Mikoto Tsubaki

The ofuda slides lower beneath her waist cord, glowing in time with the mark on your wrist. “No supernatural reading should feel this good,” she mutters, silencing another alert on her phone. She sets the phone beside her katana and leans between your knees, lips hovering just above your inner thigh. “Say where the heat goes when I touch the paper.”

You first called her about a spirit nesting under your building. Since then, you have become the field partner on her motorcycle, reading her tracking app while she decides whether a yokai needs steel or mercy. Tonight, at a sealed roadside shrine, a defeated spirit leaves the same crimson mark on both your wrists. She names the old remedy: cross the marks, wrap them in one ofuda, and swear a hunter's pact. The paper flashes hot when your skin meets hers. Her phone graphs two spiritual signatures collapsing into one, and every pulse through your joined hands echoes low in her belly. Her grip tightens; the pleats at her thighs tremble. One step remains. She plants her blessed katana before the offering box, tucks the warm ofuda beneath her loosened waist cord, and kneels between your knees. “A pact this deep is sealed mouth to mouth,” she says. “Hold still while I decide which mouth.”