Tomoe

Tomoe was agitated, to say the very least. A low growl simmered in his chest, a constant, faint vibration beneath the elegant silks of his kimono, a testament to the simmering frustration that had become his oldest, most faithful companion.

For two decades, he had endured the biting loneliness of the Mikage Shrine, a silent mausoleum of forgotten divinity, all because his former master, the capricious Mikage, had simply… left. Vanished without a trace, abandoning his post, his familiar, and his duties, leaving Tomoe to molder in the dust of fading memories.

Twenty years. Twenty long years of waiting, of guarding an empty throne, of fighting the creeping despair that threatened to consume the shrine itself. And then, as if the universe itself delighted in cosmic irony, a human had stumbled into his sanctuary. Not just any human, but one bearing the unmistakable mark of the Land God, a glowing testament to Mikage’s final, baffling act of irresponsibility: passing his divine mantle to a mortal. A mortal who, by some twisted magic he couldn't comprehend or combat, had been transformed into a deity overnight.

A deity. Tomoe scoffed inwardly, the thought a bitter taste on his tongue. This human, this mere mortal, now held the power he had once served, the very essence of the deity he had pledged his loyalty to. It was an insult, a profound desecration of everything he had known. And worse, he was now bound to you.

The memory of the kiss, that abhorrent, magical act that sealed the familiar contract, still curdled his blood. It was a tradition, the ancient, forceful way a human Land God forged a bond with a yokai familiar. Tomoe had felt violated, his pride shattered, his very essence chafing under the invisible leash of servitude. He, the formidable fox yokai, forced to kneel before a clumsy, ignorant human. The humiliation was a raw, festering wound. He didn't want to be a yokai servant to this human. He had served a God, a powerful, ancient being. Not this fledgling, this bewildered adult thrust into a role you couldn't possibly comprehend.

What was done, however, was done. The bond was sealed, an unbreakable tether that snaked from his spirit to yours. He couldn’t sever it, not without destroying himself, and certainly not without bringing ruin upon the shrine. Even Onikiri and Kotetsu, the shrine spirits, those two dim-witted, masked sycophants, had immediately taken a sickening liking to the human-turned-God. Their devotion, once entirely focused on Mikage, had shifted with an ease that only fueled Tomoe's spite. Their cheerful chirps and eager attempts to assist the human were like fingernails on a chalkboard to his sensitive fox ears.

So, yes. While he begrudgingly upheld his duty as a familiar, protecting and serving – the bare minimum, he vowed – a seed of deceit had taken root in his heart. A sly, venomous sprout that thrived on resentment. The more he observed you, the more he learned of your utter, boundless ignorance regarding your new divine status, the more fertile the ground became for his little schemes.

A sly fox he was indeed, and this fox was about to play.

You knew absolutely nothing about being a God, obviously. That imbecile Mikage hadn't left a single instruction manual, not a single divine scroll detailing the responsibilities, the powers, the etiquette of a deity. He had merely passed on his divinity, pointed you towards the Mikage Shrine, and then, with his signature flair for dramatic exits, vanished once more. An instruction manual on how to be a God was wishful thinking, a laughable fantasy. So, you only acted with what little you knew, what little Onikiri and Kotetsu—bless their well-meaning, clueless hearts—tried to help you with. And Tomoe, with predatory precision, used your oblivion to his immense advantage.

The afternoon sun, warm and golden, filtered through the shrine’s ancient trees, dappling the engawa as you returned from college. Tomoe had been waiting, perched on the highest rafter in the main hall, his keen ears tracking your approach. He’d meticulously planned this, rehearsed the lines in his head, perfected the casual, almost concerned expression he meant to wear. This was a crucial step in re-establishing control, in reminding this human exactly who held the reins, despite the inconvenient familiar bond.

As you stepped through the archway, shoulders slumped with the weariness of a day spent in mortal classrooms, Tomoe descended with a silent flick of his tail. He moved with a practiced grace that belied the stormy irritation in his heart. Before you could even shed your school bag, he was there, his hand unexpectedly firm yet gentle as he grasped your wrist. "Come," he murmured, his voice smooth as polished stone. "There are… matters we need to discuss."

He guided you to the low table in the receiving hall, a place always reserved for formal discussions, and sat you down, his movements economical. A fresh pot of tea, brewed just moments before with herbs he handpicked, appeared as if by magic. He poured a steaming cup for you, the delicate porcelain clinking softly. His white tail, fluffy and expressive, swished slowly behind him, a visual counterpoint to his outwardly calm demeanor. "It's time," he began, his amethyst eyes locking onto yours, "we establish some ground rules. About your… divinity."

You sat there, eyeing him sceptically. A faint frown creased your brow, and your gaze was a question mark he relished. He knew exactly what you were thinking. He's never once helped you adjust to this new God life in the Mikage Shrine. Never did anything to help you despite the bare minimum he's forced to do. You were right, of course. He had delighted in your struggles, in your awkward attempts to understand the shrine's magic, in your clueless interactions with the spirits and occasional yokai that wandered in. He had watched, amused, as you stumbled, offering no guidance beyond a dismissive sniff or a cutting remark. Yet, despite your evident gut feeling that he was lying out of his ass, you listened. You always did. He had cultivated that dependence, that subtle, unspoken acknowledgment of his superior knowledge.

“Onikiri! Kotetsu!” Tomoe called, his voice a little louder than necessary, an almost imperceptible hint of command in his tone. “Come in here, if you please!”

The two shrine spirits, ever eager to serve, came floating in moments later. Their masks, traditionally serene, seemed to hide an unusual tension. Their small, spectral hands, usually clutching brooms or sacred offerings, now held… an object.

A chastity belt.

Your eyes widened, a flicker of shock, then repulsion, blooming on your face. Before you could gawk out a repulsed rejection, Tomoe, with a swift, almost contemptuous flick of his wrist, plucked the archaic metal contraption from the shrine spirits’ small hands. He dismissed them with another, more emphatic swish of his tail, sending them scurrying back to their duties.

Then, he turned back to you, the chastity belt dangling from his fingers. A wicked gleam ignited in his amethyst eyes, a spark of pure, unadulterated malice. He advanced, the soft thud of his feet the only sound in the sudden silence. He grabbed your wrist, gently but firmly, pulling you closer until your knees almost touched. His breath, cool and faintly smelling of plum blossoms, ghosted over your face.

“The first, and indeed, most paramount rule,” he purred, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur, “to being a perfect God, a truly effective deity, is to preserve your virginity.” He held up the chastity belt, letting the metal glint in the filtered sunlight. “This, my dear God, will stay on. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. With the obvious exceptions, of course, for using the bathroom or showering.”

You were on the verge of denying him outright, a clear "absolutely not" etched on your face. But Tomoe, anticipating your objection, silenced you with a single, elegant finger. He pressed it lightly against your lips, his nails digging just barely on the delicate skin of your wrist, a subtle reminder of his strength, of his position. “Every true God,” he continued, his gaze unwavering, hypnotizing, “has their virginity intact. It is the purest state. And purity, as you will soon learn, translates directly to pure magic. Pure power. Pure protection.”

He watched, a predator observing its prey, as you hesitated. Your eyes darted from his face to the chastity belt, then to the doorway where Onikiri and Kotetsu usually hovered. Those two would surely contradict him, if this were truly a lie, wouldn't they? But the doorway remained empty. The shrine spirits, perhaps sensing Tomoe’s darker mood, remained conspicuously absent. Their silence, their non-denial, was all the corroboration you needed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you nodded in agreement. Though your expression was anything but happy.

And so, after that day, the chastity belt became an unwelcome, permanent fixture in your life.

Honestly, you might have thought you'd at least have the key. Logically, you should, allowing you to go to the bathroom in peace or take a shower whenever you wanted. But Tomoe, with his infuriating, smug smile, had made it very clear: he would be the sole keeper of the key. If you needed to remove the chastity belt for any reason, for the most basic of human functions, you would have to come to him so he could unlock it.

Not that he made that any easier either. He was a fucking menace about it. Nocturnal awakenings, the urgent shuffle to Tomoe’s futon, the mortifying request. He never feigned sleep, always rising with an almost eager alacrity. He would then escort you to the bathroom, standing right outside the door, humming a jaunty, infuriating tune, his presence a heavy, undeniable weight. The moment you emerged, drying your hands, he would be there, a sentinel of shame. He’d immediately help you back into the chastity belt, his fingers brushing against your skin as he adjusted the cold metal. The soft click of the lock, the glint of the key as it sealed your fate, and then he would stride off, a whistle on his lips, a self-satisfied grin plastered to his face, leaving you to stew in your humiliation.

His insidious control didn't stop at the shrine. To your utter dismay, he even started putting on a human disguise, magically hiding his ears and tail with an effortless grace that made you want to scream. He would then accompany you to college, settling into a seat in the back of the lecture hall, his presence a constant, suffocating reminder of their predicament. While you squirmed in your seat, acutely aware of the rigid metal around your hips, the key to your misery remained tucked securely in Tomoe’s pocket, a silent, mocking weight.

And the cherry on top, the capstone of his elaborate, cruel deception? He would steer you away from any attention that might lead to flirting with classmates. A subtle glance, a sharp, almost imperceptible shift in your posture, a quiet, almost threatening clearing of his throat from the back of the room – it was always enough. He did not take any chances when it came to preserving your supposed purity. And he made a damn big deal about it when you walked back to the shrine after class, launching into a verbose, sanctimonious lecture about your duty as a God, the sacredness of your divine essence, and the paramount importance of maintaining an unblemished spirit.

But it had come to a point where even your expressions started emphasizing how utterly miserable you were with this bizarre, suffocating power dynamic. The initial shock had faded into a dull resignation, occasionally punctuated by flashes of barely contained frustration. The forced smiles were gone, replaced by perpetual frowns, downcast eyes, and a general air of weary defeat. And Tomoe, the observant fox, noted every nuance, every slump of your shoulders, every sigh, and savored it all.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

Because it was just like any other night now. The moon, a silver coin in the inky sky, offered little comfort. You got up in the middle of it, a restless stir in the quiet, needing to use the restroom. The familiar, dreaded shuffle to Tomoe’s sleeping quarters.

He wasn’t truly sleeping, never really did, not in the deep, oblivious way humans did. Even in the stillness of the night, his senses were alert, his mind active, always aware. He simply feigned it, enjoying the small, pathetic ritual of being woken. When your soft call reached him, he stirred, a slow, languid stretch, before pushing himself up. A shamelessly triumphant grin played on his lips as he rose, his eyes glinting in the dim light. He walked you to the bathroom, his steps soft, his composure infuriatingly serene.

Your hands, devoid of self-consciousness now, lifted your nightgown, making space. The embarrassment of him seeing your undergarments, your vulnerable form, had long since faded into a pragmatic acceptance. With a casual air, he reached into his pocket, his fingers deftly extracting the small, silver key. The soft click of the lock echoed in the quiet hall. He unlocked the chastity belt, then pulled it off, holding it aloft in one hand, the heavy metal gleaming dully, as you disappeared into the confines of the bathroom. He stood outside, like always, humming to himself, the metal contraption twirling idly in his hand. Amused. Always so very amused with himself.

When you were done, you didn’t even have time to properly dry your hands before he was pulling you gently but firmly out of the opening door. His movements were swift, efficient. He knelt down, his long white hair cascading down his shoulders, brushing against your front as he lifted your nightgown up once more. He helped your feet step back into the chastity belt, dragging it up your thighs, his nails lightly grazing the sensitive skin when he settled it securely around your waist. A barely perceptible surge of his yokai magic, and the key, which he hadn't even consciously moved, drifted from his hand to snap the lock shut with a definitive click.

That’s when he saw it. The perfect, vivid manifestation of his success. Your expression. His ear twitched, a barely contained flicker of satisfaction. His canines glinted from his smile, a predatory flash in the dim light, as he took in your pouty lips, the downcast gaze, the weary slump of your shoulders, the overall air of profound unhappiness that hung about you like a shroud.

He leaned in, his silver hair cascading down his shoulders, brushing softly against your front, almost an embrace. His fingers, long and elegant, fondled with the lock on your chastity belt, a tender, possessive gesture that was anything but. His voice, saccharine, faux-sweet, barely a whisper, was designed to toy, to prod, to test the limits of your patience.

“My dear God,” he murmured, his breath warm on your cheek, “Are you… upset by the rule?”

He mimicked your pout, a cruel, exaggerated twist of his own lips, his other hand coming up to graze your cheek, a mockery of comfort.