I Sealed Sukuna’s Finger#378+379: Someone Couldn’t Wait Any Longer! Aya Tokoyogi

“Haa... haa...”

Shallow, uneven breaths rose and fell in the dim hotel suite. Outside, night had deepened—the city skyline drenched in shadows.

If anywhere deserved the title of “the city that never sleeps,” it was Itogami Island.

Unlike Tokyo’s endless neon nights fueled by commerce and humanity, Itogami was a sanctuary for demons, home to countless nocturnal species that truly came alive after dark.

Midnight approached, marking the start of the island’s second act. For the island... and for Yuuma Tokoyogi.

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

“W-wait... give me a second... let me rest...”

Her voice trembled between shallow gulps of air. She straddled Bokue’s lap on the sofa, knees planted against either side of his thighs, arms locked tightly around his neck.

Their bodies pressed together, her flushed cheeks burned bright, the blush traveling all the way to her lips. Under the glow of the ceiling light, kissed with saliva’s sheen, her lips gleamed like a jewel—red and wet.

“Can’t keep going? Then maybe we should call it here for tonight.”

Bokue’s tone was gentle, considerate.

They’d only been at it a little over an hour—not even two—and Yuuma had stayed mostly cautious, still pulling back before going too far. But that was natural.

Her first time had been nothing like this. Back then, she had borrowed Nagisa’s body. This time, it was her own—her real body. No matter how much experience her soul carried, her flesh was new, untrained.

“...Nngh... just let me rest for a bit.”

Yuuma whispered into his ear, her warm breath tickling his skin. She wasn’t stubborn enough to bluff that she could push further, but she wasn’t ready to stop, either.

In gamer terms—she was camping. Pull back, then test again. If her stamina returned, she’d go on. If not—well, that was fine too.

“Bokue... I’m thirsty...”

Her tone softened into a lazy whine as she burrowed closer, cheek pressing against his chest, fingers teasing lightly along his shoulder.

“Water? Juice?” Bokue asked, his hands steady on her waist.

“Mm-mm. I want wine...”

Her red eyes narrowed in mock petulance, her usual tomboy mask stripped away, leaving behind something far more feline—spoiled, purring, coaxing.

“It’s right behind me on the table. I can’t reach—so, Bokue, feed me?”

“Wine? You?” Bokue’s brow arched.

She hadn’t actually drunk much tonight. The glass on the coffee table sat untouched, more prop than beverage—something to add to the atmosphere, to season the air with a hint of temptation.

Still, alcohol wasn’t exactly for students.

“Not allowed?” she pouted, brushing a kiss against his cheek. Her wine-red eyes shimmered, misty with heat. “What’s the matter? You’re not one of those boring old geezers who shout ‘no alcohol before twenty,’ are you?”

Bokue had no answer. Personally, he’d never cared for alcohol. Taste-wise, it didn’t even hold a candle to cheap milk tea on a street corner. And drunkenness? That just left you dizzy and miserable.

But before he could say as much, Yuuma giggled.

“Hey... wanna know a little secret?”

No alcohol touched her lips, yet she leaned against him as if tipsy, her grin hazy, her voice low.

“Do you remember how old we were when we first met?”

“Of course. I was seven, you were six.”

“And?”

“And...?” Bokue frowned. “What about it?”

“Mm~ don’t you remember? I told you before—Tokoyogi Aya is my ‘mother’ in name only. In truth, she’s my source code. The original. I’m just... her copy.”

“I remember. So?”

“So...” Her breath brushed his ear as she whispered, lips almost grazing his skin.

“...when I first opened my eyes—when I first existed—this body was already six years old.”

“...!!”

The thought struck him like a hammer. If she’d started at six... then subtract that from her age now...

Her true mental age was still under—

“Get it?”

Her smile widened, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering with mischief.

“...”

This wasn’t just risky. This was a capital crime.

“Haha~ don’t look so stiff. I’m teasing. Sort of.”

She grinned, then broke the tension herself. With a flick of her fingers, the untouched wineglass leapt from the table into her hand. She downed it in one tilt of her throat.

Only then did Bokue blink, realization dawning.

“Yuuma... your magic’s still working?”

“Looks like it.” She licked her lips thoughtfully.

“And thanks to you... it’s stronger than before. Le Blue has evolved. I can do more than I used to. For example...” She paused, eyes sparkling. “I can share my senses with others. Directly. A perfect ‘link.’”

“Oh—and speaking of links...”

She trailed off suddenly, as if remembering something. Her expression shifted, determined now. She pressed down on his shoulders, then tugged his hand into hers.

“Come with me.”

“Hm? Where?”

“You’ll see. Just follow.”

She pulled him toward the bedroom. Bokue’s chest tightened faintly. He had a suspicion...

The door creaked open. Darkness pooled inside. And with it—a faint, heady scent of champagne drifted out.

There was also... breathing. Unsteady, restrained.

Bokue’s eyes narrowed. No way...

Click—

The bedside lamp flared to life, bathing the room in soft golden light.

On the bed, bound in a position that belonged more to certain films than reality, lay the Heian princess herself, robed in silk. The sheets beneath her were soaked, golden champagne staining the fabric in glistening rivers.

Yuuma tilted her head up, a catlike smile curving her lips.

“Looks like someone couldn’t wait any longer.”

<><><><><><><><>

For Tokoyogi Aya, this night was destined to be unforgettable.

She had once been confined within Minamiya Natsuki’s prison barrier for ten long years. In that time, she had hated, raged, resented—yet in the end, all those emotions dulled into stillness.

Aya had believed that after enduring such isolation, nothing in the outside world could ever again shake her heart.

She was wrong.

In just a few hours, she had experienced more emotional upheaval than in her entire life combined.

From the joy of believing freedom was finally hers when the barrier shattered... to the despair of realizing her rescuers were not allies, only to have her magic stripped away before escape was even possible... to the terror of discovering her position reversed—from mistress of another’s fate to helpless prey beneath the knife.

That terror had long since ceased to be anticipation. Two hours ago, it had already become reality.

And now—Aya couldn't tell if what gripped her was terror or something else entirely. Her mind had turned to mush, thoughts scattered like leaves in a hurricane.

For two hours she had been bound hand and foot, abandoned in a pitch-black hotel bedroom. Stripped of her power, she was no longer the great Witch Librarian of old, but merely a frail human—capable of fear, doubt, shame... and even the mundane urge to use the bathroom.

Her body, weakened from years of confinement, had demanded sustenance. After eating and drinking her fill, her system naturally began its work. But what should have been waste had nowhere to go.

She had felt it the moment they returned to the hotel. But Yuuma hadn’t given her the chance. She had bound her tightly and—without asking—linked their sensations together.

Through this “shared perception,” Aya had been forced to feel everything Yuuma felt. If Yuuma sipped wine, the taste bloomed on Aya’s tongue. If Yuuma stubbed her toe, the pain jolted through Aya’s nerves.

But Yuuma had no interest in stubbing her toes. She had chosen something far crueler. She had taken her ascetic “original” and, for two hours, dragged her to climax again and again—until her reason was washed away in an endless tide.

Because Aya couldn’t predict what would come next, each shock hit harder, each wave breaking her more completely.

Now, when the lights finally flickered back on, Aya was no longer the composed scholar-priestess she once had been.

Her resplendent twelve-layered robes were soaked through, clinging heavy and translucent to her trembling form. She lay sprawled on the bed, black hair tangled and dripping in what could only be described as “champagne,” the sheets beneath her reeking faintly of it.

It was as if a goddess had been dragged down from the clouds, only to be thrown face-first into the dirt.

Rip—

The tape across her mouth, loosened from sweat, peeled away without pain.

And the first sight she met when her eyes opened—was her own face. Or rather, the smirking, short-haired replica of it, smiling like spring sunlight.

“My, my... what a mess. Clothes ruined, hair soaked, and this smell—hmm.”

Yuuma leaned down and tapped Aya’s cheek, mocking.

“Did you... wet yourself?”

“...Yuuma.”

Aya’s lips moved, her voice faint but laced with venom.

She could not help but hate her. To Aya, Yuuma was nothing more than a copy. Not an equal, not an independent being—merely a shadow. An echo. At best, a disposable tool, like Naruto’s shadow clones—meant to train, to suffer, to exhaust themselves so the original could reap the rewards.

And yet this “copy” had turned on her. Yuuma had stolen everything she once bestowed upon her, seized the reins, and left Aya in chains.

“Oh my... you’re still lucid? Good. That puts me at ease.”

Yuuma feigned surprise, then brightened as if reassured.

“Bokue—come give me a hand, will you?”

“Are you sure this ‘help’ is what it sounds like...?”

The boy’s voice came from behind her, and only then did Aya realize Bokue Keikain was standing there.

Her gaze flicked down instinctively—

—and froze.

At the sight of that towering “flag,” her face went deathly pale.

She had lived as an ascetic all her life. She had no experience, no practice. But she had enough biological knowledge to know: something that size—

“No! Absolutely not! I’ll die! I swear I’ll die!”

Before Yuuma could even explain, Aya thrashed in panic. But bound and weakened, her struggles were pitiful—closer to a frightened kitten than any real resistance.

“Relax. You’ll be fine. Bokue’s gentle~”

Yuuma hummed sweetly, undoing the ropes with casual ease. Her magic lifted Aya’s limp, trembling body off the sodden sheets as if she weighed nothing. She jerked her chin toward Bokue.

“Let’s go. She’s filthy. A proper bath is in order. And I need one too.”

“...Three of us?” Bokue asked warily.

“Of course. What’s the problem?”

Yuuma’s grin widened. “If it bothers you, just think of her as me. Or better yet—as me, ten years from now.”

Ten? More like twenty, Bokue thought grimly, comparing their figures.

The bathroom light flicked on. Their shadows stretched long behind frosted glass. One by one, the heavy twelve-layered robes fell away.

And moments later—the voice of the Librarian Witch finally broke, echoing raw and helpless through the steam.