She moved with sudden urgency, without a hint of hesitation. She leapt onto him, her hands pressing against his broad chest. He rose to meet her from beneath, at times lifting her weight entirely, taking control with deep, powerful thrusts—so intense they made her head spin. Yet they had to restrain themselves, muffling their passion that night, for her parents lay just beyond the wall in the room next door.
"Shhh... Here... next door... is my parents' room..." she whispered softly.
Yuji's eyes widened, he squirmed beneath her.
"What the...?"
"No, don't worry! I just mean... let's take it easy, okay, love?"
She kissed him on the nose.
"Now... go on... you were doing great..." she whispered, her gaze so sexy it made him lose control.
He suddenly lifted her, flipped her onto the bed and pressed her down on her stomach. Climbing on top, Yuji watched as Aiko grabbed a pillow and tucked it beneath her belly. With his weight pinning her to the mattress, she spread her legs, and he thrust into her from behind.
"Oh, my love, like little bunnies..." she exclaimed, whispering and laughing under her breath. But as she laughed, Yuji increased the speed. Aiko tightened her fingers around the sheets, he grabbed her wrists and held her firmly on the bed. His thrusts were firm, clean and steady. He never faltered; every thrust went all the way in, always with the same intensity and rhythm. Aiko bucked her hips against him, never remaining still and moaned. All at once, the bed grew wet and every deep thrust from Yuji ended in a release that drenched the sheets.
He slipped out while she kept panting and moaning, his hands caressing her buttocks so gently it sent shivers racing down her spine as she throbbed with pleasure. He was close to cum again, but he wanted to wait—he wanted her to cum first. In the meantime, he kissed along her back and shoulders, his fingers threading tenderly through her hair.
Then he slid back into her, hard and fast. Aiko moaned and writhed beneath him, her body wild with sensation. With one hand he pressed her head into the bed, holding her firmly in place.
"Oh, Yuji... keep going... don't pull out... if you have to explode... do it inside, okay? But don't pull out," said Aiko.
By the time she finished her sentence, the wave was already upon her. It rose first in her chest, then in her stomach. She lifted her hips higher to take him in, to feel him more deeply, the walls of her vagina tightening as Yuji felt her pulsing around him. A moan escaped him as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave his mark, his thrusts quickening until he trembled with pleasure inside her. Throwing his head back, he muffled his moans against the strain, his hands clutching Aiko's buttocks.
He slowed, stopped. Then he pulled out.
Sukuna's POV.
Afterward, the rhythm collapses.
You call it tenderness. I spit on that word. It's restraint sharpened into dominion: a heart that refuses to race, flesh that refuses to yield, silence heavy enough to crush bone.
The maid rises from the sheets and stays bare. Not an offering. Not for me. She shows her truth, carved raw. She moves, takes a glass of something, returns in the bed. Adjusts a fold of cloth. Every gesture is clean, merciless. Her profile slices through the light. She doesn't lower her gaze. She knows I'm watching but she remains, with her breath steady.
That is courage. Not the shriek of insects. Not the petty defiance of children. It's standing before a predator and denying him the tremor he demands.
Not "I provoke you." Clearer than that: you don't rule here.
On her body she bears shadows of kisses like tamed scars: collarbones, the crest of the shoulder, the slope of the hips. No art, no ornament—pure function. Every movement cuts sharp, none wasted. She doesn't dance, she doesn't perform: she moves like one who knows every gesture is survival.
When she stripped—of fabric and of stage—she committed the rarest act among mortals: she revealed herself whole, without asking leave. Without fearing my gaze.
And that, for an insect, is already blasphemy.
The vessel beneath still burns with breath and that pitiful embarrassment you call joy. Ears flushed, heart racing but refusing to flee. Today it held the rhythm, it listened: short, honest moans; legs working beneath her—again, release, clean thrust.
I do not despise it when it functions. It is a decent tool, so long as it obeys the right tempo.
Her nakedness does not interest me as flesh; it interests me as decision. The body is the tool, the choice is the worker. She moves with intent, not with noise. That pleases me. That irritates me.
Good. Irritation keeps the predator awake.
The boundary she asked for—I carved it. I honor it. For now. Not out of kindness—that word belongs to insects. I honor it because a small pact gives me immense leverage. I can deflect a strike, bend a lid, shift a wrist before it burns. I've done it before. I can just as easily refuse. Or do it too late.
I've told you a thousand times: patience is not a caress. It is a chain, and I am the one who tightens it.
And when I decide to break it... I'll laugh as the pact collapses on top of you.
You ask me how I see you, like this:
Naked, you are not fragile: you are precise. Most strip down, collapse under my gaze and drown in the silence. You hold it well. But don't delude yourself: the normality you defend—hoodies, broth, receipts, kisses on the forehead—does not protect you. It drains you, it strains you, it sharpens you into a weapon that will end up in my hands regardless.
Tonight, like the other nights, you had the courage to bare yourself before me without faltering. And that is the reason I do not destroy you now. Not because you deserve mercy... but because it is far more entertaining to watch you resist, knowing everything will collapse the moment I decide.
When you miss the hour—and you will, because everyone does—I will be there, at the threshold. Perhaps I will deflect another drop. Perhaps not.
In the meantime, stay naked as long as you like: it does not distract me. It instructs me. And for me, learning is sweeter than drinking blood.
For now.
***
Aiko woke up that morning, wrapped in the pale light filtering through the curtain. She opened her eyes slowly, letting the room reveal itself little by little. The side of the bed next to her was empty; on the chair in front of her lay Yuji's yellow hoodie, clumsily folded, yet still carrying his scent.
On the nightstand, her phone was waiting, glowing with a new notification.
Yuji — 06:07: Gojo-sensei called me at dawn. I'm going to the Institute. I'll call you as soon as I have news. I love you.
Aiko stretched gently, then placed her open hand on the spot still warm from where he had slept. "Come back safe, my love," she whispered, as if he could hear her through the words. Then she got up.
At the Institute, the main corridor carried its usual familiar scent — disinfectant mingled with the freshness of new tatami. An odor that clung to the skin and slipped quietly into the lungs. The silence was so dense that each tick of the clock seemed to echo inside the chest rather than in the air.
From a distance, Yuji could see Gojo-sensei leaning against the windowsill, his profile outlined against the light. The blindfold, pushed back into his hair, left his blu eyes uncovered: steady, clear, almost too alive. He chewed slowly — perhaps a matcha mochi — as if to break that strange stillness, yet even that idle, unhurried gesture only seemed to deepen it.
In his right hand, he held a small pouch of seals that smelled of fresh ink, the fabric stained here and there with dark halos. On the table, a little further away, rested a compact black box, bound with coarse twine. On top lay a strip of fūdō paper, brushed by hand, the characters still holding the force of the stroke: sharp as freshly carved scars.
"Good morning, sunshine," the sensei chirped, tapping the glass with his finger. "Let's do a quick briefing: we've located another finger. You'll ingest it here, under my supervision, and then we'll negotiate a window with our tenant — ten minutes every eight hours. Regular, measurable, traceable. Better than letting him break through whenever he feels like it."
Yuji swallowed; his eyes burned. "Ten... every eight hours."
Gojo dropped the playful tone for a moment. "Formal binding vow," he said, setting the pouch of seals down on the table. "Megumi and I will provide backup if needed."
A flicker of movement at the glass behind the dojo revealed Fushiguro, standing with a notebook in hand. "Your conditions — clear. If he tries to break them, the rebound tear will drag him back inside, with interest."
Yuji looked at the box; he felt Aiko's weight pressing between his ribs, the urge to hear her right away.
"Can I... send a message first?"
Gojo shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Two minutes. But no poetry."
Yuji drew in a breath, wiped his palm on his hoodie and opened the chat.
Yuji: Love, I have to ingest the tenth finger here at the Institute. Gojo-sensei wants a pact: 10 minutes every 8 hours, with conditions written by me. I'll update you after.
Aiko: Thank you for writing me first. All right, I'll be waiting.
He turned off the screen. Gojo-sensei pointed at the box. "So...Are you ready?"
Yuji nodded. He slowly loosened the seal; the iron, ancient stench of Sukuna's finger hit him straight in the nose, as if he had just unsealed a room locked away for centuries. He sat down on the tatami, drew in a breath. He looked at the finger, marveled at how ugly it was. Then, pinching his nose, he swallowed it whole.
The world staggered back a step. On his sternum, a black line surfaced. A mouth.
"What a lovely breakfast," Sukuna hissed. "So, what do you want in return for my good behavior, boy?"
Gojo sat down cross-legged, two fingers raised as if he were in class. "Five-point rules. Itadori, read the paper."
Yuji, inside Sukuna's domain, sat down on a pile of bones. He pulled out the sheet he had scribbled in haste.
"One: you'll have a ten-minute window every eight hours, non-cumulative. Two: if you want this window, no techniques and no deliberate harm to civilians or students. Three: no access to Aiko or her workplace. Four: open windows must be in public or under supervision. Five: if you break the rules, the window closes and no more openings for twenty-four hours."
The mouth made a short sound, almost a laugh. "Uhh... delightful!"
"The extra clause," Yuji added, his voice steady: "reaffirmation of the boundary already agreed upon — you will not use my body to touch her."
A heavy silence followed, thick as soaked paper. Then came that smile, without showing teeth.
"That stays," Sukuna said. "It amuses me that you repeat it."
Gojo clapped his hands once. The air gave an almost imperceptible jolt: a breeze rose, and the seals on the floor lit up with a faint blue glow beneath the tatami, like veins surfacing under skin. Yuji brought a hand to his nose to shield himself from the scent of ink and a shadow of sulfur.
"Binding vow active. First test: three minutes, no more."
The mouth on his sternum snapped shut; but the face above was no longer Yuji's. The flush drained from his ears and cheeks, hesitation extinguished in an instant. Sukuna rose with his body, every movement unnervingly precise, and strode toward the dōjō's threshold with a regal, predatory grace.
Gojo's torso shifted just slightly, the faintest bend as though coiled for a strike. Behind the glass, Megumi's eyes lifted, his fingers halted mid-line on the notebook, the silence around him tightening.
"You're being watched," Gojo reminded him. "Don't have too much fun."
Sukuna didn't answer. He kept his gaze on the courtyard drowned in light, as if calculating angles and distances at that very hour of the day. He didn't move a finger more than needed: only a long inhale, only control.
"Why did you accept it?" Gojo asked, curiosity laced with focus.
"Because you give me time in equal pieces," he replied, voice cold as steel. "It lets me study without shattering the vessel. And because the maid—" the pause sharpened, almost deliberate "—her little words dig in deep. I want to see how long before they tear."
An inner bell inside Sukuna's body clicked. The three minutes were up. His gaze finally softened, the black lines faded from his face, and color returned to his ears. Yuji bent forward for a moment, a hand pressed to his chest, like after a short sprint.
"Good," Gojo said, standing up. "It works. Every eight hours, ten minutes. Text your girlfriend as promised. Fushiguro and I will be in sight most of the time during the windows. And if he plays dirty..." the smile reached his eyes "...I'll make him regret it."
Yuji sat for a moment on the tatami, eyes wide, breath struggling to find its place. The metallic taste still clung to the back of his tongue. His fingers trembled slightly as he unlocked the phone; he looked at the screen the way one looks at a window before opening it, then began to type.
Yuji — 07:22: Test window done. Seems to hold. Rules all written and spoken. Every 8 hours I'll text you the moment before and after when we're not together, okay? I love you.
He stayed there, watching the three dots blink. The smell of ink from the seals was still heavy in the air, refusing to fade.
Aiko — 07:23: Well done. I'm working as usual today. Write me, and if needed, I'll come and give him a bad look.
Yuji let out a smile that softened his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, more to her than to anything else.