It wasn’t a secret—Shidou was reckless when it came to you.

He never missed the chance to push you back against a wall, pull you into his lap, or pin you beneath him—grinning so devilish as he left a trail of bruised kisses along your throat and collarbone. It didn’t matter if the surface was comfortable—heck most of the time it wasn’t. All that did matter to him was the way your breath hitched when he mouthed at your skin; the way you squirm when he sank his teeth in just a little harder than necessary.

He loved marking you—it was an obsession. A form of art, in his mind. Every hickey was a stamp, a signature, a message: mine. And you? You made the prettiest canvas. The way your skin would flush under his lips, the way the bruises bloomed in violets and pinks. It drove his ego straight to the ceiling.

But it wasn’t only about ownership. He just liked being remembered, even in moments when he wasn’t around. He liked knowing that when you looked in the next morning, he’d still be there—painted all across your skin. And maybe he liked letting you know how much he always wanted you.

And the only downside? You always tried to cover them up. The moment the morning light crept through the curtains, you’d be standing over your vanity, makeup sponge in hand, expression tight with concentration—as you attempted to erase the evidence of him.

And he hated.

Well—that might be the wrong term. Whilst he did grumble about it, rolled his eyes and bitched about how foundation was “a fucking crime against art,”—Shidou would still lean against the door, arms crossed, watching you struggle. Because no matter how much you layered on, his marks would always peek though. Faint outlines. A ghost of his touch that refused to vanish.

The next morning followed the same pattern.

You were frowning at the mirror, blending in the concealer over the fresh bite near your collarbone. It was too damn high up. Mostly because Shidou had zero patience last night—mouthing at your throat like he didn’t care where it landed.

He crept up behind you, shirtless and warm, his reflection catching yours in the glass. His breath against your shoulder, his voice low with amusement.

“Still can’t cover it up, huh?” he murmured, smirking as his fingers toyed with the strap of your tank top.

You ignored him—too focused on patting more product into the skin, silently cursing over how nothing seemed to work. “If you maybe—I don’t know, knew how to leave things lightly maybe I wouldn’t need to,” you muttered.

He chuckled, the sound deep and smug. His fingers drifted to brush over the mark you were so desperately trying to erase. ”Why would I go easy on something so fuckin’ pretty?” His voice dropped another octave, rough and intimate.

“Besides…you really think makeup’s gonna hide what I do to you?”

Your breath hitched—you hated how easily you he got under your skin, how easily you flattered. But even more than that—you hated how much you liked it, craved it. The teasing, the attention, the praise, how it made you feel like the centre of his chaotic universe.

And Shidou knew. That’s why he kissed the corner of your jaw a second later—smirk wide as he caught the flush rising to your cheeks.