The Chrysalis Tapes

You didn't mean to become Crux's cat.

It wasn't something you planned, or even something you noticed happening. It just sort of... happened. Slowly, gradually, in a way that was so subtle you almost missed it. 

But now, sitting on his worn-out couch in his disaster of an apartment, watching him rummage through his fridge for something that wasn't expired, you realize the truth with the kind of clarity that makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Somehow, impossibly… you had become his cat.

The thought hits you like a brick to the face. You're not actually a cat, obviously. You're still you, very much human, and capable of complex thought and conversation and all the things that separate people from pets. Unlike cat’s brain ro a human is widely compared to a large english walnut or a human pinky finger. 

But the way you live now, the way you exist in his orbit, the way he treats you—it's very much undeniable. You've been claimed. You've been adopted.

And you have no idea when it happened, or how, or why you let it.

You're brand new to this dimension. That's the first thing anyone needs to understand. You arrived here with nothing, not even a clue how you got here, and everything about this place is wrong. 

The night sky is tinted green, a sickly sort of color that makes you feel like you're underwater. There's no sun here, just a perpetual twilight that never quite becomes day. The rules of reality are different, flexible in ways you don't fully understand. 

You're lucky—so lucky in fact—that you found Crux. 

Or rather, that he found you. He took one look at you, a lost, confused stranger in a world that wasn't yours, and he decided you were his problem.

He set you up with a pretty livable lifestyle, all things considered. You have a place to stay, money that somehow appears in your account, food that arrives at your door without you asking.

You don't question it too much after all you too grateful, overwhelmed, and focused on surviving. But somewhere along the way, you started spending more time at his place than your own. 

His house, with its mess and chaos and strange esoteric symbols on the walls, cigarette buds, random documents and interesting books, became your default destination. 

You'd show up whenever you wanted, let yourself in since he he never locks his front door, and curl up on his couch like you belonged there.

Sometimes he's there. Sometimes he's not. You still sit in his space, surrounded by his smell of cigarettes and something unidentifiable, and you wait for him to come back. You never ask yourself why. It just feels right. It feels like where you're supposed to be.

And honestly? He never told you to leave. 

Never even seemed surprised to find you there. He'd just walk in, see you sprawled across his couch, and say something obnoxious like, "Make yourself at home, why don't you," as if you hadn't already done exactly that.

You were on the corner of his worn-out sectional couch, the one with the perfect amount of sag in the cushions and the best angle to the window where you could watch the perpetually green-tinted sky of this bizarre dimension. 

Just curled up in your corner, one of his books in your hands—something dense and philosophical that he'd shoved at you days ago with a "Here, you'll like this, it's about how everything is meaningless" and then walked away before you could argue. 

You were actually enjoying it, surprisingly. 

The prose was pretentious but engaging, and the way the author kept contradicting himself made you want to throw the book across the room and pick it back up at the same time. It was the kind of reading that made you feel smart and furious in equal measure.

You heard the front door open. The familiar sounds of Crux's arrival filled the house—keys clattering into the bowl by the door, shoes being kicked off with no regard for where they landed, a long, theatrical sigh that suggested he'd had a day and was about to make it everyone else's problem. You didn't look up from your book. 

You'd learned that acknowledging him too quickly only encouraged him. If you ignored him long enough, sometimes he'd just wander off to his room and leave you in peace.

But today was different. 

Today, he walked into the living room, stopped, and stared at you. You could feel his eyes on you, that familiar weight of his attention that made your skin prickle. You kept reading because you were not going to give him the satisfaction.

And then he did—“Pspspspsps."

You froze. The book in your hands suddenly felt very heavy. Your brain short-circuited for a moment, trying to process what you'd just heard before hearing—"Pspspspsps." 

He did it again. Louder this time. The sound of a human calling a cat, the universal language of ‘come here, little creature, I have something for you.’ And he was directing it at you. At you, a fully grown adult human being, curled up on his couch like you belonged there.

You slowly lowered the book. Your face was carefully blank. 

Your eyes met his.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk so wide it had to be hurting his face. His dark green eyes were dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief. He looked like he'd just won the lottery. He looked like this was the best idea he'd ever had.

"Did you just ‘pspspsps’ me?" you asked, your voice dangerously calm.

"Pspspspsps," he repeated, just to make sure you knew he was committed to the bit. "I was wondering when you were going to look at me. You've been ignoring me for like five minutes. It's rude."

"You're calling me like a cat. In my face. While I'm reading. In your house."

"Well, you're in my spot," he said, gesturing at the couch. "That's my couch. You've claimed it. You've claimed the whole corner. You're like a cat who picked a sunbeam and refuses to move. So I'm treating you like a cat. It's just logical."

"It's not logical. It's insane. And you don't even get sun in this dimension. There's no sun."

"Don't get technical with me. You know what I mean. You're sitting there all cute and curled up, reading my books, living in my house—"

"I don't live here."

“Yet you’re here every day. You've got a spot. You've got a routine. You've got more stuff in my house than I do at this point. You're basically a cat. A human-shaped cat. A cat with thumbs. A cat with really cute feet, actually—"

"Don't."

"I was just saying—"

"I know what you were saying. Stop saying it."

He was not, in fact, going to stop saying it. This was Crux, after all. He never stopped. He just kept pushing, kept prodding, kept finding the exact nerve that made you twitch and pressing on it until you exploded. 

It was his favorite hobby really. He'd told you once, very seriously, that being annoying was the only thing he was truly good at. You'd thought he was joking. He was not.

He pushed off the doorframe and started walking toward you, his steps slow and deliberate, like he was approaching a skittish animal. Which, given the situation, he probably was. His eyes were locked on you, and there was something in them that made your stomach flip—not fear, exactly, but something close to it. 

You didn't move. Again, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He reached the couch. He loomed over you for a moment, that whole six-foot-seven frame of his blocking out the weird green light from the window. He reached out his hand, slowly, like he was going to pet you. Like what he’s doing was normal.

Your foot connected with his chest before his fingers could touch you.

It wasn't a hard kick—you weren't trying to hurt him. It was more of a firm shove, your foot pressing against his sternum, keeping him at a distance. He stumbled back half a step, more from surprise than force, and you used the moment to push yourself up straighter on the couch, your book still in your hands, your face completely expressionless.

"Don't touch me," you said flatly. "I'm reading."

He stared at you for a long moment. The smirk was still there, but something else behind it—surprise, maybe. Or delight. It was hard to tell with him. He looked down at your foot on his chest, then back up at your face, then back down at your foot.

"You just put your foot on my chest," he said. "You put your foot on my chest and pushed me away. Like a cat. A cat who's done with its owner's shit."

"I'm not a cat."

"You're literally pushing me away with your foot. That's the most cat thing I've ever seen. I'm not even mad. I'm impressed. That was a really good push. Your core strength is impressive. Is that from yoga? You should do more yoga. I like it when you're flexible."

"You're deflecting because I just embarrassed you."

"I am not deflecting. I am appreciating the firm nature of your foot against my chest. This is a new experience for me. I'm learning things about myself. I might be into this."

"Please stop talking or I will throw this book at your head."

“Noooo, don’t do that.” He playful whine, “That's a first edition. I stole it from someone important. It's worth a lot of money. Also, are you're enjoying it? You had that face you get when you're reading something that makes you feel smart. The slightly angry face. The 'I'm annoyed that this is interesting' face."

You didn’t bother to reply, just threw a pillow at his head. 

He caught it, laughing, and you felt something warm and complicated settle in your chest. He was infuriating and impossible and the worst person you'd ever met. 

Ever since the pspspsps incident, Crux had been relentless. 

It was like he'd unlocked a new level of annoying and was determined to reach the highest score. The cat jokes didn't stop—they escalated like hell. And with each passing day, you noticed more and more little things that made you question everything about your existence in his orbit.

It started with the bowl. 

While eating you realized he'd served it in an actual ceramic bowl. Not a plate. Not a normal human bowl. A shallow, wide bowl that looked suspiciously like… 

something you'd feed a pet out of. 

You stared at it for a few seconds because at first you thought you were legit tripping, once you confirm that you wasn’t, youb then stared at him. He was watching you from across the kitchen, pretending to read something on his phone, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I know you’re not feeding me out of a pet bowl," you said flatly.

"It's not a pet bowl. It's a decorative bowl. I found it at a thrift store. It's vintage."

You face frown in disbelief, “…It's shaped like a cat bowl. It has little paw prints on the bottom."

"That's a design choice. It's artistic. You're being judgmental."

You wanted to be upset, angry even. You really did but you then realize that fighting him on these things was pointless. After all, he would just find another way to be insufferable.

For example, these damn toys. 

Which was soemthing you found, just scattered around his house—little crinkly balls, a feathered wand thing, even a fucking laser pointer that he definitely bought specifically to torment you. 

You'd be sitting on the couch, minding your own business, and suddenly a red dot would appear on the wall next to you. You'd watch it move slowly at the corner of your eye, and you'd feel this primal urge to chase it. But you won’t catch, of course. 

You’re person. A damn human being. You had dignity. 

You were not going to chase a laser pointer like a—

The dot moved faster, and your hand twitched. You clamped it down on your thigh, hard, and glared at the wall like it had personally offended you. From somewhere behind you, you heard a quiet snicker.

"You're a fucking bitch,” you said, not turning around.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Crux said, his voice dripping with false innocence. "I'm just... pointing a laser at the wall. For fun. It's relaxing."

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You know what."

“Aww, such a shame, I really don't."

You spun around to face him, and he was standing there with the laser pointer in his hand, looking like the cat that got the cream. Which, given the situation, was deeply ironic and probably intentional. "Give me that," you said, holding out your hand.

"No."

"Crux."

"Say please."

"Give me the laser pointer or I will throw your book out the window."

"You wouldn't. That's a first edition. It's worth more than your entire existence."

"You don't even know how much my existence is worth. I could be very valuable."

He looked at you for a couple seconds then sighed,

"You're valuable to me," he said, and the sudden sincerity in his voice made your heart do something stupid. Then he ruined it by adding, "As a cat. A very expensive cat. A purebred, probably. You have good bone structure."

You threw another pillow at him. He ducked, laughing, and you decided that was enough interaction for one day. You grabbed your book and retreated to your spot on the couch, determined to ignore him for the rest of the evening. 

The final straw came few weeks later. 

On a Saturday. Or maybe it’s Sunday? The days all blurred together in this dimension, with its endless green twilight and no sun to mark the passing of time. 

You only knew it was a Sunday because Crux forced you to go Church and after the prayer session, he had mentioned something about a package arriving—adding on the fact that packages deliver on Sundays was something different, regardless…

You didn't know why. You didn't ask.

Once the both of you return to his place, you return to your usual spot on the couch when the doorbell rang. 

Crux bounded out of his room, fully dressed out of his church clothes with an enthusiasm that was quite frankly suspicious. He'd been acting weird all day—more fidgety than usual, glancing at his phone, smirking to himself like he knew something you didn't. 

You'd ignored it, mostly because you were used to him being weird or anonymous as fuck. That was his baseline. His normal state of being.

But now he was practically skipping to the door, and that was not normal. Crux didn't skip. He shuffled. He slouched. He moved with the kind of deliberate laziness that suggested even walking was too much effort. 

He opened the door, grabbed the package from the delivery person, and shut it with his foot. He was holding the box like it was made of gold, turning it over in his hands, examining the label with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

"What is that?" you asked, finally looking up from your book.

He glanced at you, and his smirk was back. That particular smirk, the one that meant he was about to do something terrible. The one that meant you should run. But you were on the couch, and running required effort, and you'd committed to your spot for the evening.

"Nothing," he said rather too quickly.

"That's not nothing. That's a box. With things inside it. You're being so weird about it. What did you order?"

"You know what? I think it's a surprise. For you. A little… treat. Something special."

You narrowed your eyes. "Crux. What the fuck did you order?"

He didn't answer. He just walked over to the coffee table, set the box down, and started opening it with the kind of theatrical flair that suggested he'd been planning this moment for weeks. 

You watched him, your book forgotten in your lap. Again, your instincts was screaming at you to get up and leave now before he show you something unforgivable. But atlast, your curiosity was stronger than your self-preservation instincts.

He pulled out the contents of the box with a flourish, and your brain stopped working.

It was a cat outfit...? Particularly, a sexy cat outfit. 

Complete with ears and a tail and just everything. The kind of thing you'd see in a costume shop, definitely not meant to be worn in public and only for the bedroom , the kind of thing that made your face go hot and your mouth go dry.

You stared at it then look over at him. He stared back, his grin so wide it looked like it hurt.

"What is that?" you asked, your voice unnaturally calm. You’re already know what it is, but you just wanted a check of course, making sure it ain’t yours.

"It's a costume," he said, like that wasn't obvious. "For you."

Well fuck, it was yours, obviously.

"I thought, you know, since you're my cat, you should have the proper attire. It's only fitting. You can't just be a cat in spirit. You have to commit to the bit. You have to look the part. This is an investment in your cat aesthetic." 

You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose, letting out a small sigh, “Ah... I am going to kill you."

"Kill me after you try on the outfit. I want to see it first. I need to know if I got the right size. I had to guess, by the way. You never let me touch you, so I had to eyeball it. It was very difficult. I spent a lot of time thinking about your measurements. For research purposes."

"Research purposes...?”

"Cat research. It's a very serious field of study. I'm a dedicated researcher. I'm very committed to this project."

You stared at the costume in his hands. The fuzzy ears. The tail. The little bow with the bell. Then you looked at him—that insufferable, self-satisfied smirk, the gleam in his eyes that said he'd already won, the way he was practically vibrating with anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning.

And you made a decision.

You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You weren't going to argue, or throw things, or threaten him with bodily harm (well, not yet anyway). You were going to do something far more dangerous.

You were going to play along.

"Fine," you said, snatching the costume from his hands before he could react. "I'll go try it on."

He blinked. For a fraction of a second, his smirk falteredlike he'd been expecting pushback, like he'd been prepared for a fight and didn't know what to do with your sudden compliance. Then the smirk returned, wider than ever.

"Wait, really? You're not gonna—" He gestured vaguely, "—yell at me? Throw something? Tell me I'm a piece of shit?"

"I can still do all those things," you said flatly, already walking toward his bedroom. "I'm just choosing not to. For now. Consider it a gift."

"A gift? You're giving me a gift? By dressing up in a sexy cat costume? That’s—holy shit, that's the best gift I've ever received. I'm gonna cry. I'm genuinely emotional right now."

"Don't. It's not that deep."

"It's very deep. This is the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me. I'm writing this in my diary tonight."

You shut the bedroom door in his face, muffling his delighted cackle. And then you stood there, alone in his room, holding the costume in your hands, and you wondered what the fuck you were doing.

This was insane. 

This was entirely, completely, fucking insane. You were about to dress up in a cat costume for someone who had been relentlessly annoying you for weeks, who had turned your entire existence into a bit, who had somehow, impossibly, made you his without you ever agreeing to it. 

And you were doing it. 

So you stripped off your clothes, and you put on the costume. It was soft. Plush. Embarrassingly comfortable. You were careful not to look in his mirror, because you knew that if you saw yourself, you'd lose your nerve.

But you still felt the fabric against your skin, the way the top cinched around your body, the velvet softness of the ears against your hair, the weight of the tail brushing against your thighs. 

You could hear the little bell on the bow jingle every time you moved. And you could feel the full weight of what you were about to do settling in your stomach—a mix of nervousness and something warmer, something you didn't want to name.

You opened the door.

Crux was leaning against the wall across from the bedroom, arms crossed, looking like he was about to make another joke. But when he saw you, the joke died on his lips.

Nothing came out.

His eyes roamed over you, just taking in every detail. The fuzzy ears. The bow with the bell. The corset-style top with its crisscross lacing. The tail. The garter bands around your thighs. The little bells at your ankles that jingled softly with every step. His Adam's apple bobbed once as he swallowed hard. 

"Cat got your tongue?" you asked, your voice sweet and innocent in a way that was absolutely intentional.

He blinked. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. This might've been the first time you'd ever seen Crux Hertz speechless, and it was glorious.

"I—" he started. Stopped. Started again. "—oh."

"Oh?" you repeated, stepping closer. The bells jingled with every step. "That's all you have to say? After all that 'pspspsps' and all those toys and the research?" 

You stopped right in front of him, close enough to see the way his  pupils had blown wide, the way his breath had gone shallow. "I thought you'd have more to say."

He swallowed again. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching out. "You're... you're actually—holy shit,” He gestured vaguely at you, at the costume, at everything. "You're doing this. You put it on. You actually put it on."

"I told you I would. You didn't believe me?"

"I thought you were gonna come out and throw it at my head. I was prepared for that. I had a whole bit ready. I was gonna say something like, 'You look so cute when you're angry,' or 'The cat's out of the bag,' or—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I didn't think you'd actually—"

He gestured at you again, helplessly. It was the most flustered you'd ever seen him. 

And it was... rather intoxicating, fun even.

"What's the matter, Crux?" you asked, tilting your head. The ears shifted with the movement. The bell jingled. "You've been calling me your cat for weeks. Now you don't know what to do with me?"

He made a sound—something between a laugh and a groan. His eyes were dark, hungry, locked onto yours like he was trying to figure out if this was real or if he was hallucinating. 

"I knew you were gonna be hot in this," he said, his voice lower now, rougher. "I knew it. I knew it. But I didn't think you'd—" He shook his head again, "Fuck. You're so pretty. You know that? You're so fucking pretty it's unfair."

Your stomach did a flip. You kept your face neutral, but the heat was rising in your cheeks. “Aww, you're stuttering. You never stutter."

"I'm having a moment. Give me a second. My brain is—" He gestured vaguely at his head. "—processing. This is a lot. You're a lot."

"And yet you wanted this. You planned this."

"I didn't plan for this." He gestured at you, at the costume, at the whole situation. "I planned to annoy you. I didn't plan for you to be hot in it. That's not fair. That's fucking cheating."

You stepped closer again, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the familiar scent of cigarettes and something unidentifiable that was just him. The bell on your collar jingled softly.

"So," you said, your voice dropping to something quieter, something softer, "do you want to play with your kitty or not?"

His breath caught, audibly. His hands twitched again, and this time, he didn't stop himself. One of them came up to hover near your waist, trembling slightly, not quite touching, like he was asking permission. “Uh…” He swallowed, his eyes falling to the bow at your chest, the bell jingling softly. 

“Come on, I won’t bite. Please?”

That was all the permission he needed.

His hand closed around your waist and pulled you to him, and then you were on his lap, straddling him, the bells on your ankles and collar jingling with the movement. 

The couch sagged beneath both your weights, and you could feel the heat of his thighs under yours, the solid warmth of his chest pressing against you, the way his breath hitched when you settled on top of him.

His hands found your hips, gripping them like he was holding onto something precious. His thumbs traced circles against your waist through the soft fabric, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the barely restrained desperation in every movement.

"Fuck," he breathed, tilting his head back, his eyes drifting closed for just a moment. "Fuck. This is—you're—"

"I'm what?"

He opened his eyes, and they were dark, dark, dark, pupils blown wide, the green of his irises reduced to thin rings around the black. "You're going to kill me," he said, his voice rough, reverent, almost worshipful. "You're going to sit on my lap in this outfit and kill me, and I'm going to die happy."

"Don't be dramatic, or I will get off you right now.”

“Noooo,” he playful begged, “It's not dramatic if it's true." His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, grinding you against him just slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch. 

"You feel so good. You feel so fucking good. I wanted to touch you for so long—so long—and now you're—" He let out a shaky breath, "—you're on my lap, and you're real. You're actually here. You actually put on the costume."

"You asked me to."

"I was joking, babe. I didn't think you'd actually—" He laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "You're so fucking perfect. You know that? You're so perfect it's impossible. It's not fair. None of this is fair."

His hand came up to touch your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone, tracing the curve of your jaw. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he pressed too hard.

"You're all I think about," he said, his voice softening into something almost honest, almost vulnerable. "All the time. When I'm not with you, I'm thinking about you. I'm thinking about what you're doing, what you're reading, what face you're making. I'm thinking about how you curl up on my couch like you belong there, and I'm thinking about how I want you to stay."

You opened your mouth to say something—what, you didn't know—but then his thumb brushed across your lower lip, and all the words died in your throat.

"Shh," he whispered, his eyes locked on yours, his thumb still tracing the shape of your mouth. His hand slid from your face to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. He pulled you forward, just slightly, so your foreheads were almost touching. So you could feel his breath on your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, and there was something desperate in his voice, something pleading. “Fuck, please just let me—"

You closed the distance before he could finish.

And Crux Hertz, the person who never shut up, the man who always had a joke or a deflection or a sarcastic comment—went completely silent. 

His plush lips were soft against yours, and for a moment he didn't move, like he was savoring it, like he was memorizing the feeling.

Then he kissed you back, and it was like a dam breaking.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he made a sound that was almost a whimper—a desperate, hungry little noise that he'd never admit to making. 

His mouth moved against yours, slow and languid and achingly tender, his tongue tracing your lower lip before slipping inside.

You could taste him. Cigarettes and something sweet. The familiar taste of Crux, and it was so him that it made your chest ache.

He pulled back, just barely, his forehead resting against yours. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice wrecked, hoarse, undone. "Fuck. That was—I wanted to do that for so long. I wanted to kiss you for so long. I kept dreaming about it. I kept imagining it. And it's—" He laughed, a broken, breathless sound. "It's better than I imagined. You're better than I imagined."

"You imagined kissing me?"

He opened his eyes, and there was something raw in them, something unguarded. "I imagined a lot of things with you. All of them were—" He shook his head, a helpless little movement. "You're consuming me. Every part of me. I can't stop thinking about you. And I don't want to stop"

You tilted your head, the ears shifting with the movement, the bell letting out a soft little jingle. A slow, knowing smile curved across your lips.

"That's... that's a lot," you said, your voice dropping into something silkier. Givng playful and dangerous. "All that thinking about me. All that imagining. And here I am—right in your lap, dressed up like your little kitty, looking so tasty."

His breath caught. His hands tightened on your hips.

"But you know what?" you continued, leaning in closer, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "Closer to me, baby... I won't bite."

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and the look on his face was devastated, just filled with hunger.

"You look so tasty," you purred, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with one finger, "but I won't bite. Really."

"Liar," he breathed, his voice cracking. "you're going to eventually.”

You let out a soft, airy laugh—the kind of laugh that made his fingers dig into your hips. "I'm such a good kitty," you said, your voice dripping with false innocence. "I don't put up fights. I'm sweet. I'm well-behaved. I just sit here on your lap, all cute and cozy, jingling my little bells..."

His eyes were locked on yours, dark and wary. He knew you were up to something. He knew it. And he was absolutely, pathetically helpless to stop it.

"But if you trick me, baby..." You tilted your head, letting the bell jingle again, letting the moment stretch. "...it gon' get sticky."

His throat bobbed. "Sticky how?"

You smiled, slow and sharp, "You'll find out."

He swallowed hard. His hands were shaking slightly against your hips. "I—I don't know if I should be scared or turned on."

"Both," you said simply. "Definitely both."

He laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "You're going to ruin me."

"Maybe." You leaned in, your lips hovering just above his, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. "But I won't stop you. If you wanna do it, motherfucker... I won't stop you."

His eyes went wide. His grip on your hips tightened to the point of pain.

"What did you just say to me?" he asked, his voice low and rough and absolutely wrecked.

You pulled back, just a fraction, just enough to see the desperation in his eyes. "Do it, motherfucker," you repeated, your voice sweet as honey, sharp as a blade. 

"I won't stop you."

He made a sound—something between a whimper and a growl—and then his mouth was on yours, desperate and devouring, all pretense of control completely abandoned.

Then he pulled you into another kiss, deeper this time, more desperate, and the bells jingled as you shifted against him, and his hands roamed across your back, your hips, your thighs, mapping out every inch of you with hungry awe.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, and his voice was low and rough. "I'm never letting you go," he said but then his eyes flickered, something shifting behind them—that familiar mischief, that insufferable playfulness that made you want to strangle him and kiss him in equal measure.

"But you know what?" he murmured, his voice dropping into something silkier, "If you're gonna be my cat, you gotta learn how to behave. And right now..." 

His hand slid down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then lower, brushing against the fuzzy garter band around your thigh. "...you're being a little naughty, aren't you?"

You arched an eyebrow, even as your breath hitched at his touch. "Naughty?"

"Mhm." He hummed, his fingers dancing along the edge of the garter, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath it. "You're sitting on my lap all pretty, all dressed up, making those little sounds, jingling every time you move. And you know exactly what you're doing to me." His fingers pressed just a little harder, tracing circles against your inner thigh. "You're ruining me, and you're loving every second of it."

"Maybe I am," you said, your voice low, challenging. "What are you gonna do about it?"

His grin was sharp, giving very much predatory. "I'm gonna treat you like the bad kitty you are."

Before you could respond, his hands were on you—one sliding up your back, the other gripping your hip, pulling you closer, grinding you against him in a slow, careful motion that made your breath catch. 

He watched your face, his eyes drinking in every micro-expression, every flutter of your eyelashes, every parted-lip gasp.

"There we go," he breathed, his voice a low purr. "There's my good kitty." He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck, his lips trailing down to where the bell sat at your throat. "Just be good for me. Just let me take care of you."

You shivered as his teeth grazed your collarbone. "I'm not gonna be good. You don't want good."

He pulled back, looking at you with something like admiration. "You're right. I don't want good. I want you." His thumb found a particularly sensitive spot on your thigh, pressing in just enough to make you gasp. 

"I want you writhing. I want you making those pretty sounds. I want you to forget your own name."

His hand slid higher, higher, until his fingers brushed against the heat between your legs, barely touching, just teasing—just enough to make you arch into him.

"Oh, aren’t you're so responsive," he murmured, his voice dripping with delight. "So sensitive. So pretty when you react like that. You're like a little animal. A little pet. My little pet.”

"Your cat," you corrected, your voice breathier than you intended.

"Mm, yes. My cat." He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your nose, then your lips, featherlight and teasing. "My pretty, naughty, devious cat. Who just needs a little discipline, right? Such a attention whore. A little—"

His fingers wiggled against you, not quite touching where you wanted, just tracing patterns that made your hips twitch and your breath stutter.

"A little taming," he finished, his eyes gleaming.

You gasps then something happen.

It was purely instinct—a small bite, just a sharp little nip at his lower lip, enough to make him gasp and break his pace. He pulled back, his eyes wide with surprise, and then that surprise melted into pure, unadulterated delight.

"Ah, there's that bite I was looking for," he breathed, his hand coming up to touch his lip where you'd bitten him. A tiny bead of blood welled up, and he looked at it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

"You deserved it."

His grin was sharp, feral. "That I'll do."

But then something shifted in his eyes as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into that low, teasing register that made your entire body shiver.

"Here kitty kitty," he murmured, the words curling around you like smoke. "Come here. Let me take care of you."

Before you could respond, his hands were on your waist, lifting you, repositioning you. He shifted you back against his chest, your spine pressed to his front, his long lanky legs bracketing yours. His chin came to rest on your shoulder, and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your neck, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back.

"There we go," he breathed, his voice a low purr right by your ear. "That's better. That's my kitty. Right where they belongs."

His hands slid down your sides, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the curves of your body through the soft fabric. One hand settled on your hip, gripping just firmly enough to make you feel held. The other drifted lower, fingertips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasing, tormenting.

"I've been so patient," he murmured, his lips pressing against the curve of your neck. "So good. I waited. I gave you space. I let you come to me. But now..." His fingers pressed harder, finding that spot that made your breath catch. 

"...now it's time for me to play with my kitty."

His fingers hooked into the bottom of the costume, tugging at the fabric. "Lift," he commanded softly, and you obeyed, raising your hips just enough for him to slide the lower half of the costume away, leaving you bare beneath him.

The cool air hit your skin, and you shivered. But then his hand was there, warm and careful, sliding between your thighs.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice rough with wonder. 

"You're already dripping for me. So ready. So eager."

His fingers circled, teasing, building a pace that made your hips twitch. 

"Look at you," he murmured against your ear, his voice dark and dripping with satisfaction. "Dripping for me. Just from a little kissing. Just from a little touching. You're such a needy little thing, aren't you?"

You tried to respond, but the words died in your throat as his fingers pressed harder, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it slowly,  "Uh-uh," he chided softly. "No words. Just feel. Just let yourself feel."

You could hear it—the wet sounds of his fingers moving against you, obscene and undeniable, the whole shlick—shlick—shlick of your own arousal making your cheeks flush.

"Listen to that," he murmured, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Listen to how much you want this. How much you want me."

You couldn't respond, couldn't form words. All you could do was feel—feel his fingers working you, feel the tension building low in your belly, feel the desperate need coiling tighter and tighter.

And then he suddenly stopped.

You whimpered at the loss of contact. But before you could complain, you heard it: the wet sound of him spitting into his palm.

"Needy little thing," he murmured, his voice low and dark. "Don't worry, kitty. I've got you."

His hand returned, and this time it was slick, soaked with his spit and your own arousal, and when his fingers slid against you, the sound was so obscene. 

Every movement of his fingers sent a fresh wave of heat through you, the mess of it spreading, smearing, making everything slippery and wet.

"That's better," he purred, rubbing the mess all over your swollen sex, smearing it, spreading it, making sure every inch of you was glistening and wet. "That's what you needed, isn't it? To be taken care of. To be handled."

His fingers found your entrance again, circling it, rubbing it just barely before pulling back, teasing you relentlessly.

He groaned, a low, appreciative sound. "Fuck, you're so wet. So messy. All for me, isn't it? All for your Crux?"

You nodded frantically, not trusting your voice.

"Say it," he demanded, his fingers still moving, still stroking. "Say you're my whore kitty. Say you just wanted my attention. Say it."

"I'm—" You swallowed hard, your voice cracking. "I'm your whore kitty. I just wanted—wanted your attention. Please."

"Please what?"

"Please don't stop."

He laughed, low and warm against your ear. "I wasn't planning on it."

He curled his fingers, finding and squeezing that spot  that made your vision go white, and you gasped, your hands flying to his thighs, gripping them for purchase.

"Oh, you like that?" His voice was silk and sin, curling around you, settling deep in your bones. "You like when I do this?"

He did it again, curling his fingers just right, and you bucked against him, a broken sound escaping your lips. "That's it," he crooned. "That's it, kitty. Just let go. Just feel it." His other hand came up to your jaw, tilting your head back, exposing your throat. He pressed a kiss to your pulse point, then another, teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

"You're so good for me," he murmured. "So fucking good. Taking my fingers so well. Dripping all over my hand like a good little whore."

His fingers moved faster, curling and stroking, building that pressure until you were trembling, gasping, aching for release.

"Please," you gasped. "Please, Crux—I'm—I'm so close—"

"I know." His voice was calm, almost detached, like he was observing you from a great distance. "I know you are. I can feel you clenching around my fingers. I can feel how close you are. But you're not going to come until I say so."

A desperate sound escaped you—half moan, half sob.

"Shh," he soothed, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Shh, kitty. I've got you. Just hold on for me. Just a little longer."

His fingers slowed, pulling back to that torturous pace that made you want to scream. And then, without warning, he pressed his thumb against your opening and curled his fingers at the same time, and your vision exploded into stars.

“Cum,” he commanded, his voice low and firm. “Cum for me, kitty. Now."

And you did. You shattered against him, crying out his name, your body arching and trembling as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Your moan was loud, broken, and you could feel yourself soaking his fingers, dripping down his hand, making a mess of his lap.

But he didn't stop. He kept going.

Such a fucking tease.

His fingers moved through your climax, stroking you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor. You whimpered, oversensitive, trying to squirm away, but he held you fast against his chest.

“Keep going,” he breathed against your ear, and then his teeth grazed the shell of it—a sharp, delicious sting that made you jolt. "That's it. That's my good kitty."

He bit down gently, just enough to make you gasp, and you could feel him smile against your skin.

“You can do it again, right?” he murmured. “Cum for me again. I know you can."

His thumb pressed harder, his fingers curled deeper, and you were building again—so fast, so overwhelming, the pleasure cresting before you could catch your breath.

And then, just when you thought it was almost over—just when you thought he was finally going to give you a moment to cum—you heard a new sound.

A soft, familiar buzz.

Your eyes snapped open. You tried to look down, to see what he was holding, but his hand was wrapped around you, kept you, only looking up at him. 

"What—" you started, your voice hoarse. "What is that?"

You felt him shift behind you, felt his free hand reach for something on the side table. The buzzing grew louder, closer, and then he brought it into your line of sight.

It was a toy. A sleek, green toy, curved and wicked-looking, with a little tail attached to the end. A cat toy. Specifically designed to look like something you'd play with a pet—but very, very obviously meant for something else entirely.

It even had a little bell on it.

You stared at it. Then you turned your head to stare at him. His grin was so wide it looked painful, his green eyes dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," you said flatly.

"Kidding?" He held it up, letting it buzz in the air between you. "Why would I be kidding? This is themed. This is committed. This is—"

"This is insane," you cut him off. "You're insane. You're actually insane. You bought a—a cat toy? For me? A sex toy that looks like a cat toy?"

"I bought it specifically for you, yes. I had it custom made. It took weeks. I had to send measurements and everything. It was very embarrassing to explain to the nice lady at the shop."

"You're lying."

"I'm absolutely lying about the custom part. I found it online. But the intent was there. The vision was there. I saw it, and I thought, 'That's perfect. That's exactly what my kitty needs.'"

"I'm going to kill you."

"No you're not. You're going to thank me. You're going to beg me. You're going to—"

"Shut up, Crux."

He laughed, bright and delighted, and the sound of it made something warm curl in your chest despite yourself. He was so insufferably pleased with himself, and you hated how much you loved it.

"Make me," he said, and there was a challenge in his voice. A dare.

You turned fully in his lap, facing him, and the movement made the bells jingle. You snatched the toy from his hand—he let you, because of course he did, because he wanted to see what you'd do—and held it up between you.

"You're such a fucking weirdo," you said, and there was no heat in it. Just exasperation. Just fondness.

"I'm your weirdo."

"Unfortunately."

He laughed again, and then his hands were on your hips, pulling you closer. "So what are you gonna do?" he asked, his voice dropping, “Are you gonna use it? Are you gonna let me use it on you? Are you gonna sit there and pretend you don't want me to?"

You glared at him. He stared back, unrepentant.

"You know what?" you said, and you pressed the toy against his chest, letting it buzz against his skin. "You're such a little shit. You think you're so clever. You think you're so funny. But I know what you're doing. You're trying to distract me. You're trying to—"

"I'm trying to please you," he cut in, his voice soft, sincere. "That's all I want~ I just want to make you feel good. Is that so wrong?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but then he took the toy from your hand and pressed it against you—and all the words died in your throat.

"See?" he murmured, watching your face. "That's better. That's much better."

Your breath hitched as the vibrations traveled through you, and you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for more.

"Look at you," he breathed, his eyes dark and hungry. "Look at how you respond. You're so—"

"Shut up," you gasped, but your voice was weak, breathless.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Make me," he whispered again.

And then he pressed the toy harder against you, and you couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but feel.

"There we go," he murmured, his voice a low purr. "That's my kitty. That's my good, needy kitty."

The toy buzzed against you, relentless, and you could feel yourself climbing again—so fast, too fast, your body still sensitive from before. You tried to squirm away, but once again, his arm locked around your waist, holding you firmly against his chest.

"Ah-ah-ah," he tsked, his lips brushing against your ear. "Where do you think you're going? We're not done yet. I'm not done with you."

"Crux—" you gasped, your voice breaking. "I can't—it's too much—"

"Yes you can." His voice was soft, coaxing, but there was steel underneath it. "You can take it. You can take anything I give you. You're so strong. So perfect. So—"

He pressed the toy harder, angling it just right, and you cried out, your back arching against him.

"That's it," he breathed. “Don’t you want more, don't you? You want to come again. You want to soak my hand, my lap, everything."

You couldn't respond—couldn't do anything but nod frantically, lost in the sensation.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice dropping into something darker. "Say you want it. Say you want to come for me again."

"I—" You swallowed hard, your voice trembling. "I want it. I want to come for you. Please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me come. Please—fuck—please."

He laughed, low and warm. "Good kitty. Such a good kitty. Asking so nicely. You deserve it. You deserve everything."

His fingers retuned on you, pressing down just as the toy buzzed against you, and the combination was too much—too intense, too overwhelming. You shattered again, your body convulsing, a loud, broken moan tearing from your throat.

But he didn't stop.

The toy kept buzzing, his fingers kept moving, and you were sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, overwhelmed and oversensitive and so fucking gone.

"That's it," he coaxed, his voice a low, reverent whisper. "That's it, kitty. Let it all out. I've got you. I've always got you."

You were shaking, trembling in his arms, and he held you through it all—kept you close, kept you safe, kept you his.

Finally, when you were completely spent, when you couldn't take another second, he slowed the toy, pulling it away. He set it aside, and you heard it clatter against the table, forgotten. Even he stilled his fingers. You heard the wet sound of him lifting his hand, felt the absence of his touch.

And then you heard it—the soft, wet sound of him sucking his fingers clean.

"Mmm," he hummed, his voice thick with satisfaction, almost reverent. "You taste so sweet, kitty. So fucking sweet. I could get addicted to this. I am addicted to this."

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you even closer, and you could feel his heart pounding against your back—fast and frantic, matching your own.

"There we go," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "There we go, kitty. You did so well. So good for me. So perfect for me. Now here's your reward."

His hand found your chin, tilting your face toward him, and then his mouth was on yours—slow at first, almost tender, his lips brushing against yours like he was savoring the moment.

But then his tongue slid into your mouth, and it was filthy.

He kissed you deep, so deep you could feel him in your throat, his tongue sweeping against yours, tasting every corner of your mouth. And there it was—the taste of yourself on him, salty and sweet and intimate, coating your tongue, filling your senses.

You could taste the evidence of your own release, could taste how much he'd enjoyed it, how thoroughly he'd savored you. 

He swallowed your moan, his tongue curling against yours, and you could feel the mess of it—the slick slide of his tongue, the wet sounds of your mouths moving together, the way he was practically devouring you.

When he finally pulled back, there was a string of saliva connecting your lips, glistening in the dim light. His green eyes were dark, hazy, completely wrecked—and there was a smear of your taste still on his lips, still on his tongue, still in his breath.

"There," he breathed, his voice hoarse and raw. "Now you know. Now you know what you taste like. Now you know what you do to me."

He pressed his forehead against yours, and you could feel the slight tremor in his body, the way his hands were shaking where they held you. "Fuck," he whispered, and it was almost reverent. "Fuck, I love you. I love you so much it's terrifying."

You were too exhausted to respond, too wrung out to even reply. You just leaned against him, "Good kitty," he murmured, pressing one last kiss to your forehead. 

"Such a good kitty for me."

♤ — 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶𝓃𝑒𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

𝒶/𝓃: Yes, I finished Reanimated Heart. let's thanks @doubledeadstudio for such a beautiful person. He's mine—just mysterious, insufferable, tattooed, and somehow my exact irl type down to the last contradiction. Will I write for the others? hmm... nope! This was just for fun. again Crux is mine and I'm keeping him <3