trueform!sukuna making his maid bathe him
you’re pulled from your duties with no warning. one of the junior girls rushes into the hallway near the washing basin, whispering your name like she’s afraid it’ll echo too loud, like she might be punished just for being the messenger. “he’s asked for you,” she says, voice low and fast, eyes already flicking past your shoulder like she doesn’t want to be seen near you when you go. she doesn’t wait to see how you respond.
you don’t ask for clarification. there’s no need.
you set the basin down, smooth your hands along your skirt to steady them, and start walking.
the halls to his wing are colder than they should be. quiet, too—no servants, no footsteps. just your own breath and the way the flickering lanterns seem to pull back from the walls like they’re afraid to light the path too clearly. the further you walk, the more the estate begins to feel like something ancient and alive. you don’t know if that’s his presence or just what happens to any room that holds him too long.
when you reach the door to his private chamber, it’s cracked open just enough to let the heat bleed out. you bow low before entering, deeper than usual, and only step through once you’ve exhaled the last of your hesitation.
it’s hotter inside. still, somehow. like the air doesn’t move unless he allows it. the stone walls flicker with torchlight, shadows stretching too far, trembling like they know something you don’t. the bath is set into the floor, deep and wide and steaming, the scent of crushed herbs curling thick in the air. sandalwood, smoke, sharper tones underneath. there are symbols carved into the rock—you never look at them too long.
he’s already in the water.
lounging, relaxed, monstrous. his true form on full display—four arms, broad chest marked in black ink and old blood, two eyes half-lidded while the others glow just beneath. he looks bored. like he’s been waiting. like your presence barely registers.
he doesn’t speak when you enter. doesn’t move either. his top pair of arms drape wide along the stone edge, fingers flexing lazily, while the lower set disappears beneath the surface of the water. his head tilts toward you slightly. one of his eyes opens.
you drop to your knees without being told.
you bow again.
you wait.
you don’t dare speak first.
for a long moment, there’s nothing. only the crackle of the torch fire and the low hum of your own pulse behind your ears. then finally, his voice.
“you’re late.”
you swallow. “forgive me, my lord.”
he hums like he doesn’t believe you. or like he doesn’t care. “take care to be quicker next time,” he says. “unless you’re hoping i’ll find someone else.”
you bow lower. “no, my lord.”
“good,” he says simply. “then start.”
you obey. you move forward, slowly, unfolding your legs as you reach for the bucket you brought in earlier. you pour warm water over his shoulders, careful not to splash, letting it run down his back in slow rivulets. his skin is hot. hotter than it should be. the steam hisses louder wherever it touches him, like even the water knows not to linger.
you reach for the sponge, soaked and resting in the wooden tray beside you.
his voice stops you.
“rid yourself of it.”
you freeze. then nod. “yes, my lord.”
you place it aside without question. switch to your hands instead—fingers coated in warm oil, the scent sharp and bitter on your skin. you glide your palms over his shoulders again, down the curve of his spine, the thick line of his collarbone, the ink that coils down his ribs. you feel every scar. every mark. every reminder of what he is.
you don’t look at him. you know better.
but you can feel him looking at you.
his eyes drag over you like blades. all four of them.
you try to focus on the motions. on the way the oil glides over your fingers. on the shallow sound of water shifting as he breathes. you’re careful.
then something shifts in the water.
before you can react, one of his lower hands catches your wrist.
his grip is firm—just enough to still you. to remind you of what he could do, if he wanted to. his thumb brushes along your pulse. his nails rest just shy of pressing in.
“you missed a spot,” he says, voice lower now. amused.
you nod, not trusting your voice.
he moves his leg beneath the surface—just slightly, just enough to spread them wider. the water parts. your eyes drop before you can stop yourself.
he’s already hard.
it rises from the steam like something obscene. thick. heavy. the head flushed darker than the rest of him, resting against the curve of his thigh like it belongs there. like it’s waiting. like this is routine.
your lips part before you even breathe.
you don’t speak.
you don’t move.
“strip,” he says.
you hesitate. stupid. useless. your hands twitch where they rest in your lap, eyes flicking up to him, barely, just long enough to see the corner of his mouth twitch—not a smile. a warning.
“or would you rather I tear it off you?”
your breath hitches.
“no, my lord.”
he leans back against the stone like he’s bored already, like he’s being patient just to amuse himself. his arms spread wider. his legs don’t move.
“then show me.”
you move to obey, hands lifting to the ties at your collar, but you don’t get far before his voice cuts in again.
“slow.”
it’s not loud. it doesn’t need to be. the word settles into the room like a weight, pressing down on your shoulders, your spine, your lungs. you stop immediately, fingers frozen at your throat.
“you always rush when you’re nervous,” he continues, voice lazy, almost conversational. “it’s ugly.”
your hands tremble. you force them to still.
“again.”
you swallow, then start over—this time carefully. you untie the first knot with shaking fingers, loosen the fabric inch by inch, letting the heat from the bath creep up your skin as the layers begin to fall away. you keep your head bowed, eyes fixed on the stone floor between your knees, heart hammering so hard you’re sure he can hear it.
“don’t hide,” he says.
your breath stutters. you pause.
one of his eyes narrows. another flicks upward, sharp.
“look at me.”
it feels like stepping off a cliff.
you lift your gaze slowly, inch by inch, until your eyes meet his. all of them. the way they pin you in place makes your chest tighten, makes your skin feel too thin, too exposed. he watches you without blinking, head tilted slightly, mouth curved in something that isn’t quite a smile.
“there,” he murmurs. “that’s better.”
you keep your eyes on him as you undress after that. every movement feels obscene under his gaze—the way the fabric slips from your shoulders, the way your hands cross your own body, the way your breath turns shallow when the last layer finally pools at your feet. the steam curls around your bare skin immediately, clinging, damp, as if even the air wants a piece of you.
his gaze drags over you openly now. unashamed. slow. from your face to your chest, down your stomach, your thighs. you feel picked apart under it. measured.
“turn,” he says.
you do.
“again.”
you turn back, heat flooding your face, throat tight. you feel small like this. stripped and standing while he remains seated, relaxed, powerful, untouched except by his own choosing. his cock is still hard between his thighs, resting heavy against his skin, and he doesn’t even bother pretending it’s not for you.
“get in,” he says at last. “carefully.”
you step into the bath slowly, the water licking up your calves, your knees, your thighs. it’s hotter than you expect—enough to make you hiss softly through your teeth—but you don’t stop. you don’t dare. the water climbs higher until it presses against your waist, your ribs, your chest. steam fogs your vision, but not enough to hide him.
you lower yourself beside him, not touching, knees drawn up instinctively to make yourself smaller.
he clicks his tongue.
“don’t curl up,” he says. “you look like you’re trying to disappear.”
one of his lower hands reaches out and presses against your knee, firm, unyielding, pushing it down until your leg stretches out in the water. then the other, doing the same. opening you up. forcing your posture into something more present. more exposed.
“there,” he says again. “sit properly.”
you obey, chest tight, hands resting uselessly in your lap. the water laps quietly around the two of you now, your skin buzzing where he touched you, where he adjusted you like an object out of place.
his hand lifts next and hooks beneath your chin, tilting your face up just enough that you can’t look away.
“you’re trembling,” he observes, eyes gleaming. “and we haven’t even started.”
his thumb presses lightly at your jaw. not painful. not kind.
“be good,” he adds softly. “or I’ll make you regret how patient I’ve been.”
“s-starting what, my lord?”
the question slips out before you can catch it. your voice barely rises above the sound of the water, thin and shaky and uncertain, like a string pulled too tight. his thumb still rests beneath your chin, and the moment you speak, you feel it press harder.
one of his eyes narrows. another twitches.
for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. just watches you. long. unblinking.
then: “you don’t need to know what,” he says. “you just need to listen.”
and then he moves.
his lower right hand drops from your chin to your shoulder, while the other slides beneath the water, wrapping around your waist. just positioning. guiding. he shifts you closer inch by inch, until your knees bump his thigh, until you’re kneeling between his legs in the water, until the head of his cock is resting just beneath your collarbone.
his hand slides up your spine. the claws don’t break skin—they don’t have to. the pressure alone is enough to make you fold forward, enough to press you down until your breath hitches and your face lingers just above him. the heat radiating off his cock is unbearable this close.
you hesitate. just for a second. just long enough for him to notice.
“ask,” he says.
your lips part. your throat goes dry.
“may i,” you whisper, “may i please taste you, my lord?”
he hums low. pleased.
his fingers thread through your hair, claws dragging slow against your scalp as he presses you lower, angling your head like he’s positioning a cup to drink from.
“go on, then,” he murmurs. “make yourself useful.”
you do.
you lower your mouth to him, eyes closed as your lips brush the tip first—slick, flushed, twitching faintly against your tongue. the taste of him is bitter and overwhelming, thick with heat, and the way he exhales above you makes your whole body clench.
his hand doesn’t push. not yet.
but he holds your hair tight in his fist, coiling it around his palm, ready.
“open wider,” he says, like he’s already bored with how careful you’re being. “or I’ll make it fit.”
you obey.
you take him into your mouth again, deeper this time, stretching your jaw until it aches, until your throat tightens around the intrusion. he lets out a soft sound then—something almost like approval—and sinks further into your mouth.
“mm,” he breathes, head tilting back, one hand flexing lazily along the bath’s edge. “maybe you’re not completely useless after all.”
you try to keep your rhythm steady. shallow strokes, careful breaths. your hands rest on his thighs beneath the water, bracing yourself as the heat burns your cheeks and your lungs tighten. you can feel the tension winding in his legs, in the way his hips twitch forward without warning. he’s letting you do the work. for now.
but then one of his lower hands slides up from your chest, wet fingers gripping your throat lightly from the outside, not choking—just feeling. tracking the movement of his cock as it pushes deeper, as your body struggles to take him.
his claws press against the hollow of your neck. his mouth curls into something cruel.
“gag on it,” he says softly. “if you can’t take it, drown.”
you gag a little as he sinks deeper, your jaw aching, your throat beginning to strain—but he doesn’t stop. his grip tightens in your hair. like he’s measuring how far you can take it. like he already knows.
“there you go,” he mutters.
your nails dig into his thighs, half out of instinct, half for balance as the water shifts around you. he doesn’t stop moving. his hips tilt slowly, rhythm building, pushing deeper with every breath you take. the tip hits the back of your throat and you choke on it, but he just groans and holds you there, claws twitching against your scalp.
“breathe through your nose,” he says, sounding amused. “or don’t. i’m not the one who needs air.”
he rocks into your mouth again, harder now, his cock sliding over your tongue, spit dripping down your chin and into the bath. one of his lower hands presses against the side of your face—fingers splayed, thumb dragging along the corner of your mouth as you gag again, messier this time. your eyes water. your vision blurs. your body trembles beneath the surface of the water, thighs twitching where you kneel.
and then the other hand—his fourth—slides between your legs.
you gasp around his cock the second you feel it, but it only makes him groan, hips snapping forward. his fingers press against your folds under the water, slow and precise, dragging up through your slick like he’s testing something. like he’s tasting it through his skin.
“mm,” he hums, fucking into your throat while one finger circles your clit, cruel and slow. “look at that. you get wet doing this?”
you try to shake your head, but it’s useless—he’s already holding you down. his cock pulses in your mouth, and his fingers push deeper between your legs at the same time, filling you with the same brutal laziness. your knees slip on the stone, your hips jerk forward without thinking, but his voice snaps through the haze before you can lose yourself.
“don’t you fucking grind on me you pathetic woman,” he growls. “you don’t move unless i tell you to.”
he thrusts again, harder, water sloshing at your sides, your nose pressed to his skin. one hand grips the back of your head now, holding you there. the other pumps into you slow, curling with every stroke.
“you ask before you cum,” he says, voice steady. “you don’t cum just ‘cause i touched you. say it.”
you pull off him with a wet gasp, choking on spit, lips red and raw, eyes glassy.
“p-please, my lord—i won’t. i promise, i—i won’t unless you say—”
he cuts you off with a chuckle, dark and satisfied.
“then take a breath,” he murmurs, “and get back to it.”
you do. you open wide, let him fuck back into your mouth like it’s nothing. like you’re just a toy that breathes and begs and obeys. his hips snap forward again, faster now, his hand in your hair keeping you in place while his fingers fuck you slow, deep, wet. you’re panting through your nose, clenching around him, thighs shaking where you kneel in the water, completely at his mercy.
and then suddenly, all four hands move at once.
he pulls you off his cock, spit trailing from your lips to the tip, and you gasp like you’ve been drowning, collapsing forward against his thigh. but he doesn’t let you rest—not for a second. he grabs you under the arms and lifts you like you weigh nothing, spinning you effortlessly in the water until your back hits the edge of the bath and you’re bent forward, tits pressed to cold stone, ass in the air.
you’re still catching your breath when you feel the heat of his cock dragging between your cheeks.
“ready?” he asks, voice right against your ear, hot and taunting. “or do you need to beg again first?”
you don’t get the chance to answer.
his cock slides between your thighs before you can even think, thick and wet with your spit, dragging up against your cunt with slow pressure. your thighs twitch. your spine stiffens.
he doesn’t press in yet. just lets the head of it bump against your entrance, again and again, until your hips start to shift without permission—just a little, just enough to meet him. you’re still trying to breathe. still aching from his fingers, from his mouth, from the bruising rhythm of him fucking your throat until your lips felt raw and your eyes wouldn’t stop tearing. and now you’re bent over the edge of the bath like you were meant to be here.
his fingers dig into your hips. claws curl against your skin.
“don’t move unless i tell you.”
his cock pushes in slow. too slow. the first inch makes your breath catch, makes your hands grip the stone beneath you, makes your whole body clench tight around the intrusion. but he doesn’t pause—doesn’t let you adjust. he slides in deeper, dragging the stretch out like it’s a punishment.
“you feel that?” he says, voice low and near your ear, almost gentle if it weren’t soaked in mockery. “how tight you get for me? like you’ve been waiting for this all day.”
you bite your lip. you don’t answer.
he bottoms out with one brutal snap of his hips.
you cry out—soft, choked, completely unprepared. the sound bounces off the stone walls and disappears into the steam. he doesn’t pull back. he holds himself there, deep, thick, throbbing inside you like he belongs there. like he’s been here before.
“quiet,” he mutters. “you’ll make the whole damn palace jealous.”
and then he moves.
he fucks into you without warning, without rhythm, without mercy. just raw power, hips slamming into the back of your thighs, claws digging into your flesh to keep you still. the stone edge bites into your ribs. the water splashes around your knees. every thrust forces a broken sound from your lips, something half-moan, half-sob. but you take it. because you have to. because there’s nothing else to do.
“listen to that,” he growls, pace quickening. “that wet little sound every time i sink back in. that’s you, filthy little thing. dripping all over me like you want to be ruined.”
you don’t know if you’re crying or sweating or both.
his hands shift—one on the back of your neck, shoving your face down against the cold stone, the other between your thighs, rubbing your clit in slow, taunting circles that don’t match the brutal pace of his hips. his other two hands brace against the bath edge, flexing with every thrust.
he leans over you, mouth near your ear.
“go ahead,” he breathes. “ask.”
your voice cracks when it comes.
“p-please, my lord—may i—may i cum?”
his fingers speed up. his cock slams deeper.
“you think you’ve earned it?”
“n-no, but—”
“you haven’t,” he snarls, slamming into you hard enough to make your legs slip on the stone. “but you’re gonna do it anyway, aren’t you? fucking pathetic. all i have to do is touch you and you fall apart.”
and you do.
your orgasm hits hard and fast, clenching tight around him, thighs shaking, mouth open in a silent cry. the shame makes it worse. the way he groans when he feels you squeeze around him. the way he keeps fucking through it like it’s nothing.
“that’s it,” he mutters, panting. “give it up. let me have it.”
you’re boneless when he finishes, buried to the hilt, cock twitching deep inside as he spills into you without a word. just a hiss through his teeth, a low groan in his throat, and the slow drag of his claws along your sides.
he doesn’t pull out right away.
he holds you there, still bent over, still leaking, still full.
“clean yourself,” he says finally. “the tub as well. and then get out. i don’t like sharing my bath.”
