armin comes home drained in the quietest way. his minds been racing faster than his mouth all day, shoulders tense from carrying too much responsibility. the second you notice, you soften.
“my poor baby, long day?”
once he starts rambling, he can’t stop. bad class pairing, exams piling up, papers overdue. words spilling out while he shrugs his satchel off, shirt riding up just enough to distract you completely.
you stop listening without even meaning to. he notices.
“baby?”
when you answer a little too dreamily, he chuckles, already knowing.
“you listening to me? seems like i lost you there.”
you tease him a bit instead, eyes dragging over him shamelessly.
“of course i am! long day, horrible project partner, late on a paper… you look very handsome today, have i told you that?”
that stops him. completely. armin always pauses when you compliment him like he needs a second to breathe it in.
“you haven’t.” he smiles.
that’s when he really looks at you. sitting on your shared bed, wrapped in his shirt, bare thighs peeking out from the blanket. cold apartment, warm body. that familiar look on your face. so soft, but clearly needy.
it hits him all at once how lucky he is. he gets to come home to you, eveyday. his sweet baby waiting just for him.
the thought alone makes his exhaustion turn into something heavier.
when he calls to you again, his voice has changed.
“baby?”
you smile up at him so sweetly it almost hurts.
“yes, min?”
“i missed you today. did you miss me?”
your eyes soften immediately.
“i miss you all the time, lover.”
his response is quiet. almost measured.
“hm.”
armin approaches you slowly, deliberately.
no rush. no touching yet. he just watches you like he’s committing you to memory.
when his hand finally cups your cheek, it’s gentle but purposeful.
“you’re so pretty,” he murmurs. “i wanna touch you.”
you lean into his palm instinctively, opening yourself to him without a second thought.
“you can touch me,” you whisper, spreading your legs without realizing what you’re doing.
the lack of panties doesn’t surprise him. the way you’re already soaked does.
armin exhales slowly, voice dropping as he claims control without raising it.
“i know i can, sweet girl. you’d let me do just about anything to you, huh?”
when your eyes glaze over, he takes advantage. thumb pressing between your lips, guiding it into your mouth without a word.
you obey instantly, no instruction needed.
“i’ll take that as a yes.”
then he pulls away.
that’s his favorite part, the denial.
watching you ache while he stays in control.
“as much as i wanna touch you,” he says calmly, “i wanna watch you do it.”
when you whine, trying to protest, he cuts you off with praise instead of permission.
“you’ve been so good for me. waiting here all day, not touching yourself.”
his eyes drag over you slowly.
“i can see how wet you are from here, baby.”
armin strips just enough to remind you who’s in charge, sitting on the edge of the bed at a deliberate distance.
“show me,” he says softly. “show daddy how bad you want it. where you want me to touch you.”
he watches you. patient and focused, in complete control of the room.
“when i feel like you’ve shown me well enough,” he promises, voice low and steady, “i’ll take over.”
you start slow on purpose, teasing him the same way he teased you first. dragging things out. soft sounds slipping from you without meaning to. it feels good, but its not enough.
your frustration leaks out anyway.
“min… please,” you whine quietly. “need you to touch me instead. ‘s not enough.”
armin doesn’t make you wait much longer. how could he? he never really does when you ask him sweetly.
his smile is gentle, full of the kind of affection that makes your chest ache.
“okay, my love,” he murmurs, hands settling warmly on your thighs. “you always ask me so nicely. how could i not indulge you?”
the shift is immediate, his attention narrowing, focus locking onto you like nothing else exists.
he takes his time moving closer, pressing kisses along your skin slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring every inch of you.
“so beautiful,” he whispers, voice soft with awe. “all of you… just so beautiful.”
your breath stutters at his praise. armin always knows exactly what to say to undo you.
he has this way of reading you without asking.
knowing when to be slow, when to be firm, when to ground you with quiet words.
“stay with me,” he murmurs gently when your thoughts start to drift. “i want you to feel everything i’m giving you.”
you whimper in response, fingers curling into the sheets as his attention becomes overwhelming in the best way.
when you glance down and notice how affected he is too, the words slip out before you can stop them.
“baby… why don’t you let me-”
he hushes you instantly. a soft warning wrapped in control.
“i’m exactly where i wanna be,” he says calmly. “and you’re right where i want you.”
the certainty in his voice sends heat straight through you. armin might stumble over his words in class, but here, when it matters, he’s devastatingly sure of himself.
❝You had stumbled into the forest half-dead, running from a husband who wore a badge and your bruises like trophies. When you collapsed past the tree line, you fell onto the land of Sukuna Itadori—a reclusive lumberjack with scarred hands and a silence that felt like a storm waiting to break.
Taking you in should have been temporary, but your presence turned his quiet world into something violent and fragile. As he hid you from the law that protected your abuser, protection twisted into obsession, and love became a dangerous vow. In the end, the story was never just about escape—it was about what Sukuna was willing to destroy, bury, and become to make sure the man who broke you never touched you again.❞
word count; 12.2k
cw ; abuse. smut. trauma. murder
main masterlist | series masterlist | next
A week after Sukuna found you in the trees, your bruises had begun to turn strange colors.
They went from violent purple to muddy green and yellow, like storms retreating in slow motion beneath your skin. You could stand now without the room spinning quite so badly. You could walk—carefully, slowly, with the kind of attention usually reserved for tightropes. Washing yourself in the bath had become possible again, though you still winced when cloth brushed certain places.
The ache was still there. But it had dulled into something you could live around.
Life in the little house settled into a quiet pattern.
In the mornings, the light slid in through the curtains in narrow bands, dust floating through it like slow snow. You woke to the smell of coffee and the low thud of Sukuna’s boots as he moved around the kitchen. Sometimes he left you a plate—toast with jam, or eggs if he’d been up long enough—but more often than not, he’d simply nod at you from the doorway before heading out, a thermos in one hand, his lunchbox in the other.
“You shouldn’t be up,” he would grumble if he caught you shuffling around too early.
“I can walk,” you’d answer softly, and he’d huff like that annoyed him and secretly relieved him at the same time.
During the day, the house belonged to you and the forest.
You learned its sounds—how the woodstove ticked as it cooled, how the trees outside sighed when the wind changed direction. When the pain in your limbs felt distant enough, you wandered out to the small patch of earth beside the house where wild grasses had shouldered their way up against the wall.
Sukuna’s wife had once planted things there, you could tell. You found the memory of her in faint lines of old beds, in the stubborn herbs that still tried to come back every year—sprigs of thyme, the ghost of mint, a lonely stalk of something you thought might be sage.
You knelt in the dirt with careful knees and coaxed it all back to life.
Your fingers dug into the soil, nails caked with dark earth as you pulled weeds, loosened roots, patted new seeds into place. Your body still protested when you bent too long, pain shivering through your ribs, but working slowly kept your mind from circling the same dark thoughts. Out here, there were no slamming doors. Just the sound of your own breath and the occasional crow calling from a branch.
Inside, you kept busy in other ways.
You cleaned, partly because the house needed it and partly because moving made you feel less like a ghost in borrowed clothes. You learned which cupboard held the plates, which drawer the utensils. You washed dishes, swept floors, shook out blankets. You found Sukuna’s wife everywhere you looked—in the floral plates, in the faded dish towels, in the books stacked neatly by the bed.
Her clothes became your clothes.
He’d kept all of them, folded and stored in the dresser and closet like she might walk through the door at any moment. At first, it felt wrong to touch them. But he had opened the drawers himself one morning, muttered, “These’ll fit you,” and left you there with his wife’s things and the sound of the front door closing behind him.
You chose the softest pieces—the long-sleeved dresses, the nightgowns, the thick sweaters that smelled faintly of old detergent and pine. The fabric hugged your curves, clinging a little at your hips and the round of your butt, hanging looser over your waist. Sometimes you caught yourself in the small bathroom mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back: pale skin, freckles, long ringlet curls that fell to your mid-back, eyes still bruised around the edges but clearer now.
At night, Sukuna came home smelling like the forest.
Sap, sawdust, sweat, cold air. He’d trudge in with dirt on his boots and shoulders slumped from the weight of the day. The first thing he always did was look at you—just one quick, assessing sweep from head to toe, checking for anything new in the way you held yourself, in the set of your shoulders.
“How are you?” he’d ask, as though it were a weather report he needed before he could rest.
“Better,” you’d say, and mean it.
He would disappear into the bathroom, and you’d hear water running, the pipes groaning. After his bath, he would come back out with his hair damp, a clean shirt clinging to his broad chest, his bare forearms lined with pale scars. Sometimes he cooked. Sometimes you did, leaning on the counter when your legs got tired. On nights when you managed, you made simple things—soup, rice, vegetables, the kind of food your mother had once taught you to make before she’d decided what a good marriage looked like.
You ate together on the couch, the little boxed TV flickering with old shows and news broadcasts from the year 2000. The world on the screen felt far away—bright stores, crowded streets, all of it down in the valley while you lived up here, above it all, in a house suspended in trees and silence.
The second week started like all the others.
The air had turned sharper, the kind that bit your cheeks and made your breath smoke even at noon. You spent the afternoon in the garden, tucking a few last seeds into the soil and covering them with careful hands. Your wrist still twinged when you pressed down too hard, and your ribs ached if you twisted too quickly, but the pain no longer swallowed you whole.
By the time the sky began to turn gold behind the mountains, you were back inside, wiping dirt from your fingers, the house warm from the woodstove.
You had just finished setting the table—two mismatched plates, two glasses of water, the pan of potatoes steaming gently on the stove—when the front door opened with a heavier push than usual.
You straightened from where you stood by the counter, fingers still wrapped around a dishcloth. “You’re home early,” you said.
He grunted, kicking his boots off with a little more force than necessary. They landed against the wall with a dull thud. He shrugged out of his work jacket, flinging it over the back of the chair, then scrubbed his hands over his face.
“Everything okay?” you asked, heart tightening. You had learned, in the last week, that his moods were usually steady—quiet, dry, occasionally grouchy, but never… rattled. Not like this.
He hesitated, gaze flicking to the window and then back to you.
“Your husband’s looking for you,” he said. The words came out blunt, like he didn’t believe in softening blows. “He’s been going around town all day, asking questions. Showing your picture. Making noise.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Your fingers clenched around the dishcloth, wringing it so tight your knuckles blanched. “Oh,” you whispered.
Small details came flooding back—your husband’s voice when he drank, the way he’d say your full name like it was a slur, the weight of his badge when it glinted on his chest. You pictured him walking into the diner on Main, into the hardware store, into the grocery, that picture in his hand, asking: Have you seen my wife?
“He came by the mill this afternoon,” Sukuna went on. “Showed the foreman your wedding photo. Asked if any of us had seen you on the road, in town, anywhere out this way.”
You swallowed, throat dry. “And you…?”
“I said no.” His mouth flattened. “So did the others.” He glanced toward the window again, something calculating in his expression. “But he’s not stupid. He knows she didn’t just evaporate. And he knows there’s only so many roads leading out of town.”
A cold shiver ran down your spine. “Do you think he’ll…?”
A knock interrupted you.
It was loud, sharp, demanding—fist on wood, once, twice, three times.
You jumped, the dishcloth slipping from your hands and falling to the floor.
Sukuna’s head snapped toward the door. His eyes narrowed, crimson darkening like storm clouds rolling over.
“Back room,” he said, voice low and immediate. “Now.”
Your heart raced so hard it hurt. “What if—”
“Y/n.” There was no room for argument in his tone. “Go.”
Your legs moved before your brain did.
You limped down the short hallway, the floorboards creaking under your bare feet. Your ribs twinged with each breath, your wrist throbbing in time with your pulse. Panic made everything tighter, more fragile. You reached the bedroom door and slipped inside, shutting it softly behind you.
The room was dim, lit only by the last of the evening light sneaking through the curtains. You stood there in one of his wife’s nightgowns—pale blue, with a little lace at the neckline—your hands shaking as you pressed your back against the wall.
Out in the living room, you heard the front door open.
“Evening,” came your husband’s voice. Smooth. Controlled. The tone he used when talking to neighbors, to your parents, to anyone who thought well of him. Underneath, though, you could hear the familiar strain—the tightness that meant the mask was only skin-deep.
“Can I help you?” Sukuna’s voice was lower, dryer. You pictured him standing there, broad and solid in the doorway.
“I sure hope so,” your husband drawled. “I’m going around to everyone in town, asking if anyone’s seen this person.”
There was a rustle of paper. You didn’t have to see it to know which picture he’d brought.
Your wedding photo.
You remembered the day it had been taken—your hair in loose curls, your dress too tight around the ribs, your smile a bit too bright. His hand had been on your waist, fingers pressing in just a fraction too hard, leaving faint half-moon indentations on your skin. You’d told yourself it was affection.
From the other room, Sukuna grunted.
He must have taken the picture between two fingers, lifted it, glanced at it. You could almost see the barest flicker of something move across his face when he saw you standing next to the man now at his door.
“No,” Sukuna said. “Haven’t seen her.”
A beat.
Your husband exhaled through his nose. “She’s my wife,” he said, voice still smooth but edged now with something sharp. “Ran off a couple weeks ago. No note. No call.” A pause. “You sure? She’s hard to miss. Green eyes. Brown curls. Soft little thing. Looks like she’d blow over in a good wind.”
Your muscles locked, the words digging under your skin like splinters.
“I said no,” Sukuna replied, tone flat.
There was the sound of your husband shifting his weight, boots scraping lightly on the porch. You heard him make a little thoughtful sound, and then—
“What about that?” he asked.
You froze.
“That what?” Sukuna said.
“That sweater.” You could hear the amusement now, the satisfaction of a man who thinks he’s caught someone in a lie. “On the arm of your couch. I recognize it.”
Your breath seized.
The sweater. The one with the little embroidered flowers along the hem—the one he had bought you right after you married. You’d found it at the bottom of your bag when you’d fled, thrown it over the arm of the couch earlier and forgotten to tuck it away.
“It was our anniversary gift,” your husband went on, tone turning smug. “Funny thing, seeing it up here in the middle of nowhere.”
Silence.
Then a soft, dangerous little sound that might have been Sukuna’s jaw tightening.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly.
“Sure,” your husband said. The smoothness in his voice cracked. “You mind if I take a look around? Just to be sure?”
“No.”
“See, that right there sounds like a man with something to hide.”
You heard the creak of the floorboard near the doorway—your husband pushing past.
“Said no,” Sukuna repeated, louder this time.
A scuffle. The thud of bodies bumping. A muttered curse you recognized as your husband’s.
And then—you heard him.
“Hiding her back here, lumberjack?” he sneered, voice muffled as he moved down the hallway. “Got yourself a little housewife in the woods? That it?”
Your lungs refused to work.
The doorknob twisted.
The door flew open, slamming against the wall with a bang that made you flinch.
He filled the doorway, uniform neat, badge gleaming, hair slicked back. His eyes swept the room once, slow and hungry, then landed on you.
You stood there trembling in the nightgown, fabric clinging to the curve of your hips. Your hair fell around your shoulders in tangled ringlets, your bare feet pale against the wooden floor.
For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke.
Then he scoffed, a bitter laugh tearing out of him. “You have got to be kidding me,” he said. “You’re here. In some other man’s house. Wearing another woman’s nightgown.” His lip curled. “You whore.”
The word hit harder than any fist.
You flinched, tears springing into your eyes, your hands flying to cover your chest even though the nightgown was modest. “I—”
He closed the distance in three strides.
His hand clamped around your wrist, fingers digging into tender flesh already weakened by previous bruises. Pain shot up your arm, white-hot and immediate. You yelped, a small, broken cry.
“Do you have any idea,” he hissed, yanking you toward the hall, “what kind of trouble you’ve caused me? Running off like that? Making me look like a fool in front of the whole damn town?”
Tears blurred your vision as he jerked you out of the room, your bare feet skidding on the floorboards. You stumbled, ribs flaring in pain as you crashed against the doorframe.
“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, because the words came automatically. “Please, just—”
He dragged you into the hallway, his grip bruising, his body a solid wall of fury at your back.
You barely had time to register the figure at the other end of the hall before your husband halted.
Sukuna stood there.
He filled the space from wall to wall, shoulders squared, every line of his body carved in stone. His buzzed pale-pink hair was still damp from his earlier wash, darkened at the temples. His crimson eyes burned in the dim light, narrowed to slits.
In his hands, he held an axe.
It was the same one you’d seen him use to split logs—a heavy, well-worn thing with a stained wooden handle and a blade that caught the light like a promise. He held it low, one hand on the middle of the handle, the other near the base.
“Let her go,” Sukuna said.
The words were quiet. That made them worse.
Your husband snorted, the sound ugly. “This your new man, sweetheart?” he asked, giving your arm a little shake that sent pain racing up your shoulder. “You run off with the nearest piece of muscle you could find?” He raised his voice. “You know harboring a missing person is a crime, right, lumberjack?”
“Let. Her. Go,” Sukuna repeated, each word its own stone.
Your husband’s hand shifted.
You felt it before you saw it—the way his body turned, forcing your arm up sharply, twisting you off balance so you stumbled into his chest. His other hand moved to his belt, fingers curling around the shape you knew too well.
“Sukuna,” you choked, panic flooding you. “It’s okay, I’ll go with him, don’t—”
The metallic click of a gun being unholstered sliced through your words.
Your husband pulled the pistol free, the barrel glinting darkly even in the dim hallway.
He swung it up, arm locking, the muzzle pointing straight at Sukuna’s chest.
You froze.
“Sukuna, please!” you cried, tugging uselessly at your husband’s grip. “Just let him—”
“Shut up,” your husband snarled, jerking your wrist so hard you cried out. He dug his fingers deeper into your scalp with his other hand, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back until your neck screamed. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
Tears spilled hot and fast, your scalp burning, vision tilted.
“You come near my wife,” he said, voice low and deadly as he glared down the barrel at Sukuna, “and I’ll drop you. Right here in your own damn hallway.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Sukuna took a step forward.
The air changed. You felt it physically, like pressure dropping before a storm. Something in his posture shifted—no longer a man just home from work, but something older, colder, honed by years of carrying things heavier than this moment.
“Last warning,” he said.
Your husband’s fingers tightened around the gun.
The hallway felt too small. Your ears rang. Your heart hammered so loud you could barely hear your own ragged sobs. Every inch of your skin was awake with fear.
Your husband’s arm jerked.
The gunshot exploded, deafening in the narrow space—one sharp, cracking sound that tore through your ears and sank into your bones. You flinched violently, a scream ripping from your throat as your knees gave way.
You saw the bullet hit the wall just to Sukuna’s left, splintering wood, sending a puff of dust into the air.
“You missed,” Sukuna said.
There was no tremor in his voice. No flinch in his body.
He closed the distance between them in two long strides.
Everything happened at once, and nothing arranged itself clearly in your memory.
You felt your husband yank you to the side, trying to drag you into the bedroom as a shield. You heard your own voice—high, raw—begging, “Please, please, don’t hurt him, he didn’t do anything—”
The axe moved.
It came up and down in one fast, efficient arc, like when he split logs in the clearing. A heavy thunk, then a strangled scream, cut off so abruptly it left a space in the air where sound should have been.
Your husband’s grip vanished.
You dropped to the floor, your knees slamming into the wood, palms skidding. For a moment you thought you’d slipped, that his hand had simply lost its hold in his surprise. Then the screaming started—high, terrible, torn from a throat you knew too well.
You scrambled, blind with panic, crawling away without knowing where you were going. The hallway blurred. You saw a flash of red on the floor and looked away, gagging.
There were more sounds—scuffling, grunts, something heavy thudding against the wall. The gun clattered across the floorboards and hit your foot, spinning to a stop by the door.
Then… gurgling.
Wet and awful,. Like someone trying to breathe through water.
You clamped your hands over your ears.
“No, no, no,” you sobbed, rocking slightly where you’d ended up at the top of the short steps leading to the back door. Your husband’s voice choked, then broke apart, pieces of it dissolving into inhuman sounds and then into nothing at all.
And then there was silence.
Deep and complete.
You stayed there, on your knees, shaking so hard your teeth clicked. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once, then went quiet. The house held its breath.
Behind you, there was a wet, final thud on tile.
You didn’t know how long you knelt there, hands over your ears, eyes squeezed shut. Seconds dragged into minutes that felt like hours. The smell of iron crept slowly into the air, turning the back of your throat metallic.
A shadow shifted in the periphery of your vision.
You peeled your hands away, fingers trembling, and turned your head.
Sukuna stood at the other end of the hall.
He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling, but not like a man overcome—more like someone bringing himself back down from something sharp and focused. Blood spattered his shirt, his arms, a streak across his jaw. None of it was his.
He looked at you first.
Not at what lay behind him on the tile, not at the gun on the floor. At you—curled at the threshold, pajama hem bunched around your knees, hair wild and tangled, eyes wide and wet.
He walked toward you slowly, boots sticking slightly with each step.
“Y/n,” he said, voice rough but gentle. “Look at me.”
You did.
Up close, you saw the anger still burning in his gaze, but it wasn’t uncontrolled. It wasn’t the kind that smashed things just to hear them break. It was banked now, turned outward, away from you.
“He’s gone,” Sukuna said.
The words hit you like a physical blow.
You sucked in a breath that turned into a sob. “I—” you tried, but your throat closed.
He crouched in front of you, the axe nowhere in sight now, his bloodied hands hovering an inch away from your shoulders, as if he wanted to touch you but didn’t want to smear the red on your skin.
“Can you stand?” he asked quietly.
You swallowed, looking down at your shaking legs. “I—maybe,” you whispered.
He nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. “I need to take care of this,” he said. “But I don’t want you out here while I do.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway behind him, then back. “Think you can go to the bedroom? Close the door. Stay there.”
You stared past him for a fraction of a second, catching a glimpse of something pale and still on the floor, and immediately looked away, nausea surging.
“Y-yes,” you choked.
His gaze dropped to your wrist, where your husband’s fingers had dug in moments before. It was already swelling, angry red marks standing out against your pale skin. His jaw clenched. Then his gaze moved to your hair, where sections had been yanked free from their curl, the roots aching, your scalp burning.
“He hurt you,” Sukuna said, voice low.
You laughed weakly through your tears. “He always hur—”
“Not anymore,” he said, cutting you off.
He slipped one arm around your back, careful not to touch your sore ribs, and the other around your legs. Even covered in blood, his hands were gentle. He lifted you from the floor like he had done that first night, carrying you back down the hallway.
When he set you on the bed, he didn’t tuck the blankets around you this time. He just stepped back, giving you space, his broad chest rising and falling slowly.
“Stay in here,” he said. “No matter what you hear. Can you do that?”
You nodded, tears sliding sideways into your hair. “What are you going to do?” you whispered.
He glanced toward the door, expression hardening. “Make sure there’s nothing left to find.”
A shiver ran through you, but you understood.
The town loved a show. Loved gossip. Loved a man in a uniform and a woman they could point at. If your husband vanished into the woods and never came out—no body, no gun, no blood in a hallway—that was a different story than finding him in pieces in Sukuna’s home.
You swallowed. “Okay.”
He looked at you one more time, as if committing the sight of you breathing to memory, then stepped out and closed the door with a soft click.
You lay there listening.
At first there was nothing. Then the sounds began—dragging, heavy, like something being pulled across the floor. The scrape of tile. A muttered curse. The back door opening with a creak. The dull thump of weight hitting the ground outside.
You curled onto your side, clutching the pillow, pressing it over your ears whenever the noises got too vivid. Tears soaked the fabric, your breath catching on quiet sobs. Your body vibrated with a mess of emotions—horror, guilt, sickening relief, grief for something you’d never really had, gratitude so intense it felt like pain.
Time stretched and blurred.
Eventually, another sound joined the rest—the crackle of fire.
You smelled it before you fully registered it: smoke, thick and dark, threading its way through the crack under the door. Not the clean scent of burning logs from the woodpile, but something harsher underneath. You squeezed your eyes shut, knowing without wanting to that somewhere in that fire, your husband’s uniform, his badge, his body were disappearing into ash.
Two hours passed, maybe more.
When the noises finally stopped, the house settled into a tense, sticky quiet. Your throat felt raw from crying. Your head throbbed in dull pulses. The nightgown clung to your knees, damp not just from tears but from the bit of blood you’d knelt in without realizing.
You heard the back door open again. Boots on the threshold. The sound of something being dropped in a metal bin. Then the bathroom door shut, and the pipes rattled as water ran hard. You could picture him standing under it, scrubbing his skin until it no longer felt like someone else’s blood sat on top of it.
You couldn’t stay in the room any longer.
The walls felt too close. The air too thick.
You slid your legs over the side of the bed and pushed yourself up, wincing as your wrist twinged. Your scalp still hummed with pain where hair had been yanked, but the worst of the dizziness had passed. Step by careful step, you made your way to the door, fingers brushing the wood.
When you opened it, the house greeted you with silence and the faint smell of smoke.
You walked slowly down the hall, each creak of the boards loud in your ears. The living room looked almost normal—the couch slightly askew, the blanket you’d used earlier half on the floor. The sweater that had started all of this still lay where your husband had spotted it.
But the kitchen…
Your breath hitched.
There were streaks of brown-red on the tile floor, smears along the spot where the hallway met the room. Not as much as you’d expected—he had done most of whatever he’d done outside, you realized—but enough. Enough to mark what this house had just seen.
Your eyes filled.
He had killed for you.
Not in some abstract way. Not in a promise. In the most real, irreversible way there was. Your husband’s voice would never fill the kitchen again with shouted insults. His boots would never stomp down this hallway. His hand would never close around your wrist.
It was over.
Your chest constricted. You didn’t know how to hold that truth. It was too big, too heavy, too soaked in blood and mercy all at once.
You stepped forward.
The nightgown brushed the floor as you knelt, fabric dragging through a slick red smear. You didn’t care. You reached for the rag that had fallen earlier and picked it up with shaking fingers, dipping it into a bucket of water that sat by the sink.
You began to scrub.
Slow, small circles. The tile was cold under your palms. The smell of metal and smoke wrapped around you. Your fingers turned red, water pinking in the bucket as you rinsed and wrung out the rag again and again. Your knees ached, your wrist screamed, but you kept going.
You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the need to do something, anything, that wasn’t just lying in the dark listening to the echoes of your husband’s last sounds. Maybe it was the instinct to clean up the messes men left behind, something you had always done without thinking.
Tears dripped off your chin, mixing with the diluted blood on the floor.
You were bent over the worst stain, scrubbing so hard your knuckles hurt, when you felt a shadow fall over you.
You looked up.
Sukuna stood in the doorway to the hall, hair damp and curling slightly against his scalp, skin scrubbed clean but still pink in places from the heat of the water. He’d changed into a fresh shirt and sweatpants, bare feet silent on the tile.
His eyes moved from your raw, red hands to the wet knees of the nightgown, stained with streaks of rusty color, then to the half-cleaned patch of floor.
His mouth thinned.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
You swallowed, scrubbing one last time before your wrist gave a sharp, protesting twinge. “Cleaning,” you whispered. “You… you saved me. You did that for me. I can at least…”
The words fell apart.
He crossed the space between you in a few strides and knelt, one large hand closing over yours—not hard, not tight, but firm enough to still your movements. The rag was warm and slick between your fingers.
“That’s enough,” he said quietly.
You looked at him, vision blurring. “I just… I didn’t know what else to do,” you admitted. “I couldn’t just lie there while you… while you—”
“I told you to stay in the room,” he said, but there was no anger in it. Only weariness. “You’ve done more than enough.”
He gently pried the rag from your hand, dropping it into the bucket with a soft splash. Your fingers were wrinkled and raw, little red lines where the tile had grabbed at them. He turned your hand over, thumb brushing lightly over the swelling on your wrist where your husband’s grip had been.
“Look at your hands,” he murmured. “They’re a mess.”
You laughed weakly through the tears, a broken little sound. “So’s everything else,” you said.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Which is why you need to go get cleaned up.” He glanced at the floor. “I’ll take care of this.”
Guilt flared, hot and irrational. “I should help—”
“You shouldn’t,” he cut in. “You shouldn’t have to see any more of this than you already have.” His eyes met yours, steady and unflinching. “You’ve had enough blood in your life.”
Your chin wobbled.
He stood and held out his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “Bath’s still warm enough. Wash off what you can. Put on something clean. Let me handle the rest.”
You stared at his hand for a long second—the same hand that had held an axe hours ago, that had swung it with enough force to end a man. It was calloused and strong and far from gentle-looking.
And yet, every time it had touched you, it had only ever been careful.
You placed your raw, shaking fingers in his.
He pulled you up with ease, steadying you when your knees protested, keeping a hand at the small of your back as he guided you toward the hallway.
As you walked, you glanced once toward the dark rectangle of the backdoor window, where a faint orange glow still pulsed in the distance, the fire in the grass slowly eating what remained.
A shudder ran through you.
“You’re safe here,” Sukuna said quietly, as if he’d read the thought. “He’s not coming back. No one is taking you out of this house unless you want to go.”
Your throat closed around a sob.
“I know,” you whispered. “I just… don’t know how to feel.”
“You don’t have to know tonight,” he replied.
He led you to the bathroom, opening the door with his free hand. Steam ghosted out, carrying the gentle scent of soap.
“Go on,” he said. “I’ll finish cleaning up.”
You hesitated in the doorway, looking back at him. His face was tired, shadows under his eyes, but there was no regret there. Only a grim acceptance and something like fierce protectiveness.
“Thank you,” you said, the words too small for what he had done but all you had.
He shrugged, but his gaze softened for a fraction of a second.
“Get cleaned up, Y/n,” he said. “We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”
You stepped into the bathroom, closing the door gently behind you.
Outside, the fire crackled. In the kitchen, a man wiped blood from tile. In the small, warm room, you stripped off the stained nightgown and lowered yourself into the water, letting it hold your bruised, shaken body as the first thin threads of a future without your husband began to stitch themselves together in the quiet.
The house felt different after the fire. It was quieter, somehow. As if something loud and ugly had been dragged out into the night and burned, leaving the walls to sag with the relief of it. The smell of soap clung to the air now more than smoke, the faint scent of pine and clean cotton. You sat on the edge of Sukuna’s bed with your damp hair pulled over one shoulder, wearing a fresh nightgown the color of cream, hands folded in your lap. They trembled anyway. You watched your fingers shake like they belonged to someone else. Your knuckles were sore and red, the skin across your palms raw. Your wrist pulsed, bruises blooming there where Hiroki’s grip had been. Your scalp still throbbed in aching lines where hair had been torn at the roots.
The door clicked softly.
You looked up.
Sukuna stood in the doorway, clean and changed again, like he’d scrubbed not just his skin but the whole night off of him. His pale pink hair was damp. He wore a dark T–shirt and sweats, his bare feet soundless on the floor. He took one look at you—your stiff shoulders, your wide eyes, your trembling hands—and stopped a few feet away.
Then he crouched.
He dropped down to your level slow and deliberate, folding his tall body until his eyes were level with your knees. He rested his forearms on his thighs, hands relaxed, palms open. It made him smaller, less looming. You noticed that he’d done it on purpose. “I told you not to clean,” he said quietly, you swallowed. “I… couldn’t just sit there,” you whispered. He sighed through his nose, but let it go. For a moment he just studied you. The nervous flutter of your fingers. The way your toes curled against the floor. The tight pinch at the corners of your mouth like you were still bracing for the next blow. “What I’m about to say,” he began, “you’re not gonna like.” Your heart dropped. “You’re… sending me away?” you asked, voice a thin thread. “You said—”
“I’m not sending you back to him, he’s gone.” he cut in, firm enough that the floor seemed to hold steady again. “That hasn’t changed. I meant what I said.” He paused, eyes flicking briefly to the window, as if measuring the tree line and all the things beyond it. “But we can’t pretend tonight didn’t happen. And we can’t pretend we don’t live in a town that likes to stick its nose where it doesn’t belong.” A chill crept up your spine. “I don’t understand,” you said. He waited a beat, as if choosing his words carefully. “If people start connecting me, you, and Hiroki all up here in the woods,” he said, “they’re gonna ask questions. The wrong kind. Questions that end with you in handcuffs, or both of us, while a bunch of men decide if it was ‘self-defense’ or not.” You flinched at the word handcuffs, imagining them closing around your wrists. “But I didn’t do anything,” you whispered.
“I know that,” he said, eyes holding yours steady. “You know that. The floor knows that.” His jaw tightened. “Cops don’t always care. Especially not about some drunk colleague who vanished after his wife ran out.” He let that sink in. Your stomach turned. “So… what do we do?” He shifted his weight, knees creaking softly. “I’m going to take you back to your house,” he said. Your entire body recoiled before your mind caught up. “No,” you said, the word breaking out of you, raw and immediate. “No, I can’t—he—he’s there, he’s everywhere—”
“He’s not there,” Sukuna said, not unkindly, but not gently either. Just steady. “He’s not anywhere anymore. I made sure of that.” A muscle ticked in his cheek. “You’re not going back to him. You’re going back to four walls and a roof with your name on the lease and a town that needs to see you walk out the front door again.” Tears blurred your vision. “I don’t want it,” you whispered. “I don’t want that life. I don’t want that house. I don’t want to be his wife anymore.”
“You’re not,” he said. “By the time this is done, you won’t be.” He leaned in a little, but not enough to crowd you. “But right now, on paper, you still are. And if you just disappear into these trees forever, guess who the town looks at.”
You.
You saw it then, the way stories formed in people’s mouths. Wife runs off. Husband disappears. Strange man in the woods. It would be so easy for them to twist it, to turn you from victim into monster. To pretend they hadn’t seen the bruises spreading across your cheek.
Your nails dug into your palms. “What… what do I say?” He held your gaze, his crimson eyes calm, even as something darker simmered beneath. “You go home,” he said. “You unlock the door. You go back in like a woman who got scared and ran away for a while, and then remembered she has bills and a life in town.” His mouth curved, not in a smile, but in something like grim amusement. “You act like everything is… not alright, exactly, but normal enough.” You swallowed. “And when they ask?”
“You tell them the truth,” he said. “Just not all of it.” He counted on his fingers, slow. “You tell them Hiroki’s a drunk. You tell them he disappears, that he blacks out, that he doesn’t know where you are half the time. You tell them that you thought maybe it was your fault, that you were confused, so you went to stay with some relatives for a bit. You don’t give details. Let them fill in the blanks with whatever makes them feel smartest.” Your throat tightened. “Won’t that make me look… bad?”
“It’ll make you look like a scared wife who left a dangerous man for a while and then came back because she didn’t know where else to go.” He shrugged slightly. “Which you are. Or were. That’s a story they understand. It’s neat. They can fit it into their heads and go back to their own dinners.” You stared at the wall past his shoulder, vision hazy. “And him?” you asked. “What about… his body?” His jaw clenched.
“I burned most of him,” he said, voice going low and flat. “But I kept something.” You swallowed hard. “What?” He exhaled through his nose, eyes momentarily flicking away. “His hand.” You flinched, stomach lurching. “I’m going to take it down past the ridge,” he went on, as if discussing firewood. “There’s a drainage ditch out that way that the road crews never bothered to fix. Animals go through there. Water, too, when it rains. If I toss it there tonight, something will find it. Drag it. Spread the scent.” You pressed a hand to your mouth. “Eventually,” Sukuna said, “someone’s gonna notice. Some hunter. Some kids messing around where they shouldn’t. They’ll call it in. Cops will come dig around.” His eyes were cold now, but his voice stayed calm. “They’ll find a rotting hand with a familiar wedding band and a very familiar fingerprint.” Your mind conjured the image in spite of itself: the metal of the ring, the chewed flesh, the way the town would react. “You think they’ll know it’s him?” you murmured. “They’ll know,” he said. “A missing officer? A hand in the ditch? They’ll test it, write up a report, and what they’ll see is simple.” He spread his fingers, laying out the scene. “A drunk with a badge. A man with too many enemies. A man who started too many fights he couldn’t finish. They’ll say he could have been rolled by anyone—some angry ex-con, someone he arrested, someone he cheated, someone he hit.” His lip curled. “They won’t be wrong.” You shivered. The idea of Hiroki’s enemies—names you’d never heard, faces you’d never see—carried their own kind of ghost.
“But you,” he said, voice softening as he looked back at you, “are not going to be one of those enemies. Not on paper. Not in their eyes. You’re going to be the poor wife everyone feels sorry for.” The words landed like something heavy in your lap. “You’ll be a widow,” he said, matter-of-fact. “They’ll bring you the news. They’ll say ‘We found something, ma’am,’ and they’ll stumble through their condolences, and they’ll look at your fading bruises and your popped eye vein and the way your hands shake, and they’ll start rewriting their own memories. They’ll decide he drank more than they realized. That maybe they heard rumors about his temper. That maybe they should have said something sooner.” He released a slow breath. “They’ll do all that work by themselves. You just have to stand there and let them.” You stared at him, tears pricking your eyes again. “You sound so sure,” you whispered. “I know this town,” he said simply. “It likes easy stories.” He nodded toward you. “And you—you’re an easy person to pity. Soft voice, bruises, quiet little face.” He shrugged one shoulder. “They’ll want to believe you. They’ll feel better about themselves if they do.”
You looked down at your hands, still trembling in your lap. “I don’t know if I can do it,” you admitted. “Go back there. Sleep in that house. Wait while they… look.” He didn’t try to tell you it would be easy. He didn’t lie. “It’s going to be hell,” he said. “But it’ll be temporary hell. And once it’s done—once they call it, once they write the file and close the case—we move you out of there.”
“We?” you echoed. He held your gaze. “We.” A pause. “I told you, you could stay here as long as you want. That hasn’t changed.” Something in your chest cracked open. You blinked hard, vision swimming. “I’m… scared,” you whispered, because that was the truest thing in you just then. “I’m so scared. What if they know? What if someone saw? What if I say the wrong thing, or… or look the wrong way?”
He leaned in a little, but still kept that small pocket of space between you, like a respectful border. “They won’t know,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t go anywhere near that ditch. You never touched that axe. The worst you ever did was run into the trees while he went to the bar.” His voice softened at the edges. “And if you’re scared, that’s fine. You should be. Just let it show. Let them see you tremble. Let them see your hands shake when you sign the papers. It’ll only make their story stronger.” You let out a ragged, wet breath that might have been a laugh in some other life. “You make it sound like a script,” you said. “It is,” he replied. “All of this is theater to them. Let them have their show.” You were quiet for a moment, listening to the house creak around you, to the faint rush of the trees outside.
“What do I do tonight?” you asked, voice small. “Right now?”
“Tonight,” he said, “you sleep.” His mouth quirked. “Or you try to. Tomorrow, I take you down to your house at first light. We make sure you get in without anyone noticing me. You get your bearings. You breathe.” He paused. “I’ll go deal with the… rest.” You swallowed. “His… hand.”
“Yeah.” His jaw hardened. “The sooner it’s gone, the better.” He pushed himself up from his crouch, joints cracking softly. For a moment he just stood there, looking down at you, at the way the nightgown pooled around your thighs, at your bare feet tucked under the blanket.
“You’re shaking again,” he said, noticing the tremor you couldn’t quite hide. “I’m fine,” you lied automatically. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not,” he said. “But you will be. One day.” You had no idea how you were supposed to get from here to that mythical “one day.” But you held onto the promise of it anyway, because he offered it like a rope in a river.
He turned toward the door, then paused. “Y/n,” he said, you looked up. “When this is over,” he said slowly, “and they stop asking questions… you’re not going back to being his wife. Not in anyone’s story. You understand?” Your throat felt tight. You nodded. “You’re going to be a woman who survived,” he added, almost grudgingly, like he didn’t like big words but forced himself to say it anyway. “Even if that doesn’t feel like it right now.” You blinked, tears finally spilling over. “Thank you,” you whispered, for the plan, for the brutality of his kindness, for the fact that you were alive to be terrified at all. He grunted, as if accepting thanks made him vaguely uncomfortable. “Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll wake you early.”
Then he left, the door closing softly behind him, leaving you alone with your pounding heart and the echo of what he’d just promised:
You’ll be a widow.
You’ll be safe.
You’ll have somewhere to go.
The morning came gray and thin. Mist clung to the trees, ghosting around their trunks as if the forest was still deciding whether to reveal the day. You rode beside Sukuna in his old pickup, your hands clenched in your lap, your body swaddled in one of his wife’s thick cardigans over your plain dress. The closer you got to town, the more your chest tightened. You saw familiar landmarks—Old Man Harada’s broken fence, the faded billboard for a soda company no one stocked anymore, the dip in the road where rainwater always collected. Your house appeared slowly, pulled into view by the curve of the street—a squat little thing with chipped paint and a crooked porch light. Your stomach flipped. Sukuna pulled the truck over half a block away, behind a row of scrubby trees that half-hid the view.
“You remember what you’re going to say if anyone asks?” he asked, you nodded, swallowing hard. “He’s a drunk,” you recited quietly. “He disappears. I thought it was my fault, so I went to stay with relatives for a while, but I came back because I didn’t know what else to do. I haven’t seen him since.” He nodded. “Good.”
“And if they ask about… him?” you added, flicking your eyes to his. “Nobody’s gonna ask you about me,” he said. “They don’t know I exist, remember? I’m just some guy up in the trees who built their station and delivers lumber once in a while.” His mouth twisted. “They barely look at me now.” Your fingers tightened in the cardigan. “Will I… see you?” you asked, hating the way the question came out small and childish. He considered you for a moment. “For a while, no,” he said. “Not in town. Not where anyone can link us together. But you’ll know where I am.” He jerked his chin toward the mountains. “And when the case is closed, I’ll come get you. You won’t have to ask.” You took a shaky breath. “Okay.” He killed the engine. The silence that followed hummed loud in your ears.
“Go,” he said quietly. “Before someone sees this truck.” You nodded again, hand on the door handle, frozen for one heartbeat more. Then you opened it and stepped out, the cold air biting your cheeks. The cardigan swished around your thighs as you walked, each step up the cracked sidewalk feeling heavier than the last.
You didn’t look back.
The house key was still in your pocket, exactly where you’d left it that night you ran. Your fingers fumbled with it, slipping once before sliding it into the lock. The door opened with a familiar creak. The smell hit you first. Stale beer. Unwashed clothes. The faint tang of something that had spoiled in the trash. You swallowed bile, stepping inside. The couch still had the dent where he used to sit. An empty bottle lay on its side on the coffee table, a little ring of dried amber around the mouth. You shut the door behind you and leaned against it, closing your eyes.
I’ll go back with him. Don’t hurt Sukuna.
Your own words echoed in your head, overlapping with the memory of boots, the gunshot, the gurgling. You pressed your hand to your chest, feeling your heart beating hard and fast, and forced yourself to move. You opened windows. You took out the trash with shaking hands. You found the sheets on the bed twisted and stained and stripped them without letting your eyes linger. You cleaned like a woman in a trance, and when the knock finally came that afternoon—lighter, more tentative—you were almost grateful for the interruption. It was the neighbor—Mrs. Ito, with her cardigan buttoned wrong and her mouth already forming questions. Behind her, you saw others watching. Curious. Concerned. Hungry for a story.
“Y/n,” she breathed, clutching at her chest. “You’re back. Where have you been? Hiroki’s been tearing the town apart—” Your hands shook on the edge of the door. “I… I went to stay with my aunt,” you lied softly, sticking to the script. “Just for a while.”
“Your aunt?” she repeated. “In the next town over,” you nodded. “Hiroki’s been… he drinks a lot.” The words tasted strange and dangerous, but once you said them, others tumbled after. “Sometimes he doesn’t even remember where I am. He wakes up and doesn’t know what day it is.” You swallowed, eyes burning. “I thought it was my fault. That I wasn’t… that I didn’t… I just needed to breathe.” Her face changed.
It was subtle at first—the tilt of her brows, the way her mouth softened. But behind her, you saw a few of the others exchange looks. You watched the quiet click of thoughts rearranging themselves. “Oh,” Mrs. Ito said. “Oh, honey.” Their eyes flicked to your face then, tracking the fading bruise on your cheek, the yellowed shadow along your jaw, the popped vein that still left a red web around your right eye. You saw the exact moment some of them realized those weren’t from walking into doors.
They didn’t say that, of course.
They brought food. They asked careful, circling questions. They clucked their tongues about how Hiroki “always did drink a little too much,” how they’d “noticed him getting rough around the edges lately.” No one had noticed enough to help you before. But now, with your trembling hands and your quiet voice, they couldn’t seem to stop noticing. You stuck to your story. You didn’t mention the woodsmoke that didn’t come from your stove. You didn’t mention crimson eyes or a house in the trees. You woke up sweating most nights, still hearing the echo of a gunshot that had missed by half a wall.
Days turned into weeks.
You went to the grocery store, pushing the cart slowly, flinching when the wheels squeaked too loud. People began to speak to you in that voice reserved for the bereaved and the fragile. They offered to carry your bags. They asked if you needed anything. They whispered to each other when they thought you couldn’t hear.
“He’s gonna get himself killed, drinking like that.”
“I heard he pulled his gun on someone in the bar last month.”
“You see the way she flinches? Poor thing. Must have been hell.”
You kept your head down, heart pounding. You bought potatoes and rice and sometimes a small piece of meat. You cooked for one. Then, one wet morning a month later, there was another knock at your door. This one you recognized before you even opened it—the slow, steady rhythm of knuckles that knew their own authority. When you pulled the door back, two officers stood there. One was Hiroki’s partner—a man you’d seen at barbecues, who had clapped Hiroki on the shoulder and laughed at his jokes. The other was a sergeant you knew only by sight. They both looked… uncomfortable.
“Mrs. Tanaka,” the sergeant said, clearing his throat. “May we come in?” Your fingers tightened on the edge of the door, but you stepped aside. They sat at your kitchen table, hats in their hands, eyes flicking around the small, tidy space that had once smelled like spilled beer and anger and now smelled faintly of cleaning products and the soup you’d made for yourself the night before. “Is this about Hiroki?” you asked quietly, standing because you couldn’t bear to sit. They exchanged a glance. “We… found something,” the partner said. The sergeant set a small folder on the table, but didn’t open it. “We’re still waiting on final confirmation,” he said, “but… a hand was found out past the ridge. The ring matches his wedding band. The fingerprints…” He trailed off. “We’re ninety-nine percent sure it’s his.” Your knees went weak.
You grabbed the back of the chair, sitting without remembering the transition. Your hands trembled so visibly that the partner looked away for a moment, as if ashamed.
“We’re so sorry, ma’am,” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “We know this must be a shock.” You let your eyes fill, not having to reach far for tears. They were always there these days, just beneath the surface. “How?” you whispered. The sergeant cleared his throat. “We don’t know yet,” he said. “He’s…” He struggled for a neutral word and failed. “…He’s had some altercations. Made enemies. Could be anyone. Could be something as simple as him stumbling out drunk on the wrong side of town one night.” He shook his head. “We’ll investigate, of course, but… right now we’re treating it as a probable homicide.” Your vision blurred. Images of blood on tile and fire in the grass flashed behind your eyes. “A hand,” you repeated numbly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said gently. “It’s… not ideal. But it’s enough for us to declare him deceased. You’ll get the official paperwork in a few days. There’ll be some insurance things to sort out, pension—which we’ll help you with. You don’t have to worry about that right now.”
They watched you tremble. Watched your eyes drift to the floor. Watched your fingers twist in the hem of your cardigan. “You’re safe now,” the partner said, and you heard something there—a regret, a late realization. “He can’t… come home and hurt you anymore.” It was true. And yet the words made your stomach turn. You nodded slowly, letting the tears spill, not bothering to wipe them away. “I didn’t want this,” you said, and it was true in its own way. “I didn’t…”
“We know,” the sergeant said. “No one is saying you did.” He stood, placing a card on the table. “If you think of anything that might help the investigation, you call. If you remember someone he fought with, someone who threatened him…” He held your gaze. “But you focus on taking care of yourself now. Alright?” You nodded again. They left you there in the kitchen, the card staring up at you from the table like a small, white accusation. Through the window, you saw them stop at Mrs. Ito’s house next door. Saw the way she put her hand over her mouth. Saw the way her eyes flicked toward your home, full of pity now instead of curiosity.
The story had settled.
Hiroki Tanaka, drunk and mean, dead in a ditch. Y/n Tanaka—widowed, bruised, too soft for the man she’d been given to. Case closed.
You were free. You sat there for a long time, listening to the clock tick, your hands trembling around a cup of tea that had gone cold.
When the knock came two weeks later, it was different again. Firm, but not official. Familiar in a way that made your heart leap into your throat.
You opened the door.
Sukuna stood on your porch, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket, the other resting on the edge of a cardboard box. His truck idled at the curb, bed already loaded with a few taped-up boxes you recognized as your own. “Got your letter,” he said simply. You had written it in a moment of shaky resolve, three days after the officers left. Just a few lines, left under a rock at the edge of the tree line like he’d told you to.
They closed the case.
They said he’s dead.
If your offer still stands… I want to come home.
Home.
The word had shocked you even as you wrote it. Now, looking at him on your porch with his quiet eyes and his truck and his broad shoulders taking up too much space in the doorway, it didn’t feel as wrong. “You sure about this?” he asked. “Leaving this place?” You glanced over your shoulder at the interior of the house—the couch that still smelled like stale beer no matter how much you scrubbed, the walls that still remembered every shout. The emptiness of it now that it held just you and the echoes. “Yes,” you said, more firmly than you’d said anything in weeks, he nodded once. “Then grab what you want,” he said. “Rest can rot.” You packed slowly, methodically. Clothes first—your own, still in the drawers, folded around the edges of uniforms you left where they were. Books that had been yours before the marriage. The chipped mug your mother had given you when you were eighteen. A photo of you as a teenager, hair short and wild, eyes still bright.
You didn’t pack your wedding album.
Sukuna moved through the house with an efficiency that almost hurt to watch. He carried boxes out like they weighed nothing, loaded them in the truck bed, tied them down with thick ropes. He barely glanced at the framed pictures on the walls, at the indentation on the couch, at the dent in the drywall where a glass had once shattered. When you emerged from the bedroom with a final box in your arms, he met you halfway down the hall and took it from you without comment, his fingers brushing yours for just a second—calloused and solid, grounding you in the moment. “Anything else?” he asked, you looked around. There would always be something else. Some piece of yourself you’d left behind. Some memory lodged in the floorboards. But nothing you wanted enough to stay. “No,” you said. “That’s it.” He nodded. You stood in the doorway for a moment, hand on the frame, looking at the small, shabby living room where you had cried and cooked and flinched for two years. Where you had once believed this was where your life would be lived, for better or for worse.
“Goodbye,” you whispered, to the walls, to the girl who had stood here in a white dress and told herself it would be okay, you closed the door. Sukuna drove you out of town in silence, the truck rattling over familiar potholes. The houses thinned, the trees grew thicker. The mountains rose up to meet you, older than any badge or rumor. You watched the town shrink in the side mirror, until it was just a smudge of roofs and smoke. When the road turned to dirt and the forest opened up to reveal his clearing, something inside your chest loosened. His house looked the same—dark wood, sloping roof, smoke curling from the chimney. Your garden patch waited by the side, new green shoots poking through the soil you’d turned with your own hands weeks ago.
He parked, killed the engine, and hopped out, coming around to open your door. The air smelled like pine and cold and the promise of spring. “Welcome back,” he said, like he was saying, Welcome home. You stepped down from the truck, the ground solid beneath your feet. For the first time in a long time, the sight of a front door didn’t make your stomach twist. “You can stay here as long as you want,” Sukuna repeated, the same words he’d offered you when you were shaking on his bed, when the world had still been full of boots and shouting. “No one’s gonna come looking for you up here. Not now.” You looked at the house, at the garden, at the mountains that ringed this place like a quiet, watchful wall. You looked at him—at the man who had washed your hair, who had killed for you, who had planned the story that let you walk out of your old life alive.
“I don’t know how long that is,” you said honestly. “What I want.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “We’ve got time.” He grabbed the nearest box from the truck bed and jerked his head toward the house. “Come on. Let’s get your stuff inside before the neighbors you don’t have complain.” You laughed, a small, surprised sound that felt unfamiliar in your mouth and yet… right. You followed him up the path, your heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with fear this time, and stepped over the threshold into a life that—however borrowed it felt in someone else’s nightgown and someone else’s house—was finally, undeniably, yours. The door closed behind you with a soft click. Outside, the trees whispered in the mountain wind, keeping their own counsel as they always had. Inside, a new story began to take shape, quiet and slow, one day at a time.
could you do a tengen uzui smut please😫 daddy dom style. be as creative as you please but could you add some punishment/overstim/edging in there 🫶🏻thank you so much
showing you - tengen uzui x reader
a word from lex: hi annonie! thank you very kindly for requesting! i loove tengen and this request idea is soooo yummy. i hope i've done you (and him) justice! smooches.
content warnings: 18+, minors dni!!!!!, 3.4k words, smut, fem!reader, daddy dom!tengen, reader calls tengen daddy, tengen calls reader 'little girl', soft dominance, spanking, manhandling, edging, overstimulation/overstimulation w/ penetration, size kink if u squint, praise kink (kinda), power imbalance (clan hierarchy), reader is a shinobi recruit / former mercenary, kidnapping themes (non-violent), breeding implications, slight dacryphilia, please excuse any tags and or typos i might have missed!
'hey siri, play do what i say by kwn'
you were convinced, in this moment, that you would hate him for the rest of your life.
the life of a mercenary wasn’t sunshine and rainbows, you knew that.
but the freedom of it all made it worth it. no rules. no master. no leash around your neck.
until now.
you had been sought out to do a few paid jobs for a local shinobi clan, only realizing halfway through that they were trying to indoctrinate you into their fold. apparently, you were “too dangerous” to be out in the wild, unaffiliated, unclaimed.
they couldn’t risk you ending up in the wrong hands.
so they sent him.
tengen uzui.
from the very first moment he approached you, loud, too loud for someone who called himself a ninja, he made it sound like you had a choice.
“with your skills, we think you’d be a great addition to our clan,” he chirped, almost sweetly. “why don’t you stop doing the ‘for pay’ work and come do something meaningful?”
meaningful.
who was he to tell you what your life meant? he didn’t know you. he didn’t know shit.
so you scoffed, crossed your arms, and replied with the simplest, driest, “no.”
you turned on your heel; and ran straight into him again.
your breath caught. you had just turned around. how the hell?
he smirked at the shock stamped across your face, openly amused at how cute you looked trying to understand something your eyes clearly couldn’t keep up with.
“i fear i was unclear, little girl,” he said, tone dropping into something smooth and dangerous. “unfortunately, you don’t have a choice. the clan can’t afford to let anyone else have you. gather your things. we leave at once.”
you blinked. then smiled. the prettiest, fakest smile you could manage.
“well, thank goodness you cleared that up,” you said. “i unfortunately do not give a fuck. you want me? come find me.”
you darted into the trees before the last syllable finished leaving your mouth.
running was risky, you knew that. he moved too fast, reacted too cleanly. but letting them cage you?
no chance.
you sprinted deeper into the forest you knew like the back of your hand. branches snapped under your feet, leaves whipped your arms. you risked a quick glance behind but…
nothing.
your stomach dropped.
“fuck,” you hissed.
you turned forward again and slammed into something solid enough to knock the air out of you.
you stumbled back, vision blurring, and then you saw him. standing there like a damn monument. like he had grown straight from the ground.
tengen didn’t even flinch.
he just looked down at you, expression flat except for that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“can you please stop running?” he asked, bored. “i’m trying to do this nicely, but you’re being quite rude. didn’t you learn to respect your elders, little girl?”
“rude?” you barked. “i’m being rude? you literally just told me my only choice is to come with you, gramps. why would i give up my good life to help out a bunch of old, outdated wrinkle bags like yo-”
you didn’t even finish the insult.
darkness snatched you before you could blink.
and the last thing you saw was tengen smiling.
“i think that’s enough out of you.”
…
now you sat in front of the clan’s higher-ups, wrists aching from where they had been bound, head pounding.
they had just informed you that you would be joining the clan and any escape attempts would be considered treason.
you laughed in their faces.
“so you’re kidnapping me so i won’t work with anyone else? you realize how stupid that sounds, right? you really think i won’t walk out of here the second i get the chance?”
“we are quite sure you will attempt to,” one leader said calmly. “which is why tengen will serve as your personal escort until you accept your arrangement.”
you turned left.
he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, smiling like this was all some sort of game. he even waved.
“you have got to be kidding me.”
“we look forward to having you as part of the clan,” the leader continued. “we hope you come to appreciate your position.”
everyone filed out.
one stopped at the door and said to tengen, “she is now under your care. do what you must to keep her in line.”
“understood,” tengen replied, with a small bow.
you sat in silence, mentally tracing escape routes.
“you can plot later,” tengen said, pushing off the wall and walking toward you with slow, heavy, echoing steps. “for now, come. i’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”
you were too tired to fight.
too sore to argue.
too annoyed to breathe.
but when he reached for your wrist, his fingers closing around your skin with a grip that felt more like possession than guidance, your body tensed.
and he felt it.
he leaned in, voice dropping to something low, something hot enough to spread across your spine like liquid fire.
“oh? still feisty i see.” he murmured. “good. i prefer breaking in my girls while they’re still kicking.”
you froze.
heat shot straight through your core, humiliating and involuntary.
he noticed. of course, he noticed.
“mm. sensitive, aren’t you?” he whispered against your ear. he stepped back, satisfied, and gestured toward the door.
“come along, darling. let’s get you settled.”
the worst part?
you followed.
your legs moved before your pride could stop them.
and his chuckle, deep and knowing, echoed through the hallway as you walked ahead of him.
“that’s a good girl.”
tengen walked you to your assigned room with a hand firm on the small of your back, guiding you like you were something delicate he still fully intended to control.
the room was… surprisingly nice.
a soft futon, clean blankets, a small dresser, a single warm lantern casting a golden glow.
it looked like comfort.
it felt like captivity.
“this is where you’ll be staying,” he said, stepping inside after you. “if you need anything, i’ll be right down the hall.”
you didn’t respond.
you crossed your arms and glared. pretending like you weren’t exhausted.
he didn’t mind your silence. if anything, he seemed entertained.
“rest,” he added. his voice softened just a touch. “you’ll think clearer in the morning, i’m sure.”
the door slid shut behind him.
the moment it did, your brain started planning.
…
you waited until the hallway quieted, the clan settled, and tengen’s heavy, confident footsteps disappeared into the night.
you slid the door open carefully.
the air was cool. the sky dark.
the tree line, your freedom, was right there.
you moved fast.
silent and precise.
your body knew how to escape better than it knew how to breathe.
twenty feet.
ten feet.
five.
almost there-
a strong arm hooked around your waist and dragged you back so abruptly your feet left the ground.
a gasp tore out of you.
you didn’t have to look to know who it was.
“little girl…” tengen murmured, voice low and disappointed in a way that twisted something hot in your stomach, “you really thought i’d let you get that far?”
your heart pounded violently.
“put me down!”
he hoisted you higher against his chest.
“mm. no.” he sounded almost fond.
“you’re coming back with me.”
you kicked, twisted, shoved at his chest, he didn’t budge.
“you know,” he said conversationally as he walked you back toward the room, “i was hoping you’d be smart. i warned you. i even asked nicely.”
his grip tightened just a little.
“but you wanted to test me, hm?”
your cheeks burned with rage and humiliation.
he slid the shoji door open and stepped inside, finally setting you down only to push you gently but firmly onto the futon.
you caught yourself on your hands, breath uneven.
“listen-”
he crouched in front of you, tilting your chin up with two fingers.
“no. you’re going to listen to me now.”
his voice was calm. too calm.
like a teacher’s patience with the promise of consequences underneath.
“you disobeyed me,” a thumb stroked your jaw. “so now i have to teach you what happens when you run.”
your thighs trembled before you could stop them.
he noticed immediately.
“take off your pants,” he said softly.
your breath caught. “i-i’m not-”
he leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “that wasn’t a request, sweetheart.”
heat flooded straight to your core.
with shaking fingers, you obeyed.
the second your pants hit the floor, he pulled you across his lap face down, ass up, like you weighed nothing.
his hand smoothed over your skin slowly. almost lovingly.
“i’m not punishing you to hurt you,” he murmured. “i’m doing it so you learn. daddy takes care of his girls… but he doesn’t tolerate running.”
you swallowed hard.
crack.
your body jolted, a sharp cry escaping before you could swallow it.
“count,” he said gently.
“o-one…”
“good girl.”
another slap.
harder.
“two…”
his palm rubbed where it stung, soothing, warm.
“see?” he cooed. “not so scary when you behave.”
by the seventh, your hips were trembling uncontrollably. your clit ached against nothing.
he could feel how warm you were through his thigh.
“up,” he said quietly.
you sat upright, shaky and flushed. he guided you onto the futon, laying you on your back, spreading your legs with careful hands.
he didn’t rush.
he didn’t tease.
he just looked at you, really looked at you.
“i’m going to make you come,” he said, brushing a finger down your slit. “but only when i decide you’ve learned your lesson properly.”
your breath stuttered.
he lowered his head.
his tongue slid over your clit in a slow, sinful circle that made your back arch.
“ah tengen-”
“not yet.”
he licked you again.
deeper.
slower.
cruelly gentle.
your hands flew to his hair, but he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the bed without lifting his mouth from you.
heat coiled in your belly.
“i-I’m close-”
he lifted his head immediately.
your whole body jerked.
“no.”
your eyes widened. “tengen, please, i-”
he dragged two fingers through your soaked folds, collecting everything dripping out of you.
“no sweet girl, i don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet,” he murmured, “i told you we’d be here until you do.”
you whimpered.
he lowered his head again and this time he devoured you.
his mouth wet with you. it was messy. him eating you like he was starving.
you cried out, hips bucking helplessly as he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking exactly how you needed.
“daddy- i’m, i can’t,”
“come,” he ordered against your skin.
the orgasm hit you so hard you folded around it, shaking violently, gasping his name.
you barely had time to breathe before he licked you again, this time overstimulating you without pause.
“w-wait, too much!”
“nuh uh, pretty,” he murmured, holding your thighs open effortlessly as you trembled. “you’re going to give me another.”
your brain went white as pleasure crashed through you again, your second orgasm ripping out of you with a strangled sob.
you thought he’d stop.
he didn’t.
his tongue moved slow now, lazy, dragging you through every aftershock as you squirmed weakly beneath him.
he kissed your inner thigh.
“lesson learned?” he asked softly.
you nodded, dazed, wrecked, barely conscious.
he smiled, warmly.
“liar,” he whispered, crawling up your body and cupping your cheek.“daddy’s not done with you yet.”
you were still shaking when tengen’s body pressed over yours, strong arms bracketing your head, his forehead resting gently against your temple.
you could barely breathe.
he could feel it.
“look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with admiration. “so fucked-out already… and i haven’t even been inside you.”
heat flooded your face. your thighs twitched involuntarily.
he smirked like he owned the reaction.
his hand drifted down your stomach, stopping right where you were still throbbing. he slid two fingers through your soaked folds, groaning softly when he felt how sensitive you were.
“you’re dripping,” he said, almost proud. “you want my cock that bad?”
you whimpered, turning your face into the pillow.
he grabbed your chin and turned it back.
“say it.”
“…yes daddy,” you whispered. “i want it. i need it.”
he kissed you slow and deep, like he was rewarding your honesty, before pulling back and untying the sash at his waist with one hand.
his cock was thick, heavy, flushed at the tip.
your mouth parted automatically.
he chuckled, leaning down so your lips brushed his jaw.
“don’t look at me like that unless you want your mouth full, little girl.”
you swallowed.
“we’ll save that for next time, as i’m sure this won’t be the last time i’ll have to reach you how to behave.
he guided the head of his cock through your slick, rubbing it up and down your clit.
your entire body jerked.
“s-sensitive, tengen-”
he stole your breath with a soft kiss to your cheek.
“i know.”
then he pushed in, until he was buried inside you, stretching you open around every thick inch.
your back arched off the bed with a strangled sound.
he cursed under his breath, gripping your hips to keep you still.
“fuck… you’re gripping me so tight,” he groaned. “sweetheart, you were made to take me, weren’t you?”
you shook your head, nails digging into his forearms.
“then relax for me,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “daddy’s got you.”
he gave you a moment until your tight walls fluttered around him.
then he started moving.
slow and controlled at first. deep enough that you felt every deliberate stroke.
your legs shook violently.
“tengen, i-i’m still, it’s too much.. i already-”
he pinned your wrists above your head with one large hand, leaning down until his lips ghosted your ear.
“i know you already came,” he murmured. “you can take more though, can’t you beautiful?.”
his hips rolled harder, deeper.
your voice broke into a sob.
you weren’t running anymore.
you couldn’t.
your body clung to him like you were trying to survive the pleasure ripping through you.
“look at you,” he breathed, thrusts steady and relentless. “so sensitive… so perfect… taking daddy’s cock even when you’re overstimulated.”
your eyes watered, your breath catching with every movement.
“tengen, i-i feel like i’m gonna,”
“good.”
he adjusted his angle, slamming into a spot that made you cry out his name. your cunt squeezed around him violently.
his breath stuttered against your throat.
“shit, do that again.”
you couldn’t stop it.
your body was already spiraling.
“daddy, i can’t,”
he let go of your wrists, grabbing your hips with both hands and fucking you harder now, fast, deep, and merciless.
“come for me,” he growled. “come on daddy’s cock.”
the orgasm exploded out of you so suddenly your vision went white.
you sobbed, actually sobbed, as your walls convulsed around him, squeezing him so tight he hissed through his teeth.
but he didn’t stop.
every thrust forced pleasure into you so sharp it felt like you were being torn apart by it.
“too much, daddy please, i c-can’t-”
he kissed the tears from your cheeks, voice soft even as he kept pounding into you.
“yes you can. you’re doing so good. just take it. take what i give you.”
your legs trembled uncontrollably, your nails scraping down his back without meaning to. you were so sensitive the drag of his cock felt like a shock each time he bottomed out.
your body convulsed again, another orgasm slamming through you..
your voice broke entirely.
tengen groaned, shuddering as your cunt clenched around him again.
“fuck, another one?” he chuckled.
his pace stuttered.
“you’re gonna make me lose my mind.”
you didn’t even know what sounds were leaving your mouth anymore.
your body was done, but he held you through the trembling, through the shaking, through every aftershock.
his thrusts grew harsher, his breath hot against your neck.
“where do you want it?” he panted. “inside you? on your stomach? on your tongue?”
you could barely think, barely breathe.
“i-inside, please inside.”
he groaned like the words broke him.
his hips snapped once, twice, and then he was spilling into you, deep and warm, holding you down as his body shook against yours.
he stayed inside you, catching his breath, his forehead pressed to yours.
his voice was a whisper, almost reverent.
“good girl… daddy’s perfect girl…”
his hand stroked your cheek softly.
“don’t try running again, kay?”
…
weeks pass.
somehow, against every stubborn bone in your body, you’ve become… part of the clan.
not seamlessly. and definitely not obediently.
your days are different now. full of early trainings, mission briefings, silent hallways, and clan members who still look at you like you’re a wild animal someone managed to leash.
but you’re adapting, you really are.
the first week, you hated everything; the rigid schedule, the formalities, the bowing, the “yes sir” and “no ma’am,” the restrictions on your movement. you weren’t used to anyone telling you where to be, what to do, or how to stand.
but you learned slowly.
you started sparring with other shinobi, completed your first patrol assignment, memorized the layout of the compound and even found a few people you didn’t mind talking to.
they respect your skill. fear it a little, too.
and that helps.
but your mouth… that’s still getting you in trouble.
because you talk back, you train too hard, push past directives, wander off where you shouldn’t
and sometimes, you forget to lower your tone when you get irritated.
which is where tengen comes in.
he doesn’t hover like he did in the first few weeks.
but he watches.
you catch him leaning against doorframes while you train or standing off to the side during briefings. appearing out of nowhere when you’re about to pick a fight with someone older, higher ranked, or just plain annoying.
clan members bow to him.
they step aside when he walks through the halls.
and every time you misbehave, their eyes flick from you to him… because they know.
he’s the one responsible for keeping you in line.
and he takes that role seriously.
your “lessons” aren’t public. and he never does anything humiliating.
they happen behind closed doors, in your room or his, whenever you cross a line he very clearly set.
and you always know when you’ve crossed it, because he gives you that look; calm, amused, and a little disappointed. the look that tightens your stomach instantly.
like last week, when you skipped morning training because you “didn’t feel like dealing with idiots.”
or two days ago, when you mouthed off to a clan leader and tengen had to pull you out of the room by your wrist.
or tonight…
dinner barely set down before you made a snide comment about the mission assignments being “boring as hell” in front of the higher-up who assigned them.
the table went silent.
someone muttered “she’s dead.”
tengen didn’t correct you in front of everyone. he doesn’t like to give you the satisfaction of a back-and-forth.
he simply set his chopsticks down, leaned slightly toward you, and said quietly,
“finish eating. then go to your room.”
there was no emotion behind it, or any edge to it.
just simple instruction.
you felt the heat crawl up your neck immediately because you knew exactly what that meant.
now you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, the room dim, hands resting in your lap as the seconds drag out. your heart won’t settle; every sound in the hallway makes your breath catch.
when the door finally slides open, you don’t even look up, you feel him enter.
tengen walks in slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click that makes your stomach twist.
he doesn’t speak at first. he just stands there, tall and broad in the low light, watching you.
he finally steps forward, tilting your chin up with two fingers.
his voice is dangerously soft.
“you’re growing into your role here.”
a thumb strokes your lip.
“your skills are impressive. the elders are pleased. even i’m impressed.”
but then his eyes darken; that familiar, warm warning.
“but your attitude…” his hand drops to your thigh. “it still needs work.”
your breath stutters.
“and you know what happens when you act out, don’t you?”
you swallow hard, thighs already tightening, and he gently nudges them apart again. not rough, but firm enough that your body reacts instantly.
he smiles soft.
joining the clan means being disciplined.
but teaching discipline?
that’s tengen’s job. and he is dedicated to his work.
ending notes: i hope you enjoyed this fic anon! thank you again for requesting. happy sunday and i hope to hear from you again soon :)
likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!
boxer!toji didn't care for much. except for megumi and his next paycheck. for being a well known name underground, that didn't correlate to day to day life. getting by was hard, until you came along.
boxer!toji was baffled that you agreed to take him and megumi in. being roommates with someone like him couldn't have been ideal for you. and his past history being a tenant was not squeaky clean. especially when he literally got kicked to the curb for blood staining the carpet in the bedroom. but you didn't mind that. you saw a man who needed your help, so of course, you weren't going to refuse.
boxer!toji couldn't gather the courage (or the balls, as sukuna likes to say) to tell you the truth about his profession. underground boxing was dangerous and could get you hurt. could get megumi hurt. so, he didn't bother mentioning it, until it became unavoidable.
boxer!toji wanted to know you after a while. you never poked or prodded into his business, which he was grateful for, but you stayed on your side of the apartment. you cooked, you cleaned and always helped with megumi if need be. he couldn't deny, he was curious about you. wanted to know more.
boxer!toji counted his lucky stars when you started to show interest. funny, a guy like him could pull anyone. but you should have known better than to give some jerk like him the time of day. you did and he wasn't going to fuck it up.
boxer!toji had rough hands, calloused fingers that were so thick and filled you up perfectly. your cunt clamped down on his fingers, making him smirk while you writhed beneath him, soft whimpers slipping your kiss swollen lips.
boxer!toji wanted to cum deep inside your pussy after being in it for a few seconds. his tip twitched and he flashed his mind with past injuries to calm himself down. he was supposed to have the stamina of a horse, not cum like a teenage boy out of excitement.
boxer!toji was meannnn. legs hiked over those deliciously broad shoulders, toes curling while his fat cock split you open. he fucked you like he was angry, didn't want you to walk and remember just how he split you wide open. not that you were complaining.
boxer!toji, despite his mean demeanor in bed, held you close and kissed the back of your head, wondering when he can do this again. except this time a lil softer for his sweet girl.
chapter one - the house in the trees || Ryomen Sukuna
Ryomen Sukuna X F!reader
❝You had stumbled into the forest half-dead, running from a husband who wore a badge and your bruises like trophies. When you collapsed past the tree line, you fell onto the land of Sukuna Itadori—a reclusive lumberjack with scarred hands and a silence that felt like a storm waiting to break.
Taking you in should have been temporary, but your presence turned his quiet world into something violent and fragile. As he hid you from the law that protected your abuser, protection twisted into obsession, and love became a dangerous vow. In the end, the story was never just about escape—it was about what Sukuna was willing to destroy, bury, and become to make sure the man who broke you never touched you again.❞
word count; 12.2k
cw ; abuse. smut. trauma. murder
main masterlist | series masterlist | next
By the time you ran, the sun was already sinking behind the mountains. Evening draped itself over the world in slow, heavy folds—blue and violet and the deep, bruised purple of a sky that hadn’t quite decided if it would grant you a night of stars or a storm. The house you had just left still seemed to cling to your lungs, to your skin—the stale alcohol, the shouting, the sound of his boots on the warped wood floor. It echoed in your chest with every breath you dragged in. You didn’t remember deciding to leave. One moment, your cheek had been pressed against the cool tile of the kitchen floor, your ribs throbbing where his fist had landed, your ears ringing with the distant sound of the television and his muttered curses as he stepped over you on his way to the door. The next, there had been a silence. The kind of silence that makes you realize if you don’t move now, you might never move again.
You were on your feet before you even knew you’d pushed up on shaking hands. Your legs protested, muscles trembling, but you shoved yourself toward the back door. Every inch of your skin ached as if it had been stretched too far and stitched back together wrong—your shoulder blazed, your stomach burned where a boot had connected, and you could feel your eye swelling, the skin tight and hot, vision blurred on that side. Your fingers fumbled with the lock. He’ll come back. He always comes back. His voice lived in your head; he didn’t even have to be in the room for you to hear him. You saw his glare in the dark reflection of the window, saw his mouth curl, heard the familiar sneer. Don’t forget who owns you. Don’t forget where you belong.
For a second, you hesitated. Then your hand twisted the lock, and the door clicked open. Cold mountain air slammed into you, sharp and clean, smelling of pine sap and damp soil and the faint ghost of woodsmoke from a house further down the road. You clutched the frame with one bruised hand, gulping it down like you’d been drowning for years and only just found the surface.
Then you stepped out.
You didn’t grab shoes. You had on the worn house slippers you always wore; thin soles that might as well have been paper. You didn’t grab a coat either, just your oversized sweater that fell to mid-thigh, leggings stretched over your sore legs. You didn’t bring money, keys, or your phone. There was no plan folded neatly in your mind—just the raw, animal instinct that said away. So you went. The gravel of the back path bit through your slippers, sharp stones grinding into your heels, but you kept going. Down past the splintered fence. Past the rusted pickup he’d promised to fix “one of these days”. Past the overgrown yard where last year’s frost-killed grass rattled in the wind.
Just go.
Your breath puffed white in front of you, each exhale a ghost. You headed toward the tree line behind the house, where the forest waited in a thick, dark wall of trunks and needles. The mountains rose beyond, blue-black shadows against a fading sky, ribs of earth jutting up like a giant had lain down and refused to move. You had always loved those mountains, from a distance. They had felt like something ancient and steady watching over the town. Tonight, they looked like a refuge. Or a grave. Your heart pounded so loud it made your swollen head throb. Every sound made you flinch—the crack of a branch, the far-off rumble of a truck on the distant road, the sudden flap of wings as a bird burst from a tree. You kept expecting to hear his truck tires on the gravel, his voice bellowing your name, promising what he’d do when he caught you.
The thought made your legs move faster. You plunged into the tree line. The forest swallowed you whole. The world changed the instant you stepped beneath the pines. Sound dulled, as if the trees themselves were cupping the night in their hands, muffling it. The air cooled further, carrying the resinous tang of sap, the loamy scent of damp earth and fallen needles. The ground softened, your feet sinking into a thick carpet that whispered with every step. You grabbed for the nearest trunk when the world lurched. Your vision doubled, the trees swimming. You pressed your forehead against the rough bark and tried to chase your breath back into your lungs. Each inhale rattled, scraping against your ribs. Your busted eye pulsed in time with your heartbeat, making the edges of everything glow gold and then fade. You couldn’t stop. If you stopped, you might lie down, and if you lay down, you weren’t sure you’d get back up. You pushed off the tree and kept walking.
You didn’t know how long you walked. Minutes, hours—it all smeared together into the rhythm of your feet dragging forward, the crunch-soft sound of needles, the catch of low branches in your hair. Once, your toe caught on a root, and you pitched forward. Pain exploded up your arm as you crashed to your knees, palms grinding into the forest floor. The impact stole your breath so completely that the world went white at the edges. For a moment, you remained there, on your knees, hunched over like some creature that had been dropped from too high. You fought the urge to just fold sideways and let the forest have you. Instead, you dug your fingers into the cold dirt, feeling the small, wet crumble of it under your nails, and pushed yourself back up. You wiped at your cheek automatically, only to realize it was wet not from tears but from blood—thin and warm, trickling from a split on your lip.
You’d forgotten that, too.
He’d hit you so many times tonight you’d lost track of the individual hurts, the places where his ring caught your face, the spots on your arms where his fingers left oval shadows of pressure. A mosaic of pain painted your body, and yet somehow, you were still moving.
Somewhere, beneath all of that hurt, there was still a pulse that whispered: I want to live. You clung to it. The trees thinned a little as you went deeper, opening in places where rock outcroppings broke through the soil. The light dimmed in stages, from the bruised blue of evening to the deeper navy of true dusk. A wind picked up, threading through the branches with a low murmur that sounded like words in a language you’d never learned. Eventually, you realized there was another sound, too. A distant, steady rhythm. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. You paused, head lifting.
You weren’t sure if you were really hearing it or if your brain, starved of anything but the pounding in your skull, was inventing it. But there it was again—regular, sure. Wood on wood. Or metal into wood. An axe, some far-off part of you supplied. Someone chopping. Out here? Hope was such a fragile thing that you almost didn’t trust it when it stirred in your chest. You looked in the direction of the sound, squinting with your one good eye. Between the trees, far ahead, there was the faintest suggestion of a clearing. A patch where the gathering dark was cut by a softer, warmer shade—a glow that might have been firelight or the last breath of the sun catching on something. You stumbled toward it. Every step hurt. Your lungs burned. The bruises on your ribs protested with knives of pain when you tried to draw in deeper breaths. Your left leg trembled so badly you had to drag it slightly. But the thought of light—of a house—pulled you like a tide.
The sound grew clearer. Thunk. The dull crack of wood split cleanly. You broke through the last line of trees all at once, like surfacing from deep water. A clearing spread out before you—small, ringed by pines, their tall, dark silhouettes framing the open space. In the center stood a house. Not large, not grand. Just a sturdy structure of dark, weathered wood and a sloping metal roof that gleamed faintly in the fading light. Smoke curled from a chimney, carrying the faint smell of burned pine and something that might have been dinner. A stack of chopped logs sat near one corner of the house, neatly piled. Another stack, half-finished, lay at the edge of the clearing, where a massive tree trunk had been cut into even rounds and there—beside that trunk—stood him. You froze, breath caught halfway out of your chest.
The man had his back to you at first, broad shoulders shifting beneath a faded flannel shirt rolled to the elbows. His arms were corded with muscle, forearms dusted with sawdust and a few pale scars. His jeans were streaked with dirt and sap, boots planted wide in the churned earth. He lifted the axe with practiced ease, swinging it up over his head before bringing it down in a clean arc. The blade bit into the log with a satisfying crack. Even from here, the motion looked effortless, controlled. He straightened, and you saw the buzz of his hair—a soft, pale pink against the sinking sky—and the way his profile cut sharp against the dim light. A strong jaw, a line of cheekbone, the curve of a mouth set in a slight frown of focus. And then he turned fully.
Crimson eyes met yours across the clearing. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. The wind fell away. The ache of your bruises, the sting in your eye, the wet on your lip—all of it seemed to recede to some far-off place. There was only the shock of being seen. Really seen, for the first time in what felt like years. You must have looked like something dragged from the river. Your sweater was twisted, dirt smeared on the hem. Your leggings were scuffed, one knee torn from where you’d fallen. Bruises were already blooming on your cheekbone and jaw, purple and green and ugly against your pale skin. Your busted eye throbbed, red-shot and swelling. Stray curls of your hair clung to your face, damp with sweat and tears. A flicker moved through his eyes—something quick and sharp, like a blade catching light.
He let the axe fall.
It hit the ground with a dull thud as he stepped forward once, twice. His boots sank slightly into the soft earth, leaving clear impressions. Up close, he was enormous, every inch of his 6’5” frame coiled strength, the kind that came from years of work rather than any gym. His flannel strained slightly across his chest. His throat, dusted with a hint of stubble, worked when he swallowed. “Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, edged with surprise and something like suspicion. “What the—” The world swayed. You tried to answer—tried to say anything at all—but your tongue felt thick in your mouth. Your hearing narrowed to a tunnel, his voice echoing oddly in your ears. The edges of your vision went fuzzy, shadows creeping inward. You blinked, wobbling on your feet. His eyes swept over you. Fast. Clinical. You saw the shift in real time—suspicion hardening, then cracking when he took in the state of your face, your arms, your posture. His gaze snagged on the purple-black fingerprints faintly visible on your wrist where your sleeve had ridden up.
His jaw clenched. “You’re bleeding,” he muttered, and this time there was no suspicion in it—just an assessment. A fact. He took a few strides toward you, each step eating up more of the space between. Instinct screamed at you to flinch away from anything that moved that fast. You stumbled back, your heel catching on a rock you hadn’t seen. Pain shot up your leg, your body jolting. You clutched at the air, fingers closing on nothing. The sky tilted. “I—” Your voice rasped out, barely audible. You swallowed, tasting copper. “Please, I—” He was in front of you then. He didn’t reach for you immediately. For one suspended second, he just stood there—close enough that you could see the fine scar along his left eyebrow, the tiny nick in his bottom lip, the way his pupils flared faintly as if adjusting to the sight of you. He smelled like sap and sweat and smoke, a clean, earthy scent, undercut by the faint tang of metal from the axe.
“Easy,” he said, quieter now. “You’re gonna go down if you keep trying to stand like that.” Your knees chose that moment to prove him right.
They buckled without asking your permission, and the ground rushed up to meet you. You didn’t even have time to throw your hands out; your body just… folded. But before you could hit the earth, strong arms wrapped around you. One slid under your knees. The other braced your back, careful but firm, fingers spreading across the bruises there without pressing too hard. It was shocking, being touched without pain. Your breath hitched, chest seizing. You found yourself lifted effortlessly off the ground, your weight cradled against a chest that was solid and warm even through layers of fabric. Your head lolled against his shoulder, curls brushing his jaw. He adjusted you, careful to keep your face turned away from his shirt, as if he’d seen the blood and didn’t want to smear it.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, the word not directed at you but at the situation itself. His voice vibrated through his chest and into your ribs. “You’re a mess.” You wanted to apologize for that. For being a mess. For bleeding on his evening. For appearing at the edge of his clearing like some half-ruined ghost. The apology got lost somewhere between your tongue and your teeth. Your fingers, of their own accord, curled into the fabric of his flannel. “Don’t—” The word rasped out broken and small. It felt like dragging glass over your vocal cords. You tried again, forcing your lips to cooperate, pushing through the buzzing in your ears. “Please… don’t send me back…” His steps faltered for a fraction of a second.
He looked down at you, and this close, you could see the exact shade of his eyes—crimson, yes, but warmer than you’d expected, like light seen through red glass. Long lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones. His brow knit, anger flashing there, not aimed at you but at whoever had put those bruises on your skin. “Back?” he echoed, voice low. “To what?” You tried to answer, to say the word husband, to explain, but your throat closed. Your body was giving up. Consciousness frayed at the edges like an old ribbon, threads pulling loose. The last thing you felt was the faint tremor of his chest as he exhaled, a long, controlled breath. “Hey,” he said, and the roughness had gone softer, almost reluctant. “Stay with me. Just a little longer.”
You couldn’t.
The darkness rose suddenly, like a wave that had been waiting all night to crash. It closed over your head, over the clearing, over the man holding you beneath the watching pines. Your grip on his shirt loosened as everything went black.
He carried you into the house. The door creaked as he kicked it open with a practiced movement, the sound familiar to him but lost to your unconscious ears. Warmth met you both—a heat from the woodstove in the corner, the faint glow from a lamp on the small table by the couch. The interior was simple but lived-in: sturdy furniture, shelves lined with tools and a few worn books, the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air. He shifted you carefully, lowering you onto the worn but clean couch, your curls spilling over the armrest, your hand flopping weakly to the side. For a moment, he just stood there, looking down at you. The lamplight caught the swelling on your face, the split at your lip, the shadow of bruises on your neck.
Something icy settled in his gut. He swore under his breath again, low and vicious, then knelt beside you. He checked your breathing first—steady, if shallow. His calloused fingers hovered near your throat, feeling for your pulse. It beat against his touch, fragile but stubborn.
“Who did this to you?” he muttered, even though you were in no state to answer. Outside, the trees whispered in the growing dark. Inside, the small house felt suddenly not big enough for the anger twisting through his chest.
He pushed to his feet, jaw set.
He’d clean you up. Make sure you weren’t going to die on his couch. Then, maybe, he’d decide what to do with the plea still echoing in his head.
Please… don’t send me back.
For the first time in a long while, Sukuna realized: someone had stumbled into his quiet, carefully kept life and asked—without even knowing his name—for his help, and whether he liked it or not, he had already started to give it. The woodstove crackled softly, casting shifting amber light over your bruised face as he went to get the first aid kit. The mountains outside held their breath.
You woke to the sound of water. At first it was just a distant rush, part of a dream you couldn’t quite climb out of—waves maybe, or rain against a window. Then it sharpened into something closer, steadier. The unmistakable hiss of a faucet running. Water hitting porcelain in a constant, echoing stream. Your eyes snapped open. The ceiling above you wasn’t familiar. Rough wooden planks instead of yellowed paint. A faint knot in the grain above your head that looked like an eye. The air smelled different, too—pine and smoke and clean cotton instead of stale beer and anger. For a moment, your body forgot where you were supposed to be and just remembered what it had learned: panic.
Your breath hitched. You jerked upright too quickly. Pain tore through your ribs like a blade, white-hot and sudden. You cried out, a small strangled sound, clutching at your side as the room tilted. The walls seemed to close in, shadows swelling and shrinking at the edges of your vision. Tears blurred your one good eye.
“Easy.” The voice came from the doorway, low and rough around the edges, you flinched so hard it hurt. Your hands flew up on instinct, wrapping around your torso as if your arms could shield your bruises, your bones, your skin from what came next. You curled in on yourself, shoulders hunching, knees drawing up as far as your battered muscles allowed. A choked sound crawled up your throat. “Please,” you gasped, words tumbling out before you could stop them, before you could even see clearly who stood there. “Please, don’t—don’t hurt me, I’ll be good, I’ll—” Your voice broke into a sob. You couldn’t see him through the tears at first, just a broad shape in the doorway, a darker silhouette against the warmer light behind him. Your heart hammered so loudly it drowned out the water, your veins roaring with the memory of his boots on the floor, his hand coming down, that look in his eyes when he—
“I’m not gonna hurt you.”
The man in the doorway spoke again, and this time the words were clearer. Slower. Measured, like he was picking each one from a shelf and making sure it was the right one before he handed it to you. His hands were up, palms facing you, fingers spread—an odd, almost clumsy gesture of surrender. You blinked hard, your vision scraping back into focus. It was him. The man from the clearing. Pale pink buzzed hair, crimson eyes, shoulders too broad for the doorway. He filled the frame and somehow still looked like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he knew how much space he took up. He stayed where he was. Didn’t cross the threshold. “You’re in bad shape,” he said quietly. “I’m not here to make it worse.” You sucked in a trembling breath, still crying. You couldn’t seem to stop; the tears came in hiccuping bursts, climbing up your chest and out of your throat even as you tried to swallow them back down. The more you tried to still them, the harder they shook you. You glanced around wildly, your brain scrambling to catch up.
You were in a small bedroom. The bed under you was firm but comfortable, covered in a charcoal gray blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and smoke. A dresser stood against one wall, topped with a couple of folded shirts and a small metal tin. A single window looked out into darkness, the glass reflecting a faint lamplight glow from the hallway beyond. The water sound kept going. Constant. Underneath everything. He jerked his chin toward the sound. “I, uh… drew you a bath,” he said, a little gruff. “Put some salts and oils in there. Stuff that’s supposed to help with bruises and cuts.” His gaze traveled over you for a second—fast but taking in too much. Your swollen eye, your split lip, the shadows on your throat. He swallowed, his jaw tightening. “You need it.” Your fingers dug into the fabric of your sweater, knuckles whitening.
He took a slow breath, like he was trying very hard to keep his tone level. “If you let it sit, those bruises are gonna stiffen up worse. Cuts might get infected.” His hands stayed raised, steady. “I can help you get there. If you want. Or I can… I don’t know. Leave towels by the door. But you shouldn’t be moving around on your own for long.” Everything inside you trembled. Your mind snagged on one word and wouldn’t let go.
Help.
You swallowed, the motion painful. “Are you…” Your voice was so thin it felt like it might tear. You cleared your throat, wincing. “Are you… going to send me back?” The room seemed to hold its breath with you and he froze. For a long, long moment, he just looked at you. His eyes were sharp and very, very awake. You saw something ugly flicker through them—anger, but not pointed at you. The kind of anger that made his teeth clench, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Back?” he asked slowly. “To whoever did that?” His gaze flicked deliberately over your injuries again, as if to emphasize the word. You nodded, your whole frame shaking. Your voice came out in a whisper, frayed at the edges. “My… my husband. We…” You swallowed hard, your throat protesting. “We… I’m supposed to be at home. He’ll be… he’ll be angry if…” The idea of that front door slamming open made your chest seize. You could see it so clearly—the way he leaned in the frame, the way his eyes scanned a room for something to break.
You shuddered, clutching your arms tighter around yourself. “Look at me.” The command was soft but firm. You dragged your gaze up, blinking through fresh tears. His crimson eyes held yours, steady as a hand on your shoulder. “I’m not sending you back to that,” he said. No hesitation this time. No edges. Just a flat, solid truth laid between you like a plank across a river. “You got that?” You stared at him. The words didn’t quite fit anywhere in your mind. They rattled around, looking for a place to land. No one had said something like that to you in so long that you’d almost forgotten it was a sentence that could exist, you swallowed. “I… I can s-stay… here?” The question trembled out of you like something newborn, he nodded once. “Yeah. For now, at least.” His mouth twisted, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere else.”
Something inside you gave out at that—not your body this time but some invisible knot you’d been holding tight for years. The sob that tore out of you was wet and messy and loud, and you tried to clap a hand over your mouth to silence it, but your fingers shook too much. He didn’t flinch at the sound. “Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s done, then. You’re staying.” He glanced toward the bathroom, where the sound of running water had shifted into a gentler spill. “But I still need to get you in that bath before you stiffen up so bad you can’t move at all.” You sniffled, tears sliding hot and constant down your cheeks. You tried to straighten your back. The effort sent a lance of pain from your ribs to your spine, and you winced, hissing between your teeth.
“I can… I can walk,” you started, because it felt like you should. Because it felt wrong to expect anything else from him after you’d already taken so much just by collapsing into his yard. You swung your legs over the side of the bed. The second your bare feet touched the floor, your knees buckled. The room spun. Your hands shot out for balance, clutching at air. A small broken sound left your throat, half protest, half fear. He was there before you could fall. His hand came out, not grabbing, just bracing—fingers hovering near your elbow, ready to catch but not closing until you tipped too far. When you swayed dangerously, he finally let them tighten, steadying you with a firm but careful grip. “You can’t even stand,” he said, exasperation scraping faintly into his tone. “You’ll faceplant before you get three steps.”
Your cheeks burned. Shame and helplessness tangled, thick and heavy.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, because that was the reflex that had been carved into your bones. Sorry for existing like this. Sorry for bleeding into his evening. Sorry for taking up space on his bed. He sighed, shaking his head. “You don’t need to be sorry.” He paused. “Look, I’m gonna pick you up now, alright? That’s all. I’ll set you on the edge of the tub so you’re not… walking into any walls.” Your heart stumbled. The idea of being lifted again made something inside you curl up—years of learning that being picked up meant being thrown, slammed, pinned. Your arms tightened around yourself instinctively.
He saw it.
He shifted his stance, kneeling slightly so he wasn’t looming over you. His voice dropped even lower. “I’m telling you what I’m doing,” he said. “No surprises. I’m not going to hurt you.” You stared at him, searching his face for a lie. It wasn’t a kind face, not exactly. His features were sharp, his mouth often set in a firm line, his eyes narrowed like he was always half-annoyed with the world. But right now, there was no cruelty in his gaze. Just a grim resolve and something like… concern, though it looked like he didn’t want to admit to it even to himself. “Okay,” you whispered, the word tasting strange. He slid one arm under your knees again, the other behind your back, hands careful to avoid the worst of the bruises he’d seen. His forearms brushed the curve of your thighs, your waist, your ribs, but there was no grabbing, no pinching. Just a steady, deliberate lift.
Your body tensed anyway, a tremor running all the way from your jaw to your toes. He scooped you up as if you weighed nothing at all.
The world rose and fell in his arms as he stood. You clung to his flannel without meaning to, fingers burying themselves in the soft, worn fabric. The smell of him surrounded you—pine, smoke, sweat, and something like cedar soap. The beat of his heart thudded steadily under your cheek. He carried you down a short hallway, boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The bathroom door was already open. Warm, damp air greeted you, foggy with steam. The tub—claw-footed and deep, the porcelain slightly chipped at the edges—was about three-quarters full of water. The surface shimmered with a faint sheen of oil, and you could smell eucalyptus and lavender rising in little waves. He set you down on the edge of the tub with careful hands, supporting your back until he was sure you were balanced.
Your feet dangled inches above the tiled floor. It was cold against your calves, sending a little shiver up your spine. You looked down at yourself and grimaced. Your sweater clung to you, stretched and twisted, stained with dirt and a smear of dried blood at the hem. Your leggings were torn at one knee. Underneath, you knew your skin was a map of purple and blue and yellow, each mark a small, ugly memory.
You swallowed. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of your sweater, trying to tug it upward, your arms shook too much. Every movement sent a fresh ripple of pain through your ribs, your shoulders, your back. Your busted eye throbbed, making your vision blur.
“I got it,” he said quietly, you froze, hands immediately letting go, sweater falling back over your thighs. He seemed to realize how that sounded, because he looked away immediately, turning his face toward the wall as if it were suddenly very interesting. A faint flush crept up the back of his neck, disappearing into the collar of his flannel. “I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I’ll… help with the clothes, that’s it. I’m not looking.” You studied him, your heart pounding. He stayed angled away from you, eyes fixed resolutely on a spot above the towel rack. His shoulders were tense, but not in the dangerous way you were used to. More like he was bracing himself to do something uncomfortable but necessary. Your fingers trembled in your lap, you nodded, even if he couldn’t see it. “O-okay.” He let out a slow breath, like that one syllable had been some kind of permission he’d been waiting for. “Lift your arms,” he said, still not looking.
You obeyed, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you raised your arms carefully, slow so you didn’t tug too hard on your bruised shoulders. The movement made your sweater ride up a little, exposing a strip of pale skin marked by a shadowed bruise along your side. He stepped closer, eyes still averted, and took hold of the hem of your sweater with gentle hands. His knuckles brushed your ribs, but there was no force in the touch, just a steady upward motion as he eased the fabric over your torso. Every inch higher exposed more of you to the cool air and his proximity—your stomach, mottled with the faint brown shadows of older hits and the fresh purple blooms of this night, the curve of your waist, the underside of your bra, you squeezed your eyes shut, cheeks burning.
He worked quickly, almost too quickly, as if he didn’t want you sitting there in that vulnerable halfway state any longer than necessary. The sweater slid over your shoulders, careful over your bruises, then over your head. He lifted it up and away, immediately taking a few steps back as if the fabric were something dangerous. You crossed your arms over your chest on instinct, hugging yourself, trying to hide the swell of your breasts beneath your plain bra and the scattered marks that dotted your upper arms. “Leggings next,” he said, voice a touch rougher. “Then I’ll get out.” You nodded again, throat too tight for words. He crouched in front of you, hands gentle on your ankles as he eased your slippers off first, setting them neatly to one side. His fingers were calloused, but they barely applied any pressure, like he was handling something fragile that might shatter at the slightest wrong move.
He hooked his fingers under the hem of your leggings, and you had to brace your palms on the edge of the tub as he carefully tugged them downward. The fabric dragged over your knees, catching slightly where a bruise swelled. You hissed, wincing. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s okay,” you whispered automatically, even though it wasn’t okay at all. He got the leggings down past your calves, then gently lifted each of your feet, one at a time, to pull the fabric free, never letting your bare soles touch the cold floor. He folded the leggings and sweater together in a quick, efficient motion and dropped them into a small hamper by the door.
Then he straightened and stepped back. You were left in your bra and underwear, arms clutched tight over your chest, skin prickling under his brief, unavoidable glance. You might have been soft and curvy and whole once—hair falling in natural ringlets down your back, freckles scattered over pale skin, a body marked only by its own shape. Now you felt like a bruise given human form. He swallowed, his gaze flicking away immediately. “I’m gonna lift you again,” he said quietly. “Set you in the water. You keep yourself covered however you need.” You nodded, shivering—partly from the cold, partly from everything else. He moved slowly, giving you time. When he slid his arms under you, he kept them as far from obviously private places as he could—one forearm bracing your back just below your shoulder blades, the other hooking behind your knees. You automatically crossed one arm over your chest, the other clamping over your stomach, protecting what you could. He lifted you with the same careful strength as before, lowering you slowly into the tub.
The water embraced your skin in a warm, liquid hush. You gasped softly as the heat touched your bruises, a weird mix of sting and relief. The lavender and eucalyptus rose around you, the scents curling through the steam, wrapping your senses in something softer than fear.
He held you suspended for a second longer, making sure you were balanced, then let your weight transfer fully to the tub. The water sloshed gently, sliding up to your waist, then higher as you sank down, your knees poking above the surface. You hunched forward, arms wrapping around your chest, trying to hide the curve of your breasts under your forearms. Your long curls—tangled and frizzy from sweat and strain—hung over your shoulders, some strands dipping into the water. He straightened, backing toward the door.
“I’ll be right outside,” he said. “If you need help. Towels are on the shelf.” His eyes flicked to your face, lingering there, never once dropping lower. “Just… take your time.” You nodded, throat thick. “Thank you,” you whispered. He didn’t respond, just dipped his chin in a short nod and stepped out, pulling the door nearly closed behind him. It stayed open a crack, just wide enough that you could see a sliver of the hallway light and the shadow of his boots planted there. You were alone with the sound of your own breathing and the quiet lap of water against porcelain.
For a moment, you just sat there.
The heat seeped slowly into your skin, coaxing tight muscles to unknot by millimeters. The ache didn’t disappear; it simply shifted, moving from sharp, stabbing pain to a deep, heavy throb. You dipped a hand into the water, watching it ripple out in small circles, distorted by the faint sheen of oil. When you tried to move, the pain flared again. You reached for the washcloth near the faucet, your arm trembling as you stretched. Your fingers grazed it, missed, and the motion jarred a bruise along your ribs. You hissed, teeth clenching, tears springing back to your eyes. “Dammit,” you whispered, surprising yourself with the word, you tried again, this time pushing a little too hard. Pain flared in your shoulder. The washcloth slipped from the edge and plopped into the water, drifting just out of reach near your hip. That was somehow worse than everything else.
You stared at it as your vision blurred, your chest heaving with shaky breaths. You were so tired. So tired of hurting. So tired of failing at even the smallest things. A sob ripped up your throat before you could stop it. You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, trembling, but the motion sent a new wave of soreness through your arms. You winced, the sound breaking into a whimper. You tried to be quiet. Tried to suck it in. But the soft, pained sounds kept escaping—small, ragged cries each time the water brushed over a particularly tender bruise, each time you tried to twist enough to clean your back and your muscles protested.
Outside the door, boots creaked. A quiet knock followed, knuckles rapping gently against wood. “You okay in there?” His voice came through muffled but clear. “You’re… making sounds that don’t exactly scream ‘having a good time.’” You choked on a wet little laugh that turned into another sob. “I’m f-fine,” you said, though you clearly weren’t. The word wobbled, watery. There was a pause. Then: “Can I come in? Just to help.” His tone was cautious, like he was approaching a skittish animal that might bolt. You stared at the washcloth drifting in the water, then at your trembling hands, streaked with faint soap suds. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt, and for some reason, the thought of him standing out there listening to you fall apart alone hurt too.
You sniffled. “Y-yeah,” you managed. “Okay.” The door opened slowly. He stepped in, closing it behind him this time to keep the warmth from escaping. He kept his gaze firmly locked on your face again, eyes flickering over the tear tracks on your cheeks, the way your shoulders hunched around yourself. “What’s going on?” he asked, quieter. You let out a shaky breath. “It just… it hurts,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I’m trying to… but…” You gestured weakly at the scattered bruises mapping your skin. “Everything’s sore. And I keep… dropping things.”
His gaze slid briefly to the washcloth floating by your hip, then back to your face. Something like sympathy flickered there, surprising on such severe features. “Yeah,” he said. “That tracks.” He crouched down beside the tub, knees creaking slightly. “Water helping at all?” You nodded, hugging yourself tighter. “A little.”
He glanced at your hair—tangled curls hanging limp and heavy, some strands clinging to your damp shoulders. “How about this,” he said. “You stay put. Let the water do the heavy lifting. I can… wash your hair, get the worst of the dirt off. The rest can wait till you’re not feeling like you’ve been thrown down a flight of stairs.” You huffed out a humorless little breath that might have been a laugh if it didn’t wobble so much. “It was more like a wall,” you said without thinking. “And the floor. And the… table.” He went very still.
A pulse of rage—cold and precise—flickered through his eyes. It wasn’t loud; it was something quieter and much more dangerous, the kind of anger that remembered every detail. “Right,” he said, after a heartbeat. His voice had gone almost too even. “Well. Either way. You’re not doing any of that tonight.” He reached for the shelf above the tub, grabbing a clean cup and a small bottle of shampoo. “You’re sure?” he asked, pausing. “About me helping?” You looked at him—this stranger in a flannel shirt and worn jeans, kneeling beside your tub as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. You had met him less than a 2 hours ago, and you were naked in his bathroom, your entire life blown open and scattered at your feet. It was absurd. It was terrifying.
But the way he waited… that was new, no one had waited for your yes in a long time. You swallowed. “I’m sure,” you whispered. He nodded, as if you had just confirmed some internal calculation, and rolled up his sleeves a little higher, exposing more of those scarred, muscled forearms. “Lean back for me,” he said. “Slow. I’ll support your neck.” You slid down until the back of your head touched the curved edge of the tub. Water lapped gently at your collarbones. You kept your arms crossed over your chest, guarding yourself. He cupped one big hand under your neck, calluses oddly comforting against your skin, and tipped the cup with the other, pouring warm water over your hair. The sensation was almost unbearably tender.
Water soaked your curls, trickling down your scalp, following the curves of your ears, sliding back into the bath. The warmth loosened some of the tension in your shoulders, your muscles reluctantly uncoiling a fraction. He worked quietly, methodically. When your hair was fully wet, he poured a little shampoo into his palm, rubbing his hands together before bringing them to your scalp. His fingers moved in gentle, careful circles, mindful of the tender spots near your hairline where you’d hit something. He didn’t scratch too hard, just enough to loosen the dirt and dried sweat, to massage the skin beneath.
You closed your eyes. For a moment, the bruises and cuts and fear receded, replaced by the simple, almost childlike comfort of someone washing your hair. No yank of impatience, no rough shove. Just slow, steady pressure and the faint scent of something herbal—rosemary and mint—rising in the steam. “You’ve got a lot of hair,” he muttered quietly, not unkindly. “It’s like… a whole forest.” You almost smiled. “Sorry.”
“There it is again,” he said, a touch of dry amusement threading through his voice. “That word. You gonna apologize every time you breathe?” You opened your eyes, tilting them up toward him. He met your gaze, one brow lifted slightly. “I’m just… used to it,” you admitted.
He huffed. “You don’t have to be used to it here.” Here. The word settled somewhere deep and aching inside you. He rinsed your hair carefully, cupping water over your curls until the suds ran clear into the bath. He guided your head up again, letting you sit forward. Your neck muscles protested, but not as much as before. The soapy water had done most of the work on the rest of your body. Dirt and dried blood swirled faintly near the surface, carried away as he reached for the plug and let a bit of the murky water drain before refilling the tub with fresh warmth. He kept his eyes on your face, your shoulders, never once letting them drop further.
“Think that’s enough for today,” he said softly, as the water rose again. “Don’t want you turning into a prune on top of everything else.”
You sniffled, giving a little nod. He stood, wiping his wet hands on his jeans absentmindedly, then grabbed a large, soft towel from the shelf. He spread it across his forearms, like he was preparing to catch something delicate. “You ready to come out?” he asked. A part of you wanted to stay in the water forever, suspended in that warm, humming quiet. But your skin was starting to wrinkle at the fingertips, and you could feel the exhaustion settling heavier in your bones. “I think so,” you whispered.
He moved closer again, positioning himself at your side. “Same deal,” he said. “I’ll turn around once you’re out. Just gonna wrap you like a burrito first so you don’t freeze.” The word burrito tugged a small, surprised sound out of you—a tiny laugh that cracked down the middle.
“Okay,” you breathed. He leaned down, sliding his arms under you with the same careful avoidance of your more private places. You clutched at the towel, helping pull it around yourself as he lifted you from the water. Heat left your skin in a rush, replaced by cooler air and the soft, enveloping weight of terrycloth as he wrapped you up.
The towel hugged your curves, your big, round butt and hips and all the parts of you that had once felt like yours instead of something to be weaponized against you. You shivered anyway, teeth chattering faintly as the bath’s warmth seeped away. He set you down gently on a small, padded stool near the sink, one hand always hovering close but never gripping without warning. You sat there in the towel, damp curls clinging to your cheeks and neck, while he reached into the cabinet under the sink. When he straightened, he was holding something folded—a soft, deep green bundle of fabric. “Got you something to wear,” he said. You blinked, still clutching the towel around yourself. “Where… where did you get clothes?” you asked, voice small, genuine curiosity slipping through the fog of pain.
He paused for a fraction of a second. His gaze dropped to the bundle in his hands, his fingers smoothing over it once. The fabric draped over his calloused skin—a long-sleeved nightgown, you realized as it unfurled. The material looked soft, worn in the way that came from many washes, the color faded slightly at the seams. “They were my wife’s,” he said. The word landed quietly in the small space between you. Your breath caught. You looked up at him fully then, past your own trembling, past your fear, and saw the way his eyes had gone distant, looking at something that wasn’t this bathroom at all. “She, uh…” He cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth tightening. “She died. Few years back.” He shrugged one shoulder, the motion a little stiff. “I didn’t get rid of everything.” Your heart twisted.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” you whispered, the words coming out almost reverent. Suddenly your bruises felt like too much and not enough at the same time, your pain bumping up against the shadow of his. He shook his head once, as if physically shrugging off the weight of the memory. “It was a while ago.” But “a while ago” didn’t erase the faint crack in his voice. He stepped closer, holding the nightgown out to you and keeping his eyes carefully on the tile behind your head. “It should fit. More or less. She was…” His gaze flicked toward you for half a second, taking in your soft curves wrapped in the towel, then darted away again. “Not too different from you.” You swallowed, throat thick. You loosened your grip on the towel just enough to reach for the dress. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured.
It was simple, really. Long-sleeved, the fabric flowing and soft, with a higher neckline and a skirt that would probably fall to your mid-calf. But there was a faint lace detail at the cuffs, a small embroidered pattern along the hem that spoke of someone who had liked quiet, pretty things. You hesitated, the weight of it suddenly heavy in your hands. “Are you sure?” you asked. “I don’t want to… disrespect her or…”
His jaw flexed. When he looked at you this time, his gaze lingered a fraction longer. “She’s not here to use them,” he said, and for the first time, there was a gentleness there that wasn’t wrapped in frustration or obligation. “You need them. That’s enough.” Your eyes stung for an entirely new reason. “Thank you,” you said softly, he nodded, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll wait outside,” he said. “You get dressed at your own pace. If you feel like you’re gonna fall over or pass out, yell. I hear pretty good.” A watery huff escaped you. “Okay.” He slipped out, the door closing most of the way behind him again. You were left staring at the green nightgown in your hands, fingers tracing the worn fabric. You imagined the woman who had worn it before you—standing in this same bathroom, maybe, brushing her teeth, laughing at something he’d said from the doorway. You wondered what kind of person she’d been to leave such a quiet imprint on the house.
You wondered if she’d been loved, you forced your shaking limbs to move. It was slow going. You tucked the towel more securely around yourself before wriggling into the nightgown, doing your best not to twist too sharply. The fabric slid over your skin like a sigh, soft and a little cool, settling around your body. It hugged your curves, clinging a bit at your hips and the swell of your butt before loosening as it fell. The sleeves were slightly too long, covering your wrists, the cuffs brushing the backs of your hands. For the first time in a long time, you were wearing something that wasn’t picked for someone else’s pleasure or convenience. Just a simple, soft thing meant to be lived in, slept in, existed in.
You took a shaky breath. “Okay,” you called quietly. “I’m… I’m dressed.” The door opened a moment later. He stepped back inside, eyes sweeping over you in a single, quick pass that didn’t linger anywhere inappropriate. Still, he seemed to register the way the fabric clung at your hips, an unreadable flicker passing through his gaze before he schooled his expression. “It fits,” he said gruffly. You nodded, arms wrapping around yourself again, more out of habit than necessity. “It’s… comfortable.”
“Good.” He grabbed another towel and carefully draped it over your head before gently rubbing at your curls, mindful of your tender scalp. He didn’t scrub, just pressed and squeezed, absorbing the worst of the water. When he pulled the towel away, your curls sprang up in damp, disordered spirals around your pale face, a few ringlets clinging to your neck. He set the towel aside and stepped back. You sat there on the stool in his dead wife’s nightgown, bruised and exhausted, your long brown curls haloed in frizzy damp, freckles stark against your pale, tear-blotched skin. You felt wrong and out of place and somehow… a little cleaner. A little more like a person than a bruise.
Your hands twisted together in your lap. “Thank you,” you said again, quieter now, the words laced with more than just gratitude for the bath. For the not sending you back. For the green fabric against your skin. For the way he’d knelt beside the tub and washed your hair like it was the most normal thing in the world. He shrugged, eyes dropping briefly to your intertwined fingers. “Don’t mention it.” But the way he said it told you he already had.
The house smelled like food. Real food, not boxed noodles or burned leftovers scraped from someone else’s plate. The scent came slow, threading out from the small kitchen and into the living room where you sat propped up on his couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket.
Your hands rested on your lap, trembling faintly even when you tried to hold them still. The couch was old but solid, the cushions sunken just enough to cradle you. A little boxed TV sat on a low table in front of you, its screen soft with static until Sukuna gave it a half-hearted smack on the side and the picture steadied—some sitcom rerun flickering in washed-out colors. A lamp on the end table cast a warm circle of yellow light over the room, pushing the forest-dark back from the windows.
You could hear him moving in the kitchen: cabinet doors opening, a pan hissing when something hit it, the clink of utensils. Every sound made you flinch before your brain reminded you where you were, who was here, who wasn’t. You were safe. At least for tonight. Your fingers curled into the blanket, clutching it a little tighter. When he finally appeared, he came with a plate in one hand and a small glass of water in the other. The plate was a simple brown ceramic thing, chipped a little at the edges. On it sat a seared steak, green beans glossy with butter, and a mound of mashed potato still steaming faintly. Your stomach cramped at the sight, half hunger, half fear. He set the plate carefully on the coffee table in front of you, then placed the glass of water beside it. Up close, the smell of the food hit you fully—pepper and salt, browned meat, the warm starch of potato. Your mouth flooded with saliva so fast it almost hurt.
You swallowed, hard and he straightened, wiping his hands on a dish towel tucked into his waistband. “It’s not fancy,” he said. “But it’s hot and it’s not out of a can.” Your hands shook harder. You stared at the plate like it might disappear if you reached for it too fast. Your ribs throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Part of you was already bracing for the voice you knew so well: Eat that and see what happens. Think you need all that? You’re already— You flinched, the phantom word still echoing in your head. “Hey.” His voice cut through, steady and low. “It’s yours. All of it.” He slid the plate a little closer to you. “You eat what you want. You don’t want something, you leave it.”
You wet your cracked lips. “He… he doesn’t like when I eat too much,” you blurted softly, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. “He says it’s… wasteful. Calls me…” Your voice thinned. “Names.” Sukuna’s jaw tightened. “Well,” he said, after a beat, “he’s not here.” The simplicity of it startled you. Like the fact that your husband’s body wasn’t in the room meant his rules didn’t have to be either—an idea so obvious you’d somehow forgotten it. When you still didn’t reach for the plate, Sukuna sighed and crouched in front of the table. “Can you hold a fork?” he asked, you looked at your hands, trembling in your lap. “I… I can try.” He picked up the fork and knife, cutting the steak into smaller, manageable pieces with quick, efficient motions. Then he speared a bite and held the fork out, hovering halfway between the plate and you.
You stared at it, cheeks burning. Being fed felt strange—childish, embarrassing. But your fingers shook so badly you weren’t sure you could get the food to your mouth without dropping it. He seemed to read that in your face. “Just for now,” he said. “Till the shaking dies down.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not babying, not pitying. “You’re gonna need both hands to hold the blanket up anyway.” A tiny, startled almost-laugh caught in your chest. You hesitated, then leaned forward and closed your lips around the fork. The moment the food hit your tongue, the world narrowed. The steak was simple—salt, pepper, a hint of garlic—but it was real. Tender, warm, flecked with fat that melted against the roof of your mouth. You chewed slowly, the flavor unfurling inside you like something you’d almost forgotten existed. You realized, distantly, that you were crying again.
It wasn’t the loud, shaking sobs from before—just silent tears spilling over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. You hadn’t eaten a full meal in… you didn’t even know. There had always been rules. Small portions. His leftovers. Comments said with a laugh that weren’t really jokes.
“Too much?” Sukuna asked, misreading your tears, drawing the fork back slightly. You shook your head quickly, swallowing. “No. It’s… it’s really good.” He watched you for a moment, then nodded and held out another bite. He fed you like that, quietly, while the TV murmured nonsense in the background and the woodstove ticked and popped. Every few bites, he’d nudge some mashed potato or a couple of green beans along with the steak. When your hands steadied a little, he set the fork in your fingers and watched to make sure you could manage on your own. You could. Barely. Your grip was clumsy, but you got the food from the plate to your mouth, and he let you do it without comment. When you’d eaten as much as you could, you set the fork down with a small, shaky sigh. Your stomach felt pleasantly heavy, unfamiliar in its fullness. “Thank you,” you murmured. “I… I haven’t had a meal like that in a while.”
“In a while?” he echoed, leaning back on his heels, arms draping over his knees. “He doesn’t feed you?”
“He does,” you said quickly, the defense so ingrained it came out on reflex. Then you grimaced, correcting yourself. “He… lets me eat. Just not… or he says not too much. He doesn’t like when I…” You trailed off, ashamed of the heat in your cheeks. “When you what?” Sukuna asked, not unkindly. You swallowed. “When I… when I’m not small enough,” you whispered. Your fingers dug into the blanket. “He says I used to be thinner when we got engaged. That I’m… letting myself go. That if I loved him, I wouldn’t be…” You gestured vaguely at your own soft curves. “Like this.” Silence settled between you.
You stared at the crumpled napkin in your lap, waiting for the familiar echo: Well, maybe he has a point. Or a joke at your expense. Something sharp. Instead, Sukuna grunted. “That’s bullshit,” he said flatly. You blinked, looking up. He met your gaze, eyes steady. “You’re not the problem,” he said. “He is.” Your throat tightened. You didn’t know what to do with that sentence, so you just tucked it away somewhere deep and aching. He sat back on the couch opposite you, one arm thrown along the backrest, watching you with that steady, assessing gaze. The lamp light caught in the red of his eyes, making them glow a little.
After a moment, he cleared his throat. “So,” he said. “Who is he?” You tensed. “My husband?”
“Yeah.” He nodded once. “Name.” You chewed on the inside of your cheek. The name tasted bad in your mouth, but you said it anyway. “Officer Hiroki Tanaka.” He snorted softly through his nose. “Figures.” Surprise flickered through you. “You… know him?”
“Small town,” he said. “You pick up things.” He scratched idly at his jaw. “I helped build the police station, back when they decided they needed something bigger than that old shack on Main. Saw him around. He’s known as a drunk more than an officer. Shows up late. Sleeps off hangovers at his desk. Lets the old ladies in town talk him into ignoring their sons’ speeding tickets.” The corner of his mouth curled, but there was no humor in it.
Your chest squeezed. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Part of you wasn’t. You’d seen the way he poured his drinks, the way his hand shook when he reached for his gun, how he laughed off mistakes. “He doesn’t… look like that when he’s in uniform,” you said softly. “He looks… official. Important. My parents thought he was… respectable.” Sukuna’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Your parents arranged it?” he asked. You nodded, fingers tightening in the blanket. “They said it was a good match. He has a stable job, they said. Good benefits. Someone who could… take care of me.” You laughed weakly. “He was nice at first. Charming, even. Brought flowers, helped with chores, acted like I was made of glass.”
“And now he uses you as a punching bag,” Sukuna said, voice gone flat again, you flinched at the bluntness, then nodded, eyes stinging. “He started drinking more,” you whispered. “At first it was just… yelling. Slamming doors. Then he threw a glass once. It hit the wall next to my head. He said I made him do it. That I shouldn’t talk back.” You stared at your hands, seeing other nights layered over this one. “It got worse from there.”
“Why?” Sukuna asked, you blinked. “Why what?”
“Why does he hit you?” He frowned slightly, like he knew it was the wrong question but needed to ask it anyway. “What does he say when he does it?” You hesitated, heart pounding. The words felt like knives in your mouth. “He says I make him angry,” you whispered. “He says I’m ungrateful. That I don’t follow rules. That I don’t listen. That I’m too quiet, too moody, too emotional. That I embarrass him when I… when I get overwhelmed in public.” Your teeth sank into your lip. “He says if I were a better wife, he wouldn’t have to teach me lessons.” Sukuna’s expression darkened, the muscles in his forearms flexing as his hands curled into fists against his knees. “That’s not why he hits you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “He hits you because he’s a coward and because he knows he can get away with it. That’s it.” A tremor ran through you.
You wanted to believe him. Some tiny, starving part of you lapped up the words like water. But years of being told that everything was your fault didn’t loosen their grip easily. Your voice came out small. “I… I should’ve left earlier,” you said. “I should’ve seen it coming.” He blew out a slow breath through his nose, as if physically pushing back his anger so it didn’t burn you by accident. “Maybe,” he said. “But you didn’t. And you’re here now. That’s what matters.” Here. Again, that simple word. You swallowed hard, then glanced up at him. “How did your wife die?” you asked quietly. The question felt almost intrusive, but it had been sitting there on your tongue since he’d mentioned her in the bathroom. “If… if you don’t mind telling me.” Something shifted in his face. The anger drained away, replaced by a different kind of heaviness. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing a thumb over a scar on his knuckle.
“Car accident,” he said after a moment. “Winter. Black ice on the road.” His jaw tightened. “She was coming back from town. Low visibility. Some idiot took the turn too fast, slid into her lane.” Your breath caught. “Oh.”
“They called me down to identify her,” he went on, the words slow, like each one cost something. “I still had sawdust in my hair. We’d been working out near the ridge that day.” He dragged a hand over his face. “Everything after that is just… quiet. Too quiet. House felt wrong without her in it.” You watched him, heart aching in a way that had nothing to do with your bruises. “Is that why you live all the way out here?” you asked softly. “Because of her?” He shrugged one shoulder. “Partly. We picked this place together. She liked the trees. Said they sounded like waves when the wind hit right.” His gaze went distant, as if he could see her sitting where you sat now. “After she died, the town felt… small. Everyone staring like they knew the right words to say. Like they wanted to fix something they couldn’t. Out here, it’s just the trees. They don’t ask questions.” He looked back at you then, something raw and tired in his eyes. “And the work?” you asked. “The… lumber?”
He huffed faintly. “Been doing it my whole life,” he said. “Foreman calls, we go out, we cut what needs cutting. Simple. Predictable. Trees don’t get drunk and throw punches either.” A humorless little breath escaped you. “No,” you agreed. “They just… fall on you if you’re not careful.” He smirked, a tiny, reluctant curve of his mouth. “Yeah. But at least you see it coming.” The clock on the wall—an old, round thing with faded numbers—ticked steadily above the TV. He glanced up at it, eyes narrowing. “Shit,” he muttered. “It’s late.” You followed his gaze. The hands pointed just past eleven. Outside the windows, the forest was a single dark mass, the sky beyond thick with clouds. The sitcom had long since ended, replaced by some grainy late-night program.
He pushed himself to his feet, joints popping slightly. “You need sleep,” he said. “Your body’s gonna heal better if you’re not forcing it to stay upright.” You nodded, suddenly exhausted down to your bones. He moved to the couch, sliding one arm behind your back and one under your knees again. By now, your body recognized the motion enough to tense less, though the tremble stayed. He lifted you easily, the blanket sliding with you, wrapping around your legs. He carried you down the short hallway, his boots soft against the wooden floor. In the bedroom, the lamp on the nightstand cast a gentler light over the bed. He lowered you onto the mattress with the same careful precision, adjusting the pillows so they supported your head and shoulders without pressing too hard on your bruised ribs. The blanket whooshed over you in a soft rush as he pulled it up, tucking it lightly around your sides.
“You need anything before I leave you to it?” he asked. “Water? Extra blanket?” You shook your head slowly. “I’m okay. Thank you.” He nodded once. “I’ll be on the couch,” he said. “If you need something, just shout. These walls are thin.” You bit your lip. “I’m… I’m sorry,” you said softly. “For what this time?”
“For… taking your bed. Making you sleep on the couch. Showing up like this.” You gestured weakly at yourself, at the bruises, at the whole ridiculous situation. He exhaled, a sound that was half-sigh, half-grunt. “Stop apologizing for being alive,” he said. “You didn’t ask for any of this. And I’ve slept on worse.” Still, the guilt clung to you like smoke. He reached over and switched off the lamp, plunging the room into softer darkness. Moonlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, painting pale rectangles on the floor and the edge of the bed. The house settled around you with small nighttime noises—the creak of aging wood, the faint whisper of wind at the windows. You listened as he left the room, the hallway light flicking off with a tiny click. You heard the bathroom faucet turn on, the muted splash of him washing up, the soft rustle of clothing. Then the couch springs creaked under his weight in the next room, followed by a low grunt as he stretched out.
Silence fell—thick, layered with the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock in the living room, the distant call of some night bird in the trees. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, your heart pounding like it hadn’t gotten the memo that you were safe. Your hands trembled under the blanket. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw your husband’s face—red with rage, spittle flying as he shouted, the glint of his badge catching the kitchen light, his boots planted on either side of your body. He’ll come back. He always comes back. Your throat tightened. You swallowed hard, but the fear didn’t budge. It swelled, crowding your lungs, making the room feel smaller, the shadows heavier. You clung to the blanket, fingers knotting in the fabric, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you heard yourself whisper into the dark.
“Sukuna?” The silence after your voice faded was long enough to make you regret it instantly. Then you heard the couch springs shift, a soft thump as feet hit the floor. His footsteps came down the hallway—slow, not rushing, giving you time to brace. The doorway darkened as he appeared, a taller shadow against the thinner gray of the hall. “Yeah?” he asked. In the spill of moonlight from the window, you could see him more clearly—hair damp and flattened from a recent wash, flannel shirt swapped out for a plain white T-shirt that stretched across his chest and shoulders. He leaned one hand on the doorframe, posture relaxed but eyes alert. You swallowed, nails biting into your palms under the covers.
“When I… when I get better,” you said slowly, each word feeling like it had to be pried out from under something heavy, “are you going to… want me to go? Away, I mean.” He frowned, as if the idea offended him somehow. “Go where?” he asked. “Back,” you whispered. The word slipped out on a tremor. “To him. Or… anywhere. I just… I don’t want to be a burden. I know I already am but—”
“You’re not a burden,” he cut in, his tone firm enough to make you stop. He stepped fully into the room, crossing his arms over his chest. “And no. I’m not sending you back there.” You looked at him, searching his face in the dim light. “Even when I’m not… hurt anymore?” you asked. “Even when I can walk on my own?” He nodded. “You can stay here as long as you want,” he said. “You want it to be a week? Fine. A month? Fine.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Forever? We’ll figure that out when we get there.” Something inside you shuddered.
You hadn’t realized how sure you’d been that this was temporary—some kind of brief reprieve before the inevitable return. Hearing him say that you could stay, that he wouldn’t shove you back into the life you’d run from, made your eyes sting. “But if someone finds out,” you whispered, voice shaking. “If they know I’m here—” He stepped closer to the bed, stopping a respectful distance away, the moonlight catching along the line of his jaw. “Who?” he asked. “The town? Your husband?”
“All of them,” you said. “He’s an officer. He knows everyone. He’ll tell them I’m… crazy, or that I ran off with someone. They’ll believe him. They always believe men in uniforms.” Your breath hitched. “I don’t want him to find me. I don’t ever want to see him again.” The last sentence came out on a sob you couldn’t hold in anymore. He looked down at you for a long moment, your tear-bright green eyes, your trembling hands clutching his blanket, your face half-lit by the moon and half-shaded by fear. “I get that,” he said quietly, you swallowed. “What… what will we do if he comes?” you asked. “If he finds this place? If he brings other officers? They’ll say I’m his wife and that I have to go back. They’ll drag me out. They’ll call me… they’ll say I’m ungrateful, that I’m abandoning him. That—”
“Hey.” His voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. “Enough.” You bit your lip, tears spilling hot and fast. He took a slow breath, as if weighing how much to say. “This place?” he said. “Most people in town don’t know it exists. Road up here’s barely a road. I helped build the station, remember? I know their routines. Their blind spots.” His mouth curved into something dangerous and almost smug. “And I sure as hell know how to deal with a drunk with a badge.” You stared at him. “He has a gun,” you whispered. “I work with chainsaws,” Sukuna replied dryly. “And axes. And trees that weigh more than his car.” He tilted his head. “He’s not the scariest thing in these woods.” A shaky, disbelieving sound slipped out of you—a mix of fear and something almost like relief. “But if the town finds out—” you started.
“Then we cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. “You’re scared. That makes sense. You’ve been living under his rules so long you think the whole world runs on them. It doesn’t.” He pinned you with that steady crimson gaze. “He doesn’t get to write the story out here.”
You swallowed, the words scraping down your throat like something too big to swallow all at once. “You’re really not going to send me back?” you asked again, because some part of you needed to hear it twice, maybe three times, before it believed. “For the last time,” he said, a note of impatience that somehow didn’t sting, “no. I’m not sending you back. Not tomorrow. Not when your bruises fade. Not ever, unless you walk out that door on your own two feet and tell me you want to go. And even then…” His mouth tightened. “I’d probably argue with you about it.” Your lip trembled.
The room was so still you could hear both your heartbeats—the rapid flutter of yours, the slower, steadier thump of his as he stood there guarding your doorway. “Okay,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Okay.”
“Try to sleep,” he said, softer now. “Your body’s got work to do. You can freak out again in the morning if you want. I’ll still be here.” The promise curled around you like a second blanket. He turned to go, but you heard yourself speak again before he reached the door.
“Sukuna?” He paused, glancing back. “Thank you,” you said. Your voice was small and raw, but there was more in it now—gratitude, grief, the faintest thread of something like trust. “For… all of this. For not… for not sending me back.” He studied you for a moment, then dipped his head in a short nod. “Get some rest Y/n,” he said. Your name in his mouth felt strange and solid and real. He slipped out into the hallway, and the darkness folded around you again, softer this time. You listened to his footsteps retreat, to the couch creak under his weight, to the long exhale he let out as he settled.
The moon climbed a little higher, pale light sliding slowly across the floorboards. Wrapped in a dead woman’s nightgown, in a stranger’s bed in a house in the trees, you lay there with your bruises and your fear and the faint, fragile beginnings of something else—something that felt dangerously like hope—taking root in the space his words had cleared.
You closed your eyes.
For the first time in a very long time, even with your hands still trembling under the blankets and a world of problems waiting just beyond the tree line, sleep eventually found you.
a word from lex: we r sooo back guys. i have just recently moved so i've been suuuuper busy but i am now here and ready to subject you all to my dispatch brainrot.
content warnings: 18+, minors dni!!!, coworker romance, herm is his usual self (yes he stutters), supply closet sex, crybaby waterboy, guys its been a minute pls excuse any i missed as well as any typos!
this beautiful fanart belongs to @/cholvoq on twt
'hey siri, play closer (ode 2 u) by ravyn lenae'
you were the new dispatcher at the sdn torrance branch. no powers, no chrome, no special abilities. just instinct, precision, and a temper sharp enough to slice through most egos.
it made you perfect for the job.
the z team took to you immediately. even robert, mechaman himself, took a liking to you as quickly as his team did.
“damn,” golem snorted one day, “you talk back worse than robert.”
“that’s why we need you on our comms,” flambae added, nudging your shoulder.
they said it jokingly.
you knew they meant it a little, but you loved the team you had. still, that didn’t stop you from hanging out with the z teamers.
after-shift boba runs, shitty group karaoke, late-night snack runs after shifts.
they dragged you into all of it.
except waterboy.
waterboy never talked to you. not once.
you thought he was shy at first, everyone knew that, but months went by.
months.
he’d talk to the team, laugh with them, even linger after missions… and the second you walked in?
off switch. radio silence. staring at the floor like you were a ghost.
so one day, after catching him in the hallway alone, you decided enough was enough.
“hi herm,” you said, stepping into his path, “why don’t you ever talk to me?”
he froze.
wide-eyed, blinking rapidly; not a single word came out.
the silence lit something hot in your chest.
“seriously? nothing? we work in the same building together, every day and you can’t say one word to me?” you pressed, irritation sharp in your voice. “i get that you’re shy, herm, really, but going dead silent every time i walk in? that’s kinda rude-”
he grabbed your wrist.
not rough, but firm enough to shock you a bit. he pulled you into the closest supply closet, shutting the door behind you with a shaky little click.
“herm, what the hell is your problem?”
he was mumbling, trying to speak, but you kept talking over him.
“if you have something to say, say it. i’m not psychic, i can’t-”
and then he kissed you.
it was soft, clumsy, and a bit desperate.
you froze, gripping the shelf behind you.
“...what was that for?” you breathed.
he was bright red, shoulders hunched, fingers twisting in the fabric of his own suit.
“y-you’re… you’re s-so pretty,” he stammered, voice cracking. “a-and you wouldn’t stop talking and i-i needed you to stop. just for a second.”
you blinked slow, finally realizing.
“that’s why you wouldn’t talk to me? herm… you think i’m pretty?”
you slid a hand into his hair, tugging gently. his breath hitched.
“do i make you nervous, waterboy?”
a tiny whimper escaped him. “yes…”
your smile curled, wicked.
you brushed supplies off the rolling cart behind you and sat on the edge, tugging him closer by the front of his suit.
“how nervous?”
he swallowed, trembling, whispering against your lips.
“v-very…”
that’s when he finally snapped.
not in anger, but in need.
he kissed you again, harder this time, hands bracing on the shelf beside your head like he needed the structure to stay upright.
“i s-shouldn’t…” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “i’ve wanted you for so long, i can’t hold it in anymore.”
“then don’t,” you whispered.
and he didn’t.
he pushed you gently back onto the cart, hands shaking as he spread your thighs. when he felt how wet you already were, he froze.
eyes going glassy.
“o-oh, oh my god,” he whispered. “is… is this because of me?”
you can’t help but let out a giggle. “it is, hermy.”
his breath shuddered. he tried to hide his face, but you caught his chin and forced him to look at you.
“don’t hide,” you murmured as you started to strip.
the first tear slipped before he could stop it.
he quickly, and clumsily, undressed himself once he saw you slip off your pants.
“i-i’m not crying,” he insisted, voice cracking in the most obvious lie on earth, “it’s just- you’re so- and i-i can’t,”
he cut himself off with a groan as he pushed into you for the first time.
the sound he made; broken and choked, went straight through you.
“f-fuck it’s… warm- i-i-,”
his hands clawed at your hips, trying to ground himself, but another tear slid down his flushed cheek.
you pulled his hair gently, forcing his eyes back on you.
“keep looking at me.”
he whimpered.
he set a rhythm eventually, deep desperate thrusts that made his breath hitch each time he bottomed out.
“you feel so good,” he whispered, voice shaking, “i’ve been wanting this s-so bad. please don’t tell the others, they’ll never- never let me live it down.”
you internally giggled at him worrying about what his teammates would think as he actively thrusting into you.
you moaned his name and his knees nearly buckled.
“don’t- don’t say it like that,” he gasped, “i’ll- f-fuck, i’ll lose it,”
his pace stuttered. he bit his lip hard, trying to stop himself from full-on crying.
but the orgasm hit him too fast, too hard. he let out a strangled sound, thrusting through it even though he was shaking, tears spilling freely now.
afterwards, he collapsed against you, breathing heavy into your neck.
“i-i’m sorry,” he whispered, still trembling. “i didn’t mean to get… emotional. i just- you’re a lot. but in a good way. a r-really good way.”
you stroked his hair and he melted instantly, clinging to you like your touch was the only thing keeping him alive.
“don’t be embarrassed, herm. it was cute.”
“d-don’t say that,” he groaned weakly, face buried in your neck.
you laughed softly, holding him closer.
and for once, herm didn’t run away.
he stayed. trembling, flustered, blissed out.
and he talked to you.
finally.
like he’d been wanting to this the whole damn time.
ending notes: i dont have much to say but i will be getting back into the swing of things. ily bye.
pornstar!nanami who started out on a whim; one of his friends suggested he do a few shoots because it had 'pretty good pay.' A few shoots came and went, and he just never stopped, garnering a good-sized fanbase who went crazy for his cock.
pornstar!nanami was a tall man with an athletic build & was so good with his dick that even his fellow stars had started harboring crushes on him. He was just that good at making them cum.
pornstar!nanami was well-endowed and stayed hyper aware of it when working with any of the actresses. Careful not to push them too far when it was scripted for him to fuck them mid-air or fold them in half.
pornstar!nanami would end each and every shoot with claw marks on his back and a quiet calmness when he'd go home. To be alone.
pornstar!nanami was always vigilant to all of his friends & coworkers that he wanted to stay single—he never wanted a woman to have to see him fuck someone like an animal when they were supposed to love each other.
pornstar!nanami was lonely, yes. But he would never want to hurt someone like that, so for years as his career grew, he stayed single, rarely ever even hooking up with someone.
pornstar!nanami went to pornstar!suguru's Halloween party, after almost two weeks of Suguru and Satoru trying to convince him that it'd be a small, fun party of getting drunk, watching movies & just taking a night to themselves.
pornstar!nanami froze in the kitchen when his eye caught you, laughing quietly in the corner with Suguru's wife, drink in hand. He felt the world slow. You were ethereal to him.
pornstar!nanami walked up to you the moment he saw you alone and started talking to you. And you were something he just felt magnetized to. The glimmer in your eye, the way you laughed at his shitty jokes, the way he knew you knew what he did for a living and didn't bombard him with shitty questions.
pornstar!nanami who'd gotten your number looong before the night had the chance to end, asked you out for a date at a coffee shop a few nights after the party—surprising himself greatly—and got even more surprised when you offered something private, at your place.
pornstar!nanami thought you were so considerate when you texted him "I've been friends with Suguru for years, & all it takes is one person to recognize him from his films. I'm sure you wouldn't want that on a date."
pornstar!nanami came over to your house for dinner & wine, and the two of you shared good conversation... He seemed just so sweet & kind that you ended up kissing him.
pornstar!nanami felt like a teenager with no self-control again, when he propped you up on the kitchen counter, planting searing kisses on your throat as you unbuttoned his shirt, tugging him as close as you could.
pornstar!nanami buried himself so deep in you, he forgot how to breathe for a second when you pulled him close to whine into his chest, setting up a slow & steady pace before lifting you off the counter and taking you towards your bedroom.
pornstar!nanami laid back & let you ride him as white-hot pleasure ripped through the two of you with each rise of your hips, soon holding you steady so he could fuck up into you when your thighs started shaking.
pornstar!nanami tensed up, careful not to drop you as the frothy mess slowly dripped down his shaft onto his balls, and caught his breath while slowly sinking you back down him for the last time. rubbing tender circles where his hands had just gripped.
pornstar!nanami guided you down to lie on his chest while whispering how good you were & making sure you were still ok before pressing a few soft kisses to your forehead as you cuddled against him.
pornstar!nanami called pornstar!suguru in the middle of the night to thank him for helping him meet the woman he was sure would one day be his wife, arms holding your sleeping figure closer to his chest.
a word from lex: halloooo, i won't be doing a full event for kinktober this year cause my schedule is tewwww busy but please accept this piece of work as my small contribution ;p. i always have fun writing geto so i hope i have once again done him justice. please take heed to the content warnings!
content warnings: 18+ minors dni!!!!!!!!, 4.2k words, slightly canon jjk verse, dub-con (?), demon/devil! geto (he is based off of mephisto the marvel villan), sorcerer!reader, power imbalance, size kink, praise & degradation, aphrodisiac use, very mild spit play, tongue fucking, oral (f! receiving), monster/demon fucking, manipulation, dark themes, light corruption, overstimulation, biting, slight choking, rough sex, squirting mention, geto calls reader 'pet', death mention, reader does not make it to the end (kinda), reader is fem, please excuse any typos and any warnings i may have missed!
'hey siri, play wicked games by the weeknd'
“(reader’s) survival is confirmed. a death sentence is instated. she is permanently exiled from the jujutsu world. furthermore, any aid or asylum given will be deemed a criminal offense.”
it’s been three months since you got blacklisted from jujutsu society. three months since you decided to take things further than anyone else would to avenge your sister. an eye for an eye.
you really thought the higher-ups would understand. thought they’d get why you did it, why you had to do it.
wishful thinking.
either way, you decided to go out with a bang before they threw you to the wolves. a little parting gift; taking the eye of one of those pompous bastards as a keepsake. something to remember them by, since they clearly saw you as disposable.
safe to say, they didn’t appreciate that.
ever since headquarters sent out the notice, you’ve been fighting constant battles; mentally, physically, spiritually, just trying to stay alive long enough to escape. but with each passing day, it’s gotten harder to stay afloat. you’re exhausted.
and today might finally be your breaking point.
you got ambushed at your latest hideout by a few old coworkers, people you once called comrades, and you’ve been running like hell since, knowing damn well you don’t have the strength to fight back.
“you know you can’t run forever, right?” one of them calls out.
“well, duh,” you shoot back, breath ragged. “doesn’t mean i’m gonna let you catch me, fuckin’ loser.”
you’ve been running for ten minutes straight, lungs burning, legs aching. just when you think you see a way out, you’re met with, of course, a wall.
“shit…” you mutter.
“looks like you’re about to let this loser catch you.”
is this really it? was everything you did for nothing? killing the sorcerer who took your sister’s life, getting blacklisted, hunted, forced to run for months, all just to be stopped by a fucking wall?
you start to laugh.
it starts as a small giggle, then grows into a full-blown fit. it’s absurd. all of it. and maybe, finally, you’re ready to stop running.
“...i’ve been watching you,” a voice says in the distance.
“no shit, you just caught me,” you spit, still laughing.
“huh? i didn’t say anything. you finally losing it?” your old coworker sneers.
“what? no, you just-”
“you’ve been running for so long,” the voice interrupts, smooth and deep, cutting right through the chaos. “let me give you a way out.”
“w-who…? a way out?”
“open the door.”
“the do- what fucking door? this is a wall, there’s no way-”
but when you turn, you see it. a light green door covered in white osmanthus, shimmering faintly against the brick.
when the hell did that get there?
“i’d suggest stepping through if you want to live another day,” the voice says calmly. “you took the eye of a higher-up. i doubt they’ll be forgiving.”
you look around. your pursuers are closing in fast. you don’t have much time.
what do you have to lose?
you grab the handle and step through.
and suddenly you’re not in the city anymore. you’re on a beach. the transition is so sharp that the blinding sunlight makes you squint, disoriented.
“where the hell am i?” you mutter.
“don’t worry,” that same voice murmurs. “you’re somewhere safe.”
that voice again. the one from the city.
“uh yeah, sure. you’re not planning on killing me, are you? i’ve got a few people who’d love to beat you to it.”
“i’m aware,” he replies smoothly. “don’t worry. the people who want you, want me too.”
you turn in circles, scanning the beach. the voice sounds close, right in your ear, but you can’t see anyone.
“besides,” he adds, tone playful now, “they say the enemy of my enemy is my friend, yeah?”
the sudden proximity makes you jump. it feels like he’s right behind you, whispering against your skin. you whirl around, but he’s gone.
“okay, this hide-and-seek thing is cute, but can you just tell me who you are and why you helped me?”
“fair enough.”
in an instant, the world shifts again. you blink, and you’re sitting in a quiet café. the smell of coffee and pastries fills the air. in front of you sits a man you don’t recognize.
tall, broad shoulders, long black hair framing his sharp features.
“how in the hell do you keep doing that?” you ask, still catching your breath.
he smiles faintly. “the infamous (reader). it’s nice to finally meet you.”
“again, how the hell did you do that? and how do you know who i am? have we met before?”
“oh, not at all,” he says easily. “but i’m hoping we can get acquainted.”
you study him carefully. even sitting, you can tell he’s tall. his hair is tucked neatly behind his pierced ears, his smile calm and deliberate.
he’s striking.
the kind of man you wouldn’t feel bad calling pretty.
“pretty,” he repeats with a small chuckle. “that’s a first. most call me handsome, but pretty... i’ll take it.”
you blink. “okay, i know i didn’t say that out loud. what the hell are you?”
“we’ll get to that soon enough.” his tone is smooth, patient. “answer me this, though, what is it that you want most in life?”
“what? where is that coming from?”
“it’s a simple question. i did save your life, didn’t i? humor me.”
you hesitate, but your thoughts drift anyway. to your sister, alive again. to peace.
but also to revenge. to the faces of the ones who dismissed her death like it was nothing.
he hums softly.
“i see. at first i thought you were all sugar, but i can feel the bitterness underneath too. you want to make them pay. you think they don’t deserve to live. and i’d have to agree.”
you look away, jaw tight.
“how could they just stand by after your sister died?” he continues, voice lower now, almost tender. “she was all you had, wasn’t she? that kind of loss... it changes you. i’m sorry.”
“thanks…” you mutter, though the word tastes sour. the anger stirs again, coiling deep in your chest.
“there it is,” he says softly, smiling. “that hunger. they deserve the worst. trust me.. i know. let me help you.”
“why would i let you help me? i don’t even know your name.”
he takes a sip of his coffee, eyes still fixed on you.
“you’re right,” he says after a moment, smile widening.
“how rude of me.” he sets his cup down and leans back in his chair. “i go by many names. but for you, my dear, you can call me geto.”
“okay, geto. how did you get me out of trouble? and how are you able to read my mind?”
he tilts his head. “that’s something i can’t quite explain. but now that you know what i can do…” he leans forward, his voice dropping into something almost seductive. “don’t you want to let me help you?”
“help me do what?”
“release your full potential. get back at the ones who took a piece of your heart. i can help you make it right. i can help you make them pay.”
you don’t answer immediately. what he’s offering sounds dangerous... but better than a life spent running.
“what’s in it for you? there’s always a price, right?”
“of course.” his grin sharpens. “but don’t worry. what i take from you, you won’t even miss.”
he extends a hand across the table. “so, (reader)... what’ll it be?”
you look at him, then at his hand.
really, what else do you have to lose?
you reach forward, your palm sliding into his.
for a split second, your entire reality shifts. the air crackles. the world hums.
his smile widens as his thumb strokes over your knuckles.
“good girl,” he murmurs. “we’re going to be perfect for each other.”
six months later
you got everything you wanted.
you killed the clan responsible for your sister’s murder. you don’t have to run or hide from the jujutsu society anymore.
people respect you.
making that deal with geto might’ve been the best decision you ever made.
and maybe also your biggest mistake.
there’s a coldness inside you now. the things that used to bring joy don’t anymore. you feel consumed by this life of mayhem, and there’s no way back.
today was proof of that.
a rogue cult had decided you needed to die.
that the dark energy inside you would bring about the end of the world. of course, you knew they were talking about geto. but he saved you. he gave you a second chance to live and take what you deserved.
the cult hired an assassin to finish the job, which led you here: fighting in the middle of the city streets against a non-sorcerer. you could’ve ended it easily, but you wanted to make a point.
“are you not tired yet, mr. assassin? i’ve been working you out all day.” you grin.
“i’ve barely broken a sweat,” he retorts.
“oh really? let’s change that, shall we?”
your fight drags on until you gain the upper hand, pinning him down with a knife to his throat, ready to take his head like you’ve done so many times before.
“looks like you got me. that’s fine though. i get to tell your little sister hi. i’ll be sure to tell her how great of a job you’re doing upholding the family name.”
you knew it was just shit talk, but it hit something deep inside you.
how dare he say that? he didn’t know you. no one did. they could never understand the things you sacrificed for her.
the thought alone sent you spiraling. maybe because a part of you knew his words weren’t entirely wrong.
it didn’t matter. all that mattered was his head on a platter.
your momentary pause gave him enough time to slip away.
“get back here, you fuck!”
“gotta catch me first,” he taunted, leaping across rooftops.
rage burned in your chest, but thankfully, you had a few tricks.
gifts bestowed upon you by geto.
you summoned a cursed spear and hurled it at him.
he kicked it midair, changing its direction.
it hit a young girl. you could tell by the force of the hit that there was no way of saving her.
an innocent life.
taken for what?
you froze, the world blurring around you. the girl couldn’t have been older than your sister when she died. and in that moment, you knew he was right.
you’d become something ugly. something like the very people who took your sister’s life. your chest tightened and you couldn’t breathe.
with the commotion rising, you knew you had to run. and you did until your legs gave out.
you collapsed in a dark alleyway, not unlike the one you’d found yourself in six months ago.
“what a shame,” a familiar voice cooed. “all that hard work, down the drain. and here i thought you were stronger.”
you looked up. geto stood in front of you.
“i- no, it wasn’t- i am strong.”
“oh, there’s no doubt about that,” he said. “you are strong, dear. just… not strong enough.”
his words cut through you like a blade.
“you did this to me,” you hiss. “you made me like this.”
geto’s smile faded. “i didn’t do anything. you made your choices. i simply made them possible.”
you couldn’t argue because he was right.
this life was yours. every decision, every kill, every stain on your hands.
but you couldn’t do it anymore. you just wanted it to stop. wanted things to go back to the way they were.
“aw, sweetheart,” he tuts softly, “things can never go back to the way they were. but i can free you from this life. i can make you… better.”
“you said that to me before,” you spit back, “and look where it’s gotten me.”
his smile crept back, slow and knowing.
“fair,” he said. “but you made the deal, didn’t you?”
you went quiet.
“if you really want,” he continued, voice lowering, “i can take you away from this. make you better. you won’t feel pain anymore.”
you looked up at him. for the first time, his face seemed to crack. behind the smile, something darker revealed itself. a devilish grin, sharp teeth, eyes glowing white.
you always knew what he was. you just didn’t think it would end like this.
“please,” you whispered. “help me. one last time.”
he took your hand and the world shifted.
you were somewhere dark now; eerily quiet, no air, no sound.
“geto…?” you called softly.
a figure appeared before you.
“now that this will be our last time together in this realm,” the figure said, “i’m allowing you to see my true form before i take your essence. i think i owe you that much, little pet.”
“geto? where are we? what’s happening?”
“is it not clear?” his voice echoed, lower now. “you’ll become one with me. every gift i’ve given you has been preparing you for this very moment.”
you trembled. “n-no… that can’t be what you meant.”
“indeed, it is.” he smiled. his true form clear to you now; sharp canines, eyes like endless white voids, red energy pulsing beneath his skin. “your soul will live on for eons. with me.”
“so… how will you-”
“don’t worry,” he purred, closing the distance. “because i like you, i’ll make this as enjoyable for you as it is for me.”
his tongue, unnaturally long, slid up your neck in a single, wet stripe. you shivered as the warmth trailed behind it.
“i can sense you’re nervous,” he murmured. “want me to help with that?”
you nodded, wordless.
his lips met yours. soft, deceptively gentle, it felt almost like he’d kissed you before.
you melted into it until you realized your mouth was filling with something thick, almost viscous.
he pulled back. “swallow.”
you did.
heat flooded your body almost instantly. your skin flushed, your clothes felt unbearable, your thighs pressed together instinctively.
“w-what’s happening?” you breathed.
“just a little aphrodisiac,” he hummed. “don’t worry, you’ll come to enjoy it.”
“m’ hot…” you panted.
“aw,” he cooed, cupping your chin, “i’m sorry, little pet. let’s get these clothes off, and i’ll help you.”
geto didn’t even touch you, just flicked his wrist, and your clothes tore themselves from your body as if obeying him.
you yelped, startled, but heat rushed straight to your core. the aphrodisiac burned through your veins, twisting your thoughts until all you could think about was how his tongue would feel inside you.
“i can feel you staring at me,” he murmured, voice dark and amused. “and i can read your thoughts too. is that really what you want, sweetheart?”
your mouth went slack, drool threatening to spill as you nodded helplessly. “y-yes, please.”
“hm.”
he walked to where your head laid, looming over you with eyes that burned through your defenses. his fingers traced the curve of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.
"eager?" His hand slid down to your throat, not squeezing but just holding, reminding you who’s in control.
"good. spread wider."
you obliged.
"hah. you’re soaked," he mused, dragging a single fingertip through your folds. the touch was featherlight, maddening. "been thinking about this?"
you didn’t get to answer.
his tongue licked a slow stripe up your slit, savoring the taste, and your back arched off the bed.
"ah-!"
"stay still," he ordered, hands clamping down on your hips.
he sucked your clit into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. pleasure coiled up in you tight, ready to snap but he pulled back, leaving you trembling on the edge.
"you taste so good," he growls, his voice rough with desire. "so sweet and willing. its such a shame you’re merely a mortal. truth be told, i could keep you like this forever, sweetness."
you gasp when his long tongue flicks over your stomach, circling your navel before dipping lower. your pussy clenches, the slickness dripping down your thighs from the drug burning through you. he spreads your legs wider with his hands now, gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, his sharp canines grazing your inner skin as he positions himself between them.
"look at you," he growls, voice vibrating against your folds. "dripping like a desperate slut for my tongue. you can't hide it from me."
before you can say anything, his tongue sinks deeper into your soaked pussy. it thrusts in without mercy, stretching your walls, curling inside you to lap at your inner depths with cruel precision.
the sensation is overwhelming, like nothing human, the wet muscle twisting and probing every sensitive spot, sucking your juices straight from the source.
“s-shit, geto-” you whimper, hands fisting in whatever soft surface holds you down. your hips bucking up involuntarily, chasing the intrusion as heat coils tight in your core.
your body trembles uncontrollably, thighs quivering around his head, but he pins you in place with effortless strength, his red energy flaring brighter.
the aphrodisiac amplifies everything. the wet slurps of his tongue fucking into you, the cool air on your exposed clit, the musky scent of your arousal mixing with his otherworldly heat.
and he doesn't let up, his tongue plunging deeper, faster, the tip flicking against your g-spot while the base grinds against your entrance. pleasure builds like a storm, waves crashing through you, making your toes curl and your back arch off the surface. you feel every ridge of that monstrous tongue dragging along your walls, milking more slick from you, the obscene sounds echoing in the dark realm.
your breaths come in ragged pants, vision blurring as the tension winds tighter. geto pulls his tongue out just enough to circle your clit, then latches on, sucking hard with a vacuum pull that sends sparks exploding behind your eyes. his lips seal around the swollen nub, teeth grazing lightly, and you shatter.
a scream rips from your throat as your orgasm hits, violent and shuddering. your walls convulse around nothing now, gushing slick onto his face, but he drinks it down greedily, humming against your clit. waves of ecstasy pulse through you, your whole body seizing, thighs clamping around his head as you ride the high, helpless and exposed.
"that's it, sweet girl," he murmurs against your throbbing flesh, voice muffled. "scream for me. give me everything."
you barely recover, chest heaving, when his tongue dives back in, relentless.
he laps at your oversensitive heat, nibbling the edges of your folds with his canines, sending jolts of sharp pleasure-pain straight to your core. the aphrodisiac keeps you primed, your body betraying any sense of overwhelm, hips thrusting up to meet his mouth again. he sucks your clit once more, then thrusts his tongue deep, fucking you through the aftershocks into another orgasm.
it crashes over you faster this time.
your second climax exploding without warning, your walls fluttering wildly as you squirt a hot stream against his tongue. he groans in approval, the vibration pushing you higher, your screams turning to broken sobs.
cum drips from you, soaking his chin, but he doesn't stop, nibbling your inner lips, lapping every drop like a starving beast.
by the third orgasm, you're a wreck, body slick with sweat, pussy raw and pulsing from the abuse. he forces it out of you with brutal precision, his tongue coiling inside like a living thing, squeezing your g-spot until you shatter again, vision whiting out as pleasure borders on agony. your legs shake violently, toes curling, nails digging into the soft void beneath you.
"p-please," you gasp, breathless and dripping, every nerve alight. the dark realm spins, but the heat in your veins demands more, "m-more. please don't stop."
he lifts his head finally, lips glistening with your cum, sharp canines flashing in a sadistic grin. his white eyes bore into you, reading the desperation in your thoughts, the way your pussy clenches emptily now, begging to be filled again.
red energy pulses stronger, wrapping around your thighs like invisible bonds, holding you open for whatever comes next.
"oh, don’t worry sweet thing, i won't stop," he purrs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his long tongue darting out to taste the remnants.
"we're just getting started. Your soul is mine to wring dry. beg louder, and maybe i'll give you my cock next."
his hand trails up your thigh, fingers teasing your soaked entrance, promising another brutal round as your body quivers in anticipation, the aphrodisiac still coursing though you, ensuring you'll take everything he gives.
his fingers slide up your thigh, teasing your soaked entrance with maddening lightness. you arched against him, hips chasing the contact, but he tutted, denying you.
"greedy thing," he murmured, pressing a single digit inside, just enough to make you clench around nothing. "you’ll take what I give you."
you whined, nails digging into the sheets.
"please,"
"louder."
his other hand gripped your hip, flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength. the mattress dipped as he settled behind you, his cock dragging hot and heavy between your cheeks.
a sharp slap landed on your ass, the sting making you gasp. "arch that pretty back for me."
you obeyed, presenting yourself shamelessly, your breaths ragged. he rewarded you with the blunt press of his cockhead against your entrance, teasing, then sliding in with one brutal thrust.
you cried out, back bowing as he filled you to the hilt, every inch stretching you wide.
"fuck," geto groaned, hips snapping forward, setting a punishing pace from the start. the slap of skin echoed in the room, his grip bruising as he held you in place. "such a tight little hole. made just for me."
one hand gripped tightly around your neck, yanking you back as he pounded into you, each stroke driving you closer to the edge. his teeth grazed your shoulder, the threat of a bite making your pulse spike.
"come for me, pet," he growled. "or I'll leave you empty."
the words sent you spiraling. pleasure shattered through you, your walls clamping around him as he fucked you through it, his own release following with a deep, guttural moan.
but even as your body trembled, spent, his grip didn’t loosen.
"again," he demanded.
his hand tightened around your neck, keeping your body arched as he pulled out, only to flip you onto your back in one smooth motion. your legs fell open, weak and trembling, but he hooked them over his shoulders with ease, pressing deep into the cradle of your hips.
"look at me," he commanded, voice rough.
your vision swam, but you forced your heavy lids open. his dark gaze burned into you as he dragged his cock through your slick, then pushed back in with slow, deliberate force. he filled you completely, every inch stretching you until your breath hitched.
"fuck, you're still so tight," he groaned, rolling his hips in deep, grinding circles that made you whimper. his hand slid down to your clit, fingers working in cruel, precise strokes. "can't wait to ruin you all over again."
you writhed, oversensitive, pleasure bordering on pain as he fucked into you with relentless thrusts. his pace was slower now, deeper, every movement calculated to drag out your unraveling.
your moans turned ragged, your body tensing but just as the tension coiled to breaking, he stopped.
"not yet," he murmured, leaning down to bite at your collarbone.
"please, geto-" you sobbed, nails raking down his back.
"beg properly."
"please let me cum, i-i’ve been a good girl for you ple- i need you,"
ghetto smiles down at you, “that’ll do.”
he rewarded you with a brutal snap of his hips, his thumb pressing hard on your clit. the orgasm tore through you violently, your back bowing off the bed as you screamed his name. white-hot pleasure drowned your senses, your vision blurring at the edges…
until there was nothing.
"good girl."
he catches your hand, presses a kiss to your wrist, and then looks at you with that cruel affection that only he can manage. “you’ve given me everything,” he says softly. “you’ve done well.”
before you can even breathe, you feel it.
your energy, your very essence, rising out of you in waves. it’s not painful, not really. it’s euphoric in a way that terrifies you. your body grows lighter, the world dimming as the air around you shimmers.
you see him then, truly see him. the devil behind the smile, eyes like endless white fire, mouth curling into something both tender and monstrous.
he holds out his hand, and you reach for it instinctively, but the moment your fingers brush his, your body dissolves into light.
your consciousness folds in on itself, the world fading until all that’s left is warmth and the faint echo of his voice.
geto exhales, watching the orb of light, your soul, float where you once stood. it pulses softly, like a heart still trying to beat.
“you’ve done well,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent.
he brings the glowing sphere to his lips, eyes half-lidded, and swallows it whole. the motion is slow, deliberate. the light fades down his throat, disappearing into the darkness that made him.
a faint hum lingers in the air, the last trace of you.
he closes his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he smiles.
and just like that, you’re gone, absorbed into him. eternal. unseen.
a whisper in the dark, forever bound to the devil who promised you salvation.
ending notes: everyone say: "thank you ironheart for the inspiration" everyone being me. lol stay spooky guys and i hope you have an amaaazing october. nanmin fic coming soon :p
the voicemail starts with a shaky laugh, then the drag of his breath against the receiver. “baby... fuck— you didn’t pick up...” a pause, and then it hits you— the slick, wet, unmistakable sound of his fist stroking up and down his hardened cock in slow rhythms.
satoru whines into the phone, a pathetic purr. it sounds messy and obscene, but nowhere near as mouthwatering as the real scene. the glide broken by soft squelches every time precum drips and he smears it down his shaft. “babyyyy...i saved your contact with a special ringtone so that I'll never let it go on voicemail, but you—hah—you’re so..” you hear him groan. you can imagine him sprawled out on your bed with his stiff cock in his hand, “you’re so mean, angel. ’m so hard it hurts” satoru thumbs his swollen tip, precum sticking to his knuckles. “been leaking all over just thinking about you— nngh, fuck, need you soooo bad”
you hear the crack of the mattress as he fucks up into his own fist, the sound his strokes quickening with every mewl that becomes more loud. “i’m squeezin’ it tight, the way your pussy strangles me when you’re about to come—f-fuck— baby, I can feel it, my hand’s not enough, it’s never enough without you”
you can hear the sharp slap, slap, slap as he jerks himself faster, palm meeting his stomach every time he pumps down to the base. slower, deeper strokes now, sticky skin dragging under his skin. “can you hear that, baby? that’s all for you. hear what you’re missing out on? just come home to me so I can fuck you senseless”
his strokes speed up again, the lewd rhythm louder, punctuated by the desperate slides of his fist and the occasional hiss of breath through his teeth, “fuck— ’m so close, ’m gonna come baby, want it to be inside you so bad...” satoru’s shameless urgency stirs a deep ache between your thighs. he’s being so loud on purpose and you can only imagine his state. he’s whining into the speaker, voice nothing but a vibrato of trembles paired with the rustling of sheets shifting with his movements. slick, sloppy strokes hastening more and more as he chases his release.
a loud and final sticky squelch paired with heavy breaths groaning through the line. your own breath is unknowingly matching his quivering one. a softer, ruined little laugh ends it, “mhm, baby, ’m such a mess without you. play this back when you miss me, yeah?”
I’ve never read any of your works(I just came to when I saw kiribaku) and I have to say, I love that the banner ears match up with your pfp! It makes me very happy💝
hai!!!!! i think you’re the first person to ever notice the pfp thing LOL thank you i thought it was rlly cute too!! it wasn’t intentional either but im happy that it came out like that lmao.
a word from lex: to specify on readers quirk; its the ability to send anyone to a dreamstate where they are living the life they truly desire.. hope it makes sense lol. nothing else special to say today. i hope everyone is doing lovely :)
content warnings: 18+, minors dni!!, 2.6k words, smoking mentioned, violence, mild blood mention, sexual content, explicit smut, rough sex, choking, breath play, masochistic reader, degradation, verbal teasing, dirty talk, taunting, mocking, power dynamics, overstimulation, face fucking, quasi-dubcon, dream state manipulation, mindfuck (literally), consent-bending fantasy, control play, injury, bruising, verbal humiliation, reader is a flirt, fem reader, not proof read please excuse any typos
'hey siri play situations by escape the fate'
you feel him before you see him.
that constant itch, the weight of eyes on your back, like someone trying to peel you open with their stare alone.
it isn’t the first time you’ve felt it; the rooftops of musutafu are your hunting ground, and lately, the little pest shadowing you hasn’t exactly been subtle.
you don’t mind. if anything, it entertains you.
you swing your legs over the ledge of a crumbling office building, hood pulled up, cigarette between your lips. the city hums below you, neon bleeding into dark. you take a drag, exhale smoke, and finally call him out.
“gonna keep lurking, or are you gonna ask for my autograph?”
there’s a shuffle in the shadows. he steps out, pale skin glowing under the sick streetlight. shigaraki tomura, in the flesh. up close, he looks more corpse than man, all brittle edges and hunger behind red eyes.
he scratches at his neck with those cracked fingers, voice a rasp. “you noticed.”
“you’re not exactly subtle,” you say, flicking your ash over the side. “been watching me for what? weeks? i almost feel special.” you grin, sharp and dangerous. “you crushing on me, tomura?”
he bristles immediately, like a feral cat cornered.
“join the league,” he says flatly, like it’s not even a request. “we could use someone like you.”
you hum, swinging your legs. “villain organizations aren’t really my scene. too many rules. too much… structure.” your eyes drag lazily over him. “besides, you don’t look much like a leader. more like a creep with a hand fetish.”
that hits a nerve.
his jaw clenches, fingers twitching at his sides. “don’t mock me.”
“oh, but it’s so easy,” you purr. “you’re getting so worked up. it’s cute.”
his snarl is guttural, and you know you’ve hooked him.
his pride was far too big to let this go; there was no way he’d walk away without trying to prove a point. you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the twitch of his fingers like he was already imagining your body crumbling to dust.
a fight was inevitable, and you knew it. so you rolled your shoulders back, steadying your stance, the grin tugging at your lips betraying just how ready you were to meet him head-on.
he lunges first, hands outstretched, decay blooming wherever his fingers graze. you duck, roll, the concrete splintering inches from your face. adrenaline burns through you like gasoline.
“come on, tomura,” you laugh, vaulting off a half-collapsed wall. “is this your recruitment pitch? gonna try to kill me into joining?”
he growls, swiping again, and you dodge, tongue between your teeth as you grin. every near miss, every graze of danger, makes your veins sing.
your quirk itches at your fingertips. you could end this with one touch. drag him into his own head and let him drown. but where’s the fun in ending it early?
you taunt instead. “you’re sloppy. distracted. are you thinking about how much i’m enjoying this?”
his eyes flash, red and furious.
you’re not lying.
you are enjoying this. the scrape of his nails against your skin when he almost catches you. the way your body thrums with heat every time rubble explodes around you.
you’re a masochist through and through, and fighting him feels like foreplay.
he notices. you can tell by the way his attacks stutter, by the flicker of confusion in his expression.
“why are you… smiling?” he pants, chest heaving.
you lick blood from your lip, cocking your head. “i like it rough.”
that makes him falter.
just long enough.
you dart in, fingers brushing his wrist.
and the world fractures.
when it reforms, you’re standing in decadence.
a mansion rises around you, lavish and dark, dripping with gold and shadow. tall windows stretch into nothing, revealing a ruined city outside, skyscrapers bowed to his rule.
your grin widens. “oh, tomura… is this your dream?”
he stiffens beside you, eyes darting, realization dawning.
you trail your fingers along a velvet chair, admiring the gothic grandeur.
“makes sense. king of the ashes. everyone on their knees.” you glance back at him, sly. “and you let me in. kinda intimate, don’t you think?”
his chest rises and falls sharply, but he says nothing.
you close the space between you, voice lilting, playful. “i like playing with you. why don’t we have a little more fun?”
his silence doesn’t last long. hunger flickers across his face, cracks his composure.
and when he finally moves pressing you against the wall, mouth crashing against yours; you know you’ve won.
the kiss is messy, teeth knocking, breath hot, his desperation searing into you. you let him press you back into the velvet wallpaper, your grin breaking against his mouth.
“mm, so eager,” you murmur, fingers curling into his coat. “you sure this is how you want to play, king tomura?”
he snarls into your throat, biting down hard enough to make you hiss. his hands are rough, dragging down your sides, gripping your thighs.
he lifts you like you weigh nothing, slamming you onto a grand table scattered with imaginary maps of conquered lands.
the wood creaks under you as he shoves your legs apart, rutting against you through your clothes. his breath stutters, harsh and shallow, like he’s been waiting weeks for this exact moment.
“you… you think you’re in control,” he pants, grinding into you, cock straining against his pants. “you mock me, laugh at me… but you wanted this.”
you hum, tilting your head back, rolling your hips to meet his. “i wanted to see how far i could push you.” you lick your lips, eyes glittering.
“guess you’re not as hard to crack as i thought.”
his growl rumbles against your skin as he yanks at your clothes, tearing fabric like it offends him. when your bare skin hits the cool air of his fantasy world, you moan softly, arching under him.
he stops for a second staring.
his hand hovers over your stomach, trembling. not in hesitation, but in hunger.
“shit,” he mutters, almost to himself. “i’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”
you laugh breathlessly. “then ruin me.”
that breaks him.
he slams into you with no warning, stretching you open so fast you cry out, back arching off the table. pain spikes sharp, but it curls into pleasure almost instantly, your body shivering around him.
“fuck,” he hisses, nails biting into your thighs as he holds you down. “so tight… choking me already.”
you moan, shameless, lifting your hips to take him deeper.
his pace is brutal, punishing, hips snapping against yours hard enough to rattle the table. each thrust punches a gasp from your lungs, makes your head spin.
when his hand snakes up to your throat, pressing tight, you don’t resist. you smile, eyes rolling back, humming like it’s the sweetest thing in the world.
his grip tightens, cutting off your air, and your lips curl into a grin even as your vision blurs.
“hah,” he chokes out, watching the way you melt under his hand. “oh, you’re a sick fuck, aren’t you?”
you bite your lip, moaning around his squeeze. “yeah. but you’re the one getting off to it.”
he growls, fucking you harder, voice rough in your ear. “shut up”
“you’re doing a shitty job trying to make me.”
the taunt lights a fire in him. he bends you further back, choking you with one hand while the other claws bruises into your hips. the room echoes with the wet slap of skin, your choked moans, his ragged curses.
you’re giggling through it, breathless, delirious, because every thrust, every squeeze of his hand around your throat, only makes you want more.
he can’t look away from you.
the way your eyes roll, the way you hum like you’re savoring pain as much as pleasure.
he’s unraveling.
the pace he sets is merciless, hips colliding with yours hard enough to bruise, his cock splitting you open again and again. you cling to the edge of the table, nails clawing into polished wood, every thrust knocking the breath out of you.
you’re breathless and delirious, lips curling into a grin even as tears slip from the corners of your eyes.
“mm, ah, fuck, tomura,” you moan, voice shaking but bright with delight. “you’re trying to break me, aren’t you?”
he bares his teeth, grinding deeper into you, watching your body jolt with every snap of his hips. “trying?” he spits. “i will break you.”
“please,” you hum, tilting your head back as his hand tightens on your throat. “do it. ruin me.”
the way you moan when he squeezes harder makes his cock twitch inside you. he growls, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear.
“you’re getting off on this, aren’t you? you sick little masochist.”
you smile, tongue darting out to wet your lips. “mhmm. and what does that make you?”
he laughs low, disbelieving. “you’re enjoying this too much.”
“and you’re enjoying watching me enjoy it.” your grin is sharp, eyes half-lidded, taunting. “so which one of us is sicker?”
he snarls, pulling out only to flip you over, chest pressed flat against the table now, ass up. he drives back into you in one brutal thrust that makes you yelp, your nails scraping against table.
“fuck!” you cry, hips arching back against him.
he bends over you, hand tangling in your hair, yanking your head back so your spine curves. his lips press against your ear, breath ragged.
“you want pain? i’ll give you pain.”
his free hand smacks against your ass, hard, the sting blooming across your skin. you moan so loudly it echoes in the cavernous hall.
“oh, f-fuck, yes. again.”
he laughs, a broken sound, and spanks you harder, your body jolting forward with each hit. your pussy clenches around him like you’re thanking him for it, sucking him deeper.
“pathetic,” he taunts, voice hoarse. “you’re drooling all over my cock just because i’m hitting you. you’re disgusting.”
you moan through a grin, eyes rolling. “say it again.”
he hisses between his teeth, fucking you harder, hips slamming against you until the table shudders. “you’re pathetic. you’re a fucking masochist. a little pain-slut.”
your laugh breaks into a cry, body convulsing as heat coils low in your stomach.
“mm, keep going,” you beg, tears streaking your face, but your voice is gleeful. “don’t stop, tomura, don’t you dare stop,”
he pulls out again, leaving you trembling, before shoving you off the table and onto the floor. your knees hit marble, bruises already forming, but you only moan, licking your swollen lips.
he grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him, cock glistening, heavy and flushed.
“open your mouth.”
you do, tongue out, eyes wide and eager.
“you really are a sick fuck,” he mutters, stroking himself once before shoving into your throat.
you gag instantly, throat spasming, but you hum around him, eyes rolling back in bliss. drool spills down your chin, and you claw at his thighs, urging him deeper.
he watches you choke, eyes dark with arousal, fingers tightening in your hair as he fucks your face.
“you like this? can’t even breathe and you’re smiling. what the fuck is wrong with you?”
you pull off just enough to gasp, spit dripping down your chin. “everything. now shut up and use me.”
his laugh tears out sharp and twisted, cruel enough to scrape down your spine, and then he’s driving back into your mouth, fucking your throat until his hips stutter. he’s getting used to this, getting used to you, clearly becoming accustomed to your sick little ways.
when he finally pulls out of your mouth, you’re a mess.
spit-slick, mascara smudged, chest heaving.
and you’re still smiling.
“again,” you whisper.
his grip falters, a flicker of awe breaking through his feral expression. “you’re… insane.”
you lick your lips, smirk widening. “and you’re loving it.”
he could leave you ruined on the marble floor. should leave you there, fucked-out and trembling, but the hunger twisting his face says otherwise.
he yanks you up by the hair, dragging you across the mansion’s grand hall like you’re his personal toy.
the windows loom high, stretching up into the ruined sky outside, the city bent to his will.
he slams you against the glass. it rattles, cold against your chest, and he kicks your legs apart with a growl.
“look out there,” he rasps, pressing the length of his cock against your ass, grinding slow just to make you twitch. “this is my world. and i’ve got you pinned in it.”
you moan, pressing your palms flat against the glass, hips wiggling back against him. “mm, what’s a king without a plaything?”
he smirks and pushes into you in one brutal thrust that makes your forehead smack the glass.
“fuck!” you cry, body jolting.
his reflection in the glass is a sight to see, red eyes glowing, teeth bared as he fucks you harder than before. the window fogs with every ragged breath you take, your moans echoing through the hall.
he fists your hair again, yanking your head back until your throat arches. “you like being used like this? against the glass, where anyone could watch?”
you choke out a laugh between moans. “you’d like that, wouldn’t you? show off your little masochist, ahh, fuck!”
he slams deeper, the glass vibrating with every thrust. his hand slides from your hair back to your throat, squeezing, and your body seizes with pleasure, eyes rolling back.
“you’re… disgusting,” he pants, hips snapping into you mercilessly. “smiling while i choke the life out of you. soaking my cock every time i hurt you.”
your voice breaks into a ragged moan, tears streaking down your cheeks, but your grin never falters. “mm, yeah. keep saying it, call me sick again~”
“you’re a fucking freak,” he snarls, fucking you harder, your body bouncing against the glass. “a filthy little whore”
“and you love it. you love fucking a freak like me.”
he groans, shoving his cock so deep you scream, your vision blurring at the edges. overstimulation tears through you, body twitching, muscles spasming around him.
but you keep begging.
“harder! harder, tomura,”
he pounds into you until your voice breaks, until your knees give out and the only thing holding you up is his hand on your throat and his cock splitting you open.
your orgasm hits like a truck, dragging a scream out of you that echoes through the entire estate. your body shudders violently, but you’re still moaning, still pleading for more even as you collapse in his grip.
he’s losing it, thrusts sloppy, broken curses spilling from his lips.
“fuck, y-you’re…”
you gasp, voice hoarse, “please cum in me tomura.”
that does it.
he spills inside you with a guttural growl, grinding deep, his whole body shuddering. his forehead presses against the glass, damp hair clinging to his face, chest heaving as he empties into you.
you’re both a mess, bodies trembling, sweat-slick, ruined against the window of his fantasy kingdom.
the silence after is heavy, broken only by your ragged breathing.
he pulls out, collapsing to his knees, eyes dazed. his body trembles like the dream state itself has drained him.
you crouch down, cupping his chin, making him look at you. your grin is wicked, eyes glinting with delight.
“mm, you’re fun,” you whisper. “i’ll let you chase me again.”
and before he can catch his breath, before he can snarl or grab you, the dream state fractures, collapsing into nothing.
when shigaraki wakes, it’s back on the cold, cracked concrete of musutafu. his body aches, cock still half-hard, the memory of your smile burned into his brain.
but you’re gone.
instead, there’s a note on the ground beside him. messy handwriting, lipstick pressed into the corner.
“since you’ve been watching me, you know where to find me xo.”
a crimson kiss-mark seals it.
ending notes: when will it be my turn to be called a disgusting pervert? 🧍🏽 ok nighty night!
the hashira's and what kinks they use to make you cum. explicit content minors dni.
tengen uzui ♡ voyeurism
tengen doesn’t even have to touch you to drive you wild. he’s back on the couch, lounging with that smug grin, eyes glittering like they’re burning a hole right through your skin. every twitch, every gasp, every wet little moan is for him, and he knows it.
“spread wider,” he commands, voice low and edged with hunger. “let me see all of you. i want every inch.”
your fingers press against your slick, and his eyes follow, slow and deliberate. he shifts, letting you see the bulge straining against his pants, but he doesn’t touch himself.
not yet.
he wants you writhing, trembling, and undone just for him.
“look at you,” he murmurs, leaning forward, tongue tracing over his bottom lip. “dripping for me already… so fucking desperate, just from me watching.”
your cheeks burn, head falling back, thighs trembling. the squelch of your fingers fills the room as you try to curl just right, aching for release.
every broken moan, every whimper, only makes him lean closer, hand brushing lazily along his own thigh as he watches you unravel.
“oh, don’t stop now,” he growls, voice low and harsh. “show me everything you’ve got, pretty thing. let me hear you call my name while you cum.”
your hips jerk, desperation mounting, and the sound of your own wetness slicking your fingers mixes with ragged moans.
tengen’s grin widens as his cock twitches, thick and hard, but still he doesn’t touch himself. he wants to see just how far he can push you with nothing but his gaze.
“that’s it… yeah, right there,” he purrs, teeth grazing his bottom lip, voice hot and rough. “come for me. make a mess. let me see it, girl.”
you shatter with a cry, body trembling, slick running down your thighs, moans escaping in ragged bursts. he leans back, satisfied, eyes still fixed on you, breathing shallow and rapid. his grin is wicked, dripping with lust.
“you’re so perfect like this,” he says softly, voice teasing, almost reverent. “so desperate, so messy… all mine.”
watching you cry out, whimper, and shake under his gaze is more than enough he doesn’t need to touch himself. the way you melt just from being watched is everything he could ever want.
giyuu tomioka ♡ submission kink
giyuu’s quiet intensity melts the moment you straddle him, hands pinning his wrists above his head. the restraint doesn’t just control him; it ignites him.
his chest rises and falls, hips twitching involuntarily as he shudders beneath you, body begging without words.
“please…” he gasps, voice raw and broken, and it twists something deep inside you.
you grind down against him, pressing your wetness to his hips, and his low groan makes you shiver.
he arches into you, needy, pliant, utterly surrendered. “i… want… you to…” his words falter, voice trembling.
your fingers dig into his shoulders as you lean forward, lips brushing over his ear. “ah ah ah. No talking. i told you to be good, didn’t i?” you murmur, letting him hear the sharp edge under the softness. he moans, hips lifting instinctively, desperate for friction, desperate for your dominance.
his hands flex against the mattress, the struggle useless, and every breathy “yes, m’ sorry” drives you harder. you ride him deliberately, letting him feel every inch of your control, grinding down until his body jerks under yours.
“giyuu,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his, “come for me… show me how good you are for me baby.”
he pulses indise you, moans strangled, hips bucking desperately. the way he trembles, gasps, and whines beneath you makes your chest ache. he’s yours, entirely yours, and he knows it.
“fuck… fuck, yes…” he groans, voice breaking, “please… i’m yours…”
you give him no mercy, grinding faster, guiding him through every shiver, every pulse, until he shatters beneath you. his release is messy, ragged, utterly desperate, and he cries out your name, trembling and spent in your arms.
afterward, his hands slump against the sheets, chest heaving, eyes glassy. you trail a finger down his jaw, teasing a weak smile. “good boy,” you murmur, voice low and possessive. “that’s my good boy. you did so good for me.”
he shudders, lips parting in a soft, broken laugh, completely undone, and you feel the power you hold; a delicious, filthy control that leaves both of you trembling.
“thank you,” he whispers, voice raw, like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he doesn’t say it aloud.
rengoku kyojuro ♡ daddy dom kink
rengoku’s hands are everywhere at once, holding you firm against him as his cock thrusts deep and hard. every motion is a mix of warmth and control, commanding you while burning through you with reckless intensity.
“stay still, sweet girl,” he growls, voice low and rough.
your nails dig into his chest as he slams into you, each thrust sending shivers through your body. his palm presses against your back, dragging you into him, hips snapping harder, faster, his heat filling you completely.
“that’s it… take me like a good girl,” he pants, lips grazing your ear, teeth nipping just enough to make you whimper. “you feel me stretching you pretty girl? you feel how deep i am inside you?”
your body trembles under the mix of pain and pleasure, the way he’s both rough and worshipful, marking you as his. “yes… daddy…” you gasp, voice cracking, and the growl that escapes him is raw and needy, sending another shiver straight to your core.
he cups your face, thumb brushing over your cheek, forcing your lips to meet his for a messy, desperate kiss. “so sweet… so good for me. such a pretty little thing, taking every bit of me,” he murmurs, grinding into you with no restraint, fingers digging into your hips as he pins you perfectly against the bed.
every thrust drives you closer to the edge, your walls fluttering around him, shuddering, and he groans, voice low and urgent. “come for me, my sweet girl. show me how good you can be for daddy,” he orders, teeth grazing your shoulder as he presses deeper.
you shatter under his weight and words, cries and moans mixing as your body convulses around him. rengoku doesn’t stop, fucking you through the last trembling waves, whispering filthy praise and commands with every stroke.
afterward, he holds you close, forehead against yours, hands still gripping your hips possessively. “you did so well for me… my perfect girl,” he murmurs, voice soft but still heavy with heat.
kocho shinobu ♡ sadomasochism
shinobu’s smile is sweet, soft, almost innocent until her nails dig into your thigh hard enough to sting. you yelp, jerking against her hold, but her expression doesn’t falter.
“did that hurt?” she asks, voice lilting, almost playful. before you can answer, she leans in, pressing her lips to the red marks she’s just left. the gentle kiss only makes the sharp burn worse, pleasure and pain blurring until you can’t tell the difference.
she loves the way your body twitches under her hands. her fingers trace lightly along your skin, then sink in cruelly, leaving crescent-shaped dents. “mm, you look so pretty when you flinch like that,” she coos, dragging her nails up your stomach. “so sensitive.”
your breath catches when she pinches your nipple suddenly, twisting just enough to make you gasp. she laughs softly at the sound, leaning back to admire your trembling body. “oh, don’t pout. you like it, don’t you?”
you nod helplessly, heat flooding your face, and her grin widens. “good. i’d hate to think i was being too mean.”
her hand slides between your thighs, and just as your hips arch for more, she pulls back, leaving you aching. “patience,” she hums, lips brushing your ear. “you’ll get what you want when i decide.”
your whimper only makes her giggle. she slaps your inner thigh sharply, the crack echoing through the room, and you cry out at the sting. before the pain can settle, she soothes the spot with slow, circling fingers. the mix has you shaking, caught between begging her to stop and begging her to never stop.
“that’s it,” she whispers when your eyes roll back, voice dripping with satisfaction. “fall apart for me. let me ruin you.”
when you finally come, (after hours of edging), the orgasm rips through you painfully sweet, your thighs trembling as tears prick at the corners of your eyes. shinobu kisses them away tenderly, even as her fingers press down cruelly on your overstimulated body.
“such a good toy,” she murmurs, stroking your cheek, “you can take a little more for me, can’t you?”
obanai iguro ♡ bondage
obanai doesn’t rush. every knot bites just enough to keep you still, helpless under his hands. your wrists are tied above your head, thighs spread wide, and the thought of being completely at his mercy makes your pussy throb with need.
“look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “all tied up, dripping for me… can’t move an inch, can you?”
you whimper, pressing against the ropes, desperate for any friction, any touch. he smirks, leaning close to trail his tongue along the curve of your neck, fingers ghosting down to your clit. the ropes hold you taut, every grind and writhe sending him deeper into a hungry haze.
“god, you’re so fucking pretty like this,” he growls. “needy and trembling… all for me.”
his fingers press into you, curling inside while he pinches your nipples with the other hand. your moans fill the room, choked and high-pitched, the sound bouncing off the walls as he watches your body shudder.
every tremble, every gasp is a command to him, driving him harder.
“you like being helpless, don’t you?” he whispers, sliding one finger deep again. “like i own every inch of you. tell me you do.”
“y-yes, i do,” you gasp, voice breaking. “please… i’m yours.”
the smirk turns sharp, a little dangerous. “good girl,” he hisses, thrusting two fingers inside as he drags his thumb over your clit, teasing and finger fucking you at the same time. the ropes keep you exactly where he wants, writhing and begging, and he leans down to bite your shoulder gently, savoring the taste of your pain and pleasure.
your hips jerk hard, needy and desperate for release. obanai’s eyes darken, cock twitching as he watches you unravel, completely at his mercy.
“you’re coming for me, aren’t you?” he growls, pressing his lips to yours, teeth grazing, tongue slipping in. “come on my fingers… come on pretty, you can do it.”
you shatter, crying out, body trembling as he strokes you through it, reveling in the hot mess you’ve become. he holds you down, guiding your release, groaning as he drinks in every sound, every whimper, every shudder.
obanai finally leans back, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “such a good little toy… bound and broken just for me,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your sweat-damp skin.
sanemi shinazugawa ♡ breath play
sanemi doesn’t hesitate. his hands are rough and fast, pinning you against the wall with a force that makes your knees wobble. one thick palm finds your throat, fingers pressing just enough to steal your air, and the heat pooling low in your belly twists into something urgent, desperate.
“look at me,” he growls, voice low and jagged. “you like this, don’t you? like it when i control your every breath?”
you whimper, struggling against him even though the ropes of safety bind only in your trust. your body jerks, hips pressing into his as he cuts off another shallow inhale, and the sight of your flushed cheeks and parted lips makes his cock twitch.
“fuck,” he rasps, leaning in close. his breath fans over your ear, hot and intoxicating, each word a shiver down your spine.
“don’t pass out on me baby, you can go a bit longer, cant you?”
his fingers dig in lightly as he teases, letting you claw for air before granting a ragged inhale. your whimpers and muffled moans hit him like a drug, the sound of your body straining beneath him sending him further over the edge.
“mine,” he hisses, pressing his chest into yours. “gonna cum for me like this, aren’t you? filthy girl.”
you nod, eyes rolling back, lips parting as he leans his forehead against yours, thumb brushing along your cheek. the control, the dangerous edge of it, makes your pussy throb unbearably. “please,” you gasp, voice barely a whisper. “i need… i need to come.”
“you’ll get it,” he groans, hips pressing into yours with more weight, fingers brushing your clit as he holds your throat firm. “but only when i say.”
the combination of choking, grinding, and his voice breaking into low growls sends you over the edge, shivering, clinging to him as your orgasm crashes through you. he holds you through every shudder, letting you ride it out while still controlling your breathing, cock hard and aching against your belly.
afterward, he loosens enough for you to catch your breath, chest heaving against his. lips ghost over yours as he whispers, “nice job, slut.”
himejima gyomei ♡ dacryphilia
gyomei’s size alone should terrify you, but the way he touches you is devastatingly tender. still, his reverence doesn’t soften the hunger burning under his skin. his cock splits you open with every thrust, thick and overwhelming, and you’re crying before you even realize it.
“ah… already?” he murmurs, thumbing the tears as they spill down your cheeks. his voice shakes with need, the low rumble vibrating against your chest as his hips grind deeper. “don’t hide them. let me see.”
you sob, nails clawing at his broad shoulders, your body stretched tight around him. he groans when your tears wet his thumb, his cock twitching inside you.
“god,” he growls, forehead pressing to yours. “you cry so beautifully. it makes me want to ruin you.”
his pace quickens, the bed creaking under his weight as your body jolts with every thrust. the sting of fullness, the burn of being stuffed so deep, mixes with the hot shame of crying in his arms. your sobs only make him more desperate.
“please,” you gasp, the word cracking into a whimper. he kisses it off your lips, swallowing your broken sounds.
“that’s it,” he pants, hips slamming harder. “cry for me. give me everything.”
his hand slides down to your clit, rough fingers circling with surprising precision. your vision blurs as you choke on another sob, and the tears spill faster.
gyomei groans like he’s the one unraveling, his thrusts stuttering as your wet lashes flutter up at him.
“you’re shaking,” he whispers, almost reverent. “are you about to cum beautiful? give it to me.”
your body gives out, clenching tight around him as you cry out his name, tears streaking hot down your face. the orgasm rips through you, violent and messy, and he fucks you through it with ragged moans, his cock pulsing deep until he’s spilling inside you.
you’re still sobbing when he slows, pressing kisses to your damp cheeks, your jaw, your trembling lips.
kanroji mitsuri ♡ mommy kink
mitsuri’s soft, sugary voice wraps around you warm as ever, even as her hips snap against yours, hard and relentless.
every thrust buries her strap deep inside, and you whimper, nails digging into the sheets, desperate for her praise.
“that’s it, sweetheart,” she coos, brushing your hair back from your face. “look at you, taking mommy so well… just like i knew you would.”
the pet name makes your thighs tremble and heat coil low in your belly. she cups your face, forcing you to look at her while she drives herself into you, lips brushing yours between hard kisses.
“don’t look away from me, baby. i want to see those pretty eyes when you come for me,” mitsuri murmurs, voice dripping with warmth and lust.
her hands never stop, stroking your cheek, squeezing your thighs, teasing your clit with a light, delicious pressure.
her pace picks up, hitting just the right spots. you cry out, moans choked by her kisses, and she giggles, gasping with delight as your body quivers beneath her.
“that’s my good girl,” she whispers, voice breathy, rough with need. “so wet, so perfect… mommy loves watching you like this.”
every word makes your body shiver, heat pooling and spilling low. your hips jerk involuntarily, pressing back against her, desperate for more friction, and mitsuri groans, loving the way you cling to her, needy and obedient.
“come on, my love,” she breathes, eyes darkening, hands tightening on your hips. “show mommy how good you can be… let me see you cum all over me.”
the orgasm crashes through you, hot and messy, thighs shaking, eyes glassy, and mitsuri moans over you, thrusting just enough to ride it out alongside your shuddering body. her kisses trail across your jaw and lips, soft, wet, demanding attention even as your body trembles from release.
“that’s it, baby,” she murmurs, voice honeyed and low. “so beautiful… so perfect for me.”
she holds you tight, rocking slowly, letting the last waves of pleasure wash over you. every sigh, every gasp, every shudder is met with soft, loving praise, and you melt completely in the warmth of her hands, lips, and words.
i know i said i would get this to yall last week but big mama was a likkle busy 😸 thank you angels for 300 followers. i am forever grateful to everyone who has ever read a work of mine or interacted in any way.
300 followers dude what the hell????????? i’m in awe. thank you to everyone who has read, liked, commented or reblogged any of my works. thank you to everyone who has followed. i have been wanting to share my writing for such a long time and i am so grateful to be supported by you guys!!! 300 ppl????? i’m honored seriously. that said i will be posting a special as a thank you sometime this week. i appreciate yall. love you bye.
“i think you’ll live, satoru.” suguru’s chin is resting atop your head, long fingers gliding idle lines along your skin. soothing, if not for the pleasant ache between your thighs, remnants from the wild night before. “besides, she doesn’t seem to mind.”
“she would mind, but she’s too sweet.” satoru pinches your cheek gently, “look at her—letting you keep her all to yourself.”
“she’s tired,” warm lips brush your temple in a lingering kiss. “our sleepy girl could barely keep her eyes open.”
“gee. i wonder why,” satoru smirks, prying your knees apart so he can wedge himself between your legs. “don’t act like i was the only one doing the fucking.”
“speaking of which, you weren’t exactly gentle either.”
“she liked it though.” fingers pat idly against the plush of your inner thigh, heat blooming where he could so easily push higher, where you’d so gladly yield. “didn’t you, baby?”
you hum noncommittally, hoping it passes as fatigue and not the arousal emanating from you. because fuck, you’re dripping; every nerve singeing with need. eyes flick up, and you swear you catch satoru batting those long, feathery lashes at you. (you wonder if he’s doing this on purpose, weaponising those angelic features of his.)
“you know i treat you right, baby.” he whines, hand slipping past the waistband of your shorts. fingers find damp cotton and push, smearing the wetness with lazy expertise. “don’t punish me for his crimes.”
“my crimes?” suguru chuckles, sliding a casual hand beneath your shirt to claim your breast, rolling your nipple until it stiffens against his thumb. his other hand finds satoru’s jaw, tilting it upward with the effortless suaveness of a kdrama male lead.
you’ve seen them exchange kisses before (plenty of times, in fact) but the sight never fails to stop your heart for a fraction of a second. experience has taught you that suguru is the deceptive romantic, his tongue slides in only when your guard drops, coaxing rather than demanding. satoru, by contrast, is pure appetite, generous with the sounds he wrings from himself.
male moaning is truly music to the ears.
part of your mind, ever irreverent, can’t help but think about a yaoi panel come to life: the juxtaposition of suguru’s controlled seduction and satoru’s ravenous indulgence, a living, breathing tableau of desire that’s as titillating as it is absurd. and you stifle a laugh, because yes, you are that invested in witnessing it.
when they finally part, a single, glistening thread of spit stretches between their parted lips, catching the light and shimmering like liquid silk. a minor miracle of erotic geometry—nothing casual about watching two men, both exquisite in their beauty, unravel themselves before your very eyes. beneath you, suguru stirs. heat of his thickening cock press into the soft cleft of your ass, making you hyper-aware.
“she’s watching,”
“of course she is.” satoru licks his lips, grinning impishly, “she loves watching us.”
your cheeks burn, and you attempt to look away—futile, when suguru’s hand slides from your breast to your jaw, gently forcing you back into the sight.
“don’t hide, princess, you can admit it.”
“yeah,” satoru adds, nipping playfully at your shoulder, “admit how much it turns you on seeing your boys kiss.”
heat prickles up your neck. “i hate you both.”
“funny way of saying you love—mhm!” satoru’s words dissolve into a moan when you seize him by the face and smash your mouth against his. your teeth catch his lower lip, tugging it just slightly before releasing, savouring the little moan it draws.
“don’t think i’ve forgotten how you tried to edge me last night, satoru gojo.”
“you loved it. and dare i add… my impeccable fingerblasting skills.” to drive the point home, he slips a finger inside you, curling it with expert precision. your eyes bulge, a demure little “oh!” escaping. hips rutting shamelessly. utterly helpless, betraying just how desperate you are for him.
“please, my skills are better.” suguru interjects smoothly. “i’ve seen the way she melts under me. tell him, sweet girl.”
“well… maybe we should have a rematch before declaring a winner. fair’s fair, right?”
silence falls except for the wet squelches of fingers working in and out of you, and your uneven gasps. satoru drops his forehead to yours, groaning.
“she’s playing us, suguru.”
“let her,” another hand is shoved into your shorts to circle your clit in tandem with satoru’s thrusts.
