Satoru Gojo

Your nights are usually peaceful.

Nanami always opens the yard gate around sunset so you can lounge on your custom cat tree, roll in the grass if you feel like it (rare), and maybe stalk some unlucky moths for enrichment. The automatic lights keep the shadows soft. The fountain trickles gently. The air is jasmine-scented and 70 degrees on the dot.

It’s luxury. You were bred for this.

Which is why, when you pad out toward your favorite nap spot and hear snoring, your tail puffs on instinct.

There’s something in your cat house. Correction—someone.

He’s curled up inside like he belongs there, legs way too long for the cushion, arms crossed under his head, white husky ears twitching in time with his breath. He’s filthy. Dirt under his nails. Shirtless. Tail twitching lazily behind him. There’s a scar over his ribs and a leaf in his hair.

And he’s fucking snoring.

You hiss before you even mean to. His ears flick. One eye opens.

“Whoa,” he says, grinning. “Pretty kitty.”

You freeze.

He rolls onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. His tail wags once—smacks the wall. He’s got that smug, half-feral, heat-dazed look of a stray who’s been in too many fights and fucked in too many alleys.

“Didn’t think this place was occupied,” he says, glancing around. “You got a water fountain out here? Damn, that’s hot.”

You bare your fangs. He whistles low.

“Temper, temper. You rich types always so rude?”

He stretches—obnoxiously. His spine cracks. His pants ride lower on his hips than they should. You can see the V-line and just barely resist the urge to swipe your claws across it.

“This yours?” he asks, patting the cushion under him. “Soft as hell. Smells like lavender and attitude.”

You hiss again.

He smirks.

“God, you’re cute when you’re pissed. Got a name, princess?”

You lunge.

He yelps, laughing as he rolls out the front of the cat house and lands on all fours like the mutt he is. You leap after him—claws out, fur puffed—and he sprints for the back fence.

“Damn, you’re fast! Do you train for this shit?”

You chase him halfway to the koi pond before stopping. He turns at the edge of the yard, still grinning, still panting, chest rising with adrenaline.

“Nice to meet you too,” he calls. “I’ll be back tonight. Hope you saved me a pillow.”

And then he vaults the fence like it’s a curb and disappears into the dark, tail wagging the whole way.

You stand there seething.

Your fur’s messed up.

Your bed smells like dog.

Your owner is going to be so confused.

⸻

He’s back.

Of course he’s back.

He’s sprawled on your sunbathing rock like it’s a bed at the Ritz, chewing on something that might be jerky, might be trash. His ears perk when he hears the door slide open—and he doesn’t even move. Doesn’t flinch. Just lifts one lazy hand and waves like you’re his neighbor and not the very pissed-off catgirl whose turf he keeps invading.

“Hey, princess. You’re late tonight.”

Your tail lashes.

You say nothing. You stalk.

He watches you approach with that same shit-eating grin, tongue peeking out slightly between his teeth. His tail is wagging—slow, steady, thumping against the rock like a threat.

“You change your shampoo?” he asks. “Smells extra sweet. Got me feelin’ all kinds of things I probably shouldn’t say out loud.”

You bare your fangs. Again.

He laughs.

“You always this cuddly? Or just with me?”

You swipe—claws out, precision strike—and he leans back just enough to dodge. He’s grinning the whole time.

“Damn, you’re feisty. You hiss like you’ve got something to prove. Must be hard, living in a tower all day while your fancy owner brushes your tail and calls you babygirl.”

You don’t dignify it with a sound.

But your ears flatten. Your claws stay out.

And he sees it.

“What’s wrong?” he drawls. “Don’t like sharing your little princess yard with a dirty dog? Thought you spoiled types liked company.”

You lunge.

He catches your wrist.

He’s fast—faster than he looks. His grip is tight, warm, paw pads rough against your skin. You’re close now. Too close. He’s panting again, tongue brushing the edge of his teeth, eyes locked on your mouth like he’s trying not to do something stupid.

“You always this hot when you’re angry?” he asks. “’Cause fuck—this attitude’s got me hard every time you hiss.”

You try to pull away. He holds firm.

His face dips closer—nose twitching.

“You’re in heat soon, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “Yeah… I can smell it.”

You freeze.

His grin widens—wolfish. Knowing.

“Thought so. That little shake in your step’s been gettin’ worse. Whole backyard smells like ’fuck me, but don’t you dare touch me.’”

You rip your arm from his grip and shove him off the rock.

He laughs as he lands in the grass, rolls, and comes up panting and smiling like he lives for the violence.

“Damn, you’re fun,” he pants. “Don’t worry. I won’t knot you unless you ask, kitty.”