Sy

27 // size difference and foreplay enthusiast // just writing what I like to read // 18+ pls!

[syles-off-duty]

hi, i'm syles (she/he/any). this post is currently under construction.

fic masterlist (is ugly and will be updated)

90% of this account is nsfw! Minors beware.

HARD KINKS (non/dubcon, etc) may be encountered below. Please read the story's cw!

Story continuations in the works: Reader x Tengen x Wives, the Breathing Shrine (Giyuu)

Requests cooking: Giyuu brat taming, Hashira fluff followed by nasty smut, m!reader x Tengen's wives

I hope you enjoy! (〃ω〃)

[syles-off-duty]

Secretary

Yami Sukehiro x f!reader

Cw: nsfw, oral (reader receiving), orgasm control

The scratching of your quill was the only familiar sound in the cramped alcove of the Black Bulls’ headquarters, yet the familiar rhythm did little to ease the erratic thumping of your heart.

You were drowning in a sea of parchment that included reimbursement forms for pulverized stone, invoices for countless magical repairs, and a particularly scathing letter from the Magic Parliament.

Ugh. These Black Bulls.

​The stress had reached a fever pitch minutes ago when, in a fit of shaky-handed abrupt frustration, you’d knocked over the heavy crystal inkwell. The dark fluid had blossomed across the desk like an ebony bloodstain, soaking into the front of your thin white blouse.

Now, the fabric clung to every full, heavy curve of your chest, nipples perked and shamelessly outlined by the indigo-stained silk.

Lovely. What's better than being stressed and damp.

The real joke was you didn't have time to change... pft, you barely had time to breathe.

The air started to feel heavy then, saturated with the smell of old dust and the faint, metallic tang of the squad’s lingering mana.

Your vision was starting to blur at the edges, numbers swimming around the page, when all of a sudden, the floorboards in front of you groaned and sank inwards.

A shadow swallowed your desk completely snuffing out the flickering candlelight and replacing the scent of old paper with the sharp, musk-heavy aroma of cheap tobacco and sun-warmed leather.

You didn't even have to look up to feel the oppressive gravity of Captain Yami.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there filling the entryway, cigarette cherry glowing dull orange in the gloom like a tiny ember of hell. Smoke curled lazily upward, almost taunting.

“Yer' still at it,” he finally said, voice rolling out low and thick with sarcasm. “Sunrise to now. You look like someone fucked your entire week and forgot the lube.”

You didn’t look up. Kept scratching.

“Someone did. That someone is currently blocking my light and smelling like an ashtray had sex with a saddle. If I don’t make these numbers behave, Julius is going to hang my head in the royal gallery next to your wanted poster. With a little plaque that says ‘Here lies the woman who tried to teach Yami Sukehiro fiscal responsibility.’”

He snorted; a thick plume of grey smoke drifted over your shoulder and curled around your neck like a languid noose. Then he stepped closer. Close enough that the heat radiating off his frame pressed against you like an open furnace door. His cape was hanging open, rippling pectorals rising slow and steady, the faint metallic clink of his belt buckle brushing the front of your desk like he was daring you to notice. He towered over the desk, placing one calloused palm down onto the wood before leaning in and over you.

“Julius wouldn’t care if you turned the whole kingdom into a gravel pit. He’d probably commission a statue of the crater and call it avant-garde. But you?” Another slow drag, the cherry flared as ash snowed down onto you work. “You’re rattling so hard I can hear your damn heartbeat from the hallway. It’s annoying as fuck. I came in here for a quiet smoke and instead I get a front-row seat to your private meltdown.”

You finally snapped your head up, hair whipping across his scarred arm like a challenge.

“Oh I’m so fucking sorry, Your Majesty of Brooding. Is my very important attempt to keep this squad from financial ruin interrupting your sacred ‘lean against the wall and look mysterious’ routine? Should I pencil my nervous breakdowns in after your third pack of the day, or do you want me to just scream into a pillow so it doesn’t bruise your delicate ears?”

His grin unfurled around the cigarette sharp as hell, all teeth and smoke.

“There she is. Knew that razor mouth was still kicking under all the prim little spreadsheets. Keep talkin' like that and I might actually start enjoying your company, rabbit.”

You shoved the chair back hard—fuck this, fuck him, fuck the whole goddamn national debt—but with one quick sidestep his hand slammed down on the armrest with enough force that the wood let out a sharp, protesting creak.

You were pinned.

Chest heaving against the ink-soaked blouse.

“Sit. Your. Fine. Ass. Down.”

The words landed heavy. You glared up at him with your pulse hammering visibly in your throat, and he just leaned in until his face eclipsed everything else. Dark eyes tracking the frantic flutter at the base of your neck, the slight sheen of sweat forming on your chest, the way your soft lips parted on a half-formed curse.

“You’re wound so tight I’m surprised your ribs haven’t cracked yet,” he murmured as he dropped his voice into that throaty, gravel-deep register that always made your thighs clench. “If I let you keep going you’re gonna pop something important and bleed all over my already disgusting reports, and I’m not in the mood to play coroner today. So we’re handling this my way.”

Before you could spit another barb he grabbed the chair arms and yanked hard, dragging you and the whole chair forward until your knees slammed into his thighs and your ass was almost fully off the chair.

He kicked a low stool over with the toe of his boot, dropped onto it so hard the legs groaned in surrender, then forced your legs apart in one smooth movement with his own massive ones.

Rough trousers scraped the sensitive insides of your thighs as your skirt rode up in slow, inevitable defeat.

“Captain, if you think for one second—”

“Shut that pretty, filthy mouth for once.” One huge hand wrapped around your jaw, tilting your head back until you had no choice but to meet his unblinking eyes.

“You need to surpass your goddamn limits, rabbit. But you fight with ink instead of magic, so we’re burning all that frantic energy out slow... Real slow.”

The way he smiled after that should've been fucking illegal.

He hooked both massive hands under your thighs, letting his fingers sink deep into plush, generous flesh, engulfing you with deliberate care—then hauled you upwards inch by inch until your soaked cunt hovered right at the level of his mouth. The drenched lace of your panties clung transparently to the swollen folds; and no, of course, he didn’t rip them off you.

The brute peeled them off with torturous patience, first pulling them up taut, then sliding them down, but not before letting the soaked fabric drag over your clit in a slow, slick glide that made your hips jerk and a traitorous hiss escape between your teeth.

He paused above you, hot breath ghosting over your exposed sex in rhythmic exhales. He closed his eyes, and savored it for what felt like hours.

In the end, the first real touch wasn’t even his tongue. It was just the barest brush of his stubble against the crease of your inner thigh.

You sucked in a breath and he felt it, felt the way your muscles tensed under his palms.

“Look at you,” he mumbled against your skin, husky voice vibrating through every nerve. “Talkin' all that big shit, n'you’re already tremblin' just from my face being close. Pathetic.”

You laughed low and edged with pure defiance. “Says the man who dropped to his knees faster than a rookie knight at knighthood ceremony. Who’s pathetic now, Cap'n? The guy who gets rock-hard at the smell of stressed-out pussy, or the girl who’s about to make you work for every moan?”

His eyes flashed, pleased this time.

“Keep running that mouth, smartass. I’ve got all night.”

Then he leaned in slow—agonizingly slow, and finally touched down.

At first it was just the flat, scorching width of his tongue pressing against your entrance in one long, unhurried drag upward.

That single, heavy stroke parted your folds and collected every drop of arousal on the way, ending with the most perfect, barely-there pressure against your clit before retreating.

It was perfect. And you had to hold yourself back from moaning out loud.

This big bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

You couldn't stop your hips twitching forward instinctively, but he tightened his grip on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wanted you. He grinned as he exhaled, catching your gaze before he leaned back down and took you in his mouth again. Even slower. The second pass took forever. He flattened his tongue and dragged it up again, letting you feel every budded ridge, every deliberate press. When he reached your clit he stayed there this time, resting the broad heat of the thick muscle against it, this time letting the warmth seep in until the curve of your belly started to quiver and your breath came in quiet pants.

“You’re shakin' already,” he purred, lips brushing and kissing your slick folds as he spoke. “Haven’t even really started and your greedy little cunt’s already clenching like it’s trying to pull me in. Tell me again how I’m the pathetic one?”

You gripped the arms of the chair so hard your knuckles cracked.

“Fuck you,” you breathed, but it came out more moan than curse. “You’re enjoying this too much, you sadistic bastard.”

“Damn right I am, rabbit.” Another long, lackadaisical lick from bottom to top, ending with the faintest swirl around your clit.

“Watchin' you fall apart slow is better than any cigarette.”

The man took his time, like he did with everything else.

His tongue worked in long, swirling laps that covered every inch of your heat kissed skin. Tracing the outer lips first, then dipping just inside your entrance to taste deeper, then retreating to circle your clit with pressure that never quite gave you what you needed.

Every time your hips tried to chase his mouth he pulled back just enough to make you whine, then rewarded the sound with another slow drag of his tongue.

Minutes passed like pure, drawn-out torment. The wet sounds filled the cramped alcove and your mind followed suit. All you could hear was the slick glide of his tongue, and the low rumble in his throat when you cursed him, and now, your own ragged breathing and half-muffled pleas you refused to fully voice joined the fray.

The sensation was endless. His stubble scraped the tender skin of your inner thighs with every pass, leaving faint marks that burned sweetly. His hands never loosened either. His thumbs pressed deep dimples into your flesh, holding you spread and vulnerable.

When he finally focused on your clit, it was merciless in its patience. He sucked the swollen bud between his lips gentle at first, just enough suction to make your toes curl, then released it with a soft, wet pop.

Again.

And again. Each time a little firmer, a little longer, until your knees were trembling uncontrollably and your curses had turned into broken, breathless laughs.

“Still think you can out-talk me?” he murmured against you, voice wrecked and smug. “Or you ready to admit you need this as bad as I want to give it?”

You glared down at him chest heaving, blouse askew.

“Make me cum so hard I forget how to count coins, you overgrown smoke stack. Then we’ll talk about w-who needs who.”

He growled into your folds and the grip on your thighs turned punishing fast as his fingers dug in harder until the ache bloomed into something almost sweet. He quickly anchored you a little higher, hips canted exactly where he wanted while his shoulders rolled forward, spreading you wider against the chair. The weak candlelight caught the sheen already coating his chin and the dark stubble framing his mouth; his pupils were blown so wide the irises had vanished, leaving only hungry black staring up at you.

“Challenge accepted, rabbit.”

And then he shifted tactics entirely.

First came the heat of his open mouth sealing over your entire fucking cunt and enveloping you fully. His lips were pressed firm against your outer folds, the faint suction of his breathing pulled your swollen lips inward in tiny pulses. You felt the soft inner skin flutter towards the roof of his mouth, then the slow drag of his tongue finding its place and resting just beneath your entrance, letting your own arousal drip onto it in slow beads.

He hummed once, deep and satisfied, and the vibration rolled straight through your spine, making your walls clench hard enough to force another trickle down onto his tongue. He swallowed it deliberately, the motion of his throat visible even from your angle, Adam’s apple bobbing as he took you in like fine liquor.

Then he tilted his head—just enough.

The bridge of his nose settled against your clit and pressed while his tongue finally moved, but not in long licks. Instead he curled it upward against your entrance, each curl stretching and pressing you open a fraction more, letting you feel the thick muscle flex and retreat, flex and retreat, never fully withdrawing. The rhythm was hypnotic: press, hold, release, press, hold, release. Paired with the constant grind of his nose against your clit, it built a deep, deep pressure that radiated. Everywhere.

Your breathing fractured. Sweat slid down the valley between your breasts, basically re-soaking the ruined blouse until the fabric turned nearly transparent. The chair groaned beneath you every time your hips rolled; the wood was slick now from where your arousal had dripped past his mouth and pooled beneath you.

He reveled in it.

One scarred hand slid up the outside of your thigh, over the soft swell of your hip, then higher—cupping the heavy underside of one breast through the wet cloth. His thumb brushed once across your nipple, so delicately, then pinched just hard enough to make your back arch and your cunt flutter around the slow curl of his tongue still fucking its way inside you.

“These are fucking obscene,” he growled against you, voice muffled. “Been thinkin' about getting my teeth on 'em since you started snapping at me 'bout budgets.” He rolled the peak between thumb and forefinger, lazy circles that matched the lazy rolls of his tongue, then dragged his palm down again, returning to grip your ass and lift you higher against his face.

The new angle changed everything.

His nose ground even harder against your clit now with constant pressure while his tongue stayed buried, curling against the front wall over and over and over again.

Your thighs started to shake in earnest. The muscles burned from being held so wide, your calves cramped as your heels dug into the flexing muscles of his back. Every inhale dragged your chest against the damp blouse, scraping your nipples raw with friction. The alcove smelled overwhelmingly of your sweet-salty arousal, the faint iron of your own sweat, and the lingering smoke that clung to his hair even now.

With the most devious grin known to man he pulled his tongue out of your drooling cunt, inch by torturous inch, letting you feel every ridge and subtle flex until only the tip remained. Then he replaced it with two thick fingers without any warning.

His knuckles dragged along your walls as he pushed inside, curling upward to hook against that swollen spot while his thumb took over the pressure on your clit. He didn’t pump them yet. He simply held them deep, flexing them in the same rolling rhythm his tongue had used—press, hold, release, repeat—while his thumb circled in slow, firm sweeps that matched the tempo exactly.

Your head fell back against the chair just as a broken moan tore out of you, finally unfiltered.

And he watched your face the entire fucking time, eyes never leaving yours, even as he leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue once more over your clit in a single, devastatingly slow pass, tasting the fresh gush that followed the stretch of his fingers. Then he sealed his lips around the bud again, gentle suction this time, while his fingers kept that slow curl up inside you.

The combination was unbearable.

Your body locked, every muscle going rigid at once. Your thighs clamped around his head so hard he groaned in approval; your fingers knotted in his hair and yanked until strands pulled free. The orgasm built like a slow-rising tide rather than a sudden crash, starting deep in your core, spreading outward in heavy, pulsing waves that made your toes curl and your vision start to tunnel.

He didn’t speed up even then.

But he felt the exact moment you teetered right on the razor’s edge.

And he pulled back.

Fingers still buried but frozen. Thumb lifted away. Lips parted just enough for cool air to kiss your throbbing clit.

You snarled through gritted teeth, voice cracking. “You… you fucking prick. I was right there. Don’t you dare stop now. You’re having way too much fun with this, aren’t you? Making me shake like some pathetic mess while you just sit there looking smug.”

His eyes darkened with delight. He loved the bite in your voice.

“Smug because you look s'good when you’re pissed n' dripping,” he growled against your folds. “Keep going. Tell me how much you hate it. I wanna hear it.”

You were trembling so hard your voice came out uneven. “Y-you keep getting me so close and then backing off… it’s driving me fucking crazy… I hate this… h-ate how you can just hold me right here…”

He groaned low and animal, the sound reaching straight into your ears. Then he finally gave in.

His fingers curled hard against that perfect fleshy spot. His thumb pressed down on your clit with firm, relentless circles while his mouth sealed over it all, sucking with ruthless pressure. His tongue flicked quick and merciless right where you needed it.

You broke with a ragged cry.

“F-fuck—yes—y-you bastard—shit—”

The orgasm slammed into you like a breaking wave. Your back arched violently, heels kicking into his back as thick pleasure crashed through you again and again. Your voice splintered into breathless, furious sounds between gasps.

“You smug asshole… f-uck—yes—”

He didn’t let up. He rode every wave with you, sucking deeper, fingers flexing in time with your stuttering curses, thumb grinding tight circles under his tongue that dragged the climax out longer and meaner. A second, sharper crest hit right behind the first, ripping another broken shout from your throat.

“Y-you love this… don’t you… getting off on me while I curse you out—fuck—Yami–!” you sqealed.

His groan vibrated through you like thunder. His grip turned bruising, possessive. Every gasping insult seemed to spur him on, like your anger was exactly what he wanted.

The aftershocks kept rolling through you — again. And again, sharp little jolts that made your hips twitch and your voice crack into shambles.

“You’re… too much… you bastard… h-how can just do this to me…”

Only then did he finally ease off, fingers slipping free with a wet sound, lips placing one last slow kiss against your oversensitive clit that made you sigh and curse again.

He lifted his head, resting his forehead against your quivering thigh, breathing hard. His chin and throat glistened. His eyes, still dark and feral, locked on yours with raw satisfaction.

“Goddamn, rabbit,” he rasped, voice thick and husky. “You cum cursing me out and it’s the hottest thing I’ve heard in years. That fire while you’re shaking apart? Fuck. I want more of it. All of it.”

You laughed hoarsely, glaring down at him with glassy, fire-filled eyes.

“You’re a monster,” you panted. “A smug, infuriating monster."

His grin was slow, and dangerous.

“Forget how to count coins yet?”

You laughed, triumphantly.

“Almost.” You licked your dry lips, eyes half-lidded. “But I’m a thorough woman. You’ll have to run the numbers again. And again. Until the ledger’s completely blank.”

His fingers curled into your waistline, nails digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he pressed closer, the heat of his breath a live wire against your skin.

“Round two it is, then.”

He leaned forward, breath already ghosting hot over your oversensitive core once more.

“Hold on tight, rabbit. We’re just getting started.”

[syles-off-duty]

"You're not done"

Zoro x f!reader

Art by Ishi

A/n: Zoro crack fic. 0 braincells. okay my boards are in 2 months and I will be FREE after that (more or less) so until then, expect random stories from my vault of drafts. maybe some shorter form stuff if I get confident to post it... as always thanks for reading :-)

Cw: NSFW, no plot, rough sex, multiple orgasms, cream pie

You barely heard the door shut behind him.

What you did hear was the slow, heavy tread of boots across the old wooden planks. Each step creaked deliberately on the old wood, impossible to ignore, as if he wanted you to feel him coming. You turned around and—

Zoro was already on you.

One strong hand fisted in your hair, tight. The other gripped your jaw and shoved you back against the wall so hard the perpetually damp timber groaned. His face hovered inches from yours, breath warm and heavy with sake, voice low and grated. “You’ve got a fuckin’ mouth on you.”

Your pulse spiked hard under the pad of his thumb. He felt it and smirked, dark satisfaction flashing in his eye.

“Didn’t know ‘sensei’ was code for ‘choke me out and fuck me senseless,’” he growled, dragging one thick thigh between your legs and pressing the meat of his quad firmly against the seam of your crotch. “But I learn fast.”

You squirmed, trying to gain some control, but he only ground his thigh harder against you, the rough denim of your shorts dragging perfectly over your swollen clit. The sudden, direct friction made your head spin. “You like that?” he muttered noticing your gaze waver, voice dropping an octave lower. “Already soaked through fer me, huh?”

He seized both your wrists in one hand and pinned them high above your head. The other undid your shorts and shoved them down without ceremony. You gasped when your panties went with them, the air cool against your wet folds. He snarled. “Fuckin’ needy, aren’t you…”

His fingers found you immediately. Rough and calloused from years of sword work, yet devastatingly skilled, he was merciless. He circled your clit with slow, deliberate strokes, then gathered your slick and spread it over every sensitive inch again and again, teasing you until your hips jerked uncontrollably into his hand.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he breathed against your ear, lips brushing the shell. “All that sharp tongue and bratty attitude… and you’ve been fantasizing about me bending you over since the first damn day.”

A broken whimper slipped from your throat.

Zoro chuckled. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Without any warning he pushed two thick fingers deep inside you, sinking to the knuckle in one smooth thrust. Your back arched hard against the wall as a loud moan tore through the quiet, candle-lit cabin.

“Shit,” he muttered, eyes locked on your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure. “That feel good, baby?”

You nodded frantically, breathlessly.

His voice turned commanding. “Use your fuckin’ words then.” He curled his fingers and thrust them harder, stroking that perfect spot inside you. “Tell me who’s got you like this.”

“Y'— Z-Zoro— fuck, i-it’s you—”

His grin sharpened, hungry and satisfied with how pliant you'd become in his hands.

Then he dropped to his knees.

He never released your wrists. Never even pulled his fingers out. He simply moved in and hooked one of your legs over his broad shoulder, the proceeded to bury his mouth between your thighs. Bury it.

His tongue dragged through your folds like a man dying of thirst, nose pressed firm against your clit while his fingers kept curling and stroking, demanding everything from you. He drank every drop that cascaded down his fingers, moaning and smacking his lips loudly as he worked you open on his hand.

The first orgasm hit you like a breaking wave, almost pulling you completely under. Your vision blurred black and your moan finally broke into the sob you had been holding back. You didn’t even know how you were still standing.

Zoro didn’t stop.

He kept licking, sucking, devouring you through every shudder. His tongue worked relentlessly while his fingers pumped deeper, drawing out wave after wave until your legs trembled violently and your voice broke into hiccuping, shattered sounds. You begged — gasped his name, pleaded for air, for mercy — but he only growled against your soaked flesh and kept going.

Only after your second climax ripped through you, thighs clamped desperately around his head and mouth open in a silent scream, did he finally pull back.

He rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Not even winded. You, meanwhile, were a trembling wrung-out mess, barely holding yourself up against the wall.

He stood at his full height, looking down at you for a heartbeat before planting a hand on the wall right next to your head. He leaned his weight into it, trapping you under his chest. The proximity was suffocating; you could feel the heat radiating off his skin and the faint, metallic scent of swords and sweat. He dipped his chin, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin right under your jaw as a silent promise of what would happen if you collapsed.

​“You gonna stay standing?” he muttered, leaning back over you, tongue dragging hot over your throat. “Or am I carrying you the rest of the way?”

You whimpered something that could’ve been a plea, or a curse, it didn’t matter anymore. Your voice was wrecked.

Zoro’s low, mean chuckle sent fresh heat pooling in your belly. “Good.”

In one effortless motion he scooped you up and slammed you down onto the bed. You landed flat on your back, shirt rucked halfway up your ribs, soaked panties still twisted around one ankle. You tried to sit up—

Zoro shoved you back down with one hand.

He stood over you, wide enough to fill your view, cropped green hair backlit by the low lantern light, chest rising and rippling in slow, predatory breaths. His head tilted slightly as he studied you.

“You look good like that,” he murmured.

You swallowed hard.

He reached for his waistband and pulled it loose in one smooth motion.

His thick cock sprang free and bobbed once before settling upright, so hard it looked almost painful. It was flushed dark and heavy with need, and it was fucking massive. Possibly thicker than your forearm and almost just as long.

You stared, breath catching in your throat. You had known he would be big. You had imagined it more times than you cared to admit.

But this… This was going to break you.

Zoro crawled over you, all broad shoulders and tan muscled skin, his mouth claiming your throat in hard, possessive kisses. His voice came out as a low growl against your skin. “You’ve got one chance to tap out, sweetheart.”

You gasped as he lined himself up. The unyielding head of his cock pressed slick and hot against your entrance, resting there, teasing, threatening, giving you just a moment to feel how much he was about to give you.

You looked up into his eye.

And smiled.

“Too late.”

His grin turned feral, sharp with triumph. “Yeah. That’s what I fucking thought.”

He slammed inside you with one brutal thrust.

The stretch tore a raw scream from your throat, not purely from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness from just taking half. But he wasn't finished with just that, oh no. He didn’t pause for even a moment to give you time to adjust. He just drove deeper and deeper until his hips met your ass, bottoming out completely and leaving you breathless and stuffed.

You were ruined.

Claimed from the inside out.

He groaned low and animalistic, like burying himself inside you was the only relief he’d had all week. “Fuck… Tight lil' cunt’s already clenching down like you wanna keep me here.”

You couldn’t answer. You could barely comprehend the sensations overtaking your body. He was so deep it felt like each grind of his hips molded the inside of you to his shape even further. Your mouth hung open and breathless, back arched sharply off the bed. Your hands scrabbled desperately at his arms for something solid to hold onto as the overwhelming surrender crashed through you.

Zoro didn’t slow.

His hips snapped forward again and again, fucking you hard into the mattress like he had a personal vendetta. Each powerful thrust dragged a broken moan from your lips and sent sparks exploding behind your eyes.

“You’re takin’ it,” he growled, eyes locked on your face as he watched you fall apart beneath him. “All that bratty mouth earlier, and now you’re just moanin’ like a whore for me. That it? That what you needed?”

You tried to nod, head lolling weakly to the side. Tears blurred your lashes as your fingers twisted desperately into the sheets at your sides.

He leaned down close, sweat-slick skin pressing against yours. “You’re not done.”

Without warning he grabbed your legs and folded you in half, ankles over his shoulders, hips lifted off the bed. The new angle let him sink even deeper, hitting spots that made you cry out sharply with every thrust. Tears poured freely from the corners of your eyes now, pleasure bordering on too much.

Zoro didn’t stop. He watched you. Studied you as if he was memorizing every perfect twitch of your face and every broken mewl his cock drew out.

“Yeah,” he panted, voice rough with effort. “Just like that. Cum again. Lemme feel it.”

You shattered hard around him before you could even stop it. It was a whole body convulsion, your walls pulsing violently as the orgasm tore through you like lightning. Toes curled so hard they cramped. Vision whited out and fading to black.

You thought he might finally slow down or stop.

He didn’t.

He growled and snapped his hips harder instead. “Two more. You’ve got two more in you.”

You whimpered, voice wrecked. “I—I can’t—”

He wrapped one hand lightly around your throat, grounding you back in reality. “You can.”

His other hand dropped between your bodies, rubbing fast, rough circles over your abused clit. You wailed, thighs thrashing uselessly as you tried to twist away from the overwhelming pleasure. He held you pinned and fucked you straight through another screaming orgasm, and then another, until your mind went hazy and your body felt soft and molten.

Only then did he finally let himself go.

He buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside you in thick, hot bursts. His face pressed into the curve of your throat as his body slammed against yours one final time.

You collapsed back, limp and trembling beneath him.

Zoro caught you, holding you close while still buried deep inside. One hand stayed possessively clamped on your ass, the other tangled in your damp hair. He pressed a slow, heavy kiss to the underside of your jaw.

For a moment you thought it was over.

You felt him shift off you—muscle, sweat, and the rest of his mass—and relief flickered through your exhausted mind. Maybe he’d finally let you rest.

Dumbly, with limbs shaking like you’d fought for hours, you slid one hand under you and tried to push yourself up with a quiet exhale.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

The voice dropped like a physical weight, a simmering rumble that pinned you to the mattress.

You froze.

But your hips had already lifted off the bed. That was all the invitation he needed.

Suddenly Zoro was above you again, strong hands grabbing your waist and dragging you back down the bed like prey before flipping you onto your stomach. Your knees hit the mattress with a whimper as he yanked your hips up high.

“Thought you could just crawl away?” he huffed, grinding the thick, still-hard length of his cock between your ass cheeks. “After teasing me all night? After getting stuffed full and crying for more?”

You tried to answer, but you never got the chance.

He shoved back inside you in one wet thrust, punching the air from your lungs. The new angle was devastating. His cock slid even deeper, relentlessly hitting exactly where it hurt so good your eyes rolled back into their sockets.

“No,” he hissed, voice low and vicious. “You don’t fucking leave this bed until I say you do.”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back hard. Words dissolved into a faint whimper. All that was left of your defiance was the wide, trembling look in your eyes and the wet tracks of tears spilling over your heated, ruined skin.

His hot breath brushed your ear. “I want you face down, moaning into my sheets like the good little brat you are.”

You whimpered helplessly.

You didn’t try to crawl away again.

Zoro bent over your back, cock slamming into you with hard, monstrous strokes while sweat dripped from his chest onto your spine. He whispered against your ear like he owned every breath you took.

“You feel that?”

Another punishing thrust. You cried out.

“That’s me. In your stomach.”

He pressed his palm flat against your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock moving inside you, and groaned through his teeth.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” he promised smugly. “Gonna feel me dripping out of you for the rest of the fuckin’ week.”

You clenched hard around him.

He snarled—actually snarled—and fucked you even harder. The rhythm turned completely punishing. Your hands clawed at the sheets. Your mouth stuck open on a never-ending moan, spilling wrecked sounds and desperate sobs.

“You like that?” he grunted. “Like being fucked dumb on my cock? Thought you were so smart, baby. Thought you could play me.”

You tried to say his name. It came out pathetic and broken.

He didn’t slow.

His hand slipped down again, rubbing your clit with light, fast circles until you were screaming for him loudly, no doubt waking up the nearby crew. He grabbed your throat from behind, bent over you, voice thick and close.

“Cum for me,” he growled. “One more. Let me feel you milk my cock.”

You did.

You screamed.

You shattered completely.

And this time, he came with you — buried to the hilt, shuddering, his teeth finding your shoulder hard enough to bruise as he spent himself inside you.

You went boneless.

He caught you before you could go anywhere, one arm locking across your chest, dragging you back into the curve of him. Still seated in you, the pulse of him fading slow as your own heartbeat tried to find its rhythm.

You were twitching against your will. Oversensitive and wet in ways that should have embarrassed you, except you didn't have the spine for embarrassment anymore.

He'd fucked it out of you.

Zoro pressed his mouth to the back of your neck, absolutely unhurried.

Then his lips moved to your ear.

"Don't fall asleep."

You whimpered. It came out smaller than you intended.

He rolled his hips once, just once, slow and so deliberate it felt less like motion and more like a reminder.

"You're not done."

[syles-off-duty]

[syles-off-duty]

Controlled Variables

Gojo x f!reader

A/n: another short story about a weird guy... school has been a lot lately... i promise im working on requests/old stories ahhh thanks for reading :>

Cw: nsfw, he's a pervert, and kinda stalker-ish, paychosexual themes, he's obsessive, dubcon touching, enemies to ???, gearing him up to become our sleep paralysis demon

The hallway lights hum overhead — that sterile buzz that always sounds just a little too alive when the school’s this quiet.

You’re walking slow.

Long day. Head full. Hands full: stack of folders, the hem of your skirt tugged slightly down from where it rode up during a too-long staff meeting. Your blouse sticks under the arms, clings slightly to your back. You're not proud of it, but you feel sweaty. Tired.

And a little exposed.

The wing’s empty. No students. No Gojo.

Not anymore.

You told him no.

And that was the end of that.

...Right?

You reach your office door. Shift the folders to one arm. Fumble for the key.

That’s when it happens.

Just a flicker in the air pressure. Like someone opening a window a few rooms away. Then the hallway grows dense. Sound muffles.

And your thighs clench without warning.

The fuck?

Your body reacts.

Tingles. Pricks. Warms.

Every sensation tightens around you as the pressure builds from under your skin.

You freeze.

There’s no cursed energy present.

You check for it, instinctive, but the space comes up clean.

So why is your skirt sticking to the back of your legs like you’re flushed with heat?

Why does the key slip from your fingers like your palm’s too slick?

You drop your folders. Crouch. Pick them up one by one.

And that’s when it grips you.

Not just a shift.

Real contact.

Between your legs — something firm. Warm. And... pulsing? It clamps there through your clothes, heat seeping through fabric as though a hand has pressed flat against you from behind.

Your knees almost buckle.

You glance down, stunned, like there’ll be something there. A hand, a trick, a curse, even.

Nothing.

Just your skirt. Wrinkled slightly.

And the sudden wetness blooming at the seam of your underwear.

You shoot upright. Slap the folders on your desk, heart hammering, heat crawling up the back of your neck.

You take a breath. Then two.

The lights flicker once.

“You said no.”

The voice isn't real.

It can't be real.

But it snakes inside your head like silk dragging over a bruise.

“But you wore this little blouse anyway.”

Your spine stiffens.

You look down.

Your shirt has unbuttoned itself. One. Two. Just enough to show the top swell of your breasts. You hadn’t noticed.

You would have noticed.

Wouldn’t you?

You reach to fix it — but stop.

Because you feel it now.

The heat.

An invisible presence gathers low around your hips, subtle at first.

Learning you.

It coils there, close to your body without quite pressing into it. The air feels heavier along your waist, along the seam where your clothes meet skin.

A hum settles beneath your nerves.

Then it slips lower.

A steady glide of warmth between your thighs, hovering there, adjusting to the shape of you as if mapping it. The sensation travels upward again, brushing the inside of your hips, then circling back down in an unhurried loop.

It feels exploratory.

Curious.

The heat gathers where your pulse flutters fastest, then drifts, then returns, each pass more certain than the last. It's tracing invisible lines along your body, memorizing the way you stand, the way you breathe.

Your shirt shifts slightly against your chest, fabric grazing skin that suddenly feels too exposed. The hum deepens, faint but unmistakable, syncing with the quickening rhythm under your ribs.

It isn’t random.

It's learning you.

You should run. You should seal the office. Call for Utahime, or someone smarter, safer, more distant.

But you just stand there, palms on your desk, blouse open, panties damp, and a pulse in your cunt like someone’s watching it beat.

You close your eyes.

“You’re going to be fun,” the voice purrs inside your head. “Let’s see how long you can pretend you’re not already mine.”

And then — snap — everything releases.

The hallway returns. Air normal. Lights steady.

You’re alone.

Standing in your office.

...

Your heart won’t calm down.

You pace.

You strip off the blouse and throw on the school’s spare faculty jacket, the usual standard-issue, reinforced with light curse-repelling charmwork. It’s not strong enough to stop anything serious, but it should disrupt ambient contact from residual cursed energy.

If that’s what this is.

You still aren’t convinced.

Because Gojo wouldn’t stoop to this. He’s juvenile, smug, deeply annoying... but this? This lingering, slow ass harassment?

Not his style.

...Except it feels like him.

And it smells like him — that charged-sugar sharpness that always hit your nose a second before he opened his stupid perfect mouth.

You feel your thighs clench again. Reflex. The air hasn’t changed.

You close your eyes.

“No,” you say quietly. “Not this time.”

You walk to the mirror on the back wall, fingers already forming the first few hand signs. A minor counter-veil, tied to your own cursed energy output. Enough to block anything that’s trying to—

Snap.

Your hips jolt forward.

Hard. Like an invisible hook catching at the band of your underwear from behind and tugging. The jacket doesn’t move. But you do.

“Trying a veil?” The voice slithers back in, amused, dangerous. “That’s cute.”

You drop the signs.

“Gojo,” you hiss.

Nothing answers. The mirror reflects your own tight, flushed expression. Your jacket is still zipped up, but your skirt has twisted slightly around your waist. The fabric feels hotter than it should.

You tighten your stance. Focus.

“Fine,” you mutter. “You want to play with cursed energy?”

You launch the barrier.

The air hardens around you. A bubble of defense. Your own cursed signature humming in tight concentric layers.

Now, if there’s interference, you’ll feel it.

You wait.

One beat. Two.

Silence.

No voice. Or touch.

You smirk.

“Thought so.”

You don’t make it one step.

Because suddenly, the floor beneath your feet shifts. Your cursed energy folds in on itself. Something presses into your barrier like a tongue teasing the seam of your lips.

And then it slides inside.

A perfect intrusion. Seamless, frictionless, elegant.

Infinity.

“Barriers are like panties, sweetheart,” his voice drawls behind your left ear. “They don’t stop me. They just make it more fun.”

The air behind your left ear warms.

You scream a sudden crack of cursed energy and fury.

But it’s too late.

Because the moment you reacted, you gave him another entry point.

Heat blooms between your legs like a palm cupped over you, hot and hungry, grinding slow pressure right up into the seat of your underwear. Your own cursed energy shorts out in your veins.

The space around you bends inward, compressing until the air feels thick enough to choke on.

“That’s better,” he murmurs. “God, you’re soaked.”

You drop to one knee, panting, palms on the floor, nails biting into wood.

You can’t pull your skirt down. You can’t shift. You can’t move.

Because the moment you try to crawl away, he pushes. The space inside your silk underwear begins to collapse toward a singular point he’s designated. You feel a sudden suction, a vacuum, that pulls the gusset of your panties upward, hard, against your clit. It’s worse than a hand; it’s the universe itself trying to occupy the same space as your body.

​"Look at that," he whispers, his voice a smooth, low-frequency vibration that rattles your teeth. "You’re vibrating. Is the vacuum too much for you?"

Schhk. Shhhhck. The sound of it, infinity, is deafening. Wetness runs down the inside of your thigh.

It's too much.

Its perfect.

“Don’t break yet,” he whispers. “We’re still learning.”

And then — nothing.

It stops.

All at once.

Your barrier fizzles. The mirror is whole. Your jacket is still zipped.

You’re on the floor.

And your panties are soaked.

...

You’re halfway through the courtyard when you realize he’s following you again.

You grit your teeth.

Keep walking.

You’ve already changed into something more sensible. Joggers. Zip-up hoodie. Shoes meant for fast exits. You’re not going to be caught in some pencil skirt fantasy again.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

But something tugs at your hips.

You pause mid-step. Not sharply. But the waistband of your silk underwear begins to rise. It isn't rolling or slipping with the movement of your body; it's crawling against your skin, a sentient, silk-soft vine that defies every law of physics.

​And then, the tightening begins.

Tightening.

​It feels as though he is adjusting your fit from a distance, his Six Eyes peeling back the layers of your clothing until he’s seeing the very weave of the fabric against your pulse.

You squeeze your thighs together, hard.

“Gojo,” you hiss.

Nothing in front of you.

But your reflection in the station window looks... wrong.

The fabric of your pants seems untouched. But you are holding yourself too stiffly. Your shoulders high. Your lips tight.

And deep between your legs? That pressure again.

You feel the silk fibers groan, the delicate threads stretching to their absolute limit until they hum against your hip bones. The waistband sinks deep into the soft give of your waist, creating a sharp indentation that throbs with every beat of your heart.

“Why—why do you know how to do this?” you mutter under your breath.

And that’s when his voice floods your head:

“Because I wanted to.”

His voice is all sugar-glass and sharp edges. Delighted. Studious.

“Every contour. Every seam. Every little twitch in your hips when you think no one’s watching? I watched.”

Your stomach drops.

“I didn’t even have to look,” he adds. “I could feel the way your clothes sit on you. The way they shift when you walk. Infinity’s just math, baby. I did the geometry.”

You reach the train station and stop cold at the ticket gate.

Because the pressure hasn't eased.

If anything… it's worse.

He’s still holding it.

Holding you.

Mapping you like a sculptor shapes clay.

“Let me guess,” he says, voice suddenly low, intimate, cruel. “You’re still going to pretend you didn’t like it.”

And then—click.

Everything lets go.

No sound. Nothing but the absence of tension.

You stumble forward a step like the pressure was keeping you upright.

You check the ticket scanner.

Check your pants.

Everything looks normal.

But you’re not.

Your underwear is clinging to you like it’s been steam-pressed into your skin. Your breath is uneven. The echo of his cursed energy, lingers in your bloodstream like smoke after a fire.

He’s not just harassing you.

He’s crafting you.

Studying every response. Every breath. Every time your thighs twitch or your fingers curl.

And he’s smiling.

Wherever he is.

“I know what you feel like now,” his voice had said.

...

You lock the door behind you like it’ll do anything.

The room’s cold. Sterile. You didn’t even bother turning on the main lights, just the little desk lamp, already flickering like it’s in on the joke.

You pull off your hoodie. Toss it.

Pry the clingy underwear from your skin like peeling fruit.

They make a noise.

You don’t look at them.

You step into the bathroom. Turn the water on cold. Scalding cold. You let it pour down your chest like you’re daring yourself to stay sane.

It doesn’t work.

So you pace. One towel wrapped around your torso, another clutched in your hand like it’s going to stop your traitor brain from replaying the day on loop.

The desk chair creaks when you drop into it.

You cross your legs. Then uncross them.

Rub the bridge of your nose. Your cheek. Then press your fingers against your collarbone like that’ll do anything to ease the memory of cursed pressure curling around your chest.

You mutter:

“He’s a little shit.”

Then louder:

“He’s a fucking little shit.”

Your thighs press together again. This time, hard.

You’re not stupid. You know this is how it starts. He wants to make you spiral. Wants to make you doubt. Wants to make your body betray you so fully that the next time he even glances at you, you’ll flinch and hate yourself for it.

And still—

Still, you’re sitting here imagining what his mouth would’ve looked like while he said those things.

You slam your palm against the desk.

“I should report him.”

Should. But won’t.

Because how do you explain this to anyone?

Hi, I think Gojo Satoru is using his cursed technique to edge me into psychological ruin, possibly out of revenge and/or sexual obsession.

No. That would go over well.

Instead you sit there.

Sweating. Nearly vibrating. High off a touch that never really happened.

And in the silence, the lamp flickers again.

A little too much.

Your head snaps to it.

Nothing.

Just a soft, warm hum. Steady. Almost like breathing.

And you whisper, voice trembling with rage:

“If you’re here, say something, you smug bastard.”

Silence.

And then—

From somewhere in the room, from under your breath, from inside your spine:

“I don’t need to speak to hear you beg.”

You stand so fast the chair falls over. Your towel slips.

You catch it just before it hits the floor.

No one’s there.

But your body?

It’s answering to him.

And you hate it.

You love it.

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie on your back, arms crossed, heart pounding.

The space around your skin never touches you.

But it’s close.

So very close.

...

The sun’s wrong.

That’s the first thing you notice when you drag yourself upright—

not the ache between your legs, nor the flushed pressure that hasn’t quite left your skin, not even the strange tightness in your chest that feels too much like breathlessness.

No. It’s the light.

Pale and high, too high.

Your alarm never went off.

You check it. Still set. Still blinking like it did its job.

Your jaw sets.

You dress like someone suiting up for a cold war.

Layered. Practical.

Every button, seam, and fabric reinforcement placed intentionally. You don’t pick the cute high-waisted skirt. You don’t pick the blouse with the low collar.

You pick armor.

Because today, you’re not letting him win.

Not again.

...

The hall outside your quarters is quiet.

You like it that way. Always have.

But this morning it feels too quiet. It feels as though the school itself is holding its breath.

You walk.

Your heels click softly on the tile, a slow one-two rhythm. The cool air brushes your neck where your hair’s pulled back. You exhale slowly.

Halfway to the stairwell, your hand twitches.

Not from contact this time.

But from anticipation.

Fuck.

Your brain is now trained to expect him in the spaces between seconds.

That’s how fast he’s worked his way under your skin.

You hate it.

You keep walking.

You pass the courtyard. The lounge. The long, sun-lit stretch of hallway where your footsteps echo louder than they should.

And then—

You feel him.

Before the sound. Before the voice.

You feel the air around you pause.

Like it knows something you don’t.

“Morning.”

The word is gentle. Unthreatening.

But your body reacts like a blade has passed within inches of your skin.

You stop.

Turn.

He’s leaning in the lounge doorway, casual, like he’s never done a cruel thing in his life.

No blindfold.

Just those infinitely blue eyes catching the sunlight in a way that makes them seem more than real.

He lifts a mug in your direction like he’s offering you a shared joke. His other hand is in his pocket. His mouth is curled around that familiar smile—the one you’ve never trusted.

“You look sharp,” he says. “New jacket?”

You take a breath that isn’t shaky.

Your voice is even.

“No.”

You turn to keep walking.

“Late morning for you,” he adds lightly. “I expected you earlier.”

He doesn’t follow you.

But something about the air… tightens. Just a little.

You don’t look back.

You reach the end of the hallway and press your palm to the door leading toward the main wing.

“Did you sleep okay?” he calls.

You pause.

Not because the question matters.

But because your fingers… aren’t resting against the door like they should be.

They’re hovering.

Infinity.

So faint it’s barely perceptible. But it’s there.

A layer of space between your skin and the handle.

He’s showing off.

He’s reminding you.

“I’m everywhere you try to touch.”

You don’t answer.

You press your palm harder, forcing your cursed energy through, and the door accepts you with a slow, obedient creak.

Your footsteps return. Measured. Cold.

But the back of your neck burns.

Because you can feel his eyes on you… waiting.

He doesn’t have to say anything else.

You already know:

This day is his.

And he hasn’t even started yet.

...

The classroom is full.

Students taking notes. Attentive, surprisingly.

You’re lecturing cleanly.

Something about overlapping domain techniques. Sealing points. You know it backwards and forward, but your voice still skips once as you turn toward the board.

You pause.

Recover.

Keep speaking.

Then—

click

The door.

Opens.

You don’t need to look.

You already know it’s him.

But you do look.

Because not looking would be worse.

He’s already walking toward the center row.

Flashly and flawless as always

He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t even glance at you.

Just moves with that fluid, loose-limbed confidence that should make him look ridiculous but somehow doesn’t. Black uniform jacket half-open. Blindfold still gone. Coffee in hand, as always.

He walks straight into your domain—your classroom—and takes a seat.

Third row. Center. Dead in your line of sight.

He leans back like he’s settling in for a show.

Crosses one leg over the other. Mug balanced neatly in one hand. The other runs idly through his hair like he’s never had a single thought he didn’t enjoy.

“Don’t mind me,” he says to the class. “Just passing through.”

A few students whisper.

One giggles.

Another leans forward to try and actually learn something for once.

You school your face into stillness.

“We were discussing veil layering,” you say, voice clean. “Continue taking notes.”

You pick up the chalk again.

And that’s when you feel it.

It isn’t a touch, not exactly. It’s a rearranging of the space behind you. The air gathers at the backs of your knees, warmer than it should be, thick enough to notice. The fabric at the top of your thighs hangs differently, as though weighed by breath that never quite lands. Your waistband eases lower by the smallest degree, a patient adjustment.

You move to correct it.

The sensation compensates.

The chalk keeps gliding across slate, but your focus splinters. Something lingers just out of reach, studying the line of your stance, the tension in your calves, the quiet rise and fall beneath your ribs.

“I’m not doing anything.”

You hear his voice as if he’s said it. But he hasn’t.

His lips are on the rim of his mug.

He sips. Calm.

You keep talking.

But your rhythm is slightly off now.

Your breath comes shorter at the end of each sentence.

You can’t stop yourself from glancing at him.

And when you do—

He’s watching you.

No, not just watching.

Occupying.

His attention doesn’t sit on you; it settles into you. It traces the edge of your expression and lingers, as though mapping the architecture of your restraint. The room feels subtly altered by it—air denser between you, quieter at the edges.

His gaze drifts, unhurried, down the line of your throat, over the line of your shoulders, pausing where your breath shifts your jacket. It isn’t hunger. It isn’t admiration.

It’s assessment.

You cross your arms.

The fabric tightens across your chest, compressing the space he’d been studying. The gesture should close you off. Instead, it feels like you’ve highlighted yourself—framed the very tension you meant to conceal.

His eyes narrow a fraction.

He notices the way your knees draw closer together. The way your hips settle as if resisting an invisible pull. The microsecond hitch in your inhale before you smooth it out.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t have to.

“Gojo-san,” you say smoothly. “If you’d like to contribute to the lecture, do speak up.”

He lifts a brow.

Then tilts his head.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “You’re doing a great job.”

A mocking softness in his voice.

The kind that drips from your skin long after he’s left.

Your hand tightens around the chalk. It snaps clean in half.

A few students startle.

You smile.

“Short break,” you say. “Five minutes. Stay in your seats.”

You walk to your desk.

Don’t look at him.

Don’t look at him.

You sit behind the desk, legs crossed, hands calm.

But the entire time, you can feel his gaze brushing against your throat.

Like he’s waiting for a bead of sweat to fall.

...

He leaves before the class ends.

No disruption.

Just the soft scrape of a chair.

A quiet step.

A presence that lingers long after the door clicks shut.

You finish the lecture.

You dismiss the class.

And when the room is empty—

You exhale.

Your chest aches from holding still.

Your body burns like it remembers touch that never happened.

And your waistband…

is still too low.

...

He wasn’t planning to be in this hallway.

Or this wing. Or this week, really.

He was supposed to be off-site, handling something in Osaka - another cursed outbreak, another government groveling session. But Utahime bailed. Something about a wedding. Or a funeral. Or maybe she just didn’t want to be around him, which would be fair.

So now he's here.

Coffee in one hand. Sleep behind his glasses.

Everything looks washed-out.

Same walls. Same students.

Same static.

Until you turn the corner.

And something in his brain skips.

...

At first, he doesn’t register it.

There’s no glow clinging to you, no slick sheen of cursed energy pooling at your feet. You aren’t performing, aren’t angling your body to catch attention.

But you are... off-key.

Like a note that doesn’t belong in the scale.

Not wrong. More like a deliberate variation slipped into a melody that’s been played the same way for years. Subtle enough that only someone listening for it would notice.

He studies you again.

Your cursed energy is pressed in tight. Tucked down and layered beneath your skin like lacquer over a weapon. Your steps are measured. Grounded.

He watches you shift your weight. The timing of your breath. The pause before you move, as if you’re choosing each motion instead of letting it happen.

Who the hell walks like that around here?

He looks. Properly.

Dark trousers. Structured. Neutral.

Oversized jacket, cuffed twice at the wrist, swallowing your waist.

He likes that.

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t think of it as attraction.

Just… interesting.

Your glasses don’t frame your face the way most people wear them.

They’re bold. Too bold. Not stylish. Just present.

And the piercings?

Deliberate.

Not cute. Or symmetrical.

Gold on one ear. Black in the other. Two at the brow. One through the septum.

He clocks the scar near your collarbone when your neckline shifts.

He wonders how fresh it is.

...

You walk past him like he’s a wall.

That’s the moment.

That’s the moment.

You look up, not with awe or interest, not even disdain—just... calculation.

Who’s in my way?

Then your eyes move on. Like he’s not worth parsing.

He’s never been skipped like that before.

And that’s what hooks him.

Your dismissal.

...

She doesn’t know who I am, he thinks at first.

But he knows that’s not true.

Everyone knows who he is.

Especially someone with that much cursed energy sealed that tight around her spine.

She knows. She just doesn’t care.

That sits in his brain like a pebble in his shoe.

He turns, slowly, as you walk away.

Your stride never breaks.

Interesting.

...

It’s almost three a.m.

Gojo lies flat on his back, awake in the purest sense of the word.

Unblinking.

Hyper-registered.

Every corner of the ceiling mapped. Every patch of shadow archived.

The air tastes wrong.

His shirt clings where it shouldn’t.

His cursed energy keeps pulling inward like it’s trying to chew on itself.

And her—

You.

The woman with the cuffed jacket and the solid steps. The tan skin, and the unfocused eyes that flicked past him like he was already classified.

You’re still in the room.

Something about your shape won’t leave.

...

I should’ve said something.

No, she would've read it as weakness.

That thought lands so clearly it feels like it’s been spoken aloud.

He blinks, once. Eyes adjust to the dark. Doesn’t move otherwise.

She would’ve ignored the joke. Or parried. Worse... smiled politely. As if I need her approval.

He grinds his teeth softly.

It’s not anger. Not really.

It’s incompletion.

A mental model has formed, and it’s wrong.

Something about your geometry, your aesthetic code, is unresolved.

He’s solved women before.

Predicted reactions before a single word is spoken.

The flirty ones. The cold ones. The brave, the bitter, the deeply broken.

But you?

Your mouth says nothing, but your aura is like static carved into marble. It's impossible.

Your cursed energy is wrapped in on itself like a child hiding a lighter.

Your silence has a slope to it. It's gravity bending inward.

He wants to put a pin through you.

Hold you still. Measure the twitch of your eye when he says something that gets under skin you pretend isn’t sensitive.

He wants to know how long he could press against the inside of your personal space before you flinch.

This is curiosity.

This is analysis.

He tells himself that with the clarity of a scalpel.

But somewhere underneath that thought, there’s another. Smaller. Rotten.

It smells like this:

What if she doesn't flinch at all?

...

He imagines you in a different hallway.

One without light.

Devoid of the students. And the barriers.

Just you and him, and the ambient hum of cursed energy between two walls.

He wouldn’t touch you.

He’d just stand there at first.

Close enough to feel your heat.

Then a little closer.

To let his Infinity brush the edges of your jacket.

Let it graze along the seam of your trousers—just barely. Molecular flirting.

His attention wouldn’t climb to your face. Your eyes wouldn’t interest him.

He’d watch your breath.

The steady expansion beneath your ribs. The way your diaphragm lowers, lifts. The rhythm of it. Whether it remains consistent under proximity, or whether it shortens. Stutters. Deepens without permission.

A person can fake composure in their expression. They can school their mouth into indifference.

Breath is harder.

He doesn’t care if it turns you on.

He wants to know if he can break your breath pattern.

That’s all.

That’s all.

...

But he’s lying.

Because it isn’t all.

It’s never just that, not when something itches in his head like this.

You’re not just out of alignment.

You’re dangerous.

Because if someone like you can walk past him without offering a single beat of recognition, what else has he missed?

What else is immune to him?

No, he thinks, suddenly sharper.

I’m not thinking clearly.

And that’s what finally makes him sit up.

A slow, stiff motion. As if the thought pushed him like a hand between the shoulder blades.

He stares at the floor.

Then past it.

Then through it.

His mind—normally a temple of perfectly flowing equations and cursed structure—is now vibrating with a loop:

She walked past me like I was a stranger.

She walked past me like I didn’t matter.

She walked past me like I didn’t exist.

But he does.

He does exist.

And more than that, he defines existence for everyone around him.

So what the fuck does that make you?

A flaw?

A malfunction?

A challenge?

...

No.

No.

It’s simpler than that.

You’re a kink in the symmetry.

That’s what it is.

You’re a break in his otherwise perfect design. A tiny hairline fracture that doesn’t belong, but if he doesn’t understand it, it’ll spread.

He can feel it.

Just a crack now.

But later?

Later, it’ll be ruin.

Unless he fixes it.

Unless he understands you.

Unless he sees what’s underneath that stillness.

...

He lies back down.

Sleep isn’t the reason.

The argument in his head has simply burned itself out.

He folds his hands over his stomach and stares at the ceiling until the lines blur.

This isn’t attraction.

This isn’t obsession.

This is restoration.

He needs to see you again.

Conversation is irrelevant. Charm would only contaminate the data. There’s nothing to prove.

He wants proximity.

He wants to step back into that subtle distortion you generate and measure it properly. Test the weight of it. Confirm the pull. Decide whether it belongs to you, or to him.

Symmetry work, he tells himself.

Math.

He closes his eyes.

And dreams of a hallway with no end.

No doors.

No ceiling.

Just you.

Standing.

Facing away.

And when you turn around?

You’re already looking past him.

Like always.

-------wanna see him get more aggro?------------

(゜∀。) i am ridiculous. ty for reading!!

[syles-off-duty]

pregnant with sukuna's kid!drabble

a/n: idkwhatimdoingthismanmakesmeunwell.

Cw: NSFW, pregnant reader!!, breast play, lactation, fingering, sex (ik ik ik I'm a red flag the baby will be fine) I already have an aftercare scene in mind

You didn’t mean to call him.

You knew he was away, off doing what monsters do, splitting temples and tearing down cursed lineages, but the ache had returned. Thick in your breasts, deep in your back, heavy in your hips. It was pervasive.

You were alone again, laid back on the nest he’d made for you—every stolen pelt soaked in your scent and his, the whole chamber a womb of heat and soft pressure.

And it was too much.

Too much milk. Too much stretch. Too much pulsing heat between your legs.

The baby within you turned lazily, brushing some unknown limb against your insides, and you whimpered.

“’-'Kunaa…,” you moaned, half-conscious. Your fingers were already moving softly, carefully, trying not to betray yourself. You cupped one heavy breast in your palm, the flesh so swollen it ached to the touch, the skin slick with sweat. The pressure helped. Just a little.

Milk welled beneath your thumb. Your nipple throbbed. Another gasp slipped out of you.

“Please…”

His hair was damp with blood. One of his forearms bore fresh claw marks, though his skin had already begun to knit itself closed. His true form was fully present and slightly coiled, muscles shifting under flesh that shimmered like dark stone. His four burning eyes locked onto you.

And that was when he heard you.

Sukuna stood in the arch of the doorway. Massive and silent as usual.... but changed.

He said nothing at first.

Because you were perfect.

Laid bare across his offerings. Swollen belly rising like a dome of life between your thighs. Your fingers still on your breast, pinching for relief, your other hand trailing down, still slick from the milk you hadn’t had time to clean.

And Sukuna’s mouths fell open.

The one on his face parted with god-like reverence, his tongue dragging along one fang like he wanted to taste your breath.

The one on his belly—large, hungry, lined in thick, muscular lips—opened in a slow, groaning sigh. Its tongue unrolled just an inch. Enough to drip.

Tears shined in the corners of your eyes.

You weren’t crying. But you were gorgeously soft, vulnerable, and so fucking divine in that moment that Sukuna couldn’t move.

Not yet.

“Ohhh, wife…” he breathed, voice thick with hunger and something dangerous.

You startled, eyes opening, fingers jerking back from your chest in sudden shame—but it was too late. He’d seen. Every drop. Every gasp.

“Did I say,” he said, stepping forward slowly, “you could touch what’s mine?”

You tried to speak. Failed. He was already above you now, his weight shifting through the space, lowering slowly. A clawed hand wrapped around your wrist, gentle but unyielding, guiding it back to your own breast.

“No,” he whispered, “don’t stop. Let me see it again.”

You flushed, breath catching.

“Don’t hide that from me. Not this. Not when you’re perfect like this.”

He knelt beside you.

And you felt all of him. That shift in pressure, the presence of a god folding his massive body beside yours like a dragon curling around gold. His lower arms slid beneath your thighs, spreading them just enough to expose the heat of you, barely touched, still leaking with need.

His upper hands moved to your chest, palm-mouthed now, and hovered infront of you, tongues flicking.

“Look at them,” he murmured. “They want to help you. Want to taste what you tried to hide.”

You whimpered, breath hitching as his fingers brushed your swollen breast—barely—but it was enough. A sharp pulse of milk released and his eyes snapped open wider.

“So greedy,” he growled, smiling.

The first palm cupped your breast.

The mouth opened against your skin, lips wrapping around the slope like it could kiss the ache away. Its tongue pressed gently into the underside of your nipple, lapping in slow, wet strokes. It didn’t suck—yet. Just tasted gently. And your hips bucked at the sensation.

“You feel that?” Sukuna rasped. “That’s what happens when you keep your suffering from me. My body aches with you. My hands starve with you.”

The second palm found your other breast.

This one didn’t wait. It suckled immediately. Tight suction, so perfectly rhythmic. And it wasn’t just any mouth, of course—it was his mouth. His. Guided by his breath, his will. You could feel the pull down to your womb, your entire body reacting like instinct.

Milk flooded the mouth and it moaned against your skin.

Sukuna growled from all his mouths.

“That’s it. That’s mine. That’s what I fucking made.”

His main mouth kissed your throat, slow and dragging, teeth grazing. The belly-mouth was open now, breathing against your swollen stomach, warm air fogging your skin.

“I should let them drink until you’re dry,” he whispered against your neck. “Let them worship you while I watch. But I’m too fucking jealous for that.”

The mouths at your breasts sucked harder in response, and you cried out writhing, completely overwhelmed. Your belly twitched. Your thighs clenched around nothing.

And still, he wasn’t done.

A lower hand slid towards the soaked space between your thighs, his fingers reaching and parting your slick folds like peeling back petals. The mouth in that palm kissed your inner thigh, then higher. A little tongue flicked, savoring the wet already gathered.

“You’re dripping,” he murmured. “Again. Do you even know you’re doing it anymore?”

You shook your head. Your breath came in sobs. You were held down by mouths alone—your body fed upon, worshipped, drained, fucking adored. The pressure in your breasts finally began to ease, but only to be replaced by the maddening swell of arousal.

Sukuna smiled.

“Let me help you, wife,” he murmured. “Let me relieve what I gave you.”

You were outright panting now. Milk coating your breasts. Thighs shaking. Lips parted in some soundless plea as his mouths suckled and tasted and claimed.

His palm-mouths continued their careful worship—one still feeding at your breast, the other licking away the milk it missed, trailing down to kiss the sensitive underside. His fingers never stopped exploring, re-mapping the places you trembled the hardest, groaned the loudest, leaked the most.

And all the while… the belly-mouth had waited.

Patient. Breathing. Wanting.

Its thick, fleshy lips pulsed now, spreading just slightly wider with each of your heartbeats. A long, warm tongue slithered out—strong and broad, different than his other ones. This one was dense. And intimate. The kind of tongue that was made to hold weight.

Sukuna looked down at you, face unreadable, all four eyes focused as he hovered over your middle.

“He's been patient,” he said softly. “That mouth never takes without permission.”

A pause. One enormous hand rested on the swell of your stomach, palm flat, thumb brushing over the mark his child had made beneath your skin.

“But you’re leaking. And it’s hungry.”

The belly-mouth groaned.

It was a low, ancient sound. A rumble. Gratitude, maybe.

Then he moved around you.

Sukuna adjusted you like you weighed nothing. He placed one arm beneath your back, lifting your hips slightly. The other cradled your belly. He curled around you fully—protective, slow—until that great mouth pressed flat against your bump, lips parted just wide enough to take the curve of it in.

And then—

The tongue licked.

A slow, wet stroke from navel to ribcage.

Fuuucking worshipful.

You cried out.

It was perfect. So much surface at once, so warm, so wet.

Your belly responded with a ripple. A faint movement beneath your skin. A limb shifting. Something inside acknowledging the mouth now pressed to the outer shell of its world.

The belly-mouth groaned again, even louder. Starving now.

And then it opened wider.

It didn’t try to devour. Didn’t unhinge like some beast.

It simply enveloped you further. Pressed itself fully to the swell of your stomach, tongue stroking with long, slow laps, lips sliding over skin in wet circles, drinking the sweat and milk and lingering remnants of where you’d touched yourself.

“Yes,” Sukuna growled above you, voice full of hunger and pride. “Feed on her. Worship what she carries.”

Your hands reached for anything—his face, his wrist, the fur under your back—but you were already unraveling.

The sensation was overwhelming.

Suckling on your belly. Heat between your legs. His other mouths still grazing your breasts, flicking over sore, milk-slick nipples in lazy little circles. Your body wasn’t yours anymore.

It was his altar.

His meal.

His shrine.

And this. This was his worship.

“You feel that, wife?” he whispered. “That’s my second mouth loving what I made in you. That’s what you get for carrying my legacy.”

The belly-mouth moaned louder, tongue swirling over your belly button, then lazily fucking into it, lips kissing every stretched vein and glowing mark. Your womb tightened, your cunt clenched on nothing, and a wave of pressure rolled through your spine.

“Perfect girl,” he murmured. “You take everything I give, don’t you?”

You whimpered softly.

Every part of you was trembling now, one leg thrown over his thigh for leverage, but you had none. Your focus was centered on the massive cock throbbing between your cheeks, leaking against your skin.

“They’ve had their turn,” he murmured, glancing down at the mouths on his palms and belly, each of them content, feeding or suckling or panting in joy. “Now I take what’s mine.”

He pulled your hips back just a little, adjusting your angle, his belly still pressed to yours, the mouth there murmuring low whispers into your womb like lullabies for the child inside.

And then—

He lined up.

His cock, thick and hot, slid through the slick mess his palm-mouth left behind, grinding between your folds, soaking in your heat.

You whined, pressing back, trying to push him in.

“Easy,” he rasped. “I’ll split you if I go too fast.”

But your pussy was ready. Greedy. Open and twitching and overwhelmingly soaked. And when he pressed in, juuust the head, it sank in with a low, squelch.

You both gasped.

“Fuck,” Sukuna groaned. “Still tight. Still trying to keep me out.”

You feel him twitching, heavy, hot, barely restrained. Every instinct in his cursed body wants to drive into you. Bury himself to the hilt and take. But his hands are trembling from the effort not to.

Because you’ve gone soft in his arms.

Because your thighs are already spasming.

Because you whispered his name like a prayer, and he’s not going to desecrate his shrine before the first candle’s even lit.

He curls his body around yours tighter, cradling your belly in one hand, pulling your leg higher with the other. You’re nearly folded into him, his size engulfing yours like armor, like scaffolding, like safety. The belly-mouth is still latched to the swell of your stomach, humming softly as it laps slow patterns over the taut skin, almost purring in rhythm with your heartbeat.

“Shhh,” Sukuna breathes against your neck, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you.”

One of his upper hands slides down between your legs. Just for your clit. Two fingers, the tips rough and callused, begin to rub you in slow, deliberate circles.

“You’re too tight,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Still soft from the milk. Still wet from my mouths. But inside…”

He presses in another inch—just a little more. Your breath stutters.

“Still scared,” he breathes. “Still not sure.”

But then he presses a kiss to your temple. Just his lips. Nothing more.

“It’s alright,” he whispers. “You don’t have to take all of me at once. Let me give it to you slow. Let me work you open.”

He begins to move, rocking his hips in shallow rolls, dragging the head of his cock in and out of your entrance. Each motion stretches you a little more, opens you just a bit deeper, your body yielding to the weight of him the way it did the first time.

His fingers at your clit work the perfect rhythm. Never too fast and never, ever stopping. His touch is relentless and exact. Calculated to keep your body soft and wet and begging.

The belly-mouth groans louder now, the tongue stroking in wider, slower circles across your belly, matching the rhythm of your breath, your pulse, the rise and fall of your moans.

And when you finally push back—your hips lifting slightly, your body accepting more of him—he rewards you.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice thick with restraint. “Let me in. Let your cunt take what it was made for.”

He pushes in deeper.

Halfway now.

You sob, gripping at his thick arm, your belly taut and trembling between you. Your walls grip him, fluttering in protest and pleasure, and Sukuna moans, biting down on his own forearm to keep from coming too soon.

“You make me fucking stupid,” he snarls. “So tight around me I can’t even think.”

But he doesn’t lose control.

Not yet.

He moves again—grinding back into the overworked meat. Rocking in slow circles, hips rolling as his cock pushes deeper, dragging along your walls like it’s memorizing them. His fingers never leave your clit, and your orgasm crests.

Warm. Swelling. Deep.

“Cum for me first,” he whispers. “Before I give you the rest. Before I fuck you full again.”

You do.

Right when he asks.

You cum with a trembling sob, your body softening around him completely. Welcoming. Inviting, really. The tension you’d been holding onto in your belly, your thighs, your breath? Completely gone.

And only then—only then—does Sukuna let go.

“Good girl,” he groans, his voice turning rough, possessive. “Now take the rest of me. Take every inch.”

He thrusts.

All the way in.

All the way.

And he stays there.

For a moment. Just breathing.

The belly-mouth was wide open now, its thick lips spread across the underside of your bump, tongue flattened, making deep, rumbling sounds.

Purring.

The impossible, guttural sound vibrated through your womb, through your belly, to your clit, through his cock. You gasped as the pressure shifted, your thighs twitching with overwhelmed pleasure as the two sensations—cock inside, mouth outside—locked into perfect rhythm.

“Feel that?” Sukuna whispered, bowed over you, lips against your neck. “It knows I’m in. It feels me in you.”

His hands curled around you tighter. One still braced under your thigh, holding you open wide. The other on your chest, cupping your breast and squeezing the swollen weight just enough to send a pulse of milk beading at the nipple.

You whined.

“You’re full everywhere,” he growled. “Your tits, your womb, your fucking pussy. All mine.”

Then he began to move his full weight in you.

Slow strokes at first, only pulling back halfway, then sliding back in, thick and wet and stretching you all over again. And again. His belly-mouth groaned louder every time his cock rubbed just beneath it. It didn’t stop purring.

It sounded possessive.

Insatiable.

Your belly shifted with each thrust—small tremors rippling across the taut skin, and that mouth licked every inch it could reach, as though it were trying to calm the child inside while Sukuna made you take every fucking inch of him.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You nodded helplessly. One hand behind you, gripping his arm. The other cupping your belly, fingers brushing against the warm, worshipping lips of that other mouth.

“You want more?” he said. “You want me to fuck you while my mouth sings to the baby you gave me?”

The belly-mouth growled, in agreement, it seemed.

He thrust deeper now. Harder. The wet sound of your cunt clenching around him filled the chamber. Milk smeared down your chest. His breath was rough in your ear, his teeth gritting from the restraint it took not to cum too fast.

“You’re going to make me lose my fucking mind,” he snarled. “You feel what you’re doing to me, wife? What your cunt does around me now that I’ve stuffed it full once?”

You couldn’t answer. Just moaned. Let him fuck you deeper. Let the belly-mouth purr louder, like it was singing some ancient blessing as your pussy squeezed down, ravenous.

“Good,” he growled. “Let it sing. Let it feel what I made. You’re not just my shrine, you’re my fucking altar. And I’m going to fuck you like I’m praying with every thrust.”

The belly-mouth groaned again—baser now, like it was swallowing every pulse, every little kick from the child inside your womb as his cock knocked rhythmically beneath it.

“They feel it too,” he murmured. “The baby. My mouth. All of me. They feel us together.”

You moaned, dazed and teary, your belly cradled in his hands while his cock fucked you slow, wet, deep. Every thrust pushed you forward, made your breasts sway, your body ripple from the pressure.

The belly-mouth opened wide now.

It began to feed.

Not just licking. Not just worshipping. But pulling. It's mouth sealed fully over your womb, tongue pressing firm, lips sucking gentle, steady pulses in time with the rhythm of your body.

Like it was drinking the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Like it was trying to taste the moment he came inside you again.

And Sukuna—

He felt it.

His body shuddered. His hips jerked. His breath caught.

“I’m close,” he growled. “Fuck. I’m going to cum inside you princess. Deep. So fucking deep you’ll feel it in your spine.”

You sobbed out a moan, incoherent, needy, every part of you full, and still somehow aching for more.

His cock twitched. His hands tightened.

The belly-mouth growled. Its tongue flattened, mouth pulsing, lips dragging lower, lower, lower until it was kissing the top of his cock from the outside, feeling it throb inside you.

And then—

“Take it—take all of it—”

He came.

Violently.

With a feral snarl, Sukuna buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed, filling your stretched cunt until you felt it press up inside claiming every last inch.

The belly-mouth drank the moment, tongue moving like it was tasting the orgasm as it happened from within and without.

You came again with a soft moan barely escaping your lips as your cunt clenched down on him, milking the last spurts of his release.

He shook infront you.

All four arms holding you like a treasure, like a cradle, like a shrine statue come alive.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t.

His cock still throbbed inside you.

The belly-mouth finally slowed, lips softening, tongue giving gentle, warm licks to your belly like it was soothing a child after a tantrum.

“That’s it,” Sukuna whispered, mouth against your neck, voice raw, spent. “My shrine. My wife. Full again.”

His hand moved down your belly.

The palm-mouth pressed a last kiss to your lower abdomen.

Then everything went still.

Just the heat between your thighs, his cock still nestled deep.

Just the slow licking of his belly-mouth.

Just his breathing in your hair.

And the purring.

The steady, low, sacred purr of a beast who had fed well.

----------------

*cut to him taking you to the bath*

*taking to the child in your belly*

*kissing your womb*

*whisper what he’s going to do to you when you’re healed*

I am unwell ok thanks for reading did it hit was it weird ok mwah love you bye.

[after-laughter-come-tears]

HOLY-

[syles-off-duty]

[syles-off-duty]

help my adhd focus - do yall want:

even more deranged Giyuu (18+++)

some banter/moderate fluff with Sukuna (pg-13 but eventual 18+ u kno me)

problematic König piece i have ignored for months (18++++++)

Voting ended onFeb 2

[syles-off-duty]

Possessive!Giyuu thoughts after he sees someone flirt with you

Could be read as part of the deranged Giyuu practice series for the final shrine Giyuu :p

A/n: trying to write less... idk how i feel about it... tysm for reading :^) im about to make this poor man go crazy (and then it'll get fluffy)!

Cw: NSFW, explicit sex, jealous Giyuu

You felt it the moment he changed.

Giyuu didn’t say a word on the walk back. He didn’t need to. His silence said everything, the tension in his jaw, the way he kept pace just a little too close behind you, how his eyes had lingered on the man who touched your arm like he had the right.

Now, the door clicks shut behind you.

And you know what’s coming.

He takes his time.

Boots off. Haori hung. Not a glance at you. But when he finally does, his gaze pins you in place.

“Come here,” he says.

You go.

He takes your wrist. His grip is firm, fingers wrapped like they were made to fit there. His thumb presses over your pulse, slow and deliberate. And then, he raises your hand and kisses your palm. Then your wrist. Then your throat.

“You didn’t stop him fast enough,” Giyuu murmurs into your ear.

“I didn’t want him,” you breathe.

“No,” he agrees. “But he thought you were available. That’s the part I can’t allow.”

He walks you back until your knees hit the bed. His hand spreads across your lower back. Anchoring.

“Clothes off.”

Your fingers tremble as you strip.

You feel his eyes on every inch of skin. The way his breath hitches when your shirt falls. The way his jaw flexes when you slide your pants down. He doesn’t move. Just watches. Until you’re bare. Waiting.

When he presses you down into the mattress, he does it with both hands. One on your chest. One on your thigh. Spreading you open and eclipsing you entirely beneath him. His fingers brush over your swollen folds.

“You’re already wet.”

You nod. Your breath is shaky.

He hums, low in his throat. “Good.”

His hand closes around your thigh. Holds you still. Then—

He pushes in.

All the way.

Endlessly giving you every inch, groaning as your body stretches to take him. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. He just starts to move.

And each thrust is a claim.

Every time he pulls back, you feel empty. Every time he pushes in, your head spins.

You whimper. He presses even deeper, canting his hips just right. And now you're perfectly inpaled on him.

You scream. It's perfect. And he knows.

Giyuu then bends over you, panting like a beast with his teeth against your neck. “He looked at you like he wanted to fuck you.”

You can barely breathe. “He d-didn’t touch me.”

“But he thought about it.” His voice is low. “He won’t again.”

You moan trying to struggle for more friction more anything. But his hand closes around your hip, holding you in place while he fucks you slow and deep. The pace is brutal in its control.

His hips grind into every part he can reach, cock bullying the soaked, swollen heat its wrapped in.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

“I-I’m yours!”

He pounds into you even harder.

To mark.

“To remind you,” he says, fucking into you hard enough to make the bed creak, “that you’re mine.”

You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, your body shaking from the force of every thrust. You try to match his rhythm, but he holds you down.

You’re already close. You’ve been close since the door closed.

“I’m yours,” you gasp again, tears welling from overwhelm, spine arching, wrists twisting in the sheets. “I’m yours, Giyuu, I’m—”

“You’ll cum on my cock,” he growls. “Not his eyes. Not his hands. Mine.”

And you do.

It rips through you. Blinding. Your body locks up around him, shaking, burning.

And he doesn’t let up.

At.

All.

He fucks you through it, deeper, rougher, forcing another climax out of your raw, trembling body. Making you feel every second of the pleasure cresting and crashing through you.

He only lets go when you’re sobbing and begging silently into the crook of his neck.

Then he finally groans, deep and guttural, and slams into you one last time, cock pulsing deep as he fills you.

His hands are shaking.

But he doesn’t pull out right away.

He stays buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged against your mouth.

You feel him soften inside you slowly, but his grip on your body doesn’t ease.

He pulls you up. Wraps around you from behind. His arms lock across your waist, breath still rough in your ear.

“You’re mine,” he says again.

You close your eyes. And melt into him.

[syles-off-duty]

The Room That Watches Back

Sukuna x Dabura x f!Reader thoughts

A/n: not as fleshed out as id like but uhhh... i have so many ideas...(´ω｀*) 3/4 of my stories with them involve them kneeling... i am unwell about this combination.

*also note - halfway through i end up naming them because i got tired of writing "the warm one" and "the cold one"..(you'll see what i mean) ik... im sorry.. the single braincell can only handle so many things at a time

Cw: NSFW, mention of being drugged, oral, fingering, both holes, alien anatomy, multiple orgasms, overstim, sukuna blushes, dabura has an alien tongue lol

You wake with blood in your mouth.

Not much, just a smear against your teeth, the dry tang of it soaked into your tongue—but enough to remind you that someone put you here. Someone drugged you. Or struck you. Or both.

The details swim just out of reach, curling at the edges of your memory before slipping behind your eyes before you can pin them down.

The room is wrong.

You realize it before your body fully responds. It’s the air, if it can even be called that. Too thick. Too warm. It doesn’t feel like it’s meant to be breathed. Every inhale sticks, coats your lungs with something metallic and slow. It smells like a place that’s been sealed for centuries, and still somehow knows you’re here.

The floor beneath you hums. Very softly.

You open your eyes.

Dim red light bleeds down in thin veins from the ceiling, as if filtered through flesh. There are no windows, no doors, only curved stone walls, dark and almost wet-looking, glistening with a sheen that refracts the red into soft bruised purple where it pools in the corners.

You sit up, slowly. Every muscle in your back screams. The last place you remember being is a holding cell—white walls, observation slit, that bastard with the needle telling you, “Just hold still. You’re lucky they picked you.”

You thought it was bluff.

Or euthanasia.

Now you’re here.

“Fuck,” you rasp, voice breaking against your own throat.

The walls don’t echo. They don’t need to. You can already feel the space listening.

So you stand, wearing nothing but a thin medical gown, ties open in the back. Nothing underneath. Bare feet on warm stone.

The floor is too clean.

Your skin prickles. Something in your blood is beginning to wake.

The first sign is the stillness through absence.

It's the way your breath stops coming out as vapor. The way your heartbeat starts to sound louder than it should in your ears. Because the air’s being replaced. Something denser taking its place. Something watching you from inside the space between molecules.

You walk.

You don’t know why. There’s nowhere to go. But standing still feels worse. Every step is slow, your calves aching, your knees still unsteady. There are no markings on the walls, just that same dark luminous stone, etched so faintly in some places it almost looks like a scar beneath skin.

Then—

You feel it.

The room notices you back.

Your gut twists, a cold shiver spidering up your spine. Something presses against the inside of your skull. Your mouth goes dry.

You’re not alone.

You were never alone.

“Who the fuck is there?” you call, sharper this time, pushing past the thick drag in your throat.

No answer. But the air changes again.

Heavier. Sweeter.

Blood baked into stone.

Your stomach flips. The heat that rises next isn’t yours. It doesn’t belong in your body. It coils low, sick and deep, the kind of wrong that feels good right before it hurts.

You back toward the center of the room. Your breath’s coming faster now.

There’s a pressure behind your eyes.

Your skin itches, too tight.

Something is watching. Right now. You can feel its attention on your ribcage. On your mouth. On your spine. Not a ghost. Not a god. Something much, much hungrier.

You grind your teeth.

They left you here on purpose. You’re not a guest. You’re not a prisoner.

You’re bait.

You curl your fingers into fists.

“I don’t give a fuck what you are,” you say, teeth flashing, voice shaking just enough to piss you off. “You want to look? Then come out. I’m right here.”

A pause.

No sound.

Then laughter.

Fucking amusement.

Rolling through the air like it’s always been waiting.

You twist toward it, throat tight, hands already tensed into a fighting stance—but there’s nothing to see. Just a dark corner of the room thickening at the edges, heat lines emanating toward you in waves that shouldn't exist without fire. Your skin dampens instantly. A bead of sweat crawls down your spine like a finger tracing the way.

“Come out,” you snap, voice cracking against the quiet. “If you’re gonna stare, grow a fucking spine and show yourself.”

Another beat of silence.

Then—

“Look at you.”

The voice cuts out of the dark like a blade dragged through velvet.

A slow drawl, edged with mockery and amusement in equal measure.

Masculine without a trace of human.

He’s toying with you, and he wants you to know it.

“Strutting like you’ve got claws,” he purrs. “All teeth and spit and nothing to back it up. Real fuckin' cute.”

You take a step forward, heat roaring beneath your cheeks.

“You think I’m bluffing?”

A scoff.

“Oh, I know you are. But I like it.”

The presence moves again—closer, but not into the light. He stays just out of reach, bastard, the voice circling around you now, slow and easy, like a shark drifting past a bleeding body.

“I get a lot of them in this room, you know,” he goes on, conversational, as if you’re sharing a drink instead of threats. “Most cry. Some pray. A few piss themselves. You?” A pause, deliberate. “You bark. Loud little thing.”

You refuse to let the sweat on your brow shake your expression. You square your shoulders, set your teeth.

“Louder than you, apparently. Hiding in the fucking dark.”

That makes him laugh again—shorter this time, sharper. It punches the air right next to your ear. You flinch before you can stop it. His satisfaction slithers through the space between you like a tongue.

“You flinch nice.”

There’s a grin in his voice now. You don’t see it, but you feel it.

“And your mouth…”

A click of his tongue.

“…I want to see what else it’s good at.”

You lunge toward the voice before you can stop yourself.

Your hand meets nothing—just air thick as syrup, heat spooling in your lungs, and the knowledge that he’s moving, always, always just outside your reach. The air carries his scent now, smoke, rust, something vaguely sweet and utterly foul underneath.

He’s circling you.

Lazily. Predatorily dragging himself around the edge of the space, watching how you spin to follow.

You stop.

You close your eyes. You breathe.

You want to get under his skin.

“Is this how you get off?” you say, quieter this time. Icy. “Breathing on girls in the dark? That’s your whole routine? No wonder they leave you chained up in here like a fuckin' dog.”

Silence.

The heat pulses behind you.

Then—sharp, way too close—right at your back:

“Say that again.”

You turn fast—but you’re not fast enough.

This time, he lets you see him.

The dark peels back just enough to reveal teeth.

Not a smile. Not a mouth.

Teeth.

And behind them—four eyes the color of dried blood, narrowed with something sharp and pleased and hungry.

He’s tall. Taller than you expected. Built like violence. Every inch of him is cut from something that doesn’t heal so much as scar over and grin. His skin is marked—inked, maybe, or branded—with patterns that seem to shift when you try to follow them.

You don’t take a step back.

You should, but you don’t.

“You heard me.”

He leans in.

There’s nothing human in the sound he makes, it's wet with something too old to be anger.

“I like this one,” he mutters to himself. “All bite. Wonder how long you’ll last before you scream.”

You blink hard, chest heaving, he's so close he eclipses the room. All you see are his eyes and ink. The scent in the air is worse now. Richer. The sweetness is cloying and engineered... almost, like it’s being pumped in from the walls. Your legs feel too warm. Your face is flushed.

Something’s changing in the air, and it’s not you.

“You dosing me?” you bite out. “What is this, some kind of fucking… pheromone trap?”

He doesn’t answer.

But behind you—

A second voice stirs.

“Contaminant release is within parameters.”

It’s colder. Measured. Void of emotion.

You turn—

And see him? (It?)

Different from the first. Still huge and unhuman, but his eyes don’t grin. His body doesn’t flex with threat. He’s still, almost serene. His features are uncannily sculpted, too symmetrical, the kind of beauty that implies danger by omission. Alien, almost.

And he’s watching you. With all three eyes.

You feel a chill crawl down your arms.

“Subject is resisting at an above-average threshold,” he says softly. “Elevated hormonal resistance. Visual markers… interesting.”

The first one snarls behind you, actually snarls, like the sound’s caught in his throat.

“Don’t fucking catalog her, freak.”

The cold one turns his head, very slightly.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

---

They back off and move in tandem with you—as if the very act of you standing in the center of the chamber is a gravitational force they orbit. The larger one, the heat-radiating presence with teeth you still haven’t quite seen, paces wide, dragging his gaze over your body like it’s a place he’s been before. He doesn’t hide his enjoyment. His steps are slow, loose, indulgent in a way that infuriates you. He’s taking his time because he can.

The other moves quieter.

Not slinking—there’s no need for stealth—but measured.

His eyes don’t stray to your breasts or hips the way the first one’s do. He watches your face, your breathing, the twitch in your hands when the chamber grows warmer, the involuntary tightening of your thighs. It’s not desire in his gaze—it’s analysis. Invasive analysis. He’s memorizing not just your body, but each and every way it responds to them.

And the chamber—it pulses simultaneously. It reacts to their closeness, the temperature ticking up with every breath you take. The scent—heady, honey-sweet and sharpened with something metallic—coats your tongue even when you try to breathe through your mouth. It makes your teeth ache. It makes your throat flex like you’ve swallowed something thick. You can feel the skin at your neck and shoulders dampening beneath your gown. You clench your jaw and force yourself to stay still.

“Are you going to touch me or just keep walking circles like you’re waiting for me to lie down?”

You hate the breathiness in your voice, but it’s already there. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, again, but this time it's because the pads of your fingers are beginning to tingle. Too sensitive. Too aware of themselves. The air’s getting under your skin.

The hot one pauses.

He doesn’t stop in front of you. He doesn’t reach. He just tilts his head, slowly, like a predator indulging something small that thinks it’s dangerous. His smile is there again, wide and sharp, and it makes something low in your abdomen twist.

“You want us to touch you?” he says, and his voice is thicker now, dragging across your nerves. “That what that mouth’s really saying?”

The cold one is behind you. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But you feel him.

A subtle shift in air pressure. A pause in the low, ambient hum of the walls. You know if you turned around now, his face would be just inches from yours. You don’t.

You keep your eyes on the other. The grinning one. The one who’s begun to close the gap between you, step by slow step, dragging heat with him.

“I didn’t say I wanted it,” you mutter, chin tilting higher. “I said if you’re going to do something, stop pretending it’s not already in the air.”

His eyes flash, and something in his wild expression brightens, just a flicker of pleasure, of approval.

“Shit,” he murmurs, almost fondly. “Look at that. You can smell it, can’t you?”

He takes one more step. Now you see him. And feel him. The warmth of his body licks across your skin even without contact. The scent rolls off him in waves, deeper than the room’s, heavier. Biological. It’s meant to seduce.

You hate how your knees flex.

You hate that he notices.

Behind you, the cold one speaks—his voice smooth, perfectly timed, like a reading off a screen.

“Her internal temperature has begun to respond. Neurological resistance is present, but not absolute. Stimulation has only reached phase one.”

“I don’t give a fuck what phase you’re in,” you snap, spinning on him.

He’s there. Exactly as you feared. Closer than he should be. His eyes are alien and reflective, wet-looking, too steady. And he doesn’t blink.

You don’t step back.

“You think you can catalog me like I’m a fucking lab rat? Try touching me without permission, see how fast I put something through your throat.”

There’s a pause. His head cants slightly.

Then, very softly:

“You are not refusing.”

The words settle into your stomach like hot stones. You’re too warm. Too flushed. You can taste the truth of them, bitter and slick. But admit nothing.

Behind you, the heat flares again.

Before you can turn, he speaks—right beside your ear.

“You’re trembling,” he breathes.

He’s close enough to touch, but he doesn’t.

He waits.

You don’t move.

---

Your heart beats harder. More noticeable to say the least. Each pulse a little tighter in your ribs. Your body’s too aware of itself now—too aware of them. Your nipples ache from the air. Your thighs are damp. You curse under your breath and try to center yourself.

But the scent is everywhere now.

Not quite flowers, not quite rot. Something manufactured by the chamber itself—it feels like the walls know what makes you soft, and they’re feeding it to you inhale by inhale.

You don’t melt. But you feel the shape of it forming inside you.

The hot one speaks again, closer now.

“That little tremor in your knees?” he murmurs. “Don’t fight it. That’s your body waking up.”

“I’m not—” you start, but your voice is thin. You swallow. “I’m not some thing to dissect.”

“Mm. You’re not,” the colder one says. He’s bending over behind you now. His breath cools the back of your neck. “You’re a threshold.”

You don’t know what that means. You hate how much you want to ask.

The hot one steps even closer. You feel the air flex around him, rich with his musk. He lifts a hand, slow, exaggerated, like he’s trying to make sure you see it coming.

“Gonna touch you,” he says simply.

And he does.

Just two fingers under your chin, lifting your face so that you have to meet his gaze again.

That smile.

Those eyes.

“You gonna keep pretending,” he murmurs, “or are you ready to see what happens when you stop?”

Your lips part—just enough for a breath to slip free. You feel his heat roll over your mouth as he speaks, but you don’t flinch. You don’t drop your gaze.

You let your tongue wet your lips.

Let your breath drag through your teeth like a blade sliding free of a sheath.

And then you smile something filthy.

“You want me to stop pretending?” you murmur, voice like silk dragged across something sharp. “Fine. But you won’t like what that looks like.”

A flicker of interest coils in his eyes, darker than amusement, more ancient than lust. You lean in just a fraction, forcing him to feel your breath ghosting over his own lips, your throat bare beneath his hand.

“You think I’m scared of you,” you continue, lower now, almost lazy. “But I’m wet, not trembling. There’s a difference. And if I wanted your fingers inside me—” You tilt your head, mouth curling into a slow, mean grin. “I’d be using them.”

His smile wavers.

It doesn’t fade—he’s not that fragile—but it shifts. Something behind his eyes flares hotter than pleasure, sharper than surprise. For one perfect moment, you see him recalibrate—like a knife bending under pressure and realizing it liked the strain.

And then, just behind you, the air shifts again.

Even colder now.

“Elevated neural resistance,” Dabura says softly. “Limbic override response. Self-directed arousal—volitional. That’s… rare.”

You don’t turn to him.

You feel him.

Closer now, impossibly so. And cataloguing, measuring the flick of your pulse beneath your skin, the damp at your inner thighs, the way your muscles tighten with every breath you try to control.

The warm one hasn’t moved.

But his thumb is still at your lip.

He presses it in. Just a little.

Testing.

So you open your mouth wider.

But not to take it in. Oh no.

To speak.

To destroy.

“I’ve had worse between my legs,” you murmur around his touch. “Demons who didn’t just talk about hunger. They fed.”

Behind you—stillness.

Then the soft, wet sound of breath catching in a throat that shouldn’t need to breathe.

Sukuna laughs.

But it’s not amusement now—it’s darker.

His hand drops from your face like it burns him.

And it might.

The heat in the chamber—artificial or not—coils through your blood like an invocation. Your skin slicks, yes. Your nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of whatever this rag is. Your cunt pulses, aching and empty. But your spine holds.

You look between them now. Sukuna to your front, breathing a little faster, jaw tight. Dabura at your back, his presence cold, steady, watching the heat between you like it’s data he’ll savor later.

You bare your teeth.

“Stop talking like you’re in control,” you say to the space between them. “I’ve felt leashes before. This doesn’t feel like one. This—” You gesture to the room, to your own body, glistening and flushed. “This feels like you’re the ones slipping.”

Silence.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow.

Dabura doesn’t move.

But the walls do.

Just a pulse.

A twitch in the dark arteries running along the ceiling, thicker now, more swollen with luminescent power. The air’s heavier. Wet-sweet.

Your thighs flex.

You feel it. Every beat. Every tremble. You feel them reacting.

You take one step forward.

They don’t.

You lick your lips slowly and drop your voice to a whisper that cuts like silk on skin:

“Come on, then. Show me what happens when monsters stop hiding behind teeth.”

Sukuna’s hand snaps out and he—

He fucking shudders.

Whole body.

And you see it. All of it. The effort he’s putting into not slamming you against the nearest wall simply because you haven’t asked yet.

Behind you, Dabura’s breath ghosts your shoulder, and this time, you swear you feel his mouth hover just shy of your skin.

You speak to him now.

Quiet. Cruel.

“I bet you’ve been hard since I started talking.”

Another silence. Then:

“…incorrect,” Dabura murmurs. “I was hard before you woke up.”

That stops even Sukuna.

Your laugh is slow. Low. Almost breathless.

And wicked.

“You boys really are fucked.”

Sukuna’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. His shoulders continue to twitch like he’s restraining the urge to pounce. The grin that spreads across his face, and stomach, isn’t cocky anymore—it’s something worse. Something darker. A vow.

Behind you, Dabura doesn’t move at all.

Which somehow feels worse.

The silence stretches just long enough for your pulse to make itself known again, loud in your ears, dragging heat through your veins like a slow burn. You’re aware of your body in pieces—your midline exposed, your spine taut, the damp warmth between your thighs that you refuse to acknowledge as anything other than fuel.

Sukuna takes a single step closer.

Claiming distance.

“You think this is about scaring you?” he says quietly. His voice has changed—lost some of its mockery, gained something heavier. “About snapping your spine and seeing how you scream?”

His hand lifts, hovering near your waist without touching. You feel it anyway, the energy cascading along your skin like a threat that knows it doesn’t need to land to hurt.

“I don’t need fear,” he continues. “Fear’s cheap.”

His fingers finally brush you—just the backs of them, grazing your hip like an accident—and your body reacts before you can stop it, a sharp inhale that makes his mouth twitch.

“I want you aware.”

A sound escapes you despite yourself, soft, frustrated, and too close to a moan. You hate that he notices. You hate that Dabura notices too.

The cold presence at your back shifts, subtle as a knife sliding free of a sheath.

“Awareness achieved,” Dabura murmurs. His voice is close now, somehow closer than before, and when you glance sideways you see him watching the place where Sukuna’s fingers brushed you, eyes intent, unreadable. “She’s calibrating.”

Sukuna snorts. “You talk like she’s a machine.”

“And you talk like she’s prey,” Dabura replies calmly. “Neither is accurate.”

That does it.

Sukuna turns on him, heat flaring sharp and sudden, but you move before either of them can. You step forward—right into the space between them—and the shift is immediate. The chamber reacts with a low pulse thrumming through the floor.

Your voice is steady when you speak.

“You both keep talking about me like I’m not standing right here.”

They stop.

Both of them.

Sukuna looks down at you, eyes narrowed, something dark and intent burning behind them. Dabura’s gaze flicks to your face, then your throat, then your mouth— always just tracking, measuring, listening.

You tilt your head, slow, baring your throat in challenge.

“If you want to earn anything,” you say quietly, “start by paying attention.”

The silence that follows is almost reverent.

Sukuna exhales through his nose, a low sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so tight. “Shit,” he mutters. “You’re trouble.”

“Confirmed,” Dabura says. “She’s exerting dominance through self-directed vulnerability.”

You roll your eyes, even as heat curls low in your gut. “You ever try just saying what you mean?”

Dabura considers that.

“I mean,” he says, stepping closer behind you, his presence cooling the air along your spine, “that you are inviting pursuit without yielding control. That is… inefficient.”

Sukuna’s grin finally snaps back into place, sharp and wicked. “And I mean,” he adds, leaning in, voice dropping to a murmur meant only for you, “that I really want to see how long you can keep that up.”

His hand slides to your wrist, anchoring you there. Grounding.

You feel the tremor of restraint in his fingers and smile before you can stop yourself.

Dabura notices.

Of course he does.

He steps closer still, until you’re boxed in by heat and cold, by hunger and calculation. His breath ghosts the shell of your ear.

“You’re enjoying the tension,” he says softly. “The delay. The anticipation.”

You swallow. Slowly.

“Maybe,” you admit. “Or maybe I’m seeing which one of you cracks first.”

Sukuna laughs, low and dangerous. “Bold strategy.”

Dabura’s voice lowers. “Ill-advised.”

Neither of them moves to touch you again.

They don’t need to.

The room is alive now, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, the air syrup-thick with scent and heat and something unmistakably ritualistic. You’re not bait anymore.

You’re the axis.

And both of them know it.

Sukuna leans down until his mouth is just shy of your ear.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You keep this up, and we’re gonna start trying a lot harder.”

Dabura’s hand hovers near your spine.

“Earning,” he corrects.

You close your eyes for half a second.

And smile.

---

You can feel both of them waiting. Holding.

Sukuna’s body is a live wire in front of you—soaked in heat, coiled in want, that ever-present smirk gone soft around the edges with something gritted and feral. He’s been circling, posturing, taunting like a wolf raised on thrones and blood—but now?

Now he’s waiting.

Watching.

You open your eyes and tilt your head slightly, toward him.

“I think you’ve forgotten something,” you murmur. “You don’t get to decide when you’ve earned anything.”

His eyes flicker. The shift is subtle, but it’s there.

That gleam of rage being ground down by restraint.

You pivot slowly to Dabura, who’s still behind you.

“You’re both waiting for me to fall.”

Dabura’s voice slides in, a whisper beneath your ribs.

“Incorrect. I’m waiting to see what you become.”

You almost falter.

Almost.

You turn back to Sukuna.

The air between you is molten now, thick with a tension that doesn’t just hover—it presses. It climbs up your legs, curls into your lungs, slicks your thighs with heat.

“You want this?” you say softly.

He doesn't answer.

But his gaze drops—once—to your mouth.

Then lower.

Lower.

To the damp bare place at the apex of your thighs.

And his hands flex. Empty. Itching.

Behind you, Dabura shifts again. You feel his eyes on the back of your neck, mapping the sweat, the tension, the tight line of your spine.

You inhale through your nose. Exhale slow.

And then—

Without looking away from Sukuna—you reach down.

Just a palm.

Flat.

Over the heat between your legs.

Sukuna’s chest rises sharply.

Dabura’s breath hitches—audibly.

And you let your fingers curl just slightly against yourself.

Just to touch the wetness that exists there.

Just to remind them what’s at stake.

Their reactions are instant.

Sukuna’s stance breaks—his knees bending slightly, like the force of watching you ground your own heat in front of him nearly takes him down without a word. His hands twitch at his sides like he's one heartbeat away from losing every shred of performative control. He doesn’t blink. He can’t.

Behind you, Dabura doesn’t speak, but something shifts in the air. You feel it in the drag of his breath, the way it no longer flows smooth and even. You’ve disturbed him. Fractured the perfect order in his chest. He is no longer measuring you.

He is experiencing you.

And that is the final proof.

You lift your chin, palm still pressed between your thighs, and you smile again, deeper this time. You look at both of them, not as opponents, not even as threats, but as creatures waiting.

Waiting for permission to act.

You inhale, slow and steady, and let it linger on the edge of a whisper:

“I shouldn’t have to ask.”

Their silence is answer enough.

And so you speak.

Unshakable.

“Kneel.”

The word lands like gravity shifting. A ripple tears through the chamber’s breath. It hits Sukuna first—he doesn’t resist it, not even for pride. His knees crash to the stone like his body has been dragged there, spine stiff, chest heaving, mouth parted as if he can taste your command still hanging in the air. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even grin. He looks up at you like you’ve ripped something primal out of him.

Dabura follows, steady as ever. His descent is a ritual. Deliberate. He kneels as though it was always going to happen. As though the shape of your voice sealed it long before you ever said the words.

And now—

They are both there.

One seething.

One silent.

Their shoulders bowed. Their eyes lifted.

---

The room exhales.

Or maybe it’s you.

And for the first time since you woke in this hell-chamber pulsing with scent and shadow, something clicks into place beneath your skin.

This was never about escape.

It was about invocation.

You didn’t walk into a trap.

You were summoned.

And now the summoners are on their knees, waiting to be told how to worship.

---

You shift your stance, just slightly, one foot forward, the heat between your thighs damp and throbbing. You’re more than ready, but in no particular rush anymore. It’s nice seeing these massive beasts on their knees. Beasts though they were, they were fucking beautiful.

The warm one looks like he's drowning in the scent of you—because he is. That heat he poured into the room, that chemical musk threaded into the air like a drug—you’ve turned it back on him. You can see it now in his eyes, the flicker of disbelief that he’s the one beneath you. That he’s the one waiting.

The cold one's third eye is glowing faintly, that eerie, wet gleam catching the red-veined light of the chamber, and his expression is impossible to read. He looks... tranquil. And yet, you can feel the pressure rising behind his restraint, the cold precision of him coming undone from the inside out.

You don’t speak.

You wait.

The warm one is first to move.

Of course he is.

You feel his gaze climb your body like a hand wrapped in silk and teeth. It drags from your ankles to your knees, your thighs, lingering where the slick has started to drip down from your center. His jaw flexes. His lips part. He leans in just enough to inhale you, to drag the scent of your heat into his lungs like it might choke him, and it nearly does.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, voice low and rough, buried under restraint. “You smell like sin carved into silk.”

You don’t answer. You watch him.

Let him look.

Let him need.

He presses one palm to the ground, then the other, and leans closer—shoulders drawn tight, like a beast crawling toward an offering it hasn’t yet earned. His breath ghosts your inner thigh, and you feel the heat of it there, so close, but he doesn’t touch. Doesn’t dare. He’s seething in place, a growl trapped in a body that obeys your voice more than it obeys its own hunger.

“I could make you sob,” he murmurs, not looking up. “Put my mouth on you and pull those sounds out of you like a curse. One touch, and you’ll forget how to stand.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t soften. You just breathe.

And behind you Dabura shifts again, a cool contrast to Sukuna’s heat, the razor precision to his want.

“I wouldn’t make her sob,” Dabura says quietly. “I’d make her watch. Every breath. Every muscle. Every involuntary twitch of her fingers. I’d show her what it means to know herself from the inside.”

His words land softer, but no less heavy. They slide down your spine like a hand made of ice and intent, curling between your ribs, chilling the heat just enough to make it throb deeper.

You let your other hand drift lazily down your torso.

Sukuna stares. His tongue slides across his lower lip, breath catching when your knuckles brush between your thighs a second time. He moves forward a little too far, forgetting himself—then stops, catches the leash, growls low.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Let me. Just a taste. I’ll prove it.”

Dabura doesn’t move. But you feel his focus lock onto your hand. Onto your heat. Onto your commandment held in that small, merciless gesture. And he speaks like he’s reading scripture from inside your bones.

“She’s testing us. Seeing if we understand the ritual. This isn’t about taking. It’s about showing her why we deserve to give.”

His words make your pulse flutter.

Sukuna mutters something low under his breath, but he doesn’t argue.

You don’t need to tell them to stay where they are. You don’t need to give them more rules. They already know: this is yours to decide.

So you shift your leg forward a little more.

The hem of your garment brushes Sukuna’s cheek as you move, and he groans, pained, desperate to taste but holding, holding, holding. Dabura’s gaze lifts, eyes locked on your face. Waiting.

You look down at them.

Sukuna leans forward—starving.

Dabura’s mouth finally parts.

And you smile.

“Well?”

Your voice is hoarse now, thick with heat and power.

“Show me what kneeling’s good for.”

---

You say it, and the words are still curling off your tongue when they move.

Like dogs loosed from a leash.

Like gods given permission.

Sukuna lunges first.

The heat of his body rolls toward you in a wall, all snarling need and brute grace as he closes the last breath of distance. His hands are on your thighs in an instant, rough and reverent, fingers spreading over your skin like he wants to brand his hands into the flesh. His mouth parts before he reaches you, and his breath, searing hot, spills over the soaked seam at the center of you, making your legs quake.

He growls something guttural. Something worshipful.

“Fuck, you’re—”

But he doesn’t finish.

He drops his mouth.

Tongue first. A broad, sweltering drag up your slit, bottom to top, deliberate as death. It punches the air from your chest in a cry that fractures, your body jerking like your nerves short-circuited. Your hands slam to his shoulders, scrabbling for purchase—and they’re massive. Thick corded muscle shifts under your fingers, tattoos flexing with each movement of his tongue, a beast’s body serving a sacred purpose.

And the man works.

He sucks your clit into his mouth and growls around it like he’s savoring something forbidden, vibrations skimming the bone. His teeth graze, again and again, never breaking skin but threatening to. The way he flicks his tongue—circling, stabbing, flattening—is reckless brilliance. It’s what a virtuoso might do if their instrument was between your legs and the song was obliteration.

It’s messy. Loud. Wet. And so so sloppy.

He makes no attempt to be polite about it. Spit strings, saliva slicks, and your thighs shine with a lewd sheen of his effort. Every sound he rips from you, he devours. He moans into you like your taste is addictive, like it’s breaking something sacred inside him. Like he wants to coat his throat in your slick and let it stain.

He groans with every suck. Slurps as though starving. Grinds his face deeper between your thighs like he wants to choke.

And then—cool air ghosts over your back.

The cold one behind you.

How could you forget.

The shift is magnetic, polar. Sukuna burns below you, devouring—but Dabura arrives like the chill of a night wind, like the final note of a prayer.

He doesn’t rush.

He just places his hands.

One at your lower back. One just beneath your ribs.

Guiding you—forward, gently, onto Sukuna’s mouth. As if you’re the blade and he’s setting you into the whetstone of worship.

And then he moves in closer. Encasing you.

You feel his chest at your back, his breath cool on the nape of your neck, and his voice—so quiet you barely register it as sound—slides into your ear like a thread being pulled through skin.

“Don’t speak,” Dabura murmurs. “Just feel.”

His hand slips beneath your garment. Flat palm against your belly, holding you there. Holding you open. Keeping you steady while Sukuna feasts.

And fuck, does he feast.

He’s beneath you, groaning nonstop now, arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you against his face like he wants to drown in your heat. His tongue plunges—thick and relentless—and when your hips jerk, he growls something feral and sucks harder. Your head falls back, and Dabura catches it in the cradle of his palm.

“Let him work,” he says. “He wants you incoherent.”

“Fuckin' right I do,” Sukuna snarls between licks, voice muffled by your cunt, lips glistening with you. “She talks like she’s untouchable—let’s see how long she lasts with my face buried in her pussy.”

Your throat tightens around a retort.

But then his tongue curls just right—pressure precise, rhythm obscene—and what you meant to say breaks apart on a cry.

“A-ah—!”

Your whole body jolts. Lightning forks through your limbs. Dabura’s hand tightens at your stomach, bracing you while Sukuna growls triumph into your core like he felt it too.

“She’s close,” Dabura says, like a medic reading vitals. Except his voice isn’t clinical. It’s proud now. Because now, he’s shepherding your ruin, inch by inch.

And Sukuna—fuck. He groans, eager, almost joyful. He shifts, drags you tighter, buries his face deeper, mouth working faster, tongue and lips and teeth making you pulse, twitch, cry out—

It’s too much.

Too good.

Too—

“Don’t finish yet,” Dabura commands.

“What?” Sukuna snarls, breath hot and frustrated.

“Let her hold it.”

He obeys.

And it’s torture.

The strokes slow. The suction eases. Sukuna’s tongue traces just off the spot that had you ready to collapse, your hips jerking in desperate confusion. The pleasure doesn’t vanish—it simmers. Builds pressure without release. You feel it gathering, gathering, pressure coiling like a spring with nowhere to go.

Your whole body is trembling.

“She’s right on the edge,” Dabura says, hand tightening at your stomach. “Hold her there.”

Sukuna looks up, face soaked, lip curled in irritation—but he’s panting. Eyes black with need. He doesn’t argue.

And that’s how you know:

They’re not just trying to fuck you.

They’re trying to master you together.

Dabura’s lips brush your ear, his voice nothing but breath now.

“When you cum,” he says, “it won’t be by accident.”

And below, Sukuna grins, tongue dragging slow, deliberate circles still just off the spot you need, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to beg.

---

They’re watching you circle the edge.

Think you're unraveling just the way they planned.

And for a breath, you let them believe it.

You keep your voice quiet. Breath hitching. Your eyelids flutter heavy, lips parted in a trembling pant. Your hips begin those tiny rolls, those subtle, involuntary jerks forward Sukuna's been working for, grinding ever so slightly against the edge of his mouth like you’ve lost the will to resist.

Behind you, Dabura’s hand spreads a little lower over your belly. He steadies you. Or braces you. He thinks you're about to fall.

And then—

You laugh.

Rich and sultry as smoke.

It breaks the rhythm like a whip crack.

Sukuna’s tongue halts mid-flick.

Dabura’s breath catches, sharp.

The whole fucking room stills.

You drop your gaze to Sukuna,down the length of your body, slick and glistening, thighs flexed around his face, and find his eyes staring up, half-lidded. His lips shine. His face is soaked. And for one last heartbeat, you let your hand slide into his hair, gentle, at first. Stroking like praise, petting like you might thank him.

Then you fist it.

Right at the roots.

Hard.

Yanking the pink headed giant towards you as you grind down onto his tongue. Commanding him. Adjusting his angle, forcing his face where you want it. Your thighs flex like a vise, locking him in place. And your voice when it drops is made of pure ruin.

“You’re not making me cum,” you breathe, dragging his mouth tighter against you. “I’m using your fucking face to get off.”

The jolt in Sukuna’s shoulders is an instant full-body flinch of arousal and shock that snaps into his spine. He chokes, fucking chokes on your cunt, and the sound it pulls from him is filthy. The guttural noise vibrates against you as he clamps his hands to your hips and begins to fuck his tongue up into you with wild, red-faced fervor.

You feel the shift from service to submission.

He moans into your slick with helpless devotion, tongue punching and curling and lapping like he’s no longer trying to win but to survive. Like he knows his role now and has accepted it—your seat. Your toy. Your throne.

And the heat that rises in his cheeks is unmistakable.

A flush.

A blush.

Rage tangled with lust, humiliation braided with adoration.

You’ve rebranded his glory.

Turned his power to utility.

Made him yours.

Behind you, there’s a sound. Quiet. A breath, almost silent, but it betrays him.

You glance back.

Dabura is watching. Eyes sharp, lips still, but there’s tension pulsing through him now like barely bridled violence. His composure isn’t shattered, but there’s a fracture. You see it in the clench of his jaw, in the rigid hold of his spine. But mostly you feel it where his palm still presses low and hot to your stomach, fingers twitching once when he sees the way you ride Sukuna’s mouth now.

You own every twist, every pressure point, every slow push of your clit against the exact shape of his mouth that gets you there. Sukuna moans under you like he’s fucking dying, like the slick drip of your arousal onto his chin is absolution.

And Dabura is studying it all.

Watching you fuck his control out from under him.

He’s flushed a bit too.

A bloom of color creeping up his throat. A pulse flicking under the skin. The beginnings of sweat at his temple—barely there—but you see it.

And grin.

You look at him first flashing teeth and heat and feral triumph, then down again, dragging Sukuna’s hair tighter in your fist as you grind forward once, hard. A stroke that forces a wet, sloppy groan out of him that you ride all the way through.

Your voice cuts through the space between all three of you.

“Earn it,” you murmur. “I want you both red in the face by the time I’m finished.”

And the pink one below does something that shocks you.

He whimpers.

A hoarse, breathless noise that sounds like a man shattered, and eager to be broken more.

You feel the quake start in his fingers, feel the stuttering inhale through his nose as he redoubles his efforts—tongue thrashing, lips sucking, nose nudging just perfectly beneath your clit as if he’s trying to drown in the scent and taste and feel of you.

And behind you, Dabura moves. Finally.

Silently.

He crouches in behind you like a shadow folding in on itself. You feel the cool press of his chest at your back, the steady inhale of his breath as his hands resettle, one pressing lower on your belly, the other gliding between your ass and thighs, where Sukuna’s mouth is already wrecking you.

And then—

He touches.

Fingertips slide into the slick mess where Sukuna laps, parting your folds just slightly, barely intruding, just enough to make every nerve between your legs light up like fire meeting frost. And it's.. perfect. Cool and careful, an echo of precision next to Sukuna’s animal devotion.

Sukuna jerks.

He breaks rhythm. Lashes his tongue once, hard, then snarls into you, voice shredded.

“Don’t—fuck—don’t take her from me—”

“I’m not,” Dabura murmurs, low and patient, like a man correcting a child. His voice drips over your ear like warm wax. “I’m assisting.”

And fuck—is he.

Dabura’s fingers trace slow, devastating circles just outside the point of penetration, never rushing. He gathers slick with measured strokes, dragging it between his knuckles, mapping the folds Sukuna’s mouth is buried in. It’s obscene. It’s methodical. And it works.

Sukuna groans. Long, low, shattered. His hips jerk beneath you, grinding into nothing, cock leaking in time with the moans he’s swallowing from your cunt. You feel him twitch under your thighs like he’s so hard he might split open. And yet—he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. His tongue fights to keep pace even as Dabura’s fingers make a new rhythm alongside him.

And you—

You fucking gasp.

Too much attention. Too much heat. Too many skilled hands and mouths all moving together in synchronized worship of you. One tongue dragging filthy, wet circles into your clit, mouth open and moaning into you. One hand tracing wetness with impossible precision, fingers never quite entering but always threatening to.

Your thighs are seizing. Your lungs can’t catch up. Your whole body is drawing tighter, tighter—

You tilt your head back—no control left. It lands on Dabura’s shoulder.

He exhales against your temple.

And speaks:

“Now you’re the altar,” he whispers. “Let us pray.”

His fingers slide in.

Slow.

Two of them, cool and knuckle-deep, curling endlessly with flawless aim, finding that place inside you that’s already desperate. He presses. Sukuna’s tongue flattens against your clit. The combination is unholy.

And you break.

The orgasm hits like lightning. Violent and sudden, an electrical surge through your whole nervous system that wipes every thought in your skull. Your back arches, mouth wide in a cry that doesn’t even sound human. A ragged, high-pitched ah-h-hhngghhh!! tears out of you as every muscle clenches, ripples, convulses. Your thighs snap tighter around Sukuna’s head as he groans into your release, devouring it like he was born for this moment. His mouth chases every pulse, every spasm, every drop.

Dabura’s fingers don’t stop. He slows them, yes, but he stays inside. Holding you through it. Stroking you with gentle insistence that turns the crash into a series of violent aftershocks. Each little tremble becomes another high. Another ripple.

Your knees buckle.

And they catch you.

Sukuna stays kneeling, his arms now locked around your thighs, his forehead pressed to your inner thigh, breath ragged against your skin. His face is fucking ruined. Soaked. Shining. And smiling in worshipful hunger.

Dabura is still behind you. Still inside you. Still holding your belly like something sacred, his chest now warm against your spine. You swear his breath is shaky now. He’s not untouched by this.

Neither of them are.

They’re both panting.

They think they’ve done enough.

That they’ve served.

And maybe, for a moment, your body agrees—quaking and damn near electric with aftershocks.

But your mind?

Your will?

Still aching.

And it shows on your face when you lean forward, hand still tangled in sweat-darkened hair, your chest rising and falling like you’ve run miles.

You grin.

Knowing.

A queen in the moment before she opens her throat to drink what the gods offer her.

And you whisper—voice barely there—

“...more.”

The word lands like a spell.

The one beneath you makes a sound that’s almost pain—half moan, half growl, buried in your cunt like he wants to die there. His fingers dig in tighter. His head moves forward, mouth open and wet, tongue dragging slow and needy against your oversensitive skin.

He groans, mouth flooded with you, and still—he licks.

Still—he begs.

But you don’t fall.

Even as the ache builds again, pressure mounting in your core like a struck bell ready to sing, you hold. Your breath is broken. Your knees threaten to give.

And then—

behind you—

he shifts.

The quiet one. The shadow. The scholar of your body.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t give a cue. Doesn’t ask permission. He just descends.

You feel it before you register it. The sudden absence of his chest at your back. The drag of cool breath over your spine as he sinks lower behind you, hands trailing down your sides, hips, thighs, knees, mapping you again but slower this time. Less like he’s preparing for something. More like he’s claiming territory.

And then—he’s lower still.

His breath hovers.

The first kiss lands where no mouth has ever touched you.

Lower.

Between your ass.

Right there.

Over that place you’ve felt stretched thin with wanting.

Your gasp snaps out of you—

Because he knew.

The quiet one.

The patient one.

The one who traced every tremble and catalogued every clench and read every pulse like scripture. He knew. Knew what you’d hidden. Knew what you hadn’t voiced. Knew where to place his mouth as if he'd read it on your skin days before you arrived.

His hands part you like pages.

And he licks.

Slowwww.

A broad stroke from his tongue, cool and unrelenting, sliding through your most private heat like it belongs to him.

You gasp again.

Louder.

Your spine arches, your head tips, and your mouth opens, but no words come. Just breath.

The third gasp is a moan—long, rising, too loud, too honest. Your thighs shake.

Below, Sukuna groans.

The sound vibrates against your clit; jealousy and desperation tangled into a single animal snarl. His tongue starts to move faster, harder. Sloppier. It loses rhythm, becomes furious in its hunger, as though he thinks he’s being replaced. He isn’t.

He’s being joined.

But you...

You are split.

One tongue lavishing your clit with the fury of a man wrecked, circling and flicking and sucking like a drowning man grasping for breath.

One tongue pushing between your cheeks with perfect, clinical pressure—like he's building you, like you’re a spell he’s activating one syllable at a time.

You are beyond open now.

Beyond feeling full.

Your body can’t decide what to tense for.

Sukuna’s mouth clamps tighter, lips sliding up and over your clit with abandon, every breath he exhales soaked in you. His moans turn pitiful. He’s trying to reclaim territory, to drag your focus back down with brute force.

And behind—

Dabura moves with precision. Each stroke of his tongue is exact, thorough. Circles, laps, presses, all of it calibrated. He’s tasting you like you’re forbidden. Like you are his. A temple with a door no one else has entered. And the hum that vibrates from his mouth as he sinks his tongue inside—fuck—that shakes you from within.

Your whole body jolts.

Your voice splinters into a sound you don’t recognize, somewhere between a cry and a plea. Your hands shake. Your legs are quaking, barely holding their place over Sukuna’s face.

The man beneath you grunts—a desperate, broken sound. His grip on your thighs tightens until you feel fingernails. He's groaning now, panting, rhythm broken and furious, like he’s hurting with how bad he needs you to cum. But he’s losing himself. You feel it. He’s not close to orgasm.

He’s close to breaking.

You lift your chin.

Your voice cuts through the tension like silk dragged through broken glass.

“Don’t stop.”

And they don’t.

They don’t even hesitate.

The pink beast groans like he’s just been granted. Permission? Purpose? Salvation? It doesn’t matter. He dives. There’s no gentling. No winding down. His tongue plunges back into your folds with the reckless hunger of a man who thinks if he laps hard enough, deep enough, fast enough—he can resurrect the orgasm you just gave him.

He’s wrong.

Because you’re already past resurrection.

You’re on fire.

His lips fasten around your clit again with brutal intent, sucking hard, tongue flicking with slurred abandon through the slick he’s already made a mess of. He’s not licking to please anymore.

He’s licking to conquer.

To break you.

And fuck—your body lets him.

You cry out, sharp and shocked, like it caught you off guard. It did. You weren’t supposed to be ready again, not this fast, not while your lungs still ache from the last quake. But your hips roll anyway. Your cunt pulses. Your clit screams against the pressure. You’re not backing away from the edge. You’re slamming toward it.

And behind you?

The quiet one moves with the same measured silence as before.

His hands return like ghosts made solid—one spreading your ass wide, the other anchoring you with terrifying calm at your lower back, pressing down like a divine seal. Holding you in place. Holding you open.

But now there’s no pretense of patience.

Then—

His tongue.

Again.

But not how it started.

This time, he goes deeper.

Not just purposeful, downright invading.

He presses in past where you thought tongues could go, licking with that same unshakable control, that terrifying knowledge of how to unravel you one nerve at a time. There’s no teasing. No fluttering touch. It’s penetration now. Fucking obscene.

And you whimper.

You moan.

It keeps going. Keeps filling you.

You shudder so hard your arms nearly give out, hands scrabbling for anything to hold. Anything to ground you while your body turns to lightning between their mouths.

One mouth is sucking your clit like it’s punishment. Like you dared to cum once and now he’s mad about it. His sounds are wet and loud, tongue flicking fast enough to blur, jaw flexing as he chases your pulse. There’s nothing gentle left in him. He’s lashing you with pleasure.

The other—

His tongue fucks you.

That’s what it is now.

Fucking.

Measured, strong strokes that push into you from behind with devastating calm. Dabura’s mouth doesn’t shake. Doesn’t groan. But you feel the control in every second. He’s not trying to bring you over.

He’s trying to own how you fall.

And your body?

Your vicious, sacred, betraying body?

Receives it all.

You rock helplessly between them, thighs burning, ass flexing, back arched in a perfect curve of surrender and power and need. You can’t tell if you’re trying to ride Sukuna’s face or fuck yourself back onto Dabura’s tongue. It doesn’t matter.

You're theirs.

Your hands claw at hair and horns, nails raking, breath a sob caught between pleasure and disbelief.

Because you feel it.

That second orgasm.

Already rising. Already climbing before the first has even faded. This one burns hotter. Hurts more. Your chest tightens. Your lungs seize. Your vision flashes white at the edges.

“F-Fuck—fuck—fucking don’t stop—”

You scream it.

And they dive.

Sukuna growls into your cunt, fingers digging bruises into your thighs as his mouth gets messier—milking the orgasm straight from your soul. You feel spit and slick running down your knees, feel his teeth graze your skin as he moans without shame.

And Dabura?

He moans too.

Cold and hot at the same time.

And his massive alien tongue slowly fucks into you with the kind of composure that terrifies. Because he’s not being overwhelmed.

He’s orchestrating this.

He knows exactly what your body is doing.

Exactly how many seconds are left before it detonates.

And it does.

You snap.

Your entire body locks. Ribs heaving, spine arched, hands clawing, thighs convulsing as the second orgasm tears through you like a seizure. You can’t even scream. Your mouth opens but nothing comes. Just air. Just a high, broken gasp as your vision whites out and your hips rock back into Dabura’s mouth, then forward again into Sukuna’s.

You cum so hard you feel it in your teeth.

Your ass shudders. Your cunt pulses. Every muscle twitches. Your limbs go weak.

And you collapse.

But they don’t let you fall.

Sukuna’s hands stay clamped to your thighs, holding you in place as he keeps licking, chasing the aftershocks like a dog gnawing bone. He’s moaning, whining into your clit, slurping every last pulse out of your body.

Dabura’s arms slide around your hips, pulling you back into him. Insistent as hell. You feel his tongue still moving, fucking endlessly into you, tracing the very edges of your oversensitivity.

You twitch.

You twitch again.

They don’t stop.

And when your voice finally staggers back up your throat, it’s wrecked.

“Y-you—f-fuck—I can’t—”

But the one behind you finally speaks again.

“You said don’t stop.”

And the one beneath you laughs.

It’s thick. Rasping. Muffled against your dripping cunt.

And then he says:

“Take it. Let’s see what happens when you can’t.”

You try to answer, to say something—anything—but all that escapes is a whimper strangled behind your teeth.

You can’t respond.

Not when your hips keep rolling down into their mouths like they’ve got their own will, not when every nerve in your spine is short-circuiting.

The one below licks you again—slow and obscene, flat tongue dragging from the mess of your hole all the way to your swollen clit, and your entire torso seizes up with a cry.

“Shit,” Sukuna groans, like he just swallowed your name. “Didn’t even touch my cock. You’re doin’ it for me. Just sittin’ up there, cummin’ in my mouth like a fucking altar whore.”

The words hit like fire, vulgar and perfect, and split something in you wide open.

You whimper again.

Not even from embarrassment.

From how wet it makes you.

And he knows.

His grin is audible, even muffled by your cunt, his nose buried in the slick folds, breath hot and ragged.

“Yeah, you like that,” he pants, and then he’s licking again, sloppy circles around your clit, tongue fast and off-rhythm like it’s driving him crazy too. “You want more, don’t you? Wanna get used so hard you forget your name.”

You try to speak. Your mouth opens. Your lips tremble around some broken shape.

And then—

Fingers.

Behind you.

Dabura.

Two fingers slide into your soaked heat without hesitation, parting your folds with mechanical elegance, slipping in with a devastating ease that makes your body jerk. You weren’t ready—not for more, not for this, and he doesn’t even press deep.

Yet.

He curves them. Just slightly. Just enough to find that spot. The one Sukuna’s tongue keeps pummeling from above. The one you didn’t know was even real until they started treating your body like a map they’d studied in silence.

The sound that leaves your throat isn’t human.

A strangled cry cuts from your lungs and echoes through the air, splitting itself in half as your whole body bows.

“Beautiful,” Dabura murmurs behind you, low and clinical, but you hear it. The reverence, as if he’s cataloging divinity. “Her contractions are still peaking. The muscles haven’t released yet. She’s still cumming.”

And you are.

You are.

The wave hasn’t even finished, and your body’s already surrendering again, slick and begging without words.

Tears sting your eyes. From capacity. From the sheer magnitude of sensation. You can’t take more.

But you dont get to breathe.

Because then, Sukuna goes feral.

He laughs, unhinged—and that alone is enough to make you twitch again. Then his mouth seals around your clit and sucks. Hard. A violent drag that slams straight through your core like a lightning strike.

At the same time, he pushes his own fingers in—beside Dabura’s.

No warning.

No mercy.

You shatter.

The stretch is incomparable.

Your hips snap forward, locked between tongues and fingers and pressure that shouldn’t fit but does, stretched open so wide you forget what it felt like to be empty. Sukuna’s fingers are thick and brutal, knuckles grinding against your front walls while Dabura’s stay curled, and deep, stroking that inner point like he’s tuning you with surgical precision.

They’re both inside you now.

Working together.

“Fucking hell,” Sukuna growls, voice warped with arousal and something else. “She’s squeezing like she wants it—look at that. Ya' feel it? She likes when we fight inside her.”

The one behind groans.

“Pressure is increasing. Depth tolerance rising.”

Sukuna grins.

“Oh, she’s greedy, huh?” he huffs, dragging his mouth to your thigh to bite, the sting so sharp you yelp. “You hear that, baby? You’re not done. Not even close. You just came, n' your greedy little cunt is pulling us in.”

“F-fu—” Your voice cracks.

You don’t even know what you’re trying to say anymore.

You sob.

But your body does.

Your hips roll again. Your knees buckle. You’re straddling Sukuna’s mouth like it’s your throne, like you’ve lost the ability to do anything else, and you can feel the hands anchoring you: one on each thigh, each wrist, each hip, keeping you spread, shaking, devoted.

And your voice?

It spills. Unstoppable now.

And loud.

“Ah—f-fuck—oh my—don’t—don’t stop—more—there—right there—”

It’s a cascade of music to the monster's ears.

Each syllable cracking at the edges, your breath a wreck between them, every moan stacked over the last until they collapse into full-throated, throat-torn screams.

Every sound you make is an offering.

And they’re on their knees, mouths open, fingers deep, praying to you.

Until your third orgasm slams into you.

Still spreading your thighs wider, grinding their palms into the shaking flesh to keep you steady—

And your voice

Breaks.

You don’t scream this time, you sing.

One long, cracked, raw-throated exhale that ends in a sob. Your entire body snaps taut, then collapses, spasming between them. You feel the flood between your legs, the wet heat soaking Sukuna’s face as he groans, tongue still moving.

Fingers keep thrusting.

Dabura’s voice, calm as ever, drifts up your spine:

“She’s still seizing. Hold her.”

And they do.

Hands strong. Tongues relentless.

---

You’re screaming.

And they drink it.

They drink every broken cry like it’s proof of divinity, like the sound alone is enough to keep them kneeling forever.

You don’t just cum this time.

You rupture.

There’s no clean rise and fall, no neat arc of pleasure.

And still—

they stay rooted inside you.

Two pairs of fingers moving with merciless coordination. One set curled just right, stroking that spot that makes your vision spark white, dragging the orgasm out of you like silk being pulled from your lungs, long and unending. The other pushes even deeper now, stretching you wider, molding you from the inside out. The pressure almost unbearable, but your body opens anyway, greedy and helpless and aching for it.

Two mouths.

One at your clit—relentless. Sukuna’s laughing now, actually laughing, breathless and wrecked, like he lives for the way your scream changes pitch when he swirls his tongue just a fraction slower, then faster, then mean. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows you’re past mercy. He likes it.

The other mouth roams—your thighs, the outside of your hips, the curve of your waist, your spine. Dabura’s lips brush and press, almost gentle, but never neutral. Every kiss claims. Every touch marks territory, even when it feels like comfort.

A ragged, desperate sound clawed up from somewhere deep in your gut, ugly and honest.

And that—that—is when they both groan.

Like you just spoke a sacred word.

“Keep crying,” Sukuna pants against your cunt, fingers fucking you harder now, curling in brutal time with his tongue. The sounds fill the chamber. “Fuck. Let me see what it looks like when you fall apart for real.”

Behind you, Dabura presses closer, his body a solid line of muscle at your back, your spine arching helplessly into his chest. Your head tips back against his shoulder, throat exposed, nowhere to go but down—between their hands, their mouths, their worship.

“She’s shaking,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, voice calm but thick with something dark. “She can’t stop.”

“I won’t stop,” Sukuna snarls, feral now. “She wanted this—she asked for it. So we give it. All of it.”

And they do.

One hand thrusts into you hard now, soaked and slick, pumping with obscene force, every push rubbing you raw in the best, worst way. The heel of his palm grinds into your clit, merciless, the sound of skin on skin echoing wet and loud between your thighs.

The other hand slides behind you again—cool fingers spreading you wide, exposing every oversensitive nerve—

And then his tongue.

Gods.

You shouldn’t feel anything anymore.

That alien tongue again, back there, slower now. Deeper. Almost soothing, deliberate strokes that make your whole body melt even as the front of you is being ravaged. It’s wrong. It’s impossible.

It’s like he’s calming your nerves while Sukuna sets them on fire.

You should be numb.

But instead—

You swell.

Another pressure blooms low in your belly, sharp and sudden, stealing what little breath you have left. There’s no space to recover.

They hold you right there.

At the peak.

Suspended.

Like wolves pinning down a kill that just won’t die.

You writhe. Your hips jerk uncontrollably, fucking their fingers and faces without meaning to. Sweat slicks your skin. Your thighs are beyond soaked, shaking so hard they barely hold you up. Your toes curl until your calves cramp. Your mouth hangs open, drool slipping down your chin as you sob and moan and gasp all at once.

Your eyes burn.

Tears spill.

And they see.

Dabura groans softly into your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumb brushing your nipple in slow, deliberate strokes, as he memorizes the way each sob changes the rhythm of your body.

“She’s crying,” he breathes. “She’s not stopping.”

Sukuna looks up.

His face is ruined—glistening, mouth red and swollen, eyes blown wide and obsessed like he’s staring at a miracle.

“Fucking holy.”

He spits into your cunt.

Spits.

Just once.

And then he fucks it in deeper with two relentless fingers.

You scream.

Your third orgasm hasn’t even finished tearing through you and you’re cumming again. Harder. A violent shudder rips up your spine, snapping your voice clean in half. The sound dies in your throat, replaced by a whimper.

Your whole body seizes.

And still—

They. Don’t. Stop.

One mouth licks you through it, slow and merciless.

The other fucks you through it, fingers sliding deeper, one curling, one spreading you open wider than you thought possible.

And your voice—

You scream again, but it’s ruined now. Fragmented. The words fall apart as they leave your mouth.

“F-fuck—fuck, it’s too much—I c-can’t—can’t—please, please I’m—I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna take it,” Sukuna growls against your clit, tongue never slowing. “You’re gonna fucking cum again. Right now.”

“Just breathe,” Dabura whispers at your ear, voice smooth, unyielding. “Let it happen. We’re not going to stop until you shake yourself hollow.”

And you do.

You shake.

You break.

You come apart completely—body emptied of anything but sensation, sound, and their hands holding you together while they pull you through it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

---

You expect them to stop.

They don’t.

Instead, the one in front groans against your soaked cunt, dragging his tongue up through the mess and laughing, absolutely delighted.

“Fuck—still twitchin’,” he pants, face slick with you, voice wrecked from devotion. “How the fuck are you still—still this tight?”

You try to answer—but you can’t.

You’re keening from the overstimulation.

And they still don’t slow.

Not when your screams shatter into nothing but gasps.

Not when your limbs lock for the fourth time, muscles pulled so tight you shake without moving.

Not even when your throat collapses around the breath you can't catch and your cheeks burn with the heat of salt and tears.

Because this has never been about your limits.

It’s about devotion.

Their devotion.

The sacred, endless kind.

Dabura’s tongue is still drilling into you from behind—longer than any tongue should be, curling inside a place untouched by human mouths. His tongue spirals, and searches. His grip on your hips is inhumanly steady, as if he’s recording the topography of your ruin. Every twitch. Every clench. Every flutter of overstimulated muscle is measured and used.

In front of you—Sukuna’s mouth is sealed to your cunt like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He’s past rhythm now. There’s no technique. Just need. He growls into your clit every time your hips twitch, every time your body tries to flinch away from sensation it cannot contain. His teeth graze, just enough to make your breath catch in sobs.

And his fingers—

Still fucking you.

Still absolutely devastating.

Driving home with a rhythm so merciless it becomes scripture, hammering that spot that makes sees stars and your legs seize like they’ve forgotten how to stand.

And still—

They.

Don’t.

Fucking.

Stop.

Even when your body sags, your spine curving downward like a marionette finally letting go.

Even when your voice shatters, first to whispers, then to nothing at all.

Even when your vision fractures white, splitting into pieces, like light breaking against glass.

You’re slipping.

And they want it.

No, they need it.

This is the moment they’ve worked for.

Not your climax.

Your ascension.

“Don’t you fucking go quiet on me,” Sukuna snarls suddenly, voice wrecked, wild, soaked in spit and cunt and purpose. His mouth rips away just long enough to bite your inner thigh—hard—the shock slicing into you like lightning.

You scream.

And behind you—

Dabura moves.

He plunges.

His tongue pushes deeper than it has, a slow, pervasive press that feels like he’s trying to reach through you. Like he heard the signal. Like he was waiting for the final tremble, the final cry, the sacred noise that gives him permission to take you all the way out.

Your entire body seizes.

It isn’t like before though.

This isn’t climax.

It’s fucking apocalypse.

“...She’s slipping,” the one behind murmurs, still deep inside you, still stroking with gentle, sacred precision.

The orgasm that hits is a detonation.

The one in front pauses—then presses a kiss to your trembling inner thigh.

“Let her,” he whispers. “She’s transcending.”

You scream again, but it’s fractured, thin and breaking apart as your whole body locks, writhes, and shudders violently. Your jaw drops. Your back arches—cracks—and your thighs clamp tight around Sukuna’s head like a death grip.

And he fucking moans.

Like you’re blessing him.

Like suffocating on your cunt is some kind of holy communion.

But your mind—

Your mind is gone.

Your mouth is still open.

But nothing comes, because the white hits.

Oblivion.

It floods through you like a storm of silence. Every sound, every thought, every breath is stripped from you. You don’t cum. You die and rise again.

Your body arches one final time, held in place by their hands like you're something precious they’re terrified to let go of—and then you drop.

But they don’t.

They don’t pull out.

They don’t move away.

Sukuna’s fingers are still buried inside you, his tongue lazily dragging over your clit like he’s still feeding. Dabura’s tongue is still nestled deep, inhumanly still, like he’s waiting to see if your soul will return to your body or stay wrapped around him.

You’re motionless.

A temple broken by its own god.

And they wait.

Kneeling.

Pressed to you.

Breathing your breath.

Savoring your aftershocks.

Until your eyes open again.

And they can worship you all over again.

[syles-off-duty]

Deranged!Giyuu POV x f!reader

A/n: a warm-up exercise in depravity, trying to play around with what it would look like in him. shrine giyuu 2.0 will be sicker.

Cw: slightly NSFW, he's pretty weird in this, obsessive/possessive/slightly feral for you.

The fan clicks softly in the far corner of the room, slicing the heat into long, slow waves that never quite reach the bed. Your skin is warm under the sweat-soaked sheet, damp in places where he touched you last—his mouth, his fingers, the slow, obscene drag of his tongue against the soaked panel of your underwear until you trembled through your third orgasm and slurred his name like prayer.

Now you’re out cold.

Properly gone. The kind of sleep that only comes when your body’s been wrung out. Breath shallow. Lips parted just enough to let it slip out warm.

Your body has gone loose in that way it only does when it trusts the space it’s in completely, when it believes nothing bad can happen to it here.

That belief sits heavy in his chest.

The blanket has slipped low on your back. Sweat glistens faintly along the curve of your spine, catching the low light like oil on water. He could trace every line of you in the dark. He doesn’t need to see you to know where everything is.

Giyuu lies beside you, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

He isn’t tired.

He never is after he’s had you like that.

The hunger doesn’t go away when he finishes with you. It just sharpens. It condenses into something denser, heavier, coiled tight behind his ribs. Something that wants to watch more than it wants to touch.

His cock is still hard.

He hasn’t touched himself yet. He hasn’t even taken off his clothes. His haori hangs wrong on his shoulders, half shrugged down his arm, the fabric twisted from earlier when you’d grabbed him and pulled him closer. His pants press tight against him, the seam a constant, abrasive reminder every time he breathes too deep or shifts even an inch.

He lets the ache sit there.

Lets it throb.

He doesn’t touch himself.

---

Your thigh has fallen open in your sleep — careless, delicious. The cotton between your legs is thin and pale, stretched just enough that he can see the dark shadow of your cunt beneath it. The place where it dried sticky after he’d finished with you. Where your slick has clung to the fabric, caught between your folds, still tangled there.

His throat tightens.

He imagines reaching out — not even touching skin. Just sliding a knuckle along the seam. Nudging the cotton back where it’s already stuck to you. Letting the friction do the work.

You’d twitch.

You always do.

Your breath would hitch first. Then your hips would tilt up, slow and stupid, chasing something you don’t even know you’re chasing yet. Your thighs would try to close after the fact, muscles remembering him too late.

You do that thing when you’re half-asleep. The little roll of your hips. The way your body gives itself away before your brain catches up.

He watches it every time.

Tonight, he’s harder than usual.

Something about the way you begged earlier... muffled into your palm, trying to be good while your body fell apart anyway. The way your thighs shook when he pried them open and held them there. The way you tried to close them and couldn’t.

That was new.

He thinks about doing it again.

Waking you with his mouth.

Pinning your hips down with his forearms while he licks you through that already-soaked cotton until you’re twitching in your sleep, making soft, broken sounds that tell him you're dreaming of him.

He wouldn’t stop when you woke.

Wouldn’t ask.

He’d keep going. Slower. Deeper. One long stroke of his tongue dragging through your folds, up against your clit, letting the fabric dull the pressure just enough to make it feel endless.

He likes it like that.

Muted.

Wet.

Unfair.

He shifts behind you, lifting his weight from the futon with the kind of silence most people never notice.

But you would.

You always do.

Just not like this.

Not when you’re wrung out and unconscious, cotton still tacky between your legs from what he already took.

Your back is bare now. The sheet has slipped down your spine, caught at the narrow of your waist. The waistband of your underwear sits crooked on your hips, stretched and damp, clinging where it shouldn’t.

He just stares.

There isn’t a centimeter of you he hasn’t bitten, licked, mouthed, marked but still, he catalogs you like a threat. Muscle. Scar. Old bruise that never quite faded. The slope of your spine. The way your body holds tension even in sleep.

You’re dangerous like this.

Not fragile. Never that.

Strong enough to break him if you wanted. Sharp enough to draw blood. And still you sleep on your stomach in his bed, legs parted just enough to remind him what you’ve given him permission to do when you don’t wake.

---

He places one hand beside your shoulder. Then the other, crawling over you the way he learned to move in the mountains — weight low, body quiet, breath controlled. His cock aches hard and full, untouched, a dull burn he welcomes. He’s not here to fuck you.

He’s here to memorize you again.

His gaze drags over the curve of your neck, the dip at the base of your skull, the ridge of your shoulder blade he’s bitten while you came so hard your voice broke. He could do that again. Sink his teeth in and feel you tense even in sleep.

He leans down.

Presses his nose to your skin.

Breathes you in.

Gods.

You smell like sweat and heat and the faint, dirty sweetness of sex that hasn’t faded yet. Like sleep. Like skin. Like him. His mouth waters before he can stop it.

He drags his mouth along your shoulder, savoring the feeling. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. His breath fogs against you and lingers.

If he opened his mouth, he could bite.

Leave a mark that wouldn’t fade by morning.

If he slid lower, he could press his tongue into the shallow dip of your spine and taste the salt there. He knows exactly how sensitive that spot is — how your hips jerk when he licks it, how you swear every time like it surprises you.

He moves down your body inch by inch.

This isn’t worship.

Worship implies reverence.

This is ownership.

His hand traces the outside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, thumb dragging along the sharp line of muscle you don’t let anyone else touch. Men have tried.

You shut them down.

But you let him.

You always let him.

He wants to pull your thighs apart and drag his teeth along the skin that never sees light. Wants to tongue every old mark and bruise and make new ones beside them. Wants to ruin your legs with his mouth and tell no one.

He palms the back of your thigh.

Squeezes.

Hard.

You don’t wake.

That alone nearly breaks him.

He lowers himself further, mouth hovering over your ass, the curve of your hip, the warm slope of your lower back. Close enough that his breath stirs the fine hairs there.

He could lick you here.

Just once.

Just enough to feel the way your skin twitches, the way your body betrays you even unconscious. He could taste the place where you’re warmest, where no one else has ever been allowed to treat you like this.

And you would let him.

You never push him away.

But he just hovers there.

Doesn’t lick.

Doesn’t bite.

Just thinks.

If I licked her here, she’d melt.

If I bit her, she’d cry.

If I buried my face between her thighs right now, she’d cum before she could beg me to stop.

The thought makes his cock throb in his pants, wet at the tip. He ignores it.

His hunger isn’t about pleasure right now. It’s about control.

He shifts, lets his thumb press into the underside of her thigh, just at the joint where it meets her ass. That hidden spot, the one he likes to squeeze when he’s behind her, holding her steady while she’s already begging. It’s soft there. Vulnerable.

And he’s fixated.

If I held her there while I fucked her from behind, she couldn’t run. Couldn’t squirm. Couldn’t do anything but take it.

And she would.

Even if she cried. Even if she screamed. She’d cum so hard her voice would break.

And I wouldn’t stop.

His fingers twitch.

He could open her up now. Push her thighs apart, bite the curve where her ass rounds into the top of her leg. Use his tongue like a weapon.

She’d taste like sweat and sleep and what he left in her hours ago.

He should be disgusted by that.

He isn’t.

If I spread her open and stared at her long enough, she’d start to wake. She’d feel my breath. My fingers.

She’d pretend to resist, at first. Just to be difficult.

She likes playing at being untouchable.

But when I hold her down, she stops pretending.

His mouth is dry. His cock hurts.

He leans down—nose against her thigh now, dragging in a long, slow inhale like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

She smells like ownership.

He hasn’t even touched his cock tonight.

And he won’t.

Not until he’s made her cum like this. Face down. Asleep. Taken. Ruined before she can speak his name.

And then again when she’s awake.

And again.

And again.

Until she’s crying for him to stop and his voice finally breaks enough to tell her:

“No.”

---

His fingers trail up, slow and firm along your calf.

He doesn’t like your legs because they’re soft.

He likes them because he’s seen them splattered in blood.

Wrapped in bandages. Tight in uniform, loose in sleep. Bent beneath him. Hooked over his shoulders.

But right now they’re bare.

And relaxed.

And stupidly, stupidly vulnerable.

He grips one of your calves in his hand—just once, hard—and watches the way your flesh gives, the way the muscle tenses beneath his palm. He wants to dig his nails into it and leave little crescent marks you’ll find later in the mirror.

He moves up.

The inside of your knee is next. Tender, thinner skin, sensitive.

You’d kick him if he licked you here while you were awake.

You’d squirm. Twitch. Whine.

You hate when he plays. You like when he ravages.

But you’re asleep now.

So he can think it. He can imagine dragging his tongue over that fragile skin, letting it sting when he sucks, the blood rushing just beneath the surface while he whispers nothing and holds you there.

He slides higher.

Your hips.

Not your waist. Not the sweet curve of your belly.

Your fucking hips.

The way your bones stick out a little when you lie on your side. The place where he grips when he’s holding you down. He’s marked them before with bruises from his hands. He remembers pressing your body flat into the floor, pinning you there while you whimpered under the weight of him.

You looked good like that.

You looked claimed.

If he put his mouth there now—right on the crest of bone—he could bite hard enough to make you limp for a day. And when someone asked, you’d lie. You’d say you fell. You’d say it was nothing.

But you’d know.

He moves up your side, his hand flat against your ribs. Counting them.

He’s memorized the length of your torso.

He knows where to press to make you arch.

He knows where your scars are.

He knows where the skin is still untouched.

For now.

He places his mouth an inch above your navel and lets it hover there.

He thinks, slowly:

If I dragged my tongue up from here to your sternum, I could ruin you without even touching your cunt.

If I bit you just below your breast, you'd feel it every time you breathed.

If I sucked a mark under your arm, you'd flinch when your sword arm lifted. You'd hate me for it.

His cock pulses.

He breathes in through his nose.

And moves higher.

---

He should’ve cum already.

His cock’s been aching since he first touched you hours ago.

His pants are wet with it. His thighs twitch every time you breathe differently.

But he hasn’t let himself.

Because cumming would mean ending something, and he doesn’t want this to end.

Not this feeling.

Not this moment.

Not the way you’re asleep and open and ruinable.

Not the way his name would taste if he made you cry it with his tongue in your cunt and his hands bruising your wrists against the baseboard.

He hasn’t even undone his belt.

It’s better this way.

The pressure. The ache. The denial. It makes everything more vivid. It makes you glow under his hands, under his thoughts, under the weight of everything he hasn’t said because words are useless for what he wants.

You smell like sleep and belonging.

You sound like need waiting to be carved out.

You’re twitching in your sleep now—small shifts, the way your body reacts when your mind begins to swim toward waking—and he knows what he should do.

Move.

Stop.

Pull back before your eyes open and you find him like this again, crouched over you like a starving animal, shaking with the weight of what he’s holding in.

But he still doesn’t move.

Because he’s not done.

Your mouth is open, barely. Glossed. Soft. The way it always is when you’re wet between the legs, soaking quietly for him for nearly an hour, just from the pressure of his palm, the weight of his stare, the sick heat of his breath against your ribs.

He wants to ruin your mouth.

He wants to speak into it.

He wants to kiss it so hard your teeth click and then tell you things he’s never said aloud.

Things like:

You don’t know what you do to me.

You don’t understand how much I’ve already decided you don’t get to leave.

You can’t walk away, even if I let you.

He wants to say those things between kisses, or with his tongue halfway down your throat.

He wants you to wake up gagging on him and thankful.

Grateful.

To him.

Because you are.

You would be.

You love this side of him, even when you pretend not to.

You love when he’s silent and mean and slow and doesn’t care if you’re ready.

You love when he talks without speaking, tells you mine with his mouth and his weight and the bruises he never apologizes for.

He’s not going to be able to stop.

Not tonight.

You’ll wake up with him inside you or not at all.

Maybe that’s the answer.

Maybe he wants you to wake up already full. Stretching around him. Hot and tight and confused.

And when your mouth opens to speak, he’ll cover it with his palm. So he can feel your breath break against his skin.

So he can feel what it’s like when you choke on silence.

He leans down—too fast, finally—mouth at your ear, breath shuddering like he’s barely keeping his body from thrusting against you through his clothes.

His voice doesn’t sound like his own when it comes:

“I’m not going to stop.”

A whisper.

A prophecy.

A threat, maybe.

“You’re not going to stop me.”

There’s no need for you to respond. No need for him to explain. This was decided long before you fell asleep. Long before his hands ever learned the shape of you.

He stays where he is.

Weight balanced. Control intact.

Waiting for the exact moment your body gives itself away.

By the time you wake, there will be nothing left to negotiate.

Only placement.

Only restraint.

Only what you are beneath him.

And after that—

Silence.

‐-----------------------‐-----------------------‐-----------------------

Tysm for reading :^)

(More of my weird Giyuu here >< working on part 2)

[syles-off-duty]

hehe be honest. if you got caught looting dragon sylus’ treasure trove, you'd want him to be:

a full fucking dragon. like a really big one.

a six-foot-something smug bastard who thinks hes being merciful but is 10x worse

Voting ended onJan 13

[abyssalaerlocke]

I want the full package

Only liking one of a shapeshifter's forms is like only liking one of a genderfluid's genders :c

[syles-off-duty]

Yep. This.

You’ve somehow captured the exact reason I made the poll in the first place. Couldn’t have worded it better if I tried.

Unfortunately, you've now cursed me with inspiration, which means I will absolutely be writing a saga that spirals far beyond what’s reasonable.

[syles-off-duty]

Instinct Recognition

f!reader x alpha!Kyojuro Rengoku

A/n: kinktober day 15 - omegaverse / choking / possessive sex.

[masterlist here]

Cw: NSFW, abo dynamics/omegaverse, heat suppression, light choking/restraints, fingering, possessive rengoku, you try and run/he stalks you

amazing art by hassy_0225

The sun is low, painting the walkways in amber and long shadow. The Hashira meeting has dispersed, and the grounds hum with quiet movement—messengers, attendants, and a few slayers finishing drills in the garden.

You keep your head down as always. You’re just another Beta-ranked soldier—low enough to go unnoticed, competent enough not to be questioned.

You’ve passed Rengoku before. Seen him from a distance. Heard the booming laugh, the passionate declarations of justice, the heat of his spirit that fills every room he enters like a bonfire.

But today—

Today he’s walking the opposite way down the corridor. Alone.

And as you draw near—

He stops.

You feel it before you see it—the shift. Like the air turns viscous. Thick with tension. Your skin prickles. The hairs on your neck rise. Your heart stutters.

His boot stills mid-step.

You glance up—just a flicker, just instinct—and he’s looking at you.

No. Not just looking.

Locked on.

His entire body has gone still. The way predators go still. That unnatural quiet, muscles tense beneath the surface, poised between recognition and pursuit. His golden eyes are pinned to you, unblinking, wide.

You can’t breathe.

You did everything right today—took the injection early, doubled the blockers. Your scent is flattened to nothing, as dull and uninteresting as the Beta role you’ve spent years performing.

But his nostrils flare—once—like a hound catching a single thread of blood in the snow.

His pupils dilate.

Not just wide.

Predatory.

You step aside politely, bow your head, just like you would with any higher rank, murmuring a soft “Rengoku-sama.”

But he doesn’t move.

He watches you pass like he’s watching something rare and wild that no one else has seen. His head even turns slightly as you go by—tracking you.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

But your every nerve sings. Every instinct screams that something in him just snapped awake. And you feel his eyes on the back of your neck until the corridor ends.

...

Weeks pass.

The sky is grey, but not heavy. Pale light filters down through the wind-tossed canopy, flickering across the stone-paved walkways of the Corps estate. The trees have begun to turn—their edges burnt with gold, rust, blood-red—and every breeze scatters a few more leaves to the earth.

You walk the perimeter alone.

The paperwork from yesterday’s patrol is tucked neatly beneath one arm, your uniform immaculate despite the morning drills. You’ve kept to the edges of the path, close to the retaining wall, careful not to draw attention. The routine is comforting. The rhythm of silence. Of containment.

There’s nothing about you that would warrant a second look. You’ve made sure of it.

Suppression dose: taken early, as always. Expression: neutral. Your entire existence wrapped in clean neutrality. Efficient. Invisible. Beta.

The training yard opens before you—a broad space between buildings, the dirt packed down by years of discipline. A handful of lower-ranked slayers are engaged in drills, the sharp clack of their bokken echoing off stone and wood. A few sparring pairs shift, grunt, strike, correct. It’s not crowded.

But you slow slightly as you cross the open space.

You feel it first.

A subtle hitch in the wind.

Heat.

Attention.

Your eyes flick upward without thinking.

He’s standing beneath the long shadow of the west veranda, partially obscured by the flapping edge of a hanging banner—Rengoku Kyojuro.

And he’s looking at you.

No—he’s watching you.

He isn’t speaking to anyone. Isn’t giving orders. Just… still. Like someone interrupted mid-thought. Like his body remembered something it shouldn’t have.

You falter.

Just for a breath.

You’re not close. There are slayers between you, the ambient noise of training, conversation. There’s no way he could smell anything. No way he could know.

But his eyes are locked to yours with an intensity that doesn’t make sense.

Wide. Sharp. Focused.

You know that look. You’ve seen it before—when predators catch movement in the corner of their vision. When they spot something not quite right in the brush.

His stance is deceptively casual—arms folded, shoulders relaxed—but his gaze pins you. And in that stillness, something in your spine curls tight, ancient and animal.

You force yourself to keep walking. Not fast. Not slow. Not like you're afraid.

Don’t react.

Don’t let instinct show.

You pass across the training yard like you’ve done a hundred times. Dust kicks gently at your boots. A leaf sticks to the edge of your sleeve, and you shake it off, careful, casual.

But you feel it all the way to the door:

His eyes never leave you.

Not once.

Even when someone calls his name.

Even when you disappear into the corridor.

Especially then.

...

A Random Evening — After Dusk Patrol Debrief

The meeting room is emptying slowly, slayers dispersing into the cool dark of the evening. Lanterns hang low along the walkway corridors, their paper skins flickering orange and gold against the deepening blue of twilight.

You’ve gathered your reports. Your hands aren’t shaking—but they want to be.

He was there.

Across the room. Eyes on you like they never left after the last time. Like he knows you’ve been avoiding him. Changing routes. Timing your meals to miss him. And still he finds you.

Rengoku didn’t say a word during the debrief.

But he didn’t need to.

He looked at you once, and your body answered in betrayal. The flush under your skin, the hitch in your breath—no matter how deep you buried it, it surfaced. And you know he saw it.

You step out into the corridor.

And walk fast.

Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to feel the wind tug your sleeves. The trees above whisper. Your footsteps echo hollow against the stone.

You turn left. Then right. Past the mess hall, toward the far servant wings. Less foot traffic. No reason for him to follow you.

But he is.

You feel him.

Boots moving behind you, patient, confident.

Not running.

Because he knows he doesn’t have to.

Your pace quickens. Your breath is tight now, caught between your ribs like a sob. Your thoughts blur—If he catches you—if anyone sees—you’ll be dismissed. Branded. Exiled. Worse.

But your body isn’t helping.

Your body wants him to.

The heat under your skin is rising again, no matter how hard you push it down. The suppression can’t hold forever. Not under this kind of stare.

You slip into a side hallway. Shadows eat the edges of the walls here—this part of the compound isn’t lit at night unless the Healers are on call. Your boots barely whisper against the floor as you cut through, breath shallow.

Behind you—

Still footsteps.

Still steady.

Like he’s stalking.

You take a sharp turn through a curtained doorway—storage. You press yourself to the wall, try to flatten your breathing, eyes scanning for another exit.

Silence.

Then—

He’s there.

The curtain lifts, quiet as breath.

Golden eyes catch yours through the dim.

You don’t even scream.

You run.

Past the shelves. Into the back hallway. Your footfalls echo in your skull, heart racing, mouth dry with fear and something far worse—want.

Then—

A hand wraps around your wrist.

Fast.

Too fast.

And before you can gasp—before your body can even protest—he yanks.

Hard.

The door slams behind you.

The sound echoes in the dark, then fades into silence—except for your heartbeat, pounding so hard it feels like it might shake through your chest.

And him.

Rengoku doesn’t speak.

He just presses in behind you—slow, deliberate, the heat of his chest meeting your back like a brand. One of his arms stretches past your shoulder, palm braced against the wall, forearm grazing your temple. The other settles low on the wall beside your hip, pinning you there—not with weight, but with presence.

Your breath stutters.

You don’t dare move.

He leans in, until his mouth is at your ear, and when he breathes in—slow, deep—you feel it all the way through you. His chest expands against your spine, molten heat and barely-restrained need radiating off of him in waves.

And then—

His voice.

Low. Rough. Frayed down to its most honest edge.

“…You always run right before I catch your scent.”

You flinch, lips parting—but no words come out.

He leans in closer. You feel the brush of his jaw along the side of your head, the edge of his nose grazing your neck.

“You cover it so well,” he murmurs. “So perfectly. Every trace scrubbed out. Every breath neutral.”

A pause—he inhales again, and shudders.

“But I always knew something was wrong. Something was missing.”

Your hand tightens against the wall. He’s so close now, every breath of his rocks into your back, hot and shaking. You can feel him trying to hold the line.

“You walk like a Beta,” he continues, voice lower, more raw. “You move like one. You lie like one.”

His lips are near your jaw now, just hovering. His voice is breaking on the edges of control.

“But you smell like something I want to claim.”

Your knees nearly give at that, but his arm beside your waist shifts—his fingers brush your hip, steadying you without thought.

He still hasn’t grabbed you. He hasn't pulled you in.

But his body is a locked cage behind you, Alpha to the bone, breathing hard like every molecule in him is trying not to move too soon.

Then, quieter—just for you:

“I gave you time.”

His breath ghosts along your neck.

“I gave you space.”

His hand curls just slightly into a fist against the wall beside your hip.

“And you still ran.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” he breathes. “And that’s why I can’t let you go again.”

Silence stretches.

And then, darker:

“…Say it.”

You can barely get the word out. “What?”

“Say you’re not Omega,” he growls, low and hot. “Lie to me again. Right now.”

You can’t.

Your body won't let you.

And neither will he.

...

The silence between you breaks—not with a word, but with the sound of his breath.

Deep. Measured. Unsteady only at the edges.

You’re still pinned between the wall and the heat of him, your back to his chest, your spine arched slightly with the tension holding your body upright. Your legs feel wrong—weak, hot, unreliable. He’s close enough now that his mouth could brush the curve of your throat with the smallest tilt of his head.

But he doesn’t move fast.

He savors.

One breath. Another.

You feel it before you see it: his hand slowly rising from the wall beside your hip, moving—finally moving—to hover just above your waist. Not touching. Just measuring you.

Then his fingers close around your side.

Gently.

Not to restrain—but to feel.

Your whole body reacts. A rush of heat floods your chest, the air pulled from your lungs with a quiet, involuntary gasp.

He feels that.

And smiles.

“I knew it,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling into your skin. “I knew your body would answer me.”

His other hand moves from beside your head, brushing your temple—not forceful, just enough to push your hair behind your ear. His knuckles graze your cheek. You shudder.

He leans in close enough for his lips to hover just against your skin, not kissing, not quite—but the warmth is unbearable.

“I haven’t even touched you,” he whispers, “and already you’re melting.”

You make a soft, helpless noise—one you don’t recognize as yours.

“That’s it,” he says, and his hand on your waist pulls you flush against him.

You feel the length of his body, the way his hips press into the curve of your lower back, the steady thrum of heat radiating off him. His breath shakes against your throat.

“You were never a Beta,” he growls, low and raw. “You were just hiding. But you can’t hide from me.”

His mouth finally, finally brushes your skin.

It’s not a kiss.

It’s a claim.

You arch against him like your body has been waiting for this for years. The contact—just that brush of lips against your neck—is enough to make your knees threaten to buckle again.

He catches you instantly, one strong arm wrapping fully around your waist now, holding you upright, keeping you close.

“You don’t have to speak,” he breathes. “I can feel what you need.”

He nuzzles lower, mouth pressing just beneath your jaw now, a slow drag of lips and breath that has your head tipping back helplessly.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Kyojuro…”

He shudders.

That—that—is the first time you’ve ever said his name like that. Soft. Exposed. Needful.

He responds like it hits something primal. His arm tightens. His mouth opens against your neck—still no bite, no mark, but the promise of it is there. Burning.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs. Not possessive like a title.

Possessive like a revelation.

“Say it,” he growls again. Not cruel. Not demanding.

Hungry.

His hand slides up, slowly, from your waist to your ribs, fingertips grazing—just barely—over the curve of your chest.

“Say it before I take it from your lips.”

And you? You’ve never been more certain of anything in your life.

But you don't speak.

You can't.

Not with his voice in your ear like that. Not with your body already caving in around the truth he’s dragged out of you.

And behind you, you feel the shift—subtle, but seismic.

Rengoku exhales, in release. Like some primal part of him had been straining at its leash since the moment you first passed him in the corridor.

“…Good,” he murmurs, the word barely more than a growl stitched with breath. “Then I’ll take it.”

And you melt.

There’s no better word for it—your whole body softens under his touch, thighs clenching, eyes fluttering closed as you lean back into him.

“That’s it,” he breathes, mouth against your temple now. “There she is.”

He moves again, this time slower, dragging his hand up until his palm cups your breast through your uniform—warm, full, possessive. His thumb swipes over your nipple, and your hips jerk back into him, helpless, seeking pressure.

He groans.

“Sensitive,” he growls, teeth brushing your ear. “Of course you are. Been starved for this. Starved for me.”

And when you whimper—when your back arches just slightly more, thighs trembling, your lips parted with the kind of sound you’ve never let yourself make before—

That’s when he really smiles.

He dips his head, dragging his mouth down the side of your neck, open-mouthed kisses laid with deliberate care, and then bites—just once—right above your scent gland.

Not enough to mark.

But enough to promise.

You cry out softly, body surging against him, and he breathes against the mark like he’s anchoring himself there.

“…You're mine now,” he whispers, voice rough and reverent.

“And I’m going to spend all night proving it to you.”

...

You’re not sure when your legs started shaking.

Only that he feels it.

The hand on your chest drops, but not far.

The same arm, wrapped around you from behind now, tightens—not hard, not greedy, but steady. Containing. Holding you up the same way his body cages you in, chest flush to your spine, the rhythm of his breath vibrating through your spine.

You’ve never felt so small. So held.

Now one of his hands rests low across your abdomen, fingers splayed just beneath the dip of your ribs. The other drags slowly—intentionally—along your outer thigh. Not to tease. To explore. Like he’s tracing the perimeter of something that belongs to him.

His lips are at your ear, voice a low rasp threaded with restraint and something far darker underneath.

“Just feel,” he says, mouth brushing the curve of your jaw. “Don’t fight me. Don’t run now.”

His fingers skim inward along your thigh—deliberate, precise—and you bite down on a moan that still curls out through your nose.

He hears it.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

You feel his nose trail along your neck again, nuzzling behind your ear. This time it’s softer. Affectionate. Like he’s rewarding you. Like you’ve already started giving him what he wants.

“I’ve had to look at you every day,” he says into your skin. “Acting like you don’t need this. Watching you pretend to be something neutral. Something untouched.”

His hand—finally—presses in between your thighs, the heel of his palm finding the soaked center of you through your clothes. The sound you make is soft, broken, involuntary—and it undoes something in him.

He presses his hips to yours, grinding against the curve of your ass, letting you feel just how hard he is for you—how long he’s been waiting, holding back, starving.

“You’ve been walking around smelling like temptation,” he growls against your neck, voice lower now, shaking. “And expecting me to stay calm. Expecting me not to want to own every single sound you make.”

His hand begins to move—slow, patient pressure rubbing you through your clothes, the rhythm maddening and perfect. His other arm tightens across your middle, pinning you to him completely, almost lifting your heels.

And you—you—can’t help the way your body arches back into him. Can’t stop the breathless whimper that slips past your lips. The heat building under his palm is blinding.

He exhales hard against your ear, almost a growl.

“That’s it,” he hisses. “Just like that. Let me ruin you slow.”

His hand slides up under your shirt—not groping, not grabbing. Just gliding palm and fingertips over bare skin, feeling the twitch and pull of your muscles as you tremble against him.

“You don’t know what you sound like,” he says. “What you feel like when you finally stop pretending.”

You whimper again—too far gone to answer, too full of want to speak—and that’s when he dips his mouth to the space just beneath your jaw.

He kisses you once.

Then again—deeper, wetter, tongue barely tasting the salt on your skin.

And then?

He bites.

You cry out, hips jerking—and he groans, grinding harder against you, the friction sparking heat through every inch of your body.

“You’re going to cum for me like this,” he growls. “Pressed between my hands. Just like I imagined.”

You try to answer, but the sound dies in your throat. All you can manage is a trembling breath, your hips rocking involuntarily forward before he guides them back—into him, into the steady grind of his cock against your ass.

You feel it—thick, hard, heavy—pinned between your bodies. Not even inside you. Not even bare. And still, you feel yourself unravel, stitch by trembling stitch.

He groans softly at the contact, voice dipping into something raw.

“You’re making a mess of yourself,” he murmurs against your neck, lips barely brushing your skin. “I haven’t even undressed you.”

His mouth drags over your pulse—slow, wet, savoring. Like he’s drinking in the way your heart stutters beneath your skin.

“You feel so soft,” he breathes. “So hot. Your whole body’s crying for it, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

His hand between your thighs moves again—more focused now.

A slow, circular grind of his palm, his fingers cupped perfectly against the soaked heat of your cunt, teasing that sweet, swollen ache he hasn’t even seen yet.

You let out a whimper—quiet, shattered—and his breath punches out against your neck like you just said his name.

“You like this?” he growls softly. “You like me working you through these clothes like you’re too sweet to be touched yet?”

His other hand slides up your torso—slow, tracing every twitch of muscle under your shirt—until he reaches your chest.

He palms one breast gently through the fabric of your bindings, his thumb brushing over your nipple, just once.

You gasp, sharp and high.

“There we go,” he whispers. “There’s that sound.”

He does it again—lazily now—brushing back and forth over that peak, circling, learning the rhythm of your breath, the exact pitch of your pleasure. Every time you twitch. Every time you try to hold still and fail.

The motion between your thighs deepens. You can’t help it anymore—your hips begin to rock. Slow. Seeking. Desperate.

And he lets you.

He lets you ride his hand.

He moans, low and hungry, into the crook of your neck.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “Grinding against me like you’re already in heat.”

You choke on another cry, burying your face into your arm, pressing into the wall for leverage as your thighs begin to shake.

“Shhh,” he soothes, rocking with you now, his hands completely in control. “Don’t rush. You’re going to cum like this. Just like this.”

Still clothed.

Still pinned.

Still fully his.

And you realize—

He’s right.

...

You’re soaked through.

The slick heat between your thighs is undeniable now—shameless—your clothes clinging to your skin, your hips rocking in a rhythm you can’t stop, every breath leaving your lips in a broken, high sound that would humiliate you if you weren’t so far gone.

And still—

He doesn’t let you fall.

Rengoku’s hand—pressed between your legs, firm and possessive—moves just slow enough to drive you mad. Every drag of his palm over the soaked seam of your uniform is perfect. Precise. Measured to keep you exactly where he wants you: trembling, grinding, wanting.

His voice—fuck, that voice—is low and full of heat, the edge of a smile in every word he speaks against your ear.

“Feel that?” he murmurs, breath brushing your cheek as his other hand palms your breast again, thumb teasing over your nipple with an infuriating laziness. “You’re so close. I can feel it.”

You whimper, nodding—your hand clawing at the wall, the other gripping the wrist of the hand working between your thighs.

“Kyojuro,” you breathe, a plea, a prayer.

He moans—soft and rough, full of hunger. His cock twitches against your ass, hard and hot through the layers between you.

“Oh, you sound ready,” he says, dragging his mouth down your throat. “So desperate already.”

His fingers press harder, a tighter circle just where you need it, and your hips jerk.

You cry out. You’re so close—so fucking close—

But just before it crests—

He pulls back.

Not completely. Not cruelly. Just enough to leave you gasping, twitching, thighs trembling with denial.

Your moan is broken—wrecked—and your head falls back to his shoulder.

But he’s already there.

Mouth against your ear. Voice dark with amusement.

“Not yet.”

You shake. “Please…”

“Not yet,” he says again, a whisper and a growl. “I’m not finished with you.”

And then—fuck—he does it again.

The rhythm builds slowly, his fingers moving with a practiced precision that’s almost mercy—almost—until you’re right back where you were. Hips circling, breath ragged, the wet heat between your legs throbbing under the friction he keeps feeding you.

He feels your thighs start to shake again.

“Already?” he murmurs, a little laugh in his throat. “I just gave you a taste.”

Your body tenses again—coil drawn so tight—and just as it starts to break, he slows.

You sob—soft, desperate, hips jerking against his palm.

But he holds you steady.

“I want to hear it,” he growls into your neck. “How badly do you want it?”

You gasp. “Please—I need—fuck—I need it, I need you—”

His hand moves again. More friction, more heat.

“Do you ache for me?”

You nod. Frantic.

His palm grinds hard against you—just once—and your voice breaks.

“Yes—yes, please, I can’t—”

He growls—low, possessive, wrecked—and holds you tighter against him, mouth dragging over your jaw.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

He lets it build again—higher, harder—but now you’re terrified. Every nerve screams that he’ll stop again, that he’ll keep you on this edge until your body’s nothing but want and wet heat and shame—

And he might.

Because he loves you like this.

Ragged. Shaking. Begging.

Owned.

...

You don’t remember what you said—if it was his name, or a sob, or just a broken plea—but whatever left your lips, it shattered him.

You feel it in the way his breath catches against your skin.

In the sound he makes—low, deep, not quite a growl but close enough to shake you.

And then in the sudden stillness that settles behind you.

“Fuck it,” he whispers, ragged.

And then his hand is moving.

Not above the cloth this time.

Down.

Under.

Your eyes fly wide as you feel the press of his fingers hook beneath the waistband of your trousers, under the last barrier, and then—fuck—he’s there, sliding through the slick, hot folds of you with a groan like you’ve just undone him completely.

Your mouth opens to cry out, the shock, the relief, the raw fucking pleasure of finally feeling him skin to skin—but his hand is already there.

Palm over your mouth.

Gentle.

Firm.

Loving.

“Hush,” he whispers, mouth at your ear, words like velvet wrapped in heat. “I’ve got you.”

You moan into his hand, helpless, your whole body jolting as he sinks two fingers deep inside you in one smooth motion.

And you’re so wet.

So ready.

So needy, clenching down around him like your body knew he’d be the one to fill you long before you did.

His groan is wrecked.

“Fuck—so tight—gods, you were made for this.”

He doesn’t thrust, not yet. He just holds them there, buried deep, feeling your body flutter around him, adjusting to the stretch, the shape of him, the rightness.

You’re whimpering now, muffled by his palm, face pressed to the wall, his body wrapped around yours—his hand in your cunt, his lips at your ear, his breath panting like he’s barely holding on.

“I told myself I’d be good,” he says, voice low and shaking. “That I’d go slow. That I’d make you cum through your clothes, let you keep pretending a little longer.”

His fingers curl just slightly, brushing that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back.

You squeal into his hand.

He kisses the edge of your jaw.

“Shhh, I know. I know, baby.”

Then he starts to move them.

Slow, deep thrusts—not fast, but purposeful—dragging his knuckles against your soaked heat, curling inside you just right, just enough to have your knees buckling.

Your thighs are trembling. Your breath is shattered. You’re dripping onto his hand, onto your own clothes, and still, still he keeps whispering like you’re something precious he’s just allowed himself to touch.

“Feels good?” he murmurs, dragging his fingers out slow, then pressing them back in—slick, tight, perfect.

You nod desperately, tears brimming, eyes wild.

He moans into your neck. “I know. You’re doing so well. You’re so fucking perfect.”

Your body jerks again—so close, the heat inside you coiled so tight it’s a miracle you haven’t climaxed already—

And then he curls his fingers again, just right, and whispers:

“Cum for me. Silently.”

...

And your body obeys.

Your orgasm crashes over you like it was always waiting—held back so long it rips through you, all shuddering hips and clenched thighs, your cunt pulsing hard around his fingers as his arm tightens across your chest to hold you up.

You shake.

You cry out.

And he’s there, whispering it into your skin—

“That’s it. Let me feel it. Let it take you.”

But he doesn’t pull back.

He doesn’t give you a moment to come down.

His hand keeps moving, fingers fucking you through it, not stopping, not slowing, keeping your body trembling as your climax keeps peaking, bleeding over into something new.

Your toes curl. Your breath hitches.

And then he leans in.

You don’t even notice where his mouth is until you feel the heat of it—right at your neck.

Right above your scent gland.

And he just… breathes.

Deep. Inhaling the thick, sweet scent of you as your body shatters against his.

You gasp. You try to squirm.

But he growls—low, threatening—his tongue barely brushing your gland, the tip of his teeth grazing just close enough to make your skin flare.

“No one else gets this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “No one gets to smell this. Touch this. Fucking taste it.”

You sob—you can’t help it—your body clenching again, impossibly sensitive, the second orgasm coiling deep in your core with terrifying speed.

“You don’t even know how good you smell,” he says, pressing his lips against the place he won’t mark—yet, and you can feel it in the tremble of him. “Like heat. Like surrender. Like fucking mine.”

His hand keeps working between your thighs, soaking fingers thrusting deep with wet, obscene rhythm, and you realize—

He’s building the second one.

Without pause.

Without mercy.

And with his mouth now right on your throat—his breath hot, tongue flicking, his teeth teasing the place your bond would go—you feel like your soul is going to climb out of your body and beg him to take it.

You whimper, high and cracked.

And he grins.

“You want it again?” he growls. “Want to cum while I’m right here, tasting the spot I’m not supposed to mark?”

You nod frantically. Your hands slam against the wall. Your hips grind back into him like you can’t survive without it.

“Do it,” he hisses. “Cum for me again, Omega.”

And this time—

You shatter.

Your orgasm crashes through you—hot, deep, dragging you under.

Longer.

Wetter.

Relentless.

Silently sobbing as your body convulses around his fingers, your head thrown back against his shoulder, his mouth at your neck like a brand he hasn’t even pressed yet.

And all the while, he’s there.

Whispering how good you are.

How perfect you feel.

And how he’s not done with you yet.

-------------------to be continued------------------

... sorry yall didn't proofread my brain is so tired... hope you enjoyed!!

Tagged (lmk if you'd like to be tagged): @cereja-com-nuttela

[syles-off-duty]

pregnant with sukuna's kid!drabble

a/n: idkwhatimdoingthismanmakesmeunwell.

Cw: NSFW, pregnant reader!!, breast play, lactation, fingering, sex (ik ik ik I'm a red flag the baby will be fine) I already have an aftercare scene in mind

You didn’t mean to call him.

You knew he was away, off doing what monsters do, splitting temples and tearing down cursed lineages, but the ache had returned. Thick in your breasts, deep in your back, heavy in your hips. It was pervasive.

You were alone again, laid back on the nest he’d made for you—every stolen pelt soaked in your scent and his, the whole chamber a womb of heat and soft pressure.

And it was too much.

Too much milk. Too much stretch. Too much pulsing heat between your legs.

The baby within you turned lazily, brushing some unknown limb against your insides, and you whimpered.

“’-'Kunaa…,” you moaned, half-conscious. Your fingers were already moving softly, carefully, trying not to betray yourself. You cupped one heavy breast in your palm, the flesh so swollen it ached to the touch, the skin slick with sweat. The pressure helped. Just a little.

Milk welled beneath your thumb. Your nipple throbbed. Another gasp slipped out of you.

“Please…”

His hair was damp with blood. One of his forearms bore fresh claw marks, though his skin had already begun to knit itself closed. His true form was fully present and slightly coiled, muscles shifting under flesh that shimmered like dark stone. His four burning eyes locked onto you.

And that was when he heard you.

Sukuna stood in the arch of the doorway. Massive and silent as usual.... but changed.

He said nothing at first.

Because you were perfect.

Laid bare across his offerings. Swollen belly rising like a dome of life between your thighs. Your fingers still on your breast, pinching for relief, your other hand trailing down, still slick from the milk you hadn’t had time to clean.

And Sukuna’s mouths fell open.

The one on his face parted with god-like reverence, his tongue dragging along one fang like he wanted to taste your breath.

The one on his belly—large, hungry, lined in thick, muscular lips—opened in a slow, groaning sigh. Its tongue unrolled just an inch. Enough to drip.

Tears shined in the corners of your eyes.

You weren’t crying. But you were gorgeously soft, vulnerable, and so fucking divine in that moment that Sukuna couldn’t move.

Not yet.

“Ohhh, wife…” he breathed, voice thick with hunger and something dangerous.

You startled, eyes opening, fingers jerking back from your chest in sudden shame—but it was too late. He’d seen. Every drop. Every gasp.

“Did I say,” he said, stepping forward slowly, “you could touch what’s mine?”

You tried to speak. Failed. He was already above you now, his weight shifting through the space, lowering slowly. A clawed hand wrapped around your wrist, gentle but unyielding, guiding it back to your own breast.

“No,” he whispered, “don’t stop. Let me see it again.”

You flushed, breath catching.

“Don’t hide that from me. Not this. Not when you’re perfect like this.”

He knelt beside you.

And you felt all of him. That shift in pressure, the presence of a god folding his massive body beside yours like a dragon curling around gold. His lower arms slid beneath your thighs, spreading them just enough to expose the heat of you, barely touched, still leaking with need.

His upper hands moved to your chest, palm-mouthed now, and hovered infront of you, tongues flicking.

“Look at them,” he murmured. “They want to help you. Want to taste what you tried to hide.”

You whimpered, breath hitching as his fingers brushed your swollen breast—barely—but it was enough. A sharp pulse of milk released and his eyes snapped open wider.

“So greedy,” he growled, smiling.

The first palm cupped your breast.

The mouth opened against your skin, lips wrapping around the slope like it could kiss the ache away. Its tongue pressed gently into the underside of your nipple, lapping in slow, wet strokes. It didn’t suck—yet. Just tasted gently. And your hips bucked at the sensation.

“You feel that?” Sukuna rasped. “That’s what happens when you keep your suffering from me. My body aches with you. My hands starve with you.”

The second palm found your other breast.

This one didn’t wait. It suckled immediately. Tight suction, so perfectly rhythmic. And it wasn’t just any mouth, of course—it was his mouth. His. Guided by his breath, his will. You could feel the pull down to your womb, your entire body reacting like instinct.

Milk flooded the mouth and it moaned against your skin.

Sukuna growled from all his mouths.

“That’s it. That’s mine. That’s what I fucking made.”

His main mouth kissed your throat, slow and dragging, teeth grazing. The belly-mouth was open now, breathing against your swollen stomach, warm air fogging your skin.

“I should let them drink until you’re dry,” he whispered against your neck. “Let them worship you while I watch. But I’m too fucking jealous for that.”

The mouths at your breasts sucked harder in response, and you cried out writhing, completely overwhelmed. Your belly twitched. Your thighs clenched around nothing.

And still, he wasn’t done.

A lower hand slid towards the soaked space between your thighs, his fingers reaching and parting your slick folds like peeling back petals. The mouth in that palm kissed your inner thigh, then higher. A little tongue flicked, savoring the wet already gathered.

“You’re dripping,” he murmured. “Again. Do you even know you’re doing it anymore?”

You shook your head. Your breath came in sobs. You were held down by mouths alone—your body fed upon, worshipped, drained, fucking adored. The pressure in your breasts finally began to ease, but only to be replaced by the maddening swell of arousal.

Sukuna smiled.

“Let me help you, wife,” he murmured. “Let me relieve what I gave you.”

You were outright panting now. Milk coating your breasts. Thighs shaking. Lips parted in some soundless plea as his mouths suckled and tasted and claimed.

His palm-mouths continued their careful worship—one still feeding at your breast, the other licking away the milk it missed, trailing down to kiss the sensitive underside. His fingers never stopped exploring, re-mapping the places you trembled the hardest, groaned the loudest, leaked the most.

And all the while… the belly-mouth had waited.

Patient. Breathing. Wanting.

Its thick, fleshy lips pulsed now, spreading just slightly wider with each of your heartbeats. A long, warm tongue slithered out—strong and broad, different than his other ones. This one was dense. And intimate. The kind of tongue that was made to hold weight.

Sukuna looked down at you, face unreadable, all four eyes focused as he hovered over your middle.

“He's been patient,” he said softly. “That mouth never takes without permission.”

A pause. One enormous hand rested on the swell of your stomach, palm flat, thumb brushing over the mark his child had made beneath your skin.

“But you’re leaking. And it’s hungry.”

The belly-mouth groaned.

It was a low, ancient sound. A rumble. Gratitude, maybe.

Then he moved around you.

Sukuna adjusted you like you weighed nothing. He placed one arm beneath your back, lifting your hips slightly. The other cradled your belly. He curled around you fully—protective, slow—until that great mouth pressed flat against your bump, lips parted just wide enough to take the curve of it in.

And then—

The tongue licked.

A slow, wet stroke from navel to ribcage.

Fuuucking worshipful.

You cried out.

It was perfect. So much surface at once, so warm, so wet.

Your belly responded with a ripple. A faint movement beneath your skin. A limb shifting. Something inside acknowledging the mouth now pressed to the outer shell of its world.

The belly-mouth groaned again, even louder. Starving now.

And then it opened wider.

It didn’t try to devour. Didn’t unhinge like some beast.

It simply enveloped you further. Pressed itself fully to the swell of your stomach, tongue stroking with long, slow laps, lips sliding over skin in wet circles, drinking the sweat and milk and lingering remnants of where you’d touched yourself.

“Yes,” Sukuna growled above you, voice full of hunger and pride. “Feed on her. Worship what she carries.”

Your hands reached for anything—his face, his wrist, the fur under your back—but you were already unraveling.

The sensation was overwhelming.

Suckling on your belly. Heat between your legs. His other mouths still grazing your breasts, flicking over sore, milk-slick nipples in lazy little circles. Your body wasn’t yours anymore.

It was his altar.

His meal.

His shrine.

And this. This was his worship.

“You feel that, wife?” he whispered. “That’s my second mouth loving what I made in you. That’s what you get for carrying my legacy.”

The belly-mouth moaned louder, tongue swirling over your belly button, then lazily fucking into it, lips kissing every stretched vein and glowing mark. Your womb tightened, your cunt clenched on nothing, and a wave of pressure rolled through your spine.

“Perfect girl,” he murmured. “You take everything I give, don’t you?”

You whimpered softly.

Every part of you was trembling now, one leg thrown over his thigh for leverage, but you had none. Your focus was centered on the massive cock throbbing between your cheeks, leaking against your skin.

“They’ve had their turn,” he murmured, glancing down at the mouths on his palms and belly, each of them content, feeding or suckling or panting in joy. “Now I take what’s mine.”

He pulled your hips back just a little, adjusting your angle, his belly still pressed to yours, the mouth there murmuring low whispers into your womb like lullabies for the child inside.

And then—

He lined up.

His cock, thick and hot, slid through the slick mess his palm-mouth left behind, grinding between your folds, soaking in your heat.

You whined, pressing back, trying to push him in.

“Easy,” he rasped. “I’ll split you if I go too fast.”

But your pussy was ready. Greedy. Open and twitching and overwhelmingly soaked. And when he pressed in, juuust the head, it sank in with a low, squelch.

You both gasped.

“Fuck,” Sukuna groaned. “Still tight. Still trying to keep me out.”

You feel him twitching, heavy, hot, barely restrained. Every instinct in his cursed body wants to drive into you. Bury himself to the hilt and take. But his hands are trembling from the effort not to.

Because you’ve gone soft in his arms.

Because your thighs are already spasming.

Because you whispered his name like a prayer, and he’s not going to desecrate his shrine before the first candle’s even lit.

He curls his body around yours tighter, cradling your belly in one hand, pulling your leg higher with the other. You’re nearly folded into him, his size engulfing yours like armor, like scaffolding, like safety. The belly-mouth is still latched to the swell of your stomach, humming softly as it laps slow patterns over the taut skin, almost purring in rhythm with your heartbeat.

“Shhh,” Sukuna breathes against your neck, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you.”

One of his upper hands slides down between your legs. Just for your clit. Two fingers, the tips rough and callused, begin to rub you in slow, deliberate circles.

“You’re too tight,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Still soft from the milk. Still wet from my mouths. But inside…”

He presses in another inch—just a little more. Your breath stutters.

“Still scared,” he breathes. “Still not sure.”

But then he presses a kiss to your temple. Just his lips. Nothing more.

“It’s alright,” he whispers. “You don’t have to take all of me at once. Let me give it to you slow. Let me work you open.”

He begins to move, rocking his hips in shallow rolls, dragging the head of his cock in and out of your entrance. Each motion stretches you a little more, opens you just a bit deeper, your body yielding to the weight of him the way it did the first time.

His fingers at your clit work the perfect rhythm. Never too fast and never, ever stopping. His touch is relentless and exact. Calculated to keep your body soft and wet and begging.

The belly-mouth groans louder now, the tongue stroking in wider, slower circles across your belly, matching the rhythm of your breath, your pulse, the rise and fall of your moans.

And when you finally push back—your hips lifting slightly, your body accepting more of him—he rewards you.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice thick with restraint. “Let me in. Let your cunt take what it was made for.”

He pushes in deeper.

Halfway now.

You sob, gripping at his thick arm, your belly taut and trembling between you. Your walls grip him, fluttering in protest and pleasure, and Sukuna moans, biting down on his own forearm to keep from coming too soon.

“You make me fucking stupid,” he snarls. “So tight around me I can’t even think.”

But he doesn’t lose control.

Not yet.

He moves again—grinding back into the overworked meat. Rocking in slow circles, hips rolling as his cock pushes deeper, dragging along your walls like it’s memorizing them. His fingers never leave your clit, and your orgasm crests.

Warm. Swelling. Deep.

“Cum for me first,” he whispers. “Before I give you the rest. Before I fuck you full again.”

You do.

Right when he asks.

You cum with a trembling sob, your body softening around him completely. Welcoming. Inviting, really. The tension you’d been holding onto in your belly, your thighs, your breath? Completely gone.

And only then—only then—does Sukuna let go.

“Good girl,” he groans, his voice turning rough, possessive. “Now take the rest of me. Take every inch.”

He thrusts.

All the way in.

All the way.

And he stays there.

For a moment. Just breathing.

The belly-mouth was wide open now, its thick lips spread across the underside of your bump, tongue flattened, making deep, rumbling sounds.

Purring.

The impossible, guttural sound vibrated through your womb, through your belly, to your clit, through his cock. You gasped as the pressure shifted, your thighs twitching with overwhelmed pleasure as the two sensations—cock inside, mouth outside—locked into perfect rhythm.

“Feel that?” Sukuna whispered, bowed over you, lips against your neck. “It knows I’m in. It feels me in you.”

His hands curled around you tighter. One still braced under your thigh, holding you open wide. The other on your chest, cupping your breast and squeezing the swollen weight just enough to send a pulse of milk beading at the nipple.

You whined.

“You’re full everywhere,” he growled. “Your tits, your womb, your fucking pussy. All mine.”

Then he began to move his full weight in you.

Slow strokes at first, only pulling back halfway, then sliding back in, thick and wet and stretching you all over again. And again. His belly-mouth groaned louder every time his cock rubbed just beneath it. It didn’t stop purring.

It sounded possessive.

Insatiable.

Your belly shifted with each thrust—small tremors rippling across the taut skin, and that mouth licked every inch it could reach, as though it were trying to calm the child inside while Sukuna made you take every fucking inch of him.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You nodded helplessly. One hand behind you, gripping his arm. The other cupping your belly, fingers brushing against the warm, worshipping lips of that other mouth.

“You want more?” he said. “You want me to fuck you while my mouth sings to the baby you gave me?”

The belly-mouth growled, in agreement, it seemed.

He thrust deeper now. Harder. The wet sound of your cunt clenching around him filled the chamber. Milk smeared down your chest. His breath was rough in your ear, his teeth gritting from the restraint it took not to cum too fast.

“You’re going to make me lose my fucking mind,” he snarled. “You feel what you’re doing to me, wife? What your cunt does around me now that I’ve stuffed it full once?”

You couldn’t answer. Just moaned. Let him fuck you deeper. Let the belly-mouth purr louder, like it was singing some ancient blessing as your pussy squeezed down, ravenous.

“Good,” he growled. “Let it sing. Let it feel what I made. You’re not just my shrine, you’re my fucking altar. And I’m going to fuck you like I’m praying with every thrust.”

The belly-mouth groaned again—baser now, like it was swallowing every pulse, every little kick from the child inside your womb as his cock knocked rhythmically beneath it.

“They feel it too,” he murmured. “The baby. My mouth. All of me. They feel us together.”

You moaned, dazed and teary, your belly cradled in his hands while his cock fucked you slow, wet, deep. Every thrust pushed you forward, made your breasts sway, your body ripple from the pressure.

The belly-mouth opened wide now.

It began to feed.

Not just licking. Not just worshipping. But pulling. It's mouth sealed fully over your womb, tongue pressing firm, lips sucking gentle, steady pulses in time with the rhythm of your body.

Like it was drinking the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Like it was trying to taste the moment he came inside you again.

And Sukuna—

He felt it.

His body shuddered. His hips jerked. His breath caught.

“I’m close,” he growled. “Fuck. I’m going to cum inside you princess. Deep. So fucking deep you’ll feel it in your spine.”

You sobbed out a moan, incoherent, needy, every part of you full, and still somehow aching for more.

His cock twitched. His hands tightened.

The belly-mouth growled. Its tongue flattened, mouth pulsing, lips dragging lower, lower, lower until it was kissing the top of his cock from the outside, feeling it throb inside you.

And then—

“Take it—take all of it—”

He came.

Violently.

With a feral snarl, Sukuna buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed, filling your stretched cunt until you felt it press up inside claiming every last inch.

The belly-mouth drank the moment, tongue moving like it was tasting the orgasm as it happened from within and without.

You came again with a soft moan barely escaping your lips as your cunt clenched down on him, milking the last spurts of his release.

He shook infront you.

All four arms holding you like a treasure, like a cradle, like a shrine statue come alive.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t.

His cock still throbbed inside you.

The belly-mouth finally slowed, lips softening, tongue giving gentle, warm licks to your belly like it was soothing a child after a tantrum.

“That’s it,” Sukuna whispered, mouth against your neck, voice raw, spent. “My shrine. My wife. Full again.”

His hand moved down your belly.

The palm-mouth pressed a last kiss to your lower abdomen.

Then everything went still.

Just the heat between your thighs, his cock still nestled deep.

Just the slow licking of his belly-mouth.

Just his breathing in your hair.

And the purring.

The steady, low, sacred purr of a beast who had fed well.

----------------

*cut to him taking you to the bath*

*taking to the child in your belly*

*kissing your womb*

*whisper what he’s going to do to you when you’re healed*

I am unwell ok thanks for reading did it hit was it weird ok mwah love you bye.

[syles-off-duty]

hehe be honest. if you got caught looting dragon sylus’ treasure trove, you'd want him to be:

a full fucking dragon. like a really big one.

a six-foot-something smug bastard who thinks hes being merciful but is 10x worse

Voting ended onJan 13

[syles-off-duty]

A Temple for His Hands

Sukuna x afabf!reader

A/n: sukuna has been on my mind. understatement. in this one I present: he wants to fuck you will all four hands. also gonna just gently tuck this in at kinktober day 28 - multiple orgasms / s&m (not yet actually he kinda soft in this but uh... if he puts more hands in... idk what else to tell ya)

Cw: NSFW, general sukuna tags tbh, no plot, fingering (4), the mouth on his hand makes an appearance

[Masterlist]

You don't even hear him enter the room.

A shadow moves, and you look up into the grin of a monster.

He looms tall, inhumanly tall, half-wrapped in smoke and muscle and scarred, tattooed flesh. Eyes sharp like blades, mouths too wide, and four arms braced against the doorframe like he’s holding the whole temple up by himself.

The moment he sees you on you knees — all four of those hands flex.

Knuckles crack. Tendons shift under inked skin like serpentine cords pulled taut.

“Look at you,” Sukuna says, a growl sliding off his tongue like silk over broken glass. “Already panting.”

An understatement.

You’re fucking flushed, thighs pressed together, heart hammering as he steps forward — each movement casual, lazy, but massive in its weight. And when he reaches you, he doesn’t start with his cock, he wouldn't waste a moment like this.

He knows better.

No — he crouches down like he’s stalking prey, and brings one hand up, palm flat against your chest, fingers splayed.

The size of it is insane. He could crush your ribs. He could curl you up in his palm and carry you like a possession.

Instead, he just presses in. Heavy and warm and testing.

His other hand comes under your jaw, thumb dragging across your lips, then slipping inside, pressing your tongue down.

“Open your mouth,” he murmurs. “Let me feel how soft you are.”

You obey. His fingers taste like smoke and blood and power, and they’re so thick you choke a little when he pushes deeper — two fingers now, curved slow and cruel against your tongue.

“Mmmn—g-ghhk—”

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a high-pitched sound, pathetic and sweet.

His other hands move — gods, there are always more. One hooks under your knee, lifting your leg with too much ease, exposing you. Another slips around to the small of your back, dragging your hips forward. The fourth glides between your thighs — just hovering, letting the heat and threat of him make you shake.

“Do you have any idea how fuckable you are like this?” he murmurs, grinning. “You know what I think about when I look at you, little one?”

He brings all four hands in.

One tighter around your throat.

One deeper into your mouth.

One spreading your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh.

One low — lower — thick fingers teasing along the edges of your cunt without quite touching.

“I think about how perfectly your hole would look wrapped around my fingers. All of them.”

You try to say something — anything — but it comes out wrong, slurred around his fingers.

“S—S'k—”

He pulls it out before you can finish.

You whine. Quiet. Embarrassed. Barely able to hold his eye contact anymore.

He smiles.

“Already missing it?” he asks, mockery soft and indulgent. “Pathetic.”

His hand then moves lower, dragging your saliva down with it. So agonizingly slow. Massive palm savoring your stomach, fingers grazing your sides. He doesn’t cup you yet. Doesn’t dare to touch where you need him. He just waits, palming your abdomen, your thick hips, letting the anticipation coil tight enough to hurt.

Then, the hand that was circling your soaked entrance moves in — one finger.

Just one.

The pad of his index finger slides up your entire cunt, parting you with one long stripe. You feel how wet you are immediately, how easily you give. He pauses there, finger resting against your slick entrance, doing nothing.

Your hips twitch forward without permission. You just need a little friction. Just a little more.

“Oh?” His voice dips. “That eager?”

You nod, breath hitching. Trying to speak and failing beautifully in his eyes.

“Use your words.”

“I—p-please—” you manage, barely audible. “J-just—touch—”

He presses in.

Only the blunt tip of his finger, barely an inch. Just enough to stretch you open, to make your breath break in a sharp gasp. He doesn’t move after that. Doesn’t push deeper. Just holds it there, letting your body adjust, clench, flutter around him.

“Feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s you opening. That’s your body begging even when your mouth can’t keep up.”

Your hands clutch at his wrist — tiny against it — and the contrast makes his chest rumble with a quiet laugh.

“Careful,” he warns. “If you grip me like that, I might think you want more.”

He slowly slides his finger out.

You make a beautifully desperate sound — almost a sob. Music to his ears.

And he goes back in.

A little deeper this time. To the second thick knuckle. Still slow. He curls the finger slightly, perfectly, enough to make your knees soften, enough to draw a broken moan from your throat.

“Th-there—” you pant. “F-feels—g-good—”

“Good?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s all you’ve got?”

He pulls out again.

Lets you ache for it. Let's you twitch against his immovable grip.

Then adds a second finger.

The stretch is immediate — your body resisting for half a second before yielding, slick and desperate. He still doesn’t thrust. He presses. Gradual. Inch by inch. Watching your face, memorizing every twitch, every unintended shudder.

Your breathing goes uneven, words dissolving into sounds.

“—ah—Suk—Sukuna—h-hands—too—”

“Too much?” he finishes, amused.

You shake your head frantically.

“No—n-no—just—feel—”

He holds you there. Two fingers buried, unmoving. Letting you feel the fullness. Letting your body adjust and tighten and throb around him. His thumb comes down to rub slow, lazy circles over your clit, and that’s what finally breaks you.

Your back arches. Your voice cracks.

“P-please—don’t stop—don’t—”

He leans closer, breath hot against your ear.

“Oh I won’t, princess,” he promises, all four eyes narrowing. “But I am gonna take my time.”

“N-no,” you choke. “Want—n-no, need—more—please—”

He laughs, short and sharp.

“More,” he repeats. “Fucking greedy little thing.”

He grins, wide and sharp, and then he shifts.

The two fingers inside you pull free with a wet, sucking drag that leaves your insides clenching down around nothing. Slick air rushes in to fill the emptiness and your hips twitch, rolling forward, chasing the heat of him with a pathetic, involuntary thrust.

He doesn’t reward it.

He grabs you.

The hand on your thigh clamps down hard, fingers sinking into pliable flesh, and he hauls your pelvis toward him in one smooth, brutal motion. The scrape of stone beneath your spine barely registers—your body jolts, legs spreading wider from the sudden force, cunt bared and twitching in the open air.

He crouches over you. Close now. Pressing in. Heat radiates off his body, skin laced with dark markings that pulse faintly under the low red light.

One massive hand shifts beneath your ass, curling under the curve of your spine, lifting your hips off the floor. Another anchors behind your neck, thick fingers tangling into your hair. You’re held in place—perfectly presented—with your weight suspended between his hands and the floor beneath your shoulders.

His third hand grips your thigh, keeping you spread, muscles tense beneath his palm. The fourth—drenched from your slick, fingers shining—slides between your legs again. Two fingertips part your folds, spreading the swollen, glistening skin as he exhales a quiet sound from deep in his chest.

“Look at this mess,” he murmurs.

You don’t know if he’s talking to you or himself.

Your cunt pulses under his fingers—raw and aching, leaking down onto the hand bracing your lower back. You’re beyond trembling, thighs twitching in his grip, each shallow breath dragging across your ribs like a warning that something inside you is starting to come undone.

“You want the third?” he asks, voice rough, almost amused. “You take it.”

He presses forward—no real weight yet, just the firm pressure of the third finger nudging your entrance, stretching you without yielding.

“Slow.”

He doesn’t need to say it twice. You couldn’t take it fast even if you begged for it.

And he knows.

You feel every inhuman inch of him. The bulk of his fingers, thick at the base, veined and solid. The heat of his palm cupping your cunt, steady and inescapable. His grip behind your neck holds you still enough to force your eyes open, to make you look at him, at everything he’s doing to you.

His chest heaves once, slow, steady. His eyes proudly drag over your face, down your body, back to where you’re open in his hands.

Your hole stretches around him with slow resistance, your body struggling to take the third. Muscles twitch. The burn rises. He doesn’t flinch. He just lets it happen—your body resisting, yielding, then parting just enough for him to slide deeper. He can't get enough.

“Fuck—there you go,” he mutters. “You feel that?”

You can’t answer. You’re panting, hands fisting at nothing, eyes glazed.

He rocks his wrist in deeper, just adjusting the angle, curling inside you perfectly to hit your g-spot, and the pressure lands deep. Heat sears through your pelvis.

“Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s number three. Look how your little hole fights it. Trying to decide whether to take it or scream.”

You are. You don’t know what to do — you’re sympathetics are screaming to run, kneel, beg but the pleasure keeps you impaled.

“Shh,” he coos. “Breathe for me. Come on. Just like that. Let it in.”

He pushes in deeper.

It's fucking endless.

You feel your walls stretch around him — feel the obscene pull as your body yields inch by inch, swallowing his fingers down until his knuckles kiss your cunt. You moan — no, sob — mouth slack, body arching as your hole burns with the stretch.

“Oh—f-fuck—fuck—Sukuna—!”

Your legs seize, pussy spasming with the realization of how full you are — but he’s already inside.

All three.

Buried to the hilt.

He groans low at the sight, watching your cunt twitch and clamp around his fingers like it’s too much — like your body doesn’t know whether to spit him out or pull him deeper.

“Gods, look at that,” he mutters. “You took it. Look at you. I knew you would.”

You’re breathing rabbit fast — shallow, panicked — your whole body is buzzing. You try to speak but nothing comes out. Just breathy, ruined noise.

Sukuna doesn’t stop.

One massive hand folds your thigh up higher, stretching you wide. The one cradling your neck now rests on your chest, heavy and possessive, just under your collarbone — like he’s grounding you, pinning you to your body so you don’t float away.

And that third hand — the one inside you — begins to move.

With intention.

He flexes his wrist, curling those three fingers deep, dragging the pads of them along your swollen inner walls with precise, devastating control. You preen.

“There,” he purrs. “You feel that. That’s what three fingers does. Fills you so fuckin' deep it feels like I’m in your gut.”

You try to answer. Try to breathe. Your whole body locks up.

And Sukuna just keeps going.

“You’re fluttering. Squeezing me so tight I can barely move. You like this, don'tcha princess? Being stretched slow like this. Being opened.”

He presses his palm harder to your clit as he thrusts again — deeper this time. Your head falls back. Your whole body shudders like you’re going to snap.

“Mouth open,” he growls, eyes flicking up to your slack jaw. “You drool when you’re fucked like this, huh?”

His voice is low, almost conversational, threaded with quiet satisfaction. He tilts your head down just enough with the hand at your neck to make sure he can see it—the way your mouth has fallen open, lips wet and slack, breath spilling out of you in soft, broken sounds you don’t even try to stop.

You do drool. A thin line of it slips from the corner of your mouth, down your chin. You don’t notice until his thumb drags through it, smearing it across your skin with a faint, possessive hum.

You don’t care.

You can feel him everywhere.

Your toes curl hard enough to ache, thighs trembling where he holds them open, cunt soaked and open around his fingers. Three of them still buried deep inside you, thick and unrelenting, scissoring and stretching you in a way that feels uholy. He doesn’t rush the motion, oh no. He works you—steady, patient strokes, pushing in until his palm presses flush, then drawing back just enough to drag every sensitive inch with him.

Each pull gathers more slick. Each push spreads it deeper.

Another of his hands drifts up your body, heavy and unhurried, thumb and fingers closing around your chest. Testing the soft weight of you in his grasp, rolling the stiff nipple between his fingers until your back arches and another sound spills out of you without permission.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Everywhere I touch, you give.”

Inside you, his fingers curl again— too precise—stroking along the inner walls with more force. He presses into that tender, gummy place again and again, never hard enough to overwhelm, never light enough to let you forget. It feels almost reverent, as though he’s tracing something written inside you, reading you with his hands.

You can feel your body responding before your mind does—your cunt tightening, contracting, leaking freely around him. Heat pools low in your belly, spreading outward in slow waves. Your breathing goes uneven, shallow gasps dragging in through parted lips.

He notices everything.

The hitch in your breath.

The way your fingers curl uselessly against the stone.

The way your body tries to rock back onto his hand, chasing the pressure.

A low sound rumbles in his chest. Approval. Hunger.

“So eager,” he says softly. “You open so beautifully when I take my time.”

He slows even more.

Each stroke becomes deliberate. Measured. Fingers gliding deep, then withdrawing just enough to make you ache before sinking back in again. He’s not fucking you for release—he’s preparing you. Coaxing your body to soften further, to melt, to forget where the edge even is.

Your cunt is slick enough now that every movement is embarassingly loud and undeniable. He watches the way your muscles tense and release around him, the way your body betrays you with each pulse.

“You gonna cum on just my hand?” he hisses. Another slow curl inside you makes your vision blur. “My fingers? Can’t even take a cock and you’re already about to lose it.”

You nod, frantic, a broken sound tearing loose as the pressure builds.

“Good girl. Go on. Cum. I want to feel you drip down my hand. Come on, let this tight little hole show me how bad it needed that third finger.”

He presses deep again — palm flush, grinding his knuckles into your cunt — and you break.

Your orgasm hits hard. Searing. Shattering. You sob his name, legs kicking, cunt fluttering and spasming around his fingers like it doesn’t know whether to hold on or give out. You cum hard, soaking his hand, twitching like a string that’s been snapped in the middle.

But he doesn’t stop.

He’s buried to the knuckle so deep you swear you can feel him inside your stomach, his palm grinding into your clit with every slow thrust. Wet, obscene sounds echo in the temple air as he holds you open, patient and starving, like he’s savoring the resistance of your body more than the reward.

You're still shaking. Aftershocks relentlessly wracking your beautiful form, soft flesh jumping with each one. You don’t know what your mouth is doing—moaning, maybe begging—but your eyes are glazed and half-lidded, and he is watching you like you’re his masterpiece.

And he hasn’t even put in the fourth yet.

Sukuna leans in a little more now, crouched over your body like a predator admiring its prey after the kill.

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Too quiet.

Then—

“Still with me princess?”

His voice is rough now, low and dark like it’s coming from deep in his chest.

You try to answer. You do. But your voice is high and broken, slurred around gasping breaths. Your lips are wet, trembling.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing on you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “You’re gone.”

A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth—but there’s something else beneath it now. Fixation. Hunger with teeth.

“You liked that last one,” he says, curling his fingers slow and deep, deliberate, savoring the fighting resistance of your swollen inner walls. “I felt it. The way you clenched. The way your hole locked around me—fuck, gripping hard, desperate, afraid I’d pull away.”

You moan, the sound slipping out of you without thought. A shiver runs through your body, soft and helpless, your toes curling again as the pressure blooms back in your belly.

His hand never stops.

Each stroke is unhurried, controlled, fingers working you open with steady intent. He watches the way your body reacts to every movement—the tremor in your thighs, the wet sound of your cunt yielding again and again.

“Poor little thing,” he croons, voice thick, indulgent. “You’re so full. Barely holding three of my fingers, and still you’re drooling for more.”

He shifts closer, his weight settling in, crowding your space until his heat surrounds you completely. His chest brushes your leg. His breath ghosts your skin. There’s no room left to think—only to feel.

His mouth hovers near your ear, his voice low and intimate, threaded with satisfaction.

“You want the fourth,” he murmurs. “Don’t you?”

You nod.

You don’t mean to. Your body just does it. And the second it’s out of you, your body tenses, thighs twitching in his grip, as if trying to brace for what comes next.

Sukuna goes still.

His head tilts slightly, the muscles in his arms flexing around you as he exhales through his nose—slow. His grin doesn’t fade, but his gaze sharpens, dragging down to where his hand is still buried in your body.

He growls. Low. Close.

“Fuck. You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

Then he moves.

The fingers inside you begin to withdraw, and your whole body reacts. Your walls try to hold him, clenching around the slide, thick and wet and soaked from how long he’s had you open. The sound is loud—slick and dragging, a wet pull that echoes off the stone around you. Your breath stutters.

Hips lift. Automatically. Needy.

You chase the feeling without meaning to, pelvis rolling upward into his grip as your cunt throbs around the loss of depth. Even with three fingers still stretching you, the slight emptiness makes your gut twist. You don’t realize you’re whining until his chuckle cuts through the dark.

“You’re so fucking greedy.”

Then his hand goes still.

And the tip of his fourth finger presses against your entrance.

The pressure is immediate.

Solid. Absolutely unrelenting. He doesn’t push it in yet. He just rests it there, testing how your body reacts to the weight, the width, the threat of being opened even more.

Your breath catches. Your cunt twitches around the three fingers still buried inside.

He feels it all.

“Ohhh, look at that,” he murmurs. “Still so tight. You think you can take it? You want to be filled until there’s nothing left but me inside you?”

He licks his lips. His voice drops an octave.

“Let’s find out.”

And then he pushes.

It’s slow. Devastatingly slow.

The pressure burns, but not in a way that hurts—more like your body is stretching beyond what it knows, reshaping itself around him. The ring of muscle at your entrance fights it, tight and trembling, but you want it. Gods, you want it so bad, you can feel yourself dripping down his hand just from the initial stretch.

Your head falls back, a pure animal sound ripping from your throat.

“S-Sukuna—fuck—f-fuck it’s—”

“I know,” he growls. “I know.”

Another inch. And another. He works the fourth finger in slow. His control is absolute. Every shift of his wrist calculated. Every curl of his fingers intentional. He knows the shape of your cunt now—how it trembles, how it pulls, where you’re tender, how your body fights the pressure before it melts into it.

His hand moves with cruel affection, dragging the base of his thumb forward so it presses against your clit. The contact is heavy. Too much. The response is instant—your thighs spasm in his grip, hips jerking upward, a helpless moan tearing loose from your throat.

“There,” he breathes, low and hoarse. “That’s it. You’re opening up for me. Just like that.”

And gods, you are.

He feels it. The slow surrender of your body. The slick give of your cunt finally yielding to all four fingers. The way your walls pulse, stretched and straining, clinging to every inch he feeds into you.

But more than that—he sees you.

Eyes glassy with unshed tears, lashes clumped and wet. Your mouth slack, lips swollen, breath catching on every half-sob you try to swallow. Skin flushed down to your chest, damp with sweat, chest heaving as you gasp through the heat and weight and pressure.

Your hands are scrabbling at the stone beneath you, nails dragging uselessly across the floor as your body arches, desperate for something to hold that isn’t him. As if there’s any part of you left that isn’t in his grasp.

You look ruined.

Destroyed. Precious. Beautiful in the way that a temple looks after it’s been desecrated—every part of you left open, glowing, divine in surrender.

And Sukuna eats it up with his eyes.

He devours you.

Not just the stretch. Not just the tight, aching flutter of your cunt around his hand.

But you.

The tears.

The slick heat of your thighs against his forearms.

The way your body shakes and your lips part and your breath stutters every time he presses deeper.

“You should see yourself,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely holding together. “Look at what I’m doing to you. Fuck—look at what you’re taking.”

And then—

His palm presses flush.

And his whole hand is inside.

You arch off the floor, voice shattering into a hoarse, desperate scream. The pressure, the fullness, the sheer weight of his fingers stretching you open—it’s unbearable, it’s perfect, it’s too much and you never want it to end.

Sukuna groans, voice breaking.

“Fucking look at you. Four of my fingers inside this messy little cunt and it’s still pulling at me.”

He’s panting now. His forehead drops to yours. You can feel his breath, ragged and hot, his chest rising with something that isn’t just lust anymore.

It’s need.

“I could keep you like this,” he whispers. “Keep you stuffed on my hand for hours. Watch you leak and whimper and fucking beg until you forget what being empty ever felt like.”

The heel of his hand grinds against your clit, and your body shatters.

You cum again. Violent. Messy.

Your entire body shudders, pulled taut like a string and then snapped—cunt clenching down around his hand with enough force to make him groan in surprise. The air in your lungs leaves in a sob. Everything seizes, contracts, clutches. The pleasure burns through you like a fever, bright and blinding.

Your cunt is spasming. Fluttering. Soaked and convulsing, stretched beyond capacity around four thick, unforgiving fingers. You feel yourself leak, gush, tremble uncontrollably.

And he’s still inside you. Still there.

You feel his breath before you hear the words—ragged, tight, gritted.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so tight like this. Still squeezing me. Still trying to hold me—”

One of his hands digs into your thigh, hard enough to bruise. Another grips behind your neck, holding your head in place while your entire body writhes beneath him.

But he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you have the moment.

Because something in him breaks.

The sound of you cumming—your cries, your sobs, the wet squeeze of your cunt milking his fingers—snaps him in half.

Not in tenderness.

No.

In obsession.

He stares down at you—sweat-slick skin, rosy cheeks trembling, thighs shaking around the obscene stretch—and something in his chest twists. His teeth bare in a snarl that doesn’t match the pleasure carved across your face.

Because he knows what he’s looking at.

A body this soft. This wet. This perfectly open. Your pretty little hole still pulsing around his hand, as if trying to keep him inside even now.

His voice drops.

Rough. Hoarse. Final.

“You’re not done.”

And this time, it’s not a threat.

It’s a need.

He presses in deeper, grinding his palm against your clit, feeling your overstimulated cunt twitch around him.

“You think that was enough?” he growls, louder now. “Think I’m gonna let you fucking cum a couple times and be finished?”

His fourth hand—previously braced against the floor—suddenly slides up your side, gripping your waist, hauling your hips up until you’re nearly folded beneath him, tilted to give him better access, to feel everything more deeply.

Your voice breaks in a sob. Another orgasm threatens, already winding behind the last.

“No. No, you don’t get to be done,” he hisses. “You’re gonna cum again. Right here. On my hand. You’re gonna fucking milk me until your body can’t take it.”

He shifts his wrist, fingers curling deep.

And then, lower—closer to your ear, almost goddamn devotional—

“I want to see what happens when this pretty little hole gives up completely.”

The words barely finish leaving his mouth before you feel it.

Right where his palm is pressed flush to your cunt—where his fingers are still buried to the knuckle, stretching you wide and holding you open—there’s a sudden, wrong shift. A pressure that isn’t pressure. A warmth that moves.

Then—

The skin beneath your clit splits.

Your eyes fly open.

There’s a sound—wet and obscene, a tearing glide of flesh that shouldn’t open this way—and before your mind can catch up, sensation crashes over you all at once. Heat. Slickness. Something alive unfurling against your most sensitive nerve.

A tongue.

Curling.

A mouth opens in the center of his palm, lips parting wide in a slow, obscene yawn, saliva already slicking the edges. The tongue rolls out, eager, knowing, dragging one deliberate stroke that steals the breath from your lungs entirely.

It moans.

Not him—the hand.

A low, hungry sound vibrates directly against your clit, and your whole body locks up in shock, pleasure detonating so sharply it borders on pain.

And it isn’t gentle.

Nor is it hesitant in the slightest.

It knows exactly where it is. It knows what you’ve just done. It knows how close you are to breaking again—and it wants to finish the job.

The tongue flicks, presses, laps with obscene intent while his fingers stay buried inside you, holding you open so there’s nowhere for the sensation to go but through you.

Your wail rips out of you, high and raw, nothing like your own voice.

“W‑wait—Sukuna—no—no I c‑can’t—!”

Your hips buck violently, but his other hands clamp down—one gripping your thigh, one locking your pelvis in place, one cradling the back of your neck—holding you exactly where he wants you while the mouth feeds.

“You can.”

His voice is rough, hoarse now. His grin is feral. “You think I’d let you stop now? You just came around four of my fingers, and you’re still dripping. This greedy little hole hasn’t had enough—”

The mouth sucks.

Your entire body lurches—spine bowing into his chest, legs convulsing, a sobbed cry bursting from your lips so loud it echoes through the chamber like a prayer turned into blasphemy.

The tongue flicks, laps, presses hard against your clit while the rest of the mouth sucks around it like it’s feeding on you—and his fingers stay buried, curling right where you need it inside, while the mouth devours the outside.

“There it is,” Sukuna groans, panting now, watching your whole body seize up beneath him. “Fuck, look at you. Can’t even breathe, can you?”

You can’t. You’re gasping, drooling, crying without sound. You feel everything—the stretch inside, the suction outside, the way the mouth moans against you like it’s getting off on your taste. Your clit’s throbbing, body spasming so violently it can’t tell if you’re trying to push him away or pull him deeper.

He leans in, face an inch from yours, one of his other hands curling under your jaw to hold your gaze.

“You hear that?”

The wet, messy suck of the mouth. The obscene squelch of your cunt around his fingers. The slap of his palm against your dripping folds as the tongue circles, fast and rough and hungry.

“That’s your body begging. You don’t even know how to stop anymore, do you?”

You try to speak—don’t know what you’d say—but the mouth sucks harder, and all that comes out is a scream.

He laughs.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he growls. “Right here. On my fucking hand. Let that pretty little clit feed my mouth. Let me taste what a good hole you are.”

Your body shakes—too much, too sensitive— nerves burned raw and still lighting up. Your cunt clenches helplessly around his fingers, still stretched to the limit, still drooling slick down the curve of his wrist. The mouth at your clit is still sucking, the tongue rolling in slow, obscene strokes.

You think that’s it. You think this is where it ends.

But then—

He moves.

His hand pulls out—not all the way, just enough to make your walls spasm at the sudden shift. Wetness floods out around the withdrawal, and you sob, broken and hoarse, hips jerking in his grip. Your cunt flutters, desperate to hold onto him.

And he drives it back in.

Four fingers, deep—hard, evil—his palm slams back in, and the mouth at your clit doesn’t stop, only presses harder, tongue crushed against you as the pressure doubles, overwhelming.

You howl.

Your whole body arches, forced into a brutal curve by the impact. You feel something snap loose in your chest—pleasure so sharp it stops feeling good, stops feeling possible, and becomes something else.

But he doesn’t stop.

He does it again.

And again.

Fucking you with his whole hand now—relentless. Using your cunt like it belongs to him.

“You’re not gonna pass out yet,” he snarls, breathing ragged. “Not until I feel you cum so hard this greedy little hole stops trying to take me back in.”

His grip on your thigh tightens. His other hand presses down hard on your pelvis, pinning you in place, forcing every thrust deeper. The mouth at your clit moans, a wet, hungry sound vibrating straight through your overstimulated nerves.

And then—right as your body begins to seize again, right as your cries turn to helpless gasps—he leans in close, teeth bared.

“You’re mine,” he breathes. “You understand? You’re gonna cum for me now, and when you do—you don’t come back from it.”

That’s what does it.

Your orgasm detonates inside you, white-hot and unforgiving.

Your body collapses around it—muscles locking, cunt squeezing violently around his fingers as slick gushes out of you in rhythmic pulses, soaking his hand, the floor, your thighs. You sob something that might be his name, but there’s no sound in your ears now except the rush of blood.

Your limbs go numb.

Your breath stops. Everything in you gives out.

But Sukuna doesn’t move.

His fingers stay buried, deep and unmoving. The mouth at your clit goes still, wet lips parting with a lazy sigh, tongue twitching once before settling against the sensitive flesh in a soft, obscene kiss.

You’re twitching occasionally in his hold—aftershocks rippling through your thighs, muscles contracting uselessly around the thick intrusion still stretching you open.

He just watches.

He stares at you, utterly spent, face slack with pleasure and tears still drying on your cheeks. Your skin glows. Your lips part on a final, silent gasp.

And for a moment, Sukuna forgets how to speak.

--------------to be continued... maybe?-----------

*cut to black*

*you wake up with his hand still in you*

*"ready for the rest, princess?"*

Listen I'm a little scared to have more than one hand in me, but if the masses want. I will provide (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

Anyway TYSM FOR READING AS ALWAYS <3

[syles-off-duty]

sorry in advance for the sylus altar fic

and everything else that follows

[syles-off-duty]

Bodybuilder!sukuna drabble

Sukuna POV x afab!reader

A/n: he would be so big and scary (,,¬﹏¬,,) mdni 18+ he's a perv in this

He noticed you the first time you walked into the gym wearing that too-tight top, thinking you weren’t showing off.

Liar.

He knows a slut when he sees one. Even the quiet ones. Especially the quiet ones.

You don’t make eye contact. Don’t chatter with the others. You stretch too carefully, like you’re trying not to draw attention—but you want it. He watches you shift your weight slow when you think no one’s looking, thighs squeezing together like they’ve got a secret.

He wondered if it was slick between them even then.

He bets it was.

He bets you left a patch on the leg press seat that day. He bets your cunt pulses every time you pass him and get a hit of his sweat, the raw animal of him rolling off in waves.

Because next to him?

You’re fucking tiny.

And the first time that actually hit you—really hit—you were walking past the squat rack, and he racked the bar behind you. The sound made you jump, and you turned—

And looked up.

Eyes wide.

Breath half-held.

And that moment?

That exact fucking second?

He knew.

Knew you’d let him fold you in half and press you into the steam-wet lockers until your bones ached. Knew your pussy would scream and still try to suck him deeper. Knew you’d pretend to resist just long enough to feel innocent.

Hah.

You want to be overpowered.

You want to feel small.

You want to be ruined by something so much bigger than you that it stretches its shape into you.

He thinks about it when he jerks off after hours—standing in the same locker room you just used, fist tight around a cock that’d split you open like worship.

He doesn’t go soft after he cums.

Not once.

He just pictures you trying to take it. Shaking. Crying. Leaking. Struggling to hold onto any dignity while he bottoms the fuck out and stays there.

It would be so heavy.

So brutal.

You’d feel it in your fucking lungs.

And you’d still beg for more.

You wouldn’t even know why.

Some primordial survival kink buried in the base of your spine would just click, and you’d get wetter every time he punished you for cumming too fast. For clenching. For dripping.

He’d tell you to stop.

You wouldn’t.

So he’d stuff your mouth next. Just to give you something else to suck.

He imagines that too.

Your lips split wide around the fat head of his cock, your jaw shaking, spit running, eyes glassy. The bulge in your throat, obscene, moving as he fucks it slow. You're his perfect little thing.

His toy.

His hole.

His sleeve for sweat and sin.

You think you’d hate it.

But the next time you’d see him—shirtless, glistening, just finished a set?

Your thighs would twitch.

He’s not guessing.

He’s seen it.

He smells it.

Every time you watch him rerack weight or roll his shoulders, your pulse changes. The scent hits him high—sweet, fucking electric. Like your cunt is waking up just from the sound of his breath.

He wonders if you even notice.

He wonders what you’d do if he pressed you face-first into the locker right now—let you feel the difference in sheer intent.

Let you realize, with horrifying clarity, that if he wanted to take you right here and now?

You’d let him.

And he would take you. Slowly. Cruelly.

So fucking thoroughly.

He’d press your knees apart with one hand, spit between your thighs, and say:

“Don’t worry, little thing. You’ll stretch. Eventually.”

And he’d make you look.

Down.

At the impossible length dragging hot against your slit.

At your belly beginning to rise before he’s even halfway in.

At the tears in your eyes that aren’t quite from pain.

And he’d smile.

“Tight little bitch.”

Then he’d start.