Xenix:p

It’s disappointing, really. 

With such an interesting neighbourhood in your midst – filled to the brim with quaint, humble homes and interconnected local businesses looking to make friends, not customers – you expected something more.

A town, planted central in the deep plumage of a forest you’ve never heard of before, still thriving off its isolation and belief in the priority of strengthening their own community. The outside world means nothing when they’ve got all they need right here.

You watch as monster after monster passes you by, some shooting your family’s small limo an odd look. Not hostile, nonetheless. You honestly might miss the malice.

They all seem mediocre, almost boring. They greet each other with familiarity that only comes from forced socialization. Others turn and smile at your vehicle, as if knowing who’s inside.

Your mother got the windows tinted years ago because they kept finding out the limo was yours. A lot more people cared about you than you realized. She expects you to fly under the radar this time.

You itch your neck under the collar of your hoodie, feeling your mother’s piercing gaze on the back of your head.

“Honey,” she sings, barely grabbing your attention. “Please fix your hair.”

Giving her a deadpan look, you sarcastically comb your fingers through said messy locks.

She crosses her arms, blouse wrinkling at her elbows. “Don’t be a smartass. You know what I mean.”

“Why don’t I just go bald for this one?”

She glances at your father, tongue clicking in obvious dismay. He takes the hint, groaning your name in a scolding manner.

You can’t help but scoff. “You’re the one who–”

But your flame dies faster than it lights. You throw your hands up in a ‘what do you want me to do?’ way, bringing your attention back to the other monsters outside.

You see the last of your fellow students funnel into your new school, all of which are different shapes, sizes, and colours. None of them truly catch your attention.

When Ethan opens your door, you don’t hesitate to scoot near the exit. A hand on your wrist stops you.

“Just a second,” your mother calls out to him. He shuts the door instantly, closing off your only exit from your currently unbearable parents.

“Calculus is sounding more fun by the second,” you jab.

Her hand squeezes in an attempt to comfort you. “I want you to try to talk to your new classmates.”

“Uh, yeah… I’ll think about it.”

They seem disappointed that you’re more monotone than you should be about the whole situation. 

Your father appears a tad bit optimistic. “I think you’ll be okay. It may feel different at first, but you’re going to be surrounded by people just like you.”

“How progressive.”

“What your father means to say is that there’s nothing standing in the way of your success.”

“If you’re still horribly worried, you should’ve just homeschooled me.”

Your mother raises an eyebrow. “Then what would be the point of moving?”

Exactly. At least then you could’ve kept some semblance of normalcy in your life.

Deciding you’re done with the conversation, you knock twice on the window, glad your driver hasn’t run off from the unusually tense vibes.

You gaze at the lifeless brown brick of the school, waiting for your parents to lead the way. They take their time leaving the limo.

“Just give it a shot,” she smiles, warm as pie.

But you already know you’re going to hate it.

She squeezes your shoulder, heading inside. You see her shift to be an inch taller, matching her husband in her definition of ‘the perfect height ratio’. You’re the last one through the doors, sparing one last look of desperation to Ethan, wishing for a higher authority that could command him to drive away with you in the back seat.

You feel yourself zone out through the entire process. While your parents fill out paperwork with the principal, you’re left to give automated responses to every question he asks you. To make a good impression, or something. 

Your body itches. There’s a lingering thought in your mind; one that you haven’t come to terms with yet. Not when you moved in, not when you were admitted. It makes you scared.

You’ll never feel complete again. 

In a town like this? There’s no room to learn, explore, change. You’ll be stuck with the same people for the rest of your life. Well, until you escape the wretched claws of your parents. 

You feel a part of yourself begin to die. The part of you that urges you to learn and understand. You can’t let it. Even with a constant to the variety, the variety isn’t similar enough to what you know. 

The corridors are as empty as your heart. Your mother and father follow around the principle like lost puppies, practically sucking him off to get his approval. You know what they’re doing.

They already wiped most of the evidence off your transcript and records; they’re not trying to save face. No, no. They’re providing you a safety net, for when you inevitably do screw up. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

Why’re you even getting a tour? The school’s about three times smaller than your last one. You’re sure you can figure it out yourself.

You don’t need to be babied. You’re–

You’re…

A bit confused. 

Just at the end of the hall stands two figures. You’re sure you’re the only one who notices them.

It’s well past any sort of morning bell. Whoever they are, they’re late.

There’s a taller woman; a goat, of some sort. She’s hunched over, wrapping her arms around someone else.

Do your eyes deceive you? Are you hallucinating?

Whoever they are, they’re released from her strangle hold. 

And you’ve–

You–

You.

…

Oh.

Oh.

Who’re you?

Soft, lush cocoa strands shielding their eyes. A striped sweater, not quite hugging their skin. Honey, delicate skin. Long, elegant fingers poking through the sleeves. Five each, to be exact. 

There’s no confusion to be held. 

They’re human. Well, they look human. 

How… interesting.

Are they human? There’s no way. It’s impossible; something out of a dream.

You rearrange the inner workings of your nostril, increasing your scent receptors tenfold. You take a discrete, deep breath in. You feel your eyes ignite with life.

They certainly smell human. 

Another larger breath and your lids shut from the ripples of ease across your body. You feel like you’re snorting cocaine. 

When you open, you’re staring right at them. And they’re staring at you. A drop of disinterest, lasered in at you. You see it; their pupils, red as blood.

You feel your stomach melt. Your heart bangs against your ribcage.

You–

You hunch over and gag. Hard.

Your father, noticing your struggle, flees from the very engaging conversation to rub your back. “You alright?”

Pressing a palm to your abdomen, you reform the currently melted organs in your body. 

Shooing your hand in his general direction, you cough. “Yeah. ‘m fine.”

When your eyes dart for the human-like figure again, they’re gone. That couldn’t have been a hallucination. It felt too real.

Despite that, you hope your father didn’t notice anything. Not you, not the… human. That’d be a disaster in itself.

A human.

In a supposed all-monster town.

You’re ecstatic.

…

Your mother’s gonna be pissed.

~*•*~

After a rather uneventful day of signing papers and answering unwarranted questions, you went home that night, mind on one thing and one thing alone. And you actually threw up the moment you stepped foot on your driveway.

Your parents chalked it up to stress. You know otherwise.

You think you’ve been in disbelief. Your brain flips frantically from there was no human to there is a human to they weren’t human to you need to learn a better poker face. 

You skip every other step, sprinting up the stairs towards your private, untouched room. You try not to slam the door behind you, but you can’t really tell if you did. Your ears have been ringing periodically. 

Your mirror calls to you.

Jamming your office chair underneath the door handle’s the only option you have. Your mom stopped letting the renovators implement built-in locks to your door handles after you got caught sneaking someone in that you weren’t exactly allowed to see. So, this’ll do.

You tread to your floor-length mirror and you just… watch yourself.

And your mind starts to wander.

The face you tend to call your own begins to morph into one you pretend you recognize. Your hair, smoothing to become fluffier; shoulder-length. Piercing, entrancing red eyes.

Their– your skin, bleeding into the sleek, imperfect surface you remember humans feeling like. Covered with their sweater and pants. What you could make of it, anyways.

When parts of your memory begin to blur, you don’t have the heart to make any true educated guesses. You don’t want to disrespect the body you’ve been put into. It’s why, when your thumb gently grazes across your cheek, up to your temple, your hair reveals the pale white, unfinished ear that you couldn’t get a good look at.

But it’s alright. You haven’t been this mesmerized with yourself since you morphed the very first time.

You’re not sure what makes this time any different. 

But god, are you enjoying your reflection.

Maybe it’s because it’s been months, courtesy of your parents. You’ve been in a state of limbo for so long, you almost forgot what humans themselves look like. That’d be horrible.

You pinch a clump of hair between your fingers, captivated by the way it twists and turns under your command. One would argue it’s no different than your own, to which you’d immensely argue against.

The pad of your finger touches the white of your eye. It’s moist. When you press, adding just a drop of pressure, you feel it squeak in protest. 

You stick out your tongue, pleased to say you remember what the inside of a human’s mouth looks like. It’s not necessarily an educated guess; moreso a bleak assumption. It doesn’t vary much from person to person, but it doesn’t stop you from wondering what this human’s mouth looks like.

Your hand feels more than invited to scrape against your tongue, feeling as grainy and sandpaper-ish as you thought it would. You taste the oils on your palm. You taste the grime and salt of your skin. 

It’s pleasing. 

You force the oils and salts to build up again, only to lick the flavour right off like some sort of sickly lollipop.

You bite your lip involuntarily. Fuck, you missed this.

And you immediately feel and watch your face heat up at the sight. You almost feel like you need to get reaccustomed to the look of someone else following your internal commands.

…

You slip your index finger between your lips. Your teeth chomp, just enough for it to hurt.

You gaze at your wet finger, examining the bite mark with keen interest. 

You wonder how long it’ll last.

…

And suddenly, you feel your old self peek through the mountains of useless lessons you’ve gone through.

The length of your thumb hardens, growing tiny, sharp blades linearly from your knuckle to your nail. You clench your other hand into a fist, eyes searching urgently for any large, thick vein.

You don’t hesitate. One quick breath in, and you’re slicing the blood vessel. You’ve stopped blinking. The cut doesn’t react for a moment. You squeeze the skin.

You watch the line of irritated red begin to pour out blood.

Your blood.

It’s white.

Pearly. Iridescent. White.

How… boring.

…

You knew this would happen.

God, what’re you doing?

Ripples of shame coarse through your body. You retract the blades from your thumb, brushing the flooded cut to seal your skin back together.

Your skin.

Your fingers itch for your collar, tugging just as you did in the limo. Your skin fades from buttercup to cream to lifeless white. All you see is white. Your white. 

Of course you don’t know what they look like without a sweater– that’s creepy as fuck, right? You don’t even know them.

It feels right– what you have right now. It feels human. But does this count as cheating? You’re trying to be unassuming. What if their skin feels smoother? What if their hair has a different texture? What if they taste different?

You need to get this one right.

Begrudgingly, you feel your body ease back into your usual self, sans a few features you’ve decided to take from them. Like their eye shape. Their fingers. Their lips.

Your mother won’t notice. She won’t call you out.

When your parents footsteps whisper through the door, you listen carefully for the exact moment their own bedroom door shuts for the night. 

The night is a blur. You fidget and roll. You can’t tell when you’re asleep and when you’re awake.

At some point, you rise from your blankets. It’s still dark out, not even near the time to get ready. And you return to your mirror despite a small, persistent part of you nagging you to go to sleep. 

“Humans and monsters aren’t that different,” you breathe to yourself. “They’re both normal. Average. Uninteresting. Obsession only leads to insanity.”

But even those old, rehearsed lines don’t hold the same impact. Placebo effect, you realize. You don’t believe the words you’re saying. They’ve just become words to you.

When you shift into the human’s skin, you don’t care to pretend you’re any different. It could be seconds, minutes, hours that you spend kneeling before your addicting reflection. 

Your mother thinks you’ve changed. At your very core, you know you haven’t.

Eventually, you force your brain to grow exhausted – not that you weren’t already. To your surprise, you sleep dreamlessly. 

When you leave for school, your mother doesn’t care to offer you a heartfelt goodbye. She glances up from her phone, maybe staring for longer than you’d have hoped, but she doesn’t say anything. Thankfully.

Despite you not wanting her to notice, it still feels a bit frustrating. She’s pointed out little changes you’ve made to your appearance in the past, mainly out of neutrality, but…

Actually, you don’t care. 

You’ve got someone else to notice– er, look for. You wouldn’t be opposed to them noticing you, either. You’d like that. Maybe you could be friends.

Normal, casual friends. You can do that. You have grown, maybe just a little bit.

But as you scan the halls – and believe, you scanned them hard – you couldn’t find your mysterious human. You spent so long looking that you ended up being a few minutes late for homeroom.

The town’s still tinier than what you’re used to, so there aren’t too many ongoing classes at the same time. And yet, you’re still without confirmation of their existence. 

You refuse to believe you were daydreaming. Hallucinating is the more intense, mentally-ill option.

Second period follows the same trend. You spend no time listening to your new teachers – who spend a sentence or two trying to introduce you, considering you’ve dropped into the school year a month too late – feeling more disappointed by the minute.

Are you really that tunnel visioned? You can’t survive school like everybody else? They all seem nice, sure, but is that really what you want?

Nice?

Nice friends? Nice school? Nice life?

What a drag.

You enter your third period, sulky mood now easing into your facial expressions, preparing to zone out for another ninety minutes.

Most of the class is here. The desks are split into pairs of two because it’s a chemistry class, you think. Your schedule’s a blur.

They all talk amongst themselves. You catch the tail end of a few conversations; labs and tests and upcoming assessments and and and and

and and and and 

and the human’s here. They’re here!

The human. The human. 

Their head lays peacefully on their desk. Even in such a knocked-out state, you can still see their halo hover above them. They’re angelic. You have to stop your soul from leaping out your chest, just to be buried in the nook between their arms.

You’d be able to feel their breath. Hear their pulse, even. Taste their drool–

“Ah!” A voice sighs to your right. It’s a woman, drenched in blue, calm flames. Her formal blouse and dressy pants stay intact, somehow. She calls your name with hesitancy. “The new student, right?”

No one turns to you, still occupied with each other. You find yourself wishing she’d have made a scene. Maybe your human would look up. At you. In curiosity? Confusion? Disgust? You’d take anything.

“The seats are in alphabetical order,” she scans through her class list. “But I can just assign you to an empty seat.”

The human’s partner is wracked with gills. A fish, perhaps. She’s not even close to admiring the being beside her with the attention they deserve. No. Instead, she’s scrolling on her phone, chin resting on her webbed fingers.

You wonder how socially acceptable it is to shove her from her desk; steal her spot. Cave her head in.

Your teacher points you to a spot near the middle; second row, diagonally behind your human. She also gives you your partner’s name, to which you almost want to deadpan and tell her you have no idea who anyone is.

She’s a deer; antlers about the size of her hands, small buck teeth, and the look of someone who’s far too invested in school to be normal.

She sees you coming from a mile away, pretending to not notice you approaching by staring at her blank notebook. She must know you’re a new student; she doesn’t question you sitting next to her.

A few slightly awkward minutes later, and the teacher starts introducing today’s lesson. Not that you’re really paying attention.

The human pretends to care, lifting their head just slightly. They’re alive. They have a steady, beating heart. You wish you could press your ear to their chest, hand stroking their stomach to feel the rise and fall. 

You try to engrain an image in your head. You’re not nearly as close as you would ideally be, but it’s much closer than your last encounter. And your head’s clearer. Last time, you froze up like a deer in headlights. Speaking of deer.

Every time her arm accidentally brushes yours, she freezes and stiffens up. You almost want to tell her you don’t care so she’d stop, because she’s now more of a distraction than someone you can easily tune out.

…

Do you think their skin tastes like your mockup? You doubt it. It probably tastes much better. Slightly saltier. More moist. Smoother. Maybe they have their own unique taste–

She bumps your elbow this time. God. You make the mistake of locking eyes with her. 

You might’ve given her a hostile look because she immediately shies away. You exhale, long and thoughtful. Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t make enemies on the first day. But you don’t really feel like wasting your time with her. Or anyone, for that matter.

Or…

Maybe you could kill two birds with one stone. Get that confirmation you’ve been very subtly dying for.

When the teacher leaves you to solo one of her examples, you tap your partner’s desk. Surprisingly, she seems more curious than scared. 

“Weird question,” you jab a thumb to the one you’ve been eyeing for half an hour. “That’s a human, right?”

Your composure wavers at her confirming smile. She’s finally come to the conclusion that you’re not dangerous. “Oh, yeah. That’s Kris Dreemurr.”

Kris. What a beautiful name. Rolls right off the tongue.

As your throat dries, the girl continues. “I know there’s some people who aren’t really… used to it, but they’re more friendly than they look.”

Your smile grows dopey as you continue to stare. “Eh. My last place was about 50/50.”

“Really?” She nearly gawks. “Guess it’s pretty normal to you, then.”

“Something like that. Can’t believe your ratio’s so…”

She follows your line of sight. “Ratio? Oh– there’s not really a ratio. They’re sorta… the only one.”

You feel your nails dig into your palms. “Only?” You crack. She nods.

Oh, Angel. The gods love you.

That does explain the whole monster-only neighbourhood thing. They just miscounted. Or, perhaps they dropped this human here just for you. 

You spend the rest of class watching every twitch in their body. They pull a pencil out of nowhere and start drawing on their desk. They itch the back of their head a few times, riddled with slight bedhead. Oh, you want to eat them alive.

After the bell rings, you find yourself stalling to leave class behind them (they take a fat second to get up). To your dismay, they become lost in the ocean of people. You’re not that socially inept to shove your way through the crowd to walk behind them. 

When they take a left, you take a left. When they stop at a locker, you stop at a locker. You pretend you have any idea who’s locker this is, fiddling with the lock despite not knowing the code.

They unlock their locker, carelessly tossing their definitely unused notebook somewhere in the higher shelf. You’re subtle with your ogling. 

Someone approaches them from behind, roughly slapping their back in a friendly manner. You feel your teeth clench.

Despite harshly jolting forward from the action, your human– Kris recovers quickly and… smiles. They’re smiling. Fuck, they have such a pretty smile.

They’re talking, you realize. To the purple… dinosaur. Lizard? Who cares. You can see the inside of their mouth from here. Their tongue; small in movements, peeking from between their teeth god you wonder if their teeth are smooth you love the feeling of human canines in your skin–

They swallow and you watch the movement of their throat like it’d kill you to look away.

Your stomach churns. You press a hand to your abdomen. Yeah, you need to get a handle on emotions. Or you’ll end up a literal puddle on the floor. 

The next two weeks follow similar patterns. You’ve learned their schedule to heart (and still ironically need to search room numbers for your own), basing your routes on theirs. Some days you follow from a distance, others you purposely pass them. Just to breathe in their scent. 

You brushed their arm one time. Your arm then proceeded to melt off your body. There hasn’t been a single day you weren’t late to fourth period. 

Sometimes you follow them home. You morph into students who you’ve seen walk the opposite direction, just to ensure you don’t clash. That’d be hard to explain.

You keep telling yourself to stop being so creepy, but the other half of you argues back. You just want to understand their situation. It’s to be an informed member of the town!

You find out they’re adopted. The woman who dropped them off that day also happens to be a teacher at the school. 

Sometimes you watch them sleep– it’s because you’re curious. Nothing more. You wondered if they snored. Whether they breathed through their nose or their mouth. What they did at night.

Those days, you’d shift into a black, featureless figure. Sometimes they’d fidget more than usual. You always wondered if it was because they noticed you. Thought you were something that’d make them want to shut their eyes harder. 

It didn’t matter what they thought. You’re not sure if it’s because of the months of deprivation or maybe there’s just something about them, but you’ve developed subconscious standards. You don’t think you’d have the heart to do anything but watch them. 

It’s funny. You never used to hesitate. All it took was a moment alone. You’d see red before you registered it.

Now, you’ve learned what to expect from humans. They all had some sort of overlap in tendencies. Mainly what you’d consider normal. Some were odd, maybe even disgusting, but it could all be explained in the realm of teenagers.

It was a random Tuesday night. You’ve never been more confused. Intrigued.

They hang out with the purple girl a lot. You’ve learned that. And you weren’t necessarily watching them the whole time, but you did perch in the trees as a bird, checking in on them skip stones in the lake. 

That’s not the important part. It got late quickly. When they both parted ways, you watched the human take a detour. You don’t know why you followed them. You don’t really care about their wellbeing as much as you do their nature. 

Deep into the forest, they stumble across a dead fox. Ripped apart by the nape.

You understand humans more than the average monster. Most of them would flee, nervous from the prospect of disease, rabies, whatever. 

But they… don’t.

They kneel beside the carcass, unhesitating. Their finger dips into the dark, old blood oozing from its neck. You wish so badly to see their face. To read their thoughts.

Because they touch it like it’s the most fascinating thing they’ve ever seen.

You make out their eyes; blown a bit too wide. Their breath is louder, shaky.

You don’t understand.

Even now, as you gaze into the mirror – attempting to recreate the expression now burned into your memory – you don’t really see them. Kris. 

Maybe it’s because they feel like more than just a human vessel, now. You’ve never met a human that would do what they just did.

And that excites you to a dangerous degree.

~*•*~

They don’t feel safe. Not that they ever really did to begin with. Before, it was a feeling they could easily ignore; chalk it up to a few extra eyes on them every once in a while. Now, it’s like there’s a constant pair always looming behind their back.

They try to recall if they’ve pissed someone off recently. That’s usually the case with things like this. But it doesn’t matter; they can’t remember shit. And now they’ve got a stalker.

They just barely catch the sound of something around them. A rustle of the bushes; the crunch of leaves. But they never see it. Them.

They stay out longer for the sake of their plan. It’s colder than usual. Later; just past midnight. They hope the factors make their stalker sloppier.

Pivoting through the trees, they tread to a spot they know is harder to navigate through. The trunks are closer together; the bushes grow higher.

And they’re right. Their stalker is louder– less careful than usual. There’s footsteps that follow closely behind.

The moment they take a sharp turn after a thick trunk, they know they’ve got it.

They press their back to the bark, clutching their knife from their hidden pocket. The steps slow in confusion, hesitancy. The moment they see a sliver of movement beyond the trunk, they jab – hovering their blade between the eyes of their stalker.

You immediately jolt, pupils darting from them, to their knife, back to them. You slowly lift your hands in surrender.

They’re not sure what they expected, but you’re a pitch-black blob with eyes. You’re impossible to read visibly. You look slimy. And you’re… melting.  

They wait for you to confess something. Confess what? They don’t know–

You strike their wielding hand with a goopy fist, knife clattering to the dirt.

They don’t let you take the advantage. Their palm juts for your neck, wrapping around the muscle as a threat. That’s when you crumble. Literally. 

The rest of your… outer layer sheds – wet, mucky slime dripping onto their arm, onto the dirt. Your fingers clutch their wrist weakly, amassing the fluid to stain their sweater. They watch as your face is revealed to them, and–

You’re definitely their age, but… you’re not ringing a bell. You’re a little familiar. Might be the one from second period; the one in the back corner. Or the one in third period, who sits next to Noelle. The new one.

They don’t like how human you look.

“Crap,” you utter, an awkward smile plastered on your face as you claw at their grip. “Oh, wow. You’re strong.”

You sound mocking, almost too happy. They remain impassive, squeezing slightly. Their fingernails dig into your skin, and they have to stop themself from shuttering. Keep it together.

You suck in a muffled gasp, wincing. “Wait wait!”

They loosen. You seem relieved. When you make no motion to start talking, they tighten their grip. Harder, this time.

“Urgh–” you hick, smile vanishing; your fingers weaken. “St– c-c’mon.”

They decide to give you a chance. When they release a miniscule amount, you let in a large, desperate breath. 

“Talk.”

“I-I wasn’t gonna hurt you,” you stutter, eyes glittering with intense attentiveness. “I just… wanna talk.”

Talk…? You must be the one from third. You’re curious. Maybe you’ve never seen a human before. 

They don’t grace you with an answer. You don’t seem phased.

“Can I be honest?” 

Your eyes fall lidded as you slur half your speech. You look drunk. 

“I think you’re really pretty.”

…

This has to be a joke. A dare to ask the new kid. But you don’t seem like you’re lying. And they’ve gotten pretty damn good at reading people.

They debate dropping you to the ground, fetching their knife and going home. Maybe hope you learned something from this; learn to leave them alone. And that’s what they plan on doing. 

But as soon as they allow their digits to relax, they feel yours strengthen tenfold. And they panic. 

They’re not sure how hard they squeeze, but it’s enough for your head to loll backwards, exposing the length of your neck. 

Their eyes automatically trail towards the tips of their fingers, their nails more than piercing your skin.

They feel warm liquid ooze from the stabs they’ve made. Your blood… it’s– your white, glossy blood wraps around their fingers like vines. It drips between their knuckles– they can feel it glueing their palm to your skin. It’s tugging at their fingertips, tempting them to inflict more.

So they do.

Their nails dig deeper. They can feel your flesh underneath their fingernails. They watch as more and more blood cascades down their hands– down your neck. Your pretty, thick white blood curls towards their eyes, enticing them to lean into its embrace. Who’re they to deny it?

They inch closer and closer and closer until their nose is nearly buried in the splattered mess of white heaven. It doesn’t smell metallic. It smells almost sweet. They’re oh so tempted to dart their tongue out–

A horrid groan escapes your throat. Shit.

They’re immediately pulled back to the present, trying to hide the way their mind rushes for any sort of excuse, even a comprehension of what the hell’s going on.

They back off, just enough to see… a thin trail of your perf– your blood oozing from your lip.

Their eyes widen. You bit your lip so hard it bled.

God. That’s…

Their hand is shaking as they unlatch their fingers from your neck, watching with intent as you seem to snap back from whatever daze you’ve been in. Less because they’re trying to read you, more because they’re trying to ignore the way your blood feels under their fingernails.

“I–” you start, voice hoarse. You wipe the trail from your mouth, face flushing from what they can only acknowledge as embarrassment.

They see you reach for your neck, for the wound they’ve dug into you, hand now drenched in the ripples of blood across your skin. You pull it back to examine. One look at your hand, one look at them.

They can tell you’re holding back your tongue. You want to say something. Maybe ridicule them, call them crazy. But they know you won’t. Because they’d echo it right back to you.

They don’t care what you think. And they’re sure you don’t care what they think, either.

So they give you another chance to speak up. But you don’t take it.

And so they leave. They snatch their forgotten knife on the way out.

Your footsteps are nowhere to be heard. That’s good. 

Teaches you not to… stalk.

…

They stick a finger in their mouth. Their saliva moistens the drying blood.

…

Fuck. It is sweet.

~*•*~

They’ve buried you to the deep recesses of their brain. You mean nothing to them. You’re like a virus; ever-nagging at their subconscious while they woefully try to ignore you. 

But you’re everywhere. Every corner they turn, every room they enter, every dream they have. It’s like you’ve taped the sides of your mouth to remain stagnant in an imposing neutral expression. Almost as if you’re copying them.

Although, you’re awfully clumsy when they acknowledge your existence. They spare you a quick glance? You’re walking face-first into a wall. 

There’s something wrong with you.

They’ve also realized that their claw marks have vanished from your–

Not that they wanted to see them. They were just slightly nervous that you’d parade them around to spitefully get them expelled. Hell knows some’ve been waiting for it.

Your neck is perfectly healed; skin cleared like nothing ever happened. 

You must be a shapeshifter. Your body changed in front of their very eyes. And they felt how deep their nails plunged into your thin, brittle surface. There’s no way you’d be left without crisp, fresh scarring.

God. They shiver, plopping their head to land pitifully on their desk. 

They ignore the way your eyes laser into their back.

It’s been a few days. Now, mindlessly zoning out through the day has become much more difficult when they’re hyperaware of their surroundings. They understand now that their feeling of being watched in third period was and is because of you.

A sigh escapes their throat as they try to sleep off the odd feeling in their gut.

Then, they hear a chair harshly screech. They wouldn’t have given the sound any attention if it wasn’t immediately followed by your voice.

“Crap,” you curse. They glance back to see you pushed out of your desk, holding your head back, exposing your neck the same way you did a few nights ago–

They immediately shove the thought through the concrete.

“Oh,” the teacher quirks her head in curiosity. “Are you okay?”

You rise carefully, fingers hovering around your face. “Yeah. Just got a–”

Nose bleed. There’s blood on your hand. Your angelic, sugary blood.

They gulp. It’s painful.

“Ooh, yeah. Washroom,” she nods, gesturing to the door. “Could someone help direct?–”

They barely register the teacher’s unfinished words before their legs jut them upwards automatically. The regret floods in at the turn of a dozen eyes on them.

Welp. Too late to turn back now.

“I can,” they deadpan. Multiple eyebrows furrow at the volunteer. But you? They watch your face plummet into a mix of fear and intrigue. Masochism. 

She obviously doesn’t expect this, but recovers quickly. “Thanks, Kris. That’d be great.”

Despite having your head tilted upwards (effectively blinding yourself), you expertly weave between desks to race to the door. They’re not sure if you’re trying to get away from them or get with them sooner.

They thought you’d be a yapping machine the moment you both exit the classroom. Maybe bring up that night. But you’re not. You’re quiet. They don’t push it. They escort you in silence.

Or so they thought. You’re about halfway to the bathroom, halls flooded with emptiness, when they hear your voice; a one-off comment.

“Humans are so weird,” you click your tongue, slyly watching them for their reaction. “I can taste the blood in my throat.”

Jesus fuck. 

All they can imagine is you spitting up blood, letting the ivory snow coat your lips like gloss. Maybe if you open your mouth wide enough, they’ll be able to see the white waterfalls cascade down your esophagus.

Whatever reaction you wanted, you apparently got. Your face, which should be devoid of colour, is blooming with roses.

You both somehow make it to the washroom; they hold the door open for you (as if that’s the weirdest thing looming between you two). They rip off some toilet paper from an empty stall, instinctively listening for sounds from any other potential bathroom users.

You seem to be alone.

You’ve perched in front of one of two mirrors; the fingers previously occupied with preventing flow are now pushing your nostril up to reveal the damages. Their fist immediately strangles the paper.

“Oh, that’s bad,” you remark.

They watch their body in the mirror – that they feel as though they have no control over – slowly approach your back like a predator. They stop just shy of you, peeking over your shoulder. They hear you let out a shaky breath.

There’s blood all around your nostril, painting it like an outline screaming at them to get a closer look. It’s drenched a good chunk of your fingers.

Their mind grows hazy. All rationality fogs over.

And–

“I’ve never seen white blood before,” they mumble drunkenly. They have to stop themself from collapsing onto you.

Your eyes lock with their own. Your smile feels wicked. “Cool, right?”

You snatch the toilet paper they absentmindedly hold out to you, returning to your reflection. You’re slow, delicate when you wipe the blotches and stains on your skin. They barely realize you’ve swiped a droplet onto your thumb, jutting it in front of their face. 

It’s a perfect dollop, almost like a pearl. They stare at it, entranced. They wish you’d stick your thumb between their lips.

Out of their peripheral, they see your eyebrow raise. “Oh, c’mon. Nose blood is the same as any blood.”

You think they’re looking at it with disgust. At least, you’re pretending to think that.

They’re sure you both know of the looming ideas between you two. Neither of you choose to admit it. That’s the issue.

“It’s not that. It’s just…” they trail off.

They don’t comment on the fact that they already know what your blood looks like. Y’know, from when they choked you out.

They clench their teeth. You pick up on it immediately; it's like you’re a mind reader. Your grin shrivels into a nervous mess. But your eyes widen in realization.

More blood shoots from your nasal, to which you shove the paper deep into the cavity. “Oops.”

As you pinch the bridge of your nose, they can’t help but wonder. “Can’t you close the wound?”

You seem a bit surprised at the suggestion. “Oh, hhhyeah. I did. The first six times.”

Six times?

“Everytime I sealed it, it wouldn’t remove the blood already in my nostril. So I’d just seal it under my skin. And I guess it kept building up until it popped.”

“Guess you don’t know human anatomy too well.”

They’re not sure why they’re challenging you. To be honest, they’d much rather spend their days not talking about humans or human body parts. But they haven’t been thinking much lately.

You give them a dangerous stare. “Wanna bet?”

“Can’t form a proper nose.”

“Oh, I can make a more accurate nose than yours.”

“Pretty sure mine doesn’t bleed this much.”

“I wasn’t using a human nose. I changed the inner workings to be more, uh… cat-like. Helps to get a more intense smell.”

Their head lowers, ever so slightly. “What’re you trying to smell?”

As if on cue, you take a deep breath in. Your face contorts into a mix between guilt and bliss.

You don’t answer them. Instead, you remove any semblance of emotion from your expression.

“Did you come with me to finish the job?”

Their eyes widen. What?

You continue, expertly reading their twitches that no one’s ever picked up on before. “Well, you obviously know that was me that night. Because you know I can… y’know. And it really did seem like you wanted to kill me–”

Their shoulders tense. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

What a horribly told lie to the world's best human-reader.

Despite that, you play along. “You… haven’t?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

Why do you want them to admit it?

“No.”

Your blood peaks out between the crevices of the paper. Your blood blends in almost flawlessly. “T-then what was with the whole…?”

You make a choking motion to your own neck. You seem dumbfounded, almost casual.

They take a step back, unsure of where the conversation’s going. “No.”

“That wasn’t a yes or no question.” You turn, forcing confrontation.

“I–”

And you snap.

“Don’t lie to me, Kris,” you approach them, jabbing a finger to their chest. “Every fidget of your fingers, every quaver in your facade. I see all of it. No harm in confessing something we both know’s true.”

They almost debate letting you go off on your childish tangent, but the bathroom door opens. It’s someone they hardly recognize, but someone nonetheless. They watch, albeit slightly egotistically, as your mouth clams shut.

Once the monster disappears into a random stall, you pivot around them to fetch another piece of toilet paper. You run it under the automatic tap, returning to the mirror as if nothing happened.

Your face is clean again. They can admit they’re a bit disappointed at the sight.

You remove the paper sticking comically out of your nose, wiping any extra crust away. Their eyes instantly zone onto the blood-soaked– your blood-soaked tissue. Their skin feels itchy.

And the worst part? You’re already watching them, giving them a knowing look. You twirl it around like a baton.

Maybe they’re possessed. They’re a centimeter behind you in the next millisecond.

“Not sure what’s the truth to you,” they whisper, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You were the one stalking me.”

You visibly shutter. And it’s addicting to see.

And your nose fountains out more blood.

You catch it quickly. They weren’t able to see much of it. You press two fingers to your bridge to steal it again. 

Pink floods your face as you whip around, launching into defense. “I wasn’t st–”

They hold a finger over your mouth, shutting you up. They nod their head to the unwanted third person still in their stall.

But you’re not watching them. 

…

You’re watching the finger over your mouth.

Your eyes dart to theirs. They don’t remove it.

They feel your breathing grow heavier. They feel a drop of blood escape your tissue. It grazes their skin. It’s their turn to shutter.

The toilet flushes and you’re immediately sent into panic mode, snatching their hand from your mouth. The stall opens and you’re both left to stand there awkwardly.

After the monster washes their hands, they give you both a weird look on the way out. They can tell you’re too occupied to notice it, considering you’ve begun feeling up their hand.

…but they don’t stop you.

Your fingers brush against their calloused palm. Your touch grows in pressure as you linger up their hand, slowly ushering their sweater sleeve to reveal their wrist. You begin massaging their veins when–

“Kris? Are you two in there?”

Noelle’s voice echoes through the washroom. You visibly deflate at the sound.

“Yeah,” they respond.

“Our teacher got a bit worried and asked if I could come get you guys– since you’ve been gone for a while.”

Neither of you respond. She’s probably right, anyway. You roll your eyes, releasing your hold and heading towards the exit. They follow not far behind.

Right shy of the door, they wrap their fingers around your wrist. They’ve learned not to question it.

You face them, zoning in on the touch. They can feel your pulse quicken. But they don’t really acknowledge it. Their eyes fall onto the speckles of your gleaming blood that you’ve missed.

They blame you for the way they pause. They blame you when their head spirals with things they shouldn’t do.

And, with their gaze trained on you…

Their thumb hovers. Right before your lips.

And, for the first time, they think they’ve accidentally stumped you.

…

But all it takes is a second.

Your pupils dilate when you realize what they want.

Breaking your stare, you shyly stick out your tongue. It caresses their thumb with delicacy; with purpose.

They’re quick to wipe the bits off your nose with their moist finger. Disappointingly, they can’t feel your blood due to the saliva wrapped around their skin. They pretend not to think about it as much as they are.

You flinch at the touch. But you eventually lean into it. You’re almost loopy from the way you sway. When you lock eyes with them once again–

You’ve got actual hearts as pupils. Not exactly subtle.

God. You’re really something.

~*•*~

You’re at a horrific standstill. And you love it.

None of your humans have ever been… into you. Not like this, anyways. You’ve always been the one to initiate contact. Even when you could literally be anything for them, they’ve only ever liked you for your personality. Your interest. The attention you give them.

They’ve never liked you for your blood before.

Yeah, you find it kinda gross and frankly a little concerning, but who’re you to judge? You find yourself not particularly caring, especially when you “accidentally” give yourself paper cuts and they’ll turn just enough to watch you out of the corner of their eye as you press on the wound in an “attempt” to seal it shut.

It oozes a milky white. And you watch their fingers tighten around their bicep.

It’s addicting. You want to squeeze them til they pop.

The best part? They’re feeding you right back. 

On your preplanned routes, you find them brushing your arm more than usual. Sometimes, they’ll reach out a finger to caress your own. It’s subtle, considering they rarely grace you with eye contact.

But when they do? Oh, you could melt.

You’ve become ballsier; instead of pretending your locker’s five down from them, you’ll shift to three down. Then two down. And you’re practically just standing beside their locker like a loser.

When they’re not there, you’ll peek into the holes. It’s more than often empty. You don’t care; you’re there to breathe in the metal stench mixed with their apple sweetness. Sometimes you’ll brush your fingers against the handle to gather their oils onto your skin.

One time, you got a bit distracted with their scent to realize they’ve appeared right behind you.

“Uh, who’s this?” Their friend – Susie, you’ve learned her name is – had asked them off to your right. You were quite offended that she’d pointed to you like you were some pet.

You felt their warm, firm hands on your shoulders. “Someone.”

And your knees almost gave out as they shifted you to the side.

She shot them a look of no duh. “Yeah, I can tell that much. But… like–”

You never found out how the conversation ended. You were too busy running off like a coward. And thinking about their soft touch on your bones. And their breath against your neck.

You keep lying to your mother. She asks again and again if you’ve made any worthwhile friends. Sure, you’ve made class friends here and there, but you’ve been more than busy, uncaring of your social life.

She hasn’t noticed. You’re hiding it better than you usually do.

Because this one’s different. And there’s no way in hell you’ll screw it up like you did the others.

Today’s some random charity thing you weren’t even remotely aware of. After being called down to the gym for an impromptu school dance, you find yourself hovering around said school friends, nursing your flat soda as your mind wanders elsewhere.

The gym’s about a third the size of your old one, riddled with cheap tassel ribbons and balloons. There’s a dozen tables you’re sure they moved from the cafe. Despite the small space, it’s relatively crowded with awkward teens and parents.

You really should pay attention to announcements.

You’re having side conversations with people you’d barely consider acquaintances, eyes predictably searching for a certain someone.

One of the teachers – Kris’ mom, to be exact – climbs up to the stage, welcoming everyone to the event. She starts talking about donations and generosity and you don’t really care. But the vast majority of people stare at her as if they’re actually interested in what she’s saying. You don’t get it.

Whatever. You scan the sea of monsters, eventually finding your human. The butterflies in your stomach don’t get any more manageable.

Their friend’s off talking to your lab partner in chem, leaving them to hover to the side. They seem to be mindlessly staring into space, too.

What a pair you two make. You’re practically soulmates!

You wait until they realize you’re watching them. It happens pretty quickly.

You can’t break eye contact. Not physically, not mentally.

It’s like a waiting game. You want them to gesture you over. To come to them. Susie’s not allowed to treat you like a pet, but you’re not exactly opposed to Kris doing so.

But they don’t break.

You like the challenge. It shows you still have some self restraint.

A minute passes. They raise an eyebrow at you.

…

You take it all back. You hate the standstill. You hate all of it. 

You want to suck on their neck like a gusher. Lap up all their savoury human fluids. Dissect their guts. Rearrange them. Study them to memory.

“I’m going to the washroom,” you half-heartedly tap one of your buddy’s shoulder. She gives you an uh huh in response, not taking her eyes off the stage. 

And you make a beeline for them.

They watch you, probably thinking you’re bluffing. Or going to chicken out. God, you’d never.

You head straight up to them, seize their bicep, and search for the nearest private area.

And there it is; the gym’s supply closet. Good enough.

You drag them behind you like a ragdoll, weaving through crowds who look at you like you’re odd. Strange. You’ve never truly cared of what others thought of you, anyways.

You all but toss them inside, gently shutting the metal door behind you. You use an old hockey stick to jam the door, sliding it between the handles.

The dark room’s filled with stacked extra tables and baskets of half-deflated balls, rackets, and sticks. There’s also an old, janky door locked to your left. Not exactly the most romantic place, but you’re not really aiming for corny love at the moment.

Surprisingly, they’re not as freaked out as you thought they’d be. They’re more so confused. Blank, as per usual.

“You win,” you sigh, pretending you’re nearly as disappointed as you should be.

They blink. “What?”

“You’re not stupid. Y’know. Days ago, in the bathroom…”

You wait. And you admit it.

“I just wanted to hear you say you’ve thought about me.”

You watch their throat bob. You feel yourself salivating.

“I know.”

Their eyes zone onto their feet, as if shy to admit it. 

Fuck, you’ve really hit the jackpot with this one.

You take it as a silent confession. ‘Of course I didn’t want to kill you. I do think about you.’

You almost want to tell them you think about them a lot, too. But it’s so… sappy and stereotypical. It’s just not how you function.

So you decide to give them something you know they’d want more.

“You still have that knife of yours?”

Their eyes widen. Their mouth clams shut. How cute.

“C’mon, Kris,” you hold out a hand, palm up. “I won’t bite.”

Something seems to click in place at the sight of your very slashable wrist.

They approach you like you’re a rabid dog, reaching behind them for the blade you’ve been wishing for. Their fingers wrap around your forearm like a present. You feel gifted, that’s for sure.

They gain a bit of confidence, rubbing their thumb into your skin. Your body tingles wherever they touch, as if leaving a permanent mark.

Then, they press the sharp edge against your skin. They glance at you for a look of reassurance.

Oh, come on. You’d never back down from something like this. Not when you can practically hear the way their heart’s beating out of their chest. Humans give themselves away all the time.

A quick nod is all it takes.

And your flesh screams at the dig of the blade, inching deeper and deeper into the confines of your wrist. Your pearly blood squirts against the knife, against their fingers, against your clothes, the floor–

And they keep pushing and it keeps gushing and you’re sure they’ve hit an artery.

You suck in a painful breath through your teeth, preparing to groan out a wait haha was this a bad idea–

But the look on their face? Fuck, the look on their face.

Their pupils are dilated to hell and back. Mouth agape, huffing loud, shallow breaths. Lip almost curled into a smile that you so desperately want to see.

It immediately distracts you from the stinging pain in your arm. You wish you could save the sight to memory. It’d be the only thing you’d ever look at.

Their thumb inches to the incision, massaging your skin with the blood oozing down your bicep.

And they press their thumb into the cut. 

The pain increases to an unfathomable amount. They knead the raw, tender flesh they’ve exposed, squeezing the popped veins to squirt out more blood. They watch it– watch you like you’re the most perfect thing they’ve ever seen. 

And god, do you feel it.

They’re shoving you to your back before you realize it.

You feel some of your blood soak into your pants as they straddle your waist. Your uninjured hand instantly moves to squeeze their thigh, happy to get any sort of contact.

Everything’s gone from zero to a hundred. Not that you mind. Not one bit.

They’re watching you intensely, reading your rather open, vulnerable reactions. You’re sure you’re practically drooling.

You feel your eyes go half-lidded as they bring your wrist to their face. Their chest visibly inflates and deflates, and you can’t believe they’re the one breathing in your scent. 

And… god, god god god god–

They press their mouth to your skin, slithering their tongue into your gaping cut.

You let out a sound you’ve never heard yourself make; somewhere between a breathless groan and a whimper of pure, excruciating pain.

Humans and their immune systems– fuck, it hurts unbareably. 

It’s abruptly interrupted when their warm tongue digs deeper into your muscles as your nerves scream in protest. More and more blood oozes from your wrist, splattering onto their lips.

…you can’t tell if what’s happening right now is better or worse than admitting how kissable they look.

And– and your brain loses all rational thoughts. Because you’re too focused on the way their mouth closes over your wound and sucks the blood out of you and just their lips against your skin’s enough to make you fall in love.

And you’ve decided you want their skin under your teeth.

You awkwardly twist your leg under them to flip them on their back, casually trading positions but it’s not casual and you’re losing your mind.

You somewhat take note of how they’re not fighting back. And how psychotic the blood splatters on their face make them seem. And how horribly drunk on your blood they appear. 

You thought the forest was bad? Christ, this human’s got issues.

…

Yeah, you probably look just as deranged.

You retrieve their knife, forgotten on the cold tiles painted with your blood, not once hesitating when pressing it right on their collarbone.

You don’t slash at first. You only find it hard to resist when they tilt their head to expose the length of their neck and… c’mon. You can’t hold back from that.

You’ve never cut someone without the intention to dissect before, and you’d rather not truly hurt this human (considering they can’t do so much as heal themselves efficiently), so you settle for a small, slightly-deeper-than-a-paper-cut cut.

Despite that, it still oozes a ruby red that your eyes can’t help but get entranced with. Before it mixes with your blood dripping down their neck, you collect their blood on your finger.

You’re not sure how long you spend straddling their waist, tapping their blood between your fingers, rubbing it into your skin, smelling it…

“Mmmokay,” you nod in agreement. “I sorta get your weird appeal.”

But they’re not listening. Their eyes dart to random spots on your cheeks, to your nose, to your neck. You’re sure you’ve got some of your blood splotched all over.

Totally worth it. You love that dumb look on their face.

You duck back down to their collarbone, giving the wound a few kitten licks. Once you hear them suck in a breath, you snap their skin between your teeth. You swallow, suck, absorb every ounce of their taste that you can.

You’d eat them alive if they’d let you. 

You feel their fingers lace through your scalp and holy shit you feel your soul pulse. 

“Y-you said you wouldn’t bite,” they utter out.

“Yeah,” your voice wavers, trying to maintain composure as you leave little butterfly kisses up their neck. You have no self control. “I’m a liar.”

And you nearly jump out of your skin when you hear the door handle wrangle.

God fucking damnit. Are you kidding?

“Is there someone in there?” A muffled voice questions from the other side. “You’re not allowed in there during assemblies.”

You don’t bother gracing the man with a response. Now that your mood’s been soured to oblivion, you might accidentally strangle him if you hear another word. Kris seems to be on the same page.

You crawl off them, now becoming hyperaware of all the sticky blood and sweat that’s in every crevice of your body. They get up before you, offering you a hand.

You’re about to morph all the fluids off your skin, but–

There’s a hand gripping your tricep. It stops you from tumbling to the floor. “Are you okay?”

“I– eh…” you hold a palm to your forehead, trying to ease away the growing headache forming in your temples. 

“You lost a lot of…” they trail off.

Right. Of course that’s what’s happening.

You push your heart to pump double the amount of blood without killing you, while you work on sealing your wrist to stop dripping like a faulty faucet.

You both stare blankly at the horrible crime scene beneath your feet and immediately get to work.

Kris gestures to the locked door, claiming it leads to a mostly-unused gym office, to which you can hopefully retrieve cleaning supplies to at least remove some evidence. You pick the lock with a makeshift finger-paperclip and are pleased to see they’re correct. There’s a few heavy-duty sprays and wipes that you find and bring back.

The next few minutes are spent in the quiet limbo of cleaning and scrubbing. But, oddly enough, you don’t find yourself doubting any moment of it. No ‘god are they regretting it’ or ‘what if they got what they wanted and don’t care about me anymore’ or ‘what the hell happens next?’.

Because you catch them stashing a chalky-white, soaked tissue right into the confines of their pocket.

~*•*~

Days and days pass of similar events. To define ‘similar’ is rather… difficult to do. 

You both wordlessly try to satisfy each other– which sounds very transactional, but you’re actually having fun. 

Sometimes you’ll purposely prick your finger on a thorny bush, presenting it to them like it’s a diamond. They treat it like one, that’s for sure. Other days, you’ll let them nibble on you like a rabbit. They’re oddly attentive; ensuring they don’t break too much skin. It’s alarming how much you think about the fact. 

They let you touch them in return. Innocent, light caresses of their skin. Their hair. They’ve let you map out their mouth before. In a surgical, educational way. You enjoy it much more than you thought you would. 

Especially when you can see your blood staining their teeth.

But it gets weird sometimes. Not bad-weird. Just… interesting-weird. 

They’ve stabbed you before. You’d be long dead if you couldn’t close up your arteries at will. They’ll just watch the blood flow out of you, too. You thought it was an anger thing; maybe they’re half-using you as an outlet of sorts. 

…and you always scold yourself for thinking about them like that.

You’ve never thought about your humans beyond their physical lives, their barebone interests, their thoughts, their opinions. You’ve never wanted to be truly invested in their lives to a psychological level. You never really… care about them.

Because you’ve never thought about any of them like that. You’ve never thought about anyone like that. Monster or human.

But Kris?

Oh, Kris.

Is it bad? That you’re actually growing to enjoy their company? That you want to learn about them the way ‘normal’ people learn about people they like?

You want to ask them questions about their childhood. About what it felt like growing up in this small, cramped town with no one but yourself to understand. 

You question their fascination with blood. You don’t understand why yours is so special to them. Not that you’re complaining.

You don’t wonder the way you used to; when you’d much rather be able to rummage through one’s memories to get the quick-and-easy answers you desire. Now, you almost wish you could have a quick do-over.

In the deep recesses of your brain, you tell yourself not to get used to it. You’re getting shitty grades again – which, from experience, proves you’re distracted beyond belief. Your mother’ll realize it sooner or later. 

You wince at a sharp pain in your shoulder, mind returning to the now.

“Sorry,” you hear from behind you. “Too deep?”

“You hit my bone, dude.”

No response. Well, besides a silent snicker of amusement. 

It makes your stomach flutter. And you immediately have to suffocate anything that might’ve formed in your intestines. 

“Wasn’t aiming for it,” they protest, licking a stripe of blood that trickles down your back. A very warranted smile forms on your face.

“I know your anatomy better than you do.”

They pause. Long and drawed out. “Don’t doubt it.”

You’re tempted to glance behind your shoulder out of curiosity, but then remember something very relevant.

“Taste better than usual?”

You feel the heat radiating off of them. “...sweeter.”

“Yeah. I added literal sugar to my blood,” you say as if it’s a thing worth bragging about. “I think that’s an actual condition, but y’know. It’s easy to manage.”

A hand falls onto your uncut shoulder as they lick another streak. Slower, this time.

“It’s nice.”

You quickly fall into the comfortable silence you’ve grown used to. Although you’re more than invested in enjoying the feeling, a far too comedic thought appears in your head.

“Do you know what a vampire is?”

You peek over your shoulder just in time to watch them stiffen, a flush apparent high on their cheekbones.

“I’m not a vampire.”

“It’s not a drastic conclusion to come to.”

They raise an eyebrow. “Ever seen me with wings?”

“I guess not,” you swipe a bit of your blood onto your thumb, playfully dabbing it on the bridge of their nose. “But you are allergic to the sun.”

They pause, entranced by the feeling on their skin. 

“There’s just something about yours,” they stare right through you. “It’s… different.”

Your mind clouds over. You love the idea of them liking something about you and you alone.

As you turn on their bed, you lace your fingers through their own, pretending it’s any degree of casual. You have to literally will the heat in your palms to dissipate. 

They closely watch the way your thumbs stroke their palms, tracing the unique lines as if trying to commit them to memory. Well…

“What’s with you and humans?”

Wow, that’s upfront.

“I think they’re cool.”

They give you a look.

You roll your eyes. “Well, monsters are all so different. Maybe that uniqueness would theoretically make them more interesting, but… I don’t know.”

“Humans are boring.”

“Well, yeah. Humans are all practically the same. With little tweaks. I like pointing out the differences, I guess. ‘S like a game of Where’s Waldo?”

As you drown in another pit of simple silence, you feel the edges of your lips curl upwards. You let out a defeated scoff. 

“I think you’ve ruined humans for me.”

Their eyebrows raise. “Why’s that?”

And you take it as the biggest challenge of your life.

“I’ve already found all the Waldo’s, Kris. I’ve seen everything. I already know all there is to know about humans,” you bring their hands to your chest. “But you? You’re so different, it’s like a whole new game.”

They don’t seem to take it as the boasting compliment you make it out to be. “Yeah. This town’ll do that to you.”

“No, but like… okay. I guess you wouldn’t really know this, but–” Your shoulders drop in thought. “Humans who grow up around other humans are very standoffish. At least, from what I can tell. I think they might have internal speciesism. Yeah, it’s kinda weird, but it’s cool to just… see how egotistical some of them can get.”

You learned rather quickly that they don’t like talking about humans. And, for some reason, you’ve made a great effort to avoid the topic altogether. 

Because you care about how they feel.

But, oddly enough, they’re watching you with a curiosity you’ve never seen from them before. So you continue, open as ever.

“Growing up, I would sorta morph into the humans I found fascinating. Bet you could guess how they’d react to it.” 

Their expression hardly changes, but you have a feeling they know what you mean. 

“Well, a majority of the time, I’d just get weird looks. Maybe ignored. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. But the thing is… some would, uh, humor me. So I wouldn’t shift into them as much. Why do so when I have the real thing in front of me, right?

“I mostly came to the conclusion that they just liked the attention I gave them. But they’d never let me get too close– go too far. And– and it’s not like I wanted to hurt them, fuck, but they always got so stuck up by the end of it, and–”

You sigh, eying their face for any twitches or giveaways. Surprisingly, you can’t read anything.

“My mother found out. We moved around. It happened a few times. And she sent me to see someone. Kept it all under wraps. And after months passed, maybe she just– thought I was over it. And maybe I was. But– but you.”

You inch ever so close to them. You can feel your breath reflect off their cheeks. Their pretty red eyes stay glued to yours.

“We– we’re two peas in a pod! I’ve never met a human who’s actually liked me before. You… but you– you’d never push me away, right? You’d never do that to me, right?”

…

And their lips part.

“Why would I?”

You feel a stress dissipate in you, as if the angel just morphed your soul to be fit for them and them alone.

Your fingers leave their own, reaching to curl around their neck. Your thumbs idly stroke their jawline.

“God, you’re perfect.”

Despite the slight tint to their ears, they break eye contact. “I’m not much for attention.”

You feel yourself let out a giggle. “And that’s why you’re so much better than the rest of them. Even if you’re gross as fuck.”

And as they attempt to hide their smile, you feel your yearn for normalcy be fulfilled tenfold.

~*•*~

You jam your door shut, as you’ve done a million times before. Drawer in front of the frame, too. Your fingers dial their number instinctually. Not saving it to a contact bought you more time. 

But not enough.

They pick up on the first ring.

“Hey–”

“My parents know.”

Silence.

“She’s already brought the movers. Called you before she finds out I have a burner phone for my burner.”

More silence. A minute passes, maybe a few, but you don’t have the guts to hang up.

“Hello?”

Your housekeepers call for you, to which you obviously don’t respond. Something about suitcases and clothes and whatever. They knock and knock and you just don’t care. The door’s handle jiggles, but the mass stops anyone from entering.

You check the screen. Still on the call. The hell?

“Kris?–”

And your bedroom window’s being swung open before you register it. 

You gawk at the sight of the green and yellow sweater currently slipping into your room. “How the hell’d you sneak past the movers?–”

“You’re leaving?”

You’re at a standstill.

“Technically, yeah.”

You watch disappointment seep into their eyes. But they don’t move. Oh, fuck it.

You’re the one to swiftly approach them, wrapping your arms around their midsection. They don’t hug you back, but you feel their chin rest on your shoulder. You peck their neck, trying to engrain a last memory in this painfully rushed goodbye.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Got locked in the house for a solid hour while my mother made a hundred calls trying to find out who you were.”

They sigh. “Not a fan?”

You give them a sad smile. “Not necessarily.”

Although you’d rather stay like this forever, you release them and head to your janky little floorboard compartment. You made sure to keep it under your bed this time. Apparently it was too obvious to your mother for the first few attempts.

“But. It was going to happen eventually. So,” you bend awkwardly under your frame, snatching the familiar plastic bag of pearly white liquid. “I got you this.”

They give you the most monotone look of excitement you’ve ever seen. Raised brows, wide eyes, slight smile. You engrain that to memory, too.

They reach into their pocket, fishing out a similar plastic bag. Except theirs has a little tooth in it.

“Took me a second to get here. I had to get it for you.”

You nearly crumble. You’ve never smiled so giddily before.

They seem shy to admit it. “Mom kept my first few baby teeth.”

“It’s perfect,” you coo.

You trade bags like some stupid show and tell, feeling a sense of calm rush through you. Anyone would probably think you should be losing your mind. 

Right now, as you say goodbye to the only human you’ve ever truly cared about. 

A day later, as the movers stuff your things into the truck with no care in the world. 

A week later, when you’re daydreaming out the limo window, not sulking nearly as much as you did the first thirty times this happened.

Even your parents look at you like you’ve gone insane.

But it’s okay.

Because it doesn’t matter.

You’ll see them again. You’ll make sure of it.

~~~

and the winner is…… the two-sided yandere trope !!!!!!! god i love this trope w all my heart its severely underrated

so ive been working on this on and off for the past like week and a half uhhhhhhh maybe u can tell by the second half, but i had to cut down a buttload of scenes bc it was getting WAY TOO LONG

i think it still flows nicely tho (and most of the scenes i cut were just more degenerate nonsense so…)

YEAHHHH I UHHH HOPE U ENJOYED. for some reason i went into it thinking nahh this isnt fetishization its just quirky blood human stuff but... yeah... thats just a straight up lie IDK HOW IT DIGRESSED INTO THIS IM SORRY.

The curtains open. Around you, people gasp. A woman swallows a scream, hands cupping her face; beside her, her husband is sickeningly pale as he holds his wife’s arm in a white-knuckled grasp. A child shrieks, hiding behind his mother’s legs, and the mother ushers him away with a terrified prayer. The two-faced demon lounges lazily, separated from you by thick metal bars within his miniscule cage.

He’s not even that ugly, you think, vaguely mystified by the theatrics of the audience. He’s horrifyingly tall, yes, standing at least a head above you. The two-faced demon’s torso is unfathomably wide and entirely bare, tattoos tracing his well-chiseled abdomen up to the lines of his sculpted face, down beneath his low-slinging pants. Disconcertingly, a mouth sits where his belly button should, wide spread in a grotesque grin as a tongue pokes out from between sharp teeth. You follow his tattoos up to his jaw, and see—

“A monster,” someone murmurs.

—a man.

There’s a strong jaw and a wide face, with cheekbones sitting high on his face. His nose stands tall, slightly ridged and strongly angled. A second pair of eyes, as crimson red as the first, sit half-slitted beneath the main pair. His hair, short and a shocking shade of cherry blossom pink, is deceptively sweet against the rest of his features. Most interestingly, something wooden and mask-like sits on the right side of his face where his features slope at a harsh, asymmetrical diagonal. His mouth is pulled taut against the skin. It must be where the nickname is from, that two-faced dichotomy; his face split between vaguely human familiarity and absolute, monstrous novelty. It’s barely fathomable. Watching him scowl down at your crowd, it’s easy to see glimpses of the inhuman monster that everyone is so terrified of.

You’ve heard of the two-faced demon before. He’s an infamous attraction, even if only for his grotesque appearance. There are rumours about having fought lions before—he has, allegedly, once fought an elephant and won—-and each story is as ludicrous as it is widespread. You just hadn’t expected that, if you squint, he could be considered handsome. Weren’t such monstrous creatures meant to be hideous?

Ignorant to your inner dialogue, the two-faced demon crosses his bottom pair of arms tightly around his chest, muscles bulging with an unspoken threat. How incredible he is, to make such a simple movement seem so domineering. The showman continues. “Despite his fearsome appearance as a rampaging beast, he is incredibly docile!” Docile? “He rarely speaks, is barely capable of following basic instruction, and acts entirely on his own whims—” What part of that is docile? “—but, rest assured, he is uninterested in harming others. His diet consists only of meat—we have a raw cow being brought in at eight, should anyone want to witness his feeding—” he rattles off a price, and the two-faced demon’s scowl only deepens.

What a salesman. You could almost convince yourself this guy is trying to sell you an antique, rather than an exclusive experience to watch a man eat. 

“Adding to his inhumane appearance, the two-faced demon is stronger than an ox, and can tear apart metal like a man does paper—”

“Then why doesn’t he break out?” The words escape you before you can stop them. His captive audience turns, disturbed from their horrified trance; the showman looks somewhat displeased.

“What did you say, dear viewer?”

“You said he can tear apart metal, but he’s in a wooden caravan with metal bars. Why doesn’t he break out, if he’s so strong?”

The man scowls, displeased by your break in immersion. “Didn’t you hear me? He’s uninterested in harming others.”

“But isn’t he a rampaging beast?”

“A rampaging beast can rampage all he likes, if he’s too lazy to think his way out of a wooden box.” Still, the people around you look uneasy. Someone edges away. Even to you the logic is barely nebulous, ridiculously flimsy at best. Why would that matter, if he can tear through metal so simply? It just doesn’t make sense. The two-faced demon, the allegedly unknowing topic of your conversation, lounges backwards, top pair of eyes flitting close. The bottom pair, that blazing inhumanity, peek open; for some unfathomable reason, as the showman faultingly continues his monologue, they remain trained on you.

II.

You don’t see the two-faced demon for another two weeks after joining the troupe. He is, you learn, eternally locked within that small caravan; he eats there, he sleeps there, he pisses in a bucket and has someone else toss out the waste. The curtains are constantly closed—so as to not scare the other circus members, the showman, Haruta, tells you—and the caravan is silent, except for those few sickening minutes each night where he tears into the raw flesh of an animal and its dying squeals echo.

So, when he calls out to you, fresh from a few hours of practice, you find yourself a little surprised.

“You.” 

The sound is raspy from disuse, low and rumbling from deep in the chest. It’s not a voice you’ve ever heard before, for all it immediately sends warmth to your face, so you really can’t be blamed for your response of:

“Me?” You echo dumbly. 

You turn to see the two-faced demon locked in his caravan. For once, the curtains are open. He lounges languidly in his cage, head resting against his palm as he braces his elbow against the wall. In the light of day, his inhumanities are both sharpened and softened; the sun lifts the veil of his sinister appearance, at once lessening the horror and throwing the details into brutal relief. Your eyes linger on his stomach mouth for a moment, before returning to the four eyes glaring sharply down at you.

“Yes, you.” He says, his voice sharp. “I saw you.”

“I imagine you see a lot of people, considering our profession.”

He sneers. “Insolent woman.” Which… okay? You’re not sure what he was expecting, approaching you like that; you’re not sure he even knows how he wanted you to react, based on the way his scowl only deepens. Maybe it’s some leftover aggression for all that lion-killing he used to allegedly perform. “You were there when that foolish peacock was displaying me.”

Foolish peacock—? Ah. Haruta. “I didn’t realise I left such an impression.”

“Hm.” He leans forward, grinning with both mouths. His canines are frighteningly sharp. “Bring me some food.”

You blink. “No. That’s not under my jurisdiction.”

“There is no jurisdiction for who brings me my meals.”

Your brows furrow as you shoot him a disbelieving look. “Yes, there is. Uraume delegates it to someone at the start of every week. I can’t just disrupt someone else’s tasks.”

“That peacock of a showman said it himself, didn’t he? I feast on the weak. Bring me my meal, or I’ll feast my hunger elsewhere.” He leers at you, more ravenous than covetous. It doesn’t feel like desire. For a moment, you feel like nothing more than the sack of meat you must appear as—skin and meat and blood and bone, packaged beneath a pretty face and shielding a beating heart. Nothing more than a single meal to quench an endless thirst. 

“That peacock,” you stress his nickname for Haruta, “also said you barely spoke and were assuredly docile. How am I to know whether or not that’s another exaggeration among many?’

“My existence is no exaggeration.” You hum in demeaning acquiescence. The two-faced demon growls. “What’s your name, woman?”

What a non-sequitor. You look at him, features carefully blank in the face of his inhumanity. His nails are frighteningly sharp, you notice suddenly. Sharper than they have any right to be. Long and razor-thin, more akin to claws than fingernails. You tell him your name, slow and sure. “Do I get to learn your name in return?”

“What makes you think you have any right to it?”

Nothing could stop you from rolling your eyes. “Of course. What was I thinking?” Biting back further grumbling, you make to walk past his enclosure. “I’m sure your meal will be here shortly. Have a good day, demon.”

For all his gallivanting, he doesn’t break out of his cage. He sits there in that imperious sprawl and scowls with all four eyes as he watches you leave. Maybe he really is domesticated; maybe he doesn’t think the effort of catching you is worth the meagre meal. It doesn’t matter—either way, you move on unimpeded, while he stays rotting in that tiny caravan. His threat goes unfulfilled. So much for the privilege of his name.

III.

The two-faced demon doesn’t take up much of your attention after that. You are, for the most part, uninterested in your disfigured colleague. On the few occasions where he is allowed to see the sun (because, for some unfathomable reason, he refuses to either draw the curtains himself or request they be done so), he singles you out. You talk, he calls you an ‘insolent woman’ or ‘foolish performer’ or, on the one occasion you really annoyed him, ‘wayward maggot’. Frustrated with him, you leave. A couple days pass, and the same event reoccurs. 

Over these few encounters you learn a few things, both from him and others: no one knows his name. He speaks to no one, unless it is to demand food. He calls no one by their name, demeaning them as being too below him to know his, and him too above them to refer to them as anything other than insulting descriptors. He really did previously fight animals for show before his kill streak knocked too high, and everyone that witnessed it continues to live in paralysing fear over what he may do to them if he grows too bored. Their dramatics know no bounds.

You are perfectly happy with this routine of vague familiarity until you meet Uraume.

Despite being an aerialist, being a member of a travelling troupe means that everyone is often pitching in for odd jobs. Working as an aerialist doesn’t mean you aren’t helping with booths or applying the kids' show make-up or assisting Toji in feeding the animals. Likewise, Uraume’s role as a performer doesn’t prevent them from also being the best cook in the circus. With your odd jobs and their famed skill, it doesn’t take long until you’re tasked with assisting them in the kitchen.

“Leave that for the two-faced demon.”

You jolt from where you’re leaning over the meat, reaching for a cut of steak. Uraume’s expression, usually placid and slightly derisive, is underlined with an uncharacteristic anger; brows furrowed, lips twisting downwards, shoulders squared as they loom over you. You glance between them and the meat in question. “I thought that guy only ate live animals…?”

“He did.” Their expression smooths out as you step back, grabbing a different cut. “His tastes have changed since his reallocation.”

Reallocation? “I thought he was always there purely for his…” how to word this politely? “...cosmetic value.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’d never degrade himself in such a manner.” Isn’t that exactly what he’s doing now? “He used to work with the animals. Once per location, after the animal tamer performed, he would appear and fight a predator—lions, most often—for show. It was always the most anticipated event of the circus. The animals were, unsurprisingly, no match for the two-faced demon, but the display of his strength was notable all the same.”

Fascinating. Maybe those muscles aren’t all for show. You decide to ignore the concept that he was apparently so strong that lions were unable to beat him—legendary as those stories are, you’d always considered them mere stories. It’s discomforting to know there’s more truth to them than you previously assumed. “Then why’d he stop doing it?”

They level you with a dispassionate look. “They couldn’t keep up with him. He kept killing them. The law decided to prohibit his actions, but their attempts at restraining him led to the previous animal tamer meeting a… sudden end.”

“Is that why everyone is so scared of him?”

“They’re scared of him because they should be.” Uraume clears their throat. “After that debacle, they banned him from fighting in the circus. He’s decided to simply remain a viewing attraction, and abides by their drivel as long as he is sufficiently provided for.”

“Even after killing a worker?”

“Even after eating a worker.”

You blink in muted surprise. You don’t know why you’re shocked, given the nature of his threats and the way people act around him, but eating someone? You can’t fathom it. The two-faced demon, for all his bluster, is notably tame. “He must’ve been an amazing fighter, for the circus to have kept him after that.”

Uraume turns to you, uncharacteristically passionate. Their next words come out slightly breathless. “He was magnificent.”

And, well, that’s that. Uraume says no more on the topic, even as they continue their tasks with a quiet joy. You’ve never seen them as happy as they are now, as if the mere thought of the two-faced demon is enough to brighten their spirit. Huh. You’re beginning to get the feeling that he maybe really is that awe-inspiring, considering the various dramatics of your fellow circus performers.

Maybe that’s why, when Uraume hands you a massive steak so lightly cooked you can imagine its heart is still beating, you don’t deny their request to deliver it to the two-faced demon. Instead, you take the heavy meal—which, seriously? This portion size could feed at least six people—and bring it to that ever shielded caravan.

“Knock on the door before you enter,” Uraume tells you as you leave. “He won’t attack you or try to escape. Pay him the decency he deserves, given his illustrious nature.”

You don’t exactly take it into account. Rather, what you do is call “Dinner’s ready!” as you near the caravan, knocking at the door with one foot as you hold the—frankly massive—plate with both hands. “Open the door.”

“Open it yourself.”

Your eye twitches. Must this man be such a contrarian? “My apologies. What I meant to say is, I am unable to open the door—either open it for me, or continue on without your dinner. It’s no concern to me.”

A growl sounds, then the low creak of movement. He’s awfully quiet for such a large man, but even then, the caravan creaks and sinks with every step of his massive weight. The door opens with a harsh lurch, and you are abruptly the closest you’ve ever been to his monstrous form. This close, a mere half-meter separating you, his eyes are impossibly large, impossibly red; his cherry blossom hair an even softer pink than you initially conceived. Bizarrely, you find yourself almost wanting to touch it. Even the scar you first noticed seems more like a mask this close for how raised and shapely it is; yet his malformed eyes blink lazily at you in a way no puppetry could emulate.

How sickening, you think, fascinated.

“Well?” He says mockingly. “Serve me my dinner.”

He disappears back into his trailer. It’s honestly impressive that he even manages it—the trailer couldn’t be more than 5 meters by half; somehow, he turns it into a chasm. “I’ll leave it with—”

“Serve me.”

How frustrating. “If I must.” You keep your tone perfectly neutral, stepping into the darkness of his abode. It’s as discomfortingly small as you imagined. You don’t know how he manages to lounge so broadly and still look as though he has room to move; a well-practiced artifice, though you don’t know why he tolerates it. The man that could beat a lion in a fair fight, wasting away in a cage even smaller than the predators. You would laugh, if you didn’t think he would eat you for the mockery. 

You lay the plate out on the floor before him. The two-faced demon licks over his teeth with his too-long tongue. “Sit with me.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t tell me you’re even stupider than you look. Sit.” His voice is a rumbling growl. You sit, stumbling awkwardly until you’re on the floor of the caravan, legs tucked beneath you. Sitting like this, he looms over you as a carnivorous shadow; there’s no illusion of even footing. He watches you for a moment, expression bored and impassive, before leaning his head down and taking a bite of his steak. Blood streams from the bite.

His hunger is voracious. He tears into the beef with abandon, uncaring of his audience and greedy in his hunger. He tears through the meat as if it were butter, cleaving through it with a single grind of his jaw. It’s horrifying. It’s beautiful, in a way, as if for a moment his appetite makes him something both more and less than human. His top pair of eyes shut in something akin to delight, but his bottom pair remain fixed on you. You’re paralysed by his stare; his hunger; the monstrous strength of his jaw; the awful sharpness of his teeth.

“You’re unafraid of me.”

You jolt, eyes tearing from his pinning gaze to land on his mouth, brows furrowed. Your gaze darts further down, and the mouth on his stomach stretches into a leering grin. It’s disconcerting, so out of place; you didn’t realise that mouth was capable of anything more than aesthetic disfigurement. His face-mouth swallows, taking another monstrous bite of meat. “Oh? Is this all it takes to frighten you?”

Your expression briefly drops into a scowl. “Why would I be?”

“Stories of my feats couldn’t have dissipated so quickly,” he scorns. “You have good reason to be scared.”

“Uraume was very flattering,” you concede. “But as far as I’m concerned, you’ve done nothing but sit here, leer, and make the occasional threat for the entire time I’ve been employed. Why should I be scared when you’ve taken no action against me?”

It’s a blatant goad, not that you mean it as one. If the two-faced demon is as thoughtlessly savage as Haruta claims, he would no doubt jump on it; grab you, loom over you, and laugh as your life is balanced in the claws of his mercy. He does not. It speaks to his inaction; he truly must’ve become domesticated.

“Do you take me for a beast?” He asks, his lip curling. “You’ve simply done nothing to anger me yet.”

“If I haven’t angered you, then I have no need to be scared.”

“Hm.” He takes another bite of his food, leaning forward until one arm rests on his knee, propping up his head. It moves him closer to you, impossibly large despite his hunched posture. It’s grotesque, how he manages to swallow down such a sizable slab of raw meat in so few bites. He swallows languidly, bringing the plate to his torso, and has his stomach mouth lick the leftover blood off the ceramic. When he stretches his arm out, glistening plate—seriously, gross—outstretched, you take it as your cue to leave.

Of course, you don’t even get to touch the plate before his other arm snatches yours, dragging you a step closer as his hand creates a bruising shackle around your wrist. His lip curls into a smiling snarl.

“Ow,” you say belatedly. You hadn’t expected it to hurt, for your bones to creak like a rotting frame beneath the pressure. Still—is that it? A man that felled lions, resorting to squeezing your wrist a little? Are you supposed to feel threatened?

He stares at you, expression placid. The two-faced demon is threatening you. But for what? Because you’re not scared of him? How is this supposed to make you any more frightened? You level him with a (very minor, unintentional) challenge, and he responds by giving you a bruised wrist. It doesn’t inspire fear like he expects his man-eating habits to. You stare back at him, unimpressed, and lightly tug your wrist out of his grasp. He doesn’t let go.

Rather, he sneers. “Was that pathetic tug all you could conjure?”

You roll your eyes. “Could you let go of me?” Then, to be polite; “Please? I still have tasks left to complete.”

“Is that all you’re worried about?”

“Yes.” Kenjaku will have your head if you don’t complete everything in time. He really is so frustratingly particular. In fact, now that you think of it, you think you’d prefer death by the two-faced demon before risking Kenjaku’s disappointment—Mahito might get away with being a brat, but you? He doesn’t care half as much about you, nor do you bring in enough money for him to justify anything but extreme consequences to minor offences. Maybe, if the demon holds you here long enough, you should suggest your death to him; surely, he’ll accept a freely offered meal?

The grip on your hand spasms, tightening so quickly a blinding bolt shoots up your arm, and then abruptly lets go. “Hopeless,” he growls. “A pathetic little maggot, unaffected by a predator. Your foolishness will kill you.”

“This is a circus, not the wild.” You say blandly. Doesn’t that prove your point, anyway? Why would a caged lion kill a maggot? It’d sooner save its own skin escaping before it considered eating the prey of its prey. He really is dramatic, jumping to these exaggerated threats.

You scoop the plate off the floor, shaking your wrist like that’ll ease the bone-deep ache. Sending him one last look as you leave—a glance at this thoughtless, self-captive predator, who lets people think he can’t break out through bars when he can easily open the door—you roll your eyes once more. “Have a good night, demon.”

(Sukuna lets your arm go, watching you through abruptly lidded eyes. You don’t retreat. It took him a moment to realise, but he understands now—you’re not frozen out of fear, or resolute in a need to prove yourself unafraid of him. You’re simply not, staring back at him with those heavy, thoughtful eyes. You’re sedate. It strikes him, with a feeling both raging and delighted, that you aren’t unafraid; no, you don’t care. He could tear you apart with a single bite, unhinge his jaw and clamp down on your hand and rend your fingers from your palm, tear your flesh straight from the bone, and you don’t care for the threat.

Your hand flexes idly as if you had stiff joints in need of loosening, unaware of his hunger. Or, maybe, you are aware—you just simply don’t care enough to be scared. It lights a fire in his stomach; for the first time in a long, long time, he wants. He wants ravenously; he wants your blood in his mouth, your eyes pickled in a jar, your heart puncturing between his teeth, your bones a broth to flavour his soup. 

His mouth waters at the thought. You make him so hungry. 

But, more than anything, Sukuna wants to see you scared.)

IV.

“I hear you and the two-faced demon have struck up a friendship.”

Damn this circus and its unending gossip mill. You turn to Yorozu, who has taken the seat at the table beside you and is now grabbing whatever food is within reach. “To categorise it as ‘friendship’ is a generous stretch of the word.”

“If he hasn’t threatened to eat you, you’re practically soulmates.” She pops a bite of food into her mouth, peeking one eye open to look at you. “Has he threatened to eat you?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.” She almost looks jealous. “And you’re not scared?”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.” You’re sure Yorozu has heard a dozen of the same story from a dozen different people; it’s not something you felt the need to contribute to. How is your encounter with him any more poignant than anyone else's? “He only threatened it. It’s not as if he went through with the threat.”

“And you’re… okay with that?”

“It was an empty threat. Why would I be concerned?”

She sends you a queer look. “You’re a weird girl. You know he used to kill lions, right? Once, he tore the leg off of one while it was still fighting. Barely broke a sweat doing it, too. It was beautiful, really. You should’ve seen the way he—”

You stare at her blankly. “Uraume told me.”

“Isn’t he just terrifying?” She swoons as she says it. “You weren’t there for it, but he ate one of the workers once.” Then, as if she’d just commented on the morning weather, Yorozu pops another bite into her mouth. “The guy couldn’t even fight back, it was so quick. That demon, he– he didn’t even laugh. Said the fight was too easy for him to get any pleasure out of it.”

“Uraume also told me that,” you say pleasantly. “Be that as it may, he just lounges around nowadays.”

“He only lounges around ‘cause he doesn’t see any point in killing us. Doesn’t think we’d be worth the effort,” she manages to look somewhat offended as she says it. “Besides, he’s happy as long as he’s given some poor lamb to tear apart every few days. We were all surprised when he became so languid—I mean, he’s such a monster. What kind of freak can kill a lion bare-handed? It feels like Kenjaku is dancing with the devil somedays, keeping him around. Not that I can blame him.”

“He hasn’t hurt anyone since though, has he?”

“What?” She shoots you an incredulous look. “I just said he ate someone.” You roll your eyes. “What’s with that look?”

“I just think you’re blowing things out of proportion. That’s all.”

V.

It's hard to wrap your mind around the entirety of the threat that is the two-faced demon. Sure, you’ve heard plenty about his lion-fighting, man-eating days, but it means nothing in the face of his complacency. A part of you acknowledges that he’s strong—the encounter the other day proves that—but even then, it failed to spark fear in you. He just… was. 

So what if he could eat you if he isn’t going to follow up on it? When it comes down to it, anyone could kill you. He may be horrifically strong and monstrous in appearance, but he seemed more prone to idle threats than violent execution. Even the ring of bruises, once a dark brand on your wrist, has mellowed out to a discomforting yellow.

The lamb between his jaws squeals as he bites down, slicing through bone in a single bite. Upon being told to deliver a live lamb to the two-faced demon, you’d been faced with immediate disgust; he’s all-consuming and ravenous as is, so why must you witness a further indulgence? It’s every bit as grotesque as you imagined. He makes no play of it, tearing it apart while it heaves and dies, trapping it within the chasm of his jaw. What fun could he possibly contrive out of the gruesome act?

“Why did you talk to me?” You ask suddenly. 

After all, didn’t Yorozu say it herself? The only reason the two-faced demon hasn’t broken out of his poorly crafted caravan and eaten another man is because he doesn’t see the point in doing so. What is there for you to fear? He can’t even be bothered to break out of his cage. You’re certainly not worth the effort. 

Still, you think—he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t think worth doing. He clearly sees some value in eating a live animal, unfathomable as it is to you. He sees a point in demanding the best steaks the circus can conjure. You’ve begun to understand that aspect of his character. He does only what he wants, and indulges no further. So, as it stands, why does he bother himself with you?

“I wanted to.” the two-faced demon stares at you dispassionately. “I wanted to, so I did. Do I need any other reason?”

“You don’t want to do anything,” you counter levelly.

“I want plenty of things.” Your mouth twitches at his words, a small glimpse at your inner amusement. His eyes narrow in on your expression. “You presume to know me better than I know myself?”

“Of course not. You just don’t act on any of your wants, do you?”

“I do. How else could I have ended up in the situation I am now?” 

Isn’t it obvious? He was born malformed, and taken in as a circus freak due to a lack of other opportunities; entranced by his beastial nature, they forced him to fight animals until he became too much of a danger; following that, he became little more than an aesthetic attraction, confined to his small cage. Sure, there was a case of cannibalism, and maybe a couple of threats, but most of what’s happened to him has, in fact, happened to him. It’s not as if he needed to do much to ensure the order of events.

“You’re more of a fool than I thought, if you truly think that.”

“You are more of a fool than I imagined, if you think I can’t—and don’t—take what I want.”

Oh, please. “Do you truly believe that? You’ve forgotten how to want. You sit here in this cage, demanding things come to you. You don’t do anything for yourself—you’re so content, having it handed to you. Is there anything you truly want? Anything you’ll ever desire that can’t be handed to you that you’ll still have the grasp to reach for?” 

“I tire of your hypocrisy,” he growls. “You accuse me of idleness, when you subsist solely on ambivalence; there is nothing in this world you want. You’re closer to a monk than a woman.”

“We are not the same in that regard.”

“We’re more similar than you think,” he says, his voice thick with something. “You talk so much nonsense about desire and inaction. Haven’t you ever wanted to be something more than a sack of meat?” He’s awfully entertained by his own words; when the two-faced demon stretches out a hand, a raw chunk of lamb dangling between his fingers, you think you begin to understand. “Come. Feast on the lesser. Or have you not learned to want yourself?”

You swallow. “You think yourself better than everyone else here?”

“I’m the strongest, aren’t I? The weak bend to my will. They conform to my wants. It’s the way of life.”

“That sounds like a very overdressed excuse for a lazy man,” you say as if you’re demurring to him. You can’t tell if he’s delighted or incensed by your tone. “You’re strong, so you do nothing for yourself? They’re weak, so your life is assured? You’re so complacent, so unaware. Your arrogance is astounding.”

“That sounds like an awful lot of drivel to excuse your own inadequacies,” he sneers. “I suppose you are nothing more than a writhing maggot, after—”

You take a bite of the lamb.

More accurately, you lean forward; take hold of his thick wrist; drag the meat between your teeth and force your jaw shut until your teeth, blunt and weak, have no choice but to dig into the warm flesh. Blood pools in your mouth as you work your jaw, forcing a bite from the bone; where the two-faced demon cleaved through it like a hand through water, you’re left with a harsh ache in your jaw. It’s raw and vile, heavy on your tongue as blood gathers thickly in your mouth. In that moment, with a warm carcass partially sitting on your tongue and blood spilling from between your lips, you feel more animal than human—you aren’t an aerialist or a man or a thinking being, but a thing of raw instinct. Your brain insists you chew, and your frustrating humanity impedes your actions. Oh, why can’t your teeth slough through this meat like his? Why must they be so woefully inadequate?

The two-faced demon laughs at your expression. It’s a deep rumble from low in his chest, coming out closer to an animal's growl; his mouth splits open, impossibly wide, and he pulls you into a kiss.

He’s big. His mouth is large enough to eclipse your own two-fold, lips rough and chapped whilst his teeth are frighteningly sharp. His tongue bullies its way into your mouth, wet with blood and stinking of iron. And his eyes—his eyes. His eyes are that of a watchful predator, lazily lidded and staring at you with single-minded intent. All four, lasered in on you. The wet slide of your tongues set your cheeks on fire, so caught in the feeling of his hand moving to twine in your hair, pulling taut until your scalp screams beneath his grip, that you don’t realise what he’s doing until he pulls away.

A low moan escapes you as you’re left suspended there, head pulled back and neck bare for his perusal. His mouth parts on another bloody, gruesome smile, and it's only then that you realise the lamb once between your teeth is now trapped in his, its larger carcass tossed aside. The bite is comically small in his mouth as his tongue curls around it, swallowing it down without a single bite of his own. You stare after it, almost mournful—you practically broke your jaw working your teeth through its flesh, and it was stolen just like that?

Wait, why do you care? You didn’t want to eat it to begin with, did you?

“What a monstrous look you have there,” he sneers, even as satisfaction leaks from every inch of his being.

“I worked hard for that,” you say. “I don’t have your carnivorous teeth, demon.”

His mouth spreads wider. You remain caught, his hand in your hair tight enough to have tears prickling at your lash line. Another hand moves to grab the lamb back up, as if content to leave you trapped by the hair whilst he continues to feast on his meal. That selfish, lazy bastard! He can kiss you, take the food from your mouth, and then continue to eat as if nothing happened? As if you’re not a trapped fish in his hook?

“Allow me to remedy that,” he says, voice pleasant yet sinister from his stomach mouth as his face is occupied with another bite of lamb. He chews once, twice, thrice; then he leans in once more.

You’re startlingly aware of the meat as his tongue crawls into your mouth. He forces his way past your lips, jaw unhinging until you can feel his teeth bite into your cheek. It’s gross. It’s so unsexy. Somehow, with a hand at your head and his mouth eclipsing the bottom half of your face, you’re the hottest you’ve ever been. He forces the lamb past your lips, holding you in place as he deposits it half-chewed on your tongue. His mouth retreats for only just long enough for you to swallow, your throat bobbing around the uncooperative bite, before he leans in once more.

“Don’t talk to me about desire,” he says, the sound of his stomach-mouth a rumbling growl. He bites at your lip, canines digging dangerously, threatening to pierce skin, and an airy sigh escapes you. “You’re too caught up in your humanity to even conceptualise what you truly crave. I, at least, know what I want.”

VI.

You hate to admit it, but his words follow you. Something about it—we’re more similar than you think—clings to you; you think about it while you’re training, while you’re cooking, while you’re delivering his meals and watching him eat. What does he want? you think, watching him tear through a live lamb. What did he mean by that? then, as he pops its head off with a single twist, what do you want?

He doesn’t kiss you again. Somehow, that feels all the more damning. 

Did you not prove yourself to him? Show him what he wanted to see? You ate a raw lamb, for goodness sake, kissed it half-chewed out of his mouth with no regard for how gross it was in the moment. He’d made you– you’d felt– you’d thought–

You purse your lips, turning sharply on your heel. What a ridiculous line of thinking you’d started meandering down; you’d shown him? Proven yourself? You won’t kid yourself—you enjoyed that far more than you logically should. It had sent a perverse thrill down your spine, suffocating on his tongue and indulging in a blood-soaked kiss. He hadn’t forced you to do anything. He’d offered you the slightest encouragement and you’d wanted it all on your own. 

That thought is what draws you back to his caravan, where he’s once more engaging a crowd. People wave at you as you pass, taken in by your costume—and no doubt excited for your show—but you pay them no mind, suddenly caught up in your thoughts.

You’re not sure why such a prideful being is so content being gawked at and paraded around like little more than a show animal, or how he can consider himself so far above others yet be content with a life of ridicule. You suddenly, desperately, want to watch it once more; to see if there’s something there that you missed the first time.

Haruta is caught in his own theatrics as you approach, monologuing loudly to the gathered crowd. "The two-faced demon is a beast more monster than human, with an appetite so ravenous he couldn't be matched by a dozen lions! He ate his own twin in the womb, killed his mother chewing his way out of her stomach, is a scourge on men and women alike! He feasts on women and children; is beholden to no God; he is an abomination made real; a bane to all that is just…"

It's the exact same speech as the last time you watched this, you realise. The same speech recycled for a second audience. Haruta continues, "Look upon him as he feasts! Of course, this mere calf does nothing to sate the appetite of a monster that prefers to glut on man, but witness how he tears into his meal! Watch the disgusting voracity of his appetite!”

The two-faced demon is not eating like a ravenous animal. He’s far calmer with an audience. Rather than that steadfast, all-encompassing hunger as meat is swallowed in mammoth-like mouthfuls between a strong, grasping jaw, he eats with a casual disregard. Polite, slow, uninterested—more like a lounging cat than the predatory creature he fashions himself as.

What a hypocrite. The thought is almost fond. To let himself be carted around like a beast publicly, yet studiously consume a mannered meal as if he isn’t ravenous in private. It’s almost charming to know he lied so boldly to your face.

“He doesn’t seem that aggressive today,” you say conversationally as you approach Haruta. “I thought people had to pay an extra fee to watch him eat, anyway?”

Haruta deflates, turning to you with a bitter whisper. “Kenjaku tossed the idea. Apparently he’s not beastly enough for the extra costs. Can you believe that? As if he’s not disgusting when he eats regularly.”

The demon’s eyes, previously focused on the meal, dart over to meet yours—just the bottom pair, like he’s playing at being coy. He blinks leisurely, savouring the bite in his mouth as he watches you. How cute.

“Maybe he doesn’t see it worthwhile to upkeep manners around us,” you comment, bemused.

“No, he’s doing it to spite me. I know it. Kenjaku said I could take 2% of the sales—” only 2%? “—with the private meal showings, since I came up with the idea, and then overnight that beast developed manners. I don’t know why we haven’t slaughtered the thing already.”

That does sound like him.

“Oh, really?” You say with faux-surprise. “He’s perfectly mannered whenever I’m serving his meals.”

The demon snorts, a loud huff that has a kid sticking his hand through the caravans bars (much to his mother's despair) falling back with a horrified wail. Haruta looks beyond disbelieving. “Really?”

Obviously not. You disregard his comment altogether. “When does the showing end? I’d like to talk to him.”

“Now,” the demon cuts in sharply, placing down his half-eaten calf with a dull thud. “Peacock. Close my curtains.”

Haruta squawks; someone in the audience boos loudly. Seriously? What’s so interesting about watching him eat? You think back on that night a couple weeks ago; the cord of his neck, the monstrous strength of his jaw, his razor sharp teeth, his methodical, unwasting hunger—

—who are you kidding? You probably got twice the perverse enjoyment out of watching him than everyone in the crowd combined.

“You can’t just close your own exhibit,” Haruta protests, a whine edging his voice. “People paid to see this, you can’t just say—”

The two-faced demon bares his teeth in a vague approximation of a smile.

Haruta really is a coward; a single flash of those animalistic teeth, and he’s scurrying like a rat to herd people away. Clearly not thinking he’s going fast enough, the demon reaches for the bars. One ominous creak, the slightest bend of metal, and Haruta yelps like he’s personally being attacked.

It doesn’t take long for Haruta to clear the area of disgruntled viewers.

“Woman,” he says finally, once the both of you are alone.

“So demeaning,” you mutter. “Would it hurt to call me by my name, for once?”

He ignores you. “What is it?”

You, in turn, ignore him—who said you weren’t prone to a little pettiness? “Did you need to go through all of that fanfare? You could’ve just used the door.” He has used the door, in fact, many times—with the monstrous size of his meals, you’ve grown very used to demanding he clear the entrance into his caravan. If he’s going to be a lazy bastard, he might as well be a well-mannered one.

“Using the door wouldn’t have been half as effective. Let them see me as the brute I am. It only benefits me.”

“The brute you are? But you were so polite with your meal.” 

“What?”

“Your dinner,” you repeat softly. “If it truly didn’t bother you, why were you so polite in front of the audience? Clearly, there’s something about being seen as some ravenous monster that displeases you.”

He regards you placidly. “I did not want him to make a mockery of me, so I didn’t allow it.”

You hum in acquiescence. “And here I thought you were perfectly content in your position.”

“I’m certainly more at ease than you are, woman.” It’s uncharacteristically defensive. You find yourself tempted to press. You almost do, until you recall that flash of teeth; the warm, weeping flesh being shoved down your throat and chased by a hot, large tongue. Your cheeks burn, and you say nothing. “Why are you here?”

“Because I wanted to be.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

Your lips tug on a smile. It’s cathartic to throw his own words back in his face; “Didn’t I? I’m here because I want to be. There’s nowhere that attracts my attention more, so there’s nowhere else to be.”

He leans backwards. If you had any more of an ego about you, you’d say he looks pleased. “At the circus. Why are you with the circus?”

What a simple question. Isn’t it obvious? You love it here; maybe not the people, bar the infuriating man before you, but certainly everything else. The work, the routine, the performance, the audience—it’s an addictive concoction. For once, you can live as you please and be rewarded for it; you can pursue your own passion, and the only consequence is the roaring applause of an enamoured crowd. It’s perfect.

Hm. Maybe his words have some merit after all. “Because here, I can do what I want to. Isn’t that enough?”

“So you do have something you desire.”

You batter away that wayward memory once more. “No. I already have what I want. I’ll have it for as long as I’m here.” You glance at him sideways, uncharacteristically sly. “Maybe I should be asking you that. This is a bit targeted, don’t you think?”

“I’m simply returning the favour from our previous encounters.” His eyes glimmer with… something. You can’t tell what, from so far away. “There must be some reason you stick around. It was almost beginning to seem like it was me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much.” You consider him, and a question calls to you from the back of your mouth. Given your prior presumptuousness, you have no qualms asking it—he’s indulged your curiosity every time before now, and it’s made you a glutton for your own non-sequitors. “Why don’t you ever leave? The circus, I mean.”

“Why would I?” He leans backwards on a stretch, straightening his spine and revealing a glimpse of his monstrous size. His shadow doubles, his eyes flash; for a moment, he looks closer to a monster than he does a human. Even having felt it, having traced it with your tongue, you contemplate the idea of him having fangs hidden in that large mouth; teeth like a lion or a wolf, a further deviance from humanity. “I eat when I want to eat, and I play when I want to play. I’m pampered as I please, and have no need to do anything but exactly what I want to do. If I wished for it, I could waste time this way until the day I die.”

You don’t say but what point is there in living?, because you know that argument holds no interest for him. By now, you have a pretty good grasp on what he’d say—because I want to, maybe, or because I don’t yet desire death, if he’s feeling more verbose. 

You huff a laugh. “Be proactive for once, demon. At the rate you’re going, I imagine I’ll never see you out of that cage. Is there truly nothing worth leaving it?”

VII.

There is no greater thrill than that of performing. You weren’t lying when you told the two-faced demon that you joined the circus simply because you wanted to—you love it. There’s a thrill that comes with being an aerialist, swinging through the air on nothing more than threads of silk and listening to the audience awe over your manoeuvres. It makes the practice worthwhile, makes everything worthwhile; why wouldn’t you have run off to join the circus when you are lauded for your talents here? When you’re surrounded by such curious personalities? You are, for once in your life, encouraged to pursue your talents as an aerialist. Despite the many flaws of the ringmaster, his accepting you into his employ has made it so you can never resent him.

It’s while you’re in the air that you see it, your heart thudding in your chest and breath straining your lungs—-a monstrous, hulking shadow in the back of the crowd.

The two-faced demon?

It's a well-grained routine that prevents you from fumbling. You keep an eye on that monstrous presence, though, and know for certain that it's him. He’s wearing a robe you’ve never seen before, bottom arms veiled by its sweeping sleeves while his top pair are crossed in front of his chest, peeking out from the deep plunge of the neckline. His four eyes seem to glow in the dark, head cocked slightly to the side. No one else seems to have noticed him, but you can’t help but wonder; why is he here? 

His eyes, trained on you, flash with recognition. Mouth pulling into a mocking smile, he bares his teeth at you and slips between the curtain, escaping outside. 

What the hell?

Your heart thuds in your chest for the rest of your performance, the soothing silks you dance through suddenly chafing and restrictive; knowing he was watching, that the two-faced demon has left his cage, leaves your breath caught in your throat. By the time your routine is over and you’re dancing off the stage to make room for the next performer, you feel both hot and cold at once. You can’t help it—why is he doing this? What does he want?

Yorozu calls your name as you’re slipping out of the tent, features twisted in a complicated expression. “The two-faced demon got out,” she says simply, pulling you close to whisper it in your ear. “We don’t know where, but everyone’s freaking out—they think it might be like—” she cuts herself off, glancing around.

Your mind fills in the blanks—like the animal tamer. That unnamed man, made a victim at the mercy of the demon’s mercurial moods.

“I just…” Yorozu sighs, as if in genuine mourning. “Why didn’t he come to me?”

Is she serious? “Do you have any idea where he could be?”

She shakes her head. “Kenjaku wants us to keep an eye out for him. He doesn’t want that demon attacking any visitors. Even if it would be within his rights…”

You ignore her muttered comment. “He hasn’t hurt anyone, has he?” It doesn’t come out like a question; no, it feels certain. Why would he? The two-faced demon is someone ruled by his own desires, comfortable in the precedent he has set forth. He doesn’t desire to eat or attack people when food to play with can simply be given to him. So, what is so important that he’d bother with these theatrics? That he’d actually bother to take action?

“Not that we know of. It’s only a matter of time, of course. Such a magnificent man wouldn’t—hey!”

You brush past her. 

Curse your damned mouth. This is almost certainly your fault. What was the last thing you said to him? At the rate you’re going, I imagine I’ll never see you out of that cage. Is there truly nothing worth leaving it? You’re too goading, too proud, too ignorantly overt. It seems there is, after all, something worth the effort. Bless whoever is made victim to his whims now.

In true theatricism, the metal of his caravan is warped and misshapen as you walk past it. Completely unnecessary, when the man can simply use the door. Somehow, it looks even smaller without him in it; you’d have thought that his leering, monstrous presence would’ve done the opposite. 

You’d also think that the sheer mass of him would make him a little easier to spot. Yet, as you’re nearing the caravan you call home, you’re tugged suddenly and slammed against a wall.

A hand covers your mouth before you can scream.

You glance up at his looming form, frozen for a second in the shadow of his embrace. Two of his arms settle at your waist, unexpectedly tender as he massages his thumbs against your stomach. You are, of course, immediately distracted by the tongue bullying at your lips even as his hand continues to sit over your mouth.

He can do that!?

A muffled yelp escapes you, eyes blown wide. A cat-like satisfaction dawns on his face as he parts your mouth, tongue delving past your teeth and twining with your own. It’s so weird. It’s gross; uncomfortable; so, so disturbing you want to gag around his tongue. You don’t, cheeks burning as your hands grapple against his arms, nails digging into the skin of his biceps.

“There you are,” he murmurs, a smug smile curling at his lips. “I was looking for you.”

Oh, god. His palm pushes uncomfortably closer, and a dull ache begins to bloom as his fingers dig into the flesh of your cheeks. His fourth arm, unimpeded, cups your neck, bracing your head as he leans further into you. You crane at an uncomfortable angle, throat discomfortingly vulnerable as you stretch the full length of your neck.

Your nails leave pink-streaked divots in his skin, one hand fumbling for his palm to tug it away from your mouth. It shouldn’t shock you to realise that he’s letting you; that your individual strength is so incomparable to him, every action you take is a concession he allows. It shouldn’t have heat gathering in your stomach, pooling southward. “Demon—”

“Sukuna,” he rasps. 

Your brows furrow, momentarily thrown. “Pardon?”

“Sukuna,” he repeats slowly. “That’s my name. If I hear a whisper of it from any mouth other than yours, I’ll tear off your head and eat you whole.”

Somehow, you don’t doubt it. You cock your head to the side, evaluating him thoughtfully. Sukuna, with shockingly soft pink hair and hateful red eyes. Sukuna, whose name quite literally means ‘demon’ or ‘calamity’. You wonder how his mother had the time to name him, if he truly ate his way out of her stomach. Did she pick it in advance, knowing what awaited her? Was her death slow, giving her just enough time to depart him with such a curse? Or are his mythic origins another blatant fabrication, the name bestowed upon him by another? “Sukuna, huh? It suits you.”

It’s almost funny to realise that you have, in a way, been calling him by his name all along.

“So I’ve been told.”

You huff. “Sukuna. What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m taking what I want.”

”Don’t be obtuse.” It doesn’t sound half as chiding as it should, when you’re still recovering from being kissed breathless with his hand mouth, for all that it sounds absolutely ludicrous. “You left your caravan.”

“Haven’t you spent weeks goading me to?” He leans in so close that your noses brush, a colossal shadow hiding you away from the rest of the world. Leaning over you like this, he’s all-encompassing—a being of bestial passion, the likes of which Yorozu whimsically dreams of. “Don’t make such demands of me, if you’re unwilling to shoulder the consequences.” He says it as a growl and a tease at once.

Insufferable. “Don’t put words in my mouth. You just—” you cut yourself off, glancing up at him through your lashes. He is just doing what you’ve been all but begging him to for weeks. Taking what he wants. It at once sets a fire beneath your skin, a need to prove to him that you can do the same; you’re too caught up in your humanity to even conceptualise what you truly crave, he’d told you. Who gave him the right to make such an accusation? 

“Infuriating,” you murmur, hands moving to run faint lines over the skin of his cheeks—one humanly smooth, the other monstrously rough. His lower pair of eyes flicker shut, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “You love to talk around what you want, don’t you, Sukuna?” His name is a treasure on your tongue; you want to keep it there forever. Sukuna. Who else can claim to know that name? “Tell me. What do you want from me?”

His thumbs rub circles into your waist. Yours streak patterns along his cheekbones, through wisps of cherry blossom pink hair. A grin, monstrously wide, begins to stretch across his large mouth.

“I was born hungry,” Sukuna tells you. “With every passing day, I’ve wanted more than I have. There’s no craving I can’t satisfy, and no satisfaction that truly curbs my craving.” He leans in closer, lips brushing against the edge of your mouth. “Likewise, everything I’ve wanted has been achievable through the use of others. Why fight for what I want, when others are so willing to give it to me?”

“You’re talking around the point,” you chide. The words escape you breathlessly; in that same moment, he  lifts you effortlessly, pressing you further against the caravan and twining your legs around his torso. His breath puffs against your face as he laughs. His head dips as he runs his rough tongue along the hinge where your neck meets your jaw, following it with the weighted press of his mouth.

“Infuriating,” he says, an echo of your own words. “Infer it for yourself, woman. I rarely need to be proactive about anything. I barely need to ask for anything, when it is handed to me without a request. And yet, an insufferable little maggot sits beside me while I eat, incessantly pestering me; what do you want? it asks me. You lazy beast, if you want me so bad, show me it. I’ve proven myself worth the effort, haven’t I?”

You have said no such thing; how he inferred that from your own words, you don’t know. Still, it’s difficult to argue when his mouth follows your neck downward, his lips stretching wide until those terrifyingly sharp teeth lay flush against your skin. An implicit threat lies in the action, in the horrific strength he wields, the unsaid vulnerability of your position.

Your pulse is a hummingbird; you are a hummingbird, paralysed beneath the weight of a predator’s teeth at your throat, his claws at your nape. You’re laid impossibly vulnerable—a single bite, and those teeth can kill you. One careless nick, and you’ll be dead before you can scream. It almost shocks you to realise you’re scared. Oh, God, you don’t want to die.

You flush, shaking beneath the sudden weight of your own need.

“You,” he mouths against your skin, more a breath than a word. “I want you.”

Well. It doesn’t get much more overt than that, does it? You pull him away from your neck by the hair, and he huffs another laugh as he allows the movement. Pulling him towards you, kissing him, does nothing to muffle the cut-off groan that escapes him.

Poor Sukuna, you think, with a vague fascination. Was he really so pent up? Driven mad with want for you?

It seems so. His hands, big enough to eclipse your waist, ride upwards. It chafes against your costume, and his fingers dig deeper, nearly bruising your ribs, as if reprimanding you for it. Truly, what a frustrating man. A breathy sigh escapes you as his thumbs rub at the underside of your breast, sensations dulled by the fabric separating you, and on your next breath you’re pushing your tongue into his mouth.

With the groan he lets out, you’d think he’d come right there. He pushes closer, closer, until there’s no room to breathe. He’s flush against you, a blazing heat against your front. There’s no room to pull away, no leverage against the monster caging you. You’re a pinned bird, laid bare at the mercy of his whims.

A whimper escapes you at the thought. 

One of his hands trace the curve of your thigh. There’s barely room to breathe in the space between you, his fingers digging so deeply into your skin you can already feel the bruise. It’s hard to keep track of what he’s doing—with four arms, he’s effortlessly doing twice the work of a regular man. It leaves your head swimming, your diaphragm contracting beneath his palms as he growls. His nails, sharp as claws, tear through your leotard.

“Sukuna—!” He cuts off your complaint with another kiss. Your clothes are shed thoughtlessly, and the wind is a shock against your skin, even as your front lies flush against Sukuna. Oh God, you’re outside. You’d completely forgotten.

You tear yourself away from his mouth, turning your head to the side as you heave for breath. “You brute,” you say, breathless. “Kenjaku will kill me when he finds out you ripped that.”

“A paltry complaint.” The words come from his stomach-mouth. His real mouth is otherwise occupied, biting at your neck where your heart beats the hardest, sucking it between his teeth until the skin stains purple. “He wouldn’t dare.”

A paltry complaint? You’ll show him a paltry complaint. Honestly, his arrogance! “We also need to—” you cut yourself off on a gasp as his tongue laves over your neck, dipping down between your breasts. “—move inside.”

“I see no reason to move.”

“Anyone could see—”

“They won’t see you. I won’t let them.”

His self-assuredness is as attractive as it is infuriating. “Everyone’s on the look-out for you.”

He smiles against your breast, moving until he lacks flatly over your nipple. The sudden sensation has you jolting. “They won’t find me. Do you think I can’t predict those inane maggots? They’re swarming like ants to keep customers safe and entertained. No one will venture out this far.”

Truly, he is too confident. You’re not given room to argue, however, when he’s sucking your nipple into his mouth, too-sharp teeth grazing the bud whilst your other breast is taken into hand between those frighteningly sharp claws. Your breath hitches on a gasp, body twitching further into his touch, and thin scratches bead against his fingers. 

Not willing to leave everything to him, you move, fingers delicately tracing the edges of his robe. Your hand ventures downwards, inwards, until you’ve gone from the wide frame of his shoulders to the hard skin of his abdomen. You’d never thought yourself to be interested in such brutal masculinity, but something about it has knocked your head loose; he could strangle me so easily, you think, relishing in the way his palm cups your breast and nails threaten to break your skin. He could kill me and it wouldn’t even be a struggle, as you dip your head, pressing a kiss to his scalp and tweaking a nipple between two fingers. He grunts with the motion, jerking as if he hadn’t expected to like it.

You want to hear that sound again. You pinch, but he once again has a mastery over his reactions; he raises his head, and a soft flush lines his cheeks. He groans at your expression, hiking you up with a hand at your waist until his cock is pressing against you. He’s– it’s—

“Why’s it so—?” You cut yourself off with a sharp gasp as your ripped leotard is opened further and his hands make home scratching thin lines down your torso. He rolls his hips once, twice, and you relish in the feeling before regaining your wits. You move, fingers grasping at those soft pink strands and tugging him away from your breast. He allows the movement, peering down at you with those heavy red eyes. “Sukuna? Why does it feel like—”

You don’t finish the sentence. You can’t, because it feels so ludicrous to voice aloud. It’s just… how can he be so…?

“Don’t act so shocked,” he purrs, grinning like a fat cat being served its fourth meal. A hand cups your ass, guiding you to grind against him; he laughs at the soft sigh that escapes you at the feeling. “Over and again, I’ve been called a monster. The two-faced demon, they call me; are you truly surprised the moniker extends elsewhere?”

This man! You flush violently, suddenly so hot you can’t help trying to squirm away from him. He doesn’t let you, guiding you closer, pulling you flush against his two (two!) cocks. What does any man need two of them for?

Yet, you can’t help yourself. What can you say? You’re a glutton for his inhumanities; with every monstrous revelation, you’re drawn closer into his net. You want to see, to feel, to touch. Your mouth waters at the very prospect. Can you be blamed for drawing your hand lower? Dipping below the waist of that robe until the tips of your fingers graze against the base of one of his two (seriously, two!) penises?

A cut-off moan escapes him. “Woman—”

“Call me by my name,” you murmur, tracing the base and following it to his second penis. “You asked me what I want? That’s it. I want you to say my name.”

Your name escapes him on a strangled whimper. “Don’t toy with me.”

You hum, pressing a kiss to his temple. He hurriedly sheds you of what scraps remain of your costume, loosening his robe and freeing his cocks—really, you’re not quite over that detail—before pressing forward. Air escapes you on a keen as Sukuna slides through your slick folds, and he groans appreciatively at the sound. 

“Beautiful,” he mutters, low enough you almost don’t catch it. 

“Oh my god, hurry up,” you hiss between your teeth, voice hitching on a moan as he bumps against your clit. The sudden stimulation is a shock to your core, and you clench fruitlessly around nothing. You want him so bad it hurts.

“So demanding,” he laughs, like he didn’t jolt closer towards you at the sound of your moan. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you what you want.”

He does not, in fact, give you what you want. Instead, Sukuna winds his bottom pair of arms around your thighs, jerking you up the wall until you’re situated face to face. He pulls you into a suspiciously tender kiss, even as his mouth eclipses your own. It should be gross. It should be weird. Somehow, you just find it impossibly attractive. 

Then a tongue is swiping through your folds, and you jerk so abruptly that you accidentally bite down on his tongue. You’d forgotten about the stomach mouth, right up until it's all you can think about—he licks around your entrance, trails the tip of his tongue against your clit, careful not to apply too much pressure. He leaves you squirming, grinning against your lips and opening his mouth-mouth so wide his bottom teeth accidentally clip your chin.

Fuck, he’s so big. It’s unbelievable.

You choke on his name as a hand comes up, grasping you by the throat to hold you still. His fingers flex idly, as if it takes no pressure at all to leave you bruised. He could kill me, you think wildly. He could squeeze right now and crush your windpipe; he could open that stomach mouth a little wider and cleave right through your thighs; one careless move, and you’d be nothing but a heaping sack of meat. He could kill me, and it’d take no effort at all.

Your next moan hinges on a ridiculous whine. It feels like he’s eating your face, drinking up your cunt, toying with your tits while he humps against nothing like a rabid dog. His tongue circles your opening, stimulating sensitive nerves until you’re squirming away. Then he dips in, unimpeded by the way you clench down on his tongue at the feeling.

Thank god, the part of your brain still capable of higher executive function murmurs; there’s no world in which you were going to let him put those nails inside of you. The thought has you huffing a laugh that abruptly hitches into another moan as he massages you from the inside.

You pinch his nipple in revenge. He groans, and his teeth leave a hairline scratch against your cheek. You already know you’re going to look mauled when this is over; the mere thought has heat coursing down your spine. You want to mark him in return—you want to scratch him so deeply it takes weeks to heal, and no one will be able to glimpse at those wide shoulders, that monumental chest, and not immediately know what you did to him. 

Your pussy spasms at the thought. Fuck.

You lose track of time like that, the world narrowing down to the slick slide of his mouth on yours and his tongue spearing you open. It feels like you blink and you’re panting heavily, dangling on a precipice and scratching at his chest. You manage to pull him away for just long enough to mutter, “Dear God, please put your cock in me,” before he’s fumbling like a fool, large hand gripping his own cock and lining himself up against you.

Then he pushes in and, well, your dreams of scratching him up become a reality. Red beads along the path of your nails, weeping under the weight of his moan. You duck your head to bite at his neck, chewing along his jugular like you’re trying to break skin and tear through his heartbeat. His dick twitches within you.

An eon and a moment pass at once as he sinks into you. He’s big, heavy, and the unfamiliar weight has your breath trapping in your chest. His second cock drags through your labia as he bottoms out in you, the underside dragging at your clit and sending sparks shivering through your frame. The pleasure feels inescapable; you’re cored out on his cock and trapped against a wall, unable to do anything but take it.

“You feel so good,” you whisper against his throat, tasting the way his heart thuds violently. “I want you to– Sukuna, please—”

He pulls out before sinking back in one smooth motion. It creates constant pressure on your clit, a long trail of sensation that makes your tongue numb in your mouth. “Yes,” he hisses between his teeth, “whatever you want. Just tell me. Beg me.”

“You insufferable—!” Your teeth clamp down around his skin as he plows into you. It pulls a long, low groan from him, the sound vibrating against your teeth as it travels up his throat. That man! Trying to make you beg for him as if he didn’t leave his caravan for the first time in your memory just to kiss you. Just to prove you’re worth that miniscule effort.

But oh, how you want him; his arm around your throat, his hands crushing your ribs, his teeth digging past your skin and wrenching the flesh straight off your bones. You want to be consumed—you want his teeth to work through your skin, to squeeze at your heart, for him to turn into the violent predator everyone described him as. You want him to bruise you so deeply you can’t breathe without feeling an echo of him. You want—-

“Harder,” you gasp. 

“There we go,” he mutters. “Don’t you feel good, taking what you want?”

If you were taking what you wanted, you’d be riding him. You tell him as much between hiccuping breaths and he chokes on a laugh that curdles into a moan halfway through. 

He chants your name on a low grunt as you near your completion, hands grasping you impossibly tight. Your ribs creak under the pressure, your breath cutting short thanks to his hand at your throat, your hair pulled so tight that tears prick at your eyes. He spasms from the pleasure; you jerk from the same. It’s almost a dance, the both of you sparking like a wildfire as you hurdle towards a mutual end. It builds, builds, builds.

“Sukuna,” you gasp. “Sukuna, Sukuna, Sukuna—”

He comes on a choked whimper, fucking you through his own completion. His other penis coats your stomach and thighs with his come, slicking your vagina further as he bumps against your clit until you physically can’t take it, following him with a strangled gasp of his name.

You heave in the aftermath, twitching with residual pleasure as he softens inside of you. You’re sensitive as a bruise. Sukuna’s hands stroke against your sides, and you can barely handle it from the dual pain-pleasure of his fingers gliding over those scratches. Your mouth is thick with blood—you hadn’t realised it in the moment, but you’d bitten your way through his skin to leave a bloody kiss carved into his collarbone. You can’t help feeling proud of it.

“I want you,” he says wretchedly, muffled against sweat-slick skin. “I want you.”

You press a soft kiss over the bite. Privately, you hope it scars; hope he has to keep this symbol of you forever. “I know, Sukuna. I want you too.”

(Sukuna’s back in his cage the next day, lounging as though he never left. Kenjaku looks at him through misshapen metal bars, a spike of irritation lancing through him at the ruckus the demon caused. He asks, “What was that about, yesterday? Did you have to make such a fuss?”

Sukuna’s mouth twitches into a snarling grin. “I went where I wished to be.”)

The young adult life was fun, with your friends always pulling you out of the dorm in the dead of night and taking you from one bar to another. From the local student's club to the cabin by the lake, owned by one of the jocks you happened to sleep with.

But the joys of a student's life – be it an evening spent studying or fucking in the car after a stressful exam – were, after a few months, taken away by your stalker.

Suguru Geto has been following you since day one. The moment his eyes fell on your body sprawled on the campus lawn, skin shimmering in the late summer sun, and a sweet giggle tickling his pierced ears.

His brain turned fuzzy whenever he saw the angelic aura wrapping around your cheeky face. Heart melted when your eyes fell on him, even for a single second. An uncontrollable feeling bubbled in his chest at the sheer sight of a little crease appearing between your brows when you bestowed him with a grimace.

It was clear that, for some reason, you treated him rather as a foe than a man who could pique your interest. 

At first, he did nothing but look. Observe, with this devilish smile tugging at his lips and lavender irises taking pleasure in the loveliest scowl slipping onto your face. He tried to keep himself at bay, but not because shyness coiled in his heart.

No, simply because he wished to know everything about you, before making an official approach. Your favourite flowers, the desserts you most cherished, the tight course schedule that always seemed to keep you up all night, favourite shapes and colours of the clacking jewellery that hung from your skin. Of the big hoops that always brushed your neck, and bracelets stacked one on another, chirping like sweet birds whenever you passed by.

He wished to know the colour of your lingerie and how your panties smelled after a long day. To feel the warmth of the bra that had just left the embrace of your breasts. Smell the sweetness of your slightly sweated skin after days when you joined the cheerleading sessions.

Suguru… Suguru wanted to be the one having you all to himself, even if you hated the sheer sight of him.

Whenever you took a shower during late, late nights – someone always seemed to be there. In the shared bathroom on your floor, the one meant to be used solely by the female students. A listener, whose ears pricked up to hear a soft hum of a random melody that bubbled in your throat and sweet sighs when the first hot droplets hit your skin. 

The first time you noticed it was when the bathroom doors closed louder than they should. Another girl coming back from a late session, you thought, giving it no mind. 

But the silence that lingered in the air stretched for too long. As no other shower seemed to be in use, nor did any other sounds of movement filled the lonely bathroom. 

You waited, and waited, to hear something that would not make you believe that a fucking creep slipped inside the room just to await your naked body leaving the shower.

But nothing else ever came, and so your voice echoed off the walls with a, "Hello?"

Silence stood still, and the hot droplets soon turned into the cold sweat tickling the shivering skin along your spine. Nothing, but the thick fog filled the tiled bathroom and a heavy breath of yours, trying to listen for the eerie footsteps that clacked against the wet floor a few seconds ago. 

Coming closer, and closer, till you could already see the heavy, black boots peeking from the lower door crack. A gentle tingling of the oh-so-familiar silver chain slashed through the air, and if you lifted your head up, surely you could see a peek of silky black hair. The shower doors were, after all, not two meters tall. 

"You fucking freak," a low snort escaped your throat. "You don’t think I know who you are?"

Silence. 

He simply stood there, as if waiting. For you to come outside? Or maybe simply enjoying the tension that rose within a blinding fog. The faster beating of your heart, shuddered breath you tried to conceal with a harsh tone, and trembling fingers covering your breasts, as if he could see your naked body through the door.

"Cat got your tongue, huh? Don’t be a coward, at least say something," you continued, making sure the miserably weak latch was keeping the door closed. "You’ve been stalking me for months. Don’t you know who my boyfriend is?"

Suguru knew. 

But he also knew that the captain of the basketball team wasn’t your boyfriend. Because you didn’t do that stuff – relationships, love, cheesy romance. 

So a low chuckle slipped past his lips as he pressed his forehead to the door. Trying to smell the sweet body wash that lingered in the air, imagining the foam that coated your soft body and curled around those plush breasts he loved so dearly.

"I can’t believe you’re getting off to this," another snort escaped your throat, as you banged with a fist on the door. "You don’t think I’ll report you? I’ll end you, do you hear me?!"

But Suguru could simply laugh – deeply, with a vibration hitting the plastic surface. His large palm pressed to the door, as if he tried to imagine where exactly your hand lay. So the image of your skins almost touching could slip an eerie, excited thought that tickled his mind in such a pleasant manner. 

A wrath coiled beneath your heart, hearing how much he enjoyed this little torture. Because, if only he wanted, he surely could rip the door off the hinges with little to no sweat. Instead, he simply let out a hum, curling the fingers into a fist.

"Sure, baby. I hear you loud and clear," a low purr bounced off the tile, foggy walls.

The heat made your head spin, body leaned against the plastic door in need of fresh air. But going out now would mean slipping right into his needy clutches. 

And before you could snap once again, he added, "I hope you won’t mind me taking those pretty panties of yours, hm? I’ll give them back one day, pinky promise," and with that, the leather shoes disappeared from your sight.

With your pitched you fucking psycho, kissing his cheeks goodbye, as he left the stuffy bathroom.

And so during the first semester, you started seeing the consequences of having a stalker like him.

Your panties were disappearing one by one, and you knew that it was not a fault of the old washing machines in the dorm. Always suddenly appearing back on your bed, clean and fragrant, although only god knew what he did with them.

Other times, it was the white knee-socks from the cheerleader costume. The woollen, soft material that wrapped your sweaty thighs after hours of training. Always disappearing whenever you planned to do the laundry, always back on your bed a bit stiff, with a heavy cologne still clinging to the cloth.

The report to the headmaster did truly nothing, as you had no proof whatsoever that Suguru Geto was your stalker, nor that he slipped into the women’s bathroom. After all, no one else saw him, and for that matter, no one could accuse him of anything. 

The jock you were sleeping with back then refused to deal with him another way, for he simply didn’t see a reason to it.

You snorted, the first time Toji said it and slipped off his bed. The winter’s biting cold was sneaking past the old dorm windows as you started dressing yourself up. 

"Doll, what are you doing?" The mountain of a man asked with a sigh, stretching his massive body on a bed. "I won’t kill some random guy, just because you think he’s stalking you."

You scoffed at the quizzical tone of his voice, pulling on the warm, woolly sweater. "So you think I made this up, huh?"

Toji groaned, lazily wiping his face with a hand. "Come on, I’m just saying that he may have a crush and that’s it."

"He’s been stealing my underwear and listening to me taking showers for months!"

The emerald eyes followed you with a raised eyebrow, as you pulled tight jeans onto your ass. The scowl between your brows made him chuckle lowly and sit up on a bed, patting the still-warm place next to him.

"Come on, let me make you feel better. It’s not as if he’ll do anything else." His long hand reached for the loops of your jeans, but you quickly smacked it. "Doll, I’m serious. If you were in danger, I would definitely deal with him."

Fully dressed, with shoes on, you turned to him with a low tsk and, "I think you’re too much of a fucking coward to do it," before going out of his room and closing the door with a thud.

Months passed; winter turned into early spring, the second semester began, and Suguru Geto was slowly getting closer. 

In slow, baby steps and yet you felt the line between the two of you thinning. With him appearing on your horizon much more often, following you around the campus, barely trying to hide it.

In early spring, he started leaving little gifts on your bed, under the door, in the locker. A pretty set of lingerie, favourite flowers, a tape with music he thought you could like, the… death threats.

Not to you, oh, but of course, as he would rather cut his limbs off than make a single, precious strand of your hair fall for the greediness filling his heart.

All the death threats were always aimed at your lovers, of course. 

As Suguru had a little patience left for seeing you change men like gloves, with none worthy to be bestowed with the softness of your skin. To nuzzle into your neck, trace kisses down the chin, and hear the sweet laughter every single day. 

Suguru was simply jealous. And he addressed it quite openly in short, paper notes that you somehow always found in your bag.

The mix of, baby he’s not good for you, and, break it off, or he’ll regret ever setting his eyes on my girl.

When you brought them all to the headmaster, he simply offered to monitor the situation. As you still had no proof to offer that Suguru Geto was the one who wrote them all. No one saw him slipping the notes into your bag, nor his ghastly figure stealing all your lingerie. 

On a campus, he was simply a weird guy.

In classes, the best student.

For you, a hellish nightmare that tried to crawl under your skin and wrap around your body like a deathly viper.

And so you ignored the threats. Broke most of your relationships, but didn’t quite reveal the reason. If he had a problem with you sleeping with one guy for a month or two, then… you simply had to stick to one-night stands and not show yourself on campus with any other men.

As long as you weren’t hanging onto anyone’s shoulder, it should be okay. Somehow, you would last the next year and leave this town behind. With the stalker hot on your heels and the presents stacked in your bedroom, one on top of another. 

The middle of the second semester began quickly, with spring in full bloom and the sizzling sun once again letting you slip away for the pool parties at the jocks’ houses. You allowed yourself to get lost in the pleasures and madness of student life, with summer just around the corner. Only a few months left, and you would get a break from your stalker for the whole holidays.

But then… Suguru Geto confessed.

He came to your dorm with a bouquet of your favourite flowers, a small bun sitting high on his head, and pierced lips curling in a gentle smile, as he knocked on your dorm’s door. After months of following you obediently like a puppy, he knew every little thing about you.

Every mood swing of yours, each emotion, always oh so visible on your lovely face. He learned how to watch you, please you, and say the right things to become the perfect boyfriend.

He knew how your pussy smelled during the ovulation days. How you usually tasted, checking it each day with a pretty lingerie of yours pressed to his lips, and fingers pumping his leaking cock. 

He learned the melody you always hummed under the shower and the brand of shampoo that made your hair smell like the sweetest garden.

He found out what you liked and hated in bed, all the kinks you wished to try. The way your fingers pressed to your swollen clit, whenever you stayed in your dorm room alone. How your breath hitched when you were close, and thighs squeezed around nothing, although he truly wished it was his head being squished between the heavenly softness that haunted his dreams.

And when you opened the door, he knew that it was now or never. He, finally, was worthy to ask for your love.

"Hi, baby," he said, glancing at your figure dressed in nothing but a skimpy gown. 

Wrapping you a bit too tight, ending just above the mid-thighs and with perked nipples poking through the flimsy material. 

A scowl bubbled in your throat, and you quickly, with full force, tried to close the door. But he was quicker, slipping his heavy shoe right into the small crack. 

"Leave, or I’ll start screaming," you warned him, getting as an answer a low giggle.

He pushed the door easily, coming into your room. The dim light slipping from the night table bathed the small space with a soft glow. A few scented candles flickered on your desk and the bed of your roommate, as usual, was empty.

You took a few steps back, trying not to show any signs of panic. 

The sudden fear that rose in your chest. Breath becoming slightly more hitched, fingers trembling around the gown you tried to pull down. Eyes fixed on him, as if he could attack any minute now. 

But he, as always, was looking at you. Closely, carefully, with lavender warmth slipping up and down your body and a handsome smirk tugging on his lips. Long hair tickled his shoulder, swimming down along the muscular back dressed in leather jacket. Metal bars on his lips and eyebrows twinkled like coins under the spilling candle-flame, adding a sort of wickedness to his demeanour. 

Suguru Geto was… handsome.

Dear lord, he was beautiful. 

And as difficult as it was to swallow, you could not change the fact that your stalker was one of the prettiest men you had ever seen. With a horrendous and sinful character, yet the face of an angel.

So you allowed yourself to trace the broad back bulging under the jacket. The height looming over your shivering figure. Long fingers that gripped the bouquet and beefy thighs dressed in black jeans.  The woodsy scent of his cologne wrapped around your senses in an utterly pleasurable way, melting you in its warmth.

You hated the way he made you feel. Confused, scared, and most of the time simply furious. But somehow, on some days, a bit too balmy. With a heat spreading all over your body, slipping under the chest, down the belly, between the thighs, as if the wickedness of his actions, the sheer idea of how obsessed he was with you, made you excited. 

So then, while he stood in your dorm with a straightened back, you decided to wait. To see what other foolish plan would bloom in his devilish mind, only for you to bring it back to the headmaster. 

"What the fuck do you want?" you snapped, crossing arms over your chest.

He took a step closer, lavender eyes mingling with an excitement of a source that made your spine tingle in an unpleasant way. Long hand extended towards you, pushing a lush bouquet right into your arms. 

"Go out with me," he stated, not even curving his tone into a question. 

A statement, rather, it was as if he was utterly sure that you would agree.

And you stood there with the same scowl that didn’t leave your forehead even for a second. Fingers wrapped around the heavy bouquet, nostrils tingling with the strong, flowery smell you loved so much.

But the wrath coiling beneath your chest was dangerously close to spilling. Eyes bulged, hearing the question he dared to push after months of acting like a psycho stalker and turning your life into madness. Everyone looked at you like a crazy, delusional woman who tried to frame a poor outcast as a maniac who, Suguru Geto, definitely wasn’t.

And now he had the audacity to stand in your bedroom, checking your body dressed in nothing but a flimsy robe, as a sly smile tugged at his lips. 

"What did you just say?" Rolled in tremble, as you could barely stop the rage bubbling in your chest. 

His head tilted. Long legs took another step closer. Until the big hand lifted to nuzzle your soft cheek, strong thumb brushing the skin aflame with fury.

"Go out with me, baby. Let me love you as you deserve it." The silkiness of his tone made your head spin, in both an unsettling pleasure and madness. "And if you don’t want to date me, use me. It’s been a while since you slept with someone, hm? Why won’t you just use me for your pleasure?"

Thumb slipped to your slightly parted lips. The urge to bite it and suck on it fought in your mind, bringing an irrational feeling that made your lower lip tremble right under his digit.

His words clearly stated that he, in fact, did not know that you hadn’t given up on sleeping with other men. Because if he did…

"Why so sure that I’m not fucking with anyone?" You muttered, tilting head in a cheeky manner.

As if you wanted to indulge yourself in the psychotic game of his, fully aware that you would always end up as a loser. Because for the past few months, Suguru Geto was never, ever, letting you win any of the tricks you tried to play on him. The reports, gathering the evidence, paying people to give him the lesson, although the next day he was always appearing back on the university’s lawn. Fully aware of all your miserable attempts.

Something in his eyes twinkled, but the smile didn’t come off his lips even for a second. "Do you?"

You smacked away his hand, and with a swing, shot the flowers through the room. Gentle petals smashed against the wall, falling pitifully on your roommate’s empty bed.

Before he could even look their way, your arms wrapped around his neck, perked nipples pressed against his torso as you lifted yourself up on tiptoes. The sweetness of your skin immediately enveloped his senses, and it seemed this sudden, intimate gesture left him speechless.

"Every. Single. Night." You whispered, tugging harshly on the long, silky hair curling behind his neck. His breath slipped out shuddered, and, for the first time, you noticed a true rage bubbling in his gaze. "Think you’re so smart? That I’m scared of your stupid threats?" He didn’t answer, allowing himself to cherish the softness of your body pressed to his. "I’m fucking every day with a different guy. Guys, maybe? Who knows, maybe I’m already knocked up stupid after all the cum they–"

His patience finally snapped. 

One hand curled around your waist, the other lifted to squeeze your jaw before the last, nasty words would fully set his mind ablaze. The fingers dug painfully into your cheeks, the arm kept you in place, forbidding you from slipping away from the deathly clutches.

"Aren’t you a smartass, hm?" He chuckled, but his low voice was edged with the wrath that made the lavender irises narrow into a cat-eye glance. "I’m giving you an easy way out, baby. If you’re a fucking nymphomaniac, why won’t you make me your boy toy? Think I was joking?" He tugged you, drawing a soft groan from your throat. And as fear filled your body from head to toe, something exciting, maddeningly confusing, tingled in your fingertips.

"You are a fucking joke," a muffled mutter bounced off the walls, only making him squeeze your cheeks even harder. 

"I don’t think you’re in a position to make me angry, baby," he leaned closer, his lips mere millimetres from yours. 

Another move, and he could taste the sweetness of your lip gloss.

"Or what?" You snorted, enraging him even more. "You’ll kill me? Come on, psycho. At least I’ll get myself free from you."

Suguru never wanted to hurt you. He never wanted to do anything that would cause you even a moment's pain. But the way you spoke to him, the way your eyes twinkled with the truth of choosing death rather than spending another second in his presence, made his blood boil in a disgustingly dangerous way. 

Your doe eyes fixed on his, lovely face twisted in a wicked smile as he finally loosened his grip on your cheeks.

"Is that your final answer, then?" He asked, low bass filling the small room. Candle flames licked a side of his face, with warm tongues and peppered kisses. A devil truly looking like an angel. "I promise you’ll regret it, baby."

And with a final scowl, you pushed him away. This time, he allowed you to do it without a fight.

To kick his massive body out of your room and smash the door till the tremor bounced off the corridors. 

Back then, while gathering the beautiful flowers of the bed and pushing them all to the trash can, you didn’t know what consequences your decision would bring upon the lives of not just you, but all the other people you associated yourself with. The rage filled you from head to toe, making your mind go foggy from the dizziness and adrenaline that still pulsed in your veins. 

Back then, you thought that the official rejection would finally stop all his attempts to coax you into this weird relationship he had made up in his head and give you a little breather.

So when you didn’t notice his presence around yourself for the next few days, a grain of hope bloomed beneath your heart. That maybe, he finally decided to leave you alone. 

Your lingerie stopped disappearing, death threats were no longer found in your bag, and all the little presents stopped appearing on your bed. Life was getting back on track, and you could enjoy the last few months of university, hanging on jocks’ shoulders and slipping into parties every single weekend.

But as it would soon turn out, those few days of peace were nothing but a bad omen. The storm that would soon haunt not only your life but the whole campus itself. 

As on the night one of the male students had left your dorm, he disappeared. Simply, just like that, only to be found two days later in the local forest. With body dismembered into pieces, head a few meters away from the torso.

When the news spread across the campus, not a single student or professor was left unshocked, their hearts shattered. 

Did he have any enemies? People wondered. Did he find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time?

The police went to you first, of course, since you seemed to be the last person who saw him that night. But the two officers didn’t get anything from the stuttering, and weeping body of yours, with dark circles swollen under your eyes. As, in fact, you didn’t even know his name, after meeting at some party and taking back for a quick fuck to your room. 

Weeks passed before you could somehow move on and find calmness within a company of another guy. Not a one-night stand, but simply someone whose kindness and gentlemanly manner made your mind flutter with peace. He talked to you gently and made a sweet, genuine laugh slip past your lips. A friend, companion, but of no love interest from your side.

And yet, after a while, he disappeared too. Only to be found in the lake, with a purple body bulging from the water and a head wrapped in a dirty sack. 

This case… made you spiral into madness. 

Because, as you would soon discover, men who got close to you in any way were always, always, going missing just a few days after exchanging a few simple words with you. Be it a random student working in a library or a waiter at your favourite dinner. It didn’t matter who they were to you, but a single glance at your face was enough to sentence them to death.

And whenever another person was disappearing, you always saw him.

Suguru Geto, looking at you from across the campus, with a diabolical smirk tugging at his lips. Of unmatched beauty, with cheeks, straight eyebrows, and almond-shaped eyes. Lavender gaze lingering, with an uncanny sense of a secret only the two of you knew. The love and obsession so heavy that he was ready to cut you off from any men if that would force you to crawl back to him.

So you simply stopped hanging around campus. You just gritted your teeth, hid face beneath the heavy hoodie, and left the room only for classes. Room – classes, room – classes, the route that, during the last month before the summer break, became your routine. 

You made minimal contact with other men, be it people in your class or a cashier at the local supermarket. Avoided the parties, gatherings, hangouts, just to not risk anyone’s life any further. 

Just one month, you thought, desperately wanting to move back to your parents’ house for the summer holidays. 

To leave Suguru, the university, this whole mess behind, and lock yourself far away from all the problems you already caused.

And then, a few days before leaving, Shoko knocked on your door. And when you opened with a puffy face and a shirt dirty from a chocolate ice cream you just stuffed yourself with, she sighed heavily, quickly coming inside.

"Do you even have a roommate?" She asked, noticing that the other half of the room was always empty.

With a brief nod, you fell back on your bed and closed the book you had just been reading. Ice cream in a big paper cup was melting on your bedside table, and heavy curtains cut off the summer light in the stuffy room. 

"She’s always hanging out with her boyfriend," you muttered, patting the place next to you. 

Shoko took a seat, watching the misery furrow your face. "You can’t cut yourself off. It’s not healthy, you know?" she said, tugging a lock of your hair back behind an ear. 

Your fingers fiddled with the old, pink tracksuit, picking on the little, plastic diamonds glued to the soft material. 

"I don’t want anyone else to die," a low, almost crying voice filled the space as you desperately tried to hold back the tears already swirling behind your eyelids. "What if he’s going to hurt you?"

She wondered for a second, taking in your state, a pain ripping at her heart. "Don’t worry, I won’t let that bastard get anywhere near me. Besides, it seems that he only aims for your…" She bit down on the lower lip, as if not wishing to confirm what was already obvious. "Anyways, I thought that maybe we could have some fun tonight. Nothing crazy, just a simple funfair with me, Utahime and Yuki."

You looked up from behind the wet eyelashes, seeing the comforting smile on your friend’s face.

"I don’t think I’m in the mood for fun," another sigh escaped your tightened throat. "Besides, he can follow me there."

She hummed, nodding her chestnut head. Short hair curled around the lean cheeks, and a single cigarette was pushed behind an ear. 

"Well, how about you slip away through the window? He won’t notice you leaving the dorm. His room is on the other side of the building; he won’t even see you cross the lawn."

A low giggle slipped past your lips, seeing a cheeky grin lift her lips. "And how do you know that?"

"I think you truly underestimate your friends. Yuki’s boyfriend is friends with his roommate, the nerd guy, Satoru. We’ll make sure he keeps him entertained for a few seconds," Shoko laughed, squinting her eyes like a sly kitty. "Besides, there’s some weird metal band in town. I’m sure he and the rest of Addam’s Family will hang out there. He already knows you’re too scared to even leave your room, so… he won’t suspect anything."

The plan indeed sounded good. And as your room was on the first floor, slipping away would be easy. The worst that could happen was a small scratch, but it seemed worth it to experience even the simplest moment of joy before leaving your friends for two months. 

At the same time… the fear was eating you alive. The thought that he might somehow be able to track your location sent a shiver down your spine. Made your mind freeze, heart trying to leap from the tightened chest. You didn’t want to hear about any more murders. Didn’t want to befriend kind, innocent people who would meet a tragic end only because of the psychotic stalker who cared for you in his sick, twisted manner.

And yet, without a second thought, you nodded, drawing a squeak from Shoko’s beaming face. She pulled you into a tight, warm hug, a sweet fragrance of perfume and cigarette smoke wrapping around your senses. 

"So get your ass up now and go take a shower," She said, pushing you towards the door. "I’ll prepare a little special outfit for our night out."

The bathroom was empty when you entered, but no one interrupted your long, warm shower. No heavy footsteps bounced off the tiled walls, and no one’s silky hair peeked down at your naked body. It felt almost unusual, yet you tried to enjoy this intimate moment of peace just as you used to, with the same melody hummed softly beneath the dripping rain and a sweet body wash lathering your skin. 

Colours seemed to slowly spread across your cheeks, the purple smooched disappeared from under your eyes, and a heavy, relaxed breath escaped your throat. 

The life, even for a slippery second, felt as if it was back under your control. 

When you turned to the room, a small, shocked gasp rolled off your tongue.

"I am not wearing that!" You scowled, looking at the set Shoko prepared for you. 

You had long forgotten about the tight, extremely short pink skirt and the sparkling white top that were hidden in your wardrobe. A set of white lingerie lay right next to them, and your heart almost stopped at the bra, thin enough to make your perked nipples visible through the flimsy top.

"What do you mean? You wore it so many times before!" she exclaimed, adding a pair of big hoops and milky-white heels. "Come on, don’t be a prude!"

"I’m not, but…" but what if some guy tries to talk to me, and he will be there, and…

"Nuh-uh, stop. I can read your thoughts," Shoko said, quickly wiping a towel over your naked body. Her chestnut eyes slid up and down your figure, a cheeky smile tugging at her lips. "Mhm, perfect. Dress up and let me do your make-up."

So after an hour and a long fight over the crimson lipstick that smudged your lips in an utterly whorish way, you and Shoko, under the sky blanketed in darkness, finally slipped away through the window. Bags fell onto the lawn first, heels following right after, only for your stupidly giggling lips to shush each other as you ran across campus. 

Yuki and Shoko were already waiting outside, and when you saw them crouched behind the bushes, a loud, alive laugh filled the warm summer night.

"Why didn’t you wait in the car?" You asked, slipping into the passenger seat.

Yuki started the car, slowly reversing from the university’s car park. "For your entertainment, dear." She chuckled before pulling onto the main road.

After ten minutes of laughing and chit-chatting in the car, with music blasting from the speakers and Yuki’s cabriolet swooshing along the forest roads, you finally noticed the lights.

Red, orange, and purple, with a Ferris wheel looming over the dark, haunted house, rollercoasters, and multiple colourful booths filling the place with a mixture of burnt popcorn and sweet cotton candy. The tacky music beamed from the stickers, bouncing off the nearby lake, hidden just behind the deep forest. 

Children, teenagers and students filled the park to the brim, with plastic red cups or paper boxes of food in their hands. Men tried to show off their muscles, hitting the high striker again and again until the golden bell buzzed with a red alarm, tickling your earlobes. A few squeaks escaped from the haunted house after a group of girls left it, laughing and giggling, while another group just entered, fear twisting their faces.

It seemed perfect, joyful and carefree, lifting a heavy burden from your shoulders and allowing you to experience a moment of happiness.

Shoko wrapped her arm around your shoulders and pulled you towards the entrance.

After an hour, you completely forgot about the terror that had haunted you for the past year. You couldn’t count the cans of beer you drank, the amount of caramel popcorn that filled your belly with sweetness, all the times you almost barfed on the rollercoaster, and your miserable attempts to win a plush toy in darts.

Some men looked behind their shoulders to sense a direction from which sugary laughter was coming. Some tried to talk to you, but all three girls were immediately taking you away from their clutches, knowing that the presence of another guy was the last thing you needed.

But then all of them left for the haunted house, which you refused to enter, and suddenly became easy prey. Easy enough for someone to come into your line of sight and let out a chuckle when another soft ball didn’t hit the moving object. 

"I’m sorry, but you really suck at it," a low voice whispered in your ear, and you quickly looked over your shoulder. 

A young man, surely your age, with coffee-coloured eyes that mingled like little stars and sandy hair brushed slightly back. He stood tall, with broad shoulders bulging beneath the blueish shirt. Muscular arms peeked from beneath the short sleeves, with a few creamy buttons revealing his warm chest.

Your lips pouted. "I’m not that bad."

"It’s the fourth time you lost it."

Sixth, almost slipped away, but instead, you let out a giggle.

His eyes scanned your face, taking in the loveliness warming your skin, before drifting towards a booth filled with plushies.

"So which one do you want?" He asked, giving the cashier a few dollars for another try. 

You bit the plush inside of the cheek, pointing with a finger at the big, black cat with yellow eyes and a pinkish nose.

"He looks mischievous," a man murmured, nevertheless sending you a smile.

His legs spread a bit wider, and his body leaned over to get a better view of the moving cans.

"I like them a bit mischievous," you said, moving yourself to stand right next to him. 

With a corner of the eye, you noticed his gaze on your warm cheeks, before he looked back towards the game. "I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m a nice guy."

The first ball flew, hitting right in the middle of the small can. You gasped, shooting your head towards him. To look at the cheeky smile and sandy brows curving up. 

"You did not!"

He shrugged, rolling a chuckle. "Not bad, hm?"

Another three balls in his hand disappeared just as quickly. One by one, each hitting the can with force, until the metal cups fell to the ground. The cashier seemed just as surprised and charmed as you, watching the blue veins bulge on his forearms and squinting at the aim. 

When the last can fell, you suddenly, without a further thought, grabbed his shoulders and started jumping with loud squeaks.

"Oh my god! Amazing!" The pure happiness lighting your face swelled his heart with pride as he pointed a finger at the big, black cat.

"Here you go, pretty," He said, a gentle rosiness kissing his lips as he pushed the plush into your arms.

A bit too small to hug it fully, slightly bigger than your chest.

"Pretty?" Fell rather cheeky, as you walked towards one of the benches. 

The warm summer air coated your body, hair stuck to the glossed lips, and you noticed the way his finger curled into a fist, as if wishing to push those few strands away. 

"Well, aren’t you?" He scratched the back of his neck at the poor attempt to crack a flirty joke. 

And as heartwarming as it was, maybe a little cheesy, you smiled, nuzzling cheek into the soft fur of your new gift.

"Mhm, whatever you say, handsome."

This time, his lean cheeks blazed with colour. Eyes slipped over your shoulder, as if the loveliness of your eyes was simply too much to bear. Cute.

"I’m Nanami," he said, coffee eyes finally meeting yours once again. "I was watching you for a while and thought you were pretty…"

The shyness creeping up his neck melted your heart. He was handsome, of course he was, with a sharp jaw and sandy hair, a few golden strands as if licked by the sun's rays. Eyes deep and warm, like sweet cocoa, held the damnedest purity that men your age usually did not possess. Pale skin, coated with a sheen of sweat, fingers curling and straightening under the weight of your gaze.

You sat down on the nearby bench, nothing but a black cat keeping your thighs from touching each other.

"Are you trying to flirt with me, Nanami?" You asked, turning head his way.

"Is it working?"

You hummed, leaning closer with a devilish smile dancing on your lips. "I think you’re pretty cute."

Nanami turned out to be the utmost gentleman. Always paying attention to everything you said, listening with pricked ears and quick nods. Sometimes the conversation turned to him, but more often to you. And although you thought of yourself as a rather boring person, Nanami enjoyed every word that slipped past your lips.

He seemed rather boring, but kind, shy, and utterly curious about your persona. Making a pleasurable warmth bubble in your belly and a wicked need to coax him into your arms. To use him for your own satisfaction, as back in the days when you enjoyed spending your nights with men too good to hang out with girls of your sort.

And soon you started leaning closer. And closer, placing the cat on the other side of the bench, pressing your thighs together. He was sweetly, utterly aware of your presence. Of the sweetness that filled his nostrils, the warmth of your body and giggles kissing his earlobes.

"I was thinking…" fell sweetly, with your breasts stuck to his arm.

Nanami’s breath hitched, lips felt slightly open. "Y-Yes?"

"Maybe we could move somewhere quieter?" A lovely pout formed on your lips, doe eyes lurking up from beneath the curtain of lashes. "There’s a lake nearby. And I could reaaally use a cold swim right now."

You felt a tremor slip down his spine. The goosebumps rising on the skin of his bicep, you curled fingers around. A bulge in his trousers that made your eyes twinkle and lips lift in a wicked smile.

"But you don’t h-have a swimsuit," he said, perfectly knowing how stupid his reasoning was.

Because the lack of a swimsuit was, indeed, the whole point of this secret meeting. 

So when a low, "Do you mind?" Slipped past your lips, he quickly shook his head.

"Let’s meet in ten, then." You said, before walking away towards the hidden beach with a gentle sway of your hips and a big cat wrapped within your arms.

It was safer to meet there separately. The reasons were obvious, but Nanami didn’t need to know them. There was no need, as for the past few hours you had been carefully scanning the park for the dark, heavy shoes and their owner, a face that still haunted your dreams.

It seemed he truly had no idea of your whereabouts, so the invitation seemed quite safe. Nanami appeared too good to get himself tangled up in your whole mess, yet the egoistic, carnal need for pleasure was far stronger than the need to keep a clear mind.

 The short path through the dark forest led you towards a small beach, with trees looming over the crystal water and the moon peeking through the thick branches. Crickets hummed a summer melody, gentle waves crashed over the soft sand and without a second thought, you started undressing yourself. 

The top, skirt, heels, followed by the flimsy white lingerie. A shiver ran down your spine when you dipped your feet in the water. Lukewarm, but still cooling your body in such a pleasing way. You slowly went further, and further, till the lake wrapped around your hips and moonlight bounced off the crystal droplets gathering on your skin.

Soft sigh slipped past your lips as you immersed yourself fully, with only your head peeking over the calm surface.

After a while, you finally heard footsteps slowly coming towards the beach. Nanami was close, and so you went back to the shore, slowly, slowly, walking out of the lake, with beads coating your naked body. Hanging off the perked nipples, nuzzling into the collarbones, dripping down your pussy, and a sheer sight of you could make one recall legends of water nymphs. With a beauty that unlatched heaven itself, carrying a wicked spell that spiralled men into madness.

When the shadow lurked from between the bending trees, your lips curled. Head tilted, mind already imagined the fever that would hit his lovely, virgin cheeks. 

"Nan–"

And yet, before the name could fully roll off your lips, your breath hitched instead. 

Because the man who appeared in front of you wasn’t him. The kind boy you met just minutes ago.

No, but instead Satan himself. Demon, nightmare, a fiend plaguing your life since the year before.

With a tall, muscular body dressed in black, heavy shoes wrapped around his ankles, creamy skin drenched… in blood. Long fingers wrapped around the long knife, and this damned smile bubbled behind the lavender irises.

"You–" a shuddered breath escaped your tightened throat, body suddenly a lot more naked than it should.

Everything you showed, exposed, and wanted to offer wasn’t meant to be seen by him.

And Suguru Geto knew it. Oh, he knew too well, and that’s why the lavender gaze travelled up and down your body with a satisfaction.

"Hi, baby," he said, slightly tilting his head. "Why the surprised face? Have you waited for someone else?"

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to confirm the obvious. Instead, your hands lifted to cover the soaked breasts, eyes quickly fell on the clothes left messily on the sand. Four big steps and you could at least grab the lingerie.

But Suguru noticed the way your gaze wandered, and a small gasp escaped his lips. He was faster, with long legs carrying him to your panties before you could take a step, body still frozen in fear. With one hand gripping the knife, he bent over and grabbed the dirty panties with the other.

"Such a pretty set. All for me?" He giggled, lifting the material to his nose. You could hear a low moan as he took a deep, heavy sniff with utter pleasure. Pervert. "Fuck, baby. You always smell so fucking good." Before you could snap back, his tongue peeked out past the pierced lip, taking a long, moany lick of your juices, lavender eyes not leaving your face for a second. "And taste like heaven."

Something bubbled in your belly. A mix of emotions too strange to identify, making your mind spin into a fury and spine tingle with a craving too queer to admit. The sole fact that standing naked in front of your stalker felt…

"Where’s Nanami?" you added quickly, trying to ignore the way your thighs clenched the moment Suguru moaned around your panties.

He took a step closer, coming your way at an unhurried pace. Panties hidden in the back pocket of his jeans, a thumb brushing away your juice, mixed with a crimson liquid on his cheek.

Suguru shrugged, eyes still fixed on your face. "Who?"

Your fingers turned into fists, as "What did you do to him, psycho?" fell through the gritted teeth.

But the gentle crease appearing between your brows melted Suguru’s heart. Low chuckle bounced off the calm water, as he was only a few steps away. If he wanted to, he could simply extend his hand and grab you by the neck. 

"Baby, I really thought you learned your lesson," an angelic pout twisted his lips, as he pressed the drenched knife to his cheek. "Let me think… are you talking about the guy who was coming to see you? Blond, slightly shorter than me?"

When a terror flickered behind your gaze, his eyes lightened. "Ah, so that was him? Well, I didn’t like the fact that he was coming to meet my girl," Lavender irises dropped down to your breasts covered by your hands, before slipping towards the soft belly, hips, mound of your pussy, with a low growl tickling your ears. "Fuck, baby. I’m so happy this fucker’s dead. I can’t believe–"

Before Suguru could finish, you took a step.

And the next one, and another, before your palm met with his cheek. You didn’t expect the hit to be that hard, and yet he stumbled and fell on the soft sand. With a shock crossing his face and hand lifting to grab his burning skin. 

"Bab–"

You launched towards him, your hips straddling his, palms pressing his shoulders down until his head hit the ground. Everything felt too weird, unnatural, as burning rage took over your mind and adrenaline pulsed beneath your skin. 

Another slap echoed from the looming trees, and when his head flew to the left, you quickly turned it right with the next hit. And the next, next, counting each man who died because of you. The jock, the kind guy, the diner waiter, the student from the library… Nanami. 

One hit more ruthless than another, but the adrenaline cooed over the sizzling pain that ripped your palms. No tears ran down your face, no trembling washed over your spine. 

It was a wrath that had been simmering beneath your heart for months and finally found a way to spill in a deeply dishonourable way, leaving you filled with disgust for the violence he forced upon you. 

When you finally finished, with deep breaths slipping one by one through your parted lips and eyes looking down at his face, a sort of peace dripped into your mind. Upon seeing a thin thread of blood trickling down his lips and a nasty, lavender bruise slowly forming high on cheeks.

He lay still with a mix of shock and absolute, loving madness that slipped in a shudder past the bloody traces on his face. 

If Suguru Geto had thought he already loved you those few minutes before, now, with your naked body straddling his and cheeks pulsing from a beating he had himself awakened in you – he wasn’t sure whether love was enough to describe the devotion his heart swelled with.

Your breasts rose with deep breaths, lips slightly parted, while your hands still pressed his shoulder into the sand. And before he could speak, your finger hooked around his lip piercing, pulling him forward as pain shot through every nerve the metal had struck.

"Stop fucking testing me," you growled, with squinted eyes looking straight into his. "Think you’re so smart? I know your psychotic ass is too miserable to lay a finger on me. Pull another stunt like that and I’ll fucking kill you," you launched him forward, without a care whether the lip ring would rip through the skin. "Do you understand?"

He quickly nodded, but the heart-shaped irises were enough to raise another wave of fury beneath your chest.

And when he thought you would stand up and simply walk away, leaving him on a sand with a blood trickling down his chin and a hard cock trying to rip through his pants, you…

Kissed him. Smashed your lips against his, licking clean the crimson liquid pooling on his skin. 

Suguru was already taken by surprise, but now, feeling your warmth so close to his body, he could swear that heaven was nowhere but in the taste of your sweet breath.

He moaned, drinking the saliva dripping from your lips and feeling the wet pussy rolling against his bulging jeans. Your hands lifted to his cheeks, squeezing them tight till another pitiful groan slipped right into your mouth.

And when his big palms landed on your hips, you pulled back, giving him yet another slap. "Don’t fucking touch me, you psycho."

Your words fell harshly, but the desire bubbling in your lower belly and sticky juices coating his jeans were enough evidence to make you feel utterly, madly turned on by the miserable state he allowed you to put him in.

"Baby, fuck, sit on my face, I’m begging you," he moaned, looking down at the long, silky thread that dripped down from your cunt right onto his bulge. 

The sheer sight made his mind spin, and when you moved over his face, Suguru was sure that blood started dripping from his nose. 

"I don’t care if you’ll suffocate, but you better make me cum," you stated, looking down into his dazed eyes.

Knowing fully well that the death between your thighs would bring him the peace he did not deserve.

With one move, you sat yourself on his face, tongue already peeking out and plastered to meet the heavenly sweetness of your cunt. A low, loud groan filled your drenched walls as he could finally savour the flavour he had craved for so long. 

Lavender eyes rolled back, muscular body trembled as you sat with your full weight, till his teeth grazed your swollen clit and tongue sealed the leaking entrance. He drank the honeyed saps like a man starved, lapping through your folds with low moans and shallow breaths. Getting himself intoxicated by the creaminess trickling down his throat and coating the inside of plush cheeks with a sheen of sugar.

His hand immediately slipped down to his cock, fiddling with a belt, only to pull out a massive, leaking shaft that hit his abdomen. You looked over your shoulder, mouth watering at the sheer sight of the monstrosity he dared to keep hidden all this time.

He did offer to be your boy toy, and maybe, maybe, you would think it over, knowing the fatness that could poke each and every nerve deep inside your pussy. 

When his lips curled around your clit, sucking on the swollen button, your hips rolled in pleasure. 

"Fuck," you moaned, feeling a smirk already tugging on his bloody lips. 

The metal rings felt slightly cold, bringing a weird pleasure to the heat that ripped you from the inside.

His long fingers curled around the thick shaft, pumping it in slow, lazy strokes. The reddened head pulsed as if ready to burst, balls contracted whenever your hips rolled over and over again, smearing his chin, cheeks, nose in a creamy cum.

His tongue fluttered around your clit, folds, poking inside the tightening cunt. When his other hand slipped up to grab your tit, you allowed it with a soft groan. Long fingers rolled the hardened nipple, squeezing the fat that fit into his palm just right. 

"My sweetest," he pulled slightly away, forcing a frown upon your lovely forehead. "That desperate to get fucked, huh? I’m sorry my baby needed to wait that long."

It could look as if he was talking to you, but, in fact, his squinted eyes were nowhere but on your glistening pussy. With another wave of cum already sticking to his lips and lonely hole clenching desperately around nothing.

"My–"

"Stop talking," you muttered, grabbing a fistful of his silky hair, only to push him towards your cunt. "I’m far from cumming."

And he did as you ordered, plastering himself again to the heaven between your legs. 

This time, he lapped more hungrily. With lips, tongue, nose poking all your sweetest buds, sucking on the trembling clit and pushing, pushing, pushing inside the weeping cunt. Each roll of your hips tugged painfully on his piercing, but he didn’t mind. 

No, but rather took a carnal pleasure from the heaviness of your body, feeling that dangerous warmth bubbling in his loins. 

And you were no better, with head falling behind and eyes closing from the ecstasy that was ready to spill any second. Looking back on his cock, you moaned, already imagining the fat, leaking shaft nuzzled deep inside your pussy. With a slightly curved head hitting your womb and a warm cum filling you to the brim.

"Oh fuck, I’m close," an almost inaudible whisper rolled off your tongue, but Suguru caught it in time.

With a sly smirk and lips sucking on your clit harsher, till the plumped bud trembled on his tongue, leaking a few droplets of sap.

His face turned red, for you really cut the air off and made him suffer in pleasure, strangled beneath your oozing cunt. Eyes rolled back again, a low groan spread through your pussy, sending another wave of climax down your spine.

And within the next few rolls and his tongue digging deep inside your soft walls – you finally cummed. Gushed, all over his face, drenching it in splatters of crystal droplets, landing in his mouth, on cheeks, dripping down the forehead. Your thighs squeezed around his head, a pitched moan left parted lips, and fingers grabbed his hair tighter. 

You trembled, and trembled, feeling the ambrosial orgasm tickle your spine. Probably the first and best given to you through oral sex alone. 

And as embarrassing as it was to admit, Suguru was, by far, the only man who made you moan that loud. 

You didn’t have a moment to catch your breath. No strength to lift yourself up from his body. And to him it was of no problem, as the second later, the world spanned only for you to find yourself under him.

With thighs glued to your chest and ass slightly lifted up. 

"I told you–"

His lips fell onto yours before you could finish, drawing a sweet moan from your throat. 

"My poor baby is in heat," he muttered, licking a long stripe of your sweating cheek. "Let me take care of you. You waited so fucking long, didn't you?"

"And whose fault is that?" You snapped, feeling his smirk back onto your lips. 

He kissed you messily, yet with a sweetness and care you would never associate with a psycho of his sort. 

"I told you," he started, pulling away to take his shirt off. Muscles upon muscles glistened under the moonlight spilling through the trees, dark locks cascading down to his hips. "You will regret rejecting my love."

His trousers quickly joined the shirt on the sand, and soon he was hanging over you naked. With a heavy cock lying on your belly and droplets of precum leaking onto your belly button. It burned down through your skin – the hefty girth that made your mind spin from the sight alone. 

He didn’t cum, as if waiting to release himself deep within the warmth of your pussy, and his next "Last time you mentioned something about getting knocked up, hm?", only confirmed the nasty thoughts already bubbling in your skull.

"Don’t know how to use a condom?" You bit down on lower lip, deep inside knowing that you yourself would throw that condom away. 

There was simply no way you would pass up a chance to feel such a monstrous shaft deep inside you. His big palms hook under your thighs, folding you even further, till the breath alone slipped in trembled gasps and chest squeezed under the heaviness of his body.

And yet, you still tried to expose yourself even further, moving your hips in desperate need to meet the long-craved fraction and the maddening stretch. It felt so embarrassing, humiliating, to get yourself drunk on the pleasure that tickled your fingertips and made your lips fall open.

Dizziness already coiled behind your eyes, and Suguru could see it clearly. In the way you looked at his leaking cock, with this slutty, needy gaze.

"Do you want me to use it, baby?" He chuckled, leaning himself down. Only lick a long stripe down your neck, feeling the sweat tickle his taste buds. "Tell me you don’t dream about getting fucked raw and stupid."

A moan slipped past your lips when the head of his cock smooched your entrance, and lips sucked on sensitive skin right beneath your jaw. "Just do it already, fuck."

"Tell me you love me," He murmured, teeth grazing one of your pulsing veins. "Tell me you’ll stay, and I promise to give you everything."

Hips already rolling, as you tried to get yourself closer to his fatness. To the tip that oozed with sticky precum and the heat radiating from his cock. 

A pathetic mewl escaped your throat as he sank himself a bit deeper. But only the plump head, that already marked the painful stretch you would surely get after the rest of the shaft followed.

"Stop dreaming, you psycho," you gritted through your teeth, pushing out even more of the cum that wrapped in a creamy ring around his cock. You stretched your hand, taking a fistful of his hair, only to pull him closer. Till your lips crashed in another kiss, the dried blood sticking to your maws. "Fuck me stupid, and I’ll think about it."

And Suguru, as desperate as he was, needed only those few, mean words to shove his massive shaft deep inside your pussy. 

A loud scream bounced off the trees, soon muffled by his lips, drinking in every cry, every moan that started spilling out. 

The stretch was as painfully ecstatic as you expected, spinning your mind with drowsiness and rolling eyes into the skull. He filled every corner, every fold of your plush hole, till the reddened head smooched your womb. You trembled from head to toe upon a sudden intrusion, and the way he immediately started moving. 

Pushing, thrusting, shoving his cock till the balls squelched against your lifted ass, and nasty splashing filled the little beach. He kept you in place, with muscular arms folding you in half and lips licking, sucking, and biting on the sensitive skin of your neck. Chest plastered to your nipples, brushing the perked buds each time he rammed his cock inside your weeping cunt.

The air felt sticky and steamy, with the sweetness of your breaths mixing whenever another moan slipped past your lips, and Suguru watched carefully as pleasure twisted your face.

The ethereal beauty that warmed your cheeks, eyes lidded in delight, a stream of spit dripping down your chin, before he licked it with a low, nasty groan.

"Fuck, baby, I waited so long," He muttered, mind spinning into madness whenever your plush cunt clamped on his cock. "So hungry, weren't you?"

When his fingers slipped between your bodies, only to press against your clit, a pitched, "Mmm y-yeah, fuck, I hate you so much," rolled right into his smirking lips.

He chuckled, shoving his shaft faster, deeper, till a small bulge appeared right under your belly button. "Do you? Because I thought you, ugh, liked them a bit mischievous, huh?"

You heard those words somewhere before. Maybe because they were the same words said to Nanami.  

But then, with his cock stuffing you, nasty, full and plush lips caressing yours, you couldn’t give a single fuck about how he knew about them. The only thing that mattered was his heavy, beefy body pressed to yours, leaving barely any space for the warm air that desperately tried to slip between your sweating skins.

"Suguru," a lovely mewl escaped your throat when his curved tip hit your sweet spot inside. Ramming into it relentlessly, with a force that drove your body into the sand. "So, oh god, you fill me so good."

His lips met your jaw, chin, lavender eyes tracing each scowl of your face. "You love it, don’t you, baby?" Big thumb rolled the swollen clit, pulling another pinched moan from your throat. "I know, baby, you love it so fucking much. And if I’ll do this," He rammed his tip against your spot again, before nuzzling it right against the plumped womb. "You will cum very, very soon."

And he was right. Pushing all your buttons, kneading your body in all the right places as if he knew exactly how to make a warmth bubble in your belly. 

Fingers of one hand dug painfully into the backs of your thighs as you opened them even further, letting him slip into you even deeper.

"Talk to me, baby." He ordered, feeling the erratic clenching of your walls. "Tell me how much you love me."

"I love it–ahhh," rolled instead, and you could feel a dissatisfied tsk bouncing off your chin.

"No, baby," his teeth sank into your neck, his thumb pressing on your clit even harder. "Come on, baby, tell me how much you fucking love me. I’ll kill every man you’ll ever try to talk to. Hell, I’ll slash your pretty friends’ throats if they try to keep me away from you." Each nasty word was marked by a more brutal roll of his lips. Till the sweet pleasure of smooching your womb soon turned into your painful cries. "Say it, say that you love me."

The warmth in your lower belly was ready to spill, head lulled to the side only to be brought back by his lips, tugging harshly on yours. He bit into them, then licked the swell with a coo, as if trying to coax you into the madness-confession he had waited so long for. 

And you, wrapped around the heavy weight of his cock inside your cunt and the way he made your feet curl in pleasure, finally, unfortunately, had given up. 

"Suguru, I love you–nghh–s-so fucking much," a sweet mewl slipped past your lips. "So good, fuck, you feel so fucking good. I love you, love you, love you, love you–"

Your desperate cries were muffled by his low groan, dripping into your throat, as he finally stilled. 

With cock kissing your womb, lips lick the tears rolling in the corners of your eyes and a thumb pinching the trembling clit. 

You came with a loud cry, squirting all over his beefy thighs, abdomen, soaking the trembling shaft that started filling your clamping walls with waves and waves of cum. Its stickiness glueing to your soft insides, creamy droplets plugging you so full, till the milky threads spilled from the rim of your cunt. 

And in the brief moment when Suguru Geto let his guard down, your fingers seized the long knife left messily on the sand and, with a single furious thrust, drove it deep into his left thigh. 

A low groan slashed through the air when the shimmering iron struck his thick muscles, sending a painful wave over his spine. 

You rolled his heavy body off, milky cum still dripping down your thighs and eyes… 

Eyes looking no better than his. With heart-shaped irises glancing down at his body wrinkling in pain, with a sweet giggle, as you finally felt the winning pleasure spreading all over your chest. 

His naked, muscular figure sprawled on the sand, cock already getting hard once again, upon seeing the bloody, sticky mess you left on him. Lavender gaze gazed up to you with a swelling devotion, and you needed to grit your teeth not to give him one last slap. 

Instead, you started dressing yourself, slowly, with eyes squinted and lips tugged by a sly smile. 

"I should fucking kill you," tickled his ears, and he could only give you a short nod. "But it would be a waste of resources," your eyes slipped onto his already leaking cock.

"I’ll come over tonight, baby," he mumbled, wrapping his hand around your ankle. If he could, he would crawl behind you, but the pain slashing through his thigh was already spiralling him into dizziness. "Fucking, wait for me, I’ll come over."

"I’ll be taking a shower in two hours, and I expect to see you there," you said with a final low hum and a tilt of your head, before walking away. 

And Suguru… he had to jerk himself twice before he could finally stand up, swaying and pain swirling droplets of sweat on his neck. Yet, neither death nor such a minor injury could ever keep him away from his sweet, precious girl.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

You know what, I kind feel sorry for Nanami... anyways, pyramidhead Toji next! I haven't written Toji for such a long time! I hope you enjoyed the first story <3

art by @/sayaartss on ig dividers by @uzmacchiato

he blushes pink at the thought. your words are enough to relight the fire licking at his groin. he watches you for a moment; tries to discern whether or not you're only saying what might please him, but ultimately nods.

you don't throat him immediately, though. instead, you duck your head down and press a few messy kisses to his balls. his hips twitch upwards at the contact, his breath hitching in his lungs. you smile, dart your tongue out to lick at the source of his hesitation.

"god, that's dirty," he groans. "you like this?"

"i like you," you hum, mouthing at his balls with spit-covered lips. you're making a mess of him, though that only gives you an excuse to suggest showering together later. "like your balls too."

"i... shit, i see that."

he's so sensitive, knitting his brows together as you suck and lick and kiss his balls with a feverish sort of worship you didn't know you had in you. his cock rests against your face, throbbing as it hardens even more. he could cum like this.

but you aren't quite done with him.

when you pull back to take his cock back into your warm mouth, all the way down to the base, kento swears he must've been a saint in his previous life to deserve such pleasures in this one. you trace the vein that tracks the underside of his length with your tongue, and then hollow your cheeks out to suck.

he cums all too-quick and with a loud and uncharacteristically whiney moan that makes you wonder how he'd sound tied up and begging. it feels almost wasteful to take his load anywhere other than deep inside of you, but you're sure you'll have plenty of opportunities for that in the near future.

he tastes good. salty. you want to keep sucking, see if you can milk him for more, but he's already overstimulated and panicking a little at the sensation he's feeling. although you think he likes it, you know it'll be too much for his first time. you pull off, careful to spill as little of his release as possible, and sit back on your heels.

and kento is a mess. his lips part as he watches yours pull into a greedy smile. he's eager to watch you spit it out, perhaps just to see the visual reminder that he came in your mouth. but you meet his eyes, let him sit on your tongue a moment longer, and then swallow.

oh. he wonders how he'll ever lead a normal life again after a sight like that. his mouth is dry, cock still wet with your spit, heart beating out of his chest...

still, he manages to stop you when you move to get up and start on his aftercare. "wait."

you raise your brows. "yes, ken?"

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.

It’s not only you, you find. He teases everyone. He’ll tell Enjin the last time he effectively used his Umbreaker was a year ago, or he’ll tell Delmon to raise his voice loud enough for it to crack and echo through the building when he’s up for it. Little, harmless fun he finds amusing to worm his way in.

He’s a lot more physical with you.

Light touches like a ghost’s that linger and leave all too quickly. A poke, prod, jab, a hold every now and then, and he then leans himself against you, remaining far too long, using up so much space it’s difficult to breathe evenly.

But, still, it’s harmless fun.

A harmless beautiful cacophony in the mix of his rather easy day to day. He lives the same each morning and evening. He combats that static with interaction, not too much to delve too close to anyone, but just enough to remain present.

And then you misinterpret his fun.

He should’ve known sooner that this would backfire on him, and hard. It was almost punishing how deep of a hole he dug himself into, constantly touching you and forcing himself into your proximity like he belonged there.

Light touches, featherlight, gentle, all misinterpreted.

Well.

He figures it isn’t really your fault. He thinks you’re a loner as is, so any form of physical contact must be exceedingly special to you, maybe even foreign. You don't jump up when he touches you, but you do glance in his direction nervously and sometimes even gawk.

The touches never frequently wander.

That is until Tamsy decides to dig himself deeper into the hole. For fun, he decides, grabbing the shovel. Maybe if it’s larger he can bury you in it, too.

It’s some form of messy self destruction that he engages in like a life line, dragging you under the depths with him in the process.

So he touches more firmly, his presence and warmth demanding your attention more and more until the others start to notice it. They comment how touchy he is, how close you two always are, how his hands are beginning to wander where plenty of people can see you both. It looks largely suspicious despite the fact you insist he just “does that sometimes.”

He’s just a… touchy guy. It makes sense. He does this with everyone. It’s not just you, which is largely disappointing.

So Tamsy begins to feed on your growing jealousy.

It starts rumours, of course. The Cleaners are so ever bored and need to discuss something over dinner. Delmon insists he’s not interested in petty gossip, but he seems to engage considering that Tamsy can hear his voice rattle through the walls. It’s largely grown ‘mature’ men engaging in it, sitting at their own table and squawking about coworkers like they’re sixteen.

And despite the fact that you are very much in the same room as them. Tomme has elected to sit with you. She’s always been kind. She pities you, obviously. It’s rude to talk about people while they can hear you.

“I mean… he’s touchy-feely, but we’re not together or anything,” you whisper. “He’s just like that.”

Tomme shrugs. “Maybe they’re right, though.” She chews idly at the food on her plate, pointing her fork at the men’s table behind you. “Maybe he likes you.”

“But, he’s so easy-going,” you murmur, poking at untouched meat on your plate. “You’d think he’d confess already.”

“Maybe he’s waiting on you,” Tomme tries. That seems like a Tamsy thing to do. “Or maybe he just wants to f–”

Your fork clatters to the plate. You stutter out a string of nonsense as Tomme grins apologetically. It’s a viable theory, definitely. It would explain everything.

You swallow the food caught in your throat before you choke on it. “You think?”

“Maybe,” she repeats, emphasising the word.

You stare down at your plate. “I dont even think he fucks.” Tomme raises her brows in surprise, though she seems largely entertained. “He’s too… princess-y—”

“I won’t discuss a coworker’s sex life, especially over dinner,” she interrupts quickly. She quickly finishes her dinner. “Just… I don’t know. Own it. Tamsy’s cool. It’s better than Enjin pining after you.”

You try to hold in a laugh.

Tamsy’s cool.

You guess so.

She offers you a consoling pat on the back as she leaves to put her tray away and retire for the night.

You fight the blood rushing to your face, fingers trembling around your fork as you try to eat the rest of your food. It’s not great, and it does barely anything to soothe your churning stomach.

Maybe he does like you.

You don’t get it.

What’s there to like? You don’t have any special qualities that raise you above the others. There’s other people here who are smarter, tougher, and would probably give him a more entertaining reaction.

He seems largely innocent. He doesn’t flirt or anything like that. He seems too above it all.

Still, you stand up, dazed.

Your feet drag you to his room. You’ve only been here once after a mission ages ago when you served as his crutches after he’d sprained his ankle.

You’d held onto the room number like a mantra. Just in case you ever needed him. For whatever.

You check the hallway.

Nobody. It’s not that late. People are still eating.

You knock one, twice, before you contemplate booking it back toward the elevator. Because seriously, why are you here? He didn’t ask you to come here. You don’t know what you’re expecting.

There’s no answer initially. You assume maybe he’s gone out to the city for dinner. You don’t know what he does ever, really, but he seems to know a whole lot about you.

Largely because he spends his off time watching.

Not that you notice.

“Hi.”

You fell for him.

You don’t even notice he has opened the door because you’re too busy mulling over whether to make a run for it.

Tamsy hasn’t opened the door the entire way. A patient, large eye and half his face is present through the crack in the doorway.

Hook, line, and sinker.

He fights the smile curling at his lips. All the cards lay out on the table. If this unfurls according to plan perhaps he’ll have you on his bed.

You manage to pull a grin, though it’s strained, nervous, and exactly what he expects from you.

He almost laughs in your face.

“You…” You clear your throat. “You weren’t at dinner.”

Aww. You noticed. He thought you would. Of course you would. You’re easy to string around on a leash.

Tamsy leans against the door frame gently, hands curling close to the doorknob. Maybe he should slam it in your face and then play with you tomorrow like nothing ever happened. “Mm, no.”

You hesitate. He watches you swallow hard. “You’re aren’t hungry?” You didn’t bring him anything.

“No,” he repeats, softer.

You sound breathless as if you’d been murmuring to yourself all the way up to his floor. Maybe you’d taken the stairs. You look like you’ve taken the stairs. You look frazzled and worried about something.

You peer down the hallway again. Still nobody.

“So… where were you?” you stammer.

Tamsy blinks like you’re stupid. His mouth curls larger. “Here.”

Right. You laugh, though it’s strained. “Doing what?”

He shrugs casually. He’s opened the door slightly wider to see if you’d peek into what’s behind him. Surprisingly you don’t. Your eyes are glued to him.

Cute.

In a weird way. You’re really pathetic, actually. He doesn’t voice it however.

“Waiting to see if I’d get hungry.”

“Oh…” You’re not following. “Did you?”

“Ah.” Tamsy slightly recoils from the door to hide his grimace in the shadows. His heart hammers in his chest. “That depends.”

“On…?”

“On what showed up.” He opens the door wide enough to offer you a way in. He leaves it in your hands to accept or decline his silent and rather forward request.

“I–” What? You blink owlishly at him. You wonder if you’re interpreting his words correctly. You tend to misinterpret a lot of his affections—if you can even call them that.

Your heart flutters pathetically.

Tamsy snickers, out loud.

Oops.

You startle back.

He quickly corrects himself. “Cold feet?”

“No, no,” you force out. You wave your hands casually, though they tremble anyway. “No, I just–”

“Are you coming inside?” Tamsy taps idly at the frame with a fingernail like a ticking clock. He tilts his head.

You look almost hypnotised. You nod slowly. “I’ll come inside.”

You trudge past him and into his room. You haven’t been in here in a while, and you didn’t stick around long enough to really examine how little he had for decoration. A few posters, one of a fancy red sunset on some sort of sandy plain, another poster largely the same with a more purplish tint.

You don’t even realise Tamsy locks his door behind you. He watches you move closely, back to the door as if waiting for you to make a move.

You’re still shaking. Clammy and hot and flustered, like you’ve watched him spout fifteen new limbs.

Tamsy can’t imagine he’s that scary.

It smells nice in his room. Like fresh linen and soap. There’s a subtle heat wafting from the bathroom as if he’s just finished in the shower. His hair is slightly damp at the roots.

“They’re talking about me,” you tell him. “Well, us. But there’s no ‘us.’ Everyone thinks we’re a thing.”

Tamsy quietly pushes off the door and approaches from behind, one foot in front of the other, unstable, giddy.

Good.

“A ‘thing,’” he echoes lightly. “That’s why you came here?”

“I thought it’d be better if we talked about it,” you defend quickly. “Privately.”

Tamsy nods playfully. “So you came here to my bedroom to talk?”

You nod. He doesn’t look convinced. You don’t either.

He’s close now. Close enough where you can smell the soap still lathered on his skin, close enough the point out he has a light green hairclip holding back half his hair. A layer of blond has fallen from his scalp, following along his jaw softly.

Tamsy rolls his eyes. “Talk, then.”

You do the exact opposite.

Your fingers tremble, loosely following the curve of his arms beneath the light blue cotton. Tamsy waits, patient, observant as always. Your fingertips catch on the fabric, sliding up before falling around his frame.

He lets you experiment freely, hands still and waiting for anything new to spark. Something that excites him may just be felt, and his heart thuds beneath your fingers through his flesh, supple and soft.

Tamsy says nothing.

Quite the definition of ‘talking.’

Your fingers press to the scarred skin at his throat. It's different in a strange way, still soft, not so much like leather, arguably smoother than his unmarred skin. Your thumb outlines the splatter of scar on his neck.

“How’d you get these?” you ask meekly. It’s quiet, barely louder than a whisper.

You follow the line of skin across his jaw.

Tamsy grins. The skin below his eyes crinkle. “An accident.”

Your hand freezes on his cheek. You watch his face morph into a much tighter smile, one unwilling to whisper another word to you. Not if it’s any sort of truth.

“You’re not gonna tell me?”

He giggles before he leans forward, ignoring your warmth for just a moment to envelope his arms around your neck.

“No.” His pupils are huge. “I like keeping my secrets.” He squeezes enough to remind you of his presence. “You didn’t come here to talk about my scars, did you?”

That’d be boring. He snorts inwardly. You’d be wasting your time.

He knows why you’re here anyway. He deliberately planted seeds of doubt in your head. You’re here to clear them all, maybe.

Maybe you want to fuck him. Probably. He bites the inside of his cheek to restrain himself. He should take you on his tiled floor and pluck at the buttons of your shirt with his teeth.

Maybe if he strips you of your dignity he can see just how lonely you really are.

Your thumbs card over his jaw before pushing his hair behind his ears.

He’s really close.

“No,” you whisper. “Just… came to talk.”

Tamsy tilts his head. His hair pools over his shoulder. “You keep saying that.”

You almost stutter out a bunch of gibberish before you clear your throat. “Yeah.” You ignore the way your voice cracks.

Somewhere else, Tamsy is laughing at you. He’s pressed to the back of a loveseat, aching, yearning, but laughing all the same, with his hair so long it touches the floor, just the perfect length for you to tug and pull.

The smile on his face won’t budge. You’re sweating beneath his gaze. This is too easy. Loser.

“Yeah?” he repeats. Teasing, confident, a dreamy lilt in his already airy voice.

“I just…” you start nervously, “…didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

Blegh. Tamsy coos. His fingers find your hair. How pathetically adorable. It’s a miracle how you haven’t caught on yet; how you haven’t realised he’s been dragging you around on a leash this entire time. Maybe you’re blind, or just merely stupid, or both.

There’s a rotten sweetness to it, like sugary confectionery that sticks to his teeth like glue. It’s awful, leaving his teeth feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy.

A moment of weakness has his heart thudding beneath his ribs desperate for some resurgence up his throat. He’d poke his tongue out and show you the pathetic organ as a piece offering.

Tamsy hums, encouraging. “And what did you want me to do about it?”

You glance nervously at the door. You’re pretty sure he locked it.

Tamsy removes an arm around you to tap your cheek playfully. You’re here for him, you may as well keep your eyes on nothing else.

“I want you to touch me.”

He almost startles back. His fingers falter for a moment. He holds back a gag threatening his throat.

Well.

You concede rather quickly. He was expecting to continue pawing at you and your shirt until you eventually obliged and unbuttoned the stupid thing. Why would you even come fully dressed anyway? If he had it his way he would have you wearing nothing but blue rope and pretty red welts along your flesh.

Blue suits you.

But only a certain shade.

“I already am,” he whispers.

Your jaw tightens. “Keep doing it.”

“Careful,” Tamsy sings lowly, whistling casually as he reaches to prod your shoulder teasingly. “That sounds like permission.”

You’re bold.

This is exciting. Somewhat. You’re defying his hypotheses; skittish, jumpy, yes, but you’re not shying away. Not yet at least. Not so much a game of cat and mouse as he would’ve expected. Interesting.

He was sort of wrong about you.

Sort of.

You only stare expectantly.

His lips are inches from yours.

His face falls.

Then Tamsy pulls away and shoves you backwards. Hard.

You stumble onto his bed, the back of your knees causing you to bounce back on his mattress, messing up the neatly laid sheets in the process.

You watch in awe when Tamsy absentmindedly pulls the green clip from his hair and tosses it on the empty desk. It clatters uselessly onto the wood.

His hair falls over his shoulders as he flexes his fingers towards your chest, pushing you back against the bed just enough to lean over you.

He pulls a knee up around your torso and you yelp.

His fingers reach for something on his bedside table next to a ticking, small red clock.

“We can talk like this,” he decides. His hair spirals around your face. His fingers wander up your shoulders towards the buttons of your shirt.

You look five seconds away from imploding.

Tamsy hits your cheek lightly with his instrument. The string lies dormant around the distaff, but you know better. You raise your fingers to touch it, but Tamsy ends up angling your thumb just enough to pinch the pad of the finger with his teeth.

If he had it his way he’d wet all of your fingers with his mouth to see long it takes you to crack.

You retract your hand. “You didn’t want to eat first?” you try desperately.

He ignores you. He wets his lips. “You’re trembling.”

You squawk, “you’re on top of me.”

“Mhm.” His head dips around your shoulder and he presses his nose into your throat. His tongue touches the pulse point at your jaw and you freeze below him.

Your heart thumps worryingly quickly beneath the muscle. Something rough follows when he presses the flat of his tongue against your neck, following the soft ridges of your throat.

Tamsy feels every throb of anxiety deep within your bones. Every press of flesh on yours replays in his veins, coaxing, demanding, until his teeth sink into your shoulder and he forces a noise from your throat.

“I think I’m just nervous,” you admit quietly through a tight jaw.

Tamsy has you right where he wants you.

“Good,” he says out loud. He kisses the bite mark. Your shoulder relaxes when he soothes over the ache. “You wouldn’t be if I didn’t matter.”

“Let’s get your jacket off, so I can take a closer look, okay?” You say and even your voice sounds sweet. He bites back the urge to gag and forces a polite smile as he peels his jacket, then the tie and the blood-stained layer beneath.

On his right shoulder, where the burn marks stop, a deep cut drips slowly. Your eyes trace the red first, accidentally wandering to the muscle previously hidden beneath oversized layers. Despite the delicate features on his face, he’s well built. Would do him some good to stop hiding underneath those clothes, you think.

“This one’s not as bad as last time.” You tell him, already refocusing on the cut, “I’ll clean it up quickly, alright?” The cut’s deeper than ideal, still manageable with antiseptic and antibiotic ointment, which you turn to search for.

Tamsy’s jaw tightens, he misjudged. Pulled back too soon, should’ve taken a few harder hits.

Next time, he decides he will.

Your fingers ghost along his shoulder, cotton pressing lightly against the bleeding skin. You move with careful precision, as if coaxing the wound into calm. You’re close, so close. He can count every eyelash when you blink, see how they cling together softly at the tips. The smoothness of your skin looks unreal. His eyes keep catching on your mouth, your lips. They’re plump, glistening faintly, swollen like they’ve been made to be bitten. The curve of your bottom lip, the slight parting when you breathe, the gloss catching the light. They look made for kindness, for saying things that mean well.

And yet, he can’t stop imagining them wrapped around him, used in ways that would make your sweet optimism fracture, used until fat, hot tears spill down your soft cheeks, until your lungs claw uselessly for air. An awful writhing sensation climbs from his chest, scraping at his throat.

He clears it with a small cough. Yellow, pupil-less eyes track your working hands. “You take your time,” he finally says, “Most don’t.”

Your eyes meet his, wide and earnest. “Don’t wanna hurt anyone,” You murmur, “It’s not the goal.”

Tamsy wonders if you’d still mean it if someone drew blood first, wonders about what happens when compassion and tenderness gets split open. If it were him who cracked that pretty mouth, put red on it, would you finally bite back, or would you break and beg? He isn’t picky. Either outcome would feel earned.

He straightens a fraction, humming softly, the tiniest smile playing at his pierced lip, “That kind of thinking doesn’t survive pressure.”

You pause, frowning slightly. “Pressure?” you ask, head tilting to the side. He watches the movement closely, curiosity comes so easily to you.

“Life has a way of teaching people differently.” He tells you, voice smooth. You press the antibiotic onto his cut. The sting should register, but it doesn't. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even breathe differently. His eyes stay on your face, tracking the smallest reactions instead. The crease between your brows, the way your mouth tightens with concentration.

“I’m curious to see if yours will hold.”

The words settle heavier than they should, but you press the white cloth to his shoulder anyway, wrapping it carefully around the injury. You’ve learned not to let unease steer your hands, letting worry interfere would mean admitting there’s something to worry about.

“All set,” you tell him, relieved enough to sound the slightest bit bright. You remove your gloves and gesture toward his clothes, eager to put an end to the quiet stretching between you.

You turn your back and toss the gloves into the garbage. “Take it easy, Tamsy,” you say, voice softened with concern. He hates the way you say his name, it does something unpleasant to his chest, a tight and wrong sensation he doesn’t bother naming. “Try not to push yourself so hard.” You add, “I’d hate to see it turn into something worse.”

You feel his gaze before you see it. When you turn, he’s already looking at you, long hair fallen loose over his shoulders. He’s undeniably pretty that much is certain, but the steadiness of his attention raises the fine hairs along the back of your neck. An appraisal rather than something meant to understand.

“You don’t need to worry,” he murmurs as he stands,voice low, even. The smile he gives you is polite, although too smooth to be comforting. It doesn’t even reach his eyes. “I can manage.”

You nod and wave him off, accepting it without resistance. Maybe it’s easier to file him away as reliable, capable. A good person, or maybe you simply assume the best in people by default. You don’t dwell on the way his gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, though you feel it prick at the base of your skull, a faint warmth creeping along your spine.

The room seems heavier after he speaks, pressing a quiet weight onto your chest. Every breath feels fractionally slower, as if the space itself is waiting, holding for something unsaid, something decided without your knowledge.

You could say that it's a blessing in a way. It can get grating, listening to Tamsy's irritated huffing when Delmon projects his voice a little too loudly — which is near constantly. His absence offered a reprieve from that. But on the flip side of the coin, it also meant that you would be alone. Just you and Tamsy. With no other soul around for miles. 

You'd think after all of this time in Team Eager, you would have grown used to him by now. But there's always been something strange about him. Something that you've never been able to properly place. It settles around him like an invisible veil, an undercurrent, projected around his body in a field that no one seems to be able to peek through. It prickles at your skin, the kind of primal unease that happens when you're in the sights of something that you can't properly comprehend. Dangerous. Like a predator lying in wait, anticipating the moment it can flash its fangs and bite. 

Paranoid.

That's what you've come to call yourself. Or maybe a little crazy. It's the pollution probably. The fumes have finally gone to your head. Realistically, he's given you no reason to assume anything insidious. He's always been kind. Welcoming to you even when you were brought into HQ clad in torn clothes, soot and grime and blood smeared across your face. 

A supportive teammate. That's the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Tamsy. He's aloof, always walking around with an air of placid reticence, but as much as he unsettles you, he's reliable. That's an aspect of his nature that can't be denied. He's proven that he's tactful, a mindful comrade out on the field time and time again and today was no different. He was always there to back you up, seamlessly slotting himself within the line of danger when the beasts had weaved outside the path of your fire. 

All it had taken was for him to bind a pair of them in place, the wide scope of his thread slicing through the thick atmosphere with a speed and agility that's always left you a little breathless. In the blink of an eye, he had them trapped where they stood, living garbage and rusted steel left to struggle as any caught animal would. They were as good as dead once they were arrested within his grasp, two insects twitching flutily on the adhesive silk of a spider's web. 

It had given you a good opening with your attention and power reduced from four beasts to a more manageable pair. You didn't have to worry that he wouldn't be able to handle the other two. You knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had them right where he wanted them, and now that they had been spun within Tokushin's threads, you were able to focus your attention into a more narrow scope. 

Your flames had become more direct, more focused with your targets decreased to a smaller number, and the fire that spilt from your vital instrument had burned hotter; it licked and swept wide and high. In a burst of a lashing gold and searing red, they had been gone. Obliterated, eaten away by heat as though they never existed at all. Reduced to ash and fragmented rubble that glowed like embers, winking dimly before completely dying out on the parched, toxic earth. 

And it was all thanks to Tamsy's help. 

It sets your teeth on edge. 

But the universe wasn't finished in its goal to irritate you. 

A damned dust storm of all things had swept up. You swear that bastard on the TV hadn't mentioned anything about it, but it was there. A thin, but blatant bruise on the blank horizon. Dark and troubling, like a warning of what was to come. You knew what it was as soon as you'd seen it. You've spent enough time out in the field to notice the subtle shifts in things. You both have. There wasn't any denying what it was that you were looking at. It had seemed miles away, but the speed that it was moving at was quicker than the eye could properly track, growing larger — closer by the second.

It wasn't anywhere near as brutal as the damage that a Trash Storm could dish out, but dust storms still hold enough violent force to flay through skin. And it would only be minutes before howling wind and dust would be upon you, spitting air so wildly that the fine sand blowing through the storm would be lethal enough to rip through your clothes like bullets. 

Hole Town couldn't have been more than ten miles away, but without a vehicle close by, it might as well as been in an entirely different dimension. You two would die long before you'd ever reach it. But it was by sheer luck that you had passed an old scattering of dilapidated buildings earlier. An odd cluster of them far outside the limits of Hole Town, and they couldn't have been more than a few miles off. Sure, they had looked like they were being held together by hopes and dreams, but they were the most viable option for shelter against the oncoming storm. 

 You were able to see them with your naked eye, tiny and in the far distance, dark dots on the dunes ahead. Torn, flimsy shanties, but they'd be better protection than just the clothes on your backs. If you hesitated any longer, you'd both be dead. Torn apart by sand and shrieking wind. 

You hadn't spared a single though when you had snatched ahold of Tamsy by the back of his coat, scuffing him like a cat with a hasty, "We've gotta get the hell out of here Tams."

He didn't have time to properly spit out a complaint, only a clipped "What are you do—" before you were flicking your lighter open behind you. Fire had spilt from the Zippo in a powerful stream, heat and energy spilling out like thrusters. In a single breath you two were being hurtled through the air in a smooth arch, fast enough that you would narrowly escape the dust storm before it could sweep you up inside of its reach. 

It sounds angry outside now. A relentless wail. Shrill as it claws across the structure of the shack, tearing at the shutters, heaving at the metal panels that create the roof like it wants to tear it apart. The building groans from the weight of the storm. Shifting with metallic sighs and groans. The entire structure wobbles around you, rusted walls flexing like a spasming throat, thrumming from a scream that it longs to release. A pained wail like the badgering of the tempest physically pains it. 

You feel as though you're being swallowed whole. Eaten alive. But you aren't sure if it's the storm that you should blame for that, or him. 

He's seated himself on the other end of the shack, legs crossed at the ankles, back slumped against the tattered cushion of an old, collapsed sofa. His eyes are shut, expression calm and unbothered, as though he can't hear the wind howling outside. He looks peaceful despite the circumstances. His chest rises and falls, gentle beneath the layers of his uniform, a steady rhythm that softly lifts his hands from where he's folded them across his stomach. You could almost let yourself believe that he'd fallen asleep, but you know better. 

The room is dark; any possibility of light having been mostly blotted out by the storm outside. The only scraps of it that exist come from your Zippo. And the glow of it blinks in and out of existence from how you listlessly flick the lid open, thumb catching on the flint wheel long enough to spark a flame only for you to snuff it out second later with the flick of your wrist. The lid snaps shut with a thin noise, but a split second later you jerk it back open, over and over again. 

A small fire gutters on its hidden wick, tiny but bright. Bobbing around in place, blue and amber. The shine it casts spills across the room, creating shadows in the corners, painting the walls an oily hue. It swathes over him, tracing over his shape in warm strokes, catching on the strands of his hair in muted flecks of gold. If you allowed yourself to think of it for longer the necessary, you'd even go as far as to acknowledge that he actually looks pretty with that tranquil look on his face. The shape of his mouth settled in a relaxed pout, lashes thick and heavy against the ridge of his cheek bones. 

You find yourself staring at him like this more and more now, like some kind of freak. It happens without you being aware of it, like your mind is trying to figure him out on some subconscious level. That if you study him enough, the answer might reveal itself to you in some microexpression playing across his face. You swear that you've noticed hints of what lies beneath the surface before —or at least you've convinced yourself that you have. A glimpse behind the curtain in the form of kind smiles that are a little too strained around the edges or words that are too clipped to be truly noble. But really, it's his eyes that betray the most. 

You see slivers of emotions break through the façade. Blink and you'll miss it glimmers so fleeting that half the time you believe that you've completely imagined them. And maybe you have. 

Tamsy is an enigma in his own right. His entire existence is a mystery to you, held far beyond your reach, and nothing seems to encapsulate that daunting feeling more than his eyes. After all of this time, you still haven't quite been able to figure out what color they are, analyzing them from a distance as best as you possibly can, but you haven't been quite able to nail it yet. 

More often than not, they seem like some kind of shade of yellow, but on occasion, you swear you've seen them shift with fragments of gray. The color of metal, cold and detached, the silver flash of a blade caught within the expanse of a muted amber. But when he uses his jinki, they become something else entirely. Bright and electric blue scintillating within the rings of fiery irises. 

A kaleidoscope of hues. Sunlight trickling through stain glass. 

"Would you please stop fiddling with that thing." 

Of course, he has to go and ruin the moment. 

He didn't yell, but he doesn't have to. Tamsy isn't the type to shout, and even when he reprimands someone, the pitch his voice reaches could hardly be considered aggressive. His tone was raised certainty, only by a small scale, but the firmness behind it has you going still. When you sweep your attention back over to his corner of the room, his expression has hardly changed except for the subtle furrow that's wedged between his brows. Though he hasn't bothered to open his eyes to look at you, you can feel his annoyance, scattered across the space between your bodies, prickling like an itch. 

"Alright, damn. There's no need to bite my head off," you snap, venomous and exasperated. It left you more aggressively than you intended, but the following apology never leaves your lips. Instead you close your Zippo shut with a sharp twitch of your wrist, and when it snaps closed this time, you don't flick it back open again. You leave the room in darkness, and the only thing that keeps it from drowning in a horrible silence is the wind screeching outside. 

"You aren't subtle." It's said softly, but the accusation hangs heavy in the air. 

"Hmm? What do you mean?" You tilt your head to look at him as best as you can through the shadows that eclipse the shack. It takes a second for your vision to adjust to the dark, but once it does you can make out the outline of his body, a vague silhouette still perched on the sofa, hair pale underneath the gloom. 

"Staring at me like that. You do it quite often. Is there something on your mind that you'd like to share?" 

You're actually glad now that your lighter isn't on, because you don't know if you'd be able to handle it if he opened his eyes and looked at you right now. Not to be dramatic, but you're pretty sure that you'd die on the spot. You should have expected this, really. Not much slips past Tamsy. He's exceptionally perceptive, it's one of the things that makes him such a valuable teammate to have out on the field. All sharp wit and cunning. 

You've been kidding yourself this entire time to think that he hadn't noticed. Or maybe you'd just been too caught up in your own mind to truly try and be discreet about it. Now that you've been caught, you struggle to formulate a proper response. You could be honest about the entire thing. You are on the same team after all; there's not much use in having secrets. But what the hell are you supposed to tell him? That his vibe his off? That he seems a little weird to you for absolutely no reason and so you've been watching him like some kind of creep? 

Your face cringes, mouth twisting in a grimace as though you've swallowed something bitter and you're thankful that he can't actually see it. 

You feel words forming on your tongue, but they don't actually take a proper shape. Not enough for them to be pronounced, to make it out from the trap of your teeth. You just sit, back tense from where it's pressed against the uncomfortable support of the wooden chair you've been resting on. The rails dig into your spine, harsh and biting through the layer of your clothes. 

You know that he's waiting for a proper response, patient and relaxed on his corner of the shack while you're busy tussling with your internal struggle. 

"Your eyes."

That's the explanation you spit out instead of the truth. But it's not technically a lie. It borders on honesty just enough that maybe he won't be able to tell that you aren't entirely being candid with him. You almost feel silly for it. That strange instinct to hold your suspicions close to your chest. (Suspicions of what, exactly?) They're so inexplicable that you aren't sure yourself. It's only an urge, deep seeded, rooted somewhere down in your marrow that keeps the confession from slipping free. You feel that odd paranoia creep up the back of your neck, like fingers tracing over the flesh there to raise your hair on end. 

Your voice catches in your throat and you sweep the pad of your thumb over your lighter to collect yourself, tracing the familiar grooves of the engravings on your skin. You've known Tamsy for a while, long enough to become intimate with the kind of person he is. You've spent free time with him and Delmon, chatting amongst yourselves inside the booth of some hole-in-the-wall restaurant, laughing and recounting missions while you eat. You've gone out of your way to tease him, joking and prodding at him all out of the intention to get under his skin, to see his lips tug into a bothered frown. And despite all of that, it never fails for that odd worry to creep its way inside of your head like a cold draft sweeping inside a house. Drifting in though the cracks and crevices. 

Tamsy is a paradox. Pleasantly familiar and yet completely other. Like a stranger wearing the face of a loved one you never had. 

"What about them?" He asks. His voice is as gentle as it always is. Gliding through the bleak atmosphere with an almost hypnotic quality. 

"I've never been able to really figure out what color they are. Whenever I think I've finally pinned down the shade, it's like they go and shift into something completely different. It's frustrating." 

He hums, not in agreement or rebuff, just acknowledgement. It sounds almost musical. Bells chiming in the distance. But what he says next is more comparable to a bomb detonating. You feel the impact of it explode inside of your chest. 

"If you're really that curious, you could come in for a closer look." 

He says it was no consequence. As if it was nothing. Now you actually hate that it's dark, that the storm outside has shunned even the most delicate scraps of light because you wish that you could properly see him. Though you're sure that his expression probably hasn't changed. He's probably just as serene as before, eyes closed, hands draped over his stomach. 

You can somewhat make out the shape of his body, and he hasn't so much as twitched since this entire interaction has begun. You see the hair that he has done up despite the dark, vaguely visible through the shadows from the pale color of its tresses. The long, blond strands spanned out to frame his head like great antlers or the plumage of a striking bird. 

You've never exactly put Tamsy above you. In talent regarding his handling vital instrument, absolutely, but in terms of being a teammate, you're both equals. But right now, he seems so far beyond you, shrouded in shadows. A figure from a myth, past basic human understanding. You've hardly felt like you've been in control this whole day, but whatever confidence you were holding onto has been singlehandedly tugged out from beneath your feet with nothing more than a few words from him. Worse than all of that, is that you're not entirely sure if that was his intention. If he only means to tease or if he's being authentic. 

"Are you being serious?" 

He has to be joking. 

"Come now, we've been co-workers long enough, it's nothing embarrassing." You hate how polite he sounds, like he's genuinely entertaining your inquisitiveness. No taunting or underhanded intentions, just pure cordiality. "I have no problem in indulging your little fascination with me." 

"Ugh, you make it sound so weird." 

"Do I?"

He actually sounds surprised and somehow that's so much worse than if he was mocking you. This whole thing is stupid. There's no reason why this situation in particular has you tripped up. You've been in circumstances so much more compromising than this. You've literally sat in his lap before, your group and Team Akuta all smashed into the same vehicle, contained within the walls like peaches packed inside a can. You'd be uncomfortably wedged between Tamsy and Zanka, and when the car had abruptly swerved over a rough patch of terrain thanks to Enjin's exceptional driving, the jerk of the wheel had sent you careening into his space (not that you hadn't already been in it, technically). 

You hadn't realized that you'd gripped onto his thigh in an effort to stabilize yourself, but before you could attempt to right yourself and fit your body back between the sliver made from his and Zanka's shoulders, Tamsy had grabbed onto your waist. His hands were just there. Firm around the shape of your hips and then he was guiding you onto the seat of his lap, voice brushing against your ear and purring out a low, "Is this okay?" that you had struggled to respond to. You all but forced yourself to practically spit out the confirmation that it was, breath catching on the rapid pulse of your heart. 

You awkwardly sat there on his thighs, trying desperately not to focus on how he felt beneath your body. How good he smelt, perfumed by something light and fresh. You especially tried not to notice how Zanka had passed you looks from the corner of his eyes, brows furrowed like he wasn't sure if what he was seeing was truly happening. You were just thankful that Rudo had been passed out, slumped and drooling against the door and that Enjin was too focused on driving to glance back in the rear-view mirror. You never would have heard the end of it if either of them had they noticed how you were curled against Tamsy's chest, his hands still holding onto your waist. 

You swear that his fingers had swept over you, tracing vague shapes over the fabric of your uniform. Absentminded, but terribly intimate. 

But this somehow has you on edge. Maybe it's how he offered it. All casually, voice stretching out in the soothing hum, as though it was nothing. It would be easier to believe that he was only teasing you, and you almost hoped that he was. 

"The wide-eyed, ignorant look doesn't suit you Tamsy." The accusation slips from you before you can fully process it. Low but heated around the edges. You grip onto your lighter harder, squeezing it within your palm in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. It doesn't work. 

The quiet that follows is uncomfortable. Well, as silent as it can be with the squall outside screaming and tearing at the shack like it might be able to rip its way inside if its persistent enough. Maybe you'd let it put you out of your misery if it did. Allow it to snatch you up within its current and cut you down to the bone. That would be more merciful than whatever the hell this is. 

Your paranoia is a chill, and it had crept in since day one. He was so pleasant when you'd first met, welcoming you onto the team with a warmth that had unsettled you, that you had been convinced had been fake. But you had assumed that everyone at the Cleaners HQ had simply been luring you in to a false sense of security. They had all urged you into the fold with little fanfare, no hoops to jump through or grueling tests. All it had taken was a simple evaluating glance from Semiu and it had been done. You were one of them. 

You hadn't believed it at first. You expected some sort of catch. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and kindness wasn't bestowed freely. But they'd given you a roof over your head, a place to call home, a family, and Tamsy had been there to guide you through it all. He and Delmon were the two people who had taken care to show you the ropes, to assist you in getting your footing in the new territory that had been set out before you, and they did so with incredible patience. 

But as nice as Tamsy has always been to you, there was something to him that you never could quite place. His kind words, his tender smiles, the way that he's always there to rush in at the first sign of danger to push you out of its path. You think that it all just may be hollow. But you can never come up with a solid reason as to why and it's maddening. There's nothing more than that tingling along your spine, a persistent flutter behind your ribs that urges you to stay vigilant. To look out for a threat that you know isn't really there. 

Tamsy has only ever been a good teammate to you. Diligent, reliable. He's a familiar comfort, the kind of person that you'd follow into a fight without hesitation. It makes the uncertainty that's creeping down your back feel like a betrayal. As though you've somehow harmed his trust by just thinking that maybe there's something lurking beneath the surface, right behind his eyes. A danger that you know doesn't exist, but your subconscious demands that it does anyway. 

You're going insane and there's nothing you can do about it. 

"You know, I've always had the feeling that you've never liked me all that much," Tamsy reveals. No warning, no preamble. 

Your skin crawls. "What makes you say that?" 

You see the outline of him shift in the dark, the slightest tilt of his head but it makes you feel trapped all the same. As though you've foolishly stumbled into the direct path of a predator. 

"You say that wide-eyed ignorance doesn't suit me, well it certainly doesn't suit you either. Don't play coy." His voice is calm. Hitting the same steady notes that it always does, placid and amiable, but there's something else there beneath the veneer. Something sharp. Like a bite. But it's subtle, so minute that maybe you've only just imagined it. 

"I don't hate you Tamsy," you answer and it tastes like ash on your tongue. But you don't hate him. Not really. You've tried to, keeping yourself off at an arms length, hiding the tenderness you feel for him behind snide comments and sarcasm. You think that might just be impossible with how important he's become for you. He's a permanent fixture in your life. The ground beneath your feet, a hand guiding you forward. And maybe that's what this all is. It's fear. A fear for the worst. That maybe, he'll turn out like all the others. That he's only here to use and discard, a carrion picking meat from a bone. That once he's used you for all of your worth, he'll discard you. Toss you away like all the other garbage down here. 

"No? Then what is it?" He presses, tone flowing like the soft trickle of water. 

"I, uh. . . " you sigh lowly and shrug. "It's nothing really. Just personal shit. Dumb stuff." Your reassurances feel flimsy, even to you. Weak on your tongue. But you try to salvage it as best as you can, hoping that he won't be able to sniff out your trepidation. You will yourself to smile, instinctively shaping your expression into one of joy; your voice comes out teasing. "I mean come on, you know you're my favorite team member." 

"Oh, really? Well don't let Delmon hear that, you'll break his heart." 

For a moment, it's nice. This casual back and forth. The sort that you're used to engaging with him, and you're almost able to forget your paranoia entirely. For a split second, it flickers, water sprinkled on a small flame, and you're able to sit and enjoy his presence unencumbered. And you've been like this before with him. Sometimes you find yourself sitting at the bar on base with him, unplanned. Two creatures in the night, silent, lost within your own worlds but only feet apart. Connected by proximity only. Quiet, solitary, all while everyone else sleeps soundly within their rooms. 

And the two of you will just sit, idle beneath the warm lights and burning neon. Something about it feels private. A secret only for you both. An indulgence that you weren't entirely aware you've been committing. 

You rarely ever speak and yet a connection has tethered between you, translating far more than words ever could. A hushed, reluctant companionship. An ease that you've been hesitant to name, much less acknowledge. The simplicity and assurance that comes with just sitting with someone, hearing the gentle rise and fall of their breath, feeling the low brush of their body heat seeping past the barrier of your clothes. No expectations, no promises, just the presence of another. 

Damn, he's dug his way past your skin, and you hadn't even realized it until now. 

You hardly notice he's moving until you register the hushed shuffle of footsteps brushing along the floor, the wooden boards creak lowly under their moving weight, barely discernable beneath the shriek of the storm. You can hardly see him at all in the dark; there's only the sound of his approach, diluted from the wind that tugs and rips at the corners of the shack, making the metal whine like a wounded beast. 

You're an animal that's fallen inside a snare. Made as still as a statue while you wait for him to come closer, lungs motionless within the cavity of your chest. It's only once he's directly in front of you that you're finally able to make out his shape, traced over in scant, muted brushes of light. His stare locks onto yours through the cover of the shadows, appraising and weighted, like he's searching for something, and it strips you bare. He's so close that you can feel the heft of his coat press against your knees. You have to angle your head back to properly see him from where you're sitting, but it only feels like you're baring your throat. 

He just stands there, a figure looming in the dark. 

"You good Tams? You're being kind of creepy." 

He doesn't respond. He lets you stew in the silence. In the anticipation. Of what, you aren't sure, but it's there, thrumming inside of your bones and veins like a second heartbeat. 

And then he's lowering himself, hunching himself over until he's balanced only on the balls of his feet, crouched so that now he's the one who's looking up at you. Despite the shift in perspectives, you still feel as though you're being stared down upon, not him. Even in the dark, the way he's watching you is flaying. It's like his gaze has locked you in place, an insect pinned down on a cork, exoskeleton carefully dissected to display its delicate insides. It makes your skin prickle, nerves flaring with cold and heat, a conflicting reaction that has your breath snagging in your throat. 

"Spark your vital instrument." 

His order coils through the atmosphere, almost melodic. Your hand seems to take on a life of its own to heed the command, thumb slipping up to nudge the lid from its place with a metallic click. You can't manage to tear your focus from his face, not with how intently he's observing you. Attention narrowed down and settled on you with a weight of its own. It seems to glide over you, murmuring over your flesh like soft hands mapping over the shape of your body. 

When you strike the flint wheel, the flame flares to life and dances. Wobbling on its wick, and as it twitches, the glow spills over the room like gold paint spreading across a worn canvas. 

His eyes are there in the shadows. Made incandescent from the small fire. They graze over somewhere close to your soul. Too deep, pressing where they shouldn't. A place that's too vulnerable, one that you want to pretend doesn't exist. But now, it's like you're forced to confront it. That hesitant warmth that rests within the pit of your chest, delicate and saccharine, humming like a second pulse. It expands against your will, fluttering and molten, shifting like a roused animal beckoned by the weight of his stare. 

He's unfairly pretty. Made of rounded edges, almost cherubic in nature. You can't help but admire the soft shape of his cheeks and the pronounced swoop of his nose; eyes framed with lashes that are unnecessarily thick. You've always been jealous of them, as long and full as they are. Just another part of him that's stupidly beautiful. 

The scar on his face isn't enough to mar how attractive he is. It's just another thing that makes him more of a mystery to you. For as long as you've known him, you've never bothered to ask about it. And he's never attempted to divulge, to share what had harmed him, or who. But you know that he has more scars than just one. Gnarled, pink flesh peeks out past the collar of his button-up, raised with old and damaged tissue. The fringes of it, just like the one that spills down the right side of his face, are jagged and broken, like glass that's been dropped and shattered. 

You almost dare to ask him about it now, but decorum keeps the question from slipping free. You can't be sure if he's insecure about the wounds, if being reminded of them would dredge up hurtful memories. He's never struck you as particularly ashamed of them. He doesn't shy away when people gawk or stare. There's been a number of times while ambling down packed street corners or interacting with civilians from neighboring towns that he's been openly goggled at. Mostly by children, too young to understand that what they're doing could be perceived as rude. But he's never shied from the attention, never wavered or flinched like it made him uncomfortable inside his own skin. 

Still . . . you can't manage to ask. The very notion of it feels like too much. Like if you dared to prod at the mystery, if you went digging for answers that weren't freely given to you, then you might not like what you'd find. 

The flame sways on its wick unsteadily, caught within a fleeting draft sneaking in from the outside storm. It wobbles unsteadily, like it might just tip over from where it burns and vanish. But it doesn't. It persists, still bright, bathing the ramshackle space in a dusky radiance. 

The light of it reflects in his eyes, and finally you can see them so clearly from the aid of your proximity. His irises are a motley of shades. An almost cosmic burst of champagne, pale and mesmerizing, broken up by scattered fragments of gray and dusty brown. The two hues that you've always struggled to nail down, trying to guess if it was one or the other, but it's actually both. Delicate flecks of silver and muted bronze. It's like the cosmos are held within in his eyes, nebulous, stardust and sunlight, caught within the cradle of his skull. 

Just like the rest of him, his eyes are pretty. So, so pretty—

A burn bites at the edge of your thumb, and were you not used to it, you might have dropped your lighter. The pain douses you with reality. You snap back into yourself, and it's with a cold realization that you become aware of how close you've leaned within Tamsy's proximity. So close that the point of your nose is separated from him by only a few scant inches, close enough that if you angled your head by a hair or two, they'd brush against each other. 

You flick your Zippo shut with an abrupt jerk of your wrist. The noise cuts across the atmosphere, seeming to sever through whatever spell clouded your judgement and made you tilt towards him, back bowed like a flower straining to reach the sun. 

The dark engulfs the shack once again, and while under its cover you allow yourself to lean back. The chair groans with the shifting of your weight, a punched out, thin noise. Your palm squeezes tight around your vital instrument, fingers sweeping over the engravings made into the metal, the familiar texture of scales and the shallow lines that make flared wings felt beneath your thumb.

You don't hold onto it for much longer even though letting it go feels like giving up a lifeline. You slip it down safely inside the front pocket of your pants, and you cherish the weight of it on your thigh. 

The shadows aren't enough to protect you. They can't make you feel unseen. You're terribly exposed, stuck underneath the persistent hold of his stare. But it's the subtle press of his knees against the front of your legs that give you no other option but to be aware of how near he is. 

"Did you finally figure it out." 

It creeps out lowly through the dark, satin gliding, rich and delicate. The sound of his voice makes you motionless. As angelic as it is, something about it makes ice scatter over your flesh, goose bumps raising; unsettled and captivated all at once. 

"What?" You ask dumbly. 

"My eyes, remember?" He clarifies, and he almost sounds amused. "You wanted to know what they looked like." 

"Oh, yeah." You adjust on your seat again. A simple attempt to keep your mind centered on something that isn't him. He's so close that you can smell him, clean musk and resin. Far more mouthwatering than he has any right being considering that he spends his days fighting sentient garbage piles. 

"You seem nervous." 

There's barely any light to properly see. It's all vague outlines and silhouettes and yet he's still able to see you so clearly. You're sure he can hear it, the wariness held inside of your voice, the way it trembles around its fringes. 

"I do?" You're playing dumb now. Like feigning ignorance might save you from wherever this interaction is heading. You already know that it's a lost cause. Worse than the need to stay afloat, to try and keep ahead of whatever this conversation is, is that you don't think you'd actually mind getting swept under it. Not really. 

"You do," he replies. Point blank, blunt. "You know you can talk to me about anything, don't you? We are teammates after all. It's important that we're able to speak to each other about things that might make us uncomfortable." 

His amiability chills you to the bone for reasons you can't name, not even after all this time. But it makes that stupid, starved thing inside your chest grow bigger, throbbing like a hunger pain. You like it when he gets like this, caring, gentle. It makes the paranoia that haunts the corners of your mind go numb. The longing that you've been carrying with you, an open chasm, a wound torn behind the protection of your ribs cage, is placated. Soothed by words that you've always wanted to hear. 

It's awful, more than a little pathetic how deeply you want him.

You really are hopeless.

"I know—" 

You don't get the opportunity to try and save yourself. To make excuses and pull yourself back together, because the chance is stolen from you before you could take it. 

His hand cups the side of your face. You stop breathing. 

This isn't the first time he's touched you. It's pretty common to sustain injuries on the job, and on occasion you've all helped each other as best as you can while out on the field. As a team, you're all familiar with the motions of cleaning lacerations made by trash beasts or making temporary braces for sprained ankles and wrists while out on the field. You've done it for Delmon and Tamsy before and they've done it for you. Caring for each other is all second nature, as easy as breathing, and the skin-on-skin contact is obligatory. 

But this is so much different. This isn't done out of necessity. He already had your attention and he knows that, and yet he's gone out of his way to hold you anyway. His palm is warm, fingers spanning around your ear, thumb moving in a short caress over the swell of your cheekbone. A gesture so small it almost didn't seem real. 

It leaves you stuck. Seized under the tender weight of his hand. 

When he speaks next, it's said softly. Like he's making a confession that he only trusts you with. "You know, you worried me earlier today, trying to take on all of those trash beasts all at once. It's been a while since you've been so impulsive. If I'm being honest, it worried me a bit." 

Suddenly you're stripped bare. Exposed in a way that you haven't been in a long time. And he is right. You haven't been so reckless in a while, not since you'd first become a Cleaner. Back when you were a little younger and had something to prove. When you would run directly into the fray without bothering to properly gauge the situation before you did. You didn't worry about danger, or death. All that mattered was that you would become stronger, that your worth to the team would be solidified. Made undeniable. 

But today hadn't been that. You were trying to outrun your own thoughts, and combat, the heat of your fire scorching earth and breathing metal, is the surest way to do that. You hadn't bothered heeding Tamsy's warning from where it rose out behind you. You only acted, ignoring him because it was easy, because it got under his skin. Charging in towards monolithic jaws flashing with jagged, steel teeth, flames pouring from your instrument in a blaze. It was all to try and escape the pandemonium inside your head. To shake free of the voice that murmurs and chants that you can't trust him, you never could. 

That can't be the truth though, can it? He's here now, crouched in front of you, holding onto your cheek as though you're something fragile and important. Like you could break if he handled you too roughly, and he's trying to diligently to keep that from happening. 

You've encountered manipulative people all your life. Those who only wanted to use and pick you clean for all you were worth, demoting you down to little more than a tool. A thing to be used and cast aside once your purpose had been fulfilled. Murderers, petty thieves, the lowest of the low who feed on the weak and indulge in cruelty, they all have the same look in their eyes. And Tamsy isn't one of them. You know this, and yet that little voice, the very one that kept you alive when you'd lurk within grimy alleyways and fight inside blood-soaked basements for money, won't shut up. 

It screams from the sidelines, demanding to be heard. But for the first time in what seems like forever, you choose to ignore it. 

You draw in a tight breath, all but willing your lungs to expand in order to draw in a gulp of oxygen, and you hope that it will help clear your head. All you want to do now is lean into him. To bask in the warmth his skin provides. 

"You're right," you admit. "It was dumb of me. I don't know what I was thinking." 

"You weren't." The tension that seeps into his tone surprises you. The faintest traces of irritation coiling underneath his usual placidity in an undercurrent. A riptide you didn't realize you were wading towards. A tremble skips down your spine, but it isn't out of fear. It's a different animal entirely. One that you always knew was there, pacing around the corners of your subconscious, but one you never dared to confront. But it's here now, and with him so close, the traces of his body heat and scent curling around you, you have to see it for what it is. 

Maybe it's the darkness the storm provides that emboldens you, but something that feels a lot like courage ignites deep in your gut, white-hot and vibrant. You're no stranger to having disagreements with Tamsy. You're both able to go from squabbling to being cordial at the flip of a switch, a phenomenon that not even you understand. But it's so common that the occasional back and forth's have long since become a facet of your dynamic that everyone back at HQ has accepted. And whatever this is — this new, unexplored territory that's expanding out in front of you, seems a lot like that. It's perilous but also perfectly familiar, an intoxicating blend that nearly blindsides you with how much you like it. 

You lips shape into a smile, one that he must feel more than he sees. The corner of your mouth twitching beneath the heel of his palm. "Would you believe me if I said I'm sorry?" 

He actually leans closer to you. You hear the rustle of fabric as he moves, and your eyes struggle to track the vague outline of his body when he tilts his head up to properly assess you. He watches you through the shadows, eyes narrowed. But it's not aggressive. It's the heavy-lidded look that comes from someone who's intrigued. Who's been surprised and pleased with an outcome they didn't expect. 

His breath sweeps over your face and the hand on your face flexes like he's tempted to squeeze. Like he might sink his fingers in hard enough to leave bruises while he pulls you in closer.

"No." 

All of a sudden, you're standing in front of a yawning precipice. A chasm that runs deep. One that if you dare to step forward and plummet, you might not come back out the same. But the trepidation that might have held you back once seems to thaw. Snow bared to smoldering coals. 

"Is there some way that you might be able to forgive me?" 

You hardly recognize yourself. The voice that reaches your ears is hardly your own. You've teased him before but never like this. All of the taunts that you've snubbed at him in the past have been out of irritation or a playful malice, but this is provocative. Saturated with something hungry and wanting. You don't even know what you're doing at this point. But that's a complete lie isn't it. You know exactly what you're doing, you just don't want to admit it. To confront how debased you've become by nothing more than the weight of his hand. 

For one dreadful minute, he's silent. It makes your stomach drop. You second guess everything in a matter of seconds. Terrified that maybe you've stupidly misread the signals you though he was sending. That you were seeing things that weren't really there — that you've gone and made a damned fool of yourself. 

You almost pull away entirely, jerk out from his grasp, but then you feel it. His thumb moves. A light glide, dragging over your cheek, navigating softly. It's almost agonizing how slowly he trails it over your face, as though he's memorizing the feel of your skin, leaving fire in its wake. And then his thumb settles, right there along the corner of your mouth to tease over the shape of your lower lip. Feeling you in a way he never has before. Intimately. With a quiet admiration. 

It's not even intentional when your jaw parts open, tongue lapping like he might actually let you taste him, but the press of his thumb doesn't move from where he's left it. It leaves you starved for it. Longing for the simple taste of his skin. 

This whole thing has gotten out of control. You aren't sure how you've even managed to find yourself here, but all of your shame has apparently left your body because you hardly care. There's no humiliation stinging at your cheeks, no worry shrieking from the fringes of your mind. There's only him. 

"Is that what you'd like to do?" He asks, and it's layered in mockery. Scathing in that gentle way of his. It makes your body burn. "Apologize properly?" 

You have no idea what 'properly' entails, but it your imagination runs wild with the possibilities. Each one lewder and filthier than the last. It should cloud you with mortification, but it doesn't. Because this isn't the first time your mind has been flooded with obscene images, all revolving around Tamsy, the very guy that you've been futilely trying to convince yourself to hate. Endlessly feeding yourself the unfounded notion that he can't be trusted. And yet nearly every night, while you're alone and too awake to properly fall asleep, the fantasies always creep in. Involuntary and pornographic. You can't even get yourself off anymore without picturing that it's his hands coasting over your body, playing with you just right and not your own. 

You don't fight it. Not like you used to. You tried hard in the past not to visualize him. It used to feel dirty and wrong, imagining your co-worker while you had yourself spread open on your bed, fingers working deep inside of your cunt, but it couldn't be helped. An incurable sickness. One that couldn't be shaken by reason or denial. The guilt, the shame was never enough to keep your mind from taunting you, bleaching images of him across your eyes. Always him. 

So you shouldn't be surprised that you've found yourself here. Maybe this was always bound to happen. You were just resisting the inevitable, fighting an uphill battle all this time. 

"Yes," you answer. Something inside you seems to fall loose at the admittance. A strip of armor cracking and falling, exposing the tender sinew that lies beneath. 

His eyes are there, even in the dark, made visible only by how near he is to you. His attention has a weight of its own. He's studying you, watching like you're the most fascinating thing in the world, pinned under his palm. When his thumb begins to move again, slipping around the center of your bottom lip, you feel as though you're being tested. Like he's waiting to see if you'll flinch or yield. But you don't. 

You meet his stare through the shadows, and lean into the pressure of his touch. A challenge going unsaid. A soft noise leaves him, something like a sigh, barely heard under the wailing of the storm and the metallic whine of the shack shifting and breathing beneath its angry squalling. But you manage to hear it regardless, the anticipation held inside the sound of it. 

His thumb pushes in your mouth, and all of your thoughts draw down into a blank. The weight of it drags over your tongue, the traces of salt on his skin spreading across your palate. Your jaw drops further, letting him press it in deeper until the second knuckle sits right against your lips, and then he just holds it there. His other fingers are still spanned across your face, curling around the hinge of your jaw to keep you still. Not that you have any desire to slip away from him now. 

Something about him like this, thumb held in your mouth, staring at you with an intensity that burrows down into your bones makes you realize how alone you are out here. It's just you and him, hidden underneath the cover of a violent storm. He could do whatever he wanted to you out here, and no none would be able to save you. It's a thought that would have haunted you before, it still might deep down, but in a way that's completely twisted, it's also thrilling. 

You can't keep yourself from sealing your lips around his thumb and sucking. Lapping the tip of your tongue around the length of it with a contented hum. 

He doesn't so much as twitch. He remains composed, annoying unaffected. But you can see the faintest glimmer of it in the dark. Smoldering in his stare, lurking within his flat stare. Hunger. 

"Are you actually going to listen? You didn't earlier today, running headfirst into danger like a common idiot."

The thumb in your mouth presses down more, almost painful in its pinch, the pressure sitting right on the edge of being uncomfortable, but you don't allow yourself to jerk beneath it. You stay firm, suctioning your mouth around it as best as you can, your throat bobbing while you swallow down the spit that's begun to pool behind your teeth. 

"You deserve to be reprimanded, don't you think." But it isn't a question. He's not really asking at all. It's embarrassing how it makes the nerves across your body light up, pale tension coiling deep inside the base of your stomach. Whatever shred of resistance your psyche might have been holding onto evaporates, tugged easily from the back of your mind like the threads of sun-bleached satin clutched in a controlling grip. Roots plucked from soil. 

You don't remove your mouth from his thumb, you keep it there. Opting instead to answer him in an agreeing hum, nodding your head in confirmation, and the motion has your lips dragging up and down the finger in a lazy glide. Softly fucking it on your tongue like you would a cock. 

His eyes blaze despite the schooled expression on his face. The only indication that you've had any impact on him at all. It has satisfaction curling around your spine, smoky and languid. 

"We could keep this mouth of yours busy," he supplies conversationally, but it's mean spirited. All mockery because he's still got your mouth occupied, stuffed full around the gag of his thumb. "But something tells me you'd enjoy that too much. It would make a lousy punishment for someone so desperate." 

The point of his thumb bears down on the flat of your tongue. Enough that pain smarts, darting across the sensitive nerves, bright and sharp. You almost wince, tears threatening to well up along the corner of your vision, but you level yourself through the sting. Determined to keep your composure, to deny him the satisfaction of seeing you tremble. 

"Wouldn't it?" He asks, tilting his head inquisitively. He doesn't wait for you to even attempt to answer. He does that for you, using the leverage of the grip his still has around your face to nod your head for you. 

It's sadistic. Arrogant. A side of Tamsy that you've never witnessed. Even during your little spats he's hardly been comparable to something like this. He may get annoyed, voice clipped and strained with exasperation, but he'd never been so needlessly cruel. 

And somehow, you like it. You actually like it. 

"Hmm." His voice glides out, silk coasting on air. It makes you thrum with anticipation, every ounce of you electrified with what he might possibly do to you, but then he's retracting his thumb from your mouth, intentionally smearing spit across your lips as he does it. You feel dazed, and it has you struggling to track him once he moves, abruptly standing up from how he was crouched in front of you. His body unfurls in the dark, the pale hue of his dual-toned hair shifting from how he cocks his head and appraises you. 

You probably look pathetic. Eyes glazed over, mouth parted from how you pant around your stuttering breath. You're thankful once again that it's too gloomy in here to properly see all the proper details because you must be a dazed mess, and he hasn't done anything to you yet. 

"Stand up." That all he says to you before he steps away, footsteps brushing along the floor as he returns back over the other side of the room, reclaiming his seat on the tattered sofa. 

You just sit there, for a second or a few minutes, you can't exactly tell. Time seems to blur into an undefined circle. A thought forms, temporary, as delicate as mist. Are you really going to do this? 

Once you open this door, once you step past its threshold, there will be no going back. You won't be able to turn around a pretend that it never happened. When it's done, it's done. You'll have to live with the truth of it. That you've seen Tamsy in a way that you've never imagined you actually would. Remembering how his skin tasted on your tongue, the heat of it, how his voice sounded in your ears, degrading and smooth. That's all it takes for you to have your answer. To make a decision. You shed the final remnants of your hesitation and stand. 

You cross the space dividing you carefully. Treading slowly as though he's a threat that might strike. But he remains poised, trained on you as you draw closer. You don't let yourself stop until you're directly in front of him.  

He considers you for a moment, lashes low while he stares, a lazy kind of focus. Unbothered and appeased. Like a predator that's convinced its prey to walk directly into its open maw. 

"You're going to strip yourself of your clothes and then you're going to lie down across my lap." It's matter of fact, delivered as though it's a future that's already been done. As though he's managed to peek inside of your mind and found that you won't resist him. That for all of your bite, all of the petty arguments you've entertained in the past, here and now, he's got you pliant. Or that's what he believes, at least.

"And if I don't?" You challenge, brows raising even though he probably isn't able to fully see it. 

"Then you get nothing." And with that he snuffs out whatever little bit of superiority you had. Out like a light. It's not cold per say, it's just said with the briskness of someone who's already made their mind up. A person who won't be dissuaded and you hate it because you know that Tamsy isn't the kind of individual who relents easily. You'll have to play by his rules or not at all. 

"I always knew you wanted to get me naked, Tamsy." You're reaching for security at this point, falling back into the safety of your usual dynamic to try and keep yourself from feeling so unmoored. 

"Well, the same could be said about you, couldn't it? After all, our rooms are right next each other, and the walls seem so terribly thin sometimes, don't they." 

You think your heart quits beating. It's pulse hiccupping inside of your chest before flatlining all together. Horror drapes over your body like a second skin, too tight and itching, made worse by the embarrassment that sinks down to your gut like a rock.

"What the hell are you talking about?" 

He's smiling now, the bastard. "Oh, was I not supposed to hear? What a shame, you sounded so pretty saying my name like that. And here I thought you were putting on a show just for me." He pretends to be hurt, voice raising in a playful but biting lilt. 

Your mouth opens to defend yourself, to call him out on being a pervert, but the words never leave your mouth. It would be another case of the pot calling the kettle black. You realistically couldn't accuse him of being a creep without owning the fact that you really weren't any different, getting yourself off to thought of a co-worker who you had assumed was ignorant to your perversions. But it makes you both a little depraved, doesn't it. Dirty. And you like it, knowing that the each time you've been in your room, toying with your own body, pumping your fingers inside of yourself, he's been on the other side of the wall. Hanging onto each sound and muffled moan, just as eager and wanting. 

He pats his lap invitingly, the soft thump of fabric on fabric rustling beneath the wailing tempest. "Come one now, there's no need to be shy." 

You don't allow yourself to hesitate, fueled only by the desire to prove to him that you aren't some timid thing that he can humiliate and back into a corner. You make steady work of your uniform, working on your coat first, shedding it from your shoulders and allowing it to fall to the floor behind you. It meets the wooden boards with a dull thump. The tight fit of your undershirt comes next. Slipped over your head and discarded alongside your coat. 

You're emboldened by the dark. To him, you must be nearly undiscernible, made from shadows and the weak traces of light that have been begun to peek through the barricaded windows. You don't waver or worry about how your body might look; you only focus on your current goal. 

You work your boots off next, sliding them to side with the nudge of your foot so that your pants will be able to pool down freely around your ankles once you unzip them. You thumb them off alongside your underwear, hooking your fingers through the elastic band and the belt loops to aid you in rucking them past the shape of your hips. Once they're around your feet, you slip them from around your ankles and step out of them. 

Now you're completely naked. Bare with only the exception of your choker, the temperature cold on your neck. His blood is housed inside the cord, clasped directly around your throat, and the thought of that alone turns you on more than it should. Carrying a piece of him always, secure around your flesh. 

You don't give yourself the chance to think any longer. If you think, you'll hesitate, and there's no place for that now. 

He pulls his arms from his lap when you lean over him, allowing you to plant one of your knees on the sofa, using the support to begin settling yourself over his thighs. You hold your breath when you stretch yourself over him, stomach balled into knots with the suspense of it all, the vulnerability of it. You're right on top of him, so close that your body thrums with the proximity. Everything in you is pulled taut, muscles bunched, lungs tight. 

He gives you the curtesy of getting comfortable at your own pace. Remaining silent as you settle on your knees and elbows, smoothing your body downward until your stomach is stretched flat upon his lap, snug within the cradle of his thighs and torso. You fold your arms over the other, using it as a way to rest and prop your head, cheek pillowed on the length of your forearms. 

He hums like he's content once you go still. A syrupy sound that pours from him like honey. The graze of his hand follows soon after, the curl of his knuckles and thumb gliding exploratorily down back of your neck to tease across the divot of your spine. It's the kind of touch that someone would hold something delicate with, porcelain or fine glass. Handled with reverence, as though you might shatter into a thousand tiny shards if he were to be too harsh. And it continues downward, sweeping low until he's curiously palming the swell of your ass. Somehow, it doesn't even feel sexual. It's appreciative, like an artist molding clay with their fingertips. 

It has something guarded but soft splitting apart inside of you, weeping open with the desire to be held and cradled. A gasp escapes you without you meaning for it to happen, shuddering and dim. As though even your body was reluctant to release it, but it couldn't be contained. The warmth of his palm sweeps over you, fingertips tracing over your hips and ass, tensing to grope and squeeze at the fat. 

You didn't expect to be handled this carefully, and if you weren't in the right head space, it might have broken you. 

"How many do you think we should do." It's murmured in a way that you know isn't truly directed at you, a musing only for himself. Coasting over the form of your body like satin. "How about four. One for each beast you tried to face without thinking. Hm, no. That seems too easy." His pats you on your right cheek, deceptively gentle considering what he has in store for you. "Let's double it then. Eight strikes in total for misbehaving. You'll be able to handle that, won't you?" 

You're already wet and it's humiliating. Arousal damp, leaving your pussy to clench around nothing. 

"Yes, I can handle it," you choke out. 

"Really. Let's test that, shall we."

You don't get to linger on how the tone of his voice spikes, raising the slightest degree with what sounds suspiciously like delight. You hear the impact before you feel it. A sharp, pronounced crack that splits across the heady air like kindling being broken over a knee. And then comes the pain. White-hot, doused over your nerves in a rush that throbs. 

It has you more shocked than anything. You expected him to take things slow, to work you up into it, but maybe you were just being delusional for trying to convince yourself of that. The way he had dug his thumb onto your tongue earlier should have proof enough that he wasn't going to be sweet. He's bearing his full weight into his arm. Hitting you strongly enough that you know you'll be tender after this, skin inflamed and sore. Covered with bruises that will take weeks to heal. 

"What the fuck, Tamsy—" 

"Is it too much for you?" He asks, but there isn't an ounce of care to heard. It's all mockery. Gloating sadism. 

"No," you grit through clenched teeth. 

"Good. Then start counting." 

You center yourself with a deep breath, stilling yourself as the flare of pain decreases and melts into a raw pleasure. Violent but blissful in its own right.

"One— "

He doesn't let you get the first number out before he's striking you with the second blow, palm flat and harsh, brought down directly over the same cheek that he's already hit. Absolutely determined to leave you tender, wracked with pain and pleasure. It makes you toes curl, muscles flexing as the hurt sears through you. 

"Two." You spit it out like its toxic and dig your nails into the sofa's worn fabric in a feeble attempt to brace yourself. 

"There you go," he coos. "So you can be good. You just need a little directing. A firm hand to keep you in check." 

His words, as much as they piss you off, reach some needy part of you. The one that longs to please, to be wanted and kept. Captured and embraced. A feeble thing, starved for attention. The musical cadence drips inside your ear like sap, saccharin and intoxicating. You find yourself arching your back, spine bowing to press it against the palm of his hand when he sweeps it over your ass, soothing and irritating your screaming nerves all at once. 

His sweetness is temporary. In a blink, he draws his arm back and brings it down where you're still raw, one, two strikes in quick succession. It douses you in liquid fire, a burn that has more cum smearing down your inner thighs, soaked and shameless. It ebbs through in deep, vibrant rolls, cresting over the other, and you have to concentrate to breathe through it. Manually urging your lungs to expand and contract around the air. 

Through the haze you just barely remember to count the two hits. You breathe around your voice, a trembling noise that sounds pathetic to your own ears, but your mind has become too muddled for you to truly care about things like pride. Your ego having been weighed down, buried underneath the brutal ecstasy boiling through your veins, clouding your skull in an intoxicating vapor. 

"Look at you, you're already halfway there," he says, managing to praise and degrade you in a single purr. "Such a pretty thing for me." 

You moan without meaning to. The sound is more of hitch. A strangled whine, but it pours out you anyway, lewd and punched out. Everything about it is jarring. The noises coming out of you, the sting of his hand, this entire interaction. It's all unexpected. Never in a million years would you have imagined that you would actually end up here, naked and laid out on Tamsy's lap in the middle of sandstorm. It almost makes you laugh, delirious, but you swallow it down before it can escape. 

He's like a juxtaposition. Balanced dangerously between tender and malicious. He's usually so soft spoken and demure, you should have known he'd be a sadist—

He traces a finger over your pussy, gliding it down over your entrance to soak it in your arousal. It's dirty how he smears it, a second finger joining in to crudely slip over your clit and then back up again. Back and forth, over and over, feeling the way you involuntarily clench around nothing when he circles the tips over your hole, spreading you open. You're so soaked that you can hear it, how wet it is. 

You nearly get lost in it, hips lifting on their own to chase after the pleasure, but you should have known better. You should have expected it. His fingers leave you, and you aren't able to mourn the loss, to complain like you want to. He touches you again, but it isn't with a hand that gives. It isn't gentle or rewarding. It's an open palm, flat and firm, brought down directly against your cunt. 

It's molten. Light explodes behind your eyelids — you hadn't realized you'd squeezed them shut from the impact — bright and searing, the blaze of a thousand suns. The hit seems to reverberate through you, sparking through your blood and setting your skin ablaze in a confused torrent of a rapturous torment. It is painful, but truly it's the surprise of it that really gets you, muddling every thought in your brain, burning them down into ash, insignificant. Leaving you dazed and helpless, caught within the cage of his body while everything seems to roll through your entire being. 

You're tempted to lash out at him, to call him out for neglecting to at least give you a proper head's up, but the words melt on your tongue, turning into another useless whine. 

". . . asshole." That's all you can manage. A weak insult on a shuddering breath. 

His free hand settles on the back of your neck, fingers looping around your choker and gripping it until the cord hugs your throat, making your lungs feel tight, airways shallowly restricted from the pressure. It makes you lightheaded. 

"No, I don't think that's the word you're looking for. Did you forget to keep count?" He taunts. Sharp teeth disguised behind the veil of geniality. "If you can't remember, then maybe we should start over all again. Give you the chance to get it right." 

Alarm reaches you despite the haze, lighting splitting through fog. Your head tries to tilt, just enough for you to glare at him from over your shoulder but the press of his hand on your choker keeps you pinned. Cheek held down on the couch from where it's slipped off of the folded support of your forearms, skin shoved on worn polyester. You can just barely make him out from the corner of your peripheral vision if you strain enough, and your eyes meet his over the slope of your shoulder. They're just as tranquil and unfazed as they always are, pale in the darkness, watching you with the relaxed satisfaction of a predator that's got its pray trapped between its claws. 

A taunt is right there, on the tip of your tongue. Burning hot like the point of a heated poker, but the insult never comes. Instead, there's a shaky exhale, and then: "Five." 

Disappointment echoes through you, scathing like a venom, but it's vanquished just as quickly as it appeared. Extinguished underneath the tide of pleasure that froths up when you see how gratified he looks when you give him the response he wanted. He's smiling, like the smarmy jack ass he is. It's one you've never seen on him before. There's an element about it that's alarming, lips pulled just a bit too wide to seem normal. Stretched to a degree that hangs on the fringes of the uncanny valley. Gloating, arrogant, inhuman. Eyes glinting with a fervid contentment. The expression of someone who's relishing in the sight of you vulnerable, quaking from the rousing blend of pleasure and pain.

You've seen him smile before, of course, but never anything like this. They're always soft, pleasant, showing a kind of quiet restraint and manners. Nothing like this, all sharp edged and cruel spirited. But some twisted little part of you, small and buried deep behind your ribcage, seated between the crevice of your lungs and sinew, likes it. It would creep you out — it should, but you're already a lost cause. You were since the moment he held your face with his hand. Probably further than that, honestly. All those quiet moments in the bar, sipping on bad booze and lazing in each other's company, every time he's protected you against trash beasts and traffickers, have all lead to this and you were just too blind to see it.

He had you from the very start. 

His fingers caress between the apex of your thighs, calming the sting he made. The cool temperature of them is a balm on the ache, and you can't help the way your eyelashes flutter, how you sigh in relief when deft fingertips trace low to circle your clit. The pleasure melts through you, draining the tension from your muscles. You go lax across his lap instantly, turned docile with only a few nimble strokes of his fingertips. 

"See. This is how things can be when you don't act like a brat."

You hum in response. The scowl you meant to flash him ruined by how your eyes squeeze shut instead. Lulled into a stupor by the way he's still pulling at the choker around your neck, keeping it firm around the base of your throat, and the steady rhythm of his fingers on your clit has your reasoning turning liquid. 

"But you've only got three more to go. Keep being good for me, and I might just reward you after." He leans in just a little then. Enough that you can feel the strands of his navy hair tickle over the flat of your back, drawing out a shudder that trembles through your bones. "Do you think you can manage that?" 

"Yes." 

"Yes, what?" 

Your brows cinch close, lips parting dumbly. It's instinctual to want to snark back. And there's bubbling under the surface, and you can tell he can see what you're contemplating. Recognition dances in his eyes. It isn't frustrated but delighted. Like the prospect of you defying him would only entertain him. The temptation to oppose him is there. To offer some scathing jibe.

But it doesn't come. You're shocked by the discovery, how the vexed heat beneath your skin simmers and dies. You're tired of the constant fighting. The resistance, the battle you've been ceaselessly struggling against. For just this once, if only for an hour or few minutes, you'd like to simply exist. You don't want to think, you want to feel. 

Your gaze softens, the fire in your eyes reduced to sparks that extinguish into cinder. You swallow unsteadily around the saliva that's pooled inside your mouth, and the flex of your throat strains against the restriction of the choker. "Yes, sir." 

"There's my good girl. I knew she was in there, buried down behind all of those petty insults, the stupid fighting. You really needed this, didn't you?" Something like a laugh puffs from him then, pleased with himself. "Well, I suppose I don't have to ask that. I already know you did with how often I got to hear you moaning my name like some cheap slut late at night. All worked up over your fingers. I wonder what you'll sound like on mine." 

Of course that's when he chooses to slip them inside of you, two at once, agile and long, stretching you open. You gasp into the sofa, a ragged moan, drawn out like you've been wounded breaks from you. Your cunt spasms at the abruptness of it but ultimately yields to the intrusion. You're so wet already that they slide in without any resistance, your body giving in. Your hips move on their own, gingerly rolling to try and build the pleasure deeper. 

He's hard. You can feel him right there against your stomach, prodding at you through the thick layers of his clothes, and you can't help but to loathe the fact that he's still wearing them. You don't want to get your hopes up, but he feels heavy, long based on how the length of his cock spans along the shape of your abdomen. 

Your jaw drops when he curls his fingers and strokes them in further, and it feels so good. Each brush and crook building up a delicious euphoria that flows through you, thick and smoky. Every drag earns another noise, low and thin, but you can't keep them back. It all floods from you uninhibited, spilling like wine from a tipped over chalice. And it makes you greedy, spine bowing into a bigger arch, arms lifting as much as he'll allow to push yourself back on the stretch of his fingers. When you moan this time, it's not another insult, but his name. Spoken out on the foggy atmosphere as though it were a prayer. 

"Knew you'd sound prettier like this," he hums. "Those pathetic fingers of yours just weren't cutting it, were they." 

But his generosity is temporary; it always comes at a price. His fingers are gone, slipped out of you without a single warning, and the gutted sob that leaves you is pitiful. There's no chance to mourn the loss or to curse him for it. The weight of his palm connects with the swell of your ass with a sharp impact, one that leaves you reeling, nails clawing at the sofa to cling for a shred of stability. 

"Six," you hiccup. The word leaves you without a single thought, as though it's become instinct. Second nature. 

"Very good." Simple praise, but you're suspended on it. 

The next comes just as swift, just as brutal as the previous. Except it hits lower, right there over the back of your pussy where he still has your thighs spread open. It makes your teeth clench, involuntarily writhing as the affects of it lash through you, making your eyes roll when you shudder. The grip he has on your choker keeps you centered through the barrage. The fingers he has around the cord release so that he can sweep them over the nape of your neck, reverent in its touch. 

"Seven." 

Anticipation draws up in the pit of your belly, it pools down between your thighs, and you want it so badly. The hurt is rapturous, the ache made from the first blow merging and growing when he delivers the final hit. It lands directly over your cunt, the splay of his fingers sparking a heat over your clit that's so intense, you swear you almost come. 

You body clenches like it just might, pleasure lapping through your marrow, twisting like a hot coil in the cradle of your hips, but the release never crests. It just stays there, holding you in an awful limbo. One with no beginning or end. You're stuck, right on the precipice of ecstasy. So close that you can taste it, vivid and bright, but just outside of your reach. 

"Eight," you manage. Watery from unshed tears. You don't even realize that you've started begging until you feel your voice reverberating through your throat, airy and desperate. A string of, "Please, Tamsy. Please, I wan' it." 

"You do, do you?" He asks, but it's performative. Meant to humiliate you more than you already are. But you can't manage to be humiliated at all with how starved you become for it, soaked and aching. "You want me fuck you. Think you've earned it?" 

You're nodding, no contemplating, no hesitation. "Yes. Yes, please. I'll be good. I swear." 

It's quiet for too long, and his hands don't move. Firm around your neck, the other traces unintelligible shapes and symbols on your ass, making the tender flesh more sensitive, aggravating the nerves. You hiss at the throb, but you don't flinch. You're too focused on the moment, of the feel of him under you, the steady fluctuation of his chest rising and falling, the warmth of him. Grounding, pleasant. And yet it manages to slip your notice that his hands have shifted until it's too late. 

In a disorienting blur he's shoving you further up the couch, using the gap between your bodies to lift himself out from underneath you. The material of his uniform rustles and drags over the sofa, the heavy drape of his coat framing your waist as he leans over your back. His hands are hot and rigid when they close around your hips, latching onto you with the strength of steel bands, enabling him to use the leverage to jerk them up. Guiding your spine into a pronounced arch, giving you no option but to hold yourself up on the support of your knees so that you don't completely collapse in a lust drunk sprawl. 

He completely folds himself over you, nudging his head next yours, tracing the point of his nose against your temple. An action so tender that it makes you ache far more than his hand did. His cock drags against your pussy, bare and thick — when the hell did he even pull down his pants? — smearing your arousal over its length. Getting it wet and sloppy, and teasing you all at once. 

"If you want it so badly," he pants. "Then take it." His teeth nip at your ear just as he lines up the tip with your pussy and sinks in until his hips are flush with the backs of your thighs. He's so much bigger than you expected, stretching you open, spreading you thin on the length of him. And then you feel it — or them, rather. The rounded points of three individual bars, smooth metal, rubbing across the tight clench of your cunt as he drives himself inside of you, so deep that it robs you of oxygen. 

Piercings. 

Of course he has his dick pierced. 

They feel far better than they have any right to be, providing a texture that you didn't think you ever needed. He fucks himself into you in heavy strokes. Driving so deep that you frantically search for something to hold onto, a single hand blindly reaching in the dark, fingers grasping for anything to hold. When his hand finds yours, straying from the vice grip it has your waist to hold your palm, it's unexpected. Too intimate for whatever this is, but you cling to him regardless, unable to resist. 

"Tamsy, I— fuck." 

"Just like that, pretty girl." His voice sinks in, hypnotic, tantalizing. "Be good for me and take every inch just like a good slut should." 

He fucks you like he's angry. Quick, brutal thrusts as though he's trying to carve himself inside of you. Wet sounds echo throughout the shack, loud and filthy over the howl of the wind. Filling your ears with the crude smack of skin on skin — a damp plap, plap, plap, accompanied by his panting and your unrestrained moans. All of it reverberates off of the metal walls, a ceaseless echo. It's all you can hear, all you can feel is him, inside of you, around you. You still taste the salt of his skin on your tongue, and it makes you crave more. 

Your hips lift, greedy to meet the pace he's set, to bring you both pleasure. Pain flares across the tender skin of your ass each time he drives into you, the press of his body amplifying the raw heat sizzling over the inflamed flesh. But the ache of it also intensifies the pleasure. It has it twisting in your stomach, an unforgiving knot, lightning spiraling in taut loops. 

You aren't going to last long. You know you aren't; you can feel it. He's worked you up so much already. Shoved you close to that delicious edge with every strike he left on your ass. The bruises that are forming, the tender skin, it all licks through you. The rawness of it hums at your clit. It's like you're being consumed. Eaten alive by the pleasure and pain that seems to douse every inch of you. He has you eclipsed inside of him, the bliss he feeds you, the curl of his body over yours. It's almost too much, but also not enough, and yet you can already feel the orgasm welling up inside of you, blazing, picking you apart piece by piece. 

You try to stave it off as best as you can. You don't want it. Not yet. Not so soon, but it's persistent, pooling inside of you like molten honey pouring through your blood stream. Your fingers clench around his hand like it might save you. 

"Tamsy, wait, I don't — not yet, please." 

"You gonna come?" His voice curls in your ear, condescending and smooth like silk. "But we just started. So pitiful, baby." 

He's so cruel, you should have expected it as soon as the hand around your waist vanished. It's back on you less than a second later, shoved directly between your thighs, fingers pressed on your clit. 

"Wait," you plead. But he doesn't stop, and it's too late. 

You're wound up so tight that all it takes is a few sweeps of those fingertips, the vigorous thrust of his cock splitting you open, the press of his piercings dragging over your walls. You get taken under without any time to brace for it. Abrupt and violent. Everything in you seizes as though you've been electrified, muscles bunching up viciously. Your pussy clenches around him in a vice grip, squeezing to wring out every ounce of bliss from your body, and it makes your lungs too tense to properly breathe. Stars cloud your vision, iridescent and flashing against the dark. Vibrant from how floaty your head has become, thoughts muffled. 

Still, you notice through it all, that he's not stopping. He hasn't come yet. 

The pleasure is dulling, and what takes its place is too tender and sharp. He's merciless, fucking you despite your hypersensitivity, relentless even when your hips writhe in an impulsive attempt to try and escape the onslaught. 

"It's too much." 

He lets go of your hand, prying it from your fingers and that makes you whine more than the mean way he's toying with your clit. There's no opportunity to gulp down a proper breath, to plead or beg him for reprieve. His free arm hooks around your ribs, as giving as a band of iron, to haul you up and onto your knees. Fully drawing you into the press of his chest, pinning you onto his body while he drives up into you. No where to run or move. There's not an ounce of give within his hold on you. All you can do is take it, reduced to little more than a doll for him to fuck. 

His chin hooks over your shoulder, nose dragging over your cheek when the fervor behind his thrusts jostles you both. Something about the angle has him brushing a little deeper, and the head of his cock strikes that debilitating spot inside of you. The one that makes your spine bow and toes curl. 

"You'll come as many times as I want you to." He angles his head lower, lips tracing over sweat-damp skin, and then his jaw is parting open. Teeth sink into flesh. The agony that rips through your split nerves is so awful that the way your pussy clenches tight around his cock almost seems like a betrayal. It shouldn't feel good. You shouldn't like how it throbs with hurt, but you do. The euphoria of it simmers in your stomach, it splashes like a galaxy behind your eyelids, and you whine liked you've been gutted open. 

There's a reprimand in the strength of his bite. A claim too, unspoken and hedonistic. It feels like he's cutting his name into you, making a pact with blood and teeth. It confronts you with a reality that you hadn't bothered to ponder until now. What comes after this. How things will be when the high is over and you're both left to face the consequences of what you've done. It leaves you with the horrendous truth that you don't think you'll be able to pretend that this never happened. Now that you've had him like this, breathless in your ears, covered in a sheen of sweat, speaking words to you that you've only ever imagined, there's no way you'll be able to forget it. This. Him. 

Your neck goes slack, head lolling onto his shoulder. Your arm feels shaky when you lift it, bones gone lax and useless but you don't let it stop you from raising it up to thread your fingers through his hair. It twines through your grasp like silken threads, water spilling through a tense palm. You don't think when you nudge at his head, urging him to release the pinch of his jaw from around your shoulder. Thankfully he relents, allowing you to guide his head at an angle, and you lean your own so that you can press your lips to his blood stained mouth. 

He groans. A throaty noise that tapers off into what could have been a whine. He doesn't pull away like some tiny part of you, briefly ignored by your impulses, had feared. He leans into it, matching your fervent rhythm and then surpassing it, dominating the metallic kiss through an exchange of nipping teeth and the sweep of tongue. Licking into your mouth as though he wants to drink you down. It's sloppy, a little crazed. It's not the kind of kiss you would have initially expected from Tamsy. You always imagined a reverential restraint, prim and gentle, lightly teasing. But this is sybaritic and ravenous. 

There's a violence to it, as though you're both trying to consume the other, sinking your teeth into the plush of the others lips. Determined to leave a mark. To stake a claim on each other's bodies. Unified by animalistic desperation. But under the frenzy of it, there is an adoration. It's worship made from the scrape of canines and the smear of spit. It's raw, unrestrained, and in the display of unrestricted lust, is true devotion. 

The weight of it splits you apart from the inside. It caves your chest in, turns you vulnerable and bare. But you can't stop. Can't shy away or flee within the safety of yourself. You let it all spill over you, the piety and the affection you feel, as dangerous and startling as it is. Even if it destroys you from the inside out, eats you like a disease, you know you won't stop wanting him now. 

You're not in love with him. Not yet, but you're already somewhere hazardously close to it. Balanced precariously on the fringes. One misstep or push and you'll collapse right into its unforgiving embrace. 

You want him to devour you whole. You want to swallow him down until you bleed into each other. 

The grip you have weaved through his hair tightens, nails clawing down his scalp enough that it must sting. He hisses into your mouth, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he kisses you deeper, his hips drive into you harder, splitting you open on his cock like he wants to wedge himself inside of you permanently. 

"Tamsy," you slur, tongue stolen by how he traces it with his own. "Please, I wanna come again. I need it, I want you to fill me up." 

"Is that what you want," he murmurs against your lips, the chilled metal of his piercing a shock on your heated, bitten mouth. "But I thought you couldn't handle it. 'It's too much.'" It's a patronizing mimicry of your voice, pitched high and whiney. But you can hear it, how equally affected he is. Breathless and trembling. 

It's difficult to be annoyed by his mockery, irritation dwindling into nothing when he draws his fingers around your clit in tight loops, reducing your thoughts into incomprehensible mush. You jerk, still teetering between a limbo of hypersensitivity and the need for more. More friction, more pleasure, more pain, more him. 

"I know," you gasp, ribs shuddering from the full body tremble he wrangles from you, keeping you full and spread thin on his girth. The three piercings lined down his cock drag inside of you, brushing up against tender spots, places you didn't realize you had and your eyes nearly go cross from it. "I didn't mean it. I need you, need you to make me come, please." You pepper kisses along the cushion of his lips, soft and adoring, tilting your head back a little further to trail them over and past the corner of his mouth, feeling the texture of his scars. The angle is hell on your neck, straining the muscles, but you can't be bothered to care. Your voice trickles out, a hushed, shameless stream of "Please, please, please, please." 

"Should have known you'd be this way. All that snark you always like to give me; you just needed to have it fucked out of you." He groans when your fingers snag at his hair, his hips twitch. "I should keep you like this all the time, pinned down on my cock. Maybe I'd even use Tokushin on you. Have you all bound up and pretty for me." 

Your cunt seizes tight around him, muscles flexing while you moan. The thought of it and the persistent strum of his fingers, the roll and grind of his hips has you going dumb. 

"Of course you'd like that. You'd let me do anything I wanted to you." 

You nod, the movement sluggish and loose, like a bobble head. 

"Go on then. Let me see how pretty you are when you come." 

It tears through you then, inevitable, bigger than the previous. It engulfs you in its scope, sweeps you under, stronger than the storm raging outside. Your hips jerk, spine arching while you squirm against the band of his arm around your torso. It keeps you trapped. Forced to feel every ounce of pleasure, every inch of his cock as it fucks up into you. 

You hear yourself sob from it all. A warbled cry of his name as the ecstasy shreds through you. He groans when your pussy bears down on him, locking him inside to draw out your pleasure. And he doesn't stop either, urging you through your orgasm while chasing after his own. You can hear how wrecked he is, just barely concealing his fracturing composure behind tight gasps and thin whines. Whispering in your ear to guide you through it, hushed praises of "Let yourself have it" and "Keep going. Keep fucking yourself on it, pretty girl."

His fingertips keep stroking over your clit, steady circles that have you seeing stars, making your cunt tighter and sloppy with your cum. And then his hips are lurching, pace made choppy, bouncing you up and down on his length to chase after his own end. He reaches it just as yours begins to ebb, coming deep inside of you with a guttural moan that fades in a hitched whimper. The warmth of his release pulses through you, reaching deep and settling at the seat of your stomach, pooling inside. 

He grinds into you, drawing out your shared pleasure for as long as he can, keeping you both floating and intoxicated on the high of it. He stops only once it becomes uncomfortable, the blissful heat fading into something that's too much, too raw for either of you to handle. Both of his arms draw close, encircling your middle, and he drops his head to scatter open mouthed kisses over the wound on your shoulder. Apologetic, doting.

You're too exhausted to move. Panting and loose-limbed, sated with a satisfaction that's rooted in bone deep. You don't resist when he slips himself from you, though it's uncomfortable to enough to make you hiss. The combination of your cum drips from you, smearing down the inside of your thighs, wet and filthy, but you don't voice any complaints. You don't care to despite how gross it feels. You're still happy regardless, shrouded in a fine mist of your elation, body thrumming with balmy aftershocks. 

You half expect for the atmosphere between you to turn stale and awkward. For him to nudge you away from him, indifferent now that he's gotten off, but he doesn't. Instead he's drawing you closer while he shifts to settle you both down, sorting out the curl of his limbs until he's able to comfortably splay them out. Carefully directing you until you're both reclined on the sofa, legs tangled, skin slick with sweat, curled into each other like you're the only things in the entire universe that matter anymore. 

It's a reflex for your mind to try and take off with what happens next. How this will impact your dynamic, but you shut down that stream of thoughts before they can get out of hand. Sealing them like the tightening of a valve on a faucet. You don't want face reality yet. To stress and concern yourself with the what ifs. For now, you just want to exist. To indulge in the moment, to laze in the warmth of his body against yours, even if it won't last forever. Your neck pulses with the pain of his bite, but there's no anger over the bloodied mark, just peace. The kind of calm that comes with being claimed, accepted. 

For now you can just be and bask in each other's presence, consequences be damned. 

Right now, there's only you and him. The absentminded glide of his fingers tracing down the divot of your spine, the warmth of his breath caressing the crown of your head, his heart beating vigorously under your ear. Within this pocket of space you've made for yourselves, the wind outside doesn't sound so monstrous. It's no longer the wailing of a lonely animal but a song. One made just for the both of you. 

When he speaks next, satin-soft, it's a salve on an open wound. The relief of water flowing down a parched throat, embodied as a hum caressing against your heated skin. "Let's stay like this for now. At least until the storm passes." 

You don't argue or resist. You settle, going lax, body curving to fit with his own. You can't help but to smile, your agreement going unsaid but definitely felt by how you tuck yourself into him, turning your face into the cradle of his neck, breathing in his scent. 

You can't imagine anywhere else you'd rather be right now.