BIA

you frown. it’s been exactly thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds since satoru looked at you last. he’s been on this stupid spreadsheet since class started, and it’s really starting to piss you off.

so you block his view.

“look at my fingers, toru,” you breathe, lifting your hand in front of his face. “i was in such a rush i forgot my rings. my hand looks so ugly.”

he lifts his head—just slightly, just enough that he can focus on the screen & not your hand in front of him—& replies without a beat. “looks pretty, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your hand. “so gorgeous.”

oh, that’s enough.

“toru.”

“hm, baby?”

“kiss me.”

gojo satoru chokes on his tongue. he freezes, blue eyes leaving the screen only to dart around the crowded lecture hall in alarm. he lets his eyes drop to you, and perhaps he shouldn’t have, because you’re looking up at him with glossy lips & too-big eyes & lashes that flutter in that way that means trouble. gojo gulps.

“we can’t do that right now, sweetheart,” his voice catches. you’re pouting up at him but satoru only cups your cheek and tries to reason with you. “we’re in public. can you wait for me, angel?”

your brows furrow, lips wobbling into that pout that only spells out gojo’s demise.

“are you ashamed to kiss me in public?” you croak, fake sniffling. “am i that ugly?”

you’re not ugly. you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you know it, satoru knows it, & he also knows you’re doing this on purpose. but your eyes are so glossy. your breathing’s all hitched. your shoulders shake like you’re about to sob—

gojo satoru folds under zero pressure.

he cups your face, thumb brushing faux tears off your lashes as he presses his lips to yours. you taste like strawberry candy & something too sweet to have a name. gojo sighs into your mouth. cocks his head. pulls back just to lean in again when your lashes flutter up at him all pretty. he lets his thumb tug your lip and tongue lick your teeth and—

“ahem.”

you both freeze.

in the row in front of you the nanami kento is there, frown on his face & completely unamused. there are pens littered on his desk & his laptop is wide open—is he reading semantic error?

he eyes you both, lips curled in disgust.

“this is not a love nest.”

you & satoru are blinking in disbelief when nanami turns back to his laptop. he slams it shut in embarrassment when he’s met with an inappropriate panel onscreen.

II. DISTRACTION #2: NETWORKING ❌ NOT WORKING ✅

time: 7:14 pm. location: Bergeron Center for Engineering Excellence

⎚-⎚

gojo satoru has five minutes until the most important meeting of his life.

an opportunity to pitch one of his latest projects to some high-class engineering recruiters—lucky him! he’s in a private office with his speech in his hands, and his beautiful girlfriend kicking her feet on the office table.

you’re supposed to be his supportive plus-one. and gojo does feel supported—how could he not when the love of his life is here for him, dressed up like a midsummer dream? but gojo thinks he’d feel even more supported if you weren’t bracketing his thighs & tugging on his tie every time he tries to speak.

“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity—“

“satoruu,” you coo. “i miss you.”

gojo satoru knows better than to sigh. he does it anyway, collapsing into your neck in resignation as he squeezes your hips. you’re pressing a glossy kiss to his jaw. “i’m right here, sweetheart,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “will you let me focus?”

you nod sweetly, squeaking a little when he presses a kiss to your neck in thanks.

“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity to present—“

“satoruu,”

thirteen words this time. fairs.

“yes, sweetheart.”

“my feet hurt,” you pout, kicking your feet up to show him. for once, you’re not being dramatic. even with your heels on satoru can see the sides of your feet reddening, flushed & slightly swollen against the material. his brows furrow. “how’d this happen, angel…?”

he kneels down to slip your heels off. you pout: “i got new heels so i’d look pretty for your presentation. now my feet hurt and i’ve ruined everything.”

satoru frowns, but you’re still spiraling. lips wobbly, eyes all glossy & nose wrinkled in lament. gojo’s heart goes sticky in his chest. how could you possibly ruin everything when you are everything?

he reaches up to wipe a tear off your cheek. “look at me, baby,” he murmurs, other hand rubbing circles on your ankles. he looks devastating like this—hair messy, tie loose from all your tugging & knees on the floor for you even though he’s in his finest dress pants. “you didn’t ruin anything, okay baby? look.”

he slips off your heels, then his own leather shoes, & laces them onto your bare feet. “wear these.”

you blink as he lifts you off the table, kneeling back down to adjust the shoes better. you wiggle your toes. your feet don’t even reach the middle, and you almost fall trying to walk two steps, but the gesture alone has you beaming. you turn to him with your lips bent in a clumsy smile.

“they’re huge, toru,” you giggle, twirling around in the office. satoru only smiles. his heart goes sticky in his throat. he pulls you into a soft kiss because trying to speak might make his chest hurt.

knock knock.

one of satoru’s classmates—nerd #1—peeks his head in, expression slightly terrified. “uh, gojo? they’re ready for you in the boardroom,” he gulps. “you’re up.”

satoru nods, gathers his speech papers. you’re practicing walking around in his shoes now, arms stretched out to help you balance as you waddle around with a grin on your face. gojo satoru looks down at his feet. they’re in nothing but a pair of socks.

right.

he sucks in a breath, then turns to kiss your forehead. “stay here where it’s warm, okay?”

you’re still entranced by his shoes, but you chirp out an okay! regardless. satoru bites his lip. it’s showtime.

——

the faculty is looking at satoru like he’s grown two heads.

have they never seen a shoeless man before? how rude. he’s standing on the boardroom’s stage now, clipboard in hand, projector lighting up the board behind him. some of the recruiters are nodding. the others are trying not to look at his feet so they can’t be accused of classism. gojo satoru is not even poor. a glance at his suit should tell you that.

but gojo doesn’t care. he presents without issue—even though the entire time, his mind is on you.

the boardroom door has a center made of glass. through the pane, satoru can see you back in the office—you’ve somehow found music controls for the office’s boombox, and you’re dancing—oh god, you’re dancing—twirling around with a clumsy smile & laughing when you stumble in his much larger shoes.

satoru’s heart swells. his lip twitches.

gojo turns his focus back to his presentation. he’ll work hard to keep you smiling for the rest of your life.

III. DISTRACTION #3 : WHY IS MY GIRLFRIEND IMMUNE TO TUTORING…

time: 6:14 PM location: The Quad, Satoru’s Apartment.

⎚-⎚

“who discovered america ?”

“Martin Luther King.”

You are going to fail this exam.

“that’s enough general history today,” gojo mutters, voice croaking in alarm when you give your answer. you’re tucked in his lap, fingers curled in his collar, nose in his neck & completely unbothered. your perfume is sticky in his lungs. “let’s try math. you like math, baby?”

“mhm,” you kiss his jaw. “love it.”

no you don’t. gojo flips open a book with one hand, the other rubbing circles on your thigh. “let’s practice some integration…” he scans the page for questions while you twirl the hairs on his nape. “okay, this one. can you try this for me, princess?”

your lips tug into a bored frown. “okay,” you lean up to glance at the page, “done.”

he blinks, “done?”

“yes,” you flop back against him, soft & pretty & tired & his. “i solved it in my head.”

satoru bites his lip, brows knit in concern. “baby, you can’t solve integrals in your head.”

“i have a very strong brain.”

satoru prays for some strength of his own. okay—okay. he purses his lip. “so strong, baby. do you want to walk me through your process?”

you frown in his neck.

“first of all,” you tug his collar, lashes fluttering, “i looked at the numbers.”

“good job.”

“then,” you tug his earlobe, “i got bored.”

“oh.”

satoru sighs—of course you did. he purses his lip, blue eyes flitting across the page as his spoiled pretty angel hugs his neck; dreary and tired and ‘bored’ in his lap. finals are coming up and things are not looking good for you. he prays for strength (again).

you seem to have found some strength of your own. gojo’s not sure when you pick up your phone (which he had confiscated from you earlier), but while he stares into the distance and laments your guaranteed failure, you scroll through your phone with a grin on your lips.

“toru, look at this bag,” you coo, pushing the bright screen to his face. “it’s so pink and pretty, just like me.”

“just like you,” he repeats, still staring into the distance.

“wow, nine-hundred-and-fifty dollars,” you kick your feet in his lap. “baby, can i buy it?” you coo, voice sweet.

satoru blinks out of his daze. he glances at the phone screen—then at you, suddenly sweet & bright & brimming with energy. his thumb brushes your inner thigh. “baby, you’re supposed to be studying.”

“i am studying,” you frown, and gojo wants to kiss it off again. “i’m studying consumer behavior. can i have your card?”

there are three reasons gojo satoru should not give you his card.

you are going to fail your exams.

you haven’t double-checked if the price is in CAD or USD.

you are going to fail your exams.

gojo lets you have his card.

you squeal, hopping off his lap to retrieve his wallet in the other room. satoru leans back against his desk chair. in front of him, his desk is a mess of opened books & littered pencils, a ‘get good grades!’ subliminal playing on your mini speaker because you insisted the whispered affirmations would guarantee your success. gojo sighs.

“thank you, toru!” you sing as you pad back into the room, a skip in your step. you lean down to kiss his cheek & flop onto his bed to open his laptop. you have his wallet in your hands, and gojo satoru already knows you will not double check the currency.

gojo closes your textbook with a sigh. better luck next time.

ac: (see alt text!) @ to00fu

DISTRACTIONS, end.

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.”)