where did you find it?” You stare at the crumpled piece, trying to read the complex letters.
“Doesn't matter.” Gojo shrugs. “Jus’ thought you’d like it,” he says, awkward and flushed, his tail thumping against his leg like a drumbeat. You roll your eyes, but your fingers carefully smooth the page flat when he isn’t looking.
Satoru’s ridiculous, and sometimes, he doesn’t even bother pretending to be human. You see it when he trains the young guards of your farm.
It’s late afternoon, sun dropping low, the field behind the barn turned into a square of gold and dust. Your friends, Yuji and Megumi, stand in the middle, breath already a little ragged, shirts clinging to their backs, ears and tails twitching with focus. They’re around your age, not young enough to be called pups, but not old enough to even try to compare to Gojo. Hm. On second thought, nobody here is strong enough to even try to.
Satoru prowls a lazy circle around them, barefoot in the dry grass, stripped down to sweatpants low on his hips, again. His chest gleams with sweat, shoulders rolling with every stretch, tail drawing slow arcs behind him. His ears are perked forward, sharp, his hair a wild white mess that catches the light like frost.
“Remember,” he drawls, voice easy, eyes not. “You’re not just swinging your claws like idiots. You sniff the wind. You listen with these.” He taps Yuji’s floppy ears, then flicks Megumi’s wolf one when it twitches. “Body tells you everything.”
You perch on the fence a little ways off, pretending you’re just there because the wood is warm and the sun hits your fur just right. You’ve got your chin in your hands, your stubby tail curled around the rail, ears angled forward despite yourself.
Truth to be told, you should be doing something else. Folding laundry. Cleaning bowls. Watering plants. Anything that isn’t this. But Gojo moves, and your gaze follows, without meaning to.
“Come on, you two,” Satoru calls, baring his teeth in a grin. “Hit me like you mean it. I’ll even pretend you have a chance.” Cheeky as always.
Yuji barks something and charges. Megumi hangs back a beat, then flanks, clever as always. It doesn’t matter. Gojo’s faster. He’s older. He’s terrifying. He moves with a dancer’s grace and a predator’s economy, letting them graze him on purpose, you realize, just to build their confidence. He lets Yuji’s claws skim his side, lets Megumi almost catch his wrist. Lets them think they’re reading him.
Then he reminds them who he is.
Satoru pivots, grabs Yuji by the front of his shirt and uses momentum to flip him clean over his shoulder, slamming Itadori into the grass with such practiced care that the dog hybrid bounces more from shock than pain. In the same breath, he catches Megumi’s wrist before his claws can connect, spins him around, hooks a leg behind his knees, and pins the shocked male face down with laughable ease, forearm planted across his shoulder blades.
Two future guards, flat on their backs, panting.
“Dead,” Gojo singsongs, tail flicking smugly. Sweat drips down his throat, slides over his chest, and disappears under the band of his pants.
And watching him does something awful to you. Your body starts cataloguing.
Strength. Agility. Endurance. Awareness. Good fighter. Good provider. Good defender.
Good mate.
The thought slips in without knocking, and your heat-hazy brain hums in agreement, smug and low. Your instincts curl around the idea, purring: strong male, big territory, sharp teeth, warm den, healthy kittens, safe place.
You bristle at yourself, ears flattening, eyes narrowing. No. Absolutely not. Still, your pupils swell, swallowing color. Your thighs press together automatically, pretending you’re just getting comfortable on the fence and not trying to ease the ache building there. Your tail gives a traitorous twitch.
They go again. And again. And again–
Leopard hybrid corrects them, that infuriating mix of teasing and competence. He shows them with his own body – shifting their stance, nudging a knee, adjusting a shoulder, demonstrating where to sink their weight when something lunges. He doesn’t pull rank, doesn’t crow about how easy it is. He just… teaches.
That, somehow, only makes it worse.
Your mind starts layering pictures over reality, sick little visions that aren’t so good for your shattering ego. When Yuji manages to jump on Satoru’s back again, arms locked around his neck, Gojo laughs and drops backward, slamming them both into the grass, rolling, thrashing in a tangle of limbs. His muscles flex, his body moves with that same unstoppable, grinding force–
Your breath catches so hard it hurts. The field goes fuzzy at the edges.
Suddenly, it is your back in the dry grass, your thighs are wrenched open to receive all of him. His hands bracket your head, not to spare you, but to pin you in place with his body, his teeth bared in a feral snarl. His hips began to pound down, tearing you open so good, thick knot swelling thick and hot at your entrance. Your hands, useless against his broad shoulders, are pulling him closer even as you gasp against the pain of the nastiest mating press, your screams trapped as breathless moans. His scent pours over you, his growls follow his hips in a feral rhythm, thundering against your ear as he lowers his maw to your neck.
One moment, you’re on the fence. Next. It’s your spine arching off the earth, not Yuji’s. Gojo’s weight is what drives the air from your lungs in a choked sob and his hands are like vise around your wrists, pinning them above your head, his fingers digging in deep enough to bruise the bone. There’s no gentle guidance here, only the crushing certainty of his hold. His knees force your thighs apart with a single, brutal thrust of his hips, spreading you wide on the dusty earth.
His muzzle drops to your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse. "Mine," the growl vibrates through your very bones, a sound felt more than heard. "Gonna ruin this pretty little cunt for anything else." And then he slams home.
That tears a ragged scream from your throat – a scream that dissolves into a guttural wail. He’s huge, splitting you open with a heat that borders on agony, and your body betrays you instantly, clenching and fluttering around the invasion, greedy for it.
He doesn’t wait for you to adjust. His hips set a punishing, animal rhythm, pounding into you with the same effortless power he used to throw Yuji. Each drive is a claim, a brutal re-mapping of your insides. You can feel every ridge, every vein of him, the brutal friction stealing your breath, building a coil of hot pressure deep in your belly. Your claws are out, scoring helpless red lines down his sweat-slicked back, your legs locking around his waist to pull him deeper, to take more.
And then you feel it – the thick, hot swell at his base. His knot. It pulses against your stretched entrance with each thrust, a delicious promise of being locked together, filled to bursting. He snarls, hips stuttering, driving harder, needing to force it inside.
"Gonna knot you right here," he grunts, breath hot and ragged in your ear. "Fill this tight little hole so deep you’ll taste me for days. Let them all watch. Let them see who you belong to–"
Megumi yips when Gojo's hand crushes into his ribs... and the sound makes the picture disappear, feeding your mind with a new vision. It melts into your mind like honey, sweet and slow, chasing away the sharp edges of the present.
You see the same sun-drenched field, the grass warm and soft underfoot. Satoru is there, a mountain of sun-kissed skin and lazy strength, stretched out on a thick blanket. The afternoon light gilds his white hair and turns his smile into something unbearably soft.
And this time, its not just two of you.
Three smallbodies orbit him like joyful little planets. They look like human children, around four years old, save for the ears that twitch on top of their heads and the tails that curl and flick behind them. Their fur is a beautiful mix – your tabby stripes visible on their limbs and tails, but overlaid with the silver-dusted thickness of Satoru’s fur.
Your daughter, a tiny queen with Satoru’s arresting blue eyes and your delicate nose, is perched regally on his broad thighs. She pokes a small finger at his chin.
“Papa, your teeth are too big,” she declares, her nose wrinkling.
Satoru’s laugh is a contented rumble. “That’s ‘cause I need them to protect you all!” He leans down, nuzzling her cheek, but a said big fang just barely scrapes the velvety fur of her ear.
She lets out a tiny, indignant yip and scrambles off his lap, her little tail puffed up. “Mama! Papa’s teeth are too big!”
Your heart swells. You are already moving from your spot at the edge of the blanket, opening your arms. “Oh, come here, my love. Let me see.”
She barrels into your chest, and you gather her close, peppering kisses over her offended ear. “Shhh, it’s okay. Papa didn’t mean it. See? All better.”
Over her head, you see Satoru’s face. The playful confidence is gone, replaced by genuine remorse. “Baby, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and teary. He reaches out, his hand enormous next to her small back, and strokes her hair with a touch so gentle it makes your breath catch. “Papa’s a clumsy oaf. Forgive me?”
Your daughter sniffles once, then turns in your arms, looking at him. A slow, forgiving smile spreads across her face. She holds out her arms. “Hug?”
Gojo melts, scooping her from your embrace and settling her carefully in the cradle of his legs, wrapping his arms around her small frame. “My perfect girl,” he whispers into her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He then meticulously licks the pad of his thumb and smooths down the tiny, ruffled fur on her ear, grooming it back to perfection with a focus usually reserved.
Meanwhile, your boys are a tangle of limbs and quiet mischief near the blanket. The larger of the two, a tabby-striped rascal with Satoru’s mischievous grin, is attempting to climb Satoru’s back as if his papa’s a mountain. “I’m king of the forest” the boy whispers fiercely.
The smaller kid, who has Satoru’s sleepy blue eyes but your thoughtful expression, is sitting cross-legged, carefully tracing the letters in your well-loved alphabet book with a solemn focus. He looks up at his brother’s antics, sighs with four-year-old exasperation, and goes back to his studying.
“C,” he says, focused on studying, “if for the “cats”. Like us!”
“Hey,” Satoru says softly, not moving to dislodge the little climber. He’s gazing at you over your daughter’s head, his blue eyes soft and full of a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun. “Look what we made, pretty momma.”
You shift closer, the grass tickling your legs, and lean into his side. Your daughter immediately reaches for you, one hand fisting in your shirt, so you’re all connected – her, you, and Satoru. You feel the solid, steady beat of his heart against your shoulder.
“We did good,” you murmur, watching your son on his back finally tumble into the blanket with a gleeful giggle. The studious one scoots closer, leaning against Satoru’s thigh, his quiet way of asking for contact. Your mate’s hand flies to your son’s head immediately.
“The best,” Satoru agrees, his voice a vibration through you. He turns his head, his nose brushing your temple. His whisper is for you alone, a low, intimate thread of sound. “Makes me think… we’re pretty good at this.” He pauses, and his next words are flavored with a playful, loving heat. “Wanna make the team bigger, pretty momma?”
A flush heats your cheeks, but it’s accompanied by a deep purr that starts in your chest. Before you can answer, your daughter tugs your sleeve. “Hug!”
Satoru doesn’t need to be told twice. “Alright, my little princess, your wish is my command!”
In one smooth, powerful motion, he shifts. He gathers the climbing boy with one arm, tucks the quiet reader against his other side, adjusts your daughter on his lap, and then his arms wraps around you, pulling you firmly against him, into the circle of his warmth.
You are enveloped. A pile of love on a sun-warmed blanket. Your children’s soft scents – milk, sunshine, and their unique smell of your family. Giggles erupt as they squirm into the group hug, small hands patting your face and Satoru’s chest.
Satoru rests his chin on top of your head, his arms a secure fortress around his entire world. He lets out a long, satisfied sigh. “Mine,” he rumbles. “All mine. And I’ll never let anything cold or scary touch you. Ever.”
In the vision, you are safe. You are loved. You are home, in the purest, most fluffy sense of the word. Your family is a warm, breathing, purring tapestry woven from trust and adoration.
The gut-twist of want that follows is deep and aching – a longing for that permanent, sun-drenched peace.
On the field, as if he hears your thoughts, Gojo throws Yuji off with a growl and straightens in one smooth motion. His chest is heaving now, sweat beading along his neck, dripping down between his pecs, disappearing into the band of his pants. His tail lashes when he sniffs the air.
Then his head turns. His eyes find you in an instant, like there was never any doubt where you were. His nostrils flare. His pupils swell, swallowing the blue until his eyes are mostly dark. He slowly, tongue flicking against the back of his teeth like he’s tasting the air.
You know he can smell you. Your arousal, the early, sharp edges of your approaching heat, the way your body is all but broadcasting readiness even as your brain screams “no”.
He grins, and you break first, jerking your gaze away, nails biting into the fence. Shame and want snarl together in your throat. You jump down instead, landing harder than you need to, almost stumbling. You don’t look back. You stalk away toward the house, ears flat, tail puffed in embarrassment.
You can feel him burning holes into your skull.
The rest of the afternoon is calm. By evening, the sky has gone soft and purple, cicadas screaming from the trees. The fields are shadows and silver edges. You creep out to the back porch with your notebook, the one with your clumsy letters and uneven lines, and sit on the step, trying to ground yourself in the simple shapes of letters. The pencil feels clumsy between your fingers. Your tongue sticks out at the corner of your mouth as you hunch over, ears angled forward in that tight little way they get when you’re trying too hard.
Slow, careful strokes. Curves. Lines. Nanami’s name, then yours, over and over, the letters a little different each time but close enough that you’d almost call it progress. The world narrows to black on white, the scratch of graphite, the tiny knot of concentration between your brows.
Behind you, the boards complain under his weight.
Your ears twitch backward despite yourself. Your shoulders tense. Your tail wraps tighter around your thigh like it wants to protect you from the intruder.
“Kitty~”
Gojo drops down behind you, big body folding up with lazy confidence, his legs spreading to bracket yours. His thighs flank your hips, warmth radiating through the thin fabric of your shorts, his knees on either side like a cage.
His chest is a solid wall at your back, a breath later, heat and weight and the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart pressing into your shoulder blades.
Then his chin comes down on the top of your head.
You jolt, fur puffing. “Get off,” you grumble, ears flattening under the weight of his jaw.
“Nah,” he says, voice a lazy rumble that vibrates through your skull and down your spine, obnoxiously pleased. “Head’s comfy.”
“Die,” you say automatically, but it comes out too thin to have any real bite.
Satoru chuckles. You feel it more than hear it – a low purr of sound that starts in his chest and rolls through your back. His breath ghosts over your ears, warm and steady. Gojo adjusts his chin, nuzzling it just a fraction deeper into your hair like he’s trying to rub his scent in.
His tail curls somewhere behind you, the tip flicking lazy figure-eights on the porch.
Your hand tightens around the pencil. You scratch the next line too hard. The graphite snaps.
“Fuck,” you hiss under your breath.
The purring stops, and he hums curiously. “Language, mewmew,” he chides, not sounding disapproving at all. His chin shifts, his jaw scraping lightly against the base of your torn ear. “What’s got your fur all standing up, hm?”
“You,” you snap, tossing the broken pencil stub aside and reaching for another. “You’re heavy. And loud. And in my space.”
“Oh?” His long arms move, coming around you, hands planting on either side of your hips. He leans in a little more, caging you in the circle of his body. “Too bad I'm not goin’ anywhere.” He presses his chest subtly harder against your back as he says it, just to prove his words.
You grind your teeth and hunch further over your notebook, pretending you can’t feel the way his warmth seeps nicely into the line of your body, the way your muscles instinctively want to soften, to lean back into the solid support.
“Whatcha writin’?” he asks after a moment, breath puffing across the fur of your torn ear.
“Homework,” you mutter. “Nanami told me to practice.”
“Homework,” he repeats thoughtfully, like it’s a brand-new word. “Nerdy, neeerdy alley cat.”
One of your ears twitches. “Shut up.”
“Can’t,” he says. “Was born with mouth open.”
Satoru goes quiet for a beat, then you feel him shift again. His chin lifts just a little, leaving the top of your head, and for a half-second, you’re stupidly hopeful that he’s going to go away.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he dips his head a fraction to the side and puts his mouth on your ear.
At first, it’s just a nudge – the soft press of his nose against the base, an absent little bump that makes the fur there ruffle. Then he scoffs, and his lips part and his tongue drags up along the outer edge in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts like someone plugged you into a socket. Your toes curl against the wood. The notebook wobbles on your knees.
“Satoru,” you snap, voice a little too high. “Stop–”
“Mm,” he says, ignoring you completely. “You’re flicking them like crazy. Lemme calm you down.”
He licks again, slower this time, following every curve, every fold, his tongue hot and rough and indecently thorough. His breath is warm against the damp trails he leaves.
He makes a soft, pleased noise. “There we go. Nice and taken care of.”
“I am going to claw your face off,” you say through your teeth, but your voice wobbles on the last word when he catches the torn edge between his lips and sucks, gently, just enough to make your thighs press together instinctively.
“Rude,” he murmurs around a mouthful of ear, sounding utterly unbothered. “I’m grooming you.”
“I can groom myself,” you growl.
“Yeah,” he agrees easily, releasing your ear with a soft pop. “But do you do that?”
Before you can answer, his mouth moves. Satoru switches to the other ear, his nose brushing through your hair, his breath hot against your scalp. He takes his time, tongue drawing lazy patterns, lips smoothing down ruffled fur, teeth teasing along the sensitive edge just enough to make you twitch.
You hate that it feels good.
Your shoulders, tight as wire all day, slowly start to loosen under the attention. Your head tips forward without your permission, making it easier for him. Your grip on the pencil loosens. The world narrows to heat and tongue and the grounding weight of his chest at your back.
His hands finally move.
They slide off the wood and onto you – big, rough palms skimming down your sides, over your hips, fingers spreading wide, thumbs hooking into the meat of your thighs. He squeezes experimentally, like he’s testing ripeness.
“Hey,” you bark, trying to jerk away.
“Shh,” he croons, utterly unconcerned, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the inner curve of your thighs, perilously close to the place that’s been aching for hours. “I’m working. You’re all knotted up, kitty. Gotta knead you out.”
“I’m not bread,” you snap, fighting the urge to arch into his touch.
“Pretty sure you are,” he says, and with the next words, his voice curls into a possessive lilt. “Everyone wants a slice.”
Your tail lashes once, then drops back down, betraying the way your muscles are starting to melt despite your irritation. You can feel your own scent getting heavier, curling up between you, mixing with his.
His thumbs move in slow circles on the inside of your thighs, sometimes moving higher, sometimes dipping lower, never quite touching where your body wants him most. And it’s somehow worse than the time when he tried to fucking mark you with his fucking piss.
Then, casually, in a voice low and amused and frayed at the edges:
“You like what you saw today?”
Your hand freezes over the page.
“What?” you say flatly, not looking up.
“Training,” he clarifies, his thumbs pressing a little deeper into your thighs. “Out in the field. Me and these pups.” His nose nudges your hair aside so his lips can find the curve where ear meets skull. Satoru inhales there, slow, like he’s dragging your scent straight into his lungs. “You stared so hard I thought your eyes were gonna fall out.”
You scowl at your own crooked handwriting. “You were loud.”
“And you were almost drooling.”
“I was not–”
His breath brushes the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to a filthy murmur. “Did it get your little kitty pussy all nice n’ wet for me?”
The pencil skids so hard across the page that it tears through the fabric. Heat rushes to your face so fast your vision whites out for a second. Your ears go blazing hot, flattening so hard they almost hurt. Your tail fluffs at the base, mortifyingly obvious.
“Fuck off,” you rasp. Your throat is dry. “You’re disgusting.”
He laughs, quiet and pleased, the sound rolling through his chest into your back like a purr.
“Yeah,” he says. “Little bit.”
For a while, Gojo just stays. His hands keep up that slow massage, kneading the tension out of your thighs, working at stubborn knots in the muscle, easing little shivers out of you every time his thumbs dig in just right. His chin returns to the top of your head, heavier this time, his jaw relaxing against your skull. His breath evens out. Even his tail calms, the tip flicking lazy arcs against the porch.
The cicadas scream. The farm noises blur. The pencil starts moving again, your hand a little shaky but stubborn.
He watches over your shoulder, quiet, his eyes tracking every crooked letter. You can feel the weight of his gaze on the page, on your fingers, on your shoulders, like his attention itself is something physical.
After a while, his voice comes again, softer.
“Hey,” he murmurs, lips brushing the fuzz at the top of your ear. “Write something for me.”
“No,” you say, but the protest is weak.
“M-m-m… Mean mewmew...” His fingers tap gently against your inner thigh, syncing with your heartbeat. “Just one thing. Promise.”
You roll your eyes, but something in his tone makes you exhale instead of spitting something mean.
“What do you want me to write?”
“Write my name,” he says quietly. “Please?”
Your hand hesitates over the page.
Then, slowly, you put the pencil down. S. Your claw tip almost tears the paper. A. T. The curves are clunky, a little too big. O, smaller, squeezed in like it’s shy. R. And shaken U.
The bigger male goes very, very still behind you. Then his chest expands against your back on a long inhale, and the sound he makes is… different.
“Oh,” he breathes, so soft you almost don’t catch it. “That’s how it looks like...”
His chin lifts off your head so he can lean forward, over your shoulder. His hair tickles your cheek. You can feel his eyes on the letters, heavy and bright, like you just etched something holy instead of scribbling four clumsy symbols. His hand leaves your thigh to hover over the page, fingers twitching like he wants to touch the lines but doesn’t quite dare.
“You’re so smart,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing left. Just concentrated pride that hits you like a punch. “Look at that. You wrote all of it. In order.” His throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing in awe.
“It’s six letters,” you mutter, face burning. You feel the shift before his hand lands again – his scent spiking, his body pressing in closer, the muscles under his skin pulling taut like a drawn bow. His palm comes down on your leg again, heavier this time, fingers curling into the flesh of your thigh with possessive warmth.
“Six letters more than I know,” he says, low, like he’s talking to himself as much as to you. “Six letters that’re… mine. Just like you are.”
Your stupid heart lurches. Your cheeks burn hotter. You hate the way your chest swells, the way something inside you uncurls just a little at Satoru’s praise, showing its soft underbelly like an idiot.
“Stop saying weird shit,” you mumble.
“Not weird,” he argues, but lightly. His chin settles on your shoulder now, closer, his nose almost brushing your jaw. “True.”
His breath fans over the side of your neck. He inhales there, greedily, shamelessly. You shiver. Gojo dips his head, mouth trailing down the side of your throat, and buries his face in the vulnerable space where your neck meets your shoulder.
You feel his lips press against your skin, not quite a kiss (you don't think that he knows what it is), more like a breath held too long. His nose pushes into the curve, nudging your shirt collar aside, making more room for him. His arms wrap fully around your waist now, forearms crossing low on your stomach, dragging you flush against him. You’re completely enveloped, swallowed by heat and fur and muscle and that wild, too-much presence that is all Gojo Satoru.
“Are you scared of me?” he asks into your skin, voice low, stripped bare of bravado.“Is that why you keep running?”
Your throat closes. You stare at the page, at his name, at the way your hand is starting to shake again.
“Yes,” you whisper. Then, because that doesn’t feel quite right: “No. I don’t… I don’t know.”
“Why?” he prompts. “Because I’m bigger? Stronger? Another breed?”
You let out a humorless huff. “Bigger means meaner. Stronger means more dangerous.” The words come out blunt, bruised edges still attached. “That’s what the streets teach. The ones like you took whatever they wanted. Food. Warm. Space. Lives. You give them room, or you get your face kicked in. You don’t catch their eye. You don’t make them curious. You definitely don’t turn your back on them.”
You can feel his heartbeat, rabbit-fast for a moment, then slowing as he leashes it, breath coming in controlled pulls against your neck.
“Do you understand,” he concludes eventually, and his voice is different, “that I will never hurt you?”
You scoff, the sound too brittle. “You say that now. It can change any time–”
“No,” he insists, and there’s a steel there you don’t hear often. His arms tighten around you, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel exactly how strong he is, how easily he could break every bone in your body if he wanted. “I mean it. I mean it in the way we mean things. Not some… human promise you can snap in half when you get bored.” His lips brush your skin as he speaks, each word a warm puff against your neck. “Not after what you did.”
Your brows knit. “What do you mean?”
Gojo huffs a laugh against your shoulder, the sound rough. “You really don’t get it, do you?” There is a fraction of a second, as if he is trying to breathe in some courage to say the following words.
“You saved my life.”
The memory flashes behind your eyes, unbidden – the night, the blood, the way he’d been sprawled on the ground like a fallen statue, his fur matted, his breath ragged, his eyes glazed and wild. How huge he’d looked even then, how your gut had screamed run, run, run while your feet stayed where they were before seeking out Nanami for help.
“You were half-dead,” you say slowly, staring at your own handwriting to anchor yourself. “How did you end up there?”
“I was stupid,” he murmurs. “Picked a fight I shouldn’t have. Thought being strong meant I didn’t have to think. Should’ve died there, honestly. Big cat, bleeding out under a night sky. Kinda poetic.”
Your fingers curl in your lap, claws biting into the meat of your palms because now you just couldn't imagine leaving him there.
“But you came,” Satoru goes on, voice quiet. “Tiny little thing, eyes too big for your face, shaking so hard I could hear your teeth clicking.” His arms squeeze you gently, like he’s trying to hold the memory and you at the same time. “Could’ve abandoned me. Every instinct in you was screaming at you to do that. And yet you brought help. You sat there while human patched me up, poking my face every few minutes to make sure I hadn’t stopped breathing.”
“You were making weird noises,” you mutter, blinking hard. “I thought you were choking.”
“I was,” he says dryly. “On my own arrogance, perhaps.”
A breath of a laugh escapes you, unwilling and thin.
Satoru takes it like a gift.
“So yeah,” he says finally, more cheerful than before. “My life belongs to you now. That’s how it works. You pulled me back when I was already halfway gone. I don’t walk away from that. I don’t get to hurt you after that. I only get to guard you. That’s the deal.”
Your eyes sting with salt at the sheer sincerity in his voice, even hidden under the layers of playfulness. The feeling that coils somewhere between the ribs is funny and very warm, soothing like your mother’s last lullaby, sweet like candies that nannies from the city kindergarten gave you when you were a tiny stray kitten. You blink hard, focusing on the blur of ink until it sharpens again.
“I don’t want your life,” you mutter, lacking venom.
He huffs a soft laugh into your skin. “Too late,” he says. “You got it.”
Before you can brace, Gojo moves, pulling you sideways, away from your notebook, into the circle of his arms. The world tilts. The notebook slips off your knees and flutters to the boards. Your hand snatches at something solid, and you end up clinging to his forearm, your claws denting his skin.
One moment you’re sitting on the step. The next, you’re sitting on him.
Your hip lands on his lap, your side hitting his chest again, but at a new angle. His thighs spread under you to make room, one knee bracing on the step, the other a warm, solid line under your legs. His arms wrap around your waist, big forearms crossing under your ribs, palms splayed over your sides, anchoring you in place.
You squirm, ears flat, tail whipping once, then getting trapped between your thigh and his. “Let go.”
“Nope,” Satoru says mildly, tightening his hold just enough that you feel the strength in it. “You’ll run off and hide in your room.”
“I’ll scratch you.”
“You already did,” he reminds you, sounding annoyingly pleased. “Still here.”
Satoru catches your left wrist as you twist, his fingers wrapping around it easily. He brings your hand up, not out of his space, but to his chest.
He presses your palm flat over his heart.
It thuds against your skin, hard and fast, like it’s trying to punch its way out. Too fast for someone as relaxed as he seems.
“Feel that?” he murmurs, dipping his head until his forehead almost brushes your temple.
You swallow. Your fingers twitch unconsciously, claws grazing his skin. He sucks in a sharp breath, but doesn’t pull away.
“You did that,” he says.
You snort, but your voice comes out thin. “I didn’t build your heart, idiot.”
“You might as well have,” he says. “It wasn’t doing shit before you dragged me back. Jus’ pumping blood.”
You force yourself to look up.
He’s already looking down at you.
Satoru looks wrecked.
There’s a desperate softness in his expression, a kind of awe that has nothing to do with your shaky letters and everything to do with the fact that you’re here, in his lap, with your hand on his heart and not clawing his eyes out. His mouth is parted, his breathing uneven. His ears are tipped forward, straining for every little sound you make. The tip of his tail thumps in an irregular rhythm against the boards.
You see it, finally, for what it is: hunger, yes, wild and filthy and coiled tight under his skin. But layered under it, through it, like veins in marble, is something so stupidly simple it makes your throat ache. You have no name to put on it, but you instinctively understand what that look means.
He leans in until his forehead touches yours.
The contact is small, almost chaste, but it short-circuits something in you. The heat of his skin, the way Gojo exhales shakily when the bridge of your nose bumps his – it all pours into you like honey, slow and thick.
Your ears angle back to make room. Your lips almost brush. Your breath mixes, hot and shallow.
“Not scared of me,” he says, barely audible. “Scared of what I can do... Right?”
You could lie, but you don’t.
“Yes,” you breathe.
His hand on your palm tightens, dragging your fingers harder against his heart. His other hand slides lower on your waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh above your hip.
“But I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says, and there’s a frantic edge to it now, like he’s promising it to himself as much as to you. “I’m gonna make it better. I’m gonna… I dunno. Guard your stupid books. Kill whatever looks at you wrong. Whatever you want, kitty. Whatever you need. I can do it. I can learn it. I’m not just claws and teeth, promise.”
You are, you think. You are exactly that. But there’s more now, too – pencil letters carved into your sketchbook, your scent baked into his lungs, a debt he refuses to stop paying.
Your other hand, braced on his knee, shifts. Your fingers slip a little, tracing the line of muscle up his thigh, following it higher. The heat under your palm intensifies. You hear his breath catch in his throat.
“Kitty,” he whispers, warning and plea in one.
You don’t answer.
Your hand edges lower on his chest, down over the planes of his ribs, the dip of his sternum, feeling the way his muscles jump under your touch. His skin is hot and a little slick with the remnants of the day. There’s a faint scar tissue that your claws catch on, raising goosebumps in their wake.
His pupils are blown black. His mouth hangs open, panting just a little. His tail has gone stock-still, the tip trembling. The yearning in his eyes is so raw it’s obscene.
You drag your hand lower.
Your palm brushes the hard ridge of his abs, the faint trail of hair leading down into his pants. His hips jerk, just enough that you feel the thick length pressed against the underside of your thigh jump in response.
Your fingers hover on the edge of his waistband, claws resting lightly on the elastic.
His heart slams under your other hand. Your own is beating just as hard, just as wild, somewhere between terror and want.
You look up at him, meeting his gaze head-on.
He looks back, and you see all of it – the hunger, the restraint, the desperate hope, the bone-deep devotion. A big, brutal animal trying so hard to be gentle with something small that he’s shaking with the effort.
“Wanna see more~?”
Your head jerks toward him, ears flicking back. “Huh?”
His grin widens, that stupid but hopeful sparkle in his eyes. “You heard me.”
You should say no. You should hiss, tell him to quit it, but the words stick. His gaze drags over you – impossibly focused, reverent in its own reckless way.
“Yeah,” you hear yourself say. “Show me.”
Gojo exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years. Then he moves suddenly – one arm snakes under your knees, the other around your back. You gasp, claws instinctively catching on his shoulder, but he only laughs, a low rumble.
“Hold on tight, kitten.”
The wooden stairs creak under his weight, his tail brushing along the banister as he climbs, your heartbeat matching the rhythm of his steps. When he reaches the hallway, he pauses before your door – the one with the new lock Nanami installed.
You don’t even get to say anything. He nudges the handle with his hip; the latch gives with a click that sounds suspiciously easy.
“W-wait! Put me down!” you whine, scared of what this all means.
Gojo doesn’t. His grip is steady and tight, his massive hands hold you as if he is afraid you might evaporate. Those gorgeous blue eyes only deepen in color, the usual joyful glow replaced by a focused intensity. The click of the latch sounds too final, sealing you into your absurdly pristine room – a sanctuary curated by Nanami, all softness and order where it felt like you, a creature of scars and alleys, didn’t quite belong.
When Satoru sets you down on the edge of the soft mattress with its mountain of pillows, you scramble back in instinct, retreating until your back hits the headboard, putting as much distance as possible between yourself and his predatory figure.
Bigger hybrid stands there for a heartbeat, his shadow stretching across the sickeningly sweet comforter, his chest heaving as if he has just run for miles. His massive figure looks dangerous in the dim light of your room, so violently out of place amidst the softness, plushies, and the smug-looking rabbit that watches the whole scene from his place near the headboard.
But for once, you don't feel like the Gojo is going to force himself on you.
And after a heartbeat, he confirms it.
“I promise you,” he breathes in a low voice that vibrates through you. “Just this once, pretty kitty… I won’t go after this sweet pussy, but–” he pauses with an almost crazed glint in his eyes, “–bet if I play with you today, you'll be begging for my knot tomorrow."
With this, you are stunned, but glad that he at least… tries (?) to control himself.
Gojo takes your silence as a sign of permission. His hands drop to the waistband of his sweatpants, and with a single motion, he tugs them down. The heavy cotton slides over the sharp jut of his hips before pooling on the soft rug.
The thing that springs up against his stomach is fucking horrifying – a brutal length of muscle that makes you mewl in genuine shock. Sure, it's not the first time you’ve seen it, but it is the first time you can really take it in.
And damn…
His dick is nothing but a masterpiece of biological aggression. It’s rock-hard, terrifyingly long, crimson at the head, weeping a glistening stream of pre-cum that wets the mushroom tip obscenely. A ropy vein traces the entire length of the shaft, throbbing with every frantic beat of his heart. The sheer girth of it is ruinous. It looks like it is designed to tear a female open, to deliver his hot seed right into your empty womb, to stake a claim that can never be undone. At the base, the promising swell of his knot waits. The obscene weight of it, the way it curves predatory towards his stomach, is utterly feral.
The perfect breeder. You won't be surprised if it takes on the first try.
“You like what you see, m?” he murmurs, his voice thick with a needy purr. “Just say a word, and it'll get inside you…”
The greatest performer he is, Gojo gives a slow thrust with his hips, his dick slapping against his lower abs with a wet thwack. “…breeding you nice and full of my kittens.”
The heat in the room is dizzying. Your pupils are blown so wide they swallow the color of your eyes, and your tail lashes against the pastel sheets in a frenzy of arousal. Slowly but surely, your mind is starting to check out, leaving only the primal instincts.
And it's not too long until they take over.
Sliding off the bed, your feet hit the wooden floor soundlessly. So in a dream-like state, you begin to circle him slowly, nose twitching, taking in the overload of his scent – sheer male musk, intensified by lust.
You never saw someone so big and yet so safe, so honestly eager to protect you, to mate with you, to what was that word, love you.
Gojo lets you. He doesn’t follow your movements, holding himself rigidly still, but straightens his posture a bit, making the muscles roll under the skin. As you pass behind him, he unconsciously flexes his glutes, tightening the firm mounds of his ass His tail moves, curving in lazy motion, the tip gently lashing near your ankle.
You stop at his side, your eyes drawn to the knot of muscle in his bicep. It is dense, the skin smooth over the power underneath. As if in a trance, you reach out curiously and poke it with one finger.
The effect is electric.
The predatory control shatters for one instant, revealing the raw, untamed animal beneath. A sharp, guttural gasp tears from his throat. His entire body jolts as if struck by lightning.
The trance breaks, flooded with a shot of adrenaline. You leap back, a startled mrrow! escaping you, your own tail fluffing out.
“Shit– shit,” Gojo gasps, words crumbling into a whimper. He covers his face with a hand, his proud posture folding. “I’m sorry, kitty, didn’t mean to– my nerves are just– fuck.” He sounds genuinely panicked, even desperate. “Please don’t run. Please.”
You stare, ears pinned flat, every instinct humming with the urge to bolt. He sees it. He reads the fear in your scent, in the tense coil of your limbs.
And as a skilled hunter, Gojo decided to switch tactics.
Instead of going after you, he rolls on your bed, across the center of the pink comforter, a breathtaking expanse of skin and sculpted muscle that starkly contrasted the frilly innocence of your nest, and goes utterly pliant. His snow-white hair fans out against a pastel pillow, and a jealous part of him seethes that another male had provided this softness where he now willingly lays himself bare.
Nevertheless, Gojo bares his throat, his stomach and your eyes slide down from the hollow of his collarbones, down past the tense ridges of his abdomen to where his cock lies heavy and weeping against his belly. His legs fall open, relaxed and non-threatening. His tail rests limp beside his thigh.
Vulnerability as an invitation.
“See?” He tilts his head, exposing more of his neck. His ice-blue eyes are huge, dark with want. “No threat. Just me. Your Satoru.” He arches his back in a slow, sinuous stretch, offering himself. The image seems almost surreal: the forest’s lethal predator, submitting atop a bed fit for a storybook princess.
“Back then, I was so cold. Just a lonely, poor cat...” He lets his head loll to the side, watching you with adoring surrender. “That’s why went to my mate. You looked so warm and comfy in your bed that I just couldn’t help but join you.”
His chest rumbles with a deep, continuous, inviting purr that makes the weak stray in you yield. The need to comfort, to claim, to answer that honest display, surges up and drowns the fear.
The soft mattress groans softly as you crawl onto it, settling your weight onto his powerful thighs. They are like heated marble beneath you, trembling with the force of his restraint.
“C’mon… taste what’s yours,” he begs, and, flustered, overwhelmed, you start with what seems safest: his hair. Your fingers sink into the shock of snow-white silk, and a shudder wracks his entire frame.
Gojo purrs louder, the sound that vibrates up through your palms as they find the base of his leopard ears. They twitch violently under your touch. His eyes slam shut, a low groan tearing from his throat. His hands fly to fist the soft sheets beside his hips, tendons standing out in stark relief, knuckles bleaching white.
“Now,” he rasps, the word strangled, “lower.” His jaw is clenched so tight that you see muscles jump in his cheek. His tail moves around you, lashing metronome against the mattress, the thick, spotted fur bristling.
You obey – but on your own terms. Your hands drift from his ears, tracing the sharp, predatory cut of his jaw, the column of his throat where his pulse hammers a wild rhythm. As your fingers find the sculpted, broad planes of his chest, he flexes. The muscles leap and roll, bulging provocatively under your palms, showcasing their power.
You let your claws extend, just a little, just to rake them, slowly – savagely slow – across the perfect expanse of his pecs. Four thin, stinging pink lines bloom in their wake, a claim etched into his skin.
Gojo hisses, and the look he gives you from beneath snow-white lashes is one of a glittering victory.
Driven by a hunger that mirrors his own, your hands slide lower, lower, lower. Over the defined ridges of his abs, each one rock-hard and trembling beneath your touch. You mark these too, following the tantalizing path of his white happy trail, a beacon leading south, to the main treat of this evening.
His hands fly to the fat of your thighs, when your sharp nail traces a line from the base of his straining grith to the weeping tip. “There you are,” he purrs, but it’s not soft. It’s a predatory sound, soaked in lust. “Right where you belong. Dripping for it. In this pretty pink cage human built you.” His head tilts, snow-white hair falling over those obscenely blue eyes as he looks you over like a meal. “Doesn’t suit my slutty little kitty.”
The fog in your head makes the world tilt. You sway, drunk on lust, and lean forward, placing one hand on his chest. “You… you talk too much,” you slur, trying for defiance, but it comes out breathy.
His thumb presses against your bottom lip. “And you don’t talk enough. Not the right words, anyway.” His eyes are searing blue coals. “Now, kitty, you have ten seconds. Use those pretty little hands, or–” His grip on your thigh becomes almost painful. “–be a brat, and I’ll flip you over, press your pretty face into that mattress, and pound you till you forget any other name but mine.”
You try to summon defiance and get up, but your head is foggy with need, your words slurring slightly. “Y–you told me you wouldn’t touch me. Your words, Satoru.”
“I said I wouldn’t touch your pussy,” his hand slides from your thigh to your ass, “You have other holes, kitty.” He squeezes the fat of your flesh, as if to emphasize his point.
“So here are your choices. Option A: We play humans. You’re giving me a handjob so good I see stars. Then I shove my tongue in your honey pot until you cum your brains out. Then we snuggle in your little… den. Nice, right?” His eyes, glowing like blue frost in the dark, gleam with wicked intent.
You shuffle atop of him, but nod skittishly.
“Option B:... ” he singsongs. His hand snaps up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. “We play leopard and his bratty little mate. I’ll have you on your hands and knees, tail up, these perfect little holes presented. I’ll mount you and scruff you with a nice deep bite that’ll make your limbs go liquid. I won’t fuck your pussy yet, nuh-uh~“ Gojo licks the drool that threatens to slip from the corner of his mouth and continues, ”A promise is a promise. So I’ll grind my cock against your pussycunt until its nice and slick. Then,” his grip in your hair tightens, making you mewl pathetically, “I’ll take your ass, pounding it until your guts are stuffed with my cum. I’ll hammer my knot into you, again and again, until the muscle gives up and you’re left gaping like a sloppy whore,” he laughs, delighted at the possibility.
“You’ll vomit my seed, kitten. You’ll taste my lineage as it comes back up your throat. You’ll crawl away, my cum and your own piss leaking down your legs. ”
He lets go of your hair, and his other palm slides from your ass to your lower abdomen, pressing down, making you acutely aware of how small you are, compared to him. “And that pretty cunt of yours? If it’ll throb pretty enough, I’ll feed that jealous tiny thing a finger or two. But I won't knot it, no-no-no!” He pats your pelvis gently, lovering his voice into a whisper. “Because a smart leopard doesn’t wear out his breeding hole before the season. We'll have to wait until your heat comes... have to be respectful to the place where my litter will grow. I'm a gentlecat, after all… .”
His grin turns feral as he looks up at you, pools of black staring into your shaken soul. “So choose, kitten. Now. Be my sweet little mewmew or my anal breeding bitch.”
The threat thrills through you, a dark promise that makes your core clench violently, more slick, soaking the already damp fabric.
“You’re… impossible.” It’s the last shred of your defiance, thin and brittle.
“For you,” he snarls softly, licking his lips, “always.”
Driven by his threat to destroy you and a need deeper than pride, your fingers finally slide down to curl around his dick. And the tastiest part that makes your neglected hole sing – they don’t even meet around the sheer thickness of him.
He watches you, eyes shimmering with a tiny bit of disappointment. “There you go,” he croons, his voice rough with approval. “Just like that. Show me how a real predator deserves to be worshipped.”
“You’re drowning me in feromones,” you whisper, and your own voice is husky.
“Then drown.” Satoru’s eyes snap to yours, blown black with lust. “C’mon, use both hands. Feel how full I am for you.” He’s begging, his claws shredding the sheets. “Touch my balls. Squeeze them. Feel how full they are for you. Ready for mating.”
You obey, your palm cupping the tight sack beneath his shaft. Gojo howls, his hips pistoning into the tight circle of your fingers. “Yesss… god, you were made for this. Made to milk me dry. I can smell how wet you are.” A hot ache pulses between your legs, a desperate throb that matches the frantic beat of your heart. Helplessly, you grind down on nothing, a pathetic roll of your hips against the air.
Gojo sees it. Of course he does. His nostrils flare, drinking in the scent of your want. "Is that it? Are you rubbing that pretty little pussy on the thought of my knot?" His hands fly to stroke your trembling hips. "Don't be shy. Use me to get off, kitty."
You're too far gone to disobey. You shift, sliding forward to seat your aching core directly on the hard muscle of his thigh. Rocking against him, a broken moan escapes you as his leg provides perfect pressure.
"That's it," he groans, one hand flying to join yours on his cock, his larger fist enveloping your hand, applying more pressure. "Look at you. My greedy, shameless mate. Humping my leg like a bitch. You want it that bad?" He pants, his breath hot in the midnight air.
“Y-yes!” You whimper, your strokes on him becoming sloppy, too overwhelmed with lust.
"I'm going to give it to you. I'm close, kitty. So close," Gojo babbles, his body tensing, bowing like a drawn arrow. "Right there–!"
Driven by instinct, you let go of his spasming balls to cup the swelling bulge forming at the root of his shaft. It feels impossibly hot and rigid under your touch and you squeeze it, guided by instincts.
Satoru yowls.
“Fuck–fuck–fuck!”
His release is violent – hot, thick ropes that stripe his stomach and ribs, glimmering in the moonlight. The sheer volume of it is shocking, a torrent that pools in the hollows of his abdomen and drips onto the ruined sheets beneath him. Hybrid’s body convulses and arches through each pulse, his cock throbbing like a live thing in your combined grip.
He collapses back, gasping, but his piercing eyes are already locked on you. The brilliant blue of his irises is still swallowed by blown-wide black pupils. Pure and predatory, they focus. On your hips, still making those tiny, desperate circles on his thigh. On the dark, unmistakable wet patch spreading on your pants. Even as the last pearly stripes of his own cum paint his taut stomach, Gojo pushes himself up on wobbly arms that cord with muscle, his white tail lashing behind him in an impatient rhythm.
“Aww, look at you,” he coos, voice scraping right over your feverish nerves. He swipes two fingers through the mess on his abdomen, holding them up to catch the dim moonlight. They glisten, obscene and tempting. “My pretty little kitty…” His eyes never leave yours, pinning you in place. “Open up.”
Your mouth falls open on a desperate whine that is pure instinct. He paints his taste onto your tongue – salty, wild, uniquely Satoru. It’s a primal claim, a direct line from his flesh to your core, and you suckle on his long fingers like you’ve been starving for it, eager little tongue working around his digits until they make you gag.
“Good girl,” he breaths, tugging his fingers out of your mouth with a wet pop.
“S’good,” you whine, licking your lips, chasing the fading trace of him. Your own tail twitches helplessly. Your bones feel like liquid, your mind a buzzing static.
Gojo chuckles. “‘Course it is.” His hand – big, warm, calloused – cups your jaw, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip, pressing down insistently. “Now, want me to take care of this pretty little pussy?”
Your body answers for you. Scrambling back off the bed, your legs shake violently, barely holding you. Your fingers fumble with the loose waistband of your sweats, shoving them down your thighs in a graceless tug. The cool air hits your soaked panties, and you shudder when a fresh wave of slickness coats your inner thighs. Lacy white fabric between your legs is ruined by now, a translucent window to your swollen cunt.
“Don’t you worry,” Gojo purrs, moving from the bed with a lethal glide of muscle and intent. “Gonna take care of you.” He drops to his knees on the floor before you, the motion so fluid it’s like water flowing downward. His big hands clutch your bare hips and his face presses into the damp lace at the apex of your thighs. He inhales, a long, deep drag that makes his entire body shudder, his eyes rolling back in pure ecstasy. When he pulls back to look up at you, a string of saliva connects his lower lip to the fabric before it snaps. “Fuck. You smell like heaven.”
“Please, Satoru… it hurts. Everything hurts…”
“I know, baby, I know.”
With a feral growl of triumph, Satoru jumps back to his legs and manhandles you – an effortless flip onto your belly, with your legs hanging off the edge of the bed. He kneels behind you, and his hands glide over the plush curve of your ass, possessive and rough, squeezing the flesh. “Now, let’s get a proper look at my feast. Show me what’s mine.”
You, a mess of sweat and need, drunk on your own hormones and his overwhelming proximity, reach back. Your own asscheeks feel hot under your touch as you obscenely part them, presenting the dripping, swollen flesh between your thighs to his feverish gaze. A fresh bead of slickness drips through the soaked lace.
“Well, hello there, pretty girl…” Gojo breathes, his voice thick with awe and a hunger so deep it cracks. “Look at you, all puffed up and weepin’ for me.”
A hot flush burns your face. “S-Stop talking to it like…” You trail off, dizzy, your own ears flattening slightly against your head in a mix of embarrassment and want.
“Like what?” He grins, all sharp canines and predatory delight. His own ears are perked forward, focused. “Like she’s the most important part of you? ‘Cause she is right now, kitty. She’s in charge and she’s honest.” He nuzzles the soaked fabric, his nose nudging your slit with maddening pressure through the lace. “See? She likes the attention. Don’t you, sweetheart? You wanna be fucked silly? Eaten out until you’re sore?”
“Please,” You can only whimper, wiggling your ass needily. The pre-heat fog is a heavy blanket, smothering reason.
“As you wish.”
Feral with lust, Gojo doesn’t use his hands. He sinks his teeth into the lace at your hip and rips. The fabric tears like tissue, a shocking sound that jolts through you, baring you completely to the cool air and his hotter gaze. A thin string of your arousal connects the torn lace to your glistening folds for a second before snapping.
“Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect,” Gojo croons behind you.
One finger, calloused and warm, traces the air just above your dripping slit, not touching, making you shiver and whine. “Fuck, such a nice fat cunt with a nice, tight hole…” He leans closer, his breath a hot brand on pussy lips. “Gonna be a biiig stretch, sweetheart, but don’t you worry. I’ll make it fit. I’ll open you up so sweet and slow, you’ll beg me for more.” His finger trails higer, circling your tender, untouched asshole. It flutters under his attention, a nervous pulse that makes him salivate. “And this shy little cutie. Never been kissed, has she? Gonna ruin that too. Gonna make my promise come true. Gonna make you feel me in places you didn’t know you had.”
“Then stop talking,” you whine, tortured by his breath on your cunt, pushing your hips back, spreading your thighs wider until the stretch burns and you feel exposed, vulnerable, offered like a finest prey. “And do something!” you sob.
“Please, please, please~”
Then his mouth is on you.
Gojo’s tongue is broad, rough and devastatingly perfect. He spears it inside your cunt, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts, lapping at the flood of your arousal with desperate, hungry, gulping sounds, like he’s trying to drink you whole. One big hand clutches the fat of your ass, right near your own trembling palm, kneading the flesh, fingers digging in possessively, while the other slides between his own legs. The wet, rhythmic shlick-shlick-shlick fills the room, a filthy metronome perfectly in time with the thrusts of his tongue.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunts against your slit, the words slurred and vibrating maddeningly against your sensitive flesh. “So fucking tight and sweet. Dripping so much. You’d drown a lesser male.” He nuzzles deeper, his nose pressed firmly against your swollen hole, when he suckles your clit and goes back to your opening.
“And this…” His stroking pace picks up, rhyming up to the pace of his licks, his breath hitching. “This is all for you. Every fat inch. Gonna stretch this pretty hole around my fingers first… get you ready for me… fuck, you taste fertile, baby. Like you were made just for me. Mgh~”
You scream, back arching, toes curling into the rug when he thrusts a thick finger into you, immediately finding the spot inside. He moans into you, the sensation doubling, tripling, the vibration traveling straight to your core. The rhythmic sound of his fist on his cock grows frantic.
“You like that, eh? You like how I fuck this greedy little hole?” Gojo rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His mouth and chin are gleaming with your slick when he licks a broad stripe from your dripping entrance all the way up to your clenched asshole.
“Yeaaash~” A salty sob that catches in your throat is the only thing you manage, drooling into the sheets, shed of all dignity.
Satoru grins in delight, working your tight pussy open as he shifts his attention to the puckered entrance of your ass. “Mmm, what about here? Do you feel left out? Jealous of your slutty sister getting all the attention?”
His tongue, wet and relentless, circles the sensitive ring. He flattens it, presses, and then spears the very tip inside – just a curious little dip that steals the breath from your lungs. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s a new, shocking brand of pleasure that makes you see stars.
“Satoru! There, please, please, I can’t–!”
“Shhh, I got you, I got you, pretty kitty,” he soothes, hungry and owning. He presses the flat of his tongue against your pussy again, drinking everything you give with an obscene slup-slup-slup, while the finger inside you curls just right and pumps relentlessly.
With a new interest, Gojo brings his thumb to your asshole, slicking it thoroughly with the mixed mess of his saliva and your copious wetness. You feel the blunt pad of his thumb against the tight entrance, applying steady pressure when he murmurs: “I’ll take good care of you… gonna be a good mate… gonna fill you with strong kits, watch your belly get round with me… gonna feed you ‘til every sharp edge softens, ‘til you’re nice and fat, milk rich and warm for our litter…”
The filthy promises, the dual assault, obliterate you. The pressure gives way, his thick finger sinking into your ass in a slow, burning, glorious invasion just as he crooks the one in your cunt perfectly and bites the swell of your asscheek.
Your world fractures into pure, white-hot sensation, and this release is something to remember. You come with a shattered, guttural cry, your vision whiting out. Your cunt convulses around his finger, gushing a fresh flood of release that he drinks down with starving gulps, groaning like a dying hybrid. Your ass clutches his invading thumb, a tight, hot, rhythmic pulse around the intrusion. In your ecstasy, you let go of your own asscheeks, to grip the sheets, and the soft weight of you settles back, trapping Satoru’s blissed-out face in the sweetest trap ever known to the hybridkind. He moans, reveling in the suffocating softness.
“That’s it, good girl, all mine, mine,” he grunts, his words vibrating against your oversensitive cunt, helping you to ride out your pleasure.
As your orgasm begins to subside, leaving you twitching and delirious, you go limp, melting into a sobbing mess on the mattress, utterly spent. Only then does Satoru pull his fingers from both of your holes with a simultaneous, lewd, wet sound that seems to echo in the scent-heavy air.
“Open your mouth, kitten,” he commands, his voice shattered. You obey, turning your head limply on the sheets. He brings his soaked fingers to your lips – fingers glistening with you, the scent musky and intimate. “Taste. Taste how good you are for me.”
You suck them clean, whining high in your throat at the overwhelming flavor of your own arousal, his saliva, your shared animal musk. Gojo watches, mesmerized, his other hand working around his weeping cock, stroking fast and rough.
““Gonna–gonna mark you now–”,” he pants. His hips stutter. The wild thing beneath the surface is breaking through, his breath coming in open-mouthed pants. His tail lashes wildly, hitting your thigh a couple of times, and he leans forward, his body looming over your prone form. The slick, weeping tip finds your quivering pussy cunt, coating himself in you, groaning at the sensation. “Fuck, look at that. She’s kissin’ me hello. Wants me in.”
“Satoru… wha–?” you mewl, confused, oversensitive, feeling the thick pressure at your forbidden entrance.
But Gojo doesn’t push inside That’s for sweet baby-making, after all. Instead, he shifts, the blunt head nudging past your sensitive folds, higher, pressing against the fluttering entrance of your asshole, still wet and loose from his finger. But he skips it, sparing his tired little mate, humping the cleft of your ass instead.
“Shhh, just… just need to claim,” he grunts, desperate, feral, his voice barely human. With a ragged roar that is pure animal, he ruts his fat, leaking tip against that impossibly tight ring once, twice, thrice–
“Fuck!”
Thick, hot ropes of cum erupt, painting your lower back, your trembling ass, your leaky pussy, the backs of your thighs. Gojo violently shudders through it, his forehead dropping to rest between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in hot gasps that fog your skin, his body collapsing heavily over yours.
“Fuck…”
The room reeks of sex, sweat, and wild animal, when he relaxes above your spent form. Then, a slick, obscene sound. He is licking his lips, then his fingers, cleaning every trace of you from himself.
“Such a tasty kitty,” he rasps, a dark, utterly satisfied laugh in his voice. Gojo leans over your spent form again, nuzzling into the mess on your back, licking a long, clean stripe through his own cooling semen, a stark contrast to the feral violence of before.
“When your heat hits,” he pants, “I’m gonna fill this perfect pussy ‘til it takes. Gonna keep you fed and safe and fucked so nice you’ll forget any other touch,”his teeth grazing your shoulder, leaving a bleeding trace. “Gonna be the best daddy to our litter… and you…” He kisses the scrape on your shoulder, lapping at it, “you’re gonna be the prettiest, roundest mama–”
The door explodes inward.
Gojo moves in a blur of primal fury, crouching fully above you in one fluid motion, like a shield placed between you and the intrusion. A low, continuous growl rumbles from his chest, shaking the floorboards. His ears are flattened against his skull, his tail puffed and lashing and his teeth are bared at the intruder.
Everything to protect his mate.
You hear a threatening growl from his chest and pathetically curl yourself under his broad body, staring at the opened door.
Nanami stands frozen in the doorway, his usually impassive face a mask of shock. His gaze is trapped, cycling from Gojo’s snarling stance, to your form on the bed, to the torn lace on the floor.
His silence is heart-shattering.
.