Summary: Sukuna's heat has finally struck, and despite having a full year to prepare as best as you could, you don't think you'll survive it.
Warnings: 18+ MDI. Sukuna has two cocks because it's canon. Overstimulation, multiple orgasms, a bit of objectification. Possessive behavior.
The entire estate is in a flutter of organized chaos. Every single individual, from the house servants, maids, cooks, and guards all rushing about to get things in order, securing the household and planning for the several weeks ahead that would require a severe sense of tact and delicacy from everyone involved.
It's an annual event. One that is anticipated to arrive in the early summer, the whole of the estate collectively holding their breath as the approximate date looms closer and closer.
Once the fickleness of the spring weather finally shifts, the tepid, pollen perfumed air adjusting to something satiny, humid and warm, you know of what's to come. It never fails to have a nervous flutter stirring in the pit of your gut; excitement and agitation thrumming through your veins.
It's nothing new to you now, having dealt with this exactly four years in a row already, but the suspense of it never truly dims. And the capricious nature of Sukuna's moods doesn't help in that aspect. He's already ornery at the best of times. Testy. Swinging back and forth between that sadistic gloating of his and a terrifying kind of aggression or indifference. But when his . . . heat (he hates when it's addressed as such) approaches, he becomes horrifically combative - even more so, if that's at all possible.
Wildly territorial. His many eyes always subtly shifting, scanning his surroundings for a possible intruder. As though anyone would be foolish enough to sneak into the dwelling of the King of Curses.
Not even his own servants are safe from his increased aggression. Many of them have fallen in the past. Cut down and dismembered for making the mistakes of treading too closely to his chambers. It costed many of them their heads and all of them their lives.
As such, they are all forbidden from entering the northern side of the estate in its entirety, lest they pass within his sight. A gruesome death would certainly befall them. And so they remain tucked within the safety of the servants' quarters, hidden away until his heat finally breaks.
The only individual offered a shred of immunity is Uraume, who is still charged with their duties of delivering breakfast and dinner to Sukuna's chambers. Staying only long enough to supply the meal and not a moment longer.
Though you can't say that everyone is banished from his presence. You wouldn't go as far as to say that you're the reason for the escalation of his hostility and possessiveness, those are all traits that have always been natural to him, but it's clear that it's all magnified because of you.
He becomes protective in a way that should be concerning. Demanding that you remain at his side through all hours, keeping you secure within his quarters and curled on the bedding, bathed in his scent.
It's a grueling two weeks for you. Your mortal body forced to withstand his ceaseless stamina and lust for long stretches, day and night bleeding into each other in a blur smeared with sweat and a torturous bliss.
You're forbidden from leaving his quarters when he's in this state. Lest he become horridly unsettled, pacing around with a snarl. Teeth glinting, pale and lethal, glimmering along with the scarlet flash of his eyes, wide and hyper-vigilant in a search for the possibility of a threat. Of a rival.
He loses himself to those baser instincts. Possessed by the primal urges to keep you hidden, tucked away and protected, pinned beneath his body while he takes you for all you're worth.
You do your best to brace for it. To mentally prepare for the weeks that you'll spend stowed away within his chambers, held to his body as he grips you close with talons and greedy fingers. But no matter how much you try, you're never truly able to poise yourself for the magnitude of his lust.
You had told yourself that this time would be different. You have years of experience under you now. You should have built up the endurance required in that time. You should be able to handle it. Handle him.
How wrong you were.
He's going to kill you.
There's no way that you'll possibly be able to survive this.
It's brutal. Ceaseless. He's using your body as though it's an object. An instrument to get himself off. The massive width of his hands clasping onto you to keep you pinned and trapped in place on his lap, two of them spanned around your hips, another keeping your wrists locked behind your back.
It renders you immobile. Not that you'd be able to move regardless. You think you've gone limp by now. Boneless as he uses the hold he has on your hips to lift you up and down on his cocks. Reducing you to little more than a doll for him to drive himself into; a lewd, wet noise sounding out each time your hips meet, the damp smack of skin on skin echoing out in your ears with every thrust.
You're so full. Both of your holes stretched wide and gaping around his girth, his cocks buried so deep inside of you that you swear you can feel him in your chest, knocking you breathless. The both of them only separated by a thin wall of muscle, and you can feel them gliding against each other.
He's stuffed you with so much cum already, filling your stomach, you swear that it's making you swollen with it. So full that it's begun to drip from your pussy and ass, smearing down your thighs and spilling as he drives himself into you. Determined to give you another load - the third? The fourth? You honestly don't know anymore.
It's impossible to keep track. The pleasure keeps rolling over you, all but clawing and tearing through your body and limbs like one singular wave. You aren't sure if your orgasms are bleeding into each other, connecting together to build into a long stretch of blinding pleasure, or if he's simply just making you cum before you can fully realize it. Playing your body like an instrument.
It's torture. It's bliss. You want it to stop. You never want it to end.
You can't tell visually that your eyes are rolling, your sight ruined by the tears blurring around the edges, but you can feel them slipping back into your skull. The massive tongue lolling out past the mouth that yawns open on his stomach is just as cruel as the rest of him, lashing and lapping at your swollen clit.
It has the breath in your lungs snagging, your voice breaking as he continues to wring your body of every ounce of pleasure it might have; thighs shaking from the onslaught.
"Sukuna - fuck-"
"What a good little pet you are," he praises. His free hand lifts, fingers grasping your chin to keep your head from falling back uselessly on its neck, forcing you to make eye contact. It's difficult to through the tears, and the pleasure licking up your spine, eating at your bones and turning your mind into something blank threatens to have them rolling back again, but you will yourself to keep them open.
"So well behaved and useless. It makes me wonder what your fellow sorcerers would think if they could see you now, all pliant and obedient on my lap. But you don't even care about that anymore, do you?"
Truthfully, you don't. Your sense of pride has long since dissolved in that regard. It was broken down by him, by your own twisted fascination and attraction for him. You can't find it in yourself to be bothered by all of those old ideals and constructs that had held you back before, keeping you from admitting such a truth to yourself.
You don't care if it makes you weak, or foolish, you'd gladly admit your devotion to him, to sorcerers, and to the entirety of humanity.
You know that it pleases him to see you so willing and docile under his control, a talented sorcerer in your own right turning you back on your heritage in favor of him.
Always eager to satisfy him, you find yourself nodding your head as best as you can, fighting against the slack muscles in your neck and the firm grip he has on your jaw; the points of his talons dragging along your flesh.
His grin is more of a snarl, all teeth and arrogance. Combined with the fervent want in his eyes, he looks feral. His pupils are blown wide, black pits swallowing up rings of burning, violent red; the dark of it reflecting the dim lighting like an animal's. It makes you feel like prey. Wounded and vulnerable, pinned between rows of honed teeth.
It should be embarrassing - demeaning how your body flushes with warmth in response, holes clenching tightly around his cocks as though they mean to trap him inside.
He notices of course. You can tell by the way that his grin somehow stretches even wider, further exposing those sharp fangs that you love so much. There's blood tainted between his teeth, a reminder of the marks that he had previously carved along your neck and shoulders, branding himself in your skin.
It's going to take you weeks to recover, for the inevitable soreness in your muscles to finally fade, for the wounds scattered along your neck and thighs to seal over, but you can't be bothered to be worried about it. A part of you relishes the sting of it. The fire that's settled into your sinew and bones. You want it.
"Mmm, you smell like me." He muses, leaning his head down just enough to lick the length of your throat, leaving a trail of scorching heat behind. The wounds along the junction of your neck ache when his tongue lashes over them, making your eyelashes flutter, a soft moan spilling past your lips.
He groans. A low, guttural sound that echoes heavily in his chest and skirts over your own body. It's a pleased noise, as though he's satisfied by the taste of your blood in his mouth; his scent smeared over your heated flesh as though it's your own.
A buried, distant half of you fleetingly worries that he might actually take a real bite out of you. That he might unhinge his jaw and swallow you whole. More concerning is that you'd let him.
The mouth parting his stomach open acts as though it certainly might do just that, the long length of it scaling down your abdomen, tasting the salt on your skin. The tip of it taking greedy swipes at your clit, trailing down to worm itself between where your hips join to trace where his cock stretches your pussy open around its length.
His rhythm hasn't faltered in the slightest. Hasn't stuttered or slowed. A testament to his abnormal stamina as he continues to work you closer and closer to that inevitable high.
You don't know if you can handle another one. Every facet of you already feels as though it's been lit alight, nerves searing and tender from the other highs that he's already pulled from your body. But you know that there's no chance that he's going to stop now.
He's already avaricious when it comes to dealing out pleasure, often not for your benefit, but because he's such a sadist when it comes to it. Finding a twisted sort of delight when he sees tears crystalizing in your eyes; your voice hitching into breathless whines and moans.
And now that he's in this state, driven mad and hedonistic by the instinctual urge to breed you and leave you plugged full and wet with his cum, you know that he isn't going to stop until you're damn near catatonic. Gone dumb and limp.
And you can already feel your mind slipping. Glazing over, turning cloudy and dim. You feel split. Somehow distant, floating away from yourself and yet completely grounded. Encased in your muscle and the ecstasy ravaging your nerves, consuming you entirely. Somehow outside of yourself and smothered all at once.
It's all him now. The warmth radiating off of him and melting into you; the scent of him lacing the air, all dark and musk; the shape of his cock driving through your cunt, splitting you open and carving a place for himself. Repeatedly hammering against the spot inside of you that has your spine bowing and your voice falling silent in the base of your throat.
"So pretty and dumb, and all mine. Isn't that right?"
In any other context, that old sense of frustration and anger that you had once felt might have risen up, stirred deep in your stomach, playing along the fringes of your mind like an old phantom. But now, such a response seems impossible now. It is impossible.
It takes all of your strength to properly respond. Battling to form a coherent thought as he continues to roll his hips up into you. As though he's intentionally trying to make you struggle.
"I think I'll keep you like this." He grins wide, baring his teeth with a crazed glimmer burning fiercely in his eyes. "Stuffed full of my cock and dripping. I won't stop until it's pouring out of you. You'll give me an heir, won't you?"
You find yourself nodding again. Too fucked out to complain that you're already filled to the brim. His previous loads smearing down your thighs and gushing with each heavy thrust. Spilling out of you and staining the bedding.
But his enthusiasm hasn't wavered in the slightest. If anything, it's increased. His lust blazing through him white hot; both of his cocks still rigid, stretching you out to your limits. Bullying you open. You can feel the veins that trail down the length of both his cocks stroking along the walls of your cunt and ass.
It's all so much. Searing and blurring, weightless, filthy, euphoric.
You hardly have time to register that your eyes are rolling. That your body is seizing up tight, and then you're cumming. It lashes through you like a bolt of lightning streaking through the night sky, scorching. Crackling and wild.
You think you're screaming but you aren't sure. It's too difficult to tell past the blood roaring in your ears. Your heartbeat thrumming like a war drum as you gasp and jerk on his lap. But he's ruthless. He doesn't give you a break, doesn't let you breathe.
His grip on your body is firm. Clutching your hips as he continues to spear you on his cocks. Using you to tip him closer towards his own release.
His chest shudders with a heavy groan, his fingers flexing in a bruising grip on your skin and then you feel it - a liquid heat spreading through your stomach, filling you up and you swear that your abdomen stretches from it. The abnormal amount of his cum and the width of his cocks filling your body up its limit.
Twin tears slip down your cheeks when you realize that his pace hasn't faltered. He's still humping his cocks into you. Rolling himself to the hilt, as deeply as he can possibly go like he's trying to force his cum in as far as it'll go.
Your back arches almost painfully. Your body flinching as he grinds his hips into yours, trapping the tongue spilling from that inhuman mouth between your pelvises where it rubs cruelly on your clit. You're split down the middle, torn between the desire to jerk away and to shift closer to the feel of it - electric and bliss.
You want to cry out. A scream lodged in your throat, but you can't force it out. All you can do is take it.
"You didn't think that I'd be satisfied just by that, did you?" He grins down at you again with something malicious burning in his eyes. He leans towards you then, opening his mouth to let his tongue spill past his fangs. It's wet and hot as it trails up the side of your face, licking up the salt from your tears. He purrs like it satisfies him.
It's merciless, the pleasure coiling through your body, slicing up your muscles like molten bands. It's like he's devouring you from the inside out. Hollowing out your insides and replacing it with himself.
You're floating miles above your body, losing sight of the world around you. All you can focus on is him. His scent, his taste, the feel of his skin, the tongue still ravaging your clit, the cocks stuffing you full.
And then he's speaking in your ear in a husky tone that settles in the air like smoke. "We're only getting started."
∘ʚ ♡ When Sukuna finally stirred, it was with a slow, heavy blink, his four eyes opening in a lazy, staggered rhythm. He looked disoriented, like he was just coming back from some deep, unreachable place, his gaze slowly landing on you with an intensity softened by the haze of sleep.
You were holding him, your arms loosely around his shoulders, and the warmth must have seeped into him during his hibernation because he sank further into it, half-lidded eyes studying you without a word. His body felt heavier, like he wasn’t quite ready to shake off the rest just yet, and he gave a quiet, gravelly sigh, something between a growl and a hum, as his head nestled closer into the crook of your neck.
You ran a gentle hand over his back, feeling the tension and power still coiled there despite his drowsiness. “Morning,” you murmured softly, watching his eyes slowly blink at you, each one as groggy as the next, and feeling his breaths steady against your skin.
His voice, low and rough as if he hadn’t spoken in weeks, rumbled out, “…How long?” He wasn’t in any rush for an answer, though; it was more like he was asking to fill the quiet with the sound of your voice. His claws gently brushed over your arm, careful, almost absent-minded as he let himself sink against you, barely holding back a contented purr.
“A while,” you whispered, smiling as his eyes fluttered slightly, a hint of exasperation there, but more softness than you’d ever seen in them. You felt his grip tighten a little, instinctive, pulling you just a bit closer.
“Couldn’t leave me alone, could you?” he murmured, his tone teasing, but there was a note of warmth under it. One of his lower eyes drifted shut again, the other three following, like he was fighting to stay awake but finding it impossible to resist the comfort of you. You chuckled, brushing your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly near his undercut, feeling him melt under your touch.
“Mm… stubborn,” he mumbled, voice slipping back into that hushed, gravelly timbre as he let himself sink against you fully, his eyes closing once more. You felt his chest rise and fall in steady rhythm, felt his tail curl loosely around your leg as if holding you in place.
You chuckled softly and held him closer, wondering how long he’d stay like this, content and relaxed, before he was back to his usual self. For now, you had him half-awake, nestled in your arms, and you could feel the faintest hint of a purr rumbling through his chest, like he’d missed you in that deep, quiet way that didn’t need words.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊
Summary: it's moments like these where you can hardly recognize Sukuna as the terror that he is. But you aren't complaining.
Warnings: some mentions of violence but overall, just a bunch of fluff. Short and sweet.
Clingy.
It isn't a term that you ever could have imagined using for Lord Sukuna, but as of late, you've been struggling to apply a different word. Possessive certainly comes to mind. And it's definitely fitting for a man like him.
He doesn't share. He doesn't allow other people to so much as entertain the notion that he'd be willing to let another soul touch you - or any of his other concubines for that matter.
But it wasn't a secret, that for whatever reason, you are his favorite. It was a well-known fact in the estate. A truth that was aware to each and every servant housed among his staff. The details of your relationship with the King of Curses are exchanged quietly amongst the laborers and servants. Spoken in confidential hushes within the cover of darkened hallways and private corridors as they all speculate what you might have done to captivate the attentions of the man - an entity, more like. Hardly human anymore.
So it was odd that a beast as sadistic and self-serving as he would allow himself to be fascinated by someone as lowly as you. Even with your own cursed technique, you were hardly anything to gawk over, especially not by the likes of Ryomen Sukuna, a being that could rip you apart in the blink of an eye.
And yet, he does just the opposite, often demanding that you keep close to him. Always ordered to trail after him, expected to be just as consistent and loyal as a shadow.
You aren't ignorant to the glares that it earns you. Mostly from the other courtesans. Not that you could entirely blame them.
In this world, Sukuna's attention equals protection, and if you were in their positions, to him so entirely focused on another person, would feel like a death sentence.
But their desperation leaves them to try too hard. Coquettishly batting their eyelashes and swinging their hips in the hopes of enticing him. It was all too heavy handed. Their desperation was all obvious, and some of the most skilled amongst the harem are crumbling beneath their attempts to keep him intrigued.
He pays them little mind. Nights are still spent with them yes, a hedonist like him always indulging in the pleasures of flesh and life in any facet he can, but he doesn't request for any of them to trail after him in the way you're commanded to.
They are all free to wonder about the estate unrestrained, but you are to have your movements under constant scrutiny. If on the off chance you aren't at your position at your lord's side, you're accompanied by an escort in some capacity. It doesn't matter if you're safe within the estate grounds, you're to be monitored.
He keeps you guarded. Kept hidden like some sort of relic. Some sort of revered treasure that's been contained and bound down tight for his eyes only.
But you'd be lying if you didn't find some pleasure in it.
There's something empowering about having a man - a monster - as infamous as the King of Curses entranced by you. Even if he vehemently denies such a notion.
A displeased scowl always mars his features whenever the idea of it is implicated. A scoff puffing from his chest as though he's equally amused and offended, but you know that you have him.
His affections aren't sweet or docile. He doesn't care in a way that's light, delicate or embracing. He's all teeth and hunger. An endless chasm of want and greed that latches on like a parasite, sinking his claws into you until they're bone deep, rooted into your marrow to consume you from the inside out. Until there's nothing left.
It would be so easy to trick yourself into believing that he's some sort of old god. A deity of discord and avarice that's been written out of history, smeared from ancient scrolls and bygone texts by the very mortals that were meant to fear and worship him.
But he was human once long before he had become twisted and gnarled by his own corruption. Many see his existence as a blight on the earth. Sorcerers deeming his being as a blight on jujutsu. A disfigurement. A creature. More monster than man.
But to you, his horror only made him even more bewitching. There's a beauty in his violence. It's a temptation that you can't ignore. It draws you too him like a lure. A fly foolishly gliding into a vat of honey, willfully weighing down its own wings in the adhesive glimmer of gold and amber, drowning itself in the rich saccharine pools. A moth fluttering closer and closer to an open fire - not a single ember, not a delicate flame, but a full inferno; a pyre scorching its path across a forest, carving its destructive mark across the earth in licks of blazing, molten heat. And you long to burn.
You'd die a thousand times to gaze upon him.
Fortunately, you don't have to.
He wants you alive. Safe and secure regardless of how indifferent he expresses himself to be. You can see past the slivers in his facade - well, it's not quite a facade. He truly is callous. Apathetic and cold. He's an entity that deals in extremes. That lives to satisfy his own hubris and hunger, but you think that's why you've managed to slip past his rough exterior and nestle a place for yourself near that motionless, dead heart of his.
It was your determination. Your own unyielding pride that would endear you to him, as much frustration and sadistic glee that it had caused him in the beginning. He had delighted in trying to wear you down. Prodding and clawing at you in the hopes of seeing the head that you always held high hang down in defeat.
To snuff out the confidence in you that had been fostered and inherited from the generations of sorcerers that have come before you.
He's yet to succeed, and you think that is what has drawn him to you. Your refusal to roll over and bear your belly merely because he ordered it. It took years for you to yield to him without rebuttal or open annoyance; for him to know that you weren't simply a dog taught to heel, but you think that he takes pride in knowing that you've fallen to his violent allure.
You doubt he realizes how subdued his become with you. Blind to the extent of his own affections - as edged and barbaric as they often are. But every once in a while, he grows lax underneath your hands. Turning malleable and warm like melted wax. The sharp edges that make him shifting and softening just enough for your palms to glide over him.
He's so different from the beast you had met all those years ago, forced to kneel in order to save your throat while scrutinized you from the height of his throne, all arrogance and cruelty.
And now here he is, face cradled in your palms while you both lounge about, shielded from the gentle golden light of the evening sun by the roof of the yuka. Using your lap as a makeshift cushion while he reclines fully on the floor, his long legs stretched out, a pair of his limbs limp on either side of him while the other set are clasped together by their fingers, resting on his sternum.
It's not exactly the image that you would associate with a king. Much less the King of Curses. Yet here he is, all four of his eyes shut while he draws deep, steady breaths into his lungs.
It'd be easy to think that he's asleep, but you know better. Still, it doesn't keep you from allowing your gaze to dart across his face, taking note of his placid, almost peaceful expression, free from its usual scowling or sneering. The shape of his lips no longer pulled back into a taunting smirk, but neutral and almost soft.
It's a state that not many are honored with seeing, and you can't help but to indulge in it now that you have him here.
You nearly feel like a glutton as you sweep your vision over him in a shameless observation. Letting your focus trace over the tattoos that decorate his body. Slashes of black against the pale shade of his skin.
You've always wondered the meaning of them. You know that some sorcerers will get tattoos that represent aspects of their technique; it bonds them closer to their cursed energy and makes it more fluid to wield. But you can't help but to be reminded of the tattoos forced upon criminals. The markings on his arms are suspiciously similar to the same ones you've seen stamped upon the flesh of delinquents - the lowly men and women that you had been warned about by your mother and escorts while within the city. People who had been branded for their crimes as punishment.
The dark bands encircled around his wrists and biceps share somewhat of a similarity to the tattoos given to thieves, though the placement of them is a little off to be considered truly alike.
With how demented he is, you wouldn't be surprised if he intentionally made them look similar as some sort of twisted way of honoring his many crimes.
It has one of your hands lifting, your fingers slipping from the delicate grip they had on his hair to slip along his chest, feeling his muscle rippling beneath your palm as you brush your fingertips along the ink imbedded into his skin.
A low rumble reverberates from the depths of his ribcage, rising somewhere from within his lungs. It seems like a warning almost, one that anyone else would have heeded, but you keep your hand fixed in place, caressing your thumb just beneath his collarbone.
His eyes peal open then, squinting just enough to glare up at you from his place cradled between the plush of your thighs. Searing red, but the irritation reflecting from them is lazy. An echo of the languid way he's positioned himself within your space.
"I don't recall permitting your hands to wander." It comes out like he's berating you, but he makes no effort to correct your apparent error, remaining motionless and relaxed as you continue to card your other hand through his hair, lightly scratching your nails along his scalp.
You don't miss how his lashes flutter when you do it.
It makes a smile long to pull at the corners of your lips, but years of self-restraint and etiquette keep it from showing. Though you're sure that your mirth is revealed in your eyes.
"What's with all the staring?" He complains idly. His brow raising to further pronounce his question.
"I'm simply admiring my lord," you answer. A truth, and yet the playfulness in your voice is clear.
"As you should be."
You'd scoff if the hand on his chest wasn't so close to the mouth on his stomach. You wouldn't be surprised if he decided to snap it between those massive jaws to reprimand you.
You've seen it yawn open to gnash at limbs, massive teeth sinking into flesh to tear and rip, drinking down blood and shattering bones as easily as brittle branches.
It makes you mindful of how close you allow your fingers to drift, not allowing them to slip past the swell of his firm chest and down near the indention that slices across the width of his abdomen. A hint at the starved chasm that lurks behind it, the rows of fangs that wait to bite and eat.
He's used that mouth against you many times, none of them in such a malicious manner, but you still can't help but to be a little wary of it. You swear that it has a mind of its own sometimes, and you'd hate to be on the receiving end of a more violent kind of appetite.
It still can't keep you from your previous musings, and now that you have him focused you can't ignore the questions that are gathering in your mind.
"Your tattoos - are they amplifiers? I've seen a few sorcerers apply them to ground their technique."
"Wouldn't you like to know."
"I would. That's why I asked."
He glares at you then. Eyes narrowing in a way that makes you feel like a target. It nearly forces you to brace for a sudden rush of cursed energy, the instinctual part of you warning that he might lash out as punishment, but nothing comes.
There's no prickle that bite across the air, stinging and sharp before it strikes you down, only a delicate brush of a summer breeze as it glides along your skin.
"Are there no bounds to your insolence? I should kill you for that." He grumbles, baring his teeth as though he means to ward you off.
"I apologize, my king. " It sounds like a bluff, even to you, so you're certain that he isn't convinced. The clipped hum you get in response only confirms that he doesn't. "I was only curious."
"Keep your musings to yourself."
It's said sharply. A clear command for you not to prod at him further. Such an ornery, brash creature. You have to fight off the urge to roll your eyes at his curt behavior lest he chastises you more.
He acts as though it's a chore to be in your presence. As though he wasn't the one who had sought you out during your private time - a brief respite from the harsh nature of his courts and the routine of your daily schedule - to crowd himself within the structure of the gazebo, fitting himself along the wooden floor to rest the weight of his head within your lap.
Despite his apparent annoyance, he still doesn't tell you to cease touching him, and you know that one of the easiest ways of coaxing him back into a calm state is to give him attention. Regardless of how that attention is bestowed. Usually it's fear and dread that feeds into his ego the best, the screams and blood of others fueling that sadistic emptiness in him.
But you'll settle for touch for now.
He doesn't command you to halt your movements as you continue to sweep your hands along his body, messaging his chest and gently scratching along his scalp. If possible, it has him relaxing even further, going boneless on the floor with a heavy sigh, but his eyes don't slip shut this time. His lids fall heavy, nearly closing but staying open just enough to continue observing you through his lashes.
It's a cruel juxtaposition that someone who commits so many hideous atrocities is so beautiful.
The sun has crept a little lower in the sky, drifting downward in its course to reach the horizon and it allows glints of light to pour in past the small roof of the yuka. Traces of it catch in his hair, spilling along the soft shade of his hair, sketching over his features in gold. It puts fire in his eyes, glints of light flickering against rich red.
You can't help yourself this time when you allow the hand you have threaded in his hair to shift further down, sketching your fingertips along the structure of armored skin that rests over the right half of his face.
His eyes open a little wider then, latching onto your form with curiosity, and the hints of something more guarded present in them.
It doesn't stop you though. Perhaps a little foolish of you while it feels as though you're wandering into dangerous territory. A hare darting in front of a wolf's maw. Inviting itself to be bitten.
You feel possessed as you continue to cradle his face in your palm, struck by an emotion that is far too tender and enthralling for a being like him, but you have no desire to resist it.
The almost mask-like structure on his face is hard beneath your fingers, softened only slightly by the layer of calloused skin that's molded over it. The only comparison that you can make is if you were to touch a bit of bone poking out beneath the skin, like the jut of someone's hip or the point of an elbow. Rigid and tough, but also smooth in a way that's organic.
You make sure to be light, to keep your fingers from accidentally slipping close to his eyes and possibly irritating them. Surprisingly, he doesn't order you to remove your hands, allowing you to continue your exploration, letting your fingers sweep over the harsh edges and the divots of the natural armor.
You aren't sure how long you remain that way. Sweeping your hands over him, feeling the soft tufts of his hair on your palm and the rigid texture of his face along your fingers. Time slips away from you like this, and the delicate hiss of the wind threading through the trees and the perfumed scent of blossoms that it carries all fades into the background.
It all seems so unimportant. Useless as he stares up at you with something conflicted in his gaze. As though he's torn between lashing out or sinking further into your warmth.
"You're beautiful." It leaves you so naturally. The ease of it catching even you off guard. It's as though your soul is admitting a truth, one that you've been aware of but never had the courage to speak.
Suddenly you feel so bare. As though you've accidentally shed a meticulous piece of armor from yourself and allowed him to peek past. And the captivated look that you can feel weighing on your features certainly isn't helping.
He's equally as surprised. His eyes widening just the slightest in his shock, but it doesn't take long for him to recover, masking the expression with a scowl. You're certain that it's the exact look that many of his victims have been pinned by just before their death comes, delivered to them in a serrated rush of cursed energy or the lethal cut of his talons. And yet you can't bring yourself to be afraid. Not while he's cradled in the shape of your lap. Lazy and content despite his flaring.
"I'll cut out your tongue if you mean to insult me."
"I wouldn't think of such a thing." You promise. You're being entirely honest. The sincerity in your voice is as alive and burning as a fire. You can hardly place exactly when you've grown fond of him, just when exactly he had managed to bury beneath your skin to make a home for himself within your chest.
It's worrying just how much you've come to care for him. A development that your past self would have denied vehemently; you would have seen it as an ultimate betrayal to yourself, to your lineage and purpose. But you truly can't be bothered to worry about any of that now.
Not while something that nearly looks vulnerable passes through the rich shade of his eyes. A brief, defenseless show of emotion that he's quick to snuff out and hide with that typical brand of cold indifference; so quick that you hardly register it at all.
A hum leaves him them. More of a grumble. As though he's unconvinced of your assurance. But he doesn't bother with a verbal comment, only a sigh as he somehow settles further into your lap.
"Some of them are."
"Hm?"
"Amplifiers." He practically growls it out. Like clarifying is something tedious. A personal affront. He's glaring again. Squinting up at you like you're an annoyance - a gnat buzzing around his ear even while he's all but invited himself into your personal space.
It doesn't take you long to reconnect to your previous line of questioning. You can't help but to be a little surprised that he's bothered to circle back and answer them. Of course he has to do it on his own time. When he feels like doing so, dragging it out for the sake of keeping you from being in control - even in regard to something as simple as a couple harmless questions. Such a bullheaded bastard. Not that you'd tell him that.
A part of you longs to ask him just which ones specifically are amplifiers, which technique they belong to. The concept of such tattoos has always been fascinating to you. You've crossed paths with a fair share of sorcerers who have marked their skin with charged ink, rituals and their cursed energy directed to bind with the dark pigment.
Like a chain used to tether a wayward dog. A binding used to manage energy that's often too potent, too volatile otherwise.
With how practiced Sukuna is now with his abilities, wielding it with ease, bearing it like a second skin, he must have gotten the tattoos when he was still young and learning. Still a little disconnected from the cursed energy projecting from his body, simmering through his veins like the blood of a demigod, but too inexperienced to properly control it.
It makes you wonder what he may have been like way back then. It nearly seems impossible to imagine him as a child, with him being more beast than man. You're just barely able to visualize it, a much younger version of his current self, the sharp contour of his jaw much more rounded and youthful, shaping into chubby cheeks. Plump with stubborn baby fat.
He's probably always had that glare of his. Now it's an expression that induces fear and panic. The lethal hue of red that seems to burn in his eyes turning some of the bravest of sorcerers into pale comparisons of themselves. Back then that fearsome scowl must have been little more than a pout. A petulant furrow between his brows as glared up with wide, peevish eyes.
He must have been a handful for whatever soul had the misfortune of taking care of him, not that he's any easier to please now.
"You've got that stupid expression on your face again. Get rid of it." He snaps, fangs glinting from past his lips. "And did I tell you to cease touching me?"
You hadn't realized that your hands had slipped a little from crown of his head, fingers lifted to hover of his hair. The command doesn't annoy you as it probably should, as it would have in the past, it has a smile perking at your lips instead. Amused and soft. A reflection of the warmth blossoming inside the pit of your chest; a drop of sunlight burning and thriving.
You'd love to point out to him that he was complaining earlier about you doing just that, and now here he is, ordering you to touch him like some kind of spoiled house cat.
You'll keep your comments to yourself for now. All snide remarks and annoyance aside, he seems to be in a fairly good mood today, and you'd hate to ruin it now that you've got him rested in your lap.
Your hands seem to have minds of their own, muscles shifting to thread your fingers back through his hair, scratching your nails along his scalp. You don't miss the minute way his neck twitches, the movement nudging his chin back just the slightest to press his head into the gentle glide of your fingers. Subconsciously seeking out the comfort they provide.
He looks calm. At peace, eyelashes fluttering lightly before they slip shut. He sags down fully. Going lax and almost boneless. The weight of his head in your lap is nearly crushing, but you can't be bothered to voice complaints or to try and shift him into a more comfortable position.
You'll gladly bear the weight of him regardless of how much discomfort it might bring. And in moments like this, with him cradled by your body, relaxed and content from the warmth of your skin and the sun, you think you'd do anything for him. You'd kill for him.
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