I wanted to take a darker turn for this, but it’ll do for now.
cw: brief predator/prey
He is sitting in your armchair when you return home. Head facing a window that frames a moonless night, an ankle crossed over his knee. He is far too large to sit comfortably, though is uncharacteristically stiff.
“You could’ve turned on a light, Dante,” you say, reaching for the nearest panel by the front door. “I can’t even see.”
Dante had called you earlier and said he’d be stopping by to pick up miscellaneous documents. You don’t know how long he’s been here, hidden in the dark. Why had he waited?
“Please, leave them off,” he says, and lifts a hand to his brow. You presume he does so with the intent of rubbing at his forehead; there is only so much you can determine in the dark. His voice, though, sounds strained and pitched.
Sighing greatly, you pick your way through your home by memory and what little light seeps in from the windows.
You do not know it, but it is Vergil who watches you preternaturally from your living room armchair. It has become apparent to him in this moment that Dante did not inform you of the change in plans; he’d gotten held back by a client and requested Vergil to come in his place. Dante had even given Vergil the code to your front door lock, for naught. He’d provided the incorrect sequence, and Vergil opted to simply enter by portal.
He should clarify his presence, that would be the appropriate way to go about this.
He does not.
“How’d the job go? You seem worn,” you ask, and run your fingers across the upper kitchen cabinets until they bump a handle, opening the little door and procuring a mug. “And can you at least turn a lamp on? Christ, I’m trying to do things.”
Vergil shifts in his seat, measuring the way he speaks, careful with his vernacular. “It’s done—things took longer than expected. I couldn’t find the documents when I got here.”
“They’re in my office, third filing drawer. I told you this earlier, remember?” You open the fridge door and fluorescent light floods the kitchen, touching the living room and Vergil’s face, though your back is to him. “I’ll get them for you.”
You are vaguely irritated; this, Vergil can tell, though it is the first time you’ve spoken to him in such a way. Careless, thoughtless.
His interactions with you have been limited to sharp exchanges, some succinct, and others arduously long. But there is always a slight, acrid scent of fear on your skin during these bouts; he does not smell it now.
The dawning realization that you solely fear him is one that forces his expression in a twisted manner, teetering oddly between emotions. He does not know how to consider this.
Something inhuman and archaic within him buries large teeth and claws into his mind, with the singular want to lave at your throat and savor the fear. To let you run, before he ultimately catches you again and mounts you like a beastly creature, marking you.
Distantly, he hears the coffee machine drip. You return to him, tossing a manilla folder into his lap.
“Here,” you say, standing in front of him.
He sees why Dante listens to you now. He also sees your heavily dilated eyes flick to his left, where he had propped the Yamato.
Vergil rises suddenly, taking up his sword in one hand, the manilla folder in the other. The scent of you shifts, and Vergil knows.
“I’ll take my leave, now,” he tells you, and saunters out of the front door.
It remains cloistered in his nares, consuming as he consumes it.
I have been very carlos-centric in the re franchise but I’ve been opening up to leon after hearing wesker call him a dog/mutt, and Ada calling him a good boy
the only way ive been able to write a "soft Gojo" is when i give him a sickly and/or disabled love-interest*
he still smothers them, every time i try to write him. its definitely a clingy, patronizingly teasing caretaker kinda vibe
but he is significantly softer, if you wanted to try that lol im assuming your post means you WANT to write a softer Gojo, so theres my hack for how i personally get there lmao but feel 1,000% free to ignore me if i misunderstood and you dont actually want to write that
(*: "how do you write him someone sickly/disabled and deal with his stuff about weakness?" i feel like his rhetoric about hating weak people as a teenager was a form of hating the burdens put on him, and then as an adult it formed into hating ideoalogies he considered weak. kinda like your personality/mind/soul is weak if you thoughtlessly comply with the elders, if you take youth away from young people, etc. so Utahime got picked on a ton because she enables/is complicit to the elders, and then he found her technique inadequate in addition. i dont think Gojo actually hates people who are weaker than him, as seen with Riko, Kuroi, Tsumiki, and a few others. hell give you shit about it, but the way ive analyzed his character is that Gojo doesnt dislike people who are considered weak by jujutsu sorcerer technique standards unless theres other factors about you he detests (if youre a curse or curse-user, of course he thinks youre weak and hates you, even if you hate the elders too. but even then he has exceptions with Geto and Miguel). he dislikes people who see the elders as wise. so i dont think hed have a problem dating a non-sorcerer, someone with a weak technique, or someone who is sickly/disabled. i think he sees value in himself being stronger and depended on, because thats what everyone has taught him his value is. i do think its cathartic for him to adore someone whose body forces them to an intense lack of productivity— and feel firsthand how it doesnt impact his feelings for them. but its still definitely that meme of "you dont have to be perfect, or especially great. you dont even have to be good... bUT I DO. I HAVE TO BE ALL OF THOSE THING, ALL OF THE TIME" kinda hypocrisy, he isnt very healed at all when i write him. plus, if his partner needs to be in bed all day due to a flare-up, it gives Gojo the excuse to be in bed with them— to pester and be annoying— but still, his desire to cling/mirror/be included in his partner's activity would result his said partner's health then forcing him to take breaks. and its usually the "in bed, nonsexually" scenes that i get that softer Gojo, personally. but yeah, no, hes still overwhelmingly smothering and proverbially play-nipping/wet-willying his partner the whole time)
(conversely, when i write Qifrey with a similarly sickly or disabled love-interest? he gets so much worse. not softer. he gets more insane instead. its wild lol)
I love this take and characterization!!
I, unfortunately (and fortunately), do enjoy writing gojo in an all-consuming way. He just strikes me as someone who indulges in excess.
Your explanation on how you write a soft gojo was beautiful and I wholeheartedly support your soft gojo agenda 🫶
Contents: princess!reader x King Deanreldy, penetrative sex, forced marriages, slight dubcon, Qifrey and reader are in love and Dean is a little mean, non-canon compliant MDNI
Notes: It has legitimately been quite a bit of time since I've written, forgive me if this is not up to my usual standards.
The time is nigh, and King Deanreldy stands before you, your pronounced husband; the weight of which bears down on your left hand. He is an encompassing man, influential, beloved by his citizens. And he is removing the ephemeral garments your ladies in waiting painstakingly fussed with and smoothed.
He is a large man; he is older. His gentility is beginning to lose its patience. One would believe the older one became, the more years to practice restraint, but he has wanted you for far too long, enamored by your presence. Your coupling was initially proposed by him to your mother in proposition of a mutualistic regional strengthening, of which she had been quick to decline; King Deanreldy's resources were not needed, nor wanted. Until circumstances changed, treaties proposed.
He is an opportunistic monarch, and an eager man. It presently shows on his features that regard you in this candlelight, herding you to his columned bed and laying you out for him. King Deanreldy has stripped your garments away and left you bare. He believes you look virginal in the way you press your soft thighs together, your hands at your decolletage as if you mean to cover your breasts.
"Precious wife," he sighs and sits at your feet, palms splaying upon your shins, up to your knees to part you. He is still dressed in sumptuous coupling garments. "Look at me."
His demand is soft-spoken, though firm. Your eyes cast upwards to him, and you nearly pull away at what you find: ire, carefully veiled with lust. You do not understand where this contempt originates; he has finally placed his claim on you. What more could this affluent man want?
"I know your affections lie elsewhere, but tonight they will lie with me," he says. Callused fingers graze your lower abdomen, a great contrast to his resolute tone, before dragging through the coarse hair of the mons pubis.
You falter, heart fluttering against constraining ribs, when you attempt to deny this accusation.
"No," King Deanreldy murmurs, pressing into the crux of your hips. "No, none of that."
He is hard against you, still confined in heavy trousers as he cants his hips slowly, catching you. Only then does he release himself from the laced fabrics, breathing out heavily. In this position, belly exposed to him, you feel very much like a pinned animal caught in the throes. And King Deanreldy lowers himself to be above you, his mane of hair falling around your faces.
You feel a hand lovingly stroke at your cheek, cup your chin.
"If it helps, you can close your eyes and picture your little witches," he tells you, fingertips dipping to your clitoris. "But only for tonight."
He kisses you hungrily, angrily. And when you toss your head back into the pillows, he follows in adamance. He will not let you escape from him in any manner, as an unspoken punishment. The pleasure is no longer gentle, rather sharp, overwhelming. You try to tell him so, but he will not listen. This continues for some time, until you are panting and baring your teeth at him. You understand he is daring you to bite the hand that touches.
Only when his cock is settled at your entrance does he speak again, "Remind me of the name of the troubled one again. Qifrey, is it?"
And it is mean and cruel when your eyes widen at the realization that the King has known all this time, as he takes this opportunity to push into you, watching your shock give way to something else.
cw: scratching, biting, one slap that gojo kinda likes, gojo not listening to "let me go", gojo says "that's my girl", dom masochist gojo, slightly yandere but like wouldn't he be always?
***
The first time he gets atop you, slots his waist into the crux of your hips, you fuss and fight and snarl like a wild thing.
You squirm and kick, growling, trapped.
He’s so strong.
Well, he’s the strongest, but even without his techniques, without the cursed energy and divine calling, he is strong.
“Settle down,” he hushes and it makes you fight harder, the tone of his voice, the way it kindles warmth in the low parts of your belly.
When you can’t seem to wriggle yourself free from his grasp, from beneath him, you cry out. You struggle harder, fingers lashing and digging into skin, nails embedding themself to drag as viciously as you can down his shoulders—
He hisses, back arching, muscles flexing beneath your claws.
And you realize very suddenly that he is not entirely in pain.
You make a frustrated sound; a whined out growl and twist harder.
“Let me go!” you cry.
“You’ll tire yourself out before I let go.”
There’s devotion in that, you think.
Enough that when your palm connects with his cheek, his face still cracks to the side sharply.
He hasn’t put up his Infinity.
His cheek smarts. Your hand stings.
And he doesn’t let you go.
“Satoru—“ you hitch, “let me go, please, please, let me go—“
“Not letting you go, baby.” He says and his voice is darker, and when you go still only for a moment to look at his face, your eyes clash with his—
Dark ice. Pupils blown wide. Oh, his cheek is so red.
Lips so pink. His tongue darts out, swipes along the plush bottom one.
You realize with a start that he’s—he’s—
With renewed strength, you fight again, kicking and squirming and turning in his arms, hips arching into his, away from his.
Let me go, let me go, let me go, you gasp and cry and snarl.
Your nails dig deep into his flesh, until his face presses into the crook of your neck and he groans.
“That’s it,” he says roughly and you don’t think you’ve ever quite heard him this way, felt him like this, “that’s my girl—” You can feel his heart rabitting in his chest, pain blossoming into another gasp as you turn your face into his neck and bite;
“Just take it all out on me—“ He gets out and it sounds half reverent.
I miss prince!getou 🥹 may i ask how she taught reader how to pleasure him down there? She’s being trained to accept pleasure, but how would getou convince her to give him a blow/hand job?
Truthfully, he’d refuse! Prince Getou is adamant about maintaining control; he would not let you take that from him, you could not handle it, and he doesn’t want you to.
Prince geto would inspect reader's pussy all the time. Reader feels humiliated every single time.
And it is supposed to be humiliating! He holds this unspoken tenant that it is vital to your relationship with him that you experience this discomfort—but only with him. He believes he has the right to view you from every lens. And he must know: do you lash out or hide away upon feeling humiliated?
This same physician has also called himself a diva for being firm with rude patients, and complains that the only compliments he gets on his muscles are from old men
