who knew vampire!sukuna would be such a perv ! cw: pantyjerking, somno
you were vampire!sukuna's weakness. not the kind you read about in old books—no crucifix, no silver dagger, no flaming sunrise could do what you did with nothing but a scent. and it wasn’t fair, not when you didn’t even know. not when all it took was the sweet rot of your period blood in the air, clinging to the threads of your underwear, and he was back here again like a relapsing addict, trembling and hard.
he should’ve left the first night he caught your scent—should’ve climbed back through your window and vanished into the dark like a good monster does. but you were wearing those stupid little sleep shorts, and your thighs were slick with sweat, and your laundry basket reeked of sweet iron and straight cunt. and he’s not that strong.
that’s the lie he tells himself later, anyway. that he wasn’t looking for you. that it was just the smell, thick in the air, pulling him across the room on instinct alone.
the basket’s half full, kicked crooked against your dresser, clothes spilling over the rim like you didn’t bother sorting anything, and the second he kneels it’s over. no thought. no dignity. just fingers digging, shoving aside cotton and denim until he finds it—thin, ruined fabric still damp at the center, stiff at the seams, holding onto the copper-sweet ghost of you like it knows it’s valuable.
“fuck,” he breathes, already hard, already leaking, already on his knees. he presses the panties to his face and inhales deep, tongue slipping out without permission to drag along the inside seam, tasting dried blood and sat that makes his knees go weak.
it’s not blood the way he’s used to. not sharp or clean or taken under fear. it’s sweet. innocent. pure. left behind. it makes his mouth water and his cock throb.
he licks again. slower. reverent. folds the fabric, presses it flat against his tongue like he’s savoring wine, like he’s allowed. moans low into it before he can stop himself, hips rolling forward, hand fisting his cock through his pants because he’s already past pretending this is just curiosity.
“dirty little thing,” he mutters, not even sure if he means the underwear or the girl who wore it, saliva darkening the cotton as he sucks, teeth scraping just enough to snag the seam against a fang.
that’s when he feels it.
not the smell—the weight.
presence.
slowly, achingly, he turns his head. and there you are.
laid out on the bed behind him, sprawled and boneless, blanket kicked low, sleep shorts riding up your thighs like they always do, chest rising and falling soft and unaware. real. breathing. bleeding. not some abstract scent or fetishized scrap of fabric but you, warm and alive and close enough that his mouth floods again just looking at you.
oh.
oh fuck.
his hand tightens around himself. his pulse stutters. something ugly coils low in his gut because suddenly it makes sense—the timing, the intensity, the way this smell has been haunting him for nights now—and the realization hits harder than hunger ever has.
you’re the source.
you were never supposed to be.
he doesn’t move right away. just kneels there with your panties still pressed to his mouth, staring at you like this is some cruel hallucination his body cooked up to punish him. you shift slightly, thigh sliding against the sheets, and the scent blooms fresh in the air, warm and undeniable.
his breath goes ragged.
“you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he whispers, hoarse, already rising to his feet, already drifting closer without permission. he tells himself he’ll just look. just confirm. just make sure he’s not losing his mind.
liar.
the smell hits first—fresh now, not just dried and sweet, but warm and living. still bleeding. a faint smear between your legs, dark and tacky. his breath stutters. his cock jerks hard in his fist. “oh,” he exhales, like he’s just been handed a secret he doesn’t deserve.
“you’re still—fuck.” he leans in without meaning to, nose hovering near your inner thigh, breathing you in like it hurts, like it burns, like if he just stayed there long enough it’d cauterize something inside him. and he knows it’s sick.
he knows it’s wrong. he’s never touched you. not really. not once. hasn’t even seen your cunt outside of this soaked little print, hasn’t pressed his fingers into anything but his own fist, hasn’t taken a single goddamn thing from you—yet here he is, leaking down his own wrist like an animal, like a freak, like a starving fucking dog kneeling by your bed just to smell what he can’t have.
he should leave. now. before he does something irreversible. before he trades obsession for violence and tells himself it’s love. but your blood’s still wet and his cock’s still so hard and he’s so far past the point of penance he’s not even pretending anymore.
he fists himself harder. not even stroking now—just gripping, choking, pulsing in his palm as he stares at the smear between your legs like it’s a fucking miracle, like you bled just for him.
the blanket slips further as he jerks, one hand slick with spit and precum, the other crumpling your panties in his fist like a keepsake he’ll never wash.
he wants to bite you. he wants to bite you so fucking bad he can’t breathe. wants to leave teethmarks high on your thigh, right where the blood pools warm and close to the surface, wants to sink in slow, break the skin, feel you twitch around his tongue. he wants to be good.
he wants to be good. he’s not. he’s not. he’s—
“fuck—fuck—” he gasps, hips jerking, cum splattering across your sheets in thick, hot ropes, the sound wet and obscene as it lands, dripping off the side of your bed and down onto the floor like spilled wax.
he clenches his teeth, bites the inside of his cheek to stay quiet, but it doesn’t matter—you don’t wake. not even when he shudders hard enough to knock the nightstand. not even when he lets out a noise that sounds like begging and grief tangled together, low and broken, more animal than man.
he wipes himself off on his own shirt. not yours. never yours. he’s never touched your skin and he’s not going to start now, not like this, not tonight. he tucks the panties into his pocket like a fucking coward and disappears out the window before his resolve crumbles any further, hands still shaking, mouth still bloody, cock still twitching like it’s not finished.
he doesn’t look back.
but he’ll be back.
you both know that.
this may not make any sense and i’m too lazy to proofi wrote this at 4 am cause i couldn’t get to sleep #postbreakupdepressionlolz
after sex with sukuna, your body isn’t yours for a while.
not really. not when your thighs are still twitching, and your cunt’s still leaking, and he’s still there, watching you fall apart in the ruin he made.
he likes loves the mess. likes what it means. doesn’t care that you’re sore or shivering or barely coherent—if anything, that’s part of the appeal. it’s not enough for him to fuck you. not enough to cum inside you. no, sukuna wants to see it drip. wants to taste it after. wants to bury his face between your legs and lick every drop of himself back out like it belongs to him. because it does.
you’re still trying to catch your breath when he moves again.
your legs are heavy. your chest’s still heaving. your whole body’s pulsing in aftershocks from how hard he fucked you—rough and fast, hand on your throat, hips unrelenting, cock shoved so deep you still feel him inside, even though he’s not. even though he’s already pulled out and left you aching.
you don’t realize he’s gone until the mattress shifts at your feet. until you blink your eyes open and see him between your legs again. crouched. staring.
“what are you doing,” you whisper, voice cracked.
you try to close your legs and he laughs.
that mean little grunt of a sound, deep in his chest, all teeth. “don’t be shy now,” he says, hand already flattening over your thigh to keep you open, wide, spread, ruined. “you let me fuck it, you let me fill it—what, now you wanna act all modest?”
he doesn’t wait for an answer. doesn’t need one.
because he’s already got his face between your legs again, tongue dragging slow and low through the mess he left inside you, and fuck, it’s so much worse this time—so much worse when it’s not about pleasure, not about your orgasm, not about anything soft or sweet.
it’s filthy. it’s disgusting. it’s him chasing the taste of his own cum out of you like he’s thirsty for it, like he wants to drink every last drop just to remind you who it belongs to.
he groans like you’re dinner. he growls like you’re prey. slurping it up like he’d bite if he weren’t too busy licking.
“messy little thing,” he mutters into your cunt, mouth still full. “can’t even hold it in, huh?”
you shake your head. you’re crying again, probably. overstimulated and twitching and raw all over, but his grip doesn’t soften, doesn’t let you run. he just goes deeper, tongue fucking into you like he wants to stir it back out, like he wants to savor the way it spills from you, thick and warm and still dripping down your thighs.
and when you flinch—when you try to squirm away, useless little whimper in your throat—he drags his tongue all the way up and spits it back on your pussy.
“tastes better like this,” he says, like he’s just talking to himself now. “you. me. all mixed together.” another slow lick. another long groan. “like you were made to keep me inside you.”
you shake your head. you can’t even look at him—but he makes you.
grabs your chin with one wet hand and forces your gaze down—makes you watch him tongue through the mess between your legs like a man possessed. messy. loud. claiming you all over again.
“that’s what i thought,” he says, licking his lips. “good girl.”
trueform!sukuna’s idea of punishment is eating you out until you cry
you’re not sure when you learned the difference between pity and pride but it must’ve been too late because it got you here, stupid girl, soft-eyed, and soft-mouthed, stepping forward when you should’ve stayed down.
interrupting punishment like you had the rank to speak, like kindness wasn’t its own kind of insult when it comes from someone beneath, and you knew it—you knew it—the second your voice echoed against the courtyard wall. the second the noble’s hand stopped mid-swing and the guards froze and the girl you tried to protect looked at you like you’d just killed her twice, you knew.
because no one moved and no one breathed and no one stepped in to say you did the right thing, because there is no right thing, only what he decides to punish and what he decides to ignore, and today he decides it’s going to be you.
you’re called to his chamber with no explanation and no escort, just a breathless girl muttering your name like it’s already a curse, and when you walk the long, silent path to the back of the estate, the air goes thinner, darker, the lanterns pulled away from the walls like even fire knows not to bear witness to what happens in this wing.
you’re shaking, but not because you’re scared of him—no, never that—it’s not fear, not really, it’s something worse, something shameful, because your thighs are already pressed too tight and your hands are already too still and your stomach is already twisted up in a knot of guilt that smells like want, because you know what kind of punishment he gives when he wants to remind you how replaceable you are, and you know what it means that he didn’t ask for an explanation first.
the room is dark when you enter, heat curling at the edges like a mouth waiting to swallow, and he’s already there—lounging, sprawled, seated like a man with no time but all the power, head tilted, one eye half-lidded and bored and the others glowing just under the surface like fire beneath ice, and he doesn’t speak when you bow, doesn’t acknowledge you except with a small twitch of his topmost fingers, a flick, nothing more, and you understand—lie down.
you do, because you’ve already ruined everything, and there’s nothing left to protect.
you lie back, exposed, and the hot air slick against your skin and your legs trembling already because you know what’s coming, because this isn’t the first time you’ve been corrected and it won’t be the last, and you can’t tell if the ache pooling in your cunt is fear or anticipation but it doesn’t matter because either way it’s pathetic, and he knows it, and he’s going to make you feel it.
he crouches between your legs like a man settling in for dinner, slow and silent, dragging one clawed hand up your thigh not to comfort you but to open you wider, to inspect, to evaluate, to see what the disobedient little maid is hiding between her legs. his thumb brushes over your inner knee and it burns, it burns, and you bite your lip so hard it almost splits because you don’t want to make a sound yet, not until he lets you, not until he takes, not until he decides.
“spread,” he says, not loud, not even cruel, just tired, like he’s bored of how many times he has to say it, and you obey, of course you do, thighs shaking as you open yourself like a fucking gift, like a punishment, like a wound.
his hands are so steady when they grip your hips, when they adjust you, when they press your spine flat like you’ve been writhing already and he’s not going to allow it again.
“that’s better,” he says, like it’s not praise, like it’s just relief that you finally remembered how to be useful. “you forget what this cunt is for every time you open your mouth. embarrassing.”
his fingers drag up the inside of your thigh like he’s wiping something off on you, slow and careless, and when he pauses just short of touching your slit, when he looks down at you spread like this, open like this, flushed and breathing shallow and already dripping, he huffs out a soft, amused sound like you’re proving his point without even trying.
“look at this mess,” he murmurs, dragging a knuckle through your slick, smearing it up and across your clit with the laziness of someone circling the rim of a wine glass. “what the fuck are you leaking for, woman? i haven’t even touched you yet.”
you flinch. hips twitch. his other hand flattens hard against your stomach.
“don’t move.”
it’s the weight of a mountain pressing down on your breath, your dignity, your last scrap of defiance, and you try—you try—to stay still, but the second his mouth brushes low, warm breath dragging across your slit and that knuckle pushes between your folds again, slow and casual and unkind, your thighs tremble without permission.
he clicks his tongue.
“unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in the weather, like your entire body is just another failed task he has to fix himself. “you want to be good so badly but you’re so fucking undisciplined. one mouthful of attention and you start panting like a bitch in heat.”
you want to say something. you don’t know what. maybe sorry. maybe please. maybe nothing. but before the words come out he sinks down further, spreads you wider with his thumbs, and spits directly onto your clit.
you gasp. you whimper. you try to lift your hips again and his palm slams down over your belly, holds you there like furniture.
“do not make me repeat myself,” he says, and it’s calm, too calm, like you’re one warning away from something much worse and you know it, so you freeze, you stay still, you let the spit drip down into your folds and sting where you’re already sensitive, already aching, and he leans in like it’s routine, like he expects you to keep quiet this time.
and then he tastes you.
tongue flat and slow, no teasing, no build, no warm-up act for your nerves to adjust to—just contact, full and consuming, the slick heat of his mouth dragging from your soaked hole all the way to your clit in one obscene lick that makes your whole body flinch like a slapped dog.
you don’t move, you swear you don’t, but you jerk, your hands twitch and your cunt clenches and he knows it, knows your body better than you do, reads every muscle like a weakness, like a lie, and when you gasp he groans low in response like it’s not your noise that excites him but the fact that you tried to hold it in and failed.
“mm,” he mutters into you, not praise, just observation, like he’s sampling something that belongs to him. “still can’t follow simple instructions.”
his tongue presses down hard on your clit, not rhythmically, not helpfully, just enough to make your hips twitch again, just enough to make your thighs strain where they’re still held wide, and you breathe sharp through your nose like that’ll help, like you can breathe your way out of this, like oxygen will save you when your whole body’s already betraying you.
and then he stops, just for a second, just long enough to lift his head and glance up at you from between your legs, mouth soaked, eyes unreadable.
“you don’t move,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s annoyed you made him messier than he wanted. “you don’t cum. and you don’t beg until you’re told.”
you nod. frantic.
he stares.
“say it.”
“yes, my lord,” you whisper, voice already shaking, legs already cramping, clit already throbbing from one real lick and the weight of being denied again, and he smirks, like this is the part he likes best—seeing you try to hold it in.
“good,” he murmurs.
and then he drags his tongue through your folds again, slower this time, open-mouthed and messy, like he’s savoring every part of you, like he’s committed to licking everything except the one spot you need, every motion calculated to get you right to the edge and leave you standing there like an idiot.
you’re pulsing.
you’re leaking.
you’re close already, embarrassingly close, your clit swollen and twitching from neglect, from pressure, from the occasional flick of his nose that almost gives you what you want before he tilts his head again and misses you on purpose.
and he doesn’t say anything for a while, just eats you slow and mean, licking and sucking at your slit while avoiding your clit with surgical precision, fingers holding your thighs down while you shake under him like a live wire, mouth parted and breath punched out of you in shallow little gasps that make you sound pathetic.
he loves it.
“look at you,” he says finally, voice low, lips brushing your folds while he speaks, tongue still moving between words, still teasing, still taunting. “already this close and i haven’t even touched your clit properly. that’s not normal, is it?”
you don’t answer. you can’t.
so he pulls away.
fully.
sits back on his heels like it’s over, like he’s done, like he’s bored of you, and the second his mouth leaves you your whole body screams, cunt clenching hard around nothing, thighs twitching, breath caught in your throat like a sob that never made it out.
“answer me,” he says, voice sharper now. “do you always get like this? so easy? so fucking needy you start dripping from spit?”
you shake your head before you can think, but he raises an eyebrow.
“really?” he says, and then, mocking: “so this is just for me, then?”
you nod. too fast. too desperate. you hate yourself.
“prove it,” he says, sliding his fingers down your cunt, two thick fingers pressing inside you without warning, soaked from how long he’s been denying you, and you moan so loud it makes him laugh.
“yeah,” he says, voice low and filthy. “that’s mine.”
he fucks his fingers into you slow, curling them exactly right, and his thumb finally presses to your clit—not to rub it, not yet, just to rest there, and the contact alone makes you shake, makes you pant, makes your mouth fall open around a sound that isn’t even a word.
“gonna ask now?” he murmurs, and his thumb presses just enough to make you feel it. “gonna beg for something you know i’m not gonna give you?”
you nod. you whimper. you want to cry.
“go on then,” he says. “let’s hear it.”
“please,” you gasp, thighs trembling, voice wrecked. “please, my lord, i’m—i’m so close, i’ll be good, i swear—just let me—please—”
“mm,” he hums, thumb rubbing one circle, just one, and you twitch, your cunt tightening around his fingers like you’re seconds away, like you’ll break if he just does it again—but he doesn’t.
he pulls his hand away completely and slaps your pussy once—wet and not even painful, just shocking—and the noise that comes out of you is not human.
“wrong answer,” he says, and his mouth devours you again, tongue brutal now, fast and overwhelming, sucking your clit so hard your vision blacks out at the edges, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t fucking care how loud you get now because it’s too late, you’re gone, you're there, you're going to—you can’t stop it.
you try—you swear you try—you clamp your fists, you grit your teeth, you hold your breath like that’s going to help, like anything short of divine intervention is going to pull you back from the edge, but it’s not enough.
he’s not letting up, he’s not giving you time to think or breathe or warn him, his mouth is locked to your cunt like a curse, like a promise, and his tongue is a weapon now, merciless and so mean, flicking and sucking and pressing until your body makes the decision for you.
you cum like your nerves catch fire.
your whole spine arches up off the ground and your legs jerk and your hips lift into his mouth like your body’s trying to crawl inside it, like you need to melt into him just to survive the force of it, and you sob—loud and guttural as the pressure breaks wide open behind your hips and your orgasm floods out of you in a hot, shaking rush.
you squirt.
not a cutesy little drip. not a leak. a fucking spray, like your cunt couldn’t take it another second, like your body couldn’t hold it anymore, like his mouth was the match and you were the fucking fuse.
you hear it hit him. feel it splash back against your thighs. see it in flashes—steam rising from the floor, the wet smack of it between your legs, the way your whole body shudders through the release and keeps fucking going.
he groans into it. he doesn’t stop.
he keeps licking. keeps sucking. keeps dragging his tongue up through your mess like he wants it, like he’s starved for it, like this is exactly what he was trying to force out of you, and now that he’s got it, he’s going to take every drop.
“fuck yes,” he growls into your cunt, voice hoarse and wrecked and proud. “that’s it. that’s how you say thank you.”
you’re still cumming. your thighs are twitching, your stomach’s convulsing, your hands are clawing at the floor like you can anchor yourself to the world and not be swallowed whole by it, but it’s useless, you’re soaked, slippery, overstimulated, sobbing, and he’s still there.
his mouth is still on you.
his tongue is still moving, slower now, but deeper, greedier, dragging through the mess he made like he wants to leave you hollow, like he wants to carve this into your memory with every lap.
and your body is still twitching.
aftershocks. more than one.
your cunt pulses. your hole clenches around nothing. your clit throbs like it’s still desperate for him even after he wrung you dry.
“gonna cry?” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “gonna cry ‘cause it was too much? ‘cause you couldn’t hold it like i told you to?”
you whimper.
you can’t speak.
“good,” he says, and licks one last slow, loving stripe from your soaked slit to your abused clit, and it burns, it makes you jump, it makes your mouth fall open around a silent plea and he just laughs.
then he pulls back.
rising to his feet while your cum drips from his chin and his chest and the floor beneath you, and your legs are still open, still twitching, still useless.
he looks down at you, cock achingly hard, arms crossed over his chest like you’re a meal he just finished and hasn’t decided yet if he wants dessert.
“next time,” he says, casual, calm, cruel, “you ask like you mean it the first time.”
and then, like a kindness, like it’s nothing: “you did good, though.”
letting sukuna tour a house with his girlfriend was part of the job—fucking him on the kitchen island wasn’t
you hear them before you see them. engine too smooth to rattle, tires too clean to crunch gravel, the kind of car you wouldn’t park in this neighborhood unless you were trying to say something. the house is already open, lights on, scent of staged florals in the entryway clinging to your clothes. you adjust the collar of your blouse, smooth your palms down your hips, and step outside just in time to watch her spill out of the passenger side door like a perfume ad.
she’s soft pink and gold all over. heels clicking against the driveway. silk dress catching the wind. the kind of girl that talks with her wrists and laughs like she wants someone to ask what’s so funny. she pauses at the hood of the car like she’s waiting to be admired. sunglasses on. glossed lips parted. you see her glance back toward the driver’s side like she’s posing.
he takes his time.
driver’s door swings open and he climbs out like he owns the whole street. broad frame in all black. button-down open at the throat. tattoos peeking through like they belong there, like they’ve been there for years. hand runs through his hair, silver rings catching the light, and when he shuts the door behind him.
he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t look at her. doesn’t look at you. just stands there for a moment, still, quiet, jaw tight, like he’s already decided he absolutely hates this.
she loops her arms around his without waiting.
“it’s cute,” she says, voice soft and bright like she wants it to echo. “right, baby? don’t you think it’s cute?”
he grunts. doesn’t nod. doesn’t look.
you wait by the door, clipboard loose in your hands, watching her lead him up the steps like he’s a dog she’s convinced she trained. she’s still talking—about the flowers in the yard, the porch light, something about a photo she saw online—but you’re not listening. you’re watching him.
he’s not interested in the house. that much is obvious. he’s only here because she is.
when they reach you, she beams. bright. rehearsed.
“hi! thank you soooo much for making time for us. i know it’s late in the day,” she says, already stepping past the threshold. “we’ve been looking at so many houses lately, it’s exhausting. my boyfriend’s super picky.”
her voice lilts on the last word like it’s charming. like it’s a private joke between the three of you.
he follows her in without a glance.
and then he sees you. his gaze drags. up. down. not rude. not obvious. just assessing in a slow and quiet yet heavy way. you don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until it’s already in your throat. you nod, polite. let your eyes flick away before you can read into it.
“feel free to take your time,” you say, voice steady. “i’ll walk you through each space, and if anything stands out, i’m happy to answer questions.”
“good,” he says. first word he’s spoken directly to you. low. curt. final.
she’s already pulling him toward the kitchen.
he doesn’t look away until you do.
the kitchen is first.
it’s wide and open, staged to look lived in—lemon in the bowl, neutral linens folded just so, light filtering in through the window above the farmhouse sink like a dream. she gasps like she’s walking into a wedding venue.
“oh, i love this,” she says, dragging the word out as she lets go of his arm and steps inside. “look at the backsplash! baby, doesn’t this look like that restaurant we went to in napa?”
he doesn’t answer. just glances around the room like he’s checking for exits.
you trail behind them, clipboard in hand, giving them space but not too much. it’s your job to sell it, but you already know who the buyer would be if this was real. she’s practically nesting. he hasn’t looked at a single fixture.
“the appliances are included,” you say gently, voice smooth but not overly warm. “brand new—stainless, energy efficient. quartz countertops, and there’s radiant heat flooring throughout the first level.”
she spins a little. smiles at you.
“you’re so good at this,” she says, and it’s sweet but hollow, like she’s trying to compliment you without noticing how quiet it’s gotten behind her.
you glance at him briefly. his gaze is already on you.
"what do you both do for work?" you ask, leading them toward the living space. “just to get a sense of your day-to-day, what kind of layout makes the most sense.”
“i work in fashion,” she says quickly, stepping in front of him again, eyes bright like she’s answering a magazine interview. “freelance creative direction, mostly luxury campaigns. we travel a lot, but we’re thinking of settling down here a bit more, y’know?”
you nod, smile. “it’s a great neighborhood for it. really peaceful, good privacy. lots of families moving in lately—there’s a top-rated private elementary just three minutes from here. brand new campus, playground, everything.”
“oh my god, stop,” she says, clutching his arm again, squealing just a little. “see? i told you this area was perfect. i mean… we’re not there yet, but like, eventually, right?”
he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t say anything. just slides his eyes toward you and murmurs, “we’re not planning for that.” his voice is flat. final. not up for debate.
you pretend not to notice.
you turn and gesture down the hallway, slipping back into your role like a well-worn coat, guiding them toward the bedrooms while keeping your voice even. the air shifts as soon as you step away from the open living space—narrower here, quieter, the light softer, shadows stretching longer along the walls. she drifts ahead, heels clicking, already narrating a future out loud to herself. guest room on the left. walk‑in closet potential. where she’d put mirrors. where she’d hang coats. she fills the space easily.
he doesn’t.
he lingers back just enough that when you walk, he walks beside you. not close enough to touch. close enough to feel. the heat of him, the weight of his attention, the way the hallway suddenly feels too small to hold all three of you at once.
“you live in a place like this?” he asks quietly, voice pitched low, timed perfectly so it won’t reach her ears.
you glance up at him before you can stop yourself. his gaze doesn’t flicker. doesn’t soften. it just stays on you, unreadable, like he’s measuring something he hasn’t decided to take yet.
you clear your throat. “similar,” you say. “not quite as large.”
“hm.”
it isn’t approval. it isn’t dismissal either. just a sound, thoughtful, like he’s filing the information away for later.
he smells like spice and something darker beneath it—leather, metal, money that’s been earned the hard way. as you walk, you notice the way his hand drags lazily along the wall, rings catching the light with every step, knuckles scarred like they’ve met too many people head-on.
you stop at the master.
open the door.
she’s inside before you finish the sentence, breath catching audibly as she takes in the space. tall windows, sunlight spilling in across the floors, the en suite bath half-visible through frosted glass.
“oh, we’d keep this exactly how it is,” she says, turning in a slow circle, arms lifting like she’s already claiming it. “don’t you think it’s so airy? and god, that tub—” she laughs, glancing back at him. “i can totally see us in here, can’t you?”
he doesn’t answer. not right away.
he’s looking at you instead.
not the windows. not the tub. not the way the light hits the floor. just you—standing in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame, clipboard tucked to your chest, trying very hard to remember how to breathe like this doesn’t feel personal.
“nice ceilings,” he mutters finally, eyes dragging from your face to your waist, then away again like nothing happened.
you swallow. nod once. “twelve-foot beams,” you say. “south-facing.”
he steps past you to look out the window at the end of the hall, broad shoulder brushing close enough that you feel the movement of air change. as he passes, his hand slides just enough to graze your hip again.
she doesn’t notice. she’s too busy wandering into the bathroom, fingers trailing over marble, humming softly.
“babe,” she calls over her shoulder, still smiling, “tell her what you do for work. she asked earlier.”
he pauses by the window. looks at the street below like he’s somewhere else entirely. then his eyes flick back to you, sharp and unreadable.
“used to fight,” he says. casual. almost bored. “underground.”
she laughs quickly, like she’s smoothing something over. “he means boxing,” she adds. “retired now. mostly. it’s all… in the past.”
he doesn’t correct her. doesn’t elaborate. just keeps watching you, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with that information.
she’s still in the bathroom talking to herself, mostly. about the lighting, the vanity, the way the tub could look “really sexy” if they brought in a little rug and some candles. her voice bounces off the tile like she wants it to stick there, sweet and high and hungry for attention that isn’t coming.
you’re standing just outside the doorway, clipboard loose in your hands, nodding at the right moments, answering her questions about water pressure and heated flooring while keeping your eyes on the staging. not on him.
you know he’s behind you. you felt it before you heard him.
slow steps down the hall. the kind that don’t try to be quiet—just are. you look back before you can stop yourself, and he’s already there. leaning one shoulder against the wall like he’s been standing there this whole time, watching you talk. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move. just tips his head a little and lets his eyes drag.
he’s too close.
not close enough to touch you. but close enough to smell.
you shift your weight. press the clipboard a little tighter to your chest. try not to let it show.
he’s still staring. when he speaks, it’s too low to carry past you. not loud enough for her to hear from inside. it’s just for you.
“you always this polite?”
you glance up at him. nod. barely.
“with clients,” you say softly.
he smiles with his mouth closed. “shame.”
you blink. feel it in your throat.
you mean to turn back. to go inside. to say something about the tile or the brass or the fact that the tub has jets. but he moves first. slow. one hand lifts and brushes against the doorframe near your head, fingers curling against the wood like he’s testing how much space there is between you. like he’s measuring it. like he already knows it’s not enough.
you hold your breath. his eyes drop. from your eyes to your lips. from your lips to your neck. from your neck to the top button of your blouse. and lower.
“you always this quiet?”
you swallow. nod again.
“depends who i’m talking to,” you murmur.
his gaze sharpens. not a lot. just enough to feel it.
he doesn’t lean in all the way. just enough for the heat to reach your cheek. just enough for the smell of him—spice and sweat and something expensive—to get under your skin. his voice is rough when it comes, dragged low like it’s something he wants you to remember.
“bet you’d show me something better if she wasn’t here.”
your heart kicks once. hard. clipboard still tight to your chest.
he doesn’t wait for an answer. doesn’t need one.
you feel the air shift when he steps back.
she calls his name before he fully turns. her voice floats out of the bathroom, bright and airy like she didn’t notice the tension stretched across the hallway like a tripwire.
“baby, come feel the pressure in the shower—it’s perfect!”
he doesn’t answer right away. just watches you for a second longer. eyes steady. unreadable.
and then he walks past you like nothing happened.
you don’t move for a while. you just listen to the sound of her laugh. the way it echoes. the way it doesn’t match the pace of your pulse.
your phone buzzes in your pocket.
you’re in the middle of pointing out the closet space in the home office—explaining how the previous owners used it for seasonal storage—when the screen lights up. a number you recognize. not one you can ignore.
“sorry,” you murmur, stepping back, polite but firm. “i just need to take this.”
“oh, totally fine,” she says quickly, all smiles. “go ahead, we’ll keep looking. i wanna see how big the guest room actually is.”
you nod, grateful. already turning toward the stairs.
you don’t look at him. you don’t have to. you can feel him. the way his gaze doesn’t move, doesn’t shift. the way he waits until your foot hits the second step before saying—“i’ll be back. left something in the car.”
you don’t turn around. don’t say anything.
you answer the phone at the bottom of the stairs, voice smooth, calm, still trying to sound like the person you were fifteen minutes ago. the person who didn’t know how it would feel to stand too close to him in a hallway. the person who wasn’t starting to sweat under her blouse.
you keep your back to the kitchen. fingers tight around the edge of the counter.
the call doesn’t last long. just scheduling. a detail about an afternoon showing tomorrow. you wrap it up fast, already hearing the front door open behind you. then close again.
you don’t turn around right away.
but you know.
you know it’s not the car he went to.
you know he didn’t forget anything.
you feel him enter the room before you see him—feel the quiet stretch and twist, the air shift. his steps are slow. and when you finally glance over your shoulder, he’s already close enough that it doesn’t matter.
you let the silence hang.
his eyes drag down your frame, unhurried. from your mouth to your hips. back up again.
he doesn’t speak until he’s right behind you.
“phone call over?”
you don’t answer right away. just nod. still half-turned, still pretending this isn’t happening the way it’s happening.
he moves closer.
the kitchen island presses against your thighs. the counter cool against your hands. he places one hand beside yours. heavy. wide. the rings on his fingers glint in the light.
“didn’t like that you left,” he murmurs.
you let out a breath. shake your head once. “you’re here with someone else.”
“and you answered the phone.”
his hand slides to your hip. your pulse kicks.
“she’s upstairs,” you whisper, half-warn, half-remind.
“you’re downstairs,” he says, voice steady. “we’re alone.”
you exhale, quiet, shaky. “this is wrong.”
his fingers dig in just a little.
“so stop me.”
you don’t. and when his other hand comes up, to touch your waist, to trace the edge of your blouse with the back of his fingers, you shiver. can’t help it. can’t stop it.
“why are you even with her?” you ask, voice barely audible. “you don’t even look at her. it's mean, you know.”
he doesn’t flinch.
“history,” he says. “her dad helped me when i had nothing. i paid him back by keeping her safe.”
you swallow. stay still.
“and now?”
“now she wants something i don’t.”
you look up at him. chest rising.
“what do you want?”
“you.”
his hand slides down the front of your thigh, slow, thumb dragging just under the hem of your blouse where it’s come untucked, fingers grazing skin like he already knows how you’ll taste.
“i want to see you again,” he murmurs, low against your jaw. “tonight.”
you swallow hard, still staring ahead, still frozen against the island like you’re braced for something worse.
“what—for another showing?” you whisper, trying to keep your voice level. trying to remember where you are, who you’re supposed to be.
his mouth brushes just behind your ear.
“call it extra,” he says. “i want something a little more private.”
you don’t get the chance to answer.
her voice cuts through the room like a bell—bright, soft, perfectly timed.
“oh my god, i love it!” she says, heels clicking across the floor as she rounds the corner back into the kitchen, totally oblivious. “the guest room is adorable and that office space? so perfect for me.”
your eyes go wide. you step back quickly, adjusting your blouse with one hand and your clipboard with the other, pretending you were just about to walk back into the hall. he’s already moved, hands tucked in his pockets, standing casually by the sink like he wasn’t just whispering filth into your neck.
she doesn’t notice. she’s already bouncing toward the center of the room, smiling like she’s just made the easiest decision of her life.
“i wanna buy it,” she beams. “what’s the process? how soon can we get started?”
you open your mouth—ready to guide her through the usual steps, your voice catching somewhere between professionalism and panic.
but he speaks first.
“tonight,” sukuna says. calm. final. like it was already decided. “we worked out a deal. i’m bringing the money later.”
you blink. you look at him.
she claps her hands together, absolutely thrilled.
“ugh, finally. you’re the best,” she says, turning to you like this has all been a team effort. “thank you so much for your help. seriously.”
you force a smile. she wraps you in a soft hug before you can dodge it. perfume and pink lip gloss and the sound of her bracelets jangling against your back.
then she pulls away and reaches for his hand.
“baby, let’s go. we’ve got stuff to pack.”
he lets her lead him toward the door like nothing happened. like he didn’t just have his hand almost under your blouse five minutes ago. like he didn’t tell you he was coming back tonight for something extra.
you stand still. don’t move. clipboard still tucked against your chest like a shield that stopped working a long time ago.
she’s already talking about what she wants to eat for dinner. what color she wants to paint the guest room. how early she can come back with swatches. you can barely hear her over the sound of your own heart in your throat.
and then—right before they step out—he looks back.
his eyes find yours over her shoulder, and he holds it. not smiling, not soft, not sweet. just… steady. enough to remind you.
you raise your hand to wave before you can stop yourself. the kind of wave you give when your whole body feels disconnected. your mouth twitches into something polite. practiced.
she waves back, bright and chipper, swinging his arm as she pulls him outside.
and then the door closes.
you don’t move for a second. don’t breathe. your fingers loosen around the clipboard until it slides from your grip and lands on the wood with a dull, plastic thud.
you reach back blindly. lean into the doorframe like you’re bracing yourself. like the floor might drop out.
then your knees give. and you sink. back against the door. hands in your lap. chest rising too fast. head tipped up toward the ceiling like it might know something you don’t.
you blink once. then again.
what the fuck did i just get into?
‿‿‿‿
you come back after dark.
not late enough to be suspicious, but late enough that the house is quiet. untouched. your shoes click against the floor too sharp. the light from the hallway barely touches the kitchen. it’s all dim outlines and shadows, warm-toned sunset bleeding through the wide windows and catching the counter edges in gold.
you pretend like you’re here to check something. to grab a folder you forgot. to make sure the staging team didn’t leave anything behind.
but your hand hesitates on the light switch.
and you don’t call out.
then you see it.
a glass on the island. already used. already sweating. the kind the staging team never leaves behind. out of place. casual. like someone’s been here a while.
you stop moving.
and that’s when you hear it—the soft sound of ice shifting. a chair pulled back. the steady, unhurried weight of his footsteps behind you like he was always meant to fill the space.
“you left the door unlocked.”
you don’t turn. don’t speak. just grip the strap of your bag a little tighter and try not to show how fast your heart is beating. he’s close. you can hear it in his voice. feel it in the air.
“i was gonna leave,” he says, and you can already hear the smile in it. low. dark. lazy. “but you came back.”
you finally glance over your shoulder.
he’s leaning against the counter like he owns it. sleeves rolled. shirt unbuttoned just enough to show ink and skin. rings still on. eyes steady. tracking every inch of you like he’s waiting to see what breaks first.
“what are you doing here,” you ask, voice soft. stupid.
he shrugs. takes a sip from the glass. his tongue brushes the rim.
“wanted to see if the place still felt good without her in it.”
you blink. your mouth opens, then closes.
he sets the glass down.
“come here.”
you don’t move.
his gaze sharpens, slow and amused. like he’s letting you pretend you still have a choice.
“i said—come here.”
your feet move before your brain catches up. you round the island slowly, heart stuck somewhere in your throat, and he doesn’t touch you right away. just watches you walk toward him like he’s letting it sink in.
he turns you by the hips. lifts you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. the stone is cold beneath your thighs, but his hands are warm. steady. dragging up under your skirt before you can even speak.
“wait—”
his mouth is already on your neck. slow. greedy. his fingers tug your panties to the side without hesitation, already sliding through your folds like he knew you’d be wet for him.
you are.
you hate it. you hate that he knows.
he kisses your thigh once. breath hot against your skin.
“you came back for this,” he says, voice low. “don’t pretend you didn’t.”
your breath stutters. mouth open, nothing coming out. his hands are already spreading you wider, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your thighs like he’s claiming them. like you. like the space between your legs belongs to him now—warm and flushed and soaking through the lace he didn’t even bother taking off.
his thumb slides along the seam of your panties. slow. lazy. pulls them aside like he’s done this before—like he knew exactly how they’d stick to you. the groan he lets out when he sees it, when he sees how wet you are already, is quiet but deep, dragged straight from his chest.
“fuck.”
your skin burns under his stare.
you try to close your legs out of instinct, but he catches you easily. presses your thighs open again with his palms and just… holds you there. mouth close enough that you feel his breath against your cunt. humid. heavy. unbearable.
“look at that,” he mutters, voice lower now. almost reverent. “fucking dripping. all this for me?”
you don’t answer.
you can’t.
his tongue slides up the center of you—the first lick messy and hot, dragging through everything that’s already leaked out of you. your whole body flinches. your hand slams down on the counter behind you for balance.
“s-sukuna—”
but he doesn’t stop.
he fucking groans into it. tongue flattening again, pressing deep before curling up to suck your clit into his mouth like it’s something he’s starving for. his hands dig into your thighs harder when you jerk, like he wants you to squirm. wants to feel how much it overwhelms you.
he’s sloppy with it.
loud.
his tongue flicks fast, sucks harder, the wet sounds obscene in the silence of the kitchen—your breath hitching, your thighs twitching, your cunt soaked. it’s all mouth and heat and the slick, desperate way he chases the taste of you, like you’re the best thing he’s ever had. he’s not being gentle. he’s being greedy. tongue fucking you through every stutter of your breath, lips slick with it, chin damp.
you feel it pooling beneath you. dripping down the curve of your ass and sticking to the stone.
you’re not thinking anymore.
your hand finds his hair. yanks. hard.
he groans when you do it.
his tongue licks deeper in response, then slides back up, fast, sharp, focused. sucking your clit with filthy precision until your legs are shaking.
“that’s it,” he growls against you. “come on. give it to me.”
you gasp. your whole body jolts.
and then you break. loud. helpless.
your orgasm hits hard. shivering, choking on your own breath as you grind against his mouth without realizing, your hand still fisted in his hair, his name coming out half-broken. your thighs threaten to close around his head and he lets them. grips your ass and keeps going, tongue dragging through everything you give him like it’s not enough.
he only pulls away when your legs start to tremble too much to hold you up.
his mouth is soaked.
he looks up at you with his lips still parted, tongue wet and chin shining. breath heavy. cock already hard and pressing against the front of his pants.
“taste better than i imagined,” he says. “but you’re not done.”
he stands without wiping his mouth.
just rises to his full height between your legs, tongue wet, chin gleaming, eyes locked on yours like he wants to see what you do with this—what you do with him, this close, this filthy, with your slick still shining on his face. his hands never leave your body. they slide up your hips, drag along your sides, and his mouth crashes into yours like he’s been holding back the whole time.
you gasp into it. instantly. can’t help it.
he kisses you deep. unrelenting. tongue greedy, lips dragging yours open until you’re moaning straight into his mouth. the taste of yourself hits you fast, warm and sweet and obscene, and he fucking loves it—you can feel it in the way his hand curls around the back of your neck, in the way his other hand grips your waist and pulls you closer, grinding his clothed cock against the edge of the counter between your legs.
it’s all teeth and tongue. your fingers claw at his shirt, his belt, the front of his pants. everything feels too tight, too hot. you don’t even realize you’re rutting against him until he growls low into your mouth and bites your bottom lip.
“turn around.”
his voice is wrecked now. rough and thick and impatient.
your body moves before your mind does.
he helps you down—grabs your hips, spins you, bends you forward against the counter like you were meant to be there. your elbows hit the stone. your breath stutters. your thighs spread on instinct, already trembling from how hard you came.
he drags your panties the rest of the way down and pockets them into his jeans.
one hand splays over your back, keeping you bent.
the other fumbles with his belt—fast, clumsy, not from nerves, but need. the clink of metal makes your whole body clench. you feel his cock free a second later, thick and hot and heavy, the head dragging through your folds like he’s taking his time just to make you squirm.
“fuck—” you whimper, back arching.
he groans at the sound of it. he grinds the tip against your entrance but doesn’t push in. not yet. just leans over you, mouth hot at your ear, filthy as ever. “tell me you want it like this.”
“say it.”
“i want it like this,” you breathe, shaky, soft.
his hand tangles in your hair. yanks your head back just enough to make you gasp. the countertop digs into your hips, grounding you.
“eyes on me.”
you do. you meet them. his gaze is dark, lidded, mean—like he wants to burn a hole through your skull and leave nothing behind but this moment.
“good girl.”
he thrusts in. one slow, brutal push. thick and unrelenting, stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried to the base. your knees nearly give. your mouth falls open but no sound comes out. he fills you so completely you swear your eyes roll back.
he groans into your neck. rolls his hips slow.
“fuck, you’re tight.”
you make a sound then. soft. desperate. your fingers claw at the counter’s edge, searching for something to hold, something to feel, because every part of your body is already overloaded.
he pulls back just enough. slams in deeper.
you jerk forward from the force of it, a cry catching in your throat. he grabs your hips harder. spreads you wider. uses both hands to open you up, one slipping down to your thigh, the other gripping your ass and pulling it apart to sink even deeper.
“there you go,” he mutters. “take it.”
your whole body burns.
he sets a rough rhythm. each thrust louder than the last. the slap of skin. the wet slide of him fucking into you without even fully undressing. just your panties shoved aside, his pants half undone, both of you fully clothed from the waist up, like you couldn’t be bothered to wait.
you try to look back—try to see him—but he grabs your hair again and makes you.
“you like this?” he says, breathing hard now. “getting fucked like a whore on the kitchen counter?”
your answer comes in a choked moan. your body trembling. your cunt squeezing around him with every punishing stroke.
his hand slips between your legs. finds your clit. rubs it fast, rough, filthy. your head drops, fingers scrambling against the counter for something to hold, anything to keep you from falling apart.
you’re so close. aching. desperate.
and then—he stops.
you nearly sob.
“nah actually,” he says, voice too casual, too smug, like he didn’t just wreck you with two minutes of controlled chaos. “let’s check out that shower pressure, yeah?”
you don’t even have time to respond.
he pulls out and then he scoops you up—bridal style—like you weigh nothing, like he’s already carried you a hundred times before, like this is just step one.
you wrap your arms around his arms instinctively, dazed, dizzy, still dripping around nothing. your breath catches in your throat when he starts up the stairs.
he doesn’t even look winded.
just smirks. eyes locked forward.
“wanna see if the tile walls can handle it,” he mutters under his breath. “bet you’ll scream louder in there.”
you barely register the way he shoulders through the bathroom door until the lights flicker on and the walls catch the last of the dying sun through the frosted glass. warm, golden, and hazy. but all of it looks unreal through the steam already beginning to build, his body crowding yours like he’s the only thing in this whole fucking house that matters.
he kicks the door shut behind him. sets you down, but only long enough to get your clothes off. and not carefully, either.
your top is dragged over your head so fast it nearly chokes you, bra undone with one flick of his fingers before he’s tugging your skirt down—not even bothering with the zipper. panties were already long gone. he doesn’t even fully stand to remove his own shirt, just yanks it up over his head in one smooth, rough motion, revealing skin that’s broad, tanned, scarred and muscle-thick—worn and hard.
and his back—fuck.
cut deep with marks that look like they’ve seen a thousand fights. red lines. raised flesh. healed-over stories you don’t know the names of. and he wears all of it like armor.
you’re already reaching for him, already aching. but he gets there first.
slams your mouth together like he needs it—filthy, open-mouthed, no breathing, no pause. it’s teeth and tongue and bruised lips and your back hitting the foggy glass wall of the shower before the water’s even on.
he kisses like he fucks. full-bodied. consuming. like he’s trying to drink you down in one breath.
you whimper into his mouth when the water bursts to life above you—hot, pounding, loud. steam rises fast. beads drip down both your faces, hair starting to soak and stick and cling to his temples as he presses you harder into the tile.
his mouth leaves yours, trailing rough kisses down your jaw, your neck, biting once at your collarbone before he latches onto a nipple and groans, low and guttural, when you arch into it.
“fuck, you’re soft everywhere,” he growls, hand dragging from your hip to your ass, gripping hard. “gonna ruin you for anyone else.”
your fingers tangle in his wet hair. pink and messy. soft against your knuckles but wild when your nails dig in.
“do it, then,” you pant, gasping when he sinks lower. “fucking do it.”
he does.
one arm wraps under your thighs. lifts you clean off the ground like it’s nothing. water rushes between you, down his back, over your chest, your stomach, pouring in sheets off his shoulders as he slams you against the wall, knees spreading, ankles locking behind his hips.
your breath leaves you in a rush.
he thrusts in again without warning—just one long, brutal push that knocks the air from your lungs and punches a moan out of your throat, filthy and high and helpless.
you claw red all down his back.
he likes that. he grins against your skin and fucks into you harder, faster, like he’s trying to see how loud he can make you in a space like this.
wet squelches echo, louder than they should be, bouncing off tile, tangled with your breathy whines and the slap of skin against skin. you hold onto him like you’re drowning. like the only thing tethering you to this world is the slick, perfect drag of his cock and the sound of his voice rasping against your ear.
“you’ll think about this every time you walk into a kitchen,” he grunts. “every fucking time you turn on a faucet. every time you wipe off a counter.”
“fuck—sukuna—”
he presses in deeper.
“gonna fill you up again. you want that, baby?”
you nod, frantic. your nails bite into his shoulders. your head falls back against the wall, water soaking your hair, your face, your lips. you kiss him blindly, breathless and soaked, crying into his mouth as he fucks you through it.
your orgasm crashes like it’s meant to break something.
your whole body clenches down around him, slick and pulsing and loud. he curses under his breath. fucks you through every tremor, every twitch, until he’s grinding so deep you feel it in your throat.
he groans when he cums.
grits his teeth. grabs your jaw and makes you look at him while he finishes, eyes blown wide, hair dripping, water mixing with sweat as his cock throbs deep inside you and heat floods your insides.
you both just stay there for a second. breathing hard. shaking.
your back still pressed to the tile, legs around his waist, arms slung loose around his shoulders like you forgot how to hold yourself up. his forehead drops to your collarbone, breath hot against your chest. the water keeps running. loud. too loud. but neither of you move to shut it off.
his hands are still on you. one on your thigh. the other splayed across your lower back, fingers digging in like he’s still trying to keep you there. inside. full. dripping.
you don’t even know what to say. not really. you’re both bare now. not just skin, but everything underneath it. the kind of quiet that follows ruin. the kind that doesn’t know what happens next.
your voice comes out thin. breathless. like it’s been wrung through your ribs and handed to you in pieces.
“what now?”
he doesn’t answer at first. just lets the silence stretch.
you feel him slowly pull out. feel the loss of it in your spine. down to your knees.
he sets you down gently, like he’s not the reason you’re trembling. and then he finally leans back. meets your eyes.
his own are unreadable. heavy-lidded. pink hair dripping, mouth swollen, chest rising and falling too fast. there’s a scar across his ribs you hadn’t noticed before, jagged and pale against the muscle. you wonder if it ever hurt him. if anything ever has.
his hand lifts to your jaw. thumb brushes over the corner of your mouth.
he tilts your chin up.
“you’ll see me again,” he says quietly. like it’s a fact. not a promise.
you should say no. should push him away. should tell him this was a mistake and it can’t happen again.
but you don’t. you just stare up at him, lips parted, water dripping down your back, and let the silence answer for you.
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.”
