summary. in the golden age of jujutsu, mahito had you, and lost you. a thousand years later, he seeks to bring you back.
wc. 9.1k
tags. smut | sub bottom mahito, top reader, heian era!mahito & cursed spirit!reader (manifestation of fear of night/absence of light), reader had a cult/worshippers. mention of blood & gore. mahito with a pussy, size difference, breeding kink, mention of babytrapping. fingering + oral (mahito receiving), doggystyle, exhibitionism (mention of others overhearing), jealousy, praise, multiple orgasms (mahito receiving), creampie, ahegao (?), god kink (reader), temp play (reader is naturally cold)
notes. obligatory ooc warning. also, i made up a lot of lore for the reader('s abilities), so scroll down about halfway to skip it and get to the good part :)
[ requested ]
Deep in the beech forests of Northeast Japan, Geto Suguru stands delicately amongst the verdant green undergrowth. He glances around, petting his large winged cursed spirit absently, and gathers his long dark robes in a hand. He glances over his shoulder.
"Despite your insistence on coming here, you've been awfully quiet. Is it not what you imagined?"
Bent at the waist to inspect massive green leaves as large as his face, Mahito looks up. "Huh? Oh, I was just curious about how they went about their plan. This place is maaassive. How are we supposed to find him? Maybe they cut him up? Sprinkled him from the highest mountain?" He sighs. "Whatever they did – they chose a green place to do it. Hanami would probably like it."
Dismissing his cursed spirit with a wave of his hand, Suguru chooses a direction and begins to move. He doesn't so much as walk as glide, his long skirts and the heavy undergrowth obscuring his steps. The tall, slim beeches are set just far enough apart for one person to slip between their trunks, and Mahito is forced to fall into step behind Suguru.
He flexes his fingers; stretches his arms; kicks ferns. Twigs tug at his hair and he huffs, glaring at the tree that dared touch him. He clasps the section of hair to his chest, dragging his slim fingers through it obsessively.
"You're twitchy," Suguru says without turning around. "You never did say how you heard of this curse. Seeing as you're not busy running your mouth, why don't you tell me now?"
Mahito sighs, skipping over a fallen log overrun with moss. He gazes up at the trees and notices the way the thick emerald canopy filters the sunlight until all that's left is an even, misty glow. Shadows are soft and deep around here.
"Not much to say," he hums thoughtfully, knocking a branch out of his way. "Lotta curses back in the day. Just makes sense to have some hidden around the place."
"Yes, but how did you come across such old records? Surely sorcerers would've kept something like that far, far away from prying eyes."
"Humans get tired. They get clumsy. They misplace things."
Suguru raises a brow. "And you kept it? For a thousand years, without purpose?"
Airily, he says, "So what if I did? You really expect me to act like one of you, doin' things with reason and purpose? C'mon. I liked the pictures on it."
He may think Suguru falls for it, but Suguru is nothing if not perceptive. Mahito flings his arms out too wide. Each stride is too long, each twirl around a slender beech too motivated – no, he sees it all. He's playing at carelessness when it couldn't be further from the truth.
Absurdly human of him, really.
Suguru hums, halting in his tracks. Mahito almost bumps into him. Again – too eager. Suguru lifts a hand, palm down and fingers splayed, and closes his eyes. Thrums of warm sorcery crackle through his veins – weak, barely trace amounts. Expected for thousand-year-old jujutsu. To be able to feel it still was a feat all in itself. Just how intense was the battle that raged here?
"We should be right in front of it," Suguru claims, dropping his hand and opening his eyes. They stand before a slight ridge of the earth, exposed tree roots weaving in and out of rich brown soil. A heavy blanket of moss hangs over the ridge and ivy grows beneath their feet. "Yet... I don't sense any spirits nearby."
"Hey," says Mahito suddenly. "The scroll mentioned a 'tomb'. You said in front of ya, yeah?"
Nodding, Suguru folds his hands within his robes. He watches as Mahito's arm lengthens into a massive cleaver, and he steps back at the wicked smile that spreads across his lips.
Mahito lifts his arm, pale eyes glinting dangerously. "Man, I so hope I'm right!"
With a slam that rumbles the ground beneath their feet and strips the nearby trees of their leaves, Mahito splits the earthen mound before him clean in two, leaving a shallow ravine that extends into the horizon. The soft earth parts like melted butter, soil and chipped wood exploding forth with such strength that Suguru narrowly avoids a pointed root that embeds itself into the trunk behind him.
When the dirt and leaves settle, they reveal the chiselled stone set into the earth. Split not quite perfectly in half – for Mahito loves chaos, and halves are better off-kilter – is a room carved into stone, hollowed out with a single podium erupting from the centre.
Upon the roughly-carved podium is a mid-sized box plastered with ancient seals and talismans. Peeking inside reveals that the inside of the 'room' is covered in the stuff, too – old, yellow, and faded, they flutter from wind they haven't felt in aeons. One peels off and comes to rest gently at Mahito's feet.
"Huh," he says eventually, staring at the cuttingly-familiar brushstrokes. He reaches for the wooden box, soft and rotted with age. The moment his fingers brush the surface, he pulls back with a jerk and makes a face. "Ouch! Spicy."
"Strong seals," Suguru comments, making no move to help. Mahito huffs and blasts the talismans away with a burst of cursed energy, testing the now-bare box with the tips of his fingers like one might with a freshly-microwaved plate.
He cracks the box open. Inside, innocent as a fresh lamb, lays a shallow, red-lacquered suzuri-bako.
"A... writing box?" Mahito murmurs to himself. He reaches in and takes the smooth box into his hands. It feels much heavier than it should, and an oppressive weight shudders through him, dark and cold and familiar. "Geto-san? It's a cage. I don't have the key."
"Let me take a look." Suguru stretches out a hand.
For a fleeting moment, Mahito hesitates – the slightest tilt of the box towards his chest. And Suguru knows.
With a growing smile, Suguru folds his hand back into his long sleeves. "Ah... I see. You know this spirit."
"I—" He pauses. "Maybe. Once upon a time."
"Interesting," says Suguru, "that something as old as this still has an effect on you."
"Nah – boring, actually. I'm old and sentimental." He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. He chuckles and tosses his hair over his shoulder, tracing the edges of the box. Power tingles against his skin. "Pretty thing, for a cage. Maybe I could just – ease it open—"
Suguru raises his long sleeve to shield his face as the box pulses with a sudden, growling shockwave, forcing him to step back to keep his balance. The ferns sway around his knees.
Mahito clicks his tongue, a pout forming on his lips. "Damn it! This should be simple!"
The second attempt has the birds squawking and flying into the skies as the surrounding trees shudder violently. For the third, Suguru winces slightly as Mahito slams his fist – a giant mallet – against the box, resulting in another shockwave of barbed cursed energy. He lifts a hand, placating.
"Ah, Mahito... Perhaps I can give it a go?" he suggests. "It may need a... sorcerer's touch."
Mahito's eyes widen. Of course! Those ancient douche-canoes probably knew he would come for what was his. It only made sense to weave his name into the seals.
"By all means," he replies, stepping aside. "Take a gander."
Stepping forward, Suguru tugs his sleeve to his elbow and scoops up the box from the floor. He dusts off the cover. "Lovely craftsmanship," he muses and hovers his palm over it despite every nerve in his body writhing and begging to pull away. Some instinctual, ancient force warns him off it. He lets energy seep into the age-made cracks in the seals, and from within, gently burns away the net holding its prisoner still – like taking a lighter to the end of a frayed rope, creating spaces big enough to squeeze through.
The lid cracks open.
Like a floodgate opening, freezing shadows and smoke pour out of the gap, forcing the lid to clatter uselessly to the ground. Darkness bleeds down the walls. Suguru's eyes widen as his pale fingers, deep within the thick black smoke continuing to billow forth, begin to turn blue at the tips, visible frost surging over his skin. Smoke fills the air around them, fading out the sun until it could be a misty grey night. Rivers of shadow pool thickly around his knees until he can't see his feet, and he hurries to set the box on the podium.
As he lets go, a shadowy tendril curls around his exposed hand and arm, burning white frost into his skin. His breath hitches.
A freezing hand seizes his wrist. Inch-long black nails dig rivulets of blood – his red, all-too-human blood – out of him, and his heart plummets at the sight of the hand, wrapped completely around his forearm as if it's a thin piece of rope. On instinct, he yanks back, and the hand comes with.
Then, a flood of smoky shadow spews from the open box – and a cowled figure claws its way out, formed from the very shadows that plunged them into a sudden night. It rises and straightens, towering over them both.
Suguru's arm hurts. He clutches his wrist, his blood coagulating over the delicately-patterned frost, and chances a glance back at Mahito.
Arms spread wide and palms open, an unnervingly breathless smile plastered on his lips, Mahito gazes up at the wispy figure unblinkingly. Wide-eyed and panting softly, he laughs – bright and jubilant, victorious.
"Yes! Yes! There you are!"
He skips past Suguru, giggling madly as he takes one large, clawed hand in both his own. He presses the palm to his cheek as he hops in place, stretching up to reach for the round silver brooch pinning the cloak of shadows together over the shoulder. He hasn't seen his eyes in so long, and this stupid hood is in the way!
Mahito?
The voice comes from within Suguru's head. But, unlike Hanami's, this voice slithers among his own thoughts, slipping between them as light as a ghost. It could've been his own, for all he knew, except for the fact it carries a sorrow so profound it eclipses every other thought – he can focus on nothing else.
—
Everything is on fire. Everything is on fire and it is all because of you.
Of course, the fire was the easy part. One day, perhaps your beloved will forgive you for using such an overzealous amount of cursed energy to make your grand entrance. It completely overshadowed his own.
Everything would change here. It would be your end, or your beginning. Before you stand the most powerful sorcerers in the land, all gathered to rise against you one final time – or die trying.
All so tense. A sigh flutters through your lips as you brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. Mahito has influenced you too much – you are bare from shoulder-to-waist, oil-slick blood coating your arms up to the elbows, and facing the strongest adversaries you have ever met. Yet, all you can fret about is your poor hakama, now no more than a shred of memory. You donned your best silks for this, and the first thing the cruel little bugs did was burn it off you.
At the very least, your sashinuki may be salvageable.
"You are strong," a white-haired sorcerer calls above the roar of the flames towering into the sky. "Some call you divine and pray to you for aid, but you do not listen."
"I listen," you reply coolly, and slick back your hair with a blood-soaked palm. "I help them to lose the burden of their regrets and relieve their physical pains. I daresay I help more than you."
"They call you a healer, but what you do is not healing. Once, you numbed a man to his wounds until he fell to exhaustion fighting in your name. You are a spiteful creature. Desperation is your lure."
"If I hear it, I answer. If they think I am their saviour, who am I to disagree? It's a rather pretty title – though, it is amusing to be lord of maggots. I like to watch them squirm."
How did a curse of night, of the endless dark, grow so powerful? Every secret done in the dark, every lie and gnawing shame, was yours. There had always been something different about you, and they were fools to ignore it, even upon your first meeting:
You, tall and regal, kimono the darkest shade of navy blue damask, had been nothing like their other curses. You looked quite human. Perhaps there was something godly in your stride, something primordial in your voice, that cowed them all like children. You spoke to them, soft and paternal, and suddenly, each and every one of them was afraid of the dark and you were their only solace against the monsters beyond the window.
Enchantment, they'd called it, upon blinking awake and finding you gone. Perhaps it was your domain, to cull their thoughts until all that remained was the ancient instinct to fear the black night. Had you heard them discussing you, hands shaking and faces drained of blood, you would have laughed.
—
Suguru's eyes flicker, and the scene flips to a forest clearing.
—
"Mahito!"
The cry of his name is guttural, a thousand voices coalescing into a roar and a shriek. Across the battlefield, he falls, and you catch the flames reflecting in the shine of his widened eyes as he grasps the unfamiliar black blade piercing his chest. His soul writhes around it, pierced by it, unable to slip away unscathed as he has so many times before.
In that split second, your attention lapses, and black chains lash your body, slamming you to your knees. You snarl, straining against them.
"Surrender," the sorcerer before you orders, white hair stained red with blood. Despite his injuries and the loss of an entire arm, he stands tall and steady above you. "We will let him go if you choose to die."
"If I choose to die?" You run your thumb over your knuckles, regenerating three lost fingers. A rather good trade, you think, for taking off his arm in the process. "You'd allow a spirit, able to shape the soul into something inhuman and unrecognisable, to walk free in exchange for my life? My, my. I must be particularly disruptive to your little society."
"You're beaten." His voice is sharp despite his clear exhaustion. He struggles to restore his arm. "No matter how many of us you kill, you will lose first. Give up."
"Such misplaced confidence. 'Choose to die'..." You sneer and the black iron chains wrapped around you tighten, far colder than you are. You have warmed, somewhat, in Mahito's presence. You cannot be bitter about it when it is he who marks your soul. "Hah! Nothing stops you from killing him anyway – so, politely, I decline. There are only so many of you. You will run out of bodies before I do."
As you speak, your image flickers in an attempt to split your consciousness into the deep shadows around you. The chains chew into your skin and you hiss as your control dissipates like a candle blown out.
"Interesting," the sorcerer murmurs, gazing down at you pensively. The red flames swirl behind him. "Interesting that your bond with that curse truly did win us this fight. I admit – I was sceptical it would work. You're... not what I expected."
You turn your gaze to Mahito, crumpled on the ground with his long, straight hair creating a curtain over his features. He grasps the handle of the blade, trembling slightly, and his breaths are shallow and rapid as he attempts to pull it out. He can only whimper in pain – too quiet for anyone to hear. But this battle is a secret under darkness and belongs to you. You close your eyes to his furious cry and panicked breaths as the blade refuses to budge and saps more of his strength with every second.
Run, you implore, and his head shoots up, pale eyes meeting yours. Cursed energy surges beneath your skin, rippling and bubbling with bloodthirst. Run and don't look back. Mahito, you must survive at all costs. Do you understand?
The chains quiver and the links bend out of shape, their strange unearthly metal creaking. Your body strains against it, fingers elongating into claws and mouth growing jagged fangs. Your skin rips and flickers, bleeding dead galaxies. The chains bite into your shadowy flesh, but you grow larger despite it.
The sorcerer takes a step back.
Go, your voice rasps in his head, syllables rough and struggling in the monstrosity of your own body. Mahito's eyes widen as the chains groan, shuddering with effort – and snap.
He pulls himself to his feet, pale grey kimono tattered and stained. He grips the blade lodged in his chest and stumbles away, chasing the safety of the tree line.
You roar, twice as tall as the sorcerers around you, cutting them down with rapid, decisive blows. In his state, he doesn't notice the sorcerer turning in his direction.
But you do. With a shriek, you launch yourself at him, breaking through the ranks of sorcerers trying to stop you in a burst of viscera and bone. You seize the man giving chase after Mahito, and his whip-like technique is nothing against the overwhelming strength of your new form. One slash of your razor-sharp claws and his technique putters out in his limp hands.
Mahito spares you one last, desperate look, before turning and running into the darkness. You pull the shadows closed after him, deepening the shadows around him until you have him in your grasp.
Live, you say wistfully, releasing him from your shadows as far away as you can by a riverbank. He collapses and attempts to slip the blade out from between his ribs. He quivers with effort, and you don't turn back to the sorcerers picking themselves up for one last push. As long as none of them find Mahito, you will accept the consequences of your hedonistic actions. Live for me. Please.
You languish in your prison for one thousand years.
—
Mahito beams, nodding so hard his head threatens to fall off. "You remember me! I knew you would!"
Slowly, as if learning how to move one muscle at a time, the hand cupping his face brushes its knuckles down the edge of his cheek. When it reaches his chin, long fingers wrap around his throat as if to choke – then, they release. Using the first three fingers, the shadowy spirit grasps Mahito's face, turning it further up towards him. The top of Mahito's head only reaches the spirit's ribs – or where they would be on a human.
Mahito, the spirit calls joyfully, lifting its other hand to cup his face with a flourish of a long, wispy sleeve. Draped over him, the spirit's shadowy robes engulf him almost entirely. Oh, Mahito, my darling pale bone-shard...
He laughs, accepting everything with a smile that seems too ancient for someone like him. It's the smile of one who's known loss – not his usual grin of frivolous naivete.
"You look awful," Mahito says, with a little pout and a frown. "Come! I'll get you back to full strength. But I suppose that guy behind me will want introductions. No number of old scrolls or tomes would get him your name."
That name was never mine, the curse declares. Humans could never know me as you do. My strength is not theirs to invoke.
"Alrighty," Mahito says. He spins on his heel, hair bouncing, and points above him, where the spirit stands – floats – behind his shoulder. "Geto-san! This is YN! I knew him back in the day. He had a bit of a cult, too, so I think you'll get along splendidly."
That piques his interest. That white-haired sorcerer – probably a member of the Gojo clan, Suguru thinks with an achy little throb, if his paleness was a family trait – had mentioned something about your perceived divinity. He wonders why you'd pay attention to any of those ignorant monkeys.
"You're probably thinking about the whole cult thing, right?" Mahito comments offhandedly, tossing and catching the silver brooch he stole from you. Despite this, you haven't pulled down your hood. The straggly ends of the cloak hang by your arms.
"I won't say I didn't wonder."
"Don't worry, it's not a long story." He clears his throat importantly. "Back in the day, we didn't have curtains or anything to hide the results of our actions, so what we did must've seemed like magic or something paranormal to humans. My YN was often seen before and after destruction like plagues and floods, so word began to spread of a beautiful man who would save those he appeared to. Of course, this was survivorship bias. If he killed 'em, not like they could say that to anyone, right? So that's how people began to worship him."
"How fascinating," Suguru murmurs, eyeing you up. "Before, I saw your... memories. Was worship how you grew so much stronger than a normal curse?"
You finally look up, having been concentrating very hard on Mahito and his new appearance. His clothes are strange, but you're beginning to come around to them. Apologies. My body is not quite... complete. Some portion of me may have passed through you as I formed. You touch Mahito's hair, rubbing the strands between your fingers, and he giggles up at you. Perhaps you are right. Evolution was always within Mahito's portfolio, not mine. I should have been constant, unchanging, like the night. Odd, isn't it?
"The form you gained right before you were sealed away – do you still have it? Or was it a result of their belief?" If he could sway you to his side – gain your abilities – it might be enough. Just enough.
You consider his question. Human emotion is potent. I may no longer have shrines made with my image or prayers whispered in my name, but there are infinitely more humans now to draw from. I may gain it back – in time.
"Fascinating," Suguru repeats. He extends his uninjured hand with a kind smile. "Then please – allow me to be your host in this new era. I own a temple with a not-insignificant number of human visitors. It may help you recover."
You glance down at Mahito. He nods encouragingly. "He's not a bad guy to be around, I promise! A little uppity, but with the strength to back it up. You'd be with me. We'd be together again."
You pause, your large hand halting on top of Mahito's head, where you'd been petting him. He blinks up at your featureless face, and shadows waft from your shoulders – a sigh, or what passes for one with your inhuman anatomy. Very well, you relent, taking one of his ponytails and tugging lightly, I will follow. Be grateful that I bow to you.
"Oh, yes," Mahito giggles pleasantly, leaning into your stomach. He props his chin on your ribs, staring up at you with a grin. "Verily, my lord. When we arrive, I'll even show you how grateful I am."
You cup his face gently, squishing his cheeks. You run a thumb over the stitches below his eye. Dubious little creature... Lead on – we have much to talk about.
—
Recovery, you find, requires mostly time. The first thing you do when you regain sufficient strength is create a new body – one Mahito is familiar with, and which looks almost entirely human. For all your distaste, their physical anatomy is simple and useful, and you can spend less effort holding it together than most other shapes. Geto Suguru, as you come to know him, is incredibly interested in you and your capabilities, almost invasively so, and hates humanity quite a lot. You avoid him where you can.
You enter the room you were given by ducking under the lintel, one which Mahito now shares with you. Once you heard where he used to reside and what it was had been explained to you, you had been firmly insistent he come with you rather than you with him. Sewers, you claimed, were no place for the beloved of a god.
He is at the dresser in a grey kimono, which grabs your attention. He runs a brush through the pale blue-grey hair swept over his shoulder. He opens his eyes at the sound of the door sliding open, a smile automatically tugging at his lips.
"You're back," he says warmly. "What did Geto-san want this time?"
"He has trouble sleeping," you reply, taking a seat on the bed. It is odd, you thought once, that a traditional temple like this would incorporate such modern furniture, but Mahito seemed to like it, so you kept your mouth shut. "I drew him to slumber."
Mahito hums knowingly. "Humans, right? So messy. Him especially. Man, emotionally, that guy is a wreck – gets so worked up over nothing."
Politely, you ignore the invitation to complain. You may be a curse, but you have some dignity. "He freed me from a thousand years of imprisonment, Mahito. It's the least I can do to repay him."
He frowns. "I freed you."
"The seals prevented you from doing very much, Mahito," you say, amused. "If he wasn't there, you'd still be banging away at it. However, you did figure out where they kept me and kept me alive in your memories when no other did. I am grateful for that."
"If you were less judgemental of the other curses, I'm sure they woulda remembered you fondly," he rebuts. "You were too much of a lone wolf. 'Ooh, Sukuna's eating my worshippers 'cause I told him he's not cool! Kenjaku badgers me way too often about his dumb plans!' If you didn't complain about them to their faces, I'm sure they would've been happier to remember you."
You scoff. "Why should I care? I have you."
The tone of your voice warms what passes as his heart. He turns on the stool to face you, setting down the brush and picking up his hair ties. He begins to section his hair into three parts.
"I mean that much to you, do I? Little old me, more important than the favour of the great King of Curses," he coos, rising to his feet. He offers you a hair-tie with a soft smile, and you accept it. He crawls into your lap, sitting with his back to your chest. He hums as you comb your fingers through his hair, fumbling only slightly with the intricacies of a braid. It's been a long time since you've had hands.
"What does the King of Curses have that I care for? He is strong, but has many enemies. He is an arrogant, fickle creature and desires no equal, only slaves and followers." You adjust the thick locks of hair you've left loose to frame his face. He seems to like threes, so you'll keep it similar. "I like to do as I please. He is feared – I am fear."
You consider your next words. "He is also very rude."
Mahito barks out a laugh. "Careful. If he hears that, you'd be sliced up quicker than you can say 'oops'."
"You say he is now little more than a set of relicts. I wonder – if I kicked him around, would he know it and come later to kill me?"
Mahito presses a finger to his lips thoughtfully. "I don't think so. They don't seem to hold any sentience by themselves. Even curses empowered by the fingers don't look like they contain any part of 'him'."
"Interesting."
"Remind me to never let you carry his fingers."
"Of course." You tie off the end of the braid, sitting back to admire your handiwork. A human had come in with something similar, and you'd been too preoccupied with how it might look on Mahito to really care for what Geto was doing.
(You didn't care much for what any of them were doing, truthfully. Their idea for a world of curses was not quite uninhabited enough for you, as the god of the endless night and the perfect, empty void. It was only because of Mahito's unique technique that you let him live beyond your initial meeting, after all.)
"You kept your hair long," you say, voice a low murmur.
Mahito glances over his shoulder, gazing up at you through his messy bangs. A sly smile curls at his lips. "Oh, you know," he waves a hand carelessly, "you liked it better this way."
You prop your chin on top of Mahito's head. He grins. "You always wore it like this?"
"Well, I sat like a rock at the bottom of a river for a couple hundred years, so no, not always. But when I did like to have hair – yes, it was long."
You rest your hand around his throat, like a collar. Mahito smirks, dancing his fingers over your knuckles. "Hey, now... What's this doin', big guy? Careful – I'm half your size."
"You do not have to look like you do. I would adore you regardless."
"How cute! But it's no fun when we're both too big for the bed." He turns in your lap, straddling your thighs, and playfully plucks a thread loose from your haori. He cocks his head to meet your eyes with a smile when a brief scowl crosses your face. "C'mon, lighten up! You're out of the slammer! What better way to celebrate than with me? If you want, we don't have to do it on the bed. Maybe on the floor... Out in the forest... Drenched in human blood..."
"Mahito, Geto is across the hall. You are loud."
"He can plug his ears. I'm sure he's got a curse somewhere in him for that." His grin broadens freakishly. "I also want a curse inside me."
"Mahito," you growl, your grip tightening on his hips.
"Oh, say that again." He shows the whites of his eyes briefly with a teasing moan. He drapes his arms over your shoulders, wiggling around and settling comfortably in your lap. Your shoulders tense. "Such a bore. Hey – I'm better with my technique nowadays. Y'know how much fun we could have?" He leans in with a giggle, lips brushing your earlobe. "Gimme ideas. I'll make you feel so good."
Concentration was always the common denominator. He was once easily overwhelmed – he'd like to think he improved.
"I still tire quickly," you say, and not even you can obscure the annoyance in your voice. "Belief is so hard-won these days. I fear you'll have to be gentle with me."
He giggles, though his expression softens – or as much as it can for him; perhaps 'less-crazed' is a fairer term –and he drags his tongue hotly against your jaw. It's a kiss – his version of one.
"Okay," he sighs dramatically, kicking his legs childishly. "Hm... How about this? Tonight, shall I be your prince, princess, or," he winks, "your master?"
Your lips purse. "Gods do not have princes or princesses. 'Divine right'." You scoff. "Don't make me laugh."
"You'll always gimme your 'divine right', though, yeah?" He wiggles his brows cheekily. "Your sacred sceptre. Your god rod—"
"Mahito."
He sulks for only a moment before perking up again, tugging at your sashes and collar to open you up for his eyes only. He traces the marks on your skin with a hum.
"You and Sukuna have a lot in common, you know."
"He's a fool. I hope that's not what you mean."
He snorts. "Relax. I didn't mean it like that. I like you more, anyway."
"I'd certainly hope so." You flex your fingers, lifting one hand to measure against his waist. "I endured a thousand years of imprisonment for you."
"You're gonna bring that up constantly, aren't you?"
"Only when important. Do you know how small it was on the inside?"
He sighs. "I'm never winning an argument again."
"You've already won my heart."
"Your heart!" He laughs. "What a human thing to call it."
You lean back, allowing him to push your kimono off your shoulders. "Call it what you like. Be what you like. I've spent too long away from you to care for names and titles." You trace the stitches running across his hips. You lift your eyes, and Mahito's breath hitches at the hunger in them. They swirl with empty galaxies and dead stars, and he finds himself subconsciously leaning in, longing for that cold, dark and very gentle place. One day, at the end of all things, you will bring him there, lord of nothing and lord of everything. Perhaps he'll learn how to touch his soul to yours, like bubbles, and you'll never have to leave him again.
"Is this what you want?" he whispers as you strip him bare, his grey silk kimono pooling on the floor. "Me? Just me?"
"I have no need for anything else. Power, armies, what have you... Sukuna, Kenjaku, even this Geto – their plans are so short-sighted. Everything will come under my hand eventually. Until that day arrives, I am content with you."
"So romantic," Mahito murmurs, a coy smile pulling at his lips. "Can I also come under your hand? Pretty please?"
"Must you ruin everything I say with a filthy joke?"
He pushes you backwards onto the bed, hovering over you with a grin. He grinds down on your lap under the pretence of getting comfy and he relishes in your groan. "You just set them up so perfectly for me! How could I not?"
You click your tongue. "I indulge you too much."
"Not enough, I'd say. Took me way too long to get into your pants. Do you know how desperate I was at times? You expected me to see you doused in human viscera and not want you all up in my guts, too... Ridiculous, in my humble opinion."
"Sex is such a human notion."
"You say it like it's a bad thing," he whines. "I have to say, it's pretty fun. You like it, too, don't you?"
"Hm."
"C'mon, we're both here because of humans. We aren't, like, appropriating anything." He reaches down, palming the bulge below your kimono. His grin widens. "If you don't like it, why did you give yourself the parts for it? Ha! Checkmate."
He yelps as you grab him and toss him down onto the bed, pinning him under your weight. He stares up at you with wide, innocent eyes, his loosened kimono gaping at the chest and stomach.
You rake your eyes down his lithe, pale body, humming when his breath hitches at your touch. You glide your hand down his side, tracing the smooth curve of his waist and hip.
You reach down by his hips and part his kimono further. When the silk falls open, you are greeted by a neat patch of grey hair – and glistening pink folds.
He giggles at your expression. He twirls his hair around a finger and bats his lashes, which might be thicker and longer than usual. "Now we match."
Clicking your tongue, you curl your fingers around his slender thigh and part his legs, eyeing him unblinkingly. He's not sure if he should be aroused or offended – you're hard to read and he's never sure what you like. Perhaps that's part of why he stayed – you were like a game – but now, a thousand years later, he can't help but feel... unsure? Nervous?
Afraid?
He wants to laugh at the concept. Him? Afraid of your opinion of him? How disgustingly fragile.
You're talking now, and the sound of it snaps him out of his spiralling thoughts. You've always had that effect on him.
"I'm not sure how we match at all, Mahito," you're saying. "As spirits, we are incapable of siring spawn. I would say we match less."
He whines. "Hey...! I put all this work into looking nice for you, and you're telling me now that you don't like it? Besides, who're you to say we can't have some little curse babies, asshole? There's never been another me – maybe I'm the exception. Maybe I'm better than the rest of 'em."
At last, you lift your eyes. Mahito wants to curl up beneath your gaze – you are terrifying and comforting all at once. "No," you say softly. "You are one of a kind."
A smile splits his face, cocky, and he sits up, leaning back on his palms. His kimono slips teasingly from his shoulder. "Mmhm, that's right... Boy, you sure know how to make a guy feel special."
You tilt your head, considering something. You stroke his thigh, absent-minded, and he presses into your touch. "You don't know for certain – about spawn."
"Obviously not. I was sitting among the rocks of the Shinano River for, like, eight hundred years. You want me to fuck a fish?"
"Why?" You lift a hand as he opens his mouth to snark at you. "About the river, Mahito. Not the fish."
He frowns, his lower lip jutting out slightly. "You told me to survive! I did just that. I'm not sure why you sound so disappointed."
"You, resting in the same place for hundreds of years? Wouldn't you have grown bored? I'm sure it did not take that long to heal from your wounds."
He huffs, crossing his arms. He tugs his leg out of your grasp. His hair falls over his features. "You were dead, for all I knew! When I didn't know much about anything, you were there to teach me. For the first time ever, you were gone, and if they'd managed to kill you, what would they do to me?" He flicks a wrist, sleeve whipping your side. "You told me to live. To survive. So I did, okay? After all, it was the last thing you ever said to me. I had nothing else left of you."
The air is heavy. Neither of you moves a muscle.
"Mahito," you say softly.
He throws himself backwards onto the bed with a bounce and a soft thump, hands over his eyes. He tries to kick you, but you catch his ankle. He scowls. "Stupid. Asshole. Jerkface. Don't say my name like that."
"Mahito."
He gulps as you close the distance between you, your palm pressed to the mattress beside his head. His breath hitches as your hand glides from his ankle to his calf, holding it over your shoulder. You don't quite pin it there, but you leave your palm open, steady against the outside of his knee as it presses against you.
"You've grown soft," you observe.
He crosses his arms and tries to glare. It's a little hard when you're kneeling between his legs, your lips six inches from his own. Do you still taste the same? "No, I haven't. You just knew me before I lost everything."
"Let me return this to you, then." You part his kimono fully, the silk pooling on the bed. You reach for your own clothes, though your eyes remain trained on his. They remind him of a fox, quick and clever and sly. "Can I make it up to you, Mahito?"
He sniffs, glancing aside. His arms uncross. "Fine."
"Thank you."
You're so stupid. And polite. Ugh.
Your fingers travel down between his thighs. His throat bobs as you slide your middle finger between his wet folds, coating it in his slick. He shifts as you thrust it in gently, exploring him. Your warm palm cups him, something possessive in your touch, and as he relaxes around you, you slip a second finger in.
He gasps sharply, his hands shooting up to wrap around your biceps. You halt, buried in to the knuckle. It's hard not to be – his walls pulse around you, sucking you in.
"Am I hurting you?"
He shakes his head. He offers a brief, breathless grin. "Nah. Just feels different. Good different. Keep going."
You nod, sitting back on your heels to watch the way his cunt flutters around you. You stroke the leg thrown over your shoulder, kissing the ankle, and Mahito lets out a muffled mewl as your thumb presses against his clit.
"Sensitive," you murmur to yourself. You glance up. "Have you done this before?"
He licks his lips, steadying his voice. "What, changing myself like this?"
"Yes. For your own pleasure, rather than for battle."
"No," he admits, legs tightening around you. "This is the first time."
Humming, you glance up at him, allowing a smile to grace your features. "Then we can explore it together."
You pull your fingers from him – and with a thoughtful look, you place them in your mouth. Mahito's breath hitches as you swirl your tongue around your fingers, relishing in the taste.
"Sweet," you declare, and place his leg gently down on the bed. You settle at the base of the bed and tug him down by the thighs, staring up at him with playful eyes. "You wouldn't mind if I had a taste from the source, would you?"
He shakes his head, and it tips back with a moan as you bury your head between his thighs. You lap at his soft pink folds, and as you push your tongue inside, he slickens up, walls hot and pulsing around you. He squelches as you push in deeper, slick dripping from his eager hole. He grips your hair with both hands, moaning in delight as you fuck your long tongue in and out of him, curling roughly against the spot inside him that makes his head spin.
"Awh, fuck," he whines, laughing breathily as his spine arches and hot pleasure laps at the base of his spine. "F-Feels even better than I thought it would—! Ah, hah, gimme more!"
You draw your tongue out of him, making him whine and pull your face further into his fluttering cunt. You suck at his clit, lifting a hand to raise the hood of it as your tongue circles and your teeth graze it – he jolts in surprise, hands tightening in your hair.
"Patience," you purr, tongue laving over his reddened clit. You push it inside him, wriggling about experimentally as his throbbing walls stroke the length of it, hungry and devouring.
"I already waited a thousand years!" he says, almost angrily. His heels dig into your shoulders as he lifts his hips, chasing a high. Your tongue is so long – it massages that rough patch of nerves at the back of his cunt and he seizes, crying your name as you grip his hips and lift him to your lips.
He takes what he wants rather inconsiderately, slick dripping down your chin as you kiss his hot folds. He's practically humping your face, grinding against your mouth and the tongue sinfully deep inside of him. You groan as his moans pitch higher, whorish, and he begins to tremble around you.
So quickly? You're amused. He's missed you more than he's willing to let on.
You fuck him with your tongue, saliva and slick mixing on his fair skin, and he's positively dripping, every thrust squelching and pushing out a sweet gush of pleasure into your waiting mouth. You swallow it blissfully, your thumb circling the wet nub of his clit.
With a wobbly, high-pitched cry, he shoves your face into his gummy cunt and comes on your waiting, writhing tongue, thighs seizing around your head and locking you in place as he coats your chin in his hot, sticky slick.
With your tongue buried deep inside him, flicking about and pressing curiously against his soft walls, he lets out a shaky whine, grinding against you with rough rolls of his hips. It's not an unfamiliar motion. He takes you so prettily, soft smooth folds now dark with lust.
Shakily, Mahito releases you, body sagging into the mattress. He pants and gasps, the tense heat between his legs unbearably achy and needy. He wants to melt.
"S-So… good," he sighs, a broad grin crossing his face. You lap at him lazily, and he twitches. "Mm… Now gimme your cock, 'kay? Nice 'n' deep. Promise me."
"Promise what?" you ask, licking your lips and wiping away his come. Your eyes glint with satisfaction as you set down his unsteady legs and crawl between them, the bulge in your trousers straining in its confines.
"That you'll fuck me up," he whines, turning onto his stomach and lifting his perky ass. He gazes over his shoulder at you, wiggling his hips and spreading his knees further to show off his tight holes. "You can have either one – jus' want you in me, okay? I miss having a big cock in my belly, miss being fucked and filled up until 'm all swollen and can't move." He pouts, his eyes half-lidded, and presses his ass against your bulge, grinding lazily. "C'mon, big guy. Don't you wanna put your baby in me?"
His eyes shoot wide open and his jaw drops as a thick, throbbing intrusion splits his pussy apart. He can't help his eager moans as you set a steady pace, his loosened pussy sucking you in with ease. He scrabbles at the sheets as your grip tightens on his waist and drags him down to match every thrust – he grabs the headboard as your cock kisses his cervix, making his eyes roll back.
"Oh! Y-You're cold – big – so muh – much," he cries brokenly, pressing his palm against his stomach. He shudders at the icy temperature of you inside him, making his hot walls ache and throb with such need that it borders on pain.
On every harsh thrust, he feels you glide against his palm, filling him up so completely that he can barely breathe – that feeling, of every breath physically restricted, makes his eyelids flutter and his pussy clench and flutter. His wet warmth surges down your thighs with his high, and you groan as he jolts and whines.
"You can handle it, Mahito," you note with a soft hum. Your touch grazes his clit and his breath stutters. "You have before, haven't you?"
"I-I'm rusty," he tries to joke, but it comes out flimsy as you shift and he clamps down punishingly around your cock with a moan. "Oh, fuck!"
Your hips snap into him and he fumbles slightly, grabbing one of your hands on his hip. He slumps into the mattress, lifting his hips as you fuck into his swollen heat, slick and soft around you. Little chained moans fall from his lips as he twists the sheets in his fist; his body jolts back and forth with your thrusts, his long blue-grey braid bouncing over his shoulder.
"Feels so g-good," he slurs, legs shaking like leaves. He spreads them, reaching down to split his sticky pussy lips with the V of his fingers. His lower lip quivers as he gazes at you over his shoulder. His bangs are a mess over his lust-blown eyes. "More – more, more, I want more—! Make me yours again, ah, right there—"
"Quiet now," you murmur amongst his choppy moans. "Geto will hear you."
"Wh-Whose fault is that?" he whines, the expression on his face fucked out and deeply flushed. "H-Hah – bet he'd be jealous, anyway! He wants you but you're all mine! Mh—"
You chuckle softly, leaning over him with a palm braced by his head. He feels small like this – protected. He whines into the bedsheets, his pussy dripping down his inner thighs.
"Mahito," you say, almost admonishingly. "Are you jealous?"
"Of that – ah – human? No!"
You trail your lips up his shoulder and neck, nipping at his ear. "Mm, of course. But I do think it would be prudent to watch him carefully. That technique of his may prove... troublesome."
Mahito sniffles, come-slick walls clamping around you and making you grunt. "S-Stop talking about him."
"So you are jealous."
"I just don't like it when you talk about other people when you're inside me." He attempts a glare, but his ruined expression quivers when your cock kisses his womb, tears welling up along his lashes and sticking them together. "Th-That's a normal, hn, r-reaction."
"Would you like me to talk about you, then?"
He averts his eyes and nods, tiny, into the sheets. You press your lips to the stitches trailing over his shoulders, admiring the contrast between the dark lines and Mahito's pale skin. You pick up the pace, thighs clapping against his ass, and his moans grow louder, more desperate, as his pussy flutters dangerously around you.
"My Mahito is so sweet to me, greeting me with this little piece of heaven here," you purr with a particularly teasing thrust into his cunt, nuzzling into his hair as he grips your forearms for stability. He nods reverently, lips parting and eyes rolling as you shift your hips and fuck him quick and hard into the mattress. His toes curl as he cries out, every thrust knocking a whiny moan from his throat. "My Mahito did so well, listening to me all that time ago... You're so good at obeying me, aren't you?"
"M-Mmhm," he whimpers. "Yes! Yes, I did, I always listen to you, oh, god—"
"Ah-ah-ah... You've been spending far too much time around humans, Mahito." You kiss his neck, and he shudders, your cock filling his belly until he can think of nothing else. He whines as you stroke his side, fingers fluttering over his stomach.
"I am your god," you murmur. "I taught you. I saved you. Perhaps I can even..." You press the smooth bump in his stomach and he lets out a ruined noise, muscles tensing. "Gods create, don't they?"
A choked, whorish wail rips past his lips. The glide comes easy – hotter, wetter. Waves of heat pulse through his core. His hole squelches as a thick ring of white forms around your base.
"Mahito." You tug his braid sharply and he whimpers as his head jerks back. "If you cry out to a god, it will be my name on your lips. You are mine. I won't tolerate anything less than your total loyalty. Do you understand?"
He babbles, whimpered half-words slipping from his lips. He nods to the best of his ability with your grip on his braid, arousal curling hot and powerful in his gut at the growl in your voice. "Yes!" he cries, his ass ricocheting off your hips. The rough pace makes his knees knock together. "Yes, yes, I'm your bitch, 'm sorry – you're my god – hnn, f-fuck, don't stop—!"
"Good, Mahito. Always so obedient for me."
Perhaps he reshapes himself because suddenly he's vice-tight, throbbing around you with a gooey slickness that tugs pink around your shaft when you try to draw your hips back. You suck in a sharp breath.
"Mahito," you coo, stroking his stitched cheek, and he whimpers, tears clouding his vision. "Let me go, dear. I can't give you what you want if I can't move."
"I don't want you to leave again," he sobs, curling his fingers through yours. He can't think straight.
If – if he gave you a child, an heir... you wouldn't leave him, right? You couldn't. You liked him for his uniqueness – he wasn't like any other curse you'd ever met. You told him so. With the return of the Six Eyes, each day brings forth more powerful spirits, and you are like Ryomen Sukuna, whatever you say. You, too, are fickle, and you are cold as the night over which you reign. If some other curse – or, fuck him, a human – catches your attention, it's not impossible you might drop him for them.
After all, you're so much older than him. What is he but an indulgent curiosity?
As his thoughts spiral away from him, his body reacts to you – his glossy, silken pussy hugs your twitching cock, and the smell of sex lingers heavy in the air. "Oh god, oh god," he whimpers sweetly, brainless and drooling and pierced on thick cock, "oh, god—"
"Yes," you hiss. "You belong to me." You bury your nose in his hair, skin slapping rhythmically and rocking the bed. You bury yourself in his sloppy cunt over and over again, wrapped so perfectly around you. With a low growl that has Mahito's pussy throbbing, ropes of thick come paint his insides, filling him up and dripping from his hot, slippery folds.
He arches into your cold, firm embrace with a frenzied wail of your name, a sound wrecked with pleasure and pent-up desire. He trembles as he creams around you, milking your cock with a hungry desperation, and the pale curls over his pussy are damp with a filthy mixture of slick and come. He throws his head back. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and his eyes roll back at the feeling of your seed spurting deep within him, his insides so much more sensitive.
Or maybe he's just missed you. Either way, his throat feels raw, and the shattered whimpers that crumble from his lips as he collapses into the bedsheets are all he can manage, his pale eyes half-lidded and fluttering as you continue to pump him full. You stroke his stomach as if he's something sacred and murmur sweet nothings into his ear as he twitches in your arms.
He mewls, panting, as you eventually pull out, his gaping pussy clenching around nothing as your seed dribbles down his thigh. Without your grip on his hips to keep him up, he crumples to the bed in a dazed, soiled heap. His cunt squelches when he moves and he licks his lips, trembling slightly as he raises his head to look at you.
You're beside him now, gazing back with those beautiful eyes of yours. If he stares into them long enough, deep enough, he might catch a glimpse of clashing black holes and dying stars.
That battle an age ago left you with something inescapable. Things used to be easier – you were of the night, and the night was simple with the whisper of something shadowy within the dark. Now you have sparks of something hotter within you. Evolution, change, all of it – Mahito had more of an effect on you than anyone could've guessed.
He presses himself into your side and you wrap his lean body in your embrace. You stroke his hair with a soft hum, combing your fingers through his bangs and tucking them behind his ear.
At last, he speaks up, head resting upon your chest. "I got all dolled up for you," he says quietly. "You made a mess of me. Ruined my hard work."
You kiss his forehead. "Is that not what you wanted?"
"Hey... Don't twist my words."
"I'm sorry."
Silently, he leans up and nips at your jawline, soothing the spot with a kitten lick. He settles back down and you trace the stitches crossing his body, making him hum as you reach the ones following the V of his hips.
"I won't leave you, Mahito. Not again."
He glances up, a fist curling gently on your chest. "Really?"
You nod, staring at the ceiling. He fits perfectly into your side and you clutch him there, protective and possessive in the way he adores. "Yes."
He stares up at you, an unreadable look in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches.
"Okay," he says, and closes his eyes with a secret little smile.
summary: Grief makes you do foolish things. Like wandering out at night after dark, singing to ghosts and the trees they hide behind. But even worse– the devil listening, rambling on with false stories about how he knew your father before he died, and letting him follow you home.
warnings: mature, slowburnish, suggestive/nsfw, subtle d/s, dead dove, dubcon, blood, manipulation, stalking, violence, feeding, brief mentions of graphic violence/gore, grief, remmick is actually creepy as hell, reader is wary but still naive, saliva as an aphrodisiac, drugging, dysphoria, fingering, trans!reader/m!reader, feminine terms for anatomy, dacryphilia, pathetic man alert, remmick is a certified munch, remmick acts all cocky but goes weak in the knees for blood, oneshot(?), not beta read, itsy-bitsy plot holes to lore that don't exist if you squint, author is struggling to tag.
wc: 9.5k
(a/n): i’m not too proud of this fic, but i spent too long on it to trash it. maybe i'll revamp in the future. i took some inspiration from the story little red riding hood (specifically from into the woods, but without the child part) and put my own spin on it. first good chunk is just an introduction for you to get to know the character a bit, (i hate making x reader fics w/o the character having any personality. also, transmasc black/native!character, specifically choctaw (mother is black, father is indigenous). i hope i did enough research to write more than five paragraphs of this. might be some slight lore and time-period inaccuracies for plot but enjoy.
(likes, comments and/or reblogs are welcomed and encouraged!)
Low hanging branches of the underbrush tore at your legs as they carried you forward. Knocking against a tree, a yelp is wrenched from your throat as the bark tears into the cotton thinly blanketing your arm. Still, your hand digs into the dampened dirt, pushing you off the ground. You stumble forward with weakened resolve, ragged breaths swim with the sound of branches snapping like bones. You don't bother turning back to see if he's following you, the mere shadows of his presence sinking into your skin in his stead. Sucking in a shallow breath, the air around you seemed to thin. Flashes of your mama blanket your vision– her sweet songs, her teasing words, her loving arms. You couldn't bother to choke back the sob that bloomed in your throat. The same little words seemed to be the only thing pushing you forward. Just make it to the door. Make it, you have to. All the while, the low whistle whispers past the trees– following you. His voice. Nothing mattered anymore. Not your abandoned hatchet shrouded in dirt, not your legs burning as they hauled you forward– just those porch lights, just that door. Just your mama sleeping soundly, blissfully unaware of your absence, your empty bed. Nothing mattered, not even the swift crack sent to the back of your head, or the sound of your body hitting the ground. All of this could've been avoided if you had just heeded your mama’s warning–
“By nightfall, stay out of them woods.
That’s the devil’s playground.”
–┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈–
Sunlight pierced through the shabby planks of wood nailed together by a faded dream of home, the light spilling onto the dust-kept floors. The low voice of your mother rang out, “Get that thing off my table,” she nagged, nodding her head toward the red cloak blanketing the dining table. “I didn't spend hours sewing that damn thing together for you t’just leave it wherever.” She sighed for a moment before her attention returned to the blade beneath her palm. She blinked away tears, holding her head back away from the freshly-cut onions on her cutting board and brushing wet, thin hands onto her lavender slip. “Make sure you get all your work done, chores n’ all that.”
You shuffled forward out of the shadow cowering from the sunlight, skin of sienna. Your clothes draped over your body, long and heavy like you'd been wearing someone else's, not quite meant to fit you. Your hair fell over your face, braided into all sorts of different ways. Some twisted, string netting over the hair, some braided with beads and charms hugging them tight, and a few locks interwoven with feathers from ravens and crows falling over your collarbones. The two most noticeable braids of your hair were much longer, flowing down over your back nearly to your waist. Long, just like your daddy’s. You pull the red hood from the dust-ridden table– worn and chipped, holding it in your hands for a moment. She had woven in black, leather strings that overlapped the collar, where you'd pull it tight. Most likely taken from her corset. Tribal patterns laced the material, the hood lined with grey wolf fur. A fond memory of him setting the fur on the back of the dining room chair etches into the back of your mind.
“You know how I feel about you just leavin’ anythin’ on my damn table,” she huffed, her hand settled at her hip as she leaned against the wooden counter. A stray curl fell over her cheek– her raven hair pulled into a bun as she smiled, doing her best to fake annoyance. It'd been sweltering all that day, and mama had spent all her time cleaning without pause. She refused to have the house any other way than spotless. Your daddy stepped forward, brushing the curl from her face and behind her ear. You watched with a smile as your daddy leaned forward, placing a soft kiss on her forehead, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Habit, I’m sorry.” His voice was gruff and thick, as if it was snuffed deep in an ashtray. “Won't happen again, pisa achukma.”
The closest memory of him flickers like an open flame, but the moment it greets itself to the confines of your mind, you snuff it out– your eyes flitting to your mama’s face growing stoic. She folded her arms over her chest in mild irritation. She’d looked different than how she used to last spring. Her weight had dropped– her body nearing frail and thin. Her eyes looked tired, sunken. She brushed a few crumbs from a dented wooden chair with mild irritation before plopping down in her seat. The on-stretching silence was then interrupted, her voice cutting through your thoughts like a clearing.
“We gon’ talk now or do I gotta keep playin’ mind reader?” Your mouth grew sour, tongue pliant and useless. Right. The incident. Your eyes fall over your new hood– to the burned edges that had ripped into the rim of the cloak, to where it's singed and scorched black on what used to be your father’s blanket his mother had gifted to him– who you couldn't even give the courtesy of naming your grandma on account of never being blessed the chance to meet the woman. “Y’can’t just keep this ‘vow of silence’ up forever, baby. I know it hurts, god, I know–” she sucks in a breath, her hand on her chest. Head held high as always. She'd never break in front of you– she swore it. “But you are all I got left now. We gotta play this safe, okay?” The floorboards creak beneath her feet as she steps forward. How small you must look to her– eyes tired, heavy. “All that pain and nowhere to put it,” she'd say.
It'd been nearing a few weeks since what happened to daddy. If you blinked, you could still smell copper in the air, bitter beneath your tongue– how the fire stained the red of his blanket, burning into a thick smoke of black, Daddy throwing Mama that hatchet, woven in red patterns and string– tossing away his only defense, how his body burned; the sick smell of flesh peeling away like an onion. You weren't there for all of it, just the aftermath– rushing out of your Aunt’s with bare feet onto the paved bedding. Mama’s cries pierced your ears, almost drowning out the sound of those white men laughing. Tires skid against the dry dirt coughing up dust, circling around his burning body in their trucks like wolves to a lamb. Predators to prey. Soft thumbs brush away fallen tears you hadn't realized were welling in your eyes, blurring your vision. Those almond eyes, big and brown, blinked away the salty beads of tears staining your lashes.
“Look, y’know I'll always be there for you. I got you no matter what we goin’ through. This ain't the first time we've gone through shit together, and it damn sure won't be the last. I was here when you told me you were–” she pauses, resting her hands on your shoulders and squeezing lightly. She crooks a finger beneath your chin, pulling your gaze upward to meet her own. “You’ll always be my baby,” she hesitated. “My son.” Her eyes were teary, dark brown eyes darting between your own. “We're all we got now. I need you to know that. Don't go dark on me, too, okay? Anyone else but me.” You found yourself nodding slowly, a tear trickling down your cheek. For weeks, you had kept yourself numb after what happened. And yet, warmth enveloped you as she wrapped her arms around you. “‘S gon’ be okay. We'll be okay.” Your hands were splayed over her back. Your fingers met the cotton of her slip dress, the pad of your index tapping slowly, three times. You could feel her smile against the crown of your head, pressing in with a small kiss. “I love you too.”
The smallest memory tickled the back of your mind, of you and your daddy’s hideout. Where you'd camp under the stars guiding moonlight over their makeshift fort. Maybe that's how it happened– the memory of his fingers strumming his guitar trickled down and broke open and shattered all sorts of reasoning in your mind. Any sensibility out the window for you to end up here. Going out at night was forbidden, now that daddy was gone. A sharp pang of defiance hit your chest. You refused to bury the last parts of your daddy's memory. His body was enough.
So you waited. Waited until the sky fell into night, until the hallway had gotten quiet and mama's soft snoring was all that filled the silence. And it did. The sun had soon faded with the bright, blue sky washing into black, the stars burning into a clouded night. You slowly pulled the front door closed, tucking your daddy’s worn hatchet into his gun holster, a large hole torn into the leather to fit the handle. Just in case. You crept off of the front porch and onto the grassless, beaten path, fresh oil lamp in hand. You'd been down this road countless times, the leaves on the trees swaying in sync with the blades of grass. The burning glow of fireflies led you toward the underbrush off the path.
The path mama said you're not supposed to leave. The path your daddy carved out for you that mama didn't know about. Make no mistake– your daddy wasn't careless. He had rushed out of the house that day yelling your name until his voice was hoarse only to find you running up to him with big, doe eyes and grinning from ear to ear, cupping a frog in your hands that you found by the riverbank beyond the trees shrouding the edge of the house. How could he stand there, chest heaving laboriously and deny you of your curiosity? There was only one rule– Don't cross the white line. A rule he had made very clear since you were old enough to sit out on the porch by yourself. You remember watching him draw a line in white chalk across the somber edges of the forest from your little makeshift tent.
Branches and leaves scratch at your legs, your fingers brushing against the skin of the trees like home. Red and white paint spotted them– an indicator you and your daddy used to find your way back home. You pushed deeper into the darkened woods, past the cypress trees. Your nails scraped at the roughened bark, hurried footsteps into the bed of grass. You hummed a soft song, voice high and sweet, cracking open for the first time all month like yolk breaking free from its shell. A song your mama taught you that she learned when she was a girl. “Through the dark, I wade,” you muttered. “As if in its glory days.” Brushing the hair from your face, the sweat begins to slick your skin. “Knowing all my tears and rage,” you hummed, high and reminiscent. “Could load a revolver.” Firelights burned bright in darkness, the sound of rushing water lulling you in deeper. Almost there. Hand prints in red and white paint stained the trees from when you were a mere girl. Before the thought of being able to become something higher struck your fancy. Before you had bound your chest in bandages, and long before the ache in your ribs had faded with time.
Mama used to tease you, saying that you didn't have much to show. Said they were itty-bitty, like yellow buds of magnolias before they'd even got to bloom– before white petals fell open with age. That was before she knew, before you told her. Suddenly all those small teasing words fell short. She had grown quiet. “You know I love you right?” her voice was soft as milk and honeydew, cupping your cheek. She held you like glass, so fragile and easy to break. Because you were. “No matter what you call yourself. You'll always be mine.” Her weary arms wrapped around your small frame. Almost as if the universe knew before you did. Your curves were stunted– chest small and unfulfilled, yet your hair grew in their stead, falling past your shoulders like silk. When daddy passed, you’d cut a large amount– the hair around your face no longer needing to be pulled back behind your shoulder blades. Mama helped braid and twist the rest of it, like she had seen some foreign girls have them. Yet you kept the pools of hair down your back long, braided tight. As if you’d left that part of yourself behind– who you used to be when daddy was still breathing softly against your skin as you laid your head out on his chest that warm day in May.
You stopped in your tracks. A small glint of glass catching your eye, the rust had set heavy on the oil lamp. You moved forward slowly, kneeling before your hideout. It'd been a long time since you'd visited, the candle burned to the end of its wick, curling in on itself as if it had spent its flame waiting for your return. Your eyes catch on the line drawn with chalk right at the edge of the tent. Pushing the lamp smothered in ash and wax aside, you replace it with the one fresh from the house. Crawling inside, you made yourself home again beneath the old blankets soaked dry since the skies last mourned daddy’s passing with you. Digging your hands under the pillows and blankets, you pause the moment your fingers brush against it– the strings of daddy’s guitar. Slowly, you pulled it into his lap– its body too big and bulky for you to blanket it comfortably, not meant for the two of you to slot together like daddy did with it. You hook the band over your shoulders while soft pads of skin strum at the cords, a low hum thrumming into the open air. The air shifts, a push from the wind blows the stray hairs from your face. Your nail scratches at the strings, palm hugging the nape of the guitar. Thin fingers press deep into the cords and the guitar whines. The sound of voice flies high and soft into the air like lace, intricacies falling from your lips.
“Slip off down to sleep,” you murmur. A song you'd nearly forgotten, your eyes fall shut as you serenade the sky with practiced words. “I’ll be waitin’ for your open arms– with cold to keep, until you feel yourself dragging down–” The hush of leaves blowing in the wind seemed to slow, the woods growing quiet. Your strumming grew louder, bolder as your voice rang out. “–the fitted sheets. Your home is nothing more to me than shelter for your heart– a heart that bleeds,” you hums. “It bleeds for me.” Your hand slows against the open void of the guitar. For a moment, there's nothing but the low whisper of the breeze slotted between the leaves and blades of grass. For a moment, you don't notice the air shifting, cold settling on your skin, only feeling your fingers pin the cords of the guitar.
A chill crawls down your spine, making itself known. It forces your eyes open with a quiet gasp. And then, you see it. How the cypress trees seem to bend and groan around it, the fireflies’ lights dulling. A figure– a man. Tall with broadened shoulders and stalk still. The silhouette stood there, shrouded in darkness. Almost as if he was waiting for you to notice his presence. As if the chill in the air wasn't enough of an introduction. He just stood there– with his weight leaned against one leg, hands sewn into his pockets.
It was surreal– unnerving, even. No croaking of the frogs leaping from the river’s edge, no chirping of the crickets– just silence. You could hear the thump of your heart, blood pounding in your ears as you remained still, frozen like a deer at the end of a rifle’s barrel. Adrenaline began to pool within your stomach, your gut twisting into knots. For a moment, you almost convinced yourself it was just an odd shadow, until the figure cocked his head, his arms rising into a slow clap. Each clap sent an echo cracking through the forest, the man beginning to amble toward you.
“Now that was just beautiful. Truly,” You stumbled, forcing yourself to rise to your feet– your hand swiftly grazed the hatchet in your makeshift holster, hood slipping from your head, folding back against your neck. The man paused with raised hands, halting any further movement closer toward you, just a few feet before the line drawn in chalk. Shadows clouded his face from the neck up, pale skin making itself known in the moonlight. A man– a white man. “Woah woah, hey. I don't mean no harm,” he soothed with a deep southern drawl, the words dripped from his lips as if his voice had doused a fire in honey. “I just happened t’hear yer singin’ as I was walkin’ by. Didn't wanna scare y’off.”
You take your time eyeing the man before you. His collar was loose and near sweat-drenched, the glint of a small, gold chain wrapped his collarbones, the light blue cuffs of his sleeves pulled tight at his wrists. Dark suspenders lined his torso and down his back, a makeshift band splayed across his chest, presumably for an instrument on his back. You stayed quiet, white-knuckling the hatchet at your side. The man ducked his head forward and out of the shadows, short black curls slicked his forehead in sweat. Every move the man took was measured, yet deliberate. “My name's Remmick.” You slid the hatchet from the holster, gripping it by the nape of wood just before the blade. Nothing about this man was natural. His lopsided grin gave him the chills and he seemed more relaxed than normal to be threatened with a hatchet. What's a white man doing in the middle of the woods at night, anyway? By himself?
Every inch of the man rang false, every part of your body screamed danger. The man's deep, brown eyes seem to shine in the dark, darting down to your iron-grip. “No need to be on high alert. I swear, I meant no harm. S’just–” he spoke, his body language suddenly shifting as he gestures into the open air. “Well, when I heard yer voice, I was just curious– I mean that was a damn near siren call. Thought I was bein’ lured in by some angel, maybe worse.” he chuckles. The corners of his mouth curl upward with awkward, yet playful amusement, like he'd been waiting for you to laugh. Your gaze flits to the glint of his teeth briefly, unsure.
You remain unmoving from your place, feet anchored into the dirt behind the line. Remmick’s smile fades, nodding his head softly in understanding as his finger undulates across the side of his neck, the sound of his nail lightly scratching skin filling the silence between you. “My mistake, didn't mean’ta set ya off ‘r nothin’.” he reluctantly turns on his heel, glancing down at the guitar in your hand before he leaves. You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding as the man takes a few steps away and “–Wait a second,” he pauses, spinning right back around and sauntering forward. Your nerves rake up against your spine, defensive. “Is that–? Nah, it can't be…” You must've made a face of obvious confusion, because the man jabs a finger at the guitar in your hand. “Sorry, s’just– I knew a man who had a guitar just like that one in yer hand. Ah, what was his name again..?” He pressed a finger to his lips as if he was trying to recall something. Just this once, you leaned forward, eyes hopeful. “Started with’a…S–” You took a step forward, finding feeling in his legs. “You knew my daddy?” you asked, sucking in a breath of desperation.
Hook, line and sinker.
Remmick pauses, not quite looking in your direction as he nods along. “Yeah, yeah I knew ‘im. We was good friends.” he paused, like he needed to collect his thoughts. “Not for long, heard somethin’ happened. Matter a’fact, I was actually headin’ this way to check up on ‘im.” Your heart dips in disappointment for a moment before the man speaks again, “Wait a minute– yer his…” You don't miss the way the man’s eyes roll over your frame, and you swallow down a shudder of humiliation.
“Son. I'm his son.” You fill in with false confidence, voicing pitching up. Who on earth would believe that? Swinging the guitar over your shoulder to rest against your back, your hand fidgets at the holster at your side, slowly pushing the hatchet back into its leather. Remmick gives an absent nod in understanding, hand resting over his hip. Pretending not to notice. “Well, I hope he's all right–” Deciding to hopefully spare yourself from words of lithe pity, you quickly interject, “He's dead.” You did your best to hide the tremble of a newborn doe’s legs in your voice, unsure why you're willingly offering up so much information at the mere mention of your daddy.
The man’s small smile falters for a moment, settling into a deep frown. You could comment on how something had shifted in the way he looked at you. Maybe with understanding, maybe sadness, maybe something more. “Ah,” He bows his head in respect, dragging his hand against his chest and over his thin, mussed dress shirt. “‘M sorry for yer loss…hm, that there’s’a real shame.” he sighed. There was a beat of silence before you spoke again– spoke more than a few words for the first time in weeks. “How'd.. how'd you know him?” you asked, suddenly growing confidence in his voice. Even bold enough to take a step forward. The man stood still for a moment, his eyes flicking to your dirt-washed leather boot breaching ever closer toward the line with a small smile that made your stomach swirl with unease. He tilts his head, curious.
Quiet for a moment, as if he'd been enjoying the silence– how you lingered with bated breath. “Yer sure bein’ careful not to step on over this line. Why is that? What's it for?” he questions, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Y’sure yer supposed to be out here on yer own so late at night?” You stilled in confusion at how hard the conversation had shifted, and whatever brief connection you had flickered– dimmed. You gave a brief and uncertain nod. The man mirrored the tilt of his head, doubtful. His eyes squinted, casting a sliver of moonlight over his eyes. “Nevermind,” you mumbled, feeling dumb for prying at old stories about some man and a ghost. Twigs crunched beneath your feet as you slowly pulled away, his eyes trailing after you. “Sorry for askin’. Goodnight, sir.” you muttered awkwardly, shuffling away from him and the interaction alone. As you walked away, his voice echoed behind you. “I could tell ya. Nothin’ but small stories to share…but I'd rather tell ya while I make sure you get home okay. S’not safe to be wanderin’ out alone in these woods.”
You paused, pulling your gaze from the trees before you and turning on your heels once again to face him. This time, you stepped closer than you had before, your boots toeing a hair over the line. This wasn't foolish, was it? You'd be getting home safe, swapping stories with a man who knew your father…but at the cost of him knowing where you live. You could already hear Mama’s voice, shrill and angry. “What did I tell you about strangers? Let alone a white man?! I don’t give a damn if he knew the first lady– you don't talk to strangers!” You hesitate, briefly giving him a once-over with furrowed brows. “You're not… some kinda killer or thief are you?” Remmick gives a dry chuckle, hollow, as he steps forward. Only a few inches bordered the space between you two. “You think your daddy’s the type to be friends with men like that?” he asks, the question not needing a response. Your hand laced around the handle of your hatchet falls to your side, shoulders dropping slightly with a small sigh.
You turn on your heel, eyes never leaving the man as you wait for him to follow before he speaks again, “That mean I'm chaperonin’?” The question slips from his lips like a joke, but he makes no effort to move, his hands pulled tightly behind his back, as if he was genuinely waiting for an answer. You slowly nod, “It's fine, I don't mind,” you insisted. “If my daddy trusted you, I guess I can too.” The man gives a borderline wolfish grin, walking over the threshold languidly. He took his time, keeping himself a few steps just behind you, voice low and lazy. “Lead the way, darlin’.”
You ignore the way the nickname had sewn shivers into your spine, along with the small brush of heat sent straight to your stomach. Your boots crunched against the brittle rocks beneath your soles, the shudder of the leaves in the wind filling the silence. You didn't have to turn to know his gaze was fixed onto you. His footsteps were quiet, eerily quiet for a man that walked without a care in the world or a place to be. You ignored the unsettling presence stretching into the air, deciding against your better judgement for dry, small talk.
“So, how'd you meet my dad?” You didn't bother to crane your neck to speak, figuring there'd be no need to. It did nothing to ease the sickly feeling in your gut festering as the man rasped behind you. “Got into some trouble I couldn't get out of.” he answered, oddly dry. There was a stark difference in how he'd been acting a few minutes ago to now. For a man who seemed to know a lot about your daddy, he sure spoke of him in few words. In fact, the only consistent sound between them were his ragged breaths, seemingly only growing louder. Almost as if he was…getting closer? You couldn't help but sneak a glance at him.
He had been walking behind you the same distance as before, but he looked…off. Looked distracted, as if the distance had been intentional. You watched as his eyes lazily shifted from the trees to the lake, occasionally down the beaten path you'd been walking. It didn’t look like he was waiting for anything to happen, no. Besides, it was rare for wolves and bears to keep company on this side of the woods, let alone any man. No, in fact, it was like he was memorizing everything around him. He rolled his wrist in his palm, his thumb brushing over a vein. The grip he had on himself looked tight, strained. You could see his jaw clenching from the spill of moonlight. Was he in pain? Why would he be? Why now? His eyes snap to meet your own, the slight cock of his head causes you to quickly pry your eyes away from him like skin from an open flame. Your cheeks flush in embarrassment at getting caught openly ogling the man, hoping you hadn't given him any false promises or ideas. You hesitated to open your mouth again to break the silence, but it seemed he’d noticed the uncomfortable stretch of silence between you two this time, speaking first. You could feel his eyes sliding down over your frame, a little longer than necessary. “That’s'a real nice cape you got there, fits ya real nice.”
“Thanks,” you whispered, bowing your head slightly into a nod. You tried to keep your focus on the path ahead, your hand brushing against familiar trees stained with you and your daddy’s handprints. If he noticed, he made no mention of it, continuing on about your clothes as you peered past the branches and leaves shrouded in shadows. “Reminds me of that lil’ story they read to li’l lads much younger than you, ‘Little Red Riding Hood’,” he droned. Quietly noting the slight shift of his accent, you hum in response, making sure you didn't come off as dismissive despite your desperate longing for silence. He continues on, and you make no effort to shut him down from the unnecessary amount of conversation between the two of you. It'd be impolite.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of it,” he carried on, no doubt unaware of your complete lack of interest in a discussion about your appearance. You had enough of that already. You decided not to comment on how much he spoke of you compared to your daddy for only knowing you a short while. “A lil' girl, skippin’ about in the woods for her mama to go visit her sick grandma…” he pauses, and you could hear his tongue slicking over his lips. You restrain yourself from a full-body shudder in case he’d notice, and he pushed on, his steps a little louder with every drag of his feet. “Basket full of bread n’ everythin’ else, and then she runs into this… big, bad wolf.” A sick feeling settles into your stomach again as the sound of his tone shifts a little lower and into something foreign. Your pace stutters almost imperceptibly– almost, the hairs rising at the nape of your neck. You quickly blanket the sudden fear with a scoff, ignoring how your throat runs dry. “Right, so if I'm supposed to be ‘Red Riding Hood’, does that mean you’d be the big bad wolf?” you ask, burying the question in humor over your terror, not even bothering to hide the brief look over your shoulder.
There’s a small flicker of something dark and heavy pooling in his eyes– like oil as he laughs, too hearty to settle your nerves. As if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. It was beyond eery. Some strange man who showed up out of nowhere, walking you home with promises of stories about your daddy, only for him to ramble on about children's tales. “I just think she was mighty impolite. Thing is– lil’ Red could’ve just shared some of her treats. Not like it would've harmed anybody,” he rambled on, as if he wasn’t drinking the terror itching beneath your skin. “‘S awfully rude to chat up a storm ‘bout someone else’s hot meal in front of someone starved of one.” His voice had sunk into a deep rasp, pulling fear out of you like wool from a spindle.
You halted in your tracks, the lights of your front porch luminous in the far distance. Spinning around to face him like bullets locked in a chamber, your voice cut through his, sharp– the kind of tone your daddy taught you to use when you meant business. “Thanks for walking me home, sir,” you could hear the slight tremor in your voice, falling short of the business end. Remmick falters, his legs sputtering into a stop, the smile he wore long gone. Whether it was the trees’ branches curled over his head or your imagination, a shadow had cast over his eyes. “I can get there myself now.” you reassured him, keeping your forced smile brief as you gave a curt nod off. He cocks a brow, amused. “Well, I didn't walk all this way just to be left here in the woods without makin’ sure you made it to the door.” he stated. His tone was definite, not combative– almost like he was testing how far he could push your courtesy, which had already been stretched thin. “I'm sorry to have wasted your time, but I really should be going now.” you bowed your head, stepping backward. He follows, taking a step forward in turn. “Y’really don't get it, do you lambkin?” Any shred of playfulness had been stripped from his voice, his tone bare and heavy. “I had no intention of lettin’ you up n’ leave, not without a lil’ taste, anyway.”
An echo of dread sinks into your bones, shaky legs stumbling backward. And again, he follows, his hands still clenched behind his back. Every inch of your body is screaming to fight, run, anything to get away from him. The air between you grew thick as fear settled into your nerves. Remmick inhales, breathing in deep. “Y’know, I can smell you from here. Can hear yer lil’ heart beatin’ out of yer chest there.” he rasped. Instinctively, your hand clutches your hatchet, drawing it from your holster. He clicks his tongue, sauntering forward. “I wasn't lyin’ when I said I find it rude to dangle a hot meal in front of someone starved.” he confessed, now close enough to flick a lock of hair from your face. The moon filtered through the clouds, revealing a silver lustre over his eyes. Saliva lined over his chin, thick and white as his voice rumbled. “‘N yer all I got, lil’ Red.”
Without hesitation, you grip the splintering wood of your hatchet, swinging it deep into the cave of his shoulder, the wedge of it dipping into his collarbone. Blood rolled from his shoulder in waves, drenching his sky-washed, collared shirt in nothing but red. Remmick howled in pain, staggering as he clutched the handle protruding from his shoulder. “Fuck!” he growled, chest heaving something fierce with eyes drawn back to you. Slowly, he wrenched the hatchet from his flesh, and the sound of his bones slickened with blood cracking drew in nausea from you as you watched. You don't bother lingering, fleeing down the small incline and toward those porch lights that felt miles away. You spare a glance behind you to see Remmick just standing there, throwing the hatchet down into the softened dirt. Fire had burned over those silver, moonlit eyes as he called for you, his voice echoing through the forest. “Runnin’ will get ya nowhere, lil’ lamb. There ain’t nowhere you can hide under moonlight where I won't find you.”
And here you are, your legs burning like wax to a flame. Your hand shot out to shield you from a larger branch nearly thwacking you in the face. Closer, I can see the light. The trees seemed to part for you like water as you pushed forward. You ignored the burn of your lungs as the air grew thin, grasping at the air desperately to catch your breath. Your heart pounding with fear was an understatement, every ounce of blood in your body singing to get home. And then, darkness. You could hear your body fall to the ground with a reverberated thud.
┄─━ ࿅ ༻ ♱ ༺ ࿅ ━─┄
Your head swam, nausea never fading. A small blur of Remmick sat across from you, and too many fingers to count strum at the banjo in his lap. You did your best to blink into your vision focus. “Where is..where I–” Remmick’s head shot up, his voice ringing out like bells as laughter bubbled into the open air.
“Ho–ly shit. Almost knockin’ the livin’ daylights outta you must’ve givin’ you a concussion there, sweetheart.” He's quick on you before you can blink, gentle hands grazing over… something over your ankle. Something tight, numbing. The stark comparison to how he'd been before to now made your head spin. Your head burns white-hot with pain, your eyes sliding your gaze over him to watch as he hovers above you. “Careful how yer lookin’ at me there, darlin’,” he admonished, pulling his hands away from you and settling back into his chair, his arms folded over the back as he leaned forward. “Ain't nothin’ stoppin’ me from killin’ you and takin’ what I want–” your gaze fell down to the cotton sheets you sat on, your back against the headboard while he continued on. “But I consider myself’a gentleman. Yeah– I need you to know me.” Your eyes fluttered closed, wanting nothing more than to drift off. You would've– if it weren't for the snap of Remmick’s fingers pulling you further into consciousness. “Ah-ah, hey, don't go noddin’ off on me now. Where are you?” His words slipped into your head as you stirred, realization sinking in. Where are you? Your eyes darted from the walls to the soft bed beneath you. Not your walls, not your bed. Not your home. “I..I don't–” Remmick nods. “That's right, you don't know.” he scolded, like he owned the right to be disappointed. “I oughta think that would've woken you up a lil’ faster there, lambkin.”
And it does. You jolt forward from the bed, snagging your foot at the edge of the mattress as you tried to pull your legs underneath you. Your eyes drift down to the rope tied firmly around your ankle, caught on the bed post. Your boots had been taken off, tossed into the corner of the room. Remmick's eyes follow your own, untangling the rope tethering you to the wooden leg, his movements slow and languid– like you weren't trapped with him. You hauled your legs from the edge, pulling away from his touch like a burn. He pulled away as well, leaning back against his chair. Silence laced the air between the two of you. No, he’d been quiet, like he'd been waiting for you to speak. Not that you needed permission. Your lips part with a slight tremble, voice dry and brittle. “Are you going to kill me?”
He pauses, allowing silence to linger once again, possibly entertaining the idea. “I could. ‘M capable. I mean, what would yer old man say ‘bout you talkin’ to strangers?” Your mouth grew sour, the taste swimming over the bed beneath your tongue. “Don't talk about him.” you grit out, the words snapping from your jaw. The walls around you seemed to creak and groan, breathing you in, tasting your defiance. Or maybe you were just deluded. Remmick stood, pulling his chair around to sit properly. He leaned back with a tilt of his head, legs spread and inviting. “Careful,” he warned, words short and stern. “Y’ain’t got no one here to save you now, lil’ lamb.” Remmick leaned forward, that red sliver in his eyes returning. “Now, I've been nothin’ but kind to you. Gave you my name– my company. There's nothin’ I hate more than my gifts bein’ taken for granted.” he rumbled.
Your tongue laid pliant in your mouth, useless. Didn't seem like the time to be mouthy, anyway. Deft fingers drew over the wooden footer, tracing lines and patterns near your foot. “You ain't give me as much of a ‘hello’, singin’ high n’ sweet over yer daddy’s guitar. Took my interest in you as a threat.” he drawled, almost melancholic. “‘S been years since I shared company with anyone...” he trailed off. Scarred knuckles graze the bare skin of your ankle. “Since I've eaten. Properly.” he admitted. “‘M tired of settlin’ for filth. Need me somethin’ sweet…” he murmured, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes flit to meet your own.
Terror settled into your skin, drawing your legs tight over your chest. He sighs, slipping his hand away. “I can strike a deal with you, y’know. You wanna know what really happened to yer daddy.” he avouched. “Wanna know the names of the sons of bitches that killed ‘em too.” his voice dips low, telling. Your ears perk up slightly, enough for him to notice. “If you give me what I want, I'll give you everythin’ yer pretty little beatin’ heart desires and more.” he tempted, sin spilling from his lips with practiced ease.
Anyone else knew better. Anyone else would say no to those sweet little words– knew they sunk into your soul with a weight you couldn't carry. But you didn't care about knowing better, there was nothing else you needed to know besides curing the heartache he'd left you with. Mama's words fell on deaf ears as you sighed. You leered at the man before you, measured. He looked sweaty, shirt stained of moisture and blood from the gash you had given him earlier, the shirt torn open from his shoulder. Looked as if it'd been healing up nicely while you were knocked unconscious. Shock couldn't have been drawn any more from you. You knew what he was when saliva dribbled from his mouth, fire burned within his eyes– he was the devil, coming before you to bear you his humble gifts. “What is it you want?”
“Ain't it obvious?” he asked, with a tilt of his head. A habit he had, you noticed. He didn't elaborate, not needing to with the way his eyes raked over your frame. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll wake up to a name. Whether it's carved into a wall, inked into a sheet of paper or whispered into your ear...you’ll know it was me who gave it to you,” he stated. “‘N after yer done, I'll be there that night after you’ve killed him to give you another– that n’ more.” You sputter, cutting through his words as your brain tried to process what he was saying. “Wha-what happens if I can't kill him in a day? What If I need time?” He grins, wolfish– the same grin he gave you in the woods. “Then it'll take as long as it takes, darlin’. If y’need my help, just whisper my name after sunfall n’ I’ll be there. But no matter how long it takes, I'll still be there after every kill. To take what's mine.” You let in a shaky breath. “I'll do it.
“‘M sure you would at the thought alone darlin’, but I need t’know you mean it. I need a first.” he avowed, nodding in a matter-of-fact way. “A first?” you parroted in confusion. He nodded again, “A first of yours. Somethin’ you've never offered up, never shared. First kill, first shed of blood…” his gaze kept to the floors before his next words, locking on your own. “...first kiss.” A shiver runs down your spine as you mull over sharing any of your firsts with the creature– the devil. The silence doesn't last long, as he speaks again with a sickening, polished grin.
“So, what's it gonna be?”
┄─━ ࿅ ༻ ♱ ༺ ࿅ ━─┄
Red fell from your shoulders as he loosened the strings of your cloak, unburdened by the memory of your father as your mind begins to cloud in need with his lips on your own, his tongue pushing past teeth. Remmick’s hands were slow pulling away your dark and dirt-mudded shirt, unbuttoning the cuffs. “Sweet boy,” he murmured, low and heavy. “So good for me.” he cants, and he's wrong. You were being anything but good, spread open under the devil’s touch, far from home as your mama slept sound. Couldn't even leave a note, not that you would've. Not that you could bare your shame to the disappointment in her eyes, after coveting your lust– your need.
You're pulled away from the thought as a finger hooked into your bandages wound tight over your chest. You made a shamefully poor attempt to stop him, your hands too heavy and heated. The bandages barely fall from your skin before his mouth is on you. He moves to the dulled swell of your chest with rapt attention, his tongue laving over a nipple, the back of your hand rushes over your mouth as you stifle a moan. “Ah-ah, none of that now,” he rumbled, reverent. “You ain't gon’ rob me of hearin’ you fall apart for me pretty.” His teeth graze over, nipping at the bud and you honest-to-god whimper, writhing in his arms. He gives the other the same treatment– the same attention and care, a peek of his tongue sending you further over the edge. His jaw slacks, moaning into your skin as he moves his head down, down, down past loosened bandages. You made a noise of protest, head slumped against the pillows. “I don't– I'm not…I can't–” He hushes your sweet cries, the words uselessly slurred on your tongue.
“Yer body don't gotta be made to sin for me to crave it, darlin’.” Your head lolls to the side, granting him easy access. His lips trail over your skin, your throat bare and open for him. A whimper breaks out from deep in your chest, fire thrumming in your veins, your stomach pooling heat only he could swim in. “See, sweet thing?” he hums, tongue lapping at the soft of your neck. “Look how easy you open up for me once you see how good I can make it for you.” His hands strum heat from you with the barest of touch, your body caving in to want more than anything. “Such a pretty lil’ thing, all limp and wantin’...” Nails rake over the expanse of your tummy, fingertips tracing your wants like a man starved. Your eyes flutter, coated in a clouded haze when he reaches below your navel. Your head swims, hesitance no longer holding you back as you card soft fingers in his hair. He groans– like you were sin handed to him over silver.
He made himself room between your thighs, thighs bracketing his face. Tasting you wasn't enough, he needed to be buried into your bones. He hardly needed invitation for what he was doing to you, your head turned mush at every touch. You threw an arm over your face, humiliation burning into you under his scrutiny, those dark eyes stilled over you. “Don't feel shame, lambkin,” He coos softly, pulling your arm away. He guides your hand over the slack of his jaw, caving into your touch. “Feel me.” Your lips trembled as you spoke, and god– is that how you sounded? Your voice was all high and sweet as you spoke. “‘M not made right– don't look how I wanna down..down there.” Remmick glowered, like he couldn't bother to hide his annoyance in your words. Like you had no right.
His hands showering you in warmth as he pulls you apart further– your thighs open wide. “A meals’a meal, darlin’. You think ‘m gon’ complain how it's made?” he chuckled, the sound reverberating through you as he pulled away your slacks, tossing them without a care in the word. He marveled at the sight of you, cunt soaked beneath thin cotton. “Fuck,” he groaned, tugging away your underwear. “You might be more than I can handle, sweetness.” He blew cold into your skin, reveling in the way you shuddered beneath him.
His tongue bathed in you, hooking your legs over his shoulders as he lavished your clit with attention. He relished how your back bowed, whining softly into open air. He laved over your cunt, salt-slick from his insistence. “Oh, you treat me so sweet,” he panted, starved. “Wound up with heaven in my hands.” His thumb rolled over your clit, roughened hands pushing you further sensitive. “All it took was talkin’ you into it a lil’, showin’ you how good it could be.” You were anchored in the feeling of him, his hands– his touch the only thing keeping you leveled. Your name left his lips against his will, wanting to keep the letters buried beneath his tongue. “So, so good. Laid out all pretty for me.” He choked back a whimper at your taste, salt melting away to your sweetness, innocence on his tongue. He knew you could be good like this, he just had to dig it out of you a bit. Your stomach coiled, taut with heat as you white-knuckled his curls.
Your chest burned, only satiated by Remmick’s tongue– his touch. “Please, it hurts,” you sobbed, tears staining your cheeks. He pauses, slowly pulling back with slight worry. “Hurts without you touching– make it go away, please.” you begged, the small tremor of your lips sealing your need. His mouth opened in a silent “ah” in understanding, hand cupping your jaw softly. “Forgot about that. Y’Had me worried for a minute there, sweetness,” His thumb trails over your lips, pushing past them and sitting heavy on your tongue. You sigh, appreciative– grateful for his attention. Something you'd never come to know without the foreign heat pooling in your tummy. “A lil’ somethin’ I forgot to tell you when I showed you my lil’ magic trick– when I do it, yer body is commanded to need me– my presence, my touch. Me. You were made mine before I even got t’lay my hands all over you, lil’ lamb.”
His words were garbled under your open sobs, the way he wanted you. “Oh, don't you worry now, it'll wear off. Eventually.” he mutters, mouth on you once again, drinking you in. Seconds pass into minutes of him wrenching pleasure out of you, his mouth coated in slick. It’s only when he wrings you of your first orgasm does he give you more. Then, and only then, does he push those thick fingers past the tight ring of your cunt. You cry out, lips all puffy and pink. He doesn't stop, just slows. Pushing, pushing them into you. You instinctively wrap your hand around his wrist, not stopping him, just holding it there. Bracing. He sighed into the soft of your neck, your blood pulsating beneath your skin. “Been waitin’ for somethin’ like you for long, long time…” he whispers. “I can feel fire in your blood, sweetness. Can feel how it's pulsin’ for me.” His eyes flit to your own as he manages to tear himself from your neck. “Can I, pretty? Would’ya be so kind, hm? Jus’ a lil’ taste…please–” he babbles, his resolve cracking like porcelain. You feel yourself nod, unsure what you're even agreeing to, not even really caring. All that occupied your mind was heat, pure and raw. It was an afterthought when you felt Remmick nip at your neck, blemishing the skin. And then…
Teeth prick your skin as he sinks his teeth down, deep into your throat bared for him. Your mouth opens, the air peeled from your lungs as cold washes over your skin. Something trickles from your neck, fervid. And Remmick groans, something guttural. Tears blur your vision, echoes of Remmick lapping at your skin keep you lucid. He growls, muttering beneath your skin, something ancient. Some words you recognized, most you didn't. “Cho milis rium (So sweet to me),” he keens. “Mo uan milis, tha thu cho math. Cho umhail. (My sweet lamb, you're so good to me.)” His fingers piston into you without falter, curled to reach that sweet spot. You let out a broken sob, mewling into his ear. A shuddering breath is pressed against your shoulder, mumbles of ruin, broken in and soft in your ear. “So pretty– so good, fuck,” he lets out a breathy moan, a desperate, filthy thing. “Needed this– needed you, ‘n yer so sweet–”
He mouthed over your wound, hot breath coating your skin. Your eyes flutter shut, the sound of him fading in and out with your consciousness. He taps your thigh, insistent. Grounding. Your eyes open with warped focus, blurred, feeling something grinding into you– someone. Remmick had been rutting against you, peppering sloppy kisses along your jaw with blood-slickened lips. “Don’t go passin’ out on me, now. Need you nice n’– fuck, warm–” He was desperate, filthy words spewing from his tongue. “Need’ta fuck you. Tell me I can, don't stop me now, please.” his control wavered, slipping out of his grasp and coming undone over you. You nodded, and he swallowed dry. “Say it. C'mon, tell me.” he pleads with a languid grunt, the words rushed– as if shame burned his tongue in needing to beg you for it. “Need you,” you whisper, face flushed as warmth filled your head.
You don't know when you feel it. Maybe after the deep groan into the quiet, or the grip around your thigh, or maybe the first push– his hips sinking closer against you. Pressure. Filling you, holding you captive. It's slow at first– its release, before you feel it again, and again, and again. His cock pumping into you, those dark brown eyes shining slivers of red as he gapes at you. You writhe, whimpering soft. He hushes your small cries, his arms wrapping over you, hand cupping at the nape of your neck. It's enough for you to pull yourself from the haze, enough for you to cling to him. Heat builds in your tummy, and you clench around him, fervent. He moans into the shell of your ear, nothing but filthy squelching coating silence. Your nails bite into his back, digging into his shirt. Why does he still have that filthy thing on? You whine, fuckdrunk, and he notices with a huff of laughter. “I gotcha, sweet thing, fuck– I'll give’ya what’ya want.” he drawls, fucking into you with an unwavering pace. “Please, please–” He growls, a litany of filth spilling from his lips.
White brushes over and paints your vision, Remmick’s hips still snapping into you with fervor, wringing you dry of your orgasm and through the aftershocks of pleasure. Your hips fuck into the air, overstimulated. You weep, soft like silk. “Shh, s’okay. I can make it good, I promise, I'll make it so good.” he groans, greedy and debauched. He comes, pulling out and fucking slick and cum onto the sheets, like he didn't deserve to ruin you any further– to pump you full of sin. He sighs, his high settling as he brushes away tears from your eyes. The two of you pant into the open air, your skin sticky and glossed in sweat. A moment passes, a beat of silence, nothing but your sniffles before he returns. You hadn't even noticed he was gone. Something cold presses into your inner thigh, wet. It laves over your skin as your vision blurs, fighting sleep. “S’Alright. You can rest,” he assures, fingertips brushing over your navel. “You’ll see me again real soon.” The words etched into your consciousness as your vision blacked, exhaustion taking over you.
It’s only when you hear nails rake over the wood beside you do you startle awake, gasping a lungful. Your eyes dart around only to find yourself…in your room? Peering down at your chest, you half-expected bare skin, only to be covered in the same clothes you'd worn before. You scan the room, finding everything exactly how you had left it, except for two things– Your daddy's guitar posed in the corner of your room, leaning flush against the mahogany of the closet door. That, and your hatchet– buried deep into the cracked wood of your dresser. Your eyes roll over to where you'd heard the scratching in your sleep to see letters carved into the wood beneath the windowsill, forming a name. Donovan Greene.
Your jaw sets, lips pressed into a thin line as you toss your bed sheets aside, swinging your legs over the edge of your bed. You're thrown off by the sound of your mother hollering from the kitchen echoing into the narrow hallway, muffled by your bedroom door.
helloooo i fell for your writing style 😭 i love it sm and saw your req is open so i want to test my luck dhwkkqoq. can i ask for bottom m!rd with sunday and aventurine 3p? reader loses a bet so he must take them both 😚 i wanna see reader being double penetrated when aventurine and sunday mock each other (maybe out of jealousy..) just ignore me if u feel uncomfy. tysm for your works, love them and you! have a nicee day/night 🥰
bet — sunday & aventurine
sunday x male reader x aventurine
requested!
you lost the bet.
a stupid card game with rules you barely understood, egged on by aventurine’s sweet-talking and sunday’s little smiles. you just played like a fool, confident you could bluff your way through.
but oh, you were wrong.
you should’ve known that the moment aventurine explained that there could only be one loser, all while looking at you with that signature grin of his!
“this is absolutey rigged,” you huffed, brows furrowed as you sat between the two of them, the game laid out on the table—some convoluted mess of cards and chips with rules only they seemed to understand.
“you’re bluffing,” you said, narrowing your eyes at aventurine as you laid down your hand.
aventurine hummed, tilting his head. “am i?”
sunday didn’t even look at you. he was already placing his cards down, gloved fingers pristine, precise.
“what’s the loser’s punishment again?” he asked as he turned to you.
“why’re you asking me? don’t you already know?”
“well, a loser should be aware of his punishment, no?
“huh?”
and just like that, they cleaned the table. your mouth fell open as your cards flopped pathetically in front of you.
“no. no, that’s bullshit. this game is rigged. you guys literally made it up—what the hell is a ‘cosmic fold’ anyway?” you huffed, pouting.
“a valid move,” sunday replied, with a bored look. “perhaps if you’d read the rules—”
“aventurine provided nothing.”
“that’s why i explained! if only you had listened—“
“you’ve got a knack for creating weird ass rules, aven,” you sighed, your upper body plopping down the table in defeat.
aventurine shrugged and began unbuttoning his sleeves. “oh well, a bet’s a bet, sweetheart.”
“there’s no way i will do whatever you guys want—“
“backing out now? you’re being unfair…” aventurine said, standing up and walking behind your chair, resting both hands on your shoulders as you scoffed.
you didn’t want to be unfair.
“back out my ass! what do you guys want?” you huffed, crossing your arms as you awaited their response… only to receive silence.
they were quiet, staring at each other like they were speaking in some silent, smug language only the two of them understood.
you sat there, an eyebrow raised, about to roll your eyes and call them out on their weird telepathy—
when sunday broke the silence, his ear wing covering his face from you in embarrassment.
“…take us both.”
the words dropped like a bomb, your mouth agape as you stared at him, utterly dumbfounded.
“…huh?”
aventurine grinned, his fingers moving to your jaw and lifting your chin up. “you heard him.” he whispered.
you swallowed hard. “you’re serious?”
aventurine hummed, giving you a cheeky grin as he pressed a soft kiss on your lips, trying to coax you into it. “you can’t really deny though, since that’s what the winners want!”
so they created this game… for that?!
“oh my gosh.” you said, your gaze moving back to sunday who no linger hid behind his ear wing, his cheeks flushed.
your body tensed, your dick already twitching at the thought. there’s… no harm in trying.
“…fine.” you sighed, standing up and they looked at you with sparkle(?) in their eyes. not that they’d notice. “let’s move to the bed.”
as you walked to the bed, the two followed behind. once you guys were close, aventurine sat on the bed and sunday wrapped his arms around you.
aventurine liked to watch, moving back on the bed frame as sunday began to undress you. his touch was gentle, as if he was afraid he’d break something fragile. then, he pushed you on the bed, knowing what the two wanted, you crawled toward the golden haired man leaning back on the bed frame.
“good boy,” aventurine purred and your cheeks flushed at the sound of his voice—sultry, deep, and warm.
“always ready to serve, hm?” sunday whispered on your ear, making you flinch as his hand grabbed your waist.
“shut up,” you huffed, hands bracing against Aventurine’s thighs as you leaned in, face flushed.
aventurine laughed.
his voice dripped amusement. “someone’s feisty.”
his hand slipped into your hair, not pulling—yet—but gripping just enough to remind you who was in front of you. he tilted your head up a little.
“go on then, sweetheart. show me what that mouth’s good for.”
behind you, sunday pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, crotch snug against your ass. his lips ghosted along your shoulder, pressing soft kisses.
his hand slid along your waist, dipping lower to squeeze your hip. you could feel him hard through his slacks—hot, restrained. the heat made your head spin as you unzipped aventurine’s pants with your teeth, eyes glaring up. you pulled his cock out, already hard as it stood out. you stared at it for a good moment before leaning in and taking aventurine’s cock into your mouth.
warm. heavy. slightly salty from pre-cum. you licked the head first, slow and lazy, just to tease. his breath hitched above you.
“ah—look at that,” he muttered, voice a little strained. “obedient as ever.”
sunday chuckled behind you, brushing your hair aside to kiss the back of your neck.
“he’s trying so hard to stay composed. let him focus, aventurine.”
“hmmm, nah.” aventurine’s pushed your head down, just a little—forcing you to take more, deeper. “his mouth’s too good.”
you moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut. sunday’s hand slipped lower again, fingers tracing along the curve of your ass.
“can I touch you, sweetheart?” sunday whispered, voice thick with affection, his finger dipping beneath your waistband and slowly dragging it down, pulling it off of you.
you didn’t answer, couldn’t—not with aventurine using your mouth so shamelessly. but your body answered for you, arching back into sunday’s touch, your throat flexing around aventurine’s cock as he groaned above you.
“that’s a yes,” aventurine smirked, hand tightening in your hair. “he’s such a good boy when he’s full.”
your lips were stretched around aventurine’s cock, spit slick and dripping from the corners of your mouth as he moved your head. the tip bumped the back of your throat with each push, and he knew. he could feel you trying not to choke—trying to take it all for him.
“you’re doing good,” aventurine crooned, his fingers tangled in your hair.
you moaned around him, eyes fluttering—half in pleasure, half from sunday’s lubed fingers pushing deep into your ass. he was behind you now, kneeling between your legs, murmuring praise against the curve of your back as his slicked fingers worked you open.
he crooked his fingers just right, and you jerked forward, moaning and gagging slightly around aventurine’s cock. your thighs quivered, heat prickling down your spine as the breath fled your lungs.
aventurine huffed, annoyed at the fact that sunday was pleasuring you more than him. “you’re distracting him.” he pulled you back slowly, letting his cock drag along your tongue.
sunday glared at him, but he didn’t stop. instead, he added a third finger now—slow and stretching, pushing deeper, and your hips bucked involuntarily.
“ha, you’re not listening at all.” he said, shoving your face down his cock and your eyes rolled back. his cock filled your throat over and over, the head pushing deep, brushing past your gag reflex. you’d tried to keep up. you really had.
but your body was trembling. because sunday was behind you, too. sweet voice in your ear while his slick fingers scissored inside your hole, stretching you open.
“you’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice pure velvet, his touch near-religious. “so obedient for us. you’re taking it. so, so well.”
your knees were barely holding up. your hands gripped at Aventurine’s thighs, knuckles white, moaning around his cock as your ass arched further into sunday’s touch. you were drooling. breathless. but you didn’t care.
aventurine glanced down, hand tight in your hair, watching your throat bulge around his cock with a grin like sin.
“shit, look at him. so obsessed.” he gave a shallow thrust, his cock sliding in easily now with how loose your mouth had gone for him.
“you didn’t give him the chance to breathe,” sunday countered calmly, pressing a third finger in. you cried out around aventurine’s cock, hips jerking—too much, too good.
“he’s sensitive. look at how his legs are shaking. let him breathe, aventurine.”
“he’s fine. aren’t you, sweetheart?” aventurine cooed mockingly, dragging his cock slowly out of your mouth—so slow it left a trail of spit connecting your lips to his tip. you gasped for air, eyes wet, chest heaving.
“there. a little breath. you earned it.”
then—a sudden stretch.
you choked out a moan, collapsing into aventurine’s lap as sunday finally replaced his fingers with the head of his cock. it pressed in smooth and steady, the burn of it sending a shiver down your spine as he filled the space he’d just prepared.
it’s like all your breath had just left you.
“s-sunday—!” your voice cracked, trembling as he pushed deeper, his hand spreading across your lower back to hold you still.
“don’t cry now,” Aventurine hummed, brushing your spit-slick cheek with his thumb. “you still have a job to finish.”
you whimpered—but you obeyed, because how could you not? your lips wrapped around his cock again, your tongue gliding under the shaft as sunday rocked his hips behind you in slow, rolling motions.
then, they found a rhythm together.
aventurine steadied your head and began to thrust into your mouth, while sunday fucked you in slow, careful strokes that reached deeper than anything ever had. you could feel every inch, gradually increasing his movement, and your cock was leaking untouched.
“you better not make him come,” aventurine growled, fucking your face harder now. his cock slid in, fast and hot, your throat flexing around him as tears spilled freely from the corners of your eyes. “i’m not even inside him yet.”
sunday chuckled softly, his control never slipping, even as your body trembled between them. “don’t worry, he’s a good boy for us…aren’t you, my love?”
lost in pleasure, you could only nod, moaning desperately around aventurine’s cock as sunday fucked you through it. you were stretched wide, wrecked already—and yet every nerve in your body ached for more.
the two went down on you until sunday came first. a deep groan into the back of your neck, his cock buried to the hilt as his warmth flooded inside you. he held your waist tenderly, breathing heavy, body trembling—but still careful not to collapse his weight onto yours.
aventurine came next, less composed—his thrusts rougher, your throat abused until his cock pulsed against your tongue, spilling down your throat in hot, messy spurts. he pulled out with a hiss, watching the mix of spit and cum drip down your chin with a lustful look.
“fuck,” he muttered, wiping a thumb over your lips. “you’re a fucking mess.”
you were gasping, wrecked, dazed. your limbs trembled as Sunday slowly slid out of you, his cum leaking down the inside of your thighs.
but they weren’t finished. of course, not when you had just agreed to take them both.
“grab him,” aventurine said with a grin, already gripping your hips. “i want to see his face when we fuck him together.”
sunday scoffed at that, but made no comment as he moved with surprising ease, despite just finishing. he guided you into a new position—your back against his chest, legs lifted and spread open, ass barely resting on aventurine’s thighs. your hole, slick with sunday’s cum and lube, was still fluttering, stretched and wet.
“he’s still open,” aventurine noted, teasing his fingers around your rim, making you whimper. “we can slide right in.”
“because i prepped and fucked him properly,” sunday said smoothly, kissing your shoulder gently, his ear wing rubbing against your skin lovingly. “unlike you.”
aventurine rolled his eyes, lining his cock up first. “you talk big.”
“maybe because i am bigger.” sunday grinned, positioning his cock beside aventurine’s.
aventurine scoffed at him, and then they entered you together.
aventurine first—slow, but with a delicious sting that made your toes curl. sunday followed, more deliberate, watching your body the entire time, watching your wet hole take them both.
the burn was incredible. the stretch, unbearable. your breath caught in your throat as your hole gave, opened wide to accommodate them both—aventurine in front, sunday behind.
you let out a broken sob, and they groaned in near unison.
“oh crap,” aventurine hissed, gripping your hips. “he’s tighter like this—ah, i can feel you squeezing me.”
“relax,” sunday whispered against your ear, his arms cradling your chest from behind. “just breathe, love. you’re perfect. so good for us.”
they began to move—slow, grinding thrusts that made your body jolt with every pass. it was overwhelming, too much, too good—the two of them grinding into each other with you caught in between.
“you’re drooling again,” aventurine said with a wicked grin. “guess i really did break your brain.”
“he’s moaning on every stroke,” sunday countered, kissing your cheek sweetly. “that’s not you. that’s me.”
“shut up. you sinful angel.”
“ha, as if you’re any better.”
you couldn’t utter a word, wanting nothing but to stop them and just encourage them to fuck you more. however, as you thought about that, their pace increased and it didn’t stop. it only deepened—synchronized, pulling cries out of your throat with every thrust. you were shaking, body coated in sweat, cock leaking untouched.
“can’t even talk anymore,” aventurine laughed. “we ruined him.”
“he’s still clenching.” sunday’s voice dropped into a hum. “i think he wants more.”
and you did. dsperately. the pleasure was a white-hot ache now, your whole body on the brink.
“what do you think, sweetheart?” aventurine growled, leaning in close. “think you can come with both our cocks inside you?”
you whimpered, nodding, breath hitching—
“good,” sunday whispered. “then cum.”
and when you came, they felt it. your hole clenched so hard around them that they groaned in unison, hips grinding deep, fucking you through the orgasm with matching, almost possessive thrusts.
you didn’t even realize you were crying until sunday kissed the tears from your cheeks, their hips still moving before finally hilting, the two of them cumming inside with a groan. your entire body trembled, eyes fluttered shut as you took in deep breathes. you feel them pull out, aventurine holding your tired body and letting you rest on his chest.
“you did good.” he said, rubbing your hips while sunday stood up and went to the bathroom, presumably getting ready to clean you up.
you only hummed, tired, weary as your body relaxed in his touch.
— Summary: Childhood friends with the strongest sorcerer. But high school separates you, but oh! When you two became older, you met again. You thought Satoru was still Satoru. But guess, you are wrong!
— Warnings/Tags: Yandere!Satoru, Reader is older than Gojo (2 year gap), Ooc Gojo (?), Childhood friends to lovers, smut, semi-public sex, marking, Mentioned multiple rounds, Mostly Vanilla lol.
— Words: 2.4k
— A/N: yeah, perhaps this isn't one of my best works,, writerblock and work really drains the living shit out of me. but really, i enjoyed writing this. requests are now open btw! I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I enjoy writing this !! <3 (spoilers, a new oc is coming up !)
— Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Male!reader.
You’ve known Satoru since practically diapers. From your childhood, you remembered vividly that you were known to eh the energetic one while Satoru was more of the quiet one.
You remembered that day you met with his blue eyes, informations about his curse technique, everything. Your parents, well. They expected you two wouldn’t be so close, in their eyes, you were two years older then him and you too were weaker then him. They thought Satoru wouldn’t even want to play with you or even took a glance. But they were very very very wrong.
Despite that you were older then him. Somehow, you were more like the child then Satoru. Satoru himself? He was like the older one. Even if people doesn’t know much about them, it’s was so easily mistaken between who’s older and who’s younger. Not to mentioned, Satoru was also slightly taller then you.
“Gojo!!” You were giggling as you showed the white haired boy the frog in your hand as the frog let out a small sound. “I found a little frog!! Take a look!!”
Satoru looked at you, titling his head, slowly inspecting the certain “frog”. “...That’s a toad.”
“But it’s cute, right!” You smiled brightly at him. He can practically saw small stars inside of it, thought he doesn’t say it. Satoru loved it that you were smiling at him.
Only at him. No one else. Only him.
However, when highschool roles around. Specifically in Tokyo Jujutsu, it’s somewhat difficult to believe that you and Satoru was somehow, separable. You were close with Kento Nanami and Yu Haibara. Personally, in your eyes. Satoru already had his own friend group. Seguru Geto and Ierie Shoko. So why would you bother him so much since he already had more friends? Besides, in Tokyo Jujutsu, he was practically famous! Even once, you saw one of the teachers got embarrassed simply by looking at him.
But that decision might be the stupidest thing you’d ever do.
When you went to a mall with Nanami and Haibara. Time really messed with you, the first energetic child now become more of the calm one. You were looking at Haibara who was eagerly running around while Nanami, who was beside you kept pinching the bridge of his nose. Muttering about something you cannot really heard since the mall was rather filled by many.
“He has too much energy...” Nanami rubbed his face, you just chuckled beside him.
“Guys!!” Haibara eagerly walks up to you, grabbing your hands as he squeezed it. “I founded a photo booth right around the corner! Wanna check it out?”
“Yu—” Nanami was about to capture Haibara’s wrist, only for him to run away quickly. Nanami groaned as he followed the brown haired male’s steps.
You were just laughing to yourself seeing how funny and amusing the scene is to your eyes. Really, it’s fun to see both of them almost like tom and jerry whole you were just trying your best to not make a bigger scene. After your laugh, you were about to follow both Nanami and Haibara.
“[Name].”
You stopped mid track, your eyes widened and you felt your body tensed up. That voice... sounds so familiar. You immediately turned your head, you saw... no one. Nobody. Where you hearing things or that was actually someone calling you? You don’t really know, you were still puzzled by who’s voice it was—standing alone though many people were walking around you. It felt weird... you stood there long enough for Nanami and Haibara to go up to you. Their face was showing clear concerned. But you brushed them off.
“Just! Hearing... things. Nothing to worry!” You shrugged to both of them. Trying to act calm. But you knew; someone was watching you.
Time sure flies fast.
You lost Haibara. But still having Nanami, that’s now becoming more quiet from the past years. You can’t blame him, you also grief a lot since Haibara was the sunshine, with him not being around. Soon enough, you and Nanami slowly grew apart. Making you feel lonely most of the time.
You also heard about what happened to Satoru after years of basically silence. Honestly, you had your own urge to talk with him, but your parents wanted you to focus on school. Even so, that same voice that called you, the first time you heard it in the mall was played repeatably in your mind. Or what it actually that same voice kept calling you? You don’t really know, you just kept your mouth shut since there’s practically no one you can speak with.
And years of work, you now, found yourself to be a sorcerer. Working in the same high school you use to attend, a lot of students love you, and some hated you. The students who loved you said that though you’re strict, you were kind to them. Having actual effort in teaching them, while those you hated you? Yeah. The strict part—but some also had respect on you. Some saying you were better then a certain teacher that many girls in Tokyo Jujutsu often say was “too-handsome-to-be-a-teacher”.
It was a normal day in your class, you taught some of the students about basic stuff, and training. As the bell rang, before you could dismiss the class, a tall male came to the class. All of the students were gasping as they stare at the sorcerer who was standing with a stupid grin in his face, white haired, blindfolded eyes… Wait. Satoru—!?
Students already rose from their seats. Running to Satoru as if he was like an idol who would hiatus for a very long time after their first appearance. You just stood in your desk, he was like you remembered, his features were like you remembered. He’s just taller now, maybe—even taller then you. Satoru greets the students, like they were friends since forever, until that covered eyes of his stared at you, straight to your soul. It… hah?
“[Name].”
That voice… Satoru’s voice was similar—no, identical to that voice that often called you. Making you froze, slightly tensed up. You saw him walked up to you, you just looked at him, it was clear he was taller then you. Some of the students, who looked at both of you actually surprised to saw you being somehow shorter then you, when they knew you were older. But they didn’t really expect that you were shorter then him—now, that doesn’t really matter for your current position.
Satoru’s hands both clamped over your shoulder, you flinched. “Goj—”
“Let’s make out.” His voice was loud enough to be heard by every student in your class, your eyes widened, heck. Even some sorcerers took a peak from the door, Satoru doesn’t care probably, because you were literally being thrown to his shoulder before he dashed with a blink—!
“GOJO—HEY! PUT ME DOWN!!” You were practically yelling while you turned your head back. But the male seemed to be stubborn, unwilling to let go.
“Satoru, [Name]. I didn’t call you by your last name.” That was all he said, before he found an empty room, immediately locking the door. How did he even get access to the key…?
You were practically manhandled by Satoru, his hands, surprisingly bigger then yours, grabbed your hips before giving it a squeeze, you swore it will bruise later on. Satoru’s right hand, originally on your hip moved to your chin. You were now face to face with the man once your childhood best friend that grew apart, Satoru sighed as he pulled his blindfold. You then met with his blue eyes, your eyes widened for a second, your hand slowly tried to reached his black cloth.
“Ah, Goj—Satoru, your—" “I know, [Name].” Satoru held your wrist, giving it a tight squeezed that make you yelp. He led your wrist to his lips, placing a kiss—almost hesitant.
“[L.Name] [Name], finally… I got my hands on you. Again,” he empathize that word, you slightly titled your head. Satoru leaned forward, his teeth slowly contacting over your skin. Not enough for blood to flow but enough to make you gasped. “It’s been painful seeing you around him.”
Your legs tightened around his waist, you tried to said something, but Satoru pushed his index and middle finger to your mouth as he licked the place he had bite. He then slowly unbutton your shirt—placing wet kisses and some bite marks along the day. Your hands moved to his hair, as you yelp from the pain, but it felt good. Fuck, or were you just horny?
“Seriously, you were distant when we were in highschool,” Satoru let out a bitter laugh, his free hand moved down, almost urgently trying to unbuckled your belt. “Especially when you’re with them.”
“Sa–Satoru…” You whimpered, Satoru’s breath reached your ears. You gasped when your crotch, clearly show a tent forming was squeezed by him. A smirk played on his lips the moment Satoru unzipped your pants, letting it fall to the ground.
A whine escaped your lips when Satoru bit your ear. You haven’t or couldn’t see it, but you swore there’s a lot of marks in your body at this point. Satoru crashed his lips against yours, a moan escaped your lips as his tongue easily dominating yours. Such of a heated kiss that you failed to notice that fact Satoru already ripped your boxers as he continued to kiss you breathlessly.
The kiss wouldn’t end if you haven’t pulled his hair, a thin thread of saliva connecting between yours and Satoru’s lips. For a moment, you two just stare at each other. It felt a little… uncomfortable, to say the least. Just him, staring at you slowly ticks you off.
“…What?” You broke the silence. Satoru playfully rolled his eyes.
“Admiring you, but it seems you’re impatient,” Satoru let out a chuckle, you raised an eye brow—soon enough, you felt a fingers, specifically three, entered your hole. “You barely changed…”
His fingers thrust right into your prostate. Almost immediate, you thought at least he would go slow. But he doesn’t choose that route—his fingers opening you up—scissoring you so much as if he prepared you for war. You wrapped you wrapped your arm around his neck, resting your head over his shoulder as you let out a quiet whines. You don’t even know if this room was able to muffled you voice.
You felt your orgasm was close. Your hands clutched over his backed clothes, your cock already spitting precums but Satoru pulled his fingers away with a grin, while a disappointed whine escaped your lips. You were about to protest—really, however it never happened when you felt something already rubbing your hole. You looked down as your eyes turned from weariness to horror.
How big was that!? 9 inches!? It’s also thick… who the fucks need a penis that big!?
“It’s big isn’t it?” Satoru rested his head on your chest, with a grin that you’d gladly slap him. For now, you couldn’t. “Hit my back five times if necessary.”
You felt his cock entered your hole—fuck, he haven’t even moved a single inch but you already felt your own dick twitching. Honestly, you can lie that it felt weird that you were about to get fucked by your own childhood best friend, and you also can’t lie that it also excites you. Satoru’s hand tightened around your hips, letting you adjust abit before thrusted his cock. A moan escaped your lips as you met with your climax. Your cum stained your shirt, it felt humiliating thought no one was watching.
Even so, Satoru smiled, he rested his head over your shoulder—taking your right hand and intertwining them with his—his pace was unforgiving. Your arms tightened around Satoru’s neck, your hands clawing his still cloth back. And your moans spilling out, you tried to remind yourself—mentally scolding yourself that there’s a chance people could hear you, now, it’s too late to think about it. You just kept on moaning like an animal in heat.
“[Name]…?” Satoru placed a kiss over your shoulder, making your dick twitched. “I’m close… can I fill you? Pretty please?”
“Fuck, damnit fine—fine! I’m—I’m coming!”
Soon enough—you were met with another orgasm, a loud moan escaped your lips. Begging no one would hear you, Satoru continued his unforgiving pace—your toes curled, you’re still sensitive after all. Satoru then paint your asshole white, it felt so warm—too warm for cum. A disappointed whine escaped from your lips when he pulled his cock out, your hole was dripping. With Satoru’s cum. You looked up, meeting with the blue eyes from your childhood. Seemingly dark with something—you swore you see hearts as his pupils.
“So? How was it?” Satoru’s eyes were back to normal when he spoke.
You sighed at his words. “It’s my first time, and you just went out and—”
“You’re a virgin!?”
“…Yeah?”
Satoru smirked, you saw those similar pupils resurface—he held both of your wrist and put them on top of your head as you felt his tip rubbing your rim. “You’re so innocent… I promise I’ll be gentle this time.”
Every part of your body was sore as you come out from that room you’ve had multiple rounds with Satoru. He was beside you, holding you so tightly, almost as if you’d go by a blink.
Not with this jelly legs—!!
Just right the moment the two were out, Yaga Masamichi. Was patrolling around the halls and saw you, giving a wave.
“[L.Name]!, it’s rare to see you coming home late.” He came up to you, giving Satoru a nod.
“Wait, what time is it?” Your voice coming out raspy. You swore you’d beat the living shit out of this dumbass so called “strongest”
“It’s currently… ah, 6:45 P.M.” Masamichi said casually. Your eyes widened, Satoru in the other hand, held back a chuckle.
“I— 6:45!?” Your voice was practically echoing around the halls. Satoru smirked, guiding you to go out from the school. Not even giving Masamichi a glance. His eyes were just on you. Before he carried you—your body in his arms while your hands on his chest.
“Rest.” Satoru told you, you should of just refuse. But you nodded, you make yourself comfortable as sleep slowly taking over you when your head was on his chest so prefectly.
Notes: I'VE BEEN GONE FOR TOO LONG SO I HOPE THE WAIT IS NOT LONG ENOUGH!!! This was in my drafts but never really made anything new... I don't know what to write, any suggestions will be appreciated!!!!
Word Count: 3000
Warnings: Smut! Size kink, unprotected sex, crossdressing, feminization, mirror sex, slight out of character (?) Nanami, Manipulation sex, breeding kink,
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Kento Nanami. A name known far and wide, especially among the wealthy. To most people, he seemed like the perfect man. He was mature, kind, and deeply respected. He had the kind of money others could only dream about. Everything about him seemed flawless, from the way he dressed to the calm way he spoke. People believed he had everything. Money, manners, and a quiet charm that made him very likable. Among the rich, he was the richest. His life was full of luxury, comfort, and things most people would never have.
He lived in a mansion that was the biggest and most beautiful in the whole area. It looked like something from a movie or a fairy tale. The garden around the house was full of flowers, trees, and perfectly trimmed bushes. Every flowerbed looked like it had been painted by a master artist. A team of gardeners worked every day to make sure everything looked perfect. Inside, his house was just as beautiful. Servants kept everything clean and running smoothly. They were always present but never in the way. Everything worked like clockwork.
But even with all of this, Nanami felt something was missing. He had no family. He had never fallen in love. Romance had never made its way into his life, even though people often tried to get close to him. He also had a hard time talking to children. Their loud voices and quick energy didn’t match his slow and thoughtful way of living. Because of this, he often felt alone. He lived in a house made for many people, yet he walked its halls by himself. He was surrounded by beauty, but his life lacked real connection.
Most people believed Nanami was perfect. They thought someone with his lifestyle couldn’t possibly have any problems. But that wasn’t true. Behind his calm face and perfect life was a secret. A secret so dark that if anyone found out, it would destroy the image the world had of him. It was something only he knew. It followed him wherever he went, like a shadow that never left his side. This secret made him feel trapped. He often stared out of his mansion windows, wondering how long he could keep living this lie.
Each day started exactly the same. At 8:00 a.m. sharp, Nanami would wake up. The sunlight came in softly through the tall windows of his bedroom, making the walls glow gold. He opened his eyes slowly, groaning quietly as he stretched his arms. His bedroom was clean and modern. Everything was black, grey, and white, creating a quiet, serious feel. His bed was large, with soft pillows and perfect sheets that looked untouched. Even in sleep, he stayed neat.
The room was silent. Not even the sound of birds could be heard through the thick windows. He got out of bed and walked across the cool marble floor. Each step made a soft sound that echoed through the quiet room. The floor was shiny and smooth, reflecting the morning light. He walked down the grand staircase with slow, even steps. Every part of his routine was carefully planned and followed.
He entered the kitchen, which was full of stainless steel counters and high-end appliances. It was spotless, like something out of a design magazine. Nanami cooked his own breakfast, as he liked the calm it brought. The smell of bacon and eggs filled the air as he moved around the kitchen with ease. He toasted a slice of bread until it turned a perfect golden color. His breakfast was simple but delicious. Sitting alone at a long mahogany table, he ate slowly. The quietness around him made the meal feel peaceful but also a little sad.
After breakfast, he went back upstairs to shower. His bathroom looked like something from a luxury spa. The walls were marble, and the glass shower let warm water fall like rain. The hot water helped him feel more awake, washing away the last bits of sleep. He dried off and put on one of his many suits. Each one was tailored perfectly to fit him. He tied his silk tie and looked in the mirror. The man staring back looked strong and sure of himself. But even in the mirror, Nanami could see something missing in his eyes.
He left the mansion and went about his usual duties. Meetings, events, and quiet drives in the city filled the day. He moved through everything with a calm and steady presence. People nodded at him with respect. Some smiled in admiration. Others watched him with envy. But none of them really knew him.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky with soft shades of orange and pink, Nanami returned home. His car, sleek and black, pulled up to the grand gates of his estate. The iron gates opened slowly, and the car rolled along the cobblestone driveway. The mansion stood tall at the end, glowing in the warm light of the evening.
He parked in front of the large entrance and stepped out. His suit still looked perfect, even after a long day. He walked into the house, and the quiet met him like an old friend. Servants greeted him with soft bows. He nodded back, barely noticing them. He was tired. All he wanted was to lie down and rest.
He walked up the stairs, each step echoing softly in the empty hall. When he reached his bedroom, he opened the door and was greeted by soft, golden lighting. The room looked just as he had left it. Calm and neat. He took off his shoes and slipped out of his blazer. Then he unbuttoned his shirt halfway, showing his chest. He dropped onto the bed, the soft mattress hugging him gently. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to relax.
Then, his phone pinged.
The screen lit up with a notification.
It was an Instagram Live.
He blinked, surprised. His heart skipped a beat when he saw who it was.
You.
One of the most famous cosplayers in the world. A person he admired for a long time. Nanami didn’t usually watch livestreams. But this time, he tapped the notification without a second thought. The screen loaded, and there you were.
You were wearing a costume. A pair of cat ears on your head. A cat tail. And, strangely enough, a maid outfit. You smiled brightly at the camera and waved. “Hi everyone!” you said in a cheerful voice.
Nanami stared.
Your smile lit up the screen. It felt warm and real. The kind of smile that could make anyone feel seen. It made his chest feel tight.
Your face was beautiful. Not in the usual, polished way celebrities looked. But in a softer, more honest way. Your eyes were bright and full of life. Your lips curled into a smile that made his heart race. Your cheeks had a soft pink glow. Your hair was dark and shiny, falling gently around your face.
Nanami felt himself blush. He knew he shouldn’t stare. But he couldn’t look away.
To him, you were perfect.
There was something about you that felt different from the people he usually met. Maybe it was how real you were. Or how your energy felt so alive, even through a screen. You weren’t rich like him. But you had something he didn’t. Joy. Passion. A connection to people.
He wanted to talk to you. To get to know you. To be near you. The thought was strange. Nanami had never felt this kind of interest in someone before. Not like this. Not so fast. But he couldn’t deny it.
He wanted you to be his.
He watched quietly as you laughed and answered comments. You seemed so happy. So full of light. As if the world had never hurt you. As if everything was still fresh and exciting. He envied that. But more than anything, he wanted to be part of it.
Even if just for a moment.
As the livestream continued, Nanami laid there, eyes locked on the screen. For the first time in a long time, his heart didn’t feel so heavy. Something inside him stirred. A tiny spark in the dark. He didn’t know where it would lead. He didn’t know if he would ever meet you.But one thing was clear. His life of quiet routine and cold perfection had just been shaken by something simple. A smile. And it had changed everything.
He then felt his shaft grew in length.It was tenting on his pants. It's his first time to feel this, especially because he felt this for you. He was ecstatic to see this charming, boy wearing ridiculous costumes in front of a camera for views, maybe even money. This unnerving feeling made him want to do something, something he never knew he wanted; needed to do. "Shit, what is this..." some words slipped out of his mouth, breathing heavily as the dent grew larger, it became very uncomfortable at this point. He finally gave in, he released the zipper for a thick, long shaft to come out, twitching every time his heart skip a beat. He looked at it, tense whether he should do something about it or not. "Fuck it," He whispered to himself, soon warming his cock with his hands, and start to move up, then down repeatedly as you speak across the screen. To his eyes, it felt like he was facing you physically, something that he wanted, needed just for him to feed on. His continued motion caused him to finally finish, cum spurting to his face.
He tensed up again, and sighed, not cause of relief, but because of something else. He thought of something, and that something included you. He wanted you. So after that very thought, he immediately picked up his phone again, and called some of his "friends".
"Yes, sir?" the other guy on the line spoke, Nanami straightened his back, "This person named Y/n, search him up and find his details, call me immediately afterwards," he kindly spoke the the other, hinting something. "Noted, sir. I'll immediately report as soon as we find out." The line ended, Nanami sighed and leaned back to his chair, "I need you, Y/n"
The very next day your information was given to him. Your phone number, full legal name, age, location, everything. He wanted to call you for a "business proposal" of some sorts. He held the paper your number was written on. He was very hesitant at first, thinking you would feel weird talking to him. But at the end of the day, he dialed in your number, and pressed the call button. The ringing tensed him up, the continuous ringing gave him an unsettling feeling. The ringing soon came to a stop, for a warm voice to come up after, "Hello?" You said, seemingly confused of a sudden call of an unknown number. "Greetings, my name is Nanami Kento," Nanami spoke up, "This talk should be conducted physically, though I do not have the power to do that. Anyway, I'm here to propose a business proposal." He waited for a response, you were shocked that you were talking to the most richest business man in all of Japan, but you were unsure as to why he would ask you, a cosplayer, for a business proposal? "I-i'm sorry sir, but i'm afraid i'll have to-" "300 million yen, nothing more, nothing less." You of course is shocked, what is this job that could pay you almost 2 million dollars? And why does it have to be you? You were pretty tight on the budget, considering you used all of your money for costumes, "O....k?" you muttered slowly, unsure of your answer, before you could talk back, "Good, then that is settled, I will provide you my location, make sure to be there at exactly 7 p.m." The call soon ended. You're still in shock, what the hell is this guy thinking? Well, at this point, you don't have any choice but to go... I guess.
6:30, you arrived early before the expected time. You waited outside a grand, luxurious looking hotel. Was it a hotel, or one of his buildings? You shrugged off the question and waited. your peac was soon interrupted by two men in black, shades planted to their face. "Are you, Y/n L/n? Please come with us." The one spoke, you silently followed them across the wide lobby to an elevator. The ride was taking too long, "wait is this a penthouse?" you thought to yourself. And yes it was, what did you expect from the richest man to have? a rented motel? The elevators shifted open to reveal a modern looking room. A piano to the side, a fountain, and the biggest windows you have ever seen. Your eyes glowed with the sight you were seeing. Your sight seeing was soon cut off short by a tall man walking towards you, "Ah, your here. You two, leave." His voice was commanding, he sounded chilling. He patted you back, seemingly acted out to follow him.
He led you to a room, the smell of sandarwood filled your lungs. But what caught your eye was a costume, a bikini along with a semi-transparent babydoll dress. You didn't question it, but just decided to still follow him inside. He soon walked up to a piece of paper, along with a pen, "Just sign this contract, don't mind reading it all," You obliged and followed, signing it; what's there to lose? He then spoke up again, "I never told you this "business proposal", but it'll pay you a lot, doubt that you'll decline at this point," he muttered, slowly taking off his watch, walked near you and leaned in, "I want to fuck you." The words slipped out his voice made you flinch. Why would he want that? Would you just sell your body for money? "I-I..." you stuttered, "You have no choice anyway, you signed the contract." You sighed, but you also wanted it at this time. You blushed, and gave him a silent nod. That nod meant a lot to him, he chuckled caressing your jawline slowly. "I gave you a gift," He looked over to the lingerie, "Wear it for me," He whispered closely to your ears, this sent a shiver down your spine, but it made you crave him even more. You went up to it and walked towards the bathroom. Nanami sat down on a chair, "No, strip in front of me." You noticed the large mirror covering the entire wall behind Nanami. You followed, and took of your clothes piece by piece, and showed your hard dick. It was small, but Nanami liked that even more. Your blush made him feel a lot more tense.
A lot more hungry.
As soon you wore it, he rushed into you and kissed you. It wasn't soft, it was rough, leaving you no space and time to breath. He held your face, and you held his hand. This intense kissing session made you fall to the bed, with his arms grazing your figure. He kissed your neck to your collarbone. He took off the dress along with the bra, playing with your nipples as he kissed your body. Your moans made him become hard even more. You touched his hair, it was hard with the gel still intact and the sharp loose ends at every side of his head. You never knew you would end up this way, slutting over a rich man that's happening to be fucking you this very moment. His groan vibrated to your body.
His kissing soon came to a stop, and reached up to you, "Suck me" He commanded, his hand over your head. His musky scent made you fall into a trance-like state, something you must follow, something you cannot control. So you fully gave in, pusehd him down the bed, and zipped down his pants. You saw his enlarged dick spring out, precum spilling, matching the beat to his heavy breathing. You leaned in, and sucked. Your tongue was a professional at this, you never knew you could do such acts. You sucked in and out, circling around dick as the musk scent of his pubes covering his penis. You rammed your face to his dick, you don't care if you looked like a whore at this state, all you wanted was to taste him fully.
He held your head tightly, "Stop, I want to save my babies for your pussy," He smirked, lifting your head to face him. He carried you up, off the bed as you two stood in front of the massive mirror. He took off the rest of his clothes, touching your body like pottery, following your shape, your size, your curves, you. "You look so beautiful, darling," He continued touching you. Without any hesitation, he came inside of you. It was slow, but it felt painful to you. You didn't flinch, you wanted to feel him fully. You held in your pain, holding his chin down for him to look at you. Every thrust made you feel different, with his face looking at you every thrust. You looked at yourself in the mirror, you looked in deeply to your eyes, you looked different, you don't look the same. You wanted him, but do you really want this?
Thrusts soon turn into pushes, you leaned in to the mirror as Nanami held your body close to him. Hi thrusts grew stronger, more than you could handle. Your moans turned into screams, yells, but you liked it either way. Each thrust made you feel different emotions, sadness, happiness, anything. One last thrust, you felt something warm and wet come inside you. Your eyes felt like popping out. His chin rested against your bare shoulders, "You'l be living with me from now on. Don't worry about your life, I'll make it better, if you give in to me." You faced him, and rested your arms to his shoulders, "One question though,"
summary: You were never supposed to be anything more than the strange one. The wrong one. The boy in too-short sleeves and too-sharp stares, tucked away in a village that never wanted to understand you.
But when your father goes missing, you don’t hesitate. And when you find him imprisoned by a monster— a beast with too many arms, too many eyes, and a curse so old it hums in the walls— you make a deal.
You stay.
And slowly, something unexpected begins to bloom between all the thorns.
pairing: the beast ! ryomen sukuna x belle ! male reader
content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + penetrative), bottom trans male reader, transphobia (implied, not explicit), emotional hurt/comfort, mild violence, trueform sukuna, canon-typical blood, sharp-toothed tenderness, trauma, enchanted furniture, redemption arc, flower language, they kiss a lot.
word count: 7.4k
best viewed in dark mode
The village always woke before the sun.
You could hear it through the window of your father’s little workshop— boots on dirt, chickens fussing, someone slamming a cart too hard around the bend. You lay still beneath the quilt, blinking up at the ceiling beams and waiting for the ache in your chest to settle into something manageable. It wasn’t pain, exactly. Not grief. More like a weight. A quiet hum of not-right-ness, of not-fitting-here-ness, stretching out from under your ribs and seeping into the corners of the room.
Downstairs, the smell of oil paints drifted up from your father’s studio. He would already be hunched over his latest canvas, humming absently, paint on his sleeves. He never asked questions about why you dressed the way you did or why you flinched when someone called you “girl.” He didn’t ask. But he saw you.
It helped.
A little.
⋆｡°✩
You dressed quickly— shirt, vest, trousers— clothes that always earned stares from the butcher’s wife and side-eyes from the baker’s daughter. They weren’t what you were supposed to wear, they said. Not feminine. Not proper. But they made it easier to breathe. That was enough.
With a worn book tucked under your arm and Megumi at your heels— scruffy, growling, loyal as ever— you stepped into the morning light.
The village square had already come alive. Market stalls groaned with apples and spices, men shouted greetings across the fountain, and the children had started their daily ritual of chasing chickens between carts. It should’ve felt like home.
It never did.
They all knew you— or thought they did. The painter’s ‘daughter’. A little strange. Bookish. Lonely. A poor excuse for a wife, someone had whispered once. Not fit for marriage. You carried those words in your spine, learned how to make yourself smaller in crowds, how to walk fast and smile politely, how to pretend you didn’t hear the things they said.
⋆｡°✩
“[Y/N]!”
The voice cut through the hum of the village like a blade. You stopped short.
Naoya Zenin swaggered across the square like it belonged to him— tall, smug, jacket unbuttoned just enough to show off. He had a musket strapped across his back, though no one could remember the last time he used it for anything other than posing. A few women tittered from behind the flower stall. Naoya winked at them, then turned his full attention on you.
“I was just telling my friends,” he said loudly, “you’d make the perfect wife. Sharp enough to be interesting, quiet enough to be trainable.”
The air in your lungs turned to glass.
You didn’t answer. You never did. It never stopped him.
“Why don’t we take a walk?” he offered, already reaching for your elbow. “We should talk about our future.”
Megumi growled low in his throat, teeth flashing.
You stepped back. “No.”
Naoya blinked, mock-offended. “Still playing hard to get, huh?”
“I’m not playing anything,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I’m not interested.”
The words sat there, raw and final.
Naoya’s smile twisted. “Not interested,” he repeated, like the words were foreign. Then softer, closer: “What’s the matter with you, huh? Don’t you want to be taken care of?”
You didn’t answer.
There wasn’t a point.
You turned and walked away, boots crunching hard over the packed dirt. Behind you, Naoya whistled low— long and slow and mocking.
The only thing that stopped you from running was the book clenched tight against your chest.
⋆｡°✩
You spent the rest of the morning in your usual spot— a quiet bench beneath the oak tree behind the chapel, where no one ever looked twice at you. You opened the book. You tried to read. But the words swam. All you could think of was his hand on your arm. The assumption in his voice. The way no one ever corrected him.
No one ever looked at you and saw you.
Not yet.
Your father was already halfway through packing by the time you got home.
His old travel satchel sat open on the floor, its seams stretched from years of patched repairs. Brushes wrapped in linen were tucked beside ink pots and carefully sealed sketches. A bundle of warm bread from the baker's daughter— a rare kindness— rested on the table near a folded scarf.
“You’re leaving early,” you said softly, slipping into the studio.
He looked up from where he was fastening a buckle. His face— lined, sun-browned, familiar— softened when he saw you. “Storm’s coming. Thought I’d get ahead of it.”
You nodded, moving to help. “You’ll sell more this time,” you said. “People’ll see how good it is.”
He chuckled, gruff and quiet. “If they’re not too busy ogling Zenin’s new coat.”
That pulled a faint smile from you. It vanished just as quickly. He caught the shift in your face. Of course he did.
“Is he bothering you again?” You hesitated.
You didn’t like worrying him. You knew how hard he worked, how much he already carried. But the truth sat heavy in your chest.
“He thinks I’ll say yes if he asks enough times,” you said finally. Your father’s jaw tightened. “Let him try again. Next time I’ll—”
“It’s not worth it,” you interrupted gently. “He doesn’t see me. Not really.” He was quiet for a moment. Then: “One day someone will. Someone who sees you. All of you.”
You looked at him, and something unspoken passed between you. Not full understanding, but something close.
He reached out and smoothed your hair, the way he used to when you were younger. “Anything you want me to bring back?”
You thought about it. The markets were always full of junk— glittery trinkets, loud music, bad paintings pretending to be art. You never asked for much. But something tugged at you now.
“A rose,” you said.
He blinked. “A rose?”
“Yeah. Just… something alive.” He studied you for a second, then smiled. “Alright. A rose.”
You handed him his coat. Watched him fasten the last clasp. Watched him sling the bag over his shoulder like he always did before leaving. It should have been routine.
But something felt different. A heaviness you couldn’t name.
⋆｡°✩
The storm hit sooner than anyone expected.
By dusk, the sky turned slate gray and the wind howled like it wanted to rip the roofs off the village. You stood at the window long after the last candle burned out, watching the trees bend and sway. Your fingers twitched against the windowsill.
You thought of your father alone in the woods. You thought of wolves. Of ice.
You thought of the rose.
⋆｡°✩
The storm swallowed the path whole.
Your father’s horse had bolted hours ago, spooked by the thunder, and now he was stumbling through underbrush with frozen fingers and a soaked satchel, eyes straining for light. Branches clawed at his face. He could barely breathe through the fog and rain. But worse than the weather was the howling— not wind, not wolves, but something deeper. Something wrong.
Then he saw it.
Iron gates. Twisted and ancient, half-buried in ivy. Beyond them: a castle carved into the side of the mountain, black stone rising like a broken crown against the lightning. The torches at its doors flickered as if they had been waiting for him.
He didn’t question it. He was too cold to be afraid. Too tired to wonder.
The gates creaked open when he touched them.
⋆｡°✩
The castle halls were quiet. Not dead, but not alive either— as though the whole place were caught in a breath it hadn’t released in centuries. Paintings lined the walls, their subjects watching him with eyes that followed. Tapestries sagged, velvet faded. But the fire in the hearths was lit.
He moved slowly, half in a daze, whispering thanks to no one as he followed the warmth. A teacup clinked somewhere. He didn’t see who left the bread on the table, but he ate it. He didn’t question the clean towel. Or the blanket.
Only when he passed into the garden— hedges sculpted into monstrous shapes, thorns winding around marble statues— did he remember the rose.
There it was. Alone in the snow. Blooming bright red on a frost-bitten bush.
His fingers brushed it gently. He hesitated.
Then, with trembling hands, he plucked it.
The ground rumbled beneath his feet.
⋆｡°✩
A roar tore through the castle— deep and ancient and full of fury. He dropped the rose.
Something moved in the shadows.
It didn’t step so much as ripple— out of the dark came a form too big to be human, cloaked in heavy silk, horns gleaming wet under the moonlight. The man— if it was still a man— towered over him, four arms unfurling from beneath his robes, twin pairs of glowing eyes boring down. His skin was marked in black lines, sacred and savage, and his teeth glinted like knives when he bared them.
“Thief,” he growled.
Your father stumbled back, hand raised in defense, voice cracking as he tried to speak— to apologize, to plead. But the Beast was already moving, too fast for his size, fury radiating from him like heat.
He raised one clawed hand and the gates slammed shut.
“Your life is forfeit,” the Beast snarled, voice like splitting stone. “Or someone must take your place.”
And then he vanished, leaving only silence behind.
The castle looked worse in daylight.
Dark towers twisted against the gray sky like claws, their windows shuttered with old iron. You’d barely slept the night before— you’d begged anyone who would listen, searched every road, followed every clue— and now your horse was tied at the gate, still panting from the run. Your father’s satchel had been found tangled in the woods. The rose still sat in the saddlebag. It hadn’t wilted.
That was how you knew he was inside.
You shoved the gates open and stepped through.
Inside, the silence pressed close. The castle was too still, too warm. Fire crackled in the hearths without kindling. Curtains stirred without wind. Shadows stretched long across the stone. You moved carefully, hand on the book at your belt like it could protect you.
Then something moved.
You didn’t see him at first. Only a flicker of black silk. Then— a step, too loud. A shape too large. And out of the dark came a monster.
Four arms. Eyes like blood and gold. Skin covered in inked scripture and scars. He loomed, horned and massive, mouth curled in something far too cruel to be a smile.
You froze.
“So,” he said, voice like gravel and heat, “you came.”
You swallowed. “My father. You took him.”
“I spared him,” the Beast growled. “He stole from me. A life for a rose.”
“He didn’t know—”
“I don’t care what he knew.”
Your hands clenched into fists.
He stared at you, two pairs of eyes narrowing. “Are you here to beg, then? Scream? Cry?”
“No,” you said. “I’m here to take his place.”
The silence cracked like ice.
He looked at you long and hard. His gaze flicked over your clothes, your stance— your fear, buried deep under defiance. Something in his jaw ticked.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because he’s all I have.” You stood straighter. “And I don’t run from my choices.”
He stepped forward. You held your ground.
“I don’t want your tears,” he said slowly. “You’ll stay. One moon’s cycle. If you try to escape, he dies.”
You nodded once.
Then— impossibly— the corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A test. “We’ll see how long you last, little thief.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
⋆｡°✩
The door didn’t lock behind you, but it might as well have.
The room you were led to was massive— too grand for a prison cell, but too cold to be called a home. Tall windows let in gray light. A fire snapped quietly in the hearth. The bed was too large, draped in dark velvet, untouched and unfamiliar. Someone had left food on the table— covered, still warm.
You didn’t touch it.
Instead, you sat on the edge of the mattress, hands in your lap, and waited.
The castle didn’t creak like old houses do. It… shifted. Whispered. You could feel it in the stone beneath your boots, in the air moving through the curtains like breath.
“Do you think he’s going to cry?” a voice whispered.
You jumped.
“Don’t be rude, he’s new,” another voice sighed.
You turned fast enough to make yourself dizzy— but no one was there. Just a candelabra resting on the table, its three wax arms flickering calmly.
Until one of them waved at you.
“Hey, sunshine,” the candle said brightly. “Welcome to the worst Airbnb of your life.”
You screamed.
⋆｡°✩
Ten minutes later, you were sitting at the hearth with a talking candle, a very agitated clock, a feathery swan-shaped brush that kept hissing at your shoes, and a teapot who somehow radiated more maternal energy than your actual mother ever had. The little teacup at her side bounced excitedly with every word.
“I—this isn’t real,” you muttered.
Gojo, the candle, winked at you. “Define real.”
“You’re all—cursed?”
“Correct!” Geto, the clock said miserably. “Trapped. Forgotten. Left to rot with that thing upstairs.”
“Watch it,” said Shoko, her bristles flaring slightly. “He’s always listening.”
Kaori Itadori the teapot poured you a cup of something warm and spiced, her voice gentle. “You’re safe now, dear. No one here means you harm.”
Yuuji bounced beside her. “What’s your name? Do you like books? Do you know how to sword fight?!”
You blinked. “…You’re a teacup.”
“Exactly!” he beamed.
There was a long pause.
You drank the tea.
It helped.
⋆｡°✩
Later, after the introductions had settled into something like peace, Gojo flickered closer and said in a conspiratorial tone, “So. Between us, what do you think of our dear master?”
You frowned. “He’s… a monster.”
Geto groaned. “Don’t antagonize him, Gojo.”
“Four arms,” you muttered. “And those eyes. He looked at me like—”
“Like he wanted to rip your soul apart and wear it as a scarf?” Shoko offered.
“Yes!”
There was a silence.
Then Gojo laughed, bright and unapologetic. “Don’t worry. That’s just his flirty face.”
“Flirty—?”
“You’ll see,” Kaori murmured, sipping from her own spout.
⋆｡°✩
You learned quickly that the castle had moods.
The halls rearranged themselves when they thought you weren’t looking. Windows that should’ve faced the gardens now overlooked cliffs. Stairs melted into ramps. Once, you turned down a corridor you swore led to the kitchens, only to find yourself in a balcony big enough to house half the kingdom.
You liked that one.
Sometimes, when no one else was around, you went back. Sat beneath the stained-glass skylight. Let the dust settle on your shoulders. Read until the words stopped swimming.
But you weren’t alone.
You never really were.
You felt him watching— not always, not obviously, but enough. A breath against the back of your neck. A shadow in the corners of your eye. Sometimes a faint growl echoing through the stone, like the walls were angry. You told yourself it was nothing.
But when you reached for the wrong door— the one at the end of the north hall, carved with unfamiliar script and choked in ivy— Gojo appeared out of nowhere.
“Don’t,” he said, suddenly very serious.
You frowned. “What’s in there?”
“Not for you,” Geto snapped, rolling up behind him. “Not for anyone.”
“You mean the Beast’s room.”
They both flinched.
“That’s not his name,” Kaori murmured from the end of the hall.
“But it’s what he is, right?”
Shoko sighed, fluttering down from a windowsill. “He wasn’t always.”
That made you pause.
You looked at the door again. Heavy. Silent. Waiting.
“He’ll kill you if you go in there,” Geto said flatly.
And deep in the shadows above— just behind the balcony’s curve, Sukuna exhaled through his teeth.
“Curious little thing,” he muttered.
His claws curled around the railing.
“He’ll run screaming before the rose falls.”
But he kept watching anyway.
⋆｡°✩
You hadn’t meant to get lost.
The castle was different at night— colder, darker, the torches dimmed down to blue flame. You had gone looking for the library again, craving something quiet, but the halls kept shifting under your feet. The stone whispered under your boots, windows fogging over as if the castle itself had turned its face away.
Then came the thunder.
The wind howled through a broken pane and sent a gust down the corridor, cutting through your shirt like a blade. You hugged your arms to your chest and turned back— or tried to. Nothing looked familiar anymore. The paintings had changed. Doors sealed themselves. Your breath curled visibly in the air.
And then the torchlight vanished.
You stood in the dark, heart pounding, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. You weren’t afraid of shadows. You weren’t. But this was different— this was the kind of dark that watched.
You tried to move, but the cold sank deeper. Your legs felt heavy. The walls closed in.
And that’s when you heard it.
Boots. Heavy. Slow. Too many to belong to one man.
You turned, just in time to see the shape step into the hallway— tall, massive, horned, eyes glowing through the gloom.
He looked like death.
“S-Stay back,” you said, voice cracking.
Sukuna didn’t answer.
He moved forward, slow, shoulders wide enough to block out the torchlight behind him. Four arms moved with eerie synchronicity. His mouth curled in something unreadable.
You stumbled backward, spine hitting the stone wall.
“I told them not to let you wander,” he muttered.
“You—you were watching me?”
“I always watch what’s mine.”
That made you bristle, even through the fear. “I’m not yours.”
He cocked his head. “Aren’t you?”
You glared at him. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”
He snorted. “You’d be screaming if I meant to.”
You opened your mouth to snap back— but a shiver cut through you, violent and sharp. Your knees buckled before you could stop them.
In two strides, he was there.
One massive hand— too warm, too careful— caught your arm before you could hit the ground. Another tugged his cloak off in one motion and wrapped it around your shoulders. It smelled like ash and smoke and something older.
You blinked, stunned.
He didn’t look at you. Didn’t leer or gloat. Just held you steady.
“Humans break too easily,” he said quietly.
“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked again.
He looked down at you then— really looked, and for a moment, all the sharpness dropped from his face.
You weren’t sure who broke eye contact first.
⋆｡°✩
He brought you back in silence.
The cloak stayed around your shoulders. His hand never left your back. When you reached the door to your room, he paused. Said nothing. Waited.
You turned back toward him, heartbeat still thudding in your ears.
“…Why are you like this?” you asked.
He looked tired. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
A pause.
Then, softly— more a breath than a word. “Not tonight.”
⋆｡°✩
You didn’t expect him to knock.
The next morning, the castle was quiet again— no storm, no footsteps, no flickering shadows. You’d barely slept. Too many thoughts. Too much confusion. But when the knock came— low, firm, deliberate— you startled anyway.
You opened the door. He was standing there.
No cloak. No scowl. Just Sukuna, framed in sunlight, arms folded, like this was something he’d talked himself into and now regretted instantly.
“…Come with me,” he said.
You stared. “Why?”
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked.
You should’ve said no. You should’ve slammed the door and gone back to bed. But your feet moved without asking. You followed him.
The halls were quieter than usual. Even the castle seemed to be holding its breath. You passed by Kaori spinning in slow circles. Shoko raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Gojo and Geto were suspiciously nowhere in sight.
Finally, he stopped before a door you hadn’t seen before. Tall. Iron-bound. Carved with symbols that looked ancient.
He opened it with one hand.
The scent of old parchment and cedar drifted out.
You stepped inside— and froze.
It was a library.
Not just any library. A cathedral of books. Stacks that went up past the rafters. Staircases winding through shelves. A glass dome overhead flooding the space with morning light. It wasn’t just beautiful— it was impossible.
You turned slowly, staring.
“I thought you might be… bored,” he said.
You looked at him.
He wasn’t watching you. He was watching the ceiling. Like if he looked at you directly, something might crack.
“…You did this for me?”
“It was already here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence.
Then, so quietly you almost missed it:
“You’re the first one who’s stayed.”
Something tightened in your chest.
You stepped further into the room, running your hand along the spines. Some were cracked with age. Others looked untouched. Languages you couldn’t read. Stories waiting to be discovered.
You turned back to him. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, as if trying to brush it off. “Don’t make it a habit.” But you smiled anyway.
And the moment stretched. You spent the rest of the morning there.
He didn’t leave. Didn’t say much. Just sat in the corner, arms crossed, pretending to nap while you read through half a novel out loud. Every now and then, when you glanced up, you found him watching— like he wasn’t sure how to stop.
You didn’t ask him to.
The castle started changing around you.
It was subtle. You didn’t notice it at first— a hallway that stopped shifting, a door that stayed unlocked. The room warmed. Curtains were drawn back. Kaori started humming again. Even Geto’s constant fretting softened into something bordering on hopeful.
But more than that, he changed.
Sukuna didn’t loom as much anymore. He didn’t snarl every time you asked a question. He still watched you— always— but it was different now. Less like a hunter. More like someone studying sunlight through stained glass, trying to understand how something so soft could still burn.
Some afternoons, he sat across from you in the library while you read aloud— never interrupting, just listening. His hands stayed folded. His eyes didn’t blink. But when you paused, he always knew how to fill the silence.
Other days, he took you through the gardens. Let you see where the snow hadn’t touched. Showed you flowers that shouldn’t have survived this high in the mountains. You learned his favourite place was a crumbled balcony overlooking the cliff’s edge. You stood there once beside him, the wind in your face, and he said nothing for a long time before finally muttering, “The world used to be so loud.”
You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.
And when you laughed— really laughed— at something stupid Gojo said one evening over dinner, you caught Sukuna staring again. His expression was unreadable, but his hands flexed on the armrest like he wanted to reach out and didn’t know how.
⋆｡°✩
The ballroom happened by accident.
You’d found it while wandering— golden columns, frozen chandeliers, dust hanging like mist in the air. The moment you stepped inside, something in the walls shifted. Candles sparked to life. Music hummed faintly from nowhere. The floor gleamed beneath your boots.
He found you there later.
Didn’t speak. Just stood in the archway for a moment, watching. You turned.
“I didn’t mean to trespass,” you said. He shook his head slowly. “You didn’t.”
He stepped inside. The room felt suddenly smaller.
You met him halfway. The silence stretched.
The— tentatively, almost shy— he reached out and offered one clawed hand.
Your breath caught. You took it.
He led you in a slow, clumsy circle— one hand awkward on your waist, the other curled around yours far too gently for a man with talons. He didn’t know how to dance. You didn’t care. The music rose around you. Your pulse kept time with the rhythm. He didn’t look away, not even once.
And when your fingers brushed— when you felt the rough edge of his palm curl a little tighter around yours— something clicked in your chest so sharp it nearly made you stumble.
You didn’t know what it meant. But you didn’t let go.
It started with curiosity.
You hadn’t meant to go into the West Wing. You’d promised— really, you had— but promises meant less when the person you made them to refused to explain why. You’d grown used to the castle shifting around you, bending its rules in silence. So when the corridor appeared— unmistakable and unchanged— something inside you said, now.
The door wasn’t locked.
The air inside was colder than the rest of the castle. Not freezing, but still. Still like a room preserved in grief. The furniture was draped in thick fabric, dust curling in the beams of sunlight through the tall, cracked windows. A mirror stood against one wall— ancient, silver-edged, humming with a kind of magic that made your stomach turn. But it wasn’t what drew you forward.
It was a rose.
Suspended in a glass dome, nestled on a carved pedestal, petals impossibly bright against the gloom. It glowed faintly, pulsing with something warm and alive. A few petals had already fallen, curled along the base like fallen stars.
You stepped closer. You didn’t touch it. You didn’t need to. Just being near it made your chest ache.
You heard the growl before you saw him.
The roar shattered the stillness.
He was there— sudden and huge, fury pouring off him like fire, four arms tense, claws bared. He stormed into the room like it had betrayed him.
“What did I say?”
You stepped back, hands up. “I didn’t touch it—”
“You don’t belong here!”
“I just—!”
“You don’t belong anywhere in this castle!”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You stared at him— not at the monster, not at the claws, but at his face. At the panic buried beneath the rage.
“I didn’t mean to,” you said, softer.
“That’s what they always say,” he hissed. “Curious little things. Poking around. Making promises they don’t keep.”
You swallowed. “Who hurt you?”
He went still. It only lasted a second. But it was enough.
Then his eyes narrowed again, and his voice dropped to a snarl. “Leave.”
“What?”
“Get out.” You took a step back.
He didn’t shout again. He didn’t have to.
You turned and ran.
The forest was colder than it had been days before. You hadn’t meant to go far— only out, away, anywhere but that room— but the storm clouds overhead built fast. Within minutes, the path vanished beneath your boots, snow curling around your ankles, trees blurring into shadow.
Then came the howls.
Wolves. Closer than you expected.
Your legs burned. Your lungs ached. You tripped once— twice— the second time hard enough to scrape your palms. When the first set of glowing eyes appeared through the trees, you knew you weren’t making it back.
You raised your fists anyway.
They lunged.
And then he was there.
⋆｡°✩
Sukuna hit the wolves like a thunderclap— claws flashing, eyes burning, more fury than form. You couldn’t follow it all. Just movement. Just sound. Just teeth and blood and screaming.
Then silence.
He stood over you, chest heaving, snow melting where it hit his skin.
One arm was bleeding. Deep. Ugly.
You pushed yourself upright. “You’re—”
“Stupid,” he growled. “Running into the woods. You could’ve—”
“I know,” you said.
He winced. Dropped to one knee.
Without thinking, you stepped forward and caught him— your hands too small, your body too light, but he let you steady him anyway.
“Let me help.”
He didn’t argue.
⋆｡°✩
The fire in your room was still lit. You dragged a chair close, pushed him into it, and rolled up his sleeve— careful, gentle, still shaking. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you.
The gash across his bicep oozed, still fresh. You pressed a warm cloth against it and felt him tense.
“Why’d you follow me?”
“You ran.”
“You didn’t have to come after me.”
“You shouldn’t have left.”
The silence stretched.
You kept cleaning the wound. Carefully. Quietly.
“I thought you hated me,” you said.
He looked away.
“I thought you hated yourself.”
That got his attention.
“You’re wrong,” he said. Then, quieter: “I don’t hate you.”
You froze.
He exhaled, slow. “You’re the first person to look at me like I’m not something broken.”
You tied off the bandage. Sat back on your heels.
“I don’t think you’re broken,” you said. “Just scared.”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t look away.
⋆｡°✩
The fire burned low. The storm had passed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, the castle was completely still.
Sukuna sat in the chair by the hearth, his injured arm resting on his knee, cloak draped over one shoulder like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. You sat across from him, the heat of your body still soaked into the cushions behind you. The bandages you’d tied were clean. The room smelled like ash, like rain-soaked fabric, like breath held too long.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“So should you.”
Neither of you moved.
The silence between you wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry. It hummed with something else now— a weight, a possibility. His eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but they watched you like he was memorizing. Like he was letting go.
You stood.
He didn’t stop you when you crossed the room. Didn’t flinch when you reached for the cloak around his shoulders, or when your fingers brushed the edge of his wrist. He let you touch him.
“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.
“I told you, you’re free.”
You looked up.
“I don’t mean the castle.”
For a moment, his expression flickered— something raw behind the bone and ink. Then he reached up— slowly, carefully— and pressed one hand against your chest. The warmth of his palm bled through your shirt.
“You shouldn’t want me,” he said.
“Too late.”
⋆｡°✩
When you kissed him, it wasn’t soft.
It was slow. Careful in the way only something dangerous could be— like you were both afraid the moment might shatter. His mouth was warmer than you expected, rough but patient. His claws ghosted over your ribs but never dug in. When you parted, breathless, you watched his eyes flutter open— and for once, they weren’t guarded. Just full.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
You didn’t.
⋆｡°✩
The bed creaked beneath your weight. You let him guide you down with hands that had once shattered stone, now shaking as they touched your skin like it was something sacred. His lips followed— jaw, throat, collarbone— trailing reverent, slow heat. Your shirt peeled away. His claws never scratched. Not once.
When he saw you— all of you— he stilled.
You waited.
He leaned down, pressed his lips against the dip between your ribs, and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”
The ache that bloomed in your chest was too much to hold.
⋆｡°✩
He kissed every inch of you, like he was trying to rewrite the memory of how you’d been seen before. His hands mapped your hips, your stomach, your thighs, never greedy, only steady— like if he rushed it, you’d vanish. You clung to his shoulders, the ridges of his arms, the heat of his body as he moved against you, slow and sure.
It didn’t matter that you shook. He held you. Listened to the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched into his, the way you whispered his name like it was a secret he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.
When he finally entered you— gentle, careful, with your breath caught in his mouth— the stretch burned, but you welcomed it. He didn’t move until you pulled him closer.
Every motion after that felt like a promise. His pace was slow, hips rolling deep, deeper, every thrust grounded in reverence. His name slipped from your lips again, and he cursed low against your skin. One of his hands found yours and squeezed— not possessive, but grounding.
You felt him unravel above you. Felt the way his rhythm faltered as your legs locked around his waist. When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and his mouth at your throat.
He followed with a growl that shook through both of you.
⋆｡°✩
After, he cleaned you gently— like it meant something— and pulled you against him beneath the sheets. The weight of his arm across your waist was solid and warm. His other hands traced your spine like he didn’t want to forget the shape of you.
You lay there for a long time, chest to chest, breath to breath.
“I’ve never had this,” he murmured.
You looked up at him.
“You do now,” you said.
And he closed his eyes.
⋆｡°✩
The next morning, you found him in the garden.
The sky was pale with early light, frost clinging to the edges of the stone, and Sukuna stood alone near the edge of the rosebushes— still dressed from the night before, cloak loose around his shoulders, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see.
You hadn’t spoken since. Not with words. But your body still ached with memory. You could still feel the weight of his hand on your waist, the rasp of his voice against your throat.
When he turned, you knew he’d already felt the shift.
“The mirror,” he said simply. “Ask it to show you.”
You hesitated.
Then you stepped forward, reached into the space between you, and the mirror bloomed to life in your hands.
Glass shimmered.
Your father’s face appeared in the surface— pale, shaking, trapped in a cage. Behind him, jeering voices. A man’s laughter that turned your stomach.
Naoya.
The world inside the mirror shifted, and you saw the asylum gates.
Your heart dropped.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.
Sukuna’s voice was quiet. “Go to him.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“You can.”
“I’ll come back.”
His eyes flicked away. “Don’t make promises you don’t mean.”
“I mean it.”
He didn’t argue.
He reached into the folds of his cloak and pressed the mirror into your hands. His thumb brushed your wrist, just once, before pulling away.
You held his gaze.
“You’re more than this,” you said.
His voice was barely a breath. “And you’re the only one who ever saw it.”
Neither of you said goodbye.
But as you turned and stepped through the gate, you felt something in your chest twist tight— like a thread had been tied between you, and you’d left it trembling in the cold.
The carriage was already waiting when you arrived.
They’d moved fast— too fast. Naoya had spun his lies like thread through every ear that would listen, his voice oiled with performance, face clean with practiced pity. “The poor painter,” he’d said. “Mad with grief. Imagining monsters. His daughter brainwashed.”
They never asked for your side. They never wanted it.
By the time you found your father, he was already bound and trembling, hands clutching the bars of the cage. His eyes lit up when he saw you— but the fear didn’t leave his face.
“He’s sending me away,” he whispered. “They won’t listen—”
“They will,” you said. “I’ll make them.”
You turned.
Naoya stood by the wagon with his arms folded, coat freshly pressed, a gleam in his eye that made your stomach turn. “Come to your senses?” he asked. “Or just here to cry some more?”
“I’m here to end this.”
Naoya smirked. “You don’t even know what you’ve been sleeping beside.”
You didn’t flinch.
Instead, you held up the mirror.
And the courtyard fell silent.
⋆｡°✩
Gasps rippled as the image bloomed— Sukuna’s face, sharp and monstrous, watching from the castle gate. Behind him, the castle stretched in shadow and stormclouds. His four arms moved with eerie stillness. His eyes glowed.
Naoya’s smirk faltered.
“You see?” you said. “He exists. My father told the truth.”
“But he’s a monster,” someone muttered.
“He’s cursed.”
Naoya recovered fast. “Then he’s dangerous.”
“He saved my life.”
“He’s bewitched you.”
“He let me go,” you snapped. “He gave me freedom when no one else did.”
Silence. Then someone shouted, “Even if it’s true— who’s to say he won’t come for us next?”
Naoya turned, voice rising with mock-heroism. “The time for talk is over. The creature threatens our home, our children, our future. If no one else will act—”
He raised his musket.
“I will.”
⋆｡°✩
They moved like floodwater.
Torches lit. Guns drawn. Blades rattling against pitchforks. You tried to fight your way back, tried to shout above the roar— but Naoya had planned this too well. You were grabbed, shoved, dragged toward the same cage your father had escaped from only minutes before.
“Lock them both up,” Naoya growled. “They can watch the castle burn.”
And as the mob marched toward the mountains, you kicked against the bars and screamed his name.
But the wind stole it from your lips.
⋆｡°✩
The castle saw them coming.
Long before the first torch lit the cliffside, before the wheels of the cart screeched against the stone, before the mob had even reached the gates— the castle knew. You could feel it in the air. The torches inside flickered low. The mirrors dimmed. The wind outside rose like a warning.
And the servants prepared for war.
Gojo lit every candelabra in the main hall like it was a funeral pyre. Geto barked orders no one listened to. Kaori shoved Yuuji into a cupboard and told him not to come out no matter what. Shoko, brush raised like a spear, muttered something about having waited centuries for a good excuse to stab someone.
And through it all, Sukuna stood on the highest balcony, silent.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared down at the torches approaching like they were stars fallen from the sky.
“He’s not coming back,” he said, to no one.
No one corrected him.
⋆｡°✩
You had never run so fast in your life.
Your father limped behind you, breath ragged, hand clutched tight in yours. You didn’t know how long the gate would hold. Didn’t care. The mountain path blurred beneath your boots, the wind howling past your ears, your lungs burning.
You saw the smoke before you saw the fire.
And then— through the trees— the castle.
And Naoya, musket raised, climbing the stairs.
⋆｡°✩
The servants fought like chaos incarnate.
Kaori tripped one man with a swinging teacart. Geto lobbed vases from the top floor with mechanical precision. Gojo lit half the mob’s torches out of spite. But it wasn’t enough. The villagers kept coming. Loud. Angry. Terrified of what they didn’t understand.
Sukuna met Naoya on the roof.
There were no words. Just a flash of steel, a snarl, the clash of teeth and blade. Sukuna didn’t hold back. But he didn’t kill him either. He let him fall once. Let him scramble back to his feet. Let him swing again.
He turned away.
And Naoya fired.
⋆｡°✩
The shot rang out sharp against the storm.
You saw it hit— watched Sukuna stagger, one knee dropping, blood already soaking through the silk. You screamed his name. But the castle was too high. The bridge too narrow. You couldn’t reach him.
Naoya raised the gun again.
But this time, the ledge gave way.
He didn’t have time to scream.
⋆｡°✩
You reached Sukuna just as he collapsed.
He was so heavy. So warm. You dropped to your knees and caught his face in your hands, blood slick beneath your fingers. His eyes fluttered open— unfocused, glassy, still watching you.
“You came back,” he rasped.
“Of course I did.”
“You… idiot.”
You let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You’re not allowed to die. Not like this.”
“It’s too late.”
“No—”
“The rose…”
You looked over your shoulder.
The last petal falls.
⋆｡°✩
You didn’t feel the petals hit the ground.
You only felt his hand in yours— colder now, less steady. The weight of his body against your knees. The way his chest rose slower with each breath.
“Sukuna,” you whispered, “look at me.”
He didn’t.
“Sukuna, please.”
One eye opened. Barely. The glow had faded. The strength was gone. But he was still here. Just barely.
“I’m not ready to lose you,” you said. “I didn’t come back to watch you die.”
“You came back because you’re good,” he murmured. “You always were.”
“I came back because I love you.”
That stilled him.
Completely.
The breath in his lungs caught. His jaw twitched. You saw the disbelief flood his face like something painful. Like something he hadn’t let himself imagine.
“I see you,” you said. “I always have. You’re not a monster. You never were.”
He blinked.
Once.
Then the light left his eyes.
⋆｡°✩
The stillness that followed wasn’t real silence— it was a grief so sharp the world seemed to hold its breath. The castle groaned beneath you. The wind outside died. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered.
You didn’t let go of him.
You bowed your head, forehead pressed to his. Your voice was too quiet to echo.
“Come back.”
Nothing moved.
“Come back to me.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I’m not done loving you yet.”
⋆｡°✩
The magic cracked like thunder.
It didn’t explode— it bloomed.
Light poured from the wound on his chest, golden and blinding. His body lifted, spine arched, arms outstretched as if something ancient had taken hold of him. You stumbled back— not out of fear, but awe— and watched as the lines on his skin unraveled. The ink melted. The horns splintered to dust.
He dropped to the floor— whole.
Still.
Then his chest rose.
He gasped like someone drowning.
And when his eyes opened, they were still him.
Sukuna. Just Sukuna. Not a Beast. Not a curse.
“...You stayed,” he whispered.
You launched into his arms before he could say anything else.
Later— after the villagers’ memories returned, after Kaori wept openly in the kitchen, after Gojo danced with the mirror for no reason at all— you stood beside him in the ballroom, chest pressed to his as the music rose. His hand in yours was solid. Strong. Warm.
You wore your best shirt. He still wouldn’t put on a crown.
You looked up at him.
“I still hate you a little,” you said.
He smiled, just slightly.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
⋆｡°✩
The castle bloomed again, slowly.
The halls brightened. The ivy peeled back from the windows. Rooms you hadn’t dared open now welcomed you with soft lamplight and warm air. The gardens thawed first— roses blooming in defiance of the season, red and gold and white, petals trembling in the breeze.
The servants were alive again. Whole again. Gojo wouldn’t shut up for three days. Geto complained about everything and still offered you tea every morning. Shoko took up smoking and refused to explain why.
You didn’t need a title. You didn’t ask for one. But the people came anyway— not to see a fairytale, but to see the man who’d saved their prince. Who’d kissed the curse out of a beast’s broken body and asked for nothing in return.
You stayed.
And he did, too.
⋆｡°✩
The night was warm. Summer had finally found the mountain. Fireflies gathered in the rose garden like floating lanterns. You leaned against the railing of the balcony, bare feet on cold stone, the wind brushing through your hair.
Sukuna stepped behind you.
His arms came around your waist, steady and slow.
You let your body melt back against his. His touch was different now— less cautious, more certain— but never greedy. He held you like you were something fragile only because he knew how hard the world had been to you.
“You’re thinking again,” he murmured.
You smiled. “That obvious?”
“Always.”
You turned in his arms.
Looked up at him.
“Do you still have nightmares?” you asked.
“Not when you’re here.”
You kissed him then— slow, sure, like you had nothing left to prove.
And when the stars came out, you were still there, tucked against him. Safe. Wanted. Home.
summary: You were never supposed to be anything more than the strange one. The wrong one. The boy in too-short sleeves and too-sharp stares, tucked away in a village that never wanted to understand you.
But when your father goes missing, you don’t hesitate. And when you find him imprisoned by a monster— a beast with too many arms, too many eyes, and a curse so old it hums in the walls— you make a deal.
You stay.
And slowly, something unexpected begins to bloom between all the thorns.
pairing: the beast ! ryomen sukuna x belle ! male reader
content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + penetrative), bottom trans male reader, transphobia (implied, not explicit), emotional hurt/comfort, mild violence, trueform sukuna, canon-typical blood, sharp-toothed tenderness, trauma, enchanted furniture, redemption arc, flower language, they kiss a lot.
word count: 7.4k
best viewed in dark mode
The village always woke before the sun.
You could hear it through the window of your father’s little workshop— boots on dirt, chickens fussing, someone slamming a cart too hard around the bend. You lay still beneath the quilt, blinking up at the ceiling beams and waiting for the ache in your chest to settle into something manageable. It wasn’t pain, exactly. Not grief. More like a weight. A quiet hum of not-right-ness, of not-fitting-here-ness, stretching out from under your ribs and seeping into the corners of the room.
Downstairs, the smell of oil paints drifted up from your father’s studio. He would already be hunched over his latest canvas, humming absently, paint on his sleeves. He never asked questions about why you dressed the way you did or why you flinched when someone called you “girl.” He didn’t ask. But he saw you.
It helped.
A little.
⋆｡°✩
You dressed quickly— shirt, vest, trousers— clothes that always earned stares from the butcher’s wife and side-eyes from the baker’s daughter. They weren’t what you were supposed to wear, they said. Not feminine. Not proper. But they made it easier to breathe. That was enough.
With a worn book tucked under your arm and Megumi at your heels— scruffy, growling, loyal as ever— you stepped into the morning light.
The village square had already come alive. Market stalls groaned with apples and spices, men shouted greetings across the fountain, and the children had started their daily ritual of chasing chickens between carts. It should’ve felt like home.
It never did.
They all knew you— or thought they did. The painter’s ‘daughter’. A little strange. Bookish. Lonely. A poor excuse for a wife, someone had whispered once. Not fit for marriage. You carried those words in your spine, learned how to make yourself smaller in crowds, how to walk fast and smile politely, how to pretend you didn’t hear the things they said.
⋆｡°✩
“[Y/N]!”
The voice cut through the hum of the village like a blade. You stopped short.
Naoya Zenin swaggered across the square like it belonged to him— tall, smug, jacket unbuttoned just enough to show off. He had a musket strapped across his back, though no one could remember the last time he used it for anything other than posing. A few women tittered from behind the flower stall. Naoya winked at them, then turned his full attention on you.
“I was just telling my friends,” he said loudly, “you’d make the perfect wife. Sharp enough to be interesting, quiet enough to be trainable.”
The air in your lungs turned to glass.
You didn’t answer. You never did. It never stopped him.
“Why don’t we take a walk?” he offered, already reaching for your elbow. “We should talk about our future.”
Megumi growled low in his throat, teeth flashing.
You stepped back. “No.”
Naoya blinked, mock-offended. “Still playing hard to get, huh?”
“I’m not playing anything,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I’m not interested.”
The words sat there, raw and final.
Naoya’s smile twisted. “Not interested,” he repeated, like the words were foreign. Then softer, closer: “What’s the matter with you, huh? Don’t you want to be taken care of?”
You didn’t answer.
There wasn’t a point.
You turned and walked away, boots crunching hard over the packed dirt. Behind you, Naoya whistled low— long and slow and mocking.
The only thing that stopped you from running was the book clenched tight against your chest.
⋆｡°✩
You spent the rest of the morning in your usual spot— a quiet bench beneath the oak tree behind the chapel, where no one ever looked twice at you. You opened the book. You tried to read. But the words swam. All you could think of was his hand on your arm. The assumption in his voice. The way no one ever corrected him.
No one ever looked at you and saw you.
Not yet.
Your father was already halfway through packing by the time you got home.
His old travel satchel sat open on the floor, its seams stretched from years of patched repairs. Brushes wrapped in linen were tucked beside ink pots and carefully sealed sketches. A bundle of warm bread from the baker's daughter— a rare kindness— rested on the table near a folded scarf.
“You’re leaving early,” you said softly, slipping into the studio.
He looked up from where he was fastening a buckle. His face— lined, sun-browned, familiar— softened when he saw you. “Storm’s coming. Thought I’d get ahead of it.”
You nodded, moving to help. “You’ll sell more this time,” you said. “People’ll see how good it is.”
He chuckled, gruff and quiet. “If they’re not too busy ogling Zenin’s new coat.”
That pulled a faint smile from you. It vanished just as quickly. He caught the shift in your face. Of course he did.
“Is he bothering you again?” You hesitated.
You didn’t like worrying him. You knew how hard he worked, how much he already carried. But the truth sat heavy in your chest.
“He thinks I’ll say yes if he asks enough times,” you said finally. Your father’s jaw tightened. “Let him try again. Next time I’ll—”
“It’s not worth it,” you interrupted gently. “He doesn’t see me. Not really.” He was quiet for a moment. Then: “One day someone will. Someone who sees you. All of you.”
You looked at him, and something unspoken passed between you. Not full understanding, but something close.
He reached out and smoothed your hair, the way he used to when you were younger. “Anything you want me to bring back?”
You thought about it. The markets were always full of junk— glittery trinkets, loud music, bad paintings pretending to be art. You never asked for much. But something tugged at you now.
“A rose,” you said.
He blinked. “A rose?”
“Yeah. Just… something alive.” He studied you for a second, then smiled. “Alright. A rose.”
You handed him his coat. Watched him fasten the last clasp. Watched him sling the bag over his shoulder like he always did before leaving. It should have been routine.
But something felt different. A heaviness you couldn’t name.
⋆｡°✩
The storm hit sooner than anyone expected.
By dusk, the sky turned slate gray and the wind howled like it wanted to rip the roofs off the village. You stood at the window long after the last candle burned out, watching the trees bend and sway. Your fingers twitched against the windowsill.
You thought of your father alone in the woods. You thought of wolves. Of ice.
You thought of the rose.
⋆｡°✩
The storm swallowed the path whole.
Your father’s horse had bolted hours ago, spooked by the thunder, and now he was stumbling through underbrush with frozen fingers and a soaked satchel, eyes straining for light. Branches clawed at his face. He could barely breathe through the fog and rain. But worse than the weather was the howling— not wind, not wolves, but something deeper. Something wrong.
Then he saw it.
Iron gates. Twisted and ancient, half-buried in ivy. Beyond them: a castle carved into the side of the mountain, black stone rising like a broken crown against the lightning. The torches at its doors flickered as if they had been waiting for him.
He didn’t question it. He was too cold to be afraid. Too tired to wonder.
The gates creaked open when he touched them.
⋆｡°✩
The castle halls were quiet. Not dead, but not alive either— as though the whole place were caught in a breath it hadn’t released in centuries. Paintings lined the walls, their subjects watching him with eyes that followed. Tapestries sagged, velvet faded. But the fire in the hearths was lit.
He moved slowly, half in a daze, whispering thanks to no one as he followed the warmth. A teacup clinked somewhere. He didn’t see who left the bread on the table, but he ate it. He didn’t question the clean towel. Or the blanket.
Only when he passed into the garden— hedges sculpted into monstrous shapes, thorns winding around marble statues— did he remember the rose.
There it was. Alone in the snow. Blooming bright red on a frost-bitten bush.
His fingers brushed it gently. He hesitated.
Then, with trembling hands, he plucked it.
The ground rumbled beneath his feet.
⋆｡°✩
A roar tore through the castle— deep and ancient and full of fury. He dropped the rose.
Something moved in the shadows.
It didn’t step so much as ripple— out of the dark came a form too big to be human, cloaked in heavy silk, horns gleaming wet under the moonlight. The man— if it was still a man— towered over him, four arms unfurling from beneath his robes, twin pairs of glowing eyes boring down. His skin was marked in black lines, sacred and savage, and his teeth glinted like knives when he bared them.
“Thief,” he growled.
Your father stumbled back, hand raised in defense, voice cracking as he tried to speak— to apologize, to plead. But the Beast was already moving, too fast for his size, fury radiating from him like heat.
He raised one clawed hand and the gates slammed shut.
“Your life is forfeit,” the Beast snarled, voice like splitting stone. “Or someone must take your place.”
And then he vanished, leaving only silence behind.
The castle looked worse in daylight.
Dark towers twisted against the gray sky like claws, their windows shuttered with old iron. You’d barely slept the night before— you’d begged anyone who would listen, searched every road, followed every clue— and now your horse was tied at the gate, still panting from the run. Your father’s satchel had been found tangled in the woods. The rose still sat in the saddlebag. It hadn’t wilted.
That was how you knew he was inside.
You shoved the gates open and stepped through.
Inside, the silence pressed close. The castle was too still, too warm. Fire crackled in the hearths without kindling. Curtains stirred without wind. Shadows stretched long across the stone. You moved carefully, hand on the book at your belt like it could protect you.
Then something moved.
You didn’t see him at first. Only a flicker of black silk. Then— a step, too loud. A shape too large. And out of the dark came a monster.
Four arms. Eyes like blood and gold. Skin covered in inked scripture and scars. He loomed, horned and massive, mouth curled in something far too cruel to be a smile.
You froze.
“So,” he said, voice like gravel and heat, “you came.”
You swallowed. “My father. You took him.”
“I spared him,” the Beast growled. “He stole from me. A life for a rose.”
“He didn’t know—”
“I don’t care what he knew.”
Your hands clenched into fists.
He stared at you, two pairs of eyes narrowing. “Are you here to beg, then? Scream? Cry?”
“No,” you said. “I’m here to take his place.”
The silence cracked like ice.
He looked at you long and hard. His gaze flicked over your clothes, your stance— your fear, buried deep under defiance. Something in his jaw ticked.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because he’s all I have.” You stood straighter. “And I don’t run from my choices.”
He stepped forward. You held your ground.
“I don’t want your tears,” he said slowly. “You’ll stay. One moon’s cycle. If you try to escape, he dies.”
You nodded once.
Then— impossibly— the corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A test. “We’ll see how long you last, little thief.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
⋆｡°✩
The door didn’t lock behind you, but it might as well have.
The room you were led to was massive— too grand for a prison cell, but too cold to be called a home. Tall windows let in gray light. A fire snapped quietly in the hearth. The bed was too large, draped in dark velvet, untouched and unfamiliar. Someone had left food on the table— covered, still warm.
You didn’t touch it.
Instead, you sat on the edge of the mattress, hands in your lap, and waited.
The castle didn’t creak like old houses do. It… shifted. Whispered. You could feel it in the stone beneath your boots, in the air moving through the curtains like breath.
“Do you think he’s going to cry?” a voice whispered.
You jumped.
“Don’t be rude, he’s new,” another voice sighed.
You turned fast enough to make yourself dizzy— but no one was there. Just a candelabra resting on the table, its three wax arms flickering calmly.
Until one of them waved at you.
“Hey, sunshine,” the candle said brightly. “Welcome to the worst Airbnb of your life.”
You screamed.
⋆｡°✩
Ten minutes later, you were sitting at the hearth with a talking candle, a very agitated clock, a feathery swan-shaped brush that kept hissing at your shoes, and a teapot who somehow radiated more maternal energy than your actual mother ever had. The little teacup at her side bounced excitedly with every word.
“I—this isn’t real,” you muttered.
Gojo, the candle, winked at you. “Define real.”
“You’re all—cursed?”
“Correct!” Geto, the clock said miserably. “Trapped. Forgotten. Left to rot with that thing upstairs.”
“Watch it,” said Shoko, her bristles flaring slightly. “He’s always listening.”
Kaori Itadori the teapot poured you a cup of something warm and spiced, her voice gentle. “You’re safe now, dear. No one here means you harm.”
Yuuji bounced beside her. “What’s your name? Do you like books? Do you know how to sword fight?!”
You blinked. “…You’re a teacup.”
“Exactly!” he beamed.
There was a long pause.
You drank the tea.
It helped.
⋆｡°✩
Later, after the introductions had settled into something like peace, Gojo flickered closer and said in a conspiratorial tone, “So. Between us, what do you think of our dear master?”
You frowned. “He’s… a monster.”
Geto groaned. “Don’t antagonize him, Gojo.”
“Four arms,” you muttered. “And those eyes. He looked at me like—”
“Like he wanted to rip your soul apart and wear it as a scarf?” Shoko offered.
“Yes!”
There was a silence.
Then Gojo laughed, bright and unapologetic. “Don’t worry. That’s just his flirty face.”
“Flirty—?”
“You’ll see,” Kaori murmured, sipping from her own spout.
⋆｡°✩
You learned quickly that the castle had moods.
The halls rearranged themselves when they thought you weren’t looking. Windows that should’ve faced the gardens now overlooked cliffs. Stairs melted into ramps. Once, you turned down a corridor you swore led to the kitchens, only to find yourself in a balcony big enough to house half the kingdom.
You liked that one.
Sometimes, when no one else was around, you went back. Sat beneath the stained-glass skylight. Let the dust settle on your shoulders. Read until the words stopped swimming.
But you weren’t alone.
You never really were.
You felt him watching— not always, not obviously, but enough. A breath against the back of your neck. A shadow in the corners of your eye. Sometimes a faint growl echoing through the stone, like the walls were angry. You told yourself it was nothing.
But when you reached for the wrong door— the one at the end of the north hall, carved with unfamiliar script and choked in ivy— Gojo appeared out of nowhere.
“Don’t,” he said, suddenly very serious.
You frowned. “What’s in there?”
“Not for you,” Geto snapped, rolling up behind him. “Not for anyone.”
“You mean the Beast’s room.”
They both flinched.
“That’s not his name,” Kaori murmured from the end of the hall.
“But it’s what he is, right?”
Shoko sighed, fluttering down from a windowsill. “He wasn’t always.”
That made you pause.
You looked at the door again. Heavy. Silent. Waiting.
“He’ll kill you if you go in there,” Geto said flatly.
And deep in the shadows above— just behind the balcony’s curve, Sukuna exhaled through his teeth.
“Curious little thing,” he muttered.
His claws curled around the railing.
“He’ll run screaming before the rose falls.”
But he kept watching anyway.
⋆｡°✩
You hadn’t meant to get lost.
The castle was different at night— colder, darker, the torches dimmed down to blue flame. You had gone looking for the library again, craving something quiet, but the halls kept shifting under your feet. The stone whispered under your boots, windows fogging over as if the castle itself had turned its face away.
Then came the thunder.
The wind howled through a broken pane and sent a gust down the corridor, cutting through your shirt like a blade. You hugged your arms to your chest and turned back— or tried to. Nothing looked familiar anymore. The paintings had changed. Doors sealed themselves. Your breath curled visibly in the air.
And then the torchlight vanished.
You stood in the dark, heart pounding, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. You weren’t afraid of shadows. You weren’t. But this was different— this was the kind of dark that watched.
You tried to move, but the cold sank deeper. Your legs felt heavy. The walls closed in.
And that’s when you heard it.
Boots. Heavy. Slow. Too many to belong to one man.
You turned, just in time to see the shape step into the hallway— tall, massive, horned, eyes glowing through the gloom.
He looked like death.
“S-Stay back,” you said, voice cracking.
Sukuna didn’t answer.
He moved forward, slow, shoulders wide enough to block out the torchlight behind him. Four arms moved with eerie synchronicity. His mouth curled in something unreadable.
You stumbled backward, spine hitting the stone wall.
“I told them not to let you wander,” he muttered.
“You—you were watching me?”
“I always watch what’s mine.”
That made you bristle, even through the fear. “I’m not yours.”
He cocked his head. “Aren’t you?”
You glared at him. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”
He snorted. “You’d be screaming if I meant to.”
You opened your mouth to snap back— but a shiver cut through you, violent and sharp. Your knees buckled before you could stop them.
In two strides, he was there.
One massive hand— too warm, too careful— caught your arm before you could hit the ground. Another tugged his cloak off in one motion and wrapped it around your shoulders. It smelled like ash and smoke and something older.
You blinked, stunned.
He didn’t look at you. Didn’t leer or gloat. Just held you steady.
“Humans break too easily,” he said quietly.
“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked again.
He looked down at you then— really looked, and for a moment, all the sharpness dropped from his face.
You weren’t sure who broke eye contact first.
⋆｡°✩
He brought you back in silence.
The cloak stayed around your shoulders. His hand never left your back. When you reached the door to your room, he paused. Said nothing. Waited.
You turned back toward him, heartbeat still thudding in your ears.
“…Why are you like this?” you asked.
He looked tired. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
A pause.
Then, softly— more a breath than a word. “Not tonight.”
⋆｡°✩
You didn’t expect him to knock.
The next morning, the castle was quiet again— no storm, no footsteps, no flickering shadows. You’d barely slept. Too many thoughts. Too much confusion. But when the knock came— low, firm, deliberate— you startled anyway.
You opened the door. He was standing there.
No cloak. No scowl. Just Sukuna, framed in sunlight, arms folded, like this was something he’d talked himself into and now regretted instantly.
“…Come with me,” he said.
You stared. “Why?”
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked.
You should’ve said no. You should’ve slammed the door and gone back to bed. But your feet moved without asking. You followed him.
The halls were quieter than usual. Even the castle seemed to be holding its breath. You passed by Kaori spinning in slow circles. Shoko raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Gojo and Geto were suspiciously nowhere in sight.
Finally, he stopped before a door you hadn’t seen before. Tall. Iron-bound. Carved with symbols that looked ancient.
He opened it with one hand.
The scent of old parchment and cedar drifted out.
You stepped inside— and froze.
It was a library.
Not just any library. A cathedral of books. Stacks that went up past the rafters. Staircases winding through shelves. A glass dome overhead flooding the space with morning light. It wasn’t just beautiful— it was impossible.
You turned slowly, staring.
“I thought you might be… bored,” he said.
You looked at him.
He wasn’t watching you. He was watching the ceiling. Like if he looked at you directly, something might crack.
“…You did this for me?”
“It was already here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence.
Then, so quietly you almost missed it:
“You’re the first one who’s stayed.”
Something tightened in your chest.
You stepped further into the room, running your hand along the spines. Some were cracked with age. Others looked untouched. Languages you couldn’t read. Stories waiting to be discovered.
You turned back to him. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, as if trying to brush it off. “Don’t make it a habit.” But you smiled anyway.
And the moment stretched. You spent the rest of the morning there.
He didn’t leave. Didn’t say much. Just sat in the corner, arms crossed, pretending to nap while you read through half a novel out loud. Every now and then, when you glanced up, you found him watching— like he wasn’t sure how to stop.
You didn’t ask him to.
The castle started changing around you.
It was subtle. You didn’t notice it at first— a hallway that stopped shifting, a door that stayed unlocked. The room warmed. Curtains were drawn back. Kaori started humming again. Even Geto’s constant fretting softened into something bordering on hopeful.
But more than that, he changed.
Sukuna didn’t loom as much anymore. He didn’t snarl every time you asked a question. He still watched you— always— but it was different now. Less like a hunter. More like someone studying sunlight through stained glass, trying to understand how something so soft could still burn.
Some afternoons, he sat across from you in the library while you read aloud— never interrupting, just listening. His hands stayed folded. His eyes didn’t blink. But when you paused, he always knew how to fill the silence.
Other days, he took you through the gardens. Let you see where the snow hadn’t touched. Showed you flowers that shouldn’t have survived this high in the mountains. You learned his favourite place was a crumbled balcony overlooking the cliff’s edge. You stood there once beside him, the wind in your face, and he said nothing for a long time before finally muttering, “The world used to be so loud.”
You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.
And when you laughed— really laughed— at something stupid Gojo said one evening over dinner, you caught Sukuna staring again. His expression was unreadable, but his hands flexed on the armrest like he wanted to reach out and didn’t know how.
⋆｡°✩
The ballroom happened by accident.
You’d found it while wandering— golden columns, frozen chandeliers, dust hanging like mist in the air. The moment you stepped inside, something in the walls shifted. Candles sparked to life. Music hummed faintly from nowhere. The floor gleamed beneath your boots.
He found you there later.
Didn’t speak. Just stood in the archway for a moment, watching. You turned.
“I didn’t mean to trespass,” you said. He shook his head slowly. “You didn’t.”
He stepped inside. The room felt suddenly smaller.
You met him halfway. The silence stretched.
The— tentatively, almost shy— he reached out and offered one clawed hand.
Your breath caught. You took it.
He led you in a slow, clumsy circle— one hand awkward on your waist, the other curled around yours far too gently for a man with talons. He didn’t know how to dance. You didn’t care. The music rose around you. Your pulse kept time with the rhythm. He didn’t look away, not even once.
And when your fingers brushed— when you felt the rough edge of his palm curl a little tighter around yours— something clicked in your chest so sharp it nearly made you stumble.
You didn’t know what it meant. But you didn’t let go.
It started with curiosity.
You hadn’t meant to go into the West Wing. You’d promised— really, you had— but promises meant less when the person you made them to refused to explain why. You’d grown used to the castle shifting around you, bending its rules in silence. So when the corridor appeared— unmistakable and unchanged— something inside you said, now.
The door wasn’t locked.
The air inside was colder than the rest of the castle. Not freezing, but still. Still like a room preserved in grief. The furniture was draped in thick fabric, dust curling in the beams of sunlight through the tall, cracked windows. A mirror stood against one wall— ancient, silver-edged, humming with a kind of magic that made your stomach turn. But it wasn’t what drew you forward.
It was a rose.
Suspended in a glass dome, nestled on a carved pedestal, petals impossibly bright against the gloom. It glowed faintly, pulsing with something warm and alive. A few petals had already fallen, curled along the base like fallen stars.
You stepped closer. You didn’t touch it. You didn’t need to. Just being near it made your chest ache.
You heard the growl before you saw him.
The roar shattered the stillness.
He was there— sudden and huge, fury pouring off him like fire, four arms tense, claws bared. He stormed into the room like it had betrayed him.
“What did I say?”
You stepped back, hands up. “I didn’t touch it—”
“You don’t belong here!”
“I just—!”
“You don’t belong anywhere in this castle!”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You stared at him— not at the monster, not at the claws, but at his face. At the panic buried beneath the rage.
“I didn’t mean to,” you said, softer.
“That’s what they always say,” he hissed. “Curious little things. Poking around. Making promises they don’t keep.”
You swallowed. “Who hurt you?”
He went still. It only lasted a second. But it was enough.
Then his eyes narrowed again, and his voice dropped to a snarl. “Leave.”
“What?”
“Get out.” You took a step back.
He didn’t shout again. He didn’t have to.
You turned and ran.
The forest was colder than it had been days before. You hadn’t meant to go far— only out, away, anywhere but that room— but the storm clouds overhead built fast. Within minutes, the path vanished beneath your boots, snow curling around your ankles, trees blurring into shadow.
Then came the howls.
Wolves. Closer than you expected.
Your legs burned. Your lungs ached. You tripped once— twice— the second time hard enough to scrape your palms. When the first set of glowing eyes appeared through the trees, you knew you weren’t making it back.
You raised your fists anyway.
They lunged.
And then he was there.
⋆｡°✩
Sukuna hit the wolves like a thunderclap— claws flashing, eyes burning, more fury than form. You couldn’t follow it all. Just movement. Just sound. Just teeth and blood and screaming.
Then silence.
He stood over you, chest heaving, snow melting where it hit his skin.
One arm was bleeding. Deep. Ugly.
You pushed yourself upright. “You’re—”
“Stupid,” he growled. “Running into the woods. You could’ve—”
“I know,” you said.
He winced. Dropped to one knee.
Without thinking, you stepped forward and caught him— your hands too small, your body too light, but he let you steady him anyway.
“Let me help.”
He didn’t argue.
⋆｡°✩
The fire in your room was still lit. You dragged a chair close, pushed him into it, and rolled up his sleeve— careful, gentle, still shaking. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you.
The gash across his bicep oozed, still fresh. You pressed a warm cloth against it and felt him tense.
“Why’d you follow me?”
“You ran.”
“You didn’t have to come after me.”
“You shouldn’t have left.”
The silence stretched.
You kept cleaning the wound. Carefully. Quietly.
“I thought you hated me,” you said.
He looked away.
“I thought you hated yourself.”
That got his attention.
“You’re wrong,” he said. Then, quieter: “I don’t hate you.”
You froze.
He exhaled, slow. “You’re the first person to look at me like I’m not something broken.”
You tied off the bandage. Sat back on your heels.
“I don’t think you’re broken,” you said. “Just scared.”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t look away.
⋆｡°✩
The fire burned low. The storm had passed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, the castle was completely still.
Sukuna sat in the chair by the hearth, his injured arm resting on his knee, cloak draped over one shoulder like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. You sat across from him, the heat of your body still soaked into the cushions behind you. The bandages you’d tied were clean. The room smelled like ash, like rain-soaked fabric, like breath held too long.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“So should you.”
Neither of you moved.
The silence between you wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry. It hummed with something else now— a weight, a possibility. His eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but they watched you like he was memorizing. Like he was letting go.
You stood.
He didn’t stop you when you crossed the room. Didn’t flinch when you reached for the cloak around his shoulders, or when your fingers brushed the edge of his wrist. He let you touch him.
“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.
“I told you, you’re free.”
You looked up.
“I don’t mean the castle.”
For a moment, his expression flickered— something raw behind the bone and ink. Then he reached up— slowly, carefully— and pressed one hand against your chest. The warmth of his palm bled through your shirt.
“You shouldn’t want me,” he said.
“Too late.”
⋆｡°✩
When you kissed him, it wasn’t soft.
It was slow. Careful in the way only something dangerous could be— like you were both afraid the moment might shatter. His mouth was warmer than you expected, rough but patient. His claws ghosted over your ribs but never dug in. When you parted, breathless, you watched his eyes flutter open— and for once, they weren’t guarded. Just full.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
You didn’t.
⋆｡°✩
The bed creaked beneath your weight. You let him guide you down with hands that had once shattered stone, now shaking as they touched your skin like it was something sacred. His lips followed— jaw, throat, collarbone— trailing reverent, slow heat. Your shirt peeled away. His claws never scratched. Not once.
When he saw you— all of you— he stilled.
You waited.
He leaned down, pressed his lips against the dip between your ribs, and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”
The ache that bloomed in your chest was too much to hold.
⋆｡°✩
He kissed every inch of you, like he was trying to rewrite the memory of how you’d been seen before. His hands mapped your hips, your stomach, your thighs, never greedy, only steady— like if he rushed it, you’d vanish. You clung to his shoulders, the ridges of his arms, the heat of his body as he moved against you, slow and sure.
It didn’t matter that you shook. He held you. Listened to the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched into his, the way you whispered his name like it was a secret he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.
When he finally entered you— gentle, careful, with your breath caught in his mouth— the stretch burned, but you welcomed it. He didn’t move until you pulled him closer.
Every motion after that felt like a promise. His pace was slow, hips rolling deep, deeper, every thrust grounded in reverence. His name slipped from your lips again, and he cursed low against your skin. One of his hands found yours and squeezed— not possessive, but grounding.
You felt him unravel above you. Felt the way his rhythm faltered as your legs locked around his waist. When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and his mouth at your throat.
He followed with a growl that shook through both of you.
⋆｡°✩
After, he cleaned you gently— like it meant something— and pulled you against him beneath the sheets. The weight of his arm across your waist was solid and warm. His other hands traced your spine like he didn’t want to forget the shape of you.
You lay there for a long time, chest to chest, breath to breath.
“I’ve never had this,” he murmured.
You looked up at him.
“You do now,” you said.
And he closed his eyes.
⋆｡°✩
The next morning, you found him in the garden.
The sky was pale with early light, frost clinging to the edges of the stone, and Sukuna stood alone near the edge of the rosebushes— still dressed from the night before, cloak loose around his shoulders, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see.
You hadn’t spoken since. Not with words. But your body still ached with memory. You could still feel the weight of his hand on your waist, the rasp of his voice against your throat.
When he turned, you knew he’d already felt the shift.
“The mirror,” he said simply. “Ask it to show you.”
You hesitated.
Then you stepped forward, reached into the space between you, and the mirror bloomed to life in your hands.
Glass shimmered.
Your father’s face appeared in the surface— pale, shaking, trapped in a cage. Behind him, jeering voices. A man’s laughter that turned your stomach.
Naoya.
The world inside the mirror shifted, and you saw the asylum gates.
Your heart dropped.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.
Sukuna’s voice was quiet. “Go to him.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“You can.”
“I’ll come back.”
His eyes flicked away. “Don’t make promises you don’t mean.”
“I mean it.”
He didn’t argue.
He reached into the folds of his cloak and pressed the mirror into your hands. His thumb brushed your wrist, just once, before pulling away.
You held his gaze.
“You’re more than this,” you said.
His voice was barely a breath. “And you’re the only one who ever saw it.”
Neither of you said goodbye.
But as you turned and stepped through the gate, you felt something in your chest twist tight— like a thread had been tied between you, and you’d left it trembling in the cold.
The carriage was already waiting when you arrived.
They’d moved fast— too fast. Naoya had spun his lies like thread through every ear that would listen, his voice oiled with performance, face clean with practiced pity. “The poor painter,” he’d said. “Mad with grief. Imagining monsters. His daughter brainwashed.”
They never asked for your side. They never wanted it.
By the time you found your father, he was already bound and trembling, hands clutching the bars of the cage. His eyes lit up when he saw you— but the fear didn’t leave his face.
“He’s sending me away,” he whispered. “They won’t listen—”
“They will,” you said. “I’ll make them.”
You turned.
Naoya stood by the wagon with his arms folded, coat freshly pressed, a gleam in his eye that made your stomach turn. “Come to your senses?” he asked. “Or just here to cry some more?”
“I’m here to end this.”
Naoya smirked. “You don’t even know what you’ve been sleeping beside.”
You didn’t flinch.
Instead, you held up the mirror.
And the courtyard fell silent.
⋆｡°✩
Gasps rippled as the image bloomed— Sukuna’s face, sharp and monstrous, watching from the castle gate. Behind him, the castle stretched in shadow and stormclouds. His four arms moved with eerie stillness. His eyes glowed.
Naoya’s smirk faltered.
“You see?” you said. “He exists. My father told the truth.”
“But he’s a monster,” someone muttered.
“He’s cursed.”
Naoya recovered fast. “Then he’s dangerous.”
“He saved my life.”
“He’s bewitched you.”
“He let me go,” you snapped. “He gave me freedom when no one else did.”
Silence. Then someone shouted, “Even if it’s true— who’s to say he won’t come for us next?”
Naoya turned, voice rising with mock-heroism. “The time for talk is over. The creature threatens our home, our children, our future. If no one else will act—”
He raised his musket.
“I will.”
⋆｡°✩
They moved like floodwater.
Torches lit. Guns drawn. Blades rattling against pitchforks. You tried to fight your way back, tried to shout above the roar— but Naoya had planned this too well. You were grabbed, shoved, dragged toward the same cage your father had escaped from only minutes before.
“Lock them both up,” Naoya growled. “They can watch the castle burn.”
And as the mob marched toward the mountains, you kicked against the bars and screamed his name.
But the wind stole it from your lips.
⋆｡°✩
The castle saw them coming.
Long before the first torch lit the cliffside, before the wheels of the cart screeched against the stone, before the mob had even reached the gates— the castle knew. You could feel it in the air. The torches inside flickered low. The mirrors dimmed. The wind outside rose like a warning.
And the servants prepared for war.
Gojo lit every candelabra in the main hall like it was a funeral pyre. Geto barked orders no one listened to. Kaori shoved Yuuji into a cupboard and told him not to come out no matter what. Shoko, brush raised like a spear, muttered something about having waited centuries for a good excuse to stab someone.
And through it all, Sukuna stood on the highest balcony, silent.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared down at the torches approaching like they were stars fallen from the sky.
“He’s not coming back,” he said, to no one.
No one corrected him.
⋆｡°✩
You had never run so fast in your life.
Your father limped behind you, breath ragged, hand clutched tight in yours. You didn’t know how long the gate would hold. Didn’t care. The mountain path blurred beneath your boots, the wind howling past your ears, your lungs burning.
You saw the smoke before you saw the fire.
And then— through the trees— the castle.
And Naoya, musket raised, climbing the stairs.
⋆｡°✩
The servants fought like chaos incarnate.
Kaori tripped one man with a swinging teacart. Geto lobbed vases from the top floor with mechanical precision. Gojo lit half the mob’s torches out of spite. But it wasn’t enough. The villagers kept coming. Loud. Angry. Terrified of what they didn’t understand.
Sukuna met Naoya on the roof.
There were no words. Just a flash of steel, a snarl, the clash of teeth and blade. Sukuna didn’t hold back. But he didn’t kill him either. He let him fall once. Let him scramble back to his feet. Let him swing again.
He turned away.
And Naoya fired.
⋆｡°✩
The shot rang out sharp against the storm.
You saw it hit— watched Sukuna stagger, one knee dropping, blood already soaking through the silk. You screamed his name. But the castle was too high. The bridge too narrow. You couldn’t reach him.
Naoya raised the gun again.
But this time, the ledge gave way.
He didn’t have time to scream.
⋆｡°✩
You reached Sukuna just as he collapsed.
He was so heavy. So warm. You dropped to your knees and caught his face in your hands, blood slick beneath your fingers. His eyes fluttered open— unfocused, glassy, still watching you.
“You came back,” he rasped.
“Of course I did.”
“You… idiot.”
You let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You’re not allowed to die. Not like this.”
“It’s too late.”
“No—”
“The rose…”
You looked over your shoulder.
The last petal falls.
⋆｡°✩
You didn’t feel the petals hit the ground.
You only felt his hand in yours— colder now, less steady. The weight of his body against your knees. The way his chest rose slower with each breath.
“Sukuna,” you whispered, “look at me.”
He didn’t.
“Sukuna, please.”
One eye opened. Barely. The glow had faded. The strength was gone. But he was still here. Just barely.
“I’m not ready to lose you,” you said. “I didn’t come back to watch you die.”
“You came back because you’re good,” he murmured. “You always were.”
“I came back because I love you.”
That stilled him.
Completely.
The breath in his lungs caught. His jaw twitched. You saw the disbelief flood his face like something painful. Like something he hadn’t let himself imagine.
“I see you,” you said. “I always have. You’re not a monster. You never were.”
He blinked.
Once.
Then the light left his eyes.
⋆｡°✩
The stillness that followed wasn’t real silence— it was a grief so sharp the world seemed to hold its breath. The castle groaned beneath you. The wind outside died. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered.
You didn’t let go of him.
You bowed your head, forehead pressed to his. Your voice was too quiet to echo.
“Come back.”
Nothing moved.
“Come back to me.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I’m not done loving you yet.”
⋆｡°✩
The magic cracked like thunder.
It didn’t explode— it bloomed.
Light poured from the wound on his chest, golden and blinding. His body lifted, spine arched, arms outstretched as if something ancient had taken hold of him. You stumbled back— not out of fear, but awe— and watched as the lines on his skin unraveled. The ink melted. The horns splintered to dust.
He dropped to the floor— whole.
Still.
Then his chest rose.
He gasped like someone drowning.
And when his eyes opened, they were still him.
Sukuna. Just Sukuna. Not a Beast. Not a curse.
“...You stayed,” he whispered.
You launched into his arms before he could say anything else.
Later— after the villagers’ memories returned, after Kaori wept openly in the kitchen, after Gojo danced with the mirror for no reason at all— you stood beside him in the ballroom, chest pressed to his as the music rose. His hand in yours was solid. Strong. Warm.
You wore your best shirt. He still wouldn’t put on a crown.
You looked up at him.
“I still hate you a little,” you said.
He smiled, just slightly.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
⋆｡°✩
The castle bloomed again, slowly.
The halls brightened. The ivy peeled back from the windows. Rooms you hadn’t dared open now welcomed you with soft lamplight and warm air. The gardens thawed first— roses blooming in defiance of the season, red and gold and white, petals trembling in the breeze.
The servants were alive again. Whole again. Gojo wouldn’t shut up for three days. Geto complained about everything and still offered you tea every morning. Shoko took up smoking and refused to explain why.
You didn’t need a title. You didn’t ask for one. But the people came anyway— not to see a fairytale, but to see the man who’d saved their prince. Who’d kissed the curse out of a beast’s broken body and asked for nothing in return.
You stayed.
And he did, too.
⋆｡°✩
The night was warm. Summer had finally found the mountain. Fireflies gathered in the rose garden like floating lanterns. You leaned against the railing of the balcony, bare feet on cold stone, the wind brushing through your hair.
Sukuna stepped behind you.
His arms came around your waist, steady and slow.
You let your body melt back against his. His touch was different now— less cautious, more certain— but never greedy. He held you like you were something fragile only because he knew how hard the world had been to you.
“You’re thinking again,” he murmured.
You smiled. “That obvious?”
“Always.”
You turned in his arms.
Looked up at him.
“Do you still have nightmares?” you asked.
“Not when you’re here.”
You kissed him then— slow, sure, like you had nothing left to prove.
And when the stars came out, you were still there, tucked against him. Safe. Wanted. Home.
Another idea!! Okay so, delinquent reader x a childhood friend who made a mistake.
Oc and reader were completely inseparable since childhood after their parents introduced them to each other. Oc was an energetic kid, always begging his parents to meet up with reader, while the reader was more shy. But him being shy didn't mean that he hated the company, actually he absolutely adored the other, looking up to him in a way. Everytime they would play oc would effortlessly make temporary friends on the playground, and everytime his playground friends tried pushing Reader away since he was quiet oc wouldn't allow it.
Until they started highschool, oc made friends with the “popular” kids. He started hanging out with them more and more, slowly pulling away from reader. Until one day he got an ultimatum, either to stay with them or reader, and he chose the popular kids. What oc didn't know was that his new friend group would start bullying reader, at first he's shocked, trying to stop it, but after a while.. he just starts silently watching.
This causes the reader to disappear from school for months after it got severe (bullying was for a few years). But when he came back, he was different. Snappy, temperamental, a delinquent. Oc seeing this realizes how much he's changed, that he's no longer the cute shy kid that looked up to him. Oc starts trying to fix things, but you choose if it works in this fic or not.
I'm so fucking sorry this is so goddamn long 💀
-💀
𝗔𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀? 𝗖𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗲 𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀?
𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘅 𝗗𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗾𝘂𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗠𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿
just realized I never made a title for this oh my god anyways heres the updated version
You weren’t supposed to come back.
That was the unspoken rule, wasn't it? Once you vanished—after the bruises, after the rumors, after the final time someone shoved you down the stairs and Elian just stood there—you were gone.
No one expected to see you again. Not the teachers. Not the kids.
Certainly not him.
But here you are, pushing open the gates of West Ridge High like you own the damn place, teeth bared in a half-lazy, half-daring grin. It’s not real, of course. Just something you wear now, like your beat-up leather jacket and scuffed boots and that permanent slouch in your shoulders that says just screams problem starter.
And yeah, maybe you do start problems
Your hair’s longer. You’ve got a lip ring and bandages across your knuckles from a fight you didn’t win, but refused to lose. The office staff barely recognize you when you sign in.
Elian definitely doesn’t.
You catch him staring during first period.
It’s almost funny, the way he freezes when you walk in. Like a ghost just entered the room instead of a guy who used to braid clover chains for him during recess.
You take the seat furthest from him, ignoring the way he keeps glancing over like you might evaporate if he blinks too long.
Too late for that.
You’ve already disappeared once.
By third day back, everyone knows not to mess with you.
Not because you’re loud. Not because you fight much, though you have made a name for yourself in backlot scraps behind the gym. It’s just the way you are now—quiet like thunder in the distance. People hear it, and they don’t wait to see the storm.
Except him.
He corners you behind the vending machines after school, his hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets like he’s scared you’ll break his fingers if he tries to reach out.
"Can I—" he starts, but you already know.
You don’t look at him. "No."
He flinches. "You don’t even know what I was gonna say."
"Doesn’t matter."
There’s a pause. You hear him shift, like he’s about to walk away. But then—
"I didn’t choose them over you. I—" He exhales, and it’s shaky. “I thought I had time. I thought you’d always be there.”
That stops you. Just a beat.
You turn, finally meeting his eyes. They're the same ones that used to sparkle when you brought him wildflowers. Now they're red-rimmed. Guilty.
"You watched me get torn apart," you say, voice low. “For years. Not once. Not twice. Every damn day.”
He swallows hard. “I was scared.”
"So was I."
Another pause.
He looks at you then—not like you're some broken thing he wants to fix, but like someone he misses. Truly, achingly. Like he’s been walking around half-alive and only just found the part of him he lost.
“I never stopped—” His voice cracks. “You were my best friend. My only real one. I just... I got so caught up trying to be liked. Trying to be safe.”
You’re quiet for a long time.
Then, without thinking, you say it.
“You could’ve been safe with me.”
After that, he doesn’t push.
Not for a while.
But you notice things.
An extra juice box left beside your locker. A sticky note on your desk that says “math test Friday” in familiar chicken-scratch. Someone tripping in the hallway only for Elian to be at your side a second later, ready to fight whoever touched you—until he realizes you handled it first.
You don’t say anything.
But when you sit down at lunch one day and find him already at your usual spot, tray untouched, hands clenched in his lap, waiting—you pause.
He looks up.
Just once, he smiles. A little lopsided. A little broken.
“Hey.”
You sit across from him.
You don’t say anything.
But your leg brushes his under the table, and this time, you don’t pull away.
Healing isn't clean.
You still snap at him some days. Still storm out when something hits too close. You still hate the way he flinches sometimes—like he's expecting the worst from you.
And he still cries sometimes. Not in front of you, but you hear it in the way he says “I’m sorry” like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
But he shows up.
He listens.
He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. He just stays.
And maybe… maybe that’s enough for now.
Because there’s a quiet night—late spring, air smelling like rain—where you’re sitting on the hood of his mom’s car, both of you staring at the stars like you used to, and he whispers—
“Are we still friends?”
You don’t answer right away.
But you lean your head on his shoulder.
And it’s the first time he doesn’t cry when you touch him.
“w-wait! ‘s t-too much hng!” you let out, tears streaming down your your face as your enemy roughly thrusted his cock in and out of your cum-filled hole. how many times has he cum? how long have you guys been going for it? you’ve lost track of everything, incapable of matching the stamina he has in his body and dick. you’re not even sure, at this point, how his dick was able to remain hard for several hours straight.
“pleeeassee…. ‘m gon’ cumm!” you sobbed, but his answer was the same— an increase in speed from his movements. unable to take it, you came, your body twitching as spurt after spurt spilled from your sensitive and overstimulated cock.
“h-hugh…! i js came!!” you gasped and your hands moved behind, attempting to stop him from moving. however, you were met with a harsh slap on your ass, causing for you to let out a loud moan. “you can take it,” he whispered, pressing his chest against your back. he continued to move, uncaring that you’re practically crying.
“just one more,” he said, his movement no longer precise and you could feel his cock twitch inside already, a sign that he was close to cumming. you could only cry and moan in response, too overwhelmed by the pleasure you’re feeling, as he continued to move his hips. one particular harsh thrust and a tight clench from your hole, he was finally cumming. thick spurts of cum spilled his cock, infiltrating your guts in white. you whimpered at the feeling and looked behind you, your eyes locking with his red ones. suddenly, you feel his cock twitch again and you see him grin.
oh no.
“you shouldn’t have looked at me like that.” you heard him say before thrusting once again, not even caring that there was still a load of cum inside you.
ໃ𑄺. paring : god of war mydei x mortal warrior male!reader
ໃ𑄺. synopsis : You are nothing but a mortal warrior—fragile, fleeting, and yet, you have defied the God of War himself. Mydei has crushed entire civilizations under his heel, yet no matter how many times he cuts you down, you rise again, bloodied but unbroken. He should end you, make an example of your defiance, but instead, he finds himself enthralled. Your stubbornness is infuriating, your resilience intoxicating. So, he decides to break you in a different way, to make you surrender, not to war, but to him. And when he finally has you beneath him, trembling and breathless, you realize that even the strongest warriors can fall.[GOD OF WAR SERIES.] ૮ ྀི◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ྀིა
ໃ𑄺. warnings : nsfw/smut, man handling, size kink, rough mydei, anal sēx, mild dumbification, multiple of rounds, semi-public sēx, creampie, blowjob, face sitting (reader reviving), praise, degradation, squirting, mild dubcon and slūt shaming.
ໃ𑄺. note : this took forever to write because its my first time writing male reader.
You should have died days ago.
Maybe weeks.
Time blurred together in the haze of blood and broken bones.
Again and again, Mydei’s sword had torn you open. Again and again, his fist had driven you into the dirt like a nail.
And yet — every morning, you rose. Breathless. Shaking. But unbroken.
A mortal.
Frail. Weak.
You shouldn’t have been able to survive this long.
"You don't know when to fall, do you?" Mydei snarled today, golden armor gleaming with the blood of your comrades, his towering form looming over your battered body. "Pathetic little thing. You should be begging me to finish it."
Instead, you grinned up at him, cracked lips pulling into a bloody, stubborn smile.
In an instant, he was on you, sword clattering to the ground as he grabbed your throat, hoisting you up like you weighed nothing. His hand nearly wrapped around your whole neck, the size difference dizzying.
"You want harder, little mortal?" he growled against your ear, breath hot, hungry. "Then beg for it."
You tried to speak—tried to curse him—but your vision blurred from the pressure.
And gods, you hated it—hated the way your body reacted, cock stirring against the ruined fabric of your pants, heat pooling deep in your gut.
Mydei saw it.
Of course he did.
A slow, predatory grin stretched across his face. "Tch. Look at you. Getting hard just from being manhandled like a filthy little slut."
With a crash, he slammed you against a nearby stone pillar, the impact rattling your bones, the world tilting. Before you could recover, he shoved you down to your knees.
"You’re not a warrior," he sneered, grabbing your hair and forcing your face against the bulge straining his armor. "You’re weak."
You whimpered, shame burning under your skin—and still, you opened your mouth obediently when he tugged open his belt.
His cock was massive, just like the rest of him—thick, heavy, the kind of thing that would tear a man apart.
And yet... when he tapped it against your lips, smearing precum across them like a brand, you leaned in.
"Tch. Desperate little thing," Mydei growled. "You pretend you're strong... but all it takes is a real god to put you in your place."
He forced himself between your lips, groaning deep in his chest when your throat struggled to take him. You gagged, eyes watering, gripping his thighs for balance as he set a brutal pace, fucking your mouth without mercy.
Each thrust made your vision dance with stars, your nose pressed against his musky skin, the taste of salt and sweat flooding your senses.
"My stubborn little warrior..." he rasped, voice thick with arousal. "Look at you. All that pride... and you're drooling over my cock like a common whore."
Tears ran down your cheeks—whether from the choking or the humiliation, you couldn't tell.
You hated him.
You hated him so much it hurt.
And yet—your cock was throbbing, dripping precum into your ruined pants, aching for more.
Mydei pulled out with a wet pop, letting you collapse forward, gasping for air.
Before you could even think, he grabbed you again, turning you roughly, shoving your chest against the pillar.
"You wanted to fight me?" he snarled. "This is your reward."
With a brutal, merciless thrust, he speared into you, splitting you open in one stroke.
You screamed—half in pain, half in desperate, shameful pleasure—as he bottomed out inside you.
He was too big, stretching you until you felt like you might tear, the sensation riding the line between agony and ecstasy.
"F-fuck—!" you choked, fists pounding weakly against the pillar.
He just laughed, low and cruel, hips snapping forward with brutal force.
Each thrust knocked the breath from your lungs, his cock hammering deep, claiming you.
The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the ruined temple around you—obscene, loud enough that anyone wandering nearby would hear.
And gods, the thought of it—of being caught like this, used like a ragdoll by the very god you tried to defy—made you clench around him, shame flooding you.
Mydei felt it.
"Filthy," he growled, slapping your ass hard enough to make you yelp. "Tightening up like a fucking whore just ‘cause you’re getting bred by a god."
You could barely think anymore—words slipping from your mouth in broken, needy sounds.
"F-fuck... please...!" you sobbed, hips moving on their own now, chasing every punishing thrust like an addict.
"That's it," Mydei growled, voice dark and triumphant. "Knew you’d fall eventually. Knew you’d break."
You didn't even notice him lifting you at first—didn't realize he was carrying you, impaled on his cock like a trophy, until your back slammed into another stone slab.
You whimpered, trembling in his grasp as he pounded into you even harder now, using his full strength, fucking you so deep it felt like you could taste him in your throat.
You were nothing but a ragdoll in his hands now, babbling, eyes rolling back, pleasure white-hot and brutal in your veins.
Your cock throbbed between your bodies, untouched, leaking precum in thick spurts against his stomach.
"You gonna cum, little warrior?" Mydei mocked, rutting into you with savage intensity. "Gonna cum just from getting your guts rearranged?"
You nodded frantically, unable to form words.
He laughed, low and cruel.
"Pathetic."
With a final, vicious thrust, he pushed you over the edge, and you screamed—squirting, cock pulsing, white spilling messily between your bodies.
You spasmed helplessly in his grasp, body clenching around his cock, milking him.
Mydei groaned deep in his chest, hips jerking erratically as he finally found his release, flooding you with hot, heavy ropes of cum, so much it leaked out around his cock and down your trembling thighs.
You slumped against him, boneless, mind numb and broken, gasping for breath.
And still, he held you there, impaled and stuffed full, grinding lazily into you, like he never wanted to pull out.
"Look at you," he murmured against your ear, voice almost tender now. "Mine."
You shivered—whether from fear or something darker, you didn’t know.
But as Mydei began to move again, slow and punishing, it became clear:
You had fallen.
Not to war.
Not to death.
But to him.
And you would never escape.
Mydei didn’t let you rest—not truly.
Every time you thought he’d had his fill, he dragged you back onto his cock, bruising you from the inside out, claiming you again and again.
You were his now.
Not a warrior.
Not a hero.
Just a conquered thing.
He lounged atop his fallen temple throne now, one powerful thigh thrown lazily over the stone armrest, golden armor glinting.
You were spread out across his lap, legs dangling over his knees, chest pressed to his stomach, stuffed full of him once again.
The god of war was massive underneath you, thick and twitching inside your ruined hole, still leaking hot seed from the last time he'd emptied himself into you.
"You’re lucky," Mydei rumbled, dragging a heavy hand down your back, the touch both mocking and fond. "Most mortals die screaming beneath my heel. You? You get to be kept."
You whimpered, grinding down helplessly, the tip of his cock pressing against something devastating deep inside you.
"Still hungry, are you?" he chuckled darkly. "Tch. Filthy little thing."
He grabbed your hips, lifting you easily, nearly pulling out—before slamming you back down again.
You cried out, body jerking, hands scrabbling weakly at his chest for balance.
"You belong here," he growled, bouncing you lazily on his cock, his hands gripping your waist so hard you knew you’d have bruises in the morning. "Split open on my cock where you were meant to be."
The worst part?
You loved it.
You fucking loved it.
Your cock throbbed between your bodies, smearing precum across the hard plates of his armor, soaking the golden sheen with your desperation.
"You were never a warrior," Mydei snarled, thrusting up into you so deep you screamed. "You're a fuck toy. A seat for your god."
As if to prove it, he shifted you—pinned you down against the throne now, forcing you onto your back, legs folded up to your chest.
The new angle made his cock drive impossibly deeper, battering your prostate with every brutal thrust.
"Take it," he hissed, sweat dripping from his temples. "Take your god like the desperate little thing you are."
Your mind was mush now—body shivering, drooling, mumbling incoherent prayers as he rutted into you like a beast.
Somewhere distant, you heard voices—soldiers passing the ruined temple gates, perhaps—but Mydei didn’t stop.
If anything, he fucked you harder, proud of ruining you where others could hear.
"You want them to see you?" he sneered, voice sharp as a blade. "Want them to see what happens when you defy the god of war?"
You could only sob and nod, your body betraying you completely.
With a growl, Mydei grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, the other spreading your thighs even wider, hips snapping like a piston.
"You’re mine now," he snarled into your mouth. "Say it."
You choked on a moan, words tumbling out between ragged gasps.
"M-mine—yours—fuck—yours—!"
He roared low in his chest, slamming into you one final time, cock twitching violently as he spilled inside you again—hot, thick, endless.
You felt it flood you, dripping out around him, filthy and perfect.
He didn't pull out.
Just stayed buried deep, panting against your neck, hips rocking lazily to keep you stuffed full of him.
"My pretty little ruin," he rasped, nipping your throat possessively. "I'll make sure you never walk again without remembering who broke you."
You whimpered brokenly, trembling in his grasp.
And when he shifted again—lifting your weak, pliant body to straddle his face, dragging you down onto his mouth—you didn't even fight.
Just sobbed out a needy, humiliated moan as he began to devour you, tongue forcing you into another helpless, overstimulated orgasm.
Squirting against his mouth, against his smirking lips, against the god who owned you now.
You had fallen.
Not with glory.
Not with honor.
But on your knees, trembling, broken—and utterly his.
wi wi wi we we wi u ya ya
is this basically zootopia? nuh uh no its not
🐾 You never thought you would ever see yourself, a little cat hybrid, working at a big firm like Apex. Being a mild-mannered kitty from the country, city life wasn't really something that you thought of often.
🐾 That was until you got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get a job that offered a lot of pay. Your family's fishing business needed some help so you decided to take it.
🐾 You packed your things, bid goodbye to your family, and headed off.
🐾 The subway ride to the office building was a long and stressful one, but eventually you made it !
🐾 Inside was bustling with all sorts of hybrids walking and flying about doing whatever business they were dealing with. Coming up to the front desk, you ask the Secretary Bird hybrid sitting on the other side about your first day.
🐾 She looks up from her ledger and back down to blink at the little thing wearing what seems to be a flannel instead of a proper dress shirt.
🐾 "Ohhh, you're that kid from outta town. Just sign here then take a seat over there while I call someone to show you around." She chirps, picking up one of the many landlines and punches in some numbers.
🐾 After a bit of waiting, a snow leopard hybrid sauntered over to where you were sitting, holding a clipboard that seemed miniscule in his paw
🐾 "So you're our new assistant, huh?" He looks at you with piercing blue eyes. He looked at you up and down like he was considering whether or not he'd eat you or something.
🐾 He bids you to follow him in a tired, gravelly voice. Now and again you'd see him take glances at you as you waddle after him trying to match his speed. He was a big guy with big strides !
🐾 "You're going to be working with me and my colleagues up at upper management, so I expect you to be settled as soon as possible, understood?" He rumbles, going into an elevator as you nod, quickly heading in as well.
🐾 As the elevator went up, employees went in and out on your way to the top. You tried to ignore the fluffy tail that curved around your legs softly as if protectively shielding you against the people piling into the small area.
🐾 Eventually, the two of you arrived at your designated floor and entered one of the doors in the sleep hallway. A lion, black panther, and a tiger hybrid perk up and look at you, hearing the door open.
🐾 Big cats..this will be interesting ...
🐾 "Shigara! Who's this little thing beside you?" The black panther greets cheerfully, looking at you with green eyes that widen with interest.
🐾 "Awee, didn't know our new assistant would be such a cutie~!" The tiger purred out, swishing his tail.
🐾 "Hush Nikolai, you'll scare them away.." The lion mewls, but with his deep voice it wasn't as comforting as it should be..
🐾 "Enough, let's get him accustomed." The snow leopard grunted behind you, his arms crossed impatiently.
🐾 Getting used to your new life was pretty easy. Your three big bosses were scary but you saw they meant well, so it didn't take long for you to get used to office work.
🐾 Shigara the snow leopard hybrid was always the one to "supervise" you.
🐾 He always had this begrudging look on his face as he watched you type away at your computer with his arms crossed.
🐾 Most of the time he was just silently watching you but now and again he'd growl out some random reminders
🐾 "You haven't had water in 30 minutes."
🐾 "15 minute break. Now."
🐾 "You're sitting too close to the screen, move back."
🐾 As stern as he sounds, he's quite gentle when he has to make you follow his little requests to take care of yourself.
🐾 Give him a thank you, or a little compliment and you he gets shy, flattening his ears as he looks away.
🐾 "Think nothing of it. I won't have our assistant ignore their health while they work..."
🐾 Farrel the black panther always showed up to talk to you during your breaks, often bringing snacks or sweet treats for you to try.
🐾 He is somewhat obsessed with how small you are compared to him. He'd ask you permission to hold your hand in his large one.
🐾 He mewls giddily when your claws come out after he presses your palm, they're so small !!!
🐾 You have a sneaking suspicion he's been putting important files on the higher shelves so he can watch you struggle to reach them and eventually ask someone to help you.
🐾 He asks for your favorite foods so he can buy them for you, but gets frustrated when you say you're fine with anything. LET HIM PAMPER YOU !!
🐾 He will buy you yarn or anything that dangles just to see if you would play with it.
🐾 Almost went into cardiac arrest when he walked by your little office and caught you toying with one of his gifts while working.
🐾 Took photos, shared it to the boys' group chat, everyone liked and saved it.
🐾 "I got this from the new bakery downtown! I saved this strawberry one just for you~!"
🐾 Nikolai the tiger is a pain, a real pain.
🐾 Pesters you when he sees Shigara isn't around to scold him for ignoring his work. He already finished everything for today! He can do the rest later..
🐾 Love love loves teasing you, even if you're just eating your lunch or reading through files.
🐾 Sits beside you then brushes his tail against your tail and sides to make you laugh.
🐾 If you still ignore him, he covers your face with his big fluffy tail, and it's really heavy so it takes quite some time to pry it off of you.
🐾 He helps Farrel with putting your files on high shelves.
🐾 Just like Farrel, he loves how small you are, but in a sense that he's much much stronger and bigger than you.
🐾 While sitting next to you, he'd stretch and show off his muscles.
🐾 Or he'd take off his coat with some excuse that it's just you in the room so he doesn't have to stay in that stuffy thing while he's spending time with you.
🐾 Ignore him too much though, and you get a grumpy, whiny kitten who just wants you to look at him.
🐾 "C'mon kit! I'm just playin' around! Look at me please.."
🐾 Abasi the lion is more of less the leader amongst everyone.
🐾 Your first impression of him was that he would be some nonchalant, leaderly, responsible type, and he is, at least while he's working.
🐾 He's usually busy with all the work he has so you don't see him much, But when he does come, he's all mush.
🐾 He pulls up a chair and leans oh you with a roarish yawn, his surprisingly silky mane brushing your eats, making them twitch.
🐾 That's how he always spends his breaks, resting somewhere near or on you while you both watch some videos on the internet to wind down before going back to work.
🐾 It's like he was born to be lazy and mellow, but sadly, duty calls. At least he can indulge in his true nature with you as his personal pillow.
🐾 He regularly asks how you're doing and if you need any help with work, just to make sure his assistant is getting the appropriate workload of course.
🐾 "Your help is much appreciated by everyone in this team..*yawn* keep up...*yawn* ...the good work..zzzz"
🐾 They have one professional group chat with you in it for work, and another which is only the 4 of them and it's called "(Y/N) Fan CLubb !1!" by Ferral.
🐾 The chat is almost always active.
ARGARAGARG i like this ! no i like this fic ! it took me months but im back making more shit ! im sorryr for being gone so long my papoopoos you must be starving !!!
lonely alpha trucker who picks up a pretty omega hitchhiker yes yes do you see the vision
he spots this pretty boy walking along the highway and pulls over, leaning out the window to shout out, "ya need a ride, sugar?" the tension between them is obvious as soon as pretty boy climbs into the truck, blushing at the distinct scent of alpha permeating the cab, like leather and tobacco and peppermint.
they keep up casual conversation until nighttime falls, trucker offering to share his sleeper since the seats are very uncomfortable to sleep on. pretty boy snuggles in, gasping as rough hands grip his hips and pull his ass back against the hard ridge of trucker's cock. he can't help his whimper of "alpha", pulling a groan from the older man behind him.
moments later his cunt is split open on fat alpha cock, trucker pushing his legs down into a mating press and pounding relentlessly into his tight heat. pretty boy's moans and cries mingle with trucker's grunts and groans, a symphony of pleasure filling the small sleeper cab.
"such a gorgeous little knotsleeve," trucker growls as he picks up the pace, groping at pretty boy's tits. "gonna- fuck, gonna bust, baby..."
"knot me, knot me, gimme your knot, please," pretty boy begs between his noises, crying out as trucker grunts and finally shoves his fat knot inside his cunt. he trembles apart, cumming on trucker's knot with a sharp cry, squirting harshly as his hole clenches tight.
i'm too tired for more but hhhhh you see the vision
another late night horny post . . tw; stepcest, dubcon(?), ftm!reader, bottom reader, unspecified male character, masturbation with a vibrator, porn watching, getting caught by stepbro, pussy caressing (is that a thing?)
any male character you love — made with satoru in mind . . not proofread ,, got lazy at the end
fem dni,, minors read @ your own discretion,, reblogs and likes appreciated ♡
The low hum of the vibrator was loud, considering the silence your dim room was shrouded in. Legs spread apart as the pink toy teased your clit, vibrating at just the right speed to make your pussy drip with slick.
Your hands shakily held the phone as you watched a muted porn video. Oh, how you wished that was you getting pounded like that, but a boy can dream all he wants. You were so close to the edge, letting out desperate whimpers as you chased your orgasm only for it to come crashing down when your door opened and your stepbrother leaned against your doorframe.
"Hey, (name). What'cha doing?" His tone was teasing as you could only stare. By now, the vibrations of your toy were numb, and you could barely feel it. He tried his best to conceal a grin as he watched your dumb face.
"Did I interrupt? My bad." He closed the door behind him and walked closer. What the hell was he doing? But his intentions were made clear when he took the vibrator away and turned it off, discarding it somewhere on the floor, doing the same with your phone and placing it on the nightstand.
His fingers ran through your sticky folds, spreading them apart to see the slick barely glistening in the soft light of your lamp.
He let out a low whistle, clearly intrigued by how wet you were. You attempted to close your legs, but they were only pried apart by your stepbrothers' strong grip while his fingers probe at your tight entrance but don't enter. Instead, he rubs the tip of his finger up and down your folds as if he were caressing it. By now, you were more confused than anything.
"What... what're you doing?" You blurted out suddenly, only to be met with another one of his cocky grins. His fingers stop at your clit, using the pad of his thumb to press neat circles into your sensitive bundle of nerves just to see you squirm and shake.
cw — blood, betrayal, obsessive themes, lack of autonomy and unbalanced power dynamics. 2.4k wc.
a/n — well well well
you can barely make him out through the mist.
a heavy and decadent cloud of perfume rolls over the warm waters of the royal banya; makes it difficult to chart your course to where your prince is. you narrow your eyes, glimpse the outline of his frame, solid and familiar, beyond the swirling haze that's descended over the pool's surface.
"moy knyaz," you clear your throat. my prince; the title rolling off your tongue like honey. "i've arrived with the supplies you asked for."
he spares you a glance over his shoulder, the movement causing gentle ripples in the water around him. you think briefly, like a fool, that he will wade to the edge of the pool to meet you where you stand. you lower your head, gaze drawn respectfully low.
"ah, sweet knight." you can hear the smile in his gentle words; that familiar lilt of felicity, all soft at the edges. "there you are; i was almost beginning to worry," he hums. "whatever took you so long?"
"apologies for the delay, my prince." you rest a hand over your heart, imbue as much sincerity as you can in the action. "i will ensure that it does not happen again."
you'd never been in the bathhouse before, so it was difficult not to feel like a stumbling fawn. you'd never had any reason to be in this wing of the palace; seeing as you were the prince's knight, and not one of his personal attendants—and yet, you contemplated quietly, this time he'd called specifically for you.
(the thought of it makes you feel strangely special.)
"very well.” he concedes. “you have brought what i asked for?"
"yes, my prince." you nod, hold out your hands over the edge of the pool. present to him upon your palms, folded neatly and perfumed in his favourite scent, the silver silk he uses during his trips to the bathhouse. you wait, expectantly, for the feel of his fingers swiping the washcloth from your hands—and yet, it never comes.
"dorogaya, you do not intend to keep me waiting any longer, i hope?"
you blink, head still lowered out of respect. "i'm sorry, my prince. i do not quite understand."
"eyes up, sweet knight, and clothes off." he says slowly, enunciating each syllable as one does when speaking to a child; "it seems," he sighs softly, "that i am in need of your ministrations tonight."
never one to go against his words, you raise your head, albeit reluctantly. almost immediately, you meet his tar black eyes. his gaze heavy and stifling, as he observes you lazily over his shoulders. you can't help that your attention drifts down to the prominent corded muscles of his back; the strong, solid shape you only just manage to make out through the soft, dreamlike mist.
he smiles at you so kindly, then, as if he is understanding of your appraisal; the curl of his lips feels dangerously close to an invitation to dip into something far deeper than these waters.
"you are already late," his voice, deceptively gentle for how low it is, brings your attention back to the task at hand, and out of your shameful reveries. you swallow nervously, as he turns back; the air in the banya feels colder, then, when your prince's eyes are no longer trained solely on you. "please, luybov moya. do not make me wait any longer."
my love, my love, my love; how gently he calls for you from the water.
the affections fall from his lips like sweet nectar, and you are so helplessly caught in his tenderness that there are no more questions to be asked, even if they weigh heavy on your mind.
your shirt is the first to go. the intricate buttons of your tunic difficult to undo with shaking fingers. trousers, next. stepping out of the fabric as it falls at your feet. working to loosen the lace of your boots.
tentatively, you dip your toes in the water. it's warmer than it looks. a welcome reprieve, though, from the chill of being undressed. the hair on your skin stands on end when the prince speaks up.
"clothes off," he repeats softly, without sparing you so much as a backwards glance. "i will not repeat myself."
"ah," you look down at the flimsy undergarments you still don; the scrap of decency they provide in maintaining a facade of respect in the presence of the tsar's son. thin fabrics that hide the skin on your back, marred by grotesque scars from previous battles waged and lost and won in the name of your beloved prince. and yet—albeit with trembling hands, you reach for the hem. "understood, moy knyaz."
you let yourself sink into the pool, as it envelopes your bare body whole. it's nice, and warm. welcoming, you think to yourself.
you nervously wring the silk in your hands as the gentle undulations of the water naturally push you closer to the prince; and you're silently grateful for the mist of the heavy perfumes and steam that descends over the banya and nips at (as well as obscures) your scarred skin.
perhaps it is because of this veil that it takes you so long to realise your prince is covered in blood.
you still in your movements—taking in the swirling ink-like clouds of deep red in the cerulean water around him; the spray of dark blood over his jaw, and the muscles of his chest; how it drips, thick like sweet nectar, from his hands—held out towards you.
"moya milaya," he murmurs, watching you through low lashes. his eyes are black like heavy tar. you find yourself stuck—sinking into the quiet darkness before you; "won't you purify me?"
you reach out, closer, press the silk against the inside of his wrist, right above his pulse. you delude yourself into thinking you can feel the steady thrum of life through the touch; but all you're met with is his warm skin, slick with blood. it smears when you wipe it, stains the fine fabric of the washcloth.
"your highness, are you—" your eyes flicker up to meet his, but your hands don't slow in their pace as you scrub him free. concern pulls the edges of your heart and everything threatens to unravel in the absence of an answer. "are you alright? were you hurt? has the physician allowed you to—"
"i am fine, sweet knight. the blood," your prince's lips curl into a knowing smile, "none of it is mine."
"i don't understand, moy knyaz. forgive me for my ignorance, but who did—" you blink, desperately searching his impassive face for an answer. "our enemies? conspirators against the tsardom? an assassination attempt? because i was never made aware of—"
he places his hand over your own. the touch is careful and light, merely a suggestion—
you still immediately.
realise, with dawning horror, that you've scrubbed his skin raw. the blood pools in the water, your insistent, frantic efforts leaving the skin of his forearm all angry and hot and red—markers of blossoming pain. tense muscles, and all. the silk looks as if it has been drenched in ink.
"not of the tsardom," the prince says lightly, 'but enemies still; and i already know you were not informed because i ordered it so."
the threads your heart was hanging on by are pulled too strongly, too soon. everything comes apart. a sense of betrayal, and then a deep-rooted shame, washes over you. you swore you would follow this man to the ends of the world; and yet, he does not even trust you in his darkest hours?
you wish to sink into the water and never resurface from its depths. beg, silently, for the fog to swallow you whole beneath the weight of your prince's gaze.
"apologies," you manage shakily. "i have failed to protect you, my prince. i understand that you find me incapable of serving you for any longer. as your humble knight, i shall—"
"hush."
fingers skimming up your neck, resting at your jaw. the impossibly soft way the prince forces you to meet his eyes, so kind in their own right. so full of mercy.
"bednyazhka," he whispers under his breath. you poor thing. "you worry far too much. it will be the cause of your undoing, one day."
"it is worth it for you, moy knyaz. i would gladly lay down my life for you."
"yes," he murmurs. "of course, that is what you would think. a shame.”
"apologies, i..." you frown. "i do not understand."
he smiles ruefully. "no. of course, you do not." his fingers fall from your face, and you find, shamefully, that you mourn the touch far more than you should. instead, they brush against your knuckles; raw from hours of combat training. he runs his thumb over the broken skin. "seven, sweet knight. this is the number of attempts made on your life in the past week."
you had...
you swallow nervously, coming to terms with the news. the urge to say something overwhelms you (strangely, an inclination to defend yourself) but the words evade you. your throat closes up.
you had no idea.
(find solace, at least, in not needing to wonder about the sorry sort of fates they must have met at the hands of this man before you.)
he swipes the washcloth from you, continues speaking in hushed tones; "our enemies grow restless as we prosper. they want nothing more than to hurt me. previously, i have not had to worry about this, because of you."
"and now?" you whisper.
"and now, luybov moya, my enemies rejoice." he takes your trembling hands in his own, inspects the blood from his skin that now stains yours by carefully turning over each and every finger in his palm. "they have found a way to hurt me." he confesses, "because of you."
the touch is feather light. barely even there.
"do you understand, my sweet knight? you are the reason i prosper, and yet, devastatingly so, the sole cause of my ruination."
the gentle undulations of the water around you has lulled you into a false sense of security. you feel safe in this moment, knowing your prince is in such close proximity. the two of you stand close enough for you to feel the heat of his body against yours; breaths in sync, breathing the same perfumed air in—and out.
in—and out.
you almost think you've misheard the prince when he speaks again.
"and this is why i have decided," he says softly, "that you will never pick up a sword again."
his words instantly break the fragile tranquility of the moment like a delicate thread that's been pulled at for far too long—an inevitable snap that still manages to hurt. you shake your head, affronted by the mere thought of such an absurd idea.
perhaps this is some sick jest. surely, he must know? the value of your sword? what it means to you?
you swore an oath to protect the tsar's son. it is an insult to your very being should you fail to uphold this royal promise. you have already let him down enough.
"i can not be of no use to you, moy knyaz."
"that will never be the case." he smiles. "i have many uses for you in mind, moya milaya."
how can he say it so affectionately? my sweetheart falling from his lips as he takes from you the one thing you can never bear to part with.
"but i have always fought!" you protest. frantic, desperate laughter bubbles past your lips. it sounds wrong and forced even to your own ears. he drinks it in, all the same. "i have always wanted to protect you. it is my purpose and duty and—"
who am i without it?
"yes, and i will always cherish you for it, but now, your fight is over."
your prince has always been the most beautiful man in the tsardom to you. out of an unwavering loyalty, you have followed him through the darkest snowstorms and to the most desolate battlefields. you have raised flags in his name and stared down the barrel of your gun to an innocent child for his legacy.
despite it all, he has only ever been your prince; and you, his most trusted knight.
in this moment, though?
the man before you is unrecognisable. he has forgotten who you are.
"the purpose of my life is fighting." you repeat, hoping to remind him of what your sword represents; a plea for him to let you keep it. "it is why i live. it is what i promised to forever do, until the very end of my life—i exist to serve you.”
"and you will." the prince assures you keenly, presents you with a reminder of his own. "there are other ways to serve."
ah—
so this is what you've fallen to.
"you cannot do this," you cling to him. dig your nails into his skin, forgetting the sheen of blood that already lies there; like a thin film. some impossible barrier separating your reason from his actions. "please, my prince. you can't."
please don't turn me into an accessory.
"my sweet knight," he gently pries your hands off of his shoulders, brings your wrist to his lips. he kisses away the blood on your skin as if this display of affection will wash you clean of your shame. "there is nothing you can do to stop me. it has already been done."
it dawns on you laughably late. of course, this is the true reason he called you to the bathhouse; why else would he be waiting for you? what other purpose for your presence—when he's never needed anyone else to purify him?
how foolish of you to think yourself an exception. the silk washcloth floats in the pool's water that gently ripples from all your shaking. it takes effort to hold yourself together and string the words you wish to say into anything even remotely sensible.
yet, you fall short, even then.
"why?" your strength is futile; any attempt to wretch your hand out of his hold fails. his fingers stay wrapped in place, careful not to bruise you with their strong hold—yet completely unyielding to your every effort. "i don't understand."
why would you strip me of who i am? why would you strip me of who i have always been?
tendrils of dark blood swirling in the warm water around you, your prince only smiles adoringly in response. his black eyes are so impossibly shallow as he watches you fall apart before him; and yet you find yourself drowning in them all the same.
"why would you do this to me?"
this is the first time you will hear this answer from the prince, but you already know—
(even whilst he peppers dozens of soft, sighing kisses into your wrist and up your arm, over your shoulder and down, down, under)
2087
stormborns
yousharknotpass
