It was yet another in a long series of restless nights.

	Wizardmon wondered how long it had been since the fragmented pieces of his data were scraped back together. A year? A little over a year. A year and two months? Something like that. It was hard to keep track of the time after it passed, the weeks and months blurring together. This was likely because he’d stopped thinking of it in terms of days, weeks, and months. What he remembered was where he and his companion had been headed, what they’d seen, where they’d stayed, where they’d traveled next, and all the little details in between. A flowering tree she’d stopped to admire for a moment, the look on a passing Vilemon’s face after she’d responded to his unwarranted lewd comments with well-justified violence, a stretch of road she commented was softer on her feet than the last… He only had a rough estimate of how much time had passed in between each memory.

	Regardless, it was certainly more than enough time than it should have taken for him to grow accustomed to her semi-permanent change from Gatomon to Angewomon. Why wasn’t he? Why did he still have to cautiously pick his words around her? Why was he only able to look at her if it was out of the corner of his eye, or if she was wrapped up in a thick blanket? Why did his stomach still feel it necessary to start doing gymnastics on the occasion that she would sit or stand just a few inches closer than usual?

	Maybe their change in lifestyle was partly to blame. When they’d served under Myotismon, even a few moments spent together as friends were precious. Something as simple as being in the same room for more than five minutes after days of being apart was a blessing, and it could have been taken away from them at any moment if they weren’t careful. He’d still felt just as strongly for her then as he did now, but he’d known there was no chance of them developing anything beyond friendship in that situation. She’d been so thoroughly abused, physically, psychologically, and emotionally, he didn’t think of it even being a possibility. It probably still wasn’t.

	Aside from that, she was a feline, and he was a humanoid. Even if by some divine miracle she did develop feelings for him, it was unlikely to work on a physical level. That was all well and good, of course—there was no attraction in that sense.

	Things were very different now than they once were, however. They were free to spend as much time together as they could ever want, and they took advantage of the opportunity often. Angewomon was still Kari’s partner, of course, and would never abandon her, but the difference in the passage of time between the Real World and the Digital World meant Wizardmon and Angewomon could spend an entire week together, and to Kari, it would only be perhaps half an hour or less. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

	The fatal drawback to this was that he spent every moment he possibly could with her, and before he knew it, he’d let himself become spoiled. Years ago, he would wish for just an hour of free time with her. Now an hour was nothing. He had all the time in the world to spend by her side, and though it was a dream come true, it was also a curse. No matter how much time they had, they would never be spending it together as more than friends. She didn’t love him, not in any way other than platonic at least. Not that he could blame her. Who would want an unsightly little thing like him? Probably not anyone, but certainly not Angewomon. She could do leagues better with her personality alone if she wanted, let alone her body.

	Gods, her body. He couldn’t even think about it. But he did. More often than he should have. More often than anyone as far beyond their teenage years as he was had any excuse to.

	The mage opened his eyes and let them gradually adjust to the darkness inside the tent they were spending the night in. He could barely make out the shape of her, tucked into a sleeping bag a few feet away. There was a gentle, rhythmic rise and fall that he could only assume meant she was asleep. She’d probably been asleep almost the entire time he lay awake, however long it was.

	For what must have been the twentieth time that night, he turned over, lying on his side to face the wall of the tent instead of her. For what must have been the fortieth time that night, he itched to move closer to her.

If there was one thing he hated about her new form, it was the distance it forced between them. She’d never liked having anyone’s hands on her much, and for good reason, but when she’d been Gatomon, she at least tolerated his for the occasional fleeting moment here and there. He could hold onto her and fly them somewhere, she could curl up against him to nap, and every great now and again, she would even appreciate a stroke atop her head or back, or a scratch behind the ears. Obviously, none of that would be appropriate now, so he kept his hands entirely to himself, and she seemed content to do the same.

He shifted, taking the pillow from beneath his head to wrap his arms around it. Usually, closing his eyes and imagining it was her would help a little, but this time it did nothing to numb the dull ache in his chest or lessen the urge to hold her close to him. He tried wrapping his blanket more tightly around himself, but that didn’t help either. It wasn’t her arms and wings embracing him. It never would be.

Wizardmon held back a sigh, finally giving in to the inevitable. He wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon at this rate. He’d run out of his supply of calming herbs two nights ago, and he had no other substance that would help. That left him with only one option, a last resort that, to his chagrin, he found himself having to take more often lately. It shamed him to do it, but it was still better than lying awake for what felt like an eternity, restless and lonely and pining for affection he couldn’t have.

Slowly, so as not to wake his slumbering companion, he crawled out from beneath his blanket. He was already fully dressed, save for his hat and staff, which he gathered without making a sound. The riskiest part was stepping over Angewomon to leave the tent. She was over twice his size now, but he managed to make his exit without causing her to stir.

On this particular night, they had chosen a clearing amid a forest for their camping site, not terribly far from the road. Fortunately, the weather was fair and calm, and the moon was nearly full, giving him enough light to see by without having to use magic. Things could hardly have been more in his favor.

He crept through the trees, heading opposite from the road to go deeper into the forest. He kept going until he reached a stream he’d found earlier, where he’d gathered water to boil for a meal. It was in an ideal location, far enough from the camp there was virtually no chance he would be found. Better yet, the small noise the running water made would help to mask any noises he might make, and the water itself would likely be needed.

The mage glanced around, observing his surroundings for a long moment. There was no one and nothing around him but the trees towering above, and the undergrowth at his feet. He chose a large and sturdy tree to lean back against, settling and resigning himself to the task ahead. He set his staff aside, letting its weight lean against the tree trunk as well. His eyes closed, and he let go of the tight restraint he always had to keep around his thoughts. His mind didn’t have to wander far. It immediately went to Angewomon.

He thought of all the things he normally tried so hard to ignore: Her flowing golden hair, her plush lips, the smooth complexion of her exposed skin, her supple mounds of flesh leading into curves that connected to long, finely shaped legs with a perfect gap between the thighs... 

It wasn’t long before his breaths deepened, and he found himself chewing at his lower lip. He removed the glove from his right hand, clutching it in his left. His ungloved hand reached beneath his cowl and vest, finding the pull tab of the zipper on his suit and tugging it down as far as it would go without hesitation. The sound was almost jarring amid the near-silence, but he’d already made sure there was no one to hear it, so he paid it no mind.

He reached down to find he’d gotten himself a little excited already. His fingers wrapped around his not-quite-soft manhood, and he felt stitches against more stitches. It was a poor substitute for the touch he wanted, but it was as good as he would ever get.

Tipping his head back and letting his eyes close once more, he pictured her. He brought up an image he’d tried to purge from his mind, a sight from perhaps two weeks ago, on a particularly hot day. He hadn’t meant to notice how her skin glistened with a thin perspiration in the sunlight, but how could he not? He hadn’t meant to see the droplet of sweat that beaded atop her cleavage, but he couldn’t look away until it ran tauntingly down into her breastplate, out of his sight.

Sweet merciful gods, her breasts. The thought of them made him shudder. He’d never seen them, of course, but he could very well imagine what they looked like beneath her armor. He already knew for certain they were a fantastic size, proportionately a little bigger than what would be average for her body by human standards, but not too big. They were round and perky and probably soft, probably with healthy pink teats to match her lips. He was ashamed of how much he would give just to see them bare even once, just to have his hands on them for a minute. Just one single minute to squeeze them and nuzzle between them and suck on them…

Wizardmon gasped as an unexpected and involuntary buck of his hips and arch of his back distracted him. He hadn’t even consciously realized he’d been stroking himself, but he couldn’t stop now that he was at full mast and throbbing. With his thumb, he smeared the small amount of pre-ejaculate forming a bead at his tip down to the little bit of loose skin just beneath. He focused on that spot, applying pressure only there and nowhere else, giving it small, quick tugs with a gliding friction. The pleasure made his legs shiver, and he wound up relying almost entirely on the tree he leaned against to keep him upright.

He started idly switching between that and the normal stroking from base to tip, trying to keep the stimulation varying every few minutes so it wouldn’t seem as stale as it was. He’d done this far too many times for the sensations alone to work. He knew his own body and its needs perfectly, but that wasn’t enough. No matter how precise his touches were, they were still just that—his touches. He wanted hers, and desperately. He let his ministrations return to their previous unfocused and automatic nature in favor of letting his imagination run freely again.

The mage reached for another memory, a more titillating one than the last. He thought back to another time they’d set up a tent to spend the night in, much like their current one. Well, Angewomon had set it up by herself, actually, and she must have made a mistake somewhere along the way, because it wound up lopsided and half-collapsed on one side. She’d had to get down on all fours to crawl into it, and he’d done a triple take. Unintentionally, she’d given him a fantastic view of her hind end, and in that position, the fabric of her clothing didn’t quite cover the entire right cheek. He could see the crease where her rump met her thigh on that side. As if that wasn’t already enough, he could just barely make out the shape of something between her thighs he was entirely sure he wasn’t supposed to be seeing, but it was there, and it was tantalizing, almost peeking out at him but not meant for him. He was never a fan of the “doggy style” position, but he would be lying if he tried to claim he hadn’t given it a lot more thought since then.

By this point the data-type was panting open-mouthed, and his clothes were getting uncomfortable, sweat making them cling to his skin. He’d worked himself close to a release, but not quite there yet. Just a little more would do it, he was sure.

His face colored with guilt overpowered by desire that kept him going in spite of it, he imagined lying on top of her, his bare skin pressed flush against hers. Frantically, he discarded both gloves so he could kiss the back of his free hand and imagine it was her lips instead. He couldn’t help the nagging thought that she wouldn’t want to kiss his stitched lips—no one would—but he tried, he tried to let go of his common sense just to indulge in a fantasy. Wasn’t it reasonable that he could at least have that if not the real thing? Maybe not. He didn’t care, he wanted it so badly. He wanted her lips against his more than anything in the world, and just slightly less, he wanted her arms around him, her hands clutching at his back and keeping him as close as possible. Less than that, but still so fiercely the notion was bittersweet, he wanted less innocent things from her. He wanted to push himself in between her thighs, past her folds and inside her. He wanted her voice in his ear, telling him to keep going, right there, don’t stop, don’t stop…

Wizardmon did something he very rarely did just then. He moaned, a raw and carnal sound only muffled by his left hand still at his mouth. He was close, so close to what promised to be a deep and intense climax. The orgasm wasn’t what he really wanted, but it would at least be enough to sate him for the night and maybe a few more afterward, until his urges eventually got the better of him again. There was nothing he could do to satisfy his emotions, but at least his body was close to having what it wanted. So close…

He gathered what moisture he could into his mouth and spat onto his palm, well past the point of lying to himself. He wasn’t above this anymore. At that moment, he was perhaps the worst friend in the world, unable to be satisfied with just friendship, greedily craving more than he deserved. He was filth. He was a disgusting pervert for feeling this way, let alone acting on it, but it felt good, so good...

He whined pathetically between panting breaths, stroking faster, squeezing harder. The throbbing was turning into aching now, and he was leaking fluid consistently. He tried everything he knew to tip himself over the edge, putting pressure in exactly all the right places at the right times and in the right ways, but nothing was working. Why wasn’t it working?

“Come on,” he pleaded to no one, as if it would help somehow. “Please…”

Moisture dripped from his base down to the stitching that ran between his testes, then further down to make a mess of his pant legs and boots. The quickening motion of his hand sent an occasional droplet flying until he stopped moving his hand altogether, thrusting his hips into it instead.

“Please, I…!” he begged in between heaving respirations, his voice high and strained. He’d been lingering just on the edge for far too long now. He despaired he might be stuck there.

“I need…!” the words came out almost against his will as a whispered scream. He was desperate to cum. He needed to cum. He had to. He moved his hand again, as fast as he could manage. He kept moving it until it hurt. The tension was so close to breaking, it was right there, but he couldn’t get there, he couldn’t...

“I need… you…” He swallowed thickly, his emotions running hot and threatening to overcome him. His movements slowed. His breath shook.

“I love you…”

He stopped moving his hand and finally let go, his arms and hips beyond exhausted and his body rewarded with only frustration for all its efforts. Tears stung at his eyes, and he shivered uncontrollably. He couldn’t catch his breath.

“... Ange… womon…”

He sank to the ground and dug his wrists against his eyes. His fingers gripped handfuls of his hair and tugged at it. He was too tired and upset to fight back the tears and sobs, and they assailed him mercilessly. He let them come.

“Gato… mmnh…”

He deserved this. He deserved the frustration of both his emotions and his body. This was what he deserved for his unwanted thoughts and feelings toward his friend. His friend to whom he owed his very life. His friend who he loved with his entire being. His friend who he would live and die for a thousand times over. His friend who didn't need him the way he needed her. His friend who was only that—a friend.

He quietly wept himself into a thorough exhaustion of mind, body, heart, and soul. He only stopped when he wiped his eyes and blearily saw the sky was becoming slightly lighter. Morning was coming, and he couldn't stay where he was to let her find him in this sorry state. He picked himself up out of the dirt, washed away his shame as best he could in the stream, dressed himself properly, and half-staggered back to the tent on unsteady legs with a horribly uncomfortable fullness between them.

Wizardmon was asleep within minutes, and Angewomon was none the wiser.
