seventasia ! yuta sun, higuruma moon, choso rising.
masterlist :: current wips :: ongoing event 1, 2 :: fic recs
img credits to @/dollywons.
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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oozey mess
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romaâ
taylor price
Not today Justin
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if i look back, i am lost
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RMH
KIROKAZE

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@seventasia
seventasia ! yuta sun, higuruma moon, choso rising.
masterlist :: current wips :: ongoing event 1, 2 :: fic recs
img credits to @/dollywons.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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PREACHER'S DAUGHTER
ieiri shoko x reader
little drabble for @seventasia 's event ^_^ go check it out here!!
tw: religious guilt, religious trauma themes, smoking, emotional repression, self-destructive tendencies, internalized shame, faith crisis, crying, hurt/comfort, angst
preacher's daughter!shoko who was raised on hymnals and southern guilt and the kind of love that always came with conditions, who learned young how to sit still in hard wooden pews with her knees pressed together and her head bowed politely while everyone in town admired what a sweet girl the pastor raised. because everyone loves the pastor's daughter, even when they do not know her at all.
preacher's daughter!shoko who knows every church song by memory but mouths the words instead of singing them, voice dying somewhere behind her teeth while stained glass paints bruised colors across her skin. who thinks faith should feel warmer than this. who thinks god stopped listening to her years ago.
preacher's daughter!shoko who smells like cigarette smoke hidden beneath vanilla perfume and old books, who keeps a lighter tucked into the pocket of her choir robe, who sits on the church roof after evening service just to feel farther away from everybody beneath her. that is where you first find her. legs hanging over the edge. smoke curling from parted lips. silver cross necklace glinting beneath the moonlight. and instead of telling her father, instead of looking horrified the way everyone else would, you sit beside her. quietly. like you already know all the ugly things she's trying to hide and you have decided they don't matter.
preacher's daughter!shoko who thinks you are too kind for your own good. who rolls her eyes whenever you show up to volunteer at food drives. when you help clean after sunday dinners, pretending your presence annoys her while secretly memorizing the sound of your laugh over gospel music crackling through old church speakers. somehow you keep staying. through her sharp words and every carefully built wall she places between herself and the rest of the world. you stay anyway.
preacher's daughter!shoko who learns the sound of your car before she learns the sound of your footsteps, who waits in the church parking lot after dark pretending she is just "getting fresh air" while secretly hoping your headlights appear at the end of the road. who starts craving you in quiet, devastating ways. who wants your hoodie in the passenger seat; your hand brushing hers over diner tables during the late hours of the night; your voice low and sleepy through phone calls neither of you wants to end.
preacher's daughter!shoko who never calls it love because love feels too sacred and frightening and permanent, and she has spent her whole life being taught that wanting you is wrong because no force of god can change the fact that you are a girl. so instead, you kiss behind gas stations. in dark corner booths of a diner two towns over where nobody recognizes the pastor's daughter. and afterwards, she presses her forehead against yours like she is mourning something before it is even gone.
preacher's daughter!shoko who keeps her cross necklace on even when she sleeps beside you, the chain cold against your collarbone when she curls into you. who goes strangely still the first time you touch it. "my father gave it to me when i turned thirteen. ", she whispers, almost inaudible. like that explains everything. maybe it does.
preacher's daughter!shoko who has spent years praying for god to make her easier to love. cleaner, quieter, holier. less angry, less lonely, less this. who kneels beside her bed at night with mascara streaking down her face whispering apologies into clasped hands because she cannot stop thinking about you no matter how hard she tries.
preacher's daughter!shoko who begins pulling away the second she realizes how hard she has fallen for you. texts become shorter. calls go unanswered. kisses rushed and guilty. she stands beside her father after sunday sermons smiling sweetly at churchgoers while you watch from across the parking lot wondering if you had imagined the softness of her hands. wondering if you had imagined her entirely.
preacher's daughter!shoko who finally breaks in the middle of a thunderstorm. rain batters the church windows hard enough to sound like screaming while she cries in your arms, shoulders shaking violently beneath your hands as every ugly buried thing finally claws its way out of her chest. "i think there's something wrong with me." she says it like a confession. like a prayer. like something she has known her whole life. and when you try to kiss her, she pulls away at first. not because she does not love you, but because the silver cross hanging between you suddenly feels unbearable. heavy with expectation and shame. with every version of herself she was forced to become.
preacher's daughter!shoko whose trembling hands rise to the necklace slowly. the chain catches briefly in her shaking fingers. when it finally slips free, she starts crying harder. huge broken sobs against your mouth while she kisses you desperately, terrified and loving you so much it hurts. like she is choosing you and losing herself all at once. like a girl raised on sermons and sacrifice finally allowing herself, for one impossibly selfish moment, to be loved anyway.
WELCOME TO PRETTY GIRL AVENUE!
PRETTY GIRL AVENUE is an event organised between some friends and i dedicated to lesbianism in jjk <3 pls enjoy. pls.
ABOUT. sapphic romance in all its forms, from fem!toji to the classic shoko. do you want a western vampire? a historical mystery? what about a toxic romance? PRETTY GIRL AVENUE has it all! with only women, to boot!
AT PRETTY GIRL AVENUE, YOU WILL FIND âââ
WANTED: WOMAN-EATING OUTLAW with TSUKUMO YUKI! More information available with @seventasia!
THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT with IEIRI SHOKO! If any issues arise, please reach out to @ackpplepie!
THE MAN I MARRIED WASN'T ACTUALLY A MAN AT ALL! with FEM!TOJI! Reach out to @strawb3rryhachi for more information!
PREACHERS DAUGHTER with IEIRI SHOKO! Find more information with @cassideezlife!
86'D with FEM!SUKUNA! Reach out to @cassideezlife if you have any inquiries!
TERRAPIN with IEIRI SHOKO! If interested, consult @purescription!
KISS IT BETTER with TSUKUMO YUKI! Please contact @ketamiis for details!
CEO - CONFIDENTIAL EATING OUT with IEIRI SHOKO! Details can be found with @lemonswirlss!
WHAT CAN I DO with FEM!NANAMI! Please contact @xstars-alignedx for details!
CURRENTLY IN THE WORKS: [ or, what i'm planning on writing this month! ]
wanted: woman eating outlaw, vampire!outlaw!yuki x reader. how i wet your mother, siren!sukuna x human!reader man, am i craving some fish, human!higuruma x siren!reader
LAST UPDATED JUNE 2026.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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masterlist.
ââââââââăă ăăăăgojo satoru.
ââââââââăăăăăă geto suguru.
ââââââââăăăă ryoumen sukuna.
[ MONSTROUS APPETITES ] when you decide to join a travelling circus, the last thing you expect is to form a queer bond with the famed âtwo-faced demonââthe four-armed, four-eyed, two-mouthed circus freak sukuna.
ââââââââăă ăă kamo choso.
ââââââââăăăă higuruma hiromi.
ââââââââăă ăă fushiguro toji.
you have such a way with words
MONSTROUS APPETITES, SUKUNA
synopsis. when you decide to join a travelling circus, the last thing you expect is to form a queer bond with the famed âtwo-faced demonââthe four-armed, four-eyed, two-mouthed circus freak sukuna. contains. true form sukuna, p in v, dubious ethics, cannibalism (past), two dick sukuna, a live animal is eaten. wc. 12.3k
my submission for @lemonswirlss's 3k circus collab!
I.
The first time you see him, youâre a newly hired aerialist at his motley circus. Fresh from an interaction with the pleasant yet unsettling ringmaster, Kenjaku, whoâd effused the merits of his staff and demanded you explore the different attractions, youâd been drawn away from his presence and towards his veiled stage. It had been accompanied by only a mild annoyance; why did you have to explore first, before being able to settle down in your own quarters? To view the stage youâd be performing on, rather than this nameless stranger?
Wheels poke from beneath the stage, and the door at the side is triple-locked shut. Itâs what had drawn you to the attraction, that niggling curiosity of why is it still in the caravan when it's meant to be performing? A red curtain covers the front of the caravan, and a showman stands before it, projecting his voice as he soaks in the crowd.
ââmore monster than human, with an appetite so ravenous he couldnât be matched by a dozen lions! He ate his own twin in the womb, killed his mother chewing his way out of her stomach, is a scourge on men and women alikeâŚâ the man gesticulates, face lit with manic glee. âIt feasts on women and children; is beholden to no God; he is an abomination made real; a bane to all that is just⌠I introduce to you, the two-faced demon!â
The curtains open. Around you, people gasp. A woman swallows a scream, hands cupping her face; beside her, her husband is sickeningly pale as he holds his wifeâs arm in a white-knuckled grasp. A child shrieks, hiding behind his motherâs legs, and the mother ushers him away with a terrified prayer. The two-faced demon lounges lazily, separated from you by thick metal bars within his miniscule cage.
Heâs not even that ugly, you think, vaguely mystified by the theatrics of the audience. Heâs horrifyingly tall, yes, standing at least a head above you. The two-faced demonâs torso is unfathomably wide and entirely bare, tattoos tracing his well-chiseled abdomen up to the lines of his sculpted face, down beneath his low-slinging pants. Disconcertingly, a mouth sits where his belly button should, wide spread in a grotesque grin as a tongue pokes out from between sharp teeth. You follow his tattoos up to his jaw, and seeâ
âA monster,â someone murmurs.
âa man.
Thereâs a strong jaw and a wide face, with cheekbones sitting high on his face. His nose stands tall, slightly ridged and strongly angled. A second pair of eyes, as crimson red as the first, sit half-slitted beneath the main pair. His hair, short and a shocking shade of cherry blossom pink, is deceptively sweet against the rest of his features. Most interestingly, something wooden and mask-like sits on the right side of his face where his features slope at a harsh, asymmetrical diagonal. His mouth is pulled taut against the skin. It must be where the nickname is from, that two-faced dichotomy; his face split between vaguely human familiarity and absolute, monstrous novelty. Itâs barely fathomable. Watching him scowl down at your crowd, itâs easy to see glimpses of the inhuman monster that everyone is so terrified of.
Youâve heard of the two-faced demon before. Heâs an infamous attraction, even if only for his grotesque appearance. There are rumours about having fought lions beforeâhe has, allegedly, once fought an elephant and wonâ-and each story is as ludicrous as it is widespread. You just hadnât expected that, if you squint, he could be considered handsome. Werenât such monstrous creatures meant to be hideous?
Ignorant to your inner dialogue, the two-faced demon crosses his bottom pair of arms tightly around his chest, muscles bulging with an unspoken threat. How incredible he is, to make such a simple movement seem so domineering. The showman continues. âDespite his fearsome appearance as a rampaging beast, he is incredibly docile!â Docile? âHe rarely speaks, is barely capable of following basic instruction, and acts entirely on his own whimsââ What part of that is docile? ââbut, rest assured, he is uninterested in harming others. His diet consists only of meatâwe have a raw cow being brought in at eight, should anyone want to witness his feedingââ he rattles off a price, and the two-faced demonâs scowl only deepens.
What a salesman. You could almost convince yourself this guy is trying to sell you an antique, rather than an exclusive experience to watch a man eat.Â
âAdding to his inhumane appearance, the two-faced demon is stronger than an ox, and can tear apart metal like a man does paperââ
âThen why doesnât he break out?â The words escape you before you can stop them. His captive audience turns, disturbed from their horrified trance; the showman looks somewhat displeased.
âWhat did you say, dear viewer?â
âYou said he can tear apart metal, but heâs in a wooden caravan with metal bars. Why doesnât he break out, if heâs so strong?â
The man scowls, displeased by your break in immersion. âDidnât you hear me? Heâs uninterested in harming others.â
âBut isnât he a rampaging beast?â
âA rampaging beast can rampage all he likes, if heâs too lazy to think his way out of a wooden box.â Still, the people around you look uneasy. Someone edges away. Even to you the logic is barely nebulous, ridiculously flimsy at best. Why would that matter, if he can tear through metal so simply? It just doesnât make sense. The two-faced demon, the allegedly unknowing topic of your conversation, lounges backwards, top pair of eyes flitting close. The bottom pair, that blazing inhumanity, peek open; for some unfathomable reason, as the showman faultingly continues his monologue, they remain trained on you.
II.
You donât see the two-faced demon for another two weeks after joining the troupe. He is, you learn, eternally locked within that small caravan; he eats there, he sleeps there, he pisses in a bucket and has someone else toss out the waste. The curtains are constantly closedâso as to not scare the other circus members, the showman, Haruta, tells youâand the caravan is silent, except for those few sickening minutes each night where he tears into the raw flesh of an animal and its dying squeals echo.
So, when he calls out to you, fresh from a few hours of practice, you find yourself a little surprised.
âYou.âÂ
The sound is raspy from disuse, low and rumbling from deep in the chest. Itâs not a voice youâve ever heard before, for all it immediately sends warmth to your face, so you really canât be blamed for your response of:
âMe?â You echo dumbly.Â
You turn to see the two-faced demon locked in his caravan. For once, the curtains are open. He lounges languidly in his cage, head resting against his palm as he braces his elbow against the wall. In the light of day, his inhumanities are both sharpened and softened; the sun lifts the veil of his sinister appearance, at once lessening the horror and throwing the details into brutal relief. Your eyes linger on his stomach mouth for a moment, before returning to the four eyes glaring sharply down at you.
âYes, you.â He says, his voice sharp. âI saw you.â
âI imagine you see a lot of people, considering our profession.â
He sneers. âInsolent woman.â Which⌠okay? Youâre not sure what he was expecting, approaching you like that; youâre not sure he even knows how he wanted you to react, based on the way his scowl only deepens. Maybe itâs some leftover aggression for all that lion-killing he used to allegedly perform. âYou were there when that foolish peacock was displaying me.â
Foolish peacockâ? Ah. Haruta. âI didnât realise I left such an impression.â
âHm.â He leans forward, grinning with both mouths. His canines are frighteningly sharp. âBring me some food.â
You blink. âNo. Thatâs not under my jurisdiction.â
âThere is no jurisdiction for who brings me my meals.â
Your brows furrow as you shoot him a disbelieving look. âYes, there is. Uraume delegates it to someone at the start of every week. I canât just disrupt someone elseâs tasks.â
âThat peacock of a showman said it himself, didnât he? I feast on the weak. Bring me my meal, or Iâll feast my hunger elsewhere.â He leers at you, more ravenous than covetous. It doesnât feel like desire. For a moment, you feel like nothing more than the sack of meat you must appear asâskin and meat and blood and bone, packaged beneath a pretty face and shielding a beating heart. Nothing more than a single meal to quench an endless thirst.Â
âThat peacock,â you stress his nickname for Haruta, âalso said you barely spoke and were assuredly docile. How am I to know whether or not thatâs another exaggeration among many?â
âMy existence is no exaggeration.â You hum in demeaning acquiescence. The two-faced demon growls. âWhatâs your name, woman?â
What a non-sequitor. You look at him, features carefully blank in the face of his inhumanity. His nails are frighteningly sharp, you notice suddenly. Sharper than they have any right to be. Long and razor-thin, more akin to claws than fingernails. You tell him your name, slow and sure. âDo I get to learn your name in return?â
âWhat makes you think you have any right to it?â
Nothing could stop you from rolling your eyes. âOf course. What was I thinking?â Biting back further grumbling, you make to walk past his enclosure. âIâm sure your meal will be here shortly. Have a good day, demon.â
For all his gallivanting, he doesnât break out of his cage. He sits there in that imperious sprawl and scowls with all four eyes as he watches you leave. Maybe he really is domesticated; maybe he doesnât think the effort of catching you is worth the meagre meal. It doesnât matterâeither way, you move on unimpeded, while he stays rotting in that tiny caravan. His threat goes unfulfilled. So much for the privilege of his name.
III.
The two-faced demon doesnât take up much of your attention after that. You are, for the most part, uninterested in your disfigured colleague. On the few occasions where he is allowed to see the sun (because, for some unfathomable reason, he refuses to either draw the curtains himself or request they be done so), he singles you out. You talk, he calls you an âinsolent womanâ or âfoolish performerâ or, on the one occasion you really annoyed him, âwayward maggotâ. Frustrated with him, you leave. A couple days pass, and the same event reoccurs.Â
Over these few encounters you learn a few things, both from him and others: no one knows his name. He speaks to no one, unless it is to demand food. He calls no one by their name, demeaning them as being too below him to know his, and him too above them to refer to them as anything other than insulting descriptors. He really did previously fight animals for show before his kill streak knocked too high, and everyone that witnessed it continues to live in paralysing fear over what he may do to them if he grows too bored. Their dramatics know no bounds.
You are perfectly happy with this routine of vague familiarity until you meet Uraume.
Despite being an aerialist, being a member of a travelling troupe means that everyone is often pitching in for odd jobs. Working as an aerialist doesnât mean you arenât helping with booths or applying the kids' show make-up or assisting Toji in feeding the animals. Likewise, Uraumeâs role as a performer doesnât prevent them from also being the best cook in the circus. With your odd jobs and their famed skill, it doesnât take long until youâre tasked with assisting them in the kitchen.
âLeave that for the two-faced demon.â
You jolt from where youâre leaning over the meat, reaching for a cut of steak. Uraumeâs expression, usually placid and slightly derisive, is underlined with an uncharacteristic anger; brows furrowed, lips twisting downwards, shoulders squared as they loom over you. You glance between them and the meat in question. âI thought that guy only ate live animalsâŚ?â
âHe did.â Their expression smooths out as you step back, grabbing a different cut. âHis tastes have changed since his reallocation.â
Reallocation? âI thought he was always there purely for hisâŚâ how to word this politely? â...cosmetic value.â
âDonât be ridiculous. Heâd never degrade himself in such a manner.â Isnât that exactly what heâs doing now? âHe used to work with the animals. Once per location, after the animal tamer performed, he would appear and fight a predatorâlions, most oftenâfor show. It was always the most anticipated event of the circus. The animals were, unsurprisingly, no match for the two-faced demon, but the display of his strength was notable all the same.â
Fascinating. Maybe those muscles arenât all for show. You decide to ignore the concept that he was apparently so strong that lions were unable to beat himâlegendary as those stories are, youâd always considered them mere stories. Itâs discomforting to know thereâs more truth to them than you previously assumed. âThen whyâd he stop doing it?â
They level you with a dispassionate look. âThey couldnât keep up with him. He kept killing them. The law decided to prohibit his actions, but their attempts at restraining him led to the previous animal tamer meeting a⌠sudden end.â
âIs that why everyone is so scared of him?â
âTheyâre scared of him because they should be.â Uraume clears their throat. âAfter that debacle, they banned him from fighting in the circus. Heâs decided to simply remain a viewing attraction, and abides by their drivel as long as he is sufficiently provided for.â
âEven after killing a worker?â
âEven after eating a worker.â
You blink in muted surprise. You donât know why youâre shocked, given the nature of his threats and the way people act around him, but eating someone? You canât fathom it. The two-faced demon, for all his bluster, is notably tame. âHe mustâve been an amazing fighter, for the circus to have kept him after that.â
Uraume turns to you, uncharacteristically passionate. Their next words come out slightly breathless. âHe was magnificent.â
And, well, thatâs that. Uraume says no more on the topic, even as they continue their tasks with a quiet joy. Youâve never seen them as happy as they are now, as if the mere thought of the two-faced demon is enough to brighten their spirit. Huh. Youâre beginning to get the feeling that he maybe really is that awe-inspiring, considering the various dramatics of your fellow circus performers.
Maybe thatâs why, when Uraume hands you a massive steak so lightly cooked you can imagine its heart is still beating, you donât deny their request to deliver it to the two-faced demon. Instead, you take the heavy mealâwhich, seriously? This portion size could feed at least six peopleâand bring it to that ever shielded caravan.
âKnock on the door before you enter,â Uraume tells you as you leave. âHe wonât attack you or try to escape. Pay him the decency he deserves, given his illustrious nature.â
You donât exactly take it into account. Rather, what you do is call âDinnerâs ready!â as you near the caravan, knocking at the door with one foot as you hold theâfrankly massiveâplate with both hands. âOpen the door.â
âOpen it yourself.â
Your eye twitches. Must this man be such a contrarian? âMy apologies. What I meant to say is, I am unable to open the doorâeither open it for me, or continue on without your dinner. Itâs no concern to me.â
A growl sounds, then the low creak of movement. Heâs awfully quiet for such a large man, but even then, the caravan creaks and sinks with every step of his massive weight. The door opens with a harsh lurch, and you are abruptly the closest youâve ever been to his monstrous form. This close, a mere half-meter separating you, his eyes are impossibly large, impossibly red; his cherry blossom hair an even softer pink than you initially conceived. Bizarrely, you find yourself almost wanting to touch it. Even the scar you first noticed seems more like a mask this close for how raised and shapely it is; yet his malformed eyes blink lazily at you in a way no puppetry could emulate.
How sickening, you think, fascinated.
âWell?â He says mockingly. âServe me my dinner.â
He disappears back into his trailer. Itâs honestly impressive that he even manages itâthe trailer couldnât be more than 5 meters by half; somehow, he turns it into a chasm. âIâll leave it withââ
âServe me.â
How frustrating. âIf I must.â You keep your tone perfectly neutral, stepping into the darkness of his abode. Itâs as discomfortingly small as you imagined. You donât know how he manages to lounge so broadly and still look as though he has room to move; a well-practiced artifice, though you donât know why he tolerates it. The man that could beat a lion in a fair fight, wasting away in a cage even smaller than the predators. You would laugh, if you didnât think he would eat you for the mockery.Â
You lay the plate out on the floor before him. The two-faced demon licks over his teeth with his too-long tongue. âSit with me.â
âPardon?â
âDonât tell me youâre even stupider than you look. Sit.â His voice is a rumbling growl. You sit, stumbling awkwardly until youâre on the floor of the caravan, legs tucked beneath you. Sitting like this, he looms over you as a carnivorous shadow; thereâs no illusion of even footing. He watches you for a moment, expression bored and impassive, before leaning his head down and taking a bite of his steak. Blood streams from the bite.
His hunger is voracious. He tears into the beef with abandon, uncaring of his audience and greedy in his hunger. He tears through the meat as if it were butter, cleaving through it with a single grind of his jaw. Itâs horrifying. Itâs beautiful, in a way, as if for a moment his appetite makes him something both more and less than human. His top pair of eyes shut in something akin to delight, but his bottom pair remain fixed on you. Youâre paralysed by his stare; his hunger; the monstrous strength of his jaw; the awful sharpness of his teeth.
âYouâre unafraid of me.â
You jolt, eyes tearing from his pinning gaze to land on his mouth, brows furrowed. Your gaze darts further down, and the mouth on his stomach stretches into a leering grin. Itâs disconcerting, so out of place; you didnât realise that mouth was capable of anything more than aesthetic disfigurement. His face-mouth swallows, taking another monstrous bite of meat. âOh? Is this all it takes to frighten you?â
Your expression briefly drops into a scowl. âWhy would I be?â
âStories of my feats couldnât have dissipated so quickly,â he scorns. âYou have good reason to be scared.â
âUraume was very flattering,â you concede. âBut as far as Iâm concerned, youâve done nothing but sit here, leer, and make the occasional threat for the entire time Iâve been employed. Why should I be scared when youâve taken no action against me?â
Itâs a blatant goad, not that you mean it as one. If the two-faced demon is as thoughtlessly savage as Haruta claims, he would no doubt jump on it; grab you, loom over you, and laugh as your life is balanced in the claws of his mercy. He does not. It speaks to his inaction; he truly mustâve become domesticated.
âDo you take me for a beast?â He asks, his lip curling. âYouâve simply done nothing to anger me yet.â
âIf I havenât angered you, then I have no need to be scared.â
âHm.â He takes another bite of his food, leaning forward until one arm rests on his knee, propping up his head. It moves him closer to you, impossibly large despite his hunched posture. Itâs grotesque, how he manages to swallow down such a sizable slab of raw meat in so few bites. He swallows languidly, bringing the plate to his torso, and has his stomach mouth lick the leftover blood off the ceramic. When he stretches his arm out, glistening plateâseriously, grossâoutstretched, you take it as your cue to leave.
Of course, you donât even get to touch the plate before his other arm snatches yours, dragging you a step closer as his hand creates a bruising shackle around your wrist. His lip curls into a smiling snarl.
âOw,â you say belatedly. You hadnât expected it to hurt, for your bones to creak like a rotting frame beneath the pressure. Stillâis that it? A man that felled lions, resorting to squeezing your wrist a little? Are you supposed to feel threatened?
He stares at you, expression placid. The two-faced demon is threatening you. But for what? Because youâre not scared of him? How is this supposed to make you any more frightened? You level him with a (very minor, unintentional) challenge, and he responds by giving you a bruised wrist. It doesnât inspire fear like he expects his man-eating habits to. You stare back at him, unimpressed, and lightly tug your wrist out of his grasp. He doesnât let go.
Rather, he sneers. âWas that pathetic tug all you could conjure?â
You roll your eyes. âCould you let go of me?â Then, to be polite; âPlease? I still have tasks left to complete.â
âIs that all youâre worried about?â
âYes.â Kenjaku will have your head if you donât complete everything in time. He really is so frustratingly particular. In fact, now that you think of it, you think youâd prefer death by the two-faced demon before risking Kenjakuâs disappointmentâMahito might get away with being a brat, but you? He doesnât care half as much about you, nor do you bring in enough money for him to justify anything but extreme consequences to minor offences. Maybe, if the demon holds you here long enough, you should suggest your death to him; surely, heâll accept a freely offered meal?
The grip on your hand spasms, tightening so quickly a blinding bolt shoots up your arm, and then abruptly lets go. âHopeless,â he growls. âA pathetic little maggot, unaffected by a predator. Your foolishness will kill you.â
âThis is a circus, not the wild.â You say blandly. Doesnât that prove your point, anyway? Why would a caged lion kill a maggot? Itâd sooner save its own skin escaping before it considered eating the prey of its prey. He really is dramatic, jumping to these exaggerated threats.
You scoop the plate off the floor, shaking your wrist like thatâll ease the bone-deep ache. Sending him one last look as you leaveâa glance at this thoughtless, self-captive predator, who lets people think he canât break out through bars when he can easily open the doorâyou roll your eyes once more. âHave a good night, demon.â
(Sukuna lets your arm go, watching you through abruptly lidded eyes. You donât retreat. It took him a moment to realise, but he understands nowâyouâre not frozen out of fear, or resolute in a need to prove yourself unafraid of him. Youâre simply not, staring back at him with those heavy, thoughtful eyes. Youâre sedate. It strikes him, with a feeling both raging and delighted, that you arenât unafraid; no, you donât care. He could tear you apart with a single bite, unhinge his jaw and clamp down on your hand and rend your fingers from your palm, tear your flesh straight from the bone, and you donât care for the threat.
Your hand flexes idly as if you had stiff joints in need of loosening, unaware of his hunger. Or, maybe, you are awareâyou just simply donât care enough to be scared. It lights a fire in his stomach; for the first time in a long, long time, he wants. He wants ravenously; he wants your blood in his mouth, your eyes pickled in a jar, your heart puncturing between his teeth, your bones a broth to flavour his soup.Â
His mouth waters at the thought. You make him so hungry.Â
But, more than anything, Sukuna wants to see you scared.)
IV.
âI hear you and the two-faced demon have struck up a friendship.â
Damn this circus and its unending gossip mill. You turn to Yorozu, who has taken the seat at the table beside you and is now grabbing whatever food is within reach. âTo categorise it as âfriendshipâ is a generous stretch of the word.â
âIf he hasnât threatened to eat you, youâre practically soulmates.â She pops a bite of food into her mouth, peeking one eye open to look at you. âHas he threatened to eat you?â
âYes.â
âDamn.â She almost looks jealous. âAnd youâre not scared?â
âI didnât think it was worth mentioning.â Youâre sure Yorozu has heard a dozen of the same story from a dozen different people; itâs not something you felt the need to contribute to. How is your encounter with him any more poignant than anyone else's? âHe only threatened it. Itâs not as if he went through with the threat.â
âAnd youâre⌠okay with that?â
âIt was an empty threat. Why would I be concerned?â
She sends you a queer look. âYouâre a weird girl. You know he used to kill lions, right? Once, he tore the leg off of one while it was still fighting. Barely broke a sweat doing it, too. It was beautiful, really. You shouldâve seen the way heââ
You stare at her blankly. âUraume told me.â
âIsnât he just terrifying?â She swoons as she says it. âYou werenât there for it, but he ate one of the workers once.â Then, as if sheâd just commented on the morning weather, Yorozu pops another bite into her mouth. âThe guy couldnât even fight back, it was so quick. That demon, heâ he didnât even laugh. Said the fight was too easy for him to get any pleasure out of it.â
âUraume also told me that,â you say pleasantly. âBe that as it may, he just lounges around nowadays.â
âHe only lounges around âcause he doesnât see any point in killing us. Doesnât think weâd be worth the effort,â she manages to look somewhat offended as she says it. âBesides, heâs happy as long as heâs given some poor lamb to tear apart every few days. We were all surprised when he became so languidâI mean, heâs such a monster. What kind of freak can kill a lion bare-handed? It feels like Kenjaku is dancing with the devil somedays, keeping him around. Not that I can blame him.â
âHe hasnât hurt anyone since though, has he?â
âWhat?â She shoots you an incredulous look. âI just said he ate someone.â You roll your eyes. âWhatâs with that look?â
âI just think youâre blowing things out of proportion. Thatâs all.â
V.
It's hard to wrap your mind around the entirety of the threat that is the two-faced demon. Sure, youâve heard plenty about his lion-fighting, man-eating days, but it means nothing in the face of his complacency. A part of you acknowledges that heâs strongâthe encounter the other day proves thatâbut even then, it failed to spark fear in you. He just⌠was.Â
So what if he could eat you if he isnât going to follow up on it? When it comes down to it, anyone could kill you. He may be horrifically strong and monstrous in appearance, but he seemed more prone to idle threats than violent execution. Even the ring of bruises, once a dark brand on your wrist, has mellowed out to a discomforting yellow.
The lamb between his jaws squeals as he bites down, slicing through bone in a single bite. Upon being told to deliver a live lamb to the two-faced demon, youâd been faced with immediate disgust; heâs all-consuming and ravenous as is, so why must you witness a further indulgence? Itâs every bit as grotesque as you imagined. He makes no play of it, tearing it apart while it heaves and dies, trapping it within the chasm of his jaw. What fun could he possibly contrive out of the gruesome act?
âWhy did you talk to me?â You ask suddenly.Â
After all, didnât Yorozu say it herself? The only reason the two-faced demon hasnât broken out of his poorly crafted caravan and eaten another man is because he doesnât see the point in doing so. What is there for you to fear? He canât even be bothered to break out of his cage. Youâre certainly not worth the effort.Â
Still, you thinkâhe doesnât do anything he doesnât think worth doing. He clearly sees some value in eating a live animal, unfathomable as it is to you. He sees a point in demanding the best steaks the circus can conjure. Youâve begun to understand that aspect of his character. He does only what he wants, and indulges no further. So, as it stands, why does he bother himself with you?
âI wanted to.â the two-faced demon stares at you dispassionately. âI wanted to, so I did. Do I need any other reason?â
âYou donât want to do anything,â you counter levelly.
âI want plenty of things.â Your mouth twitches at his words, a small glimpse at your inner amusement. His eyes narrow in on your expression. âYou presume to know me better than I know myself?â
âOf course not. You just donât act on any of your wants, do you?â
âI do. How else could I have ended up in the situation I am now?âÂ
Isnât it obvious? He was born malformed, and taken in as a circus freak due to a lack of other opportunities; entranced by his beastial nature, they forced him to fight animals until he became too much of a danger; following that, he became little more than an aesthetic attraction, confined to his small cage. Sure, there was a case of cannibalism, and maybe a couple of threats, but most of whatâs happened to him has, in fact, happened to him. Itâs not as if he needed to do much to ensure the order of events.
âYouâre more of a fool than I thought, if you truly think that.â
âYou are more of a fool than I imagined, if you think I canâtâand donâtâtake what I want.â
Oh, please. âDo you truly believe that? Youâve forgotten how to want. You sit here in this cage, demanding things come to you. You donât do anything for yourselfâyouâre so content, having it handed to you. Is there anything you truly want? Anything youâll ever desire that canât be handed to you that youâll still have the grasp to reach for?âÂ
âI tire of your hypocrisy,â he growls. âYou accuse me of idleness, when you subsist solely on ambivalence; there is nothing in this world you want. Youâre closer to a monk than a woman.â
âWe are not the same in that regard.â
âWeâre more similar than you think,â he says, his voice thick with something. âYou talk so much nonsense about desire and inaction. Havenât you ever wanted to be something more than a sack of meat?â Heâs awfully entertained by his own words; when the two-faced demon stretches out a hand, a raw chunk of lamb dangling between his fingers, you think you begin to understand. âCome. Feast on the lesser. Or have you not learned to want yourself?â
You swallow. âYou think yourself better than everyone else here?â
âIâm the strongest, arenât I? The weak bend to my will. They conform to my wants. Itâs the way of life.â
âThat sounds like a very overdressed excuse for a lazy man,â you say as if youâre demurring to him. You canât tell if heâs delighted or incensed by your tone. âYouâre strong, so you do nothing for yourself? Theyâre weak, so your life is assured? Youâre so complacent, so unaware. Your arrogance is astounding.â
âThat sounds like an awful lot of drivel to excuse your own inadequacies,â he sneers. âI suppose you are nothing more than a writhing maggot, afterââ
You take a bite of the lamb.
More accurately, you lean forward; take hold of his thick wrist; drag the meat between your teeth and force your jaw shut until your teeth, blunt and weak, have no choice but to dig into the warm flesh. Blood pools in your mouth as you work your jaw, forcing a bite from the bone; where the two-faced demon cleaved through it like a hand through water, youâre left with a harsh ache in your jaw. Itâs raw and vile, heavy on your tongue as blood gathers thickly in your mouth. In that moment, with a warm carcass partially sitting on your tongue and blood spilling from between your lips, you feel more animal than humanâyou arenât an aerialist or a man or a thinking being, but a thing of raw instinct. Your brain insists you chew, and your frustrating humanity impedes your actions. Oh, why canât your teeth slough through this meat like his? Why must they be so woefully inadequate?
The two-faced demon laughs at your expression. Itâs a deep rumble from low in his chest, coming out closer to an animal's growl; his mouth splits open, impossibly wide, and he pulls you into a kiss.
Heâs big. His mouth is large enough to eclipse your own two-fold, lips rough and chapped whilst his teeth are frighteningly sharp. His tongue bullies its way into your mouth, wet with blood and stinking of iron. And his eyesâhis eyes. His eyes are that of a watchful predator, lazily lidded and staring at you with single-minded intent. All four, lasered in on you. The wet slide of your tongues set your cheeks on fire, so caught in the feeling of his hand moving to twine in your hair, pulling taut until your scalp screams beneath his grip, that you donât realise what heâs doing until he pulls away.
A low moan escapes you as youâre left suspended there, head pulled back and neck bare for his perusal. His mouth parts on another bloody, gruesome smile, and it's only then that you realise the lamb once between your teeth is now trapped in his, its larger carcass tossed aside. The bite is comically small in his mouth as his tongue curls around it, swallowing it down without a single bite of his own. You stare after it, almost mournfulâyou practically broke your jaw working your teeth through its flesh, and it was stolen just like that?
Wait, why do you care? You didnât want to eat it to begin with, did you?
âWhat a monstrous look you have there,â he sneers, even as satisfaction leaks from every inch of his being.
âI worked hard for that,â you say. âI donât have your carnivorous teeth, demon.â
His mouth spreads wider. You remain caught, his hand in your hair tight enough to have tears prickling at your lash line. Another hand moves to grab the lamb back up, as if content to leave you trapped by the hair whilst he continues to feast on his meal. That selfish, lazy bastard! He can kiss you, take the food from your mouth, and then continue to eat as if nothing happened? As if youâre not a trapped fish in his hook?
âAllow me to remedy that,â he says, voice pleasant yet sinister from his stomach mouth as his face is occupied with another bite of lamb. He chews once, twice, thrice; then he leans in once more.
Youâre startlingly aware of the meat as his tongue crawls into your mouth. He forces his way past your lips, jaw unhinging until you can feel his teeth bite into your cheek. Itâs gross. Itâs so unsexy. Somehow, with a hand at your head and his mouth eclipsing the bottom half of your face, youâre the hottest youâve ever been. He forces the lamb past your lips, holding you in place as he deposits it half-chewed on your tongue. His mouth retreats for only just long enough for you to swallow, your throat bobbing around the uncooperative bite, before he leans in once more.
âDonât talk to me about desire,â he says, the sound of his stomach-mouth a rumbling growl. He bites at your lip, canines digging dangerously, threatening to pierce skin, and an airy sigh escapes you. âYouâre too caught up in your humanity to even conceptualise what you truly crave. I, at least, know what I want.â
VI.
You hate to admit it, but his words follow you. Something about itâweâre more similar than you thinkâclings to you; you think about it while youâre training, while youâre cooking, while youâre delivering his meals and watching him eat. What does he want? you think, watching him tear through a live lamb. What did he mean by that? then, as he pops its head off with a single twist, what do you want?
He doesnât kiss you again. Somehow, that feels all the more damning.Â
Did you not prove yourself to him? Show him what he wanted to see? You ate a raw lamb, for goodness sake, kissed it half-chewed out of his mouth with no regard for how gross it was in the moment. Heâd made youâ youâd feltâ youâd thoughtâ
You purse your lips, turning sharply on your heel. What a ridiculous line of thinking youâd started meandering down; youâd shown him? Proven yourself? You wonât kid yourselfâyou enjoyed that far more than you logically should. It had sent a perverse thrill down your spine, suffocating on his tongue and indulging in a blood-soaked kiss. He hadnât forced you to do anything. Heâd offered you the slightest encouragement and youâd wanted it all on your own.Â
That thought is what draws you back to his caravan, where heâs once more engaging a crowd. People wave at you as you pass, taken in by your costumeâand no doubt excited for your showâbut you pay them no mind, suddenly caught up in your thoughts.
Youâre not sure why such a prideful being is so content being gawked at and paraded around like little more than a show animal, or how he can consider himself so far above others yet be content with a life of ridicule. You suddenly, desperately, want to watch it once more; to see if thereâs something there that you missed the first time.
Haruta is caught in his own theatrics as you approach, monologuing loudly to the gathered crowd. "The two-faced demon is a beast more monster than human, with an appetite so ravenous he couldn't be matched by a dozen lions! He ate his own twin in the womb, killed his mother chewing his way out of her stomach, is a scourge on men and women alike! He feasts on women and children; is beholden to no God; he is an abomination made real; a bane to all that is justâŚ"
It's the exact same speech as the last time you watched this, you realise. The same speech recycled for a second audience. Haruta continues, "Look upon him as he feasts! Of course, this mere calf does nothing to sate the appetite of a monster that prefers to glut on man, but witness how he tears into his meal! Watch the disgusting voracity of his appetite!â
The two-faced demon is not eating like a ravenous animal. Heâs far calmer with an audience. Rather than that steadfast, all-encompassing hunger as meat is swallowed in mammoth-like mouthfuls between a strong, grasping jaw, he eats with a casual disregard. Polite, slow, uninterestedâmore like a lounging cat than the predatory creature he fashions himself as.
What a hypocrite. The thought is almost fond. To let himself be carted around like a beast publicly, yet studiously consume a mannered meal as if he isnât ravenous in private. Itâs almost charming to know he lied so boldly to your face.
âHe doesnât seem that aggressive today,â you say conversationally as you approach Haruta. âI thought people had to pay an extra fee to watch him eat, anyway?â
Haruta deflates, turning to you with a bitter whisper. âKenjaku tossed the idea. Apparently heâs not beastly enough for the extra costs. Can you believe that? As if heâs not disgusting when he eats regularly.â
The demonâs eyes, previously focused on the meal, dart over to meet yoursâjust the bottom pair, like heâs playing at being coy. He blinks leisurely, savouring the bite in his mouth as he watches you. How cute.
âMaybe he doesnât see it worthwhile to upkeep manners around us,â you comment, bemused.
âNo, heâs doing it to spite me. I know it. Kenjaku said I could take 2% of the salesââ only 2%? ââwith the private meal showings, since I came up with the idea, and then overnight that beast developed manners. I donât know why we havenât slaughtered the thing already.â
That does sound like him.
âOh, really?â You say with faux-surprise. âHeâs perfectly mannered whenever Iâm serving his meals.â
The demon snorts, a loud huff that has a kid sticking his hand through the caravans bars (much to his mother's despair) falling back with a horrified wail. Haruta looks beyond disbelieving. âReally?â
Obviously not. You disregard his comment altogether. âWhen does the showing end? Iâd like to talk to him.â
âNow,â the demon cuts in sharply, placing down his half-eaten calf with a dull thud. âPeacock. Close my curtains.â
Haruta squawks; someone in the audience boos loudly. Seriously? Whatâs so interesting about watching him eat? You think back on that night a couple weeks ago; the cord of his neck, the monstrous strength of his jaw, his razor sharp teeth, his methodical, unwasting hungerâ
âwho are you kidding? You probably got twice the perverse enjoyment out of watching him than everyone in the crowd combined.
âYou canât just close your own exhibit,â Haruta protests, a whine edging his voice. âPeople paid to see this, you canât just sayââ
The two-faced demon bares his teeth in a vague approximation of a smile.
Haruta really is a coward; a single flash of those animalistic teeth, and heâs scurrying like a rat to herd people away. Clearly not thinking heâs going fast enough, the demon reaches for the bars. One ominous creak, the slightest bend of metal, and Haruta yelps like heâs personally being attacked.
It doesnât take long for Haruta to clear the area of disgruntled viewers.
âWoman,â he says finally, once the both of you are alone.
âSo demeaning,â you mutter. âWould it hurt to call me by my name, for once?â
He ignores you. âWhat is it?â
You, in turn, ignore himâwho said you werenât prone to a little pettiness? âDid you need to go through all of that fanfare? You couldâve just used the door.â He has used the door, in fact, many timesâwith the monstrous size of his meals, youâve grown very used to demanding he clear the entrance into his caravan. If heâs going to be a lazy bastard, he might as well be a well-mannered one.
âUsing the door wouldnât have been half as effective. Let them see me as the brute I am. It only benefits me.â
âThe brute you are? But you were so polite with your meal.âÂ
âWhat?â
âYour dinner,â you repeat softly. âIf it truly didnât bother you, why were you so polite in front of the audience? Clearly, thereâs something about being seen as some ravenous monster that displeases you.â
He regards you placidly. âI did not want him to make a mockery of me, so I didnât allow it.â
You hum in acquiescence. âAnd here I thought you were perfectly content in your position.â
âIâm certainly more at ease than you are, woman.â Itâs uncharacteristically defensive. You find yourself tempted to press. You almost do, until you recall that flash of teeth; the warm, weeping flesh being shoved down your throat and chased by a hot, large tongue. Your cheeks burn, and you say nothing. âWhy are you here?â
âBecause I wanted to be.â
âThat doesnât answer my question. Why are you here?â
Your lips tug on a smile. Itâs cathartic to throw his own words back in his face; âDidnât I? Iâm here because I want to be. Thereâs nowhere that attracts my attention more, so thereâs nowhere else to be.â
He leans backwards. If you had any more of an ego about you, youâd say he looks pleased. âAt the circus. Why are you with the circus?â
What a simple question. Isnât it obvious? You love it here; maybe not the people, bar the infuriating man before you, but certainly everything else. The work, the routine, the performance, the audienceâitâs an addictive concoction. For once, you can live as you please and be rewarded for it; you can pursue your own passion, and the only consequence is the roaring applause of an enamoured crowd. Itâs perfect.
Hm. Maybe his words have some merit after all. âBecause here, I can do what I want to. Isnât that enough?â
âSo you do have something you desire.â
You batter away that wayward memory once more. âNo. I already have what I want. Iâll have it for as long as Iâm here.â You glance at him sideways, uncharacteristically sly. âMaybe I should be asking you that. This is a bit targeted, donât you think?â
âIâm simply returning the favour from our previous encounters.â His eyes glimmer with⌠something. You canât tell what, from so far away. âThere must be some reason you stick around. It was almost beginning to seem like it was me.â
âDonât flatter yourself too much.â You consider him, and a question calls to you from the back of your mouth. Given your prior presumptuousness, you have no qualms asking itâheâs indulged your curiosity every time before now, and itâs made you a glutton for your own non-sequitors. âWhy donât you ever leave? The circus, I mean.â
âWhy would I?â He leans backwards on a stretch, straightening his spine and revealing a glimpse of his monstrous size. His shadow doubles, his eyes flash; for a moment, he looks closer to a monster than he does a human. Even having felt it, having traced it with your tongue, you contemplate the idea of him having fangs hidden in that large mouth; teeth like a lion or a wolf, a further deviance from humanity. âI eat when I want to eat, and I play when I want to play. Iâm pampered as I please, and have no need to do anything but exactly what I want to do. If I wished for it, I could waste time this way until the day I die.â
You donât say but what point is there in living?, because you know that argument holds no interest for him. By now, you have a pretty good grasp on what heâd sayâbecause I want to, maybe, or because I donât yet desire death, if heâs feeling more verbose.Â
You huff a laugh. âBe proactive for once, demon. At the rate youâre going, I imagine Iâll never see you out of that cage. Is there truly nothing worth leaving it?â
VII.
There is no greater thrill than that of performing. You werenât lying when you told the two-faced demon that you joined the circus simply because you wanted toâyou love it. Thereâs a thrill that comes with being an aerialist, swinging through the air on nothing more than threads of silk and listening to the audience awe over your manoeuvres. It makes the practice worthwhile, makes everything worthwhile; why wouldnât you have run off to join the circus when you are lauded for your talents here? When youâre surrounded by such curious personalities? You are, for once in your life, encouraged to pursue your talents as an aerialist. Despite the many flaws of the ringmaster, his accepting you into his employ has made it so you can never resent him.
Itâs while youâre in the air that you see it, your heart thudding in your chest and breath straining your lungsâ-a monstrous, hulking shadow in the back of the crowd.
The two-faced demon?
It's a well-grained routine that prevents you from fumbling. You keep an eye on that monstrous presence, though, and know for certain that it's him. Heâs wearing a robe youâve never seen before, bottom arms veiled by its sweeping sleeves while his top pair are crossed in front of his chest, peeking out from the deep plunge of the neckline. His four eyes seem to glow in the dark, head cocked slightly to the side. No one else seems to have noticed him, but you canât help but wonder; why is he here?Â
His eyes, trained on you, flash with recognition. Mouth pulling into a mocking smile, he bares his teeth at you and slips between the curtain, escaping outside.Â
What the hell?
Your heart thuds in your chest for the rest of your performance, the soothing silks you dance through suddenly chafing and restrictive; knowing he was watching, that the two-faced demon has left his cage, leaves your breath caught in your throat. By the time your routine is over and youâre dancing off the stage to make room for the next performer, you feel both hot and cold at once. You canât help itâwhy is he doing this? What does he want?
Yorozu calls your name as youâre slipping out of the tent, features twisted in a complicated expression. âThe two-faced demon got out,â she says simply, pulling you close to whisper it in your ear. âWe donât know where, but everyoneâs freaking outâthey think it might be likeââ she cuts herself off, glancing around.
Your mind fills in the blanksâlike the animal tamer. That unnamed man, made a victim at the mercy of the demonâs mercurial moods.
âI justâŚâ Yorozu sighs, as if in genuine mourning. âWhy didnât he come to me?â
Is she serious? âDo you have any idea where he could be?â
She shakes her head. âKenjaku wants us to keep an eye out for him. He doesnât want that demon attacking any visitors. Even if it would be within his rightsâŚâ
You ignore her muttered comment. âHe hasnât hurt anyone, has he?â It doesnât come out like a question; no, it feels certain. Why would he? The two-faced demon is someone ruled by his own desires, comfortable in the precedent he has set forth. He doesnât desire to eat or attack people when food to play with can simply be given to him. So, what is so important that heâd bother with these theatrics? That heâd actually bother to take action?
âNot that we know of. Itâs only a matter of time, of course. Such a magnificent man wouldnâtâhey!â
You brush past her.Â
Curse your damned mouth. This is almost certainly your fault. What was the last thing you said to him? At the rate youâre going, I imagine Iâll never see you out of that cage. Is there truly nothing worth leaving it? Youâre too goading, too proud, too ignorantly overt. It seems there is, after all, something worth the effort. Bless whoever is made victim to his whims now.
In true theatricism, the metal of his caravan is warped and misshapen as you walk past it. Completely unnecessary, when the man can simply use the door. Somehow, it looks even smaller without him in it; youâd have thought that his leering, monstrous presence wouldâve done the opposite.Â
Youâd also think that the sheer mass of him would make him a little easier to spot. Yet, as youâre nearing the caravan you call home, youâre tugged suddenly and slammed against a wall.
A hand covers your mouth before you can scream.
You glance up at his looming form, frozen for a second in the shadow of his embrace. Two of his arms settle at your waist, unexpectedly tender as he massages his thumbs against your stomach. You are, of course, immediately distracted by the tongue bullying at your lips even as his hand continues to sit over your mouth.
He can do that!?
A muffled yelp escapes you, eyes blown wide. A cat-like satisfaction dawns on his face as he parts your mouth, tongue delving past your teeth and twining with your own. Itâs so weird. Itâs gross; uncomfortable; so, so disturbing you want to gag around his tongue. You donât, cheeks burning as your hands grapple against his arms, nails digging into the skin of his biceps.
âThere you are,â he murmurs, a smug smile curling at his lips. âI was looking for you.â
Oh, god. His palm pushes uncomfortably closer, and a dull ache begins to bloom as his fingers dig into the flesh of your cheeks. His fourth arm, unimpeded, cups your neck, bracing your head as he leans further into you. You crane at an uncomfortable angle, throat discomfortingly vulnerable as you stretch the full length of your neck.
Your nails leave pink-streaked divots in his skin, one hand fumbling for his palm to tug it away from your mouth. It shouldnât shock you to realise that heâs letting you; that your individual strength is so incomparable to him, every action you take is a concession he allows. It shouldnât have heat gathering in your stomach, pooling southward. âDemonââ
âSukuna,â he rasps.Â
Your brows furrow, momentarily thrown. âPardon?â
âSukuna,â he repeats slowly. âThatâs my name. If I hear a whisper of it from any mouth other than yours, Iâll tear off your head and eat you whole.â
Somehow, you donât doubt it. You cock your head to the side, evaluating him thoughtfully. Sukuna, with shockingly soft pink hair and hateful red eyes. Sukuna, whose name quite literally means âdemonâ or âcalamityâ. You wonder how his mother had the time to name him, if he truly ate his way out of her stomach. Did she pick it in advance, knowing what awaited her? Was her death slow, giving her just enough time to depart him with such a curse? Or are his mythic origins another blatant fabrication, the name bestowed upon him by another? âSukuna, huh? It suits you.â
Itâs almost funny to realise that you have, in a way, been calling him by his name all along.
âSo Iâve been told.â
You huff. âSukuna. What are you doing?â
âIsnât it obvious? Iâm taking what I want.â
âDonât be obtuse.â It doesnât sound half as chiding as it should, when youâre still recovering from being kissed breathless with his hand mouth, for all that it sounds absolutely ludicrous. âYou left your caravan.â
âHavenât you spent weeks goading me to?â He leans in so close that your noses brush, a colossal shadow hiding you away from the rest of the world. Leaning over you like this, heâs all-encompassingâa being of bestial passion, the likes of which Yorozu whimsically dreams of. âDonât make such demands of me, if youâre unwilling to shoulder the consequences.â He says it as a growl and a tease at once.
Insufferable. âDonât put words in my mouth. You justââ you cut yourself off, glancing up at him through your lashes. He is just doing what youâve been all but begging him to for weeks. Taking what he wants. It at once sets a fire beneath your skin, a need to prove to him that you can do the same; youâre too caught up in your humanity to even conceptualise what you truly crave, heâd told you. Who gave him the right to make such an accusation?Â
âInfuriating,â you murmur, hands moving to run faint lines over the skin of his cheeksâone humanly smooth, the other monstrously rough. His lower pair of eyes flicker shut, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. âYou love to talk around what you want, donât you, Sukuna?â His name is a treasure on your tongue; you want to keep it there forever. Sukuna. Who else can claim to know that name? âTell me. What do you want from me?â
His thumbs rub circles into your waist. Yours streak patterns along his cheekbones, through wisps of cherry blossom pink hair. A grin, monstrously wide, begins to stretch across his large mouth.
âI was born hungry,â Sukuna tells you. âWith every passing day, Iâve wanted more than I have. Thereâs no craving I canât satisfy, and no satisfaction that truly curbs my craving.â He leans in closer, lips brushing against the edge of your mouth. âLikewise, everything Iâve wanted has been achievable through the use of others. Why fight for what I want, when others are so willing to give it to me?â
âYouâre talking around the point,â you chide. The words escape you breathlessly; in that same moment, he lifts you effortlessly, pressing you further against the caravan and twining your legs around his torso. His breath puffs against your face as he laughs. His head dips as he runs his rough tongue along the hinge where your neck meets your jaw, following it with the weighted press of his mouth.
âInfuriating,â he says, an echo of your own words. âInfer it for yourself, woman. I rarely need to be proactive about anything. I barely need to ask for anything, when it is handed to me without a request. And yet, an insufferable little maggot sits beside me while I eat, incessantly pestering me; what do you want? it asks me. You lazy beast, if you want me so bad, show me it. Iâve proven myself worth the effort, havenât I?â
You have said no such thing; how he inferred that from your own words, you donât know. Still, itâs difficult to argue when his mouth follows your neck downward, his lips stretching wide until those terrifyingly sharp teeth lay flush against your skin. An implicit threat lies in the action, in the horrific strength he wields, the unsaid vulnerability of your position.
Your pulse is a hummingbird; you are a hummingbird, paralysed beneath the weight of a predatorâs teeth at your throat, his claws at your nape. Youâre laid impossibly vulnerableâa single bite, and those teeth can kill you. One careless nick, and youâll be dead before you can scream. It almost shocks you to realise youâre scared. Oh, God, you donât want to die.
You flush, shaking beneath the sudden weight of your own need.
âYou,â he mouths against your skin, more a breath than a word. âI want you.â
Well. It doesnât get much more overt than that, does it? You pull him away from your neck by the hair, and he huffs another laugh as he allows the movement. Pulling him towards you, kissing him, does nothing to muffle the cut-off groan that escapes him.
Poor Sukuna, you think, with a vague fascination. Was he really so pent up? Driven mad with want for you?
It seems so. His hands, big enough to eclipse your waist, ride upwards. It chafes against your costume, and his fingers dig deeper, nearly bruising your ribs, as if reprimanding you for it. Truly, what a frustrating man. A breathy sigh escapes you as his thumbs rub at the underside of your breast, sensations dulled by the fabric separating you, and on your next breath youâre pushing your tongue into his mouth.
With the groan he lets out, youâd think heâd come right there. He pushes closer, closer, until thereâs no room to breathe. Heâs flush against you, a blazing heat against your front. Thereâs no room to pull away, no leverage against the monster caging you. Youâre a pinned bird, laid bare at the mercy of his whims.
A whimper escapes you at the thought.Â
One of his hands trace the curve of your thigh. Thereâs barely room to breathe in the space between you, his fingers digging so deeply into your skin you can already feel the bruise. Itâs hard to keep track of what heâs doingâwith four arms, heâs effortlessly doing twice the work of a regular man. It leaves your head swimming, your diaphragm contracting beneath his palms as he growls. His nails, sharp as claws, tear through your leotard.
âSukunaâ!â He cuts off your complaint with another kiss. Your clothes are shed thoughtlessly, and the wind is a shock against your skin, even as your front lies flush against Sukuna. Oh God, youâre outside. Youâd completely forgotten.
You tear yourself away from his mouth, turning your head to the side as you heave for breath. âYou brute,â you say, breathless. âKenjaku will kill me when he finds out you ripped that.â
âA paltry complaint.â The words come from his stomach-mouth. His real mouth is otherwise occupied, biting at your neck where your heart beats the hardest, sucking it between his teeth until the skin stains purple. âHe wouldnât dare.â
A paltry complaint? Youâll show him a paltry complaint. Honestly, his arrogance! âWe also need toââ you cut yourself off on a gasp as his tongue laves over your neck, dipping down between your breasts. ââmove inside.â
âI see no reason to move.â
âAnyone could seeââ
âThey wonât see you. I wonât let them.â
His self-assuredness is as attractive as it is infuriating. âEveryoneâs on the look-out for you.â
He smiles against your breast, moving until he lacks flatly over your nipple. The sudden sensation has you jolting. âThey wonât find me. Do you think I canât predict those inane maggots? Theyâre swarming like ants to keep customers safe and entertained. No one will venture out this far.â
Truly, he is too confident. Youâre not given room to argue, however, when heâs sucking your nipple into his mouth, too-sharp teeth grazing the bud whilst your other breast is taken into hand between those frighteningly sharp claws. Your breath hitches on a gasp, body twitching further into his touch, and thin scratches bead against his fingers.Â
Not willing to leave everything to him, you move, fingers delicately tracing the edges of his robe. Your hand ventures downwards, inwards, until youâve gone from the wide frame of his shoulders to the hard skin of his abdomen. Youâd never thought yourself to be interested in such brutal masculinity, but something about it has knocked your head loose; he could strangle me so easily, you think, relishing in the way his palm cups your breast and nails threaten to break your skin. He could kill me and it wouldnât even be a struggle, as you dip your head, pressing a kiss to his scalp and tweaking a nipple between two fingers. He grunts with the motion, jerking as if he hadnât expected to like it.
You want to hear that sound again. You pinch, but he once again has a mastery over his reactions; he raises his head, and a soft flush lines his cheeks. He groans at your expression, hiking you up with a hand at your waist until his cock is pressing against you. Heâsâ itâsâ
âWhyâs it soâ?â You cut yourself off with a sharp gasp as your ripped leotard is opened further and his hands make home scratching thin lines down your torso. He rolls his hips once, twice, and you relish in the feeling before regaining your wits. You move, fingers grasping at those soft pink strands and tugging him away from your breast. He allows the movement, peering down at you with those heavy red eyes. âSukuna? Why does it feel likeââ
You donât finish the sentence. You canât, because it feels so ludicrous to voice aloud. Itâs just⌠how can he be soâŚ?
âDonât act so shocked,â he purrs, grinning like a fat cat being served its fourth meal. A hand cups your ass, guiding you to grind against him; he laughs at the soft sigh that escapes you at the feeling. âOver and again, Iâve been called a monster. The two-faced demon, they call me; are you truly surprised the moniker extends elsewhere?â
This man! You flush violently, suddenly so hot you canât help trying to squirm away from him. He doesnât let you, guiding you closer, pulling you flush against his two (two!) cocks. What does any man need two of them for?
Yet, you canât help yourself. What can you say? Youâre a glutton for his inhumanities; with every monstrous revelation, youâre drawn closer into his net. You want to see, to feel, to touch. Your mouth waters at the very prospect. Can you be blamed for drawing your hand lower? Dipping below the waist of that robe until the tips of your fingers graze against the base of one of his two (seriously, two!) penises?
A cut-off moan escapes him. âWomanââ
âCall me by my name,â you murmur, tracing the base and following it to his second penis. âYou asked me what I want? Thatâs it. I want you to say my name.â
Your name escapes him on a strangled whimper. âDonât toy with me.â
You hum, pressing a kiss to his temple. He hurriedly sheds you of what scraps remain of your costume, loosening his robe and freeing his cocksâreally, youâre not quite over that detailâbefore pressing forward. Air escapes you on a keen as Sukuna slides through your slick folds, and he groans appreciatively at the sound.Â
âBeautiful,â he mutters, low enough you almost donât catch it.Â
âOh my god, hurry up,â you hiss between your teeth, voice hitching on a moan as he bumps against your clit. The sudden stimulation is a shock to your core, and you clench fruitlessly around nothing. You want him so bad it hurts.
âSo demanding,â he laughs, like he didnât jolt closer towards you at the sound of your moan. âDonât worry. Iâll give you what you want.â
He does not, in fact, give you what you want. Instead, Sukuna winds his bottom pair of arms around your thighs, jerking you up the wall until youâre situated face to face. He pulls you into a suspiciously tender kiss, even as his mouth eclipses your own. It should be gross. It should be weird. Somehow, you just find it impossibly attractive.Â
Then a tongue is swiping through your folds, and you jerk so abruptly that you accidentally bite down on his tongue. Youâd forgotten about the stomach mouth, right up until it's all you can think aboutâhe licks around your entrance, trails the tip of his tongue against your clit, careful not to apply too much pressure. He leaves you squirming, grinning against your lips and opening his mouth-mouth so wide his bottom teeth accidentally clip your chin.
Fuck, heâs so big. Itâs unbelievable.
You choke on his name as a hand comes up, grasping you by the throat to hold you still. His fingers flex idly, as if it takes no pressure at all to leave you bruised. He could kill me, you think wildly. He could squeeze right now and crush your windpipe; he could open that stomach mouth a little wider and cleave right through your thighs; one careless move, and youâd be nothing but a heaping sack of meat. He could kill me, and itâd take no effort at all.
Your next moan hinges on a ridiculous whine. It feels like heâs eating your face, drinking up your cunt, toying with your tits while he humps against nothing like a rabid dog. His tongue circles your opening, stimulating sensitive nerves until youâre squirming away. Then he dips in, unimpeded by the way you clench down on his tongue at the feeling.
Thank god, the part of your brain still capable of higher executive function murmurs; thereâs no world in which you were going to let him put those nails inside of you. The thought has you huffing a laugh that abruptly hitches into another moan as he massages you from the inside.
You pinch his nipple in revenge. He groans, and his teeth leave a hairline scratch against your cheek. You already know youâre going to look mauled when this is over; the mere thought has heat coursing down your spine. You want to mark him in returnâyou want to scratch him so deeply it takes weeks to heal, and no one will be able to glimpse at those wide shoulders, that monumental chest, and not immediately know what you did to him.Â
Your pussy spasms at the thought. Fuck.
You lose track of time like that, the world narrowing down to the slick slide of his mouth on yours and his tongue spearing you open. It feels like you blink and youâre panting heavily, dangling on a precipice and scratching at his chest. You manage to pull him away for just long enough to mutter, âDear God, please put your cock in me,â before heâs fumbling like a fool, large hand gripping his own cock and lining himself up against you.
Then he pushes in and, well, your dreams of scratching him up become a reality. Red beads along the path of your nails, weeping under the weight of his moan. You duck your head to bite at his neck, chewing along his jugular like youâre trying to break skin and tear through his heartbeat. His dick twitches within you.
An eon and a moment pass at once as he sinks into you. Heâs big, heavy, and the unfamiliar weight has your breath trapping in your chest. His second cock drags through your labia as he bottoms out in you, the underside dragging at your clit and sending sparks shivering through your frame. The pleasure feels inescapable; youâre cored out on his cock and trapped against a wall, unable to do anything but take it.
âYou feel so good,â you whisper against his throat, tasting the way his heart thuds violently. âI want you toâ Sukuna, pleaseââ
He pulls out before sinking back in one smooth motion. It creates constant pressure on your clit, a long trail of sensation that makes your tongue numb in your mouth. âYes,â he hisses between his teeth, âwhatever you want. Just tell me. Beg me.â
âYou insufferableâ!â Your teeth clamp down around his skin as he plows into you. It pulls a long, low groan from him, the sound vibrating against your teeth as it travels up his throat. That man! Trying to make you beg for him as if he didnât leave his caravan for the first time in your memory just to kiss you. Just to prove youâre worth that miniscule effort.
But oh, how you want him; his arm around your throat, his hands crushing your ribs, his teeth digging past your skin and wrenching the flesh straight off your bones. You want to be consumedâyou want his teeth to work through your skin, to squeeze at your heart, for him to turn into the violent predator everyone described him as. You want him to bruise you so deeply you canât breathe without feeling an echo of him. You wantâ-
âHarder,â you gasp.Â
âThere we go,â he mutters. âDonât you feel good, taking what you want?â
If you were taking what you wanted, youâd be riding him. You tell him as much between hiccuping breaths and he chokes on a laugh that curdles into a moan halfway through.Â
He chants your name on a low grunt as you near your completion, hands grasping you impossibly tight. Your ribs creak under the pressure, your breath cutting short thanks to his hand at your throat, your hair pulled so tight that tears prick at your eyes. He spasms from the pleasure; you jerk from the same. Itâs almost a dance, the both of you sparking like a wildfire as you hurdle towards a mutual end. It builds, builds, builds.
âSukuna,â you gasp. âSukuna, Sukuna, Sukunaââ
He comes on a choked whimper, fucking you through his own completion. His other penis coats your stomach and thighs with his come, slicking your vagina further as he bumps against your clit until you physically canât take it, following him with a strangled gasp of his name.
You heave in the aftermath, twitching with residual pleasure as he softens inside of you. Youâre sensitive as a bruise. Sukunaâs hands stroke against your sides, and you can barely handle it from the dual pain-pleasure of his fingers gliding over those scratches. Your mouth is thick with bloodâyou hadnât realised it in the moment, but youâd bitten your way through his skin to leave a bloody kiss carved into his collarbone. You canât help feeling proud of it.
âI want you,â he says wretchedly, muffled against sweat-slick skin. âI want you.â
You press a soft kiss over the bite. Privately, you hope it scars; hope he has to keep this symbol of you forever. âI know, Sukuna. I want you too.â
(Sukunaâs back in his cage the next day, lounging as though he never left. Kenjaku looks at him through misshapen metal bars, a spike of irritation lancing through him at the ruckus the demon caused. He asks, âWhat was that about, yesterday? Did you have to make such a fuss?â
Sukunaâs mouth twitches into a snarling grin. âI went where I wished to be.â)
POSTED MAY 24, 2026.
won't you dance with me, dear?
â what happens in vegas.
pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader
synopsis: the thing is, gojo satoru has no intention of marrying someone his clan elders pick for him. thereâs a simple solution, of course! why get married to a stranger when you can whisk your best friend away to las vegas for a weekend and elope?
tags: fluff, smut (oral sex, fingering, riding, unprotected sex, one orgasm denial), mild angst, best friends to lovers, vegas wedding!au. idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption, discussions of arranged marriage, attempts at humour, crack taken seriously, mutual pining.
word count: 7.1k
a/n: the art in the header is by m00__ry on instagram & the fic title is from the 2008 movie of the same name. thank you to @saezzi for beta reading!
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #1 â ARSON.
For the record, none of this is your fault.
Itâs all Satoruâs fault, and youâre pinning all of this solely on him because he gets on your nerves and heâs also a liar. A compulsive liar with no concept of shame or mortification or guilt, because the whole world revolves around his thick head and you, unfortunately, are no exception to this rule. It was a nasty trick, really, coercing you into going on vacation with him.
You shouldâve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. Heâd insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where youâd stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadnât bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.
And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.
Your predicamentâstanding in a parking lot behind a Dennyâs at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearbyâis entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoruâs fault.
âI want a divorce,â you tell him.
âWeâve been married for forty-seven minutes.â
âForty-seven minutes too long.â
âYouâre burning our wedding certificate!â Satoru says. âHow are we supposed to file for divorce if thereâs no proof we even got married?â
âIâll figure it out,â you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. âIâm very resourceful.â
âYouâre committing a crime is what youâre doing,â he says.
âYou committed a crime first.â
âGetting married isnât a crimeââ
âFraud is.â
Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrenceâGojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you werenât currently a married woman in a Dennyâs parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven oâclock in the night.
Satoru had told you it was a vacation. Heâd shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, âCome on. Weâre leaving.â
âLeaving where?â youâd asked.
âSomewhere that isnât here,â was his cryptic reply.
Youâd been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoruâs eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasnât; youâd watched him perfect his act for years, after all.
So, you went. You told yourself it was because youâd never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.
Youâd grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didnât inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and youâve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoruâs fault.
The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, heâd fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, youâd thought. More like the version of him youâd met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.
After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinosâif he wasnât careful, heâd turn into a gambling addict soonâand then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.
Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.
âItâs not fraud,â Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. âWe did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.â
âThere are photos?â
âFrancis had a camera.â
âWhat?â
âI think itâs just something he keeps on him professionally.â
You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly heâd planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his fingerâwrong hand; heâd fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct itâcatches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.
âThatâs it!â you say, snapping your fingers at him. âThatâs our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.â
âNo way,â he says. âIâm taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.â
âWeâre behind a Dennyâs,â you point out.
âI know,â Satoru says. âDennyâs is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. Thereâs a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.â
âThen we canât go there.â
âI called ahead.â
You gape at him. âThree months ago?â
âNo,â he says. âI called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.â
âI wasnât asleep for that longââ
âYeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.â
âI did notâthatâs not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, theââ You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash canââeverything.â
âNot everything. I didnât plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.â
âThatâs your fault by proximity.â
âThatâs not a legal standard.â
âIâm making it one.â
Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isnât expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if youâre being honest.
âCome on,â Satoru says, nodding towards the street. âDinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I wonât stop you.â
âYouâd better not,â you say.
âI said I wonât.â He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. âIâm a man of my word.â
âYouâre really not.â
âIâm a man of some of my word,â he amends.
The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.
âWere you really that confident Iâd say yes?â you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.
âI was⌠hopeful,â Satoru says. Itâs not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years youâve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.
What youâve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. Youâve known this for years. Youâve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until itâs almost invisible. Almost.
âThe elders have been at it for two years,â he says finally, without looking up from the menu. âThe meetings, the candidates. Theyâre all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clanâs interests.â
âYou never told me itâd been going on for that long.â
âDidnât want to make it a thing.â
âSatoruââ
âItâs fine. Itâs justââ He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. âI donât want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.â
âVegas,â you echo.
âYou were the obvious answer,â he says matter-of-factly. âYou already know what youâre getting into with me. You donât have any illusions. Youâyouâre my best friend. There isnât anyone Iâd rather be stuck with.â
âStuck with,â you repeat. âIncredibly romantic.â
âI said what I said.â
The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.
âEr. You fumbled the ring,â you say.
âI was nervous,â he says.
Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcomeânervous!
âWere you,â you say.
âBriefly,â Satoru says, with great dignity. âIt passed.â
âOf course.â
âIt wonât happen again.â
âOf course.â
The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoruâs eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.
âWeâre not arguing about the divorce, by the way,â you tell him.
âWeâll see.â
âSatoru.â
âWeâll see,â he says again pleasantly. Youâre going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but heâs already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and youâre already following.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 â BREAKING AND ENTERING.
The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!
âFuck,â you groan.
âLanguage,â Satoru says. âMaintenance at midnight. Huh. Thatâs strange.â
âThatâs what Iâm focusing on right now, yes, thank you.â
You press your face briefly against the chapel doorâs small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husbandâyou are using that word provisionally under extreme protestâlooking at you like youâre the only fixed point in the room?
âHe might live here,â Satoru says.
âFrancis?â
âSome of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.â
âWeâre not knocking on a manâs door at midnight,â you say.
âItâs nearly one.â
âThat makes it worse!â You step back from the door and look at the sign again. Thereâs a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoruâs already walking towards it. âWhat are you doing?â
âRecon,â Satoru says. âJust looking.â
He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. Thereâs a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.
âNo,â you say.
âThereâs a window.â
âI see that.â
âItâs open!â
It appears to be a casement window on the chapelâs ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.
âThat could be a bathroom window,â you say. âWeâd be breaking and entering.â
âThe windowâs already open,â Satoru says. âTechnically weâd just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.â
âIf we get arrested,â you say, âIâm blaming you entirely.â
âObviously.â
âI will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything thatâs happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.â
âSure. Boost or be boosted?â Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. âIâd say Iâll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think youâd make a better lookout.â
âIâm not being a lookout.â
âYou just saidââ
âIâm coming with you.â
He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amusedâgone before you can fix it in place.
âObviously,â he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.
The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.
âThereâs a whole back operation,â Satoru says, impressed.
âWe need to find the darkroom,â you whisper.
âWhy are you whispering?â
âBecause weâre trespassing.â
âRight, yes,â he says, lowering his voice. âThe darkroom will need ventilation, so itâs probably towards the back.â
âHow do you know anything about darkrooms?â you ask.
âI went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.â He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. âAll clear.â
You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, itâs just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.
âBack roomâs through here,â Satoru says softly; heâs already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.
The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicalsâdeveloper and fixer, mostly. Thereâs a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.
Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.
The first one is mid-ceremony. Youâre both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profileâhead tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why itâs blurry. Youâd both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and youâd bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.
In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while youâre looking at the camera, Satoruâs looking at you. You lookâFrancis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but thereâs also something else, something you would rather not name.
Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way heâs been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.
âWe look like idiots,â Satoru says.
âFrancis was right,â you say. âWe both look surprised.â
âWere you?â he asks.
âYes. Were you?â
âNo,â he says, then adds quietly, âMaybe. Aboutâabout other things.â
In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoruâs full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise youâre holding your breath.
âWe should take them,â Satoru says.
âWe canât just take them,â you say. âTheyâre developing.â
âThey look pretty developed to me.â
âSatoru, theyâre dampââ
âTheyâll dry.â Heâs already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. âFrancis has the negatives. He can print more.â
âYou donât know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, weâre stealing from him.â
âWeâre borrowing from Francis.â Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. âHand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.â
Thereâs a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.
âWe need to leave Francis a note,â you say, âand money. For the printing. Forâeverything.â
âHow much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?â
âWhat?â
âIâm asking genuinely.â
âA lot,â you say. âLeave a lot.â
You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. Weâre sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.
You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.
You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.
âFor the record,â you say, âthis is also your fault.â
âThe chapel was closed,â Satoru says reasonably. âI didnât plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.â
You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, Heâs going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.
âCome on,â you say. âYou said the hotelâs three blocks away.â
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 â VANDALISM.
There is only one bed. Itâs not, on its own, an unusual situation. Youâve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru beforeâfield missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. Youâd use a pillow wall, most of the time.
The difference is that you are currently married to him.
âYou booked a room with one bed?â you ask.
âThey may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married coupleâs names, that we would want,â Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, âthe one bed.â
The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. Thereâs a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.
âDid you request the honeymoon setup?â you say.
âThe woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.â
âThatâs not an answer!â You look around the room, hands on your hips. âWell, thereâs a couch. You can use that.â
Itâs one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.
âIâm not going to sleep on it, but noted,â Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. âWhiskey or gin?â
âWhiskey,â you say. âWe can put a pillow wall down the middle.â
âWeâre married,â he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. âIt seems a bit prudish.â
You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and heâs looking out the window at the city below. Youâve spent enough years watching him, but it doesnât seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.
âI want to see them again,â you announce.
Satoru looks at you. âThe photos?â
You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. Theyâre drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.
âYou shouldâve warned me,â you say quietly.
âAbout which part?â
âAll of it.â You tap the third photographâs edge, gently. âThis.â
Heâs quiet for a moment. âIf Iâd warned you, youâd have said no.â
âYou donât know that.â
âI know you,â he says, not unkindly. âYouâd have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then youâd have spent months being strange about it, and then weâd have gone back to normal, andââ He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. ââŚI didnât want to go back to normal.â
âItâs still a bad idea,â you mumble.
âProbably,â he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. âHasnât stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.â
You do. Thatâs the problem: youâve always known what he means, even when heâs being deliberately oblique about it. Youâve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that youâve also known youâre in love with him for longer than you thought.
You look at the fourth photographâSatoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.
âYou couldâve just said something,â you tell him. âAt any point. Like a normal person.â
âI took you to Las Vegas and married you,â he says. âThatâs me saying something directly.â
His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations youâd been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.
You close the remaining distance. Satoruâs free hand comes up to your face before youâve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it tooâhas been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegasâand heâs kissing you.
He kisses you decisively. Thereâs a certainty to it that shouldnât surprise youâthis is Satoru, who does nothing halfwayâbut it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesnât feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something thatâs been there all along.
When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.
âHi,â Satoru says.
âYouâre still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,â you chide.
âI said hi.â
âHi,â you say.
He smiles; it reaches his eyes. âSo,â he starts.
âDo not say âI told you so.ââ
âI wasnât going to. Probably.â
âInsufferable,â you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.
The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attentionâone knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You donât notice any of it; youâre somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.
You suspect that heâs thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.
âYouâre thinking,â Satoru says against your mouth.
âIâm not.â
âYou are. I can tell. You get this littleââ He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. âHere.â
You stare at him. âI hate that you know that.â
âNo, you donât,â he says. Heâs right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.
He lets you tug at him willinglyâmore than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.
His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while heâs working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.
He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, âMay I?â
âYes, yes, please.â You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. Youâre already wet and needy.
âYouâre so beautiful,â Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him.Â
âSatoru, please,â you say. âI need you.â
He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. âNeed me to what?â
âI need you to, hah, justââ
Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.
âFuck, fuckââ You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesnât stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what heâs doing to you. Heâs always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isnât a playful tease during a mission.
He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.
âSatoru⌠please, Iâmââ
âYouâre what?â he mumbles against your skin. He doesnât wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.
The sensation is overwhelming. Itâs too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.
âRight there,â you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. âRight there, Satoru, donât stop, please donât stop.â
Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesnât just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. âSatoru, what the hellââ
Heâs hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.
âNot yet,â he whispers.
âI hate you,â you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. âI actually hate you so much.â
âLiars donât get to come,â Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh.Â
He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. âI want to feel you,â he murmurs. âI want to feel how tight you are around me.â
Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesnât lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.
âRide me?â he asks.
The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.
âFuck,â he moans. âYouâreâyouâre so tight. I canâtââ
âShut up,â you whisper, though thereâs no heat in it.
You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his faceâthe way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoruâs hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.
âLook at me,â he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. âI love you,â he says.
You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. âIâm going to come,â he says. âLet meââ
You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.
âSo,â he whispers. âShower?â
You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. âAlready?â you say with faux innocence. âI thought youâd want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.â
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 â EMBEZZLEMENT.
Hopefully Satoru didnât mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. Youâd wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacketâs pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.
Itâs for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shopâs location pulled up on your phone.Â
Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. Itâs not quiet, exactlyâitâs never quiet, you suspectâbut itâs quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.
You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoruâs black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.
The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. Itâs a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than youâd previously considered.
You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. Theyâre soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and theyâll tarnish in a week. Youâd noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. Itâs more of a placeholder than anything else.
The thought of replacing them had arrived while youâd lain in Satoruâs arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.
You arenât scared, though youâd expected to be. Youâd expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of whatâs happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.
But when youâd woken up with Satoruâs arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what youâd felt was something almost irritatingly simple: youâd felt like yourself.
The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of youâyour clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combedâand nods pleasantly.
âMorning,â he says. âWhat are you looking for?â
âWedding rings,â you say. âTwo of them, please. Something thatâll last for a long time.â
He nods again. âDo you know the other personâs size?â
You think about Satoruâs handsâthe ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. âI can estimate,â you say.
He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most partâplain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last.Â
âThese,â you tell the man behind the counter.
He nods. You produce Satoruâs black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isnât the cost and youâre sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.
You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached.Â
âHello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speakingââ
âFrancis,â you say, smiling. âI have a favour to ask.â
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 â MARRIAGE.
Francis, it turns out, is delighted. Heâd gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details.Â
You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still goingâslot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stationsâbut the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the nightâs crowd entirely dissolved and the dayâs not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. Itâs a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.
Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.
âMorning,â you say.
âMy credit card,â he says.
âIs fine.â You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. âI needed it for a purchase.â
âWhat kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room atââ he glances at the clock on the nightstandââsix forty-seven in the morning?â
âThe important kind.â You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.
Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesnât say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. âYou stole my credit card,â he says finally, âto buy us wedding rings.â
âI borrowed it,â you say. âTo replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.â
âI liked those rings.â
âThey were tarnishing,â you say. âThereâs more, by the way.â
You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way heâd held the whiskey bottle last night before heâd covered your hand with his.Â
âI thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now youâve stolen my credit card and called Francis.â
âYep.â
He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.
âOkay,â he says.
âOkay?â
âYeah.â Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. âOkay.â
Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. Youâre not entirely sure when he found the timeâitâs been barely two hours since your phone callâbut the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps youâre simply disposed to see it differently today.
Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. âYou came back,â he says.
âWe came back,â you confirm.
Francis looks at the two of youâSatoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short noticeâand grins. âThe rings, did youââ
You produce the white box.
âRight,â Francis says. âRight, yes. Letâsâshall we?â
Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:
You think about the first time, yesterday, and how youâd stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Dennyâs and the small fire in the trash can. Youâd meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.
Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadnât argued because heâd known youâd come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didnât say aloud.
You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the doorâyou can still see them from where youâre standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.
You turn to look back at Satoru. Heâs smiling at you.
Francis clears his throat gently. âShall we begin?â
The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternativesâhe has a small binder with optionsâbut Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoruâs ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.
Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at youâthereâs that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.
Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.
âIâve never had anyone come back,â he tells you. âIn twelve years, youâre the first.â
âWe forgot something the first time,â you say.
Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, âYou may now kiss,â and so you do.
a/n: the real mvp of this fic is francis who was also unironically my favourite person to write. thanks for reading!

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Memoirs Beyond the Reef
ŕź.° An intrigue has always existed for unions between humans and the other; creatures of the sea are just one example of many. Sirens luring men out to sea, a maiden capturing a merâs heart and taking him homeâstories of tragedy, comedy, and romance all populate the deep sea, and the following tales are no exception.
đ˛đ ŕšŕŁÂ ࣪ ËâŠŕżŕż đ
Shelved Treasures
Book 1 â by @lemonswirlss
Chapter 1 : Swindled Pearls (coming soon!)
⤡ is it possible for sirens to be good? you never thought so before meeting suguru. a kind man does fishy deeds for the girl he is fascinated in.
Chapter 2: Aye, Aye Mermaid! (coming soon!)
⤡ an egotistical pirate such as yourself has found the most valuable treasure of them all! now..what shall you do with a thing like satoru?
Chapter 3: Notes From Merology (coming soon!)
⤡ marine biology has been your life dedicated since the womb, surely. so when you discover the most beautiful creature of them all, how is it possible you keep nanami a secret?
As you look to the leftâŚah! Could it be? It seems to me these treasuries are never ending!
Book 2 â by @seventasia
Chapter 1: To Be Human (coming soon!)
⤡ when you find yourself injured, you donât expect to be saved by choso, the siren that recently abandoned his post as guardian of your home. you certainly donât expect to fall in love with him, and you absolutely, most definitely donât expect to teach him what it means to be human.
Chapter 2: How I Wet Your Mother (coming soon!)
⤡ upon encountering an injured siren, you make the questionable choice of nursing him back to health in your bathtub. sukunaâs cruel, derisive, and youâre about 80% sure he wouldâve eaten you had you met under any other circumstances. itâs funny, then, that things unfold the way they do.
Chapter 3: Man, Am I Craving Some Fish (coming soon!)
⤡ you wake up caged, alone, and at the mercy of a crew of pirates intent on selling you due to your rare desirability as a mermaid. your only solace is the once lawman higuruma, whoâs grown embittered by the moral depravity around him and is intent on escaping this life of lawlessness.
CURRENTLY IN THE WORKS: [ or, what i'm planning on writing this month! ]
wanted: woman eating outlaw, vampire!outlaw!yuki x reader. how i wet your mother, siren!sukuna x human!reader man, am i craving some fish, human!higuruma x siren!reader
LAST UPDATED JUNE 2026.
