ooh but what if there's like strict omega-handling protocol in rescue hero work because an omega in distress is like primed to instinctively trauma-bond to whoever saves them. so heroes are supposed to like, call it in when they find an omega in like, advanced distress, because if they're an alpha and they go near the omega, they're likely to trigger this mutual, problematic situational bond that can be hard to shake after without destabilizing the omega further
and when bakugo finds an omega like nearly shut down from distress in a disaster scenario he radios it in like he's supposed to - but then his ear comm crackles that it'll be thirty minutes before the recovery team can make it there, and the disaster is still like...very ongoing. he keeps his distance while he can, trying to follow protocol as he calls to you periodically to tell you he's there and help is coming...but when the wind shifts and the environment turns suddenly more dangerous, the choice is made for him. like, what is he going to do, just leave you to die instead of risking some temporary whatever that probably won't even happen since he's got his alpha shit so locked down? nah.
he waits til the last possible minute, truly he does (he's not looking forward to the getting-chewed-out he'll get for breaking protocol like this), but when the structure you're stuck in groans in warning, he snaps into motion without much conscious thought.
and yeah, you're....yeah. you're an omega, sure enough, and panting, wide-eyed, bone-still with instinctive distress. you're stiff like a board when he carefully extracts you from the rubble, your breathing tight and shallow, and shit, maybe he shouldn't have waited so long, he thinks, as he tucks you against his chest and figures how best he'll get you out of here without bringing the building down around him.
he's relieved when he feels you notice him. when he feels you sense his presence, his buried alpha-nature, because your breathing deepens and you soften in his arms. shifting, curling towards him and wrapping yourself around him as best you can. easier to hold as he works the both of you out of this death trap, as you huff softly at his neck and make plaintive whines at his throat.
it'll be fine, he tells himself, as he clutches you tight and just manages to clear the building before it begins to crumble to pieces. he's just making those responding, low chuffs to your soft whines to comfort you, alright? normal hero shit. and yeah his heart is beating oddly hard as he finally gets away enough to pull you back from him to look you over, to see if you're bleeding or if you have anything broken, and when you make a pained sound of protest at being separated, he clutches you back against his chest, his arm wrapped tight around you as he moves as carefully as he can to not jostle you as he moves through the wreckage and barks into his ear comms for a med team.
you're trembling and whimpering against his throat as he finally gets you to the perimeter of the disaster area to where med teams are waiting, and his hands are hard on you as he holds you close to keep you from scrambling up his body to get even closer to him.
the first emt he reaches freezes when he sees bakugo appear with you in his arms, his eyes widening. "oh," the emt says. "she's - she's in distress, you can't be - you shouldn't be - "
and bakugo just snarls, his heart fucking pounding in his chest (why? why is his heart racing so hard?), growling at the emt to fucking help you, obviously it'll be fine, and what did the emt want him to do, leave you so the recovery team could find a corpse instead?
but when the emt reaches for you in his arms, bakugo's entire body stiffens. going rigid, a low, ragged growl rumbling up his throat and through his clenched teeth. and bakugo is still growling, his hackles raised as the emt takes a step back and radios over comms that they need a recovery team at the med tent asap, his eyes wide as he takes a step back from where bakugo is clutching your softly whimpering form to his too-tightly, all but baring his teeth at the emt.
bakugo wakes up in the hospital a few hours later, his neck aching from the tranq they had to stick him with, and when he blinks up at the ceiling and feels a deep, aching flutter in his chest that tells him, as surely as if spoken aloud, that you're in the next room over, and you're still in some amount of distress, he scrubs his palm over his face and mutters, "fuck", before he feels another aching flutter and is on his feet in an instant. unable to stop himself as he goes to you, his alpha pacing and grumbling in a way that he knows won't settle until he has you back in his arms and is soothing you.
9,661 words * ˛ ✦ ･ The doll lies there still, eyes open, her soft hair arranged across the surface. Caleb reaches for her. He lifts her with one hand, the other already working at the fastenings of his trousers, and he places the doll on the carpet before them, sitting in a way that faces them, her painted gaze fixed upon the scene with the unblinking, eternal patience of an audience. He positions her carefully, ensures her eyes align with the joining of their bodies. “There,” he says, and his voice is thick, distorted, the voice of something that has worn human speech for too long and is beginning to let the seams show. “Our newest daughter must watch. She must see how Papa loves her Mama. She must learn what wanting truly means.”
WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – historical fantasy with some vague horror-like themes, significant age gap, size difference, heavy dubious consent, caleb is not human, dollmaker!caleb, duke's daughter!reader, non-consensual voyeurism (dolls as cameras or what passes for it in this setting), obsession, dolls as daughters to caleb and reader, praise, petnames, making out, stalking, cunnilingus, nipple play, overstimulation, creampie.
The afternoon light does not enter Caleb workshop so much as it is permitted to gaze inside. The skylight overhead, a rectangle of clouded glass set into the sloping roof, filters the sun into a thin, grey-gold glow that barely illuminates the wall. He does not necessarily require light to see; he requires it only to maintain the fiction that he operates within the same physical constraints as his patrons, his apprentices, and the men who watch him from the street below.
Well, there are two of them today.
One stands beside the bakery on the corner, holding a newspaper that he has not turned in almost an hour. The other is a woman, dressed as a nun, her bowl extended to passersby for alms but her eyes fixed on the upper window where his silhouette moves. He knows their schedules. He knows the exact moment the bakery’s clock chimes at half past two, when the false nun shifts her weight from her left foot to her right, signalling to an unseen third agent stationed in the tenement across the lane.
They believe themselves subtle. They believe the Dollmaker of Skyhaven is absorbed in his craft, too artistic to notice the mundanity of church surveillance.
Caleb dips his brush into a dish of turpentine and cleans the bristles with slow, circular strokes. He is not artistic, he is merely precise. He notes the nun’s presence not with alarm but with the same observation he applies to the humidity in his kiln, the viscosity of his glazes, the exact number of dust motes suspended in the light beam.
Three years ago, the Church sent a single inquisitor; and now they send teams, the escalation almost flatters him.
And then there is the matter of the Emperor.
The Emperor does not send street-level agents. The Emperor sends questions through intermediaries, veiled inquiries slipped into the ledgers of the Imperial Arts Council.
How many dolls does the Dollmaker produce annually? What becomes of the offcuts, the failed pieces? Does he keep apprentices? If so, how many? Has he fathered children? The questions arrive on heavy stationery, sealed in wax the colour of blood, and he answers them with the dishonesty of a man who knows his interrogator cannot afford the truth.
As much is necessary. Failures are discarded, broken to pieces and burned to ashes. No one has yet to be deemed worthy in the Dollmaker's eye. There are no children, not even one.
The Emperor knows, in the way that men who hold absolute power always know, that there is something in Skyhaven that does not kneel correctly.
But the Emperor also knows that Philos Empire is held together by threads finer than Caleb's brushes; the Northern provinces rattle their sabres, the Eastern colonies demand autonomy, and the treasury requires the soft power of culture to mask the hard poverty of its coffers.
Skyhaven is the heart of that soft power, and Caleb is the axis upon which the entire mechanism turns.
Remove him, question him openly, imprison him on charges of whatever theological deviation the Church invents next week, and the merchants cease their pilgrimages; the aristocratic patronage evaporates; the empire’s claim to cultural supremacy develops a crack that spreads, that widens, that swallows whole ministries.
So the Emperor watches, and doubts, and does nothing.
And the Church watches, and prays, and does nothing.
They are all, in their way, his dolls in the first place—incapable of doing anything without his explicit permission.
Caleb sets the brush aside and lifts the half-finished head from his workbench. It is for a patron from outside the capital—a mining magnate from the Southern provinces who made his fortune in salt and copper and now wishes to purchase refinement. The man arrived in Linkon six days ago, trailing entourage and desperation, begging for a doll to present to his new wife.
The commission bores him. The proportions are standard. The expression—demure, grateful, slightly downcast—requires no invention; it is the price he pays for his continued sovereignty.
He runs a thumb along the porcelain cheek. The surface is still warm from the kiln’s last firing, and under his touch it seems almost to yield, as though the material remembers being something else and wishes to return to it. He does not indulge such fancies. He sets the head in the rack beside three others and moves to the eastern window, the one that overlooks the lane.
The false nun has been joined by a child—a new element, a boy of perhaps eight years who sells matches no one buys. The Church has started using children now.
Caleb finds this interesting. He files the information in his mind and draws the curtain with a slow, deliberate movement that the agents will read as absentmindedness.
The clock on the mantelpiece—a piece he repaired himself, its face a miniature of his own—ticks toward three. He does not wait for the Southern magnate. He does not wait for the Arts Council inspector scheduled to visit. He waits for the only appointment that has ever mattered.
At seventeen minutes past three, the carriage arrives.
He hears the wheels before the horses, a particular quality of rubber and wood on cobblestone that distinguishes her vehicle from the hundred others that pass outside his door daily. The rhythm is lighter, faster, the gait of horses bred for pleasure rather than labour. He stands at his workbench, his hand suspended over a dish of powdered pigment, and counts the seconds until the carriage stops.
The door opens. He hears the step being lowered, the soft murmur of a coachman speaking words he does not need to hear. Then her voice, answering, too indistinct for the words to carry but unmistakable in its timbre.
Caleb removes his apron—a length of black linen that hangs from his neck to his knees—and folds it into thirds. He places it on the hook beside the kiln room door; then he adjusts his spectacles, smooths his cravat. By the time the three knocks sound against the shop door—one, two, three, the correct pattern established on her third visit—he is already moving through the front room with that soundless, gliding step that makes his heels seem decorative rather than functional.
He opens the door.
She stands on the threshold, smaller than the frame, smaller than the afternoon, smaller than he is by a margin that seems to him not a measurement of height but a statement of scale. She is beautiful. The word arrives in his consciousness as a fact rather than an observation, as inevitable as gravity. She carries a parasol, though the sky is the colour of old pewter and no sun threatens her skin. She wears gloves of white leather that she has yet to remove, and her eyes find his with the immediate, unguarded pleasure of someone who believes absolutely in the safety of the world she inhabits.
“Good afternoon,” she says. “I hope I’m not disturbing your work.”
Caleb tilts his head. The angle is precisely calculated, a gesture of welcome that resembles nothing so much as a key aligning with its lock. “My dear,” he says, and the words fill the doorway, occupying the space between them with a weight that seems to slow the air itself. “You could never disturb me. You are the reason the afternoon exists.”
She laughs and steps across the threshold without waiting for invitation, certain in his welcome of her.
The parasol closes with a snap that echoes in the room, and she stands there, beautiful and surrounded by the watching faces of dolls who have not yet been taught to see her, and she smiles.
“I’ve come for another,” she says. “I know it hasn’t been so very long since the last. But I’ve been thinking about her for months. I can’t seem to stop.”
He closes the door; the latch engages with a click that is a tad too loud with its echo. “Of course you have,” he says and moves past her, not touching—never touching without purpose, never brushing against her in the accidental way of ordinary men—and gestures toward the chair by the display case.
The chair with the velvet cushion the colour of dried roses, it faces the window so the light falls correctly across her face. “Sit, little one. Tell me what grows in your garden.”
She settles into the chair with the fluid, untrained grace of someone who has never been required to perform elegance. Her back does not touch the rest. Her feet, in their pale slippers, do not quite reach the floor. She places the parasol across her lap and folds her gloved hands over it, looking up at him with an expression that holds no calculation, no suspicion, no awareness of the fifteen pairs of eyes that have watched her, in her father’s mansion, through every hour of the day and night for three years.
“I want something of the sea,” she says. “Father says we may finally return to Lemuria by autumn. The physicians say the capital air doesn’t suit his constitution, though I’ve never noticed him ill.”
Caleb has already moved to the tea service. He pours into her cup and then into his own, which is black and featureless and heavy as stone. “Not like the others,” he repeats, carrying the cup to her. He extends it, and when she reaches to take it, her bare fingers brush his. The skin is warm from being contained in the leather. His own fingers are cool, as always, and he sees her register the temperature difference with a slight widening of her eyes that she does not comment upon. She never comments upon the things that should concern her.
“Tell me, sweetling, what fault do you find in your daughters?”
“Oh, no fault!” She cradles the cup in both hands, sipping without tasting, drinking because it is offered. “They are perfect. You made them perfect. But they are … city children. Palace children. They belong here in Linkon, with the dust and the stone. When I take them to Lemuria, they seem … out of place. Like flowers forced to bloom in the wrong season.”
He takes his own chair, the wrought-iron piece that creaks slightly under his weight. He sits with his spine aligned to its back, his coat settling around him like wings folding.
“You wish for a daughter of the tide,” he says. “A child of salt and foam.”
“Yes.” The word is breathed rather than spoken. “Exactly. I knew you would understand. No one else does. I tried to explain to Lady Simone at the Governor’s Ball, and she smiled as though I were speaking in tongues. She said, ‘A doll is a doll, My Lady. What difference is there whether it is made for the shore or the salon?’”
“She is a fool,” Caleb says, without heat. “And you, my treasure, are not. A doll made for the shore carries the shore in her bones. Her weight is different. Her breath,” he pauses, tilting his head again, “her breath would taste of salt.”
Her eyes stare at him over the rim of her cup. There is no fear in her gaze. There is only fascination, the gentle, voracious curiosity of someone who has never encountered a locked door and therefore does not recognize the shape of a key.
“Can you truly make such a thing?”
“I can make anything you require, my lovely girl.” he sets his cup aside, untasted. “For you, I would carve the moon from its socket and polish it to a finish you could wear at your throat. The sea is a simpler commission.”
She laughs again, that bell-like sound that seems to hang in the workshop air longer than its acoustics should permit. “You say the most extraordinary things. The gentlemen at court would be scandalized if they heard you speak of carving the moon.”
“The gentlemen at court,” he says, “are not in this room. And if they were, they would not be scandalized. They would be rendered irrelevant.”
Her cup is soon set aside—she has drunk half, always half, never finishing what is given to her, a habit Caleb has noted across sixteen visits—and rises from her chair. “Will you,” she pauses, her gloved hand suspended in the air between them. “Will you give her the same eyes as the others? The ones that seem to follow you?”
Caleb turns his head. The round spectacles catch the grey light from the window, momentarily eclipsing the violet of his own eyes. “Do my daughters follow you, little one?”
“Sometimes.” She drops her hand, returning it to herself. “When I wake in the night, I think I see them looking at me. But it must be the candlelight. Or my imagination. Lady Simone says I have too much imagination for my own good.”
“Lady Simone,” he says, “knows nothing of my craft. If my daughters look at you, it is because you are the only worthy sight. A doll without a witness is merely ware, you give them purpose.”
She accepts this with a small, pleased nod, as though he has confirmed a pleasant daydream rather than admitted to a truth that would unmake her understanding of her own household. “Then I shall place her facing the window,” she says. “In Lemuria. So she can see the sea.”
“Yes,” he agrees. He returns the face to the cabinet, locking the door with a click that seems to seal something more than glass. “Place her facing the window. She will want to see the tide return.”
“I knew you would understand.” She steps back, returning to her chair. “When might she be ready? I do not mean to rush you. I know your work cannot be hurried.”
Caleb calculates aloud, though he has already determined the answer. “The current commission—a provincial patron, a man of no consequence—requires completion first. My reputation rests on sequence. Two weeks for him. Then,” he pauses, letting the silence carry weight. “Then I shall begin on your daughter. Four weeks. Perhaps five. The sea requires layers, and salt requires patience.”
“I have patience,” she says.
“Do you, my sweetling?” He asks, and the question is so gently delivered, so devoid of edge, that she does not hear the irony.
She has never needed patience. She has him. She has fifteen watchers in her bedchamber. She has the absolute, unwavering attention of the most feared artisan in the Empire, though she believes she has merely purchased handsome toys.
“I shall wait,” she says. “I always wait well. Father's mansion is very comfortable, and I have my books, and my other daughters for company. Although,” she hesitates, a small crease appearing between her brows. “Lately, the one in the blue dress—the fourteenth—she seems different. Her face is the same, but sometimes I find her in places I don’t remember leaving her. By the writing desk, looking at my letters.”
Caleb’s expression does not change. His face is a mask of attentive concern, perfectly constructed. “Porcelain expands and contracts with the weather,” he says. “The capital’s air is treacherous. She may shift on her stand. It is not uncommon.”
“Of course.” The crease vanishes, smoothed away by his explanation. “That must be it. I worried I was being silly.”
“You are never silly, my darling. Your observations are valued, even when the explanation is mundane.” He moves to the door, not to open it yet, but to stand beside it, a sentinel in charcoal and black. “When she is ready, I shall send word. You need not come to me unless you wish to. I can deliver her myself.”
“Oh, would you?” She rises, collecting her gloves, her parasol. “I would like that. The servants are always so clumsy with packages. And I trust only you to handle her.”
“Only me,” he echoes. “That is the correct arrangement.”
She laughs, delighted, and extends her hand. He takes it—not to shake, but to hold, his cool fingers enveloping her warm ones for three seconds, four, five, long past the duration of social ritual. She does not withdraw. She waits, trusting, until he releases her with a slow, deliberate withdrawal that leaves her skin marked by nothing but the memory of pressure.
“Until next time,” she says.
“Until then,” Caleb agrees.
He opens the door. The afternoon has grown darker, the pewter sky pressing low over the lane. Her carriage waits, the horses stamping, the coachman staring resolutely forward. She steps out, opens her parasol although the first drops of rain have not yet fallen, and walks away without looking back.
Caleb watches her go. He watches through his own eyes, and through the eyes he has planted across the city. In the Duke’s mansion, on the third floor, in the chamber facing east, fifteen heads turn. Fifteen pairs of painted eyes focus on the door, waiting for it to open, waiting for her return. The fourteenth doll, the one in blue, has already shifted her position by three degrees, orienting herself toward the writing desk where the letters lie, where the secrets of the Duke’s correspondence wait to be read and transmitted and known.
The dolls do not watch their owners. Not usually. Not unless their maker requires it. And she—his pretty thing, his little one, his only worthy witness—is the only owner worth the watching.
The sixth week arrives, and Caleb does not travel to the Duke’s mansion in the carriage that waits at his door. He walks. He moves through Linkon City with the unhurried, gliding stride of a man who has never needed to rush because time has always arranged itself to accommodate him. The streets are wet from morning rain, and his boots strike the cobblestones without sound, each step placed with the exactitude of a needle penetrating cloth.
He carries the doll in a case of black lacquered wood, fitted with velvet the colour of dried blood. The case is heavy—not with the doll’s weight, which is negligible, but with the density of intention.
Six weeks. He promised five. He has taken six, and the extra week sits inside him like a swallowed key, turning, unlocking something that has been waiting since the moment she first stepped into his workshop.
Caleb sees the carriages before he sees the mansion. Three of them, lined along the carriage drive with their doors thrown open, their interiors already half-stacked with trunks and hatboxes and the innumerable possessions of a household preparing to return to its ancestral seat. Servants move between the house and the vehicles like ants dismantling a colony, their arms laden with folded linens, with leather-bound books, with the fragile, wrapped shapes of porcelain.
They are leaving. She is leaving. The knowledge enters his consciousness not as surprise but as confirmation of a variable he introduced himself.
He made the doll slowly and perfectly; but he made it late.
A footman approaches, hesitant, recognizing the black coat and the case and the spectacles that catch the light like something that has learned to mimic humanity too perfectly. “Mr. Xia,” the boy stammers. “The Duke is expecting you. This way, sir.”
Caleb inclines his head. “Of course.”
The mansion is vast, all ornate columns and gilded cornices and the aggressive, defensive luxury of provincial nobility trying to convince the city of its permanence in the capital. He moves through it without looking up. He has seen the ceilings before, through other eyes. He knows the pattern of the frescoes in the east wing corridor because the fourteenth doll, the one in blue, has stared at them nightly while she slept. He follows the footman with the docile, attentive posture of a craftsman humbled by aristocratic patronage, and inside the locked cabinet of his mind, he files every face they pass for future reference.
Her father, the Duke meets him in the library;he is thinner than his portraits suggest, his complexion is sallow, and his hand when extended to shake bearing the faint tremor of a constitution that the capital’s air has eroded.
“Mr. Xia,” the Duke says, and his voice carries the strained heartiness of a debtor greeting his creditor. “You’ve brought it? My daughter has spoken of nothing else. Six weeks she has waited, sir. Six weeks.”
“Six weeks,” he repeats, and the word hangs between them, perfectly neutral, perfectly weighted. “The work required it. I hope she finds the delay forgiven by the result.”
“I’m certain she shall.” The Duke releases his hand quickly, as though the temperature of his skin has transmitted something that cannot be named. “She’s in the receiving room. I’ll have you shown up. We depart tomorrow, you understand. The physicians insist. The sea air, the native soil. I’m sure you comprehend the urgency.”
“Entirely,” Caleb says. “Family must be preserved at all costs.”
The Duke smiles, uncertain, and gestures to another footman. Caleb is led up the grand staircase, past the landing where the fourteenth doll sits in its alcove, its painted eyes fixed on the corridor. As he passes, he does not look at it, he does not need to; not when he feels its attention like a thread pulled taut between them, of shared sight that vibrates with his pulse. The footman chatters nervously about the weather, about the journey, about the Duke’s gratitude.
He responds with appropriate sounds that are arranged to resemble conversation without speaking the words. His focus is ahead, behind the door at the corridor’s end, where the air already tastes different to him, where the scent of her has begun to seep through the wood.
The receiving room is blue.
She is there, standing by the window with her back to the door, her posture is straight and perfect. She turns when the footman announces him, and her face—beautiful, always beautiful, the template from which he has learned to sculpt perfection—opens into an expression of such unguarded delight that he feels something in his chest, something that is not a heart, constrict with the satisfaction of a predator scenting its prey.
“Oh,” she breathes. “You came.”
The footman withdraws, and the door closes. Caleb stands alone with her, and the case in his hands seems suddenly animate, hungry, a vessel containing not merely a doll but the six weeks of his delay, the accumulated weight of every night he spent perfecting her newest daughter. He sets the case upon the table by the door, and turns to her with a smile that he has constructed from the memory of human warmth, a curve of the mouth that does not reach the violet of his eyes.
“Did you doubt me, my sweetling?”
“Never.” She moves toward him, and her steps are quick, eager, the gait of someone who has never learned that desire should be concealed. “But I thought—Father said you might not finish in time. That we might have to send for her. I couldn’t bear the thought of her travelling alone.”
“She does not travel alone,” Caleb says. “She travels with me. And now, she travels to you to be with you.”
He reaches to open the case, and the doll lies within, nested in velvet, her eyes staring upward with the patient expression he sculpted for her; the hair is made of corn silk, falling around her porcelain shoulders in waves that seem to move even in stillness; she is dressed in a gown the colour of sea foam.
She gasps. The sound is small, delicate, a breakage of breath that he captures and files. She reaches into the case with both hands, lifting the doll with the reverent, instinctive gentleness of a mother retrieving a newborn, and cradles it against her chest. “She’s perfect,” she whispers. “Oh, she’s more than perfect. She’s waiting. Just as I asked. She’s waiting for the sea.”
“No, my sweet; she waits for you,” he corrects, his voice is lower now, the measured cadence beginning to shed its social rhythm, the pretence slowly falling away. “All my daughters wait for you. But this one,” he pauses, and steps closer; enough that the scent of her becomes dominant, that he can see the individual lashes framing her eyes, the faint, living pulse in the hollow of her throat. “This one is special. This one carries the sea in her bones. I made her for the shore. I made her for your bedchamber in Lemuria. I made her to watch the window with you.”
“Yes.” She looks up at him, the doll still clutched to her chest, her eyes wide and trusting and utterly blind to the shift in the room’s pressure. “I shall place her facing east. So she sees the sunrise over the water. So she waits with me always.”
Caleb’s hand rises. His fingers hover beside her cheek, close enough that the air between them seems to thin, to warm with the friction of proximity.
“You speak of waiting,” he murmurs. “You speak of patience. But I have waited, my dear. I have waited longer than six weeks. I have waited through sixteen dolls. Through sixteen visits.”
She blinks.
The doll’s porcelain head shifts slightly against her shoulder. “I … I don’t understand.”
“No,” he says, and the word is soft, almost tender. “You do not. And that is why you are precious. That is why you are mine.”
His hand moves. Not to her cheek—he resists, with a control that feels like the grinding of gears, the urge to mark her, to bruise her, to leave evidence on her flesh that would prompt questions from physicians and ladies-in-waiting and the Duke himself. Instead, his fingers close around the doll. He plucks it from her embrace with the smooth, unhurried motion of a man removing an obstacle from a path, and he turns to the side table—the one by the chaise, the one with the lamp that casts a circle of amber light onto the carpet—and he lays the doll upon it.
“Caleb?” Her voice has changed; not fear—she does not know fear, not in his presence, not yet—but confusion, a gentle bewilderment, the soft uncertainty of a child whose toy has been taken without explanation. “What are you—”
“Hush, little one.” He turns back to her. He is taller now, or the room has shrunk; he stands before her, and his hands rise to cup her face, his thumbs resting along her jawline, his fingers spreading behind her ears into the warmth of her hair. “You have had your doll. You have had your sixteen daughters. Now you shall have me.”
He kisses her.
Unexpected, overwhelming heat spreads. His lips are warm, almost feverish, a temperature that contradicts the coolness of his hands, his skin, his perpetual chill. He opens her mouth with a pressure that brooks no hesitation, his tongue sliding past her teeth to claim the sweetness within, and she tastes of everything he has imagined through sixteen sets of borrowed eyes: tea and honey and the faint, lingering sugar of the macaroons she favours, and beneath it, the essential, irreplaceable flavour of her life, her blood, her breath.
She makes a sound against his mouth—small, and surprised; but she is not resistant.
Her hands lift, fluttering, uncertain where to settle, and he guides them without breaking the kiss, pressing her palms flat against his chest, over the charcoal waistcoat, over the place where no heartbeat pounds but something else resides, something taut and wound and finally, finally releasing.
She clutches the fabric, and Caleb feasts.
He drinks from her mouth as though she contains the only moisture in a desert, his tongue stroking hers, mapping the interior of her lips, the edge of her teeth, the sensitive hollow beneath her tongue. He angles her head with the exact, jointed pressure of his thumbs, tilting her chin to deepen the access, and when she gasps into him—when her breath becomes his breath—he swallows the sound and demands more.
Six weeks. Sixteen dolls. Years of watching, waiting, collecting her moments through glass eyes, and now she is here, real, warm, yielding, and he is devouring the evidence of her existence one kiss at a time.
When he releases her mouth, they are both breathing differently. Her lips are swollen, glistening, parted around questions she does not know how to ask. His own mouth feels altered, sensitized, alive with the phantom of her taste. He looks down at her, at the beautiful creature who stands before him with her hands still grabbing a fistful of his coat, and he smiles with a warmth that is genuine because it is predatory.
“Sweet,” he says. “So sweet, my pretty girl. I knew you would be. I have imagined this taste through every doll I placed in your chamber. I have wondered if you would be honey or cream or something rarer. You are all three. You are everything.”
“I don’t—” she sways slightly; er eyes are unfocused, the pupils dilated, her. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You are being loved by me,” Caleb tells her. “You need understand nothing else.”
His hands move from her face. They trace the column of her throat with featherlight touches that leave gooseflesh in their wake, and then they descend to the bodice of her dress. The fabric is fine, silk or something like it, the colour of ivory, and he finds the fastenings to let the buttons give way, and the hooks to loosen. Tender hands peel the dress from her shoulders with a deliberation that feels like unwrapping a gift he has already waited too long to open, and when the fabric pools at her waist, he reveals her breasts.
They are perfect.
Not the perfection of his dolls, which is symmetrical and cold. They are living perfection, soft and smooth and weighted with the gentle gravity of flesh, the nipples are a shade of rose that no pigment has ever accurately captured. He cups them in his hands and feels the warmth of her radiate into his palms like coals placed against ice.
She inhales sharply; her spine arches, pressing her more firmly into his grip, and he accepts the offering with a low sound that is not quite a groan, not quite a purr, but something that belongs to no human throat.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and the word is reverent and possessive and absolute. “My lovely little girl. Look at you. Look what you’ve hidden beneath all that silk and propriety. Look what belongs to me.”
Caleb lowers his head.
His mouth closes around her left nipple, and the heat of him—impossible, overwhelming, the warmth of a kiln rather than a man—envelops her flesh. He sucks. Hard. The pressure is sudden, intense, drawing the sensitive peak deep into the wet cavern of his mouth, his tongue lashing against it with firm, insistent strokes.
She cries out, a high, broken sound that echoes in the room, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tangling in the brown strands that never fall out of place. He does not release her. He suckles with the focused intensity of a parched man finding a puddle of water, and his pleasure is evident in the way his eyes half-close, the way his jaw works, the way his free hand rises to knead her other breast, rolling the neglected nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it stiffens to match its twin.
He moves from one breast to the other without pause, marking no territory because he claims all of it, every inch, every curve, every shuddering breath. He bites, gently, testing the resilience of her flesh, and when she moans—when her head falls back and her throat exposes itself to the lamplight—he growls against her skin and sucks harder, drawing the blood to the surface, resisting with a violence that trembles through his frame the urge to bruise, to purple, to leave the unmistakable imprint of his mouth where anyone might see. He pulls back only when both nipples glisten, swollen and darkened, throbbing with the heat of his attention, and even then he does not release her breasts entirely. He holds them, possessively, his thumbs strumming across the wet peaks, his eyes fixed on her face.
“Please,” she whispers. The word is directionless, a plea cast into waters she does not know the depth of. “Please, I-I—Caleb, I f-feel so…”
“I know what you feel, sweetling.” His voice is thick, the measured cadence fractured by something that reeks of hunger. “I know every sensation in your pretty body. I have studied you. I have memorized you. Now I am confirming my research.”
His hands slide from her breasts. They grip her waist, and he lowers himself to his knees before her. He looks up at her through his round spectacles, the violet eyes darkened to something near black, and his hands find the hem of her skirts. He pushes them upward, slowly, revealing layer after layer of petticoats, of stockings, of the delicate, ribboned underthings that separate her from the air. She stands frozen, beautiful and small and trembling, her hands hovering in the air as though she has forgotten their function.
“Mr. Xia,” she breathes, suddenly formal until she is not. “Caleb. What are y-you—you mustn’t…”
“I must,” he says simply. “I have lasted not doing this for years. Spread your legs, my dear. Be good for me.”
She obeys. The movement is hesitant, automatic, the compliance of someone who has never been taught to refuse the things asked of her by men she trusts. He guides her feet apart with gentle pressure, and then he is beneath her skirts, his head disappearing into the shadowed, fabric-draped space between her thighs, and his mouth finds her cunt.
She is pretty there, too.
The thought arrives as a fact, as inevitable as gravity; the skin is smooth and soft as the porcelain he shapes in his kiln, the folds delicate and flushed with arousal, glistening with the evidence of her response to his mouth at her breast. He inhales her scent—sweet, yes, but beneath it the darker, saltier perfume of a woman ready to be taken, the essential musk of her sex that no doll, no matter how perfect, can replicate.
Caleb groans, the sound vibrating against her most sensitive flesh, and then he feasts.
His tongue parts her. It strokes upward from her entrance to the hood of her clitoris with a slow, devastating thoroughness, lapping at her as though she were a delicacy to be savoured rather than consumed in one measly bite. She cries out, her hips bucking, her hands falling to his head, gripping his hair with a desperation that seems to surprise even her. He does not allow her movement. His hands clamp around her thighs, holding her spread and open and vulnerable to his mouth, and he delves deeper, pressing his tongue inside her, tasting the liquid heat of her core, before withdrawing to circle her clit with relentless, flickering pressure.
“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh, please, I can’t—it’s too much, aah! I-It’s—”
“It is exactly enough,” he murmurs against her, the words muffled by her flesh, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the pressure. “You will take what I give you. You will take it, and you will thank me, and you will give me more.”
He slides one hand upward, beneath the bunched fabric of her skirts, and finds her entrance with his fingers. Two of them, long and cool, are pressing into her tightness with a steady, unyielding pressure. She is wet, so wet, slick and scorching around his digits, and the sensation of her inner walls clutching at him—living, responsive, desperate—draws another groan from his chest. He pumps his fingers in rhythm with his tongue, curling them upward to stroke the spot inside her that makes her knees buckle, that makes her cry out with a sharp, animal sound that has no place in the receiving room of a noble house.
Caleb makes her cum with his mouth.
The orgasm rolls through her like a tide, slow and inexorable, building from the pressure of his tongue and the stroke of his fingers until she is shaking, sobbing, her thighs trembling around his head, her hands pulling his hair with a force that would dislodge a lesser man’s composure. He is no lesser, much less, is he a man. He does not stop. He rides her through it, gentling his tongue but maintaining the suction around her clit, milking her with his fingers, drawing out every spasm, every clutch, every drop of pleasure until she is limp, gasping, her head lolling in every which way from surrender.
But he is not finished.
Before she can recover, before her breathing can steady, he renews his assault. His fingers move faster, deeper, curling against her inner walls, and his mouth descends again to her clit, sucking with renewed, almost punishing intensity.
A wail rips through her, and she tries to close her legs, to escape the deluge, but his grip is iron, his will absolute. “No,” he commands against her, the word a hot breath against her oversensitive flesh. “You do not retreat from me. You do not deny me. Give me another, little one. Give me what I am owed.”
She cums again, but this time, much harder. The second orgasm crashes into the first without boundary, a continuous wave of pleasure that seems to break something loose in her, some final tether to propriety or consciousness. She sobs his name, “Caleb,” and her body convulses around his fingers, her juices flooding his hand, his chin, the fabric of her ruined underthings.
When he withdraws, she is barely standing.
He emerges from beneath her skirts with his chin wet, his spectacles slightly askew and splattered with slick, his eyes are completely black and blazing with a violet light that seems to generate its own heat.
Caleb rises to his feet, his movements fluid and jointed, and he catches her as she sways, lifting her into his arms with an ease that belies the density of his own frame. “Good girl,” he whispers against her temple. He carries her—not to the chaise—but to the carpet in the centre of the room. The rug is thick and designed with an intricate pattern of blues and golds that will cushion her and hide what spills. He lays her upon it with a gentleness that contradicts the violence of his intention, arranging her limbs with the same care he applies to his dolls, spreading her legs, lifting her hips, positioning her so the lamplight falls across her flushed, naked skin in the exact manner he requires.
And then he turns to the side table.
The doll lies there still, eyes open, her soft hair arranged across the surface. Caleb reaches for her. He lifts her with one hand, the other already working at the fastenings of his trousers, and he places the doll on the carpet before them, sitting in a way that faces them, her painted gaze fixed upon the scene with the unblinking, eternal patience of an audience.
He positions her carefully, ensures her eyes align with the joining of their bodies.
“There,” he says, and his voice is thick, distorted, the voice of something that has worn human speech for too long and is beginning to let the seams show. “Our newest daughter must watch. She must see how Papa loves her Mama. She must learn what wanting truly means.”
Caleb frees himself. His cock is heavy, flushed dark with blood, the skin stretched tight and glistening at the tip with the evidence of his own arousal. He is large—he knows this, has always known it—and he grips himself at the base, guiding himself to her entrance, pressing the broad, weeping head against her slick, fluttering folds.
She looks up at him from the carpet, her eyes glazed, her hair dishevelled, her dress bunched around her waist like shed skin. She is small beneath him, fragile, a living doll arranged for his pleasure, and the sight of her—open, waiting, his—drives a shudder through his spine that he does not suppress.
“Look at me,” he commands. “Not the doll. Not the room. Me. Know who takes you.”
“Caleb,” she breathes. “I-I’ve never—no one has e-ever—”
“I know.” The words are a purr. “And no one ever will. You are mine, my sweetling. I will be your first and your only one forever.”
He pushes inside her.
The tightness is exquisite. It is purity, it is possession, it is the absolute, irrefutable claim of a man who has waited beyond the patience of mortals and now takes what time has owed him. She is wet, prepared by his mouth and his fingers, but she is small, and he is thick, and the stretch of her virgin flesh around his intrusion draws a cry from her throat that is part pain, part wonder, part something deeper that neither of them has language for. He sinks in slowly, inch by inch, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on her face, watching every flicker of sensation cross her features, cataloguing her responses with the obsessive attention he brings to his glazing.
Caleb bottoms out. The head of his cock presses against her cervix, nudging the gate of her womb with a steady, battering pressure that makes her gasp, her hands flying to his shoulders, her nails digging into the wool of his coat.
He is seated to the root inside her, surrounded by her heat, her tightness, the rhythmic, involuntary flutter of her muscles trying to accommodate his girth, and he holds there, letting her feel the full extent of his possession, letting her understand the depth of her impalement. “Feel me,” he murmurs, and his hips begin to move slowly. Each withdrawal is a torture of friction, and each thrust is a deliberate, grinding return that drives him against her cervix with unrelenting force. “Feel where I am. This is where I belong, my dear; buried inside your pretty cunt, so deep that you cannot tell where you end and I begin.”
“Please,” she sobs, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. “Please, Caleb, I—it’s too much, y-you’re so—”
“I am exactly enough,” he growls, and his pace intensifies—not faster, but harder, each thrust landing with a heavy, wet slap of flesh against flesh, the sound obscene and perfect in the quiet room. “And you will take all of me. You will open for me. You will mold yourself around my shape until you cannot breathe without me.”
He fucks her with the intensity of a man performing a sacred rite, his hips rolling and snapping with a precision that seems to target the exact depth, the exact angle, the exact pressure required to shatter her. He watches her, the thin rim of violet in his gaze boring into her face as his cock batters her cervix, as her breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts, as her mouth falls open around sounds that are no longer words but pure, unfiltered expressions of being taken.
“You are going to Lemuria,” he gasps, and the words are punctuated by the heavy, rhythmic impact of his body into hers. “You are going to the sea. To the sun. To your father’s estate. But I will be with you. Do you understand? I will be so deep inside you that it is like I am with you always. Every step you take on that shore, you will feel me. Every wave that breaks, you will remember this. You will carry me in your womb, my seed, my weight, my presence. You will never be free of me, my lovely girl. You will never want to be.”
“Yes,” she cries, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, her face flushed and desperate and beautiful. “Yes, please, I want—I want you with me, I want—”
“You have me.” He leans down, his weight pressing her into the carpet, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss. “All of me. Now give me your pleasure again. Give it to me while I take you. Give it to me because I demand it.”
She cums around his cock.
The orgasm is different from the ones he gave her with his mouth—deeper, more violent, a convulsion of her inner walls that grips him like a fist, milking him, demanding his own release. She screams into his mouth, or perhaps he swallows the sound; her body arches off the carpet, her spine bowing, her nails scoring his shoulders through the fabric of his coat. The sensation of her climaxing on him, the rhythmic, desperate clenching of her virgin cunt around his invading flesh, tears a groan from his chest that seems to originate from somewhere beneath his ribs, somewhere that has never before been permitted to make noise.
But he does not stop.
Caleb breaks the kiss and stares down at her, his spectacles are askew, and his eyes are burning with a black-violet light. “Again,” he commands. “One more. The last one, sweetling. Promise me; promise me you will give me one more, and I will fill you. I will mark you from the inside where no one can see, where only you will know, where you will carry my claim across the sea and through every day of your life.”
“I promise,” she sobs, delirious, overwhelmed, her body still twitching from the aftershocks. “I promise, I promise, please—”
“Together,” he murmurs, and the word is binding like a vow. “Promise, sweetling. Promise. Together now. Good girl.”
He increases his pace. The rhythm that was slow and intense becomes something else—faster, harder, a pounding, battering assault that shakes her body against the carpet, that drives the breath from her lungs, that makes her breasts bounce and her thighs tremble and her head fall back in absolute, surrendered abandon.
“Caleb,” she screams. “Caleb, I can’t, I’m going to—I’m—”
“Now,” he snarls. “With me. Give it to me now.”
She shatters.
The final orgasm crashes through her with the force of a wave breaking against stone, a continuous, rolling convulsion that seems to originate from her core and radiate outward until every limb, every muscle, every nerve is singing with the violence of her release. And as she cums— as her cunt grips him like it can't bear to let go—he finally allows himself to follow.
He buries himself to the hilt inside her, pressing so hard against her cervix that she can feel the pulse of his release like a heartbeat in her deepest place, and he spills into her with a heat that seems to scald, a volume that seems impossible, flooding her womb, her channel, marking her with the irrevocable evidence of his possession. He groans, a sound like stone grinding against stone, like the kiln’s deepest fire finding voice, and he pumps into her with short, jerking thrusts, ensuring every drop is deposited, ensuring nothing is wasted, ensuring she will leave this room carrying him inside her in a way that no sea, no distance, no time can dissolve.
They collapse together, and he does not withdraw; he stays inside her, softening but still present, still claiming, and he gathers her against his chest with hands that tremble only slightly. She is limp, gasping, her face pressed against his collar, her tears wetting his cravat.
The doll watches from the carpet, patient and eternal.
Just like himself.
“Good girl,” Caleb whispers into her hair, his voice returned to its low, melodic register, though it is thickened, satiated, almost sleepy in its satisfaction. “My perfect, sweet girl. You did so well for me. You took everything. You gave everything.”
“Caleb,” she mumbles, half-conscious, her body still twitching with aftershocks around his spent length. “I feel you. I can still feel you. It’s like—it’s like you’re still—”
“I am,” he says. “I will be. Even in Lemuria. Even when you stand on the shore and watch the tide. You will feel me inside you, warm and heavy and real. You will touch yourself in the dark and find me there. You will never be alone, my dear. You have never been alone. I have been inside you since the first doll.”
He adjusts her in his arms, withdrawing finally with a wet, obscene sound that makes her whimper at the loss, and he arranges her dress with gentleness, covering her breasts, smoothing her skirts, restoring the fiction of her propriety even as his seed slides down her skin, even as the mark of him pulses in her bruised, swollen core. He lifts the doll from the carpet—his hands are steady now, perfectly steady—and he places it into her limp, unresisting arms. “Hold her,” he instructs. “Take her to Lemuria; let her watch the window, let her wait with you. And when you look at her, when you see her eyes in the dark, remember that she sees you too, that I see you too.”
She clutches the doll. Her fingers are weak, trembling, but they close around the porcelain body with such tenderness that it makes him smile. “I will,” she whispers. “I promise.”
Caleb stands. He adjusts his clothing—trousers fastened, coat smoothed, spectacles straightened, cravat adjusted to hide the absence of any heartbeat in his throat. He looks down at her, at the beautiful creature lying spent and claimed on the Duke’s carpet, cradling his doll, leaking his seed, marked by him in ways invisible and indelible.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Your father departs tomorrow. I will not see you again before you go. But I am with you. I am always with you.”
He steps into the hallway, closes the door with a click that seals the afternoon into memory, and descends the grand staircase with the posture of an artisan who has merely delivered a commission and received the payment in full.
Dearest Readers,
It is with a trembling hand and a fluttering heart that your humble observer dips her quill into the inkwell this morning, for the sheets that have arrived upon my desk contain intelligence so staggering, so deliciously unprecedented, that one scarcely knows whether to clutch one’s pearls or order a fresh gown for the inevitable celebrations.
Gather round, for the fog of rumour has at last parted.
The Duke of Lemuria—yes, that Duke, the very same whose holdings kiss the salt and spray of the shores, whose treasury is said to be buoyed by tides of pearl and amber—has issued a formal announcement that has set every drawing room, every guildhall, every cloistered corridor of the Citadel, and every shadowed nook of Skyhaven ablaze with whispered conjecture. His Grace declares, in language so carefully wrought it might have been carved from ivory itself, that his only daughter, that radiant creature whom society has long delighted to call the Darling of the Sun and the Sea, is to be united in matrimony to none other than Mister Caleb Xia of Linkon City.
Allow that name to settle upon your palate, dear reader.
Mister Caleb Xia.
The Dollmaker of Skyhaven.
To the uninitiated, one might assume this to be some quaint romantic fancy—a noble daughter smitten with a handsome craftsman, a minor scandal of the heart to be hushed with a modest settlement and a swift removal to the country. But we, who have watched the currents of power eddy and swirl through the capital these many years, know that nothing concerning Mister Xia is ever merely quaint.
Nothing concerning Mister Xia is ever merely anything.
He has never, in all his years of public prominence, demonstrated the slightest interest in the marriage mart. No seasonal balls have found him in attendance. No matchmaking mama has succeeded in cornering him beside the punch bowl. He has moved through our society like a figure in a dream, present and yet untouchable, visible and yet unmistakeably distant. And now, suddenly, shockingly, he is to be a husband. Not merely a husband at that, but a duke.
For here is the particular inclusion of this announcement that has set the Empire trembling upon its axis: upon the solemnization of this union, Mister Caleb Xia shall cease to be Mister Xia in any meaningful social sense. He shall be addressed, henceforth and in perpetuity, as the Duke of Lemuria. He shall assume the full mantle of ducal authority, the administrative sovereignty over those sun-drenched coastal estates, the parliamentary voice in the Imperial Diet, the hereditary privileges and crushing responsibilities that have, for centuries, descended through the bloodline of his bride’s noble house. The Duke of Lemuria—her father, the present incumbent—has effectively declared that his title, his legacy, and his territories are to be entrusted to a man whose primary credential is an unparalleled ability to sculpt a human face from fired clay.
One can almost hear the collective gasp of the aristocracy echoing across the cobblestones.
But wait, dear reader, for the plot thickens into a consistency one might almost spread upon toast. His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor himself—he who sits upon the Obsidian Throne and commands armies that make the earth tremble—has granted his personal approval to the match. This is no mere formality. The Emperor’s endorsement transforms what might otherwise be dismissed as a provincial peculiarity into an affair of state. He is to be family. Imperial family, by extension. The Emperor has, in effect, placed his own shadow between the Dollmaker and those who would seek to question him.
But what of the bride, you ask? What of the creature who has, by this announcement, become the most envied and, one suspects, the most scrutinized young woman in the Empire?
We have long known her as the Darling of the Sun and the Sea, the only daughter of the Duke, a vision of beauty have launched a thousand sonnets and twice as many sighs from the lips of disappointed suitors.
She has resided these past seasons in her father’s capital mansion, a soft presence in a hard city that one might mistake her for a living doll herself—though, of course, no doll, however masterfully wrought, could replicate the particular luminosity of a soul that has never learned to suspect its own reflection.
It is said—whispered, rather, by those who have attended her intimate receptions—that she possesses a collection of dolls so extensive it requires its own chamber in the Lemurian mansion. One wonders, with a delicious shiver of speculation, whether this matrimony represents the culmination of a courtship conducted entirely through the medium of bisque and velvet, a romance whispered across sixteen painted faces, a seduction enacted in the language of craftsmanship.
What other suitor could possibly compete with a man who has, quite literally, populated her private world with his creations?
The matchmaking mamas of Philos are, by report, in various states of collapse. Those who had earmarked the Duke’s daughter for their own sons must now recalibrate their dynastic ambitions. Those who had harboured private hopes of attracting the Dollmaker’s eye—yes, there were such women, bold creatures who fancied themselves capable of thawing that legendary chill—have retreated to their boudoirs to shred handkerchiefs and curse the fates. The Artisans’ Guild of Skyhaven, meanwhile, has entered a state of collective apoplexy, torn between pride at their member’s elevation and terror at the vacuum his exclusivity shall leave in their ranks.
Who shall now serve as the Empire’s premier dollmaker? Who shall fill the atelier that once accepted the most discerning commissions? The answer, one suspects, is no one. The art shall become, under his continued but distant patronage, a relic of the old order.
But let us not, in our fascination with politics and power, neglect the human heart—if indeed human hearts are what beat in the breasts of these two curious figures. For beneath the scaffolding of titles and approvals and strategic calculations, there lies the simple, scandalous, utterly captivating fact of a marriage. A man and a woman. A bedchamber. A life to be shared across the miles that separate Linkon City from the Lemurian shore. She who is soft, and small, and beautiful beyond the capacity of his pigments to capture. He who is cool, and precise, and possessed of a gaze that suggests he has already mapped every day of their future together.
Will he adore her?
The announcement promises he shall. It speaks of a beautiful wife to be adored, of a duchy to be managed with the same devotion he brings to his craft. And one believes it—strange as it may seem, this one believes it absolutely. Not because the language is convincing, but because it is unnecessary. Any man who has spent years fashioning sixteen perfect masterpieces for a woman’s private chamber has already demonstrated an adoration that transcends the conventional vocabulary of courtship.
He has adored her in porcelain. He has adored her in glass. He has adored her through eyes that do not close, through limbs that do not tire, through a vigilance that has never slept. Now he shall adore her in flesh, in title, in the full, unshielded light of ducal privilege.
One can only wonder what children might issue from such a union. But that, I suspect, is intelligence for another season, another sheet, another whispered dispatch from your devoted observer.
Until then, raise your glasses to the happy couple. The tide, it seems, has turned in their favor. And the tide, as every citizen knows, does not turn back.
SAINT'S NOTES ! posting from my back-up because the reach in my main has been so fucked because of that evil fucking tag; nonetheless, have fun with the dollmaker, because i'm back to be evil and start mass-posting again after disappearing for a while. this blog is only a back-up, all interactions and masterlists can be found in here.
smut !! p in v sex , public sex , degrading ( ish ) , 3rd party finding yall ! enjoy — <3
taking price and ghost fighting and running with it.
some stupid argument about john not following rules in their little tuesday off base bar games blossoming into two weeks worth of high level pettiness.
snide remarks, shoulder shoving, hell the only time they even looked at each other these days was when they were on the mats. knuckles red and angry as they tore at one another. pride too solid to shake.
which is how you landed beneath simon.
wobbling cries muffled by the thick of his glove. baby doll tee pulled over your swaying tits and showing off a glistening sweaty back to him.
"s-si'! hun—" you hiccup, words slurred beneath the fabric. back stinging with wicked pleasure as he bends you into a mean arch. he watches the fat of your ass ricket with every drive home of his hard pelvis.
"sh, lovie. can' let big man see us 'ere hm?" he grins, balaclava pulled over his nose. he licks a fat wet strip up your nape. groaning at the musky sent of sex that pours over the room. "fuckin, juusstt like tha',"
prices room.
atop prices desk.
without price.
he curves his hand around your right thigh, smacking harshly at the puffy skin of your ass. you squirm, nails digging into the wooden desk. moans only meeting his covering hand.
he dips his hand down to the slick cream mess between you two. stringy connections of cum pull taught each time he drags out all the way to his tip, just to shove all the way back in as he hauls you backwards and shoves his hips forwards. you scream, eyes white as you claw at the hand around your jaw.
he gathers the slick, white ring around his cock creating gummy noises he isnt bothered to muffle.
simon also knows important papers lay just beneath your rocking body. he rubs at your clit messily, juices soppy. you keen, stomach throbbing with the buldge he bullies into you. you smack at his hand, water brimming your tearline.
everything blurs hot for a second. the slamming of a door doesnt register past your clotted ears.
"wot the fuc—" price barges in. face hot with anger before his eyes slot to yours. he watches as shameful lust swirls in them before he flickers down to the wet connection between you and the lieutenant.
you whimper, would be more embarrassed if you hadnt fucked them both before.
simon plows into your feral, blunt covered nails digging into your cheek.
"gon' cum pretty girl? righ' on the old mans shite?" his fingers move from over your mouth to cupping your jaw firmly. moving your head to arch it back. eyes bearily finding him upside down.
he grins, eyes squinted in pure joy.
looking back up to price as he feels you tighten around him the most deliciously. browns burning with complete intention. youre lost, too worried about your impending explosion of a release to truly care as price watches you melt dumb.
he kisses your temple. feeling you muddle over.
babbles leave swollen lips and brows completely furrowed. "there! t-there, please si'! f-fuc—" with his mean pinch on your clit you choke on your moans, blanking as all crashes down on you.
nails dig into simons skin, blood prickling beneath. raspy screaming moan bouncing between both mens ears.
by the time you blink back to current reality, youre carefully laid over johns ruined desk. damp body smudging papers as they stick to your panting chest.
simon dutifully rubs your hips. smiling at john like the asshole he is.
Tw: manipulation, reader kinda likes it, simon is threatening everyone.
"Sir, I don't think this is appropriate..." you said, eyes fixed on the floor.
"What's the matter, sweetheart? Don't you like me?" Simon grabbed your chin, brushing your skin with his thumb.
You remained quiet. It wasn't that you didn't like Simon, even though you had never seen his face. He was tall, well-built, and you could tell he was strong—everything you liked in a man. But he was your superior.
"Talk to me, baby. Don't you like me?" He hardened his touch, though not enough to hurt you, forcing you to look him in the eyes. You had never felt this way before. You could feel butterflies in your stomach and your cheeks burning.
"I— I like you, sir."
"I like you too, baby. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows that you're mine. Aren't you?"
You nodded. Simon’s hand traveled to your hair and then to your neck; all you could feel were goosebumps spreading across your body.
"I need words, my love."
"Yes, I'm yours."
"Yes. You are mine." Simon’s lips brushed against yours. "Now, go back to your desk. I need to work."
You nodded slowly and walked out of the office. What the hell had just happened? Your brain couldn't process the fact that you had just agreed to be in a relationship with your Lieutenant—your superior.
Days passed, and things only got worse. Everyone was avoiding you. You were the secretary, yet no one wanted to speak to you. What you didn't know was that Simon was the one responsible. He had been threatening the recruits, barking at them that if they got close to you, he would be the one to break their ribs into powder.
Now, you were crying in Simon's lap because no one would talk to you.
"Why is no one talking to me? My job is to help them, but no one is letting me do it. What did I do wrong?" You were sobbing into his chest, your voice cracking with each word.
"It's not your fault, baby. You didn't do anything wrong." You didn't, but Simon certainly had.
"But you don't need anyone but me, my love," Simon whispered into your ear, leaving kisses on your head. "You only need me, don't you?" His voice was soft, but a smirk played on his lips.
You stayed silent. No one had ever treated you the way Simon did. Maybe he was all you needed. "Yes, you're all I need, Si." You sobbed again into his chest. "You don't hate me, right?"
"I would never hate you, my love. Never."
I love obsessed simon, like he can control every aspect of my life idc 🫶
It all started with a cup of coffee on your desk. At first, you didn't drink it—what if someone wanted to poison you? But after a few days, you decided to give it a try. In fact, it was pretty good.
Then, little sweets started appearing, actually your favorite ones. Was it weird? Yes. But you ate them anyway. It didn't interfere with your job and no one was bothering you, so you were fine.
One day after ending your shift, a young soldier stopped you outside in the base parking lot.
"Hey, uhm. You have a minute?" You could tell he was shy.
"Oh, yes. Do you need something?" It was a rare situation; people didn't usually talk to you after you left work.
"Can I get your number?" The man lowered his voice.
"My number?" You thought about it. The guy was cute. Tall. And he didn't approach you like you were a piece of fresh meat. "Yes, why not." You gave him your number and organized a "date." But you were only going to get coffee and talk in a café nearby the base.
What you didn't know was that someone was watching you from afar, clenching his teeth.
You arrive home. The guy seems nice. Perhaps he was the one leaving the coffee and the sweets on your desk and finally got the courage to ask you out. You were showering when you heard your phone ringing. When you unlocked it, you saw a message from an unknown number.
"Hi, sorry, I can't go to our date. It was a mistake asking for your number."
Okay, that was concerning. You didn't even respond; you just deleted the number and kept going with your life.
The day after, you arrived at the base and made your way to your desk. There was a chocolate and a little note: "You're too pretty for him."
The note left your blood running cold. What the fuck did that even mean? You decided to ignore the note and just eat the chocolate. But you felt that something was off. People were acting weird; they didn't say hello to you, or didn't even look at you. And the oddest thing was Captain Price leaving you some documents personally.
"Hello, sweetheart. Can you leave these documents in Lieutenant Ghost's office? As soon as possible."
"Yes, sir." Those were all of your words.
You were nervous. Your last interaction with Ghost—or Simon—was when he spooked some rookie by claiming that he was your boyfriend. You knock on the office door, waiting for an answer. When you hear, "Come in," you open the door and enter. You see him sitting at his desk.
"Morning, sir. Captain Price told me to give you this paperwork." You softly place the papers on the desk.
"Told ya to call me Simon," he said, observing the papers and grabbing a pen to write on them. In the meantime, you decide to look around. You could count on one hand the times you had been in Ghost's office. Your eyes stopped on a little box of the sweets you had been finding on your desk lately.
"Here, give 'em to Price." Simon handed the papers to you. When he lifted his gaze, he saw the way you were looking at the little box. He smirked. "You want one?"
You look at him with surprise.
"Oh, no. No, sir. I'm fine, thanks."
"Come on, sweetheart, don't be shy. Take one," he encouraged you. And you couldn't deny it, you wanted one, so you grabbed one.
"Thank you, sir—Simon." When you took the papers, you saw it. The same calligraphy. The same calligraphy as the note.
You stand in silence, watching the handwriting.
"Everything good, sweetheart?" Simon took you out of the trance. You blink several times and look at him.
"Sorry, sir—Simon. I have to go. Have a good day." You turn around to make your way to the door.
"Wait." You freeze without turning around.
"How was your date with that guy?" Simon asks. You could feel the irony in his tone.
"I didn't have any date, sir." You turn your head to look at him.
"Oh, didn't you? What a shame. The poor guy seemed pretty disappointed when I made 'im send the message." His voice was cold like ice. At this point, Simon was standing in front of you, with his eyes piercing your soul and your heart beating in your throat.
You didn't expect to end up working as a secretary at a military base. But here you were. The work is not difficult at all. Making and answering calls, organizing paperwork. Printing out documents. That kind of stuff. As I said, not difficult. The hard part was dealing with the people, especially men, military men. It's not like you've been stalked or something like that.
Until today. A group of rookies, or that's what you suppose because you haven't seen them before around the base. As a secretary you have to deal with people, that's obvious. But that doesn't mean you have to be oblivious to any kind of weird attitudes towards you.
"Hi cutie," one of the guys said to you, with a flirty tone?
"Hello." You have to keep things professional, not caring if you wanted to throw up because of this disgusting man.
"I need a favor, it's urgent."
"What can I help you with?" Stay calm.
"I need your number." I tried, I swear, I tried, but the only thing visible on my face was repugnance.
"Sorry, I'm not allowed to do that."
"Why not? Do you have a boyfriend?" He asked with a sarcastic tone.
"No, I have no—"
"Yes, she does have a boyfriend." You were cut off by a male voice. When you turned your head, you saw Ghost. The Lieutenant.
"Hello, sir." It seems like all the bravery was washed out of the soldier.
"What do you think you are doing with my girl?" Ghost took a step forward and I could see how the guy just flinched.
"No-nothing sir, I didn't know she was taken." And suddenly the man was shaking.
"Now you know, so fuck off."
The man literally ran away from the room, maybe to the bathroom.
"Thank you, sir." I would not say that my relationship with Ghost is the best one nor the worst. We were just coworkers.
"Call me Simon," he said, looking at you. His eyes felt like someone looking at your soul.
"Thanks, Simon." Why do I feel shy? He's intimidating, but I had never felt this way before.
"Anytime." He walks away like nothing happened. But you had to sit in your chair and take a deep breath because you feel like you were about to pass out.
After that day, the rumors spread all around the base.
"You know the secretary? She's dating Lieutenant Ghost."
"Fuck no."
"That's why she's a secretary."
And you weren't disturbed by those comments, nor was Ghost. Actually, Ghost was the one confirming the statement anytime someone asked him.
"Yeah, she's my missus."
But you thought it was just another rumor. Why would Ghost say those kinds of things?
“Old dog’s can’t learn new tricks, price” Soap would grin across the table. Ghost’s low chuckle followed like smoke. “Bet the missus is bored stiff, Captain.”
Price never rose to the clear ragebait in front of the boys, but the words..stuck. You were younger, gorgeous, and God— always eager for him… yet a small, ugly part of him wondered if they were right. He’d never exactly been the adventurous type in bed—solid, thorough, but not… inventive.
So he cornered Gaz one night after drills.
“Need a favor, Sergeant.”
Gaz raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
Price rubbed the back of his neck, face already red with what he could only pin as embarrassment. “You’re good with the ladies. I want lessons. Real ones.”
Gaz blinked, then a slow, wicked grin spread. “You want a demonstration, Captain?”
Price’s jaw flexed. “Please..”
That’s how you ended up here—naked on the bed, thighs spread over Price’s lap while Gaz knelt between your legs like he’d been invited to dinner.
Price’s big hands were firm on your waist, keeping you pinned back against his chest. “She’s sensitive.” he muttered, almost clinical, but you could feel how hard he was against your lower back. “On with it, sergeant.”
Gaz’s eyes flicked up to yours, dark and hungry. “You ready for this, love?”
You nodded, already wet and aching just from the sheer thrill of the situation.
Gaz didn’t waste time. Two thick fingers slid through your folds, spreading you open. “First thing—don’t rush. Get her nice and wet.” He rubbed slow circles over your clit until your hips jerked, then pushed two fingers inside, curling just right.
Price watched every movement like it was a briefing.
“There’s a spongy spot here…” Gaz pressed upward deliberately causing your whole body to jolt. “Right there. That’s your target.”
He started pumping—steady, focused strokes that dragged over that spot again and again while his thumb kept pressure on your clit.
Price’s voice was rough in your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart. Let him work.”
Your orgasm built fast—embarrassingly so.
“That’s it..” Gaz praised, voice low. “She’s swelling up. See how she’s pulsing?” He added a third finger and the pressure inside became unbearable. “When she starts trying to close her legs, don’t let her. Keep going.”
Price’s hands moved to your thighs, holding them open. You came with a broken cry, but Gaz didn’t stop. He kept fingering you through it, rough and relentless, and suddenly everything felt tighter, hotter, like something was about to—
“There..” Gaz growled. “Let it go, lovely...”
With a whine, a gush of wetness flooded out around his fingers, soaking the sheets and his wrist. Price made a low, filthy sound behind you as he watched you squirt for the first time in your life.
Gaz eased his fingers out slowly, letting you ride the aftershocks, then lifted his soaked hand to show Price. “That’s the spot. Consistent pressure, curved fingers, and you don’t stop when she comes.. you keep going until she gives it to you.”
Price’s breathing was ragged. His cock was nearly throbbing against your back.
Gaz wiped his fingers on your inner thigh, then met Price’s eyes. “Your turn, Captain.”
Price shifted you forward, laying you down properly. He kissed the inside of your knee, voice low with promise.
Divorced dad!Ghost noticing his new younger neighbor talking to his 4 year old daughter Emily, cooing over a frog she found while you tell her not to kiss it because it wont turn into a frog prince (duh), cigarette in hand as he silently watches.
That sundress does nothing to hide your frame, the swell of your breasts peeking out the top of the dress, a pretty necklace hanging in your cleavage, his cock chubs up nicely in his work pants, wishing he could just bend you over and take you in the middle of the street. He'll settle for just this for now.
30 minutes later Emily drags you to Simon to introduce you as "the pretty lady from next door" and you awe at her before sticking your hand out for a handshake towards the big brute.
He extends his thick calloused hand and shakes it firmly, feeling how soft your hand is, he feels no ring... good. He'll change that soon.
You end up talking for a while exchanging numbers before heading off to wherever you were going before.
Ghost stares at the phone number you gave him before quickly shutting his phone off, already anticipating the next time he sees you.
“told you to stop sending me twitter porn, freak.” you scoot away from him in bed.
“babe we gotta try it.” he grabs your waist and scoots you back over. “what? you don’t like me all of a sudden?” he peppers kisses across your hot cheeks. “just watch it.”
he watches you open the link, the way you squirm, watching the girl hump against the guys abs. the way she moans, the way her thighs shake, the guy looking up at her like she’s hung the stars.
“let’s make our own.” he nudges his nose against your neck.
“our own what?” you purse your lips.
“video. of you rubbing this cute little pussy on my abs.” he starts to kiss the side of your neck.
“you don’t have any abs.” you close your phone, tossing it aside.
“shut up.” he chuckles. “you can ride my face after while i jerk my shit.” he nips at your pulse.
you push him back on the bed and push his shirt up and he’s quick to tug it off, watching with lidded eyes as you shimmy out of your sleep shorts. you straddle his waist, looking down at the phone he’s hold in one hand while the other his resting on the back of your thigh.
“c’mon pretty.” he flexes his muscles and that’s all the coaxing you need. “pull this shirt up for me.” he slides the hand on your thigh up, dragging the fabric of one of his shirts up your body.
he hums when you press yourself against his abs, lifting the shirt up to your neck in the process. you give an experimental grind of your hips and a soft moan slips from your lips. you press harder, fingers curling into the shirt you’re holding up. he flexes again, your breath catches as you follow the ripple.
“nghh fuck!” you gasp, perked clit pressing right against his hard muscle.
“feels good?” he looks up at you with a lazy grin.
you nod your head and hump against him faster, chasing that building heat in your tummy. he lets his hand on your waist slide up to your tits, kneading and playing with your nipples, pulling the softest sounds from your lips. he can feel how wet you’re leaving him and he squints his eyes with an idea.
“keep those eyes open.” he pinches your nipple, accompanied by a little zap.
“denki!” your mouth falls open when he gives the same treatment to your other nipple.
he drops his phone and grabs onto you with both hands, rubbing all over, stopping to send little shocks to your nipples that make you melt. you’re drooling, pleading, thighs shaking right on the edge, when you feel it.
“ahh! denk- denki please!”
electricity flows through his abs, through your slick going straight to your pussy and your hips stop, orgasm tearing through you as you soak his muscles. he keeps you moving until you’re spent and he’s pulling you up his chest.
Baby!Yuji realizing his resemblance to dad!Sukuna.
°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔
You noticed that six-year-old Yuji had been looking in the mirror a lot lately. He was constantly studying his face and playing with his hair. As he did the exact same thing right now, a fond smile touched your lips. You walked up behind him, resting your hands gently on his small shoulders.
"Looks like someone really loves looking in the mirror."
He turned to you and smiled.
"Mommy! I look like Daddy!" he said.
"Ah, so that's why. You were discovering how much you look like your dad."
"Look, my eyes and my hair... just like his!"
His excitement made you giggle. You ruffled his hair and kissed his rosy cheeks.
"Yes, baby. You're a mini version of your dad."
Lately, everyone who saw him kept saying how much he looked like his father. The boy had heard it so many times that he actually started to notice the resemblance himself.
When Sukuna walked into the room, Yuji shared his discovery with him too.
"Daddy, look at me!"
He widened his tiny eyes as if to prove it and pointed at his pink hair.
"Look, we're exactly the same!"
A small, smug smile appeared on Sukuna’s face.
"You're your father's son, kid."
Hearing his dad's words, Yuji's face lit up. But then, a sudden thought about you seemed to cross his little mind.
"I don’t look like Mama."
You pouted slightly.
"You didn’t have to say that right to my face, Yuji."
Sukuna let out a short chuckle, a lazy, playful smirk on his lips.
"Sorry about that," he murmured. "My genes are just a bit too stubborn."
You rolled your eyes.
Encouraged by his dad's laughter, the little boy turned back to the mirror with a proud grin.
"My lips, my nose... all Daddy!"
You let out a soft laugh.
"Yeah... You really do look like your dad."
"I didn’t know you loved your father quite this much," Sukuna teased, a hint of deep amusement in his voice.
Yuji hugged Sukuna's legs tightly and looked up at him.
"I love my daddy sooo much!"
Sukuna ran his hand through Yuji's pink hair, ruffling it gently.
you told katsuki you were a virgin much before your relationship started, and thankfully katsuki was actually pretty nervous about that shit anyways, mostly cause he was a little bitch deep down but also because he was terrified of hurting or scaring you off. sooo, you had time to get comfortable around him before you had to start worrying about sex. it didn’t worry katsuki either, not at the start of your relationship atleast. but when the time started to get around three months of dating, he was losing control. the more inlove and consumed he became .. the more harder trying to control the urges he promised he buried down became.
it became so bad nearly everything you did made him hard. you had this natural purity about you, the idea of corrupting and taking your virginity .. being the first to bury himself inside of you. it fucking ruined him.
the kitchen glowed with a soft warmth, sunlight spilling through the windows while the stove filled the room with gentle heat. beside you, katsuki moved around the counter with rolled sleeves and flour-dusted hands, making the whole space feel warmer than it had any right to.
you wanted to help him make dinner, obviously your help consisted of you standing there watching him stir the sauce. “yknow your a great help.” he muttered dryly, sarcasm coating his words as his eyes flicked to you. “you literally won’t even let me help.” his response was an eye roll but the corner of his lips quirked into a smile. mindlessly, he dipped two of his thick fingers into the sauce the consistency thick against his digits. “oo— i wanna try!” you stated, he stood back expecting you to do anything other then grab his hand and wrap your mouth around his fingers, your tongue flattened beneath his fingers gently sucking on the seasoning.
you’d think for katsuki he’d have some cocky reaction, but he just froze. unable to process the blooming feeling in his stomach. he didn’t feel like he was in control of the situation, blush coated his cheeks much more obvious then he’d like to admit, internally he swore he could feel all the blood rush to his cock as the hardening length strained against the fabric of his boxers.
his eyebrows were slightly pulled inwards as a little sound left his throat but the second your eyes met the weakened red ones looking at you, his composure pulled back. you had to manually pull his fingers from your mouth with your hand
watching in real time as his head almost dropped. “i-i uh gotta go to the bathroom. jus- stay here.” he muttered all the usual dry strain in his voice had melted down into a clearer sorta more aware vocality.
you hummed as he walked off, slowly smiling to yourself because it was just so easy to get to katsuki and you knew the second you let him on you he’d be fucking you senseless, you’ve always wondered how long can katsuki bakugo really hold out for?
don’t kill me cause it isn’t jaw droppingly freaky
coming home from a tiring day and expecting bkg to be up and ready and cooking but to find him on the couch snoozing :(
nom nom nom
for the next move in your relationship with bakugou katsuki, he gave you the key to his apartment. it’s a fancy word, apartment. not flat, not your student shared house you lived in a few years ago or your family home with your tiny bedroom and snacks that will be snatched by your siblings.
your boyfriend’s apartment. it’s a skyscraper bachelor pad which, with the integration of you in his life, has become a home of more. or really katsuki’s house, with mini shrines to you all over it.
your favourite cereal and fruit bars in the cupboards, your favourite biscuits you dip in your tea and the fridge with a tub of the only yoghurt you eat. his living room which before had no blankets, has four. all chosen by you every time you go shopping with him and his inability to say no. then about three books you’re currently reading, your nintendo switch you leave at his house. his bathroom with your spare toothbrush, makeup wipes and a duplicate skincare selection of the one you have at home.
however, even though it might look like you live here for half of your week, your boyfriend still loves to treat you like a guest.
cooking for your every time you come over. fluffing up his cushions so you don’t think he only comes to his apartment to sleep and leaves for work. cleans up, showers, resprays himself with cologne and deodorant.
with all that said, you know what to expect with katsuki, especially when you use his front door key for the first time. no need to knock and wait to hear him rush over to the door, waiting a single second to pretend to look like he didn’t just run before opening the door.
this time, you opened the door yourself and instead of seeing your boyfriend in his kitchen, mixing something in his wok, adding soy sauce somewhere and veggies somewhere else, you can’t see him anywhere. you know he’s home though, he texted you an hour ago to say he would be.
you kick off your shoes and pull off your jacket. dumping your bag on the floor, you wade your way through his apartment.
“katsuki? are you on the toilet?” you call but as soon as you enter his living room, you go silent. a smile springs up on your face instead.
“awe,” you mumble and the feeling you get when you see a cute puppy, a little tiny kitten or a chubby sweet baby, fills up inside of you. warmth and love, everything pink with the urge to squeeze.
this grown ass man was dead to the world. laid in his cloud ivory L shaped sofa, on his back, chest softly breathing up and down, up and down. in through his nose and out through his lips.
it’s rare you witness katsuki sleeping. he’s always up before you for his work and on weekends when you get to sleep in, he’s always in that half awake stage when if you try and sneak out under him, suddenly he gains all consciousness to drag you back.
the size of him is a shock. to see a man that large resting. he feels like a lion, ready to pounce at any hint of a predator. he’s in his comfy clothes, wool hoodie and grey joggers. both his hands on his stomach, resting over each other like an old man. you coo at the sight of him with no frowns nor is he on the edge of a bark.
you kneel at the edge of the sofa, knowing that if anyone where to see you now, you’d be framed as a loving girlfriend or an utter creep.
you couldn’t care less. you brush katsuki’s damp blonde strands off his forehead, wondering whether kissing his cheek is worth it to wake him up.
until one eye snaps open. bakugou jumps out of your grasp, onto his elbows with a yelp, “fuck!”
he makes you jump too, eyes wide as you watch his cortisol slowly level back to normal.
“it’s just me!”
“shit, i wasn’t expectin’ you to be there.” he lays back on the sofa, forearm over his eyes. sleep causes his voice to be a deep growl, every word delicious. “didn’t even realise i fell asleep, was supposed to be startin’ dinner for ya.”
“it’s okay, you must have been sleepy,” you say quietly, hands back on your lap and bakugou swings his head over to look at you.
he licks his bottom lip. eyes with creases around them, skin stiff but the endearment in his eyes is undeniable.
“how are you, sweets? sorry, i’m outta it.” he reaches for your waist, urging you to sit up next to him on the sofa.
you do eagerly, flinging your body over his like he’s your life boat, head on his shoulder. bakugou wraps his arms around your back.
“i’m fine. you’re such a cute sleeper.”
bakugou scoffs, closing his eyes, “shut up.”
“you are! like a baby, one who’s eating all their meals.”
“yeah?” he entertains.
“hm,” you hum, “wanna kiss all over your sweet cheeks.”
he peels one eye open. one thing about the prohero, he loves your attention. “go on. then i’ll start cookin’.”
you sit up, hands on his shoulders, “we can always order in. you’re clearly exhausted.”
“i like cookin’ for you,” he mumbles when you press your lips onto his cheekbone.
immediately bakugou grins, hands resting on your hips.
“but you don’t have to.”
another kiss to his right cheekbone. then his chin.
“i would rather lay here with you,” he murmurs.
“nice. i’ll look for something for us.”
a kiss on his eyelids, then his forehead.
“proper kiss now.” he pushes, tilting up his chin to keep closer to your face.
“so bossy,” you smirk before pressing your lips onto his.
thinking about being an assistant on base when price raises some concerns about ghosts' intentions with you…
(humor, no smut but mildly suggestive)
cw: fem!reader, stalking (but it's consensual), very delusional reader, ooc, very silly crack fic, implied perv!ghost, word count: 722
You’re not sure what to expect when Price insists on a meeting with you and two of his soldiers. He silently steps into your office with the look of someone who's delivering world-shattering news.
“Need to show you something, sweetheart.”
He places a folder on the table, and you’re expecting the worst. That maybe one of their enemies found out about you, though you don’t know why they’d choose to target a secretary.
What you’re not expecting to see is dozens upon dozens of printed out photos of the Lieutenant's room.
You can see the missing coat that you've been wondering about for weeks on his bed. At first glance, his bedside table is filled with garbage, but after a closer look, it’s obviously your garbage. Used coffee cups with lipstick stains still on them– is that your favorite spoon?
“Obviously, we had tae tell ye, lass. However, ye wannae proceed-”
"I know!" You cut him off with a smile.
"Ye… know?" he repeats, brows furrowed and sure he heard you wrong.
"Yeah, I know! He's been doing this for about seven months now. I left him a key to my place not too long ago."
It’s silent for a moment before Gaz speaks up. “You just- you handed him a key?” he questions.
You scoff, rolling your eyes at the absurdity. “Of course not!”
Price nearly sighs in relief at the realization you’re taking the piss– just some poorly timed banter, an attempt to cope.
“If I handed it to him, that’d ruin the game. I ‘accidentally’ dropped my spare key when I brought him some paperwork.”
Soap blinks slowly, head tilted as he stares at you. “The game?”
Gaz can only stare at you as you nod. “Yeah! Ghost likes to take care of me, but he also likes the chase. It’s like… we’re playing cat & mouse!”
It's at this point that Price questions every decision he's ever made. "I’m sorry. So, just to be clear, you’re aware Lieutenant Riley is stalking you, and you're… okay with that? Actively encouraging it?"
"Yes, sir, I'm aware. He's not very subtle with these things."
Right. The man whose call-sign is Ghost isn't subtle with his stalking of their civie secretary.
"But," Soap starts, only for the words to escape him.
You just continue to smile, completely oblivious to the inner turmoil and psychological damage you’ve inflicted on these men. "Why?" you ask. The sergeant just gives you a nod as you finish his question.
"Well, since Ghost's started taking care of me, my life's gotten so much better!" You say as if that's a normal sentence.
"Whatever vitamins he's been sneaking into my shampoo has made my hair so soft. If something in my apartment breaks, I don’t even have to ask my creepy landlord; it just fixes on its own."
Soap opens his mouth– to say what he’s not sure– just to close it again. Price is taking deep breaths to calm himself, and Gaz? He’s got his head in his hands and is looking anywhere but you.
“Oh! And there was this one neighbor, ugh, he was so creepy. He was constantly inviting me to go out to these fancy restaurants, bragging about his finance job. He ‘moved out’.” You chuckle as if reminiscing on a fond memory.
Gaz shouldn’t have to ask you to clarify why you put that in air quotes. “You realize that he didn’t move out, right? It’s important to me that you realize that.”
You ignore him, continuing to explain all the ways your life’s improved. “It’s also nice not to have to worry about walking anywhere alone at night. The only downside is I have to buy a lot more underwear now.”
They have a feeling you’ll go on all day if they don't stop you.
"Right," Price coughs, rifling through his memories to try and figure out what form he'll have to file with HR for this. "Well, as long as it's consensual."
"It is! Enthusiastically consensual."
Gaz laughs partially out of amusement but mostly bewilderment.
"You and LT were made for each other." Soap grumbles as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
You decide it's best not to mention that said Lieutenant is probably (definitely) watching the four of you chat from the cameras he'd placed in your office months ago.
! synopsis: in an interrogation, the colonel’s arrogance pissed you off more than anything else. to mock him at least, you decide to give his gun a blowjob...
! tags: nsfw, mdni, colonel!caleb, bratty!reader, powerplay, dubcon themes, dead dove themes, gunplay, use of a baton, oral (m!receiving), manhandling, creampie, swallowing, a closeted perv!caleb
! wc: 3.4k
you sat alone, wrists bound with sleek magnetic cuffs that glinted under the light of an unfamiliar chamber. your hair had fallen loose from the standard tie, clinging to your cheek. dust smeared along the sleeve of your clothes, a remnant of the chase that led you here.
then, the colonel entered.
tall, meticulous, draped in regulation black. silver insignias gleamed on his collarbone, catching the sterile light. he simply shuts the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, watching you. “you're not listed in any fleet registry, so either someone went through a lot of trouble to scrub you clean—” he reached into the inner lining of his uniform and retrieved a slim baton. “or you were never meant to be here in the first place.”
your breath hitched, but your face didn’t change. he twirled the baton in his fingers - slowly, like a man spinning thought between his hands - before he drifted behind you. “your infiltration logs were brilliant, i’ll give you that,” you felt the baton before you saw it, its cool metal brushing lightly against the curve of your neck. it was just there, ghosting over your pulse.
“who are you?” his voice was close now, just right behind you, coaxing—as if he already knew, and was waiting for you to admit it.
you tilted your chin to say, “you first.”
he then gave a low hum, a smirk with an imperceptible huff. the baton dragged lightly down the side of your throat, trailing warmth in its absence.
“watch your mouth.”
arrogant bitch.
you cursed inside your head. the baton slid lower a breath along your collarbone, light enough to be mistaken for air. “you stole a signal that doesn’t exist on official channels,” he whispered, a lulling edge to the end. “you replied to something that no one should’ve been able to hear.”
the baton stilled, resting just at the base of your throat. you could feel its weight, you could feel his weight and the full press of his attention, sharp and absolute. then he leaned down that you could feel the surface of his lips ghostly brushing against below your ear. it made you want to shiver. “who sent you?”
you let the silence stretch, let it fester. his question lingered in the air between you, still clinging to the metal baton resting against your skin. then, you snickered. a sharp, cruel thing. like a blade dragged across velvet.
”you talk too much,” you turned your head as much as the restraints would let you, and your eyes met his over your shoulder, unapologetic “you wear all that black like it’s meant to scare me, but i’ve seen even more prettier things rot.”
you smiled faintly, before moving just a sudden shift, a sharp buck of your knees and a jerk of your shoulder - but enough to make the chair scrape against the floor, to make him step back out of instinct. you twisted hard, trying to unbalance yourself, maybe break the armrest, maybe dislodge something sharp.
but before you could even move again, his hand was on your shoulder. ”you're not being clever.” he leaned down. the baton tapped once, gently, against your temple. “you don't need to bury your fear under your sleeve, i've broken better masks than yours.”
and then, slowly, he stepped around you, back into view. and from his hip he drew the gun. polished, regulation-issue sidearm, matte black and loaded. he didn’t point it at you, nor did he try to threaten. he simply turned it over in his hands, admiring it and kneeling down, until you were face to face.
he lifted the gun, deliberately, and tilted the barrel so it rested beneath your chin. the touch was featherlight. “do you know what makes me dangerous? it’s not this.” then came a gentle tap against your jaw with the muzzle. “it’s that i never need to use it.” he tilted his head, eyes dragging across your face like he was dissecting it.
“because i know someone like you folds easily.”
there's a pause, long enough to stretch. long enough for you to feel the weight of it all, his breath, the barrel, the words that still clung to the air like smoke. but you refused to flinch. instead, with the slow calculated tension of someone who’s been waiting, you twist your wrists. the cuffs groan in response, before...
a snap!
metal splits with a screeching crack, and before the sound even finishes ringing out, you instantly moved. only your hands can though, as your ankles are also trapped. your fingers wrap around his wrist and wrench the gun from his hand, trained.
he lets you, strangely. he lets you drag the muzzle up, up, up - until it’s basically pressing into your own lips, eyes locked with his like a dare. “you could put this in and pull the trigger, but i still won't talk.”
colonel caleb smirks, standing up without breaking eye contact. after a slight pause, he twists your wrist in an abrupt flicker to take the gun back between his fingers, and then, “sure, i will.” he says, right before forcing the gun into your mouth.
this catches you off guard, making you squirm on your seat and grip on the armrests. you could feel how the barrel of his gun is pushing your mouth lpen just to adjust to its size. though it wasn’t fairly big, the absurdity of the gesture only seemed to humiliate you.
you watch him stare down at you. why wasn't he saying anything? you watch how his eyes were slowly turning lazy, a ghost of an uncharacteristic smirk forming between his lips.
the cold metal of the barrel stretched your lips wide, a blunt and intrusive presence that tasted of oil and gunpowder. you let out a muffled, indignant sound, your throat working as you tried to accommodate the intrusion. your hands gripped the armrests so hard your knuckles turned white, eyes wide and flashing with a mixture of shock and mounting fury. you expected the sting of a slap or the bite of a blade, but whatever this shit is far more humiliating.
is this typically how the colonel treats problems?
caleb didn’t pull back. he stayed close between your thighs, gaze heavy and unblinking as he watched you struggle. he looked less like an interrogator and more like a man watching a beautiful, trapped bird flutter its wings in vain. “what happened to all that fire?” he asked, “you were so ready to bite, weren’t you?”
he leaned forward, his weight shifting as he used his free hand to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. with a slow movement, he pushed the muzzle deeper. it wasn’t a violent shove, but a commanding pressure that forced your jaw to unhinge just a fraction more. the metal slid past your teeth, only pressing against the sensitive flesh of your tongue.
“there she is,” he murmured, a ghost of a laugh catching in his throat as he saw the way your eyes narrowed into a fierce glare from beneath the heavy lid of your lashes. “the little rebel. you look so much more... compliant... when you can't find the words to insult me.”
you tried to snarl, to let out a defiant sound, but it only came out as a choked hum against the steel.
“hmmgh!” you glared at him from below, eyes burning with a silent promise of retribution, but the effect was lost on him. instead of intimidation, your fury seemed to feed his amusement. he watched the way your lips strained around the gun, the way your breath came in shallow, ragged puffs.
“don’t look at me like that,” caleb teased, the thumb of his free hand tracing the curve of your lower lip, just where the gun met your skin. “unless you want me to see just how much of this you can take before you start begging.” he gave the gun another slight, teasing nudge, testing the limits of your endurance. “yeah? you’d hate that, won’t you?”
absolutely.
you had reached your limit. the humiliation was a bitter taste, second only to the oil on the barrel, and your patience snapped like a frayed wire. in a sudden burst of movement, you lunged forward, hands flying up to grasp his wrist. you intended to shove him back, to reclaim the space he was so brazenly invading, but the colonel was obviously a man of iron and discipline. his grip on the sidearm only tightened, the metal clicking as his fingers braced against the frame. his brow furrowed, a stern frown settling over his handsome features.
”enough,” he warned, voice dropping into a low register that signaled the end of his patience. “stop this theater, or i’ll stop being gentle. don’t complain when i decide to pull the trigger right now."
the threat should have made you recoil. it should have sent a tremor of terror through your limbs. but as you stared up at him, the sharp edges of your glare began to melt. you didn’t see a killer; you saw a man. a man who was far too comfortable in his dominance, a man who relied on the fear of his shadow to keep people in line.
if he wants to play the colonel, then you might as well play the siren.
your hands, which had been trying to push him, suddenly softened, as your fingers curled around the solid shaft of the gun. you leaned into the metal, eyes losing fury and replacing it with a hooded liddedness. then, with a deliberate grace, you began to suck on the barrel.
you bobbed your head in a rhythmic, mesmerizing motion, lips sliding over the steel as you looked up at him through your lashes, your gaze a sultry challenge.
caleb, the man who had been so dominant, so utterly in control, froze. his eyes widened, the pupils dilating until the dark iris was nearly swallowed by black. his breath hitched, an audible intake of air that betrayed the sudden jolt to his system. he was speechless to say the least.
who’s in control now?
while you maintained the facade of the seductive captive, your mind was working a different kind of magic. beneath you, hidden by the shadows and the intensity of the moment, your ankles were in constant motion. you worked the metal of the locks, twisting your feet, feeling for the mechanism, trying to find the slight give in the heavy restraints.
and you kept the rhythm steady, your eyes never leaving his, watching the way his composure began to fray at the edges. caleb was fighting a losing battle; you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard, trying to suppress the pained expression that was threatening to break through his mask of authority. the stoic colonel was drowning in the image of your lips on his weapon, and the hunger in his eyes was no longer just about information.
but then...
“so...” he finally spoke, his voice a gravelly, strained shadow of its former self. “this is the real game you’re playing? you aren’t here for the signal... you’re here for this?” he challenged, his gaze burning into yours “are you so desperate for a taste of something real that you'd settle for my gun?”
abruptly, he pulled the gun free from your mouth. the sudden absence of the metal left your lips feeling cold and strangely empty. you watched, mesmerized, as a glistening thread of saliva stretched between your bottom lip and the muzzle, a silver line that shimmered in the dim light before finally snapping. he didn’t look at you as he set the sidearm aside on the table with a thud.
“if you are so eager to satisfy that hunger,” caleb murmured and reached for the waist of his trousers, “then use the real thing, hm?” his fingers caught the tab of his lower zipper, and the sharp zzzzzzt of the metal teeth parting sounded like, to you, a threat.
the sheer audacity of the gesture hit you like a physical blow. your composure, the carefully constructed mask of the seductive prisoner, shattered instantly. a soft, broken gasp escaped your lips, but no words followed.
what the hell? you had expected him to fall for it, but not like this.
you wanted to look away, to reclaim your dignity, but you were like a moth drawn to a terrifying flame.
caleb let his buttons part, and with a triumphant smirk, he revealed himself. your breath immediately hitched, caught in the back of your throat as you stared.
he was massive, an angry, twitching red, incredibly hard and straining with a life of its own, the veins standing out in sharp relief against his skin. there was already a bit of pre-cum leaking out the tip. says a lot about how long he’s been rock hard for you. the sight was overwhelming, making you feel small, vulnerable, and achingly aroused despite yourself.
“go on,” caleb commanded, “suck it. that's an order.”
you swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat making the movement feel clumsy. for a moment, the old defiance flared up again, a desperate attempt to reclaim the high ground. you tilted your head back, eyes narrowing into that sharp glare again as you looked up at him. “is this what a colonel does? is this how you conduct an interrogation?”
caleb takes a heavy step forward, closing the distance until he was looming over you. he reached down to catch your chin in a rough, uncompromising grip that forced your face upward.
“show some respect.”
“i’m not... i’m not going to suck that.” you tried to pull your chin away, to turn your face in a final act of rebellion, but he was too fast.
“that’s okay,” a slow smile spread across his lips as he swiftly pulled your jaw back to his gaze again. “because i’m going to make you.”
you opened your mouth to launch a scathing rebuttal, to tell him exactly where he could shove his arrogance, but the words never made it past your lips. because with a powerful lunge, caleb suddenly guided himself forward, sliding his thick, pulsing cock straight into your mouth! the sheer size of him was overwhelming, stretching your lips to their absolute limit and forcing your jaw to unhinge as he buried himself deep. “hmmph!” an involuntary moan escaped you, muffled by the heavy weight of him.
caleb let out a ragged sigh of relief, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as he savored the tight, wet heat of your mouth. he didn’t move to pull out; instead he stayed there, his free hand reaching out to give your cheek a playful caress. “be a good girl,” he whispered, eyes narrowing. “and take it well.”
and then, just like that, the colonel started to thrust, thrust, and thrust—his hips moving in a cadence that drove him deep into your throat! his other hand braced against the back of your chair, knuckles white as he tried to anchor himself, using the furniture to leverage the force of his movements. while you were forced to bob your head in time with him, eyes watering as you struggled to accommodate the relentless pounding of his manhood.
meanwhile, caleb was a moaning mess above you, his voice a breathless thing. “that’s it... j-just like that.” he grunted, words stumbling over one another as he forced you to keep up with his punishing pace. “suck it dry... don’t you dare stop...” he was trying to command you even now, but the cracks in his countenance were widening with every thrust.
so this is the great colonel. all that black leather and discipline, and all it takes is a little bit of heat to turn him into a mess. if he wanted to lose control, you were more than happy to facilitate it.
instead of just taking him, you decided to take him apart. you squeezed your lips tightly around the length and began to twirl your tongue around the rim in a slow, agonizingly deliberate circle. you immediately felt the way his entire body jolted at that.
“ngh...!” caleb let out a loud, guttural grunt, his hips slamming into your mouth now with a desperate, uncoordinated force. he leaned into you so heavily that you had to tilt your head back at a sharp angle just to keep from being crushed, your neck straining under the weight of his need.
he was so damn loud—the man who prided himself on silence and discipline was now making sounds that were almost animalistic.
“god... you’re such a... a good girl.” he gasped, the compliment sounding more like a plea than a praise. ”so good... keep doing that... please...”
his hand, which had been caressing your cheek, suddenly migrated upward to tangle his fingers deep into your hair. he formed a tight fist, his knuckles grazing your scalp as he anchored your head in place, forcing you to stay exactly where he wanted you. his eyes were squeezed shut so tightly that wrinkles formed at the corners.
he felt so good from your blowjob that he had to bite his lower lip hard, teeth sinking into the flesh while a series of rough groans tore from his throat.
seeing him so close to the edge, feeling the way his fingers trembled in your hair, you decided to drive the final nail into the coffin of his composure. as you continued to work your mouth over him, you reached up, hands sliding around the base of his thick shaft. you began to stroke him, palms slick with your own saliva.
and because of that, caleb fucking chokes on his own cries, loud enough to echo in the chamber. he was panting heavily now, chest heaving as he looked down at you with eyes that were glazed and unfocused. “you... you’re a little devil,” he trembled, leaning down further. “a natural... a goddamn natural at this...”
then, the dam finally broke.
with a shuddering jolt that racked his entire frame, caleb erupted.
he surged forward, his hips slamming against your face as he spilled himself into your mouth in thick, hot, unending bursts. the sheer volume of it caught you completely off guard! instinctively, your body recoiled, head jerking back to escape the overwhelming sensation, but he was still coming, still squirting and shooting toward you.
you felt the hot liquid splashing against your cheeks, coating your lips, and even spraying across your chest. there were too much!
caleb slumped forward, his hands slamming onto the back of your chair to steady himself. he was gasping for air, his head hanging low as he fought to reclaim his breath.
you slowly looked up at him, eyes wide and blinking through the stray droplets on your lashes. you didn’t want him to know that your mouth was full because of the heavy, salty taste of him coating your tongue. but you wanted to say something to mock him, to reclaim your victory—you couldn’t you were too busy trying to manage the sheer amount of him currently occupying your mouth, cheeks bulging slightly, hesitant to let it go.
you watch caleb finally lifting his head, clearing his eyes to regain even a sliver of balance as he stared at you.
“swallow it.”
instantly, you shook your head. you weren’t going to make it that easy for him, especially not after he’d just made such a spectacle of himself.
caleb’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint returning to his gaze. he leaned down, his presence once again overwhelming. “pick a struggle. either you swallow it right now, or i’m going to make you turn around.”
you didn’t have time to process the sheer audacity of his command before the instinct to obey or perhaps the instinct to avoid the even more humiliating alternative took over. you tilted your head back and swallowed, the thick, warm liquid sliding down your throat in one heavy gulp.
ugh.
you nearly coughed, eyes watering as you fought to keep the rest of him down.
“satisfied now?” you glared at him once more.
and the colonel could only give you a dog-like smile, zipping his pants back into place while he turned his broad back on you.
“more than satisfied.”
he retrieves the gun from where he’d place it down earlier, facing you again.
Mean owner! Price who snaps at Bunny hybrid! Reader after they accidentally break the nice ceramic bowl that he gave them for meals. You were just mad you got healthy yucky pellets!!! You wanted cake!!! (´∩｀。)
But he quickly feels bad because you give him the silent treatment. Refusing his pets, hiding under tables. You even refuse grooming time!!! You loved when he would brush your hair for you!! (╥ ω ╥)
So while you’re sleeping he gently scoops you up with those thick arms of his. giving you small kisses and coos while you wake up. And when you try to escape, legs kicking and wiggling with all your might! he just traces your hole. His finger against it. Finally pushing in when you whined enough. His two thick fingers pumping over and over as he whispers small apologies to you.
“Oh, I know, I know, m’such a meanie. M’sorry I’ll never yell again okay? Bunny? You gotta answer or I’ll stop”
You lazily nod your head, which makes him smile. He finally pumps harder making you finish. Your head against his chest as he enjoys finally being able to hug his bunny again <33
After a tragic accident erased your memories, you no longer remember the man you married. Unfortunately for you, Ryomen Sukuna remembers everything. And he'll do whatever it takes to make you remember him too.
Everything was so much weird.
When you first opened your eyes, the world was a blur of harsh lights and a rhythmic, annoying beep that made your head throb. A crowd of people were hovering over your bed, their faces twisted into expressions of pure horror and desperation. It felt like they were looking at a ghost or maybe a god that had suddenly fallen from the sky. The moment you blinked and stared back at them with blank, unrecognizing eyes, the room dissolved into quiet, breathless weeping.
You were completely utterly lost. Who was the woman with the dark circles under her eyes calling herself Shoko? Why was she gripping your hand like her entire world was ending? You knew your own name y/n echoed clearly in the empty caverns of your mind, but beyond that single fact, there was only a vast, terrifying void. You understood the modern world. you knew what a smartphone was, you recognized the concept of Wi-Fi, and when you mumbled those details, the doctors in the room let out collective, gasping sighs of relief.
But the real shock came twenty minutes later.
The heavy door to the hospital room burst open with a violent slam. A man lunged inside like a madman, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. You had never seen anyone look like him. His hair was a soft, striking shade of pastel pink so pretty and unexpected that you wondered for a fleeting second if he had dyed it just to stand out. Dark, intricate tattoos mapped across his skin, curling around his sharp cheekbones and framing his eyes. And those eyes... they were a piercing, burning red, swirling with a volatile mixture of terrifying rage and profound, shattering sadness.
You just sat there in your oversized, faded blue hospital gown, looking small and fragile as your confused gaze met his. The man froze, roughly brushing a strand of pink hair out of his face. His clothes were covered in a layer of grey dust and dried grit, looking as though he had sprinted straight off a construction site the second he got the news.
"Fucking... God. Hey, princess... fuck, don't you ever scare me like that again" he breathed, his deep, gravelly voice cracking as he took two massive strides toward your bedside, staring down at you with a desperation that made the air feel heavy.
You shrank back into the pillows, your brow furrowing. Princess? Were you in some bizarre historical simulation? Did kings and horses still exist? No, the blinking medical monitors around you disproved that immediately.
"Mr. Sukuna, please. I need to speak with you in private for a moment" a woman in her mid forties interrupted, her expression incredibly grave as she stepped between you and the huge man. She glanced at the other people lingering by the door. There was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, who had the exact same pink hair as the tattooed man, his face streaked with tears. Beside him stood another boy with unruly, spiky black hair and a dull, stoic expression that couldn't quite hide the anxiety in his eyes. At the doctor's quiet command, they all slowly filed out into the hallway.
Left alone for a moment, you stared at the stark white walls, the untouched glass of water on the bedside table, and the crushing, dull monotony of the room.
When the door clicked open again, the female physician returned, holding a thick medical chart. The tattooed man followed closely behind her. He tried to offer you a small, reassuring smile, but it looked incredibly strained on his rugged face. His crimson eyes locked onto you, tracking every breath you took as if you might literally vanish into thin air if he dared to look away for a single second.
"Hello, y/n. I am Dr. Jennifer" the woman said kindly, stepping up to the mattress. "Do you know why you were brought here today?"
You frowned, looking between her and the towering man. "No."
The syllable was short and hollow. Beside the doctor, Sukuna’s entire frame stiffened. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently beneath his tattoos, his knuckles turning white as he balled his hands into fists.
"Right. But you do remember your name?" she pressed gently.
"Yes... y/n I am Y/N." you answered firmly. You knew the name belonged to you, even if the history attached to it was completely gone.
"And do you know where you are right now?"
"A hospital?"
"Correct" Dr. Jennifer nodded, opening the document in her hands. "Look, I am going to explain exactly what happened, and I need you to listen very carefully, alright?" You gave a small, hesitant nod. "You were in a severe accident yesterday evening. You were walking home from the local market when a car veered off the road and hit you. It is a miracle you walked away with minor physical injuries, but the trauma to your head has caused a severe case of retrograde amnesia. Honestly, it's a surprise you even remember your name right now."
You let out a quiet hum, your eyes drifting down to your own hands resting on the thin blanket. That was when you noticed it a slender, platinum band set with a brilliant, flawlessly cut diamond resting securely on your left ring finger. It looked incredibly expensive, classy, and entirely foreign
So you were married.
"Y/n" Dr. Jennifer’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You snapped your head up to look at her. "This man standing beside me... he is your husband."
The doctor tilted her head toward the giant. He was massive easily over six feet of raw, intimidating muscle, his tattooed face giving him a terrifying, dangerous aura. Your very first instinctual thought was that this man looked incredibly scary.
Sukuna didn't say a word. He just stood there, letting you analyze him, before he offered you a tiny, incredibly vulnerable nod. You tilted your head, staring into his intense red eyes, desperately searching for a single spark of familiarity. Did I really marry this giant?
"His name is Ryomen Sukuna, and he is going to take care of you" the doctor continued, closing her chart. "For the next few weeks, you need to let your brain rest, but you also need to gently stimulate it to try and regain those lost memories. Spending time in a familiar environment, in your own home with your husband, is going to be the best medicine for you."
You nodded mutely. You didn't exactly have a choice. You were being handed over to a complete stranger who happened to hold a legal claim to your entire life.
"Alright then. I wish you a safe and speedy recovery" Dr. Jennifer said with a final, empathetic smile before slipping out of the room.
The heavy silence that followed was suffocating. Sukuna cleared his throat roughly, taking a few slow, tentative steps toward the edge of your bed. He moved with an immense amount of caution, as if he genuinely believed a sudden movement might break you into pieces. He pulled up the small plastic chair, sinking into it.
"Hey" he said softly. Even in a whisper, his voice was incredibly manly, deep, and rough.
"Hello" you replied shortly, your eyes tracking his hands.
To your surprise, his large, scarred fingers were trembling slightly as he fidgeted with them, refusing to meet your eyes. When he finally looked up, you realized the piercing red of his irises was completely glossy, swimming with unshed tears.
"Yo... you're getting discharged today" he choked out, taking a deep, ragged breath as if the mere act of speaking was causing him physical pain. "I'm going to go sign the paperwork, and then I'm taking you to... our house. I'm going to do whatever the fuck it takes to help you remember, princess."
You stared at his rugged, tattooed face for a long moment before letting out a soft, distant hum.
An hour later, you were sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek, black Jeep, The man Sukuna kept his left hand firmly on the steering wheel while his eyes flicked toward you every sixty seconds, his intense gaze making a nervous flutter erupt in your stomach.
You stared out the window, watching the city buildings, sprawling neighborhoods, and vibrant green trees blur past. Intrigued by the warm breeze, you raised your hand, pressing your palm gently against the glass as if you wanted to touch the passing leaves. Instantly, the window smoothly rolled down. Startled, you turned your head to find Sukuna adjusting the master controls, his eyes locked onto you with an unreadable warmth.
"Can I ask you something-" you murmured softly.
"Yes." The answer came incredibly fast, almost desperate. He was hanging on your every word, practically begging for you to speak to him.
"How... how did we meet?" you asked, leaning your elbow on the door frame as the wind whipped through your hair.
"We met in high school" he answered quickly, navigating a sharp turn onto a quiet, "We've been married for seven years."
"High school?" You tilted your head, a faint smile touching your lips as you extended your hand just slightly out into the rushing air. "Were we friends back then?"
"Careful" he commanded firmly, though there was no real heat in his voice. You obediently pulled your hand back inside. A faint, nostalgic softness crept into his red eyes as he looked ahead. "Friends? no. You could say we didn't liked eachother each other when we first met. You thought I was a loud, arrogant mannerless jerk and I thought you were a stubborn, bossy brat."
He smoothly pulled the Jeep into a long brick driveway, coming to a stop in front of a breathtaking, modern two story house. It was painted a crisp, elegant white with sleek charcoal-grey accents, boasting massive, floor to ceiling windows that caught the afternoon sun.
"This is...our house" Sukuna murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "We've been living here for about four years."
He killed the engine, threw his door open, and practically sprinted around the hood of the car to open your door before you could even reach for the handle. He extended a massive, tattooed hand toward you, his palm open and waiting. You stared at his hand, your eyes traveling up the thick muscles of his forearm, before you deliberately stepped down onto the driveway without taking it.
Sukuna’s hand froze in mid-air. You watched his fingers slowly curl back into a fist before he pulled his arm away, a flash of pure, agonizing heartbreak crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a stoic expression.
As your feet hit the pavement, you looked up at the towering structure, desperately begging your brain to spark even a single ounce of familiarity. Nothing came. But as you turned around, you caught a glimpse of the man standing beside you. He was on the absolute verge of tears. His chest was tight, his jaw locked as he stared at you. You were his entire world, his beautiful wife, and yet you were looking at him like he was a total stranger. He suddenly felt a wave of profound hatred for every single time he had ever been mean or stubborn with you in the past, even in jest. He just wanted his girl back. His sweet innocent girl.
"The house is beautiful" you murmured gently, walking toward the porch.
'The house.' Not our house. The detached wording made Sukuna’s jaw clench painfully.
"Of course it is. I built the damn thing" he muttered, following closely behind you.
It was your exact dream house. Years ago, back when you were just broke college students dating in a cramped apartment, you had traced a clumsy design on a napkin, telling him you wanted a modern white house with endless windows, three bedrooms, and a kitchen large enough for the two of you to bake and slow-dance together while listening to old jazz records. Sukuna had kept that napkin. The moment he made his fortune, he hired a crew but did the vast majority of the heavy structural work with his own two hands. He had gifted you the keys on your third wedding anniversary, and he could still vividly remember the way you had wept tears of joy, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him until you were both breathless. He wanted that smile back. He would give anything just to have you look at him the way you used to.
You stepped inside, ignoring the heavy emotion rolling off him. Sukuna quickly gathered your small hospital bags and followed you into the foyer, shutting the door behind him.
Your eyes immediately gravitated toward the kitchen. It was vast, open, and undeniably stunning, featuring a massive quartz island and a huge sliding glass door that opened directly into a manicured backyard garden. The entire layout felt strangely perfect.
"Let me show you... around" Sukuna offered quietly.
He spent the next half hour guiding you through the corridors of what was supposed to be your life. But as he showed you the grand master bedroompointing out the side of the bed where you used to curl into his chest every single night your face remained entirely blank. You felt a twinge of heavy guilt pooling in your stomach. He showed you the living room, drawing your attention to a collection of large, breathtaking canvas paintings hanging on the walls.
"You painted those" Sukuna noted, a faint trace of pride in his rough voice. "You're a brilliant artist, princess."
You blinked in genuine surprise, looking down at your hands. "I drew these?" You were suprised, you don't even remember touching a brush in your life. But this is your new life. New start.
"Yeah." Sukuna stopped at the edge of the hallway, looking down at you with completely bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept a single second since the hospital called him about your accident. All he wanted to do was wrap his massive arms around your waist, pull you flush against his chest, and bury his face in your hair until the nightmare ended. But he couldn't. "Look... you can sleep in the guest bedroom down the hall, or you can take our bedroom and I'll stay in the guest room. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable you."
"Okay" you hummed softly.
His heart broke a little more at the compliant, distant tone. "I'll go start on some dinner, and then I'll get your medication ready. If you need a single damn thing, you just call out for me, alright? Your clothes are all in the dresser, undergarments in the top drawer, pajamas in the second..."
You nodded, offering him a polite murmur of thanks before retreating into the guest room. You changed into a simple, comfortable t-shirt and sweats. A little while later, his deep voice echoed up the stairs, announcing that dinner was ready. You walked down to the dining room, sitting at the large table like a polite houseguest waiting to be served.
"Do you need help?" Sukuna asked, carefully sliding a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup and a large spoon toward you. You shook your head, grasping the utensil and taking a quiet sip. He sat across from you, his own bowl entirely untouched as he just stared at your face. "Y/n... you really don't remember a single damn thing about me?"
His voice cracked completely on the last word, the raw vulnerability of a ruthless man exposed right in front of you. You looked up, meeting his glossy red eyes.
"No... I don't. I'm really sorry" you whispered genuinely.
He let out a slow nod, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced himself to look away. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."
"Do I... do I have parents? Or friends?" you asked, a sudden curiosity about your own forgotten life bubbling up.
"Yeah. You have parents. Your father—"
"Where are they?" you interrupted quickly, leaning forward. "Do they know I was in an accident? Why aren't they here?"
"They haven't spoken to you in over seven years. Not since the day you married me" Sukuna said, his tone dropping into something cold and bitter.
"Why?"
"Your family is rich as fuck. Extremely strict, arrogant aristocrats" Sukuna explained, his red eyes locking back onto yours. "They completely forbade you from seeing me because I was just a rough, tattooed bastard from the wrong side of the tracks with a criminal record and a unstable future. They told you that if you walked out that door with me, you’d be cut off permanently."
You stared at him, a sudden spark of heat flaring in your chest. "Well, that's so stupid of them. It sounds like a good thing we don't talk to them then."
The sheer, unyielding loyalty in your voice made Sukuna’s lips twitch, a genuine, heartbreaking smile threatening to break through his stoic mask. Even with a wiped memory, his sweet wife still possessed that exact same fiery, protective spirit.
"Yeah" he chuckled hoarsely, letting out a long sigh. "You have an incredible best friend named Shoko. You two are both doctors. you work in the exact same surgical unit at the city hospital. We have a ton of mutual friends we met back in our high school days. And those kids at the hospital? The pink-haired teenager is my nephew, Yuji, and the dark-haired one is Megumi, our friend's kid. They practically worship the ground you walk on, princess. You love those brats to death."
"Can I see them?" you asked, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.
"Of course. Whenever you want." he promised, his eyes tracking the way your lips curved.
Sukuna let out a sudden, rough snort, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. "Old or not, woman... you're still completely breathtaking."
A deep, violent blush instantly stained your cheeks. You hadn't been around an attractive man or any man, for that matter in your conscious memory, and having this giant, dangerously handsome individual throw such a raw compliment at you made your heart do a chaotic somersault. You quickly looked down at your soup, missing the way his eyes softened at your reaction.
Over the next three weeks, the fragments of a life began to surround you, even if the puzzle pieces wouldn't quite lock into place.
Yuji and Megumi came over to the house constantly. Yuji spent hours enthusiastically teaching you how to make his signature protein shakes and weird jello molds, his loud laughter filling the quiet house, while Megumi sat nearby with his usual serious expression. But the moment you offered Megumi a soft, encouraging smile, his sharp features would instantly melt into something deeply tender. Yet, beneath their smiles, you could see the underlying sadness in their eyes every time you failed to remember a shared inside joke.
When Shoko finally visited, she broke down completely, throwing her arms around your neck and sobbing into your shoulder. It was a bizarre maybe stupid too, overwhelming feeling being fiercely loved by people you couldn't even remember and a heavy weight of guilt began to settle deep in your chest. You even met Toji, Megumi's father, a tall, stoic man who didn't say much but looked at you with a quiet, profound pity that made you realize just how broken your situation truly was.
And then, there was Sukuna.
Your husband spent every single day patiently guiding you through your routines, driving you past your old university, cooking your favorite meals, and trying every gentle trigger possible. But your mind remained a stubborn, locked vault. Sukuna was growing desperate furious and completely fucked up by the stagnation.
To make matters worse, just one week before the accident, you had playfully taken down every single one of your framed marriage photographs to rearrange the living room gallery wall, hiding them away in a "genius spot" that Sukuna had completely forgotten more like you didn't even told him. He had spent hours frantically tearing the house apart while you were out, searching for a single modern photo of the two of you together.
He was completely unraveling. He couldn't sleep. The woman he loved was sleeping in the room next to him, yet she looked at him with the polite, distant eyes of a stranger. He felt like a ghost haunting his own home. One evening, he sat alone in the dark kitchen and wept the third time he had ever cried in his entire life. The first had been tears of pure joy on your wedding day when he saw you walking the aisle. the second had been out of terror when the ER doctor told him a car had struck you. and now, he was crying simply because he missed his wife so damn much
His phone offered no help either. his gallery was filled entirely with candid photos he had taken of you you stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your head, you laughing in a department store dressing room, or a hilarious picture of you biting into a raw lemon and making a completely disgusted face. He had no photos of the two of you together on his device, you had always been the one insisted on keeping the physical, printed albums. The only joint photos he could find were a few faded, wrinkled prints from your high school days, showing a younger, wilder version of himself wrapping his arms around you from behind while you laughed into the camera. When he showed them to you, you just stared at them blankly. It was killing him.
At the end of the third week, Sukuna was sitting heavily on the living room sofa, completely exhausted after another failed search through the house. He was mindlessly scrolling through the candid photos of you on his phone, a faint, melancholy smile touching his lips. His fingers traced your face on the photo, your bright smile. your bubbly laughter at his most unfunniset jokes, now all of that are vanished.
The heavy front door clicked open. Shoko had taken you out for an afternoon of shopping to get you out of the house, and she had just dropped you off at the curb. You stepped into the foyer, balancing several shopping bags in your arms.
Sukuna instantly locked his phone, shoving it into his pocket as he stood up, his red eyes drinking in the sight of you. "Had fun, princess?"
"Yes, I did. And thank you... for letting me use your credit card" you said softly, walking over to the coffee table and gently sliding the black card back toward him.
"You bought dresses?" he asked, pointing toward the bags. Honestly, he didn't give a single fuck about the money. you could have emptied his entire bank account and he would have gladly signed it away just to see you happy.
"I bought a few things..." You cleared your throat nervously, your fingers twisting together. "But... I actually bought something for you, too."
The words hit his chest like a physical blow. Even with her mind completely wiped, your beautiful, kind soul was still looking out for him. "Really?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Can I see it?"
You gave a small nod, walking over to the couch and tentatively sitting down right next to him. The close proximity made his heart start to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"I don't know if it's really your style, or if you'll even like it..." you mumbled bashfully, reaching into a small velvet pouch and pulling out a heavy, intricately braided silver bracelet studded with raw, brilliant red stones. "The color... it just immediately reminded me of you. Of your eyes."
You gently reached out, grasping his massive, calloused wrist to drape the metal over his skin. Oh God, if you only knew how fast his heart was racing beneath his chest. Your soft, warm fingers lingering against his pulse point was pure, exquisite torture.
"It looks incredible, Y/n. Thank you." he whispered, a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile spreading across his tattooed face as he looked down at the crimson stones.
"Thank you... for being so incredibly patient with me" you said quietly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
Sukuna let out a long, ragged sigh, his hand hovering over yours for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. "I will always be patient with you, princess. Always."
You looked directly into his burning red eyes, and for the first time in three weeks, a warm, genuine smile broke across your face. Sukuna felt his breath hitch. he was entirely certain he was about to pass out from the sheer weight of his love for you.
"Can you stay right here for a bit? I need to go jump in the shower real quick. I'll be fast" he muttered hoarsely, his hand instinctively reaching out to gently ruffle your hair a comforting, domestic habit he had carefully maintained. You let out a soft chuckle at the gesture.
The moment his heavy footsteps disappeared up the stairs and the sound of running water echoed through the pipes, you stood up, wandering aimlessly around the quiet main floor. Your feet pulled you toward the small, cozy library nestled just off the living room. The walls were lined with hundreds of books some ancient leather volumes, others modern art textbooks. You pulled one off the shelf, flipping through the pages before sliding it back into place.
As you stepped back, your eyes caught a glimpse of something hidden on the absolute highest shelf, shoved far back into the shadows near the ceiling. It looked like a massive, heavy frame leaning flat against the back wall, obscured by a decorative ceramic vase. Intrigued, you stood on your tiptoes, stretching your arms up as high as they could go, blindly reaching for the top edge of the wooden frame.
Your fingers caught the molding, but as you pulled, the heavy ceramic vase shifted, losing its balance.
Crash!
The vase shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening, echoing smash. Startled, you let out a sharp cry, stumbling backward as the massive hidden frame came tumbling down from the top shelf, striking the edge of the desk before landing flat on the rug. The backing of the frame split completely open upon impact, and a massive cascade of loose, glossy photographs erupted across the floor hundreds of them, scattering like playing cards across the room.
You gasped, placing a hand over your racing heart as you looked away from the broken pottery, your eyes drifting down to the sea of images covering the floor.
You froze.
Right at your feet lay a massive, professionally printed portrait. In the photograph, you were sitting securely on Sukuna's lap. You were wearing a breathtaking, flowing white lace wedding dress, holding a vibrant bouquet of sunflowers, and laughing so brightly your eyes were crinkled shut. Sukuna was clad in a sharp, tailored black tuxedo, his massive arms wrapped fiercely around your waist from behind, an absolutely massive, unbothered, triumphant grin plastered across his face.
Your breath hitched violently. You stumbled forward, falling to your knees as your hands frantically snatched up another photo from the pile. In this one, you were hoisted high up on Sukuna's broad shoulders at a crowded, flashing outdoor music festival; your mouth was wide open in a breathless scream of laughter, while his large hands were clamped firmly around your thighs to keep you safe, both of your faces painted with pure, unadulterated euphoria.
You grabbed a third photo, and the entire world stopped spinning. It was a quiet, intimate shot taken right in the backyard garden outside. You were sitting cross-legged on the green grass, wearing a simple summer dress with a soft, shy smile, while Sukuna’s heavy head was resting completely in your lap. He was looking up at you with an expression of such pure, unconditional adoration it made your soul ache, while your fingers were woven gently through his soft pink hair.
Pink hair.
The backyard.
The jazz music.
The napkin.
A sudden, violent explosion of memories ripped through the barriers of your mind. It wasn't a trickle; it was a catastrophic, roaring tidal wave. Seven years of laughter, fierce arguments, passionate late-night apologies, the smell of his skin, the exact weight of his body pressing you into the master mattress, the sound of his deep voice whispering "I've got you, princess" into the dark. It all hit your brain at once with the force of a freight train.
The sheer, overwhelming velocity of the memories made the room spin violently. Your vision blurred into a vortex of white light and crimson eyes. You let out a choked gasp, your strength entirely giving out as your body collapsed sideways onto the hardwood floor with a loud, heavy thud, the scattered photographs of your life pooling around your unconscious form.
When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the ceiling lights was gone, replaced by the warm, dim ambiance of the living room. You were laying flat on the soft fabric of the sofa.
"She's waking up! Sukuna, look, her eyes are moving!" Yuji’s panicked, loud voice cut through the quiet room.
You blinked heavily, your vision slowly focusing. Megumi was standing right beside his cousin, his dark eyes wide and completely swimming with anxiety. Shoko was hovering over you, a small medical flashlight in her hand, her face pale as she checked your vitals.
But your heart didn't care about any of them. Your eyes frantically scanned the tight circle of people, instantly landing on the massive, tattooed man standing frozen at the foot of the couch. His pastel pink hair was damp from the shower, his chest heaving under a plain black t-shirt, and his face was a mask of pure, absolute terror.
As your eyes met his, a single, heavy tear spilled over your eyelid, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The vast, terrifying void in your mind was completely gone, replaced by the roaring, beautiful fire of your reality.
"Ryo..." you choked out, your voice a broken, breathless sob.
Sukuna froze, his entire frame visibly violently shuddering at the sound of the nickname the private, intimate name only you were ever allowed to call him.
Before anyone else could even blink, you threw yourself forward off the sofa cushions, completely ignoring the dull ache in your muscles. You lunged straight into his space, your arms wrapping fiercely around his massive neck. You buried your face in the crook of his collarbone, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity as you pressed a hard, crying kiss directly against his tattooed jaw.
"I remember... us" you sobbed violently into his skin, your entire body trembling as the tears flowed freely. "I remember everything, Ryo... I remember you."
Sukuna’s mind completely blanked. For a single, breathless second, he couldn't even process the words. And then, a raw, ragged sound escaped his throat a mixture of a sob and a laugh. His massive, powerful arms came crashing down around your frame, pulling you so close against his chest you could barely breathe, lifting your knees entirely off the floor as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.
And there, in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his family and the scattered photographs of your love, Ryomen Sukuna closed his eyes and wept for the fourth time in his life.
"I fucking love you" he whispers
(not me me writing all night just for 36 like and one reblog😣🙏🏾)
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