cuttlebuddy

A = Aftercare: Idia Shroud is the WORST at aftercare, and I say this with so much love and kindness to the walking punching bag that calls himself a man. Genuinely though, sex overstimulates him so badly, so he cannot handle anything after the fact. He’s the kind to roll over off you (more like slide you off him) and fall asleep immediately. Of course, he mumbles out something about it feeling good and all that stuff, but 9 times out of 10 he’s out like a light.

B = Body part: He is a thigh man. He doesn’t care if it's thick and meaty, he just wants to rest his head on it. Maybe give it a nibble, if you’d let him of course (consent is key, even for a dirty Otaku like him). For him… he doesn’t like most things about himself, but if you seem to like something about him a lot, he grows to like it too. So if you like his hair, it’s probably his hair, if you like his lips or teeth it’s them. (What can I say, he’s weak for you).

C = Cum: SALTYYYYY! He doesn’t take care of himself what did you expect. It’s unpleasant to taste, and there’s A LOT of it to taste. It’s a pretty thick consistency and really sticky, fun to play with and watch dribble down your stomach and face. 

D = Dirty secret: He wants you to peg him. I wouldn’t say that’s much of a secret, but he thinks it is. 

E = Experience: NONE. Zip, zero, zilch. I make fun of Malleus for being a Virgin, but IDIA IS A VIRGIN. He’ll blush to hold your hand, it’s that bad. However, he does watch a LOT of Porn (Hentai specifically), so he has… an idea of what to do. He’s really nervous first time around, but once he gets comfortable with you he’s pretty good, just a little unrealistic in his expectations sometimes.

F = Favorite position: Doggy! Especially if you’re wearing cute little puppy or kitty ears! He likes watching the way your back arches, and he’s a big fan of pulling your hair or squeezing your hips. Other than that, he loves face-sitting. Surrounded by your thighs, oh that’s a good death for Idia Shroud.

G = Goofy: Initially, he is entirely on accident. He wants to be serious and cool about it, but he’s like a blushing schoolgirl and making a million mistakes. His line delivery is so… cringe and embarrassing you can’t help but laugh. It humiliates him, but eventually, he learns to just embrace it, and he becomes pretty goofy. He loves cracking jokes just to see you smile, cause the one thing he loves more than your thighs has to be your pretty little smile.

H = Hair: I know it’s blue flames too, I just know it. That shit is not tamed either. Like he trims, but honestly it’s hard to control something that's constantly shifting and changing. And, before you ask, yes it does flare up with his emotions like his hair does too. 

I = Intimacy: Depends… Idia isn’t someone I would ever describe as romantic, but he is a sweetie. He likes it hard and rough so it’s hard to say it’s very romantic, but he does like you close and he loves looking at you. You catch him smiling down at you like you’re some kind of goddess sometimes. You won’t catch him saying cheesy lines like how much he loves you or how pretty you are (cause it will actually kill him if he does).

J = Jack off: Mastrubating champ of NRC. He’s alone in his room 90% of the time with unlimited access to the internet and is also an Otaku. Sorry if you disagree, but you’re wrong. I know he gets off at least once a day, more if he has the time. 

K = Kink: Another biter, he just loves marking you up and sending you off with a pretty bruise for everyone to see. He’s a sadomasochist too, depending on whose topping. He wants you to push him around and hit him, make him feel helpless, it’s his favorite thing. Also into pet play, cosplay, roleplaying, and… any kind of play honestly. The weirder the better for him.

L = Location: His room and his room alone. Maybe yours, but he does not trust anyone in your dorm to respect your privacy. Besides, if he’s in his room he knows where everything is, and he can ensure no one will be getting in and seeing you that way.

M = Motivation: Most things, honestly. Be nice to him? He’s hard. Be mean to him? He’s hard. Beat him in his favorite game and act all smug (he let you win)? He’s hard. Lose and pout about it? He’s hard. He’s a sensitive guy, okay, and he thinks everything you do is super hot. Not his fault.

N = No: Share or let someone watch. Absolute nos from him. The idea of sharing you with someone and you like them more? Hah, he’d kill himself. He’s also not a fan of anyone seeing either of you in such a compromising position. He’s too nervous and possessive to let that out of the privacy of his room. Also, this might be controversial, but I can’t see him being into any kind of sibling shit. Too weird for him, he’d never want to think of his precious little brother like that, so why would he want to think of you like that?

O = Oral: He prefers receiving because watching the way you tease him with your sultry gaze as he sinks impossibly further down your throat is… heavenly. Though he isn’t bad at giving either. His tongue is long and boy can that thing move, it can reach places you didn’t even know were possible. Plus his teeth nipping at your most sensitive areas? Praise the seven, that’s good shit.

P = Pace: Fast and rough. He likes to just go at it, and he doesn’t like to stop for anything. Prepare to be pounded into next week with no stops!

Q = Quickie: He likes them, and they’re pretty common, but they’re not his favorite. When he has sex, he likes going for more than one round, and the whole point of quickies is that they’re quick so he doesn’t prefer them.

R = Risk: Yeah, he’s game to try some more risky things, but he’ll back out so fast if he’s uncomfortable for even a second. There are some things he wouldn’t consider, like bringing it out of his room. He’s a big fan of risky texts though. Like, a video of you fucking yourself in the bathroom while he’s in a meeting with the other housewardens? No one’s gonna know if he takes care of himself quickly. 

S = Stamina: He goes for multiple fast and quick rounds. He can usually do about four of them before he’s done for the night, but he’s willing to keep going if he doesn’t satisfy your needs along with his (sometimes).

T = Toys: He has a collection, actually, of really wild shit. Tentacles, ‘alien’ dicks, and even the infamous horse cock. He likes to put a bullet in you and control it from his room, watching you struggle to talk to your friends on the cameras he’s definitely allowed to have access to. 

U = Unfair: He likes to tease, but he forgets to sometimes lol. He gets so caught up in his own pleasure that, occasionally, he’ll just forget he wanted to tease you and make you all sensitive and whiny. He also likes to be teased, so please feel free to torture him when you’re topping <3

V = Volume: He tries very hard to be quiet, but bless his soul he is not. He’s so whiny and whimpery and pathetic, it’s very cute. He wants you to make as much noise as possible so that he can hide his shame, but he’ll still cry into your ear since he can’t contain himself.

W = Wild card: He sometimes prints out the pictures you send to him (with permission) and keeps them in his desk. There’s no real reason why, because he has all of them digitally, but something about having physical pictures is more thrilling to him.

X = X-ray: Hehehe, oh Idia. It is long and it is thick, bless his dad’s genetics. I’m talking like almost seven inches big, like… he’s big. It’s veiny, with one really prominent one on the top that runs from the base to just below his tip. Which, by the way, is blue like his lips. 

A = Aftercare: Xavier… kinda sucks at aftercare. Not for lack of effort! He really does try his best to clean you up and ease your aches and pains, but he’s… he’s so tired. Like, entirely worn out, hardly conscious, tired. He always mutters praises and something soft about how much he enjoyed it, but he's not trying too hard to be thorough. For a multitude of reasons... maybe because he likes seeing you messy. Ahem. Just because he isn't actively cleaning you up or massaging you doesn't mean his cuddling and sweetness are ineffective, just... simple! He likes it simple.

B = Body part: Xavier is really fond of his hands (which will be a recurring theme for several of the men here); they’re strong and sturdy and well-trained. He’s honed precise control of them for swordplay, for using his evol, and most importantly, for your pleasure. He’s a fan of the way they sink into your skin, pillowing as he presses deep into it. He can worship you with his fingertips, singing your praises without needing words, drawing them along the planes of your skin as if mapping out his entire world. 

With you, Xavier is an ass man, 100% no questions about it. He also likes your thighs, but the ass beats it out just a little. There’s not one thing about it that he likes; it’s just everything about your ass that he likes. It’s nice and round and soft, and he loves the way it jiggles when he hits it from the back. Furthermore, carrying you around with his hands planted firmly on your ass is a secret pleasure of his that he adores to indulge in.

C = Cum: Xavier likes it messy. I’m talking like all over you, messy, drooling out your pussy messy, covering your face, messy, like genuinely a menace, messy. He likes to see physical proof of his possession of you all over your body. He wishes he could permanently stain your skin with the creamy substance, but that’s not technically biologically possible. 

As for the cum itself, he doesn’t really cum much in one go. It’s smaller spurts of this, like almost shimmering white, creamy-textured cum. It’s not… quite human, and it reminds you a lot of marshmallow fluff when you look at it, but it’s fun to touch and play with (please play with it; he’ll lose his mind). It tastes good too! Almost sweet, which really sells the marshmallow idea, but he assures you that it's normal, so who are you to question it?

D = Dirty secret: Xavier likes to jerk it while you’re sleeping next to him. He thinks you’re so pretty when you’re resting so peacefully next to him, all innocence and virtue in your rest. Your lips parted, and your chest rising and falling in little huffed out breaths, truly a picture of beauty. He can’t help that his mind starts to wander a little, wanting to feel those pretty little lips wrapped around him. Oh, but he could never disturb your precious sleep, so he sits there and jacks himself off so close but so far to your sleeping visage. It also extends further to other types of voyeurism, like watching you in the shower or watching you change just outside your door. He’s aware that it’s rather… unsettling, so he keeps it close to his chest for your sake.

E = Experience: He’s relatively experienced, but quite literally only with variants of you. So, he seems better than he actually is because he just knows what you like. If he were to be with someone else, he’d probably be a bit overwhelmed and unable to serve them well, but with you, he’s phenomenal. He knows all the right spots, the right ticks, everything he knows just way too well. 

F = Favorite position: He’s pretty basic, but doggy style is his favorite position. The ability to watch your ass bounce back on him is heaven to his eyes. It also gives him quite a bit of control over you, which he craves more than he’s willing to say out loud. It’s primal the way that he fucks into you, draping himself over your back and drawing you along his cock over and over, endless and desperate for more. Hard, deep, fast, desperate. His hands squeeze your hips, your sides, they slide between your legs, then they come up to grip your ass and watch the way he sinks into you over and over again.

G = Goofy: He’s not very silly during the act, if at all. Sex is something he uses as a means of releasing pent-up stress and emotions that he doesn’t know how to carefully express to you. There’s this intensity about him during the act, something similar to when he’s fighting wanderers, a fire that burns behind his eyes that you can’t quite comprehend. A need for you that words cannot possibly begin to describe, and that is no laughing matter for him. If you crack jokes, he might give you an odd look because he doesn’t see what’s so funny about the situation you’re in.

H = Hair: He’s not clean-shaven, but he isn’t like a jungle down there. He keeps it clean enough, mostly because he doesn’t want it getting in the way of you when you're going down on him. There’s a nice little tuft of silvery hair, but otherwise not too much to look at. 

With you, though, he couldn’t care less. So long as he gets to eat it, he’s a happy man. If you don’t have a bush? Great! Nice and smooth, more real estate for his tongue. You’re a little hairy; that’s fine; he doesn’t care. Have you got a whole forest? Wonderful, he’s not a hunter for no reason, he’s excited to navigate through that if it means he gets to hear your wonderful moans. And he means it seriously. He will fight you if you seem to imply otherwise, so unless you want a pouty Xavier, I suggest just letting it go.

I = Intimacy: While he tends to come off as a very dominant person in bed, he’s actually rather intimate. Even when he’s being rougher and more aggressive, there’s still a gentleness to how he fucks you. It’s the way he holds your hand, the way he presses his forehead to yours as he whispers dirty words in your ears, the way he looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky. It’s an intense energy that leaves you breathless with each thrust, filling you with all his love over and over until you’re stuffed full of it.

J = Jack off: Despite his tendency to… watch from a distance, he doesn’t actually bother jerking off by himself often. If he’s that needy, he can just go to you; you’ll help him out with that big old smile like you always do. However, if you’re busy and you really can’t help him, then… fine… he’ll use his hand. He pouts about it, though, and you can immediately tell when he does it because he seems to be upset that you weren’t the one wrapping your hand around him.

K = Kink: I already mentioned that he’s quite the voyeur, and he’s also big on watching you touch yourself. He sits there very patiently as you circle your fingers over your clit, plunge them inside your sopping hole, practically begging for him to take over. You never get to finish yourself off, though; he’s far too impatient.

He’s also very into marking you up; pretty purple love bites litter your thighs, chest, and neck. Not only this, but other markers really get him excited, like seeing you covered in his cum, having you wear his clothes, smelling his cologne on you. He loves that there’s a marker claiming you as his own for everyone to see. One glance and people can see that you belong ot him, plain and simple.

He’s also quite an exhibitionist, though he isn’t into being watched; he just likes having the ability to have you wherever he likes to. If you’re both in the mood and there’s time and a place to hide, why not? He was told once that neglecting your sexual needs could lead to tension in a relationship, so he wants to take care of your needs whenever and wherever you’re willing to.

Finally, and most obviously, he’s into somnophilia (receiving). While he’s okay waking you up with his head between his thighs, he much prefers it when the first thing he sees waking up is you peering up at him with his dick down your throat. It’s a very nice, warm welcome to reality.

L = Location: I just mentioned he’s an exhibitionist, but I want to emphasize that it’s mostly out of convenience. He can’t always wait until he gets home to relieve himself, and neither can you. If he could choose, though, he would pick his bed every time. Seeing you tangled up in his sheets, nice and cozy and heated while he fucks himself into you is always a turn on.

M = Motivation: When you piss him off, it is 100% guaranteed to get him going. Specifically, when you’re teasing him and poking fun at him for something (like Lumiere), he’ll let you go for a while, but eventually… he has to teach you a lesson about behaving. He may seem soft and sweet, but he’s a man, too; he can only handle so much of that cute little smirk before he needs you on your knees, wrapping your lips around him. Getting him jealous is also a surefire way to have him drag you away to a secluded area and fuck you until you can only say his name. 

N = No: No sharing at all. It’s not a debate; it’s not up for question; it’s a no. He can’t handle the idea of someone else finding you attractive, let alone seeing them touch you. If they value their hands, they’ll keep them far, far away from your body.

O = Oral: He’s obsessed, genuinely and completely obsessed with the way you feel on his tongue. You are his favorite flavor, and he wishes every food could taste as you do. If he were to die tomorrow, he would want to be buried between your folds, drowning in your juices as he brought you to completion. It’s a messy ordeal, too, leaving his face soaking with drool and cum dripping down his chin, slopping onto his chest in a disgustingly depraved way.

P = Pace: He can go hard and rough or slow and soft; it simply depends on mood and time. He likes to take his time with you just as much as he likes to put you in your place. Sometimes he’s going so hard and fast that you can only think of his name, babbling out thank-yous and I'm-sorrys without any cognizance. Other times, he’s easing you through your orgasm, slow and easy thrusts while he hums praises and rubs his thumbs in slow circles across your hips. It’s all dependent on how you act, so if you want one kind of sex, it’s fairly easy to sway him either way if you know what triggers him.

Q = Quickie: As I’ve mentioned multiple times, he does like quickies. They’re fairly common between the two of you, being much more convenient and simpler between work and other chores you have to do. Still, he does prefer actual sessions where you can be more intimate about it all. He likes the connection he gets from being with you like this, and he can’t savor it as much as he wants when you have to be quick.

R = Risk: I don’t think he’s much of a risk-taker at all, other than the exhibitionism thing, which isn’t really risky because he’s rather careful about it. He doesn’t like putting you through unnecessary stress, and he doesn’t like the idea of seeing you in any kind of danger, even if it’s controlled by him. If you want to try more risky things, like maybe holding his sword to his throat or choking him out, that’s fine; he’ll try that for you… Not on you, though. He won’t do it for anything.

S = Stamina: He does have a lot of physical stamina; he can go for a really long time, but he gets tired easily. His mind gets foggy and his eyes droopy, and his head gets full far faster than he’d like when he’s with you. It’s overwhelming and all-encompassing, but he always pushes himself through to overstimulation. All because he just adores seeing how you squirm and react beneath him. He wants to spend just a little longer connected with you like this, if you’ll allow him that.

T = Toys: I can’t see him liking toys very much; he gets… annoyed by them. Truthfully, those silly little things can’t hold a candle to the pleasure he can bring you. It’s almost insulting for you to bring it up or even try, not when you know how he feels buried inside. He won’t throw your toys out or anything - though he’s thought about it - but if he walks in on you using them, he’s quick to prove himself better than the stupid rabbit you seem to like so much.

U = Unfair: Ohhhh, he can be mean when he wants to be. It depends on how much you’ve managed to piss him off, but he can be just unruly with how much he teases. He’ll hold you back from your orgasm for so long, and then make you cum in rapid succession over and over until you’re sobbing. His only goal is to remind you just who has the power in bed, because it’s most certainly not you.

V = Volume: He’s pretty quiet all things considered, but boy, can he talk. His normally silent and standoffish demeanor melts away to a soft-spoken dom who intends to make you listen to each word carefully. His words are all dripping with honey as he scolds you for “letting Charlie get so friendly” again, describing in detail what he’s doing to you, what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling, what he wants you to feel.

W = Wild card: He’s kinda shy about the way he is in the bedroom. It’s the very opposite of who he is as a person, so his ears burn red when you tease him about it. He isn’t embarrassed by his ability to take care of and control things in the bedroom, but he just feels shy about it when you’re the one teasing him.

X = X-ray: Xavier is pretty average in size, about five inches long, but he’s on the thicker side of things. There are no remarkable veins or marks or anything, but it’s very, very pretty. Pale like him, with the softest baby pink tip that blushes red when he’s fully erect. It curves up just slightly, so when it’s inside, it rubs along the ribbed part of your walls deliciously.

Y = Yearning: Xavier is a yearner, but he’s mostly tame compared to the other men on this list. He longs for your touch and thinks about the way you feel endlessly, but at the end of the day, he’s able to repress it pretty well. Honestly, it’s up to you to give the green flag; he won’t push for anything and can happily spend the night cuddling you rather than fuckign you into the sheets.

Z = Zzz: As mentioned in aftercare, he’s pretty quick to fall asleep after the fact. His mind is so heavy, as is his body, and he wants nothing more than to curl up in the warmth of the afterglow with you beside him. 

Zayne (Word Count: 2.3k)

A = Aftercare: Zayne is fantastic at aftercare, without a doubt. He’s a doctor, so obviously he knows all the right steps to take to make sure you’re okay and with him after the fact (especially because he’s a little freak). However, he can be a little too medical about everything sometimes. It can come off as detached in some ways because he’s going through a checklist of things before he feels as though he can relax and enjoy himself. Though once that checklist is finished, he becomes the softest and sweetest mushy puddle in the palm of your hand.

B = Body part: His favorite thing about himself is his hands. They’ve worked hard to get him to the point where he can touch and hold you without fear. They care for your health, they make you your food, they caress you when you’re tired, they’re the key to you in his eyes. Without them, there would be no way for him to have you as you are; of course they’re his favorite.

With all that sweetness out of the way, he likes your tits. Those hands were made to grab at your chest, engulf whatever they can, and hold it tight. There’s just something about the soft flesh there that he can’t quite explain. Maybe it’s because he’s not supposed to be touching them so often; maybe it’s because it's a sign of trust, whatever it is… it does him good and well.

C = Cum: He has maybe the healthiest cum you’ve ever seen. It’s a perfect consistency, just the right off-white color, and not too much and not too little. The only issue is… well… it’s a little bitter. All those sweets he likes to sneak catch up to him here, and it lends to an acidic kind of taste. If it bothers you, though, he’s ready and happy to switch up your diet to attain a much more… sweet taste.

He’s pretty clean when it comes to where it goes. It’s either inside you or it’s in a condom. He doesn’t like to clean up big messes after the fact, and he finds it a bit too degrading to cum on your face or anything. Though not so much when you stick your tongue out and show him like it’s a trophy… hmm…

D = Dirty secret: Very much enjoys the idea of having you under his desk in a professional setting. He’s a bit too professional to act on it (stick-in-the-mud loser), but that doesn’t stop him from fantasizing about it in the end. You could, perhaps, convince him if you whine about it long enough… but it could also backfire and get you in trouble. Up to you if you want to push or not.

E = Experience: This nerd is a big fat virgin; he dedicated his life to becoming a doctor (for you, of course), and he had no intention of getting distracted along the way. He doesn’t have much experience, but he does have a lot of knowledge of female anatomy. Before your first time, he did a ridiculous amount of research just to make sure that he would be able to satisfy you properly. He also takes note of your likes and dislikes and adjusts himself accordingly.

F = Favorite position: He’s fine with just about anything so long as he’s on top and able to watch your reactions. His favorites lean more toward classics like missionary, but he’s also big into prone bone. He enjoys being able to keep you still and having control over your pleasure while also being able to measure how much you enjoy something he’s doing.

G = Goofy: Sex is not a laughing matter? This guy doesn’t see the appeal in making something so intimate funny. Of course, if something silly happens, he can laugh it off, but he doesn’t enjoy intentionally making the mood goofy. Sex and intimacy are serious matters to him. Take them seriously.

H = Hair: Zayne tends to keep himself trimmed and clean enough, mostly to make sure that you enjoy sucking him off. Because you do that. A lot. It’s not for any other purpose than making it easier for you. He doesn’t need your nose itching mid-blowjob. If it upsets you enough, he might consider letting it grow… but it's a low chance.

You, however, don’t need to do anything. Keep that hair on your body for the love of god or else he will fall to his knees in despair. I’m joking, mostly. Really, though, he prefers that you keep most of your bush there. It’s good for keeping you healthy and safe, plus he really likes the feel of it. Call him a creep if you will, but he likes you hairy more than he does not.

I = Intimacy: While he can be a bit of a freak, I think Zayne does see sex as the most intimate form of romance possible. You are sharing a very vulnerable experience, and as such, he wants to ensure the whole ride is comfortable and pleasant. Even when he’s being rougher or crueler, he does gentle consent checks and ensures that you are 100% for everything the two of you decide to indulge in.

J = Jack off: Believe it or not, I don’t think Zayne has much of a stigma about jerking it in his spare time. Of course, he’d much rather be with you, but in the event he can’t, he doesn’t feel much shame in doing what he must. He’s a medical professional, after all; he understands the benefits of taking care of his own sexual gratification. He’ll only ever get off on you, though. He doesn’t like porn (thinks it’s unhealthy, and it perpetuates poor culture around women (woke ass bitch. Me too. Me too.)), and he finds you and your pictures far more titillating than any random duo online.

K = Kink: The original brat tamer, he wrote the texts, basically. Really, what else could be more satisfying than reminding you of your place beneath him? Press his buttons, be a little nuisance, get him angry, you’ll regret it by the end of the night (or… not lol). Just fills him with pride, putting you back where you belong and getting you to submit like the good girl you are.

Big on eye contact, if that wasn’t obvious. Leans into his whole power play thing that he loves so much, but making sure you look at him while you’re taking it is a must. If you look away, he’ll force your chin back where it belongs and keep it there until you can be trusted to behave on your own.

He loves sensory play, ironically considering the eye contact thing. He just likes having power over you and being in control. What better way to exert that than on all of your senses? Blindfolds offer such a unique way to make you squirm, leather and silk make goosebumps rise on your skin, whispering in your ear to make your thighs rub together. Goodness, it’s such a sight. He can’t help but indulge himself a little.

Dom/Sub dynamics, if that wasn’t so fucking obvious yet. He is always the dom in the scenario, and he takes great pleasure in his role. You are reliant on him for your pleasure, so you must behave or else you’ll suffer consequences. Just a freak, man.

L = Location: “Little bedroom boy,” I said out loud while writing this. I don’t think he enjoys sex outside of his bedroom, maybe in his at-home office, but really he prefers the bedroom because it’s the most controlled space he owns. Everything he needs is already there anyway. Though he can be convinced to take you against walls and windows and whatnot if you’re really getting on his nerves. He can’t let you think you can misbehave so freely, can he?

M = Motivation: I think I’ve made this pretty clear, but you gotta annoy him and act up to get him going. Just about any way works, intentional or not. Be very careful, though, depending on how far you go, he can be hella fucking mean. Unless that's what you want… then I guess have fun not cumming all night lol.

N = No: Controversial take, I don’t think he’s willing to use his evol in bed, like at all. He sees it as such a negative trait of his, even if it has helped him before. It’s hurt you. That’s enough to scare him off from ever letting it touch your skin again. It happened once, and no matter how calm and controlled he can be, it could happen again. He won’t let it happen again. 

O = Oral: Zayne prefers getting head more than he does giving. Not that he won’t, of course; he’s happy to eat you until heaven comes…  but if he had to pick? Nothing really beats the sight of you on your knees between his legs. And, of course, it’s the only time you’ll get to mess around and see him come apart for you… Why wouldn’t you like it also? He enjoys taking his time with you if you’ve been good, and he’ll be a little mean if you’ve been bad. But, one thing's for sure, he’s always cumming in your mouth and you better show him before and after you swallow.

P = Pace: Generally depends on his mood, but overall he’s the type to take his time. He goes slow, and he’s really intentional with each thrust that he gives you. Zayne wants to feel you in every way possible, and the best way to do that is to take his time. That’s not to say it's soft, though. Zayne is slow, but he goes hard, especially if you’ve been misbehaving. Drags it out as a punishment, but if you’re good he’ll be sweet and gentle and let you cum as many times as you like. So he’s not too mean, is he?

Q = Quickie: Because of the nature of what Zayne is into, I don’t think he would be a big fan of quickies. They’re too… well… quick. He really likes to take his time with you, whether you’re being punished or he’s doing something sweet and romantic; quickies do not allow for that. Also, where do you think he’ll find the time? I’m serious. He’s so busy, even quickies aren’t fast enough. I think perhaps, on a very rare occasion, when you’ve really tested your luck, you might get one out of him. Might.

R = Risk: No. Zayne doesn’t like to put you in harm's way, and he very much needs control over the situation for him to be comfortable with it. So, do not expect him to take any risks at all. Not his thing.

S = Stamina: He may not be the most impressive in comparison to Rafayal (god) or Sylus (dragon) or Caleb (freak), but he’s pretty long-lasting. He has to be for what he enjoys, not to mention he’s so incredibly disciplined that he can hold out for insane amounts of time if he needs to. Generally, though, he does his best to match his stamina to yours. If you can only go for a short time, he’ll only go for a short time. If you can last longer, he’ll last longer too. 

T = Toys: Toys are strictly reserved as a punishment and for lesson learning. Say you got a little too bold, say you pushed one too many buttons, and the usual pounding isn’t enough of a message. That’s where Zayne punishes you through means of inaction. It’s up to you to get off by yourself with whatever toy he selected for you, knowing damn well it’s so much more difficult for you to get off without his help. He’s conditioned you well, after all. 

U = Unfair: He can be the meanest man you’ve ever met if you push him to that point. Case in point, look above. If he sees it necessary, he’ll ignore your needs entirely to get a point across. Sometimes, the hardest lessons must be taught by stonewalling you. That way you’ll think twice before misbehaving again.

V = Volume: Very, very quiet. He doesn’t tend to make much noise because he doesn’t like to make much noise. He finds it rather… embarrassing to hear himself. Plus, he’d rather hear you anyway. Far nicer to the ears, he thinks.

W = Wild card: Secretly likes when you send him risque photos/videos/audios while he’s at work. Of course, he’ll scold you for doing it every time, but he never means it. How could he complain, really? He gets to see you so pretty for him while he’s all busy. A little reminder of what waits for him at home. And, truthfully, part of the enjoyment of taming you is letting you have a little fun every once in a while.

X = X-ray: Like everything with Zayne, he’s the perfect balance. He’s around 5.3 inches long, slim enough but not so slim that he’s like a pencil. There are a few veins running along his shaft, about halfway up along the side, and one near the sensitive underside of his head. Pale to the tip and flushed a bright red when fully erect. (In the words of the ever-wise Zayne lover Marcus, “It's the perfect dick.” or whatever.)

Y = Yearning: Zayne is such a yearner; he would sit on the sidelines for the rest of his life and watch you be happy without him if it meant you were happy at all. Luckily, that’s not the case here, but my point stands. He yearns for you endlessly, sexually and not, but he’s also able to restrain himself. He loves you first and foremost, after all.

Z = Zzz: Will not sleep until he’s sure that you are all settled and happy, and even still, he’ll stay up just a bit longer to talk to you. Pillow talk after the fact is a big factor of intimacy to him, so it's imperative that he stays awake long enough to see you drift off to dreamland himself.

Rafayel (Word Count: 2.8k)

A = Aftercare: Our little dramatic mermaid likes to pretend he can’t do anything after he’s finished with you (or you’re finished with him). Dragging out every step of cleaning up and taking care of each other with irritating little complaints, but he doesn’t mean any of it. Really, though, he does prefer to just… lie there for a while and take in what he has. It’s the first time in a while that he’s been able to do such a thing, so he wants to savor it while he can. I will say, though, he’s actually very attentive about it all, even if he does complain. He’s fond of your pampering, but he’s sure you get what you need, even if you don’t realize he’s giving it to you.

B = Body part: Rafayel’s favorite body part is not his hands; believe it or not, it’s actually his collarbones. By extension, it’s also his chest, but particularly his collar. There’s a reason he shows it off so much: he knows that they’re attractive, but that’s not the real reason. The real reason he’s so fond of them is that that’s where your bond is. Even if it isn’t usually visible, in his mind, he likes that he’s showing off where you claim one another. 

Furthermore, it’s the same for you. Your collar is where your bond is, so that’s what he likes to see. Not to mention, he just finds any skin you show attractive. He’ll trace his fingers along the bone there lightly, savoring the feeling of it being there at all. Trace his lips across them patiently, taking his time to savor the skin. He tries not to mark it there, if you can believe that. He feels it’s pointless to do so and a bit of an insult to your bond. You’ve already got the most impressive mark there. Why should he cover it with a bruise?

C = Cum: Rafayel is strange in this department. He cums quite a bit, oftentimes it leaks out of you with only one round, but it’s not quite… right. It’s definitely not human, more liquid-like, and not as sticky as a regular man would be. It’s a fairly clean white, though, and it doesn’t smell too bad. Most interestingly, it tastes rather good, better than anyone else you might’ve been with (good, he thinks, though he pouts about you being with anyone else in the first place). It’s essentially like shirako, which is a creamy kind of fish sperm from Japan (though it’s served elsewhere), with a buttery kind of taste and a hint of something sweet. Pretty yummy (if u can ever try shirako, I suggest it).

D = Dirty secret: It’s hard to think of a dirty secret because Rafayel holds little shame about his sexual desires, especially when it comes to you. He’s fairly indulgent in this lifetime because he hasn’t been able to really savor you before. However, I think if he had to pick one, his dirty little secret is his rather unsubtle need to have you reliant on him. He’d like to take you beneath the waves someday because you’d be pretty helpless with your little human legs. Clinging to him so you don’t get swept away, so easy to take advantage of. Oh, yes, he’d like that a lot.

E = Experience: He’s probably experienced. I get the impression that he would be, but not because he wanted to be. If it were up to him, the only thing his dick would touch would be you, but he’s had to do some things and make some choices in his efforts to build his little connections. So, yeah, he’s experienced, and he’s not particularly jazzed about it either. But… if it makes things better for you… Then so be it. It’s not like he’ll be sleeping with any other person now that he’s got you, so what’s in the past is past. (Hypocritically, if he finds out you’ve been with anyone else, he pouts and grumbles about loyalty. He won’t accept the same excuse of “being better for him” because it’s different. For some reason.)

F = Favorite position: He’s a fan of anything that has you in his lap, specifically where he can see your eyes. Anything that puts you in an elevated position above him, honestly. He doesn’t have a favorite position specifically, but if you pressed him, he’d probably say cowgirl to get you off his case. He just likes being able to look up at you; it’s cathartic. In all your past lives, you were the one looking up at him, so now he gets to see what the view is like, and he enjoys it a little too much for someone with the amount of power he holds. Don’t mistake that for submission, though; just because he’s below you doesn’t mean he’s powerless.

G = Goofy: Rafayel is the MOST willing to be silly with you (other than Sylus). I think a lot of the time, he wants to enjoy sex with you. He wants you to smile, laugh, and have a good time with him. Nothing but positive memories about your sexual encounters. However, there are times when he’s very serious, and joking around isn’t going to do anything but get you in trouble. That’s usually reserved for when he’s feeling jealous of something, for whatever reason, or when you’ve been a little too bratty. Sometimes he has to remind you that your actions have consequences. 

H = Hair: I think Rafayel is smooth, but I’m not sure if it’s because he shaves or because he doesn’t grow much downstairs. He wouldn’t tell you anyway. Rafayel also doesn’t mind if you’re hairy or smooth; he’ll deal with what he has and enjoy it all the same. However, oddly enough, he likes to shave you? Lol? It’s a pretty intimate ordeal with how careful he has to be, and it’s a big show of trust between the two of you. 

I = Intimacy: There is nothing more important to Rafayel than intimacy, both in the bedroom and out of it. He is savoring every moment he has with you because he’s been without you more than he’s had you. So, sex is something far deeper than the physical connection between you. It’s a display of his love for you, a deep connection that melds body and mind, letting yourselves go and indulging in the pleasure that only your bond can bring you. And to him, because of his heightened senses, he might as well be within your skin. Every smell, every sound, every touch is dizzying to him, and he yearns for you to get lost in him the same way he does you.

J = Jack off: Does it more than you’d think, doesn’t mean he likes it. Sometimes he has to deal with himself to get things done, but he really does prefer to have you. He’ll do just about anything he has to to avoid it, including leaving mid-exhibit so that he can take care of himself with you rather than his hand. He won’t even do it for you because that is not his job when you’re present. Just… let him have that.

K = Kink: Is impregnation too obvious? Maybe it is, but he’s a big fan of the idea of getting you pregnant. Whether or not he’d like you being pregnant (he would) doesn’t matter so much as being able to stuff you full. And as we’ve explained, he really can stuff you. He’s careful about it, of course, because maybe getting you pregnant is more work than either of you would like at this point in your life… but the idea is nice.

Period sex. Not sure if this really constitutes a kink, but holy fuck, he gets so turned on eating you out on your period. Maybe because he likes the mess, maybe because he likes the taste (freak), but he can’t help it. Besides, it helps you feel better! What boyfriend would he be if he didn’t relieve you in your time of need?

There is something so incredibly delightful about fucking you to the point of tears. You are so pretty when you cry from pleasure, those tear tracks are the most beautiful thing in the world in his eyes. He loves to lick at them too, the salty taste of painful pleasure is too much for him to resist.

Finally, Rafayel likes it when you’re fucked dumb. He already loves when you play a little stupid (or take him at his word when you definitely should not), and so fucking you until you can’t think is a given. He loves how you babble and ramble on about nothing, only able to think of how good his dick feels when he’s taking you. So cute and reliant on only him <3

L = Location: Prettyyyyy sure he can go at it just about anywhere. He doesn’t have the same level of shame that a normal human person would… because he’s not human. If he wants to have sex (and you are okay with it, because he’s a good little fishie), he’ll be having sex wherever he damn well pleases. Though his favorite location is in his art studio, having you sprawled out amongst all his hard work is a favorite sight of his that he cannot get enough of.

M = Motivation: Most things get him going, honestly. But the big one is when you’re being a little ditzy. He loves how much you just lean into whatever he says, even when it’s the most blatant lie in the world. The more control you give him over a situation, the more he likes it. The more stupid you act, the better it gets for him. He finds it cute when you lean into it, especially when you know how silly you look. So willing to make a fool of yourself just for him, you must really love him, huh?

N = No: He won’t hurt you, like ever. At all. It’s just such a disgusting feeling to him, hitting you, choking you, harming you. He’d rather die than see a bruise (that isn’t a lovebite) welling up on your skin. Everything he does with you is done with extreme care and a lot of holding back of his own strength. If you’re using restraints, they're the softest silk and tied only as tight as it needs to be, not tight enough to leave burns. If he’s holding you down, he’s careful not to leave any imprints on you. The very idea of causing you harm is enough to make him suicidal; please don’t ask him to.

O = Oral: Oh, as a fish, he’s not afraid to get a little wet. I kid, I kid. Rafayel is a big eater, though that shouldn’t come as a surprise from him. There is something delicious about you; your taste is sweeter than the finest wine on the market, and you’d swear he’s formed an addiction to it with how often he’s on his knees for you. There’s also the added bonus of the view from between your legs, and the sounds you make, and the complete and total control he has over your pleasure like this. Not to mention the way your thighs squeeze his head, if it popped, he would die a happy man. Right where he belongs for the rest of his days.

P = Pace: Generally, Rafayel prefers to take it slow and easy, but he tends to get overeager and lose himself to the feel of you. Can you blame him? You’re so nice and warm, and you squeeze him all tight and sweet. He can’t help but get excited. Worry not, though, he’s always sure to take his time. He’s not going to waste a second without savoring the feel of you around him.

Q = Quickie: He is really good at them, like really good at them, but he’s not a big fan overall. With his tendency for risky locations, he has to be good at being quick and sneaky – and trust me, you never ever leave unsatisfied – but he doesn’t wanna! He wants to take his time with you always, but oopsies, he doesn’t get to do that when he’s being a horny idiot in public. Too bad, so sad, Raf.

R = Risk: In the sense of location? Yes! As established, he’s willing to go at it just about anywhere, regardless of risk factor. He’s conscious enough about other people to keep you from prying eyes, but that's about as far as risk goes for him. He’s always in control of whatever scenario he’s put you in because he hates having any sense that something could happen to you.

S = Stamina: His stamina is incredibly high, like incredibly high. In part because he’s strong, and another because he’s a god. He doesn’t have the same physical limitations as you might, so he can kind of just go as long as he wants, and he always outlasts you. Even if you think you can beat him, you definitely cannot. It’s a futile battle. Just let our fishie take care of you.

T = Toys: I’m going to say a big fat no. Cutie… why would you need those things? You have him :(... is he not good enough? Dramatic ass. Seriously though, he doesn’t like the idea of you using toys or him using toys. Let's just throw them out, okay!

U = Unfair: As much as he loves having fun and as much as he wants you to enjoy yourself with him, he also likes being a little mean. Especially when you’ve left him alone all day, or you’ve made him jealous, or you’ve teased him too much. Really, any reason is enough to make him leave you hanging on the edge for hours. You’re soooo cute when you cry, when you’re squirming and begging him to let you cum. Poor thing. Should’ve been nicer; maybe then you wouldn’t be here in the first place.

V = Volume: He is loud as fuck when he wants to be. He doesn’t really have much shame about the sounds he’s making, so he’s going to be making them as much as he wants. Of course, he prefers that you make more noise for him, but doesn’t see the point in holding himself back when he’s enjoying himself so much.

W = Wild card: Secretly wants to be pegged. (“Secretly”). He likes his control more than most, but it would be nice to just lie back and let you have your fun too. He jokes about it a lot, to the point that you definitely know that he’s not joking, but he won’t ever outwardly ask for it.

X = X-ray: Rafayel has a strange situation going on below the belt, given the fact that he isn’t human. See, in his human form, you’d probably never guess it. He’s, by all means, regular in appearance – if not a little bigger than your average guy. Somewhere around six inches long, proportional in thickness, pretty heavy balls. It’s pale like him, with a soft pinkish tip that looks carefully painted on, rather than natural. It’s kind of like an art project in and of itself… but you’re not here for that, are you?

Rafayel has a second penis, but it’s only presented to you in his mer form. Usually, he keeps it tucked away because it’s a little jarring to see. It’s the same purple-blue as his fins are. Shorter in length than his human penis, but thick at the base and tapering off like a tentacle. It moves like one, too, and he can manipulate it like another limb. This is, for lack of a more sexy term, the baby-maker. It’s also more sensitive than his human one, which is part of why he neglects to let you see it often. Doesn’t like how easy it is to make him weak with it.

Y = Yearning: If Caleb did not exist, Rafayel would be the biggest yearner in the world. As they say, a man who yearns, earns. And Rafayel is a big earner. He wants you at all times of the day, in all ways humanly (and not humanly) possible. If you could, he’d probably spend the rest of his life inside you, but he’ll stick to what he can get for now.

Z = Zzz: Never falls asleep first. He likes to watch you, no matter how long you’ve been gone, no matter how tired he is; he just wants to watch you for a while. Call him a sap; something is reassuring in seeing that you are there and you are okay, and it affirms to him that you are real. This is real. He doesn’t have to worry about losing you again. Not if he can help it.

Sylus (Word Count: 2.2k)

A = Aftercare: King of aftercare, without a doubt. He’s always got what you need without you even thinking about it. He doesn’t want you to lift a finger for even a moment, and so he makes sure that you don’t. You won’t have to worry about cleaning yourself up, won’t need to feel the aches in your joints in the morning, won’t have to ask for food or water, Sylus has it already. You’ll need for nothing. It’s his job to provide, after all.

B = Body part: For Sylus, it’s hard to pick between his hands and his chest. Truly! His hands have helped him build this little empire for the two of you; they’re also useful for fighting off any idiots getting too pesky, and you seem fond of them. But… his chest is also special. It holds his heart inside, which belongs entirely to you, and he cherishes each moment it beats because it’s a moment when he is alive at the same time as you. It’s also where you rest your head at night, and that is more special to him than words can describe.

I think, similarly to himself, your chest – your heart specifically – is something he cherishes. It’s reassuring to feel it beat against your ribcage, reminds him that you are alive. He is determined to keep it that way, this time. No dying in his name in this life.

C = Cum: Sylus makes sure that everything is up to snuff for you, that means his cum too. While it’s a bit different because… he’s not a human being, it’s healthy. He makes sure that it’s nothing to gag at, in fact, his diet is structured in a way that it’s kind of sweet? Not that he enjoys cumming in your mouth (he feels it’s beneath you, really), but just in case. Speaking of, he’s very much a “I cum inside or in a condom,” and that’s it. Doesn’t mind if it spills out a little, but he will be scooping it up and stuffing it back in.

D = Dirty secret: I don’t think Sylus is very ashamed of most of the stuff he’s into or does, so it’s hard to imagine him having any secret that he keeps from you. The only one I could imagine is if, in some world, he got off to you before you’d met each other again through security footage or something of the like. Though I doubt he would do something like that. He’s too honest and forward for this one, guys, sorry.

E = Experience: His experience carries over with his memories, of course. He’s very experienced with you specifically, which is how he manages to know everything you like without you saying it. Though I will say, you are probably his only experience. He doesn’t care to seek another partner while he awaits your return to his arms, nor does he want to. You are the only one for him after all.

F = Favorite position: Backshot bucky baby. As we saw in lingering lust, he’s big into giving it from behind. The way he can grab your waist, your rear, and just lose himself without fear of consequence gets him going wild. Alternatively, anything where you’re in control makes him go a little crazy. He likes looking up at you and admiring your pretty visage as you ride him into tomorrow.

G = Goofy: Believe it or not, he’s actually really fun! Sex can be intimate, and he does like intimacy, but he’s also the biggest fan of your smile and your laugh. So, if he can draw that out of you while also pleasing you, it’s a high unlike anything else for him. Plus, it shows that you really do trust him despite rocky beginnings. Being able to be a little silly in a vulnerable time is everything to him.

H = Hair: Sylus is a bit… scaly? It’s a little jarring considering his otherwise human appearance, but he’s got a patch of black scales that fade into his… ahem… unique members. They’re smooth, though, and they feel more like skin than any hard protective plating. They’re sensitive too, so do with that what you will.

He doesn’t prefer you anyway, honestly. If you want to be bald and smooth, he’ll get you the best appointments for a Brazilian he can find. If you want to be wild and unrestrained, knock yourself out, he won’t complain. You’re somewhere in between - perfect! Whatever you want, it’s yours.

I = Intimacy: Big on intimacy, but I don’t think it’s surprising. He loves having you close, loves looking at you, loves telling you how much he adores you. Honestly, it’s a lot to handle. His sheer devotion to you is intense, but worry not, he knows what you can handle. All you need to know is that you are loved like no other in his heart, and sexual intimacy is his best way of showing that, because gods know his words are rarely good enough to convey his heart to you.

J = Jack off: I think he tries to avoid doing it if he has to, mostly because it's a hassle. There's… a bit more there for him to worry about than most men. There’s also the fact that nothing really works for him in the same way that you do. He tried porn once. Didn’t like it.

K = Kink: He likes being tamed by you. He’s a bit of a wild animal, rough around the edges and so argumentative, he needs to be told off a little. By you, of course. (Forbid someone else from try to tell him to behave.) Finds your domination so incredibly cute that he can’t help but give in. Sure, it’s a stupid reason to submit, but the proud face you get when he finally decides to listen… oh, it’s beautiful.

Predator/Prey dynamics going both ways… mostly him as the predator in these scenarios. He’s the big scary dragon after all, but if you want to go hunting as the predator, he’s not opposed. He just thinks it's fun to play into those less than innocent primal instincts of his.

Gun play is another big one of his, with a lot of safety precautions put in place (for your sake, not his). There is something just so… mmm… stimulating about having your gun pressed to his forehead as you use him as you like. It requires so much trust in you, and you have so much trust that he will be okay. He can’t help it, he’s into the risk factor of it all.

Last but not least, he’s very big on restraining each other. Usually with his evol, because gods know nothing else is strong enough to hold him down. Being at your mercy, or you at his, alights a switchboard in his brain, forgive him. He can’t help that you in positions of power are so… so hot.

L = Location: I think that entire mansion of his has seen your bare ass, to be quite frank. He enjoys acquainting you with everywhere and anywhere he can. He also doesn’t care too much about doing anything in public because you’ll never get caught with him around. You can be pretty reckless and know for a fact Sylus would never let anyone else catch you. Unless you wanted to be caught… mmm… no. He’s not too big on sharing you.

M = Motivation: Well… you are the motivation! Okay, seriously, your enthusiasm and honesty with your needs are all it really takes for him to be enthusiastic and honest with you, too. You don’t have to jump through hoops to get him aroused; all you need to do is say yes, and he’s ready to go for you too.

N = No: Another guy who just doesn’t like hurting you, but particularly he doesn’t like degrading you at all. His whole thing is encouraging you to take and take and take, making you feel small for doing that defeats the purpose of all that work he put in. It’s simply the opposite of what he wants to see from you, and as such, he doesn’t do it unless expressly asked… and even then he’s on the fence.

O = Oral: Not only is this guy good at giving, he’s obsessed with it, too. Half of the fun of sex is foreplay, and getting you ready with his mouth is just about his favorite thing in the world. It helps that his tongue is impossibly long, and he’s very good at moving it around. You didn’t know that something that squirmy could ever get that deep inside you, but fuck does it feel amazing. Don’t be too loud now, it’ll go to his head, and gods know his ego is big enough.

P = Pace: Sylus is a very go-with-the-flow kind of guy; he does whatever the moment calls for, or whatever you request of him. He can be rough and fast, he can be slow and soft, he can do it all. It doesn’t matter too much to him how long it takes, so long as it results in you being a happy, satisfied mess beneath him.

Q = Quickie: I think he would like them! Not as much as regular sex, of course, but they’re fun. And they’re really useful when you get needy out in public when you know you shouldn’t be. He would never shame you for your needs, though, and he certainly wouldn’t withhold them from you. While they’re not as intimate as he likes, he’s happy to indulge you in some mindless fun like you’re both stupid teenagers every once in a while. Keeps him feeling young.

R = Risk: Big into risk so long as its well thought out and done in a manner that keeps you specifically from harm. You can do anything to him, and he’ll probably smile and take it like a good pet, but he’s hesitant to put you in the line of fire. Still, he is good with risk-taking so long as both of you have had a conversation about expectations and the like. He’s not stupid enough to go in blind.

S = Stamina: I don’t think this man knows how to slow down, really. He can go for insane amounts of time, and you’ll probably never know the upper limits of what he can take. What matters is that whatever you want, you get from him. He’s very adaptable.

T = Toys: He’s a true neutral on this subject. He doesn’t really want to hear about or see your exploits with your toys. (Forgive him for being a little possessive.) He doesn’t care too much either way, though it would be unfair to withhold this pleasure from you, even though he’s right there. He’ll just have to prove that he can do better than some stupid vibrator can, that way, you always come to him first.

U = Unfair: Sylus is a bit of a tease, but that’s the lead-up to the fun of the moment usually. To be fully honest, when the heat of the moment hits, Sylus simply can’t find it in himself to tease you. Your reactions are too honest, and it tears him apart to be mean to you. Pleasure comes first, he’s not so mean as to deny you that after all your hard work to get both of you here.

V = Volume: He’s pretty loud, all things considered. He tends to pant and grunt a lot, though he’s not the loudest in sound; he does make a lot of it. He thinks it’s nice to let you know just how much you satisfy him, since you do the same for him. Not embarrassed by himself at all.

W = Wild card: One of his biggest desires is to have you take both of him at the same time, but he has to manage those expectations quite a bit. One is big enough as is, two? That would take a lot of prep work, and it’s quite the selfish desire he has. If you voice the same excitement over it, though, he might be more compelled to give in to his own yearning.

X = X-ray: My condolences to your pussy. There’s really no way around it, he’s kind of impossibly big, and yes… There are two of them. They’re both slightly different sizes, but he’s effective at using either. The larger of the two is about six and a half to seven inches, fat all around, too, somewhere about six inches or so in circumference. The smaller one is around five-ish inches, about four inches in circumference, far more reasonable to take (which is why he opts to use this one more). They’re also, uh, red and black? And ribbed? It’s quite the thing to take. Worry not, Sylus is good about helping you adjust.

Y = Yearning: You are the only thing on his mind at any given time, his precious little kitten, his whole world. He would do just about anything to have you at his side, but he’s patient enough to wait for you. He can want and want and want, but if you don’t want him, well… he can wait as long as you need. He’s not unwilling.

Z = Zzz: Another guy who ain’t snoozing until you’re good to go. He actually likes to fall asleep at the same time as you. Oftentimes after you have sex with him, he’ll rest his head on your chest and fall into a slumber to the sound of your heartbeat. Just in case. Just to make sure.

Caleb (Word Count: 2.7k)

A = Aftercare: Your wellbeing always remains Caleb’s top priority, therefore, his aftercare is thorough. He does consent checks frequently throughout each session, but he always makes sure to do one last look-over to make sure everything went smoothly and to ensure your mental state is still there. He gets a little… mean. So he needs to assure you that you are loved despite his indulgences. Very much a cuddler, very physical. You won’t have to worry about him skimping out on any of your needs; you can rest easy while your Gege is here.

B = Body part: With Caleb, that is the question. I don’t think he really likes anything about himself. Objectively, he’s aware he’s attractive and strong, he knows that he can do good things with his body, but… he doesn’t feel very connected to it. It’s not Caleb’s body anymore, it’s just a weapon. Cold and unfeeling, except for when he’s around you. So, honestly, he just says his favorite body part is whatever your favorite is. If you like it, it can’t be as bad as the rest of him is, right?

Again, with you, that’s the question. What about you is his favorite? Hard to pick, really, too many good options. If you’re asking sexually, he’d probably go with something like your tummy or your thighs. Fun to grab at in the heat of the moment. More generally, he’d say something like your lips. He spent a looooot of time staring at them, wanting to kiss them, throughout his life. Now he can do it whenever he pleases.

C = Cum: Caleb doesn’t take care of himself unless you’re there to make him, so… I don’t think it’s the healthiest or the tastiest. Which is why he tends to avoid letting you eat it, just… kinda gross and bitter. Besides, he prefers to cum on you anyway, creep that he is. It’s a little watery, and he likes to play with it (likes it more when you play with it). Prefers to see it on your stomach or your ass, but if you want he’s more than happy to cum inside :D …No? Okay.

D = Dirty secret: When you were younger, he would do a lot of really creepy and fucked up shit that he has an insane amount of guilt over. These include (but are not limited to): Jacking off to (innocent) photos of you together; Stealing your panties and cumming into them; Standing over your bed to watch you sleep at night; Watching you change through cracks in your door; Getting off to your shampoo in the shower. But that’s not really the secret, because you’ve probably found out about most of these. No, the secret is that he wants to do all of these things still (he does, sometimes), and he wants you to catch him. And he wants you to tell him how gross it is and then indulge him in his creepy little fantasies.

E = Experience: No experience whatsoever; he was not gonna fuck anything that wasn’t you, lmfao. He’s a little nervous on your first time because of this (and a few other reasons), but he’s really receptive to you and your reactions. All you gotta do is tell him, and he’ll get it done. He ends up being a little too rough sometimes, a little too eager others, but he’ll get the hang of it quickly.

F = Favorite position: I preface with the fact that Caleb is not a picky man; he’ll do just about anything so long as you seem happy with it. However, his favorites tend to require a bit of flexibility on your part. He really enjoys pushing your body into positions where you’re sort of helpless to him. Oftentimes you’ll find your legs over his shoulder and your body bent in half while he “takes care of business.” His usual go-to is just doggy, but when you’re prepared properly, he’ll put you in a full nelson or a prone bone. Again, though, he’s happy to take what he gets all the same.

G = Goofy: He can be goofy if you want! He’s still your Caleb, albeit altered and more traumatized and kind of hardly hanging on to himself… but he’s Caleb! Sometimes you just wanna mess around a little; sex doesn’t always have to be some super serious, dom/sub type dynamic thing. He loves hearing you laugh and joke around with him just as much as he likes to hear you moan. It’s even better when they’re woven together like this - the best of both worlds.

H = Hair: Before your first time together, he didn’t care enough to shave himself downstairs. He didn’t care to take care of himself. Immediately after your first time, he shaves himself clean. Finds the hair down there inconvenient because it’s just in the way of feeling you against him. He’s a little apologetic if you don’t like him bald, buuut he’s not changing it. He wants to feel you, sorry pips :P

If you shave, he’ll act like it's a war crime. Your body, your choice… but please reconsider. Your bush is a sacred thing to him; how could you ever even consider taking it away from him after he waited so long to see it? “It’s more convenient” or “It’s only fair” won’t convince him. In the end, it’s your choice, and he’ll be a big boy and accept it. Even if he really, really wants the bush.

I = Intimacy: He struggles a lot with intimacy in sex, mostly because he struggles with intimacy in general. He really tries his best to tap into the few emotions he can feel for whatever short amount of time he’s allowed to feel them, but he finds sex more enjoyable when he doesn’t have to fight himself to indulge. It’ll come naturally over time as he adjusts to everything new with you, and it’s not like he’s not making successful attempts, but intimacy is something he struggles with in general. However, he does his best to make sure you feel the intimacy, even if he can’t.

J = Jack off: I think it goes unsaid, but he’s getting himself off without you more than with you. It’s a habit, at this point, because he finds it difficult to come to you about his sexual needs, so he usually handles them himself. Most often in the same ways he did when he was younger, but he’s getting a little better about seeking you out. At least he’ll send you pictures sometimes when he misses you that much.

K = Kink: Let's get the obvious out of the way, please. He’s so into pseudo-incest, and it’s something he’s grappling with indulging in. He holds a lot of shame about liking the big brother role he takes on with you, mostly because he also wants nothing more than to be your boyfriend. In bed, these blurred lines come together into one, and he loves when you call him Gege, and you play into that dynamic. Playing dumb and helpless, begging your big brother to take advantage of you is sick and twisted, and that's what he likes about it.

That leads into his second kink, degradation. He prefers it mostly on himself, and it’s nothing too heavy. He’s not interested in you really calling him too many names, but he wants you to point out the flaws in his logic and still give him what he wants. Let him know that what he wants is wrong and that you want it too. Furthermore, he likes to mock you a little bit when you get into the subspace. “So cute and helpless ‘fer me, aren’t ya?” and stuff like “Can’t get off without Gege’s help, huh? Poor little Meimei~.”

Collaring/Marking/Claiming, whatever you want to call it, he’s big on this one. Of course you can’t walk out with a literal dog collar, and neither can he, but he’ll look into alternatives. He already has the necklace you gave him, but I think he’d be interested in getting you a necklace with a Morse code design of something like his name or a little message nodding back to him. Then, obviously, he loves giving and receiving love bites – even if he can’t see them beneath clothes, knowing that they’re there and only for his eyes is good enough for him.

Control. Now I know that all of the men before have some element of this to them, but Caleb takes it to the most extreme degree. He wants control of you both inside and outside of the bedroom, and he wants you to control him in the same way. Who you talk to, who he talks to, where you go, where he goes, what you eat, what he eats. It’s not reasonable for either of you to do this, so you find other ways to indulge in this desire of his that won’t completely destroy your social lives and ruin your mental health (more than it already is).

L = Location: Generally, he prefers that you keep things between yourselves, so he’s not going out of his way to have sex with you in public. Though I think he’s prone to fingering you under the table if you’ve earned yourself some kind of punishment (or you’re really adamant about needing to get off right now.) He could be convinced to bend you over his desk at work, but if it’s down to choice, he’s waiting until you’re home so he can take his time with you.

M = Motivation: I think most things you do can get him going, but he’s so good at pushing it down, ignoring it, or dealing with it himself that you don’t think it’s that bad. The best way to get him to do something is to purposely tease him in scenarios where he can’t immediately act on it, and then continue to push until he cracks and drags you home/to the bedroom himself.

N = No: Sharing. I know, I know! It’s obvious, and I also said it earlier, but I think it’s the one big no that he has. He’s pretty goddamn freaky; there's not much concerning you that’ll turn him off, but if you suggest adding a third? Well, that means you’re thinking about someone specifically, and that means he’s got someone to deal with. It also means that he’s not satisfying you, so he just has to do better himself. Don’t bother bringing it up to him, okay, he’ll spiral, and he’s already hardly clinging to his morals as is.

O = Oral: It’s a toss-up for him as to which he likes more on a given day. Some days, he wants nothing more than to see you on your knees, taking him as deep as you can. Other days, the only way he can relax is with your thighs trying to crush his head while he eats you like a wild animal. It’s all up to his mood and how good or bad a day he’s had, mixed a little with how much of a brat you’re being.

P = Pace: He tends to default to a harder, faster pace. It’s not like he likes being mean! It’s just how he is, and you never seem to complain about it anyway. He can slow it down and be sweet and gentle if that's what you want. It’s his natural state to just be a bit harsh in these things, and if you seem to like it, then that's how he’ll give it to you.

Q = Quickie: Surprisingly, he’s not really a fan. He doesn’t want anyone ever interrupting his time with you. Especially not such an intimate time like this. He’d rather wait around for a while so that he can really get into it rather than waste time on half-fulfilling interactions like a quickie. You might get him to give in occasionally when there's no promise of a later, but it's rare.

R = Risk: He’s definitely into some risky kinks and behaviors, but not a big fan of real risk. He’s a control freak, especially when it comes to your safety, so the idea that he’d put you at risk is a bit unlike him. Don’t expect him to indulge in anything that could expose you or potentially hurt you more than he’d be able to control.

S = Stamina: The issue with Caleb is not the fact that he can go for a long time; he most certainly can. It’s just… he cums quick. He’ll cum more than twice usually, and he has a short refractory period where he bounces back quickly. He’s good at filling up space while he recovers, but you’ve gotta get used to how easy he is lol. It’s a compliment, I promise.

T = Toys: Props, yes. Toys? Not so much. He doesn’t like the idea that something else can do his job for him. He also doesn’t like that you masturbate without him involved/knowing either, so I don’t think this is all that surprising from him. He’s a bit hypocritical, of course, but he prefers you come to him when you have needs. He could be convinced to use a remote-controlled vibrator as punishment or even use your toys against you when he’s upset enough, but generally prefers you not have them and not use them when you’re with him. If you do have them, he prefers not to know what kind and how many. (He gets jealous)

U = Unfair: I already established that he loves to verbally degrade you and tease you, and this goes for how he handles your pleasure, too. He does enjoy edging you and withholding orgasms from you occasionally. On the other end, he also likes to make you cum in rapid succession. He tends to give you more than he takes from you, so usually you’re overstimulated rather than denied pleasure. It’s not any less mean that way.

V = Volume: He’s a big grunter, and you can draw a lot of them out of him, but he tries to stifle them as much as possible. He just wants to hear you, and he can’t hear you if his stupid mouth is making noise. Worry not, he knows how to get you moaning. But if you want him to make noise – specifically if you want him to whimper – you can either pull at his hair or scratch his back. No pussy shit either, you better tug hard at the roots or dig your nails in so hard they leave marks, else you won’t get what you want.

W = Wild card: Caleb is a big somnophiliac. He wants to wake up to you using him like your personal sex toy, and he loves waking you up with his tongue on your sex. There’s something super thrilling about the riskiness of it all, waking up half there only to immediately be thrown into the throes of pleasure. He loves toeing the line of what is and is not morally acceptable with you, and this is a fun way to play into that.

X = X-ray: Long and thick, just like its beholder. Caleb is just a bit smaller than Sylus’ more impressive member, about 5.8 to 6 inches, and thick all the way around. Once you adjust the tip, you can take the whole thing no problem. He’s also not circumcised, but that doesn’t inhibit pleasure by any means. None of that really matters in the end, because length and girth or not, he knows how to use it to make you feel good.

Y = Yearning: Caleb wants you all the time, and he’s very good at acting like he doesn’t. He spent his whole life acting like he didn’t; he’s sort of stuck in that yearning still, even now that he has you to himself. Such a helpless man for you, he’d seriously sit and be happy if you told him he could never have it again. …No, he wouldn’t. Please don’t do that to him.

The endless reflection of the mirror room didn’t just multiply Jiji’s face; it multiplied the claustrophobia. It multiplied the dread.

It multiplied every awful feeling that surrounded you and consumed you in that place. 

In every direction, thousands of versions of him held thousands of versions of you, creating a seamless, terrifying horizon of your own hopeless captivity.

As the days—or what felt like days—bled together, that initial desperate panic you’d felt began to numb until you felt like a ghost in your own body. 

And as you grew quieter, Jiji’s delusion didn’t stabilize; it mutated. The bright, lopsided grin of the boy you used to know was entirely gone, replaced by a restless, hyper-vigilant intensity. 

He was unraveling in the very paradise he had constructed for you. He treated you like glass, but glass he was entirely willing to shatter if it meant you wouldn’t slip through his fingers.

That was perhaps the most terrifying part of all of this. That, even if he claimed to love you, he would so easily, quite happily, hurt you, if it meant he could get what he wanted.

He would spend hours braiding your hair, his hands trembling slightly, whispering apologies for how rough he had been when he pinned you against the station wall.

"I didn't mean to squeeze your wrists so hard," he would murmur, pressing his lips to the faint, fading bruises. "You just...you make me crazy when you run, [Y/N]. You know I only did it to keep you safe. If you just stop trying to leave, I’ll never have to hold you like that again. Promise."

But the moment you pulled away, even a fraction, the tenderness evaporated. If you stared at a mirror for too long, trying to find a flaw in the glass, he would suddenly grab your face, forcing your gaze back to him.

"What are you looking for?" his voice would drop, losing all its warmth, his pupils dilating into sharp, dark points. "An exit? There isn't one. I told you. Are you looking for him? Is that it? You think he’s going to break through the glass like some kind of hero?"

Jiji would shake you, just enough to make your teeth click, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "He doesn't care about you. He’s out there with Momo. They forgot about you the second the doors closed. I’m the only one who stayed. I'm the only one who loves you!"

Then, seeing the terror in your eyes, he would break down, burying his face in your lap, weeping violently and begging you not to hate him. Again and again, over and over.

It was an exhausting, inescapable cycle. He was losing his grip on reality, and he was dragging you down with him.

…

To understand how someone like Jiji could become this kind of terrifying creature, it was necessary to look back in time…

Jiji had loved you since the beginning. It wasn't the loud, theatrical affection he threw around to mask his insecurities; it was a heavy, consuming thing. 

For months, he had played the role of the loud, goofy childhood friend, the reliable comic relief, because he thought it was the only way to keep you close. He forced himself to be loud so you wouldn't hear how fast his heart beat when you leaned against him.

And then, Okarun happened.

In reality, your bond with Okarun was built on shared trauma, survival, and a deep, platonic camaraderie. It was hard to find fellow humans who understood you so well, but Okarun was that rare kind of person.

You looked to him because he understood the supernatural madness tearing your lives apart. You didn't love him romantically. It was a different kind of affection.

But to Jiji’s fragile, deeply insecure ego, every look, every whispered plan, and every brush of your shoulders with Okarun was a trial by fire.

Jiji’s mind, poisoned by jealousy, began to distort every memory. Nothing was sacred.

When you laughed at Okarun’s awkward stuttering, Jiji didn’t see friend-to-friend reassurance. He saw a secret language he was locked out of. Something he wasn’t allowed to be a part of.

Every time Okarun stepped up to fight an alien or a spirit, Jiji felt a visceral, sickening wave of inadequacy. Why is it always him? Why does she look at him like he’s the savior?

The day Jiji truly lost it was a week before you got trapped. You had been hurt in a skirmish, a minor scrape on your cheek. Okarun had handed you a tissue, looking worried. You had smiled up at him—a tired, grateful smile.

Jiji, watching from the doorway, felt something physically snap in his brain. 

She never looks at me like that. I crack jokes, I act an idiot to make her happy, and she looks right through me. But he does the bare minimum, and she looks at him like he’s her entire world.

From that moment on, Jiji’s internal monologue was a relentless, frantic, paranoid loop.

Every time he saw you and Okarun in the same room, his blood boiled. He would feel a physical phantom itch under his skin, a desperate urge to physically wedge himself between you two, to scream at Okarun to get away from what belonged to him. 

He started staying up at night, staring at the ceiling, convincing himself that Okarun was actively trying to steal you away, that everyone was laughing at "good old, harmless Jiji" behind his back.

When the ghost station trapped you both, Jiji didn't see a curse. He saw a miracle. He saw a clean slate where Okarun didn't exist.

…

Back in the mirror room, Jiji was currently resting his head on your chest, listening to your erratic heartbeat. His eyes were wide open, staring at one of the infinite reflections of you both.

"You know," he whispered, his voice dangerously serene, "I used to hate myself. I used to hate that I wasn't enough for you. But this place...it showed me the truth. You just needed to be isolated from the noise. Out there, everyone was poisoning your mind, making you think you needed him."

His hands roamed over you like he was staking claim, sliding a little under your clothes as they ventured over your body. He had never gone so far as to take all of you, but the worst part about being touched like this was knowing that he could.

In here, in this cage, Jiji could do anything he desired. 

He sat up suddenly, his fingers gripping your jaw with that terrifying strength, forcing you to look at the mirror. 

"Look at us, [Y/N]. Just look. There's no Okarun here. No Momo. No ghosts. Just me. Forever."

You looked into the mirror like he wanted, but with no joy, no love. Just eyes hollow and brimming with tears.

In the reflection, Jiji leaned in, kissing your cheek with a soft, reverent sigh, completely blind to your despair. Or perhaps he could see it clearly, but nevertheless chose to ignore it, accept it. 

He was entirely, beautifully, and irreversibly insane—and in his mind, you were finally exactly where you belonged.

You weren't sure how long you’d been trapped here—hours, maybe days. 

This place twisted your perception like the warped shadows on the cracked tile floor. It resembled a forgotten train station, lit by a sun that never moved. Broken vending machines flickered with error messages in a language you didn’t recognize. 

No people. No exits. Just an eerie silence and the distant hum of static in the air.

And Jiji. He was the only familiar thing here.

“Well,” he said, hopping off the bench and stretching his arms behind his head, “at least the weird ghost-thing didn’t eat us. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

His voice was bright, cheerful. His signature lopsided grin was in place. But you noticed it—the tightness around his eyes, the way his laugh lingered a second too long. It was clear, he was nervous. As nervous as you were.

Still, he hadn’t left your side. He cracked jokes when the silence got heavy. Shared what little snacks were left in his pockets. Every time the strange lights above flickered, he subtly moved closer, always standing between you and the unknown. Just in case something came for you both, just in case anything put you at risk.

At first, it was comforting. He was someone you always felt you could trust, and in a scary ass place like this, his doting was welcome.

“Maybe we’re in some, I dunno, psychic echo chamber,” he said on the second day (if it was a second day), spinning a coin through his fingers. “Some residual dimension crap. Okarun and Momo’ll get us out. No sweat.”

You smiled faintly, gripping your knees to your chest as you sat near the empty platform edge. “Yeah…”

But by the fourth loop through the same hallway—where the bathroom stalls reset and the same moth banged its wings against the same light—you started to notice Jiji was…changing.

He stopped looking for exits. He stopped calling out for help.

And he’d started watching you more.

That night, you curled up on the dusty bench near a broken info screen. Jiji sat cross-legged nearby, humming softly to himself. It was one of those off-key lullabies he always made up on the spot. “G’night,” you murmured, back turned to him, trying to find peace in the numb ache behind your eyes.

“…Hey,” his voice came quieter. “When we get out…you’re gonna go right back to him, huh?”

You blinked. “What?” “Okarun.” A pause. “You’ll go back to him, yeah?”

Your stomach tensed, and you sat up slightly, looking back at him.  “Jiji, what are you—”

“You like him, right?” His voice stayed light, too light.  “I—That’s none of your business.” you spluttered. “Oh, come on,” he laughed. “We’ve been stuck in a time-hell ghost station together for days. I think I’ve earned some honesty.”

He didn’t sound like he was joking. So you opened your mouth to respond, but the look in his eyes suddenly froze you.

He was still smiling. But his eyes—those normally soft, silly eyes—were dead serious.  “I’m just saying,” he continued, standing and slowly approaching, “on the outside, you’re always looking at him. It’s like I’m not even there.”

You stood up too, stepping away. “...You’re tired. We both are. Let’s just—” “Out there,” he cut in, voice lower now, “he’s always the one you turn to, isn’t he? When shit goes down, he’s always the one you go running to. It’s never me.”

Backing into the cold station wall, you couldn’t help but flinch as he placed his palm flat beside your head. “You never once looked at me the same way.” Your breath caught. He tilted his head, almost affectionate.  “But…now we’re alone…I wonder if you finally will…”

“Jiji…” Your voice trembled. “What are you saying?”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours. His breath was warm and sweet.  “I think this place brought us together for a reason. Just you and me. No more distractions.”

At that moment, it didn’t take a thought. Shoving him back as hard as you could, you bolted.

…

Not far though. The corridors were shifting again—hallways looping back on themselves, signs changing language mid-step. You turned a corner, praying to find an exit, and slammed into him chest-first yet again.

You staggered back, eyes wide. “How—?” Jiji smiled, breathless with a wild kind of excitement. “I knew you’d come this way!”

Again you tried to run, but his arms wrapped around you from behind this time, hauling you back against his broader, taller form. “You’re scared,” he murmured into your hair, his own tawny locks brushing your brow. “That’s okay. I was scared too. I thought if we got out, you’d leave me. Go back to him. Forget me.”

“Jiji, let go!” “No.”

You struggled. Kicked. But he was stronger than you expected. “No more being second best,” he whispered. “No more ‘Jiji’s just a friend.’ You get it now, right? That no one else is coming for you? Just me. I’m the only one.”

You twisted in his grip, gasping, grasping at his arms and desperately trying to pry them off, “You’re not thinking clearly—!” “I’ve never thought more clearly in my life.”

This entire place had begun to feel like a cage for entirely different reasons now. Reasons tied to him.

His desires. His will.

“Jiji, if you care about me—”

“I do,” he said softly, “I love you. That’s why you have to stay.”

Pain panged in your chest. Why does he sound so sincere? But you couldn’t let yourself fall for it. Whether he was really still Jiji, the Jiji you knew, or not, you had to get away and STAT.

As soon as his grip loosened, as soon as he spoke those gentle words, you slammed your heel down onto his sneaker. Jiji grunted, cursing under his breath as you broke free yet again…

…

Once more, a chase. “[Y/N]…” Jiji’s voice called gently down the corridor, more like a coaxing whisper than a threat. “Where are you going? You’re not thinking straight.”

Your lungs burned. You ducked through archways of distorted signage and twisted support beams, the architecture of this place warping the deeper you ran. Breaking free from him was just the start, now you had to somehow figure out a way to rescue yourself.

Your hand clutched the old talisman Momo had once pressed into your palm—"For spiritual interference. Only if it gets really bad. ONLY then." So, basically, it could perhaps potentially, just so maybe, kill you. Hence why it had been kept as a sort of last resort so far, one to resort to only if every other option had been exhausted.

The risk still scared you, but the thought of seeing Jiji become any more monstrous was worse. Whatever’s going on with him, I have to try and get us both out of here before it gets worse. Even if it costs me-!

You slapped it against the wall as you skidded to a stop and braced yourself for the worst. Yet the worst never came.

Nothing. Nothing happened.

Ripping it off, you tried pressing it to your chest instead, struggling to remember exactly how Momo said you were supposed to use it. You whispered the words she taught you, hoping you remembered them right, every syllable trembling, and felt the pulse—like static under your skin. A shock.

Don’t kill me don’t kill me don’t kill me please don’t kill me—

And then—nothing. Again. The talisman instead turned black, and withered like a dead leaf in your hand. Dismay fell over you, as it fluttered away and dissolved into ashen dust.

“…You tried to use that?” came the voice, soft and almost amused. Horror and a kind of nausea set in, as you realized it was all too little too late. He’d caught up with you. A warm hand settled on your shoulder from behind. “Sweetheart…that kind of charm only works when the person isn’t meant to be here.”

Jiji turned you around with an easy whirl, and shoved your face into his sweater. His arms wrapped around you tightly and possessively, not allowing you to budge an inch.

His eyes were wide, glowing faintly like moonlight on still water. Relief, rather than anger. “You really thought that little paper trick would get you away from me? Get you out of here?” he asked, tilting his head with something almost like pity. “That it would banish me? Seal me? Come on…”

His grip tightened, crushingly so, like he wanted to hurt you for even trying. Terrifyingly, it would be too easy for him to do so. “Did you seriously think that would work?”

Again, after your initial bewilderment subsided, you struggled, a last ditch effort to break out of his hold and make your third sprint to freedom. It barely moved him. 

But, he let you try, his arms loosening, only to catch your wrists when you tried striking at him. In a flash, you were pinned back against the nearest wall, arms above your head, wrists in one of his hands. “Nn-!!” The other hand gripped your chin.

“Stop running from me,” he whispered, and you felt his breath against your lips, sweet like before. “I haven’t hurt you, have I? I’ve been really patient [Y/N]...” Your body trembled, still reeling. The space around you was throbbing now. Like the very dimension had shifted. Like your fear had fed it.

He lowered his head until his forehead touched yours. “But you had to try and leave. Again.” “Jiji—please—” You could barely breathe. “You’re not well. This place is doing something to you. This isn’t—this isn’t you—”

His eyes slid shut, lashes brushing your cheek. “Yes it is,” he said. Then his lips brushed your temple. Slow. Warm. Reverent. “This is me without the mask. I’m tired of just being your ‘goofball friend’, [Y/N]...”

With that, he let your wrists go but only to wrap both arms around you and pull you against his chest again, burying his face in your neck like he couldn’t bear the distance any longer than a mere second. His entire body trembled against yours now, in a desperate way.

“I’m tired of waiting. Tired of pretending I’m okay watching you be his.” Your heart pounded so hard it hurt. “You know he doesn’t love you like I do. You know he would never choose you.”

He began to walk you backward—slowly—his hands still gentle, but unyielding. You felt the air behind you change, like stepping into water. And when you glanced over your shoulder, you saw another door. A new door.

A golden frame. No markings.

It hadn’t been there before. Much like many other things in this place, it had just…materialized. But just looking at it, you got a horrible feeling.

Jiji guided you through it. And the light shut behind you, as you were ushered into a new, even stranger space.

A room. Circular. Endless. With floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflecting the two of you a million times over. Completely surrounding you, with no visible exit. Likely no way out at all.

Only a nest of cushions and fabric in the center, soft and welcoming. He brought you over, and sat with you contentedly.  “Just look, isn’t this perfect for us?” he whispered, tucking you into his lap as though you were a toy. “A place where time doesn’t pass. Where no one can pull you away.”

You shook your head weakly. “Jiji, you can’t keep me here…” “It’s the only way,” he breathed. “Trust me. You’ll forget him. You’ll forget everything.”

You looked into his eyes. They were glazed over, sharp-pupiled, delirious and dark. Nothing like the charming (if somewhat dense) gaze you were typically used to from him.

He’d been waiting for this moment. All he needed was the perfect chance. 

“You’ll thank me someday,” he murmured, arms tightening around you like a vow. “You’ll see. It’s not a prison. It’s freedom. From pain. From lies. From everyone who ever failed you. From anyone who would ever try to hurt you.”

Your head began to sink, tears welling, unable to bear looking at him. But he caught your jaw again, and forced your head up so you were looking sorrowfully into one of those many mirrors. Leaning in, he kissed your cheek, and you saw it reflected over and over again.

Nothing but you and Jiji. You and Jiji. You and Jiji.

You and Jiji.

It used to make him angry too, when you talked about the Vessel. When he took over and he caught you laughing at something the Vessel had said, or dancing with him, or pressing your lips together. (Kissing, you’d told him the first time it happened. It's called kissing someone, when you do that.)

Then you started kissing the Evil Eye too, and suddenly he wasn't so angry anymore—the latent rage in him for once eased.

Still, it makes him feel sullen when you tell him, “Jiji and I want to get married.”

You are lying next to him in bed. Sweat is cooling on your naked body—you always get so hot when you and the Vessel get into bed with each other, or sometimes when he’s got you bent over the dining room table, or occasionally when you touch each other in that place you call the ‘locker room’, which tends to leave you extra breathless. No matter the place or the time, you’re always lighthearted, glowing, satisfied. It's the effect that the Vessel has when he’s inside you.

(Sex, you told the Evil Eye once, it's called having sex. Or making love. Not all sex is making love, but it's making love the way that Jiji and I do it. And then the Evil Eye demanded that you show him what exactly that meant, and that's when you took him inside you for the first time. He felt so good and so close with you that for a while, it was all he wanted to do.

Wants to do.)

“What does that mean,” the Evil Eye asks, although he has a good idea. You want to live in a House with the Vessel and laugh and sing and hold each other. You want to die together too, probably, your corpses hanging side-by-side from the same bannister.

“It means we’re going to dress up and make vows to spend the rest of our lives together,” you say. “And we’ll live together and build a home and maybe we’ll have babies too.”

The Evil Eye thinks of all those babies who lived in the House, impossibly tiny humans who were cradled by their mothers before they were burned alive as sacrifices. Before he became the Evil Eye—back when he was merely the ghost of a waif—he’d tried to play with them too, making silly faces and dancing as they giggled at him. He liked to pretend that they were his younger sisters or brothers, but sometimes he wondered how it'd feel to hold them and sing to them like their parents did. How it'd feel if he were a husband with a wife and a kid, what it would be like to dance with someone in the kitchen or tuck a child away into its cradle.

But every time he tried to pick the babies up, his hands would pass right through them. Kind-hearted ghosts can't love people in such a physical way; you need to be vengeful to hold onto anything. He'd had to learn to hate all humans before being able to touch them again, and now he's so rife with hatred that he can't love them anyway. All he can do is haunt them.

The Evil Eye doesn't love you. It's not in his nature as a demon, and he's not sure that it was in his nature as a human. He wasn't loved and couldn’t love, and that's why he was given to the Tsuchinoko. But he likes to possess you nevertheless, and he often thinks about cursing you so that you’re bound to him. It would be the only way to keep you, because you probably don't love him, either—no human would embrace such a horrid and ugly existence. You just love the Vessel he inhabits, and that's why he can kiss you and that's why he can hold you and that's why he’s allowed to sex with you (sex, not love—you've never called it making love when you do it with him, and you never look lighthearted after, and you never glow from his touch: he always leaves you panting, marked up, bruised, possessed).

You love the Vessel, so it makes sense that you would want to do all that with him: live in a House together and make babies together and eventually die together.

“Oh,” he says. “Sounds fun.”

You laugh. “Yes, I hope it'll be.” Then you lace your fingers with his, and look at him in a tender way that he'll probably never get used to. In a tender way that's meant for the Vessel.

“So, then,” you say almost shyly, “Do you wanna marry me too?”

II. THE VESSEL

Auntie Seiko is as beautiful, young, and no-nonsense as ever. Between meeting her as a child, coming into her care as a teenager, and now seeking her help as an adult, Jiji doesn't think she's ever changed. Most familiar to him right now is the expression that she’s wearing, the one that suggests that he might have shit for brains. Turbo Granny, perched on her shoulder, seems equally bemused, her porcelain cat eyes narrowed into judgemental slits. He'd been hoping that Momo and Okarun would understand his feelings, but they seem equally exasperated—Momo might even be a little appalled.

Anyone else might be disheartened by this reaction, but Jiji is undeterred. These are the people who once realised his wish to protect the Evil Eye; surely, they’ll also realise his wish for him to find happiness.

“—so we talked to him, right? Or my beautiful wifey talked to him, anyway—”

“We're not married yet, Jiji,” you interrupt dryly. “Don’t call me that.”

“—my future beautiful wifey talked to him about getting married, and he said yes! I'm on board. I think they should get a proper ceremony and everything. I know it's a little unconventional since she’ll be marrying me too, but I don't mind sharing, and I'd be willing to work out any legal issues. I'm sure we can find a country where polygamy is allowed.”

“Don’t you think the bigger problem is that he's an evil spirit?!” Momo asks—yells—but Jiji only shrugs.

“Evil or not, don't you think he deserves love and romance just as much as anyone else?”

“No!”

Jiji supposes that he can't blame Momo for her reaction, given how many times the Evil Eye has nearly killed her. Deeming her a lost cause, he turns his gaze on her boyfriend instead, almost puppy-like.

“Don’t you think so, Okarun?”

“Not really,” he admits, and Jiji nearly wilts at the betrayal before he adds, “but I understand where you're coming from. The Evil Eye was like a child when he first possessed you; his greatest wish was to find a friend to play with. Now he's basically a young man who's found his first love and his greatest wish is to be with her… and she, um, happens to be your wifey…”

“Don’t call me that!” you protest, oddly embarrassed, and Jiji resists the urge to squeeze you. You're so cute when you're flustered, it's unbearable. He makes a mental note to tell you this on the way home, though he already does this every day as a rule. When you were both still students, he would say it whenever he walked you home from school; nowadays, he more often says it during long-distance phone calls, or on FaceTime, or occasionally via text if your schedules are that misaligned. But he still makes it a point to remind you everyday, no matter where he is in the world: You're so cute. You're so pretty. You're beautiful, did you know that? I love you.

I love you, he thinks as he watches you. You look bashful right now. “We both want the Evil Eye to find happiness, and I’m pretty sure marriage will make him happy. And, well…” Your gaze drops. “It’d make me pretty happy too.”

Something in Jiji’s chest swells when he sees your expression. It feels mostly sweet, but there's also a painful edge to it. He’s always carried a kind of ache in his ribs ever since the day he caught his parents dangling from the second floor of the House and had to untie the nooses himself. Nowadays, he isn't sure if the pain is from that memory or if it's from the weight of the Evil Eye’s curse. Sometimes it feels like they're one and the same. Often it feels suffocating, like he's drowning and there's nothing he can do to breathe again—not laughing or joking or playing or running.

But you're always there when it’s hard. You're always beside him when he wakes up in the middle of the night to gasp for air, the way he used to when he was haunted as a teenager: It's okay, Jiji, you tell him, voice tender, I'm here for you. You aren't alone. I won't leave you. I won't let anything hurt you. I love you. The nightmares always leave him soaked in cold sweat, so he often switches in these moments, his consciousness displaced by a lonely, crying spirit. He doesn't know what it is you say to the Evil Eye, but when he comes back his heart feels lighter, and from that he knows that you've comforted him too.

The Evil Eye loves you—that much is clear. He loves you as much as Jiji does, probably. In a different way, sure, but just as much in strength.

It follows that nothing would make the Evil Eye happier in this world than getting married to you, Jiji figures. Dead or alive, who wouldn't be elated to marry the love of their life? And Jiji knows it'd make you equally as happy; only an idiot would think that you didn't love the Evil Eye back, and he's no fool. Some people might find it weird that he wants his wife to marry another man—and an evil spirit, at that—and maybe they're right for that. But why would Jiji ever turn down so much collective joy?

So he nods vigorously, giving Momo an intense look. “It'd make us all happy. Trust us!”

Momo gives you both a long, disbelieving stare.

“Well, when you put it that way…” She sighs, resigned. “When’s the wedding?”

“That's what we wanted your help with,” Jiji says, and he gives her grandmother an earnest look. “We want the wedding to be perfect, but we're not really sure how a ceremony would work with a youkai. What dates to choose, what venue to book, who could perform the rites… I mean, could you perform the rites, Ma’am?”

Auntie Seiko frowns. She looks on the verge of admonishing both of you, but Turbo Granny beats her to it: “Idiots. You can't do a Shinto ceremony with the Evil Eye. All three of you will combust into flames.”

“Oh.” Jiji remembers all the aliens and spirits alike that have burned upon attempting to chase them into the shrine grounds. He deflates. “Then… he can't get married?”

You squeeze his hand, and Jiji suspects that it's more for him than yourself. You don't seem nearly so worried.

“Would a Buddhist temple take us?” you ask.

“Doubt it,” Auntie Seiko says around her cigarette. “They’d probably try to exorcise your hubby on the spot—and even if they didn't, no Buddhist priest here would ever stand for tying the spirit of the deceased to a living person. It's how you get hauntings.”

“I don't mind being haunted by the Evil Eye,” you say immediately, and Auntie Seiko snorts.

“I know you don't, but it’s not in our job descriptions to curse people just because they're horny for a ghost.” Momo and Okarun cough loudly, and Jiji feels himself flushing; you cover your face with your hands. “I know a Chinese Taoist who’s done a few ghost marriages, though.”

“They’re okay with cursing people?” you ask, watching her through your fingers. “I mean—not that I mind.”

“Nah—they perform it as a pacification ritual. It would be the safest way to do something like this.” Auntie Seiko studies you closely. “I'm not sure how my acquaintance would react to an evil spirit or to polygamy, but I’ll call him and ask.”

“You're the best, Ma’am!” Jiji bursts, beaming. “We’ll save you an honoured spot in the front row! Turbo Granny too!” Elders should be respected, after all.

Turbo Granny makes a skeptical noise. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, numbnuts. Even if Seiko can find a priest stupid enough to oversee this wedding, there’s something you need that you probably can't find.”

“If we could find Okarun’s balls, I’m sure we can find anything,” you joke, but Granny seems unimpressed, her paws crossed over her chest.

Jiji frowns. “What exactly do we need to get?”

Turbo Granny gives you both an ominous look.

“His bones.”

III. THE CHILD

The Evil Eye hates being in the House.

All the spirits that he carries hate it too, airy things pulsing with rage and sadness and grief so palpable that he can always easily weaponise it. Any good memories that were ever constructed in the House are eclipsed by the hangings, the knife wounds, the suffocation, and also the burnings. Especially the burnings. Especially the white-hot lava washing over him, eating into his flesh—especially his last few days as a twitching, starving, dying thing on a stake; especially being buried, then the House being built atop his remains. Then all the children and babies sacrificed after him, wailing and screaming: unfair this is unfair let me go let me go let me go it hurts it hurts it hurts please stop this please help me Mom Mommy please help me please come back I don't want to die.

Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

He isn't ordinarily bothered by rage; he was born of it, after all. But he doesn't like feeling so much rage around you. The Evil Eye likes haunting you and will probably someday curse you—both things he once did to the families in this House—but he doesn't want to kill you.

He glances around the basement—the man cursed by Turbo Granny is here, and so is his lover. (Girlfriend, you’d called her. Momo is Okarun’s girlfriend, just like how I'm Jiji’s. You agree to be someone’s girlfriend when you have feelings for them and want to act on them. A-ah—what? Y-yes, I do have feelings for Jiji… Why do you ask?) The dancer and the Shinto priestess aren't here, and neither is the girl with the lizard suit, but they aren't needed.

If he tries to kill you, Okarun alone could probably stop him. This is the only reason that the Evil Eye agreed to let you come in the first place.

“This is so gross,” you whine, completely oblivious. You're knee-deep in the white gunk left by that shitty Tsuchinoko worm. “I can't believe you spent a whole day buried in this stuff, Okarun.”

“It saved me and Turbo Granny,” he replies, pushing his glasses up as he digs through the mess with you. “The lava would have gotten to us otherwise. I think it probably preserved the Evil Eye’s bones too.”

“I hope so…” You turn to the Evil Eye, head tilted. “Are you sure they're here, Jashi?”

Jashi. You say his title like it's name and not a curse. (Jashi, we should go try out this cafe, you'll say, or, Jashi, let’s go check out this show, or, I missed you, Jashi, it's been too long—here, can you feel how much I need you?) Sometimes he wonders if you ever forget that he's a ghost, or if using this Vessel fools you into thinking that he's human. If you lay beneath him in bed thinking that it's technically the Vessel inside you, and not just the monster possessing him.

“I’m a ghost,” he reminds you bluntly, “‘course I know where my remains are. Dunno if they've turned ash, though. Guess you can't marry me if they have.”

“No, we’ll get married,” you say, unbothered. “I'll dig up all the dirt from this shithole and say my vows to that if I have to.”

Okarun gives you a funny look. “How are you gonna get all that dirt out?” he asks.

“I'll make you carry it.”

“Huh? Says who?”

“Says Momo. He’ll help me carry it, right?”

“He will,” Momo affirms, and her boyfriend chokes. She ignores him, scanning the wreckage. “I hope it doesn't come to that, though. Hey, Evil Eye—can’t you be more specific with where we're supposed to dig? Coordinates or a map would be nice.”

“I'm not a fucking radar!”

You give him a pleading look. “Please, Jashi? Can't you try? For your future wifey?”

The Vessel's face gets hot. Its heart does the stupid thing where it jumps when you're around, or when he holds you after the two of you have sex, or when he stares too long at the engagement ring that's usually on your finger (now hanging around your neck on a silver chain, safely away from Tsuchinoko gunk).

“...fine. Gimme a sec.”

He closes the two eyes of the Vessel so that he can focus on his third. Human vision is too bound by shapes and light and figures; it distracts and deceives him. When he can't see your face, it becomes easier to hone in on his resentment. Unfair, his remains whisper to him, this is unfair let me go it hurts it hurts please stop please stop help me help me help me I don't want to die.

Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

“There,” he says eventually, pointing at the ground, “it's all there. In one spot. Guess I'm still a skeleton.”

You've got something of a sixth sense—whether it’s an effect of touching the golden ball or coupling so often with a spirit, the Evil Eye can't be sure. However it came about, it seems to tell you that he's right. Your eyes go soft when you rest a hand on the dirt he’s pointed at.

“Momo, Okarun,” you say, “Thank you for your help. I can dig this up myself—you guys can take a break.”

“Huh? No, we’d be happy to…” Okarun starts, but then Momo’s dragging him out by the collar and making him squawk.

“Sure—we’ll wait outside!” she says. “C’mon, Okarun, let's look for Mongolian Death Worm remains—I saw an occult article saying that it has medicinal properties if you make a powder extract from it…”

“You can't take that stuff seriously, Miss Ayase…”

After they leave, you spend the rest of the afternoon digging.

The Evil Eye offers to help, but you are determined to do it yourself. It's okay, Jashi, you say, I’m going to do it. You're going to be my hubby—the Vessel’s heart does the throbbing thing again—so it's only right that I'm the one to unearth you.

He doesn't understand it, but he shrugs anyway. Suit yourself. And he watches as you your fingers dig into the dirt, delicate nails collecting detritus. You don't want to use a shovel, you say, because you're sure that his bones will be fragile and you don't want to damage them. Even when he tells you that his bones are likely ruined in the first place, burned to shit and frail from rot, you don't let up. You just keep digging until you’re picking them out of the dirt.

You roll out a silk cloth, revealing lotuses against a pale backdrop. One by one, you lay his bones atop the pink and ivory thread, and you've found about half of them before he realises that you're reconstructing his skeleton. It's a small, pathetic thing. Help me help me I don't want to die, he can remember himself screaming. It hurts it hurts it hurts please stop. Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

The ghosts of the House begin to wail with rage.

Part of him worries for you—probably the part of him influenced by the Vessel, which is capable of a love that ghosts are not. It knows that you don't deserve his wrath.

“You should leave,” he says, but you shake your head. You take your time as you gather up bones, treating them all delicately as you roll them up in the silk, holding them close to you. As if you aren't in the presence of countless wrathful spirits. As if you are with the Vessel, and not with him.

“You were so small,” you say quietly. “Sometimes I forget that you were a child when you died.”

The Evil Eye stares at you, at the pathetic bundle in your hands. “That was ages ago.”

“But it never stops hurting, doesn't it?” you say, and the walls of the House close in on him. They tell him you're right, that you're a human, that you'll hurt him just like the rest of them, that you need to die too. But you look at him, soft in a way that belongs to the Vessel, tender in a way that the waif-ghost covets, and then the House shudders and goes quiet.

“I’m sorry I didn't help you back then,” you say, and it makes no sense, but he doesn't interrupt you. “I promise I'll make your married life a good one, now that we’re together.”

That's stupid, the Evil Eye thinks of saying, pedantic: I'm already dead. But you rise from the dirt before he can protest, and then you're taking his bones out of the House, cradling him in your arms.

Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

For the first time since being born, his body is allowed to leave the confines of its prison.

IV. THE BRIDE

The ceremony happens at night.

You spend the whole day readying yourself. Aira helps you get into your dress, admonishing you for the satanic rituals you'll soon perform but giving you her blessing anyway. Momo does your makeup, telling you to ignore Aira. Vamola says that you look lovely in stilted, earnest Japanese. Auntie Seiko helps you with your hair; she asks you, all the while, if you would like to wear a headdress that might protect you from evil, or for her to perform a consecration on your body. Turbo Granny is less roundabout, offering to take the Evil Eye’s banana in advance of your marital rites. Serpo warns you not to let the Evil Eye take your bananas—Why are you even here!? Momo yells at him—and Reiko Kashima says you shouldn't listen to any of them. You need to hold onto your man no matter what, she advises.

She also says you're beautiful, though of course you aren't as beautiful as her.

Beautiful. Are you beautiful? You'll be beautiful when you marry Jiji, because you're certain that his PR agent will want you prettied up by a team of stylists rather than a bunch of goofballs. You will need to look good for the photos, at least as handsome as him, and you don't know if you can manage that. You will need to be poised in front of the five hundred people attending, about which ten are your friends and none of which are your family.

You're already married to Jiji, technically. The two of you had a civil ceremony that only Momo and Okarun attended as witnesses, quick and dirty and secret. But the official ceremony will make it real, and you are terrified of that. You love Jiji beyond comprehension, and you know he loves you back tenfold, but you've never been able to rid yourself of the small voice in your head that tells you that you aren't good enough for him. It's been haunting you ever since the two of you fell in love, and you think maybe even before that. Maybe it started plaguing you when you were young.

When you were a child, you used to ask yourself if anyone would ever love you enough to save you from the things being done to you—the things you were convinced would be irreversible. You had confessed this to Jiji before you had sex with him for the first time. (Making love, he corrected you, I want to make love with you, and it made you feel so shy you nearly kicked him out of your bed.) He'd replied that he did love you enough, and that he would save you as many times as you wanted (I’m sorry I couldn't help you back then, he'd added nonsensically, but now that we’re together, I'll make sure your life is a good one), and you were so happy that you cried.

Sometimes you still cry, thinking about his words. But no matter how many times you replay the memory, no matter how often you tell yourself that Jiji is an honest man, the small voice in your head always warns that he’d lied to you. That your wedding to him will be a lie, too.

You often think about how he would leave you (gently), and why he would leave you (the list is endless). And then you try to imagine life without him—no cheerful kisses peppering your features, no goofy expressions putting you in stitches, no grueling morning runs, no messy kitchen sinks, no you're the cutest girl in the world, you're so beautiful I can't believe I'm dating you, how come you don't believe me when I say that stuff, I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again, I know you can get better I'll help you, I dunno how to talk about this with anyone other than you, sorry I cried that was kinda lame of me, sorry I need to go to Spain, sorry I was away for so long, I got you this merch, I got us tickets to this show, is it my fault you're going to therapy again, can you come with me to Berlin, is everything okay, come with me to the U.S., are you okay, are we okay, I don't want to break up, I love you, I love you so much, marry me, I'm being serious please marry me, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I promise I won't leave you—

You don't think you could imagine living without Jiji.

Your looming wedding to Jiji terrifies you, but your ghost marriage does not. You feel calm in your dress, certain in your decision. Jashi has never scared you the way that Jiji has, after all. He doesn't frighten you even when the Taoist priest pulls you aside and tells you, “You can still back out of this.”

“Why would I?”

He dabs at his temples with a handkerchief. “This ritual is dangerous with a being like the Evil Eye. Ghost marriages are meant to pacify benign spirits—not vengeful ghosts. I can't guarantee that he will be calmed by this.”

You give him a quizzical look. “If he isn't calmed, then what would happen?”

The priest swallows. “There are three potential outcomes. One—he is pacified completely and moves on to the afterlife.”

This would scare you ordinarily, but you know Jashi well enough to understand that he would never move on. “Okay. What else?”

“Two—he is unaffected, and things remain the same.”

You wait, watching the way his fingers tremble. A wind blows; it carries the scent of burning sandalwood from the wedding altar.

“And?”

“And three—the most likely possibility—he will attach himself to you and curse you.”

“Oh.” The thought should scare you, but you don't think it's fear that’s squeezing your heart. “What would a curse be like?”

“Devastating. You'll never be able to live a normal life, nor will you have a proper afterlife.” The priest shudders at this possibility, which apparently frightens him too much to further describe. “Listen—if the Evil Eye doesn't pass on, you must not complete the marriage. Completing it would make the attachment permanent, and it would realise any curse he places upon you.”

“‘Completing the marriage”?”

“Consummating it.” His face is white. “Sex magic is unspeakably powerful. I don't believe anyone would be able to break a curse that’s born from it—at least not involving such a great yaoguai.”

Anyone else might laugh at his words, but you remain quiet. After spending so long chasing golden balls and bananas, after nearly a decade of fighting off aliens trying to have sex with Momo and Aira, you know that he is telling the truth.

And besides—you know just how permanently a touch can linger (a lifetime, forever, doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?), so you aren't surprised to hear the kind of curse it inflicts.

“Okay,” you say. “I promise I won't let it happen.”

It is only with this vow that the Taoist consents to overseeing the marriage.

The affair is a hodgepodge of Chinese funerary practices and Western weddings—foreign in every respect, but not uncomfortable. Auntie Seiko, clad in red-and-white robes and a golden headdress, walks you down the aisle. Against all her counsel, a white veil sits atop your head and chases after your shoulders. You stop before an altar of offerings and summoning talismans, Taoist spells lit up by the full moon hanged above. Instead of a bridegroom, you are next to a coffin that holds a tiny skeleton. The priest is before you, now possessed by a death god that will call Jashi back to his remains. Supposedly it is a Taoist deity, but its presence feels more extraterrestrial to you than anything spiritual. You will need to ask Serpo about it later.

You study the audience as the priest begins the summoning ritual. Jiji sits in the front row, watching you intently; if all goes well, Jashi will leave his body for the duration of the ceremony, along with all the vengeful ghosts that once resided in the sacrificial house with him. The spirits of the house scare you more than Jashi; you do not know how they will behave once cleaved from his control. There's a banquet for them in the back, a long table with a spread of incense, flowers, rice, and fruit—but you do not know if it will be enough to pacify them.

Your wedding party is equally on edge. As the White Impermanence begins its rituals, Jiji’s body slumps, and everyone else stiffens in their seats. The air grows rife with malevolence. The stars and moon blink out of existence, the world around you grows silent, and a suffocating darkness overtakes the night—almost as if you have been submerged in Empty Space. Tiny cyan flames erupt in the air around the banquet table, their glow eerie in the darkness. They must all be onibi, you guess.

Jashi himself emerges before you, standing over the coffin that holds his bones. You’d expected him to look like the emaciated child that he'd died as, or perhaps the stick-thin monster that used to haunt Jiji—but he takes another form altogether, a formless shadow that your mind can barely comprehend. You're vaguely aware of Turbo Granny covering Momo’s eyes, Okarun transforming, Auntie Seiko readying her bat—but you don't look at any of them. You only stare, as if in a trance, at the single vertical eye that is now peering at you from the darkness.

It is probably strange that you feel so calm. If you were a normal person, you'd probably run from your wedding altar of incense and offerings. Or, actually—if you were a normal person, your mind would be fraying at the edges, gripped by a desire to self-destruct. You would sob and beg the Evil Eye to lift its gaze and let you go and to return to you your life.

But you are not a normal person. The Evil Eye has never really made you feel particularly suicidal, nor have you ever really wanted to beg for your life before it. Your gaze is calm as you recite your vows from memory:

I shall marry this man. No matter what tragedies may arise, I will love this person, respect this person, console this person, help this person—until death, and beyond it. I swear these things before the gods.

When the Evil Eye makes his vows, it is in speech that human ears cannot understand. From the wedding banquet, the spirits of the house cry, their wails cacophonous and wrathful, and suddenly you realise that something has gone terribly wrong. Something has changed with this ghost wedding, and not for the better, but when Seiko rises from her seat, you raise a hand.

Finally, the Evil Eye recedes. The darkness lifts, although the spirits linger. Jiji’s eyes flutter open, immediately anxious and disturbed. You give him a reassuring smile—and the rest of your wedding party, too.

Something has gone terribly wrong. Still, you go about your business cheerfully. You thank the Taoist priest, and you insist to him that you will clean up the altar yourself. You greet your friends and say that they should head for the reception, which will have food for humans rather than ghosts. You peck Jiji on the cheek, beaming at him, and he relaxes and congratulates you.

He cups your face tenderly, kisses you on the nose. “You look happy,” he says.

Something has gone terribly wrong, but you still smile and tell him, “Yes.”

V. THE OFFERING

Your marriage bed is an altar.

Ivory petals are scattered across the bed, along with whole lilies and chrysanthemums. Sweetness permeates the room, carried by the smoke of burning incense. Flames dance upon red candles, flickering as they cast a gentle, soft light. This is your attempt to set an intimate mood, but the Evil Eye does not feel any form of love—he only knows greed. Every object in this room is an offering for the dead, meant for ghosts to consume, and you are the greatest offering of all, waiting for him on the centre of the bed in white silk. You are more fragrant than any joss, riper than any fruit, and he is the most ravenous ghost in existence.

“Isn't this romantic?” you say, beaming at him, and this is when the Evil Eye understands that he absolutely cannot have sex with you.

The wedding was meant to pacify him, perhaps even allow him to move on, but it only did the opposite. Seeing you before him at the altar, vowing to spend a lifetime with him despite all his resentment and ugliness made bare—it only made him more covetous. To move on would be to give up all the love you’ve offered him, the kind of love he'd been denied his whole life.

The kind of love he cannot return.

But he wants it anyway. And like any ghost, he’ll take it—take your love, your heart, your body, your life—if he is allowed to spread your legs and fuck you.

He knows this intuitively, although Turbo Granny also told him this. If you care for her even a little bit, she'd groused, you won’t go through with it. Then she'd threatened to take his banana and his nuts.

But vengeful spirits cannot care for human beings, not truly. It's a wonder that the Evil Eye is hesitating at all, why he feels a pit when he thinks about trapping you. It must be a consequence of his Vessel, who loves you so selflessly that even his body resists hurting you.

“We shouldn’t do it,” he says outright. You blink at him.

“Why?” You tilt your head. “...are you getting wedding night jitters? Do ghosts get nervous?”

He stares at you, uncomprehending. “What? No! I'm not fucking nervous!”

You frown. “Then what's the matter?”

It'll be dangerous for you, he tries to say, but then you're giving him a shy look and untying the sash around your waist. He swallows as the silk robe drops around your shoulders, pools around your thighs. The ivory lace covering your breasts and your core is so sheer that he can practically see through it. It's delicate, pretty—and he wants nothing more than to tear it off and ruin you.

“Don’t you”—you look so flustered, so cute, an echo tells him—“don’t you wanna make love to your wifey?”

Part of him thinks he might cum in his pants. The other part of him wants to leave. Wifey, making love—those are all words that you use on the Vessel. All words that are meant for the Vessel. You're confusing the Evil Eye with your real lover, under the delusion that he is human, unaware that you're being haunted. The Evil Eye is not the man you wish to marry, to live in a House with, to make babies with, to grow old with.

Unfair unfair unfair it hurts it hurts it hurts please please please I don't want to die. I don't want you to die. Why can't I touch you? Why can't I hold you? Please please please—

“I can't.”

Your brow arches. “What do you mean?”

“I can't make love to you.” He pauses, feels a kind of frustration bubbling up when you give him a confused look. “I don't love you.”

Your mouth opens, and you make a faint, strangled noise before asking, “What?”

“I don't love you.”

It takes a moment. You stare at him; you look down; you close your eyes. Your shoulders shake. You'll probably get angry and throw him out, or you'll just calmly ask him to leave. However you do it, you would cast him out, and it would be for the better. You would remain uncursed, free to live out a proper life with the Vessel, and the Evil Eye would get to keep his nuts.

But instead of doing either of those things, you start sniffling—and all the blood leaves his face.

“You”—your voice is so fragile, and it cracks and breaks and his throat feels like it's closing up—“what do you mean you don't love me?”

The Evil Eye's mouth drops open as you start to sob. “W-wait, wait—why are you crying? Don’t cry!”

You start to wail. “You don't love me! I just married you and you don't love me! How am I not supposed to cry?” Between hiccups and sniffs, you pick up one of the pillows and throw it at him. He's paralyzed, forgets to dodge, and it hits him square in the face. “What did I do wrong?!”

“Nothing!” he yells. His heart is pounding. It's squeezing and twisting and it feels so bad that he nearly wants to dispossess the Vessel. “You didn't do anything wrong! It's not you! It's—”

“If you say ‘It’s not you, it's me’, I'll kill you! I'll really kill you!”

“I’m already dead!”

“Then I'll beat your ass!”

“You can't beat my ass! You're not strong enough!”

“Then I'll banish you! I'll spray Jiji with hot water everyday and I won't let you come out! Not even to have Pampy! Not even to play with Okarun!”

The Evil Eye’s mouth drops open. “That's fucking mean!”

“You're fucking mean!” You look at him, and your gaze is so watery and pained that the Evil Eye can't help but go to you. He doesn't realise that he's wiping away your tears until his fingers are wet, and he can’t find it in himself to push you away when you press your face into his shoulder and cling to him. His arms—no, the Vessel’s arms; it must be the Vessel doing this—tighten around you.

“Why—why don't you love me?” you whine between hiccups, and the Evil Eye should call you foolish for expecting him, a spirit who intends to kill all of mankind, to ever love a human. To think that you could spend all these years around him and be so delusional about his true nature—is it that you've forgotten that he drives people to suicide? That his intent is to someday kill all of you, after killing Okarun? The spirits of the House scream at him to grab your face and force you to look at his hideous third eye, to remind you of what he is, to say you're a human you should die like the rest of them you’re as guilty as all of them, you would lock me in a cage too, you would burn me alive and bury my bones beneath a House.

Instead, he rubs your back until your breath begins to even out. And rather than grabbing you and threatening you, he clears his throat.

“I'm… a vengeful spirit,” he says lamely. “Love just isn't something that's in our nature.”

“Why not?” you sniff.

“‘cause if it were, we wouldn't be vengeful. We wouldn't even be ghosts in the first place, probably.”

“B-but,” you whimper, “we've been dating for so long. We live together and sleep together and eat together. You take care of me and I take care of you. We go on dates and hold hands. We even have sex—like, a lot of sex. You initiate it!” You sound accusatory, and the Evil Eye doesn't understand why. Of course he wants to have sex with you; it's one of the most addictive things about having this body. The part of the living world he wants most, nowadays. “If you didn't feel anything for me, why would you do any of that?”

He bristles. “Of course I feel something for you,” the Evil Eye says, oddly agitated. “Just ‘cause I can't love doesn't mean I can't feel. Resentment is what anchors ghosts to this world in the first place.”

“Then what do you feel for me, if not love?” Your fingers dig into the Vessel’s white suit. “Resentment?”

The Evil Eye stares blankly. He doesn't know how to describe it all—the longing, the greed, the envy for the Vessel. The euphoria and closeness of being inside you, a feeling so good that he didn't even know that such joys existed when he was human. The idea of living in a House filled with wedding photos, the thought of making babies with you that he might hold and touch and kiss. So many things that he never had in life. So many things that he can't help but want in death.

So many things that he can't help but want to trap you for them.

“...no, I don't resent you,” he says. “It’s more like I wanna curse you.”

He expects you to cry more—after living for such a long time among humans, he now has enough manners to understand that it is rude to curse someone who has only ever treated you with unconditional love, even if in error—but instead, you become strangely quiet.

You pull away from him so that he can see your face. It's—hopeful?

“You wanna curse me?”

“Yeah. Curse you—haunt you, possess you, control you.” He shrugs. “The usual things that ghosts do when they're so attached to something that they can't move on. You know.”

“Oh.” You wipe your eyes, and the Evil Eye has to stop himself from helping. “I'm so happy.”

“...you're what?”

“I'm so happy that you feel that way about me.”

He stares at you. “You're happy that I wanna curse you?”

“Yeah.”

The Evil Eye studies you. You never react to him in ways that make sense—you’re endeared by him when you should be afraid; you treat him sweetly when you should be callous; you even seem to enjoy his violence when everyone else always punishes it. Now you’re touched by the idea of being cursed.

“Why?” he asks flatly. “I thought you wanted to be loved. Or make love. Something like that.”

You give the Evil Eye a long, thoughtful look.

“Jashi,” you start, voice gentle now, “what do you think love is supposed to look like?”

A married couple in a House. A baby in his mama’s arms. Three children dancing in a field, giggling in the sunlight.

“Dunno.” When you stare at him, as if expecting something, he grows agitated. “I said it's not in my nature. Talk to the Vessel about that stuff, not me.”

One of your brows arches. “Why? You're my husband”—his heart kicks violently at that; he hates this fucking body sometimes—“I want to know what you think love looks like. And besides…” Your voice gets all quiet, and you look away. “It’s not like Jiji would necessarily agree with my views anyway.”

That gets his attention. “What do you mean?”

You hum. “How do I explain it… well, for example—if I found happiness with someone else and left to be with them, Jiji would be heartbroken, but he would be happy for me. Because he loves me, it's ultimately most important for him that I'm happy.”

A married couple in a House. Two corpses dangling from the rafters. A baby in his mama’s arms. A child suffocating in the darkness, crying for his parents. Three children dancing in a field, giggling in the sunlight. Starving in a cage nearby, I'm so hungry, I'm so cold. Unfair unfair I don't wanna die I wanna play with other children I want to dance in the field please please please why can't I touch you why can't I hold you why why why—

“That's fucking stupid,” the Evil Eye blurts out.

“But that's what he’s told me—and I believe him.” You smile at him. “Now, how do you think I'd react if someone took you or Jiji away from me?”

This feels like a trick question. He squints at you. “The same?” he tries.

“That would be ideal. But honestly,” you admit, “I would resent you all for the rest of my life and then think about killing myself. That's what love looks like for me.”

“Oh.” The Evil Eye nods, relaxing. “Yeah, that makes way more sense.”

You laugh, sounding genuinely amused. “Jiji doesn't think so. It really worries him that I feel this way. It would worry most people, actually.” Then you get a little quiet. “I do want to get better for him, but it doesn't come naturally to me, the way that he loves me.”

He doesn't like the tone you're using—soft, uncertain. Mournful. You feel like one of the spirits in the House right now. He thinks about the way you cradled his bones, and his hold on you tightens.

“Where are you going with this?”

“I'm saying that I don't mind that you want to haunt me, or possess me, or whatever.” Your eyes are earnest. Steadfast with the confidence you had as you unearthed his grave. “To be honest, being cursed by you isn’t nearly as frightening as being loved by Jiji.”

The Evil Eye cups your face, thumbing away your tears. Would you cry like this if you knew what it would mean, to be possessed by him? Would you regret your offer to him, the way that the Vessel regrets his? Or would you stare at his true face as you did at the altar and vow to love him anyway?

Instead of asking you any of this, he allows you to loop your arms around his neck.

“I want you to make love to me,” you murmur sweetly as you climb atop him, and that makes him pause.

Two corpses dangling from the rafters. A child suffocating in the darkness, crying for his parents. Starving in a cage nearby, I'm so hungry, I'm so cold. Unfair unfair unfair why can't I touch you why can't I hold you why why why—

“I said I don't know how to do that.”

“Fine,” you say, and then you’re pressing your lips against his, grinding your cunt against his hardening cock. “Then curse me instead.”

VI. THE DEMON

You've always known that the Evil Eye couldn't love you in a normal way.

It was obvious from the outset, simply cataloguing him for what he is: a monster born from human sacrifice; a curse that drives people to madness, to suicide; a thing that regularly exploits Jiji for his body and makes him commit violence against his will. Jiji and Okarun and the rest might be delusional about the Evil Eye nowadays—thinking that he's just like a kid, that he just wants to play, that he’s in love and wants to get married and play house—but you are not. He can't play with Okarun in normal ways, and he can't love you in normal ways. Every desire ends in blood. That's how it began for him, after all. How he was born.

Your mind has always known this, but your body only learned it the first time you had sex. The Evil Eye doesn't know how to make love to you the way that Jiji does. You’ve tried countless times now, and he's even demanded that you make him do it that way so that he knows what the Vessel gets to feel during sex with you. You've kissed him deep and slow, gently touched him until he felt desire, taken him inside you and pressed your forehead to his. Just like that, you encouraged him countless times, you're doing so good. Good boy. You're doing so well. I love you.

You always end up with your face pressed into the mattress, cheeks wet with tears and throat hoarse from screaming. Sore and bruised and fatigued and it's too fast, it's too big, I can't, please, and with any other man you'd probably hate it but when it's Jashi you always end up moaning and begging for more. You'd always thought you’d be disgusted with yourself for having this kind of sex, but with him, you feel too good to really care. All you can think about is his teeth marking your neck, the cruelty of his rough hands, how his cock fills you so well that you can hardly breathe.

He’s taken you like this countless times, but something feels different about it right now. It might be the incense, so thick in your throat and your lungs that you're dizzy with it. It might be the fragrant petals crushed beneath you, soft and strange things that you stole from your wedding altar. Flowers for the dead, the priest had said to you, given to the ancestors, or to bodies as they're lowered into the ground.

You think maybe that's happening to you, right now: you’re dying, you're being torn apart, you’ll break in Jashi’s hands. It'll leave a mark on your body for a lifetime, forever—and you don't need to be saved.

But even after being fucked so many times, even after your mind has been made so hazy and distant, you're still trying so hard not to come apart at the seams. An agonizing pressure is building in your belly, and you can't let it burst. It’s inconvenient when you get too wet; it makes Jashi switch, which is normally hilarious but would feel catastrophic right now, when you’re drunk on the feeling of his cock inside you and don't want any of this to end. But it's so hard, keeping yourself from drenching him—you can hardly think when he's fucking you like this, let alone control yourself.

“I c-can't anymore,” you whine. “Jashi, you gotta stop, I need a break, please—”

Jashi doesn't care. He takes and takes and takes, and of course he does. It's in his nature as a vengeful ghost, as an existence so empty it can't do anything but consume the life around it. It's not enough that you’ve been ruined by his cock, that you're being used like a fleshlight. It's not enough that he’s made you cum countless times—not out of consideration to you, but simply because he's addicted to the feeling of you squeezing and milking him. It's not enough that he's spilled himself inside you more times than should be possible, uncaring of the consequences. It's not enough, it's never enough—he always needs more from you; more tears, more begging, more feverish, white-hot pleasure.

You shouldn't be surprised when you feel his hips start to stutter again, his cock twitching inside you. Some distant part of you is alarmed anyway, even as your cunt tightens around him, eager to be filled. You've never let anyone fuck you raw before tonight, never had anyone fill your womb up like this—not him and not Jiji; you've always been too afraid of pregnancy—but with each passing moment, it is harder to remember why. Not when it feels so good to be pumped full by him, your body flooded with a strange warmth each time. Unnatural, you keep thinking, this feels weird, he's doing something to me, he's cursing me, he's claiming me. But all you do is wrap your legs around his waist when he cums again, greedy for more, and you sigh in relief at the feeling of it.

He has to stop after this. He has to be sated. He pulls out, his cock throbbing against your swollen pussy, painting it a creamy white—and then he throws your legs over his shoulders and sinks back into you.

“Nooo,” you moan, squirming, thrashing, knowing you'll burst if he fucks you again. “I can't, I can't—I can't hold it in anymore, I can't—”

“Then don't,” he grunts. He looks straight down at you, his weight heavy on you, oppressive, unnatural. You hold your breath as you look at his face—dark and vicious, the vibrant eye on his forehead enrapturing. For the first time in your life, you feel a madness creeping in as it stares at you, fraying at your control. You can't move, can't resist him, can't think, and when he starts thrusting again, your body floods with a euphoria so hot that all you know how to do is cry.

You’re going to break from the ecstasy.

“W-what,” you gasp, “what are you doing to—”

Something hits your sweet spot, and your voice clips off into a desperate whimper. His cockhead starts grinding against it, and you try so hard to squirm, to stop, to control yourself—but whatever he's done to you has made you weak, pliant, and you feel yourself start to pulse. Pinned beneath his gaze, you can neither get away nor fight it. You can only surrender. The pressure is too much, your womb is too hot, and suddenly your back is arching and you feel like you're dying as you gush all over him.

You're in hysterics as you come down, panting and gasping for breath. “No more, no more,” you beg, squeezing your eyes shut, clinging to him. You sob into the crook of his neck, and finally—finally—he relents.

He’s gentle as he pulls out, careful as he sets you down on the bed. Kisses pepper your cheeks, your eyelids, your lips. Then, finally—his forehead pressed against yours, lashes fluttering against your skin.

“You're alright,” Jiji murmurs. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

VIII. THE CURSE

The Evil Eye has cursed you.

Jiji saw it on your body: a sunburst of strange characters on your stomach, an eye in the centre. The Taoist priest had broken into a pale sweat at the sight, its implications: if anyone else tries to touch you, whether with the intent to do harm or pleasure, then the untold carnage will be wrought upon them. Should you ever try to leave the Evil Eye, he will drag you back with such violence that it will shatter you. That so long as that vengeful ghost is bound to this earth, then so too shall be you.

Jiji is less worried than he probably should be. He doubts that the Evil Eye would truly ever hurt you, and also doubts that you’re physically capable of leaving him anyway. Ever since being marked, you haven't been able to go a day without having either of them inside you—brutally if it is with the Evil Eye; gently if with Jiji. Either way, you’ve been desperate for their touch, plagued by an all-consuming lust if you can't have them. It puts a wrench into all the plans for your respective careers and for the long distance arrangement. Auntie Seiko plans to train you to suppress the curse, but it isn't sustainable.

Privately, though, there's a part of Jiji that doesn't mind the excuse to see you all the time. It’s not that he wants to deny you your freedom, quite the opposite, but—you're his beautiful wife. And he's ridiculously in love with you. He can't help but miss you every day you're apart, and he also can't bring himself to complain about this particular aspect of the curse.

He also understands the Evil Eye for doing this to you. Sure, cursing you wasn't Jiji’s first act as a newlywed—but he also kinda gets it.

Jiji shares dreams with the Evil Eye, sometimes. He sees within them everything that the Evil Eye has experienced—not just as a demon, but as a spirit, a child, a waif. Sometimes he hears the thoughts that he once had, the ones that made him turn vengeful: unfair, this is unfair let me go it hurts it hurts please stop please stop help me help me help me I don't want to die.

Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

After all that? Of course the Evil Eye doesn't experience desire the way that a human would. Of course playing with someone is the same thing as killing them. Of course loving someone is the same thing as cursing them. And the Evil Eye loves you—that much is obvious, would be obvious to Jiji even if they didn't share a body—so of course his instinct was to carve you open and mark you with his spell.

Jiji feels poorly about it sometimes, guilty and selfish and like he should have ended things after all. Then you'd be free to love whoever you want, without the threat of certain death looming over you. But then you smile at him in bed, so tender and pretty and glowing beneath him. “I'm glad I get to be with you both,” you sigh, and then he can't really complain. After all, you're his beautiful wife. Jiji is ridiculously in love with you. Of course he wants you to be happy.

If it really ever comes down to it, if you really ever wanted to leave—Jiji knows he'd have himself exorcised. He'd rather die than hurt you. But the possibility seems so distant right now, with how you're studying the stone monument before you. You seem peaceful, tranquil, a calm figure cut against a placid, blue sky. Jiji guesses that's appropriate: cemeteries are meant to be resting places.

This plot of gravesoil belongs to the Enjoji family, and there is a spot carved out for you, right next to the space reserved for him. You bear his surname now, so when the two of you pass, you’ll be allowed to rest side-by-side. He already knows what the Evil Eye would say to that: you'll live in a House together and make babies together and eventually die together and be buried together. And if Jiji could talk to him, if he could for once directly speak with the monster inhabiting him, he'd beam at him and say yeah, we sure are.

But the Evil Eye would miss one thing, and it's that he'd also be buried with you. He'd be buried with both of you.

In your hands is an urn, plain but dignified. It carries the ashes of a waif hundreds of years old, the remnants of a brutal sacrifice. The last step of a ghost marriage is to bury the bones of the bride with the remains of the groom, but you're an Enjoji now, and Jiji’s family does cremations, not burials. When the time comes, you'll be burned, and your ashes will be mixed with those belonging to Jashi. He’ll go before either of you: by the end of the day, his remains will be in the crypt, though Jiji doubts his spirit is going anywhere.

“We’ll be interred with each other, someday,” you say to the ashes, tender. “But first we’ll spend a lifetime together.”

Then you turn to Jiji, your smile sunlit. It's shy, because you're always shy around Jiji—even though he's now your husband and you’ve married him in front of five hundred people and he's made love to you every which way on every piece of furniture in the house since then—and you add, “And we’ll spend a lifetime together too.”

Jiji laughs. “I guess you're stuck with me,” he says, and a frown briefly overtakes your face.

“We’re all stuck with each other,” you correct him. “You're cursed as much as I am.”

“I guess.” He scratches his cheek, sheepish. “Sorry you ended up with a husband who’s possessed by a ghost.”

“I wasn’t talking about Jashi,” you say, and you seem a little uncertain, but Jiji can't help but smile. Partly because he appreciates it when you're earnest with him, but mostly just because he loves you.

“You're so beautiful,” he says, “did you know that?”

You huff at him, turning around. “You’re too much,” you chide, but he hears the fondness in your tone. Jiji grins, and—in the privacy of the cemetery—takes the opportunity to loop his arms around you. You giggle when he squeezes you, and then your voice goes quiet.

“I love you,” you say, “did you know that?”

“Uh huh.” He spins you around so he can waggle his brows and give you his most reassuring look. You snort violently at his expression. “It’s super obvious. You can't resist my charms.”

When your laughter passes, you look down at the ashes in your arms—the child that you carried out of the House.

“Do you think,” you ask, voice odd, “he knows that?”

Jiji’s eyes soften. Because he shares dreams with the Evil Eye, and sometimes he shares thoughts with him too—like the pain in his chest that's been aching ever since he found his parents hanging side-by-side from the second floor, the one that grew every time he found the body of a spirit medium, the one that choked him when his relatives called him cursed and slammed the door in his face. He slept on the ground in front of their house after that—he didn't want to go back to the place where his parents nearly died—and called Auntie Seiko the next day, when he realised that they truly didn't want him around.

Sometimes he shares dreams with the ghost haunting him, and when he screams in his sleep he can't tell if the voice in his throat is truly his or if it actually belongs to the Evil Eye. But no matter its origin, it goes quiet when you hold him in bed and kiss his forehead. Just like how it went quiet when you carried that skeleton out of the House.

Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

“Yeah,” Jiji says. “Yeah, he does.”

END

some general notes:

this was a weird fic to write. ordinarily I would write the evil eye as having a childish and immature narrative voice; however, I (1) had to balance it with an aged up characterization, and (2) did not want to get cancelled, so I instead ended up with something in-between that feels a little awkward

there is jiji-focused companion fic that is like 50% done about him fucking you nasty after he switches places with the evil on your wedding night. I will probably finish it and post it when s2 comes out LOL

i know this is not my best writing rip please forgive me

some cultural notes:

taoism has real-life sex magic practices and places a lot of significance on, err, certain bodily fluids in terms of spiritual energy. none of these beliefs have anything to do with getting cursed via freaky ghost marital sex, but they served as the general inspiration for the curse in the fic (alongside dandadan canon, which coincidentally also places a lot of spiritual significance in sex and sexual organs lol)

the vows recited by the reader are a modification of standard japanese wedding vows (found on Google, take with a grain of salt). incidentally, western-style weddings are apparently quite popular in Japan, hence the decision for the bridal dress.

The courtroom was a battlefield of words and evidence, and you had somehow ended up right in the middle of it. 

As a junior analyst for the prosecutor's office, your days were filled with sifting through documents, verifying alibis, and occasionally testifying on minor details. But today felt different. The case was high-profile—a murder tied to corporate espionage—and Miles Edgeworth, the legendary demon prosecutor, was leading the charge.

You'd seen him in action before, his sharp suits and sharper gaze commanding the room like a conductor wielding a baton. There was something magnetic about him, the way his cravat fluttered slightly with each precise gesture, his voice cutting through the chaos with unyielding authority. 

But you'd never spoken to him directly. Until now.

“Miss [Y/N],” Edgeworth's voice echoed through the chamber as he turned to you on the stand. His steel-gray eyes locked onto yours, piercing and unblinking. “Your analysis of the financial records is pivotal. Walk us through the discrepancies again.”

Your heart raced, not just from the pressure of the testimony, but from the intensity of his stare. You explained the forged transactions, the hidden accounts, your voice steady despite the knot in your stomach. 

He nodded once, a faint approval in his expression that made your cheeks warm. The defense attorney tried to trip you up, but Edgeworth dismantled their objections with ruthless efficiency. 

By the end of the day, the verdict was a conviction, and as the gavel fell, you caught him watching you again—from across the room, his lips pressed into a thin line.

…

That should have been the end of it. A win for the office, a notch in your resume. But the next morning, as you arrived at work, there was a package on your desk. No sender's name, just a neatly wrapped box containing a first-edition law textbook you'd mentioned in passing during your testimony. 

Your brows furrowed in confusion. Who could have known? You shrugged it off as a colleague's gift and dove into your next assignment.

Weeks passed, and the coincidences began to pile up. A late-night coffee run after crunching numbers? There was Edgeworth in the lobby, 'coincidentally' grabbing his own. He nodded politely, but his eyes lingered a fraction too long. 

A threatening note slipped under your apartment door, anonymous and vague? The police dismissed it as a prank, but Edgeworth appeared at your office the next day, insisting on reviewing your security. 

“It's my duty to ensure the integrity of my team's safety,” he said, his tone clipped, but there was an undercurrent of something fiercer, more personal.

You started to notice the patterns. Your schedule seemed to align with his more often than chance allowed. Files you needed appeared on your desk before you requested them, always with his meticulous annotations. 

And then there was the way he spoke to you now—direct, almost possessive. “You've been working too hard,” he'd say during breaks, his gloved hand brushing yours as he handed over a report. The touch was brief, electric, sending a shiver down your spine. 

You told yourself it was admiration, professional respect. But deep down, a thrill stirred, mingled with unease.

…

One rainy evening, after a particularly grueling day, you decided to walk home instead of taking the subway. The streets of Tokyo were slick with water, neon lights reflecting in puddles like shattered glass. 

Your mind wandered to Edgeworth—his unwavering focus, the rare glimpses of vulnerability when he thought no one was watching. You'd caught him staring at you during meetings, his expression softening just enough to hint at the man beneath the prosecutor.

A shadow detached from the alley ahead, and your steps faltered. Two men, rough-looking, blocked your path. “Hey, miss, you look like you could use some company,” one leered, his breath reeking of cheap sake. Panic surged as the other grabbed your arm, yanking you toward the darkness.

“Let go!” you shouted, struggling, but their grip tightened. Rain poured harder, muffling your cries. Then, a voice sliced through the storm like a prosecutor's objection.

“Release her. Now.”

Edgeworth emerged from the downpour, his coat billowing like a cape, umbrella discarded at his feet. His face was a mask of controlled fury, eyes narrowed to slits. The men laughed at first, but something in his stance—the coiled readiness, the aura of unyielding authority—made them hesitate.

“Walk away,” he commanded, stepping closer. 

One man shoved you toward his partner and lunged at Edgeworth, but the prosecutor sidestepped with grace, delivering a sharp strike to the assailant's knee. The man crumpled with a yelp. The second hesitated, then bolted, his accomplice scrambling after him into the night.

You stood there, drenched and trembling, as Edgeworth turned to you. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, the fabric warm from his body heat. “Are you hurt?” His voice was low, urgent, his hand hovering near your cheek as if afraid to touch.

“I-I'm fine,” you stammered, but your knees buckled. He caught you effortlessly, pulling you against his chest. The scent of his cologne—crisp, like polished wood and faint spice—enveloped you, steadying your racing heart.

“This cannot happen again,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. “I won't allow it.” There was a possessiveness in his tone that sent a confusing mix of fear and warmth through you. He hailed a cab, bundling you inside, and gave the driver your address without asking.

The ride was silent, save for the patter of rain on the roof. Edgeworth sat rigidly beside you, his gaze fixed on the window, but you felt his awareness like a tangible force. When the cab stopped, he paid and escorted you to your door, scanning the hallway with predatory vigilance.

“Thank you,” you whispered, fumbling with your keys. “How did you...?”

He met your eyes, his expression unreadable. “I was following you. For your protection.” The admission hung between you, heavy and undeniable. Before you could process it, he stepped closer, his fingers tilting your chin up gently. “You have no idea the dangers out there. Or how much I…” He trailed off, his thumb brushing your lower lip, a spark igniting in the air.

Your breath hitched. This was Edgeworth—stoic, impeccable Miles Edgeworth—looking at you like you were the only truth in a world of lies. “Miles,” you breathed, the name slipping out unbidden.

His eyes darkened, and he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and fierce. It was a claim, soft yet insistent, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger he'd kept leashed for too long. 

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, the world narrowing to the heat of his body, the subtle press of his frame against yours. It ended too soon, leaving you both breathless, foreheads touching.

“I cannot lose you,” he said softly, his voice raw. “Not to this city, not to anyone. You're mine to protect.”

The words should have alarmed you, but in that moment, wrapped in his coat and his gaze, they felt like a promise. You nodded, dazed, and he pressed another kiss to your forehead before stepping back. “I'll see you tomorrow. And every day after.”

As he walked away into the rain, you touched your lips, heart pounding. He had ensnared you with all the skill you’d expect, and strangely, you weren't sure you wanted to escape.

Mei sat on your kitchen counter, legs crossed, idly swinging a stiletto heel. They were busy peeling an orange with a small, silver pocketknife. By the way they did it, it was clear they knew how to handle a blade.

"You’re being very quiet, my darling," Mei said, not looking up. The blade hissed through the citrus skin. "Is it the architect? I told you, the hospital said he’ll make a full recovery. Well, physically. He might have a phobia of dessert trolleys now, but that’s hardly my fault, is it?"

Hardly your fault? How can you say that..?

"I saw you trip the waiter, Mei," you said, your voice trembling as you stood by the sink, clutching a cold cup of tea. "I saw the way you looked at him when he fell, too. You weren't surprised. You were satisfied. Weren't you?"

Mei paused. They looked up, and for the first time, they didn't bother with the bubbly "matchmaker" mask. Their expression was flat, their eyes reflecting the dim kitchen light like pink, polished stones.

"Satisfied? That’s a small word for it," they murmured. 

They hopped off the counter and stepped toward you. The knife was still in their hand. "You want the truth? I was relieved. Seeing him crawl away in a puddle of wine and shame...it just confirmed what I already knew. He wasn't fit to breathe your air, let alone touch your hand."

"Who are you to decide that?" you snapped, backing up until your hips hit the counter. "You’re a matchmaker! Your entire job—the reason we even met—was to find me a partner. You've spent months 'optimizing' my life for a relationship!"

Mei laughed. But their eyes, they remained dull. Placid. They stepped into your personal space, the tip of the pocketknife clicking shut as they folded it away, but knowing it was handy was enough of a threat anyway.

"Oh, I did optimize you," Mei giggled like this was all endearment, "I fixed your wardrobe. I curated your social media. I made sure you went to the right cafes at the right times. But a funny thing happened during all that research, [Y/N]. I realized I was building a masterpiece. A perfect, beautiful, precious soul...and then I was expected to just hand you over to some salaryman with a boring hobby and a receding hairline?"

They leaned in closer, their face inches from yours. You could see the faint shimmer of their glittery eyeliner and the absolute, terrifying clarity in their gaze. Almost like mania. 

"The doctor? He would have made you move to the suburbs and give up your dreams for his career. The architect? He talked about himself for forty minutes straight. I watched him do it. He didn't ask you a single question about your day, about what you like, about how you feel. Not one."

"It was a first date, Mei! People are nervous!"

"No," Mei hissed, their voice dropping into a commanding tone. "They were tests. I gave them every opportunity to prove they were worthy of the 'you' I helped create. And they failed. Every. Single. One."

They grabbed your wrists, their grip surprisingly strong—the strength of someone who lived in a world of assassins and specialists. They pulled your hands up, pressing them against their chest. Beneath your fingers you could feel a rapid, thundering heartbeat.

"I’ve spent more time thinking about your happiness than you have," Mei said, their breath shuddering almost as if it were a pleasurable concept. "I know your favorite coffee temperature. I know which side of the bed you sleep on. I know that you cry at the end of that one old movie but pretend it’s just allergies. I have a 400-page file on your heart, [Y/N]. Do you really think I’m going to let some stranger walk in and ruin all my hard work?"

"You're insane," you whimpered, trying to pull away, but they only tightened their hold, pinning you against the cabinetry.

"I'm a specialist," they corrected with a manic grin. "And specialists get what they want. I decided tonight: the 'Marriage Project' is over. I'm canceling the contract. I’m the only one who knows the 'real' you, because I'm the one who helped you find them. Therefore, I’m the only one who gets to keep you."

They let go of one wrist to cup your face, their thumb dragging roughly over your lower lip.

"From now on, the doors are locked. Not to keep you in—though, let’s be honest, you’re safer here—but to keep the world out. You don't need a candidate, my darling. You have the matchmaker themselves. And I've decided we are a perfect, 100% compatibility, match."

"And if I say no?" you challenged, sounding like a mouse.

Mei’s expression softened into something pitying, patronizing, almost maternal. They leaned in and kissed your forehead, a lingering, possessive seal.

"You won't," they whispered. "Because I've already handled your phone. I've sent the 'break-up' texts to your friends. I've told your family you're going on a long, private retreat with your 'new partner.' You’re already gone, [Y/N]. You just haven't realized that the only person left in your world...is me."

They smiled, and in that moment it was all too clear to you that there really was no judging a book by its cover. The sweetest could be the most dangerous of all.

"Now," Mei chirped, their voice suddenly returning to its playful, high-pitched lilt as if the last five minutes hadn't happened. "Should we order Thai food for dinner? I already know exactly what you want."