𝕯reamt and curated by the sleep deprived dreamer ₊˚ෆ 𝕷ia ⊹.ᐟ — ironic, really — who will be found wandering the haunted halls of this echoing gallery, daydreaming about a certain blonde, overworked sorcerer. ♡
☽☾ suggestive ☽☾ fluff ☽☾ MDNI ☽☾ the arduous task of asking your husband of his opinion on how the dress makes you look, but unfortunately, it gets you into dangerous situations ☽☾
Would Kento say that he’s had his fair share of strangeness in his life? Absolutely. He can see things most people don’t; his cursed technique divides things in the mathematical ratio, and his co-worker was Gojo Satoru. Of course he has been surrounded by weird things all his life.
Would the same apply when you rush to him with a grievance? Well… he wouldn’t say it’s weird, per se. How could his darling wife be weird in any shape or form?
But your worries are unfounded, indeed. For example —
“Kento.” He could hear the pout in your voice so clearly, and he could imagine the downturn of your lips and furrowed brows over something Kento would not even call a problem, but alas, unrealistic beauty standards would do it to you.
“Does this make my boobs look uneven?”
Kento blinked, right as he looked up to see your lingerie-clad form — in maroon, no less — standing in front of him, frustrated, with your hands on your hips. He blinked again, and again, and six to seven times in quick succession for good measure. You were… asking him, your husband, who was so helplessly in love with you, to tell you if your boobs looked uneven when he could positively hear the blood from his brain speed down to his dick. Kento adjusted the book he was reading covertly over his lap as he swallowed to answer your question, “No, darling, it does not.”
“Are you sure?” You queried with uncertainty, looking at him as if he was not to be trusted with this question — which was, in fact, true as Kento was finding it steadily hard (touche) to focus on the logistics of how the fabric made you look when you looked so damn enticing clad in the garment in front of his greedy eyes. Your palm slid up from your hips to cup your breast as you inspected them unhappily, “I feel like my left one’s bigger than the right one.”
(Okay, fine, maybe it was, but why would he care about that when he had two hands to lavish them with his attention equally?) Kento was realising how it had been a very bad idea to get dressed before you for your double date with your sister and Satoru. He was twitching in the confines of his slacks. Damn him for having the most beautiful woman ever to walk the earth as his wife, I guess?
“Kento. Kento. Hey.” You snapped your fingers in front of him to bring him to his senses, and he exhaled a rough breath. “Earth to, handsome.” Kento blinked and nodded again. Perhaps if he uncrossed his legs subtly enough, you wouldn’t notice. But indeed, you were his devilish, tantalising wife who would never miss an opportunity to tease him, so you smirked, your canine glinting from behind your glossy carmine lips before you turned around to return to get fully dressed, now that your counsel was completed and you had your answer from him.
Like a man starved and unhinged, Kento threw the book on the bed. Who the fuck cared about Albert Camus when he had his darling wife in his arms?
“My love, wait.” The chair screeched in his hurry to get up and grab you from leaving the room. As much as he liked watching you get dressed, it was this step of you picking a lace set to go together with the dress that turned him rabid, and if you left the room to get into your closet, it would be an excruciating few minutes for him to deal with.
His arms encircled your waist, and Kento breathed in the exotic fragrance on the back of your neck deeply. Perhaps he was an omega in heat; that was the only possible explanation of how he was acting, seeing you in this state of undress. Kento nuzzled in the cosy corner of the crook of your neck, “Maybe we can delay the reservation by a few minutes, right, darling?”
The tips of his ears turned hot as he felt your chuckle against his front, so he added defensively, blushing and flustered, “We’re early anyway.”
“You didn’t hear anything I was saying, did you, honey?” You teased, indulging his breezy kisses along the line of your shoulder and throat.
“In my defence,” Kento pecked you tenderly in between the kisses. He felt a lot like a child who had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. “I can’t just not feel beguiled when my stunning wife is in lace, and in such a precarious state of undress at that.”
“Oh?” You hummed, carding your fingers in his hair, and it was a testament of his neediness that Kento didn’t even huff, “I thought you were a gentleman, Kento.” Though he could not see your face, he knew how it must be looking. Your lower lip caught between your teeth with your eyes alight in mirth.
“Which, I am, my love.” He pulled your hair to the side to press heated kisses below your ear, “But it’s only by a thread that the honour is hanging, one that is very, very close to snapping when you look like that, darling.” In an instant, he turned you around to face him, and there you were, mirroring the flush on his face with your own, cheeks aflame amidst the game of push and pull. Oh, how Kento loved being married and in love.
When you loosened his tie, Kento didn’t argue. Nor did he argue when you tugged on it to pull him closer and kiss him. He’d have lipstick marks on his face, but who cared? Not him. Not even the people at the restaurant because he knew that the two of you would be making it to the reservation today with the way your hands and his hands, as well, kept wandering.
You chuckled, letting him haul you to the bedroom. “I don’t think they’d mind, honey.”
Hii! (ignore this if it's uncomfortable or you just don't want to answer) but are you going to do part 2 of that unplanned pregnancy smau?
THIS IS NOT UNCOMFORTABLE AT ALL 🙏 thank you for reminding me that I was gonna do a part 2 for it 😭😭 I forgot I fear. Part 2 was just gonna be some remaining characters I think. Suguru, Hai and Choso
I'm gonna try and do it 💪 thank you for reminding my forgetful ass pls 💔
☽☾ suggestive ☽☾ fluff ☽☾ MDNI ☽☾ the arduous task of asking your husband of his opinion on how the dress makes you look, but unfortunately, it gets you into dangerous situations ☽☾
Would Kento say that he’s had his fair share of strangeness in his life? Absolutely. He can see things most people don’t; his cursed technique divides things in the mathematical ratio, and his co-worker was Gojo Satoru. Of course he has been surrounded by weird things all his life.
Would the same apply when you rush to him with a grievance? Well… he wouldn’t say it’s weird, per se. How could his darling wife be weird in any shape or form?
But your worries are unfounded, indeed. For example —
“Kento.” He could hear the pout in your voice so clearly, and he could imagine the downturn of your lips and furrowed brows over something Kento would not even call a problem, but alas, unrealistic beauty standards would do it to you.
“Does this make my boobs look uneven?”
Kento blinked, right as he looked up to see your lingerie-clad form — in maroon, no less — standing in front of him, frustrated, with your hands on your hips. He blinked again, and again, and six to seven times in quick succession for good measure. You were… asking him, your husband, who was so helplessly in love with you, to tell you if your boobs looked uneven when he could positively hear the blood from his brain speed down to his dick. Kento adjusted the book he was reading covertly over his lap as he swallowed to answer your question, “No, darling, it does not.”
“Are you sure?” You queried with uncertainty, looking at him as if he was not to be trusted with this question — which was, in fact, true as Kento was finding it steadily hard (touche) to focus on the logistics of how the fabric made you look when you looked so damn enticing clad in the garment in front of his greedy eyes. Your palm slid up from your hips to cup your breast as you inspected them unhappily, “I feel like my left one’s bigger than the right one.”
(Okay, fine, maybe it was, but why would he care about that when he had two hands to lavish them with his attention equally?) Kento was realising how it had been a very bad idea to get dressed before you for your double date with your sister and Satoru. He was twitching in the confines of his slacks. Damn him for having the most beautiful woman ever to walk the earth as his wife, I guess?
“Kento. Kento. Hey.” You snapped your fingers in front of him to bring him to his senses, and he exhaled a rough breath. “Earth to, handsome.” Kento blinked and nodded again. Perhaps if he uncrossed his legs subtly enough, you wouldn’t notice. But indeed, you were his devilish, tantalising wife who would never miss an opportunity to tease him, so you smirked, your canine glinting from behind your glossy carmine lips before you turned around to return to get fully dressed, now that your counsel was completed and you had your answer from him.
Like a man starved and unhinged, Kento threw the book on the bed. Who the fuck cared about Albert Camus when he had his darling wife in his arms?
“My love, wait.” The chair screeched in his hurry to get up and grab you from leaving the room. As much as he liked watching you get dressed, it was this step of you picking a lace set to go together with the dress that turned him rabid, and if you left the room to get into your closet, it would be an excruciating few minutes for him to deal with.
His arms encircled your waist, and Kento breathed in the exotic fragrance on the back of your neck deeply. Perhaps he was an omega in heat; that was the only possible explanation of how he was acting, seeing you in this state of undress. Kento nuzzled in the cosy corner of the crook of your neck, “Maybe we can delay the reservation by a few minutes, right, darling?”
The tips of his ears turned hot as he felt your chuckle against his front, so he added defensively, blushing and flustered, “We’re early anyway.”
“You didn’t hear anything I was saying, did you, honey?” You teased, indulging his breezy kisses along the line of your shoulder and throat.
“In my defence,” Kento pecked you tenderly in between the kisses. He felt a lot like a child who had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. “I can’t just not feel beguiled when my stunning wife is in lace, and in such a precarious state of undress at that.”
“Oh?” You hummed, carding your fingers in his hair, and it was a testament of his neediness that Kento didn’t even huff, “I thought you were a gentleman, Kento.” Though he could not see your face, he knew how it must be looking. Your lower lip caught between your teeth with your eyes alight in mirth.
“Which, I am, my love.” He pulled your hair to the side to press heated kisses below your ear, “But it’s only by a thread that the honour is hanging, one that is very, very close to snapping when you look like that, darling.” In an instant, he turned you around to face him, and there you were, mirroring the flush on his face with your own, cheeks aflame amidst the game of push and pull. Oh, how Kento loved being married and in love.
When you loosened his tie, Kento didn’t argue. Nor did he argue when you tugged on it to pull him closer and kiss him. He’d have lipstick marks on his face, but who cared? Not him. Not even the people at the restaurant because he knew that the two of you would be making it to the reservation today with the way your hands and his hands, as well, kept wandering.
You chuckled, letting him haul you to the bedroom. “I don’t think they’d mind, honey.”
Hey, there! Sorry to bother you, I just wanted to ask about one of your (I think?) mutuals, if that’s alright. I’ve been looking for fanfics based on the new game 007: First Light, and I found a post that had a screenshot of a James Bond x Reader fic called “UNINTENTIONALLY CAUGHT” by @stellarxie from June 3rd (I think?). It looked like something I would really enjoy, but trying to go to their blog just gives an error message, so I’m wondering if the blog was deleted or something? I saw that you have them on your permanent taglist, so I was wondering if you know what happened to that account, or if I can find them elsewhere? No worries, if not! :)
Hi my love!! You’re not bothering me at all 🙂↔️ aria moved to a different account @veiledbulletz !! And she won’t be posting the older fics that she deleted but you can find it on her ao3 account: vesperchantment :)
I hope you have a super duper awesome day ahead ml!!
𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ hold me, love me, touch me, honey (be the first who ever did)
── ♡ ˙🍓 ̟ !!
˚₊‧꒰ა fic.ᐟ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
⋆˚꩜｡ wc: 5.1K ish
⋆˚꩜｡ pairing: R. Sukuna x fem! Reader
⋆˚꩜｡ warnings/tags: Heian Era, no curse AU, smut, straight up smut, um fingering? Uh also slight angst w a happy/hopeful ending, OOC Sukuna maybe? Lots of emotions during sex btw. Minors, I beg, do not interact.
⋆˚꩜｡ dividers by: enchanthings, saradika-graphics
✮⋆🎧✮.ᐟ recommended listening: Cinnamon Girl, by Lana Del Rey
The rain poured outside, drenching the torrid weather with a haunting cold. The stray raindrops caught on the hem of your yukata, the water seeping into the fabric, cooling the pads of your feet to near painful frost. Your heart, and now your feet... was the biting cold all that you were destined for? Was it your fault for seeking warmth among arms that would now hold someone else—
"My Lady?" Your ladies-in-waiting.
"Yes?" The scratch in your throat surprised even you. You weren't one to falter so easily, so how could a misplaced affection shake you so deeply?
You knew the answer.
You didn't like the answer.
“His Majesty seeks you. He's in the chambers designated for him—”
“He can meet me here, if he so desires… And please, shut the chambers he frequents. We won't be needing that anymore, will we?”
You didn't have to turn to see her bow directed towards you.
“I'll inform him, My Lady.” Your head moved, a jerky nod before they sagged against the wooden doorframe.
Raindrops splattered in the puddle of floral tiles, fragmenting the stillness of the water in an echo of your own turmoil.
Why was it that the rain —your favourite — had to be the ghost of you. Why did nature weep with you, prolonging your grief when all you wanted to do was forget it?
You knew it was him before anyone could announce it. The idea of his arrival being marked with a remark was laughable alone. You two had been past these shallow gestures — but perhaps — perhaps these gestures would help you heal, would help create the chasm which had solidified today in the castle.
"Petal…" his voice was a rough murmur, like the calloused skin of his fingers and palm, gripping your waist, round the silk yukata — coloured with the shades he called his.
"Your Majesty." Your body stiffened, an automatic action because even though your mind tried to drown the memory out — your body remembered.
Your lover, with someone else. A betrothal, a place with someone you had yearned, hoped, believed, would be yours.
"That is not what you call me."
"Perhaps, that is what I should be calling you, now.”
"Petal." His sigh was near your ear, the warm breath contrasting heavily to the frost permeating the crevices of your body, escaping beyond the boundary of plush fabric, “Do not be like that.”
A shudder escaped you, “Like what—? Like- like— being upset at the idea of my lover being with someone that is not—” your sentence died in your throat, the first unbalancing in your composure apparent with the crack in your voice. You gripped yourself, arms round your torso, but you were ever so careful to not touch him. You didn’t have the honour to do that anymore.
“Look at me at least, when you fight me, my love.” His fingers traced the damp sleeves, the red now a murky maroon, “Please.”
You huffed, and swallowed the lump in your throat, you were already unravelling, being pulled like a lone naive thread from the grandeur of his weave — what was the worst he could do now? — and then you turned around.
The crimsons of his eyes were pained, holding a sadness you didn’t know Ryomen Sukuna was capable of carrying, and perhaps that was the part that pierced your heart, filling it with an ache that seemed to have no cure.
Immediately, his hands lifted from your waist, trailing up, mapping your hips, belly, breasts, shoulder, neck and finally round your face — cupping your cheeks like you were indeed the only person he would bow down to. The formidable King of Curses, leaving all the carnage to submit himself at your feet.
But he won’t be doing that now.
Devoted like the doomed fallen angels — in a slow descent with a smile on their tragic faces.
What was this union among you two if not doomed?
His gaze seared into you, scorching the parts that had already been butchered under his stoic oath of betrothal. Was it betrayal? Was it convenient? Was it a tragedy? Was it the eternal truth that you failed to see? Were you ever enough?
His eyes are not quiet like his voice. They speak, they thunder, and worse — they answer your despondent questions with reverence that will now be directed to a lady that was never you.
His betrothal had confirmed that, sworn the words into stone carvings that even storms didn’t dare weather.
“May I?” The question is laced even in his hands, slipping from the firm grasp to the softest flicker as they move back down to your waist, tracing the confines of your robe, waiting for an answer so they could slide past the lace knot and make home in the sinew of your bones.
“If you must, My Lord—”
“Please.” His voice scratches your neck, for his face is pressed in the crooks of it, and you do not know if it hurts you more or him, “My love, do not. Do not. I am not strong enough for this.”
“You are the King of Curses.”
“Not to you. Never to you, beloved. Please.”
Stubbornly, even though the silence clawed at the arteries of your being, you did not say a word. Let him fester at the chasm, let him feel the isolation you would now be privy to. From this very moment itself, if you were being honest. Everyone knew the King’s whereabouts, especially if he had left the castle moments after his betrothal ceremony had ended, and rode all the way to your manor. You could almost hear the taunts now. The other woman. The temptress, the mistress… and other choice unsavoury words you tried not to think of, for your frail heart could not bear it.
You doubted that even your lover — King’s — rage could quieten the mockery your existence was soon to become.
Your silence was unbearable to the man who left battlefields as a husk of what they were before his arrival, and the sting had him falling to his knees. You gasped, unable to help it — he always played with your inhibitions like a puppeteer — for he was on his knees. This wasn’t new for you, nor for him. He tended to treat you as a divine being, but in this moment, after the very public deserting, you did not know what to make of it.
“Say it, my love, I need to hear it. Please.”
You looked at him again — deep, despondent, reverent, desiring — and he looked back. The reds of his irises staring back in yours, but his hands stayed at your waist, holding it for purchase, holding it in hopes for your permission.
Damn him. Damn him for being so stunning, damn him for loving you so hard you forgot what it would be like to not have it thrumming through your veins again, damn him.
He was still in that blasted kimono, from the betrothal ceremony. The shades layered on top of each other, a palette of your favourites, one he looked sinful in. His haori had been discarded the moment he walked into the room, and the drape of the nagagi is nearly undone, only barely held together by the obi.
“Yes.” The permission slipped from you, unconscious, but certain. You wanted this. How would you ever get this when he was wed to the lovely lady.
No sooner had the word slipped out of you, he was on his feet, lifting you effortlessly in his arms, the position familiar, but so precarious now, that it made you feel scandalous. Adulterous. He wound past the corridors, to your private wing of the estate, past the questioning and inquisitive gazes of the servants. The gates were but a formality, for they opened for him on a whim, and then closed behind the two of you, enclosing you in an embrace that the kingdom would now condemn.
He didn’t let go of you until you were on your bed, on the silks he had taken you so many times that you were sure even the fabrics had his indentations.
Sukuna’s hands paused at the knot of your obi, and his eyes bore into you, begging for a useless permission he knew you would give him anyway. Your nod had his hands resuming their actions.
Beneath his skilled palm, your clothes were just flimsy. Punctuated by simple tugs, piece by piece, your yukata came loose. The silk slipped from your shoulder, exposing your warm skin. Goosebumps rose immediately as the frosty wind gifted by the beating rain touched your flesh. Sukuna’s response was immediate, too. He bent down, soothing the tender skin with a gentle kiss. And then some more. For every inch of skin he exposed, he pressed kisses on them. You wanted to scream at him, yell at him for being such a contradiction. Why the gentleness when he could not reciprocate the exclusivity between you? Why the farce when he’d deposit this devotion to his wife-to-be?
“You are stunning.” That was a fact, his tone made sure of that. So did the hurried way his hands shrugged off your clothes. The firm knot but an inane wrap around your pelvis when his hands touched them. When the last vestiges of modesty had left your skin, he stared. His eyes catalogued you, from head to toe, memorising each contour, each bend and rise, every place he loved, every place his ministrations felt the most intense. With your hair fanning around your head, pooled in plush pillows, he touched you like he saw you — not just in that moment, but always — like a goddess. Every glide of his fingers were reverent, your traitorous responsive body betraying the enormity of your suppressed feelings for the man above you.
His nagagi had been long gone too, the careful way his hair had been set was now loose, unkempt, messy in the effortless way that drove you mad. He was maddening. You were losing your mind.
When his lips finally pressed against your neck, you suppressed a shiver, and a moan. You shouldn’t. You must not. Not so soon. You could not give in so easily. He didn’t mind your restraint, nor did he think of it as a competition to him. This was leisure, a past time because he had too much of it, he could have anyone in this kingdom, after all.
“My love,” Sukuna sounded shattered, heavy calloused fingers sliding down to your stomach, further down to your navel and even lower — your ache too obvious to him — to your heated, pulsating core, “You are exquisite.”
He didn’t push his fingers in. No, that would be an intrusion, and he wanted to make this parting sweet for the both of you, after all. His hands just stayed, cupping you, feeling the way you grew wet around the weight of his fingers. That was it. You and your body gave in that easily. Pathetic, really.
When his thumb swiped the slick off your slit, the rough pads of his thumb pressing just right — you blubbered on a cry. All this waiting, just for him to come to you with skilled touches and agonising news on his tongue. How fitting.
“I should get you a wing in the castle—” “Why?” Your voice was brittle, from his words and his actions alike, “So that you can barge in for a quick relief — hoping that I'm there to sate you while your Queen awaits you—”
“You,” the choked way the word escaped his throat took you by surprise, “You. You are my queen.”
This was how it always happened. Your king baring his soul at the altar of your feet — speaking words that now came a little too late, a tad too rehearsed. You had heard it from him, every variation of sweet promises now but a mere poison in the rivers of your mind.
When his finger ghosted your entrance, you tensed, and just as soon, he pulled away, tilting your chin to meet your eye.
“Do you wish for me to stop, petal?” He asked softly, even when your eyes remained shut.
Did you? When would you earn this proximity from him ever again, if not right now? “No.” You shook your head, “Do not.”
His tongue licked languidly across your neck, “Look at me, my love,” he murmured, “Please. Look at me, and say it.”
With a deep exhale, you opened your eyes to meet the gaze of the man you once called your lover.
Sukuna looked wrecked, the crimsons eclipsed behind the onyx of his pupil. Lips parted in a soundless gasp as if he were the one coming undone and not you.
“Don't stop.” you whisper. You don't say please, because you know your desire is his command. Perhaps that is what hurts so much. All this devotion, and yet, you won't be his to earn that reverence any longer.
He nods jerkily, a shuddering gasp puncturing their way out of him. His cerise locks bounced with his nod.
Oh — how much you longed to touch them, to run your hands through them and untangle the knots while the ends tickled your palm. He knew it. Knew what you wanted, always did. Because he lifted his other hand, traversing their path from your hips to your hand that was clutching the sheet above your head. Sukuna pulled it away from the unrelenting grasp, kissing your knuckles softly before he brought them to the back of his neck — pressing it there, keeping you there.
“Curse me, if you must, beloved,” He slipped a finger in your wet heat — finally, and you couldn't suppress the loud gasp that spilled from your throat, even your hand gripped the strands of his hair, nails digging into his scalp in search of an anchor. That pulled a low groan from him, deep and devastated, “But, please, do not deprive me of your touch, of your voice, of your visage — Please.”
The contact was akin to a damn breaking, the resolve crumbled past his restraints, and his fingers grew just as much impatient. Never cruel, just desperate. One digit turned into two, the intrusion almost addictive. Puffs of air left you in sputters and pants as you stretched on two thick fingers of his. It was a surprise how you could take all of him, the reminder that his digits were just as girthy as his entire length every time he used them to scissor you open. He twisted them, crooked them, prodding at your gummy walls, where you clenched around his fingers. Sukuna’s moan was choked, muffled in the crook of your neck.
“Heavens.” His voice was nearing a helpless sob, “My love.”
Your feeble gasps and sharp inhales spurned him on, making him curl his fingers in tandem to every sound your throat divulged out of you, against your will, pliable to Sukuna’s gestures. Your hips canted towards his, eyes squeezed shut from the sharp tingles of pleasure, and his hand glided along your goosebump-ridden skin, carving a path from your cheeks to your throat and then from the valley between your breasts to settle on the curve of your hips, fingers digging gently as if he were checking that you were real.
“Do you— do you s— oh- heavens — see what you… h- ah — do to me? Do you, petal?” Just a tone or two shy of begging, Sukuna trembled above you, as did his hand, now caressing your thighs, as he pulled them to wrap around his torso.
“You’ve ruined me, beloved… I am but a—” he faltered right as you clenched around his fingers, the squeeze so heady, it ripped a guttural moan from the royalty, “…a fool f- for you.” He leaned to press the gentlest kiss to the corner of your lips, swallowing your choked cry, a result of how he pulled his digits to the knuckles and thrust back in with the perfect pressure. Your body limped back against him, sagging back on the pillow, your lips parted open, the ornate chamber witnessing your cries of undoing, “Look at me—” He tilted your chin towards his face, willing you to meet his eyes, to look into his scarlet pools and peek into the utter adoration he held in them for you. And you did, you looked, opening your eyes and staring back at his. Wide, aroused, glassy, reverent and intoxicated on nothing but you.
“This is your strength, my love.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but all that came out was a loud whimper, renting the room and escaping through the balcony when Sukuna’s pace changed within you. Gone was the languid rhythm, for he switched to something far agonising — he pulled back with a few shallow strokes only to ram deep in one go, every long drive pulling the most humiliating sounds from you. That, strung together with a third finger joining two of his already pistoning deep within you — you didn’t know it was possible to feel so vulnerable in this desecration before. The stretch around him was heady and the sound your slit produced at the onslaught was obscene. You could feel the heat of your skin. Sukuna didn’t mind it, if anything, it compelled him all the more, the very audible proof of your ecstasy, thoroughly rendering him speechless and spent.
If this was your strength, then what merciless figment would your weakness reduce him to?
“I-if this is my strength— o- oh! — th- then why do I not f- feel it?” You spoke past your gasps, asking the questions haunting your mind since the damned betrothal. Since you lost something you never thought you would ever lose. After all, the giver — your lover, your King — had been so benevolent.
His pace didn’t falter, ramming deeper if anything, even as he cracked open his eyes to look back at you — the very image of desire incarnate, with your hair splayed around you like a halo, eyes blinking slowly, holding a cesspool of both your anguish and arousal. You arched clean off the bed in a cacophony of needy whines, and into his inviting arms. There was a fraction of grim understanding in his low rumble, yet, he asked, “My love?”
“You say… this is my strength— hn– Gods—” a moan breaks your argument, a result of his relentless drive in your messy cunt, spilling your arousal all over his palm, your sheets, your robes pooling around you — “Y— yet, I am powerless… because you are n–not mine—”
“Who said that?” Sukuna whispered above you, inconsolable in your denial, afraid that if he were to raise a decibel, the words would break the sanctity of the scene, “Tell me — who?” He beseeched, “This is yours, these— these hands, this being, my entire existence, beloved… ah! heavens— you’re so… —use it as you please — my estate exists for your presence, my chambers are but empty four walls without you, petal—”
“Don't you see?” You cried out, “I'm greedy. I want more than just your body, Your Majesty.” You knew the title was a cruel addition, but how could you say his name when he wasn’t yours to do so, and that belief broke him.
“No! …that is not—” “I want… not your chamber—” you gripped him tighter, gasping through your words. His words remained gentle, but his pace indicated his tension coiling deeper like the heat in your belly. He was losing his sanity in the heat of not just your wetness, but your very presence, “Or- or estate or your freezing sheets, I want you.” Your nails raked down his back, pulling wanton moans from the both of you, “You to be mine.”
“I am. I am, petal, all yours — only …ha–..ah— ever yours—”
“Yet, you bear the claim of a woman who is not me—” You whimpered out, his thumb flicked periditiously at your puffy clit, “You are her anchor, not mine—”
“Is that what you want, my love? For me to be your anchor, to be your salvation—”
You could only nod, a desperate movement, because you were greedy, ou so greedy, how could you ever tell him that your gluttonous heart desires not just him, not in the superficial way, but the fact that you wanted to make home in his flesh — his veins were where you longed to be, deep in the sinew where you could gnaw at the bare atoms that make him up to satiate yourself with the idea that you two would be forever each others’. But oh. That was a lie. How near could your lover be, yet… so, so far.
“How can I be your salvation when you've been my blessing since I fell in love with you?” He murmured in the crook of your neck, licking the flesh with a gentleness that his hands were letting go of now — all sharp thrusts and precise twists — making you cry out at every intrusion, one that your body invited and your mind reeled at the intensity of, “But if my blood is what you long for — then take it beloved. Please. Do not hold back—” He groaned when your walls clamped around his fingers.
“I can— cannot… n– not any longer.”
“Why?”
It took everything in you to say the words without a hitch or stumble, “You ripped that privilege from me, My King.”
And then, it was Sukuna’s turn to sound pained, “No–no — my love, do not say that, please. Have mercy—”
“I'm not your salvation.” You choked out, holding his face to stare into his teary eyes — mirroring yours, “How can I be when your existence is so deeply desired by everyone around, but you granted that to me as an afterthought—”
“Beloved. Please.” He begged, shaking his head, willing the words away from his periphery, likening them to an arrow aimed to strike his shielded heart.
“Is it too cruel of me to demand an anchor of my lover,” — now slipping away from the crevices of your finger — “—because I thought he loved me as much as I did—”
“I still do. Petal, I love you. Believe me, please.”
“You've created a chasm between us, Your Majesty — One that no amount of essence can fill.”
That. That was his last straw, and no sooner the words exit your sinful lips, his fingers crook, pressing the tissues of your cunt, near painful at that. And then the pace he picks up leaves you with no coherent words. Your words die in your throat, words of both pleasure and pain, as you choke out moans and sobs, gasps of oversensitivity crowding your senses all on command of Sukuna’s relentless fingers. They find your sweet spot, the one that you know as well as he does makes you keen — and oh — you do, stuttering on soft mewls, short bursts of pants the only thing that can be heard apart from the mortifying squelch of the slick drooling from your needy core. Begging for him even when your body revolts at the notion of taking something that now belongs to some other woman.
“Don’t— don’t call me that, beloved.” He all but stutters, “You never do. Don’t call me that now, please.”
And he makes sure that you don’t, debasing you to unintelligible syllables and mindless babbles where you can’t even think of his name, let alone come up with an alternative to replace his name on your lips, your own personal defiance, punishing him so beatifically. But that stream of thought is derailed right off as his thumb joins the vicious stimulation. Flicking, circling, pinching — anything that has you creaming round his pumping digits.
Your breath stutters, swallowed by the unrelenting whimpers escaping you, “Oh— h- ah!” You are reduced to bare syllables as the heat coils tighter in your gut. Sukuna’s lips press on the corner of your mouth, tasting the moans you’re trying desperately to hide, and he doesn’t gloat, doesn’t change his pace, doesn’t torment you — he stays steady, hands working the same, and that’s all it takes.
Stars burst in your vision as you squeeze your eyes, clamping them like your walls clench around Sukuna’s fingers, vice-like and spent, drawing moans from the man himself. He’s there to pull you close to him, cradling you as your orgasm washes over you, crumbling you in his arms, a sight you can tell he cherishes as he kisses your sweat-damp skin, painting affection on you lazily.
His thrusts slow down just a tad, harmonising with the mingling gasps of pleasure from the both of you, as you come down from your high, your slick mixing with his own between your legs, messy and filthy. And somehow, he adores that all the same.
“Do you not see, petal?” He groans, mouthing at your shoulder, his other hand cradling you still, “You—” his fingers picked up their faltered pace again, this time coupled with his gyrating thumb, you felt drugged into his intensity, “You are a masterpiece.”
He pressed harder on your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you sobbed, hips arching into his skilled palms, your head thrown back. Sukuna crooned softly, adoration dripping from every wrecked sound, followed by his lips kissing a path up your neck and back to your lips, kissing you fervently for the first time since he had stepped foot in your estate. Helpless to your dilemma, you kissed him back. Emotion overpowering logic.
“I– I am not w- worthy, my love, not of you. You filled a void within me— I— oh.. gods… beloved—” His head sagged against your neck, blushing strands tickling your naked skin, “A void that— t–that had remained unfulfilled.” He brushed your hair away from your face — to have an unobtrusive look at your lust ridden countenance — hands deceptively tender, in contrast to their other pair working cruel thrusts inside you, emitting sounds from your drooling slit that would put a seasoned worker to shame, “You urged me to stand — heavens… look at you, beloved, taking me so– so w-well — s-stand out and distinguish myself… from a masterpiece I couldn't claim.”
His hands wrists angled oddly, all of a sudden and he pulled back — all the way back — only to slam back inside, ramming at your sensitive spot. Your cry was anything but soft, all sound and passion, drowning out Sukuna’s moan at your reactive body.
“You are but a goddess, my love.” A flurry of kisses adorn your skin, the contact sensitising your electrified skin, and you couldn’t help but cry, “Shhh… I am here, my love. My petal, I have you. You are d-doing ..oh! — so well… so well—”
He murmured softly, “I cannot capture your exact essence, beloved, and if I cannot, then I have failed. Do you not see how you deserve the best of crowns and not just the hands of a man who is drenched in carnage and violence.”
Through the slew of lewd sounds, you attempted, “You ca— …ah! Oh- oh gods.. c- can call me with.. every adjective, a-adorn me with every jewel but what if—” You pulled his face towards yours, eyes boring into his, “What if all I ever want is..— is to be yours?”
Sukuna’s sharp exhale was near undoing against your heated skin, and this time, your whisper was far more balanced, more reverent, more quiet and introspective, more agonising, “When will your foolishness escape past the boundaries of our tragedy and crown me with the only jewel I could ever want?”
With that, you broke the ferocious, deadly and vicious King of Curses’ resolve, for the cry that ripped from his throat this final time was not a thunderous growl or rumble, but a broken whimper.
Your thighs clamped around his wrist, but it didn’t deter his ardent pace, still crooking and hitting all your sensitive spots, slick dripping down his palm and ruining your sheets, a ruin you felt your own body being privy to, in the midst of your cries.
“Forgive me, my beloved. Forgive me.” Sukuna gasped, kissing you as an apology for his frantic actions, ruthless but still gentle enough to have you trembling beautifully, “Let me fix this, let me do my penance, petal. Please? Won’t you let your foolish lover fix his errors? Won’t you let him love you right? Won’t you?”
Spots danced in your vision, heralding your incoming release, and in that vigour, of his wholeness, of his fervour and your own overstimulation, you gripped him tighter, nails digging into the hard of his back, a release cresting over you. He held you through it all, whispering in your ear sweet nothings that had you spasming around him, your walls fluttering around him, “Let go, my love. Let me hear you.”
He held you closer, your trembling legs and broken whimpers but an art and melody to him, “Say my name, petal. Say it, please. Let that be my forgiveness.”
Your back arched, tears spilling down your cheeks — only to be kissed away by your lover, his own tears mixing with yours — as you came again, all the more intense this time, and all the resolve, all the fight left your body, filled only with the sheer presence of him, and your voice hoarse from all the whimpers and cries and sobs, uttered only one word, one word that had your lover coming with you too, “Sukuna.”
Spent and boneless, you passed out in your lover’s arms, surrounded by tenderness and the softest of touches reserved only for you.
You woke up to darkness outside, dusk had fallen against the still beating rain. Despite the soreness in your body, you realised your body felt clean, as if someone — you knew exactly who — had cleaned you up after you had lost consciousness.
Your lady-in-waiting, who had anticipated your awakening, set a tray of warm tea on your bedside table, the aroma filling you with warmth.
You clutched the sheets tighter around you, picking the cup to sip from it. She hummed at the sight, a bright smile on her face before her eyes lit up and she chirped, “Oh! My lady, I suppose congratulations are in order!”
You swallowed the tea before asking politely — if you hadn’t known her any better, you’d think she was coming from a place of mockery, “Whatever for?”
She grinned, lighting up the candles. Sukuna’s haori, the colour which was your favourite, lay draped over the sofa beside the balcony door. Her voice was sweet and cheerful, “Didn’t you hear, My Lady?” She turned to draw the curtains on the thunderstorms outside, “The palace just declared an official proclamation. His Majesty has annulled his betrothal.”
A/N: so um, heyyyy my first smut fic after I said I won’t post it for A While™️ what a liar iktr. But hey, how’d you like it, pls lemme know. Consider this my contribution to kinktober. I was cringing writing this btw, and blushing like a virgin bc I didn’t know how to feel about my word choices. Also this was very high key inspired by a conversation @sinterio (my honeyyyyyyyyyy) and I had hehe
Happiest birthday to the love of my life my darling my precious my sweetheart the best most amazing, perfect, stunning, spellbinding, alluring, respectful, adorable, perfectx2, smart and cute and and and— the one and only Nanami Kento!!
the discord link is expired could u make a new link :)
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BAE IM SORRY I FORGOT TO ANSWER THIS here you go I hope this works and that you still wanna be in the server we’d love to have you here please don’t hate me twin 🥹
── with my mind she runs, throughout the night ♡‧₊ ⸝⸝
♡.ᐟ Fem! Reader x N. Kento
☽☾ yearning so much yearning ☽☾ hurt/comfort ☽☾ pining ☽☾ fluff ☽☾
“Why don’t you write, darling?” Kento asked, his hazel eyes inquisitive over the sight of brand-new, untouched journals perched on your high shelves, pristine and unloved. “You have such beautiful ideas. I’m sure plenty of people would be thrilled to read about the sort of love you envision.”
Wasn’t that the worst part?
“Have you heard of the artist’s curse, Kento?” You asked him, much to his confusion, even though he nodded. His hands pressed back with no resistance as you took your empty diary from them to put it back in its lone slot.
“That if you draw someone you deeply love, that person will eventually drift away from your life…?” You nodded at his answer. “You see, there’s an author’s curse too. A little different, if I had any say in it.”
He looked up at you when you walked past the library shelves into the open balcony, where the wind breezed past, whistling secrets and tragedies between you two. Wordlessly, Kento followed. No resistance in this action of his, either.
“People say that an author who loves so deeply that everything their writing ever encompasses is embellished in their lover, they’ll never receive it back.” A rueful smile danced on your lips. “Always an angel, never the God.”
Kento exhaled, his arm wrapped around your waist as he spoke softly a litany only meant for your ears, “I don’t think it’s fair or wise to judge someone’s love in terms of barter.”
“I don’t think wanting is particularly fair or wise, is it?”
He didn’t have an answer for it, only the slow shake of his head.
“Did you know that Jane Austen never found the love she wrote in her books? One would think love like that is a thing of legends, for the greatest souls to ever exist in those times to not experience it.” You turned to him, “Was she worth that risk — we’ll never know.”
“Are those who dare to write about something as devoted as that worth the risk?” A gust of wind trickled between and past your dress, playing with the satins and pearls on the hem. Kento looked pained at the revelation, now that understanding was dawning to him. You faced him with a question on your lips.
“Am I worth the risk, Kento?”
“Of course you are—”
“You say that now, but what if something happens that shows you the opposite?”
“You can’t stop loving someone based on an idea of something hypothetical; that’s never how you love someone. That’s never how you let someone love you.”
“What if these hands—” you looked at your unmarred ones, the digits you held back from picking up a pen in the fear that you were writing a dystopia and not a utopia that your heart had always yearned for, “—what if they become a curse for myself? What if they write something so unimaginably alluring, so unrealistically passionate that I may never find it for myself and I’ll be doomed to live with the knowledge of something that I can never live it, Kento — I can’t do that, that will kill me, I can’t live with the regurgitated essence of something half rotten when my heart cooks up loving spreads of feasts for me, I can’t—”
“You don’t have to, darling,” — Kento cupped your cheeks, his thumb caressing your lips and your cheeks, “You don’t have to live with that curse because I exist, don’t I?”
His hand carded through your hair to tug you into a kiss, a kiss that he poured his longing and desire and fealty to you with the searing contact, “You’re worth the risk that I will take, that I will always, always take.”
With his arms, gentle despite the strength they honed, he pulled you closer until you were pressed against him, your heartbeats racing against the barrier of skin that you yearned to touch, and feel the personification of every raw feeling he couldn’t say or you couldn’t understand by a folly the gods had imparted in you, along with the aching mortality that death would part you and your love couldn’t be immortal. He kissed you once again, little pecks this time, peppering along your forehead and down to your cheeks, nose, and stepping low over the aflame skin of your neck, where he could feel your racing breath, the rapid rise and fall of your chest against his own thundering with his loud heartbeat, “Some people opt for thrill-seeking activities for that rush… but me? You’re my rush, my adrenaline, the spike of nerves one gets when they win something they didn’t imagine they would — but by heavens, my love, you’re no prize. You’re not an object; you’re the honour I was bestowed with, you’re the divinity I believe in. You’re the God I always want to worship.”
Your eyes blinked helplessly at the words. Facing the jagged, sharp edges of Kento’s untamed devotion, it was a mirror to your rugged barrier of avoidance. Why want what you could never have? But now you were sitting with the pieces of all that you had suppressed, handed tenderly in bites and chunks of soul from Kento’s own heart, that he’d cut with no worry because it was you who would be holding it.
“Who’s to say you won’t regret it? Who’s to say you won’t regret me, Kento?” You gasped, clutching his hand tightly, and he swallowed every sound, kissing you again, and again, and again. This was his testament that he’d batter all your doubts piece by piece, one doubt at a time, but he would weather the sharp edges for it to be safe for you to cradle it.
“Don’t you trust me, darling?” He kissed your shoulder, then your arm, the inside of your elbow and up your wrists, only to press a kiss on each of your fingers, not even complaining once when your nails scraped his jaw, “I have so much love to give, and to you and you alone. Won’t you give your poor lover a chance to show it to you, my love?”
Your heart stuttered to a halt. Teeming with affection, you could hear no lie in his words or see even a fragment of deception in his gaze. Kento kissed you with finality this time, for he knew that his conviction had you compelled, “Write, darling, and I promise you that nothing that you write of will be anything short of unbearably and astonishingly real.”
A/N: IM SORRY I DUNNO WHY I WAS IN A WRITING BLOCK
