crystal 👾

You grunt into his chest - he can't help but chuckle, the sound eerily similar to the one Kid always gives when he's unimpressed. He peppers the top of your head with a handful of light kisses as one of his hands traces over your bare back.

“You can always come with me and keep me company in the kitchen?” He offers, giving your side a little tickle that pulls a squeal of laughter from you before you go back to pretending to be grumpy.

“Mm… no.” You grunt again, and he pulls away to lift your chin to stare into your eyes.

“I think you've been around Kid a little too long,” he jokes, his heart feeling so incredibly light as you flash him your loving smile.

“Lies, I don't think I've been around him enough actually,” you tease back, only to let another peel of laughter escape you as Killer pins you to the bed and tickles your bare sides until you're begging him to stop.

“Call me a liar in my own bed,” he snickers, grinning wickedly down at you as happy tears pool in the corners of your eyes. “I'm telling.”

Your mouth drops open in fake shock and you're quick to whine out jokingly, “Nooo, Killer, that's so mean, don't tell on me! I wish you would just tell me you hate me instead!”

There's a moment of silence from Killer. While you've always joked those same words to pretty much everyone on the ship, he didn't like how his heart seemed to sink directly into his belly and churn unkindly.

You picked up on the change and cradled his face in your palms, thumbs gently caressing over his cheeks as you asked softly, “Where'd you go, my love?”

His eyes stopped staring past you, refocusing on your bright eyes. It's another moment before he replies thickly, “I could never hate you. You are so integrated into my heart and soul that it would be like hating myself.” He captures your lips in a deep kiss, pulling away after a moment to softly rub the tip of his nose against yours. “You are my everything… and Kid's, too. Neither of us could ever hate you.”

Honest tears welled up in your eyes this time. Killer was just like Kid, a man of action when words would to fail him, but ever since your first shared night with them both, Killer seemed to open right up and spill his true feelings whenever he felt the need to.

“I love you.”

You sniffled softly and gave your blonde lover a wide, watery grin as you murmured back,

“I love you with every piece of me.”

Killer's mouth ticks up on one side slightly before he leans down and kisses you again.

“I suppose breakfast can wait…” He murmurs before collecting you against him once more with a content sigh.

It's not five minutes later when Kid kicks the door open with a shout of, “Oi, you're just gonna let us STARVE? Is THAT what you want?!”

You and Killer both give an over-exaggerated sigh before he pulls himself away from you to get up and get dressed. He leans down to kiss you one last time before sliding his helmet on, ignoring how Kid gives a cheeky chuckle before ripping his coat off and kicking his boots to the side of the bed. He flopped next to you, his metal arm resting over your body and keeping you from moving.

“Ack! Get this thing offa me!” You tried to get out, pretending to be crushed by it.

Both men ignored you.

“The usual for breakfast, Captain?” Killer asked as he slipped into his shoes. Kid grunts, the sound causing you and Killer to laugh. Kid lifts his head just enough to glare at you and then his best friend and first mate.

“Care to share with the rest of the fuckin’ class?” He snarks half-heartedly, raising an eye ridge at you as you laugh a little harder.

Before you could even reply, Killer chuckles out, “Our girl's been around you too long. She grunted at me like that not twenty minutes ago.”

Kid turned back to you and gave a whisper of a smile, though his eyes shone with adoration clear as day. “Hm.”

You smiled back, letting your arms curl around his metal one and clinging to it lovingly. You grin to yourself as Kid pulls you to his chest in a gentle but clearly possessive grip. “That's my girl,” he murmurs before placing a loud kiss on your forehead.

“Don't fall back asleep,” Killer warns, crossing his arms for a moment before he stalks towards the still open door. “You have about an hour before breakfast is ready. I'll see you both up there shortly.” You and Kid looked at each other before nodding at Killer, promising him you'd both be there.

The second the door closed, Kid sighs deeply and lets his eyes shut. You grin and pinch one of his nipples, pulling a curse from him as his eyes snap back open to glare down at you.

“The fuck is your problem?” There's no bite behind his words but you still snark back with another grin, “Killer just said-”

Your words are cut off with an undignified squawk as he pushes you back onto the bed and hovers his larger form over yours, a hint of a challenge in his eyes as he leans down to nip at your throat.

“I don't give a fuck what he said, but if you're gonna be a brat, then we can find something else to pass the time with.”

Your grin widens and you're quick to wrap your naked legs over his still clothed hips, grinding your core against his growing chub with a breathy, “I'm also sure we could find something to do…”

Kid grins in return, his flesh hand moving to pull his pants down and freeing himself just enough to slide over your slick folds.

I did a little exploration of this headcanon in Compass and it comes up again in Wind and Moon. But short answer: absolutely. 200%. Multiple things influence him with respect to intimacy, the largest and most obvious of which is his father and how Sanemi witnessed Kyogo’s treatment of Shizu (his mother). Sanemi canonically isn’t blind to how others perceive him — brutal, cruel, rough. He’s acutely aware of it and actively encourages it in a desperate attempt to keep his loved ones far away and safe. So of course, that’s going to come back and bite him in the ass the first time he even considers getting intimate with someone because fuck, they know what he is. How could you possibly want him knowing he’s exactly the monster you must think he is, the same one his father was? In that regard, he probably thinks you’re stupid or have zero sense of self preservation, in which case, he’s going to protect you from yourself. And that means he resists.

Naturally, he can’t do that forever because at the end of the day, he is a lonely boy with so, so much capacity for love. So his apprehension to intimacy shifts course — it becomes about shielding you from being tainted by him. He’s dark, fucked up, too traumatized for anyone to genuinely want the cowardice and weakness beneath his hardass exterior, and if you touch him and let him touch you, you’ll only expose yourself to it. It doesn’t matter that your fingers on his cheek make him feel whole, chase away all memories of the scars marring his skin until he forgets they’re there all together. It doesn’t matter how badly he wants to explore the soft planes of your body with his hands or mouth, map out every inch of you until he knows you like the back of his hand. It’s dangerous because he’s dangerous, and you’re good. He doesn’t deserve you and you’re supposed to be smart enough to know that.

I think, when he’s finally worn down though and unable to hold back any longer, he’s still very in his own head. He’s extremely delicate in how he handles you and constantly checks in — when he kisses you, when he tentatively begins undressing you and hesitates when undressing himself, when he’s got you spread out on the bed while he sits between your thighs, nothing separating you except a few inches of space and his one last hesitation. He’s asking you if it’s really what you want, throwing you every out he has just in case you make the smart decision and back out. But, you don’t, and Sanemi is helpless when it comes to you, so he obeys your soft commanding please, and gives himself up to you.

During the deed? Sanemi’s very cautious. Don’t get me wrong, he feels fucking incredible and it takes an enormous amount of self restraint he’s not sure he has to not bust the second he’s fully seated inside you. It’s his singular focus on you that keeps him from doing so, and he’s so attuned to how your eyebrows scrunch with the slight discomfort of having him fully in you that he can’t really give a fuck about how amazing he feels. He feels only slight anxiety, knotting in his stomach, and fear hardening in his throat because he knew it, you regret it, this isn’t what you want and above all, he’s hurting you —

Kokushibo

Kokushibo approaches the act with the same methodical precision he applies to his swordsmanship. There is nothing hurried, nothing careless about the way he touches you. He positions you before him like a ritual preparation—body arranged just so, limbs placed with deliberate intention, the atmosphere heavy with anticipation.

He does not speak. Words are unnecessary when his actions convey everything.

His hands are the first point of contact. Long fingers, calloused from centuries of gripping his blade, trace the inside of your thighs with a reverence that borders on worship. The touch is light at first—feathery strokes that map your skin, memorizing every contour, every sensitive patch. He watches your reactions with those six eyes, cataloging each twitch, each sharp inhale, each trembling exhale. He learns your body like a technique he intends to master.

When he finally lowers his head, it is with the grace of a falling leaf. His breath ghosts over your cunt, warm and measured, before his lips press a single kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Another. He works his way inward with excruciating slowness, building anticipation until your hips shift involuntarily, seeking his mouth.

He denies you at first.

"Patience," he murmurs, the first word he's spoken. His voice is deep, resonant, vibrating against your sensitive skin.

His tongue emerges like a blade from its sheath—controlled, precise, devastating. He traces your folds with the tip, following the natural lines of your body like calligraphy strokes. The pressure is exact, never too much, never too little. He finds your clit not by accident but by design, circling it with a rhythm that feels premeditated.

He maintains that rhythm without deviation. He does not speed up, does not slow down, does not vary his technique until you are arching into his mouth, breath catching, fingers gripping the sheets. Only when your body signals impending climax does he change his approach—and even then, it is calculated.

He slides two fingers inside you, curling them with surgical precision, pressing against that spongy wall of nerves while his tongue continues its relentless circles. The combination is devastating, orchestrated to push you over the edge with mechanical efficiency.

When you come, he does not stop. He draws out every wave, every contraction, licking through your orgasm until you are trembling and oversensitive. Only then does he pull back, a thin string of saliva connecting his lips to your center.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression unreadable.

"Acceptable," he says. But the faintest curl at the corner of his lips betrays his satisfaction.

He will do it again, you realize. He has cataloged your responses, identified your weaknesses, and he will refine his technique until "acceptable" becomes "perfection."

Douma

Douma views the act as performance.

Not in a self-conscious way—he is beyond such mortal concerns—but in the sense that he approaches every interaction as a spectacle, a show to be witnessed and appreciated. That he happens to be the performer and the audience simultaneously is simply part of the entertainment.

He is theatrical from the moment he begins. He kneels before you with exaggerated reverence, pressing his palms together in mock prayer, a beatific smile spread across his features.

"Let us begin our communion," he says, his voice dripping with false piety. His rainbow eyes glitter with amusement. He knows exactly how ridiculous he looks. He does not care. If anything, he revels in it.

He takes his time undressing you, not with the reverence of Kokushibo but with the flair of a showman. Each piece of clothing removed is accompanied by a dramatic sigh, a murmured compliment, a lingering touch that borders on teasing. He treats your body like a gift he is unwrapping, savoring the reveal with theatrical delight.

When he finally settles between your thighs, he presses a kiss to each one, then to your mound, then to your clit through the fabric of your underwear—if you're still wearing any at this point. He looks up at you through his lashes, that infuriating smile still in place.

"This is my favorite part," he announces, as if sharing a delightful secret.

He is chatty. Gods, is he chatty.

"You taste divine tonight. Have you been eating something different? Or is it simply the anticipation making everything more exquisite?"

He punctuates his commentary with licks, each one deliberate and showy. He has a tendency to pull away at the worst moments—right when you're getting close, right when the pleasure crests toward its peak—just to make some observation or ask a question.

"Do you like it when I do this? Or perhaps you prefer—"

He demonstrates both options, watching your face with clinical fascination. He takes notes. Not literally, but you can feel his attention sharpen, cataloging your reactions with the same intensity Kokushibo uses, but for entirely different reasons. Douma wants to entertain you. He wants to be the best you've ever had, not out of pride but out of a deep, incomprehensible need to be interesting.

He switches techniques constantly. Fast, slow, broad strokes, pointed flicks, suction that borders on painful before softening into something gentler. He hums while he works, melodies from forgotten eras, the vibrations adding another layer of sensation.

When he brings you to climax, he does not stop talking.

"Yes, that's it. Beautiful. Absolutely exquisite. You should see your face right now—I wish I had a mirror—"

He licks through your orgasm with enthusiasm, lapping at you like a man dying of thirst. When you finally collapse, trembling, he sits up, chin glistening, and claps his hands together.

"Bravo. Encore? No? Perhaps later."

He will absolutely bring it up at dinner. "Remember that thing I did with my tongue? I've been thinking of variations."

Akaza

Akaza is intense.

There is no other word for it. The moment he decides he wants to taste you, everything else ceases to exist. The world narrows to the space between your thighs, and he attacks it with the same ferocity he brings to combat—but tempered with a desperation that borders on reverent.

He does not ask. He takes.

Not violently—never violently, not with you—but with a certainty that leaves no room for ambiguity. He pushes you onto your back, settles between your legs, and buries his face in your cunt like he's been starved for it. His first contact is a full-mouthed kiss, tongue pressing flat and firm, tasting you in long, greedy strokes.

He groans against you. The sound vibrates through your core, making your hips buck.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word muffled. "You taste—fuck."

His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. He does not seem to notice, or perhaps he does not care. His focus is absolute, his attention laser-locked on the act of devouring you.

He is not methodical. He is not theatrical. He is hungry.

His tongue moves with desperate, frantic energy—licking, sucking, pressing, probing. He alternates between deep, broad strokes that cover your entire cunt and sharp, focused attention on your clit that makes you see stars. There is no rhythm, no pattern, just raw, unfiltered need.

He pulls away only to breathe, and even then, his mouth hovers over you, his breath hot and ragged, his eyes wild and intense.

"More," he growls. Not a question. A demand.

He dives back in.

He uses everything—lips, tongue, teeth (gentle, careful pressure that borders on pain before backing off), his nose pressing against your clit while his tongue works your entrance. He brings you to the edge so many times you lose count, each time pulling you back just before the fall, savoring your desperation.

"Please," you gasp, not knowing what you're begging for.

He groans in response, the sound desperate. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, pulling you closer, deeper, until his face is completely buried in your cunt, nose pressed against your clit, tongue fucking into you.

When he finally lets you come, it is with a roar of satisfaction that vibrates through your entire body. He does not relent, does not slow, does not stop until you are sobbing from the overstimulation, pushing weakly at his head.

Only then does he pull back, his face slick, his eyes burning with possessive fire.

"Mine," he says, and the word is a vow.

He will do it again within the hour. He will not be satisfied until you are completely wrecked, until you cannot walk, until the only word you remember is his name.

Muzan

Muzan does not kneel.

This is the first thing you must understand about him. He is the progenitor, the king of demons, a being who has lived for over a thousand years and answered to no one. The idea of him placing himself beneath anyone—even in an act of intimate service—is almost incomprehensible.

And yet.

He does it because he chooses to. And that choice makes it infinitely more significant.

He arranges you on the bed with imperial precision. He does not undress you himself—that would be beneath him—but he instructs you to do so, watching with cold, appraising eyes as you comply. His gaze moves over your body like a general surveying a battlefield, assessing worth, calculating value.

When he is satisfied, he approaches.

He does not lower himself to the bed. Instead, he remains standing, looking down at you with an expression of detached curiosity. His hand reaches out, fingers tracing down your torso, pausing at your hip, your thigh, before sliding between your legs.

He examines you like a specimen. His fingers part your folds, exposing you to the cool air, to his unblinking stare. He does not touch where you want him to—not yet. He simply looks.

"So this is what you offer," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Interesting."

He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting your essence with the deliberation of a sommelier sampling wine. His eyes close briefly, and when they open, there is something new in them. Interest. Perhaps even hunger.

He finally kneels.

But even on his knees, he exudes authority. He does not grovel. He does not plead. He positions himself between your thighs with the grace of a predator settling into a strike, and when he lowers his head, it is with the deliberate intention of a king bestowing a gift.

His tongue is inhuman.

Not in the grotesque sense—it appears normal, pink and wet and warm—but in its precision, its control, its ability to adapt in ways no human tongue could match. He can make it longer, thinner, can change its texture from smooth to rough with a thought. He uses this ability with calculated cruelty.

He starts with soft, broad strokes that cover your entire cunt, his eyes fixed on your face, watching every micro-expression. He finds the spots that make you gasp, the angles that make you moan, and he files that information away for later use.

He does not rush. He takes his time, drawing out the experience, savoring your responses like a connoisseur tasting a rare wine. Occasionally, he pulls away entirely, leaving you aching and empty, just to see the frustration flicker across your face.

"You want more," he says. It is not a question.

"Yes."

"Do you deserve more?"

The question hangs in the air. He waits for your answer, his tongue tracing lazy patterns on your inner thigh, deliberately avoiding where you need him most.

"Please," you finally say.

He smiles. It is not a kind smile.

"Good answer."

He returns to your cunt with renewed purpose, his tongue now focused on your clit, flicking and circling with inhuman speed. He adds fingers—three, four, more? It's hard to count, hard to think when he's doing that—curling them inside you, stretching you, filling you.

The pleasure builds like a storm, overwhelming and relentless. He does not let up, does not slow, does not give you a moment to catch your breath. He drives you toward climax with merciless efficiency, and when you finally break, he does not stop.

He keeps going, drawing out your orgasm until it borders on painful, until you are shaking and crying and begging him to stop. Only then does he pull back, licking his lips, his expression one of cold satisfaction.

"Adequate," he pronounces. "We will try again tomorrow. I expect better results."

He will not tell you what "better results" means. He will simply push you harder, demand more, and take immense pleasure in watching you fall apart beneath his touch.

Bonus: All Four Simultaneously

In the impossible scenario where all four Upper Moons decide to share you, the experience would be overwhelming in every sense of the word.

Kokushibo would focus on your upper body, pinning you in place, whispering instructions in that calm, measured voice. "Breathe. Do not fight it. Surrender."

Douma would narrate the entire experience, offering commentary that ranges from poetic to obscene, laughing at the absurdity of the situation even as he buries his face between your thighs.

Akaza would consume himself with one goal: making you come as many times as possible. He would track each orgasm, pushing for the next, never satisfied until you were reduced to a trembling, incoherent mess.

And Muzan would watch. He would stand apart, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with cold amusement, directing the scene like a conductor leading an orchestra. His pleasure would come not from physical participation but from the absolute control he holds over every aspect of the experience.

It would be too much. It would never be enough.

And you would never be the same.