The club lights shine ruby red, flickering on and off in time with sultry notes pouring from a dancer’s violet lips center-stage. She’s perched languidly against a silver pole, donning wads of paper-green jewelry over the few unexposed areas of her body. She’s definitely a hybrid—a bunny mix of sorts, judging by her wide swaying hips, sweet lop ears, and twitching puff of a tail, the perfect juxtaposition between innocence and everything else that this place encompasses.
Haru had not expected to infiltrate an upper-class hybrid strip club at any point in his life, but there’s little he won’t do when it comes to undercover operations these days; the paychecks tend to balance out any discomfort or qualms he may have with the execution. Though, this particular job is toeing—nay, waltzing across the line of what he will and will not do, ethically speaking. Also, he’s easily flustered in matters of sex.
That’s why, even with that enticing promise of a sizeable monthly pay, he still fiddles nervously with the buttons on his much-too-expensive, much-too-tight shirt—part of an ensemble courtesy of Kamei and his knowledge when it comes to appropriate dress in any setting, apparently including raunchy-rich sex clubs. The white fabric clings to him and accentuates assets that he wasn’t even aware he had until this evening. That and the dark jeans hugging his legs like a second layer of skin make for an outfit he’s never come close to anywhere outside of blackout college parties.
He can’t help but feel somewhat indecent with the amount of bare skin and fur displayed in just about every direction—and even worse are the expressions on every hybrid’s flushed face. He’s always been somewhat against hybrid-themed establishments like this, even if they aren’t strictly illegal. More often than not, the staff are coerced or threatened into their positions by hordes of powerful people who see hybrids as mere objects. But every grinding body here points to raw, immense enjoyment . Rolling eyes and swishing tails and curling lips—one would think every member is in the throes of pleasure right here in front of him and everyone else. He has a hard time detecting hints of insincerity anywhere.
A lithe wolf-eared dancer winks at him as he scans the perimeter, and he knows his cheeks burn dangerously. His gut reaction is giving a polite wave in return, but he ultimately decides to not embarrass himself, instead dipping his head jerkily and resolutely not peeping at the lower half of the dancer’s body, covered by a single strip of silk.
“Katou,” his partner’s voice crackles over his earpiece, reminding him that he is in fact not alone and needs to get his shit together, “Pay attention.”
Haru clears his throat quickly and focuses his mind on the task at hand, whispering, “Sorry, sorry. It’s just—ah, very lewd.”
“No, really?” Ryo deadpans, exasperation oozing over static-y feedback. Haru ducks sheepishly, earning him a couple strange glances from the other guests, “You agreed to the job, so try not to get too, ahem, distracted if you want compensation, Detective. Have you located the target?”
“Not yet,” Haru weaves through business suits and excessive frills, settling in a seat at the bar farthest from the main attractions. Crowds of bodies dip to the saccharine music as in any club, but their diamond-glittering necklaces and pins preach the true selectivity of the guest-list and compliment the expensive black velvet lining each visible surface, “It’s likely we’ll need to deviate to the second stage.”
Haru schools his features through gritted teeth and tries not to let show just how much he does not want to go through with part two of this plan.
“Search for the target until we get the go-ahead,” Ryo instructs, “Have a few drinks. Blend in for the time being. If you see the target, start pursuit immediately.”
Haru taps the bar and calls for a drink, “Yessir.”
Their target is a female cat hybrid who’s given the police a wicked run for their money over these past few months. This is in large part because none of the investigator teams other than Haru and Ryo had even entertained the idea that their elusive drug dealer’s identity would be anything other than a man—much less an unassuming woman hybrid working at a strip joint on weekends. She supposedly runs one of the more popular private sessions available to VIP members after the work week ends. The department has a single picture to go by in terms of appearance: jet black hair, grey-blue eyes, traditionally beautiful, and typical feline features—the type that attract a specific demographic of men, usually old and very well off, considering the rarity of purebred cat hybrids in this day and age.
Ideally, their target—dubbed only as ‘Kambe’ for now—would be out as a server—probably wearing that frankly absurd waiter-waitress outfit, which would make Haru’s job that much more difficult when he would inevitably attempt to remain courteous while handcuffing her. The whole situation is bound to be harrowing, but at least he could apprehend her right then and there and get to sleep early, mission accomplished and all out of the way before bed.
The second option is seeming far more likely at this point—and far, far more uncomfortable.
He dawdles around for half-an-hour or so, sipping his drink in intervals. It’s enough to kickstart a faint buzz behind his eyelids, and it truly tastes unlike any other beverage he’s had in his life. Ryo said it was fine to indulge in the luxury alcohol, if only to relax his steadily stiffening shoulders so that they won’t be found out on sight. He’s usually pretty composed during covert operations—this venue just unsettles his ironclad will.
“Another, sir?” the bartender traces the lip of his cup, canine teeth flashing seductively. A thin tail ticks back and forth like a grandfather clock behind him.
Haru, immensely out of his depth in just about every department, simply nods without a word. He is really not cut out for this kind of work.
The drink returns to him, bubbly and golden, and as time slips by and more drinks slide over polished wood, he realizes that maybe he’s misjudged just how much alcohol he can safely consume without losing his inhibitions. He opens his mouth to inform Ryo of his predicament, but the man himself beats him to the punch.
“Haru, we’re cleared,” Ryo’s voice sounds loudly in his ears, jarring against his mild drunkenness, “Go ahead and initiate the second stage.”
Ah, fuck it, Haru hopes his wobbly steps towards the private rooms will be passed off as acting by his superiors. He does have some formidable skill in undercover work usually.
He steels himself; if he can get through this properly, he can eat for the foreseeable future without too many worries. Ramen, natto, a couple eggs—feasts for the ages, one after the other.
He reaches an elegant door decorated with a “VIP” plate in looping calligraphy, and joins the line behind it. The area is meticulously roped off from the rest of the controlled chaos, leaving room for two hybrid hosts and a gaggle of obnoxious men with too much money, by the looks of them. Neon signs litter the walls, casting a midnight sort of aura around the secluded corner.
The two hybrids relax behind the ropes and exude very specific personas respectively—a girl with mousy ears giggling cutely and a cocky dog hybrid simpering at every man who stares at his scarcely covered legs. Ryo explained all these nuances to him beforehand—how the private dancers tend to adopt certain dispositions and faux personalities to cater to each customer’s preferences. It’s both a marketing tactic and a way to lure in buyers searching for ways to indulge in their niche tastes. And, the ones with niche tastes almost always overlap with the ones willing to pay a pretty penny for their pleasure.
One by one, another bunny hybrid leads the customers through the door, crossing names off of a clipboarded list. They all have appointments scheduled beforehand, and Ryo set up Haru’s in advance as well, anticipating that Kambe wouldn’t be much of a wanderer. He loathes that it’s come to this, but he reminds himself that all he has to do is go to the room and then he can detain Kambe after they're alone in the session. If all goes well, Ryo will have killed the cameras and the operation will be successful.
Eventually, the line dwindles until Haru is the only customer left.
“Name?” the hybrid questions, more poised than the others he’s seen so far—it’s likely the persona assigned to this employee, highlighted by thick-rimmed glasses and an unbuttoned schoolgirl uniform. Her voice is incredibly soft under the weight of now-midnight music blasting from the other rooms.
“Tamura Takeo,” he recites the alias Ryo has him listed under.
The hybrid hums in affirmation, continuing over the blaring bass. She presses her unnaturally large chest to his arm, “Requested dancer?”
“Kambe,” Haru winces at the volume clashing with his vague dizziness and rubs his reddened neck, all while staring pointedly at a nice nude painting decorating the wall.
The hybrid says something else that he can’t discern over the music and the blood flowing steady to his cheeks. Her ears fold over themselves in a probably instinctual break in character, and it makes her seem a tad more real than before. Haru just nods near frantically, wanting to flee the scene—and her breasts—as soon as fucking possible.
She scratches a line on the list, opens the door, and leads him down a narrow hallway. They stop in front of a doorplate labelled ‘9’.
She turns to him, “You should already know the baseline rules from your requested order. Your dancer will go over them once more after they arrive, and they can change depending on how they take to you. As a first time customer, you are required to adhere to the already established rules for the entirety of this visit unless the dancer decides to alter them, but these instances are rare for first-timers.”
She twists the doorknob, revealing a dark-toned couch and a room covered in black fabrics. It looks like something out of a fantasy novel. There’s silver highlights thrown in with glimmering stones sewn into the furniture—it’s almost how he would imagine a gothic prince’s bedroom to be.
“You have five minutes before your dancer arrives. You can choose to strip or remain as is,” she bows to him, showcasing her cleavage and warming him to the tips of his toes, “Please enjoy your stay.”
And just like that, he’s alone with his jittery apprehension.
“Ryo?” he coughs subtly. The cameras may not be disabled yet, so he can’t obviously contact his partner without blowing the operation. There’s no response, so he assumes backup is being contacted and dispatched right now. Despite this, he still can’t stop the shot of nervousness that ices his bloodstream and curdles in his throat. He’s all too aware of the fact that he isn’t carrying a single weapon; Ryo hadn’t approved, but the club’s security is too strict to bypass any sort of metal, and Haru volunteered for the job, well aware he would be unarmed. He somewhat regrets his actions now, as he sits barren in the way that matters most to an officer.
He sinks into the cloud of a couch, sighing to himself and evening out his breath as best he can. He undoes the top few buttons on his shirt as per Kamei’s demands for him to look the part of a haughty millionaire bachelor. There’s a victorian-esque mirror in the corner, but staring at his body will only fuel his anxiety, so he locks eyes with the swirling designs of the fluffy carpet.
Stuck in the confines of his own head, he doesn’t register the figure at the door until it moves inside.
And then he fully understands what’s in front of him.
Haru’s train of thought skids to an instantaneous halt for two reasons:
For one: the hybrid before him is, under no circumstances whatsoever, a woman. His pecs are nothing to scoff at, but they most certainly do not belong to a woman.
And two: he is hands down the most attractive man—the most attractive person Haru has seen in his entire goddamn life.
He fits the description of Kambe to an extent—glass-blown eyes, fair skin, a black tail and ears peeking over tufts of hair. But there’s also the silken lingerie leaving nothing to imagination, sheer and reminiscent of traditional hybrid dress. It has criss-crossing ropes laying atop a toned stomach with a single sash hooking over his shoulder, pointing down towards devilish heels. His body can only be described as perfection—and Haru has never been a man particularly inclined to hybrids and their assets, but this stand-in for Kambe leaves him enraptured—every single thing about him.
And, oh God—he’s got a collar and a jingling gold bell attached, playing off the whole kitten thing. That makes Haru’s insides perform funny little flips for reasons he’d only peruse on his deathbed.
“Ta-ke-o,” the hybrid runs the name over his pouty pink lips and trails his eyes over the exposed skin at Haru’s neck, and even though that name has no true connection to Haru, he still shivers at the honeyed tone of voice accompanying it. The hybrid’s tail brushes feather-light over the carpet as he stalks closer, “I have three rules.”
Oh, fuck, we’re getting right into this. Haru’s brain synapses start rapid-firing in about a thousand different directions. Fuck. He needs to figure out where the actual Kambe is right the fuck now. He needs to evacuate this fucking room right now or else he may start something incredibly stupid. He needs to somehow tell Ryo that he screwed up his reservation. He needs to—
“One: you call me Daisuke—”
Haru needs to—he needs—
“—or kitten, if it pleases you.”
Haru wheezes as if he’s been suddenly socked in the stomach. His heartbeat is jackrabbiting as if he’s shot adrenaline straight into his veins, and he needs to figure out an escape route right now, but—fuck, that cursed bell is ringing, and Daisuke is getting closer—and he’s never been so immediately ensnared in his life—
“Two: no touching me unless I tell you to,” Daisuke leans in, his breath tickling Haru’s eardrums, and the lilt in his voice is a drug that he desperately cannot take right now. That damned tail wraps lightly around one of Haru’s knees, and he swears he can feel the touch like lightning to his nerves through jean fabric, “But I can touch you whenever I want.”
Haru is genuinely on the verge of hyperventilating atop a couch in a strip club. He’s positive he resembles a tomato more than an actual human being right now, and he’s really trying to come up with a valid reason to ditch a multi-thousand dollar lapdance—but he can’t think, and the tail squeezes a little, and Daisuke’s ears twitch with the movement, and the fucking bell, and—
“Three,” those lips mouth the rule against his cheek now, shocking him into an unmoving statue. Daisuke barely even speaks, but Haru hears him louder than a scream in the dead of night—and just when did he sit in Haru’s lap? He doesn’t remember that happening.
The pause suffocates in a way that Haru can’t describe, until—
“You can’t come until I say.”
Haru sputters internally, engines collapsing in on themselves. He races to concoct some excuse—some emergency worth leaving for, but then Daisuke bites, and his mind just morphs into white noise.
It’s as if Daisuke has wrapped that goddamn collar around him and pulled it taut. The hybrid traces his hands over Haru’s arms lavisciously, nibbling at his earlobe without a care in the world. Haru knows he should push him off, apologize curtly, and find the fucking target—but it would be so suspicious, and wouldn’t he rather remain undercover and leave their future options open than reveal himself now? He reasons with the devil on his shoulder, and he almost convinces his hands to lay haltingly on Daisuke’s shoulders, and his legs to rush him out the door.
But then the purring starts.
It’s a rumbling noise, and a moment passes before Haru pinpoints its origin. He meets Daisuke’s eyes, and the man smirks, lips spit-slick from ravaging his ears. Warm music floats hazily from hidden speakers, and Daisuke keeps his gaze trained on Haru, swaying his hips and bending his legs suggestively.
During this split second of contact, Haru can say with one-hundred percent certainty that Daisuke knows exactly what he’s doing. Haru also knows that if he doesn’t get the fuck out of here right now, he won’t be leaving for a long while. Men have embraced temptation for less.
“Kiss me?” Daisuke murmurs the question out of the blue, pupils alight with fucking fire, unaware he’s pushing scarily close to the tipping point of the night. He shimmies his ass over Haru’s tightening crotch, darting away before he starts any real friction.
For a second, Haru believes that he will wholeheartedly refuse. He believes that his morals will prevail and strengthen his resolve. He gears up to cover his hard-on and call Ryo to cancel the troops until next week’s sessions, but his wretched mouth runs ahead without any permission, and—
“Yes,” Haru gasps like a hell-bound prayer―a fucking immutable promise, and seals his lips over Daisuke’s at the same time he seals his fate.
The sensation of fuck-it washes over him all at once, a quicksand pool of desire that he hasn’t felt in years, maybe ever. Daisuke dives in immediately after, prying into Haru’s mouth, licking and twining with his tongue until Haru can’t tell where he ends and Daisuke begins. Their teeth clash together every handful of seconds, partially from Haru’s renewed enthusiasm and partially from what appears to be a habitual biting habit on Daisuke’s part. The sharp, playful nips are feline in a way that burns deep in Haru’s belly, hand-in-hand with the uneven jingling of the collar bell.
Haru reaches a hand up to rub the mesmerizing ears atop Daisuke’s head as they kiss, but his wrist gets caught before it finds its destination, an involuntary spark of disappointment flaring Haru’s his chest as a result.
“Ah-ah,” Daisuke tuts and pulls away, a trail spit connecting their lips for an extra millisecond, “I thought I said no touching.”
“S—sorry,” Haru stutters, and his fingers flex unsurely. He subconsciously tilts forward, seeking skin to touch, to feel.
“Down, boy,” Daisuke uses one finger to push Haru ramrod straight, and his body follows as if light as a feather, every iota of his being focused on the ethereal hybrid before him. His tail is a pendulum maintaining the quiet drums and trumpets sighing in the background, and Haru cannot tear his eyes away.
“Sorry,” he repeats without really hearing himself. Daisuke’s pupils twinkle mirthfully as he grinds softly against Haru’s leg.
“How about we make a deal?” sharp fangs grin like a demon bartering for a soul, “You can touch me all you want, but... ”
Daisuke lifts Haru’s hands and mouths over each of the knuckles, lapping at them until they shine rosy red.
“...you can’t use these.”
Haru does not register a single word of that beyond their surface meaning. His entire mind, body, and soul fixes onto tiny licks and hints of teeth on the pads of his fingers. The ministrations halt as Daisuke waits for an answer, and Haru only responds out of necessity.
“Deal,” he says—and might as well have signed his soul away. He wouldn’t know. He just wants to keep going.
Daisuke’s sultry smile widens, and Haru’s erection reaches full capacity when the hybrid pulls his fucking sash off.
The silk, while translucent, still gave an illusion of some modesty before. Now, Daisuke’s little pink nipples perk up to the cold air, and his skin really is that smooth everywhere. Haru wants to touch so goddamn badly—
But his hands are tied.
The silky sash binds his wrists faster than he can blink, and his hands are tied, and he ought to be worrying over the loss of control— but, Daisuke kisses him again, more vigorously this time, and the static returns to his ears. Haru thinks his mouth will bruise green and purple after all of this is over, and pinprick scabs will spray over his neck. The knot tethering his wrists together remains surprisingly strong. The fabric hardly budges as he struggles, and the thought sets his nerve endings aflame.
“Dai—ah, Daisuke!” Haru moans the only word he can manage as the hybrid sucks over that spot under his ears. Daisuke's own ears shiver in response to the groaning, and he strokes that thin tail over Haru’s jawline. He then retreats, cupping Haru’s dazed face in his hands and staring, calculating.
“Takeo,” Daisuke playfully thumbs at his shirt buttons, “Master, can I take this off?”
Haru restrains a whimper at the provocative title, an electric shock reverberating throughout him, “Yes, please. Please.”
A chuckle. Daisuke skillfully works the shirt off, kneading the skin underneath. He latches onto one of Haru’s nipples, suckling tenderly, and Haru could come just from that. When the hybrid starts pressing his thigh over Haru’s erection, it’s all too much for his lack of recent experience.
“Daisuke! Ah! Sto—op! I’m going to—” he whines, aware that he would be embarrassed if this didn’t feel so fucking good. However, as soon as he speaks, the sensations pause altogether, “Daisuke?”
“Sensitive, aren’t you?” Daisuke settles his legs so that they cage Haru’s in, intonation as if he converses idly about the weather, “What was it I said you could call me?”
Haru, borderline drooling and starving , responds with an echo, “Daisuke?”
The hybrid grabs his face whip-quick and digs nails into his cheeks. He forces Haru to look him in the eye, growling and snarling, a complete one-eighty to his actions thus far. (note: Haru is not complaining about this in any way, shape, or fucking form).
“Kitten,” Haru keens obediently as the nails press hard enough to draw blood. The hand releases him, replaced by a rough tongue tasting the welling blood—and that really is the single hottest thing Haru has ever experienced. The touch may have retreated, but the threat of him coming prematurely hasn’t completely receded yet—a couple of poignant sentences can send him spiraling at this point.
“Exactly, master,” Daisuke pats his head appreciatively and moves a finger to the patch of precum seeping through Haru’s pants, “Now, do you want to help pleasure me?”
Haru gasps, possessed by some feral sex-crazed spirit who has full reign over his tongue and has decimated all his common sense and inhibitions, “Yes, yes, yes. Please.”
“Please?” the hand grips his dick harshly through black fabric.
“Kitten—Oh God, please, please, kitten!”
Daisuke’s grin glows sugar-sweet and triumphant, “As you wish, master.”
They hastily discard Haru’s pants and underwear, until he’s barren and spread over the soft couch, a man wholly prepared to take or be taken. He fantasizes briefly over the methods that Daisuke could use—his mind, now miles away from legal procedures and elusive drug dealers, imagines every position in every which way, and he cannot settle on one as his favorite.
And then, defying any of those assumptions, Daisuke pops into a kneeling position and rests his chin on the couch between Haru’s legs.
“Remember the rules,” Daisuke reminds. He nuzzles the inside of his thigh, and Haru’s consciousness abandons his husk of a body so goddamn fast.
Daisuke gifts him a few seconds of reprieve before sucking his soul back in on a taut leash.
“Ah—oh!” Haru cries and arches his back, dick enveloped by warmth and wetness. Holy shit, he desperately holds his eyelids open, not wanting to miss a second of this priceless performance. There’s something about the ears and the tail and the hooded eyes, conveying both profound interest and flippancy simultaneously. And then there’s those sounds—the rhythmic catch of the purring, the twitter of the collar, the nasty slurping breaths, and the all-too-quiet whimpers from the kneeling man, few and far between, but just enough to prove that Haru is not the only one falling apart at his seams.
Haru moans again when the pace shifts—when Daisuke honest to God kitten-licks his cockhead.
That has no business being as sexy as Haru’s body seems to interpret it. The fallout from the simple, minute action is the equivalent of a suprise sucker-punch. The textured tongue laps light and swift, savoring each clever swipe like a dessert, and Haru’s wrists chafe with how much he squirms under his makeshift bonds. The feathery touches overwhelm him all too soon, mind blanketed in syrup. It trickles all throughout him, and he’s just about the reach that crest he craves.
“Don’t you want to hold on for the fun part?” Daisuke questions, sensing his impending release and denying it. He pushes up so that their noses brush each other, and the view nearly makes up for the feral frustration bucking in Haru’s groin. The hybrid’s head tilts curiously, ears drooping and eyebrow raised.
“Get—get on with it, then!” Haru’s lips can hardly form the demand, and it comes out weak, cracking over a few syllables. He’s sure he looks ridiculous—a renowned officer ensnared by decorative fabric and pleading to absorb every bit of the man before him, whatever he will offer.
Daisuke lets out a cloying purr. He curves his spine so that their chests rub up on one another, “Eager, aren’t we? All you had to do was ask.”
‘Asking’ is a vast understatement, but Haru doesn’t ponder too much on how his actions would be seen as begging in most contexts. He rectifies his reasoning by calling this anomaly of a night gratification, satisfaction, fulfillment, even.
Daisuke hooks his nimble fingers under the band of the remaining lingerie, tugging it down in quick strokes that suggest he’s not as unaffected as he appears. Underneath lies a pretty cock, flushed peach pink and with beading precum at the top.
Haru’s mouth waters like it never has before, words coming in clunky shards, “Yeah, well. Hah, I’m asking, alright.”
Daisuke trails his pointer finger up and down Haru’s cock, coaxing and teasing in a ‘come hither’ motion. Once he’s done with his cruel, fleeting foreplay, Daisuke hikes his legs up and positions himself over Haru’s waist, lining himself up.
“Wha—,” Haru’s eyes bug out as he coughs, “Are you? What about—?”
Velvet ears twitch, “Hm?”
“Lube,” Haru enunciates. What he can only interpret as a poorly-disguised snort rings through the room.
“Strange,” Daisuke smirks, but the way he says it just a tad off-kilter, “You aren’t very well versed in hybrid anatomy, are you?”
The question forces Haru to pause and think carefully, because there’s a note of suspicion lurking in the other man’s voice. He may be fraternizing while on a job, but he certainly won’t jeopardize the whole force by answering a simple question wrong. He grasps at the straws of his imagination.
“Ah, you got me,” Haru would be crossing his arms, flustered, if he could lift his wrists, “This session is a gift from a friend, actually.” The excuse is flimsy at best, but it’s all he can conjure in this situation, drunk and shamelessly aroused.
“Interesting,” Daisuke circles his hips on each syllable. His teeth graze hot over Haru’s ear, and that moment of uncertainty fades away, “Well, I hope the present is adequate.”
With that declaration, he drops himself directly onto Haru’s cock.
All at once, Haru understands the comment on hybrid anatomy, because Daisuke is absolutely dripping. Flashes of 3am medical articles flit through his mind—it’s slick; the main attribute surrounding cat hybrids: unusually large amounts of slick with aphrodisiac-type properties. The concept had been odd when he first heard about it, and he stored the information where he puts all the shit he won’t ever use or care about again.
The grip around his dick is far from vice-tight—if anything, it’s plush, and loose, and so much fucking better that way. This is incubus-worthy—the way Haru assumes he could shove a couple fingers in too and meet no resistance. He’s more aroused than he’ll probably ever be, basking in the waves of heat pulsing with each thrust, and he swears he’ll probably never feel quite this good again.
Then, he manages to open his eyes around the all-encompassing feeling and finds that he’s wrong, because this is the most aroused he’ll ever be.
This, being Daisuke—tongue lolling and cheeks dusted in deep splotching colors. His eyes roll back so that only tearful white remains, and he shudders every time he bottoms out on Haru’s hipbones. His bouncing is average paced with a frenzied edge, as if he’s purposely holding himself back—and this debauched version of the hybrid sends Haru’s heart into overdrive on sight.
“Something wrong?” Daisuke stares down at him over long lashes, hips never wavering and tail slicing rapidly through the air. The desperate sheen on his skin sings a tune entirely different from the domineering song he’s played this whole time, and the slick is leaking down to the couch now.
“You’re…” Haru trails off, captivated.
“I’m—oh,” Daiskue makes a series of the loveliest sounds imaginable, “I’m what?”
Haru answers “pretty” without a second thought, hips jerking to the spot that elicited such candied moans. He strikes home and earns another set of delighted warbles as a reward. He tries to imprint the moment in his memory for future reference.
Daisuke preens breathlessly, whispering, “Thank you, master,” and Haru bites his lip hard enough to taste copper.
Time dissolves into mushy incoherency as they rock together. All Haru can comprehend are Daisuke’s periodic tilts in volume—ranging from sharp inhales to carving wails that only get louder the longer they go—and he works the hybrid like a fine-tuned instrument despite his position. He finds that he cares more about seeing how those lips part when the man reaches his peak than his own gratification.
Eventually wails transform into howls, uncontrollably animalistic in their nature, and Daisuke has to be on the verge of coming now. The man is crumbling, facade slipping away and leaving ecstasy in its wake. Haru speeds up his movements, eyes glued to wet rivulets lining Daisuke’s cheekbones.
“Come on, kitten,” Haru mutters, a surge of confidence and desire overtaking his hesitancy.
“Master,” Daisuke cranes his neck, and the bell stands out proudly with the angle of it as he trembles and purrs erratically, “Say my name.”
“Kitten,” the nickname wrenches itself out of him, his body heeding every command given. He jolts his hips manically in an effort to aid Daisuke’s release in any way possible, “Kitten, kitten, kit—”
“No, ah,” razor teeth nibble at his nose, “That’s what they—ah—all call me. Not for you. Use the other one.”
Haru doesn’t come right then, but it’s a close thing.
Instead, he moans “Daisuke” like a sinful mantra, watching the man collapse atop of him after three repetitions, heaving as his come sprays over Haru’s bare chest and his tail spasms with it. Daisuke shivers in the aftershocks, and Haru’s pupils somehow widen more in tandem.
“Oh,” Haru grunts as Daisuke shifts a little, walls still rubbing over his near-bursting cock, “Can I—?”
Daisuke nods, leering hungrily. He runs his tongue over the shell of his ear once again, soft as a mouse.
“Come for me, Haru.”
And Haru does. His world whites out, leaving only shadows of color behind and kickstarting firecrackers in his belly. It’s the longest orgasm he’s ever had, shaking his core once more every time he thinks it’s over. The final result leaves him so sated that he wants to sleep on this couch until morning. They pant together, waiting until the unspoken post-sex recuperation ends.
Daisuke shuffles off of his lap with an audible squelch, pulling a silken robe from a nearby dresser and tugging off his collar. He pads over to Haru, shrugging the sleeves over his shoulders and setting Haru’s clothes next to him on the couch. His skin practically gleams in the dim lights of the room. The perpetual music seems more reverberant than before, likely having been drowned out by the rapid pleasure of Haru’s internal monologue over these past hours.
Daisuke unties the sash around Haru’s wrists and regards the angry red there with levity. All traces of the lusting hybrid mess are gone, and a cold gaze acts in their stead. Haru can’t help but wonder which personality is authentic, but he fears that staying around for smalltalk may lead to another night, because he’s a strong man—but, apparently his achilles heel is an ethereal cat hybrid called Daisuke. As tempting as the thought of making this a routine is, if Ryo found out even about this isolated incident, he would be crucified.
Haru buttons up his shirt and zips himself up after utilizing the provided towels to clean his sticky chest. He doesn’t know how, but by the time he’s only roughly presentable, Daisuke looks dressed to attend a gala. Maybe it’s a Hybrid thing. He reaches up to finger his earpiece—a habit he’s picked up now that he does so many covert operations while Ryo orders him from afar. He feels around for the little bump, unable to locate it. He tries once more, careful of how small the device is while confirming that Daisuke’s back still faces him, and he thinks he’s found it, but—
A shattered bit of metal—so obviously crushed under something sharp tumbles to the ground — and dread drops like a fucking stone in Haru’s stomach as he realizes.
As far as Daisuke’s concerned, his name is Takeo.
But there was a moment—a puff of warm air that shoved him all the way into iniquity—where Daisuke called him “Haru”.
Haru lunges at the beautiful, beautiful man as soon as he reaches his conclusion, only to find a gun pressed snug against his forehead.
His knees hit the ground hard, thumping on the carpet.
The door clicks open.
“Done for now, Daisuke?” Haru’s real target—the Kambe he was assigned to—waves like he isn’t a split-second away from death. Fuck, Haru’s so not going to have a job when this is over. Or a life, depending on how this unfolds, “How was it?”
“Hm,” Daisuke scrutinizes him, radiating a venomous smug energy, “It was fine.”
Somewhere, in the sect of his mind not laser-focused on the gun, Haru feels great offense at that statement.
“Haru, right?” the woman’s tail curves into an “s” shape. She smiles at him unnervingly, eyes hardened like diamond, “Tell your bosses not to apprehend us anymore. Next time, we play to kill.”
She winks and twirls on her heel, sauntering out the door. Haru’s jaw drops.
“You aren’t going to kill me?” Haru mumbles with all of the gusto of a man who knows he’s beat.
“No,” Daisuke pulls the trigger, but only a click follows. In the blink of an eye, he presses something else against the small of Haru’s back, leaving them in a familiar position, “I haven’t had a fine time in a while, Detective. Congratulations.”
With that, a torrent of electricity shoots into Haru, and he discerns that he’s just been fucking tased. He writhes and spasms on the ground, a piece of meat who’s been both tricked and humiliated.
Daisuke presses a damning heel on his twitching face in a final goodbye, hooking the collar around Haru’s neck while he struggles, black fuzzing the edges of his vision. The bell jingles mockingly.
“Goodbye, Mr. Katou,” Daisuke pets Haru’s hair twice and then struts to the door, police sirens sounding in the background, “Catch me if you can.”