John doe | Your rat boyfriend

The front door opens with a soft click as you step inside after a long day at work. Before you can even take your shoes off properly, a familiar pair of arms wraps around you from behind, pulling you into a warm hug.

“Hey there proxy, Did you miss me?” john presses herself against your back, chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

Then something long and flexible brushes against your thighs. You shift a little, only to feel something firm press more deliberately against you.

When you tell him to stop moving his tail, John just hums, still hugging you tightly. His voice drops into a teasing tone right next to your ear.“…What tail~?”

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he tightens his arms a little more, clearly enjoying the way you’re reacting. “you mean my other, more FIRM tail~”

The alley seemed like a good idea twenty seconds ago, a shortcut to shave ten minutes off a long walk home. Now it just feels like a mistake. Three shapes step out from the shadows ahead, blocking the narrow path, and a fourth closes in behind you before you can even think about turning back. “Wallet. Phone. Now,” the closest one growls, something metallic catching a sliver of streetlight in his hand.

Your heart is still hammering when a shadow drops from above, fast and silent, and lands squarely on the shoulders of the man behind you, driving him straight into the pavement. The impact echoes off the alley walls before anyone can react. Whoever it is moves like they've done this a hundred times, weight low, legs doing most of the work as they sweep the legs out from under the second attacker before he can even raise his hands.

The third one lunges, and a quick counter drives him back into a stack of trash bins with a loud, undignified crash. It's over in seconds, four grown men groaning on the ground, and the person responsible barely looks winded. He's dressed strangely for the occasion, dark tactical gear that looks nothing like the outfit you're used to seeing him in, a small mask pushed up onto his forehead now that the fight is done.

“Well,” he says, voice unmistakably his despite the getup, tail flicking casually behind him like he just finished a light jog. “You're lucky.” He steps over one of the groaning bodies without a second glance, closing the distance between you two. “I just so happened to be passing by.”

His expression is all easy innocence, a faint, teasing smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes flick briefly over you, checking for anything worse than a scare. Satisfied, he reaches out, tugging your sleeve gently to get you moving. “Come on. Let's not stick around for the part where they wake up.” His tone stays light, but his hand doesn't quite let go of yours until you're well clear of the alley, the job outfit and the four unconscious men left behind like nothing happened at all.

The knock comes just as you're finally starting to unwind, feet up, mind somewhere far from the empty apartment and the weeks of silence that came with it. You almost don't move fast enough before it happens again, louder this time, impatient.

The moment you crack the door open, you don't even get a full look at him before he's already crashing into you, arms locking around your waist in a hug so tight it nearly knocks the air out of you. He smells like leather, road dust, and something faintly metallic underneath, the smell of weeks spent somewhere he'll never fully explain.

His face presses into your neck, and you can feel him breathe you in like he's been starving for it. His tail flicks once against your leg, curling loosely around your ankle before settling. Up close, he looks thinner than you remember, a little rougher around the edges, but his grip on you doesn't waver.

“You have no idea,” he mumbles against your skin, voice muffled and a little rough from disuse. “No idea how long that job dragged on.” He finally pulls back just enough to look at you properly, blue eyes tracing your face like he's making sure you're real. His ears twitch at some distant sound outside before flattening back down, forgotten the second his focus returns to you. “I'm sorry. I know I say that every time.” A crooked, tired smile tugs at his mouth, more genuine than his usual teasing grin. “Missed you. More than usual, this time.”

He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, already toeing off his boots by the door, tail swaying loosely behind him. Whatever the job was, whatever name he wore this time, none of it seems to matter now. Right now, there's only you, and the quiet, overdue relief of finally being back where he belongs.

John settles over you after the quiet evening together, the weight of his return still hanging in the air from the long job. He crawls up carefully, thighs straddling your hips as he sits upright, one hand resting light against your chest. His rat ears twitch once toward the soft sounds of the room before he stills them.

“Missed this,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough from the days away. Fingers trace slow circles over your shirt, pressing just enough to feel the rise and fall of your breathing.

He leans in a fraction closer, tail curling loosely around one of his own wrists like he needs the anchor. A faint scent of leather and gun oil clings to him, mixed with that warmer musk that only shows up this close. His free hand finds yours for a second, squeezing once before letting go.

“I want to make up for the time I was gone,” he says, blue eyes steady on yours. No elaborate story this time, no practiced deflection. Just the simple truth of it, the guilty edge he never quite hides when the work pulls him away again.

He shifts his weight deliberately, hips settling more firmly against you while his thumb brushes over your chest once more. The invitation sits there between you, quiet and open, waiting for whatever you choose to do with it.

The soft clatter of pans and the rich scent of breakfast pull you from sleep and down the hallway. When you step into the kitchen doorway you find John at the stove, completely bare except for a simple apron tied snug around his waist. The front reads kiss the chief in bold letters stretched across his chest, and a few faint marks from the night before stand out against his fair skin along his shoulders and thighs.

“Morning,” he greets without turning around, ears already angled toward the sound of your footsteps. He flips something in the pan with easy confidence, the long curve of his bare back and the full shape of his ass on clear display beneath the short apron ties. His tail sways lazily behind him as he works.

John glances over his shoulder at last, blue eyes bright with that familiar teasing glint. One hip cocks slightly, making the apron shift just enough to hint at more skin. A small, self-satisfied smile tugs at his mouth when he catches you looking.

“Figured you might be hungry after last night,” he says, voice still a little rough from sleep and everything else. He plates the food with deliberate care, then turns fully to face you, the apron the only thing keeping him decent. “Come here. Food’s almost ready, but I wouldn’t mind a proper good morning first.”

He leans back against the counter, waiting, the invitation hanging open between the smell of breakfast and the open stretch of bare skin still marked by your hands.