Igris

Soon enough, you’re rovering your heel ambly up and down the plane of his thighs, up and down, up and down—in nothing but a mere graze. 

The tips of his ears scorch red as he feels his smart, smoothened trousers getting tighter n’ tighter by the second. Nanami fights not to let his gaze dart downwards, he fights—but the slightest sensation of your heel inching closer, and he cracks.

Soon enough, your stare follows.

And you’re letting out a curious hum as you take in the bulge he was embarrassingly sporting. 

“Oh? What’s this?” He damn-near flinches at the tone of your voice - so mockingly innocent. Nanami knew better- he knew so much better. “My portfolio never said you were such a pervert, Agent 7:3.”

He spits out, “No-”

“Yes.”

And he’s always loved those jet-black, barrel-black, heels of yours- honestly! 

They sat collecting dust in a corner of your half of the closet, and he always did think they contrasted perfectly with his pale-green suits. 

Though, he did often wonder when you’d bring them out.

He just never could’ve expected this…

Nanami lets out a pained hiss- letting his head drop backwards ever-so-slightly as you’re stepping down even harder. “Hard?” Your smile widens, feeling him throb and twitch beneath your heel. “Getting even harder? How did we ever get here, hubby—?”

How did you two ever get here, indeed.

.

.

.

Nanami remembers the pre-mission briefing perfectly- he always was told he had a photographic memory. However, the details of this particular day stand out so crystal clear in his brain that it was almost too sharp; like a rusty nail, or the point of your heel.

It’d been a sunny Thursday, even though daylight never pierced the headquarters of JISE (Japanese Intelligence Services’ Eastern-focused division). Nanami - though he wasn’t Nanami Kento, here, he was Agent 7:3 - had done this same song and dance, song and dance, song and dance over a hundred times already. It was routine as he flipped through the thick file that’d been slid over to him.

Agent Corpse [CONFIDENTIAL—Yaga Masamichi] sat with his arms crossed and a grim expression upon him that he wore nearly as much as his sunglasses. He waited patiently as Nanami finished reading through the miniscule blocked typing and looked up at him.

“So…” He started, neatly closing the file. “The mission seems standard, I don’t see why I would have any trouble with it.”

Yaga sighed and pushed his shades up, “It’s not the intelligence-gathering I see you having trouble with, rather it’s the…social aspects.”

Nanami raised a blond brow, “Social?”

“This mission-” Yaga sternly tapped the top of the file, “This isn’t one of your lone wolf operations, 7:3. To get close to the head of the Zenin family, you need to take on more roles than one. A family man. A father. A husband.”

The blond man steeped in his silence as his higher-up continued. 

“You need to really live in this role, Kento—” He was startled - Yaga almost never called him that. Through his dark sunglasses, the older man’s eyes twinkled. “You need to believe it.” 

“I…”

Without waiting for the rest of his sentence, he flicked open the file to a comprehensive list of potential orphanages and single women around his age in Tokyo: the building blocks to his faux-family. “Two people here will be counting on you to believe in your role.” Yaga spoke low, “And whatever that means for them after this mission is over…” This was always the hardest part. “From now onwards, consider yourself a husband and father before a spy. First and foremost.”

Nanami had never carried out a mission that involved other people.

And there was silence that stretched taut and nearly snapped- before Nanami answered in the only way he knew he could. 

He looked at nanami with steely brown eyes, “Respectfully, I am the best spy in all of Japan’s Eastern Division for a reason, sir.”

Yaga slammed the file shut. It resounds louder than it should’ve - and there was the slightest smile twitching at his lips. “Good.”

For the good of the nation. 

The days thereafter weren’t what Nanami would consider a blur—rather a list of procedures pertinent to his mission, of which he went through them all step by step, strictly and methodically. An exercise so tried and tired by him that he could do them in his sleep (he always slept with one eye open).

First, he rented out a nice home in suburban Shibuya, a spy’s-distance away from the Zenin ancestral home. It was a cosy cookie-cutter home for the cosy cookie-cutter life that he supposes normal civilians have the privilege to live, with cookie-cutter welcome mats and a patch of green garden from which sprouted a spare sprig that one could never be too sure wasn’t plastic. It had a dog home, too. Not because of any request or seeking from Nanami’s side, but because most families that lived in such a place owned one.

So he went out and adopted a shelter dog to keep up with appearances. 

And how to explain the mysterious funds to the nosy neighbors? Well, his cover story of living in Denmark because of his grandfather’s side could only hold up for so long - Nanami got a cover job as a psychiatrist at the nearest affluent hospital. And then…

Then came the slightly difficult part.

Nanami Kento had done research on twenty-one different orphanages in Tokyo and several more outside before he’d finally landed in Sendai. And that was where he met Itadori Yuji.

Name: Itadori Yuji.

Age: 6 [March 20th]

Family: None alive. His parents died shortly after his birth [cause unknown], and he was taken care of by his paternal grandfather - his only living family - until he, too, passed from illness [lung cancer].

Other: Has been rehomed four times in the four-month span that he’s been living at the institution. Gets along well with others, cheerful disposition—is generally a good kid, though he seems to have trouble finding a guardian that can handle his energy. No matter how much they tease and taunt him - in the cruel, unknowingly callous way of children - Itadori still attempts to engage with them day after day, particularly with his tiger toy. He just needs some love. 

Nanami’s stern eyes lingered on that last word. 

He looked up from the sheet that the caregiver had handed to him. It was the first one that he’d been given- and by the sheer speed at which they had, he assumed that they’d been more than eager to get rid of the pink-haired little boy. Nanami glanced around the cream-colored room; small and cardboard-strong. This was a shady place.

He makes note of its location and organization to pass over to Yaga later. 

Under the rim of the paper, he could see two small shoes getting scuffed on the carpet.

And as he puts it down to stare at Itadori, the boy raises his tiger toy upwards. An offering.

Wide chocolate eyes and trembling lips.

He looked as if he was about to cry.

Nanami doesn’t take the offering—though he did crouch down and reach his hand out to clasp one chubby, cotton-stuffed hand, he mimicked shaking hands. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Tiger.” Albeit a little stiffly - Nanami somewhat awkwardly attempted to smooth his features down to something warm as he looked at the boy then. “And who might you be?”

He’s never seen a smile wider.

And thus, everything was going according to plan.

There was the slightest hiccup when it turned out that Itadori Yuji needed tutoring - a lot of tutoring - that Nanami pored and labored over until he was seeing fractions in his nightmares, before he could complete the entrance exam for Jujutsu Academy. But he got in—by some cosmic miracle, Itadori Yuji got in. 

He’s never been prouder- as a fake father, of course. 

Everything really was going to plan. First came the baby, then came the prestigious school acceptance to get Itadori to form an acquaintance with Fushiguro Megumi, then came the marriage. 

A little out of order, he knows.

And then after bumping into you at the local bakery he often frequented, he knew he’d found his future wife.

Not in a romantic way—he swears! 

He swears.

“Oh…you dropped this.” You’d caught his attention in that gentle tone of yours. 

Dropping down, you’d handed him an embroidered handkerchief he’d dropped during the collision - his favorite item to carry, in addition to the fact that it had a slip of poison stuffed between the folds. One he’d been planning to use on one of the Zenin elders just today…

What would he have done without you?

Similarly crouching before you straightened yourself, Nanami had met your eyes tenderly as he took the poisoned handkerchief from you. “Thank you…and your name?”

You’d looked down shyly as you answered. Venom at your fingertips.

He killed a man that evening and could only think about you the entire time- in the best way.

Name: Well, he’d turned it over and over in his mind until it was practically emblazoned.

Age: You never ask a lady her age.

Occupation: Clerk at Tokyo City Hall.

Family/ friends: None of note.

Looks: Perfect.

And Nanami was never a romantic type of man to begin with - it was always work, work, work, espionage. And after a long, hard day of his duties (spying was surprisingly not as thrilling as the movies made it seem) he rarely had the time to think about anything more than that. Something…beyond just his responsibilities.

Something in the future. 

He knew he wanted to retire, some day, but that was in a future he didn’t care to set a date on. Setting a date on it made it seem more real.

A picket-fence. A garden. A dog running around that he pretended to grumble at. The pitter-patter of small feet and the laughing of the one that followed it—all while he watched from the front porch. Flashes of such nonsense have run through his mind; but only in the dead of night when he could pass those off as fever dreams. And pretend to forget them in the morning. 

And so Nanami Kento got married.

It was a hasty affair - about a week after he met you. Three dates and one introduction to Itadori later (it was important he liked you…because how else would the ruse of a happy family be believable?) and you were submitting a form of marriage registration to the very City Hall you worked at. New to the neighborhood, you didn’t have a lot of friends nor family to invite, which just made Nanami’s just so much easier.

To your coworkers, however, it had garnered the most amusing reaction.

Nanami had been present for a work function of yours, when you’d mustered up your courage and commented to one of your associates that he wasn’t just your boyfriend, and then you’d showed them the ring. He’s never seen more smug jaws dropped.

It’s then that he’d decided you were actually rather humorous. Humorous enough that perhaps this mission, despite its unknowing collaborators, won’t be too hellish after all…

Perhaps he’d even have a decent time playing pretend.

Before he has to leave it all - the home, the doghouse, the dog and the kid who’d be rehomed with a loving family he handpicks, and you.

.

.

.

One week before the marriage. 

“You understand that he will be the most difficult target you’ve yet to encounter?”

“I understand.”

“You understand that he is highly-trained, highly-experienced, and dangerous?”

“I understand.”

The masked higher-up straightens and snarls at your assertiveness, “You understand that your mission is not over until you’ve succeeded in assassinating Nanami Kento?”

“I understand.” But no matter how much they attempt to deter you - you’re keeping your head held as high as ever. Hands behind your back. Dagger cutting through the dim lighting with its malicious glints. After so many years in this profession, you can only grow as miserable and nerve-wracked to an extent before every target simply becomes a job.

More than that; you fume silently as those damn higher-ups at the Garden underestimate you.

The Garden was a group of specially-trained assassins operating predominantly within inner-Tokyo, though you did branch off to other wards when required. And of them all, you were their #1: the best of the best, a kill count that you’d stopped measuring, the one they sent on only the most hazardous missions. 

There was a reason you’d been nicknamed The Phantom.

Playboys. Politicians. Athletes and singers—you’ve seen it all. The good and the bad. The deserving and perhaps the undeserving- though you never pondered upon it.

They were all the same faceless, breathless targets to you. And your dagger always hit bullseye.

Sometimes, however…sometimes you did wonder what the bigger ripples of your jobs were. Would anyone search for them? Would anyone notice? Would anyone cry nor care? Was this, perhaps, what stopped you from finally leaving this damn place - were you deserving of such leniency?

Sometimes you did wonder whether you withheld from the simple pleasures in life because you were punishing yourself, in a way. A family. A hearth. A home. But a guilty assassin was no better than one of their own targets - there are more ways to die than just in the physical. 

And so you didn’t think about it.

You didn’t do anything but glare at the higher-up that sat behind his desk, his papers, and his smooth white mask. Who were they to undermine you? “I have never failed a mission before, and I will never fail a mission ahead. I will take this job and complete it before you even know what’s happened.”

He lets out a wheezing chuckle- it was abnormal for them to be so flippant about your success rate when it comes to a job. “That’s the spirit.” He throws over a paper-thin file, “You’ll need it.”

You’ve taken down spies before- hell, you’ve even taken down other assassins. To have him act so dubious about this job? Jolting a step towards him, it really made you wonder about the nature of this particular target…

And so you’re flipping through the single page of information the Garden had on him.

Case 143

Codename: Agent 7:3 [rumored to be linked to the target’s impeccable ability to find the weakest points when attacking any building, vault, or person.]

Name: Nanami Kento.

Age: 27

Height: 6’1 - 6’2

Looks: Blond hair. Hazel eyes. Fine features. Broad-shouldered and fairly toned, he is known to be partial to suits and other clean-cut clothes above anything else. 

Profession: Secret agent.

Family: Unknown.

Residence: Unknown.

Current mission: Unknown.

Status: Currently active and HIGHLY DANGEROUS.

Those last two words had been underlined twice.

But you were determined. 

In the time assigned to you by the higher-ups, you deduced that you’d have about three attempts. 

What’s that saying about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer? You wondered whether there was anything in there about marrying them.

.

.

.

First attempt.

Long-distance sniping wasn’t exactly the most comfortable technique. 

Then again, perhaps you were just experienced enough to worry about such a thing. You’d be lucky.

You’re laid low on your front; against the slightly-damp rooftop of a building between SHIBUYA SKY and Shibuya Hikarie. The cold, hard floor pushed against your body and lifted you meters overlooking the scramble below—humans, animals, cars, all in a symbiotic collision of which contact never happened. 

You’ve been married to Nanami Kento for about a week now.

And in that week you’ve taken note of his routine, his work hours, his favorite stops along the route…home. All under the guise - the guise - of being his considerate wife. 

And it’d turned out to be a worthy sacrifice in the end once you’d discovered that the stoic, sensible Agent 7:3 had what you’d never have expected of him: a sweet tooth. Everyday after work, no matter how tired he is, he’d stop by the bakery he met you in—picking out a few treats to bring home to you and Itadori. 

It was a cosy establishment squatted on a corner of Shibuya Crossing and next to the apothecary; vines creeping down the sides, wide-open wooden doors, and decorated with luscious baked goods in the window. The only reason you yourself had gone there was to manufacture a meeting with Nanami. But here he was right now, seated in a window booth with a book in his hands. Gold-rimmed glasses on his nosebridge. Legs stretched out beneath the table. Blond brows furrowed just a little as his eyes scanned the page.

He looked almost like something out of a movie. Perhaps he couldn’t have looked more unassuming if he tried. 

You’re letting your gaze linger on him through the rifle scope for a few seconds. 

And it’s in this brief pocket of time that Nanami sets his book down, takes off his glasses, and looks through the window straight in your direction. Yours. 

You startle.

You take perfect aim at his head and shoot.

BANG!

Meanwhile, Nanami Kento is having a quiet relaxation - a rare moment. His ‘job’ as a psychiatrist kept him more busy than he would have expected, on top of using the position to spy on the vast Zenin members that flitted in and out of the hospital sometimes. He was about halfway through the last story of The King in Yellow, marking down notes on the Zenins in its margins, when he straightens up and glances down at his watch.

Humming to himself at the time, Nanami gathers his things and looks up at the sunny sky above. It was a beautiful day.

Thus, in prim, precise movements, he’s getting up - not too fast - and making his way to the counter to tip the serving staff extra.

CRASH!

Nanami’s taken just a single step away from where the bullet surely would have struck him—a honed head of metal that shatters the Tokyo atmosphere at over 1200 meters per second. With a deafening cracking sound, it makes the bakery window burst beneath its pressure, sending shards of glass flickering in his direction; Nanami steadily puts his open book down and lets the fragments hit the leather cover instead of him. 

There’s a scream.

And then there’s chaos.

People running. Children crying. Cars stopping on the road. No one was hurt in the least - if anything, it was just that poor book he’d have to replace with a new cover. 

But he understands that this line of work meant he was more used to such things than civilians- perhaps more than he should be. And he was a Wanted man - not by the law but by those who think they’re above it. And so he’s calmly walking over to the counter as the rest of the customers inside the bakery evacuate. Placing a large wad of cash on its wooden plane, he’s just about to leave before he looks more suspicious—before turning right back around and plucking out something from the lavish sweet display - your favorite. And then one more loaf of milk bread for Itadori.

Plopping them down in a bag, he makes his way out. 

This morning, he’d told Itadori to meet him on the other side of Shibuya Crossing- he steps onto the zebra-patterned road right now and can see the little boy waving frantically from the other side. A ball of sunshine energy and a coat of orange far too big for him, but it’s one that he’d grow into - or at least, that’s the excuse Nanami had made when it’d turned out that he’d picked the wrong size. Damn, he needs to fix that.

For the mission, of course. Nanami shakes his head back into rationality. 

Quickly crossing the road, the boy throws his arms around the blond man’s legs.

“Papa—!” He squeals, chubby hands grabbing at his three-piece suit. Itadori’s Spider-Man backpack jostles just a little as he jumps up and down, “What took you so long? It was so scawy waiting here…people are running about.”

“My apologies, Yuji.” Nanami responds, looking behind his small figure. “But I see you brought your friends along for moral support.”

Pink brows frown, “What’s mowal support?”

Behind him, the frames of Kugisaki Nobara and Fushiguro Megumi shuffle about - his (temporary) son’s best friends from school, and it was just as convenient that the black-haired boy was exactly their ticket into siphoning more information about the Zenin family - and Nanami nods at them graciously. “Thank you for walking my son here.”

“Hah, no problem.” Kugisaki crosses her arms smugly, “He was scared so of course we had to-”

“Was not—!”

Fushiguro, meanwhile, just squints at the sky. “There was a strange noise. It sounded like thunder.”

“There was, wasn’t there?” Nanami responds, looking around. The chaos had largely calmed down by now, and as police surrounded the bakery, little by little Shibuya seemed to be getting back to its usual sort of commotion—he looks down at the oblivious starry-eyed boy. “Perhaps that was your mother on her way, I always do say she fell from heaven.”

Itadori frowns, “That sounds like it would hurt.”

Fushiguro scoffs, “That sounds illogical.”

“What’s illogicwal mean?”

Kugisaki squeals, “That sounds romantic-”

“Ewwwww.”

“That’s right.” Nanami tilts his head up and looks in the direction between SHIBUYA SKY and Shibuya Hikarie. Where the shot had come from, he does not need to wonder why. “That is romantic, isn’t it?”

Again, right at you.

And from on top of that rooftop, the long-range rifle drops from your hands.

You hadn’t known that he’d be meeting the three kids afterwards. And perhaps if you’d had an inkling then…

No.

Even as you watched the miniscule shape of Nanami Kento - Agent 7:3 - throw Itadori over his shoulders and clasp both Fushiguro and Kugisaki’s hands as he carefully crossed the bustling road with them, heading in the direction of the sweets’ shop down the road (his second-favorite stop to spoil Itadori), you knew you had a job to do.

And you had to do it, even if it killed you in the process.

That evening, you’re home when he comes back.

“I’m home, darling.” Setting his heavy bags down, as usual. Letting Itadori in before gently clicking the door shut, as usual. Asking you how your day at ‘work’ was before wrapping you in a hug, as usual.

If he suspected you had anything to do with that stray gunshot at the bakery, then he’s made no indication since- you’d seen nothing on the news, either. And by now you’ve convinced yourself that the intensity of his gaze upon you on Shibuya Crossing was a mere fluke. A mere coincidence. Perhaps he was just looking at a strangely-shaped cloud above—

And then he produces the paper bag in his hands.

Looking inside, you gulp.

He’d memorized your order perfectly.

“I got the last one, can you believe it? It seems that the bakery will be undergoing some construction in the following weeks.” Nanami spoke as he shrugs off his coat, looking at you with a slight twinkle in his eyes. “It’s your luck, my love.”

“R-really…?” You didn’t know what to say. Merely holding the bag limply in your hands, as if it would detonate any second now. Just your luck, indeed…

Unsure where to even look- you’re staring after the pink-haired boy that’d rampaged inside, pretending he was Spider-Man. 

“Mhm.” Nanami mutters to himself as he walks inside. “I’ll have to learn to make it at home, however…”

.

.

.

Second attempt.

Perhaps you needed some collaborators, too.

It’d been a beautiful summer-drenched Friday when Nanami had suggested taking Itadori and his two best friends out to the aquarium. 

It was one of his few days off- which in and of itself was shocking. It seems that Nanami had been working himself to the bone recently, and the office had taken initiative to force the blond man into taking a holiday. You’d perked up in your love seat, a novel in your hands—but between the pages was a leaflet on poison concoctions that you’d been reading through. 

“The aquarium?” You’re smiling sweetly up at your handsome husband, running about a hundred different ways you could kill him there. “Why, that sounds wonderful, Kento. I’ll get Yuji from the garden-”

“You just get yourself ready, darling.” Nanami’s voice was deep and warm - it felt like the spread of heat after drinking hot cocoa, the way it starts from the pit of your stomach before eventually ebbing into every one of your fingertips. “I’ll worry about wrangling Yuji into the bath. Take your time.”

Oh—all the assassination plans you could concoct in that time! 

Attempting to keep the smile off of your face, you’re leaping up onto your feet and heading in the direction of your shared bedroom to get ready. Making just about one step- two- three…before halting in your tracks and swivelling right back around. Nanami’s keen ears catch onto the difference in the determined cadence of your footsteps and he looks back at you.

Questions ready on his tongue, “What’s wro-”

And for perhaps the first time, the ever-eloquent Nanami Kento is rendered speechless. 

Because you’re placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning him towards you with a single tug- pressing your lips against his svelte cheek. 

Nanami’s skin is warm against yours - and you know it only makes logical sense, but some part of you had perhaps wondered whether his body was just as cold as his professional demeanor. Despite being married you hadn’t quite…consummated the marriage yet—and he understood, he could wait. He didn’t need something if it wasn’t related to his mission, of course

And you’re trying to convince yourself that this is part of yours- to gain trust, you rationalize. 

The kiss lasts less than two seconds, and your heart thump-thump-thumps against your chest as you pull away. Refusing to meet his eyes, his raised brows, his speechlessness, you’re turning heel and speed-walking to the bedroom.

All for the mission.

All for the mission.

All for the mission.

Little did you know that someone else in the house was thinking the same thing.

Nanami stands there unsteadily for a few seconds before heading to the garden to gather Itadori. 

Before high noon, you were all ready and had picked up Kugisaki and Fushiguro to go to the aquarium - during which Nanami had been glad to snoop around the Zenin family home as he took the little boy off his guardian’s hands. 

The aquarium was an entire ecosystem itself.

The entire world was seeped in blue, and sunlight dazzled from above the largest attractions to create patterns of gold that looked almost unearthly. Parents tugged by children, teenagers tugged by parents; friends and couples that flitted from tank to colorful tank in a near-aqueous way. Laughs and excited gasps—melding in symphony with the honking of clown horns, with the occasional burst of a balloon. It seems that many families - and you use the term because there was none better - had the same idea as yours, and the smell of sticky, sweet strawberry ice cream hits your nose as soon as you enter the area for water exhibits.

Passing by the lively tanks, hand-in-hand with Itadori, your gaze catches on something that sparks an idea in your mind. “Yuji…” You’re dropping down to be eye-level with the pink-haired little boy, “Why don’t you and your friends go and check out the touch tank over there?”

“The touch tank?” He nervously looks over to the lowly-fenced exhibit surrounded by children and a few handlers. It was a well-managed tank, widespread with nooks and crannies and rock masses along the sides, a hand-washing station before it; squeals emerged occasionally where a participant happened to touch something particularly slimy. He kicks the ground, “Hmm.”

Kugisaki wraps her arms around one of his, “Oh- c’mon, idiot.”

“Hey-”

And then she leans in and whispers in something that wasn’t a whisper at all - but what would a six-year-old know about secrets? Adults knew far too much. “Your momma obviously wants to spend some romantic time with your papa, don’t you have common sense?”

You have to bite back a laugh- sure, you wanted to be alone with him. 

Though not for any reason they could conjure up.

He sputters, “I-I…” Looking over at Fushiguro for help.

Fushiguro, notably, doesn’t help.

Instead he walks over to an exhibit of sea urchins.

“I want momma and papa to be happy.” Itadori fiddles with his orange overcoat. And your heart clenches—when this is all over you don’t know how you’re going to explain this to him. But you’d be damned if you weren’t allowed to take him for yourself- wait.

You’re shaking your head.

You were thinking nonsense.

And you’re composing yourself just in time for Itadori to look up at Nanami and receive a gentle nod in reassurance - whatever he does, the older man would be content with.

Itadori lets himself be dragged away by the ginger-haired girl- only if that meant he could drag the human version of a disgruntled little sea urchin with him, too. And as the kids have their fun, you’re promising that the two of you won’t be too far away and to definitely call one of you if they need you—before you’re wrapping both arms around one of Nanami’s.

Hugging him to you, you peer into his gold-flecked eyes softly. “I’d really like to see the blue-ringed octopus exhibit, Kento.”

He slightly coughs out his answer, “A-and so we shall, my love.”

And so here was the plan: the venomous creatures were the least-visited. So you’d drag the spy away where one couldn’t see, get him distracted by them, and knock him unconscious with the chloroform-soaked handkerchief you had carefully packaged in one pocket. Dagger in your other pocket. Then you’d finish the job, of course.

Then, outside, was a Discretion Team from the Garden that would discard the evidence, and let you take the kids back home- perhaps even concoct some excuse about ‘a work thing’ coming up at the hospital and causing him to leave.

It was perfect.

It was perfect.

 Next to the squid exhibition and the camouflage section, Nanami Kento was completely and utterly entranced by the octopus exhibit. His face paints in a blue light as he watches the alien-like movements of the creatures, so much so that he doesn’t even notice you slipping behind him—digging through your pockets before plastering his face with the damp handkerchief. 

Nanami’s hand comes up to touch your wrist, though you’re unmoveable. 

He breathes the chloroform in deep.

And then he wavers.

You got him.

Your heart rate spikes, thinking it’s time- fuck, you’ve finally gotten him. Keeping one hand with the chloroform pressed up against him, you’re just about to reach for the dagger snuck into your pocket. He was on the verge of being completely knocked out.

But someone on the verge of being completely knocked out wouldn’t tighten his grip on your wrist, would he? 

Your heart runs cold. 

Preventing you from grabbing your weapon, you feel Nanami smile beneath the thin fabric. Before imitating a sneeze into the handkerchief- “A—choo! Thank you, my love. How did you know I was allergic to the smell of squid ink?”

“You-” And you’re tugging your hand - and the venomous handkerchief - away from him as though his skin burned. 

“Yes?”

But he keeps his fingers intertwined with yours even as you pull away, letting them dangle between you two when you’re stepping into his line of sight once more and assessing every inch of him. His eyes? Clear. His gait? Steady. His expression? Normal (handsome).

No signs of dizziness, fatigue, or the signs of your plan working in motion.

But the chloroform—

Eventually, he lets your hands fall limply to your sides, and you’re looking down at the fabric in shock. Nanami Kento was still standing- and he hums as he turns back to the blue-ringed octopuses; slithering underneath an arch of coral as they, too, went into hiding. 

He clasps his hands behind his back and speaks to no one in particular, “Odd, isn’t it? I’m immune to 562 poisons and over a thousand toxic substances, but it’s squid ink that makes my system flare up.” 

Your jaw drops. Silently, solemnly, you find yourself standing beside him. “You’re…immune…”

He merely nods, staring through the tank. Gaze on something far away.

“I bet that was difficult.” There was a Poisons Division in the Garden as well, and you’d heard of the sheer torture they had to go through to make themselves immune to such things: one could make the body a scab to all things toxic, but underneath that was still a wound. You yourself knew that all too well. Ultimately, you say. “Must have to do with your work as a psychiatrist.”

Nanami nods, “Must have.”

There’s a shriek then the pitter-patter of small footsteps. 

You’re so wound-up and taut that it makes you jump slightly closer to Nanami- and he’s readily steadying you against his side. Arms on your shoulders.

“See, I told you they were being all romantic—!”

Nanami holds back a chuckle, “We should get going.” And unbeknownst to you, his eyes follow…follow…follow a man with dark hair streaked with grey, one that could only ever belong to the Zenin family. Zenin Naobito was lurking in the corners of the aquarium, the most unassuming place for one to conduct secret meetings with contractors that pretended they weren’t here for the same reason.

Because why else would Nanami go on a family outing, right?

Right? 

.

.

.

Third (and final) attempt.

“—and don’t forget your second change of clothes.” The only thing preventing Itadori from darting out of the house and into any oncoming cars was your single hand hooked around the handle of his Spider-Man backpack.

The only thing keeping him in one place.

Somewhat.

With the other, you’re attempting to shove down the spare t-shirt and shorts you’d picked out for him. Knowing your son, there wasn’t any sort of trouble, puddle, or cake batter that he wouldn’t somehow find and get into. And you don’t know what sort of house the Zenins ran, but you were determined to be on their good side.

And so you’re huffing and puffing, beads of sweat forming at your forehead, as you attempt to push it down the humble space- honestly, you didn’t understand why they didn’t just make these things a bit bigger. Just the slightest bit.

At this rate, he’s never going to…

“Itadori Yuji.” Your voice comes out deadpan, and the pink-haired boy turns to you with wide, innocent eyes.

Sweetly, “Yes, momma?”

“Why have you packed your entire Hot Wheels collection for a sleepover?”

Whatever he spouts about wanting to show Fushiguro and Kugisaki, whatever explanations he’s giving about moral support (honestly, where did he even learn such a thing?), goes in one ear and out the other.

Because yes—Fushiguro had invited Itadori and Kugisaki over for a sleepover at their home. It was convenient given that the two boys were practically next-door neighbors, and after the success of their aquarium visit you were hesitant to part the trio. Thus, it seems that Fushiguro had all but thrown a tantrum and attempted to run away from home in order to convince his guardian to agree to a sleepover. Which was sweet, of course.

But this was Itadori’s first, and any mother would be nervous about that sort of thing- wait.

But you weren’t a mother…technically. This was all a ruse for your mission, and so you’re shaking your head and pushing the bundled-up clothes deeper into his backpack, perhaps in order to drive that point home.

You’re interrupted by a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Let me take over, my love.”

You’re shifting aside to let Nanami handle the little issue swiftly—with a firm hand - thick fingers, prominent veins, that wedding ring on his left hand - he tugs Itadori back inside the house. “Now now, sunshine. What have we said about taking our toys out of the house?”

He tilts his head up n’ juts his little bottom lip out, “To take only one.”

Nanami lifts the bag just slightly to the side and takes a glance, “And does this look like only one?”

“No…” Itadori sighs.

Soon, you’re finding just about half the Hot Wheels production line laid out, side-by-side and color-coordinated, on the threshold to your home. It looked like a miniature parking lot of which Itadori grumbled as he pushed the clothes into the newly-presented space inside the bag and zipped it shut. Pouting.

Nanami chuckles gently, crouching down so that he was eye-level with the boy. ”You know momma and papa love you, right, sunshine?”

“I know…”

“And you understand why it would be difficult to take all the cars?”

Itadori takes a second to think, before giving you both a determined nod. “I do.” And you’re feeling something within you soar- but you’re forgoing wondering just what it means to feel so proud for the boy. 

“Good.” Your blond husband stands with heave, taking one of Itadori’s arms and turning around to look at you. “Say bye-bye to momma, Yuji.”

He turns with a beaming smile and a chubby arm raised in goodbye. “Bye-bye, momma.”

“I’ll see you in a bit, my love.” Nanami leans in and—presses a sweet, sweet peck to your cheek. Heat seems to sear from where his lips touched, spreading across your chest and all the way down to your toes. You feel your heat batter against your ribcage- fuck.

Was this what he’d felt the other day?

Two seconds; it’s as far as your intimacy as a married couple goes. And in that time Itadori brings his hands up to cover his eyes with a giggled, “Ewwwww—!” 

With an amused shake of his head, the father-son duo set off. Since the Zenin household was in the same neighborhood, about a street away, it was only about a five-minute walk to get there. 

Which is why you had to act fast.

Nanami Kento would be home in less than ten minutes - he wouldn’t have Itadori to slow down his long strides on the way back. And you’re standing there with the front door ajar as they leave, waving…waving…waving-

The very moment their backs disappear, you’re slamming the door shut and racing to the kitchen.

There, you’re reaching up to the very topmost cabinet: grabbing the new liquorice-flavored cereal you knew that no one in the house would touch. Of course, you’d emptied out the cereal this very morning.

And all that remained in the cardboard box inside was a slim vial you’d bought from the apothecary. 

It wasn’t exactly what one would consider menacing, but it was exactly what you needed for your Hail Mary attempt at completing your mission. It was made of a crystal-clear glass, fashioned into a reticello design, with a label containing some information and a stopper of gold that made the contents within seem far more elegant than they were in reality.

Dark brown powder that looked like ground up dirt.

An unassuming little substance you’d rippled with excitement over at the apothecary’s. So much so that you’d damn-near didn’t hear half the things she said- but it’s fine. You were an assassin, right?

And what was an assassin that didn’t know how to use the most powerful poison in the nation? 

Material XXX.

You’ve never seen it with your own two eyes. Nanami might have been immune to chloroform, but there was no living person on Earth that could resist this. 

Oh—it was beautiful…And it mixed so perfectly with the ground-up coffee you were adding to your coffee maker. One steaming hot cup of coffee had already been made and upon the kitchen counter beside you, it let out hot swirls of heat as you tampered with the other one. Sweetly fragrant. 

You smile- he’ll be dead in one sip. And, sure, you might have some explaining to do to Itadori - but doesn’t all good coffee spark conversation?

You’re still running through the list of excuses in your mind once the brewing comes to a stop.

And just in time, the front door clicks! open.

“He was so excited he tripped five times.” Nanami’s deep sigh echoes into the kitchen. You hear the shuffling sounds of him taking his shoes off, shrugging his coat onto the rack, stepping inside. “Though the other two were just the same- could you please make us some coffee, darling, while I get started on dinner?”

“You’ll ruin your dinner, Kento.” You call out to him, “And I already have.”

His handsome head pops out from the door, golden strands slightly tousled from the walk. Nanami breathes in the unmistakable scent of coffee piercing the kitchen air, and smiles. “You’re the best.”

“In many ways.” Leaning back against the counter, you’re handing his freshly-made cup - poured into a large mug that said #1 Papa - to him. 

Nanami’s large hands pluck it from yours and he whispers, “Thank you.” Looking down at the scalding concoction that still swirled within, “I really mean it, you know.”

“What?” You’re looking up at him in surprise.

“You’re the best.”

Your fingers grow tighter around your own mug: World’s Best Momma.

“Drink your coffee before it gets cold, Kento.”

He hums through a smile, before blowing on the similarly-fragrant steam. It smelled of jasmine and spring and something like love; but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? It’s almost a tease—watching Nanami swirl the coffee around a bit, watching him affirm his grip, watching him leeeean his stern lips in before-

“Aren’t you going to drink up, my love?” You almost startle - Nanami was staring at you through his blond tresses, brows furrowed in slight concern. “Are you alright? You look a little…tense.”

“I-I’m perfectly alright—” You hasten to explain- if Nanami got suspicious now and refused to drink his coffee, then there was no way you’re completing this mission. Without wasting anymore time, you’re bringing your coffee up to your own lips - though you don’t take a sip just yet. “Just thinking about work, you know how it is…”

He nods. “We’ve both been really busy lately, haven’t we? I apologize if I’ve made you feel a little lonely these days-”

“Not at all-”

“But still.” Nanami was determined. Those molten brown eyes of his seemed to be pinning you down to the tiled kitchen floor, and the heat of your body contrasted with its frigidness. “I apologize. Tonight, let’s just take some time for the two of us—we can watch a show, we can do some puzzles, tell me about your favorite book and we can read it together.”

You’re refusing to meet his eyes- you can’t. “That…that would be lovely.”

“To us.” Your husband - the spy, you have to remind yourself - outreaches his arm and clinks! your two mugs together in a toast.

“To us.” You weakly whisper. 

And then you take a sip and watch him do the same.

Immediately, you know something’s wrong.

From the slightly sour- slightly sweet- taste coating your tongue—to the way that Nanami takes a long, deep swig and sighs out in satisfaction. He doesn’t drop dead. He doesn’t grab his throat in agony. He doesn’t even stagger where he’s standing as he loses consciousness- 

Nanami sets his coffee mug down and grins.

“Poison working for you, darling?” And your own drops from your hand and shatters. “Oh dear, let me take care of that-”

“Stop.”

In the middle of reaching for the sweeping pan, Nanami halts and looks at you with slightly unfocused, glazed eyes. Heat rising to his cheeks. Breaths coming out in murked pants. Ones that you were sure mirrored your own. 

You felt as if you had a fever five times over and someone had still set you on fire—

Your temperature was soaring through the roof and searing through your skin, making your clothes feel clammy and clinging onto your form. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of your temple. But even more than that was the way that- fuck, it was the heat between your damn legs. It was aching. Something deep and primal—something clawing at you from your insides and making you shudder as you lock eyes with Nanami once again.

Before you know it, he’s wrapping an arm around your waist to help steady you. And nothing more- did you want something more?!

You’re boring into his eyes and finding out that he wasn’t any better. Not in the least.

In fact, he’d drunk more of the potioned coffee than you.

Your wettened lips part and out comes the only thing you know how to say right now, “Kento.”

He jolts at the sound of his first name wrapped around your tongue. So sexual.

And his own words come out a gravelly croon, “Didn’t read the label, assassin?” That smile of his looked almost feral in the light you were looking at him right now. “Because I did.”

He attempts to pull away to show the label to you- the vial of powder he’d found. 

The plans he’d ruined.

The secrets he’d discovered.

The temperature in the kitchen was near-sizzling.

But the only thing you can think to do is claw your hands outwards and clutch his white shirt with an unfounded ferocity. One of his buttons pop! off and end up on the kitchen floor.

Chuckling, he gives up letting you see the label for yourself. If you won’t let him go, then…without a single warning, Nanami’s leaning in so that his pretty lips graze your ear. The front of his toned chest pushes up against you- and perhaps the only thing that helps you focus is the rapid, ravenous ba-dump! Ba-dump! Ba-dump! of his heart. Pummeling. “Because if you did, then perhaps you’d have seen that Material XXX isn’t supposed to come into contact with caffeine, my love…”

You gasp, hands twisting even deeper into his button-up.

“Because then, it doesn’t become a poison at all.” The long line of his nose glides down your throat, sending shivers skittering across wherever he was in contact with. He stops against a spot you knew was sensitive and softly blooooooows—cold air against hot skin. 

You shiver.

And he merely continues in a rasp, “Because then, it becomes a substance that draws out your deepest desires. Amplifying pre-existing needs that the host contains, those that might be hidden due to…other reasons. So consider it an experiment of sorts. Can you recognize what this concoction is for you, darling?”

“A-an aphrodisiac.” Your eyes threaten to flutter shut- the mere breeze of his breath makes your thighs clench. 

He nods. “An aphrodisiac.”

“How long have you known?” More honest than ever; the question blurts out of your lips.

Nanami takes the time to think, “Since the sniping in Shibuya is when I knew.” With lewd, lethargic eyes he looks you up and down- up and down…“But to be honest, I’ve always suspected.”

You growl—“So then you know I’m here to kill you-” 

“So try me.”

You lunge.

.

.

.

And perhaps that was how he got here.

Nanami feels the very pointed tip of your heel graze his bulging erection- and he bucks. Not enough to finally free himself, but enough that it makes the chair cricket—and you’re looking down at him through your lashes.

He’s forced to stop his head from throwing backwards, bearing his sensitive throat. Maybe it was the pressure, maybe it was the aphrodisiac, maybe it was the fact that he’s wanted you for so fucking long now- but he feels zaps of white-hot pleasure course through his body.

All the way from the in-betweens of his meaty thighs, riveting like snakes into every one of his limbs. Eventually up to his poor brain.

Slow and steady; you’re watching the fabric of Nanami’s trousers darken. Seeping and spreading the more he tried to press his legs together to hide it.

And once you’re roverin’ your foot over his cock- he moans. 

Grin spreading, the further you step down on him, the louder those squelches from his puddle of cum were. “Awww, already, Kento? They didn’t have that in your file.”

Somehow through it all, he manages out such a ravenously handsome grin. Blond hairs disarrayed. Tie askew. Shirt unbuttoned down until you could see golden hairs peeking out. “Th-they probably didn’t have a lot of things.”

“True.” You respond, stepping down harder and he gasps- “But remember who’s in charge now.”

Nanami looks at you through unfocused, half-lidded eyes. “Always was you, darling.”

“Flatterer.” Harder. 

“Fuh-fuuuuck…” He spits. Head dropping forwards, a thin line of drivel escapes from his parted mouth and adds onto the mess below. You’re watching it glisten underneath the dim lighting of the bedroom - one you’d somehow manage to drag the blond spy into. “Do that again and I’m going to cream my pants once more, my love.”

Your jaw slightly drops at the matter-of-fact way he was phrasing it. The Nanami Kento you’d been married to never uttered a word like this- “Well…”

“Is that what you’d like?” And, suddenly, his eyes are sharper than before. You had your leg raised so that you could step on his most sensitive bits, but you failed to realize that also meant he had access to your own…to rub his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat yearning for the cream. “Is that what you want your husband to do in repentance?”

“W-we’re not even really married-” Taken aback. Heat flaring where his pants fanned you- your dagger trembles where you held it against his throat. Close enough to cut.

And yet he was still craning his face - his mouth - as near as he could get to your cunt. Mouth watering. A crimson bead where your blade was rested-

“But we could be.” And you’re lost for words. Nanami just looked so pathetic beneath you in ways you never could’ve even imagined: eyes blown wide and dazed, mouth permanently unhinged as he inched towards your soaked underwear, breaths getting more n’ more labored the longer you kept pinning his clothed cock down with your heel. 

He had his hands cuffed behind him and was aching to get between those legs - and you’re unsure whether you should blame just the aphrodisiac. Desperation seeps into his words, “But we could consummate this marriage.”

Your lips part.

He doesn’t waste a second.

“Seven times over just to make up for the time we’ve lost.” And then he’s tipping his head back and bearing you with a grin, “Fuck my cock raw, my wife.”

And how could you ever say no to that?

You don’t—instead, what you’re doing is taking advantage of the needy way his jaw was unhinged in a soundless prayer. One that you’re answering with a direct spit- lips pursed, you’re letting a glittering glob of saliva paste against his lips.

Purposefully missing the precise target, the lewd translucent liquid splatters against the side of his lips before ultimately trickling inwards. And you’re watching with your jaw dropped as his Adam’s apple bobs- as he swallows.

Perhaps that was the last straw.

The tip of your glinting blade draws a perfect line down Nanami’s middle - just enough pressure to scrape a harmless line of white down his exposed skin. And then you’re slashing those ropes that bound him to the chair. 

Metal restraints, you watch him semi-free himself.

And you’re turning around and walking to the bed.

Sitting at the very edge.

Resting your palms behind you.

Your legs spread-spread-spreeeeeead wide enough that he gets a view good enough to make his slightly-teary eyes bulge. Lips parting. Cock twitching. You’re tilting your head casually to the side and beckoning him—“If you want it, come and get it, Nanami Kento.”

Handcuffed and hands behind his back, the famous agent has no other choice than to get on his knees and crawl over to you.

Fucking crawling.

The carpet chafes beneath his knees, the sound echoes as he inches and inches- torturously slow. Body bowed. Chest heaving. 

Whilst you don’t move a single degree.

It might have been hours- it might have been fucking eons that are passing by before Nanami reaches the foot of the bed; burning up far more from the fever of wanting you than any aphrodisiac in existence. He honed senses raise into the air - and he’s getting a whiff of that honeyed fragrance from your pussy. Almost singing to him, surely it wasn’t just because of that powder that he thinks it’s the most delicious-smelling thing on Earth.

His stomach nearly growls. 

And then Nanami’s between your parted legs and famished. 

All good spies deserve a treat, right?

Before you know it, Nanami’s leaned in and having his lips glued to your clothed cunt. Fucking glued. They were puckered and pert—both pairs of lips, and the vibrations of his moan make your back arch as he tastes you for the very first time.

Just the most innocent kiss. 

The first time that he’s getting everything he’s fucking dreamed of.

Because whenever you left the house dressed so prettily, whenever you hummed at the taste of your favorite baked good, whenever you bent over to pick up something- you didn’t know it, but…Nanami stared.

Oh, how he stared n’ licked his hungry lips. 

Wondering just how sweet your pretty, pretty cunt would taste - just how fucking sooooft and tender your pussylips would feel once he’s finally giving them that nice French kiss they deserved. All up on his tongue.

Despite being such a gentleman to everyone around him—who’d have guessed that Nanami Kento would have the dirtiest thoughts of them all? That whenever he gazed upon you with that ‘ruse’ of affection, he was actually hiding something far…far darker. 

The dirtiest thoughts that he was acting upon right now. 

With his honed tastebuds swipin’ down your wet slit, Nanami counts every bead of slick that you’re leaking through your panties. Sugary sweet. He’s boring his smoldering gaze into yours as he—with a slurp! lets those pearly translucent droplets collect on the tip of his tongue, and then glide, glide, gliiiiiide deep down to the back of his throat.

Blond lashes flickering his eyes shut at the flavorful taste, Nanami groans. 

“C-can I prove it now…?”

You almost don’t recognize his voice.

The tone of it sends fire shooting straight between your legs- and without thinking twice, you lean your weight on your hands and edge even closer. Whining, “Prove what, Kento?”

And he seems almost embarrassed to answer.

Almost shy now—

Though the heat of the aphrodisiac and the globules of slick stuck to his chin were making him more of an honest man by the second. “I need to prove that m’worthy of being your husband, pussy.”

Was he talking to you or…?

Fuck.

Sense coming back to him in bursts and stutters, Nanami shakes his head briefly- “I mean-” A blush rises to the tips of his ears, though his eyes remain as starved as ever—“I need to prove that m’worthy of being a good husband to both you and-” His biceps bulge as he struggles against the handscuffs briefly, pathetically and lovingly nuzzling the hot in-betweens of your folds. “-this girl right here.”

The way he says it…fuck.

He gives off the impression of a man that’s been starved for ages- for eons. There was something almost wolfish imprinted onto his expression, and the whites of his teeth feature an appearance between your legs as Nanami leans in; with knitted brows and a ragged emphasis, he’s asking - begging - once more. “Please-” Mahogany eyes just so earnest, “Marry me?”

Marry him?

Your jaw drops.

Was he so pussydrunk already that he’s genuinely proposing? 

Or was it just the aphrodisiac—you’re not waiting to find out.

Readily, Nanami only needs to feel a single shove of your glistenin’ wet pussy against his mouth - before he’s letting his eyes roll to the back of his skull. Farther and farther. Almost blindly, he uses his pointed chin to dig himself even deeper. And he couldn’t spread your pretty thighs apart with his arms, so he’s resorting to fitting his burly body - shoving your legs apart with his broad shoulders - until he gets closer to your core. Your dripping wet core,

Simply soaked.

Just a single strand of blond sticks to his forehead—usually-slicked hair coming out of its neat style now. And Nanami isn’t shy to sliiiide apart your drenched panties with his tongue, then start pressing kiss after open-mouthed kiss. 

Wide-mouthed. Gaping. 

Just the most teasing, faintish whispers of his tongue. Feverish in speed.

The sopping, smooth edge of his tastebuds lodge inside and slathers itself in all of your syrupy juices. Jaggedly probin’ in and out. “Is this how my wife wants it? Does this, mmm- feel good, my love?”

And you hadn’t even realized that your eyes were closed until you’re fluttering them open—looking through tear-filled lashes at the handsome man between your legs. “Y-yessss…deeper, Kento.”

His eyes suddenly clear in urgency.

Mind befogged with lust - but he’s alert enough to recognize your pretty pleas. And without a single second wasted, the slashes of his tongue scour even deeper inwards. With all his slick inches he’s tunneling into your pussy- and your toes curl at the sensation of him driving into spots unknown. “A-and?” He spits, “Is this good?”

He’s just so eager to please. “Nghhh, yes.” Blabbering out, “Just a bit more to the side now, honey.”

Obediently, he cocks his head and angles his kisses. The layers of his lips smush with your delicate pussy, until it was as if he’s stuck there by adhesive - you don’t think he’s pulling away enough to even breathe…and he wouldn’t mind forgoing his own comfort to make sure you’re feeling your best. “Is this good?” The big, bad spy that has all of Tokyo’s underbelly trembling pleads.

“Yes-”

“And what else?”

“Wh-what…?” Stare widening in surprise. 

That cute expression of yours - the way your cunt seems to splash! another wad of your slick onto his ready tastebuds - makes him rattle at his chains. As though to break through. As though to ravish you whole. 

But the only thing he’s succeeding in doing is letting gravity stoop his face even lower onto your pulsating pussy. Every throb was just so delicous—and Nanami swears he’s feeling his own heartbeat synchronize with the rapid cadence of it. “What else do you need from your husband? Do you need more tongue?” 

Just then, you’re feeling the ridged texture of his tastebuds start drilling even deeper. That cutely pink tip of his tongue starts bludgeoning inside as though reaching for your very cervix.

And he’s hatching out something- something almost delirious. “Do you need it sloppier? Because I can- mmm, do sloppier.” The cacophonous noise from beneath your swollen folds starts growing in both pitch and volume as he increases his speed, thick, ribbony strings of slick coating the edges of his mouth - “I can make it faster. Slower. Sexier.”

You’re straining your hamstrings to push off the springy mattress, “P-please—”

“I can eat you out like a husband should.” 

Munch-munching away at everything your pussy had to offer. Everything and anything.

He’s jostling his body so painfully close to yours- skin against skin. Lips against lips. Without the gesticulation of his hands to balance himself, it was rare that he’d find a moment to push up and part from your pussy - and whenever he did, it just meant he wasn’t doing his job well enough.

Nanami chases after even the slightest movements of your restless hips. And there’s a slight crack emanating from his metal handcuffs when the straight top of his nose taps your throbbing clit. 

“Tell me, my wife—tell me what you want.”

It feels like you’re being struck by shards of lighting itself, “J-just like that, Kento-”

“Just like that? Or even more- hah.” He pants out in a raspy wheeze. Nanami’s voice was low- lower than you can ever recall it being. “Don’t hafta lie to me, darling. Your husband can give you aaaaanything and everything.”

A shallow moan cracks at the back of your throat by the way he’s emphasizing his words- notably by reeling his thick tongue out and drag-drag-draaaagging it all across the forefront of your cunt. “Th-then…ngh, I want whatever it is that you want, Kento.”

His golden brows shoot up to his hairline, “What’s- hck! that, my love?”

And in a split-second - perhaps it’s your assassin side coming out, perhaps it’s the aphrodisiac that’s dialing every emotion up to the max - you’re grabbing a searing hold of Nanami’s pale tresses. A proper fistful that lets you jerk the strong man off of your cunt and gazing his glistening peripherals up at you.

He’s drawing his mouth away with a wet plop! The jutted-out edge of his lower lip trembles at the thought of not being in contact with your tasty cunt, and you have to tap the side of Nanami’s face to  get him to fully focus his attention on you.

It takes a little while for his lava-like eyes to peer up at you. “Y-yes, my wife…?”

Chuckling just a bit at the way he’s lost his train of thought - perhaps every thought he’s ever conjured up once he’s tasting your cunt. “What do you want, Kento? Tell me what you’d like…tha’s gonna please me the most.”

“But I beg to-”

“I know you want it.” And he didn’t forget about those ruthless heels of yours, did he? The broad frame of Nanami Kento shudders at the pointed sensation of your heels gliding up his open thighs. Trouser-covered and cum-drenched, you’re feeling for the bumpy area where his fat cock throbbed- and crushing down on it with the flats of your shoe. “This thing doesn’t lie to me, honey. Just tell me what the little spy wants.”

“I…fuck, this is embarrasing- this is so ungentlemanly-” But that was a ship long sailed. And he finds himself drooping even further into the heavenly in-betweens of your legs.

And you’re witnessing the veins on his beefy forearms pop out, the skin of his forehead perspiring- and it almost feels to you as if the blond man was holding himself back at this very moment. A shiver runs through you as you wonder just what him giving his all would mean for you…

And his swollen mouth cracks open, “Please…” And it’s not you that’s starting to beg…it’s Nanami himself. Deep and guttural wrenched out from his voicebox, he sends rumbles across your body like thunder. “Please push me even d-deeper into your cunt.” Nuzzlin’ your clit with his nose, he murmurs. “Push me so far deep- ride my tongue- use me until my mouth’s raw and I can’t even breathe.”

And you know you’re the one that asked him…but you can’t help but let your jaw hang speechlessly.

“I need you to make you c-cum on my tongue five times before I can call myself your husband.”

The answer takes some time to choke out, and when it finally does you’re feeling embarrassed at the slightly pitchy tone it takes. “Then do it.” With his sweaty strands plastered to your palm, and your heel being used to steady yourself—and push down on his convulsing cock. You give him no warning before pushing him down deeper. 

He sputters-

“I’m going to ride your face now, Kento.” And you’re shocked by your ability to keep your words from slurrin’ together now. “Do it- do everything it is that you want to do. But no pulling back to breathe. No cumming until I do.”

And he’s peering up at you with the most loving half-lidded eyes, “Yes, my wife.”

That man was a goner for his wife—you. 

“Hngh—mmm- K-Kento!” It’s just about the only thing your spit-drivelled lips can echo right now. The sound travels across the room before bouncin’ into Nanami’s eardrums, and he swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard. Because in a sultry split-second, he’s loosening his body up and letting you pin his face between your legs.

Then veering your hips upwards and upwards.

Frenzied, squelching movements of your hips. Your body was just crashing into his in the most sinful collision, and it was making the skin of his high cheekbones start to redden and sting- Nanami barely has the time to part his lips and take in an inhale—

Before your sopping pussylips are plastering to his mouth once more. And he’s lappin’ his tongue away wilding onto every inch he could reach - all around the hidden crevices of your cunt, before entering through your tight hole.

Nanami’s muscle was just so thick that he made you keen with the intrusion of his tastebuds. Feeling up the hugging walls of your channel, before you’re swearing he’s reaching for that one spot that made your eyes roll.

“Shit-” You’re babbling out, hands shaking where you held him down. “Sh-shiiiiiit, just like that. Does that feel good for you too, baby?”

He’s feeling the flaps of his lips start to swell and his lungs ache for breath- “Yes.” He’s never answered anything truer in his life - and it wasn’t just the aphrodisiac, though it did only seem to be getting stronger by the second. “Fuck—yes, and d-don’t keep doing that with your heel or m’gonna cum.”

“What?” You ask innocently - fully knowing the ministrations you were carrying out beneath your line of sight and his. Your heel was flattened over his massive bulge and smoothing up and down, up and down, up and down—practically jerking Nanami off though more with the pressure you were pitting against him.

The nib of your heel grazes his mushroomy tip and he bucks- “M’gonna cum, my love…”

Almost in agony. 

You smile as you reply, “Me too.” Before leaning down just the slightest inch in proximity of him - as though sharing a secret between just the two of you in this world. “But that’s only one of five.”

He grunts.

Fuck- he didn’t want to disappoint his beautiful wife. He can’t. He couldn’t.

And as though crazed, Nanami’s flickering the inches of his tongue through and through that dripping entrance of yours. In and out. Stirrin’ around his lengthy muscle in juuuust the way he knew would hit those pretty orifices that made you cry out so loud, Nanami’s focusing on your g-spot for a few seconds at a time to make sure you’re experiencing as much pleasure as possible with every thrust.

Through it all, his nose remains pressed up against your throbbing clit. “One down, four to go.”

“What do you…” Your toes curl then—because Nanami had predicted it before you had. With a sudden flash behind your eyes, you’re crashing into one wave of pleasure after the other - starting up from the pleasure-riddled area between your legs and climbing up into every cranny of your body afterwards.

Your arms go limp. Your back arches perfectly.

“Sh-shiiiiiit- that feels so good.” Your head tilts backwards as the sudden euphoria overtakes you, and your heartbeat only seems to accelerate by twofold after you take a look down at Nanami himself.

His eyes were rolling to the depths of his skull, until only the whites of them were visible. His mouth was agape and his body was almost moving on autopilot—pure carnal instinct simply lappin’ and lappin’ away at your cunt - sending sparks roaring through your body every time his dexterous nose struck your clit. His cock was twitching away furiously beneath your long heels.

And you’re quite sure that Nanami himself was on the verge of an orgasm- “Don’t cum.” You’re pressing down on his cock.

He jolts ever-so-slightly - though his movements don’t falter for a single second. And he was slightly muffled from his…position, though you do manage to make out a scoff. “Who did you think I was?” Nanami responds in a gravelly tone, “M’your husband, darling. And a husband is always supposed to keep his vows.”

You don’t mention that you technically didn’t have a ceremony with vows and everything.

Because in the next mere moments, Nanami has his tongue thrusted back inside and his chin glued to the bottom of your wet slit. No matter how much you’re bucking and moaning, he’s determined to accomplish that little wish you—he had had.

And with the textured swabs of his tongue, he’s pulling out one more orgasm. Two more. Three more-

You think you’ve lost count by the time you’re all sprawled out and spent on the bed. Throwing your head back, letting your heels hook onto his shoulders and tug him even closer - you’re all but begging for mercy as dopamine leaves stars bursting behind your eyelids. 

Your cunt was just so heated and raw at this point - though the aphrodisiac kept your slippery slick coming until it was drenchin’ Nanami all the way down to his collarbones.

His invisible dusting of blond on top of his upper lip glistens with the sap that clings onto it, and Nanami peers up at you with hollow, drunken eyes finally. “How many was that, my love?”

Would he believe it if you said you didn’t fucking know—

Apparently you didn’t have to remain wondering, because those words are leaving your lips mindlessly. They take a few seconds to penetrate Nanami’s own foggy mind- but with something akin to a crooked grin, he raises his head. “S’that so?” 

You’re shivering once he pulls his tongue out and presses a loud peck on top of your cunt.

“My poor, poor wife—did your husband go too hard?” And you’re not sure what’s in his intense gaze that makes you gesture out a single nod - an embarrassing nod. But you’re doing so anyway, and you hiss when he presses a final kiss and raises himself up onto his haunches. “But I have kept my end of the deal, darling. Didn’t your husband make you proud?”

“Y-yes—” 

“Didn’t your husband make you cum?”

“Yes-”

“Not five times, yet.” And through sheer will and the use of his incredible core strength, the trained spy stands up without breaking a sweat. “There’s one more to go…”

“Oh- let me.” Using whatever strength hasn’t been wrung out of you from the marathon of your highs - barely worrying about your refractory period - you’re surging upwards and reaching behind him. Those handcuffs you’d put him in were professional-grade and used on the job sometimes, nothing like the kinky toys that one might normally prefer.

Though this wasn’t initially supposed to be play at all.

And perhaps it’s the aphrodisiac that’s clouding your judgement- you know you can’t keep blaming it any longer when…But you’re soon looking around the room for the key that you’d dropped.

You think you had a spare in the bedside cabinet but you couldn’t be too sure- but then again, the original must have fallen somewhere on the carpet during the height of your nervous excitement—

“Looking for the key, mm?” Nanami’s deep croon jolts you out of your single-minded mission. And you somewhat jolt as you look up at his impressive height; his handsome face. 

Your cunt had pooled slick right down to his clothes- the collar of it noticeably darker than the rest of the fabric, with his buttons shining as though polished a thousand times over. And his trousers were just as ruined.

Blond hair completely unruly now. Pupils blown-out through his glasses.

His lips were all reddened n’ puffy with the prolonged contact with the sweetest dessert he’s ever tasted: you. And he’s wearing your slathered layers of slick like a medal of honor, glistening proudly across his mouth and jawline—evidence of his desperation. He husks, “No need to worry yourself, my sweet wife.” Just then, he’s straining his forearms to pull at the handcuffs with brute force - one vein on his forehead popping, skin flushing an even deeper red.

You don’t think he’s going to do it - no one’s ever escaped you when you used those.

But suddenly there’s a screech of metal and a clink! 

Before Nanami Kento’s rubbing at the slight bite of metal upon either of his wrists. His free wrists. His unrestrained wrists.

His unrestrained hunger as he then looms his chiselled body above yours- as you push yourself further and further up to the headboard, Nanami follows. He follows. He follows. He follows until your back hits the wooden panel connected to the wall, and those half-lidded eyes bore down upon you deliciously.

“Can we consummate our marriage now, my love?”

Your words could not be more sheerly needy- “Yes.”

And soon enough you’re helping Nanami out of his button-up, his vest, his trousers. Only his boxers stand in the way now and you’re just impatiently tugging them down—finding your jaw dropping at the sight of him.

Because Nanami was big as far as you’d felt.

But this was…what was that saying about it always being the quiet ones? Nanami’s length laid thick and throbbing between his milky legs; the tip of his shaft flushed an angry red, he’s leaking hot precum in lines down your inner thighs.

Dribbling out from the heavy volumes of his ballsack, and ending up coating his cherry tip in a cute white. 

In the saturated air, his cock twitches upwards a few times. Makin’ stray beads gliiiiide along the vein-covered length of his shaft- down and doooooown to soak into his burnt golden curls at the very base. The entire image was just so sexy that you can’t help but let out a moan—

And Nanami chuckles before he turns his tender lovin’ eyes towards you. “Don’t worry. You’re next, darling.”

Your clothes are shed at an even faster rate.

Soon enough, it’s just him sandwichin’ his bulbous tip between your folds. Too big to immediately slide into your cunt, too covered in so many wads of your slick - slippery with your own sap - that he occasionally eases inside and makes you yelp at the stretch. “It just feels so- fuck, I just know s’gonna feel so good.” Your hands claw down Nanami’s broad back, “I need you, Kento. Badly.”

“How badly?” He crouches over you, lips centimeters from yours. “I need to make sure you’re not jus’ talking out of your pussy, my wife.”

“I’m not—” You promise. “I need you- fuck, I need you.”

“Need me to what, however?” Nanami cocks his head and almost meanly asks- he never knew he could make you sputter so much. It was just so fun watching your pretty mouth fall slightly apart as you registered his teasing—it almost made him want to spit between your lips.

He does.

And Nanami continues shoving his expanding erection just between your thighs, “Do you need me to take this pretty pussy like it’s our wedding night? Do you need me to m-make love to this pretty pussy like we’ve been married for years? What is it…?”

You’re mouthing something that his popped eardrums don’t hear.

Leaning in, “What’s that, darling?”

And so you’re repeating - just a little louder than before. “I n-need you to fuck me like you’re trying to prove you’re my husband.”

Just like before.

And that seems to flip a switch in the stern, stoic Nanami Kento.

Just a little.

Because the next time you’re blinking your teary eyes open- it’s to see the harrowed furrow between his brows as Nanami reels his hips back n’ positions his largely flared tip between your legs. Right where he needs to be.

And then he push-pushes inside—

“Fuck-” He spits- strong hand darting out to grip the headboard. You hear it splinter—“Fuck.”

“Please…” Looking up, you’re letting out a soft gasp at the way the muscles on his arm bulge and make themselves clear next to you. The sheer strength. The sheer pressure. The sheer streeeetch between your legs that you’re being fed inch by solid inch.

It’s almost too much - so much more than you ever thought possible to take in one go. Your throat feels clogged with saliva and Nanami’s sheer size as his cockhead thoroughly pierces your channel.

Smearin’ your gluey walls to either side of him, he enters you slowly yet mercilessly. More and more. 

Your head falls back against the plush pillow directly beneath you-

“Now now- stay with me, darling.” Nanami’s strict sentence was less of a command and more of a sweet willing for you to open your eyes once more—to let him see those pretty, heart-shaped peripherals as he fucked you long and sweet. 

He was burrowed just about halfway in at this point and starting to thrust.

It didn’t matter if he wasn’t completely drenched in your sweetest caverns yet, as long as your thighs were quivering with the utmost pleasure. 

And Nanami collapses his rock-hard, chiselled front on top of your body - almost crushing you under the weight of him. Though you admit that the pressure was one so pleasurable that it sends zaps of electricity shooting to your toes—oh, did you mention that he’d kept your heels on, still?

And right now he was hooking his right set of fingers underneath your thigh, pressing your capped knees all the way up to your tits. 

You’re mooooaning at the burning stretch of your hamstrings.

And he’s letting you ease into it for a few more moments before throwing both legs over each side of his shoulders. Wet with perspiration, you’re letting your heeled feet slide down his hard muscles before finally managing to loop them around your neck.

“This is a mating press- yeah.” He whispers, “D’you like this, my wife?”

Nodding fervently. 

Leaning down to lick off the salty-sweet tears that were streaming down your cheeks, “Good girl.” The nickname slips between Nanami’s pussydrunken mouth before he can stop himself. And when he feels the huggin’ entrance of your cunt grow even wetter at the sound of it…oh.

The tips of his digits damn-near tremble with excitement as the blond-haired man plucks a pillow from one of the many you were laying against. Fluffing it up. Promptly placing it underneath the base of your spine, just where that curve was supposed to start, and raising your hips just a little.

That change of angle made the thump-thump-thumping tip of his cock just slightly press against the roof of your cunt, and you whine. “Sh-shit…”

“D’you know what that’s for, my love?”

“Huh?” You respond hazily, and he gestures towards the pillow. Just so gone- on his cock, on the aphrodisiac, on the primal instincts on the verge of screaming at him to shove even deeper. “Um…”

Nanami leans in and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, “That’s alright. I’ll teach you later, my love. For now…”

For now, what was that you’d begged for earlier?

Ah…

For now, he was going to fuck you like a loving husband fucks his beloved, beloved wife.

And he was going to prove it to this pussy that he was your husband—is. There were no two ways of going about it- Nanami’s leaning his toned torso backwards and suddenly rammin’ into you with all his strength.

He doesn’t stop until he’s sure he can hear the damn thwack! of his mazin’ tip reaching for your deepest depths. The sensation of your cervix was just so smoooooth and spongy, and it takes you longer than it should’ve to realize that the notorious man had just bottomed out on your tight, tight pussy. 

You’re keening at the way your folds can do nothing but quiver n’ take and take. Gulping down those greedy inches that he was funneling over and over again into you—the scruff of his tawny happy trail scrapes your sensitive pussylips and you buck-

“And don’t think that you can run away.” He was amused.

For every millimeter that you were arching off of the mattress due to oversensitivity, Nanami was making up for it with yet another two rugged slams of his hips. He just loved that surprised expression upon your face when you found yourself being dragged right back, being manhandled, with a mere tug of his trained physique.

One hand on the right side of your waist.

One hand bracing his gluttonous base.

He furrows his brows and tightens his jaw as he haaaaauls you right back down- and soon enough, you’re finding that perhaps - perhaps - you’re shifting yourself away just to have him do it all over again.

And he indulges you, of course. Spearing between your glossed-up pussylips from tip to bottom end.

Fat inches that were making themselves at home.

Eventually, Nanami’s hungry gaze pins you down- first. Before the rest of his Herculean sculptured body chooses to rest further on top of you n’ glue your skin, your hips, to his own—preventing you from moving just a centimeter further than he wanted you to. Preventing you from shifting his determined cock around. He’s practically melding your bodies into one—he almost wishes he could.

Before Nanami had finally scoured ‘round your insides and located your g-spot. And he couldn’t have you moving around when his entire mission was to make you numb with pleasure, could he?

The heat between you two crackles in the air, and Nanami fucks you slow and shallow with his flared red tip. Rovering over that one spot-

“O-oh my god, oh my god, Kento—” Words slurring into one. Nearly indiscernible. 

And through your tears, you’re making out Nanami’s lips pursing into something gentle. “Shhhhh…” The breeze of his scorching pants waft over you, dialing your own body temperature up into something insatiable. Aphrodisiac or…no, just the two of you. “You’ve got this, my love- fuck, you’ve got this.”

“I…” Eyes scrunching shut. “N-never felt anything like this before, honey.”

“You can take it.”

“I am- I am-”

The way his thrusts were probin’ into you was just indescribable- though Nanami Kento might have been a gentleman to everyone that ever encountered him - and yes, you suppose that even included the targets for his missions - you were briefed and trained to see him as the complete opposite. 

Unlike most, you knew Nanami Kento as the agent…the danger…the target for your own mission.

But his cock was drilling into you over and over in sharp, rapid thrusts and you’re thinking that perhaps you hadn’t been so correct about him after all…

Calculated thrusts.

Nanami was making sure that you were wringing out the maximum amount of pleasure from each one of them. Not wasting time between smooching the door to your womb—thud-thud-thud. And between reeling his hips all the way back until your cunt was wet and gaping around where the circumference of his tip was the fattest. The neediest. Red-hot.

And then he’d be sliiiiiiding one of his most prominent veins down the middle along the most tender of your nerves. Kissing it.

Making white-hot bliss burst through your body as he’s managing to hit eeeevery single fucking orifice that made you swoon. Those large arms of his cage you safely, and Nanami already knows by now that you’re drunk on his hips. “Feels good, yeah?” He asks you-

And you almost have the heart to respond with something feisty—well, obviously. But the sincerity in his eyes makes you prattle out, “Feels s-soooo good. Didn’t even know that it could feel this good…”

He smiles proudly, “Yeah? Oh yeah—” Patting your sensitive clit with his abdomen, “And how’s the- haaaaaah, fuuuck, keep squeezing me like that- How’s the speed, my love?”

“P-perfect…” Cockdrunken. Bed creaking.

But Nanami merely nods and licks at the walloping amounts of saliva pouring from one end of your mouth and onto the silken covers of the pillows. “Mhmmmmm…and what else? How’s the angle?”

Your eyes damn-near bulge out of your skull. “The- angle—oh.” Just then, he’s adjusting his hips just the slightest few degrees so that his bludgeoning cock would hit a fresh new target tilted slightly upwards to the roof of your cut. And you’re practically yowling out, “That one- ngh, that’s the one.” Nails possessively claiming his back with countless scratches and indentations of your nails, “P-pleeeeease keep that one, Kento.”

“Like it that much, huh?” He hums to himself, “But of course, m’not gonna change it when s’my wife’s favorite.”

In a small thank-you, you’re craning your head up and attempting to kiss him. 

He meets your lips halfway, but don’t think that that’s the only thing his vicious hips could do.

“Now now, don’t tap out…” Nanami grunts n’ shudders to himself—he has to gnaw down on the plushness of his bottom lip to compose himself at least somewhat. “And how about the feeling of my balls- hah- feel how biiiiiig and heavy they are, just for you?”

Struck and feeling his cadence accelerating, you can only nod and nod.

“Feel how rock-hard I am for you?”

Nodding.

“Feel the way I- fuck, the way m’only getting harder?”

Nodding.

“Feel the way your g-spot just throbs whenever I’m near?” His crowned and hungry tip pauses just to prove his point, and you’re dragging your nails down his biceps with a disappointed whine. A call to continue if there was any.

To which he does.

Harder than before- pap-pap-papping—! the front of his hips against yours.

“And feel the way m’pumping out so much- fuck- precum?” Just then - as if on fucking cue - you’re feeling a wet draaaaag of his pre being pushed deeper inside you. Pooling on layers on top of your cervix n’ swirling around every time you’re being moved, “Shit, m’gonna make a mess again. See what you do to me?”

“I do-”

Nanami scoffs, “You know I’d do anything to make you feel good, my love.” Boring those golden eyes into yours- yes, they looked damn golden in this lighting and in the hazy state of your mind. “Anything-”

One of his thick hands scrape down your front- they were the hands of someone that’s trained and worked and fought to get to where he is today. And you’re shivering at the slight callouses that massage you—

Your husband continues, “Never think that you’re- hah, any less loveable- desirable, because of anyone or anything before.” And despite the fact that you two were connected on levels, physical ones, that were the farthest they could go…it still feels the most intimate once he rests his clammy forehead onto yours and whispers. “Because I’m here- fuck.”

Toes curling atop his shoulders - doesn’t matter how much you’re thrashing them out of sheer pleasure at the stretch, he’s taking every bruise head-on. “Yes, yes, yes—mmm, yes…fuck, it shouldn’t feel this good- ngh, legally it shouldn’t feel this good.”

“When have we ever cared about the legal labels?”

Those pearly whites of his gnaw down on your lips n’ drag you into a kiss. 

He utters, “Because your Kento’s here.”

Whimpering up at him when all the constant kissin’ at your g-spot almost gets too much to bear. So overstimulated. “A-and why do you say that, Kento?”

He could coo at the cute way you’re asking that question.

With your legs shakily squeezing around his neck, with your lips trembling and threatening to escape a sob. The way your cunt swallowed him up and dragged him to the very depths of your cunt was almost dizzying for him to feel—and he knows his balls were thwacking so hot and headily against the forefront of your cunt. He knows he’s close.

He knows the patterns of his zig-zagging veins were outlining themselves upon either side of your walls- he could feel it.

He knows that these were the pearly gates of heaven themselves. Opened right with your legs.

And Nanami has to force himself to not fucking throw his head back with a thunderous groan—more to hear your sweet, sweet noises than anything. And instead, he nuzzles his sweaty face into the crook of your neck and lets out looooow, trundling whispers. “You’re s-seriously asking me that, my love? Don’t mock me-”

“I’m not-”

“Because the answer should be obvious.” And this is the first and only time that the Nanami Kento would interrupt you on any matter. “S’because I’m fucking made for you, aren’t I?”

And with that being said, it seems his cadence is only growing faster. Harder. Hittin’ your lower half at what, to you, almost feels like the speed of light - his blushin’ tip only grows bigger and concrete-hard as he keeps jutting into the crevices of your cervix.

Running the lines of his veiny shaft down your channel all the while—

Soon enough: your pulsing clit finds home between Nanami’s thumb and index finger. 

On his left hand.

Which meant the stark frigidness of his wedding ring was making your body thrust itself into the throes of pleasure - not quite cumming, though considering just how overstimulated you were, you wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up shattering all over him without any warning. Instead, you’re finding your mouth babbling away whatever stupid concoction of words was entering your mind- “A-and how can you say that-”

“That’s because I’m your husband.” He kisses your forehead softly once more, “Forget all those other boys and whoever that came- hah, before me, darling. They’ve never yearned—ached, prayed for this pussy like I have…”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles up at your throat, “Y-yearned—? K-Kento, you can’t be serious.”

His dazed eyes widen, mouth stupidly agape. “Dead fucking serious.”

What’s the word to describe him…enamored? In…love? Pussy-whipped? But in all the best ways.

And he himself didn’t sound like he could compute the words that were falling from his mouth. Escaping, more like. He tut-tuts, “My wife…I fear I don’t even- haaaah, know who I am without this pussy. She’s all I’ve been thinking about these past few days. She’s all I’ve been…hungry for. She’s all I’ve been- fuck, needing to make myself run to the b-bathroom and jerk myself off until I see stars—”

“S-stars-” Repeating breathlessly to yourself. Such words from him of all people…especially when it pertained to you…you just couldn’t believe it.

“Making you feel good as your husband is my only goal, my love.” And he means it so earnestly- from anyone else you would have scoffed and rolled your eyes. But Nanami’s staring into your widely-blown peripherals as though he was exposing every shred and fissure in his soul.

He rolls his thumb over the nub of your clit.

Your voicebox raggedly wrenches out, “All this time you’ve…”

And fuck- he’s so far gone that he can’t hold back the fucking lewd grin as he admits—

“All this time-” Planting one chaste peck on your forehead while he fucks you, “-your husband has been-” Then another one on your right cheek, “-a damn pervert waiting for you to catch him.” In more ways than one. And then a final one on your left cheek.

He pulls away and admires you.

“And how does that make you feel, my wife?”

“It m-makes me feel…” Spit drivels from the leaky orifice of your mouth along with a few whining pleas here and there. And before Nanami’s lust-hazed brain can begin to compute it, you’re reaching outwards and grabbing ahold of yet another fistful of his hair.

Dragging him towards you with a persistent few tugs.

Surprise and arousal flash across his face and steep into his already-agonized expression once you pull him close enough.

You enunciate up at him, “It makes me feel like m’gonna cum, soon…” Eyes flapping shut, chest arching up into his firmly-toned one. You hiccup, “-my husband.”

His hips stutter sloppily.

But you weren’t done just yet—“A-and I know you’re close, too.” Gaze flickering down to the briefest flash of his bulbous, red tip as he pulls out- only to be shoved between your pussylips once more. Again and again. “I want you to not hold back, Kento. No matter how hard it is- ngh, don’t hold back on me.”

He repeats, breathlessly. “Don’t hold back…don’t…” Nodding and nodding. 

And then you’re watching the line of his vision sharply stray to something above your head-

To the discarded fabric of his favorite tie.

And do you know how many times spies have been trained to get out of and create restraints? You don’t think it takes Nanami even two heartbeats to swipe the tie somewhere from the headboard and reach behind you to loop around your wrists.

Pinning them together.

Tying them blindly.

Tugging you to him with a flex of his muscles.

You’re being manhandled like so through a few slammin’ stripes down on the innermost layer of your pussy- he seemed to be reaching even deeper with this slight change in position.

“Please-” You can’t catch your breath fast enough—and the sheer sensation of Nanami throwin’ you around like a ragdoll whilst he fucked you like an absolute gentleman was enough to make you stutter out in just a few more moments- “P-please…Kento, m’gonna cum-”

Smack! The skin of his pelvis practically glues against yours. “Cum on your husband’s cock, my dear.”

And with the most sinful, squelching sound of your thighs tightening around his waist- you’re cumming. The fifth time tonight; it sears through every vessel in your body stronger and faster than you remember any previous orgasm being.

A buzzing electricity- turned zapping.

Curdling at the pit of your stomach and making you arch up into Nanami as many times as your limbs could weakly carry you…

Your heels claw ravaged marks down his shoulders, “C-cumming-” Babbling out as stars of pleasure formulate and burst behind your eyes, “Kento—fuck. Fuck, Kento, it feels so good—” 

“Fuck.” He grunts himself.

Entire body shaking as the wave of euphoria roars over you.

Flashing and overstimulated.

Then you’re peering up at him with tear-filled eyes, “Kento, I want you to cum, too-”

And that’s when it hits him.

Almost as if his body had been waiting for permission from you this entire time, as though he’d react to you above anything or anyone else. Orders. Though they were ones that his brain would gladly follow- Nanami throws his head back just a little and stammers his hips.

The round curve of his tip plasterin’ against your sweet, spongy cervix and holding there for a few seconds—before he, too, ends up giving into his pleasure.

Making you cum five times and this was the first time he’s cumming inside.

Brows knitting, his strong jaw drops ever-so-slightly ajar as he feels a sensation like never before. No matter how much of his creamy white cum he’s emptying out- your cushy walls were sucking him up for more, more, more…“Sh-shit—you don’t know what you do to me.” And with that said, he’s raising his knee up and setting it where the pillow underneath your hips was, “I think you a-already know what this pillow is for, hm?”

Nodding, “I do I do-” You could’ve guessed either way.

Especially by the way the spurs of his cum were barreling inside- being fucked deep inside. Deep inside. And because of the positioning of your hips, no matter how much you jostle or buck, his hot wads remain webbin’ up every orifice inside.

Glued to your cervix like adhesive.

The pillow only helped if you wanted to…expand the family.

Another toe-curling burst of pleasure runs through him at the mere thought of it, and Nanami turns his head to kiss the pretty side of your calf. Legs still limply wrapped around his head.

He hums, “And does this go against your mission, my assassin?”

You’re shaking your head.

Quite frankly, the only other thing you can think to do is to tug him closer with your lower half. 

Nanami’s shaft was thick and throbbing—burnished red at the top and polished with so many layers of cum. Hot puddles of it. He was making sure not to waste a single - not even a single - drop of it as he emptied out inside, though the sheer force of his thrusts did end up frothing some of his powdery-white cum between your trembling legs. So full that you were leaking from your hole.

He spits down on your stuffed pussy, fingers twiddling on your clit. “Then how about trying to kill me by milking me dry next?”

His heavy balls clench.

Your jaw drops.

And it really wasn’t just the aphrodisiac. 

You are the one that won’t be making it out of this alive.

.

.

.

“—no…no, it’s not for a lack of resources. No- no one’s threatening me.” Speaking sharply into the receiver of the payphone, the crackle of your elders echoes in your ears. You’re sure that you’re sending the Garden headquarters into an uproar by this point—you’re sure that everyone’s gotten the word.

The Phantom is quitting her line of work.

And though you suppose it wasn’t necessarily against policy to finally quit being an assassin, you just don’t think anyone would have bet that you’d be the next.

And in the booth next to you was Nanami Kento, on the phone with his own higher-ups.

You’re eyeing the handsome man through the translucent screen of plastic in-between, and he’s catching your eyes and shooting you a reassuring smile. He seemed to be having a much easier time with whoever was on his end, meanwhile you…Scoffing at the next accusation they throw out, “No, I’m not drugged or coerced or going to trade secrets with anyone-”

Another higher-up bellows something.

“Look, I’m going to post you my resignation letter and that is that. I just wanted to tell you all personally- think of it as my last duty to you.”  And with a sigh you’re beginning to push away from the receiver, “Don’t contact me again, kindly. Or you can—send assassins after me for all you care, we both know how that’s going to go down.”

The phone gets sternly put back in its place.

And you know that they won’t try to mess with you.

You know that.

They didn’t call you The Phantom for nothing - your presence still haunted the Garden when you weren’t there. As you’re making your way out of the booth, you’re realizing that your husband had wrapped up his call and was waiting for you outside.

Hands in his coat pockets. Fingers inching automatically towards yours once you’re outside.

He’d been nagging at you on getting a warmer covering layer recently, and Nanami doesn’t hesitate to shrug off his own jacket and insist upon you wearing it. Though he wasn’t a very loud man, his affection was practically palpable.

And you’re almost feeling shy walking down the street in what was obviously his coat, whilst he stuffed your joined hands into the pocket of your coat - one that he was now wearing. 

Eventually, you ask. “I assume your call went well, Kento?”

He sighs something half-fond, “Yeah…” And though it was true that both of you had been wanting out from these careers for some time now, it was still a wistful affair. 

It was just last week that Nanami had filed in his report on the Zenin family; revealing some corrupt ties and nonsensical numbers in their business that’d been blown across every news station, magazine, and forum you could think of in the past few days. Zenin Naobito had been arrested, of course, transferring the title of heir to none other than Fushiguro Megumi, your son’s best friend. And though the two of you weren’t working for your organizations anymore, you’d both promised to keep a firm eye on the boy to make sure that he wasn’t being pressured or made to live older than his age anytime soon.

You’re squeezing Nanami’s hand softly, and he looks at you with a smile. Continuing where he’d left off, “They were hesitant, but I think they understood. I think they saw - even before I did - that this was a long time coming.”

“They let you go that easily?”

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes and exhales deeply, “I’m free.”

And you’re doing the same.

You’re both free.

Once you’re opening your eyes, it’s to look at the other side of Shibuya Crossing - where Itadori and his two familiar best friends were standing and waving at the two of you. Furiously. They laughed and bickered about who was waving the hardest. “So romantic—!” You think you hear Kugisaki squeal even from here.

You chuckle as you wait for the light to turn green.

Looking up at the blue, blue sky. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

A/N. No idea how this got so long erm- also Happy Avurudu to anyone that celebrates!!

You slit the tip of your finger, you needed a single drop of blood, the final syllable of the incantation and the room erupted into white light. The air roared like a storm trapped in wood, you stumbled back and coughed, hands shielding your face. The circle convulsed beneath you, the power twisting and tearing at itself. You had expected energy, but this? this was alive. Hungry. Bloody destructive.

Then you felt it. A heartbeat. You felt your chest puff with glee, but then it sunk to the deepest depths. It was a heartbeat so immense, so unrelenting that it thrummed in sync with your own, forcing your chest to tighten with terror. Your knees hit the floor, you crawled backward, barely registering the candles toppling over, wax spilled like blood across the floor.

And then you saw him. oh god oh god oh god. Fuck. I fucked up.

He was nothing like the illustrations you’d read about in crumbling texts, nothing like the whispers you’d overheard in the dark corners of root taverns. He was enormous, impossibly tall, red eyes piercing through the bright light, teeth bared in a grin that could have cleaved your throat in a single motion. He didn’t move at first. He didn’t need to. The sheer weight of his presence pressed you flat against the ground and you couldn’t breathe without knowing he’d notice it. Your heart thumped behind your ribcage. Oh god what the fuck do I do!?

You willed your eyes closed, straining so hard it hurt. You couldn’t open them, how the hell do you even reverse something like this!? You felt like throwing up, the fear that licked your skin felt much like the knives you thought were piercing your skull. You were terrified.

“You’ve… summoned me?” he said. The words weren’t loud, but they struck you like a hammer. Each syllable carried authority and menace. You would cry but no tears could fall even if they wanted to.

“I… I-I didn’t mean to!” Your voice cracked. You pressed your palms to your eyes, wishing desperately that if you blinked hard enough, this nightmare would vanish. “It’s- it’s— shit, it was a binding spell. Not… not this!” you scrambled. It should be a fucking binding spell. Why the hell is he here!?

When he stepped closer fear paralyzed your soul. Each of his movements looked deliberate, smooth, and terrifyingly precise. You forced yourself to look up, because the alternative which was turning your back and sprinting to butt fuck nowhere would have been suicide. But he didn’t just stand there. He loomed. The shadows around him shifted unnaturally, it stretched and curled to touch the corners of the room. His eyes scanned the circle at your feet, at the scattered ingredients in clear packets and wooden bowls, at the trembling witch who dared to face him. “Huh,” he said simply, voice low and almost amused like any of this was in any way funny. Your throat felt icy with dread. “Interesting.” He said. He fucking said and it sounded like terror in the marrow of your bones.

Your stomach clenched. Every instinct hounded at you to scream, to flee, to beg for mercy, but your body refused. You were rooted in place by terror, by awe, by the overwhelming certainty that if he wanted, you could cease to exist without a second thought.

“You’re… alive,” he continued, the word almost a statement of disbelief. “Most would have burned the second the magic reached this level.”

“I… I didn’t expect…” Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. “I didn’t expect this to… happen. I—” Your hand shook, tracing the edge of the circle. “I didn’t intend to call you. I meant to bind another witch. Not… not the King of Demons.”

He circled you slowly, silent and deliberate and you counted each step in your mind. One, two, three. Every movement looked measured, precise and bloody lethal. He paused behind you, letting the weight of his presence press against your back. The heat radiating from him felt suffocating. Your scalp prickled and your hands felt clammy. “You… didn’t die” he said again, like a thought more than an observation. “Alive. Bold. But so devilishly reckless.” His voiced boomed and sliced in your ears.

You swallowed, tasting iron in your mouth. “I-I know who you are,” you admitted. “I respect… your power. Please…” Your voice faltered. You didn’t know if you were begging or pleading, your words choked. Red eyes met yours again. He crouched slightly, examining you, with a gaze that felt like it could dissect you down to your soul. “You wield chaos, little human” he said, voice calm and deliberate. “But not recklessly. Not like most mortals would.”

You dared a shiver. The pulse of his heartbeat with yours made your own chest feel like it was splitting in two. You realized, with a stab of fear so sharp it took your breath, that because of this accident, you were bound to him. Every beat of your heart was now in tandem with the most dangerous being you had ever imagined. He straightened, towering above you, and finally spoke: “I am intrigued.” Not amused. Not impressed. Just intrigued. The words cut sharper than any threat, and you could feel the weight behind them. Surviving him was not guaranteed. And yet… somehow, your terror did not dissipate, but your mind sharpened. You were alive. You were alive. You forced your breathing to regain it’s pace but that thought alone made you tremble. Then he moved. A single step. Wood bent under a weight far heavier than a man’s. You flinched before you can stop yourself, muscles locking as though the air itself has turned to ice.

“Witch.” The word lands like a slap. Low and gravel rough, accusing and almost like a slur. Your throat worked but nothing came out. He had four eyes, two unnervingly set in that fleshy ridge on the right side of his head, all glowing like coals in a forge. They track you with predatory precision, and you swear you feel skin blister beneath their heat.

“You dare pull me here?” His voice rumbled like distant thunder, quiet but vast.

“Some mortal child with chalk and blood, thinking you can command the King of Demons?”

“I- I didn’t—” Your own voice splintered. You tasted dust and iron. Your knees threaten to fold. He took another step. The smoke parts and then you see all of him. He is impossibly tall, a frame that blots the ceiling lights, broad shoulders corded with muscle, every inch mapped by black tattoos crawl like living sigils across skin the color of old obsidian. Two massive arms fold across his chest, while another pair hangs loose at his sides, claws flexing. A second face, its mouth stretched wide and toothy gapes from his stomach, and when it inhales, the sound is a wet hiss that freezes the blood in your veins. Your spell work, every protective charm you inked into the floor, suddenly feels like a child’s chalk drawing. He closes the distance until the heat of him scalds the air.

“You summoned me,” he says, four eyes narrowing. “And you bound me to you.” Your stomach flips. “I don’t even know how—” The rest dies in your throat when the lower mouth on his stomach lets out a low, guttural laugh, a sound that’s like stones grinding together.

“You don’t know,” he repeats, mockery coiling through the syllables. “Then perhaps you are simply a reckless little witch with more courage than sense.” The rune circle at your feet flickers violently. The ink that once shimmered now seeps dark, pulsing like a heartbeat. Like your heartbeat. You can hear it echo in the walls, in the air. Sukuna lifts one clawed hand, just one of the four and the circle stills. Power doesn’t answer him; it belongs to him. I’m so fucked.

“Do you feel it?” he asks, leaning down until his upper set of eyes is level with yours. “That pounding in your chest that isn’t only yours?” You do. Gods, you do. A second pulse echoes against your ribs, slow and absolute. It’s his.

“I—” The word trembles out, barely a whisper. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, and the windows vibrates with the sound, “you failed. Whatever trick you attempted, bent the old laws and tied your fragile heart to mine.” One of his lower arms lifts, claws grazing the air an inch from your cheek. “Now we share what is mine.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Share… what?”

“My power,” he says simply. “Every drop of curse, every shred of force that makes kingdoms break.” The second mouth splits wider, a grin inside a grin. “You feel it already, don’t you? The delicious hum under your skin.” You almost shake your head, but the truth coils beneath your pulse, a faint thrum that is not yours. It terrifies you. “But power,” he continues, voice dipping lower, “has a cost.” Something in the way he says cost makes your blood chill.

“Should you be harmed, witch. Wounded, murdered, torn apart.. ” He pauses, red eyes bright as fresh spilled blood. “you will die in agony. And when death finally drags you under, your soul will not scatter. It will stay.” He taps his chest once, slow and deliberate. “Here. In my domain. For eternity.” The word eternity lands like a hammer strike. You stagger back until the cold wall bites your shoulders. “No,” you breathe. “No, no, no. There has to be a way to undo this.”

“Undo?” His upper mouth curves into a slow, humourless grin while the lower one mirrors it grotesquely. “Little witch, you opened the door. The bargain is already written.”

“I didn’t bargain!” The shout tears from you before you can stop it. He stills. Four eyes fix on you with a single, lethal focus. For a heartbeat you’re certain he’ll shred you where you stand. Instead, the second mouth chuckles again, and the sound rattles the chamber walls.

“Then you are simply a fool who bound herself to a King without reading the cost.” The grin fades to something colder. “Either way, the chain stands.” Your hands shake so violently you press them to the wall to stay upright. Think. Think. Break the circle? Too late. Reverse the chant? You can’t even remember the final words.

“I’ll find a way,” you whisper, more prayer than promise.

“Try,” Sukuna says, voice like iron dragged across stone. “But every heartbeat you waste belongs partly to me now. Run, hide, plead to your gods. it will change nothing.” He straightens to his full, monstrous height, all four arms unfolding like a nightmare blooming. The tattoos along his chest writhe in the candlelight, each line a story of slaughter older than the language you speak. “You wanted power,” he says, the second mouth grinning wide. “Now you carry mine. Survive… or you’ll learn exactly what forever in my hell tastes like.” His shadow swallows the last flame, and the room drops into a darkness so complete you feel it press against your skin.

You stay pressed to the wall, pulse hammering a double rhythm, until the silence roars louder than his words. You don’t sleep. The cottage walls that once held comfort now press in like a coffin, each plank creaking beneath the shared rhythm that refuses to quiet. Your heartbeat isn’t yours alone; it drags a deeper echo, a heavy drum that belongs to him. Every time it hits, your ribs ache like they might split.

At dawn the sky bruises grey. The circle you drew last night still stains the floor, charred into the boards. You stare at it until your eyes blur, searching for an angle you missed, a sigil to erase. But there’s nothing. You feel like pulling your hair out.

“Still breathing, witch?”

The voice comes from behind, low and unhurried, an avalanche that decides when to fall. You jolt so hard the stool topples, clattering across the floor. Sukuna fills the doorway, all four arms relaxed at his sides, as if he’s merely a guest come for tea. The red in his four eyes glows against the pale morning light, each iris a warning flare. The mouth on his stomach splits into a half smile, exposing a row of teeth meant for ripping, not charm.

“You didn’t vanish with the sunrise,” you manage, voice hoarse. He steps inside. The cottage feels smaller by the second, the ceiling too low for something built like a war god.

“I do not vanish,” he says. “And neither do you. Not from me.”

Your palms sweat. “There has to be a way to undo this. A counter spell at least . A rite. Something.” One of his upper hands gestures lazily at the burned circle. “By all means. Scribble. Chant. Bleed. See how far you get.” Anger flares through your terror, sharp enough to steady your breath. “You think I want this?”

“I think,” he says, lowering his head until the upper set of eyes is level with yours, “that you are alive only because I am… curious. A lesser creature binding me without even knowing the rite—” His voice cuts, edges like broken glass. “It insults me.”

You flinch before the heat of that word. “Then kill me and be done with it.” The lower mouth lets out a rasping laugh. “Tempting. But inconvenient.”

You blink. “Inconvenient?” He straightens, the motion a slow unfurling of muscle and black inked sigils. “Because of this.” A claw presses lightly, just enough to sting, against the hollow of your throat. The double rhythm beneath your skin kicks hard, yours and his slamming together.

“You bleed, I feel it. You die, I suffer the pain with you. The heartbeats are one chain.”

The floor tilts. “That’s… impossible, it’s different from the witch bindings, I’ve never heard of—”

“It is law older than your language,” he cuts you off. “My power runs through you now. A fraction, but enough to make you dangerous and to make your death a slow, screaming thing if anyone so much as nicks your throat. Should that happen, witch, as I said, your soul will not wander. It will drop into my domain and rot there until the end of ends.”

Your stomach twists. “So I’m… what? A hostage?” He studies you with a predator’s patience.

“A vessel. A liability. Possibly a weapon, if you live long enough.”

You grip the edge of the table to keep from shaking. “I never asked for this, yes I casted the spell, but that was just to bind my magic with that of another witch!.”

“And yet,” he says, voice turning silk over iron, “here we stand.” The second mouth curls into a grin. “You wanted power. Now you taste it every time that heart beats. Tell me, witch, does it thrill you? Or only terrify?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The hum beneath your skin betrays you, a faint vibration like storm charged air. You hate that he can hear it. Sukuna tilts his head, all four eyes narrowing as if reading the refusal itself. “Wise enough to stay quiet,” he murmurs. “Good. Live with that fear. It may keep you alive.” He turns then, ducking beneath the lintel. The cottage shakes as he moves through the doorways, his shadow stretching across the morning like a wound in the light.

“You will follow when I call,” he says without looking back. “Or the chain will drag you anyway.” The red of his eyes burns into the distance until the forest swallows him. Where the fuck is he going? Someone is bound to see a 7ft tall monster with four fucking arms. But that’s not your problem. You’re left in the silence, breath jagged and heart hammering with a beat that isn’t solely your own.

The smell of scorched sigils lingers, a reminder that the King of Demons just walked your floor and literally left part of himself inside your chest. You press a trembling hand to your sternum and whisper, not a prayer but a promise, I will break this. I have to. Outside, a crow screams, and your pulse answers with two sharp beats.

Later, the grimoire is heavier than you remember, thick leather cracked like dried blood, pages edged in silver that gleams under candlelight. You keep it clutched to your chest like a shield as Sukuna prowls the far side of the room. His four arms drag across the rafters when he stretches, claws rasping wood until splinters fall like rain. “You need to look less… obvious,” you say, voice thin but steady. “There’s a way. Maybe.” His head tilts. Four crimson eyes burn across the dim light, each one narrowing like a separate predator. “And you expect me to trust a witch’s bedtime story?” His grin slices wider. “You barely trust yourself.”

You swallow hard and flip the book open. The scent of old ink and iron rises. “This isn’t for you,” you lie, because it’s partly for you, because his current form is too much for your senses to take. The second mouth in his torso grins without moving. “It’s for survival. People will notice a four armed demon with a stomach mouth strolling through town.”

A low, amused rumble rolls through the room. “Let them notice. Fear is a crown.”

“And a bounty,” you shoot back, surprising yourself. “Someone will try to kill you. Or me. Or both. I’d rather not test that ‘share the pain’ curse we’re shackled with.” His grin fades. For a beat, only the crackle of the candles speak. Then, finally he stalks closer, steps soundless despite his size. When he leans down, his lower eyes level with yours, every instinct tells you to bolt.

“Show me,” he says. Your fingers tremble as you trace the sigils. The ritual is complex, blood and breath and a strip of moonlight if the spell takes shape. You mutter the incantation, voice breaking when a gust of his cursed energy brushes your skin like static.

“Don’t move,” you warn.

“I’ll move if I want.” His breath is hot and metallic. “If you fail, witch, I will tear the book apart and wear your spine as a necklace.” You pretend the threat doesn’t crawl under your skin. The candles flare, their flames a sudden blue. Symbols writhe across the floor in a language that tastes bitter on your tongue. Power hums so loud your teeth ache. Sukuna shudders, a ripple that travels through his monstrous frame. The second mouth groans. Flesh twists and for a heartbeat you think you’ve killed him and visceral panic jolts through you. Then the roar. It’s deep enough to rattle the roof, but when the light dies, he’s… different.

Still tall. Still carved in muscle. But two arms instead of four. No second mouth. The black tattoos streak across his bare chest like ink spilled by a god. Crimson eyes, only two now, gleam under the low light, sharper than any blade. He flexes his new hands, studying the long claws. “Humanoid,” he spits, as if tasting the word. “A cage made of skin.”

“You helped shape it,” you remind him, forcing the quiver from your voice.

Sukuna smirks, slow and dangerous. “Don’t mistake this for obedience, witch. I let you play. That is all.” He steps closer, close enough that the heat of him steals the air from your lungs. “But—” his grin widens, “you are useful.”

Hours later you’re with Sukuna at your apartment, the night lights outside are slowly flickering while your rune candles strewn around gutter out. Darkness swallows the room except for the faint red glow of his eyes. And you wonder, not for the first time in any case, if you’ve just given the King of Demons a new weapon: a face the world will never see coming. You yank open the curtains before thinking it through. Late night city glow spills across the floor, neon signs blinking in blues and sickly pinks, car headlights slicing through mist, the low hum of traffic seeping through the glass. It feels like the world is breathing without you.

Behind you, Sukuna doesn’t move. He just stares, two crimson eyes narrowing to slits. “So this is the world that dared forget me,” he says, his voice a low scrape of steel on stone. You keep a deliberate distance, one hand braced on the windowsill. “This is my world,” you manage. “Electricity. Cars. Phones. You can’t scare streetlights. He prowls forward, steps soundless for someone so massive. “I scare everything,” he says softly, as if it’s the most obvious truth in existence.

Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Point taken.” The spent candles from last night leave a faint wax and ozone scent that clings to the air. The clock on the wall clicks toward 3 a.m, that fragile hour when neighbours either sleep or regret. Perfect time to find him something to wear before someone calls the cops about the shirtless giant with murder eyes in your apartment. You pivot toward the closet, heart thudding like a trapped bird. “I don’t exactly own demon couture,” you mutter, digging through hangers until your fingers brush a crumpled stack of old clothes. A black button-down. Faded jeans. Your ex’s.

Figures. Before you can rethink it, Sukuna is right behind you, his presence more like a pressure than a sound. Heat radiates off him like a furnace. “Whose scent is that?” His words cut through the air. You flinch, clutching the bundle of clothes to your chest. “No one. Old clothes. Just… normal.” A wet sound answers you. You glance down in time to see a second mouth split open across his right palm, teeth gleaming like tiny knives. Your breath stalls. “oh shit” you whisper, voice cracking. “What the hell—”

“It surfaces when it wishes,” he says, tone laced with irritation rather than concern. The palm mouth stretches wider into a grotesque grin. “Hungry, perhaps.” You shove the shirt at his chest before you can think better of it. “Cover yourself before my neighbour sees you and calls the SWAT team.” His crimson eyes narrow at the fabric. “These garments belonged to someone else.”

“They’re just clothes.”

“They stink.” Sukuna lowers his head slightly and inhales. “Pathetic.”

“Do you want to walk outside naked? Be my guest.” For a long, knifing moment you’re sure he’ll shred the shirt to ribbons just to prove he can. Instead, with a slow, deliberate motion, he slides it over his head and shoulders. The black fabric strains instantly, buttons protesting against his chest. When he bends to pull on the jeans, the seams whisper threats of tearing. A startled laugh escapes you, half nerves, half disbelief. “Guess he wasn’t built like a demon king.”

Sukuna glances down at himself. For an instant, something like pride flickers across his face. “Good,” he says finally. “whoever he is, his weakness clings to these rags. I wear them stronger.” You roll your eyes but can’t hide the small, shaky breath of relief. Somehow, absurdly, this is easier, him clothed, even if the sleeves are seconds from ripping. “Now,” he says, gaze sharp enough to cut, “explain.”

“Explain what?”

“This era. Your… machines. The glowing towers.”

You gesture toward the window. “Cars. Lights. Internet. A lot has changed since the Heian period. People don’t bow to kings anymore.” He leans close enough that the heat of him steals the air from your lungs. “They will.” Your pulse skips, cold racing down your spine. “Not if they don’t know you exist.” The mouth on his palm snaps shut with an audible click. Sukuna’s grin widens, slow and predatory. “Then teach me, witch. Show me how to walk unseen.”

The thought of parading a demon through your city should terrify you, and yeah it definitely does but there’s a strange steadiness in your chest now. Maybe it’s shock. Maybe it’s the binding spell. Maybe it’s the insane realization that, for the first time since this nightmare began, you might actually survive the night.

When you finally decided to leave with Sukuna it’s a little before dawn. The hallway smells faintly of disinfectant and burnt coffee. You press the elevator button with a finger that refuses to stop trembling. Sukuna stands beside you, all impossible height and quiet menace, his crimson eyes gleaming beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. A chime sounds. The doors slide open. He scowls at the empty metal box. “This is your portal?”

“It’s an elevator,” you correct, stepping inside. “It moves between floors.”

His gaze sharpens. “Floors do not move.”

“They do now.” You jab the lobby button and pray this doesn’t end with a structural collapse; or a murder charge. The doors hiss shut. A low rumble starts beneath your feet. Sukuna’s head snaps around. The floor dips slightly as the cabin begins to descend. His claws flex, scraping the steel rail with a squeal that sets your teeth on edge. “The ground is falling,” he snarls, crouching like a predator ready to strike. “Witch. what sorcery—”

“It’s supposed to!” You throw a hand out, palm toward him. “It’s just gravity and cables. Nobody’s dying.” The second mouth blooms across his palm with a wet pop, rows of teeth gleaming in the fluorescent light. It hisses, tongue flicking like a snake tasting the air.

“Seriously?” You take a step back. “You’re going to freak out in an elevator?”

His upper lip curls. “This cage moves, witch. It is unnatural.” You can’t help it, the laugh slips out, sharp and shaky. “Welcome to modern engineering.” The elevator dings. The doors slide open to a nearly deserted lobby. Sukuna straightens with deliberate slowness, glaring at the walls as if daring them to move again. “Your world is an affront,” he mutters before stepping out.

Outside, the city is washed in predawn blue. Streetlights glow against the wet pavement, their reflections puddling like molten silver. A few late night vendors linger, steam rising from food carts. Sukuna inhales deeply. “The air stinks of metal and smoke.”

“Cars,” you say. “Exhaust.” He prowls forward, silent despite his size. You have to half jog to keep up. Even in the borrowed clothes, he looks like trouble wrapped in black ink. A vendor calls a sleepy “Morning,” and you nod back quickly, praying he doesn’t notice the walking nightmare beside you. Sukuna stops at a cart stacked with fruit. He points to a banana with a single claw. “What is this weapon?”

“It’s not a weapon. It’s… breakfast.” The vendor gives you a puzzled glance. You force a tight smile. “He’s not from around here.” Another stand glows with a flickering sign. Sukuna grabs a can of soda, turns it over like it might bite. “Why is it trapped in metal?”

“It’s a drink.”

“Why imprison a drink?” His voice is all suspicion. The vendor laughs; you nearly sag with relief. “Tourists,” the man mutters, waving you off. You tug Sukuna’s sleeve. “Keep moving.” He doesn’t budge until you grab his hand and pull. His skin is furnace warm, calloused. For one stunned beat he lets you. Then a slick, sudden wetness drags across your palm. You yelp and jerk back. The second mouth has opened across his hand, its tongue slow and deliberate as it licks a stripe across your skin.

“Are you kidding me?” You scrub your hand against your jeans. “That’s disgusting.” His grin widens, all teeth and quiet amusement. “It tastes your fear and defiance. How interesting.”

“Try that again and I’m cutting that thing off.”

“Empty threat,” he says, but his eyes gleam with something dangerously close to amusement. You exhale hard, heart still hammering. The absurdity of it all finally cracks something loose inside you. A startled laugh bubbles out, real this time. You’re still terrified, but for the first time since the summoning, the fear isn’t everything. Sukuna tilts his head, watching you with those crimson unreadable eyes. “Strange witch,” he murmurs. “You laugh while bound to death.”

“Yeah,” you say, still breathless. “Guess I’m adapting.” He doesn’t answer. The city hums around you, neon lights flickering, distant engines purring, while the King of Demons stands at your side, silent and impossibly present, tasting the modern world one bewildering question at a time. The market is still waking, caught between night and morning. Lanterns flicker above narrow aisles, casting long stripes of gold across wet pavement. Vendors murmur over crates of fruit and racks of cheap t-shirts while a radio somewhere plays a tired pop song. Sukuna stalks beside you, head tilted like a predator cataloguing prey. The borrowed shirt pulls tight across his chest with every step; the seams look ready to surrender.

You stop at a stall where hoodies and jeans hang in uneven rows. “Here,” you say, trying to sound casual. “You need clothes that don’t belong to my ex.” He eyes the racks the way someone else might eye weapons. “These rags hide strength?”

“They hide attention, which we need if we’re not trying to end up on every security camera in the city.” The vendor, a woman with a sleepy smile greets you with a soft “Morning.” Her gaze flicks to Sukuna, then quickly away. Even without his extra arms or the second mouth visible, something about him makes people instinctively wary.

You pull a black hoodie from the rack and hold it up against his frame. It barely reaches his ribs. “Yeah… you’re not a medium.” He stares at the fabric, unimpressed. “This is armour?”

“It’s cotton,” you say, grabbing an XL. “Soft armour, I guess.”

The palm mouth snaps open suddenly with a wet hiss. The vendor gasps and drops a hanger. You shoot Sukuna a warning look. He closes it, slowly and deliberately, as if to prove he’s not obeying you so much as toying with everyone’s nerves. You hand him the hoodie and a pair of dark jeans. “Try these.”

“Where?”

“There’s a changing booth behind the stall.” He studies the flimsy curtain, then you. “I will not hide behind cloth like a frightened child.”

“You’re not hiding. You’re changing clothes.”

His grin is all sharp edges. “Then guard the entrance, witch.” You exhale through your nose, pull the curtain closed behind him, and plant yourself in front of the booth like a bouncer. From inside, the fabric rustles, followed by a low growl. “This… garment resists,” he mutters.

“It’s called a zipper. Don’t rip it.” There’s a long pause. Then the curtain snaps back and he steps out. The hoodie stretches tight across his shoulders, the jeans hugging muscle like they were cut for a statue. The black tattoos along his throat look even darker against the fabric.

The vendor’s eyes widen. You catch her staring and clear your throat. “We’ll take them.” Sukuna flexes his hands, expression unreadable. “These are… adequate.”

“High praise,” you say dryly, digging for cash. As you pay, he reaches for a rack of gloves, turning a pair over with surprising interest. “Purpose?”

“Warmth. And—” you glance at the palm where the second mouth sometimes appears “maybe cover that little party trick.” His eyes flick to yours, amused. “You fear it will lick another stranger?”

“Pretty much.” He picks a black pair and slides them on, the movement strangely elegant. The palm mouth stays hidden, but you feel it, you know the fucker likes secretly watching. When you finish at the stall, Sukuna falls in beside you again. The market’s morning bustle has grown, vendors calling prices, steam from food carts curling in the chill air. He watches everything, silent and coiled, but for the first time you don’t feel like prey walking next to him. Not exactly.

“You adapt quickly,” he says at last.

“I have to,” you reply. “Someone has to keep you from licking the next person we meet.” A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. quiet, dangerous and scarily almost human. “You amuse me, witch.”

The words shouldn’t warm you, but they do, just a fraction. You shove your hands into your pockets and keep walking, the King of Demons pacing at your side, dressed like any other insomniac wandering the city at dawn, well that is if any other insomniac radiated pure, lethal power beneath a black hoodie.

The apartment already smells faintly of incense and scorched metal, the kind of scent that settles into drywall no matter how many candles you light. Sukuna stands in the narrow kitchen when you close the door, red eyes catching the low glow of the hallway bulb. He’s been here long enough to know every inch of this place, but his presence still makes it feel two sizes too small.

“Your lair remains unimpressive,” he says, voice like gravel dragged over stone.

“Yeah, well, the landlord wasn’t exactly offering castles,” you answer, dropping your bag on the counter. “Hard to find an apartment in this city when you don’t have a demon king’s credit score.”

A single eyebrow arches. “Excuses from a witch who can twist reality.”

“Twisting reality doesn’t pay rent,” you mutter, but there’s a dry edge in it that almost makes him grin. You’re halfway to the fridge when a spark catches under your skin, a prickling heat that spreads like someone lit a fuse along your veins. You curse, yanking up your sleeve. Black lines swirl into a new sigil on your bicep, blooming slow and deliberate. Sukuna moves before you finish blinking, all four eyes sharp. “Another one,” he murmurs, the words more possessive than surprised.

“I’m not in the market for spontaneous tattoos,” you snap, rubbing at the mark even though it’s alive beneath your skin.

“Each spell calls me. My power brands what it owns.”

“I’m not property.”

He tilts his head, the smallest flicker of amusement breaking through his scowl. “Ownership is…flexible, witch. You share my power; you bear my marks. It is inevitable.” Before you can argue, a hotter thread flares across your sternum. You press your palm to your chest and hiss, “Seriously? My body is not your canvas.”

“It seems it disagrees.” His grin shows too many teeth and not a shred of sympathy. You breathe through the ache until the glow fades, then push past him toward the bedroom, hoping exhaustion will drown the creeping dread. Sukuna follows at his own pace, the quiet thump of his steps reminding you who fills the space.

The bed is small for the two of you, barely a double. You decide to get extra covers and give him the floor but he claims his side of the bed without hesitation, lowering his massive frame until the mattress groans.

“I told you. floor,” you say, planting a hand on the sheet.

“I am king,” he replies, folding an arm behind his head. “I will not crouch like a dog.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You summoned me, witch.” He closes his eyes, perfectly at ease. You roll to the far edge, blanket pulled tight, trying to ignore the heat radiating from him like a furnace. The city hums through the thin walls; your pulse tries to match it. Somewhere between waking and sleep a whisper slides into your skull. slick, low and amused. “Little witch…”

Your eyes snap open. Sukuna’s chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, but his right hand lies palm up beside your pillow, and on that palm a second mouth has opened, lips wet and grinning. “He sleeps. I do not.”

You should scream, but exhaustion has dulled the instinct. “Fantastic,” you whisper. “Night time commentary.”

“I can tell you things he won’t” it purrs, tongue flicking with a slow, obscene grace. “Secrets. Trades. Power beyond the scraps he shares.”

“You mean a deal,” you say, keeping your voice flat.

“You catch on quickly. I like clever prey.”

“Hard pass.”

“You’ll change your mind. They always do.” The tongue drags across sharp teeth in a deliberate lick. “Power tastes better when you’re starving for it.” You drag the blanket tighter around your shoulders and turn your back, pretending the sound doesn’t crawl under your skin. Behind you the mouth laughs softly, a low vibration you feel more than hear, until the room sinks back into the quiet pulse of city lights and the slow, heavy rhythm of Sukuna’s breathing. Beneath it all, the fresh sigils on your skin throb with a heartbeat that isn’t only yours.

-

You wake to the quiet hiss of morning traffic and the weight of a stare. Sukuna is already sitting up, all four eyes fixed on you.

“You twitch in your sleep,” he says, voice low and uncomfortably amused.

“Thanks for the nightmare review.” You shove the blanket off, trying not to notice the sigils glowing faintly along your arm like embers under skin. He doesn’t move. “The marks spread faster. Your body drinks power it cannot hold.”

“Yeah, that’s…reassuring.” You swing your legs off the bed and stand, pretending your knees aren’t shaky. “Coffee first. Existential dread later.” Sukuna follows you into the kitchen, silent except for the faint scrape of his claws on the countertop. The city outside is a dull wash of grey, the kind of early light that makes everything feel a little unreal. You pour coffee while he watches like he’s waiting for the mug to explode.

“Explain these sigils,” you say finally. “Because they weren’t in any spell I cast.”

“They are my language,” he says. “A map of binding. Each one ties you closer to me.”

You take a long sip to buy time. “And if I don’t want to be tied?”

“You already are. The heart cannot be unbound by wishing.”

“That’s…a lot of words to say tough luck.” He leans forward, red eyes catching the dull kitchen light. “You need to learn control, witch. Power borrowed is power owed. Left unchecked, it will burn you hollow.” He reaches for the mug you just set down, examining it like a strange artefact before handing it back.

“You drink this black water every morning?”

“It’s called coffee. Some of us need caffeine to deal with… ” you gesture vaguely at his towering frame “… all this.”

A low hum that might almost be a laugh rumbles in his chest. “Strange. I require no such crutch.” You roll your eyes and head for the living room. “Good for you, Your Majesty.”

The grimoires are still scattered where you left them. You kneel on the rug, spreading a heavy leather bound one across your knees. Sukuna lowers himself beside you, the couch creaking under his weight. His new, more human form still carries the same intimidating bulk. He tilts his head, blinking twice, slow and deliberate. “Two eyes,” he mutters, almost to himself. “How do you mortals stand this narrow field of sight?”

“You get used to it,” you say, flipping a page. “Maybe try turning your head like the rest of us.” A sharp huff escapes him. “Tedious.”

“Well, welcome to the club,” you reply in a deadpan. “We’ve been dealing with it for a few million years.”

Hours slip by in a haze of candle smoke and scribbled notes. Each incantation you test sends a rush of heat through your veins, a crackling pressure that lights every nerve. And with each attempt, the sigils spread looking more like black ink tattoos than fleeting marks.

A dark coil etches itself low across your back, a barbed ring curls over your sternum, another winds around your bicep like a living band. You swear softly when you notice the newest one flaring to life across your thigh. The lines don’t just sit on the surface; they feel embedded, as if the magic has carved itself into you. Sukuna watches without comment at first, then finally speaks. “My language claims you faster than I expected. It suits you,” he adds, the faintest edge of amusement in his voice.

“Yeah, real flattering,” you mutter, flexing your arm to see the bicep band stretch. “I’m turning into a walking calligraphy project.”

“Better that than a corpse,” he says. “These markings are proof you still live.” When the last candle gutters out, you slump back against the couch, dizzy from the power still humming through your blood. “Enough for today. Push harder and you will bleed power until you are ash,” Sukuna says.

You want to argue, but the tremor in your hands betrays you. “Fine” you mutter. “Tomorrow we figure out how to keep me from turning into a walking rune set.”

He rises smoothly, the room seeming smaller when he’s on his feet. he agrees, and the way he says it makes the word sound less like a plan and more like a promise you’re not sure you want. Sukuna stands there a moment longer, rolling his shoulders as though testing the weight of his new, two eyed reality.

“Still tedious,” he says finally, dry as ash. You can’t help it; a small, tired laugh escapes you. “Welcome to humanity, demon king.”

You lean over the grimoires, tracing symbols, muttering under your breath. “There has to be a way to stop these from spreading. Or at least slow them down.”

Sukuna doesn’t comment at first, watching your fingers move across the page, but then his voice cuts through. “Mortals always assume they can control fire with their hands. You can’t. You can only channel it or get burned.”

“I’d rather not get burned,” you say, biting your lip, fingers trembling slightly as another sigil curls to life along your sternum.

He shifts closer, shadow stretching over the pages. “Then learn to channel it,” he says. “I can guide you, but you have to want it. Do you?”

You hesitate, studying the lines on your skin. The magic thrums beneath them, impatient and hungry. “Yes,” you whisper, though the word tastes like ash.

For the next few hours, you go through old grimoires, scribbled notes, and obscure references to binding magic, ancient tattoos, and ways to contain or suppress power. Sukuna’s presence is both suffocating and grounding. “You’re slow,” he mutters, flipping a page with precise claws. “If you fail to understand, the tattoos will kill you.”

“Gee, thanks for the pep talk,” you mumble.

He smirks, clearly satisfied with the small jab. “Keep reading. Learn. Or perish. Your choice, witch”

The afternoon slides into evening, and you realize the apartment is quiet except for the occasional scrape of claws, the faint pulse of your tattoos, and the low hum of Sukuna’s presence beside you. You glance at him again. His posture is impossible to ignore, but the tight borrowed t-shirt no longer seems absurd. It fits him in a way that makes him almost…manageable. Almost human.

“Tomorrow,” he mutters finally, almost to himself, “we push further.”

“Fine,” you answer, voice steady even if your hands shake. “But first, we figure out how to not become living graffiti.” He lets out a low hum of amusement, shifting so that the candlelight glints off the dark ink of his own sigils. For a moment, there’s no threat, only the quiet pulse of shared power between you and the uneasy, growing understanding that neither of you can turn back.

-

You slump back against the edge of the bed, muscles tense and humming with residual energy from the spell. The tattoos along your arms and sternum feel warm, almost insistent, as if they were alive and impatient for your next move. You trace a line along one of them, feeling the subtle pulse of his power beneath your skin.

Sukuna leans in, massive and imposing even in his humanoid form, the dark tattoos on his own chest flickering faintly in the candlelight. He tilts his head, studying you with a disinterested air that’s somehow more intimidating than outright rage.

“Ready?” he asks, voice low, almost teasing. “Try it. Or are you going to keep staring at the book until it decays?”

“Very funny,” you mutter, though the tremor in your hands betrays you. “I’ll do it.”

You draw a deep breath and recite the incantation, feeling the words ripple through your body. The sigils flare along your skin, black lines alive, wrapping around muscle and bone, sending warmth and a dangerous, delicious heat through every nerve.

Sukuna leans forward slightly, just enough to make the air feel heavier. “Concentrate. Let the power flow. Don’t fight it, witch.”

You focus, channelling every ounce of control into the rhythm of your heartbeat. The magic rises, a tangible current through your body, and then it releases. The spell erupts from your hands in a shimmering, controlled pulse, arcing across the room, curling around the candle flames without extinguishing them, sending ripples across the wooden floor. For a heartbeat, everything is still. Then Sukuna’s grin splits his face, sharp and dangerous. “Finally.” His voice carries a rare note of pride, just barely contained. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to embarrass yourself permanently.”

You glare, sweaty and breathless, but there’s a tiny flicker of satisfaction in your chest. “Shut up,” you mutter. “It worked.”

“It did,” he repeats, stepping closer, the shadows of his humanoid form stretching over your trembling hands. “You handled it. You actually handled it. Not badly, witch.”

“Not badly?” You echo, raising an eyebrow, trying not to smile at the faint, begrudging compliment.

“Not badly,” he says again, voice low, teeth catching the light as he smirks. “Better than I expected. I didn’t think a mortal could channel even a fraction of my power without collapsing into…something pitiable.”

You exhale, feeling some of the tension seep from your shoulders. It’s not really a victory, not entirely, but it’s recognition. And in this moment, recognition from the Demon King feels like a huge fucking victory. The sigils along your skin settle, still pulsing faintly, as if satisfied with your control. You run a hand over the one curling along your bicep, feeling its warmth linger. Sukuna studies you, red eyes sharp and calculating. “Good,” he says finally. “I’ll admit…you’re learning faster than I anticipated. That means I can trust a little more in this bond. though don’t get used to it.”

You smirk, despite yourself. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He tilts his head, the movement slow, deliberate, and almost human in its consideration. “For now, witch, remember this feeling. That pulse, the power under your skin, that is not just mine anymore. It’s yours, too. Handle it well, or it will handle you.”

You nod, fists still clenched with lingering energy. “I will.”

Sukuna straightens, stepping back into the shadows of the room, giving you space but not leaving. There’s a strange weight in the silence, the kind that presses against your chest, dangerous but…not hostile. He’s proud. He’s imposing. He’s impossible. And somehow, managing even a fraction of his power has shifted the dynamic.

His voice cuts through the quiet hum of magic, “we will soon try something more complicated. You’ve earned the chance to burn a little brighter. But don’t get cocky, witch.”

“I won’t,” you reply, heart still hammering, chest still warm from the pulse of the sigils. He lets out a low hum of amusement, a sound that could be a laugh. “Survive well, witch. That’s all I ask. For now.” And you do. Because for the first time since this all began, you’re not just surviving, you’re learning. And that makes the danger, somehow, feel a little less suffocating.

-

The apartment is quiet, save for the faint hum of magic thrumming beneath your skin. You rise early, the sigils warming in response to your movement as if impatient for the day’s lessons. Sukuna is already awake, perched against the edge of the bed like he owns both the room and the air you breathe which frankly, he does. “Morning,” you mutter, “I need a coffee” voice rough from lack of sleep

“Morning,” he replies, eyes narrowing in the dim light, red catching a glint of mischief, or calculation, you’re never sure. “Don’t spill your magic before breakfast. It stains.” You roll your eyes, but there’s a twinge of amusement you don’t bother hiding. You’ve grown used to him, the heavy presence that presses against you, the way he watches your fingers tremble with power. And now, the tattoos on your arms and chest seem almost…alive, pulsing in tandem with the shared heartbeat you feel in your ribs.

“Today,” he begins, voice low and deliberate, “we push further.”

You raise an eyebrow, fingering the edge of the grimoire on your nightstand. “Further how?”

“Control. Precision. And fire,” he says, stretching out one hand, letting the claws lightly scrape against the floor. “You’ve seen what happens when you flail. Now you learn to wield it like a weapon.” You swallow. Fire. You’ve barely touched it before. It’s raw, dangerous and almost sentient. You nod, shivering, not from fear, not entirely, but from anticipation. Over the next hours, you fall into a rhythm that’s almost domestic in its absurdity. Sukuna instructs, corrects, critiques, and occasionally snorts at your failures.

“Too much,” he snaps when a spark leaps too far. “Control it, witch! Not everything deserves to burn!”

“Noted,” you mutter, smudging ash across your forearm as the tattoo there pulses in tandem with your heartbeat. He watches you, arms crossed, red eyes observing every flicker of magic, every tremor of muscle. And when you finally manage to summon a controlled flame that curls along your palm and dances without scorching anything he leans forward just slightly.

“About bloody time,” he says, voice low, dangerous, but tinged with approval. “You didn’t kill yourself, nor did you embarrass me. Well done.” You can’t help the smile that curls at your lips. “Told you I wasn’t going to die.” His eyes narrow, and you feel the pulse through your chest quicken but it’s not yours, not entirely. Sukuna’s heartbeat is pounding, resonating through the bond like a drum threatening to shatter ribs. You laugh softly, tracing a finger along the black ink of your bicep. “You’re…racing,” you tease, voice low, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think you’d care so much if I lived.”

His grin is sharp, predatory, yet proud. “I do care, witch. I care because you can handle it. Because you’re learning. And don’t push your luck with your mouth, or I’ll remind you why I am the King of Demons.”

The day melts into night. You work through the grimoire, trace the sigils on your skin, feel them pulse with growing power. Sukuna observes, rarely touching, rarely speaking, but always present, a tether you feel as surely as your own heartbeat. You begin to notice the thrill in wielding fire, the surge in your veins as the tattoos flare, reacting to your will. At first, every flare is frightening, every misstep jolting. But slowly, something inside you shifts, you begin to embrace the marks, trace them, feel them, want them. The bond that once terrified you now hums with a dangerous kind of comfort.

“You’re…enjoying it,” Sukuna observes one evening, arms crossed, leaning against the doorway as you send a controlled spark curling along the ceiling without fear. “I see it in your heartbeat, witch. You’re…embracing it.”

“I…” You trail off, tracing the curling sigil along your sternum. “…I am. It’s…fun. Terrifying, but fun.” He steps closer, a predator closing distance without aggression, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Good. That’s exactly what I want. Fear is a tool. Fun is a weapon. You’re learning to wield both.”

The bond deepens, the heartbeat you share pulsing in tandem as he teaches, pushes, and corrects. Every surge of magic sends shivers down your spine and through your limbs. 5When you push too hard, when your body trembles at the intensity, you feel his heartbeat spike in panic, an echo of fear that’s not yours.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re worried,” you tease, voice low, brushing a finger along the tattooed curve of your arm. “I didn’t even hurt myself.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “I am not worried. I am calculating…possibilities. And some are less palatable than others, witch.” You laugh softly, letting the tension slip slightly. The playful teasing dances between you, light in the darkness. Every lesson, every pulse, every controlled flare of fire ties you closer together. And he notices. Oh, he notices everything. The way you begin to trust yourself with his fire, the way the tattoos pulse with your growing skill, the way your heartbeat no longer flinches at the surge of power coursing through you. Pride brims in him, subtle, dangerous, and undeniably real.

“You’ve surpassed my expectations,” he mutters finally, voice low, red eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Not many can handle me like this, witch. But you…you’re different.” Your chest tightens, not with fear, but with a rush of dangerous exhilaration. “Different in a good way?” you tease, voice trembling only slightly.

His lips twitch. “In every way that matters.” And in that moment, the world outside disappears, leaving only the pulse of power, the rhythm of shared heartbeats, and the knowledge that neither of you will ever be the same again.

-

The night air tastes of iron and smoke before you even step outside. Sukuna’s grin is sharp enough to cut glass as he leans against the doorway.

“Ready to stop burning holes in the carpet and try the real thing?”

You tighten the laces of your boots, the sigils on your arms already warming like they know what’s coming. “You mean ‘ready to let you show off.’” He arches a brow. “I never need an excuse to show off. But yes, ready to see if you can survive your own fire without me bailing you out.”

He leads you to an abandoned rail yard on the edge of the city, the place half collapsed and jagged like a mouth missing teeth. Rusted tracks catch moonlight; shattered glass crunches underfoot. The air thrums with latent energy, like the space itself remembers old violence. “You’ll make your own arena,” Sukuna says, voice low. “Circle of flame. No spells etched, no chalk. Only you and what you’ve learned. Hold it for…as long as I decide.”

You smirk despite the tight coil of nerves. “And if I blow up the neighbourhood?”

He shows teeth. “Then we both finally have some fun.”

You draw in a breath, feel the sigils along your ribs pulse in time with that shared heartbeat. Heat builds in your palms, quick and eager, like it’s been waiting all along. You picture a ring of fire and will it forward. The first spark leaps free too fast, too wild. Sukuna’s voice slides into your ears, smooth and sardonic “Control, little witch. Unless you like losing eyebrows.” You grind your teeth, focus, own it. Flames unfurl in a slow sweep, kissing the cracked concrete until a perfect circle blazes around you. The heat licks your skin but doesn’t burn. A laugh bubbles out half relief, half triumph. “Look at that. Eyebrows intact.”

Sukuna steps closer, eyes gleaming with open pride. “Not bad. But holding it is the trick.” Minutes stretch. Sweat drips down your spine; the sigils glow brighter, their warmth like a near pleasure. Your arms tremble, but the circle stays perfect. Then, from the shadows beyond the rail cars, something stirs. A low growl vibrates through the ground. You stiffen.

“Relax,” Sukuna says, but his voice sharpens. “They’re just curious.” The “they” emerges, three feral shades, twisted spirit things with claws like hooked glass. Your pulse kicks. The fire flares in answer. “Keep the circle. And show me you can fight inside it,” he orders.

The shades dart forward. Instinct surges; you fling a jet of flame across the nearest one. It shrieks, writhes, collapses into cinders. The circle holds. Another leaps high, you snap a whip of fire upward, searing it mid air. The third charges low; you drop to one knee and let the ground erupt in a burst of heat that sends it skidding back in a cloud of sparks. Silence follows, broken only by your ragged breathing and the steady thrum thrum thrum of that double heartbeat. Sukuna steps inside the still burning ring like it isn’t there at all. The fire bends around him, almost bowing. He studies you for a long moment, and the pride in his gaze is unmistakable, heavy as a hand on your skin. “You didn’t just survive,” he says softly. “You commanded.”

A shaky grin tugs at your mouth. “So…passing grade?”

He chuckles, low and warm, a sound that feels like an earned reward. “You’re past grades. You’re becoming something else entirely.” The sigils pulse, bright and hot, and you swear his heartbeat stutters in your chest, fast and dangerously unguarded. You tilt your head, teasing despite the tremor in your knees.

“Careful, King. Your heart’s showing again.”

He steps closer, firelight carving his grin into something fierce and, just for a second, he looks fond. “Let it,” he murmurs. “You’ve earned that too.”

The flames gutter out only when you will them gone. The night smells of scorched metal and victory. Sukuna’s presence presses warm against you, not just a shadow now but a rhythm in your blood. And you know without words, without spells that the bond between you has crossed another line, one you don’t want to erase.

The walk back is quiet except for the hiss of cooling asphalt under your boots. Your skin still hums, every sigil along your ribs and arms warm like live coal. The city feels different, too small now that you’ve held fire in your hands. Sukuna keeps half a step behind you, silent in a way that isn’t empty. More like he’s listening to something only he can hear.

“You kept the flame. There was no hesitation, little witch.”

You shove your hands in your jacket pockets. “And here I thought you’d find a way to tell me I still suck.”

A sharp huff of a laugh. “I would have. If you had.” Your apartment greets you with the familiar smell of incense and old paper. You kick the door shut, toe off your boots, and head straight for the kitchen. Your legs tremble from that strange rush of borrowed power.

“Water or something stronger?” you ask, reaching for glasses.

“Something stronger,” he says without missing a beat, leaning against the counter. He’s already claimed the space like he owns it, sleeves pushed up, muscles still faintly lit by the faint glow of his tattoos. “Though you’ll probably water it down.” You instantly regret showing him remotely anything about alcohol.

“King of Demons demanding top shelf liquor. Tragic.” You hand him a glass anyway. He takes a sip, eyes narrowing at the taste, and for the first time since you left the rail yard he almost smiles. “Better than expected.”

You sink onto the couch, stretching legs that still ache from the heat. The sigils across your sternum throb faintly, more alive than your own pulse. Sukuna watches them with that unreadable gaze, then lowers himself into the chair opposite you, long limbs folding with deceptive ease.

“How do I shut these off?” you mutter, brushing a fingertip over one glowing mark.

“You don’t,” he replies. “Not yet. They’re the proof you survived. Proof you can take what I give you.”

You roll your eyes. “Always with the ominous phrasing.”

His grin is slow, wicked. “Truth isn’t ominous. It’s just bigger than you expected.”

Silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. The shared heartbeat you’ve grown used to beats steady in the back of your mind. You catch him watching you with the kind of focus that makes the room feel smaller. “What?” you finally ask.

“You kept control when those shades rushed you,” he says. “Not many mortals could.” There’s pride there, almost reluctant, but unmistakable. You sip your drink to hide a smile. “Careful, you’re starting to sound supportive.”

“only of you, witch.” Your breathing sputters.

Later, when the glasses sit empty and the city outside has gone hushed, you stretch out on the couch. Sukuna moves past without a word and, because of course he does, he drops onto the far end, stretching until his shoulder brushes yours.

“You’re still warm,” he notes.

“You set me on fire,” you counter. “Occupational hazard.”

His low chuckle vibrates through the cushions. The second mouth on his palm stirs but stays silent, like even it knows the moment needs no interruption. The shared heartbeat slows, heavy and even, until the quiet feels almost like a pact, no need for spells or sigils to seal it. The sigils on your skin warm, and in the small, dim room, you let yourself rest against the fact that the thing that terrifies you can also teach you how to be dangerous on purpose. And that, you think with a humour that masks something else entirely, is the most frightening, thrilling homework you’ve ever been assigned.

-

You wake in your shared bedroom with the aftertaste of smoke and iron, and for a half breath you pretend it’s nothing more than the residue of last night’s training. The apartment is quiet except for the city settling into its small, indifferent sounds. Sukuna is on the balcony, silhouette against a pale strip of dawn. He looks like a god who’s been given bad lighting and a thrift store t-shirt, beautiful in a way that should be prosecutable. He follows when you step Into the kitchen, and his look is the same assessment it’s always been; precise, interested, and just sharp enough to sting. “You slept well,” he says, which reads as complaint and compliment in the same slow sweep of his voice.

“You sound surprised.” You reach for the kettle, hands steady in a way they weren’t a month ago. The sigils on your sternum warm when your thumb brushes the skin. They feel less alien now, more like a second pulse attached to your own.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Sometimes you surprise me by not vomiting when the power flows.” His expression refuses to soften, but you catch the barest lift of something like approval in his eyes. You smile half lip. “High bar.” The kettle whistles, and for a ridiculous second the domestic normality of making coffee makes the edges of everything feel less acute. You pour two cups. He takes one with only the smallest of a nod, and the mundane choreography of the morning. There is a rhythm forming between you. It’s not polite intimacy, not the one the world usually hands out; it’s practical, jagged, and built around survival: wake, training, research, sleep, repeat. But within the repetition something else gathers weight. You notice how he lingers when you move. How his gaze tracks the muscles in your forearm when you trace a sigil. How, when you laugh at his ancient grumble about “two eyes,” the sound loosens something in him that otherwise stays locked.

“Today we push the precision,” he says after coffee, folding one long arm across his chest. The black ink that tattoos his skin curls into shapes that echo the marks on yours. “Not spectacle. Not flame rings. We do contact stabilization.”

You have to swallow. The term is clinical enough to be ridiculous, and the idea that your burgeoning control of his power requires literal closeness is both practical and terrible. “You mean…touch?” Your voice does not betray how much that single word weighs.

He watches you watch him. “Yes. Hands on chest. Palms to skin. Then you will mirror my rhythm and learn how to temper the flow without losing the edge.” There are a dozen ways to say no. You list none of them aloud.

-

You follow him into the living room, carrying the kettle like a white flag. He sits on the edge of the couch, the way he always does, dominant and patient. When he lifts his shirt to reveal the dark map of tattoos, those same black lines rolling across skin like language. you notice that your breath catches. You set the kettle down somewhere. The sight of his sigils are not unfamiliar now; it’s a grammar you’ve learned to read in flashes. But up close, the ink looks feral; it moves under the skin as though alive. And fuck those abs.

He does not knead the distance between you with words. He gestures, flat and business like: “Hand.” The first contact is nothing like you expected. It feels blunt and electric. Your palm meets the hollow of his sternum and for a heartbeat you are a child again, feeling the thud of another person’s heart through ribs, the small proof that they exist. But this is a deeper, stranger percussion: two drumming sources overlaid, not separate, a rhythm that doubles and halves and insists on being heard. His chest is hot; his tattoos seem to answer your skin by brightening, a dull glow under ink. The shared heartbeat isn’t a metaphor anymore, it is a physical current. The sigils on your own skin prick and sing in response, as if the lines under your flesh can sense the throat of the power that made them.

“Sync,” he murmurs. Low as a command, soft as a coax. “Breathe to me. Follow my beat. Mirror, then lead.”

You breathe. You listen. You feel his pulse under your palm, slow, enormous, and you lean into it like someone learning to ride a new horse. At first you rustle; your own pulse races off the track, scattered by adrenaline. He corrects you without anger; a word, a slight tension of his hand, a repositioning of your wrist. His fingers, when they curl around yours, are warm and all edge. Not light, not tender, but precise and guiding. The proximity is a made thing; it is not meant to be soft, and yet every nerve in your body reinterprets it. Heat blossoms in your belly, a focused ache that has nothing to do with power and everything to do with how easily it would be to bridge the space between your faces. There’s a new, unclassifiable sound in your chest each time his heartbeat skids; it’s not fear. Not exactly. It is wanting shaped by survival, like an animal calculus that mixes safety with something deliciously precarious.

You mirror him, then take the lead, sending a whisper of the flame you’ve learned to hold into the chord of energy between you. The current hums, insects circling a lamp. It responds to your command and to his backbone as if delighting in the two hands trying to direct it. The sigils along your arm pulse, dark lines brightening with the exertion, and the heat that rolls up your arm is a new, electric intimacy. His jaw tightens. He breathes, and you feel the hitch In his chest as a shadow of concern: for a second the beat stumbles, a staccato you register as if someone struck a drum wrong. You catch it and correct, pulling back the flow with a soft, practised touch. The circle steadies. You both exhale.

He watches you with something that isn’t merely approval anymore. His eyes are so intent they feel like a weighing. “Good girl” he says finally. The word is simple and it lands like a verdict and a benediction all at once. “You can do this.” The second mouth, low against the inside of his palm where it rests on the arm of the chair, makes a small, wet sound. Closer, it whispers, with a breath that feels like breath on your wrist. Taste the rhythm. Taste the bargain. It licks the air at the edge of your palm as if tasting, and you have to swallow hard to keep from flinching and smiling and doing a hundred things you try not to.

He shifts, closer so that the heat of his thigh touches your knee. Proximity again; a test that is supposed to be tactical but reads like choreography designed to remove your armour. You don’t step back. Instead you let your palm rest a fraction more firmly on his chest and feel the answer in the slow, steady drum of his heart. You are learning languages you never wanted to speak and they are teaching you what it is to be visible to a man who could erase you with a thought and instead gives you a measured, meticulous kind of attention. It’s maddening and tender and wild all at once.

“Tell me,” you say, because scandalous things happen when you invite danger. “Tell me you’re only proud because I didn’t set the couch on fire.”

He inclines his head, that spare half smile working at the corner of his mouth. “I’m proud because you bend, witch, and you don’t break. Pride is an unseemly habit, but I own many unseemly things.” That admission lands more forcefully than anything he’s said. You feel the bond hum, a sympathetic thrum through the tattoos that makes your breath hitch.

You should step back now, but the world offers excuses: the risk the bond poses, the price Sukuna has already warned you about. But human brains are notoriously poor accountants when desire enters the ledger. You find yourself leaning in a fraction more, palm stroking his side, fingers curling at the base of his ribs where the ink maps like a testament. He does not pull away when your knees brush his; instead, his own knee nudges between your thighs like a calculated answer. The touch is tiny yet seismic.

“Careful.” His voice drops to something private. You look up at him, the shape of his face suddenly startling in how much of it is patient and how much of it is predator, and you thibk in the best possible sense that you want the mastery, and more importantly, you want the man.

He laughs then,. The second mouth makes a small, pleased noise against the inside of his palm. “We will teach you how to enjoy the burn” it says, almost conspiratorial. “We will make you hungry for it.” You press your palm harder as if to anchor yourself. The tattoos on your skin flare, bright and hot, matching ones that pulse across his chest like mirrored runes. The shared heartbeat is a drum that has learned a duet. Your fingers tingle against their place on his chest.

You stand there longer than you mean to, His thigh shifts just enough to part your stance wider, and you know he’s doing it on purpose. Your fingers move up and dig harder into his chest, nails grazing through the thin fabric. His lips twitch. “You think you’re subtle?” he rumbles, voice like smoke and gravel. “Standing here, breathing like I’ve already got my head between your thighs. Pathetic.”

You swallow, but the spark in you pushes back. “You’re the one crowding me.”

He chuckles, low and sharp. “Crowding you? No, sweetheart. If I wanted to crowd you, you’d already be flat on your back begging for me to ease up.”

Your breath shudders out, half a laugh, half a whimper you bite down on too late. His grin deepens, almost wicked. “That sound— fuck— do it again.” His hand slides up, fingers gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze to his. “Every little noise you make is mine, hmm?”

You can’t help the words that slip out, whispered against the heat between you: “Maybe I like giving them to you.”

His laugh is sharp, dangerous. “Good girl. Knew you were greedy for me.” His thumb brushes your bottom lip, pressing until your mouth parts. “Say it again.”

“I… yeah” your chest heaves, the word trembling out, “I like it.”

“Mm,” he hums, satisfaction dripping from him. “Knew you’d take to me better than you take to those damn spells. My power’s all over you, burning you up from the inside…” Your hips roll against the firm press of his thigh, shame and want burning hotter with the motion. His second mouth opens against his cheek, a grotesque echo of his smirk.

“That’s it,” Sukuna groans, voice rougher now, “use me. Rub that little cunt against me like you’re desperate.”

“I shouldn’t—”

“You should.” His eyes blaze down into yours. “You should ruin yourself on me. You should drench me ‘til I can smell it for days.” Your nails drag down his chest, heat pooling where his words hit. He leans in, lips brushing yours but not sealing it, a whisper away.

“Say my name while you do it. Let me hear how sweet your mouth sounds when it’s filthy for me.”

His lips crush yours, warm and rough, and the world narrows to the taste of him. The first kiss is a shock, the next a demand. He answers each tiny gasp with a deeper pull, his tongue teasing the corner of your mouth until you melt against him. “Greedy,” he mutters against your lips, his grin breaking through the kiss. “Knew you’d be.”

Your hands find his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair. He deepens the kiss, a growl curling from his chest as if he wants to swallow every sound you make. The second mouth on his cheek opens slightly, a strange, almost approving hum that sends a thrill through you. His hands push and pull your hips firmer against his thigh to help you grind harder against his thigh. You gasp, and it’s loud, ragged, desperate. His laugh rolls over you, dark and rough, teasing and approving all at once. “That’s it. That’s exactly it. Show me more. Prove you can handle it, witch.”

The material of your shorts rub against your clit in delicious pleasure, you groan and throw your head back. Sukuna’s hands slide under your shirt, his fingers leaving trails of heat every time they move, his one hand palms your boob and the other pulls you faster. Every inch of you pressed and kneaded by him send shivers down your spine. Heat radiates from him, powerful, unrelenting, and you can feel the pulse of his heart in rhythm with your own. “You’re insatiable” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “You’re shameless, witch.”

Every brush of his fingers on your nipple, every deliberate press of your clothes pussy against his thigh sends a spark racing up your spine and coils your stomach tighter. Your breath hitches; a sharp, ragged moan slips past your lips. “Gods…” you gasp, tilting your head back, letting your fingers curl into his shirt as your chest heaves. Every heartbeat, every brush of skin, makes the world shrink until there’s nothing but heat, tension, and him.

Sukuna tsk’s and pinches your nipple. “there is no god for you to call to, witch. I am the one who’s thigh you’re about to cum on. Do not call out to another man while you’re soon to be writhing on my cock.” The mouth that spawned on his palm flicks it’s tounge on your nipple. Your body reacts before your mind can even catch up. You nod frantically, chasing the heat coiling tight in your belly, “Fuck… Sukuna,” you whine, desperation lacing your voice as you press closer, grinding against him in response to the teasing heat radiating off his body.

He hums, low and approving, leaning just enough to press his chest into yours. “Mmm… my greedy little witch,”

“Yes,” you gasp, voice broken, chest heaving. A moan catches in your throat, involuntary, desperate, trembling as you press closer, “yesyesyesyes” you gasp “I’m gonna cum!”

“Cum for me, my pretty witch.”

Your voice breaks into whimpers, moans, and desperate breaths as the tension coils impossibly tight inside you. Your movements turn sloppier and your nipples ache, suddenly you feel yourself shudder and spasm, overwhelmed, your body trembling with the heat and pressure of him beneath your pussy, against your chest, every touch sending fire racing through your veins. Another ragged gasp escapes, and you cling tighter, fingers gripping his shirt like an anchor in the storm of sensation. Your chest heaves and while Sukuna looks at you with eyes blown out and no way satisfied. “Come on, witch. I’m sure you can give me more than that”

Before you have time to even think, the world spins, his strength is effortless when he hauls you back against the cushions, the couch dipping beneath your spine. The air between you snaps as tight as a bowstring. Sukuna brackets your hips with his knees, palms spread wide as if he owns every inch of you; which, judging by the slow, satisfied curl of his mouth, he believes he does. “Witch,” he rumbles, voice low enough to vibrate through the frame. “Look at you. Still trembling.”

Your breath stutters. His gaze drops to your place where your thighs have parted without conscious thought. Heat rolls off him, the weight of it dizzying. He lowers until his breath ghosts across your bare skin of your belly, just enough for the edge of his grin to graze you, just enough to make every nerve spark.

You shiver. “Sukuna…”

“Say it again,” he murmurs, a growl wrapped in velvet. Your reply melts into a gasp when his mouth finds yours again, his fingers trail down your body and into the waistband of your shorts. In one swift movement, the cold kisses your pussy. Sukuna licks the inside of your mouth when you gasp. His hand slides over your hip, warm and deliberate, the rough pads of his fingers tracing lazy, taunting circles that make your skin tighten. He groans into your mouth when he gathers your slick and pushes one finger into your pussy, you cry out into his mouth when his thumb circles your clit, the mouth on his palm flicks it's tounge in between your folds. Sukuna grins when you arch your back, hips gyrating into his hand.

“You keep shivering like that,” he murmurs against your ear, “and I might think you’re begging for more.” The air feels thick enough to drown In. Each slow drag of his fingers sets off a pulse that shoots through you like sparks, “I- please. Sukuna..” your voice is cut off when Sukuna’s fingers plunge in tandem with the tongue. “I- I need… ngh— yes—haah, give me more!”

“Greedy little witch,” Sukuna says, his voice all smoke and amusement. The loss of his fingers make you whine. He slaps your pussy and pushes your thighs apart more, You start to protest the loss, but the words catch in your throat as he moves, until you can feel the unmistakable shape of his cock…cocks? through the thin barrier of fabric. The heat of it steals the air from your lungs. Oh god, does he have two?

Your breath hitches. “Sukuna…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs, a low growl curling through the syllables of your name. He grabs your knees and grinds his clothed cock against your slippery pussy, head thrown back and clit pulsing, you rock into his thrusts. “Give me one more, my slutty witch— fuck— I promise to reward you.” He presses as hard as he possibly can but you can’t take it anymore, it’s not enough, you need something, anything.

You push yourself up, resting on an elbow, and tug at his pants, “Please,” you say. Sukuna wills himself off the couch, and slowly sheds his clothes. Oh my fucking god. He does have two cocks. Your eyes widen for a brief moment, “What’s wrong, witch?” He sits himself down onto the couch and yanks you over him, scooping you up from the couch by your ribs. Your knees plant on either side of his thighs, his palm moves between your thighs and strokes your dripping slit, your eyes don’t leave his cocks. He gathers your cum and coats the cock closer to his navel. You push against his chest and his hands leave his cock; thick, throbbing, and twitching. You grab him by the base and stroke once, twice, before positioning your hole above the thick, leaning tip.

“Patien— oh fuck” Sukuna is cut off when you sink fully onto his cock; soft, gummy walls pulsing around him, he grabs your hips hard enough to bruise. You arch your back when his other hand comes up and grips the base of your throat whilst you grind mind numbingly against his hips. Sukuna laughs against the hot kisses he’s marking on your throat. You bounce up and down, his cock hitting all the right places.

You feel something wet glide between your cheeks and suddenly remember his second cock. Sukuna pants and grunts, “take it, witch” you pulls you down harder, hips pushing up to meet yours in tandem with the heartbeat you both feel thumping in your chest. Your heart lurches and your toes curl deliciously, you run your fingers up his chest, through his hair. “Ugh— fuuuuccckk— such a pretty fucking slut” Sukuna groans, nose gliding down your throat, his hot, damp tongue drags across your collarbone. The couch protested with a low creak as Sukuna hauled you closer, every shift like a spark against your skin. His grip on your hips tightened until you swore you could feel each fingertip searing a mark.

His sudden rise steals the air from your lungs. One heartbeat you’re sunk Into the couch, the next you’re lifted, weightlessly but still sunk so tightly on his cock that it sends a dizzy rush through you. A startled cry escapes you, ties curling, your legs tighten around his waist. Sukuna’s grip locks around your hips. “Hold on,” he warns, voice low and rough.

He moves, a deliberate drive upward that makes you shiver. Each step rocks you against him, a deep, rhythmic pulse that pulls another helpless sound from your throat. You cling harder, cheek pressed to his shoulder, breath catching on every motion. Sukuna stands there with you suspended in the air, his hands slide down the curve of your ass, he grips the fat around your hips and slams you down harder on his cock, your toes curl and ragged moans tear from your throat. Every sway and motion makes your heart race, breaths coming in sharp, stuttered gasps. “Hold still, witch,” he murmurs

The room blurs around you as he moves, every movement deliberate, hard, and unyielding. Your legs squeeze instinctively, hands gripping his shoulders, and your chest heaves from the sheer pressure of him. “You’re holding on tight, witch,” he growls, voice rough and low, edged with amusement and something darker. “Good. Can’t have you wobbling all over the place.” The hallway stretches, and every step of his powerful legs shifts you, jerks you, tilts you just enough to make your senses spin. Your hair fans across your face, breath coming in shallow, ragged pulls, each sound a mix of shock, tension, and something thrilling that leaves your limbs trembling. You don’t even realize it but you’re cumming again. Your spine seizes and your pussy clenches, your wet walls tighten around his cock. Sukuna groans loud and guttural. You bite into his shoulder, eyes rolling back. He slams you down once for good measure. He takes off your shirt and throws you back onto the bed, your hair splays around the pillows, Sukuna wastes no time. He’s on you before your next breath. You spread your legs to accommodate the shear size of his body.

He presses the head of his cock inside your pussy, before you can think, he slams into you in one movement. His hips shudder and press against your pelvis, his other cock glides up and down with his movement against your ass. You’re slipping away from reality, suspended between time and space, you can barely think. Hot, fat tears are streaming down your face, the ridges of his cock rut into you, hitting that specific spot that makes you see stars. His hips buck and slip. Your back arches and slick pools between you. Sukuna rises to his knees and flips you over, he hoists your hips up, slamming into you from behind. His one hand presses your heads into the sheets, his other with that fucking mouth on it ravishes your clit, the sensations stimulate something you’ve never felt before, you try to push Sukuna away, “Wait— s’please— im gonna pee!” you slur out as coherent as you can. “Give it to me, Witch. Show me how I fuck you silly” you press harder against him, and the next thing you know, white hot bliss races down your spine, Sukuna is shuddering above you, hips sloppily pressing into you, his cum fills you on the inside while his other cock spurts on your back. He falls against you laughing and groaning.

Hours pass in a haze, Sukuna cleans you up and lays you back down on clean sheets. Dawn drips pale gold across the apartment, sliding over the wreck you and Sukuna made of the night. Your hair is a wild, tangled halo. Every stretch of skin hums with the sore, satisfied ache of too much pleasure and not enough air. The sheets smell like smoke and heat. You shift and immediately feel the weight of him; one heavy, possessive arm slung across your waist like you’re something he claimed. Sukuna sleeps like a predator at rest, mouth tilted in a lazy half smile, crimson eyes shuttered for once.

And there, between your thighs, the unmistakable heat of his cocks presses, thick and unapologetic even in sleep. Holy. Shit. I fucked the King of Demons. The words taste unreal, like a dare you actually took. Your pulse spikes, equal parts disbelief and a low, hungry satisfaction.

Sukuna shifts slightly, a quiet rumble escaping his chest; a sound somewhere between a purr and a threat and tightens his hold, pulling you back against him without ever fully waking. His breath skims your neck, hot and possessive. You bite back a laugh, because somehow the most terrifying being you’ve ever met is now your very warm, very heavy blanket. And hell if you don’t already want him again.

Me who had this song on repeat while writing:

Now, the first time had been rather a shock—to both you and the flutter of attendants who’d happened upon the parchment. You certainly didn’t have any close acquaintances nor prospects entertained whom were so dedicated to deliver a letter at the splinter of daybreak (and a brief interrogation of your personal ladies-in-waiting showed that they’d seen nothing of who’d been slipping you notes at night). 

It had to be someone from the palace, however - if they managed to deliver these letters so frequently and so easily.

Though most nobles sent their correspondences upon dishes of pure silver, with an attendant from their court that would recount every detail of your reaction to them later. But this one had no staff attached to it, no emblem, no name. No identity in the very least.

Nothing but slanted, slightly trembling words as if the writer’s hand had been caught in an inescapable tremor the entire time. And the flower.

Every morning, once you excitedly unfurled the little pink ribbon that tied the letter up, a small yellow daffodil would fall from inside. As if a piece of the early morning sunlight, plucked from the skies, placed in your hands, you’d roll the stem between your fingers as you read through the letter.

Each word more tantalizing than the last.

You’d tried to spend the night awake on several occasions, of course, to catch this romantic culprit in the act. But the only thing that served you was a few hours of sleep, and a thoroughly cranky elocution teacher once you kept nodding off during class - and no admirer, evidently. And yet you’d still awoken to the neatly tied-up parchment in the morning. 

Like a phantom in the night.

The letter was the first sign of daybreak itself.

When that scheme had found itself utterly useless, you’d taken to warning your personal knights stationed outside your royal chamber - certainly not to get your admirer caught, rather to find out just a morsel of information about them. A morsel.

Yuji and Nobara had been rightfully horrified, though you’d insisted that whoever this was meant no harm! 

You suspected that your admirer snuck into your room in the few minutes between the knights changing their stations: Yuji and Nobara would be set firmly outside until midnight, and any dark hours past that would have your doorstep occupied by knights Choso and Yaga. Two of the most trusted knights in all the kingdom, with all the accolades to prove it.

And it certainly helped that Choso had been your personal knight for the past two years - though you’d been friends for far longer than that. Always at your side, always staring down nobles that overstepped, always offering his hand out to you when a step was too steep.

He was your rock. He is.

He’d been one of the court advisor’s sons, your age. You remember being a young royal unaware (or perhaps uncaring) of the duties that loomed for you in the horizon; spending summer mornings playing tag with Choso and a few of the other children in the palace, and winter nights breezing through books and time like sand—just the two of you in that grandiose library. His father resided in a modest estate not too far off from the palace, and Choso cried every time he had to say goodbye to you. Every single day.

You grew the most close with Choso.

And once he had come of age, he’d promptly signed up to become a knight. 

Through training and nutrition plans, and battles and scars, Choso had climbed up the ranks faster than any other you’ve ever seen. Though he was still as tender-hearted as you remembered him - he’d shed a few tears the day he was assigned to a brief battle on the outskirts of the kingdom. Away from you.

But you’d simply wiped away his tears and cooed in a low voice that your elocution lessons hadn’t taught you to—come back to me soon, Cho.

And he had.

The battle with the Zenins had ended, and Choso Kamo had returned as the kingdom’s most celebrated warrior. It’s whispered to this day amongst the palace staff how he’d kicked off his saddle in town, run past all the bubbling celebrations- straight to the royal palace where he’d waded past the congratulating courts and straight to you—

All in platonic friendship, of course.

Of course.

But you suppose it didn’t help quell the rumors when Choso rejected your father, the King’s, offers of estates and riches. Of lifetimes of luxury. He’d stood before the royal court and bowed his head, having only one request of the monarch: to be your personal knight. Forevermore until he breathes.

And how could one say no to the turning point of the battle?

And thus, he’d become your knight. Yours.

You suppose it was around this time that the letters had started, too…

You clutch this morning’s letter to your chest and breathe in the smell of fresh ink, leather, and the faintest hint of summer vanilla that dripped off of the page. It was always this scent that followed your admirer’s ardent declarations, and soon enough every time you passed the gardens or poked at a vanilla dessert, you couldn’t help but think of him. 

A knock interrupts your thoughts and you startle.

Pushing the letter carefully underneath your pillow, “Come in.”

The towering double doors of your bedroom had small gilded swirls on it, which, if you stepped back, melded together to form an image that looked like the clouds above. Frothing and tumbling and swirling. Heaven itself. How oddly poetic that through these gates of heaven would walk in Choso Kamo, his knight’s armor catching the rays of morning sunlight.

His visor was pushed up to reveal his face.

His features were sharp and handsome.

His doe-like brown eyes were the envy of the courts.

He looks at you in your thin nightgown and flushes- “Y-your Highness—!”

Choso’s armor clanks and clutters as he hurries to turn away from you, and soon enough you find yourself staring at the knight’s broad back. Chiselled after so many years of training. Bringing a hand up to your lips you have to stifle a giggle at the sheer contrast- “My dearest knight, does it disgust you to gaze upon me like so?”

“Th-the furthest thing from it, Your Highness.” He sputters, and you swear you catch the back of his neck - just the slightest slit you could see between his armor plates - burning bright red. Blushing.

“Do you believe me of unsound character, then?” You challenge, “Do you believe me a harl-”

“Bear not the thought!”

“Then turn.”

He does—barely. Just enough degrees that you can see his handsome side profile, and he can stare at you through his peripheral vision- though that, too, is largely obscured by his helmet. “Forgive me…” Choso gulps. “-but the mere sight of you is not suited to be gazed upon by this lowly knight, my princess.”

“You have been within ames-ace of Yaga for far too long.” You tut.

But you’re still reaching for the gold-laced robe draped over the edge of your bed - your attendants had placed it there last night. Choso was always the first to greet you in the morning.

And it’s only once he’s completely sure that the robe now covered the beautiful angles and curves of your body, that is obscured from him what is Eve’s most beautiful apple, does he turn to face you. Only to find that he had spent so long mustering up the courage, that you’d already dipped underneath your pillow and pulled out-

“Yet another letter, Your Highness?” Choso queries, and you nod. 

It was requisite that such an occurrence must be shared with your personal knight - most of all, your friend. And you didn’t feel the need to hide it from Choso as you did with your parents—perhaps because you knew his duty was to you, above all. You above the crown. “Oh, you shan’t believe it- today they wrote the most romantic line about how their heart beats simply to count their time beside me—”

Choso gives a jerky nod, “And the flower?”

“As always.” You’re pinching the little flower where it had been laid safely on top of your decadent pillow, showing it to him.

Your best friend takes one look at it and breaks out into an almost…relieved smile. “I see- he really is a stubborn old fool, isn’t he?”

“Oh, don’t call him a fool.” You huff. Turning away with your flower, “I think he’s just lovely.”

“Suppose he is a fool?” Choso probes, “Suppose he isn’t of great wits- would you still think he’s lovely?”

You furrow your brows at him, “But, of course. Intelligence cannot be measured by how many dusty books you read. Despite that, I believe that one would be of rather sound wits should they wish to compose letters this beautiful.”

There’s a pause. “Then suppose he isn’t rather pleasant to look at?”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” You counter stubbornly. “I think that I should find them quite beautiful either way.”

“Then suppose he’s a commoner?”

“That is the last thing I would fuss about-”

“But what if he’s a…” Choso starts- and as you wait for him to finish—he shakes his head. Giving you a light bow, “I apologize for getting carried by the conversation, Your Highness. I have just been reminded of my orders to urge you into prompt preparation to receive some very special guests today. I have summoned your ladies-in-waiting, they are stationed at the third royal baths.”

“Guests?” You ask. The palace always did have a constant flow of royals and nobles and merchants and people of the public going in and out, and rarely did you have to make a personal accompaniment with them. “What special guests may we—”

It’s then that you look at your calendar of quarter days: social days and tutoring days, and a day circled in rouge.

Today.

“Ah…”

.

.

.

Dearest gentle reader, 

Royal gossip has always been the lifeblood of the Ton—particularly this year, with the debut of our Royal Highness, the princess, this social season. Rumors have been a-swirling for quite some time now, speculation about just which eligible gentleman will be lucky enough to win over the beautiful royal’s hand in marriage: perhaps a fair noble, perhaps the richest merchant of the land, perhaps a prince from a far-away land. The possibilities are endless!

Our dignified royal family has always been rather private about such matters regarding their princess, but today this humble writer is here to put these whispers to rest, my dear reader.

My most trust-worthy sources inform me of a royal fleet that has docked in our harbor early in the morrow—a fleet with none other than the Zenin family insignia upon its flag!

Now, before you fear another military skirmish with the ever-ruthless Zenin family, gentle reader, let me assure you that my insiders state this royal visitation to not be an act of warfare. Rather…of romance.

Some claim an age-long betrothal, some claim a political marriage in the works.

The cauldron of curiosity bubbles even further once you learn that the Zenin family, including His Highness Naoya Zenin, shall be paying a royal visit to the palace today! And some members of the royal knights claim they shall take extra precaution, and that Her Highness’s personal guard - a handsome young knight by the name of Choso Kamo - is to be with her at all times. Ooo la la!

It will certainly make it difficult for either Prince Naoya nor any other…admirer to get close to the princess (the palace walls talk, gentle reader, and some of my sources claim the presence of a second interest in Her Highness’s life—secret letters being hand-delivered every single night!) 

But that is neither here nor there, and your writer is certainly not planning a visit to the royal dungeons in the near future!

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

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“—such a beautiful garden-” Naoya’s lip curls as he looks out of the tall, sun-lit window at the rolling field below. Your parents barely have enough time to open their mouths in response before he continues, “-but of course, ours is much larger. Second only to our stables and the incredible militia grounds that we have-”

Everyone in the meeting hall closes their mouth, quenches their hope for speaking at least for the next twenty-five minutes.

You learn within the first few moments of meeting him that Naoya Zenin liked hearing his own voice, and any time he wasn’t, he was replaying his own voice over and over inside his head. You also learn that you don’t like him in the slightest.

Which makes being betrothed to him all the more difficult.

It had been a political alliance- or so your father had briefed you one night several months ago. Calling you into his office, holding your hand, he had let you cry on his shoulder for the first time in years that night.

To unite two people who had been locked in a bloody border war for far too long - that was your duty.

And this marriage was the key.

It had been long enough to let the finality of it sink in, and not nearly as long enough for it not to sting. Still. It hurt like a hot iron embedded in your heart once you had to curtsey for the prince. 

He had barely bowed back.

And now the two royal families - as well as several esteemed members of your council - were spread out in the grand meeting hall. Watching as the blond-haired royal turned his nose up at the plate of intricate desserts offered to him by a male attendant—he flicks his hand at the boy and orders the woman standing beside him to do it.

The woman being no one else but the most talented healer in all the land. 

Shoko Ieri looks ready to stab him with her scalpel.

“Compensating.” A low whisper sounds from behind you.

You don’t have to turn to know that it’s Choso- but you do anyway. And your heart flutters just a little as you spy his warm brown eyes through the gaps of his visor, “Pardon?”

He repeats, “Compensating.” Nodding towards Naoya who had now roped your mother into a spiel about his armory.

“—we boast the largest swords in the entire world, you see.” Naoya was bragging in his grating tone, and your poor mother could only nod. “The best- the biggest. Any old cod can claim that size doesn’t matter and yet our biggest swords are-”

You can’t help it - you catch Choso’s eye and you both have to force yourselves from bursting into a fit of chuckles.

Both turning into each other.

Your hand clutching Choso’s arm for support.

Choso’s gentle hum of laughter breezing the top of your head.

Only too late do you realize that everyone in the room had their eyes turned to you - each in varying degrees of horror at the proximity between a princess and her knight. Except for Shoko who had gone from glowering at the prince to looking somewhat…knowing.

Damn you, Shoko—you’re half-heartedly cursing her out in your head as you straighten up. Trying not to flinch as Choso follows and takes a step backwards to stand behind you.

As a knight is told to be.

You can’t see the expression on Choso’s face nor his demeanour, but what you do know is the familiar creaking of metal as your best friend sags in on himself. Almost shielding himself from the world underneath all that armor. 

Perhaps from it.

You notice that he always did so whenever someone in court made his place known: whenever they flickered their eyes between the two of you, whenever they pushed their noble sons to greet you, whenever they questioned just why a knight was allowed to even look at the princess like so.

He took it all to heart. Crumpled it up inside, and in doing so he crumpled that beating thing as well.

You wanted to say something—but you knew you couldn’t.

And, of course, it’s Naoya who speaks first. “Hmm, once we are wed then I shall have to make sure that such a thing is not repeated.”

“There is no such thing to speak of.” You speak through a grit smile.

“So you say—” He takes a bite of a puff pastry and places it back on the golden plating, “-but as your husband, it is I who shall have the final say.”

Yell strangled in your throat, you take a step forward-

Only for your father to sense the growing tension and ease his way in, “So is that to say a royal wedding might be on the horizon?”

Naoya takes his sweet time answering, “Well…” Looking straight at you as he contemplates, he wipes off a bit of leftover vanilla cream from the edge of his lip and flicks it. “That is what I’m saying, Your Majesty.”

Your father claps his hands heartily, “Send for the wedding preparations right away—! Oh, and draft the announcement for the-”

But you don’t hear a single word.

It feels numb.

It feels like something’s buzzing inside of your head.

You’re unsteady on your feet until a cold metallic hand reaches out and clasps hold of you.

You know it’s Choso and you do not let go.

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Your heart aches at the letter you receive on the morning afterwards: the morning of the official announcement.

“My dearest princess, cry not.

Cry not—for a single drop of your tears is worth more than all the raindrops in heaven, all the rays of sunlight kissing the Earth, and all the beats of my heart. 

It has been running rattle-brained, foolishly wild, these past few hours as I stagger upon the thought that I may lose you. Not that this lowly admirer had you in the first place, my dearest princess, you must forgive me for my presumption. But in every little way in which you are mine, I gain to lose you still.

Cry not for a man that should not cry for you, my dearest princess. Cry not for a man that cries for you still.

And I…above all I am a selfish man. I am a selfish man—utterly selfish—and should all the world’s laws be up to me, then you and I, should you wish it, would have been married four summers past.

Alas, I am overruled.”

You’re dressed for the public.

And once you’re escorted to the royal balcony where all palace announcements are conducted, you look up from the ground just in time to see Yuji catch Choso’s eye. The long-haired man behind you shakes his head.

Though you’re not quite sure what it means, it somehow makes you feel all the more worse.

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Dearest gentle reader, 

Though it is not in good manners for a lady to gasconade, allow this writer here to tell you that I had proclaimed so—a royal wedding is forthcoming!

You have read that right, dear reader!

Don your best silks and gather your best florals, for soon her Royal Highness, the princess, shall be wed to Prince Naoya Zenin. According to what was proclaimed at the most recent palace announcement, a grand wedding is to take place in a week’s time, immediate after the Royal Diamond Ball, to celebrate the union. Though experts speculate that this marriage is likely of political origins rather than the heart-fluttering romance that some think, one thing is for certan—His Highness, Naoya Zenin, certainly seemed to take the affair in stride.

Witnesses to the official announcement claim that the prince simply couldn’t keep the smile off of his face at the thought of his beautiful new bride (though others claim that it’s due to his imminent rise to the throne thereafter, as he isn’t the first heir to the Zenin Family—however, you didn’t hear that from me, dear reader!)

Others at the site were more entranced by none other than the princess’s trusty personal knight - Choso Kamo was expectedly standing guard beside Her Highness. But what caught the attention of eagle-eyed onlookers was rather the…expression upon his handsome face.

You could not pay me to name a more heart-broken man, dear reader! You could not!

Perhaps this is an omen of how the wedding preparations are being handled behind the curtains? Perhaps this is an omen of…something more?

This writer has a personal inkling about the reasons as to why knight Choso might have looked at Her Highness with nothing less than sorrow (did somebody say tears in his eyes?) 

And amongst this roulette of wishful men I know you’re asking me—but Lady Whistledown, what of the princess’s secret admirer? 

Well—you’ll be happy to know that I come with reliable insight that the secret delivery of love letters has yet to cease! Yes, gentle reader, this particular admirer seems quite passionate in their affections. Even going so far as to send one just after the announcement. Should the letters have yet to halt now, one can only imagine whether they shall stop even after the royal wedding.

The prince. The admirer. The knight (perhaps?) How can one choose?!

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

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“Big brother-”

“No-”

“Big brother, I simply state that-”

“Quiet, Yuji.” 

Choso’s tone comes out harder than he’d intended, and his chest clenches at the wounded look in the younger boy’s eyes. Without wasting a single second, and without looking to see if anyone was nearby, he’s lunging forwards and embracing the boy into his arms.

Holding him just as he had when they were children and the pink-haired one would fall and bruise himself- though the only one that feels bruised right now is Choso.

It had been a week since the wedding announcement.

And all preparations had been in full swing: enough so that between all the dress-fittings, and the flower-pickings, and the guest-greetings, Choso hadn’t even had the time to exchange a proper conversation with you. Not that he was in the place to - especially not anymore.

Tonight was the Royal Diamond Ball of the season, where one Diamond shall be picked, always taking place inside the palace.

Except, this time, it had doubled in both extravagance and guest-list due to the simple fact that tonight was also the grand ball before your wedding. Tomorrow morning you would walk down the aisle in a dress of white.

Tomorrow morning you will be another’s wife.

He hugs his younger brother tight, “Yuji, I apologize for my brash words-”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Yuji finally breaks the hug, “I was simply careless with my own words.”

“You were not-”

“I just don’t understand why you can’t be happy- why both of you can’t be happy. Together.” He looks away, eyes filling with tears he knows wouldn’t encompass even the tiniest fraction of what his brother has shed over this very reason. “It’s just not fair.”

“Some things…some things are meant to be the way they are.” Choso stares ahead at the gilded hallway spread out before him, “We must simply persist.”

Yuji looks as though he wants to say something more- but at that very moment, the doors to your royal chamber are opening. The two knights had been stationed there until you were fussed-over and all dolled-up for the Royal Diamond Ball tonight - the last as an unwed princess. The last before you were bound to Naoya Zenin.

And looking at you now, Choso thinks that it would’ve been worth it to cut down the wedding and all its procession for you.

Because there wasn’t a word to describe you.

The soft champagne of the taffeta draped over your shoulders and puffed up fashionably at your arms, cascading down in a waterfall of expensive silks up to your ankles. Following were glistening pearls that only brought out the beauty of the dress - your beauty - wrung at the edges of your hem and necklines. Delicate bracelets where your hands were gloved. A singular diamond hanging from your neck. And of course—your tiara.

It weighed heavily on your head.

Your ladies-in-waiting had dabbed on a bit of glittering rouge on your lips.

It was all that Choso could stare at.

You weren’t just bound to be the Diamond of the season, you were a diamond from the night sky. And he’s still trying to find a word to describe you that he knows wouldn’t come close, not even in a hundred of his l—

“Choso?” You cock your head gently at him. Trying not to bite down on your lower lip in nervousness and smear your attendants’ hard work, “Is something the matter-”

“Enchanting.” He blurts out- but that wasn’t enough. Would never be enough.

You look at him with slightly widened eyes, and he wouldn’t take the word back anyway. He looks at you and says in a more firm tone, “You look enchanting, my princess.”

You try - and fail - to bite back a smile—and ultimately end up swatting him on his armored chest. “Enchanting? Do not think that flattery shall stop me from forcing you into a dance tonight.”

“Ah—foiled again!” He dramatically looks to the skies.

“Fool.” You joking strike him again - Choso had dressed up for the occasion as well. His armor had been polished until it shined like a mirror, reflecting your own two ogling eyes back at you. Even the hilt of his blade looked deathly sharp.

He’d pushed his visor up and that gave you a glimpse of those two doe-like eyes, chestnut brown and warm. He was staring at you in a way that made you squirm.

Though Lady Whistledown’s society papers tended to use pretty prose, what they hadn’t lied about was this. Just how handsome he was.

“P-perhaps we ought to make our entrance.” You say.

And he nods in understanding, “We ought to—” But, what Choso realizes, is that he doesn’t understand at all.

And his breath hitches as you clutch onto his right arm with both hands. Attaching yourself against his side- how he wished he could feel the warmth of your body through his armor-

“These shoes are far too tall.” You fail to meet his eyes, “Forgive me, but if I could use a bit of support until-”

“Anything you want, my princess.” He breathes.

Your actual entrance into the grand ball is a blur - you’ve attended far too many of these in far too short a time before. It’s the crunch of velvet carpet underneath your too-tall shoes, and the strangely burning sensation of all eyes being directed at you. 

At the way you were still holding onto Choso.

You distance yourself from him silently, and he falls in step behind you. The master of ceremonies announces your name even though everyone here already knows it. The staircase is never-ending and unrelenting, each step louder than the thundering of your heartbeat, a staccato of what feels like your own unravelling.

You’re slightly off-kilter as you reach the end- before a hand shoots out to help you.

You grasp onto the man’s calloused hand gratefully, looking up to realize that it was Yaga. 

“Watch your step, Your Highness.” He helps you stand and wade through the crowd. As the head knight, Yaga had the freedom to forgo the armor tonight. It was a strong navy blue, nearly the entire chest of it covered in numerous medals and colors - warning off keen-eyed nobles from nearing. 

You catch sight of Naoya surrounded by ladies-in-wait by the feast-

Yaga’s voice breaks through, “What is it that’s on your mind, Your Highness?”

“Nothing.” You answer instantly, “It’s just- it must be pre-wedding jitters.”

“I see…” He looks at you intensely, and you feel as though he can see right through you. Know right through what you’re really feeling. “Then in that case, all is well, correct?”

“Correct.”

He almost smiles, “And you are ready to be wed to His Highness Naoya, correct?”

“C-correct.”

“And you shall be thinking of a certain knight- or a certain admirer on the altar, correct?”

“Correct-” You falter, “Excuse me?”

“Ah—it seems the orchestra is commencing.” Yaga looks into the distance where the violin players had started easing in soft trills, as if music itself had waited for your arrival. “Now, my back is certainly too weathered for such dances- but I shall hold you with me no longer, Your Highness.” He turns to you and gives you a gentle smile, “Go—have your first dance.”

You almost plead, “But with who?” Naoya was still…occupied with all the court ladies- not that you would ever in a million years want to dance with Naoya Zenin in the first place-

“Whoever your heart may desire.” Yaga interrupts your thoughts, letting go of your hand- though not before pressing in something delicate and flat into it. He looks somewhere behind you—“A letter, asked of me to hand to you. I only implore that you stay as true to your heart, as he is to you.”

As Yaga disappears into the crowd starting to twirl in their tulle skirts—you open that little piece of paper up.

A short message.

“My dearest princess,

Steps behind you, a vision I do not deserve to see. 

The most enchanting girl in the world to me.”

Enchanting.

The paper nearly falls out of your hand, and you can only look behind you - to where Choso Kamo was refusing to meet your eyes. His metallic visor was down and you couldn’t help but step closer.

Uncaring what they say as you’re reaching out and fastening it upwards- “Is this your penmanship, my dearest knight?”

He does not answer.

“Do you think I look enchanting, my dearest knight?”

He does not answer.

“Does your heart beat solely for me, my dearest knight?”

He does not answer.

“Do you not wish for me to be married—” At that, he flinches like a wounded animal. And you already know that he most certainly won’t be answering that question. Which is why you’re answering instead, “For I feel much the same towards you.”

He snaps his head up, glittering brown eyes pleading down at you. He breathes…“Of which sentiment?”

You smile, “All of it.”

“A-and the marriage-” Choso takes a jerky step towards you, his armor creaking like the weight of dungeon chains. “The alliance-”

“May I have this first dance?” You simply reach your hand out.

And as the music crescendos, he takes your hand and presses a kiss to the back of your head. Letting you lead into a golden floor.

Gasps deafen the ballroom music.

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The Ton was a-flutter and a-ripe with scandal as you spent your first dance at the Royal Diamond ball with your knight instead of your betrothed. At least, that’s what you imagine - the truth is that you’d been too entranced with Choso Kamo to even pay attention.

He’d held you gently - so gently - as though his large hands could break you at any given moment. 

And Choso had never let his eyes stray from your figure as he twirled you around the ballroom. He would have cared about the whispered- he should have…but how could he when he had the most enchanting girl in the world in his arms?

Too soon- your dance was cut short by an arm on Choso’s shoulder. Stopping him.

You’d both turned to face Naoya Zenin, furious spit lining the edges of his lips. He had barked out a formal order for the knight to step aside and hand him your dance- and though Choso’s hand had gone to his sword…

You’d shaken your head at him.

It was a half-dance with Naoya (of which you’d excused yourself feigning networking duties) and a hastened walk to the edge of the ballroom. Right where Choso Kamo was attempting to blend into the gilded ballroom.

You’d nodded discreetly at him and he already knew—

With Yaga suddenly causing a commotion- accidentally spilling his red wine on Lady Mei Mei’s dress, no one had noticed the two of you slipping out after the second dance. Before the Diamond was announced.

He followed you silently, two steps behind as a knight should, all the way up to your royal bedroom.

It was only once you’d reached your towering double doors that you took Choso by hand- all but dragging the handsome knight inside. And though he’d squawked in surprise, you’d merely looked at your best friend with determined eyes.

“Take me, Choso.”

He gasps. His shudders.

He was going to ruin the princess.

CLANK!

CLANK!

CLANK!

CLANK!

Choso’s heavy armor fell to the ground—

CLANK!

The last of it before the knight scoops his strong arms underneath your legs and hoists you up into that princess carry you’ve read about in every fairy tale. Choso walks you gently over to the expansive bed, before setting you down and laying you all flat—

“Why’re you by the foot of the bed, Cho?” You’re huffing down at the man who was now pressed against the mahogany bedframe. He had his knees down on the soft carpet, kneeled at your feet. Grabbing onto one of Choso’s toned arms - still in a gauzy white poet’s shirt that had been worn underneath his armor - you attempt futilely to pull him upwards. “Come lay with me.”

Looking away with a blush. “Why…have you really not the faintest idea, my dearest princess?” Hearing those words from his mouth sends shivers down your spine. 

He looks at you with dark, half-lidded eyes. Hands spreading your thighs apart and sliding down the sides of your legs. Beneath those customary layers of silk. Choso’s hands keep roaming, and there’s a sudden rush of heat pulsing down to your core once you register his fingertips scraping the edge of your undergarments. 

Mouth falling slightly agape.

“I-It’s only customary to give the lady a kiss before the dance—”

You’re gasping as your brain registers the innuendo- but not before Choso dips his mouth down and gives your cunt a looooong kiss through your sodden panties. Open-mouthed and hot.

He draaaaags the tip of his tongue down your slit n’ tastes you for the first time. Letting a single droplet of your syrupy slick end up splashin’ on his tongue- and he fucking moans. Loud.

Just so husky and attractive that it makes your body buck up into him without even realizing.

And it’s all that Choso needs to let go of his inhibitions. It’s all that he needs to hold both your wrangling thighs down and press himself even deeper against your aroused cunt. Nose-deep. Chest heaving in such guttural puffs.

It’s as if the knight didn’t even need to breathe as long as he could reach deeper against your sopping slit. So wet that he’s feeling your puffy pussylips through the fabric of your underwear- he slashes his tongue between your folds and makes you rut-

“Wh-what is this feeling…ngh.” Unable to help but pipe up in a shrill tone, you struggle to keep your hand pressed against your noisy mouth.

And he doesn’t even answer.

He can’t.

He’s lurching his mouth back and forth at a frenzied pace—crazed. Licking his tongue all over the inches of your cunt he could reach, rubbin’ his ridged tastebuds up and down the swollen outer part of your pussy. 

You were just so damn soaked that it almost felt as if there was no barrier between your pussy and his ravenous mouth at all. Gaping even wider open and heavily kissing your pussy, he was almost thrusting his face against your sensitive cunt-

“Choso-” You gasp, your breaths all dampened. Hands weaving through his long brown hair for dear life. “Choso oh heavens—”

It was just too enchanting how your voice broke on the very last syllable of your sentence. And Choso can’t deny that it makes something carnal deep inside him twitch- “My dearest princess.”

“O-oh…” And you certainly didn’t expect his murmuring tone to send vibrations running up your spine like that.

Breathy. “Is that good, my dearest princess?” Choso’s mouth waters at the way his words only seem to make you splosh out in even more slick—gushing. It trickles greedily down either side of his mouth like two slick rivulates. And you can’t help but snap your head down and think that he looked utterly drunk - gaze half-lidded, lips puffy and red, forehead beading with sweat from his movements. Kissing. “My dearest princess.” Heaving. “My dearest princess.”

“P—please—” You’re trilling out, your head falling into the pillows behind you. “Choso, heavens, I beg of you to c-catch your breath-”

“And yet does it feel good, princess?”

That broken lil’ sentence of his punctuated by the most sloppy slash between your pussylips- smearin’ them apart and accurately pinpointing your clit. With the flexible tip of his tongue he presses inwards against that soft spot and makes you see stars.

Sends your hips rutting furiously against his pretty face, and your moans roaring. “Damn—fuck.” His cock throbs at the way he’d made such a poised, perfect princess break her demeanor. Swear- shit, he really was ruining you. “Fuck, yes- mmm, it feels so good.”

“Feels so good…what?” He’s rasping out.

And you have to blink through your film of tears down at him- “What?” He was now creating a rhythmic mwah of his lips down upon your clit - just lick upon lingering liiiiiick to drive you absolutely wild. 

“It feels so good—” He’s groaning out straight into your cunt, already knowing that you’d be left all tender with his voice And just then you feel two pointed canines snag against your throbbing nub and almost…bite. “-who?”

“Choso—” So that was what he wanted all along? To have you hiccup and squeal his name as he draaaagged his lips from corner to corner of your leaky crevice and lapped up every ounce you gave? To have you absolutely shattered- “Choso-”

“Yeeees?” Alternating between snagging his honed canines down your clit n’ suckling on it.

Like his most favorite candy from the feast downstairs- and yet, you’d be the sweetest dessert out of them all. He was making out with your pussy just like it, too. “Choso- fuck, Choso I didn’t have the daftest idea that you could ever—mmm, it just feels too good.”

“Feels good?” He’s gutturally gasping, teeth scraping through your panties and creating little tears. Wrapping his pink lips ‘round your clit and hollowing his cheeks out of sheer force- “This feels good?”

“Yes-”

Nibblin’ his pearly whites down on your undergarments and tearing it down your slit. Swipin’ his tongue back and forth- “This feels—good-”

“Yes.” You gurgle out. It’s more and more. 

It’s just the pinkish tip of his tongue that was proddin’ at your bundle of nerves. He slips it into a tiny hole town through your silken undergarments- and it’s enough to make your hips cleanly arch off the mattress. “Ch-Chosoooo—” 

Choso’s darkened eyes flap wider open- “Suppose that feels even better, my dearest princess?”

And all he really wanted to do was make you numb with pleasure.

All he really wanted to do was slobber his mouth across that sweetened cunt of yours until he couldn’t even breathe- he’d be satisfied by the fact.

And Choso isn’t even thinking twice before he’s weighing down on one of the tears in your panties - something that he’d done with his very own mouth. Now his crowned fingertips were pushing against the delicate fabric and making it rip-rip-riiiiiiiiiip—!

Not even all the way through.

Just enough for two of Choso’s rightly thick fingers to seep through your undergarments and kiss your hole dead-on.

You flinch as he’s spreading your entrance with the most lecherous slurp! The knobbled ends of his digits pushing aside both your pussylips and simply aiming for that cutely leaking hole- how in heavens were you this wet? This tantalizing?

Tasty.

Choso reaches his slick-gazed fingers out of your cunt and raises it up to his vision - glimmering in the pale moonlight with all your candied liquids - he doesn’t hesitate before plopping them straight into his mouth. His eyes roll to the back of his skull and Choso moans as he tastes you- 

“S-shoooo good—” 

Fuck, was he slurring his words?

You’re raising up onto your elbows to question him, “Choso, did you just-”

But Choso doesn’t seem to hear- Choso doesn’t even seem to have anything running through his mind right now except for you and your pretty pussy. You and your pretty pussy.

You and your pretty pussy that gapes just as he pumps a few inches of his fingers inside - cunt getting glossed in your clingy slick once he squeezes his way inside. He’s feeling for the way your sopping wet walls glue to him like adhesive- stopping him briefly in his tracks before Choso’s stickin’ a thumb on top of your clit and making you take him.

“C’mon-” He hisses between clenched canines, brows furrowing down in concentration. “C’mon c’mon—it feels good. Doesn’t it, princess?”

“It does-” Hiccuping - trying and failing to buck your hips up for more. But the only thing you’re doing is succeeding in having Choso slip a hand up to grab your waist, pinning your body down to the squeaky mattress with such ease.

Your knight’s keeping your body on a damn leash while he fucks out a slooooow and sensual tempo between your legs. Just the fatness of each finger roverin’ deeper spots inside your walls, you swear you can feel out every single stretch. “Easy there, princess.” He knew his princess’s body better, it seems. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“It does but—fuck.” And just then Choso’s hooking his fingers in an incredible way that leaves your legs weak. Plumply pushing against one bunch of your nerves and sending shockwaves up to your brain. “Fuck, I want more, Choso.”

“Patience, Your Highness.” Choso spits out- literally. A dangling ribbon of saliva that clings onto your pussylips n’ makes it easier for the first inch or two of his digits to slip inside.

“But Choso—”

“Patience.” He hums, low vibrations. The space between your legs lets out the most lecherous loud squelches as he’s probin’ in and out. Watching as your swollen pussylips stretch out aaaaaaaall wide open- 

He curls his lengthy digits against the velvety roof of your cunt. Making you just twitch, he’s grinning his slick-lipped grin. “I know you’re all needy right now, princess. But you need to learn to take it loooong and slow—” Emphasizing it by dragging his puffy digits along your walls and scissoring them multiple times. “-like that, see? That feels good, hm?”

“It does, but…” You pout.

Choso’s long lashes quiver, eyes widening slightly. “But?” Slightly crazed.

“But I want- hck!” Further pushing your slobberin’ cunt against his features, you’re dragging your most sensitive bits along his faces and shivering as it grazes his prominent nose. Desperately yowling, “But I want more-”

“Then command it.”

You snap your eyes open, “P-pardon?”

“Then command it.” But it still doesn’t sound real in your ears- ringing with pressure from his fingers slipping in and out. Hitting almost every spot you wanted him to—almost. He latches his mouth ‘round your clit once more and- he doesn’t suck. No.

Choso’s sinking his teeth into that perfect lil’ nub and draaaaagging it right out a centimeter or two until you scream. Fluttering his pretty lashes, “Aren’t you the princess, my dear?” Barely even waiting for your answer before your cunt squelches with a third one of his fingers- “Aren’t I your knight? Go on—command me.”

“P-please-” And Choso gnaws his teeth down even more meanly to stop you from using your royal manners. Until all you can do is bend your spine into the perfect curvature and puuush- grabbing onto his sweaty locks with absolutely no mercy. “Choso, I order you to go harder.”

His cock has never been harder. 

He’s not even giving you a warning before thwacking! a strike with three globular fingertips, all the way at the very gooey bottom of your pussy. Rasping. “Harder?”

“Faster.” You barely gasp. “Choso, I-I order you-”

“Faster?” As if the only thing he can do when he’s so focused on fucking your pussy in harsh, thumpin’ hammers is that mantra of your words. “What else? What else, my liege?”

“Leige…” Bouncing your hips up, up, up—you might be too gone on his perfectly girthy fingers to realize the way you were swervin’ your waist to and fro. Just letting his lengthy fingers navigate the slick maze inside of you, plump fingertips spearheading inside like a spotlight and curving against every spot. 

But Choso notices.

Of course, he notices.

He’s noticed every single thing about you, silent and stoic at your footsteps, for years. Always looking. Always admiring from afar—and he knows when you want something. “What else do you wish for, my princess? What else makes your pussy- hngh, feel good?” 

“I want you to h-hit that one spot-” You’re blubbering through your constant tears. Moving your hips just to the side so that his curvaceous fingers were nearing where you wanted him the most. “So close—oh.”

“Never tell me to do anything twice, Your Highness.” He mutters, tone shot. “I’m always at your service.”

And he was.

And he was shovin’ his fingers - almost thickened with how long they’d been inside you - straight against that bundle of your nerves. Against that crevice you’d heard dubbed as your g-spot from that scandalous literature hidden away at the back of the library…

And when Choso had found that particular spot, he was hitting it like a madman—

Once. Twice. Thrice.

The way he’d memorized just where it was and mapped out every single inch of space inside you was dizzying. The way he’d leave a few sultry split-seconds to twirl his bulbous fingertips against your g-spot before reeling back and thud-thud-thudding. “It feels good, right?”

He was back to that familiar mantra and it was sending zaps of power down your spine to realize just how breathy he sounded. Just how smoky. Just how shattered.

Choso was eating you out like he was going crazy with every lick up your weepin’ pussy crevice. Uuuuup and down and fightin’ against his very own fingers to stick the edge of his tongue inside your quivering hole. “It feels so-” You’re gripping onto the strands of his hair stupidly, “So good-” Tears freely flowing down your cheek with just how many times he was mercilessly forcing his way against your sweetest spots. Your most favorite. “So good- so good- sooo good—”

You smack your hips up in a sloppy drag down Choso’s face and he moans. 

“Choso, you’re just the best—”

And that? Those particular words are just about enough to make his red-hot, achingly hard erection pulse once. Twice.

Beading out a silky trickle of cum that darkens his thick pants.

Before he’s frankly quite sure that he might be on the verge of cumming- and such a valiant knight could never cum before his lovely princess, now, could he? Not daring to be so selfish, Choso heightens the pleasure and pressure until his tongue looked like nothing but a strawberry-pink blur lickin’ into every nook and cranny of yours. Slap-slap-slapping down on your clit.

And his fingers were fucking into you so hard- so ruthlessly. Viciously banging your g-spot like a constant bullseye and Choso was an expert at archery. Didn’t you know?

He doesn’t slow down - doesn’t dare to - even once your drenched walls start convulsing around him in a staccato. Even once you open your mouth in a soundless scream.

Even once you start to cum—

And Choso had never smiled wider in his entire life than he does right now with his lips glued to your pussy. Salivating. Tongue strokin’ your clit through every peak of your high- “C-cumming, Choso.” You pant out tearily. “And I can’t seem to stop…”

“You don’t have to.” Right on cue he bangs a roughened thrust just against your g-spot. Leaving you throbbing and aching for more.

And everything ‘more’ that you want - Choso’s more than happy to give.

Your loyal knight elongating your wave of bliss with his slick fingers. The perfect amount of thickness to stretch your walls but also leave you keening at his rapid pace- he pinpoints each tender point of your orgasm and thrashes against your nerves right at that exact moment.

Again.

And again and again.

And again—until your high makes you see white-hot stars behind your closed eyelids. Planting sloppy drags down his face right in synchronization, “Any longer and I don’t believe I shall cum any more, Choso.”

“As long as it feels goooood, princess.” He gurgles out, “Heh, so good that your body can’t cum anymore.”

“I-I don’t believe it works like- fuck.” Lips soiled with tears and saliva. Glazed. Doesn’t matter how much you’re running your voicebox ragged, because Choso doesn’t even slow down- not even when he’s fucked you through your orgasm and letting it taper out into mere tingles.

Shots of power. Vulgar strokes barely even starting to falter as you begin to feel so utterly raw n’ overstimulated. “But Choso, I want…”

“Hmmmm?”

He sounds so gone on your pussy that you know merely asking nicely won’t make Choso latch off. Experimentally, you’re tugging on his sweat-drenched bangs and he doesn’t even budge-

“Choso Kamo.” You’re starting out, struggling to keep your voice steady. And yet at the tone of your voice, Choso flinches as though he already knows- “As your princess, I order you to just fuck me already.”

He takes a few seconds to detach from your pussy.

Pulling away his sticky slick-glazed lips with a superior squeeelch! And Choso stares up at you with dark, half-lidded eyes. “As you wish, Your Highness.” 

His ruined voice sends shivers across every inch of your body.

A body that he’s now plastering his hands onto and all but tearing through your soft layers- like butter underneath his strong hands. He’s ripping your silken gown straight through the middle, “I shall summon the tailor first thing tomorrow morning.” Choso grunts, already reading that expression on your face. “Worry not- your next dress shall be white, my princess.”

“Wh-white…” You breathe out, feeling light-headed at the implication.

Before you know it, all Choso has unhooked your half-corset and left you all exposed for him. For him to ravenously sweep his eyes down. For him to gaze upon every inch of you and gulp- was his mouth watering just at the sight of you naked?

But you’re not left too long to ponder upon the thought before Choso starts shrugging off his gauzy shirt and trousers. He’s letting the buttons pop open—pop! pop! pop! And displaying such a firm chest chiselled with prominent pecs, further down along were naturally ripped abs and the most sensual happy trail.

All dark and slightly unruly where it dips juuuust below his pants hemline.

Choso flattens his thumb against those golden buttons and lets himself spring free- and oh. 

Oh.

You have to bite back a gasp out of sheer manners, though it should be rather obvious that you were ogling him. All about seven or eight inches of him- maybe more. Definitely more.

The cutest blushin’ pink at his tip, growing slightly more pale towards the base.

Glistening shaft. Heavy balls. He’s decorated with more veins than you might’ve imagined from him, and he’s so hard that each time they twitch his erection flinches in mid air. Fuck…Choso’s just so long and rock-hard that his puckered pink tip jumps upwards and smears a swipe of glistening sap across his abs. It glares at you like a smirk, and Choso sleazes out a smile right back. 

Letting his head fall backwards once he gives his long cock a good pump.

“Oh…” He’s swearing underneath his breath, edging in closer on two capped knees. Those meaty thighs of his were just irresistible - all meaty and milky and flexing.

The slight muscles in his legs twitch as he inches closer to you on the bed. Cornering you against the headboard, Chose wields his swollen tip cloooose between your legs- kissin’ your puffy pussylips. Just a single swipe. “Fuck.”

And that’s all it takes for Choso Kamo to break on your pussy.

Head hanging downwards. Long locks covering his face. The entirety of his body fucking lurching- he’s messily creaming down your slit with copious amounts of cum.

Scorchin’ hot and sticking to you like adhesive.

It dribbless between your folds and enters your hole just the sliiiightest bit - already enough to start sploshin’ inside you and make you feel stuffed to the brim. You’re squirming at the unfamiliar sensation—and what does Choso do?

He’s reeling his hips back and rutting against you like a damn animal.

Unable to control himself. Merely pushing his fat cockhead between your pussylips and shoving- he groans at the way he couldn’t even fit the honed point of his very honed tip inside. 

Just sliding lecherously past your pussylips and rubbin’ his veiny shaft down your front. 

The only thing that that’s doing is grazing your clit and driving the man on top of you absolutely wild. He’s huffing through a pout as he looks down, “I want- ngh, I want to make it feel good for you, my princess. But it just won’t seem to fit.” Without much warning, he’s slithering his right hand down and scissoring open your snug hole. “Does this pretty pussy need me to s-stretch her out even more?”

“Oh—maybe.” You blubber out, looking at him through a heady gaze. “Choso…it’s my first time.”

And he knows he should expect it- fuck, he’s been at your side through every second of every day after you’ve come of age. He should already know by now. 

His lips part, “Oh.”

“And I suspect it’s your first time, too?”

“It is…” Choso looks away bashfully, “My apologies, Your Highness, that I’m not experienced enough to perhaps give you the pleasure that you deserve-”

“Cho?”

He immediately shuts himself up, “Mhm?”

But instead of answering- you’re grabbing ahold of one of Choso’s muscular deltoids. It was just so plush and flexed as you moved him beneath you - flipping your positions over until his back hit the decadent mattress. And you’re clamoring on top of his slender hips, only slightly wobbly with the aftermath of your previous high.

All of Choso’s ivory sap dripped down your inner thighs and tried to glue them together. It was a treacly sheen that slid down his rock-hard abs.

And you’re gliding on top of him- draaaagging your swollen pussylips down his veiny shaft. A whimper lets out of your lips as his flared silt catches on your folds, “F-fuck—Cho, the court ladies told me about this particular position called, ahem- riding.”

He’s looking up at you with wide, heart-shaped eyes. 

And your veins bubbled with molten embarrassment and need, “I’m going to ride you now, alright?”

“Yes-”

“Yes…what?”

Choso breaks out into the most sinful grin you think you’ve ever seen on him- “Yes, my liege.”

And that’s all it takes for you to perk your hips up just a lil’ bit and let Choso’s round orifice trace the outer rim of your hole. Just getting your body trained to the size - and even that is enough to make the man beneath you squirm.

To make him blush. To make him gasp.

To make him reach both quivering hands up and dig them into the globes of your ass- he’s jolting as though fighting with himself over letting you take your agonizing pace or humpin’ up into you like an animal.

Crying out—“Please. I need you so f-fucking bad.” 

And you can pinpoint the exact moment that Choso’s husky voice breaks - all because you’re swerving your hips down and taking a gooood three or so inches of his fattened cock. Red-hot. Throbbing all the way deep inside of you.

The stretch was just so incredible that you’re seeing pure white- a primal moan ripping from your throat at the way he molded to your walls. Almost as if he was made for you.

He’s giving his first spurt of milky precum against your velvety channel, it drips down to your entrance and makes you twitch at the sensation.

Choso Kamo was ruining you from the inside and he wasn’t even trying yet.

Yet you’re still gasping- clawing onto his shoulders and then eventually down to his cushion-like pecs. Providing a firm hold for you as you’re trying to keep yourself balanced. Your mind muddled-

“Does- does it feel good yet, my princess?” Almost in the distance, you can hear Choso’s words echoing. They seem to rattle inside your emptied brain right now. “Does- does it- fuuuck—because it feels like heaven to me.”

“Shit, it feels so…” Your jaw drops agape, running out of words. Having him intruding at your innards like this wasn’t necessarily unpleasant- in fact, when he slightly rutted and rubbed against a few particular spots it almost felt unreal…

You’re keeping a firm grip on him and lightly bouncing your hips down - short, sloppy thrusts that give off a slurp! every time.

And Choso was giving off the prettiest little whimper every time you swallowed his solid tip. Just about two or three inches. “F-feels good?” He’s begging. Tears crinkle on the edges of his eyelids, and his lips wobble ever-so-slightly. “Feels good, right? Am I making my princess feel good?”

“So good.” You manage to gasp out. “Shit, I have yet to feel such pleasure with my fingers…”

“Being held at a degree higher than the fingers of my princess—?” He couldn’t believe it himself. And almost as though to confirm, Choso’s reaching over and lifting your dominant hand off of his pectoral. He brings it up to his mouth and gives it a long kiss, “Y-you cannot be serious.” Breathing in, as if to breathe in your essence. “The hands of my princess…”

Your jaw drops as his own does - opening wide enough to slip as few of your fingers inside and suck. “You’re more of a lecher than your innocent demeanour- ngh, lets on.”

“Only for you, Your Highness.”

And with your never-ending vulgar strokes, you’d managed to bully about half of Choso’s erection inside of you. It was a girth thick enough to stretch out hidden nooks n’ crannies inside you that you didn’t even know you had, and the perfect length to already be throbbin’ away by your g-spot…

You swivel your hips lightly enough to let his tip graze your most favorite spot- and you can’t help but fucking shake at the burst of sensations.

He’s hissing at the way you clench, “Oh, please-” Head falling backwards into the pillow in a dizzy haze. “D-does that little…squeeze mean it feels good?”

“Yes-” You gasp, “And it also means I ache for you more.”

Your best friend gulps, “Where?”

And it doesn’t take long for you to maneuver one of his calloused palms off of your hips and down to your stomach. Where it felt like he was so big that you could feel him from the outside—Choso presses down as he sinks in. “Here.” 

That was almost enough to make him cum.

But Choso had already cum earlier - and it wasn’t a matter of not being able to stuff your pussy full all over again. He’s sure he could cream himself dry on your pussy. It was more so the fact that, in order to make up for it, he needed to make you cum at least twice more before finally finishing off himself.

One taste of your cunt clenchin’ around him and he’s feeling a tear slip down his cheek.

Almost subconsciously - body moving before mind - Choso arches off the comforter to probe his blushin’ tip deep inside you. “Shit- you just reached so deep, Cho.”

“Would you like me to take over, Your Highness?” Oh—how he loved the way that title rolled off of his tongue when he fucked you. His lowly body marking out your insides-

And he’d known you for so long by now.

He knew everything about you: every like, every dislike, every tell about your body. And he already knows from the hazy look in your peripherals that you’d been growing tired, thighs twitching any time you tried to messily bounce down on his cock.

Which is why one of Choso’s large hands cup your ass and start to help you fuck back into him- his muscules flexing mouth-wateringly every time he did so. Deeper and deeper. “Come on, my princess.” The hand on your stomach lifts off and glides down your pussy’s slit. Perfectly finding and pressing down on your knobbly clit - so sensitive. “Come on- fuck, let this loyal knight of yours make you feel good.”

“But the thing is…” You whimper out, head dropping down to look at the space between your legs. Like this, the size difference between your puckered hole and Choso’s thick cock. Growing even thicker before your very eyes. “-you’re just so damn big, Choso. Will it even fit?”

“I can make it fit.” He answers readily, as though the answer had already been on the tip of his tongue. For years, actually - all those long nights since becoming your personal knight. With only his hand and the image of you. He knows he’s fucking pathetic. 

But he can’t bring himself to regret a single moment anyway. Because it’s only with that imaginary practice that he’s swervin’ his hips up to yours in slightly circular motions. “I can do anything for you.” 

“Anything?”

He gasps out, “Anything for you, Your Highness.”

With his tongue stuck between his teeth, he’s crossing his brows and focusing on simply sensually fitting his cock inside. Uuuup with that big stretch.

Your head knocks backwards, “Ch-Choso—” Never been stretched like this before. 

And then again with those rovering pushes.

“Choso.”

And again.

“Fuck-”

Choso wasn’t even answering any more - just couldn’t. He had his mind focused solely on one thing, and that was to pump all his generous inches inside you, which might be easier said than done considering how the longer he spent in contact with your pussy…the more pussydrunk he seemed to be becoming.

Until he was all but babbling—gasping, tearing up, fighting against the carnal resistance, holding onto you hard enough to leave nail marks all down your body. He was shovelling his ruddied cockhead with a thwack! against the very bottom of your pussy. 

Bottomed-out. 

You collapse down onto his chiselled chest with a strangled scream, feeling the metaphorical pop! of both your cherries. As well as the squirt of precum emptied out against your cervix-

The last thing you’re feeling before Choso’s leaving your entrance all sore.

Before he’s drilling up into you like a crazed man.

Fucking up into you with honed, deep thrusts - all the way from the globular edge of his shaft and then doooown until your clit scratches on the tufts of black hair at his base. He’s whacking your g-spot and then skidding right down until his puckered tip meets your womb. Rapid. Ravenous.

The bed creaks from the sheer pace of his movements, mingling with the shrill noises that you were letting out yourself. “So this is what it feels like- oh.”

Choso drags his right thumb down your pussy’s slit- that dewy spot of your clit being the perfect target for him to press down on. “This is what it feels like—” There’s such a dreamy quality to his words, languid and slightly slurred. “It feels like absolute heaven j-just-”

“Just?” You look up at your knight when he trails off.

Not expecting him to break out into the most sleazy smile. “Just having my innocence taken by the princess.” He says it in a way that sends shives down your spine - firm and possessive.

And even more possessive was the way that Choso thereafter clings a hold onto your waist and pulls you down to him. His abs shifting underneath you as he presses a kiss to your bitten lips—as he spits a wad of his saliva between them. “Taking the princess’s innocence- the whole kingdom should know that I r-ruined their perfectly innocent princess.” He’s gasping out, lost in the feeling of his entire engorged inches being suctioned by your walls. “That I made her- hah, pussy mine.”

“Choso—” Your eyes blow wide in shock and pleasure.

Because just then the hand teasin’ at your clit decides to jump straight to pinching right there. 

It makes you twitch on top of him.

The pit of your stomach fizzling with something that feels good-

“Oh, but fear not, Your Highness.” He continues as if he isn’t just driving you wild. Ruining your insides with the constant, rhythmic squelching of his large cockhed—pushing and pushing. And pushing. 

Choso stares up at you with a half-lidded gaze - direct eye contact even when he’s craning upwards to bite down on your left nipple. Dark lashes fluttering, “For every part of me is likewise yours.”

“Every part?” You shudder.

“Every part.” In emphasis, his cock throbs furiously inside you. 

Succeeding in swervin’ in each glittering droplet of precum and slick and seed back in. He groans, “And you know you can ride this lowly knight as much as you want- as hard as you want.”

“I…” Your mouth feels as parched as a desert, “I would like that, my knight.”

Leaning slightly back on the bed, he’s letting you take more control. “Ride me- ride me dry, princess.” Just so achingly needy for you that you could almost taste it.

His salted-caramel taste sizzling at the back of your throat- his vanilla scent filling up your every other sense. You could now fit the pace to whatever you liked, “Sh-shit-” To whatever massaging rubs against your bundled nerves. “Shit—it’s almost t-too much. Impossible to believe.”

“Yeah? Feels good, doesn’t it?” Choso’s on board with his hand planted underneath your ass. Using a singular hand, he’s manhandling your hips up and down—up and down. Jerking you almost like a ragdoll down his incredible size, he lets every drop of his drivelling precum get sucked dry by your cute cunt. “Feels good riding your m-most loyal knight? Feels good making such a mess of me—oh?”

“It does.” You’re so stupid on his cock by now that you simply have to confess. “I—fuck, I must be true- it does.”

“Good.” Spittle drools down one edge of his lips. Choso Kamo wanted to be used. 

He wasn’t letting you even bounce your hips away for a mere millisecond- always chasing the back of your pussy with his cockhead. He hisses, “Feels good just- fuck, being fucked by the very man sworn to protect you, hm? Feels good knowing that all those years I’ve wanted this- all this time, I’ve imagined it like some pervert—” Choso casts a glance around the grand room, “All the nights I was here. All the days I spent watching you. Feels good knowing that I would’ve died just for a taste of your sweet cunt, huh?”

Thumb faster n’ faster on your clit.

“Feels good knowing that I shan’t ever in this life, nor any others, even so much as look at another?”

And another one of his rugged hands lifts up from your thighs to cup your cheek - he lets you hold your own chasing your high. Slurping and swallowing his fat cock between your legs intensely, as Choso wipes away a stray tear cascading down your cheek.

“Feels good knowing that you have bewitched me—you and this damn- pretty pussy.”

“Yes-” You’re whimpering out loud enough for it to echo across these four gilded walls. Your mind being a complete mess. “Yes, yes, yes—and I’m gonna…”

“Fuck.”

He’s feeling it before you do once you finally crash into your high.

It’s your second of the night, and just because you’re slightly overstimulated from it doesn’t mean that Choso’s about to slow down. Instead, he’s drilling into you with achingly needy strikes - all vicious pumps against the spot of your nerves, and then nicely sliding down the back of your cervix. Over and over.

A long overarching wave of your orgasm- “Ch-Choso.” One that leaves your body limp and helpless to the way he crushes you against his beating chest. “Need you to cum inside, Choso.”

You’re pleasing up at him in a way that’s irresistible.

“Let your climax at least settle, impatient princess.” He’s lightly chuckling. Increasing his ministrations on your poor clit - only elongating your zaps of pleasure.

Until he seemed to be numbing your body completely with so many sensations, all bubbling through your veins and pouring out in the form of your sweetened slick. “But I want it.” You huff. “What if that was an order?”

“Oh, you really are my spoiled princess. Even after I’ve already given you m-my cock and two orgasms…and my heart.” He’s echoing out in a parched tone. Increasing and increasing the sheer amount of pleasure he was giving you - until it you’re been fucked considerably past the twinges of your high.

Straight into another.

And it seemed to be exactly what Choso was waiting for- before he’s throwing his head back and cumming right in unison with you. “Fuuuuck- take it all.” Words trembling. “Take it all, my dearest princess, take it all from your knight.”

And you can feel him empty it out inside you.

His heavy balls twitching with the looong stripes of sap he was flooding out, they splosh against each of your crevices. Pumped deeper inside with every thrust. The smell of his arousal just twitches something dark and carnal within you- and you’re pushing your face into the crook of his neck. Inhaling that soft vanilla accent.

So in contrast with the pelvis slamming against yours, hard enough that his skin starts to redden. The sheer force of it is enough to make you flinch back - and enough for him to hold onto your body in any way he can and pin you down to his front.

Unable to escape, you can only whine at the way he fucks you through his high. “Oh my…” Your mouth starts to water. No novel or scandal sheet had ever described this before. “Ch-Choso you’re the best.”

And you swear that only makes him cum harder.

So much of it that it begins to trickle out of your hole almost immediately- something that Choso certainly couldn’t have. 

So he swipes his thumb down from your clit and starts swabbin’ those wads back inside.

“I ache for you.” He’s whimpering out, big bulbous tears glimmering on the edges of his lashes. His pink lips jut out into what almost looks like a pout, “My dearest princess, I ache for you-” Followed by the sharp inhale of breath once he grazes over your clit once more. “-so much so that it’s leaking out.”

“I ache for you, too, Choso. So much.” 

“Hah…not as much as I do for you.” As if the petering out of his ribbony white cum had ultimately brought back an inkling of his rationality again. “Though for a lowly knight to be so forward-”

You’re leaning down and wiping away the tears from his handsome cheeks. “Choso…you would never be undeserving of me.” It’s the firm tone that makes him freeze, snapping his head to you with sheeny eyes. “In fact, I could argue that it is I who does not deserve y-”

Choso doesn’t let you finish that sentence.

He’s kissing you long and sound.

And as he smiles against your lips, you decide that you have a long conversation to be had with your father at daybreak.

As heir to the throne.

.

.

.

There is a celebration in the bejeweled chapel that morning.

Though not of a wedding, rather…a coronation.

With the promise of a wedding.

And as you sit upon your velvet throne, the crown jewels balanced heavily on your head and your hands, you feel the folded-up piece of paper tucked away in your locket. Humming.

You catch Choso’s eye, closest amongst the row of knights at attention.

You wink.

He smiles.

Yuji shoots you a thumbs up.

Yaga watches the scene and smiles a slight smile.

Shoko could not have looked more smug.

And Naoya? Though the Zenin family was happy to attend, one such prince was pointedly not invited. Nor would he be claiming any thrones any time soon.

As the ceremony continues, the letter pulses with delight-

“My dearest princess,

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your dearest knight.”

.

.

.

Dearest gentle reader,

Church bells are a-toll—though not for a royal wedding (though be patient, and we shall see the very same soon)—for it’s a royal coronation!

Her Highness, the princess, both shocked and scandalized the Ton at the Royal Diamond Ball last night by attending to her first dance with none other than…her personal knight. Yes, Sir Choso Kamo was chosen personally by the daring royal to be the gentleman that sweeps her off of her feet (on the dance floor). 

And query any ogling noble at the ball that night, and should they find the time between plucking the flies out of their mouth, then all shall confirm that the young couple was rather…scandalously close. Though keeping to his hands confined to places the Ton would approve of, it was rather evident that the way the princess and her knight looked at each other was ripped straight from a fairy tale. The romance!

And just as any good fairy tale should have an obvious villain, this writer’s insiders claim that Prince Naoya Zenin was certainly not happy with the incident. 

Though you must forgive this dear writer if my memory of such dudgeon royal guests is far from perfect. For I was far too occupied with the later…disappearance of Her Highness.

And most conveniently, her knight, as well.

The princess was most certainly not present as she was dubbed the Diamond of the season, nor would she have been able to keep her eyes (or hand) away from Sir Choso long enough to notice. You read that right, dear reader, the Ton has positively been fanning themselves all morning at the juicy details being whispered down palace halls.

My trusted sources claim that the princess and her knight had been locked up in her royal bed chambers…all night. And though the contents of what they may have gotten up to inside this chamber is all speculation, late-night patrol down the palace halls claim they heard the most…peculiar noises emanating from the princess’s bedroom.

All. Night. Long.

Though, of course, Her Highness’s ultimate return to the ball long past the Diamond announcement is a source of many rumors—this eagle-eyed writer would like to point out something else entirely.

Bite marks. Unsteady gait.

Glowing.

Perhaps all coincidence, of course, that Sir Choso Kamo had donned his knight’s armor and hidden any of his own marks from view. It is undeniable that the princess had been carrying evidence of a knight—my apologies, I meant night well-spent!

And perhaps most damning of all might be the fact that - after a terse discussion with His Majesty, the King, as my sources say - an announcement was made at the very cusp end of the ball.

Of the princess’s coronation as Queen tomorrow, and of Sir Choso Kamo’s induction as King Consort. He shall henceforth and forevermore be known as King Consort Choso Kamo, Duke of Kamo Estate. 

And lastly, of a summer wedding, due on the horizon. (Sources also claim something else due…a bundle of joy perhaps between the young couple.)

But that is enough of speculation—oh, what was that? 

I can hear your cries, gentle reader, I can hear them! Worry not, this writer is yet to forget a single detail of the most succulent gossip from the Ton - I already foresee your queries about what happened to Her Majesty’s secret admirer then.

I believe you shall be delighted to know that my insider tells me that…the very secret admirer you speak of is now King Consort. What a romantic twist to the tale!

Now as Prince Naoya fumes and my readers rejoice, excuse me while I dry my tears and pick out my best summer arrangements for this royal wedding—for you know that this writer must always be on the scene!

We wish the happy royal couple all the best with their preparations!

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

A/N. Any guesses on who Lady Whistledown might just be??

“Look at you,” he murmurs low, his breath spilling hot against your ear. His lips ghost your jaw as his fingers roll your nipples between his knuckles. “Shaking already, baby? I’ve barely touched you.”

Your legs buckle, but his grip keeps you upright as his hands drag lower, down your ribcage, over your stomach, lingering at the swell of your hips. He palms your ass roughly, squeezing until a broken gasp escapes you. His touch is cruelly slow, kneading, pulling, making every nerve light up.

His fingers slip lower, curling deliciously inside your pussy, knuckles pressing against your gummy walls as he flicks your clit with calculated precision. “Toru— hah— please… I-I’m so close…” you whimper, voice slurred.

“You’re close?” His grin flashes in the reflection, sharp and wicked, as his thumb grinds harder against your clit. He ruts his cock through your folds, the swollen head catching on your entrance only to pull away again. The friction makes you see stars. “That’s cute. But I don’t think you deserve it yet.” His other hand forces your head forward, holding your chin to the mirror. “Eyes up,” he orders, voice rough. “Watch. Watch what I do to you.”

The head of his cock teases you, appearing and disappearing in a steady rhythm, the wet shlick filling the air. You’re shaking so hard your thighs knock together, the ache unbearable.

“Fuck,” you whine, tears blurring your reflection. “You won’t even let me cum once! Toru, I need it, I need you—” He licks along the shell of your ear before plunging three fingers inside you, your slick gushing down his hand. You cry out, hips jerking back desperately against him. Your toes curl, muscles clenching, pleasure right there and he rips it away. His fingers pull out, leaving you empty, ruined.

“No!” you cry, hot fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “Please! I was right there, Toru—don’t do this to me, please make me cum!”

“Poor baby,” he coos, mock sympathy dripping from his tongue. His cock grinds against your soaked pussy, his chest pressing you flush against the mirror. “So needy, so fucking greedy. Look at you crying for it. You’re perfect like this.” His lips brush your neck, teeth grazing, biting just enough to make you jolt. Your reflection betrays every shameful twitch; your arched spine, trembling thighs, mouth falling open in broken pleas.

Your nails dig into his sides, fingers trembling and dragging at his skin as if you could anchor yourself to him. When your hand slips down to stroke his cock, his hips stutter, a strangled groan spilling from his throat. He bites down on your shoulder hard, rutting back against your palm. You can’t take it anymore. The need claws at your chest until you shove your hips back, forcing his cock inside you in one slick, desperate thrust.

“Fuck—” he growls, both hands snapping to your waist to slam you forward against the glass. The sudden stretch makes you cry out, your body convulsing as he grinds deep, hitting that spot that makes your vision white.

“God, you feel so good,” Gojo groans, driving harder, hips curling. “You were made for me. Say it—”

“Yes! S-Satoru,! I’m yours,” you choke out, nails clawing at his shoulders, head thrown back against him. The mirror shows everything; the way your sweaty skin gleams, the way your body quivers and convulses, the mess of your slick coating him, dripping down his thighs. Every twitch, every pulse, every moan is doubled, reflected back in merciless clarity.

“Harder, please, I need it—” your voice is ragged, begging, and he gives it to you, rutting into you so deep your knees give. His thumb circles your clit in sync with his cock pounding you, cruel and perfect, until you’re unravelling. Your orgasm slams into you violently, your body arching, thighs trembling as you scream his name. Slick gushes over him, the wet sounds obscene in the room.

But Gojo doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking you through it, dragging your body higher, grinding his cock in deeper. “Again,” he orders, a dangerous smirk on his lips. “You’re not done. Cum for me again.” You sob, already oversensitive, but the pressure builds anyway. His cock curls, his thumb never letting up, until your second orgasm floods you like a storm. Your body seizes, back arching, wet slaps echoing against the glass. Moans spill out of you uncontrollably, a mess of whimpers and cries as Gojo fucks you through the waves.

“Good girl,” he groans, hips shuddering against yours. “So fucking perfect when you break for me.” Your body is still trembling when he suddenly hauls you up, strong arms hooking under your thighs. You yelp, dazed from your second orgasm, but Gojo only smirks down at you.

“Still shaking?” he teases, lips brushing your temple as he carries you across the room. “You’re gorgeous when you fall apart for me.” Before you can protest, he tosses you onto the bed. The mattress dips, the sheets cool against your overheated skin. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you again, straddling your thighs, hands spreading your knees wide. Your reflection in the mirror had been merciless; but here, there’s only him. His eyes are blazing, hair plastered to his forehead, cock flushed and dripping with your slick. He grips himself, stroking lazily, gaze locked on your messy, ruined body.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your folds. “Look at this. So wet, so pretty.” His words makes your chest tighten, a whimper slipping from your lips as he thrusts in again, deep enough to make your back bow. You’re sore, oversensitive, but he feels so good filling you, grinding against your walls with relentless control.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your throat, teeth scraping as he presses his cock harder into you. “Taking me so well after I’ve already wrung you out. You’re incredible.” Every thrust is sharper, rougher, his control finally fraying. The slap of his hips against yours fills the room, your moans mixing with his ragged groans. You cling to him, nails digging into his back as his pace grows erratic.

“Toru—” you gasp, legs wrapping tight around his waist.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he pants, his forehead drops to yours. “Hold onto me. Don’t let go.” His words unravel you again; your pussy tightens around him, milking him, dragging desperate curses from his throat. He shudders, his rhythm stutters, and then he buries himself to the hilt, groaning your name like a prayer.

Hot spurts of his cum flood you, thick and deep, spilling over your walls until it seeps down your thighs. His hips grind through it, as though he can push himself deeper, make it stay inside you. “Fuck… baby…” he groans, chest heaving, lips brushing over yours in messy kisses. “So good for me.”

He collapses over you, still grinding lazily, his cock twitching inside you as he rides out the last waves of release. The room is quiet except for your uneven breaths and the faint creak of the mattress. Gojo is sprawled over you but instead of crushing, his weight feels warm, grounding. You’re still trembling when he finally lifts his head, platinum hair plastered to his forehead, a grin tugging at his lips.

“You know…” he drawls, pressing a kiss to your sweaty shoulder, “if mirrors could talk, we’d be in so much trouble right now.”

A weak laugh bubbles out of you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously good in bed,” he corrects smoothly, waggling his brows. His tone is cocky, but the way his thumb strokes lazy circles into your hip is unbearably gentle. “You came twice, maybe three times if we’re counting that last little scream.”

You swat at his chest, too drained to hit with any real force. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Baby,” he gasps dramatically, rolling you onto your side so you’re caged beneath him again. “You’re lying to my face. And in bed. That’s like… double betrayal.”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head as he peppers messy kisses along your jaw. “You’re impossible, Satoru.”

“And yet, you keep letting me ruin you,” he shoots back with a smug smirk. His lips brush over yours, softer this time, he lingers just the way you want him to. “Guess that makes us both hopeless.”

Your heart stutters at the warmth in his voice. You hide your face against his chest, mumbling, “You talk too much.”

“Aw, but you love it,” he hums, pulling the blankets over both of you. His arms wrap tight around your waist, keeping you locked against him as if he has no intention of letting go. Silence falls again, but it’s comfortable this time. You’re on the edge of sleep when his voice breaks through the quiet, muffled against your hair. “…also, I definitely deserve a medal. Best performance of the year. Maybe a trophy. You can present it to me naked.”

You groan into his chest, but he only laughs, the sound vibrating through you as his lips press another soft kiss to your hair. “Goodnight, pretty girl,” he whispers, the grin still audible in his voice.

Kinktober is officially here for 2025. (it's my first!!)

I've got fics for everyday of this month (¬‿¬ )

You can check out my masterlist here.

The door groans open. A tall figure fills the frame, backlit by the late evening floodlights. Choso Kamo. He’s today’s headline monster: the vampire prince concept you designed weeks ago, and he wears it like he was born into it. The vampire prince resonates with Robin Hood, except his concept steals orgasms and from woman and... gives himself some too. Hair half-tied, a stray strand catching the overhead light.

“You’re later than the rest,” you say without looking up, though you can feel him watching.

“Traffic in the underworld,” he deadpans, voice low enough to rumble.

That draws a quiet laugh. “Sounds serious.”

He steps inside, and the room seems to pull tighter around him. Cloak half slung, a silver chain catching the light, he smells faintly of clean soap and something metallic, like rain on iron. You motion to the chair. “Sit, Prince of Darkness. Let’s see if you live up to the sketch.”

“Your sketch,” he points out as he settles in. “If I look bad, that’s on you.”

“Then I won’t let you look bad.” You dampen a sponge. “Stay still.”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes following your movements. “I can do that.”

“Don’t talk or I’ll mess up the contour.”

A pause. “You always threaten your clients?”

“Only the ones who need it.”

He huffs a soft sound but stays still. His gaze doesn’t wander. You reach for the black contacts, when your fingers brush his a flicker of warmth sparks between you.

“These might sting a little,” you warn.

“I’ll survive.”

The trailer quiets: the faint drag and dab of sponge on skin, the low pulse of music. He watches you with a steady calm that feels almost tangible. Close up, he’s absurdly handsome in that brooding undead way, sharp cheekbones, a mouth made for trouble, lashes too long to be legal.

“You ever bite? You know like move your jaw?” you ask, teasing, as you dab cold foundation along his jaw. This man's jaw is unreal.

“Only when asked,” he murmurs, and the trailer suddenly feels five degrees warmer. You roll your eyes and laugh a little. The air hums with static. Each brushstroke becomes a dare. You paint a vein of dark crimson down his neck; he tilts his head just enough to watch you from under heavy lashes.

When you step back, the vampire prince stands before you: obsidian eyes, blood red sigils curling across his throat, lips a shade too pretty for a public haunt. Your reflection wavers in those dark lenses, and for a moment you forget to breathe.

“Well?” you ask. “Convincing?” you tilt your head to the side.

He rises, cloak whispering across the floor. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “You did more than convincing.”

You arch a brow. “That a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he answers, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leans just close enough for the iron tang of stage blood to brush the air between you. “See you in the dark,” he adds quietly, and then he’s gone, the door swinging shut, leaving the trailer thick with the scent of sticky paints and the echo of a heartbeat you can’t swear is yours. How fucking ominous.

-

The Blood Moon Maze breathes like a living thing. Shattered cathedral walls loom overhead, their stained glass fractured into jagged halos. Mirrors catch stray beams from the strobe lights, slicing the crimson fog into flashes of scarlet and silver. Every few seconds, a thunderous church bell echoes through the air, deep enough to rattle your ribs. You flash the staff pass at the entrance guard and slip inside. The world outside falls away until there’s only the chill of damp stone and the sharp tang of woodsmoke. From somewhere deeper in the labyrinth comes a low ripple of screams that are startled and then delighted.

Choso is already a phantom. One moment he’s a distant silhouette: cloak sweeping the floor, runes burning faintly like embers across his chest. The next, he’s gone, dissolving between the strobes. A startled group of teens stumbles backward when he reappears behind them without a sound. Their squeals echo off the broken walls; he simply inclines his head as if blessing them with dread. You trail the crowd, keeping to the edges, letting the fog hide your grin. He’s… magnificent. He makes a sudden movement and pivots, and for a heartbeat the maze is just you and him. His eyes catch the flash of a mirror, black contacts glowing under the crimson light. He tilts his head slightly, a single, deliberate motion. Like a silent dare. Your breath sticks. You tip your chin back in the barest nod. His mouth curves before he disappears again into the strobe.

The maze erupts in another wave of screams. A girl in a sequined devil horn headband trips over a loose stone and yells, half laughing, “Marry me, Harbinger!”

Without breaking character, Choso stops, turns with a slow regality that could belong to a monarch or a nightmare. He lowers his chin in a solemn nod, cloak sweeping dramatically around him. The queue of waiting guests loses it. Someone claps. Someone else shouts, “We’ll be at the wedding!” The staffers at the rope line double over, choking back laughter.

You bite your lip to keep from cackling out loud. He glides on unbothered, when he passes a cluster of mirrors, his reflection multiplies. One Choso, then six, then none, until the guests can’t tell which figure is real. A child squeals. An adult curses. The fog rolls thicker, as if the maze itself is in on the trick. Through it all, he keeps catching your gaze. A flick of eyes here. A subtle lift of a brow there. Each time it feels like a secret only the two of you share in the middle of the chaos. By the time the last group filters out, the maze is a crimson hush again. You linger by a cracked stone arch, watching him drift back toward the staff exit. He moves like the night owns him.

When he finally reaches you, he doesn’t break character, just tilts his head the way he did before. “Enjoy the show?” His voice is a low thread, the faintest smile hiding in it.

You can’t help but laugh. “You stole the entire maze.”

“Stole?” He shakes his head, cloak rustling. “It was mine from the start.” And with that he steps past you, the last curl of crimson fog swirling after him like a bow.

-

The diner’s neon sign sputters B-O-N in flickering red, the rest of the letters forever dead. But its the only place open at 2 a.m, the place glows like a half forgotten dream. The glass door sighs open as your crew spills in, still streaked with fake blood and glitter. The smell of strong coffee, burnt sugar, and fryer oil wraps around you like a heavy blanket.

You slide into a cracked vinyl booth, the seat sighing under the weight of a dozen chaotic nights just like this one. A ceiling fan clicks lazily overhead, each rotation stirring the faint tang of fake blood clinging to everyone’s clothes.

Nobara dives for a menu with a flourish. Yuji barrels in behind her, still wearing a plastic crown tilted like it survived a war. Their voices crash through the quiet diner, bouncing off chrome and formica.

“Pancakes have soul” Nobara declares, slamming down a coffee mug for emphasis.

“Waffles are architecture” Yuji fires back, gesturing with a fork he must have stolen from another table. “They hold the syrup. Science says waffles win!” a syrup packet zips across the table like a golden missile. Someone catches it midair and everyone cheers loud enough to wake the dead cook in the back. The night shift waiter barely glances up, his expression is the exact blend of resignation and amusement that says 'I’ve seen weirder.ʼ

Through the clamor, you feel the seat dip next to you. He's got no cloak now, just dark clothes and the faint smear of crimson paint along his jaw, like the night refuses to let him go. His hair is still half tied, strands falling loose in a way that looks both careless and deliberate. He doesn’t jump into the waffle war; he just watches, quiet and unshaken, like a calm center in the storm. It’s the first time all night you’ve seen him outside the maze’s shadows. Without the black contacts, his eyes are a deep brown; warm and unsettling all at once. The sharp edges of his character are still there, but now you can see the quiet beneath the performance. You lean forward, palms on the edge of your seat. “What’s your verdict? Pancakes or waffles?”

He tilts his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Whichever keeps everyone arguin' this much. Good entertainment.”

The simplicity of it makes you laugh, It warms you more than the coffee in front of you. “Dodgy if you ask me,” you say, shaking your head.

“Maybe.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “But it’s honest.”

You reach for a syrup packet just as he does and your fingers brush. It’s nothing and everything at once, the soft drag of his fingers against your skin, a tiny spark that rushes straight to your pulse. The diner’s hum fades: no clatter of silverware, no jukebox hum, only the static between you. You freeze for a heartbeat, aware of the heat of him across the table, of the faint scent of stage paint and something darker, like smoke after rain. Is Choso a smoker? Your breath catches.

“Guess we’re both pro syrup” you say finally, the words thin but steady. God, i'm so corny. why the hell would i say that?

His eyes hold yours, steady and unreadable. “Guess we are.” oh thank fuck, he doesn't think i'm stupid. The moment stretches, delicate and dangerous, until Yuji slaps the side of the jukebox. A distorted guitar riff bursts to life, breaking the spell. Nobara throws both arms up and shouts triumph. Someone else, probably Megumi, half asleep at the counter starts a slow clap. Syrup packets become projectiles again. The diner becomes a storm of laughter and sugar. Through it all, Choso remains calm. Not distant but quietly present, a grounding weight in the swirl of noise. When you steal a glance at him, he’s already watching you, something thoughtful flickering in his eyes like an unspoken question.

“You survive the night?” he asks softly, pitched so only you can hear.

“Barely. You?”

“Still standing.” The words settle between you, gentle but heavy. You wonder if he feels the same strange ache you do, a mix of exhaustion and the thrill of being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

The jukebox hits a high note. Nobara hops onto the bench to air guitar, Yuji crowns himself King of Waffles. Syrup drips across the table, sticky and sweet. The diner smells of coffee and adrenaline, a midnight world that feels like it could last forever.

But what lingers isn’t the sugar or the noise. It’s that quiet spark from the brush of his hand still buzzing in your veins, a silent promise that the night isn’t over, not really atleast.

-

The maze was supposed to be empty. You’d stayed behind to double check your kit. Makeup brushes washed, palettes packed, while the crew clattered off to the parking lot. The cathedral wall set loomed around you in jagged silhouettes. A mechanical machine hissed somewhere out of sight, even though the switch should’ve been off.

You zipped your bag, turned and froze. One of the cracked mirrors leaned at a new angle. You were sure you’d left it straight. A faint scrape echoed through the corridor like someone dragging fingernails along stone. “Hello?” Your voice wobbled, swallowed almost instantly by the thick haze. Only the crimson fog answered, curling around your ankles like smoke from a bad dream. Your heart spiked. You spun, but the corridor behind you was empty.

The lights above flickered violently. once, twice. Casting long, broken shadows across the ruined walls. For a moment, it was hard to tell the difference between fog and shadow, between mirror and corridor.

Something slid across the floor behind you, a piece of stage furniture, though you hadn’t touched it. It stopped when you spun around. Your pulse thundering, you tried your phone. Dead. Completely dead. Oh my God this is a horror movie and I'm gonna die. A warm, amused voice came from the shadows. “Thought I’d missed you.”

You startled so hard a scream departed from your throat so unceremoniously that you nearly dropped the bag. Choso stepped from a pocket of fog, runes faintly glowing against the dark fabric of his cloak. Leftover paint from the night’s performance traced his jaw like moonlight.

“Seriously?” you said, hand over your racing heart. “are you trying to kill me?” He tilted his head and smirked. “Nah, not tonight.” you were gonna say something but then the maze lights hummed. A cold breeze whispered through the broken cathedral set, carrying a faint rustle of fabric that wasn’t his. Your shoulders tightened.

“Something weirds going on,” you admitted. Then you started listing off your fingers, one by one. “Props moving, lights flickering. my phone just fucking died, and I sure as shit charged the damn thing.”

Choso scanned the dark with an ease that made the hair on your arms rise. “Probably Yuji screwin' with you,” he said, though his eyes narrowed like he didn’t believe it. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

You meant to protest, you weren’t that spooked but the word stuck in your throat when he extended a gloved hand with his palm up. You slipped your fingers into his. The leather was warm, softer than you expected. He didn’t grip tight, just enough to guide you. Each step together sent a quiet electricity up your arm.

They say silence can be awkward; this one wasn’t. His cloak brushed your leg now and then, each pass a slow-motion spark. The fog thinned as you neared the exit, revealing the moon outside, silvery grey, huge and hanging low like it was watching.

“See?” you said, trying for lightness. “Totally fine. No ghosts.”

“Mm.” He glanced down at you. “You still look like you'd seen one.”

You laughed, but it came out breathy. “Maybe I did.”

He didn’t answer right away. The pause stretched, thick with something unspoken. The only sounds were the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the soft rustle of his cloak. At the staff gate, he released your hand slowly, like the movement deserved attention. The night air smelled of damp earth and stage paint.

“Thanks,” you said, hoping the darkness hid the heat in your cheeks. “For, uh…not letting the ghosts get me.”

His gaze lingered on you, deep and unreadable. “Any time,” he said quietly. Then a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. “But if the maze wants you, I can’t promise it’ll listen to me.”

Something about the way he said it made the world tilt, half joking, half like he meant it. The distant rumble of Yuji’s car horn broke the spell. Choso opened the gate for you, the faint glow of his sigils catching the edge of his smile. “Drive safe.”

You walked to your car feeling the echo of his touch in your palm, unsure if the chill on your neck came from the night air…or from the thought that maybe, just maybe, the maze hadn’t been entirely empty after all. Fuck me if it wasn't.

The maze had never felt so alive.

Strobes cut the darkness into fractured shards, flashing over broken cathedral walls and jagged mirrors. Fog so thick it tasted metallic curled around your ankles. Music pounded through the stone, a live DJ spinning beats that rattled your ribcage and made your pulse sync with every bass drop.

You ducked under a tilted archway just as a guest shrieked from behind a fake tombstone, their flashlight skittering across the floor like a runaway firefly. You lunged for it, tripping over your own laces, and scrambled to grab the beam before it rolled under a pile of props.

Behind you, a coworker in a skeleton bodysuit barreled forward, aiming for the same flashlight. “Hey!” you shouted, lunging, and nearly collided in a heap of fake blood, fog, and limbs.

And then, a raccoon. A fucking raccoon wearing a staff lanyard bolted past your legs like a furry comet, yipping like it owned the maze. Yuji went after it, arms flailing, and tripped spectacularly over a fog machine. Nobara screamed, half laughing, half panicking, as her crown slipped sideways. You were caught somewhere between exasperation and hysterical laughter.

Through all this chaos, you felt it: that unmistakable, magnetic pull. Choso. He appeared first as a shadow against a crumbling wall, cloak brushing the floor, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he was gone, then there, weaving between the fog and strobe lights like he was a part of the maze itself. You could feel his presence with every heartbeat, a quiet heat that pressed against your skin without touch.

“Careful,” you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, as a guest screamed, dropped their flashlight, and bolted past you into the fog. A strobe flashed, and for a second, Choso was right there, his hand brushing yours as you both reached for a stray prop sword. The touch was brief, but it set every nerve on fire. You jerked back just enough to make it seem accidental, but your pulse betrayed you.

“Still standing?” he murmured, just low enough that the fog swallowed his words, but not your ears. “Barely,” you breathed, heart hammering, aware of the space between you.

The maze had become a symphony of chaos. Guests shrieking as they ran through strobe lit corridors. Someone tripping spectacularly into a stack of fake skulls. A fog cannon exploding behind a mirror, sending crimson haze spiraling like smoke from a battlefield. Nobara, who is dressed as a horror clown with a hammer for a weapon shrieked at a flying packet she mistook for a ghost. Yuji howled and pointed.

But Choso? He was everywhere and nowhere at once. One second, leaning against a broken archway, arms crossed, watching your antics with that faint smirk tugging at his lips. The next, he’d vanish between strobes, only to reappear behind a group of shrieking guests, tilting his head as if daring them to scream louder, or maybe daring them to chase him.

Your chest tightened every time he appeared. Every brush of cloak against your arm, every brief eye contact in the fog, felt electric. He didn’t need words, his presence, his controlled, predatory movement, and the faint curl of amusement at the corners of his mouth said everything.

You ducked behind another pillar, clutching your flashlight like a lifeline, breath shallow, trying to ignore the rapid pulse of heat spreading through your chest and down in your belly too. You weren’t just dodging props and guests, you were dodging him. And you definitely didn’t want to.

A bass drop shook the walls. Fog swirled around Choso as he stepped forward, just close enough that the heat of him brushed your arm. “You keep up,” he said, low, teasing, the words almost lost in the chaos, “or I’ll leave you in the maze.”

You gasped from the deliberate intimacy in his tone. “Like I’d let you,” you shot back, though your voice trembled from adrenaline and the thought of this man fucking you right here, right now. Vampire blood and all. I could give him another pulse to suck on.

A guest screamed as a mechanical bat swung from above. You ducked and pulled yourself out of your frazzled buzz. He was suddenly at your side again, just close enough to feel the faint warmth of him through his cloak. His presence pressed into you, steady and unrelenting, as the chaos continued all around.

By the time the last group of guests barreled out, collapsing in laughter and shrieks at the exit, you and Choso were left alone in the fog drenched, strobe lit ruins of the maze. You leaned against a crumbling wall, catching your breath. Every muscle ached from running, dodging, and laughing. But you couldn’t stop thinking about the heat of him beside you, the want for him to be inside you, the way his gaze lingered even when he didn’t touch you. You hoped he'd touch you. He tilted his head, cloak brushing the floor again, eyes dark and unreadable. “Not bad,” he murmured, faint amusement in his voice. “You survived the real show.” You swallowed hard.

The fairgrounds were silent now, just a long stretch of wet pavement reflecting the red security lights. Your car sat alone at the far edge of the lot, dew beginning to settle on the windshield. Choso walked a half step behind you, the faint squeak of his boots were the only sound besides the distant hiss of machines winding down. You were painfully aware of him. the weight of his presence, the slow, deliberate rhythm of his stride.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you said, voice softer than you meant. He glanced sideways. “And let the maze finish what it started tonight?” A laugh escaped you. “So you admit it’s haunted.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t elaborate, but the corner of his mouth tilted up just enough to make your stomach flip. You tightened your grip on your keys. “You like keeping people on edge, huh?”

“Only you,” he said simply.

The words landed like a quiet thunderclap. Heat crawled up the back of your neck. You slowed, suddenly aware of the empty lot, of how close his hand was to yours—an inch of space that felt charged, alive.

When you reached the car, neither of you moved to break the silence. He leaned one shoulder against the driver’s side door, eyes catching the red glow from the overhead light. You could feel the tension gathering between you like static before a storm.

“Thanks for the escort,” you said, but it came out as more of a breath than a sentence.

Choso didn’t move back. He tilted his head, eyes catching the moonlight, and the corner of his mouth curved.

“Guess I should say goodnight, huh?”

Your pulse jumped. “You guess?”

That was all it took.

He stepped closer, slow enough to let you stop him, fast enough to make you forget how to. One heartbeat later his palm was at your jaw and his mouth found yours

The first kiss was a soft press, deliberate and warm, a question you answered by leaning in harder. It deepened with a rush, a pull that left you dizzy, all tongue and teeth, this tongue licked the inside if your mouth and you softly groaned. Your back met the car door with a muted thud. You broke for a breath only to take off his hoodie, murmuring, “Don’t stop,” against his mouth.

Choso chuckled into the kiss, a rough sound that sent heat spiraling through you.

Your hand found the door handle, pushing it open in a single practiced motion. Without a word you slid backward into the backseat, a silent invitation in the way you tugged his sleeve. He followed, careful but sure, one knee sunk onto the seat beside you.

You fell against the seat as he braced a hand near your head, the other tracing the line of your hip. Choso pulled away and you made a noise of protest. He chuckled and pulled on your nipples through your shirt, you moaned and presses your hands onto the window above you. “shhh... Can I take care of you?” his hands stop short of your jeans. You answer him by jerking your hips in the hair towards him. Choso hums but his hands are in the air while his eyes stay fixed on yours. “Please.. Yes. Please Cho”

Choso slowly peels off your jeans and tosses it into the front seat. His hands slowly explore the feel of your thighs in his palms, the weight of your boobs, slowly he runs a hand down your tummy, when his hand curls over your pussy he rubs a thumb there through your underwear. Your eyes close while a moan escapes.

Choso sits on the seat and lifts you up and turns you so that your back is flush against his front. He spreads your knees using his legs, slowly he pulls your underwear off and runs a careful fingertip down your wet, swollen slit. You throw your head back against his shoulder and catch your bottom lip between your teeth, he chuckles and nips your ear.

“Fuck...” he sighs and reaches down, rubbing your clit with two of his fingers. His middle finger slides inside you, curling up to touch that spot that makes your brows knit and your breath catch in your throat. His other hand reaches up and pulls your bra down, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers. He sets a slow, deep pace with his fingers, sliding them in and out, your toes curling against their heightened position on the seat.

“You like that?” you let out another affirmative moan, pushing your hips into his hands. His fingers curl inside you, blindingly hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes you cry out. You whimper into his mouth when he dips his head for another opened mouth kiss. Your head falls back while he marks the sides of your throat. You coil your arms up and into his hair, clumsily kissing whatever part of him your lips can reach as you buck against his hand.

Choso groans into your neck when he feels you clench and cum around his fingers. He's never felt so close to losing his sanity as he has now. His cock is rock hard in his pants. Straining against his zipper but hell never pull it out, not unless you ask.

You're trembling as you start to come down from the high place your orgasm threw you to. Your cheeks are flushed pink, your lips are red and swollen. Choso doesn't know which part of you to look at, his eyes bounce from angle to angle, not knowing which part of you he wants to memorize first.

Your grin is lazy and sultry when you turn around to face him “Choso...”

“Yeah, pretty girl?” he's so desperate for you, he wants to ravish you, ruin you, fuck you until you're crying and cumming in his cock. Preferably both at the same time. He wants to tell you what a good girl you are and how absolutely fucking delicious you look like right now. He drags his hands that where in you into his mouth and licks his fingers like a lollipop, his eyes never leaving yours. He rolls his eyes back and groans. The taste of you so pleasant on his tongue, he wouldn't mind tasting it every day for the rest of his days to come.

“Put your back against the door.” you say. Choso is confused for a bit when you turn around to face him. You tuck your knees under you and reach for his pants “Let me see you”

He let's out a soft, shakey breath and helps you unbutton his pants. “Fuck... Pretty” his voice drops to a husky whisper. “You're killinʼ me here. Makinʼ me wanna” he pauses, his face mere inches from your own. “God... you're practically begginʼ me with those eyes” he exhales deep.

You laugh and run your hands down his now pantless cock. You pull the edge of his underwear away and slide it down his legs. His cock springs out, hard and hitting his navel. Ready for you to please it, suck it, fuck it, ride it. He's so thick you can barely cover it entirely with both your hands. You kiss his tip before taking him into your mouth and out again, his hips buck and his words sputter. Playfully, you lick one side of his cock and use your hand to massage the other. Your exhales are punctuated with wet sucking as your saliva coats both Choso's cock and your hand.

You take the tip into you mouth and he let's out a low, rough grunt. He starts twitching inside your mouth that you can barely cover, your head bobs up and down, while your hands twist and turn, up and down in blissful strokes. Choso's head falls back, jaw slack and maw opened wide. His hand comes to cover your head and pushes you down onto his cock. “Oh f-fuck me — nngh— pretty... wait!” You reach a hand to cup and massage his balls, his thighs tremble and his moans get lounder and shorter. Choso cums in hot spurts, hips bucking wildly, his cock reaches as far as it can possibly fit down your throat. Ragged moans fill the car space when you pull your head off his cock with a soft pop. You swallow his cum and sit back against your heels.

The car windows had fogged to a soft haze, streetlight halos blurring in the glass.

You stayed kneeling on the backseat, hair a little mussed, heartbeat still racing.

Choso leaned back against the opposite door, chest rising slow and steady, a half smile tugging at his mouth. For a beat neither of you spoke. Just breathing. Just the sound of rain beginning to tick against the roof. He finally broke the silence, voice low and a little rough.

“You always this… distracting after hours?”

You laughed, breathless but warm. “Only when someone stares at me like that.” His gaze softened. “Like what?”

“Like you already know the answer,” you teased, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Choso’s eyes followed the motion; then he reached across the seat and brushed his thumb across your jaw, slow enough to make it a question. You leaned into the touch, and he let out a quiet, contented sound. “Come here,” he murmured. You crawled across the seat until you were infront of him, knees brushing.

He drew you against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat grounding you both.

Outside, the world stayed muffled, just rain, just night. “You okay?” he asked, softer now.

You nodded into his chest. “More than okay.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Because I’m not done stealing moments with you yet.” Your fingers found his, lacing together as the rain kept its rhythm. No rush. Just warmth, the quiet hum of shared breath, and the unspoken promise of whatever came next.

Naked as the day you were born, but hey, orgasms, am i right?

You have to say that you liked it. (ง •̀_•́)ง

“Hmm,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your notebook. “You sure about this molarity? You’re off by, like, point-zero-five.”

You squint at him. “Please have mercy upon your humble servant, Lord Geto. But that’s within margin of error.”

“That’s within your margin of error,” he mocks, lips quirking. “Mine’s perfection.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah? Remind me who set their glove on fire last week?”

“Science requires sacrifice,” he says solemnly. “The glove knew what it signed up for.”

You snort, trying to hide your smile, but he catches it anyway and his grin softens fondly. Professor Nanami passes behind you with his usual clipboard of judgment. “You two,” he says, voice flat. “If you somehow manage to blow up a titration experiment, you’re cleaning it up.”

“Yes, Professor,” you both chorus in perfect sync, the perfect picture of model students until he’s out of earshot.

Suguru leans close again, pretending to inspect your beaker. “He acts like I haven’t survived three years without blowing up a lab.”

“You literally did blow up a lab,” you whisper.

He pauses and shrugs. “Semantics.”

You stifle a laugh so hard it comes out as a snort, and he grins like that sound is his favourite experiment result yet.

By the time you’ve cleaned up and Nanami’s clipboard of doom is gone, the two of you spill out into the late afternoon air, the world smelling faintly of rain and ethanol that’s somehow stuffed so far up your nasal cavities, it’s tickling your brain. The walk home feels… calm, but there’s a soft buzz between you that has nothing to do with the caffeine you guzzled down earlier.

“Okay,” you say, bumping his shoulder as you walk. “Hypothetically. if our lab equipment suddenly gained sentience, which one would become self aware first?”

“Easy. The centrifuge,” he says immediately. “Power complex. Spins out whenever it doesn’t get attention.”

You laugh. “So, like you.”

He gasps, clutching his pearls dramatically. “I prefer ‘charismatically kinetic.’”

“I think you mean ‘emotionally unstable.’”

He gives you a mock glare. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You grin quickly. “You mean, lucky I do all your calculations for you.”

He laughs loud and unrestrained, and it makes something warm uncoil in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just the sound you like, not the person making it. Definitely not the smug, stupidly handsome face it’s coming from. Nope. Just the sound. Totally innocent.

When you reach the apartment, everything shifts back into routine; shoes kicked off, lab coats hung on hooks, the faint static of the TV filling the quiet. Showers are taken in turns, steam fogging the bathroom mirror, the day washed off in citrus soap and exhaustion.

You flop onto the couch in an oversized shirt, damp hair dripping onto your shoulders. Suguru appears soon after, hair tied up messily, black t-shirt clinging just a little too nicely.

“Dinner?” you ask, phone already in hand.

He leans on the back of the couch. “What are my options, chef?”

“Thai or pizza.”

He pretends to think deeply. “Which one pairs best with our shared academic trauma?”

“Thai,” you decide for him. “Extra spicy, to burn the stench of that godforsaken lab fridge from my nose.”

He sighs dramatically. “And our Professor’s disappointed sighs.”

“You know,” he says softly after a while of cracking open beers, “for two scientists, we’re terrible at pretending we don’t notice the obvious variables.”

You raise a brow. “Variables like what?”

His smile tugs sideways, lazy and dangerous. “Like how every time you laugh, I forget what we were talking about.”

You huff out a laugh. Man, you’re nervous. “That’s a terrible line.”

“Did it work?”

You look down at your drink, then back at him. “Maybe.”

He hums, sounding pleased and that silence stretches again; the kind that hums just under your skin, thick with things neither of you are brave enough to name. When he leans a little closer, eyes flicking to your lips like he’s testing the air, you don’t move. Not away, not forward. Just caught in the charge of it.

Maybe this is what it feels like when an experiment’s about to reach equilibrium, when all the variables finally balance out, and you stop pretending you don’t already know the result. You laugh nervously, your heart racing, but the warmth of the alcohol and the closeness of him makes it impossible to move back. He leans in gently, testing the space between your lips, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t.

Your lips meet.

It starts soft. Tentative even. His thumb brushes across your jaw, and it’s like electricity lacing your veins. You let your hands rest against his chest for just a moment, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat through fabric. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss slowly, and the world narrows to that press of lips and the shared sparks between you.

Every one of your senses zero in on him; the brush of his stubble against your lips, the subtle scent of his body wash, the faint warmth of his breath. You feel him smile against your mouth, a soft curve of lips and teeth that teases and reassures at the same time.

Your hands slide up, tangling in his hair, tracing the line of his neck, feeling the fine muscle beneath his skin. His grip on your waist tightens slightly, grounding you while the heat rises in your chest, spreading down into the pit of your stomach.

The kiss Is slow and lingering, it’s tasting and teasing. It’s exploration, familiarity, and fire all at once. Every inhale, every soft moan pressed into the kiss makes the tension coil tighter between you. You can feel the heat pooling low, the ache that’s been dormant under years of friendship now insistent and demanding.

Just as your hands graze under the hem of his shirt, as the kiss grows hungrier, the doorbell rings. Takeout. Reality crashes in like a cruel, mundane timing.

You pull back slightly, breathless and needy. Suguru’s smirk is almost infuriating, it’s perfectly in control, you can’t be the only one who feels like this. “Dinner?” he asks, voice casual, like nothing happened, and your heartbeat argues with his cool tone.

You laugh awkwardly, trying to reclaim composure. “Yeah. Dinner.” He slides to the floor at the foot of the couch. You eat, both of you stealing glances, laughing at lines in the show you’ve been bingeing for months. The tension hangs, unspoken and threaded through every brush of arms, every shared laugh. Suguru cracks a joke about something you can’t seem to pay attention to. The excruciating need pulsing in your ears blurs everything around you.

Suguru lifts a tender hand and strokes the side of your thigh; everything happens in a blur, you’re on him like it’s nobody’s business, your lips crash onto his, he’s tugging at your hair while your hands are sliding his clothes off his body. He lifts you of the couch and into the air, you’re removing your shirt, he's pulling at his hair tie, eventually you’re lying back on your bed, sheets twisted around your hips, slick and glistening from your own arousal. The vibrator hums lazily against the apex of your clit, but your attention is entirely on him. Suguru is kneeling opposite you, knees pressing into the mattress, chest taut and hot, cock throbbing visibly, purple eyes dark and molten with need. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider, spreading you for him, and you can see the slick coating the top of your pussy, glistening in the lamp’s glow.

“Do you want me inside you?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, tremulous with want.

“Yes,” you gasp, voice ragged, your hips pressing instinctively into him, fingers tangling in his hair, nails clawing lightly at the roots as your heat pools, dripping between your thighs. The vibrator hums insistently against your clit, but your fingers curl around it, pressing down, teasing and grinding, your hips snapping reflexively.

He leans forward, pressing one palm flat on the mattress beside your head, the other sliding over your thigh, fingertips brushing over your slick folds, circling your swollen labia, teasing the sensitive inner rim of your pussy. His thumb rolls against your clit in slow, deliberate circles, pressing, flicking and brushing, your back arches as a shiver runs down your spine.

You gasp, hips jerking, grinding into the press of his thumb. “Oh— fuck…Suguru…” you moan, trembling, your body quivering, slick sliding down your hips.

He groans, voice low and thick, a guttural sound that vibrates through his chest. He’s feeling it all too; the slick press of your wet folds against his fingers, the soft, tight squeeze of your walls as he curls his fingers inside, rolling against that perfect spot that makes your back arch and toes curl. Every shiver of your hips, every moan, every quiver beneath his hands drives him harder, makes his cock throb hotter, slicking the tip with his own precum.

Slowly and deliberately, he aligns himself, pressing the head of his cock against your dripping hole. You shiver and arch, pressing up instinctively, walls clenching involuntarily around nothing. The stretch, the wet, hot slide of him into you makes your chest rise and fall with ragged breaths.

He groans, letting the weight of his chest press down on your torso as he slides in inch by inch; slowly and deliberate, savouring the tight, slick, perfect press of your syrupy walls around him. He reaches with his thumb, flicking mercilessly against your clit, and your nails dig into his biceps as your hips press up, grinding, desperate and needy.

“Fuck…so tight…so wet…” he groans, hips pressing down, cock sliding with a satisfying shlick, every time his hips snap to yours, his tip brushes that soft, sensitive spot inside you. His muscles flex across his chest, arms, and thighs as he pulls your legs over your chest, he folds you in half, pressing your ankles to your ears, he holds you still, dominating every inch of you. You press up, grinding, twisting your hips against him, slick sliding over his pelvis, walls clenching and squeezing, pussy pulsing against his cock.

He moves backward and you wrap your legs around his waist, tugging him closer, pressing him deeper, every thrust driving slick, warm pleasure through you. His hands grip your thighs, spread you wider, practically pressing your knees to the mattress, pressing against your g-spot, thumb flicking over your clit in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. Every press of his cock, every roll of his thumb, every curl of his tongue on your boob sets your nerves on fire.

He groans your name, low, rough and animalistic, pressing down harder with each thrust. “You’re…so perfect…fucking beautiful,” he rasps, chest pressing to your stomach, hands gripping your thighs tight, arms taut, biceps flexing, every muscle alive with tension, need and heat.

You’re trembling, slick coating your thighs and dripping onto the bed, walls clenching impossibly around him, hips snapping, riding every flick of his thumb, every stroke of his tongue on your neck, every press of his cock.

Your back arches violently, nails clawing into his shoulders, chest heaving, lips parted in ragged moans. “Suguru— ah…fuck…don’t stop…please…” you cry, hips grinding, hands clutching his biceps, pressing into him, pressing down, desperate for more.

He’s feeling it all. His cock throbbing deep inside you, walls squeezing him, pulsing, tightening, hot, slick coating his fingers, cock sliding, every thrust, flick of thumb, brush of teeth sending shivers through his spine. His chest heaves, shoulders tense, thighs flexing, groaning, voice rough and low, throat catching with every slick, wet thrust into your tight, quivering pussy.

He grabs your hips, holding you still, pressing deep, curling inside, rolling that perfect spot over and over, thumb flicking mercilessly over your clit. “Ah…fuuuck…so good…you’re so fucking soft…” he rasps, teeth grazing your neck, hands pressing into your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he drives in deeper, harder and faster.

You’re trembling, quivering, slick running down over your thighs, hips snapping, nails clawing at his back, every inch of your body alive, pulsing, shivering and writhing. You cry out, arching, walls clenching impossibly, hips bucking and moaning his name, clit and pussy throbbing around him.

And then your orgasm hits you, violent and trembling, his hips snap harder, your walls clench. Nails clawing his shoulders, chest heaving, breath ragged and quivering, dripping with slick.

He doesn’t let up. Hips snapping harder, cock throbbing with surrender inside you, his thumb flicks faster, pressing and rolling. He thrusts deeper and harder, his hips faltering with a groan that erupts from his chest

He comes after you, groaning your name, hips jerking violently, his cock pulsing deep inside your slick, quivering pussy. You collapse together, slick, trembling and gasping hearts hammering. Your skin is sticky, hair tangled, lips swollen.

The air is thick with heat, sweat, and desire, and the tension hasn’t left. It’s thick, raw, and filthy. Every inch of your skin wants him again, every nerve still alive, every muscle still coiled, every moan lingering in the room. You both know this is only the beginning.

Suguru grins and spits onto your pussy, shoving in two of his fingers and curling deliciously, “Round two?”

Round two? #yespls

“Stay close,” he says, voice a deep, steady baritone. The sound vibrates in your chest more than in your ears.

“This is it,” he says quietly when he stops walking. “The office reported a cursed artifact in a storage unit. Security evacuated after a wave of nausea and... ” his brow creases “...impulse incidents.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Impulse incidents?”

He tilts his head toward a cracked glass panel. “Staff improper. A couple…lascivious in a conference room. Things they claimed they’d never do.”

Your pulse stirs at the choice of words. “Sounds like a workplace retreat gone wrong.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, a flash of dry humor, and then he’s all business again. You follow the gleam of his tie, a muted yellow that catches every flicker from your flashlight. The cursed object is supposed to be a simple retrieval, but the atmosphere prickles against your skin, like a static that isn’t just supernatural. Your heartbeat trips whenever his broad shoulders shift in front of you.

At midnight the elevator grinds to a halt. The Emergency power fails. The stairwell door slams and refuses to open.

“Great,” you mutter. “Just my fucking luck.”

You watch Nanami crouch down and inspect the edge of stairwell door. He long ago removed his coat and loosened his tie, you watch as his hand move along the edge on the aluminum frame, his shirt stretches over his back muscles, which silently you agree that you'd pay to watch his muscles move any day.

Nanami was hot. He was so fucking hot, and quite frankly, you doubt he knew it. Hes was just so bloody tall, and those forearms? Just thinking about tounge locking his mouth while being fucked on his fingers made your pussy throb. Anyone with working eyes could tell that this man took his time in the gym. The way his thighs hugged his pants whenever he sat down, and thinking of his thick thighs is never good because once you do that it's got you thinking of whether he had a thick cock. And you're willing to bet your back account that he definitely did.

Your mouth salivated at the thought of finding out. How big would it be? Would both my hands be too small where his tip would still peel out? You imagined taking him down your throat feeling every twitch and vein as he let out barely audible moans. You imagined teasing and licking at his patience, stopping just before he's about to cum. Would he grab you by the back of your head and fuck your face forcing you swallow every last drop of his cum?

You gulped the saliva that now filled your mouth and continued on with your work. Unfortunately for you, your panties were now soaked and your nipples ached uncomfortably.

Hours stretch. You comb cubicles for clues while the building hums like it has a heart. Nanami stays close, Each time his arm brushes your shoulder, a quiet spark leaps beneath your skin. When a stairwell collapses without warning, he’s there, an arm around your waist, pulling you against the hard line of his body. His breath skimming your temple.

“You’re safe,” he says, low and rough. Oh I bet I am. You're pathetic, really. But, God, so valid.

At last you reach the conference room. In the back sits a tall mirror framed in tarnished silver. Its surface ripples like water, reflecting you both in shimmering distortions, your parted lips, open hair, his loosened tie... large... bulky foreams. Fuck.

“That's the object,” Nanami says, but his eyes don’t leave yours in the reflection. The mirror seems to pulse with every beat of your heart, well not the one in your chest atleast.

You step closer. “A mirror?” you whisper and run your fingers along the edge of the mirror, each tap of your finger sends pulsing pleasure through your entire body. That's fucking weird. You briefly close your eyes and when you open them again, you catch his throat working, Adam's apple bobbing here, a muscle flexing there. “Seems so,” he answers, voice barely audible, just a little above a whisper, but so deliciously deep and breathy. He closes the space between you. The heat of him is a force of its own, the faint scent of cedar and rain cut through the dusty air. When his hand cups your cheek, the mirror flares. A soft, golden light. He pauses, searching your face for refusal.

You give him none, of course you wouldn't, why the ever loving fuck would you refuse Nanami goddamn Kento? His thumb traces your lower lip. He slides it into your mouth and you wrap your lips around it, you suck on his finger while your eyes never leave his face, watching his gaze alternate from yours to your mouth, he removes his thumb and then his mouth claims yours. slow at first, then deep and consuming, all tongue and teeth.

Nanami’s hands grip your waist, pressing you flush against him, you subconsciously rock your clothed pussy against his hard cock. Nanami groans such a pretty sound, you didn't know it was possible.

Before you can react, he scoops you up effortlessly, and places you on the large table. The wood is cold beneath your back as he lays you flat, letting your hair all over. You shiver as his hands roam over you, palms brushing the curve of your hips, fingers tracing teasing lines along your thighs. His lips follow, pressing along the soft skin, teasing, dragging, flicking lightly. You gasp, your hands clutching at papers as if trying to anchor yourself while your body responds without thought.

In a few swift movements you pants are off and your underwear is loosly hung from one of your ankles. Nanami Kento is on his knees. His hands guide your legs, parting them with careful precision, and you shiver lightly. His mouth trails along the inside of your thighs, the rough feel of his tongue drags across your inner thighs, dragging a moan that rips from your chest.

“Look at you…” he growls, voice low, rough and a little dangerous. This man is the epitome of cataclysmic sex. “God, you look gorgeous like this.”

The desk creaks beneath you as Nanami shifts, he grabs at the fat on your hips and pulls you closer. “Look at this needy little pussy” You yelp when he slaps at your pussy but you feel it twitch for more.

“Please Na—” you moan. You don't even get to finish your sentence before he plunges two fingers inside. You grind down on his fingers, hips bucking instinctively. You wanna help a little, so you grope his buldge that has been poking your thigh, teasing and stroking over his pants.

Nanami groans and pushes his hips into your palm. His fingers curl inside your gummy walls as his thumb presses on your clit, rubbing in small circles. His other hand now inside your shirt and pulling down on your bra, his fingers find your nipple and rubs the nub between two.

Nanami removes his fingers dips his tongue into your pussy and groans “Sweetest... Fucking... Thing... I've ever tasted” he says alternating between licks and outright fucking your soaking pussy with his tongue until you're a writhing, moaning mess.

The pressure builds at an alarming rate and Nanami feels your walls start to convulse but his tongur doesn't let up. Your back arches off the table, his hand that's been playing with your nipple moves to your throat and then back down your stomach, down to your hip and holds you closer to him.

Your orgasm crashes into you in the form of a destructive wave. Stars explode behind your shut eyes while your body seizes. Nanami pokes his head up from between your thighs, tounge licking at the corners of his mouth, chin glistening and a grin so devilish you could cum again.

"Strip” He commands. You're already bare from the bottom, you jear the faint clink of a buckle as you peel off your shirt and unclip your bra. He stands before you fully clothed with only his cock out. And holy fucking shit this man is thick. His cock is unbearably hard and twitching. The tip is already leaking pre cum, the veins running along the sides make your mouth salivate all over again, the sight of Nanami infront of you with his impossibly large cock out, hair a mess, and jaw shiny send tremors wracking your spine and you feel your nipples harden again.

You feel him press his tip against your clit and bite your lip in anticipation as he lightly brushes over your entrance. Nanami gathers your cum and jerks his cock twice with it. He pushes his cock in just enough to cover his tip but not enough to give you anything just yet.

“Aahh... Na- Nanami... sir, please” you sob when the overstimulation becomes too much. You try to push your hips into him just to feel his cock push in further. Nanami moans in delight but pulls back “tsk. Such a greedy little slut.” he slides in all at once and you feel his balls slap against your ass. Your back bows and you throw your head against the table.

“That feel— fuck—Oh God— that feel good?” the most you can manage is a silent scream and a barely audible “fuck yes” . Nanami picks up an impossible pace, a pace you can't even pay attention to with the way his cock reaches that specific spot just right. The squelch and wet slapping of each thrust makes you gush. It feels soooo fucking good. His pace quickens even more and you feel electric pleasure zap your head. He's fucking you so hard and so deep on this desk that you feel ready to die like this.

You feel yourself close to cumming again, squeezing and tightening on his cock. Your legs lock around his waist, he bends foward and licks a stripe down your neck, your hands grasp at his hair as heat all but fucking gushes low in your belly.

"Cummingcumming— NGHH— WAIT.... Haaaah, fuck im cumming!” your orgasm hits you like a flash flood, again. Your hands claw at anything and everything, you barely know what it is. Your back arches and Nanami's pace does not relent one bit. You feel his cock swelling inside you, his moans getting louder.

“oh fuck” he groans, his thrusts forceful enough to send a rhythmic clap through the empty floor each time his hips collide with you. “I'm gonna cum” his hips getting sloppier with each thrust

“Inside!” you all but scream, liquid fire roars in your veins. his groans grow louder, sharper, desperate. “Hng. Fuck… yes… just like that… ahhh… god, don’t stop…” he moans through gritted teeth. You feel thick spurts of hot liquid fill your pussy, your eyes roll and your body seizes, different sensations engulfing you.

Nanami’s breathing slows first, deep and steady, a counterpoint to the faint hum of the flickering overhead lights. Your own heartbeat still gallops, but each inhale comes easier as the air cools against sweat damp skin. He leans forward until his forehead rests against yours, for a long while neither of you speak. His mouth catches yours in another kiss

“Are you okay?” Cock softening inside you and head still cloudy, all you can manage is a slow nod and blissfully fucked out smile. Impossibly fucked out. Nanami brushes a thumb under your eyes, wiping a few stray tears you didn't know escaped.

You've still got to retrieve the cursed object, I mean that's what you're here for. But you'll wait on that, just a little longer.

Nanami x reader, am i right? Holy shit I had fun writing this. #D1NanamiGlazer. Lol. I hope you enjoyed, I've got some Suguru Geto x reader planned next ( ꈍ◡ꈍ)

You slit the tip of your finger, you needed a single drop of blood, the final syllable of the incantation and the room erupted into white light. The air roared like a storm trapped in wood, you stumbled back and coughed, hands shielding your face. The circle convulsed beneath you, the power twisting and tearing at itself. You had expected energy, but this? this was alive. Hungry. Bloody destructive.

Then you felt it. A heartbeat. You felt your chest puff with glee, but then it sunk to the deepest depths. It was a heartbeat so immense, so unrelenting that it thrummed in sync with your own, forcing your chest to tighten with terror. Your knees hit the floor, you crawled backward, barely registering the candles toppling over, wax spilled like blood across the floor.

And then you saw him. oh god oh god oh god. Fuck. I fucked up.

He was nothing like the illustrations you’d read about in crumbling texts, nothing like the whispers you’d overheard in the dark corners of root taverns. He was enormous, impossibly tall, red eyes piercing through the bright light, teeth bared in a grin that could have cleaved your throat in a single motion. He didn’t move at first. He didn’t need to. The sheer weight of his presence pressed you flat against the ground and you couldn’t breathe without knowing he’d notice it. Your heart thumped behind your ribcage. Oh god what the fuck do I do!?

You willed your eyes closed, straining so hard it hurt. You couldn’t open them, how the hell do you even reverse something like this!? You felt like throwing up, the fear that licked your skin felt much like the knives you thought were piercing your skull. You were terrified.

“You’ve… summoned me?” he said. The words weren’t loud, but they struck you like a hammer. Each syllable carried authority and menace. You would cry but no tears could fall even if they wanted to.

“I… I-I didn’t mean to!” Your voice cracked. You pressed your palms to your eyes, wishing desperately that if you blinked hard enough, this nightmare would vanish. “It’s- it’s— shit, it was a binding spell. Not… not this!” you scrambled. It should be a fucking binding spell. Why the hell is he here!?

When he stepped closer fear paralyzed your soul. Each of his movements looked deliberate, smooth, and terrifyingly precise. You forced yourself to look up, because the alternative which was turning your back and sprinting to butt fuck nowhere would have been suicide. But he didn’t just stand there. He loomed. The shadows around him shifted unnaturally, it stretched and curled to touch the corners of the room. His eyes scanned the circle at your feet, at the scattered ingredients in clear packets and wooden bowls, at the trembling witch who dared to face him. “Huh,” he said simply, voice low and almost amused like any of this was in any way funny. Your throat felt icy with dread. “Interesting.” He said. He fucking said and it sounded like terror in the marrow of your bones.

Your stomach clenched. Every instinct hounded at you to scream, to flee, to beg for mercy, but your body refused. You were rooted in place by terror, by awe, by the overwhelming certainty that if he wanted, you could cease to exist without a second thought.

“You’re… alive,” he continued, the word almost a statement of disbelief. “Most would have burned the second the magic reached this level.”

“I… I didn’t expect…” Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. “I didn’t expect this to… happen. I—” Your hand shook, tracing the edge of the circle. “I didn’t intend to call you. I meant to bind another witch. Not… not the King of Demons.”

He circled you slowly, silent and deliberate and you counted each step in your mind. One, two, three. Every movement looked measured, precise and bloody lethal. He paused behind you, letting the weight of his presence press against your back. The heat radiating from him felt suffocating. Your scalp prickled and your hands felt clammy. “You… didn’t die” he said again, like a thought more than an observation. “Alive. Bold. But so devilishly reckless.” His voiced boomed and sliced in your ears.

You swallowed, tasting iron in your mouth. “I-I know who you are,” you admitted. “I respect… your power. Please…” Your voice faltered. You didn’t know if you were begging or pleading, your words choked. Red eyes met yours again. He crouched slightly, examining you, with a gaze that felt like it could dissect you down to your soul. “You wield chaos, little human” he said, voice calm and deliberate. “But not recklessly. Not like most mortals would.”

You dared a shiver. The pulse of his heartbeat with yours made your own chest feel like it was splitting in two. You realized, with a stab of fear so sharp it took your breath, that because of this accident, you were bound to him. Every beat of your heart was now in tandem with the most dangerous being you had ever imagined. He straightened, towering above you, and finally spoke: “I am intrigued.” Not amused. Not impressed. Just intrigued. The words cut sharper than any threat, and you could feel the weight behind them. Surviving him was not guaranteed. And yet… somehow, your terror did not dissipate, but your mind sharpened. You were alive. You were alive. You forced your breathing to regain it’s pace but that thought alone made you tremble. Then he moved. A single step. Wood bent under a weight far heavier than a man’s. You flinched before you can stop yourself, muscles locking as though the air itself has turned to ice.

“Witch.” The word lands like a slap. Low and gravel rough, accusing and almost like a slur. Your throat worked but nothing came out. He had four eyes, two unnervingly set in that fleshy ridge on the right side of his head, all glowing like coals in a forge. They track you with predatory precision, and you swear you feel skin blister beneath their heat.

“You dare pull me here?” His voice rumbled like distant thunder, quiet but vast.

“Some mortal child with chalk and blood, thinking you can command the King of Demons?”

“I- I didn’t—” Your own voice splintered. You tasted dust and iron. Your knees threaten to fold. He took another step. The smoke parts and then you see all of him. He is impossibly tall, a frame that blots the ceiling lights, broad shoulders corded with muscle, every inch mapped by black tattoos crawl like living sigils across skin the color of old obsidian. Two massive arms fold across his chest, while another pair hangs loose at his sides, claws flexing. A second face, its mouth stretched wide and toothy gapes from his stomach, and when it inhales, the sound is a wet hiss that freezes the blood in your veins. Your spell work, every protective charm you inked into the floor, suddenly feels like a child’s chalk drawing. He closes the distance until the heat of him scalds the air.

“You summoned me,” he says, four eyes narrowing. “And you bound me to you.” Your stomach flips. “I don’t even know how—” The rest dies in your throat when the lower mouth on his stomach lets out a low, guttural laugh, a sound that’s like stones grinding together.

“You don’t know,” he repeats, mockery coiling through the syllables. “Then perhaps you are simply a reckless little witch with more courage than sense.” The rune circle at your feet flickers violently. The ink that once shimmered now seeps dark, pulsing like a heartbeat. Like your heartbeat. You can hear it echo in the walls, in the air. Sukuna lifts one clawed hand, just one of the four and the circle stills. Power doesn’t answer him; it belongs to him. I’m so fucked.

“Do you feel it?” he asks, leaning down until his upper set of eyes is level with yours. “That pounding in your chest that isn’t only yours?” You do. Gods, you do. A second pulse echoes against your ribs, slow and absolute. It’s his.

“I—” The word trembles out, barely a whisper. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, and the windows vibrates with the sound, “you failed. Whatever trick you attempted, bent the old laws and tied your fragile heart to mine.” One of his lower arms lifts, claws grazing the air an inch from your cheek. “Now we share what is mine.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Share… what?”

“My power,” he says simply. “Every drop of curse, every shred of force that makes kingdoms break.” The second mouth splits wider, a grin inside a grin. “You feel it already, don’t you? The delicious hum under your skin.” You almost shake your head, but the truth coils beneath your pulse, a faint thrum that is not yours. It terrifies you. “But power,” he continues, voice dipping lower, “has a cost.” Something in the way he says cost makes your blood chill.

“Should you be harmed, witch. Wounded, murdered, torn apart.. ” He pauses, red eyes bright as fresh spilled blood. “you will die in agony. And when death finally drags you under, your soul will not scatter. It will stay.” He taps his chest once, slow and deliberate. “Here. In my domain. For eternity.” The word eternity lands like a hammer strike. You stagger back until the cold wall bites your shoulders. “No,” you breathe. “No, no, no. There has to be a way to undo this.”

“Undo?” His upper mouth curves into a slow, humourless grin while the lower one mirrors it grotesquely. “Little witch, you opened the door. The bargain is already written.”

“I didn’t bargain!” The shout tears from you before you can stop it. He stills. Four eyes fix on you with a single, lethal focus. For a heartbeat you’re certain he’ll shred you where you stand. Instead, the second mouth chuckles again, and the sound rattles the chamber walls.

“Then you are simply a fool who bound herself to a King without reading the cost.” The grin fades to something colder. “Either way, the chain stands.” Your hands shake so violently you press them to the wall to stay upright. Think. Think. Break the circle? Too late. Reverse the chant? You can’t even remember the final words.

“I’ll find a way,” you whisper, more prayer than promise.

“Try,” Sukuna says, voice like iron dragged across stone. “But every heartbeat you waste belongs partly to me now. Run, hide, plead to your gods. it will change nothing.” He straightens to his full, monstrous height, all four arms unfolding like a nightmare blooming. The tattoos along his chest writhe in the candlelight, each line a story of slaughter older than the language you speak. “You wanted power,” he says, the second mouth grinning wide. “Now you carry mine. Survive… or you’ll learn exactly what forever in my hell tastes like.” His shadow swallows the last flame, and the room drops into a darkness so complete you feel it press against your skin.

You stay pressed to the wall, pulse hammering a double rhythm, until the silence roars louder than his words. You don’t sleep. The cottage walls that once held comfort now press in like a coffin, each plank creaking beneath the shared rhythm that refuses to quiet. Your heartbeat isn’t yours alone; it drags a deeper echo, a heavy drum that belongs to him. Every time it hits, your ribs ache like they might split.

At dawn the sky bruises grey. The circle you drew last night still stains the floor, charred into the boards. You stare at it until your eyes blur, searching for an angle you missed, a sigil to erase. But there’s nothing. You feel like pulling your hair out.

“Still breathing, witch?”

The voice comes from behind, low and unhurried, an avalanche that decides when to fall. You jolt so hard the stool topples, clattering across the floor. Sukuna fills the doorway, all four arms relaxed at his sides, as if he’s merely a guest come for tea. The red in his four eyes glows against the pale morning light, each iris a warning flare. The mouth on his stomach splits into a half smile, exposing a row of teeth meant for ripping, not charm.

“You didn’t vanish with the sunrise,” you manage, voice hoarse. He steps inside. The cottage feels smaller by the second, the ceiling too low for something built like a war god.

“I do not vanish,” he says. “And neither do you. Not from me.”

Your palms sweat. “There has to be a way to undo this. A counter spell at least . A rite. Something.” One of his upper hands gestures lazily at the burned circle. “By all means. Scribble. Chant. Bleed. See how far you get.” Anger flares through your terror, sharp enough to steady your breath. “You think I want this?”

“I think,” he says, lowering his head until the upper set of eyes is level with yours, “that you are alive only because I am… curious. A lesser creature binding me without even knowing the rite—” His voice cuts, edges like broken glass. “It insults me.”

You flinch before the heat of that word. “Then kill me and be done with it.” The lower mouth lets out a rasping laugh. “Tempting. But inconvenient.”

You blink. “Inconvenient?” He straightens, the motion a slow unfurling of muscle and black inked sigils. “Because of this.” A claw presses lightly, just enough to sting, against the hollow of your throat. The double rhythm beneath your skin kicks hard, yours and his slamming together.

“You bleed, I feel it. You die, I suffer the pain with you. The heartbeats are one chain.”

The floor tilts. “That’s… impossible, it’s different from the witch bindings, I’ve never heard of—”

“It is law older than your language,” he cuts you off. “My power runs through you now. A fraction, but enough to make you dangerous and to make your death a slow, screaming thing if anyone so much as nicks your throat. Should that happen, witch, as I said, your soul will not wander. It will drop into my domain and rot there until the end of ends.”

Your stomach twists. “So I’m… what? A hostage?” He studies you with a predator’s patience.

“A vessel. A liability. Possibly a weapon, if you live long enough.”

You grip the edge of the table to keep from shaking. “I never asked for this, yes I casted the spell, but that was just to bind my magic with that of another witch!.”

“And yet,” he says, voice turning silk over iron, “here we stand.” The second mouth curls into a grin. “You wanted power. Now you taste it every time that heart beats. Tell me, witch, does it thrill you? Or only terrify?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The hum beneath your skin betrays you, a faint vibration like storm charged air. You hate that he can hear it. Sukuna tilts his head, all four eyes narrowing as if reading the refusal itself. “Wise enough to stay quiet,” he murmurs. “Good. Live with that fear. It may keep you alive.” He turns then, ducking beneath the lintel. The cottage shakes as he moves through the doorways, his shadow stretching across the morning like a wound in the light.

“You will follow when I call,” he says without looking back. “Or the chain will drag you anyway.” The red of his eyes burns into the distance until the forest swallows him. Where the fuck is he going? Someone is bound to see a 7ft tall monster with four fucking arms. But that’s not your problem. You’re left in the silence, breath jagged and heart hammering with a beat that isn’t solely your own.

The smell of scorched sigils lingers, a reminder that the King of Demons just walked your floor and literally left part of himself inside your chest. You press a trembling hand to your sternum and whisper, not a prayer but a promise, I will break this. I have to. Outside, a crow screams, and your pulse answers with two sharp beats.

Later, the grimoire is heavier than you remember, thick leather cracked like dried blood, pages edged in silver that gleams under candlelight. You keep it clutched to your chest like a shield as Sukuna prowls the far side of the room. His four arms drag across the rafters when he stretches, claws rasping wood until splinters fall like rain. “You need to look less… obvious,” you say, voice thin but steady. “There’s a way. Maybe.” His head tilts. Four crimson eyes burn across the dim light, each one narrowing like a separate predator. “And you expect me to trust a witch’s bedtime story?” His grin slices wider. “You barely trust yourself.”

You swallow hard and flip the book open. The scent of old ink and iron rises. “This isn’t for you,” you lie, because it’s partly for you, because his current form is too much for your senses to take. The second mouth in his torso grins without moving. “It’s for survival. People will notice a four armed demon with a stomach mouth strolling through town.”

A low, amused rumble rolls through the room. “Let them notice. Fear is a crown.”

“And a bounty,” you shoot back, surprising yourself. “Someone will try to kill you. Or me. Or both. I’d rather not test that ‘share the pain’ curse we’re shackled with.” His grin fades. For a beat, only the crackle of the candles speak. Then, finally he stalks closer, steps soundless despite his size. When he leans down, his lower eyes level with yours, every instinct tells you to bolt.

“Show me,” he says. Your fingers tremble as you trace the sigils. The ritual is complex, blood and breath and a strip of moonlight if the spell takes shape. You mutter the incantation, voice breaking when a gust of his cursed energy brushes your skin like static.

“Don’t move,” you warn.

“I’ll move if I want.” His breath is hot and metallic. “If you fail, witch, I will tear the book apart and wear your spine as a necklace.” You pretend the threat doesn’t crawl under your skin. The candles flare, their flames a sudden blue. Symbols writhe across the floor in a language that tastes bitter on your tongue. Power hums so loud your teeth ache. Sukuna shudders, a ripple that travels through his monstrous frame. The second mouth groans. Flesh twists and for a heartbeat you think you’ve killed him and visceral panic jolts through you. Then the roar. It’s deep enough to rattle the roof, but when the light dies, he’s… different.

Still tall. Still carved in muscle. But two arms instead of four. No second mouth. The black tattoos streak across his bare chest like ink spilled by a god. Crimson eyes, only two now, gleam under the low light, sharper than any blade. He flexes his new hands, studying the long claws. “Humanoid,” he spits, as if tasting the word. “A cage made of skin.”

“You helped shape it,” you remind him, forcing the quiver from your voice.

Sukuna smirks, slow and dangerous. “Don’t mistake this for obedience, witch. I let you play. That is all.” He steps closer, close enough that the heat of him steals the air from your lungs. “But—” his grin widens, “you are useful.”

Hours later you’re with Sukuna at your apartment, the night lights outside are slowly flickering while your rune candles strewn around gutter out. Darkness swallows the room except for the faint red glow of his eyes. And you wonder, not for the first time in any case, if you’ve just given the King of Demons a new weapon: a face the world will never see coming. You yank open the curtains before thinking it through. Late night city glow spills across the floor, neon signs blinking in blues and sickly pinks, car headlights slicing through mist, the low hum of traffic seeping through the glass. It feels like the world is breathing without you.

Behind you, Sukuna doesn’t move. He just stares, two crimson eyes narrowing to slits. “So this is the world that dared forget me,” he says, his voice a low scrape of steel on stone. You keep a deliberate distance, one hand braced on the windowsill. “This is my world,” you manage. “Electricity. Cars. Phones. You can’t scare streetlights. He prowls forward, steps soundless for someone so massive. “I scare everything,” he says softly, as if it’s the most obvious truth in existence.

Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Point taken.” The spent candles from last night leave a faint wax and ozone scent that clings to the air. The clock on the wall clicks toward 3 a.m, that fragile hour when neighbours either sleep or regret. Perfect time to find him something to wear before someone calls the cops about the shirtless giant with murder eyes in your apartment. You pivot toward the closet, heart thudding like a trapped bird. “I don’t exactly own demon couture,” you mutter, digging through hangers until your fingers brush a crumpled stack of old clothes. A black button-down. Faded jeans. Your ex’s.

Figures. Before you can rethink it, Sukuna is right behind you, his presence more like a pressure than a sound. Heat radiates off him like a furnace. “Whose scent is that?” His words cut through the air. You flinch, clutching the bundle of clothes to your chest. “No one. Old clothes. Just… normal.” A wet sound answers you. You glance down in time to see a second mouth split open across his right palm, teeth gleaming like tiny knives. Your breath stalls. “oh shit” you whisper, voice cracking. “What the hell—”

“It surfaces when it wishes,” he says, tone laced with irritation rather than concern. The palm mouth stretches wider into a grotesque grin. “Hungry, perhaps.” You shove the shirt at his chest before you can think better of it. “Cover yourself before my neighbour sees you and calls the SWAT team.” His crimson eyes narrow at the fabric. “These garments belonged to someone else.”

“They’re just clothes.”

“They stink.” Sukuna lowers his head slightly and inhales. “Pathetic.”

“Do you want to walk outside naked? Be my guest.” For a long, knifing moment you’re sure he’ll shred the shirt to ribbons just to prove he can. Instead, with a slow, deliberate motion, he slides it over his head and shoulders. The black fabric strains instantly, buttons protesting against his chest. When he bends to pull on the jeans, the seams whisper threats of tearing. A startled laugh escapes you, half nerves, half disbelief. “Guess he wasn’t built like a demon king.”

Sukuna glances down at himself. For an instant, something like pride flickers across his face. “Good,” he says finally. “whoever he is, his weakness clings to these rags. I wear them stronger.” You roll your eyes but can’t hide the small, shaky breath of relief. Somehow, absurdly, this is easier, him clothed, even if the sleeves are seconds from ripping. “Now,” he says, gaze sharp enough to cut, “explain.”

“Explain what?”

“This era. Your… machines. The glowing towers.”

You gesture toward the window. “Cars. Lights. Internet. A lot has changed since the Heian period. People don’t bow to kings anymore.” He leans close enough that the heat of him steals the air from your lungs. “They will.” Your pulse skips, cold racing down your spine. “Not if they don’t know you exist.” The mouth on his palm snaps shut with an audible click. Sukuna’s grin widens, slow and predatory. “Then teach me, witch. Show me how to walk unseen.”

The thought of parading a demon through your city should terrify you, and yeah it definitely does but there’s a strange steadiness in your chest now. Maybe it’s shock. Maybe it’s the binding spell. Maybe it’s the insane realization that, for the first time since this nightmare began, you might actually survive the night.

When you finally decided to leave with Sukuna it’s a little before dawn. The hallway smells faintly of disinfectant and burnt coffee. You press the elevator button with a finger that refuses to stop trembling. Sukuna stands beside you, all impossible height and quiet menace, his crimson eyes gleaming beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. A chime sounds. The doors slide open. He scowls at the empty metal box. “This is your portal?”

“It’s an elevator,” you correct, stepping inside. “It moves between floors.”

His gaze sharpens. “Floors do not move.”

“They do now.” You jab the lobby button and pray this doesn’t end with a structural collapse; or a murder charge. The doors hiss shut. A low rumble starts beneath your feet. Sukuna’s head snaps around. The floor dips slightly as the cabin begins to descend. His claws flex, scraping the steel rail with a squeal that sets your teeth on edge. “The ground is falling,” he snarls, crouching like a predator ready to strike. “Witch. what sorcery—”

“It’s supposed to!” You throw a hand out, palm toward him. “It’s just gravity and cables. Nobody’s dying.” The second mouth blooms across his palm with a wet pop, rows of teeth gleaming in the fluorescent light. It hisses, tongue flicking like a snake tasting the air.

“Seriously?” You take a step back. “You’re going to freak out in an elevator?”

His upper lip curls. “This cage moves, witch. It is unnatural.” You can’t help it, the laugh slips out, sharp and shaky. “Welcome to modern engineering.” The elevator dings. The doors slide open to a nearly deserted lobby. Sukuna straightens with deliberate slowness, glaring at the walls as if daring them to move again. “Your world is an affront,” he mutters before stepping out.

Outside, the city is washed in predawn blue. Streetlights glow against the wet pavement, their reflections puddling like molten silver. A few late night vendors linger, steam rising from food carts. Sukuna inhales deeply. “The air stinks of metal and smoke.”

“Cars,” you say. “Exhaust.” He prowls forward, silent despite his size. You have to half jog to keep up. Even in the borrowed clothes, he looks like trouble wrapped in black ink. A vendor calls a sleepy “Morning,” and you nod back quickly, praying he doesn’t notice the walking nightmare beside you. Sukuna stops at a cart stacked with fruit. He points to a banana with a single claw. “What is this weapon?”

“It’s not a weapon. It’s… breakfast.” The vendor gives you a puzzled glance. You force a tight smile. “He’s not from around here.” Another stand glows with a flickering sign. Sukuna grabs a can of soda, turns it over like it might bite. “Why is it trapped in metal?”

“It’s a drink.”

“Why imprison a drink?” His voice is all suspicion. The vendor laughs; you nearly sag with relief. “Tourists,” the man mutters, waving you off. You tug Sukuna’s sleeve. “Keep moving.” He doesn’t budge until you grab his hand and pull. His skin is furnace warm, calloused. For one stunned beat he lets you. Then a slick, sudden wetness drags across your palm. You yelp and jerk back. The second mouth has opened across his hand, its tongue slow and deliberate as it licks a stripe across your skin.

“Are you kidding me?” You scrub your hand against your jeans. “That’s disgusting.” His grin widens, all teeth and quiet amusement. “It tastes your fear and defiance. How interesting.”

“Try that again and I’m cutting that thing off.”

“Empty threat,” he says, but his eyes gleam with something dangerously close to amusement. You exhale hard, heart still hammering. The absurdity of it all finally cracks something loose inside you. A startled laugh bubbles out, real this time. You’re still terrified, but for the first time since the summoning, the fear isn’t everything. Sukuna tilts his head, watching you with those crimson unreadable eyes. “Strange witch,” he murmurs. “You laugh while bound to death.”

“Yeah,” you say, still breathless. “Guess I’m adapting.” He doesn’t answer. The city hums around you, neon lights flickering, distant engines purring, while the King of Demons stands at your side, silent and impossibly present, tasting the modern world one bewildering question at a time. The market is still waking, caught between night and morning. Lanterns flicker above narrow aisles, casting long stripes of gold across wet pavement. Vendors murmur over crates of fruit and racks of cheap t-shirts while a radio somewhere plays a tired pop song. Sukuna stalks beside you, head tilted like a predator cataloguing prey. The borrowed shirt pulls tight across his chest with every step; the seams look ready to surrender.

You stop at a stall where hoodies and jeans hang in uneven rows. “Here,” you say, trying to sound casual. “You need clothes that don’t belong to my ex.” He eyes the racks the way someone else might eye weapons. “These rags hide strength?”

“They hide attention, which we need if we’re not trying to end up on every security camera in the city.” The vendor, a woman with a sleepy smile greets you with a soft “Morning.” Her gaze flicks to Sukuna, then quickly away. Even without his extra arms or the second mouth visible, something about him makes people instinctively wary.

You pull a black hoodie from the rack and hold it up against his frame. It barely reaches his ribs. “Yeah… you’re not a medium.” He stares at the fabric, unimpressed. “This is armour?”

“It’s cotton,” you say, grabbing an XL. “Soft armour, I guess.”

The palm mouth snaps open suddenly with a wet hiss. The vendor gasps and drops a hanger. You shoot Sukuna a warning look. He closes it, slowly and deliberately, as if to prove he’s not obeying you so much as toying with everyone’s nerves. You hand him the hoodie and a pair of dark jeans. “Try these.”

“Where?”

“There’s a changing booth behind the stall.” He studies the flimsy curtain, then you. “I will not hide behind cloth like a frightened child.”

“You’re not hiding. You’re changing clothes.”

His grin is all sharp edges. “Then guard the entrance, witch.” You exhale through your nose, pull the curtain closed behind him, and plant yourself in front of the booth like a bouncer. From inside, the fabric rustles, followed by a low growl. “This… garment resists,” he mutters.

“It’s called a zipper. Don’t rip it.” There’s a long pause. Then the curtain snaps back and he steps out. The hoodie stretches tight across his shoulders, the jeans hugging muscle like they were cut for a statue. The black tattoos along his throat look even darker against the fabric.

The vendor’s eyes widen. You catch her staring and clear your throat. “We’ll take them.” Sukuna flexes his hands, expression unreadable. “These are… adequate.”

“High praise,” you say dryly, digging for cash. As you pay, he reaches for a rack of gloves, turning a pair over with surprising interest. “Purpose?”

“Warmth. And—” you glance at the palm where the second mouth sometimes appears “maybe cover that little party trick.” His eyes flick to yours, amused. “You fear it will lick another stranger?”

“Pretty much.” He picks a black pair and slides them on, the movement strangely elegant. The palm mouth stays hidden, but you feel it, you know the fucker likes secretly watching. When you finish at the stall, Sukuna falls in beside you again. The market’s morning bustle has grown, vendors calling prices, steam from food carts curling in the chill air. He watches everything, silent and coiled, but for the first time you don’t feel like prey walking next to him. Not exactly.

“You adapt quickly,” he says at last.

“I have to,” you reply. “Someone has to keep you from licking the next person we meet.” A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. quiet, dangerous and scarily almost human. “You amuse me, witch.”

The words shouldn’t warm you, but they do, just a fraction. You shove your hands into your pockets and keep walking, the King of Demons pacing at your side, dressed like any other insomniac wandering the city at dawn, well that is if any other insomniac radiated pure, lethal power beneath a black hoodie.

The apartment already smells faintly of incense and scorched metal, the kind of scent that settles into drywall no matter how many candles you light. Sukuna stands in the narrow kitchen when you close the door, red eyes catching the low glow of the hallway bulb. He’s been here long enough to know every inch of this place, but his presence still makes it feel two sizes too small.

“Your lair remains unimpressive,” he says, voice like gravel dragged over stone.

“Yeah, well, the landlord wasn’t exactly offering castles,” you answer, dropping your bag on the counter. “Hard to find an apartment in this city when you don’t have a demon king’s credit score.”

A single eyebrow arches. “Excuses from a witch who can twist reality.”

“Twisting reality doesn’t pay rent,” you mutter, but there’s a dry edge in it that almost makes him grin. You’re halfway to the fridge when a spark catches under your skin, a prickling heat that spreads like someone lit a fuse along your veins. You curse, yanking up your sleeve. Black lines swirl into a new sigil on your bicep, blooming slow and deliberate. Sukuna moves before you finish blinking, all four eyes sharp. “Another one,” he murmurs, the words more possessive than surprised.

“I’m not in the market for spontaneous tattoos,” you snap, rubbing at the mark even though it’s alive beneath your skin.

“Each spell calls me. My power brands what it owns.”

“I’m not property.”

He tilts his head, the smallest flicker of amusement breaking through his scowl. “Ownership is…flexible, witch. You share my power; you bear my marks. It is inevitable.” Before you can argue, a hotter thread flares across your sternum. You press your palm to your chest and hiss, “Seriously? My body is not your canvas.”

“It seems it disagrees.” His grin shows too many teeth and not a shred of sympathy. You breathe through the ache until the glow fades, then push past him toward the bedroom, hoping exhaustion will drown the creeping dread. Sukuna follows at his own pace, the quiet thump of his steps reminding you who fills the space.

The bed is small for the two of you, barely a double. You decide to get extra covers and give him the floor but he claims his side of the bed without hesitation, lowering his massive frame until the mattress groans.

“I told you. floor,” you say, planting a hand on the sheet.

“I am king,” he replies, folding an arm behind his head. “I will not crouch like a dog.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You summoned me, witch.” He closes his eyes, perfectly at ease. You roll to the far edge, blanket pulled tight, trying to ignore the heat radiating from him like a furnace. The city hums through the thin walls; your pulse tries to match it. Somewhere between waking and sleep a whisper slides into your skull. slick, low and amused. “Little witch…”

Your eyes snap open. Sukuna’s chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, but his right hand lies palm up beside your pillow, and on that palm a second mouth has opened, lips wet and grinning. “He sleeps. I do not.”

You should scream, but exhaustion has dulled the instinct. “Fantastic,” you whisper. “Night time commentary.”

“I can tell you things he won’t” it purrs, tongue flicking with a slow, obscene grace. “Secrets. Trades. Power beyond the scraps he shares.”

“You mean a deal,” you say, keeping your voice flat.

“You catch on quickly. I like clever prey.”

“Hard pass.”

“You’ll change your mind. They always do.” The tongue drags across sharp teeth in a deliberate lick. “Power tastes better when you’re starving for it.” You drag the blanket tighter around your shoulders and turn your back, pretending the sound doesn’t crawl under your skin. Behind you the mouth laughs softly, a low vibration you feel more than hear, until the room sinks back into the quiet pulse of city lights and the slow, heavy rhythm of Sukuna’s breathing. Beneath it all, the fresh sigils on your skin throb with a heartbeat that isn’t only yours.

-

You wake to the quiet hiss of morning traffic and the weight of a stare. Sukuna is already sitting up, all four eyes fixed on you.

“You twitch in your sleep,” he says, voice low and uncomfortably amused.

“Thanks for the nightmare review.” You shove the blanket off, trying not to notice the sigils glowing faintly along your arm like embers under skin. He doesn’t move. “The marks spread faster. Your body drinks power it cannot hold.”

“Yeah, that’s…reassuring.” You swing your legs off the bed and stand, pretending your knees aren’t shaky. “Coffee first. Existential dread later.” Sukuna follows you into the kitchen, silent except for the faint scrape of his claws on the countertop. The city outside is a dull wash of grey, the kind of early light that makes everything feel a little unreal. You pour coffee while he watches like he’s waiting for the mug to explode.

“Explain these sigils,” you say finally. “Because they weren’t in any spell I cast.”

“They are my language,” he says. “A map of binding. Each one ties you closer to me.”

You take a long sip to buy time. “And if I don’t want to be tied?”

“You already are. The heart cannot be unbound by wishing.”

“That’s…a lot of words to say tough luck.” He leans forward, red eyes catching the dull kitchen light. “You need to learn control, witch. Power borrowed is power owed. Left unchecked, it will burn you hollow.” He reaches for the mug you just set down, examining it like a strange artefact before handing it back.

“You drink this black water every morning?”

“It’s called coffee. Some of us need caffeine to deal with… ” you gesture vaguely at his towering frame “… all this.”

A low hum that might almost be a laugh rumbles in his chest. “Strange. I require no such crutch.” You roll your eyes and head for the living room. “Good for you, Your Majesty.”

The grimoires are still scattered where you left them. You kneel on the rug, spreading a heavy leather bound one across your knees. Sukuna lowers himself beside you, the couch creaking under his weight. His new, more human form still carries the same intimidating bulk. He tilts his head, blinking twice, slow and deliberate. “Two eyes,” he mutters, almost to himself. “How do you mortals stand this narrow field of sight?”

“You get used to it,” you say, flipping a page. “Maybe try turning your head like the rest of us.” A sharp huff escapes him. “Tedious.”

“Well, welcome to the club,” you reply in a deadpan. “We’ve been dealing with it for a few million years.”

Hours slip by in a haze of candle smoke and scribbled notes. Each incantation you test sends a rush of heat through your veins, a crackling pressure that lights every nerve. And with each attempt, the sigils spread looking more like black ink tattoos than fleeting marks.

A dark coil etches itself low across your back, a barbed ring curls over your sternum, another winds around your bicep like a living band. You swear softly when you notice the newest one flaring to life across your thigh. The lines don’t just sit on the surface; they feel embedded, as if the magic has carved itself into you. Sukuna watches without comment at first, then finally speaks. “My language claims you faster than I expected. It suits you,” he adds, the faintest edge of amusement in his voice.

“Yeah, real flattering,” you mutter, flexing your arm to see the bicep band stretch. “I’m turning into a walking calligraphy project.”

“Better that than a corpse,” he says. “These markings are proof you still live.” When the last candle gutters out, you slump back against the couch, dizzy from the power still humming through your blood. “Enough for today. Push harder and you will bleed power until you are ash,” Sukuna says.

You want to argue, but the tremor in your hands betrays you. “Fine” you mutter. “Tomorrow we figure out how to keep me from turning into a walking rune set.”

He rises smoothly, the room seeming smaller when he’s on his feet. he agrees, and the way he says it makes the word sound less like a plan and more like a promise you’re not sure you want. Sukuna stands there a moment longer, rolling his shoulders as though testing the weight of his new, two eyed reality.

“Still tedious,” he says finally, dry as ash. You can’t help it; a small, tired laugh escapes you. “Welcome to humanity, demon king.”

You lean over the grimoires, tracing symbols, muttering under your breath. “There has to be a way to stop these from spreading. Or at least slow them down.”

Sukuna doesn’t comment at first, watching your fingers move across the page, but then his voice cuts through. “Mortals always assume they can control fire with their hands. You can’t. You can only channel it or get burned.”

“I’d rather not get burned,” you say, biting your lip, fingers trembling slightly as another sigil curls to life along your sternum.

He shifts closer, shadow stretching over the pages. “Then learn to channel it,” he says. “I can guide you, but you have to want it. Do you?”

You hesitate, studying the lines on your skin. The magic thrums beneath them, impatient and hungry. “Yes,” you whisper, though the word tastes like ash.

For the next few hours, you go through old grimoires, scribbled notes, and obscure references to binding magic, ancient tattoos, and ways to contain or suppress power. Sukuna’s presence is both suffocating and grounding. “You’re slow,” he mutters, flipping a page with precise claws. “If you fail to understand, the tattoos will kill you.”

“Gee, thanks for the pep talk,” you mumble.

He smirks, clearly satisfied with the small jab. “Keep reading. Learn. Or perish. Your choice, witch”

The afternoon slides into evening, and you realize the apartment is quiet except for the occasional scrape of claws, the faint pulse of your tattoos, and the low hum of Sukuna’s presence beside you. You glance at him again. His posture is impossible to ignore, but the tight borrowed t-shirt no longer seems absurd. It fits him in a way that makes him almost…manageable. Almost human.

“Tomorrow,” he mutters finally, almost to himself, “we push further.”

“Fine,” you answer, voice steady even if your hands shake. “But first, we figure out how to not become living graffiti.” He lets out a low hum of amusement, shifting so that the candlelight glints off the dark ink of his own sigils. For a moment, there’s no threat, only the quiet pulse of shared power between you and the uneasy, growing understanding that neither of you can turn back.

-

You slump back against the edge of the bed, muscles tense and humming with residual energy from the spell. The tattoos along your arms and sternum feel warm, almost insistent, as if they were alive and impatient for your next move. You trace a line along one of them, feeling the subtle pulse of his power beneath your skin.

Sukuna leans in, massive and imposing even in his humanoid form, the dark tattoos on his own chest flickering faintly in the candlelight. He tilts his head, studying you with a disinterested air that’s somehow more intimidating than outright rage.

“Ready?” he asks, voice low, almost teasing. “Try it. Or are you going to keep staring at the book until it decays?”

“Very funny,” you mutter, though the tremor in your hands betrays you. “I’ll do it.”

You draw a deep breath and recite the incantation, feeling the words ripple through your body. The sigils flare along your skin, black lines alive, wrapping around muscle and bone, sending warmth and a dangerous, delicious heat through every nerve.

Sukuna leans forward slightly, just enough to make the air feel heavier. “Concentrate. Let the power flow. Don’t fight it, witch.”

You focus, channelling every ounce of control into the rhythm of your heartbeat. The magic rises, a tangible current through your body, and then it releases. The spell erupts from your hands in a shimmering, controlled pulse, arcing across the room, curling around the candle flames without extinguishing them, sending ripples across the wooden floor. For a heartbeat, everything is still. Then Sukuna’s grin splits his face, sharp and dangerous. “Finally.” His voice carries a rare note of pride, just barely contained. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to embarrass yourself permanently.”

You glare, sweaty and breathless, but there’s a tiny flicker of satisfaction in your chest. “Shut up,” you mutter. “It worked.”

“It did,” he repeats, stepping closer, the shadows of his humanoid form stretching over your trembling hands. “You handled it. You actually handled it. Not badly, witch.”

“Not badly?” You echo, raising an eyebrow, trying not to smile at the faint, begrudging compliment.

“Not badly,” he says again, voice low, teeth catching the light as he smirks. “Better than I expected. I didn’t think a mortal could channel even a fraction of my power without collapsing into…something pitiable.”

You exhale, feeling some of the tension seep from your shoulders. It’s not really a victory, not entirely, but it’s recognition. And in this moment, recognition from the Demon King feels like a huge fucking victory. The sigils along your skin settle, still pulsing faintly, as if satisfied with your control. You run a hand over the one curling along your bicep, feeling its warmth linger. Sukuna studies you, red eyes sharp and calculating. “Good,” he says finally. “I’ll admit…you’re learning faster than I anticipated. That means I can trust a little more in this bond. though don’t get used to it.”

You smirk, despite yourself. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He tilts his head, the movement slow, deliberate, and almost human in its consideration. “For now, witch, remember this feeling. That pulse, the power under your skin, that is not just mine anymore. It’s yours, too. Handle it well, or it will handle you.”

You nod, fists still clenched with lingering energy. “I will.”

Sukuna straightens, stepping back into the shadows of the room, giving you space but not leaving. There’s a strange weight in the silence, the kind that presses against your chest, dangerous but…not hostile. He’s proud. He’s imposing. He’s impossible. And somehow, managing even a fraction of his power has shifted the dynamic.

His voice cuts through the quiet hum of magic, “we will soon try something more complicated. You’ve earned the chance to burn a little brighter. But don’t get cocky, witch.”

“I won’t,” you reply, heart still hammering, chest still warm from the pulse of the sigils. He lets out a low hum of amusement, a sound that could be a laugh. “Survive well, witch. That’s all I ask. For now.” And you do. Because for the first time since this all began, you’re not just surviving, you’re learning. And that makes the danger, somehow, feel a little less suffocating.

-

The apartment is quiet, save for the faint hum of magic thrumming beneath your skin. You rise early, the sigils warming in response to your movement as if impatient for the day’s lessons. Sukuna is already awake, perched against the edge of the bed like he owns both the room and the air you breathe which frankly, he does. “Morning,” you mutter, “I need a coffee” voice rough from lack of sleep

“Morning,” he replies, eyes narrowing in the dim light, red catching a glint of mischief, or calculation, you’re never sure. “Don’t spill your magic before breakfast. It stains.” You roll your eyes, but there’s a twinge of amusement you don’t bother hiding. You’ve grown used to him, the heavy presence that presses against you, the way he watches your fingers tremble with power. And now, the tattoos on your arms and chest seem almost…alive, pulsing in tandem with the shared heartbeat you feel in your ribs.

“Today,” he begins, voice low and deliberate, “we push further.”

You raise an eyebrow, fingering the edge of the grimoire on your nightstand. “Further how?”

“Control. Precision. And fire,” he says, stretching out one hand, letting the claws lightly scrape against the floor. “You’ve seen what happens when you flail. Now you learn to wield it like a weapon.” You swallow. Fire. You’ve barely touched it before. It’s raw, dangerous and almost sentient. You nod, shivering, not from fear, not entirely, but from anticipation. Over the next hours, you fall into a rhythm that’s almost domestic in its absurdity. Sukuna instructs, corrects, critiques, and occasionally snorts at your failures.

“Too much,” he snaps when a spark leaps too far. “Control it, witch! Not everything deserves to burn!”

“Noted,” you mutter, smudging ash across your forearm as the tattoo there pulses in tandem with your heartbeat. He watches you, arms crossed, red eyes observing every flicker of magic, every tremor of muscle. And when you finally manage to summon a controlled flame that curls along your palm and dances without scorching anything he leans forward just slightly.

“About bloody time,” he says, voice low, dangerous, but tinged with approval. “You didn’t kill yourself, nor did you embarrass me. Well done.” You can’t help the smile that curls at your lips. “Told you I wasn’t going to die.” His eyes narrow, and you feel the pulse through your chest quicken but it’s not yours, not entirely. Sukuna’s heartbeat is pounding, resonating through the bond like a drum threatening to shatter ribs. You laugh softly, tracing a finger along the black ink of your bicep. “You’re…racing,” you tease, voice low, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think you’d care so much if I lived.”

His grin is sharp, predatory, yet proud. “I do care, witch. I care because you can handle it. Because you’re learning. And don’t push your luck with your mouth, or I’ll remind you why I am the King of Demons.”

The day melts into night. You work through the grimoire, trace the sigils on your skin, feel them pulse with growing power. Sukuna observes, rarely touching, rarely speaking, but always present, a tether you feel as surely as your own heartbeat. You begin to notice the thrill in wielding fire, the surge in your veins as the tattoos flare, reacting to your will. At first, every flare is frightening, every misstep jolting. But slowly, something inside you shifts, you begin to embrace the marks, trace them, feel them, want them. The bond that once terrified you now hums with a dangerous kind of comfort.

“You’re…enjoying it,” Sukuna observes one evening, arms crossed, leaning against the doorway as you send a controlled spark curling along the ceiling without fear. “I see it in your heartbeat, witch. You’re…embracing it.”

“I…” You trail off, tracing the curling sigil along your sternum. “…I am. It’s…fun. Terrifying, but fun.” He steps closer, a predator closing distance without aggression, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Good. That’s exactly what I want. Fear is a tool. Fun is a weapon. You’re learning to wield both.”

The bond deepens, the heartbeat you share pulsing in tandem as he teaches, pushes, and corrects. Every surge of magic sends shivers down your spine and through your limbs. 5When you push too hard, when your body trembles at the intensity, you feel his heartbeat spike in panic, an echo of fear that’s not yours.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re worried,” you tease, voice low, brushing a finger along the tattooed curve of your arm. “I didn’t even hurt myself.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “I am not worried. I am calculating…possibilities. And some are less palatable than others, witch.” You laugh softly, letting the tension slip slightly. The playful teasing dances between you, light in the darkness. Every lesson, every pulse, every controlled flare of fire ties you closer together. And he notices. Oh, he notices everything. The way you begin to trust yourself with his fire, the way the tattoos pulse with your growing skill, the way your heartbeat no longer flinches at the surge of power coursing through you. Pride brims in him, subtle, dangerous, and undeniably real.

“You’ve surpassed my expectations,” he mutters finally, voice low, red eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Not many can handle me like this, witch. But you…you’re different.” Your chest tightens, not with fear, but with a rush of dangerous exhilaration. “Different in a good way?” you tease, voice trembling only slightly.

His lips twitch. “In every way that matters.” And in that moment, the world outside disappears, leaving only the pulse of power, the rhythm of shared heartbeats, and the knowledge that neither of you will ever be the same again.

-

The night air tastes of iron and smoke before you even step outside. Sukuna’s grin is sharp enough to cut glass as he leans against the doorway.

“Ready to stop burning holes in the carpet and try the real thing?”

You tighten the laces of your boots, the sigils on your arms already warming like they know what’s coming. “You mean ‘ready to let you show off.’” He arches a brow. “I never need an excuse to show off. But yes, ready to see if you can survive your own fire without me bailing you out.”

He leads you to an abandoned rail yard on the edge of the city, the place half collapsed and jagged like a mouth missing teeth. Rusted tracks catch moonlight; shattered glass crunches underfoot. The air thrums with latent energy, like the space itself remembers old violence. “You’ll make your own arena,” Sukuna says, voice low. “Circle of flame. No spells etched, no chalk. Only you and what you’ve learned. Hold it for…as long as I decide.”

You smirk despite the tight coil of nerves. “And if I blow up the neighbourhood?”

He shows teeth. “Then we both finally have some fun.”

You draw in a breath, feel the sigils along your ribs pulse in time with that shared heartbeat. Heat builds in your palms, quick and eager, like it’s been waiting all along. You picture a ring of fire and will it forward. The first spark leaps free too fast, too wild. Sukuna’s voice slides into your ears, smooth and sardonic “Control, little witch. Unless you like losing eyebrows.” You grind your teeth, focus, own it. Flames unfurl in a slow sweep, kissing the cracked concrete until a perfect circle blazes around you. The heat licks your skin but doesn’t burn. A laugh bubbles out half relief, half triumph. “Look at that. Eyebrows intact.”

Sukuna steps closer, eyes gleaming with open pride. “Not bad. But holding it is the trick.” Minutes stretch. Sweat drips down your spine; the sigils glow brighter, their warmth like a near pleasure. Your arms tremble, but the circle stays perfect. Then, from the shadows beyond the rail cars, something stirs. A low growl vibrates through the ground. You stiffen.

“Relax,” Sukuna says, but his voice sharpens. “They’re just curious.” The “they” emerges, three feral shades, twisted spirit things with claws like hooked glass. Your pulse kicks. The fire flares in answer. “Keep the circle. And show me you can fight inside it,” he orders.

The shades dart forward. Instinct surges; you fling a jet of flame across the nearest one. It shrieks, writhes, collapses into cinders. The circle holds. Another leaps high, you snap a whip of fire upward, searing it mid air. The third charges low; you drop to one knee and let the ground erupt in a burst of heat that sends it skidding back in a cloud of sparks. Silence follows, broken only by your ragged breathing and the steady thrum thrum thrum of that double heartbeat. Sukuna steps inside the still burning ring like it isn’t there at all. The fire bends around him, almost bowing. He studies you for a long moment, and the pride in his gaze is unmistakable, heavy as a hand on your skin. “You didn’t just survive,” he says softly. “You commanded.”

A shaky grin tugs at your mouth. “So…passing grade?”

He chuckles, low and warm, a sound that feels like an earned reward. “You’re past grades. You’re becoming something else entirely.” The sigils pulse, bright and hot, and you swear his heartbeat stutters in your chest, fast and dangerously unguarded. You tilt your head, teasing despite the tremor in your knees.

“Careful, King. Your heart’s showing again.”

He steps closer, firelight carving his grin into something fierce and, just for a second, he looks fond. “Let it,” he murmurs. “You’ve earned that too.”

The flames gutter out only when you will them gone. The night smells of scorched metal and victory. Sukuna’s presence presses warm against you, not just a shadow now but a rhythm in your blood. And you know without words, without spells that the bond between you has crossed another line, one you don’t want to erase.

The walk back is quiet except for the hiss of cooling asphalt under your boots. Your skin still hums, every sigil along your ribs and arms warm like live coal. The city feels different, too small now that you’ve held fire in your hands. Sukuna keeps half a step behind you, silent in a way that isn’t empty. More like he’s listening to something only he can hear.

“You kept the flame. There was no hesitation, little witch.”

You shove your hands in your jacket pockets. “And here I thought you’d find a way to tell me I still suck.”

A sharp huff of a laugh. “I would have. If you had.” Your apartment greets you with the familiar smell of incense and old paper. You kick the door shut, toe off your boots, and head straight for the kitchen. Your legs tremble from that strange rush of borrowed power.

“Water or something stronger?” you ask, reaching for glasses.

“Something stronger,” he says without missing a beat, leaning against the counter. He’s already claimed the space like he owns it, sleeves pushed up, muscles still faintly lit by the faint glow of his tattoos. “Though you’ll probably water it down.” You instantly regret showing him remotely anything about alcohol.

“King of Demons demanding top shelf liquor. Tragic.” You hand him a glass anyway. He takes a sip, eyes narrowing at the taste, and for the first time since you left the rail yard he almost smiles. “Better than expected.”

You sink onto the couch, stretching legs that still ache from the heat. The sigils across your sternum throb faintly, more alive than your own pulse. Sukuna watches them with that unreadable gaze, then lowers himself into the chair opposite you, long limbs folding with deceptive ease.

“How do I shut these off?” you mutter, brushing a fingertip over one glowing mark.

“You don’t,” he replies. “Not yet. They’re the proof you survived. Proof you can take what I give you.”

You roll your eyes. “Always with the ominous phrasing.”

His grin is slow, wicked. “Truth isn’t ominous. It’s just bigger than you expected.”

Silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. The shared heartbeat you’ve grown used to beats steady in the back of your mind. You catch him watching you with the kind of focus that makes the room feel smaller. “What?” you finally ask.

“You kept control when those shades rushed you,” he says. “Not many mortals could.” There’s pride there, almost reluctant, but unmistakable. You sip your drink to hide a smile. “Careful, you’re starting to sound supportive.”

“only of you, witch.” Your breathing sputters.

Later, when the glasses sit empty and the city outside has gone hushed, you stretch out on the couch. Sukuna moves past without a word and, because of course he does, he drops onto the far end, stretching until his shoulder brushes yours.

“You’re still warm,” he notes.

“You set me on fire,” you counter. “Occupational hazard.”

His low chuckle vibrates through the cushions. The second mouth on his palm stirs but stays silent, like even it knows the moment needs no interruption. The shared heartbeat slows, heavy and even, until the quiet feels almost like a pact, no need for spells or sigils to seal it. The sigils on your skin warm, and in the small, dim room, you let yourself rest against the fact that the thing that terrifies you can also teach you how to be dangerous on purpose. And that, you think with a humour that masks something else entirely, is the most frightening, thrilling homework you’ve ever been assigned.

-

You wake in your shared bedroom with the aftertaste of smoke and iron, and for a half breath you pretend it’s nothing more than the residue of last night’s training. The apartment is quiet except for the city settling into its small, indifferent sounds. Sukuna is on the balcony, silhouette against a pale strip of dawn. He looks like a god who’s been given bad lighting and a thrift store t-shirt, beautiful in a way that should be prosecutable. He follows when you step Into the kitchen, and his look is the same assessment it’s always been; precise, interested, and just sharp enough to sting. “You slept well,” he says, which reads as complaint and compliment in the same slow sweep of his voice.

“You sound surprised.” You reach for the kettle, hands steady in a way they weren’t a month ago. The sigils on your sternum warm when your thumb brushes the skin. They feel less alien now, more like a second pulse attached to your own.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Sometimes you surprise me by not vomiting when the power flows.” His expression refuses to soften, but you catch the barest lift of something like approval in his eyes. You smile half lip. “High bar.” The kettle whistles, and for a ridiculous second the domestic normality of making coffee makes the edges of everything feel less acute. You pour two cups. He takes one with only the smallest of a nod, and the mundane choreography of the morning. There is a rhythm forming between you. It’s not polite intimacy, not the one the world usually hands out; it’s practical, jagged, and built around survival: wake, training, research, sleep, repeat. But within the repetition something else gathers weight. You notice how he lingers when you move. How his gaze tracks the muscles in your forearm when you trace a sigil. How, when you laugh at his ancient grumble about “two eyes,” the sound loosens something in him that otherwise stays locked.

“Today we push the precision,” he says after coffee, folding one long arm across his chest. The black ink that tattoos his skin curls into shapes that echo the marks on yours. “Not spectacle. Not flame rings. We do contact stabilization.”

You have to swallow. The term is clinical enough to be ridiculous, and the idea that your burgeoning control of his power requires literal closeness is both practical and terrible. “You mean…touch?” Your voice does not betray how much that single word weighs.

He watches you watch him. “Yes. Hands on chest. Palms to skin. Then you will mirror my rhythm and learn how to temper the flow without losing the edge.” There are a dozen ways to say no. You list none of them aloud.

-

You follow him into the living room, carrying the kettle like a white flag. He sits on the edge of the couch, the way he always does, dominant and patient. When he lifts his shirt to reveal the dark map of tattoos, those same black lines rolling across skin like language. you notice that your breath catches. You set the kettle down somewhere. The sight of his sigils are not unfamiliar now; it’s a grammar you’ve learned to read in flashes. But up close, the ink looks feral; it moves under the skin as though alive. And fuck those abs.

He does not knead the distance between you with words. He gestures, flat and business like: “Hand.” The first contact is nothing like you expected. It feels blunt and electric. Your palm meets the hollow of his sternum and for a heartbeat you are a child again, feeling the thud of another person’s heart through ribs, the small proof that they exist. But this is a deeper, stranger percussion: two drumming sources overlaid, not separate, a rhythm that doubles and halves and insists on being heard. His chest is hot; his tattoos seem to answer your skin by brightening, a dull glow under ink. The shared heartbeat isn’t a metaphor anymore, it is a physical current. The sigils on your own skin prick and sing in response, as if the lines under your flesh can sense the throat of the power that made them.

“Sync,” he murmurs. Low as a command, soft as a coax. “Breathe to me. Follow my beat. Mirror, then lead.”

You breathe. You listen. You feel his pulse under your palm, slow, enormous, and you lean into it like someone learning to ride a new horse. At first you rustle; your own pulse races off the track, scattered by adrenaline. He corrects you without anger; a word, a slight tension of his hand, a repositioning of your wrist. His fingers, when they curl around yours, are warm and all edge. Not light, not tender, but precise and guiding. The proximity is a made thing; it is not meant to be soft, and yet every nerve in your body reinterprets it. Heat blossoms in your belly, a focused ache that has nothing to do with power and everything to do with how easily it would be to bridge the space between your faces. There’s a new, unclassifiable sound in your chest each time his heartbeat skids; it’s not fear. Not exactly. It is wanting shaped by survival, like an animal calculus that mixes safety with something deliciously precarious.

You mirror him, then take the lead, sending a whisper of the flame you’ve learned to hold into the chord of energy between you. The current hums, insects circling a lamp. It responds to your command and to his backbone as if delighting in the two hands trying to direct it. The sigils along your arm pulse, dark lines brightening with the exertion, and the heat that rolls up your arm is a new, electric intimacy. His jaw tightens. He breathes, and you feel the hitch In his chest as a shadow of concern: for a second the beat stumbles, a staccato you register as if someone struck a drum wrong. You catch it and correct, pulling back the flow with a soft, practised touch. The circle steadies. You both exhale.

He watches you with something that isn’t merely approval anymore. His eyes are so intent they feel like a weighing. “Good girl” he says finally. The word is simple and it lands like a verdict and a benediction all at once. “You can do this.” The second mouth, low against the inside of his palm where it rests on the arm of the chair, makes a small, wet sound. Closer, it whispers, with a breath that feels like breath on your wrist. Taste the rhythm. Taste the bargain. It licks the air at the edge of your palm as if tasting, and you have to swallow hard to keep from flinching and smiling and doing a hundred things you try not to.

He shifts, closer so that the heat of his thigh touches your knee. Proximity again; a test that is supposed to be tactical but reads like choreography designed to remove your armour. You don’t step back. Instead you let your palm rest a fraction more firmly on his chest and feel the answer in the slow, steady drum of his heart. You are learning languages you never wanted to speak and they are teaching you what it is to be visible to a man who could erase you with a thought and instead gives you a measured, meticulous kind of attention. It’s maddening and tender and wild all at once.

“Tell me,” you say, because scandalous things happen when you invite danger. “Tell me you’re only proud because I didn’t set the couch on fire.”

He inclines his head, that spare half smile working at the corner of his mouth. “I’m proud because you bend, witch, and you don’t break. Pride is an unseemly habit, but I own many unseemly things.” That admission lands more forcefully than anything he’s said. You feel the bond hum, a sympathetic thrum through the tattoos that makes your breath hitch.

You should step back now, but the world offers excuses: the risk the bond poses, the price Sukuna has already warned you about. But human brains are notoriously poor accountants when desire enters the ledger. You find yourself leaning in a fraction more, palm stroking his side, fingers curling at the base of his ribs where the ink maps like a testament. He does not pull away when your knees brush his; instead, his own knee nudges between your thighs like a calculated answer. The touch is tiny yet seismic.

“Careful.” His voice drops to something private. You look up at him, the shape of his face suddenly startling in how much of it is patient and how much of it is predator, and you thibk in the best possible sense that you want the mastery, and more importantly, you want the man.

He laughs then,. The second mouth makes a small, pleased noise against the inside of his palm. “We will teach you how to enjoy the burn” it says, almost conspiratorial. “We will make you hungry for it.” You press your palm harder as if to anchor yourself. The tattoos on your skin flare, bright and hot, matching ones that pulse across his chest like mirrored runes. The shared heartbeat is a drum that has learned a duet. Your fingers tingle against their place on his chest.

You stand there longer than you mean to, His thigh shifts just enough to part your stance wider, and you know he’s doing it on purpose. Your fingers move up and dig harder into his chest, nails grazing through the thin fabric. His lips twitch. “You think you’re subtle?” he rumbles, voice like smoke and gravel. “Standing here, breathing like I’ve already got my head between your thighs. Pathetic.”

You swallow, but the spark in you pushes back. “You’re the one crowding me.”

He chuckles, low and sharp. “Crowding you? No, sweetheart. If I wanted to crowd you, you’d already be flat on your back begging for me to ease up.”

Your breath shudders out, half a laugh, half a whimper you bite down on too late. His grin deepens, almost wicked. “That sound— fuck— do it again.” His hand slides up, fingers gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze to his. “Every little noise you make is mine, hmm?”

You can’t help the words that slip out, whispered against the heat between you: “Maybe I like giving them to you.”

His laugh is sharp, dangerous. “Good girl. Knew you were greedy for me.” His thumb brushes your bottom lip, pressing until your mouth parts. “Say it again.”

“I… yeah” your chest heaves, the word trembling out, “I like it.”

“Mm,” he hums, satisfaction dripping from him. “Knew you’d take to me better than you take to those damn spells. My power’s all over you, burning you up from the inside…” Your hips roll against the firm press of his thigh, shame and want burning hotter with the motion. His second mouth opens against his cheek, a grotesque echo of his smirk.

“That’s it,” Sukuna groans, voice rougher now, “use me. Rub that little cunt against me like you’re desperate.”

“I shouldn’t—”

“You should.” His eyes blaze down into yours. “You should ruin yourself on me. You should drench me ‘til I can smell it for days.” Your nails drag down his chest, heat pooling where his words hit. He leans in, lips brushing yours but not sealing it, a whisper away.

“Say my name while you do it. Let me hear how sweet your mouth sounds when it’s filthy for me.”

His lips crush yours, warm and rough, and the world narrows to the taste of him. The first kiss is a shock, the next a demand. He answers each tiny gasp with a deeper pull, his tongue teasing the corner of your mouth until you melt against him. “Greedy,” he mutters against your lips, his grin breaking through the kiss. “Knew you’d be.”

Your hands find his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair. He deepens the kiss, a growl curling from his chest as if he wants to swallow every sound you make. The second mouth on his cheek opens slightly, a strange, almost approving hum that sends a thrill through you. His hands push and pull your hips firmer against his thigh to help you grind harder against his thigh. You gasp, and it’s loud, ragged, desperate. His laugh rolls over you, dark and rough, teasing and approving all at once. “That’s it. That’s exactly it. Show me more. Prove you can handle it, witch.”

The material of your shorts rub against your clit in delicious pleasure, you groan and throw your head back. Sukuna’s hands slide under your shirt, his fingers leaving trails of heat every time they move, his one hand palms your boob and the other pulls you faster. Every inch of you pressed and kneaded by him send shivers down your spine. Heat radiates from him, powerful, unrelenting, and you can feel the pulse of his heart in rhythm with your own. “You’re insatiable” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “You’re shameless, witch.”

Every brush of his fingers on your nipple, every deliberate press of your clothes pussy against his thigh sends a spark racing up your spine and coils your stomach tighter. Your breath hitches; a sharp, ragged moan slips past your lips. “Gods…” you gasp, tilting your head back, letting your fingers curl into his shirt as your chest heaves. Every heartbeat, every brush of skin, makes the world shrink until there’s nothing but heat, tension, and him.

Sukuna tsk’s and pinches your nipple. “there is no god for you to call to, witch. I am the one who’s thigh you’re about to cum on. Do not call out to another man while you’re soon to be writhing on my cock.” The mouth that spawned on his palm flicks it’s tounge on your nipple. Your body reacts before your mind can even catch up. You nod frantically, chasing the heat coiling tight in your belly, “Fuck… Sukuna,” you whine, desperation lacing your voice as you press closer, grinding against him in response to the teasing heat radiating off his body.

He hums, low and approving, leaning just enough to press his chest into yours. “Mmm… my greedy little witch,”

“Yes,” you gasp, voice broken, chest heaving. A moan catches in your throat, involuntary, desperate, trembling as you press closer, “yesyesyesyes” you gasp “I’m gonna cum!”

“Cum for me, my pretty witch.”

Your voice breaks into whimpers, moans, and desperate breaths as the tension coils impossibly tight inside you. Your movements turn sloppier and your nipples ache, suddenly you feel yourself shudder and spasm, overwhelmed, your body trembling with the heat and pressure of him beneath your pussy, against your chest, every touch sending fire racing through your veins. Another ragged gasp escapes, and you cling tighter, fingers gripping his shirt like an anchor in the storm of sensation. Your chest heaves and while Sukuna looks at you with eyes blown out and no way satisfied. “Come on, witch. I’m sure you can give me more than that”

Before you have time to even think, the world spins, his strength is effortless when he hauls you back against the cushions, the couch dipping beneath your spine. The air between you snaps as tight as a bowstring. Sukuna brackets your hips with his knees, palms spread wide as if he owns every inch of you; which, judging by the slow, satisfied curl of his mouth, he believes he does. “Witch,” he rumbles, voice low enough to vibrate through the frame. “Look at you. Still trembling.”

Your breath stutters. His gaze drops to your place where your thighs have parted without conscious thought. Heat rolls off him, the weight of it dizzying. He lowers until his breath ghosts across your bare skin of your belly, just enough for the edge of his grin to graze you, just enough to make every nerve spark.

You shiver. “Sukuna…”

“Say it again,” he murmurs, a growl wrapped in velvet. Your reply melts into a gasp when his mouth finds yours again, his fingers trail down your body and into the waistband of your shorts. In one swift movement, the cold kisses your pussy. Sukuna licks the inside of your mouth when you gasp. His hand slides over your hip, warm and deliberate, the rough pads of his fingers tracing lazy, taunting circles that make your skin tighten. He groans into your mouth when he gathers your slick and pushes one finger into your pussy, you cry out into his mouth when his thumb circles your clit, the mouth on his palm flicks it's tounge in between your folds. Sukuna grins when you arch your back, hips gyrating into his hand.

“You keep shivering like that,” he murmurs against your ear, “and I might think you’re begging for more.” The air feels thick enough to drown In. Each slow drag of his fingers sets off a pulse that shoots through you like sparks, “I- please. Sukuna..” your voice is cut off when Sukuna’s fingers plunge in tandem with the tongue. “I- I need… ngh— yes—haah, give me more!”

“Greedy little witch,” Sukuna says, his voice all smoke and amusement. The loss of his fingers make you whine. He slaps your pussy and pushes your thighs apart more, You start to protest the loss, but the words catch in your throat as he moves, until you can feel the unmistakable shape of his cock…cocks? through the thin barrier of fabric. The heat of it steals the air from your lungs. Oh god, does he have two?

Your breath hitches. “Sukuna…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs, a low growl curling through the syllables of your name. He grabs your knees and grinds his clothed cock against your slippery pussy, head thrown back and clit pulsing, you rock into his thrusts. “Give me one more, my slutty witch— fuck— I promise to reward you.” He presses as hard as he possibly can but you can’t take it anymore, it’s not enough, you need something, anything.

You push yourself up, resting on an elbow, and tug at his pants, “Please,” you say. Sukuna wills himself off the couch, and slowly sheds his clothes. Oh my fucking god. He does have two cocks. Your eyes widen for a brief moment, “What’s wrong, witch?” He sits himself down onto the couch and yanks you over him, scooping you up from the couch by your ribs. Your knees plant on either side of his thighs, his palm moves between your thighs and strokes your dripping slit, your eyes don’t leave his cocks. He gathers your cum and coats the cock closer to his navel. You push against his chest and his hands leave his cock; thick, throbbing, and twitching. You grab him by the base and stroke once, twice, before positioning your hole above the thick, leaning tip.

“Patien— oh fuck” Sukuna is cut off when you sink fully onto his cock; soft, gummy walls pulsing around him, he grabs your hips hard enough to bruise. You arch your back when his other hand comes up and grips the base of your throat whilst you grind mind numbingly against his hips. Sukuna laughs against the hot kisses he’s marking on your throat. You bounce up and down, his cock hitting all the right places.

You feel something wet glide between your cheeks and suddenly remember his second cock. Sukuna pants and grunts, “take it, witch” you pulls you down harder, hips pushing up to meet yours in tandem with the heartbeat you both feel thumping in your chest. Your heart lurches and your toes curl deliciously, you run your fingers up his chest, through his hair. “Ugh— fuuuuccckk— such a pretty fucking slut” Sukuna groans, nose gliding down your throat, his hot, damp tongue drags across your collarbone. The couch protested with a low creak as Sukuna hauled you closer, every shift like a spark against your skin. His grip on your hips tightened until you swore you could feel each fingertip searing a mark.

His sudden rise steals the air from your lungs. One heartbeat you’re sunk Into the couch, the next you’re lifted, weightlessly but still sunk so tightly on his cock that it sends a dizzy rush through you. A startled cry escapes you, ties curling, your legs tighten around his waist. Sukuna’s grip locks around your hips. “Hold on,” he warns, voice low and rough.

He moves, a deliberate drive upward that makes you shiver. Each step rocks you against him, a deep, rhythmic pulse that pulls another helpless sound from your throat. You cling harder, cheek pressed to his shoulder, breath catching on every motion. Sukuna stands there with you suspended in the air, his hands slide down the curve of your ass, he grips the fat around your hips and slams you down harder on his cock, your toes curl and ragged moans tear from your throat. Every sway and motion makes your heart race, breaths coming in sharp, stuttered gasps. “Hold still, witch,” he murmurs

The room blurs around you as he moves, every movement deliberate, hard, and unyielding. Your legs squeeze instinctively, hands gripping his shoulders, and your chest heaves from the sheer pressure of him. “You’re holding on tight, witch,” he growls, voice rough and low, edged with amusement and something darker. “Good. Can’t have you wobbling all over the place.” The hallway stretches, and every step of his powerful legs shifts you, jerks you, tilts you just enough to make your senses spin. Your hair fans across your face, breath coming in shallow, ragged pulls, each sound a mix of shock, tension, and something thrilling that leaves your limbs trembling. You don’t even realize it but you’re cumming again. Your spine seizes and your pussy clenches, your wet walls tighten around his cock. Sukuna groans loud and guttural. You bite into his shoulder, eyes rolling back. He slams you down once for good measure. He takes off your shirt and throws you back onto the bed, your hair splays around the pillows, Sukuna wastes no time. He’s on you before your next breath. You spread your legs to accommodate the shear size of his body.

He presses the head of his cock inside your pussy, before you can think, he slams into you in one movement. His hips shudder and press against your pelvis, his other cock glides up and down with his movement against your ass. You’re slipping away from reality, suspended between time and space, you can barely think. Hot, fat tears are streaming down your face, the ridges of his cock rut into you, hitting that specific spot that makes you see stars. His hips buck and slip. Your back arches and slick pools between you. Sukuna rises to his knees and flips you over, he hoists your hips up, slamming into you from behind. His one hand presses your heads into the sheets, his other with that fucking mouth on it ravishes your clit, the sensations stimulate something you’ve never felt before, you try to push Sukuna away, “Wait— s’please— im gonna pee!” you slur out as coherent as you can. “Give it to me, Witch. Show me how I fuck you silly” you press harder against him, and the next thing you know, white hot bliss races down your spine, Sukuna is shuddering above you, hips sloppily pressing into you, his cum fills you on the inside while his other cock spurts on your back. He falls against you laughing and groaning.

Hours pass in a haze, Sukuna cleans you up and lays you back down on clean sheets. Dawn drips pale gold across the apartment, sliding over the wreck you and Sukuna made of the night. Your hair is a wild, tangled halo. Every stretch of skin hums with the sore, satisfied ache of too much pleasure and not enough air. The sheets smell like smoke and heat. You shift and immediately feel the weight of him; one heavy, possessive arm slung across your waist like you’re something he claimed. Sukuna sleeps like a predator at rest, mouth tilted in a lazy half smile, crimson eyes shuttered for once.

And there, between your thighs, the unmistakable heat of his cocks presses, thick and unapologetic even in sleep. Holy. Shit. I fucked the King of Demons. The words taste unreal, like a dare you actually took. Your pulse spikes, equal parts disbelief and a low, hungry satisfaction.

Sukuna shifts slightly, a quiet rumble escaping his chest; a sound somewhere between a purr and a threat and tightens his hold, pulling you back against him without ever fully waking. His breath skims your neck, hot and possessive. You bite back a laugh, because somehow the most terrifying being you’ve ever met is now your very warm, very heavy blanket. And hell if you don’t already want him again.

Me who had this song on repeat while writing: