suguru looks like a fallen angel most nights. black hair cascading down his shoulders and back like rivets of spilled ink. you tell him exactly that and the smile he gives you is warm enough to make your soul ache.
“you’re so pretty.” you mumble under your breath, fiddling with the tips of his fingers to distract yourself from the sting you feel behind your eyes and in your temples. the weight of each day always seemed to hit you hardest under the cover of night. bringing tears to your eyes a tremor to your hand that just won't quit,
suguru does you one better, tracing his fingers down the length of your spine with al low hum. you feel the heat from his body soak into your skin, even through your clothes.
“you’re beautiful.” he tells you quietly, every word dripping with adoration. suguru would worship you all day if he could. would sink to his knees in front of every devotee and hug you around your warm center, pulling you so close your back would bend to accommodate his grip.
he doesn’t look you in the eyes when he says it, instead, he runs the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip slowly. not teasing, not sexual, just intenttional skin-on-skin contact.
the first of many tears spring forward from where they’ve collected at your lash line. suguru doesn’t shush you, he lets it happen, rubbing reassuring circles into your back as you sniffle and curl in on yourself.
you don’t even realize how tightly your eyes are closed until you feel him pepper kisses across your face, pressing each tear into your skin with pointed love.
“pretty girl.” he whispers. so soft his words are barely audible over your little sobs. “sensitive, aren't you?”
you nod almost apologetically, melting as his fingers start to massage the knots from the base of your neck gently. "that's okay though, right?" he reassures you, laughing quietly in his chest when you nod helplessly again.
you don’t know how he does it. holding you in his arms like this while you soak through the thin fabric of his sleep shirt. protecting you so effortlessly with his body against yours, whispering the sweetest things to you while remaining so strong.
he rocks you just the slightest bit as your sniffles begin to die down for the night. you let him engulf your every sense once you've finally come back down to earth. the residuals of his cologne, the heat radiating off of his body and into yours, even the taste of him as he finally presses a kiss to your lips, smiling softly when he feels your hands curl at the fabric by his collar.
when you finally part, he takes a minute to look you over, holding your face in his hands ever so gently. once he's satisfied, he lays you down next to him and pulls the comforter up to your neck with a sweet hum.
"get some sleep, okay?" he instructs you gently. five deft fingers sort themselves into the gaps between your own, curling to keep your hand fastened in his you drift asleep to the feeling of his thumb pressed against your pulse, grateful for his presence.
the only time where suguru is the disgruntled puppy™ in your relationship is when you wake up in the middle of the night. you’re careful enough to plan your escapade with the minimal amount of jostling— tip toeing to your success and finally reaching for that godly glass of water— only to hear a faint grumble from the kitchen door. and there he stands— in his half asleep glory and all, blearily staring at your glass through barely open eyes like it took away his last bowl of soba.
“just came for a drink,” you say, after suguru and the glass have exchanged a silent but highly violent moment. “get back to bed, sugu.”
“what?” his voice climbs steps higher than it usually would have, and something in your chest just can’t bring itself to guide it back down. how selfish of you.
“get back to bed,” you press on, stifling a laugh. “i’ll just have another glass.”
how preposterous. perhaps he hadn’t heard you clearly. so suguru raises a hand— and rubs his eyes. go figure. “you’re not coming?” he mumbles, words dissolving into a yawn.
“i’m coming,” you hum, wondering if you need the water or him.
(a pause.)
“i won’t leave you again,” the clarification must’ve been sufficient, because suguru finally turns around and trails back his sleepy steps to the bedroom.
but just as you raise the rim of the glass to your lips, there comes his voice— again.
Your dialogue is stiff because everyone is being too honest
Great dialogue can come from radical emotional honesty. But in most real conversations, people
dodge questions
answer indirectly
lie (badly)
change the subject
crack jokes to avoid serious answers
lie (convincingly)
say half of what they mean
tell the truth but get so anxious/angry/defensive others now think they're lying
If your dialogue feels unnatural, it might be because everyone is saying exactly what they think, or articulating their thoughts too well. Try letting characters hide things instead.
I did not spend years of my life at university studying rome in classes that were over 50% women to let someone say "rome may be for the guys" on my post!!!
men aren't obsessed with Rome they're obsessed with being patriarchs who get to subjugate everyone around them. He doesn't care about Pliny the Elder, he's having wet dreams where he gets to be Caesar. It's unironically the new vegas thing, we're living in an age beyond on-the-nose satire. This was also mussolini's deal
Nanami’s wife had a big teeny tiny obsession with sundresses. In fact, over a quarter of your wardrobe was occupied with sundresses hung meticulously in colour order along the railing. You looked so happy in them, eyes creasing as you smiled with glee.
It drove Nanami absolutely crazy.
Of course he loved the dresses and he loved seeing you happy even more, but the way the material hugged your chest and hips, the way it flowed beautifully around your lower half and swayed in slow motion whenever you moved had him going insane. He felt his cock hardening whenever you walked out of the bedroom and the self control he had to teach himself was becoming unbearable.
“Kento? Are you okay?”
His head snapped up to your eyes instantly, reaching for your hand and kissing your knuckles gently. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m fine.”
“You seem distracted,” you add on.
“Just… work stuff,” he lied, trying to avoid eye contact with your yellow sundress, little blue flowers printed over it.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Your adorable concerned expression had Nanami staring down at his lap, counting to ten in his head to try and prevent all the blood rushing to his groin. His jaw tightened painfully.
“I’m okay, darling. Thank you for offering.”
You wouldn’t let up though, unable to move on from the conversation because of how weird your husband was acting. You squeezed his hand gently from across the dining table. “Kenny, are-“
You pause mid sentence when he groans, eyes squeezing shut. With a curious mind, you lean down to look under the table and notice the large bulge forming in his work trousers.
You can’t help but burst out into giggles.
Nanami stares at you like you’re personally offending him.
“Love, it’s not nice to laugh.”
“Aww, you’re so cute, Ken! Why didn’t you just tell me?” One foot outstretches to press against his groin under the table, eliciting another low moan.
“Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he grits out.
“Hm? How do you mean?”
“I didn’t-“ His breaths becomes shorter. “-want to make you feel sexualised in your dress.”
You beam. “So you like them that much, huh?”
He groans again when you rub over his hardened cock slowly. “Don’t tease, darling. You know I love them, and you.”
“Oh, I know. Now I wanna see just how much you love them.”
I have been in multiple situations where a friend group I'm not so familiar with starts making jokes about being into weirdo pervert stuff and there is a slight edge of competition to who is The Most Freakish I know for a goddamn fact that I have everyone beat in the pervert department but I can't say anything because they're probably just talking about light BDSM at most and I like things that are complete social suicide in 90% of spaces
like oh when you like puppyplay and choking its subversive and edgy but when I talk about getting my sexual awakening at 8 years old from the really fucking weird plant vore sequence in the third ice age movie it's WEIRD and EMBARRASSING i see how it is,
fem!sukuna and fem!dio brando take care of your wounds after you fought for them ꒰ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
cw: mdni, graphic descriptions of wounds, very toxic relationship, possessiveness, petnames, manipulation, sukuna fanart by arekusaart
word count: 1.7k
Your whole body aches, from your head to your toenails. The fight was good, exciting at least, and you won, so you couldn't wait to tell your mistresses about it.
You knocked twice in the mansion, even though you live there, they still don't let you have a key because you're too clumsy! You don't mind, your mistresses are always home, so they open the door after a few minutes.
"Oh, poor doll," Sukuna shakes her head after seeing you. Dio just leans in the door frame, arms crossing over her chest
The outfit she chose for that mission completely stained of your own blood and the blood of ten different people. You have an open big cut from your forehead to your cheek, making you blind in one eye. You're pretty sure that your arm is broken, and we are not going to talk about the ten different deep cuts all over your body.
"May I come inside?" you ask, bowing your head to them and not lifting it until they let you come in.
There's blood dripping steadily from the cut on your face onto the polished floor of the entrance hall. Your good eye stays fixed on the tips of your ruined shoes as the pain pulses through every limb
Sukuna clicks her tongue. "Look at the mess you made of yourself. And of the floor."
Dio's voice comes next. "Let her in before she bleeds out on the threshold. We don't have it here so she could die on the doorstep."
You wait until Sukuna steps aside. Only then do you straighten a little and step inside, careful not to track too much blood across the marble. The door shuts behind you with a soft click that somehow feels heavier than it should.
Sukuna walks ahead toward the sitting room without looking back. "Come. You're dripping everywhere."
You follow, each step sending fresh sparks of pain up your broken arm and through the deep cuts along your ribs. Dio trails behind you, her presence close enough that you can feel her eyes on the ruined outfit, the fabric is stiff with dried blood and it sticks unpleasantly to the open wounds.
In the sitting room Sukuna points to the low couch. "Sit and take off your clothes."
You lower yourself carefully, the room tilting for a second when you do, you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stay upright.
"I-I can't..." you mutter, embarrassed.
"You can't?" Dio questions, her eyebrow arching.
"It hurts." You look down your lap, the minimum movement you do in your upper body has you biting back a scream.
"Help her undress, Dio," Sukuna says as she disappears for a moment to grab warm water, clean cloths and a small kit of medical supplies.
Dio stands in front of you, arms still crossed, looking down because for her you are a particularly inconvenient problem that showed up on her doorstep. She lets out a long and annoyed breath.
"You're a very stupid woman for showing up like this," she says, irritated. "Do you enjoy causing us this much trouble?"
You shake your head quickly, then regret it when the cut across your face pulls tight. "No, mistress. I didn't mean to—"
"Of course you didn't mean to." Dio steps closer and starts unfastening the blood-crusted fabric with irritated motions. "You never mean to. You just go off and nearly get yourself killed and then crawl back expecting us to fix it."
Her fingers work at the ties and buttons, peeling the ruined clothes away from your skin. The fabric sticks in places where blood has dried, and each time she has to tug a little harder you can't stop the pained sounds that slip out. Dio mutters under her breath the whole time, calling you careless, calling you a headache, telling you that a more useful servant would have come home in one piece.
When the last of the outer layers is gone and you're left in only the thin underthings that are also torn and stained, Dio finally stops. Her eyes move over the damage properly for the first time. The long cut from forehead to cheek. The swollen, wrong angle of your arm. The deep slices along your side and stomach. The bruises blooming dark across your ribs and hips. It's really terrible
"Stay still," she says, quieter now. "Sukuna will handle the wounds. You're more damaged than you looked standing up."
You nod as carefully as you can.
Sukuna returns and sets everything down on the low table and kneels in front of you without a word. Dio moves to the side but stays close enough.
Sukuna starts cleaning the cut on your face first, pressing the warm cloth firmly. You flinch hard. The sting is bright and immediate. Then she moves to the deeper cuts along your torso, rinsing away dried blood and dirt. Every pass of the cloth makes your good eye water. Your unbroken hand curls into a fist against your thigh.
You look up at Dio through the blur of pain. Your voice comes out small and shaky. "Can I hold your hand?"
For a second she just stares at you like the request is ridiculous. Then she glances at the way your body is trembling, you're biting the inside of your cheek to keep from making more noise while Sukuna works on a particularly deep cut near your ribs.
She sighs but she holds out her hand anyway, sinking on the couch next to you. You take it immediately, fingers curling tight around hers. Her grip is firm, but it gives you something solid to focus on while Sukuna continues cleaning and wrapping. You squeeze every time the cloth catches on torn skin or when she presses too close to the broken arm.
"Stupid woman," Dio mutters again, though her hand doesn't pull away. "Coming home like this. Making us waste the evening on first aid instead of anything useful."
Sukuna doesn't look up from the bandage she's wrapping around your ribs. "She's still usable once the bleeding stops. Just not for anything that requires much movement."
You keep holding Dio’s hand, head bowed, breathing through the worst of it.
"I-I won the fight," you manage to say between stings of pain, eyes shut, waiting for their reaction.
"Oh, did you?" Sukuna says, making it sound like she's making fun of you. Maybe she is.
"Yes," you confirm again, waiting for a good reaction. Waiting with your eyes closed for a 'good girl' or a 'we'll reward you later.'
Dio barks a laugh when she understands it. She tips your chin up with two fingers so you’re forced to meet her eyes with your one good one. "You expected praise, didn't you? I can see it all over that pathetic face."
You swallow. "Yes, mistress. If… if I earned it."
"You completed the job," Dio says. "That's the bare minimum. The rest of this," she gestures at your body, "is just extra work for us."
Sukuna finishes wrapping the last wound, rising and moving to sit beside you on the couch, now you're crowded between their solid bodies.
"I didn't mean to cause you extra work..." you say, head low. "I'm sorry."
"You always are," Dio reminds you.
You stay quiet waiting, the apology still hanging in the air between the three of you.
Sukuna's thumb strokes once along the side of your neck. "It's okay," she says at last. "You'll make up for it when you're not half dead and useless."
You nod as carefully as the bandages allow. "Yes, mistresses. I will."
Dio stands and looks down at you for a long moment. "Can you walk, or do we have to carry you to bed?"
You try to push yourself up from the couch. The room sways and your broken arm throbs in protest, Sukuna steadies you with a hand under your good elbow before you can tip forward.
"She's walking,” Sukuna decides. "If she falls, she can crawl the rest of the way."
They guide you out of the sitting room and up the stairs. Every step pulls at the fresh bandages. Dio walks ahead while Sukuna stays at your side, one hand occasionally pressing against the small of your back when you slow too much.
The bed is wide enough for all three of you without anyone having to touch if they don't want to. Tonight they clearly want to.
Dio points at the edge of the mattress. "Sit."
You obey. Sukuna disappears for a moment and returns with a tray carrying a bowl of warm broth and soft bread. Nothing that requires much effort to eat.
She sets the tray on your lap with care not to bump the bandaged arm. "Eat. You're no use to us if you pass out from blood loss in the middle of the night."
You pick up the spoon with your good hand. The first sip is warm and salty. It settles in your stomach and makes the edges of the pain feel a little less sharp. Dio watches you the entire time from where she leans against one of the bedposts.
"Slower," she says when you try to hurry. "No one is taking it away."
You slow down. Bite by bite. Sip by sip. When the bowl is empty and the bread is gone, Sukuna takes the tray away. Dio moves closer and checks the bandage on your face with two fingers, adjusting it slightly.
"Still bleeding a little," she whispers. "But it'll hold."
They pull you into bed, laying back against the pillows and you sink into it with a sound of relief you can't hide. Dio climbs onto the bed on one side of you, Sukuna takes the other. They do'’t leave space between your body and theirs.
Dio’s hand rests on your uninjured hip. Sukuna's fingers find the edge of the bandage across your ribs and stay there, as if counting the rise and fall of your breathing.
"You're staying right here," Sukuna says. "No getting up. If you need something, you ask. Understood?"
"Yes, mistress."
Dio leans in until her mouth is close to your ear. "Sleep. We'll decide what to do with you in the morning. For now you're just going to stay put and heal enough to be useful again."
"I'll be better next time," you whisper into the quiet. "I won't come back like this again."
Sukuna's quiet huff of laughter brushes against your hair. "We'll see."
a/n: i imagine reader being like super powerful and super skilled but veryyy naive and they're just manipulating her like craaaaazyy
Cannibal!ghost picking out the best cut from his freezer when he brings you up from the cellar, caught fresh two nights ago just for you.
You get to sit at the dinner table while he cooks, not in the kitchen after the last incident. Still, you can hear the sizzle of meat when he presses it into the hot pan. He always cooks it properly for you, nothing like the quick bites of meat only cooked long enough to be safe like he usually eats.
The juice from the meat drips down the calloused fingers that press against your lip. Each soft piece hand-fed to you while ghost makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat. It tastes like heaven compared to your usual.
You make a show of enjoying the meal, of licking ghosts hand clean then begging for more. Even when he cooks the meat rare, so rare it drips blood down your chin, you eat it.
Ghost says you look best hungry. You think you look best alive. The result is the same either way.
No thoughts just ghost desperately jerking off, thinking of you, right?
The soldier in the barracks next to his, nothing but a thin wall separating you two.
He knows you as the lieutenant for some other team. The one who always makes him fight for q Victory when you two spar in the gym. That's where his little...fascination...began.
Few people are willing to spar with the guy who looks like he's been through hell, even less are able to take him down consistently. The first time you took him down, holding his arms behind his back with an iron grip and a knee firmly at the base of his skull, ghost swears he heard god in your laugh.
Almost every time he'd fantasize at night, it'd be to the memory of your hands on him. Of the pain blooming under his skin. Or, on rare occasions, his own calloused palms holding you down.
He's learned to be quiet about it, no need to creep you out with how often he's jerking off to you. Guiltily, he tries to keep his entire room silent, listening for you on the other side of the wall.
"Fuck! Mmghhg, yes–!" Tonight is not one of those nights.
"Please, christ please–" ghost rocks his cock into his palm, slick and desperate. You're out tonight, he made sure of that. Meaning ghost has been moaning openly, really getting into it like he hasn't allowed himself before.
He adjusts his grip, squeezes tighter at the base, pulls all the stops and–
And nothing. Everytime ghost feels so damn close to the edge, it's like he meets a wall. Constantly on that peak of pleasure but unable to push over. He whines, high and needy "no! No, no, c'mon! Please!"
A thump on the wall so loud ghost flails, falls half off the bed. Followed by your shouting "fuckin' hell, riley! Keep it down!"
His cock pulses once, twice. Thick ropes spilling over his stomach. Deathly quiet, refusing to breathe, he jerks himself until it hurts. Distantly, he registers you moving around the room, your nightly routine.
Cedric is a sentient machine personally built by Marni and gifted to Aislinn as her personal assistant. Originally designed to support their research, he possesses an astonishing amount of technical knowledge and practical craftsmanship - perhaps a little too much. With so much information constantly running through his mind, Cedric occasionally suffers the odd “processing hiccup,” usually at the worst possible moment.
Despite being incredibly capable, Cedric is super awkward, surprisingly gullible, and has developed a rather peculiar sense of humor that nobody can quite explain. Programmed by Marni to address Aislinn as “Miss Foxy,” he remains unfailingly polite, helpful… and almost impossible to shut up. His constant commentary has interrupted more than one delicate experiment, to the point where Aislinn and Marni have occasionally resorted to simply switching him off for a few minutes until the crisis - and Cedric’s running commentary - had passed.
…and he definitely did not sign up for this shit.
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