We Cannot Escape, We Cannot Come Out, Mama~♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.
“Fever Dream” – Part I [12/19/25]
Pairing. Geto Suguru (cat hybrid) & Gojo Satoru (cat hybrid) × Reader
What were you supposed to do — ONLY adopt the amethyst-eyed black cat and leave his blue-eyed soulmate behind?
MDNI MATURE CONTENT BY INTERACTING YOU FULLY CONSENT TO ALL THE CONTENT OF THIS WORK OF ART. VIEW DESCRESION ADVISED...
Listen. You’re not insane. You're not.
It’s not like your cats are sabotaging your sex life. That would be crazy. That would be impossible. They’re you perfect baby boys. Geto and Gojo
...Right?
Sure, your birth control went missing twice. Sure, every single condom you own has conviniently been ripped open or clawed up like a chew toy. Sure, the last three men who tried to touch you ended up yeowled at, pounced on, or sprayed with a mysterious kitchen faucet incident.
But those are just coincidences. Just weird, completely random coincidences....
It’s not like Gojo stares too long when you kiss someone. It’s not like Geto becomes possessed every time someone says you look pretty. It’s not like you woke up last week with two giant human-sized indents in your bed.
...Right?
You're fine. Everything's fine. You’re just in a dry spell. Because of the economy. Or mercury in retrograde. Not because your cats are morphing into feral hot men and cockblocking you into insanity.
Pairing. Geto Suguru (cat hybrid) & Gojo Satoru (cat hybrid) × Reader
MDNI — 18+ ONLY. Explicit Sexual Content, Porn with Plot (lots), Crack Treated Seriously, Crackfic Energy, Threesome, Group Sex, Spitroasting, Double Penetration (Implied/Explicit), Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Overstimulation, Heat Cycle / Heat Fic, Loss of Control, Ferality, Consent but Make It Unhinged, Power Imbalance (Consensual), Teasing & Taunting, Dirty Talk, Mockery as Foreplay, Praise & Degradation, Breeding Kink, Cum Play, Swallowing, Messy Sex, Body Fluids, Excessive Wetness, Sensitive Throat, Clenching, Multiple Orgasms, Sex as a Team Sport, Holding Hands During Sex, Eiffel Tower Position, Voyeuristic Undertones, Exhibitionist Energy, Sensory Overload, Post‑Orgasm Desperation, Heat That Won’t Break, Sex Pollen Adjacent, Reader Is Down Bad, Reader Has No Dignity Left, Gojo Satoru Is a Menace, Geto Suguru Is Calm but Deadly, Both Men Are Having Way Too Much Fun, Mutual Enjoyment, No Regrets, Mattress Destruction, Questionable Structural Integrity, Canon‑Divergent AU, Not Canon Compliant, Porn Logic, Everybody Is Horny, Everybody Is Alive (Morally Debatable)
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If you know the original artist(s), please let me know so I can properly credit and tag them.
The penthouse was too quiet for how hard you were sobbing. You were dying.
Literally,well not really but close enough. Emotionally. Spiritually. But most importantly Sexually…. Curled up in your fainting couch like a cursed heroine in an opera no one ever finished writing, wrapped in a silk robe that was clinging to you out of sheer pity. The lace collar drooped. The sleeves wilted. It was all very Victorian consumptive chic.
Yuki sat by your feet, sipping red wine like it was communion, wearing six layers of lip gloss and not a lick of sympathy.
“Oh cupcake,” she said gently, like you hadn’t just screamed into a throw pillow for three uninterrupted minutes. “It’s not that bad.”
You lifted your head — trembling, mascara-streaked, bottom lip quivering like you were about to sing a ballad.
“YUKI!!!!” you shrieked, “I HAVE NOT BEEN FUCKED IN A YEAR!!!!”
Your voice cracked. Your lip quivered. And finally your soul howled.
“I’m going to evaporate,” you continued, undeterred by their apathy. “I’m going to shrivel up and become a cautionary tale told by baristas. ‘That’s the girl who dried out so bad, she turned into artisanal jerky.’”
Yuki gasped playing into your dramatic. “Not jerky.”
You turned your face to the ceiling. “No orgasms! No foreplay! No desperate fumbling in the dark! No hand gripping the back of my neck telling me to take it like a good girl—!!!”
“Alright, alright,” Shoko cut in flatly. “The neighbors have kids.”
Shoko, on the other hand, looked vaguely concerned in that way only chain-smoking surgeons do — standing behind the couch, arms crossed, sipping something criminally strong from your favorite glass.
“I am withering, shoko. I am becoming ancient. I am going to dry out and become a dusty little husk, and they’re gonna find me curled up next to my vibrator like a fossilized mushroom.”
“No orgasms. No mouth-on-mouth devastation. No emotional support dick. Nothing! Just me. And my cats. And my rapidly depleting will to live.” Yuki sipped her wine delicately. “Ohh come on it Could be worse.”
“There’s worse things than being celibate.”
Yuki paused. Thoughtfully. “Toilet paper shortage. Foundation flashback. Getting raw-dogged emotionally by your therapist—”
“I am not emotionally constipated, Yuki. I’m just—” you grabbed a velvet pillow and screamed into it, face-down, shrieking like a ghost bride on the moors. “—UNTOUCHED AND UNLOVED!”
Gojo, your beautiful white haired cat with crystal blue eyes made movement from the floor, yawned. Then immediately reached up with his little pink paw pads and gently patted Shoko’s nose. Once. Twice. Pat. Pat. Shoko didn’t flinch. But she did take a long, slow drag from her cigarette.
“Gojo your mom’s crying again go cheer her up” You turned your head to look. Gojo was now batting at Shoko’s braid like it owed him money. Purring like a lawn mower. Fully on his back, legs open, looking obscene and smug. And ignoring her advice. “Whys he only being affectionate with you two today," you muttered.
“Who knows maybe you made him mad” Shoko said, as Gojo attempted to gnaw her sleeve all content. Geto, meanwhile, was perched like a gargoyle near Yuki’s thigh — his silky black tail flicking like a metronome of judgment. Licking at his paw. Until she reached down to pet him.
He moved with such offended grace it was like you’d asked him to file taxes. His body flinched away from her fingers like he was allergic to lip gloss and female friendship. He jumped down in a huff, tail high, ears twitching in distaste.
“Oh wow,” Yuki said with a snort. “Am i not your type of woman, Geto?”
He didn’t answer — obviously, because he was a cat — but he did shoot her a look so cutting it could’ve peeled paint off the penthouse walls. Then he turned, slow as sin, and walked directly to you.
“Ah.. smug little thing,” Yuki chuckled and he slinked away. Geto turned his head in a slow, disgusted blink. As if she had been the one to ruin his night.
He kept walking — all fluid disdain — and slinked across the couch like a prince returning to his throne. And, naturally, his throne was your tits. “Oh, so now you want affection,” you muttered as he climbed up your chest and tucked himself beneath your chin like a little furry anchor of emotional manipulation.
“Ugh, I hate men!” You sighed. And looked down at Geto’s amethyst eyes and scratched behind his ear. “You two don’t count, y’know. You’re neutered after all .”
Satoru stopped pawing at Shoko and slowly turned his head to blink at you. Geto’s tail twitched. You didn’t notice. You were too busy flopping dramatically into your pillow again.
Shoko had Gojo cradled in her arms like a fat little baby — and not just any baby. A trust fund baby. A baby who would ask to see the manager. A baby who purred like he didn't pay rent because he didn't after all. He had stretched himself across her lap so dramatically, you’d think he was posing for a renaissance painting entitled Saint Satoru, Patron Saint of Bad Decisions. His legs dangled uselessly. His spine twisted like a gymnast in heat. His belly pointed to heaven as if offering himself to God.
Shoko massaged each of his little toes with medical precision, thumbs rolling over his tarsals like she was performing a spa-day autopsy. Gojo PURRED. LOUDLY. And ever so OBSCENELY.
The sound filled the entire penthouse like a motorcycle engine revving inside a sex dungeon.
Yuki side‑eyed him. “Why does he look like hes enjoying that?”
“Because he is,” Shoko replied, coddling gojo like the cute little baby he is, she never stoped her rhythm as she flexed his toes like tiny obscene puppets. “He’s an attention whore.” Gojo blinked up at her. Smiled. Purred harder — like a cat who knew he had no job, no taxes, no responsibilities, and yet infinite audacity.
Meanwhile, you were halfway upside down on the couch, face buried in Geto’s fur like you were trying to suffocate on purpose. Your robe had slipped off more, exposing hickeyless‑adjacent sadness. You looked unravished — regretfully.
“I’m gonna start sleeping in a church,” you muttered into Geto’s back, muffled and near delirious. “I’m spiritually raw‑dogging myself at this point.” That’s when Yuki tapped her wine glass with her nail — ding ding — the sound of an incoming bad idea. “Okay, but what about that MMA hottie from a while back? What was his name? Toji? Why don’t you call him up?”
You sat up slowly. Too slowly. Smiling. Then grinning. Then smiling harder.
Your friends froze — because that wasn’t happiness. That was unhingedness (a/n. Barzzzz). It was the smile of someone who had just connected with a past version of herself in a traumatic flashback. It was the smile of a woman who had seen things. It was the smile of a villain’s musical number.
“Oh,” you whispered, eyes going glassy with war memories. Then louder, breathless: “Ohhhh that man.” Both girls stiffened. You released a laugh — a full-body, feral, deranged laugh — the kind that made Yuki put her wine down slowly like she wasn’t sure you should be holding objects. “Oh girls,” you said, wiping away a tear that wasn’t there, “let me tell you about Toji.”
You had just stepped out of the elevator from the underground garage, heels echoing against marble as you cut across the grand lobby of your tower. The night concierge smiled at you, but you barely noticed — your phone was pressed to your cheek, laughter tucked into the corners of your mouth.
Toji's voice was low and teasing on the other end, rough from the flight. You could hear the rumble of an engine behind him as he stepped off the private tarmac, somewhere between tired and turned on. “Ma,” he drawled, “I been fightin’ for my life in that cage and you still the one beatin’ my ass.”
“Toji,” you sighed, mock-scolding, “why are you already outta pocket? Didn’t you just land?”
His voice came through rough and lazy, but warm like sun on the back of your neck. You could hear the jet noise fading behind him, leather shifting under him as he got into a car. “Had you on my mind the second I touched down, pup. You think I’m not gonna call after all that shit you been pullin’?”
You smiled despite yourself. “Shit like what?”
“Like sittin’ on my dick last week wearin’ nothin’ but lace and lipgloss,” he growled. “Grindin’ on me ‘til I damn near saw God, then tellin’ me you ‘lost’ all your condoms.”
“I did!!!” you giggled, pressing the elevator call button. “They were in my travel bag and my assistant switched it out.”
Toji exhaled through his nose, amused. “Right. And mine just mysteriously vanished?”
“Hey that was your place they went missing at,” you said, stepping into the private elevator. “And besides I warned you my cats are protective.”
“Yeah? They ain’t protective—they’re demonic,” he muttered, low. “I’m tellin’ you, shortty... I think your cats hate me.”
“They do not,” you laughed, hitting the penhouse lobby buttons. “They’re just protective.”
“They be starin’ at me like they know somethin’. Like they saw me try to finger you on the kitchen counter and they’re planning revenge.”
Silence. Then a rough laugh from him, deep and fond. “Tch. No wonder one of ‘em pissed on my duffel.”
The elevator glided upward, soft golden light washing over you as floor after floor ticked by beneath your heels. Your tone softened. Your voice lowered without meaning to. “Well... I’m on birth control now.”
Then a soft, knowing sound from him — like he was leaning back into leather, letting that truth settle deep. “Mmm,” he hummed. “So you tryna let me fuck tonight yea?.”
“You’ve been the one obsessing over it.” you act like you aren't the one who wants it “To be fair,” he said, tone easing into something more serious, “if we keepin’ it casual, we should still be safe.” You rolled your eyes playfully. “Obviously. That’s why I got on—”
“No,” he said, interrupting. “I mean—what if I don’t want it casual?” Your heart flipped. You blinked, staring at your reflection in the gold-tinted elevator mirror.
“Toji.” His voice dropped to a low rumble. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like I’m playin’. Who fucks raw if they arent serious You know how I feel about you.” You swallowed. “Stop fucking with me” your about to start When he calls your name in that low voice he only uses to command your attention, its then you feel your pussy throb…
“Toji,” you whispered. “What are you saying?”
Simple. Unpolished. Honest.
You stood there in soft silence, lips parted, heart blooming slow and wide. You’d been tiptoeing that edge for months now — the line between want and love. Between almost and finally.
And then you smiled. Soft, wide, bashful. But you weren't going to give it easy to him
“Hey Toji… You’re not allowed to ask me that over the phone.”
He chuckled—low, heady, dripping affection. “Aight. You're right. So I’ll see you tonight. I’m takin’ you out.” You bit your lip, heart thudding. “It’s a date.”
The call ended just as The elevator dinged softly as it opened into the lobby floor —crystal chandeliers glittering above the private top floors concierge’s desk. You stepped into it on shaky, floating legs, giddy like you were seventeen again.
— a lavishly dim space gilded in brass and obsidian marble, quiet save for the hush of a bubbling water feature near the receptionist’s desk. You practically floated out, still clutching your phone, heart fluttering with excitement as you clicked across the inlaid stone floors toward the velvet roped entrance to your private tower elevator.
The doorman looked up from his podium, a knowing smirk tucked into the lines of his weathered face. “Hey there, miss. What’re we celebrating?”
You tried to compose yourself—tried. But your lips split in a giddy grin, a laugh breaking through as you twirled in your heels like a schoolgirl drunk on first love.
“I—ah,” you bit your lip “I’m going to see my boyfriend tonight,” you said, the word boyfriend still strange and delicious on your tongue. “He’s taking me out.” A voice behind you interrupted gently. Smooth. Masculine. Unfamiliar.
“Well then… congratulations.”
The man standing in the lounge alcove looked like he belonged in a Baroque portrait. Tall, elegant, unnervingly beautiful — dressed in muted grey, with snowy white hair falling just behind his ears, skin pale and luminescent like moonlight, and a pair of round, black-rimmed glasses that only made his icy blue eyes ever more piercing.
You blinked, caught completely off-guard.
He smiled. But it was hollow. Polite. More mask than mirth. “If it’s a celebration,” he said, lifting a small, white bakery box from the armrest beside him, “why not start with something sweet? Nutty fudge brownies. Still warm.” he smiles
Your gobsmacked, and the man who could be no older than 18 had a Cheshire grin. “What… cat got your tongue”
“Oh my god,” you gasped, eyes wide he was the prettiest thing you ever did see and somehow so hauntingly familiar... “Hehe sorry i just you just look like my cat gojo” he smiles to your comment “he must be a handsome feline indeed” you giggle and bring your attention back to the platter of goodies in front of him “I love nutty brownies—especially fudgy ones—i guess the floor management really does pay attention?” He extended the platter like a peace offering, nodding once. You took one with a grateful laugh. “You’re too kind. Thank you.” His fingers brushed yours. hot. “Cheers,” he murmured, smile lingering as the elevator behind you slid open with a whisper.
You blinked—but the moment passed, and your thoughts were already lifting skyward.
You stepped into the private elevator with your brownie in hand, breathless and glowing. The mirrored interior caught your reflection — silk blouse undone at the collar, cheeks flushed, smile syrupy and soft.
fifty-five floors later, the elevator doors opened to a dream.
Your penthouse smelled like paradise.
You staggered in, eyes wide, heels clicking to a halt.
The entire apartment — your entire top floor — had been transformed into a floral cathedral. Peonies, garden roses, white hydrangeas, tiger lilies, deep red anthuriums, lilacs, snapdragons. Dozens of your favorites—arranged in dramatic, sculptural clusters like a palace conservatory. Petals spilled over the black marble counters, framing the fireplace, lining the hall like a trail of perfume.
You laughed. A disbelieving, high-pitched squeal.
Toji really did this. You pressed your hands over your mouth, heart thudding, legs wobbling. The brownie almost finished, still clutched in one hand, like a catalyst. You spun in slow circles, overwhelmed by beauty, and whispered under your breath with a smile so wide it hurt—
“…He really is a softie.”
Yuki and Shoko were perched on either end of the velvet couch like they were watching a live telenovela. One hand curled under their chins, wine glasses forgotten, eyes wide with scandalized delight. Yuki was the first to break. “Okay—hold on. So he filled your entire penthouse with flowers? That’s movie-level shit. What did you do?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Hmm... what would any woman do when her man flies in after a brutal fight and floods her tower with tiger lilies, orchids, and two dozen ivory gardenias?”
Then your smile turned wicked.
“I sent him a picture, of course. In that jade lingerie set with the satin garters.” You leaned back with a faux-innocent shrug. “I just snapped a little picture and texted him: I won’t go easy on you with a winky face.”
Yuki choked on her wine. Shoko’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline.
Yuki screamed. “Biiiiiitch!”
Their laughter filled the lounge, rich and chaotic. They clutched their glasses like lifelines, gasping for breath between wheezes, wiping tears with the backs of their hands. The girls howled, their laughter bouncing off the walls like gossip in a salon. Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Gojo and Geto were locked in a twin glare — both looking like they’d just heard their favorite song used in a condom commercial.
Yuki caught the vibe first. She squinted at the boys over her glass, then grinned. “Aweeee! Wait. No way. You two—” she pointed dramatically “—youre jealous of your mom!” she taunted your babies.
“Girl dont even get me started on what these two were doing the whole time” “because these two—” you pointed accusingly to the opposite end of the room “—would not let me get the perfect shot.”
Gojo, your snowy white menace with blue eyes and criminal intent, was curled like a donut on your fainting chair, tail flicking. Geto, your sleek black panther of a housecat with glinty purple eyes, sprawled on the shag rug like a jaded Victorian poet.
“Every time I angled the camera—BAM! A paw in the frame. A tail over my nipple. Geto tackled my ring light at one point. And Gojo kept jumping on the bouquets like it was a game.”
“They are cats,” Shoko offered.
You sighed, clutching your wine glass like a war widow. “All that effort—posing, rearranging pillows, ducking paws, dodging tails—it left me looking…” you paused for effect, “fucked out.”
Yuki blinked. Shoko tilted her head.
You gestured to yourself with a dramatic flair. “My hair was all tangled from crawling across the carpet trying to find light. My lip gloss was half-gone, but somehow made me look pouty. My bras strap slipped just enough off my shoulder to look deliberate. And I swear, all that twisting around to keep their little paws out the shot left me cinched in the waist like a damn corset model.”
Shoko narrowed her eyes. “So you’re telling me... what are you saying then?”
“They are spiteful little men in fur suits,” you hissed. “I couldn’t take one clean thirst trap. I tried bribing them. Catnip. Tuna. Nothing worked.” Yuki choked on her drink. “Get it out woman! What happened!!!” You sighed, lifting your phone. “In the end... I had to compromise.” You flipped the screen to them.
There it was. the money shot. Their eyes glowed with indignance. Their ears twitched with irritation. Their faces were pure drama. But you?
You looked radiant. Glowing. Devastated in the most delicious way.
All that exertion — the twisting, posing, wrangling fur-covered saboteurs — left your body in a state of perfect disarray. Your hair was tousled like you’d just been kissed breathless, wild tendrils curling around flushed cheeks. Your lips were swollen from biting back laughter and cursing your cats under your breath — now glistening, soft, parted in that helpless little pout that said “come ruin me.”
The camera caught the way your waist dipped impossibly tight from all the arching and twisting, thighs tucked just so beneath you. Your lace panties barely visible beneath getos smug, sleepy sprawl. The other sat proudly across your chest, his paw perched like a censor bar over your bust — and yet somehow, the shape of you was all there: the roundness of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the impossible tension in your posture like a bowstring pulled tight.
Your eyes — half-lidded, heavy with warmth and mischief — looked straight into the lens like you knew what you were doing. Like you wanted whoever saw this photo to stop breathing. To drop everything. To come claim you.
It was the kind of photo that made men drive recklessly. The kind that made Toji stop mid-stride outside his door, phone in hand, pulse roaring in his dick. And text back
“Aight… your cats aint that bad”
And the cats? Although they were mad and being little gremlins, they had photogenic vision.
So you could never really stay mad at them. Your sweet boys. Your pretty little monsters. They purred as you held them close — smug and satisfied — like they’d helped craft the shot of the century.
Because, really? They had.
Yuki laughed. “So? What happened after the pics?” You leaned back, eyes gleaming. “Well… I got dressed. Pinned my hair. Touched up my lip gloss. And then…”
You were shaking for him, writhing like something half‑feral and starved, thighs squeezed tight around his cock as he slid through the heat of them — the pressure obscene, perfect, filthy. Each slow drag of his length up your slick inner thighs made your whole body jerk, cunt glistening and swollen, already ruined-looking even though he hadn’t so much as pushed inside you yet. You looked used, starved, fucked-out purely from the teaseing — a desperate little offering trembling beneath him, begging without words for the cock you still hadn’t been given.
Toji had you skewered on the edge of madness, both your legs slung over his broad shoulder as he knelt on his haunches, cock heavy and slick and dragging back and forth through your swollen folds like he was bathing in you. Not fucking. Not yet. Just sliding. Letting the thick underside give friction to your clit on every pass, the tip catch your twitching hole, tease, slip away. Again and Again.
You were trembling, splayed across silk sheets like a ruined offering, tears slipping down your temples as Toji smiled like a mad man above you. The jade lingerie he’d once admired was in tatters now, straps bitten through, cups shoved aside like wrapping paper. All that was left was the shimmer of satin clinging to your hips, soaked through and shredded by his teeth.
He’d already made you come three times with just his hands and mouth — slow, mean, unrelenting — and now he was doing it again. Not with his tongue this time, but with the thick, heavy weight of his cock… sliding it back and forth along your swollen, needy cunt without ever pushing in.
You were soaked, puffy, absolutely wrecked — and Toji was reveling in it.
“Look at ya,” he murmured, voice dark with pride. “All that cryin’, and I ain’t even fucked ya yet.”
His cock dragged slow over your slit again, the fat underside catching your clit just right — again and again and again — until your hips bucked, whimpering like your nerves had been scraped raw. You clawed at the sheets, thighs trembling, little hiccupped sobs catching in your throat.
“Toji—please—nyugh!” you gasped, breath shattering.
“Please what, ma?” he cooed, one hand pressing your thigh together to keep you open for him, the other guiding his cock to slip once more through your folds — glistening, teasing, twitching against your cunt like it had a mind of its own. It peeked out every time he rolled his hips — a filthy little game of peekaboo, each pass slicker than the last.
“Beg,” he said, low and final.
You sobbed harder, because isn't that all you have been doing ever since he made you cum the first time? Your lips parted, drool shining on your chin. Your eyes were glassy — lashes damp, mouth stuck in that desperate, fucked-out pout he loved. Every part of you screamed ruin me.
Toji chuckled — low, gravelly, almost tender — and slid the head of his cock over your clit one more time, slow and deliberate.
“Good girl,” he whispered, dragging his tongue over your calf, “tch but you still have to use your words ma”
Every time the fat head of his dick bumped your clit, your whole body jolted. Your breath hitched. Your legs twitched. More fat wet Tears streaked the corners of your eyes and your fingers clawed at the sheets, hips rising instinctively to chase him.
You were babbling now. Incoherent and completely Gone.
“Toji, please, please—put it in, please—” And he just grinned. That slow, wolfish curl of his scarred mouth as he watched you crumble. “Damn, ma,” he rasped, dragging his cock up through your folds again — slow, wet, obscene — “you cryin’ for this dick like I ain’t just ate you ‘til your soul left your body.”
Your thighs shook violently when he nudged your clit again, but he held you steady. Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream. A little sob hiccuped in your throat. He laughed. Low. Cruel. Worshipful. “You that needy already?” he purred, leaning forward just enough to let the blunt head of his cock kiss your entrance—then pull back, slow, evil. “You want it that bad?”
“Yes—yes—Toji, ugh! please—i want it so bad!” You were soaked, sopping, twitching around nothing. “I’ll be good, I can take it mmmm—”
“You can take it?” he mocked gently, voice gravel-dark and full of promise. “Awe pup your ambitious… thinkin you can take my big fat cock like a champ… tuh! your such a cute lil’cumslut…”
He bent down folding you in half, hand fisting your hair, tongue dragging up the salt of your throat, hot and claiming.
And just when you thought he might give in, might finally press inside—
But he was being mean He only slapped the head of his cock against your clit. You screamed. Your whole body arched off the bed, tits jiggling in the torn wreckage of your jade bra, lips parted around a cry so raw it made his cock twitch.
“Ohhh, fuck, there she goes,” he groaned, voice rasping at the edges now, thick with lust. “My sweet little slut—look at you. Cryin’ like this dick your goddamn salvation.”
“Damn,” he muttered, voice husky, watching the heavy underside of his dick slap up against your swollen clit with every slow slap. “You look good like this, ma.”
You choked on a whimper. Because when he finally sank in — slow, thick, stretching you open like you were made for him — your eyes rolled back, mouth dropped open, and every nerve in your body sang hallelujah.
“Oh—!” you gasped, whole body seizing at once.
“Yeah,” he groaned, voice thick, leaning down to kiss your shoulder. “You like when I put it in, huh?” But then he coughed. Sharp. Violent. Your eyes fluttered open. "Hey," you whispered, blinking up at him, confused. “You okay?”
Toji’s brows knit, but he nodded, brushing it off with a grunt. “Yeah. Just a tickle.” But he still hadn’t moved. He hovered above you, one hand braced on the mattress, shoulders hunched. Then, with a smug, lazy smile, he rolled his hips forward and slipped an inch deeper. Your mouth dropped open in a silent moan — fuck, he was so big. So hot. You clenched around nothing, your thighs already trembling.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice low and cocky. "You really like when I put it in, huh?”
You tried to answer, but then — he choked. Harder. Rougher.
He pulled back suddenly, cock slipping free, and scrambled upright. His face was twisted, not in pleasure, but in pain and confusion. One hand clutched at his throat. The other wiped furiously at his mouth. “Baby?” you sat up, sheet falling from your chest. “Toji, what’s wrong?”
He stumbled toward the bathroom. “It’s fine. It’s nothin’—fuck—just... itchy,” he gasped. “Might’ve eaten a nut or somethin’.” Your heart dropped through the floor. “Wait—what? You’re allergic?!” He nodded, still not fully panicked, but his voice was warbling now — raspy, like it hurt to speak. “Go into my duffle. Left side. EpiPen. I’m good, baby. Just hurry.”
You scrambled off the bed, naked and shaking. The jade lingerie fell of your body, torn and sticky with sweat, but you didn’t care. You threw open his duffle—unzipped it fast—and froze. The EpiPen was snapped in half. Your blood ran cold. “Toji—” your voice cracks and tears start falling as you come back to him. “It’s broken. It’s fucking broken—what do I do?!”
You turned to the doorway. He was leaning against the frame now, sweat sheening down his temple, chest heaving with effort. "Baby…" His voice was barely there. “Call… call an ambulance…” Then he collapsed.
“Toji?!” you screamed, running to him, dropping to your knees. “TOJI!” His eyes were fluttering shut, lips turning pale, chest rising and falling too fast — and then, not fast enough. You were crying, sobbing, hands shaking as you grabbed for your phone with slippery fingers. You dropped to the floor after him, screaming his name, shaking him, sobbing.
“Toji, wake up! Wake up—!”
Yuki was already halfway off the couch, thumb scrolling violently through her phone.
“Wait—wait—wait, is this the guy that almost died? Hold on, lemme search—” She tapped faster. “Toji Fushiguro, MMA, severe allergy —bitch, don’t tell me he died!”
Shoko blinked. “Did he? I swear I remember a thread about a nut allergy incident and a busted EpiPen—”
“Hell no,” you snapped, waving your wine glass with flair. “How could I let him die? Please. Me? Let a man die with just the tip in? After I moisturized, shaved, exfoliated, and put on jade lingerie? Absolutely not.”
You sighed dramatically, pressing a manicured hand to your temple like a war widow.
“I stabbed him. With the broken pen. Didn’t even know if it’d work, but I shoved it in his thigh and hoped for the best. Then I called Ijichi and had him scramble my private helicopter as hospital escort, because I was not about to explain to the press how my man died half-hard.”
You took a deep breath, a hand now over your heart. “The doctors said if I hadn’t done it—if I hadn’t acted right then—it’d have been over. They said being an athlete saved him, but I saved him first. Me and adrenaline. And the fear of losing a man who knew how to eat pussy like that.”
Yuki whispered, eyes wide, “Like that…”
You nodded, dazed from the memory. “Like that.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Shoko leaned back with a slow blink. “Okay, but then why don’t you hit him up? Don’t tell me he ghosted after all that.”
Yuki gasped. “Is it because of the allergic reaction? Nooo. Is his ego that fragile?”
“I mean…” you trailed off, lounging deeper into the velvet cushions.
The boys — your beloved emotional support felines, Gojo and Geto — were curled over your chest like twin little loafs of judgment. Geto purred aggressively, kneading your bust with both paws like he was shaping dough. Gojo flopped sideways over your ribs, tail twitching, eyes slit with smug satisfaction.
You groaned as Geto dug in harder.
“Baby, not the nipple—ow!!—GETO, I said not the nipple!” He ignored you, obviously. Yuki snorted. “Are they mad at you again?”
“They’re always mad at me,” you muttered, adjusting them both like soft, overbearing scarves. “But they’re purring so loud I can’t even think. It’s like they know we’re talking about him trying to make me forget or something."
You were slumped over the edge of the ICU bed, cheek pressed to his hand, your fingers curled tight in the blankets like a child clinging to a lifeline. The sterile scent of the hospital didn’t even register anymore — all you could feel was the steady rise and fall of his ribs under your hands. You’d barely slept since the airlift. You’d barely breathed.
So when you felt the calloused drag of his fingers through your hair — slow, lazy, like it was his bed you’d fallen into — you jolted up like you'd been shocked.
“Toji?” Your voice cracked. You stared at him, blinking through sleep and disbelief.
His eyes were half-lidded, that familiar wolfish grin already pulling at his mouth. “How you doin’, pup?” he was hoarse .
You gasped. “Toji,” you whispered again, then burst into tears. Ugly, gasping, shoulder-shaking sobs that made the heart monitor beep irregularly for a second. “I thought you DIED,” you wailed. “You were BLUE! You stopped BREATHING! They had to AIRLIFT you and you shat YOURSELF—”
“Whoa, whoa—” His hand moved again, now stroking the side of your face. “Relax, baby. I’m alive, ain’t I?”
You sniffled hard, wiping your face, but the words were already spilling out of you like a confession. “And it was MY FAULT!!!” you cried harder, clutching his blanket like it owed you rent. They found brazil nuts in your system. Brazil nuts, Toji. I’m so sorry— I think I ate a brownie earlier in the day and I didn’t think— I mean, I brushed my teeth, I swear I did, like three times. Like i shaved and exfoliated. But the doctor said allergens like brazil nuts can linger in body fluids and— and it was probably during oral— I didn’t mean to kill you, I swear—” your sobbing through it all.
Toji blinked. Then huffed a soft chuckle and opened his arms. “Come here.”
You collapsed into him instantly, burying your face in his neck as his arm settled around your back. You could still feel the I.Vs in his skin, the oxygen line taped to his nose, but his grip was solid. Familiar. Warm.
“Calm down, doll,” he murmured, dragging a knuckle along your jaw. “You’re cryin ugly”
You shoved him weakly in the shoulder. “Oh, fuck you—”
“Aww, c’mon, ma. You almost killed me and now you’re bullying the sick guy?” He grinned wider, teeth sharp, voice hoarse but full of himself again. “That’s cold.”
You let out a wet, hiccuped cry, now balling, ashamed and furious with yourself. “I didn’t mean to—I really—Toji i—”
He didn’t let you finish.
He pulled you in by the back of your neck and kissed you like he’d been starving—like the kiss itself was more medicinal than anything hanging from his I.V drip. His tongue slid hot and hungry into your mouth, tasting the leftover salt of your panic and the sweetness of your guilt, and he moaned against you.
It was hedonistic. Messy. Too much tongue, and not enough breath.
By the time he pulled back, you were breathless, lip bitten red, thighs clenched instinctively from just the sound he made.
“All’s forgiven doll” he rasped, as he stared into your eyes intently brushing his thumb across your bottom lip after wiping away the tears. “Now quit ya cryin’ and let a man recover in peace. Preferably with a lap pillow and some of that nice lotion you use on your thighs.”
"So then what happened?" Yuki asked, mouth half-full of cheese cubes, perched on the edge of the couch like the couch was on fire. Shoko sipped her wine, barely blinking. “Yeah. He nearly died. He woke up. You made up. Happy ending?”
Geto and Gojo—your sweet babyboys—were speed-racing across the house like the Lollipop Guild, tails puffed and eyes gleaming, zooming in celebratory loops like they’d choreographed a “Ding Dong, The Dickhead’s Dead” number. You exhaled slowly. “Get this.”
“I take care of him. Feed him. Bathe him. I take off work, cancel gigs, call in favors, sleep in a plastic chair at the PCU for two days straight—only to find out I’ve been hit with a fucking restraining order.”
Even the cats screeched to a halt mid-zoom like cartoon characters slamming brakes. “A what?” Shoko said flatly. “A restraining order,” you said, hands in the air like you were preaching. They gasped in unison.
Geto and Gojo launched into another manic lap, this time with even more gusto—Geto knocking over your salt lamp and Gojo leaping onto the curtains like he was performing an aerial silk routine. You continued, deadpan. “Apparently, someone tipped them off saying the brownies were intentional and they should not believe me!—as if I planned to nut this man to death. So I go in, losing my mind, and who’s the one who tells me?”
They all leaned forward. “Shiu Kong.” Yuki’s jaw dropped. “His manager?!”
“Yes the damn manager he didnt even have the guts to tell me!” you said. “And get this. He tells me Toji didn’t press charges. Because he felt bad for me!”
“Felt bad for you!!!” Shoko shrieked, standing up like someone just got shot. Yuki flung a pillow. “That’s so grimy! Nah, girl, I never liked him anyway.”
“You’ve never met him,” you muttered through a smile. “Don’t care. Hate him. I hate him now. Enemy of the state.” Geto—purring and smug liked that thought and climbed into Yuki’s lap and made himself comfortable, curling like a satisfied demon prince who loved chaos. She blinked. “Okay... sure. I guess I’m your girl now.”
Gojo perched smugly on the armrest, staring you down like he told you so. Yuki waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. On to the next.” You blinked. “The next?”
“What about that hot nepo baby from the Ryomen-Itadori private equity group?” she said, eyes twinkling. “The one with the face tattoos and the sexy jawline? Everyone says he’s a beast in bed. You had him drooling at that one gala, and he gave you his number. You gonna call or what?”
Everything in the room went still. Your body went stiff. Your soul fled. Shoko blinked. “...Why’d she turn gray?”
You were horny. And healing. Healing in the way bad bitches do — by chasing men with face tats and commitment issues. Which is why you ended up in Sukuna Ryomen’s penthouse.
Nepo baby. Wall Street demon. Sex demon. Literal demon???
Didn’t matter. You weren’t looking for love. You were looking for a pretty dick and a good night’s sleep. And God delivered. Sukuna answered the door shirtless, tatted, barefoot, and drinking whiskey like a Bond villain on house arrest. “You’re early,” he said, eyes raking you like a threat.
“You’re shirtless,” you replied, kicking the door shut behind you. He grinned like you were dessert.The second you stepped into his penthouse, he looked you over and smirked.
“Leave your heels on,” he said, cocky. “Makes your legs look longer when you’re on your knees.”
You smiled back like a wolf in lipstick. “Only if you say please.”
Ten minutes later, you were on your knees like a sinner, hands braced on his thick thighs, going H.A.M
Heels on because he did say “please” , grinning like the devil’s favorite concubine, because finally—finally—you’d found a dick that was actually pretty. Tattooed, thick, gleaming like a sin-drenched monolith. Sukuna sat back like the arrogant beast he was, hand draped over the armrest, gold chain catching the light, looking at you like you were a dish served for his pleasure.
“Damn girl,” he drawled, voice low and cocky. “You really are showing me how bad ya need it, fFFFFFuck!.”
Like a succubus on a Red Bull and regret bender. You sucked like it was your last meal, drool stringing down your chin, moaning like a paid actress with a SAG card. You loved giving head, and this? This was art. You were bobbing and twisting, tongue dragging along every bulging vein like it was sacred scripture. Periodically latching off to suck on his balls and play with them all sexy and shit. His heavy cock slapped your tongue every time you gasped for air—slap, slap, slaping—like it had a vendetta.
“Greedy little thing,” Sukuna purred. “You tryna steal my soul or somethin’, woman?”
You’ve got something to prove tonight. You cupped and teased his balls. “Fuck, woman…” he groans, head tipping back. You hum, hollow your cheeks,and let him hit the back of your throat. Sukuna’s thighs twitch. One hand fists your hair, just shy of cruel.
“You gonna let me cum down that pretty throat or what—”
You gave him a sloppy wink, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk, mouth stuffed full of criminal-grade cock.
He moaned. You slurped. The ghost of Toji Fushiguro no where to be rembered.You were unhinged. Hair wild. Lingerie crooked. Knees ashier than your group chat secrets. You even paused mid-suck to say, “This your real dick or a tax write-off?”
He choked. “Finish him!!” your inner Mortal Kombat announcer screamed.
So you doubled down. More tongue. More gag. More spit. You were giving Oscar-worthy Fellatio. Tony Award–level guck guck 9000.
And then— Then, it happened. And then you feel it. You go dizzy
Your lashes fluttered. The dick blurred. “…S’kuna?” you mumble, pulling off him with a wet pop. He looked down, dazed. “You crying? Damn, I knew it was good but—” he said as he shoved you back onto his cock
“No, idiot,” you mumbled, pulling off again with a wet pop. “I think I’m high.”
“Off the dick?” He smirked.
“…No. “ you try to stand "somethings in the air…”
And then you collapsed.
Folded like a Victorian fainting couch.
Tongue out, titty out, WHUMP. Right onto his Prada rug.
You blinked. Wavered. That was weird. The room felt like it tilted slightly. Your ears started ringing. Your grip on Sukuna’s thighs loosened. His cock—still glistening—bounced against his abs as your eyes fluttered. And then you stood up again.
And as quickly as you went up the quicker you went down.
“WHAT THE FUCK—” Sukuna screamed, catching you this time just before you hit his glass coffee table. “Oh hell no! You better not fucking die in my lap! That’s a lawsuit! I don’t have PR for this!!”
“Hey—” he muttered, suddenly frowning. “woman…?”
THE STOVE WAS ON FUCKING FIRE.
You collapsed like a passed-out groupie at a Guns N’ Roses concert. Full dramatic faint. Leaving sukuna to play the role of your savior lucky Sukuna was quick to action.
Smoke was billowing into the living room. The fire alarm screeched like a banshee in labor. The stove was throwing sparks like it owed the IRS. The scent of charred food and near-death filled the air. Sukuna slung you over his shoulder like a caveman rescuing his favorite hole. You were half-conscious, murmuring something about “I just wanted dick not death,” as he kicked the front door open with his bare foot and hauled you outside.
The neighbors? Staring. Cats? Screaming. You? Draped over his back like a sack of potatoes. Him? Shirtless, cock still semi-hard, tattoos glistening in the firelight, yelling.
“WHO THE FUCK TURNED ON THE STOVE?!” yuki shouted :yall forgot the ramen you were cooking or what!?!?!? Bitch the fuck!?!?”
You were slumped over the armchair like a limp, wet rag. One eyelash hanging on for dear life. Hair matted. Lip gloss smudged somewhere by your chin. The faintest memory of smoke still trailing off your bra strap. “I’m gonna die,” you croaked, one leg dangling off the side like you were surrendering your soul to the gods. “All dried up and shriveled. Like a salted slug. Like a burnt offering to the dick gods.”
Shoko looked up from her wine. “Wait. That wasn’t your fault. Just call him again.” You sat up like a ghost rising from a cursed Victorian bed, wine glass trembling in your hand. “Oh Shoko. Oh Shoko. Have you not been listening to me?!”
You pointed dramatically to the ceiling like someone was about to cue thunder.
“Four times. I went over to his place four times. And four times, the house. Caught. On. Fire.”
Their jaws dropped like the wine was laced.
Yuki choked on her drink. “Girl. Nah. No it didn’t—”
You stood up, hands in the air like a preacher on Sunday. “First time? Gas leak. Mid-blowjob. I basically pass out on his dick like I’m giving my final dying breath. Second time? His cousin lights the curtains on fire hotboxing the guest room. Third? Space heater explodes. Like a war flashbang. Fourth time?” You throw your hands up. “I don’t even KNOW. The walls were sweating, Yuki. The drywall was moaning.”
They were shrieking. Shoko dropped her chopsticks.“Girl, just have him come to your place next time,” Shoko wheezed. You stared. You stared like they had just suggested you go back to Toji.
"Oh, I did," you declare, grabbing your wine glass like it’s exhibit A in a case against your sex life. “With the gravitas of a woman on trial for crimes against horny humanity.” You swirl the glass once, dramatically. “After I calmed him down, mind you—because his daddy decided to spew some prophecy about me being cursed or some shit. ‘A bad omen,’ he said. A walking red flag with tits and a cosmic death aura."
Shoko snorts. Yuki leans in. You go on.
“Sukuna starts spiraling, right? Like full-on Exorcist 3 spiral. Suddenly it’s my fault his penthouse outlets are exploding. My fault the hot water went scalding and melted his fucking bath mat. My fault the walls keep bleeding or whatever.”
You sip your wine like a woman clinging to the last threads of her dignity.
“So I was like, you know what, King? Come over. Let’s switch up the energy. No more haunted penthouse. No more ghostly plumbing. Just me, you, and a fire extinguisher on standby." Yuki leaned in.
Shoko leaned closer. Your cats, Gojo and Geto, purred ominously in unison.
“And even at my place, He gets all twitchy. Starts looking around like I’m the problem. Like I’m trying to murder him with pussy. Said I was giving him babd juju. That I was trying to ‘off’ him through forbidden head.” They screamed. Like literal hollering. Yuki collapsed onto the floor.
“I said, Sukuna Ryomen. You think if I wanted to kill a man, I’d suck him off first?! You think I’d deepthroat a murderer’s monologue just to watch you burst into flames in my house nontheless?!”
You put your glass down with a loud clink.
“He looks me dead in the eye—dead—and goes: ‘You sure it ain’t you? ‘Cause every time I try’ta stick my dick in you, shit catches on fire.’”
Yuki chokes. Shoko facepalms.
You throw your hands up. “Like I’m some kind of pussy arsonist! Like I’m out here setting off fire alarms with coochie combustion!”
The cats blink slowly from the corner.
You drink the rest of your wine in one go. “Anyway, i tell him if anything catched fire atleast it will be my place this time, and i tell him i’ll have two fire extinguisher in my bedroom now. For safety. And trauma.”
And through it all — the screaming, the wine, the dramatics — Geto and Gojo remained entirely unbothered.
Two cats curled together in a perfect yin-yang loaf on the back of the couch. Gojo’s stupid white tail flopped over Geto’s sleek back, twitching softly. Both of them deep in that boneless cat-sleep coma.
You reached out, fingers slow and gentle, brushing through Geto’s silky black fur. And just then — his eyes blinked open. Those gorgeous amethyst eyes, glimmering soft and lazy. He stared up at you with that slow cat blink. The I love you blink. The one that always got you.
Your heart actually squeezed. “Oh, baby,” you cooed softly.
He nuzzled into your hand like he’d been waiting for it — slow and luxurious, all affection and entitlement. Like he knew you’d come back to him. Like he always came back to you.
And maybe he did. Because no matter how wrecked you were from another failed situationship, or how many times you’d gone from “Maybe this one’s different” to “Get me the fire extinguisher,” your boys were always there. Always soft. Always warm. Always purring like little engines made just for you.
You scratched behind his ear and sighed, still smiling. “But I’m glad it didn’t work out,” you murmured under your breath. “He was an asshole anyway.”
Geto purred louder. Like he agreed.
“Damn, bitch—PUT YOUR CATS IN A CRATE!” Sukuna was bleeding. Not like a lot, but enough to make a grown man stomp around dick-swinging, red-faced, clutching a cat scratch like it was a shrapnel wound from war.
You stood in your robe, chest heaving, hair wild, radiating the kind of fury only a woman who survived four house fires and ZERO orgasms can hold.
“I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE MY CATS ALONE!” you shrieked.
“OH PLEASE,” he threw his hands up, pacing. “Your little demon spawn jumped me! AGAIN! I was minding my business!”
“MINDING YOUR BUSINESS?! YOU WERE SMOTHERING HIM, SUKUNA!”
“YOU WERE PULLING HIS TAIL LIKE A TODDLER IN A PETTING ZOO!”
Sukuna’s jaw dropped in offended indignation. “Woman, I barely touched—”
“AND YOU SAID, ‘COME HERE, FAT BOY’!”
“HE is BIG-BONED AND PERFECT.”
Behind you, on the back of the couch, the cats — Geto and Gojo — were curled together like two mafia dons pretending to nap. Geto cracked one eye open, glaring with amethyst murder. Gojo’s tail flicked once: a warning.
Sukuna pointed at them, shaking. “SEE?! SEE WHAT I MEAN?! They’re plotting! They’re plotting RIGHT NOW!”
You blinked. “Are you mental?”
“NO, I’M NOT MENTAL!” Sukuna exploded. “I swear to GOD I’ve been SEEING FIGURES—”
“YES!!” He pointed dramatically out the window. “Tall ones! Short ones! Fuzzy ones! They’re watching me!” You stared. He stared. The stove beeped from the smoke alarm still crooked on the ceiling. “You’re… paranoid,” you said slowly. “I’m being STALKED,” he hissed. “STALKED by your CATS.”
“They don’t leave the house.”
“THEN WHO THE HELL WAS FOLLOWING ME TO MY CAR LAST NIGHT?!” You squinted. “A shadow?”
“A SHADOW THAT COUGHED.” You covered your face. “Sukuna…”
“AND PICKED UP A ROCK AND THREW IT AT ME.”
You blinked. “Maybe a raccoon?”
“RACCOONS DON’T HAVE AMETHYST EYES, GIRL.”
“So,” you said through clenched teeth. “THATS WHY You were PROVOKING my cats. AGAIN.”
Sukuna scoffed. “I was NOT provoking them—”
“You literally cornered Gojo in the hallway and said, ‘Try scratching me again, little man. See what happens.’ SUKUNA. HE is FIVE POUNDS.”
He threw a hand in the air, spiraling. “My old man warned me! Said you were CURSED! Said if I stayed with you long enough, I’d end up DEAD!”
“Oh PLEASE, I don't need this shit” you scoffed. “You couldn’t even FIND my clit—”
“Da fuck did you just say to me?”
You leaned in. Voice low. “I said… for someone so cocky, you sure talk a big game for fuck buddy that cant understand this is a mutual agreement and couldn’t even find a GPS-marked landmark.”
You shrugged. “I mean, what is it with guys thinking ‘casual’ means you don’t gotta please people? Like damn, FWB means friends with benefits — not ‘frustrated with blueballs.’”
Then in true unhinged Sukuna fashion, he grabbed the nearest framed item. A framed image of your cats when you first adopted them, kittens the pair that couldn't be separated
and YEETED IT AT THE WALL near you.
CRASH. Glass shattered. Frame split. Your soul left your body You stood in stunned silence, robe gaping slightly at the collar. The air buzzed with disrespect. He looked at you like he expected a fight. Maybe even a slap. Instead, you stared at the remains of your framed cat portrait like you were mourning.
Then he said it. The fatal words. “Whatever. You got some dry-ass—”
“Fuck you. I’m not arguing with someone whose G-spot is buried up their own ass.”
He opened his mouth—
“Woman—”
“SAY WOMAN ONE MORE TIME AND I SUMMON MY LAWYE!!!!.”
He threw his arms up. “Whatever. You got some dry ass—”
You bet your cats lifted their heads at the EXACT same time.
Sukuna glared. “You expecting someone?” You don’t even make it fully to the door before the knock comes again—harder this time, sharp and deliberate.
And you run to the door scared for what sukuna could do next. When you swing it open, you nearly stagger. Two tall men well over 6 feet in matte-black security uniforms stand in the hall like final bosses. One with long, inky black hair, onyx black plugs on both ears, and amethyst eyes so familiar they make your knees buckle. The other—snow white hair, cut clean and sharp, dark Cartier shades, glacial blue gaze slicing through you even behind the tint.
Your heart does a triple beat.
They’ve been following him. These are the “figures.” The shadows. The whispers in the night.
And now they’re at your door, six feet of beautiful, brutal judgment apiece.
“Good afternoon, miss,” says the one with the plugs, eyes sweeping your body, lingering for just a fraction too long before snapping toward the chaos inside. “We’ve had multiple reports of shouting. Glass breaking. One neighbor said a man screamed, ‘I’m being stalked by cats.’”
He pauses.
“Are you alright?”
You open your mouth to lie. Truly, you try. But the pain in your leg flares as you shift your weight and—
The man’s eyes drop. And they go dark... A long smear of blood trails down your calf. The room tilts. “Is that—?” The blue-eyed one steps forward immediately, already unclipping something from his belt. “Ma’am, you’re injured.”
Sukuna stiffens behind you.
“Whoa, alright,” he mutters, stepping up and wrapping a firm hand around your waist like he owns you. “We don’t need a crowd, okay? She’s fine.” The inky-haired guard doesn’t blink. “Sir, i’ll say this once only. let go. of her…”
“Yeah,” Sukuna says, tightening his grip. “No...”
The white-haired one raises a walkie. “We’ve got a potential domestic situation on floor 1. Requesting backup. Send medical.” He’s already moving to shield you with his body, positioning himself between you and Sukuna like it’s instinct. You’ve never been so grateful—or confused—in your life.
“Miss,” the amethyst-eyed man says again, voice softer now, eyes locked to yours like he knows you. “Is this man bothering you?”
You blink, breath catching. There’s a tremble in your chest, something more than adrenaline. You know those eyes. You don’t know how, but you do.
“I—” your voice cracks and out comes the honesty. “He threw a picture frame at me. Of my cat.” Sukuna scoffs. “You’ve got to be kidding me—” rolling his eyes so hard he nearly ruptures a vessel. “She’s bleeding,” the white-haired guard says again, voice low and lethal. “Back up. Now.” Sukuna snarls, suddenly shoving forward. “You don’t know who I am, do you?! I could get all of you fired—”
He swings on the one with amethyst eyes, fist flying, chaos erupting—
Not dodges. Sidesteps. Gracefully. Effortlessly. Then counters with a brutal palm strike to Sukuna’s ribs that sends him crashing into your bookshelf, rattling the entire wall.
“Jesus CHRIST,” you whisper. The amethyst-eyed guard doesn’t even look ruffled. Not a hair out of place. Doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t posture. Just straightens his cuffs and adjusts his earpiece. Meanwhile, the blue-eyed one stays planted in front of you, calm and solid, murmuring into his walkie again as Sukuna starts to groan, trying to pull himself up.
“Suspect is attacking,” he says. “We’ve subdued him.” You’re still shaking, robe slipping from one shoulder, face stained with tears. But for the first time in what feels like hours, you breathe. The white-haired man glances over his shoulder, lowers his shades, and grins.
“Don’t worry, cutie. You’re safe now.”
Shoko and Yuki leaned in close as you lifted the edge of your robe and showed the scar — thin, pale, a whisper of violence against your skin. Shoko winced. Yuki gasped. And your cats… froze. Geto, who had been lounging in a loaf on the couch arm, slowly unfolded himself. His ears dipped. His tail lowered. He slinked toward you with the posture of a cat approaching a gravestone he regrets carving.
Gojo followed behind him, steps small, hesitant, his usual gremlin bounce gone. His blue eyes were huge and watery, pupils blown wide in distress.
They both reached you at the same time.
Geto pressed his forehead to your shin — right beneath the scar — and stayed there, unmoving, breathing slow against your skin like he was trying to rewrite the memory with something soft. Gojo nosed your knee, then your thigh, then the spot where the glass had sliced you — little circles of reassurance, tiny chuffing noises slipping from his chest.
Your heart squeezed. “Oh my babies…” you murmured, cupping their heads. “I’m okay. I’m okay, I promise.” Geto blinked up at you — that slow, tender, soul-deep cat blink that says I love you. And I’m sorry. I would die for you.
Gojo crawled directly into your lap and butted his head under your chin, purring like a broken engine trying to restart. He pressed his paws around your wrist like he needed physical confirmation that you were alive.
Yuki clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh my GOD. They feel guilty.” Shoko’s voice softened. “They look… heartbroken.”
“They are,” you said, rubbing their ears gently. “They remember that night.” Both cats let out tiny, mournful little chirps, like they were confessing a crime they didn’t mean to commit. Geto kneaded at your leg very gently — the soft, cautious kind of kneading, like he was trying to patch you back together with his paws.
Gojo licked your wrist, slow and deliberate, then pressed his face into your palm as if begging forgiveness he thought he didn’t deserve. Your chest ached.
You stroked between their ears. “Boys… I was never mad at you. I could never be mad at you” They froze. Blink-blink. Purr-purr. Both of them melted against you like warm dough. “You two are my angels,” you whispered, kissing the tops of their heads. “Nothing that happened was your fault.” They curled in closer — one against your ribs, the other on your thighs — purring so hard your robe vibrated. The tension in the room thinned like steam.
Then you clapped your hands, and shattered it.
“Anyway, apparently he’s in rehab now.” Shoko blinked. “For…?” “Coke withdrawal,” you said casually, like you were reporting the weather. “Explains the paranoia, the stalking shadows, the whole ‘your cats are plottin against me’ conspiracy arc.”
Yuki nearly fell off the couch. “Girl—”
But she wasn’t done. “Okay but hear me out,” Yuki said, leaning forward like a gremlin preparing to scheme. “So you had a few bad apples! You still have a whole orchard in your contacts. That’s a lot of fine men to fall back on.”
You stared at her. Blank. Dead inside. Then sat up slowly, cradling Geto against your chest like a Victorian widow holding her only son. “I really wish I could, ladies. I fucking wish.” You inhaled sharply. Dramatically. “Except—” A pause. A beat. A slow, tragic hand to your forehead.
“All. Their. Numbers. Disappeared.”
“Emails? Gone!”
“Socials? Vanished!”
“WhatsApp? Empty!”
“LINE, Telegram, Signal?! Deleted! I’m blocked everywhere”
You clutched Geto harder, using his fur as a Kleenex as he blinked up at you in muted disdain. “And the WORST part,” you wailed, “is that Mr. Wasuke Itadori has been on a PERSONAL VENDETTA to stop me from getting laid.”
Both girls tilted their heads “Huh?!” You pointed at the ceiling like you were accusing God Himself. “Yes! Apparently he got ‘upset that word got around about his sons violet tendencies"
“—and now ALL the men he knows — which is CLEARLY ALL OF THE MEN IN MY MARKET AND BUSINESS SECTORS — have BLACKLISTED ME as a problematic woman only here to destroy the men she touches.” Shoko spit out her drink. Yuki slapped the couch.
“I CAN’T EVEN G.E.T A HOOKUP!” you cried, fully sobbing now.
Geto, sweet angel that he was, allowed his entire body to be used as a means to blow your nose. Gojo climbed onto your shoulder like an emotional support scarf, purring happily into your ear. The girls? They were howling. SCREECHING. Wheezing like old church ladies in a smoking lounge. Yuki was hollering “Blacklisted from dick is CRAZY—” Shoko was stuck in a spell of soundless laughter. You flopped backward dramatically, The room was finally calm. A low hum of purring. A scar kissed. Wine refilled.
Then Yuki cleared her throat.
“So like… respectfully… who the fuck did you piss off to have this kind of spiritual warfare thrown at your pussy?” Shoko nodded solemnly, lifting her glass. “Like. What. Ancient entity did you offend? It’s giving Biblical.”
“I dunno…” Yuki snorted, “this is better than 50 Cent and Diddy’s beef. Except you’re Diddy. And this shit’s spiritual.” That was it. They exploded.
Both of them were cackling so hard they were wheezing. Slapping the couch cushions. Shoko was laughing with her whole chest, hair falling in her wine. Yuki was doubled over like she’d been shot. You just sat there. Dead center of the couch. Wrapped in a throw blanket like a goddamn Victorian ghost. Mascara halfway to your jawline. And then you sobbed. Big, dramatic, snotty sobs. Just like the beginning of this girls night in.
“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHINGGGGGG!!!” you wailed, voice cracking, “I JUST WANTED TO GET LAIDDDDD—!!!!”
You’re mid-sob. Shoko’s head is thrown back, Yuki’s wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, and even you allow yourself the rare indulgence of leaning back, Geto curled in your lap, warm and purring like he always does when your heart's been battered raw.
The TV unmutes. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… click. And A reporter’s voice cuts through the room like a cold draft. “This past month, animal control has received a record number of unexplained hybrid transformation... many residents reporting eerily intelligent feline behavior—interrupted electronics, strange injuries, and one common phrase among all witnesses: ‘The cats were watching.’”
Yuki turns toward the screen, her brow creasing. Shoko slowly sets her wine down. You freeze. “The string of incidents remains unconfirmed, but experts are looking into possible connections between the rise in domestic surveillance tech and the sudden decline in reported romantic encounters—some victims claiming that something intervened.”
“Turn that shit off” you say.
“No, no Turn that up,” Shoko says quietly. You don’t move. Gojo, still lounging at your side, stretches a paw toward the remote with eerie timing. “One anonymous source described the sensation as being stalked in their own home. Eyes always watching. A presence they couldn’t see. When asked who—or what—they believed it was, they simply said: ‘It wasn’t human.’”
A chill prickles up your neck.
Geto shifts in your lap. Nuzzles his face into your ribs like he’s trying to soothe something buried. “hey?” Yuki’s voice is barely above a whisper. “What was it Sukuna said that night? Before the guards came?”
You feel your blood run cold.
“That…” You exhale. “He said someone had been following him. He thought he was being watched. He thought… he thought my cats were stalking him.”
Yuki is the first to speak.
“No but like. I’m actually serious now.” She leans in, face scrunched, looking around the room as if the throw pillows are bugged. Shoko follows her lead, setting her glass down with an ominous thunk. “Wait, wait. You don’t think…” she laughs before Her eyes narrow, flicking down to the two very suspiciously well-behaved cats curled against your legs. “…your cats could be hybrids?” You blink. Scoff. “You’re joking.”
“cupcake.” Yuki says it softly, dramatically. “Think about it.” Shoko sits forward. “You’re the only person those two boys love beyond belief. They follow you around like satellites. They do not like strange men. And if there were anyone—anyone—who would sabotage your sex life just to keep you all to themselves…”
And slowly, slowly, your gaze shifts downward… to where Geto and Gojo are nestled like two warm loaves of sin at your hip. Geto’s eyes are wide open now. Gojo’s tail is twitching. Sweating bullets
The moment shatters. You all burst out laughing like the three witches you all are!
“God, I hope not,” you laugh, pressing your palm to your cheek. “Could you imagine? Me? Falling for a hybrid?” You shake your head. “I could never get with one. That’s, like, other people’s fantasy. Not mine.”
A beat. Your cats go still. You don’t notice. You’re caught in your own storm cloud.
“I mean…” You trail off, your voice softening, the smile fading from your lips. “After.. You, know, I just—I don’t think I could do that again. All that heart. All that loss. I still don’t think I’ve healed.”
Your fingers absently stroke through Geto’s fur. You don’t realize he’s leaned into your hand more than usual, or that his amethyst eyes are quietly searching your face. Yuki and Shoko share a glance. The mood shifts. You let out a slow sigh, sinking into the couch cushions, gazing at nothing in particular. A long, trembling pause.
Geto shifts. Curls tighter against your ribs. His warmth is steady, grounding. You exhale again, this time with a smile trying to come back. “Anyway,” you say lightly, “can you imagine if my cats were hybrids? That’d be rediculous.” you say again as you come back to your senses. But you don’t see the way Gojo quietly looks at Geto. Or the way Geto doesn’t look away. Their eyes are saying something.
You just haven’t figured out how to hear it yet. Yuki breaks the silence first, voice light, almost sing-song. “Okay but what about those two security guards, huh?” You blink. “What?” Shoko side-eyes you, smirking. “Oh, now she’s playing dumb.”
Yuki grins. “Your dreamy knights in shining armor? Big, broad, gorgeous? Not in your social circles — and not scared of your cats, apparently, also your cats didn't hate them. Maybe they’re your ticket to salvation. Or an Eiffel Tower.” You snort so hard, you nearly choke on your drink. “Yuki!”
“What?!” she shrugs. “You need to be spiritually cleansed.” Shoko raises her glass. “Two men, one goal. Your healing.” You collapse into a laugh, covering your face. “God, I haven’t seen them since that night. But yeah… they were hot.”
“I mean hot. Like… easily 25, probably fresh outta college. Tall as hell, built like they could carry me and my trauma out of a burning building. One had that long, inky black hair — those purple eyes, remember? The other had snow-white hair and Cartier shades on indoors. I was spiraling, bleeding, and those two looked like Calvin Klein models moonlighting as security guards.”
Yuki fans herself. “You’re painting a picture, babe.” Shoko leans back, amused. “So where are they now?”
You sigh dramatically, flopping onto your back. “I guess Gone. Vanished. Never saw them again.” The girls exchange a glance. “Almost like they swooped in just to save you,” Shoko hums. “And then disappeared.” You smile faintly. “Yeah… like a fever dream.”
It was snowing that night four years ago christmas eve…
You hadn’t meant to stay long.
The shelter was quiet that day — snow whispered against the windows, and soft holiday music crackled from an old radio at the front desk. You were only supposed to drop off some supplies. A bag of food, a few blankets. Maybe peek in on the animals and wish them well.
Curled up in the back corner of a kennel, barely more than a silhouette against the metal and shadows — a sleek black kitten with fur like velvet and eyes like amethyst glass. He didn’t come to the front. He didn’t move. He just watched you, like he’d been waiting.
You knelt down slowly, resting your palm against the kennel gate. “Hi there,” you babied , the cold air catching in your throat. “Are you all alone?” He blinked at you. Once. Then again, slow and thoughtful — the kind of blink cats give when they’re saying they trust you. When they love you, just a little, even if they haven’t met you yet.
Your heart tugged. “I was only going to visit,” you said softly, almost like you were apologizing. “I wasn’t planning on falling in love today.” you laugh Then came the cry.
A long, dramatic mrrroww! from the cage behind you. You turned—and your breath caught.
A fluffy white cat with snow-pure fur and the bluest eyes you’d ever seen was pressed up against the bars of his kennel, tail twitching in distress. He was crying — actual tears in his wide eyes, voice cracking like he’d been calling out for someone too long. Thats when The shelter worker walked up behind you, a knowing smile on her face. “That’s the other one. They’re a bonded pair.”
You looked back and forth between them. “Really?”
She nodded. “We tried separating them once. The white one wouldn’t eat. Cried so hard he made himself sick. They’ve been together since they were rescued. They don’t do well apart but no one is willing to adopt them together.”
“So then why are they separated now?” you asked curiously.
“We’re training them to be apart first this kennel then tomorrow further until they are no longer one” your heart shattered at their plans. The black one still hadn’t moved — just stared at you like he already belonged to you. The white one was practically rattling the gate. You pressed your hand to your chest, like that might slow your heartbeat. “So I… I can’t just take one, can I?”
The woman smiled gently. “You’d break his heart.” You looked at them again — the calm, solemn black cat. The soft, panicked white fluffball trying desperately to reach him. And Your chest ached with a kind of warmth you hadn’t felt in years.
“Alright,” you whispered. “I guess we’re all going home together.”
As you signed the papers, the white one finally quieted. He stayed glued to the black one’s side the whole time — curling into him, purring softly, kneading his tiny paws into the other’s fur like he needed to reassure himself he was still real.
You watched them, chin tucked into your scarf as you carried them out of the kennels in your arms. “I’m naming you Geto,” you murmured to the black cat. blinked again — that slow, regal blink — and tucked his head beneath the white one’s chin.
You laughed gently. “And you’re Gojo.”
Gojo meowed like he approved — loudly.
The worker chuckled. “That fits.”
As you stepped out into the falling snow, your coat barely zipped and your scarf half-wrapped, you held the cat close to your chest. Inside, the two of them had curled up into one perfect yin-and-yang shape — white fur pressed against black, their eyes fluttering closed.
You hadn’t expected to fall in love that day.
Over time, they just… became part of the rhythm.
There was no grand moment, no cinematic swell. Just slow, inevitable belonging. One day they were two tiny things curled up on your couch — the next, they were your boys. As natural as breath.
Gojo was always the loudest in the morning. You’d wake to the sound of a heavy thump against your chest — white fluff and icy eyes demanding affection. He had no concept of boundaries. Or time. Geto was quieter. Warm and weighty, curled behind your knees or pressed along your hip like a shadow that refused to leave.
Nanami never complained. Even when he woke up with cat hair on his slacks or claw marks on his briefcase. He just sighed, adjusted his tie, and muttered something about "earning his stripes."
Eventually, he stopped pushing them off the bed.
Nanami started leaving out extra saucers in the morning — one for cream, and one that Gojo knocked over anyway. Nanami would drink his coffee in peace while Geto lounged on the paper he was trying to read. Gojo pawed at his tie like he wanted to wear it.
They climbed into your laundry baskets without fail. Geto made nests out of your sweaters. Gojo hid under your bras like some sort of lacy goblin, peeking out like he owned the place.
They knocked your phone off the nightstand before dates. Always before dates with nanami. You didn’t think much of it at first — figured you were just clumsy — but after the third or fourth time, you started to wonder.
Nanami called it superstition. You joked was it sabotage. After all his cat was the same.
"They’re jealous," he told you once, as Geto glared from the windowsill like a jilted lover.
"Then let them have their tantrum," he said, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. "I’m not going anywhere." After all his cat was the same.
They hated him at first. Glared. Stalked around the apartment like little lions guarding their pride. But Nanami never flinched. He waited. Let them come to him. Didn’t force anything.
You walked into the living room and found Geto curled up beside him, spine pressed to his thigh like it was the only place in the world he trusted. Gojo, of course, was asleep across Nanami’s chest, snoring like an old man. You nearly cried.
From then on, they were no longer your boys.
They were yours. Together.
The house was still chaotic — of course it was. But it was yours. And you were happy. Planning a wedding. Folding laundry. Feeding three very picky boys every morning.
They loved you in their own wild ways.
You fell asleep a bride, but not a wife.
The dress you wore was white — not from joy, but from the death of a dream. It lay wrinkled and weeping around your body, a shroud of failed promise. The bed beneath you was too wide. The silence around you was too cruel. And your chest—your chest ached with something so hollow it echoed.
A night meant for candlelight vows and warm hands sharing wedding rings, not cracked lips and mascara bruises down your face. The man you were meant to marry never showed. His absence was not loud. It was quiet. Like a final breath before stillness.
So you laid down on the bed in your gown, a ghost in your own home.
First, Geto — your shadow, your stillness. His black fur brushed the backs of your legs, his movements careful, reverent, like he understood what sacred thing had broken inside you. Then Gojo — brilliant, reckless, snow-white and blue-eyed — leapt into your arms like he was born there. You didn’t speak, not at first. But they curled around you like protectors, like prayers, like penance. Your fingers, still trembling, found their fur. Soft. Warm. Unchanging.
"You think I’m a pretty bride… right, boys?" you whispered.
A faint purr. Then two. One deep and rumbling, the other lighter, a fluttering hum against your ribs. You let out a breath. The first in hours. Maybe longer. "It’s just us now. Just us three." And then the tears came again, softer this time. Not from despair. But from being seen.
That was the night it began.
You didn’t see it. You were asleep — tear-soaked and breathless in your wedding gown, arms curled around the only two souls who had never betrayed you. But their bodies trembled. Something ancient, buried deep in their blood, began to stir. They were only teens back when it happened
Geto’s back arched. His claws flexed — not in warning, but in transformation. Gojo’s breathing quickened, body twitching as if pulled by something unseen. A heat bloomed beneath their skin — not sexual, not yet — but primal. Sacred. A claiming.
Their first heat. Their first becoming. Not into men. Not yet. But no longer just cats.
Gojo whimpered, reaching for your hand with something too human. Geto buried his face in your neck, shivering from the inside out, bones humming with change. And still, you held them. As if some part of you — some animal part — already knew.
They did not fully awaken that night.
But their bond to you did.
It was no longer pet and master. No longer creature and caretaker.
It was soul-deep. Feral. Eternal.
And when the morning came, you rose slowly, blinking into pale winter light, unaware of what had begun. Of the way their eyes — blue and amethyst — followed you now with a new kind of hunger. A new kind of grief. A new kind of love.
Not the love of men. Something in-between. You brewed your coffee with shaking hands. Folded away the dress. Whispered to no one. They watched from the hallway, silent and still. From that day forward, they were not the same.
You don’t remember locking the door behind you. Only the way the silence wraps around you the moment it closes — heavy, intimate, almost accusatory. It hums in your ears like a reminder. Another night. Another failure.
Your heels come off first, tossed somewhere near the entryway. Your clutch slips from your fingers and lands with a muted thud. You don’t bother with the lights. The room is dim, quiet, still, the way it always is when you come home like this — raw, stripped, unraveling by the minute. Gojo and Geto follow after you silently. Their paws are light across the hardwood. Watchful. Ears pinned. Tails low.
They’ve seen this version of you before — mascara smudged, breath too shallow, shoulders curled in. but you dont care you make it to the kitchen and grab the wine straight from the fridge door. No glass. Just the bottle. Cold against your palm, cold down your throat.
“He reminded me of him,” you whisper, voice barely catching. “That was the problem.” you point at no one in particular You drop into the couch like you’re sinking under. The wine sloshes as you lift it again, swallowing hard. Gojo leaps up onto the armrest, crouched low and alert. Geto circles once at your feet, then sits like a shadow, tail flicking.
“Hiromi,” you say, naming him like a sin. “He was polite. Gentle. Folded his napkin. Looked at me like I mattered. And I—” Your throat tightens. “I kept thinking about the woman Nanami married. That neat little catgirl Hybrid the full package of a wife.”
You laugh, bitter and short.
“She probably never overshares. Never chokes on her wine. Never talks too loud or breaks things or makes her husband leave parties early.”
Gojo’s ears twitch. Geto’s eyes are locked on your face now — that intense amethyst gaze, unblinking, almost confused. You sniff and keep going.
“I saw Hiromi watching me like I was fragile and precious all at once and it made me panic. I made a joke — some stupid courtroom sex pun — and I watched his whole face shift. Like I had become wrong. Like he could see the cracks now.”
You take another long drink. The bottle’s almost half gone. You sink lower, sliding off the couch and onto the rug, dress wrinkling beneath you. “So yeah! I cried in the bathroom. Hid behind those goddamn scented towels and tried to pull myself together. Came back like nothing happened. He knew.” Geto steps forward, his whole body tense. His pupils are blown wide, tail twitching.
Gojo meows. Quiet. Strange. Low-pitched. You hiccup. “I’m never doing this again,” you slur softly. “Never again.” And then you throw up. It hits the rug — sharp, sour, undignified. You groan, covering your eyes with one hand.
“Shit. Don’t lick that. I swear to God, you little stinkers.” You push up onto one elbow, grabbing paper towels, trying to blot it out. But you’re too far gone. The smell, the spinning, the ache in your chest. Your hands falter. The bottle rolls away.
“I just wanted to feel that again,” you whisper. “Just once. Like someone was choosing me.”
And then, mid-cleaning, you pass out. Your arm goes slack, you say ‘just a little nap’ then your face presses into the ottoman nearby, breath evening out into soft, erratic sleep.
The cats stay still for a long time. And then they move. Geto’s fur lifts like a ripple, shimmer running down his spine. Gojo’s white coat shifts, glinting like powdered snow under moonlight. They stretch. They rise. Not on four legs — but two.
Two thirty year old men stand in the quiet now.
Geto stares at you — silent, solemn, almost breathless. Gojo, for once, doesn’t smile. His jaw is clenched. “Did you know she was on a date?” Gojo says, voice low and too sharp. “With a lawyer. Aparently” Geto doesn’t answer at first. Just watches your sleeping form, the way you’re curled in on yourself like something wounded.
“She wore that dress,” he murmurs finally. “The one she said she bought for Nanami once.” Gojo runs a hand through his snowy hair, “She’s not over him.”
“She’s trying,” Geto says, quietly. “But it’s still him.”
Your body is limp on the floor, cheek pressed into the ottoman , breath shallow and uneven.
Gojo shifts beside you, the wine bottle rolling out of reach with a dull thunk. He looks wrecked — not drunk, not sick, but gutted. Pale hair tousled, icy eyes too bright. His fingers hover at your back, like he wants to pick you up, hold you, something—but he doesn’t move.
Not until Geto does. “Take her to the bathroom,” Geto says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “Get her out of that dress. Burn it.”
Gojo doesn’t question him. He leans in gently, sliding an arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. You mumble something incoherent, head lolling against his shoulder as he lifts you effortlessly. The satin fabric rustles, the hem stained with wine and sick and all the things you didn’t say tonight. “She’s heavier when she’s sad,” Gojo murmurs, his cheek brushing your temple.
Geto gives him a look. “Don’t talk like that.” Gojo exhales sharply, but he nods. Carries you slow, steady, toward the bathroom down the hall.
And Geto, ever steady Getp stays behind. The mess is still there — on the rug, on the floor, in the air. Shame, heartache, bile. The smell of disappointment is thick. It clings. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t hesitate. Geto ties his long hair back, and starts to clean. Quite and Carefully. Because if he can’t carry your pain for you, then he can damn well wipe it off the floor.
By the time Geto steps into the bathroom, the steam has already begun to fog the mirrors. The room smells faintly of rosewater and your favorite eucalyptus bath soak — the one you save for heartbreaks, even if you never say that out loud.
You’re in the tub now, bare and boneless between Gojo’s legs, his arms curled loosely around your body. His chin rests atop your shoulder, and his hands—steady for once—are carefully working a makeup wipe along the curve of your cheek. Gentle swipes. Feather-light touch. As if each stroke might erase more than mascara. As if he could peel away the pain, too.
“Hey,” Geto says softly, approaching. He crouches beside the tub,with eyes searching your face for any trace of you coming back.
“She’s not talking,” Gojo murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. “But she’s not crying anymore.” Geto nods once. That’s enough. He dips a hand into the water, testing the warmth.
Just right. Just how you like it. Then he gets in.
He reaches for the sponge, soaking it in slow circles, then lathers it with the orange blossom body wash you keep tucked behind the mirror cabinet. You never use it unless you’re trying to feel beautiful again.
Geto doesn’t comment on it.
Instead, he lifts your arm gently from the water, lets it rest in his palm, and begins to wash. Careful strokes down your forearm, over your wrist, his thumbs brushing along the crease of your palm like a vow made in silence.
Behind you, Gojo hums something under his breath, soft and tuneless. His fingers are buried in your hair now, massaging the shampoo into a slow lather, combing from roots to ends as if each pass might untangle something deeper. Something buried.
The water laps quietly around you, the only sound between them.
The water feels impossibly warm against your skin, heavy and enveloping, like being held underwater without fear. Steam clings to your lashes. Your thoughts drift in and out, loose and hazy, but not gone — just softened around the edges.
And then you stir slightly, breath hitching as drunken awareness creeps back in.
Geto’s hands are still there, slow and deliberate as he guides the sponge along your breast, the motion careful, grounding. The soap slicks over your nipples in steady strokes, never rushing, never careless. It’s intimate in the way cats grooming on another always is — quiet, reverent, dangerous if lingered on too long.
You blink, eyes half-lidded, unfocused.
“Oh,” you coo, lips curling into a lazy smile. “You’re back.”
You tilt your head slightly, glancing at Geto through damp lashes. “My… handsome security guard,” you whisper, amused. “You always show up in my dreams.”
Your fingers lift without thinking, drifting through the steam until they find Geto’s hand. You guide him without hesitation, pressing his palm flat against your tit.
He stills — not startled, not resisting — just utterly motionless. Alert. Watching you. His breath catches, subtle and sharp, but he doesn't pull away. He lets you lead. Lets you hold him there.
The bathwater steamed around you, curling into the air like a secret. Your skin was flushed, slick, soft beneath their hands. Geto's palm cupped your breast firmly, thumb brushing just under the curve, holding still only because you held him there — fingers curling over his wrist like a silent command.
And then you leaned forward — slow, hungry — eyes half-lidded with wine and want. Your lips met his in a wet, needy kiss, your breath catching at the contact. Tongue met tongue, sloppily, hungrily, lips parting and closing again like they’d been waiting for this. The heat of it flooded you—thick, heady, like the wine still humming in your blood. Geto groaned into your mouth, chest rising. You bit his lip, just enough to drag a growl out of him. Behind you, Gojo's fingers traced a line down your spine, water sheeting between you. His mouth was on your shoulder, hot and shameless, teeth grazing skin. You gasped, laughing—drunk and dizzy and reckless—as he slid his hands around to cup your other breast.
A low growl curls behind you — not playful, not warning. Starving.
Your lips part on a breathy moan, body swaying with the warm pulse of bathwater, slick and scented and far too inviting. You don’t need to look. You know it’s him. You know that sound like a wolf knows a storm.
He's Possessive. It makes your breath stutter.
“Oh,” you murmur lazily, dizzy from the heat and the wine still humming stronger in your veins. “You’re behind me.” you hum, voice soaked in wine and want. You lean back to rest on his solid chest Your hand reaches for his hand, guiding his fingers on your nipples encuraging him to grope and tease you— theres no hesitation, just heat. You press his other hands to your breast, bold and greedy, and when his fingers twitch, when they clench, you giggle like a wicked little thing caught in a silk trap. You encore him to circle and tease your nipples, tossing your head back bearing your jugular to the both of them in submission “Don’t be jealous,” you purr, rolling your hips back just enough to tease. “We can share… just the three of us.”
You turn your head, kiss the side of his jaw — open-mouthed, wet, decadent — and feel him shudder. Behind you, Gojo lets out another sound, deeper this time, as his thumbs begin to roll, tease, tug. He’s not careful. He’s not slow. He’s just needful. And you gasp for it.
Then you feel it — Geto’s touch hasn’t stopped either. He’s still at your side, one hand cradling your thigh, the other dragging a slick sponge down your body like it’s sacred and sinful all at once. You don’t know if he’s washing you or worshipping you — and it doesn’t matter. Your head lolls, your eyes flutter, and your moans come soft and choked, like a prayer trapped behind your teeth.
Your breath breaks into soft, helpless sounds, head falling back again as sensation stacks and stacks until you can’t tell where one touch ends and the other begins.
The bath is steaming. So are you.
Below the water you feel it one pressing hard against your ass and the other proud against your plush thigh
“Oh.” You laugh, low and breathless. “Now we get to the worst part.”
Their hands still, though not from guilt. Just… aching patience. You tilt your head, a little woozy from the wine and the steam, body overheated, head swimming in the too-perfect warmth. You already feel it creeping in — the lull, the weight behind your eyes, the pull of sleep in the haze of comfort and pleasure.
“Where I wake up.” you moan
It’s not bitter. Just soft. Resigned. You’ve been here before — this quiet, cruel point where the dream tilts too sweet, too good, and reality waits with its cold hands. You sigh, chest rising slowly with the heat-damp air, their warmth bracketing you on either side.
“At least I got to see you two longer tonight my knights in shining armour”
Your voice is slurred with fondness, and something else — a sadness you don’t want to name. Your head dips forward, chin resting on Geto’s shoulder. Gojo kisses your skin just above your collarbone. Geto’s sponge drags one last time along your arm, almost as if he’s memorizing the way your skin feels beneath his hands.
The water is too warm. It fogs your lungs, lulls your muscles, blurs your vision. The bath is a cradle and a curse — it pulls you under with each slow breath, wrapping you up in steam and dream.
Just before the darkness takes you, you swear you feel one of them lean close — a voice you can’t place, a whisper against your neck:
And then you’re gone again.
Your head rests against Gojo’s chest, breath soft, limbs heavy, utterly surrendered to sleep. The bathwater still steams faintly around you, fragrant with oils and lavender, and your body glistens under the low bathroom light.
Geto wrings out the sponge in silence, his eyes lingering on the curve of your shoulder. Gojo is still behind you, arms wrapped protectively around your waist. The tension in both of them is palpable—not lust without consent, but desire held back with aching restraint.
“I’m tired of waiting,” Gojo murmurs, his voice husky, brows furrowed and mouth brushing close to your neck. His lips ghost over your skin like he might leave a hiccy—but doesn’t.
Geto flicks him gently on the temple. “We said we wouldn’t. Not like this.”
Gojo exhales hard through his nose, brows drawn in frustration. “I know. But every time—she’s right there. And then she slips away.”
They both fall quiet again.
Then you stir in your sleep. A sigh, soft as falling snow. “Gojo… Geto…”
They freeze. Eyes on you.
But you don’t wake. You merely nestle closer, curling between them with the trust only someone deeply loved could show. The sound of your voice lingers in the air, like a tether neither of them can let go.
Gojo presses a kiss to your temple. Geto sets the sponge aside.
They move in unison—lifting you carefully from the bath, wrapping you in a plush towel, patting your skin dry. The water has made your limbs languid, your breath even softer. Geto warms a small amount of coconut oil between his palms before smoothing it over your legs, up your arms, across the slope of your back. Over the mounds of your ass and your breast careful to be gentle lest he wishes to stimulate you into awareness. His hands are reverent. Gojo follows behind, kneading your shoulders, lifting your hair to massage your scalp, performing your nightly skincare as if it's a sacred ritual.
Their movements are practiced. Familiar. Loving. They dry your hair gently with a cotton towel. Geto folds a silk robe around you. Gojo slips your arms through it. And still, both of them are hard achingly so—aching, unsatisfied, deeply in love.
But they say nothing. They tuck you into bed like the precious princess you are to them.
Geto runs a hand through his hair, breath steadying. The scent of coconut oil lingers on his fingertips, sweet and warm — because its you. Like sleep. Like home.
And that’s when Suguru feels it.
The familiar twitch at the top of his head. The soft flick of movement behind him.
With a sigh, he reaches up and flicks one of his ears — the black cat ears now fully, traitorously visible, perched among his tousled hair like they belong there. His tail curls behind him once, slow and agitated, a clear tell he hasn’t been this worked up in a while.
He exhales through his nose, dragging a hand down his flushed face, cock still pulsing where it lays — untouched, annoyed, alive.
“Great,” he mutters. “Now the ears are up.”
Geto turns his head slowly.
Gojo’s standing beside him — still shirtless, flushed from exertion, hair a disaster… and now very clearly sporting a full set of fluffy white cat ears twitching atop his head, tail swaying like it’s wagging to a rhythm only his dick can hear.
It’s animated. Perky. Feral. Geto sighs, low and resigned. “Go cool off.” Gojo groans dramatically, hands thrown up. “Why me first?”
“You’re the one who almost gave her a hickey.”
“She said my name first.”
“She always says your name first,” Geto says without heat. Their eyes meet. Both silent. Both aching. Gojo’s mouth twitches — part pout, part smirk. “ fine then I’m taking the good towel.”
Geto watches him go, the door clicking quietly shut behind him. The sound of running water starts almost immediately. Ice cold. Afterall Gojo never does anything halfway.
You’ve shifted in your sleep, cheek now resting against the pillow, one hand curled loosely by your mouth. The silk robe has slipped a little at your shoulder, revealing the top of your nipple, peeking from your night gown still glistening faintly with oil and warmth. He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t dare. Instead he covers you up with love and tender compassion.
finally he climbs into bed besides you — carefully, quietly — and lies there, naked, afterall he would be forced to shift back come morning. And yet his spine is stiff with restraint. The heat of your body calls to him like a flame.
And finally He exhales into the space between you.
You’re curled up against Gojo’s chest, your cheek tucked right over his heart.
The slow rise and fall of his breathing rocks you gently, and the low hum of his voice—soft, barely above a whisper—vibrates through his ribs like a lullaby only you can hear. It's no wonder you sleep so well when he speaks. Something in the way he talks has always soothed you. A resonance you don’t know, but one your body recognizes. Like it was made to hear him.
You’re sound asleep now. Limp. Warm. and Safe.
Geto watches you from the other side of the bed, his fingers brushing along the top of your thigh where it’s draped lazily over gojo's hip. His comforter has slipped lower, but he doesn’t care. Not with you like this. Not with the weight of everything sitting heavy on both their chests.
“She find out one day,” Gojo says, after a long moment.
“She never will,” Geto replies. “Not if we’re smart.” Gojo’s voice is quiet, lower now. “You heard what she told Yuki. And Shoko.”
Geto nods. “That hybrids make her uncomfortable,” Gojo continues, jaw flexing. “That it’s unnatural. That... she couldn’t believe Nanami left her for one.”
Geto’s gaze softens. He remembers that night too clearly. You were shattered. Sitting on the kitchen floor in that wine-stained hoodie, muttering something about ‘the betrayal of it all.’ That Beefy — Nanami’s beloved orange tabby — had turned into a woman and taken your future.
Gojo presses his forehead to your neck. Kisses your shoulder. When he hears you whimper in your sleep and that makes you sigh and shift, unconsciously pressing closer to Gojo. Your leg slides higher up Gojo's waist, and the black-haired man lets out a long, shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“We can’t keep her,” Gojo whispers.
“She deserves someone she can see. She deserves someone who can hold her hand in daylight. Not just... sleep beside her in secret.”
Gojo goes quiet. His throat works around something thick.
Geto reaches over and pushes a lock of hair from your face. His touch lingers just a second too long. “She’s going to fall in love again,” he says eventually. Gojo hums, but there’s no joy in it. “Yeah. She will.”
“With someone who can actually show up.” They both go still. You murmur something in your sleep — their names, maybe — but it’s quiet. Drowsy. You don’t wake. You don’t know. You just turn to curl into Geto's chest afterall you always turned to when you got cold. You would always turn into him
They lie there for a long while, silent letting you fall back into sleep.
Gojo’s arm is slings around you, his hand resting lightly on your stomach. He’s tucking in close behind you, long legs tangled with yours, his breath warm against the back of your neck. As he shifts you two to cuddle closer to Geto You’re nestled into them like you belong there. Like you’ve always belonged there.
Geto watches the two of you from his side of the bed, quiet. Still. The ache behind his ribs is constant now — a dull throb he doesn’t even try to soothe. Not tonight. Not anymore.
“We’ll find her someone good,” Gojo mumbles finally, eyes fluttering shut, words thick with sleep. “Someone who’ll treat her right. Make her laugh. Let her be soft again.” He’s slipping already — the weight of your warmth, the slow lull of the room, the ache of wanting you but knowing he never can — it’s dragging him under.
Geto reaches out, brushing your hair back gently, tucking a strand behind your ear like he’s done a thousand times before. You sigh in your sleep, soft and content.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “We’ll make sure of it.” Gojo exhales against your skin, arm tightening just slightly. Then he’s out. Gone. A final, sleepy kiss pressed to your shoulder before his breathing deepens and his body goes still.
Geto leans forward, just a little.
He always does this before sleep — always kisses your forehead. A ritual. A goodbye you never feel. A devotion you’ll never know.
His lips stay pressed against your skin longer than usual. Just a second. Maybe two. Maybe he’s memorizing the warmth. Perhaps he’s trying to seal the moment in place before it slips away like all the others.
“We love you, mama,” he breathes—and tonight, it’s the quietest he’s ever said it.
Quieter than those nights curled up in the kennels, when he’d whisper into Gojo’s fur and pray to gods he didn’t believe in. Quieter than the trembling wishes for rescue, for freedom, for a forever home where they’d never be separated.
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