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❄️ like ghosts in the snow: satoru gojo x reader fic (ongoing)
👸enchanted water: soft knight!satoru x princess reader forbidden romance AU
🌶️ alpha!gojo blurb
🥀 dirt & roses: alpha!levi x omega!reader request
⚓️ one time thing: alpha!levi x omega!reader (think there's two of these but it's been a hot minute lol)
got somethin' special in mind? i love requests <3
more in the works! i'm a nurse FIRST who is contractually obligated to work nights and weekends so be patient w me </33
ok let’s just all cope w jjk like it’s an actor au bc mappa is still pumping out splash art of our favs so im j gonna believe that gojo is the strongest forever n he just had to pretend to die for, like, plot or w/e but irl everyone is sooooo chill w each other
♡ spawned from this ask which was inspired by this fic.
｢𝓬𝔀: smut ﾉ MDNI 18+ ﾉ naoya x milf!reader ﾉ canon au ﾉ brief mentions of toji x reader situationship/marriage ﾉ reader has a baby girl with toji (tomie) ﾉ naoya also becomes our baby girl ♡ ﾉ heavy lactation kink ﾉ reader bullies naoya until he breaks ﾉ dommy mommy reader ﾉ naoya tears ﾉ dirty smut ﾉ cowgirl ﾉ fluffy bits ﾉ naoya got lots of mommy issues to heal ﾉ reader is a kamo and has blood manip CT ﾉ there's a bit of plot too sprinkled in too ﾉ tiny mentions of choso and gojo as well ﾉ art: fateshatter ﾉ 𝔀𝓬: 9714｣
Someone will die soon.
Naoya scowls, glaring up at the ceiling in his bedroom.
The slated bamboo above him offers zero consolations to the fact that the universe is, personally and specifically, out to get him.
Fate has decided he should share a wing of the Zenin estate with Toji's latest scandal—a pretty wife and a newborn daughter—the latter of whom has declared war on his sleep schedule.
Flipping onto his stomach, Naoya crushes two pillows over his head to no avail—the piercing wails cut straight through.
Tsk. This entire situation is a special grade clusterfuck.
All thanks to Toji "deflowering" and knocking up the Kamo clan's most precious eldest daughter—yet another scandal he’d dragged back to the Zenin household.
Truthfully, you are equally at fault.
A debutante turned degenerate, you're the furthest thing from pure or lotus-like. Your true nature has stayed hidden from good jujutsu society only through your father's willful blindness—and even now, thoroughly scandalized, you can still do no wrong in his eyes. Nor in Choso's, your annoyingly overprotective half-cursed cousin.
As far as they were concerned, you'd been “corrupted against your will”.
So the blame landed squarely on Toji. And with his less than stellar reputation—to put it generously—no one dared argue otherwise.
Not that it stopped his snark every time he was scolded for it: "That garden had already been ransacked—I merely pitched a tent."
So despite being little more than glorified fuck buddies, both clans scrambled to save face. A shotgun wedding was arranged overnight. Heavens forbid a disgraced black sheep and a thot-daughter spark a war between two of the most powerful families.
The result: you and your squalling little parasite are now Zenin property.
But that alone wouldn't have landed Naoya in this mess.
No—this situation is special.
Seeing as the union only granted you and your daughter entrance to the family—not Toji.
Not that he'd return even if given the chance. He only agreed to marry you for your sake, and your daughter's. Nothing beyond that. So without any real tie to an actual Zenin, you're little more than a ward who took on the name.
Yet Toji thought enough of you not to throw you to the wolves entirely. Before leaving to do gods-know-what as an assassin, Toji asked Naoya personally to watch over you both.
Naoya scoffed at first. Playing babysitter to some woman and her infant? Technically his father Naobito's responsibility—nothing he'd have to bother with until he assumed the role of heir.
Still—Naoya wasn't about to deny a request from Toji, who made it a point never to ask his family for a fucking thing (and who could also destroy them all on a whim.)
Toji-kun said he trusted Naoya alone with the task.
And to Naoya, that acknowledgment was everything.
Fine.
However, that just means seeing to your proper treatment—it didn't mean Naoya signed up to be sleep-deprived.
Fuck—and if even a hint of a dark shadow appeared on his flawless complexion by morning?
There. Will. Be. Bl—
The final straw arrives before Naoya even finishes the thought.
A possessed banshee, 7th ring of hell, kind of screech—that even rivals some curses he's previously exorcised—rings out so loud his right ear pops.
That’s fucking it!
Naoya is out of bed, his room and down the corridor in only four strides.
You had to be awake.
Not even the dead could sleep through this.
So, why the hell hadn’t you handled it already?
How hard is it of all things to get a baby to shut the fuck up?
You’re its mother aren’t you?!
Reaching your quarters, Naoya yanks the shoji door open.
And immediately freezes.
As he expects, you’re wide awake.
Yet nothing could've prepared him for your silk robe to be wide open and resting at your elbows—leaving your breasts completely exposed.
Seated in the midst of tangled blankets and sunken pillows, you shift restlessly to find a position that comforts your baby girl enough to latch while she stubbornly thrashes in your arms.
You give up with a weary sigh, returning to the rocking. Her cries have lessened to frustrated whimpers now that she's moving, but they haven't stopped.
From the doorway, Naoya gives you a measured once-over.
You look like shit. Hair frizzy and damp at your temples, tired eyes, a slight tremor of exhaustion in your hands as you reposition your daughter.
That said, somehow, infuriatingly, you still manage to look appealing.
The moonlight spilling through the slatted window ensures it as it traces your plush curves, highlighting the faint sheen of exertion on your skin catching the light like a glow.
Gaze dropping, Naoya’s jaw ticks at the sight of your swollen, milk-heavy tits—nipples taut and glistening with pearlescent drops, coaxed free by your baby's cries.
A creamy bead falls, dotting your daughter's cheek and you gently wipe it away.
You haven’t noticed Naoya yet, too wrapped up in cooing out the same soft mantras of comfort that have proven useless all night.
Leaning against the doorway now with his arms folded, Naoya narrows his eyes, not used to being ignored. Even if unintentionally. However, his scathing reprimands die on his tongue, something about the scene turning his mouth desert-dry.
Every second drags like an hour, and Naoya with no patience remaining, sharply clears his throat, announcing his presence.
Your head lulls over to him without startling nor making any move to cover yourself. You just give him a drowsy, crooked smile that practically screams finally, someone capable of rational thought and basic impulse control.
"Tch. Pathetic reflexes. A curse would've killed you both by now."
You resist the urge to roll your eyes.
Technically, many would consider Naoya’s very presence to be a curse all of its own.
However, in your defense, your own senses have been greatly off kilter since your pregnancy and childbirth. Not to mention, the sheer exhaustion a newborn brings to a first time mother—you’re too concerned with your daughter, Tomie, to notice anything else.
Of course, you don’t expect Naoya of all people to realize that though.
“See, Tomie?” you whisper preciously to your daughter as you continue rocking her, “You woke up your cousin with all that fuss. Now Nao-chan’s just as grumpypuss as you, my love.”
Nao-chan?!
The nickname lands like a slap and Naoya flinches, no longer reclined on the door.
You weren’t even that much older than him—so what gives you the right to reduce his name to something so…ugh, cutesy?
It makes him sound soft.
Like some harmless stuffy to be cooed at alongside the child in your arms. Nevertheless, a small flush creeps up Naoya’s neck all the same.
Tutting, you shift Tomie upright so she can get a proper look at her cousin, still rooted in the doorway like he's being personally affronted.
She stills at the sight of Naoya, matching his energy.
Appraising him with tiny copies of Toji's stark emerald eyes, Tomie holds that same unsettling scrutiny packaged in a cute face that carries you both unmistakably.
Not to be outdone, Naoya sharpens his gaze, his lips set in a thin line.
You snort under your breath at the scene.
Looks like the infamous Zenin scowl curses another generation—and Naoya, the pompous heir himself, doesn't look remotely inclined to lose a staring contest to someone who can't even burp unassisted.
Growing bored, ultimately Tomie gives first as she blinks, babbling baby talk. A chubby arm wriggling free and batting clumsily toward him, breaking the stalemate.
"Oh?" you simper, eyes flicking from Naoya, who looks smug to have bested an infant, to your daughter.
"Not you being the mature one, my girl."
Your giggles make Naoya bristle, his mouth opens to speak—but you're already talking over him.
“C’mere, she wants a truce.” you beckon sweetly, inviting him in.
Frankly, you’re thrilled something has caught your baby girl’s attention long enough to distract her from crying—even if it is her obnoxious ass cousin.
Naoya, for his part, fully intended to reject the invitation.
To snap at you to—shut that thing the fuck up and put those saddlebag tiddies away while you're at it—to be done with the whole debacle so he could sleep. But his scathing reply dies somewhere between your airy laughter and the light sheen of milk saturating your areolas.
Conceding like he’s being called by some unknown force, Naoya crosses your threshold. He reasons that if a quick greeting would quiet the petite goblin for the night, he could comply just this once for his own sake.
Approaching your futon, Naoya sits beside you, back straight, on his knees. His posture is cautious, as if through mere proximity alone either your baby girl or your milk heavy tits could explode at any moment.
Which brings him to the point that you still haven't moved a muscle towards covering yourself for some fucking reason that eludes him entirely.
However, Naoya isn’t about to let a mere pair of tits shake him. If you don’t care, neither does he. At least that’s what he tells himself as he forces himself to keep his eyes level with yours.
Noaya, steady with all the focused determination expected from the leader of the Hei and Zenin heir—eyes shoot to your tits again the moment you glance at your daughter.
Fuck.
Swallowing heavily, Naoya doesn’t even understand why he’s so enthralled with them. He’s seen plenty of boobs, ones that look way better than yours too. From this close, Naoya can make out the strain of them, skin stretching thin and the small veins showing from underneath. Not the delicate sight of a lady’s chest, no, yours are so obscenely engorged—not to mention leaking—more like fattened cow udders.
So huge, in fact, that they look heavy and feverish.
Or…maybe, that was just him.
The room is getting kinda stuffy.
Shit. Naoya just can't seem to look away from your ginormous mommy milkers. Unable to decide if he's repulsed or utterly entranced. And he's so busy wrestling with that internal crisis that he doesn't stop you from doing something completely fucking unhinged—
—like handing him Tomie.
Realization hitting, for the briefest, teeniest micro-second, Naoya nearly yeets her.
Not even to be an asshole. Just pure reflexes.
Naoya genuinely abhors children. He’s never held anyone’s child and he sure as hell hadn't expected you to dump yours into his arms out of fucking nowhere.
Thankfully—as that very well would have been his ass once Toji found out—Naoya’s a well skilled sorcerer. His own self-preservation instincts reduce the action to a mere undetectable twitch of muscle.
Even so, he looks far more petrified than he realizes and that you do pick up on.
It doesn't register to him how ridiculous he looks until you're practically shaking with suppressed laughter at his statue-like posture.
“She’s not made of glass, you know,” you chuckle at Naoya clearly being so majorly out of his depth. “Just relax, yeah? Rock Tomie a little—she likes you for some reason. You can manage that can’t you?”
Naoya looks at you like you've sprouted two heads.
He doesn’t want to rock a fucking baby—even if it is Toji-kun’s offspring.
Who the fuck do you think he is?
Besides, relaxing wasn't really an option considering how close he'd come to his own death sentence moments ago. But even stranger, he realizes, he hasn't said anything cutting in a minute to remind you of your place, which is frankly weirding him out more than holding the baby is.
However…
You’re simply trusting Naoya to hold her at the moment, easy as that.
He’s the Zenin heir—of course that’s fucking something ‘he can manage.’
To Naoya’s surprise, Tomie has actually settled—tension gone from her tiny body, that very Zenin furrow smoothing from her brow as though to say finally, another Zenin graces her prescenes.
She gurgles up at him, blows a bubble and pats his chest with a proprietary little hand.
Naoya frowns. Why does this feel less like soothing a child and more like being evaluated?
"There—" you yawn unceremoniously, a flicker of life returning to your voice as you treasure the break. "See? She's just bored of mommy. Probably wondering where that deadbeat daddy of hers is."
Your slanderous, yet entirely accurate, remark about Toji is what finally has the venom returning to Naoya’s tongue.
You of all people should consider yourself lucky to be married to him and birth his child.
Eyes flaring, Naoya turns to you and—
Big mistake.
You're in the middle of a stretch. Arms overhead, back bowed, the sheer weight of your tits pulling at your spine until something cracks between your shoulder blades. Milk beads at your nipples from the motion—then scatters. Futon. Blankets. Your lap.
A single drop landing square on Naoya's robe.
He braces for disgust. For his throat to tighten at the sheer audacity of your bodily fluids landing on him.
But the feeling never comes.
Just an overwhelming chemical need to lick the creamy droplet from his sleeve before it soaks in.
“Aha!” you whisper excitedly, attention still on your baby girl in his arms. “My little angel is finally asleep.”
You lean into Naoya, shoulder resting against his, your nipple grazing his arm—and a dribble of milk trails down his sleeve. The drops bleed through the fabric, faint but undeniable.
He doesn't want to notice.
But he does, along with its scent—something like warm mochi and milk buns and pure want to taste it surges so hard this time he bites his cheek.
"Aww, how sweet..." Seemingly oblivious, you dare to poke his cheek, cooing. “Tomi-chan loves her cousin Nao-Nao~!"
Nao-Nao?!
Hairs up on end, Naoya wants to hiss at you.
But your tone is too pure, too genuine.
You’re just… like this.
A gentle aura surrounding you while next to your newborn causes you to mother everything in your surrounding area.
And that makes it all the worse.
Naoya doesn’t need mothering. He never did, not even as a child himself.
Yet those thoughts contrast the awkward and unfamiliar warmth Naoya is so insistently trying to keep out of his chest.
Truly, he’d rather be put out of his misery than suffer it a moment longer.
As a Zenin, Naoya had been trained to treat any affection as weakness—and weakness as a Zenin was the worst sin one could commit.
There’s an unspoken understanding in the clan: No scared cows.
No one member valued more than the strength of the whole.
And now, as a Zenin, you'd be no exception either. Even at the risk of Toji’s or the Kamo clan's displeasure.
The Zenin are well practiced at making consequences look like natural outcomes—be it accidental or personal failures.
Watching you smile so tenderly at your child, Naoya tells himself what he feels isn't guilt.
It's obligation.
Toji left you and Tomie in his care. Therefore it falls to him to set you straight if you both are to survive.
That's all.
"You're Toji-kun's wife and my ward.” Naoya growls—albeit low, careful not to trigger Tomie into another hellish chorus.
“You will henceforth address me, the future head of this clan, as ‘Naoya-sama’."
His words are cutting and to the point.
“And fuckssake, you will cover yourself when in front of men. You are not a Kamo any longer, you’re a Zenin. You will act accordingly or you will be handled.”
You retract immediately, smile dropping, wetting your lips into a pretty little pout that might have worked on a lesser man.
Naoya considers, for a moment, that he almost feels bad for you. Your lack of discip—
Then you dissolve into hushed giggles and he regrets it entirely.
"Oh my gawwwd, you're actually deadass right now, aren't you!?" Hand over your mouth, tears of amusement prick your eyes as you try to keep your voice contained.
“..or you will be handled”, you mimic, trying to sound as pompous as Naoya, although you don’t imagine anyone ever could.
Noaya growls but you pay him no mind through your amusement, so he is almost startled when you suddenly stop and crowd his space once more.
“Handled, huh?”
Naoya keeps his eyes on yours through sheer force of will—refusing to acknowledge your tits swaying in his peripheral.
“And just who is going to handle me…” You challenge, batting your eyes with a sensual pull of your lips, “...you, lil Nao-chan?”
Naoya grits his teeth, his eyes flashing.
Here he was trying to warn you and you’re making a mockery of him?!
If you weren’t Toji’s wife he’d teach you a lesson, he’d—
"Awe, c'mon, Nao-Nao," you purr, caressing his arm which he quickly snatches away. "I thought you'd be the fun one! Ya know…Toji said you were the only half-decent guy in the family."
He stiffens.
"Toji-k-kun…” Naoya clears his throat. “...he said that?"
“Mm-hmm.” You hum. Not missing how Naoya’s golden eyes catch light at his older cousins' praise of him. “Told me you were the only one here Tomie and I could count on.”
The light blush on Naoya’s ears creeps down his neck and just like that Naoya begins rocking Tomie as you initially suggested. Carefully, too—as if in this very moment he's made it his life’s mission to earnestly exceed all of Toji-kun's expectations for him.
Chest puffed and prideful, Naoya insists that, as future clan leader, it's ‘only natural’ Toji-kun would say such a thing about him.
You on the other hand have to perse your lips to keep from bursting into actual hysterics this time.
Why’s that?
Because you just lied through your goddamn teeth.
The only thing Toji told you was that Naoya was an easy mark.
And he is.
Almost painfully so.
The way his ego swells. The way his whole aura brightens just from hearing his cousin's name.
It’s all too adorable, honestly.
Naoya is too easily charmed and you're no stranger to charming all kinds of men. Hell, that's how you got knocked up in the first place.
But this type of emotionally stunted man?
Oh, you could definitely have some fun with him.
With Tomie finally asleep, you feel the familiar pull of mischief tug at you.
“Besides, Naoya-sama~~”
Your voice is all velvety compliance causing Naoya to completely miss the sarcasm underneath. He's also too distracted by your head on his shoulder and your boobs molding into his arm as you reach across him to fix Tomie’s swaddling.
"I think I'm decent enough, no?" Your lips curl deviously. "Seeing as I don't exactly count you as a man."
Naoya’s cursed energy spikes, fury bleeding through his veins—but your Tomie shifts in his arms and Naoya has to choke it back, holding his fury.
You just cock your head, all innocence, like you haven't said something utterly slanderous.
"You shameless fucking slut—" The chill in Naoya voice drops to frostbite temps, “I know you of all peo—”
“Aye!”
The whiplash is instantaneous—Naoya doesn’t finish the sentence before you have two fingers pinching his cheek, twisting with the particular ferocity of a momma bear who's been awake for thirty-six hours and has simply stopped tolerating bullshit.
"Watch your fucking potty mouth around my damn kid, asshole."
Naoya seethes. He wants to tear into you—the thot-daughter of the Kamo clan, standing on absolutely zero moral grounds—he really, genuinely does. But the twist on his cheek tightens and this time he doesn't even need his survival instincts to do the math for him.
Naoya doesn't know your grade but you aren’t a weakling.
Half his cheek isn’t worth it—especially if it woke the little hellhound in the process.
"...Whatever."
Satisfied at him backing down, you release him, smirking at the red blooming across his face.
Naoya resists rubbing it. Instead he huffs, hoisting your Tomie up onto his shoulder and bouncing her there in pointed silence. She'd stirred more from your outburst than anything he'd done all night.
This is all fucking ridiculous.
Naoya thinks and the second she settles once more he thrusts her toward you.
"Here. Take her. You're welcome, by the way—since clearly it takes a real Zenin to do what her own mother couldn't manage all night."
Rolling your eyes, you stop just short of slapping the shit out of Naoya.
The facts remain: that even as a newlywed, your ass might as well be a single mother. Your exhaustion is near biblical and your nerves are near shot and Tomie—the perceptive little thing she is—has likely picked up on every ounce of it, your nerves feeding hers in one miserable feedback loop tonight.
Yet, thanks to Naoya of all people, that loop is finally broken.
Shaking your head, you reach for your daughter—and then your body seizes. The pain hits your chest like a vice, jolting you back hard enough to steal your breath. Your hands fly to cup your breasts on instinct, fingers sinking into the weight of them.
"OH, shiiii—owwww!" You wince.
“What the hell now?” Naoya still holds the baby out to you expectantly, brow arching as you curl into yourself.
"What the hell do you think, Naoya?" You grimace, biting back at him.
Face crunched in pain, eyes shut, you’re careful to take measured sips of air.
“She cried all night and didn't eat. My tits are fucking killing me."
Realizing this meant he’d have to hold your baby girl even longer, Naoya makes an exasperated sound as he brings her fully into his arms again.
“You know this is your archaic ass family’s fault, right?”
You crack an eye open at his diva-like attitude.
“I asked for a pump and the old battleaxe of a caretaker said no. ‘All Zenins are fed from the source’, you mimic in a nasally voice. “Like be so fucking for real—what damn century is this again?!”
Naoya snorts.
You've never had house rules imposed on you—your father let you run the streets without consequence. So really, you're in no position to complain about the Zenin clinging to their traditions, insufferable as they may be, at least they had them.
"You know—Zenin wives are typically chosen for their training and poise. To think that the Kam—" Naoya stops.
Mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-everything—his mouth open, agape like a fish.
Robe now pooled around your hips, you begin working one of your swollen breasts in both hands. Clinical in the way only fatigue makes a person, no couth left in you at this hour. Your thumbs knead carefully, pressing firmly into tender tissue, heel of your palm dragging across a tight knot to stimulate the stagnant flow of your milk glands.
A deep moan slips from your lips in tandem with a hard squirt spraying from your breasts as a reward for your efforts.
Another escapes, then another.
Your oversensitive nipple is drawn taunt with the prickly pain of relief as a thin stream begins to run along the curve of your tits, painting your skin in shiny rivulets all the way to your bellybutton.
Through it all Naoya has not even blinked, nor taken a breath for that matter.
Oblivious to his own staring—and your haughty smile.
"Really now, Nao-chan? You're salty I don't consider you a man—" you muse, hands still diligently working out small drops of milk, "—but how can I? When you’re drooling over my tits like a thirsty newborn."
Shaken, Naoya’s eyes lock on with yours. The flush that had been camping at his neck floods his face all at once, searing his cheeks.
“I...”
You hush him.
Two fingers find your sternum, unhurried—drifting down your chest, down your belly, tracing the streaks of milk all the way down to your navel, gathering in the soft pudge of your mommy tummy.
Fingers thoroughly soaked, you gradually lift them to his lips. You hover them patiently, like you would a treat to a dog.
“Open.”
Not used to taking orders, Naoya hesitates—then parts his lips anyway. Your fingers slide in and the taste hits him, rich and creamy with a faint savory edge he wasn't expecting.
It's good. Dangerously good.
His brain short-circuiting, Naoya doesn't stop even when the taste fades, lapping at your fingers and sucking the remnants from your nails with an eagerness he'll hate himself for later. A low croon threatens to escape his throat—the kind of sound he'd never make consciously—and he forces it down along with the last traces of your milk.
More—he wants more.
One look in Naoya’s eyes tells you that. Dark, hooded, their usual sharp calculation completely gone—replaced by something unguarded and hungry. He's still tonguing your fingers like there might be something left to find. The needy, restless flick of his tongue stroking heat into your core.
"Good," you murmur, retracting your fingers. "Now, go put Tomie down on her futon."
Naoya doesn't move.
But this stillness is different. Every muscle is coiled, feral cursed energy strumming hot through his veins. A wire crossed. His restraint is less like surrender and more like the moment preceding a strike.
"Go on," you simper, "...and I'll let you sample from the source... you know the proper way to feed a Zenin."
Naoya says nothing. His aura speaks for him as he rises smoothly, crosses to the tiny futon, and sets your daughter down.
You simper in approval—he's not half bad at this—but you couldn't tell him that now. Not with the tension this thick.
Returning, Naoya lingers at the edge of your futon. The particular stillness of someone who's already decided how this ends—he’s just letting you go first.
"Well, c'mere—don't go shy on me, Nao-Nao."
You crook a manicured finger at him, giggling.
Poor thing doesn’t realize he’s playing right into your hands.
"I'm not shy."
He's not. But you're Toji's wife, and he's well aware of that. Somehow though, it only makes whatever this is more forbidden.
More worth taking.
"No?" Your voice dips playfully, baiting.
"Just a virgin then?"
Naoya sucks his teeth. He's never met a woman as infuriating as you he decides.
"I'm no virgin, whore."
No real bite to Naoya’s voice this time though, not as he drops to his knees in front of you like a good dog. His own annoyance betrayed only by the whitening of his knuckles in his lap.
"Gotta be mommy issues then," you murmur, closing the remaining distance with a crawl—one last barb delivered right as you sink into his lap, forcing him cross-legged beneath you.
His contained fury is the most endearing thing you've seen all night to be sure.
"Shut u-up," he grits, voice scraping thin.
You rest your arms on his shoulders, holding deliberate space between your bodies. Tilt your head and take stock—he's handsome, you'll give him that. Good bone structure, pretty mouth.
Shame he ever has to open it.
Your fingers drift to the piercings at his earlobe, toying lazily—while your other hand works the short hairs at his nape, featherlight scratches that make him shiver.
Naoya steels himself, an unwelcome and unexplained feeling blooming in his chest as he wills himself to stay focused.
"I'll shut up once you help me." Your hand leaves his ears to find his wrist, guiding it to your body. "Please, Nao-chan. It hurts."
The need etching in your voice worms its way under his skin like a tick and Naoya is finding his ability to keep control greatly diminished from all the blood flowing into his cock.
"Massage from the base," you breathe, giving him instructions to stimulate the milk flow. "Pressure out, not in."
Naoya's palm flattens flush against your breast and whatever plans he had for control slip away on contact.
The heat hits first—it's swollen, much heavier than he expected. Then the give of it, firm but yielding as his fingers curl to sink deeper. Naoya can feel the subtle shift of milk tracking beneath your skin, your breath hitching when he finds the right pressure, your nipple drawing tight against his palm.
"Just like that," you sigh when his rhythm smooths out. "You're a natural."
He adjusts without being told, reading your body's responses, and soon adds his second hand—finding the knot easily, pressing with both thumbs.
Surprise flickers across his face when milk spurts over his knuckles.
He nearly stops breathing.
You don't.
Your shaky exhale of relief punches straight through him and his cock throbs against his robes like a second heartbeat.
Naoya shifts, trying to adjust himself without you noticing.
You do however, gaze dropping, at the motion. He's so much larger than you'd have guessed for a man with such a fragile ego.
"Hmm. Certain parts of you are definitely enjoying this, Nao-chan."
Naoya clicks his tongue but doesn't deny it. He's too fucking hard to deny it.
His hands move again—one on each breast now, thumbs circling, palms compressing—drawing a deep moan past your lips. He watches with something close to reverence as milk wells up with each careful stroke.
The less your chest aches, the lower heat travels, melting into your core. You’re pulsing at the thought of his thumbs sweeping the same circles across your clit.
Breath heavy, biting your lip, you grasp at the robe on his shoulders to brace yourself. A momentary loss of your own control which Naoya is in no position to take advantage of.
Not when his attention is fully captured by a fat, opalescent drop welling on your nipple, shiny even in the dim light.
Eyes wild with need, Naoya’s tongue nearly pokes through the inside of his cheek.
"You wanna taste."
It’s not a question.
"I already said you could—or would you rather lick it up again, like a dog?"
But you’re just as desperate to be drained as he is to drain you. Naoya notices, you can tell. But his jaw is clenched so tight his molars might crack, eyes still glued to your nipples, and you almost tell him to relax before he breaks something and really does require nursing.
Your tits ache too badly to wait on his pride all night.
This time Naoya doesn't flinch when you cup his cheek. You guide him forward with unhurried gentleness—the same patience you show your daughter—and something about that tenderness dissolves whatever protests he had left.
His mouth closes over your nipple and he sucks, greedy and unguarded. Your fingers card into his hair immediately, drawing him in as the first pull sends an achy relief flooding through your breasts.
Naoya moans around you, shameless. Gluttonous. All pompous pretense abandoned.
"There it is," you murmur, smiling as you stroke him affectionately.
Your touch only makes him hungrier though—his tongue flickering, writhing for more even as your milk flows steady now. You jolt when his hands grip your hips without warning.
Naoya braces himself but he's nowhere near steady. Nothing about him is. Breath ragged against your skin, his whole body carries a tremor he probably doesn't realize is visible.
"It's okay, I'm not going anywhere…" you whisper, honeyed coos finally reaching him. "You’re a good boy."
Naoya freezes.
He unlatches with a wet gasp—glossy white ring around his lips, golden-brown eyes blown wide and wild. Something just cracked open in him that he wasn't prepared to feel.
"Don't—"
Croaking on his own spit.
"Don't what? Praise you?" Your hands keep working through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, lulling him toward a surrender he's still trying to fight. "For doing so well?"
"I'm not a child."
But his voice wavers, unconvincing even to his own ears.
You're teasing him, yes—but there's no cruelty underneath it. No disdain he can pinpoint as an excuse to push you away and escape from whatever this is.
"No?"
Bending forward, your lips ghost against his temple as you whisper:
"You don't want to be my good boy, Naoya?"
His nostrils flare—anger, need, humiliation—all of it written plain across his face.
Like an animal he’s cornered, unsure of his next move.
A moment passes.
Then Naoya’s gaze flicks sharply to your other breast he’s yet to sample.
You raise a brow, but Naoya has just enough pride left to not dignify your question with an answer. Can't anyway—his mouth is already latching onto the next target—the conversation over.
Need won. Clearly.
Naoya feeds more ravenously this time—tongue rolling around your sensitive flesh, teeth scraping in a way you'd smack him for if it didn't feel so fucking good.
He's messy about it too. Milk running down his chin, neck and spilling into his collar.
Fuck—this little shithead can really work his tongue.
Your head lulls, arching into him, melting against his mouth as you let him take his fill.
Your own lust is dampening your thighs now.
Damn. This wasn't the plan.
You'd meant to tease him a bit—let him suck on your fingers, string him along and then duck him. Peel his pride back layer by layer, slowly, to keep yourself amused living amongst such a stuffy clan.
You had no idea how affection-starved Naoya was.
Let alone how much seeing him like this would turn you on.
Your pussy is screaming at you, becoming impossible to ignore. You haven't seen Toji in weeks—relief is overdue in more ways than one.
"N-Naoya…?"
You call him, but he doesn't answer.
His thoughts are in disarray—walls crumbling around something long abandoned inside him.
What this is—what he’s feeling? It’s deeper than anything he's charted. And it has nothing to do with your tits, your supple skin, or the way your milk dissolves on his tongue.
Naoya rarely finds himself lacking.
An upbringing in the Zenin estate hones you for perfection built from very specific arithmetic—cursed technique, tradition and hierarchy. Assembled inside those walls you learn quickly that anything useless you cut out—or someone else cuts it out for you.
But now?
Your gentle words.
You warm embrace.
Your hand moving through his hair like—like he's something worth tending to.
Like his worth was never something he had to earn.
It's driving him mad.
Worse—he doesn't want you to stop.
“Hello? Earth to Nao-chan.” You lit, snapping him out of his daze. “Not you milk drunk already, baby?”
Pouty and petulant, Naoya’s arms snake around your waist to drag you closer until his face is buried between your tits, ignoring you.
Your hand slides between your bodies and finds him—thick and straining through his robes, the rigid shape of his cock unmistakable even through the layers. You lazily trace the outline of his long length with your palm.
Naoya's hips jerk up, gracelessly bucking into your touch.
You won’t let him go soft on you at the moment. Figuratively or literally.
"Aw, Nao-Nao," you coo mischievously. "What would Toji-kun think if he saw you like this?"
That finally gets you a reaction.
Naoya looks up at you scowling—though not to much effect as your nipple stays lodged in his mouth like a binky, spit-slick against his bottom lip.
He doesn't pull off—can't, maybe.
Because as much as he worships his older cousin, the realization is settling in like rot: Toji-kun, for all his monstrous strength—enough to tear apart the entire Zenin legacy—wasn't strong enough to resist you.
Hell, could anyone? Naoya considers the strongest he knows but—pshhh—he’s seen how Gojo is around women, too—he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance against you either.
It makes him feel slightly less pathetic, if only barely.
"He'd not have any room to talk," Naoya growls against your skin as he continues to fuck himself against your palm, grinding his cock against your hand through the fabric in urgent thrusts.
You’re feeding him and unraveling him at the same damn time. Leaving him chasing release and something else he can't articulate.
“Shit—let me fuck you before I completely lose it.”
Naoya’s hands shoot to your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, gripping hard enough to bruise.
You blink, a part of you shocked he's even asking—even if it is half-demanding and half-begging.
"Oh? So now you want to be in charge?"
Your hand withdraws and you let him roll your hips forward against his—it’s more leisurely than the pace Naoya wants though, especially as your robes spread around your thighs and your bare pussy slides against his clothed cock.
You're so soaked, and he can feel your juices flooding through the silk, your wet heat branding him through the fabric.
Naoya grits, caught somewhere between rage and ruin.
God, how he wants to slip his cock inside you—inside your mouth, your tits—and definitely that haughty lil cunt of yours.
See what was so good it even stopped Toji-kun from pulling out.
"You think you're fucking me, Nao-Nao?"
Cradling his head, you swipe at your own cream still lingering at the corner of his lips.
“You still have my milk around your mouth, baby.”
Naoya groans, barely controlled, like he's trying to rut through the layers of fabric.
He doesn't even realize how undignified he looks. The sounds he makes suckling at your tit are sloppy and needy—and you know he'd be mortified if he could hear himself over the squelching of your pussy rubbing against his silk robe.
Tightening your grip in his hair, you wrench his head back, forcing him to release your nipple with a wet pop.
A string of milk stretches from your bud to his lip—then snaps.
Naoya gasps.
Lips trembling, chin sopping, eyes unfocused. Poor thing. He looks completely ruined and you've barely started.
Naoya’s fists the fabric of your robe, already working at the tie. His gasps puff against your throat, mouth grazing up to your chin as he nibbles harder—threatening meaner bites.
"L-Let me fuck y-you."
Naoya is begging now, not even trying to mask his need.
You tilt your head, considering, pondering on it like Naoya wasn’t on his last thread of sanity, driven to insanity by the treacley taste of your creamy milk.
"Mm. No."
"I need—"
Cutting him off, you push Naoya onto the futon in one smooth motion.
"Haven’t you realized I know what you need, Nao-Nao?" Your voice is syrupy as you straddle him, hovering.
"I-I—Fuck—" The word scrapes out of him, guttural, clutching the sheets and throwing his head back onto the futon as his hips buck up into nothing.
You stay perfectly still. Not letting him take a single thing.
"Look at you." You coo, skimming a finger along his milk-stained collar. "Reduced to humping the air? Imagine, a Zenin heir with so little self-composure."
"S-Shut the fuck up, s-slut."
But his insults don’t stop his hips, microthrusts wanting to chase the feeling of your messy pussy sliding over his cock again.
"Why?" You swivel your hips—one deep agonizing grind that lets him feel your cunt clench against his cock through the ruined fabric. He's dripping now too, precum mixing with yours.
"I think you like it when I make you beg. You want to, don't you? So beg me."
Naoya's cheeks burn. He could easily flip you, pin you, and have his way.
He won't though.
Even through your teasing there's a care to your touch he's never let himself experience—and resisting it has his nails biting crescents into his palms, hard enough to bleed.
"I bet you'd cum just like this…"
Your plush lips ghosting his Adam's apple, smirking as he squirms under you.
"...without ever getting inside. Soiling your own robe like a needy, prideful little boy who couldn't simply ask nicely."
The moan that rips from Naoya's throat is feral with need and thick with humiliation. His hips shoving upward, wanton for contact.
You don't give it, suspended just above him, your drooling cunt barely grazing his cock, watching him fall apart with all the patience in the world.
"Naoya, baby" Your hand slides up to cup his cheek, tenderly. "Tell Mommy what you want."
Naoya’s eyes go wide.
Every muscle taut. Cheeks flushed dark.
The Zenin composure he was built from crumbling, reducing him to this.
On the brink, never has Naoya waited this long for something. Never has he been this turned on—and as much as he’s fucking furious about it, he’s also way past giving a fuck.
His eyes rake your body and snag on the trail of milk—smeared on your tits, your belly, all the way to your cunt where it glistens in the dim light.
His mouth waters. Whatever resolve he had left shatters.
"Please..." Naoya whimpers, tears dusting the edges of his eyes, too wound up to realize he's handing you everything. "...fuck me."
You raise a brow, waiting.
Oh, he’s so close.
He knows it too. He knows what you want.
Naoya can see it on your face but there's no coming back from it once he says it. But what choice does he have? He’d die if you sent him away like this.
"Please, fuck me—"Naoya’s voice cracks clean in half, a single tear running down his cheek. "—Mommy."
You push his bangs up fondly, planting a chaste kiss right on his forehead.
"That’s my Good boy."
Naoya watches you with tears burning his eyes, chest heaving, too far gone to resist you any longer.
You tug the ties loose on his robe until the fabric falls away. His cock springs free—angry, leaking and bobbing with every shaky breath he takes.
You have to admit it's pretty. His flushed red, cockhead peeked through its foreskin. You can feel his whole body shiver as you peel it back more.
Your mouth is watering for a taste yourself and god, if Naoya wasn’t such a fucking tool you’d gladly suck him off.
That could come later though—you’d make him earn that too. Subservience looks good on him afterall.
You'd be tempted to deny him longer if you weren't so hard up for it yourself, your gooey walls vibrating at the thought of a cock inside, at long last.
Toji's been gone for weeks and you need a stress release, bad.
You position your cunt just above the swollen head of his cock—close enough for your juices to drip salaciously onto his tip, dribbling down his shaft.
Naoya squirms beneath you, and you drink it in.
"Craving to wet your cock inside Toji-kun's wife, hm?"
He can't answer—not when you sweep his cockhead through your folds, letting him glide through the mess of your wetness and the milk still coating your thighs. You're soaked enough to take him whole right now, no prep needed, and the thought makes your cunt clench around nothing.
Naoya moans, hips snapping up, trying to piston into you—and you shove him back down by the hip, pinning him to the futon.
"Behave."
"I'm—" He swallows, voice wrecked. "I'm trying."
You smile, wiping the sweat off his brow with something close to care in your touch.
"Try harder for Mommy then, yeah, Nao-baby?"
You don't wait for his response.
You sink down, pussy swallowing him whole in one brutal stroke.
The stretch punches the breath out of you—wet as you are, he's still thick enough to make your walls spasm, to make your spine bow as he splits you open. You hate how good his cock feels dragging over every ridge inside you, the fat head kissing your cervix hard enough to make your thighs tremble.
Naoya gasps like you've knocked the wind out of him. You watch his mind go blank.
Hands flexing useless at his sides. Mouth falling open, slack and dumb. Eyes rolling until you can only see the whites, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
"Y-You're f-fuckin’ tight," he rasps, too loud. "F-Fuck—you're tight, y-you're so—"
Clamping your hand over his mouth, palm pressed to his lips, your nails curl into his cheek. You feel him arch off the futon beneath you, a muffled whine vibrating against your skin.
"Shh." You hush. "You'll wake the baby."
Naoya nods furiously, chest heaving. You smile once he settles.
"Atta boy."
Naoya whines as you start to move—hand still clamped over his mouth, bracing yourself as you ride him. A calculated wind at first, controlling the roll of your hips as you get a feel for him. The way he stretches you. The way a meaty vein throbs against your g-spot as you move.
Shit—Not bad.
Naoya trembles beneath you, hands fisted white-knuckled in the sheets, whole body wracked with the effort of staying still. Of not fucking up into you like a desperate, rutting animal.
"Mmmm," you murmur, rotating your hips in a lazy figure-eights. "Just like that, let it all go. Let me ride you. Let Mommy take care of you."
Naoya’s whimpers bubble under your palm—pathetic, needy. He knows he’s being used. He’s maintained zero control of the situation.
And yet?
He can’t deny a he’s a fucking fiend for it.
Not when your cunt grips him like a fist. Not when he can feel how wet you are— slick saturating his balls, staining the futon beneath you both. Your gooey pussy squeezes him so tight he can barely breathe, silky and warm, milking his cock like she was made to ruin him.
Then you feel it—his balls twitching underneath your ass, drawing up tight. He's close.
Fuck, already?!
“C-Cumming that fast?” you pant out. “ T-That fast? From your cousin’s wife’s tits and cunt? Do I feel that good?”
Naoya is groaning as his eyes squeeze shut, biting his inner cheek and fisting the sheets.
"Nuh-uh." You tsk, stilling completely. "Bad boy. Not allowed."
Naoya's eyes fly open as yours begin to glow—red and ancient, blood-dark lines blooming beneath your lashes. He feels it. Your cursed energy pouring into him, flooding every vein, every capillary, settling hot and heavy in his balls.
The Kamo inherited technique—blood manipulation—seizes complete control.
Instantly, he veins in his balls bulge obscenely, his cock swelling even harder inside you. But he can't cum. You won't let him.
Naoya cries out, breaking into a sweat, pleasure flaring through him to excruciating levels as every one of his nerve endings lights up.
"I may be a Zenin by name," you breathe, leaning in until your tits smush into his chest and your lips brush his ear, "but I'll always be a Kamo by blood."
You bite down on the tender tissue, feeling him shudder beneath you, cock throbbing helplessly inside your cunt.
"Don't worry." You sit up, savoring his broken whine from the loss. "I'll let you cum, Nao-baby. I'm going to milk you dry—just like you milked me—after I get my nut."
You lift up just enough to meet his wild, glassy eyes.
"Nod if you understand."
Naoya nods. He understands perfectly now—understands exactly how you wound up pregnant by Toji. Understands why a man like that couldn't stay away.
He sobs beneath your hold, tears spilling hot over your fingers, breath hitching against your palm. You clench, a methodical squeeze—and his whole body jerks violently, a broken "nnngh—!" muffled against your hand.
You ride him in earnest now. Harder. Faster. Greedy for it. Your tits bounce wild, milk spilling with every slam of your hips—they’re sore but you don't care, chasing your pleasure like nothing else matters. You're soaked, the sound of it obscene—wet squelching filling the room, your arousal and milk splashing filthy with his pre where your bodies meet.
Naoya’s cock hits that gushy, spongy spot inside you over and over and your rhythm starts to falter.
"F-Fuck—"
You're getting sloppy. Losing focus. Your thighs burn from exertion but you can't stop, can't slow down, bouncing on his cock like you'll die yourself if you don't cum on it. Your pussy greedily convulsing around him—shit, you could easily fuck your own self stupid if you aren’t careful.
You learned well enough not to underestimate Zenin dick fucking around with Toji.
Thankfully, however, Naoya is ruined. Flushed crimson from chest to ears beneath you, his tears streaming and his cock so engorged inside you that he looks like it must hurt. His hips spasm with aborted thrusts, toes curling as he is fighting his body's urge to rut even now.
He’s still trying so hard to be a ‘good boy’ for you and that thought alone almost makes you cum.
You consider, through the haze of your own pleasure, appraising his pathetic form beneath you, that you might accidentally give him a brain aneurysm if you keep this up much longer.
“P-Puulease—Mommy” he gasps out when you lift your hand from his lips.
"Wait your turn," you moan, brows furrowing as you try to concentrate.
You're close. So fucking close. You use him like a toy now, hips rolling carnally, chasing the tingling friction. building white-hot at the base of your spine. Your nails dig into his abs as you tilt, angling yourself so his girth scrapes against your g-spot with every bounce.
Quiet sobs tumble over your lips as you tense, fucking yourself on him until—
"O-oh—oh fuckfuckfuck—"
You shatter, orgasm ripping through you, pussy fluttering wild around his length and gushing to coat his balls as you ride it out. Vision edges white, as your thighs quake, your hips rotating in stuttering circles as the waves crash through you.
Chest heaving, when you regain your senses again, Naoya is barely there himself, sanity hanging by a thread with eyes blown—watching you cum so erotically on his cock like a man witnessing something holy.
You bring your face centimeters away from his, your lips ghosting his own as you release your technique.
"Cum."
And he does.
With a broken moan Naoya busts inside you—cock pulsing thick and hot, spurts of cum flooding your cunt white as his hips stutter up helplessly. You let him pull you down, let him clutch you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth as your lips smash together.
You seal your mouth over his, devouring every ragged cry. Your tongue sweeps sweetly against his trembling one as you steady his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his tear-damp cheeks, kissing him quiet.
All the while his cock continues to pump you full—and you’ve kept your promise.
This is the most Naoya’s ever cum in his entire life.
When he comes down enough, Naoya rolls onto his side, taking you with him as he curls into you—face buried in your chest, sucking in breaths, completely undone and still twitching inside you.
A bit overspent yourself, not having activated your ability since Toji got you pregnant in the first place, you don't move yet. You keep him buried inside of you, pulsing with the aftershocks of what he just let himself become.
His arms wind tight around your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear. You cradle the back of his head, stroking softly.
He doesn't speak and you don't rush him. Not eager to test for any remaining snark you failed to fuck out of him.
It feels good just being needed like this, you are a mother afterall.
Eventually the heat between your thighs starts to cool, and you shift—peeling him off slowly, feeling the thick spill of his cum leak out of you. He shudders at the loss, an inaudible sound catching in his throat.
You ease him onto his back, robes rumpled beneath him, face still ruddy. He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes—quiet, stunned, like he doesn't recognize himself.
And then—
A single, involuntary whimper escapes him when his gaze catches on your breasts again.
Still heavy and still leaking—milk beading at your nipples.
You smile.
"Still hungry?"
He turns his face into the pillow, ears burning.
You laugh—not mocking this time. Your voice is warm, almost fond.
"Poor Nao-chan," you murmur, settling beside him as you reach for a baby wipe nearby. "Your first time letting someone take care of you, and now you don't know what to do with yourself."
"I didn't say I wanted—"
You wipe his chest clean of milk, sweat—all of it with a tenderness that makes him forget what he was saying. Naoya’s throat bobs as he goes silent.
Unhurried, you wipe yourself off next. Then once satisfied, looking over to confirm that Tomie is still sleeping peacefully, you secure the discarded blanket over you both, effectively tucking him in, before gathering him in your arms.
"You don't have to say it," you whisper against his hair. "Mommies always know."
Sure, you certainly aren't his mother.
Yet something in your heart still aches for the broken little boy inside Naoya all the same. His cruel upbringing was hardly his fault, although it's been everyone else’s problem since.
Plus, you're fairly certain you just did more for his mommy issues in one night than years of therapy could ever achieve—even if someone managed to drag Naoya there, against his will.
Sigmund Freud couldn't have even accomplished this. Someone should really give you a nobel peace prize.
You hum a low lullaby against his temple as Naoya’s eyes close. He doesn't fight it. Between your soothing song, warmth and the exhaustion your technique left behind, he doesn't have the strength to fight you—nor does he want to.
Naoya’s lips are at your nipple again. He's not sucking this time—just holding you on his tongue, lavishing slow and kitten-soft licks, nursing you like a pacifier.
"You did well, Naoya."
It's the last thing he hears as sleep pulls him under.
⟡
Hours later, Naoya wakes to the sound of your voice.
His eyes squint against the harsh morning light pouring into the room. As they adjust, he makes out your shape—sitting on the edge of the futon, knees tucked beneath you, fully dressed, bouncing Tomie in one arm while you chat on the phone.
A dizziness hits him all at once. Naoya finds himself sluggish, bodily functions recalibrating as the effects of your technique linger.
He feels like he got hit by a goddamn truck.
A truck that happened to also fuck him stupid and then tucked him in after.
Grumpy, the loss of your warmth pulls a low growl from him.
Naoya hauls himself across the futon and plants his head in your lap, nuzzling into you like you owe him now.
You try to ignore him, continuing your conversation, but Naoya is persistent. His nose keeps traveling higher—nudging toward the apex of your thighs and burying his face into your mound. The lingering musk of sex is still strong through your kimono and Naoya's cock stirs, already half-hard at the thought of tasting how well his seed has marinated inside you.
Naoya hums petulantly into your pussy, clearly territorial of whoever has your attention.
You roll your eyes at the display.
Give men an inch and they will always take a mile.
You threw him a crumb of affection and now he's acting starved for it.
Shifting your daughter to one arm and wedging the phone between your shoulder and cheek, you card your fingers through Naoya's hair. It's enough to soothe him—for now. He sighs against your thigh, using your plush lap as a pillow, and drifts back toward sleep.
"Huh? Say that again—" You grit, more irritated now at the man on the other line than the one in your lap. "Ugh, fine. I'll spot you this time, Toji."
Even half asleep, Naoya goes deathly still.
You smirk, feeling him tense in your lap as you continue to speak.
"But that’s only on the condition you visit Tomie this weekend, you oaf. She'll forget your face if you keep this up, ya know."
A pause. Then snort.
"Hm? Oh yeah. Yup, uh-huh.” You smirk amused by whatever Toji's saying on the other line. "Yeah, yeah, Ji. I'll let him know—and jeez, I got it, okay…I'll do the transfer now. GOODBYE."
You hang up with a huff, mildly annoyed—until you glance down and see your daughter happily cooing, her tiny hand patting Naoya's head alongside yours as you reluctantly transfer Toji the money he asked for.
Naoya, mortified, had been holding his breath this entire time—just in case Toji could sense it over the phone—sighs in relief.
"Shit... that was close," he mumbles, wincing as your daughter's pats turn into enthusiastic slaps against his temple.
Toji-kun told him to take care of you, sure.
He's fairly certain this wasn't what he meant.
"Huh? Oh, you mean Toji?" You blink down at Naoya. "I already told him."
Naoya shoots upright like you just announced a curse had just blown up half of Tokyo.
"Relax, Naoya, my god." You wave a hand, dismissing him. "Toji's cool about it. We were never exclusive or anything, ya know."
Naoya exhales, exasperated, and flops onto the futon, on his back, his hand over his face as you rise shuffling elsewhere in the room.
He knows his cousin—this won't be the end of it. Toji will definitely expect something in return.
But Naoya can't think about that now. His head is throbbing, it's early as hell, and he's gotten maybe two good hours of sleep.
He knows he should return to his own sleeping quarters—but this is his wing after all and he honestly can't be arsed to move for anything right now.
"However," you add lightly, when you see Naoya's body bracing for blow, "he did say you have to bankroll a parlay for him every time you fuck his wife."
And there it is.
Naoya doesn't even lift the hand over his face, just grunts.
"Sure."
"Anddddd, he's charging you by the ounce for—and I quote—'sucking up all his tiddy milk like a pansy lil b-i-t-c-h.'"
You spell out the word in lieu of saying it now that Tomie is awake.
Naoya groans, wishing he'd woken up earlier. He's not sure what kind of narrative you fed Toji, but he's too exhausted to argue about it now.
"...Fine." Naoya replies, wincing at your giggles prickling his skull.
Toji's money schemes don't matter much to him anyway—he's rich, he can afford whatever bullshit ‘tiddy milk tax’ this is.
Naoya just needs you to shut up about it now.
Every chuckle out of your mouth drives another rusty nail into his skull.
"Oh, one last thing," you call over your shoulder, smirking as you scoop Tomie's diaper bag and head towards the bathroom to change her.
"Toji says if you get me knocked-up, you’re raising that one too."
You laugh hardly, leaving the room with Tomie happily cooing in your arms.
Whatever.
Naoya sighs, smashing two pillows over his face.
He'd just pull out next time.
Simple. Problem solved.
It's a small price to pay for your soft creamy tits and that sweet, gooey mommy puss—
♡ hope u enjoyed! i hope to see a lot more recruits in the naoya army after this fic lol!
also i loved writing in tomie here. i didn't name toji's and your's baby in the previous one but i really like this name so i decided to use it. shes so sassy shes def gonna give noaya hell. hsjdfbvjshdbfvhsd. read my other naoya fic here
Status updates: Caracal!sukuna p4 (20% done), invisible man!gojo (35%), stepdaddy!nanami (60% done), nerd!geto p2 (45%), 69 choso fic (30%) [y'all remember caracal sukuna won the poll so freddy!sukuna and elevator will have to wait!] stepdaddy!nanami next
𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.
"If you just let me. I can be him. You can call his name. Pretend he's touching you."
Six months since 𝓨𝒖𝒕𝒂 started pursuing you.
The setting sun over jujutsu tech glared you down as your back pressed into the bridge's wooden beams. Was Satoru's glare in the horizon? Was his judgement in the sky? Were his chastises whispered in the wind that kissed your cheek?
His eyes were above you.
His hair tickling your forehead.
His hands on you.
His. But not his. Not your husband. Not Satoru.
Just the man who wore his skin.
Yuta shedded his a long time ago. A miscalculation. A medical horror. Returning to his body became impossible and so, he remained in the man who was once yours. Now twenty three, and all he wanted?
You.
Before you, he stood. Looming over you the way that Satoru did. Caressing your cheek the way that Satoru did.
Whispering to you the way that Satoru did.
"I have his memories," he said, thumb tracing a familiar line on your cheekbone. "I know how he touched you. I know how he loved you. I can love you the same."
He leaned closer. Diminishing both the space between you and your shame.
"We can play pretend," he promised.
The same way Satoru had promised that he would come home.
The same way you had promised him that no one else would ever hold your heart, your body, your soul.
You broke your promise.
All it took was a kiss. From lips you remembered. From a mouth that worshipped you every day of your short marriage.
Your downfall were his hands. Familiar. Once yours. The wedding ring he still wore out of reverence for his sensei.
A kiss. A touch. A memory. That's all it took.
All it took for the sheets to welcome your back. For your thighs to welcome his head. Your hands greeting white hair that you once stroked so tenderly when the world caved in on him.
Your Satoru.
Not your Satoru.
Satoru's body.
Your Satoru's body.
Between your legs. Worshipping you. As he always did. With big, scarred hands spreading you apart. With a tongue that knew every inch of you. A voice that praised you.
The same way your husband would.
"So sweet, taste so so good, sweet girl," the groan soaked into your slick. An aphrodisiac of its own. Seeping into your veins. Dizzying your mind.
"Toru," you whimpered.
Toru.
Satoru.
You're Satoru.
He's not your Satoru.
But you moaned for him as if he was.
Tugged onto his hair. Ground into his face. Whimpered his name— as if he was.
Two orgasms on his tongue alone. Yuta proved that he had committed to his sensei's memories. He knew exactly how to fuck you on the pink muscle. Where to touch. What pressure.
His thumb stroked along your slit. Tracing the quivers as his lips occupied your clit. Sucking on its pulses and worming out another devastating orgasm out of you.
Three. You came three times.
The same number Satoru worked you up to before he kissed you. Held you. Fucked you.
Yuta committed to the routine. Kissed you. Spread your thighs.
Pressed his dick to your twitching cunt.
Shushed your cries.
Held you.
Fucked you.
Your body forgot, but your mind didn't. The stretch burned and tears pricked at your eyes— but your mind keened. Slipped. Soaked in the memory of him.
Of your husband.
Of Satoru.
As Yuta's hips engraved new memories into your thighs.
As his fingers blossomed new bruises.
As his mouth kissed you with a new hunger.
Your arms hugged around his neck. Breath stuttering. Voice breaking. Every plunge of his cock stroked the fire deeper into you. Unravelling your mind into a messy heap of tears and needy.
Rough pants fanned above you. His brows pinched at the centre. One hand gripping your thigh and the other cupped beneath your head. Yuta's thrusts were as nasty as Satoru's. Deep, fast, taking you apart from the inside out.
"That's it. There you go," he huffed, white lashes fluttering. "There's my girl."
"Sat— toru," you sobbed. Because maybe crying would make it real.
Maybe it'd wake you up from this terrible nightmare.
"You're doing so well, sweetheart." His voice slipped into your ear. Clenched your heart. Squeezed your cunt as your nails raked down his back.
"Toru," you whimpered. "T-Toru, toru please. I need— I need you. I need you."
His thumb found your clit, your back bowed into the pleasure. Another sob shook from your lungs. Reaching out for him. Not Yuta. Not his body. Him.
But it was Yuta who cupped your face. With Satoru's hand.
Yuta who bottomed out. Fucked you deeper. With Satoru's cock.
Yuta who whispered to you. With Satoru's voice.
"I'm here." He lied, so sweetly.
As his hips drove faster— and faster. Grinding into all of the sweetspots that Satoru knew. That were now at his disposal.
"I'm here, I'm right here, sweetheart." He lied, so gently.
As he hugged you close. Took you higher— and higher. Perfectly choreographed to the memory he committed to.
Playing with your clit, with Satoru's fingers.
Praising you, with Satoru's words.
Kissing you, with Satoru's lips.
"I'm gonna cum," you cried, and he licked your tears away. Cradled your face. Whispered tenderly.
"Cum," eyes so blue, eyes once yours, stared deep into your soul. Deceived you with promises that had already been broken. "Cum for me. Cum for 'toru, baby. C'mon."
The heat, the need, the memories— they all rushed into a knot that snapped in the pit of your stomach. Your eyes rolled back. Body arched. Tensed.
"Satoru— t-toru. Toru, miss you. I miss you."
You sobbed his name when you came.
Clung to his shoulders.
Squeezed his cock.
But you knew.
That it wasn't him that held you.
Wasn't him that smacked his hips into yours.
Wasn't him that groaned deep, even if it was his voice.
Wasn't him that stilled, that moaned your name, that filled you to the brim and kept pumping as you shook with whimpers.
Eyes so blue. Eyes once yours.
But in your heart, you knew. Satoru was dead.
Knew that the thing wearing his skin wasn't him.
And that the only one who caressed your face, kissed you, told you that he loved you— wasn't your husband.
Synopsis: abandoned at the foot of a mountain in hopes of winning the favour of the Curse King, you have to navigate life as his bride, constantly fearing death, torture, and being eaten out— up. being eaten up. definitely up.
right?
Warnings: porn with plot, dark romance, forced marriage, true form!sukuna - 2 peepees!, cunnilingus (he's a certified munch), use of curse mouth, blood play, masochist!sukuna, pussyjob, thigh job, death/violence/body parts, primal play, dubcon, double penetration, upside down 69, hair pulling, brief spanking, pussy slapping, biting, outdoor sex, bondage, shadow tentacles?, period sex, multiple orgasms, honestly not as dark as it sounds — this is quite romantic I promise, angst, fluff (soft!kuna), not quite curse au in the canon sense, f!reader, not proofread
Word Count: 16.9k
A forced marriage with Sukuna, the king of curses, sounds like hell.
And it is.
The village chief wanted to receive the newly arrived Curse King’s mercy and be spared from his tyranny. That apparently meant offering you, his only daughter, up for marriage. You were dropped off at the foot of the mountain, bound and gagged, unable to scream for help, not that any would arrive.
Not even your best friend, Suguru, had met your eyes.
Everyone had abandoned you.
A servant, dignified and aloof, came. They, with their white hair stained with crimson, took one look at you before making a silent decision.
Carried by goblin-looking creatures inside the mountain, which parted as though unhinging its jaw, you could do nothing but accept that you were going to be eaten up by the very monsters that children were warned about.
Navigating the carved out hallways of the mountain, they threw you in the throne room. Jagged stone walls surrounded you. Glowing red rocks were embedded in the rocks and lit torches illuminated the grand space. You were laying on the rolled out red carpet, staring up at a giant of a being.
There he was.
Sukuna Ryomen.
He was resting his head on one of his four arms, legs crossed, with all four eyes gazing down at you. He looked bored.
“What is this?” he drawled.
The same servant you first met stepped up, head bowed humbly. They said, “Entertainment, my Lord.”
“Entertainment?” the king repeated, tasting the word. “Not a snack? Interesting. How, pray tell, will this woman entertain me, if not with the taste of her flesh, Uraume?”
It was an absurd situation — they were discussing you as if you weren’t there, as if you didn’t have ears, as if you were a pet the servant had picked up as a gift. Although, it was at least a small blessing that you hadn’t been killed on the spot, you supposed. The thought, however, didn’t permit much relief when unimaginable torture could have awaited you.
‘Uraume’ answered, “The humans intended for her to be your wife, my Lord. Perhaps you could humour them with brief belief that they have been spared from their inevitable fate.”
At that, Sukuna hummed.
His eyes met your own then. They inspected you through your very soul. You felt their branding touch rifling through your essence. Something passed in them, something to which you could not put words.
Finally, he waved a lazy hand, and said, “Very well.”
The servants rushed to take you away, afraid to waste a single second.
You’ve been living in a room somewhere in the heart of the mountain since.
It’s been about a week.
Meals on a tray are served to you three times a day. Porridge, fruits, bread, the sorts. You do your best not to eat much; they might have poisoned it.
Every day, every hour, is spent anticipating the wooden doors being kicked down, waiting for the Curse King to forgo delaying your fate and slicing your head off your shoulders with one, clean cut. So far, nothing yet.
In fact, you have not seen another soul since.
The first night, you couldn’t sleep, afraid that he would take the villagers up on the offer to make you his real bride, by plunging his cock into you and stealing your maidenhead. It didn’t, and hasn’t, happened. But ‘yet’ looms over you perpetually.
Your one consolation is that sleep comes to you easily now.
It’s all you can do — the room is barren of books, of people, of art. Only a bed, a table, and a chamber pot with a bucket of water decorate it. There are no windows with which you can view the outside world, can tell what time of day it is, can escape through, or jump off. Only your body’s natural instincts inform you when morning and time to slumber has arrived.
Though…
With the days blurring, and perpetual and dim light of the glowing rocks remaining unchanged, it’s beginning to grow more and more difficult to tell left from right.
The doors are unlocked.
That was the first thing you tested when you were placed here.
Of course you’ve considered walking out of the room, if only to have a change of scenery. You’ve also considered escaping. But your thoughts would always end up at ‘escaping to where?’
You’ve been abandoned by your village, by your family. They would not accept you. They would see your return as a sign that the Curse King had rejected their sacrifice and would be coming to collect the debt. In other words, you’d be seen as a bad omen.
It was your destiny to die, whether by the hands of your family or by the hands of the beast they were afraid of.
So if death is a certainty, why would you fear it?
That’s the final thought that pushes you out of bed and to the door. Your hand hesitated for a second. Then it was sure. You opened it, body tense.
No one’s outside. No guard, no goblins, no king.
You pad out, feet bare and wearing only a nightgown. How deep inside the mountain are you, you wonder. There’s a draught blowing past, but no sound of the forest to fill the space. No voices. No footsteps. No life.
“Where is everyone?” you mutter, padding forward.
Who can say how long you wander through the tunnels?
It feels like it’s been hours, though with the way time seems to pass differently, it could also have only been mere minutes.
Eventually, you spot light coming from a hollow in the walls. Carefully and with bated breath, you peer inside.
Steam wafts over your face.
It’s warm — startlingly so against the chill that seems to cling to every corridor of the mountain. You hesitate again, also only a moment before stepping inside.
The ceiling arches high above, rough stone glistening with condensation, droplets forming and falling in slow, steady rhythms that echo softly in the space. The air is thick, humid, curling around your skin. It tickles.
At the centre of the chamber lies a pool.
It’s set into a wide, uneven basin in the ground. The water glows faintly from beneath, lit by the same red-veined stones embedded along the walls, but here their light is softened, diffused through the steam until it casts everything in a hazy, molten glow.
The surface of the water ripples lazily, disturbed by unseen currents, by the quiet bubbling from somewhere deep below. Heat rises from it in waves, beckoning, almost inviting.
Who knew something like this existed inside a mountain?
Carefully, you approach the edge of the pool, crouching slightly as you extend a hand. Your fingers hover for a second before dipping into the water.
Hot.
But not scalding.
“A bath,” you mumble, smiling.
Here, of all places.
The servants had given you a bed to sleep on, a table to eat at, and a pot to do your business in that seemed to be cleaned out magically without you ever seeing anyone. What they hadn’t granted, however, is the luxury of a bath. Only a bucket to and a rag to clean yourself with.
You glance back toward the tunnel, as if half-expecting someone, something, to be watching. But there’s nothing and no one. Only the distant drip of water and the low hum of the mountain breathing around you.
Your reflection stares back at you from the shifting surface, blurred by steam and movement. The quiet stretches.
If you’ll be killed for stepping outside your room, at least you’ll die clean and fresh.
Shrugging off your nightgown, you dip your toe in the water, then your leg and the other, and soon you’re fully emerged.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” you moan, letting the water soothe the aches in your bones. You sink deeper. The heat swallows you whole, up to your shoulders, then your chin. Your eyes flutter shut as you tilt your head back, strands of your hair clinging damply to your skin.
For a moment, just a moment, you forget. Forget the mountain, the monsters, the fate waiting patiently for you somewhere in its depths. The tension bleeds out of your limbs, your breathing slowing, evening out as the warmth seeps into you.
You drift, arms floating lazily at your sides.
A soft sigh escapes you. This is just like swimming in the lake near the village, except it’s warm and lovely and soothing.
It’s…peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Your eyes open.
Something feels…off suddenly. The water, once gently lapping, stills in a way that isn’t natural. The faint bubbling from below seems to deepen, shift. Like something moving far beneath the surface.
Your body goes rigid.
Slowly, you glance down. The water is dark there. Deeper than it should be. The glow from the stones doesn’t quite reach the bottom — it falls away into shadow, into something that looks less like a pool and more like a pit.
A pit that could swallow you whole.
Your breath catches.
“…Hello?” you call softly, though you don’t know why.
The surface trembles.
Something moves.
Your heart lurches into your throat. Instinct kicks in before thought does. You turn sharply, water sloshing as you begin to move, arms cutting through the surface, making for the edge.
Too slow.
Something clasps your ankle.
A gasp tears right through you, kicking hard, panic surging white-hot through your veins. “No!”
It coils.
Grabs.
Your leg is yanked downward with terrifying force.
The world flips. Water crashes over your head as you’re dragged under, your scream swallowed instantly. You thrash, clawing at nothing, lungs burning whilst bubbles tear from your mouth. Your hands grasp blindly, trying to find purchase, to find anything.
A shape.
A body.
You strike it. Push against it. Kick, struggle, fight with everything in you, nails scraping against something solid, unyielding.
Then it lets go.
You don’t wait.
You surge upward, breaking through the surface with a ragged gasp, coughing, choking on water as you scramble for the edge. Your hands slap against the stone, slipping once before catching, dragging yourself up just enough to cling to it. Your whole body trembles violently.
Air. You need air.
You suck it in greedily, chest heaving, water dripping from your lashes as your eyes dart wildly across the pool. “W-what…” you choke out, voice shaking.
A sound answers you. A low, amused exhale.
Your blood runs cold. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn your head.
He’s here.
The King of Curses.
Sukuna lounges against the inner ledge of the pool as though he’s always been there. One arm is slung lazily over the stone behind him, another resting loosely at his side, droplets sliding down the planes of his skin. And the remaining two are folded under the water.
He’s watching you.
No, observing you.
That smirk curls at his lips, sharp and satisfied, eyes glinting with something dark and entertained. “Well,” he drawls, voice echoing low against the stone walls, “your floundering was amusing.”
“W-why,” you begin, gulping air and frantically shoving the wet hair clinging away from your face, “why did you do that?”
A hum floats through the air, carried by the steam. It sweeps your skin. Sukuna says, “Because I could.” Then he barks a laugh. “When I came here to wash the stink of my latest massacre, I did not expect to find a human bathing in my onsen. How brazen of you.”
When he snaps his fingers together, you flinch.
Uraume appears.
Their head is downcast. They don’t look at your body, which you suddenly remember is bare and visible through the clear water. You throw your arms over your private parts.
“Who is this woman and why have you not killed her upon her first step of trespass?” he asks his servant. Sukuna doesn’t sound mad. Only curious.
“Because she is your bride, my Lord.”
You flinch at the term.
Sukuna barks a laugh again. “My bride? My bride! How comical that I would forget I have one.” He turns to you, eyes narrowing in with interest. “Why have you only now appeared before me?”
Gulping, you tentatively answer, “I did not think you would want to see me. And I’m sorry I intruded—”
“Wise,” he says, one of his massive arms running through his wet hair. “I am not usually fond of seeing humans; you are all so hideous and constantly quivering in my presence.”
There’s no possible way to reply to that, not without getting your blood spilled for insolence.
He stands upon the ledge and exits the pool.
He’s completely naked, as you are. His broad back, the impressive muscles that make it up, the perfectly symmetrical tattoos. He turns. His cocks swings with the movement. You quickly avert your eyes, cheeks warm.
If Sukuna notices that you noticed, he doesn’t say. Only, “Try not to drown — my pet swims beneath but he has already had his fill. Do not fatten him with your flesh.”
When you hurriedly climb out, squealing, his laughter echoes, filling the space even once his body, and his servant’s, have left.
You kneel on the smooth ground, panting, soaked and dripping, and thinking one thing:
The Curse King has a sense of humour.
And two giant cocks.
.
.
.
The next day, you find yourself back at the pool.
You tell yourself it’s simply because you want to bathe, but perhaps if you were more honest with yourself, you’d accept that maybe you were curious to see if he’d be there.
And he is.
Sukuna leans against the very same ledge he had been yesterday. He watches your every move, from when you first step in, to when you shyly shrug off your nightgown, and when you submerge yourself in the warm water.
Something has brought you here.
A pull you could not deny.
Thinking too much about it gives you a headache, so you let your body move on its own, unhindered by logic, by your mind’s concerns. You want to bathe, to be clean. He hadn’t killed you yesterday, and that counts for something.
Of course, you know the smart thing to do would be to not push it, to understand that two run-ins with him that didn’t lead to immediate death doesn’t mean a third would end the same, to count your blessings.
But…
Bath.
He says nothing, only runs a finger across the seam of his lips as his eyes drink up every shift of your body.
Boldly, albeit shakily, you ask, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”
Sukuna’s eyes glint.
“I wonder the same thing myself.”
That’s not an answer, you note. But you don’t poke, scared if you do, if you push your limits more than you already have, he’ll snap your head as easily as he had snapped his fingers.
The way his eyes pin you down on the ledge opposite him has you squirming in your seat. It’s too intense. Too strong. Too dizzying. So you try to pretend it’s not cascading down the skin visible to him; you push forward, wading in the water. You stare at the ceiling, at the distance, at the darkness of the depths, at anything but him.
“My village offered me as sacrifice,” you remind him. “Will you spare them?”
Somewhere, he lazily replies, “I have yet to decide.”
Humming, as though you thought as much, you wonder aloud, “What will you do with me? I cannot imagine that the King of Curses would find much use in a human wife.”
“No, neither can I,” Sukuna drawls.
On and on, you swim. Arms cut through the water in slow, steady strokes, legs kicking behind you in a rhythm that’s begun to feel automatic. There’s no sense of direction, no shore to aim for, just the endless stretch of water surrounding you, thick and quiet, swallowing any sound you might make. Time slips, dissolves, until all that remains is movement for the sake of movement.
Then, as you turn, your hand meets something solid.
The impact is soft but jarring, your palm flattening instinctively against it. A wall. Smooth, unmoving, impossibly present where there had only ever been open water.
You gasp.
Sukuna stands behind you.
The bottom of the pool had risen. You still cannot reach it, but you’re aware that if you tried to, the water’s surface would be just above your head. The pool is under his command, bending to his will. How incredible.
Bare, wet skin meets bare, wet skin.
The heat of his body is hotter than that of the water.
He doesn’t step away despite how the water seems to be pushing you to him.
How did he get to you so fast? Last you saw, he was still sitting on the ledge. No, perhaps the better question is, why had he moved closer to you at all?
Hands grab your ribs. You gasp. They’re firm, callused. Burning.
“Wife?” he repeats, wide smirk revealing rows of flesh-tearing teeth. “You are not my wife. You are my bride. I am sure even a puny, little thing like you understand that there is a process to be followed, yes?”
A nail flicks your nipple under the water.
You let out a shuddery breath.
The other two hands grip the back of your thighs, lifting them till they’re wrapping around his hips. The top half of your body has emerged from the water, water dripping down. You throw your arms around his neck, a reflex to grab onto something before you fall.
Breasts presses to his chest. He must feel how hard your nipples are. You’re flushed with embarrassment, and an acute awareness of how much bigger his own body is to yours — if he wanted to, he could crush you with his bare hands.
Sukuna’s sharp fangs glint at the very peaks as he runs his tongue over them. “For you to be my wife, we would have to observe tradition. Do you understand what I refer to, little human?”
Breathless, you answer with your own question: “Do you refer to the wedding night, my Lord?”
One of his cocks pokes your entrance. You tense up.
You’ve seen their size; they are inhumanly big. They could not fit inside you, not without the preparation that the women in your village had giggled about, perhaps not even with.
But he doesn’t shove it inside you all in one go.
He doesn’t shove it inside at all.
The king merely slides you down his body, just a little, until that cock is sandwiched between your bodies.
It bumps a good spot on your cunt. You gasp.
“I do,” Sukuna says, huffing in amusement at your reaction. “I admit I have not been married before myself, but it is one aspect I am curious about.”
His strong hands are moving you up and down, testing every little sound that leaves your lips. And you’re letting him.
Is there something in the water? Some elixir that’s making you susceptible to his whims? An aphrodisiac stimulating wetness out of your pussy?
He must feel it, must feel how it drips down his length. Just like how you can feel the prominent veins of a cock that’s grown fully erect without you noticing. How long has he been like this? Since you walked in? Before?
Your nipples are scraping his chest. The sensation has you arching closer to him, grip around his body tightening. “M-my Lord!”
Sukuna tuts, moving you up and down like you’re a mere toy for his pleasure. He scolds, “That is not my name.”
“Sukuna?” you experimentally mutter the words. His cock throbs. You both groan. “S-something’s happening.”
Hips moving on their own, you feel as though you’ve been possessed. Your body is no longer your own — some invisible thing is urging you to grind down on his cock, on that burning heat between you, rubbing your clit on his flushed cockhead, on the veins that run up and down his length.
Humming, he says, quite distracted, “Yes. Something is. Allow it to happen. Do not fight it.”
This is pleasure you’ve never felt before. Pleasure you didn’t know truly existed. The women in your village always spoke of sexual pleasure as something only for men, joy a girl would be lucky to experience even once, if their partner was generous and not selfish, which was apparently rare.
Yet, here is, grinding your clit on the veins of his cock.
He licks his lips. “Go on, little human. Give it to me.”
With a loud moan, you throw your head back. Spasms wrack your body. A heady explosion warms your belly. Spurts of something even warmer paint your chest and stomach.
Sukuna grunts, fingers digging into the plush of your ass.
“Fuck.”
Your head falls back on his chest, slumping with sudden languishness. You pant. His chest rises with his own heavier breaths.
Coming back into your own senses, you tense. Then push away. He lets you.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, in near tears from shame. “Please forgive me, my Lord.”
You wade back, further and further away from him. Blood has pooled in your cheeks. What have you done? If he wasn’t going to kill you before, he certainly will now that you’ve defiled his body.
He pays you no mind. The water around his still body ripples. Sukuna grunts. Sucks in a harsh breath. Water laps at his contracting abdomen. Furious. Violent. You cannot tear your eyes away from the sight.
Oh god…he’s tugging furiously at his other cock whilst the other floats. His own spend is drying on his chest.
Mouth watering, you almost step forward to offer a hand.
But you don’t.
Instead, you turn around and make a run back to your room.
.
.
.
You haven’t returned to the pool. Not once in the week that passed.
He might not have killed you but one thing’s certain: you do not want to run into him again.
Especially now that you’ve caught his attention. Reminded him of your existence. Which is as one would expect: worse than being forgotten. So, so, so much worse.
For, every day since the meeting at the pool, he’s taken to dropping off severed limbs at your door. Still warm. Still bleeding. Often twitching. First it was a big toe. Then a whole foot. A finger. A hand. An arm.
And today, a head.
A scream shook the walls once your eyes landed on the thing.
Your scream.
Perhaps it’s adrenaline that urges every stomp your feet make. Perhaps anger or indignation. Whatever it is, it has you near-running through the halls, searching in every hollow for him.
An almost full circle has been carved at the very end of one tunnel you stumble down. Vines creep out of it. You step inside, heaving, and with fists balled at your side.
A garden.
It stretches farther than your eyes can follow, lush and sprawling, like the earth itself had been coaxed open and persuaded to bloom in defiance of everything you thought you knew about this place. The ceiling arches high above, fractured in places where thin shafts of pale light filter through, catching on drifting pollen and casting the entire space in a soft, dreamlike haze.
The air is warm here. Heavy with scent.
Sweet. Overripe. Almost intoxicating.
It’s not a human garden, you can tell immediately; the grass is black, as is the soil, and the roots which emerge from the ground are red. Things that couldn’t exist in the same place do, cohabiting quite well.
Flowers you’ve never seen before crowd the ground in wild abundance — petals like silk and flame, some translucent, others so dark they seem to drink in the light. Vines coil and twist up natural pillars of stone, heavy with blossoms. Leaves skim against your legs as you step forward, wide and waxy, or delicate as lace, each one foreign.
“How…?” you whisper, though there is no answer. It shouldn’t have been possible to have a whole forest inside a mountain. But then again, a great many things shouldn’t have been possible, yet they are.
The path, if it can even be called that, winds forward through the growth, barely visible beneath the encroaching green. It feels endless. Like you could spend your entire life sprinting down the path and never make it to the end.
There, some distance ahead, partially obscured by the curtain of hanging vines, a figure moves.
You freeze.
Bare feet press against the dark soil, soundless. A loose robe hangs from his shoulders, open just enough to reveal the breadth of his chest and the markings etched into his skin stark against the softness of the garden around him. One hand drags idly along the leaves as he walks.
“Hello, little bride.”
It still surprises you that he can utter the word so casually. You don’t flinch this time however. You only glower and maintain the distance. “Why have you been giving me body parts?” you interrogate, grateful that your voice is as firm as when you had rehearsed.
Sukuna lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Why have you not stepped foot outside your room since?”
He resumes walking.
Toward you.
Each step is unhurried, deliberate, crushing petals beneath his feet without a second thought. The garden seems to part for him, bending subtly to his presence, vines shifting, leaves snaking aside in quiet submission.
You don’t move.
You tell yourself you won’t.
Your pulse stutters anyway.
“You fear me,” Sukuna observes, like he’s stating something obvious. His eyes drag over you, taking in every inch, every subtle shift in your breathing, the way your fingers curl tighter at your sides. “And yet you came looking.”
“Because I want to know why you’ve been giving me body parts,” you snap.
“Mm.”
He’s closer now.
Close enough that you can feel the heat of him, even in the thick, perfumed air of the garden. Close enough that you can see the faint sheen of moisture still clinging to his skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the loose fall of his robe.
Another step.
Instinct finally kicks in; you shift back, just one pace.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I was curious.”
Your brows knit. “About what?”
“How long it would take,” he says lightly, “for you to stop hiding.” A finger traces the curve of your cheek. You hold your breath, staring up at him, waiting for his next move. Sukuna mutters, “How odd that your scent would be so much sweeter than the flowers that grow here. It makes me wonder.”
Why is heat travelling down your body? Why aren’t you running away, revolted by his touch or the gravel in his voice? Were you still thinking about the feel of his body against yours, both naked, in the pool? Of the cocks whose soft lengths had been engrained in your mind?
His nostrils flare.
A flash in his eyes.
“There it is,” he rasps. “A scent I could not escape, so much more potent now.”
In a blink of an eye, you’re flipped over, dangling in the air. He has you by the ankle, lifted high up.
You grab onto his robe, which has parted. Right in front of you is his cock. Both of them. Neither soft now. Definitely not soft. One smacks you right against the face. It leaves a wet mark.
The musk of a refined monster hits you. It’s…it’s addictive. Your mouth waters again, stronger this time than the time at the pool now that they’re so much closer to you. Irresistible.
Sukuna presses a nose to the apex of your thighs. Skin on skin. You jolt.
Your dress had fallen down your body, ballooning around your face. You hold the material away — he can see everything. That fact has you aware that you can see him too. The thickness of his cocks, the lengths rivalling your forearm, the weight of the balls beneath. Everything about him is massive. Intended to subjugate. Designed to dominate.
“You are already wet. Soaked,” he muses, thoroughly humoured. He rubs his nose on your clit, nuzzling the little bud. You dig your nails into his thighs. “Filthy, little human.”
That’s all he says before he licks a stripe through your slit.
“Sukuna!”
“Mm. Dessert. Just in time.”
The beast licks and laps and sucks. It isn’t anything like the women at the village described — men are supposed to be reluctant, they’re supposed to be frightened. Sukuna isn’t. He’s consuming your juices as though starved, needing nourishment.
In front of you, something emerges from his skin.
A wolfish grin.
There’s a mouth on his stomach, lips curled up and teeth gleaming. You scream, fighting to get out of his tight hold.
SMACK!
Sukuna slapped your ass. A dull heat blossoms on the flesh. He commands, “Stay still. I cannot dine when you worm like so.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Cruelly, he lays short slaps right on your clit, sending juices splashing onto your skin. The way his palm sticks, the sloppy noises, it's all so degrading. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s revelling in your clear desire for him.
You’re almost too distracted by the sight of a second, bigger mouth. Almost. But nothing can truly, wholly tear your attention away from the sucking of your clit and the way a fire is being lit in your very core. Soon, a thick tongue finds your entrance and buries itself inside. Your eyes roll back.
A hot, wet thing slides up the valley of your breasts. Slithering. Testing. Tasting.
The mouth, you realise. It’s sticking its fat tongue out, licking your breasts the way Sukuna’s face mouth is licking the inside of your cunt, stretching your walls, teasing the pleats there.
“Delicious,” one of them says. You can’t tell which. So much is happening at once. Too many to process.
At your lips, one of his cockheads smears its seed. You lick your lips. It’s salty. Eyes fixed on the frighteningly red thing, you open your mouth to suckle at it. That familiar possession has returned. You’re being controlled by an invisible force — your jaw has to widen to take the bulbous head. Your tongue runs over the tip, where there’s a slit.
Sukuna groans, pleased. Then he growls, “Do not neglect the other.”
Slightly afraid, you do as he says. The other cock is just as hard, just as big and long as the one you’re sucking on. It throbs approvingly when you tug on it.
“Good,” he groans out. “Very good, little bride.”
Obscene squelches are coming from above. It’s a reminder of how wet you are for him. Of how delirious the pleasure is. Of how you aren’t disgusted by the magical tongue flicking your tits, playing with the mounds, running the tip of it over your nipples. You’re not disgusted by the salty taste of him, of how he seems to be constantly leaking.
He’s lapping up at your pussy so furiously that he makes frustrated, wrathful sounds; he’s mad that you’re not producing enough wetness to match the pace in which he’s drinking it up.
“More,” he commands. “Give me more. Now.”
Sukuna pushes his face closer, uncaring of the fact that you’re making a mess all over his cheeks. He only has one thing on his mind.
“I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, mouth full and words garbled. The unfamiliar word leaves your lips so naturally you think you’d been warning him all your life of your impending orgasm.
Unfortunately, the warning is wasted. You don’t think he even hears the words with your thighs muffling his ears.
“Sukuna!”
The very same feeling, the same sensations, as the time in the pool rushes through you. Bolts of lightning thrum beneath the surface of your skin. You shudder, moaning lewdly.
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he’s only emboldened by the juices overflowing out of you. Slurrrrrping! so animatedly. So viciously. So animalistically.
A feral beast sucking your sensitive clit into another orgasm only minutes later.
It’s too much. It almost hurts. You slap at his meaty thigh. That seems to snap him out of his mania.
In a flash, you’re flipped back upright. Blood descends down your body. Lightheaded, your knees weaken. He catches you, lifting you up in his arms all while he’s collecting as much of your juices off his skin he can reach with his tongue.
Thud…thud…thud…
Sukuna strolls through the garden and back out into the rocky halls, robe discarded. Your dress is soaked with a mix of your juices, sweat, and his saliva. You’re filthy. He doesn’t complain.
Thankfully, there’s no one in the hallways to witness the remnants, of the proof, of your mutual debauchery.
“I have never considered myself as having a sweet tooth,” Sukuna begins, musing to himself, “but now I believe I would very much like to have dessert after every meal. What do you say, little human?”
“Hmm,” you sleepily hum.
“Then we are in agreement,” Sukuna concludes, pleased.
Your eyes flutter shut, too tired to keep them open. Before you fall into slumber, you feel a bed much softer than you remember cushion your body.
A hardness flanks you.
You dream of many hands brushing your hair, patting your hip, rubbing your belly, and tracing your cheek.
.
.
.
Since you’ve come to accept your odd relationship with the King of Curses, you’ve been spending an awful amount of time with him lately.
It started off with him keeping you in his room.
It’s a much nicer room than yours. Infinitely so. Almost triple the size and more lavishly decorated — a huge bed with silk sheets and a canopy with deep velvet curtains, a plush rug, dark red orchids in intricate and complex positions upon a table, paintings of different moments in time of human suffering that concerningly do not bother you.
You always find yourself back in here.
Whenever you wander through the halls, the walls seem to shift. They lead you back to his room. At first you were hesitant to enter, and you’d try to go a different way, but the caves insisted.
He isn’t here ever.
So you’ve started to think of it as your own.
During meal times, that’s when you’d see Sukuna.
Uraume would often escort you out of the room and into the dining hall. Another enormous space. You’d dine with him, and only him. There’d be curses posted inside, but they always step out, to give you privacy you assume. Naturally, these mealtimes were awkward for you in the beginning.
Sukuna didn’t speak. Not at first. He would just watch you eat, which only made you feel more awkward.
You were the one who broke the silence. “Are you… are you not going to eat, my Lord?” you asked tentatively.
A devious grin came upon his face. Happy he won a competition you didn’t know you signed up for. He replied, “I will. I am simply fattening up my pig before I devour her.”
Heat flushed through you. Cutlery clinking against the fine china, you gulped. There was a dangerous awareness of the darkness of his eyes feasting upon your flesh — you felt its weight sliding down the plumpness of your cheeks, the length of your neck, your collarbones, and your breasts which threatened to spill out from the confines of your dress.
Perhaps fear should have overtaken you at that moment.
Only relief and desire did.
What set you on edge most was not knowing what he wanted from you, why he had Uraume collect you, why he was wasting his time here when he could be doing kingly duties.
Now that he had made clear what he was seeking, you could allow yourself to rest easy and actually taste the food you were shovelling into your mouth.
“I am the pig in question?”
“Yes,” he replied immediately. A hand shoved a plate of pancakes towards you, encouraging. “You certainly squeal like one.”
Frowning, and pushing the plate away because you have too much to eat already, you argued, “I do not.”
“Do too,” he said, pushing the plate back towards you.
“Do not!”
An arm wrapped around your waist faster than you could see. Another swiped the food off the table. Everything fell with cacophonous clangs and bangs and splats!
Sukuna placed you on the table, which was now bereft of food. Your back met the hard wood. Your legs were thrown over his shoulders. Dress hiked up your waist. You were bared to him. Two of his callused hands yanked you closer to his face. Those four eyes, all scarlet and glinting up at you, didn’t look away.
He wanted you to watch him take a long whiff of your cunt.
His grip tightened on you once your scent hit him with full force. His eyes rolled back. Sukuna snarled, “Let’s see which of us is right.”
There were no soft kisses upon your sensitive skin, no caresses. Only unrestrained feasting. He immediately latched onto your clit, sucking on the thing with a fury. You cried out.
The king was frightening in his aggression.
He was gulping down every drop your pussy produced to please him, and it wasn’t nearly enough. Terrifying growls shook the table.
Sukuna seemed addicted to making your cunt let out vulgar squelchessss!
They came in quick succession. One after the other. Loud and clear. Displaying how well he was playing with your clit.
“Look at how your cunt flutters, searching for my cocks,” he mused, thumbing the entrance but not pushing in. “And look how your petals have grown swollen with blood. Oh, I bet your blood tastes as good as your pussy. We’ll test that too, another day.”
Stammering, you pleaded, “Don’t look!”
He stared too intently. Saw too much. It was more intimate than being tasted.
“Nonsense,” Sukuna said, waving you off. “I will look as I please, and I very much do.”
In response to his renewed lapping of your juices, you could only writhe and run your nails down the wood for anything to ground you.
“Do not waste your claws on the table,” he spat, spare hands snatching your ups and offering his wrists for you to dig into. You hesitated, chest heaving and vision swimming. Then he asked, “You do not find my flesh good enough to mark? You wish to offend your groom when he is at the altar of your legs?”
You didn’t want to know what he was like when he was offended so you clung to his thick wrists. You made a mental note not to actually scratch him — that seemed a more criminal act than offending him – but the pleasure born from his ravishing of your pussy bordered on pain and you could not help yourself.
The very moment your nails caught on his skin and broke through, one of the hands that was keeping your shaking legs apart darted out. It landed on your chest. With brutish finesse, it ripped your bodice. Cool air grazed over your breasts. That hand latched onto a tit.
“W-what– Oh God!” you screamed.
Something…
Something on his palm was suckling your nipple, like a babe.
Sukuna’s amused huff vibrated through your pussy, sending shivers up your spine. “No, not God, little bride. It is me. My mouth is making you feel good. But,” he adds after a little thought, “I do not mind being worshipped as a deity, heh.”
How could he be so nonchalant when two sets of mouths were eating you up, when your eyes were at risk of being permanently lodged at the back of your head? How could he make conversation so easily when his tongue, which felt so impossibly long, was wriggling through your walls and teasing the entrance to your womb? When the mouth at his palm was suctioning your nipple into that impossible space?
“Delicious,” he snarled, positively starved of your taste. “So fucking sweet. How can a human be so…so…divine? It defies nature.”
He wasn’t talking to you anymore. He was manically muttering to himself, reasoning with his own understanding of the balance of life. It baffled him. Bewildered him. Excited him. Sukuna could not get enough of you.
Whining, you called out his name, “S-Sukuna! It’s too -hngh!- much. I can’t.”
“Cum,” he said.
Your head shook, thrashed. “No, I -hah- can’t!”
“Cum,” he repeated. No, commanded. Ordered. Demanded.
And you could not deny a king.
You fell apart on the dining table with a scream. Wetness rushed out of you as though a dam had broken. He drank it all up. Slurrrrrpeddd! every single drop until you were writhing again. And when he growled, “More,” and, “Again,” you could not deny him then either.
It might have been hours later before he decided he’d had his fill.
Aside from meal times, you don’t see him during the day. He’s always gone. No one will tell you why, and you don’t feel brave enough to ask. You merely assume he’s doing kingly duties — keeping the curses of the Underworld and of the forests in line, maintaining balance between humans and monsters, and protecting his people.
In the meantime, you read in his room, which is now your room. There are plenty of books here. More than you could ever read in a lifetime, and certainly more than there ever were in your village. It’s hard to imagine he read any of the books in the collection but there are signs of use: folded pages, cracked spines, yellowing.
He read each one you had opened.
Poems.
Novellas.
Journals of travels beyond.
You don’t mind the hours spent on your own; the goblins walking along still scare you so you avoid running into them. Of course, there’s always the option to ask during your mealtimes, in between him eating you out and actually consuming food, if you could visit the village (for you know returning was too much). Not that you especially wanted to go home.
The villagers had sold you.
Abandoned you.
They would not welcome you home.
So you must consider the heart of the mountain your new home.
It’s simply about asking, about knowing the answer, about having the option.
But each time you considered bringing up your village to him, you backed out at the last second. He was not your husband. Not really. Not yet. He’s not even really your groom. That just seems like an excuse to do the salacious things you’ve been doing. At most, he’s your friend, and you cannot burden your friend more than you already have.
Truthfully, it hardly matters what exactly he is to you. He’s nice. Attentive. Generous. He hasn’t killed you, he hasn’t hurt you, hasn’t massacred your village and your family, and hasn’t thrown back in your face any of those facts.
That’s why every morning, when you know Uraume will escort you, you make sure never to be late.
You obediently, possibly excitedly, wait in front of the door for the knock.
You slide a hand down your new dress; it appeared in the closet, and is your size. It certainly isn’t Sukuna’s. Red lace, soft silk, dainty bows, easy to move in and breathe — it’s a beautiful dress. Far more expensive and luxurious than anything you’d ever owned. The chest area’s a little tight; it pushes your breasts up more than you’re used to, and somehow you’re sure that was on purpose.
When the door opens, Uraume’s patient self leads you out. They’re quiet. Respectful. They have been since the very first night.
“Thank you.”
Cold eyes flit to you. “What ever for, my lady?”
“For saving me,” you say, fiddling with the lace on your dress. “If you hadn’t suggested that he humour me, Sukuna would have—”
“The king,” Uraume cuts in, spine straight and gaze fixed ahead now, “does only as he pleases. It is his right. He grows bored of his new toys very quickly, and it is my duty to keep him entertained. I saw an opportunity to fulfil my responsibility. That is all.”
You have no response to that. You only blink, surprised and berating yourself for being so. Sukuna may be your friend, in your eyes at least, but Uraume is not. Sukuna may not mind the fact that you are human, but others may not share the same sentiment. Maybe Uraume thinks you are a plague. A rat. That’s often the story humans spread about curses and their philosophies.
Soon, you reach the double doors leading to the garden. Before the doors are opened, they add, “It is also my duty to throw old toys away.”
When you turn to look at them, they’re already gone.
“Finally,” Sukuna says, exasperated. “I resent being kept waiting. Walk here with haste, little bride.”
Uraume’s words linger in your mind; Sukuna’s sharp rows of teeth flash washes them away.
He’s in his loose robes, bottom set of arms tucked into the wide sleeves. A hand beckons you over, and the moment you are within reach, he snatches you up. You’re carried up in his arms, high enough to come face to face with him and see all four of his eyes watching you.
Sukuna nuzzles the crook of your neck. He starts walking down the path. Branches tickle the top of your head. “Did you sleep well?” he wonders. His voice vibrates against your skin. It tickles.
Gripping his hair for purchase, you murmur, “Yes.” Then, shuddering once his lips explores the length of your neck, you ask, “Did you?”
“I do not sleep,” he casually replies.
Within minutes, he’s managed to walk so deep into the garden that the surroundings have changed from exotic flowers full of vibrant colours and shapes to a forest of cherry blossoms. Petals whirl around you, swirling with the gentle wind.
Above you, the cave walls have shifted into the blue and vast open sky.
You gasp. “Are we…are we outside?”
The brightness almost sting your eyes; you have to narrow them with a wince to avoid being blinded. The smell of fresh air too nearly burns your nostrils. The chatter of live animals and insects are near deafening at first. Everything’s so different, so new, yet so familiar, so ordinary that it becomes magical to your senses.
He parts from your neck to eye your reaction. The smile on your face makes his grip on you tighten. Sukuna says, “Yes. Your complexion looked rather dull without sunlight, and my bride must be at her very best at all times. So here we are.”
That doesn’t sound quite true upon his lips but you don’t question him on it.
Instead, you beam at him and gush, “Thank you! Oh, it’s wonderful out.”
It’s easy to forget what the world above is like when you’ve spent countless nights under the mountain with rocks for company.
Sukuna sets you down. You waste no time running around, laughing at the green grass that tickles your bare feet.
The grass inside the mountain’s garden is black, with roots being red, for reasons you could not fathom. It’s coarser too. The softness of this green, human grass, in comparison, sets your heart racing.
There’s no wind inside the mountain, only a draught. This calm air is fresher, warmer, soothing on the body and doesn’t settle.
And the warmth of the sun…
Beams of distant fire soaks into your skin. You sigh, a small smile on your lips.
When you turn back, he’s sitting under a tree, all arms crossed and watching you. Always watching. Always aware of your every move, every position, every shift.
Somewhat shy with the realisation that he’d seen the entire display, you stroll back to his side.
“It is a lovely day out, yes?” he says.
You nod, grinning. “It’s perfect. Just perfect.”
About to sit beside him, you let out a squeal when he snatches you up again and sits you down on his lap. All of his arms cage you. Sukuna rests his chin on the top of your head.
“Now it is,” he mumbles, chest rumbling against your back.
You smile again, more coy this time, and grateful he can’t see it.
The grass is untouched. No footprints mar it. No broken twigs, no distant rustling of hidden creatures. It is a forest, yes, but stripped of all the unease that forests usually carry.
It is only you and him.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve as another petal lands on your lap. You pick it up, studying it like it might vanish if you blink too long. Glancing back at him, you tilt your head slightly. “Did you…make this place like this?”
His chin presses a little more firmly into your hair, a quiet, possessive weight. “It exists on its own,” he says. “I allow it to remain.”
Another petal skims your lips. Without thinking, you laugh — light, bright, unguarded — as you try to catch it, only for it to slip away again, carried by a breeze that barely stirs the trees.
“You’re noisy,” he mutters.
Yet he does not tell you to stop.
You lean back into him instead, comfortable now, warm from the sun and from him both. One of his hands idly flicks a petal from your shoulder, the motion almost absent-minded, as though he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. Or perhaps he does. And simply doesn’t care.
Your gaze drifts across the clearing again, softer this time. Slower. Relaxed, you ask, “You said you don’t sleep. What do you do at night?”
Sukuna hums, fingers drumming on your stomach. “I take care of my business.”
That’s vague, you think, but you don’t push. Instead, you ask another question: “Why do you not return to the chambers?”
He chuckles, teasing. “How forward of you, little bride. We have not yet been wed and you’re already asking to share the marital bed. Is this how you humans do it in this day and age?”
Heat flushes your cheeks. You smack one of his wandering hands, which has crept up to cradle a breast, and huff, “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just mean, everyone needs sleep. Surely even you, the King of Curses. I wonder how you rest is all.”
A moment of contemplation passes.
Did you say something wrong? Did you go too far?
Did he hate that you smacked him?
“You are right,” he eventually says, head coming down to nudge you. His lips gently touches your cheek. “I do need rest. So allow me.”
His strong hands easily lift you off his lap, placing you down on the grass. Sukuna unfolds his large body and comes to lie perpendicular to you. His head weighs your thighs down.
With a wave of his hand, a book appears in your left hand at the same time he takes your right and cradles it to his chest. “Read,” he instructs. “Read to me. And after my nap, I will eat your little cunt and slap your clit thrice to punish you for smacking my hand even just once.”
A flutter at your core has his eyes peering up at you, glinting. He must have sensed it. Somehow. Whether by feeling or by smell. How mortifying.
“Or,” he starts, “I can eat you out now. I am fine with whatever order you prefer.”
“No, I’ll read,” you hurriedly say. You flick to the first page, reading the words out loud and only sighing in relief when his eyes flutter shut at the sound of your voice.
Sukuna’s lips curl up in the corner.
And so a new tradition is born.
.
.
.
“My Lord,” Uraume repeats outside the door, “they wait for you.”
Sukuna growls out, “Let them. I am preoccupied.”
You’re pressed to the door, the cold wood warming up to the flush of your cheek. Bottom lip bitten in a desperate attempt to keep quiet, you can do nothing else but let him rut his scalding length between your thighs.
This evening, he’d woken you up with his tongue buried inside your cunt. It seems after another whole day out in the garden, reading and strolling with him and tasting each other beneath trees before or after his naps, you fell asleep and were carried back into your chambers.
Has it been days or weeks since you’ve built up this routine of spending the days together and spending evenings apart?
Time seems to pass so quickly and yet so slowly. It’s begun to lose all meaning to you. It’s not a fact you lament.
You jolted with a shriek at the hulking figure under your covers. “About time,” he said, throwing the heavy thing off and baring how his skin glistened with your spend to you. “I thought I might have to fuck you with both my cocks at once to wake you.”
He was joking, you were sure. Or hoped…
“Wake me?” you repeated, back arching. “W-why?”
Sukuna replied, a fang rubbing your clit and being especially careful not to cut you, “Because I must leave again, but I did not want to without hearing my name upon your lips.”
A whine tore through you. “Why couldn’t you just wake me up the normal way?”
Red eyes flashed mischievously from below. He licked a strike up your inner thigh all while not breaking eye contact. “Because normal does not taste as good.”
Uraume’s voice called out soon after, reminding him of the evening meeting. You stiffened. Could they hear you? Do they know what he was doing with you on the bed?
Feeling embarrassed, you kicked Sukuna off and tried to push him to the door. You hissed, “You need to go. They need you.”
A hand slid inside your dress and groped your breast, cursed mouth appearing to nurse on your nipple. Another lifted your skirt up so that a third can coat its fingers in your cunt’s essence with the intention of easing the entry inside.
“So does your cunt,” he said. “And I know which I would rather attend to first.”
Oh, he was filthy. So, so filthy.
And so persuasive.
With you continuing, and struggling, to shake him off — legs quivering from the number his mouths had done to you today — you eventually made it to the door and was about to open it when something hot and heavy rested upon the curve of your ass and a second parted your puffy pussy lips.
It was almost like he planned this.
“Do not make a noise,” Sukuna rakishly rasped to your ear. Two rough hands gripped your bare hips, dressed hiked up over your ass. “Lest you’d like for Uraume to know what we’re doing.”
You definitely did not — they don’t like you very much. This wouldn’t help your case.
But…
His cocks are rubbing you up and down and back and forth. His fat cockhead keeps catching on your pulsing clit, bumping the thing over and over again until your cunt’s drooling on his veiny length.
“Press your thighs together. Tighter,” he commands, and groaning once you do. “Every part of you feels so good. It’s maddening.”
The pleasure building up in your core from a few thrusts is maddening. Truly. Irrevocably. You can’t tell him that, however. You can’t speak; if you do, a loud moan might slip out.
Sukuna’s grunting in your ear. The sounds are driving you wild. As is the fact that your tits are out and are being squeezed relentlessly by two hands. Mouths take over his palms. They don’t hesitate to latch onto your nipples. You gasp, head thrown back into his chest. “Sukuna!”
“Mm, I know,” he huskily says. “Me too. Be good, pretty human. Just allow me to use your thighs for now.”
He’s so tall your hips have to be lifted up to reach his cocks. Your toes dangle over the ground. You hang precariously but you never worry for a second that he might drop you.
Shlick! Shlickkk!
The sounds are obscene and they’re all you can hear. Uraume must hear them too. Yet, they’re still out there, saying, “My Lord, please. The council grows restless.”
Sukuna’s livid growl shakes the door. “They. Will. Wait. Do not interrupt me again.”
His rutting speeds up. The sucking of his cursed mouths intensifies. The tip of the cock behind you is smearing pre-cum on your back, and the sensation has you clenching around nothing.
“I’m cumming,” you whisper, eyes shut tight. “Nghhh!”
“Good,” he breathes out. “Good girl.”
You bring a hand down to your cunt, cupping the cockhead appearing and disappearing with every shallow thrust through your lips. It nudges your palm, squelching! and leaving wet sploodges of his cum and yours. Sukuna snarls.
And just like that, he cums too. His hot cum explodes into your hand, spilling through the cracks of your fingers and splatting onto the floor. More cum bursts on your back, dirtying your dress.
It’s so hot. Scalding.
He keeps ploughing between your soft thighs, wringing out every last drop until he shudders with a growl and you slump completely in his grasp.
When he pivots you around to check on you, specifically the cheek that had been pressed up against the door, you see his loose robe had fallen open. Some of his cum has ended up dripping down his skin. He’s tattooed and chiselled and hard everywhere. A true killing machine. You run your fingers down his chest, smearing his cum around, all the way to his stomach where a massive mouth manifests in time to clamp onto your wrist with a grin.
His teeth don’t break skin. They don’t even hurt. They merely keep your hand inside, huge tongue slithering to lick every finger and every inch. Curiously, you grip the appendage. It really does feel like a real tongue. You stroke it.
Sukuna grips the back of your neck. He glares down at you. “You are trying to bring me to my knees, aren’t you?”
You blink. “No! Forgive me.” You try to pull your hand out on your own but his sudden grasp on your wrist stops you.
“I did not say I did not like it.” He steps closer, licking his lips.
“My Lord…” Uraume grits out through the door.
Sukuna groans. “Yes! Alright!”
The door opens with a wave of his hand.
“I should massacre the whole council, then I will have all the time in the world to bury my tongue inside your cunt. One day…” he mutters under his breath, seemingly actually considering the idea. You swat his back, cheeks flushed from embarrassment.
Your dress falls back into place just in time for you to shield yourself from anyone else’s eyes but Sukuna’s. Not that it’s enough.
Uraume’s chilling eyes see all — the sweat on your skin, the mess of your hair, the quivering of your legs, and the droplets of cum on the floor. They do not look disgusted by it. They look disgusted by you.
“Be good for me, little bride,” Sukuna says, already stomping away. “I will look for you as soon as I am done with these fools.”
You take a step forward to Uraume, an apology on your tongue.
They step back, straightening up. “These meetings are important,” they begin. “They ensure the other lords feel seen and heard. It maintains peace in our domain, and in yours. You mustn’t keep him from doing his duties. Not only is it impolite, it is also dangerous.”
“I’m sorr—”
“Do not apologise to me. Apologise to the king for wounding him,” they snap. You frown, confused. “The marks you left on his wrists that he refuses to heal himself? He leaves them open and bleeding. He openly plays with the cuts in front of the council, in front of his audience, smiling. Whispers are making echoes of a weakness in our king. If you do not care about your safety, then you must care about his.”
Thoroughly scolded, you stay rooted in place, watching Uraume follow after Sukuna.
.
.
.
You take a walk through the garden this evening to clear your head.
What Uraume said forced you to contemplate your relationship with the king. With Sukuna. They reminded you why you were spared in the first place — you’re a toy. A thing for entertainment.
He is entertained by you now, by the pleasures your body provides. That, however, is not something unique to you; any woman can spread their legs, which is a crass thing to say, you know. But it’s true. To save their village, their people, to earn another day of life, or to even have the honour of serving a king, many women would offer their body up.
And you are no special woman. You are quite average, all things considered. Never the most beautiful woman in the room, the most intelligent, or most pure of heart.
The fact of the matter is, Sukuna will soon grow bored of you.
What is left to be considered now is, will he spare you once he finds a new toy or will you be ‘gotten rid’ of by Uraume?
Will you be sad?
The pang in your chest at the thought seems to suggest so.
Without realising it, you end up back in the cherry blossom grove.
It looks different at night. Just as beautiful as during the day, of course, but different. Fireflies light up the air, mingling with the stars above you. If not for them, you wouldn’t know where you are, wouldn’t know that the tree whose bark you’re grazing with your fingertips now is the very same tree you sit under with Sukuna.
You were always under the impression that being a king meant you could do whatever you wanted. Uraume’s warning proved otherwise — Sukuna had people to please. And you’re who pleases him.
For how long will you be enough?
With a sigh, you wonder if Sukuna really will come to find you after his meeting. He’s always busy in the evenings, and though you spent the hours of the night sleeping anyway, it’d still be nice to talk to him. His thoughts on books you’ve read are quite funny.
He hates silly heroines who make bad decisions and always fall for the gloomy, morally grey men, yet hates the morally grey men more for their cheesy lines. “‘I control shadows and I have wings,’” he’d mimic, lowering his voice to a deeper rumble than his own. Then he’d say in his own voice, “Yes, so do about a thousand other fictional men. You are not special.”
Sukuna’s brows would furrow and he’d scoff whenever you’d get flustered by the erotic passages you’d be forced to read aloud to him as you sit in his lap, but he never suggests changing books. You theorise he really just likes complaining.
“Pretty girl?”
You jolt.
That voice…
“Suguru?”
Behind a tree, a silhouette hobbles over to you. “You’re alive! Oh, thank the heavens!”
The man falls into your arms. He’s really here. Your bestest friend. But he isn’t how you remember him — long raven hair have turned matted and dull, clothes torn and dirtied, and skin scratched up. You can hardly recognise him.
He grips your face, dirt rubbing into your skin. Scanning for any harm that might have befallen you, he smiles with relief upon seeing you’re perfectly well. “I’ve spent so many weeks wondering what had happened to you. I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
His words are going in one ear and out the other; you can only question, with terror and trepidation, why his hands tremble, why he’s jumping at every little sound, and pulling you away inch by inch.
“What happened?”
Suguru’s eyes harden. His grip falls on your shoulder. Tight. Insistent. You wince. He says, “Listen to me carefully. We need to leave. We need to leave now. We’re too deep in the Curse King’s territory. There are beasts about. We must run now. Come!”
Bewildered, you’re yanked forward, stumbling over your feet.
“Wait, no, I have to stay!”
He’s not listening.
Deeper into the forest, you’re pulled. The cherry blossoms morph into scraggly trees, leafless and with jagged branches like teeth reaching for you. The fireflies are gone now. You have to force your eyes to adjust as you trip over rocks and logs, and as your bare feet are caked in mud and moss.
Looking back towards the light, you start to heave. “Sukuna…Sukuna’ll be mad. I have to go back.” You try to tear his hand off your wrist, digging your nails, but he can hardly feel it. “Suguru!” you yell, in near tears.
The man whirls on you, eyes wide and red. The bags under his eyes are darker than even the dark. They startle you. “What’re you doing? Why’re you fighting me? I’m trying to save you, like I should have done when your family decided to sacrifice you to the mountain.”
You shake your head. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m not mad at you, so if you’re doing this out of guilt, then you don’t need to. Just go, alright? Go before someone notices you’re here. I don’t know what the goblins, Uraume, o-or Sukuna will do if they find you here.”
Suguru recoils. “Sukuna? You call the monster of the mountain by his first name?”
He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Something seems to dawn on him. His eyes properly take you in from head to toe — your clean skin, fresh hair, the plump in your cheeks, the expensive dress you wear, the lace, the silk, the jewels.
He releases you, like you’d burnt him.
“The king spared you…” he whispers in horror. “He spared you. And you’ve been living a life of luxury, as our village burned to the ground. You call him by his first name when his name was the last thing my family had screamed in their final moments. You wish to go back, to that thing, when I’m here and I’m taking you away…”
“What do you mean?” you ask, brows knitting together. “What happened to our village?”
It’s an impossible thing to imagine. Yet it shouldn’t have been. Many villages have suffered the same fate, or worse, over the many years since the rise of the curses. But your village was spared because of you, because of their offering, right?
A scathing laugh slaps you on the cheek. “You don’t know? You’ve been cozying up to that monster and you don’t know he wiped our village out from the map? That he massacred our people in one night? Are you just stupid or did he poison your mind?”
You fall back, shaking your head. “No, no, he wouldn’t.”
“He’s a killer!” Suguru roars. “He’s killed so many. Every single night. The very few of us that had survived have fled from village to village, trying to fight against him and his army of curses, but they always win. I’ve watched my friends, my allies, fall again and again. And yet, I thought of you every day. I fought for you, so I can return and save you from his torture.”
He scoffs.
“But he hasn’t been torturing you, has he?” Suguru grips your face suddenly, bruising your cheeks as he spits out, “No, he hasn’t had to use force to get you to spread your legs!”
Tears stream down your face. “Stop it,” you cry out. “Stop it!”
Suguru presses his forehead to yours, lips trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Let’s just go, alright? We need to go. You’re not safe even if you’ve earned his favour for now. He’s proven he isn’t a man of his word, and it’s only a matter of time before he tears you limb from limb like he had done to your mother and to your father, and to mine.”
Images of your home ablaze, of the night sky filling with the screams of the dying, of blood turning the ground crimson flash in your eyes.
You’re a fool. You’d actually convinced yourself that he isn’t the King of Curses, that creatures from the Underworld don’t bow to him, that he hasn’t been keeping you to laugh behind your back.
You’d allow yourself to believe you’re Sukuna’s bride.
That you’re something special to him, even momentarily, even just for now.
He’s looking at you impatiently, bouncing on his feet and listening out for any signs of hostile life in the forest.
Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself. “Yes, yes. Let’s go. He’s in a meeting right now, he’ll be busy.”
And off you two go, running in the dark, hand in hand.
Branches whip at your arms as you run.
The forest is different at night.
Where it had been soft, warm, almost dreamlike beneath drifting blossoms, it’s now a maze of shadows and silver light, the moon caught in the petals overhead. Your breath comes sharp and uneven, lungs burning, feet barely finding the ground as you stumble over roots and fallen bark.
Beside you, Suguru’s grip is firm. Unyielding.
“Don’t stop,” he says, low, urgent, pulling you forward when your pace falters. “We’re almost past the boundary—”
A roar splits the night.
It shakes the air. Rips through the trees. Sends petals scattering like frightened birds. The ground trembles beneath your feet, a deep, violent pulse that travels straight up your spine. It rattles your bones, grips your very soul and squeezes. It’s in equal parts wrathful and tortured.
You freeze.
Suguru doesn’t.
“Move,” he snaps, tightening his hold on your hand, dragging you forward again. “He knows.”
Of course he knows.
This is his domain.
Every inch of it.
You run faster.
Faster than you ever have before, lungs screaming, vision blurring, your hand clutched in Suguru’s like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. The trees thin for a moment, moonlight spilling across a clearing—
THUD!
The earth cracks beneath the impact. You both skid to a halt.
He stands there, between you and whatever hope you thought you had.
Sukuna.
Tall. Unmoving. Waiting.
That deranged smile curls slowly across his lips, too wide, too pleased, too knowing. His eyes gleam in the dark, sharp and bright and utterly unhinged, drinking in the sight of you: your dishevelled state, your trembling form, your hand still clasped in another’s.
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, “You are leaving me?” His voice is almost light. Almost amused. “For some pathetic human?”
The words hit harder than the roar. Your chest tightens, a hot and jagged thing rising up your throat, drowning out the fear, the instinct to shrink, to hide, to obey. “No,” you snap, breath shaking. “I’m leaving because you slaughtered my village. You killed my family. You lied to me.”
He laughs. Low. Disbelieving. Growing. Sukuna tilts his head, as though genuinely intrigued by your accusation, by the audacity of it. “You mean the village,” he begins, voice slow, deliberate, “that threw you, bound and gagged, at the foot of my domain to be sacrificed?”
Each word lands like a blade, cutting deeper and deeper, and twisting to remind you of your lowest moment, of the humiliation, of the powerlessness you felt.
“The family that readily offered you up? That never looked back even once?”
Your grip on Suguru tightens.
Sukuna’s smile widens.
“Yes,” he hums, almost fondly. Inspecting his hands, as though he can see the blood that still stains his unmarred skin. “Yes, I did. And very gladly.”
Something in your chest cracks.
“But I never lied to you,” he continues, eyes narrowing just slightly, the air around him growing heavier, sharper. “You just assumed that I would negotiate with lesser creatures. A fault that I have overlooked.”
Suguru steps forward, just enough to place himself between you and him. “You’re done,” he says, voice steady, though there’s tension coiled tight beneath it. “Whatever hold you think you have over her—”
Sukuna’s gaze flicks to him.
The shift is instant.
The amusement drains, not completely, but enough to reveal something colder beneath. Something ancient. Something violent.
“Careful,” Sukuna murmurs. “I do not take kindly to interruptions in my conversations with my bride.”
The air distorts.
Pressure builds, thick and suffocating, pressing against your skin, your lungs, your bones. Suguru doesn’t move, but you feel the way his hand tightens around yours, grounding you even as the world threatens to tilt.
Why hasn’t Sukuna killed you both? Why hasn’t he tore you two apart? Why is he standing under the moonlight, humoured and talking so leisurely?
Even till now, he’s not staring down at you with deadly intent. He’s conversing with you as if he’s asking how your breakfast is or what book you’d picked up to read to him today. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking, and that’s more dangerous than if you knew he was going to rip you into pieces.
“She’s not your bride,” he spits, tugging you behind him.
Sukuna laughs again. Four eyes settle back on you. “Not mine?” he repeats, almost thoughtfully. “After everything I have given you?”
A step forward.
“After I took you in,” he continues, voice dropping, curling around the words, “fed you, dressed you, kept you alive when the rest of your kind would have happily watched you die?”
Another step.
Trying to steel your resolve, you retort, “You must feel betrayed, right? Imagine how I feel, Sukuna!”
“You think I feel betrayed?” he asks, head tilting again, that awful smile returning, sharper now. “No, little bride.” His gaze flicks briefly to your joined hands. Then back to your face. “This is not betrayal,” he says. “This is ingratitude. It seems I have spoiled you. Given you too much, too fast. I did not train insolence out of you. You have insulted me. And you will be punished.”
Suguru pulls you back a fraction.
“Run,” Suguru whispers.
His last words, before Sukuna flicks his wrist and his body is cut into thin ribbons of flesh, blood, muscle and bone. They fall into a neat pile by your feet, soaking the ground you stand on until your soles are caked in the remains of your only friend.
It happens so quickly, so suddenly, you couldn’t blink fast enough to protect your mind from the grotesque display. You saw it all. A man, a whole life, memories, a future, diminished to mush.
Sukuna smiles wider.
“Yes,” he says, almost eagerly. “Run, little bride.”
You do.
Feet slam against the forest floor. Bare soles strike damp earth. Sharp pebbles and stray twigs that snap beneath your weight. It hurts.
God, it hurts.
But you don’t stop. You can’t. The pain barely registers past the ringing in your ears, past the image burned into your mind, replaying over and over again.
Suguru’s gone. Your village. Your family. Everything familiar.
Your stomach twists violently, bile clawing up your throat, but there’s no time to be sick, no time to grieve, no time for anything except run.
Branches lash at you as you tear through the undergrowth, snagging against your dress, catching in the fabric and ripping it in jagged lines. The hem tears first, then higher, threads snapping with every desperate step until the once-soft material hangs in shredded strips around your legs. Chilling air kisses the exposed skin, quickly replaced by the sting of scratches, of thin lines of blood blooming where thorns and bark have caught you.
“So panicked. So scared.”
His voice.
Right there.
Warm.
Amused.
Mocking.
You choke on a gasp, nearly tripping over your own feet as you lurch forward, heart slamming so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs open. He’s not behind you, or in front of you, and yet it sounded as though he was.
“I have not even begun,” Sukuna murmurs somewhere, almost thoughtful. “And already you look like this. Adorable.”
The forest stretches endlessly before you, trees blurring together, shadows twisting into shapes that don’t exist. The petals that once felt soft now cling to your damp skin, sticking to the sweat, to the blood, to the places where your dress has torn open. Your lungs burn, each inhale sharp and shallow, your chest tightening with every second that passes.
You trip.
A root catches your foot, sending you pitching forward. Your hands barely catch you before your face meets the ground, palms scraping harshly against rough earth. Dirt grinds into your skin, mixing with the blood already there.
“Oh dear,” he muses. “Such a clumsy thing, you are. That’s why I keep you locked up with all the pretty things in my domain. Do you see now, why you must stay with me?”
Getting back to your feet, you stumble forward. “I’m never going back with you!”
You ignore the way your hands tremble, the way your legs and your unused muscles scream in protest as you force them to move again.
Run.
Run.
Run.
“You know,” Sukuna continues, his voice drifting lazily through the air, “I expected more from you.”
There’s a rustle above.
A shadow moving faster than you can track.
Where is he? Why isn’t he snatching you up? Why is he drawing this out?
He’s like a cat toying with a mouse, playing with his food, heightening your fear so you’ll taste even better.
“I gave you everything,” he says, less conversational now, more accusing. “And this is how you repay me? Running off into the woods like a frightened little animal, with some other man, a man I should have slaughtered along with the other rats?”
Your breath hitches.
“Have I not been good to you? Have I not been enough? Enough to stay for. For even a goodbye.”
A tear slips down your cheek, cutting through the grime. Devastatingly, a part of you notices the subtle crack of vulnerability. He masks it with amusement, with the undercurrent of anger, but you hear it all the same.
Still running, you yell, “You’re going to kill me, like you killed everyone. I’m just a toy to you!”
“And a very bad one at that,” he retorts without missing a beat. “Fear not — I will fix you once I catch you.”
“You’re not going to catch me,” you choke out, though it sounds weak, even to your own ears.
Sukuna tuts and it sounds like it’s right by your ear. “Ah, but I already have.”
Wind flips your hair around, making it hard to see, so when you whip your head side to side, looking for hope, you don’t see the barrier ahead until it’s too late.
Your body meets a hard wall. Two arms cage you in, unyielding.
A scream pierces through the forest. It’s so far removed from you, you think for a second that someone else is facing the same fate you are, and your heart breaks for her. When reality sets in, you cease to stop feeling sorry at all. You just weren’t fast enough. No one could be against the Curse King.
“Got you, little bride.”
In a blink of an eye, he has you carried up by your hips.
“Mark my words,” he says, “you will never leave me again.”
His lips slam onto yours.
Sukuna wastes no time shoving his tongue inside your mouth. A shocked moan escapes you. This is your first kiss, and with him. It’s not romantic like the stories described kisses to be. It’s not soft, tentative, gentle. It’s a kiss full of anger, of a need for vengeance, to dominate.
Sukuna’s channeling every ounce of his feeling of betrayal, try as he might to deny it, down your throat. With the nipping of his teeth hard enough to draw blood, the suckling of his lips to taste the iron on his tongue, and said tongue exploring the crevices.
“Just as delicious as your cunt,” he snarls, pleased.
You should fight him off, you know. But you can’t. He’s too strong, too all-consuming, too engrained in your body. It recognises his heat, his scent, his voice, and it wants more. So you don’t part from him; you clamp your teeth down on his bottom lip too, tasting his blood.
It’s sweet.
Sickly sweet in a way that rushes straight to your head.
He barks a laugh, a hand yanking your head back by your hair. “A biter…adorable.” He runs his tongue up the length of your neck before biting the curve. You moan. It doesn’t break skin, but the threat is there, and it has you clenching around nothing.
Sukuna takes a deep inhale of the air.
His eyes flash red.
“I killed your friend, decimated your village, and your cunt is still craving pleasure from me?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound very much like a question at all. “Your soul calls for me, do you realise it, little wife?”
“I’m not your wife,” you spit out.
“Not yet, but in just a moment, you will be,” he promises. At whatever expression you wear on your face, another laugh cuts through you. “You do not realise the trap you have run into, do you?”
Blinking, you finally look around, processing your surroundings.
They glisten with something under the moonlight — too thick, too dark to be dew.
Blood?
Behind you, a litter of scarlet petals trails right up to where you stand, as though marking every step that led you here, every foolish attempt at escape laid out like a procession. Rows of benches stretch out on either side, carved from twisted wood and bone, thorns curling along their edges, skulls embedded into the structure.
The forest has gone still.
No insects. No birds. No wind.
Only him.
Only you.
And this…
This altar.
“A fitting setting, no?” Sukuna murmurs against your skin, his voice lower now, richer, laced with something disturbingly joyful. His grip on your hips tightens, grounding you in place even as your mind threatens to spiral. “For a union long overdue.”
Dress hiked up around your waist, a long, slithering thing worms up your thighs. You writhe, trying to run away from it, but he won’t let you. Teeth hook into your underwear. It riiiiiiiiiips it off.
His curse tongue licks your cunt with a vengeance, as though punishing you for withholding your pussy and its juices from it. Shlick! Shlick! So vulgar. So indecent. So unrestrained.
Your pulse spikes. “This isn’t—”
“It is,” he cuts in smoothly.
The word lands like a final verdict.
Back arching, you’re powerless against the tongue prodding your entrance. He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you. You don’t mention how it’s far too big to enter you and yet it does, stretching your walls out with ancient powers you will never understand.
Inside, it licks every inch, every pleat. Maybe your hips work down, trying to suck it deeper inside. Maybe it doesn’t.
You’re far too focused on the fact that you’re finally at your wedding. A wedding you never wanted in the first place. A wedding he didn’t want either. He was just amused by the gall of the humans.
The domain itself is bearing witness.
There’s no need for friends, for family, for a priest.
He only needs himself and you.
Sukuna turns you with absolute certainty, positioning you to face the altar. It’s carved from dark marble, veined with something that glows faintly beneath the surface, like embers trapped beneath ash. Symbols you don’t understand are etched into it, curling and jagged.
“I chased you,” he muses, almost idly, though his hands never leave you, never loosen. They feel your body. Squeezing. Groping. Grip pulsing. Drawing out gasps and moans. “I let you run. Let you tear yourself apart on branches and roots like a frightened little thing.”
His fingers drag over one of the scratches on your arm, smearing the thin line of blood.
“And still,” he continues, voice dropping, “you came exactly where I wanted you.”
Your throat tightens.
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” he says, almost gently now, and that softness is far more terrifying than anything else. “Every path you chose. Every step you took. It all led here.”
The petals shift under your feet as he guides you forward.
One step.
And another.
“To me.”
Your thighs are soaked with his saliva. The entrance to your womb is being tickled. Clit rubbed by a wide, flat tongue. You’re face to face with him, panting, eyes unable to tear away with the undeniable allure of his. He’s tasting you, consuming you, devouring. He just can’t help himself. Even when he should be rough, when he should punish you, should teach you a lesson you’ll never forget, he cannot.
“Ngh! S-Sukuna,” you cry out as an orgasm tears through you. “Too much!”
For a moment, his gaze softens. “I know, I know. But you need to be stretched to take both of my cocks. Be patient.”
Blood drains from your face.
That’s when you start thrashing in his hold, fear taking over you. “No, no! I can’t take both of them.” They’re too big. You’ve seen them up close; no one could take them. No human. One would already be asking too much.
Both?
It’d be a death sentence.
Sukuna slowly lays you down on top of the altar.
Immediately, dark powers curl around your body. Wisps of shadow and smoke threading around your limbs, twirling your hair, brushing your cheek, unravelling your dress and slipping it off your body. They keep you in place.
You feel his energy touching you everywhere — stroking your lips, entering through your nose, sliding down your throat and filling your belly, flicking your nipples before wrapping around the hard bud and tugging, creeping down your stomach to stroke your throbbing clit.
They distract you, shushing the cries of protest.
“Beautiful,” he whispers as his eyes consume you whole. “So beautiful. And all mine.”
He touches your cunt, coating his fingers with your essence. Sukuna brings it up in the light between you. It’s red.
Automatically, your legs move to close. The shadows stop you. They yank your legs further apart so he can slot himself between them. His robes have fallen off. A cockhead pokes your clit, smearing its pre-cum onto the pulsing thing. You gasp.
When he licks your monthly blood off his fingers, you groan. “Stop! It’s filthy.”
“No, little bride. Nothing about you is filthy. Not in a way I don’t cherish, at least.”
Sukuna brings his wrist up to your lips.
“Bite me. Hard. Hard enough to bleed. Take your anger out on me. All your hate. Your melancholy. Your grief. Let it all out,” he demands, growling. “I want it. All of it. Every part of you. Give it to me!”
The shadows pry your jaw open. That’s it. It’s them that makes your teeth take hold of his thick wrist and bite down with every force you have in you. It’s them that make your teeth sink in through all layers.
Iron soaks into your tongue, trickling down your throat and warming your chest, like alcohol.
He throws his head back, chest heaving.
The forest rustles, cheering, trembling with pleasure. Meanwhile, the shadows are vibrating. Thrumming as it plays with your clit incessantly. As it pushes in the little holes of your nipples, pleasuring the fats from inside. You whine.
“Fuck!” he bellows
Sukuna snatches his wrist from you. His hands grip the marble, veins popping and threatening to burst. He’s gulping down air and rolling tension off his shoulders.
“You almost came, didn’t you?” you ask, smiling in victory.
Those red eyes dart up to you. He licks his lips. “Yes. Yes, I did.” Sukuna tilts his head, hand wandering up your torso before groping your breast. Like you already know to expect, his curse mouth disappears from his stomach and appears on his palm. It suckles on your nipple, obsessed with trying to find milk where there is none.
You moan, back arching.
Two hands hold your hips. They tug you down, closer to his hips.
“You expected me to be ashamed of your effect on me?” he wonders aloud, huffing in amusement. “I want you. I crave you. I own you. In the same way you want me, crave me, own me. The only difference is, I embrace it.”
He’s stroking his top cock leisurely, wringing out droplets you can’t tear your eyes from. Lips parting, your mouth begins to long to be filled. Your hips chase after the fat thing. His shadows keep you still.
Sukuna continues, rubbing the wrist you’d bitten on your stomach, “I am offering everything I have, everything I am, was and will be. You need only take it. Take me. Use me.” He draws a symbol, a sigil, you don’t recognise. With his other hand, he collects the blood between your legs. The bloodied fingers hovers above the mark. “Claim me.”
There’s sincerity in his eyes, which seem to plead with you.
Inside, a pull reaches for him. Desperate. Intent. Hysterical. It calls for him, pained. He calls back, even more so.
You can tell, whatever you feel for him, he feels it tenfold. No, infinitely more intense. It must drive him mad. The fraction of what you feel has you wanting to keel over, to rip your skin off and wear his. How he can function, can keep his head on straight, baffles you.
He’s commendable. A true leader. An unholy king.
That’s why, when he utters a final syllable, you cannot resist the pull any longer:
“Please.”
“Yes!” you wail. “I do! I do! I claim you. All of you.”
Arms flailing, you scramble towards him. Like a leech, you attach yourself to him, to his lips. You sloppily kiss him, smearing the blood and dirt on your body all over his. Fire burns beneath your skin. You’re set ablaze. Your soul. Your heart. Your skin. Every part is touched by him. Caressed. Treasured.
Sukuna releases a relieved breath, as though he’d been put out of his misery.
He holds you to him. He won’t drop you. You know it. You know it so deeply, it is like knowing your name.
The forest roars. Branches thrash. Leaves fall in spirals around you, a wall shielding you from the rest of the world. There’s no going back anymore. You’ve given in. You’ve surrendered.
Two hot things begin pushing inside.
For a moment, you tense, anticipating pain. None come. Only delirious bliss. Drool drips down your chin. Your eyes roll back.
The shadows haven’t stopped stimulating you outside and inside. You’ve been cumming over and over again. Little orgasms that make your limbs shaky. But the orgasm that hits you the moment both of his cock stretch your gummy walls?
World ending.
Tantalizing.
Immense.
Boundless.
The most glorious gift.
You scream.
“Yes, that’s it,” he coaxes. “Perfect. So perfect. My wife. Mine now and forevermore.”
Soon, he bottoms out. Hips flushed. Torsos pressed together tightly. Not a single thing could get in between you. You feel every inch of him. Every ridge. Every vein. Every nudge of his fat cockheads competing to draw out your pleasure most.
You thought it’d feel overwhelming. Too much too soon. Now, you can’t get enough. You think, if only one cock had entered you, you would have mewled and whined for the other to join.
“See?” Sukuna whispers into your ear, teeth scraping the shell. “You took me so well. Such a well-behaved girl. You were -hah- made for me.”
In spite of his teasing words, his whole body is trembling with the fight not to cum too soon. Your constant clenching, fluttering around both of his cocks, the way you choke him right to the base, has him at the very edge of sanity, which you doubt he had to begin with.
He’s ploughing his cocks inside you.
Thrusting with vigour that you feel at your fingertips. Your toes curl, back arching and head thrown back. Sukuna sucks at your neck, obsessed with the intensity of your scent there.
He’s like an animal let loose. He’s rutting into you so fiercely you fear he’d break your bones. But your king would never hurt you. Not in a way you wouldn’t like.
A crazed laugh echoes in the night.
You rake your fingers through his hair. Then you yank his head back, as he had done to you. “More, Sukuna. Fuck me more. I want to cum on your cocks over and over again. I command it, husband.”
Both lengths throb inside you.
Sukuna’s eyes cross. They’re glazed over. “Yes,” he mumbles without even realising it, thoroughly enthralled in your very being, “whatever you want, my beautiful, precious wife.”
Hours must pass.
Hours of fucking you in the air, on the altar, on the ground, against a tree.
His hands explore your body till he’s memorised the curves and the planes. You do the same.
The squelching of your cunt, the slapping of skin, the mingling of blood with cum, the reverberating of groans and moans envelopes you in a hellish cocoon. The bullying of his cocks through your sore, sensitive walls, the sucking of his curse mouth on your tits, the devouring of his mouth to yours, the fwop fwop fwop! of his balls on your poor clit — all of it sends you over the edge again and again and again and again, even once you think you will never feel better than the last.
You cannot get enough of him.
And he cannot get enough of you.
Sukuna whimpers your name out before and after every peak he reaches. He fills your belly up with his cum. It perpetually drips out of you. You can taste the salt on your tongue. It coats you from head to toe.
“My wife,” he exhales, like announcing to the world. “My life…my love.”
Where he ends and you begin blur.
Time ceases to exist. The rest of the world vanishes.
In this moment, in his arms, bouncing on his cock as he gazes upon every flicker of pain and pleasure on your face, only you two matter.
.
.
.
The sun has started to rise.
You watch it climbing over the hill, head laid out on Sukuna’s chest. He plays with your hair, twirling it absentmindedly. You’re both naked. Limbs thrown over each other. Tangled.
Juices and blood have dried over your skin. Some of it your own. Some of it his.
A deep satisfaction courses through your veins.
Sukuna’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek.
There is something almost surreal about it — this stillness, this calm. The same body that had hunted you through the dark now lies beneath you like an anchor, solid and unyielding in a different way. The heat of him seeps into your skin, bleeding into your bones.
His fingers continue their idle path through your hair.
A strand slips loose, caught and wound around his clawed fingertips before being released again.
Your body bears the marks of the night: faint bruises bloom beneath your skin, teeth marks darkening where they had once stung, thin scratches tracing your limbs from your flight through the forest. Sukuna’s hands soothe any marks he left on you, not regretful at all. His actions can be likened to basking proudly in the art he made.
All the while, you’re tracing the marks you left on him too — the scratches, the bite marks, the bruises he allowed you to give him. You run your fingers down his tattoos, avoiding the mouth on his tongue, which keeps licking you or trying to capture your hand. A very naughty thing indeed.
“Sukuna,” you murmur. He grunts. “I’m hungry. Let’s go back home.”
“How you have any room left in your small belly after drinking so much of my cum, I cannot fathom,” he voices out, curious and concerned. You smack his chest. “Yes, dear. I hear you. Let us take a bath in the pool and I will have a servant bring us food. Perhaps a goblin.”
As he stands up, you frown. “A goblin? Why not Uraume?”
Uraume’s his favourite. His right hand. His shadow. The goblins, on the other hand, he barely tolerates. You’ve seen him kick the poor things out of the way too often. Once or twice, you’ve reflexively tried to help them up, but they growl at you. You think they quite like being kicked about. It seems to be an honour to them.
Under his breath, as Sukuna stretches his body with a lazy yawn, he says, “Uraume is on time out.”
Using his outstretched hand to bring you to your feet, you ask, “Why? What happened?”
Petulantly, he grumbles, “The insolent brat took it upon themself to lead that waste of space human I tore to shreds to you. It seems they thought you were a bad influence on me.”
To punctuate his last sentence and emphasise the absurdity of the idea, he grins wolfishly down at you, more specifically at his cum dripping down your thighs. Cheeks heated, you press them together.
It’s hard to believe this evening had been orchestrated by Uraume, but also it’s not a huge leap in logic. They’ve made their point of view abundantly clear — you just didn’t think they would have tried to have you face imminent death crossing through the forest where creatures of the Underworld lurked.
“Are you…are you going to hurt them?”
Sukuna cocks a brow. “Would you like me too?”
“No,” you say immediately and sincerely. “Blood’s already been spilled tonight. I don’t want to be the reason someone gets hurt again.”
“Very well. Let me know if you change your mind. They sure do get upset if I let someone else cook my meals.”
You giggle.
Then, all the humour dies out of you.
Exhaustion has set in your limbs.
Whatever energy had overtaken you earlier is gone now.
His breath grazes your cheeks, warm against the cold air. One of his thumbs collects a tear right from your lashes. You didn’t even know you’re tearing up. He brings the droplet to his lips and licks it away. You hold your breath as he mutters, “Watching you run from me, hand in hand with some other man, hurts less than seeing you cry for him. It makes me wish I had made him suffer more before his end.”
“I’m not crying for him.”
Sukuna’s crimson eyes flit to you.
“Oh?”
Sudden sobs escape your lips. Your knees give out beneath you. He catches you, lifting you up in his arms. He always does. You bury your face in his neck. Sukuna rubs soothing circles on your back, cooing. “My ferocious, little wife…what is wrong? Did I hurt you too much? Do you…do you regret marrying me?”
The insecurity in his voice, the hesitation to ask, to hear a truth he would be distraught to hear, make you cry harder.
“Please don’t ever throw me away. I know I shouldn’t have left last night, but I really thought you were going to kill me. And maybe you will later. But please don’t,” you plead through your tears. “I want to be with you forever and ever.”
Silence passes.
A pregnant pause.
He laughs.
He actually laughs.
It’s full bodied. His stomach mouth joins in. “Hilarious! You never fail to entertain me with your constant overthinking. Always so afraid. So on guard. Too precious! You are just too adorable. You will rot my teeth.”
Weakly, you lay a barrage of punches on his chest. “Don’t laugh at me, you brute. I’m your wife. Respect me.”
Sukuna nods patronisingly, but he does shift his laughter into light chuckles, “Alright, alright. Forgive me, little wife. You are simply so delightful, so naive, and pitiful, I cannot help myself.”
“Put me down.”
“Never.” Sukuna presses a kiss to your cheek. He nudges your face away from his neck so you will meet his gaze. Seriously now, voice with his sacred vow, “I have no intention of throwing you away. Not since I laid eyes on you and felt a thing I did not know existed beat in my chest.”
Holding your breath, you listen to his confession.
“There is no world,” he continues, quieter now, though the weight of it presses heavier, “in which I allow you to slip from my grasp. Not heaven, not earth, not whatever fragile afterlife your kind clings to. If you are taken from me, I will unmake it. If you are hidden, I will find you. If you are reborn, I will recognise you.”
Shyly, you ask, “Even if I have a different face?”
Sukuna nods. “In whatever form, whatever shape, whatever state, you are. Wherever, whenever, you find yourself in. I will recognise you by your soul. For yours make up my own.”
He leaves a kiss to your forehead, to each of your eyes, to the tip of your nose. You giggle.
Then, huffing in amusement, he adds, “It certainly helps that we are bound by curse marriage. Not by your flimsy, human paper. But by blood. We curses take blood bonds very seriously. If we are to part, for whatever reason, we would both die, so it is in your best interest not to throw me away.”
That should startle you. Should scare you beyond belief. Instead, you think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard.
“I’m holding you to that,” you mutter against his lips.
Sukuna nuzzles your nose with his, a smile mirroring yours.
𝜗℘ ˖ ࣪ . ˖˙ a soft and intimate morning with (older) bf!gojo :: cws. smut, pwp, vanilla, crēampie, reader gets called 'baby, sweets, good girl'
“it’s okay, baby, i know,” satoru whispers words of comfort in your ear from behind. one of his arms is wrapped around your waist to keep your body close, the other circles your thigh, holding up your leg so his cock could slide in and out smoothly.
you’ve both just woken up from an afternoon nap, needy for each other’s touch. your lover’s raspy voice paired with his bedhead has been an irresistible combination.
satoru wasted no time in pulling your shorts down and freeing his erection from its confines. he went from rolling his hips against the fat of your ass and fondling your tits under your shirt, to burying his fat dick all the way up your cunt.
he’s so soft—so caring. his butterfly kisses make you drowsy again, the tingly sensations running from your face to your nape, and back down to your shoulders and upper arms. “let it out, yeah—good girl. don’t be shy,” satoru chuckles softly as he grinds his cock upwards, tip prodding at that sweet spot that makes your toes curl.
your eyes are half-lidded and blurry. you’re feeling so good and loved, so pleased and happy to have a partner like him. “right there, ‘toru,” you whimper quietly once you feel the head of his dick rub back and forth on the deepest parts of your velvety insides. satoru happily obliges, hugging your body even tighter to his chest before burying his face into the crook of your neck.
“here, baby?” the white-haired man asks, his hot breath sending a shiver down your spine as it ghosts over your skin. he keeps his dick balls deep inside you and switches to slow and shallow strokes, “y’re so pretty. you always know jus’ how to take it. so, so, so good.”
your hands are scrambling to hold onto the white sheets. you can’t physically take the amount of pleasure you’re getting, that inevitable peak gets closer and closer. your hips involuntarily jolt back against satoru, reciprocating his gentle thrusts. a big hand reaches out to yours that’s tugging at the covers, slender fingers intertwining with your own.
“m’sgood,” you mumble incoherently through a soft whimper. your back is positioned in a nasty arch that makes satoru’s dick tingle.
he sighs against your nape before allowing his tongue to wet the skin, sucking on the same spot soon after. he does the same to your sensitive ears and neck—covering you with his love while also filling your body with the same.
satoru holds your hand tightly, squeezing it every now and then to reassure you. “i love you so much, y’know that, right?” he says in a gentle tone. he’s confessed his love to you so many times before, though he always makes it sound like it’s his first time doing so.
“i’m never letting you go, ever,” he promises before leaning over your shoulder to catch your lips in a kiss.
satoru’s tongue sweeps over your bottom lip before rolling around in your warm mouth. his hips don’t stop, cock repeatedly appearing and disappearing inside of your pussy. the pace never escalates to make the moment last longer.
“mhmm— wanna b-be with you forever,” you mutter against his glossy lips, feeling safe and protected in satoru’s embrace like this. all you’re feeling, hearing and smelling is him. that’s what peace is for you. as long as you got him, you’re going to be just fine.
satoru smiles at your words. you feel so perfect around him, your cunt molded to fit his cock whenever he pleases, remembering its shape and allowing it to ruin your insides. “of course, sweets. i’ll treat you so well, ‘kay? you can count on me,” he comforts you with a forehead kiss.
“pretty girl. you’re perfect,” satoru continues to praise you like no other. his free hand runs over the small of your back and back to your thigh, keeping a gap between them so his cock can move a bit more freely.
“let me hear your cute moans, c’mon. fuck, y’ turn me on so much,” he sighs, not knowing what he’d do without you.
satoru is obsessed with all of you. the combination of your personality and looks is heavenly. his lips never stop distracting you, his tender kisses covering your entire upper body. the lovey dovey atmosphere in the room never dulls even once.
“ah, ‘toruu, hnghh—can’t last f’ any longer,” you moan, your eyes nearly rolling back. your lover is all the evidence needed to let you know that sex doesn’t have to be rough to be good. he can make you cum for an infinite amount of times by simply grinding his hips against you—changing his techniques every now and then.
rolling his hips in small circles or simply pressing his cock all the way inside your cunt and then prodding at your sweet spots, is all what’s needed to make you feel like you’re on cloud nine.
“aww, my poor baby. can’t hold it in f’me?” satoru pouts before kissing your temples lovingly. he caresses your hip, other hand still not letting go of your hand. there’s such a deep connection between you two—no one can ever sever it. that strong bond feels more intimate when you’re merged into one like this.
“nooo, can’t,” you shake your head and whine about how close you are. satoru nods at your needy words and dips a hand down to rub your clit. his middle and ring finger move around the small bundle of nerves in circles.
“khehe, that’s okay. let’s cum together,” he whispers as kisses find their way down your jawline.
you hum in agreement, little moans filling satoru’s ears as you get closer to your climax. your body trembles and heats up, your tummy tingles and tenses up. satoru’s in the same situation as you, his low moans turning into hisses and even quiet whines against the skin of your shoulder.
he holds you close, preparing both of you to reach your long awaited releases. “sh—shit, ‘m g’nna pull out, baby—give me a second,” you hear him whimper under his breath as his hand tightens its grip around yours. he’s nearly crushing your bones.
you don’t give him time to even think of pulling his cock out. you want to relive the sensation of having his seed spread inside of your cunt, overflowing until it’s dirtying the sheets.
“no- ‘toru. inside, please,” you beg quietly as your pussy locks around his cock. your walls cling onto his dick, yearning to milk his heavy balls dry of every drop.
satoru gasps and hisses, trying to speak up, but getting overpowered by his own noises of desperation. “fuck, all right, princess. as you wish,” his voice is husky and deep as he pushes his cock in to the base before dumping his load inside you.
ropes of hot cum come out quickly, one after the other, filling you with a hot creamy liquid. you can feel every drop being drained inside your spasming cunt. your own cum mixes with his, creating a lewd mess between your thighs.
“th-thank you,” you whisper tiredly. your body relaxes in satoru’s embrace. you’re trembling due to the intense aftershocks and your lover wastes no time into kissing it better. your forehead is peppered with small pecks, the rest of your face following.
satoru giggles at your fucked out state. he gives you a head pat and nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. you can feel him grinning uncontrollably against your skin—the joy emitting from him is contagious.
“any time,” he sighs. you can feel his cock softening after that release, still nestled deep inside of you. he has no intention of pulling out, especially since it’s so comfortable. you let him cum inside you and thus he’ll do everything to keep that hot load buried deep inside your cunt.
you can nearly fall asleep like this with satoru. you have zero complains and simply need to relax after what just happened. perhaps take another nap or two.
the white-haired man kisses your shoulder and rubs your lower tummy, enjoying the softness, “i’m gonna prepare us a warm, relaxing bath in a second. let’s just cuddle some more, baby.”
ᦸ aged up. nsfw boyfriend!megumi hcs ⸝⸝ art : qikiix
boyfriend!megumi who can be quite rough in bed, though he tends to be a softer lover. Hands holding you gently as his cock pistons into you, eyes reverently roaming over your flesh, soft words whispered—it's one of the only moments he can just let go and just be Megumi.
boyfriend!megumi prefers missionary, but he loves when you get on top and ride him almost as much; both feel intimate in different ways. The tender kisses he can give in missionary drive him crazy, but the way your hands plant themselves on his chest in cowgirl is addictive.
boyfriend!megumi makes noise more often than not, breathy gasps as he bottoms out, whines of pure pleasure when you're going down on him, and the sexiest moans he muffles into your throat just before he comes.
boyfriend!megumi is pretty much down to try anything you ask him to try out. New positions, toys, handcuffs, body glitter, etc—he'll try out anything you want at least once, because who knows? It could be fantastic and become a mainstay.
boyfriend!megumi isn't that big into hickeys or marking each other up often, but there have been a few hidden love bites scattered across each other's chests from time to time after a very passionate night.
boyfriend!megumi has spent extensive time right between your thighs, memorizing just how to make you unravel for him, exactly where to curl his tongue, where to press his fingers, and where to suck, lap, and kiss at for you to mewl out his name.
boyfriend!megumi is surprisingly good at aftercare. Finally leaving your poor cunt alone after the nth orgasm to hold you against the hard plane of muscle that is his chest, telling you how good you'd felt around him, how pretty you are, & how much he loves you, all while sweeping his hand up & down your back.
╰┈➤ satoru gojo x reader // reader self insert // prologue here
╰┈➤ like ghosts in the snow // synopsis: Two years ago, you vanished from Tokyo and its world of curses entirely. First grade status be damned-- you were gone without a trace. Left to raise the son of the strongest sorcerer in a world far removed from the dangers you and his father both had been subject to. You escaped the endless battle of curses vs man, the burden of a life sopping wet with death and tragedy. Here, in the solitude of these snow-covered mountains, you were finally safe.
Right?
╰┈➤ CH 1 TWs: male masturbation, explicit sexual content, graphic descriptions of sex, original characters used, secret pregnancy, mention of young children, mention of past character death, possible manga spoilers, blah blah blah. enjoy :)
╰┈➤ see story timeline here, if you wanna!
╰┈➤ next chappy :)
✎ side note before we dig in! I know y'all hate a YN so the reader has been given a random japanese name. welcome to ur new life as Shiori Myoji :)
Somewhere out west, 2018...
You sat alone in your cabin, staring at the flickering fire... The wind howled outside, shaking the windows and piling snow high against the panes. You barely noticed. Winter had come early this year, though the townsfolk chalked it up to the unpredictable nature of the mountains. You held a half-empty teacup, the liquid long since gone cold. Your fingers trembled slightly as you gripped its handle, though you told yourself it was just from the chill in the air.
The fire crackled on, and your thoughts drifted like smoke, pulling you backward through time as you stared into the hypnotizing flames.
...
Tokyo, Japan- December 2014.
The first time you saw Satoru Gojo as human was at the ceremony following Suguru's death, a private event held at Tokyo Jujutsu High after hours. There weren’t many guests, but the crowd was big enough that he hadn’t seen you at first. You’d stood at the edge, out of the way, your umbrella shielding you from the rain pouring down as if the sky itself was in mourning, too.
You hadn’t planned to approach him. What could you have said? The strongest sorcerer in the world, staring at the ground as though he could will himself to fall through it– what words could you possibly offer? Anything that crossed your mind felt hollow, tasted meaningless on your tongue.
Yet, still, you approached. Those bright blue eyes had landed on you and you were drawn in, like a moth to flame. Your feet were moving before you realized what you’d done.
“Shi-chan, you’re staring,” he chided, his voice sounding hollow. “Didn’t think you cared.”
“I don’t,” you replied, aware that you both knew it was a lie.
It always was.
He smiled, soft but genuine– like he was just grateful for your company. You nodded, letting him take what he wanted from the gesture.
The relationship you’d had after wasn’t supposed to mean anything. A month of stolen moments, grief shared in the only ways you knew how. You sought comfort in each other’s arms, filling the empty spaces that Suguru had left behind. Late night texts. Solo outings. You told yourself that it wasn’t real, that it was just a way to cope. Was that a lie, too?
That time together had changed everything. And two months later, when you realized you were pregnant, you knew that there was no going back.
The sound of Haruto stirring in his sleep pulled you back to the present. The cabin’s quiet stillness wrapped tightly around you as you set down your teacup, your fingers still slightly shaking as you stepped toward your sleeping son, curled around his stuffed rabbit. He was so small, so peaceful– and yet, every time you looked at him, it was like staring into the past. Your big, scary past.
His hair, white as the snow outside… his eyes, that same piercing shade of blue that gazed at you from across classrooms, found you in crowded hallways buried deep in your memory… Sometimes, if you looked at him just right, he even had his father’s stubborn smirk. Sometimes it was enough to make your heart ache.
You didn’t regret leaving– you wouldn’t let yourself. You’d made the choice for Haruto, for Satoru, for humanity– he deserved a childhood free from the crushing weight of the Gojo name, free from the dangers of being born into a world of curses. And Satoru…
He didn’t need the burden of fatherhood, another anchor to his already heavy chains.
He didn’t stop you when you left.
Your breath caught in your throat. You told yourself not to think about him, not to wonder where he was or what he was doing. You’d left him behind, you’d left everything behind, but the truth lingered. Sharp and bitter in the back of your throat. You’d run because you were afraid. Afraid for the part of you that wanted to believe that Satoru might have chosen you and the life growing inside of you over everything else.
But you’d seen the threads of fate. Tangled, cruel, impossible to ignore. You left because you couldn’t bear to watch him choose the world over you.
The fire snapped sharply, loud enough to make you jump. The flames cast dancing shadows against the walls, and you felt a familiar prickling at your scalp as you watched them move. It wasn't a vision, but a feeling, a suggestion that something may be on the horizon. You closed your eyes, trying to will fate’s whisper into a conversation, but it remained quiet– imperceptible. Glimpses came to you in flickering waves, an apparition at the edge of your mind… someone tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes like the sky…
Your chest tightened as you pushed the thought away with a gasp, forcing yourself to focus on the crackling fire and the sound of howling wind outside.
“Shiori,” an older voice called softly from the adjoining room. “Are you still awake? It’s well past midnight.”
“Aya-san,” you replied, withdrawing your hand from your son’s hair. “Did I wake you?”
“No, child. The storm did.” Aya stepped lightly into the room, moving with the ease of someone used to late-night watches. She lowered herself onto the armchair by Haruto, dimming the table lamp and casting soft shadows across her face.
Aya Takahashi, formerly Zenin– she’d sought an escape from the troubling world of jujutsu, same as you. Born into the infamous Zenin clan with a powerful technique, she had built her life around the expectations of her lineage… until she met her late husband. He was a non-sorcerer whom she'd fallen in love with devastatingly quickly. Their love was defiant in the eyes of the Zenins, and Aya chose him over their approval. They ran away together, knowing the cost of their love, only for her spiteful relatives to come for them both, bringing their marriage to a sudden, violent end.
Aya lost her husband that day.
She ran away to this sleepy, mountainside town out west, hoping that its wild, untamed cursed energy would mask her signature. For thirty years, she had been successful. When she came across you and Haruto, barely ten months old at the time, she saw herself in your struggle, and she knew... she couldn’t walk away.
And gods bless her soul, she didn’t.
Aya had become such an unassuming yet steady presence in your life—a former sorceress who had left her old life behind and found solace in this small, secluded town just like you had.
The arrangement had begun with practicality, but Aya’s quiet strength and experience had turned her into a figure of comfort, almost a guardian. Her motherly tendencies extended to you as much as to Haruto, though she rarely showed her cards outright.
Aya studied you for a moment, her expression knowing. “Something tells me you haven’t slept yet,” she hummed, reaching to turn on the television as if to settle in for a watchful night.
You studied her with a hint of reluctance, knowing exactly what she intended. “Aya-san, you really don’t have to—”
“Go and rest, Shiori.” Her voice was gentle, but her tone left no room for debate. “I’ll be here if the boy wakes.”
“But I—,”
The look she gave you, one full of quiet insistence, spoke louder than any further protests you could make.
With a resigned sigh, you shook your head and accepted the fate she’d laid out for you, the comfort of her presence an unspoken balm. You relented and bid her goodnight, resting a comforting hand on Haruto’s little head before walking away.
Tokyo, Japan- 2018.
In Tokyo, Satoru Gojo was feeling a similar kind of anxiety.
Ryomen Sukuna had a vessel. The thought of it alone made his jaw clench tightly. It was unprecedented, unpredictable, and as far as he was concerned, a major pain in the ass. There were no protocols for this sort of thing— well, maybe one, but that was the last thing he wanted. “I can’t let them kill him,” he muttered to himself, tone sharp as nails. “He’s just a kid.”
He leaned back in his office chair, staring out at the Tokyo skyline with mild interest. His head pulsed with a day-old migraine as he studied the tiny flares of cursed energy erupting in short bursts across the city's grid. The presence of curses and the activity of curse users had become more erratic than usual, flickering in the depths of the city like embers waiting to be ignited. It had only gotten worse since Sukuna's fingers entered the equation; like all of Japan was holding its breath. Even with his technique, Satoru was struggling to keep up with the endless spikes of energy on the horizon. His head throbbed, his senses constantly assaulted until finally, he pulled the blinds closed.
Satoru sighed. He hadn't been this on edge in a very long time, not since...
He dismissed the thought, reaching for a bottle of painkillers nearby and rattling it in a last-ditch effort to dull the throbbing in his skull. He popped two in his mouth and swallowed them dry before running a broad palm over his face, a low groan slipping out as he reached his lips. "This is fucking stupid," he muttered, voice muffled by his hand.
With a sigh, he pushed himself out of the chair and stretched his long arms above his head, joints stiff and aching from too many hours of vigilance and too little rest. He hated to even consider leaving campus, knowing that Yuuji-- no. Sukuna was here. Yuuji had done well in controlling the king of curses since they had started training, but the thought of leaving him alone still left Satoru uneasy. Could he really turn his back on him?...
Yes, he decided, as his eyes caught sight of his phone screen flashing the time: 3:55pm. He hadn't slept a wink in over 40 hours, a reckless oversight even by his standards. His Six Eyes needed rest, and he'd be no use to anyone-- especially against Sukuna --if he burned out completely. I can leave. Just for a few hours.
With a tired sigh, he dialed his assistant. “Ijichi,” he sang half heartedly into his cell, his voice missing some of its usual playfulness. “I’m going home.”
Ijichi's protests were immediate, though muffled through the receiver. Satoru didn't bother listening. He slipped the phone into his back pocket without even hanging up, ignoring the last few sputters of "--but Gojo-san!"
Stretching his limbs once more, he felt the weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. It wasn't like him to abandon his post so early into the afternoon, but he wouldn't be of any use in this state. Half-blind, staggering through a haze of pain. The pounding behind his eyes was growing unbearable, his senses dulling with each passing minute.
With one last glance at the skyline, Satoru exhaled, letting his shoulders drop just slightly. It was strange, the guilt that had begun creeping in these days, as if his raw determination alone would be enough to protect humanity from Sukuna's dark influence. But at his core, he knew that if he wasn't sharp, if he wasn't fully there, then he was no more than a tired body standing watch.
Humanity deserved better than that.
Yuuji deserved better than that.
In his apartment, Satoru wandered thoughtlessly into his bedroom, tossing aside his phone, his wallet, his blindfold, and all of the other little trinkets he carried on the job. The blinds were drawn and the room was dark; still, he manipulated the pitch black space seamlessly, thankful for the small mercy of darkness. He migrated to his shower-- something else he'd been putting off.
The hot stream of water-- scalding against his porcelain skin --was healing. Following the contours of his body, mapping the planes of his muscles as it traveled across his skin. The rich scent of his body wash hung thickly in the air, cutting through 40 hours' worth of sweat and frustration. With a sigh, he bowed his head, letting it all fall into his eyes, mouth.
What the fuck had happened to him?
Being alone was something he still struggled with. He'd once thought of Suguru as the only person who could possibly understand the isolation that followed his responsibilities as the strongest. But Suguru was gone, had been gone longer even than he'd been dead, and all that was left now was... Satoru and his sadness? Longing? He didn't know what he was feeling.
Remorse?
"You promise you won’t regret this?"
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
Eyes snapping open, he reared his head back. Infinity kept him from losing his balance, thankfully, but didn't stop the way he wobbled a bit on his feet with the emotional whiplash he'd just received from that memory. That voice.
He exhaled, long and slow, steam swirling in the dimmed light. His pulse quickened just slightly as the memory returned to him in living color, as if he were reliving it-- naked and vulnerable.
A laugh-- soft like morning mist. Perfume dancing across his senses, igniting warmth within his chest. He felt her presence even here, in the sanctuary of his mind.
Shiori Myoji. The Clairvoyance User.
The quiet, mundane memory came to him suddenly-- like his pain had picked the lock to a door he'd forgotten long ago. She was sitting on the edge of a windowsill in the Jujutsu High dorms, delicate fingers cradling a cup of tea. He sat beside her, much too close, with a large hand resting on her covered thigh. She was blushing, and he remembered the way it made his heart race. Has anyone ever done that before?
Has anyone ever done that... since?
"You're incorrigible," she scolded lightly, though the light smile upon her lips told him all that he needed to know. With a glance toward the halls, assuring there would be no witnesses, she leaned into him and he did the same, capturing her mouth in a tender kiss.
Fuck, she was always so soft. So calm. The kind of calm he pretended that he was, but had never really felt. Only in these moments, did she ever seem to look at him. Usually, her gaze extended into a space that he couldn't see-- a space that no one occupied, as if she were seeing something that he couldn't.
The water hit his shoulders harder now, as if trying to call him back to the present. He straightened, shaking his head as if that could wash away the memory of her. As if it were something that could be scrubbed away as easily as sweat and blood from his skin.
But she lingered, as she always seemed to do. She'd been away for too long for him to still think of her. She was a distraction at the time, something they both craved desperately. That is what she was, wasn't she? His distraction. His excuse. His anchor when the weight of Suguru's passing had threatened to tilt him off-balance. She was his-- then, now, whether she knew it or not.
His, because he couldn't let her be anything else.
Yes, a voice in his head purred. Yours, it agreed— languid and sweet, sounding suspiciously like her.
She was an addiction he’d been more than willing to rid himself of— even if it hurt like pouring salt into a wound. He’d love to say that he didn’t feel it, or that it paled in comparison to the pain of killing his best friend, but that simply wasn’t true. He’d grown attached to her warmth, her quiet strength, the mutual understanding of their own responsibilities as sorcerers. She’d been an enigma to him in high school, a close friend as an adult, and now? A ghost. A shadow. Someone who knew him intimately, someone whose taste hadn’t left his mouth since the last time his tongue was inside of her— because only he knew her so intimately, too.
Only he had been privy to the way that her brows furrowed in a mix of confusion and disgust when he said something lewd, the way her cheeks would darken at the slightest mention of their extracurricular affairs, igniting a fire in the pit of Satoru’s belly each time. Only he got to see the spit-slick part of her lips when she came, her wet heat wrapped so tightly around his member that he’d nearly blacked out at the force of his own orgasm. Only he knew that it was like that every. Single. Time. with her, like they were both squirming virgins experimenting with strange new feelings.
Except Satoru had never felt so enthralled with a lover before, and he never would again— something he’d come to terms with after trying and failing to fill the void she left in his life as his ‘distraction’. That’s all she was.
Right?
“Fuck,” he muttered through clenched teeth as he recalled her image in near-perfect clarity, spread out above his sheets— moaning softly, gasping his name when he fucked her just right. “Fucking shit.”
Satoru took himself in his hand, letting the water cascade down his back as he hunched over, pressing his forehead against the cool tile as he recalled more. Her dainty fingers tangled in his hair as she writhed beneath him, bucking her hips against his pelvis and fucking herself on his cock. Broken whispers of ‘Satoru, please,’ as her walls contracted around him, milking his seed into her waiting womb. The taste of her sweat on his tongue, salty and sweet, while he sucked his little purple love bites into her skin. He’d spell out his fucking name with them if he could.
He’d carve it into her flesh with his teeth if she’d let him.
Feelings Satoru had never experienced before her— or after her — flooded his senses. The hollow ache of desperation as he craved her warmth, the bitter taste of jealousy as he thought of her with anyone else, the crushing weight of grief when he remembered she was gone—
“Fucking miss you,” he spat, pumping desperately into his own fist, slick with prespend. “Fucking miss the way you feel.”
In his mind’s eye, Shiori writhes underneath him, pinned to the mattress by his weight. Her fingers tangle into his hair as he fucks into her, hard and fast, carving out a space just for him. He’s grunting along with his thrusts, her pretty little gasps coming out in broken hiccups. They’re hiding in the campus dorms again and they have to be quiet; she muffles a loud cry against his shoulder, teeth baring down into his flesh as she locks her legs around his waist with surprising ferocity, holding him so deep inside of her, and oh shit they forgot a condom—
“Fuck,” he hissed out in a sharp breath, tightening his grip on himself. The exhaustion in his bones temporarily forgotten, Satoru slammed a fist onto the wall above his head, a satisfying little crack! coming from the tile. His orgasm had nearly taken his breath away in its intensity, years of frustration and repressed feelings finally coming to a sore, bursting head.
He stood panting in the shower stall, watching the physical evidence of his longing swirl down the drain. His head pulsed with every beat of his heart, the effort he’d exerted not mixing kindly with his already throbbing migraine. He groaned, running a hand through his slick hair, and subsequently flicking water onto the wall behind him. Fucking Shiori, he muttered to himself.
Head swimming, Satoru emerged from the muggy bathroom several minutes later. He was still stewing over his momentary loss of control. He could have anyone he wanted, and here he was, fisting his cock to memories of an old flame. A ghost from his past.
He’d buried her in the place he’d buried Suguru— except, the ache was different knowing that her physical form still roamed this earth. Somewhere. He could find her, if he wanted to. Maybe she'd be able to tell him what the fuck he should do, how the fuck he was going to save a 16 year old boy with an eons-old curse living inside of him.
A plan began to unfurl inside of him, unwillingly. A first grade sorceress, gone without a trace... But all cursed energy left residuals, didn’t it? Would it really be so hard for the Six Eyes to follow her clues, hunt her down, and bring her back home?
It wouldn’t be hard, but it wouldn’t be right, he thought.
Last he heard, Shiori had fled west to study cursed energy manifestation in other regions. It was a convincing cover up, but given her technique and her history of omitting bigger details, he'd always assumed there were other implications to why and where she'd gone. Did she know what was happening in Tokyo? Did she see something that he didn't?
Of course she fucking did, he scoffed, slipping a t-shirt over his bare shoulders. When didn't she? She always knew more than she let on. It had frustrated him back then, and it frustrated him even more now. The idea that she might have seen this, predicted it-- Sukuna, Yuuji, the spiraling chaos of Tokyo's curses --and had chosen to leave anyway gnawed at him.
The truth was, he didn't want to think about why she left. Shit, he didn't want to think about her at all. But her name sat heavy on his chest now, a quiet itch he couldn't continue to ignore. If anyone could make sense of the impossible, it was her. And yet... she was gone. She'd left without so much as a goodbye, or a trace worth following. Maybe that was all of the explanation he really needed.
Maybe that was all of the closure he’d ever get.
With a low groan, Satoru flopped onto his bed, stretching his arms out wide. He didn't get tired often, but exhaustion was settling into his bones. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness settle over him, the plan that he refused to admit beginning to stir in his minds' eye once more, unwelcome and persistent. He could find her. If he wanted to. If he needed to.
.
.
This is Chapter 1 of a multi-chapter fic to be crossposted to AO3. Taglist below as requested. @starlightglimmersworld @mccookiemonster @leilakaro @certainduckanchor @itsbellablue-blog @shokosbunny @hyookka @drogonfruitzen
mostly suggestive w/ little (if any description of anatomy), sex pollen, thigh-riding, reluctance if you squint but NO dub con, orgasms, romantasy AU... happy birthday, Gojo 💙
Leave some kudos on Ao3!
You are not ready for a new knight.
You say this to no one. Not your ladies-in-waiting, not to the courtiers who sidle up to you with soft voices and hungry eyes— hoping for gossip in the shadow of your grief. And you certainly do not say this to your father, whose patience for your mourning ended the moment your old knights’ body was in the ground.
Oh, Ser Aldric…
He had been with you since you were small enough to ride his shoulders through the training yards, shrieking with laughter as he pretended to stagger beneath your weight. He was there for your first lessons, the time you first bled— awkwardly standing guard outside of your bathing chambers as your maids fluttered about you in a panic. He stood at your back when you learned to wield a blade, when your father decided that a princess should at least look like she knew how to defend herself.
And he was there at the end. A gasp, a flash of steel, and a grunt of exertion. The wet choke of a dying man, still standing between you and the arrow meant for your heart.
You still wake sometimes, in terror at the sensation of his blood on your face, fresh tears warm in your eyes.
So no, you are not ready for a new knight.
And yet…
You stand at the base of the dais in the Great Hall, the king— your father —-seated above you like a carved idol of war. Light spills through the tall windows, pale and cold, catching on polished marble, the banners, the watching eyes. The air smells of incense and steel.
“The Princess requires protection,” your father says, tone leaving no room for argument. “The people are unsettled. They whisper weakness.”
(And, what he didn’t say, “I won’t have them see you shaken. You will stand straight, you will smile, and you will accept what I give you.”)
You do not tremble. You are practiced at not trembling.
The herald’s staff strikes the floor three times; the sound echoes upwards into the vaulted ceiling.
“Presenting Ser Satoru Gojo of the First Lance,” the man booms. “Sworn this day to the service of His Majesty, and to the protection of his royal heiress.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered nobles.
“Mercenary,” someone breathes nearby.
“I heard he killed thirty men in a single battle,”
“Elven blood, I heard—,”
“Surely, the King wouldn’t…,”
“They would turn a blind eye to anything if it wins them a war.”
Your jaw tightens. Elves are not spoken of in polite company. Not openly. The old stories paint them as beautiful, primal things… too strong, too quick. Too pleased by bloodshed. And far too dangerous to be trusted.
Not that the King ever much cared for politeness.
The doors at the end of the hall swing wide, and your heart beats faster when you see the shadow approaching beyond.
✦ ✦ ✦
He strides in with easy confidence, that of a man who has never doubted himself in his life. Shining platinum armor gleams over a body that was built for the battlefield— long lines and coiled muscle, plates etched with faint, unfamiliar sigils. A white cloak hangs from his shoulders, stained in places with old, stubborn rust that couldn’t be scrubbed away. His helmet is closed, visor down; only a thin band of darkness where his eyes must be.
He moves like a wolf among sheep. Not hurried, not stiff… just certain. Each step a soft, building promise of violence.
He reaches the foot of the dais and goes down on one knee in one smooth motion that leaves you breathless, the tip of his sword kisses the marble with a soft ting.
“Your Majesty,” he says in address to your father, voice low and rough around the edges, like he’s not used to bothering with courtesy. “You called,”
Your father’s smile is sharp. “The tales of your constitution travel faster than my own banners, Ser Satoru. I wish to see if rumor remains worth the coin.”
“Rumor usually sells itself, Your Majesty,” comes the easy reply. “But I don’t mind putting on a show.”
A ripple of disapproval moves through the hall, and your father’s eyes narrow.
Then, his attention shifts to you.
“My daughter,” he says, the word hollow as a bell. “Our line’s only heir. You must guard her above all things.”
You feel the weight of the court’s eyes like claws on your back.
The knight’s head turns. The slit in the helmet angles up, up, to meet your gaze. You cannot see his eyes, but you feel it— the sharp, assessing sweep of him taking you in.
“The royal heir,” he repeats softly. “As my life.”
“Remove your helmet, Ser Satoru,” the king commands. “My people should see the face of the beast I have bought.”
There it is again. That flicker of disapproval, quickly buried in murmurs. Ugly word, beast. Ugly notion, that your father thinks of this man as nothing more than a weapon in a scabbard controlled by him. You’re sure the disgust can be seen in your eyes, as you wince and flinch away from the knight.
The knight rises without complaint. His hands— gloved in articulated steel —lift to the clasps at his jaw. There’s a soft scrape, the faint hiss of displaced air, and then he pulls the helmet free.
White.
His hair spills out, bright as new snow, falling in tousled layers just past his jaw. It should make him look boyish. It doesn’t.
The planes of his face are too clean, his jaw too sharp, his mouth too curved with lazy amusement. His skin is pale, but not the sallow pallor of the chronically ill; he was akin to something otherworldly, the pale of moonlight spilt upon marble.
And his eyes…
You inhale without meaning to.
They are pale, too— but not colorless. A bright, shining blue that may have felt cold if not for the warmth within. There’s a glow to them in the dim hall, like light on ice.
Inhuman, the treacherous part of you thinks.
His hair shifts when he inclines his head. For a heartbeat, you see the line of his ear— it’s subtle. Just a touch too fine, too pointed at the tip before the hair falls forward again. Enough to send a frisson of unease through you, and perhaps the nearest cluster of lords.
You understand, then, why people whisper of elves when he is nearby.
He doesn’t seem to care.
But Ser Satoru’s gaze lingers on you the way a man might regard a painting he wasn’t expecting to like, a hum of interest.
Then, he smiles.
Small and private, entirely at odds with the stories you’ve heard.
“Princess,” he says, and your title sounds softer in his mouth than it ever has before. “It is an honor.”
Your cheeks feel warm. You hate it.
You straighten your back and respond clearly, in the manner familiar to you, “Ser Satoru.”
Your father is watching. The court is murmuring. You can feel their judgement, their hunger, their fear. You dip your chin just enough to be polite.
“He seems capable,” you say.
Those pale eyes crinkle, as if you’ve said something funny.
“Only seems?” he murmurs, just for you. “Wounding.”
You ignore him. Mostly.
Your father chuckles, the sound devoid of warmth. “You’ll find he’s more than capable. See that you prove worthy of the expense, mercenary.”
Satoru inclines his head, the grin never leaving his mouth. “I always do.”
Your father dismisses him with a gesture. “Escort her back to the chambers. We shall meet again in the courtyard tomorrow eve. Consider this your first duty, Ser Satoru.”
He turns away, already bored. The court’s attention shifts with him like a flock of birds.
For a moment, you and your new knight stand in a pocket of stillness at the center of it all.
Then he steps toward you and offers his arm.
“Princess,” he says lightly. “Shall we?”
You swallow. Your fingers curl around his forearm, the metal warm from his skin. His eyes soften, just a fraction, like he’s pleased by something you don’t understand.
He leads you from the hall. The whispers follow.
✦ ✦ ✦
The next day, you ride.
The appointment ceremony was held at a lesser keep closer to the front lines—a show of strength for the visiting generals. Now you are returning to the main castle grounds, to the familiar sprawl of stone and garden that has been your gilded cage since childhood.
The road here is narrow, cutting through thick forest. The light of dusk filters through the leaves in latticed patterns, dappling your horse’s mane. Birds sing, insects drone. Somewhere off the path, water moves over stone.
Ser Aldric would have ridden at your side, just close enough that your knees brushed. He would have talked, low and calm, distracting you from the ugliness of the world with stories of silly recruits and drunken captains.
Ser Satoru rides a little behind, and to your left. Recognizable by the white of his cloak, the easy set of his shoulders. Keyed into every movement made around him.
You have been aware of him all morning.
When he lifted you onto your horse, his hands were firm at your waist. His grip was careful but undeniably intimate, leaving a phantom warmth blooming beneath your ribs. His fingers spread too confidently for a man unused to touching royalty.
When a breeze cut through the trees and sent a shiver up your spine, he leaned over without comment and adjusted your cloak, gloved hands smoothing the fabric over your shoulders— knuckles grazing the bare column of your throat, where your laces didn’t quite meet.
“What are you doing?” You’d asked, the words coming out sharper than you’d meant.
“I am merely doing my job, Your Highness,” he replied, unbothered. “We can’t have the Princess catching a chill.”
Something in the way he said it made your chest feel tight.
Now, as the road begins to curve along a slight slope, your mare sidesteps skittishly. The forest feels… closer here. The shadows feel deeper.
You glance back.
Satoru meets your gaze easily, reins held in one hand and posture relaxed. “You’re tense, Princess,” he observes. “Bad saddle? Bad memories?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I didn’t peg you for a liar, Princess.”
You bristle. “You forget who you are speaking to, Ser Satoru.”
He chuckled, and your cheeks heat at the boyish sound. You look away.
You’re thinking of a retort when it happens— so fast, you nearly miss it.
An arrow slams into the earth inches from your horse’s hoof. Your mare screams and rears, nearly throwing you off. You clutch the reins close to you, heart in your throat. Shouts erupt from the front of the column— the crunch of boots on leaves, the ringing of steel. Another arrow whistles past your face, close enough that you feel the wind of it.
“Down, soldiers!” someone in your entourage yells. “Protect the Princess!”
Hands grab for your reins, your skirts, your arms— too many, too fast. Your horse panics, muscles bunching beneath you.
Then there’s a blur of white and steel.
Satoru is there.
You don’t see where he came from. One moment, your vision is full of panicked faces and flailing limbs, and the next, it’s just him: cloak snapping behind him, sword flashing in the light of the setting sun. A man lunges into view, knife raised; Ser Satoru’s blade takes him through the throat in a wet, efficient slice. You feel the warmth of his blood splatter your cheek.
Your knight in shining armor does not even flinch at your scream.
“Princess,” he commands you, strong voice cutting through the chaos with an urgency you’ve never heard from him. “Hold on.”
He drops his weapon to the ground and dives for you. Strong, gloved hands find your waist, your hips, and then you’re airborne. He hauls you from your saddle as if you weigh nothing at all. There’s a flash of treetops in your vision, and a little bit of sky before all you see is him— beautiful face tilted toward you, pale eyes sharp and focused.
You’re then cradled against his chest, arms hooking around his neck on instinct. You feel the flex of muscle beneath his armored tunic as he turns and runs.
The world in your periphery becomes a smear of green and brown motion. Branches whip past you, against you, over your heads. Leaves slap against your legs, and frantic shouts from your entourage fade behind you as forest swallows the road.
You close your eyes, digesting the terror as you bury your face against his pauldron. You are vaguely reminded of the times Ser Aldric carried you to your chambers as a child, or after you’d been injured. The motion never felt quite so intimate, and he’d definitely never moved so fast.
It felt inhuman, Ser Satoru’s speed. His reflexes. The ease and instinct with which he moved, manipulating the battlefield as if he owned it.
You focus on the steady, human heart beating in his chest. Yours is a mess of wild drumbeats within your ribcage.
✦ ✦ ✦
When the sounds of battle are gone, only then does your knight slow his pace. His boots sink into softer earth, and the air around you feels thicker. The sun has set now, and moonlight guides your path through the trees. Your lungs are burning, and sweat starts to bead at your temples. You are vaguely aware of a flowing stream nearby, fresh water chuckling over stone.
Ser Satoru releases you from his hold, kneeling before you on a soft bed of moss. His gloved hands linger at your waist a heartbeat longer than necessary, and a strange warmth erupts across your cheeks.
He lets go.
“Are you hurt?” he asks you, voice softer now, and stripped of that battle-edge. His eyes roam over you quickly, efficiently, cataloging every spot where an injury could hide. “Did an arrow graze you? Is that your blood?” His thumb wipes at your cheek.
You shake your head, batting his hand away. “No, I— I do not think so.”
His shoulders ease, then, as if he is genuinely relieved. “Good. You did well.”
Something flutters in your chest at the quiet pride threaded through his voice, and you recall the way you clung to him like a child.
You open your mouth to speak— to say something properly royal, properly distant, but a strange heat is coiling low in your belly, twisting upward in a dizzy wave.
The sensation urges you to step away from your knight, and he rises from his spot on the mossy forest floor. His pristine brows are downturned in concern, and he reaches for you. “Princess? Are you—,”
You jerk back.
“Ser Satoru,” you say quickly, forcing steadiness into your voice. “Please, I—… would like to visit the stream. I would like to wash off the… dirt and blood.”
His blue eyes flick up to your face. The distance between you is only a foot, maybe two, but you feel like you can breathe when his skin isn’t so close to your own.
Why does your knight make you feel like this? Confused, flustered… fevered.
Ser Satoru nods, his jaw tight. You can tell he doesn’t like it— the idea of distance after the attempt on your life. And yet, he relents. “If you must. I will remain close.”
“I would expect as much,” you respond with a tight smile. “Do try not to hover, Ser Satoru.”
His lips twitch— amusement, maybe? Frustration? You aren’t quite sure.
“As you wish, Your Highness.”
✦ ✦ ✦
The stream lies tucked between two great roots, its surface rippling with crystalline clarity. You kneel beside it, cupping cool water in your palms before pressing it to your flushed cheeks, scrubbing at your skin.
Your knight stands a respectful distance away, far enough that you cannot feel the heat of his gaze upon you— though, you sense it anyway. Watchful and steady, never straying from your surroundings.
You close your eyes.
Hands on your waist. Calm, firm voice at your ear. The way he looked at you in the aftermath, like something precious and fragile in his rough grasp.
You press your wet fingers to your burning throat.
This is not right.
Your knight should not look at you that way. You should not be feeling… this. That strange warmth has returned, and your mind is restless. The weight of Satoru’s gaze feels as if it’s smothering you now, and you reach for the water once more.
Something shimmers beneath the surface as your fingertips brush over it.
You blink, unsure if it’s a trick of the moonlight or your own adrenaline getting the best of you. It happens a second time, faint swirling iridescence dancing across the surface as it trickles over riverstone.
When it reaches the tender inside of your wrist, you gasp.
Hurried steps shuffle forward, and you know that something isn’t right. Heat spikes through your veins, the stubborn warmth spreading slowly and intensely across the span of your body. It pulses with your heartbeat, moving up your forearm, your shoulder, sinking deeper and twining through your ribs as if it’s alive—
Water should not feel like this.
“Princess?” Satoru calls behind you, his proximity giving you pause.
There’s a beast inside of you, and it wants him close. Closer than before, closer than anyone has ever been. You don’t answer his calls. Your pulse hammers against your throat as your skin prickles, your mind spiraling into something molten and frightening.
The stream is glowing in his shadow.
Not moonlight.
Magic.
You’ve realized, much too late, that what coats your skin is no ordinary water.
The laces of your gown feel too tight, your chemise too rough against suddenly oversensitive flesh. Heat blooms low in your belly, startling and wrong. Your thighs press together, unbidden, in a vain attempt to ease a burgeoning ache that makes no sense.
“I—” Your hand flies to your chest, fingers clutching at the fabric there. “Something’s—wrong.” The syllables sound foreign to your ears, thick and clumsy, like you are speaking underwater.
Your lungs burn, the air suddenly too dense to pull in. It’s as if all of the oxygen has been sucked from the world, leaving you gasping. The strange, feverish heat is raging through your body. Your fingers dig at your bodice, trembling. You need space, you need air, you need… you need—
You are vaguely aware of your knight’s bootsteps crunching over leaves behind you, a sound that should be reassuring but instead ratchets your panic higher. You feel as if you may faint, the forest pulsing in and out of focus around you. The trees quiver to the beat of your stuttering heart, their branches bending closer, drawn to the spectacle you’re becoming. Gasping, thrashing, whimpering as your knees hit the moss below you.
There’s a blur of white at your side before Ser Satoru is kneeling before you, his hands steadying your shoulders. His touch is gentle but it sends a wild spark through your nerves, equal parts agony and need.
“Your Highness,” there’s concern there, in his sharp but worried tone. “What’s happened?”
“Everything—,” The word comes out broken. You swallow, throat suddenly dry. “My skin—my face, my—” You cut yourself off, mortified. Even thinking about the way your body is throbbing feels indecent.
Satoru’s gaze flicks around you. Only now do you really notice the place he’s brought you to, the water staining your bodice.
His jaw tightens.
“Of all the places…” he mutters.
You can barely hear him. The heat is getting worse—curling under your skin, fogging your thoughts, turning every point of contact with the world into too much. Your bodice feels like a vice. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck. You shift, and the friction of your chemise between your legs sends a shocking jolt through you.
You hiss, biting down on a sound you don’t recognize.
Satoru is suddenly all that you can see, his strong hands hovering as if afraid to touch.
“Princess,” he says, low and intense. “Look at me.”
You try, but the attempt is rather pitiful. You drag your gaze up to his, noticing his wide pupils— blown, just a little. From concern, you reason— nothing else.
“I can’t,” you suck in air that doesn’t seem to reach your lungs. “Everything is… too tight.”
“Slow your breathing,” he commands, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “You’ll faint.”
He exhales through his nose, a sharp sigh that isn’t directed at you. “This grove is not meant for mortals to travel through. I should have paid closer attention.”
You blink at him, struggling to focus.
“The stream, its water… contains an irritant,” he says, picking his words carefully. “We are close to elven territory. What have they taught you about elves in the castle, Your Highness?”
“Do not drink from their water,” you repeat immediately, face growing even warmer. “Oh, Ser Satoru, you must think me so dense, I was not—,” you stammer.
“I do not,” he affirms, his gloved hand tightening on your shoulder. “You must think me a poor knight, leading you straight to danger. Forgive me, Your Highness,” There is a subtle and unexpected catch in his voice: not the steel of a commander, but something softer, almost apologetic. “I will free you from this.”
The promise, though earnest, sends a shock of panic through you. “Free me—?” you echo, and the meaning curls in your mind like a tongue of fire. Shame and want tangle together in your chest; you can sense what he means even as you deny it, even as you hope for it. The hunger inside you claws at your insides, and the pulse between your legs grows sharp and insistent, impossible to ignore. The fabric of your gown is suddenly intolerable, every seam an offense, every brush of the rough chemise beneath a new agony.
“Make it stop,” you choke out. “Please.”
✦ ✦ ✦
For the first time, Ser Satoru’s composure cracks. His fingers curl just a little tighter at your cheek, his eyes darkening.
“I can’t stop it,” he says. “But I can help you through it.”
You don’t understand what he means. You don’t care.
“Please,” you repeat, the word nothing but breath and desperation.
He swears softly in a language you don’t know. Then he moves.
One arm slides behind your back, the other under your knees, lifting you again—but this time it’s slower, more careful. Like he’s handling something fragile. He finds a sheltered spot beneath a tree, setting you down gently on a bed of moss.
For a moment, he hesitates, eyes darting over your face before moving to the buckles at his throat. With quick, practiced motions, he unclasps his chestpiece, sliding the cold steel aside. The sound is muffled against the moss as he sets it down, followed by the bracers at his forearms, each piece shed with a steady deliberateness. Without the armor, he seems more human—less the untouchable knight, more a man offering himself to your need.
You fumble with the laces at your bodice, desperate for relief from the suffocating fabric. Your fingers tremble, but he helps, untying the tight ribbons at your sides and easing the garment down your shoulders until you can breathe again.
Only then does he lower himself to sit with his back against the tree, settling you astride his lap, your legs falling to either side of a muscular thigh.
“This is indecent,” you rasp, even as your traitorous body sighs at the contact. He’s solid beneath you, warm, his thigh pressing up between your legs, right where you need it—
The contact is electric. His thigh is a firm, unyielding pressure at your core, perfectly placed. When you shift, the friction sears a path through your body, dragging a shameless gasp from your lips. You are feverish, every nerve ending alight; somewhere beneath the haze, your mind protests. You are a princess. Eyes are on you at all times. You should not be feeling this. You should not want this.
And yet, you do.
Ser Satoru’s hands— now void of gloves—frame your face with startling gentleness, as if afraid you might shatter. “I know,” he murmurs. “It’s the magic. Not you.”
You nod along, but you cannot breathe. Your body is not your own, a marionette with its wires tangled in want and shame. You cling to the folds of his tunic, reveling in the warmth of his body beneath you as you seek purchase in the muscle of his thigh. Your hips move of their own accord, grinding not because you mean to, but because it hurts so bad when you don’t. You feel warm hands slip to your waist, steadying you, helping you move in slow, inexorable motions.
You bite down on his shoulder to stifle a cry, tasting leather and the faint salt of his skin underneath.
His own breath catches.
“Good,” he whispers, the word slipping out like a reflex. “You’re doing well.”
You’ve never done anything less dignified in your life, and yet the praise lands somewhere deep, coiling hot and needy. No one has ever spoken to you that way: with such focused, undiluted approval, a knight’s praise given not for valor, not for cleverness or beauty, but for the way you are unraveling in his arms.
Heat and shame war in your belly. The rough weave of your chemise, the give of his body, the solid press of his thigh—every tiny sensation is magnified by the grove’s influence and by the way he holds you like you’re something precious, something sacred.
Your forehead presses harder into the crook of his neck. You can feel his pulse fluttering there, faster now, betraying the strain all his pretty control costs him.
“You’ll hate me for this later,” you manage, half-delirious.
He laughs softly, and there’s something in it that sounds almost… fond.
“I could never,” he murmurs into your hair, the words trembling with restraint.
His hands are steady but gentle, guiding you as your movements grow desperate. Greedy. The heat between your thighs is unbearable; each roll of your hips sends sparks arcing through your nerves, sticky and shameless and unstoppable.
“Just like that, Princess,” he whispers, voice roughened with want.
Your breath stutters. You whimper, chasing friction, pleasure building in dizzying waves. Every drag of fabric makes you wetter, your soaked underthings a pitiful barrier between your sticky center and the warmth of Ser Satoru’s thigh. His breathing is ragged and thick, and you can feel the outline of his own longing pressed hard against your outer thigh where you straddle him.
Soft kisses against your temple, soft encouragements in your ear— good girl, beautiful, let go —each one pouring heat into your skin. His grip is tighter, anchoring you to his body as you chase the wild, primal sensation that has taken you both.
Your movements grow wild, urgent, driven by a need you barely recognize as your own. His thigh is solid beneath you, and his hands—steady, certain—guide you along, shaping your desperation with gentle strength. Everything else vanishes: there’s only the hot, slick ache at your center, the press of fabric, the low encouragements he murmurs against your skin.
You chase the sensation helplessly, gasping and whimpering, each roll of your body stoking the pleasure higher, tighter, until it feels as though you might shatter. The tension builds and builds, sharp and bright, until you break—a wild, helpless sound torn from your throat.
You muffle the cry in the only way you can think to: you seize Ser Satoru’s face in your shaking hands and press your mouth to his, greedy and desperate, swallowing your own release against his lips. He stiffens for a heartbeat, startled by the kiss, but he doesn’t pull away—he holds you tighter, matching your hunger, letting you burn yourself out against him.
You shudder and shake, the world fracturing into white-hot pleasure, your body trembling in his arms. For a long moment, you’re lost in it—his mouth, his hands, the strength of him holding you together as you fall apart.
Then, gently, you sag against him, every muscle spent. His arms come around you, protective and careful, as your breath evens out and your lashes flutter. The last thing you feel before the world goes dark is the slow, soothing circle his thumb traces on your back, and the quiet, reverent way he whispers your name.
✦ ✦ ✦
When it’s over, you’re shaking.
Not from the cold.
Satoru eases your movements to a stop, gentling you back down when your body tries to chase more without thinking. His hands are careful as he shifts you, turning you so you’re curled against his chest, your legs draped over his. His cloak comes around you both, a warm, dark cocoon that smells like him, the forest, and a faint tang of iron.
He doesn’t speak for a long moment. His palm moves in slow circles between your shoulder blades, grounding. Your heart gradually remembers its proper pace. The heat ebbing from your skin leaves you feeling raw and strangely hollow.
“Better?” he asks at last. His voice is rougher than before.
You manage a shaky nod. “I… yes.”
“Good.” He exhales, relief almost palpable. “It’ll fade now. The grove’s hold doesn’t last long once it crests.”
You focus on the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. When you finally dare to lift your head, his eyes are already on you.
There’s something in them you haven’t seen before.
Fierce.
Soft.
Uncompromising.
You look away quickly, shame flooding you anew as memory catches up—the sounds you made, the way you clung to him, used him—
“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “That was—it was— I shouldn’t have—”
“Stop.”
The word is quiet but absolute.
His fingers find your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his.
“You were in pain,” he says. “You asked for help. I gave it. There is nothing in that to be sorry for.”
Your throat aches. “It wasn’t… proper.”
His mouth curves, but it’s a sad little thing. “Proper would have left you suffering on the forest floor while I stood three paces away reciting court etiquette.”
You huff a weak almost-laugh despite yourself.
“I would rather be improper,” he continues, “than useless.”
You study his face, the play of light and shadow across too-perfect features, the set of his jaw. For a moment, you swear you see something else there—a kind of contained panic, a dawning realization he’s not ready for.
But then he’s looking away, adjusting the cloak around your shoulders with brisk efficiency.
“We should get you back,” he says. “Before your father decides to send half the army into the woods.”
The thought of your father seeing you like this—disheveled, cheeks still flushed, tucked against this man’s chest—makes your stomach twist. You scramble to sit up straighter, pulling away more abruptly than you intend to.
His hands fall back, flexing once against his knees before curling into fists.
“Can you walk?”
You test your legs. They wobble. “Perhaps… not far.”
Something complicated flickers across his face; then he nods, as if he expected that.
“Then we’ll go slowly.”
He helps you to your feet, his grip steady, patient. You lean against a tree as he assembles his armor, a gentle pang of longing when the last of his skin is covered. When you sway, he steps in without comment, letting you shift as much of your weight onto him as you need. He doesn’t reach for your waist this time. His hand settles, instead, just above your elbow—a compromise between propriety and instinct you don’t realize he’s making.
The walk back feels longer. Your senses slowly return to something like normal. The green dimness of the grove gives way to the brighter dapple of the main forest; the distant clamor of men and horses filters back in.
By the time the castle’s outer walls rise into view between the trees, you’ve convinced yourself it wasn’t as bad as you remember. That he didn’t see as much, feel as much, know as much.
At the gates, that illusion shatters.
✦ ✦ ✦
Your father is waiting.
He descends the steps like a storm, cloak snapping, crown glinting. His eyes rake over you, the mess of your clothing, then the knight at your side, then the woods behind you.
“What happened?” he snaps, closing the distance and grabbing your shoulders hard enough to bruise. You cry out in surprise and pain. “Where are your guards? Why are you—”
You flinch at the volume, at the sudden rough contact after the careful way Satoru had held you. Your body remembers the grove, the way touch became something else entirely, and reacts with a confused jolt of wrongness.
Satoru goes very, very still.
The change is subtle—a tightening of the line of his jaw, the way his hand drops from your arm to hover at his side, fingers twitching. His eyes flick to your father’s grip, then back to your face.
You see something flash there.
Possessive. Protective. Dangerous.
It’s gone in an instant.
“Bandits, Your Majesty,” Satoru says, voice level. “Or hired blades. They had good aim, but no discipline. Your men are driving them off.”
“And your first instinct was to run?” your father snarls. “To abandon the field?”
“My first instinct,” Satoru replies, tone cooling, “was to remove the heir from immediate danger. Your men are not my charge. She is.”
Your father’s fingers dig harder into you. “You presume much, mercenary.”
“Only to do what I was bought to do.”
The tension between them is sharp enough to cut. You feel caught in the middle of two storms, one loud and familiar, one quiet and new.
“Father,” you say, mustering what dignity you have left. “Please. You’re hurting me.”
He blinks, as if only just aware of his grip. His hands fall away.
“Get her inside,” he snaps at Satoru rather than at you. “She looks a fright. We’ll discuss your ‘tactics’ later.”
He turns and strides back up the steps, surrounded by advisors like carrion birds.
Satoru watches him go.
His expression is carefully blank. His jaw may as well be carved from stone for how tight it is.
“Come,” he says softly.
Ser Satoru does not touch you during the walk back to your chambers.
He walks half a step behind, and to your left, silent, eyes fixed on some point ahead. The easy humor from before is gone, the teasing, the lazy confidence. What’s left is something stripped down and raw—discipline wrapped like iron bands around a core that wants to do anything but obey.
You want to say something. To thank him, perhaps. To apologize again. To ask what, exactly, just happened.
But the words are stuck behind your teeth. None of them feel safe.
You reach your door. Your ladies-in-waiting are nowhere in sight yet; the hall is momentarily, blessedly, empty.
You turn to him.
“Ser Satoru,” you say.
His eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, you see it all there—the grove, the heat, the way your body had fit against his like something old and remembered. The way his hands had guided you without taking. The way he had almost stepped between you and your father on the steps, like he had more right to your safety than any king.
Then his lashes lower, shielding whatever might have been there.
“Princess,” he replies, voice polite and distant again. “You should rest. The aftereffects can be… tiring.”
“Is this… normal?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “What happened, I mean.”
His mouth twists.
“In those groves?” he says. “For humans, yes.”
It’s not an answer, not really. But it’s all he offers.
You nod, fingers curling around the edge of the door. The wood is solid under your hand. Real. Unmoving.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
Something in his face softens, fractures.
“You never need to thank me for doing what I was meant to do,” he says. “Guarding you is not a burden, Princess.”
There’s a beat of silence.
You realize he’s expecting you to go inside. You should. It’s what’s expected.
Instead, you hear yourself say his name like you did in the grove.
“Satoru.”
His eyes snap to yours.
The vise in his chest tightens; you can see it in the way his breath stutters, just once.
“Yes,” he answers, softer now.
You don’t know what to do with that, so you do what you always do when the world feels too sharp. You retreat.
“Good night,” you murmur, and slip behind the door.
It closes with a quiet click.
On the other side of it, you press your back to the wood and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, skirts pooling around you, heart pounding. Your body remembers the grove in flashes—the roughness of cloth, the solid press of his thigh, the sound of his voice in your ear telling you he’s got you, that you’re safe, that you’re doing so well.
You bury your face in your hands.
You’ve had knights before. You’ve had protectors. You’ve had duty and expectations and a crown waiting like a weight above your head.
You have never had this.
✦ ✦ ✦
Outside, in the hall, Satoru stands where you left him.
He waits. One heartbeat. Two. Three.
He expects the feeling to ebb. It doesn’t.
Instead, something inside him settles with a terrible, crystalline certainty.
He has done this before, back home. Held trembling hands. Guided shaking bodies through sacred rites in sun-dappled groves. Shared breaths and vows with females who knew exactly what they were asking of him. Bonds meant to be sweet, temporary, a cherished memory before politics and marriage took their inevitable toll.
Those ties were ribbons. Pretty. Fleeting.
This is iron.
He has begun something he cannot end.
You are human. Unknowing. Bound to a world that will one day hand your hand to another man for a crown.
He is Elven, whether this kingdom chooses to see it or not. A creature they tolerate for his usefulness, not his heart.
And yet, when your body sought his in the grove, when your lips formed his name, when you leaned into his guidance and let him carry you out of the worst of it—
Every instinct in him recognized you.
Mine, something quiet and vicious whispers in his blood.
His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides until the leather of his gloves creaks. He inhales slowly, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight.
He should deny his assignment. Return home. Close the door on this before it can open any further.
He doesn’t move.
He stands watch outside your door until the torches burn low, listening to the slowing of your breath, the steadying of your pulse on the other side.
The vise around his heart never loosens.
i am NOT fucking w/ html and gradients rn so enjoy as is haha. will be posting to ao3 as well. see you guys later w/ the next lgits update!!
mostly suggestive w/ little (if any description of anatomy), sex pollen, thigh-riding, reluctance if you squint but NO dub con, orgasms, romantasy AU... happy birthday, Gojo 💙
Leave some kudos on Ao3!
You are not ready for a new knight.
You say this to no one. Not your ladies-in-waiting, not to the courtiers who sidle up to you with soft voices and hungry eyes— hoping for gossip in the shadow of your grief. And you certainly do not say this to your father, whose patience for your mourning ended the moment your old knights’ body was in the ground.
Oh, Ser Aldric…
He had been with you since you were small enough to ride his shoulders through the training yards, shrieking with laughter as he pretended to stagger beneath your weight. He was there for your first lessons, the time you first bled— awkwardly standing guard outside of your bathing chambers as your maids fluttered about you in a panic. He stood at your back when you learned to wield a blade, when your father decided that a princess should at least look like she knew how to defend herself.
And he was there at the end. A gasp, a flash of steel, and a grunt of exertion. The wet choke of a dying man, still standing between you and the arrow meant for your heart.
You still wake sometimes, in terror at the sensation of his blood on your face, fresh tears warm in your eyes.
So no, you are not ready for a new knight.
And yet…
You stand at the base of the dais in the Great Hall, the king— your father —-seated above you like a carved idol of war. Light spills through the tall windows, pale and cold, catching on polished marble, the banners, the watching eyes. The air smells of incense and steel.
“The Princess requires protection,” your father says, tone leaving no room for argument. “The people are unsettled. They whisper weakness.”
(And, what he didn’t say, “I won’t have them see you shaken. You will stand straight, you will smile, and you will accept what I give you.”)
You do not tremble. You are practiced at not trembling.
The herald’s staff strikes the floor three times; the sound echoes upwards into the vaulted ceiling.
“Presenting Ser Satoru Gojo of the First Lance,” the man booms. “Sworn this day to the service of His Majesty, and to the protection of his royal heiress.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered nobles.
“Mercenary,” someone breathes nearby.
“I heard he killed thirty men in a single battle,”
“Elven blood, I heard—,”
“Surely, the King wouldn’t…,”
“They would turn a blind eye to anything if it wins them a war.”
Your jaw tightens. Elves are not spoken of in polite company. Not openly. The old stories paint them as beautiful, primal things… too strong, too quick. Too pleased by bloodshed. And far too dangerous to be trusted.
Not that the King ever much cared for politeness.
The doors at the end of the hall swing wide, and your heart beats faster when you see the shadow approaching beyond.
✦ ✦ ✦
He strides in with easy confidence, that of a man who has never doubted himself in his life. Shining platinum armor gleams over a body that was built for the battlefield— long lines and coiled muscle, plates etched with faint, unfamiliar sigils. A white cloak hangs from his shoulders, stained in places with old, stubborn rust that couldn’t be scrubbed away. His helmet is closed, visor down; only a thin band of darkness where his eyes must be.
He moves like a wolf among sheep. Not hurried, not stiff… just certain. Each step a soft, building promise of violence.
He reaches the foot of the dais and goes down on one knee in one smooth motion that leaves you breathless, the tip of his sword kisses the marble with a soft ting.
“Your Majesty,” he says in address to your father, voice low and rough around the edges, like he’s not used to bothering with courtesy. “You called,”
Your father’s smile is sharp. “The tales of your constitution travel faster than my own banners, Ser Satoru. I wish to see if rumor remains worth the coin.”
“Rumor usually sells itself, Your Majesty,” comes the easy reply. “But I don’t mind putting on a show.”
A ripple of disapproval moves through the hall, and your father’s eyes narrow.
Then, his attention shifts to you.
“My daughter,” he says, the word hollow as a bell. “Our line’s only heir. You must guard her above all things.”
You feel the weight of the court’s eyes like claws on your back.
The knight’s head turns. The slit in the helmet angles up, up, to meet your gaze. You cannot see his eyes, but you feel it— the sharp, assessing sweep of him taking you in.
“The royal heir,” he repeats softly. “As my life.”
“Remove your helmet, Ser Satoru,” the king commands. “My people should see the face of the beast I have bought.”
There it is again. That flicker of disapproval, quickly buried in murmurs. Ugly word, beast. Ugly notion, that your father thinks of this man as nothing more than a weapon in a scabbard controlled by him. You’re sure the disgust can be seen in your eyes, as you wince and flinch away from the knight.
The knight rises without complaint. His hands— gloved in articulated steel —lift to the clasps at his jaw. There’s a soft scrape, the faint hiss of displaced air, and then he pulls the helmet free.
White.
His hair spills out, bright as new snow, falling in tousled layers just past his jaw. It should make him look boyish. It doesn’t.
The planes of his face are too clean, his jaw too sharp, his mouth too curved with lazy amusement. His skin is pale, but not the sallow pallor of the chronically ill; he was akin to something otherworldly, the pale of moonlight spilt upon marble.
And his eyes…
You inhale without meaning to.
They are pale, too— but not colorless. A bright, shining blue that may have felt cold if not for the warmth within. There’s a glow to them in the dim hall, like light on ice.
Inhuman, the treacherous part of you thinks.
His hair shifts when he inclines his head. For a heartbeat, you see the line of his ear— it’s subtle. Just a touch too fine, too pointed at the tip before the hair falls forward again. Enough to send a frisson of unease through you, and perhaps the nearest cluster of lords.
You understand, then, why people whisper of elves when he is nearby.
He doesn’t seem to care.
But Ser Satoru’s gaze lingers on you the way a man might regard a painting he wasn’t expecting to like, a hum of interest.
Then, he smiles.
Small and private, entirely at odds with the stories you’ve heard.
“Princess,” he says, and your title sounds softer in his mouth than it ever has before. “It is an honor.”
Your cheeks feel warm. You hate it.
You straighten your back and respond clearly, in the manner familiar to you, “Ser Satoru.”
Your father is watching. The court is murmuring. You can feel their judgement, their hunger, their fear. You dip your chin just enough to be polite.
“He seems capable,” you say.
Those pale eyes crinkle, as if you’ve said something funny.
“Only seems?” he murmurs, just for you. “Wounding.”
You ignore him. Mostly.
Your father chuckles, the sound devoid of warmth. “You’ll find he’s more than capable. See that you prove worthy of the expense, mercenary.”
Satoru inclines his head, the grin never leaving his mouth. “I always do.”
Your father dismisses him with a gesture. “Escort her back to the chambers. We shall meet again in the courtyard tomorrow eve. Consider this your first duty, Ser Satoru.”
He turns away, already bored. The court’s attention shifts with him like a flock of birds.
For a moment, you and your new knight stand in a pocket of stillness at the center of it all.
Then he steps toward you and offers his arm.
“Princess,” he says lightly. “Shall we?”
You swallow. Your fingers curl around his forearm, the metal warm from his skin. His eyes soften, just a fraction, like he’s pleased by something you don’t understand.
He leads you from the hall. The whispers follow.
✦ ✦ ✦
The next day, you ride.
The appointment ceremony was held at a lesser keep closer to the front lines—a show of strength for the visiting generals. Now you are returning to the main castle grounds, to the familiar sprawl of stone and garden that has been your gilded cage since childhood.
The road here is narrow, cutting through thick forest. The light of dusk filters through the leaves in latticed patterns, dappling your horse’s mane. Birds sing, insects drone. Somewhere off the path, water moves over stone.
Ser Aldric would have ridden at your side, just close enough that your knees brushed. He would have talked, low and calm, distracting you from the ugliness of the world with stories of silly recruits and drunken captains.
Ser Satoru rides a little behind, and to your left. Recognizable by the white of his cloak, the easy set of his shoulders. Keyed into every movement made around him.
You have been aware of him all morning.
When he lifted you onto your horse, his hands were firm at your waist. His grip was careful but undeniably intimate, leaving a phantom warmth blooming beneath your ribs. His fingers spread too confidently for a man unused to touching royalty.
When a breeze cut through the trees and sent a shiver up your spine, he leaned over without comment and adjusted your cloak, gloved hands smoothing the fabric over your shoulders— knuckles grazing the bare column of your throat, where your laces didn’t quite meet.
“What are you doing?” You’d asked, the words coming out sharper than you’d meant.
“I am merely doing my job, Your Highness,” he replied, unbothered. “We can’t have the Princess catching a chill.”
Something in the way he said it made your chest feel tight.
Now, as the road begins to curve along a slight slope, your mare sidesteps skittishly. The forest feels… closer here. The shadows feel deeper.
You glance back.
Satoru meets your gaze easily, reins held in one hand and posture relaxed. “You’re tense, Princess,” he observes. “Bad saddle? Bad memories?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I didn’t peg you for a liar, Princess.”
You bristle. “You forget who you are speaking to, Ser Satoru.”
He chuckled, and your cheeks heat at the boyish sound. You look away.
You’re thinking of a retort when it happens— so fast, you nearly miss it.
An arrow slams into the earth inches from your horse’s hoof. Your mare screams and rears, nearly throwing you off. You clutch the reins close to you, heart in your throat. Shouts erupt from the front of the column— the crunch of boots on leaves, the ringing of steel. Another arrow whistles past your face, close enough that you feel the wind of it.
“Down, soldiers!” someone in your entourage yells. “Protect the Princess!”
Hands grab for your reins, your skirts, your arms— too many, too fast. Your horse panics, muscles bunching beneath you.
Then there’s a blur of white and steel.
Satoru is there.
You don’t see where he came from. One moment, your vision is full of panicked faces and flailing limbs, and the next, it’s just him: cloak snapping behind him, sword flashing in the light of the setting sun. A man lunges into view, knife raised; Ser Satoru’s blade takes him through the throat in a wet, efficient slice. You feel the warmth of his blood splatter your cheek.
Your knight in shining armor does not even flinch at your scream.
“Princess,” he commands you, strong voice cutting through the chaos with an urgency you’ve never heard from him. “Hold on.”
He drops his weapon to the ground and dives for you. Strong, gloved hands find your waist, your hips, and then you’re airborne. He hauls you from your saddle as if you weigh nothing at all. There’s a flash of treetops in your vision, and a little bit of sky before all you see is him— beautiful face tilted toward you, pale eyes sharp and focused.
You’re then cradled against his chest, arms hooking around his neck on instinct. You feel the flex of muscle beneath his armored tunic as he turns and runs.
The world in your periphery becomes a smear of green and brown motion. Branches whip past you, against you, over your heads. Leaves slap against your legs, and frantic shouts from your entourage fade behind you as forest swallows the road.
You close your eyes, digesting the terror as you bury your face against his pauldron. You are vaguely reminded of the times Ser Aldric carried you to your chambers as a child, or after you’d been injured. The motion never felt quite so intimate, and he’d definitely never moved so fast.
It felt inhuman, Ser Satoru’s speed. His reflexes. The ease and instinct with which he moved, manipulating the battlefield as if he owned it.
You focus on the steady, human heart beating in his chest. Yours is a mess of wild drumbeats within your ribcage.
✦ ✦ ✦
When the sounds of battle are gone, only then does your knight slow his pace. His boots sink into softer earth, and the air around you feels thicker. The sun has set now, and moonlight guides your path through the trees. Your lungs are burning, and sweat starts to bead at your temples. You are vaguely aware of a flowing stream nearby, fresh water chuckling over stone.
Ser Satoru releases you from his hold, kneeling before you on a soft bed of moss. His gloved hands linger at your waist a heartbeat longer than necessary, and a strange warmth erupts across your cheeks.
He lets go.
“Are you hurt?” he asks you, voice softer now, and stripped of that battle-edge. His eyes roam over you quickly, efficiently, cataloging every spot where an injury could hide. “Did an arrow graze you? Is that your blood?” His thumb wipes at your cheek.
You shake your head, batting his hand away. “No, I— I do not think so.”
His shoulders ease, then, as if he is genuinely relieved. “Good. You did well.”
Something flutters in your chest at the quiet pride threaded through his voice, and you recall the way you clung to him like a child.
You open your mouth to speak— to say something properly royal, properly distant, but a strange heat is coiling low in your belly, twisting upward in a dizzy wave.
The sensation urges you to step away from your knight, and he rises from his spot on the mossy forest floor. His pristine brows are downturned in concern, and he reaches for you. “Princess? Are you—,”
You jerk back.
“Ser Satoru,” you say quickly, forcing steadiness into your voice. “Please, I—… would like to visit the stream. I would like to wash off the… dirt and blood.”
His blue eyes flick up to your face. The distance between you is only a foot, maybe two, but you feel like you can breathe when his skin isn’t so close to your own.
Why does your knight make you feel like this? Confused, flustered… fevered.
Ser Satoru nods, his jaw tight. You can tell he doesn’t like it— the idea of distance after the attempt on your life. And yet, he relents. “If you must. I will remain close.”
“I would expect as much,” you respond with a tight smile. “Do try not to hover, Ser Satoru.”
His lips twitch— amusement, maybe? Frustration? You aren’t quite sure.
“As you wish, Your Highness.”
✦ ✦ ✦
The stream lies tucked between two great roots, its surface rippling with crystalline clarity. You kneel beside it, cupping cool water in your palms before pressing it to your flushed cheeks, scrubbing at your skin.
Your knight stands a respectful distance away, far enough that you cannot feel the heat of his gaze upon you— though, you sense it anyway. Watchful and steady, never straying from your surroundings.
You close your eyes.
Hands on your waist. Calm, firm voice at your ear. The way he looked at you in the aftermath, like something precious and fragile in his rough grasp.
You press your wet fingers to your burning throat.
This is not right.
Your knight should not look at you that way. You should not be feeling… this. That strange warmth has returned, and your mind is restless. The weight of Satoru’s gaze feels as if it’s smothering you now, and you reach for the water once more.
Something shimmers beneath the surface as your fingertips brush over it.
You blink, unsure if it’s a trick of the moonlight or your own adrenaline getting the best of you. It happens a second time, faint swirling iridescence dancing across the surface as it trickles over riverstone.
When it reaches the tender inside of your wrist, you gasp.
Hurried steps shuffle forward, and you know that something isn’t right. Heat spikes through your veins, the stubborn warmth spreading slowly and intensely across the span of your body. It pulses with your heartbeat, moving up your forearm, your shoulder, sinking deeper and twining through your ribs as if it’s alive—
Water should not feel like this.
“Princess?” Satoru calls behind you, his proximity giving you pause.
There’s a beast inside of you, and it wants him close. Closer than before, closer than anyone has ever been. You don’t answer his calls. Your pulse hammers against your throat as your skin prickles, your mind spiraling into something molten and frightening.
The stream is glowing in his shadow.
Not moonlight.
Magic.
You’ve realized, much too late, that what coats your skin is no ordinary water.
The laces of your gown feel too tight, your chemise too rough against suddenly oversensitive flesh. Heat blooms low in your belly, startling and wrong. Your thighs press together, unbidden, in a vain attempt to ease a burgeoning ache that makes no sense.
“I—” Your hand flies to your chest, fingers clutching at the fabric there. “Something’s—wrong.” The syllables sound foreign to your ears, thick and clumsy, like you are speaking underwater.
Your lungs burn, the air suddenly too dense to pull in. It’s as if all of the oxygen has been sucked from the world, leaving you gasping. The strange, feverish heat is raging through your body. Your fingers dig at your bodice, trembling. You need space, you need air, you need… you need—
You are vaguely aware of your knight’s bootsteps crunching over leaves behind you, a sound that should be reassuring but instead ratchets your panic higher. You feel as if you may faint, the forest pulsing in and out of focus around you. The trees quiver to the beat of your stuttering heart, their branches bending closer, drawn to the spectacle you’re becoming. Gasping, thrashing, whimpering as your knees hit the moss below you.
There’s a blur of white at your side before Ser Satoru is kneeling before you, his hands steadying your shoulders. His touch is gentle but it sends a wild spark through your nerves, equal parts agony and need.
“Your Highness,” there’s concern there, in his sharp but worried tone. “What’s happened?”
“Everything—,” The word comes out broken. You swallow, throat suddenly dry. “My skin—my face, my—” You cut yourself off, mortified. Even thinking about the way your body is throbbing feels indecent.
Satoru’s gaze flicks around you. Only now do you really notice the place he’s brought you to, the water staining your bodice.
His jaw tightens.
“Of all the places…” he mutters.
You can barely hear him. The heat is getting worse—curling under your skin, fogging your thoughts, turning every point of contact with the world into too much. Your bodice feels like a vice. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck. You shift, and the friction of your chemise between your legs sends a shocking jolt through you.
You hiss, biting down on a sound you don’t recognize.
Satoru is suddenly all that you can see, his strong hands hovering as if afraid to touch.
“Princess,” he says, low and intense. “Look at me.”
You try, but the attempt is rather pitiful. You drag your gaze up to his, noticing his wide pupils— blown, just a little. From concern, you reason— nothing else.
“I can’t,” you suck in air that doesn’t seem to reach your lungs. “Everything is… too tight.”
“Slow your breathing,” he commands, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “You’ll faint.”
He exhales through his nose, a sharp sigh that isn’t directed at you. “This grove is not meant for mortals to travel through. I should have paid closer attention.”
You blink at him, struggling to focus.
“The stream, its water… contains an irritant,” he says, picking his words carefully. “We are close to elven territory. What have they taught you about elves in the castle, Your Highness?”
“Do not drink from their water,” you repeat immediately, face growing even warmer. “Oh, Ser Satoru, you must think me so dense, I was not—,” you stammer.
“I do not,” he affirms, his gloved hand tightening on your shoulder. “You must think me a poor knight, leading you straight to danger. Forgive me, Your Highness,” There is a subtle and unexpected catch in his voice: not the steel of a commander, but something softer, almost apologetic. “I will free you from this.”
The promise, though earnest, sends a shock of panic through you. “Free me—?” you echo, and the meaning curls in your mind like a tongue of fire. Shame and want tangle together in your chest; you can sense what he means even as you deny it, even as you hope for it. The hunger inside you claws at your insides, and the pulse between your legs grows sharp and insistent, impossible to ignore. The fabric of your gown is suddenly intolerable, every seam an offense, every brush of the rough chemise beneath a new agony.
“Make it stop,” you choke out. “Please.”
✦ ✦ ✦
For the first time, Ser Satoru’s composure cracks. His fingers curl just a little tighter at your cheek, his eyes darkening.
“I can’t stop it,” he says. “But I can help you through it.”
You don’t understand what he means. You don’t care.
“Please,” you repeat, the word nothing but breath and desperation.
He swears softly in a language you don’t know. Then he moves.
One arm slides behind your back, the other under your knees, lifting you again—but this time it’s slower, more careful. Like he’s handling something fragile. He finds a sheltered spot beneath a tree, setting you down gently on a bed of moss.
For a moment, he hesitates, eyes darting over your face before moving to the buckles at his throat. With quick, practiced motions, he unclasps his chestpiece, sliding the cold steel aside. The sound is muffled against the moss as he sets it down, followed by the bracers at his forearms, each piece shed with a steady deliberateness. Without the armor, he seems more human—less the untouchable knight, more a man offering himself to your need.
You fumble with the laces at your bodice, desperate for relief from the suffocating fabric. Your fingers tremble, but he helps, untying the tight ribbons at your sides and easing the garment down your shoulders until you can breathe again.
Only then does he lower himself to sit with his back against the tree, settling you astride his lap, your legs falling to either side of a muscular thigh.
“This is indecent,” you rasp, even as your traitorous body sighs at the contact. He’s solid beneath you, warm, his thigh pressing up between your legs, right where you need it—
The contact is electric. His thigh is a firm, unyielding pressure at your core, perfectly placed. When you shift, the friction sears a path through your body, dragging a shameless gasp from your lips. You are feverish, every nerve ending alight; somewhere beneath the haze, your mind protests. You are a princess. Eyes are on you at all times. You should not be feeling this. You should not want this.
And yet, you do.
Ser Satoru’s hands— now void of gloves—frame your face with startling gentleness, as if afraid you might shatter. “I know,” he murmurs. “It’s the magic. Not you.”
You nod along, but you cannot breathe. Your body is not your own, a marionette with its wires tangled in want and shame. You cling to the folds of his tunic, reveling in the warmth of his body beneath you as you seek purchase in the muscle of his thigh. Your hips move of their own accord, grinding not because you mean to, but because it hurts so bad when you don’t. You feel warm hands slip to your waist, steadying you, helping you move in slow, inexorable motions.
You bite down on his shoulder to stifle a cry, tasting leather and the faint salt of his skin underneath.
His own breath catches.
“Good,” he whispers, the word slipping out like a reflex. “You’re doing well.”
You’ve never done anything less dignified in your life, and yet the praise lands somewhere deep, coiling hot and needy. No one has ever spoken to you that way: with such focused, undiluted approval, a knight’s praise given not for valor, not for cleverness or beauty, but for the way you are unraveling in his arms.
Heat and shame war in your belly. The rough weave of your chemise, the give of his body, the solid press of his thigh—every tiny sensation is magnified by the grove’s influence and by the way he holds you like you’re something precious, something sacred.
Your forehead presses harder into the crook of his neck. You can feel his pulse fluttering there, faster now, betraying the strain all his pretty control costs him.
“You’ll hate me for this later,” you manage, half-delirious.
He laughs softly, and there’s something in it that sounds almost… fond.
“I could never,” he murmurs into your hair, the words trembling with restraint.
His hands are steady but gentle, guiding you as your movements grow desperate. Greedy. The heat between your thighs is unbearable; each roll of your hips sends sparks arcing through your nerves, sticky and shameless and unstoppable.
“Just like that, Princess,” he whispers, voice roughened with want.
Your breath stutters. You whimper, chasing friction, pleasure building in dizzying waves. Every drag of fabric makes you wetter, your soaked underthings a pitiful barrier between your sticky center and the warmth of Ser Satoru’s thigh. His breathing is ragged and thick, and you can feel the outline of his own longing pressed hard against your outer thigh where you straddle him.
Soft kisses against your temple, soft encouragements in your ear— good girl, beautiful, let go —each one pouring heat into your skin. His grip is tighter, anchoring you to his body as you chase the wild, primal sensation that has taken you both.
Your movements grow wild, urgent, driven by a need you barely recognize as your own. His thigh is solid beneath you, and his hands—steady, certain—guide you along, shaping your desperation with gentle strength. Everything else vanishes: there’s only the hot, slick ache at your center, the press of fabric, the low encouragements he murmurs against your skin.
You chase the sensation helplessly, gasping and whimpering, each roll of your body stoking the pleasure higher, tighter, until it feels as though you might shatter. The tension builds and builds, sharp and bright, until you break—a wild, helpless sound torn from your throat.
You muffle the cry in the only way you can think to: you seize Ser Satoru’s face in your shaking hands and press your mouth to his, greedy and desperate, swallowing your own release against his lips. He stiffens for a heartbeat, startled by the kiss, but he doesn’t pull away—he holds you tighter, matching your hunger, letting you burn yourself out against him.
You shudder and shake, the world fracturing into white-hot pleasure, your body trembling in his arms. For a long moment, you’re lost in it—his mouth, his hands, the strength of him holding you together as you fall apart.
Then, gently, you sag against him, every muscle spent. His arms come around you, protective and careful, as your breath evens out and your lashes flutter. The last thing you feel before the world goes dark is the slow, soothing circle his thumb traces on your back, and the quiet, reverent way he whispers your name.
✦ ✦ ✦
When it’s over, you’re shaking.
Not from the cold.
Satoru eases your movements to a stop, gentling you back down when your body tries to chase more without thinking. His hands are careful as he shifts you, turning you so you’re curled against his chest, your legs draped over his. His cloak comes around you both, a warm, dark cocoon that smells like him, the forest, and a faint tang of iron.
He doesn’t speak for a long moment. His palm moves in slow circles between your shoulder blades, grounding. Your heart gradually remembers its proper pace. The heat ebbing from your skin leaves you feeling raw and strangely hollow.
“Better?” he asks at last. His voice is rougher than before.
You manage a shaky nod. “I… yes.”
“Good.” He exhales, relief almost palpable. “It’ll fade now. The grove’s hold doesn’t last long once it crests.”
You focus on the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. When you finally dare to lift your head, his eyes are already on you.
There’s something in them you haven’t seen before.
Fierce.
Soft.
Uncompromising.
You look away quickly, shame flooding you anew as memory catches up—the sounds you made, the way you clung to him, used him—
“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “That was—it was— I shouldn’t have—”
“Stop.”
The word is quiet but absolute.
His fingers find your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his.
“You were in pain,” he says. “You asked for help. I gave it. There is nothing in that to be sorry for.”
Your throat aches. “It wasn’t… proper.”
His mouth curves, but it’s a sad little thing. “Proper would have left you suffering on the forest floor while I stood three paces away reciting court etiquette.”
You huff a weak almost-laugh despite yourself.
“I would rather be improper,” he continues, “than useless.”
You study his face, the play of light and shadow across too-perfect features, the set of his jaw. For a moment, you swear you see something else there—a kind of contained panic, a dawning realization he’s not ready for.
But then he’s looking away, adjusting the cloak around your shoulders with brisk efficiency.
“We should get you back,” he says. “Before your father decides to send half the army into the woods.”
The thought of your father seeing you like this—disheveled, cheeks still flushed, tucked against this man’s chest—makes your stomach twist. You scramble to sit up straighter, pulling away more abruptly than you intend to.
His hands fall back, flexing once against his knees before curling into fists.
“Can you walk?”
You test your legs. They wobble. “Perhaps… not far.”
Something complicated flickers across his face; then he nods, as if he expected that.
“Then we’ll go slowly.”
He helps you to your feet, his grip steady, patient. You lean against a tree as he assembles his armor, a gentle pang of longing when the last of his skin is covered. When you sway, he steps in without comment, letting you shift as much of your weight onto him as you need. He doesn’t reach for your waist this time. His hand settles, instead, just above your elbow—a compromise between propriety and instinct you don’t realize he’s making.
The walk back feels longer. Your senses slowly return to something like normal. The green dimness of the grove gives way to the brighter dapple of the main forest; the distant clamor of men and horses filters back in.
By the time the castle’s outer walls rise into view between the trees, you’ve convinced yourself it wasn’t as bad as you remember. That he didn’t see as much, feel as much, know as much.
At the gates, that illusion shatters.
✦ ✦ ✦
Your father is waiting.
He descends the steps like a storm, cloak snapping, crown glinting. His eyes rake over you, the mess of your clothing, then the knight at your side, then the woods behind you.
“What happened?” he snaps, closing the distance and grabbing your shoulders hard enough to bruise. You cry out in surprise and pain. “Where are your guards? Why are you—”
You flinch at the volume, at the sudden rough contact after the careful way Satoru had held you. Your body remembers the grove, the way touch became something else entirely, and reacts with a confused jolt of wrongness.
Satoru goes very, very still.
The change is subtle—a tightening of the line of his jaw, the way his hand drops from your arm to hover at his side, fingers twitching. His eyes flick to your father’s grip, then back to your face.
You see something flash there.
Possessive. Protective. Dangerous.
It’s gone in an instant.
“Bandits, Your Majesty,” Satoru says, voice level. “Or hired blades. They had good aim, but no discipline. Your men are driving them off.”
“And your first instinct was to run?” your father snarls. “To abandon the field?”
“My first instinct,” Satoru replies, tone cooling, “was to remove the heir from immediate danger. Your men are not my charge. She is.”
Your father’s fingers dig harder into you. “You presume much, mercenary.”
“Only to do what I was bought to do.”
The tension between them is sharp enough to cut. You feel caught in the middle of two storms, one loud and familiar, one quiet and new.
“Father,” you say, mustering what dignity you have left. “Please. You’re hurting me.”
He blinks, as if only just aware of his grip. His hands fall away.
“Get her inside,” he snaps at Satoru rather than at you. “She looks a fright. We’ll discuss your ‘tactics’ later.”
He turns and strides back up the steps, surrounded by advisors like carrion birds.
Satoru watches him go.
His expression is carefully blank. His jaw may as well be carved from stone for how tight it is.
“Come,” he says softly.
Ser Satoru does not touch you during the walk back to your chambers.
He walks half a step behind, and to your left, silent, eyes fixed on some point ahead. The easy humor from before is gone, the teasing, the lazy confidence. What’s left is something stripped down and raw—discipline wrapped like iron bands around a core that wants to do anything but obey.
You want to say something. To thank him, perhaps. To apologize again. To ask what, exactly, just happened.
But the words are stuck behind your teeth. None of them feel safe.
You reach your door. Your ladies-in-waiting are nowhere in sight yet; the hall is momentarily, blessedly, empty.
You turn to him.
“Ser Satoru,” you say.
His eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, you see it all there—the grove, the heat, the way your body had fit against his like something old and remembered. The way his hands had guided you without taking. The way he had almost stepped between you and your father on the steps, like he had more right to your safety than any king.
Then his lashes lower, shielding whatever might have been there.
“Princess,” he replies, voice polite and distant again. “You should rest. The aftereffects can be… tiring.”
“Is this… normal?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “What happened, I mean.”
His mouth twists.
“In those groves?” he says. “For humans, yes.”
It’s not an answer, not really. But it’s all he offers.
You nod, fingers curling around the edge of the door. The wood is solid under your hand. Real. Unmoving.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
Something in his face softens, fractures.
“You never need to thank me for doing what I was meant to do,” he says. “Guarding you is not a burden, Princess.”
There’s a beat of silence.
You realize he’s expecting you to go inside. You should. It’s what’s expected.
Instead, you hear yourself say his name like you did in the grove.
“Satoru.”
His eyes snap to yours.
The vise in his chest tightens; you can see it in the way his breath stutters, just once.
“Yes,” he answers, softer now.
You don’t know what to do with that, so you do what you always do when the world feels too sharp. You retreat.
“Good night,” you murmur, and slip behind the door.
It closes with a quiet click.
On the other side of it, you press your back to the wood and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, skirts pooling around you, heart pounding. Your body remembers the grove in flashes—the roughness of cloth, the solid press of his thigh, the sound of his voice in your ear telling you he’s got you, that you’re safe, that you’re doing so well.
You bury your face in your hands.
You’ve had knights before. You’ve had protectors. You’ve had duty and expectations and a crown waiting like a weight above your head.
You have never had this.
✦ ✦ ✦
Outside, in the hall, Satoru stands where you left him.
He waits. One heartbeat. Two. Three.
He expects the feeling to ebb. It doesn’t.
Instead, something inside him settles with a terrible, crystalline certainty.
He has done this before, back home. Held trembling hands. Guided shaking bodies through sacred rites in sun-dappled groves. Shared breaths and vows with females who knew exactly what they were asking of him. Bonds meant to be sweet, temporary, a cherished memory before politics and marriage took their inevitable toll.
Those ties were ribbons. Pretty. Fleeting.
This is iron.
He has begun something he cannot end.
You are human. Unknowing. Bound to a world that will one day hand your hand to another man for a crown.
He is Elven, whether this kingdom chooses to see it or not. A creature they tolerate for his usefulness, not his heart.
And yet, when your body sought his in the grove, when your lips formed his name, when you leaned into his guidance and let him carry you out of the worst of it—
Every instinct in him recognized you.
Mine, something quiet and vicious whispers in his blood.
His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides until the leather of his gloves creaks. He inhales slowly, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight.
He should deny his assignment. Return home. Close the door on this before it can open any further.
He doesn’t move.
He stands watch outside your door until the torches burn low, listening to the slowing of your breath, the steadying of your pulse on the other side.
The vise around his heart never loosens.
i am NOT fucking w/ html and gradients rn so enjoy as is haha. will be posting to ao3 as well. see you guys later w/ the next lgits update!!
mostly suggestive w/ little (if any description of anatomy), sex pollen, thigh-riding, reluctance if you squint but NO dub con, orgasms, romantasy AU... happy birthday, Gojo 💙
Leave some kudos on Ao3!
You are not ready for a new knight.
You say this to no one. Not your ladies-in-waiting, not to the courtiers who sidle up to you with soft voices and hungry eyes— hoping for gossip in the shadow of your grief. And you certainly do not say this to your father, whose patience for your mourning ended the moment your old knights’ body was in the ground.
Oh, Ser Aldric…
He had been with you since you were small enough to ride his shoulders through the training yards, shrieking with laughter as he pretended to stagger beneath your weight. He was there for your first lessons, the time you first bled— awkwardly standing guard outside of your bathing chambers as your maids fluttered about you in a panic. He stood at your back when you learned to wield a blade, when your father decided that a princess should at least look like she knew how to defend herself.
And he was there at the end. A gasp, a flash of steel, and a grunt of exertion. The wet choke of a dying man, still standing between you and the arrow meant for your heart.
You still wake sometimes, in terror at the sensation of his blood on your face, fresh tears warm in your eyes.
So no, you are not ready for a new knight.
And yet…
You stand at the base of the dais in the Great Hall, the king— your father —-seated above you like a carved idol of war. Light spills through the tall windows, pale and cold, catching on polished marble, the banners, the watching eyes. The air smells of incense and steel.
“The Princess requires protection,” your father says, tone leaving no room for argument. “The people are unsettled. They whisper weakness.”
(And, what he didn’t say, “I won’t have them see you shaken. You will stand straight, you will smile, and you will accept what I give you.”)
You do not tremble. You are practiced at not trembling.
The herald’s staff strikes the floor three times; the sound echoes upwards into the vaulted ceiling.
“Presenting Ser Satoru Gojo of the First Lance,” the man booms. “Sworn this day to the service of His Majesty, and to the protection of his royal heiress.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered nobles.
“Mercenary,” someone breathes nearby.
“I heard he killed thirty men in a single battle,”
“Elven blood, I heard—,”
“Surely, the King wouldn’t…,”
“They would turn a blind eye to anything if it wins them a war.”
Your jaw tightens. Elves are not spoken of in polite company. Not openly. The old stories paint them as beautiful, primal things… too strong, too quick. Too pleased by bloodshed. And far too dangerous to be trusted.
Not that the King ever much cared for politeness.
The doors at the end of the hall swing wide, and your heart beats faster when you see the shadow approaching beyond.
✦ ✦ ✦
He strides in with easy confidence, that of a man who has never doubted himself in his life. Shining platinum armor gleams over a body that was built for the battlefield— long lines and coiled muscle, plates etched with faint, unfamiliar sigils. A white cloak hangs from his shoulders, stained in places with old, stubborn rust that couldn’t be scrubbed away. His helmet is closed, visor down; only a thin band of darkness where his eyes must be.
He moves like a wolf among sheep. Not hurried, not stiff… just certain. Each step a soft, building promise of violence.
He reaches the foot of the dais and goes down on one knee in one smooth motion that leaves you breathless, the tip of his sword kisses the marble with a soft ting.
“Your Majesty,” he says in address to your father, voice low and rough around the edges, like he’s not used to bothering with courtesy. “You called,”
Your father’s smile is sharp. “The tales of your constitution travel faster than my own banners, Ser Satoru. I wish to see if rumor remains worth the coin.”
“Rumor usually sells itself, Your Majesty,” comes the easy reply. “But I don’t mind putting on a show.”
A ripple of disapproval moves through the hall, and your father’s eyes narrow.
Then, his attention shifts to you.
“My daughter,” he says, the word hollow as a bell. “Our line’s only heir. You must guard her above all things.”
You feel the weight of the court’s eyes like claws on your back.
The knight’s head turns. The slit in the helmet angles up, up, to meet your gaze. You cannot see his eyes, but you feel it— the sharp, assessing sweep of him taking you in.
“The royal heir,” he repeats softly. “As my life.”
“Remove your helmet, Ser Satoru,” the king commands. “My people should see the face of the beast I have bought.”
There it is again. That flicker of disapproval, quickly buried in murmurs. Ugly word, beast. Ugly notion, that your father thinks of this man as nothing more than a weapon in a scabbard controlled by him. You’re sure the disgust can be seen in your eyes, as you wince and flinch away from the knight.
The knight rises without complaint. His hands— gloved in articulated steel —lift to the clasps at his jaw. There’s a soft scrape, the faint hiss of displaced air, and then he pulls the helmet free.
White.
His hair spills out, bright as new snow, falling in tousled layers just past his jaw. It should make him look boyish. It doesn’t.
The planes of his face are too clean, his jaw too sharp, his mouth too curved with lazy amusement. His skin is pale, but not the sallow pallor of the chronically ill; he was akin to something otherworldly, the pale of moonlight spilt upon marble.
And his eyes…
You inhale without meaning to.
They are pale, too— but not colorless. A bright, shining blue that may have felt cold if not for the warmth within. There’s a glow to them in the dim hall, like light on ice.
Inhuman, the treacherous part of you thinks.
His hair shifts when he inclines his head. For a heartbeat, you see the line of his ear— it’s subtle. Just a touch too fine, too pointed at the tip before the hair falls forward again. Enough to send a frisson of unease through you, and perhaps the nearest cluster of lords.
You understand, then, why people whisper of elves when he is nearby.
He doesn’t seem to care.
But Ser Satoru’s gaze lingers on you the way a man might regard a painting he wasn’t expecting to like, a hum of interest.
Then, he smiles.
Small and private, entirely at odds with the stories you’ve heard.
“Princess,” he says, and your title sounds softer in his mouth than it ever has before. “It is an honor.”
Your cheeks feel warm. You hate it.
You straighten your back and respond clearly, in the manner familiar to you, “Ser Satoru.”
Your father is watching. The court is murmuring. You can feel their judgement, their hunger, their fear. You dip your chin just enough to be polite.
“He seems capable,” you say.
Those pale eyes crinkle, as if you’ve said something funny.
“Only seems?” he murmurs, just for you. “Wounding.”
You ignore him. Mostly.
Your father chuckles, the sound devoid of warmth. “You’ll find he’s more than capable. See that you prove worthy of the expense, mercenary.”
Satoru inclines his head, the grin never leaving his mouth. “I always do.”
Your father dismisses him with a gesture. “Escort her back to the chambers. We shall meet again in the courtyard tomorrow eve. Consider this your first duty, Ser Satoru.”
He turns away, already bored. The court’s attention shifts with him like a flock of birds.
For a moment, you and your new knight stand in a pocket of stillness at the center of it all.
Then he steps toward you and offers his arm.
“Princess,” he says lightly. “Shall we?”
You swallow. Your fingers curl around his forearm, the metal warm from his skin. His eyes soften, just a fraction, like he’s pleased by something you don’t understand.
He leads you from the hall. The whispers follow.
✦ ✦ ✦
The next day, you ride.
The appointment ceremony was held at a lesser keep closer to the front lines—a show of strength for the visiting generals. Now you are returning to the main castle grounds, to the familiar sprawl of stone and garden that has been your gilded cage since childhood.
The road here is narrow, cutting through thick forest. The light of dusk filters through the leaves in latticed patterns, dappling your horse’s mane. Birds sing, insects drone. Somewhere off the path, water moves over stone.
Ser Aldric would have ridden at your side, just close enough that your knees brushed. He would have talked, low and calm, distracting you from the ugliness of the world with stories of silly recruits and drunken captains.
Ser Satoru rides a little behind, and to your left. Recognizable by the white of his cloak, the easy set of his shoulders. Keyed into every movement made around him.
You have been aware of him all morning.
When he lifted you onto your horse, his hands were firm at your waist. His grip was careful but undeniably intimate, leaving a phantom warmth blooming beneath your ribs. His fingers spread too confidently for a man unused to touching royalty.
When a breeze cut through the trees and sent a shiver up your spine, he leaned over without comment and adjusted your cloak, gloved hands smoothing the fabric over your shoulders— knuckles grazing the bare column of your throat, where your laces didn’t quite meet.
“What are you doing?” You’d asked, the words coming out sharper than you’d meant.
“I am merely doing my job, Your Highness,” he replied, unbothered. “We can’t have the Princess catching a chill.”
Something in the way he said it made your chest feel tight.
Now, as the road begins to curve along a slight slope, your mare sidesteps skittishly. The forest feels… closer here. The shadows feel deeper.
You glance back.
Satoru meets your gaze easily, reins held in one hand and posture relaxed. “You’re tense, Princess,” he observes. “Bad saddle? Bad memories?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I didn’t peg you for a liar, Princess.”
You bristle. “You forget who you are speaking to, Ser Satoru.”
He chuckled, and your cheeks heat at the boyish sound. You look away.
You’re thinking of a retort when it happens— so fast, you nearly miss it.
An arrow slams into the earth inches from your horse’s hoof. Your mare screams and rears, nearly throwing you off. You clutch the reins close to you, heart in your throat. Shouts erupt from the front of the column— the crunch of boots on leaves, the ringing of steel. Another arrow whistles past your face, close enough that you feel the wind of it.
“Down, soldiers!” someone in your entourage yells. “Protect the Princess!”
Hands grab for your reins, your skirts, your arms— too many, too fast. Your horse panics, muscles bunching beneath you.
Then there’s a blur of white and steel.
Satoru is there.
You don’t see where he came from. One moment, your vision is full of panicked faces and flailing limbs, and the next, it’s just him: cloak snapping behind him, sword flashing in the light of the setting sun. A man lunges into view, knife raised; Ser Satoru’s blade takes him through the throat in a wet, efficient slice. You feel the warmth of his blood splatter your cheek.
Your knight in shining armor does not even flinch at your scream.
“Princess,” he commands you, strong voice cutting through the chaos with an urgency you’ve never heard from him. “Hold on.”
He drops his weapon to the ground and dives for you. Strong, gloved hands find your waist, your hips, and then you’re airborne. He hauls you from your saddle as if you weigh nothing at all. There’s a flash of treetops in your vision, and a little bit of sky before all you see is him— beautiful face tilted toward you, pale eyes sharp and focused.
You’re then cradled against his chest, arms hooking around his neck on instinct. You feel the flex of muscle beneath his armored tunic as he turns and runs.
The world in your periphery becomes a smear of green and brown motion. Branches whip past you, against you, over your heads. Leaves slap against your legs, and frantic shouts from your entourage fade behind you as forest swallows the road.
You close your eyes, digesting the terror as you bury your face against his pauldron. You are vaguely reminded of the times Ser Aldric carried you to your chambers as a child, or after you’d been injured. The motion never felt quite so intimate, and he’d definitely never moved so fast.
It felt inhuman, Ser Satoru’s speed. His reflexes. The ease and instinct with which he moved, manipulating the battlefield as if he owned it.
You focus on the steady, human heart beating in his chest. Yours is a mess of wild drumbeats within your ribcage.
✦ ✦ ✦
When the sounds of battle are gone, only then does your knight slow his pace. His boots sink into softer earth, and the air around you feels thicker. The sun has set now, and moonlight guides your path through the trees. Your lungs are burning, and sweat starts to bead at your temples. You are vaguely aware of a flowing stream nearby, fresh water chuckling over stone.
Ser Satoru releases you from his hold, kneeling before you on a soft bed of moss. His gloved hands linger at your waist a heartbeat longer than necessary, and a strange warmth erupts across your cheeks.
He lets go.
“Are you hurt?” he asks you, voice softer now, and stripped of that battle-edge. His eyes roam over you quickly, efficiently, cataloging every spot where an injury could hide. “Did an arrow graze you? Is that your blood?” His thumb wipes at your cheek.
You shake your head, batting his hand away. “No, I— I do not think so.”
His shoulders ease, then, as if he is genuinely relieved. “Good. You did well.”
Something flutters in your chest at the quiet pride threaded through his voice, and you recall the way you clung to him like a child.
You open your mouth to speak— to say something properly royal, properly distant, but a strange heat is coiling low in your belly, twisting upward in a dizzy wave.
The sensation urges you to step away from your knight, and he rises from his spot on the mossy forest floor. His pristine brows are downturned in concern, and he reaches for you. “Princess? Are you—,”
You jerk back.
“Ser Satoru,” you say quickly, forcing steadiness into your voice. “Please, I—… would like to visit the stream. I would like to wash off the… dirt and blood.”
His blue eyes flick up to your face. The distance between you is only a foot, maybe two, but you feel like you can breathe when his skin isn’t so close to your own.
Why does your knight make you feel like this? Confused, flustered… fevered.
Ser Satoru nods, his jaw tight. You can tell he doesn’t like it— the idea of distance after the attempt on your life. And yet, he relents. “If you must. I will remain close.”
“I would expect as much,” you respond with a tight smile. “Do try not to hover, Ser Satoru.”
His lips twitch— amusement, maybe? Frustration? You aren’t quite sure.
“As you wish, Your Highness.”
✦ ✦ ✦
The stream lies tucked between two great roots, its surface rippling with crystalline clarity. You kneel beside it, cupping cool water in your palms before pressing it to your flushed cheeks, scrubbing at your skin.
Your knight stands a respectful distance away, far enough that you cannot feel the heat of his gaze upon you— though, you sense it anyway. Watchful and steady, never straying from your surroundings.
You close your eyes.
Hands on your waist. Calm, firm voice at your ear. The way he looked at you in the aftermath, like something precious and fragile in his rough grasp.
You press your wet fingers to your burning throat.
This is not right.
Your knight should not look at you that way. You should not be feeling… this. That strange warmth has returned, and your mind is restless. The weight of Satoru’s gaze feels as if it’s smothering you now, and you reach for the water once more.
Something shimmers beneath the surface as your fingertips brush over it.
You blink, unsure if it’s a trick of the moonlight or your own adrenaline getting the best of you. It happens a second time, faint swirling iridescence dancing across the surface as it trickles over riverstone.
When it reaches the tender inside of your wrist, you gasp.
Hurried steps shuffle forward, and you know that something isn’t right. Heat spikes through your veins, the stubborn warmth spreading slowly and intensely across the span of your body. It pulses with your heartbeat, moving up your forearm, your shoulder, sinking deeper and twining through your ribs as if it’s alive—
Water should not feel like this.
“Princess?” Satoru calls behind you, his proximity giving you pause.
There’s a beast inside of you, and it wants him close. Closer than before, closer than anyone has ever been. You don’t answer his calls. Your pulse hammers against your throat as your skin prickles, your mind spiraling into something molten and frightening.
The stream is glowing in his shadow.
Not moonlight.
Magic.
You’ve realized, much too late, that what coats your skin is no ordinary water.
The laces of your gown feel too tight, your chemise too rough against suddenly oversensitive flesh. Heat blooms low in your belly, startling and wrong. Your thighs press together, unbidden, in a vain attempt to ease a burgeoning ache that makes no sense.
“I—” Your hand flies to your chest, fingers clutching at the fabric there. “Something’s—wrong.” The syllables sound foreign to your ears, thick and clumsy, like you are speaking underwater.
Your lungs burn, the air suddenly too dense to pull in. It’s as if all of the oxygen has been sucked from the world, leaving you gasping. The strange, feverish heat is raging through your body. Your fingers dig at your bodice, trembling. You need space, you need air, you need… you need—
You are vaguely aware of your knight’s bootsteps crunching over leaves behind you, a sound that should be reassuring but instead ratchets your panic higher. You feel as if you may faint, the forest pulsing in and out of focus around you. The trees quiver to the beat of your stuttering heart, their branches bending closer, drawn to the spectacle you’re becoming. Gasping, thrashing, whimpering as your knees hit the moss below you.
There’s a blur of white at your side before Ser Satoru is kneeling before you, his hands steadying your shoulders. His touch is gentle but it sends a wild spark through your nerves, equal parts agony and need.
“Your Highness,” there’s concern there, in his sharp but worried tone. “What’s happened?”
“Everything—,” The word comes out broken. You swallow, throat suddenly dry. “My skin—my face, my—” You cut yourself off, mortified. Even thinking about the way your body is throbbing feels indecent.
Satoru’s gaze flicks around you. Only now do you really notice the place he’s brought you to, the water staining your bodice.
His jaw tightens.
“Of all the places…” he mutters.
You can barely hear him. The heat is getting worse—curling under your skin, fogging your thoughts, turning every point of contact with the world into too much. Your bodice feels like a vice. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck. You shift, and the friction of your chemise between your legs sends a shocking jolt through you.
You hiss, biting down on a sound you don’t recognize.
Satoru is suddenly all that you can see, his strong hands hovering as if afraid to touch.
“Princess,” he says, low and intense. “Look at me.”
You try, but the attempt is rather pitiful. You drag your gaze up to his, noticing his wide pupils— blown, just a little. From concern, you reason— nothing else.
“I can’t,” you suck in air that doesn’t seem to reach your lungs. “Everything is… too tight.”
“Slow your breathing,” he commands, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “You’ll faint.”
He exhales through his nose, a sharp sigh that isn’t directed at you. “This grove is not meant for mortals to travel through. I should have paid closer attention.”
You blink at him, struggling to focus.
“The stream, its water… contains an irritant,” he says, picking his words carefully. “We are close to elven territory. What have they taught you about elves in the castle, Your Highness?”
“Do not drink from their water,” you repeat immediately, face growing even warmer. “Oh, Ser Satoru, you must think me so dense, I was not—,” you stammer.
“I do not,” he affirms, his gloved hand tightening on your shoulder. “You must think me a poor knight, leading you straight to danger. Forgive me, Your Highness,” There is a subtle and unexpected catch in his voice: not the steel of a commander, but something softer, almost apologetic. “I will free you from this.”
The promise, though earnest, sends a shock of panic through you. “Free me—?” you echo, and the meaning curls in your mind like a tongue of fire. Shame and want tangle together in your chest; you can sense what he means even as you deny it, even as you hope for it. The hunger inside you claws at your insides, and the pulse between your legs grows sharp and insistent, impossible to ignore. The fabric of your gown is suddenly intolerable, every seam an offense, every brush of the rough chemise beneath a new agony.
“Make it stop,” you choke out. “Please.”
✦ ✦ ✦
For the first time, Ser Satoru’s composure cracks. His fingers curl just a little tighter at your cheek, his eyes darkening.
“I can’t stop it,” he says. “But I can help you through it.”
You don’t understand what he means. You don’t care.
“Please,” you repeat, the word nothing but breath and desperation.
He swears softly in a language you don’t know. Then he moves.
One arm slides behind your back, the other under your knees, lifting you again—but this time it’s slower, more careful. Like he’s handling something fragile. He finds a sheltered spot beneath a tree, setting you down gently on a bed of moss.
For a moment, he hesitates, eyes darting over your face before moving to the buckles at his throat. With quick, practiced motions, he unclasps his chestpiece, sliding the cold steel aside. The sound is muffled against the moss as he sets it down, followed by the bracers at his forearms, each piece shed with a steady deliberateness. Without the armor, he seems more human—less the untouchable knight, more a man offering himself to your need.
You fumble with the laces at your bodice, desperate for relief from the suffocating fabric. Your fingers tremble, but he helps, untying the tight ribbons at your sides and easing the garment down your shoulders until you can breathe again.
Only then does he lower himself to sit with his back against the tree, settling you astride his lap, your legs falling to either side of a muscular thigh.
“This is indecent,” you rasp, even as your traitorous body sighs at the contact. He’s solid beneath you, warm, his thigh pressing up between your legs, right where you need it—
The contact is electric. His thigh is a firm, unyielding pressure at your core, perfectly placed. When you shift, the friction sears a path through your body, dragging a shameless gasp from your lips. You are feverish, every nerve ending alight; somewhere beneath the haze, your mind protests. You are a princess. Eyes are on you at all times. You should not be feeling this. You should not want this.
And yet, you do.
Ser Satoru’s hands— now void of gloves—frame your face with startling gentleness, as if afraid you might shatter. “I know,” he murmurs. “It’s the magic. Not you.”
You nod along, but you cannot breathe. Your body is not your own, a marionette with its wires tangled in want and shame. You cling to the folds of his tunic, reveling in the warmth of his body beneath you as you seek purchase in the muscle of his thigh. Your hips move of their own accord, grinding not because you mean to, but because it hurts so bad when you don’t. You feel warm hands slip to your waist, steadying you, helping you move in slow, inexorable motions.
You bite down on his shoulder to stifle a cry, tasting leather and the faint salt of his skin underneath.
His own breath catches.
“Good,” he whispers, the word slipping out like a reflex. “You’re doing well.”
You’ve never done anything less dignified in your life, and yet the praise lands somewhere deep, coiling hot and needy. No one has ever spoken to you that way: with such focused, undiluted approval, a knight’s praise given not for valor, not for cleverness or beauty, but for the way you are unraveling in his arms.
Heat and shame war in your belly. The rough weave of your chemise, the give of his body, the solid press of his thigh—every tiny sensation is magnified by the grove’s influence and by the way he holds you like you’re something precious, something sacred.
Your forehead presses harder into the crook of his neck. You can feel his pulse fluttering there, faster now, betraying the strain all his pretty control costs him.
“You’ll hate me for this later,” you manage, half-delirious.
He laughs softly, and there’s something in it that sounds almost… fond.
“I could never,” he murmurs into your hair, the words trembling with restraint.
His hands are steady but gentle, guiding you as your movements grow desperate. Greedy. The heat between your thighs is unbearable; each roll of your hips sends sparks arcing through your nerves, sticky and shameless and unstoppable.
“Just like that, Princess,” he whispers, voice roughened with want.
Your breath stutters. You whimper, chasing friction, pleasure building in dizzying waves. Every drag of fabric makes you wetter, your soaked underthings a pitiful barrier between your sticky center and the warmth of Ser Satoru’s thigh. His breathing is ragged and thick, and you can feel the outline of his own longing pressed hard against your outer thigh where you straddle him.
Soft kisses against your temple, soft encouragements in your ear— good girl, beautiful, let go —each one pouring heat into your skin. His grip is tighter, anchoring you to his body as you chase the wild, primal sensation that has taken you both.
Your movements grow wild, urgent, driven by a need you barely recognize as your own. His thigh is solid beneath you, and his hands—steady, certain—guide you along, shaping your desperation with gentle strength. Everything else vanishes: there’s only the hot, slick ache at your center, the press of fabric, the low encouragements he murmurs against your skin.
You chase the sensation helplessly, gasping and whimpering, each roll of your body stoking the pleasure higher, tighter, until it feels as though you might shatter. The tension builds and builds, sharp and bright, until you break—a wild, helpless sound torn from your throat.
You muffle the cry in the only way you can think to: you seize Ser Satoru’s face in your shaking hands and press your mouth to his, greedy and desperate, swallowing your own release against his lips. He stiffens for a heartbeat, startled by the kiss, but he doesn’t pull away—he holds you tighter, matching your hunger, letting you burn yourself out against him.
You shudder and shake, the world fracturing into white-hot pleasure, your body trembling in his arms. For a long moment, you’re lost in it—his mouth, his hands, the strength of him holding you together as you fall apart.
Then, gently, you sag against him, every muscle spent. His arms come around you, protective and careful, as your breath evens out and your lashes flutter. The last thing you feel before the world goes dark is the slow, soothing circle his thumb traces on your back, and the quiet, reverent way he whispers your name.
✦ ✦ ✦
When it’s over, you’re shaking.
Not from the cold.
Satoru eases your movements to a stop, gentling you back down when your body tries to chase more without thinking. His hands are careful as he shifts you, turning you so you’re curled against his chest, your legs draped over his. His cloak comes around you both, a warm, dark cocoon that smells like him, the forest, and a faint tang of iron.
He doesn’t speak for a long moment. His palm moves in slow circles between your shoulder blades, grounding. Your heart gradually remembers its proper pace. The heat ebbing from your skin leaves you feeling raw and strangely hollow.
“Better?” he asks at last. His voice is rougher than before.
You manage a shaky nod. “I… yes.”
“Good.” He exhales, relief almost palpable. “It’ll fade now. The grove’s hold doesn’t last long once it crests.”
You focus on the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. When you finally dare to lift your head, his eyes are already on you.
There’s something in them you haven’t seen before.
Fierce.
Soft.
Uncompromising.
You look away quickly, shame flooding you anew as memory catches up—the sounds you made, the way you clung to him, used him—
“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “That was—it was— I shouldn’t have—”
“Stop.”
The word is quiet but absolute.
His fingers find your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his.
“You were in pain,” he says. “You asked for help. I gave it. There is nothing in that to be sorry for.”
Your throat aches. “It wasn’t… proper.”
His mouth curves, but it’s a sad little thing. “Proper would have left you suffering on the forest floor while I stood three paces away reciting court etiquette.”
You huff a weak almost-laugh despite yourself.
“I would rather be improper,” he continues, “than useless.”
You study his face, the play of light and shadow across too-perfect features, the set of his jaw. For a moment, you swear you see something else there—a kind of contained panic, a dawning realization he’s not ready for.
But then he’s looking away, adjusting the cloak around your shoulders with brisk efficiency.
“We should get you back,” he says. “Before your father decides to send half the army into the woods.”
The thought of your father seeing you like this—disheveled, cheeks still flushed, tucked against this man’s chest—makes your stomach twist. You scramble to sit up straighter, pulling away more abruptly than you intend to.
His hands fall back, flexing once against his knees before curling into fists.
“Can you walk?”
You test your legs. They wobble. “Perhaps… not far.”
Something complicated flickers across his face; then he nods, as if he expected that.
“Then we’ll go slowly.”
He helps you to your feet, his grip steady, patient. You lean against a tree as he assembles his armor, a gentle pang of longing when the last of his skin is covered. When you sway, he steps in without comment, letting you shift as much of your weight onto him as you need. He doesn’t reach for your waist this time. His hand settles, instead, just above your elbow—a compromise between propriety and instinct you don’t realize he’s making.
The walk back feels longer. Your senses slowly return to something like normal. The green dimness of the grove gives way to the brighter dapple of the main forest; the distant clamor of men and horses filters back in.
By the time the castle’s outer walls rise into view between the trees, you’ve convinced yourself it wasn’t as bad as you remember. That he didn’t see as much, feel as much, know as much.
At the gates, that illusion shatters.
✦ ✦ ✦
Your father is waiting.
He descends the steps like a storm, cloak snapping, crown glinting. His eyes rake over you, the mess of your clothing, then the knight at your side, then the woods behind you.
“What happened?” he snaps, closing the distance and grabbing your shoulders hard enough to bruise. You cry out in surprise and pain. “Where are your guards? Why are you—”
You flinch at the volume, at the sudden rough contact after the careful way Satoru had held you. Your body remembers the grove, the way touch became something else entirely, and reacts with a confused jolt of wrongness.
Satoru goes very, very still.
The change is subtle—a tightening of the line of his jaw, the way his hand drops from your arm to hover at his side, fingers twitching. His eyes flick to your father’s grip, then back to your face.
You see something flash there.
Possessive. Protective. Dangerous.
It’s gone in an instant.
“Bandits, Your Majesty,” Satoru says, voice level. “Or hired blades. They had good aim, but no discipline. Your men are driving them off.”
“And your first instinct was to run?” your father snarls. “To abandon the field?”
“My first instinct,” Satoru replies, tone cooling, “was to remove the heir from immediate danger. Your men are not my charge. She is.”
Your father’s fingers dig harder into you. “You presume much, mercenary.”
“Only to do what I was bought to do.”
The tension between them is sharp enough to cut. You feel caught in the middle of two storms, one loud and familiar, one quiet and new.
“Father,” you say, mustering what dignity you have left. “Please. You’re hurting me.”
He blinks, as if only just aware of his grip. His hands fall away.
“Get her inside,” he snaps at Satoru rather than at you. “She looks a fright. We’ll discuss your ‘tactics’ later.”
He turns and strides back up the steps, surrounded by advisors like carrion birds.
Satoru watches him go.
His expression is carefully blank. His jaw may as well be carved from stone for how tight it is.
“Come,” he says softly.
Ser Satoru does not touch you during the walk back to your chambers.
He walks half a step behind, and to your left, silent, eyes fixed on some point ahead. The easy humor from before is gone, the teasing, the lazy confidence. What’s left is something stripped down and raw—discipline wrapped like iron bands around a core that wants to do anything but obey.
You want to say something. To thank him, perhaps. To apologize again. To ask what, exactly, just happened.
But the words are stuck behind your teeth. None of them feel safe.
You reach your door. Your ladies-in-waiting are nowhere in sight yet; the hall is momentarily, blessedly, empty.
You turn to him.
“Ser Satoru,” you say.
His eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, you see it all there—the grove, the heat, the way your body had fit against his like something old and remembered. The way his hands had guided you without taking. The way he had almost stepped between you and your father on the steps, like he had more right to your safety than any king.
Then his lashes lower, shielding whatever might have been there.
“Princess,” he replies, voice polite and distant again. “You should rest. The aftereffects can be… tiring.”
“Is this… normal?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “What happened, I mean.”
His mouth twists.
“In those groves?” he says. “For humans, yes.”
It’s not an answer, not really. But it’s all he offers.
You nod, fingers curling around the edge of the door. The wood is solid under your hand. Real. Unmoving.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
Something in his face softens, fractures.
“You never need to thank me for doing what I was meant to do,” he says. “Guarding you is not a burden, Princess.”
There’s a beat of silence.
You realize he’s expecting you to go inside. You should. It’s what’s expected.
Instead, you hear yourself say his name like you did in the grove.
“Satoru.”
His eyes snap to yours.
The vise in his chest tightens; you can see it in the way his breath stutters, just once.
“Yes,” he answers, softer now.
You don’t know what to do with that, so you do what you always do when the world feels too sharp. You retreat.
“Good night,” you murmur, and slip behind the door.
It closes with a quiet click.
On the other side of it, you press your back to the wood and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, skirts pooling around you, heart pounding. Your body remembers the grove in flashes—the roughness of cloth, the solid press of his thigh, the sound of his voice in your ear telling you he’s got you, that you’re safe, that you’re doing so well.
You bury your face in your hands.
You’ve had knights before. You’ve had protectors. You’ve had duty and expectations and a crown waiting like a weight above your head.
You have never had this.
✦ ✦ ✦
Outside, in the hall, Satoru stands where you left him.
He waits. One heartbeat. Two. Three.
He expects the feeling to ebb. It doesn’t.
Instead, something inside him settles with a terrible, crystalline certainty.
He has done this before, back home. Held trembling hands. Guided shaking bodies through sacred rites in sun-dappled groves. Shared breaths and vows with females who knew exactly what they were asking of him. Bonds meant to be sweet, temporary, a cherished memory before politics and marriage took their inevitable toll.
Those ties were ribbons. Pretty. Fleeting.
This is iron.
He has begun something he cannot end.
You are human. Unknowing. Bound to a world that will one day hand your hand to another man for a crown.
He is Elven, whether this kingdom chooses to see it or not. A creature they tolerate for his usefulness, not his heart.
And yet, when your body sought his in the grove, when your lips formed his name, when you leaned into his guidance and let him carry you out of the worst of it—
Every instinct in him recognized you.
Mine, something quiet and vicious whispers in his blood.
His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides until the leather of his gloves creaks. He inhales slowly, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight.
He should deny his assignment. Return home. Close the door on this before it can open any further.
He doesn’t move.
He stands watch outside your door until the torches burn low, listening to the slowing of your breath, the steadying of your pulse on the other side.
The vise around his heart never loosens.
i am NOT fucking w/ html and gradients rn so enjoy as is haha. will be posting to ao3 as well. see you guys later w/ the next lgits update!!
Hello!! I was wondering if you had any new plans for the “ghosts in the snow” fic? I was re-reading it and got curious if you had any recent thoughts regarding Shiori (+ haruto) and Satoru
I dooooo 🤧 I’ve been dealing w/ some personal things and just haven’t had the time to edit the rest of the next chapter :,,,) it exists and it’s so close to done I’m just currently being attacked by god LOL
but here are a few things I can confirm about the next chapter !!
- it’s entirely Gojo POV
- there’s a Maki cameo
- so much pining
- #GojoCan’tGetItUp
Also, Haruto’s canon bday was this month 🎉🎉 happy birthday to one of my fav creations ever. I love my reader’s mini Satoru-but-if-he-was-loved-as-a-child eee
cw: explicit piv content, dubcon, semi-exhibitionism, spanking, slapping, biting, scratching, overstim, creampie, breeding kink, babytrapping? (childe), scissoring (mualani), praise, neuvillette has a dragon tail bc i said so but its not very relevant
kaeya
the spell hit him fast.
one second kaeya was joking with you over a drink, the next he was doubled over against the bar of angel's share with his hand clenched over his mouth, panting like he’d run from dragonspine. you barely had time to process the heat in his eyes before he was dragging you out the back door with a death grip on your wrist.
now you were pinned between the cold stone wall of angel’s share and the full length of his body, his thigh shoved between yours, coat pushed back, gloved hand under your skirt—in your panties.
“fuck,” he hissed, breath hot against your lips, “you feel that too, don’t you, pretty girl?”
you couldn’t answer—not with his fingers already sliding through your slick folds like he was starving, not with the way his cock strained against his pants, grinding against your thigh. he chuckled low in his throat, even as he panted like a dog in heat.
“abyss bastards must be getting creative,” he muttered, teeth scraping along your jaw. “should’ve known something was wrong when i started picturing you bent over the bar…”
he pressed a kiss to your throat, then bit it—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you gasp and grip his shoulders. he moaned when you did, hips twitching. the sound was obscene.
“you’re so wet for me,” he whispered. “you like seeing me like this? all hot and desperate? hah… you always were a bit of a tease.”
you didn’t get a chance to shoot back. he yanked your panties aside with one hand and unbuckled his belt with the other, his movements clumsy and frantic—not like him. the spell had stripped away all the usual smooth bravado. his hands trembled. his lips were parted. and when he finally sank into you, the noise he made was almost vulnerable.
“ohh… fuck, fuck—archons, you’re tight—‘m gonna lose it,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “shit, you’re gonna milk me dry, pretty girl…”
your back hit the wall with each thrust, hard and fast, the way only someone out of his mind with lust could manage. he couldn’t keep quiet—every breath came with a moan, a whispered praise, a filthy promise.
“so fuckin’ good, baby. taking me so well. gonna fill you up right here where anyone could walk out and see.”
you whimpered his name and he lost it.
one hand fisted in your hair, the other dragging your leg higher around his hip as he slammed into you with a growl. “say it again,” he panted. “say my name, beg for it—i wanna hear you sob it while i ruin you.”
your thighs trembled. your nails dug into his coat. and when your orgasm crashed into you like a tidal wave, kaeya snapped.
he fucked you through it, chasing his own release, rutting into your soaked cunt like a man possessed. when he came, he bit your shoulder to muffle the sound, cock pulsing deep inside you as hot cum spilled out around him, dripping down your thighs onto the cobblestones below.
neither of you moved for a moment. just panting. trembling. pressed together in the shadows.
then he tilted his head and smirked.
“…think diluc would mind if we used the spare bedroom upstairs?”
xiao
he warned you not to follow him.
the abyss mage had vanished into the night, but whatever cursed aura it left behind clung to xiao like smoke. he staggered onto the balcony, breath ragged, arm trembling as he gripped the railing like it was the only thing keeping him sane.
“don’t—come near me,” he snarled, voice hoarse, teeth clenched like he was in pain.
you’d never seen him like this. sweat glistened on his brow, hair stuck to his neck, and when he looked over his shoulder at you, his golden eyes were wide—wild.
“i can’t… i can’t control it. it’s crawling under my skin. my body’s burning.” his voice cracked on that last word, as if admitting it made the heat worse.
you stepped closer anyway. “xiao…”
“don’t,” he begged, backing into the shadows. “don’t say my name like that. i—i can’t—”
but then you reached out. you brushed your fingers against his and gasped at how hot he was—feverish, shaking.
he froze.
and when you looked up at him, wide-eyed, lower lip caught between your teeth in concern—
his last thread of will snapped.
xiao slammed you against the balcony wall in the blink of an eye, his body caging you in like a beast cornering its prey. his lips ghosted over your jaw, but he didn’t kiss you. he just breathed, fast and shallow, like he was scared that touching you would ruin everything.
“you looked at me like you trusted me,” he whispered, nails digging into your hips. “like i wasn’t dangerous. like i wasn’t… like this.”
you whispered his name again. that was it.
his mouth crashed down on yours—clumsy, desperate, teeth grazing your lips. his hands found your thighs, lifting you with ease, and his hips pressed against you, hard and already throbbing through his pants.
“i’m sorry,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “i can’t stop. i don’t want to stop.”
and he didn’t.
he shoved your underwear aside with shaking fingers, freeing his cock just enough to rut into you, his hips snapping forward with a raw, needy groan. you cried out at the sudden stretch—he was thick, trembling as he buried himself inside you in one hard thrust.
“fuck,” he gasped. “you’re… ngh—you’re perfect. too warm. too tight. i c-can’t…”
he tried to pull back—tried—but your walls clenched around him and his restraint crumbled to dust. he drove into you like a man possessed, every thrust harsher than the last, his voice a mess of choked moans and broken apologies.
“you shouldn’t be here,” he whimpered, “i was trying to protect you, i—shit, i’m going to cum—”
you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, anchoring him, and whispered “please. i want it.”
he shattered.
xiao buried his face in your neck, crying out as he emptied inside you, hips jerking, cum spilling deep and hot and fast. he trembled in your arms, still rutting shallowly like he couldn’t bear to be apart from your warmth just yet.
you stroked his hair. whispered his name again, this time with a smile.
he groaned softly.
“…you’re going to break me,” he breathed.
itto
“okay, but real talk—why do i feel like i’m gonna explode if i don’t stick it in you right now?”
itto’s voice was a breathy whine, his huge hands clinging to your waist like you were the last snack on earth. his abs were still glistening from your little one-on-one sparring match, and now he was hard—violently hard—bulging against his pants like his cock was trying to punch its way out.
“i’m serious!” he groaned, grinding into your hip with zero shame. “i was fine one second, then you looked at me with that little smile, and boom—boner. massive. painful. i think i’m dying.”
you blinked. “itto… you did get hit by a weird-looking abyss mage’s spell like, ten minutes ago.”
he stared blankly.
“oh. huh. that would explain the horny.”
you didn’t even get a chance to laugh before he was kissing you—sloppy, hungry, tongue already in your mouth and one of his massive hands groping your ass like he needed to memorize every inch. his other hand lifted you off the floor like you weighed nothing, slamming you down on the futon so hard it squeaked in protest.
“sorry! sorry,” he panted, already tugging your pants down. “i just—i can’t. babe, i need you. like, right now. right this second. please please please lemme cum in you, i swear i’ll be good—fuck—”
you tried to answer, but he already had your thighs pushed up and apart, cock out, flushed and angry looking, and he just lined up and shoved in with a groan so loud it shook the walls.
“haaahhh fuckkk, you’re so warm,” he slurred, eyes rolling back a little. “squeezin’ me so good, shit—babe, you made for this or somethin’?”
his hips slammed forward again. and again. and again. no rhythm. no restraint. just full-force, head-empty, dick-driven fucking. you were already gasping, clawing at his back for purchase, but itto was in his own world—moaning and muttering under his breath like a man in a trance.
“feel so good—ahh fuck, you’re takin’ it so well—y’like this? y’want me to go harder? i can go harder—”
“itto!” you gasped, seeing stars.
“fuck, yeah, say my name like that,” he groaned, hips pistoning faster. “archons, m’gonna cum, gonna cum—fuck, babe, i’m gonna—!”
and then he slammed all the way in and stayed there, cock twitching as he emptied himself deep inside you with a loud, wrecked moan. he didn’t even pause—just kept grinding into you, cum dripping out around his base, chasing that sweet friction.
“oh fuck, wait, you feel too good—i gotta keep goin’. just a little more, babe. c’mon. i’m so close. again. again.”
you whimpered, thighs trembling.
“...i think this spell’s still goin’,” he panted.
and then he smiled that dumb, hot, oni smile.
“guess we’re goin’ for round two, huh?”
alhaitham
he didn’t even flinch when the abyss mage cast it.
just let out a slow breath, adjusted his grip on his sword, and sliced the creature in two before it could vanish. you were panting behind him—relieved but shaken—barely even processing what had just happened before he turned to you with sharp, unreadable eyes.
“don’t panic,” he said, voice smooth, calm. too calm. “i’m aware of the spell’s effects.”
you blinked. “the what—?”
he was already walking toward you. unhurried. measured. the same way he read a book. the same way he always did everything.
“a focused aphrodisiac curse,” he said, sliding his gloves off. “localized. intensely hormonal. you’ll likely remain unaffected… but i’m already experiencing symptoms.”
you backed into a wall—gently, instinctively. his hand came up to cage your head, palm braced above your temple, and his mouth was suddenly much closer than it had been five seconds ago.
“which brings us to the solution.”
“w-what solution?” you breathed.
alhaitham leaned down and kissed you like he owned you—calm and composed but deep, tongue sliding over yours with slow, obscene confidence. by the time he pulled back, your head was spinning and your thighs were pressed together tight.
“the more i fuck you, the more the curse burns itself out.”
you gasped, but he was already sliding a hand down to your waistband. no shame. no hesitation. just firm, steady fingers tugging at your clothes like he’d already decided.
“you’re wet already,” he observed, voice low. “good. that makes this easier.”
and then he had you turned around—facing the stacks, bare ass pressed against his hips—and slid inside like he knew your body, like it was another formula he’d memorized and solved.
“you’ll tell me if it’s too much,” he muttered against your ear, hips rolling slow and deep. “but i don’t intend to stop until it wears off.”
your mouth dropped open in a soundless moan. he was thick, perfectly curved, bottoming out with every stroke like it was nothing. every time you tried to steady yourself, he’d just grab your hips tighter and fuck you harder—his voice still maddeningly even.
“look at you. arching for it already.”
one hand slid up your spine and curled gently around your throat—not choking, just there. a silent reminder of his control.
“do you like this?” he whispered. “do you like being used to stabilize my symptoms?”
you whimpered—no words, just a shaky nod—and he groaned low in his throat, pace picking up.
“you’re helping. so well, in fact, i might not stop even when it fades.”
your legs were trembling. your orgasm was building too fast, tight and unbearable and ravenous, and alhaitham just pressed his mouth to your ear and whispered:
“cum for me. now.”
you did, spasming around him, and he groaned like he’d been holding back for hours, slamming in deep and emptying himself inside you with a growl of satisfaction.
but he didn’t stop.
you flinched as he started moving again, slow and steady, already hard again, cock still stuffed inside your overstimulated pussy.
“the spell’s not done,” he said coolly, eyes half-lidded.
then he kissed your temple, softly.
“neither am i.”
neuvillette
it had been a quick fight. too quick for you to realize what the abyss mage had slipped into the room with—not until neuvillette turned to you afterward with wide, blown eyes and a tremble in his breath that made your chest seize.
“i—” he choked, his voice already hoarse. “i’ve been afflicted. please… please leave. i can’t—”
you took one step toward him, just one, and he shuddered, knees buckling slightly as he braced himself on the judge’s bench behind him. his breathing was ragged. his pupils had nearly eclipsed the soft blue of his eyes. and his whole body—
he was shaking.
“no,” you said quietly, “i’m not leaving you like this.”
that was when he snapped.
you weren’t even sure how fast he moved, only that suddenly your back was pressed to the polished wood of the bench, your legs forced open by large, trembling hands, and neuvillette was growling against your mouth as he kissed you like he’d been starving for centuries.
“i tried,” he rasped. “i tried to be noble. i tried to be good.”
he dragged his lips down your neck, his tongue darting out to taste your skin, and whimpered—an honest-to-archons whimper—as if the flavor of you was enough to undo him.
“but it hurts,” he choked. “it hurts so much. please let me… please—”
his cock was rock hard, thick and twitching in his trousers, already leaving a soaked, glistening patch on the front. he ground himself against your core like he couldn’t breathe otherwise—moaning deep in his throat as the pressure gave him momentary relief.
“i shouldn’t—do this,” he gasped. “i shouldn’t—use you this way—”
“but you need it,” you whispered, gripping his coat and pulling him closer. “don’t you?”
that was all it took.
he tore through your clothes—not with violence, but with urgency, reverence, desperation—and buried his face between your legs like a man sentenced to die. licked you until you were slick and dripping, trembling under his tongue, and then finally—finally—he pressed the head of his cock to your entrance and sank inside.
“ah—” he gasped, voice cracked and broken. “you’re perfect. too perfect. you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t let me—”
you cried out as he bottomed out. he was huge, stretching you wide, and every pulse of his cock sent a gush of wetness dripping down your thighs. he wasn’t even moving yet—just trembling, panting, holding himself back with visible agony.
“neuvillette,” you begged, wrapping your arms around him. “please. don’t hold back.”
his restraint shattered.
he fucked you against that bench like he was trying to drive the curse out of his bloodstream—deep, punishing thrusts that made your eyes roll back, your nails dig into his shoulders, your cunt tighten helplessly around him as slick soaked down your thighs and dripped onto the courtroom floor.
the whole time, he was moaning, whimpering things like:
“i’m sorry—so sorry—but you feel too good—”
“i need to cum—i have to cum—inside, inside—please—”
“won’t you let me breed you, mon ange? i can’t stop—i can’t stop—”
and you barely managed to scream his name before he came hard, hips slamming into yours as his cock throbbed and released a flood of hot, viscous cum inside you. the pressure was insane. it leaked out around him instantly, coating the wood below.
but he didn’t stop.
“still burning,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “still too hot. i need more—you—i need to keep going—”
and that dragon tail curled around your thigh as he started again, more desperate than before.
mualani
you should’ve known something was wrong the second her hands started trembling.
mualani was always warmth wrapped in sunshine. she laughed like wind chimes in the breeze, kissed you softly, and touched you like you were made of something softer than skin. there was always a flower in her hand and starlight in her smile. but now?
now she was staring at you like she didn’t know how to hold back.
the abyss spell shimmered faintly around her—silvery-green mist curling around her marked arms and flushed cheeks, catching in the light like dew. her lips were parted, giggling softly under her breath as she tried (and failed) to keep her thighs pressed together.
“oh,” she hiccuped, a little breathless, “i think i touched something i shouldn’t have… it tickled all the way up my spine. and now i can’t stop thinking about you. your skin, your thighs, your… everything—hahh, oh no, i’m so sorry, i sound crazy, don’t i?”
“mua,” you murmured, hands on her waist, trying to steady her. “it’s the spell. it’s messing with you—maybe we should sit down—”
but she just let out another soft, high giggle, burying her face in your neck. “too late. i already want you. i already need you.”
and then she was kissing you—light and fluttering at first, like she was trying to be good, trying to keep her usual sweetness intact. but her mouth was hot and needy, and the little noises spilling from her lips betrayed her. her whole body trembled, glowing with that blue-yellow aura, her vision pulsing around you like plankton caught in a whirlpool.
she gasped when your hand slid up under her skirt, clinging to you like she was melting. “i’m sorry—i’m sorry—i just—can i…? can i feel you?”
you nodded before your brain could catch up. “yeah. yes. please.”
she giggled again, all breathy and dazed. “hehe… you’re warm. i love that. i love you.”
clothes came off in soft, clumsy motions—skirts pushed up, lips still brushing, chests heaving. she kissed you all over, from your cheek to your hipbone, humming delightedly at every sigh you made. and then, with her face flushed and her pupils blown wide, she pressed her cunt to yours.
“oh—oh, goodness,” she gasped, head falling back. “you’re so wet. that’s from me, right? i made you feel that good already?”
you could barely breathe, let alone answer. her slick skin was grinding against yours, hips trembling as she moved—slow, at first, and then a little faster, moaning softly each time her clit brushed yours. her legs locked around your thigh and she rocked against you in tight little circles, giggles tumbling into gasps.
“mua,” you whimpered, clutching her waist. “fuck—mua, you feel so good—keep going, please don’t stop—”
“‘course i won’t,” she said, almost drunkenly, her face glowing. “i could stay like this forever. pretty girl, pretty girl, you’re so soft. so perfect.”
her hands curled into yours as your slick bodies slid together, mess building between you. the moss below was damp with sweat and arousal, petals crushed under your bodies. you couldn’t stop moaning—your voices tangling in the air, high and desperate, hips grinding harder and faster until your thighs started to shake.
“i’m gonna cum,” she whined, voice all shaky and high-pitched. “please—cum with me—want you to make a mess with me—”
“i’m—fuck, yes, mualani, yes—!”
you clung to each other like vines, bodies trembling as the heat shattered between you. you came in sync—sobbing, grinding through it, her giggles dissolving into little gasps and praise.
she collapsed against you, face buried in your neck, giggling and sighing all at once. “oops.” she whispered, grinning.
your thighs were still shaking. “mua. you nearly killed me.”
“don’t be silly,” she said, eyes glittering. “i don't think this is wearing off anytime soon.”
and then she was sliding her leg back between yours again, breath catching.
“again?” she whispered.
you just pulled her closer. “again.”
childe
“fuck—! ajax—!”
he laughs, low and breathless, as he slams into you again—your knees sliding against the furs beneath you, snow melting into steam around your tangled bodies.
“you say my name like it’s gonna save you, pretty girl,” he pants, one hand tangled in your hair, the other squeezing your hips hard enough to bruise. “but it won’t. not from this.”
the spell hit him mid-fight, some abyss mage’s last-ditch effort before childe sliced him clean through. and at first? he brushed it off. laughed it off. “ha, what’s this? a love spell? cute.”
until he caught your scent.
and then it was over.
he dragged you into a half-collapsed tent behind enemy lines, tossed you down like a prize, and now? he’s ruining you—balls-deep, unrelenting, grinning even as he snarls.
“you sure this was a spell?” he growls, teeth grazing your ear as he fucks you through another wave of overstimulation. “because i’ve wanted to bend you over like this since day one. maybe the abyss just helped me along.”
your body jerks with each thrust, moaning his name like it’s the only word you know. he’s so deep it’s like he’s trying to breed you, to plant himself inside you until he can’t be removed.
“look at you,” he coos, licking a stripe up your neck. “so cockdrunk, so fucking needy. what’s wrong, sweetheart? don’t tell me you like when the enemy wins.”
you sob out his name, and he slaps your ass, cock twitching deep inside you.
“say it louder. let them hear.”
you scream for him—broken, breathless—and he fucking shudders.
“ohhh fuck, yeah. that’s it. let ‘em know you’re mine now. that this sweet little body belongs to the fatui’s number 11.”
he fucks you harder. deeper. his cock stretching you open like your cunt was made for him. and then he pulls you up by the hair, flush against his chest, his breath hot and shaky against your ear.
“i’m gonna cum inside you,” he whispers, biting down. “and when this spell wears off, you’ll still feel it. still leak with me for days. and if we’re lucky? i’ll knock you up too. make sure the abyss spell sticks with you for life.”
your thighs quake. your orgasm hits like a bomb. and behind you, childe laughs again, full of heat and madness and pure fucking obsession.
“guess we’re both victims of the spell now, huh, baby?”
dainsleif ― bonus!
you don’t remember how the fight ended. just the burst of dark magic cracking through your ribs like lightning, and then—heat.
not just arousal. not something manageable. no. it’s suffocating. a deep, clawing ache in your womb that pulses harder with every breath of dainsleif’s scent.
he drags you to safety. sets up camp. checks your wounds. all while you tremble, every touch of his gloved hands burning you alive.
you try to hide it at first—gripping your thighs, biting your lip raw. but your whimper gives you away, and his head snaps toward you.
“…it affected you.”
you nod, shaking. desperate. so fucking wet it’s dripping onto the furs. and dain? he just sighs. gentle. almost pitying. he pulls off his gloves with slow precision.
“lie back.”
“w-what?”
his voice stays calm. measured. but his eyes—glowing, unreadable—pin you in place.
“you need relief. you’ll burn through your own mind if you don’t get it. i’m not affected by the abyss’ magic... but i can offer you my body.” he pauses. “use me. however you need.”
your brain short-circuits.
then you’re climbing on top of him, fingers digging into his shoulders, sobbing his name as you sink down onto his cock for the first time.
and fuck, he’s big. thick. heavy. stretching you open perfectly—and you don't even care. you need it. you ride him like you’ll die without it, hips snapping down hard, tears spilling down your cheeks as your cunt flutters around him.
“dain—! dain, please, i can’t— i need more, i need—”
he grips your hips, steady but unyielding, holding you open as you bounce on him.
“shhh,” he breathes, voice like silk. “take what you need. i’m not going anywhere.”
and you do. you fuck yourself on his cock until your thighs shake and your moans turn hoarse. until your pussy is soaked and red and raw, clenching down again and again like it never wants to let go.
dain watches the whole thing. chest rising slowly, lips parted, but never losing control. just… observing. letting you devour him.
“you’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs eventually, one hand smoothing up your back. “even consumed by madness. so full of need… like the abyss carved its hunger into you.”
you cry out as another orgasm crashes through you, pussy milking him—and only then does he shift, just enough to thrust up into you once. a warning.
“that’s enough,” he says, voice low. “you’ve taken your fill. now it’s my turn.”
you blink through the haze—and then dain flips you. presses you into the furs and fucks you so deep you swear you can taste it, murmuring about how good you feel, how well you took him, how he’s going to fuck the abyss right out of you—
until you can’t think. can’t breathe. can’t exist without him.
and through it all, dain holds you like something sacred. a relic to be cherished. a temple overtaken by hunger and worshipped with every thrust of his cock.
imagine satoru and suguru in a rut, taking turns on ur poor leaky omega hole, taking knot after knot from ur alphas, waiting to see which one knocks u up first 🥵
imagine ur stuck between two hot bodies— way too hot, truthfully, purring hard and loud as you cum around god-fucking-knows-whose-knot for the millionth time. you’re whining, panting, clawing at a broad chest for reprieve while someone strokes your hair and whispers praise in your ear
“What do you think, omega? Think it’ll have my eyes—,”
“I think any eye color is fine,” the other interrupts, tilting your chin up to his face. It’s Suguru, pushing a sweaty strand of your hair behind your ear. He’s smiling at you as if you’re gold in his hands, and your own purr joins the humming cacophony around you. “But perhaps brown would be nice—,”
“Maybe we’ll both knock her up,” Satoru muses from behind you, shifting in a way that confirms you’re definitely seated on his fat knot, pulling a whine from you that he immediately shushes. “Wouldn’t you like that, omega? Carrying pups from both of your big, strong alphas?”
“Yess,” you whine in response, his words stirring that primal list from within you once again. How much longer can you go at this? Their rut feels like it’s dragged on for days, and you don’t recover nearly as quickly with two alphas than with one. “Wan’ that,” you slur regardless, your hips moving of their own accord against Satoru’s. “Wan’ both your babies.”
“Satoru, she’s falling apart,” Suguru chides, his own hardness growing between your legs. You feel the fat tip press against your clit and you cum instantly around the knot inside of you, dragging another choked moan from Satoru’s lips. “Insatiable little thing.”
Satoru dislodges easily, taking the time to guide your quivering entrance to Suguru’s member, helping you seat yourself on the other alpha. He coos in adoration when you toss your short little arms around Geto’s neck, whimpering into the skin of his shoulder. “Sweet little omega,” he says, pressing an uncharacteristically gentle kiss between your shoulder blades as you rock your pelvis against the other man. “We’ll give you everything.”
“Everything,” Suguru echoes, reaching around to pull Satoru’s lips into the mix of your sweat and spit, already feeling his knot growing between you.
i was rereading the Gojo fic for the millionth time so I ended up dreaming that u updated but blocked me everywhere so I couldn't read the chapter lol 😭😭 anyway ur wonderful writing is dearly missed but I hope u're doing great<33
omg to think I have people rereading my work is crazy 😭 I’m so glad you enjoy it!! I have the next chapter written I just gotta proofread 🤪 soon my sweet reader I promise!!! thank you for reading 💗
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