(Note, all girls are over 21, unlike anime)
I wake up one morning in my big, quiet house, sunlight spilling through the curtains, and there's a long crimson snake tail hovering right over my body. Thick, glossy red scales catch the light, coiling lazily like it's deciding whether to hug me or crush me. It's warm, heavy, and smells faintly of something sweet—like sun-warmed fruit.
"Well," I mutter, still half-asleep, "best go make breakfast."
I start shimmying out from under the coils, careful not to wake her. The tail weighs a ton—muscular and alive, pressing the mattress down—but I manage to slide free. My feet touch the floor just as—
It snaps around my neck like a living noose.
Air cuts off. My vision blurs at the edges. Fingers twitch and scrabble at the smooth, warm scales, desperately searching for that sensitive tip I know is her ticklish spot. I stroke it in frantic little circles, teasing the underside the way she secretly likes.
The grip eases—just enough.
I drop to my knees, gasping, coughing. For a split second it feels like my spirit floated right out of my body, then slammed back in with a thud.
Let's rewind a bit.
My name is Jeff. Life used to be simple: no responsibilities, no worries, no stress. I lived alone in this huge place—more mansion than house, honestly—and somehow Ms. Smith found out about it. She's the coordinator for the Interspecies Cultural Exchange program, all smiles and relentless energy. She hounded me for weeks: "Jeff, think of the poor liminals with nowhere to go! Your home is perfect—big rooms, big yard, no nosy neighbors!" After endless questions, guilt trips, and her showing up unannounced with paperwork, I finally caved and signed up.
She took me to a secure facility and pointed to a reinforced enclosure.
Inside was a lamia. Miia.
Even caged, she looked stunning—long, bright red hair flowing like silk, amber eyes with slitted pupils that flicked over me with wary curiosity. Her upper body was elegant in a simple top that hugged her curves; below the waist, her powerful red-scaled tail coiled neatly, tip twitching like it had a mind of its own.
I opened the door.
At first, she was pure mistrust. Hissed if I got too close, refused meals with me, barely spoke. I left food trays outside her room, gave her space, tried not to stare at how her tail-tip flicked when she thought I wasn't looking.
Slowly, she started to thaw. Small talk over dinner—favorite foods, why humans were so "fragile," little questions about my day. Then one evening she got excited about something silly I said. Her tail shot up from under the table and slammed me hard into the wall.
Thud.
We both froze. She knew the rules: no harming humans, or it's straight back to the facility. One complaint from me and she'd be gone.
I laughed it off, rubbing my aching ribs. "No big deal."
Huge mistake.
Now the "accidental" tail-whips, squeezes, and bone-crushing cuddles are daily life. At first I wondered if she even realized her own strength—lamia tails are made for constricting prey, after all. But there are mornings I can barely walk after one of her "goodnight hugs," ribs tender, neck bruised, yet somehow grinning like an idiot.
She's possessive in the sweetest, scariest way. Calls me "Darling" now with that bubbly lilt, coils around me while I cook breakfast, pretends it's just to "stay warm." Her amber eyes sparkle when I don't complain, and that shy, flirty blush spreads across her cheeks right before she "accidentally" tightens again.
Deep down? I think she knows exactly what she's doing.