"Your shoulders."

You immediately straighten. Leon nods once. "Better."

You hate how satisfying that approval feels.

You hate it even more when he clicks his tongue. It's never loud. Just a small little sound whenever you do something stupid.

Miss a target?

Click.

Forget to check a corner?

Click.

Nearly trip over your own feet during a drill?

He made the noise twice that time. Click click.

It's not even intentional. Half the time he doesn't seem aware he's doing it. But after months of training together, the sound becomes synonymous with one thing;  you've done something wrong.

Unfortunately, your brain decides to take that information and run with it.

.

.

.

It becomes apparent during a mission six months later. Leon is crouched beside you, behind an overturned vehicle, while gunfire erupts across the street. 

His hand comes up, holding up three fingers. You understand immediately.

Three hostiles. You nod.

He gestures again, this time waving his hand a little to the left.

Left side is mine. Another nod. With that, you start standing up, readying your weapon-

Click.

You sit back down so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Both of you freeze.

Leon blinks.

You blink.

"...Why did you do that?" The words are whispered, barely audible under the noise of the gunfire. 

Your mouth opens. Then closes. You sit there a moment, mouthing out unintelligible words. Then,  "...I don't know."

Neither of you thinks much about it.

… At first. Then it happens again. And again. And again.

A month later, while sloughing through the underground ruins of a cathedral, his newest tag along finds out.

She’s a nice young woman. A bit younger than him, with chestnut brown hair and kind eyes. Her name is Helena, if you’re recalling correctly.

You’re reaching for something when Leon clicks his tongue. Immediately, without hesitation, you pull back

Her eyebrow raises. "Wait.”

Both you and Leon give her a confused glance.

“Leon…” she takes a breath, “Make that noise again.”

He does. As if on cue, you step a little closer to him, your eyes snapping to his form, as if waiting for a command.

Helena’s eyes widen. "Oh."

You give her a confused look, before starting to walk again. Helena clicks her tongue.

You freeze. The room goes silent.

Then, Helena lets out a laugh. It’s the most genuine reaction you’ve ever heard from her. You can almost see tears forming in her eyes as she doubles over, chuckles falling from her lips.

"You clicker trained your partner!"

Leon’s arms come up in defence. "I did not."

"You absolutely did." The woman gestures towards you both.

"I did not."

"You made her into a golden retriever!"

More laughter. You can feel yourself melting into an embarrassed puddle as Leon just shouts. 

"I DID NOT."

.

.

.

The worst part is that once everyone notices, nobody lets it go.

Chris finds out, while you both try to pursue Ada Wong. Then Piers. Then, Sherry and Jake. Suddenly everyone is testing it.

It's humiliating. It's horrible. It's nonstop.

Click.

You stop peeking out from cover.

Click.

You stop running and start listening.

Click.

You skid to a halt mid run.

The last one makes Leon groan loudly enough to be heard from feet behind you. "This is my fault."

"This is absolutely your fault."

He just rolls his eyes. "I didn't mean to do it."

Helena is quick to snort. "You Pavlov'd her."

"That's really not what Pavlov did."

"You know what I mean."

Meanwhile, you're standing still, watching helplessly while this argument happens around you. Honestly, you're still not entirely convinced it's real.

Until after the mission is over.

The two of you are alone in the safehouse. It's late. Everyone's exhausted. You're sitting on the floor cleaning your pistol when Leon walks into the room carrying two coffees.

Without thinking, you reach for yours. You don’t go for the handle. Instead, you reach for the mug itself.

The cup is hot. Very hot. Hot enough to burn. Leon’s brows raise.

Click.

Your hand jerks away before you even register the sound. The movement is instant. Automatic. Reflexive. The room goes quiet. Slowly, you both look down at the coffee. Then at each other. Then, back at the coffee.

"...Oh."

"...Yeah."

For some reason, that's the moment it finally hits him. Not necessarily because it’s funny, or because everyone keeps teasing him, no. It’s because he realizes how much you've trusted him.

For months.

Every correction. Every lesson. Every warning. Every tiny click of his tongue. Somewhere along the way, your brain decided that sound meant safety.

To listen to him. That he's trying to help.

The realization hits Leon right in the chest.

He looks away first, which is unusual. He's never been particularly good at hiding things from you.

"What?" you ask.

His jaw flexes slightly. "Nothing." 

"You're being weird."

A pause. "...You listen to me."

Your brow furrows. "Usually? Duh?"

"No, I mean..." He exhales softly. "You really trust me."

The words make you freeze for a moment. He hands you the coffee carefully this time, turning it so that you can grab the handle. His shoulder bumps yours when he sits beside you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He feels warm beside you.

Then, Click.

Your head immediately turns toward him.

Leon bursts out laughing. It’s the happiest he’s sounded in days.

You drop your head into your hands.

Are you embarrassed? Definitely.

Would you change it for the world?

Never.

You had been working at the DSO for about two years. It was pretty mundane until you were moved to the location where some of the best field agents and dispatchers clocked in for work.

Among them, 30 year veteran Agent Leon Kennedy.

You heard so many stories about the guy growing up. You couldn’t believe he was the one to save the president's daughter by himself, let alone survive Raccoon city in ‘98. 

Needless to say, it was sort of surreal seeing him stalk around the office your first day at work.

He was insanely good looking, but the years weren’t kind to him. You could tell from the way his shoulders were slightly hunched over from carrying the weight of the world for so long, the silver strands paving their way into his otherwise dark hair, and the faint lines etching their way across his face.

But, man, was he delectable.

You couldn’t help it! It wasn’t just the way he looked, but the way he acted.

He was kind to everyone around him. His dry jokes were awful in the best way. He was smart and you could tell he went out of his way to make everyone comfortable, including you. 

You actually felt a little out of place on your first day, but he made sure to introduce himself to you first and mention you to his other colleagues to save you the awkward introductions. 

Sometimes when he’d stumble into headquarters fresh from a mission, you’d steal a few glances, partly in concern and partly because a hot older guy was groaning and panting around headquarters with blood all over him.

Leon always looked a little rough when he returned. His hair would be slightly disheveled, jacket gone for whatever reason, clothes creased and worn from travel. 

Sometimes there were faint bruises under his eye or temple or dried blood that wasn’t even his, splattered across his collar and arms. 

Despite looking like a hot mess, he still carried himself with that conviction that made everyone move out of his way without even thinking about it.

Almost every single damn time you snuck a glance, he’d catch you red handed. Those sharp blue eyes would flick your way and he’d nod, or if he still had the energy, come over and talk to you. 

You always looked away in record time, suddenly finding the report in front of you wildly interesting.

You internally screamed whenever he’d walk over to your desk, lean against it, and ask you how your day was like he didn’t just come back from hell.

It took everything in you not to act like a horny teenager and stare at the veins in his forearms, the little hairs and the speckles of blood decorating them.

And you could never weather that beautiful stare of his.

Why’d he have to look at people so intently when they spoke?

Damn blue eyed stare.

You needed to convince him to get brown contacts or something.

As exciting as the job was sometimes, you just wanted to go home, hop on your computer, and forget the world existed by playing whatever games you found interesting.

You started streaming about a year ago and had recently reached a decent following.

It was insane, but you were glad you weren’t popular enough to be blasted all over TikTok or Instagram.

You were mid stream when someone donated fifty gifted subs.The message attached admitted they’d embarrassed themselves in front of their crush.

You thanked them of course, but chuckled at their admission.

You sighed, the memory of the other day resurfacing.

“I know how you feel, trust me,” you said, giving the camera a knowing look.

Your chat instantly exploded with people egging you on.

And Leon surely wasn’t on Twitch so…

you spilled.

“If it makes you feel any better, I embarrassed myself real bad in front of my crush at work the other day too.”

You bit the skin on your hand as the memory plagued you.

Then you shook your head with a nervous chuckle. “Oh man, I don’t even know if I should say this…”

Another gifted sub popped up.

Spill the tea I won’t tell anyone I promise

“Alright but if you clip this you’re all banned. Well actually I’m like ninety nine percent sure this guy isn’t even on social media okay he’s…he’s older so I don’t have to worry about him finding out.”

You rolled your eyes as new chats came in.

OLDER??

like how much older?

You scratched the back of your neck, “he's like....50?”

FIVE ZERO?

beekeeping age

an older man you say???

Dilffff

Oh so he’s a dilf

You gave the webcam a flat look.

“…Okay yeah he’s kind of a dilf, “ You faltered, “but he doesn’t have children okay, not that I know of.”

You shifted in your seat.

“This guy is very well known within our company. And I don’t know—he’s just great. He’s nice to everyone, he’s funny, and he cares about people.”

You huffed at the incoming words of encouragement, or words of delusion.

get him

SEDUCE HIM

WHAT DOES HE LOOK LIKE

whats his name

“I don’t know if I should describe him cause I wanna respect his privacy,” you said with a small laugh. “But let’s just call him ‘the dilf from work’. He’s so out of my league it’s ridiculous.”

You leaned closer to the mic.

“So the other day I was in the break room grabbing a snack before my shift. I was half asleep, okay? Like barely functioning and he walks in.”

You buried your face in your hands for a second before continuing.

“And I panic because I didn’t expect him to be there so early. So I try to move out of the way really fast so he can get to the coffee machine. He sort of leans down to grab a coffee pod, while I grab my steel water bottle…and it sort of swings down—”

You pause, biting your tongue. 

Your chat instantly filled with NOOOOOOOOs and you're assuming people know what comes next.

“…He stands up and slams his head into the water bottle as it’s swinging toward him—”

You clutched your forehead, “So now I’m panicking and apologizing cause I bonked him in the head and he’s just crouching there looking confused while I'm holding a hand over the area to prevent it from bleeding more.”

Oh honey…

Yea i would clear out the whole room

loll no he probably thought it was cute trust….

real

“I felt like a fucking idiot!” you cried with a little laugh, rubbing your face in anguish. 

You covered your eyes with your palms and peeked through your fingers to read chat, "At least he was nice about it, he didn’t even complain.” 

You sigh, “but that was still embarrassing.” 

“I would never wish harm on anyone,” you continued quietly, “but I hope he got a concussion and forgets that even happened…or just forgets I exist in general.”

Comments rolled in again.

imagine he sees this

help

yall better not clip ts

“No, don't worry,” you reassured. “He’s not gonna see this. No one at my work is on Twitch or social media or anything like that.”

You let your arms fall back to the armrests and rocked the chair once, eyes flicking over the flood of messages.

Most of them were variations of there’s no way.

And despite yourself, you suppressed a stupid little smile.

Because there was still a part of that embarrassing story you hadn’t told them because thinking about it still made your heart do something extremely annoying.

It happened right after the water bottle incident.

You’d found the little first aid kit in one of the cupboards and patched the cut on his forehead as best as you could while apologizing about twenty times. Leon had been sitting on the edge of the counter, head tilted forward a little so you could reach him, one hand braced against the surface beside him.

You were trying very hard not to think about how close he was. Or how embarrassing it was that you had nailed a federal agent in the head with a metal water bottle.

“There,” you muttered once the bandage was finally in place.

Your fingers were still a little shaky as you stepped back. “Sorry,” you added again.

Leon waved you off with a soft grin, “Ah, don’t worry about it.”

You turned toward the sink to throw the wrapper from the bandage away when you noticed there was dried blood on your fingers.

His blood. You froze for a second, staring at it.

“Oh,” you murmured quietly to yourself.

You reached for the sink to wash it off before it could smear on anything else, but you barely had time to turn the faucet when Leon spoke.

“Here, " he slid off the counter, "Let me.”

You glanced back.

Your pulse jumped the second his fingers wrapped around your wrist, they were huge and a little dry and calloused. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, before he gently rinsed your hand under the faucet for longer than necessary and squeezed it a bit to ring it dry, like all this was his fault.

Back in the present, your chair rocked softly as chat continued flying up the screen.

“But anyways…I’m sure I’ll get over it someday.”

The next day at work you were running on maybe four hours of sleep.

You barely noticed Leon approaching until his shadow fell across your desk.

When you looked up, there he was with two cups of coffee in his hands.

He slid one toward you, and you straightened in surprise, “Oh—thank you!” 

“Figured you’d need it, you’ve been here all day,” His voice was low and warm, a little rough around the edges like he was tired too.

Leon leaned forward, resting both elbows on your desk like he always did. The sleeves of his dark shirt were pushed up just slightly, revealing those familiar muscles you tried very hard not to stare at.

His hair was a little messy today, strands falling loosely across his forehead. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes that hinted he hadn’t slept much either, maybe he was working late, but somehow it only made him look better.

Your eyes were so dry they almost made the SpongeBob blinking sound, so you rubbed them. 

“Tired?” He asked, gaze flitting around your face. 

“Yeah…I was up all night finishing some reports after streaming.” You grin sheepishly. 

He nods, “Streaming huh?”

You blinked.

“Yeah—you know…like on Twitch. Playing games and talking to chat and stuff.”

Leon’s mouth twitched faintly as he raised his cup to take a sip, 

“I know what streaming is,” he clarified, eyes nearly piercing at you over the rim of his cup, like he was staring right into your soul. 

You shifted in your seat, “Oh.” 

“I’m not that old,” he added, voice softer this time. 

You laughed, “Sorry, I just figured it wasn’t your kind of thing.”

He shifted his weight slightly against your desk, one shoulder dipping as he leaned more comfortably into the conversation.

“You’d be surprised,” he continued. “I’ve actually seen a few of yours.”

You froze completely.

“…Huh?” You said stupidly. 

“Yeah.” Leon gave a small shrug like it was nothing, though the corner of his mouth and the glint in his eyes hinted he was enjoying your turmoil.

“I’m not really online myself, but Sherry said you had a big following…figured I’d take a look and see what you got up to after work.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Damn Sherry. 

Whenever he talked with the two of you, she was always looking at you with that little smirk. Or worse, nudged you on the shoulder whenever he approached you guys and made up some lame excuse to leave you alone with him…you knew she could sense your fat crush on him from day one.  

“Oh.” Your brain was replaying every second of last night. “Okay.” You cleared your throat, trying to behave normally. 

Then you noticed him rub the side of his head absently, fingers brushing along his temple.

“I’m so sorry again about hitting your head the other day,” you blurted out. 

“What do you mean?” he blinked.

You stared, “When I hit your head with the water bottle?”

An amused huff left him, “I actually don’t remember much, I think I got a concussion. Been forgetting everything lately.”

You straightened immediately.

Wait, he actually got a concussion?…From a water bottle? So much for America's toughest agent. 

You shook your head, what were you thinking? 

So insensitive. 

“I’m so sorry,” you frown, a wave of guilt washing over you, “Is it like a short term memory loss kind of thing?”

Leon watched you for a moment, then a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You could call it that.”

You nodded slowly, completely serious.

His eyes softened slightly as he looked down at you. Then he pushed off the desk, standing up straight again, “Ah, forgot I’ve got a meeting to head to.”

“Good luck,” You say a little dejectedly, expecting him to walk away, but he leaned closer. 

You blinked, swallowing at his proximity. 

“You might have to remind me what happened later over dinner,” he crooned. 

What. 

“Over dinner?...”

“Over dinner,” He concluded, leaning away to slip his jacket on, “You know, since you ‘bonked’ my head so hard.” 

Your soul left your body.

“But—“ 

“I’ll pick you up at seven.” Leon winked and walked away, leaving you sitting there, face burning, realizing two horrifying things at once.

One.

He definitely watched your stream.

And two.

You were absolutely going to dinner with the dilf from work.

A few months later, things were different, but in a good way.

You had somehow survived the embarrassment of that stream and maiming Leon, the panic of realizing he heard about the stream, and the nerves that came along with that first dinner.

And now here you are, still streaming.

Except now there was a six foot government agent occasionally wandering through your apartment like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You were mid stream when your front door clicked open.

Your chat was already moving fast, colorful messages flying past your screen as you tried to focus. Behind you, you heard the quiet thud of footsteps and the rustle of a jacket being set down. You didn’t turn around right away since you were in the middle of a fight in your game, but you could hear him moving around the apartment, unhurried and quiet in that way he always was.

Your chat, unfortunately, noticed.

who just came in?

DOOR?

Is that a mannn???

You tried to ignore them, but a second later Leon stepped up beside your desk.

You caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye. His hair was a little messy like usual, the collar of his jacket slightly rumpled, and he looked tired the way he often did after work. 

He was holding a small paper bag. Without interrupting you, he quietly set a couple snacks down beside your keyboard. You looked up, giving him a soft grin as he crouched to give you a quick kiss. 

Your chat exploded again.

HELLO?????

wait guys whose that

SNACK DELIVERY???

IS THAT HIM

tHe WORK DILF…

You snickered under your breath.

Leon leaned a hip against the side of your desk, folding his arms loosely as he watched your screen for a second. 

His expression was calm, faintly amused for someone being examined by thousands.

When the chapter of the game ended with a cut scene, you leaned back in your chair with a relieved exhale. 

“Okay guys, relax,” you said, grabbing one of the snacks Leon brought.

You glanced sideways at him. 

He raised an eyebrow slightly, “Don’t be rude, Hon, aren’t you gonna introduce me?” 

You rolled your eyes.

“Chat this is the work dilf I told you guys about a few months ago.”

Leon let out a quiet chuckle at that, “The work what?”

He braced one hand on the back of your chair and leaned down further until his head appeared on the edge of the camera frame. He squinted slightly at the screen, trying to read the messages flying past. 

HELLO SIR

Yo is that Leon Kennedy??

HI LEON

easy white chocolate 

Your work dilf saved the presidents daughter? 

Easy there white chocolate

BE cool chat

they work for the dso it makes sense

His brow furrowed with genuine confusion. “Why are they calling me white chocolate?”

You shook your head as the chat spammed even more at the sound of his voice. 

ooo he’s real 

HIS VOICE

flash us

BEEKEEPING AGE 

Leon leaned a little closer to the monitor.

“…What’s beekeeping age?”

You dropped your head into your hands.

Leon glanced down at you, a small crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Should I be concerned?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head in defeat, “I don’t even know.” 

While your chat was having the time of their lives, Leon leaned one arm on the desk, settling in like he had officially joined the stream.

He scanned the chat slowly.

“Alright,” he murmured, “I’ll read some more.”

You winced,

“Maybe don’t—“

Too late.

HOW OLD ARE YOU

Leon huffed, “Old.”

Wait so what do you guys do for work?

Leon paused, “…We work for the government.”

ARE YOU ACTUALLY THE WORK CRUSH

Leon glanced sideways at you, eyes softening just a little, “I hope so.”

aww how did you fall in lovve??

“Well, I knew they were the one for me when I was clocked in the head with a bottle.”

You smacked his chest, “It wasn't on purpose!”

Your heart flipped a little when he grabbed your hand and placed a soft kiss on your palm.

He straightened up after a moment, grabbing a snack from the bag. “Well, this has been…enlightening.”

“Sure was,” you muttered under your breath. 

He glanced down at you, “You’ done embarrassing yourself online for the night?”

You huffed, “…No.”

Leon chuckled quietly, then ruffled your hair as he walked away.

You looked at the webcam like your chat was in timeout. “I hate all of you.”

Leon’s voice drifted from the kitchen.

“Be nice.”

Your viewers immediately sided with him of course.

He met you through Claire. He liked to talk to her from time to time and see how she was doing. Although, their conversations weren’t very consistent. It never took long for her to bring up the same name each time. Yours. You worked at TerraSave with her. She always spoke so highly of you.

Maybe he felt a little envious that she found friendships easier than he did. Yet, it did leave him curious as to who you were. He eventually met you one day. There you were, attached to Claire’s hip. It was nice to put a face to a name.

He couldn’t deny the sudden attraction. He reached out to you in secret after everything was said and done.

Claire would forgive him for stealing her friend away, wouldn’t she? Now, instead of him hearing about you, Claire was hearing about him through you. You knew she probably found you very insufferable when that engagement ring appeared on your finger.

He slowly circled the parking lot of TerraSave, scanning the remaining vehicles. There weren’t many. Just the usual workers who stayed after hours to finish their assignments. You and him had that bad habit of overworking. He eventually spotted your car. He should know it. He bought it for you after all.

Leon held back his smirk when he saw the empty parking spots surrounding your car.

Perfect. Everything was going according to plan.

He parked beside you and turned off the engine. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. He pocketed his keys, unbuckled his seatbelt, and grabbed the bouquet. He checked over it. Still in good condition. He opened the car door, his boots stepping on gravel.

He knew very well what he was doing. He intentionally wore his usual attire that you always had your gaze wandering over to him. His leather jacket, his dark jeans, a tight fitting shirt underneath. Though, he did feel a little ridiculous because it reminded him of being in school and trying to get your crush’s attention.

Leon closed his car door and held the bouquet in both hands. His eyes went from your car to his. What would be better? For you to find him on yours or his? He decided on yours, and when he was practicing which pose he should go with, he got caught by some young male employee walking by. The two of them stared at each other and had an unspoken agreement to pretend that didn’t happen.

He laid the bouquet on the hood of your car and leaned against it. He closed his eyes briefly, taking another moment to inhale and exhale. He would fully admit that he was nervous.

He began to think back to the moments that led him here. Working under the DSO and the horrors that he’d seen had affected him deeply. He knew it, and instead of relying on you or others for help, he turned to his vices. Leon allowed his drinking habits to get out of order. The arguments ensued. You told him to stop, he did for a few months, and he’d come home drunk after a grueling mission.

He never knew when your breaking moment occurred. He only remembered that when you said the word, divorce, he snapped out of his drunken haze. Only then did he start begging for you to reconsider. He’d even fallen to his knees, arms wrapped around your legs, telling you how he’d get the help he needed. Anything to get you to stay. But you were firm.

It hurt so badly to see you sign your name followed by “Kennedy” on those divorce papers.

More than all those times he got launched into oblivion by some bio weapon.

You separated. He moved out to some apartment. Now he drank because his life was shitty and you were gone.

You two were very cordial with each other. There weren’t any hard feelings and Leon never blamed you for the decision you took. He pushed you to it. So, in this new arrangement, he felt like he owed you something. He paid his and your bills, he sent you money, he took care of any problems you might have, and he bought you any necessities. And at least, in this way, he was still taking care of you like he promised you in his vows.

He got better after he helped Chris take down Arias. He focused on himself. And really, he wanted to fix things with you in the following months of his mission in Alcatraz.

But when his thumb hovered over your contact in his phone, he stopped. Something held him back. The doubt crawled. What if he found himself falling into that dark space again? The thoughts continued to fester. He wasn’t good enough, and you deserved better.

2016. 2017. 2018. 2019. 2020.

The years started to fly by. Every single damn time he went to call you, he held himself back. When he finally decided, no more, he found out he was infected. Despair filled his heart. Why now? He couldn’t go back to you like this. So he put it on hold.

He would fix things with you once he found a cure for this. Helping himself and the others infected with the same thing was part of his motivation. The other part? The absolute refusal of dying before repairing your relationship.

The mission was brutal. But like all the others, he pushed through. There were times his infection got the better of him and he did lose a little bit of hope. He was on edge wondering if his time was finally up.

Whenever he fell unconscious, he saw you. Your bright and glossy eyes when he got on one knee. You, in your beautiful white dress, approaching where he waited at the altar. Leon remembered shedding tears at how gorgeous you looked on your shared special day.

No, he couldn’t die here. Not yet. Not when he still wanted you.

He pushed through, and succeeded. You were his motivation.

And once he settled back to normal, he made his plan. Now, in the parking lot of TerraSave, he’d wait here as long as he needed to for you to come out. He opened his eyes again, filled with determination as the sky changed colors.

The parking lot began to empty as more employees clocked out.

Until—

Click. Click. Click. The sound your heels made on the pavement made his head snap in your direction. You were searching for your keys in your purse. You let out an annoyed huff. Why didn’t you get them before you left your office? Same problem at the end of every day. The lanyard around your neck was also fueling your annoyance. You jerked it back into place, finally finding your car keys.

You snatched them out of your purse and hooked the straps in the crook of your elbow. You lifted your head and came to a sudden stop.

Your brows knitted together. Were you… Were you seeing things?

Leon Kennedy was leaning comfortably against your car, his arms crossed over his chest. You spotted the bouquet behind him. The corners of his lips quirked upwards at the way you reacted to seeing him. He pushed himself off the hood of your car, reaching for the bouquet.

“Long day?” His voice cut the silence.

Yes, it was. You wanted to go home and throw yourself on your couch. What was your ex husband doing here? He looked better.

You took cautious steps closer. The bouquet he bought for you was beautiful, and he got your favorite flowers too.

“What are you doing?” You asked, the suspicion in your tone very much clear. His smile grew a little wider and he chuckled.

“I can’t come see my ex wife and give her some flowers after a stressful day?” He asked. You were standing closer to him now. He briefly checked out your ID attached to your lanyard. Oh, the giddiness he felt seeing “Kennedy” in bold print on the simple piece of plastic. He knew you never changed your last name after the divorce. “Are we on bad terms and I wasn’t informed?”

Leon watched your eyes slowly narrow. Damn. You were getting suspicious of him. How dare you still be quick to catch on to his schemes.

He held out the bouquet, “These are for you.”

“Yeah, you said that.” You waited a couple seconds before finally taking the bouquet from his grasp. Your fingers grazed his rough palm briefly. Although you thought nothing of it, Leon felt his heart pound harder against his chest.

Just like the first time he met you, he was instantly drawn into you. He noticed your features. He could still see the younger you in there. It reminded him how you were both much older now and all the time spent apart. He should have been there the last decade. To see you and him slowly age together.

He found you so much more attractive. A part of him wanted to sit and stare at you for hours on end.

You snapped your fingers in front of his face which brought him out of his trace. His eyebrows quirked upwards for a moment.

“Did you hear what I said?” Leon blinked. He gave you a sheepish look and shook his head. You huffed and frowned. You were cradling the bouquet in your arms now, “I asked why are you here.” You weren’t mad or hostile, just curious to see him appear where you worked. He hasn’t done this since the divorce.

He didn’t respond right away. He tilted his head back slightly. He was contemplating on what to say. Or how to explain the way he’d felt since the first time he wanted to reach out to you.

Meanwhile, you kept staring at him with that look of curiosity. But on the inside? You were just as affected by his presence as he was by yours.

“I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders became tense at his apology. It was sincere, you knew it. Not like the one he gave you from his knees when you told him you wanted a divorce. Those were desperate attempts to keep you. Even he was aware he didn’t mean them.

“I’m sorry,” Leon repeated, his eyes meeting yours. “For everything. For being the reason why our marriage failed. For not being the husband I told you I was going to be… You didn’t deserve any of that. I don’t blame you for leaving me because you tried to help me, and I didn’t want any help.”

An unknown feeling in your body slowly began to disappear. Your throat tighten. This closure you were getting with Leon was something you didn’t realize you needed. For a brief moment, you were sent back to those early days when you were dating. He was still the same rookie cop from Raccoon City, slowly being shaped into an elite agent for the government.

“And I don’t blame you for no longer loving me.” He muttered, his expression becoming rather grim. It had been a while since he was this open with you. “I just need you to know that I’m still in love with you, and that I’m truly sorry.”

“Leon… I didn’t… I didn’t leave you because I stopped loving you. I never did.” You admitted. Your admission of how you truly felt made a flicker of surprise appear in his eyes. “I left you because if that’s how you were going to spend the rest of our lives together? … I wasn’t going to be able to live like that and watch you keep turning yourself into someone you weren’t.”

Did he really think because he became an alcoholic for a moment in his life that you’d stopped loving him? He couldn’t be more wrong. Yes, you hated that vice. It had destroyed him and taken control of him. But during the time he drowned his sorrows in heavy liquor, you never stopped seeing him as your Leon. He was just your misguided Leon.

He spent all these years believing you’d stopped loving him because of his addiction. This moment caused something to shift inside him. You’d given him all the confirmation and confidence he needed.

Leon slipped a hand into the front pocket of his jeans. His gaze went to the bouquet and then to you again.

“Do you want to go out sometime?” He asked. Leon watched you press your lips together, clearly not trying to smile. He chuckled softly, “You know you want to.”

You rolled your eyes at his cocky attitude, “I’ll send you my schedule.” In all honesty, if you didn’t send it to him, he’d be okay with that. It would give him all the more reason to start pestering you since you wanted to play hard to get this time around. He did, however, feel a sharp pain in his chest when you mentioned a schedule.

It was a reminder how he no longer knew exactly what time you’d come home, whether you’d be flying out of state on a random Tuesday morning, or leaving the country.

Leon plucked your car keys from between your fingers. You gave another confused look as he pressed the unlock button on the remote. He walked over to the driver’s side and opened it. He held it open, nodding his head and motioning you to get inside.

Great, he’s starting already.

You made your way and stood in the middle. You shifted your purse, setting it on the passenger seat. You slipped into the driver’s seat, moving the bouquet from your lap and beside your purse.

He dipped his head down, planting an unexpected kiss on your cheek. You would have thought it was sweet… If he didn’t go and mess it all up by sinking his teeth softly into your flesh and giving it a pull. You hissed. He always did that in the early mornings when he was rushing off to the DSO because he chose to stay in bed with you a little longer.

“Stop it!” You covered your cheek with one hand and swatted him repeatedly with the other. He snickered, shielding himself behind his arms from your soft blows. You wiped away the saliva that wet your palm on the plastic wrap surrounding the flowers.

“What?” He laughed one more time. He rested his forearm against the top part of the car. “How do you expect me to act after my ex wife admits she still has a crush on me?”

“Leon, please do not call it a crush.” You rubbed your forehead with your fingertips. Here came the headache, “We’re 49 years old.”

“I’ve missed you.” He said. A smirk appeared on his face when you glared up at him through your lashes. He patted the roof of your car and dangled your keys in front of you. He quickly moved them out of the way when you tried to grab them, “C’mon. Are you going to make me work for it? ‘Cause you know I will.”

“I guess… I’ve missed you too.” You finally relented.

“Oh, you guess?” Leon mocked. You grabbed the keys in one swift movement from him.

“Get out of here before I call the security guard on you for trespassing.” You scoffed, putting your seatbelt on. He let out a loud gasp.

“I’m scared.” Leon sarcastically exclaimed. He clutched the front of his shirt, going on with his act of being terrified, “You’re threatening my clean record and my background as a cop.” You clenched your jaw tightly, turning your head the other way. He knew you were trying to control your smile and keep yourself from laughing at his jokes. But you broke. He heard the soft chuckle and you shook your head.

“You’re still annoying.” You looked over at him again. A silence settled. Just you and him staring at each other.

He decided to let you go. Leon closed your door, and walked around the front of the car. He heard the engine turn on. He nearly stopped to open the passenger side door and pretend like he was getting in. Let’s not push your buttons too much.

The two of you drove home on separate roads, miles apart like you had been the last 13 years. The only difference today? The two of you wore the same, identical smile and thought about each other.

Leon is in the familiar room you two once used to share. He’s in the same king sized bed with you wrapped up in his embrace. The feel of your bare skin pressed against his after all these years is so surreal. You’re fast asleep with your head tucked under his chin. You’re exhaling softly, your breath hitting his neck.

His fingertips are running up and down your spine in a slow manner. He’s awake, enjoying this feeling of being content. When was he the happiest, he wonders. Was it the day you exchanged vows on the altar or was it now when he finally had you again?

It had to be this very moment.

He kissed the top of your head, letting his lips linger. A mischievous smile appeared. He quickly rolled you two over, the sheets rustling as he moved your bodies. His weight on top of you pinned you to the mattress. You felt the disturbance in your peaceful slumber.

“Ugh… Leon,” You groaned in a drowsy manner. He grinned, noticing the twitch in your brows. He leaned up until his lips were by your ear.

“It’s your turn to hold me.” He mumbled. Leon began kissing your jawline, slowly moving down and down, until he came to the crook of your neck. Your arms wrapped weakly around his shoulders. He felt your nails lightly scratching his nape. He hummed and closed his eyes. His face buried into your neck, taking in your scent.

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

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

“A monster,” someone murmurs.

—a man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you say, dear viewer?”

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

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

“But isn’t he a rampaging beast?”

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

II.

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

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

“You.” 

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

“Me?” You echo dumbly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

III.

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

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

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

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

“Leave that for the two-faced demon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Even after killing a worker?”

“Even after eating a worker.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Open it yourself.”

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

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

How sickening, you think, fascinated.

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

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

“Serve me.”

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

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

“Pardon?”

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

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

“You’re unafraid of me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that all you’re worried about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV.

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

“And you’re… okay with that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are not the same in that regard.”

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

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

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

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

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

You take a bite of the lamb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That does sound like him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He ignores you. “What is it?”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Because I wanted to be.”

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

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

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

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

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

“So you do have something you desire.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

VII.

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

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

The two-faced demon?

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

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

What the hell?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You brush past her. 

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

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

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

A hand covers your mouth before you can scream.

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

He can do that!?

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

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

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

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

“Sukuna,” he rasps. 

Your brows furrow, momentarily thrown. “Pardon?”

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

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

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

“So I’ve been told.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A whimper escapes you at the thought. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I see no reason to move.”

“Anyone could see—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A cut-off moan escapes him. “Woman—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, he’s so big. It’s unbelievable.

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

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

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

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

Your pussy spasms at the thought. Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harder,” you gasp. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the kitchen went completely silent.

you blinked. megumi froze mid-pour, water spilling slightly over the rim of the glass.

yuji wanted to die. he laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “i mean— you don’t have to! it’s just… i keep thinking about it. the two of you together. it makes me feel… really warm. and kind of crazy. in a good way.”

he looked between you and megumi, eyes wide and cheeks flushed all the way to his ears. “i know it’s weird,” he added quickly, voice getting smaller. “but i can’t stop thinking about it. you both mean so much to me… and the idea of you two kissing… it doesn’t feel wrong to me. it feels… right.”

he stared at the floor, heart pounding, terrified he’d just ruined everything. you and megumi exchanged a long look. yuji swallowed.

“…sorry,” he mumbled. “i shouldn’t have said anything.”

the silence that followed was deafening. yuji wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. his face was burning, ears bright red as he stared intensely at the kitchen floor. you and megumi were both staring at him.

megumi’s expression was unreadable at first but then his eyes widened just slightly, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

you were the first to speak. “…you want us to kiss?” you asked softly.

yuji nodded quickly, too embarrassed to look at either of you. “i know it sounds crazy. but i keep thinking about it. the two of you… together. it doesn’t make me jealous. it makes me feel… warm. really warm. like my chest is going to explode in a good way.”

he finally dared to glance up. megumi was looking at him now, dark eyes steady but clearly processing. you stepped closer and gently took yuji’s hand.

“babe,” you said carefully, “are you sure that’s what you want? you’re not just saying it because you think it’ll make us happy?”

yuji shook his head. “no. i mean— yes, I want you both to be happy. but… i really do want to see it. i’ve been dreaming about it. not just innocent stuff either.”

the last part came out as a mumble. megumi’s eyebrows shot up.

you bit your lip, clearly thinking. then you looked over at megumi, a small, curious smile forming on your face. “what do you think, megumi?”

megumi stayed quiet for a long moment. finally, he set the glass down and exhaled through his nose. “…i wouldn’t mind,” he said quietly, almost too casually. but the faint pink on his cheeks betrayed him.

yuji’s heart skipped several beats.

you turned back to yuji, still holding his hand. “if we do this… you’re okay with it? no weird feelings afterwards?”

yuji nodded so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. “i promise. i just… i want to watch. at least once.”

the air in the kitchen felt heavier now, warmer. you glanced at megumi again, then back at your boyfriend. slowly, you stepped toward megumi, who straightened up, looking slightly tense but not unwilling.

you placed a hand on megumi’s chest and leaned in. megumi hesitated for half a second before tilting his head down. then your lips met softly.

it was gentle at first—careful, almost testing. but then megumi’s hand came up to rest lightly on your waist, and the kiss deepened just a little. you made a quiet sound against his mouth that sent electricity shooting down yuji’s spine.

yuji couldn’t look away. his breath caught in his throat, heart hammering wildly as he watched his girlfriend kiss his best friend right in front of him.

when you finally pulled back, both you and Megumi were slightly flushed. you turned to look at yuji, his eyes sparkling. “…how was that?” you asked softly.

yuji stared at the two of you, lips parted, face burning crimson. he could only manage one breathless word: “…again.”

the kitchen fell quiet for a moment once more. you and megumi both froze, eyes meeting each other in a brief pause. a silent question passed between you. megumi’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, but he didn’t move, waiting. your heart hammered in your chest as you searched his face.

then, slowly, megumi leaned in again.

you met him halfway.

this time the kiss was deeper, with more hunger, like he had been holding back for too long. his fingers pressed into your waist as he tilted his head, sliding his tongue against yours with surprising boldness. a soft, surprised sound left your throat, which only seemed to encourage him.

he kissed you like he was starving.

his other hand came up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw as he pulled you closer. the kiss grew hotter, wetter. megumi made a quiet noise against your mouth, almost a groan, as he sucked gently on your bottom lip before slipping his tongue back in.

yuji’s breath hitched loudly. he couldn’t look away. his face was burning as he watched his best friend kiss you like he wanted to devour you—slow, deep, and getting greedier with every second.

megumi pressed you back against the counter, his body flush against yours. one of his hands slid down to grip your hip, pulling you tighter as the kiss turned messy, completely lost in it now while yuji was breathing hard, eyes wide.

his cock strained painfully against his sweatpants, throbbing with every wet sound of your lips moving together. he couldn’t stop the flood of thoughts crashing through his mind.

he wished megumi would push you harder against the counter. he wished he’d slide his hand under your shirt and grope your tits the way yuji had imagined so many times. he wanted to see megumi bite your neck, suck marks into your skin, shove his thigh between your legs and grind against you until you were whimpering and soaked.

the thought made yuji’s mouth go dry. he imagined megumi dropping to his knees right there in the kitchen, pulling your shorts down and burying his face between your thighs while you moaned into yuji’s mouth. he wanted to watch his best friend make you cum, fingers deep inside you, tongue licking greedily at your clit.

“fuck…” yuji whispered under his breath, barely audible. his hand unconsciously pressed against his aching cock, trying to ease some of the pressure as he watched megumi kiss you deeper, hungrier.

he loved this. loved seeing you like this—flushed, wanted, desired. especially by megumi. his two favorite people.

when megumi finally pulled back for air, his lips were red and swollen and his breathing uneven. he stared at your mouth like he wanted to kiss you again immediately.

“megumi…” you whispered, dazed.

he didn’t answer with words. instead he leaned in and kissed you once more, slower this time but no less intense, like he was savoring the taste of you. his hand stayed possessively on your hip while the other gently held your face.

when megumi pulled away again, he rested his forehead against yours for a moment, eyes closed, breathing shakily. “…that was—” he began but couldn’t finish. you let out a soft, breathless laugh.

yuji could barely speak. all he managed was a weak, awed whisper: “holy shit…” his heart was pounding so hard he felt dizzy and his cock was aching, pressing painfully against his sweatpants.

“megumi…” yuji’s voice came out rough. “don’t stop.” both you and megumi turned to look at him. “touch her more. please. i want to see you touch her. like… between her legs. i keep thinking about it. i want to see you make her cum.”

both you and megumi froze for a second. but megumi hesitated only for a moment before his gaze darkened. without a word, he looked back at you, silently asking for permission. when you gave a small, breathless nod, he didn’t waste time.

he brought two fingers to his mouth, licking them slowly, coating them with saliva while keeping his eyes on you. then his hand slid down your stomach and pushed boldly into your shorts and panties. his long, slick fingers found your soaked folds and rubbed over your clit before pressing two fingers inside you.

you gasped, immediately clinging to his shoulders. megumi leaned in and kissed you again, swallowing every sound as his fingers began moving—slow at first, then deeper, curling just right inside your tight heat.

“mmh—!” you moaned into his mouth, panting against his lips as he fingered you right there in the kitchen. the wet sound of his fingers thrusting in and out of your soaked pussy filled the small space.

yuji let out a needy groan at the sight. his hand shoved into his sweatpants, wrapping around his aching cock as he started stroking himself. his eyes were glued between your legs, watching the silhouette of megumi’s fingers disappear inside you again and again.

“fuck… that’s so hot,” yuji whispered. he pumped his cock faster, breathing heavily as he watched you whimper and squirm against megumi. “megumi… curl your fingers more. she likes it when you hit that spot.”

megumi obeyed without question, curling his fingers deeper, rubbing that sensitive spot inside you like he’d already done it a million times. you cried out into his mouth, thighs trembling as you clenched hard around his fingers.

yuji’s hand moved quicker on his own cock, eyes half-lidded in pure bliss as he watched his best friend finger his girlfriend right in front of him.

“good girl…” yuji murmured breathlessly, completely lost in the scene. “let him make you cum, baby. i want to see it so bad.”

you cried out into megumi’s mouth, thighs shaking violently as his fingers curled perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you. the pressure built fast and overwhelming until you finally snapped.

“megumi—!” you moaned loudly, clenching hard around his fingers as your orgasm crashed through you. your hips jerked against his hand, pussy pulsing and gushing around his long digits while he kept stroking you through it, drawing out every last wave.

the moment your orgasm started to fade, megumi pulled his fingers out with a wet sound. before you could even catch your breath, he dropped to his knees right in front of you.

he yanked your shorts and panties down to your ankles. you barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on you, hot and eager. his tongue dragged slowly up your soaked folds before latching onto your sensitive clit.

“ah—! megumi— too much!” you whimpered, legs trembling as you gripped the counter for support.

but he didn’t stop. he sucked gently on your clit, then flicked his tongue rapidly over it, groaning against your pussy like he was addicted to your taste. the overstimulation hit you like electricity, making your hips twitch and jerk against his face. every stroke of his tongue sent sharp, overwhelming sparks through your body.

yuji was completely dizzy.

his hand was still wrapped tightly around his cock, stroking himself in shaky movements as he stared with wide, glassy eyes. the sight of his best friend on his knees, face buried between your thighs, licking and sucking on your oversensitive clit while you moaned and shook was almost too much for him to handle.

“fuck… megumi…” yuji breathed, voice hoarse and awed. his head felt light, cheeks burning crimson as he watched megumi devour you. “she’s so sensitive right now… look at her…”

megumi hummed against your clit in response, the vibration making you sob. he pressed his tongue flat against you, licking broad strokes before sucking on your clit again, completely lost in making you feel good.

yuji’s hand moved faster on his cock, breathing ragged as he watched your thighs tremble around megumi’s head. he looked completely drunk on the sight.

“you’re both so hot…” yuji whispered. “don’t stop, megumi… please don’t stop.”

then megumi pulled his mouth away from your dripping pussy. he rose to his feet, breathing heavily. without a word, he unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants and boxers down just enough to free his hard cock. it slapped against his stomach, flushed and leaking. you barely had time to catch your breath before he stepped close again, lifting one of your legs around his waist.

“shh,” he whispered against your ear as he lined himself up.

then he pushed in.

a loud moan started to leave your lips as he stretched you open in one smooth thrust, but megumi quickly covered your mouth with his hand, muffling the sound. his palm pressed firmly against your lips while he sank deeper, burying himself to the hilt.

your eyes rolled back at the sudden fullness.

at the exact same moment, yuji let out a choked groan. the sight of megumi’s cock disappearing inside you was too much for him. his hand stuttered on his cock as his orgasm hit him like a freight train.

“f-fuck—!” yuji whimpered, thighs shaking as thick ropes of cum spilled over his fist and onto his stomach. he kept stroking himself through it, eyes glued to where megumi was buried deep inside you.

his vision started to blur. the edges of the kitchen grew hazy, like he was looking through fogged glass, but he could still see megumi’s hips snapping forward, burying his cock deep inside you with every thrust. he could see the way your body jolted, your tits bouncing, your mouth open against megumi’s palm as you moaned helplessly.

more and more cum leaked out around megumi’s cock with every deep stroke, dripping down your thighs in shiny streaks. the sound of it echoed in yuji’s ears—the obscene squelch of megumi’s cock sliding through your soaked, cum-filled pussy.

yuji was barely able to focus anymore. everything felt like a fever dream. the only thing he could see clearly was megumi’s thick cock plunging in and out of you, pushing his own cum deeper inside your body with every thrust. more white leaked out, sliding down your skin, dripping onto the kitchen floor.

his hand kept moving on his cock, slow and sloppy now, milking every last drop as he watched the scene in front of him like it was the only thing real anymore.

yuji was panting hard, chest heaving, completely lost in the sight of his best friend fucking his girlfriend while his own cum continued to spill uselessly over his fingers. he never wanted it to end.

but then everything shattered.

yuji’s eyes snapped open.

he was in his own bed, chest heaving, body covered in a thin layer of sweat. his heart was pounding violently as reality slowly sank in.

it had been another dream.

just a dream.

his cock was still twitching weakly, completely spent. he could feel the warm, sticky mess inside his boxers and sweatpants. he had cum hard in his sleep again. the front of his pants was soaked through.

yuji groaned softly, throwing one arm over his face. his cheeks burned as the images from the dream flashed through his mind: megumi’s hand over your mouth, the way you moaned against his palm, the wet sound of megumi thrusting into you…

“fuck…” he whispered to himself.

he lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling. the ache in his chest was back. his two favorite people. the thought of you two together made him feel so full and so filthy at the same time.

he slowly sat up, wincing at the cold, wet feeling in his pants. another ruined pair. this was becoming a problem.

he wondered if he would ever have the courage to tell you and megumi the truth. if he would ever stop just dreaming about it… and actually ask.

for now, he just sighed, peeling off his ruined sweatpants with a tired, embarrassed little smile. “this is getting ridiculous…” he muttered. but deep down, he already knew he’d probably dream about it again tomorrow.

Leaning back in their chairs to look to each other the pair seemed to consider their words somewhat carefully even as they struggled to repress their smirks.

'Not for a while, I worked with him on a profile or two, god-' Daniels looked away briefly thinking for a moment, 'Yeah god, that must have been something like six years ago'

Nodding along Jenkins chimed in all but giggling,

'Yeah me too, something like that. Before he got all... spooky'

Cutting short their own snickering Daniels spoke again, 'You know who you should talk to... if you're trying to understand Mulder-' Jenkins cut in as if having the same thought himself at the same moment,

'OH oh yeah for sure definitely talk to-' their voices were overlapping like hyper sixth graders,

'-You should talk to agent Y/ln, they spent like a year or two sharing an office, they were thick as thieves up until he transferred out of the unit'

Scrawling out a number from his address book and handing it over, he made a final comment, 'There ya go, keep in mind out Alaska way they wont be working for a few hours yet.'

Checking her watch as she returned to the basement, she put her questions aside and got back to work.

It had just turned ten when your phone began to ring, answering promptly you stated your name and waited for the caller to identify themselves.

'Hello, this is agent Dana Scully, I got your number from an agent Daniels,'

'Hi, yes he left me a message, he said you had some questions' Your tone was even, not to toot your own horn but being a point of call in your specialty field was nothing new.

'Yes, well you see I work with the X files-' oh '-and there are just some things I was hoping you could help me with,'

'I'm sorry, I never worked on any X files, was there a clue related to-'

She cut you off, not harshly, just in a way that didn't let the miscommunication continue for a second longer than it already had,

'-Well my questions are more around your time working alongside agent Mulder, I understand you shared an office for a time' huh

Nodding to yourself as you considered where this could be going your response was soft, 'We did yes, we worked together on a few cases as well, but it was mostly cohabitation for about a year and a half.'

'Well, as you may know agent Mulder also works with X files, and over the months I have been assigned there, I have been left with some questions...'

'Regarding agent Mulder?' God it was tough to say his name without a wistful sigh at the end,

'They are, yes' Not exactly a surprise, given how the spooky title he was given can tend to overshadow any other trait.

'Well I'm not sure how much insight I can give but I will certainly try. Wait is it the window thing?' you interrupt yourself before she has a chance to respond, 'No wait y'all are in the basement so it wouldn't be... anyhow, go for it.'

'Well firstly there is the matter of his... his coffee order' She seemed more thrown by the statement than you were, you could recall nothing strange about his order, certainly nothing that would drive one to research.

'Exactly' she sighed through the headset still sounding quite unsure, 'it's quite normal for such an- abnormal man,'

Letting her steep for a second in her own words, you considered the topic, there was surely no way that Scully was calling over something so trivial... but what else is there about Mulder that she would need to discuss- unless.

Memories of times in that dusty little office flashed through your mind. Times when you came into work early, only to be stopped, hand on the knob, as you hear him inside. Knocking twice, and hearing him only grow louder within, always deciding to stop by the coffee cart and loop back around. Wait why did he always get loude- never mind back to the call.

'Agent Scully, would you like to ask me about the real issue you're having? I certainly don't think I have any meaningful input for you on his caffeine habits.'

Dana took her time finding the right words to explain her situation to possibly the only other person in the FBI who could understand, without possibly throwing her partner under the bus, should you have no clue what she is curious about.

'Yes you're quite right. Well over my time in this division, there have been a handful of occasions in which I have stumbled upon some of Agent Mulder's... things.'

There it is... 'Agent Scully are you referring to his porno collection and the magazines?' That fat stack of shiny promising pages and drawer chock full of enthralling tapes, you swore you still saw them on his desk in your dreams.

A breath of relief left the other end of the phone, glad to not have to beat around the bush, she confirmed.

'He is quite the active mind is he not?' Your attempt at humour was killed before it got the chance as you continued.

'What would you like to know?'

'Well the two of you shared a space for quite a time, how did you handle it?'

How did you handle it? With great difficulty.

You had handled it by more than occasionally taking long bathroom breaks.

You had handled it by taking a late lunch right after returning from a meeting to find the office air thick and musty, the entirety of which was also spent in a stall with some help from the brown paper 'lunch' bag you kept in your purse.

How did you handle him? God you wish.

How could you handle Mulder? Oh you had hundreds of ideas.

Of course none of those were the question at hand, nor were they helpful in the slightest, but they were the ones that bounced around in your head for a year and a half. If you were being perfectly honest they still rattled around from time to time.

'I am sorry, I'm not sure what help I can be with this matter-' after all what was there to say, yes I know right oh my god it made me have to excuse myself at least once a day, no this was a professional call... well as much as it could be with the subject matter.

'I understand, it is quite the... improper topic of conversation'

'No I assure you that's not what I mean, I simply mean that I didn't really do much handling. He was the same way back in our shared office, and that sort of thing went on the entire time.' Memories of him slipping from sitting languid in his chair and laying a spread atop your files, leaning oh so close as he talked through one of the racier shots. The warmth he shrouded you with his chin perched above your shoulder, one arm propped against the desk caging you in while the other draped over the back of your chair. The tantalizing way his horrid ties would hang to drag, ever so lightly against your back.

Pulling yourself out of your head and feeling the odd desire to shield your old working situation from judgement you piped up again.

'The only thing I could suggest would be, if you haven't already, to tell him bluntly you don't want to see it then he'll probably stop pointing things out to you and showing you scenes. Mulder is a somewhat decent guy, if you tell him to keep it to himself and use headphones I'd bet he will.'

'He showed you scenes? and pointed things out in the porno mags? He watched it.. out loud in the office?' shit

'mhm,' your voice was miniscule, 'he did... Does he not..' oh shit

'Nope' fuck

Her side of the call was silent for a moment as you took your turn to sit in your words, before you continued on hesitantly, Scully's eyes flicked over her new company, the freshly returned Mulder, back from lunch, as she listened to you.

'Well that's a small step in the right direction at least,' your voice was meek and airy, not entirely sure how to keep going when you've already spilled a few too many incriminating beans.

'Was it not-' hearing the way her tone had softened in that clinical kind of way you felt it necessary to stop her line of thinking early,

'I was... I didn't dislike... I was decently interested and not exactly discouraging. Although it was inappropriate it wasn't... off-putting, at least in our little office.'

'I suppose Daniels was right, you two were thick as thieves.' Scully seemed to almost tease,

'I suppose so,' Trailing off, the pair of you sat in silence once more, this time however, while you sat slightly embarrassed, Dana was fighting for her life with her partner who was now mouthing every question under the sun at her, 'Who is that? Is it about the case from last week? Is it a new case?'

Shaking him off she spoke again, 'That idea about headphones seems like a great place to start, or maybe I'll get some just to block him out' the last part she said pointedly with her eyes on Mulder's.

'Yeah, sorry I couldn't be of more help, in all honesty I was probably a little too interested in ol' Foxy Mulder for anything pervert-like he did to be all that off putting,'

'I was picking up on that, you know you should come visit, if only so your conversations gets it out of his system'

Oh the things you'd like to get out of his system... or more accurately out of him.

'Scully you weren't talking about me, were you?'