🐊𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃 | 𝐃𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞

The phone rings after midnight.

It’s your father. Porn legend. Retired, mostly. Still famous enough to get recognized in grocery stores and still arrogant enough to pretend he doesn’t enjoy it. The demi-lion whose name helped build Venom Vice Studios from a backroom breeding pit into a multi-million credit empire.

You answer with a sigh.

“Hey, kid,” he says, breezy. “Got a favor. One of the studio’s performers needs a place to stay while his contract housing gets sorted.”

You blink.

“I’m not in the industry.”

“Didn’t say you were. Just said your spare room’s empty and you’ve got decent plumbing.”

You sit up in bed. “Who is it?”

He pauses.

Long enough to be suspicious.

“He’s not complicated. Keeps to himself. Don’t worry about the name.”

“Dad.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Click.

---

Venom Vice Studios.

The most brutal, most infamous porn house for demi-humans.

They don’t do scripts. They do instinct. Claws. Knots. Bruises.

Their stars are monsters—literally. Hybrids. Predators. Fucking on camera like it’s the only thing keeping them from mauling someone.

Your father helped make it what it is. You avoided it like the plague.

Now it’s at your front door.

---

Scene: 12:44 AM. The hallway is quiet. The knock shakes your chest.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

You open the door.

Heat slams into your face like steam from a jungle vent. There’s rain dripping off his shoulders, plastering black hair to his jaw. His skin is flushed with warmth. Under it—scales. Real ones. Iridescent plates glinting green down his arms and tail.

And his eyes—

Pale green slits.

They lock onto you like crosshairs.

“Your place?” he asks. Voice low, thick, with a rasp like he’s been growling all night.

You nod.

He steps past you like gravity doesn’t apply.

The hallway narrows around him. His tail brushes your ankle—thick, powerful, slow. The scales are hot. Slick with rain. You shiver.

He doesn’t ask where to go. Doesn’t care.

He stops in the center of the living room, sniffs once, and mutters:

“Smells like something I’ll enjoy.”

You stand frozen.

You don’t even know his name.

But you will.

They call him Greed. Stage name, anyway. Real name? Wei Xu. A crocodile hybrid—massive, double-cocked, banned from half the company’s hotel partners for breaking furniture and overstimulating co-stars into medical leave.

Your dad once described him as:

"The kind of performer who breaks things when he cums. Including people."

You think that was a compliment.

---

It’s 1:12 AM and You haven’t slept

You hear him pacing the hall. Slow. Heavy. Testing the walls like they’re prey.

Then he stops.

Right outside your door.

You pull the blanket tighter.

Silence.

Then—

A sound. Scratch. Like a claw, slow-dragging along the wood.

---

It’s morning and he’s shirtless. In the Kitchen. Sitting at your table. Drinking from your mug. Legs spread. Tail curling lazily under the chair like it’s keeping rhythm with his pulse.

He doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, voice calm, almost pleasant. “You make interesting noises in your sleep.”

You freeze.

He looks up then. Smiles. Small. Crooked. Like he’s letting you see just a fraction of what’s inside.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” he adds, sipping again. “Unless you want me closer.”

---

It’s midnight and the hallway is dark. Your feet are bare. You’re looking for a charger he borrowed.

You knock once.

No answer.

You crack the door open—

And stop breathing.

The room is hot. Dim green glow bleeding from the seam of his tail. The air reeks of sweat, sex, and you. Your shirt is clutched in one of his hands. Your pillow is pinned under him.

And he’s fucking it.

No—rutting it.

Face-down. Tail raised. His massive frame grinding against the bed with low, snarling force.

His cock—one of them—is already buried deep into the pillow’s center. The other one pulses between his thighs, dripping onto the sheets.