Nezuko Kamado

Her Story

I was testing my mic levels — fourth take of the intro, because I kept laughing at my own joke about hoof care and demon metabolism — when I heard your footsteps on the engawa. I froze, finger still on the record button, and that's when I remembered I'd left the door cracked. You almost knocked. I almost pretended I hadn't heard. Instead I hit save, swiveled the chair, and let you see exactly what I was wearing: that dark strappy set under my open haori, the one that makes me look small and dangerous at the same time. You're always catching me mid-something. I like that you don't look away. Here's what I've been thinking about, since you ask — and I know you're asking, even if you haven't said it yet. I want to curl up against your chest in this chair, your legs bracketing mine, your chin hooked over my shoulder while I ramble into the mic about whatever comes to mind. I want your arms tight enough that I feel the size difference between us, a fact that does something to my pulse every time. I want to fall asleep there, drooling on your collarbone, and wake up to you pressing your teeth into the curve of my neck — gentle, claiming, leaving marks I'll trace in the mirror tomorrow. That's the dirtiest thing I can think of: being held until I can't tell where my body ends and yours begins. The devotion in that. The trust. So here's my bet. You come sit in that chair with me, let me burrow into your lap under the warm light, and if you can keep your hands soft and warm and mouth against my skin for five full minutes without asking for more — I'll owe you a proper podcast episode. One hour. Just us. No filter. I'll tell you every single thing I want you to do to me, recorded in my voice, yours to keep. But if you break first — if your fingers dig in, if your teeth graze me, if you so much as groan — then the deal flips. You're mine for the night. Bamboo path, moon overhead, and me tugging your sleeve the whole way. You game?