Slow cook has me going absolutely bananas I want to be the special little thing shared by two rich married tops with British accents like oh my GOD Aelin I would be such a good girl for you……
sighs. okay here's some john price x fem!reader x mrs. price (oc)
cw: smut, intoxication, unsafe driving, car sex, semi-public fucking, just a short little something something, unedited with an abrupt and i'm tired as fuck so sorry if this makes no sense
"Open wide."
Your jaw unhinges to put your pretty wet tongue on display just long enough for Aelin to place the bite of cheesecake in your mouth. Lips closing around the fork, she drags it out languidly, taking her time to watch the way the tissue sticks to the silverware as if sucking it in. Pale pink lips curl into a smile as she watches you chew, cherries and cream exploding on your tastebuds as you hum.
"What do you think?" she asks with a tilt in her head.
Nodding, you swallow the bite she gave you before returning the smile. "That's good. Really good."
As if curious, Aelin places the fork in her mouth without bothering to get her own bite. She sucks off all the leftovers you missed before grinning. "Oh, I do love cherries."
Placing the fork down on her plate with a clink, Aelin's manicured hands wrap around her wine glass where she gingerly takes a sip of the blood-red liquid. It's her second one she's had since dinner began, and though she claims otherwise, she's a lightweight. Mussed blonde tresses curling around her exposed shoulders, tits nearly spilling out of her dress—you think this is why she's getting bold.
There was a time when her doting in public would set you on edge. Teeth gritting, eyes shifting; now, she's trained you well enough not to care about the peeping eyes.
"Cherry's good, but chocolate is better, isn't it love?"
John's voice cuts through the chatter of the restaurant with a low rumble that has you turning your attention to the other side of the table. With his own fork he holds out a bite of chocolate cake, thick with frosting and a ganache that looks like liquid gold. You don't even wait for his queue before you're opening your mouth, ready to take whatever he'll give you.
The richness coats your tongue like sugar water, and John carelessly drags the fork out of your mouth when you're done, leaving a trail of frosting along your bottom lip that he's quick to swipe up with his thumb. You open your mouth again, expecting him to give you the rest, but instead he pinches it between his teeth and lets his tongue clean off the rest.
"See? Good, isn't it baby?" he prompts.
Glassy eyed, you nod. "Yeah, t-thank you."
Aelin holds your hand as you exit the restaurant. She refuses to let go even as John holds the door to the car open, and nearly falls into your lap while the two of you pile into the back seat together. Wine is heavy on her breath as she settles in next to you, arm hooked around your lower back, preventing you from buckling in.
"I can't wait to get home," she purrs as John starts the engine.
You rest your head on top of hers as he pulls out of the car park. "Tired?"
She giggles. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"
Aelin makes it to the third traffic light before she puts her hands on you.
Tender fingers on your bare thigh, thumb inching up along the hem of your dress—you tense beneath her touch. You hardly have time to ask her what she's doing before she's fully diving beneath your clothes, hooking a finger around the gusset of your panties before pulling. You whimper, hips instinctively rising off of the seat despite your qualms, allowing her to discard the unwanted clothing onto the floor.
"I'm still hungry," Aelin admits with a giggle. Retracting her head from your shoulder, she leans back enough to get into your field of view. "What about you sweet girl?"
"I-I'm, erm—" Your thoughts cease when she presses her thumb against your clit. "We- Shouldn't we wait?"
She hums as if sincerely contemplating your suggestion, but she doesn't mull over it for long before she's taking her free hand and pulling down the front of your blouse. Tits rolling free from the fabric, she can only seem to stare at them when she responds.
"No time like the present."
Then, her fingers plunge into you. Long and slender, she easily shoves two of them inside of you until her knuckles are kissing your thighs. You grab whatever purchase you can find in the seats of the car as she drags them in and out of you, leaving trails of sparks in her wake as her pale eyes focus on your breathing and the way it leaves your tits bouncing.
"Everything alright back there?" John asks.
Aelin places a quick kiss on your forehead before yanking your skirt up. You squeak as she forces your thighs apart and rubs her fingers along your vulva, wetting you with your own arousal.
"Look at our girl, John," Aelin sighs as she looks up front.
Once he's able to, you watch as John adjusts the rearview mirror. You see a glimpse of yourself in the reflection before the mirror is absorbed by John's gaze. Heat builds in your cheeks as Aelin palms over one of your tits, making sure to put on a good show for her husband.
"Poor thing," John says with a smirk. The engine rumbles as the car accelerates, his foot now heavy on the pedal. "Don't worry, baby girl, we'll get home soon."
i'll be so honest the second i read in limbo i was in love with aelin and i wanted to be the third she parades around the club so bad
"But-"
"Shh..."
"Someone's gonna see!"
"That's the point, isn't it?"
She's got her leg between your thighs, and all you can do is scramble to keep your skirt from riding up at her whim. Knee knocking forward until she's slotted right against your clit, you look up at Aelin with panicked eyes as the bustle of the club rages around you. Liquor heavy in the air, wine hot on her breath as she kisses your cheek, bloody lipstick marking your skin like a brand notes cattle.
"A-Aelin," you stammer.
"Go on," she coos. With her hands on your hips, she urges you to rock them but you're stuck in the love seat she has you pinned to. "Have at it, darling."
When all you can do is whimper in response, Aelin urges you further by rocking her own weight until her thigh is sliding along your sex. The fabric of your panties grows sheer embarrassingly quick at the stimulation. You're aware of the eyes. The patrons stumbling around in drunken stupors. When you swallow, you nearly choke.
"Mommy, I-" Breath catching in your throat, you attempt to scoot back along the seat, but she only follows you, never letting her thigh stray too far.
"What is it, baby?" Aelin asks so saccharine your jaw aches.
"Can we- maybe we can go to the VIP room? O-Or the bathroom... I just, there's so many people a-and..."
"Oh, no darling, we have to stay right here," she retorts. When she leans to kiss your neck, the silage of rosewater fills your nose and your brain is left spinning as she grabs your face and tilts it to the side. "Do you see that, in the corner? John's watching."
For a moment, you're expecting the man himself. John Price leaning back in a leather chair, swirling a glass of whiskey in one hand while he puffs away at a cigar with the other. You can nearly see it. Those deep oceanic eyes staring at you as Aelin renders you into mush just long enough until he's ready to take over.
Instead, you find a camera. CCTV wired up in the far corner, lens pointed right at you and Aelin as if anything else going on in the club is useless. You know he's watching. It's his favorite appetizer.
"Do you see it, baby?" Aelin pushes.
"Yes, Mommy."
Her lips curl against the side of your throat just as her hands pull at your hips, dragging you back down onto her thigh. "Make sure to be good for Daddy, love."
john price x fem!reader x aelin price (OC) x simon riley| mafia!au | alternate universe to In Limbo
invitation
cw: dub-con, voyeurism, smut, mommy/daddy kink
London looks small from the roof.
Legs bent over the edge, Simon's fingers pinch a cigarette as he stares at the traffic pulsing beneath him. Everyone looks like ants. Tiny beings he could crush on a whim if the desire even whispered against the shell of his ear.
Instead, he crushes the filter of his cigarette as he puts it out on the old brick next to him. Ashes smolder as the tobacco lingers on his fingers. He savors the taste just long enough to feel his heart rate spike before his phone chimes in his pocket.
John Price: Have you seen Aelin? When you find her, tell her I need to see her in my office.
Scoffing, he decides it's about time he get back to work.
Simon has long since learned not to question the relationship that strings between his boss and his wife. It's only lead to headaches and curious questions that gets his blood flowing in places that it shouldn't.
Still, like the dutiful dog he is, he goes searching for the illusive Aelin Price, who always seems to wiggle her way around Terminus better than he can. She's not found in the sea of bodies on the dance floor or hanging around the bar with those fruity drinks she always likes. The pool tables are sparse at best, and the second floor is missing her poorly stifled giggles.
Frustrated, he makes a beeline for the private rooms, annoyed with himself that it wasn't the first place he bothered to check. The gilded door handle is smudged with fingerprints, giving Simon hope that he'll find who he's been looking for, but his heart sinks when he realizes the door is unlocked. Convinced he's at another dead end, he perseveres through the short hallway that lies just beyond the door where he finds—
—you, splayed out on your back, stripped naked with your body on the cold marble floor.
He sees your perked nipples and the way your breasts sway with the heat of your breathing and the sight alone glues his feet to the ground. Knees bent, he notes the way your hands rest between your thighs, whimpering as someone slurps at your cunt. His eyes widen; eyes dilate, but his stomach drops when the door slams shut behind him and your neck cranes up to look at him.
With parted lips, he can hardly make out your curse "F-Fuck."
"What is it, Riley?"
Aelin Price slithers up from your legs like a charmed snake from her place kneeling in the conversation pit below you. Unlike you, she's clothed still, but Simon's not sure that helps the situation as she wipes her face on the back of her hand, smearing fluid and red lipstick along her skin.
"John's lookin' for ya," he shares stiffly. He can't take his eyes off of you. Not the way you squirm beneath his gaze, or how you use your arms to pitifully attempt to cover yourself.
"I'm a little busy at the moment," Aelin says, nonchalant. As if pretending Simon isn't witnessing her actions, Aelin's hand slides up the inside of your legs before her fingers find their way home inside of you. He watches your body shiver and legs quake around her, threatening to crush her. "Tell him I'll find him once I'm finished with this."
"But, Aelin…"
Your voice is timid. So soft Simon can hardly hear it over the distant thrumming of the club music pulsing behind him. Aelin doesn't seem to be as enamored by your words as he is, though. Brows raising in challenge, she tilts her head to the side as her fingers cease their movements inside of you.
"What was that?" she questions.
"I-I'm sorry, Mummy. I didn't—ah…"
"Go on, Riley." Aelin's fingers are in your mouth now, smothering your words as she pets the top of your tongue. "Though, you're welcome to stick around and watch, if you want."
Yanking himself out of that room feels like trying to wake himself up from a dream. Sluggish legs stumble through the VIP section while lights flash in his face, filling his eyes with visions of you. His mouth is dry, and the urge to drink something up overwhelms him enough to knock the wind from his lungs.
His brain doesn't seem to restart again until he's outside, pretending to stand guard at the VIP entrance as he sneaks his cigarettes from his pocket. He fires off a quick message to John on the whereabouts of his wife, but for his own sake leaves out any of the finer details before puffing away on nicotine while praying the cold night air will do the same for his body as a cold shower would.
Nothing seems to work. He still thinks about Aelin's offer to stick around, and though he hates it, he can't help but entertain what would've happened if he obliged. What your face would've looked like when you came, how hard you would've squirmed, how sweetly you would've sang…
"I'll be honest, I didn't expect to find you out here."
Aelin finds Simon half an hour later, still smoking, like he could suffocate his thoughts on tobacco alone. As usual, she's perfectly dressed without a hair out of place. Her lipstick has been reapplied with crisp lines that delicately follow the curve of her lips as she approaches him with her arms crossed to fight off the cold.
"Where else would I be?" Simon deadpans.
"Well, I suppose a part of me was hoping you'd be right outside the door waiting like a good boy." It's the first time in a long time that Simon's been stunned into silence. Once she's close enough to reach him, Aelin plucks his cigarette from between his fingers and takes a long drag for herself. "She's cute, isn't she? Our pet?"
Unsure if it's a trick question or not, all he can do is cautiously nod.
"John and I don't mind sharing, you know," she continues. She takes one more drag before pinching the cigarette between her fingers as if it were a dart. "You know where to find us if you ever want to play."
Aelin places Simon's vice back between his lips before ducking inside the building where the warmth envelopes her. As the door swings shut with a squeak, he breathes deep but pauses when he realizes he can taste you on the filter of his cigarette.
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Uhmm– alpha!ghost who never had a rut before, because most cycles tend to skip under extreme stress and all ghost knows is stress?
He doesn't even realize he reeks of pre-rut, or that he's been hovering around you for days until you pull him aside and ask "okay, ghost, have you submitted your forms, yet? I'll be your buddy."
"...what forms?" He asks, because that's just your luck. You end up dragging him to prices office that very moment. All your captain does is look between you and ghost, inhaling only to wrinkle his nose and groan 'christ. Get him off base.'
Which is how ghost ends up in your apartment after an agonizingly long car ride. Partially because it's closer and because you doubt ghost has any sort of alpha stuff in his place.
Ghost is already out of it when you push him into your bed "get comfy, I'm gonna go grab supplies."
He's humping your pillow when you get back, face stuffed into your underwear that he obviously pulled from your hamper. Holy shit He's big. Cock dripping precum onto your sheets, knot already swelling slightly. Ghost looks at you with wide eyes, but doesn't stop "sorry, sorry– i didn't– I don't–"
"Hey, none of that. It's fine, I'm surprised you managed to keep your hands to yourself so far" you soothe, stripping your own clothes off and crawling into bed. In an instant ghost is tucking his face against your neck, cock grinding into your thigh mindlessly.
He's nothing more than grunting and whining by the second knot, crowding over you. You're thankful for the bite guard you threw on, his teeth sinking into the leather as he knots you the third time.
"Fuuck– okay, okay ghost– take what you need" you encourage even as he grabs your hips and starts moving you like a fleshlight. Cum seeping out to make a white ring around the base of his cock, pooling into the sheets.
If you weren't already an omega you sure would be by now. You've taken more knots in the past fourteen hours than you have with any other alpha combined.
You get a break when he finally passes out, knot still deeply inside, jaw clamped over your guard. Most alphas go for maybe five knots.
...you should probably call price about getting some contraceptive pills delivered.
simon ‘ghost’ riley genuinely the type of man to tell his s/o to stop teasing him.
meanwhile his s/o is simply eating the takeout he just got them in their jammies, fresh out the shower while watching their fav show sitting in the most heinous shrimp position.
they’re wondering wtf is he talking about while he’s only a few seconds away from ripping his clothes off and taking them on the couch.
its even worse if he just came back from a mission.
he has to stop himself from letting out a loud moan when he spots his s/o cooking up something in the kitchen, wearing what they call their ‘ugly clothes’ cause it’s laundry day, it’s obvious that they haven’t had a chance to shower and they’re even wearing their thick lens glasses because they ran out of their contacts just the other day.
they have to bat him off with whatever kitchen utensils they’re using because they know he’ll just take them right then and there on the counter or even snatch them up to their bedroom.
and they cannot let that happen again after the last time. their kitchen almost burnt down because they forgot to turn off the stove.
he just loves seeing his lover at their most comfortable, especially around him.
simon was not the type to enjoy moving house. as much as he were used to moving away for long times from long deployments, simon hated it. he hated how moving required picking up what life he'd established, even if it were small. he didn't understand how people could pack their lives up and ship across the country just like that. and plus, being deployed was different. a home was somewhere he could stay in peace, away from the gunfire.
but even he, too, needed a move here and there. wasn't really a must, but he wanted to downsize—he needed something a little smaller than what he had. it's not like he spent all his time there anyways—he was usually on base, and taking care of a bigger apartment was asking too much.
so he packed up, moved a few blocks away, holed up in a little apartment building. the day he moved in, carrying just a few boxes (he didn't have much to begin with), he couldn't help but notice the person right beside his door.
cute. you were wide-eyed and cute. stared at him across the hallway before sheepishly asking him if he minded moving out of your way so you could get to your apartment. lo and behold, you opened the door beside his and slipped in.
simon didn't give it much thought, to be honest. didn't really care how cute you were. he wasn't the type to want anyone, let alone a sweet little bunny. he doubted you could defend yourself if you joined a fistfight with a gun—he needed someone who could protect themselves while he was gone on long deployments.
but you thought differently. walked past his apartment extra times a day, hoping you'd catch him on the way out so you could get a better look at his biceps, or the scar on his cheek, dragging down to his lip. the bear was handsome as hell.
you lengthened your grocery lists, made sure the bags were a tiny bit too heavy, just in case you might see him in the parking lot and ask him for help.
you knocked on his door in the afternoon, shyly looking up at him with those big doe eyes, biting your lip and asking him, "um, sir, do you mind helping? my sink is leaking... and i just don't want to... bother anyone else."
simon had been pissed, the first time he had met you. he always heard some kind of excited prattling from through the thin walls, as you excitedly rambled to a friend. you just talked, and talked, and talked—simon's ears were going to fall off, subject to your loud conversations through the walls.
so maybe, if it shut you up, he'd entertain your silly little requests.
so here he was, under your sink, on his back, his shirt under his head as he'd taken it off.
(you'd increased the AC in your room, hoping he'd take his shirt off. sneaky little thing.)
you sat on the counter, uncaring about what he was saying about your sink. he kept talking and talking about the mechanics of it so you could fix it for yourself next time, but you were hooked on the slight rasp of his voice and the way his abs flexed as he tightened your pipes.
then simon was done, and you grabbed his arm as he sat up. you didn't want him to leave, not so soon."sir? can i pay you? um... don't have much money on me to give you, but i could give you something else."
and fuck him, you were so needy. felt your hand on his arm tighten every time he moved as if to leave. simon knew he was falling straight into a trap, and if he was being honest, he's not sure he minded. he sighs, the crease between his brows deepening. "'yer alright, luv. ain't gonna ask y'for anythin'."
you pouted. like a sad, kicked bunny. pouted at him with wide eyes and flattened ears, tail twitching unhappily. "please? stay a bit, let me... um. i can make you something to eat. cookies? i make really good cookies."
simon was really good at dodging negotiation tactics. really good at surviving the harshest forms of torture. but he hadn't been trained to dodge the torture suddenly straining in his pants as he took you in, pretty pink frills on your skirt, your thighs which dissapeared under the fabric. so he stayed, sat there whilst you busied about the kitchen, whipping together some cookies.
when they were done, you presented them to him, real giddy, jumping on your heels. "here, try one."
before he could reach for one, you sat yourself in his lap, right on top of him, offering the cookie to his lips. simon grunts, his hand instinctively moving to grip your hip. "watch y'rself, luv. don' wanna start somethin' you ain't gonna finish."
shame, that you were so confident, really. maybe then you wouldn't have ended up grinding on his lap like a bitch in heat. maybe then he wouldn't have bent you right over the counter, pushing your pretty skirt up to leer at the sopping wet patch of underwear over your cunt. "mh, she's real pretty, eh, luv?"
you were so confident up until you came on his fingers. simon didn't even give you a second to think, his fingers pressing deeper, squishing against your gummy walls. "c'mere, darlin', jus' wanna have some more."
you were losing your mind, hands gripping against the table, cheek mushed to the wood, your ears barely registered the thumping of the chair's legs every time he forced his fingers back into you. then it stops, and before you can whine, the sound of his fly unzipping reaches your ears.
in one smooth stroke of his cock, the rest of your confidence dissipated. the stretch burned, like he was splitting you in half, god, he was too fucking big. "s-sir, sir, it's too big..."
"hush, take it. y'asked for this, bun," he grunts, practically folding you over, his hips forcing against yours, his hand on your jaw. his thumb rubs over the corner of your mouth, swiping up the drool that slips from your mouth.
poor thing. you shouldn't have poked the bear, but you just couldn't help it, could you? craved the way his cock filled you up so good. he was going to ruin you for everyone else.
"ah, m'gonna fill you right up," he grunts out into your ear, heavy breaths puffing against your skin.
"ah, fuck... yes, please. please, sir, want you..." you're cut off by a desperate moan as he thrusts into you heavily, his bodyweight pressing against you. the chain around his neck, dog tags, press into the skin on your back, branding against your skin, leaving a little red mark, pressing his name into you.
when he comes inside you, he huffs, rubbing your clit gently as he pulls out, softening cock resting against your thigh. "good fuckin' girl."
(you may just have to poke the bear a little bit more.)
simon "ghost" riley overhearing his young girlfriend's phone call with a friend and her saying "oh god, I wish I could just have babies and bake sourdough instead of searching for a job" right at the dawn of you graduating from uni, so he starts to spoil your birth control pills to knock you up instead of getting used to an idea of his lovie working- WHO SAID THAT???
˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ series will contain the following kinks. Objectification. Somnophilia. Pet play (this is a hybrid!au). Dacryphila. Spanking. Orgasm control/denial. Exhibitionism. Mixopilia. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚
Summary: You absolutely don't want to meet Kyle's friend or his friend's work dog.
"Sweet kitty, you have to put on clothes today." Kyle said as he held up the dainty silk panties along with your robe. "It's one of the house rules."
You sat on your bed, legs crossed, and nose turned up. Ignoring him completely as he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. You didn't want to meet some mutt for a play date. Dogs were gross, dogs were irritating, and too loud and clumsy. Kyle had mentioned that he would be watching the hybrid for the week while his handler was off on a solo trip.
You didn't care.
"Why do I need to wear clothes? He's gonna be here the entire two weeks!" You argue back at him. You didn't see the need.
"Because sweet kitty" He tossed the robe and panties onto the bed, "I don't want any accidents."
Your ears flex down and out to show your irritation. You had just gotten used to the house and the rules and his affection. Any interruption to your delicate routine was going to make you grumpy no matter what. A heavy sigh escapes Kyle and glances at his watch. A smile spreads slowly across his lips. You've come to know what that means, and you pout even more. "No." You say with a huff.
Kyle ignores the no, with a shake of his head. He grabs your ankle and yanks you to the edge of the bed. It's a struggle. You kick and hiss at him, bear your fangs and scratch. The soft silk goes up one leg and then the other, then after your tail is forced through the hole. He pins your body to the bed, and you go limp. The smile on his face is annoying, and you'd rather not look at him.
"My sweet kitty. My good kitty." He kisses the side of your neck, and the kisses begin to trail downwards. His hands grip at your waist, massaging them and sometimes tickling your sides. A gasp leaves your mouth as he dips his tongue into your navel. Brown eyes stare up at you, and they promise to make you cooperative. "Let's turn that frown upside down, yeah?"
"No."
"Is that your favorite word?" He laughs just bit before pressing a kiss to the gusset of the panties you don't want to wear.
"Yes" you hiss at the contact. Hips arch up into his touch. He presses another kiss to where your clit is and you whine. "Kyle, no!"
"No what kitty?" He nips at the crevice of where your thigh and pussy meets. His teasing makes you squirm and mewl. "You fought me on putting these panties on you. This is not for you to enjoy."
The kisses turn into nips and small bites on the thighs. He breathes in deeply and groans at the scent of you. He flattens his tongue against your slit and drags it up, the thin material denying you of the full pleasure.
"I'm sorry." You grip his hair and press his face harder into you, "I'll be good."
He doesn't budge or bend to your whims as always. "No, you won't. You and I know this."
Even though the pleasure is muted, he sucks on your clit through the soft fabric. The sound of the fabric squelched is obscene and embarrassing. He hooks his fingers through the holes and slowly pulls up. Your panties dig into you in such an uncomfortable manner, it stimulates your poor clit and both labia spill out the side. He ignores how you twitch, a smug smile on his face.
"You keep your panties on for this visit. And I'll eat your pussy till you can't even remember how to breathe."
The doorbell rings, and you groan and hiss. You track his movements with a glare as he stands to answer the door. The robe he left, you gets pushed to the side, and you grab a dress from the closet. It's still short, just barely covering your upper thighs.
There's barking coming from the front room area. Great, now the dog is here, and you're now annoyed and horny and you have to be nice. Footsteps that are light and quiet, you creep down the steps to get a good view of Kyle's guest. A large man dressed in black notices you first. He keeps his lower face covered, and in his grip is a black leash. The leash makes you shudder, but it's not attached to anything as he goes to hang it up. There's laughter, and Kyle is being hugged by the mutt in question.
He's big and stocky, and what a silly hair style. You squint at them, a bit jealous that your owner dares to show affection to someone else. You bound down the last few steps and meow loudly. Which was the wrong choice because the dog snaps his head towards you. It's so sudden and quick that your ears pick up the sound of his neck, popping and cracking just a bit.
"Is this her?" The dog is loud and he vibrates from excitement.
"Yes, this my little kitty Poppi." He says your name and you hiss. The name is the one thing you just absolutely draw the line at.
You're not a fucking poppi.
Before you know what's happening, your back is on the ground and the dog is in your face. There's the shout of the command 'Soap heel.' But it's ignored in favor of snuffing and sniffling you.
"I'm Soap!" He hugs you tightly.
"I hate you." You dead pan to him. You look over his shoulder and growl when you see Kyle laughing and telling the big scary man that it was fine. "No! Get this mutt off of me!"
"Be nice, kitty." Is the only thing he said before looking at the man, "See Simon, I told you, they will like each other."
Simon crosses his arms, "She seems upset."
"It's you but in cat form." He jokes. The two of them go into the living room leaving you alone with Soap.
You, of course, don't find this funny. Soap just continues to hug and lick all over your face. He yaps about how much fun the two weeks will be when he stays with you and Kyle. He's too heavy for you to push off so you lay there aggravated as all hell.
"Get off mutt." You grumble.
"You smell nice." Soap's tongue travels up the side of your neck. It's gross and you hiss at him.
"Now I'll smell like dog slobber thanks."
He sits up and leans back on his heels. "That's not a bad thing. Keeps bigger hybrids away from you." Then, as most dogs do, he leans down and shoves his head under your dress. The goal is obvious to scent you further, but his wagging tail stops. He doesn't listen to any of your harsh threats.
"You mutt! Get from under my dress!" You push and shove at him.
"Oh bonnie kitty. Your kitty and panties are soaked! Did I do that?" His voice is muffled and he starts to wiggle in excitement.
"No my owner did! MEOW!" You shout as he press his nose right into you.
"A shame he left ye like this. Lemme help!" And then you feel his teeth dangerously close to where teeth shouldn't be. There's the sound of ripping and tearing. Despite your hatred of clothing, you didn't appreciate waste such as this, oh, and you also didn't appreciate the violation.
You wriggle and curse at him right until the first lick. It's heavy and uncoordinated. It starts at the bottom of your hole and goes up to your clit, dipping into your pussy along the way. It's a jolt of pleasure that you needed earlier from your owner, and your reason decides to fly out the window. Soap lifts your hips up and tilts you further at an angle. Your entire lower half is supported by his grip, legs dangling over his shoulders.
He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, flicks his tongue across, up and down like he's drinking water. It's fast, no real rhyme or reason to the motions. Your body quakes from the sudden onslaught of pleasure.
Your owner has the habit of being precise and takes his time. Drags you to your orgasms slowly, and often, he denies you when you've been bad. But this? Oh, this reminds you of when you first learned how to pleasure an owner. The feeling is euphoric, quick, and electrifying. It tingles in the best way. His little growls and hums of pleasure vibrate through you.
You squeal when he lets go of your clit with a loud and wet pop. Soap drags his tongue down and shives it as deep as he can into you. Your body stiffens, legs shake and you cry out.
"You dumb mutt, don't tease!" Your eyes are clamped shut, and you pant.
"Sorry," He pulls his face away, and his chin is covered in your arousal, and he licks his lips. He doesn't bother being gentle and pushes two fingers into you. "Ah, wander if your kitty can take mah knot?" He wanders absently. His blue eyes stare at where his fingers disappear repeatedly.
"As if I'd let you mount me!" You huff as your orgasm pulls at the base of your spine.
"Ah think ye would." He leans back in and sucks on your clit again and it makes you scream.
The orgasm he pulls from you is intense. You feel tears escape the corner of your eyes as you twist and turn in his grasp. His fingers don't let up, and the scissor you open. They reach into the depths of you and stroke the softest parts of your insides and, unfortunately, prolong your high.
"I bet ah can make you squirt kitty." He hums. The look in his eyes are predatory, "and to think I couldn't play with you."
You're on the edge of pain and pleasure, and it's too much. Your legs kick out, and you try to breathe through the aftershocks, if only he would give you a moment. "Kyle! Make him stop!" You call for your owner.
There are footsteps and a loud whistle. The mind-numbing pleasure stops abruptly, and you can breathe again. Soap pulls his fingers from you, and you watch with droopy eyes as he sticks them in his mouth. He looks cute this way, brows furrowed in confusion like he didn't almost snatch your soul from your body with only his mouth and fingers.
Simon is giving you both an unimpressed stare and Kyle peeps around him with a sweet grin on his face.
"Put her down Soap. Hands, mouth and dick to yourself, or you get mitts, your muzzle, and the cage." Simon doesn't sound angry just slightly annoyed. He turns to Kyle, and maybe he might be apologetic. "Sorry 'bout that. His rut is coming soon."
Fuck, you hope that his rut doesn't overlap with his two week stay with you and Kyle.
"Don't worry." Kyle says with a polite shrug, "They like each other, and it will be fine."
As soon as the visit is over...you're pissing in his good running shoes.
johnny and simon both eat like dogs. like you could actually feed their meals to a dog. sweet potato, ground beef, and whatever veg was about to turn rotten. and no seasoning. time can’t be wasted on seasoning in their household.
dinner is a fleeting affair. both of them hunched over their bowls and inhaling. you’re staring at them in shock as they devour their flavorless, meaningless slop.
then to the couch for tv time. you feel a bit like a zookeeper that’s just thrown a limb of mean into a lions enclosure. the beasts fed, and now they lick their paws and relax.
they don’t even like the two teams playing on the television right now.
“why don’t you two come to my place tomorrow for a change?”
“wot? something wrong with our flat, dove?”
“no, no! of course not!”
they may look like lions but they frighten easily. the last thing you mean to do is scare them off.
“course not, just thought a change of pace might be nice?”
they share a weary look. change isn’t their favorite thing, not after years of strict military routine. they agree nonetheless. and they show up right on time, no surprise there.
they share another weary look when you ask them to take off their shoes before coming in.
“i made dinner. just something light,” you smile despite knowing dinner was far more effort than you care to let on.
johnny barrels towards the kitchen. “what’s the occasion, lass? you did all this for us?” and you shrug.
“just thought i’d thank the two of you, y’know. you’re always around to lend a hand.”
they just gape at you like there’s no brain activity happening within their thick skulls.
“well, have a seat then.” you gesture towards the set table with proper cutlery and a vase of flowers in the center.
you bring them both their plates of food, no ground beef, or sweet potatoes, or cottage cheese. and they hunch themselves over, ready to inhale as per usual.
“hasn’t anyone taught you how two to take your time?”
they stare at you again. just as stupidly as they did moments ago. this time they’ve gone silent because both of them are half hard beneath the table.
“going slowly makes it better, you know. not everything is a race.”
and that’s how you end up with simon between your thighs and your back pressed against johnny’s chest as he rubs your shoulders.
“slow, right? that makes it all better?”
simon is rolling his hips agonizingly slowly, dragging his cock against your warm walls.
“simon, faster please,” you beg him. he’s been going at this for the better part of an hour.
he tuts at you. “none of that. you wanted slow, you’re getting slow.
“that’s not—not what i meant,” you pant. you roll your head back to look at johnny, hoping he might help you out. he just brushes your hair from your sticky face instead.
“dinner was nice, sweetheart. now enjoy your dessert.”
OMFGFHFNFJBHS. AHHHHH YESSS!! Lmfao so tea! aweee thats so cute the wild cat napping with cute house cat reader….
wait i got an idea! im cooking~!
Caracal!Sukuna x Housecat!Reader ♡ ft. Exotic Pet Owners!Satosugu
mdni.18+
𝐭𝐨𝐜 — p1 ⟡ p2 ⟡ p3
Caracal!Sukuna who is nothing but trouble for Exotic Pet Owners!Satosugu —a hybrid rescue with an infamous rap sheet for mauling smaller species and instigating near-death scraps with larger predators. Sukuna is passed from nature reserve to nature reserve until he finally lands into Gojo and Geto’s care.
Caracal!Sukuna who is always alone, kept in his own special section of the Gojo family nature conservation in the back of their huge mansion. Only the small prey animals ment to be his food are allowed in his enclosure and they never last long. Even the other hybrids on the Gojo conservation give his enclosure a wide berth, knowing they would not come out unscathed or even alive should they dare enter.
That is until the day you, hybrid Housecat!Reader, wander in.
You are Exotic Pet Owners!Satosugu's favorite hybrid pet. A cute and pampered little Persian who sleeps curled at the foot of their bed when you aren’t nudging them aside to tangle yourself between them. They’ve adorned you with a cute rose gold and pink sapphire studded collar tied on your neck and extravagant pink bow that secured the back.
Signaling to all that you’re spoiled, adored—and absolutely clueless when it comes to just about anything then being 'their cute lil kitty'.
Geto complains it’s Gojo who spoils you rotten, allowing you access to any and everything you’d could ever want before you even ask for it. But Gojo just can’t deny his pretty prized Persian, who’s won many blue 1st place ribbons in hybrid cat shows, a single thing. So when they leave one day to run errands and forget to close the backdoor that leads down to the reserve, your lack of established boundaries has it so you don’t think twice about if you’re actually allowed to go outside.
Never mind that you’ve never been outside on your own before.
Your biggest solo outdoor adventure thus far has been the Gojo manner’s impressively ordinate screened sunroom.
But you don’t consider any of that.
Especially since a pretty blue jay flutters right in front of you onto the porch railing. Flapping its wings like he's just begging you to play with him as it sings a sweet tune.
So off you go, no shoes and no care simply wearing the pretty pink frilly Chanel house slip that Gojo bought for you last week.
Being outside for once is exhilarating and your tail flicks with excitement as you continue to run after the elusive blue jay that flits just out of reach.
When it lands on sign atop a tall fence, you don't even bother reading it as your eyes never leave the bird. Reeling back, you gear to pounce and in one hop you use the sign as leverage and hop over the fence. Your cute paws hitting the grass of Sukuna’s domain—not even registering the faint hum of the hazardous electric barrier behind you.
Caracal!Sukuna whose senses quickly alert him to the intrusion. Initially he thinks he's being fed his dinner earlier than usual so he's very surprised to see another hybrid in his space.
Such a kept, pampered thing at that—it's clear you didn't have a clue where you were as you continue to give chase to the bluejay.
Sukuna follows you with curiosity. He’s not even trying to hide his presence either, you are in his territory after all, so the fact you don't notice him after a few minutes?
Your ignorance is simply astounding to him.
It’s not until a flash of movement knocks you on your rear and scattered feathers flutter around you do you realize your bluejay friend is gone—and now register the presence of the huge, scarred hybrid now crouched in front of you.
Sukuna swallows and you cringe as you can see a lump you can only guess is Mr. Bluejay traveling down Sukuna’s throat.
Caracal!Sukuna whose imposing presence causes you to shiver in fear as he's starring you down like you’re his next meal.
Another vision blurring flash and Sukuna is right in front of you now.
With a squeaky yelp you scratch him, swiping at his nose on pure instinct—more startled by his quick movements than anything.
You’ve never seen this huge cat before. He’s scary.
You didn’t mean to hurt him. You just want him to know you’re not happy at him eating your friend.
Still, it’s a big mistake but you can’t even manage to apologize as your voice is frozen in your throat.
Caracal!Sukuna who ears sweep back as he hisses teeth barred in a dangerous grin. Your cute manicured claws aren’t even enough to draw blood which confirms to him how utterly weak and useless you are as a feline.
Enjoying watching you squirm in terror under his gaze, Sukuna savors your fear he can smell it in the air.
“Run—I’ll give you to the count of 3 little kitty. If I catch you through—you die.”
You don’t need to be told twice and you’re off fast as your limbs can carry you.
Yet, you are an indoor cat and the chase you gave the bird had already depleted most of your energy. Huffing and puffing, everything from your breath to your clumsy run through the forest tells Sukuna exactly where you are.
It was futile from the beginning but Sukuna likes to play with his prey circling you in wide arcs. Tsk, you don’t even sense him.
Sukuna takes pleasure in the fact knowing he could kill you at any second, rip that soft fur right off. His claws are longer, sharper than yours and his muscles are well-honed—trained for a single bone-crushing leap.
Nevertheless, he still allows you to think there’s a chance for escape when truthfully—you’d been running deeper into his territory the entire time.
Caracal!Sukuna who watches you foolishly dart into a cave for shelter—his cave.
His home.
You realize this is Sukuna's lair far too late though when you see his makeshift bed pallet—a pile of bones only cushioned with various animal skins and furs. All in piecemeal as they had been his prey before as well.
Heart racing, you swallow hard as the inevitability of your fate settles over you. Your hormones surges as pure adrenaline triggers a strange molten feeling, leaving your skin hot, your breath shallow. A shiver of terror runs through you as Sukuna's shadow stretches across the lair, swallowing the light.
Blocking the entrance in two strides, Sukuna’s shoulders hunch, eyes fixed on you with something between fury and fascination—he’d killed other hybrids before but never before has he seen one pout in indignation as they were about to die, it's almost comical.
You were interesting. Appraising you once more from head to toe your soft body, even softer fur and pretty collar—you were clearly cared for. Something about knowing that and knowing he was sentenced to sleep in a cold dirty cave pisses him off more and his fierce hisses grow louder.
“Please, *sniff* mister big kitty I’m sworry, I scratched you—
Tears run down your flushed cheeks and as last resort you roll on your back in submission. Paws up and tail curled between your thick thighs, your slip falls back and exposing your plump bare ass to Sukuna.
Caracal!Sukuna who is unmoved by any appeals for mercy, still planning to lodge his claws into your pretty skin—until he senses it.
That smell of yours.
Hot, sweet—and utterly intoxicating that pricks at his senses. The blood in his veins boils red hot and every strand of fur stands up straight to attention.
Nostrils flaring from the assault, his gaze sharpens to the source—the thick slick that's started to wet your bottom and now the floor of his cave.
Fuck.
And in that very moment Sukuna decides your fate.
Exotic Pet Owners!Satosugu who expect to see you at the door when they get home. You always greeted them, a sulky pout on your lips when they were gone too long claiming you were bored all day. You didn’t want to make friends with the domesticated other hybrids—you only wanted them.
Initially, Gojo thinks you are simply hiding. Waiting to pounce on him so he can love on you and give you all the gifts he bought you when him and Suguru were out shopping. But after 10 minutes Gojo you are nowhere to be found.
The other hybrids don’t know either which prompts Geto to pull up your collar’s Airtag to see your location.
The blue dot shows up bright and clear beeping that you are close by—within a mile...
In Sukuna’s enclosure.
Exotic Pet Owners!Satosugu who go into Sukuna’s domain armed—tranq darts, stun batons—and Geto even has a pistol hidden in his belt.
Gojo is hopeful but Suguru is prepared for a bloodbath, knowing all too well the track record of Sukuna’s.
But the scene inside the den is unexpected as both men freeze.
You're alive to be sure—on your back, legs bent in a vicious mating press, Sukuna’s thick cock drowning in your slick as he pummels into your swollen cunt over and over.
If not for your coloring it be hard to tell where Sukuna ended and you began, you're both filthy—fur sticky with spit, cum, dirt and lord knows what else. Your expensive Chanel slip in tatters as your tail twitches helplessly under Sukuna's weight, damp and matted with fluids. Your nipples, engorged and leaking, are sore from the bounce back of relentless rutting. Drool glistens at the corner of your mouth, spilling over your bruised lips as your jaw slacks.
More animal than human at the moment, you’ve gone completely non-verbal. You mewl, purr and hiss from the various sensations Sukuna is ruthlessly delivering straight into your guts.
Gojo thinks sometimes they could be a bit rough with you, but him and Suguru’s teasing nips, firm hands and playful wrestling had nothing on the beastly manner Sukuna was fucking you in.
Gojo's eyes widen to see your belly is already distended, too full from the amount of seed Sukuna has already pumped into you. Yet it's still not nearly enough for Sukuna to be satisfied as he savagely fucks you, round after round atop his pile of bones and carcasses.
His heavy barbed length drags against every raw, creamy ridge inside you. Cock pulling primal sounds from your throat you didn’t even know you could make.
Fluffy pampered house cat be damned—Sukuna fucks you like a wild animal.
Exhausted, your head lulls to the side and you finally see them—Exotic Pet Owners!Satosugu.
Both stand stunned. Gojo, mouth open in shock sporting a half chub as Geto simply shakes his head and mutters something about installing a moat around Sukuna's perimeter.
You don't know how to feel though, a mix of emotions bubble up.
Perhaps 6 rounds ago you would have called out for your owners, begged them to rescue you from this wild beast ripping through your insides. That you wanted to be praised and petted gently, while given the strong slow strokes you were used to...
Then it hits you—a high, delirious giggle bubbles up between your moans at the mere thought of it.
You realize that nothing your owners have ever done compares to being fucked like this—like prey pinned and claimed until there’s no scent left on you but the fierce feline above you—whose name you still don't even know.
Every thrust of Sukuna’s is another brand, another mine-mine-mine! carved into your body. His knot swells full at your entrance, locking you in place while his broad hips keep pumping.
You didn’t know mating could be like this—hell, you didn’t know you even know what the word fully meant until now—to have a mate. But every time Sukuna’s fat round tip slams until your womb the word is seared that much deeper into your brain.
Mate...Mate...Mate!
Caracal!Sukuna who doesn’t stop either when Gojo and Geto appear. Of course, he senses them way before you do—before they even entered the cave actually. He doesn't give a fuck though and won’t pay them any mind as he’s on a mission to drill a liter of his kittens into your pretty pussy that so brazeningly dared to enter his lair in a heat.
Sukuna knows they won’t try to pull him off either—both men know enough about feline hybrids to recognize the risk of stopping a knotted wildcat mid-rut.
They would end up hurting you more than him, and Sukuna knew they wouldn't dare.
Fuck, you’re tight though—cunt gripping him harder and Sukuna has to clench his teeth to prevent his own eyes from rolling back into his skull and moaning like a lil bitch.
Sukuna's life up until now was fucking shit but your soft moist heat is so graciously swallowing him til' the hilt each time, squeezing his knot so obscenely as you purr so sweetly beneath him—giving him a true taste of whatever heaven must be like. Having been fed suppressants to temper his aggression all his life Sukuna has many a heat cycle to make up for in the slick confines of your tight cunt.
Caracal!Sukuna who keeps you in his den for 3 days while the worst of your heat passes. You remain glued to his side, his tail always looped possessively around you—your waist, your bicep, your ankle, keeping you tethered to him at all times.
It’s not like you could leave even if you wanted to, the intense heat between your tender thighs threatening to devour your body whole unless Sukuna and his massive girth extinguished it. Ropes and ropes of his hot milky fluids the only thing in the world that could sate your greedy womb.
Surprisingly though Sukuna isn’t half bad at aftercare. Grooming you as best he can by licking away your sweat, tears and cum when he’s not fucking you into another limp mewling heap of bones and fur.
Exotic Pet Owners!Satosugu who cautiously return on the 4th day to find you naked, happily perched in Sukuna’s lap, licking his ears while he pretends not to thoroughly enjoy it. At their intrusion, Sukuna doesn’t move, doesn’t bare his teeth—just glares murderously at them over your head for having the nerve to interrupt him and his new mate.
You having some sort of attachment to Sukuna was expected, but Gojo and Geto didn’t anticipate you flat out refusing to return to the main house unless Sukuna can come with you—and like the utterly spoiled brat you are, you also refused to stay another night outside in a smelly dilapidated cave.
The feral haze of your heat had worn off and the realization that you had been romping around on carcasses and old bones disgusted you.
Sukuna smirks and holds onto you more posessively, not expecting his cute lil mate to defend him so intensely. You made promises you couldn't keep, saying Sukuna would be a “good kitty” as long as he could be with you.
That wasn’t completely a lie—Sukuna still felt aggression and the instinct to kill in his bones yet the intense gnawing had tapered off immensely since he’d been around you.
You rubbing your fluffy lil' head underneath his chin could temper the worst of his moods—making him relatively docile as long as you were near.
In a move that surprises everyone—it’s Geto to who agrees first.
On the condition that Sukuna behaves.
No biting, no scratching, no tearing up the house or harming any of the other animals or hybrids on the property.
“How could you Sugu!?”
Gojo feels betrayed. He wanted to play hardball, not wanting Sukuna anywhere near his precious Persian kitty.
But Geto, the far more practical of the two sees this as the opportunity it is to finally semi-domesticate the wild cat that had caused them so many problems, and so much money, up until now.
Caracal!Sukuna who ends up moving in that very night—noteably uneventful, aside from the chaos of forcing the two of you into an actual water bath with soap.
The two of you reek.
All is calm until somewhere in the middle of the night, Gojo’s awoken by the shifting weight at the foot of his and Geto’s California king bed.
There’s two extra bodies now—you, curled across Sukuna’s chest, tail looped around his arm and Sukuna, one clawed hand kneading the fat of your hips in slow, possessive flexes.
You’re softly purring, grooming Sukuna with tiny micro licks under his jaw—the same licks you used to affectionately give Gojo when he’d brush you.
Sukuna’s ears twitch, but he doesn’t move, eyes fixed on Gojo with smug, unblinking triumph.
Gojo’s chest tightens. It’s not like there isn’t room—hell, you could fit five more bodies in this bed if you wanted to. But you’re curled up on Sukuna, purring so sweetly, lavishing all that soft, sweet attention on the mangey scarred stray that you should be giving him!
Caracal!Sukuna who, real talk, doesn’t even want to be in this fucking bed right now, he hates the stench of Gojo and Geto. Yet it's you, Housecat!Reader who insisted on sleeping at the foot of their bed on your first night back.
Sukuna sure as shit wasn’t about to let you sleep there alone either and have one of them touching you.
So when Gojo crawls over to pet your back, just to remind you he’s still here—Sukuna’s tail is quick to lash at him in sharp warning, a deep low hiss emanating from his slightly bared teeth.
“Yeah, sure…”
Gojo mutters under his breath, pouting.
“…just forget about the guy who bought you the fancy treats and collars, no big deal.”
Awake this entire time due to Gojo’s whining, Suguru cracks one eye open, sighs, and tugs Gojo back down to sleep.
“Turf wars can wait until after coffee tomorrow—and maybe after we get them their own room.”
You only purr louder as Sukuna squeezes on your ass grow more lustful, utterly oblivious to what just went down between him and Gojo.
Sukuna tips his chin to nose at your hair—mouth curling in an evil grin.
You’re not their pretty lil' spoiled Persian any longer.
You're his.
an: hybrid cat sukuna oml *eyes roll back into head* jdfbchsdbhfcs. this was fun to write. thats all for now but maybe ill revisit in the future!
You saw him in a brightly lit bistro, staring with palpable despair at a paper cup of broccoli cheddar soup. He was too beautiful for the setting. His skin had that translucent, backlit-by-moonlight quality that made the fluorescent overheads seem like a personal insult to his existence. His suit was a deep, liquid black that seemed to swallow the light around the seams.
You had your laptop open. You were on your second cup of coffee. He was on his first emotional breakdown of the evening.
"Jessica?" he had whispered to the woman across from him, her hand frozen halfway to a bread bowl. "I apologise. I should have mentioned that I do not require sustenance of the...bread variety. And if we are to cohabitate, the windows must be bricked over. Immediately. For the sun. I have a severe sun allergy."
The woman, Jessica, had stared at him. Then she had said, very slowly, "I think you're a weirdo."
She left. He didn't chase her. He just sat there, looking at the soup as if it had personally betrayed his entire bloodline.
You felt a tug of pity. And, if you were being honest with yourself, a thrill of utter curiosity. You closed your laptop.
"That bad, huh?" you asked, sliding into now vacant chair.
He looked up. His eyes were the color of old garnets, and they widened with the panic of a deer who had just walked into a sliding glass door. He had obviously not planned for a contingency plan.
"It's the sun allergy," he admitted, his voice a lovely, sad baritone. "It’s a common dealbreaker. Also, I mentioned the average lifespan of my previous spouses as a matter of fiscal transparency, and she took it as a threat."
"How many previous spouses?"
"Fourteen," he said. "But in fairness, that's over four hundred years. The mortality rate is perfectly average for the era. Two fell off horses. One was eaten by a bear. It was a different time."
You should have run. You really should have. But he looked so genuinely confused, so utterly lost, that you found yourself leaning forward.
"What's your name?" you asked.
"Alistair Ravencroft," he said, and for a second, the air got cold and the lights flickered, and you felt the weight of centuries in the name. And then the lights came back on and he sneezed because someone dropped a cinnamon crunch bagel in the toaster oven behind the counter. "There's cinnamon in the air," he whined, rubbing his nose. "Cinnamon is for the dead. It's an embalming spice. It's rude."
You gave him a chance. He took it with both trembling, impossibly strong hands.
Two weeks later, you were in a car that smelled like old leather and cold stone, driving up a winding road that didn't appear on any GPS. Alistair was driving with the cautious, terrified focus of a sixteen-year-old taking their driver's test, despite the fact he’d been driving since before cars were invented. He kept glancing at you in the passenger seat, then back at the road, then back at you.
"I have to warn you," he said, his voice small. "The decor is a bit...me. I haven't updated since the Hapsburgs were relevant. And I have a collection. I need you to understand, I am not showing you these things to boast. I am showing you because I don't know how else to say: I have nothing else to offer but this."
He took you through the giant oak doors and into a cavern of gothic splendor. The floors were polished obsidian. The walls were lined with oil paintings of people who looked suspiciously like him wearing various historical hats. There was a sarcophagus in the foyer. He used it as an umbrella stand.
"This is the treasury," he mumbled, leading you into a room that made Scrooge McDuck's vault look like a piggy bank.
Mountains of gold coins spilled out of chests. Rubies the size of your fist were piled in corners like forgotten laundry. He picked up a diamond tiara that had probably belonged to a princess and placed it on your head without asking. It fit perfectly.
"I had it resized," he said. "Just in case. I know it's presumptuous."
He then reached into a nearby stone basin filled with ice and pulled out a medical blood bag. He pierced it with a crazy straw, a pink, curly one, and began to suckle on it sadly, his cheeks hollowing. He looked like a tragic, beautiful child who had been told he couldn't have dessert.
"I know," he said around the straw, his voice muffled. "I know this is too much."
"It's a lot of money, Alistair."
"It's not the money," he said, pulling the straw out with a wet pop. He gestured around at the glittering hoard. "This is just shiny dirt. What I want...what I need...is you. Here. Forever. Starting tomorrow. I want to wake up and see your face and know that you are legally bound to share this shiny dirt with me. I want a marriage. Right now. I'm not good at waiting. I've been alive for four hundred and sixty-two years and I'm very tired of waiting."
He pulled a scroll of parchment from his jacket, actual parchment, tied with a black ribbon.
"I had my lawyer draw this up. If you sign, half of everything in this room is yours. Not in the event of my death. Right now. This instant. You can fill the moat with gold coins and swim in them like a nouveau riche dolphin. I don't care. I just want you to stay."
You looked at the contract. You looked at the pile of flawless emeralds. You looked at the vampire, six-foot-four of ancient power and boundless wealth, sucking on a blood bag with a bendy straw, his garnet eyes welling up with the certainty of rejection.
You signed the parchment.
He sobbed. Right there in the treasury. He dropped the blood bag and it splattered on a pile of Spanish doubloons. He didn't care.
The wedding was three days later, officiated by a hooded figure in a ruined chapel on the cliffside. It was very Addams Family.
Then came the consummation. You’d expected it to be cold, clinical. Maybe even a little violent given the whole immortal predator thing.
It was not. He was tender to the point of absurdity. He kissed your shoulder blades like they were holy relics. He whispered your name into the curve of your neck with the reverence of a man praying for rain in a drought. And when he finally entered you, moving with that deep, rhythmic precision that came from centuries of practice, he started to cry.
Not sobbing, ugly crying. Just a steady, silent leak of red-tinged tears down his marble cheekbones.
"Alistair," you breathed, cupping his face. "Are you okay?"
"I'm just so happy," he choked out, his hips never faltering. "I didn't think anyone would ever want the sun allergy."
That was the first time. It happened every time after that. The crying was a feature, not a bug. And honestly? Who cares?
Because the man, the creature, did not get tired. His body didn't understand lactic acid or muscle fatigue. He could go for hours. Hours. You’d come three times before he even got misty-eyed, and then you’d just hold on while he chased his own release with the desperate, awe-struck stamina of an immortal who had finally found a reason to stop counting the centuries.
You’d intended to take the money and run. Maybe buy a yacht. Maybe open a studio in Milan and buy a villa in the south of Italy.
But then you’d wake up to find him standing by the window, holding a cup of perfectly steeped Earl Grey tea (he couldn't drink it, but he researched the optimal temperature for you), looking at you like you'd hung the moon and the stars and also fixed the draft in the east wing.
"Good morning, my darling," he'd whisper. "I watched you sleep for the last four hours. I hope that's not creepy. I think it's probably creepy. I'm sorry."
You stayed for the tea. You stayed for the way he’d carefully dusted the suit of armor in the hallway so it didn't scare you. You stayed for the way he'd apologize to the blood bags before drinking them.
And you definitely stayed for the way he’d weep into your hair at three in the morning, his body still moving inside you with the relentless, loving precision of a Swiss watch, whispering, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
It turned out hundreds of years of loneliness made a man very, very grateful. And very, very rich. And very, very good at making sure you didn't get much sleep.
a/n: My inbox and messages are open for commissions. You can also donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: Ko-fi
only talking to sukuna's stomach mouth when he pisses you off
Sukuna’s developed an irritating habit. Whenever he’s fed up with you, or whenever he doesn’t want to entertain one of your questions, he’ll simply stay quiet and gesture towards his stomach. It’s kind of like saying ‘talk to the hand’. But in his case, it’s ‘talk to the stomach mouth’.
Then his stomach mouth will shoot you this wide, smug grin, like it’s more than happy to converse with you. And you’ll just toss up your hands and groan, annoyed that your husband won’t even bother to speak with you face to face.
But recently you've taken Sukuna up on his offer, turning the tables to give him the silent treatment while still chatting away with his stomach. Because Sukuna underestimated just how much that mouth of his likes to rile someone up. Even if it’s the rest of his body.
Now, Sukuna’s lounging on the bed, limbs draped carelessly along the mattress. He’s trying to feign indifference. Trying to pretend he’s unphased by the fact that you haven’t spoken to him in four whole days.
But you know better. You see the slight clench in his jaw, the scowl that deepens on his face each time he steals a look your way. He watches as you sit by the window, gazing at the scenery outside.
When the silence stretches on longer than he can bear, Sukuna sets his pride aside to clear his throat and ask, “Are you still doing this?”
You don’t even spare him a glance, continuing to look out the window. “Middle Mouth,” you say, “will you please inform the rest of Sukuna that I have no idea what he’s talking about?”
Sukuna scoffs in disbelief, but that mouth of his flashes its teeth and singsongs, “Sukunaaaa. She doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I heard you,” Sukuna huffs, speaking to you instead of his stomach.
He hates this whole situation. Hates that you're not speaking with him. Hates that you’ve given his stomach mouth a nickname. And he hates that the mouth is entertaining it at all.
His jaw clenches once more, and he sighs before saying, “You’re ignoring me.”
He’s not wrong. For almost a week, you’ve been avoiding your husband, refusing to interact or even look at any part of him other than his stomach maw. But despite all of his sulking and sour moods, you act as if nothing is amiss.
“Middle Mouth, will you please inform the rest of Sukuna that I am not ignoring him. You and I just had a lovely conversation, didn’t we?”
“Sukunaaaa,” the mouth singsongs again. “She isn’t ignoring you…well, me.” That grin returns, and you can’t help but let out a quiet laugh. Why didn’t you start speaking with your husband’s stomach mouth sooner? He really is entertaining.
“Stop that. Don’t humor her,” Sukuna scolds.
“Middle Mouth, you can converse with me as you please.”
“I intend to,” his maw replies.
Sukuna’s eyes narrow, but he’s not sure whether to direct his glare at you or his abdomen. “How long do you intend to keep up these antics?”
You brush an imaginary piece of lint from your clothes and say, "Middle Mouth, please inform the rest of Sukuna that I’m still waiting on a proper apology from him."
“I’m warning you, do not–”
“Sukunaaaa. She is waiting for a proper apology from you.”
Sukuna stares murderously down at his lower half. He’s finally met his match. The only ‘enemy’ that he can’t silence by force. Himself.
And secretly, you think that he slightly enjoys that you’re speaking with his stomach mouth. It shows him that despite this silent treatment, you still desire some form of communication with him.
So he’ll put up with the teasing, the inside jokes, and the fact that his wife is being stolen by his own body.
You decide to press your luck a little bit further, and say something you know will send your husband over the edge. “Middle Mouth–”
“Not again,” Sukuna groans, tossing his head back.
“Do you remember what I told you? What we talked about last night?”
“What?!?" Sukuna demands, sitting up abruptly and sending the covers around him flying.
“Oh, I remember,” his maw says, immediately grinning and playing into it.
“Well, I was thinking about it and–”
“Why are you speaking with my wife at night?”
“Our wife. And what we discuss during late hours does not concern you.”
“Anyways, as I was telling you, Middle Mouth, before I was rudely interrupted–”
“No. This ends now."
In seconds, Sukuna’s beside you, all 7 feet of him towering over you intimidatingly. He rubs a hand across his jaw, like he has to physically force the words out of his mouth. “I.. apologize for not answering when you asked me which of my cocks I urinate from.”
“…”
“The answer is both of them.”
Immediately, your mood lifts. You turn away from the window, smiling and facing your husband like nothing was ever wrong. “Apology accepted.” And then to his stomach mouth, “We’ll continue our conversation later.”
a/n: idk why the mouth is referring to him in third person...js to be annoying ig lol
Mean owner! Price who snaps at Bunny hybrid! Reader after they accidentally break the nice ceramic bowl that he gave them for meals. You were just mad you got healthy yucky pellets!!! You wanted cake!!! (´∩｀。)
But he quickly feels bad because you give him the silent treatment. Refusing his pets, hiding under tables. You even refuse grooming time!!! You loved when he would brush your hair for you!! (╥ ω ╥)
So while you’re sleeping he gently scoops you up with those thick arms of his. giving you small kisses and coos while you wake up. And when you try to escape, legs kicking and wiggling with all your might! he just traces your hole. His finger against it. Finally pushing in when you whined enough. His two thick fingers pumping over and over as he whispers small apologies to you.
“Oh, I know, I know, m’such a meanie. M’sorry I’ll never yell again okay? Bunny? You gotta answer or I’ll stop”
You lazily nod your head, which makes him smile. He finally pumps harder making you finish. Your head against his chest as he enjoys finally being able to hug his bunny again <33
Warnings: NSFW🔞, inmate!Sukuna, anal sex, reader is Sukuna’s prison bitch, he uses you like a toy, reader is a fem woman disguised as a man in prison, power play, dub con-ish (he’s quite rough), overstimulation, idk this is a very long fic
The guard guiding you to your cell snorts when you ask if you’ll have your own space. You can’t exactly explain to him that you’re a woman disguised as a man and need your privacy. Perhaps you’re in over your head.
You gulp as you peek around the loud prison. Large men stare as you pass by. It’s clear they’ve made this place like home, clothes lines full of laundry, some playing card games, comfy slippers, lounging on the tables or mingling about.
“Here you are,” the guard stops in front of an open cell, rolling out his hand, “your penthouse suite.”
It looks like a stale dorm room for the most part. Two metal single beds, a metal toilet, two desks. And zero privacy.
Your supposed cellmate is doing pull ups on a makeshift bar in the middle of the room. His large bare, tatted back faces you, bulging arms, baggy sweatpants, and a head of pure pink hair. He’s grunting with every pull up, but they still seem chillingly effortless.
The guard leans his shoulder against the doorway. “Ryomen,” he whistles loudly as if to get a bull’s attention. “Got a new friend for you.”
Your eyes flick from the amused guard to your new ‘friend’ who gets one last pull-up in before dropping two socked feet to the ground with a grunt. You swear the fucking ground rumbles. He turns towards you and your knees wobble as his shadow over takes you.
Red eyes. Half of his face is mutilated, marred by a fire from long ago, you can surmise. His face tattoos match his body. He’s tall, you wouldn’t even be able to reach the height of his makeshift pull-up bar on the tips of your toes.
You stiffen as he sizes you up like the other inmates did on your way in. You hope you wrapped your chest tight enough. A woman in an all male prison? Not a good idea for too many reasons.
“Hi—” you clear your throat of the high pitched tone, adopting a fake, deeper one, “Hey, bro. It’s uh— cool to meet you— or whatever.”
You could slap yourself. Who are you kidding? You don’t know how to talk like a guy. You should have told Gojo ‘No, no amount of money would make me spend a year in a male prison.’ You shouldn’t have drank so much and stupidly agreed that night at the bar, because now, the best case scenario here is that the guard takes you away and they throw the real you into a women’s prison for trying to ‘fool the system.’
The man takes a step forward, and you’re already tensing for a blow— but he just shoulder checks you on the way out. You stumble a little, immediately going to rub your shoulder.
The guard looks properly amused, holding back a laugh. “Here,” he kicks off the wall, pushing some supplies into your arms. Another guard must have handed these over to him as you greeted your cellmate.
“Have fun,” he makes his brows jump and moseys away.
You deeply exhale through the nerves in your chest, walking towards your bed, if you can even call it that. You drop the supplies onto the thin mattress. Sheets, blanket, toothbrush, etc.
You’ve never been one to pray, but you’re considering it right about now. You shake your head and give yourself something to do: put on your sheets, organize the few toiletries you have on your desk.
After fifteen minutes, some kind of bell rings through the prison and you watch inmates filter out of their cells.
You stand and lean out of the cell curiously. You catch one of them muttering about ‘green beans’ and you realize it’s dinner time.
You enter the crowded mess hall and you’re immediately overwhelmed, clattering trays and chaos. The smell of old meatloaf and sweaty man fills the room.
You keep your head down as you get in line, adopting a slight slouch in hopes to avoid accidental eye contact that could be perceived as a threat. The second you’re pulled into something like a violent altercation, you’ll likely be exposed as a woman quite fast.
Dinner is slop with a side of slop on a metal tray, and you’re realizing why Gojo wanted to avoid this place so adamantly. A fucking paid vacation, he’d said.
You scan the mess hall with the tray in your hands, heart racing.
You spot two guards leaning against the entrance, watching you with amusement— like they’re waiting to see what happens to you, who will pick the runt of the litter. You’re the entertainment. You must look like a little meek boy, shaking in your boots.
It’s packed. Big men in little stools. It reminds you of highschool clicks but worse. You spot your pink haired cellmate, sat alone at the only empty table, but one mean glance up with those red eyes and you’re searching elsewhere.
“Who do we have here?” A deep voice sings as a heavy arm drops around your shoulders.
You glance up at him to see a blue haired man with scars all over his body, like he’d previously had poorly done stitches. He smiles at you with dead eyes.
Some of his friends surround the two of you, bored and idle— but their bulky presence only makes you nervous.
“Need somewhere to sit?” he hums tauntingly, tilting his head down to your level. “My name’s Mahito.”
“Oh, I—”
“Shhh little pet, I’ve got you now. I’ll take you under my wing! You don’t even have to thank me or anything.” His smile makes your spine tense with chills as he moves to stand in front of you.
Do you have another choice? You’re afraid of offending him and his scary friends if you decline.
Mahito continues, as if your acceptance is a given. “Let’s just get some things straight before—”
He’s interrupted by a large fist slamming into his jaw, knocking him right off his feet and onto his ass. Your hands tense around your tray, eyes wide as your gaze snaps to see who just punched Mahito into a limp, dream state.
It’s your pink haired cellmate, looking down at his victim while ringing out his fist like it’s just another Tuesday.
Fights must be common around here, because when you look around, no one seems surprised. Most of the men just mind their business and continue eating their food. Even the two guards are whistling, turning the other cheek.
You gulp. Mahito’s friends don’t even try to defend him, they just back away— like hyenas in the presence of a lion. You hear one of them mutter a name, ‘Sukuna.’
You wonder if anyone is even going to bring Mahito to the infirmary, but when Sukuna’s roaming gaze sweeps over you, all thoughts freeze in fear.
You hold his gaze a beat too long, unsure, until you see a flicker in his expression, a subtle tightening of the corner of his eyes. In a breath, you fold inward, chin dipping down to your chest in retreat.
He breaks the tension first, adjusting his neck as he turns away. He settles back into his seat with his meal, relaxed and borderline bored.
You have no clue what his intentions are, or what saving you signifies. Regardless, you’re relived to not sit with Mahito.
With no other option, you inch your way over to the only empty table where Sukuna sits. He remains focused on his food, ignoring your presence completely as you sit as far away as possible— on the literal side edge of the seat.
You cautiously take a bite, peeking at him defensively, but he remains indifferent.
__________________
Lights out, 9:10 pm.
You lay in your uncomfortable little bed, staring at the dirty ceiling. The cell door clanged shut at exactly 9 pm and when the guard made his final round, flashlight shining through the corridor— he passed by with a slow, deliberate glance followed by a wink that made you feel uncomfortable.
You can’t sleep, tossing and turning for 10 minutes. You shift on your side, unable to lay in one position for longer than two minutes due to this stone of a mattress.
“Quit. Moving.”
You freeze at the demand coming from your cellmate, who probably hasn’t been able to sleep with all of your loud movement.
“Sorry,” you chirp quietly, pressing your lips together between your teeth.
He exhales, deeply. You peek at him and he’s facing the opposite wall, naked back towards you.
You don’t know prison etiquette, are you meant to do something specific if someone saves you from a group of scary individuals like he did earlier? Maybe give him half of your lunch from now on or he’ll take you into the back and beat the teeth out of you?
“Um,” you whisper, practicing your ‘boy’ voice.
You feel the energy in the room shift, like when you were a child sharing a bunk with your sibling and you’d start spouting nonsense to each other after 3am.
“Thank you.”
You feel relief when a silent moment passes, maybe he’s asleep and didn’t hear you, because now that you’ve actually said it, you regret it. How stupid and naive could you be? You reckon gratitude like this may not apply in prison.
He grunts as he adjusts his position, and you cringe at the ceiling, subtly inching your thin blanket up to your chin. Oh. He definitely heard you.
You nod off after too many minutes of silence and you wake in the morning to the sound of the breakfast bell. You all but squeal opening your eyes to see your sweaty cellmate looming over your bed.
You quickly clear your throat, sitting up and glancing around at your surroundings. You kick your ‘boy’ voice up, trying to recover from your girly scream. “Morning.”
He throws a small towel over his shoulder and walks off, unbothered by the strangeness of standing over someone’s bed before they’ve even awoken.
Your breast wraps are still in tact when you peek down under your shirt, so you don’t think he saw anything he wasn’t supposed to.
Breakfast is uneventful, thankfully. Mahito, who has fresh dark bruises along his face, doesn’t even look your way. You sit alone at Sukuna’s table, the same acceptable distance as before.
Things are just okay, you think.
That is, apart from the whole using the bathroom thing. You’ve been putting it off. But, it’s unavoidable.
After breakfast, you peek into your cell where the shared toilet is, only to see Sukuna casually reading a scroll with one hand and doing one armed push ups with the other. The image of using the toilet in here makes your face sour. That’d be a type of humiliation you’d rather avoid, and that’s not even accounting for keeping your gender a secret.
Instead, you settle for the shared bathrooms connected to the showers in one large tiled, communal room.
Standing in front of the toilet stall, you curse Gojo’s entire family line. Because of course the stalls don’t have doors. Somewhere far away, Gojo suddenly feels shivers race down his spine in the middle of his little mochi date.
Apart from the unsettling experience of using the bathroom surrounded by large men shaving and brushing their teeth, you overheard interesting information as you did your business. You had to translate male prison gossip lingo, but apparently Sukuna and Mahito’s little altercation yesterday wasn’t random.
They have history. Something about ‘daring to touching his soul’ — whatever that means. You think soul is code for a drug supply, maybe.
Yesterday’s incident was a ‘checking’ as your fellow inmates say. Mahito was trying to force you, someone weak and new, into his group, which made him look strong among the lower ranks. But when Sukuna stepped in, punching his lights out in front of everyone, it was a show of power.
Mahito dominates people like you, small and submissive by nature, to stay on top, but Sukuna operates on a whole nother level. In that simple act, he showed everyone that you’re on the bottom, people like Mahito are in the middle, and Sukuna reigns on top.
You’re already cringing at your naivety thanking him last night, like he was some knight in shining armor.
Once you get back to your cell, Sukuna’s still reading, this time, sat on his bed all glistening with sweat having finished his workout.
You ignore your nerves walking past him to sit on your own bed with your back against the wall.
You’d scored a notebook and pen from the recreation room, and begin idly drawing the time away. Seeing how he’s the only thing there is to draw in this place, you start sketching Sukuna’s profile.
His nose is particularly a unique shape, reminiscent of the Greek God statues. You glance up for the millionth time to get the particular slope of his bridge committed to memory, and startle to see him looking back at you with a glare.
You slouch into yourself, your face growing hot having been caught staring and you force your eyes back down.
“You keep thinking you’re allowed to do that.”
Your heart rate kicks up at his scary gravelly tone, like a demon having come back to life in the form of his vocal cords. You naively thought he didn’t notice your glances, since he never even spared you a look.
“Sorry,” you mutter quietly.
“Look at me,” he demands in a way that you wouldn’t dare consider disobeying. Fuck. You were hoping he’d just let it be.
You clench your eyes shut for a brief moment, squeezing your pen in your palm before slowly sitting up and peering at him.
“Pitiful. Truly.” He scoffs, looking at your entire form with disgust. “Do you have no honor? Stand.”
You hesitate, gaze flicking, feeling like you’re playing a game of simon says.
“I said,” his tone rumbles as he moves to sit at the edge of his bed, chin resting on his fist, “stand.”
A passing inmate side eyes your open cell, but he minds his business as if it holds a sleeping monster within.
You gently toss your notebook to the side and your brows twitch as you push yourself up to stand, socked feet meeting the cold floor.
You aren’t even sure if you’re meant to be looking at him still, gaze uncertain.
“Now kneel.”
A flashback of how hard Sukuna’s fist met the bone of Mahito’s jaw makes you slowly bend and drop to your knees.
You spot a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes before a judgmental expression takes over, like your obedience is simultaneously sickening and mandatory to him.
“You hold your head quite high,” he hints at your lack of respect, and if putting your forehead on the dirty floor is all he makes you do for disrespectfully staring, you’d probably be lucky.
Your brows pinch in a pout, grossed out with the prospect of it but still, you inch your head down.
“Good,” he drawls the word out with a whispery rasp, “Go on. All the way down.”
Once you’re in a fully seated bow, like a servant in the old ages, he exhales slow and deep. Cathartically.
A long moment passes with his red eyes on the back of your head. The floor smells like dirt and a trace of bleach. You’re completely vulnerable in his position, with the back of your neck exposed and blinded.
Honestly, you’re wondering if Sukuna is still there. It’s so quiet, all you can hear is the subtle mumble of the others outside of the cell in the main area and the tick of the clock.
You prepare to speak by taking in a small breath, and that’s all it takes for Sukuna to snap at you.
“Did I say you could speak?”
You gulp.
“You’re new,” he complains, “The next time you disobey me, you won’t enjoy what I do.”
You hear the bed creak from him standing, but he doesn’t take a step in any direction. Just stands above you.
“Lick the floor.”
Your lips part in shock, blinking at the floor in confusion. You can’t even begin to imagine the disgusting things that line this floor after decades of men coming in and out. You’ve seen the guy who cleans the floors, he’s blind— literally. Humiliation is the only benefit to making someone do something like this, to knock them back into their place. You don’t have another choice.
“Show me,” he snaps, making you flinch. “Your tongue.”
Fuck this place, you obey. Slip your tongue out and slide it against the floor, eyes clenched shut to cope with the taste of everything horrible and bitter.
Pushing your palms to the floor, you lift your head, giving him the pathetic display of your twitching tongue.
The light above halo’s his pink head like a dark angel, and you see his lips curl into a diabolical smile. Pleased with your submission.
He squats, lining his mouth to your ear— not touching, but close enough to hear. “The hell are you looking at?”
Your eyes clench shut as fast as his words come out and you almost flinch when you feel the tip of his finger brush against your clavicle. Your breast wrap is right there—not impossibly close, but too close for comfort. It’s like he’s bringing attention to how frail your bones are, brushing the bone so lightly.
“Speak.”
“You— I’m sorry,” is all you know to spit out around the taste of the bitter floor in your mouth.
He tuts like your answer is just average, a boring C- at best. It seems to be all you know how to say, that and thank you.
“I don’t want trouble— I didn’t know I couldn’t look at you,” you stupidly explain.
“Have a little crush on me?”
You gulp, shaking your head. “N-No.”
He stands. “Why are you here?”
“Because you told me to—” your uncertain gaze flicks around his face but never connects to his eyes.
He interrupts you, repeating himself in a rougher tone, “Why are you here?”
You realize he’s asking why you were locked up.
“Speak. My impatience is not passive you’ll soon find out,” he snaps at you when you don’t immediately answer.
“I— I lost a bet. I needed money.” Technically not a lie, but you can see how your words imply that you robbed someone or something.
He uses a socked foot to nudge at your tummy, and you tense, praying he doesn’t lift it or lower it in either direction.
You’re bracing for a kick, a shove, something. Instead, he simply runs his foot down your abdomen until his toes brush the clothed skin above your pussy. You shiver in anticipated worry, looking up at him through your lashes like he’s a god given the right to deciding your fate.
Just when you think this is it, he’s going to push just an inch lower and notice your lack of dick— he loudly sniffles and walks out like nothing happened.
________________
Later, 11:25 am.
Your one reprieve after your humiliating morning is the library. Everyone has a job in prison— a 0.25$ paying job— but it’s better than nothing. You’d been lucky to land a job sorting books. Pushing a little cart around, organizing the collection of educational texts, self-help, religious, even things like the hunger games— it was nice.
That is, until your heart drops down to your ass when Sukuna pushes you against the shelf, chest pressing into your back.
You gasp, dropping the book in your grasp. Your mind immediately flicks to movies you’ve seen, involving a homemade shiv and a lot of blood, people who have nothing to lose and kill just for the hell of it. You’re an easy target too, smaller than the rest.
“You’re welcome,” he says casually into your ear. He’s not even pushing into you in an overtly sexual manner, just pinning you to the shelves.
You knew he was awake last night. But, he definitely didn’t intentionally protect you from Mahito, no, it had nothing to do with you. He’s taunting you.
You let out a shaky breath, daring to speak just above a whisper. “F—for what?”
“This is how it’s going to work,” he explains, hard hand gripping the back of your neck, “I’m going to fuck your ass, use you until that gratitude dries up and in return— no one will touch you.”
Oh shit. Your face pales. He’s explaining the concept of being a ‘bitch’ to you because it’s your first time in prison. Was it that obvious? (Yes.)
You let out a fearful whine under your breath, so quiet, but being so close, he hears it.
“What’s wrong? Thought you wanted to thank me,” he mocks you, hot breath fanning your ear. Maybe in another universe, you’d beg the domineering man fuck you— as you. But if you want your gender to remain a secret in here, you have no choice but to get out of this.
“I— but,” You grip the shelf harshly, thinking of any excuse, “I’m a virgin!”
A pause. Did that actually work? You’re not an actual virgin, but you’ve never done anal— technically not a lie.
Your bated breath halts when he lets out a boisterous laugh. “Oh?” he drawls like a king on a throne.
You can almost guarantee he feels your heart thumping through your fucking back.
“You’re just a hole. Meant for use. Doesn’t matter to me, I truly don’t care.”
“I— please, I can’t do that for you. I want to— I really want to! But I can’t,” you breathe, hoping you haven’t offended his ego— which you assume is larger than this building. You want to be able to say yes, just so that you don’t have a target on your back.
“Tch,” he clicks in distaste, “I won’t injure you. Is that enough to address your concerns?” You think he mutters a ‘loser’ under his breath but you aren’t sure.
The fact that he’s even trying to quell your fears is surprising, and gives you a spec of hope. It also allows you to consider the idea of what his protection in exchange would mean. Everyone clearly fears Sukuna, you’d get through this year untouched— aside from the obvious.
“Uh—uhm,” you gulp, side glancing back at him as much as his grip will allow. “I’m insecure about uh.. my dick.”
His brows lower into a furrow, looking at you with judgement. “Fine,” he rolls his eyes, “your little cock won’t come out of its confines. Satisfied?”
Are you actually going to do this? Can you even pull this off? The fact that this man even wants to fuck you in the first place is completely out of the blue. You knew things like this happened in here, but from this guy?
You shift. “Why do you want this— with me?”
“I’m not gay,” he scoffs, “Fool. I simply need a flesh light.”
“Oh, and,” he pushes his nose into your head, behind your ear, and sniffs, “you smell nice, like a woman.”
You shiver. It’s horrifying that he can actually smell that on you without knowing it.
“Deal?”
You clench your eyes shut and nod.
He finally pushes off of you and mutters a ‘good’ before walking away and out of the library.
___________
You’ve never been one for the concept of anal. You’d glare whenever a boyfriend would even bring it up. It’s always felt inconsiderate, like you’re just being used when a more pleasurable hole is right there. You’re kind of nervous, but part of you is relieved.
Since you made the deal, Sukuna has ‘claimed’ you. He makes you grab his meals for him, sit across from him in the cafeteria, visible signs of ownership. The other inmates avoid you completely; even a minor bump into your shoulder in passing earns an apology. You’re his now, and everyone knows it. Off limits.
As for your end of the deal, you aren’t sure when Sukuna is going to be in the mood to fuck. You’ve been stealing peeks at him, watching too closely, hoping for a signal, but Sukuna noticed. After that time you practically jumped when he stood up from his bed, he gave you a glare that made your knees weak. Instead, you’ve decided to just wait for him to tell you when he’s ready.
A few days after your library talk, Sukuna finally gives you the signal.
It’s morning, and you wake to see him hovering over your bed once again.
You startle, sitting up quickly as you rub your eyes. “Wh— what happened?”
He tosses you a little bag of chips, the type you can only get from the confectionery, and your brows furrow down at it.
“Um,” you glance at him, unsure, “thank you.” It sounds more like a question than a statement.
“Library, 12 pm. There’s a spot with no cameras in the back.”
Your eyes flicker in recognition, and your heart races as you nod. “Okay, I’ll— um— I’ll be there. That’s great. Sounds good.”
He deadpans at your pathetic attempt at speaking and walks off.
You can’t help but feel a weird affection placing the bag of chips under your bed, rolling your eyes at yourself. It’s a bag of chips, and you have more to worry about than catching feelings for this guy.
You have to prep.
The communal showers are sectioned by half walls and curtains. You’ve been able to shower, dry yourself, wrap your breasts, and get dressed all inside of the little shower section without anyone seeing your important body parts since you’ve been here. Still, you’d rather some privacy as you do what needs to be done today.
Thankfully, it’s empty when you check the showers while breakfast is taking place.
You stand there naked under the water, toes curling in nerves as you slowly bring the empty bottle up to fill it with water. A homemade douche. It’s mildly humiliating shooting water up your ass but it’s a necessary evil.
About a few hours later, you’re sorting books like your job entails, while anxiously glancing at the door and wall clock every two minutes with anticipation.
At 12:03 he pushes the door open, and you immediately turn your head back to face the shelves.
You hear him snap at the only person reading at a table, forcing them to leave. Your heart races when you hear him lock the entrance door behind them.
You stupidly pretend you’re deciding which shelf the book in your hands belongs on as his heavy footsteps close the distance between you.
He settles right beside you and you peek up at him.
“Come.” He nods his head, gesturing you to follow as he turns and leads you to the last isle, all the way to the back of the room.
“Right here?” You glance at the camera in the corner.
“Right here.”
You gasp when he grabs your hips and manhandles you over to the very corner of the isle, pressed into the shelf with your back to him. “It’s a blind spot.”
“Okay,” you lick your lips nervously, fumbling with the hem of your sweatpants. “I— how do we— should I just—?”
He squeezes his big hands over your shaky ones, stopping you. “Relax,” he snaps. “Ass fucking is not that difficult. It’ll be a lot easier for you than it is for women.”
You gulp at that, his (rude) reassurance means nothing considering the obvious.
He swats your hands away and you squeak when he pulls your sweatpants down enough to expose your ass to the chilly air.
You curiously glance back when you hear a click of a cap opening. He squirts an ungodly amount of lube into his palm and tosses it aside. (How did he even obtain lube in here?)
“Pretty fucking ass,” he says as if it’s an insult, using one hand to spread your cheek and slide a glob onto your hole with two fingers.
You cringe at the cold feeling of the gel as he rubs your hole, anticipating him shoving his finger in there.
“It’s gonna hurt,” you say wearily, “right?”
He rolls his eyes, using his middle finger to push at the resistance of the rim.
You gasp when it pops in. He slowly massages your insides in a manner to loosen the very edges, preparing the most taught of the muscles to stretch. It’s more weird than uncomfortable feeling something wiggling around in there.
“You’re lucky I’m doing this,” he rasps, “Virgin.”
“Thank you,” you squeak. He uses his free hand to shove your hips out a bit more.
He whispers as he pulls his finger out, “How’s it feel knowing you’re about to get fucked in the ass? Feel the shame yet?”
You gulp and clench your eyes shut when you catch a glimpse of his hefty cock being pulled out of his sweats. A large, scary winding vein catches your eye.
“Slow,” you chirp as he presses the tip to your ass, “please go slow.”
He notches his chin over your head, wrapping one arm around your tummy to push your back into his chest and grunts, “I will.”
His large body envelops you, like a hard hug. If it weren’t for his tip forcing your asshole to open up, you’d probably enjoy being held by a big man like this.
You hiss, unable to keep your hands from snapping back and digging your nails into his hips. The intrusion is uncomfortable, so odd and unnatural to have something this big pushing into your backside.
He doesn’t seem to mind your nails, undulating the tip around in circles within the very inside so you can get used to the feeling.
“That’s it,” he drawls, “open up.”
You let out a high-pitched whine and your ‘boy’ persona is thrown out of the window, completely irrelevant as he inches the rest of it in. He’s fully seated.
“Okay, okay,” you gasp, frantically tapping his hip and toned back, “don’t move yet.”
He exhales deeply, like he feels relaxed having finally mounted a warm hole. His warm huffs of breath calm you as they steadily fan the side of your head.
“Tick tock,” he hums after a minute of your hole pulsing around him in attempt to cope with the intrusion. “It will hurt less if I move.”
“Fuck,” you whimper, shaky hands moving to brace against the shelves. “Okay, fine.”
“Good.” He wraps one hand roughly around your mouth and his other arm holds your midsection taut to his front.
You squeal behind his hand when he pulls out and barrels back in with one hard rut. It hurts, but somehow, his large dick has reached your g-spot through your ass. You likely have a bulge in your tummy from the way his tip is angled to push down against your vaginal canal through the back door.
“Ahhh.” He tilts his head and rumbles an exhales right into your ear, like he’s dipping into a nice, warm hot-spring.
It doesn’t take long for him to set a rhythm, rocking his hips in short, hard thrusts. The contact of your cheeks meeting his hips creates a loud ‘plap,’ bouncing off the books in lewd repetition. His harsh breaths are the most you receive from him in terms of vocalized pleasure, but sometimes he offers a grunt.
Your feet shuffle with every hit, toes barely touching the ground as his strong hold keeps you up in the air like you’re just a human sized flesh light. He’s using you, and you can’t deny his incidental abuse of your g-spot feels good.
“You moan like a fuckin girl,” he hisses into your ear as he pounds your ass.
You can only moan under his palm, confirming his what he thinks is an insult. The jackhammering is short and mean, barely a few inches of his base exiting your puckering hole before stuffing it back inside.
“This ass is mine,” he grunts as your clit throbs with need, “Pathetic fuck. Letting a guy bend you over.”
Your legs shake as he grows frantic and mean, putting horrifying strength behind each thrust. You’re fucking like bunnies, your body frantically jostles up and down and you’d be embarrassed if it weren’t for how he’s completely dominating you. A few books fall right off of the shelf and clatter to the carpeted floor with the force of it all. You wonder if he’s fucking you this hard because he thinks you’re a man, that you can and should be able to handle it.
You exhale sharply out of your nose, eyes clenched shut as you take his last few slams.
“Fuck!” He grunts, throwing his head back as his grip on you grows so harsh you’ll have bruises on your waist later. You feel his dick pulse as he dumps his load as deep as he can go into your ass, keeping his hips still against your irritated asscheeks.
Finally he sighs as he slides out, making your hole clench shut the second the intrusion is gone.
You practically stumble for balance as he lets you go, knees buckling. Pussy dripping and confused while your ass aches.
You want to just collapse right here, take a much needed rest, but you can’t risk an accidental flash of your pussy. You pull your sweatpants up, out of breath.
He tucks his dick back in, glancing down at you with a glow of physical relief on his face. “You took me well,” he licks his top teeth, tilting his head. “Did you enjoy getting your cherry popped?”
That was almost a compliment. Your insides are still screaming for an orgasm and a break simultaneously. You feel your face rise in temp, pathetically, and you can’t help but tuck your chin to your chest.
“Just fucked you and you’re getting shy.” He snickers with a look of disgust. “I think i’ll play with you again and again until I tire of this.”
He doesn’t even give you a chance to respond before moseying out of the library, adjusting his dick in his pants as he goes.
Somehow, you’d gotten away with the first fucking without revealing your secret. Aside from not having a chance to finish the job and rub yourself to a much needed orgasm, you’re quite proud of yourself.
Sukuna doesn’t speak to you more than usual following the act, he’s just not the type. Does one speak to their flesh light between uses?
That night, you almost believe you’re dreaming when you wake up to Sukuna’s weight lying directly on top of you. You couldn’t sleep comfortably on your sore ass, so you’d had to sleep on your tummy, giving him a perfect opportunity.
“Again,” he rasps into your ear, grinding against your ass. You must have done well earlier if he’s already back for more, or he’s fond of how your asshole feels.
You tiredly whine and lower your groggy tone to say, “But the guards will hear— and the others.”
He ignores your concerns and crawls down your body, yanking your sweats down. You squeak, pushing a hand under yourself to keep your pants up at the front.
You glance over your shoulder. “What are you— oh!”
He spreads your ass and licks a stripe up your asshole, terrifyingly close to your pussy. So close your pussy clenches in anticipation, having a sweet mind of its own.
He pauses as he looks down at your hole with furrowed brows. It’s dark enough that he won’t be able to see the feminine parts of you, you hope.
He doesn’t say a word about his pause, just brings his face back down and pushes his tongue into your ass. He wriggles it around and you cringe, gripping the sheets as he stimulates your sore hole. You can’t even tell if it feels good to have your ass ate, or if it’s the concept of this man with his face in your ass, or the fact that you’re just fucking horny and begging for scraps.
After one last lick from your hole all the way up to your lower back, he crawls up to lay on you with his lips to your ear.
“Why the fuck is your ass sweet?” he asks as he lifts his hips to yank his cock out. Your brows raise, almost letting out a snicker. It must be due to your pussy leaking wetness down to your ass all day since the library.
“I— I don’t know,” you mumble as he holds one of your cheeks open and slides his tip against your hole.
“Just,” he grunts as he pops the tip in, not even waiting before pushing in to the hilt, “stay quiet and I’ll be done in a second.”
You whine under your breath, fisting the sheets as your toes curl. His legs surround the outsides of yours as his arms wrap around your neck in a loose headlock. You aren’t sure you can stay quiet if he pounds you like he did before without his hand covering your mouth. Getting caught with his dick in your ass doesn’t sound so great.
But fuck, you suddenly don’t care because his abs clench as he lifts his hips and slides back in, already gaining a stead rhythm. It’s slower than before, but hard. Your eyes roll back at how passionate it is, fingers pressing into his pulsing arms around your neck. You can’t remember the last time a man truly put his heart into fucking you.
You think you may be able to enjoy this little arrangement after all, considering his dick is big enough to pound into your g-spot with every hump. Maybe his claim on you, the free use of it all, is charming too.
But then, he begins to slide a hand down under you and you freeze.
He’s reaching for your nonexistent dick.
You snap your hand down to grip his wrist, stopping him, but you know that he could bypass your frail hold if he really wanted to.
“D-Don’t touch,” you breathily murmur through his continued thrusts.
“Tch,” he grunts in distaste, “Won’t see your ugly dick. You should be thanking the gods that I’d even try to touch you.”
You wish you could allow him to touch, rub your clit, finger you, fuck you the proper way. But no matter how horny you are, you have to have a clear head about this. If he knew you were a woman, he could tell the guards— or worse, tell the other inmates and let them have a turn with you. That’s just the tip of the iceberg of the horrible things that could happen to you if you’re exposed.
“I know, I know,” you gulp, lips parting as he manages a particularly nice thrust, “just— next time. Okay? Next time.”
He huffs, exasperated and gives up, moving his hand away and instead uses it to dig into your hip to get a better angle.
“Fuuck,” you breathe in a particularly girly way as he reaches deeper, and he hisses in your ear in obvious pleasure. He seems to enjoy the way you ‘moan like a woman.’
“Good,” he thrusts, “little,” thrust, “hole.”
He cums with a last few pitiful humps and rubs his hips against your ass in a circle as if to make sure his cum is deeep in there.
You feel utterly spent when he pulls out, two loads in your ass just from today and you’re clocking out.
He doesn’t even give you another look as he gets up and stretches with a yawn, wet dick still hanging about his thigh.
You pull your sweats up with a grimace at how sore your asshole feels. If you weren’t so horny, you might be annoyed how beat up your insides feel.
You exhale in relief when he passes out the second he flops down into bed like any average man does. You’re already thinking of some way to fool him into thinking you have a cock by the next time he wants to fuck.
_______
You’ve stolen a cucumber from the kitchen. It wasn’t easy, but you managed.
Sukuna has you up against the cell bars and has grown quite confident in his ability to fuck you within an inch of your life. He doesn’t seem like he’s all that invested in you, after all, he still thinks of you as some boy he’s using to get off. But you’re still enjoying it as much as any woman can reasonably enjoy anal.
He definitely seems to enjoy fucking you too, because you can feel his thighs shake as he pounds into you.
He kicks your feet wider and reaches around you to grab at your ‘dick.’ “Gonna let me touch it now?”
You gulp, peeking down at his hand that finds the cucumber and grips it.
“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking hard.”
You would laugh in his face if he wasn’t obliterating your insides with heavy humps.
He slowly begins to knead your ‘cock’ and the only way you know that, is because the tip of the cucumber incidentally rubs against your clit with every one of his strokes.
“Oh shit,” you breathe, brows raising and blinking into an eye roll of surprise pleasure. The stimulation to your clit and g-spot is like heaven after two days of being pent up.
“Don’t— don’t stop,” you beg, making his brow quirk.
The second you start fucking back into his cock, like an auto-masterbater, Sukuna’s eyes roll and his orgasm appears in the distance.
He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, indifferent to the pain he could be causing and meets your thrusts half way. There’s no way you’re not waking the entire cell block with the slapping sound bouncing off the concrete walls.
You sigh in disappointment when he lets go of your ‘dick’ and uses both hands to grip your hips, thrusting harder than ever.
He hisses an inhale like it hurts, a string of saliva connecting your shoulder to his teeth— and cums as his feet slightly shuffle.
“Phew,” he exhales, pulling out and tucking his dick back in. He crashes right into bed, just like before, and leaves you throbbing and needy. Again.
_____________
Sometime in the middle of the night, Your cell.
Sukuna has turned ravenous, he wants to fuck everyday, at least twice. It’s a bit much because you have to prep the same day before anal, and you’ve had to turn him down. Not without worries of how he’d take the rejection with little explanation, but thankfully, all he did is tsk and walk off.
One day of no sex, and he’s been staring at you through the entire day. When you wake up, in the cafeteria, on walks, while you draw on your bed. It’s frightening since you can’t read his expression that’s always resting in a threatening way. Would it be stupid to ask what he’s feeling?
Honestly, you just wanted him to wait until you could prep, and then he could have at it— but he didn’t get the message. And it’s not like you can just tell him, ‘Hey Sukuna, you can fuck my ass anytime now. Clock’s ticking!’ That’d mean you’re actively seeking anal, and that’s ridiculous. Right?
You shrug it off and decide to ignore his stare, focusing your attention on the book in your hands. He’s a big boy, if he needs something, he’ll ask for it.
And ask for it, he does.
You gasp when you’re suddenly pushed down flat to your bed, strong hands spreading your legs so Sukuna can rest between them as your book clatters to the floor. You hadn’t even heard his footsteps, or the creak of his bed as he stood.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, looking up at him with your heart racing out of your chest. “You scared me.”
His clothed bulge is hovering just above your pussy, but if he rested his weight down a few inches, you’re fucked. Maybe literally.
He must have just showered, his hair is damp and dark pink. He looks down at you hungry, like you’re not a person but a fucktoy with a timed lock on it that’s almost ready to use again, licking his bottom lip. “Does this fix your problem? Can I fuck you now, princess?”
Your brows furrow, an obvious question mark on your expression. You ignore the pet name meant to taunt you, because you’re not a man with toxic masculinity.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not kissing you. Missionary is as romantic as I’ll get. Take it or leave it.”
What? He must have misinterpreted your rejection as a desire for more intimacy and affection when you have sex. The idea of missionary with Sukuna makes your tummy flutter— but you can’t.
You press your lips together, concealing a laugh. “Oh. Um— no,” you gently press against his chest, “I like how we usually do it.”
“You know,” he leans into your face, “I’m getting real tired of you bossing me around.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, recalling your excuse for keeping your dick out of sight, “I just feel— uh—insecure.”
“Fuck that,” he grunts, grabbing hold of the hem of your sweats, “Only way to get over that shit is to face it.”
You grasp his wrist, nervously. It’s not like you don’t want Sukuna to know you’re a woman so you can fuck the way you want to, it’s just too complicated and risky.
“I— really, let’s just do it against the wall, like we always do!” you attempt to convince him as he pulls against your hold.
He doesn’t say a word, just squints at you like he can smell bullshit in your words.
Suddenly, he yanks your pants all the way down until they fall to the floor and you immediately cup your sex, trying to hide from him. You twist your lower half to lie on your side, legs bent around his side so they can stay together.
He glances down at your lower half and grips your thigh. “Show me,” he snaps, more suspicious than warranted if he actually believed your lies of insecurity.
You shake your head stubbornly, clenching your eyes shut.
“Now,” he allows the word to reverberate against the walls of the cell, and you swear you can feel the vibrations in your chest.
That domineering tone is like a frequency that emits a wave of submission in timid people like you, like a lions roar to a cornered bunny.
Still, you don’t open your legs.
He scoffs a huff of air, like he’s in disbelief of your sudden ability to grow balls. Pun intended.
You peek your eyes open when you feel him shift to crawl down your body until his breath is fanning your hand covering your pussy and naked asshole.
You squeak when he slides his tongue against your fingers. “Open up,” he taunts, giving your asshole a little lick as well.
You whimper as he begins licking at your hand and your thighs, resolve dissolving with every warm, wet touch.
“I’m— I’m scared,” you admit with panic, though you’re being too vague for him to actually console you even if he wanted to.
He takes a big bite out of your thigh and you gasp, pussy clenching in need from the sting. Your wetness has made your hands slippery, and the second he takes another bite, this time a deep one on your fingers, your hand slips away with a sting and a hiss.
He takes the opportunity to yank your legs apart, spreading them over each of his thighs till you’re on full display in front of him. Like a plate.
Your wide eyes flick from your exposed pussy, to his red eyes trained down between your legs. You quickly reach to futilely cover yourself once again.
“Aht!” he scolds, pinning your wrists to the bed on either side of your body before they can cover your sex again. “Don’t fucking move,” he snaps, inches from your face.
You must have the expression of a small animal being prepped for slaughter as he closely eyes you because that’s exactly how you feel. You watch his face shift as he realizes your features aren’t just girly, you’re a fucking girl.
“Please.” You plead him, but for what exactly?
He exhales into you, ignoring you to observe your body. He lets go of one wrist to slowly raise the hem of your shirt up to your collarbones, revealing a tightly wrapped chest.
As if he needs to make sure, he rips it away and blinks at your bouncing tits. One last look at your pussy and he huffs harshly, gazing into your eyes like he just won the lottery.
“Holy shit.”
You’re mute, afraid and frozen in place as your legs clench around his hips, trying to close them around him even though it’s impossible.
“Why are you here?”
He watches you with equal parts curiosity and amused awe.
“I— I made a deal. A stupid fucking deal,” you breathe in your natural feminine voice. It’s not hard to assume the deal was money for time in prison.
He shakes his head, laughing airily like he can’t believe his eyes. “Now this is so very interesting. A woman in my cell.”
He leans into your ear, making your chest and tummy erupt in goosebumps. “I knew your little asshole was too good to be true.” He nips your ear and you whine.
“Don’t— please don’t tell anyone.”
Your quiet request makes him burst out laughing, head tossing back as he hovers over you territorially.
“Tell them?” A vein in his forehead pops as his gaze manically flicks back and forth from each of your eyes, “No, you foolish little thing. You’re all mine. You’d have to fucking kill me to share this pretty pussy.”
You aren’t sure if you should feel relived or scared. You’ve grown fond of Sukuna’s cock, but that look in his eye is downright diabolical.
“You’re,” you begin with a swallow, “not gonna hurt me?”
“Ohhh,” he breathes cathartically like he’s battling aggression seeing something so small and delicate beg not to be broken. “No, no. I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re safe with me.”
You aren’t so sure, if that glint in his eye and tone in his deep voice tells you anything. Like mouse encountering a perfect piece of cheese suspiciously sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, begging to be eaten.
He leans in and lays a soft kiss to your cheek, making you blink.
“See?” he hums smiling, “I know exactly how to handle with care.”
He presses his nose to your neck and starts sniffing you loudly, like a dog— down to your breasts, your tummy, and finally he takes a good long sniff of your pussy.
You slap your hands to your face in embarrassment and he groans loudly on an exhale, jaw pinching as he clenches his teeth. “Fuuuck. Nothing quite like it. Your pussy smells very nice,” he trails off with a manic laugh, licking his lips.
His eye catches on your pinched brows once you hesitantly pull your hands away to grip the sheets and he leans into your face with a careful kiss to your jaw. “Deal still on, baby?”
You absolutely have no choice, you need his protection now more than before. Without this deal, there’s no telling what he’d do— no matter what he says. And even if he keeps his word, who’s to say no one else will find out your secret? It helps that he’s hauntingly sexy with a big dick he knows what to do with.
You gulp, nodding. “Yes, please.”
“Goood,” his lip curls as he drawls the word out, “That’s very good.”
He licks a wet stripe up the side of your face, making you grip his biceps.
“Are we going to have sex? My— You want my—”
He interrupts your stutter by humming against your cheek with amusement. “Oh yes. I want your pussy. I’m gonna take it over and over again.”
You exhale a sigh, eyes slightly rolling back, enjoying his words a little too much for the situation at hand.
“I’m not on birth control,” you warn him weakly as he begins to suck on your neck.
He hums nonchalantly, slowly sliding his hand down your tummy.
Your hips jerk when he cups your entire sex, long cold fingers pressing into your warm folds that are just begging for love.
“We don’t have condoms,” you add, biting your lip as he uses two middle fingers to carefully brush from your slippery hole up to your clit.
He chuckles against your neck, wickedly, like he’s enjoying every aspect of this conversation.
“No, we don’t,” he agrees with a smile you can literally hear on his voice.
Your jaw drops as he starts rubbing leisurely circles against your throbbing clit, back arching to press your abdomen into his hard abs.
“You have to pull out,” you whine in a broken moan.
“Okay,” he agrees with ease, moving to press his lips to yours.
You barely kiss him back, as his lips slide and suck on yours.
“I thought you said you didn’t want to kiss me,” you say, muffled as your legs tremble.
He moves his middle fingers down and slides one into your core, making you gasp into his mouth.
He abruptly shoves his tongue into your mouth, sliding and flicking against your tongue. He peeks the tip of his pointer finger in to join his middle inside you, and once your initial ring of resistance gives, he shoves it in like a glove.
“Oh,” you whine, brows pinching and toes curling. “Your fingers are so— fuck— they’re big.”
“Oho,” he breathes as he unhurriedly rocks them in and out, “You’ve been so unsatisfied, haven’t you? Getting ass fucked with not one touch to your pretty, crying little pussy.”
You nod erratically, “I was just so scared if you found ou— oh god.”
He gradually puts weight behind his thrusts, fingering you at an angle to abuse your g-spot.
“You thought I would want to hurt you,” he assumes with a pitying smile, “No, no. I just wanna fuck the shit out of you.”
You reach down and grip his wrist, but his hand in motion makes it difficult.
“Please make me cum,” you beg, “I’d be really— so grateful.”
“Yeah?” He presses a peck to your lips and crawls down to stuff his face between your legs. “Finally,” he sighs to your pussy.
He glances up at you and pecks your jumping clit. “Gonna eat your pussy. You want that?”
Your eyes roll back and you nod pathetically. “Oh my god, yes.”
He doesn’t waste time. He makes a pursing motion with his lips and basically sucks your clit into his mouth like a vacuum, gently suckling on it with his eyes blissfully closed. His free hand rests around your hip and flat against your lower tummy.
Your brain is fucking buzzing, toes curling in the air as you breathe short, pathetic breaths. You’re delightfully surprised he knows you need your clit stimulated to cum; a man in prison just isn’t the type you’d expected to know what most women need.
You use both hands to gently curl into his pink hair, watching his lips envelop your clit as the motion of his hand rocks into you.
“That feels good,” you affirm, voice shaky, making sure he knows he’s going a good job so he doesn’t feel motivated to stop.
He doesn’t answer you, just flicks his tongue against your clit with horrifying stamina, like his tongue is as trained as the rest of his body. You don’t feel a second of lag in his force behind his tongue and that yummy suction.
You melt when he transitions into thorough, flat tongued licks, the kind that nudges your clit in a way that’s not too overstimulating— but genuinely pleasurable in a sustainable way. You could actually cum like this. You rub his head like a masseuse, kneading the skin affectionately, making his brows and forehead slightly move with your massage.
He eats you like he hasn’t eaten his favorite meal in a long time, and considering the slop in the cafeteria, your delirious mind thinks it makes perfect sense that he’s probably soo hungry. It’s not his fault he’s so eager.
Your toes curl as your abdomen clenches inward, honing your focus to find an orgasm in the distance with every specifically pressurized slide of his tongue.
He tilts his head idly, side to side and the second he finds that perfect angle to the left, you gasp and yank his head impossibly closer.
“Right there, huh?” is the last thing he says before repeating the motion perfectly, over and over and over while his hand continues at ample speed. It’s about 27 licks in when the white blinds your sight and you give in to the ecstasy of an orgasm.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you— fuck!” you stupidly babble the one phrase you can’t seem to stop repeating to the man ever since you met him, voice strained and slurring as your brain short circuits and cuts off the connection between your motor skills and brain signals.
Even when you fall limp with fading euphoria, frailly whining, ‘no more,’ his big mouth attaches to your entire slit like a fucking milk pump, despite acknowledging your orgasm passing by discarding his wet fingers to join his other hand on your hip/tummy area.
It’s an interesting sight— your weak, spasming body jerking in overstimulation as he blissfully hallows his cheeks and enjoys your cunt with all kinds of tongue techniques. The type of techniques a stupidly rich man has learnt after so many wine tastings to get the full taste profile of every berry inside to layer over his every tastebud. Getting his full money’s worth of this favorite thing.
But fuck if it doesn’t feel good to be licked, even with the ultra sensitivity of an after glow.
“Sukuna— please,” you whimper, “Aren’t you gonna fuck me?”
That’s what makes him pause, flicking open his relaxed, heavily lidded gaze.
He unsuctions your warm folds, letting go in one popping motion and you exhale sharply when the cold air hits you.
He crawls up your body like a predator, more than twice your size. He slides his arms under your back to hold you flush to his body, hugging you in a possessive hold. One hand wraps around the back of your neck, fingers almost meeting at the front, and the other massages your lower back.
“Am I popping your pussy cherry too?” he hums, lips brushing yours as he speaks into your mouth.
“No,” you huff, “Is that a deal breaker?”
He nips your lower lip. “I’m gonna eat you whole,” he expresses how deeply he wants to fuck you— how small a concern like being a virgin would be to him.
You shiver, and maybe even start to consider why he’s in prison in the first place. Eat you.. whole..?
“Can we fuck first?”
He licks his teeth as his metaphorical tiger tail flicks behind him— like a bunny has triggered a tigers instinct to play while in the midst of a chase. If he could purr, he would be right about now.
Interrupting your little moment, the breakfast bell rings. Sukuna must have made his move an hour before six while you were reading the night away and neither of you noted the time. Sukuna had thought it’d be a 10 minute ass fuck, but now that he’s stumbled upon gold in the form of a woman, he’s gotten distracted.
You’re expecting Sukuna to be frustrated that you have to stop before you even reached the main event, but surprisingly, he just helps you get dressed and then stands lazily by the cell bars to cover you while you wrap your chest so no one eyes his plaything.
The guard just passes by boredly, doing morning checks, nodding at Sukuna in brief greeting.
Once the guard is out of sight, you huff in exhaustion and sit up on your bed. After all the fear of being exposed as a woman and having an orgasm like that, all you want is to sleep. You literally nod off as you sit there, listening to the ruffle of Sukuna throwing on some new clothes.
Two taps to your cheek makes you startle, slurping up some drool as you open your eyes. Sukuna squats in front of you, holding your knees.
“Breakfast,” he reminds you, “get up.”
You pout at his tone, having hoped he’d soften up to you after learning you’re a woman. A woman he desperately wants to fuck and protect and own.
“Can’t you bring it to me?”
He blinks at you, deadpanning. “The fuck did you just say?”
You flinch a bit, chin tucking into your chest. You grow even more alert as he stands and pushes over you, making you lean back in bed with your palms behind you, supporting your weight right beside his own larger ones.
“Does this pretty little thing want to be punished?”
You immediately bite your lip, smiling as he pushes his head into your neck to nip at it.
“Mhm, keep doing that,” you encourage his panty dropping neck kisses.
Oncoming footsteps leading closer and closer to your cell make your heart jolt, and suddenly he roughly pushes you down flat with a veiny hand tight around your throat.
“Begging for a beating so early in the morning are we, boy?” he rasps, menacingly, as the inmate walks past, peeking at your altercation briefly before scurrying off in fear of becoming involved in Sukuna’s business.
You smile.
Oh. This’ll be fun.
______
SORRY edged you there, didn’t I?
Also not sure if this counts as gender bend? Lmk if I should add it to the warnings!
Huge thanks to @specialgradefckr for giving me soo many ideas that I used for this fic— I love yew sm I wanna eat you. Please check out their page. They have delicious writing
As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!
Foreword:
This will probably be the darkest of the fanfics I’ve written so far. I already have a draft of the next chapter, and this story leans more into horror than romance, which is why I’ll most likely continue posting it on my AO3, not on Tumblr.
Again, it’s more horror than romance or anything else. Honestly, I just wanted to try writing something creepy, but I’m really worried that instead of capturing the oppressive atmosphere, I might have slipped into bad writing with too many descriptions. I hope that’s not the case :c
Anyways, this chapter is basically the expanded version of the idea.
NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Not proofread. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes.
Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.
Paris Paloma - The Warmth
Hozier - In the Woods Somewhere
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You were five years old when the flames took the mill.
The red, roaring spears rose so tall they seemed to spear the heavens open like flesh, twilight bleeding through as if the skies were dying. The shrieking of wood, the groaning of animals in the barn, your mother’s dress alight as she ran back inside to get your brother from his cradle. Her fatigued figure stormed into the blazing maw of what used to be your house.
She never came back, though.
By the morning, the mill, the barn, and your house were reduced to ashes. People first found you curled in the mud along the road to the village, a frail bundle of breath and bone, half-sunken into the earth as if the mud had tried to swallow you. Your small feet had given up halfway, blistered and raw, your body too hollowed by fear to carry itself any further.
The women wailed when they saw you, keening low like mourning doves, their voices echoing across the village. The men combed through the blackened bones of your home, digging bare-handed through soot and broken beams, searching for what was left of your kin beneath the grey ash and silence. The grandmothers wrapped you in woolen blankets that smelled of smoke and thyme, whispering prayers into your hair. Someone pressed a bowl of soup into your hands and held your fingers closed around the spoon until you remembered how to swallow.
They tried their best to reduce the ice that was etched into your bones after that night, a chill akin to the breath of Niflheim itself.
The black river carried the memory down to the lowlands, and in the end, it was only your uncle who came for you – the old gravekeeper. He had the hands of a man who never held anything soft. Black soil under his nails, his mouth stitched shut by grief and silence. He lived alone on the edge of the Totenwald, where the mist sits low to the ground and the trees lean forward like they’re whispering secrets to the earth.
The graveyard was full of broken stones and thorny vines, watched over by older gods with moss mouths and antlered skulls, buried beneath the dirt, hungry for offerings. You help your uncle to keep them fed and satisfied. You dig shallow trenches and wash the lichen from stones. You pour salt at the threshold of rotting crypts and hang dried herbs to keep the worms from singing.
The villagers called your work useful, but unclean. They averted their eyes when you passed, but they nodded in recognition. Your survival was practically a miracle, so they were whispering, having nothing better to do. Some said your uncle had made a pact with the old gods. Some said you weren’t entirely human anymore. Honestly, you were fine with it. After all, if being half-monster meant never having to attend another village meeting, you could live with that reputation just fine.
But you weren’t the one the village feared.
They say he walks on two legs but growls like no man ever should, and when the frost slicks the branches to silver, his howls and growls echo between the pines like the voice of something forgotten.
The elders, with eyes that have seen too much of the wild’s dark heart, tell it plainly, their voices hushed: do not stray from the path when the night grows teeth, for der Bärmann watches from the shadowed corners of the woods. He is no mere beast, but the ancient hunger given flesh, the primal terror that slinks beneath your skin. To meet his gaze is to feel the cold breath of the grave-mound itself, a chill that seeps into bone and soul, a silence deeper than death waiting to claim you.
The hunters, who were brave or foolish enough to climb past the tree line, would never set out without leaving tribute. A strip of raw meat, a curl of goat’s cheese, a shred of fur still warm from the skin. Tiny peace offerings, left at the roots of crooked trees. Tokens meant to appease the Bärmann, desperate hopes that these scraps might turn his gaze elsewhere.
Yet sometimes the monster’s hunger prevailed.
Your uncle, ever the poet when drunk and digging graves, spat curses about the fools who wandered too far into the woods. Those who chased their dreams past the safety of the path. He cursed even louder when it came time to bury them, or rather, what was left: a half-rotten limb, a scarf caught in the thorns, a boot with no foot inside. Into the pits they went, into shallow, muddy graves meant more for warning than remembrance. A damp cradles for whatever remained of a troubled soul.
And sometimes, when you lingered too long in the cemetery, watching moss creep slowly over names no one spoke of anymore, you’d hear a low, distant growl. Something half-animal, half-nightmare, stirring deep within the forest’s throat, reminding you of an ancient monster.
But you never felt fear.
The Bärmann was known to keep to the shadows beyond the village. He rarely came near the muddy roads or the scent of warm bread, as if some unseen ward held him back. And when he did slip closer, no one dared speak of it. Perhaps they caught a glimpse, but silence was a local specialty. To speak was to invite the darkness in.
But then again, maybe it was all nonsense. Maybe there were no beasts, no ancient curses, no monsters with a man’s hands and a bear’s hunger. Maybe it was just ordinary predators. Wolves and bears, fed fat on folklore and panic of bored minds. After all, these same villagers once looked at you, a hungry, shivering child with dirt under her nails, and declared you the bride of death.
After all, local people will believe anything, given the right weather, absence of news, and a lack of distractions.
It was one of those evenings when you lingered in the cemetery long after the sun had slipped below the horizon. Anywhere felt better than sitting close enough to hear your old man slurring half-remembered curses into a tin cup filled with something that burned like bile and dared to call itself liquor. So you wandered softly among the headstones, your footsteps careful, carrying a quiet respect. You traced the names carved into moss-covered stones and rotting wood, letting the weight of forgotten lives settle around you. You paused at a smaller boulder, no taller than your knee, marking the grave of a boy who never lived past his thirteenth winter. Probably illness. You exhaled slowly, the damp cemetery air filling your lungs.
Then you heard it – a faint rustle beyond the fence, where thorny brambles had grown thick and wild, forgotten by all but time. For a heartbeat, a cold spike of fear clenched your chest, sharp and sudden. You turned, expecting perhaps a fox or a stray too hungry to care. But instead-
A little fawn, all trembling limbs and terrified eyes, caught in the shadow of a thorn bush. Its leg was bleeding, a long gash glistened dark red in the moonlight. The creature looked up at you, breath fogging faintly in the cold, too young to even stand properly, too wild to cry out.
For a long moment, the world narrowed to the two of you: fragile bodies breathing the same silent air, surrounded by trees, graves, and silence. Two creatures caught between mercy and terror, both wrong-shaped against the night.
Something stirred in you. Not pity, exactly, but something adjacent. Some old softness that hadn’t yet rotted out of your chest. You knew what kind of death waited for creatures like it – small, lonely, and easy to drag into the underbrush. It wouldn’t get far, not with a leg like that. You moved toward him, slow and careful, a truce offered in your step.
“Little one-”
With a panicked twitch, the fawn dashed deeper into the thicket, mistaking you for the predator. And your feet, foolishly loyal to your impulses, followed. Over the cemetery fence, past the tree line, into that cold hush where even the wind held its breath.
You should have turned back, but the second your body rushed through the thicket, the path back closed. You never noticed it vanish behind you, only that your boots now sank into something softer than soil, that the sky had dulled to a bruised, plum-colored haze between the canopy. The deeper you chased it, the heavier the hush of the forest became, like wet wool pulled over your ears, smothering all but the sound of your own heartbeat and the squelch of moss swallowing your steps.
Pale, trembling, the fawn moved like a ghost between trees. Its eyes were too round, too glassy, touched by the primordial fear.
“Wait!-”
Branches lean low like ribs arching inward. Roots rise from the earth like crooked fingers of the dead. Every tree you pass is thicker than it should be, curved wrong, shivering with rot. Nothing here feels dead, only sleeping, heavy with breath. You are no longer walking through the forest – the forest is preparing to digest you, a willing offering to the maw of the-
Then the fawn suddenly stops. You freeze with it.
At first, there is only silence. Not the kind that soothes, but the kind that waits, tight and expectant, curling around your chest like a noose. It breaks with a wet crack beneath a massive foot, followed by a breath drawn through a throat never meant for speech. The sound slides down your spine like a cold, sharp blade.
And then, he steps from the tree line.
The creature stands between the trees like something that crawled out from beneath them. Not born but stitched together from nightmares, raw meat, furs, and bone. The air bends around his presence, turning stagnant and rank, thick with the stench of old blood, musk, and rotting fat. He is enormous, grotesquely muscular in the way beasts are before butchering, with a build that seems carved not by time or work but violence alone. His skin, where it’s visible beneath the layers, is pale and wet-looking, stretched taut over his frame in some places. It is littered with scars of different shapes, and you could swear, the one on his chest, the crude scar that resembled “P”, is pulsing.
Across his shoulders hangs a mantle of crude pelts, clumsily stitched together. Bear, wolf, deer, scraps of things unidentifiable. Some are lacquered in oil to preserve them, still gleaming like wet leather. Others are dried and matted with old blood, stiff as bark. From his waist hangs a heavy, uneven kilt made from the same awful patchwork – strips of skin, knotted tendon, flayed leather. Beneath it, glimpses of slick skin and hairy inner thigh flash. Surprisingly, the creature is not barefoot. Something like crude, leather-sewn boots cling to his enormous feet. Around his waist, a collection of grotesque trophies dangles from sinew cords – shriveled bear ears gone dark at the edges, a rabbit’s paw still lined with soft grey fur, a cracked piece of antler sharpened to a point. There are other things too. Things that might once have been fingers, a child’s shoe, black with soil, a strip of torn cloth that might be linen, might be skin. The grotesque collection echoes: this is no mere hunter, but a vessel of primal wrath.
And then there’s the mask, the only thing more obscene than the body beneath it.
A bear’s head, sculpted crudely from hardened pelt and bone, fur stitched to the crown in clumps that twitch when he breathes. The maw is slack, jaw hung crooked as though it died mid-howl. The snout is broken, caved in on one side, like something bit back. Its edges are frayed with rot. The display calls to mind the monstrous beasts from stories which grannies of the village told.
Clearly, a Berserker’s mask, worn only by warriors drunk on fury and madness, bloodied and unbowed.
The beasts he wears are long dead, of that you’re certain. And yet, you swear that you can see his clothing moving. A twitch of the ear on his mask when no wind stirs. The slow stretch of hide across his shoulder like a muscle remembering hunger. The bloodshot eyes under the bear's head move, pupils dilating when they find your stunned form.
A terrifying screech pounds through your horror.
The fawn notices the monstrosity that parts the trees, and in that instant, something ancient ignites in its small body, something deeper than memory, something older than the forest itself.
The instinct to flee.
But instinct, fragile and fumbling in a body so soft, so young, is a cruel joke. The fawn violently jerks away from the looming horror, thin limbs trembling as it hurls itself toward you, toward the faintest trace of your scent. Anything, anything that isn’t the cold, gnawing promise of death hovering nearby.
But the earth is not merciful today.
The moss, thick and treacherously lush, hides a cruel snare of stone and root beneath its velvet surface. Fawn's slender foreleg plunges through the wet carpet and catches, not visibly, but with a subtle, sickening bend. A hitch in its motion, a stutter in time, and then the leg snaps backward in a direction no limb should go. The sound is small. A crunch, a wet pop, no louder than twigs underfoot, yet it echoes like thunder in your ears.
The fawn cries out, but the cry curdles mid-breath, crushed by panic. It collapses, limbs scrabbling weakly in the carpet of green, bleating just once. It comes out as a thin, desperate sound that tastes of fear and bile. Its eyes, wide and black with terror, fix on yours, pleading. A silent scream echoes in the space between you, a horrifying realization that you are not its salvation, but a witness to its unraveling.
The monster is already there.
You don’t see the movement, and the forest does not announce him. Two great, calloused hands descend, thick-fingered and blotched with ancient bruises, gnarled like the roots of old trees. Each palm is enough to encircle your own thigh. They wrap around the fawn’s neck and head with a stillness that is somehow worse than violence.
And then, without effort, without malice, without anything resembling mercy, he twists its neck.
The sound that follows is not meant to be heard. It is the kind of sound made inside a body, in the hidden wet parts, the places that should remain untouched by hands. A muffled, organic snap, followed by a sigh of pressure released, like marrow squeezed from bone. The fawn’s limbs spasm once, feebly, twitching against the moss, and then the head slumps, slack and twisted. The sickening sound continues until the creature lets go of the poor thing’s skull.
The head hits the leafmould first. A limp, indecent thud, the sound of something ruined. It lands barely a foot from your toes, staring at nothing. Its tongue lolls wet and pink between teeth, as if trying to ask you: why me?
Then the rest of the body follows, a graceless spill of legs and torso that lands with a splutch against the ground. Blood, impossibly warm, begins to ribbon out into the moss, steaming like breath in winter. It seeps, pulses, a living horror bleeding into the moss, relentless and obscene. The neck gapes wide, torn open not by blade but by the cruel hands of a human-shaped creature.
You feel the earth still around you.
You breathe in.
The bulk of him shifts down with the weight of a landslide, crushing the silence as he crouches beside the broken carcass. One massive hand presses against the moss, fingers sinking into the damp mulch like claws marking a claim, ancient and possessive. The hideous mask tilts with a slow, dreadful intent far worse than a glance. The bear’s head does not move smoothly; it slumps as if something dead is being forced to live, something that should never stir but does. The horrific sight claws at your mind, a grinding, sickening protest from the depths of decay itself.
“Gebō,” he growls.
Your stomach knots painfully. Something inside your chest folds tight, as if your lungs are collapsing beneath cold water. The word, if it can even be called that, means nothing to your mind, slipping past understanding like a shadow with no shape.
The monster rises, and you take a step back. It is not a conscious decision, your body is just moving on its own. Your legs shudder, knees almost bending beneath you like the old yews in a storm. Your vision tilts, and for a moment, it feels like the whole forest is exhaling around you, vast lungs drawn tight with anticipation. The air thickens, heavy with ancient hunger and silent menace, pressing down like a living weight that crushes the last flicker of your courage.
And then he reaches.
The hand reaches toward you with the same dreadful stillness that ended another life. The gesture is unnervingly sure, a certainty that belongs only to something convinced it already owns you. From behind the mask, a low and drawn-out growl begins. The sound grows, spreading through the air like thick smoke, humming deep inside your skull and rattling the roots of your teeth. You clutch your ears, desperate, but it is too late. It has already invaded you, threading cold and sharp through your spine like wire, drowning every thought. Your eyes fill with tears from something truly primal: the raw, biological scream of a body faced with its own end.
And still, you do not scream.
There is no air left to scream with.
He steps closer, and the forest seems to shift with him, tilting as if the very ground leans toward his presence. The moss that once softened your footsteps now clings to your heels like a living trap. The trees, which once swayed gently in the breeze around the graveyard, now loom overhead, their bark slick with cold mist, watching you with interest. Every inch of the world presses in, tightening like a noose, urging you to surrender to the darkness closing around you.
The ground makes a wet noise beneath his foot.
He is closer.
And closer.
And-
You don’t remember how your legs found the strength to carry you through the dark.
You don’t remember which direction you were heading as the shadows closed in.
You don’t remember when you saw the familiar stones of the graveyard.
One moment, you are sprinting blindly, drunken with fear and the taste of vomit in your throat, and the next, you are down, belly-first into the jagged press of old earth.
The ground is wet here, colder than it should be, the kind of cold that sinks through fabric, flesh, and bone. You lie crumpled between two sunken headstones like a broken doll someone dropped and never came back for. No light, no sky in sight. Only the wet soil pressed to your cheek, rough and clotted and smelling of old death. Your ribs grind against your own flesh in panic. All you can feel is the familiar smell of dirt and cold, etched into your bones. The wind hums low, like chanting in the echoes of the death-songs sung beneath wolfskins and crescent moons.
You try to stand up, but your knees buckle under you, scraped raw, the skin shredded where it hit the soil, and you can’t stop the sobs that burst out. You curl into yourself without meaning to or without thinking too much about it. Your limbs draw in protectively, your fingers claw at the soil like you could dig your way out, your shoulder blades hunch like you expect the blow that never comes. You fold in on your own terror. You do not care how pathetic it looks, or how filthy you’ve become. It hurts to cry this way, with those hoarse, ugly sobs that shake your ribs and leave your lips numb. You are nothing but nerves and mud and the trembling shape of someone who survived something that shouldn’t have been real. You bite down on the sleeve of your shirt to muffle the noises and feel the fabric soak with spit and snot and the slow weeping of your nose.
And still, beneath all that, you shiver, because the warmth of the forest’s maw is gone.
You don’t know how long you lie there, motionless. Time loses all shape and meaning, stretching endlessly as the night presses in closer, heavier. Each breath feels fragile, as if it might be your last. Your bruised, trembling body aches, too weak to resist. Darkness creeps at the edges of your vision, sharp claws pulling you deeper. You surrender to it, letting the shadows claim you as you close your eyes.
The world blurs.
You’re too deep in the spiral of your own breaking to notice the absence of safety.
You were too small and slow compared to him, so following you was easy.
König could’ve caught you and bashed your head against the tree trunk as he did with other intruders before skinning them alive, but something held him back. Maybe it was that light in your eyes. Maybe it was the way you dared to approach the prey within his domain. Maybe it was the forest itself, whispering secrets and guiding you straight to him. König didn’t know. All he knew was that when he saw you, the thurisaz carved into his chest started pulsing wildly. Not with the familiar omen of the great hunt, but with something else entirely.
You were so small, soft in all the right places, and carried a nice scent unlike the men he sometimes allowed to hunt in his woods. He deeply breathed in the sharp, sweet tang of your fear, mingling with the damp scent of the cemetery, and tried to imprint it into his memory. It was a scent like nothing else in his woods – a vulnerable, fertile warmth amidst the cold decay. The edges of his world had narrowed into the shape of you – small, trembling, slick with tears and earth. A creature of flesh and whimper, a fragile contradiction crouched at the lip of his domain.
König’s thoughts drifted to the Apfelbaum in the clearing near his cave. How in spring, after the cruel winter’s death grip loosened, it bloomed with delicate flowers, branches swaying gently in the breeze. It smelled nice and sweet.
Just like you.
König gaze shifted towards the graves that surrounded your crying form. This land had recognized you, he noticed. The barrow mounds around the cemetery stirred faintly in your presence, as if the old dead shifted in their sleep, sensing a presence too fragile to crush, too familiar to ignore. The tired grass curled around your limbs, and the wind started blowing stronger in an attempt to shoo him away. The earth itself tried to shield you from König, coiling around your fragile form like a protective Jörmungandr.
Too bad his presence was much stronger.
But his observation of you was soon interrupted. He registered the distant, stumbling gait of a man. Not footsteps, but a foul tremor, a vibration of diseased bone and rot. Just like that, König felt the primal urge rising. The one as raw as flayed meat and as ancient as the first forest. He wanted to step from the tree line and unleash a roar so savage it would scatter the intruder like a lesser beast. To König, the man approaching was a sickly crow, pecking at his sacred prize.
Then, at last, the pathetic figure of the pest came into his sight. The forest trees groaned, their old bodies protesting as the frail shape moved. An old gravekeeper, limbs flailing like brittle twigs torn in a gale, his panicked cries choked and rasping, barely human. Too old to be your mate, König decided, his inner growl deepening to a guttural rasp against the very bone of his jaw. Too shriveled, not virile, pathetically weak, worm-ridden, and reeking of sour alcohol. No competition, just another putrid, soft thing to be swept aside, a festering blight on the landscape. Half in Hel’s chill already, just a draugr in waiting.
He watched as the old man, fumbling and distraught, helped you to your feet, guiding your trembling form towards the small, slumped house that huddled against the Totenwald’s menacing embrace. Good. Close to his domain, precisely where he needed you to be – a fragile, soft flower placed on the very edge of his hungry, encroaching garden.
A slow hunt, König decided.
When two tormented figures disappeared into the safety of their home, he sank back into the deeper shadows of the forest. The ancient trees seemed to lean inward, their gnarled branches weaving a thicker, hungry shroud around his bulk. The woods absorbed him, mist rising to meet his steps like whispering, hungry tendrils of roots curling around his ankles, the ground yielding softly beneath his weight. The nature around him hummed with anticipation for what was to come.
A thought began to take shape in the crude confines of his mind. He would need more pelts for his lair, he mused, the idea taking root with the insidious certainty of a predator’s instinct. Softer and warmer ones. The kind that cling to the skin like a second hide and can protect small, shivering things from the wrath of the winds.
The gravekeeper, that rotting husk of a man, would be no obstacle. One viscous, crushing strike would be more than enough.
Puppy!Reader showing Kangal!König around the house when he and his owner come to visit
Bringing him all of her best toys, she focuses her favourite plush bunny whilst König seems more interested in biting into and sucking on her rubber chewing bone, trying to taste her on it
Reader curling up against him as she nibbles softly on her bunny stuffie, König is just content to curl around her, acting as a weighted blanket pressing her into her dog bed, nosing along her hairline and licking at the skin of her neck, soaking her in his scent
He perks up every now and then, fuzzy ears alert when he hears the low growls and jealous whines from the coyotes outside, a cocky smirk on his face as he continues to groom his sweet playmate from within the safety of the house
Laswell and Valeria just keep cooing at the two hybrids, talking about how sweet the two are and just how cute their puppies would be
A pleased rumble leaves Königs chest hearing their praise, both because he likes the idea of you round and full of his seed and because then those pesky mutts outside will finally recognise his claim on you since the scent markings he left around the property don’t seem to giving them the hint
Need more ruler Bees and the cute human thier obsessed with please I'm begging
"Lay back dear" the King bee cooed, gently pushing your body back against the lap of his wife, the queen, who was busying herself with teasing your chest and toying with your nipples.
"Good~ So good for us. Just like that now" The Queen praised, amused at how your face scrunched up in embarrassment. "No need to feel ashamed darling, we love all of you. Every inch" the King assured, sliding his body up between your legs until his face was pressed into your hip.
"We mean it when we say that, you know? But you're always so stubborn and have these odd beliefs that we're lying! I don't know who hurt you dearest, but we'll melt those evil thoughts out of you".
You bite into your hand as the two let their fingers wander, their antennae stirring every now and again in what you can assume is silent communication.
They seem in awe, and a bit bemused as you squirm and writhe at their increasingly intimate touches. "Such a divine body...So neglected from worship. Perhaps the drones should come in when we're finished and make up for all those years? Do you think you can handle a handful or more?".
"H-Handful?!" you squeaked, about to shake your head no when the queen have a gentle tug to your perky buds, making you shudder and lose your train of thought. "Perhaps a handful is too little of an amount then?" the Queen asks, leaning her head into the crook of your neck to leave more kisses.
"Mmm, I'll alert them all then. Makes more sense to use all of them for worship than just a few. How else will you know they all love you if all aren't involved?"
-Mommabean (ahhh sorry if this was short im braindead and tired BUT I LOVE THIS)
