It was already morning, yet their argument over demand and life had no end in sight.
The Fukaki Forest around them felt strangely awake: a distant chorus of unseen insects, damp earth breathing fog, thorned vines moving like sluggish serpents.
Xio managed to grab Kirihito's shoulder again, trying to keep that open mouth—those fangs—from sinking into his already bruised skin. But it felt hopeless. Kirihito was too strong, unstoppable—a living curse wrapped in beauty.
"No! No! NO! Stop! No more bites—"
Xio's voice cracked, breath shaking. "I'm looking! I'm looking at you while talking! I'm not removing my hand from your head! …A‑aren't you a good boy? I'll give you… give you…"
The words spilled out, desperate, as Kirihito's mouth still hung open, fangs gleaming, a silent threat.
Xio's mind burned from venom and pain, searching wildly for something—anything—to calm him.
A trembling breath. Then his voice, softer than before, turned into a baby‑soft, shaking whisper, smooth as silk:
"I'll… I'll give you lots of dragon fruits… pretty things… flowers… scratches…"
Then, almost surprising even himself, Xio added, words slipping out like a secret promise:
"…and a place to sleep where no real insects will bite you…"
Kirihito gasped softly—a tiny hiss escaping his parted lips.
For an instant, his jaws stayed open, frozen… then slowly, reluctantly, they closed, like a crocodile's jaws snapping shut but not biting.
He didn't want to give in—but the words worked.
Xio's trembling offer broke through the blood‑lust, making Kirihito hesitate.
His beautiful mouth returned to normal; his tongue, split into two paper‑thin tips, brushed Xio's cheek—cold and oddly soft, making Xio's chest jolt with fear and something else he dared not name.
A silent message burned in that single gesture:
"Keep your promise, or I'll bite again." "I like your voice… your scratches… your offerings, insect."
Then, low and sibilant, Kirihito whispered, almost playful:
"Who are you… insect? Do you have a name? Or do you like to be called insect by me more?"
Xio swallowed hard, his face flushed crimson under the bruises, and cleared his throat:
"It's… Xio."
"Xio…"
Kirihito rolled the name on his tongue like tasting a new fruit.
"Too tiny… even smaller than your guqin notes."
" Xio . Zhan "
" still tiny like inhale and exhale "
Almost childishly, Kirihito shifted left and right on Xio's lap, as if swinging—but his guarded eyes never softened, half‑lidded yet sharp, always watching beneath his blindfold..unmatch with his playful actions
Xio felt every inch of reality now: Kirihito wore nothing but that single, loose yukata—half‑slipped from his collarbones, barely covering his chest and hips.
Kirihito was sitting directly on Xio's lap, long legs wound around his waist, their lower bodies pressed so close that heat and pain twisted in Xio's lungs.
His heart pounded painfully—yet Kirihito's expression stayed unreadable: playful, spoiled, yet coiled like a snake.
"It's not my fault… my name is short… not long like yours… Kiri. Hito. Oro. Hana…"
Xio's words were barely a breath, his lips pressing into a thin, embarrassed line.
Kirihito tilted his head, eyelids heavy, hair spilling over Xio's arm like living ink.
He almost purred, shifting again on Xio's lap—a teasing move, almost cruel in innocence.
Xio's breath caught, face burning hotter.
His hip ached where Kirihito's thigh pressed too hard—maybe cracked bones, venom burning deeper than before.
Yet there was nothing he could do.
Kirihito was everything at once: spoiled child, hungry animal, and devilish yokai who perhaps didn't even fully understand the weight of closeness—or understood it too well, and played anyway.
"D‑don't move like that… you already… might've cracked one or two bones of my hips…"
Xio's voice came out low, tight, trembling under the mix of pain and venom haze.
Kirihito chuckled softly, the sound dark and sweet—both childish and dangerous.
His mood seemed brighter now, dreaming of dragon fruits, pretty things, a place safe from insects—like a greedy, beautiful animal waiting for treats.
Around them, Fukaki Forest kept whispering.
The air smelled of moss and wet bark, heavy with the scent of old rain.
Somewhere deeper, something unseen moved—thorns dragging against rotting wood.
Xio's eyes stung red from venom; tears clung to his lashes, half‑hidden.
Yet his hand stayed tangled in Kirihito's silken hair, scratching gently, almost without thought.
Kirihito's purr deepened, low and vibrating; his head moved left and right, cat‑like, chasing every scratch.
That black hair wrapped Xio's hand naturally, like even the strands refused to let him go.
The forest around them didn't speak in words—but the silence grew strangely heavy, like the pause before thunder.