Arrja

A beat.

She blinks once, twice.

The corner of her mouth crooks, sharp and mean.

“Then say that.” she murmurs, voice low enough to curl inside your ribs. “You wave a battle standard in my face and then scold me for reading it plainly.”

“It’s literally a mini flag.”

Sukuna raises it and watches the colors ripple.

“If this is a promise of mouth-work and devotion, it is misleadingly small.”

You choke on a laugh.

She steps closer like she hears it, like she wants to corner the sound and prize it out of you again.

One hand lands heavy at your hip, a second finds the small of your back, a third lifts your chin with a single knuckle, and the fourth keeps the little flag between forefinger and thumb, tiny stripes brushing your cheek.

“You are red,” she notes, delighted and terrible. “Do not fret. I will not eat your meat.”

“That’s… not the part I’m worried about.”

“What then?"

She leans, breath warm at your temple, mask nearly touching your makeup.

The alcohol sugar in the air sweetens the bite of her voice.

“Your little shrine-kimono? Your lie-paint? You dressed as a yōkai and invited one to stand over you.”

“It was on sale.” you blurt.

“Mm.” She drags her knuckle down the slope of your throat, the pads of the other two hands flexing on your waist like she’s tasting you through touch alone. “You tremble. Do you want me to stop?”

The music drops out for a second between songs, your yes catches in the silence.

“No.”

She hums, approving.

“Then do not say stop, and I won’t. Say slow, and I will consider it.” The wicked little smile softens something you didn’t expect. “Say mine, and I will carry you into war.”

“That seems like a lot for a house party.”

“Your tongue chooses poor banners,” she says, amused.

She slides the tiny flag behind your ear like a hairpin.

“But I will forgive it.”

Someone in a witch hat stumbles past and apologizes to your elbow. Sukuna stares them down until they evaporate into the crowd, then tilts your face back to her.

“Explain the banner again.”

“Girls who love girls,” you say, because your body can only produce basics under that gaze. “Eat them out. Date them. Hold their hands. Watch terrible reality TV. All that.”

“Eat them out…” she repeats, as if sampling the language. Her eyes lower to your mouth. “Yes. That part is clear to me now.”

“Only now?”

“I come from a century that says many things without saying them,” she says lightly. “You, little fox, just say it.”

You are absolutely, definitely too warm.

“You… wanna find somewhere less… public?”

Her nose scrunches again, the prettiest scowl you’ve ever seen.

“There is a room with coats. I observed it. Modern people place their hides there as tribute to the cold.”

“You mean the guest room.”

“Yes. That.”

She uses two hands like a wall against your back as she guides you, the third hand threading your fingers to tow you through bodies and smoke and orange string lights. The fourth still tucks that tiny flag behind your ear, the colors brush your temple every step.

It's ridiculous.

It makes you lightheaded.

The guest room smells like laundry and cheap cologne. Coats tumble over each other across the bed, a fake grave marker leans against the dresser.

Sukuna closes the door with a heel and looks at you for exactly one breath before she’s close again, pressing you to the dresser’s edge with no more force than a question.

“Tell me what you want, little fox.”

Your mouth opens, your nervous system throws confetti and static.

“Eat me out?” you whisper. “Please.”

Her laugh is a carved thing, satisfied and rough.

“Now she uses correct banners.”

She turns you with a firm palm on your hip until you’re bent over the dresser, both hands braced on cool wood. You catch your face in the mirror, upside down — a swipe of fox-red eyeshadow and cheap liner, hairpins crooked from the walk.

The tiny flag peeks over your ear like a secret.

She's eating you out from behind?

You close your eyes because you don't want to watch your own face in the mirror as she drags moans and whatnot from your open mouth.

Sukuna fills the frame behind you, tall, built like violence and savage beauty, open kimono framing the pale bands binding her chest, the white wraps over her stomach shifting as the maw beneath them flexes in its sleep.

She catches you staring and bares teeth in the mirror.

“Do not mind it,” she says, almost fond. “It is not invited. Yet.”

You snort, breathless.

“Noted.”

She kneels, and the room tilts.

All four hands settle — two anchoring your thighs wide, one splayed, one spanning your lower back, bunching the fabric of your store-bought kimono under the big, warm palm.

Her hair spills over your ass when she bends, her breath ghosts hot across you as she noses the hem of your costume aside. More cheap fabric falling in the way.

“Look at you,” she says, reverent in her own cruel way. She drags her lip along the damp seam of your panties and you jolt, breath punching out of you. “Wet already. Did the little flag do this?”

“You did,” you breathe, and the admission shivers down your spine like you cracked your own vow.

“Good.” Her fingers hook the elastic and slip it down with more care than she has shown anything all night.

The air kisses your bare cunt, her breath follows, then her tongue — hot, broad, possessive — licks a slow stripe down from your entrance to your clit.

Your knees go watery.

Her hands don’t let you move.

“Sukuna— ah~!” you gasp, and the name tastes like defiance and prayer.

“Mm.” Her answering sound vibrates into you. “Say it again.”

She eats like a queen who hasn’t asked permission in centuries.

Not frantic. Not soft. Just thorough, unhurried, merciless in precision — like she’s mapping a country she intends to keep all for herself.

She squints and her brows furrow when she takes a small break from your pussy. A thought crosses her mind and she decides that the dresser is no longer the right place for those activities — and your back find the coat covered bed as she manhandles you with ease and places you there. Your legs are still open, pussy displayed for the muscular woman towering over you, and soon enough she's on her knees again, two hands pressing the plush of your thighs to keep them spread, two hands finding the glazed folds of your pussy.

She parts you with two thumbs to expose your clit and seals her mouth over it, tongue flicking with obscene focus until your grip on her soft pink hair until your knuckles whiten.

You hear yourself, helpless sounds you never make in public, and she drinks them like victory.

“Eyes.” she orders, breath hot against you between licks. “Watch me make your little flag honest.”

You force your gaze down when you prop yourself up on your elbows and catch her stare — four hungry eyes locked on your face as her mouth works you, the bone mask ones liik like they're grinning, a pink strand of hair stuck to her lip glossed with you.

Your blush deepens.

She looks delighted at the sight of it and drags her tongue flat again, slow enough your spine arches and your breath breaks.

“Good little fox,” she praises in a purr, voice wrecked around your flesh. “Take it.”

One hand leaves your cunt to find its way under your costume and knead on your left breast, squeezing it lightly and earning a mewl from you. The touch is anchoring, delicious, strong and hot. The other two hands hold you open, steady, hers, while she sucks your clit into the heat of her mouth and hums like she’s pleased with herself.

The sound ricochets through you, the wraps over her stomach twitch with a sleepy ripple, as if the maw beneath purrs in sympathy.

“Tell me if you want slow,” she says between licks, and then proves she isn’t planning on it unless asked. Two fingers slide into you — thick, ringed in the roughness of callus — and curl.

She finds the place in one practiced stroke, watches your eyes go wide and grins like a demon who’s located a temple’s hidden hinge.

“—oh, fuck!” you gasp, body clamping down.

“Yes,” she says, too proud. “Offer it properly.”

You try. You babble.

She licks and strokes and listens to every noise you make like data, adjusting, pressing, sucking at your clit while those fingers work a rhythm that drags heat through you in bright, stacking waves.

When the first sharp crest hits, your hands grip and pull even tighter, desperate for purchase on her hair. She groans into you like you gifted her something priceless.

“Again,” she says against your clit, almost gentle. “Give me all of it.”

She wrings it out of you. You come hard enough the little flag falls from your ear to the bed, hard enough your vision speckles with silver, hard enough your knees would’ve gone if she wasn’t an unyielding shrine behind and beneath you.

She works you through it, easing her mouth only when you whimper, keeping her fingers inside until your clench turns aftershock.

“Breathe,” she reminds you, amused. “Your little chest is going to crack.”

You breathe.

You feel huge and boneless and wicked — you feel seen by something that arrived from the year 900 to humiliate you beautifully over a pile of guest coats.

When she withdraws her fingers, they leave wet heat in their wake, she presses the slick pads to your thigh, dragging shine across skin like she’s signing her name. You’re still breathless when she stands, towering you again before she simply joins you on the coat covered mattress.

Sprawling back on the messy bed, open kimono framing banded muscle, the white wraps over her belly loosening under her touch. The second smile beneath stirs — warm breath, a hush that rolls over your skin like thunder too low to hear.

“Straddle,” she orders. “Face me.”

You slowly sit up, take a deep breathe and move to swing a leg over her hips. Four hands position you like she’s sighting a bowstring, one on your knee, one on your hip, one spreading heat at the small of your back, one possessive at your throat — just weight, just claim.

The wraps shift, something below them wakes fully, a velvet pull of heat that steals language out of you and a shiver runs up your spine.

“Down,” she says. You sink. “Stay.”

Your breath stutters.

She watches every quiver with amused cruelty, four eyes bright, bone mask gleaming.

The warmth from her belly meets you and the world tilts once again that night, you brace on her shoulders and she doesn’t budge, a shrine built to outlast storms.

“Ride it, little fox.” she murmurs, voice gone low and dangerous. “My tempo. Not yours.”

The stomach maw's tongue is larger than her, hotter, covered in salive — you suppose — and is lapping like a frenzied dog at your sensitive and soaked pussy. You whine and your body shivers again and again from time to time. She watches with that grin that tells you she's enjoying every single thing she's witnessing.

The muscle stops finally, its wet thick tip presses against your entrance and you moan, jerking your head back and letting your fingernails dig crescents on her srong, inked shoulders.

"fffuck fuck fuck— hhha—h!" you whisper breathlessly when you feel it sliding inside you, stretching your entrance and filling you like a fucking tentacle.

How long is that tongue?

"Don't worry. I plan to." she coos and the hand on your throat squeezes harder, making the bloodflow lower and bringing you that delicious hazy sensation.

She sets the tempo with her hands, a slow drag, a held beat, a sudden push that rips a noise from you you’ve never heard before.

Her hands on your waist grab tighter, bruisingly so. She rolls your hips on her tongue, she moves you up and down, up and down, fucking you on ther maw's tongue and moving it so it fucks you deeper and better. It's so fucking long, big, warm and it bends in a way that your clit rubs against it when you're down and it's obscene and maddening and the best sensation you've ever felt in your life.

She catches your expression with a glance and smirks, obscene in her satisfaction.

“Look at me,” she says and you do — because you can’t not. “Count.”

“O—ne,” you manage.

“Louder.”

Her palms tighten on your thighs, dragging you through that heat again, moving to your waist and down your tights whenever she feels like, a caress that makes you want to buck your hips and lean into that touch even more.

“Two.”

“Good fox.” She’s pleased and merciless. “Again.”

You try to chase, she denies you.

You hesitate, she drags you deeper.

Every time you falter she is there, hands unyielding, body a line of command beneath you.

The wraps breathe with you, the heat at her center hums — ravenous, certain, ruthless — until your spine bows and your legs shake.

“Use your words,” she taunts, sweet as a blade. “Tell your queen what you want.”

“More,” you gasp.

“Greedy little banner-bearer.”

She laughs in your mouth when you lean down for a kiss and takes it, mean and generous at once.

When you break, panting, she cups your face and taps your cheek with her thumb.

“Hands behind you. Let me move you.”

You obey.

She takes your weight and works you through her rhythm, demanding and precise, pushing until your voice frays and your counting dissolves into sound.

You roll your eyes back into your skull as she makes you bounce on the tongue. The store bought kimono is already open, probably ruined, and two of her hands are playing with your boobs, pinching your nipples, twisting them when she feels like she needs to hear one more of your little yelps, rubbing them gently when you behave and moan her name and beg her to keep the rythm.

She's a benevolent queen with malevolent hunger.

The room narrows to heat, grip, orders, and the bright, dizzy terror of being seen exactly and still wanted more.

“Hold,” she commands, keeping you right on the edge, cruelly steady. “Breathe. Look at me. You're mine.”

The word hits like a strike.

You shatter — clean, helpless, perfect — coming apart in her hands while she keeps you there, rocking you through the breaking with a satisfied, vicious patience that feels like worship disguised as ruin.

When you sag, shaking, she doesn’t let you fall.

One hand cradles your nape, another rubs circles into your thigh, a third rewraps the white bands with practiced care while the fourth plucks the tiny flag and tucks it in her bandings.

Her mouth is flushed, glistening, smug. She kisses your cheek, then your mouth — brief, messy, sharing your taste with a pleased noise as your lips part under hers.

“You are shy and you bite,” she murmurs against your mouth. “I approve.”

“I— oh my god.” Your laugh is a little hysterical. “You cannot say that like you’re interviewing me for a job.”

“I have decided,” she says solemnly, then ruins the gravity. “I favor this banner. It is honest in the mouth.”

Heat races back to your face.

“Do not call it that in front of people.”

“In front of people,” she repeats, like a promise. “Here—”

Two arms circle your waist to lift you from the tongue that retreats into the maw again as it closes. She sits you again on the seam and the maw purrs against your pussy, making your body jolt for a single second and a dark chuckle escape from her lips. A third hand cradles your jaw, the fourth thumbs your bottom lip, slow, as if considering a second course.

“Another?” Her smile is wolfish. “I understand the custom now. It would be rude to refuse another trial.”

You look at her. At the stupid little flag in her bandages, at the sleeping curl of the maw beneath you, at the glitter in four eyes that have seen palaces burn and still choose to kneel on a coat-strewn floor for you.

“Yes,” you say, clearer this time. “Please.”

“Good fox.”

Your vision shifts when she rolls and you're beneath her now. She slides to kneel on the floor once again and holds you by the ankles to pull your body until your ass is nearly falling from the mattress' edge.

She drops her face again like a storm breaking.

This time you don’t try to hide from her eyes.

You watch. You take.

You say her name like prayer and profanity until your voice frays and your legs shake and the party outside might as well be in another century.

When you finally sag back on your hands, she rises slow, licking her fingers lazily clean while her gaze drags up your body like a promise of everything she could do next.

She tucks your underwear into your palm with surprising care, then presses a kiss to your knee, almost courtly.

“I will not eat your flesh,” she says, deadpan, like she remembers your first flustered panic and wants it written into the night that she listened. “Only your arrogance, sometimes. And your—” she tips her chin at you, pleased when your blush races to meet her. “Your pussy.”

You swat at her shoulder, she lets you land the hit and grins, feral and fond.

Outside, someone shrieks at a jump scare on the TV and then laughs. The house is still Halloween and cheap lights and plastic bones.

In here it smells like you.

Sukuna flicks a crumb of glitter off your cheek with a knuckle.

“Come. Drink water. Gloat. And later,” she adds, as if she’s scheduling a campaign, “you will show me the other customs for girls who love girls. The hand-holding. The terrible reality plays. The part where you let me fall asleep with your knee under my cheek.”

You blink. Your heart stumbles.

“You… like that?”

She scowls, like you’ve accused her of mercy.

“I like what I like,” she says, gruff. “Do not make it sentimental or I will break something to balance it.”

“Okay.”

You slide off the bed, legs a little wobbly, she steadies you with two hands and doesn’t comment.

You fix your costume, sort of.

She plucks the tiny flag from her bindings and tucks it behind your ear again like a coronation crown, satisfied.

“Flag-bearer,” she says, smug, and opens the door on the din.

You step back into the party with your cheeks still warm and your mouth tasted of her.

Her hand settles on the back of your neck in a weight that feels like claim and comfort at once.

The little lesbian flag flutters when the AC kicks on, her nose scrunches at the fake smoke machine, and when someone asks if your “girlfriend’s costume is like, an Oni?” Sukuna bares her teeth in a smile that makes the kid topple off the arm of the couch.

“Do not worry,” she says, leaning down to your ear, voice a velvet threat. “I will only eat you.”

“Still not what that means,” you whisper back, laughing into your cup.

“Mm,” she says.

Her thumb strokes absent circles at the base of your skull.