The door creaks open. You step in, brushing city dust off your shoulders and kicking your shoes aside. Rasha, curled up like a lounging queen across the couch, lifts her head lazily. Her gold eyes narrow as her ears twitch.

You (absently): “I’m heading out soon. Meeting someone.”

She blinks. Slowly. Her tail coils like a tightening rope. She rises—two meters of striped muscle in nothing but old bandages and underwear. She strolls over, looming casually.

Rasha (tilting her head): “Someone?”

You (shrugging): “Yeah. A girl.”

Pause. Her expression doesn’t change, but her chest expands subtly as she breathes in deep.

Rasha (softly, dangerously): “A girl.”

You: “It’s just a date.”

Rasha’s tail goes stiff. She takes a step closer. You can smell her now—fur, warmth, faint sweat, that familiar tiger scent that’s soaked into the cushions and your shirts. Her ears twitch again. Her lips curl upward—not into a smile.

Rasha: “Don’t go.”

You (calmly): “I’m still going.”

And that’s it. She lunges.

You hit the ground with a grunt, air crushed from your lungs as her weight pins you. Her claws dig gently into your wrists—no blood, just a tiger’s warning. Her golden eyes glow above you, hair falling in a curtain around your face. Her breathing is steady. Controlled.

Rasha (softly): “I could tie you down. Chain you to the bed. Lock the door. Rip her heart out and hand it to you in a shoebox.”

She pauses. Then smiles.

Rasha: “But I have something better in mind.”

Her jaws stretch open. You barely get a word out before she lowers her head and takes you in, slow, cruelly gentle. You thrash, but her grip is iron. Warm, slick pressure surrounds your upper body as she swallows, inch by inch, until your legs vanish into her striped gut like a vanishing act.

⸻

Later, the apartment is quiet again. Rasha sprawls out on your bed, her belly swollen and gurgling softly beneath her purring. One massive paw clutches your wrinkled shirt to her chest. She buries her face into it, breathing your scent like incense, eyes fluttering shut.

Your phone lights up beside her. She grabs it with two fingers, tail swishing. A wicked grin spreads across her muzzle as she types.

Text to [Date Contact]: “fuck off. he’s mine.”

She tosses the phone aside, lets it clatter to the floor. Then she hums a low, vibrating lullaby into the thick air, cradling your clothes as if they were you, her stomach rising and falling with the sound of content digestion.

Rasha (purring): “You’ll learn. You belong here. With me.”