Snail

Okay so, there's a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and a very real possibility that your future involves forever-turned-on lights, communal toilets, and a prison guard with suspicious interests. School does not prepare you for situations like these.

You don't quite remember much of school, only that you passed enough classes to secure a nine-to-five and afford an apartment with electricity. Electricity keeps the freezer running. The freezer keeps the body cold. Until tonight, that has been enough to prevent situations like this.

The vigilante seems far more concerned about your well-being than whatever crimes might be waiting inside your apartment. He keeps trying to peer past you, tilting his pretty face toward the narrow gap you have left between the door and its rotting frame.

Your fingers blanch on the knob.

“Is anyone else home?” the vigilante asks. His tone is easy, almost careless, but his gaze keeps moving over your face. The way his eyes move makes you uneasy. Does he know? Is he going to take you to prison? Are you going to end up on death row?

“I was expecting somebody else.” He laughs softly, then adds on quickly, “Not that finding you instead is a bad thing. It’s just…” His eyes flick past your shoulder toward the apartment. “Could I come inside for a minute? I need to check something.”

The door is open exactly six inches. Any narrower is rude; any wider, he’ll see the kitchen. Then he might ask about the deep freezer.

You certainly don't care about a man dressed like a bum with a hero suit underneath: joggers, an unzipped jacket, and the dark blue bird stretched across his chest. He does seem familiar.

But everyone does when you lose your memory.

“It’s too late to let strangers in,” you say rather flatly. You wouldn’t want a bum like him in your apartment anyway. Dead body or not.

His brows pinch, disappointment sliding across that perfect face.

Wrong answer.

Adjust.

A practical thought clicks into place: if he sees the freezer, punishment follows. A pre-emptive correction would be simply killing him. But there is no physical room beside the meal prep. Shifting him to the fridge would evict five days of carefully portioned meals, and the power bill is already stripping your bank account. Spoiled food means no food. No food means starving.

You can’t afford to get stupid.

A gentle tap-tap on the doorframe pulls your eyes back up. He smiles, soft and warm, igniting an unwelcome heat in your cheeks. To your surprise, his cheeks are pink as well.

“I’ll just… call her,” he murmurs, fingers drifting toward his pocket.

“She’s on vacation,” you blurt, too loud and way too quick to be considered normal. Another wrong answer, if the brief, puzzled tilt of his brow means anything.

But then he smiles, thinner this time, as though he is masking a bruise of disappointment. Either he is already suspicious and plans to alert the authorities, or he will try again on some quieter night. For the moment, you survive the encounter.

Still, a problem remains: there’s no freezer space for a second corpse, not unless you ditch the meal prep.

You watch him retreat down the dim hallway, one hand lifted in a genial wave before he disappears into the rattling elevator cage at the far end. Only when the doors slide shut do you slam the deadbolt, shove the chain back in place, and glance at the freezer.

Preparations will have to begin tonight.

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The week passes without sirens, arrests, or freezer re-arrangements. You almost believe the vigilante was a fever dream - until a new voice slides through the paper-thin wall.

The building has been hollow for two years; anyone with sense either fled or wrapped themselves in the same caretaker-cocoon that once shielded you. Six months ago that cocoon tore, and routine became sedative: clock-in, clock-out, corpse check, reheated meal prep. The caregiver’s old tablet still pings PAID each month, money shrinking in an account you can’t access. Don’t think about investigations. Investigations ask questions.

The scrape-and-thud of furniture next door means fresh eyes. You crouch on cracked linoleum, snapping dry ramen into crooked shapes beside the chained freezer, and listen to a mid-twenties male voice on speaker: boxes, deliveries, parking permits - ordinary words that grate because ordinary people notice smells and knock on management’s door when your apartment is too loud. You swallow brittle noodles and run tonight’s checklist: finish the last stir-fry, rewrap the feet - frostburn is creeping, drain the drip tray, and smile if the newcomer says hello.

Caregiver’s Rule #12: smiles disarm.

Across the wall, you hear a door close. His front door. Footsteps echo down the hall, unless it’s only your heartbeat. It’s difficult to tell. The sound seems to move through the floorboards instead of over them, each step pressing closer, until the apartment feels too small to hold you, the freezer, and all the terrible inside it.

Is he going to introduce himself now?

You click the lock shut on the freezer. The faint sound of safekeeping does nothing to stop the dread that fills you with every step outside your door. Then comes a light tap against the wood, just like before.

You slowly ease yourself up, trying to seem neither too willing to open the door nor too afraid of what waits behind it.

Afraid people invite questions.

You force a smile onto your face. Do you look normal? Does the body smell, and have you simply gotten used to it?

The math is getting ugly: one freezer, one body, two possible problems.

Play smart.

Unlocking the door proves to be more difficult than it was a week ago. Your hands shake as they slide the lock out of place, and you do your best attempt at a cheerful smile. “You must be the new neighbor,” you force out.

Unease settles low in your stomach as you glance up at him. Same height as the vigilante who came by last week. Less of a bum, however. He wears a cardigan over a white shirt, with nice-looking pants that seem dry-cleaned, which is odd for a resident in this slum of a building. Same blue eyes that pin you in place and the same familiar dimpled smile that reminds you of your nightmares from the other night.

It would be easier if they were the same person. Then you would only have one body to worry about, but the chances of them being the same are awfully slim, and you are not one to take chances. Especially when there’s a cell waiting for you.

“I am,” he says, voice coated in honey. “Thin walls, huh?”

He’s friendlier than the vigilante from last week, though that does nothing to comfort you. His voice is nothing but warm, neighborly, and harmless. Suspicion builds in your stomach. Or maybe you’re just hungry. However, you don’t quite enjoy the caged-animal feeling that licks up your spine when his arm comes to rest against the wall, blocking your view of the hallway and any possible exits.

Nice guys - those are the ones you worry about.

“Dick Grayson,” he offers, extending a hand you refuse. Too risky to exchange DNA when there’s a felony cooling five feet away. “Blüdhaven PD. Anything you need…”

Shit. Sirens begin to scream inside your skull. The freezer rattles awake behind you. Your sins are already mocking you.

You manage that it must be “nice” - wrong adjective.

His smile slices: “Nice isn’t the word.”

You scramble for “safe,” tack on “for you” as if that helps. Since cops get wrist-slaps for killing, your brain mutters - you choke the thought down.

He softens, coaxing: “It’s not always safe.” Bait. Your gaze returns to his hands - broad, sure, the sort that could pry a freezer lid or close over a throat. Your stomach tightens. He keeps the patter light, claims he didn’t want to be rude, asks if you’re always like this.

“Yes,” you say, which somehow amuses him. You don’t really get the social cue behind it all. Then the real kicker, delivered with a wink: “Have a good night - and don’t forget your medication.”

Your smile turns to ice. You never mentioned the pills.

You should really kill him.

First plan: poison - too slow. Second: ceramic vase - probably shatters. Third: push him down the stairs - lobby cameras.

Should’ve checked the cameras.

Sirens howl in your head; even the freezer seems to vibrate with them. He knows you’re unmedicated. Worse - he knows you’re alone.

This is still normal, you insist, bolting the door a second time now. The padlock’s click echoes louder than his footsteps retreating down the hall.

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You’ve been hiding ever since Dick Grayson moved in two weeks ago. Since then, he has learned your schedule like the back of his own hand. He knows when you leave, hears the tardy shuffle in your step, counts the key fumbles when you chase the bus. He even indulges himself by stopping at the same coffee shop every morning, just to say hello before you scamper off to your pitiful nine-to-five. On Fridays, you return late with plastic bags full of discount groceries, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of marked-down items.

You used to leave the apartment more. Not much, but enough. A trip to the mailbox before work. A stop at the corner store after. Sometimes you would linger outside the laundromat with your tote bag pressed to your side, watching people through the glass like you were trying to remember how normal worked. But now that he has moved in beside you, your schedule has changed, and so have the dark circles under your eyes. You avoid him more often than not. You keep your curtains drawn shut, the cheap fabric pulled tight even in the middle of the afternoon. You only access the mailbox when he leaves for work, even if the morning paper you are so insistent on grabbing is already a day behind.

A sigh escapes him as he lies on his bed, shoulder pressed against the shared wall, listening for any sound from your apartment.

Nothing.

That bothers him more than noise would. The breaker tripped a few hours ago. He heard the electricity die through the wall, that low mechanical hum in your apartment cutting out all at once, leaving behind a flat, ugly quiet. It would be easy to climb onto your patio, pick the lock, and flip the switch back on for you. An easier option would be to check whether the caregiver he hired took the money and left you all alone.

His jaw tightens. You shouldn’t be working in your condition.

He groans into the hands resting over his face, dragging his palms down until the heels press against his eyes. Then he turns, burying his face into your old pillow. It barely smells like you anymore, but he still keeps it tucked beneath his head every night like a comfort plush.

How long have you been alone? It has to be at least six months. Maybe seven. You were fine when he left for Gotham. Or fine enough. The accident had left you different, sure. More numb. A little damaged in a way even the best doctors could not fully smooth over. But you had been alive and mostly manageable.

It has been two years now since the accident. Two years since the ring box sat heavy on the car’s center console, black velvet catching the passing streetlights every time the vehicle moved beneath them. He had asked you too soon. He knows that. You knew that. The two of you had been fighting more. He had been getting rougher with you, quicker to grab, to corner, to tell himself it was only because you scared him when you talked about leaving. You had threatened to leave. He had started acting too much like Bruce, all paranoia.

He has always been too hasty. Asking for your hand in marriage was never the mistake. Just the timing of it. You had stared at him with tears in your eyes as you tried to set boundaries, your face losing color as he promised he would keep you safe. No matter how badly you misunderstood him. Your fingers had curled around the seat belt, pressed hard against the buckle.

He had thought you were overwhelmed. Even tried the calming techniques first, using a low voice that typically worked with your outbursts. His hand open. Breathe with me, princess. You’re okay. But you kept shaking your head and reaching for the door, so he had started reaching for the tranquilizer dart in the back seat, just to get you quiet until he could bring you home and keep you safe until the wedding.

You were probably just afraid of happiness. Maybe that’s why you did it.

You were quick to unlock the car door. Quicker than his hand as he lunged across the console. Even faster than the desperate grip of his fingers against your sleeve before you slipped through them and threw yourself out of the vehicle.

Did you have to jump?

The question is as familiar as the guilt that ate him alive when he saw you in the hospital, your head wrapped in white, tubes taped to your skin and down your throat, machines clicking and breathing around you. Severe brain damage, they said. A long recovery. But money fixed enough of it. Bruce’s money. The best doctors the area could offer, even some who flew in. Bruce’s hand clamped heavy on his shoulder as the old man told him, “Don’t let it get to you. There are plenty of fish out there.”

But you were the only one he wanted to catch.

Did you have to throw yourself out of a moving car to get away from him? Was life with him that hellish?

He hates that word. Hellish. It doesn’t belong in his memories with you. Not in the kitchen, where he cooked meals and set bowls in front of you even when you glared at him as if he had poisoned them. Sure, you threw one at his face once. Called him a pervert. A fake hero. But you were simply cranky some days. Overwhelmed. Easy to brush off, the same way you brushed away the blankets he laid over your shoulders when you pretended not to be cold.

It doesn’t belong with the little doodles and notes he left on the fridge either, even if some of them came back shredded into death notes. Or with the scissors he had to pry from your hands while you threatened to slit your throat if he didn’t let you leave.

Of course, there were nights when you slow-danced with him in the living room to old love songs, your cheek resting against his chest as you finally got tired of fighting. Or even the mornings when you woke soft and quiet, blinking up at him like you forgot why you were angry. The afternoons when you asked so prettily for fresh air after he had kept you locked in the bedroom for too long, voice hoarse, fingers curled into his shirt.

Sure, spanking worked when you got too difficult, but so did a good timeout from time to time. You always melted against him after being alone long enough.

You could be sweet when you wanted to be. That was love. It had to be love.

He had loved you enough to try to move on with Barbara back in Gotham. It worked for a couple of weeks. Better than sitting at your bedside, loving you through recovery while you could barely remember who he was, watching your confused, frightened eyes fill with fear when he leaned too close. The times when he needed to remind you with a hand pinching your air tube that he was still the person you were supposed to kiss back.

His hand curls against the bedsheet where you would have slept.

If the Joker had not been loose for six months, Dick would have come back to you sooner. He would have continued his weekly checkups while you were drugged and less observant. Your caregiver was always good at giving you more than you needed to help with the nightmares she claimed were about him.

They’re just dreams. He’s not your monster.

You slept deeply enough then that he could sit beside your bed, brush the hair from your face, adjust your blanket, and pretend the quiet between you was peace instead of punishment. You never flinched in your sleep.

He cut things off with Barbara when he came back here. Watched her cry as he held her, her face tucked against his shoulder, her fingers twisting in the back of his shirt. He felt bad. Of course he felt bad. But her tears didn’t make him want to choke sense into her. They didn’t make him want to kiss her until she stopped making that awful, broken sound.

Yours did, however.

You’re not the same as before. He expected that. Certainly much healthier than you were in the hospital, at least. Your social skills are lacking, but that is expected when a lamb first learns how to walk again. If anything, it works out for the best. You’re more relaxed around him now. You don’t keep the lock in place like you used to when the two of you were first seeing each other. You don’t insult him. You stopped crying. The list could go on and on about how oddly perfect things would be between you two.

Finally, he hears your footsteps down the hall. Should he greet you? No. That would be too eager. He shouldn’t frighten such a delicate creature after work.

Your front door unlocks. He listens to the stumble of your shoes against the floor, the rustle of a plastic bag, the small irritated sound you make when something bumps into the wall. After a handful of minutes, the breaker clicks back on. The apartment gives a faint electric shudder through the wall, and the hum returns. You must have noticed by now that it has been off for a couple of hours. It’s a heatwave, after all. You probably have too many appliances plugged in.

Maybe he could offer to cook for you tonight. Something simple. Pasta, maybe. Open that fresh bottle of wine he got from a buddy. He can show up at your door with a friendly neighbor smile, pretend he hasn’t spent the last few hours listening for proof you are still breathing. You might let him in if he plays his cards right. He can pour you a glass, make you laugh, kiss you before walking you back to your door like the old days.

Then he hears it.

Your door opens again.

Are you leaving?

Dick pushes himself upright, head tilting toward the wall. Your footsteps are quick this time. Frantic. You mutter under your breath, the same word over and over.

Ice.

You must be going to the convenience store. All your food must have spoiled, or at least enough of it to scare you. That refrigerator was never the greatest. It was never his idea to keep you here for two years. You were supposed to move in with him after one, but work got busy. Gotham got loud. People kept needing him, and you had been safe enough. Or he thought you were.

He’s already moving before he finishes the thought, tugging his work uniform back into place, smoothing a hand over his glossy dark hair in the mirror by the door. The uniform helps. A good excuse for running into you at the convenience store down the road.

A friendly neighbor coming home after a long night of police work.

Not a man following you into the night.

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If Dick had known you could make such a horrified expression and still look so painfully cute, he might have pulled a stunt like this sooner. The convenience store is nearly empty at this hour. Outside, the heatwave fogs the beer-ad glass; inside, you stand in front of the ice chest with both arms full, eight plastic bags stacked awkwardly against your chest, as if you’re trying to carry a body instead of save one. He taps your shoulder; you nearly drop everything.

“Throwing a party?” he teases, bright and harmless, as though meeting here were a coincidence either of you should believe. His gaze flicks from the bags to your face - eight is a lot of ice for someone with no friends in any file he’s pulled, no emergency contacts who call more than once, no coworkers who walk you home. You’re usually alone.

That has always made things easier.

Your eyes jump to his uniform, then his badge, before Dick lifts a hand in an open-palm wave.

“Easy,” he says. “Just me.” Your grip only tightens; water runs from a corner of one bag and slides down your wrist. You don’t seem to notice. You're so much stranger and more calculated - so unlike the version of you who once snapped at him for thrills and shoved him away after too many kisses. Different isn’t ruined; it’s just leverage.

Your reply is lost to the freezer hum and the cashier’s squeaking stool.

“What was that?” he prompts. You glance at the bored clerk, then back at him, and repeat too loudly: “It’s for coffee meal prep.” He nearly laughs. Eight bags for morning coffee? Adorable. He props a shoulder against the glass, frost blooming behind him. “You need eight for one cup?” A beat. “Tired of seeing me in the mornings?”

You look away, try to brush past. “It’s melting - I won’t have any to practice with if it melts.”

Practice? Before you can retreat, he lifts six bags off your pile. You jerk for them, a small startled sound, but he’s always been stronger. For an instant he sees the old fury in your eyes, enough to make his heart kick before he reins in the teasing.

“How about I help?” he offers gently.

You huff and push toward the register while meltwater stipples the floor. Dick follows, shifts the bags against his hip, and - before you can fish out your wallet - taps his card: beep. You freeze mid-reach.

“I had it,” you mutter.

“I know,” he smiles. “And now you still have it.”

Tension moves between you, louder than the compressor rattle; the cashier pretends not to listen.

Why eight bags? Maybe the breaker scare sent you spiraling, food spoiling after the caregiver vanished. No reason for you to budget groceries or lug ice through Blüdhaven at night when he’s right here. He’ll audit the caregiver’s spending, see where the money went.

The bell jingles as you step into wet heat. Sidewalk puddles shine under streetlights; a distant siren wails and fades. You walk too fast - shoes slapping pavement in a nervous tempo - bags swinging hard against your legs. Each time you edge toward the curb, Dick glides between you and traffic. “Careful,” he says. You flinch. “I’m careful.” Twice you reach for the ice he’s carrying; twice he shifts it easily away.

“They’ll melt faster if we stop to argue,” he reminds you. That quiets you, though your eyes keep darting: his hands, the street, the apartment looming ahead. Plastic crackles whenever your grip flexes, leaving a thin trail of meltwater. When you veer to the curb again, he blocks you.

“Walking on the outside,” he explains - seat-belt muscle memory, sleeve slipping from his grasp.

“That’s not necessary,” you protest.

“Humor me,” he smiles, and you swallow the argument.

The lobby smells of old mail and cherry-lemon cleaner that never makes the place look clean. But it does take the smell of mold out. Elevator’s Under Construction - crooked sign over the button - so you climb the stairs. Halfway up, you freeze, alarmed to find him behind you.

“Go on. I’m not in a rush.” He motions ahead.

You don’t like his eyes on your back; good to know. He takes the next flight first, listening to your uneven breathing and the ice shifting in your arms.

Hallway air is thicker than outside, trapped under flickering bulbs. Your door waits - paint chipped, peephole cloudy, chain probably dangling because you left in a hurry. His door is beside it, close enough to hear everything. You whirl, blocking your knob.

“I can take them now.” Your smile appears a beat late - the wrong mask worn the wrong way. Dick’s chest warms.

“Should I help you get these inside?” he asks, voice honey-soft. Helping is love; love lets him in.

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You have gotten yourself into a spectacular pickle.

Bargaining at the threshold proves useless: your arms are full of melting ice, his arms are full of melting ice, and technically all of it belongs to you. You assure him - politely, firmly, repeatedly - that he doesn’t need to come inside, the bags aren’t heavy, it’s late, he must be tired, you’d hate to be a bother. Normal words for normal people. Dick Grayson only smiles and hoists the bags higher as they start to sink again.

Nice people are harder to shake; your caregiver warned you about that. They treat no like an invitation to try harder. Eight bags were a mistake. Four would have meant coffee prep or a broken fridge - anything ordinary. Eight screams emergency. Eight screams hidden freezer. Eight screams a smell you’re praying belongs to yesterday’s trash.

Behind the door, the apartment waits. So does the smell.

Sweet, damp, wrong - probably already leaking from the freezer seams after hours without power in a heatwave. Please be trash, please be trash. Maybe it isn’t bad yet. Maybe the chain kept the lid sealed. Maybe the trash under the sink reeks worse. You have never hoped for trash before, but there’s a first time for everything when a corpse is thawing in your kitchen.

Open the door and risk the odor. Refuse and risk the neighbor’s suspicions. Stand here and the ice keeps melting, the body keeps warming, the officer eventually calls someone. The officer is someone.

Slower disaster is better than fast. Keys slip in your wet fingers; metal clinks too loudly. Laugh. Harmless people laugh. You laugh like a woman you’ve seen in movies over misplaced keys, not like a woman calculating whether she can drop a policeman before he draws his gun. Dick doesn’t laugh back - he only watches.

Finally the lock turns. You step in first; he follows, gently shuts the door - then locks it. Fine, be creepy. Warm, stale air greets you, carrying a faint, rotting sweetness. Trash. Just trash. You clutch the ice, march past the chained chest freezer, swear you won’t look - then look anyway. Chain still tight. Good. Bad.

“Should I put these in the freezer?” he asks, kindness itself. For one absurd beat, you almost answer yes, right beside the dead woman. Then you see where he’s staring: not at you, but at the chain around the lid.

“Do you have a key?”

Words jam in your throat. A lock for sleep-eating? A safety latch? All terrible.

Your gaze darts to the ceramic vase by the door- heavy, blue-flowered, dusty. It has held receipts, dead pens, a spare button. It could hold blood. You edge one bag against your hip, freeing a hand. His head is turned. His hands are full. You might have a second. Handle’s chipped - won’t slip. Good.

Aim for his perfect face. If he falls, the entry rug is dark, good for soaking. Ice buys time. Boxes in his apartment for the body parts. One problem at a time.

He starts to turn.

You grip the vase and swing with all your might.

Sorry, officer.

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Dick should have expected it. Your fire never truly burned away - no amount of medication or brain damage could smother that stubborn spark. Of course you fought him: manic smile at the door, polite excuses stacking. Of course you lunged for the vase. You were a frightened animal that didn’t know what was good for you.

He whistles low as he crouches by the chest freezer, one knee sinking into damp flooring, bobby pin clamped between his teeth. Picking the padlock feels crude but easier than ripping off the chain or searching for a key. The apartment smells off - wrong, even by your standards. Beside him, the ice bags sweat into widening puddles. He glances over.

You glare from the floor - cheek pressed to the fake tile, hair pasted to your face, both wrists cuffed to the radiator pipe because you refused to sit, to stop kicking, practically refused every warning he gave you. Pride props your hips at an uncomfortable angle; muffled sobs stutter as you try to swallow them. Stubborn thing. Makes him nostalgic for every time you mistook courage for good odds.

“You’re in trouble!” you shout, yanking the cuff. Metal rattles; skin scrapes raw, a thin red line blooming toward your palm. His smile fades. “Careful,” he murmurs.

You ignore him. “There’s a vigilante around here.”

Bobby pin pauses. He meets your eyes, smiles. “I know, baby. If only he were here.” Fury and panic twist your features - here you are. Not healed, but flickering under fear: sharp mouth, wounded pride, fight that proves you need someone stronger.

Click. Chain slithers to the wet floor like a dropped leash. You go still. Breath hitches in tiny bursts; his palm rests on the lid, not lifting yet, enjoying the desperate set of your face. Beg me not to.

“What’s in here?” he asks, voice low. Your lips tremble. Silence. “Baby, what did you do?” Thumb stroking the lip, he waits.

“A body.” The words leak out - tiny, broken.

He studies your face first: eyes wet, cheek glued to tile, wrist bleeding. Embarrassed, not remorseful - cornered, not guilty. Pulse steadies.

“A body,” he repeats, then lifts the lid. Cold sighs out, followed by sweetness gone sour. Plastic-wrapped limbs, frost-blurred features - the caregiver, tucked in with practical care. His gaze traces corpse, chain, puddled ice, then you: still glaring, still calculating whether biting helps. Optimistic.

“Well,” he breathes. Lid stays open; smell dulls. A cop should radio this in. Nightwing should. Instead he thinks: six months alone, one corpse, no help until now.

“You’re going to need someone, aren’t you, princess?”

“Don’t call me that.” Sharp even now.

He smiles with a fond look in his eyes. “I can make this disappear - body, payments, reports.” You stop struggling to listen. Good. “But you’ll do something for me.” He crouches close. Hard not to kiss your tears away.

“You’ll stop hiding. Take meds when I say. Eat real food.” His thumb grazes your torn wrist, voice softening, while his other hand trails down your spine. “And you’ll quit hurting yourself trying to escape the only man trying to help.”

A strangled sound escapes as his palm settles over your heat, giving you two soft, almost patronizing pats. His smile widens as you look over at him, cheeks warmed and dewy. His fingers find their way between your legs and glide along your slit, earning such pretty sounds from your lips. You probably haven't been touched for months. Years, even. So loyal, aren't you? Willing to do anything to cover up your little mistake, huh?

“If you’re lucky,” he whispers, “maybe I’ll marry a cruel thing like you.” He kisses the tear-damp cheek, tasting salt, watching your lips purse back. Pulling his hand away just to watch the frustration on your face. Maybe he'll save such things for marriage. Shouldn't get too hasty. Especially not after last time.

Odd, how neatly things work out - for everyone.

Some eager groupie from the last concert lay tangled between their dark cotton sheets, their body already cooling as Suguru drank from their wrist. Eyes left open wide. Fear, maybe. People often didn't believe you could die again in Hell. The murderer faced a consequence, sure, but the dead faced an even worse one for being foolish enough to die twice.

Suguru had always been more flirtatious with his prey in the beginning, the type to play with his food before letting his teeth and hunger decide how the night would end. Violet eyes glittered beneath the neon lights pouring from the high-rise windows as he dragged pale pink lips across the heat of tonight's meal. Leaving a trail of soft nips from their neck down to their chest, wet open-mouthed kisses before stopping on their collar, thin red droplets would pool against their skin when he got a little too frisky, all while Satoru got his fill.

The need for desire would never truly be sated. Ever the curse of being a succubus. No amount of adoration from fans, or the eager hands reaching for just a taste of such a beloved idol, would ever fill the hollow ache you left behind. He supposed after all these years he could forgive you for granting them a death sentence back in the land of the living.

All pets eat their owners when starving.

Still, he enjoyed that emptiness. It allowed him to become crueler, all in the hopes that when you finally returned, he could be loving again. It let him drag out harsher thrusts with pitiful creatures who were willing to pretend his touch actually meant he cared about them. Satoru could only drown out their sounds and imagine your own instead, blue eyes half-lidded in a daydream as he dropped his face into the creature's shoulder and bottomed out once more, followed by a pitchy whine; the feeling of Suguru joining in sent him a little off the edge. Feeling his lover's cock through the cunt of the groupie... well, it was enough to remember old times.

However, there was a rat in their bed. A toy for Suguru to drain once Satoru's heat had been satisfied.

Suguru would have never forced his cock into your ass dry like that. Wouldn't have ignored your cry of pain and swiftly pushed past the tight resistance while you begged for mercy as he kept pace with Satoru's thrusts.

He would have been patient with you. Loving, even. He would have teased you for hours, prepped you over his lap with care and the use of Satoru's saliva as lube, kissed every sound from your lips until you forgot to hate him properly. But this was not you. This was not someone Suguru loved. And for anyone else, cruelty was the only love he had to offer.

By the time Satoru panted your name against unfamiliar lips, each of his measured thrusts had grown sloppier by the second. He was close, and so was this groupie with a mind far too gone to care that Satoru had called them by a different name; it's not like he exactly remembered theirs either.

Suguru finally lifted his head, pulling his leaky cock free with a soft pop while Satoru remained buried inside them. The dark-haired one leaned across their shoulder, violet eyes meeting ocean-blue ones, both softening into affection, matching the faint pout lingering on Satoru's lips before Suguru delighted him in a kiss - lazy and far too intimate.Saliva stretched between their mouths when they parted. Only breaking when Suguru decided to feast - ripping the poor creature's throat out.

Satoru was used to that by now. Only pulling out with a groan and reaching for the towel to wipe the juices off his cock. A cheerful little creature announced that another hundred years or so was added to their already lengthy sentence.

Not that it mattered. With what they made, another hundred years was little more than a fee.

Reincarnation wasn't cheap, but then, neither was justice in Hell. That was the funny thing. The monsters flourished. Everyone else paid for it.

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Unfortunately, you happened to be one of those people.

Specifically, one of those people currently trying to scrub dried slushie syrup off the rotting laminate counter while pretending not to reflect on your actions with your landlord.

You needed money. Sukuna had already docked your pay, and there was the issue of Sukuna not letting you get another side gig. The clause was written in your contract, and he kept insisting that extra money would get to your head.

It had been a couple of days, and you had ignored Mr. Nanami in passing this morning, your throat still aching from last time and not exactly eager for a second round with your already wounded pride. Who knows, he might get eager for more if you let him, and you aren't willing to gamble on that just yet. The orc only offered you a small bow of his head before brushing past with a crumbled list of errands in the same green hand that pushed your head down the length of his cock. The flashbacks came swiftly and rather unwillingly. Your eyes caught onto the lotto ticket in his hand before you both went about your day. He seemed eager to cash one in.

You'd watched plenty of the damned souls shuffle up in the weary hours for those cursed scratchers - mostly the freshly dead ones who were sent here for a long, long time. Curiosity finally got the better of you, so you asked your boss what the payoff was. A jackpot? A wish? Something worse?

He only grunted and slapped aside the glossy nymph-centerfold he'd been ogling. And briefly jacking off to, which you had done your absolute best to ignore while restocking cigarettes three feet away. After a few more prods, his ember-red eyes - minus the pair still glued to a page of a river nymph's shimmering cunt - slid toward you.

"Does all kinds of crap," he rasped, voice gravelly with boredom, and one of his four hands waved around like the prize was obvious and you were just stupid, "Grants wishes. Lets you stake a chance that some idiot on top makes a wrong choice."

A single obsidian claw drifted upward, glinting beneath the lights.

"Maybe some idiot cheats on his wife. Maybe they get bold and rob a bank. Or even better, they decide that the exit door is far more inviting than the land of the living. If they crash-land here" - he shrugged - "you cash in."

He bared a cocky smile, a fang flashing beneath the yellowing light before muttering, "There's cash too, but that's for crybabies like you."

You nearly wondered if someone had wagered on your own little academic misdemeanor, but the crybaby comment got to you before the thought had time to process.

You threw the cleaning rag at him.

Then immediately trembled at the sound of his roaring laughter, loud enough to wake the dead.

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On your merciful ten-minute break - earned after haggling with orcs, chasing sticky-fingered goblins, and wiping down returned magazines that a succubus had a little too much fun with in the bathroom - Sukuna grudgingly took the register so you could get a moment to breathe and finally wash your hands after touching liquids that seemed a little too biological for your own liking. He flicked a pair of crimson eyes up at you long enough as you took off that stupid vest to growl out, "Ten minutes, got it?" As if you had any desire to piss off a creature like him. Everyone in Hell carried private horrors; Sukuna felt like his own horror. One you weren't willing to investigate like Scooby Doo.

Your bargain-bin phone chirped in your pocket as you sat down in the dark alley beside the shop, finding comfort upon an old wooden crate and a floor that was littered with cigarette butts. Pulling the poor excuse of a device from your pocket, the cracked screen glowed, flaring itself to life. The handset itself had been a "kindness" from Sukuna, if kindness meant flinging it towards you and docking the price - plus interest - from a wage already whittled down to one penny an hour.

Unknown: Hey, this is Geto :) You working? Gojo says hi. Any customers? We're down the street.

Right.

The vampire incident. All you remembered were Suguru's cool fingers brushing yours as he passed you a pack of condoms to scan, the weight of his violet eyes that made your own mind fuzzy. And at the end of it all, Satoru's rather cheerful wink over his shoulder, like more happened than you remembered. You must have handed over your number while fretting about bigger issues.

Hello… Mr. Geto. No customers. I am working. You texted back - fussing with the punctuation and whether you should be formal with an idol or not.

You weren't willing to bet on whether Sukuna would actually eat you for losing a customer. You also weren't sure why a pair of rather famous idols would willingly waltz themselves into a dive like this? They could go between districts, have things ordered to their fancy penthouses, even pay for their reincarnation twice over. Why keep drifting back to a moldy store like this one?

Rain drizzled with a whisper in the alley, turning neon into watercolor. Sukuna shouted that he was off. You took a sharp inhale of the damp air before you shrugged into your Quickie Mart ;) vest, and slid behind the counter just as the warped bell above the door jangled.

They glided in like regulars. Satoru peeled off a black mask, even prettier than you remembered, and sang, "Mr. Geto and I have arrived," clearly savoring your stiff text. His hood fell, snowy hair tumbled free, fangs flashed with his whip of a tail thrashing behind him. He veered toward the candy aisle, pale ears pink - perhaps from the drizzle. Succubi tended to run on appetite, not temperature, and surely a stranger wouldn't be flushed for you.

Suguru followed at a cat-like prowl. No mask. Maybe he liked the attention, or maybe fans kept their distance from a mouth with sharp canines. He leaned against the counter, midnight hair spilling from a loose top-knot, voice velvet-soft. "You're actually alone here for once. Can you tell me where the good stuff is?"

You fixed your gaze on the day-glow promo flyer, unwilling to meet those eyes again - those violet pools could easily turn your thoughts to syrup. "The good blood bags," Satoru called from between shelves, “not that animal-processed shit.”

"Due to humane-harvest regulations," you recited from the crumpled memo taped beside the register, "most live farms have closed. We currently only carry synthetic, animal-processed, and shelf-stable blood products." The words tasted stale in your mouth. You'd said them enough times by now to feel like part of the store itself.

"How tragic," Suguru mused. When you risked a glance up, violet eyes snagged yours across the counter, half amusement, half hunger. He looked amused by the whole thing, really. The memo. The store. The fact that anyone had decided shelf-stable blood could be considered an actual meal and not prison food.

"Tragic for the animals?" you asked.

"For me," Satoru cut in before Suguru could answer.

He dumped his armload onto the counter with a bright, careless clatter - ramen bricks, cola, sour gummies, novelty blood-flavored lollipops, and whatever else he could find.

"He's unbearable when he's peckish," Satoru added, leaning his hip against the counter, his blue eyes looking down at his pile and then at you with a cheerful smile as if to say get scanning.

Suguru's smile thinned. "Satoru."

"What? You are."

You forced yourself to start scanning, not wanting to get involved in petty arguments between friends? Lovers? You aren't sure, and you're not exactly paid enough to care either.

"Packaged blood never agrees with me," Suguru said.

He tapped one cool, ringed finger against the scan plate, not touching you, though close enough that you became annoyingly aware of your movements that stiffened.

"Reliable donors are rare down here," he continued. "Living ones, especially."

Outside, thunder rolled over the roof. Inside, the leak found a new rhythm, each drop ticking into the bucket like a ticking clock.

"Can't you just pay donors?" you asked. "I'm sure your fans would volunteer."

You said it mostly because it seemed obvious. Two famous idols, one vampire, one succubus, and an entire city of people willing to embarrass themselves for a chance with one of them. Surely finding someone willing to offer a little blood couldn't be that hard.

Suguru's eyes did not move from you.

"They would," he said. "For the wrong reasons."

You weren't sure what to do with that.

Maybe you should have been more concerned. Maybe that was the correct response when a vampire started talking about living donors while standing close enough for you to see the shine of his fangs. But concern had gotten a little difficult to maintain in Hell. Everything here wanted something. At least Suguru seemed polite about his needs.

Satoru invaded your space even more than before, blue eyes bright despite the harsh lighting.

"Maybe you could be one."

Your hand paused over the scanner, catching his eyes with your own for a brief moment before grabbing another bag.

"A what?" you asked, though you had a feeling you already knew.

"A donor," Satoru said with a shrug, as if it were obvious, though you both knew you weren't going to admit that.

Suguru glanced at him, faintly disapproving. "You make it sound so crude."

Satoru's mouth curved playfully, keeping his manic eyes on you. "It is crude."

"It's practical."

"For you, maybe."

"Satoru."

The name came soft, but it landed neatly enough that Satoru only smiled wider. Almost like a puppy being acknowledged for doing something wrong, but wasn't exactly punished either.

His tail slid across the counter with serpentine grace. The dark, spiked tip of the heart brushed the side of your hand before curling loosely around your wrist. Not tight, but you were sure he could yank you toward them if he wanted, in a blink of an eye.

"You're still human, right?" Satoru asked, his voice dipping into a more taunting manner. "Warm blood, little pulse, a short sentence. What terrible thing could have sent you here, puppy?"

The nickname caught.

Worse, it warmed your face.

You hated that part most of all, the tiny, traitorous spark in your chest that happened whenever they came around. Echoes of last time floated up through the fuzz of your memory: Satoru's off-hand confession that you reminded them of a pet they once had.

You should have corrected him.

Instead, you looked down at his tail around your wrist and tried not to think too hard about how casual it felt. Familiar, almost, in a way that made no sense at all.

"Satoru," Suguru chided again.

This time, Satoru sighed and loosened his tail, though the tip lingered near your fingertips.

Suguru faced you fully, his voice slipping into something almost business-like, though a brief flash of annoyance cut through before smoothing away again. "We - no - I'll pay properly. Consistently. Nothing without consent. A small draw at a time."

The scanner beeped when your thumb brushed the trigger, pausing for a second before you forced yourself to keep ringing up their items.

"A small draw," you repeated.

Suguru nodded. "Enough to help me. Not enough to harm you."

That sounded reasonable.

A little strange, maybe, but a lot of things in Hell were strange. Last week, a ghoul had tried to pay for cigarettes with a jar of molars and three expired coupons. A blood donation contract with two rich idols was not the most horrifying offer you'd received recently. Actually, compared to your landlord, it was almost civilized.

"Interesting," you managed.

Rain tapped harder against the windows. The ceiling dripped. And all that remained was awkward silence before Satoru coughed.

"And we tip," Satoru added, lashes half-lowered over ocean blue, "very well."

You forced your eyes away from Suguru's face only to land on Satoru's. He looked pleased with the exchange, mouth curved around a soft bite of his lower lip, as if he already knew the money had caught your attention.

Which was annoying.

Because it had.

"Is a contract involved?" you asked. "Sukuna said I could only have one job at a time, and I’d rather not get eaten alive because I missed some fine print."

Satoru waved one hand as if brushing dust from a windowsill. "Sukuna won't do anything as long as we pay him."

Your stomach sank a little.

Not from fear, exactly. More from the miserable realization that, of course, that was how things worked. Hell had rules, but money made those rules.

Satoru leaned closer, smile brightening. "Why? You considering it?"

His tail gave the smallest pleased patter against the counter. Like a cat's tail wanting to show it's ready to pounce.

Suguru moved in before you could answer, his annoyance at Satoru flashing quick and sharp before his expression settled back into something gentler. "We can pay you out of your current position. Whatever you owe Sukuna, we'll cover. Whatever other debts you have, we can fold them into the contract."

Nanami's name came to mind before you could stop it.

Your throat ached.

You looked down at the scanner, pretending to check the total.

"That would be… a lot," you said.

"We can manage a lot," Suguru said with a gentle smile as he knocked on the table a lot before shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Especially for a puppy," Satoru hummed. "Think about it. You have our number."

Satoru paid in crisp bills that looked too fresh for this store. Suguru added a tip large enough to make your breath catch, then smiled as if he had done something perfectly ordinary.

By the time the bell above the door jangled behind them, the rain had blurred their figures into watercolor through the glass. Satoru glanced back once, lifting his fingers in a cheerful little wave. Suguru did not wave. He only looked at you through the rain-streaked window with the same calm patience he had carried the entire time.

You stood there until the register screen went dark.

Then you looked down at the tip.

It wasn't enough to fix everything. Not even close.

But it was enough to make the offer feel real.

Rent was coming up. You were still short on cash even after Sukuna’s miserable wages. Between owing Sukuna and Nanami. It wasn't exactly the worst option. People donate plasma all the time.

And it wasn't like they'd eat you alive.

Would they?

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Suguru hadn't expected to send a deal your way so soon.

He had always been better with patience.

Satoru, however, burned through his the same way a match devoured its own head, bright and careless of what came after. Suguru had learned to be slower. To savor the architecture of a downfall. To set each stone carefully, then watch you mistake the path for your own idea until the only road left led straight into his waiting arms.

The lotto ticket he and Satoru had purchased had been the first stone - planting the little idea in your mind to cheat on an exam. A deal with old man Sukuna to give them a lucky one if he got a piece of the cut.

A fair trade, though Suguru had been unwilling to agree at first. Need had a way of outgrowing logic. It would only be one time, he told himself. Surely, you would forgive him.

The next stone was Nanami.

It wasn't difficult to guess that you would end up in the cheapest apartments in town. It was even easier to send that grief-ridden orc a deal. Suguru could have forced him, bought out the complex, posed as your landlord, but force was messy. Grief can be coaxed, especially if you play nice enough.

A conversation between heartbroken souls. A sympathetic tilt of the head. His voice was kind as he spoke of old lovers and second chances, of souls misplaced by death and doors that could still be opened for the right price. He had watched Nanami's jaw tighten in thought. Witnessed that careful, moral man consider such a sinister offer.

All Nanami had to do was play along.

Push you where you needed to go.

Let his loneliness rot into something useful.

Suguru exhaled softly through his nose, the sound almost a laugh, almost a sigh. Beneath him, Satoru had shifted to nuzzle Suguru's crotch.

The succubus knelt between his lover's legs. White hair spilled through Suguru's fingers in soft, disordered strands, damp at the roots from rain and all that restless hunger Satoru carried beneath his skin. His horns, pale and smooth, caught the low amber light when he moved. His tail lashed once against the rug before curling around Suguru's ankle, impatient as his hands freed Suguru's cock.

Suguru threaded his fingers deeper into that snowy mess and guided his head down, pushing his glossy pink lips past the angry tip and all the way down to the dark hair at the base. The tail tightened around his ankle as Satoru gagged and choked before coming up for air with a blissed smile on his lips.

Satoru, at least, had never pretended to be patient.

He came home from your little store with his pupils blown wide, blue eyes too bright, mouth still curled around that awful little smile he wore whenever he had the chance to be near you. Suguru had seen it immediately. The flush along the tips of his pointed ears. The way his wings had flexed beneath his jacket, eager and cramped, as if he had needed to unfold himself around you and had only barely remembered not to.

Poor Satoru.

Always hunger first. Restraint second.

He had barely lasted long enough to get through the door before collapsing to the rug, long limbs eager to crawl to Suguru's feet, pressing his face against Suguru's thigh while whining about how cute you are when you're miserable.

Suguru had told him to be quiet.

Satoru didn't even consider listening, far more interested in moaning around his lover's cock.

Suguru tilted his head back, keeping a firm hand in Satoru's hair in case he decided to nip more than usual, picturing how the old you used to do the same.

But the new you was different and was handed a much more unfortunate set of cards.

You beneath the lights of that miserable store. That ugly vest hanging from your shoulders. The tired shine in your eyes as you pretended money didn't matter, and the shame of being the first to arrive in hell despite all your reincarnations.

He should have enjoyed it more.

He should've let you struggle a little longer, watched you claw through another week under Sukuna's thumb and endure Nanami with his grief-stricken appetite. That had been the plan, hadn't it? Hope, then pressure. Mercy, then need. A door opened only after every other exit had vanished.

Suguru knew better than to rush a cage.

A cage built too quickly looked like a cage.

And yet, when you had stood there looking at them as if they were an inconvenience instead of destiny, a new emotion pulled at his heart.

Not guilt.

Possession, perhaps.

Recognition.

The old ache of seeing your soul wearing a new life and knowing it still belonged to him. Your eyes held different memories. Your mouth formed different defenses. But the soul beneath it all still flinched all the same.

Still stubborn. Breakable. Trying so hard not to need anyone.

Suguru's fingers tightened in Satoru's hair.

Satoru made a muffled, pleased sound. Tongue sliding against the length, slurping around the tip before his tail began to slide up Suguru's thigh.

Sure, it felt good, but so did thinking of you.

So close and yet you were still staring at them as if they were strangers. As if they had not waited through death after death for you. As if Satoru had not ruined countless bodies trying to forget the sound of your voice. And that Suguru hadn't bargained and learned the shape of every dirty little rule Hell had to offer just to drag you back within reach.

You truly were a perfect reincarnation.

Suguru reached for his phone.

The screen lit beneath his thumb. Three tickets to the overworld waited in his cart, each one obscenely expensive and worth less than the look that would cross your face when you finally understood.

He purchased them without hesitation.

Their sentence would have to be made up eventually.

So would yours.

But what was time to creatures like them? What was punishment when money could ease the edges for a while? Creating a chain long enough to make sure each of you reincarnates together every single time.

Forever, if Hell allowed it.

And if Hell didn't, Suguru would simply find the rule that could be bought.

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You must have been incredibly stupid.

At least, you were more than sure that was what Sukuna would have said if he could see you now, currently tangled with not one, but two of his customers on the couch in his office.

The office he had sworn was off-limits to you.

It wasn't even the nice leather couch.

It was the questionable couch across from it, with the sunken cushion, a few questionable stains that smelled a little too off to be considered food or even sex, and a spring poking into your knee like it, too, was punishing you for your questionable decisions.

Satoru only laughed softly beneath you, ever the flirt with little to no shame. You straddled his waist while the warmth of his slender hands traveled over the span of your body, peeling clothes from your skin and tossing them onto the floor with ease. With each lost garment, he guided you deeper into another kiss, each press sweeter than the last and even cheekier with the occasional nip.

Not hard enough to draw blood.

That would certainly send Suguru into a frenzy.

Yet the sharp nips should have hurt, given his fangs. Instead, they sent heat low into your belly and dissolved every sensible thought in your pretty little head until they started packing their bags and leaving without a forwarding address.

You had read about succubi before. Hell, there were warning pamphlets attached to every box of condoms.

About how easy it was for them to make the mind go fuzzy. How one kiss could make someone more addicted to sex than any other drug imaginable. How desire could push every warning away and leave only the thought that this was, somehow, an incredible idea.

The pamphlets had undersold the experience entirely.

One kiss had been enough to make the pen slip from your fingers after signing. It made the contract seem small, just another set of terms and conditions you would've clicked through when registering for a new login. Temporary. Necessary. Probably fine, especially when every red flag that popped up in your mind slowly turned itself green.

Who cared if they were paying for your body?

Who cared about the little nicknames he kept calling you, like puppy, lover, or the way he kept murmuring about how much he missed this when you had never met him before? Let him picture whoever he wanted as long as you got your fill, right?

Satoru's lips moved with yours, guiding your hips against his. The growing hardness beneath you made your stomach twist with want, desperate to be filled. He could tell. You knew it by the little smirk he wore between kisses, and the soft, pleased hum under his breath that made the office feel far too cramped and hot.

Every kiss pulled another thought loose until all that remained was warmth, want, and the awareness that you were probably going to regret this later.

You heard a buckle unfasten and hoped it was Satoru, though your stomach churned at the feeling of someone behind you. A cold hand groped your breast while the other rested at your throat, pulling you away from Satoru's kiss only to guide your love-bitten lips to the owner of the cold hands. Suguru's tongue swept away any blood left from the small nips his lover had caused, all while Satoru shrugged his pants down from beneath you.

Maybe you got lost in Suguru kissing you senseless. Maybe it was the feeling of Satoru's thumb pushing your panties aside so he could touch you. Or maybe it was Suguru only breaking away to kiss your neck, soft enough to make you forget what his mouth was made for.

"Relax," Suguru whispered as you dropped yourself onto Satoru, who sang out one of the prettiest noises you had ever heard.

Manic blue eyes met yours as you slowly moved up and down, his hands helping guide you.

"All will be well."

You felt more of Satoru than you did the bite on your neck, more of his warmth than the dizzying pull of losing blood. Satoru thrust upward helplessly, with no real rhythm, only the need to push himself deeper, to keep you there, to fill the office with pitiful cries about how much he loved you and how he could not wait to spend eternity with you.

Suguru's hand stayed between your thighs, toying with your clit, until you cried out, drinking from you until he was full.

You only felt warmth after that.

The feeling of falling, then being held, then being wanted again before dozing off against Satoru's body while he continued his desperate rut and Suguru joined alongside him. No pain from being stretched full. Only the dizzy feeling that everything was going to be okay. Your blood scented the air, thick and sweet, but your mind couldn't care less.

It all felt too good.

Satoru's tail curled around your thigh with a pleased little flick.

"See?" he said, blue eyes hazed and half-lidded. "Told you we'd take care of you, puppy."

The nickname should have made you pull away.

It didn't.

Everyone was evil in Hell.

You knew that by now.

But with Satoru warm beneath you and Suguru cool against your back, with the rain tapping against the office window and the locked door keeping the rest of Hell outside, you let yourself believe, just for a moment, that maybe this version of hell would not feel so particularly awful.

Which, in hindsight, was probably how Hell got most people.

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You awoke to the long scrape of a rough tongue against your bare cunt and ass. Too big to be either Satoru's or even Suguru's tongue. You tried to move, but a large, firm hand was holding you in a rather embarrassing doggy-style position that left your more intimate regions exposed, with your cheek pressed against the coarse fibers of the couch. The softness of Satoru's chest was no longer there.

The spring still dug into your knee, far more aching now than before. Instead of heat swelling within your belly, it was just cold, hard fear.

"Satoru?" You croaked. A whimper had threatened to escape. Trying to remember what happened. When they left. Was this all just a cruel prank?

All you were greeted with was a far too familiar chuckle that sent your heart straight to your ass.

"Such a dumb dog," Sukuna cooed.

You felt a hot breath on your cunt before the rough muscle circled your tight rim with just the tip. Paired with a cold piercing that threatened to push past your hungry muscle. A hiccup escaped you before you tried to move. Only to remain where you were. One of his hands, maybe two? Sent a painful slap to your ass that had you yelping like the animal he claimed you to be.

"Mr. Sukuna." You tried not to whimper. You really did, but it was more of a sob that escaped you as his tongue spilled from his stomach, leaving his regular mouth free to speak. "I didn't mean to break - "

Another spank, much harsher than the last, paired with a playful whistle.

"Crybabies aren't really my type, but those two for your contract said I could get a little action. Y'know for breaking our agreement and all."

The tongue plunged through without care - the aphrodisiacs from Satoru must still be in effect. Despite the tearing feeling of being stretched to accommodate such girth and length, you felt like you were going into heat.

"I usually prefer cunt, but I don't exactly want to lick another man's cum, much less two - hope you don't mind me taking my payment"

You tried to form a sentence - most of the noises that escaped were more animal than anything else, " They didn't say - " the muscle continued to swirl eagerly inside you, "It's not in the contract."

Sukuna laughed loud enough that you could feel the vibrations from his tongue rattle your insides.

"Course it ain't. You think a couple of bastards like them are going to warn you before the dog bites?"

You twisted enough to look back at him, vision blurry, heart hammering somewhere high in your throat. He was smiling down at you with all four eyes bright beneath the singular office light, your folded contract pinched between two claws.

A bright red stamp: SOUL TIE ACCEPTED.

The muscle stopped its cruel movements, only for a second, as if Sukuna just wanted to see the look on your face when you realized how royally you had screwed up.

"What does that mean?"

Sukuna's grin widened.

"It means you really are a dumb dog, aren't you?"

You could only stare at him, mostly in mute horror.

He flicked the contract once, the paper snapping loud beneath the muffled hum of the convenience store outside.

"They didn't need a donor," he said. “Not with their money. Especially with all their willing fans. Hell, half the district would open a vein for those bastards - why would they need you?”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.

"They played you for their own reasons," Sukuna continued. “And you gave 'em an easy win."

The room started to spin, or maybe you were just about to throw up.

Satoru's easy affection. Suguru's gentleness. The contract. The money. The debt. Nanami's name curling like rot in your throat. Every choice you had made suddenly lined up in a neat little row, less like choices and more like stones placed exactly where your feet would fall.

Sukuna watched the realization crawl over your face.

There was no pity in him.

Only satisfaction.

"Enjoy the kennel, puppy," he said, tossing the contract onto the couch beside your face, right before continuing like your horror only added to the payment. "You'll probably be stuck with those bastards forever. Might as well help break you in, huh?"

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