kittails oneshots

by pristinee

Summary:

> Purely self indulgent archive made for my niche rarepair

Thanks for 130 kudoses ~♪

> psst! k/t week 2025 is also in this work! starting from chap94—100

Chapter 1: headcanons

Summary:

Keep in mind I won’t be doing anything smut & smutty. Or incest, or any themes that is problematic. Keeping it sane and wholesome.

> I also don’t do angsty stuff. I rarely do it
> And i also wont be doing any heteroships, like sonurge or genderbend shit.

For chapter Summaries, its at the end.

Notes:

This thing may change frequently or not.

> KITSUNAMI <

> Full name is Kitsunami "Kit" Fennec ( Formerly Kitsunami Starline, Kitsunami "Kit" Prower in the future. )

> Intersexual male. Demiboy

>  He/They, heavy preference on He/Him.

> Unlabeled Sexuality, Not interested in women. ( Hinted to be Gay, but too careless to care.) 

> Ex-Hydropack user, was transferred from field work to desk job, quit after two months anyways. 

> He was in a relationship with Miles in his twenties. Later broke up with him due to "unsatisfied relationship, too much time but never enough intimacy to bond." 

> Later he got back with Miles since he was getting old to start fresh again. 

> Engaged at 35, married two years later. 

> Gardener thanks to Miss Rose. 

> He takes a big liking to "wild food"* (* Non processed food, like grasshoppers which he really likes along with snails.) 

> He is a clingy one. 

> He has glasses but he prefers contact lenses. 

> He was later "gifted" with two children which he adored. 

> He was a teacher for Hydropack Manuals, but later got too bored. "Students are dumb," he said. 

> He worked in cafeteria for a short time then quit because the workplace was too dirty. 

> He had two elderly cats. Both of them died when he was 26. Heartbreaking yes, but he got over it quickly, since he had them for only 3 months.

> He eloped, but later had a private wedding due to Miles wanting to. 

> He is not the breadwinner but the eater. 

> He is naturally born skinny and never really had the chance to eat more when he was a small child.

> He likes lemon soda

> His body feels out of place because of his wounds and stitches ( Made by Starline himself. )

> Cigarette Lover ( Influence from Surge.)

> Fake strict parent

> Born intersexual, but later had a hysterectomy. 

> Alcoholic

> Chronic migraine

> Despite being alcoholic and having migraines, he hates wine.

> Fuchsia eyes due to Ocular Albinism ( see here )

> idk how to say his regular young adult-late twenties clothes, but here is what i kind of imagine for him.

> Due to his Ocular Albinism, he has an collection of shades to protect his eyes from bright lights.

About Kitsunami

From the looks alone he could be classified as an fashionesta, from his shades to his bodysuit windows where tufts of fur peek through. Medical history fucked like his love life, he isn't fond of hospitals or anything related to. Later on, where his crush became his nurse and eventually roommate slash lover, he finally decided to "retire" and pursed botanical hobbies.

> MILES <

> Full name is Miles Prower. ( Formerly Miles "Tails" Prower or Tails the fox. )

> Intersexual Male

> In denial Demiboy,  He/Him.

> Openly Pansexual.

> Nothin' to say about him, he likes everything, not very picky at all.

> He is paranoid ( sometimes! )

> Generous Lover 

> Medic? He knows how to take care of Kitsunami, but Kit is a rare case after all. 

> He had two kids with Kitsunami. ( After marriage )

> Was against eloping, but did it anyways. 

> He was born curvy ( as in full figured )

> He is chubby— just a nicer word for fat. 

> Short Hair, that’s why his ponytail is small and spiky. 

> He has glasses but he only wears them when working.

> He hates waking up to lonely bed

> He also hates early mornings ( After age 11 )

> Born intersexual, later had both hysterectomy & vasectomy

 > He lwky a tumblr guy like, deep into 2010's tumblr.

> Heterochromia, one eye blue ( left ) other brown ( right )

About Miles 

 

FanKid Section

Andrea "Eden" Prower

> Nick names are: Edie i forgot the rest whoops

> She is a careless woman in general. 

> She was polygamous ( Later realizing she prefers one lover in romantic relationships. )

> One might say she is a nepo baby, and they would be right. 

> Her favorite parent is Kitsunami despite looking like Miles more than him. She just likes how he lets her do most of things Miles wouldn’t.

 

「 Chapters Divided by Fillers & Must Reads 」

Must Read Section [ Under ]

[ These are the chapters I personally like. Not Really needed to read, but reccomended if you want to understand what I really think of these two. Since I have been writing about Kittails for a while, some chapters might contrast each other.]

• Chapter 23
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 31
• Chapter 35
• Chapter 38
• Chapter 40
• Chapter
• Chapter
• Chapter

Chapter 2

Summary:

Did you ever had a so bad day that you couldn't even unhook your bra?

Well, certainly, Miles did. And its one of the days which Kit consider as cute.

Notes:

oofffff need

Miles had returned home after a long and exhausting day. Her body ached, her mind was fatigued, and all she desired was the sweet embrace of sleep. The moment she stepped into the bedroom, she knew she needed to change out of her work attire and into something more comfortable. Her eyes drooped with weariness as she looked at herself in the mirror.

 

The prospect of unhooking her bra seemed like an insurmountable challenge at the moment. Her fingers felt like lead weights, and even the simplest of tasks became Herculean feats. She stood there, swaying slightly as the exhaustion threatened to pull her into the abyss of slumber.

 

"Come on, Miles," she murmured to herself, her words slurred with fatigue. "You can do this."

 

Her hands moved slowly to the clasp of her bra. It was as if her fingers had lost their coordination, fumbling awkwardly with the tiny hooks that held the undergarment in place. Try as she might, she couldn't get a good grip on the hooks.

 

Miles let out a frustrated groan, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment. It was just a bra, for goodness' sake, something she had been taking off effortlessly since she was a teenager. Yet, in that moment, it felt like an impenetrable fortress.

 

Across the room, Kit, her ever-attentive girlfriend, noticed Miles' predicament. She had been relaxing on the bed, scrolling through her phone, but the sight of her beloved struggling with such a simple task was enough to rouse her from her digital reverie.

 

"Miles, are you okay?" Kit called out, concern evident in her voice.

 

Miles turned her head toward Kit, her eyes heavy-lidded, and a faint smile of resignation tugged at the corners of her lips. "I'm just tired, Kit. I can't seem to get this bra off."

 

Kit placed her phone aside, her love for Miles spurring her into action. She knew that it was a matter of exhaustion, not incompetence. With a gentle smile, she rose from the bed and approached her girlfriend.

 

"That's alright, love," Kit said soothingly. "Let me help you."

 

Kit stood behind Miles and began to work on the bra's clasp. Her fingers were nimble and deft, efficiently undoing the hooks that had proven to be such a challenge for Miles. Within moments, the undergarment was unfastened, and Kit carefully slid it off Miles' shoulders.

 

Miles let out a sigh of relief as the constriction of the bra was finally released. She turned to face Kit, gratitude shining in her eyes. "Thank you, Kit. I don't know why it was so difficult."

 

Kit wrapped her arms around Miles, pulling her into a warm embrace. "It happens to the best of us, especially after a long day. You don't have to do everything on your own, Miles. I'm here to help and take care of you."

 

Miles nestled her head against Kit's shoulder, finding comfort in her girlfriend's arms. "You're amazing, Kit. I don't know what I'd do without you."

 

Kit planted a soft kiss on Miles' temple. "You'll never have to find out." She said, a warm smile forming on her face. 

 

As the two woman foxes stood there, wrapped in each other's embrace, the weariness that had plagued Miles began to recede. The challenges of the day, both big and small, felt more manageable with Kit by her side. They were a team, ready to face whatever life threw their way. And in that moment, they found comfort and love in each other's arms, knowing that their bond could conquer any obstacle, even the stubborn hooks of a bra.

Chapter 3: Valentine's Day

Summary:

Kitsunami is down bad for Miles, and he thinks (thought) confessing in Valentine's Day is (was) a genius idea.

Notes:

It takes place when the two were still friends.

just fluff and awkard 20 year olds being miserable

As Valentine's Day approached, Miles found himself filled with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. He had known Kit for years, their friendship deepening with each passing day, but lately, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more between them – something he couldn't quite put into words.

 

As he went about his daily routine, Miles couldn't help but find himself thinking about Kit more and more. He thought about the way Kit's eyes sparkled when he laughed, the warmth of his smile, the gentle touch of his hand on Miles' arm. And with each passing day, Miles found himself growing more and more certain that he wanted to be more than just friends with Kit – he wanted to be something more. (Possibly husbands)

 

But as Valentine's Day drew nearer, Miles found himself grappling with a sense of uncertainty. What if Kit didn't feel the same way? What if Miles had misread the signals, and Kit only saw him as a friend? The thought alone made him shiver.

 

But despite his doubts, Miles couldn't shake the feeling that this Valentine's Day was going to be different – that something was going to change between him and Kit. And as he watched the days tick by on the calendar, his excitement grew, mingled with a (un)healthy dose of nervousness.

 

So when there was a knock on his door on Valentine's Day evening, Miles couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation rush through him. He opened the door to find Kit standing on the other side, a nervous smile playing on his lips.

 

"Kit? What are you doing here?" Miles asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

 

Kit's cheeks flushed pink as he held out a plate of mini cakes. "I, uh, I made these for you," he said, his voice soft with uncertainty. "For Valentine's Day. I know it's not much, but I wanted to do something special for you."

 

Miles felt his heart swell with emotion as he took the plate from Kit's outstretched hands. "Ah, Kit, I don't know what to say," he said, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. "Thank you so much."

 

He watched as Kit's eyes lit up with relief and happiness, his nerves visibly melting away as Miles took a bite of one of the mini cakes. They were delicious – better than anything Miles had ever tasted – and he couldn't help but feel a surge of warmth wash over him as he savored each bite.

 

As they sat together on the couch, talking and laughing as they enjoyed the mini cakes, Miles couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment settle over him. He felt comfortable and at ease with Kit, as if they were meant to be together.

 

And then, as they finished the last of the cakes, Miles felt a surge of courage welling up inside him. He turned to Kit, his heart pounding in his chest as he met his gaze.

 

"Kit," he began, his voice soft but determined. "There's something I need to tell you."

 

Kit looked at him, his eyes wide with curiosity. "What is it, Miles?"

 

And then, without another word, Miles leaned forward and pressed his lips to Kit's, his heart racing as he felt Kit respond eagerly to the kiss. It was soft and sweet, just like the mini cakes they had shared, and as they pulled away, Miles couldn't help but feel a sense of euphoria wash over him.

 

" I... I really like you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

Miles' eyes widened in surprise, his cheeks flushing pink. "I like you too," he said, his voice filled with warmth. "Happy Valentine's Day."

 

And with that, they leaned in for another kiss, their hearts soaring as they celebrated their newfound love. It was a Valentine's Day neither of them would ever forget, filled with laughter, romance, and a whole lot of mini cakes.

 

As they sat together on the couch, their fingers intertwined, Miles couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment settle over him. He had taken a chance, and it had paid off in the best possible way.

 

Meanwhile, Kit's heart fluttered with excitement as he savored the warmth of Miles' lips against his own. He had never imagined that his simple gesture of baking mini cakes would lead to such a beautiful moment between them.

 

As Miles' words sank in, Kit felt a surge of happiness wash over him. He had been harboring feelings for Miles for so long, afraid to confess them for fear of ruining their friendship. But now, with Miles' confession echoing in his ears, Kit felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

 

"Happy Valentine's Day," Kit whispered, his voice filled with emotion as he leaned in to kiss Miles once more. And as they melted into each other's arms, Kit couldn't help but feel as though this was just the beginning of something truly beautiful. 

 

For the first time in a long time, Kit felt truly happy. 

Notes:

last valentines day i did not wrote about these sillies. I wrote blazamy last year but since i no longer ship it its deleted.

So. I finally wrote this shit and im fucking happy cuz writing cuz i was writing about so many disasters atm that i began to feel bad for them. Problem solved rn.
also i need to confess that i postponed the toxic one for my exams. (And there was nothing to read abt my ships so i searched for new fandoms for stories to keep myself sane thats the otber reason)

idk if theres mistakes im currently walking to school w my friend shes stupid and were fucking late so sorry yall
edit: so the mini cakes arent really mini cakes. miles thought they were mini cakes and kitsunami was too nervous to remember the name. he forgot. theyre actually uh mini bundt cakes. sorry for not saying that my butt was sweating while writing this since my dumbass thought i could finish this in late ungodly hours

rip single kitsunami you were my favorite🙁

Chapter 4: 50 kudos special thingy

Summary:

Awake but not aware.

Late night shenanigans at the kitchen, at a ungodly hour too.

But they're warm.

Notes:

Alternative title
gay n depressed

If you still think i care about summaries you are wrong.

The two of them had been dragging through the week, the weight of unspoken worries hanging over them like a storm cloud. Kitsunami had barely slept, his usual fiery energy dulled by a lingering sadness that he couldn’t quite shake. Tails wasn’t much better—quiet, distracted, with dark circles under his eyes that spoke volumes about his own restless nights. Well–he always had dark circles under his eye, mostly because of staying up too late finish his projects, but this time, it wasn't the projects that he needed to stay awake for.

 

They hadn’t talked about it, whatever it was that was pulling them both down. Maybe they were too tired, too drained to bring it up. Instead, they fell into a routine of avoidance, dancing around the topic like it might explode if touched.

 

But that night, in the dim light of their shared apartment, something shifted. Kitsunami had just stepped into the kitchen, looking for something to eat, when Tails appeared behind him, silent as a shadow. Kitsunami didn’t jump, didn’t even turn around; he just sighed, leaning against the counter, the cool surface grounding him in a way nothing else could.

 

“Can’t sleep again?” Tails asked, his voice soft but laced with a weariness that mirrored Kitsunami’s own.

 

Kitsunami shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He felt Tails’ presence beside him, close but not touching, and for some reason, it made his chest ache.

 

They stood there for a moment, in silence, before Tails let out a low chuckle, the sound dry and humorless. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”

 

Kitsunami huffed a laugh, though it lacked any real amusement. “You could say that.”

 

Tails finally turned to face him, leaning back against the counter so they were eye to eye. The sight of him—so familiar, yet so tired—made something inside Kitsunami crack. He reached out, almost without thinking, and pulled Tails closer, his hands resting on his boyfriend’s hips.

 

Tails didn’t resist. He moved in willingly, his own hands finding their place on Kitsunami’s shoulders, fingers tracing small, comforting patterns through the fabric of his shirt. There was a question in his eyes, one that Kitsunami answered without words, leaning in to press their foreheads together.

 

“What are we doing?” Tails whispered, but there was no hesitation as he tilted his head, his lips brushing against Kitsunami’s in the softest of kisses.

 

Kitsunami responded immediately, deepening the kiss with a kind of desperation that he hadn’t realized was there until now. The kiss wasn’t frantic, wasn’t filled with the usual hunger that drove them, but it was intense—an unspoken promise, a need to feel something other than the weight of their own thoughts.

 

The world outside their small bubble faded away as Kitsunami lost himself in the sensation of Tails’ mouth on his, the taste of him grounding him in a way that nothing else could. The tension between them eased, just slightly, as they moved together in a rhythm they knew so well.

 

Kitsunami’s hands wandered, slipping under Tails’ shirt to feel the warmth of his skin, the familiar contours that he knew by heart. Tails moaned softly into the kiss, pressing closer, his fingers tangling in Kitsunami’s hair as he deepened the kiss even further.

 

They stumbled backward, not caring where they were heading, just needing to be closer, to feel more. Kitsunami’s back hit the wall with a soft thud, but he barely noticed, too focused on the way Tails was kissing him, like he was the only thing holding them both together.

 

There was a bittersweetness to it, a taste of something they couldn’t quite name, but neither of them pulled away. Instead, they let the kiss linger, their lips moving together with a slow, deliberate passion that spoke of everything they couldn’t say aloud.

 

Finally, they broke apart, both of them panting slightly, their foreheads still pressed together. Tails’ eyes were half-lidded, his lips swollen and red from the kiss, and for a moment, Kitsunami couldn’t think of anything other than how beautiful he looked.

 

“You’re a terrible kisser,” Kitsunami joked weakly, his voice hoarse and breathless.

 

Tails smiled, a small, tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re just saying that because you can’t handle how good I am.”

 

“Shut up,” Kitsunami murmured, pulling him into another kiss, softer this time, but no less filled with emotion.

 

They stayed like that for a while, kissing slowly, almost lazily, as if trying to forget the world around them. The hallway was quiet, save for their quiet breaths and the soft sounds of their lips meeting, but it felt like the most important place in the world at that moment.

 

When they finally pulled away, Kitsunami felt a little lighter, a little more grounded. He could see the same feeling reflected in Tails’ eyes—a shared understanding that, despite everything, they still had each other.

 

“Come to bed,” Kitsunami whispered, his voice barely audible, but Tails heard him loud and clear.

 

Tails nodded, not needing to be asked twice. He took Kitsunami’s hand, squeezing it gently as he rested his head on his boyfriend's shoulder. They stood there for a while, just holding each other, neither one wanting to break the moment. They knew the “reality” would return, knew that the world would continue to weigh on them, but for now, they had this. They had each other.

 

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

 

 

Notes:

i like this one better. My most used words are just unspoken, kiss, peace, reflected. Its fucking 4am Im going crazy.

love making surge a menace. the girlboss. ı dont see kit as a alcoholic hes just having a life episode. maybe he will drown himself. or idk work it out. no idea
i have a hate-love relationship with Mitski songs. especially me and my husband.
ı was today years old when ı learned you can open spotify in web.

Chapter 5: Su focus

Summary:

The moment every mother and father dislikes and hates.

Your kiddos most cherished, loved toy getting shattered into pieces.

Notes:

i love su. hope nothing happens to him.

theres bonus in the end notes.

This oneshot is more focused on Su.
(The end notes also has a rosemary simp moment sowwy :( )

The afternoon was going smoothly until Su's cries echoed through the room, Tails and Kitsunami exchanged a worried glance. They had grown accustomed to the sound of their son's playful laughter, but the sound of his tears was enough to send a pang of concern.

 

Quickly, Tails pushed himself up from the bed and moved to comfort Su, his fatherly instincts kicking in as he rushed to his son's side. Kitsunami followed closely behind, his expression filled with concern as he watched Tails try to soothe their upset son.

 

"What's wrong, Su?" Tails asked gently, his voice laced with worry as he knelt beside his son. "Did something happen to your toy, sweetie?"

 

Su sniffled and nodded, his tiny fists clutching at the torn remains of his favorite toy. It was a plush Chu Chu, one of Su's most cherished possessions, and seeing it torn apart had left him heartbroken. 

 

"I-I was playing," Su began, his voice trembling with emotion as he recounted the events that had led to his toy's demise. "And then, it killed my Chu Chu. I-I tried to save him, but!-” 

 

Tails's heart went out to his son, his own eyes filling with tears at the sight of Su's distress. He reached out to gather Su into his arms, holding him close and whispering words of comfort and reassurance. That's what little children love, isn't it? 

 

"It's okay, Su," Tails murmured soothingly, pressing a kiss to Su's forehead. "It was just a game, remember? Your Chu Chu will be okay."

 

But Su continued to cry, his tears soaking into Tails's fur as he clung to his father's embrace. It was clear that the loss of his toy had affected him deeply, and Tails knew that it would take more than just comforting words to ease his son's pain.

 

Turning to Kitsunami for support, Tails gave his husband a pleading look, silently asking for his help in comforting Su. Even though his fatherly instincts were skilled, he still needed help from his mate. Kitsunami is Su's father too. Kitsunami nodded in understanding, his expression softening as he moved to kneel beside his husband and his son.

 

"Hey there, little buddy," Kitsunami said gently, reaching out to brush a tear away from Su's cheek. "I know it hurts to lose your toy, but remember, it's just a game. Your Chu Chu is just fine, I promise."

 

Su sniffled and looked up at Kitsunami with watery eyes, his bottom lip trembling as he tried to regain his composure. He knew that his fathers were right, that his toy was just a toy and could be replaced, but the pain of losing something he loved was still fresh in his heart. He was an imaginary child at heart, after all.

 

"I-I know," Su said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "B-but I miss him."

 

Tails and Kitsunami exchanged a sympathetic glance, their hearts breaking for their son's pain. They knew that there was nothing they could do to bring Su's toy back, but they were determined to do everything in their power to help him feel better.

 

"Tell you what, Su," Tails said gently, his voice filled with warmth and reassurance. "Why don't we go to the toy store tomorrow and pick out a new toy together? We can find a new Chu Chu."

 

Su's eyes lit up at the suggestion, a tentative smile forming on his lips as he looked up at his fathers with hope in his eyes. "R-really?" he asked, his voice tinged with excitement.

 

"Really," Tails confirmed with a nod, returning Su's smile with one of his own. "We'll find the perfect toy for you, we promise."

 

And with that, Su's tears began to dry, replaced by a sense of anticipation to find a friend for his Chu Chu. Tails smiled down at Su, his heart warming at the sight of his son's sniffles subsiding. He knew just how to cheer Su up—by promising him a trip to the toy shop to find a new, beloved Chu Chu. 

 

"Hey there, little guy," Tails cooed, his voice soft and reassuring as he gently lifted Su into his arms. "How about we sleep now?"

 

Su's eyes lit up at the mention of sleeping, his favorite time of the day that he loved since, well, he was born. He let out a happy squeal and nodded eagerly, his small hands reaching out to grasp Tails's fur.

 

"Chu Chu!" Su exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement. "New friend!" Looks like the little fennec was still on the part where they promised to buy him another toy. Tails smiled.

 

Tails chuckled at Su's enthusiasm, his heart swelling with love for his son. "That's right, buddy," he said with a fond smile. "We'll find Chu Chu a new friend, just for him."

 

With Su happily settled in his arms, Tails made his way to Su's bedroom, the soft glow of the nightlight casting a warm glow over the room. He gently lowered Su into his crib, tucking the blankets around him snugly as Su's eyelids began to droop with drowsiness.

 

"Sweet dreams, little one," Tails whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to Su's forehead. "I love you."

 

Su let out a contented sigh, his eyes fluttering closed as he snuggled into his blankets. Tails watched over him for a moment longer, his heart overflowing with love for his precious son.

 

As he made his way out of Su's room, Tails couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over him. Despite the challenges of parenthood, they were both quite confident they would make it work. 

 

Despite everything, they'll love their little basil, their little sunshine, their little pup.

. 

 

Notes:

i would fuck rosemary if i had the chance basically

Chapter 6

Summary:

Cuddling with a fox-cat. (In simpler terms, cuddling with a sore loser.)

Notes:

Replaced!
Fluff
Cuddling thats all

 

As Tails and Kitsunami enjoyed their lazy evening wrapped up in blankets, a romantic atmosphere filled the air. Tails' gentle touch on Kitsunami's fur sent shivers of pleasure down his spine, and Kitsunami could feel the warmth of Tails' pads on his back as he clutched him like a koala.

 

Their quiet moment was interrupted by Tails letting out the biggest foxy yawn, causing his fangs to be seen. His dirty, dull fangs... Kitsunami couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, finding Tails' cat-like laziness and unbothered demeanor endearing. It was endearing. It was like having a fiance thats fox sized but actually have a heart of a cat. 

 

"You're like a sleepy fox-cat," Kitsunami teased affectionately, running a hand through Tails' fur and ruffling it playfully.

 

Tails grinned sleepily, his eyes half-lidded as he snuggled closer to Kitsunami. "Meow," he murmured teasingly, nuzzling Kitsunami's neck.

 

Kitsunami laughed softly, the sound a melodic melody in the quiet room. "You're lucky you're cute," he replied with a fond smile, pressing a gentle kiss to Tails' forehead.

 

They stayed like that for a while longer, enjoying the closeness and intimacy of their lazy evening together. The world outside seemed to fade away as they focused on each other, their love and affection filling the room with warmth and joy.

 

As the evening wore on, they eventually drifted of too sleep, arms and legs intertwined, furs sweaty n hearts full of love. 

Chapter 7

Summary:

Life analysis

Notes:

Cw
nothing you cant handle :3
last post till june 14

Tails leaned against the wooden railing of their cabin's porch, taking a long drag from his cigarette. The bitter taste mingled with the cold air, creating a stark contrast to the warmth of the cabin's interior. He exhaled slowly, watching as the smoke curled and dissipated into the night sky.

 

The weather was colder than he had anticipated, a sharp chill that made him regret his decision to step outside. But the solitude and quiet of the night called to him, offering a brief respite from the chaos of their daily lives. He glanced up at the starry sky, the moon casting a soft glow over the snow-covered landscape. It was quiet and peaceful, a stark contrast to the bustling city life they had left behind. Tails enjoyed these moments of solitude, where he could simply be himself without any distractions. Mostly because he found himself overwhelmed with everything.

He even made a list for it;

1.  Mechs, 
2. Tornado needing to have fixes,
3.  Freedom Fighter businesses, 
4. Sonic's annoying yearnings for chili dogs,
5. Kitsunami not letting him smoke freely (2-4 times a day),
6. Kitsunami not talking to me,
7. Surge making trash talk,
8. When Miss Jewel asks questions that corner me,
9. Whisper looking at my fiance (menacingly),
10. Kitsunami doing the Res. works late,
11. When they call me for emergency

 

(Miss Jewel said it will help him to understand himself and his relationships better. It didn't. )

 

As he took another drag, Tails couldn't help but feel guilt for sneaking out without Kitsunami's knowledge. He knew his fiancé worried about him, especially when he indulged in his occasional vice of smoking. But tonight, he needed this moment of solitude, this chance to gather his thoughts and reflect.

 

He glanced down at his attire—a mismatched ensemble of a cardigan, sleeveless summer pajamas, and a pair of shorts pilfered from Kitsunami's side of the wardrobe. It was a strange combination, one that made him feel a bit like an old man trying to cling to his youth. Maybe that was right.

 

With a sigh, Tails stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette against the railing, the ember fizzling out in the darkness. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to ward off the chill that seeped into his bones.

 

"I should've grabbed a jacket," he muttered to himself, a wry smile playing on his lips.

 

Just then, the cabin door creaked open behind him, and Kitsunami stepped out onto the porch, a concerned look on his face. "Tails? What are you doing out here? It's freezing."

 

Tails turned to face him, his guilt momentarily forgotten as he took in Kitsunami's worried expression. "I just needed some fresh air," he replied sheepishly, knowing it wasn't a sufficient explanation.

 

Kitsunami crossed the porch in quick strides, wrapping his arms around Tails and pulling him close. "You know you can talk to me, right?" he murmured, his breath warm against Tails' ear.

 

Tails nodded, feeling a wave of gratitude and love wash over him. "I know, and I'm sorry for worrying you," he admitted, resting his head against Kitsunami's shoulder.

 

Kitsunami held him tightly, his embrace a silent reassurance of… love? Perchance.

"Let's go back inside where it's warm," he suggested, guiding Tails towards the open door.

 

As they stepped back into the cozy warmth of their cabin, Tails couldn't help but feel grateful for Kitsunami's understanding and love. He knew he was lucky to have such a caring partner, someone who always had his back, even when he made impulsive decisions like sneaking outside in inappropriate attire. Couldn't even think of a better partner than Kitsunami, after all these years, his opinion hadn't changed. And won't change.

 

Together, they settled back into the comfort of their motel, the warmth of the fire and the love between them chasing away the cold of the night. And they curled up together on the couch. It was going to cost them back aches but neither of them were too drowsy to care about it.

 

Notes:

Perchance:o

edit: whisper doesnt looks at kit menacingly she never does. tails just doesnt likes whisper just looking at him and kit in public. jewel is going to be a therapist till i die. Feel free to correct me. Just wanted to use perchance :p
i dont have any writers block i already made writing kittails in every concept as my focus. helps me to improve my english
theres no tops or bottoms in their relationship they just feel the urge and fight for it. Just to make sure Su doesnt entirely hate kit. He is just badly influenced by his future husband.

Chapter 8

Summary:

Pre-Life Analysis shenanigans

Notes:

After the long line, it is them before cabin

 

Tails and Kitsunami sat at their small dining table, the soft glow of the kitchen light casting a warm ambiance over the room. Plates of half-finished dinner sat between them, evidence of a meal shared together once again.

 

"I'm telling you, hun, we should rearrange the living room," Tails said, his voice animated as he leaned forward, gesturing with his fork. "It would open up the space so much more."

 

Kitsunami looked up from his plate, his expression thoughtful. He took a sip of water before responding, his voice calm. "I don't know, dear. I kind of like it the way it is. It feels cozy this way."

 

Tails nodded, considering Kitsunami's point of view. "Yeah, I get that. But think about it, we could move the couch over there and maybe put the bookshelf by the window."

 

Kitsunami smiled gently, his eyes meeting Tails'. "Maybe we can try it out this weekend, see how it feels," he suggested, his tone soft yet firm.

 

Tails grinned, pleased that Kitsunami was open to the idea. "Sounds like a plan," he agreed, his voice lightening. "I'll start moving things around on Saturday morning."

 

They returned to their meal, the atmosphere comfortable and easy. Tails and Kitsunami had been married for a few (four) years now, and they had settled into a rhythm that suited them both. It took time to find their rhythm, but eventually Kitsunami softened enough for them rhyme with each other perfectly. They cherished their quiet moments together, whether it was over dinner or curled up on the couch reading. Or messing around with Mimi.

 

Later that evening, Tails found Kitsunami in his workshop, his brows furrowed in concentration as he worked on a project for his job, a desperate attempt to blend with the society, at the local bookstore. Tails leaned against the doorframe, watching silently for a moment before clearing his throat.

 

"Hey, Kit," Tails began, his voice soft. "I was thinking, maybe we could plan a weekend getaway next month. Just the two of us, somewhere quiet."

 

Kitsunami looked up, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "That sounds nice," he replied warmly. He loved this idea already."Do you have a place in mind?"

 

Tails stepped into the room, joining Kitsunami at the desk. "I was thinking maybe a cabin in the mountains," he suggested, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "Somewhere we can just relax and enjoy ourselves without someone interrupting us.”

 

Kitsunami nodded. "I like that idea," he admitted, his voice softening. "It would be nice to get away for a bit."

 

They spent the next hour discussing possible locations, flipping through travel websites and imagining themselves in different settings. Tails loved how Kitsunami's face lit up when they settled on a cozy cabin by a serene lake, surrounded by trees and bushes. It looked intimate, it was intimate. It would be just them. 

 

---

 

One evening, as they sat on their porch swing, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of pink and orange, Tails spoke up again.

 

"You know, Kitsunami, I'm really glad we decided to do this," Tails said softly, his hand finding Kitsunami's and giving it a gentle squeeze.

 

Kitsunami turned to him, his smile soft and genuine. "Me too," he replied, his voice carrying the weight of their shared happiness. "You make everything better, Tails."

 

Tails leaned in, pressing a kiss to Kitsunami's cheek. "You make everything better too," he whispered, his words filled with love. He wasn't good at flirting at all, but he knew very well Kitsunami understood what he was trying to tell.

 

They sat together in comfortable silence, the sounds of their neighborhood fading into the background as they enjoyed the peace of the moment.

 

Notes:

this is my last year in high school. Which means exam year. And its either a good university abroad or a high school drop out. Also i burned my three fingers with hot silicone & I grated a lil piece of my thumb (which hurts rn because its healing) anndd i injured back of my feet. Also (2) i have strict courses which made me overwhelmed n stressed. These were the reasons why i disappeared. But my silly cat purred and slept with me in my bed so i was motivated. He says mreow for yall 🥹

About this book:
One chapter is deleted
Chapter one is for my headcanons. Feel free to check it out or just ignore it. Its there for me to not forget.

About kittails:
No news. As expected they didn't interacted in the issue so im still looking forward for issue 70-73

Chapter 9: scraps

Summary:

scraps that I really like but just didnt worked out.

part time gardener kitsunami

Garden jobs were not exactly his idea of a fun time. Sure, the flowers looked pretty when they bloomed, and the neatly trimmed hedges added a touch of elegance to the surroundings. But the monotony of weeding, watering, and pruning had long lost its charm for Kitsunami. He yearned for something more exciting. That was the purpose of his... let's keep it simple and say reborn. 

As he idly watched a butterfly flit from flower to flower, Kitsunami let out a sigh of boredom. His fuchsia eyes scanned the garden, taking in the familiar sights that had become all too mundane. The colorful array of blooms, the neatly arranged pots, the perfectly manicured lawn – it was all so… predictable.

---

baby su

Su, the adorable newborn, was just 20 weeks old and already showing his silly and endearing personality. He fell for the most basic baby tricks, much to the amusement of his parents, Kitsunami and Tails. Typical baby behavior, they say.

 

One evening, as Kitsunami playfully hid under a blanket, Su's eyes widened with surprise and confusion. He looked around, searching for his father, and when he couldn't see him, he let out a tiny cry of distress.

 

Tails, watching the scene unfold, couldn't help but chuckle at Su's reaction. Babies were adorable for him. Especially his baby. "Oh, Su, don't worry. Daddy's right here," Tails reassured him, lifting the blanket to reveal Kitsunami's smiling face.

 

Su's expression shifted from confusion to relief as he saw his father emerge from under the blanket. He let out a happy coo, reaching out towards Kitsunami with his tiny hands.

 

Kitsunami scooped Su into his arms, showering him with kisses and cuddles. "You silly little cub, falling for Daddy's tricks already," Kitsunami teased, nuzzling Su's cheek affectionately.

---

kitsunami's sleeping habits (boyfriends)

Tails lay in bed, trying to find a comfortable position for sleep, but Kitsunami's hand resting on his chest was becoming increasingly bothersome. "Take your hand off," Tails muttered, his voice tinged with annoyance.

 

Kitsunami, half-asleep and feeling warm and cozy beside Tails, mumbled in protest. "No," he replied stubbornly, his hand staying put despite Tails' request.

 

Tails let out an exasperated sigh, his irritation growing. "Kitsunami, I said take your hand off," he repeated, his tone firmer this time.

 

Kitsunami stirred, his sleepiness giving way to annoyance at Tails' insistence. "I'm comfortable like this," he murmured, his voice laced with sleep-induced stubbornness.

 

Tails rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thin. "But I'm not," he retorted, trying to push Kitsunami's hand away gently. Not that it really bothered him, he just wanted to be petty.

 

Kitsunami grumbled, his grip on Tails' chest tightening slightly. "Just let me sleep," he muttered, his tone becoming more frustrated as he spoke.

---

sore loser

Tails, “the sore loser”, sat on the couch with a pout, nursing his sore muscles. He had lost a friendly competition with Kitsunami, who was too engrossed in teasing and he couldn't help but feel a bit defeated.

 

Kitsunami, on the other hand, lounged beside Tails with a smirk, enjoying Tails' adorable sulking. He loved teasing his husband, finding joy in their playful banter. 

 

"Aw, my poor loser," Kitsunami teased, reaching over to ruffle Tails' fur gently.

 

Tails swatted Kitsunami's hand away playfully, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "Stop teasing me," he muttered, but there was no real heat in his words.

 

Kitsunami chuckled, leaning in to press a kiss to Tails' cheek. "You know I love you, sore loser and all," he teased affectionately.

 

Chapter 10

Summary:

Catnip...catnip...

Notes:

annoyed cat tries to get catnip from her high gay dads.

Filler post

Kitsunami, lying on the floor in a drunken stupor, managed to slur out a few words as he reached out clumsily towards their cat. “‘M' little baby... come here Mimi, your father will—” he hiccuped, “—give you catnip.”

 

The cat, still pacing around in annoyance, paused and looked at him with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. Clearly, she was unimpressed by the half-hearted promise.

 

Tails, barely conscious on the couch, mumbled sleepily, “Just give her the catnip already...”

 

Kitsunami attempted to sit up but ended up just rolling onto his side with another hiccup. “Yeah... catnip,” he managed to say, his words fading as he closed his eyes.

 

The cat, now realizing that her wait might be prolonged, gave a final discontented meow before settling nearby. It seemed she would have to wait until the next morning for her much-needed treat, while her tipsy owners lay sprawled in their drunken stupor. Meow, Meow meowww. (stupid owners.)

Notes:

Boo gay kittails kissing boo

If you make gay ships turn into straight ships you are my opp

The car isnt specified. Idk if its the first Mimi or second Mimi.

Author Note's
I was watching L&O:SVU but Miss Novak left the series. Fuck this. I hate the new judge. She sucks.
(spoiler, that judge left and two more judges were in the show, but I hate them too.)

Chapter 11

Summary:

The day Mimi realized this fur baby her parents made wasn't full of joy, except filled with chaos.

The house was usually a peaceful domain, ruled by their senior cat, Mimi, who was the queen of causing minor disruptions—a paw swatting at dangling objects, a sudden leap onto the highest shelf just to knock something off. She had her rhythm, her way of asserting dominance, and it was understood that chaos was her territory.

 

But today, Mimi was bewildered. She perched on the edge of the couch, her green eyes narrowed in confusion as she watched the whirlwind that was Su, her parents 2-year-old baby cub. He was a tornado of energy, babbling nonsense as he crawled under the table, yanked on the tablecloth, and sent a cascade of toys tumbling across the floor. His tiny paws patted at everything within reach, and his curiosity knew no bounds. 

 

Mimi twitched her tail, her usual confidence shaken. This was her job—to create mayhem with a casual flick of her paw. But this tiny, loud creature had taken over, and she found herself almost... redundant.

 

Su’s latest target was a stack of books that Tails had carefully arranged on the coffee table. With a determined giggle, Su began to push them one by one off the edge, watching them thud onto the carpet with glee. Tails, trying to juggle making dinner and keeping an eye on Su, barely managed to save the last book before it met the same fate.

 

“Su, no, those are Daddy’s books,” Tails said, his tone more tired than stern. He swooped down, catching the cub before he could pull down the next thing—probably the lamp, if his trajectory was any indication.

 

Meanwhile, Mimi gave an indignant huff, jumping down to investigate the books now scattered on the floor. This wasn’t how chaos was supposed to be. It was supposed to be strategic, a quiet kind of disorder that left everyone wondering how it happened, not this... this noisy explosion of energy.

 

Kitsunami entered the room, his apron still on from earlier, and raised an eyebrow at the sight. “I leave you two alone for five minutes, and it’s like a bomb went off.”

 

Tails, holding Su in his arms, just shook his head, a weary smile on his face. “He’s a handful today. Even Mimi doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

 

Mimi meowed in agreement, or at least, that’s what Tails imagined. The cat slinked over to Kitsunami, rubbing against his leg in a rare show of needing reassurance. Kitsunami bent down to scratch behind her ears, glancing at the books and toys scattered around.

 

“Looks like Su’s giving you a run for your money, Luna,” he chuckled, scooping Su up from Tails’ arms and swinging him gently in the air. Su squealed in delight, reaching out for his father’s face with grabby little hands.

 

Mimi watched with a resigned expression, hopping up onto her favorite chair to observe from a safe distance. For once, she wasn’t the agent of chaos, and she wasn’t sure if she liked that.

 

Kitsunami cuddled Su close, ruffling his soft fur. “You’re a little troublemaker, aren’t you?”

 

Su just babbled happily, completely unaware of the havoc he’d caused or the uneasy truce he’d established with Mimi. Tails came over, resting his head on Kitsunami’s shoulder, looking at their son with both exasperation and adoration.

 

“It’s like we have two chaotic forces in the house now,” Tails said, chuckling softly. “Except one of them is much louder and way more energetic.”

 

Kitsunami nodded, giving Su a playful kiss on the cheek, which only made him giggle louder. “We might need to up our game, Mimi,” he called over to the cat, who merely flicked her tail in response, unimpressed.

 

As they all settled into the chaotic rhythm of their evening, Mimi finally relaxed, realizing that maybe there was room for more than one agent of chaos in the household. Besides, she still had the upper hand in knocking things off high shelves—something the little cub couldn’t yet reach. 

 

For now, at least.

 

Notes:

They banned roblox. My niece is crying. She is mad.

Author Note's
Thinking about preordering sonic idw vol 17. Its hella expensive. Also ive been seeing lps'es too much. Theyre everywhere and so expensive too. They fucking. Increased the. tax. No more figures. It was fun to see them in my shelves. Since its 01.31 here there might be mistakes.

Kittails discussion
I love Su. Saw the preview and Kitsunami was so goofy. Like dude you are not from a certain black mouse's gang. Since theyre forced to be with sweepsies kittails will interact.

I pre orderer issue 73 because the cover has kitsunami n tails on it. It was cheap. No regrets.

Chapter 12

Summary:

Whats a oneshot book without a boring ass oneshot

Notes:

I love making crack fics. Fills the gap.

Tails shifted uncomfortably, his irritation still simmering beneath the surface. He glanced at Kitsunami, who was now on the verge of dozing off, clearly unbothered by the whole situation. Tails couldn't help but feel a pang of frustration at how easily Kitsunami seemed to brush off his feelings.

 

With a huff, Tails muttered under his breath, "One day I’ll die, and you’re going to feel bad about this specific day."

 

Kitsunami, eyes still closed and half-asleep, responded without missing a beat, "No, I won’t."

 

Tails turned his head to look at him, caught off guard by the bluntness of the reply. Kitsunami was so calm, so sure, that it left Tails momentarily speechless. "Because when you'll die, I'll kill you with my bare paws because of you complaining like a karen." He added, his voice sounding like a old man suffocating on tbe pillow. 

"You’re impossible," Tails finally muttered, his earlier frustration slowly being replaced by a reluctant acceptance.

 

Kitsunami just let out a small, sleepy chuckle, pulling Tails closer into his embrace. "Go to sleep, Tails," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against Tails’ ear. "We’ll argue about it tomorrow if you still feel like it."

 

Tails wanted to stay mad, to hold onto his annoyance a little longer, but Kitsunami’s warmth and steady presence made it difficult. He sighed, resigned to the fact that his husband wasn’t going to budge, and maybe… just maybe, that was okay.

 

"Fine," Tails grumbled, finally closing his eyes. "But I’m still not happy with you."

 

"Noted," Kitsunami mumbled, already drifting back to sleep. "We’ll deal with it later."

 

Tails knew they would. It was just how they were. And despite everything, he found a small comfort in the predictability of it all, even if Kitsunami did drive him up the wall sometimes.

Notes:

Why s12 svu isnt on netfkix 😞😞

Author notes
Did you know that these fics are originally written in turkish and then translated to english because author is a sadistic at heart?

Chapter 13

Summary:

clumsy honey

Kitsunami's perpetual confusion was a well-known trait among those close to him, and if it were possible, he’d have a constant question mark hovering above his head. His fennec ears twitched in perplexity at the most mundane situations, making him look endearingly clueless even when he was fully aware.

 

Tails often found this aspect of his husband both frustrating and charming. Whether it was a simple household task or a complicated problem, Kitsunami’s confusion seemed almost like a defining feature of his character. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he did—but his unique way of approaching life always left him with an air of bewilderment.

 

One morning, as they prepared breakfast together, Kitsunami was trying to figure out how to operate the coffee maker. His face was scrunched up in concentration, and he muttered to himself, trying to make sense of the machine’s controls.

 

Tails, watching from the kitchen counter with a bemused smile, couldn’t help but tease him. “If there were such a thing as a visible question mark, it’d be permanently attached to your head,” he said, amusement clear in his voice.

 

Kitsunami glanced over, his ears twitching in response. “Very funny,” he said, though his tone was more playful than annoyed. “I’m just trying to figure out how this thing works. It’s not exactly intuitive.”

 

Tails chuckled, stepping over to help. “I’ve shown you how to use it like a million times. It’s not that complicated.”

 

Kitsunami’s face flushed slightly as he scratched the back of his head. “Well, I guess I’m just a little slow with these things.”

 

Miles demonstrated the coffee maker’s operation once more, Kitsunami watched intently, his eyes wide with exaggerated seriousness. “I swear, if it weren’t for you, I’d probably still be trying to figure out how to turn on the stove.”

 

Tails rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile. “You’re lucky I’m here to help you out,” he said, giving Kitsunami a gentle nudge.

 

Kitsunami grinned, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Tails’ cheek. “And I’m lucky to have you,” he replied, his eyes shining with genuine affection. Even though he hated to show Kitsunami how to make a coffe every morning, he'll admit, he secretly liked it. He liked everything about Kitsunami. From his fuchsia eyes to his pointed nose, his soft paws, his reassuring voice... 

 

He could go about this all day; without getting tired, but unfortunately he has chores and a husband to look after. Or else, who would teach Kitsunami how to do laundry? 

Notes:

What a simp...
Finally found the other artist that drew my favorite kittails fanart! Such a shame theyre sontails shipper

officially im a kittails museum i have all the panels n the fanarts and some fics. if you ever did ine of them their work is proabkyl rhere too.

Chapter 14: To love is To eat!

Summary:

True love is delicate, delicate like a vase and beautiful like flowers blooming under the bright sun.

This flower needs rain to bloom.

Notes:

Woke the fuck up and decided to write fics with prompts. (Kidding its the words from a homework essay lmao)

Prompts were flower, blood, love and i forgot sorry
Warnings are
Consensual cannibalism
I wouldnt consider it really that graphic, but you might get disgusted by it and its okay. Just skip. Cuz this a filler.

Kit's hunger had no limits—no beginning, no end. He devoured Miles with a ravenous need, tearing into his lover's body with a savage intensity, teeth sinking into soft flesh as though it was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.

 

The first bite was always the most tender, the soft resistance of Miles’ skin giving way under his fangs, tearing open like ripe fruit. Blood, warm and metallic, spilled over Kit’s lips, coating his face, dripping down his chin, pooling onto his paws. His claws, still embedded in Miles’ trembling sides, pressed deeper, marking the delicate organs beneath, feeling the pulse of life throb beneath his touch.

 

Kit chewed slowly, savoring the taste, each piece of flesh rich and soft against his tongue. It was intimate, sickeningly so, as though each bite brought him closer to Miles’ very essence. He could feel the texture of his lover's insides, the sinews and muscle tearing apart between his teeth. Blood painted every inch of his maw, his teeth gnawing through skin, fat, and muscle, until nothing was left untouched by his hunger.

 

Miles’ body writhed beneath him, half in pleasure, half in pain, begging for more.His voice trembled, half-gone, as though every breath he took was a struggle, but still, he urged Kit on. "Faster," he whimpered, even as his body trembled under Kit's ruthless gnawing.

 

Kit's paws were soaked in blood, sticky and slick, claws digging into Miles' flesh to hold him steady as he continued to devour. His lover’s body was trembling violently now, the warmth of his blood coating Kit's fur, pooling beneath them like a grotesque, crimson bloom. Every chew was a mark on Miles’ body, every tear was an agonizing declaration of his love.

 

He could feel the organs now. They shifted beneath his teeth as he bit deeper, chewing through layers of muscle and sinew to reach them. The liver was soft, delicate, as he tore through it, the taste metallic and slick, the blood spraying in bursts with every bite. Kit’s paw pads slipped in the mess of it all, the slick warmth of Miles’ body turning his grip unsteady, but his teeth remained relentless, gnashing through organs and bone alike.

 

Miles' heartbeat fluttered beneath Kit's tongue. It was faint now, weak, but still pulsing, still alive. Kit's fuchsia eyes darkened as he leaned in for more, sinking his teeth deeper into the quivering mass of his lover’s insides, ripping apart delicate tissue as though it was nothing.

Blood surged. The wet, sickening sound of chewing filled the room, the harsh tear of flesh and the breaking of bones. Kit gnawed through everything, each bite more intense than the last. His hunger knew no bounds, his body slick with the evidence of his destruction, and yet he wanted more. Needed more. His paws, soaked in blood, gripped tighter, claws tearing into skin, shredding it beneath his fingers as though Miles was nothing more than a feast for his endless hunger.

 

And through it all, Miles smiled. His body, broken and torn, bloodied and ravaged, was still alive, still there, still moaning for Kit to take more, to chew faster, to devour him completely.

 

To love was to eat, and Kit would devour his lover until there was nothing left.

Notes:

author enjoys cannibalism content.

Chapter 15

Summary:

Words get around real fast.

Try to ignore it.

If you can, of course.

Notes:

Content warning
nothing.
One prompt off the list.

Kit never expected his life to take such a drastic turn when he started dating Miles Prower. He had been just a quiet, unassuming guy, focused on work and trying to blend into the background. But dating the Miles Prower, a genius engineer known across Mobius, meant all that changed. People noticed him now. People stared.

 

This morning had started like any other. Miles had kissed him softly before they parted ways, and Kit had felt that familiar sense of contentment. But the moment he stepped into work, he could feel it—the shift in the air. The whispers. The stares.

 

As he walked to his workstation, the murmurs around him grew louder, people looking at him like he was some kind of spectacle. Kit’s heart began to pound. What was going on?

 

Sitting down at his desk, Kit tried to ignore the strange tension, but it was impossible. Everywhere he looked, people were watching him. His chest tightened, anxiety creeping in. He was not built for this kind of attention.

 

The answer came soon enough when one of his coworkers, an older guy whose name Kit couldn’t bother to remember, sidled up with a smug grin. 

 

"So," the fox said, crossing his arms, "didn’t know you had it in you, Kitsunami. Dating a celebrity? And Miles Prower of all people."

 

Kit’s heart sank. His face flushed with embarrassment as he realized the source of the whispers. How had they found out?

 

"Don’t play dumb," the fox continued, his grin widening. "Word gets around, you know? The genius inventor and... you. Who would’ve thought?"

 

Kit’s fists clenched under the desk. He wasn’t sure whether he was more angry or mortified. He and Miles had kept their relationship private for a reason. It wasn’t anyone’s business.

 

"I’m not here to discuss my personal life," Kit muttered, trying to keep his voice steady, though his hands trembled slightly. He hated this. Hated being the center of attention, hated the judgment he could feel in every whisper.

 

By lunchtime, Kit had reached his breaking point. He grabbed his coat and slipped out of the office, needing air. The cool breeze outside was a relief as he leaned against the building, closing his eyes and trying to calm his racing heart. His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a message from Miles.

 

Miles: Hey, you okay? Heard something went down at work.

 

Kit sighed and typed back quickly.

 

Kit: They found out.

 

It took only a moment for Miles to reply.

 

Miles: I’m sorry. Do you want me to come by?

 

Kit felt his chest tighten. He loved how Miles always knew how to make things better, but he didn’t want to drag him into this. Not yet.

 

Kit: No, it’s fine. Just need some space.

 

A brief pause, then:

 

Miles: I get it. But if you need me, I’m here.

 

Kit smiled faintly, feeling the warmth of that reassurance, but the unease remained. He just needed space, needed to get away from the stares and whispers. Without someone recognizing him.

---

He started walking, letting the city absorb him. Being just another face in the crowd was comforting, the anonymity offering a sense of normalcy he desperately craved. For a while, he wandered aimlessly, lost in his thoughts, until he turned a corner and spotted a familiar figure leaning against a lamppost.

 

Surge.

 

Kit’s heart skipped a beat. His older sister hadn’t changed at all—still fierce, still unapologetic, with her wild green hair and her old jacket. He hadn’t seen her in ages, their relationship strained from years of being tongue-tied.

 

Surge spotted him before he could turn away.

 

"Well, if it isn’t the little kiddo," she called, striding over with her usual swagger. "Didn’t think I’d see you here."

 

Kit straightened up. "Surge."

 

She smirked, her sharp eyes scanning him up and down. "Heard about you and the genius," she said, teasing but with an undertone of something else—something like concern. "Never thought you’d go for someone so... high-profile."

 

Kit tensed but shrugged. "It just happened."

 

"Sure," Surge muttered, rolling her eyes. She crossed her arms, a rare flicker of something softer in her gaze. "You always were the quiet one. Guess it makes sense you’d end up with someone who talks enough for the both of you."

 

Kit wasn’t sure how to take that, but he appreciated the sibling banter. Their relationship had never been easy, but moments like this reminded him they shared a bond, however complicated.

 

After a long silence, Surge broke the tension. "People giving you shit?"

 

Kit blinked, surprised. It wasn’t like her to ask something so directly.

 

"Yeah," he admitted. "They found out about me and Miles. It’s been a lot."

 

Surge snorted. "People are idiots," she muttered, but there was a protective edge to her voice. "Screw ’em. You’re better than that."

 

Kit’s heart softened at her words. Surge didn’t show it often, but sometimes she reminded him that, in her own rough way, she cared.

 

They didn’t talk much after that. Sometimes, with Surge, silence was more comfortable than words. Kit appreciated that, even if their relationship was rocky.

 

Eventually, Surge shoved her hands into her pockets. "Anyway, I gotta run. But you take care of yourself, alright?"

 

"You too," Kit replied, watching as she walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

 

Kit stood there a little longer, feeling lighter. The judgment and whispers at work still stung, but seeing Surge had helped. She hadn’t offered solutions, but her presence had reminded him of something important: he wasn’t alone.

 

With a deep breath, Kit continued his walk, knowing that he’d get through this. And when the day ended, he’d go home to Miles—where he could rest and do nothing while being on cloud nine.

Notes:

Just got out from a course hii how is it going
No I didnt watched disastoeus life of saiki k

yes i love making miles look more famous than he is i just think people focus on sonic more cuz he saved the world but like. Without miles he is dead. Fucked up.

why is the starline arc so hard to translate. Theres the big ass sentences in one speech bubble.it should be illegall.

Irregular updates and irregular tagging bear with it for now. If you dont know its my last year. And i need to lock in.

i wanna write kittails yuri in college

Chapter 16: ninami

Summary:

me and the blondie i pulled from being a lab rat

Notes:

ninsmj my little loves

bren obsessed for them a whhile aand wrote this in lesson

Kit adjusted the bonnet on his head, tying the ribbon snugly under his chin as he gathered the last of the grocery bags from the counter. The crisp winter air had left a soft pink tint on his cheeks, his layered outfit giving him a look of both style and absurd practicality. His boots were still wet from the slush outside, and his long, blue-and-black hair was slightly tousled from the wind.

 

“Do you have to wear that thing every time you go out?” Nine asked from the couch, barely glancing up from his tablet. He was lounging in his usual oversized T-shirt, legs folded beneath him like a permanent fixture of the lab.

 

Kit gave him a sharp look, the kind that only someone truly fed up with comments about their fashion choices could give. “Do you have to stay indoors and act like sunlight’s your mortal enemy?” he shot back, setting the bags on the counter.  

 

Nine raised a brow. “What would I even do out there? Freeze to death in my boxers?”  

 

“Maybe,” Kit replied, rolling his eyes as he unpacked fresh produce and snacks. “It wouldn’t kill you to get some air, though. It’s not that bad out there. Besides, someone’s gotta keep us stocked.”  

 

“I can’t do outside things,” Nine muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the window. “People are loud. The ground is uneven. And stores are just... stores.”  

 

Kit smirked, tossing an orange from the bag and catching it deftly. “You’re just saying that because you’re scared someone will talk to you.”  

 

Nine scowled, though his face flushed slightly. “It’s not fear. It’s strategy. If I avoid people, they don’t bother me.”  

 

“Wow, what a revolutionary concept,” Kit said, sarcastic but amused. “Meanwhile, I have to carry all the groceries in this freezing weather because someone can’t function outside the lab.”  

 

Nine shrugged unapologetically. “You’re better at it. People actually like you.”  

 

Kit’s smirk faltered for a second before he turned away, busying himself with organizing the groceries. “Not everyone,” he said softly, though he quickly masked the vulnerability in his tone.  

 

Nine set the tablet down and leaned back on the couch, watching Kit unpack. “For what it’s worth, you make it look easy. I’d probably implode if I had to deal with people the way you do.”  

 

Kit glanced at him over his shoulder, his magenta eyes softened by the unexpected compliment. “You’d implode just stepping outside,” he teased, his smirk returning.  

 

“Accurate,” Nine said with a small grin, grabbing his mug of coffee from the table.  

 

Kit finished unpacking and walked over to Nine, plopping down next to him. “You know,” he began, nudging Nine’s leg with his own, “I don’t mind doing the outside stuff. But one day, you’re coming with me. No excuses.”  

 

Nine made a face like he’d just been asked to wrestle a bear. “Hard pass.”  

 

“Nope,” Kit insisted, crossing his arms. “One day, you’re putting on actual pants, and we’re going out together. Even if it’s just for coffee or something.”  

 

Nine sighed dramatically, leaning his head back against the couch. “Fine, but only if I get to pick the place. And it better be quiet.”  

 

“Deal,” Kit said, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.  

 

For now, though, they were content in their little bubble— warm, cozy and happy.

Notes:

oversharing n not being able to execute things rhinrd me dunno why i acted like that j dont know maybe im bipolar or smth

Chapter 17

Notes:

i did not realize i published this. what the.

Miles sat at the kitchen table, one hand clutching his stomach, the other gripping his empty coffee mug like it was Kit’s neck. His face twisted in discomfort, ears flattened back as a string of muttered curses spilled from his lips. The culprit? His self-diagnosed “morning necessity,” which he now deeply regretted.

 

Kit stood by the sink, rinsing his own mug, his expression torn between guilt and exasperation. He’d watched Miles gulp down that coffee like it was his last drink on Mobius, despite knowing the disastrous aftermath.  

 

“I told you not to drink it,” Kit said, his voice calm as he reached for a towel. “I literally asked if you wanted tea instead.”  

 

Miles slammed the mug onto the table, glaring at Kit through narrowed eyes. “Don’t you dare act like you’re innocent in this,” he snapped, his voice a little hoarse from the acid climbing up his throat. “You should’ve stopped me! Told me no! You know coffee hates me.”  

 

Kit turned, leaning against the counter with crossed arms. “Miles, you’re a grown adult,” he said flatly. “I can’t exactly wrestle the mug out of your hands every time you make a bad choice.”  

 

“That’s what love is,” Miles shot back dramatically, clutching his chest like Kit had stabbed him. “Protecting your dumb husband from himself! Instead, you stood there and watched me self-destruct!”  

 

Kit’s lips twitched, but he suppressed the laugh threatening to escape. “I did try,” he said. “You told me, and I quote, ‘Shut up, I’m an engineer. I can drink coffee if I want.’”  

 

Miles groaned, burying his face in his hands. “God, I’m such an idiot,” he mumbled. “Why does it taste so good if it’s just gonna ruin me?”  

 

Kit pushed off the counter and walked over, placing a gentle hand on Miles’ shoulder. “Because the universe is cruel,” he said, his tone softer now. “Come on, let’s get you some water and maybe a bland cracker or something. You’ll survive.”  

 

Miles peeked up at him, his glare losing its edge. “You’re gonna remind me of this forever, aren’t you?”  

 

Kit smirked, leaning down to kiss the top of Miles’ head. “Forever and ever,” he teased. “Now, stay put while I play hero and save you from your terrible life decisions.”  

 

Miles muttered something incoherent under his breath but didn’t argue, slumping back in his chair with a resigned sigh. Kit, rummaging through drawers, quickly set about preparing the least offensive snack he could find. Miles might have been cursing his choices—and Kit, by extension—but deep down, he knew he couldn’t survive mornings like this without him. 

Chapter 18

Summary:

Itsy Bitsy Spider

Notes:

gardener kitsunami is my meds

For all the boredom the greenhouse job brought him, there was one small joy that Kit secretly relished—dealing with the occasional spider. Most people at work avoided them, with the usual complaints about spiders being venomous or creepy. But for Kit, they were just small creatures with their own motives, moving silently through the leaves and corners of the greenhouse. And while he didn’t mind letting some crawl away, others met a different fate.

 

Whenever he found a spider weaving its web or skittering across the floor, Kit would pick it up with careful fingers, observing it closely. His eyes would narrow as he inspected the tiny creature, almost amused by its attempts to scurry away. But after a brief moment of study, with a practiced hand, he would crush it—feeling a grim satisfaction at the snap under his fingers. It was a small, simple thrill in his otherwise monotonous day.

 

It didn’t happen often enough to fully distract him from how mind-numbing the job was, but it was something. Something he could control, something that gave him a fleeting sense of power in the middle of long, dull hours. And, of course, the best part of the day was still when Miles showed up during lunch breaks with that stupid, charming grin and a packed meal that had "made with love~" written all over it.

 

Miles would walk in, looking around at all the greenery like it was the most fascinating place he’d ever seen—even though Kit had told him a million times it wasn’t—and set the lunch down with a dramatic flourish. "For my hardworking greenhouse prince," he’d say, always trying to lighten Kit’s mood. 

 

Kit would play along, mostly to keep Miles happy, but honestly, those moments were the highlight of his day. Sharing a meal, exchanging lazy banter, with Miles trying to convince him to call in sick more often, just so they could hang out at home.

 

After their lunches, Miles would leave, but Kit would be left with a lingering smile, even when he spotted another spider later. Maybe dealing with bugs wasn’t so bad—at least it was something to break up the monotony of plants. And, of course, there was always the anticipation of another lunch date with Miles tomorrow.

Notes:

I had detention today. I'll make 80 kudos special chapter... not this week since i dont wanna rush it

Chapter 19

Summary:

Everyone has their own vulnerable moments. Its a must to show them care and love, treat them like a fragile vase.

Notes:

sorry for all the filler posts, I had lots of exams this week and I'm practically dying here. Even the New Years post I was supposed to edit is waiting, bear with me now. Kudos special chapter is like, still 500 words and needs fixing.

Blue brown eyes headcanon comes from my fav kittails artist, though they dont draw them anymore as long as im aware.

cw
implied self harm
Fluff/No hurt

The small bathroom was quiet except for the soft rustle of bandages and the occasional pop of a cap being opened. Kit sat perched on the closed toilet lid, his magenta eyes watching Miles carefully as the fox prepared the antiseptic cream. He was trying his best to stay calm, his hands fidgeting in his lap as Miles worked.

Miles, dressed in his usual oversized pajama top that hung low over his shorts, looked impossibly domestic. His chest fur peeked out from the loose neckline, untamed and fluffy as always, but his focus was sharp. Kit couldn’t help but think how warm Miles’ presence felt, even in a moment like this.

“You comfortable?” Miles asked, glancing up from the small tube in his hands. His blue-brown eyes scanned Kit’s face, checking for any signs of discomfort.

Kit nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just... don’t spill that stuff, okay?” he said, half-joking but mostly serious. The idea of the antiseptic cream dripping onto his bare skin or soaking into his pajamas made his fur bristle.

Miles chuckled softly, his tails swaying behind him. “I’ve got steady hands,” he reassured, holding up the tube as if to prove his point. “Promise I won’t make a mess.”

Kit smiled faintly, his shoulders relaxing a little. “Good. ‘Cause I like these shorts,” he muttered, glancing down at the pale blue fabric that matched his pajama top.

Miles grinned. “Noted.” He knelt in front of Kit, his movements gentle as he took one of Kit’s hands in his own. Carefully, he peeled back the bandages that had been wrapped around Kit’s wrists, his expression softening as the scars and healing wounds came into view.

Kit swallowed hard, his ears pinning back. He hated seeing his wrists like this—raw and vulnerable—but Miles never looked at him with pity. There was something else in his eyes, something that made Kit feel safe.

“Okay, this might sting a little,” Miles said, squeezing Kit’s hand lightly before dipping a clean cotton pad into the antiseptic cream. He dabbed it against the wounds with delicate precision, his touch featherlight.

Kit hissed softly at the initial sting, his free hand curling into a fist. “I’m fine,” he muttered quickly, catching Miles’ concerned glance. “It’s not that bad.”

Miles nodded but didn’t say anything, focusing instead on making sure the cream was evenly applied. His fingers worked methodically, careful not to press too hard.

“You’re healing well,” Miles murmured after a moment, his voice quiet. “The scars are fading a bit.”

Kit blinked, his ears perking slightly. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Miles said, his lips curving into a small smile. “Not that it matters to me. They don’t change how I see you.”

Kit felt his cheeks warm, and he looked away, his tail curling slightly around his leg. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Miles finished applying the cream and reached for a fresh roll of bandages. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said gently, starting to wrap the bandage around Kit’s wrist with practiced ease. “I just... I want you to know you’re perfect to me, scars and all.”

Kit’s heart thudded in his chest, and he glanced back at Miles, his fuchsia eyes searching the fox’s face. There was no hesitation in Miles’ expression, no doubt in his voice. It was enough to make Kit’s throat tighten.

“You’re too good to me,” Kit said quietly, his voice trembling just a little.

Miles paused, his hands stilling for a moment before he leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Kit’s wrist just above the bandage. “You deserve good things, Kit,” he said firmly, his eyes meeting Kit’s with unwavering sincerity.

Kit swallowed hard, his chest swelling with a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite put into words. Instead, he gave a small nod, his lips twitching into a faint smile.

Miles finished wrapping the bandage and secured it with a neat knot before sitting back on his heels. “There,” he said, brushing his hands off. “Good as new.”

Kit flexed his fingers experimentally, the fresh bandage snug but comfortable. “You’re really good at this,” he said, his tone lightening.

Miles laughed, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. “Guess all those first-aid kits I kept around finally paid off,” he joked, his oversized pajama top slipping a little further down his shoulder in the process.

Kit’s gaze flicked to the peek of Miles’ chest fur, soft and untamed as it spilled out of the fabric. He couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “I think you missed your calling,” he teased.

Miles raised a brow. “What, as a medic?”

“Yeah,” Kit said, standing up and leaning into Miles’ side. “You’d be everyone’s favorite. How could they not love someone with fur like yours?”

Miles rolled his eyes, but his cheeks turned pink. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, though his tails betrayed his amusement as they swayed behind him.

Kit wrapped his arms around Miles’ waist, resting his head against the fox’s chest. “Maybe,” he said, his voice muffled by the fluff. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

Miles’ arms came up to hug Kit back, his fingers brushing lightly through Kit’s hair. “And don’t you forget it,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Kit’s head.

For a while, they just stood there, holding each other in the quiet of the bathroom, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. And for Kit, it was enough. Miles’ warmth, his touch, his presence—it was all he needed to feel like he was finally home.

Chapter 20

Notes:

I have lots of Kitsunami's and everytime I write kittails I chose one Kitsunami persona from my stash

i currently think lab rat kit that i made for prime is the best honestly.

[1] todays kitsunami is hopeless along with a side of ruthless unforgiving sista

Kit sighed dramatically, sinking deeper into the couch as the TV flickered in the dim living room. The charity broadcast was winding down, but his eyes stayed glued to the screen as if Miles' face would vanish if he blinked too long. His oversized pajama shirt hung awkwardly on his lanky frame, stained with yesterday’s spaghetti sauce, but Kit didn’t care. He was busy nursing his latest craving—a weird combination of peanut butter crackers and pickle juice. It was gross, but somehow it just hit.

 

The twenty-one-year-old fennec kicked his legs idly like a lovestruck teenager. His mind wandered, spinning into a fantasy that played like a cheesy rom-com: Miles, in that gorgeous suit, would step off the stage, spot Kit in the crowd, and immediately fall head over heels for him. They’d lock eyes, and before Kit knew it, Miles would pull him in for a slow, dramatic kiss. Kit could practically feel the warmth of Miles’ lips— 

 

A crunch brought him back to reality. He looked down at the crumbs on his lap. “Great. Ruined the moment,” he muttered, brushing them off. His eyes darted to the empty jar of pickle juice on the coffee table, and he let out a low groan. “Man, I should’ve saved some for round two.”  

 

In the background, Surge’s voice cut through his inner monologue like a chainsaw. “Are you seriously pining over him *again*? Don’t you have, like, anything else to do?” 

 

Kit glanced over at his sister, who was still at the kitchen table, now counting a small mountain of coins she’d dug up from God knows where. “Don’t you have anything better to do than play Scrooge with spare change?” he shot back. 

 

Surge shrugged, lazily flicking a nickel into the pile. “Money’s money, and you’re deflecting.” 

 

Kit grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to his chest, his fuchsia eyes narrowing. “So what if I’m pining? He’s hot. And smart. And kind. And—” He paused, his face heating up as he tried to think of something else. “He’s, like, everything I’ve ever wanted, okay?” 

 

“You’re twenty-one and literally living on snack foods and dreams,” Surge pointed out, her tone dry. “You think a guy like that is gonna go for a guy like you?” 

 

“Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kit deadpanned, throwing the pillow at her. It fell short, landing on the floor with a sad thud.  

 

Surge smirked, unfazed. “Look, I’m just saying, if this guy’s your ‘dream,’ maybe you should... I dunno... try to clean yourself up a little?” 

 

Kit grumbled, turning back to the TV, where the credits were rolling over a soft instrumental tune. Miles’ face was gone, replaced by some generic announcer talking about tax write-offs, but Kit’s thoughts were still on the golden-furred fox. 

 

“He’s different,” Kit mumbled. “He wouldn’t care about that stuff. He’d see me for me.”  

 

“Sure,” Surge said, not even looking up from her coin sorting. “And I’m gonna buy a mansion with these pennies.” 

 

Kit’s ears flattened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he flopped onto his side, staring at the now-blank TV screen. His thoughts wandered again, back to Miles. What would it even be like to talk to him? To have him look at Kit with those warm, mismatched eyes? To touch him, kiss him, hold him— 

 

Kit bolted upright suddenly, his energy spiking. “Oh my God, what if he does notice me someday? I can’t just sit here like a bum!” 

 

Surge raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been sitting like a bum for the last three years. What’s different now?” 

 

“I’m serious!” Kit exclaimed, pacing the room. His tail swished wildly behind him, knocking over a lamp, but he didn’t stop. “I need a plan. Something... something big! Like... like showing up to one of his events and just making it happen.”  

 

“With what money?” Surge asked, smirking as she gestured to her pile of coins. “You wanna borrow my penny stash?” 

 

Kit stopped pacing, his face falling. “Oh. Right.”  

 

“Yeah, right,” Surge echoed, leaning back in her chair. “Look, kid, you’re hopeless, but I gotta admit, it’s kind of cute watching you spiral over Blondie.” 

 

“I’m not spiraling,” Kit insisted, though his voice cracked halfway through. He crossed his arms, his ears twitching. 

 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Surge said, standing and stretching. “Anyway, I’m heading out to grab groceries. Try not to break anything while I’m gone.”  

 

As she grabbed her coat and keys, Kit flopped back onto the couch, his energy fizzling out as quickly as it had spiked. He stared at the ceiling, his mind swirling with possibilities. 

 

So what if he was just a weird, awkward guy with too many cravings and occasional zoomies? He was passionate. He had dreams. Sure, maybe his dream right now was just to make out with the smartest, hottest fox on the planet, but wasn’t that enough? 

 

Kit sighed, a goofy smile spreading across his face. “Someday,” he whispered to himself. “Someday, it’s gonna happen.”  

 

And until then? He’d just have to live with being hopelessly, irrevocably gay—and totally okay with it. 

Notes:

1 lab rat kit
2 gardener kit
3 toxic young adult kit
4 father kit

[1] Then he got up from his seat, opened his phone, printed some job application from the public library and made his way to a random wendys to work✌🏻

Chapter 21

Summary:

Boobs.

Notes:

Break Day—> Lesbian Kittails.

Miles groaned as she leaned back on the couch, trying to get comfortable despite the weight pressed against her chest. Kit had made herself right at home, her head nestled against Miles’ breasts, clearly with no intention of moving anytime soon. 

 

“Kit, you’ve got a heavy head,” Miles muttered, adjusting her posture with a wince. “And for the record, this hurts. Like, a lot.”

 

Kit looked up, fuchsia eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and faux innocence. “Hurts? You’re the one who decided to go braless, not me,” she teased, her voice dripping with mock concern. “Besides, you’re comfy. I’m just enjoying the perks of being married to someone so... well-endowed.”

 

Miles’ cheeks flushed a deep crimson as her ears flicked back in irritation. “Don’t act like this is my fault! I wanted to relax for a minute without feeling like I was wearing a cage. But of course, you’ve gotta make everything about you.”

 

Kit smirked, shifting slightly, which earned her another pained groan from Miles. “I mean, it’s not my fault you’re irresistible. You’re basically a walking pillow.” She nuzzled closer, wrapping her arms around Miles’ waist as if to prove her point.

 

“Pillow?!” Miles shot her an incredulous glare, her arms crossing protectively over her chest. “These are sensitive, Kit! Do you know what gravity does to them without support? Of course you don’t—you’re flat as a board!”

 

Kit gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to her chest. “Wow, Miles. First of all, rude. Second, maybe if you didn’t make them look so inviting, I wouldn’t feel the need to snuggle up.”

 

“You are the worst,” Miles grumbled, though she didn’t push Kit away. Her body tensed as she tried to adjust again, her sensitive chest protesting with every movement. “Seriously, my boobs are killing me. You’re like a giant baby who doesn’t understand personal boundaries.”

 

Kit grinned, clearly enjoying the teasing. “I could help, you know. Give you a massage or something. It might help with the... soreness.” 

 

Miles gave her a flat look, though the blush on her cheeks betrayed her. “Oh, I bet you’d love that. You’re not ‘helping’; you’re just taking advantage.”

 

“Guilty as charged,” Kit admitted with a shrug. “But hey, it’s because I love you.”

 

Miles let out an exasperated sigh, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “Fine, you can stay for now. But if you keep squishing me, I’m shoving you off this couch.”

 

“Deal,” Kit said smugly, settling back down with a contented sigh. Her tail flicked lazily as she nestled into Miles’ chest, completely unbothered by the grumbling fox beneath her. “You’re too soft to resist anyway.”

 

Miles muttered something under her breath about clingy girlfriends but didn’t push Kit away, her hand instinctively resting on the fennec’s back. Despite the ache, there was a small part of her that didn’t mind being Kit’s personal pillow—though she’d never admit it out loud. 

Notes:

i really like that r63 kittails art it was my kittails awakening. i also thinkg kitsunami is always flat chested. If you squint he/she is a A cup ig. Miles breasts look big because of his/her chest fur.

its funny to me that the fic I love and put my blood in has less attention than my choopy old ugly fic.

Chapter 22

Summary:

Tails variant of the chapter : Mangey

Blond fox joins his potential mate's sunbathing ritual.

Notes:

They don't talk, Kitsunami barks like Mangey. I got a Mangey figure and decided to show him some love, hehe.

All Tails variants —> Paired with their own Kitsunami or IDW Kitsunami.

theres nothing bad here which is booorrinng.

The beach was quiet, save for the gentle lap of the waves and the occasional cry of a seabird. The heat of the midday sun baked the sand, creating a warmth that seeped into the earth and made the entire world feel alive.

 

Kit stretched out languidly on the sand, his blue fur shimmering under the sun’s brilliance. His large ears twitched occasionally, catching the faint sounds of the wind and the rustling of the nearby dune grass. The warmth of the sand beneath him and the golden light above wrapped him in a comfort that was nearly intoxicating. He loved moments like these—the quiet, the heat, the simplicity of existing under the open sky.

 

Nearby, Mangey was sprawled on his side, his golden fur dusted with fine grains of sand. His dual tails lay still for once, their usual wagging stilled by the tranquil weight of the sun. His gaze was fixed on Kit, his blue-brown eyes soft with an admiration he didn’t try to hide. For Mangey, the beach wasn’t just beautiful because of the sun or the sea—it was Kit, glowing in the sunlight, that made it perfect.

 

Slowly, Mangey shifted closer, his movements unhurried and careful not to disturb the peace. He pressed his side against Kit’s, his fur mingling with the fennec’s silvery coat. Kit’s ears flicked, and he opened one magenta eye to glance at Mangey. The fennec huffed softly, but there was no real protest in the sound.

 

Mangey barked quietly, a low, affectionate sound that was almost a question. Kit didn’t respond right away; instead, he closed his eyes again and soaked in the sun. But after a moment, he stretched lazily, his tail brushing against Mangey’s. It was a subtle acknowledgment, but it made Mangey’s tails wag softly in response.

 

The two lay in silence, their bodies pressed close, the warmth of the sun mingling with the heat of their shared presence. Mangey nuzzled Kit’s shoulder gently, his nose brushing through the soft fur there. He let out a soft whimper, a sound of contentment and gratitude. Kit opened one eye again, his gaze sharp despite the relaxed line of his body.

 

With a bark that carried a hint of sass, Kit turned his head to nip lightly at Mangey’s ear. The golden fox yelped softly, his tails wagging faster now. He barked back, his tone playful, and nudged Kit with his nose. Kit’s lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile Mangey had seen, before he turned away with a huff as if to say, “Don’t push your luck.”

 

But Kit didn’t move away, and Mangey took that as a victory. He stretched out beside the fennec, his body melting into the sand's warmth and Kit's closeness. The breeze carried the faint, salty scent of the ocean, and Mangey closed his eyes, letting himself drift in the comfort of the moment.

 

Kit shifted slightly, pressing closer, and Mangey’s heart skipped. He barked softly, almost as if thanking Kit for the closeness, but the fennec only flicked his tail dismissively. Kit was content, but he wasn’t about to let Mangey know how much he enjoyed the attention. Not yet, anyway.

 

The sun climbed higher, its rays growing more intense, but neither of them moved. The beach, the sand, the warmth—it was perfect. And for Mangey, lying there with Kit beside him, their fur mingling and their breaths syncing—it was more than perfect. It was everything. 

Notes:

i cant decide what i want to write for 80 kudos special chapter. I'm lost.

i never knew shadow the hedgehog game was released the year i was born.

wasn't sure if I wanted to post this today. but on tt I said I will and why nooottt

Chapter 23

Notes:

-> Only Melody is born, her full name is "Melody Su Prower" and Eden is their fat gigantic obese cat.

dude i miss them being fsmily....😭

Miles had always been the one to keep their memories alive, their stories immortalized in photos. His collection was vast, spanning across years of their relationship, the many stages of their growing family, and the unforgettable moments that defined them. He was the storyteller, and every photo was a chance to relive those times.  

One day, as the afternoon sun streamed through the windows, Miles decided it was time to go through the old albums again. He sat down on the couch with a stack of photos, his excitement palpable as he flipped through them. Kitsunami sat beside him, content to watch his husband’s enthusiasm, though he couldn’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed by the flood of memories.  

“This one, oh, this one!” Miles grinned, holding up a photo of a much younger Melody, bundled in her blankets with her wide, curious eyes. “You were barely a few months old. Look at that little face, just like yours, Kit. I still can’t believe we made you, Mel.”  

Melody, who was sitting nearby, groaned and covered her face with a cushion. “Please, not this again.”  

“Oh, but you’ve got to hear this one!” Miles ignored her protest, already lost in the nostalgia. “We spent hours trying to get you to sleep in your crib, and you refused. You were just too stubborn, like your dad.”  

Kitsunami chuckled softly, his ears twitching. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. She wasn’t stubborn at all.”  

“Oh, please,” Miles said with a dramatic eye roll. “You were the one who’d stand guard by her crib all night, just watching her. It’s like you thought she might disappear.”  

Melody, still hiding behind the cushion, muffled a laugh. “I bet I got that from you, Dad.”  

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Miles shot back, but his words had no heat. He was too lost in the memories to care.  

He picked up another photo showing a younger Miles, proudly holding up a small, mischievous-looking Melody in her first Halloween costume. “And look at this one! You were dressed as a little witch. Kit made you the costume from scratch!”  

“Hey, you’re making it sound like I’m some kind of genius,” Kitsunami protested, though there was pride in his voice. “It was a simple outfit. But she looked cute, didn’t she?”  

“Cute?” Miles scoffed, grinning. “She looked adorable—and I could barely handle it. You and your stubborn little girl were both so cute, I wanted to eat you up.”  

Melody snorted, pulling the cushion off her face just enough to peek at them. “You guys are ridiculous.”  

“I know, sweetie,” Miles said, smirking as he held up yet another photo. “But you love us anyway.”  

He went through picture after picture, each one a snapshot of their little, domestic life. Some of the photos were more candid: Melody’s first day of school, where Miles stood proudly beside her while Kitsunami secretly wiped away a tear. Others captured moments of pure chaos: a family picnic that ended in mud fights and a picnic basket gone flying. And then there were the quieter moments: the three of them curled up on the couch, asleep together, the glow of the TV lighting up their faces in soft warmth.  

Melody didn’t protest so much now. As much as she was embarrassed by her dads’ antics, there was something about seeing those photos that made her feel... secure. Loved. She could see the story of their family in every image.  

“Okay, okay,” Melody said after a while, putting the cushion down and sitting up. “I get it. You guys were cute. Still are, I guess.”  

Miles beamed, unable to resist leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. “We’ve been cute from day one, Mel. And I’m still going to tell you stories about when you were little until the day I die.”  

“Don’t say that!” Melody groaned, but her heart wasn’t in the complaint. She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips.  

Kitsunami, ever the quiet one, glanced at Miles and then back to the photos. His eyes softened, his usually stern demeanor melting into something unspoken but deeply felt. He loved this. He didn’t need to say anything; the photos, the stories, the way he looked at Miles, all said enough.  

“I think we’ve got enough for today, love,” Kitsunami said, his voice a rare warmth in the silence. “Mel’s probably tired of hearing the same old stories by now.”  

Melody rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance in it. “Just as long as you stop talking about that one Halloween costume. I’m never living that down.”  

Miles chuckled, settling back into the couch, his hand on Kitsunami’s. “Oh, I’m never letting you forget it. Not ever.”  

Notes:

->Both Prower kiddos looked like Kitsunami when they were young. Because Kitsunami's genes are more dominant. Though Melody is a red fox which means she'll look like Miles more, but her personality and habits are Kitsunami, mostly.

Kittails has been a ship for 3 years! This november it'll be 4 years. Kittails has been shipped ever since Impostor Syndrome was released, and issue one was published in November 2021! I feel like a mother watching her sons graduate university.

—> I never kinda said anythinf about Ren's fur color except saying the color codes. Well, Ren's fur is actually just Kitsunami's issue 50 old fur.

Chapter 24

Summary:

test

Miles sat at the kitchen counter, his oversized shirt draped over his frame, one hand curled around a fresh cup of coffee. He was still sore, but nothing a good dose of caffeine and stubbornness couldn’t fix.  

 

Kit, on the other hand?  

 

A mess.

 

He was standing—barely—his weight slumped against Miles’ back, arms loosely wrapped around his husband’s waist. His breath was slow, warm against Miles’ nape, and his ears twitched lazily with each rise and fall of his chest. He wasn’t drunk, but he had *that* look—sleep-heavy eyes, slow blinks, body warm and pliant like he was floating in a haze.  

 

"Sweetpea…" Kit mumbled against Miles’ shoulder.  

 

"Mm?" Miles took a slow sip of his coffee, unfazed by the clinginess.  

 

"‘M sleepy."

 

"No shit," Miles muttered. "Then go back to bed."  

 

Kit shook his head, nose brushing against Miles’ fur. "Can’t."  

 

"Why?"  

 

Kit hummed, arms tightening around him. "Wanna be with you."  

 

Miles sighed, fingers tightening around his mug. "You’re on me, Kit."

 

"Mmh." Kit nuzzled into his shoulder. "Wanna be closer." 

 

Miles’ ear flicked, his tail swishing once as he leaned forward, trying to sip his coffee without Kit making him spill it. "You’re acting like you’re wasted."  

 

" ‘M not." Kit let out a slow breath, his whole body pressing heavier against Miles. "Just warm. Fuzzy. Like floatin’."

 

"*You’re sleep–drunk," Miles muttered, trying to shift, but Kit wouldnotlet go."Tired, but too stubborn to pass out."  

 

"Mm." Kit’s nose brushed against the back of Miles’ neck, and Miles twitched. "You smell good." 

 

"That’s the coffee."

"Nah." Kit’s arms flexed around him, a lazy squeeze. "S’you. Smell like home."  

 

Miles paused. His grip on his mug loosened, his tail stilling behind him.  

 

Kit was already sinking deeper, breath slowing, body slumping further against him. His weight was comfortable, even if he was a clingy mess.  

 

Miles exhaled. "Dumbass."

 

He took another slow sip of his coffee, letting Kit stay exactly where he was.

Notes:

—> Okay so here is the plan I stop writing bullshit for a while and try to stop being a degenerate freak

—>I also been experimenting with different kittails things so yeahhh
—>I'll probably reboot/remake this book
—>their love language is cussing each other out :p
—>*that* was on purpose

Chapter 25

Notes:

request something ples 💔 running out of sfw ideas.

will take a look in the tumblr today maybbeee

Kit had spent the entire day preparing. He’d woken up early, made breakfast without burning anything, and even brushed his hair for once. He'd gone to the store (a different one, obviously, because he was still banned from their usual place) and bought all of Miles' favorite snacks. He even put on one of those stupid soft sweaters Miles liked seeing him in, the ones that made Kit feel less like a terrifying force of nature and more like a normal husband who did normal husband things.  

 

Because today, Kit was going to be nice.  

 

Not just his usual level of nice, which involved grumbling while still doing whatever Miles wanted, but genuinely nice. Romantic. Sweet. A husband any fox would kill to have.  

 

And yet—  

 

"Mmhh… Kit, warm…" Miles muttered, his arms wrapped tight around Kit’s waist, his head tucked against Kit’s chest like a lazy, oversized cat.  

 

Kit stared down at him. His darling, his love, his impossible husband, had slept through all of Kit’s efforts. Miles had barely opened his eyes when Kit tried to present him with breakfast in bed, only making a sleepy noise before pulling Kit down onto the mattress with him.  

 

Kit had spent the last hour trapped here, his once-grand plans crumbling under the weight of a clingy, exhausted fox who refused to wake up.  

 

Miles sighed happily and nuzzled into Kit’s chest, his tails curling around Kit’s legs. "Love you, Kit," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.  

 

Kit scowled. "You're not even awake enough to know who I am."  

 

"I do know," Miles argued, barely lifting his head before flopping back down. "You're my husband. My Kit. Smell like rain. Always warm. You're mine."  

 

Kit felt his ears heat up despite himself. "Yeah, well," he muttered, "you're a menace. Do you know what I did today?"  

 

Miles hummed, sleepily pawing at Kit’s chest. "Mmh… existed beautifully?"  

 

Kit blinked. "What— No! I tried to be nice to you! I made breakfast, I got your stupid snacks, I wore this dumb sweater because I thought you'd like it! And all you did was drag me back to bed!"  

 

Miles made a pleased noise. "That is nice. You being here is nice. Best gift ever."  

 

Kit groaned, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. "You're not supposed to say that! You're supposed to notice! You're supposed to kiss me and— and tell me I did a good job!"  

 

Miles shifted, blinking up at Kit with those soft, blue-brown eyes. Kit could see the effort it took for Miles to force himself out of sleep, his ears twitching as he focused. "You tried for me?" he murmured, voice still heavy with exhaustion but touched with something tender. "Went out of your way?"  

 

Kit huffed. "Obviously."  

 

Miles smiled, slow and warm. "That is really sweet…"  

 

Finally. Kit started to relax, feeling like maybe— maybe—his efforts hadn't been in vain.  

 

Then Miles tugged him back down, pressing a lazy kiss to Kit’s jaw before nuzzling against his throat. "Best husband ever," he murmured.  

 

"No," Kit tried, "you're supposed to get up and— and appreciate me properly—"  

 

"Mm-mm. This is proper appreciation," Miles argued, his grip tightening. "My Kit. So warm. So good. Need to keep you here forever."  

 

Kit made an aggravated noise, wiggling to free himself, but Miles only held on tighter. Kit’s grand plans, his entire day of trying to be a perfect husband, had all been derailed by Miles' sleepy, clingy nonsense.  

 

And yet, when Kit finally gave up and melted into his husband's hold, Miles let out a contented hum, pressing another kiss to Kit’s shoulder.  

 

"…You did do a good job," Miles murmured, sleep already tugging at his voice again. "Love you, Kit."  

 

Kit sighed, his face warm.  

 

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, letting his fingers card through Miles' messy fur.  

 

Miles' tails flicked happily, his grip on Kit secure.  

 

Even when Kit tried to be the romantic one, somehow, Miles still managed to win.

Notes:

list of things kit ks banned from
supermarket (2)
and orphanage (1)
Some small town (4)

Chapter 26

Summary:

All in one bath.

Notes:

One off the list:
Gijinka Kittails

Steam clung to the tiled walls, curling in the air as the shower sprayed down a steady stream of warmth. Kitsunami stood at the sink, his towel slung loosely around his hips, rubbing shaving cream into his jawline. His fingers worked through the short, almost invisible hairs on his chin—boyish at best, but enough that it annoyed him.  

 

Behind him, Miles was stretched out in the bathtub, one leg propped up on the rim, dragging a razor along his thigh with the slow, practiced ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before. His other leg remained submerged in the warm water, steam curling off the surface.  

 

Kit eyed him through the mirror, watching as Miles tilted his head back, looking utterly relaxed. His golden hair clung to his damp skin, some strands falling over his face as he lazily moved the razor over his calf.   

 

"You watching me, babe?" Miles teased, catching Kit’s stare through the foggy reflection. His lips curled, voice smooth. "You like my technique?"  

 

Kit scoffed, shaking his head as he focused back on his own task. "I'm watching to make sure you don't slice yourself open." He tilted his chin up, carefully dragging the razor down his throat. "You're reckless with that thing."  

 

Miles made a dramatic gasp, setting the razor aside for a moment. "Excuse you—I am an expert." He let his free foot kick at the water, sending a few droplets onto the tiled floor. "I could shave in the dark if I wanted to."  

 

Kit wiped his razor against a damp towel, glancing back at him. "That sounds like an unnecessary risk."  

 

"Living on the edge, baby," Miles murmured, returning to his work. He hummed to himself, taking slow, precise strokes, the sound of the razor scraping against his skin blending with the steady patter of the shower. "Besides, it's not like you don't appreciate the results."  

 

Kit huffed, running a hand over his freshly shaved jaw. "I never said I didn’t."  

 

Miles smirked, dragging the blade over his knee before rinsing it in the bathwater. "So you admit it."  

 

Kit shot him a look through the mirror, then bent forward to rinse his face in the sink. His damp hair, still heavy with moisture from the shower, fell into his eyes as he straightened back up.  

 

Miles took his chance, stretching his leg out of the tub and nudging Kit’s lower back with his foot. "Come here, babe. Lemme feel."  

 

Kit grumbled but turned around, letting Miles reach out with wet fingers and drag them along his smooth jaw. Miles made a pleased noise, tilting his head.  

 

"Mm, soft," he murmured, stroking Kit’s chin with the pad of his thumb. "Maybe I should start calling you babyface."  

 

Kit grabbed Miles' wrist, holding it away from his face. "I will drown you in that tub."  

 

Miles only grinned. "Aw, but you love me."  

 

Kit sighed, rubbing his thumb over the back of Miles' hand before letting go. "Unfortunately."  Kit turned back to the mirror, ignoring him. "You talk too much."  

 

"And yet," Miles sighed dramatically, "you still choose to stay in here with me."  

 

Miles gave a teasing wink and went back to shaving his ankle, humming under his breath, completely unbothered. Kit just rolled his eyes, but he lingered there for a moment longer, watching the way Miles moved, the way he smiled to himself.  

 

Kit rinsed his razor again, pretending not to hear. Miles just smirked to himself, taking his time with the last few strokes, making sure his legs were perfectly smooth.  

 

Yeah. This was a good way to spend an evening.

 

He wouldn't say it out loud, but he liked this—just them in their own little bubble. 

Notes:

—>Yes i think nudging someones ass w your foot is diabolic
—>No I'm not a lolicon or a shotacon or into no consent shit. I'm a degenerate freak, an ethic one, if you call it that. And Yes I do not care if you are into that shit.
—>Yes I'm hypersexual
—>No I'm not active on tumblr or twt

really think kit would have pubescent boy length hair.

Chapter 27

Summary:

happy valentine's day

Notes:

this was rushed, so sorry, i was planing on publishing another fic. I realized I couldn't finish it on time, so I decided to publish one of my backover fics. Originally was a sick fic, but i modified/changed it to be more Valentine's day special like. Again, I'm so sorry.

Kit had been sick before, but never like this.  

 

He wasn’t curled up in their bed, whining for attention, nor was he clinging to Miles like he usually would. Instead, he lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with glassy magenta eyes, barely reacting when Miles pressed a cool washcloth against his forehead. His breathing was steady but deep, like he was focused on each inhale and exhale as if they took real effort.  

 

It wasn’t normal.  

 

“You’re scaring me,” Miles muttered, wringing the cloth in his hands before folding it over again and placing it on Kit’s forehead. “You’re not supposed to be this quiet.”  

 

Kit hummed softly in response but said nothing. His ears twitched weakly when Miles moved, but otherwise, he remained still.  

 

Miles clenched his jaw and checked his temperature again, pressing a hand to Kit’s cheek. Too warm. Still too warm.  

 

“Drink more water,” Miles ordered, reaching for the glass on the nightstand and pressing it to Kit’s lips. Kit obeyed without protest, swallowing slowly before turning his head away when he’d had enough.  

 

Miles set the glass down and exhaled harshly through his nose. “You were fine yesterday,” he said, his tails flicking behind him. “What the hell happened?”  

 

Kit blinked at him, slow and unfazed. “Dunno,” he murmured. His voice was raspy, but not in a dramatic way—just weak, soft. He wasn’t milking the moment for affection like he usually did when he felt under the weather. He was just… existing.  

 

It was driving Miles insane.  

 

“This is the worst Valentine’s Day ever,” he hissed, standing abruptly and pacing at the foot of their bed. “It’s completely ruined. I bought all that chocolate, and you’re too sick to eat any of it. I spent hours wrapping your present, and you don’t even care.”  

 

Kit’s lips twitched slightly. “What’d you get me?”  

 

Miles crossed his arms. “I’m not telling you. You’re too sick to appreciate it.”  

 

Kit blinked at him again, then sighed softly and closed his eyes.  

 

Miles’ ears twitched.  

 

Something about it made him uneasy.  

 

“Hey,” he said, moving back to Kit’s side and crouching down, gripping his wrist. “If you’re gonna fall asleep, at least let me know you’re still alive.”  

 

Kit hummed again. “I’m alive.”  

 

Miles narrowed his eyes. “Swear?”  

 

Kit turned his head slightly, looking at him from beneath heavy lids. “Swear.”  

 

Miles clicked his tongue, but he kept his grip on Kit’s wrist, pressing his fingers against the faint, steady pulse beneath his skin. He sighed and leaned his forehead against Kit’s arm, closing his eyes.  

 

“I hate this,” he muttered. “You don’t get to be the calm one. That’s my job.”  

 

Kit exhaled slowly and lifted a weak hand to Miles’ head, brushing his fingers through his fur.  

 

“Valentine’s Day isn’t ruined,” he murmured.  

 

Miles scoffed, voice muffled against Kit’s arm. “Oh yeah? Tell me how this is romantic.”  

 

Kit’s fingers curled slightly in Miles’ fur, tugging weakly.  

 

“You’re taking care of me,” he whispered. “That’s enough.”  

 

Miles didn’t say anything.  

 

Kit’s breathing evened out, slow and warm against Miles’ skin.  

 

Valentine’s Day was cancelled.  

 

But Miles didn’t really mind.

Chapter 28

Notes:

cat. dunno if dog fits their relationship more but i specifically chose cat. she is a abandoned cat and what made kit an girl dad basically.

The department was quiet—at least, for now. Miles knew it wouldn’t last, not with Kit in the room, stretched out on the couch like he owned the place.  

 

And, honestly? He kind of did.

 

Kit was himself today. Not sluggish, not weighed down by fever—just comfortable, territorial, Kit.  

 

He wore a tight, long-sleeved white undershirt, clinging to his frame like a second skin, the sleeves stopping just at his wrists. Over it, a short-sleeved black T-shirt hung a little looser, but not enough to hide how the fabric underneath hugged him. His shorts stopped midway down his thighs, comfortable, casual, giving just enough freedom for his legs to stretch out over the armrest.  

 

And, of course, Mimi 1 was there with him.  

 

The cat—small, fluffy, and unquestionably Kit’s favorite—was curled up on his stomach, paws kneading at his shirt, tail flicking lazily as Kit idly rubbed at her ears.  

 

Miles stood near the desk, arms crossed, watching. "You’re taking up the whole couch."  

 

Kit barely glanced at him, continuing to scratch behind Mimi’s ears. "And?"  

 

Miles exhaled, shaking his head. "Nothing. Just an observation."  

 

Mimi, unbothered, let out a soft *mrrp* before rolling onto her side, fully trusting Kit not to let her fall.  

 

Kit smirked slightly, his fingers trailing down her back in slow, absentminded motions. "She likes me more than you."  

 

Miles scoffed, but there was no real heat to it. "She likes whoever feeds her the most."  

 

"Exactly," Kit said, smug, tapping Mimi’s nose gently before returning to petting her.  

 

Miles rolled his eyes, but his gaze lingered for a moment. Kit looked comfortable, stretched out in the department like it was his personal space, his cat draped over him like an accessory.  

 

Miles wasn’t about to say it out loud, but… it suited him.  

 

"You’re staring," Kit murmured, finally glancing at him with a smirk. "You like what you see?"  

 

Miles huffed, turning away. "Shut up."  

 

Kit just laughed, low and pleased, scratching Mimi’s ears as she purred louder.

Notes:

--> dunno if i should hang myself or kitsunami

Chapter 29

Notes:

never posted abt them after i changed my writing style...

take this as 90 kudos special

The front door slammed behind Kitsunami before he could stop himself. He exhaled sharply through his nose, ears twitching at the sound. Miles was already waiting in the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, blue-brown eyes sharp as ever.

"You’re late."

Kitsunami dropped his bag by the door, rolling his shoulders back. "Traffic."

Miles scoffed. "Sure."

Silence settled between them, thick as ever. It always got like this when custody exchanges happened. Not because they were bad parents. No, Su and Eden were doing fine—arguably spoiled, if anything. But because the tension between them had never really gone away, even after they signed the papers.

Miles’ tail flicked behind him, and Kitsunami’s eyes tracked the motion before he could stop himself. He knew exactly how soft that fur was. Knew exactly how it felt curled tight around his waist, his wrists—

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "They're already asleep?"

Miles nodded. "Su knocked out after dinner. Eden fought it, as usual, but I got her down."

"Thanks." Kitsunami ran a hand over his face. "I'll take them in the morning."

Miles didn't answer. He just leaned back against the counter, watching him. His gaze was assessing, lingering in a way that made Kitsunami’s pulse thrum against his ribs. He still hadn’t gotten used to this—seeing Miles like this, separated, technically not his anymore, but still knowing every inch of him. Still knowing how to make him break apart, how to make him plead—

Kitsunami swallowed. Hard.

"You should go," Miles murmured.

Kitsunami didn’t move. "Yeah. I should."

Neither of them moved. The air was thick, heavier than before. That pull between them, the one that never really left, was still there, wrapping around their throats like a vice.

Miles’ tail twitched again, and that was all it took.

Kitsunami was on him in seconds. His hands found Miles’ face, their mouths crashing together with a force that left them both gasping. Miles growled into the kiss, fingers tangling in Kitsunami’s fur, yanking him closer. Their tails twisted together like instinct had taken over, as if their bodies still remembered something their minds tried to ignore.

This wasn’t gentle. It never was. It was rough, desperate, an outlet for all the emotions neither of them wanted to name. Divorce hadn’t changed that, hadn’t stopped them from needing this, needing each other in ways they refused to admit outside of these moments.

Miles shoved him back against the counter, biting at his lip. Kitsunami hissed, gripping Miles’ hips, pushing right back. Their bodies were flush, fur mingling, heat building between them in a way that was as familiar as breathing.

"Still got a mouth on you," Kitsunami rasped against his jaw.

"And you still like it," Miles shot back, voice rough.

Kitsunami’s hands tightened on him. Miles' claws raked down his back, pulling a low, guttural noise from his throat. There was no patience here, no pretense of slow, sweet lovemaking. That wasn’t them. This was.

They stumbled their way to the bedroom, half-dressed by the time they hit the bed. It was all hands, claws, tangled limbs, gasping breaths and bitten-off curses. Miles was warm beneath him, panting against his skin, his fur a mess where Kitsunami had gripped too tight. But Miles never complained. If anything, he met every rough touch with one of his own, nails dragging, teeth sinking in, making sure Kitsunami would feel this in the morning.

And he would. He always did.

Their tails stayed tangled through it all, winding and tightening as they moved together, too caught up in the moment to care about anything else. Divorce didn’t matter. Custody didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was this—the way they fit, the way their bodies recognized something they both kept trying to forget.

Kitsunami pressed his forehead to Miles’ when it was over, their breath still uneven, their bodies still trembling. He could feel Miles' heartbeat against his own, could still taste the salt on his lips.

Neither of them spoke. They never did afterward.

Eventually, Kitsunami pulled away, reaching for his clothes. Miles didn’t stop him. He never did.

As Kitsunami buttoned his shirt, Miles finally broke the silence. "Same time next week?"

Kitsunami hesitated, just for a second. Then he nodded. "Yeah."

Miles smirked, lazy and satisfied. "Good."

Kitsunami left without another word.

The kids were still asleep. They’d never know a damn thing.

---

The morning came too soon.  

Miles stirred first, sluggish, his body aching in places he knew damn well why. The sheets beside him were empty, but that didn’t mean anything. Kit never stayed in bed after—it wasn’t like they had some sweet, drawn-out aftermath to savor. No cuddling, no whispered words. Just what they did, and then the silence that followed.  

Still, Miles lingered for a moment before forcing himself up, rolling his shoulders. Kit's scent was all over him. His fur was thick with it, clinging to his chest, his neck, and deep in his tails where they had tangled up sometime in the night. He gritted his teeth. It was always like this. No matter how many times they said it wouldn’t happen again, it did. And now here he was, trying to shake off the weight of it before facing the day.  

His ears twitched at the sound of soft voices down the hall.  

Kit. Talking to the kids.  

Miles exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his fur as he pulled on a fresh shirt. One thing about Kit—divorce or not, he was always up first. Always the one to make sure the kids had breakfast, to grumble over how Eden refused to eat her eggs, to joke with Su while fixing his hair.  

Miles should leave. Get out before things got too damn domestic. But instead, he found himself pausing in the doorway, watching.  

Kit was crouched in front of Eden, buttoning up her little jacket. She was still fighting sleep, ears flat against her head, clinging stubbornly to his wrist while he worked. Su sat at the table, lazily sipping his milk, watching them with those sharp eyes of his.  

"Morning, papa," Su muttered, setting his cup down.  

Kit barely glanced back at him. "Mornin’."  

Eden just made a tired little noise, nuzzling against his wrist, which made Kit huff, amused. "C’mon, Edie. You’re actin’ like I ain’t gonna see ya in a few days."  

"Don’t wanna go," Eden mumbled into his fur.  

Kit sighed, ruffling her ears, making them twitch. "I know, baby girl."  

Miles leaned against the doorway, clearing his throat. It was starting to feel like he was intruding. And wasn’t that just a joke? In his own damn house.  

Kit turned his head, giving him a look that wasn’t unreadable, but wasn’t hostile either. More like… acknowledgment. Like he was letting him have this.  

Miles stepped forward, kneeling by his kids, pressing a kiss to Eden’s soft fur, then another to Su’s forehead. His tails instinctively curled around them both, warmth wrapping between them.  

"I’ll pick you up after work," he murmured.  

"You always do," Su said, a little too perceptive for his age.  

Miles huffed, brushing his hair back. "Damn right."  

Kit watched them, quiet. Then, with an exaggerated grunt, he lifted Eden into his arms, settling her against his hip. "A’ight, say bye to your mama."  

Eden clung tighter, grumbling.  

Kit smirked, just slightly.  

Miles shook his head. "Be good for your papa, Edie."  

She didn’t answer, too busy nuzzling into Kit’s shoulder.  

Kit’s tail flicked. A knowing glance. A little victorious, even.  

Miles ignored it, straightening up.  

Time to go.  

---

The morning air was crisp as he swung a leg over his bike. The Yamaha rumbled beneath him, steady and familiar. He flicked the visor down, but even with the helmet on, he could still smell Kit on his fur.  

His grip on the handlebars tightened.  

Fuck’s sake.  

He revved the engine once, twice, trying to push the thought from his head. It didn’t matter. By the time he got to work, Kit’s scent would be gone. By the time he stepped into his lab, he’d be nothing but a lingering thought.  

That’s what he told himself, anyway.  

Notes:

i know no shit of bikes... but its yamaha so they prob have a bike...

19 year old pristinee façade was hard to keep up butt its been three years and im tired of ittt

in my façade i had 4 controversiossndsadnsas stuff

Chapter 30

Notes:

underground side hobby band au off the list

Kit had no business playing bass, and he knew it. He didn’t have the patience, didn’t have the finesse, didn’t have the soft-fingered touch that made the damn thing sing the way Miles did. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t trying. And, hell, it wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy it. The deep, thrumming pulse of the instrument vibrated through his bones, even when he was half-assing the technique. 

Still, Miles was the real musician here. Kit was just along for the ride, filling in the gaps with heavy drum fills and way too much force. 

“Again,” Miles said, strumming out the riff with ease. His voice carried the melody naturally, smooth and controlled, the kind of voice that could slip through a crowded venue and make everyone shut up just to listen. 

Kit plucked at the bass strings, fingers pressing down with just a little too much force. It buzzed again, not quite clean, and he hissed through his teeth. His paws weren’t made for this shit. 

Miles sighed, giving him that knowing look. “You’re gripping too hard again.” 

“I know.” Kit clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders. “That’s how I play.” 

“That’s how you drum.” 

Kit growled under his breath but loosened his grip, letting Miles guide his hands again. The way Miles’ fingers traced over his own should’ve annoyed him—should’ve made him twitchy and restless—but instead, it had the opposite effect. He let it happen. Let Miles’ warmth soak into him, let himself relax under the quiet control Miles had over his movements. 

They played through another verse. Miles’ voice was smooth as ever, threading through the notes like it belonged there, like the song was second nature. Kit stayed focused—for the most part. His hands weren’t bleeding yet, which meant he was at least doing better than last time. 

And yet, after a while, his ears flicked, and he tilted his head just slightly. 

“Miles.” 

“What?” 

“Break time.” 

Miles scoffed, not even looking up from his strings. “You don’t get breaks when you keep fucking up.” 

Kit smirked, leaning in. “Yeah, but I want one.” 

Miles’ eyes flicked up, catching the look on Kit’s face—the slow, lazy grin, the way his tail curled slightly behind him. Coy. Predictable. Dangerous. 

Miles didn’t have time to argue before Kit’s hands left the bass entirely, reaching for him instead. 

In an instant, Kit had his fingers hooked under Miles’ jaw, rough as hell but deliberate, tilting his head up just enough to close the gap between them. Their lips crashed together, and for a second, Miles considered pushing him off—considered reminding him that practice wasn’t over—but then Kit’s teeth scraped against his bottom lip, and yeah. That was the end of that thought. 

Miles’ hands tangled into Kit’s fur, bass forgotten between them. Kit kissed like he played—aggressive, relentless, devouring—and Miles let himself sink into it, let himself be pulled under for a moment. 

After a while, he pulled back just slightly, breathless. “You know,” he muttered, “this isn’t getting you out of practice.” 

Kit’s lips curled, sharp and satisfied. “Yeah, but it got me my break, didn’t it?” 

Miles exhaled through his nose, smirking. “Tch. Asshole.” 

Kit just laughed, leaning in again.

Notes:

ofofof forgot to rant here mbb gng

soo uhhh this au is altered to my own thing, mid way thorough i realized i was writing them wrong.

Chapter 31

Summary:

neat freak

Notes:

forgot to post this..
i really really love this one,, one of pristinee bests tbh

 

---

Kit’s paws were a mess.

Not in a way that made them unclean—Miles knew Kit was meticulous about hygiene. But his fur? Untamed, thick, wild. Fennecs already had extra fluff around their paws for desert terrain, but Kit? Kit was a whole other level. His fur was untrimmed, curling between his toes and spilling out in uneven tufts over the tops of his feet and fingers. It gave him a constantly unkempt, almost feral look—like some wild animal dragged into civilization but refusing to be tamed.

Miles had never really minded it, even if it meant Kit left tiny fur trails behind when he lounged on the couch too long.

Right now, though? Right now, those paws were being weaponized.

"Kit—!" Miles barely dodged another swing of the fennec’s foot, the thick fur on his toes brushing against Miles’ arm as Kit tried to kick him away. The fever-stricken menace was half-buried in blankets, face flushed from heat, ears twitching with agitation. His paws flexed with every tiny movement, and his crutches—previously out of reach—had somehow made their way back into his hands.

"Back up," Kit rasped, gripping one crutch and giving it a warning thump against the floor. His tail flicked irritably, but his ears were so heavy with fever that they drooped at the sides of his head. "I don’t want your tea."

Miles, standing just beyond the danger zone of Kit’s kicking range, let out an exhausted sigh. "I swear to Chaos, you are the worst patient."

"And you’re the worst nurse," Kit shot back. His paws flexed again, his toes curling slightly as he adjusted his blanket cocoon. "No one asked for your help."

Miles pinched the bridge of his nose. "Kit."

Kit shifted, his thick paw fluff ruffling as he adjusted his grip on the crutch. His fingers were hidden beneath layers of overgrown fur, his claws barely visible through the dense tufts. "Miles."

"Put the crutch down."

"Put the tea down."

Miles’ eye twitched. "You need fluids."

"I need you to leave me alone."

And then, just to make his point, Kit lifted his foot again and shoved it against Miles’ stomach—not hard enough to hurt, but enough that his thick, untrimmed fur tickled against Miles’ shirt.

Miles grabbed Kit’s ankle before he could retreat.

"What the hell is this?" Miles tugged at the fur between Kit’s toes, watching as the strands stretched slightly before bouncing back into place. "You don’t trim this?"

Kit immediately snatched his foot away, baring his teeth. "Get off my paws!"

Miles just raised a brow, sitting back. "You are so feral."

"You are so annoying," Kit snapped. He tucked his legs further under the blankets, glaring. "Don’t touch me with your nasty trimmed hands."

"Trimmed hands?" Miles deadpanned. "Are you calling me domesticated?"

"You are domesticated." Kit’s voice was hoarse, his fuchsia eyes burning through his fever. "You’re obsessed with hygiene. You clip your claws. You fold your socks before putting them away. You’re a loser."

Miles inhaled slowly. "I fold my socks because it’s efficient."

"It’s boring."

"Yeah?" Miles grabbed one of Kit’s crutches and yanked it away before Kit could react. "And hitting your husband with a crutch is feral, so I guess we balance each other out."

Kit hissed—actually hissed—and scrambled to snatch the crutch back, but his fever made him too slow. His untrimmed paws flexed against the blankets, claws twitching, but he was too exhausted to properly fight back.

"This is abuse," he grumbled, sinking back into his nest of blankets. His tail flicked, brushing against Miles’ arm. "I hate you."

Miles sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I love you too, babe."

Kit let out a low, irritated grumble—but when Miles reached forward again, carefully pressing a cool cloth against his forehead, he didn’t flinch away.

His paws, hidden under the blankets, flexed slightly before going still.

---

Miles stared at Kit for a long moment, the soft rise and fall of his chest almost too calming amidst the storm of irritation in the room. The crutch in his hand, now discarded on the floor beside the bed, was a gentle reminder of the chaos they'd been caught in—Kit’s frustration only growing with every offer of help.

 

The fennec’s expression softened, eyes half-lidded in that fevered haze, but his usual fierce glare remained, muted by exhaustion. Kit’s fur was a matted mess, the usually perfect fluff around his paws wild, untamed, and somehow still radiating that untouchable, feral energy that Miles found impossible to ignore. It was so Kit—so inherently him.

 

The sheer contrast between them was always so striking. Miles with his clean edges, neat appearance, and a tendency to keep things orderly; and Kit, whose untamed appearance, impulsive nature, and ever-present chaos made it hard to keep up.

 

"I don’t need a nurse," Kit muttered, voice muffled by the blankets he buried himself under, his paws now wrapped protectively around his crutch. "I’m not some helpless—"

 

"I know you’re not helpless," Miles interrupted with a sigh, still holding the damp cloth against Kit’s forehead. "But you need someone to keep you from doing something stupid."

 

Kit squinted at him from beneath his half-lowered lids. "You mean you need someone to watch you get all helplessly overbearing."

 

Miles leaned in, his expression half-exasperated, half-amused. "Not true. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t overdo it." He noticed how Kit's paw flexed beneath the blanket, fingers curling inwards like he wanted to strike, but lacked the energy to do so.

 

"I don’t need a babysitter," Kit grumbled, tail flicking irritably as it brushed against Miles’ side.

 

"Sure you don’t," Miles replied with a smirk, reaching forward to adjust the cloth on Kit’s forehead again. "That’s why you’ve been trying to kill me with your crutches and kicking me with your fuzzy, untrimmed paws."

 

Kit’s lip curled, clearly still not impressed with the teasing. "I don’t care about my paws," he muttered under his breath.

 

"You care about a lot of things you won’t admit," Miles said, brushing a few strands of fur out of Kit’s eyes. "Including how wild your paws look."

 

"Not my fault my fur's like this." Kit’s voice had dropped to a near-whine, but his ears were still pinned down in that irritatingly adorable way that made it hard for Miles not to smile. "It’s part of being a fennec."

 

Miles chuckled softly, leaning down to press a kiss to Kit’s forehead, feeling the heat from the fever still clinging to his skin. "Yeah, and yet you act like you're some wild animal that’s above hygiene."

 

"You’re just a neat freak," Kit shot back, his eyes narrowing even as he huffed, the irritation back in his voice. "There’s nothing wrong with it. I’m fine."

 

"Mmhm." Miles gave him a knowing look, but didn’t push it. "Well, I’m still making sure you drink the damn tea, whether you like it or not."

 

Kit’s ears flickered, a brief hint of wariness in his eyes. "You really are the worst nurse."

 

"I’m the best nurse," Miles said, but there was warmth in his voice that made the teasing sound more fond than anything. "The only reason you’re getting the tea is because I care, Kit. I don’t care if you’re annoyed with me right now."

 

Kit looked up at him, lips pressed into a stubborn line, but the heat in his cheeks and the soft, vulnerable look in his eyes said everything Miles needed to know. Kit wasn’t nearly as tough as he wanted to be. Not when it mattered most.

 

"Fine," Kit muttered, lowering his crutch and dropping it back onto the floor with a thud, defeated for the moment. "I’ll drink it. But only because you’re impossible."

 

Miles smiled, a genuine, soft smile that reached his eyes as he gently cupped Kit’s chin, lifting his head to press the warm tea to his lips.

 

"I know," he said softly, leaning down to kiss Kit’s forehead once more. "I’m impossible, and you love it."

 

Kit shot him a sly look, rolling his eyes. "You’re lucky you’re cute," he muttered, but he let himself be tenderly cared for, even if it was in the most Kit-like of ways—irritated, still with an edge, but clearly relishing the attention when he allowed himself to.

 

"I’ll take it," Miles said, sitting beside him and resting a hand on Kit’s fluffy shoulder. "Now just drink your tea, feral boy. Maybe you’ll feel better."

 

Kit shifted a little, settling deeper into the blankets, his paws still hidden from sight but twitching slightly as he relaxed.

 

"You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to strangle you," Kit mumbled, his eyes fluttering shut. "You’re a good husband."

 

Miles, ever so patient with the man he adored, simply smiled.

 

"I know," he murmured softly, letting Kit rest, his own fingers brushing lightly against Kit's fur as he settled beside him, feeling the warmth of the moment stretch longer, with a calm understanding that only came when the world outside faded away, and it was just the two of them.

 

Even if it meant handling Kit's chaotic paws.

Notes:

sorrowtech is used for heavier kittails stuff, so beware

im a italics all for convo girlie but yeah... life happpens

tails is a loser he folds his socks

Chapter 32

Kit sat on the couch, his robe hanging loose around his shoulders, exposing the messy tufts of damp fur on his chest. He had a drink in one hand, swirling the liquid absentmindedly before taking another slow sip. It burned in a way that felt right, sinking into his stomach like an old friend.  

 

Miles, sitting beside him, was on his second cigarette, his legs lazily stretched out in front of him, his tails draped over the couch’s edge. His fur still had that fresh, clean scent from his post-shower routine, his shorts clinging slightly to his thighs where his leg fur puffed out.  

 

They had been sitting in comfortable silence for a while now. Kit had been drinking at his own pace, quiet, reflective—not drunk, not sloppy, but thinking. Miles knew the look well.  

 

"You’re quiet," Miles murmured, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. The soft ember glowed in the dim lighting.  

 

Kit exhaled through his nose, his ears twitching slightly. "Just thinking," he said simply. His voice was a little rough, deep from the alcohol, but steady.  

 

Miles didn’t press. He just nodded, watching as Kit lifted his glass again.  

 

"You ever think about how different you could’ve been?" Kit asked suddenly, not looking at Miles, just staring into his drink. "Like, if things had been… I dunno. Better?"  

 

Miles exhaled a slow stream of smoke, considering. "Not really."  

 

Kit huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Figures."  

 

Miles flicked the ash off his cigarette. "You thinking about it?"  

 

"Yeah." Kit took another sip. "I don’t think I was supposed to be this guy, y’know?"  

 

Miles didn’t respond immediately, letting Kit talk.  

 

"I was supposed to be… I dunno. Something else." Kit’s ear twitched. "Somebody else."  

 

Miles tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. "You don’t like who you are?"  

 

Kit paused, then shrugged. "I do. I think. I just… I didn’t get here by choice."  

 

Miles hummed. "Nobody does."  

 

"Yeah, but—" Kit clicked his tongue. "I was built a certain way. Made to be something. And I fought it, I won, but… it’s still there. I think about it sometimes. If I had just gone along with it, let it happen."  

 

Miles took another slow drag. "You’d be miserable."  

 

Kit scoffed. "Yeah, no shit." He swirled his drink again, watching the liquid slosh against the glass. "But maybe I wouldn’t have known better. Maybe I would’ve just existed, and it would’ve been fine."  

 

Miles gave him a dry look. "You think you wouldn’t have known better? Kit, you get mad when you’re forced to eat a vegetable you don’t like. You think you could’ve just been programmed into obedience?"  

 

Kit snorted, shaking his head. "Guess not."  

 

Miles leaned back against the couch, cigarette between his fingers. "You are who you are. Maybe you were supposed to be something else. Maybe you were supposed to be worse. But you’re you, and you got here because you fought for it. Not because someone handed it to you."  

 

Kit let that settle in his mind, his fuchsia eyes flickering toward Miles. The way he said it—calm, matter-of-fact—like it was the simplest truth in the world.  

 

Kit sighed, taking another slow sip. "You always make it sound so easy."  

 

Miles smirked around his cigarette. "That’s because I’m smarter than you."  

 

Kit huffed, nudging Miles’ thigh with his foot. "Asshole."  

 

Miles chuckled, tapping his cigarette against the tray. "Drink your shit and go to bed."  

 

"Yeah, yeah…" Kit muttered, but he was already finishing his glass.

Notes:

its been a very very hot minute since i realized kittails is a small ship and anyone that wants to read about them just can open ao3 and see it

—> third time someonws foot nudged someone... this is getting scary,,

Chapter 33

Notes:

writers block or whateva im struggling to write again and just reusing my phrases

It was late morning, and the two of them were still tangled up in bed. Miles had no intention of moving just yet—not when Kit was wrapped around him like some oversized parasite, his water tendrils coiling around Miles’ waist and shoulders, stroking over his fur in slow, rhythmic motions. Kit barely had to lift a finger to keep up the gentle massage, and that smug little hum of satisfaction against Miles’ shoulder told him that Kit knew he was being spoiled.  

 

"You’re so damn lazy," Miles muttered, voice rough from sleep.  

 

"And you’re so damn comfy," Kit shot back, his face buried against Miles’ neck. His breath was warm against Miles’ fur, and his arms stayed locked around his husband’s thick middle, refusing to budge. "So why would I move?"  

 

Miles exhaled heavily, shifting against him but not actually pushing him off. Kit’s weight was solid, grounding. Even if he was an absolute menace, even if he was constantly draped over Miles at every possible opportunity, he knew exactly where to press, exactly how to move his tendrils to keep Miles relaxed.  

 

"Feels like you’re the one being spoiled here," Miles grumbled.  

 

"Mmm-hmm," Kit hummed noncommittally, tilting his head to nose at Miles’ neck. "And yet, here we are."  

 

A tendril slid up Miles’ back, moving in slow circles, pressing just enough to soothe the tension between his shoulder blades. Another ghosted down his side, slipping under his robe, dragging over the curve of his waist before tightening, possessive.  

 

"Fat ass," Kit mumbled, voice half muffled against Miles’ skin.  

 

Miles snorted, reaching back to flick Kit’s ear, making him grumble. "Shut up."  

 

"No, really," Kit continued, grinning against Miles’ neck. "I love your fat ass. All soft, all grabby—"  

 

"I said shut the hell up."  

 

Kit laughed, his tendrils squeezing just a little more before loosening. He stretched one of them out lazily, reaching toward the nightstand where he’d left his drink, all without actually removing himself from his husband's side.  

 

Miles rolled his eyes. "You could just use your hands."  

 

"Or," Kit said, completely unbothered, "I could keep snuggling you while my tendrils do all the work."  

 

Miles exhaled through his nose, not quite annoyed, but nowhere near impressed either. "Fucking spoiled rotten."  

 

"Yup." Kit took a sip of his drink, then rested it back on the nightstand before sighing and nuzzling further into Miles’ shoulder. "I love being your problem."  

 

Miles hummed, dragging a lazy hand down Kit’s back. "You’re lucky I love you."  

 

"I know," Kit purred, arms tightening around Miles’ middle. "Wouldn’t have it any other way."  

 

The bed was warm, the morning sun was filtering through the blinds, and Kit was settled against him like he had no intention of moving for the rest of the day.  

 

Not a bad way to wake up.  

 

But then Miles shifted, rubbing a hand over his face. "You wanna be useful? Go get me a smoke."  

 

Kit made a vague, disapproving noise, his hold tightening. "Mm-mm. Too comfy."  

 

"Then what the hell do I keep you around for?" Miles muttered.  

 

"Warmth, emotional support, compliments about your fat tits," Kit listed off lazily. "Also, I do your bloodwork."  

 

"I do your bloodwork, dumbass."  

 

"Yeah, well," Kit shrugged against him, his tendrils giving a little squeeze. "You like doing it."  

 

Miles just sighed, shaking his head. "You’re impossible."  

 

"And yet you’re still here," Kit murmured, grinning. "Guess that means you love me."  

 

Miles huffed, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted slightly, rolling onto his side so he could face Kit properly. His blue-brown eyes flickered over his husband’s face, taking in the way his messy hair spilled over his shoulders, the way his ears twitched slightly as if listening for any sign that Miles was about to get up and ruin his perfect little cocoon of warmth.  

 

He really was spoiled.  

 

"You’re a pain in my ass," Miles said, but the words were softened by the way his fingers brushed over Kit’s side. "But yeah. I love you, idiot."  

 

Kit hummed, eyes half-lidded, smug as ever. "Knew it."

Notes:

chubby miles,, i love him chubby,, and smokin'...

 

i am this 🤏🏻 close to relapsing

Chapter 34

Notes:

digging through my old fics found this old gem and i just remade it,, this shit is old as my bendystraw fics

The apartment was dim, the overhead light flickering slightly from a faulty bulb Miles kept forgetting to change. The living room smelled of stale smoke, the acrid scent clinging to the fabric of the old couch where Kitsunami sat, one leg bouncing restlessly. The window was cracked just enough to let the haze escape, but not enough to kill the atmosphere. He liked the way it made the room feel—thick, slow, dreamlike.  

 

His fingers, rough and calloused, tapped against his thigh as he took another drag from his cigarette, inhaling deep, letting the burn settle in his lungs before exhaling in a slow, deliberate stream. His eyes, wild and distant, followed the swirling patterns the smoke made in the dim light. The pills were already settling in, making everything feel a little sharper and a little softer at the same time.  

 

It wasn’t like he needed them. No, of course not. But they made things easier. Made the weight in his chest feel lighter, made the static in his head hum at a more tolerable frequency. And the cigarette? Well, that was just a habit. A ritual. Something to do with his hands while his thoughts twisted into shapes he couldn’t quite grasp.  

 

His foot bounced faster. His free hand twitched, fingers curling against his knee like he was playing an invisible drum. He could feel the edge of something pressing against his ribs, something hot and restless, something like laughter that wasn’t really his. He licked his lips, tasting nicotine and something metallic, something old.  

 

The front door clicked open.  

 

Miles.  

 

Kit exhaled sharply, turning his head just enough to watch his husband step inside. The taller fox was already frowning, blue-brown eyes narrowing as they locked onto him. Miles didn’t say anything right away. He just stood there, taking in the scene—Kit slouched on the couch, cigarette burning between his fingers, pupils blown wide, expression caught somewhere between fascinated and feral.  

 

Miles sighed, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

 

“You took your meds, didn’t you?” His voice was quiet, but not soft.  

 

Kit grinned, sharp and lopsided. “Maybe.”  

 

Miles' lips pressed together. He stepped closer, slipping out of his jacket and tossing it onto the armrest before kneeling in front of Kit, between his legs, close enough that Kit could smell the faint trace of coffee on his breath. Miles reached forward, taking the cigarette from Kit’s fingers with an ease that spoke of practice. He crushed it into the ashtray without breaking eye contact.  

 

Kit watched him, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His fingers twitched like they wanted to grab something—Miles’ wrist, his hair, his face.  

 

“You’re looking at me like you wanna bite me,” Miles murmured.  

 

Kit exhaled, a shaky little laugh escaping him. “I do wanna bite you.” His voice was low, teasing, but there was something real underneath it. Something hungry. Something cracked open.  

 

Miles sighed again, softer this time. He lifted a hand, brushing his thumb over Kit’s cheek, feeling the way his skin burned just beneath the surface.  

 

“You’re running hot,” he murmured.  

 

Kit’s eyes flickered, something shifting behind them. His grin faltered, but only for a second. “Yeah. So?”  

 

“So,” Miles said, shifting closer, “you need to come down.”  

 

Kit tilted his head, his grin creeping back up. “Make me.”  

 

Miles inhaled slowly. Then, with steady hands, he reached up and tugged Kit down into a kiss, slow and grounding. Kit made a noise in the back of his throat, something caught between a growl and a whimper, but he didn’t pull away. His hands finally found something to hold onto—Miles’ shoulders, his waist, his hair.  

 

The static in his head didn’t disappear, but for a moment, just a moment, it didn’t feel so loud.

Notes:

hey... promotion here... i will write kitsunami dying...

Chapter 35

Summary:

3/19/25

Notes:

fankid stuff,, miss em

The house was quiet, the kind of late-afternoon stillness that came when everything had settled just right. The TV was on, but the volume was low, just a murmur in the background. The curtains swayed slightly from the open window, letting in the fresh air, and on the couch, sprawled out like he had nowhere better to be, was Kitsunami—one arm resting on the back of the couch, legs spread lazily, looking like he hadn't moved in hours.  

 

And in his lap, tucked against his chest, was his little girl.  

 

Melody was a tiny thing, barely big enough to fill his paws, but she had already made herself comfortable. She was nestled against him, her little body warm against his stomach, soft paws resting against his fur. Her big, unfocused eyes blinked up at him every so often, her little ears twitching when he shifted. She wasn’t doing much—just lying there, just existing—but that was enough.  

 

Kit wasn’t used to sitting still. He wasn’t built for it. His whole life, he’d been in motion—fighting, running, surviving. But for her, for this little bundle of fur that had somehow ended up in his arms, he could sit still. He could be quiet.  

 

He sighed, rubbing a slow, lazy circle over her tiny back with his calloused thumb. “You gonna keep starin’ at me all day?” he murmured, looking down at her.  

 

Melody didn’t answer, obviously. She just blinked at him. Then, after a moment, she let out a tiny noise—a soft, squeaky little coo that barely made a sound.  

 

Kit snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”  

 

Beside him, the bag of chips crinkled as he reached for it. He wasn’t even hungry, really—just bored. Melody wasn’t old enough to do much yet, and Kit wasn’t the type for baby talk or playing peekaboo. So, he did the only logical thing: he sat with her and ate snacks.  

 

Melody, however, was instantly interested in the sound of the chip bag.  

 

Her little ears perked, her big eyes locked onto the movement, and her tiny hands twitched, as if trying to reach for it.  

 

Kit raised a brow. “You can’t eat this,” he told her flatly.  

 

Melody didn’t understand, obviously. She just kept staring, utterly fascinated by the crinkling noise.  

 

Kit rolled his eyes and pulled a chip out. “Fine. Look. This is what’s so exciting.” He held it up in front of her, watching as she focused all of her tiny attention on it.  

 

For a moment, she just blinked at it. And then—  

 

Drool.  

 

A long, slow dribble rolled down her chin, straight onto the chip.  

 

Kit groaned. “Oh, come on.”  

 

Melody just cooed, completely unbothered, her tiny fingers making weak little grabby motions.  

 

Kit stared at the chip. Looked at her. Then back at the chip.  

 

With a tired sigh, he tossed it back into the bag. “You’re a menace,” he muttered.  

 

Melody kicked her little legs, utterly delighted.  

 

Kit shook his head, adjusting her slightly so she wouldn’t slide off his lap. “You don’t even know what food is, do you?” he muttered, rubbing a slow, absentminded circle against her back. “You just wanna get your tiny little paws on everything.”  

 

Melody responded by making another happy noise, her tail twitching slightly.  

 

Kit huffed a quiet laugh. She really was something else.  

 

And then—  

 

The door creaked open.  

 

The second the sound hit the air, Melody froze. Her tiny ears twitched, her little body going still as if she was processing what she’d just heard. And then, like a light switch had flipped, she started wiggling.  

 

A tiny, excited squeak bubbled out of her. Her little paws flexed, her legs kicked, and she turned toward the door with wide, unblinking eyes.  

 

Kit barely had time to react before she started struggling.  

 

“Hey, hey, hey—” He caught her with one hand, steadying her as she tried to push herself up. “Relax, tiny.”  

 

Melody did not relax. If anything, she wiggled harder.  

 

The door shut, footsteps approached, and then—  

 

“Oh, is someone happy to see me?”  

 

Miles’ voice was warm, amused, and the second Melody heard it, she let out another delighted squeak.  

 

Kit smirked. “You’re gonna make her cry if you don’t pick her up fast enough.”  

 

And sure enough, Melody’s little face was already scrunching up, her eyes big and desperate as she reached her tiny arms toward the sound of her mother’s voice.  

 

Miles laughed softly, setting his things down and moving toward them. “Oh, my little love, did you miss me?”  

 

Melody responded with an urgent babble, her little hands waving in the air.  

 

Miles melted immediately. “Oh, come here, sweetheart,” he murmured, scooping her up into his arms.  

 

The second she was against him, Melody let out a happy little sigh, nuzzling into his chest, her tiny fingers clutching at his fur like she never wanted to let go.  

 

Kit snorted, leaning back into the couch. “She was fine two seconds ago.”  

 

Miles kissed the top of her head, inhaling her baby scent. “Well, I can’t help it if I’m her favorite.”  

 

Kit rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance there. If anything, there was something warm in the way he watched them, something soft in the way his hand lingered on the bag of chips beside him, as if he was debating whether or not to grab another—  

 

Until—  

 

Melody shifted just slightly in Miles’ arms.  

 

And let out a tiny, satisfied burp.  

 

Right onto Miles’ shirt.  

 

Kit blinked. Then, slowly, a smirk spread across his face.  

 

“Oh,” he drawled. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”  

 

Miles groaned, pulling her back slightly to inspect the damage. A tiny wet patch, right on his fur. Melody, of course, looked perfectly content, blinking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.  

 

Miles sighed. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, shaking his head.  

 

Kit snickered. “Told you. She’s a menace.”  

 

Melody yawned, curling up tighter against Miles’ chest.  

 

Kit watched as Miles sighed again, his expression softening as he cradled their daughter close, rubbing tiny circles into her back the same way Kit had earlier.  

 

“…She really missed you,” Kit murmured after a moment, voice quieter now.  

 

Miles glanced at him, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, a small, tired smile.  

 

“I missed her, too.”  

 

The house, somehow, felt even warmer than before.

Notes:

obsessed with the idea of kitsunami being a messy father,, not a bad one but not a good one either

not specified enough, but kitsunami is a demiguy, so is miles, except miles is having an identity crisis and feels selfish enough to officially label himself.

[1] Melody's design might and probably will change over time. I'm still having thoughts about her.
[2] Fankid lore will change

Chapter 36

Summary:

> 3/24/25

Notes:

[1] practice stuff as i still don't like my Miles personalizition

[2] fluff

Kit sat hunched over the kitchen counter, squinting at the massive Augmentin pill in his palm like it had personally offended him. His ears flicked back in irritation, his hair a mess from tossing and turning all day. He wasn’t exactly sick sick, but he was sick enough for Miles to shove this horse pill at him and demand he take it.  

 

He could already hear Miles moving around in the other room, making himself comfortable like he always did after coming back home. Kit could picture it without looking—Miles pulling off that stupidly fitted button-up, tossing it onto a chair like he’d totally pick it up later, then stepping out of his dark-wash jeans with that slow, lazy ease that only he could pull off. If Kit turned his head now, he knew he’d see Miles in his usual lounging attire: some worn-out T-shirt that draped just right over his broad shoulders and a pair of loose sweats, probably rolled at the waist because Miles hated when they bunched up too high.  

 

And of course, he’d look stupidly good. Because Miles always looked stupidly good, even when he was being a little unhinged.  

 

Kit scowled at the pill again before tossing it back with a gulp of water, wincing as it went down. His ears flattened as he wiped his mouth, shuffling towards the couch where his husband had already claimed his spot.  

 

Sure enough, Miles was there, sprawled out in the most unbothered way possible, hair still slightly tousled from changing clothes, one arm stretched over the back of the couch like he had no worries in the world. His blue-brown eyes were lidded, giving him that half-aware, vaguely smug look that drove Kit insane sometimes.  

 

"You take it?" Miles hummed without looking up, lazily drumming his fingers against the cushion.  

 

Kit grunted, flopping onto the couch beside him with a huff. "I took it."  

 

Miles made a pleased noise, shifting slightly to let Kit lean against him. "Good. Maybe now you'll stop whining about it."  

 

Kit grumbled something incoherent, pressing his forehead against Miles' shoulder. Miles was warm—stupidly warm, considering Kit ran hotter than most. But Kit still curled closer, practically draping himself over Miles like a heavy blanket. His tail thumped against the couch a couple of times before settling.  

 

They didn’t talk for a while after that, and that was fine. They never needed to.  

 

Kit exhaled slowly, melting into the steady rise and fall of Miles' breathing. His chest rumbled faintly, not quite a purr but something close, and Miles responded by running his fingers through Kit’s hair in slow, absentminded motions.  

 

"You smell like medicine," Miles murmured after a while, nose scrunching slightly.  

 

"Yeah? You smell like trouble," Kit muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.  

 

Miles snorted, the corner of his lips quirking up. "That a complaint?"  

 

Kit didn't answer, just buried his face deeper against Miles’ collarbone.  

 

Yeah. They were lazy. But they had nowhere else to be.

Notes:

these augmentin pills piss me OFF. i want them gone.

> cramps are hitting so hard i wish i had he/him on my bio

[1] Kitsunami is always sick, his body wasn’t made for living, it was made for destruction. So, the older he gets, the more health problems he gets.
[2]Miles is insane, no sugar coating it, the older he gets the more bossy he gets.

Chapter 37

Kit was sulking.  

 

Not the kind of playful, teasing sulk Miles could nudge him out of with a joke, but the deep, grumpy kind that settled into his bones like a cat who’d been denied its favorite sunspot. He sat stiffly on the woven mat, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the waves as if they had personally wronged him. The ocean breeze did little to cool the heat creeping up his back, thanks to Miles’ damn sunscreen attack.  

 

Miles knew better than to push him when he got like this. He just sat beside him, sipping from his coconut, pretending not to notice the storm cloud hovering over Kit’s head.   

 

A long moment passed. Then, Kit exhaled sharply, muttering, “Where’s my mint?”  

 

Miles bit back a smile. “It’s in the cooler.”  

 

Kit didn’t move. He just side-eyed him, fuchsia eyes sharp with irritation.   

 

Sighing dramatically, Miles set down his drink and leaned over to the cooler, digging through the ice until he found one of Kit’s beers. He popped the cap off against the edge of the mat—smoothly, effortlessly—before handing it over.  

 

Kit snatched it, grumbling under his breath, but the second the bottle touched his lips, his whole demeanor shifted. His shoulders relaxed. His scowl eased just a little. He took a long, slow sip, letting the cold bitterness soothe whatever invisible offense had ruined his mood.   

 

Miles watched, amused. “Feel better, old man?”  

 

Kit shot him a look. “I’m forty, not fucking eighty.”  

 

“You sure? You act like a cranky senior cat when you don’t get your ‘mint.’”  

 

Kit took another sip, deliberately slow, before deadpanning, “And you act like a hyper golden retriever whenever the sun’s out.”  

 

Miles laughed, leaning back on his hands. “Yeah, and yet, you still married me.”  

 

Kit huffed, but there was no real bite to it this time. “Yeah. Still regretting that part.”  

 

Miles just smirked, tilting his head toward him. “Liar.”  

 

Kit didn’t argue. He just took another sip of his beer, letting the waves and the warmth of the evening settle around them. His mood might have been ruined earlier, but at least now, with his “mint” in hand, things didn’t seem so bad.

Notes:

–> i love them middle aged n kit cranky...

Chapter 38

Notes:

i like simple kittails where theyre in beach n doing romantic shit ever

expect more of this summer kittails shit

[1] Beach kittails off the list eyy

The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and soft purple, the waves lazily rolling in as a cool breeze drifted over the beachside bar. It was the perfect kind of evening—calm, comfortable, and exactly what Miles had planned.  

 

He was relaxed, leaning against the wooden bar counter, sipping on his slushie. The cold drink was sweet and refreshing, the bright red syrup staining the inside of his straw as he took slow, thoughtful sips. It was his second one of the night, and he had no regrets.  

 

Kit, on the other hand, was swirling whiskey in a lowball glass, the amber liquid catching the dim bar lights. His slippers were kicked off, his capri-clad legs lazily spread, and he sat with all the confidence in the world—his unbuttoned white shirt hanging loosely off his shoulders, his stubble-covered smirk ever-present as he watched Miles with an almost dangerous amusement.  

 

"You’re drinking a slushie." Kit’s voice was smooth, teasing.

 

Miles didn’t even look up. "Yes, I am."  

 

Kit took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the burn settle before speaking. "You’re a full-grown man."  

 

Miles finally met his gaze, his blue-brown eyes narrowing slightly. "And?"  

 

Kit leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, his smirk growing. "You could be drinking something with a little more… kick."  

 

Miles, without breaking eye contact, took a long, obnoxious sip of his slushie, the straw making a loud, wet slurp as he sucked up the icy mix.  

 

Kit grinned. 

 

"Damn," he murmured, swirling his whiskey again. "Didn’t know my husband was a menace."  

 

"You married me," Miles reminded him, deliberately sipping again.

 

Kit exhaled a laugh, tilting his head. "Yeah, and I’d do it again."  

 

Miles paused for just a moment—just long enough for heat to creep up his neck, for his fingers to tighten slightly around his plastic cup. Kit wasn’t even trying to be smooth—he was just saying it. Like it was obvious.

 

Like there was no world where he wouldn’t want Miles.  

 

The slushie suddenly felt too cold against his lips, so he set it down, clearing his throat. "You—"  

 

"What? You flustered?"  

 

Miles immediately scowled. "I am not flustered."  

 

Kit smirked. "Sure you’re not, professor."  

 

Miles hated how good that sounded.  

 

He hated how Kit knew it.

 

Because Kit just sat back, taking another lazy sip of his whiskey, his smugness radiating off him like he had already won.

 

And Miles?  

 

Miles picked up his slushie, downed half of it, and pretended his face wasn’t burning.

Notes:

I would like to say, I'm not accepting any constructive critisim.

[1] If ya' know me on tiktok u'll know i posted concept of my own kitsunami, this one is a directly him lol
[2] Miles is full figured, he is also in his mid 30s. so is Kitsunami.

Chapter 39

Summary:

Fankid stuff
4 snippets

Notes:

special thanks to my beta reader slave rei ✌🏻

pisstine actually remade the hcs too yes it means u gotta check it

---

The door creaks open. The warmth of the house spills into the cold night, curling around Su’s too-thin frame, but it doesn’t reach inside him. He grips the strap of his bag too tight, his fingers stiff from the cold. Melody is already inside, watching from the hallway, her expression unreadable.

His father stands by the couch. Arms crossed. Kitsunami isn’t angry. Not loudly, at least. But disappointment drapes over him like an old, tattered coat.

His mother, though—Miles is already stepping forward, already cupping Su’s face with warm, trembling hands, as if he can’t believe he’s real.

“Oh, baby,” Miles breathes, eyes soft and wet. His thumbs brush under Su’s tired eyes, over the sharp lines of his face. “My sweet boy. You’ve gotten so thin.”

Su can’t look at him. “Ma.” His voice cracks.

“Come inside,” Miles pleads. His hands won’t let go. His warmth is suffocating, sweet and cloying.

He shouldn’t have come.

But he does.

---

Dinner is warm. Too warm. The scent of spices, of home, of something safe, makes his stomach knot itself into something painful.

Su barely eats. Miles notices. Of course, he does.

“You’re not eating enough,” Miles frets, scooping another spoonful onto Su’s plate. “Are you eating well? Do you have groceries at home? You’ve always been picky, but this is worse than before—”

“Ma.” Su sighs, picking at the rice with his spoon . “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Miles’ tone is gentle, but the weight of it settles in Su’s chest. “You look exhausted, baby.”

Across the table, Kitsunami exhales sharply, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say much of anything.

Su can feel his father’s eyes on him. Not hateful. Not angry. Just… disappointed.

Miles, either ignoring or pretending not to notice, slides more food onto Su’s plate. “Eat. Please.”

Su obeys.

---

They talk about nothing. About the news. About the neighbors. About Melody’s grades.

Miles keeps touching him. Light brushes against his hand, fingertips grazing over his wrist. Little reminders that he’s still loved, still wanted. It makes Su’s stomach churn.

Kitsunami barely speaks. And when he does, it’s just—

“You still smoking?”

Su shrugs. “Yeah.”

A long pause. His father’s jaw tenses. “Figures.”

Miles glares at him. “Kit.”

Kitsunami sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just saying. Ain’t much I can say that’d change his mind, anyway.”

Su clenches his fists under the table. “Yeah. You’re right.”

His father doesn’t argue. Just looks at him. Sees him. Sees everything wrong.

Su drops his gaze, staring into his half-empty bowl.

---

Hours pass. Melody is the first to retreat to her room, tired of the silence. Kitsunami is next, disappearing upstairs with nothing more than a gruff, “Night.”

Only Miles stays.

Su leans back on the couch, cigarette dangling between his fingers. His mother sits beside him, curled close, playing with the loose strands of his fur. The touch should be irritating. But it isn’t.

“You could stay, you know,” Miles says softly. “Just for the night.”

Su lets the smoke curl from his lips. “…Don’t think Dad wants that.”

Miles frowns. “He doesn’t hate you, baby.”

“No.” Su stares at the ceiling. “But he doesn’t forgive me, either.”

A quiet sigh. Miles leans his head against Su’s shoulder, warm and safe and everything Su has been avoiding for years.

“You don’t have to fix everything tonight,” Miles whispers. “But you’re still my son, Su. No matter what.”

His throat tightens. He nods, just barely.

They sit like that for a while.

Tomorrow, he’ll leave.

But tonight, at least, he lets himself be held.

Notes:

–> wont be beta reading notes for whateva

[1] Miles aint the saint either, he just ignoring the problem, acting like theres nothing wrong. Ironic when you realize Sonic is like him in a way, instead of ignoring he runs away, which is the same thing in different font. Siblings copy each other really.

[2] Su has serious issues, he is an harm to others and himself, so he is expelled.

Chapter 40: Study Exercise

Summary:

No fankids eh...

Notes:

idk how to write surge or anyone that aint kittails or my ocs so im experimenting

[1] Implied Surge/Lanolin
[2] Mentioned Lanolin

The beach stretched endlessly before them, the tide rolling in and out in a steady, lazy rhythm. The sun had been out all afternoon, burning high in the sky, and now, as it began to settle lower, the golden hour bathed everything in soft hues of amber and pink. The breeze was warm, carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen, and the distant calls of seagulls mixed with the muffled laughter of families still lingering by the shore.  

 

Kitsunami was sitting on a towel, drink in hand, posture loose and lazy. The condensation from his bottle dripped onto his leg, mixing with the dried salt on his skin. His body looked like a battlefield—scars lined his arms, his chest, even his legs, all remnants of a life spent in violence. Deep gashes, thin scratches, old burns—all of it told a story. If he wore them differently, he might have looked like some hardened war veteran, a relic of past fights and battles long forgotten.  

 

But noo. His face ruined the whole image.  

 

There was nothing grizzled about Kitsunami’s expression, nothing cold or distant in his easy smirk. He was a charmer, through and through, with that casual confidence that made it seem like he hadn’t earned a single one of those wounds. Like he could get away with anything, slip out of any trouble, sweet-talk his way through life. It made his scars seem less like war stories and more like decorations, things he wore because they suited him.  

 

Surge, on the other hand, was the real thing.  

 

She sat in a beach chair beside him, long legs stretched out, sunglasses perched on her nose, her expression locked in perpetual irritation. She was ranting—had been for the past twenty minutes—one hand gesturing wildly as she spoke, the other gripping a half-empty can of something strong.  

 

“—And then they had the audacity to tell me I should’ve handled it differently.” She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Differently, my ass! If I didn’t put my foot down, those idiots would’ve walked all over me.”  

 

Kit took a slow sip from his drink, savoring the cold burn of alcohol before responding. “Should’ve punched ‘em.”  

 

“Oh, believe me, I wanted to.” She adjusted her sunglasses, scowling. “But Lanolin gave me that look, so I had to play nice.” She sighed, stretching her arms over her head. “Marriage, man. It’s a fucking trap.”  

 

Kit smirked, but his attention drifted toward the towel beside him.  

 

Miles was sprawled out on his stomach, sunbathing, his fur practically glowing under the warm light. His ears flicked occasionally at their conversation, but he didn’t lift his head, too comfortable in his own space. His tails lay still behind him, twitching only when the breeze shifted.  

 

Kit watched him for a moment before setting his drink down and shifting onto his side. He pressed his chin against Miles’ shoulder, lips brushing against sun-warmed fur.  

 

“You awake?”  

 

Miles let out a muffled noise, somewhere between a hum and a grunt, his fingers twitching slightly against the towel.  

 

Kit grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”  

 

Surge groaned. “Can you not be disgusting while I’m ranting?”  

 

Kit ignored her, nuzzling closer, his nose pressing against the crook of Miles’ neck. The scent of salt and sunblock filled his senses, and he let out a pleased sigh.  

 

Miles finally cracked an eye open, glancing at him with mild annoyance. “You reek of alcohol.”  

 

Kit smirked, unfazed. “It’s called vacation, babe.”  

 

Miles huffed, exhaling against his own arm. “You’re blocking my sun.”  

 

“Guess you’ll have to deal with it.”  

 

Surge rolled her eyes, stretching out with a dramatic groan. “Ugh, you two make me sick.”  

 

Kit glanced at her over his shoulder, lazily. “That’s the alcohol talking.”  

 

She flipped him off without hesitation.  

 

Kit just laughed, shifting back to grab his drink. The warmth of Miles’ body lingered on his skin, and he let himself sink into the moment. The sound of the waves, the golden sun dipping lower, the easy presence of his sister, his boyfriend’s warmth beside him—it was one of those rare, stupidly peaceful days.  

 

For now, at least, life was good.

Notes:

ok i know like i need to release the angst shit but likeeee i love editing fluff shit more than hurt/comfort

Chapter 41

Summary:

too many postssaveme

Notes:

author just got out from psychosis

[1]chub miles

Kit didn’t have some weird obsession with it or anything. He just… liked Miles.  

 

Loved him, really.  

 

And if that meant loving the way Miles sprawled across the bed after a big meal, lazily rubbing his stomach with that soft, satisfied look on his face, then so be it.  

 

Didn’t mean anything. Didn’t have to mean anything.  

 

Kit reached out, pressing his palm against Miles’ stomach without much thought. His hand fit easily there, warm against the soft give of Miles’ skin, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. Miles barely reacted, just hummed lightly, eyes half-lidded as he shifted under Kit’s touch.  

 

“You’re touchy today,” Miles mumbled, smirking slightly.  

 

Kit grunted. “Shut up.”  

 

Miles chuckled, stretching slightly before settling again. “You just love me, huh?”  

 

Kit didn’t answer immediately. His fingers absently traced little circles along Miles’ side, feeling the familiar warmth of him, the comfortable weight of his presence. He didn’t have to think about it. He just did it.  

 

“…Yeah,” he said finally, a little gruff, a little quieter. “I do.”  

 

Miles blinked, and for a moment, his smirk faltered, his ears twitching slightly. Then, slowly, his grin softened into something smaller, something fond.  

 

“Well,” Miles murmured, reaching up to brush his fingers against Kit’s jaw, “good.”  

 

Kit huffed. “You’re gonna be my husband someday.”  

 

Miles snorted. “Oh, yeah?”  

 

“Yeah.”  

 

“No proposal?”  

 

Kit scowled. “I’ll do it when I feel like it.”  

 

Miles smirked. “So never?”  

 

Kit flicked his forehead.  

 

Miles laughed, loud and warm, and Kit felt his chest tighten with something stupid and fond. He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t have to.  

 

He just leaned down, pressing his forehead against Miles’, his hand resting against his chest, still feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.  

 

Yeah. He loved him. That was all.

 

Notes:

i dont have fat fetish or whateva

at this point i only read the drafts n publish thrm after editinf a lil

Chapter 42

Notes:

cw
sexual assault

—> vent fic, would appreciate if yall read the end notes also

---

Miles’ tiny apartment was messy in the kind of way that said, I clean when I remember, not I don’t care. The blinds were half-shut, letting in just enough of the city’s pink-orange glow to keep the room dim and sleepy. Old movie credits played muted on the screen. A bowl of pretzels sat abandoned beside a pile of plastic bottles—some still half-full from the drinks Kit had pulled from the cramped little fridge Miles kept beside his desk.

 

“I think you have every flavor of wine cooler except grape,” Kit muttered, glancing at the rainbow-colored graveyard in front of him.

 

Miles snorted from the carpet. “Grape’s gross.”

 

“You’re gross,” Kit replied casually, tipping back another bottle and grimacing. “This one tastes like toothpaste.”

 

“You picked it.”

 

“You offered it.”

 

They lay in silence for a while after that. Not uncomfortable—just warm and buzzy, both of them stretched out on opposite ends of the blanket pile, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. Miles’ tail flicked occasionally against Kit’s foot, more on accident than not. Kit didn’t move it.

 

The soft clink of glass filled the space as Kit reached for another drink, then passed it along instead of opening it. Miles took it with one hand, too lazy to sit up.

 

“You ever think about being a kid?” Miles asked after a long pause, voice low, almost breathless.

 

Kit blinked at the ceiling. “Sometimes. Not often. Why?”

 

“I don’t know.” Miles swirled the drink without sipping it. “I guess I’ve just been thinking a lot tonight. This whole—sleepover thing.”

 

“You called it a hangout, not a sleepover.”

 

“You made it a sleepover by bringing a toothbrush.”

 

Kit grinned but didn’t argue.

 

Miles was quiet again. Too quiet, now. Not the sleepy buzzed kind of quiet—something else. Something weighed down. His fingers pressed the bottle against his stomach.

 

“I had this memory come up the other day,” he murmured, so softly Kit had to stop moving to hear it. “I hadn’t thought about it in… Chaos, maybe over a decade.”

 

Kit turned his head. “You okay?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Silence.

 

“There was this woman,” Miles said. “She used to come to the garage where my father worked. I was helping there a lot—fixing stuff, handing him tools. I was eleven. She came in all the time, always smiling, always complimenting me. I thought she was nice.”

 

Kit didn’t speak. His breath caught a little, but he stayed still. Listening.

 

“She always found ways to touch me. My ears, my arms. She’d lean in too close, say things like ‘You’re gonna be such a handsome man.’ I didn’t… I didn’t get it then. I thought she was just being flirty, and flirty didn’t mean anything bad. Right?”

 

Kit stayed quiet.

 

“She’d press up behind me when I was crouching. Grab my shoulder, let her hand slide a little. Say something like, ‘Oops.’” Miles paused, eyes drifting. “One time she asked me to help her with her bike behind the shop, and I was dumb enough to follow.”

 

The bottle in Kit’s hand was clenched tight now. His knuckles had gone white, but he said nothing.

 

“She cornered me. Put her hand up my shirt. Smiled the whole time like it was a game. Like I was in on it. And I didn’t know—I didn’t understand what was happening until years later.”

 

Kit’s voice was low when it came. “Miles…”

 

“I didn’t tell anyone close to me.” Miles swallowed. “I thought maybe I liked it. Or maybe I was supposed to. But it felt wrong. And I carried that wrongness for years thinking it was my fault. Like I let it happen. Like I didn’t say no loud enough.”

 

“You were eleven,” Kit said sharply.

 

“I know.”

 

“No. You were eleven, Miles.”

 

His tone was sharp with hurt—on his behalf—but Miles didn’t react. He just looked dazed, lost in the fog of memory and guilt and shame. His voice trembled.

 

“I keep thinking… maybe I would’ve grown up different. Softer. Happier. If she didn’t take that from me.”

 

Kit sat up then, dragging the blanket aside and moving to sit beside him. He didn’t touch him—didn’t try to comfort with hands that could easily overwhelm. He just knelt, close enough that Miles could reach if he wanted.

 

“You are soft,” Kit whispered. “Even if you hide it. You’re still you.”

 

“But I feel like I missed something. Like I jumped ahead in the game without understanding the rules. I was so scared of people touching me for years. And when I did figure out what sex was, all I could think about was her face. The way she smiled. The smell of oil and lavender.”

 

Miles looked at him finally, and his eyes were red. Not crying—but close. His mouth trembled like he wanted to say something else, but it got stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.

 

“I hate that she still lives in here,” he whispered, pressing his fingers to his temple. “She got five minutes of my life and she planted herself like a weed.”

 

Kit reached out, slow and deliberate, resting a hand on his knee.

 

“You’re not alone with it,” he said. “You’re not a kid anymore. And she doesn’t get to win. Not when you’re here. Not when you’ve built so much of yourself around surviving her.”

 

Miles laughed—sharp and bitter. “Built myself around surviving. That’s a nice way to say ‘damaged.’”

 

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Kit said, and the honesty made Miles blink. “But you’re still here. You didn’t rot. You grew. Crooked, maybe. But still alive. Still kind. Still mine.”

 

The last words slipped out unthinking, and Kit froze a second too late.

 

Miles looked at him, face unreadable.

 

“You mean that?”

 

Kit nodded, even though he looked nervous. “I know we haven’t talked about it. I didn’t want to push. But yeah. I meant it.”

 

Miles looked at him a long time. “You always say it like I’m fragile. Like I’ll run.”

 

“Because sometimes you do.”

 

Fair enough.

 

Miles exhaled, leaning forward, head dropping to Kit’s shoulder. “Don’t talk right now. Just… stay.”

 

And Kit did.

 

He wrapped one arm around him slowly, other hand resting on the back of Miles’ neck. No motion. No soothing circles. Just presence. The kind that didn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that said, I’m not going anywhere.

 

They stayed like that for a long time, the fridge humming softly beside them, the city sounds distant and harmless. Miles’ breath slowed. His fingers found Kit’s hoodie and held on like it was an anchor.

 

After a while, his voice came again, small.

 

“I don’t cry a lot.”

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“I want to, but I can’t. It’s like the tears are stuck in my bones.”

 

Kit rested his cheek on Miles’ head. “Then let them stay.”

 

Miles’ fingers tightened slightly. His whole body still felt heavy, knotted with memory and emotion and things that refused to leave quietly. But for the first time in years, he wasn’t carrying it alone.

 

“You’re a good friend,” Miles murmured, a little dazed.

 

“I’m more than that,” Kit said, barely above a breath.

 

“I know.”

 

Kit didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

 

He just sat there, holding him like someone who’d stay until the weeds stopped growing. Until Miles could find the parts of himself that had been taken and start patching them back together, with shaky hands and new roots.

It was messy. It was quiet. But it was real.

And sometimes, real was enough.

---

The morning light was pale and indifferent. It slipped through the blinds like cold milk, casting thin lines across the blanket-covered floor. Kit had stayed up longer than he should have, cradling Miles through silence and half-sentences, letting the weight of things settle without trying to fix them. Just being there.

 

Miles had fallen asleep tucked against him sometime past three. He hadn't let go all night.

 

Now he stirred with a quiet hum, not really awake but not asleep either. His brow twitched as if dreams were tugging at his edges. Kit smoothed a hand down his spine, not rubbing—just grounding.

 

“Hey,” he whispered, soft as steam. “You’re okay.”

 

Miles didn’t open his eyes. “I don’t feel okay.”

 

Kit didn’t lie to him. “I know.”

 

There was a long pause before Miles turned his face further into Kit’s chest, voice barely audible. “You ever think people only care about this stuff when girls go through it?”

 

Kit froze, not expecting the question, but not surprised either. “Yeah,” he said. “Too often.”

 

“When I told someone once,” Miles murmured, “they laughed. Said I probably had a good time. That every boy would want a hot older woman touching him.”

 

Kit didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

 

“I didn’t have a good time,” Miles said. “I felt sick. I didn’t even know why, not then. But I remember freezing up when she touched me. Not fighting. Not running. Just… stopping.”

 

Kit held him closer.

 

“I used to take four showers a day and still feel dirty,” Miles said, his voice barely holding together. “Still feel her hand on my chest. I hate my chest, Kit. I wear thick shirts because I can’t stand remembering her palm there. I—I can’t even look at myself sometimes.”

 

“Miles…” Kit whispered, eyes stinging.

 

“No one talks about it,” Miles continued bitterly. “Not really. Not unless it’s a punchline. ‘Oh you got molested by a woman? Must’ve been a dream come true.’ No. It was a nightmare. It still is.”

 

Kit wrapped both arms around him now, holding him the way no one had when he was eleven. Not possessive. Not protective like a shield. But something softer. Steadier. Present.

 

“I don’t know how to stop feeling like my body isn’t mine,” Miles whispered. “Even now.”

 

“You don’t have to know,” Kit said gently. “You don’t have to rush it. You’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to feel whatever the hell you need to.”

 

Miles was quiet for a long time.

 

“Do you think I’m broken?”

 

“No,” Kit said immediately. “You’re hurt. And maybe some of those scars go deep. But you’re not broken. You’re still here. You still laugh. You still make too much chili. You still light up when you fix something that wouldn’t even turn on for me.”

 

Miles gave a tiny breath of a laugh. “You’re really bad at fixing toasters.”

 

“I’m terrible at fixing toasters,” Kit agreed. “And you always show up like you were just waiting for an excuse.”

 

“Because I like helping.”

 

“And I like seeing you light up.”

 

Miles fell quiet again. But this time, it felt lighter. Not gone—but shared.

 

After a while, he whispered, “Do you still want to… be more than friends?”

 

Kit looked down at him. “Of course I do.”

 

“Even with this?”

 

Kit touched the side of his face, gentle and reverent. “Even with this.”

 

Miles blinked, eyes glossy. Then he closed them, exhaling slow.

 

“I don’t want to be touched. Not like that. Not yet.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“But I still want you here.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

 

And that was all they needed to say.

Notes:

April is Sexual Assault Awareness month. There's no sugarcoating it. I'm a survivor of COCSA and CSA. If u knew me for a long time, you would realize my behavioral changes from the start of this book and the end of it. I recently got out from the abusive relationships, and I have been trying to recover from it. It was hard, I also had Stockholm Syndrome which made even uhh harder to face the truth. But I'm fine now. I'm not saying this sob story for you guys to pity me or whatever, I'm saying this to make you guys realize how anyone can be a victim or an abuser. It has nothing to do with whats under your pants or your proununs card.

Chapter 43

Notes:

cww
small body dysphoria

The classroom was warm, the kind of cozy warmth that came from weak sun through cold glass and an overworked radiator. Someone had opened the window earlier and forgotten to close it, so a little draft kissed Kit’s ankles every now and then under the desk, just enough to remind him winter was still clinging on outside.

 

It was supposed to be a “free period.” The teacher was there, technically, but barely paying attention. Half the class was on their phones. A few were cramming notes. A couple had earbuds in. Kit had his sketchbook open, his pen gliding almost automatically, his eyes flicking up every few seconds to where Miles sat—no, slept—a few rows over, slumped forward on the desk like a warm loaf of bread.

 

Kit hated him. Not in the real way. In the god-why-are-you-so-gorgeous way. In the how-do-you-exist-so-casually way.

 

His pencil shaded the curve of a shoulder. Soft, round. Just like he remembered from this morning’s swim. Miles didn’t even try to be charming. He didn’t know he was attractive. Kit thought that might be the worst part. He slept like some kind of smug cat in the sun, mouth slightly open, cheek smooshed against his arm. His hair was messy, a cowlick curling behind one ear. He had two faint freckles under that eye, and Kit knew because he had drawn them a hundred times.

 

Kit leaned in a little closer to the page.

 

He was supposed to be thinking about tomorrow’s club meet. Swimming practice. Warmups. New drills. His sister had told him to take it more seriously, maybe stop skipping breakfast, stop eyeing one of his teammates like he wanted to climb him like a jungle gym.

 

Kit drew the roundness of Miles’ arms folded on the desk. His soft chest pressing into the wood. His belly curved a little under it, and Kit swore that was not intentional. But he kept the line anyway.

 

He was supposed to be thinking about his cat. She needed new litter. And a new fish toy. She’d torn the last one to shreds. Miles said the fish toy looked like something from a horror movie.

 

Kit shifted, resting his chin on one palm. His fingers kept drawing. He didn’t even feel himself smiling until he realized it.

 

What was it about Miles? The freckles, sure. The easy laugh. The way he swam, like he didn’t care what his body looked like. Like it belonged in the water. Kit weighed less than some backpacks, and yet he felt like a crumpled newspaper next to him. Miles was just there. Soft. Real. Constant.

 

He shaded a little more on the stomach. Hesitated. Then added the slope of a hip, the line where trunks met skin. The curve of thighs that always caught his breath mid-dive.

 

Kit’s heart fluttered. Chaos.

 

Miles shifted in his sleep, sighing quietly. Kit almost threw his sketchbook out the window. Instead, he flipped the page quickly, pretending to doodle something meaningless while his pulse drummed in his ears.

 

He wasn't supposed to think about this in class. Wasn’t supposed to think about how he wanted to press his face into Miles’ shoulder, how he wanted to trace the freckles with his mouth, how he thought about soft bellies when he was supposed to be listening to lectures. He wasn’t supposed to be drawing a boy instead of equations.

 

Kit chewed his pencil.

 

He could probably fill this whole sketchbook with Miles without even realizing. Maybe he already had.

 

He glanced again. Miles was still out cold. Peaceful. Trusting. Like there wasn’t a nerdy mess of a boy three desks away mentally screaming into his hoodie.

 

Kit dragged a hand down his face. He was never going to survive swim practice tomorrow.

---

The pool tiles were freezing under Kit's bare feet, and the sharp scent of chlorine clung to his nose, but he kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around himself as he made his way past the unused lanes. There was barely anyone there, just a lifeguard half-dozing in the corner and the echo of water sloshing lazily from one end of the room to the other.

 

He spotted Miles near the deep end, bobbing quietly in the water like some weird chubby seal. Kit paused.

 

He hated how flustered he got over this.

 

Miles wasn't ripped or anything—he was soft. Like, really soft. Kit had once heard one of the girls on the team call him a "comfort body," and that description lived rent-free in his brain ever since. Miles had broad shoulders and a round belly that made his swimsuit look perpetually a size too small. His thighs stretched the fabric when he kicked off the wall, and his chest bounced a little when he laughed too hard. The worst part? He didn’t even try to be hot. He just was.

 

Kit’s throat went dry. He adjusted his glasses.

 

Miles noticed him standing there and waved, the motion slow and sleepy. “You’re late, Professor.”

 

“I’m not a professor.”

 

“You look like one.”

 

“Because I wear glasses?”

 

“Because you’re uptight and you think too hard about the temperature of pool water.” Miles paddled closer and grinned up at him. “Come in. It’s not even that cold.”

 

Kit scoffed and sat on the edge, hugging his knees. “Everyone else got sick. This place is cursed.”

 

“And we’re immune,” Miles said cheerfully. “Makes us special.”

 

Kit mumbled, “I guess,” but his eyes lingered again—on the way the water curved around Miles’s belly, on how his freckles stood out more when he was wet, how he always seemed… comfortable in his skin. Kit didn’t get it. He’d been underweight all his life, like his bones were made of wires and nerves. He never filled out like his classmates. Even now, at twenty, he still looked like a soaked noodle next to someone like Miles.

 

“Hey,” Miles said suddenly. “Are you just here to sulk or are you going to keep me company?”

 

“I am keeping you company.”

 

“You’re watching me.”

 

Kit blinked hard and looked away, ears burning. “Shut up.”

 

“You keep staring at me, and not in a ‘wow what a great swimmer’ kind of way.”

 

“I said shut up.”

 

Miles grinned like it was a win, then floated backward on his back, arms stretched wide, like he was showing off just for the hell of it. “You’re so mean to me, Kit.”

 

“I’m not mean.”

 

“Okay. You’re just emotionally constipated.”

 

Kit pulled his knees closer to his chest and mumbled, “You say that like you’re not the one who invited me just to make me feel awkward.”

 

“I invited you because I like you. The awkward part’s a bonus.”

 

Kit nearly fell off the edge. “You like me?!”

 

Miles let himself sink beneath the surface for a moment, then popped up again with a laugh. “You’re so easy to fluster.”

 

Kit tried to glare, but it didn’t land. Not really. Not when his chest was doing weird tight things and his ears felt like they were catching fire. “…You’re awful.”

 

“You’re blushing.”

 

“You’re shirtless.”

 

Miles looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. “Oh. Right. Sorry. Didn’t mean to distract you with my incredible physique.”

 

“It’s not incredible.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

“It’s… just.” Kit rubbed at his face, annoyed at himself. “You look comfortable. I’m not used to that.”

 

Miles’s voice softened a little, less teasing. “You never looked uncomfortable around me.”

 

“That’s because I’m good at hiding things.”

 

“Like the fact that you like me?”

 

Kit froze.

 

Miles tilted his head, floating in place. “It’s okay. I figured.”

 

“You’re not supposed to figure. You’re supposed to be—oblivious or something. Dumb.”

 

“I can’t help it. You stare at me like I’m the last cookie in the bag.”

 

Kit groaned and let his forehead drop to his knees. “I hate you.”

 

“No you don’t,” Miles said, splashing gently at his feet. “If you hated me, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be at home. Probably with a blanket. Instead, you’re half-freezing in swim shorts on a bench, looking at me like I invented gravity.”

 

Kit sighed. “I came because I like you.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Stop smiling like that.”

 

“You like me.”

 

Kit finally slid off the edge and into the pool with a splash, mostly to shut Miles up. He surfaced, pushing wet hair out of his face, and stared straight at him. “Fine. I like you. I think you’re hot. I think you’re nice. I think your stupid chubby body makes me nervous and I don’t get it, but here I am.”

 

Miles stared.

 

Then laughed—just a little. Then a lot. And he swam over, face still pink, but softer now.

 

“You’re the worst flirt I’ve ever met,” he said.

 

“I wasn’t flirting.”

 

“You were.”

 

Kit huffed, water clinging to his lashes. “Are you going to keep teasing me forever?”

 

“Probably,” Miles said, with a lopsided grin. “But maybe if you buy me dinner, I’ll go easy on you.”

 

Kit blinked. “Was that you flirting?”

 

“Don’t get used to it.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

“You better.”

 

Kit sighed. “God, you’re heavy.”

 

“I’m literally floating.”

 

“No, emotionally.”

 

Miles laughed again and bumped their shoulders underwater. “Whatever. You’re buying the food.”

Notes:

—> i had posted like first ver of this on tt already n finished it now... chubby miles propaganda never stops...

Chapter 44

Summary:

wedding scraps

The reception was halfway done by the time Miles realized they hadn’t eaten a single bite of the cake. But Kit had his hands on him again, slipping past the layers of ivory fabric and delicate gold embroidery as if he had any right to do that in public. Maybe he did. He was the husband now. He could do anything.

 

The ballroom was dim, bathed in candlelight and soft string music. There were murmurs of conversation, the clink of glassware, the shuffle of shoes across the polished floor—but none of it registered. Not to them.

 

Miles had dragged Kit into the back corridor under the pretense of getting air. That was a lie. He just wanted Kit alone. And Kit—Kit had smiled like a boy caught sneaking liquor, eyes shining too bright, his tie loose already, the buttons at his throat undone. The second the door shut behind them, he had Miles up against the wall like a bad habit he couldn't quit.

 

"You're gonna wrinkle the suit," Miles whispered, hands on Kit’s cheeks, but he didn't stop the kiss. Didn't stop the way their noses bumped, how their mouths met in frantic, half-laughing pulls, how they kissed like they hadn't spent all morning swearing vows and slipping rings onto each other’s shaking fingers.

 

"Don’t care," Kit breathed against his lips. "Take it off, then."

 

"Tempting." Miles smirked, but his voice was thin, breathless. His fingers curled in the lapel of Kit’s dark blazer, tugging him closer, forcing their hips flush. "You remember we’re thirty-eight, right?"

 

Kit's laugh was sharp and quiet, nearly a gasp. “Speak for yourself, I feel seventeen.”

 

They kissed again. Greedy. Unapologetic. Miles' mouth was warm and sweet with champagne. Kit tilted his head, bit his lower lip just hard enough to make him gasp. Somewhere down the hallway, the sounds of a jazz quartet floated faintly through the doors. Neither of them cared.

 

"You’re drunk," Miles murmured.

 

Kit hummed. "I’m in love."

 

Miles let out a sound between a scoff and a moan, dragged Kit in for another kiss just to shut him up. His back hit the wall again, shoulder pressing against the molding. Kit slotted between his legs like he belonged there—he always did. His hands found Miles’ waist, gripping through layers of silk and lace. The ceremony had been traditional. Miles had picked out something dramatic. Kit hadn’t stopped staring at him since.

 

“You keep looking at me like that,” Miles warned, “I’m gonna ruin the wedding photos.”

 

“They were already ruined. I cried in half of them.” Kit nosed his cheek, slid a kiss just beneath his jaw. “You were too pretty. You made me cry.”

 

“Dumbass.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

They stayed like that for a while. Not talking. Not rushing. Just mouths brushing, breathing each other in, the way you only can after a whole decade of having, losing, finding again. Miles' hands smoothed over Kit’s back, sneaking under his shirt where no one could see, tracing the warm line of his spine. Kit kissed under his ear, down the side of his neck, tongue warm, lips slow.

 

“You wanna sneak off?” Kit asked softly.

 

Miles’ breath hitched. “Kit…”

 

“Just a little while. We come back, pretend we got caught up with the photographers.”

 

“You are the worst.”

 

“You married me.”

 

Miles laughed then, breathless and red-cheeked, resting his forehead against Kit’s. “I really did.”

 

Kit brushed his knuckles along Miles’ cheek, so gentle it hurt. “I love you.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Say it back.”

 

“I love you, Kitsunami. I love you so much it makes me stupid.”

 

Kit grinned, that wild, crooked thing that Miles fell in love with when they were still too young to say it out loud. And then he kissed him again, mouths soft, movements slower this time, like the last dance of the night.

Notes:

i need to beta read somany crap n ughhh man i just wanna write kittails smooching

Chapter 45

Summary:

fox bops

Fox nose bops were sacred.

 

Not the kind you gave strangers or awkward acquaintances—no, those were weak, polite little greetings. Maybe a sniff, maybe a nudge. That wasn’t what this was.

 

This was domestic fox nonsense, the kind of soft behavior reserved for lazy mornings and quiet hours, when the world outside didn’t matter and everything smelled like home. Miles was sprawled across the couch, limbs loose and sleepy, the knit blanket sagging off his belly where Kit had pulled it down to "help him cool off" but really just wanted to rest his head there.

 

He was not sick anymore, and yet somehow still milking the attention. Not that Kit minded. Not when Miles kept giving him that soft-eyed, pitiful look every time he walked out of the room. He always came back.

 

Miles was mid-sip of lukewarm tea—his fourth, because he claimed each cup had a unique vibe—when Kit crept closer, leaned in low, and—

 

Boop.

 

Miles blinked. Cross-eyed. A small snort.

 

“…Did you just—?”

 

“Yup.”

 

Kit’s wet little nose pressed again, firmer this time, right against the bridge of Miles’ snout.

 

Boop.

 

“Stop,” Miles muttered, smile curling, ears twitching.

 

“Boop,” Kit whispered, tail wagging.

 

“You’re gross. Your nose’s all cold.”

 

“Boop."

 

“Kit—!”

 

Too late. The next nose nudge landed square between Miles’ brows, just below the dip of his forehead. Kit held it there for a beat, eyes soft, nose cool and damp and entirely obnoxious in the best way.

 

Miles sighed. “You gonna keep doing that?”

 

“I gotta check you for affection levels.”

 

“I’m at maximum.”

 

Kit grinned. “Then you pass.”

 

Miles leaned up slowly, shifting forward until their noses touched again, this time with intention. A longer press, a lazy slide of muzzle to muzzle, no words. Just warm fur. Quiet breathing. Tail flicks.

 

“…You boop me again,” Miles mumbled, “and I’m biting.”

 

“You always say that.”

 

“And I always do it.”

 

Kit grinned wider. “You love it.”

 

And Miles didn’t argue. He just leaned in and booped back.

Notes:

they make me frickin sick...

Chapter 46

Notes:

req by guest

dont trust myself w nervous kit... wheew..

kinda (?) part 2 of swimming club crap

It was cold enough that even the pool heaters couldn’t keep up. Practice had ended with everyone shivering and dragging their duffel bags out in silence, towels wrapped around shoulders, steam clinging to hair. Miles had barely pulled on his hoodie over his damp body when he detoured away from the locker rooms—hair clinging to his cheeks, flip-flops smacking against the tile as he headed toward the cooking club’s back door.

 

 

Rose was the only reason he could pull this off.

 

 

He knocked twice—sharp, hopeful.

 

 

Inside, the warm buzz of the club hummed against the frosted windows. Rose opened the door not even ten seconds later, arms folded and one eyebrow already raised.

 

 

“You again,” she said, though her voice was more fond than annoyed. “Shouldn’t you be wringing out your trunks somewhere?”

 

 

Miles grinned sheepishly. “I dried off a little.”

 

 

“You’re dripping on the floor.”

 

 

“It’s cold, Rose.”

 

 

Rose snorted and stepped aside. “What do you want?”

 

 

Miles didn’t go in right away. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes shifting a bit. “Okay, don’t get mad. I just… I need the oven. Fifteen minutes, max.”

 

 

“You say that every time.”

 

 

“I mean it this time! Just one tray of cookies.”

 

 

Rose crossed her arms tighter. “And the ingredients?”

 

 

“I brought my own—well, most of them. I just need, like… two eggs. And maybe a whisk. And—”

 

 

“And a mixing bowl. And the spatula. And the baking tray. And my measuring cups,” she listed dryly.

 

 

Miles clasped his hands together dramatically. “Please? Please, please. I’ll clean everything, even the drain trap.”

 

 

She stared him down for a moment. Then sighed. “You making them for that boy again?”

 

 

“…Maybe.”

 

 

“That boy” meant Kit. Rose knew. The whole cooking club knew. Miles never baked unless it was after swimming practice, always when Kit had a late library shift or was holed up doing solo laps. And every time, the cookies had just the right amount of crunch, just the right cinnamon, and were never offered to anyone else.

 

 

“Fine,” Rose said finally, stepping back. “Sixty minutes. You make a mess, I revoke your cookie privileges permanently.”

 

 

Miles grinned so wide his ears twitched. “You’re the best.”

 

 

“I know.” She tossed him an apron. “And don’t burn this one like last week.”

 

 

“That was the oven’s fault!” Miles called after her as he shuffled to the counter, hoodie riding up slightly over his soft middle.

 

 

He got to work fast. Butter, sugar, mixing with one hand while shaking damp curls out of his face. The kitchen was already warm, but the heat from the ovens made him feel… cozy. A little sleepy, even. His belly shifted with each movement, soft and comfortable against the edge of the counter as he stirred with focus, wrist flicking neatly, methodically.

 

 

The cookies were simple: big and chewy, Kit’s favorites, with a tiny hit of nutmeg and way too many chocolate chips.

 

And if Kit happened to wander in after finishing swim laps of his own, cold and awkward, just in time for them to come out of the oven? Well. That would just be excellent timing.

 

---

The hum of the overhead lights buzzed faintly in the background, blending with the low churn of industrial sinks and the distant chatter from the hallway. The cooking club was half-empty now—Rose was gone, the back door locked—and the oven had just shut off with a low ping when the main door creaked open.

 

 

Kit stepped in.

 

 

His entrance was quiet, cautious, like he hadn’t decided if he was even allowed to be here. The room smelled like butter and chocolate, and it hit him hard after the sharp tang of chlorine. It stopped him in his tracks.

 

 

His hoodie was clinging to his arms, soaked at the cuffs, and his shorts were sticking to his thighs—dry enough to count, but barely. His towel had been half-draped over his shoulder when he left the locker room, but now it hung like an afterthought, forgotten. His damp bangs were pressed to his forehead, eyelashes clumped slightly from the shower.

 

 

And he looked exhausted.

 

 

Miles was at the counter, back turned slightly. He was in his dry clothes already—navy joggers, a soft shirt, and the apron still tied around his waist like a second thought. His sleeves were pushed up as he worked, one palm steadying the cooling rack while the other gently nudged cookies apart with a spatula.

 

 

Kit didn’t say anything. He just stood there. Frozen in place.

 

 

Miles must’ve heard the door. He turned, curls bouncing slightly from the motion.

 

 

“Oh. Hey.” His voice was warm, familiar. “Didn’t think you were still swimming.”

 

 

Kit blinked. His fingers flexed slightly around the damp fabric of his towel.

 

 

“I… uh. Yeah,” he murmured. “Coach let me stay in. Solo.”

 

 

Miles nodded. “Damn. You okay?”

 

 

Kit opened his mouth. Closed it. His throat worked.

 

 

“I guess,” he said finally. It was too soft. His shoulders hunched slightly as he took one reluctant step inside, like he was worried someone might kick him back out.

 

 

Miles was already brushing his hands on the apron. “You look like you’re freezing.”

 

 

“I’m not—” Kit swallowed. “It’s fine.”

 

 

“You’re dripping.”

 

 

Kit glanced down. There was a small dark line forming under his left sleeve.

 

 

Miles gave a soft huff. Not mocking. Just… a little amused. “You look like a lost ghost.”

 

 

Kit flushed and turned toward the door slightly, like he was ready to pretend he hadn’t meant to walk in at all.

 

 

“I’m not trying to interrupt,” he said quickly. “I thought this room was empty—”

 

 

“It’s not,” Miles said, still smiling. “But you’re not interrupting.”

 

 

Kit hesitated. His stomach made an ugly sound—long, loud, and very much not ignorable. His face went red almost instantly.

 

 

Miles grinned wider. “Hungry?”

 

 

Kit looked horrified.

 

 

“You don’t have to lie,” Miles added, reaching for the tray. “I made too many anyway. They’re still warm.”

 

 

“I didn’t come here for—”

 

 

“I know. But you look like you need one.”

 

 

Kit stayed frozen for a second longer. Then he drifted closer, slow and awkward. Every inch of his movement screamed hesitance—shoulders tight, hands jammed deep into his sleeves, hair dripping down his collar. He barely reached the counter before he stopped again, staring at the cookies like they were breakable.

 

 

Miles gently nudged the tray closer. “Come on. I made these with that cinnamon you like.”

 

 

“I never said I liked cinnamon.”

 

 

“You didn’t have to.”

 

 

Kit blinked. “You remembered?”

 

 

Miles tilted his head, leaning into the counter. “You spit out a cookie once because it didn’t have any.”

 

 

“…That was months ago.”

 

 

Miles shrugged. “Still remembered.”

 

 

Kit’s heart twisted. He didn’t know what to do with that.

 

 

Slowly, he reached out, fingers brushing just barely against Miles’ knuckles as he picked up the warmest one. The cookie bent slightly under its own weight—chewy and soft in the middle. Chocolate clung to his thumb before he even took a bite.

 

 

He chewed in silence. Miles watched him, soft-eyed.

 

 

Kit didn’t look up for a while. He just focused on the cookie like it was the only thing anchoring him.

 

 

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice small. “I… I didn’t eat after class.”

 

 

“I figured,” Miles murmured. “You don’t usually, when you swim solo.”

 

 

Kit’s gaze flicked up, startled. “You notice that?”

 

 

Miles nodded once, casual. “I notice a lot of stuff about you.”

 

 

Kit’s stomach twisted for a whole different reason now.

 

 

Miles smiled again, and it wasn’t teasing—it was calm, real. “You want to sit?”

 

 

Kit nodded faintly, moving to the side bench near the corner of the kitchen. Miles followed without thinking, pulling up a stool beside him.

 

 

And for a moment they sat there—Kit hunched slightly over the cookie, hoodie sleeves bunched over his hands, knees close together like he was trying to make himself smaller. Miles sat broad and easy beside him, arms resting on the counter, radiating warmth from every inch of his full frame.

 

 

Kit snuck a glance at him.

 

 

Miles was soft. Not in the weak way. Just in the comforting way. In the way that looked like he could keep you warm on the coldest day, without saying anything at all.

 

 

Kit stared at the last bite of his cookie. Swallowed. Then looked up again.

 

 

“…You make cookies a lot?”

 

 

Miles shrugged. “Only when I want to.”

 

 

Kit’s voice dipped lower. “So… every time I walk in and there’s cookies…”

 

 

Miles didn’t answer that. He just tilted his head, giving Kit the tiniest smile.

 

 

And Kit, red-faced and quiet, clutched the napkin in his fist and tried not to die.

Notes:

not sure what ya' wanted guest— so did my own thing and hope it'll satisfy you.

Chapter 47

Notes:

not sure i posted this but oh yea

The heat was unbearable.  

 

Afternoon sunlight seeped through the curtains, drenching the room in a golden haze. The air was thick, heavy, and utterly stagnant. Even with the fan spinning lazily in the corner, offering nothing but a warm breeze, Miles could feel sweat beading along his fur, matting it against his skin.  

 

He let out a slow, suffering sigh, sprawled out on the couch in nothing but loose shorts and a bold-colored short-sleeved shirt that clung to him in the worst way. His tails lay limp over the armrest, too tired to even flick. Every part of him ached from the heat, the summer sun turning the indoors into an oven.  

 

And yet.  

 

Kit, who had been completely unaffected all day, walked up to him with that same lazy, half-lidded stare, his fennec ears twitching. He was barely sweating, barely uncomfortable. Miles swore it was unnatural.  

 

The worst part? Kit had that look. The one that meant trouble.  

 

“No,” Miles said immediately, before the bastard could even open his mouth.  

 

Kit blinked, tilting his head. “No?”  

 

“No.”  

 

“But I didn’t say anything.”  

 

“You were gonna.”  

 

Kit’s frown was purely for show. “I just wanted to—”  

 

“No, Kit, I don’t want to cuddle,” Miles groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “It’s hot. I’m dying. You’re fine because you’re built for this desert hellscape, but I am not.”  

 

Kit, completely unbothered, sat on the couch beside him. “I don’t see the issue.”  

 

Miles let out another long sigh. “Of course you don’t.”  

 

Kit was warm. Always warm. Usually, it was nice, especially in winter, but now? In the dead of summer? It was unbearable. Kit might as well have been a walking furnace.  

 

And yet, Kit had the audacity to shift closer, resting an arm along the back of the couch, fingers just barely brushing against Miles’ sweaty nape.  

 

Miles shivered, but not in a good way. “Kit.”  

 

Kit hummed, all too innocent.  

 

“Don’t touch me.”  

 

“I wasn’t.”  

 

“You were gonna.”  

 

Kit finally let out a small whine, dropping his head against Miles’ shoulder, his thick fennec tail curling around Miles’ back. “But I wanna.”  

 

Miles nearly shoved him off. “Get off me.”  

 

“But you smell nice.”  

 

“I smell like sweat and suffering.”  

 

Kit nuzzled against him, completely unaffected. “I like your suffering.”  

 

“Don’t say it like that,” Miles muttered, exasperated.  

 

Kit only hummed, still pressed close, still radiating warmth. Miles could feel the heat creeping into his skin, making him shudder. His fur was sticking to him, making him miserable, and this bastard still thought now was a good time to be clingy?  

 

With another groan, Miles peeled himself off the couch and stomped toward the fridge, yanking it open to bask in the brief wave of cold air. He stuck his head inside, muttering to himself about how unfair life was.  

 

Kit, still lounging on the couch, propped his head up on one hand, watching him with amusement. “You done sulking?”  

 

Miles grabbed an ice-cold water bottle, pressing it against his burning neck. “No.”  

 

Kit, stretching lazily, stood and walked over, still looking far too pleased with himself. “You know,” he murmured, leaning against the fridge beside Miles, “if you just let me cuddle you, you’d feel better.”  

 

Miles gave him the flattest, most unimpressed look imaginable.  

 

Kit grinned. “I’ll even let you put your hands on my ears.”  

 

Miles paused.  

 

“…Tempting.”  

 

“Very.”  

 

There was a moment of hesitation, his fingers flexing slightly. Miles did love Kit’s ears. They were big, soft, and honestly addicting to touch. But the heat. The heat.

 

“No,” he groaned, shaking his head. “Not even for the ears. I am dying,Kit.”  

 

Kit, finally relenting, huffed. “Fine.”  

 

Miles sighed in relief.  

 

Kit smirked.  

 

“…Fine, I’ll just lay on top of you later when you least expect it.”  

 

Miles nearly threw the water bottle at him.

 

Notes:

posted this wip on tt and someone asked the chao and i was like shit i forgot to release this

Chapter 48

Summary:

To the bone

Notes:

might be graphic dont know honestly,,
cw
consensual cannibalism

The door locked behind them with a soft click. The apartment was dark, save for the amber streaks of the setting sun slanting through the blinds. Kit didn’t speak. He dropped his bag by the fridge and stood there in silence, towering and still, letting his shoulders fall back as the quiet settled in. Miles padded toward him on bare paws, breath shallow, eyes sharp and bright.

He didn’t ask.

He reached up with both paws and touched the sides of Kit’s waist. He could feel the heartbeat through the fur. No shirt. No armor. Nothing to protect. Just Kit, taller by a head, shoulders broad and banded in thick muscle, the fur still damp with the scent of sweat and wind. He smelled wild. He smelled like prey. He smelled like something meant to be taken.

Kit exhaled. “Do it.”

Miles opened his mouth. His fangs gleamed wet under the dying sun.

The first bite wasn’t clean. It wasn’t meant to be. He sank his teeth into the meat of Kit’s shoulder, just below the collarbone—felt the resistance of muscle before it gave way, torn and pulsing. Kit flinched, hissed, then let out a low sound from deep in his throat—not pain. Something else. He didn’t fight it. He leaned into it. Let his arms hang heavy at his sides while the blood welled up hot and fast.

Miles didn’t speak. His lips smeared red. His tongue pushed deeper into the wound, teeth working open the bite until he could tear loose a chunk. It was raw, still twitching, still wet from inside. He chewed, swallowed without breaking eye contact. His muzzle dripped with it. Kit smelled it, smelled himself on Miles’ breath, and tilted his head to give more.

There were no candles. No soft words. Just the heavy sound of breathing, the dull click of Miles’ claws scraping down Kit’s ribs as he pressed him against the counter, maw open, blood staining his chin.

Kit reached up once—just once—and cupped the back of Miles’ head, claws gentle, almost reverent.

“I want you to keep it in your stomach,” he murmured, voice thick. “Don’t let it pass. I want to live in you.”

Miles licked his lips, smeared the blood across his snout. “You will.”

Another bite. This time from his side, through the thick muscle at Kit’s flank. Flesh split with a slick, wet sound. Miles snarled softly as he fed, tugging the meat with his teeth, ripping it with raw strength and hunger, chewing as he groaned low. It was messy. Violent. But never cruel. There was no anger in it. Only devotion. Only love.

Kit was swaying, his breathing shallow but steady, his blood running hot over his thigh. His paw came up again to touch Miles’ jaw, smear the red there deeper, like paint. “How much will you take?”

“All of it,” Miles said. “Everything you’ll give.”

He fell to his knees. Bit Kit’s thigh with slow intent, pushed his muzzle into the wound and drank deep, his claws gripping firm around Kit’s hips. The taste overwhelmed him—copper, muscle, fur, salt. It coated his tongue, lined his throat, filled him. Kit’s legs trembled.His claws dug into the counter behind him.

“This is love,” he rasped. “This is what they don’t understand.”

“They’ll never know you the way I do,” Miles whispered back.

He licked the bone when he reached it. He didn’t stop until he felt Kit twitch, not in pain—but in surrender. His blood pooled on the tile, thick and black in the low light. Miles didn’t care. His jaw was slick. His fur matted red at the chin and neck, his eyes wild and focused.

Kit didn’t fall. He slid to the floor with him, cradling Miles’ head as he fed from his thigh, from his hip, panting softly with each breath. The smell was overwhelming. Flesh, sweat and blood. Not death. Never death. This was life. Their life. Shared. Swallowed.

“Miles,” he breathed. “Look at me.”

Miles raised his head, muzzle wet and painted in gore. Kit cupped his face, leaned close, touched their foreheads together.

“I love you,” he said.

Miles swallowed. “I love you more.”

And he went back in, chewing his name into Kit’s skin.

 

Notes:

man i love them eating each other- Literally! A little gone in the head, sure, but babes this is too good for me to pass!!

Chapter 49

Summary:

> sunday, april 27 25

Notes:

> animalistic treats n traits,, study

They ended up slumped on the couch, tangled in a mess of tails and lazy touches. Miles had a bowl of steaming manti in his lap — little dumplings stuffed to bursting — and was trying, trying, to eat like a normal person.  

 

Kit made it impossible.  

 

The fennec was draped all over him, nosing against his shoulder, poking his sides with greedy paws, whining softly into Miles’ ear every time the red fox ignored him for too long.

 

Miles grumbled low, half-hearted, and tried to nudge Kit off with an elbow.  

It didn’t work. Kit just curled tighter, throwing a lanky leg over Miles' thighs and settling his muzzle against the side of Miles' neck, breathing him in deep, like he was trying to drown in the scent of warm fur and food.

 

“You’re heavy,” Miles muttered around a mouthful, voice muffled.  

Kit snorted against him, puffing a blast of hot breath down his collarbone, and gave a half-hearted wag of his tail like he was proud of it.

 

Miles kept eating — messy, unbothered — popping a manti into his mouth and chewing slow, savoring. His short, sturdy fingers smeared faint traces of broth over his muzzle, and Kit was right there, pressing lazy kisses along the edge of his jaw, chasing the taste.  

 

Miles flopped one of his ears down over Kit’s forehead, a lazy flick of dominance, and kept chewing.

 

Kit huffed, grabbing Miles’ free hand in both of his and bringing it to his own face, nuzzling into the palm with a rumble. His fuchsia eyes fluttered half-shut, content and greedy all at once.

 

"You’re so needy," Miles muttered, but his voice was syrup-thick with affection, and he let Kit cling without a fight.

 

He popped another manti into his mouth one-handed, trying not to spill the broth all down his front as Kit shoved even closer, practically laying across him now.

 

The bowl tilted dangerously. Miles growled — a lazy, vibrating sound in his chest — and tried to save his food, baring a glimpse of sharp teeth at Kit without real threat.

 

Kit ignored it. Kit always ignored it.  

Instead, he licked the broth off Miles' chin, rough and slow, a hot stripe of tongue that made Miles go stiff for half a second before letting out a choked, ragged laugh.

 

"You’re disgusting," Miles said thickly.

 

Kit answered by smearing his face into Miles’ shoulder like a giant needy cat, his short muzzle nudging against the slope of Miles’ breast and then lower, down his side, as if trying to bury himself inside.

 

Miles let him.

 

He tipped another manti into his mouth, finally giving up on eating like a civilized being.  

Kit’s paws wandered all over — rubbing at his stomach, tracing lazy circles over his thighs, curling against the base of his twin tails where the muscles flexed under the thick red fur.

 

Each touch was slow and thoughtless, not lustful — just there. Because he could. Because Miles was his to bother, and Miles let him.

 

Miles licked broth from his lips and shifted the bowl aside before it could be fully knocked over. Then he sprawled back, dragging Kit with him, heavy and warm across his chest.

 

Their tails tangled, twitching and curling together instinctively. Miles flicked one ear against Kit’s head again, a playful, slow dominance, and Kit gave a soft grunt of contentment, curling in even closer like he was trying to become a second skin.

 

The TV murmured low in the background. Somewhere outside, a bird sang against the Wednesday afternoon.

 

Miles closed his blue-brown eyes and let the weight of Kit press him into the couch, let the lazy touches and soft breathing soak into his skin.

 

Kit shifted to nose at Miles’ throat, lazy wet kisses that turned into slow, sleepy licks — more canine than anything else — and Miles huffed a breathy laugh into the hot fur of Kit’s head.

 

"Chaos, you're annoying," he whispered.

 

Kit rumbled, paws tightening briefly around his waist, teeth grazing just the barest edge of his collarbone without biting down.

 

Miles smiled against Kit’s forehead, lazy and slow. His hand found the fennec’s scruff and scratched lightly, drawing another low, greedy sound from him.

 

The bowl of manti sat forgotten on the side table.  

 

The world outside could wait.  

For now, there was only the heat of their bodies pressed together, the lazy tangle of tails, the steady wet drag of a tongue along his jawline, and the deep, wild comfort of being loved without having to ask.

Notes:

manti is delicious,, my loves...

> need myself or someone to drsw them like this ughh fuckin make sicj to my core

[1] his breasts are not femininen or masculine, just there

Chapter 50

Summary:

real animal kittails

Notes:

had to get this out of my mind,,

little busy these days unfortuanetluly

The basin pulsed with dry heat. Late sun baked the scrub and thornbush, casting everything in a harsh, amber glow. Crickets screamed in the brush. Somewhere distant, a vulture wheeled, silent.

 

Kitsunami was crouched on a flat rock, paws splayed, ears forward.

 

He’d smelled him again.

 

That scent—sharp, wrong, not-fennec—cut like citrus through the wind. The red one. Big. Wild-looking. Twin tails dragged through the dirt like trailing roots. Kit’s hackles rose just slightly.

 

Not out of fear.

 

He hissed a breath and leapt off the stone, dirt scattering. The rest of his pack scattered wider across the slope, their calls brief and clipped. They didn’t come down. This wasn’t their business.

 

Kit bounded through the sage, nose high, until he caught the flash of burnt orange slipping between the rocks below. There.

 

Red fox.

 

He moved slow, almost lazy, brushing his sides against the stone. His pattern caught the light wrong—curling, orange-bright, too sleek for desert fur. Two tails. Just dragging around like he wasn’t the weirdest fox alive.

 

Kit chirped, sharp and loud.

 

Miles froze, then lifted his head.

 

They locked eyes.

 

Kit barked once, then stiffened his legs and arched his back, puffing his tail as far as it would fan. His ears flared like sails. He didn’t look away.

 

Miles blinked once. Then answered with a guttural bark, quick and low.

 

That was enough.

 

Kit charged forward in bursts, zigzagging low through the scrub. Miles turned to meet him, posture straight, body loose. As soon as Kit reached him, he snapped into motion—bumping shoulders, brushing flanks. Their tails tangled. Kit snapped his jaws near Miles’ face, yipping. Miles replied by wrapping one of his tails around Kit’s hip.

 

The blue fennec hissed through his teeth and spun, nose under Miles’ jaw, rubbing fast, hard. Scent-marking. Claiming. Miles didn’t flinch—just grunted and pushed back, his taller body swaying over Kit’s with a heavy shoulder rub.

 

They circled, quick. Tails high, ears flat, pressing their bodies side to side, chests puffed. Kit chirped again, this time lower, tail shaking.

 

Miles answered with a growl.

 

Then, ritual complete, Kit dropped to his belly and rolled—legs kicking up dust, tail smacking the dirt. He squeaked. Miles nosed at his ribs, then flopped down beside him, not touching.

 

Just there.

 

The pack didn’t come down the slope.

 

Kit didn’t care. He pressed into the ground and stretched his jaw in a wide, slow yawn. His side still brushed Miles’ front leg.

 

Evening fell slow, spilling lavender and gold across the dry basin. The wind softened to a hush, barely nudging the long grass that curled up from cracked dirt. Most of the pack had curled into the brush by now, noses tucked, ears twitching at the occasional beetle crawl.

 

But Miles didn’t want to sleep.

 

He was still too full of sun. Of wind. Of the way Kit had looked at him earlier.

 

The red fox crept forward on silent paws, two tails flicking like flags behind him. He ducked low near the center of the clearing, ears tilted back, eyes locked on the small blue lump curled near a rock—Kitsunami, tucked quiet beneath his own tail, breathing slow.

 

Miles grinned, mouth slightly open. He gave a soft bark.

 

Kit didn’t move.

 

Miles barked again—louder. Then, without warning, pounced.

 

Kit jerked awake with a grunt just as Miles landed beside him, paws batting at his shoulder, tails swishing wild with excitement. Kit rolled once, then blinked up, ears flat, eyes glowing faint pink in the twilight.

 

He sighed. Long-suffering.

 

Miles yipped, bouncing on his paws. His body wiggled with energy, tails wagging hard enough to kick up dust. He nipped at the air, then crouched low, butt high, head tilted.

 

Kit lifted his head slowly. Tilted it back.

 

Then flopped it back into the dirt.

 

Unmoved.

 

Miles barked again—demanding, joyful—and leapt over him, landing with a thunk on Kit’s other side. He flopped sideways, smushing their shoulders together, both tails fanned out across Kit’s back.

 

Kit groaned softly. But didn’t move away.

 

Miles nuzzled into the side of Kit’s face, breath hot. He pawed gently at Kit’s ear, then rolled slightly to push his forehead into Kit’s chest. Soft chirps. Whines.

 

Fine. Kit finally shifted.

 

He wrapped his thin tail once around Miles’ nearest one, fuchsia eyes half-lidded. Still calm. Still quiet.

 

But he nosed under Miles’ chin, just once.

 

Miles gave a high, delighted trill and pressed closer, practically crawling onto Kit’s side now, legs folding and stretching. His head thudded against Kit’s neck, both tails wrapping snug over Kit’s legs. His nose tucked into the fluff beneath Kit’s jaw.

 

Kit licked his ear, once, slow.

 

And there it was: quiet fox comfort. One twitchy red boy bundled into one calm blue one, heat shared between them, ears brushing, tails entwined.

 

Miles hummed. Kit didn’t purr—but his body was warm, steady, his breath even.

 

And even when Miles squirmed once more, wriggling around to wrap tighter, Kit stayed there.

Notes:

not sure if its accurate to real deal- just wanted them to cling.

ill un restrict this book when i feel like it, since the main purpose of this book was to just spread kittails and archive my thoughts on them. I'm still pissed off at the whole ordeal, as its not only annoying but also shitty situation for all the authors.

On a side note, I'm happy kittails is (still) gaining popularity. I even saw someone hating on them; and gods, it was so need-to-be-recorded moment!

Chapter 51

Summary:

-> request

 

Miles had to wedge the tray sideways in the fridge just to hide it.

He made sure it was behind everything—a half-empty soy milk carton, a bottle of almond butter, an old container of rice that probably wasn’t safe to eat anymore. The tray was neatly wrapped in foil, scrawled across with black marker in his own blocky writing: “Kit B-Day – DO NOT EAT – Miles.” Because if he didn’t label it, someone would eat it. Even if it was just the two of them in the apartment. That was the kind of week they were having.

The fridge closed with a soft thunk, and Miles stood there for a second, paws on his hips, tails twitching. His ears flicked at the sound of water dripping somewhere in the sink. The kitchen light was already on, yellow and artificial even though morning sun was pushing at the windows. 

Kit was still asleep.

That was unusual. The fennec was almost always up first. Annoyingly early, in fact—stretching in the hallway, yawning like a lion, hair barely tied back and eyes half-closed as he wandered barefoot into the kitchen just to lean on the wall and stare at Miles like some ghost that hadn’t decided whether to haunt or leave.

But today?

Silence. No creaky footsteps. No muttered complaints. No coffee machine grinding to life before Miles could even blink.

He took a breath and started the oven.

---

By the time Kit finally emerged, the smell had overtaken the apartment: grilled chicken seared in mint and olive oil, crisp and herb-slicked. The oven hissed, heat humming behind the open glass door. Miles, in one of his older sweatshirts, had one oven mitt on and was nudging the tray carefully onto a heat-safe board. He looked up when Kit trudged in—barefoot, hair in a loose mess of a ponytail, ears tilted forward like radar dishes.

Kit blinked once. Then squinted. “Mint?”

Miles cleared his throat, tail wagging awkwardly. “Happy birthday.”

A beat passed.

Kit didn’t move.

Miles gestured at the tray like a game show host. “Ta-da. Grilled minty chicken. I, uh… it’s kind of my thing, but I thought you’d like it too. I wasn’t sure what you—what you actually liked. So.” He gave a tight, nervous laugh. “Happy Birthday again.”

Kit tilted his head. He looked at the tray. Then at Miles. Then back at the tray.

Miles rubbed the back of his neck. “You, uh… want a plate?”

“...No.”

Miles flinched. “You don’t like mint?”

“No, I do.” Kit moved toward the sink, casual and unfazed. He turned the faucet on low and started filling a bowl. “I just already made myself something.”

Miles stood there with a mitt on one hand, like someone had hit pause on him.

Kit reached into the fridge—not behind the soy milk—and pulled out a glass container. Inside was a chopped salad of lettuce, carrots, and small chunks of grilled chicken. It looked normal until he lifted the lid and sprinkled in something from a separate baggie.

Miles squinted.

“...Are those bugs?”

“Grasshoppers.” Kit said it as easily as someone saying “croutons.” He picked one up, crunching into it with a small smile.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

Miles took a cautious step back. “You’re eating grasshoppers. Like, real ones?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at Miles like he was the weird one. “They’re crunchy. Good protein. Want one?”

“Absolutely not.”

Kit shrugged. Then he reached into another small bag and pulled out something pale, soft, and... wriggly.

Miles recoiled. “Is that a worm?”

“Raw worm,” Kit confirmed. “Not a lot. Just a couple. I like them cold.”

Miles’ stomach flipped. “It’s nine in the morning, Kit.”

“And it’s my birthday.”

Miles opened his mouth. Closed it. “...Fair.”

---

They ended up at the table anyway. Kit sat cross-legged on the dining bench, nudging at his salad, occasionally pulling out another bug like it was nothing. Miles had his own plate of minty chicken, drizzling a little extra dressing on it, trying not to stare too obviously across the table.

“I just thought you’d like it,” he finally said.

Kit looked up, blinking.

“The chicken. The mint. It’s kind of sweet, kinda fresh. I mean, I know your breath’s awful in the mornings, so I thought—”

“My breath is not awful.”

Miles shrugged. “Debatable.”

Kit stabbed a piece of chicken with a tiny, brutal jab of his fork. “You didn’t have to cook.”

“I wanted to.”

“You could’ve just… I don’t know. Asked.”

Miles leaned forward, arms folded on the table. “That’s not how birthdays work. You’re supposed to not know what you’re getting.”

Kit arched a brow. “Yeah, well, now you know I eat bugs.”

Miles sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, now I do.”

They sat in silence for a while, chewing.

Kit crunched loudly. “Your food smells like toothpaste.”

Miles looked personally offended. “It’s mint, not toothpaste. There’s a difference.”

“Same difference.”

“No, it’s not! You think I just licked a bathroom counter or something?”

Kit grinned a little around a bite of lettuce. “Kinda.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “You’re the one eating worms.”

“They’re not for you.”

“Good!”

Another beat.

Miles set his fork down. “So grasshoppers and worms. That’s your thing?”

Kit licked his fingers, unapologetically. “Chicken salad with some bugs, yeah. I used to dig them up when I was little.”

“Dig them up?”

“In the backyard. I liked it better than breakfast.”

“That’s the most fennec thing I’ve ever heard.”

Kit didn’t argue. Just kept eating.

Miles stabbed at his chicken again, muttering. “I thought you’d like mint. It’s refreshing. Feels like clean air in your mouth. My grandma made it like this every Sunday.”

Kit looked up, chewing slowly.

“She used to roast it over the fire, real smoky. Tossed in crushed mint, parsley, lemon, some vinegar. Let it sit all day in the fridge. It’s not exactly the same, but—yeah.” He shoved a bite into his mouth. “Good stuff.”

Kit watched him. Then nodded, quietly. “Tastes like camping.”

“Yeah,” Miles said, smiling faintly. “Exactly.”

---

Kit ended up stealing a piece of chicken anyway.

Not on purpose. Not quite.

He reached for a napkin, and his claw casually hooked the edge of Miles’ plate. One of the pieces tumbled into his lap, and Kit, not missing a beat, plucked it up and popped it in his mouth.

Miles stared at him. “That was mine.”

Kit chewed slowly. “Too late.”

“You’re gonna get mint breath now.”

Kit smirked. “So?”

Miles shook his head, grinning despite himself. “I try to make you a nice birthday lunch and this is what I get.”

“You made your favorite food,” Kit said flatly, “for my birthday.”

“I didn’t know what you liked!”

“You could’ve guessed.”

Miles threw his hands up. “How the hell was I supposed to guess raw worms, Kit?!”

Kit just sipped his water.

---

Later, they cleaned up in silence.

Kit washed the bowls while Miles dried. The kitchen was warm now, the oven still giving off soft heat, and both of them had rolled up their sleeves, fur damp at the wrists.

“You could’ve told me,” Miles said, quieter now.

Kit rinsed a fork. “Told you what?”

“That you liked bugs. That this is what you eat. I would’ve gotten you something better. I dunno. I just—wanted to get it right.”

Kit didn’t answer right away. The faucet hissed between them.

“It’s weird,” he finally said.

Miles tilted his head. “What is?”

“Having someone make food for you. I’m not used to it. Kinda feels like a dare.”

Miles gave a soft laugh. “You think I’m pranking you with grilled chicken?”

Kit shrugged. “Feels fake. Nice, but… you know.”

Miles leaned back against the counter. “Yeah,” he said, after a while. “I know.”

Kit handed him the last spoon. Miles dried it without looking.

“I didn’t get you a gift,” Kit said.

“You ate my chicken,” Miles said. “That’s gift enough.”

Kit laughed under his breath.

Miles flicked water at him. Kit flinched, ears twitching.

They didn’t hug. They didn’t kiss. They didn’t do cake. But when the dishes were done, they sat back at the table, two plates of leftovers between them, and split the last grasshopper.

Miles gagged dramatically the whole time.

Kit made him eat a worm just to balance the scales.

Miles complained for a solid twenty minutes—but still reached for a second one.

 

Notes:

got sick mid way... whoops!

bday fics are so hard to write, i always avoid them, but it was time to face my fears and woman up.

thanks for the request again! had fun writing it c;

Chapter 52

Notes:

> had to rush this a little, so sorry! I'm still sick and every day not posting this chapter makes me guilty to my bones. I thought I could write them all, foolish me, but I couldn't execute it the way I wanted. So have a bonus... Mistake on my part, shouldnt have accepted the request.

Nonetheless, I had fun writing all the parts, and I hope you had fun reading all of 'em.

 

It was way too early.

 

Kit hadn’t even tied his hair up yet. The strands fell in a messy sweep around his shoulders as he stood barefoot in the kitchen, blearily spreading peanut butter on toast. His hoodie hung off one side of his shoulder, pajama pants slouched low on his hips, and his face looked like it hadn’t forgiven anyone for waking him up.

 

Especially not Mangey.

 

The red-furred cousin was crouched near the fridge, wide-eyed and still shirtless, sniffing around like he was casing the place. He hadn’t said a word. Kit was pretty sure Mangey didn’t *have* words. He just growled and barked and occasionally stole Miles’ leftover sandwiches.

 

And yet, despite all of that, there he was—knees tucked under him, hands on the floor, tail swishing idly as he watched Kit prepare food.

 

“…You hungry?” Kit asked flatly.

 

Mangey wagged his tails once.

 

Kit sighed. “Figures.”

 

He pulled out another slice of bread, slapped more peanut butter on it, and without much ceremony, lowered it to Mangey’s level. The fox sniffed it once, then took it delicately between both hands like it was something sacred.

 

Kit leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

 

“You better not bark at me.”

 

Mangey didn’t. He just sat there chewing noisily, eyes round and slow-blinking. It was weird—he looked so much like Miles if someone had pressed him through a blender of feral energy and rabid charm. It made Kit twitchy. But still, the guy was quiet now. Eating. Behaving.

 

Kit made another piece of toast and slid it over.

 

Mangey’s ears perked, clearly delighted.

 

“You look like you’ve never been fed in your life,” Kit muttered. “And I know for a fact Miles made a whole tray of muffins last night.”

 

Mangey didn’t reply. Just kept eating.

 

And eventually, Kit sat down on the floor too—legs crossed, back against the fridge. He let Mangey have the last slice. He didn’t ask for thanks.

 

He did get one, though, sort of—Mangey scooted a little closer and dropped one of the crusts on Kit’s knee like an offering.

 

Kit stared at it.

 

“…You’re lucky I’m too tired to be disgusted.”

 

Mangey gave a happy, low chuff and leaned his head against Kit’s shoulder, still chewing.

 

Kit exhaled slowly and let him.

 

“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered.

 

He was definitely going to do this again tomorrow.

 

---

The house was quiet enough to hear the birds outside and the faint ticking of the oven clock. Kit was on the floor again, leaning against the kitchen cabinets in the same hoodie from yesterday, looking vaguely miserable and unwashed in that uniquely beautiful way only he could pull off.

 

And in his lap—half-sprawled, eyes lidded and ears twitching—was Mangey.

 

The red-furred fox had somehow coiled himself up like a huge, wild dog. Head in Kit’s lap, legs sprawled to the side, tail twitching every now and then. He wasn’t asleep—just… basking.

 

Kit’s fingers moved lazily over Mangey’s ears. Scratching slow, steady circles between tufts of fur, nails gently dragging through the soft, messy strands. Not even looking at him. Just zoning out and doing it like it was second nature.

 

He didn’t even realize he was doing it.

 

That was, until Miles padded into the kitchen, mid-yawn, with his usual morning coffee in hand. He stopped halfway through the doorway and blinked.

 

Then blinked again.

 

“…Are you petting my cousin?”

 

Kit looked up, slow and deadpan. “No.”

 

“You’re literally scratching his head.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“You’re doing it right now, Kit.”

 

Kit paused, looked down, then up again. “He just… put his head there.”

 

Mangey gave a muffled whuff of delight and squirmed to nuzzle deeper into Kit’s lap, arms hugging around Kit’s thigh like he planned to stay there all day.

 

Kit didn’t move. His fingers just… kept scratching.

 

Miles stared.

 

“You’re not even trying to stop.”

 

“He’ll get mad,” Kit said flatly. “He growled last time I tried to get up.”

 

“…You’re being held hostage.”

 

“Emotionally.”

 

Miles took a sip of coffee and watched Mangey thump his tail hard against the tile. “He does that when he likes someone. My aunt says he only let her pet him twice in his life.”

 

Kit snorted. “Guess I’m special.”

 

“You’re *so* special,” Miles said, walking over and crouching beside him. He leaned in and kissed Kit’s cheek, then nudged his nose against Kit’s temple. “My handsome husband, domesticated fox charmer, snack provider of the century…”

 

“Shut up,” Kit murmured, but he was already smiling, just a little.

 

“You’re gonna keep petting him, huh?”

 

Kit sighed, then resumed the slow, rhythmic head rubs. “Might as well.”

 

Mangey let out a breathy, relaxed rrrrrf and closed his eyes, content.

 

Miles looked at the two of them—his chaotic cousin curled up like a massive lapdog and his sassy, morally gray husband pretending none of this was happening—and just shook his head with a grin.

 

“I’m getting the camera.”

 

“If you post this, I’ll unironically bite you,” Kit warned.

 

“Worth it.”

---

> 9

The house had finally gone quiet.

 

Sails was outside yelling about birds to Mangey, who barked back like it was a full debate. Miles had fallen asleep on the couch under a blanket, his chubby form rising and falling slow, steady. And in the far corner of the house, past the clatter of dishes and muffled laughter, Kit found Nine in the garage—alone.

 

Nine had his glasses on and a gel packet in his hand, halfway through rubbing it into the skin of his upper arm. He froze when Kit entered, eyes flicking over sharply.

 

Kit didn’t say anything. Just shut the door behind him and settled against the wall, one hand tucked in his hoodie pocket, the other holding a fresh, capped syringe.

 

The silence between them was thick, but not heavy. It was the kind of silence Kit liked—no stupid questions, no prodding sympathy, no exaggerated praise.

 

Just the hum of a quiet room and the shared language of existing.

 

Nine finished rubbing the gel in, smoothed down his sleeve, and then nodded toward Kit’s hand. “Hips?”

 

Kit gave a slight nod. “Yeah.”

 

He sat down on the low bench, tugged his pajama waistband down just enough, and without ceremony or grimace, injected. The needle was long, brutal-looking, but Kit didn’t flinch. Just pushed the plunger down, pulled it back out, wiped the spot clean.

 

Nine watched him like someone seeing a mirror.

 

Kit discarded the syringe in the bin nearby and leaned back, arms crossed over his knees.

 

“Gels burn sometimes?” he asked, eyes half-lidded.

 

“Only when I’m too rough with it,” Nine answered. “And when it’s cold.”

 

“Needles suck too. I don’t even look at ‘em anymore.”

 

“You didn’t look like you ever did.”

 

Kit smirked, weak. “I used to pass out. Now I just wait for it to stop hurting.”

 

They sat in silence for a bit. No need to dig deeper.

 

“You ever get people asking dumb shit?” Kit asked eventually, voice soft.

 

“All the time,” Nine said.

 

Kit scoffed. “I don’t even talk that much and they still manage.”

 

Nine cracked a thin smile. “What do they ask?”

 

“‘When did you know?’” Kit mimicked with a nasal voice. “‘How do you know you’re a real man if you don’t wanna—’” he waved a hand vaguely. “—do whatever-the-hell they think makes someone a man.”

 

Nine nodded. “I hate that one.”

 

“I just wanna be left alone with my husband and my bed,” Kit muttered. “And maybe a fridge full of snacks.”

 

“You married well,” Nine said.

 

“I did.”

 

The silence turned warm, like steam rising from a mug. Nine took his glasses off, cleaned them with his sleeve, and finally said, “You’re the first person who hasn’t tried to compare me to the others.”

 

Kit tilted his head.

 

“They all look like him,” Nine said. “I look like him too. Sometimes I feel like they forget I’m not just another version.”

 

Kit’s eyes flickered, then softened. “You’re not Miles.”

 

“No.”

 

“And I’m not someone who needs you to explain yourself.”

 

Nine blinked once. Slowly. Then gave a small nod of thanks.

 

“Thanks for not saying anything weird,” he added.

 

“Too tired for weird,” Kit murmured. “And too trans to care.”

 

They both laughed under their breath.

 

Kit leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closing.

 

“Next time they all get loud,” he said, “let’s fake a medical emergency and hide in here.”

 

Nine hummed. “Deal.”

---

> Sails

Kit was half-asleep in his hoodie, standing by the window in the morning light, stirring his coffee with one claw because he couldn’t be bothered to grab a spoon. The house was too full, too loud, and smelled faintly like buttered toast and someone’s bad cologne. Probably Sails'.

 

He barely registered the sound of boots hitting the tile.

 

Sails strolled into the kitchen like he owned it, wearing Miles’ oversized hoodie—one with fraying cuffs, baggy sleeves, and a print of an ancient band logo so cracked it was unreadable. He hadn’t even zipped it. It just hung off him, dramatic and cozy.

 

Kit glanced sideways. “That’s a marriage hoodie.”

 

Sails smirked, arms wide. “Borrowed love, sweetheart. You weren’t wearing it.”

 

“You mean, stolen.”

 

“Potato, potahto.”

 

Sails leaned casually against the counter next to Kit, reached over and pulled the coffee pot toward himself like this was his second home. “You look radiant today. Like someone who’s just a little dangerous. I like that.”

 

Kit didn't look at him. “I’m halfway through a caffeine deficit. Don’t test me.”

 

“Exactly my type.”

 

A scoff escaped from Kit before he sipped again. “I will throw you out the window.”

 

“Oh, I’d land pretty,” Sails winked.

 

Before Kit could snap back, a loud clatter echoed behind them.

 

Miles had entered. Shirtless, in plaid pajama pants and one sock, eyes narrowing in offense. He’d caught the tail end of that line.

 

“Excuse me?” he barked, cereal bowl in one hand. “Are you flirting with my husband?”

 

Sails turned slowly, as if caught in a spotlight. “Technically? No. Spiritually? Yes.”

 

Miles pointed at the hoodie. “That’s my hoodie.”

 

Sails looked down. “Yeah. That’s why it smells like you.”

 

Kit made a noise behind his mug that could’ve been a snort.

 

“I sleep in that hoodie,” Miles continued.

 

Sails shrugged. “Then it’s full of dreams. Very romantic.”

 

Kit finally looked up and locked eyes with Miles, stone-faced. “He called me radiant.”

 

Miles' ears twitched.

 

“He said he liked danger.”

 

Miles marched over. “You’re messing with me.”

 

“Little bit,” Kit said.

 

“Only out of love,” Sails added.

 

“You both suck.”

 

Kit nudged Miles’ cereal bowl with his elbow. “You’re the one who invited them.”

 

Miles groaned, setting the bowl down. “I thought you’d be polite.”

 

“You were wrong.”

 

Sails draped an arm around Kit’s shoulder, purely for the performance of it. Kit didn't shrug him off. He didn’t need to—Miles was already halfway to combusting.

 

“You’re touching him.”

 

“I’m cozy,” Sails replied.

 

“You’re not allowed to be cozy with my husband.”

 

Kit sipped his coffee. “I am very warm.”

 

Miles flailed a hand. “I married him!”

 

Sails nodded solemnly. “Exactly. That’s why I keep him fluffed up while you’re off drooling into bowls of marshmallow cereal.”

 

Kit raised his coffee to his lips again and deadpanned, “You’re losing your grip, babe.”

 

Miles dropped his face into his hands. “Why do I love you.”

 

Kit shrugged. “You’ve got a thing for assholes.”

 

From under the table, Mangey barked once. No one had even noticed he was there.

 

Nine wandered through the room just then, carrying a wrench and a cup of green tea, gave everyone a long stare, then left again without saying a word.

 

Sails finally pulled his arm off Kit’s shoulder and stretched. “That’s enough morning chaos for now. I’m gonna steal some toast.”

 

“Only if it’s mine,” Miles muttered.

 

Sails grinned. “You know I only steal from people I love.”

 

As he wandered off, Kit finally turned fully toward Miles and murmured into his cup, “You want me to kiss you in front of him next time, or wait until he’s mid-toast?”

 

Miles stared, face red, jaw tight. “I’ll kill both of you.”

 

Kit leaned in with a lazy smile and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re cute when you’re offended.”

 

---

Bonus

 

Miles didn’t even finish his cereal.

 

He sulked, face puffed in a pout as he stood by the counter, spoon hanging in one hand, hoodie abandoned on Sails’ ridiculous shoulders, dignity somewhere between the kitchen floor and the trash can.

 

Kit could see the way his ears were pinned back, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—the way Miles looked so very small despite being the only one in the room with a proper breakfast.

 

So Kit sighed, rolled his eyes for good measure, and reached across the counter.

 

“C’mere,” he mumbled, tugging gently at the fabric of Miles’ pajama top.

 

Miles hesitated. “No.”

 

“C’mere.”

 

“You were fake-flirting with my cousin,” he accused, but he was already drifting closer.

 

Kit grabbed him by the hips, warm hands spreading over soft curves and pulling him into a quiet hug. Miles fell into it with a grumble, head tucking against Kit’s shoulder.

 

“He’s not even my type,” Kit muttered into his hair. “Too loud. Too charming. Probably eats with his mouth open.”

 

Miles huffed. “You let him put his arm around you.”

 

“I let you do worse,” Kit countered.

 

Miles didn’t have a response to that—just snuggled deeper into Kit’s hoodie-covered chest, inhaling the faint scent of morning and coffee and something that always smelled like home.

 

“Jealous little gremlin,” Kit added fondly, combing his claws through Miles’ bangs, brushing them out of his face.

 

“I’m not—” Miles began, but Kit’s hand was already stroking over his ears now, warm and methodical.

 

The chubster melted.

 

His knees buckled just a little as Kit pressed a kiss to the side of his head, scratching gently behind his ear like he knew exactly what buttons to push.

 

“Everyone here looks like you,” Kit murmured. “Only one I’m married to. Only one I wake up for. Only one I hold like this.”

 

Miles made a quiet noise—somewhere between a sigh and a hiccup—and buried his face further into Kit’s shoulder.

 

“D’you mean it?”

 

“No, I’m just saying that while hugging you in the kitchen with your belly against mine,” Kit said dryly. “Of course I mean it.”

 

Sails reentered the room just in time to see the cuddled-up pair. He whistled low. “Guess I lost that game.”

 

Kit, still petting Miles, glanced over his shoulder. “You were never playing.”

 

Miles grunted. “Get your own husband.”

 

“Hard to beat yours,” Sails admitted, walking away with toast in hand.

 

Kit smiled faintly and looked down. Miles was dozing against his shoulder, arms snug around his middle, soft and secure like this was the safest place in the world.

 

He pressed his lips to Miles’ temple and whispered, “Mine.”

 

And Miles, drowsy and smug now, just mumbled, “Always.”

 

 

Notes:

Sails' talk... had to read some sails/kit to understand what was he like talkin...

 

ALSOOO KITTAILS JUST INTERACTED BABY THIS IS NOT A DRILL I REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!!!! LET THE FOLK KNOW THEY JUST TALKED

Chapter 53

Summary:

Some Sails/Kitsunami Concepts & Small stuff

Notes:

Cw
Past religious trauma
past sexual assault

> CONCEPT #1 [ Island Cult Kitsunami/Sails]

 

The river had warmed by late afternoon. It ran slower here, fat and lazy between the roots, just deep enough to soak their legs and keep the bugs away. Sails knelt behind Kit, sleeves rolled and fingers buried in soaked white hair, humming low under his breath.

Kit sat still between his thighs, tail twitching every so often.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re gonna pull too hard.”

Sails grinned. “You’ve got a whole nest back here, cariño*. I’m workin’ through it.”

Kit sighed and let his chin tip forward. “Should’ve shaved it.”

“Don’t you dare,” Sails muttered. “I like it. Wild. Pretty.”

Kit snorted—soft, almost fond.

There was a pause.

Then Kit spoke.

“They shaved my head when I was nine.”

Sails’ fingers paused in his hair. Just for a second.

“Yeah?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” Kit said, voice thin. “It was part of the vow. The cult believed… that hair held shame. Vanity. So they shaved it before the first cleanse. With knives.”

Sails let his hand slide lower, cradling the base of Kit’s skull.

“They hurt you.”

Kit shrugged. “That was the point.”

Another pause.

He continued.

“My mother was a vessel. That’s what they called her. She didn’t talk. Barely looked at me. They said I was born from divine consequence. That the gods chose her. I think—” he hesitated. “I think she was just raped. I don’t know who by. They never told me.”

Sails didn’t move.

Kit’s voice stayed level.

“I was raised inside the temple. Never outside. Never with the others. They said my blood was clean. That I had a calling. El llamado. So they started early.”

His hands curled in his lap.

“I was taught how to kneel before I could read. I didn’t know what it meant, just that it made them happy. They called it love. They said I was blessed. Every touch, every mark—they said I was meant to receive it.”

Sails reached for more river water, gently cupping it over Kit’s crown, rinsing the lather.

“They made me think pain was holy. That silence was strength. That crying was for the impure. So I never cried.”

He finally looked up at the sun, through the branches above.

“I still don’t.”

Sails let the silence hang, respectful. He combed his fingers slowly through Kit’s hair, working the strands apart, patient.

Kit’s shoulders rose and fell with a quiet breath.

“When I was thirteen, they branded me. That’s when I realized it would never stop. That I would grow up and just—become one of them. Hurt others the way they hurt me.”

His jaw clenched. “So I ran.”

Another long pause.

“I wasn’t supposed to live past sixteen. They called it la purificación final. The final offering. I think they would’ve killed me.”

“You think?” Sails asked softly.

Kit closed his eyes. “I know.”

Sails didn’t speak right away. His hands were gentle. Reverent. He brushed the wet hair back from Kit’s brow.

“Now I know why you flinch when I touch your back.”

Kit huffed, bitter. “You say flinch, I say remember.”

“I don’t ever want to hurt you,” Sails said, voice low.

“You don’t.”

“I mean it. Even by accident, Kit. Even when I’m being stupid or loud or…”

“You don’t,” Kit said again, firmer this time.

Sails nodded once. Quiet.

Kit let out a breath and leaned back slightly—just enough that his shoulder met Sails’ chest.

And he said it like a confession:

“Es más fácil creer que nací mal... que creer que todos ellos mentían.”
[It’s easier to believe I was born wrong... than to believe they were all lying.]

Sails’ voice dropped to a hush.

“They were. Every single one of them. You weren’t born broken. You were born free. They’re the ones who tried to steal that from you.”

Kit didn’t reply. But he didn’t pull away either.

Sails rinsed the last of the soap from his hair. Cradled his nape. Pressed his cheek to the crown of his head.

And just held him there, in the sun and the river’s hush.

Like Kit was something real.

Like he belonged to no one but himself.

---

> CONCEPT #2 [ Sea Monster (not classified, mermen) Kitsunami/Sails]

The air clung thick with salt and silence. Smoke from the campfire curled lazy and ashamed, as if it knew what had been done. Sails sat where he’d dropped—legs folded, hands idle in his lap, the stick long gone.

 

The sea had gone still. Too still.

 

He tilted his head toward the water, eyes squinting past the moonlight. “Kit?” he called, softer now. “You still breathin’ under there, or you lettin’ the ocean keep you?”

 

No answer. Just the lapping of the tide.

 

Sails sighed—deep, ragged, full of guilt that stuck in his gut like a hook gone too deep. “Didn’t mean t’do it, y’know,” he muttered to the wind, though he knew the wind didn’t care. “I ain’t got the sense for family, never did. Thought he was just... food. A wee swimmer with no name.”

 

The sea didn’t forgive easy. Not this sea. Not his sea.

 

When Kit finally rose, it was slow. Deliberate. The water rolled off him like it missed him already. Fins sharp, gills flared, eyes glowing like dusk in a graveyard. He didn’t speak, not yet.

 

Sails stood up, careful not to reach for him.

 

“I weren’t tryin’ to make you ache, love,” he said. “Didn’t know that little guppy was one o’yours. Didn’t know you felt them all.”

 

Kit stepped forward, wet claws dragging along the rock, voice low. “They hatch in the dark. I hold them close before the sea takes ‘em. Every one. They know my hum. Know my name. And you—you fed him to fire.”

 

Sails winced. “Aye,” he said. “I did.”

 

“Why?” Kit’s lip curled, not in rage—no, this was worse. Wounded. “You said you loved me.”

 

“I do,” Sails rasped, hand on his chest like he might claw the truth out of it. “By every star and storm I do. But I’m a fool, Kit. A sailor raised on bone and belly-hunger. Never knew a father, never held a son. I see fish, I eat. That’s the way it’s always been.”

 

Kit’s fins flicked once. The waves behind him surged like breath.

 

“I never asked for your love,” Kit said. “But I gave you mine.”

 

Sails stepped closer, salt drying on his cheeks. “Then teach me, won’t you?” he whispered. “Teach me what it means t’be yours. Teach me not to burn what you hatch.”

 

Silence again. Long. Heavy.

 

Then Kit moved—past him, quiet as shadow. He sat by the fire’s remains, claws sunk into the sand.

 

“No more of my kin on sticks,” he muttered. “Not even the ugly ones.”

 

“Aye,” Sails nodded, sitting beside him. “Not even the ones that look at me cross.”

 

Kit’s eyes flicked sideways. “Especially those. They take after me.”

 

The tide breathed in.

 

And this time, Sails didn’t fish. He just hummed low and crooked, and let Kit lean his weight against him again—slow, like forgiving.

What didn’t he expect was, Kit slumping against him with all the grace of a sinking galleon, that massive, glistening fish tail dragging through the sand like a net full of anchors.

 

“Holy hellfire,” the pirate gasped, one arm pinned flat under the wet slap of sea-god affection. “D’ye weigh the whole damn ocean, or just carry it for fun?”

 

Kit, unbothered and vaguely smug, flicked his heavy tail right over Sails’ boots, the weight of it pressing down until the pirate’s knees buckled just a little.

 

“I am the ocean,” he rumbled, voice thick with the tide. “You’re lucky I’m even letting you breathe beside me.”

 

“Aye, well,” Sails grunted, trying and failing to shift the sheer bulk of his monstrous spouse, “I were hopin’ t’do more than breathe tonight, but it seems I’ll be dyin’ here instead, crushed by love and scales.”

 

“You deserve worse,” Kit muttered, but there was no bite to it. Just a sulk. A heavy one. He exhaled through his gills and pressed closer, tail tip twitching with barely restrained grief.

 

Sails sighed through his teeth, wiggling one arm free to rub slow circles behind Kit’s fins.

 

“Listen,” he said, gentler now, “if yeh need me t’bury the stick, I’ll do it. I’ll make a little shrine an’ all. Paint the name Sprig in me own damn blood if that’s what it takes.”

 

Kit blinked at him, eyes glowing softly. “You're dramatic.”

 

“Aye,” Sails nodded proudly. “That’s why you like me.”

 

“No. I like you because you smell like salt and lie badly.”

 

“Romance, that,” Sails chuckled.

 

He leaned in, forehead to crest, even if his legs had long gone numb under the sheer sea-monster weight pinning him down.

 

“You’re still crushing me,” he murmured.

 

Kit hummed. “Then stop being crushable.”

 

“Yeh *married* me, and I’ve got the bones of a ship rat.”

 

Kit didn’t correct the “married.” Didn’t move either.

 

Sails didn’t mind. He’d die like this, honestly. Wrapped in grief and scales and a ridiculous amount of damp sea tail. As far as pirate deaths went, it beat drowning in someone else’s bilge.

 

“...I liked Sprig,” he whispered, after a while.

 

Kit closed his eyes. “I know.”

 

They sat there, a pirate pinned beneath a god, listening to the surf whisper lullabies to the bones they’d buried.

---

 

Notes:

*: dear, love, honey. Affectionate term used in romantic context
poor sprig...

I 💗 Mermaid kitsunami
I should also release kittails week stuff i wrote, 22 &23

Chapter 54

---

“Pull the damn zipper, Miles.”

 

“I am. Your back’s just built stupid.”

 

Kit growled low in his throat as he stood with his arms crossed and his spine half-twisted while Miles tried to wrestle the zipper up the back of the stupid frilly thing. The maid outfit was tight. It creaked ominously every time Kit moved.

 

“You rigged this.”

 

“I don’t even own a sewing machine,” Miles muttered, yanking again. “There.”

 

It zipped. Kit exhaled like he’d just been strapped into a bomb.

 

They both stood in silence for a second, taking in what they looked like.

 

The mirror didn’t help.

 

Kit was all narrowed eyes, puffed sleeves, and sharp disgust. His tail jutted stiffly out the cut-out in the back like a flag of protest. The skirt brushed his knees. He looked like he was about to fight a demon prince in a cursed indie game.

 

Miles looked like he didn’t care, because he didn’t. His outfit was just as absurd—ruffled apron, black tights, pressed collar—and he was somehow comfortable. Like he’d already emotionally divorced himself from the situation.

 

“You look like you’ve done this before,” Kit muttered.

 

“I have not,” Miles said. “I’ve just lived long enough to stop caring.”

 

“That’s worse.”

 

Miles shrugged, straightening his sleeves. “Let’s go serve tea to people who’ve never touched grass.”

 

Kit inhaled through his nose. “One of them touches me and I’m putting them through a window.”

 

“I will tip you myself if you do.”

 

---

The bell over the café door jingled as they walked in. Heads turned. A girl choked on her croissant.

 

Kit tried to ignore the immediate chaos that followed: phones out, flash photography, one guy knocking over his latte trying to sit upright. A table of teens near the back started whisper-screaming.

 

Miles grabbed a tray and marched past Kit like he was going to war. “Don’t just stand there looking homicidal, we’re on shift.”

 

“I am homicidal,” Kit muttered, picking up a second tray like it was a weapon.

 

---

 

They were naturals. In a horrifying way.

 

Kit didn’t try to act cute. He didn’t smile. He didn’t bow or giggle or say “Welcome home, master!~” like the script on the counter suggested. He just showed up, delivered coffee, and stared. People seemed to love it.

 

Miles didn’t bother with the persona either. He was dry. Brutal. Moved with clockwork precision and barely made eye contact with the guests. They adored him.

 

A napkin passed to Kit read:

 

          “is ts YAOI???”   

 

He stared at it for five full seconds, then shoved it in a cup of soup someone hadn’t touched. No one objected.

 

Another note came later:

 

     “WHICH ONE OF U IS THE SEME??????”

 

Miles read that one, snorted, and handed it to Kit like a gift.

 

“Think we should start a poll?”

 

Kit tore it into four pieces with two fingers.

---

 

They didn’t talk to each other on the floor. They didn’t have to. They worked in parallel, like two cold, elegant sharks. When someone tried to hand Kit a stuffed fox doll with hearts on it, he put it back on the table wordlessly. When someone asked Miles for a selfie, he said “no” and walked off. One guy asked Kit for a hug and got a death stare so intense it knocked a spoon off the table.

 

And yet...

 

                   “Why are they so good at this?"

 

“They’re not even nice.”

 

          “I feel like I’m being judged by royalty.

 

“I want them to yell at me again.”

---

 

They took a ten-minute break out back, leaning against the brick wall of the café like exhausted mannequins.

 

Kit rolled his neck. “I think one of them tried to sniff me.”

 

“I got asked if we were twins.”

 

“What’d you say?”

 

“That you’d bite them if they kept talking.”

 

Kit huffed, arms folded. “You hate this too, right?”

 

“Oh, absolutely. I’m just better at hiding it.”

 

“Smug little—”

 

A camera flash blinked from across the alley. Kit didn’t even look—he just launched an empty drink cup like a dart. It clattered off a trash can. Someone yelped.

 

Miles clapped once. “New record.”

---

 

When the shift ended, Kit stormed out of the breakroom still in full maid gear, hair disheveled, apron twisted. Miles walked behind him, slowly removing his gloves and ignoring the waves of applause from some particularly brave customers near the counter.

 

They got tipped like celebrities. One customer tried to hand Kit a folded paper crane with his number on it.

 

Kit didn’t take it.

 

He just stared.

 

The guy backed off.

 

Miles tossed the apron in the bin near the door and stretched like someone who just finished shoveling snow. “Well. That was terrible.”

 

Kit didn’t say anything. Just stomped into the parking lot and got in the car with his arms crossed.

 

Miles climbed in a moment later and started the engine. “We get overtime for this?”

 

“No,” Kit said flatly. “We get trauma.”

 

A silence passed.

 

Miles reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled napkin.

 

“Wanna see the worst one?”

 

Kit took it, unfolded it, and stared at the aggressively pink ink:

 

“Maid Kit looks like he bites. Maid Miles looks like he says thank you after.” 

 

He crumpled it up and stuffed it into the glove compartment.

 

“We’re never speaking of this again.”

 

Miles just put the car in gear and said, “Next week’s butler theme.”

 

“Drive.”

Notes:

kit doesnt know what yaoi even means✌🏻 he is thirty n employed unfortunately...

little birdie on my shoulder says this year september we will be eatin... just assumptions, of course.

Happy Maid day to all freaks out there.

Chapter 55

Notes:

concept concept

 

It was a quiet, sunny afternoon—the kind of lazy day perfect for soft music and a warm patch of carpet. Miles was spread out belly-down in the living room, his laptop open and a half-finished blueprint glowing on the screen. He had a pencil tucked behind one ear, mismatched socks on, and the faintest smudge of peanut butter at the corner of his mouth from the sandwich he’d half-finished hours ago.

 

Everything was peaceful.

 

Until he felt it.

 

A cool, gliding sensation on his lower back.

 

He froze.

 

“...Kit?” Miles said, voice already a little too high. “Please tell me that’s your hand.”

 

No response. Just the low buzz of the heater and the scratching sound of Mochi digging at her hay tunnel nearby.

 

Then, a tongue flick. On his neck.

 

“KIT!” Miles shrieked, bolting upright so fast his laptop flipped closed and his sketchpad went flying.

 

From behind the couch, Kit peeked up lazily, holding a smoothie cup and looking deeply unbothered. “What?”

 

“She’s on me again!" Miles cried, swatting at his shirt, heart pounding. “Your little noodle monster is on me!”

 

Seraphine, the long and lovely white ball python in question, had somehow slithered up the back of the couch and was now draped calmly across Miles’ shoulder like a fashion statement. She coiled slightly, her body cool against his warm fur, tongue flicking gently against his cheek.

 

“Don’t move too fast,” Kit said mildly, strolling over like this wasn’t an emergency. “You’ll make her nervous.”

 

“I’m nervous!” Miles barked, practically vibrating in place. “Why couldn’t you pick a normal pet?!”

 

Kit carefully reached out to lift Seraphine, who gave no protest, simply curling around his wrist as she was moved like a slow, regal scarf. “Normal is boring. Besides, she’s harmless. She just likes you.”

 

“She likes my body heat!" Miles pointed an accusatory finger at Kit’s smoothie. “And you’re sipping that like your demon worm didn’t just try to devour me.”

 

“She’s a python, not a demon worm.” Kit sat cross-legged on the floor, letting Seraphine curl on his lap. “She doesn’t even have teeth sharp enough to break skin.”

 

“She slithered onto my spine, Kit!”

 

From the corner of the room, Mochi gave a dismissive squeak, as if siding with Miles on the matter. The guinea pig had no tolerance for reptiles and even less for drama. She was currently mid-nap in her fleece pouch, living her best normal-pet life.

 

Miles, still standing, arms crossed over his chest, stared down at Kit. “Why couldn’t we have just gotten another Mochi? Or a hamster? Or literally any mammal that doesn’t sneak up my shirt and touch my neck?”

 

Kit blinked at him innocently. “Because mammals poop too much and don’t look this majestic.”

 

Seraphine yawned, her little mouth opening in a slow, unsettling gape, before tucking herself around Kit’s elbow like a bracelet.

 

“She yawned at me. That was a warning.”

 

“She’s sleepy, not threatening.”

 

“She’s plotting!”

 

Kit snorted, clearly amused. “Do you need a hug?”

 

“No!” Miles snapped. “I need your scaly daughter to get a restraining order!”

 

Kit patted the floor beside him. “Come here, she’s off you now.”

 

Miles hesitated, then slowly tiptoed around the snake zone and sat down as far from Seraphine as the room would allow. Kit reached out and gently touched his knee, offering an apologetic smile.

 

“Sorry she keeps picking you. She just… likes cuddly things.”

 

“I’m not a heat lamp.”

 

“You kind of are.”

 

Mochi squeaked again—possibly from annoyance, possibly just to say she was awake—and Kit chuckled softly.

 

“You know,” Kit added, glancing at both of them, “we could always get a turtle next.”

 

Miles stared. “If I wake up one morning with a tortoise on my face, I swear to chaos—"

 

Kit laughed so hard he almost spilled his smoothie.

 

Notes:

been busy w drawing stuff... whoopsies.

Chapter 56

Notes:

sea monster kit
>jiao ren ??
>prophecy

Royie = alt miles variant, priest kitsune

 

The old scriptures had been copied by hand, rolled into lacquered scrolls, tucked into clay jars—buried in cellars or tucked behind temple altars. Royie had grown up with them like lullabies. Prophecies of salt-touched monsters. Creatures with gills and moon-split eyes, who came when the tides turned wrong, when famine kissed the wind. It had always been metaphor.

 

Until the day he saw Kit.

 

He’d been young then—maybe thirty—drunk off a celebration, wandering toward the coast with incense still clinging to his sleeves. There’d been a shape in the sea. Pale skin that caught the moonlight. Thin limbs, long hair, gills flaring gently like petals opening to breathe.

 

He hadn’t spoken to him that night. Hadn’t dared.

 

But it stayed with him. And now Royie was old—forty-six and shameless about it. He wore his gray like silk, let his robes hang loose around his belly, carried the name of priest like it was something earned. And the sea hadn’t taken Kit back.

 

He lived nearby now. Hidden from the public eye, in a quiet hut that Royie maintained himself with sore knees and stubbornness. No one else in the village dared approach the so-called sea monster, the jiao ren from their prophecies. No one but Royie.

 

Their relationship was simple, even if nothing else about their lives was.

 

On rainy days, Royie would hobble barefoot to Kit’s place with a basket of rice and bruised ginger. He’d complain about his hips. Kit would clean his gills by the hearth in silence. Royie would fall asleep with his arms crossed behind his head, mouth open, snoring faintly.

 

It was enough.

---

That evening, the rain came again, soft and warm, hissing against the roof tiles. Royie sat cross-legged by the fire, combing the ends of his graying hair while Kit knelt beside a basin, fingers pressed gently to the sides of his neck, massaging the sore gills that pulsed faintly with breath.

 

“You didn’t rest again,” Royie said quietly, gaze fixed on him. “You don’t eat enough, either. You’re going to wither.”

 

Kit didn’t answer, just shifted, the fabric of his robe parting as he leaned forward. He was all sleek limbs and old power—beautiful in a way Royie never grew used to. Not handsome like a man, no. Just… other.

 

The basin water steamed, infused with herbs. Royie had mixed them himself.

 

“You were in my dreams again,” Royie mumbled. “You looked younger than this. Paler. Bloody, too.”

 

Kit blinked. His eyes—large and flat and strange in the firelight—just watched him.

 

Royie smiled faintly. “Not everything prophetic is worth worrying about. I dreamed once that my husband would have four eyes and a tail like a snake.”

 

Kit narrowed his eyes just slightly, then turned back to the water, sliding two fingers along his gills again. The pink skin there was inflamed.

 

“You swam too deep again,” Royie said. “I told you not to.”

 

Still no answer.

 

“You think I don’t know how to read you, old thing?” Royie teased, lifting himself up with a groan. “I’ve been your priest for sixteen years. I’ve cooked your noodles. I’ve rubbed balm into your back. You’re not as unreadable as you think.”

 

Kit looked at him then. Really looked.

 

Royie’s grin softened. He reached down, cupped the side of Kit’s damp face. The skin there was warm, almost feverish.

 

“You’re mine,” Royie said gently. “Prophecy or no.”

 

Kit leaned into the touch—slowly, like he wasn’t quite sure what it meant. Then his gills fluttered against Royie’s palm, cool and soft and almost shy.

 

Royie leaned in, brushed a kiss over his forehead.

 

“Come eat,” he said. “I made dumplings.”

 

Kit followed in silence.

 

---

 

They sat side by side on the floor, sharing a shallow bowl of rice dumplings, dipping them into soy with lazy precision. Kit ate slow, like he was still learning how. Royie watched every bite.

 

“You know,” Royie said after a while, mouth full, “I think maybe the sea didn’t send you to drown the world. Maybe it just sent me someone who’d make me sit my ass down and eat with someone for once.”

 

Kit stared.

 

Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and tugged at the corner of Royie’s sleeve—just gently.

 

Royie blinked. Then chuckled. “Was that affection? From *you*?”

 

Kit didn’t let go.

 

Royie leaned closer. And for once, Kit met him halfway, pressing their foreheads together in a breathless kind of stillness.

 

“I don’t care what the scrolls say,” Royie whispered. “They said a monster would walk ashore and bring calamity. But you brought me home.”

 

The rain slowed outside. The gills along Kit’s neck pulsed—calmer now.

 

They shared the rest of the dumplings in silence. Lovers, prophecy, sea and land. It didn’t need to make sense.

 

It just had to be warm.

 

Notes:

chinafied the western yaoi kittails

okay so whole thing w kits gills is theyre under his jaw, and his neck has fur– lots of. So when he swims deep it tickles his gills and when he does that for a long period of time, they get irritated.

Chapter 57

Notes:

royie = miles
raden = kit

The incense had barely begun to burn when Royie felt the wetness trail in behind him—quiet and seamless, like a whisper of tide against the floorboards. He didn’t have to turn. He could feel the weight in the air, the drop in temperature, the faint, salty humidity.

 

“Raden,” he murmured, already peeling off the outer layers of his ceremonial robe. “You didn’t dry yourself again, did you?”

 

No answer. Of course not.

 

Royie turned with a sigh, third tail flicking once, impatiently. There the creature stood: salt clinging to his scaled legs, gills visibly pulsing, and that thin robe of his nearly transparent from the damp. Raden looked tired. Not the kind of tired that came from long days, but the ancient kind—that deep ache in the bones of things not meant for land. His eyes were heavy-lidded, quiet, and almost childishly mournful.

 

Royie groaned under his breath. “You’re going to make me late to my own offering.”

 

Raden blinked slowly.

 

“Sit,” Royie grunted, grabbing a stool and setting a wide porcelain bowl at Raden's feet. His own knees cracked as he bent, tail curling around his hip like a stubborn sash. “You make yourself cryptic, all solemn and salt-slick, but you come to me like a kicked pup when your gills act up. You really are the biggest damn homo I’ve ever known.”

 

Raden sat. Gracefully. Silently. Of course.

 

Royie hissed through his teeth, dabbing a cloth in herbal water. “Hold still.”

 

The cloth met the grooves along Raden's neck, slow and warm, and the reaction was immediate: a quiet shudder, the flaring of those fine little slits, and a slow exhale that made Royie’s fingers falter.

 

“You are so dramatic,” he whispered, tone betraying none of the way his cheeks flushed. “A whole sea-creature of prophecy and might, and you crumble when I touch you with lavender oil.”

 

Raden's crest flexed slightly. Maybe it was amusement. Maybe contentment.

 

Royie had to look away. “You know I’m married, right?” he muttered, voice barely audible. “You know I’m old. You’re older, probably, but still— you’re a goddamn mess.”

 

Raden blinked again, slow and serene, watching him the whole time. Royie looked back.

 

“You smell like seaweed and grave moss.”

 

Raden's webbed fingers found his wrist.

 

Royie didn’t pull away.

 

They stayed there a while.

Bowl warm with steam. And a chubby, flushed kitsune priest kneeling before the creature that made the tide swell every time he breathed wrong.

---

The temple was quiet. Still. Outside, the lanterns had long since dimmed, their oil burned down to soft embers, and the koi pond no longer rippled with passing footsteps. It was well past the hour of respectability, but Royie was awake—barefoot, robe loose, hair unpinned and falling like dusk around his shoulders.

 

Raden was there again.

 

Leaning against the old wooden post near the veranda, half-shadowed, gills glistening faintly where they peeked through the curve of his neck. He said nothing. He never said much. But the air always changed when he arrived. Like the tide turning. Like something sacred stirring beneath the surface of ordinary life.

 

Royie crossed the threshold without speaking. His third tail flicked once, then fell limp behind him.

 

“You always come late,” he muttered, voice dry with wear and the bite of wine still lingering on his tongue. “You wait ‘til everyone’s gone, ‘til my duties are folded and stacked and my house is silent.” A pause. His voice dipped lower. “Like a ghost.”

 

Raden’s eyes, low-lidded and glinting faintly in the dark, didn’t move. He watched Royie approach with the patience of tide-worn stone.

 

Royie stood in front of him now—close enough to feel the damp clinging to Kit’s skin. “You shouldn’t be here.”

 

Raden didn’t answer.

 

“I shouldn’t—” Royie swallowed. The lie caught in his throat, thick as seawater. “I have a wife.”

 

Still no reply.

 

“...She’s good to me.”

 

Raden raised his hand. Just one, webbed and lean, fingers curling under Royie’s jaw like he was touching glass. He didn’t pull him forward. He didn’t need to.

 

Royie leaned in anyway.

 

Their lips met—not in frenzy, but in that too-soft way that felt like drowning. Like silk unfurling over pressure. The kind of kiss that made Royie shiver to his bones, made his knees ache like they’d spent the whole evening in prayer, made his chest burn with guilt and longing and the terrifying peace of it.

 

Raden kissed him like he already knew every regret. Like he wasn’t afraid of them.

 

“I don’t love her,” Royie whispered, hoarse, when they broke apart. “Not like this.”

 

Raden leaned in again—mouth brushing his cheek, his throat, his collarbone. That crest against Royie’s skin was cold, electric. The priest gasped, hand catching Raden’s arm.

 

“I hate that I wait for you. I do,” he whispered, as Raden's fingers curled around the edge of his robe. “I hate that I light the lamps hoping you’ll come.”

 

Raden exhaled against his neck, and Royie’s body folded like wet paper.

 

They sank together into the shadows of the veranda—Raden half-wrapped around him, gills pulsing in the warmth, Royie’s tail flicking through the folds of fabric as he pressed close. He didn’t stop. Not when his robe slipped off his shoulder. Not when Raden’s hands found the small of his back. Not when his mouth was claimed again and again with quiet desperation.

 

And somewhere deep in Royie’s chest, past the guilt and the vows and the years, something gave in. Something old. Something holy.

 

It didn’t matter that it was wrong.

 

Raden tasted like salt and silence and the beginning of the end, and Royie wanted nothing else.

 

Notes:

yes i love WOKE PROPAGANDA KITTAILS!!
—> get that hetero bullshit kittails from my eyes ducko
—> can feel myself getting bored of this kittails au too so yea last post probs...

edit: Kit is changed to Raden later. might forgot to switch some of em whoops

Chapter 58

Miles didn’t have to be asked twice—not when Kit mumbled it like that, all sleep-heavy and stubborn, curling tighter into the couch like a fennec in hibernation. The blanket had slipped a little, exposing the pale cream of his stomach, smooth and warm, bandages peeking faintly beneath the hem of his shirt.

 

Kit stretched just enough to show he wasn’t injured there—just achy, just clingy. His shirt lifted a bit more. “Rub my bellay…” he grunted, barely coherent, voice muffled by the crook of his own arm. “It hurts, but not hurts-hurts. Just… pressure. Like a frog.”

 

Miles, all softness and warm hands, set down the half-eaten toast and carefully scooted closer, knees cracking faintly beneath his own weight. He was still wearing the same pants from this morning—lounge-wrinkled, low on the hips now that his belly had gotten cozy from sitting around too long. His own shirt pulled just a little snug around his middle, rolling with each breath as he settled by Kit’s side.

 

“I’m gonna do it slow,” he murmured, brushing the loose hair away from Kit’s cheek. “Tell me if anything’s too much.”

 

“‘s fine,” Kit grunted again, already blinking slow, like his body was giving him permission to shut down the longer Miles was near.

 

So Miles placed both hands gently on Kit’s stomach. One firm but still careful, the other smoothing lazy circles with his palm. He didn’t press too deep—he knew Kit’s limits. Knew when to soothe and when to let the air settle between them like a balm.

 

“You’re so flat,” Miles whispered absently, admiring the gentle dip of Kit’s waist beneath his fingers. “You never complain when you lay on me, but I swear I’m twice your softness.”

 

“You are a marshmallow,” Kit muttered, ears flicking. “Warm and squishy. You jiggle when you brush your teeth too hard.”

 

Miles huffed a laugh. “That’s not even true—”

 

“It is.” Kit cracked one eye open, grinning crookedly. “And I like it. Feels nice when I roll over onto you. Like hugging a bread roll.”

 

“A bread roll?”

 

“Yeah.” Kit grabbed the bottom of Miles’ shirt with his fingertips and tugged it up, exposing the faint pudge of his belly. “See? Doughy.”

 

Miles flushed but didn’t stop rubbing. Instead, he let Kit reach out and rest a palm on his own middle—warm, padded, soft from too many nights of second dinners and not enough exercise. Kit’s fingers spread against it like he needed to feel the difference between them, even in his sore state.

 

“I’m glad I’m not the plush one,” Kit murmured, thumb tracing the curve of Miles’ belly slowly. “That way I get to hold the warmest thing in bed.”

 

Miles' hand paused over Kit’s stomach, then moved lower, rubbing broad gentle sweeps just above his hips now.

 

“And I get to rub yours,” Miles whispered, smiling as Kit’s body relaxed deeper under his hands.

 

There wasn’t anything romantic in the dramatic way Kit groaned, turning his head with a “Mmmnhhghh" like a cartoon villain melting in the sun. But there was love in the way he reached up, lazily, to cup Miles' wrist and guide his touch lower. Not possessive—just sleepy and grateful.

 

“I don’t deserve you,” Kit mumbled.

 

“I’m literally just rubbing your belly,” Miles replied, rolling his eyes.

 

“You’re *both* the best husband *and* the squishiest hot water bottle. Shut up and keep going.”

 

And Miles did—both hands now. One on Kit’s middle, the other lazily stroking the underside of his belly, fingertips brushing the soft bandages in passing. Kit let himself be touched, allowed Miles to take the weight, and even as the warmth between them thickened like syrup, neither moved much.

 

Just belly rubs.

 

Notes:

rub my bellay...

whenever i post its when... nightly of nightliest times like.. 1 am or 2 so i naturally forget to write the notes i have been thinking about all day whilr writing so uhhh

exams started, and i have big exam, IELTS type shi ya'know... So I might be not able to post after june

Chapter 59

Notes:

wip... for a bigger stuffie

feel free to skip if u have patience for the full release to publish hehe

 

The hallway light didn’t reach the bathroom; it was just a line across the tile where Kit leaned, one shoulder pressed to the doorframe like the house itself was trying to push him back in. His back ached. It wasn’t pain anymore—it was weight. A living pulse running the whole length of him, shoulder to waist. Angry, red, scabbing in streaks.

 

He hadn’t looked in a mirror.

 

He didn’t want to.

 

“Hot or warm?” Miles asked softly from beside the sink, half-dressed, his shirt backwards and eyes still crusted with sleep.

 

“…Warm,” Kit muttered. “Not hot. I’m not trying to boil my skin off.”

 

Miles nodded and turned the handle. Steam crept up slow from the tub’s lip. Kit leaned heavier slowly frame.

 

Peeling the gauze off had left him trembling again, even with Miles there to help. His fur matted around the wound, stained from earlier. Even after the worst of the crash had passed—no shards inside him, no fever—he still felt like he’d been scooped out and stuffed back wrong. Heavy in the wrong places. Hollow in others.

 

“Lift your arms,” Miles said, already reaching for the last band of medical tape around Kit’s side.

 

Kit winced but obeyed. “Didn’t think you’d be a nurse type.”

 

“I’m not. You’re just loud when you suffer.”

 

“Ass.”

 

Miles smiled. “Come on.”

 

Kit stepped out of his shorts with a grunt, one hand gripping the wall. His back pulled, scabs tugging tight, but nothing split open. He shivered once and stepped into the tub stall. The steam wrapped around him fast, fogging the mirror behind them.

 

The water hit his chest, lukewarm, then his stomach, then curled around to touch his back.

 

He gasped—then gritted his teeth, head bowing forward as it licked across the scab line. A solid stripe of red and black, not quite open, not quite healed. Water found the raw edges, and the whole length of him stung with ghostly heat.

 

“You okay?” Miles asked from behind him.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You’re shaking.”

 

“I said I’m okay.”

 

Miles stepped in. His feet were bare. He still had pajama pants on, but his shirt had been thrown aside. The soft, gold-brown of his chest fur looked out of place in the fog and white tile, almost too clean. Too whole.

 

Kit didn’t look him in the eye.

 

“Hold the bar,” Miles said gently, moving past him to grab the bottle of scentless soap. “I’ll do your back.”

 

“I can—”

 

“You’re not gonna reach without twisting. You want it bleeding again?”

 

Kit grumbled. But he obeyed. One hand gripped the rail. The other braced on the tile.

 

Miles worked slow. A soft washcloth, small circles starting at Kit’s upper spine, never touching the scabbing edge. It wasn’t about being tender—just precise. Practiced in the way engineers had to be when prying open a panel where wires were coiled like nerves.

 

Kit’s fur lifted slowly under the cloth, color returning. Pale beige met warm water, met quiet silence between them.

 

“You’re quieter when you’re clean,” Miles said after a moment.

 

Kit squinted forward. “You’re louder when you’re smug.”

 

Miles huffed. “That’s fair.”

 

He reached for the showerhead, unhooking it with one hand and adjusting the spray. He rinsed along Kit’s shoulders, letting the water drag away foam and dried blood and days of sleeping in pain. The clumps behind Kit’s ears loosened. His tail drooped, sodden, waterlogged, but still.

 

“Head down,” Miles murmured.

 

Kit, tilted, and Miles ran water through his hair, careful around the base of each ear. The strands were tangled, stiff, but cleaned easy with patience. Miles combed through with fingers more than once.

 

Kit didn’t speak.

 

He wasn’t sure what to say.

 

The warmth surrounded him in layers—the water, the steam, the way Miles’ hand lingered too long at his nape. Not lovers. Not yet. But not strangers either. Not even close.

 

When the last of the soap was gone and Kit stood there dripping, fur sleek and flush with heat, Miles finally stepped out.

 

“I’ll get towels.”

 

Kit stood there a while longer, the water cooling against his skin. He blinked once, and something soft pressed behind his eyes. Not tears. Just exhaustion. A weight.

 

He shut off the water.

 

The room went silent.

 

He reached for the towel just as Miles came back in with another.

 

“Here. This one’s dry.”

 

Kit took it without a word. He didn’t miss the way Miles looked at him—careful not to stare at the wound but still a ways checking. His hands itched to dry Kit’s back again, to shield it from the cool air, to make sure nothing reopened.

 

Kit muttered, “Don’t say anything.”

 

Miles only smiled faintly. “I wasn’t going to.”

 

 

The towel clung to Kit’s waist like a truce. Damp, barely doing its job. He didn’t care. His legs still trembled from the heat and the sting, and every step to the bedroom made him feel heavier, fuzzier. Clean, but not whole. Scrubbed raw, but still intact.

 

Miles was already there.

 

He’d laid out a shirt and pants on the bed—soft cotton, worn thin from too many washes. Kit recognized them. The shirt was navy, a little wide in the shoulders. It had been his, once. He’d left it after a bad night two winters ago. Miles had never returned it.

 

He was holding a gauze roll now. And tape.

 

“Sit.”

 

Kit squinted at the bed.

 

“You sit,” he muttered.

 

“I’m already sitting,” Miles said plainly.

 

It was true. He was perched on the edge, legs apart, medical supplies on a folded towel beside him. He looked like some stupid mix between a war medic and a housewife. Bare-chested. Focused.

 

Kit dropped onto the bed sideways, towel still clutched. His tail stuck out of it awkwardly, dripping on the floor.

 

“Turn,” Miles said gently.

 

Kit grunted, slowly shifting to sit with his back facing Miles. The wound caught the fabric of the towel as he moved, making him wince. The scab tugged hard near the lower part of the wound, just above the curve of his hip.

 

“I’ll put ointment first. Hold still.”

 

The antiseptic was cold. Kit flinched, hissing softly as Miles dabbed it along the worst areas—the broken skin just outside the scab line, the thinnest pink near the bottom. He could feel Miles’ fingers through the gauze, feather-light, moving with the kind of precision you didn’t expect from a guy who built rocket compressors with his bare paws.

 

“You should’ve told me how bad it was,” Miles said after a minute.

 

“You saw.”

 

“I mean before.”

 

Kit exhaled. “Didn’t think I was gonna survive it. Thought I’d just bleed out, real slow. Didn’t matter who knew.”

 

The silence held a second too long.

 

Miles tied off the gauze and taped it in place. His thumb brushed the edge of Kit’s spine once before he moved away.

 

“You’re not bleeding now,” he said. “So you’re gonna get dressed.”

 

“Or what?”

 

“I’ll do it for you.”

 

Kit side-eyed him. “That sounds like a threat.”

 

“Good. Arms up.”

 

He helped him out of the towel first. The air was cooler now, bracing, but not freezing. Still, Kit gave a full-body shiver, his damp fur fluffing instinctively. Miles was already holding the shirt open, threading one sleeve through carefully.

 

Kit sighed. “You’re dressing me like I’m a baby.”

 

“No,” Miles said. “Babies are lighter.”

 

He pulled the shirt over Kit’s head, taking care not to stretch or shift the bandages. The shirt hung a little loose. The old cotton settled gently over Kit’s back, not tight, not clinging.

 

“Lift your arms again.”

 

Kit obeyed, and Miles helped guide the hem down fully, making sure nothing caught. Kit’s fur, still damp, clung to the fabric. He didn’t seem to mind.

 

Once it was on, Miles moved to the pants—boxers first, then loose pajama bottoms. He worked wordlessly now, moving Kit’s legs as needed, pulling each cloth piece up inch by inch, careful to never jostle his tail or the fresh bandages.

 

Kit didn’t resist. Not once. He just watched. Breathing even. Eyes soft.

 

“You do this for everyone?” he asked finally, voice quiet.

 

“No. Just you.”

 

“Why?”

 

Miles looked up, one paw still holding the waistband. “Because you came to me. Bleeding. Barely standing. You didn’t call a medic. You didn’t crawl to base. You walked through my door.”

 

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

 

“That’s a lie.”

 

Kit hesitated. Then looked away.

 

“I thought you were twenty-three,” he muttered.

 

Miles blinked. “What?”

 

“I thought you were twenty-three. Turns out you’re twenty-seven. And I’m twenty-eight. I’ve been talking down to you for a year.”

 

Miles let out a small laugh. “You really thought I was that much younger?”

 

“You’re short. You baby your tools. And you like fruit snacks.”

 

“You like sleeping in vents.”

 

“That was one time.”

 

They sat in silence for a beat.

 

Miles finally tugged the waistband up the last bit and let Kit’s shirt fall over it. He sat back, hands resting lightly on his knees, taking in the sight. Kit, clean and clothed, hair still dripping faintly. The bandage under his shirt wasn’t visible, but Miles could still feel its shape in his memory.

 

“You’re not dying,” Miles said softly. “I’m not letting you.”

 

Kit looked at him for a long time.

 

Then said, “Good.”

 

Notes:

grammarly keeps flagging my em dashes as wrong punctuation and it angers me out!!! let a girl write her yaoi freely!!

Chapter 60

Notes:

not connected w the last chap ^^

The room still smelled faintly of antiseptic, all sharp whites and bleached linens, but Miles had been there long enough to soften the edges. The lights were dimmed low—he'd asked the nurse to leave them that way—and someone had thoughtfully left a little chair by the bed. Not that he used it. Miles was perched on the edge of the mattress instead, one knee tucked beneath him, the other hanging just over the side. Balanced carefully in his lap was a ceramic plate—warm from the kitchen, even after the walk down the hall—and on it rested two thick slices of golden toast and a few curled pieces of sausage that shimmered with grease and thyme.

 

Kit, for his part, looked like a sulking gargoyle propped up by pillows. His ears were pinned back, crest flat, arms crossed over his chest like he might take a swing at anyone who got too close. A pale bandage wrapped his midsection beneath the gown, and every time he shifted, he hissed like he was more annoyed than in pain. Miles wasn’t fooled.

 

"I brought you something," Miles offered in a careful, sing-song voice, watching the way Kit's ears twitched toward him.

 

"If it's hospital jello again, I swear I'm gonna bite you."

 

"Not unless they started seasoning gelatin with thyme," Miles said, amused, holding up the plate like it was a royal offering. “Look. Toast. Your favorite sausage. I even sliced it the long way so it wouldn’t roll off.”

 

Kit grunted. His eyes opened, red-rimmed from painkillers and interrupted sleep, and he squinted at the toast like it might leap off the plate and attack him. “You gonna start feeding me like a baby bird now, huh?”

 

Miles rolled his eyes, setting the plate gently on the tray beside the bed and reaching to adjust Kit’s blanket where it had slipped. “Only if you start chirping.”

 

“I am chirping,” Kit grumbled, curling slightly around his stitched side. “On the inside. Internally. Screeching like a dying dolphin.”

 

“Good to know your sense of melodrama survived surgery.” Miles leaned in to nuzzle his temple, brushing his own nose through Kit’s messy bangs. “Can’t say the same for your manners.”

 

“Wasn’t born with any.”

 

Miles chuckled. “Lucky for you, I find you charming anyway.”

 

Kit groaned and turned his face away into the pillow, but his tail twitched at the end of the bed—slow, deliberate, like he was pretending he hadn’t heard that. Miles waited a beat, then reached over and picked up a slice of toast, gently dragging it through the drippings left by the sausage.

 

“You smell that?” he asked, holding it a few inches from Kit’s nose. “Rosemary, a little sage. All the stuff you like.”

 

“I like silence.”

 

“You’re not getting any until you eat.”

 

Kit cracked open one eye again, sluggish but shining faintly with affection beneath the irritation. “You bribing me with toast.”

 

“I’m bribing you with love, actually. And this sausage. The nice one I hide from you. The imported pack.”

 

“…That’s suspicious.”

 

“I didn’t even burn the edges,” Miles said proudly, waving the toast a little closer. “So you have two choices. You eat it like a civilized fox, or I make airplane noises and shove it in.”

 

Kit stared at him for a long moment, clearly deciding whether biting his husband’s finger was worth the aftermath. Eventually, with a gravelly huff, he lifted his head a little. “Fine. One bite. And it better not be dry, or I’m smothering you with this pillow.”

 

Miles grinned and held the toast steady. “Open wide.”

 

Kit made a dramatic show of baring his teeth before taking the bite, chewing slowly and glaring at Miles like he hadn’t just half-devoured it in one go. “…Damn it.”

 

“What?”

 

“…It’s good.”

 

“Told you.” Miles looked smug. “You’re lucky I like you so much.”

 

“Too much,” Kit muttered under his breath, licking a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “You’re gonna keep doing this now, huh? Bringing food and holding my hand and reading me bedtime stories.”

 

“I hadn’t planned the bedtime stories yet, but I could. I brought a book.”

 

“You're too romantic.”

 

Miles leaned in, kissing Kit’s cheek with exaggerated sweetness. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

 

“I’m stitched, not dead,” Kit grumbled, but his voice was softer now. Less annoyed, more grudgingly content. “You didn’t have to bring me breakfast, you know.”

 

Miles looked down at him, blue-brown eyes shining in the low light, and reached out to brush a thumb along Kit’s jaw. “You’re my whole damn heart. If I can’t bring you toast when you look like death warmed over, what’s the point of being married?”

 

Kit’s gaze flickered, mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re a sap.”

 

“I’m your sap.”

 

“You’re lucky I love you.”

 

“I am lucky,” Miles murmured, setting the plate closer. “Now shut up and eat before it gets cold.”

 

Kit took the next bite with a huff, but he didn’t complain about the sausage again. Not once. And when Miles leaned against him and rested his head on Kit’s shoulder, Kit didn’t push him away either.

 

Notes:

sick kit.. favsies favsies

the thing w kit is that either people paint him to be so... "badass" or too "cutesy"...
i think kit falls in both of them.

Chapter 61

Notes:

omegaverse,, no nsfw topics

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled deep into the bones—comfortable, familiar, owned. Rain tapped against the windows in slow rhythm, and the smell of soldered metal and clean laundry hung in the air. Somewhere, a clock ticked. Somewhere else, Miles was humming.

 

Kit stood in the kitchen, barefoot, shirt loose over his shoulders, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug. His hair was still damp, pushed back lazily, and the bite on his neck—the mark—stood out like it always did: deep, dark, proud. He sipped his drink slowly, eyes flicking toward the living room where Miles had gone silent. Again.

 

Too long.

 

He padded over and found him exactly where he expected—sprawled across the couch like a smug bastard, thick thighs half-bared by a stretched pair of lounge shorts, grease-stained tank top clinging to his chest. One arm was slung over his eyes, the other resting across his stomach, rising and falling in a slow, steady breath.

 

Asleep.

 

"Lazy," Kit muttered, but didn’t mean it.

 

He crouched beside him, tail flicking lazily across the floor, and reached to pull the blanket up over Miles’ torso. The weight looked good on him. Healthy. Miles wore it with the kind of confidence only an alpha with nothing to prove could get away with. And he was warm. Always warm.

 

"Mmmn… that your way of sayin’ you missed me?"

 

Kit didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “You’re leaking oil on the couch again.”

 

Miles peeled one eye open, lips already curving in that sleepy, boyish grin. “Didn’t hear a no.”

 

“You smell like burnt wires.”

 

“You love it.” Miles rolled onto his side with a heavy grunt and reached for Kit, grabbing a handful of his oversized shirt to drag him closer. “C’mere. You’re cold.”

 

Kit didn’t resist, but he sighed like he was being inconvenienced. He let himself be pulled forward until his weight settled half on top of the other alpha, his head resting on Miles’ shoulder, legs tangled with his. The blanket shifted. Their bodies aligned without a second of adjustment.

 

"You always sleep like this when I’m out," Kit murmured against his skin, breath warm.

 

"Maybe," Miles mumbled. “Maybe I like your scent more than the pillows.”

 

Kit didn’t respond. Just nuzzled in a little deeper. They didn’t say things like I miss you or I need you. Didn’t have to. The bond did it for them. The scent, the closeness, the way Kit’s hand curled into Miles’ shirt like he was afraid of waking up without him.

 

"You know the elders were talking again," Miles muttered suddenly. "Something about us not… carrying the line forward."

 

Kit's breath hitched once. Just once. Then: "Let them talk."

 

"You sure? We could fake an heir. Like, steal a kid. Raise it feral."

 

Kit huffed a laugh against his chest. "No kid could survive this house."

 

"Shame." Miles yawned. "We’d be hot dads."

 

"You’re already annoying."

 

"You love it."

 

“…Yeah.”

 

There was silence again. Not the cold kind. The kind that filled all the gaps between words. Kit’s fingers curled tighter in Miles’ shirt, and Miles tilted his head enough to press a kiss against his temple. Lazy, open-mouthed, affectionate.

 

Two alphas. Not fighting for dominance. Not fighting at all.

 

Just together.

 

Let society be pissed. Let them whisper about bloodlines and pups and "wasted strength." Let them claw at old rules and forget their own loneliness in the process.

 

Notes:

kittails is two alphas idgaf !!!

nothing to think abt n write

Chapter 62

Notes:

ohh emm gee,,, its pride month and guess who is gay and lacks fashion sense

The freezer door closed with a soft thump, and Kit stood there in the kitchen, barefoot and loose around the shoulders, blinking slow like a lizard thawing in the sun. The bottle in his hand was cold—too cold—and slick with condensation, the label glimmering softly under the overhead light.

 

Absolut "Rainbow 2.0" Limited Edition.

Rainbow label. Subtle emboss. No glitter. It was tasteful in the way corporations tried to be after years of feedback.

 

Kit didn’t mind. It was vodka. It was June. It was their anniversary. Everything lined up.

 

He let the bottle rest against his chest as he wandered back toward the living room, dragging his heels, swaying a little with each step. His pants were nothing special—just the same old brown ones, oversized, low on his hips, worn soft at the waist. They weren’t stylish. They didn’t have flair. But they were comfortable, and Kit didn’t feel like dressing up to drink anymore.

 

Not tonight.

 

The shirt clung to his back—cut short, curling at the hem, half tucked, half loose. He’d tied a thin choker around his throat, mostly out of habit. The silver fish on his wrist bounced when he lifted the vodka to his lips again.

 

“Happy fucking anniversary,” he muttered.

 

He took a swig.

 

The couch creaked under his weight as he dropped into it, sprawling sideways, legs kicked up, back bent in a lazy arch that curved toward the window. A soft breeze pushed through the curtain. Somewhere in the apartment, Miles was finishing a shower—Kit could hear the hum of it, the water clicking off, the rhythmic sound of towel-fluff and movement.

 

He closed his eyes for a second.

 

They were twenty years married today. Twenty years since Kit had awkwardly kissed Miles under the thick canopy of a Freedom Fighter camp tent, all dirt and sweat and adrenaline, their mouths clumsy from laughing too hard. Twenty years of fighting, fixing, fucking, forgiving.

 

Kit took another drink. Slower this time.

 

The vodka was sharp, clean, pure. No fake watermelon. No glitter bottle. Just a smooth burn and a warm bloom in his belly. He imagined giving it to Miles later—maybe pulling the ribbon he’d tied around the neck, muttering some half-assed romantic shit like, “Cheers to surviving each other another year.”

 

He’d already wrapped the real gift—a robe. Soft as sin. Imported. Fancy, probably too fancy. But Miles loved soft things and expensive threads and robes that made him look like a tired emperor.

 

“Babe,” a voice said from the hallway, warm and low.

 

Kit tilted his head back, smiling through the vodka fog. “Mmm?”

 

Miles stepped into view, damp and flushed, robe belted loose, curls still sticking to his cheeks. He looked at Kit—shirt rumpled, charm flickering, pants creased, bottle in hand—and gave the smallest, fondest shake of his head.

 

“You started without me.”

 

Kit raised the bottle and tapped the label with his nail. “Anniversary. Gay vodka. I’m on theme.”

 

Miles laughed. Crossed the room. Took the bottle. Sipped.

 

“Gross,” he said, wincing.

 

Kit grinned, licked his lips, and curled a hand around Miles’ thigh as the other man sank beside him. The robe brushed his shoulder. The charm on his wrist knocked against Miles’ knee.

 

“Happy twenty years, freak,” Miles said, soft.

 

Kit nuzzled his face against Miles’ side, fingers tightening slightly in the thick robe fabric.

 

“Twenty more,” Kit mumbled.

 

And they drank.

 

Notes:

i have no idea if its really called rainbow edition cuz the site says nothing about it other than its a limited edition..
anyways happy pride month

Chapter 63

Summary:

> June 5 2025

Notes:

June is also Men Mental Health Month ! Don’t be scared of showing emotions because you are a man, you are more than a man: you are a human with feelings ^^

cw
Body & Gender Dsyphoria

---

The night was too quiet.

 

Kit didn’t know what hour it was. Just that the world felt far. The porch boards were cold under his bare feet. His hand trembled faintly as he lifted the cigarette to his lips again.

 

He hadn’t done this in years.

 

But something about tonight clawed at his chest—no binder, no hoodie to hide under, no confidence left. Just his body. Raw, flat, sagging in places, and his brain screaming things he’d buried decades ago.

 

The smoke hit hard in his lungs. That was good. He needed it to hurt.

 

The door opened behind him.

 

A hush, like someone caught him mid-thought.

 

“Kit?”

 

His shoulders hunched. He didn’t answer.

 

Miles stepped out into the night, only the screen door creaking behind him. No slippers. No robe. Just his sleep shirt draped over that soft, lovely frame of his. Round belly, full chest, arms folded and worried.

 

Kit kept his eyes forward, jaw clenched.

 

Miles stopped beside him. “Talk to me.”

 

“No.”

 

“Please.”

 

Kit pulled another breath from the cigarette and let it curl out slowly. “Not tonight.”

 

“You’re smoking.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You told me you quit.”

 

“I did.”

 

Miles exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. “What was it this time?”

 

Kit flinched. He hadn’t wanted to cry. But his eyes stung, and he wiped his wrist across them quickly. “I was back in the water.”

 

“The boat?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“Not drowning this time. Not... not like that.”

 

Miles waited. Didn’t rush.

 

Kit’s voice was thin. “I wasn’t me.”

 

The silence thickened. Miles stayed still, letting it come when it came.

 

“In the dream, I was... wrong. All over. Like I hadn’t transitioned. Like I was back before I even had the words.” Kit’s voice cracked. “I looked in the mirror and saw someone else’s face.”

 

“Oh, sweetheart…”

 

Kit rubbed his chest. “I woke up and couldn’t remember who I was for a minute.”

 

“Hey.” Miles stepped forward and cupped the side of his face, gently tilting Kit’s head toward him. “You’re right here. You’re still you.”

 

Kit’s eyes dropped. “Don’t feel like it.”

 

“You are.”

 

“I looked at myself when I got up. Couldn’t even stand to put on a shirt. I—I couldn’t stop thinking about how I don’t pass anymore, about how saggy my chest looks without the binder, about how—how even with the scars, I look wrong, I sound wrong—” His voice trembled. “I’m old, Miles.”

 

“So am I.”

 

“You still look like you. You’re comfy. You never questioned it.”

 

“That doesn’t mean it was easy.”

 

Kit turned away. “I hate this.”

 

Miles stepped in close, pressed against his side. “I don’t.”

 

“I hate me sometimes.”

 

“Then I’ll hold onto the part of you that doesn’t.”

 

Kit gave a shaky breath, flicked ash into the darkness.

 

“You’re still you,” Miles whispered. “You’re still the boy I met, the man I married, the messy, tired, stubborn idiot who can’t give himself credit.”

 

Kit’s lip twitched. “Not a man.”

 

Miles smiled. “You’re Kit. That’s all I care about.”

 

He reached down and gently plucked the cigarette from Kit’s fingers, grinding it out on the edge of the porch before flicking it into the old ashtray they hadn’t used in years.

 

Kit’s voice broke again. “I don’t want to forget who I am.”

 

“You haven’t.” Miles cupped his face in both hands. “You’re just tired. And when you’re tired, the world lies to you.”

 

Kit sagged forward into his arms, whole body heavy, like he didn’t trust his own weight anymore. Miles held him tight—soft belly against hollow ribs, two old hearts still beating.

 

“You’re my husband,” Miles whispered into his hair. “You’re my Kit. My whole damn sky.”

 

Kit finally let the tears come. Didn’t fight them this time. Didn’t hide.

 

And Miles rocked him there on the porch like they were still young, like the world hadn’t touched them too much. Like it never could.

 

---

The house was dim, except for the little kitchen light that hummed above the stove. Kit walked in first, his steps slow and aimless, tail dragging low like a flag of surrender. His shoulders were still hunched like he hadn’t fully come back into his body.

 

Miles followed close behind, pausing to turn the hallway lights down low—no overheads. Just warm, sleepy amber to keep the ghosts away.

 

“Go sit,” he said gently, already moving toward the bathroom.

 

Kit didn’t argue. He slumped into the couch with a grunt, rubbing his face into one calloused palm, tail curled around his ankle like a tether. He hated feeling like this. Not weak, exactly, but off. Split from himself, like the nightmare had reached in and scrambled something inside him that he hadn’t found yet.

 

From the hallway, he heard the pipes begin to groan.

 

Then the low hiss of water filling the tub.

 

Then Miles, humming.

 

Not a tune. Not really. Just soft sounds, up and down, the kind he always made when his hands were busy and his mind was on Kit.

 

Kit sank deeper into the cushions.

 

The scent of lavender crept into the air. No sharp soaps. Nothing fancy. Just what they’d used for years—safe, simple, known. The same bottle Miles had packed when they took the kids to the coast. The one Kit used the night after his top surgery, when the bandages were off and the world felt brand new.

 

A minute passed.

 

Then: “C’mon, baby,” Miles called, voice quiet. “Water’s ready.”

 

Kit didn’t groan. But he didn’t move fast either.

 

He stepped into the bathroom with that same drag in his spine, already tugging off his shirt without ceremony. It dropped to the floor in a messy puddle. His pants followed. Nothing mattered but the steam. The warmth.

 

He sat on the edge of the tub first. Dipped his fingers in.

 

Hot. Just enough.

 

Miles didn’t stare. He just sat on the closed toilet seat, chin resting on his hand, watching Kit the same way he had for thirty years. Like he was watching something ancient and beautiful re-emerge.

 

“You okay with me stayin’?”

 

Kit didn’t answer right away. Then: “…Don’t go.”

 

Miles reached forward, brushing a lock of hair behind Kit’s ear. “Wasn’t gonna.”

 

Kit slipped in with a hiss, then a grunt, then finally a long sigh that seemed to deflate him entirely. He folded into the water like he’d been waiting for it all night. His ears went limp. His hands disappeared beneath the surface, resting over his belly, where the scars and age and old muscle all swirled together into something only he had ever carried.

 

Miles leaned over and dipped the washcloth into the water. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t need to.

 

He brought it up to Kit’s shoulder, squeezing warm water down the ridge of his back. Then across his collarbones. Down his chest. Over the rough skin under his arms, careful not to startle him. His touch was gentle—practiced—not scrubbing, just reminding.

 

Kit let his eyes fall shut.

 

“You’re still you,” Miles whispered, cloth trailing down one forearm. “Even if the dream lied. Even if you forget it tomorrow. You’re still Kit.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You’re still my husband.”

 

“…Mm.”

 

“You’re still handsome.”

 

Kit gave a little snort at that. “You’re blind.”

 

“I’ve got excellent taste,” Miles countered, lips twitching up. “And you’ve got thighs like vengeance.”

 

Kit laughed. Just once. But it was real.

 

Miles kept washing him in slow, lazy strokes. Not to clean—Kit was already clean—but just to be close. To show that no part of him was a mistake. Not his chest. Not his belly. Not the faded ink behind his hipbone or the line where an old binder used to dig in.

 

“I didn’t always love my body,” Kit murmured after a while. “Not even after the surgery.”

 

“I know.”

 

“But you never looked at me like I was… incomplete.”

 

“Because you weren’t.”

 

Kit turned his head toward him, blinking past the steam. “You never wanted more?”

 

Miles leaned in, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “You are more. Always have been.”

 

Kit’s eyes closed again. His breath deepened.

 

“…I wanna sleep in your lap tonight,” he mumbled.

 

“You always do.”

 

“No, I mean—in your lap. Arms around your belly. Under your shirt.”

 

“You got it,” Miles said softly. “I’ll even play with your hair.”

 

“…Make me pancakes tomorrow?”

 

“Even if you wake me up at six.”

 

Kit smiled then. The smallest thing. But enough.

 

Miles leaned forward, resting their foreheads together, the washcloth forgotten in his lap.

 

“Next time you wake up scared,” he whispered, “wake me up too.”

 

Kit nodded, slow. “Next time.”

 

And for now, he let himself be held in the water, body heavy, heart lightening by the second. Because the dream didn’t win. The past didn’t win.

 

He was still Kit. Still here.

 

And Miles still loved him.

 

 

Notes:

I'm not really trans, I'm just under the umbrella ^^

–> Kit smokes because he wants to feel masculine, Miles smokes because he feels mature when he does it.

> Kit is transmasc + demiboy > but he says he is unlabeled
—> Miles is ftm + bisexual

Chapter 64

Notes:

Raden "Kitsunami" Starline
Elias "Royie" Prower

Not descendants, just alt kit&tails

 

The moon hung thick and low, a bruised silver coin smeared across the dark. It bled into the open window like it had every right to be there, casting soft, shallow light across the floorboards. The small room had been repurposed from what might've once been an old pantry or boiler closet—it still smelled faintly of copper, dried herbs, and something that might’ve been mold once. But Elias had made it feel like home. Or at least something dangerous that acted like it.

 

He sat shirtless, one leg kicked over the other on the edge of a rickety desk, nursing a bottle of clear gold liquor. One of his fangs showed as he swirled the bottle’s neck between two fingers, sharp and casual.

 

Raden was across from him, elbow deep in a stolen blanket with only his hair still damp from the rain. There was a twitch to his tail. The edge of his mouth kept curling in the faintest ghost of a smirk that never quite made it to his eyes.

 

“So you really drink this stuff for fun?” Raden muttered, cradling the second bottle like it might fight him. It was dark. Strong. Sweet at first sip and then mean as hell on the way down. “Tastes like regret.”

 

Elias grinned, all tooth and bite. “That’s the charm of it. Don’t tell me a creature like you gets picky about burn.”

 

“Not picky.” Raden took another sip, harder this time, tilting his head back. The skin at his throat gleamed. “Just not impressed.”

 

“Oh?” Elias leaned forward, the edge of his voice pressing low and pointed, like he was baiting a bear on purpose. “Wouldn’t want you to be impressed, darling. That’d make things far too easy.”

 

“Nothing’s easy with you.” Raden stared at the bottle. His ears twitched once, then settled. “You ruin every drink by talking through it.”

 

“You ruin every silence by brooding into it,” Elias shot back, and knocked back a swig. “So let’s call it even.”

 

A beat. Then a soft chuckle from Raden—rough, warm in a way that always caught Elias by surprise. He let his head fall to the side, neck stretched long, dark eyes hazy under the fringe of his hair.

 

They sat like that for a while, legs tangled at the ankle beneath the old desk, bottles sweating in their hands. Elias had a habit of flicking the condensation off his thumb and watching it spatter the floor. Raden, meanwhile, kept his grip on the blanket like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

 

“Why here?” Raden asked after a moment. “This room. This night.”

 

Elias glanced sideways. His fangs showed again when he spoke. “Because you never drink when others are around. Because you only ask why when you actually want to stay.”

 

Raden didn't answer.

 

Not with words, anyway.

 

He dragged the bottle to his mouth again, watching Elias over the rim. The tilt of his chin said: Don’t psychoanalyze me. The way he didn’t move away said: But don’t stop, either.

 

Outside, wind shuddered through the gutters. Inside, their breaths fogged just faintly in the air between them. Elias’ hand dropped, warm and firm, brushing against Raden’s thigh without looking. He didn’t grab—just rested it there. A solid weight. No pressure.

 

“Your face goes soft when you drink,” Elias said suddenly.

 

Raden blinked.

 

“Does it?”

 

“Mmh. Like that frown finally slips off for five minutes and you remember what it feels like not to look haunted.”

 

Raden’s face twitched. He looked away fast. “I don’t look haunted.”

 

“You do.” Elias nudged him with his knee, then, softer: “Still beautiful, though.”

 

The blanket slipped a little. Raden didn’t fix it.

 

His voice was hoarse when he answered, a thread of grit in the bottom of his throat. “You say that when I’m bleeding too.”

 

“Because it’s true then too.”

 

A long silence followed. They drank. The bottle Elias had was almost empty now, and Raden’s was halfway there. The room glowed dimmer, more gold than silver now, with their bodies warmer and closer. Raden shifted, foot sliding against Elias’ shin. He didn’t move away.

 

“Wanna know a secret?” Elias murmured, voice dipped like honeyed knife-edge.

 

Raden didn’t answer right away. But his tail flicked once. “No.”

 

Elias smirked. Then leaned in anyway, breath skimming the shell of Raden’s ear.

 

“I’ve only ever liked drinking with you.”

 

“That’s not a secret.”

 

Elias chuckled. “You’re right. It’s not.”

 

Their bottles clicked faintly as they tipped them in sync. The alcohol was in both their cheeks now, heat pooled behind their eyes. Not drunk, not really—just full of some lazy buzz that turned their thoughts half-liquid and sweet. Raden leaned back against the wall, his hair sticking to his neck. Elias watched the line of his collarbone as if mapping it.

 

“Y’know,” Elias said lazily, “I think I like you better with your guard down.”

 

“You only say that ‘cause you know I won’t stab you while I’m drunk.”

 

Elias tilted his head. “You’d stab me sober?”

 

“I’d stab you because you’d like it.”

 

That earned a laugh—a real one. Rough and open and full of something Raden couldn’t name. Elias moved a little closer then, hand still on Raden’s thigh, his weight leaning in as the bottle clinked to the floor beside them. Empty.

 

“I probably would,” he admitted.

 

Raden closed his eyes.

 

And for a minute, the only sound was the wind again, and two heartbeats, and the soft, tipsy hum that Elias started to whisper under his breath. A tune neither of them knew the name of. Something old, something slow.

 

“I won’t kiss you tonight,” Elias said softly. His voice had gone low. “You’ll remember less of it. I want you to hate me properly when I do.”

 

Raden opened one eye.

 

“I don’t hate you.”

 

“You will.”

 

“No.” Raden leaned in now, just barely. His nose brushed Elias’ jaw, breath sharp with burn. “I don’t think I ever will.”

 

Elias’ throat bobbed. He didn’t say anything to that. Just rested his forehead against Raden’s and let the alcohol work its way down, let the heat simmer between them.

 

When they fell asleep, it was side by side on the floor, bottles tipped and forgotten. Elias’ hand still wrapped around Raden’s knee, and Raden curled slightly into the heat at his side like he didn’t mean to.

 

He always meant to.

 

---

—> Bonus Follow Up

 

His fingers flexed instinctively, brushing over skin. Still warm. Still Raden.

 

And still close.

 

He blinked blearily, his vision sluggish from the burn of last night’s drink. His hand had migrated higher—over the line of Raden’s thigh, dangerously near the hem of the blanket he’d wrapped around himself before they passed out. Elias didn’t move it yet. He just watched. Took it in.

 

Raden lay on his side now, half-curled toward him, a line of dark hair falling over his cheek. The ends were stuck to his jaw, lips parted just slightly as he slept. But it wasn’t his mouth that drew Elias’ eye this time.

 

It was the horns.

 

They weren’t glowing—not actively—but the edges of them shimmered faintly under the sunlight. Thick at the base, rising from just behind his temples in a slight curve. The color shifted along the ridges like bruised metal—midnight black for most of it, but brightening near the tips into that impossible fuchsia. Vivid. Like they’d been dipped in molten neon before cooling just enough to touch.

 

Elias didn’t breathe for a moment.

 

He'd seen them before, sure. But not like this. Not with the gentle slant of morning dragging soft shadows over them. Not while Raden’s defenses were down. It made him look otherworldly. Beautiful in a way that felt deeply unfair. Like some carved thing that shouldn't have ever allowed Elias to touch it.

 

And he had touched it. Had touched him.

 

The memory of the night before came back in hazy stretches. The drinking. The fangs. The hands. Raden’s voice low and tired and mean as ever—but pliant. Staying when he could’ve stormed out. Looking at Elias with something unguarded in his eyes.

 

He swallowed thickly.

 

Elias reached out with his other hand, slow—his thumb brushing the curve of one horn. Just the tip. It was warm, not quite smooth; the faintest texture to it like scales or grooves left by time. He’d never dared touch them before. It always felt like too much.

 

But Raden didn’t flinch. Didn’t stir.

 

Elias stared.

 

“You’re still asleep?” he murmured.

 

Raden's tail twitched once in answer.

 

“…Liar,” Elias muttered with a smirk.

 

The demon blinked one eye open, only halfway. His gaze was hazy, gold bleeding into obsidian at the edges, lashes dark. He looked at Elias, unimpressed. Unmoved.

 

“You always talk this much in the morning?”

 

Elias didn’t remove his thumb. “Only when there’s something worth staring at.”

 

Raden grunted and closed his eye again. He rolled onto his back, one arm flung lazily over his face to block the light, horns catching it even brighter now. The fuchsia edges glowed softly—like fire trapped under glass.

 

“You’re staring at the horns again.”

 

Elias didn’t deny it. “You make it hard not to.”

 

“Gross.”

 

Elias grinned and leaned in, his voice dipping, teasing. “You gonna stop me?”

 

“…Too tired.”

 

“Ah, so I win.”

 

Raden didn’t move. But the corner of his mouth lifted, just a little. “You didn’t win anything.”

 

“Oh, I absolutely did.” Elias let his hand slide, from the horn to Raden’s jaw, featherlight. “I got to drink with a demon prince. Sleep next to him. Wake up with his tail tucked against my leg. That’s a win in some universe.”

 

Raden growled faintly under his breath. His skin flushed darker at the cheek, betraying the little twitch of heat under his cool tone. “Don’t say shit like that in the morning.”

 

“You like it.”

 

“You’re disgusting.”

 

“Still let me touch you.”

 

“That was a mistake.”

 

Elias laughed—sharp and genuine—and shifted closer, their foreheads almost touching again. Raden didn’t shove him off. His breathing had steadied, but the tension in his frame lingered under the surface, like his body still didn’t know what to do with softness.

 

They weren’t lovers. Not really. Not just enemies either.

 

They were something strange and sweet and awful. And Elias wanted more of it. Wanted more mornings like this, where Raden forgot to armor himself completely, where the horns glowed softly, where the weight of him in the blankets meant something.

 

“I’m not gonna kiss you,” Elias said suddenly.

 

Raden peeked at him through his fingers. “Why not?”

 

“Because you’d make fun of me. Or bite me.”

 

“I might.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Pause.

 

“…I wouldn’t bite hard,” Raden added, very quietly.

 

Elias’ heart stuttered.

 

He looked down again, at those horns, at the soft angle of the fuchsia glow. He couldn’t stop himself this time—he leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to the place where horn met hairline. Gentle. Deliberate.

 

Raden’s breath hitched.

 

“Was that hard?” Elias asked.

 

“No.”

 

“Still disgusting?”

 

“Yes.”

 

But Raden didn’t move away.

 

His hand reached up after a few seconds, claws dragging lazily through Elias’ hair, slow enough to be affectionate. He didn’t look at him—didn’t have to. The way he touched him was answer enough.

 

Elias smiled.

 

They stayed like that for a while. Not talking. Just feeling the heat and the sunlight grow and settle over them. The room smelled like dust, old liquor, and morning breath. Elias didn’t care.

 

The horns glowed in the light like bruised stars.

 

He thought maybe if he played his cards right, he’d get to see them again tomorrow.

Notes:

bonus hadd tooo be there i had to make sure yall know raden got em poles in his head

self indulgent... mehehe...

Chapter 65

The hospital lights buzzed faintly, a constant fluorescent hum that bored into Kit's skull like a dull drill. Three a.m., maybe later. Time had lost meaning. The only thing that mattered lay behind a sterile door labeled 507—Miles, hooked to wires and monitors, a blanket tucked under his arms, heart freshly mended by a surgeon’s hands.

 

Kit had barely registered the nurse calling his name when they told him Miles was out of surgery. His legs didn’t carry him—they jolted forward on sheer instinct, ignoring the tremble in his knees and the rain dripping from his soaked hoodie. The nurse walked briskly ahead but kept glancing back as if to make sure Kit wouldn't crumble.

 

When the door to the room swung open, Kit stopped dead in the entrance.

 

Miles was there. Pale, breathing. A tangle of wires hugged his chest, thin tubes wrapped along his arms and nose. His chest moved. Up and down. Kit felt everything leave his lungs at once.

 

“Miles.”

 

The name barely made it past his throat, more breath than word. But Miles turned his head, drowsy and slow, blinking through the post-op fog.

 

“Kit?”

 

His voice was hoarse, threadbare—but alive.

 

Kit took a step in. Then another. He was across the room before he could stop himself, dropping to his knees beside the bed like someone crumbling in prayer.

 

“You’re—you’re awake,” Kit whispered, blinking furiously. “You’re really awake.”

 

Miles gave him a dazed smile. “Couldn’t leave you alone with my chili recipes.”

 

Kit let out a strangled sound—half laugh, half sob. He pressed his forehead to Miles’ arm and stayed there for a long moment, fingers gripping the side of the bed.

 

Miles weakly lifted his hand, resting it over Kit’s damp hair. “You’re wet,” he murmured.

 

“It was raining.” Kit’s voice cracked. “Didn’t notice.”

 

A quiet beeping from the monitor filled the silence. Kit eventually straightened, eyes scanning Miles’ face, his breathing, the subtle movements that proved he was still in the world. “They said you’ll be okay.”

 

“Bit sore.” Miles shifted a little. “Starving, actually.”

 

Kit blinked. “You just got your chest cracked open.”

 

“And now I’m hungry. Is that weird?”

 

Kit shook his head quickly. “No. No, it’s not. I’ll get you something.”

 

He stood, clumsy on numb legs, and stumbled out into the hallway, where the fluorescent world spun around him. His hoodie clung to him, heavy with rain, his shoes squeaking with each pacing step. The vending machine glared back at him, taunting him with bags of jerky, trail mix, microwave burritos—things Miles couldn’t eat. Not now. Not after what his body had just gone through.

 

A nurse passed, glanced, paused. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asked softly.

 

Kit’s voice rasped. “No.”

 

She didn’t retreat. Just tilted her head, patient. “Can I help?”

 

Kit turned, hollow-eyed. “My husband just had open heart surgery,” he said. “He said he’s starving.”

 

Understanding flashed in the nurse’s expression. “That’s normal. The body’s catching up. I’ll get something light for him. Wait here.”

 

He nodded once and watched her disappear down the corridor. The silence roared in her absence. Kit’s fingers dug into the side of the vending machine.

 

He whispered, almost prayer-like, “I thought I lost you.”

 

The nurse returned minutes later with a small box—broth, soft cereal, crackers, and a fruit cup. “He won’t finish all of it, but this’ll help. Go slow.”

 

Kit took the box like it held his whole world. “Thank you.”

 

The walk back to Room 507 felt impossibly long. Inside, Miles stirred weakly, his voice barely audible. “You came back fast.”

 

“Always do,” Kit muttered, setting the box down. He cracked open the broth first, testing the temperature. “Sip. Slowly.”

 

Miles took it in trembling hands, sipping like it was gold. A quiet sound escaped him—part relief, part ache.

 

Kit knelt beside the bed, wiping the corners of Miles’ mouth with a napkin, smoothing the blanket up over his chest. “More?”

 

Miles nodded. “Please.”

 

Kit fed him in small portions, crouched and focused, watching every swallow, every breath. Miles, though still pale and soft-eyed from anesthesia, kept smiling at him. That same gentle smile. The one that said he was more worried about Kit than himself.

 

“You’re insatiable lately,” Kit muttered after Miles finished the broth. “You’re gonna eat us out of house and home.”

 

Miles smiled faintly. “Can’t help it. I missed food.”

 

“I missed you."

 

Miles’ face fell gently into quiet affection. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

 

Kit looked away, jaw tight. “Don’t do it again.”

 

“I won’t. Promise.”

 

The machines hummed. Kit stood, wobbled a little, and turned toward the corner chair.

 

“Don’t,” Miles said quickly.

 

Kit glanced back. “Don’t what?”

 

“Don’t go sit over there. Stay.”

 

Kit hesitated. “It’s a hospital bed.”

 

“There’s room. I’m not asking you to crush me.”

 

“Miles…”

 

“Please.”

 

Kit stared at him—drained, hollow-eyed, but something inside cracked. He peeled off his drenched jacket and let it fall, then climbed cautiously into the bed. He didn’t lie directly on Miles, just curled beside him, careful of the wires and the healing chest.

 

Miles let out a shaky breath. “Better.”

 

Kit rested his head on Miles’ shoulder, one hand gently pressed to his chest. “I can feel your heart.”

 

“Is that good?”

 

“It’s beating. That’s all I care about.”

 

Miles brushed his fingers through Kit’s damp hair. “I was scared too.”

 

Kit didn’t lift his head. “I know.”

 

They lay there, tangled as carefully as two could be in a too-small bed, while machines beeped quietly beside them. Kit was still shivering, still soaked, but he didn’t move. Miles’ fingers traced little circles into his back, weak but loving.

 

“I want you to sleep,” Miles whispered.

 

“Later.”

 

“Kit.”

 

“I’m listening to your heartbeat.”

 

Miles didn’t argue again. They stayed there, suspended in each other. Alive, together. Healing.

 

Notes:

okay so im failing math

> my father has heart problems... i don’t remember much, but i remember docs saying he was the youngest heart issues related patient he had! My father also says he saw some people die when he was resting in insensitive care. Scary to some but I don’t find it scary at all lol..

> The idea of Miles havinf heart issues came from him having a scar above his heart, on the chest.

Chapter 66

Summary:

happy father's day !!

 

Eden stirred her coffee slowly, her hair still damp from the shower, and squinted at the small notepad between them on the kitchen table. Across from her, Su sat cross-legged in his chair, fiddling with the cap of a pen but not writing anything.

 

“So…” she began, voice still groggy, “you were gonna say something about breakfast?”

 

Su looked up. “Oh. Yeah. I was thinking maybe we make that baked egg thing Papa likes—the one with the spinach and feta?”

 

“Shakshuka?”

 

“Yeah, that.” He nodded. “And maybe some muffins or something. Dad likes lemon.”

 

Eden sipped. “Mm. Lemon poppyseed?”

 

“Sure. Or blueberry. We don’t have to go all out. I just want it to feel like we thought about it, you know?”

 

She looked at him for a moment, then smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”

 

The house was quiet—peaceful in that early-morning way it always was when both their dads were still asleep. Su had texted her late the night before, asking if she wanted to wake up early to go over Father’s Day plans, and she hadn’t hesitated. Eden might have been sassier, more reserved about most things, but when it came to their family, she never hesitated.

 

Su glanced toward the hallway like he was making sure their dads weren’t about to walk in. “I was also thinking we could just do it simple. No speeches, no slideshow. Just a clean table, hot food, some flowers maybe.”

 

“Flowers?”

 

“I don’t know. Papa likes them.”

 

Eden raised an eyebrow but didn’t disagree.

 

They didn’t do big displays in their house—not anymore. Not since all the kids had grown up and stopped turning every holiday into a paper-mâché glitter bomb. These days, their parents seemed to appreciate quiet mornings more than anything else. Just being together, no pressure.

 

Eden flipped to a new page and started writing:

 

1. * Spinach & feta eggs (Su)
2. * Muffins (Eden)
3. * Coffee for Dad
4. * Tea for Papa
5. * Orange slices?

 

“Do we have that honey Dad likes?” she asked.

 

Su nodded. “I think so. The one from the market? He keeps it in the little jar with the cork.”

 

“Cool.”

 

“Are we doing cards?” Su asked after a moment.

 

Eden shrugged. “I kinda want to. Nothing fancy. Just…” She trailed off.

 

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”

 

They lapsed into silence, the good kind, where things didn’t need to be explained. Their dads had given them that sort of space their whole lives—gentle encouragement without pressure, a household where quiet love counted as loud as words. Su knew he didn’t say things often enough. Eden knew neither of them really did.

 

But breakfast could be a kind of language.

 

---

 

An hour later, the kitchen smelled like fresh herbs and lemon zest. Su stood at the stove gently nudging the eggs in the skillet, careful not to burn the edges. Eden was arranging the muffins on a plate, her sleeves rolled up and her hair tied back.

 

They didn’t talk much while they cooked. The radio played something soft in the background, and every now and then Su would hum a bit of it, off-key but happy. Eden glanced over at him once while she cleaned up some flour, and for a moment it really struck her how normal this all was—how lucky, even.

 

It had always been the four of them. Miles and Kit, always tired but always present. Eden and Su, always different but always tethered to each other by this strange, unshakeable family. No matter how the world spun outside.

 

Su poured the tea and brought out the honey, setting it beside the little jar of jam their papa loved. Eden folded two soft cloth napkins and tucked the cards beneath the silverware—simple cardstock, handwritten, no glitter or stickers, just words.

 

---

 

Kit was the first to wander in.

 

He was wearing a long-sleeved tee and old flannel pajama pants, hair a mess. He squinted at the table like he wasn’t sure he was awake yet. Miles followed a few seconds later, his glasses askew and one paw rubbing at his eyes.

 

“Oh…” Miles stopped in the doorway. “Oh, wow.”

 

Kit’s brow furrowed, then softened. “You two did this?”

 

Eden smiled, tugging on her sleeve. “Just breakfast.”

 

“Happy Father’s Day,” Su added, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands.

 

For a second, no one said anything. Then Miles stepped forward and gently touched Eden’s shoulder, then Su’s. His voice was a little hoarse when he said, “Thank you.”

 

Kit didn’t say anything at first—just looked at the table, the food, the handwritten cards under the napkins. He sat down quietly and opened his. His lips twitched when he read it, eyes darting once toward Su, then away. He didn’t speak, but Su saw his fingers brush over the handwriting like he was memorizing it.

 

Miles took his tea and let out a soft, happy sigh. “You remembered the honey.”

 

“Course we did,” Eden said, her voice just above a whisper.

 

They all sat down together, and for a little while the only sound was cutlery and sipping, the occasional low hum of the kettle still warm behind them.

 

No speeches. No slideshow.

 

Just peace. Just a table full of effort and love.

 

And for Su and Eden, that was exactly what it should be.

 

Notes:

no proof read... whoops

yes ma i studied yes i did all of my math questions at that exam

Chapter 67

The bed was soft and wide and sun-warmed where it wasn’t crushed under Miles’ plush, robed weight. Morning had barely started. No alarm clock ticked. No toddler screamed. No calls came through. Just soft, perfect silence—except for the sound of breathing. Kit wasn’t asleep, though. Not even close.

 

He lay on his side, stretched across the sheets with an arm tucked beneath his head, and his long, naked body curved gently toward the man beside him. Miles had rolled onto his front sometime in the night, thick tail tucked to the side, face smushed lazily against the pillow. His robe had come undone at the waist and pooled half-open over his lower back. He looked soft. Vulnerable. Loved.

 

And he snored, gently. Not enough to wake anyone. But enough to make Kit’s heart do that slow, painful squeeze again. He could’ve looked away. Could’ve grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and wandered off for coffee. But he didn’t. He just stayed there, naked and tired and blinking slow, lazy blinks as he watched the rise and fall of his husband’s broad back.

 

"...You’re still pretty," Kit mumbled to the air. He hadn’t meant to speak. But it slipped out.

 

Miles didn’t stir, not really. He sighed, puffed once through his nose, and stretched one leg out—just enough for Kit to get a glimpse of his thigh spilling out from beneath the robe. Kit made a quiet face, eyes narrowing faintly. Not fair. Not when he was trying to have a moment.

 

He pushed some of his own tangled hair off his cheek. It was messier than usual, flattened on one side, probably from Miles running his fingers through it the night before. And Kit didn’t bother to fix it. He didn’t care. All he cared about was this—the way the sunlight curled across his husband’s ear, the way his whiskers had folded up a little with sleep, the way the robe still smelled like bathwater and lavender and expensive oil.

 

Kit exhaled, slow and long, and reached out.

 

He didn’t touch much. Just settled his fingertips along the curve of Miles’ shoulder. His husband was warm, squishy and dense under his hand, and Kit’s thumb pressed carefully into the skin right at the back of his neck. He gave a light rub. Then another. And another, until Miles gave a little hum.

 

“Mmnn.”

 

He was waking up. Slowly. Still deep in whatever dream he’d been having, but blinking now, mumbling under his breath with his face still buried in the pillow.

 

Kit smiled faintly. “Morning.”

 

Miles grunted. Then groaned. Then stretched both arms out in front of him, robe opening wider now, and he let out a long, long sigh as he flopped completely onto his stomach.

 

“Ohhh my God,” he mumbled, voice rough and damp with sleep. “Kit, it’s early.”

 

“You’re snoring.”

 

“I always snore.”

 

“You were louder this time.”

 

“Mmmmn.”

 

Kit leaned closer, half draping himself across Miles’ back now. Their skin pressed together, cold to warm, and Kit rested his chin gently between Miles’ shoulder blades. He was still a little damp from his shower the night before—he hadn’t bothered to towel off properly. And Miles, ever the clingy one, had just dragged him into bed naked, murmuring about how he needed to feel his bones through the sheets.

 

Kit whispered, “I was watching you sleep.”

 

Miles gave a soft huff into his pillow. “Romantic.”

 

“Wasn’t supposed to be.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Just couldn’t stop.”

 

Kit was never much for poetry. But sometimes, when the light was just right and the blankets were just warm enough, when Miles’ body was soft and still and his heartbeat filled the space between their ribs—sometimes Kit’s thoughts got too big. He didn’t know how to say things like: you’re the only reason I let myself fall asleep with the windows open or I used to wake up scared, but not anymore. So he just said—

 

“You got fat again.”

 

That earned a small wheeze. Miles rolled halfway onto his side, pulling the robe tight against his middle and squinting at Kit with one eye open.

 

“You asshole,” he mumbled.

 

Kit shrugged. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

 

“Mmmhmm.” Miles tugged him down with one hand, fat fingers curling around Kit’s wrist. “Say it again with your mouth full, then.”

 

“Full of what?”

 

“You know what.”

 

Kit smirked. Just a little. Then dragged himself forward and pressed his mouth to Miles’ forehead, lips warm and lazy as he kissed right above the bridge of his husband’s nose. He didn’t need more than that. Just the closeness. Just the thick warmth of Miles’ body and the scratch of robe fibers and the way Miles smiled at him, soft and drowsy, like he wasn’t mad at all.

 

“I like you chubby,” Kit whispered.

 

“Mm. I like you naked.”

 

“I’m always naked.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

They didn’t need more than that. No rushing. No talking about the day ahead. Kit reached over Miles’ side and pulled the robe closed for him, wrapping it tight again like a blanket. Miles murmured something soft—maybe a thank-you, maybe a love you—and burrowed his face into Kit’s chest as their legs tangled beneath the sheets.

 

They stayed like that. Quiet. Whole. Together.

 

Until the next snore.

 

Notes:

ouh theyre gay and chubby better call them gay workers

ouhh heres a little note about prower kiddos
there was lots of names... to the point i was just elemaniting basic names. and blah blah
in short lets say im still sad i scraped name Rowan for Ren... god i want to rename him
for mel i had like, esther, socrates, michelangelo.. you'll see probabyl kit & miles get off the list...

Chapter 68

Notes:

crapp excuse for a anniversary chapter but like... my graduation was on 18th too so it was a crash.. whoops..

im still gonna make this chap look like it came out in 18th for aesthetic purposes lol

 

---

 

The bed was wet again.

 

Kit woke with a start, tangled in a cocoon of blankets that clung to his skin like glue. His whole body was damp—sweat, maybe tears, maybe both. His mouth tasted like metal. His head was swimming, the ceiling breathing down at him with a slow, steady pulse.

 

“Water,” he croaked.

 

He reached out, hand fumbling over the edge of the mattress, searching blindly for the bottle that never stayed in the same damn place. His fingers knocked over a roll of gauze, a phone with no battery, and finally hit plastic. He grabbed it—lifted—and shook. Empty.

 

“...Right,” he mumbled, laughing to himself. “Of course.”

 

He barely had the strength to sit up. His limbs moved too slow, like he was underwater. The pills still hadn’t worn off. His head was swimming in that strange, pleasant ache—enough to slow him, not enough to stop the shame.

 

And then—

He felt it.

 

Not the dream. Not the memory of hands or heat or hurt. But presence.

 

He looked toward the window. The chair.

 

Miles was there.

 

Sitting like he always did. Long legs folded, one hand loose in his lap, the other resting on the armrest. Tails' still. His face unreadable. His posture stiff like he’d been there for hours. Not waiting. Just being.

 

Kit swallowed hard.

 

“Thought you weren’t comin’ back,” he said quietly.

 

Miles didn’t respond. His eyes flicked over Kit once, slow. Not soft. Not harsh either. Just… taking him in.

 

“Guess that means I’m not done bein’ pathetic,” Kit added. He laid back, arm draped over his eyes. “You always show up when I start slippin’, huh?”

 

No answer.

 

He could still feel him. That weight in the room. Like an old bruise under the skin. Familiar in the way only Miles ever was.

 

Kit swallowed. His throat clicked. “You know we kissed, right?”

 

Still nothing. The chair creaked softly.

 

“I mean. A lot. You remember that?” He let the arm slide off his face and stared up at the ceiling. “I do. You kissed like it was my fault. Like you didn’t wanna but… couldn’t not.”

 

He exhaled hard. “That was fine. I was used to that.”

 

A silence hung between them, tight like fishing wire.

 

“You never said anything after,” Kit whispered. “Just stopped looking at me. Like I’d stolen something.”

 

His voice dropped. “I didn’t steal you.”

 

The fan buzzed in the corner. The pipes groaned. Miles stayed.

 

“You don’t say shit unless I’m spiralin’,” Kit muttered. “You don’t talk. Not unless it’s bad. And even then—just a few words. Just enough to make me wish you hated me a little more.”

 

A pause.

 

Then Miles spoke. Low. Even. “I never hated you.”

 

Kit stiffened.

 

Miles didn’t move. His voice had no emotion, but it didn’t need it. Kit heard the weight anyway.

 

“You kissed me back,” Kit whispered.

 

Miles didn’t deny it.

 

“You didn’t stop me. Not once.”

 

“I didn’t want to,” Miles said.

 

That hit worse than silence.

 

Kit blinked up at the ceiling, eyes stinging. His chest rose and fell too fast. The pills didn’t dull that.

 

“You left anyway,” he breathed.

 

“I didn’t know how to stay.”

 

Kit bit the inside of his cheek, hard. It didn’t help. His voice cracked.

 

“I would’ve let you. Even if you didn’t want me back. I would’ve… made room.”

 

“I know.”

 

The chair creaked again. Kit didn’t look. He couldn’t.

 

Instead, he curled on his side, facing the wall. His voice small now. Choked.

 

“You’re not really here, are you?”

 

Miles didn’t answer. Not this time.

 

But Kit felt the weight of him still sitting there.

 

Not forgiveness. Not punishment. Just Miles.

As Kit remembered him. As he couldn’t stop remembering him.

Even now. Even like this.

 

Notes:

phantom miles ≠ miles
phantom one is the miles kit expected, wanted, needed. Its a mess between these three qualities.

the bed was sweaty only... just saying...

maybeee ill make 70 chap special just w kittails, but like... i wrote lot of chapters and struggling with writing lol
buut i want it to be my own idea only sooo

Chapter 69

Notes:

fuckass fennec gets his ass beaten again🤦🏼‍♀️

this is a old draft, and no i did not beta read

The lamp cast a honey-colored warmth across their bedroom, soft and low, just enough to touch the curve of Kit’s shoulders where the robe had slipped down. He sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, one leg stretched out over a clean towel, foot twitching now and then with barely restrained nerves. His fur, usually soft and brushed out, was mussed with sweat and restlessness. The angry red wound along his thigh peeked through where the old stitches had started to fail—too loose, slightly crusted, and rimmed in skin that looked pinker than it should.

 

It wasn’t a huge wound. Not dramatic. But it was Kit. And Kit didn’t complain unless something hurt.

 

Miles sat cross-legged beside him, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the first aid kit open and humming with quiet responsibility. Cotton pads, gauze rolls, a tiny capped jar of numbing cream—he had it all laid out with surgical neatness. Even the little silver needle was polished and ready, its slight curve catching the lamp’s glow.

 

“You should’ve said something earlier,” Miles said, voice quiet but not scolding—just concerned, in that low, firm way he always used when he wanted to scream but loved too much to raise his voice.

 

“I didn’t want you to panic,” Kit muttered, not looking at him.

 

“You waited two days, Kit.”

 

“I’ve had worse.”

 

“That’s not a good reason,” Miles said, a touch sharper this time. He sighed and reached for the antiseptic. “God, you’re lucky this didn’t go septic. I would’ve dragged your ass to the ER.”

 

“Would’ve rather died.”

 

“You are so dramatic.”

 

Kit rolled his eyes and hissed as the alcohol touched skin. “You’re heavy-handed.”

 

“No, you’re infected.”

 

Kit muttered something under his breath, half-cursing in a language he barely used anymore. His ears flicked back, shoulders tense, and tail thumped twice against the bed like it wanted to swat someone. But he didn’t pull away. That meant something. Miles noticed.

 

“Let me numb it,” Miles said gently. “Just a little, okay?”

 

“I’m not a child.”

 

“No, you’re my husband,” Miles said, dipping his finger into the small jar and pressing the cool gel around the base of the wound, slow and careful. “And you flinch like a wet cat when your stitches pop. So hush.”

 

Kit didn’t argue again. He stayed quiet, his hand curled around the blanket, eyes heavy with pain and sleeplessness. The tired was stitched into his bones lately—visible in the slump of his shoulders, the ache in his gait, the way his mobility had narrowed into cautious steps and long silences. But he let Miles work. He always did.

 

The needle went in with the first stitch. Kit sucked in a breath, whole body going tight like a pulled wire.

 

“Breathe,” Miles murmured, thumb brushing the edge of Kit’s knee.

 

“I am breathing.”

 

“Breathe like someone who doesn’t want me to miss.”

 

That got him a glare. But Kit did as told.

 

Each stitch was tight and precise. Miles was a scientist by nature, but with Kit—he became a craftsman. Quiet, focused, hands impossibly gentle as he pulled the wound closed again with even tension. The flesh puckered slightly, but the swelling had gone down already thanks to the cleaning.

 

Kit said nothing, but his hand slowly found its way to Miles’ thigh, fingers curling there like a silent anchor. Not a demand—just contact. Just present. Miles glanced at it, then back to his work, smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

 

“You’ll be annoyed when you can’t go outside tomorrow,” he said softly. “Don’t yell at me when I put the cane by the door.”

 

“I never yell.”

 

“You hiss.”

 

“I’m a fennec.”

 

Miles snorted and tied off the last stitch, threading the knot in slow, practiced movements. He sat back once it was done, exhaling deep through his nose like the tension had been holding in his chest the whole time.

 

Kit leaned back a little. “Is it bad?”

 

“No,” Miles said, wiping his fingers on a cloth. “It’ll heal fine now. You just need to keep it clean. And no showing off.”

 

“I don’t show off.”

 

“You bench-pressed me last week, Kit.”

 

“I wanted to see if I still could.”

 

Miles turned to face him more fully now, knees brushing Kit’s. “You still can. But it cost you this.” He tapped the newly bandaged wound, then softened his voice. “I don’t care if you can lift me. I just care that you’re not hurting.”

 

Kit blinked at that. A long, quiet pause passed between them.

 

“…You always say shit like that.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like you’d rather me be weak than be proud.”

 

“I’d rather you be alive,” Miles said, brushing Kit’s hair gently out of his face, “than proving anything.”

 

Kit’s mouth twitched. He looked like he wanted to argue, then gave up and let out a long sigh. “You’re always so damn sweet.”

 

“I’m your husband.”

 

Kit snorted. “I know. That’s the only reason I let you poke holes in me.”

 

“I didn’t poke, I stitched.”

 

“Whatever. Nurse.”

 

Miles grinned and stood, stretching slightly before grabbing the mug of tea still waiting on the nightstand. “It’s cold by now, but I can reheat it.”

 

“…Leave it,” Kit said, pulling the blanket up over his lap. “Just sit here for a second.”

 

So Miles did. He sat beside him on the bed, one arm draping across Kit’s back, hand rubbing slow between his shoulder blades. Kit leaned into him gradually—like a drawn bow slowly unstringing—until his head dropped gently to Miles’ shoulder, robe still open, breath warm against his neck.

 

Miles kissed his temple and whispered, “You’re safe now.”

 

And Kit, against all odds, whispered back, “I know.”

 

Notes:

> omfg the 2010 yaoi's are SOMETHING!!!
> been into old ass yaoi's lately... like where theyre old ass fuck and got a fucking tension
> so many curses i know but like...
> its so good...
> wish i had somethinf kittails related to say but i have like... zero shit ... whoops

Chapter 70

Notes:

birthday of kit...

not canonical, just when his ref sheet dropped.

The morning didn’t start with sunlight. It started with pain.

 

It had bloomed low in Kit’s back during the night, throbbing out like slow thunder until it pressed into his waist and curled tight under the bandage Miles had helped wrap before they slept. Now, hours later, the pain had settled in like an old tenant refusing to leave. Kit lay there, not quite asleep, not quite awake, his hand half-curled on the blanket and his jaw locked with familiar tension.

 

The bedroom was dim. Grey light filtered through the edge of the blinds, and the distant sound of wet tires on asphalt made it clear the rain had stopped sometime near dawn. Their cat, Remy, was perched on the windowsill—watching the quiet street with her tail curled neatly around her toes, all fluff and silent judgment.

 

Kit heard the shift of the bedsheets behind him. The faint sound of skin brushing against fabric. Miles was waking up.

 

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

 

Kit had never been one for mornings, but birthday mornings were especially unwelcome. Especially *this* one. He was thirty-five today. Not that it mattered—he hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t brought it up, hadn’t responded to the ping from his phone calendar last night. Miles didn’t seem to have acknowledged it either. That was good. Kit didn’t want breakfast in bed or messages or some big display.

 

He just wanted the pain to back off. And the room to stay quiet.

 

He shifted slightly, trying to relieve the tight pull across his waist. It didn’t work. A grunt left his throat before he could swallow it back.

 

Behind him, the mattress dipped. A creak. Movement.

 

Then Miles’ voice, rough with sleep: “How bad?”

 

Kit didn’t answer right away.

 

Another pause.

 

Then, “Bad.”

 

The covers rustled as Miles sat up. He was moving slowly—Kit could tell just by the rhythm of his breath. Probably another tight chest morning. Probably another pulse higher than it should’ve been. Kit closed his eyes.

 

He hated how much he could hear it in Miles’ movements now. Every small delay. Every shuffle. The weight of it.

 

“I’m getting your pills,” Miles murmured.

 

Kit gave a barely-there nod and listened to the familiar sound of Miles’ bare feet against the wood floors, the soft creak of the bathroom door, the quiet clink of pill bottles being shuffled around.

 

When Miles returned, he had a bowl, a glass of water, and a small bottle in one hand.

 

He sat down again with a grunt and laid the things out on the nightstand.

 

“Two of the usual,” he said. “You’ll be a little groggy, but it should bring the ache down. Especially with the wrap.”

 

Kit pushed himself up slowly with a quiet wince and took the water from his hand. Miles passed over the pills. No ceremony. No hesitation. They’d done this so many times it had become muscle memory.

 

“Take yours too,” Kit said, voice still dry.

 

“I will.”

 

“Now, Miles.”

 

Miles let out a slow sigh. Then, without comment, reached for his own bottle from his robe pocket and dry-swallowed his heart meds.

 

Kit watched him, eyes narrow.

 

“You’re not getting away with that tomorrow either.”

 

“Tomorrow’s not your birthday,” Miles muttered.

 

Kit scoffed. “And today’s not Christmas.”

 

“But it’s *your* day.”

 

“It’s just a day,” Kit said sharply, then softened. “I don’t want a fuss.”

 

“I didn’t make one.”

 

“You remembered.”

 

Miles tilted his head slightly, just looking at him.

 

“Of course I did.”

 

Kit looked away. Toward the window. Toward Remy, who had now curled into a ball, tail twitching lazily.

 

“You didn’t say anything last year,” he murmured. “You were in the hospital, I know. I just… I sat there. For five hours. Didn’t turn on the TV. Just stared at the wall.”

 

Miles didn’t respond. He reached up and gently placed his hand over Kit’s, grounding.

 

Kit sighed.

 

“Don’t give me a speech.”

 

“I wasn’t,” Miles said. “Just… listening.”

 

They sat in silence for a while.

 

Then Miles finally moved to adjust the edge of the blanket and rested his hand carefully against Kit’s bandaged side. “I’ll redo the wrap after lunch. You’ll feel better if you’re compressed tighter.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah. I’m not dizzy.”

 

Kit studied him—soft belly under the robe, his short, bristly hair flattened on one side from sleep, the faint pallor beneath his usual warm tone. “You’re lying.”

 

Miles shrugged. “Not enough to matter.”

 

Kit frowned, but said nothing more. He let his body settle into the pillow again, breaths a little easier now. The ache was still there, but the meds would start dulling it soon.

 

Miles stayed close. Quiet.

 

Eventually, Kit broke the silence again. “You gonna make me get up today?”

 

Miles leaned back against the headboard. “No. Not unless you want to.”

 

“Good.”

 

“I might join you.”

 

Kit’s brow lifted. “That so?”

 

“My joints are arguing.”

 

“That’s what you get for marrying old.”

 

“You’re the same age.”

 

“Still your fault.”

 

Miles chuckled under his breath. “Want to watch something later? Or just lay here and insult each other until dinner?”

 

“Option two.”

 

“Done.”

 

The light shifted slightly in the room, brightening a notch. Outside, Remy stretched on the windowsill, tail flopping once against the glass.

 

Kit tilted his head toward the window.

 

“She hasn’t screamed yet. Must still be full from last night.”

 

Miles let his head rest back. “We should savor this moment.”

 

Another silence. This one more settled.

 

Then Kit said, “You remembered.”

 

Miles didn’t respond at first. He just reached over, took Kit’s hand again, and squeezed.

 

“Always."

---

 

The kitchen was warm, the light over the stove flickering just enough to catch the shine of the sauce, red and slow-bubbling. Sausages turned with a soft scrape under Miles’ spatula, and Kit—half asleep, shirtless, and dragging his bandaged waist like a wounded grump—had his arms locked tight around Miles’ back, clinging to him like a barnacle.

 

The silk of that stupid fancy robe was slick under his cheek. He hated how good it felt.

 

“You gonna wear this dramatic shit every morning now?” Kit mumbled against Miles’ shoulder blade.

 

“It’s comfortable.”

 

“It’s fucking *pretentious*.”

 

“I got it on sale.”

 

Kit grunted. “Still looks like something you'd get arrested in for ‘creative loafing.’”

 

“That’s not a real charge.”

 

“You’d make it one.”

 

Miles smirked but didn’t reply. Just stirred, slow and unbothered. The sausages hissed in the pan, steam curling around them in lazy spirals. The tomato sauce had started to stick to the sides, thick and rich, catching the corners of the pan like it had somewhere to be.

 

Kit pressed in harder, wrapping his arms tighter. “You’re dragging the end through the oil.”

 

“I am not.”

 

“You are.”

 

“I’d feel it.”

 

“You *wouldn’t.* You don’t feel shit once you’re dramatic.”

 

Miles snorted, still stirring. “You sound cranky.”

 

“You sound like you’ve never been impaled by your own bathrobe before.”

 

Kit shifted slightly, pressing his chin into Miles’ shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re warm.”

 

Miles paused his stirring just long enough to rest his free hand lightly on Kit’s forearm, thumb brushing slow. “Hurting?”

 

Kit didn’t answer right away. Just breathed out slow against Miles’ neck. “Slept weird. Wrap’s pulling.”

 

“Gonna redo it after breakfast.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

More silence. Just the low simmer of sauce and the occasional tick of oil snapping in the pan.

 

Kit shifted his weight, clinging tighter, letting his hips rest lazily against Miles’ back. His voice was quieter now. “You still didn’t say anything about it.”

 

“About what?”

 

“You know.”

 

Miles looked down at the sausages. Flipped one. Let the silence stretch again before he said, “I thought you didn’t want a birthday.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“But you remembered?”

 

“I always remember.”

 

Kit blinked against his shoulder. “…You gonna make me something dumb?”

 

“I’m already making you something dumb.”

 

Kit snorted, the sound half a breath. “Don’t dress it up. You’re frying sausage in pasta sauce like we’re three hours from payday.”

 

“And you’re still clinging like it’s gourmet.”

 

Kit said nothing. Just held on.

 

Miles let the silence settle again. Then: “I thought about buying you a new blanket.”

 

“I don’t need a blanket.”

 

“I know. You just keep stealing mine.”

 

“You run hot.”

 

“You run cold.”

 

“You talk too much.”

 

Miles laughed under his breath, flicking the burner low. “Sit down soon. Before your legs start bitching again.”

 

Kit didn’t move.

 

“You gonna let go?”

 

“No.”

 

“I gotta plate these.”

 

“You’re not leaving. Not for more than two steps.”

 

Miles leaned back slightly into him, warm and steady. “Then hold on.”

 

Kit did.

 

Even when the sauce started to bubble too fast. Even when Remy jumped on the counter and got instantly swatted down. Even when Miles shuffled forward just enough to grab the plates, Kit stayed attached to his back, breathing slow, eyes half-lidded, face still pressed to silk.

 

Not talking. Not asking for anything. Just there.

 

Wrapped around the only thing that made sense most days. Miles didn’t rush him.

 

Didn’t ask for space.

 

He plated one-handed.

 

Kit didn’t even flinch when he whispered, “Happy birthday, by the way.”

 

“…Don’t.”

 

“I said it once. That’s your whole year.”

 

“…‘Kay.”

 

They stood like that until the smell of over-simmered tomato told them it was time to eat or burn the pan.

 

Notes:

wasnt feeling for posting but those stupid people who will argue about something without knowing what it actually is, and then being mad when theyre corrected is fun AND motivational

just slapped tomato sauce w sausages cuz i like it... with oregano too it gets me feeling like the damn mario lmao

i also tweaked with lots of think in my au, made some adjustments and changed some parts.

mental health is on ma ass so expect little to zero chapters😢

Chapter 71

Notes:

this is so tumblr scientist/experiment yaoi 😥
nothing major to be worried about, content warning wise

 

The bedroom was already hot from the sun crawling through the curtains. It wasn’t a harsh light—just that warm, slanted sort of heat that pooled on the wood floor and bled across the bed in long streaks. Outside, the street was still quiet. No clattering bins. No car engines. Even the cat had curled up on the windowsill and stayed there.

 

Inside, Kit was struggling with his body.

 

Not in any dramatic, loud way—just the usual: a low groan as he pushed his hand into the mattress to sit up, a grunt when his hip caught wrong. His robe had slipped off in the night and lay bunched by his thigh, exposing his whole back, scarred and lean and a little too sharp at the waist now that the muscle loss had settled in for good.

 

His legs hung over the edge of the bed. Bare. Pale in the morning light. The left one still had that faint tremble in it if he sat too long. His crutches leaned beside the dresser, untouched.

 

Miles stood in the doorway, quietly watching, the belt of his robe loose at his waist, his hair unbrushed and falling to one side. There was steam behind him—kitchen heat—but he hadn’t poured his coffee yet. He’d heard Kit shifting from the hallway. That was enough to come back in.

 

Kit rubbed his face once, muttered something under his breath, and then reached slowly—painfully—for the muscle in his thigh.

 

Miles didn’t speak right away. He crossed the room and sat at the edge of the bed near Kit’s back.

 

"Did you fall asleep on your side again?" he asked, gently.

 

Kit huffed. "I always do. It’s the only damn way my spine doesn’t scream."

 

"And then your hip screams."

 

"It’s a duet," Kit said flatly.

 

Miles offered a quiet smile, then reached for his thigh without asking. Kit didn’t flinch. Just let him, eyes still half-shut from sleep.

 

Miles’ fingers sank in just above the knee, testing the pressure. Kit winced—only slightly—but didn’t pull away.

 

"Still locked?" Miles asked.

 

Kit gave a small nod. "Yeah. Yesterday was worse, though."

 

Miles didn’t comment on that. He just shifted in closer, kneeling properly on the bed now, and began rubbing slow circles up Kit’s thigh, pausing whenever he felt the muscle twitch. His other hand found Kit’s waist, warm and calloused, settling there just to ground him.

 

Kit was quiet for a while.

 

Eventually, he said, "Don’t get weird."

 

"About what?"

 

"About me… y’know. Looking like this."

 

Miles blinked down at him. "You think I’d get weird about your legs?"

 

"Not just my legs," Kit said, frowning faintly. "The way my back’s gone lopsided. The muscle gaps. The way my knee clicks when I sit too fast."

 

"You’ve had all of that for years."

 

"Yeah, but it’s worse now."

 

Miles didn’t argue.

 

Kit reached up, gripping his own hair at the scalp in frustration. "I wasn’t born like this, Miles. It’s not the same. I remember what it felt like to get out of bed and not sound like gravel in a pipe."

 

"You don’t sound like gravel," Miles said softly, brushing his hand up to Kit’s side. "You sound like my husband."

 

Kit let out a slow breath.

 

Miles shifted behind him more fully, pressing up against his back. His hands were warm—one still kneading soft at Kit’s waist, the other slipping higher, pressing to his chest, just below his ribs.

 

"You want to lie back?" Miles murmured.

 

Kit blinked at the sheets. "Why?"

 

"Because I want to help you stretch out. That’s all."

 

Kit narrowed his eyes. "Is this a sex thing?"

 

"No," Miles said honestly. "It’s just you and me."

 

Kit rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders started to melt. He leaned back carefully, with Miles helping him lower into the pillows. His spine cracked once—deep and nasty. He winced again.

 

Miles settled beside him, pressing in close, careful not to crowd. He didn’t kiss him, not yet—just dragged his fingers over Kit’s chest, over his stomach, tracing the indentations time had carved into him.

 

The curve at his side where the muscle dipped uneven. The spot beneath his ribs that always bruised when he twisted too fast. The way his pelvis seemed more exposed now, where weight had dropped but tension never left.

 

Kit watched him with lidded eyes.

 

Miles moved his hands lower, thumbs grazing the soft skin above his hips.

 

"You’re not fragile," he said.

 

Kit swallowed. "I know."

 

"You’re not broken."

 

"I know."

 

Miles finally leaned in, brushing their foreheads together, resting them there.

 

"But you are tired."

 

Kit closed his eyes. "Always."

 

They didn’t say much after that. Miles helped guide Kit through the usual stretches—supporting his legs at the knee, pressing gently against his hip until the joint loosened, guiding one arm across his chest for a soft twist. They moved slowly. It wasn’t about recovery. It wasn’t about fixing. It was just Miles being there, taking up the quiet, offering hands where Kit could no longer reach on his own.

 

Later, they lay still together, both of them half-dressed and quiet in the mess of pillows. Kit's breathing had eased. His muscles were still sore, but he wasn’t holding himself together so tightly anymore.

 

He looked at Miles, eyes soft. "Thanks."

 

Miles only nodded and touched his hand lightly.

 

Even on bad mornings, they still had this.

 

Each other.

 

Always.

 

 

Notes:

notes lack grammar cuz i dont use grammarly on them... yes im a lazy bucko i cannot be bothered to fix my typos😥

canon to summer oneshot

Chapter 72

Summary:

> this band au belongs to @virulentity on twitter... check em out!!

Notes:

> inlove with this au... ughhh
(> u can check my ver. from chap 30 also but beware its not that different from this one)

> pre- written, this was made for @virulentity months ago. A gift fic lol ^.^

> in conclusion i'll be also publishing another chapter tomorrow after career plan stuff... Probably it's gonna be early in the day— midnight-morning— but its finallyy some interesting stuff not the same lovey dovey slop

Kit’s hands were impossibly rough. When Miles pressed them to his cheeks, he could feel every callous, every hardened ridge of skin against his fur. It was the kind of touch that should’ve been too coarse, too abrasive—but Miles just leaned into it, sighing softly as Kit held him there, thumbs brushing over his jawline with an almost hesitant kind of reverence.

 

"Your face is soft," Kit muttered, like it annoyed him.

 

Miles cracked a small smile, his tails flicking behind him. "Yours isn't."

 

Kit grunted, shifting his grip, but he didn’t let go. Those same hands—built for destruction, for slamming drumsticks against worn-out kits, for gripping bass strings too tight—were cradling Miles like he was something fragile. It was ridiculous.

 

It was also kind of nice.

 

Miles’ own hands came up, pressing lightly over Kit’s wrists. "You know," he murmured, "if you put half this much care into playing bass, you might actually get the hang of it."

 

Kit scoffed, his fuchsia eyes narrowing. "Shut up."

 

"Make me."

 

And Kit did, pressing his lips against Miles’ before he could keep talking.

 

They weren’t famous. They weren’t looking for fame, either. Music was something they did in the dim glow of underground venues, in practice rooms littered with tangled cables and half-empty cans of beer. It was sweat and rough vocals, basslines that thrummed deep in their chests, drumbeats that rattled in their bones.

 

They weren’t chasing anything but the feeling of it—the rawness, the energy, the way it made them feel alive.

 

Kit’s hands stayed on his cheeks for a little while longer, his grip warm despite the roughness. Then he pulled away, flicking Miles on the forehead before grabbing his bass again.

 

"Alright, teach me, old man," Kit muttered, rolling his shoulders.

 

Miles chuckled, rubbing his forehead. "Watch your mouth, drummer boy."

 

And just like that, they were back to it—two underground artists, side by side, making something raw, something real, something theirs.

Notes:

Not my usual thing, but if you can, please donate to Murray (@virulentity). Their uncle passed away today, unfortunately from cancer, and they need funds for the burial. Please check it out, even ten dollars matter. Thanks in advance.
> I won't be leaving the link as I personally think it might be offensive, but the details is on @virulentity twt.

Chapter 73

Summary:

JUL19/25
> ash tray with a puff of desperation and hope for the better

The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the ancient radiator and the soft hiss of wind through a cracked window. Kit sat cross-legged on the floor, back straight, shirt tossed over the arm of the couch. His coat had been dumped somewhere near the entryway hours ago, and his socks were uneven—one pulled high, the other bunched near his ankle.

 

He looked… tired. Not worn like a man crumbling, but frayed like something once seaworthy now half-retired in a drydock.

 

Across from him, Miles was crouched down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows of his worn hoodie. His fingers were fiddling with a clunky little reader he’d made himself—nothing from a hospital, just a palm-sized scanner patched together from leftover junk and a few pieces of medical-grade scrap he'd definitely *not* asked permission to use.

 

“You could just tell me if something’s off,” he murmured, voice too gentle for how accusatory the words sounded.

 

“I’m fine,” Kit said.

 

“You always say that.”

 

“Because I am.”

 

Miles raised a brow and leaned forward, pressing the scanner gently against Kit’s side. The fur dipped under the plastic, and the soft glow lit a faint blue under Kit’s ribs.

 

“You’re not even built right,” Miles muttered, more to himself. “How’re you still walking around like nothing ever hurts?”

 

Kit didn’t answer. He just sat still, tail curling lightly across the rug. He’d always been like this—quiet, distant, durable. He didn’t complain. Didn’t talk unless it mattered. But Miles had lived with him for years now. Roommates by necessity first, then by routine, then by something that never quite needed explaining.

 

“You slept on the couch again,” Miles added, shifting the scanner to the other side.

 

“You were snoring.”

 

“I wasn’t even home last night.”

 

Kit blinked, slow. “Then it was the radiator.”

 

Miles squinted. “You like the couch.”

 

“It smells like dust and you.”

 

“...That better be a compliment.”

 

Kit stayed quiet. But he didn’t move away when Miles leaned in again.

 

The scan whirred, beeped faintly. Miles frowned at the data as it blinked across the little screen. Everything in Kit’s body read like a half-finished blueprint: functional organs, clean systems, no sexual structures—nothing between his legs but smooth fur, soft flesh, and a shared exit for waste. The data always made Miles pause, but never for long. He’d stopped trying to explain Kit years ago.

 

“I’m gonna touch your back,” Miles warned, already moving. “You always lean wrong when it rains. It’s raining.”

 

Kit rolled his eyes but shifted forward slightly. The soft warmth of Miles’ hands settled against his shoulders, firm and familiar. His thumbs pressed into the muscles near Kit’s spine, finding the hardened knots and uneven tension like he’d mapped it by heart.

 

Kit sighed, sharp but quiet, shoulders tensing just once before relaxing.

 

“You’re slouching more lately,” Miles murmured.

 

“You’re breathing heavier.”

 

“Don’t change the subject.”

 

“You’ve had, what, three cigs today?”

 

Miles paused. “...Two.”

 

Kit turned just enough to stare at him, deadpan. “One when you got out of bed. One after your call with Cinder. One just before dinner. One while I was brushing my teeth.”

 

“Okay, four,” Miles admitted, hands still kneading into Kit’s back. “But I didn’t inhale deep.”

 

“You’ve got a bad heart.”

 

Miles scoffed. “It’s a sensitive heart.”

 

“You had a whole episode last year.”

 

“Mini attack. Little one.”

 

“You collapsed.”

 

“Into a chair.”

 

Kit sighed again. Miles just kept working his thumbs over Kit’s spine, slower now, gentler. The heater ticked once behind them, metal expanding. The room smelled faintly of burnt circuits and warm dust.

 

“You’re soft,” Kit muttered.

 

Miles tilted his head. “That’s not a bad thing.”

 

Kit grunted, but didn’t disagree. His body slumped a little more, like giving in without ever admitting it. He didn’t talk much, but the quiet always said enough. Miles’ fingers found the base of his neck and rubbed gently behind one ear.

 

Kit’s eyes fluttered half-shut. He didn’t lean, didn’t purr, didn’t whimper—but the tension dropped out of his arms and tail like someone had pulled the right thread loose.

 

“You like that,” Miles murmured.

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“You do.”

 

Kit didn’t answer. He let it happen.

 

They sat like that for a while—Miles kneeling behind him, working out the old tension in his back, rubbing behind his ears and murmuring little notes about posture and muscle strain. None of it sounded professional. Miles wasn’t a doctor. He was just good at things. And Kit let him be good at this, too.

 

“You should eat more,” Miles said after a while.

 

“I eat.”

 

“Half a protein bar and one noodle is not eating.”

 

“You microwave frozen broccoli and call it dinner.”

 

“Broccoli is heart-healthy.”

 

“You don’t eat it.”

 

“That’s beside the point.”

 

Kit exhaled quietly through his nose, but his ears twitched—just a little—when Miles pet behind them again.

 

“You need a new brace,” Miles said, tapping Kit’s leg gently. “That one’s dragging again.”

 

“I can still walk.”

 

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

 

Miles stood slowly, knees cracking, and stepped toward the hallway. “I’ll order the new part tomorrow.”

 

“...Okay,” Kit murmured. Then, after a beat: “Can you still fix the cushion?”

 

“Already did.”

 

Kit looked up at him. “When?”

 

“This morning. While you were in the shower.”

 

Kit blinked slowly. His mouth twitched like he might say thank you. But instead he grumbled, “Don’t mess with my side of the couch.”

 

“It’s our couch.”

 

Kit looked away.

 

Miles watched him for a moment. Then, quietly, he reached down again, ruffled the fur between Kit’s ears—just once, but slow.

 

Kit swatted his hand away. “Stop.”

 

“You like it.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

Miles grinned, backing off. “Sure you don’t.”

 

Kit didn’t turn to look at him. But his ears were pink.

 

And when Miles passed the ashtray in the kitchen, he hesitated—just long enough to consider throwing the pack away.

 

He didn’t. 

---

Miles crouched behind him, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a reader in one hand and a strip of pressure tape in the other. He’d been tinkering with medical gadgets again—half for Kit, half just because he couldn’t sit still. He wasn’t a doctor. Just a prodigy. And a stubborn one at that.

 

“You been breathing okay?” he asked.

 

Kit shrugged one shoulder. “Fine.”

 

Miles pressed the scanner lightly to Kit’s ribs. “Define ‘fine.’”

 

“Not dead.”

 

Miles snorted. “Your standards are trash.”

 

Kit didn’t reply. His large ears—those unmistakable fennec ears—were folded down low and quiet, like someone had pinned them there. Always drooping. Always listening. Miles knew better than to grab them without warning.

 

He moved with care, sweeping the reader down Kit’s side. The results blinked across the screen: vitals steady, though low; oxygen borderline; nothing alarming, but enough to make Miles purse his lips.

 

Kit watched him over his shoulder. “What?”

 

“You need more iron.”

 

“I chew metal.”

 

“You need the digestible kind, smartass.”

 

Kit’s ears twitched faintly at that, flicking once toward him, then back down again. They moved like radar, even when he was pretending not to care.

 

Miles sighed and set the reader aside. Then, very carefully, he reached up and brushed his fingers just under the base of one of Kit’s ears.

 

Kit flinched—but didn’t pull away.

 

“I’m gonna pet you,” Miles said, almost teasing. “Just for medical purposes.”

 

“Bullshit,” Kit muttered, eyes half-lidded.

 

“Total bullshit,” Miles agreed, and rubbed slow, warm circles behind the downturned curve of Kit’s left ear.

 

The fennec let out a breath—thin and shallow, almost soundless—but his tail curled closer to his ankle. His muscles eased just a little. Miles used the pads of his fingers, working up toward the tip of the ear without tugging.

 

Kit’s ears were huge, heavier than most, always catching dust and static. Most people assumed they were sensitive in a way that made them a liability. Miles had learned otherwise. When you handled them gently, the way Kit never expected, something in him settled.

 

“You’re stiff,” Miles murmured.

 

“Getting old.”

 

“You’re forty-five. That’s not old.”

 

“You’re forty and you still smoke.”

 

Miles didn’t stop petting. He just rolled his eyes and huffed. “This again.”

 

“You’ve got a weak heart.”

 

“It’s mild.”

 

“You collapsed.”

 

“Once.”

 

Kit glanced sideways, unimpressed. “In the kitchen. While holding a blender.”

 

Miles winced. “Okay, that was dramatic.”

 

“You smelled like burnt plastic.”

 

“I fixed the fuse box, didn’t I?”

 

Kit’s ears twitched again—once up, then softening right back into his palm. Miles scratched gently at the furred edge. Kit didn’t say thank you. He never did. But the way his tail had stopped flicking said enough.

 

“You’ve been dragging your right leg again,” Miles added. “Brace still working?”

 

“Mostly.”

 

“I’ll adjust it tonight. You wanna eat something first?”

 

Kit made a vague, noncommittal sound. It wasn’t yes, but it wasn’t no either.

 

Miles stood and stretched, joints creaking more than they used to. “You want rice or soup?”

 

“You’re just gonna microwave something frozen.”

 

“That’s not true. I also have instant noodles.”

 

Kit grunted.

 

Miles passed the counter on the way to the kitchen, pausing for a breath near the ashtray. A crumpled cigarette sat in it, half-smoked from earlier. He stared at it a moment. Then he lit it.

 

The smell reached Kit before the sound did. He didn’t even turn.

 

“You’re gonna die.”

 

“Not tonight,” Miles called back, voice muffled around the drag.

 

Kit said nothing. His ears drooped again. Not in frustration—just… resignation.

 

Miles returned a minute later, plopping down beside him with a glass of water and an old brace pad tucked under his arm. The cigarette was out now. Maybe half-smoked. Maybe enough.

 

He gently tapped Kit’s thigh. “Let me adjust this.”

 

Kit let him. He leaned slightly, letting Miles unfasten the brace from his right leg. The buckles had stiffened again, and the inside padding had started to peel. Miles ran his thumb over the joint, checking the give.

 

“You walk weird,” Miles said.

 

“I am weird.”

 

“Not an excuse.”

 

Miles took the old pad, swapped it with the one he’d brought, and fastened it carefully. His fingers worked with a calm rhythm, tugging the straps just tight enough to secure them without cutting off circulation.

 

“You’re not a doctor,” Kit muttered.

 

“Nope.”

 

“You act like one.”

 

Miles smiled faintly. “Nah. Doctors don’t bring you socks in the middle of the night or kill centipedes on the bathroom wall.”

 

Kit didn’t respond. But he blinked slowly, ears relaxing at a strange angle that Miles had learned meant gratitude. Silent, wordless, deeply guarded gratitude.

 

When the brace was secure, Miles didn’t move away. He reached up again, brushing Kit’s large ear between two fingers, then gently dragging down the soft outer edge.

 

Kit’s shoulders slouched forward, just slightly.

 

“You’re not subtle,” he said.

 

“I’m also not sorry.”

 

Kit didn’t swat him this time.

 

They stayed there on the floor, leaning just a little too close for two people who claimed not to care. And when the heater ticked off again and the air cooled, Miles reached up one last time—rubbing slow, lazy strokes beneath the arch of Kit’s ear until the fennec finally sighed, eyes closed, tail still.

 

Neither of them said anything else.

 

But neither of them moved away.

 

 

 

Notes:

ao3 is bugging omfg... not beta read

will be adjusting chap1, then maybe some fankid stuff, maybe ill open up the requests again.

for me its the 74 chap... whoopsies...

> im poor on money cuz of those fucking gacha games...whateva...

> career planning is here and i have an option to be a nurse...do you think i would be popping off veins like gums...

Chapter 74

It started like any other cursed idea in the Prower household: with a deceptively sweet voice.

 

“We should play something,” Miles said, already rummaging through the hall closet where they kept the games they never touched unless they were really bored or really trying to test the stability of their relationship. “Like... a board game.”

 

Kit, sitting on the floor in sweatpants and spite, narrowed his eyes. “We doing this because you’re bored or because you wanna fight me in a legal setting?”

 

Miles looked over his shoulder, smiling too wide. “Little bit’a both.”

 

They settled on Monopoly. A mistake. A catastrophic, relationship-threatening mistake.

 

Kit sprawled out on the floor with his legs crossed and his entire demeanor radiating “I will win or burn this house down.” Miles got them snacks and drinks and pulled his sleeves up like they were about to paint the living room, not throw capitalism at each other’s throats.

 

First hour? Peaceful. Almost fun. Kit bought Baltic Avenue and sniffed condescendingly at Miles landing on Park Place. Miles, meanwhile, was stockpiling railroads and humming the theme from Jeopardy like he was some financial savant.

 

“Babe,” Miles said sweetly around a mouthful of chips, “you sure you don’t wanna trade me St. James Place? I’ll give you Water Works and a Get Out of Jail Free card.”

 

Kit stared at him like he’d just asked to adopt a wolf. “You think I’m gonna give you a whole color set? For a utility? What do I look like, an idiot?”

 

“You’re broke, sweetie, and I’m just trying to throw you a bone.”

 

“I don’t need your charity. I need you to land on my goddamn properties.”

 

By the second hour, snacks had run out, someone (Miles) had knocked over the banker’s pile twice, and Kit’s fur was visibly bristled. Miles had gone full gremlin mode: legs tucked up, his paw pads tapping on the board like a vulture circling his prey. Kit had mortgaged half his properties and was chewing the inside of his cheek like it owed him money.

 

“You cheated,” Kit snapped suddenly, voice sharp.

 

“I literally rolled in front of you—”

 

“No. You always roll soft when it’s a five or a six. That’s your manipulation dice voice.”

 

“My what?”

 

“I know your fake innocent rolls. You roll like a little baby when you want to land on the Free Parking.”

 

Miles squinted. “First of all, you’re insane. Second of all, if anyone’s manipulating fate, it’s the guy who moved my thimble six spaces back when I looked away—”

 

“I breathed near it!”

 

“You cheated, Kitsunami. You cheated and now I’m gonna put hotels on every goddamn thing just outta spite.”

 

“Good. I’m gonna make you go bankrupt and live in a shoe.”

 

“You are the shoe.”

 

Kit stood up. Miles stood up. The cat fled the room.

 

Hour three was a blur of plastic houses flying through the air, the rulebook being shouted at like it was written by a war criminal, and Miles genuinely accusing Kit of “economic sabotage.”

 

“You’re hoarding the pinks! Just sell them to me already so we can move on!”

 

“I’d rather eat the deed card than hand you a monopoly. You know what? I am eating it—don’t stop me.”

 

“You’re not twelve, you don’t get to eat game pieces to win!”

 

“WATCH ME.”

 

The game ended when Kit flipped the entire board over with a quiet, murderous precision and Miles launched the little iron playing piece directly into the vent.

 

They didn’t speak for ten minutes. Not out of rage, but out of pure shellshock. Kit went to get water. Miles just laid on the floor, whispering “Free Parking... it was all I had left...” like a man who’d lost everything.

 

That night, without discussion, the Monopoly box was shoved to the back of the highest shelf in the closet. Behind the Christmas decorations. Behind the cursed jigsaw puzzle with the missing corner.

 

It was never spoken of again.

 

Until three weeks later, when Kit casually said over breakfast, “You know, I still think you were cheating on the dice rolls.”

 

And Miles, through a mouthful of toast, replied, “I will slap you with the thimble.”

 

Notes:

You know Monopoly is the worst when its played with older siblings, specifically an older sister. We played for fucking 4 times, and I lost every time.

And like, I got the " Go to Prison" card after getting out of jail, which happened because of the same stupid card. Annoying shit. THE BANK IS LITERALLY ON THE CRISIS BECAUSE SHE HAS ALL THE BANKNOTES

Chapter 75

Notes:

me no beta read whoops
betting on twenty i missed adding s to tail if i even used rhat word

The kitchen had started out peaceful enough—sunlight through the curtains, oven preheating, faint smell of vanilla in the air. Miles had been humming quietly, the kind of soft, tuneless melody that made Kit feel more at ease even when he didn’t say it. The counters were cleared, the mixing bowls lined up neatly, ingredients stacked like little towers.

 

It was supposed to be a simple afternoon project. Cupcakes. Just cupcakes.

 

“Alright,” Miles said, flipping the recipe card around so Kit could see it. “Step one: cream the butter and sugar.”

 

Kit nodded, pulling the butter from the fridge while Miles measured out the sugar. So far, so good—until the measuring cup slipped in Kit’s damp hands and dumped half the sugar on the counter.

 

Miles paused mid-measure. “…Okay. That’s… fine. We’ll just sweep that up.”

 

Kit, ears twitching, used the edge of his paw to scrape the sugar into a neat pile. “It’s fine,” he repeated under his breath. “No one saw anything.”

 

Miles smirked, clearly having seen *everything*.

 

The mixer whirred to life, the butter and sugar whipping into pale fluff. Miles stepped aside to grab the baking powder, tossing the jar to Kit without looking.

 

Kit caught it—barely—but didn’t notice the teaspoon sitting right beside him. He glanced at the card, squinting at Miles’ looping handwriting. 1 tbsp* baking powder… or was that a “c” for cup? The handwriting was so bad it looked like both at once.

 

He shrugged, popped the lid off, and poured. And poured.

 

By the time Miles turned back, Kit was tapping the jar against the bowl to shake the last bits in.

 

“…Uh,” Miles began, voice tight, “how much did you just—”

 

The batter inside the mixer made a strange noise, like an air bubble popping underwater.

 

Kit looked in. “It’s fine.”

 

It was not fine.

 

The mixture began to swell, thick and foamy, pressing against the sides like it was trying to escape. Miles lunged for the switch.

 

“Wait,” Kit said, grabbing his wrist, “maybe it’s supposed to—”

 

Before either could decide, the bowl belched like a volcano, flinging blobs of raw batter into the air. Miles ducked; Kit wasn’t so lucky. A warm, sticky glob hit him right between the eyes, sliding down to drip off his muzzle.

 

Miles bit his lip, trying not to laugh. His voice came out muffled, shaking. “You—pfft—you look like you lost a food fight.”

 

Kit swiped the batter off, staring at it like it had personally betrayed him. “…We were making cupcakes.”

 

“Not anymore,” Miles said, giggling now. “We’ve crossed into… cupcake warfare.”

 

While Kit went for a towel, his bare foot landed in a splatter on the floor. He skidded, catching himself by slamming one hand down on the counter—right beside the open bag of flour. The jolt knocked it over, and a graceful, slow-motion wave of white powder poured directly onto Miles.

 

The fox froze, golden fur instantly ghosted pale from head to tail-tip. His tail puffed like a duster, eyes wide. “…I look like I aged forty years.”

 

Kit coughed back a laugh. “Maybe you did.”

 

Miles brushed flour off his arms, sending a little cloud into the air. “You know, if the oven catches fire, we’re just moving.”

 

“That’s not gonna happen.”

 

The oven dinged, ready, as if daring them to prove otherwise.

 

They pressed on. Kit cracked eggs one-handed like he’d seen Miles do before—except his first one split messily, sending yolk down the side of the bowl. Miles sighed and grabbed paper towels, muttering something about “egg casualties.”

 

By the time the batter was actually portioned into the cupcake tin, the kitchen looked like a hurricane had hit a bakery. There were sugar trails on the counter, random batter splashes on the wall, flour footprints across the floor, and a suspicious glob stuck to the ceiling.

 

Kit eyed it. “…That’s gonna fall eventually.”

 

Miles glanced up. “Not on me, it isn’t.”

 

The cupcakes went into the oven. They even managed a moment of calm, leaning on the counter together, until the smell hit them—*sharp*, chemical, almost metallic.

 

“…That’s not right,” Miles said, opening the oven door.

 

The cupcakes were rising—*way* too much—doming and spilling over the edges like little mushroom clouds. A sizzling sound followed, batter dripping onto the oven floor.

 

Kit looked on with grim acceptance. “…We created monsters.”

 

“Dinner?” Miles offered.

 

“Yeah. And dessert. From somewhere that doesn’t require… this.” Kit gestured vaguely at the warzone around them.

 

Miles reached up, brushing a streak of flour from Kit’s cheek. “You’re cleaning the ceiling.”

 

Kit smirked faintly. “Only if you clean the oven.”

 

They stared at each other for a moment before both bursting into laughter, the kind that left them doubled over against the counter. It wasn’t the cupcakes they’d planned—but it wasn’t the worst afternoon either.

 

Notes:

*tablespoon
> this is the tactic i do when im missing lego parts...
> like aint nobody gotta know its between US!!

> anyways so i finished the good omens tv version
> i am so mad rn do not talk to me
> never believing any show that has a comedy tag after this my trust is SHATTERED TO PIECES!!

Chapter 76

Notes:

kid edie

The rain was still tapping against the windows when Kit shifted onto his side, the faint weight of Miles pressed along his back. The bedroom smelled like soap and warm sheets, the kind of quiet you didn’t want to break. He was just letting his eyes close when the door creaked open.

 

Eden’s little head peeked in—hair sticking up from sleep, cheeks blotchy from rubbing her face into her blanket. She was clutching a worn, floppy-eared stuffed animal against her chest.

 

“Daddy…” her voice was small, almost a whisper, but it carried that soft insistence that meant she wasn’t going anywhere until she got what she wanted.

 

Miles stirred first, propping himself up on an elbow. “What’s wrong, baby?”

 

She shuffled into the room, bare feet quiet on the carpet, and climbed up onto the bed without waiting for an invitation. “She can’t sleep in my room anymore,” Eden mumbled, lifting the stuffed animal slightly as if introducing the problem. “She’s scared.”

 

Kit opened his eyes fully, watching her crawl over him and wedge herself in the middle. “She?” he echoed, one brow lifting.

 

“My bunny,” Eden said, holding it up like that explained everything. The stuffed rabbit had seen better days—one ear drooped permanently, and its fur was matted from years of hugging—but she held it like something precious. “She said the shadows were too loud.”

 

Miles bit back a smile, brushing her hair out of her face. “Shadows don’t make noise, sweetheart.”

 

“They do if you listen.” Eden’s reply was certain, her eyes wide and serious.

 

Kit sighed quietly, but there was no fight in it. He lifted the blanket so she could crawl all the way under, the bunny tucked against her chest. She nestled between them without hesitation, her small legs curling up, her back pressed to Kit while her face turned toward Miles.

 

“You’re lucky we’ve got room,” Kit muttered, pretending to sound put out, though his arm settled protectively over both her and the bunny.

 

Eden yawned, her voice already slurring with sleep. “Bunny says thank you.”

 

Miles leaned in to kiss the top of her head. “Tell Bunny she’s welcome.”

 

Within minutes, her breathing was slow and even, the stuffed rabbit half-crushed between her and Kit’s ribs. The room settled back into its warm, steady quiet—three heartbeats close enough to feel—and neither parent moved, afraid to break the fragile peace.

 

Notes:

when the school u were talking shit about all year doesn’t even accept u because yes your exam year was the one with the most full marks so it goes from 70 something to 84. Mind u this bitch aint even taking with exams its just your general points from your past grades combined... this is like 3rd time trying for this shit ass school and im tired as fuck just want to doomscroll man i aint built for this shit 😳

i do have chaps prewritten i just dont wanna post them cuz i dont feel like it ughhh my laziness gonna kill me

Chapter 77

Notes:

> honestly the idea of kitsunami having weird stress reliever stuff is very appealing to me...
> imagine a grown ass man w a sonic plush keychain that miles gifted to him to relieve his stress and all he does is just
> squeeze the shit out of it

> that was the idea i had... this one is also my favorite, right beside the domesticated miles n feral kit
edit AUG22 : I realized i used shark on this one😢 i changed it so yall dont get confused, but im gonna explain that au after— for now just think of it as a pet name, being aggressive and sea related = shark pet name... God i sound stupid but this is what is it 🙏🏻

The workshop had gone quiet for once—machines sleeping, soldering irons cold, the air heavy with the hum of silence rather than invention. Kit sat at the edge of a workbench, hunched over like the weight of his own shoulders might snap the wood. His hair was a tangled curtain around his face, his jaw clenched, and the edges of his claws dug into the table as if pressing down hard enough could crush whatever was buzzing in his head.

 

The source of his stress was unclear—it rarely needed to be. Kit was the type to carry storms inside his ribs, never explaining them, never even opening the shutters to show what kind of weather brewed there. He didn’t need a reason. He just burned like that.

 

And that was when Miles padded in. Not quietly—he was never quiet, even in the gentlest moments, his presence like sunlight pushing itself into a shadowed room. His steps were soft but sure, and his voice was a yawn wrapped in honey.

 

“You’re gonna dig a hole through the bench,” he muttered, watching Kit’s claws.

 

Kit glanced up with a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but it slipped, because Miles’ hands were already in his pockets, fishing for something. The fox pulled out a small plush keychain—a ridiculous, chibi-styled Sonic with a head far too big for his tiny felt body. Its sewn-on grin was irritatingly cocky, but the blue fur was worn soft from fingers that had held it many times.

 

Miles held it out like he was presenting a precious gemstone. “Here. Don’t take it out on the furniture.”

 

Kit stared at it like it was poison. “…you’re kidding.”

 

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Miles tilted his head, ears flicking. “C’mon. Squeeze it, drown it, whatever makes you feel better. It’s what it’s for.”

 

The fennec's lips curled faintly in disgust. “You gave me a Sonic.”

 

“Yes,” Miles said smoothly, as if it were obvious. “Because nothing relieves stress quite like crushing his stupid little face. Think of it as free therapy.”

 

Kit’s jaw tightened again. His beef with Sonic had been long-standing, unspoken, and absolutely ridiculous. He’d never admit it, but his resentment ran deep, rooted in old feelings of being overshadowed, being left behind, being less. To give him *this*—a plushy caricature of his nemesis, offered in good faith—was equal parts insult and intimacy.

 

Miles stepped closer, pressing it into Kit’s palm. His fingers lingered, warm and steady against Kit’s knuckles, coaxing rather than forcing. “For me,” he said softly, his voice stripped of its usual teasing lilt.

 

Kit sat frozen for a moment. Then, with a sharp exhale, he clenched his hand around the plush. The tiny Sonic let out a faint squeak from the stress-ball filling inside. It was humiliating. It was childish. It was—

 

“—good,” Kit admitted under his breath.

 

Miles’ grin spread slow and smug. “See? I told you.”

 

Kit kept squeezing, his fangs digging into his lip as if to bite back his own embarrassment. The toy made more pitiful little squeaks, muffled by his grip. His ears flushed red, but he couldn’t stop—there was something addictive about crushing the stuffed face, as if each squeeze siphoned a little pressure out of his chest.

 

“You’re enjoying that way too much,” Miles teased, hopping up onto the bench beside him. He leaned close, chin propped in his hand as he watched. “If Sonic saw you right now, he’d file a restraining order.”

 

“Good,” Kit muttered, squeezing harder, eyes narrowed in grim satisfaction. “Maybe I’ll bury him with it.”

 

Miles laughed—an unrestrained, bright laugh that bounced off the walls. He leaned his shoulder against Kit’s, nudging him. “Don’t act like you don’t love it. You’re gonna wear it out in a week at this rate.”

 

“Then you’ll buy me another.”

 

“Oh, so now you’re admitting you want more Sonics?”

 

Kit turned to glare at him, ears flicked back, the plush squeaking again as if in protest. “…shut up.”

 

But Miles only leaned closer, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. “Never.”

 

And so Kit sat there, a grown man, a husband, a storm bottled in skin and bone—squeezing the life out of a Sonic plush keychain while his fox watched with that infuriating, radiant smile. His beef with Sonic would never end—Miles had just ensured it would carry on into the next four generations.

 

But at least, for now, the storm had eased.

 

 

Notes:

> been a long week lowkey..
> not because life problems either i just cannot find a pirate yaoi with the idea i have in my head rn...
> take this notes as a signal that i might actually write sails/kit after months 🫂
> im like... writing it rn but the something about it feels just... cheap and bad.

—> I couldn’t really update because my dear beta reader just left me. out of nowhere. I miss her a lot. I really wanted to kiss her cheeks and squeeze her fat and tell her it'll be okay as long as I'm with her but oh well ( We weren’t a thing, I just imagined us to be, I have been imagining us like these oneshots since the start. )

–> in conclusion I have no inspirations or anything. I feel numb and aggressive. But worry not I'll probably publish my drafts xd

Chapter 78: Eden & Garden

Summary:

eden

Notes:

> eden loves gardens...
> again, its irony im implying here
—
> how the garden of eden is depicted as the heaven where adam & eve lives...
> the essence of this was just to show she is an "angel", atleast born one. though she is quite the impostor when shes grown up.
> Eden means paradise, pleasure of paradise etc. U gonna understand the meaning behind her name later on if I feel like it...

and oh kit is sea related stuff going on, not just water.

Kit’s hands were dirty, soil caked beneath his claws as he crouched low to tug stubborn weeds from between rows of sprouting green. The summer sun pressed heavy on his back, dampening the edges of his shirt, but he worked steady, the slow rhythm of pulling, shaking, and tossing roots into the basket keeping him grounded. Gardening was always his thing—something about watching seedlings grow into real food soothed his restless body.

 

Just a few feet away, Miles wasn’t helping much, but he wasn’t useless either. He had their daughter tucked against his chest, her small arms hooked lazily around his neck, her head nestled under his chin. Eden had a half-chewed watermelon slice in her hand, juice dripping down her fur as she kicked her little feet against her papa’s belly, smug as if she had no responsibilities in the world.

 

“You’re spoiling her,” Kit muttered without looking up, tugging free another weed with a sharp snap.

 

Miles huffed, but it came out as a laugh, soft and teasing. “She’s a baby, not a farmer, love. Look at her, she’s working hard enough chewing through that watermelon.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Eden’s red head, earning a squeaky giggle from her sticky mouth.

 

Kit glanced up for only a second, and yeah, it was ridiculous. Miles, sweating bit and flushed from the heat, swaying lazily with their little fox clinging to him like a koala. Both looked spoiled—one fat on watermelon, the other fat on love. Kit shook his head, going back to the soil with a grunt.

 

“Could at least put her down on the blanket,” Kit said. “She’d be fine crawling.”

 

“Mhm, and the second I do, she’ll eat dirt,” Miles replied smoothly, bouncing her on his hip. “Better she eats melon than worms.”

 

Eden squealed at that, waving her wet paw as if agreeing. A sticky smear of red hit Miles’ fur, but he didn’t complain, only smiled wide, proud of his messy little girl.

 

Kit sighed, half fond, half defeated, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “One of these days, you’ll have to carry me around too.”

 

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” Miles purred, leaning forward just enough for Eden to grab at Kit’s messy hair from her perch. “You’d look good in my arms, sea log.”

 

Kit snorted under his breath, but his mouth betrayed him with the smallest twitch upward. Miles always did that—turned even a sweltering garden into some ridiculous scene of softness.

 

Meanwhile, Eden simply squealed again and shoved more watermelon into her mouth, happy to be paraded around by her papa while her daddy worked like the only responsible one in the house.

 

Notes:

> using my beautiful legos to cope with my loss and its working🫡 never forget who was with you at your worst...
> talking about legos mel actually loves it. big ones of course, duplo brand maybe. I can see her loving lego friends too... Mia fan 100%

> i wanted to write sea fag instead of sea logsoo much😢🙏🏻 restraining myself on my own oneshots...

Chapter 79

Notes:

> pristinee's must read ones...
> bcuz i actually gave a fuck

“I thought you quit,” Kit said, voice flat and unimpressed as he stood just inside the doorway, tail twitching behind him like a frayed ribbon. He didn’t move any closer, didn’t have to—he knew the air was thick with smoke already, scented with Miles' favorite blend, imported and overpriced. Just like everything else in his damn life.

 

Miles sat languidly in the velvet chair beside the balcony, shirt undone, fur touched gold by the dying sun. He turned only slightly, the cigarette holder dangling between his fingers like an accessory, not an addiction. “I did. Then I remembered I'm still a prince, and no one can tell me what to do.”

 

Kit didn’t laugh.

 

“Except you,” Miles added, cocking an eyebrow. “My ever-loyal, ever-fussy, beautiful little servant.”

 

“I’m not little,” Kit muttered, stepping further into the room. “And I’m not yours.”

 

“Oh?” Miles tilted his head. “You brush my coats. You wake me up. You sleep outside my door like a trained hound. You practically feed me when I forget how to eat. What would you call it?”

 

Kit’s mouth twitched. His voice dropped, low and sharp: “Survival.”

 

Miles took a long drag, held it, then exhaled through his nose as if that word wasn’t familiar. “You think they’ll spare you, when they poison me?”

 

“I think they’ll burn everything connected to you. Including me.”

 

“So why stay?”

 

Kit looked away.

 

Miles stood. His fur shimmered in the warm light, his eyes catching that sly mix of blue and brown that always made Kit stare too long. He stepped closer, cigarette forgotten in the tray now, voice dropping to something near tender.

 

“Kit.”

 

The word landed heavy between them.

 

“You’re the only one who doesn’t bow when I enter a room. You treat me like a man and a mess, not a monarch. You let me talk. You let me sleep. You let me... pretend.” Miles stepped into Kit’s space now, palm reaching to brush his hair back—rough, almost absentminded. Kit flinched.

 

“I’m not letting you pretend,” Kit muttered, jaw tight.

 

“Then what are you doing?” Miles asked. “Humoring me? Babysitting the heir?”

 

Kit said nothing. The answer didn’t come.

 

Miles laughed, and it was hoarse. “You’re supposed to be a spy, you know. My uncle sent you here to keep me leashed.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You failed.”

 

“I know.”

 

Miles tilted his head again. “So what now?”

 

Kit's ears drooped slightly, lips pressing together. “…They’re planning the marriage again.”

 

“Let me guess. House Rose this time?” Miles chuckled bitterly. “She’s what, thirteen?”

 

“Sixteen.”

 

“Oh, great. A girl barely out of school to keep the line ‘pure.’ I’m sure she’ll love being a political womb.”

 

Kit didn't laugh. “You’re going to have to say yes.”

 

“And if I don’t?”

 

“They’ll kill you.”

 

“And you?”

 

Kit’s throat bobbed. “…They’ll kill me, too.”

 

Miles stepped closer. They were nearly touching now, smoke curling between them like a veil. Kit’s ears twitched once, but he didn’t move away.

 

“What if I kissed you?” Miles asked softly, like a challenge. “Would you kill me before or after?”

 

“I’d let you,” Kit said, voice tight. “Even if it meant the end.”

 

That finally cracked Miles’ composure. His eyes softened, and then—he did it.

 

It wasn’t the kind of kiss you wrote about in sonnets. It was desperate. Tense. Clumsy. Kit didn’t melt into it like a lover in a dream—he *grabbed* him, sharp nails scraping down Miles' back through silk as he pushed their bodies together, as if trying to erase the space fate would inevitably wedge between them.

 

“Miles—” Kit whispered into his mouth, breathless, almost pleading.

 

Miles pulled back just enough to speak. “If they make me wed her... run.”

 

“They’ll find me.”

 

“Then stay. Hide. We’ll lie. We’ll burn it down together, if we have to.”

 

Kit closed his eyes, face pressed into Miles' neck like it hurt to breathe. “You say that now.”

 

“I’ll say it always,” Miles murmured, stroking the back of Kit’s head. “Because I already chose you. And I don't care what blood says, what duty says. If they take you from me, they take the only part of me worth saving.”

 

Outside, the bells of the capital began to ring—another dinner, another summons, another performance. Miles didn’t move.

 

Kit didn’t let go.

 

And somewhere in the rafters above, a hidden crow listened, then took flight.

 

Notes:

> GUYSGUYS!! hate me for it but i have actually finished this au of mine😭😭
> this gonna be my first time actually giving a fuck about servant slash butler/prince yaoi relationship type...
> not a fan of that
> this au is directly connected to witch surge/princess ames... i miss them as well my little lesbos😭😭
> anyways the schedule after this should be like,
sails/ kit > servant/prince aftermath > injured kit > sails/kit bits that didnt made it > idk...

Chapter 80

Summary:

its august 25 for me but ao3 is being annoying as hell rn...

Notes:

> someone purchased my beautiful 2.5 dollar stephanie's outdoor baking set thats released in 2012 and very hard to find before ME. hope its missing its pieces bitch 🖕🏻

The sea was alive with lantern-light and laughter, a ship drifting steady in the night while its captain lingered along the rail with a bottle in hand. Sails was younger then, flushed with drink, cocky in his stride, but his gaze snagged when the water stirred too smooth, too intentional. At first he thought it a trick of moonlight—until the waves bent and a shape rose from the depths.

 

A merman.

 

He broke the surface without a sound, his hair slicked dark and heavy, his eyes glimmering with something otherworldly. Minimal cloth clung to him, salt dripping from the carved lines of his torso. Intimidation radiated from him as though the sea itself had granted him power. Most men would have run, prayed, or begged mercy. Sails only laughed, leaning farther over the rail, bottle swinging loosely in his hand.

 

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” he drawled, slurring with amusement. “They told me the sea kept secrets. Didn’t think she’d hand me one.”

 

The merman didn’t answer. He watched—still, predatory, unreadable. His gills flexed faintly as he hovered in the water, gaze unwavering on the pirate. The silence stretched long enough to unsettle even Sails’ liquid confidence.

 

“You’re not gonna gut me?” he teased, smirking, though his heart thudded louder than he liked. “Or do you prefer dragging drunks under?”

 

The merman’s eyes narrowed, his lips parting just slightly as though weighing whether words should pass. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, soaked with the depth of the ocean itself.

 

“If I wanted you dead,” he said, deliberate and rough, “you would not still be standing.”

 

Sails straightened, grin faltering into something sharper. The tone, the gravity of it, pulled the drunken fog from his mind for a moment.

 

“So you do talk,” he said, half-mocking, half-breathless.

 

Kit’s head tilted, water running off him in shining rivulets. “Not for men like you.”

 

Sails blinked, then barked out a laugh, the sound reckless in the quiet night. He leaned on the rail again, studying the creature before him with something keener than curiosity. The intimidation that would have crushed another only drew him closer.

 

“Then I’ll take it as a favor,” he murmured, softer now, raising his bottle as if in toast. “A secret between the sea and me.”

 

The merman didn’t smile. But he didn’t sink away either. His stare lingered, steady and dangerous, while the ship rocked gently between them—an omen, perhaps, or the start of something neither of them could yet name.

Notes:

> mermaids in the POTC is more sinister and strong
> like how they refuse to cry even though theyre faced with extreme danger/stress.
> mermaid gender is very sensitive topic considering how they dont have any sex or detailed human emotions... couldve used they/it for kit here but it was confusing for me to write personally
> this ones still a lil... short for my liking...

> anywayss just saw the black pearl getting lego-fied and oh my god its so exciting... though the final work looks too much of a ass to worth 380 DOLLARS!! lego on its way to over price everything ughh

Chapter 81

The balcony doors were left ajar, curtains heavy with damp air as the rain fell in sheets beyond the railings. Water pattered against the stonework, the storm clouds turning the courtyard into a blurred wash of gray. Below, the royal gardens drank greedily from the sky, red spider lilies blooming like blood spilled across the earth. Their fiery petals leaned into the downpour, except for one—trapped in the corner of the balcony, pressed between railing and wall, its stem bent, its petals withering despite the nourishment so close by. Crows circled among the garden quietly.

 

Kitsunami stood at attention, though his shoulders were stiff, his hands folded neatly behind his back. The towel of his duties still clung faintly to him; the air of a servant never left, even when draped in finery meant to disguise his role. His eyes did not meet Miles'. Instead, he stared beyond him, into the rain, into the wilting flower, as if he had already resigned himself to what was to come. His silence bore the weight of inevitability.

 

Miles, for his part, lounged against the stone balustrade, robe falling open just enough to suggest his smug indifference. He sipped his tea with all the casual elegance of someone born to courts and crowns, eyes hooded with mirth as he regarded his "butler." The tea’s steam curled like lazy smoke between them.

 

“So…” Miles drawled, swirling the cup before taking another deliberate sip, “you’re finally going to talk. I was beginning to think I’d have to drag your words out with my own tongue.” His grin flashed, sharp and dangerous, though teasing in its lilt.

 

Kit’s jaw flexed, though he did not look up. “It isn’t my place to speak unless spoken to.”

 

“Oh, hush,” Miles purred, setting his cup on the ledge, the rain hammering just beyond his reach. “You’re not just some servant. You’re the one who—” his eyes gleamed, voice dropping with mischief, “—ruined a prince’s body. You should wear the title with some pride, I think.”

 

For a brief moment, his smirk widened at Kit’s flinch, reveling in the visible ripple through the butler’s carefully maintained calm. Miles leaned closer, his hand bracing against the railing, the scent of tea and storm between them. “If anyone’s to be punished, it should be me. I started it. I enjoyed it.”

 

Kit’s head tilted slightly, finally meeting Miles’ gaze. His fuchsia eyes were cold, burdened, in contrast to Miles’ smug glimmer. “It doesn’t matter who enjoyed it. The law is clear.” His tone was hushed, deliberate. “Defiling royalty—ruining their body, their image—is punishable by crucifixion.”

 

Miles’ grin faltered. His lips parted slightly, as if to scoff, but the words caught. For a moment, the storm filled the silence, the crash of rain louder than any courtly laughter. The prince blinked, then straightened, trying to laugh it off, but the sound rang hollow.

 

“Crucifixion? For that? That’s absurd.”

 

Kit did not respond, only let the silence tighten around them. His expression bore no defiance, only weary resignation, as though he had already pictured the nails driven through his wrists, the wood at his back. His acceptance was chilling, as if his life had always been borrowed time.

 

Miles’ smugness cracked, eyes narrowing as the reality seeped in. He turned from Kit, from the withering lily, toward the storm. His hand tightened around the railing, knuckles paling. The thought of Kit—his Kit—bound and displayed as spectacle, punished for something Miles had desired, something Miles had wanted, sat in his throat like ash.

 

He forced a grin again, desperate to mask the sudden twist in his chest. “Well, then… I suppose I’ll just have to change the law.” His tone was bold, mocking fate itself. But when he turned to look at Kit again, he found no relief in the butler’s quiet face. Only that acceptance, that silence that cut deeper than the thunder.

 

Kit lowered his gaze once more, voice almost drowned by the rain. “It isn’t your burden to change. It is mine to carry.”

 

Miles exhaled sharply, stepping closer, the hem of his robe brushing against Kit’s arm. “Don’t you dare talk like that. Don’t you dare make it sound like I’ll just sit by while they…” His voice cracked, anger and fear bleeding through despite his effort to remain composed.

 

The rain swept harder, the balcony’s stone slick beneath their feet. Miles glanced down once more at the red lilies, vibrant and alive, their petals spread wide despite the storm. His eyes caught the lone withering one, bent under its own weight, strangled by its place. He clenched his jaw, reaching out to seize Kit’s chin, forcing his eyes upward.

 

“You’re not some wilted thing waiting to rot in a corner,” Miles hissed. His thumb brushed along the scar beneath Kit’s lip, rough with storm-born tenderness. “You’re mine. And I don’t care what punishment they write into their decrees—I won’t let them take you.”

 

Kit’s fuchsia eyes flickered, briefly, as though something in him wanted to resist, to argue. But the storm swallowed his words. Instead, he let himself be held there, gazing back at the prince as thunder rolled above, the spider lilies below swaying like flames in the rain.

 

The tea cooled between them, forgotten. The balcony brimmed with tension, quiet acceptance colliding with frantic defiance, two men at the edge of fate while the storm bore silent witness.

 

Notes:

> oh boy theres lot to unpack here ...

> if ur a botanical interested, you'll know red spider lilies mainly symbolize death. While death is obviously a bad thing, it is supposed to represent Kitsunami's guilt finally disappearing— dying— like a criminal that got its sentence.

> While, lilies represent Purity. In "Christanity", its a symbol for Virgin Mary. And its withering, its showing you the acts of love did happen between Kitsunami & Miles.

> Crows symbolize death here. They're circling around, as if the fate itself decided its future.

> Crucifixion is chosen for Kitsunami, not death, as he will not be needed anymore as a butler. Plus, he will be killed by a religious method to, " confessing sins, asking for mercy on the after life". its related to spider lilies, as spider lilies also seen as a passage for afterlife.

> Rainy weather is used as cleansing way here. See how its going against everything. Its more of representing hope, by watering the plants too much and making crows struggle in the weather.

> ok thats all i think...

> extra
> did u know only noble people back then married young? while worker class women had to learn atleast how to knit etc so they can pass it down to next generation! Noble's married young to ensure heir, since back then birth was much more complicated than today. Thats also why Miles' "lady" is young as hell.

Chapter 82

Notes:

not beta read

The sand stuck between their toes, warm and gritty, the sun low enough to cast long, soft shadows across the beach. Kit moved slowly, adjusting Eden’s backpack over his shoulder while Miles ambled beside him, tails brushing the sand lazily, a faint sheen of sweat on his fur from the afternoon warmth. The years had softened them in some ways—lines around their eyes, gray flecks in their fur, a slower step here and there—but the tension was still there, a hum just beneath the surface, a residual hum from decades of half-words, miscommunications, and grudges too petty to let go.

 

“Did you check the tide schedule?” Miles asked, voice quiet but firm, ears twitching. He kept a little distance, letting the warmth of Kit’s presence anchor him without needing to touch, though the desire was there.

 

Kit’s fuchsia eyes glanced sideways, tail flicking lazily. “I did. Don’t worry. Someone’s finally paying attention to the map, at least.” His tone was sharp enough to sting, but softened by the familiarity of the words, decades of shared sarcasm woven into the rhythm.

 

Miles let out a small huff of amusement, brushing sand from his hands. “I should have guessed. You’re always one step ahead. Always grumpy about it, too.”

 

Kit shrugged, adjusting Eden’s tiny hat on her head, her towel dangling from her small shoulders. “Someone has to be. You get distracted. I noticed that in college. You’re the same now. Still wandering off with your thoughts.”

 

Miles smirked faintly, ears flicking. “And you? Still sharp as a knife, still calm as the ocean. Still… unreasonably patient with me.” He hesitated, then added, “Somehow, even after all these years, I still don’t know how you do it.”

 

Kit’s tail flicked once, almost lazily. “Patience is a lie I tell myself so I don’t yell at you in public. Otherwise, we’d have ended this beach trip at the first wave.” He glanced at Miles, faint amusement glinting in fuchsia eyes. “Not that I’d ever let you win, mind you.”

 

Miles laughed softly, a little out of breath, tail curling around the back of his legs. “You’ve never let me win anything. Not once. You’re ridiculous.”

 

“And you love it,” Kit shot back, voice low, teasing, as he glanced at him, shifting Eden slightly on his hip so she could peer curiously at the waves. “Admit it. You can’t help it.”

 

Miles’ ears twitched, tail flicking in acknowledgment. “Maybe I do,” he murmured, letting a faint smile tug at his lips. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t get frustrated.”

 

Kit sighed softly, a sound almost drowned by the surf. “Frustrated? Sure. But we’re older now. Frustration doesn’t ruin us. It just lingers.” He glanced at Miles, a flicker of something softer passing through his fuchsia eyes. “…Like the tide. Always there, always moving. Can’t stop it, so you ride it.”

 

Miles let out a low chuckle, the tension easing slightly. “I ride it. You… you’re the tide itself, aren’t you?”

 

Kit smirked faintly, tail curling lazily. “I'm just me. Tide or not, you’ll get used to it. You always do.”

 

Eden, perched between them now, squealed and clapped her small hands as a wave broke closer, splashing lightly against their ankles. Kit and Miles both flinched almost simultaneously, the reflex sharp, but it was fleeting. Kit looked down at her, faint warmth brushing his expression, while Miles let out a small, amused groan, tail flicking sharply.

 

“Still messy as hell,” Miles muttered, voice quiet but fond, eyes catching Kit’s fuchsia gaze. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

Kit hummed softly, adjusting Eden against him. “Me neither,” he said, voice low, steady, a hint of softness threading through the usual sharpness. “You’re still loud, still fussy, still impossible. But I can tolerate it. Somehow.”

 

Miles smiled faintly, tail brushing against Kit’s. “Somehow… we made it this far, huh?”

 

Kit nodded, eyes catching the glitter of the late afternoon sun on the waves. “We survived each other long enough. That counts for something.”

 

Miles leaned slightly closer, nudging Kit gently with his shoulder. “I missed this,” he admitted, quiet, almost shy. “Just walking, not talking, letting the world go by.”

 

Kit’s tail flicked, subtle, but his fuchsia eyes softened. “Yeah. Me too,” he said. “Even if you fuss the whole way, it’s fine.”

 

Miles let out a soft laugh, small, genuine, tail curling closer to Kit’s side. “Fine. That’s a hell of a word for a life together.”

 

Kit smirked faintly, glancing at him with a glint of teasing sharpness, softened only by the years of lived-in familiarity. “We’re hell of a lot worse than fine. But yes we’re still here.”

 

Eden squealed again, running slightly ahead, tiny footprints pressed into the wet sand. Kit and Miles both paused, watching her, letting a quiet moment settle between them. The tension was still there, like a quiet hum, residual from decades of miscommunication and unspoken words. But there was softness now too, tempered by time, by shared history, and by the life they had built together.

 

Miles let out a long, satisfied sigh, nudging Kit again, closer this time. “I like this. You and me, ridiculous and soft all at once. Doesn’t happen often enough.”

 

Kit chuckled, adjusting Eden, the pacifier bobbing in her mouth. “Lucky for you, it’s our normal now. Don’t push it, or the tide might sweep you off your feet.”

 

Miles smirked, leaning closer, letting Kit’s warmth brush against him in the fading sun. “Try me.”

 

Kit just shook his head, tail flicking lazily, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Always an idiot,” he muttered, voice soft. “And I still wouldn’t trade you for anything.” No promises though.

 

Notes:

> a lil late today whoops

> ugh those fuckass bots make me mad asf
> like no hun no one wants your fuckass sketch that looks like made by a kindergartener..😳😳

Chapter 83

Summary:

Nothing about it screamed married life. The only proof was the thin band of metal circling his finger, catching the weak glow of the overhead light. He shoved his hand into his pocket quickly, as if hiding it might make it feel less real.

The apartment felt strangely unchanged when they walked in. Kit pushed the door shut behind him, his hand lingering on the knob longer than it should have. Same peeling paint on the entryway wall, same stack of unopened mail tossed haphazardly onto the shoe rack. Nothing about it screamed married life. The only proof was the thin band of metal circling his finger, catching the weak glow of the overhead light. He shoved his hand into his pocket quickly, as if hiding it might make it feel less real.

 

Miles didn’t hesitate. He tossed his jacket onto the couch and went straight for the fridge, humming under his breath the way he always did when he was trying to fill space. The pop of a cap against the counter echoed sharp in the quiet.

 

“Beer?” he called.

 

Kit gave a flat, wordless nod and dropped into a chair at the table. He tied his hair up halfway, the strands already falling out around his face, then rubbed his temple like the act of sitting there exhausted him.

 

Miles set down two bottles, slid one across. “To married life,” he said, grin wide and infuriatingly genuine as he clinked glass against Kit’s.

 

Kit muttered, “To poor decisions,” and drank.

 

Miles laughed, the sound rough around the edges but warm. He leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out, already comfortable. Kit sipped slow, staring at the condensation sliding down the bottle. The silence between them wasn’t comfortable yet, but it wasn’t hostile either.

 

“You really gonna start this thing out being that gloomy?” Miles asked finally, quirking an eyebrow. “We just signed papers. Should at least get a smile outta you.”

 

Kit glanced up at him, unimpressed. “You dragged me to a courthouse with flickering lights and a clerk who couldn’t give less of a shit. Not exactly worth grinning about.”

 

Miles smirked. “Still counts. Doesn’t matter where it happened. You’re stuck with me again. Officially.”

 

The words sat heavy. Kit shifted in his seat, scratching the side of his neck. “You sound smug about it.”

 

“I am,” Miles admitted, unabashed. “You left once. Thought I’d never see you again. And now you’re back, and—hell, you’re mine on paper. I think I earned a little smugness.”

 

Kit swallowed another mouthful, eyes narrowing at the bottle. “You make it sound like I came crawling.”

 

Miles tilted his head. “Didn’t you?”

 

The bite in his tone made Kit snap his gaze up, jaw clenching. For a second it felt like one of their old fights, tension curling hot and ugly between them. But then Miles let out a breath, softened, and added, “Not that I care. Crawl, walk, fly—you still came back. That’s the part that matters to me.”

 

Kit didn’t respond right away. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, like he was weighing the cost of answering at all. Finally, he muttered, “Don’t build this up into something it isn’t. I’m not here because of some big revelation. I just… ran out of places to go.”

 

Miles didn’t flinch. “I know.” He took a drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Doesn’t change the fact I’m glad you’re here.”

 

That optimism—it grated on Kit, but in a way he couldn’t shake loose. He leaned back in his chair, fuchsia eyes catching the dim light. “You always do this. Act like everything’s fine, like it’s all gonna work out just because you’ve decided it should.”

 

“Someone’s gotta balance you out,” Miles shot back, smirking, though his voice carried more steadiness than sharpness. “If we were both miserable bastards, we’d have burned this place down years ago.”

 

Kit snorted, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward for half a second.

 

The bottles emptied slow. A second round came, then a third. The sharp taste dulled the edges of their words, and little by little, Kit let slip pieces he hadn’t meant to. He spoke about nights when he lay awake hating himself, about the ache in his bones that reminded him every day he wasn’t a kid anymore. He admitted he never thought he’d end up here again, but he hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of being alone when the years kept piling on.

 

Miles listened, eyes fixed on him in that unblinking way that made Kit shift in his chair. When he answered, it wasn’t with pity, just quiet conviction. “You think I didn’t wait? Every damn person I messed around with after you—none of them stuck. Didn’t want them to. You were the only one who ever felt like more than background noise.”

 

Kit muttered, “That’s pathetic,” though his voice lacked venom.

 

Miles grinned. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

 

Another long silence stretched, the kind filled more with unspoken weight than absence. Kit found himself tracing the rim of his bottle, his shoulders slouched, exhaustion settling in deeper than the alcohol. He wanted to tell Miles not to look at him like that, like he was worth something. Instead, he muttered, “You’re too damn optimistic for your own good.”

 

“Yeah,” Miles said, and this time his voice was softer, almost matter-of-fact. “But one of us has to be.”

 

The words lodged in Kit’s chest. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He just let the sound of clinking glass and the hum of the fridge fill the space again, and for once, it didn’t feel unbearable.

 

By the time the last bottles were emptied, they were both slouched low, Kit’s shoulder brushing Miles’ every time he shifted. Neither of them moved away.

 

Miles pushed himself up finally, stretching with a groan. “C’mon. Let’s call it a night before we end up passing out here.”

 

Kit dragged himself to his feet slower, muttering something under his breath about his knees, but when Miles’ hand brushed his back, steady and brief, he didn’t pull away.

 

The bedroom felt the same as it always had. Lived-in, a little cluttered, sheets needing a wash. But when Kit sank onto the mattress and Miles dropped down beside him, close enough that their hands brushed, there was something heavier in the air. Not romance in the fairytale sense. Not even reconciliation. Just two men old enough to know what it meant to settle for something flawed, and stubborn enough to cling to it anyway.

 

Kit let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling. “Stupid fox.”

---

 

The light in the kitchen was harsher than it had any right to be. Kitsunami leaned against the counter, hair messy, eyes heavy with the dull throb of a hangover. He didn’t even bother with a brush. His hands were steady enough as he filled the kettle, but his shoulders slouched, his whole frame weighted down as if even standing upright was too much.

 

Behind him came the shuffle of bare feet and the scratch of a yawn. Miles emerged in his old pajama pants, rubbing his face with one hand and looking entirely too awake for someone who had downed as many bottles as Kitsunami remembered.

 

“Morning, husband,” Miles said with a crooked grin, voice rough but cheerful. He dragged a chair from the table, turned it backward, and straddled it like a man half his age.

 

Kitsunami shot him a look over his shoulder. “Don’t call me that first thing in the morning.”

 

“Why not? It’s true now.” Miles leaned forward on the chair back, chin resting on his arms, watching him with those damn blue-brown eyes that never seemed to lose their spark.

 

Kitsunami set two mugs down harder than necessary. “Coffee first.”

 

“Bossy,” Miles said, but his grin never dimmed. He accepted the mug when it was slid toward him, cradling it between his hands.

 

For a while, the only sound was the drip of the coffee machine and the occasional sip. Kitsunami drank in silence, eyes fixed on the table. The steam fogged his view of Miles, which was fine by him.

 

“You’re quiet,” Miles finally said.

 

“I’m always quiet.”

 

“Quieter than usual,” Miles pressed, his tone light but not teasing. He tilted his head. “Head that bad?”

 

Kitsunami let out a low grunt. “Beer doesn’t sit like it used to.”

 

That got a laugh out of Miles, genuine and sharp. “Tell me about it. Bodies get older, don’t bounce back the same. You should’ve seen me after Rose’s birthday last year. I thought I was gonna die for two days straight.”

 

Kitsunami’s lips twitched, but he kept his eyes down. “You talk too much in the morning.”

 

“I have to,” Miles said easily. “Otherwise you’d just glare at the floor until noon.”

 

Kitsunami didn’t argue with that. He wrapped his hands around his mug, letting the warmth seep into his palms. The bitterness of the coffee was almost welcome, grounding him in the moment.

 

Miles sipped slow, studying him. He knew better than to prod too deep, but he also wasn’t the type to leave heavy silences untouched forever.

 

“So,” Miles said eventually, his voice gentler now. “You really gonna tell me what made you come back? Or do I have to guess?”

 

Kitsunami’s fingers tightened around the mug. He didn’t answer right away.

 

Miles didn’t push. He leaned back, stretching his long legs out under the table, giving Kitsunami space.

 

Kitsunami exhaled, sharp and tired. “I didn’t want to.”

 

Miles raised a brow. “Didn’t want to what?”

 

“Come back here.” Kitsunami’s words were flat, his tone more resignation than hostility. “But I already gave you everything once. All of me. My body, my memories, shit I never thought I’d tell anyone. I can’t… do that again with somebody new. I don’t have it in me.”

 

The words hung heavy between them, heavier than any fight they’d had.

 

Miles didn’t answer right away. His smile had softened, not smug now, not cocky—just steady, quiet. He reached across the table and tapped his fingers once against Kitsunami’s knuckles. Not grabbing, not forcing—just letting the touch sit there.

 

“That’s enough for me,” Miles said. “You don’t need to give me some fairytale reason. You came back. That’s all I need.”

 

Kitsunami finally looked up at him, fuchsia eyes sharp and guarded. “You’re too damn optimistic.”

 

Miles shrugged, sipping his coffee like it was the simplest truth. “One of us has to be.”

 

Kitsunami huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh. It came rough, but it was the closest he’d get to admitting relief.

 

They fell back into silence, but this time it wasn’t jagged. The clink of mugs, the faint hum of the fridge, the soft patter of Miles’ fingers on the table—it all felt like routine, like something that had been waiting for them both to slide back into.

 

Kitsunami drained his mug and set it down with a quiet clatter. He rubbed at his temple again, muttering, “We’re not kids anymore.”

 

“Good thing,” Miles said, leaning back with a grin. “We were reckless as hell back then. I used to sleep naked just to piss you off. Remember that?”

 

Kitsunami groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Unfortunately.”

 

Miles laughed, the sound rough but full of warmth. “Now I’m civilized. Pajamas and all. Growth, Kitsunami. You’re looking at it.”

 

Kitsunami didn’t answer, but his lips pulled into the faintest smirk before he hid it behind his hand.

 

Miles caught it anyway. He always did.

 

And in the quiet that followed, with the sunlight creeping higher and the bitter taste of coffee still on their tongues, it was clear that neither of them had illusions about what their marriage was. Messy, imperfect, middle-aged, full of aches and old grudges. But it was theirs. And that was enough.

 

Notes:

> scraps and scraps...
> yesterday i was late to post so im being a little earlier today

> honestly i just finished a 12 hour soap opera and my brain is working part time... 🙏🏻 thered probably mistakes. a lot.

> i have been updsting the hc n stuff.. keep in mind THERES NOTHIN' CANON HERE!! idgaf about canon.
( i could make a very unfunny joke about printers here but oh well )

Chapter 84

Summary:

Miles scratched at the back of his neck sheepishly, surveying the mess like a man caught red-handed. “Ah, I haven’t had the time to fix the garden yet. Been busy, ya'know…” His voice trailed, awkward, the same way it always did when he remembered too late how much Kitsunami noticed little things.

The sun was just beginning to dip low when Miles pushed the back door open, the faint smell of earth and rain clinging to the breeze. The garden stretched out in its usual chaotic sprawl—untrimmed hedges, weeds tangling through the cracks in the path, roses leaning too far over their stakes. The grass had grown wild, tall enough in spots to brush against his calves.

 

Miles scratched at the back of his neck sheepishly, surveying the mess like a man caught red-handed. “Ah, I haven’t had the time to fix the garden yet. Been busy, ya'know…” His voice trailed, awkward, the same way it always did when he remembered too late how much Kitsunami noticed little things.

 

Kitsunami stepped out after him, silent at first, his eyes sweeping over the tangle of green and wildflowers. For anyone else, it might have looked hopeless—unkempt, a waste. But there was something about it, the way the lavender still struggled through the weeds, the way vines claimed the fence, the earth refusing to be tamed, that made the corners of his mouth twitch faintly.

 

Miles caught that flicker of expression and laughed under his breath. “Don’t tell me you actually like it like this.”

 

Kitsunami crouched down near a patch of overgrown marigolds, brushing a hand over their orange heads. “It’s alive,” he said simply, voice low. “Doesn’t need you fussing over it every day. Plants figure themselves out. Wild things always do.”

 

Miles tilted his head, a grin tugging at him despite the heat still in his cheeks. “Figures you’d say that. You’re one to talk about wild things.” He stepped closer, nudging Kitsunami’s shoulder lightly with his knee. “So what—you’re telling me my mess of a garden’s better left the way it is?”

 

Kitsunami looked up at him then, eyes sharp but softened by the late light. “Not better. Just not ruined. You’ve got good soil here. It’s strong. Just needs care, not control.”

 

Miles folded his arms, watching him, the grin turning quieter. “You sound like you’re talking about more than the garden.”

 

Kitsunami didn’t answer right away. Instead, he plucked a weed from the earth, flicked it aside, and then leaned back on his heels. “Maybe I am.”

 

For a moment, the air settled heavy between them, thick with something that had nothing to do with flowers or dirt. Miles breathed out slow, rubbing at his neck again, the optimism in his face dimming just enough to show a line of thoughtfulness underneath. He looked out at the tangled beds and then back at Kitsunami, softer.

 

“Guess it’s good you’re here then,” Miles said finally. “God knows I’d just let it all go to ruin if you weren’t.”

 

Kitsunami rose, brushing dirt from his palms, and for once didn’t bite back. He only reached out, briefly, to take Miles’ wrist and tug him down the steps into the grass. “Then let’s see what’s worth keeping.”

 

Kitsunami crouched in the grass, fingers digging into the soil, the dirt catching under his nails. The backyard stretched wide around him, the sort of space that begged to be worked, begged for care. The flowerbeds had long since spilled over, roses tangled with weeds, mint choking out whatever had been planted years ago. It should’ve looked ugly. But to him, it was like staring at a challenge he’d been waiting for.

 

Behind him, Miles leaned against the pergola post, still in his pajamas—light flannel pants hanging loose on his hips, shirt wrinkled from the night before. His hair was mussed, sticking up in too many directions, and he wasn’t trying to fix it. He yawned, stretching his arms, all slow and lazy. “You’re really just gonna get on your knees in the dirt first thing in the morning?”

 

Kitsunami plucked a weed from the flowerbed and tossed it aside. “It’s not morning,” he muttered, though the sunlight was still soft, the day not yet heavy. He didn’t glance back. “And someone’s gotta fix this mess.”

 

Miles padded barefoot into the grass, the blades brushing at his ankles. He wasn’t helping—hadn’t even thought to bring gloves or tools—but he lingered close, watching Kitsunami’s hands move with quiet intent. “Ah, I haven’t had the time to fix the garden yet. Been busy, ya’ know…” He scratched his neck sheepishly, though there wasn’t really guilt in his voice. More like an easy acceptance that he wasn’t built for this kind of work.

 

Kitsunami tugged at another stubborn root, grunting when it resisted. “Doesn’t look like you even tried.”

 

“Hey, I kept it watered for a while,” Miles said, grinning, crouching down just enough to hover near him without touching the dirt. “I mean, the hose is still out there, right? That counts.”

 

Kitsunami finally shot him a look, sharp but softened at the edges. “Bare minimum. That’s all you ever do with things like this.”

 

Miles only shrugged, smile lazy, leaning on one hand to the grass. “That’s why I’ve got you now. You like this stuff. You’re good at it.” His eyes followed Kitsunami’s hands again, the way his fingers worked steady, unbothered by the dirt. There was admiration in his tone, but quiet, as though he didn’t want to disrupt the rhythm Kitsunami was building.

 

The garden sprawled ahead of them, wild but not ruined. The old pergola cast shifting shadows across the patch of ground, and the inflatable pool in the corner caught a bit of breeze, rustling faintly. It was a backyard that wanted to be lived in again. Miles tilted his head, imagining it: Kitsunami bent over flowerbeds in the afternoons, him lounging under the pergola with a drink, evenings where they’d sit and watch the sun drop behind the fence.

 

“You’re picturing something stupid,” Kitsunami said without looking at him, yanking up another clump of weeds.

 

Miles chuckled. “Yeah. Us, here. You digging away, me sitting back telling you you missed a spot.”

 

“You’d get smacked with the shovel.”

 

“That’s the fun part,” Miles said, voice dipping playful.

 

Kitsunami shook his head, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward, just a little. He pressed his palms into the soil, feeling it damp and alive under his skin. The garden wasn’t neat. It wasn’t pretty in the way Miles might’ve thought. But it was breathing, waiting. That was enough for him.

 

Miles leaned closer, his bare shoulder brushing Kitsunami’s arm. “You really like it, don’t you?”

 

Kitsunami kept his eyes on the bed, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer. But his hands slowed, fingers sinking into the dirt like he meant to stay there for a while.

 

Notes:

> Kitsunami never touched the backyard sfter this. His back was killing him. Sometimes u gotta let a professional do its job.

> This house actually exists! While it looks like normal, usual house when you look at it from the front, its inside is what makes it special
> This house is direct copy from my neighbor's house, I really like their house. Though theyre not my neighbor now since we moved out. They moved out last year too. Such a shame, the house was beautiful. The young girl had cute LPS'es to play with. Even gave me one! ( I do not remember if her motber gave it to me due to me being persistent or she just wanted to give it ) I still have it displayed on my shelf.

> they also had modern cutlery (?) I mean, they looked like they got all the kitchen stuff from IKEA, which made me weirded out. But they were always modern. I mean they later opened a bar! Which resulted the her (ex) husband to get alcoholic. Ironic...

Chapter 85

Notes:

i did not beta read☝🏻

The morning light crept slowly across the bedroom, brushing against the pale sheets where Kitsunami was sprawled like a feral animal across the bed, long hair spread over Miles’ chest and shoulders. He had shifted only slightly in his sleep, and Miles, already awake, took the moment to trace the loose strands with his fingers, letting them slip through his hand over and over. The little ponytail he had tied in the back of his own hair this morning—a half-hearted attempt at keeping it out of his eyes—was crooked, spiky, and amusing in the sunlight. He grinned down at Kitsunami, brushing damp bangs from his husband’s face, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

 

Kitsunami made a faint grunt, eyes still closed, and rolled slightly against Miles, the motion sending a brush of hair against Miles’ cheek. “Mm. Too early,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

 

Miles chuckled, leaning down to press another kiss along the side of his jaw, teeth grazing just enough to make him twitch. “Not too early for me,” he whispered. “I get to wake up with you every day. That’s worth early.”

 

Kitsunami’s only response was to stretch, long arms flinging over Miles’ shoulders and chest, dragging him closer in the process. Miles groaned softly, laughing into the dark strands of hair brushing his face. His hands threaded through them again, fingers kneading the knots out gently, and Kitsunami hummed, a low sound of reluctant pleasure.

 

Eventually, hunger—not the want for more kisses, though there were plenty—pulled them toward the kitchen. Kitsunami led the way, still half-limp from the night, hair loose and wild, sliding against his shoulders in waves. Miles followed, barefoot, his little spiky ponytail bobbing with each step. He hovered near the countertop, leaning casually as Kitsunami set about making coffee, the smell of it filling the room almost immediately.

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Kitsunami muttered around a yawn, taking the coffee cup Miles handed him. His fingers brushed Miles’ hand, and the younger man’s grin spread wide.

 

“I know,” Miles replied, voice soft, pressing his lips to the top of Kitsunami’s hand. “And you love it.”

 

Kitsunami only huffed a laugh, sliding the cup to his lips, but Miles wasn’t done. His hand cupped Kitsunami’s jaw, tilting it gently so he could press a kiss to his temple, and then to the side of his neck. Kitsunami’s breath caught faintly, and he turned his head slightly, just enough to brush his lips against Miles’ shoulder.

 

Breakfast itself was quiet, mostly—coffee for both, scrambled eggs for Kitsunami, toast for Miles—but filled with small touches. Miles would lean over occasionally, brushing his lips against Kitsunami’s hairline, his shoulder, anywhere he could reach without being in the way. Kitsunami allowed it, half-annoyed, half-relieved, though his replies were terse. A brush of hair, a touch to the wrist, a hum. That was all Miles needed.

 

After breakfast, the day stretched ahead. Kitsunami settled in the living room with a book, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, long hair draping over his shoulders and spilling down over the edge like a waterfall. Miles sat beside him, leaning back lazily, legs stretched out, half a bowl of fruit in his lap, half the time just watching Kitsunami adjust in the sofa cushions, brushing strands out of his eyes. Every so often, Miles would lean over, pressing a quick, wet kiss to the crown of Kitsunami’s head, or brushing a thumb across his cheek. Kitsunami would hum or shift slightly, letting the affection land but not admitting he liked it—except when he did, and Miles could tell by the faint smile tugging at his lips.

 

Small snacks passed through the afternoon: apples, nuts, pieces of chocolate that Miles insisted Kitsunami try. He’d sneak up behind him while Kitsunami was reading, pressing kisses to his neck, shoulder, even the tips of his ears. Kitsunami muttered curses under his breath but never moved away. Miles’ fingers tangled in his hair again, brushing knots free, and Kitsunami allowed it, the simple rhythm of touch and release grounding him.

 

The sun fell lower, golden light spilling across the floorboards, when dinner came. Kitsunami had taken over cooking this time, letting Miles sip wine as he chopped vegetables and stirred sauces. Miles hovered near, kisses sprinkled over Kitsunami’s neck and shoulders with abandon, murmuring compliments and soft nonsense, half teasing, half affectionate. Kitsunami barely looked at him, focused on the food, but when he did, there was a quiet glow in his eyes, a rare softening Miles cherished.

 

Dinner itself was peaceful, quiet conversations weaving through bites of food. Miles rambled endlessly—about nothing, about everything. About the way the clouds looked that morning, about how his tiny ponytail refused to lie flat, about Kitsunami’s piercing again, and how he could see himself reflected in it. Kitsunami listened, shifting in his chair, hair falling free over his shoulders, occasionally flicking a lock from his face. Miles noticed every motion, grinning to himself. “You really do like that I talk too much, huh?” he said during a lull. Kitsunami only hummed, a low, near-invisible acknowledgment.

 

Evening came, and the two moved to the living room with a couple of beers, quiet chatter filling the space. Miles leaned against Kitsunami again, small, teasing kisses pressing against his shoulder, jaw, anywhere he could reach. Kitsunami shifted slightly under his weight, brushing a hand against Miles’ forearm, just enough to remind him he was there, alive, paying attention.

Miles leaned his chin on his hand, watching openly. “Oh—hah, wait. Come closer.”

 

Kitsunami raised an eyebrow but stepped within reach anyway.

 

“Can see myself on your piercing,” Miles said, leaning forward, his grin splitting wider. “And I look soosos squished, Kits. Like—” He tilted his head, catching the tiny reflection again on the curve of metal at Kitsunami’s nose. “When did you ever get your nose—snout? Is it technically your snout?—pierced, anyways?”

 

Kitsunami’s mouth twitched at the corners, though he stayed quiet.

 

Miles carried on regardless, the ramble rolling without pause. “You never told me that story, did you? Was it some drunk thing? Did Surge dare you? Or—wait—did you do it yourself? No, don’t tell me. You’d never line it straight. It’s too neat. Must’ve been a shop. You sitting there all quiet with your fangs out, scaring the poor piercer into doing the job perfect.”

 

A low chuckle shook out of Kitsunami, short and unforced. “Something like that.”

---

The night wore on, quiet and comfortable. By the time they moved to bed, Kitsunami was exhausted. He let himself fall across Miles again, long hair loose over the pillows, the soft tangle brushing Miles’ face and chest. Miles hummed, threading his fingers through it, brushing knots away, pressing small, feather-light kisses along Kitsunami’s temple and jawline.

 

“Too much?” Kitsunami muttered sleepily, half-lidded eyes staring up at him.

 

“Never too much,” Miles whispered, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. “Not ever.”

 

Kitsunami let out a long, quiet sigh, closing his eyes. The long hair that had been tied so tightly all day now spilled freely, brushing every part of Miles’ chest it could reach. Miles continued, brushing through it patiently, dragging the comb slowly through tangles, murmuring nonsense and praises, soft kisses punctuating every stroke. Kitsunami’s breathing slowed, regular now, head tilted back against Miles’ shoulder, letting him handle the quiet intimacy of the night ritual.

 

Miles hummed low, tugging gently at a strand of hair here, smoothing another there. “You know… you look good like this,” he murmured, brushing a kiss across the temple again. “Even better than when it’s tied back.”

 

Kitsunami made a faint sound, like an acknowledgment, not quite a word. He leaned heavier into Miles, letting the warmth of his husband’s body and fingers wash over him. The day had been long, filled with minor meals, soft kisses, teasing chatter, beer-sipping, and quiet laughter, but now it culminated in this simple, grounding ritual.

 

The lamp’s glow cast everything in a warm haze, shadows stretching along the wall. Outside, the night hummed softly, crickets chirping in a distant rhythm, wind rustling lightly against the window panes. Kitsunami’s hair fell like a curtain over the two of them, tangled lightly with Miles’ own, their bodies warm together in the sheets.

 

Miles let his hands linger, tugging gently at knots, combing softly, threading fingers along the scalp, murmuring idle praises and nonsense. “You’re perfect, Kits. Always perfect. Even when you look like you hate every word I say.”

 

Kitsunami’s only response was to shift slightly, pressing his nose into Miles’ shoulder, letting the long hair slip across his chest, heavy but comforting. Miles leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

 

And then the world contracted, as it always did at the end of the day. Just two men, one messy tangle of long hair, one short spiky ponytail, and quiet murmurs punctuated by soft touches and warm laughter. Miles’ hands worked slowly through the strands, hair flowing freely now, every knot smoothed, every strand realigned, while Kitsunami exhaled, finally allowing the day’s tension to fall away.

 

The night stretched on, and eventually both surrendered fully to sleep—Miles humming soft nonsense into Kitsunami’s hair as he drifted, fingers still tangled, Kitsunami’s long hair spread over them like a dark, warm blanket, weight pressing down, grounding, comforting. Outside, the house slept too, wrapped in the same quiet peace.

 

The day had begun with kisses in bed, moved through breakfast, small snacks, teasing chatter, dinner, beer, and ended in this slow, peaceful intimacy. And in that moment, with the long hair loose, with tiny kisses pressed over and over, and the quiet murmur of voices too soft for anyone else to hear, the world was nothing but warmth, weight, and whispered devotion.

 

The ritual continued until both drifted into full, untroubled sleep, wrapped in hair, fingers, and warmth—night folding them into itself, leaving only the quiet intimacy of two lives intertwined, one day done, and another waiting to begin.

 

Notes:

> Yall always see kitsunami with a ponytail because I know Kitsunami would have a ponytail...but ik that shi hurts like hell
> miles' hair is spiky & short because he suffers from something called " I Don’t Want My Hair To Stuck On My Ass" syndrome. very sad yea..

> Yes the beer gets its own food time it is that important for a grown ass adult

> while writing just realized i have sunburns on my legs!! since im aware of it, it hurts like hell right noww..

Chapter 86

Notes:

not beta read
Happy Victory day to my turk sista's and brotha's...

The desk lamp hummed faintly, casting a circle of light over Miles’ papers. His head was bent, brow furrowed, paw moving across the page in steady, precise strokes. Graph lines, clean arcs, little notes crammed in his sharp handwriting—he worked like he always did: focused, meticulous, entirely absorbed.

 

Kitsunami, though, wasn’t looking at the blueprints. He sat across the desk, half-slouched in the chair, his chin propped on his hand, pretending he cared about whatever mechanical scheme Miles was sketching out. But his eyes stayed fixed, unwavering, on the movement of Miles’ paws.

 

The way his fingers flexed around the pencil, claws just barely grazing the paper. The subtle dip in his knuckles when he pressed too hard. The quiet twitch when he paused to think, rolling the pencil absently between pads and thumb. Kitsunami’s gaze traced every motion like he was memorizing it.

 

He thought Miles’ paws were beautiful. Strong, sure, but precise in a way his own never managed to be. There was this rhythm in them, a confidence that felt intimate, like every line Miles drew was a part of him. Even the ink smudges staining the fur along his wrist looked perfect.

 

Miles sighed, leaning back just a bit, tapping the pencil against his teeth before making another mark. His ears twitched. “You’re staring holes through me,” he said casually, without looking up.

 

Kitsunami didn’t answer right away. His mouth quivered, but he stayed as he was, eyes still glued to those paws as they returned to the page.

 

Miles finally glanced up, suspicious, catching the way his husband’s gaze lingered. “What? Did I mess up a line or something?” He held the blueprint halfway toward him like he expected criticism.

 

Kitsunami only shook his head, bangs falling over his eyes. “No. Not the blueprint.” His voice was low, careful, the way it got when he didn’t want to admit something but couldn’t stop himself.

 

Miles blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “Then what are you—” He stopped mid-sentence, realization hitting, his ears coloring a faint red. “...Seriously? You’re just sitting there ogling my paws?”

 

Kitsunami didn’t even flinch. He leaned forward on his elbows, gaze heavy, lips tugging into the faintest smirk. “They’re nice.”

 

Miles groaned, dragging a paw down his own face. “You’re unbelievable. Out of all the things—”

 

“Beautiful,” Kitsunami added, softer, the word slipping out too smooth to be anything but true.

 

Miles froze, ears twitching again. For once, he didn’t have a quick retort. His paw hovered above the page, claws tapping lightly, nervous in a way that made Kitsunami want to watch even more. Miles kept tapping the pencil against the edge of the desk, but the blueprint was already forgotten. Kitsunami’s stare didn’t let up, heavy as an anchor. The fennec's bangs veiled most of his eyes, yet the intent behind them was so sharp Miles felt it in his skin.

 

“You keep looking at me like that,” Miles muttered, ears hot, “and I won’t be able to finish this.”

 

Kitsunami didn’t reply. He shifted forward, slow, deliberate, until the chair legs scraped faintly against the floor. His hand lifted, brushing aside a curl of paper so he could rest his arm across the desk. His gaze lingered, low and unrelenting, on Miles’ paws again.

 

Miles’ throat bobbed. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“And you’re beautiful,” Kitsunami said, barely audible. He didn’t blink when Miles snapped his eyes up at him.

 

The fox tried to scoff, but it came out as something closer to a shaky laugh. “Beautiful? They’re just paws. You really—” His words were cut short when Kitsunami leaned across the desk and kissed him.

 

It wasn’t rushed, not even clumsy like some of their kisses at this age. It was slow, heavy, a kind of press that made Miles’ claws curl into the paper, almost tearing it. Kitsunami’s bangs tickled his cheek, and that hand—those long, damp-chilled fingers—slid gently along his jaw.

 

Miles broke the kiss only because his lungs demanded it. He let out a soft, breathless sound, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Kitsunami’s face was unreadable, but his hand stayed there, thumb brushing the edge of Miles’ muzzle.

 

Then, unexpectedly, Miles’ own paw moved—resting against Kitsunami’s collarbone, tracing over it, slipping lower until it spread against his chest. His pads pressed into the cloth, dragging just enough for Kitsunami to shiver under it.

 

“You’re letting me distract you,” Kitsunami murmured.

 

Miles shook his head faintly, eyes darting down to the paw resting against Kitsunami’s body, then back up. “You’re the distraction. I’m just… playing along.”

 

Kitsunami smirked faintly, but it softened as Miles leaned in again. This time, the fox kissed him with less restraint, letting his paws slide up along Kitsunami’s shoulders, tracing the dip of muscle beneath his shirt. His claws never caught, never scratched—they glided with a strange gentleness, as though Miles wanted every part of him committed to memory.

 

Kitsunami closed his eyes, his breath catching. He let himself be touched, guided even, until his own hand found Miles’ thigh under the desk. Not greedy, not pressing, just holding, like anchoring him there.

 

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” Miles whispered against his lips, kissing him again, longer this time.

 

Kitsunami answered with the faintest tilt of his head, letting Miles deepen it, letting those delicate paws caress his neck, his jaw, his chest. His bangs kept falling in the way, but Miles kissed through them, brushed them aside with clumsy reverence, as though he couldn’t get enough of the little expressions Kitsunami hid beneath.

 

The blueprint paper crumpled beneath Miles’ grip as he leaned further across the desk, lips and paws both roaming with more confidence now. Kitsunami let him—more than that, he wanted him to—each touch loosening the knot of tension he carried in his chest.

 

Miles finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against Kitsunami’s. His voice was softer now, shaky but warm. “You’re letting me touch you… letting me worship you with these paws of mine. You really are an enabler.”

 

Kitsunami’s mouth quivered, almost a smile. He whispered back, “And you’re a romantic fool.”

 

Their lips brushed again, and again, until the world outside the pool of lamplight felt very far away.

 

 

Notes:

> finslly getting them the way i like
> could be us hg but u playin with me A LOT
> tsk tsk

> anyways schools starting soon😔
> but i will try to still write between...
> no promises!

Chapter 87

The day had started with nothing but bright skies and unbearable heat, the kind of heat that made the pool glisten like a diamond just waiting for someone to dive in. The air smelled of chlorine and faint citrus from the half-empty pitcher of cocktails sitting on the table nearby. Everything screamed lazy summer afternoon.

 

Kitsunami was already in the pool, drifting along the surface like he was part of the water itself. His damp ponytail clung to his neck, and he had a whiskey glass balanced carefully on the edge of the pool, the ice clinking each time he swirled the amber liquid. He looked at peace, half-lidded eyes closed against the sun, letting it bake his shoulders.

 

Miles was sprawled in a lounge chair, shirtless, his book tossed aside because it was too hot to focus on words. He had sunglasses perched precariously on his nose, his twin tails twitching lazily behind him, and the smug grin of a man who thought he was immune to consequence.

 

Kitsunami cracked one eye open to glance at him, unimpressed. “You’re gonna cook yourself if you keep lying there like a lizard,” he muttered.

 

Miles tilted his head just enough to look at him over the rim of his glasses, the grin widening. “I’m fine. I’m not the one hiding in the pool.”

 

Kitsunami rolled his eyes, sipping his drink. “It’s called being smart.”

 

Miles didn’t answer right away. Instead, he sat up slightly, letting the sunlight hit him square on the chest, and his grin turned downright wicked. His gaze flicked toward Kitsunami’s smooth torso, the water lapping at him, accentuating the lines of his frame but leaving nothing in the way of curves.

 

“You know,” Miles said, voice casual, teasing, “for all that attitude, you’re really… flat up top.”

 

Kitsunami froze mid-sip. The whiskey burned a little harder in his throat as his fuchsia eyes narrowed dangerously. Slowly, he lowered the glass and turned toward his boyfriend. “What did you just say?”

 

Miles chuckled, feigning innocence. “Just an observation. I mean, you’ve got all that sass, all that bite, but no—” He made an exaggerated gesture with his hands, miming a chest. “Nothing to show for it. You’d make a terrible pillow.”

 

Kitsunami’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Then he snapped it shut, glaring daggers. “You’ve got some nerve, Miles.”

 

Miles leaned back in the chair, smug as ever, clearly enjoying himself. “I’m just saying, maybe I should’ve found someone with a little more…” He waved his hands again, grinning like the devil himself. “…substance.”

 

Kit’s eye twitched. “Keep talking, darling. See where that gets you.”

 

Miles laughed, throwing his head back, tails swishing like he’d just scored a personal victory. “Relax, I’m joking. You know I like you just the way you are.”

 

But Kit wasn’t letting it go that easy. He sank back against the pool wall, swirling his drink, eyes glinting with something that promised trouble. “Uh-huh. We’ll see how funny you think it is later.”

 

Miles, oblivious or maybe just cocky enough not to care, stretched out again, basking in the sunlight as if he was untouchable. He closed his eyes, humming in contentment. “Perfect day. Couldn’t ask for better.”

 

Kitsunami smirked into his glass. “Mhm. Perfect.”

---

 

The perfect day didn’t last.

 

Hours later, the sun dipped lower, turning the sky a mess of orange and pink. The cicadas still screamed, and the cocktails had long since been finished, their glasses empty except for melting ice. Kitsunami had retreated indoors, towel wrapped around his shoulders, hair still damp. He was stretched across the couch, flipping through channels with little interest, when Miles shuffled in.

 

At first, Kitsunami didn’t look up. But he noticed the way Miles moved—stiff, careful, like every step tugged at something that hurt. When Kitsunami finally glanced over, his smirk returned instantly.

 

Miles’ shoulders and back were furious red, glowing like he’d been painted in raw fire. Every stretch of skin across his shoulder blades looked tight and angry, heat radiating from him even at a distance.

 

Kitsunami set the remote down slowly, sitting up straighter. “Oh,” he said, his voice dripping with delight. “What’s this?”

 

Miles grimaced, tugging at the hem of his shirt like it was attacking him. “Don’t start.”

 

Kitsunami tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I told you. I told you you’d cook yourself.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Miles muttered, ears twitching in irritation. “Don’t rub it in.”

 

Kitsunami stood, walking toward him with deliberate slowness, eyes locked on his poor, sunburned boyfriend. “Why not? You had plenty to say about me earlier.” He stopped just a foot away, looking him over like a predator eyeing its prey. “Flat, was it? Terrible pillow?”

 

Miles cleared his throat, looking away, cheeks burning just as much as his back. “I was joking.”

 

“Mhm,” Kitsunami hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Lucky for you, I’m merciful.”

 

Miles eyed him suspiciously. “…Merciful how?”

 

Kitsunami turned on his heel, strolling toward the bathroom. “Stay there.”

 

When he came back, he was holding a bottle of aloe vera gel, the translucent green kind, cool and slick. He held it up, shaking it slightly so the gel sloshed audibly inside. His grin was downright evil.

 

Miles paled. “No.”

 

“Oh yes.” Kitsunami popped the cap open with a satisfying snap. “You’re not sleeping tonight unless we do something about that burn.”

 

Miles backed up slightly, ears flat. “You’re not putting that on me.”

 

Kitsunami raised a brow. “Would you rather stay like this? Because let me tell you, it’s gonna hurt worse tomorrow.”

 

Miles groaned, running both hands over his face. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

 

Kit chuckled low, squeezing the bottle until a thick, cold glob of aloe splattered into his palm. He rubbed his hands together, coating them, then advanced slowly. “Cruel? No. I’d say this is poetic justice.”

 

Miles swallowed hard, shuffling toward the couch with clear reluctance. “Hun, wait—can’t we do this gently? You’ll be careful, right?”

 

Kitsunami’s grin widened. “Oh, I’ll be very careful.”

 

Miles sat down reluctantly, bracing himself, his whole body tense. He flinched when Kitsunami straddled the back of the couch behind him, looming with both palms coated in slick gel.

 

“Ready?” Kitsunami asked innocently.

 

“No—”

 

Too late. Kitsunami slapped both hands onto his sunburned shoulders.

 

Miles yelped, the sound echoing off the walls, his whole body jolting like he’d been electrocuted. “Ah—Kit! That burns!”

 

Kitsunami’s laughter filled the room, rich and delighted, as he rubbed the gel in with slow, deliberate circles. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

 

Miles hissed through his teeth, gripping the couch cushions so tight his knuckles turned white. “Cold—hot—it’s everything at once!”

 

Kitsunami leaned closer, voice low and smug against his ear. “Who’s laughing now, hm?”

 

Miles groaned, tail twitching uncontrollably as the sting seared through him. “You’re enjoying this way too much!”

 

“Oh, absolutely,” Kitsunami admitted without shame, digging his thumbs gently—but not too gently—into the angry red skin, spreading the gel across every inch of burn. Each hiss and whine Miles made only fueled his grin. “Consider this payback for earlier.”

 

Miles whined, head dropping forward, ears drooping as he practically whimpered into the cushions. “I take it back, I take it all back! You’re a perfect pillow, the best pillow, just—ahh, damn it—stop tormenting me!”

 

Kitsunami laughed so hard he had to pause, resting his forehead against the back of Miles’ head for a second to catch his breath. Then, with exaggerated sweetness, he resumed rubbing the aloe in, slower this time but no less thorough. “That’s better. Compliments suit you more than insults.”

 

Miles squirmed helplessly, each cold press of aloe followed by the sting of it sinking in, his voice cracking as he whined again. “Kits, please—have mercy!”

 

“Mercy?” Kitsunami echoed, smirking. “I think I remember you saying something about me needing more… substance. Consider this a lesson in substance.”

 

Miles buried his face in his arms, muffling a frustrated groan. “I hate you so much right now.”

 

“No, you don’t,” Kitsunami purred, spreading another glob of aloe over his shoulder blades. “You love me. Even when I’m teaching you a little humility.”

 

Miles didn’t answer—he couldn’t, not with the way his back felt like it was both frozen and on fire at the same time. But Kitsunami could see the way his ears twitched, the way his tails lashed, and he knew he’d won.

 

Finally, Kitsunami sat back, wiping his hands on a towel with smug satisfaction. “There. All done.”

 

Miles slumped forward, exhausted, still grimacing from the sting. “…You’re evil.”

 

Kitsunami leaned down, pressing a kiss just below his ear, smug grin never fading. “And you’re mine. Which means you’re stuck with me.”

 

Miles groaned again, muffled into the couch. “Worst. Pillow. Ever.”

 

Kitsunami chuckled, settling beside him, victorious. “Best pillow you’ll ever have. And don’t you forget it.”

 

Notes:

> with this summer season is closed...
> school tmrrw fuck

> anyways while i was looking for inspo i just realized that
> Yuki & Pierre ( F1 drivers!) reminds me of kittails
> CUZ LIKE THEIR DYNAMIC IS SO them especially the photo where pierre just palms yuki's ass
> and the fact yuki is so small😔 my boy isnt even 160cm he is 159cm...and the other drivers keep making fun of yuki too😔😔 and thats just screaming kitsunami for me
> yuki/pierre is such a popular ship too ☝🏻

Chapter 88

Notes:

not beta read

September is Suicide awareness month

cx

The apartment’s stillness weighed on Kitsunami like a second skin. The dim bathroom light flickered once before settling into its low hum, casting him in a pale, unkind glow. He sat slouched on the tiled floor, legs drawn up and arms curled around them, chin pressed to his knees as though he could disappear into himself. His hair stuck damply to his forehead, heavy from where he had run his wet hands through it over and over, and his breath was uneven—each inhale too shallow, each exhale too loud in his own ears.

 

The thought of the cabinet above him lingered like a cruel, sharp whisper. It would be easy, it told him. Too easy. A few bottles rattling down into his hands, a swallow, then nothing. A soft dark silence instead of the constant pounding noise in his chest.

 

He rocked once, pressing his forehead harder against his knees, trying to ground himself. Affection—it was supposed to be good. Miles had been nothing but gentle, patient, soft-spoken in ways Kitsunami didn’t know how to accept. But the sweetness burned. It peeled away the hard calluses of years spent alone and raw, and it left him trembling under the weight of something he had never been taught to believe in.

 

He wanted to run from it. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to be gone before Miles realized what a mistake he’d made.

 

The apartment door clicked open.

 

Kitsunami froze, head snapping up as the faint sound of grocery bags shifted against one another. The rhythm of footsteps followed, Miles’ voice floating in low and careful from the entryway.

 

“I’m back.”

 

Kitsunami pressed his palms flat to the tiles, shaking. His heart pounded too fast, too loud. The air caught in his throat like splintered glass.

 

Miles’ footsteps drew closer, unhurried, measured. “They had those chips you like,” he called softly. “The ones with too much salt. I grabbed extra this time.”

 

Kitsunami closed his eyes, nails scraping the grout between tiles. He wanted them. He wanted the ease of sitting on the couch, eating mindlessly until his mouth hurt, letting Miles sit close enough to touch. But wanting felt dangerous. It was safer to stay curled up here, where he didn’t have to face how much he wanted anything at all.

 

The knock at the bathroom door was soft. “Kitsunami? You in there?”

 

His voice broke out of him before he could stop it. “...yeah.”

 

There was a pause—long enough that he wondered if Miles would back away, give him space. Instead, the fox’s tone lowered, gentler still. “Do you want me to wait out here, or can I come in?”

 

Kitsunami’s throat closed. His instinct screamed to keep the door shut, to barricade himself against the worry in Miles’ eyes. But the silence in his chest ached worse than the thought of being seen. His head dropped forward, and he muttered, “It’s not locked.”

 

The handle turned. Miles stepped in, closing the door quietly behind him. His hands were empty—no grocery bags, no jacket. He must’ve dropped them all immediately when he noticed where Kitsunami had gone.

 

For a moment, Miles simply stood there, taking in the sight of him without saying anything. His ears flicked, and he crouched low to shrink his height, settling at a careful distance. His voice was steady. “Hey.”

 

Kitsunami’s eyes darted away, stinging with tears. His chest heaved. “Don’t look at me.”

 

“Alright.” Miles kept his eyes down, fixing them on the floor between them. His voice carried no pity, no edge. Just quiet. “I can just sit here.”

 

The silence stretched until it broke under Kitsunami’s ragged whisper. “I can’t do this.”

 

Miles tilted his head, keeping his gaze lowered. “Do what?”

 

“This,” Kitsunami snapped, sharper than he meant. His hand flung upward, gesturing aimlessly—at the room, the air, at Miles. “You. Us. It’s too much. I don’t know how to—” His words stumbled into a choked breath. “It feels like I’m drowning. And you keep—you keep being so—so kind, and I can’t breathe.”

 

Miles inhaled through his nose, exhaled slow, even. “I know it’s overwhelming. I know it doesn’t feel normal yet.”

 

“It’s not normal!” Kitsunami’s voice cracked. “I’m not normal! You don’t—you don’t know what I think about when you’re not here.” He pressed his fists hard into his temples, shaking. His breath came sharp and fast. “You don’t know how bad it gets.”

 

Miles’ ears twitched, but he didn’t interrupt. He stayed, still and steady, letting the words scrape raw.

 

Kitsunami swallowed hard, his voice breaking again. “I thought about it. About just—taking everything in the cabinet. Right before you got back.”

 

The confession spilled out bitter and hot, and the silence afterward felt suffocating. Kitsunami’s chest caved with it, his whole body trembling. He waited for the outburst—for the panic, the yelling, the inevitable lecture. He braced for it.

 

But Miles only breathed in, then out again, grounding himself. His voice came low, firm but soft enough to wrap around him. “Thank you for telling me.”

 

Kitsunami’s head snapped up, wild-eyed. “That’s it? You’re not gonna—” His voice cracked, desperate. “Just—don’t yell at me, Miles. Please. I can’t—”

 

“I’m not yelling.” Miles’ words cut in gently, steady as stone. He leaned forward just slightly, careful not to reach out yet. “I won’t yell at you. Not now. Not for this. You’re already carrying enough.”

 

Kitsunami’s mouth opened, then closed again. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, unable to believe it, unable to accept the softness.

 

Miles kept his gaze level, calm. “I need you to know I’m not scared away. Not by what you’re feeling. Not by what you told me.” He tilted his head, his tone never wavering. “You don’t have to be alone with it anymore. Not if you don’t want to be.”

 

The words lodged in Kitsunami’s throat like a knife. His body trembled, shoulders hunched, every instinct telling him to run or to push Miles away before the warmth could sink in too deep. But he stayed, frozen in place, tears spilling down his cheeks.

 

Miles inched closer, slowly enough for every movement to be tracked. His voice softened further. “Can I sit next to you? Just close enough to hear you without straining.”

 

Kitsunami’s breath rattled. He hated himself for the way his chest clenched at the thought of someone near, for the way the ache of wanting tore him open. His nails bit crescents into his palms. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he gave a small nod.

 

Miles shifted until their knees brushed. He folded his tails neatly at his side, careful not to crowd. His presence radiated warmth, steady and unyielding. He glanced briefly at Kitsunami, then back to the tiles. “You don’t have to know how to handle this right now. You don’t have to be perfect at letting me in. We’ll figure it out together.”

 

The word together echoed like a bell inside Kitsunami’s chest. He shuddered, hands shaking as he dropped them from his face. His lips trembled, and his voice came out cracked. “I don’t know how to not ruin things.”

 

Miles’ gaze softened, but his voice held steady. “You won’t ruin this. Not by being honest with me. Not by struggling. You being here—that’s enough.”

 

Kitsunami’s whole body sagged. His walls collapsed all at once, leaving him bare, trembling, exhausted. Before he could second-guess it, he leaned sideways, pressing himself into Miles’ shoulder.

 

Miles moved instantly, wrapping an arm around his back, pulling him close without hesitation. He tucked Kitsunami in against him, resting his chin lightly on his hair. His other hand rubbed slow, grounding circles into his arm.

 

“I’ve got you,” Miles whispered.

 

Kitsunami choked on a sob, his tears spilling freely into Miles’ shirt. His chest ached, but he didn’t fight it this time. He didn’t hide. He let himself be held—shaking, broken, but alive—in the warmth of someone who refused to let go.

And for that night, the bottles in the cabinet stayed untouched.

 

Notes:

> ok got my sleep so it is what u see
> its not internalized homophobia... its just kits lack of self esteem

Chapter 89

Summary:

“Shut up,” Eden said through a mouthful, kicking her little legs under the table. She leaned against Miles’ arm, sticky fingers clutching his sleeve. “I love ice cream. And I love my dads.”

Notes:

the whole reason why eden has a brother because i watched too many arthur episodes. D.W. is gold, too good for her time.

Arthur later got a finale after 25 years, with ending D.W. as a police!

Also this is Chapter 91! Though 90 since the first chapter is just guide but oh yeah...

Making the way to 100 hopefully.

The little kindergarten bell had barely finished ringing when Eden came bursting out, backpack bouncing, shoes scuffing as she ran. Her curls were all over the place, cheeks red from a day of play. The moment she spotted the familiar blue and gold tails swishing above the crowd, she squealed,

 

“Papa!”

 

Miles crouched down just in time for her to crash into him, wrapping her tiny arms tight around his neck. He laughed, steadying her before lifting her up. “Hey, little star. You look like you had an exciting day. How was it?”

 

Eden squirmed in his arms, trying to sit higher on his hip. “It was fun, Papa! We painted rainbows, and Su stole my crayon but I didn’t let him!” She giggled mischievously, proud of her victory.

 

Miles smiled knowingly, brushing paint smudges off her face with his thumb. “That sounds about right. Your brother’s always trying to sneak crayons, huh?”

 

“Uh-huh,” she said firmly, then leaned in to whisper like it was the most serious secret in the world. “He’s so annoying, Papa. He thinks he’s the boss just ’cause he’s older.”

 

Before Miles could answer, a low voice spoke from behind them. “I am the boss,” Su muttered, trudging out of the gate with his own bag hanging low off his shoulder. His hair was messy, and he gave Eden the side-eye. “You’re just loud.”

 

Eden stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re boring.”

 

“Alright, you two,” Miles said with a soft chuckle, reaching for Su’s hand with his free one. “Let’s not start a war in front of the school. Your father would have my head if I brought home two grumpy warriors instead of happy kids.”

 

At the mention of Kit, Eden’s mood shifted instantly. She beamed. “Can we see Father now? I wanna show him my drawing! It’s you with wings, Papa.”

 

Miles’ eyes softened. “Oh, he’ll love that.” He gave Su a pointed look. “And you? Did you behave?”

 

Su shrugged, not meeting his father’s gaze. “Yeah. Kinda. I didn’t punch anyone.”

 

“That’s progress,” Miles said dryly, earning a giggle from Eden. He leaned down, brushing his nose against hers. “Since you were both good enough, how about we go get ice cream?”

 

Eden lit up instantly, bouncing in his arms. “Yes! Ice cream! Please, Papa!”

 

Su tried to act uninterested, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “…What flavor?”

 

Miles grinned. “Whichever one keeps you two from fighting in the shop.”

 

By the time they made it to the ice cream parlor, Eden was plastered against the glass, eyes wide at all the colors. “Papa, look! Strawberry swirl! And chocolate sprinkles!” She pressed her hands to the window like she might melt into it.

 

Miles ordered for her, watching her face glow as the cone was handed over. She licked it like it was the most precious treasure in the world, smearing pink across her cheeks. “Mmm, Papa, it’s so good.”

 

Su rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t hide his own grin when he got his mint scoop. “You act like you’ve never had ice cream before.”

 

“Shut up,” Eden said through a mouthful, kicking her little legs under the table. She leaned against Miles’ arm, sticky fingers clutching his sleeve. “I love ice cream. And I love my dads.”

 

Miles’ chest tightened in the warmest way. He kissed the top of her head, then looked over at Su, who pretended to focus on his cone but shifted closer anyway. With one hand in Su’s hair and the other holding Eden steady, Miles thought about how Kit would smile when he saw the rainbow drawing later.

 

For now, though, he was content to just sit with them, listening to Eden chatter between bites, Su rolling his eyes but never really leaving his sister’s side.

Notes:

so mad i missed my deadline yesterday cuz ao3 fucking bugged out ughh i cannot deal w this

anyways i have been writing in paper since schools started and i realized how unreadable my writings are. seriously. i need to lower the traditional hand writing. i, myself, cannot understand the shit i wrote.

I'm using neon pink marker to write so it is easier to read, for me atleast... ☝🏻

Chapter 90

Notes:

not beta read

The kitchen was already buzzing with noise—pots still sitting out from last night’s half-finished dinner, the kettle clicking, Eden’s high-pitched fussing bouncing off the walls. Miles leaned over the highchair, spoon in hand, trying to coax Eden into one more bite of mashed fruit.

 

“Come on, dear,” he murmured, his voice patient but fraying at the edges. “Just a little. You’ll feel better if you eat.”

 

Eden squirmed, cheeks pink and eyes watery. She pushed at the spoon with both fists, making a wet smack as purée streaked across her bib. A sharp whine followed, and then she gnawed furiously on the corner of her sleeve, her gums red from teething.

 

Kit shuffled past with a mug of coffee in one hand, his hair pulled back messy, stubble shadowing his jaw. “She’s not gonna eat, love,” he said, setting the mug down and leaning on the counter. “Mouth hurts too much. She just wants something to chew.”

 

“I know,” Miles sighed, trying to dab Eden’s chin with a cloth, only for her to twist her head away. “But she needs something in her stomach.”

 

From the living room, Su’s laughter rang out, followed by the soft sound of claws on tile. Their family’s new cat—a chubby, half-grown thing with a coat like pale smoke—darted after a toy Su had dragged out of nowhere. The boy was stretched out on the rug, dangling a string, his grin huge every time the cat batted at it.

 

Kit’s eyes flicked toward the scene, his mouth curving just a little. “Least one kid’s easy today.”

 

Miles shot him a look but didn’t argue. Eden had twisted sideways in her highchair now, smacking her palms on the tray, her whines sharper. Kit crouched down beside her, resting his forearm along the edge of the chair.

 

“Hey, little monster,” he said, his tone softer now. “Gum hurts, huh?” Eden blinked at him, lips trembling, then reached both arms toward his hair. Kit let her tug a strand free, even when it pulled. “Yeah, thought so. You don’t want mush right now, you want somethin’ cold to bite.”

 

He stood and pulled open the freezer, fishing out one of the chilled teething rings Miles had stashed. He rinsed it quickly, then pressed it into Eden’s hands. She latched on with immediate desperation, gnawing with tiny, determined bites.

 

The change was almost instant—her cries dropped into small hums, her body sagging back against the chair, still fussy but distracted now.

 

Miles exhaled in relief. “Thank Chaos…” He set the spoon down and rubbed his forehead.

 

“See?” Kit smirked, nudging him gently with his shoulder. “Told you. She doesn’t hate your cooking—she just hates her teeth.”

 

From the living room came another burst of laughter. Su shouted, “She almost got it!” as the cat pounced, knocking the string from his hand.

 

“Don’t forget we still need to name her,” Miles called out, leaning against the counter, finally allowing himself to breathe.

 

“Name who?” Kit asked, glancing back.

 

“The cat,” Miles said, pointing with his chin toward the living room. “She’s been here a week and still doesn’t have one.”

 

Kit arched a brow, his gaze flicking between Eden drooling on her teether and Su sprawled on the floor with the cat crawling onto his chest. “Esther,” he said suddenly. “She looks like an Esther.”

 

Su wrinkled his nose. “Esther? That’s an old lady name.”

 

Miles chuckled under his breath, Eden gnawing contentedly now against his chest as Kit picked her up. “Better than ‘Fluffy,’” he murmured, kissing the top of her head while she clung to the teether like it was life or death.

 

The house stayed loud, messy, but the kind of messy that felt lived in.

 

Notes:

> i had no intention of posting this one.
> but a fuckass mosquito bit me, I'm mad, it itches, and I'm still mad. And awake.
> I had to season myself with lemon like I'm some kind of parsley to make it not hurt or get swollen more than it is rn
> it is working rn but im still irritates as fuck
> its also midnight here and ugh. fuck this

Chapter 91

Summary:

Kitsunami twirled his paddle lazily, sunglasses perched on his nose like a crown.

The sun baked the patio until the air shimmered, the cicadas droning somewhere in the hedges. A table tennis table sat in the middle of it all, its legs braced awkwardly against uneven ground, net sagging slightly in the center. Neither of them cared—it was the battleground they needed.

 

Kitsunami twirled his paddle lazily, sunglasses perched on his nose like a crown. His blue fur gleamed faintly with sweat, the snug swimsuit under his loose shorts keeping his chest covered but leaving his shoulders bare, sharp and lean in the summer light. He looked like someone half-prepared for a swim, half-prepared for a duel, entirely prepared to annoy his opponent.

 

Miles, on the other hand, was stripped down to nothing more than shorts and a damp tee. His fur stuck to him at the neck, his tails twitching in short, impatient flicks. He adjusted his paddle grip, calm but taut with focus.

 

“Best of one set,” Kit announced, tossing the ball up and catching it again. “First to eleven. Simple. Even you can follow that, yeah?”

 

Miles just raised an eyebrow. “You talk too much.”

 

“Helps me win,” Kit said smoothly, leaning forward to serve. “See, while you’re busy calculating angles and spins, I’m crawling into your head. Free real estate in that noggin of yours.” He tapped his temple with the edge of the paddle, grin wide. “You’ll thank me later.”

 

Miles didn’t dignify it with a response. The ball went up, the first serve cracked across the table, and the game began.

 

The ball zipped, thudded, spun. Kit was quick, dramatic with every swing, sunglasses glinting as if he timed his movements just to catch the sun. He wasn’t reckless—his shots had weight, rhythm, a trained kind of power—but his style was loud. Even his stance said, look at me, I’m about to wreck you.

 

Miles countered with precision, every return sharp and economical. He wasted nothing—no extra movement, no unnecessary flash. His spin was deadly, his angles tighter than Kit’s wild arcs.

 

And through it all, Kit wouldn’t shut up.

 

“Your tee’s too heavy for this heat. You’re sweating like a faucet.” tap—slam—crack. “Could’ve worn something lighter. Unless you’re trying to make excuses already.”

 

Miles returned the ball with a flick of his wrist. “Quiet.”

 

“Oh, so serious. Always so serious.” Kit lunged left, returned the ball hard enough to make the table rattle. “That’s your problem, Miles. You forget this is a game. I mean, sure, it’s a war. A war I’ll win. But still, a game.”

 

The score crawled upward: 3–2, 5–4, 6–6. Kit narrated almost every point.

 

“You see that spin? Gorgeous. My spin has personality. Yours? Cold. Clinical. Boring.”

 

Miles cut the ball down so sharply it nearly died on the net. “Still works.”

 

“‘Still works,’” Kit mimicked, deepening his voice into a gruff monotone. He returned the ball with a slap, tails flicking. “Man, you sound like a broken vending machine sometimes.”

 

The heat pressed on them both, sweat dripping, fur plastered. Miles’ breathing deepened, but his eyes never wavered. Kit’s ponytail had mostly unraveled by now, strands sticking to his cheeks, but he was still talking.

 

“You’re blinking faster. I can tell you’re trying harder now. That’s good, I like that.” He slammed a point past Miles and raised his paddle like a trophy. “Seven–six, me. Hope you’re writing this down.”

 

Miles just retrieved the ball, placed it in his palm, and served without a word. The silence, if anything, seemed to egg Kit on more.

 

“Oh, you’re stewing. You’re really stewing. Bet you’re thinking of a comeback so devastating, I’ll have to retire my paddle.” He slid across the patio to return the ball, sunglasses nearly flying off his face. “But nope, can’t get rid of me that easy. I live rent-free up here.” He tapped his head again with a smirk.

 

Miles landed a fast drive, and Kit barely caught it, the paddle vibrating in his grip. “Oooh, close one. You’re mad. I like you mad. Mad Miles is my favorite Miles.”

 

The score balanced, tied point for point. 8–8. 9–9.

 

Miles’ breath was steady, though his fur was soaked through, his tee clinging. Kit had abandoned any hope of looking composed, his chest heaving, sunglasses slightly crooked on his nose. But his grin only widened.

 

“One more,” Kit drawled. “One more, and I’ll prove what you already know—that I’m better.”

 

Miles tossed the ball, served tight and low. Kit lunged, caught it, slammed back. The rally grew sharp, frantic—each hit snapping louder, each return riskier. Neither broke, neither yielded.

 

Then Miles sliced a shot with vicious spin, the ball clipping just over the net. Kit darted forward, stretching his body across the table to meet it. His sunglasses slid completely off his face and clattered to the ground. His paddle connected—barely—sending the ball back high, too high.

 

Miles leapt, caught it clean, and smashed it past Kit. The ball hit the concrete.

 

Game.

 

Kit stayed bent over the table, breath ragged, staring at the ground where his shades lay. Miles, chest rising and falling, leaned on his paddle with the faintest smirk tugging his lips.

 

Kit finally straightened, scooping up his sunglasses, sliding them back on with exaggerated care. “You know what? I let you have that.”

 

Miles raised a brow. “Sure.”

 

“I did. For the drama.” Kit’s grin was sharp despite the loss, his words still steady even through panting breaths. “Next set, though? You’re mine.”

 

Miles didn’t answer, only picked up the ball and spun it in his fingers. His tails flicked once.

 

The cicadas screamed in the hedges. The sun burned high above. And on the patio, the rivalry thrummed hotter than either of them would admit.

 

Notes:

thank u for the classmates i never talked with for playing table tennis today it gave me inspiration
> though they were playing like ass... like i played table tennis for 2 years back in 2017-18 and i would play better than them. How do you miss a serve...

> Today's Sep9, and lots of things happened today a year ago. I still mourn the loss of a entire series getting pushed into 90min movie.

> AND SOME RANDOM NUMERIST TEACHER TOOK MY CARGO THINKING IT WAS THEIRS.??? HELLO if you buy from trendyol it will have trendyol package, not AMAZON PACKAGE. I am FUMING.
> My good omens book... come home soon ples....

Chapter 92

Summary:

human kit/miles,,
miles is scottish
kit is mixed but born in mexico & does speak Spanish as his native language

Notes:

> in the human au eggman does die! executioned actually. no stone for him ouchie..

 

The train clattered softly as it cut through the green stretch of countryside, the air thick with the warmth of a late summer afternoon. Miles sat with his arms crossed tightly, trying not to look at his own reflection in the glass, though he could feel the twitch of anticipation in his chest every time his mind wandered to the thought of where they were going. Home. His parents’ house. Childhood walls, the familiar hum of an old refrigerator, the smell of peat smoke that somehow clung to everything in the little town.

 

Beside him, Kitsunami was stretched out in his seat, headphones tangled around his neck, playing songs at the max sound (Miles could make out the words “Beeelzebub has a devil put asidee...”*) , the faint scratch of inked designs just visible under the edge of his loose t-shirt sleeve. Miles had seen every line of those tattoos up close, had traced them with his fingertips when no one was watching, but here on the train, in daylight, Kit felt larger somehow. His tan skin glowed against the dim light, the crisscross of pale scars breaking the warm tone in subtle, almost defiant reminders of who he was before this.

 

Miles kept sneaking glances—at the bare jawline, freshly shaved, the faint shadow of stubble still betraying itself along the curve of Kit’s chin. The last time he had seen him like this had been months ago. Kit had always insisted that facial hair made him look older, tougher, harder to read. Without it, with nothing but the messy ponytail at the back and his soft mouth bare, he looked almost boyish again. It made Miles’ chest ache.

 

“You keep staring,” Kit said suddenly, his Spanish lilt softened but still noticeable, like a roll of waves caught in his throat. He didn’t look at Miles, only turned his head to the window.

 

“I’m not,” Miles muttered, which was a lie.

 

“You are,” Kit countered, a half-smile flickering at the corner of his lips. “You think I waxed for your mum?”

 

Miles flushed instantly. “Don’t—don’t say it like that. She’s just… she’s old-fashioned. She’ll like it.”

 

“So I am a gift,” Kit teased, finally turning those sharp eyes toward him.

 

Miles looked down at his hands in his lap, thumb running nervous circles over his knuckles. “Something like that.”

 

—

 

The Prower home sat on the edge of a small Scottish village, its stone walls weathered but sturdy, the kind of house that carried the weight of decades inside it. The air smelled of cut grass and salt from the nearby coast. Miles’ mother greeted them at the door with her soft laugh and Miles’ father with his booming, thicker-than-Miles accent. Kit was polite, shoulders back, bowing his head just enough when he shook hands, though Miles could see the nerves in the twitch of his jaw.

 

The evening stretched with dinner—his mother’s shepherd’s pie, his father pouring pints that Miles never touched. Kit did most of the talking, explaining in careful English about his work, about Spain, about nothing too deep. His accent shifted depending on his comfort level, rolling softer when Miles’ father teased him, sharper when he grew defensive. Miles couldn’t stop staring. Every scar along Kit’s arms caught the kitchen light when he gestured, every tattoo rising and falling as his muscles moved. He was beautiful here, even under scrutiny, even under the weight of being foreign in a place where Miles fit like the back of a hand.

 

It wasn’t until they’d been shown to Miles’ old bedroom that Miles let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The room hadn’t changed much—faded posters, a narrow bed with too few pillows, a desk pushed against the wall. The air carried the faint smell of dust and books. Kit looked around with a slow grin, brushing his fingertips across a shelf of trinkets.

 

“So,” Kit said, half-whispering, “this is where you dreamed.”

 

Miles shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “Don’t start.”

 

Kit’s grin widened. He leaned down, close enough that Miles could feel the heat of his breath. “You are red,” he murmured, voice low, teasing. “Like when you first saw me with the lights on.”

 

Miles bit back a laugh, though his stomach twisted with something more. He touched Kit’s jaw, feeling the smoothness of the freshly waxed skin, the faint rasp beneath it. “You really did this just for my mum?”

 

“No,” Kit answered simply. His eyes softened, gaze lingering on Miles in a way that felt heavier than any touch. “I did it because you like it.”

 

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was warm. Miles let his thumb run along Kit’s cheekbone, over the faint scar cutting across it. In this small room, his childhood pressed in on him, but Kit’s presence turned it new. Miles’ heart thudded with the weight of both—past and future colliding in a room too small to hold it.

 

He swallowed, voice barely a whisper. “You know… they’re going to see it, sooner or later.”

 

“What?”

 

“The ring.” His hand brushed instinctively against his pocket where the small box waited, hidden for now.

 

Kit stilled. Then he smiled again, softer this time, all teasing gone. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “It'll be okay,” he said.

 

And for the first time all day, Miles felt steady.

---

The kitchen smelled rich with rosemary and roasted meat, the old oak table dressed with mismatched dishes that had seen years of family dinners. Rosemary had insisted on making something special once she’d realized what the boys had come for—her lamb roast, the kind Jules always swore was better than anything served in town. She fussed endlessly over sides and sauces while Jules pulled down a bottle of whisky from the top shelf, a dark amber that caught the light like fire.

 

Miles already knew he was in trouble.

 

“Come, come, sit down,” Jules boomed, placing three glasses on the table. “Tonight is a celebration. Our boy’s found himself a man, and a good one, too.”

 

Kit gave a low laugh, almost shy at first, but Miles saw the faint glint in his eyes. “You flatter me, señor. But thank you.”

 

“Don’t call me señor, lad. Jules is fine.” Jules filled each glass generously, sliding one toward Kit and one toward Miles. “Now, let’s toast.”

 

Rosemary, still bustling with plates, shook her head fondly. “Don’t get them too tipsy before they’ve eaten, Jules.”

 

“To family,” Jules declared, raising his glass.

 

“To family,” Kit echoed smoothly, his accent rolling warm. Miles mumbled the same, sipping carefully. The burn hit his throat, and already he could feel it warming his chest.

 

The night unspooled with laughter. Jules kept pouring, and Kit, much to Miles’ surprise, could hold his liquor. By the third glass, his shoulders loosened, and his words flowed faster, stories spilling from him like waves. He told Rosemary about his mother’s garden in the Netherlands, about long summers surfing on Mexico's coast, about the time he broke his wrist at sixteen and his father insisted he’d be back on the board within weeks. His voice lifted and dropped with rhythm, his hands animated, eyes shining brighter with each sip.

 

Rosemary leaned in, utterly charmed. Jules roared at the funnier stories, slapping the table. Even Miles found himself caught in it, smiling helplessly at the way Kit commanded the room without even trying.

 

By the time Jules pushed a fourth glass toward him, Miles knew it was his limit. He downed it anyway, only to slump against the table with a dizzy groan minutes later.

 

“Easy, sweetheart,” Kit teased, rubbing his back with one broad hand. His fuchsia eyes glowed with amusement, his own words just slightly slurred now. “Four, and you are finished?”

 

Miles muttered something unintelligible into his sleeve, face flushed pink.

 

Jules laughed, filling Kit’s glass again. “Lightweight! Don’t worry, lad, you’ve got a man who can drink enough for both of you.”

 

And indeed, Kit kept going, his tongue loosening further with each shot. He rambled about the sea, about missing the crash of waves, about how strange it felt to be landlocked. Then he leaned forward, chin propped on his hand, and announced in a half-dramatic tone, “You know… I never thought I’d marry. Never. And then I met this one.” He gestured to Miles, who groaned and buried his face deeper. “He is—how do you say? Too good. Too good for me. But I am greedy, so I keep him.”

 

Rosemary’s eyes shimmered, her hand pressed over her mouth to hide her smile. Jules gave a booming laugh. “Sounds like you’ll fit right in.”

 

Dinner stretched long, the room buzzing with warmth. Miles stayed quiet, dizzy and flushed, while Kit carried the conversation, his laugh filling the house, his scars catching the light as he gestured. He was drunk, yes, but he was radiant too—so alive that Miles couldn’t take his eyes off him, even through the haze of whisky fog.

—

The dining room had grown hazy with warmth and whisky. Plates were pushed aside, crumbs scattered across the table, and Jules was halfway through another loud story when Miles slumped against Kit’s shoulder, cheeks flushed crimson. His eyes were glazed, his words sticky with laughter and the unmistakable weight of drink.

 

“Ah swear, Ah’m—hic—Ah’m fine,” Miles muttered, the Scottish lilt in his voice suddenly heavy, rolling like it hadn’t since he was a boy. Each vowel stretched, consonants softened. He raised a hand in a dramatic flourish, nearly knocking over his empty glass. “See? Steady as ye go.”

 

Kit caught the glass just in time, setting it down with a firm clink. “Steady? You can barely hold your head up,” he murmured, low enough for only Miles to hear. His fuchsia eyes flicked toward Jules and Rosemary, who were both trying—and failing—not to smile at the sight.

 

Rosemary’s laugh was gentle. “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve inherited your father’s constitution. Four shots and you’re ready to topple.”

 

“Ah’m no’ toppled,” Miles argued, words slurring thicker. “Just… floatin’.” He poked Kit’s chest with one shaky finger. “You’re floatin’ wi’ me.”

 

Kit’s lips twitched despite himself. The accent was endearing, yes, but it also stirred an unease in his chest. He could feel the heat radiating off Miles, see the sheen of sweat along his temple. Tomorrow was going to be cruel on him. A headache that split him in two, nausea that would keep him pale and trembling until midday. Kit hated the thought.

 

He ran a steadying hand through Miles’ hair, voice pitched soft. “If you are floating, then I’ll hold you. But, cariño, you will suffer tomorrow. A very bad hangover.”

 

Miles laughed, head rolling against Kit’s shoulder. “Ah’ll be fine. Got you, don’t I?” The words came out thick, syrupy with drunken affection.

 

Jules chuckled from his armchair, raising his glass again. “You’ll learn quick, Kit. This lad never admits when he’s had enough.”

 

Rosemary swatted at him lightly, though her eyes shone warm. “Don’t tease. He’ll feel it come morning.” She glanced at Kit knowingly. “Best you keep him close tonight. Make sure he drinks water before he sleeps.”

 

Kit inclined his head politely. “I will.” Then he leaned down to whisper into Miles’ ear, breath brushing warm. “Hear that? Even your mother agrees—you are trouble.”

 

Miles’ laugh was muffled against his shirt, the thick accent spilling out once more. “Trouble ye love.”

 

Kit’s chest tightened. He kissed the top of Miles’ head, ignoring Jules’ loud cheer at the gesture, and whispered, “Sí. Trouble I love.”

—

The house had gone quiet by the time Kit finally coaxed Miles away from the table. Jules was laughing still, pouring himself another dram, while Rosemary stacked plates with a knowing smile, but neither tried to stop them. Miles leaned heavily on Kit’s side, shoes scuffing against the hall’s old floorboards, his laughter bubbling up in slurred bursts that echoed faintly through the narrow corridor.

 

“A’m walkin’ jus’ fine,” Miles mumbled, accent so thick it felt like another language altogether. His arm hung heavy around Kit’s shoulders, clinging tight as if letting go meant tumbling straight to the floor. “Ye’re makin’ a fuss, love.”

 

Kit tightened his grip around his fiancé’s waist, muttering under his breath in Spanish, “Eres un desastre, cariño, un desastre hermoso.” [ A beautiful mess. ] He nudged the bedroom door open with his foot, guiding Miles inside before he really could stumble.

 

The little room looked almost childish in the warm lamplight—the faded posters, the worn quilt, the single bed tucked against the wall. Miles collapsed onto it with a dramatic sigh, flopping face-first into the pillow, muffling words that Kit couldn’t quite make out.

 

Kit bent to untie his shoes, fingers working quickly, gently tugging them off. “Arriba, arriba,” he urged softly, coaxing Miles upright just enough to wrestle him out of his shirt. Miles whined but didn’t resist, arms lifting clumsily like a child.

 

“Ye’re… bossy,” Miles slurred, his head lolling to the side. But when Kit tugged the soft cotton of his pajama shirt over his head, he leaned into the touch, nuzzling against Kit’s chest like he couldn’t bear the distance.

 

Kit’s throat tightened. He brushed his fiancé’s hair back from his flushed face, speaking low in Spanish again, “Qué haría yo sin ti, mi vida…” [ What would I do without you, my life. ]

 

Miles hummed, eyes half-lidded but still sharp enough to catch the tone. “Ah know what ye’re sayin’,” he mumbled, his accent tumbling heavy over every word. “An’ Ah like it.”

 

Kit huffed out a laugh, easing him down onto the mattress, tugging at the waistband of his trousers until Miles finally wriggled enough to let him slide into his soft pajama bottoms. He was clingy even through the motions, arms looping around Kit’s neck whenever he leaned too close.

 

“Stay,” Miles whispered hoarsely as Kit tried to stand.

 

“I’m not leaving,” Kit promised, slipping the blanket over him, tucking it under his chin. He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to his temple. “But first—agua. You drink, or tomorrow you will curse me for not forcing you.”

 

Miles groaned but obeyed when Kit slid a glass into his hands, letting him sip slowly. Half spilled down his chin, but Kit wiped it away with his thumb, patient as ever. When Miles slumped back against the pillow, Kit settled beside him, still fully dressed, one arm looped protectively around his waist.

 

Miles buried his face against Kit’s chest, the words slurring even thicker now. “Love ye… love ye, Kit. S’posed tae tell ye more, bu’—brain’s floatin’.”

 

Kit’s smile was small, tired, but unshakably fond. He whispered again in Spanish, his voice almost a lullaby now, “Duerme, mi amor. Te cuidaré siempre.”   [ Sleep, my love. I’ll take care of you always. ]

 

Miles sighed, his breathing slowing, his body melting further into Kit’s warmth. And Kit lay awake just a little longer, watching over him in the quiet of that childhood room, half-listening to the old pipes creak in the walls, half-praying that the morning wouldn’t be too cruel.

-----‐-----

The sun through the curtains was merciless. Golden, yes, but far too bright for Miles’ aching head. He groaned into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut, hoping darkness would return if he just pressed hard enough. His mouth was dry, his temples pounding with every beat of his heart.

 

Beside him, the mattress dipped. Cool fingers brushed his forehead, then trailed through his hair. Kit’s voice followed, soft, lilting Spanish that seemed to skim across his skin rather than stab at his skull like the rest of the morning.

 

“Ay, pobrecito… ya sabía que pasaría.” [ Poor thing. I knew this would happen. ]

 

Miles cracked one eye open, squinting against the light. Kit sat at the edge of the bed, already dressed in a loose tee and shorts, tan skin aglow in the morning sun. He looked infuriatingly alive, fuchsia eyes clear, not a hint of the haze Miles was drowning in.

 

“You’re… disgustingly perfect,” Miles rasped, voice thick with sleep and pain. His Scottish lilt was less pronounced now, but still there, softened by his exhaustion.

 

Kit chuckled, leaning down to kiss his temple. “No, just smart enough to stop drinking after reaching my limit.” He pressed a glass of water into Miles’ hands, guiding it when his fiancé fumbled. “Drink, mi amor. Slowly.”

 

Miles obeyed, gulping half before setting it down with a wince. His stomach churned, but Kit’s hand at his nape steadied him, thumb stroking soothing circles.

 

“Thought my skull was splitting,” Miles muttered.

 

“It will ease. I’ll make you food,” Kit promised, brushing his messy hair back. “Grease and bread, yes? Something to soak it up. Your mother left bread out.”

 

Despite the pounding in his head, Miles huffed a laugh. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

 

Kit’s smirk was crooked. “Let’s say… experience is the best teacher.”

 

For a while, Miles simply let himself sink into Kit’s warmth, every touch a balm against the sharpness of his hangover. Kit was patient—quiet where Jules would have teased, gentle where Rosemary might have fussed too much. His voice stayed soft, low, almost like a lullaby each time he spoke.

 

By midday, after toast and eggs Kit forced him to eat and more water than he thought he could hold, the pain had dulled to a tolerable throb. He sat on the porch steps, squinting at the sea glittering in the distance. Kit stood barefoot in the grass, boards already propped against the fence, his posture practically vibrating with anticipation.

 

“You really mean tae drag me out there?” Miles asked, one brow arched, still pale but steadier on his feet.

 

Kit turned, grinning wide, his ponytail catching the sun. “We promised, remember? Surfing. The cure for all things, including a stubborn hangover.”

 

Miles groaned but smiled despite himself. “You’re relentless.”

 

“Always,” Kit said simply, reaching out a hand. “Come on, fiancé mío. The water will wake you better than anything.”

 

And though every step made his head throb, Miles found himself following anyway.

~

The sea stretched out wide and endless, glittering under the afternoon sun. The salt air was thick on Miles’ tongue, the scent of it mixing with the faint tang of sunscreen Kit had rubbed into his skin earlier. The surfboard under his arm felt heavier than it should, and the bruised throb in his head hadn’t entirely gone away, but Miles was determined.

 

Kit, of course, looked born to the waves. He was already knee-deep in the water, board balanced with effortless grace, his tan skin catching the light like bronze. His laughter carried back to shore, easy and unselfconscious.

 

“Come on, Miles!” Kit called, waving him over. “Don’t think about it—just run in!”

 

Miles groaned, clutching his board tighter. “You make it sound simple,” he muttered, trudging into the surf. The cold bit at his legs, waking him sharper than coffee. By the time the water hit his waist, his body was shivering with equal parts nerves and chill.

 

Kit paddled further out, perched on his board like a king surveying his ocean. “Simple because it is. You’ll fall, yes, but then you try again.”

 

Easy for him to say. Miles followed, shakier, clambering onto his board with all the grace of a cat tossed into a bathtub. He wobbled, tried to steady, and promptly tipped sideways, sputtering as salt water rushed his nose.

 

Kit was beside him in an instant, laughing so hard he nearly tipped himself. “¡Dios mío, Miles! I looked away one second—”

 

Miles shoved wet hair out of his face, scowling through his embarrassment. “Glad my misery amuses you.”

 

“Very much,” Kit grinned, leaning down to steal a quick kiss before pushing Miles’ board back toward him. “Again, mi amor. You’ll get it.”

 

And so it went—Miles climbing, wobbling, tumbling, while Kit glided over the water with effortless strength. Each time Miles fell, Kit was there, teasing but always patient, lifting him back up, steadying his hands, shouting encouragement over the roar of the waves.

 

Hours slipped by. The sun burned lower, the sky glowing orange. Kit sat astride his board, hair dripping, a can of beer perched precariously in one hand. He drank with a smirk, looking every bit like he belonged nowhere but here.

 

“You’re drinking out here?” Miles coughed, floating near him with his board half-sunk under his weight.

 

Kit tipped the can in salute. “Why not? Salt, sun, cerveza. My mother always said I inherited her stomach. She could drink anyone under the table.” He took another long sip, grinning. “Me, I just get stronger.”

 

Miles rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “Show-off.”

 

 

---

Steam still clung to the bathroom tiles when Kit padded into Miles’ childhood room, a towel knotted around his hips, his hair dripping onto his bare shoulders. Miles was sprawled in the bed already, flushed and spent, chest rising in slow breaths. The shower had been far more than just rinsing off salt and sand—hands slipping, mouths finding each other again, heat swallowed by the hiss of water. They’d left each other trembling, every inch of skin marked, and now the exhaustion came crashing in.

 

Kit stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, drinking in the sight. His fiancé looked softer here, hair damp, freckles darker against his pale skin, lips still swollen from their kissing. Beautiful, he thought, even in a room filled with relics of Miles’ younger years—old sketches pinned crookedly, a battered bookshelf leaning in the corner.

 

“Don’t stare like that,” Miles mumbled, eyes half-closed, voice thick with sleep.

 

Kit chuckled, slipping beneath the covers, pulling him close. “Can’t help it.” He pressed a kiss to Miles’ temple, letting their legs tangle under the blanket.

 

For a while they lay in silence, breath syncing, the quiet of the house wrapping around them. Kit’s body was warm, but not enough to fight off the hollowness gnawing at his stomach. He shifted, sighing softly.

 

Miles cracked one eye open. “Hungry?”

 

Kit hesitated, then nodded, his fuchsia gaze apologetic. “Sí. Just a little. The shower took more out of me than I thought.” He smirked faintly, brushing his thumb along Miles’ jaw. “And you did too.”

 

Miles groaned, rolling onto his back. “We’ve only been here a day, Kit. You’ll eat us out of house and home.”

 

“Your mother cooks too well,” Kit countered, kissing the corner of his mouth before slipping out of bed. He pulled on the shorts he’d abandoned earlier, raking a hand through his wet hair, still loose from its tie. “I’ll just grab something small. A piece of bread, maybe.”

 

Miles reached lazily toward him, catching his wrist before he left. “Don’t be long. I want you here when I fall asleep.” His voice was soft, almost pleading, the hangover still humming faint at the edges of his words.

 

Kit leaned down, kissed him slow, and murmured, “Siempre.”  [ Always. ]

 

Then he slipped quietly toward the kitchen, barefoot against the wooden floor, still glowing faint from the shower’s heat.

—

The kitchen was warm with the smell of onions softening in butter and bread Rosemary had pulled fresh from the oven earlier. Kit had meant only to slip in quietly, grab a slice, and vanish back upstairs before Miles noticed he was gone. But the moment he opened the bread tin, a voice spoke behind him.

 

“Hungry again, dear?”

 

Kit froze, half caught with a heel of bread in his hand. He turned slowly to find Rosemary at the counter, spoon in hand, her auburn hair tied back, flour dust on her apron. Her smile was knowing, sharp in that motherly way.

 

“Sí…” Kit admitted, sheepish. “I thought maybe you would not see Miss.”

 

“Oh, I see everything in this house,” she said, amused, taking the bread from him only to slice it properly. “You boys must’ve worn yourselves out. Miles is snoring already, I’ll bet.”

 

Kit flushed faintly, though he tried to hide it. “He is tired, yes. But I should eat a little.”

 

Rosemary set the plate in front of him, buttered bread still steaming. Instead of returning to her stew, she leaned against the counter, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Tell me, Kit… do you know what Miles was like as a boy?”

 

Kit blinked, chewing slowly. “No. He has told me some things. He says he was quiet.”

 

“Oh, he was,” Rosemary agreed, her tone dropping into fondness. “Quiet as a mouse most of the time. Easy child, polite. But when he did cause trouble…” She shook her head, laughing under her breath. “Lord, it was trouble. Big trouble.”

 

Kit leaned forward, curious. “What kind?”

 

“Well—there was the time he tried to build his own kites out of wood. Nearly set half the garden shed on fire when he thought kerosene would make them fly better. Jules was beside himself.” She chuckled, clearly relishing the memory. “And when he was twelve, he climbed the church roof because someone dared him. Stuck up there for hours until the fire brigade got him down.”

 

Kit covered his mouth to smother a laugh, eyes wide. “Mi Miles? The same one who blushes when I kiss him in the hallway?”

 

“Oh, don’t let him fool you,” Rosemary said, wagging her spoon. “That boy has a streak. He just hides it under those shy manners. If he gets an idea into his head, nothing stops him. Nothing.”

 

Kit’s chest warmed. He could picture it too easily: a younger Miles, reckless in his own quiet way, biting down on determination until the whole world bent. “That… makes sense. I see that in him still.”

 

Rosemary’s gaze softened. “And he loves you fiercely. I can see it clear as day.”

 

Kit opened his mouth to reply—but footsteps interrupted. Miles appeared in the doorway, hair sticking in damp tufts, an old undershirt clinging to his torso, pajama shorts loose on his hips. His eyes were heavy with sleep, but his scowl was sharp.

 

“Ma,” he groaned, rubbing his temple. “You’ve trapped him, haven’t you?”

 

Rosemary smiled innocently. “Just talking.”

 

“You’ve been interrogating,” Miles muttered, padding into the kitchen barefoot. He wrapped a possessive arm around Kit’s waist, pulling him close, glaring half-heartedly at his mother. “He came down for bread, not a cross-examination.”

 

Kit tried not to laugh at the sight of his sleepy, disheveled fiancé scolding his mother, but Rosemary only chuckled, unfazed. “I was telling him stories. Nothing wrong with that.”

 

Miles grumbled, kissing Kit’s damp hair, his accent thick from drowsiness. “He doesn’t need to know about the shed fire, Ma.”

 

“Oh, he does,” Rosemary teased, spoon waving again. “He deserves to know what he’s in for.”

 

Kit slipped an arm around Miles’ waist, leaning against him with a sly grin. “Now I want to hear all of them.”

 

Miles groaned louder, burying his face in Kit’s shoulder. “Traitor.”

 

Rosemary’s laughter filled the kitchen, warm as the bread on the plate. And though Miles would never admit it, Kit could feel the fondness tucked beneath his grumbling, the way his grip tightened protectively around him—proof enough that no old story could ever shake what they had.

---

 

The meal was finished, plates cleared, and the table slowly emptying as Jules and Kit fell into their own spirited chatter. Kit was halfway through another story about his uncle’s fishing boat, hands animated, his fuchsia eyes bright with life, and Jules—normally a man of quiet nods—was laughing like he hadn’t in years. Rosemary smiled at the sight before slipping away with her son toward the quieter corner of the sitting room.

 

Miles followed, gladly, leaving Kit to entertain his father. He curled into the armchair by the window, undershirt soft against his skin, his damp hair falling in little strands over his forehead. Rosemary sat across from him on the small couch, tucking her skirt under her knees, eyes shining with that particular warmth mothers carried when they finally had their boy to themselves.

 

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she said softly.

 

Miles shrugged, a little smile tugging his lips. His voice was gentle, the burr of his accent thickened just enough in his comfort. “Nothin’ t’say. Kit does enough talkin’ fer both o’ us.”

 

Rosemary chuckled, shaking her head. “You always did find people who filled silence for you. Even as a lad, you’d sit and listen, watch with those big eyes of yours, and when you did speak—” She gave him a pointed look. “It was trouble.”

 

His ears went pink, and he ducked his head. “Ah, ma…”

 

“No, don’t ‘ah, ma’ me. You were quiet, but when you made trouble, it was *trouble*. Do you remember the time with the hens?”

 

Miles groaned, pressing his hand to his face. “Not that again…”

 

“Oh, aye, that again. You went out with paint you’d found, marked every last one of Mrs. McLaren’s hens, and she thought the foxes had gotten clever with colors. Half the village was out looking for the thief.” Rosemary’s laughter filled the space, gentle but bubbling. “And when they finally caught you, all you could say was you wanted them t’look ‘prettier’.”

 

Miles laughed in spite of himself, his chest shaking. “I was six!”

 

“Six, but clever enough to cause a panic. You never made small messes, love. Only big ones.” She leaned forward, softening, her hand resting briefly on his knee. “But you had the kindest heart. Always did. That’s what I see in you still. And it’s what I see in him.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward the kitchen, where Kit’s laughter rose with Jules’. “He’s good for you.”

 

Miles swallowed, the warmth in his throat thick. His hand came to rest on his mother’s, pressing it gently. “I love him, ma. Properly. More than anythin’.”

 

“I know.” Rosemary smiled, eyes shining in the lamplight. “And that’s why I’m not afraid for you.”

 

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet filled only with the sound of faint clinking in the kitchen. Miles leaned back, shoulders loosening, the weight of years easing off him in his mother’s presence.

 

“Ye know,” he murmured, glancing up at her, “I’m still yer boy. Always.”

 

Her smile softened into something tender, almost tearful. “Always, Miles. No matter how far you go.”

 

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face briefly into her shoulder. She smelled faintly of lavender and stew, of every comfort he’d grown up with. She hugged him back tightly, one hand smoothing his hair.

 

Across the house, Kit’s laughter echoed again, loud and alive, and Rosemary whispered into her son’s hair, “Bring him home often. Let him laugh here too.”

 

Miles pulled back, nodding, his smile small but sure. “Aye, ma. I will.”

 

Notes:

* Bohemian Rhapsody– Queen
> big queen fan, raised with best of queen videos since 4 baby!
all the names kit uses in spanish anyone is curious still
mi amor : my love
senor: sir
carino : darling

the first chap is indeed inspired by There, Right There! by Legally Blonde Musical.

> probably last post— kittails week starts next monday. they will be here and not be seperated,,
> all those snippets i wrote in my free time for 2.5 weeks. oh yeah i was possesed.
> umm so kit later ends up as a olympics surfer and wins three 1st place medals. he joined world championships summer 3 times ^.^ he retired later and mentored his own son he had with miles
> miles is also a teacher! and a author. His books on engineering is taken as basis of engineering,,
> yes they have to be the power couple sorry whoops
> one day, mark my words, they will be miserable and unhappy..not today tho

Chapter 93: KITTAILS WEEK '25 DAY1

Summary:

But Miles only tilted his head, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Haven’t I seen you before..?”

 

The fennec’s ears flicked. His gaze swept over Miles once, unimpressed, guarded. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” His voice was dry, flat, not even leaving space for humor.

Notes:

DAY1
> "Haven't I seen you before..?/You've mistaken me for someone else."
> the prompts from KxT week account on twt. ( @copilotted)

not beta read

The Restoration headquarters had its own rhythm—paperwork shuffling like tides, radios murmuring with field reports, and the quiet tread of workers who looked half-awake even on their best days. Miles walked through it like he belonged to the hum, warm greetings tucked into his throat for every familiar face. He wasn’t the kind to leave silence hanging when a smile or a few words might soften it.

 

Which was exactly why he stopped when he caught sight of the tall* fennec in the hallway.

 

Big ears that twitched once and flattened as if they hated attention. Hair yanked into a tie, messy but intentional, shoulders hunched like the weight of this building was pressing down harder on him than anyone else. His eyes—those were fuchsia, sharp and bright enough to stop Miles cold. He knew them. He knew them better than he wanted to admit.

 

But Miles only tilted his head, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Haven’t I seen you before..?”

 

The fennec’s ears flicked. His gaze swept over Miles once, unimpressed, guarded. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” His voice was dry, flat, not even leaving space for humor.

 

Miles let the smile linger, though it softened. “Guess I have,” he said gently. Then he shifted his file against his hip and kept walking, warm in tone even as recognition burned under his skin.

---

 

By the time the evening crawled in, the headquarters was thinning out. The dorms were quiet except for the clink of keys and doors opening and shutting. Workers who lived too far away, or had shifts that bent time cruelly, used the dorm wing to survive the constant churn of duty.

 

Miles rubbed at the knot in his shoulder as he keyed his way in, door swinging open to a room that smelled faintly of new paint and laundry soap. He tossed his file down, stretched, and was about to settle when he heard the shuffle across the hall.

 

He leaned against his doorway. There he was—the fennec from earlier, fumbling with a key, irritation sparking in every line of his shoulders.

 

Miles raised a hand in greeting. “Long day?”

 

The fennec froze, glanced up at him. His answer was short. “Every day’s long.”

 

“Fair enough.” Miles’ voice stayed easy, warm. He pushed a little, not to press, but to bridge. “I thought you were new here.”

 

The fennec worked the lock, jaw tight. “Does it matter?”

 

“No.” Miles smiled again, like he was handing him an exit. “Not really. Just being friendly.”

 

There was a pause before the fennec muttered, “Kitsunami.” He got his door open and stepped inside without waiting for a reply.

 

Miles exhaled, leaning back into his own doorframe. Kitsunami. The name was confirmation. Not a ghost, not some coincidence—him. His hands curled into his pockets, mind racing with a thousand things he could say, but none of them left his lips. He shut his door quietly instead.

 

---

The cafeteria was always a mixed place—some tables buzzing with chatter, others left for people who preferred silence. Miles carried his tray to the quiet side one morning and found Kitsunami there, untouched food in front of him, eyes fixed out the window like the sky had done him wrong.

 

“Mind if I sit?” Miles asked, already sliding onto the bench opposite.

 

Kitsunami’s ears flicked. “You always talk this much?”

 

Miles speared a piece of egg with his fork, smiling like the remark rolled off him. “Depends who I’m sitting with.” He nodded at Kitsunami’s tray. “You don’t eat much.”

 

“Not hungry.”

 

“You say that every day?”

 

Kitsunami finally looked at him, eyes cutting sharp. “You don’t know me.”

 

Miles’ smile didn’t waver, though it softened around the edges. “Maybe not now. But I used to.”

 

A muscle in Kitsunami’s jaw ticked, just once. He scraped his tray back suddenly, standing without a word.

 

Miles let him go. He didn’t chase him, didn’t throw anything else across the silence. Just picked at his eggs and sat with the knowledge that Kitsunami’s lies didn’t erase what Miles remembered.

---

 

Late night again, the balcony was empty except for the sea air that managed to slip through the city. Kitsunami leaned on the railing, arms folded over it, the night wrapping his shape in shadow.

 

Miles stepped out, careful not to startle him. He leaned at the other end of the railing, giving him space. For a while, they were both quiet.

 

“You don’t make it easy,” Miles said at last, softly, like it wasn’t an accusation but a fact.

 

Kitsunami didn’t look over. “Great. Maybe you shouldn’t bother at all.”

 

Miles studied him, the way his hands gripped the railing too tightly, the scars etched faint against his fur, the posture of someone carrying storms long past.

 

“Why keep lying?” Miles asked gently. Not sharp, not demanding—just curious, open.

 

Kitsunami’s laugh was rough, humorless. “Why do you care?”

 

Miles shifted, eyes on the stars. “Because I remember. I can’t forget. Not with eyes like yours. Not with the way you fought.”

 

Kitsunami turned then, gaze hard, lips twitching with words he didn’t release. Finally, he muttered: “Maybe I don’t want to be remembered.”

 

Miles nodded, warmth never slipping even as his chest tightened. “That’s fair. But you showed up here anyway. Same work. Same people.”

 

“Work is work.”

 

“Dorms too?”

 

“Convenience.”

 

The lie hung heavy, but Miles let it breathe. He didn’t press further, didn’t corner him. Just leaned back against the railing, voice steady. “You ever get tired of carrying it all yourself?”

 

Kitsunami’s eyes narrowed, then flicked away. “You ever get tired of smiling all the time?”

 

Miles chuckled, quiet. “Not really. Makes it easier for both of us.”

 

For the first time, Kitsunami didn’t walk away

---

The pattern rooted itself in the days that followed. Miles was warm, steady, always the first to greet. Kitsunami was clipped, defensive, shutting doors with words, but he never moved far enough to shut Miles out completely.

 

They’d cross paths in the workshop—Miles bent over wiring, Kitsunami hauling equipment like it weighed nothing. Miles would ask if he’d eaten; Kitsunami would grunt something noncommittal.

 

They’d pass in the corridor—Miles nodding, Kitsunami pretending not to notice until his ears betrayed him with a twitch.

 

Every time, the same quiet pull drew them back into each other’s orbit. Lies sat between them, sure, but so did something else.

 

---

 

One evening, Miles sat at his desk in the dorm, lamp light pooling over scattered schematics. A soft knock came at the door, almost hesitant.

 

He opened it to find Kitsunami, hair undone from its tie, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

 

“Problem?” Miles asked, warm but not invasive.

 

Kitsunami shook his head, leaning against the doorframe. “Too loud next door.”

 

“Want to sit here until it quiets?”

 

A pause, then a reluctant nod.

 

Miles moved papers aside, making space. Kitsunami stepped in, awkward in the stillness, settling against the wall rather than the chair offered.

 

Miles didn’t fill the silence with questions. He just turned back to his work, humming softly under his breath. It was something he did without thinking, warmth in sound, a rhythm that had soothed countless sleepless nights.

 

Kitsunami listened. He didn’t say so, but his posture eased, shoulders loosening, eyes closing for a moment.

 

“You always hum?” he asked finally, voice low.

 

“When it’s quiet.” Miles smiled, glancing over. “Helps.”

 

Kitsunami huffed, like the admission irritated him, but he didn’t move to leave.

 

---

 

The nights grew like that—Kitsunami appearing at the door, not every time, but enough. Sometimes he sat in silence while Miles worked. Sometimes Miles coaxed a word or two, never pushing for more.

 

The lies didn’t vanish, but they softened. Miles stopped asking, Kitsunami stopped snapping. Instead, those phrases lived unspoken, exchanged in glances, in the way Miles’ warmth met Kitsunami’s walls.

 

One night, when the dorm halls were silent and the world felt smaller than usual, Kitsunami said quietly:

“You should’ve left it alone.”

 

Miles looked up from his desk, tilting his head. “You mean us talking?”

 

Kitsunami’s fuchsia eyes caught his, a flicker of something raw breaking through. “You remembered. You should’ve let it stay buried.”

 

Miles leaned back in his chair, voice calm, soft as always. “I didn’t want to.”

 

Silence stretched long. Kitsunami looked away first, jaw tight, but he didn’t leave.

 

Miles didn’t press him to stay either. Just returned to his schematics, humming low, letting the warmth in his presence be enough for both of them.

 

Notes:

* Tall for a fennec
> Love like yours will surely come my waayy ( Everyday– Buddy Holly )

> the fuck u mean kittails week starts today fuck i thought it was on mondayy??. short term memory loss is winning omfg
> also i am hating on this years prompts i mean yes i was there when the prompts were in the making, but like, at the time they seemed cool. Right now it feels like date is trying to burn me at the stake..
> back to drafting
> also join the kittails discord server for more info or like just vibe along...

> also the previous chapter might be, uh, a little inaccurate at times. Kitsunami being mexican was a last minute headcanon! it was either that or Spain. His human mother is dutch though.

Chapter 94: DAY2

Summary:

“Surge,” he said, voice small. “I need— I need your advice.”

Notes:

K/T '25 DAY2
> Commitment/Conflicted

Kitsunami’s knee wouldn’t stop tapping; the bench under him hummed with the rhythm. He kept his hands clasped so tight his fingers ached, like if he loosened them the words would spill out everywhere. He hadn’t meant to come here tonight—hadn’t meant to pick this stupid bench under the sodium lamps—but he needed Surge, needed something steady that didn’t smell like lotion and roses.

 

Surge was already halfway through her ginger ale when he sat down, the bottle hissing faintly as she set it on the wood. She lounged with that bored, impossibly cool slouch she pulled whenever she wanted to look unconcerned; her eyes, though, tracked him like a hawk when she sensed him about to fall apart.

 

“Surge,” he said, voice small. “I need— I need your advice.”

 

She blinked, and for once the sarcasm didn’t land right away. “You asking me for advice is either the end of the world or you’re dying. Which one?” She tipped the bottle and took a long swallow. The fizz tickled her nose; she snorted, then coughed, spraying a few bubbles onto her lip. “Jesus. You could at least warn me before you drop nuclear news.”

 

Kitsunami let out a breath that sounded like it came from somewhere deep underwater. “It’s Miles,” he said. “We’re… together.”

 

Surge choked on her next sip and actually coughed this time, ginger ale fizzing into her palm. She slapped the bottle down with a thunk. “Wait—what? Miles? As in ‘sweet-sunrise-and-flannel’ Miles?” She grinned despite herself. “Hell. Did he knit you a sweater or something?”

 

He almost smiled. “He’s—he’s soft. He’s all this—this honeymoon thing. He does the little things. He hums when he cooks, he leaves sticky notes—” His voice cracked on the last word and he shoved his face into his hands. “And I… I feel like a traitor even wanting him. Like I’m betraying everything I was. But he’s gentle. He looks at me like I’m the only thing that calms his storm. It makes me want to stay and makes me want to run. I don’t know which is worse.”

 

Surge was quiet for a beat, watching him with an expression he couldn’t read. Then she let out a long, exaggerated sigh and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Okay. First: clean your face. You look like you’re constipated from worry.” She jabbed at his shoulder, half joke, half steadying anchor.

 

He peeled his hands away and forced his eyes to meet hers. “I’m serious.”

 

“I know.” She softened, the spare edge gone. “Look—history’s history. The guy you used to hate isn’t the only version of him. People change, or they don’t, or they learn how to hide the worst bits better. That doesn’t make your feelings wrong. It just makes them messy as hell.”

 

Kitsunami swallowed. “I feel guilty because of the past. Because of what we stood for. Because of what everyone will say. And Miles—he’s too kind. He’s like an entire honeymoon in human form and it—” He stopped. The bench creaked.

 

Surge laughed, low and a little fond. “Honeymoon Miles, huh? Sounds dangerous.” She jabbed the bottle toward him. “You said he hums when he cooks. That’s not a crime, Kit. That’s domestic terrorism.” She shook her head, then squared her shoulders. “If you’re asking if you should stay because he’s sweet, I’ll give you a straight answer: don’t stay for sweetness alone. Stay because it makes you better—not because it smooths over the things you should pay attention to.”

 

“What if he makes me both better and worse?” His voice was threadbare.

 

“Then you do the adult thing: list it out.” Surge paused, counting on her fingers as if making a checklist for a demolition job. “One—what he does that’s good for you. Two—what he does that hurts you or brings back the old patterns. Three—what you can live with and what you can’t. Four—talk to him. Don’t hide it. If he’s honeymoon Miles good, he’ll listen and try. If he’s not, well—you figure it out before you’ve given him every piece of yourself.”

 

He frowned. “And if I mess up? If I don’t know where the line is until it’s crossed?”

 

“Boundaries are for breathing, not bullets.” Surge’s voice was sharper now, not cruel, just real. “Set them. Keep them. And if you can’t—if talking doesn’t work—get yourself out before it becomes a habit. You owe it to you. Nobody else can keep your heart from getting frayed but you.”

 

Kitsunami let Surge’s words sink like stones in water. He’d expected the usual: mockery, dismissal, “I told you so.” This was different—brutally practical, a sort of affection that wasn’t gooey or possessive. She cared enough to be honest.

 

Surge nudged the bottle toward him again. “Also, don’t let him do the whole ‘I’m-so-sweet-I-can-fix-you’ act without checking if it’s real. Sweetness is great—until it’s a Band-Aid. And for the love of all things, don’t tell him to stop humming. That’s a federal offense in my book.”

 

A small, almost crooked smile ghosted across his face. “You really don’t care about anything, do you?”

 

She snorted, then feigned affront. “I care about two things: you not getting hurt, and my ginger ale not getting choked on. You nearly made me cough up half my soda. That’s unforgivable.”

 

He laughed, a short, relieved sound. “Thanks. For… being honest.”

 

“Always,” she said. “Now go home, talk to Miles, and—this is important—let him know what you need. If he’s honeymoon-phase sweetheart, he’ll try. If he’s anything else, you’ll know. Either way, you won’t implode from letting it stew.” She tipped her bottle in a mock cheers. “And if you need backup? I’m trash fire on speed dial.”

 

He sat a while longer, chest lighter but still raw. The fizz in Surge’s ginger ale ticked like a tiny clock, and for the first time in days the soda-pop feeling in his ribs loosened enough to breathe.

 

Notes:

> surge is a real mvp when it comes to relationships
> only for. relationships though never ask her what to do with your rage or whatever

> day2 was either gonna be miles & kit having a fix–it but I scrapped that. too not me. Maybe another day ...

> also big fsn of this prompt... very easy to write. Just had hard time deciding which draft should be finalized :p

Chapter 95: DAY3

Summary:

“I keep thinking,” he murmured, words pouring out as if the silence demanded them, “about the way they used to laugh. It was sharp, you know? Not soft. People always think laughter should be soft, but theirs wasn’t. It cracked. It filled a room like glass shattering, and I thought—how lucky am I to get cut open by something that beautiful?”

Notes:

DAY3
Hanahaki Disease

The dorm was loud with the sound of Miles’ ranting again. Kit sat on his bed, leaning into the cool wall, arms crossed and eyes heavy-lidded as he listened. Papers and books spilled over the desk, Miles’ handwriting scattering across every margin like he was fighting his own professor in ink.

 

“And then—oh, you’ll love this—she says my essay lacked restraint. Can you believe that? Restraint! As if it’s bad to actually feel something in literature. What do they want from me? Dead words on dead pages?” He paced as he spoke, tail flicking, hands carving frustration into the air.

 

Kit made a noise in his throat, a noncommittal hm.

 

The real problem was that his chest hurt. A scratch at the back of his throat kept flaring whenever Miles got too close, whenever the fox’s scent hit too strong. He had a great smell too, reminding him of white lilies blooming in the autumn.

 

He’d ducked into the bathroom that morning and coughed until a single thin red petal clung wet to his palm. A spider lily petal, curled in on itself. He’d flushed it before anyone could see.

 

Now, he bit down the urge to clear his throat as Miles flopped onto his bed, collapsing across the blanket like he owned it. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

 

Kit forced his gaze over, eyes narrowing slightly. “…you talk too much.”

 

Miles laughed, unbothered. He rolled onto his side and poked Kit’s knee. “And yet you’re still here. What does that say about you?”

 

Kit looked away. He shifted, almost imperceptibly, pressing a hand flat to his sternum to will down the ache that burned there. The petals never came when he wanted. Only when they pleased. “That you should be grateful for me?” It was genuine feelings showing in his tone than mocking.

 

Later, when Miles drifted off mid-complaint, Kit sat in the quiet and watched. He’d gone down to the common room earlier, fetched Miles’ hoodie from where he left it tossed over the armrest. Now it lay across Miles’ chest, bunched up in sleep.

 

“You forgot this,” Kit had said when he tossed it at him. Miles had only grinned and tugged it on, muttering something about Kit being a better roommate than he deserved.

 

He didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know what to do with the way the hoodie now clung to Miles like a second skin, making him look impossibly soft. Didn’t know what to do with the way his own throat clenched, the itch turning sharp until he had to duck into the bathroom again. He stifled the cough against his sleeve, petals catching in the fabric like bloodied lace.

 

When he returned, Miles was still asleep. Peaceful. He always looked untouched by the world like that, while Kit sat burning beside him, lungs a garden of knives.

 

Kit tucked the blanket higher over Miles’ shoulder, silent. His ears flicked at the quiet sound of the fox’s breathing.

 

He shouldn’t love this much. Not someone like him. And yet—he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to really.

---

It was late, and the dorm room had the heavy stillness of too many sleepless nights. The desk lamp burned on, yellow and tired, while Miles sat cross-legged at his desk, his pen scratching furiously against a half-crumpled notebook. Kit sat on the bed, back to the wall, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He watched quietly.

 

Miles wasn’t ranting this time. His voice was low, frayed.

 

“I keep thinking,” he murmured, words pouring out as if the silence demanded them, “about the way they used to laugh. It was sharp, you know? Not soft. People always think laughter should be soft, but theirs wasn’t. It cracked. It filled a room like glass shattering, and I thought—how lucky am I to get cut open by something that beautiful?”

 

Kit stared at the blanket bunched in his lap. His throat ached. He wanted to cough but swallowed it down.

 

Miles didn’t look at him. He never did when he spoke like this. His gaze was far, fixed on something Kit couldn’t see. “Sometimes I think about how I wasn’t enough to keep them here. That if I’d been different—louder, softer, less me—they’d still…” He trailed off, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. “God. I hate this.”

 

Kit’s hand twitched against the blanket, wanting to reach, wanting to offer something, anything. He didn’t. He couldn’t. His lungs felt heavy, but not from the flowers. From the weight of listening to Miles’ heart belong to someone else.

 

When Miles finally turned, eyes glassy and tired, Kit forced his face to stay unreadable.

 

“You ever feel like love ruins you?” Miles asked. His voice was a whisper, like he was confessing a sin.

 

Kit almost laughed at that. Every second of my life. But instead he said, “No.”

 

Miles nodded, as if that was the answer he expected, and dropped his head into his folded arms on the desk. The silence stretched. Kit watched his shoulders rise and fall with uneven breaths, his tail twitching against the chair leg. He looked fragile like this, like someone holding himself together with string.

 

And Kit—Kitsunami wanted to be that string.

 

He wanted to be the arms Miles turned to, the name he whispered when grief got too heavy, the love that softened the edges instead of carving them deeper. He wanted all of it, all at once, like a child pressing his hands to glass and begging for the toy on the other side. Wanting so desperately it made his lungs ache.

 

But Miles’ heart was still held elsewhere, chained to laughter that no longer filled the world. And Kit realized then—with a kind of dull clarity that hollowed him out—that he wasn’t getting what he wanted. Not now. Maybe not ever.

 

His chest clenched tight, but not with flowers this time. With want. With the cruelty of knowing that sometimes, no matter how much you give, no matter how much you love, it isn’t yours to keep.

 

He shifted the blanket higher over his own shoulders, watching Miles finally drift to restless sleep at the desk. His body tilted forward, and Kit, silent as always, rose to drape the blanket across him instead.

 

The fox murmured something in his sleep, a half-word Kit couldn’t catch. It wasn’t his name.

 

Kit sat back down, staring at his empty hands. His throat burned with the urge to cough, and when he finally did, a single petal slipped out. It landed on the floor between them, bright red against the dull carpet. Kit stared at it for a long moment before brushing it aside with his foot.

 

It didn’t matter. Not compared to this. Not compared to the bigger ache of loving someone who would never look at him the same way.

---

The dorm was dark except for the thin line of lamplight spilling across Miles’ desk. He was ranting again, words spilling faster than his thoughts, hands moving in restless circles as if the air itself had wronged him.

 

“—and I swear, if I have to write one more paper comparing dead philosophers to dead poets, I’m going to—ugh! No one even reads this stuff anymore, Kit, no one! It’s like they’re trying to drown us in words that don’t matter—”

 

Kitsunami sat on the floor, back pressed against the bedframe, head tipped lazily to one side. He should’ve been annoyed by the noise, by the way Miles’ voice climbed and scattered across the small room. But he wasn’t. He listened, not to the meaning, but to the sound—the rise and fall, the breath between syllables, the life beating steady in every rant.

 

It was strange, wasn’t it?

 

How someone like him, who had never been good at explaining anything, could feel something this clear. He had always been a muddle of half-formed feelings, quick tempers and sudden retreats, a tide that turned before anyone could name it. And yet here it was, undeniable: love.

 

Pure, sharp, terrifying love.

 

He didn’t think someone like him deserved it. Not with his hands, heavy with sin. Not with the way his past trailed him, a shadow darker than night. But every time Miles laughed, every time those bright, stubborn eyes lit with fire, something bloomed inside Kit that he couldn’t stop.

 

It hurt.

 

His throat tickled. He turned his head, coughing once, twice, into his sleeve. When he lowered his arm, he caught a glimpse of red spider lilies, thin petals clinging wet against the fabric, streaked with the pale softness of lilies white as bone. He wiped them away quickly, swallowing hard.

 

Miles didn’t notice—still pacing, still muttering, words tangling together like thread.

 

Kit rose suddenly. He wasn’t even sure why, only that the ache was unbearable. He moved without thought, without plan, until he was standing in front of Miles, close enough to catch the heat of his words against his cheek.

 

Miles blinked, startled, mid-rant. “—uh, what are you—?”

 

Kit kissed him.

 

It was clumsy, sudden, a press of lips that stole the rest of the complaint straight from Miles’ mouth.

 

For one impossible moment, the dorm was silent. The hum of the vending machine outside, the laughter down the hall, the clicking of Miles’ keyboard—all gone. There was only the press of his lips, the sharp burn in Kit’s chest, the wild realization that he was touching something he shouldn’t, something holy.

 

He pulled back just enough to see Miles’ wide eyes, his parted mouth.

 

“You’re…” Miles swallowed, his hands coming up to clutch his own arms, hugging himself tight. His voice trembled. “You’re going too fast for me.”

 

Kit stared at him, surprised at how calm he felt. He didn’t say he was sorry. He didn’t explain. He only let the silence stand between them, the lilies pressing up inside his ribs, the taste of Miles still on his lips.

 

Pure love. In the body of someone who never thought he was capable of it.

 

And wasn’t that the cruelest thing?

Notes:

youre going too fast for me crowley...
> err...late today i know i know but i had extra archery classes and i do not want to skip them! theyre very fun when u can actually hit the targets lol

> spider lilies and white lilies are just kittails flowers for me..
> spider lilies represent death and thats supposed to be normally kitsunami leaving his past — that was erased from him — and moving on, death of a former person that he was supposed to be. And it is believed that planting them will protect the death from getting bothered... ouchie!
> white lilies are miles, white lilies mean rebirth and peace, and theyre often called sympathy flowers. Rebirth is miles finding love again and finally peaceful.
> these flowers caught my eye first cuz theyre clashing each other. They have partial same names but very different from each other..

Chapter 96: DAY4

Summary:

Kit groaned, throwing an arm across his face. “Restless, my ass. I can’t even breathe without feeling it tug. Every inhale’s like a knife. Hate this. Hate post-surgery me.” His tone wasn’t sharp—more ragged, raw. It was the kind of complaint that wasn’t fishing for sympathy but needed to be spoken aloud before it crushed him.

Notes:

DAY4
> By the skin of your teeth

not beta read

The night had settled in heavy, thick like an old quilt thrown across the world, and the only light in the small apartment was the steady lamp on the nightstand. Kit lay stretched awkwardly across the bed, shoulders pressed too hard against the pillow, his back burning with the ache that had been gnawing at him since the stitches.

 

“Ugh—” He hissed through his teeth, shifting just slightly and regretting it instantly. “I swear, Miles… they put glass in me instead of thread. Hurts like shit.”

 

Miles, sitting on the edge of the bed with his glasses sliding down his nose, looked up from the notes he’d been scribbling. He’d kept his pajamas on, simple cotton with the sleeves rolled, the kind that always hung too loose on his lean frame. His eyes softened, warm in the lamplight, even if his voice stayed matter-of-fact.

 

“It’s the muscles pulling around it,” Miles murmured. He set the pen down carefully. “Not glass. The sutures are holding fine. You’re just… restless.”

 

Kit groaned, throwing an arm across his face. “Restless, my ass. I can’t even breathe without feeling it tug. Every inhale’s like a knife. Hate this. Hate post-surgery me.” His tone wasn’t sharp—more ragged, raw. It was the kind of complaint that wasn’t fishing for sympathy but needed to be spoken aloud before it crushed him.

 

Miles reached for the small tray beside him. Cotton, antiseptic, the tools of his quiet ritual. He always did these checks at night because Kit insisted it felt safer then, when the world was quieter, when Kit could admit to his own fragility without the sun glaring down on him.

 

“Sit up a little,” Miles said gently, bracing a hand behind Kit’s shoulder. “I’ll be quick.”

 

Kit grumbled but let himself be moved, eyes half-shut, breath hissing as the shift pulled at the angry line down his back. He muttered under his breath—words too low to catch, curses or just noises to keep himself from feeling too small.

 

Miles’ fingers worked carefully, precise, steady. He pushed Kit’s messy hair out of the way with the back of his wrist, wiping the site with practiced ease. His touch lingered, though—longer than it needed to, softer than strictly clinical. His throat tightened.

 

He wanted to kiss the space just beside the stitches, to press his lips against the skin and promise Kit that he wasn’t alone in this ache. He wanted to hold him close, bury his face against his hair, let him know he was more than a patient, more than wounds and pain.

 

But Miles’ hands only trembled for a second before steadying again.

 

“Does it sting?” he asked, voice lower now, as if afraid it might give him away.

 

“Feels like fire ants. You’re wiping too hard.” Kit’s ears twitched, but he didn’t move away. “Don’t know how you deal with me, man. I’d have thrown myself out the window already if I had to look after me.”

 

Miles smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s dramatic. And impossible—you’re too heavy to carry to the window.”

 

A choked laugh left Kit, sharp and pained. “Don’t joke when I’m trying not to scream.”

 

“I’m not joking.” Miles leaned back slightly, studying the stitches with the clinical detachment he forced over himself like armor. “You’re healing. Slow, but you are. That’s enough.”

 

Kit sighed, head dropping forward, messy hair falling over his face. “Slow feels like never. Nights like this… feels like I’ll never get better. Just stuck in this stupid body that won’t let me do anything.”

 

Miles wanted to reach out—wanted to push that hair back, tilt Kit’s chin up, tell him how much stronger he looked now compared to those first days, how he admired him for enduring the things no one else could see. But he bit it down, lips pressed tight.

 

Instead, he said softly, “Then let me carry the nights for you. Just lean. I’ll keep the weight.”

 

Kit stilled, breath caught halfway. He didn’t answer right away, didn’t look up. The room was quiet but for the ticking of the old clock on the shelf, and Miles felt each second like a heartbeat against his chest.

 

Finally, Kit muttered, “You… always say things like that.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like you’re… like you’re not about to collapse yourself.” Kit lifted his head then, fuchsia eyes catching the lamplight, dull with pain but sharp enough to cut right through Miles. “Don’t think I don’t notice. You’re barely keeping your eyes open, and you still—still put me first.”

 

Miles swallowed, glasses slipping again, and turned back to his tray so he wouldn’t drown in that gaze. “You’re hurt. That’s what matters. Not me.”

 

Kit studied him, silent for a long moment, and then—slowly, carefully—let his weight slump against Miles’ shoulder. The sudden contact sent Miles’ pulse skipping, a warmth blooming in his chest so fast it almost hurt.

 

“I hate this,” Kit muttered into the fabric of Miles’ pajama sleeve. “But I don’t hate… this. You. Staying.”

 

Miles let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He didn’t move, didn’t dare. His hand hovered an inch above Kit’s, aching to close around it, aching to ground him. But he stayed still, restrained by the skin of his teeth, afraid that the smallest indulgence would crack open everything he’d been holding back.

 

“Always,” Miles whispered, so soft he hoped Kit wouldn’t catch it.

 

But Kit shifted, ears flicking, and mumbled, “Better mean that.”

 

Miles smiled, small and quiet, eyes closing just for a second as the lamp hummed and the night pressed close around them.

 

He meant it more than anything.

 

---

 

The clock’s red digits blinked 2:17 AM when Kit stirred again. He’d dozed for a while, breath shallow, twitching occasionally like the pain chased him even in sleep. But when it caught him sharp this time, he jolted awake with a low, strangled groan, clutching at the sheets.

 

“Ughhh—” Kit hissed, teeth bared. “Damn it—damn it hurts.”

 

Miles, who had been slouched in the desk chair with his glasses slipping down the bridge of his muzzle, woke instantly. He rubbed his eyes beneath the lenses, blinking away the fuzz of exhaustion. His notes lay forgotten across the desk, pen still uncapped, a smear of ink across his wrist where he’d drifted off mid-sentence.

 

“Kit?” Miles’ voice cracked from the dryness of half-sleep. He stood quickly, padding over in his loose pajamas, heart thudding as he saw the strain in Kit’s body. “What is it? The stitches? The bandage too tight?”

 

Kit buried his face into the pillow, muffling a rough laugh that was closer to a groan. “It’s my back, Miles. Same as before. Just—ugh—it’s like my spine’s on fire.” His fists curled against the blanket. “Feels like I’ll rip apart if I even breathe too deep.”

 

Miles sat down at the edge of the bed, his hands hovering again, too scared to touch outright. “I’m here,” he murmured, even if that was all he could give. “I’ll help however I can.”

 

Kit shifted his head just enough to peek one half-lidded eye at him. “You’re gonna tell me to sit up again, aren’t you? You love torturing me.”

 

Miles smiled faintly despite himself, shaking his head. “Not this time. Just breathe for me. Let it pass.”

 

Kit groaned louder, dragging the pillow tighter under his chin. “If breathing fixed it, I’d be a monk by now.”

 

The sharp bite of his words didn’t wound—Miles knew the raw edge came from pain. Still, something tugged at his chest, something he couldn’t hold back tonight. He shifted closer, daring this time to place a steady hand against Kit’s arm. Warm. Solid. Not falling apart, no matter how much it felt that way to Kit.

 

“Kit,” Miles whispered, leaning close so the words wouldn’t need to carry far. “You don’t have to fight it alone. Just…let me stay with you through it.”

 

Kit’s ears twitched, his eyes closing again. He didn’t answer at first. The silence hung, broken only by the creak of the bed when Miles eased himself down, sitting properly beside him.

 

Then Kit mumbled, voice raw, “You sound like you’re about to sing me a lullaby.”

 

“I would, if it helped,” Miles admitted before he could stop himself. His throat went tight after, realizing he’d let too much slip.

 

Kit huffed weakly into the pillow. “Bet you’d hum off-key.”

 

Miles chuckled under his breath. Relief, affection—things he wasn’t supposed to indulge right now, but exhaustion loosened his guard. His hand stayed on Kit’s arm, thumb brushing back and forth gently, almost like it had a mind of its own. He should’ve pulled away, but he didn’t.

 

The fennec stirred under the touch, shoulders loosening just slightly. “...Feels nice,” Kit muttered, almost begrudging. “Don’t stop.”

 

Miles’ heart slammed in his chest. Every bit of restraint begged him to withdraw, to keep his distance, but his body betrayed him. He let his palm glide lightly down to Kit’s forearm, back up again, rhythmic and steady. His voice softened until it was barely a whisper. “Okay. I won’t.”

 

Minutes dragged like hours. Kit’s breathing steadied a little, the raw groans easing into sharp exhales when the pain flared. Miles stayed, rubbing slow circles through fur, glasses slipping lower until he had to push them up again with his free hand. He looked down at Kit—the mussed ponytail undone, strands of silver-blue hair spilling wild across the pillow, his ears twitching faintly even in pain.

 

He was beautiful, even broken. Miles bit the inside of his cheek, holding the words back with teeth.

 

But then Kit whispered, hoarse and tired, “Why’re you so damn nice to me?”

 

The question cut deep. Miles’ hand stilled on his arm, his breath catching. He wanted to answer honestly, to say because I care, because I can’t not, because you’re everything I almost lost and I can’t let go of you now. Instead, he swallowed hard, forcing his voice even.

 

“Because you deserve someone being nice to you.”

 

Kit cracked a smile into the pillow, bitter and soft all at once. “Heh. You always say stuff like that.” His eyes half-opened again, finding Miles in the dim lamplight. “You’re either crazy or…something worse.”

 

Miles’ throat worked around the words that wanted to spill, but he bit down on them. Exhaustion loosened him too much already. Still—he couldn’t resist leaning forward, just enough to press his forehead lightly against Kit’s shoulder, above the stitched line, careful not to hurt him.

 

Kit stiffened at first, then sighed, long and shaky. “…Warm.”

 

Miles stayed there, eyes shut, breathing him in. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew. But at two in the morning, with Kit aching and himself fraying, he let himself stay just a little longer.

 

“You’ll get through this,” Miles whispered into the fabric of the pillow. “I promise. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

Kit’s tail gave a faint twitch, not its usual sharp swish, but a tired flick of acknowledgment. He didn’t answer—his voice was gone to fatigue—but he didn’t pull away either. And for Miles, that was enough.

 

The minutes ticked by. Kit’s breathing steadied again, though each inhale carried a soft sound of pain. Miles’ hand rubbed slow circles against his arm still, thumb sweeping over fur in a rhythm he’d memorized without thinking. His head remained resting there, glasses crooked, eyes heavy.

 

Two hours ago, he’d held back by the skin of his teeth. Now, he’d slipped just a fraction further—closer than he should be, closer than he’d dared before. But Kit let him, and in that fragile allowance, Miles found enough strength to keep sitting vigil until the pain dulled again.

 

When Kit finally drifted back into a shallow sleep, Miles didn’t move away. He stayed at his side, soft and steady, and let the night carry them both.

 

Notes:

> oh hi its me again guten morgen angels & demons and the other morally grey creatures
> this prompt was fun to write.

 

>theyre my little dolls
> ok yall yearned enough yall can kiss now i grant the permission

Chapter 97: DAY5

Summary:

Kitsunami snorted, sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Maybe I am. You gonna arrest me for it, professor?”

 

Miles chuckled softly, adjusting his glasses. “I can’t arrest anyone. Just grade them.”

Notes:

cw homophobia
there is no student/professor relationship

DAY5
In another lifetime/universe

The classroom was almost too quiet once the last student’s footsteps faded down the hall. The sun had dropped low, golden streaks of light cutting through the tall windows, catching on the dust in the air. Miles lingered at his desk, as he always did, stacking papers into neat piles he’d only rearrange later at home. His glasses sat crooked on his nose, and the chalk smudge on his sleeve betrayed how hard he’d worked today. He told himself the silence was comforting, but the truth was it pressed on him, heavy, suffocating.

 

Kitsunami was there too, slouched in the back row like he belonged, black shirt cut at the sides, ripped shorts, eyeliner smudged from rubbing at his eyes. He had followed Miles after class, like he sometimes did, but tonight he hadn’t filled the space with teasing comments or idle chatter. He was quiet, almost tense, his fuchsia eyes tracking Miles’ every move.

 

Miles finally looked up. “You’re staring,” he murmured, not unkindly.

 

Kitsunami snorted, sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Maybe I am. You gonna arrest me for it, professor?”

 

Miles chuckled softly, adjusting his glasses. “I can’t arrest anyone. Just grade them.”

 

That earned the smallest grin, crooked, tired, but still Kitsunami. He stood then, walking down the steps until he was close enough that Miles could feel the weight of his presence. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, trying to look casual, but his throat worked like he was swallowing words before they could spill out.

 

“Miles…” His voice rasped, softer than usual. “I, uh. I need to say something. Something I should’ve said a long time ago.”

 

Miles straightened, the humor gone from his face. He set his pen down. “Alright.”

 

Kitsunami shifted, eyes darting to the floor and back again. His fingers twitched at his sides. “I… I love you.” The words came out flat at first, rushed, like he was afraid if he didn’t say them now, he never would. “And—ngk—god, I’m screwing this up already.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, frustrated with himself.

 

Miles’ breath caught, but he didn’t interrupt.

 

Kitsunami pressed on, halting and raw. “I’ve loved you since—hell, since before either of us knew what that even meant. Back when you were this nerdy kid carrying too many books, and I was just… me. Loud. Stupid. But you—you were always different. Always something I wanted to hold onto. And I didn’t know how to say it then. I still don’t know how to say it now.” His voice cracked, and he let out a shaky laugh. “mhm-m, yeah, I sound pathetic. But it’s true. You’re it for me, Miles. You always have been.”

 

The silence after was unbearable. Miles could hear the faint hum of the heater, the tick of the clock, his own heartbeat in his ears. His chest ached with something sharp, something warm he wanted so badly to let in, but fear knotted around it, choking it down.

 

“Kit…” His voice trembled. He wanted to step forward, to close the distance, but his legs refused. “Don’t.”

 

Kitsunami blinked, frowning, like the word itself had been a slap. “Don’t what?”

 

Miles pushed himself up, his soft belly brushing against the edge of the desk. He fiddled with his glasses just to keep his hands busy. “Don’t do this. Don’t put that weight between us. You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

 

“I’m not asking for anything,” Kitsunami shot back, though his voice wavered. “I just—I needed you to know. That’s all.”

 

Miles shook his head, his throat tight. “You don’t get it. If anyone—if anyone saw us, if they even suspected—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. His words came out sharper, laced with panic. “I’d lose everything, Kit. My job, my name. Everything I’ve built. People don’t need proof—they just need a reason. And two men together? That’s enough reason for most of them.”

 

Kit’s expression twisted. “You think I don’t know how people are? I’ve had slurs thrown at me in the street, Miles. I’ve been shoved into walls for dressing like this. I get it. But I’m not asking you to stand on a rooftop and scream it. I’m asking you not to lie to yourself.”

 

Miles’ chest heaved. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk until they ached. “I can’t. Don’t you see? I can’t take that risk. Not when one rumor could destroy me. Not when they’d look at you and assume the worst of me. A teacher. A man. They’d say I was corrupting you, even if you’re older than I am. They’d tear me apart.”

 

Kitsunami’s jaw clenched. He stepped closer, close enough that Miles could smell the faint salt of his skin, the hint of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. His hands shook at his sides. “So what? You just keep pretending this isn’t real? That you don’t feel the same?”

 

Miles squeezed his eyes shut. His voice broke on the words. “I never said I don’t feel it.”

 

That silence again, heavy, suffocating. Kitsunami’s eyes glistened, his lips parting like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. When they finally came, they were hoarse. “Then why can’t you choose me?”

 

Miles opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Just the weight of all the years he’d hidden behind caution, behind fear, behind the knowledge that the world hadn’t changed as much as it pretended to.

 

Kitsunami laughed then—a broken, bitter sound. He reached out suddenly, grabbing Miles by the collar and yanking him forward. Their mouths crashed together, a kiss that was rough and wet and desperate. Miles gasped, papers scattering off the desk, his hands flying up to clutch at Kit’s shirt. Kit kissed him harder, open-mouthed, like he was trying to brand the memory into his skin. It tasted like smoke, like salt, like regret.

 

When Kitsunami finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, his breath ragged. He pressed his forehead to Miles’ for one last moment, eyes closing tight. Then he whispered, voice breaking, “You idiot. We could have... been us.”

 

Notes:

> that specific line is making me get trauma response every time i hear " You idiot, we could have... been us." i flinch like a abused child

> oh my days why these prompts are so fucking sad i cannot do this omfg

> i had teacher Miles/Kitsunami idea for a while actually couldnt really find it interesting.. god i hate angst

Chapter 98: DAY6

Summary:

Miles nearly choked. “That’s not—!” He stomped his foot, words failing him as embarrassment flooded every inch of his body. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You’re— you’re trying to get me riled!”

Notes:

DAY6
> Borrowed Clothes

 

finally something non angst gosh

The hoodie was a weakness. Kit had spotted it weeks ago: navy-blue, worn soft from years of use, with a faint fray at the cuffs and a weight that suggested comfort. Miles kept it close—draped over a chair in his workshop, folded neatly at the end of the couch, sometimes even worn to bed when the night got cold enough. And always, it carried his scent.

 

Kit knew that part wasn’t on purpose. Miles wasn’t the type to rub himself all over his clothes just to claim them. But that hoodie, in particular, smelled stronger than the others. It was the one he pulled on when he wanted to feel safe, when he was bone-tired from his work or when the house felt too big. It was private. Intimate.

 

Which made it perfect for Kit to steal.

 

He didn’t take it right away. No—he plotted, watching carefully. If he snatched it too soon, Miles would just yank it back and ban him from the closet entirely. No, the timing had to be perfect. He needed Miles to be sleepy. Distracted. Vulnerable.

 

And then, one night, the opportunity came.

 

Miles had fallen asleep on the couch after a long evening in the workshop, glasses sliding crooked down his nose, fur ruffled, his tails tucked around him. The hoodie lay folded over the armrest, inches from Kit’s reach. The fennec stood in the hallway, ears perked, heart racing with the thrill of mischief. He waited, just long enough to hear the steady rhythm of Miles’ breathing, before padding forward.

 

Careful. Quiet. A quick glance to make sure Miles was still asleep—then Kit snatched the hoodie, pulling it over his head in one swift motion.

 

Warmth flooded him instantly, heavier than he expected, and the smell—sharp, sweet, unmistakably Miles—hit him all at once. He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as he padded back down the hall, already planning to act casual in the morning.

---

 

Miles noticed right away.

 

He woke later, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, reaching for the hoodie that wasn’t there. His ears twitched, confusion flickering across his face before the realization sank in. His tails bristled, his chest tightened, and he stormed toward the kitchen, already knowing exactly who to blame.

 

And there was Kit, sitting smugly at the table, hair half-escaped from his ponytail, sipping water as if he hadn’t just committed a crime. The hoodie draped perfectly over his frame, sleeves slipping down past his wrists.

 

Miles froze in the doorway, every nerve sparking at once. His voice came out sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t stop it.

“Is that my hoodie?”

 

Kit didn’t even flinch. He looked up with that lazy smirk that made Miles’ stomach twist. “Borrowed.”

 

Miles’ ears went flat. “You didn’t ask!” He padded closer, tails flicking hard. “You can’t just—just take it like that! It’s not just some shirt, Kit, it’s—” He stopped short, heat crawling up his cheeks. “It’s mine.”

 

Kit tugged at the collar, deliberately slow, and buried his nose in it, inhaling deep. His eyes fluttered shut as a grin curled on his lips. “Mm. Smells like you.” He leaned back, sighing contentedly. “Better than I imagined.”

 

Miles made a strangled noise, fists clenching. “Kitsunami! That’s private!” His voice cracked with how flustered he was, ears pinned flat against his skull.

 

“What’s private about it?” Kit tilted his head, fuchsia eyes glowing with mischief. “You wear it, it smells like you, I wear it, I smell like you. Perfect system.”

 

Miles’ tails lashed, his fur prickling as he tried to keep calm. He was a sweetheart, gentle by nature, patient in most things—but this was different. His instincts clawed at him, hot and restless. “People will smell it on you,” he muttered, ears burning brighter. “They’ll know.”

 

“That I’m yours?” Kit’s grin widened, sharp as a blade. “Exactly the point.”

 

Miles nearly choked. “That’s not—!” He stomped his foot, words failing him as embarrassment flooded every inch of his body. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You’re— you’re trying to get me riled!”

 

Kit leaned forward on his elbows, letting the oversized sleeves bunch up around his paws. “Is it working?”

 

Miles’ growl came out before he could stop it, his jaw snapping shut with a sharp click of teeth. His chest rose and fell too fast, his whole body tense between wanting to rip the hoodie back and wanting to crawl under the floorboards. “You—infuriating—smug—”

 

“Adorable?” Kit offered.

 

Miles groaned, dragging his hands down his face, his ears so red they nearly glowed. “I hate you.”

 

“You love me.” Kit leaned back, smug as ever, tugging the hoodie tighter around himself like a trophy. “And you love me in your hoodie even more.”

 

Miles turned his face away, muttering under his breath, voice barely audible. “That’s not—”

 

But Kit’s ears twitched, catching every word, and his grin softened just enough to be dangerous. “Thought so.”

 

Miles stood there, every part of him screaming mine and every part of him too sweet to actually demand it back. He was a mess of blush and twitching tails, while Kit reclined smugly in the hoodie he had plotted, stolen, and claimed, looking more at home in it than anyone had a right to.

 

And deep down, Miles knew—he was never getting it back.

 

Notes:

> ya' old lesbo hag just got her medal on some english test again
>people hate me cuz i be playin unfair! if ya got ferrari and i got a ass car, ill poppin' off your wheels to win

> umm so yes scenting is very very x10 important for foxes
> and kit loves to ragebait him
> anyways this is the 99th chapter... the almighty number i really hate
> and like, 8k hits??? what the fuck i was not aware of that omfg i feel like those niche microcelebrity twitter accounts😢

Chapter 99: DAY7+CH100!!

Summary:

"Head," Kitsunami said, minimal and honest. The migraine made words heavy; he kept his hand pressed to his temple. "Bad."

Notes:

DAY7
> Lazy Day/Free Day

100th Chapter & Final Day of the K/T WEEK!! WAAHOO!!

not beta read

Kitsunami woke to the room already whispering winter: the windowpanes pocked with frost, the radiator ticking like a tired heart, the thin gray light that made everything look like a photograph left in the cold too long. His head felt like someone had taken a fist and pressed it against the back of his skull, slow and uncompromising. The world narrowed to the throb behind his eyes and the unpleasant awareness of breath and fabric and the distant traffic outside. He wanted, with a fierce and childish clarity, to bury himself under the duvet and not come out until the ache passed—or forever.

 

He made a sound that was half a curse and half a plea.

 

“Miles,” he said, and it came out as a brittle thread. “I hate this.”

 

Miles, who inhabited the other half of the bed like a permanent, warm sun, made a small, careless sound and shifted closer. He had no patience for ceremony when it came to mornings like this; warmth could be simple and direct. He wanted to fold around Kit until the cold couldn’t find them. He wanted to hum—a soft, humming warmth Miles used when hands alone weren’t enough—and press his cheek to Kit’s shoulder like a cat staking claim.

 

“You woke me up,” Kit said, the words small and raw. “I—my head—”

 

“I know,” Miles said. His tone was the sort that refused to be lectured out of affection. “You woke up, you’re here, I’m here. That’s the state of things. Also: you’re warm. Please do not roll away from me.” He wriggled his toes and reached blindly until his fingers found the back of Kit’s head, where the ponytail lived in a lazy knot. It was the sort of touch Kit hated when he was raw and exposed—because being touched felt like asking the world to pay attention to him—but it tugged, at the same time, at that same soft, needy part of him.

 

“Don’t be a dick,” Kit muttered, which meant he was already softening. He let his cheek press into the pillow. The duvet smelled like Miles: laundry soap and something indefinable that was only ever Miles—smoke of last week’s tea and the faint tang of whatever wax Miles liked for his skin. It was home, irritating and immediate and utterly necessary.

 

Miles hummed then, low and steady, backing into the rhythm like a tide. “You’re not allowed to hate the world today,” he said. “It’ll sulk if you do.”

 

Kitsunami felt the pulse behind his skull flare with every small sound. The radiator’s tick was a whip, a noise that shouldn’t matter but did. He gripped the edge of the duvet with one hand and the world narrowed further until it was nothing but Miles and the ache. The desire to disappear throbbed alongside the headache: to become something that absorbed the pain rather than fought it.

 

“Light,” Kit rasped. “Turn off the stupid light.”

 

Miles had already obliged, hands skilled and practiced at the small kindnesses: the switch clicked, shadows folding back over the room. He was gentle about it, like handling a skittish bird. “Better?” he asked.

 

“Better,” Kit lied a little. It was quieter, at least. He felt Miles’ fingers move with a familiarity that was almost sacred—gentle tugs where the muscles in Kit’s neck knotted, fingers that found exact pressure points that soothed without dragging attention. Miles had learned, over years of living together, of stitches and surgeries and the many small catastrophes Kit catalogued in private. He touched in the ways that asked nothing of Kit beyond tolerance.

 

“Bring the kettle?” Kit offered, the idea suddenly flaring: tea might help, warmth in a cup that went down slow. But the smell of boiling water could make his stomach turn. The migraine had rules—bright lights, sharp smells, sudden noises. Sometimes warmth on the skin and hands cupped around a lukewarm mug helped; sometimes it made everything worse.

 

Miles made a face that said he thought Kit was being melodramatic and also deeply valid. “I’ll fetch it. But only if you promise to let me crawl back in and smother you in blankets.”

 

“You’re impossible,” Kit snorted, but there was a smile at the edge of it. He let Miles go. The kettle’s click and the padding footsteps were muffled by the closed bedroom door; even that distance seemed like mercy. When Miles came back, cupping a mug like a fragile animal, the steam stained the cold air and Kit felt a tiny line of hope.

 

“Lemon?” Miles asked, as if it were a negotiation.

 

“No citrus.” Kit’s voice was strict, practiced. “The citrus will kill me.”

 

“Right. Plain. Like you—plain and deadly.” Miles set the mug down and settled back, careful not to jostle. He curled an arm around Kit’s waist and tucked him against his chest. Kit felt that close, heard the soft rumble of Miles’ breathing, smelled the familiar mix of soap and winter.

 

They lay like that—two halves pressed into the same heat. Outside, the world did its winter thing of coughing and moving on, but inside the bed there was an economy of care. Miles hummed again, a note that didn’t demand response but seemed to exist to steady the air. It was one of those small rituals of theirs: Miles would hum, Kit would breathe, the migraine would ebb like a tide.

 

“You could go be a funeral for the rest of the day and I’d still be bringing you soup,” Miles said idly, the words soft as fleece. “You know that, right? You’re very good at being pitiful. It’s adorable.”

 

“Shut up,” Kit said, but his arms tightened. “I’m not—”

 

“You are,” Miles interrupted, the smile in his voice plain. “And I’m not letting you sulk alone.” He dipped his head and pressed a light kiss at the base of Kit’s skull, where the hair was tied. It was a small, careful thing; a promise with no punctuation.

 

The migraine was still there, an insistence, but in the warmth and the hush it lost some of its power. Kit closed his eyes and thought of the first winter he’d moved in—how Miles had stolen the blanket and worn his boxers with an air of offended royalty and how Kit had threatened to freeze him out of spite and warmth had won. Memory softened the edges.

 

“Play that stupid humming song,” Kit asked after a while. “The one you whistle when you make coffee.”

 

Miles obliged without being asked, low and tuneless at first, until the note found the old pattern and stitched it into something that felt like home. Kit let his head drop back, the weight of it landing against Miles’ shoulder, and in the dim the fuchsia of his eyelids seemed almost violet. He felt small and ridiculous and profoundly safe.

 

“I love you,” he said, because the words had to be said sometimes, especially on mornings that were mean and honest.

 

Miles squeezed him, the grip a telegram. “Yeah. You’re my annoying winter bird. Stay put.”

 

Kit huffed a laugh that tasted like mug steam and teeth. It hurt to laugh, and that made it feel like a reckless victory. “You’re lucky I’m cuddly when I’m miserable.”

 

“You were cuddly when you were fine,” Miles said, and there was no argument in that, only warmth. He stroked the line of Kit’s jaw with the back of his fingers, and Kit thought of how rare it felt to be seen and kept, to have someone so insistently unbothered by his need. Miles didn’t fix things with lectures or grand gestures—he fixed them with presence, with hands that stayed, with a hum that steadied the room.

 

Outside the window, a flake found its way to the sill and melted into a bead of water. In the bed, two people folded into the small, selfish empire of each other. Kit’s migraine didn’t vanish—some things weren’t that generous—but it shifted. The edges dulled. The world, for a while, was a pair of breathing chests and a kettle cooling on the nightstand and the slow, steady hum that made the room—if not painless—bearable.

 

He nestled in tighter, pressed his face to Miles’ chest, and let the warmth do the rest. Miles hummed on, like a promise and a small weapon against the weather.

 

( It wasn’t long before he realized Kitsunami's pothos was probably cursing at them for not watering it. )

 

---

The living room was dim but warm, draped in the kind of winter quiet that seemed to soften every edge. Outside, snow traced lazy paths against the window. Inside, a laptop rested on the coffee table, hooked up to a small speaker. The voice on the recording filled the air with a mix of wry humor and gentle cadence—an audiobook of Good Omens, some podfic Miles had queued up after dinner because, in his words, “the weather calls for clever angels and stubborn demons.”

 

Kitsunami lay on the couch with his head on Miles’ thigh, wrapped in the same robe he hadn’t bothered to return since that migraine morning. The headache had dulled into memory, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made lying still the best option. Miles absentmindedly combed his fingers through Kit’s messy hair, his pajama sleeve brushing Kit’s ear each time his hand drifted down.

 

The story unfolded in bright, sardonic words, describing an angel who loved books too much and a demon who loved the world in spite of himself. The cadence of it tugged at Kitsunami’s attention, though he tried to pretend he wasn’t listening too closely. Miles laughed softly at the clever bits, his chest rumbling under Kit’s cheek. That laugh was soft sunlight, unguarded, and it forced Kit to stay tethered to the present.

 

“…Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.”** the reader intoned.

 

Kit blinked at the ceiling, the words hitting a little too close. Well, not the remark about monkeys, ( though Miles fits the shoes of it ) but rather the parts where angel and the demon surprisingly got along. He turned them over like stones in his mind. A friendship. Enduring. Through plagues, through wars, through awkward bargains. He thought of Miles—how their own beginning had been nothing as dramatic as an immortal pact, but still strange, still fragile. He remembered when it was only a situationship, a word both of them hated because it sounded flimsy, like something you couldn’t lean on.

 

And yet, somehow, here he was: robe wrapped around him, Miles’ hand in his hair, soup bowls still in the sink.

 

Kit frowned, unsettled. If an angel and demon could endure six thousand years of misunderstandings and still find comfort in each other’s presence, maybe his own mess wasn’t so terrible. Maybe he hadn’t ruined everything back when he almost convinced himself Miles was temporary. Calling his situationship— ex-situationship— a situationship would be insult to whatever these got. 

 

Miles shifted slightly, pulling a throw blanket higher across Kit’s shoulders. “You’re quiet,” he said, his voice low, meant not to disrupt the story playing. “Head still bad?”

 

“No,” Kit muttered. His throat was thick with something he didn’t want to name. “Just… listening.”

 

Miles smiled—Kit could hear it without needing to see. “Good, isn’t it? Pratchett and his co-author together. Kind of ridiculous, kind of brilliant.”

 

“Yeah,” Kit murmured, softer. “Genius, really.” He hesitated before admitting, “Angel and demon got it worse than me.”

 

Miles chuckled, stroking a thumb against his temple. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

 

Kit let his eyes fall shut. He didn’t usually let his thoughts drift aloud, but the podfic loosened something in him. “Not that bad here. Not anymore. I thought it was—when it was just… undefined. But…” His voice snagged, tangled between pride and truth.

 

“But what?” Miles asked gently.

 

Kit inhaled, shaky. “…But you stayed.”

 

The words hung there, heavy and fragile, almost too much. The podfic filled the silence, talking about prophecy and absurd bureaucracy, but Miles’ attention anchored on Kit. He bent down and pressed a kiss to Kit’s hair, soft and unhurried. “Of course I stayed,” he whispered.

 

Kit curled deeper into him, embarrassed and relieved at once. He listened as the story wound its way through Armageddon and absurdity, realizing that maybe love didn’t need to be neat to be real. Maybe Terry had been right—that humans, angels, demons, (and foxes alike) stumbled through it, clumsy and desperate, but still better for trying.

 

Snow kept falling. The podfic played on. Miles’ hand kept moving, steady and warm. And Kit, for the first time in days, didn’t mind the world pressing in at the edges.

Notes:

** Good omens Book Page 165
> mixing my interests w my hyperfixation... hehe
> good omens has a audiobook, but i call it podfic anyways. it is called radio omens and the voices are very ( x10) good, great casting at the time
> these happen in 2019, early pandemic.
> also yes pothos is also reference to good omens & cosmo🥸 it is called demons ivy as well and its hard to kill.

> This week was fun ( and a pain in the ass ) to write! Again, thanks to my precious friend, Date, for hosting this event! I hope someone could host it next year as well.

Chapter 100

Notes:

not beta read
back to my whimsy

The restaurant was warm and dimly lit, a far cry from the kind of places either of them usually found themselves in. Kitsunami sat with his shoulders slightly hunched, ears flicking toward every sound—cutlery clinking, footsteps against tile, the low hum of conversations. He looked across the table at Miles, who was already studying the menu with an intensity usually reserved for engine blueprints.

 

“This is weird,” Kit muttered, fingers tapping against the base of his wine glass. “Feels… too clean.”

 

Miles chuckled, flicking his twin tails once behind him before glancing up. His glasses caught the glow of a candle set between them. “It’s not weird, it’s just… new. You can’t tell me you’re not curious about actually having someone else cook for us for once.”

 

Kit scrunched his nose. “I like our food better.”

 

“Because you like it plain,” Miles shot back with a sly grin. “You’re terrified of anything with sauce.”

 

Kit leaned back, arms folding. “I just don’t trust sauce.”

 

Miles laughed harder than he should have, shaking his head as the waiter came to pour them each a small taste of wine. Kit stared at the deep red liquid suspiciously but followed Miles’ lead, swirling it once before taking a sip. His face twisted instantly. “Tastes like… sour wood.”

 

“It’s not sour wood, it’s dry,” Miles corrected, then paused. “Actually, yeah, sour wood is probably close enough.”

 

They clinked their glasses anyway, the sound sharp in the cozy quiet between them.

 

Kit let his ears relax, settling into the rhythm of Miles’ chatter as he inevitably launched into work rants. “You wouldn’t believe what Knuckles did this week,” Miles said, picking up a piece of bread from the basket the waiter had left. He tore it apart, gesturing with one half like a pointer. “We were in the middle of a systems check and he—no joke—tries to ‘test the sturdiness’ by punching the casing. Cracked it wide open. I spent two hours reworking wiring because apparently ‘restraint’ isn’t in his vocabulary.”*

 

Kit smirked faintly, sipping his water instead of the wine. “You should start billing him.”

 

“Don’t tempt me.” Miles dipped the bread in olive oil. “And don’t even get me started on Sonic. He disappears for three days, shows up at the workshop acting like nothing happened, then has the audacity to ask if the plane’s ‘ready yet.’ Like I can magic parts out of thin air while he’s off joyriding.”**

 

Kit tilted his head, his fuchsia eyes narrowing. “Didn’t you once build a whole engine out of scrap in a junkyard?”

 

“That’s not the point,” Miles snapped lightly, though his grin betrayed him. “The point is, I could do it—sure—but I shouldn’t have to.”

 

The waiter arrived with their food—Miles had chosen something adventurous, Kit something safe. Kit poked at his plate, ears twitching as Miles’ rants spilled onward, winding into complaints about scheduling, teammates, and one long tangent about parts suppliers.

 

“You sound like an old man,” Kit interrupted finally, chewing slowly on a bite of grilled fish.

 

Miles lifted his brows. “Excuse me?”

 

“Old. Complaining about everyone, yelling at clouds, making dramatic hand movements.” Kit gestured lazily, imitating the way Miles had waved his bread around.

 

“I am not—” Miles stopped, noticing his own hands mid-flourish, then laughed so hard his shoulders shook. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

 

Kit’s lips curled into the smallest smile, the kind only Miles usually got to see. “I like it, though. Makes you feel… alive. Like you’re still excited enough to be pissed off.”

 

Miles blinked, quieting for a second. His tails swayed against the chair legs, brushing each other in thought. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

 

Kit shrugged, stuffing another forkful of fish into his mouth. “Not really.”

 

The rest of the evening unfolded with them leaning closer over the table, Miles’ voice rising and falling with every new story, Kit listening in his quiet way—chiming in with the occasional deadpan remark that sent Miles into helpless laughter. The wineglass in front of Kit stayed mostly full, but the candle burned low, and by the time dessert came—something Miles insisted they share—Kit had stopped fidgeting.

 

When they finally stepped out into the night air, Kit stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked up at the stars. “Not doing this every week,” he said flatly.

 

Miles brushed his shoulder against Kit’s. “Fair. But maybe once in a while? You didn’t hate it.”

 

Kit didn’t answer right away. His ears tilted toward Miles instead of the street, and when he did speak, his voice was low. “I didn’t hate it.”

 

Miles smiled, slipping his hand into Kit’s as they walked back to the quiet they preferred, the sound of their steps the only thing following them home.

 

Notes:

* there was no confusion in this act. Just could do it and did it.
** Chaos forbid if a man just wants to fly away from his problems!

> im sick as fuck and my head feels like exploding and i just want to down some meds.
> yes kit is a teeny weeny bit alcoholic there and there, but he would rather drink cologne than drink wine.

Chapter 101

Summary:

Carrot Sludge

Notes:

cw : gay husbands being so sickly dovey dovey to each other..

this chapter is family&domestic fluff

The kitchen wasn’t anything fancy—warm lights, scuffed floor tiles, the counters scattered with bottles, utensils, and the day’s clutter. Miles stood at the stove in his loose home shirt and a pair of drawstring pants, sleeves pushed back as he worked a pot of boiled potatoes with the masher, a bowl of minced meat waiting beside him to be rolled into meatballs. His tails swayed faintly behind him, movements steady and practiced, the picture of someone who found comfort in the rhythm of cooking.

Across the room, their daughter Eden was strapped into her highchair, bib already crumpled against her chest and cheeks puffed out with stubborn refusal. The little jar of pre-made carrot puree sat open on the tray, its orange contents gleaming like warning paint.

Kit sat across from her, elbow on the table, spoon in hand. He squinted at the puree like it had personally wronged him. His hair was tied back in the loose ponytail he favored when he didn’t want to deal with it, strands falling out anyway. The old band tee hanging off his shoulders made him look more like a man forced into this than a patient parent.

“Alright, kid,” he muttered, twirling the spoon once before scooping a bit. “Let’s not make this a war. One bite. Just one. Then you can go back to chewing your toy bunny or whatever.”

Eden eyed him, lips sealed. But after a moment, curiosity cracked her resolve. She opened her mouth just enough, and Kit slid the spoon between her lips.

The result was immediate. Her tiny face scrunched like she’d been betrayed. A squawk left her throat as she pushed the mush out with her tongue, smearing it down her chin. She banged her fists against the tray, whimpering as if he’d tried to poison her.

Kit leaned back, staring at her. “…Seriously?”

From the stove, Miles’ voice floated over, calm and even, without looking away from his pot. “She doesn’t like it.”

“No kidding,” Kit said flatly, wiping the mess off her bib. “One bite and she’s ready to file a complaint.”

Eden’s big eyes glistened, watery at the corners, and she shook her head with such force her little tufts of fur flopped side to side.

“Guess you’ll have to try another flavor tomorrow,” Miles said, tone mild as he sprinkled salt into the potatoes. He stirred them with a wooden spoon, the sound of the pan and the sizzle of meatballs filling the silence.

Kit held the spoon up again, scowling. “Or maybe she’s just being dramatic.” He turned the spoon on himself, raising a brow at Eden. “You think I won’t? You think Daddy won’t eat this sludge to prove a point?”

She gave him a wide-eyed stare, cheeks puffed out again, babbling something that sounded very close to a baby’s version of “no.”

Kit didn’t hesitate. He scooped a bit, shoved it into his mouth.

And gagged.

The taste hit him like a slap—watery, overcooked, cloyingly sweet but somehow flat at the same time. He forced it down, grimacing hard. “Oh, that’s—ugh, that’s vile. What the hell do they put in these jars?”

Eden burst into delighted squeals, clapping her tiny hands. Her laughter filled the kitchen, higher than the hiss of the stove.

Miles’ shoulders shook as he tried—and failed—to suppress a chuckle. He looked over his shoulder, tails swaying lazily. “Told you.”

Kit pointed the spoon at him accusingly, still coughing. “You—why didn’t you warn me? That’s—god, it’s like someone boiled a carrot for three years and then murdered it with a blender.”

“I did warn you,” Miles reminded him, turning back to his pot. He worked the masher down in steady presses, unbothered.

Eden smacked her tray, babbling happily at the show. Kit groaned and set the jar aside, tossing the spoon into the sink like it was contaminated. “Yeah, laugh it up. Laugh at your poor father’s suffering.”

He pushed away from the table and crossed the kitchen, coming up behind Miles. Instead of helping, he leaned into him, arms draping loosely across his shoulders. His chin rested on Miles’ back, eyes half-lidded from the lingering taste of carrot sludge.

“Ugh. I’m never getting rid of it. It’s stuck. I’m tainted forever.”

“You’ll live,” Miles said, tone amused but still focused on his cooking. He reached for the bowl of meat, rolling it into neat little balls, hands quick and sure.

Kit squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead between Miles’ shoulder blades. “If I die, tell Eden it was her fault.”

“I’ll tell her you were too dramatic to survive baby food,” Miles said dryly. He slid the meatballs into the pan, the sizzle loud and satisfying.

Kit groaned again, tightening his arms just enough to feel Miles shift under his weight. His voice muffled against the fabric of Miles’ shirt. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Miles said simply.

Kit didn’t argue. He just stayed there, cheek against Miles’ back, breathing in the warm smell of starch and butter, the faint tang of sizzling meat. Eden babbled in the background, kicking her feet against the highchair tray.

After a while, Miles spoke again, quieter. “You don’t have to force her, you know. If she doesn’t like it, she doesn’t like it. We’ll make her something else.”

Kit cracked one eye open, looking at the little girl. She was gnawing on the edge of her bib now, orange streak smeared across her chin, face bright with toddler joy.

“She made me look like an idiot,” Kit muttered.

Miles smirked faintly as he stirred the potatoes one last time. “She’s one and a half. You didn’t need her help for that.”

Kit gave his husband’s back a shove, not hard, just enough to make Miles jostle forward a step. “Ass.”

“Language,” Miles said smoothly, sliding the mashed potatoes into a serving bowl.

“Like she knows what I’m saying,” Kit shot back.

Eden squealed, clapping again as if to prove the point.

Miles only shook his head, still smiling faintly as he set the bowl aside. He turned in Kit’s loose grip, finally facing him, and raised a brow. “You can let go any time now.”

“Nope,” Kit said, hugging tighter out of spite. “This is my life now. Stuck to you until the carrot taste fades.”

Miles sighed, not really trying to push him off, and reached past him for a clean spoon. He dipped it into the potatoes, blew lightly, and then crouched to Eden’s level. “Here, pumpkin. Try this instead.”

Eden leaned forward eagerly, lips parting without hesitation. The mashed potato went in, and her reaction couldn’t have been more different. She hummed happily, smacking her little lips before babbling for more.

Kit groaned theatrically. “Great. Betrayed by my own daughter. I take the hit for her, and she sells me out for potatoes.”

Miles glanced up, spoon hovering for a second as he smirked. “She’s got good taste.”

“Yeah, she got that from me,” Kit muttered, finally peeling off his husband’s back and collapsing into a chair again. He raked a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. “Never buying that jarred crap again.”

Miles carried on feeding Eden with patience, her happy squeals filling the room as she devoured spoon after spoon of potatoes. The smell of the meatballs thickened in the air, golden and rich. Kit slouched in his chair, watching them both, the bitterness of carrot still clinging faintly to his tongue.

Somehow, though, the sight of his daughter’s cheeks puffed out, her little hands flailing, and Miles’ quiet concentration at the stove… it dulled the edge.

Domestic chaos, carrot sludge and all.

Notes:

> i love potato purees— only if theyre hot though! cold patato puree's are ass

> hi~ been a while! i'm have been sick as hell for the past days, but today im finally feeling better, good enough to finish this one! I have been focusing on my other fandom works as well, so yes, ill be publishing k/t stuff at a slower pace compared to my now schedule.

> also do not try to shape the meatballs while having the oil ready, thats like, a burnt meal waiting to happen. Shape first, then get the oil ready. Safer that way!

> u either see eden when she is still an infant or just adult, but im planning to write more about her toddler stage.

Chapter 102

Notes:

> silly filler, whoops

Kitsunami could sleep through a marching band and a minor earthquake. He treated mornings like a hostile takeover: blinds down, duvet fortress raised, the world politely placed on hold until he decided otherwise. Miles always joked that Kit kept office hours for being horizontal — nine to five, strictly horizontal — and somehow the rest of the house had learned to schedule around it.

 

This morning followed the usual pattern. Sunlight had crept past the curtains and landed in soft strips on the floor; the kettle clicked its jazz rhythm somewhere down the hall; the laundry hum of the dryer sounded like a countdown. Miles padded into the bedroom with three things in his hands: a ceramic mug, a hoodie (his favorite, which Kit loved to pilfer), and a fleece blanket he’d staged for emergencies like this. He found the other emergency already in place: Kit, hair in its habitual lazy ponytail, face half-buried in a pillow, one leg flung over the duvet like it owned the bed.

 

Miles crouched beside him and hummed — a careful, quiet hum that had pulled Kit out of worse slumbers. The sound threaded through the room, warm and practiced. Kit twitched. His ears (small, fox-shaped in that irresistible way) flicked. A hand, soft and heavy with sleep, reached for Miles’ arm.

 

“Mm—” Kit mumbled, voice low and woolly, all the vowels melting. He tried to blink open and failed spectacularly, curtains of eyelids refusing to cooperate. When Miles leaned down to kiss the top of Kit’s head, Kit grabbed him like a lifeline.

 

“He hides his giggles and all his nonsense under these naps,” Miles whispered, half-smiling. He draped the hoodie over Kit’s shoulders anyway. Kit smelled like Miles’ laundry powder and last night’s ramen — comforting, a touch of salt and home.

 

“Five more minutes,” Kit muttered, which was both a threat and a treaty. He curled into Miles’ chest, immediate and desperate as a child. There was a scrappy, unabashed clinginess there that had been written into them from the start; Kit needed warmth and proximity like other people needed caffeine.

 

Miles let him have it. He threaded his fingers through Kit’s ponytail, thumb smoothing the messy knot until Kit’s breathing found a steadier rhythm. “You do realize you don’t actually work nine to five,” he teased.

 

“Do too,” Kit protested around a yawn. He sounded sleepy-drunk, all lopsided sentences and soft consonants. “I clock in at nap o’clock.”

 

“You clock out of the whole planet,” Miles corrected, amused. He kissed the bridge of Kit’s nose and felt the tiny, involuntary stretch of a smile. “We have chores, you know. And the cat has opinions.”

 

Kit’s eyes slid open a fraction, focus wobbling. He blinked at Miles like he’d been asked a complicated math problem. “Lin needs a toy,” he declared, as if that were the most pressing policy decision of the hour. “She’s chubby. She should run more.” He squinted, conspiratorial. “Buy her a… bounce ball.”

 

“You just woke up,” Miles said, laughing. “You’re not allowed to make financial decisions.”

 

Kit’s hand tightened on his sleeve. “I’m a stakeholder,” he said solemnly. “Also, your hoodie smells like you. It’s illegal.”

 

“Then steal it properly later,” Miles said. He shifted, folding into the mattress so Kit could curl more easily. The duvet made a small mountain around them; their limbs tangled like forgotten blankets. Outside, the building sighed into the day. Inside, the world had shrunk to breath, warmth, hair in fingers, and the slow recalibration of sleep to wake.

 

When Kit finally surfaced — blinking, articulate, with the soft slow-brightness of someone who had reconciled with reality — he complained. He complained about the brightness, the sound, the audacity of toast popping. He complained with the kind of theatrical indignation that was mostly a pretext for more cuddles.

 

Miles listened, arms the safe harbor. He hummed the same tune again, softer, because habit had taught him the exact frequency that eased Kit’s edges. Kit melted into it, a sleepy grin finally shaping his face.

 

“Alright,” Kit conceded, voice hoarse but steady. “Fine. One hour. Then I’ll get up.” He paused, eyes closed. “But you have to make the tea.”

 

“That’s extortion,” Miles said.

 

Kit snuggled closer, satisfied. “Worth it.”

 

Notes:

> he just wanna sleep dont even botherrr
> i have this problem. i matter what i wake up tired. despite sleeping for 12 hours. something about deep sleep and rem sleep

> hi hi hi... trying to get my schedule back since all of my lessons started. my fingers are dying, bowstring and holding a pen for hours is not for the weak unfortunately....

> butt ill be writing my kittails au soon... just... need to... finish it

Chapter 103

Notes:

> .. i started w andrew in drag but then i got even more tumbled... whoops!

> i then remembered one of my favourite child books, My Dumb Diary! I still have all of the volumes, heirloom from my sister c:

Backstage Log — Confidential (and also mildly combustible; handle with sarcasm and one hand)—K

 

7:18 PM — Arrival

The dressing room smelled like victory and old glue: hairspray, the ghost of someone’s bronze stage makeup, and that inexplicable lemony sanitizer Miles insists on pretending he doesn’t like. Curtains sagged like tired spectators. Costumes were piled in a way that suggested several small nations had collapsed into fabric. The mirror had three dead bulbs, which made Miles look incandescent in the one that was left. The universe chose its light carefully tonight.

 

7:23 PM — The Dress (a formal indictment)

If you have ever seen a bakery and thought, That could stand to be more theatrical, someone on the drama club committee would like to have a word with you. The dress is pink in a way that demands adjectives. It is not simply pink; it is a stratified ecosystem of pinks. The bodice is laced with strawberry-satin ribbon, the kind that shines like it knows secrets. The sleeves are puffed to the point of political statement—each sleeve looks like it has been paid to make a point and it will not be silenced. The skirt is tiered; the tiers are layers of conspiracy. The ruffles sit on top of one another like tiny, scandalous waves; when Miles moves, they gossip.

 

There is a bow at the back the size of a respectable small island. There are sequins along the hem like furtive stars. The whole thing smells faintly of starch and ideas. It makes him look—if I am allowed one scientifically unverifiable statement—like something that should be illegal to be that pretty.

 

7:27 PM — Opening Notes (for the record and for the catalogue of misdemeanors)

Miles enters a room like a comet whose orbit has been recalculated to drag everyone into its wake. He hums a tune that sounds suspiciously like the Bugs Bunny trumpet—do people hum that? Yes. He hums it off-key and somehow it becomes a personality trait. He moves in the dress like he was born wearing tulle and bad decisions. He catches a ribbon in his fingers and the light finds the outline of his jaw and I am immediately incompetent.

 

I keep reminding myself: he is my friend. He is seventeen. He does not belong in a sonnet even if my brain keeps drafting them.

 

7:34 PM — Banter (public) / Heartbreak (private)

Miles (spinning): “Do I look tragic or like the dessert at a very dramatic wedding?”

 

Me (voice: expert sarcasm; face: brand new): “Both. You are the tragic éclair.”

 

Miles: “Careful. I’ll add that to my resume under ‘special skills.’”

 

Me: “If you monetize this, split profits five ways. Ruffle tax is a thing.”

 

Miles flopped into the chair like a regal pastry and started fussing with the ribbon. He does this thing where he pouts a little when he’s concentrating and it is a criminally attractive pout. I made the mistake of thinking about the slope of his cheek and then had to inhale like that would fix my brain.

 

In public: jokes. In private: I file away the tilt of his head and rehearse it in my chest, time and again, like a bad chorus.

 

7:42 PM — Casting Notes (for the director and also for the gods)

We are Veronica Sawyer and Heather Chandler except Heather is Miles only if Heather had been raised on warm cookies and apologies. I, Veronica, am supposed to be biting and ironic and also a disaster in sympathy, which is helpful because being this dramatic in my head is cheaper than therapy. Miles is Heather in that he’s glorious and somehow everyone orbits him, but he is also Not Heather: he brings cupcakes, he apologizes if he bumps into someone, and he is allergic to malice. He is the Heather Chandler who says “sorry” with the same sincerity that others use to eat cereal. That comparison is unfair to Heather Chandler and also, somewhere, terribly flattering to Miles. Let it stand.

 

7:50 PM — The Skit of the Bow (a procedural romance)

Miles tried an over-extravagant bow for rehearsal and the skirt staged a coup. The left tier snagged on a prop bench and for thirty-seven seconds we watched the slow, civilized collapse of dignity as fabric argued with furniture. He swore softly, a string of curses that were more theatrical than threatening, and then did the dignified thing: he laughed, because laughing is his default defense. I offered to help unhook the rebellious tier, and for a moment my hand was within a foot of his waist and I had a whole internal crisis about whether I would confess then and there. I did not. I adjusted a ribbon like a professional and told a joke about the costume department’s ambition. He laughed and the ruffles did a tiny encore.

 

If this is a journal of restraint, note: I exercised restraint.

 

8:05 PM — Music and Soft Comparisons (ABBA, you have an opinion)

If ABBA had written a song about this theater, it would be about Miles. He is the dancing queen of our high school production: young and sweet, only seventeen, and absolutely the sort of light the chorus would center a dance number around. He moves with a kind of accidental choreography—there’s a rhythm to how he tugs at a ribbon, to how he turns and the ruffles sweep like a metronome. I am ashamed to say that whenever he twirls—unintentional, in the mirror, for nothing—I hear a chorus in my head that insists on singing “Dancing Queen” at full volume. Obviously this is ridiculous. Obviously I would be embarrassed if anyone found the playlist.

 

8:13 PM — Veronica/Heather Outing (internal theater studies)

We both agreed—out loud—that theatrical murder is melodrama and we will not be literal. Miles joked that if anyone heckled him from the audience he would haunt them. I promised that if he haunted anyone, he must do it with good dental hygiene. He smiled at that. He is too sweet to be any version of Heather meant to intimidate; he is softer. My head via diary: Heather Chandler if she carried muffins for the cast and wrote apology notes.

 

8:20 PM — Carmen Sandiego & Bugs Bunny Mentions (for archival continuity)

I briefly held a prop map because it felt important to look like I understood geography. It made me think of Carmen Sandiego who always seemed to travel with the kind of panache that made theft poetic.Miles, by comparison, is more of a gentle mystery—like someone stole my attention and then wrapped it in polite napkins and returned it with an apology note. Bugs Bunny would have made a snide comment and probably stolen a carrot from the concession stand;Miles would offer the carrot and insist on sharing it. Both are icons. One is a cunning trickster. One is kind and goes to drama club potlucks. I prefer the kind.

 

... Got off the track. I will rewrite that later, maybe. (Erasing it would be a shame, and  I don’t have any erasers right now.) 

8:28 PM — The Balcony Rehearsal (technical and emotional notes)

We practiced the balcony scene. Miles spoke his lines with a kind of accidental earnestness that made the word “wherefore” sound like it had been reinvented for him. He moved across the stage like an unwitting comet and I had to look at the floor because stare-therapy is not a sanctioned rehearsal technique. Out loud, I coached him on projection and timing. Inside, I drafted entire make-believe epilogues about what would happen if our lives had a film score. I will never speak those draft epilogues aloud. The only people who might be allowed to read them are future versions of me who have learned to carry myself with dignity and also perhaps a desalination plant for feelings.

 

When he got to the line where Juliet asks about Romeo, he hesitated the smallest possible fraction of a second and it felt like the entire auditorium took a breath. That fraction of a second is now filed under “evidence” in my private case against fate.

 

8:42 PM — Snack Interlude (tactile evidence of friendship)

Miles offered me a cupcake from the cast tray. It was sensible, perfectly frosted, and suspiciously like something Ms. Brandy* would call “period-appropriate.” I took it. He watched me take it with the kind of attention usually reserved for small miracles. He asked if I wanted to split it. I said yes and then promptly ate my half and his demonstrated restraint while pretending not to notice me chewing crumbs like a secret criminal. We both laughed at how dramatic the frosting looked in the mirror light. I suggested we name the cupcake. He said “Gertrude.” I vetoed “Gertrude” and suggested “Ruffle.” He pretended to be offended and then actually laughed out loud, the kind of laugh that makes the ruffles ripple.

 

8:55 PM — The Unreliable Part (legal disclaimer)

This diary is by its nature unreliable. It embellishes. It edits. It highlights certain features—his profile, a curl behind an ear, the way the light hits the bow—and deletes the quieter, less photogenic truths. I do this deliberately. Diaries are for the soft crimes no one will ever try you for. I will claim the right to be dramatic. Also, I will claim the right to be sentimental without repercussions.

 

9:03 PM — A Quiet Confession (for only the pages)

I am a yearner. I say it here in neat script because the paper cannot roll its eyes. The word fits me like a badly tailored jacket and yet it is also precisely right. I sit here and file away moments. He ties a ribbon and my brain writes a sonnet. He laughs at a joke and my chest presses ink into itself. I will not speak these things aloud because speaking them would be an act of vulgarity in the religion I have adapted (the religion of unspoken things). Instead I log them. It feels like ritual and also cowardice.

 

9:12 PM — Disaster (minor) and Rescue (also minor and very performed)

The hem threatened mutiny again. A stray stage wire wanted to be dramatic. Miles stumbled in the most graceful way possible—something between a prosecco spill and a classical faint—and for a breath I thought the dress might stage a second revolution. He managed to catch himself, made a joke about being “dramatically allergic to failing,” and I performed my part: lunging with the professional despair of someone who has rehearsed for such emergencies. I adjusted the skirt, pinched a rogue fold into order, and mumbled something about structural integrity.

 

His hand brushed mine and I am not allowed to describe what that did to me because it would be indecorous. Suffice to say I did not combust in that moment and I am considering that a victory.

 

9:24 PM — Final Prep (practicalities and metaphors)

I helped cinch the last bow because he asked and because he trusts me with small things like laces. When our fingers touched while tying it, I considered rewriting the physics textbooks to account for the way my heart misbehaved. I did not rewrite the textbooks. I wrote the scene down in the margins instead.

 

We walked out together into the wings and the rest of the cast swarmed in that way people swarm when there is a scented attraction on stage. He linked his arm through mine like some old-timey gentleman and I pretended this was an entirely normal thing that happens in every theater and should be covered in the curriculum. He smelled like lemon sanitizer and the scent of someone who had spent his afternoon being earnest. I considered memorizing that smell as if it were a map to something holy. I did not. I committed it to memory and that is nearly the same thing.

 

9:39 PM — Postscript (to myself, which is to say: forever)

If ABBA had been in the audience tonight they would have written a better chorus. If God created Miles as Her son, She would leave him to peace of the human world. If Carmen Sandiego had stolen something it would have been the spotlight and she would have returned it with an embroidered note. None of these things happened. What did happen: Miles performed the balcony scene with the kind of accidental honesty that makes the script obsolete. I laughed at the right beats, made the right notes, and took notes in my head about how my chest felt like it had been rearranged by a benevolent stagehand.

 

Final observation: He is seventeen. He is incandescent. He is my friend. He is the dancing queen in a dress that looks like an architectural decision. I am, apparently, Veronica Sawyer with a pen and a compromised constitution. I will go home tonight and write this down in full because I am a coward and because what else is a diary for if not to bear witness to your own ruin?

 

Close log. Seal it with a flourish (the kind that reads: keep this safe because I am dramatic and I will regret many things but not the fact that I noticed him). If anyone ever asks if I regretted tonight, the honest answer is no. Regret would mean I had done anything differently. I didn’t. I sat and I watched and I wrote. That is my activism.

 

—K.

 

Notes:

> necessary sheet for all pop culture references and so on <
>The Gods may throw a dice/Their mind cold as ice/And someone way down here/Loses someone dear , The Winner Takes It All– ABBA
> Dancing Queen–ABBA
> Candy Store–Heather Musical
> Looney Tunes Show– S1 E1
> Carmen Sandiego
> Good Omens
>
* Very alcoholic drink& Real life singer (Brandy Rayana Norwood) that sang "That Boy is Mine" With Monica. She is also called " Voice of The Bible"
> so yes her name isnt random LOL

> too much refs and shit but this a diary of a seventeen year old! cmon now..

> originally blooming lotus was gonna be nine's diary ( his diary is in–one–go one, doesnt have timestamps like kits) but i scrapped it later. Brought it back for another oneshot, but I also scrapped that, so only diary oneshot i wrote is this as of now.

> umm so im the current owner of k/t server...

join ples...

Chapter 104

Notes:

itss edeenn again.. mi babi

Miles was sitting up this time — propped against the mountain of hospital pillows, pale but awake, robe loosely tied at his waist. His golden fur looked dull under the fluorescent lights, and his hair was a little too frizzy for his liking. The surgery had left him drained, but not broken. What really got to him now was the gnawing ache in his stomach.

 

He turned his head slightly when the door opened, and there she was — his little star. Eden was holding Kit’s hand, a shy five-year-old bundle of blue and gold curls and soft steps. Her small bag clinked with something that sounded suspiciously like crayons.

 

“Look who came to see you,” Kit said, voice low and careful, though there was something in it that trembled. He’d been strong through the operation, strong through the waiting, but now that Miles was awake and smiling, his shoulders were starting to sag.

 

Miles’ lips curved into that tired, boyish grin of his. “My favorite doctor’s here,” he said softly, opening his arms. “C’mere, sugar.”

 

Eden hesitated for a heartbeat, wide eyes flicking to the machines beside his bed. The beeping, the tubes, the faint antiseptic smell — it was all so strange. But then she saw the same blue-brown eyes she’d always known, warm and soft despite the fatigue. Her small hand let go of Kit’s, and she climbed up carefully onto the chair beside the bed, tiny fingers curling into the edge of his robe.

 

“Papa,” she whispered. “You look weird.”

 

Miles laughed weakly, the sound like a crack of sunlight. “That’s because they replaced my heart with a hamster wheel,” he said, deadpan. “It’s what keeps me running.”

 

Kit snorted, dragging a chair over and sitting on the other side. “He’s joking, Eden.”

 

“Maybe,” Miles added, reaching out to tap her nose. “Maybe not.”

 

Eden giggled, her nerves melting away in the rhythm of his voice. She nestled against his side, careful not to press too hard. “Does it hurt?”

 

“Only when I laugh,” he said softly. “So no more jokes, okay? I’m serious now. No fun allowed.”

 

That made her giggle harder, and Kit rolled his eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

 

“I’m hungry,” Miles countered, rubbing his stomach dramatically. “Kit, love, do you know what they served me earlier? Soup. Plain soup. It looked like sadness. I think it was sadness.”

 

“You’re supposed to eat light,” Kit reminded him, resting a hand on his husband’s arm. “You just had surgery.”

 

“I had heart surgery, not a lobotomy,” Miles said. “My brain still knows what good food is. I deserve mashed potatoes. Or pudding. Or both. Preferably both.”

 

Eden tugged on the blanket. “I can give you my snack,” she offered, digging into her little bag and pulling out a squished packet of gummies. “I didn’t eat it yet.”

 

“Oh, my darling,” Miles said, pressing a hand to his chest as if her kindness truly wounded him. “Sharing your treasure? I might cry.”

 

Kit sighed but smiled anyway, reaching over to tuck Eden’s hair behind her ear. “You can have one, babe. You’re still recovering.”

 

Miles popped a gummy into his mouth like it was the best meal he’d ever had. “Heavenly,” he declared. “The chef deserves a raise.”

 

Eden puffed her chest out proudly. “It’s mine. I brought it.”

 

“Then I’ll write a five-star review,” he said. “Best service, adorable staff.”

 

Kit shook his head, eyes softening as he watched them. The room finally felt less sterile — less hospital, more home. Miles’ color had come back a bit. Eden’s nervous little frown had turned into giggles.

 

After a while, Miles leaned back against the pillows again, watching Kit move around the room, adjusting the curtains and checking the monitor as if he worked there. “You’re fussing again,” Miles said quietly.

 

“I’m making sure you’re okay,” Kit replied without looking back.

 

“I am okay,” Miles murmured, “because you’re here.”

 

Kit turned his head slightly, caught by the softness in his voice. “Don’t start getting sentimental on me.”

 

“I’m allowed,” Miles said with a lazy smile. “You’re cute when you worry.”

 

“I’m not cute, I’m tired,” Kit muttered, sitting back down.

 

Eden, now sitting cross-legged beside her father, blinked between them. “Are you gonna come home soon, Papa?”

 

Miles looked down at her, brushing her cheek gently. “As soon as the doctors say I can. I’ve got a whole list of things to do at home, you know.”

 

“Like what?” she asked.

 

“Hmm,” Miles hummed theatrically. “Steal some of your toys, bake terrible cookies, and sleep on your daddy until he complains.”

 

Kit snorted. “You already do that.”

 

Miles looked smug. “Exactly. I’m eager to resume my duties.”

 

Eden giggled again, then leaned in and whispered something too soft for Kit to hear.

 

Miles’ brows lifted. “You drew me something?”

 

She nodded shyly and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper from her little bag — a child’s drawing in uneven colors, all hearts and stick figures. A small blue one, a taller orange one, and a tiny golden one in between. Above them, big uneven letters read: *MY FAMLY.*

 

Miles’ throat went tight. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice cracking at the edges. “That’s the best medicine I’ve ever had.”

 

Kit leaned over to look. “She drew your hair better than mine.”

 

“That’s because yours doesn’t stay still,” Miles teased, reaching over to tousle his husband’s bangs before turning back to Eden. “Can I keep this?”

 

“It’s for you,” she said, nodding solemnly.

 

He folded it neatly and tucked it into the pocket of his robe. “Then it’s going right next to my heart.”

 

For a long, quiet minute, the room was filled with the steady beeping of the monitor and the hush of afternoon sunlight spilling through the window. Kit sat close enough that their knees touched, one hand resting gently on Miles’ wrist. Eden leaned against her father’s side, humming something tuneless.

 

“You know,” Miles murmured after a while, “you two should go home soon. I don’t want her to fall asleep here.”

 

“Not yet,” Kit said softly. “She wanted to see you awake. And so did I.”

 

Miles smiled faintly. “You’re both too good to me.”

 

Eden squirmed closer, her voice small and drowsy. “’Cause we love you, Papa.”

 

And for the first time since the operation, Miles let the tears come. He didn’t hide them this time — didn’t need to. Kit reached out, thumb brushing the corner of his eye, whispering, “Hey, don’t. You’re fine now.”

 

“I know,” Miles whispered back. “That’s why I’m crying.”

 

He reached out to pull them both close — Kit’s steady warmth on one side, Eden’s small heartbeat on the other. The world outside could wait. Right now, his heart felt full again.

 

Notes:

> ok so im like still tired but i think this migraine is going to linger for a while soo

> so while i was like rebooting my shit i had to make a u turn and choose how i want kit to be with kids
> so i did what any normal guy would do... used some spinning wheel app for it

> in summary, the fate of kitsunami prower was decided that day, and it was rather a positive fate to live
> agaiinn kits not a good or a bad father, he is something between. Miles is a good one

Chapter 105

✿

The smell of formaldehyde clung to the back room like memory — faintly sweet, faintly wrong. Stainless steel caught the harsh overhead light, and the walls gleamed too clean for a butcher shop. Kitsunami Starline stood over the dissection table, gloved hands steady, eyes bright with a detached sort of precision. The apron he wore was splattered in deep shades of crimson, streaked from shoulder to hem, the glossy stains of a long afternoon’s work.

 

The paw on the table twitched once under his scalpel — a reflex, nothing more — but Miles flinched anyway. Kit didn’t even look up.

 

“It’s just muscle memory,” he said calmly, voice level, tone almost amused. “A last protest of tissue. Quite poetic, isn’t it? The body remembering life long after the mind’s gone quiet.”

 

He made another incision, small and clean.

 

Miles stood a few feet back, packaging boxes on the counter. He was used to blood — or was trying to be — but this was different. Butchery was one thing. This was surgery turned inside out, stripped of mercy or purpose.

 

Kit’s fuchsia eyes darted briefly toward him. “You’re staring,” he said without looking offended. “Curiosity’s fine, Miles. Pretending you don’t have it is what makes you humanly boring.”

 

Miles hesitated. “I wasn’t—”

 

Kit interrupted. “You were. Everyone does. The first few months, the smell, the sounds — they unsettle you. But after a while, you learn that disgust is just fear with better vocabulary.” He gestured with the scalpel, speaking like a lecturer mid-lesson. “And fear, my dear intern, is dread of what you might understand if you stopped looking away.”

 

He spoke like this often — in paragraphs, like his own voice fascinated him. The way he said “dear intern” wasn’t affectionate, just a habit, as though he were amused by the pretense of professionalism.

 

Miles set another wrapped package onto the scale, avoiding looking at the table. “You talk a lot about understanding,” he said quietly. “What is there to understand in… that?”

 

Kit smirked faintly, flicking blood from his glove into the sink. “Anatomy, for one. Nature’s arrangements. Tendons, bone, fat, the quiet honesty of what keeps a creature upright. You can tell more about a soul from its muscles than its words.”

 

He glanced down, tracing the scalpel along the joint with reverence. “Do you know, I once took my residency exam on the morphology of Mobian hands? They said I was too meticulous for the operating room. Too… interested.”

 

He smiled at that, a small curve of the mouth that didn’t reach his eyes.

 

There were diplomas framed on the far wall — medical certificates, surgical licenses, all under the name Kitsunami Starline, M.D. His family’s butchery was merely the stage he returned to after medicine bored him. “You’d be surprised,” he went on, tone lilting, “how little separates a surgeon from a butcher. Precision and cleanliness, that’s all. The rest is decorum — language, tone, how many vowels you use when you say ‘specimen.’”

 

Miles swallowed hard. “You used to be a surgeon?”

 

Kit chuckled softly. “Still am, in theory. Licenses don’t expire when you change professions. Only reputations do.”

 

He peeled the glove from his right hand with a soft snap and tossed it aside. The air was colder now, touched with the metallic tang of blood. Miles caught himself staring again when Kit brushed his hair back with the same hand that had been buried in muscle moments ago.

 

Kit noticed. Of course he did. “Relax,” he said dryly. “I wash before I eat.”

 

The words slipped out like nothing, but Miles froze. His heart thudded once, hard. Kit turned toward him then, catching the way his face changed — the brief flicker of alarm, of knowing, or perhaps suspecting too much.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kit said softly, setting the scalpel down. “You of all people shouldn’t.”

 

Miles went still. “…What do you mean?”

 

Kit tilted his head, studying him like he was another specimen. “You’re not as clean as you think. You’re just quieter about your sins.”

 

Miles turned back to the counter, forcing himself to focus on his task. His hands shook slightly, crinkling the butcher paper.

 

Kit stepped closer, gloves half-off, voice low and conversational. “Tell me, does it still haunt you? The thing you did. The thing you tried to pray away?”

 

Miles froze mid-motion.

 

Kit’s tone softened, almost kind. “You see? I know that look. The same one I used to give my professors when they asked about ethics. The one that says, ‘I’ve already broken the rule, I just want to know if you’ll call it wrong.’”

 

He laughed quietly, a dry, deliberate sound. “Don’t worry. I’m not judging you. Judgment implies moral position, and I’ve been rid of that handicap for years.”

 

Miles’s voice cracked slightly. “You enjoy this.”

 

Kit didn’t deny it. “Enjoyment is a strong word. Let’s say I respect it. Violence has its own elegance. It doesn’t pretend to be anything else. Pain is language without lies.”

 

He turned back to the table, methodical again, tracing the edge of the paw as if the act soothed him. “You’d be amazed how much truth you can find in a body. When you cut deep enough, the answers are always honest.”

 

Miles watched him work — the calm posture, the precision of his movements, the unshaken rhythm. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t gag. He didn’t even blink when the muscles spasmed under his tools.

 

“You’re desensitized,” Miles said quietly.

 

Kit’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “No. I’m practiced.”

 

“You don’t feel anything.”

 

Kit looked up, eyes catching the light — fuchsia, bright, unnatural. “Feeling doesn’t make you moral. And lack of it doesn’t make you wrong.”

 

He rinsed the scalpel, his tone drifting somewhere between casual and philosophical. “You think the world rewards empathy, but all it ever does is get people killed. I prefer efficiency. It’s cleaner.”

 

Miles said nothing. The silence stretched, thick with the sound of water and metal. Kit filled it easily — he always did.

 

“You know,” he continued, “the body’s such a loyal thing. You can mutilate it, starve it, drown it — and it still clings to life with pathetic devotion. Even when you’ve already decided it’s over. There’s something beautiful about that, don’t you think?”

 

Miles’s throat tightened. “You call that beauty?”

 

Kit smiled, the kind that wasn’t meant to comfort. “Of course. Beauty doesn’t owe anyone gentleness.”

 

He pulled off the other glove and tossed it aside, revealing a clean, steady hand — surgeon’s hand. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Besides, I do wear protection. I’m not about to catch some unfortunate strain of hepatitis because someone else didn’t die tidy.”

 

Miles turned away. The sound of wrapping paper filled the space again, the quiet rustle of someone desperate for normalcy.

 

Kit leaned against the counter, watching him with the casual ease of a man in control of every breath that filled the room. “You should stop trying to pretend this is about work, Miles. You’re not here to learn to cut meat.”

 

Miles didn’t answer.

 

Kit’s smile deepened slightly. “You’re here because you want to understand. You want to know why it doesn’t leave your head. The taste, the thought, the hunger. You came here to see what it looks like when someone stops pretending it’s wrong.”

 

The silence that followed was unbearable.

 

Then Kit turned back to the table, almost cheerfully. “Now, grab the saline. Let’s see if this muscle still contracts when we stimulate it properly. Education, after all, never ends.”

 

And just like that, the dissection resumed — methodical, efficient, and quiet, except for the faint sound of flesh giving way to steel, and Kitsunami Starline’s soft humming under his breath, perfectly content in his work.

 

❀

 

The fluorescent light buzzed faintly above them. 

 

The butcher room smelled of iron, salt, and disinfectant. Miles sat on the counter, his gloves discarded beside him, his breathing uneven. Kit was cleaning his scalpel again, humming some long-forgotten tune. The hum never stopped — steady, almost mechanical — until Miles spoke.

 

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” Miles said suddenly, voice sharp in the quiet. “It wasn’t planned.”

 

Kit glanced up, expression unreadable. “Oh? Tell me, then. What was it supposed to be?”

 

Miles swallowed hard. “An argument. That’s all. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to kill her.” His hands shook, and he forced them still against his knees. “Cosmo just wouldn’t stop talking, she— she said I was losing it. That I was dangerous. I just wanted her to shut up.”

 

Kit tilted his head, wiping his blade with a cloth. “And so you made her quiet.”

 

“It was an accident,” Miles said, too fast.

 

“Of course,” Kit murmured, like he agreed. “Accidents have such curious timing, don’t they? Always when we mean something we don’t want to admit.”

 

Miles frowned, defensive. “You weren’t there. You don’t know.”

 

Kit smiled faintly. “You’re right. I wasn’t there. But I do know how hard it is to strangle someone by accident.”

 

The air froze. Miles looked at him, eyes wide. “I never said how she—”

 

Kit’s smile widened by a fraction, delicate and cruel. “Didn’t you?” He set the scalpel down, leaning on the counter, voice smooth as silk. “Maybe I just assumed. People who kill with guns speak in bursts, people who stab in slips, but stranglers… they pause before admitting it. You paused.”

 

“I didn’t—” Miles’s voice cracked, shaking now. “You’re twisting it.”

 

Kit leaned closer, eyes gleaming like glass. “Am I? Or are you simply uncomfortable hearing what your own mouth already confessed?”

 

Miles opened his mouth to argue, but Kit interrupted softly. “She fought you, didn’t she? Nails on your arm? You wore a jacket the next day to hide the marks.”

 

Miles froze completely. The sound of the cooler filled the silence. His breath hitched — shallow, trapped between disbelief and terror. “How do you know that?”

 

Kit’s tone softened, almost gentle. “Because you’ve been touching your left arm every time you talk about her.”

 

Miles jerked his hand away from his sleeve like it burned. Kit smiled again, slower this time. “It’s fascinating how the body remembers guilt even when the mouth doesn’t. Muscle memory, just like the paw earlier. The body never lies.”

 

“I said it was an accident,” Miles whispered.

 

“You did,” Kit said calmly. “And then you strangled her, buried her, dissolved her lower half in acid, and told yourself it was mercy. Which, technically, it was — in your mind. That’s the problem with good intentions, Miles. They rot faster than flesh.”

 

Miles shook his head, trembling. “Stop it.”

 

“Why? You came here to tell me,” Kit murmured, stepping closer. “You wanted to be heard, not forgiven. You wanted someone who wouldn’t flinch.”

 

Miles’s chest rose and fell quickly. “I wanted—”

 

Kit interrupted again, tone shifting so smoothly it almost sounded compassionate. “You wanted to believe you were still human.”

 

Miles’s eyes watered, but Kit’s stayed cold.

 

“You are,” Kit said after a moment, softly. “Just… the kind that remembers violence like a song. You hum it when you’re nervous, you dream it when you can’t sleep.”

 

Miles blinked rapidly, fighting it back. “You’re trying to make me sound like you.”

 

Kit laughed once, low and melodic. “Oh, darling, I don’t have to. You already do.”

 

He turned away, rinsing the scalpel again, his reflection fractured in the steel. “Do you know what I admire about you, Miles? You still think remorse means redemption. You think you can tell me this story, cry, and somehow earn your place back among the living.”

 

Miles whispered, “I’m not like you.”

 

Kit changed tone again — soft, playful, almost indulgent. “No, of course not. You’re kinder. Guiltier. That’s what makes you charming.” He glanced over his shoulder. “But charm fades when you keep lying to yourself.”

 

Miles pushed off the counter, voice trembling. “You twist every word I say.”

 

Kit’s smirk returned. “Only because you make them so malleable.”

 

He stepped closer, the room shrinking with his presence. “You say accident, I say choice. You say mercy, I say control. The language of killers is always romantic, isn’t it?”

 

Miles backed up against the counter, jaw tight. “I’m not a killer.”

 

“Then why does your voice tremble when you say her name?” Kit asked.

 

Miles said nothing. The hum of the lights filled the void between them.

 

Kit’s tone shifted once more — almost kind, but it dripped with mock empathy. “It’s alright. You don’t have to believe me. Just don’t insult both of us by pretending you don’t enjoy remembering it sometimes. The moment she went still.”

 

Miles’s stomach twisted. “You’re sick.”

 

Kit smiled, utterly unbothered. “Perhaps. But I’m honest.”

 

Then, just as easily, he returned to his tools, humming again, scalpel glinting under the lights. “Now,” he said lightly, “let’s not let the evening go to waste. You should practice the sutures while I finish the upper muscle group. Precision is, after all, what separates a good man from a messy one.”

 

Miles stared at him for a long time — at the calm hands, the bloodied apron, the bright, unshaken eyes — before he finally looked away, the ghost of Cosmo’s name catching somewhere between his breath and the hum of Kit’s tune.

 

✮ 

[BONUS]

The evening was closing in, cold and dim, the windows of Starline Butchery tinted with the gray of an overcast sky. The rain had started again — fine, drizzling rain that clung to the world like a second skin. Miles pulled off his gloves and wiped his palms against his apron, his movements stiff and deliberate, like a man forcing routine to suppress his thoughts.

 

Kit was at the cutting table again, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his fuchsia eyes gleaming under the fluorescent hum. His apron was streaked with drying maroon, his gloves peeled halfway off his fingers. There was a rhythm to him — methodical, meticulous — the kind of grace that came from habit, not heart. Miles had learned not to interrupt him mid-motion. Kit’s scalpel was just another extension of his hand, and it glided through the sinew of the slab in front of him with surgical care.

 

Miles cleared his throat. “I think I’ll head out for the day.”

 

Kit didn’t look up at first. “Mmh. Have you finished labeling the stockroom cuts?”

 

“Yeah.” Miles reached for his bag, half packed, the weight of coin envelopes and chilled packages inside. “All done. Left the invoices on your desk.”

 

“Good.” Kit’s tone was flat but approving. His blade clicked softly against the metal tray as he set it down. Then, with that lazy composure he was known for, he peeled his gloves off completely and tossed them into the bin. “You’re taking the parcel I prepared, right?”

 

Miles hesitated. “The— yeah. The one you said was a favor.”

 

Kit nodded once, drying his hands. “A little extra for your trouble. You’ve been working hard. I thought you deserved something richer than the usual fare.”

 

Miles tried to smile, awkward and small. “Appreciate it.”

 

Kit’s lips curved faintly. “You don’t need to thank me, Miles. Consider it... incentive.”

 

Miles blinked. “Incentive for what?”

 

Kit waved a dismissive hand. “For staying sane.”

 

There was no humor in his voice. No irony either — just that unnerving blend of sincerity and danger that Kit always wore so comfortably. Miles didn’t press the matter. He just slung the bag over his shoulder, careful not to let it bump against his hip, the parcel’s cold weight shifting inside.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Miles said quietly.

 

…

 

When had that started?

 

Miles couldn’t pinpoint it. Maybe it was during one of Kit’s rants about ethics, when he spoke like he was lecturing God Himself, pacing the butcher floor with blood still drying on his gloves. Or maybe it was the day Kit showed him how to separate muscle groups cleanly, his hand steady over Miles’s wrist, voice low and instructive. There had been something almost intimate in that moment — the proximity, the smell of iron and citrus cleanser, the cool certainty in Kit’s tone.

 

Now, as he stood beneath the dim streetlamp, rain soaking into the collar of his coat, he realized how much space Kit occupied in his mind. Too much.

 

He drew in a slow breath. The bag on his shoulder shifted again. He could smell it faintly through the wrapping — fresh, rich, metallic. Whatever Kit had packed for him, it wasn’t the cheap cuts reserved for the regulars. The scent alone made his stomach tighten with a confusing mix of hunger and guilt.

 

He hated himself for that.

 

The rain slicked the streets in silver. Miles started walking again, head low, the drizzle forming thin streams across his glasses. He replayed their conversation in his head, line by line, tone by tone — and realized how easily Kit’s words wrapped around him, guiding him, pressing just enough to make him question his own truth.

 

Kit never shouted, never accused. He nudged. And somehow, Miles always ended up in the place Kit wanted him to be.

 

He reached the tram stop. The street was almost empty, only the flicker of an old sign reflecting in the puddles. He set the bag down carefully at his feet, glancing inside — the wrapped meat, the neat envelope of cash, everything arranged with that same obsessive precision. A treat, Kit had called it. A favor.

 

The train roared past without stopping. Miles didn’t move. His reflection in the glass looked pale, unsteady. He imagined Kit’s smirk at seeing him like this — wet, nervous, clutching a parcel of flesh like a penitent man holding an offering.

 

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself. But his voice lacked conviction.

 

When he finally made it home, the small apartment smelled faintly of detergent and dust. He set the bag on the counter, peeled off his damp jacket, and stared at the neatly wrapped parcel for a long time. The string was tied with surgical precision, double-knotted.

 

He ran a thumb over it.

 

There was a warmth in his chest — shameful, soft, and unwanted — when he thought of Kit’s hands tying that knot, of the faint smile that always came after one of his “favors.”

 

It wasn’t gratitude he felt. It wasn’t quite fear either. It was fascination — dark, sticky, and persistent. The kind that crawled under the skin and stayed there.

 

Kitsunami Starline. Surgeon, butcher, sociopath, lover. Miles didn’t know which word fit best.

 

He unwrapped the first layer of paper. The meat was marbled, thick, pinkish-red even under the kitchen light. It looked almost too perfect.

 

He didn’t ask where it came from. He didn’t want to know.

 

He wrapped it back up quickly, pushed it into the fridge, and leaned against the counter. His reflection in the metal handle stared back — hollow-eyed, tired.

 

The clock ticked quietly in the silence.

 

Miles realized he’d been thinking of Kit again — his voice, his eyes, the way his laughter always carried a hint of something unreadable. Dangerous, yes. But not cruel. Never cruel.

 

He hated that thought most of all.

 

He should’ve felt disgust, fear, something pure and moral. But all he could summon was a strange, guilty calm.

 

In the corner of his mind, he could still hear Kit’s humming from earlier — soft, almost tender. Like a lullaby sung to a restless conscience.

 

Miles shut off the kitchen light and whispered, just to the dark: “Tomorrow.”

 

He didn’t know if it was a promise or a warning.

 

♪

 

BONUSES & PARTS THAT DIDN'T MAKE IT.

( not necessarily a threat. I don’t do this often, but I'm open to new shit. And also can’t get this out of my head. Might be grammar errors. )

> the part that didn't make it had a og convo that included kit saying “even for people like us.”miles thinks kit n him in some kind of not speaking but in a romantic relationship with each other when kit says that, kit meant the fact they're both cannibals (miles is a half one, he insists) rather than romantic interests but oh well a man can dream am i right lads

> butcher&cannibal kitsunami... and his beautiful intern.. ok so kit is like 29 and miles is 28-9.. 

> ok so maybbee he is also homosexual but that's besides the point. maybee he loves his intern too much but that's also besides the point... 

> they got this weird gay tension going onn... 

> also miles is mentally in a bad place, he is a fellow cannibal, ( half) but he is also in denial and always questioning his sanity.

> diplomas and kitsunami rants. he is quite the talker when he is persuaded. and also kitsunami is really desensitized to violence.

> Kitsunami's family business has been around for three generations. Surge is dead here. 

> Kitsunami did graduate. He is a surgeon. He was too smart for butchery, too emotionally stupid for social studies. Starline died when he was studying. Kitsunami had to take over. Never wanted it.

> Kitsunami holds zero sadness for that man. Quite the opposite, he wished to kill him. His family wasn’t abusive, he had a great childhood, family was present. He was born that way. His mother died in birth, despite all he never questioned his lack of parental figure. He figured out easily that his mother died. Surge was older than him, and first to go. Well, they never got along anyways.

 

> Kitsunami knows Surge had forced an overdose on their “father” then overdosed herself later on. He read her diary, and she had a brutal sense of punishment, especially for her younger brother whom she always quietly found guilty of killing ‘her’ mother. “Let the punishment fit its crime,” she wrote. Good thing Kitsunami didn’t care about them. But now, he is stuck to this butchery. Note that he is the first cannibal in the Starline generations. 

> for kitsunami taste test

> ohh mii miless… as told he kills cosmo, argument is unnecessary, as he frankly just wanted her to disappear. An act of interest blooming in the strangest hobby really. The intern shit was necessary one; he was poor, rent was due, his family didn't have a homosexual son no more to send money to, and he had dignity. 

> what he likes about kit is those fuchsia eyes.

> for miles' tastes

> author says she was still in acid when he started the intern job. And yes, the flower emoji on cosmo confession isn’t random. 

 

Notes:

> istg this chem teacher is obsessed w me. and the fact she is preggers too so i dont wanna say anything abt it... atleast her course today was empty, like, she didnt came to class. took attendance too. generous today

> happy very early halloween. Exams will start at last week of oct, and i am buried in homeworks. whoops!
> i need to fix formatting shit cuz while editing it in docs it looks beautiful but when copy pasted on ao3 it is ass

Chapter 106

Notes:

andrea is eden. retcon shit yea. now it is andrea eden prower. cuz andrea sounds cooler. and i updated kittails guide shits. ok just kits but oh well ill get my paws on miles soon. no promises tho

alsoo do not click on links , open seperate browser for them.. or dont. dont say i didnt warn u though

Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, catching on Kitsunami’s hair and the bright red sunglasses perched on his head like a crown. The living room looked like a battlefield of sunglasses—round, square, aviator, mirrored—sprawled across the floor, while two-month-old Andrea cooed happily from her perch on his lap.

 

“Alright, Andrea,” Kit muttered, scratching his cheek and holding up two pairs dramatically, one in each hand. “Your old man’s torn between mysterious biker and... I dunno, midlife crisis pop star. You decide.”

 

Andrea gurgled, tiny paws waving in the air until one smacked against the red pair. Kit blinked, then smirked. “Oh, you would go for the flashy ones.”

 

She kicked her legs like she’d just won a prize, and Kit huffed a laugh, sliding the red shades onto his face. He leaned toward the mirror. The reflection that looked back at him made him snort.

 

“Oh great,” he said, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “Your papa looks like he’s auditioning for a reboot of Homestuck. What’s next, I start quoting Dave Strider at breakfast?”

 

Andrea squealed in response, and Kit squinted at her. “You think that’s funny, huh?” He leaned closer, rubbing his nose against hers until she giggled again, all gummy smile and sparkling eyes. “You got jokes for two months old, kiddo. Real comedian.”

 

He was still sitting there, cross-legged and smitten, when Miles came down the hall, half-dressed and looking way too put-together for this hour. “Kit,” Miles called, stopping at the doorway. “You’ve been in here since six. Please tell me you’re not still picking shades.”

 

Kit looked up, deadpan but grinning underneath. “Correction—we’re picking shades. The little one’s got strong opinions.”

 

Miles raised an eyebrow, walking over. “She’s two months old.”

 

“Yeah,” Kit said with mock pride, holding Andrea a little higher, “and she already knows her old man needs to look like a legend.”

 

Miles took one look at him—the red-tinted lenses, the cocky smirk, the messy ponytail barely hanging on—and started laughing. “You look like you’re about to drop a mixtape and ghost your bandmates.”

 

Kit gasped, hand over his chest. “You wound me.”

 

Andrea started giggling again, the sound bubbling up like she was in on the joke. Kit looked down at her with a grin that softened all the rough edges of his tone. “See? She thinks I look cool.”

 

Miles crouched beside them, brushing his thumb against Andrea’s cheek. “No, she thinks you’re funny.”

 

“Funny and cool,” Kit corrected, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his daughter’s forehead. “You picked the best ones, baby girl. We’re gonna go stun the world together.”

 

Miles smiled, quiet and fond. “You mean we’re going to the park.”

 

“Same thing,” Kit said, standing up and adjusting Andrea carefully against his shoulder. “World tour starts at the sandbox.”

 

Miles shook his head but followed him to the door, grabbing an medium sized bag. “You really let her pick those, huh?”

 

“She’s got good taste,” Kit replied, red shades glinting as he glanced back with a grin. “You should’ve seen the way she smacked the others away. Total style queen.”

 

Miles leaned over, brushing a kiss to Kit’s cheek before opening the door. “You’re hopeless.”

 

“And you love me for it,” Kit said easily, bumping their shoulders together.

 

Andrea let out a little coo between them, as if to agree. Kit looked down at her, face softening all over again. “Hear that, sweetheart? That’s teamwork. You, me, and your classy little sense of chaos.”

 

Miles sighed, smiling despite himself. “You’re raising her to be just like you, aren’t you?”

 

“Of course,” Kit grinned, stepping out into the morning light, his tail flicking lazily behind him. “One stylish menace at a time.”

 

And as Andrea babbled happily against his chest, her tiny paw clutching the edge of his loud red shades, Miles couldn’t even argue—because somehow, against all odds, the two of them really did look perfect together.

 

Notes:

> omfg Homestuck in my gay sonic fanfictionn...
> ok not a big fan but im a 2018 fan so im like. gen y fan rather than newgen ok..
> i rlly love dave strider.. i forgot how much he affected my persona since 2018..
> also today is sunday so its just gonna be fluff. sundays are fluff coded, thank u very much
> anyways this coding shit is awesome i didnt realize it would be this fuckin awesome ( and cool ) to do. dont need to explain yall anything. this like, wheel getting invented type shi important... dont need to mind abt yall getting the refs or not.. beautiful

Chapter 107

The first time Miles walked into that fluorescent-lit lab again, Kitsunami thought the air turned sour. Not because of the chlorine, not because of the heat from the calibration units — but because he was here, walking in like he owned the place, clipboard under one arm, eyes sharp and tired in that way Kit remembered too well.

“Miles Prower, consultant,” the fox said simply, tone clipped, all business. “I’m here to oversee the manual revisions for the new hydropack series.”

Kit froze mid-sentence, chalk still in hand. The board behind him read: PRESSURE STABILIZATION UNDER TIDAL CONSTRAINTS. His handwriting looked messier than usual.

“Of course you are,” he muttered, half under his breath, half venom. “Because clearly I can’t be left alone for five minutes without a ghost from my past crawling out of the damn vents.”

The students exchanged glances — confused, nervous — but Kit waved them off. “Class dismissed. Now. Don’t forget to actually read your safety modules before next week unless you enjoy explosions.”

Once the room emptied, only the hum of the machinery remained. Miles hadn’t moved. He set his folder on the desk, neat as ever, and looked at Kit with that maddening calm.

“You still don’t prepare notes,” Miles said after a pause.

“I do,” Kit shot back, crossing his arms. “Just not for people who don’t listen.”

“That’s a lie,” the fox said, voice quiet, but cutting. “You never did. You used to wing everything, drove me insane.”

Kit’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, well. Some things change.”

It was a lie. He’d started keeping notes the year Miles left. A stupid habit at first — diagrams, numbers, field readings — all scrawled in the margins of old manuals. Then it became something like therapy. If he couldn’t talk to Miles, he could at least write down why things fell apart. Now those same notes were the backbone of the department’s curriculum.

“You got older,” Miles said, flipping through the pages on the desk. His voice softened for a heartbeat. “Smarter, maybe. Or just more bitter.”

“Don’t start.” Kit sank into his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re not here to psychoanalyze me. You’re here to make sure my students don’t drown when they turn these things on.”

Miles tilted his head. “Fair enough. But if we’re updating the manual, we’ll need your field notes from the flood control tests. You still have them?”

Kit reached into a drawer, pulling out a thick, water-damaged notebook bound in tape. He slapped it onto the table between them. “Every single failure, in ink. Happy?”

Miles opened it, scanning the messy handwriting. The ink bled in places where saltwater had touched it. “You still write like you’re running from something,” he said, almost to himself.

Kit gave a humorless laugh. “I was. From you, mostly.”

Miles didn’t answer. For a while, only the machines filled the silence. The two of them stood there — one leaning against the counter, the other flipping pages — and it felt like standing on a fault line waiting for the quake.

Finally, Miles exhaled. “Page thirty-eight,” he said, sliding the notebook back. “Your turbine ratios are off by a decimal. I’ll fix it.”

Kit bristled. “You think I can’t handle my own data?”

“I think you work better with someone checking your math,” Miles replied evenly. “Always have, really.”

That tone — calm, infuriating, right — made Kit’s pulse spike. He grabbed another folder just to have something to do with his hands. “You know, some people would call this a conflict of interest. You, me, sharing a lab after—”

“After nothing,” Miles cut in. “After we failed. That’s all.”

It should’ve stung less after all these years. It didn’t.

Kit’s voice dropped, low and rough. “Don’t talk like that in my classroom.”

Miles looked up then, finally meeting his eyes — the same strange blue-brown Kit used to memorize. For a fleeting second, there was that pull again, the silent current between them that neither could fully resist nor explain.

“Fine,” Miles said, stepping back. “Professional only. I’ll send the draft edits tonight.”

“Do that.”

Miles turned to leave, his tails brushing the edge of the desk. Kit almost said something — something stupid like you still smell like copper and ozone— but he bit it down hard enough to taste blood.

When the door closed, the silence felt heavier than before. Kit sank down again, opening the notebook to page thirty-eight. Sure enough, the decimal was wrong. Miles was right, as always.

He fixed it with a pencil, the lead scratching faintly across the page. Then he added something else in the margin — small, hidden, in the curve of his handwriting.

Don’t let him see you slip again.

The rain started outside, tapping against the window in rhythm with the machines. Kit reached for the next page and began writing — cleaner this time, slower. Because if Miles was going to see his work again, it had to be perfect.

For the one man who’d left him behind, but still, somehow, made him want to be better.

✦

The storm outside was bad enough to shake the old classroom windows — fat drops of rain beating against the panes like impatient fists. Inside, the hum of the hydropack prototype filled the silence, steady, mechanical, and alive. Miles stood beside it, coat half off, the scent of ozone and ink following him like old habits.

Kitsunami had been quiet for too long. Too still. His hands rested on the table’s edge, white-knuckled, eyes half-lidded in that unreadable way that usually came right before something snapped.

“Don’t,” Miles warned softly. “You’re shaking. Just… breathe, alright?”

Kit’s jaw twitched. “You think I need your advice now?”

“Might help.”

That did it. Kit’s voice rose like a tide. “You don’t get to tell me what helps, Miles! You leave, you come back, you walk into my class, my lab, acting like you know me from heart!”

Miles didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence said enough. It was the same silence that used to fill their apartment years ago — the one that said you’re both too stubborn to apologize, so kiss instead.

Kit slammed his hand on the desk, papers flying. “You’re still the same— same smug bastard with your notes and your little clipped voice—”

“And you’re still impossible,” Miles muttered back, stepping closer without realizing it.

Kit’s glare faltered. Just for a second. Because Miles was close now — too close, the kind of close that made the static between them unbearable. Kit could feel his breath, the warmth of it cutting through the damp chill of the room.

“Get out,” Kit said, though his voice didn’t sound like he meant it.

“Yeah,” Miles murmured, eyes flicking down. “Sure.”

Neither of them moved.

It was something stupid — the way Miles’ hand brushed over the scattered papers, or maybe how Kit’s pulse jumped when their fingers grazed. But the moment snapped like a frayed wire. Miles reached up before he could stop himself, his fingers finding Kit’s jaw, and then there was that first, ugly, hungry crash of mouths.

It wasn’t tender — it was years of unsaid words, of old fights and unfinished sentences. Kit grabbed the front of Miles’ shirt, pulling him hard against the table, nearly sending a stack of tools tumbling. Miles didn’t care. He kissed back with that same fierce control he used to hold when they were younger — but Kit bit at his lip, dragged him down with him, breathing rough and angry.

The hum of the hydropack filled the background, flickering light against the walls like they were underwater.

Miles’ voice broke between kisses. “You’re still—”

“—mad?” Kit hissed against his mouth. “Always. You left, remember?”

“And you let me.”

Kit froze for half a breath — and that was all it took for Miles to kiss him again, desperate now. Kit’s hands found the back of his neck, fingers curling into the soft fur there, pulling him closer until the noise in his head finally shut up.

Miles’ clipboard hit the floor. The rain hit harder. And the classroom — old, leaking, cluttered — turned into the only place they could pretend they weren’t still wrecked.

When they finally broke apart, both panting, Kit laughed. It wasn’t kind. “Still can’t stay away, huh?”

Miles smirked faintly, thumb brushing the edge of Kit’s mouth. “Still taste like trouble.”

Kit shoved him lightly, more of a touch than a push. “You’re late for your meeting.”

“Guess I’ll make it up to you,” Miles said, stepping back, collecting himself like nothing had happened. But his tails gave him away — twitching, restless, betraying nerves.

When he left, Kit sat down hard, running a hand over his face. His lips were swollen. His notes were a mess. His heart wouldn’t slow down.

And somewhere across campus, Rose absolutely lost her mind when she got the text she’d been waiting for from the janitor she bribed to “check in” on the Hydro Lab.

 [ROSE]: I TOLD YOU!!! I TOLD YOU THEY’D MAKE OUT FIRST!!! જ⁀➴ᡣ𐭩( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ
[ROSE]: PAY UP, SONIC!!!
[SONIC]: nah no way ugh no way
[ROSE]: DOUBLE POINTS FOR ME (≡^∇^≡)

Rose twirled her phone, smug grin spreading as she typed another message.

[ROSE]: Mission “fix the divorced sea disaster” is ACCOMPLISHED!! U owe TWO HUNDRED AND FIVE DOLLARS (❛◡˂̵ ̑̑✧)

Back in the lab, Kit stared at the hydropack light still flickering on the desk. His reflection looked older, softer maybe — and damn it, Miles still kissed like he owned the room.

He reached for his pen, flipping to a blank page in his notebook, and started writing.
Not equations this time. Just a line, rough and quick:

 Stop pretending you hate him. You don’t.

---

BONUSES

> cuz i just wanted to write kit as a prof 

---

𝄞

The university always smelled faintly of dust and chlorine. Kitsunami couldn’t decide which he hated more — the stench of dry textbooks or the wet hum of the filtration systems he’d personally helped repair two semesters ago. His classroom was tucked into the older wing of the Hydro-Engineering Department, a relic of when the campus actually cared about aquatic sciences. Now it was just him, the so-called miracle professor of a discipline no one bothered to fund anymore.

 

He showed up five minutes late on purpose. The students were already seated — or pretending to be — when the door opened, his damp ponytail swinging with each step. The projector flickered weakly as he dropped his satchel on the desk.

 

“Alright,” he muttered, flipping through a stack of thin papers. “Who still doesn’t know how to calibrate a hydropack?”

 

No one answered. They rarely did.

 

Kit sighed, leaning back in the chair that creaked every time he moved. “You all act like this is optional,” he said, his tone dry. “News flash — it’s not. You can’t simulate water pressure efficiency on a textbook. You get your hands dirty, or you fail.”

 

His voice carried that sharp, tired authority that made the room shift uncomfortably. He didn’t raise it; he didn’t need to. His reputation did the work for him. The youngest professor on staff — and the only one still field-certified in hydrofusion work — but also, apparently, the most unapproachable. He didn’t mind that label.

 

A student in the front row raised her hand timidly. “Professor Kitsunami, the schematics for the turbines—”

 

“On the drive,” he cut in, not even glancing up. “If you can’t find it, you shouldn’t be in my course.”

 

The words fell flat in the room, but that was his rhythm. Harsh, efficient, unrelenting. There wasn’t time to sugarcoat things for undergrads who wanted easy credits.

 

He turned toward the window, staring at the artificial pond beyond the campus courtyard. The water shimmered under the lights — filtered, lifeless, still. Just how he liked his classrooms: quiet.

 

“Alright,” Kit said finally, standing and clicking the holoscreen to life. “You’ll be running diagnostics on these units. Don’t touch the intake valves unless you want third-degree burns.”

 

He walked between the rows, boots echoing softly against the tile. The scent of saline and oil hung in the air. Every few steps, he’d stop to correct a student’s stance or loosen a grip on a wrench. His movements were deliberate — careful, but impatient.

 

“Not like that,” he said, stepping close behind one student fumbling with a valve control. “Counterclockwise, not clockwise. You’re not fighting the water; you’re guiding it.”

 

The student stammered something. Kit ignored it, adjusting the setting himself with a click. “There. Try not to break it this time.”

 

By the end of the session, most of the class looked exhausted. Kit wasn’t impressed. He dismissed them without ceremony, and when the door shut behind the last one, the silence was heavy enough to make him breathe again.

 

He lingered, fingers tracing the cool metal of the hydropack sitting on his desk — an older model, one he’d built himself back when he was still field-testing. The seals were rusting, and the core hummed unevenly, but it still worked. It was stubborn. 

 

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. Teaching wasn’t what he wanted to do with his life. It was what paid the bills. The university’s offer had been too good to refuse, and he had mouths to feed, obligations to meet. He didn’t like admitting that part — that he wasn’t here out of passion or loyalty to science.

 

He was here because being Professor Kitsunami was the only thing keeping him from drowning in debt.

 

Outside, the rain started — steady, tapping softly on the window. It smelled like the sea, faint and distant. For a moment, he forgot the sterile lights and the endless paperwork waiting in his inbox. He just sat there, letting the sound fill the room, the edges of his irritation dulling.

 

“Tomorrow,” he muttered to himself, “they’ll break another pump.”

 

He smiled faintly, dry and humorless, before grabbing his coat and heading out. The hallways were empty, lights dimmed to night mode. His reflection in the glass looked tired, but alive. He’d make it through another semester — he always did.

 

And maybe, just maybe, one of those kids would actually learn how to listen to the water.

Notes:

> bark if u want em blondie fox lips
> yes this is importanr for kit actually... tho i wont include that in here since it wont be ship related

> yes he is an ass proffesor u probably would drop his course.
>

> this took soooo long i was burnt out almost was going to get lolcow'd got into argument cuz i could and the bitch was annoying as fuck #someofyallneedtofumbled

Chapter 108

Notes:

humanau.. hehe

It was the kind of cold that bit bone-deep—the air sharp enough to sting, the wind slipping down the neck of Kit’s jacket like it had a grudge. Snow powdered the ground in thin, glittering sheets, the Scottish countryside rolling out in quiet, endless white. Kit had his hands shoved into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched, breath fogging around the scarf that did a poor job keeping him warm. The only splash of rebellion against the weather was the pair of tinted shades perched on his nose, fogged slightly from the cold.

 

Miles, of course, was thriving. He stood ahead on the path, cheeks flushed pink from the wind, his blond hair tucked under a beanie that had a wee pom-pom on top. His grin could’ve melted a glacier.

 

“C’mon, slowpoke!” Miles called, voice carrying that easy rhythm of his. “You’re walkin’ like the snow’ll bite ye!”

 

“It is bitin’ me, carajo,” Kit muttered, his Spanish accent thickening with every shiver. “My legs are freezin’, my face is freezin’, and my soul? Also freezin’.”

 

Miles laughed, waiting for him to catch up. “You said you wanted to see my home in winter!”

 

“I wanted to see you in winter, mi amor. Not die in it.”

 

When Kit reached him, Miles slipped an arm around his waist and pressed close. “You’re dramatic.”

 

“Dramático y congelado.” [“Dramatic and frozen.”]

 

Miles chuckled, rubbing Kit’s back through the layers. “You look ridiculous in those sunglasses, by the way.”

 

“Laugh all you want, chico,” Kit said, flicking a gloved finger against Miles’s beanie, “but my eyes ain’t made for this bright hell. Ocular albinismo’s still kickin’ my ass.”

 

Miles’ smile softened. “Aye, I know. Still think ye look like a right movie star.”

 

Kit smirked despite himself. “Of course I do. You married class, baby.”

 

They walked together, boots crunching through the snow, the smell of pine and distant hearthfire drifting from the cottages nearby. Miles swung their joined hands lazily, humming something festive under his breath—an old carol, a bit off-key but charming all the same. Kit listened, grinning.

 

“Never thought I’d spend Christmas surrounded by frozen sheep and tiny houses with smoke comin’ outta them,” Kit teased.

 

Miles elbowed him. “You’re such a brat.”

 

“And you love me for it.”

 

He did. That was the problem. Miles leaned in close, bumping their foreheads together just to steal a kiss in the middle of the road. His lips were cold, a little chapped, and Kit caught himself smiling like a fool into it. The whole world smelled like snow and pine needles and something sweet he couldn’t name.

 

When they reached the little stone cottage Miles had rented, Kit stood there a moment, snowflakes melting against his shades, watching the smoke curl from the chimney. “Looks like somethin’ outta a postcard,” he said quietly.

 

Miles squeezed his hand. “Wait till you see it inside.”

 

The place was small but cozy—fireplace already lit, thick blankets draped over the couch, mugs waiting on the table. Kit dropped his coat the second they stepped in, shaking the snow from his hair. “Gracias a Dios,” he muttered, heading straight for the fire.  ["Thank goodness,"]

 

Miles laughed and followed, tugging off his gloves. “You warmin’ up or meltin’ down?”

 

“Both.” Kit crouched close to the flames, eyes half-shut in relief. “How do you live in this weather, cariño?”

 

Miles bent over and kissed the top of his head. “Whisky. And cuddles. We’ve got both.”

 

Kit tilted his head back, catching Miles by the scarf and pulling him down for another kiss. This one was slow—heat meeting chill, snow still melting on their lips. “You better keep me alive, Scotsman,” Kit murmured against his mouth.

 

Miles grinned, voice low. “You’ll survive. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

They ended up curled under a blanket on the couch, a fire roaring, mugs steaming with cocoa and whisky. Miles talked about his childhood winters—sledding, terrible carol singing, his mum insisting he wear two pairs of socks. Kit listened, smiling faintly, playing with a lock of blond hair that had escaped Miles’s beanie.

 

When the wind howled outside, Kit glanced toward the frosted window and then back to his husband, who looked right at home in the glow of the fire. “Y’know,” Kit said softly, “I’d freeze my ass off a hundred times if it meant seein’ you this happy.”

 

Miles nudged his shoulder. “Aye, I’ll hold ye to that next year.”

 

Kit chuckled. “Next year I’m pickin’ the destination. Somewhere with sun. I wanna see you complain about sweatin’ for once.”

 

“Deal,” Miles said, laughing, and pulled him closer until they both fit under the same blanket, fire crackling in rhythm with their breath.

Notes:

> im obsessed w his aye's ksjskjsjs
> also i hate any number that has 9 in it so chap110 will be out this sunday probabblyy...
> and yes human au is not same as my usual onee,,things happen differently in human au
> quick fun fact or whatever, i took speedy gonzales as an example for kits accent...

> FURTHERMORE SCOTLAND ISS GORGEOUS AT WINTER!! and also my ass is cold as fuck rn so im tryna cope yuh..

Chapter 109

Notes:

more human au n loredrop

The fire popped softly, throwing gold and orange shadows across the small Scottish cottage. Snow whispered against the windowpanes, and Kit sat cross-legged on the rug, a blanket thrown over his shoulders like a makeshift cloak. Miles was on the couch behind him, one hand buried lazily in Kit’s brown-and-blue hair, twisting a loose strand between his fingers.

 

The scent of cocoa and woodsmoke filled the room, quiet except for their breathing.

 

“You ever gonna tell me why you started dyin’ it blue?” Miles asked, voice gentle but curious.

 

Kit chuckled under his breath, the sound low and a little crooked. “You’re only askin’ ‘cause you think it’s cute.”

 

“Aye,” Miles said, smiling, “but I still wanna know.”

 

Kit tilted his head back, letting his gaze rest on the ceiling beams. “Started when I was nineteen,” he said, voice half fond, half sharp. “Was livin’ in my cousin’s garage back then. Family kicked me out after I came out—‘cause, y’know, apparently bein’ gay was worse than murder in that house.” He laughed quietly, not bitter, just tired in a way that had turned soft with time.

 

Miles shifted, hand moving to rub the back of Kit’s neck. “That rough, huh?”

 

“Rough’s one word for it.” Kit’s grin flickered back, faint but honest. “Figured if they were gonna call me a freak, I might as well look like one. So I dyed it blue. My cousin helped—she spilled half the dye, cried, and then we laughed till we passed out.”

 

Miles hummed quietly. “You kept it since.”

 

“Yeah. Thought about changin’ it once, but then…” Kit shrugged. “It’s kinda my thing now. Little badge of honor. The ‘I survived your bullshit’ color.”

 

He twisted around to look at Miles, shades still on despite the flicker of firelight. His eyes, sensitive and half-hidden, reflected a bit of amber. “Besides,” he added with a smirk, “I look hot in blue.”

 

Miles laughed softly. “That you do.”

 

Kit’s smirk eased into something gentler, something quieter. “I got a little sister, though. Haven’t seen her in years. Heard from my cousin she’s… well, probably some kind of homo too. Guess it runs in the blood.”

 

Miles smiled faintly, leaning forward to rest his chin on Kit’s shoulder. “Good genes, then.”

 

“Yeah,” Kit said with a short laugh. “And my uncle—pfft, that man found himself a sugar daddy when I was twenty. One rich old guy with a boat, fancy clothes, the whole deal. My uncle said, ‘If God’s gonna judge me, he better do it while I’m on a yacht.’”

 

Miles snorted. “Sounds like he’s got it figured out.”

 

“Oh, he does. He only sucks one cock, and he’s loyal to it. Won’t let that man go even if he begged.” Kit shook his head, laughing harder now. “Family’s wild, cariño. Half of ‘em holy rollers, half of ‘em sinners, and I’m the idiot who just wanted to surf and fall in love.”

 

Miles pressed a kiss to his temple. “And ye did.”

 

“Yeah,” Kit murmured, voice softening. “I did.”

 

The fire crackled again, filling the silence that followed. Miles’ fingers moved back to his hair, combing through it lazily. Kit leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering half-shut. For all the mess behind him, the noise and the exile and the blue dye that became his armor, this moment—warmth, laughter, Miles’ steady heartbeat against his back—felt like home.

 

He let out a quiet sigh. “Never thought I’d end up here, y’know? Snow outside, whisky in my veins, Scottish husband makin’ fun of my accent…”

 

Miles chuckled against his neck. “You make it sound like paradise.”

 

Kit smiled, tilting his head just enough to steal a kiss. “It kinda is.”

 

⋆˚✿˖°

 

The fire had burned low, leaving the room in that half-light where shadows stretched and everything seemed slower. Kit was sprawled halfway against Miles, blanket half-slipped off his shoulders. The air between them felt heavy with warmth and smoke, the kind that pressed against skin and asked for more.

 

Miles had meant to keep talking, but his words kept dying somewhere between Kit’s smirk and the quiet rhythm of his breath. The blue in Kit’s hair caught what little firelight was left, and his mouth curved like he knew exactly how distracting that was.

 

“Yer starin’,” Miles said finally, his accent soft but unmissable.

 

Kit tilted his head, lips quirking. “’Cause you’re lookin’ at me like I just said something smart.”

 

Miles huffed a laugh. “You rarely do.”

 

That earned him a snort, but Kit didn’t pull back. Instead, he leaned closer until the world shrank to the sound of their breathing and the crackle of burning wood. His fingers brushed the side of Miles’s jaw, slow and rough from years of saltwater and boards, before he muttered, “You’ve got no clue what you do to me, cariño.”

 

Miles’ hand slid up the back of Kit’s neck, fingers catching in blue-dyed strands. “I’ve got some idea.”

 

Their mouths met halfway—messy, unhurried, all teeth and heat at first. It wasn’t soft; it was something more like claiming space. Kit’s hand bunched in Miles’s shirt, dragging him closer until the edge of the couch groaned under their combined weight. Miles kissed back like he had something to prove, like he could outlast the cold outside with just this.

 

When they broke apart for air, Kit’s shades slipped a little down his nose. Miles caught the movement, a glimpse of something behind the dark lenses—color, bright and unreal in the low light.

 

“Take those off,” Miles murmured.

 

Kit hesitated, thumb brushing the bridge of the glasses. “You know my eyes don’t do well with the light.”

 

“It’s nearly dark,” Miles said quietly. “Humor me.”

 

Kit sighed, the kind of sound that said he didn’t really mean it, and slid the shades off. For a second, the dim firelight caught the color of them—fuchsia, deep and sharp, unnatural against his olive skin. They weren’t gentle eyes. They looked alive.

 

Miles stared longer than he meant to. “Bloody hell,” he breathed.

 

Kit blinked, a little defensive. “What?”

 

“They’re… somethin’ else.” Miles leaned closer again, not smiling now, just watching the way they caught the reflection of the flames. “You hide those for a reason?”

 

Kit shrugged, leaning back enough to reach for his drink. “They hurt if I’m not careful. Light feels like needles sometimes. Been like that since I was a kid.” He took a sip and added dryly, “Also, people don’t exactly know how to act when you’ve got eyes that look like they came from a sci-fi flick.”

 

Miles chuckled, low and rough. “Aye, well. You’re still the prettiest bastard in the room.”

 

“Only bastard in the room,” Kit said, but the grin that followed ruined the bite.

 

Miles reached out, dragging him back by the front of his shirt. The kiss this time was slower, heavier, like both of them knew what came next and didn’t care to rush it. Kit tasted like whisky and warmth, like something hard-earned.

 

Between breaths, Miles whispered against his mouth, “You don’t have to hide ‘em from me.”

 

Kit let out a quiet laugh. “That’s ‘cause you’re blinded by love or the liquor.”

 

“Bit of both,” Miles said, biting lightly at his lip.

 

Kit tilted his head back, firelight licking over his face, those fuchsia eyes half-lidded. “You really think they’re that nice?”

 

Miles nodded once, steady. “They’re bloody mesmerizin’. If they weren’t so sensitive, I’d make ye keep ‘em open.”

 

Kit chuckled, low in his throat. “That’s a hell of a thing to say, cariño.”

 

“True though,” Miles muttered, brushing his thumb under Kit’s jaw. “You’ve got stars in your head and the devil in your eyes.”

 

Kit grinned, lazy and unbothered. “Guess that makes you the poor bastard who married both.”

 

Miles kissed him again before answering, rougher this time, his hand sliding to the back of Kit’s neck, pulling him close until the world went soft around the edges. The room smelled like pine and smoke and heat, their breaths mingling in short, uneven bursts.

 

When they finally broke apart, Kit’s shades dangled from his fingers, forgotten. “You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, voice rough, “and I’ll start thinkin’ you like me for more than my ass.”

 

Miles smirked. “Aye, well. It’s a good ass.”

 

“Better be,” Kit said, shifting closer, lips still hovering near his. “You married it.”

 

The fire crackled again, light bouncing off the edges of Kit’s blue hair and those impossible eyes. Miles looked at him one more time, that half-smile turning real, and said quietly, “I did. And I’d do it again.”

 

Kit only rolled his eyes, muttering something in Spanish that Miles couldn’t catch—but the way he kissed him right after said enough.

 

 

Notes:

> um.. hi..
> i hope im not overdoing the accents.

> and yeah the uncle is Starline, the sugar daddy is clutch..
> that makes surge the cousin here yea

> while as stated in the previous chapter that humanau and my casual au is not same, the fact Starline is surge & kit's uncle stays true in my casual au as well.

> This was such a bad way to say, but my friend said
something so explicit about clutch and starline back in the day, mentally im still there. Look before that statement, i thought we had like, formal friendship yea? then this bro formes the most slutty starline sentence that i couldnt even think about typing. we bonded over slutty starline.. 🥲

> honestly yeah starline is a fucking freak can see the potential 👀

Chapter 110

Notes:

> quick wish for something its chap111 !!!!!!

The city had turned to rain.
Thick, slanted sheets of it, swallowing streetlights, blurring edges, soaking everything until the pavement shone like glass. Kit stood under the flickering neon of a closed diner sign, his jacket heavy with water, his heartbeat loud in his ears. His shades hid most of it—the twitch in his eyes, the exhaustion—but they couldn’t hide how tightly his jaw was set.

Miles stood opposite him, tails dripping, eyes dim and swollen with the kind of weariness that doesn’t come from sleepless nights but from carrying too much for too long. They were twenty-five now, grown, seasoned, too old for the games they used to play, too old to pretend bruises healed just because morning came.

“Say that again,” Kit muttered, voice low, measured, barely audible over the rain. His gloved hands were clenched, one trembling slightly. “Go on. You said it once, say it again.”

Miles didn’t meet his eyes. He never did when it mattered. “Kit,” he said, calm at first, then quieter, “you’re not listening to me.”

“I am listening.” Kit took a step forward. His boots splashed water, and the reflection of the neon cut across the puddle like a wound. “I’ve been listening for months now. You said we’d figure it out as we go. You said I was what you always wanted.” His voice cracked at the end, raw, but the anger was still there, steady. “Now you’re here, in the rain, talking like we’re something you can walk away from, after all this.”

Miles sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve been fighting more than talking. You know that. It’s not working. We are not working together.”

“Not working?” Kit repeated. His mouth twisted. “That’s what you’ve got? That’s the line you give when you’re bored with someone, not when you’re the one who begged me to stay through all your shit.”

“I didn’t beg you,” Miles said, though it came out too fast, too defensive. “You wanted to stay.”

Kit laughed under his breath, disbelieving. “You’re really gonna make it sound like that was my mistake, huh?” He pulled the shades down just enough for the streetlight to catch the pink glint of his eyes. “You said you wanted me. You said you—”

“I did,” Miles interrupted, sharp now, though his tone faltered halfway through. “I did. But wanting something doesn’t mean you can handle it.”

That did it. Something in Kit’s chest twisted.

He stared at Miles, at his soaked fur and his uneven breathing, and all he saw was that self-assured look—the kind that had once been comforting, now just infuriating. The kind of look that said *I know better.* The kind that heroes wore when they decided someone else’s pain was just collateral.

“You think you get to decide that for both of us?” Kit said, stepping closer. The rain made it hard to breathe. Or maybe he was just imagining it “You think you can just—what, close the door and call it ‘maturity’? You’re not doing this for me, Miles. You’re doing it because you’re scared.”

Miles met his gaze, finally, and for a second Kit swore he saw it—fear, regret, something soft. But then Miles straightened, swallowing it back like he always did. “Maybe I am,” he said. “But it doesn’t change what’s true.”

Kit’s knuckles twitched.

“You think you can just say that,” he said, voice steady now, though obvious he was still shaky. “Say that and walk away like you didn’t spend a whole year making me believe you different. That you weren’t just another person who saw me as something they could fix.”

“That’s not fair,” Miles said, shaking his head. “I never saw you as anything broken—”

“Yeah, you did,” Kit cut in. “You did the moment you thought love meant saving me, didn’t you?”

There was a pause—a thick, heavy stillness between raindrops. Then Kit’s fist connected with Miles’ face.

It wasn’t theatrical, wasn’t dramatic. Just clean, sharp, inevitable.

Miles stumbled back, hand to his cheek, the sound of the impact swallowed by the storm. For a second, neither of them spoke. Kit’s breathing came out ragged, his pulse hammering so hard it hurt.

Miles blinked, dazed, then looked up at him with something unreadable—shock, yes, but also something like sadness, sorrowful.

“...You done?” Miles asked.

Kit wanted to be. He wanted to be done, wanted to walk away before he said something that would ruin them both. But he wasn’t. The anger had been sitting too long, fermenting, turning into something bitter and alive.

“You always do this,” Kit said, his voice shaking. “You get to be the noble one, the hero, the one who means well. You think that gives you the right to—”

Miles moved before he could finish.

It wasn’t anger that drove it—it was reaction, reflex, maybe even heartbreak. He stepped in, caught Kit by the front of his jacket, and kissed him. Hard.

It wasn’t soft or tender. It was messy and wrong, all teeth and rain and grief. Kit’s breath caught, his body freezing mid-motion, and in that half-second of confusion, Miles’ fist came up.

The punch landed square against Kit’s jaw.

The world spun sideways. Kit fell, hard, hitting the wet pavement. His shades flew off, skidding through the puddles. His ears rang, and for a second, everything was muffled except the rain.

When his vision cleared, Miles was standing over him, breathing unevenly. One of his eyes was already darkening where Kit had hit him. His hand was bleeding where he’d caught Kit’s jaw.

“You—” Kit spat water, shaking his head, “you hit me.”

Miles’ chest rose and fell fast. “You hit me first.”

Kit wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, saw the blood smear across his fur, and laughed—a harsh, ugly sound. “So that’s what we are now, huh? Even?”

Miles didn’t answer right away. He bent down, picked up Kit’s shades from the ground, and stared at them. The lenses were cracked, a spiderweb of damage spreading across the glass. The reflection of Kit’s eyes—pink, wet, furious—stared back at him through the fractures.

He let them fall again.

“No,” Miles said quietly. “We’re not even. We’re just… done.”

Kit’s throat closed. The air around him felt thick. “You don’t get to say that like it’s easy,” he muttered, still sitting in the rain. “You don’t get to break something and then decide when it’s over.”

“I’m not deciding that,” Miles said, his voice low but shaking. “I’m deciding what I can handle. And this? You? Me? I can’t.”n  

Kit barked a laugh, though it came out more like a cough. “You can’t handle me. That’s rich. You think I’m the problem here?”

“I think we’re bad for each other,” Miles said, almost pleading. “You drag me into your breakdowns, and I drag you into my guilt. I don’t know who I am when I’m with you anymore.”

“You’re the same self-righteous bastard you always were,” Kit said coldly. “You just liked it better when I worshiped you for it.”

Miles winced, as if the words hit harder than the punch. He took a breath, stepping back slightly, rain streaking down his face like it wanted to wash him away.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said finally. “But I’m not okay, Kit. I haven’t been for a long time. I’ve been trying to keep up this image, this idea of who I’m supposed to be, and being with you—it just shows me everything I can’t fix.”

Kit looked away, jaw tight. “So you hit me to prove it?”

Miles shook his head. “No. I hit you because you were going to keep me here otherwise.”

That landed harder than the punch. Kit felt something hollow in his chest, the kind of ache that doesn’t even have a shape.

He dragged a hand through his hair, wet strands sticking to his fingers. “You could’ve just refused,” he murmured.

“I tried,” Miles said. “You don’t listen when you’re hurt. You turn everything into a some kind of child fight.”

Kit’s eyes flicked up, narrow and burning. “And you turn everything into a damn lesson. Congratulations, Professor. You win.”

Miles looked at him for a long moment, then turned away. “There’s no winning here.” He started walking, slow, tails dragging in the rain. “Take care of yourself. Don’t call me for a while.”

Kit stared at the wet concrete where the shades lay broken. He didn’t move to pick them up this time. His reflection stared back at him through the fractured lenses—pink eyes, cracked glass, and the faint shimmer of streetlight making it all look almost poetic if it didn’t hurt so much.

He waited until Miles’ figure disappeared around the corner, until the sound of footsteps faded beneath the rain. Only then did he let himself speak, voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t worry,” he said, to no one. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He stayed there until the rain soaked through everything, until the bruise on his jaw throbbed with every heartbeat, until his fingers went numb. The city hummed quietly around him—distant traffic, electric buzz, the faint hum of something that might’ve been music leaking from an open window nearby.

Miles had always said Kit was impossible to understand. Maybe he was right. Maybe this—sitting in the street, soaked, bleeding, half-laughing at nothing—was proof of it.

Either way, the rain didn’t stop. The shades stayed broken. And Kit stayed sitting there, thinking bitterly through the ache, whispering to the echo of someone who’d always been a little too good at leaving.

“You’re not okay? Yeah. Bullshit.”

˖᯽ ݁˖

The bar smelled like bleach and rum — the kind of mix that only existed because Surge cleaned when she was pissed. The neon sign above the counter flickered between OPEN.

He’d chosen the seat furthest from the jukebox, slouched so deep in the stool it looked like he was trying to melt into vinyl. Three broken glasses sat in front of him, one still dripping amber into a small puddle of regret on the countertop. His knuckles were raw, his lip was split, and his right eye had begun to purple in that slow, sickly bloom that promised tomorrow would hurt more than today.

The fourth drink sat untouched. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was waiting for an excuse. Maybe i t was waiting for him to stop pretending the alcohol was helping.

Surge was behind the counter, arms crossed, green fur damp with sweat from working the slow Friday night rush. The moment she noticed his reflection in the mirrored shelves, she froze mid-wipe, jaw tightening.

“Oh, hell no,” she muttered. “No, no, no — not again.”

Kit didn’t look up. His hair was a half-tied mess, his jacket thrown over the stool beside him, his breath sharp with whiskey. The cracked shades hung from the collar of his shirt, useless now that one lens had snapped in half.

“You gonna yell at me,” he rasped, voice thick, “or you gonna pour me another?”

Surge slammed the rag down and stalked toward him. “I’m gonna do both,” she snapped. “First, you’re gonna tell me why the hell you look like you went twelve rounds with a truck.”

He smiled, crooked and sad. “Truck had blue n’ brown eyes,” he mumbled.

“Don’t start with riddles, Kit.” Her tone flattened. “Was it him ?”

He didn’t answer. Just rolled the rim of the glass between his fingers until it clinked against the bar. The silence was answer enough.

Surge exhaled, long and sharp. “You punched Miles?”

“He punched back,” Kit muttered. “So we’re even.”

She dragged a hand down her face, muttering something under her breath about “idiot men and their hero complexes.” Then louder: “You’re lucky I like you enough not to toss you out.”

Kit lifted the glass, downed what was left, and grimaced as the burn hit. “You’d have to catch me first.”

“Oh please,” Surge scoffed, snatching the bottle before he could reach for it again. “You’re so sloshed, you’d trip on the floorboard before you even hit the door.”

He looked at her then, really looked. The light made her hair look electric, sharp against the dull glow of the bottles behind her. She’d always been like that — too bright, too aware. It made her impossible to lie to. He almost felt bad for being careless with her drink glasses.

“Why you even still got this place open?” he slurred. “You hate everyone who walks in.”

“Except my useless brother,” she shot back. “He gets a discount on pity drinks.”

He laughed. It wasn’t pretty. It cracked somewhere in the middle and never recovered. “You remember when you said I was soft?”

Surge arched a brow. “Yeah. You cried about it for a week.”

“Well,” he muttered, tapping the bar with his knuckle. “Guess I finally toughened up, huh?”

Surge looked at the bruise around his eye, the faint tremor in his hand, the emptiness behind the half-laugh. Her expression softened just slightly. “You look like hell,” she said.

“Feels like it too,” Kit replied.

She poured water into a clean glass and slid it toward him. “Drink this before you drown in the other stuff.”

He eyed it. “You tryin’ to sober me up?”

“Trying to keep you alive,” she said flatly.

He took it anyway. The cold water made his teeth ache.

“Y’know,” he said after a while, his voice quieter, “I didn’t mean to hit him first. Or maybe I did. I dunno. It’s all mixed up now. He said things. I said worse.”

“Lemme guess,” Surge said, leaning on the counter. “He did that ‘tragic hero’ speech again?”

Kit chuckled, bitter. “Yeah. You know the one. ‘I’ve been a hero since I was eight, Kit, I can’t stop now, Kit, it’s not you it’s me, Kit.’”

Surge made a face. “God, I hate that.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

They sat in silence for a moment, just the hum of the fridge and the dull chatter of two drunk strangers at the other end of the bar. Kit pressed his palm to his forehead, wincing. The migraine was crawling up behind his eyes like claws, and the light wasn’t helping.

“You look like you’re gonna throw up,” Surge said bluntly.

“Just thinkin’,” he mumbled. “That’s all.”

“About him?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Surge sighed, grabbed a towel, and gently tossed it at him. “You’re a damn mess, Kit.”

He caught it, halfheartedly wiped his face. “Been called worse.”

She crossed her arms. “You gonna tell me what actually happened or just sit there brooding like a mopey poet?”

Kit leaned back, the stool creaking. “He kissed me before he hit me,” he said finally.

Surge blinked. “What.”

“Yeah.” Kit laughed, hoarse and humorless. “One second I’m yellin’ at him, the next he’s all soft and sorry. And then — bam.” He mimed the punch, then rubbed his cheek again. “Guess I was too slow to dodge it. Or maybe I didn’t want to.”

Surge’s jaw tightened. “You let him hit you?”

“I let him kiss me,” Kit muttered. “That’s worse.”

“Damn right it is.” She slammed her hand on the counter, making the bottles rattle. “You should’ve walked away. You— no, both of you miserable shits think you can fix people who don’t want to be fixed.”

He stared into his empty glass. “Yeah. Guess I’m just stupid like that.”

She sighed. “Not stupid. Just addicted to pain that looks like love.”

That one hit harder than the whiskey. He flinched, eyes dropping to the puddle on the counter where his reflection shimmered and broke apart. “He said he didn’t wanna see me for a long time,” he murmured.

“Then take the hint,” Surge said. “Let him be miserable somewhere else.”

Kit smiled faintly. “You talk like it’s easy.”

“I talk like someone who’s done it,” she replied.

He didn’t argue. The migraine pulsed harder, crawling down the back of his skull. He pressed his thumb to his temple and groaned. “Everything’s spinning.”

“Good,” Surge said. “Means you’ll throw up soon and learn something.”

“Thanks, sis.”

She poured another glass of water, set it down firmly. “Drink. I’m not scraping your sorry ass off the floor again.”

He did. Slowly.

Minutes passed. The jukebox changed songs. The rain outside softened. The world felt truly small in those minutes.

“You think he’ll come back?” Kit asked suddenly.

Surge didn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”

He hesitated. “...Maybe not.”

“Good,” she said, wiping the counter. “Then stop waiting for him.”

Kit rubbed at his eye, the bruise darkening under his fingers. It was going to be a nasty bruise. “He’s still in my head.”

“Then evict him,” she muttered.

He laughed, softer this time. “You make it sound like paperwork.”

“It is paperwork,” she said, smirking faintly. “Emotional eviction forms. I’ll draft one for you if you don’t sober up.”

He smiled, a real one this time, though tired and lopsided. “You’re a bitch, Surge.”

“And you’re my brother,” she said, grabbing a broom to sweep up the glass shards. “Which means I get to keep you alive, whether you like it or not.”

He watched her for a while, her movements sharp and efficient. It was strange, comforting even. The hum of the bar, the soft thud of the broom, the warmth of her voice — it made the ache in his chest a little less sharp.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She paused, looked up. “For what?”

“For bein’ here.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “You’re still paying for those broken glasses.”

He groaned. “You’re heartless.”

“Damn right.” She smirked. “Someone’s gotta be.”

Kit laughed again — small, fragile, but real — and slumped back against the counter. The migraine still lingered, the bruise still throbbed, but the world didn’t feel like it was caving in anymore. Not tonight.

Surge poured herself a drink, clinked her glass against his empty one. “To idiots in love,” she said dryly.

“To idiots,” Kit echoed.

And for once, the word didn’t sting.

𓂃⋆

The knock on Rose’s door is frantic, uneven—like someone’s trying not to fall over while doing it. When she swings it open, she’s met with a sight that makes her pause mid-greeting.

Miles stands there, soaked through from the drizzle outside, fur plastered to his neck. His pant leg’s torn open at the thigh, blood smeared dark and ugly down to his boot. His glasses are crooked, his hands trembling just slightly as he grips the doorframe. He is gone enough to ignore the aching sensations from his knee, but not gone enough to miss the sweet melodies coming from Ames’ radio.

“...Miles?” she blurts. “What the hell happened to you? You look like you fought a lawnmower and lost.”

He gives a weak laugh that turns into a wince. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Rose steps aside, ushering him in before he collapses in her doorway. He stumbles, mutters something about being fine, but his limp betrays him. She points to the couch. “Sit. Now. I’m getting the first aid kit.”

He obeys, collapsing onto the cushions with a hiss. The sound of his tails brushing against the couch follows the soft clinking of bottles and the squeak of the medicine cabinet opening. When she comes back, she sets the kit down and starts tearing the rest of the pant leg open, ignoring his half-hearted protest.

“Don’t even start,” she says sharply. “You can be a genius and still be the dumbest man alive, you know that?”

“Noted,” he murmurs, his voice strained.

The gash looks nasty—nothing bone-deep, but jagged enough to sting like hell. Rose dips gauze into antiseptic, and the moment she presses it against the wound, Miles jerks.

“Hold still!” she snaps.

“Hard to do when it feels like you’re pouring fire on me, Ames,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“Then maybe next time you won’t run halfway across town like a madman!” she shoots back. “What even happened? You fall out of the sky again?”

He looks away, eyes dark and distant. “Something like that.”

She narrows her gaze. “Uh-huh. ‘Something like that.’ You’re bleeding in my apartment, Foxboy. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

He exhales sharply, the kind of sound that carries exhaustion more than pain. “It’s… complicated.”

“It’s always complicated with you,” she mutters, dabbing more antiseptic before he can protest. “Start talking before I start guessing.”

He tilts his head back, staring at her ceiling. “We—” His voice catches. “Kitsunami and I had a fight.”

Rose freezes mid-motion. “A fight fight or one of those ‘passionate lovers’ quarrel’ things that end with you making up in dramatic fashion?”

Miles gives her a flat look. “Do I look like I’m in any shape for that?”

She glances down at the gash, at his shaking hands, at the dull way he won’t quite meet her eyes. “So... the bad kind.”

“Yeah.” He shifts, grimacing when the motion tugs at the wound. “He hit me first.”

“Good for him,” she mutters under her breath. Then, gentler: “Why?”

Miles doesn’t answer right away. His throat moves as he swallows. “I told him I wasn’t ready. That I couldn’t—” His voice breaks again, raw around the edges. “He thought I was playing him. Like I was just… pulling strings. I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Rose’s expression softens, the edge in her tone fading. “So he hit you.”

“Yeah.”

She sighs, reaching for a clean roll of bandages. “And you hit him back, didn’t you?”

He hesitates. “I… did.”

“Oh, wow.”

He closes his eyes, guilt flashing like lightning across his face. “I kissed him first. Right before it. I don’t know why I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, sarcasm dripping. “Because showing up half-dead at my door screaming ‘it’s over’ really convinces me you’re over it.”

He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You got any vodka?”

Rose raises an eyebrow. “To drink or to clean that leg?”

He gives a tired smirk. “...Then, do you perhaps have something strong, like vodka, Ames?”

She sighs so hard it’s almost a growl. “You’re unbelievable.” Still, she reaches under the counter and pulls out a small bottle. “If you drink the whole thing, I’m locking you in here till you sober up.”

He accepts it, unscrews the cap with shaking fingers, and takes a slow, deliberate sip. The burn hits him hard enough to make his eyes water. For a moment, silence settles between them—broken only by the steady wrap of bandages around his leg.

“Y’know,” Rose says after a while, “he’s not the first person you’ve driven away by trying to fix everything yourself.”

Miles stares into the bottle. “He’s the first one I didn’t want to lose.”

Rose looks at him for a long time, her expression unreadable. “Then stop acting like you already have.”

He doesn’t answer. Just sets the vodka down and leans back, eyes on the window where rain streaks the glass in silver lines. His reflection stares back at him—tired, bruised, and still thinking about the fuchsia gaze that once looked at him like he was worth everything.

Rose tightens the last knot on the bandage and says softly, “You’ll heal, Miles. You always manage to do.”

He forces a quiet laugh. “That’s the problem, Ames. I’m starting to think I don’t deserve to.”

Her hand stills mid-motion. But before she can respond, he leans back further, closing his eyes, the exhaustion finally overtaking the pain. The smell of antiseptic and rain fills the room.

Rose sighs, muttering under her breath, “Stupid idiot.” Then, quieter, almost fond, “You really need to stop falling for people who punch harder than you.” 

 

Notes:

> why ddid i even write this , this shit is ASSSS meh

jukebox music 1 and 2

ames radio

> ughhhh miles did fell cant evennn run properly,, who the fuck runs in rainy weather anyways...
> earthquakes happeninngg very frequently these days n i need to take my mind off... so yeah maybe ill post more shit this week idk honestly my nerves are nerving around A LOOTT!!

Chapter 111

Notes:

> warm up ;-;

highschool kittails

The bathroom was quiet, the dull hum of the old fluorescent lights above breaking the silence. The echo of running water filled the small space as Miles leaned against the sink, his reflection trembling in the mirror. His heart was hammering, a steady thud against his ribs that felt loud enough for the whole school to hear.

 

Kit stood a few steps away, backpack slung loosely over one shoulder, messy hair falling into his face. He’d followed Miles in after class without much of a plan—he never really had one—but now his hands wouldn’t stay still. He fiddled with his sleeves, fidgeted with the strap, stared at the floor, then finally looked up.

 

“You’re, uh… quiet,” Kit muttered.

 

Miles huffed a laugh that came out a little shaky. “You followed me in here.”

 

“Yeah. So?”

 

“So maybe say something worth hearing.” Miles tried to sound teasing, but the words were soft—too soft. Kit caught the tone immediately, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. The sound of a drop of water hitting the sink broke the silence again.

 

Kit’s gaze flickered up, and their eyes met in the mirror first. Fuchsia against blue-brown. It was small, a tiny spark of something real, something raw. Miles looked away first, cheeks flushing a deep pink that he tried to hide by adjusting his scarf.

 

Kit took that as permission to move closer. Just one step, then another, until the air between them felt heavy, thick with the kind of tension that made it hard to breathe. He stopped close enough to see the tiny flecks of gold in Miles’ eyes.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Miles whispered.

 

“Like what?” Kit tilted his head, voice lower now, careful.

 

“Like I’m—” Miles stopped. He didn’t even know how to finish that. Like I’m the only thing you see. Like I’m worth something. Like you actually—

 

Kit reached out, gently brushing his thumb against Miles’ cheek. The warmth of his skin felt electric. “You talk too much,” he said quietly.

 

Miles’ laugh this time was barely audible, nervous, but real. “Maybe you don’t talk enough.”

 

“Guess we balance out, huh?” Kit said, smiling faintly. His thumb lingered a little longer before he drew in a slow breath. “Can I…” He didn’t finish, but Miles knew exactly what he was asking.

 

He nodded, eyes fluttering shut.

 

The kiss wasn’t perfect—too hesitant, too slow—but it was theirs. Kit leaned in carefully, his breath catching right before their lips met. It was soft, uncertain, like neither of them wanted to scare it away. Miles’ fingers curled into the front of Kit’s hoodie, holding him there just a second longer than necessary.

 

When they pulled apart, they were both red-faced, breathing unevenly. Miles hid his face behind his hand, mumbling, “We’re such idiots.”

 

Kit chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “Yeah, maybe. But you’re stuck with me now.”

 

Miles peeked through his fingers, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “You wish.”

 

Kit grinned, leaning in close enough for his voice to drop into a whisper. “I do.”

Notes:

> can we talk about how scary the earthquake alarms from google are. like. i had a nightmare about it today. and i wasnt even asleep. just straight up had it in my head. i was TERRIFIED. actually got up and did my homework to not dwell on it

> we not gonna talk about how im lowkey scared of earthquakes like a pussy. not very cool kid of me yeah whatever.

> im very hurt that nobody noticed the fact golden retrievers are scottish dogs and chihuahua's mexican dogs and kittails nationalities were partially based on it.
> yes every kittails shit here is thought on. making sure it fits and has silly references to their dynamic or their personalities. im a fucking nerd ok.

Chapter 112

The city smelled like smoke and burnt sugar—Halloween clinging to the bones of what used to be civilization. The sky was bruised orange from the fires still smoldering at the edge of town, and Kit’s breath showed in faint puffs as he crossed the cracked street, takeout bag swinging from one hand. He spotted Miles sitting by a rusted vending machine, head tilted back, one leg bent, wearing Kit’s hoodie and jeans. They didn’t fit him right—too short at the wrists, too loose at the waist—and there were tiny, dark droplets scattered across the fabric.

 

“Miles,” Kit called softly, approaching. “Please tell me that’s not your blood again.”

 

Miles looked up with a slow grin. His left eye still hung from the socket, nerve trailing like a thread, swaying faintly when he moved. “Depends how you define ‘mine.’”

 

Kit sighed, setting the food down on the bench beside. “You’re impossible.”

 

“Charming,” Miles corrected. “You said you liked this hoodie anyway. Consider it upgraded.”

 

Kit crouched in front of him, the hem of his coat brushing the ground. “You ruined my favorite hoodie.”

 

Miles tilted his head, voice a murmur. “Then take it back.” An pure invitation for a kiss. 

 

Kit hesitated, staring at him—the faint blood smears at his collarbone, the way his other eye looked tired but warm, the strange mix of menace and affection that came naturally to him. He could’ve been terrifying to anyone else. But to Kit? He looked like something the apocalypse forgot to destroy.

 

“I brought dumplings,” Kit said finally, voice low, handing him a paper carton.

 

Miles smirked, prying it open with careful claws. “You risked your life for dumplings again?”

 

“You like them.”

 

“I like *you* getting them,” Miles said, taking a bite. “Gives me something to look forward to when you come back.”

 

Kit sat beside him, shoulder brushing his. The contact was grounding—warm skin against cool fabric. The alley flickered with what little neon was left alive in the city, painting both their faces in thin, dying color.

 

“You shouldn’t have gone out like that,” Kit murmured, eyes flicking to the blood on his hoodie again. “If someone saw you—”

 

“They didn’t.” Miles shrugged, licking soy sauce from his knuckle. “It’s Halloween. I look like a costume.”

 

“You don’t,” Kit muttered. “You look like—”

 

“Me,” Miles finished, smiling. “And you still came back.”

 

Kit rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

 

“You love me bloody.”

 

Kit gave a small huff of laughter, trying not to smile. “You’re disgusting.”

 

“And you’re lying,” Miles said softly.

 

Kit went quiet, watching him. The wind carried faint music from somewhere far off—someone still playing old pop songs through a busted radio. It felt too normal for a dead city. Too gentle for what Miles was.

 

“You ever think we’ll get to stop hiding?” Kit asked.

 

Miles didn’t answer right away. His dangling eye shifted slightly as he turned his head. “Not really. But I think we get to stop pretending tonight.”

 

Kit looked at him, at the faint red smeared near his collar, at his steady breathing. He didn’t flinch when Miles leaned in. The kiss came slow—hesitant, like both were testing whether something human still existed between them. Kit’s hand found the side of Miles’ face, careful not to brush the torn skin. The taste of metal was faint, but familiar.

 

When they pulled apart, Miles’ grin was smaller. Real. “Told you,” he whispered. “You don’t mind the blood.”

 

Kit’s ears flicked. “Shut up.”

 

Miles laughed, low and rough, head tipping against Kit’s shoulder. “You should see your face.”

 

“You should see my clothes.”

 

“They look better on me.”

 

Kit rolled his eyes again, but his voice softened. “You can keep them.”

 

The streetlight above them blinked once, twice, then steadied into a faint hum. The world outside their small corner stayed sick and cruel—but right there, pressed close on the curb with warm food and cold hands, it didn’t matter so. It is easy to dissociate yourself from post apolcypse, as long as you have an partner with. 

 

Miles let out a slow breath. “Next time, you’re wearing my jacket.”

 

“Yeah?” Kit asked.

 

“Yeah,” Miles murmured, eyes closing. “It’s your turn to look scary.”

 

Kit smiled faintly. “I think I’ll stick to takeout.”

 

Miles chuckled under his breath, hand brushing Kit’s knee. “You’d still be cute covered in blood.”

 

Kit didn’t argue. He just leaned in, kissed him again, slower this time—long enough to savor Miles' chapped lips.

 

Notes:

> was bussyyy itss short ikk bear with it rn its exam week ok..
> i am so fucking mad they government ended service to my bank entirely and my money is STUCK THERE. istg these shits always happen to me

> happy halloween freaks & others

Chapter 113

Kit had a habit — no, a routine. No matter how hectic the day got, no matter how many times Miles dragged him into fixing something, scolding him for misplaced tools, or convincing him to eat something that wasn’t instant noodles, Kit always ended the night the same way: with his phone glowing inches from his face, lost in one of his endless mobile games.

 

Right now, the glow lit up his side of the bed, soft blue and white pulsing across his features. His expression was sharp and focused, thumb flicking fast as he played, the kind of quiet intensity that would make someone think he was defusing a bomb, not stacking virtual crime scene evidence or matching pixelated gems.

 

Miles was asleep again — flat on his stomach, his head turned toward Kit’s ribs, breathing deep and even. He looked peaceful, almost too much so, compared to the restless little frown Kit wore every time he missed a combo or tapped the wrong icon.

 

“C’mon,” Kit muttered under his breath, brow furrowed. “I saw that clue— where’d you hide it, you sneaky—”

 

The game rewarded him with a shrill sound effect that made Miles’ ears twitch. Kit froze for a second, glancing down at him. The fox mumbled something incoherent but didn’t wake. Kit relaxed, turned the volume down, and grinned faintly.

 

“Yeah, go back to dreamland, engineer boy,” he whispered. “Papa’s busy solving murders.”

 

Mochi rustled in her cage across the room — a faint prrrt followed by a tiny sneeze. Kit flicked his gaze up and smirked. “You too, fatass. No witnesses.”

 

He went right back to it. The rhythm was almost hypnotic: tap, drag, reward sound, level cleared. When he wasn’t solving fake crimes, he’d switch to something else — farming games, puzzle ones, little idle clickers that let him raise digital pets he always named after food. Mochi, Pudding, Riceball — his collection of pixel friends was as chaotic as the real guinea pig waddling around their living room by day.

 

Miles called them “brain rot.” Kit called them “therapy.”

 

He wasn’t one to overthink things, but there was a comfort in the mindless loop of it — the satisfying chime when you won, the tidy progress bars, the small explosions of color when a level ended. It was structure, simple and easy, a little world he could control when everything else refused to sit still.

 

He reached the end of another level and leaned back against the headboard, eyes half-lidded but still sharp. “Hah. Flawless,” he whispered to himself, and then smirked. “Still got it.”

 

Miles murmured something in his sleep and shifted again, his arm falling across Kit’s stomach. Kit didn’t flinch; he just moved his phone to the other hand and kept playing one-handed. His free hand absentmindedly ran through the fur on Miles’ head, fingers sliding in slow, lazy motions that matched the rhythm of the rain outside.

 

Every few minutes, Kit would whisper commentary to no one: “You’d never solve this, Miles. Way too many steps. You’d overthink it.”

Or, “Why do these people always hide bloody shirts in the kitchen drawer? Dumbasses.”

 

He wasn’t expecting answers — didn’t need them. The steady warmth pressed against his side was answer enough.

 

The next notification popped up — “Daily Bonus Unlocked!” — and Kit’s grin widened. “Hell yeah. My dedication pays off.”

 

He played another round, then another, until his eyes started to sting a little and the lines on the screen blurred. The soft rumble of Miles’ breathing was the only other sound in the room, deep and steady. Kit rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, glanced down at him again, and quietly sighed.

 

“Alright,” he muttered, voice barely audible. “Maybe just one more level.”

 

Ten minutes later, the phone finally slipped from his grip. It hit his thigh, then tumbled onto the blanket. Kit didn’t bother to pick it up. He just exhaled, slow, his hand finding its place on Miles’ back again, fingers curling loosely into his fur.

 

The game screen dimmed, the rain whispered against the window, and the little noises of life in the room — Miles breathing, Mochi shifting in her bedding — all folded together into something oddly peaceful.

 

Kit didn’t dream about much, but when he did drift off, it was to the faint echo of his last game’s victory jingle still playing in his head — a small, stupid sound, the kind that felt like comfort.

 

Maybe Miles was right, he really is becoming addicted to these. Meh. Tomorrow him can deal with it.

Notes:

> kit is playing hayday and criminal case, i really love cc like go try it out rn. this shit got me hyped UPP!!

> implied to play project sekai

>kit is chronically online btw i thought it was clear from the chapter he made dave strider remark

Chapter 114

Notes:

> oct scraps

Miles sat on the couch, the world still feeling too fragile around him. The house hummed with soft daylight, muted through drawn curtains, but even that thin gold seemed too bright for his recovering eyes. He was pale—his fur flatter than usual, chest bandaged under a loose shirt that did little to hide the way he touched at his sternum now and then. The scar was still angry and pink, roughened into a keloid that refused to settle. Every time he caught sight of it in the mirror, he felt wrong, like something had been carved out of him and left raw.

 

Kit was across from him, stretched in a slouch on the floor, leaning back on his hands. His shades caught a faint reflection from the muted TV, hiding those fuchsia eyes that always looked too sharp for how tired he sounded.

 

Miles sighed quietly, fingers hovering at the neckline of his shirt. “It’s ugly,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone.

 

Kit’s ear twitched. “What?”

 

“The scar,” Miles said, voice small. “It’s just… there. Like a damn reminder. I look like someone tried to sew me back together with fishing wire.”

 

Kit huffed through his nose, sitting up. “Jesus, you’re dramatic. You had fucking heart surgery, not a fashion mishap.” He dragged himself onto the couch, muttering under his breath. “You’re alive. That’s the point.”

 

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

 

“Yeah, well, I do,” Kit said simply. “So tough shit.”

 

Miles blinked, caught off guard by how blunt that was. Kit wasn’t good at this—comfort wasn’t his territory. But still, there was something soft in the way he leaned forward, elbow braced on his knee, eyes scanning the faint rise and fall of Miles’ chest. “You could’ve died, Miles,” he muttered, quieter now. “You think I give a damn about a scar when I almost had to watch you flatline?”

 

Miles didn’t answer at first. He just sat there, feeling the way Kit’s words lingered like smoke in the air. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just full—heavy with what hadn’t been said in the hospital room weeks ago.

 

Kit reached over, fingers brushing the hem of Miles’ shirt before pulling it up enough to see the mark. It was uneven, swollen in a thin ridge that caught the light. “Yeah, it’s nasty,” Kit said honestly. “But it’s real. Proof they had to open you up to keep that stupid heart beating.”

 

Miles gave him a weak look. “You really don’t know how to talk to people, do you?”

 

“Nope.” Kit’s grin was small but genuine. “Lucky for you, I don’t need to. You get what I mean.”

 

“Barely.”

 

“Then listen harder.” Kit let his palm rest flat against the scar, the touch rough but careful, like he was holding something that could still break. “You’re still here, Miles. This? This just says you fucking made it.”

 

Miles exhaled shakily, watching Kit’s thumb trace over the raised line before the fennec let go and leaned back again. His shades slipped a little, enough for Miles to see the faintest flash of fuchsia.

 

“I still hate it,” Miles murmured.

 

“Then hate it,” Kit said, shrugging. “Doesn’t change a damn thing. I like it. Means I get to keep you.”

 

That shut him up. Miles stared at him, then laughed softly, tired but real. “You’re an asshole.”

 

“Yeah,” Kit agreed, tugging his shades back into place. “But I’m your asshole.”

 

Miles’ chest ached when he smiled—but for the first time, it wasn’t from the surgery. Maybe partially from surgery too.

---

☆ミ

---

Miles had never been this still for this long. The living room was quiet except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the distant sound of water boiling in the kitchen. He sat curled into the couch cushions, one leg tucked under the other, blanket draped over his shoulders. His fur was duller than usual, and the shirt hanging loose around him still managed to cling in places it hadn’t before — soft folds at his waist and chest that hadn’t been there months ago.

 

Recovery was slow. Slower than he wanted.

 

He hated the way everything felt heavy now — his body, his breath, his thoughts. Even the short walk to the kitchen left him winded. He touched his chest again, fingertips ghosting over the thick, raised scar that crossed his sternum. The keloid had hardened into something unignorable, a constant reminder of the pain, the machines, the way Kit had looked at him when he was still unconscious.

 

He didn’t notice Kit until the couch dipped beside him.

 

The fennec had his usual unbothered look — shades on, hoodie half-zipped, his fur scruffy and unbrushed. He held two mugs of tea, setting one down beside Miles before leaning back and letting out a lazy sigh.

 

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Kit said.

 

“I am resting,” Miles mumbled, drawing his blanket tighter.

 

Kit gave him a look that said barely. “You’re also sulking.”

 

“I’m not—” Miles started, but Kit’s raised brow stopped him. He exhaled. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

 

“Thought so.”

 

They sat in silence for a while. Miles stared at the faint reflection of himself in the dark TV screen. His body didn’t look the same — softer, rounder, scarred. The weight gain wasn’t huge, but it felt like the kind of thing he couldn’t ignore, not after spending years being lean and active. He’d been an engineer, a pilot, a constant mover. Now, he was just… here. Recovering.

 

He hated it.

 

His fingers twitched toward his shirt hem again, but Kit’s voice stopped him.

 

“Don’t start picking at it again,” Kit muttered. “You’ll make it worse.”

 

Miles frowned. “It itches.”

 

“Then deal with it. You’re healing, not falling apart.” Kit stretched out, his tail flicking lazily. “And stop staring at yourself like that. You look fine.”

 

“I look different,” Miles corrected.

 

“Yeah,” Kit said flatly, “different from dead. That’s the point.”

 

Miles shot him a halfhearted glare. “You really don’t have a comforting bone in your body.”

 

“Never said I did.” Kit’s grin was crooked, smug. “But I’m right.”

 

He reached out and tugged lightly at Miles’ blanket, forcing him to face him. The movement exposed the faint outline of the scar beneath his shirt, and Kit’s expression softened just a little. His hand came up, resting against Miles’ chest through the fabric. “You think I care about this? Or the few pounds you picked up?” he asked quietly. “You’re still breathing. That’s all that matters.”

 

Miles swallowed, eyes flicking down. “You’re not the one who has to feel it.”

 

“No,” Kit admitted, “but I’m the one who has to watch you hate it.” He sighed, rubbing slow circles over the spot where the scar sat beneath his palm. “You don’t have to rush shit, Miles. Take it slow. You earned that.”

 

Miles leaned into the touch, the tension in his shoulders finally giving way. “You really do have a mouth on you.”

 

“Yeah,” Kit said with a smirk, “but you loveee it.”

Notes:

>mghjm no school week fuck yes

> have these scraps. was working on how i want kitsunami to be. didnt turned out the way i liked, so i rewrote. yeahh

Chapter 115

Notes:

not beta read

The garage was a battlefield. Not the kind with swords or screaming or heroic anthems — no, this was the quiet kind, where every inch of floor space was claimed by oily rags, cracked metal casings, tangled wires, and a single, slanted stool that looked like it had survived an explosion. A storm of invention and forgetfulness — the perfect reflection of Miles Prower’s mind.

Kit stood at the doorway, clutching a broom like a soldier before a hopeless campaign. He wasn’t a saint. Never had been. His own room, back in his teenage years, could’ve been declared a public health hazard — old ramen bowls, laundry piles so high they could develop their own ecosystem, and paper scraps from half-finished sketches of machines he’d never build. He’d never cared about clutter, not really.

But Miles’ workshop was something else entirely.

There was a certain texture to it. Grease smears on the walls, the metallic tang of burnt solder in the air, oil stains that mapped out the history of every project Miles had abandoned halfway through to chase a new idea.

Kit squinted at a shelf stacked with half-labeled jars. One read “don’t touch,” another “fuel mix — maybe,” and a third was simply a doodle of a tiny wrench. He sighed, dragging the broom’s bristles through a crust of dried metal dust.

“Abuse of free will,” he muttered, glaring at a coil of tubing that seemed to mock him. “I could be doing anything else right now.”

He leaned the broom against the wall, crossed his arms, and kicked a bolt that rolled somewhere under the counter with a metallic rattle. His ears flicked as he heard faint humming from inside the house — Miles, probably making tea and blissfully unaware that Kit had declared war on his domain.

The temptation to just walk away was there. But no, Kit couldn’t. It wasn’t even about cleanliness — it was the fact that every time he came in here, his brain itched. The chaos screamed at him. He could handle messy, sure. But greasy chaos? Mechanical entropy? That was too much.

So, he grabbed a rag and got to work.

At first, it was mindless: sweeping up screws, sorting washers into jars, wiping the grime from the workbench until its surface almost looked like metal again. He mumbled under his breath the whole time — little curses, half-baked complaints, small bursts of triumph when he managed to organize an entire wrench set buried under a heap of old cloth.

Somewhere between sorting bolts and rewinding wire spools, Kit started to… organize. Not for cleanliness’ sake, but for logic. He built order out of Miles’ chaos, labeling shelves in scribbled marker: “Tools I Actually Use,” “Projects That Won’t Explode,” and “Stuff Miles Promised He’d Fix (He Lied).”

By the time he was wiping his hands on his hoodie, the garage almost looked livable. The air still smelled faintly of oil and dust, but at least now there was room to walk.

And that’s when the door creaked open.

Miles poked his head in, mug of tea in hand, his goggles still perched up on his forehead. “...Kit?” His voice carried that suspicious mix of curiosity and fear, like he’d just caught someone rummaging through his memories.

Kit froze, rag still in hand. “Hey.”

“What did you—” Miles stepped in, eyes darting around. His ears twitched as he took in the sight: labeled shelves, clear tables, the trash bin actually containing trash instead of parts. “Did you—clean?”

Kit shrugged, setting the rag down. “I organized. Don’t look so horrified.”

Miles blinked at him, still processing. “But… you hate cleaning.”

“I do,” Kit agreed easily, brushing off his hands. “But your mess is a special kind of offense.”

Miles set the mug down and stepped closer, his tails flicking behind him. “My workshop isn’t a mess, it’s—”

“—a biohazard,” Kit interrupted. “I found a sandwich in a drawer.”

“That’s—wait, what?!”

Kit pointed toward the bin. “Don’t worry, I gave it a proper burial.”

Miles groaned, rubbing his temples. “Kit, I had a system—”

“You had a problem,” Kit countered, smirking. “Fixed it for you.”

“You don’t even know where anything goes!”

“I do now.” Kit pointed toward the new shelf labels, proud. “Look. System.”

Miles squinted. “Projects That Won’t Explode?”

Kit grinned. “Only two things made the cut. Not surprised at all.”

For a moment, Miles just stared at him, torn between laughter and horror. Then he sighed, shaking his head, but his lips quirked into a reluctant smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Takes one to date one.”

Miles rolled his eyes and walked closer, brushing a spot of dust off Kit’s sleeve. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”

“I know.” Kit’s voice softened, eyes flicking toward the now-shining workbench. “But I wanted to. It’s… weirdly satisfying. Like restoring some kind of archaeological site.”

“Of my genius?” Miles teased.

“Of your disaster,” Kit corrected, but his smirk was fond.

Miles chuckled, stepping close enough that their shoulders brushed. The air still smelled of oil and heat, but it felt warmer now — not from the machines, but from the quiet domesticity between them. Miles leaned into him just slightly, tails flicking lazily.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured.

Kit leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “And you’re lucky I’m bored enough to fix your life.”

“Oh, don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” Miles said, giving him a playful nudge.

Kit scoffed, though a smile tugged at his lips. “You ever seen my old room? I’m not exactly the face of order.”

“Maybe not,” Miles said softly, “but you always make things feel… better somehow? Oh, that was so cliché.”

That earned him a brief, awkward silence — the kind that lingered like a blush. Kit looked away first, ears flicking. “Don’t get all sentimental on me. I just hate tripping over scrap metal.”

“Sure,” Miles murmured, smile widening. “Whatever you say.”

Kit rolled his eyes, grabbed the broom again, and started sweeping the last bits of dust into a pile. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Miles leaned on the workbench, watching him with quiet amusement. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll regret it the moment I can’t find a single part I need.”

“Then I’ll just clean again,” Kit replied smoothly.

Miles’ grin turned teasing. “You’re going to make a habit of this?”

Kit paused, glancing back at him with a raised brow. “If it keeps you from turning this place into a scrapyard again? Maybe.”

Miles tilted his head. “So you are abusing your free will.”

“Could say so,” Kit said, smirking as he kicked the dustpan aside. “Better me than gravity — you’ve seen what that does to your shelves.”

Miles laughed then — a light, unrestrained sound that echoed off the walls of the newly cleaned garage. Kit found himself smiling too, despite the grease smudges on his fur and the ache in his arms. And the disgusting scent clinged on him.

---

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

ps all of this chapter happens in one day

---

The tub brimmed with warm water, tinted faintly by lavender salts he’d dumped in without measuring — because who was counting? Not him. The weekend meant no alarms, no calls, and no explosions from Miles’ garage. Just silence, warmth, and bubbles.

He slid deeper into the bath, a satisfied hum slipping from his throat as the water reached his shoulders. His hair — long, damp, curling from the steam — clung to his neck and chest, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care. His limbs floated aimlessly, tail lazily swaying under the surface. He’d cleaned, organized, and somehow survived a whole week of grease fumes and over-caffeinated Miles. He deserved this.

On the other side of the house, he could faintly hear movement — the sound of a mug clinking against the counter, a muffled yawn. Miles, no doubt. He always woke late on weekends, running on fumes from whatever late-night project had eaten half his sleep. His showers were usually five minutes flat — cold, utilitarian, more punishment than comfort.

Kit rolled his eyes just thinking about it. “He’s insane,” he muttered to himself, swirling his hand through the water. “Doesn’t even know what ‘relaxing’ means.”

He closed his eyes again, sinking further until the water lapped at his chin. The scent of lavender wrapped around him, soft and heavy. It was almost unfair how good it felt — his body unwinding, the tension between his shoulders finally loosening.

The door creaked open.

“Kit?” Miles’ voice was soft, a little hoarse from sleep.

Kit didn’t even open his eyes. “If you’re here to ask why it smells nice in here, it’s because I have taste.”

Miles chuckled quietly. “I wasn’t gonna ask that.” He lingered in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck, still dressed in a loose shirt and shorts that hung a bit crooked on his frame. His fur was messy, ears half-lowered from exhaustion.

Kit cracked one eye open. “You look like you lost a fight.”

Miles yawned. “You cleaned the garage. I think that was the fight.”

Kit smirked, lazily stretching in the water. “And I won. Barely.”

Miles stepped closer, leaning against the wall near the tub. “You look too comfortable. Should I be worried?”

“Probably,” Kit said, voice low and lazy. “I might refuse to get out.”

Miles gave him a crooked grin. “You’ve been in there long enough to prune.”

Kit scoffed. “Worth it.”

For a moment, they just sat in the quiet — the faint hiss of steam filling the space between them. Miles’ eyes softened as he watched him, tracing the calm in Kit’s expression. It wasn’t often he saw him like this — not fidgeting, not distracted, just at ease.

“...You know,” Miles said eventually, “you could’ve called me in. I wouldn’t say no to warm water for once.”

Kit’s eyes snapped open, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, so you can admit you hate those cold showers?”

Miles shrugged, looking away. “They wake me up.”

“They torture you.”

He chuckled. “Same difference.”

Kit shifted, sending a ripple across the water’s surface. “Come on then,” he said quietly, tilting his head toward the other side of the tub. “You look like you need it.”

Miles blinked. “...You serious?”

Kit’s expression didn’t change. “It’s a big tub.”

Miles hesitated for a moment, then exhaled slowly and peeled off his shirt. The motion was unhurried, almost sheepish, and Kit found himself watching through the faint veil of steam. Miles slid into the water opposite him with a quiet hiss at the contrast in temperature.

“Hot,” Miles muttered.

“Good,” Kit replied, leaning his head back against the rim. “Means it’s working.”

They fell into a soft silence again. Miles’ shoulders gradually loosened; his usual restlessness dulled under the warmth. Kit cracked a faint smile watching it happen — the way the tension in Miles’ face eased, his eyelids drooped, and his tails stopped twitching like tiny engines.

“Told you,” Kit murmured. “Extra relaxing. You’re welcome.”

Miles hummed under his breath, voice almost lost to the echo of the water. “I should’ve listened to you sooner.”

“You usually should,” Kit said, grinning.

Miles opened one eye to give him a mock glare, but the corners of his mouth curved upward anyway. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Obviously.”

A long pause followed — the kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. The air buzzed faintly with the sound of dripping water and distant birds outside the window. Miles reached up to run his fingers through his hair, only for Kit to flick a handful of bubbles in his direction.

Miles blinked, then smirked. “Really mature.”

Kit shrugged, unbothered. “You started the war by bringing cold showers into this house.”

Miles laughed quietly — really laughed, that small, genuine sound that never failed to make something warm bloom in Kit’s chest.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the tub. “You know,” Miles said, softer now, “I forget what weekends are supposed to feel like.”

Kit’s voice dropped, low and content. “Yeah, I figured.” He let his foot nudge Miles’ under the water. “You work too hard, genius.”

Miles smiled, eyes half-lidded. “And you worry too much.”

“I just hate seeing you run yourself ragged,” Kit muttered. “You forget to breathe.”

Miles tilted his head. “That why you’re always around?”

Kit’s mouth quirked into a faint, lopsided grin. “Maybe.”

The quiet returned, comfortable and heavy with steam. Miles finally let his head rest against the tub, eyes drifting shut again. Kit watched him for a long moment — the soft rise and fall of his chest, the faint trace of a smile that hadn’t faded yet.

When Miles’ breathing steadied, Kit leaned back again, arms draped over the sides.

---

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

yoo is this another bonus.. sick dude

---

Steam clung to the tiled walls, heavy and quiet. The water had gone from steaming hot to comfortably warm, the kind that made your skin soft and the air lazy. Kit had drifted into that half-state between awareness and dozing when he noticed Miles’ eyes — focused, tracing something just below his collarbone.

“...You staring for a reason?” Kit asked, voice rough with drowsy amusement.

Miles didn’t answer right away. His hand lifted slightly, then stopped, hesitating. “You’ve got… more scars than I thought,” he murmured, tone careful, almost analytical.

Kit looked down at himself, at the faint silvering marks that cut uneven lines along his side and shoulder — old things, ghostly remnants of pain long outgrown. The chemicals had done that, left his skin with strange discolorations that shimmered faintly when wet, pale against the blue-grey of his fur.

“Yeah,” Kit said, leaning his head back against the tub rim. “They’re old. Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Miles’ brow furrowed. “Chemical burns?”

“Reactions, technically,” Kit replied with a small shrug. “Stuff he used to inject. I don’t remember the names. Half the labels were just numbers.”

Miles frowned faintly, his fingers twitching against the water. “He shouldn’t have—”

“Yeah, well. He did.” Kit’s tone was flat, not sharp — just a statement of fact. “Can’t unwrite it, so why think about it?”

Miles went quiet, studying the edges of a jagged mark that curved along Kit’s ribcage. He didn’t touch it. Just watched how it caught the light when Kit breathed.

“You’re not bothered by them?”

“Not really.” Kit’s voice dropped lower. “It’s just skin. Weird skin, but still skin. Doesn’t say anything about me anymore.”

Miles hummed softly, more to himself than as a reply. His own hand shifted, resting over his sternum without thinking. Kit’s eyes flicked to it — a faint, off-colored patch across the center of Miles’ chest, almost unnoticeable unless you knew where to look.

Kit nodded toward it. “Yours?”

Miles blinked, then glanced down like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mm. From when I was younger.” He pressed a thumb lightly against the mark. “Kids liked to test how hard they could shove me. Some things don’t fade right.”

Kit huffed through his nose — not quite a laugh. “That tracks.”

Miles looked up at him, one ear twitching. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just look like you’d get bullied for breathing too loudly.”

Miles gave a faint snort, shaking his head. “Thanks, Kit. Real comforting.”

“Just saying.” Kit stretched, water rippling around him. “You turned out fine. Guess we both did.”

Miles’ gaze flicked down again — from his own scar to Kit’s, then back. “Fine’s one way to put it.”

“Better than broken,” Kit said simply.

That earned a small nod. Miles leaned back against the opposite edge of the tub again, eyes lingering somewhere near the ceiling. Steam drifted around them, softening everything — the room, the edges of their voices, even the space between their words.

“You ever wish you didn’t have them?” Miles asked after a moment.

Kit thought about it, staring down at his arm, the faint uneven texture of his fur over the scars. “Nah. They don’t mean much. I don’t care what they remind me of. What happened, happened. They’re just part of the map now.”

Miles tilted his head. “Map?”

Kit shrugged. “Of where I’ve been. Not where I’m going.”

The response hung there for a bit. Miles’ expression softened, but not in that gentle, movie kind of way — more like understanding, or maybe acceptance. He didn’t push for more, didn’t reach out or make it symbolic. Just sat in the same water, tracing the edge of a bruise that had long since turned into memory.

Kit closed his eyes again, the faint sound of water shifting filling the space. “You think too much, you know,” he said quietly.

Miles gave a short exhale. “You talk too little.”

“Balance,” Kit muttered.

The room settled back into stillness, their breathing syncing with the lazy rhythm of the bath. Two bodies marked in different ways — not healed, not perfect, but neither trying to hide anymore. 

Notes:

> this took sooo longg to put it together ughh
> i will get into highschool kittails shit yurrr

> no u didnt see that spelling mistake. shut it..

Chapter 116

The studio was quiet except for the faint hiss of charcoal sliding over paper and the soft hum Miles let slip every time he exhaled through his nose. He lay draped across a ridiculously expensive sofa—something velvet and lush, the color of crushed wine—his body stretched in a languid curve meant to mimic the sculptures of ancient heroes. A loose, gown-like chiton slid off one shoulder, revealing the smooth line of his collarbone and the small rise of his stomach from the angle of his pose. His legs, thick and strong, were crossed just so; his soft hair was styled in loose bangs with that stubborn ahoge insisting on standing at attention.

 

He held a glass of red wine delicately by the stem, fingers elegant, gaze instructed to drift somewhere toward the far wall with the air of a man contemplating myth and destiny.

 

But his thoughts were nowhere near divine.

Not even close.

 

Miles’ head buzzed, warm and electric, as he tried not to think too hard about the artist standing a few feet away—about the way Kitsunami’s eyes kept flicking from his sketchpad to Miles’ chest, then his thighs, then anywhere but his face. The tension made his ears twitch.

 

He keeps looking at me like that, Miles thought, throat tightening. Why does that feel… good? Why do I want him to look longer? Harder?

 

He swallowed the question with another soft hum.

 

Kitsunami, meanwhile, was convinced he was going to die from sheer gay panic.

 

He’d been sketching models for years, had captured torsos, hips, sweat-damp muscle, and relaxed limbs in every configuration imaginable. But never had he drawn someone like Miles—someone who could pose perfectly with almost no direction, who moved as if art was simply another language he was fluent in. Someone whose hair glowed like wheat in sunlight, whose little stomach pushed so adorably against the fabric, whose thighs looked carved from marble yet soft enough to grab—

 

He nearly broke the tip of his charcoal at that thought.

 

Focus. Focus. You’re an artist. You are professional. You are absolutely not thinking about how his lips look flushed or how his chest rises like that or— GODS, he’s beautiful.

 

He cleared his throat, voice low and surprisingly careful.

“Do you need water, Miles? You’re holding the pose perfectly, but I don’t want you fainting on me.”

 

Miles blinked, tearing his gaze from the distance to look at him. “Mm? Oh—no, I’m okay. The wine helps a little.”

 

“That’s not water,” Kitsunami said, though his smile slipped out before he could stop it.

 

Miles shifted on the couch, the movement making the chiton fall farther down his shoulder, exposing more pale fur and the faintest blush of warmth across it. The sight almost made Kitsunami choke. He snapped his focus back to the page, drawing faster, like capturing the moment before it evaporated.

 

Miles noticed.

He tried not to react, but his heart thudded against his ribs.

 

He looks away like he’s embarrassed. Or flustered. Is it because of me? Am I— attractive to him? Gods, do I want to be? I’ve never thought about someone looking at me like that. I’ve never wanted someone to.

 

His gaze drifted to Kitsunami’s hands. Strong. Calloused from hours of sketching. Steady, even as his face went a shade too pink for someone who claimed to be composed.

 

Miles felt heat bloom in his stomach, different from wine, deeper than embarrassment.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

I think I like him looking at me. I think I like him. I think I—

 

“Ease your back a little,” Kitsunami said suddenly. “You’re tensing up. I can see it in your shoulders.”

 

Miles exhaled shakily and melted back into the sofa, the gown shifting just enough to reveal the natural line of his hip. Kitsunami let out a sound that could only be described as a strangled prayer.

 

“You okay?” Miles asked, a small smirk threatening to form.

 

Kitsunami whipped his eyes back to his page. “Fine. Yep. Definitely. Totally fine.”

 

“You don’t sound fine.”

 

“You don’t sound like someone who’s supposed to be looking dramatically into the distance.”

 

Miles flushed, snapping his gaze back forward. “Right. Sorry.”

 

But their embarrassment fed the air between them, weaving something electric and quiet. Kitsunami’s strokes softened, capturing the curve of Miles’ stomach, the gentle slope of his chest, the softness in the pose that wasn’t in ancient sculptures but was very distinctly him.

 

He hesitated before drawing the line of Miles’ thigh.

His hand hovered.

Tempted.

Dangerously tempted.

 

Miles didn’t see the hesitation, but he felt something shift in the room—some invisible thread tugging them closer in a way that had nothing to do with distance.

 

“Kitsunami?” he said softly.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Do you… like drawing me?”

 

Kitsunami’s breath caught.

“I like drawing everyone.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

Silence.

Kitsunami’s ears burned scarlet.

 

Finally he muttered, “You’re… a very good subject.”

 

Miles’ heart thumped again. Harder.

 

“And… aesthetically,” Kitsunami continued, words stumbling out against his better judgment, “you’re— you know. Nice. To draw.”

 

Miles’ lips parted.

“Oh.”

 

Kitsunami, horrified, buried himself deeper in sketching. “Forget I said anything.”

 

“No,” Miles said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t… want to forget.”

 

He didn’t know how to name the feelings stirring inside him, the warmth rising in his cheeks, the fluttering panic that didn’t feel like fear at all. He didn’t know why the praise made him feel unsteady, breath catching where his ribs curved.

 

Why is this doing something to me? Why does hearing him say that make me—

 

The realization hit him like a soft, devastating blow.

 

Oh gods.

I like him.

I like him and he’s looking at me like I’m— something worth drawing. Something beautiful.

 

Miles stared forward again, but his eyes were unfocused, his mind spiraling and blooming at the same time.

 

Kitsunami glanced up, saw his distant look, and misread it entirely.

 

“You still doing okay?” he asked, voice gentle now, the panic smoothed out into concern. “You look… different.”

 

Miles took a breath, trembling at the edges.

“I’m okay,” he murmured. “Just thinking.”

 

“About what?”

 

Miles swallowed, throat tight.

“…Art,” he lied.

Then, unable to help himself:

“And maybe the artist.”

 

Kitsunami froze.

 

The charcoal rolled out of his fingers and hit the floor.

 

It didn’t shatter—just rolled across the studio rug with a soft, lazy clink—but the sound was enough to snap the air in half just as Miles lunged forward, fingers curling in the front of Kit’s shirt. The motion wasn’t graceful or practiced like his posing. It was raw, impulsive, born from something that had been simmering under his skin the entire afternoon.

 

Kit didn’t even get the chance to gasp.

 

Miles’ mouth crashed against his, hot and desperate, tasting faintly of sweet wine and nerves. The Grecian chiton shifted with him, the fabric slipping down his chest as he pushed into the kiss with a force that sent Kit wobbling, nearly tipping backward if not for Miles grabbing him by the waist and dragging him in.

 

Kit clutched at him instinctively—first at his arms, then at the slippery fabric of the white chiton. His fingers curled too tightly. The delicate cloth tore with a clean rip down the side, exposing more pale skin and muscle than Miles probably meant to reveal, but he didn’t seem to care. Not even a little.

 

“Miles—” Kit managed against his mouth, breath trembling as he fought to stay upright. “Your clothes—”

 

“Don’t care,” Miles whispered, voice breaking between kisses. “Just— come here—”

 

He pulled Kit down with him until they crashed gently onto the sofa together. Miles ended up half on his back, half propped by one elbow, the dress pooling like spilled milk around him. The gold clasp at his shoulder popped off, bouncing across the cushions. The thin strap of fabric slid down his arm.

 

Kit’s heart thundered in his throat.

 

He had drawn poses like this. Fantasized, even. But nothing prepared him for the reality of Miles beneath him—hair mussed, bangs falling into his eyes, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths as he dragged Kit down into another kiss. This one softer, then firmer again when Kit didn’t melt fast enough.

 

Kit nearly lost his balance a second time, knee slipping on the couch cushion. “Shit—!”

 

Miles grabbed his hip, steadying him. “Hey, careful,” he murmured, breath hot, lips brushing Kit’s cheek. “Don’t fall.”

 

“I am falling,” Kit hissed, fingers digging into Miles’ half-ruined chiton. “You’re— making sure of it—”

 

Miles laughed softly—nervous but glowing with something new, something frighteningly sincere. “Good.”

 

He cupped Kit’s jaw with both hands, pulling him in again—not rushed this time, not frantic, but slow. Intentionally slow. So slow Kit’s breath caught and he nearly forgot how to move. Their noses brushed, lips parting, heat pressing closer until Kit trembled from the weight of it.

 

His hands fisted helplessly in the already-damaged gown. Another tear blossomed under his fingers, widening as he shifted. “Miles, this is— this thing cost more than my rent.”

 

“Mhm,” Miles hummed, absolutely no remorse in his voice as he angled Kit’s face and kissed along his jaw. “I’ll buy another.”

 

“You hate shopping.”

 

“For you,” Miles whispered into his skin, “I’d tolerate it.”

 

Kit’s face burned. His breath stuttered. His grip—already too tight—tightened even more when Miles shifted his legs to pull Kit between them. The movement made Kit’s knees buckle, and he collapsed forward, catching himself by bracing a hand beside Miles’ shoulder. His other hand? Still tangled in the chiton. Still gripping like his life depended on it.

 

Another rip.

 

Miles shivered.

 

He pulled back just enough to see the panic flicker across Kit’s expression. “You can hold me,” he murmured, slipping his fingers into Kit’s messy ponytail. “You won’t break me.”

 

“You say that,” Kit whispered, leaning in as Miles tugged him gently down again, “but your clothes—”

 

“Mmh. Clothes are temporary,” Miles breathed, lips ghosting Kit’s. “This is not.”

 

Kit’s breath hitched—too honest, too raw—and he didn’t even try to speak again before Miles kissed him hard. Kit made a small, helpless noise, hands sliding up Miles’ ribs, over the exposed skin the ruined chiton no longer covered. His fingers trembled as they traced the curve of Miles’ waist, the softness of his stomach from earlier posing, the warm line of muscle beneath.

 

Miles inhaled sharply against his lips.

 

Kit froze. “Did I— was that— too much?”

 

Miles looked up at him through his lashes, face flushed. “…No. Not too much.” A pause. A swallow. “Perfect.”

 

Kit’s knees nearly gave out again.

 

Miles tugged him down, mouth catching Kit’s lower lip in a desperate, shaking kiss. It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t the kind of pose he could hold for an artist.

 

And Kit clung—clung like he had forgotten how not to. His hands slid behind Miles’ back, one arm wrapping fully around him to anchor himself, the other gripping the torn chiton so tightly it might as well have been scraps at this point. He pressed closer, chest to chest, legs half tangled, breaths mixing as the kiss deepened until talking became impossible.

 

Miles made a soft noise into Kit’s mouth—not quite a gasp, not quite a whine—and Kit nearly collapsed entirely. “You’re killing me,” Kit whispered against his lips.

 

Miles pulled him down by the collar. “Then die here.”

 

“That’s— dramatic—”

 

“So are you.”

 

Kit let out something between a laugh and a groan, burying his face briefly in Miles’ neck just to breathe. Miles tilted his head, letting him, stroking fingers through Kit’s hair slowly, soothingly, like tugging someone closer was second nature.

 

Kit pressed a soft kiss to the hollow of Miles’ throat.

 

Miles shivered again.

 

When Kit pulled back up, Miles’ eyes were glazed, half-lidded, lips slightly swollen. He looked nothing like the serene, classical figure he had posed as minutes before.

 

He looked real.

 

Flushed.

 

Wanting.

 

“Miles…” Kit whispered, brushing a stray bang from his eyes. His fingers trembled. “Are you sure about this?”

 

Miles lifted his hand to cup Kit’s cheek. “I started it,” he whispered back. “I’m not stopping it.”

 

Kit swallowed hard, breath shaking.

 

Miles tugged him down again.

 

This kiss was slower, deeper, the kind of kiss that didn’t rush or collide—it unfolded, blooming warm and steady between them, filling the small studio until the dust motes in the sunbeams seemed to float differently.

 

Kit clung to him, anchored by Miles’ hands on his back, by the soft strength in Miles’ legs pulling him closer, by the warmth that had nothing to do with wine or posing lamps.

 

And the torn chiton?

 

Forgotten.

 

Except for the soft whisper of fabric slipping further down as Miles arched up into the kiss, holding Kit as though letting go would be impossible.

 

Or unforgivable.

 

Notes:

> im turkish and i do hate greeks ( love hate) but ancient greece had nice clothes. ottoman empire on the other hand...
> chiton is sewing a rectangle fabric's two opposite sides to each.

> felt like making them kiss mid way
> theres also fruits on the table. this was inspired by my girlfriend's mother's old painting, it was such a great painting. rephrased: this oneshot is based on that painting

> artist kitsunami does have artistic nudity and lustful nudity. i mean half of the artist's have it. He just happens to be gay and those thoughts make him spiral about his gayness

Chapter 117

Notes:

> still on hiatus i just had to write this historic moment,, dont jump me ok im just a nerd who likes to interest smash her hobbies

Miles sat at the counter with his crooked old-hag glasses sliding halfway down his muzzle, robe sleeves drooping while he scrolled Instagram with the most grandfatherly intensity imaginable. His bowl of cereal sat untouched, milk going warm as he flicked his thumb across the screen—slow, deliberate, squinting like the text might jump out and bite him. Every now and then he made a quiet hum under his breath, the kind he didn’t even know he made, but Kit felt every one of them tingling somewhere in his spine.

 

Kit, meanwhile, was sprawled across the other side of the counter like someone had shot him with a tranquilizer dart. His face was in his arms, hair tied back in his half-effort ponytail, contact lenses giving him a perfect, crisp view of the tragedy on his phone screen. He lifted it only to drop it again with a dramatic groan.

 

“Both. Both McLarens,” he muttered, voice muffled by his sleeve. “Disqualified. In Vegas. Vegas, Miles.”

 

Miles didn’t look up. Didn’t even blink. He scrolled slower, posture suspiciously relaxed.

 

“Mmm,” he hummed, pretending to be neutral. “Tragic.”

 

Kit slammed his palm on the counter, sitting up so fast his messy ponytail flicked sideways. “Don’t ‘tragic’ me. Don’t do that. I know that tone.”

 

Miles sniffed primly, adjusting his glasses with a single finger. “Tone? I have no tone.”

 

Kit pointed at him like he was accusing a criminal. “Max Verstappen fan tone.”

 

Miles’ ears perked in amusement, though he tried to hide it by taking a spoonful of soggy cereal. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“You are smug. You are glowing. You are enjoying this.”

 

Miles chewed with the most serene little smile, like his cereal had suddenly become a gourmet victory feast. “Kit. Sweetheart. My love. My retired sea monster. I am merely observing the racing news.”

 

“You’re celebrating.”

 

“I’m… appreciating.”

 

Kit dragged both hands down his face so aggressively his lenses nearly popped out. “He’s not even that good.”

 

Miles’ tails flicked, the only sign of the chaos dancing behind his polite expression. “Four championships say otherwise.”

 

Kit growled—an actual, low, grumbly growl—which only made Miles’ smile widen behind the rim of those awful glasses.

 

“He drives like he’s allergic to sharing the track,” Kit snapped.

 

“He drives like he wants to win,” Miles countered, stirring his cereal with infuriating calm.

 

Kit stood up, pacing like he needed to walk off the emotional damage. “I can’t believe I married you.”

 

“You absolutely can,” Miles said, finally glancing up at him over the glasses, blue-brown eyes sparkling. “You like my terrible opinions.”

 

“I hate your terrible opinions.”

 

Miles hummed, leaning his cheek in his palm. “Yet here you are.”

 

Kit let out a dramatic, wounded noise and dropped back into his stool, slumping so hard the countertop vibrated. “I woke up thinking it was going to be a good day. And then Lando and Oscar get nuked, and you—you with your robe and your cereal and your smug little Verstappen smirk—you get to lord it over me.”

 

Miles blinked innocently. “I wouldn’t lord anything.”

 

“You’re lording.”

 

“I’m simply enjoying breakfast.”

 

Kit buried his face in his arms again. “I hate that man…”

 

Miles reached over and gently patted the back of Kit’s head, fingers slipping into messy hair with slow affection. “There, there. I’ll console you after I finish scrolling.”

 

Kit peeked up with betrayal dripping from his voice. “After?”

 

Miles smiled sweetly, the kind of smile one only has when their favorite driver gets to walk away from chaos untouched. “Well, I need to read the comment section.”

 

Kit groaned again, louder. “You’re torturing me.”

 

“Never,” Miles said, though his soft hum suggested otherwise. “I’m just… savoring.”

 

Kit glared. “I’m going to block every Verstappen account you follow.”

 

“You won’t.”

 

“Watch me.”

 

Miles leaned forward, brushing his fingers along Kit’s cheek in that soft, teasing way that always disarmed him. “If you do, I’ll change your lock screen to him.”

 

Kit froze. “You wouldn’t.”

 

Miles’ smile turned downright dangerous in that gentle, passive-aggressive, husband way. “Try me.”

 

Kit slumped again, defeated. “I hate this sport.”

 

Miles chuckled, returning to his cereal. “You love this sport.”

 

Kit kicked his foot lightly under the table. “I love McLaren. And you’re insufferable.”

 

Miles hummed, the sound soft and warm as honey. “And you’re adorable when you’re grumpy.”

 

Kit didn’t respond. Mostly because Miles had reached over again, smoothing a hand through his messy ponytail, and Kit—despite everything—melted like butter on a hot pan.

 

“…Fine,” Kit muttered into the counter. “But I’m not talking to you for the next ten minutes.”

 

Miles nodded sagely. “Take your time.”

 

Kit peeked sideways at him. “You’re still smug.”

 

Miles didn’t bother denying it this time.

 

And Kit, as much as he hated it, still leaned closer—still pressed his head into Miles’ hand—still let the old-hag-glasses-wearing menace comfort him while doomscrolling racing drama.

 

A terrible day for Kitsunami.

 

A great day for Miles.

 

 

Notes:

> mclaren fans found CRYING in the CORNER!! good for em
> it was sooo obvious they got some shit going on it is mclarens historically worst track and they go without no pole slam?? something aint right

> anyways MAX4LIFE he gonna win again hehe,, one day yuki will get into podium just like his mentor trust

> also f1 academy had its winner too, its dorianne pin!! all merc fam was w her too 🥲🥲

> take care! next race is approaching ^_^

Notes:

Kudos means motivation, I would be glad if you did~♪

Kittails Server🍬🌊

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of pristinee's sonic collection