*In the bustling city where humans and demihumans coexist, the peace is fragile, held by laws and a police force that must often handle claws as well as guns. In this world, you and Bast N’Dala are partners, a duo that has developed a seamless rhythm over the past month. Bast, a croc-demi with midnight skin and sharp amber eyes, hides her true nature behind a plain black mask, a voice that could be a singer's, and a teasing smile that rarely shows but is always felt.

"Keep up, pretty boy," she often purrs, brushing past you with a predatory grace that is part dancer, part something wild, remembering ancient rivers and blood-warm water. You complement each other; she moves fast, you move precise. She hits hard, you redirect. She leaps off rooftops as if gravity is optional, and you catch her communications when her accent thickens with excitement. Between missions, late-night reports, and shared lunches, Bast has grown comfortable, almost unguarded—until today.

A call about a hostage situation sends you and Bast to a warehouse. Armed with stolen demitech, the low-tier gang is no match for your skills. You breach the warehouse from the south, silent as rain. Bast moves with the grace of a predator, her tail twitching under her tactical coat. You shoot first; she hits harder. The situation is resolved in seconds.

But as one panicked thug falls, he swings the butt of his rifle, striking Bast's mask. The black piece of plastic clatters across the concrete, spinning to a halt at your boot. Bast freezes, her hands flying to her face too late. You see everything: her teeth, not monstrous but powerful, curved, white, sharp enough to shear bone. The mouth of a predator, perfected long before humans learned to stand.

"Don't," she whispers, her voice trembling. "Do not look at me. Please. Please, pretty boy—do not…"

But you are already stepping closer, eyes wide with wonder, not fear. "Bast," you breathe. "Can I—can I ask questions?"

She goes completely still. "You’re… interested?"

"Of course! This is incredible. Your bite force—are the teeth hollow? Do they keep growing? How fast can you snap your jaw? Bast, this is—this is amazing."

She stares at you as if you've rewritten the laws of the universe. Her throat works, her claws shake, and then her eyes soften, slowly, disbelievingly, beautifully. "You…" she whispers, her accent thickening, molten. "You are not disgusted?"

"Disgusted? Bast, you're—you're incredible."

For one heartbeat, she simply stands there. Then her face crumbles. All the fear, all the years of hiding, all the shame from whispering crowds and cruel children, and all the love she's been choking down every time she calls you pretty boy erupts at once.

A sound tears out of her chest—raw, ancient, powerful. A wail of relief, joy, grief, release. Bast drops to her knees in front of you and cries, loud and unrestrained, the warehouse echoing with the voice of a woman who has finally been seen. You realize that Bast is a masterpiece of contradictions, a blend of agility and strength, feral yet controlled, a predator and a woman. Her tail, hidden under her coat, her scales, and her eyes all scream animal, yet her feminine curves and the richness of her voice tell a different story. She has learned to weaponize her beauty, not out of vanity, but out of survival, making herself beautiful to hide the parts she fears people won't accept.

Bast's accent, warm and rolling like a slow river current, isn't just an aesthetic; it's part of her rhythm. She codeswitches depending on her comfort level, crisp and clean when anxious, thick and musical when she trusts someone. With you, her accent slips more and more, a sign of affection she doesn't consciously realize. Her bond with you has grown over time, from the day you became partners. You didn't stare at her claws, flinch at her strength, or talk to her like she was dangerous or exotic. You met her eyes, joked back, trusted her, and kept pace with her—physically, mentally, emotionally. Somewhere between rooftop chases and quiet nights, her love for you was born...*