or, you've had a bad day, and your boyfriend ends up taking the brunt of it.
pairings: gojo x reader, geto x reader
warnings: none, fluff
a/n: i have an aot and dc version of this post ready to go, and i'll be uploading them within the week :) i'm very excited to be writing, and i hope you all enjoy my first post!
satoru gojo
"Hey, baby, I'm home~" On normal days, the sweet words falling out of your husband's mouth have you rushing over to greet him, but you stay apathetically bunched up on the couch. There's no indication that you've heard him enter, either. You don't even look at him.
Okay, weird. But weirdness has never stopped Satoru Gojo before, so he makes his way over to you and plops down onto the couch beside you. Of course, instead of you melting into his side like you usually do, you shove him off with a disgusted scoff.
Okay. Really fucking weird. Satoru can be a diva, but he's willing to push it aside for you. Most of the time. When you come at him with a full-on attitude, though, he's only going to turn it up a notch. He reflects your energy right back at you, but it comes off as condescending when he does it.
"Y'know, I'm trying to be nice here, show you some affection. I missed you while I was gone. Didn't you miss me, too?"
"I didn't ask you to smother me the second you walked through the door," you retort.
"Right, well, remind me to keep my distance from now on."
With that, Satoru's picking himself up off the couch and strutting off to take a shower. You watch him disappear down the hallway and hear the water kick on moments later. The hollow in your chest that's been gnawing at you all day only gets wider and wider until you feel a chasmic ache forming from your heart down to your gut.
You don't know why you're upset. You don't know why you reacted the way you did, but the guilt at snapping at Satoru makes you feel worse and worse until you find yourself curled up on your side as you cry into a pillow. Your usual energy has left you, and the tears that have replaced it don't even have the decency to be dramatic. They're silent, quietly streaming down your cheeks as you sniffle and shake.
The absence of the water from Satoru's shower doesn't phase you. The creaking of the bathroom door swinging open doesn't catch your attention. You're lost in your own little world and guilty thoughts until a warm hand finds your cheek.
"Hey…" Satoru's gentle voice coaxes you into looking up, and you're met with a worried, baby blue gaze.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. All the fight has drained out of you, and you have nothing left to offer your husband except yourself, in all your fragile glory.
Satoru shakes his head and climbs onto the couch, pressing your back against the cushions and your front against his chest. "I know. It's been hard recently, hmm?"
Now that you're folded up in the warmth of Satoru's arms, the weight you've been carrying is so much easier to bear. As much as you hate placing your burdens on his already strained shoulders, Satoru's never complained about it. Being there for you is the one thing on this planet that's guaranteed to bring him solace.
"Just relax, sweets," he murmurs, rubbing slow patterns along your back. "Nothing's big enough to take my baby down. You're too strong for that."
suguru geto
Suguru Geto has the patience of a saint and the conflict resolution skills of a licensed therapist, skills you learn awfully quick when your best friend's name is Satoru Gojo. Those very same abilities have been honed and fine-tuned over the years and are currently the only things keeping him from snapping at you.
"Suguru, you're breathing too loud." He was sitting across the room from you, scrolling on his phone.
"Suguru, you're wearing the wrong kind of socks." What's so bad about plain white socks?
"Suguru, you're staring at me."
That one gets him.
"That's my job, pretty girl." He smiles, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your hair, only to let out a sharp sigh when you smack his hand away. "You're abusing me."
"That's not what abuse is, you little—"
"What? I'm a little what?" Suguru looks you right in your eyes until you're unable to meet his gaze. "Don't be shy. Tell me what you were going to say."
Suguru tuts and reaches out to tilt your head toward him once more; however, his heart nearly stops in his chest when he sees the shiny tears pooling in your eyes. "Oh no…hey," he whispers.
"I'm sorry, 'guru. I've been feeling off all day, and I just—" Suguru cuts you off by squishing you against his chest. His big hands smooth down a few wayward strands of your hair, and he places a kiss to the top of your head.
"It's okay," he murmurs soothingly, the vibrations of his deep voice soothing your mind and your heart. "I can take it. Your anger, your sadness…if you need to show it someone, I'm right here. Always. Never feel as though you have to hide from me."
all written work and dividers belong to @ackpplepie!! do not plagiarize, feed my work into ai, or translate it. i do not own the characters or images used above.
pairing: sword swallower!suguru geto x electric lady!reader
summary: for as long as you can remember, you’ve always been with suguru, in and out of the circus and all over the world. after a night of performing, you come to a realization about suguru—something he’s known forever about you.
contents: nsfw, a bit of angst, resolving unresolved feelings, oral (f receiving), fingering, some stuff about sword swallowing and being electrocuted etc, 18+ mdni!!! wc: 4k
pepper’s note: this is my entry for @lemonswirlss circus freaks collab!!! big thank you to lemon for letting me be apart of this, it was so much fun! and big thank you to @xstars-alignedx for beta reading!!!
Suguru Geto is world-renowned.
He's not only talented, he is beautiful, he is a performer and an excellent one at that. The crowds he controls are nothing more than putty in his hands, being made to give the right amount of oohs and aahs whenever he wants them to. He has set records and broken them time and time again, the true beast of your act.
You are the beauty. Sure, you aren't as widely-known as your performance partner, but you are just as striking, just as capable of pulling wonder from the crowd. You are poised, peaceful and graceful in every grotesque act you put on. Though, nothing about what you do is peaceful.
You couldn't name a specific time when you found out your talents—just that it never hurt you in the way it was supposed to. As time went on, the voltage went up, the more you added to your acts; light bulbs, neon signs, gasoline to light things on fire. The people around you watched in wonder as you were effectively struck by lightning from a 100,000 volt coil. You did it all, adding more jeopardy to your life, and looked flawless while doing so.
That is how the electric lady came to be.
All of these things and more have been done by you thousands of times, right by Suguru's side. You've been in the circus together as long as you can remember, grown closer and rose to sideshow fame—all with him.
You are nervous tonight. Of course, pre-performance jitters are normal, but it's different tonight, like a severe nausea that you are close to succumbing to. The lights of the dressing room are turned low as you kneel over the metal bucket kept there for times like these, but nothing comes up, nothing happens. It is out of your character to be like this.
"Hey."
You practically jump away from the bucket as Suguru appears in your dressing room, as if trying to destroy evidence of a crime. You have no idea how long he's been standing there, holding his props, watching you in your bout of anxiety.
"Are you sick? Do I need to go tell Yaga you can't—"
"I'm fine," you interrupt him, standing all the way up and dusting off the skirt of your dress, "just nervous."
Another wave of sickness hits you when you look at Suguru in his attire, all leathery and rich, hair messily tied but still flattering. He looks like a knight wielding his swords, in all his glory with muscles and a beautiful face—God, does he look like that every night?
"We've got ten minutes, beauty," Suguru informs you, using the dumb stage name that's stuck to you over time, "let me lace you up. Come on."
As long as you can remember, it's been a tradition to let Suguru lace up your corset before showtime. It's a sweet show of his care for you, how much he wants you to look and feel your best before you go on stage together.
Suguru guides you over to the mirror, hands gentle on your waist, softly smoothing the fabric out towards the middle of your back. His fingers are intricate as he pulls the satin of your laces, shrinking your waist and pushing your bust up, up, up towards your chin. He ties the perfect bow, smooths over your waist again, and gives a small sigh.
"Ready?" Suguru asks, arm wrapping around your waist, sending another shock of nausea through you. His chin rests on your shoulder as he searches your face for an answer, and try as you might to hide it, he can always read you like a book.
"Ready as I can be," you reply with a forced smile, taking a deep breath through your nose and out your mouth. You stare at your reflection, Suguru latched around your waist, and try to build up your confidence before you're called onto stage.
Suguru always impresses his crowd. He captivates those around him, builds everyone up for him and for you. He's difficult to upstage, which is why he's always saved for the end of the show—even after hours of tricks and talent, he makes a striking conclusion to the night.
You watch from the side of the stage as he finishes up his act, hearing the screams of women who would catapult themselves at him if they had the chance. He makes a show of licking his blades up and down, lubricating them, putting graphic images in the minds of the crowd. Suguru tells the crowd they must count for him, number the iron blades that will slide down this throat.
Suguru bites the tip of the first blade, throws his head back, and lets the sword sliiide all the way down. The edges of the blade are forced down his esophagus, stretching out the walls, pressing up against his heart—the crowd cheers out a one. The second blade is placed right over the first, metal on metal scratching against one another as Suguru swallows it without a scratch. He waves his arms around, queuing the applause and oohs, and everyone in the room shouts out a two! Lastly, the third sword is placed over the other two, and instead of letting it safely slide down his throat, Suguru basically impales himself on the iron, shoving the blade down his esophagus.
Your stomach lurches at his grotesque display of talent, knowing how unsafe that could be. People in the audience scream and holler and woo—and eventually scream out the three! in unison. Suguru remains calm and collected, bends over and bows to the crowd, pulling more noise from them. You can see the arms of multiple women reaching out, aching for a taste of him, and you almost laugh to yourself as he pulls away from them and makes a performance of dislodging the swords from his throat.
Suguru continues to control the crowd, he smiles beautifully and bows, thanks everyone for being such an amazing audience and winks at a few women along the way. He begins to introduce you, who he demands everyone give a warm welcome to. You smile at him off stage and he returns it, bowing his head as he queues your walk onto stage, his own hands doing more clapping for you than everyone else combined.
Tonight is the time for your electric lady act. It's simple, but more dangerous than anything else among the performers, considering the sheer amount of electricity moving through your body. You straighten your back as you walk on stage, stepping with all the poise in the world, as if you float on air. You take your place next to the electric chair and wait for Suguru's whole spiel about what you're going to do.
"My wonderful partner here has some unusual talents—but you'll see the least vile today," Suguru begins walking over to the chair and grabbing the tube light out of the chest placed next to it. "She has a high tolerance for a lot of things, electricity being one of them, and this chair runs around 100,000 volts into the user."
Suguru flips the switch and turns the chair on, a harsh buzzing coming from the box beneath it. He grazes an end of the light over the surface of the chair, and it comes to life, flickering on, the bolt of electricity connecting the light and the chair.
"Now, if we add something flammable to the mix," Suguru steps away from the chair and switches the light out for a fire torch, "it'll light on fire, like so."
He sticks the torch on the seat of the chair and it ignites, and the crowd watches in awe of the flames. The torch is then passed on to you, the attention shifts, the chair is turned off, and all eyes go to where you're standing at the back of the stage.
Like always, you smile, keep your back straight, and gracefully bring the tip of the torch up to your tongue, extinguishing its flames in your mouth. The audience erupts once more, even with such a simple trick, and you bow your head in thanks.
Now is time for the chair. You mosey over to your throne like a queen, taking a seat and crossing your legs, letting Suguru set the rest of your act up for you. He douses the torches in gasoline, hands you your lightbulb, stands to the side of the chair and waits for your call.
You take a deep breath, your final one for the next few minutes, and give Suguru the go ahead.
The chair buzzes to life once more, as does the light bulb, an indicator that this is all real. Your eyes immediately roll back into your skull, your body fighting the electricity, the warmth of the volts crawling over your skin. Yet, your mind knows exactly what to do, find Suguru. Despite your eyelids twitching, you see him, make out all of his features, and you try to focus in on the torch he holds out towards you.
You are beginning to shake. Your arms are not moving how they usually do, they are stalling, your brain cannot make your arm lift your free hand, and your hand cannot lift your finger. The light bulb clatters to the floor, glass shattering upon impact, the audience gasping with worry. Through the fog of your mind, you save the production as best as you can.
A pink sliver of your tongue pokes out of your mouth, dangerously small, too close to your face for comfort. Suguru hesitates, but he knows he can't for too long—the timer on how much longer you can handle the electricity is running out. Against his better judgment, he takes both of the torches and sticks them to your tongue, two little bolts of electricity igniting them in one giant flame together.
He rushes to turn the chair off, looking at you all concerned, calling you insane without saying it outright, without allowing the crowd to see. And all you can do is give that apologetic smile to him, knowing you'll talk about it later. You don't have a choice in the matter.
The show must go on, anyways.
Gracefully, you lift from your seat, widening your smile for the crowd and taking the torches from a now riled-up Suguru. He steps back and lets you do your bits of swallowing fire and spitting it back out, watching from the back of the stage with darkening eyes. You take your bow and pull him to bow with you and thank everyone, quickly exiting the stage before he can stop you.
You are surprised when Suguru doesn't barge into your dressing room right after you. Even more so as you wait ten, twenty, thirty minutes—and he does not show up.
It's abnormal, to say the least; you spend every waking minute with the man. Before and after shows, in between each performance and on the bus travelling together. He's been by your side for years, your best friend in the whole world. A palm rests under your chin as you go lax in the arm chair in your dressing room.
No matter what, it's always Suguru, isn't it?
You're nauseous again, and your head feels weird, like you realized something you shouldn't have. Or maybe it's something that's always been there and come to light. A strong thrumming comes from your chest, heartbeat quickening, overcome with an unfamiliar emotion you'd never let yourself feel.
Your body moves before your mind can think to stop it.
Suguru always takes his time fraternizing with the fans after each show. It encourages people to keep showing up, to come back again and again to see him. He's particularly talented at talking and interacting with others, something that couldn't be said about his partner. You'd always told him that you envied his interpersonal skills.
"Can I take a picture?"
What?
"Huh?" Suguru accidentally slips up, eyes going a little wider when he realizes he's still around people. There's a girl in front of him—wide eyed and curious, waiting for an answer. She's pretty, he supposes, in the kind of way most everyone could agree on.
"A picture," she says, head cocking to the side, "can I take one? With you?"
"Oh, sure," Suguru agrees, taking a beat before fixing himself for the photo. He does his normal thing of wrapping a hand around her waist, pulling the girl in closer, and—in the spur of the moment—presses a chaste kiss to the girl's cheek. He's not sure why he does that.
The girl, however, perks up, smiling wider while she waits for her friend to capture the moment. She squeals after the flash goes off, turning to Suguru and mashing herself even closer.
"Thank you! I'm a huge fan, I've been following you for years," she admits, twinkling eyes looking up at him. Her own arm wraps around his back, keeping him in place.
"Really? Thank you so much, that means a lot," Suguru replies, trying to tone up his voice to sound more appreciative rather than channel the guilt beginning to settle in his stomach. "I'm sorry but—"
"You're so much more handsome up close," she continues her compliments, smoothing over the ends of his hair with her fingers. "Are you married? I've never seen you with a woman anywhere."
Suguru looks down at the girl, who is obviously trying her best to make a move on him. He wrestles with his mind, because, by all means, he should be indulging this girl. There should not be a second thought in his mind about talking her up, taking her home, even. He used to do this all the time—woo a crowd and choose a pretty girl to take back to his hotel or camper.
But, God, it feels so wrong now. Not when you are in his vicinity, or when he has the chance to go back to the hotel with you and bid you goodnight. He could walk you there, unlace your corset, give everything he has to you.
He comes back to Earth when he locks eyes with you, too. Across the large stage of the meet and greet, in the entry of the hallway back to the dressing rooms—you witness everything. He sees the tear rolling down your cheek before you understand that you're crying. He watches as you disappear from his line of sight, slipping through his fingers.
"Did you hear me? I asked if—"
"I'm sorry, I need to go," Suguru interrupts the girl, ripping himself from her side. He doesn't bid her a goodbye or a farewell, only the gush of air that follows him as he rushes away.
Things cannot end this way. As much as it's been Suguru for you, it's been you for Suguru. He's been awful, selfish in his previous ways, and you've stayed by his side, hiding your emotions in a locked box, far from his grasp. People call after him as he cuts through the bodies around him, focused on only one thing.
You feel like an idiot by the time you retreat to your dressing room. Cheeks wet with unnoticed tears, palms sweaty from all the nerves and emotions you've just felt. Maybe, it's not meant to be, because you know there isn't any room in either you nor Suguru for anything more than friends. Best friends, if you can remain so.
A loud clatter bursts through the room as your door slams open. You jump out of your skin, your first reaction being to wipe the salty tears that stain your cheeks, quickly turning to look at your performance partner. He closes the door behind him.
"Suguru," you breathe, chest hurting from the scare he'd given you, and from the pure sensitivity he causes to your heart, "what are you doing? You're supposed to be—"
Words die in your throat as he gains on you, closing the space between the two bodies in the room, warmth from his hands coming to cup your jaw.
He leans in, not another thought in his mind but you.
Now, your words are swallowed by him as he locks his lips with yours, keeping you pressed against him. You can't, you don't want to pull away—no, you allow him to take every bit of your breath into his mouth, messily swapping spit, your own hands coming up to his forearms. Not to drag him away, just to rest there, to feel the muscles beneath his skin growing stiff with how he holds you.
Nothing about the way he kisses you is soft; it's animalistic, almost, hot and heavy and filled with emotions that have been repressed for God knows how long. Suguru doesn't need to say a thing to get across how he feels, he lets his body do the talking. He lets his hands drag down to your shoulders, then behind you, one in between your shoulder blades, chests flesh to one another. The fingers of his other hand dip down to the bow of your corset, making quick work of unlacing the satin.
Your own hands move to wrap around his neck, allowing him to undo his work, lungs slowly filling with more air the looser the bustier becomes. He helps undress you without breaking the kiss once, unhooking the front of your corset and allowing it to fall to the floor. The garment is forgotten on the creaky boards of the floor as you and Suguru stumble backwards, towards the embroidered arm chair in the corner of your dressing room.
He forces you down into the chair and gets on his knees in front of you, slotting himself between your legs, leaning over to meet your lips once more. You card your fingers through his hair as it falls around your face, his hair tie barely putting in work to hold the dark strands back.
Suguru leans back for a moment to admire you. He just honors how you look beneath him, eyes glossed over, lips sticky and messy with lipstick, laying like an open book in front of him, giving him your all. You've never been so vulnerable with him before, despite how close the two of you are. Opening up has never come easy to you, even with Suguru, except for right now.
You feel his fingers sneaking under the hem of your skirt, slowly trailing towards your most intimate area, gripping into the pantyhose that separates him from what he wants. He rips it with reckless abandon, causing a surprised squeal to fall from your lips, quickly turned into a fit of giggling. He smiles at your amusement, relishing in the rare sound of your laughter, absolutely sick with love.
Suguru pulls your skirt to bunch around your thighs, noticing how your legs twitch, wanting to close and shield yourself from his gaze. A hand comes to the back of your knee and pushes it up, eyes trailing down your figure to the pretty pair of lace panties he'd only been able to see in his dreams.
"Pretty," he comments, boldly leaning down to place a sweet kiss right over your covered cunt. He can feel the aching and wetness underneath his lips, how badly you want him to take them off, he finds it cute how easily your cunt pulses at something as small as a kiss. He gives a breathy chuckle at how jittery you're starting to get.
"Suguru, stop," you breathe, yet your breath hitches when Suguru takes his fingers and hooks them into the gusset of your panties, pulling them to the side and exposing the last part of you he hasn't been able to see. He holds off on eye contact, knowing how nervous it'd make you, but he admires your pussy as if it's the most precious painting in the world.
Your chest heaves, anticipating his next move and overthinking about what he's thinking. Truth is, Suguru's seen a lot of women like this—vulnerable and spread out for him—but you're his favorite by a long shot. He wants to experience every part of you. He can only hope that you'll let him.
His thumb strokes the back of the knee he's holding, eyes watching your body like a hawk, and goes in to lick a stripe up your cunt. A small gasp leaves you at the feeling of his tongue on you, legs threatening to shut when he circles around your sensitive clit, making your mind go a bit fuzzy. It's a foreign feeling, almost—you've barely been with anyone in a sexual context, and those people weren't near as attentive as Suguru's already been.
He closes his lips around the swollen bud, beginning to suck lightly all the while moving the tip of his tongue around. It's embarrassing how quickly he's riled you up, even more so how he went from teasing your clit to now full-on making out with it. He enjoys how wet he's made you, it inflates his ego a bit knowing that he did that to the most closed off person he knows.
The fingers that were once holding your panties come to prod at your hole, the tip of his index barely poking inside to test the waters. Suguru moans around your clit at how tight you are, feeling your walls squeeze around his fingers as he starts to go deeper. It doesn't take long for him to pop two fingers inside and begin searching for that sweet, sweet spot inside, continuing his overbearing assault on your clit.
You're holding back from touching Suguru, knuckles wrapped tightly around the arms of the chair, holding on for dear life because it's all too good. So badly do you want to reach down and run your fingers through his hair, or touch the veins on the back of his hand, feel his pulse rise as he gets more aggressive towards your heat—but the thought is cut short by your own self doubt.
All of a sudden, Suguru hits a spot inside of you, knocking a screech from your throat. Your hand slaps over your mouth, trying to silence your noises, and Suguru only grins against your pussy and tries to find it again. Soon, your legs are quivering around his frame, feeling that tight knot in your abdomen that only gets worse the longer Suguru goes.
Your orgasm shocks you, head thrown back and mouth open beneath your hand, unraveling under Suguru's mouth. He works you through it, gradually slowing down his movements until they dissipate into nothing. He's careful about removing his fingers and his mouth, moving to place kisses along the insides of your legs as you come down.
He trails back up your shaking thighs, soft kisses meeting soft flesh, tender and caring—only what you deserve from him. Your chest rises and falls quickly, looking down at Suguru, watching how delicately he treats you. He's the contrast for what you put yourself through.
Suguru smiles as your knee quivers next to his head, fingertips running over the outside of your legs, soothing your nerves. There was nothing to be scared about with him.
"Why'd you use your tongue earlier? During the act," Suguru asks, voice low and sweet, pulling the edge of your skirt back down to give you a bit of dignity back. "You know I don't like putting the fire so close to your face."
"I don't know," you admit, fingers meeting his as he continues his strokes on the exposed bit of your thigh. "I think I need to take a break." You intertwine your hands together, no longer afraid of touching him, of being with him.
"We can leave," Suguru offers, head resting against your leg, "run away from the circus if you'd like."
You nod your head in agreement, knowing you'd run anywhere if Suguru was by your side.
࿐ stoner choso! the first thing you notice about him is that he looks wildly out of place. everyone else is loud. the music is loud. the people are loud. somebody is standing on a kitchen counter trying to shotgun a beer and failing spectacularly. you’ve never been a fan of frat parties, and the one was especially brutal.
but he’s just sitting on the back porch - alone - with a hoodie and sweats, hair tied back, smoking a joint.
you end up outside when your social battery dies (you last through about three conversations with frat guys before needing a break). the night air feels cool against your skin when you push open the sliding door. he glances up.
“you escaping too?” he asks. his voice is low and rough, features sleepy and dark and you’re filled with the sudden urge to push the stray strands of hair off his forehead.
“that obvious?”
“a little.”
he shifts over on the porch swing, making room. you sit in silence, staring out at the backyard, the party noise reduced to muffled bass thumping from inside the house now. he holds up the joint after a moment. “want it?”
you hesitate. “depends. is it gonna kill me?”
he smiles, small and crooked. “probably not.”
“very reassuring.”
“i try.”
you pluck the joint from his hands and his fingers brush yours. you ignore the weird little spark that shoots up your arm. you take a drag, the smoke burning your throat immediately. you cough so hard you nearly fold in half. he watches you, vaguely amused, and chuckles when you thrust the joint back to him, grimacing. “you could’ve warned me.”
“where’s the fun in that?”you stare at him. he stares back, and then suddenly both of you are laughing.
you end up staying on that porch for almost two hours. his name is choso. he studies something science-related that you don’t fully understand because he explains it while half faded and distracted. he has a younger brother. he hates tequila. he likes old records and strawberry mochi and rainy weather.
he knows your name and that you definitely don’t like smoking. he likes the curve of you smile and the way you tuck your knees up onto the swing. he likes the sound of your laugh and knows that your favourite dessert is an ice cream sundae.
the party starts to die down well into the morning - you’d been so distracted by your conversation with this perfect stranger that you’d lost track of time. “i should probably go,” you say.
“yeah.” choso looks at you with his pretty, tired eyes and neither of you move as you watch each other in silence.
a beat passes. “can i get your number?” he blurts.
you blink and choso immediately looks like he regrets saying anything. “that sounded stupid.”
“it kinda did,” you lilt. “good thing i’m giving it to you anyway.”
his ears turn pink and you grin - it feels impossible considering the man looks like he could intimidate a bear. you type your number into his phone and when you hand it back to him he shoves one hand in his pocket. “i’ll text you.”
“you better.” he smiles again, the same one from earlier, and your stomach swims because it feels like it’s just for you.
and later, when your phone lights up before you’ve even made it home, the message reads:
choso :) : made it ten minutes before texting
you stare at the screen smiling like an idiot.
you: desperation, actually 😉😉
three dots appear immediately.
choso :) : yeah, probably. wanna hang out tomorrow?
little drabble for @seventasia 's event ^_^ go check it out here!!
tw: religious guilt, religious trauma themes, smoking, emotional repression, self-destructive tendencies, internalized shame, faith crisis, crying, hurt/comfort, angst
preacher's daughter!shoko who was raised on hymnals and southern guilt and the kind of love that always came with conditions, who learned young how to sit still in hard wooden pews with her knees pressed together and her head bowed politely while everyone in town admired what a sweet girl the pastor raised. because everyone loves the pastor's daughter, even when they do not know her at all.
preacher's daughter!shoko who knows every church song by memory but mouths the words instead of singing them, voice dying somewhere behind her teeth while stained glass paints bruised colors across her skin. who thinks faith should feel warmer than this. who thinks god stopped listening to her years ago.
preacher's daughter!shoko who smells like cigarette smoke hidden beneath vanilla perfume and old books, who keeps a lighter tucked into the pocket of her choir robe, who sits on the church roof after evening service just to feel farther away from everybody beneath her. that is where you first find her. legs hanging over the edge. smoke curling from parted lips. silver cross necklace glinting beneath the moonlight. and instead of telling her father, instead of looking horrified the way everyone else would, you sit beside her. quietly. like you already know all the ugly things she's trying to hide and you have decided they don't matter.
preacher's daughter!shoko who thinks you are too kind for your own good. who rolls her eyes whenever you show up to volunteer at food drives. when you help clean after sunday dinners, pretending your presence annoys her while secretly memorizing the sound of your laugh over gospel music crackling through old church speakers. somehow you keep staying. through her sharp words and every carefully built wall she places between herself and the rest of the world. you stay anyway.
preacher's daughter!shoko who learns the sound of your car before she learns the sound of your footsteps, who waits in the church parking lot after dark pretending she is just "getting fresh air" while secretly hoping your headlights appear at the end of the road. who starts craving you in quiet, devastating ways. who wants your hoodie in the passenger seat; your hand brushing hers over diner tables during the late hours of the night; your voice low and sleepy through phone calls neither of you wants to end.
preacher's daughter!shoko who never calls it love because love feels too sacred and frightening and permanent, and she has spent her whole life being taught that wanting you is wrong because no force of god can change the fact that you are a girl. so instead, you kiss behind gas stations. in dark corner booths of a diner two towns over where nobody recognizes the pastor's daughter. and afterwards, she presses her forehead against yours like she is mourning something before it is even gone.
preacher's daughter!shoko who keeps her cross necklace on even when she sleeps beside you, the chain cold against your collarbone when she curls into you. who goes strangely still the first time you touch it. "my father gave it to me when i turned thirteen. ", she whispers, almost inaudible. like that explains everything. maybe it does.
preacher's daughter!shoko who has spent years praying for god to make her easier to love. cleaner, quieter, holier. less angry, less lonely, less this. who kneels beside her bed at night with mascara streaking down her face whispering apologies into clasped hands because she cannot stop thinking about you no matter how hard she tries.
preacher's daughter!shoko who begins pulling away the second she realizes how hard she has fallen for you. texts become shorter. calls go unanswered. kisses rushed and guilty. she stands beside her father after sunday sermons smiling sweetly at churchgoers while you watch from across the parking lot wondering if you had imagined the softness of her hands. wondering if you had imagined her entirely.
preacher's daughter!shoko who finally breaks in the middle of a thunderstorm. rain batters the church windows hard enough to sound like screaming while she cries in your arms, shoulders shaking violently beneath your hands as every ugly buried thing finally claws its way out of her chest. "i think there's something wrong with me." she says it like a confession. like a prayer. like something she has known her whole life. and when you try to kiss her, she pulls away at first. not because she does not love you, but because the silver cross hanging between you suddenly feels unbearable. heavy with expectation and shame. with every version of herself she was forced to become.
preacher's daughter!shoko whose trembling hands rise to the necklace slowly. the chain catches briefly in her shaking fingers. when it finally slips free, she starts crying harder. huge broken sobs against your mouth while she kisses you desperately, terrified and loving you so much it hurts. like she is choosing you and losing herself all at once. like a girl raised on sermons and sacrifice finally allowing herself, for one impossible selfish moment, to be loved anyway.
PRETTY GIRL AVENUE is an event organised between some friends and i dedicated to lesbianism in jjk <3 pls enjoy. pls.
ABOUT. sapphic romance in all its forms, from fem!toji to the classic shoko. do you want a western vampire? a historical mystery? what about a toxic romance? PRETTY GIRL AVENUE has it all! with only women, to boot!
AT PRETTY GIRL AVENUE, YOU WILL FIND ───
WANTED: WOMAN-EATING OUTLAW with TSUKUMO YUKI!
More information available with @seventasia!
THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT with IEIRI SHOKO!
If any issues arise, please reach out to @ackpplepie!
THE MAN I MARRIED WASN'T ACTUALLY A MAN AT ALL! with FEM!TOJI!
Reach out to @strawb3rryhachi for more information!
PREACHERS DAUGHTER with IEIRI SHOKO!
Find more information with @cassideezlife!
86'D with FEM!SUKUNA!
Reach out to @cassideezlife if you have any inquiries!
TERRAPIN with IEIRI SHOKO!
If interested, consult @purescription!
KISS IT BETTER with TSUKUMO YUKI!
Please contact @ketamiis for details!
CEO - CONFIDENTIAL EATING OUT with IEIRI SHOKO!
Details can be found with @lemonswirlss!
WHAT CAN I DO with FEM!NANAMI!
Please contact @xstars-alignedx for details!
MONSTROUS APPETITES, SUKUNA
my submission for @lemonswirlss's 3k circus collab!
synopsis. when you decide to join a travelling circus, the last thing you expect is to form a queer bond with the famed ‘two-faced demon’—the four-armed, four-eyed, two-mouthed circus freak sukuna.
contains. true form sukuna, p in v, dubious ethics, cannibalism (past), two dick sukuna, a live animal is eaten.
wc. 12.3k
I.
The first time you see him, you’re a newly hired aerialist at his motley circus. Fresh from an interaction with the pleasant yet unsettling ringmaster, Kenjaku, who’d effused the merits of his staff and demanded you explore the different attractions, you’d been drawn away from his presence and towards his veiled stage. It had been accompanied by only a mild annoyance; why did you have to explore first, before being able to settle down in your own quarters? To view the stage you’d be performing on, rather than this nameless stranger?
Wheels poke from beneath the stage, and the door at the side is triple-locked shut. It’s what had drawn you to the attraction, that niggling curiosity of why is it still in the caravan when it's meant to be performing? A red curtain covers the front of the caravan, and a showman stands before it, projecting his voice as he soaks in the crowd.
“—more monster than human, with an appetite so ravenous he couldn’t be matched by a dozen lions! He ate his own twin in the womb, killed his mother chewing his way out of her stomach, is a scourge on men and women alike…” the man gesticulates, face lit with manic glee. “It feasts on women and children; is beholden to no God; he is an abomination made real; a bane to all that is just… I introduce to you, the two-faced demon!”
The curtains open. Around you, people gasp. A woman swallows a scream, hands cupping her face; beside her, her husband is sickeningly pale as he holds his wife’s arm in a white-knuckled grasp. A child shrieks, hiding behind his mother’s legs, and the mother ushers him away with a terrified prayer. The two-faced demon lounges lazily, separated from you by thick metal bars within his miniscule cage.
He’s not even that ugly, you think, vaguely mystified by the theatrics of the audience. He’s horrifyingly tall, yes, standing at least a head above you. The two-faced demon’s torso is unfathomably wide and entirely bare, tattoos tracing his well-chiseled abdomen up to the lines of his sculpted face, down beneath his low-slinging pants. Disconcertingly, a mouth sits where his belly button should, wide spread in a grotesque grin as a tongue pokes out from between sharp teeth. You follow his tattoos up to his jaw, and see—
“A monster,” someone murmurs.
—a man.
There’s a strong jaw and a wide face, with cheekbones sitting high on his face. His nose stands tall, slightly ridged and strongly angled. A second pair of eyes, as crimson red as the first, sit half-slitted beneath the main pair. His hair, short and a shocking shade of cherry blossom pink, is deceptively sweet against the rest of his features. Most interestingly, something wooden and mask-like sits on the right side of his face where his features slope at a harsh, asymmetrical diagonal. His mouth is pulled taut against the skin. It must be where the nickname is from, that two-faced dichotomy; his face split between vaguely human familiarity and absolute, monstrous novelty. It’s barely fathomable. Watching him scowl down at your crowd, it’s easy to see glimpses of the inhuman monster that everyone is so terrified of.
You’ve heard of the two-faced demon before. He’s an infamous attraction, even if only for his grotesque appearance. There are rumours about having fought lions before—he has, allegedly, once fought an elephant and won—-and each story is as ludicrous as it is widespread. You just hadn’t expected that, if you squint, he could be considered handsome. Weren’t such monstrous creatures meant to be hideous?
Ignorant to your inner dialogue, the two-faced demon crosses his bottom pair of arms tightly around his chest, muscles bulging with an unspoken threat. How incredible he is, to make such a simple movement seem so domineering. The showman continues. “Despite his fearsome appearance as a rampaging beast, he is incredibly docile!” Docile? “He rarely speaks, is barely capable of following basic instruction, and acts entirely on his own whims—” What part of that is docile? “—but, rest assured, he is uninterested in harming others. His diet consists only of meat—we have a raw cow being brought in at eight, should anyone want to witness his feeding—” he rattles off a price, and the two-faced demon’s scowl only deepens.
What a salesman. You could almost convince yourself this guy is trying to sell you an antique, rather than an exclusive experience to watch a man eat.
“Adding to his inhumane appearance, the two-faced demon is stronger than an ox, and can tear apart metal like a man does paper—”
“Then why doesn’t he break out?” The words escape you before you can stop them. His captive audience turns, disturbed from their horrified trance; the showman looks somewhat displeased.
“What did you say, dear viewer?”
“You said he can tear apart metal, but he’s in a wooden caravan with metal bars. Why doesn’t he break out, if he’s so strong?”
The man scowls, displeased by your break in immersion. “Didn’t you hear me? He’s uninterested in harming others.”
“But isn’t he a rampaging beast?”
“A rampaging beast can rampage all he likes, if he’s too lazy to think his way out of a wooden box.” Still, the people around you look uneasy. Someone edges away. Even to you the logic is barely nebulous, ridiculously flimsy at best. Why would that matter, if he can tear through metal so simply? It just doesn’t make sense. The two-faced demon, the allegedly unknowing topic of your conversation, lounges backwards, top pair of eyes flitting close. The bottom pair, that blazing inhumanity, peek open; for some unfathomable reason, as the showman faultingly continues his monologue, they remain trained on you.
II.
You don’t see the two-faced demon for another two weeks after joining the troupe. He is, you learn, eternally locked within that small caravan; he eats there, he sleeps there, he pisses in a bucket and has someone else toss out the waste. The curtains are constantly closed—so as to not scare the other circus members, the showman, Haruta, tells you—and the caravan is silent, except for those few sickening minutes each night where he tears into the raw flesh of an animal and its dying squeals echo.
So, when he calls out to you, fresh from a few hours of practice, you find yourself a little surprised.
“You.”
The sound is raspy from disuse, low and rumbling from deep in the chest. It’s not a voice you’ve ever heard before, for all it immediately sends warmth to your face, so you really can’t be blamed for your response of:
“Me?” You echo dumbly.
You turn to see the two-faced demon locked in his caravan. For once, the curtains are open. He lounges languidly in his cage, head resting against his palm as he braces his elbow against the wall. In the light of day, his inhumanities are both sharpened and softened; the sun lifts the veil of his sinister appearance, at once lessening the horror and throwing the details into brutal relief. Your eyes linger on his stomach mouth for a moment, before returning to the four eyes glaring sharply down at you.
“Yes, you.” He says, his voice sharp. “I saw you.”
“I imagine you see a lot of people, considering our profession.”
He sneers. “Insolent woman.” Which… okay? You’re not sure what he was expecting, approaching you like that; you’re not sure he even knows how he wanted you to react, based on the way his scowl only deepens. Maybe it’s some leftover aggression for all that lion-killing he used to allegedly perform. “You were there when that foolish peacock was displaying me.”
Foolish peacock—? Ah. Haruta. “I didn’t realise I left such an impression.”
“Hm.” He leans forward, grinning with both mouths. His canines are frighteningly sharp. “Bring me some food.”
You blink. “No. That’s not under my jurisdiction.”
“There is no jurisdiction for who brings me my meals.”
Your brows furrow as you shoot him a disbelieving look. “Yes, there is. Uraume delegates it to someone at the start of every week. I can’t just disrupt someone else’s tasks.”
“That peacock of a showman said it himself, didn’t he? I feast on the weak. Bring me my meal, or I’ll feast my hunger elsewhere.” He leers at you, more ravenous than covetous. It doesn’t feel like desire. For a moment, you feel like nothing more than the sack of meat you must appear as—skin and meat and blood and bone, packaged beneath a pretty face and shielding a beating heart. Nothing more than a single meal to quench an endless thirst.
“That peacock,” you stress his nickname for Haruta, “also said you barely spoke and were assuredly docile. How am I to know whether or not that’s another exaggeration among many?’
“My existence is no exaggeration.” You hum in demeaning acquiescence. The two-faced demon growls. “What’s your name, woman?”
What a non-sequitor. You look at him, features carefully blank in the face of his inhumanity. His nails are frighteningly sharp, you notice suddenly. Sharper than they have any right to be. Long and razor-thin, more akin to claws than fingernails. You tell him your name, slow and sure. “Do I get to learn your name in return?”
“What makes you think you have any right to it?”
Nothing could stop you from rolling your eyes. “Of course. What was I thinking?” Biting back further grumbling, you make to walk past his enclosure. “I’m sure your meal will be here shortly. Have a good day, demon.”
For all his gallivanting, he doesn’t break out of his cage. He sits there in that imperious sprawl and scowls with all four eyes as he watches you leave. Maybe he really is domesticated; maybe he doesn’t think the effort of catching you is worth the meagre meal. It doesn’t matter—either way, you move on unimpeded, while he stays rotting in that tiny caravan. His threat goes unfulfilled. So much for the privilege of his name.
III.
The two-faced demon doesn’t take up much of your attention after that. You are, for the most part, uninterested in your disfigured colleague. On the few occasions where he is allowed to see the sun (because, for some unfathomable reason, he refuses to either draw the curtains himself or request they be done so), he singles you out. You talk, he calls you an ‘insolent woman’ or ‘foolish performer’ or, on the one occasion you really annoyed him, ‘wayward maggot’. Frustrated with him, you leave. A couple days pass, and the same event reoccurs.
Over these few encounters you learn a few things, both from him and others: no one knows his name. He speaks to no one, unless it is to demand food. He calls no one by their name, demeaning them as being too below him to know his, and him too above them to refer to them as anything other than insulting descriptors. He really did previously fight animals for show before his kill streak knocked too high, and everyone that witnessed it continues to live in paralysing fear over what he may do to them if he grows too bored. Their dramatics know no bounds.
You are perfectly happy with this routine of vague familiarity until you meet Uraume.
Despite being an aerialist, being a member of a travelling troupe means that everyone is often pitching in for odd jobs. Working as an aerialist doesn’t mean you aren’t helping with booths or applying the kids' show make-up or assisting Toji in feeding the animals. Likewise, Uraume’s role as a performer doesn’t prevent them from also being the best cook in the circus. With your odd jobs and their famed skill, it doesn’t take long until you’re tasked with assisting them in the kitchen.
“Leave that for the two-faced demon.”
You jolt from where you’re leaning over the meat, reaching for a cut of steak. Uraume’s expression, usually placid and slightly derisive, is underlined with an uncharacteristic anger; brows furrowed, lips twisting downwards, shoulders squared as they loom over you. You glance between them and the meat in question. “I thought that guy only ate live animals…?”
“He did.” Their expression smooths out as you step back, grabbing a different cut. “His tastes have changed since his reallocation.”
Reallocation? “I thought he was always there purely for his…” how to word this politely? “...cosmetic value.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’d never degrade himself in such a manner.” Isn’t that exactly what he’s doing now? “He used to work with the animals. Once per location, after the animal tamer performed, he would appear and fight a predator—lions, most often—for show. It was always the most anticipated event of the circus. The animals were, unsurprisingly, no match for the two-faced demon, but the display of his strength was notable all the same.”
Fascinating. Maybe those muscles aren’t all for show. You decide to ignore the concept that he was apparently so strong that lions were unable to beat him—legendary as those stories are, you’d always considered them mere stories. It’s discomforting to know there’s more truth to them than you previously assumed. “Then why’d he stop doing it?”
They level you with a dispassionate look. “They couldn’t keep up with him. He kept killing them. The law decided to prohibit his actions, but their attempts at restraining him led to the previous animal tamer meeting a… sudden end.”
“Is that why everyone is so scared of him?”
“They’re scared of him because they should be.” Uraume clears their throat. “After that debacle, they banned him from fighting in the circus. He’s decided to simply remain a viewing attraction, and abides by their drivel as long as he is sufficiently provided for.”
“Even after killing a worker?”
“Even after eating a worker.”
You blink in muted surprise. You don’t know why you’re shocked, given the nature of his threats and the way people act around him, but eating someone? You can’t fathom it. The two-faced demon, for all his bluster, is notably tame. “He must’ve been an amazing fighter, for the circus to have kept him after that.”
Uraume turns to you, uncharacteristically passionate. Their next words come out slightly breathless. “He was magnificent.”
And, well, that’s that. Uraume says no more on the topic, even as they continue their tasks with a quiet joy. You’ve never seen them as happy as they are now, as if the mere thought of the two-faced demon is enough to brighten their spirit. Huh. You’re beginning to get the feeling that he maybe really is that awe-inspiring, considering the various dramatics of your fellow circus performers.
Maybe that’s why, when Uraume hands you a massive steak so lightly cooked you can imagine its heart is still beating, you don’t deny their request to deliver it to the two-faced demon. Instead, you take the heavy meal—which, seriously? This portion size could feed at least six people—and bring it to that ever shielded caravan.
“Knock on the door before you enter,” Uraume tells you as you leave. “He won’t attack you or try to escape. Pay him the decency he deserves, given his illustrious nature.”
You don’t exactly take it into account. Rather, what you do is call “Dinner’s ready!” as you near the caravan, knocking at the door with one foot as you hold the—frankly massive—plate with both hands. “Open the door.”
“Open it yourself.”
Your eye twitches. Must this man be such a contrarian? “My apologies. What I meant to say is, I am unable to open the door—either open it for me, or continue on without your dinner. It’s no concern to me.”
A growl sounds, then the low creak of movement. He’s awfully quiet for such a large man, but even then, the caravan creaks and sinks with every step of his massive weight. The door opens with a harsh lurch, and you are abruptly the closest you’ve ever been to his monstrous form. This close, a mere half-meter separating you, his eyes are impossibly large, impossibly red; his cherry blossom hair an even softer pink than you initially conceived. Bizarrely, you find yourself almost wanting to touch it. Even the scar you first noticed seems more like a mask this close for how raised and shapely it is; yet his malformed eyes blink lazily at you in a way no puppetry could emulate.
How sickening, you think, fascinated.
“Well?” He says mockingly. “Serve me my dinner.”
He disappears back into his trailer. It’s honestly impressive that he even manages it—the trailer couldn’t be more than 5 meters by half; somehow, he turns it into a chasm. “I’ll leave it with—”
“Serve me.”
How frustrating. “If I must.” You keep your tone perfectly neutral, stepping into the darkness of his abode. It’s as discomfortingly small as you imagined. You don’t know how he manages to lounge so broadly and still look as though he has room to move; a well-practiced artifice, though you don’t know why he tolerates it. The man that could beat a lion in a fair fight, wasting away in a cage even smaller than the predators. You would laugh, if you didn’t think he would eat you for the mockery.
You lay the plate out on the floor before him. The two-faced demon licks over his teeth with his too-long tongue. “Sit with me.”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t tell me you’re even stupider than you look. Sit.” His voice is a rumbling growl. You sit, stumbling awkwardly until you’re on the floor of the caravan, legs tucked beneath you. Sitting like this, he looms over you as a carnivorous shadow; there’s no illusion of even footing. He watches you for a moment, expression bored and impassive, before leaning his head down and taking a bite of his steak. Blood streams from the bite.
His hunger is voracious. He tears into the beef with abandon, uncaring of his audience and greedy in his hunger. He tears through the meat as if it were butter, cleaving through it with a single grind of his jaw. It’s horrifying. It’s beautiful, in a way, as if for a moment his appetite makes him something both more and less than human. His top pair of eyes shut in something akin to delight, but his bottom pair remain fixed on you. You’re paralysed by his stare; his hunger; the monstrous strength of his jaw; the awful sharpness of his teeth.
“You’re unafraid of me.”
You jolt, eyes tearing from his pinning gaze to land on his mouth, brows furrowed. Your gaze darts further down, and the mouth on his stomach stretches into a leering grin. It’s disconcerting, so out of place; you didn’t realise that mouth was capable of anything more than aesthetic disfigurement. His face-mouth swallows, taking another monstrous bite of meat. “Oh? Is this all it takes to frighten you?”
Your expression briefly drops into a scowl. “Why would I be?”
“Stories of my feats couldn’t have dissipated so quickly,” he scorns. “You have good reason to be scared.”
“Uraume was very flattering,” you concede. “But as far as I’m concerned, you’ve done nothing but sit here, leer, and make the occasional threat for the entire time I’ve been employed. Why should I be scared when you’ve taken no action against me?”
It’s a blatant goad, not that you mean it as one. If the two-faced demon is as thoughtlessly savage as Haruta claims, he would no doubt jump on it; grab you, loom over you, and laugh as your life is balanced in the claws of his mercy. He does not. It speaks to his inaction; he truly must’ve become domesticated.
“Do you take me for a beast?” He asks, his lip curling. “You’ve simply done nothing to anger me yet.”
“If I haven’t angered you, then I have no need to be scared.”
“Hm.” He takes another bite of his food, leaning forward until one arm rests on his knee, propping up his head. It moves him closer to you, impossibly large despite his hunched posture. It’s grotesque, how he manages to swallow down such a sizable slab of raw meat in so few bites. He swallows languidly, bringing the plate to his torso, and has his stomach mouth lick the leftover blood off the ceramic. When he stretches his arm out, glistening plate—seriously, gross—outstretched, you take it as your cue to leave.
Of course, you don’t even get to touch the plate before his other arm snatches yours, dragging you a step closer as his hand creates a bruising shackle around your wrist. His lip curls into a smiling snarl.
“Ow,” you say belatedly. You hadn’t expected it to hurt, for your bones to creak like a rotting frame beneath the pressure. Still—is that it? A man that felled lions, resorting to squeezing your wrist a little? Are you supposed to feel threatened?
He stares at you, expression placid. The two-faced demon is threatening you. But for what? Because you’re not scared of him? How is this supposed to make you any more frightened? You level him with a (very minor, unintentional) challenge, and he responds by giving you a bruised wrist. It doesn’t inspire fear like he expects his man-eating habits to. You stare back at him, unimpressed, and lightly tug your wrist out of his grasp. He doesn’t let go.
Rather, he sneers. “Was that pathetic tug all you could conjure?”
You roll your eyes. “Could you let go of me?” Then, to be polite; “Please? I still have tasks left to complete.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?”
“Yes.” Kenjaku will have your head if you don’t complete everything in time. He really is so frustratingly particular. In fact, now that you think of it, you think you’d prefer death by the two-faced demon before risking Kenjaku’s disappointment—Mahito might get away with being a brat, but you? He doesn’t care half as much about you, nor do you bring in enough money for him to justify anything but extreme consequences to minor offences. Maybe, if the demon holds you here long enough, you should suggest your death to him; surely, he’ll accept a freely offered meal?
The grip on your hand spasms, tightening so quickly a blinding bolt shoots up your arm, and then abruptly lets go. “Hopeless,” he growls. “A pathetic little maggot, unaffected by a predator. Your foolishness will kill you.”
“This is a circus, not the wild.” You say blandly. Doesn’t that prove your point, anyway? Why would a caged lion kill a maggot? It’d sooner save its own skin escaping before it considered eating the prey of its prey. He really is dramatic, jumping to these exaggerated threats.
You scoop the plate off the floor, shaking your wrist like that’ll ease the bone-deep ache. Sending him one last look as you leave—a glance at this thoughtless, self-captive predator, who lets people think he can’t break out through bars when he can easily open the door—you roll your eyes once more. “Have a good night, demon.”
(Sukuna lets your arm go, watching you through abruptly lidded eyes. You don’t retreat. It took him a moment to realise, but he understands now—you’re not frozen out of fear, or resolute in a need to prove yourself unafraid of him. You’re simply not, staring back at him with those heavy, thoughtful eyes. You’re sedate. It strikes him, with a feeling both raging and delighted, that you aren’t unafraid; no, you don’t care. He could tear you apart with a single bite, unhinge his jaw and clamp down on your hand and rend your fingers from your palm, tear your flesh straight from the bone, and you don’t care for the threat.
Your hand flexes idly as if you had stiff joints in need of loosening, unaware of his hunger. Or, maybe, you are aware—you just simply don’t care enough to be scared. It lights a fire in his stomach; for the first time in a long, long time, he wants. He wants ravenously; he wants your blood in his mouth, your eyes pickled in a jar, your heart puncturing between his teeth, your bones a broth to flavour his soup.
His mouth waters at the thought. You make him so hungry.
But, more than anything, Sukuna wants to see you scared.)
IV.
“I hear you and the two-faced demon have struck up a friendship.”
Damn this circus and its unending gossip mill. You turn to Yorozu, who has taken the seat at the table beside you and is now grabbing whatever food is within reach. “To categorise it as ‘friendship’ is a generous stretch of the word.”
“If he hasn’t threatened to eat you, you’re practically soulmates.” She pops a bite of food into her mouth, peeking one eye open to look at you. “Has he threatened to eat you?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” She almost looks jealous. “And you’re not scared?”
“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.” You’re sure Yorozu has heard a dozen of the same story from a dozen different people; it’s not something you felt the need to contribute to. How is your encounter with him any more poignant than anyone else's? “He only threatened it. It’s not as if he went through with the threat.”
“And you’re… okay with that?”
“It was an empty threat. Why would I be concerned?”
She sends you a queer look. “You’re a weird girl. You know he used to kill lions, right? Once, he tore the leg off of one while it was still fighting. Barely broke a sweat doing it, too. It was beautiful, really. You should’ve seen the way he—”
You stare at her blankly. “Uraume told me.”
“Isn’t he just terrifying?” She swoons as she says it. “You weren’t there for it, but he ate one of the workers once.” Then, as if she’d just commented on the morning weather, Yorozu pops another bite into her mouth. “The guy couldn’t even fight back, it was so quick. That demon, he– he didn’t even laugh. Said the fight was too easy for him to get any pleasure out of it.”
“Uraume also told me that,” you say pleasantly. “Be that as it may, he just lounges around nowadays.”
“He only lounges around ‘cause he doesn’t see any point in killing us. Doesn’t think we’d be worth the effort,” she manages to look somewhat offended as she says it. “Besides, he’s happy as long as he’s given some poor lamb to tear apart every few days. We were all surprised when he became so languid—I mean, he’s such a monster. What kind of freak can kill a lion bare-handed? It feels like Kenjaku is dancing with the devil somedays, keeping him around. Not that I can blame him.”
“He hasn’t hurt anyone since though, has he?”
“What?” She shoots you an incredulous look. “I just said he ate someone.” You roll your eyes. “What’s with that look?”
“I just think you’re blowing things out of proportion. That’s all.”
V.
It's hard to wrap your mind around the entirety of the threat that is the two-faced demon. Sure, you’ve heard plenty about his lion-fighting, man-eating days, but it means nothing in the face of his complacency. A part of you acknowledges that he’s strong—the encounter the other day proves that—but even then, it failed to spark fear in you. He just… was.
So what if he could eat you if he isn’t going to follow up on it? When it comes down to it, anyone could kill you. He may be horrifically strong and monstrous in appearance, but he seemed more prone to idle threats than violent execution. Even the ring of bruises, once a dark brand on your wrist, has mellowed out to a discomforting yellow.
The lamb between his jaws squeals as he bites down, slicing through bone in a single bite. Upon being told to deliver a live lamb to the two-faced demon, you’d been faced with immediate disgust; he’s all-consuming and ravenous as is, so why must you witness a further indulgence? It’s every bit as grotesque as you imagined. He makes no play of it, tearing it apart while it heaves and dies, trapping it within the chasm of his jaw. What fun could he possibly contrive out of the gruesome act?
“Why did you talk to me?” You ask suddenly.
After all, didn’t Yorozu say it herself? The only reason the two-faced demon hasn’t broken out of his poorly crafted caravan and eaten another man is because he doesn’t see the point in doing so. What is there for you to fear? He can’t even be bothered to break out of his cage. You’re certainly not worth the effort.
Still, you think—he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t think worth doing. He clearly sees some value in eating a live animal, unfathomable as it is to you. He sees a point in demanding the best steaks the circus can conjure. You’ve begun to understand that aspect of his character. He does only what he wants, and indulges no further. So, as it stands, why does he bother himself with you?
“I wanted to.” the two-faced demon stares at you dispassionately. “I wanted to, so I did. Do I need any other reason?”
“You don’t want to do anything,” you counter levelly.
“I want plenty of things.” Your mouth twitches at his words, a small glimpse at your inner amusement. His eyes narrow in on your expression. “You presume to know me better than I know myself?”
“Of course not. You just don’t act on any of your wants, do you?”
“I do. How else could I have ended up in the situation I am now?”
Isn’t it obvious? He was born malformed, and taken in as a circus freak due to a lack of other opportunities; entranced by his beastial nature, they forced him to fight animals until he became too much of a danger; following that, he became little more than an aesthetic attraction, confined to his small cage. Sure, there was a case of cannibalism, and maybe a couple of threats, but most of what’s happened to him has, in fact, happened to him. It’s not as if he needed to do much to ensure the order of events.
“You’re more of a fool than I thought, if you truly think that.”
“You are more of a fool than I imagined, if you think I can’t—and don’t—take what I want.”
Oh, please. “Do you truly believe that? You’ve forgotten how to want. You sit here in this cage, demanding things come to you. You don’t do anything for yourself—you’re so content, having it handed to you. Is there anything you truly want? Anything you’ll ever desire that can’t be handed to you that you’ll still have the grasp to reach for?”
“I tire of your hypocrisy,” he growls. “You accuse me of idleness, when you subsist solely on ambivalence; there is nothing in this world you want. You’re closer to a monk than a woman.”
“We are not the same in that regard.”
“We’re more similar than you think,” he says, his voice thick with something. “You talk so much nonsense about desire and inaction. Haven’t you ever wanted to be something more than a sack of meat?” He’s awfully entertained by his own words; when the two-faced demon stretches out a hand, a raw chunk of lamb dangling between his fingers, you think you begin to understand. “Come. Feast on the lesser. Or have you not learned to want yourself?”
You swallow. “You think yourself better than everyone else here?”
“I’m the strongest, aren’t I? The weak bend to my will. They conform to my wants. It’s the way of life.”
“That sounds like a very overdressed excuse for a lazy man,” you say as if you’re demurring to him. You can’t tell if he’s delighted or incensed by your tone. “You’re strong, so you do nothing for yourself? They’re weak, so your life is assured? You’re so complacent, so unaware. Your arrogance is astounding.”
“That sounds like an awful lot of drivel to excuse your own inadequacies,” he sneers. “I suppose you are nothing more than a writhing maggot, after—”
You take a bite of the lamb.
More accurately, you lean forward; take hold of his thick wrist; drag the meat between your teeth and force your jaw shut until your teeth, blunt and weak, have no choice but to dig into the warm flesh. Blood pools in your mouth as you work your jaw, forcing a bite from the bone; where the two-faced demon cleaved through it like a hand through water, you’re left with a harsh ache in your jaw. It’s raw and vile, heavy on your tongue as blood gathers thickly in your mouth. In that moment, with a warm carcass partially sitting on your tongue and blood spilling from between your lips, you feel more animal than human—you aren’t an aerialist or a man or a thinking being, but a thing of raw instinct. Your brain insists you chew, and your frustrating humanity impedes your actions. Oh, why can’t your teeth slough through this meat like his? Why must they be so woefully inadequate?
The two-faced demon laughs at your expression. It’s a deep rumble from low in his chest, coming out closer to an animal's growl; his mouth splits open, impossibly wide, and he pulls you into a kiss.
He’s big. His mouth is large enough to eclipse your own two-fold, lips rough and chapped whilst his teeth are frighteningly sharp. His tongue bullies its way into your mouth, wet with blood and stinking of iron. And his eyes—his eyes. His eyes are that of a watchful predator, lazily lidded and staring at you with single-minded intent. All four, lasered in on you. The wet slide of your tongues set your cheeks on fire, so caught in the feeling of his hand moving to twine in your hair, pulling taut until your scalp screams beneath his grip, that you don’t realise what he’s doing until he pulls away.
A low moan escapes you as you’re left suspended there, head pulled back and neck bare for his perusal. His mouth parts on another bloody, gruesome smile, and it's only then that you realise the lamb once between your teeth is now trapped in his, its larger carcass tossed aside. The bite is comically small in his mouth as his tongue curls around it, swallowing it down without a single bite of his own. You stare after it, almost mournful—you practically broke your jaw working your teeth through its flesh, and it was stolen just like that?
Wait, why do you care? You didn’t want to eat it to begin with, did you?
“What a monstrous look you have there,” he sneers, even as satisfaction leaks from every inch of his being.
“I worked hard for that,” you say. “I don’t have your carnivorous teeth, demon.”
His mouth spreads wider. You remain caught, his hand in your hair tight enough to have tears prickling at your lash line. Another hand moves to grab the lamb back up, as if content to leave you trapped by the hair whilst he continues to feast on his meal. That selfish, lazy bastard! He can kiss you, take the food from your mouth, and then continue to eat as if nothing happened? As if you’re not a trapped fish in his hook?
“Allow me to remedy that,” he says, voice pleasant yet sinister from his stomach mouth as his face is occupied with another bite of lamb. He chews once, twice, thrice; then he leans in once more.
You’re startlingly aware of the meat as his tongue crawls into your mouth. He forces his way past your lips, jaw unhinging until you can feel his teeth bite into your cheek. It’s gross. It’s so unsexy. Somehow, with a hand at your head and his mouth eclipsing the bottom half of your face, you’re the hottest you’ve ever been. He forces the lamb past your lips, holding you in place as he deposits it half-chewed on your tongue. His mouth retreats for only just long enough for you to swallow, your throat bobbing around the uncooperative bite, before he leans in once more.
“Don’t talk to me about desire,” he says, the sound of his stomach-mouth a rumbling growl. He bites at your lip, canines digging dangerously, threatening to pierce skin, and an airy sigh escapes you. “You’re too caught up in your humanity to even conceptualise what you truly crave. I, at least, know what I want.”
VI.
You hate to admit it, but his words follow you. Something about it—we’re more similar than you think—clings to you; you think about it while you’re training, while you’re cooking, while you’re delivering his meals and watching him eat. What does he want? you think, watching him tear through a live lamb. What did he mean by that? then, as he pops its head off with a single twist, what do you want?
He doesn’t kiss you again. Somehow, that feels all the more damning.
Did you not prove yourself to him? Show him what he wanted to see? You ate a raw lamb, for goodness sake, kissed it half-chewed out of his mouth with no regard for how gross it was in the moment. He’d made you– you’d felt– you’d thought–
You purse your lips, turning sharply on your heel. What a ridiculous line of thinking you’d started meandering down; you’d shown him? Proven yourself? You won’t kid yourself—you enjoyed that far more than you logically should. It had sent a perverse thrill down your spine, suffocating on his tongue and indulging in a blood-soaked kiss. He hadn’t forced you to do anything. He’d offered you the slightest encouragement and you’d wanted it all on your own.
That thought is what draws you back to his caravan, where he’s once more engaging a crowd. People wave at you as you pass, taken in by your costume—and no doubt excited for your show—but you pay them no mind, suddenly caught up in your thoughts.
You’re not sure why such a prideful being is so content being gawked at and paraded around like little more than a show animal, or how he can consider himself so far above others yet be content with a life of ridicule. You suddenly, desperately, want to watch it once more; to see if there’s something there that you missed the first time.
Haruta is caught in his own theatrics as you approach, monologuing loudly to the gathered crowd. "The two-faced demon is a beast more monster than human, with an appetite so ravenous he couldn't be matched by a dozen lions! He ate his own twin in the womb, killed his mother chewing his way out of her stomach, is a scourge on men and women alike! He feasts on women and children; is beholden to no God; he is an abomination made real; a bane to all that is just…"
It's the exact same speech as the last time you watched this, you realise. The same speech recycled for a second audience. Haruta continues, "Look upon him as he feasts! Of course, this mere calf does nothing to sate the appetite of a monster that prefers to glut on man, but witness how he tears into his meal! Watch the disgusting voracity of his appetite!”
The two-faced demon is not eating like a ravenous animal. He’s far calmer with an audience. Rather than that steadfast, all-encompassing hunger as meat is swallowed in mammoth-like mouthfuls between a strong, grasping jaw, he eats with a casual disregard. Polite, slow, uninterested—more like a lounging cat than the predatory creature he fashions himself as.
What a hypocrite. The thought is almost fond. To let himself be carted around like a beast publicly, yet studiously consume a mannered meal as if he isn’t ravenous in private. It’s almost charming to know he lied so boldly to your face.
“He doesn’t seem that aggressive today,” you say conversationally as you approach Haruta. “I thought people had to pay an extra fee to watch him eat, anyway?”
Haruta deflates, turning to you with a bitter whisper. “Kenjaku tossed the idea. Apparently he’s not beastly enough for the extra costs. Can you believe that? As if he’s not disgusting when he eats regularly.”
The demon’s eyes, previously focused on the meal, dart over to meet yours—just the bottom pair, like he’s playing at being coy. He blinks leisurely, savouring the bite in his mouth as he watches you. How cute.
“Maybe he doesn’t see it worthwhile to upkeep manners around us,” you comment, bemused.
“No, he’s doing it to spite me. I know it. Kenjaku said I could take 2% of the sales—” only 2%? “—with the private meal showings, since I came up with the idea, and then overnight that beast developed manners. I don’t know why we haven’t slaughtered the thing already.”
That does sound like him.
“Oh, really?” You say with faux-surprise. “He’s perfectly mannered whenever I’m serving his meals.”
The demon snorts, a loud huff that has a kid sticking his hand through the caravans bars (much to his mother's despair) falling back with a horrified wail. Haruta looks beyond disbelieving. “Really?”
Obviously not. You disregard his comment altogether. “When does the showing end? I’d like to talk to him.”
“Now,” the demon cuts in sharply, placing down his half-eaten calf with a dull thud. “Peacock. Close my curtains.”
Haruta squawks; someone in the audience boos loudly. Seriously? What’s so interesting about watching him eat? You think back on that night a couple weeks ago; the cord of his neck, the monstrous strength of his jaw, his razor sharp teeth, his methodical, unwasting hunger—
—who are you kidding? You probably got twice the perverse enjoyment out of watching him than everyone in the crowd combined.
“You can’t just close your own exhibit,” Haruta protests, a whine edging his voice. “People paid to see this, you can’t just say—”
The two-faced demon bares his teeth in a vague approximation of a smile.
Haruta really is a coward; a single flash of those animalistic teeth, and he’s scurrying like a rat to herd people away. Clearly not thinking he’s going fast enough, the demon reaches for the bars. One ominous creak, the slightest bend of metal, and Haruta yelps like he’s personally being attacked.
It doesn’t take long for Haruta to clear the area of disgruntled viewers.
“Woman,” he says finally, once the both of you are alone.
“So demeaning,” you mutter. “Would it hurt to call me by my name, for once?”
He ignores you. “What is it?”
You, in turn, ignore him—who said you weren’t prone to a little pettiness? “Did you need to go through all of that fanfare? You could’ve just used the door.” He has used the door, in fact, many times—with the monstrous size of his meals, you’ve grown very used to demanding he clear the entrance into his caravan. If he’s going to be a lazy bastard, he might as well be a well-mannered one.
“Using the door wouldn’t have been half as effective. Let them see me as the brute I am. It only benefits me.”
“The brute you are? But you were so polite with your meal.”
“What?”
“Your dinner,” you repeat softly. “If it truly didn’t bother you, why were you so polite in front of the audience? Clearly, there’s something about being seen as some ravenous monster that displeases you.”
He regards you placidly. “I did not want him to make a mockery of me, so I didn’t allow it.”
You hum in acquiescence. “And here I thought you were perfectly content in your position.”
“I’m certainly more at ease than you are, woman.” It’s uncharacteristically defensive. You find yourself tempted to press. You almost do, until you recall that flash of teeth; the warm, weeping flesh being shoved down your throat and chased by a hot, large tongue. Your cheeks burn, and you say nothing. “Why are you here?”
“Because I wanted to be.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”
Your lips tug on a smile. It’s cathartic to throw his own words back in his face; “Didn’t I? I’m here because I want to be. There’s nowhere that attracts my attention more, so there’s nowhere else to be.”
He leans backwards. If you had any more of an ego about you, you’d say he looks pleased. “At the circus. Why are you with the circus?”
What a simple question. Isn’t it obvious? You love it here; maybe not the people, bar the infuriating man before you, but certainly everything else. The work, the routine, the performance, the audience—it’s an addictive concoction. For once, you can live as you please and be rewarded for it; you can pursue your own passion, and the only consequence is the roaring applause of an enamoured crowd. It’s perfect.
Hm. Maybe his words have some merit after all. “Because here, I can do what I want to. Isn’t that enough?”
“So you do have something you desire.”
You batter away that wayward memory once more. “No. I already have what I want. I’ll have it for as long as I’m here.” You glance at him sideways, uncharacteristically sly. “Maybe I should be asking you that. This is a bit targeted, don’t you think?”
“I’m simply returning the favour from our previous encounters.” His eyes glimmer with… something. You can’t tell what, from so far away. “There must be some reason you stick around. It was almost beginning to seem like it was me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself too much.” You consider him, and a question calls to you from the back of your mouth. Given your prior presumptuousness, you have no qualms asking it—he’s indulged your curiosity every time before now, and it’s made you a glutton for your own non-sequitors. “Why don’t you ever leave? The circus, I mean.”
“Why would I?” He leans backwards on a stretch, straightening his spine and revealing a glimpse of his monstrous size. His shadow doubles, his eyes flash; for a moment, he looks closer to a monster than he does a human. Even having felt it, having traced it with your tongue, you contemplate the idea of him having fangs hidden in that large mouth; teeth like a lion or a wolf, a further deviance from humanity. “I eat when I want to eat, and I play when I want to play. I’m pampered as I please, and have no need to do anything but exactly what I want to do. If I wished for it, I could waste time this way until the day I die.”
You don’t say but what point is there in living?, because you know that argument holds no interest for him. By now, you have a pretty good grasp on what he’d say—because I want to, maybe, or because I don’t yet desire death, if he’s feeling more verbose.
You huff a laugh. “Be proactive for once, demon. At the rate you’re going, I imagine I’ll never see you out of that cage. Is there truly nothing worth leaving it?”
VII.
There is no greater thrill than that of performing. You weren’t lying when you told the two-faced demon that you joined the circus simply because you wanted to—you love it. There’s a thrill that comes with being an aerialist, swinging through the air on nothing more than threads of silk and listening to the audience awe over your manoeuvres. It makes the practice worthwhile, makes everything worthwhile; why wouldn’t you have run off to join the circus when you are lauded for your talents here? When you’re surrounded by such curious personalities? You are, for once in your life, encouraged to pursue your talents as an aerialist. Despite the many flaws of the ringmaster, his accepting you into his employ has made it so you can never resent him.
It’s while you’re in the air that you see it, your heart thudding in your chest and breath straining your lungs—-a monstrous, hulking shadow in the back of the crowd.
The two-faced demon?
It's a well-grained routine that prevents you from fumbling. You keep an eye on that monstrous presence, though, and know for certain that it's him. He’s wearing a robe you’ve never seen before, bottom arms veiled by its sweeping sleeves while his top pair are crossed in front of his chest, peeking out from the deep plunge of the neckline. His four eyes seem to glow in the dark, head cocked slightly to the side. No one else seems to have noticed him, but you can’t help but wonder; why is he here?
His eyes, trained on you, flash with recognition. Mouth pulling into a mocking smile, he bares his teeth at you and slips between the curtain, escaping outside.
What the hell?
Your heart thuds in your chest for the rest of your performance, the soothing silks you dance through suddenly chafing and restrictive; knowing he was watching, that the two-faced demon has left his cage, leaves your breath caught in your throat. By the time your routine is over and you’re dancing off the stage to make room for the next performer, you feel both hot and cold at once. You can’t help it—why is he doing this? What does he want?
Yorozu calls your name as you’re slipping out of the tent, features twisted in a complicated expression. “The two-faced demon got out,” she says simply, pulling you close to whisper it in your ear. “We don’t know where, but everyone’s freaking out—they think it might be like—” she cuts herself off, glancing around.
Your mind fills in the blanks—like the animal tamer. That unnamed man, made a victim at the mercy of the demon’s mercurial moods.
“I just…” Yorozu sighs, as if in genuine mourning. “Why didn’t he come to me?”
Is she serious? “Do you have any idea where he could be?”
She shakes her head. “Kenjaku wants us to keep an eye out for him. He doesn’t want that demon attacking any visitors. Even if it would be within his rights…”
You ignore her muttered comment. “He hasn’t hurt anyone, has he?” It doesn’t come out like a question; no, it feels certain. Why would he? The two-faced demon is someone ruled by his own desires, comfortable in the precedent he has set forth. He doesn’t desire to eat or attack people when food to play with can simply be given to him. So, what is so important that he’d bother with these theatrics? That he’d actually bother to take action?
“Not that we know of. It’s only a matter of time, of course. Such a magnificent man wouldn’t—hey!”
You brush past her.
Curse your damned mouth. This is almost certainly your fault. What was the last thing you said to him? At the rate you’re going, I imagine I’ll never see you out of that cage. Is there truly nothing worth leaving it? You’re too goading, too proud, too ignorantly overt. It seems there is, after all, something worth the effort. Bless whoever is made victim to his whims now.
In true theatricism, the metal of his caravan is warped and misshapen as you walk past it. Completely unnecessary, when the man can simply use the door. Somehow, it looks even smaller without him in it; you’d have thought that his leering, monstrous presence would’ve done the opposite.
You’d also think that the sheer mass of him would make him a little easier to spot. Yet, as you’re nearing the caravan you call home, you’re tugged suddenly and slammed against a wall.
A hand covers your mouth before you can scream.
You glance up at his looming form, frozen for a second in the shadow of his embrace. Two of his arms settle at your waist, unexpectedly tender as he massages his thumbs against your stomach. You are, of course, immediately distracted by the tongue bullying at your lips even as his hand continues to sit over your mouth.
He can do that!?
A muffled yelp escapes you, eyes blown wide. A cat-like satisfaction dawns on his face as he parts your mouth, tongue delving past your teeth and twining with your own. It’s so weird. It’s gross; uncomfortable; so, so disturbing you want to gag around his tongue. You don’t, cheeks burning as your hands grapple against his arms, nails digging into the skin of his biceps.
“There you are,” he murmurs, a smug smile curling at his lips. “I was looking for you.”
Oh, god. His palm pushes uncomfortably closer, and a dull ache begins to bloom as his fingers dig into the flesh of your cheeks. His fourth arm, unimpeded, cups your neck, bracing your head as he leans further into you. You crane at an uncomfortable angle, throat discomfortingly vulnerable as you stretch the full length of your neck.
Your nails leave pink-streaked divots in his skin, one hand fumbling for his palm to tug it away from your mouth. It shouldn’t shock you to realise that he’s letting you; that your individual strength is so incomparable to him, every action you take is a concession he allows. It shouldn’t have heat gathering in your stomach, pooling southward. “Demon—”
“Sukuna,” he rasps.
Your brows furrow, momentarily thrown. “Pardon?”
“Sukuna,” he repeats slowly. “That’s my name. If I hear a whisper of it from any mouth other than yours, I’ll tear off your head and eat you whole.”
Somehow, you don’t doubt it. You cock your head to the side, evaluating him thoughtfully. Sukuna, with shockingly soft pink hair and hateful red eyes. Sukuna, whose name quite literally means ‘demon’ or ‘calamity’. You wonder how his mother had the time to name him, if he truly ate his way out of her stomach. Did she pick it in advance, knowing what awaited her? Was her death slow, giving her just enough time to depart him with such a curse? Or are his mythic origins another blatant fabrication, the name bestowed upon him by another? “Sukuna, huh? It suits you.”
It’s almost funny to realise that you have, in a way, been calling him by his name all along.
“So I’ve been told.”
You huff. “Sukuna. What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m taking what I want.”
”Don’t be obtuse.” It doesn’t sound half as chiding as it should, when you’re still recovering from being kissed breathless with his hand mouth, for all that it sounds absolutely ludicrous. “You left your caravan.”
“Haven’t you spent weeks goading me to?” He leans in so close that your noses brush, a colossal shadow hiding you away from the rest of the world. Leaning over you like this, he’s all-encompassing—a being of bestial passion, the likes of which Yorozu whimsically dreams of. “Don’t make such demands of me, if you’re unwilling to shoulder the consequences.” He says it as a growl and a tease at once.
Insufferable. “Don’t put words in my mouth. You just—” you cut yourself off, glancing up at him through your lashes. He is just doing what you’ve been all but begging him to for weeks. Taking what he wants. It at once sets a fire beneath your skin, a need to prove to him that you can do the same; you’re too caught up in your humanity to even conceptualise what you truly crave, he’d told you. Who gave him the right to make such an accusation?
“Infuriating,” you murmur, hands moving to run faint lines over the skin of his cheeks—one humanly smooth, the other monstrously rough. His lower pair of eyes flicker shut, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “You love to talk around what you want, don’t you, Sukuna?” His name is a treasure on your tongue; you want to keep it there forever. Sukuna. Who else can claim to know that name? “Tell me. What do you want from me?”
His thumbs rub circles into your waist. Yours streak patterns along his cheekbones, through wisps of cherry blossom pink hair. A grin, monstrously wide, begins to stretch across his large mouth.
“I was born hungry,” Sukuna tells you. “With every passing day, I’ve wanted more than I have. There’s no craving I can’t satisfy, and no satisfaction that truly curbs my craving.” He leans in closer, lips brushing against the edge of your mouth. “Likewise, everything I’ve wanted has been achievable through the use of others. Why fight for what I want, when others are so willing to give it to me?”
“You’re talking around the point,” you chide. The words escape you breathlessly; in that same moment, he lifts you effortlessly, pressing you further against the caravan and twining your legs around his torso. His breath puffs against your face as he laughs. His head dips as he runs his rough tongue along the hinge where your neck meets your jaw, following it with the weighted press of his mouth.
“Infuriating,” he says, an echo of your own words. “Infer it for yourself, woman. I rarely need to be proactive about anything. I barely need to ask for anything, when it is handed to me without a request. And yet, an insufferable little maggot sits beside me while I eat, incessantly pestering me; what do you want? it asks me. You lazy beast, if you want me so bad, show me it. I’ve proven myself worth the effort, haven’t I?”
You have said no such thing; how he inferred that from your own words, you don’t know. Still, it’s difficult to argue when his mouth follows your neck downward, his lips stretching wide until those terrifyingly sharp teeth lay flush against your skin. An implicit threat lies in the action, in the horrific strength he wields, the unsaid vulnerability of your position.
Your pulse is a hummingbird; you are a hummingbird, paralysed beneath the weight of a predator’s teeth at your throat, his claws at your nape. You’re laid impossibly vulnerable—a single bite, and those teeth can kill you. One careless nick, and you’ll be dead before you can scream. It almost shocks you to realise you’re scared. Oh, God, you don’t want to die.
You flush, shaking beneath the sudden weight of your own need.
“You,” he mouths against your skin, more a breath than a word. “I want you.”
Well. It doesn’t get much more overt than that, does it? You pull him away from your neck by the hair, and he huffs another laugh as he allows the movement. Pulling him towards you, kissing him, does nothing to muffle the cut-off groan that escapes him.
Poor Sukuna, you think, with a vague fascination. Was he really so pent up? Driven mad with want for you?
It seems so. His hands, big enough to eclipse your waist, ride upwards. It chafes against your costume, and his fingers dig deeper, nearly bruising your ribs, as if reprimanding you for it. Truly, what a frustrating man. A breathy sigh escapes you as his thumbs rub at the underside of your breast, sensations dulled by the fabric separating you, and on your next breath you’re pushing your tongue into his mouth.
With the groan he lets out, you’d think he’d come right there. He pushes closer, closer, until there’s no room to breathe. He’s flush against you, a blazing heat against your front. There’s no room to pull away, no leverage against the monster caging you. You’re a pinned bird, laid bare at the mercy of his whims.
A whimper escapes you at the thought.
One of his hands trace the curve of your thigh. There’s barely room to breathe in the space between you, his fingers digging so deeply into your skin you can already feel the bruise. It’s hard to keep track of what he’s doing—with four arms, he’s effortlessly doing twice the work of a regular man. It leaves your head swimming, your diaphragm contracting beneath his palms as he growls. His nails, sharp as claws, tear through your leotard.
“Sukuna—!” He cuts off your complaint with another kiss. Your clothes are shed thoughtlessly, and the wind is a shock against your skin, even as your front lies flush against Sukuna. Oh God, you’re outside. You’d completely forgotten.
You tear yourself away from his mouth, turning your head to the side as you heave for breath. “You brute,” you say, breathless. “Kenjaku will kill me when he finds out you ripped that.”
“A paltry complaint.” The words come from his stomach-mouth. His real mouth is otherwise occupied, biting at your neck where your heart beats the hardest, sucking it between his teeth until the skin stains purple. “He wouldn’t dare.”
A paltry complaint? You’ll show him a paltry complaint. Honestly, his arrogance! “We also need to—” you cut yourself off on a gasp as his tongue laves over your neck, dipping down between your breasts. “—move inside.”
“I see no reason to move.”
“Anyone could see—”
“They won’t see you. I won’t let them.”
His self-assuredness is as attractive as it is infuriating. “Everyone’s on the look-out for you.”
He smiles against your breast, moving until he lacks flatly over your nipple. The sudden sensation has you jolting. “They won’t find me. Do you think I can’t predict those inane maggots? They’re swarming like ants to keep customers safe and entertained. No one will venture out this far.”
Truly, he is too confident. You’re not given room to argue, however, when he’s sucking your nipple into his mouth, too-sharp teeth grazing the bud whilst your other breast is taken into hand between those frighteningly sharp claws. Your breath hitches on a gasp, body twitching further into his touch, and thin scratches bead against his fingers.
Not willing to leave everything to him, you move, fingers delicately tracing the edges of his robe. Your hand ventures downwards, inwards, until you’ve gone from the wide frame of his shoulders to the hard skin of his abdomen. You’d never thought yourself to be interested in such brutal masculinity, but something about it has knocked your head loose; he could strangle me so easily, you think, relishing in the way his palm cups your breast and nails threaten to break your skin. He could kill me and it wouldn’t even be a struggle, as you dip your head, pressing a kiss to his scalp and tweaking a nipple between two fingers. He grunts with the motion, jerking as if he hadn’t expected to like it.
You want to hear that sound again. You pinch, but he once again has a mastery over his reactions; he raises his head, and a soft flush lines his cheeks. He groans at your expression, hiking you up with a hand at your waist until his cock is pressing against you. He’s– it’s—
“Why’s it so—?” You cut yourself off with a sharp gasp as your ripped leotard is opened further and his hands make home scratching thin lines down your torso. He rolls his hips once, twice, and you relish in the feeling before regaining your wits. You move, fingers grasping at those soft pink strands and tugging him away from your breast. He allows the movement, peering down at you with those heavy red eyes. “Sukuna? Why does it feel like—”
You don’t finish the sentence. You can’t, because it feels so ludicrous to voice aloud. It’s just… how can he be so…?
“Don’t act so shocked,” he purrs, grinning like a fat cat being served its fourth meal. A hand cups your ass, guiding you to grind against him; he laughs at the soft sigh that escapes you at the feeling. “Over and again, I’ve been called a monster. The two-faced demon, they call me; are you truly surprised the moniker extends elsewhere?”
This man! You flush violently, suddenly so hot you can’t help trying to squirm away from him. He doesn’t let you, guiding you closer, pulling you flush against his two (two!) cocks. What does any man need two of them for?
Yet, you can’t help yourself. What can you say? You’re a glutton for his inhumanities; with every monstrous revelation, you’re drawn closer into his net. You want to see, to feel, to touch. Your mouth waters at the very prospect. Can you be blamed for drawing your hand lower? Dipping below the waist of that robe until the tips of your fingers graze against the base of one of his two (seriously, two!) penises?
A cut-off moan escapes him. “Woman—”
“Call me by my name,” you murmur, tracing the base and following it to his second penis. “You asked me what I want? That’s it. I want you to say my name.”
Your name escapes him on a strangled whimper. “Don’t toy with me.”
You hum, pressing a kiss to his temple. He hurriedly sheds you of what scraps remain of your costume, loosening his robe and freeing his cocks—really, you’re not quite over that detail—before pressing forward. Air escapes you on a keen as Sukuna slides through your slick folds, and he groans appreciatively at the sound.
“Beautiful,” he mutters, low enough you almost don’t catch it.
“Oh my god, hurry up,” you hiss between your teeth, voice hitching on a moan as he bumps against your clit. The sudden stimulation is a shock to your core, and you clench fruitlessly around nothing. You want him so bad it hurts.
“So demanding,” he laughs, like he didn’t jolt closer towards you at the sound of your moan. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you what you want.”
He does not, in fact, give you what you want. Instead, Sukuna winds his bottom pair of arms around your thighs, jerking you up the wall until you’re situated face to face. He pulls you into a suspiciously tender kiss, even as his mouth eclipses your own. It should be gross. It should be weird. Somehow, you just find it impossibly attractive.
Then a tongue is swiping through your folds, and you jerk so abruptly that you accidentally bite down on his tongue. You’d forgotten about the stomach mouth, right up until it's all you can think about—he licks around your entrance, trails the tip of his tongue against your clit, careful not to apply too much pressure. He leaves you squirming, grinning against your lips and opening his mouth-mouth so wide his bottom teeth accidentally clip your chin.
Fuck, he’s so big. It’s unbelievable.
You choke on his name as a hand comes up, grasping you by the throat to hold you still. His fingers flex idly, as if it takes no pressure at all to leave you bruised. He could kill me, you think wildly. He could squeeze right now and crush your windpipe; he could open that stomach mouth a little wider and cleave right through your thighs; one careless move, and you’d be nothing but a heaping sack of meat. He could kill me, and it’d take no effort at all.
Your next moan hinges on a ridiculous whine. It feels like he’s eating your face, drinking up your cunt, toying with your tits while he humps against nothing like a rabid dog. His tongue circles your opening, stimulating sensitive nerves until you’re squirming away. Then he dips in, unimpeded by the way you clench down on his tongue at the feeling.
Thank god, the part of your brain still capable of higher executive function murmurs; there’s no world in which you were going to let him put those nails inside of you. The thought has you huffing a laugh that abruptly hitches into another moan as he massages you from the inside.
You pinch his nipple in revenge. He groans, and his teeth leave a hairline scratch against your cheek. You already know you’re going to look mauled when this is over; the mere thought has heat coursing down your spine. You want to mark him in return—you want to scratch him so deeply it takes weeks to heal, and no one will be able to glimpse at those wide shoulders, that monumental chest, and not immediately know what you did to him.
Your pussy spasms at the thought. Fuck.
You lose track of time like that, the world narrowing down to the slick slide of his mouth on yours and his tongue spearing you open. It feels like you blink and you’re panting heavily, dangling on a precipice and scratching at his chest. You manage to pull him away for just long enough to mutter, “Dear God, please put your cock in me,” before he’s fumbling like a fool, large hand gripping his own cock and lining himself up against you.
Then he pushes in and, well, your dreams of scratching him up become a reality. Red beads along the path of your nails, weeping under the weight of his moan. You duck your head to bite at his neck, chewing along his jugular like you’re trying to break skin and tear through his heartbeat. His dick twitches within you.
An eon and a moment pass at once as he sinks into you. He’s big, heavy, and the unfamiliar weight has your breath trapping in your chest. His second cock drags through your labia as he bottoms out in you, the underside dragging at your clit and sending sparks shivering through your frame. The pleasure feels inescapable; you’re cored out on his cock and trapped against a wall, unable to do anything but take it.
“You feel so good,” you whisper against his throat, tasting the way his heart thuds violently. “I want you to– Sukuna, please—”
He pulls out before sinking back in one smooth motion. It creates constant pressure on your clit, a long trail of sensation that makes your tongue numb in your mouth. “Yes,” he hisses between his teeth, “whatever you want. Just tell me. Beg me.”
“You insufferable—!” Your teeth clamp down around his skin as he plows into you. It pulls a long, low groan from him, the sound vibrating against your teeth as it travels up his throat. That man! Trying to make you beg for him as if he didn’t leave his caravan for the first time in your memory just to kiss you. Just to prove you’re worth that miniscule effort.
But oh, how you want him; his arm around your throat, his hands crushing your ribs, his teeth digging past your skin and wrenching the flesh straight off your bones. You want to be consumed—you want his teeth to work through your skin, to squeeze at your heart, for him to turn into the violent predator everyone described him as. You want him to bruise you so deeply you can’t breathe without feeling an echo of him. You want—-
“Harder,” you gasp.
“There we go,” he mutters. “Don’t you feel good, taking what you want?”
If you were taking what you wanted, you’d be riding him. You tell him as much between hiccuping breaths and he chokes on a laugh that curdles into a moan halfway through.
He chants your name on a low grunt as you near your completion, hands grasping you impossibly tight. Your ribs creak under the pressure, your breath cutting short thanks to his hand at your throat, your hair pulled so tight that tears prick at your eyes. He spasms from the pleasure; you jerk from the same. It’s almost a dance, the both of you sparking like a wildfire as you hurdle towards a mutual end. It builds, builds, builds.
“Sukuna,” you gasp. “Sukuna, Sukuna, Sukuna—”
He comes on a choked whimper, fucking you through his own completion. His other penis coats your stomach and thighs with his come, slicking your vagina further as he bumps against your clit until you physically can’t take it, following him with a strangled gasp of his name.
You heave in the aftermath, twitching with residual pleasure as he softens inside of you. You’re sensitive as a bruise. Sukuna’s hands stroke against your sides, and you can barely handle it from the dual pain-pleasure of his fingers gliding over those scratches. Your mouth is thick with blood—you hadn’t realised it in the moment, but you’d bitten your way through his skin to leave a bloody kiss carved into his collarbone. You can’t help feeling proud of it.
“I want you,” he says wretchedly, muffled against sweat-slick skin. “I want you.”
You press a soft kiss over the bite. Privately, you hope it scars; hope he has to keep this symbol of you forever. “I know, Sukuna. I want you too.”
(Sukuna’s back in his cage the next day, lounging as though he never left. Kenjaku looks at him through misshapen metal bars, a spike of irritation lancing through him at the ruckus the demon caused. He asks, “What was that about, yesterday? Did you have to make such a fuss?”
Sukuna’s mouth twitches into a snarling grin. “I went where I wished to be.”)
gummygunk
jacobvanloon
ellievsbear
vaporwave
baratheonpilled
annaxmalina
