#multiple personalities

[rupertbbare]

[poniadeaur]

In a twist of fate, it's Nanami Kento—not Yuji—who consumes Sukuna's fingers and becomes the unwilling vessel of the King of Curses. Now married to the reader, Nanami's usually calm and composed life is turned upside down by his chaotic passenger.

Nanami Kento was many things - meticulous, professional, and perhaps one of the most composed sorcerers in the Jujutsu world. But now, he was also the unwilling vessel of the King of Curses himself.

It had happened during a routine mission that went sideways. Instead of Yuji Itadori, it was Nanami who found himself consuming Sukuna's fingers in a desperate attempt to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands. And just like that, the most feared entity in jujutsu history took up residence in his meticulously organized mind.

Being married to Nanami was like living with two completely different men. There was my husband - the man who prepared bento boxes with mathematical precision, who ironed his shirts with military-like attention to detail, who made love with controlled passion and whispered "I love you" with heartfelt sincerity.

Then there was Sukuna - the chaotic entity who would sometimes hijack my husband's body at the most inconvenient moments.

"Kento, could you pass the soy sauce?" I asked one evening during dinner.

Nanami reached for it with his usual grace, but halfway there, his hand stopped. A smirk - completely un-Nanami-like - spread across his face.

"Only if you beg for it, little mortal," he said, voice dropping to a sinister tone that sent shivers down my spine.

I sighed, placing my chopsticks down. "Sukuna, give me back my husband."

The smirk widened as Nanami's eyes glowed with that cursed energy. "Your husband? He's taking a little nap. Now, about that begging…"

"SUKUNA, STOP EMBARRASSING ME IN MY OWN HOME!" Nanami's voice screamed internally, though only a slight twitch of his eyebrow gave away the internal struggle.

"Please pass the soy sauce," I said flatly.

"See? Was that so hard?" Sukuna-Nanami slid the bottle across the table with unnecessary flair.

The worst was when Sukuna decided to flirt with me - which happened with alarming frequency.

"I must admit," Sukuna-Nanami said one morning while I was making coffee, "that apron looks much better on you than it would on your husband's boring ass."

"Sukuna, I swear to all that is holy…" I mumbled, pouring coffee into a mug.

"What? Can't a thousand-year-old curse appreciate his vessel's exquisite taste in partners?" He leaned against the counter, striking a pose that was ridiculously un-Nanami-like. "You know, if you'd been around in my prime, I would have made you my queen."

I rolled my eyes. "You would have sacrificed me to gain more power."

"Details, details," he waved dismissively with Nanami's hand.

The internal struggle was always visible if you knew what to look for - the slight tension in Nanami's shoulders, the almost imperceptible clenching of his jaw, the way his breathing would become just a bit too controlled.

"I AM GOING TO EXORCISE YOU SO HARD YOUR ANCESTORS WILL FEEL IT!" Nanami's mental voice thundered.

"Exorcise me? With what? Your spreadsheets?" Sukuna shot back mentally while outwardly winking at me.

My favorite incident happened when we were at a work function for Nanami's day job. Everything was going smoothly until one of Nanami's colleagues made the mistake of complimenting my dress.

"Thank you," I said with a polite smile.

"Thank you? Is that all?" Sukuna suddenly took over, turning to face the startled colleague with predatory intensity. "This dress would look even better on our bedroom floor. Which, by the way, has much better company than this boring corporate event."

The poor man's face turned five shades of red as Nanami's colleagues stared in disbelief.

I grabbed Sukuna-Nanami's arm. "Honey, I think you need some fresh air."

"Only if you come with me," he purred, completely disregarding the fact that we were in public.

Later that night, as we lay in bed, the real Nanami resurfaced, looking exhausted.

"I am so sorry," he said, rubbing his temples. "I'm trying to keep him contained, but he's… persistent."

I kissed his cheek. "It's not your fault. Besides, it's not every day a girl gets flirted with by the King of Curses using her husband's body."

Nanami groaned. "That's not reassuring."

"It's a little funny though," I admitted with a grin.

He sighed, pulling me close. "Just promise me something?"

"What?"

"If he ever tries to… you know… in my body…"

"I'll make sure to remind him that he's a guest in your body and should behave accordingly," I said, trying not to laugh.

"Thank you," Nanami said, relief evident in his voice. "I love you."

"I love you too, Kento," I replied, snuggling closer. "And you too, Sukuna, stop listening to our private conversations!"

A low chuckle echoed in Nanami's chest. "Can't help it. Your thoughts are particularly entertaining when you think I'm not paying attention."

Nanami's eye twitched. "I'm going to kill him."

"You can't kill what's already dead," I reminded him.

"Then I'm going to find a way to exorcise him into a teapot and donate him to a thrift store," Nanami grumbled.

Sukuna's laughter grew louder. "A teapot? How insulting. If I'm going to be trapped in kitchenware, it should at least be something more dignified. Like a wine opener."

"Go to sleep, both of you," I said, closing my eyes.

Life with Nanami and his unwanted passenger was certainly never boring.

The contrast between my two husbands became most apparent when Nanami tried to be romantic. It was like watching a carefully constructed building being repeatedly demolished by a sledgehammer-wielding maniac.

For our anniversary, Nanami had planned the perfect evening. He'd booked a table at an exclusive restaurant, bought me a pearl necklace, and even practiced a few romantic phrases he'd found in a book titled "The Art of Sensual Communication."

"You look… luminous tonight," he said as we sat across from each other, his voice slightly strained as he tried to sound natural.

"Thank you, Kento. You look quite handsome yourself," I replied, genuinely touched by his effort.

As he reached across the table to take my hand, his expression suddenly changed. The gentle warmth in his eyes was replaced by predatory hunger.

"Luminous? LUMINOUS?" Sukuna-Nanami's voice boomed, causing nearby diners to turn their heads. "That's the best you can come up with? Let me show you how it's done."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low growl. "You look like you'd taste absolutely divine wrapped around my—"

"SUKUNA, SHUT UP!" Nanami's mental voice screamed.

"—finger. What were you thinking?" Sukuna finished with a wicked grin, completely ignoring my husband's internal panic.

I sighed, taking a sip of wine. "We're in public, Sukuna."

"Public, private, what's the difference?" Sukuna-Nanami shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. "The human obsession with context is so tiresome."

The necklace incident was even more memorable. As Nanami presented the small velvet box to me after dinner, Sukuna immediately chimed in.

"Jewelry? How uninspired," he scoffed internally. "You know what she really wants? Something that vibrates."

"Sukuna, I swear to all that is—" Nanami began, but it was too late.

Sukuna had taken control mid-gift presentation. "While pearls are nice," he said, examining the necklace with critical eyes, "they're not nearly as fun as the remote-controlled ones I was considering."

My face burned. "Remote-controlled what?"

"The panties, obviously," Sukuna-Nanami said with an eye roll. "Imagine the fun we could have at your next work function. One little button press and—"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Nanami somehow managed to regain control, looking absolutely mortified. "I apologize. He has no boundaries."

"No kidding," I muttered, though I couldn't help but be slightly amused.

The shopping trips were a special kind of torture for Nanami. His idea of the perfect gift for me was a first edition book or a spa package. Sukuna had other ideas.

"This bookstore is so boring," Sukuna complained internally as Nanami browsed through a collection of poetry. "You know what's more romantic than words written by dead guys? Me. Naked. In your bed."

"We are not getting my wife a nude photograph of yourself using my body," Nanami replied through clenched teeth.

"Why not? It's a gift that keeps on giving," Sukuna shot back. "Plus, I look fantastic. Better than you, that's for sure."

As Nanami approached the checkout with a carefully selected book, Sukuna suddenly seized control, turning him around and marching purposefully toward the lingerie section.

"What are you doing?" Nanami demanded internally.

"Getting her something she'll actually appreciate," Sukuna-Nanami replied, his eyes scanning the racks of lacy undergarments. "Ah, perfect. The crotchless ones."

The poor sales associate looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole as Sukuna-Nanami held up a scandalously small piece of red lace.

"Can you imagine this?" he asked me, completely ignoring Nanami's internal meltdown. "Though I suppose it's just an appetizer until I can get you out of it entirely."

"I think the book is lovely," I said quickly, grabbing Nanami's arm and practically dragging him away.

"You're no fun," Sukuna grumbled as Nanami regained control.

Mornings were always an adventure. I never knew which version of my husband I'd wake up to.

Some days, it would be Nanami, gently brushing hair from my face and pressing soft kisses to my forehead. "Good morning, my love. Did you sleep well?"

Other mornings, I'd open my eyes to find Sukuna-Nanami already awake, watching me with an intensity that was both flattering and slightly terrifying.

"Morning," he'd say, voice husky with sleep. "I had the most interesting dream about you. It involved very little clothing and a lot of—"

"Good morning to you too, Sukuna," I'd interrupt, rolling away before things could escalate.

The funniest incident happened when we were visiting my parents for the weekend. Nanami was trying to make a good impression, helping my mom in the kitchen and discussing business with my dad.

Everything was going perfectly until my dad made a joke about Nanami being lucky to have me.

"You have no idea," Sukuna suddenly said, causing everyone to pause. "She's absolutely insatiable. Last night—"

"SUKUNA, I WILL FIND A WAY TO DESTROY YOU EVEN IF IT MEANS DESTROYING MYSELF IN THE PROCESS!" Nanami mentally screamed as he fought to regain control.

"—she made the most amazing lasagna I've ever tasted," Sukuna-Nanami finished smoothly, though the wicked glint in his eyes told me he'd been about to say something much worse.

My parents exchanged uncomfortable glances as Nanami finally wrestled control back, his face pale.

"I apologize. Sometimes I… say things without thinking," he stammered.

That night, as we lay in my childhood bed, Nanami was unusually quiet.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I know this isn't what you signed up for."

I turned to face him, tracing the line of his jaw. "It's definitely not conventional, but it's never boring."

"He really thinks you'd prefer his approach to romance," Nanami admitted with a sigh. "The crude comments, the inappropriate gifts… he genuinely believes that's what women want."

"Maybe some women do," I said thoughtfully. "But I married you, Kento. The man who plans romantic dinners and buys me books and somehow manages to be sexy without being vulgar."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Really?"

"Really," I confirmed, leaning in to kiss him. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing what you look like in those crotchless panties."

Nanami's eyes widened in horror as Sukuna's laughter echoed in his mind. "SEE? I TOLD YOU SHE'D LIKE THEM!"

"Go to sleep, Sukuna," Nanami mumbled, though he was smiling as he pulled me closer. ----

Living with Sukuna was like having a time-traveling misogynist from the Heian period as a roommate. His views on women were so archaic they were almost impressive in their sheer wrongness.

"Woman, bring me sake," Sukuna-Nanami demanded one evening, slumping onto the sofa after a long day of being a menace to society.

I didn't even look up from my book. "The sake is in the kitchen. You have legs. Use them."

He blinked, genuinely confused. "But… you're the woman."

"And you're the one with the working limbs," I replied calmly. "Get it yourself or don't drink. Your choice."

Sukuna stared at me as if I'd just suggested he try to fly. The internal battle was visible - the slight twitch of Nanami's jaw, the way his fingers curled into fists.

"THE WOMAN IS NOT YOUR SERVANT!" Nanami's mental voice thundered. "WE LIVE IN THE 21ST CENTURY, YOU MEDIEVAL MISOGYNIST!"

"Silence, servant," Sukuna shot back internally. "This is between me and my vessel's wife."

Finally, with a dramatic sigh that could have powered a small village, Sukuna-Nanami stood up and trudged to the kitchen. Five minutes later, I heard a series of crashes followed by cursing.

I found him staring at the rice cooker as if it were some eldritch horror. "This box… it mocks me. It sings its strange song and yet produces no rice."

"You have to add rice and water first," I said, crossing my arms. "And press the cook button."

Sukuna's eyes narrowed. "Are you implying I'm incompetent?"

"I'm stating facts," I replied evenly. "Now, are you going to figure it out or starve?"

Something shifted in his expression. The arrogance was replaced by… interest? As I continued to explain the intricacies of modern appliances, a strange look came over his face - one that Nanami would later identify with horror.

"YOU'RE ENJOYING THIS!" Nanami mentally accused Sukuna.

"Perhaps," Sukuna replied internally, a smirk forming. "There's something… invigorating about being put in one's place by a woman with fire in her eyes."

The messes were legendary. Sukuna would leave his clothes scattered everywhere, dishes piled in the sink, and somehow manage to get crumbs in places I didn't think physically possible.

"If you don't pick up your socks, I'm throwing them out," I warned one morning, pointing to the floor beside the bed where Sukuna-Nanami had discarded three pairs.

"You wouldn't dare," he scoffed.

I picked up the nearest pair. "These are going in the trash right now unless—"

"Fine!" he snapped, but there was an odd excitement in his eyes. "I'll do it. But only because you asked so… passionately."

Nanami was absolutely horrified when he realized Sukuna's particular interest.

"HE GETS AROUSED WHEN YOU YELL AT HIM?" my husband mentally screamed later that day. "THAT'S WHY HE LEAVES MESSAGES AROUND? SO YOU'LL SCOLD HIM?"

"Your wife has a magnificent temper," Sukuna replied dreamily. "The way her eyes flash, the way her voice rises… truly magnificent."

"I'M GOING TO HAVE A HEART ATTACK," Nanami moaned internally.

The children were the best part. My sister's kids absolutely adored Nanami - he was patient, kind, and somehow knew exactly how to fix broken toys and soothe scraped knees.

"Uncle Kento, can you read us the dinosaur book?" five-year-old Maya would ask, climbing onto his lap.

And Nanami would read with perfect expression, doing different voices for each dinosaur, while the children hung on his every word.

Sukuna, on the other hand, was a disaster with kids.

"Small human, cease your incessant noise," Sukuna-Nanami growled when Maya tried to show him her drawing.

Maya put her hands on her hips. "You're mean. Uncle Kento is nice. You're not Uncle Kento."

"Indeed, I am not," Sukuna replied with arrogance. "I am Sukuna, the King of Curses. You will bow before me."

Maya stared at him blankly. "You have something on your face."

Sukuna-Nanami reflexively touched his cheek. "Where?"

"Everywhere," Maya said with the brutal honesty only children possess. "Your face is weird."

Seven-year-old Kenji was even worse. He'd taken to calling Sukuna "Grumpy Face" and had developed a game called "Make the Mean Man Go Away."

"Hey Grumpy Face," Kenji said one visit, waving a toy sword. "I bet you can't beat me. I'm the Super Ninja of Justice!"

Sukuna-Nanami's eyes narrowed. "Child, I have ended dynasties with less effort than it would take to crush you."

"Can't even work the microwave," Kenji shot back, having witnessed Sukuna's struggle with modern technology earlier. "Maya and I saw you. You kept pressing the wrong button and then got mad when it wouldn't heat your noodles."

The internal reaction was priceless.

"THIS INSIGNIFICANT MORTAL…" Sukuna began mentally.

"…is seven years old," Nanami finished. "And he just roasted you better than I ever could."

The turning point came when we visited my friend who had a newborn. Nanami was immediately captivated, gently rocking the baby with a tenderness that made my heart ache.

"They're so fragile," he whispered, eyes soft with wonder. "So pure."

Sukuna, predictably, had other thoughts. "It's small. It makes noise. What's the appeal?"

"They represent hope," Nanami replied softly, still focused on the baby. "The future. A chance to do better than we did."

Later that night, as we lay in bed, Nanami was unusually thoughtful.

"Have you ever thought about… us having children?" he asked quietly.

I turned to face him. "Have you?"

"All the time," he admitted. "But with Sukuna… is it fair to bring a child into this? To risk him taking over during something important?"

"Hey," I said softly, taking his hand. "We'd figure it out. Together."

Nanami smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. "A child deserves stability. Not a father who might suddenly start talking about how delicious they look."

"CHILDREN ARE MERELY SMALL, NOISY HUMANS," Sukuna interjected. "THOUGH I SUPPOSE HAVING AN HEIR WOULD HAVE ITS ADVANTAGES. SOMEONE TO PASS ON MY LEGACY."

"You're not passing on anything," I said firmly. "And if we ever have kids, you're on diaper duty. All night. Every night."

There was a moment of silence, followed by Sukuna's internal reply: "Diapers? As in… handling human waste?"

"Yep," I confirmed. "With your bare hands."

Another silence, longer this time.

"Perhaps children are not so bad after all," Sukuna conceded. "An heir who could one day dominate you… the thought has merit."

Nanami sighed, pulling me closer. "He's impossible."

"But he's our impossible," I replied, kissing his cheek. "And somehow, that makes it work."

Life with my dual husband was chaotic, often frustrating, but never boring. And somehow, impossibly, it was perfect.

The day Shoko announced she'd found a way to transfer Sukuna to another vessel should have been a celebration. For Nanami, it was. For me, it was complicated. For Sukuna… it was war.

I could feel his rage building inside my husband's body as Shoko explained the procedure. The usually calm exterior of Nanami was barely containing the storm within.

"You think you can remove me?" Sukuna-Nanami's voice was dangerously low, his eyes glowing with that familiar cursed energy. "After everything?"

Shoko remained unfazed. "It's a simple transfer. We have a volunteer vessel lined up. More stable than Yuji, better suited to contain you long-term."

"Stable?" Sukuna laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You know nothing of stability. You know nothing of what I've found here."

The transfer process was scheduled for the following week. That night, as Nanami tried to sleep, Sukuna kept him awake with mental threats.

"I will find her," Sukuna promised darkly. "No matter what body I inhabit, I will find her. I'll haunt her dreams, whisper her name when she's alone, appear in reflections when she least expects it."

"Sukuna, leave her alone," Nanami pleaded mentally. "This is between us."

"Nothing is between us anymore," Sukuna replied. "She's mine. She just doesn't know it yet."

The days before the transfer grew increasingly tense. Sukuna would surface at random moments, his touches more possessive, his words more pointed.

"You'll miss me when I'm gone," he whispered one evening as he traced the line of my jaw with Nanami's finger. "All this precision," he gestured at Nanami's meticulously organized bookshelf, "this order… it's boring. You thrive on chaos. You just won't admit it."

"I love my husband," I said firmly.

"Which one?" Sukuna challenged. "The accountant or the curse? The man who schedules intimacy or the one who can't keep his hands off you?"

The night before the transfer was the worst. Sukuna refused to let Nanami sleep, cycling through threats, promises, and memories he thought would sway me.

"Do you remember the night at the restaurant?" he asked as Nanami's hands gripped mine. "When I told you what I really wanted to do to you under that table? You blushed, but you didn't move away."

"You embarrassed me," I countered.

"Did I?" Sukuna-Nanami leaned closer, his voice dropping to that sinful register. "Or did I excite you? Be honest with yourself, if not with me."

The transfer was more difficult than anyone anticipated. Sukuna fought with everything he had, and the process that should have taken hours stretched into days.

"He's resisting," Shoko explained, wiping sweat from her brow. "It's like he's anchored himself to Nanami. To… you."

I watched as Nanami's body convulsed on the table, tattoos appearing and disappearing as Sukuna fought to maintain control. Part of me felt relief - soon, this would be over. But another part felt something else entirely.

When it was finally over, Nanami was exhausted but free. The new vessel was secured, and Sukuna was gone.

Or so we thought.

The first few weeks were blissful. Nanami was himself again - calm, composed, precise. He made love with gentle passion, cooked meals with mathematical precision, and never once threatened to haunt me from beyond the grave.

But I missed the chaos. I missed the unpredictability, the raw desire, the way Sukuna-Nanami's eyes would darken with hunger when I walked into a room.

One evening, as Nanami was organizing our bookshelf for the third time that week, I finally spoke.

"Do you ever miss him?" I asked quietly.

Nanami froze. "Miss who?"

"Sukuna," I said. "Even a little?"

He turned to face me, his expression unreadable. "I miss having my body to myself. I miss not worrying about embarrassing you in public. I miss sleeping through the night."

"I miss the tattoos," I admitted softly. "I miss the messy hair and the rougher touches. I miss the way you'd look at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered."

Nanami studied me for a long moment, something calculating in his gaze. Then he nodded slowly.

"I see," he said simply.

That night, as we lay in bed, Nanami turned to me with an unusual intensity in his eyes.

"You miss the chaos?" he asked, his voice lower than usual.

I nodded, confused by the sudden change in his demeanor.

"Then let's create our own," he said, before pulling me into a kiss that was anything but controlled.

Nanami's response was to disappear into his study for an hour, emerging with something that made my breath catch.

"Temporary tattoos," he explained, holding up several sheets of intricate black designs. "Medical grade. Safe to use. They'll last about a week."

My eyes widened as I realized what he was suggesting.

"You'd…?"

"If it's what you want," he said simply.

That night changed everything. As Nanami lay beneath me, his chest and arms covered in intricate black tattoos, his hair deliberately mussed, his usual precision replaced by something wilder, I felt a thrill I hadn't realized I'd been missing.

"Better?" he asked, his voice rougher than usual.

I nodded, unable to speak.

As Nanami's hands roamed my body with newfound confidence, as his words grew more daring, as he abandoned his carefully constructed control for something more primal, I realized the truth.

I didn't miss Sukuna. I missed the parts of Nanami that Sukuna had unleashed - the raw desire, the unrestrained passion, the willingness to abandon propriety for pleasure.

And Nanami, being Nanami, had found the perfect solution. Not by inviting chaos back into our lives, but by learning to create his own - on his terms, in his way, with the man I loved all along.

Somehow, impossibly, we had found our perfect balance - the precision and the chaos, the control and the wildness, all wrapped up in one man who loved me enough to become someone else, just to keep me happy.

[svdcvnt]

My Two Personalities Dying W Each Other 🖤🩷

[inkeddaydream]

Three Faces of Desire

Pairing: Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley x F!reader

Rating: 18+, smut warning

Summary: Marc, Steven, and Jake take turns with the reader in a single, intense encounter where their distinct personas switch control mid-sex, leaving the reader completely wrecked.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, MDNI 18+, multiple personalities/DID (Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley), possessive language, rough sex, spanking, oral sex (receiving), domination/submission dynamics, praise and degradation, switching consciousness during intimacy, pinning/restraint, biting, implied choking (hair pulling/throat focus), internal ejaculation, overstimulation, first person POV reader-insert.

—————————————

The air in the apartment was still and cool, but it was about to be set ablaze. You were curled on the large, low sofa, a book forgotten in your lap, when you felt the shift. It wasn’t a sound, but a change in pressure, a focusing of energy. You looked up to see Marc Specter leaning in the doorway to the bedroom, his arms crossed over his broad chest. The usual storm in his dark eyes was a calm, intent heat.

“You coming?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t really a question.

Your pulse kicked up a notch. This—this thing with them—was still new, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating. You nodded, setting the book aside, your movements slightly shaky.

As you stood, you saw the subtle flicker in his posture. The aggressive set of his shoulders softened, and a hand came up to run through his hair in a gesture that was distinctly… not Marc.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that a bit forward?” Steven Grant’s softer, British tones emerged from Marc’s mouth. He looked genuinely concerned, stepping into the room. “I just… we’ve been thinking about you all day. Well, I have. The others… they have their own ways of thinking.” He gave you a shy, crooked smile and offered a hand. “Shall we?”

You took his hand, and he led you to the bedroom. It was Steven who kissed you first, deep and exploring, his hands cradling your face with a tenderness that made your knees weak. He guided you back onto the bed, his lips tracing the line of your jaw, down your throat. “I want to savor you,” he whispered against your skin, his fingers deftly working the buttons of your shirt. “Every inch. Every sigh.

He had your shirt open, your bra unfastened with a surprising delicacy, when his rhythm faltered. His kisses, which had been slow and worshipful, grew suddenly hungry, more insistent. The hands on your skin tightened.

“Enough foreplay, English,” Marc’s gruff voice cut through the quiet, though the face was still Steven’s. “She’s not made of china.” In one fluid, powerful motion, he rolled you beneath him, pinning your wrists above your head with one large hand. The look in his eyes was pure Specter: possessive, dark, and hungry. He claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that was all conquering force, his free hand pushing your clothes the rest of the way off with impatient tugs.

“Marc—” you gasped when he broke the kiss to trail his lips down your sternum.

“Quiet,” he ordered, but there was a rough affection in it. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the peak until you arched off the bed with a sharp cry. He moved to the other, giving it the same relentless attention. “You’re ours. You know that, right? All of us.” He wasn’t asking.

He released your wrists only to yank your pants and underwear down your legs, tossing them aside. His gaze raked over your naked form, a hunter assessing his prize. “Look at you. All laid out for us.” He leaned down, his breath hot against your inner thigh. “Gonna taste you. See what all the fuss is about.”

His mouth on you was an electric shock. There was no gentle build-up; Marc licked into you with a direct, demanding stroke that made you cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair. He worked you with a soldier’s efficiency and focus, his tongue broad and flat, then pointed and precise, finding your clit and circling it with a pressure that bordered on painful. You were already writhing, begging in broken syllables, when he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them upward.

“So tight,” he groaned against you, the vibration setting your nerves on fire. “Soaked for us already.” He pumped his fingers, scissoring them, stretching you, his thumb pressing down on your clit. The dual assault was brutal, effective. Your thighs began to tremble around his head.

Then, a pause. The fingers inside you stilled. The mouth lifted from your core.

When he looked up, the expression had shifted again. The fierce dominance was still there, but it was overlaid with a layer of gritty, street-smart amusement.

“He gets so serious, *mi corazón*,” Jake Lockley purred, licking his lips—your taste still on them. He crawled up your body, his movements a prowl. He didn’t kiss you. He pinned you with his dark, laughing eyes. “All strategy and orders. Me? I just wanna have fun.”

Before you could react, he flipped you over onto your hands and knees. His hand landed on your ass with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the quiet room. You yelped, the sensation burning through you, mixing pain with a shocking bolt of pleasure.

“Jake!” you gasped.

“That’s me, sweetheart,” he chuckled, rubbing the spot he’d smacked. “Marc’s the general. Steven’s the poet.” He leaned close, his chest pressing against your back, his lips at your ear. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m the one who gets the job done and enjoys the hell out of it.” His cock, hard and thick, nudged against your entrance, already slick from Marc’s attention. He didn’t push in. He just teased, the head catching and slipping. “You want it? Gotta ask nice.”

“Please,” you whimpered, pushing back against him.

“Please…?” he prompted, dragging the tip of him through your folds, making you shudder.

“Please, Jake.”

“Good girl.” With that, he sheathed himself in one long, smooth, devastating stroke, filling you so completely your vision blurred. A ragged moan tore from your throat. He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him, his own breath hitching. “*Dios mio*, you feel perfect.

He started to move, and his rhythm was nothing like Marc’s direct drilling or the deep rolls you imagined Steven would favor. It was a chaotic, delicious sin. He’d pull almost all the way out, then slam back in, hitting a spot that made you see stars. Then he’d grind deep, making slow, filthy circles with his hips. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, sliding around to pinch and roll your nipples, one hand snaking between your legs to rub tight, frantic circles on your clit.

“That’s it,” he grunted, his pace becoming more frantic. “Take it. Fuck, you’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? Gonna milk me dry.”

You were babbling, a stream of yes and please and his name, hurtling toward the edge. Just as the coil in your belly was about to snap, he stilled. Deep inside you, you felt it—not a physical change, but a seismic shift in the consciousness holding you.

The grip on your hips gentled. The frantic energy dissipated, replaced by a deep, throbbing stillness.

“Oh, my love,” Steven’s voice washed over you, filled with awe and a hint of reproach. “Jake, you’re so… *vigorous*.” He remained embedded within you, but now his hands smoothed over your back, soothing the places Jake had gripped. He leaned over you, his chest to your back, and pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to your shoulder blade. “Are you alright? Was he too rough?”

The sudden care, the stark contrast from Jake’s raw filth to Steven’s tender concern, was its own kind of erotic torture. You were strung out, teetering on the precipice of an orgasm that had been brutally denied.

“Steven… I need…” you sobbed, pushing back against him weakly.

“Shhh, I know, darling, I know,” he soothed, beginning to move again. But his movements were different. They were deep, languid rolls of his hips, a slow, inexitable claiming designed not to shatter, but to drown. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you up so your back was against his chest, his other hand coming around to cup your breast, his thumb stroking your nipple with maddening gentleness. “Let me love you. Properly. Let me feel all of you.”

He nuzzled your neck, whispering sweet nothings—poetry, fragments of love songs, praises in French and Arabic. Every word was a feather-light stroke against your overloaded senses. He built the pleasure back up with agonizing patience, each slow, deep thrust a promise. You could feel his own control fraying; his breath grew ragged in your ear, his whispers more fractured.

“You’re so beautiful like this… so open for me… for us… I could die right here…”

The coil was tightening again, slower, deeper, more profound than the sharp need Jake had ignited. You were floating in a haze of sensation, held aloft by Steven’s adoration.

The shift, when it came, was a jolt.

Steven’s gentle roll stuttered, became a sharp, powerful snap of the hips. The arm around your waist became a vice.

“Enough,” Marc’s voice, guttural and strained, cut through Steven’s whispers. “My turn.”

He kept you upright against him, but his pace transformed. It was pure, unadulterated Marc. Hard, deep, piston-like thrusts that stole the air from your lungs. There was no finesse, only a driving, primal need for completion. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat to his biting kisses. The other hand clamped back on your hip, holding you immobile for his use.

“Gonna come inside you,” he growled, each word a thrust. “Gonna fill you up. Mark you. So you remember who you belong to.”

The combination was too much. The sensory hurricane—Jake’s chaotic fire, Steven’s drowning depth, and now Marc’s absolute, punishing claim—shattered the last of your restraint. The orgasm exploded through you, a silent, white-hot supernova that clenched every muscle. You convulsed around him, a raw, broken sound escaping your lips as the world dissolved into pure, shuddering sensation.

Marc swore, a harsh, beautiful curse, and with three final, brutal drives, he followed you over, his own release pulsing deep inside you with a heat that seemed to brand your very soul. He held you through it, his body rigid, his forehead pressed against your sweat-slicked shoulder as he shuddered.

For long minutes, the only sound was the ragged symphony of your breathing. Gradually, the iron tension left his body. He lowered you both back to the mattress, collapsing beside you but keeping you pulled tightly into the curve of his body.

A soft sigh, then Steven’s voice, muffled against your hair. “My goodness.”

From the other side of the bed, a low, satisfied chuckle. Jake. “Told you she’d be speechless.

You were. Wrecked. Boneless. Your mind was a blank, humming slate of pleasure. Every nerve ending felt exposed, every inch of skin sensitized and marked. You were aware of the three of them, a quiet, satisfied presence in the shared mind of the man whose arm was draped heavily over you. The possessiveness of Marc, the adoration of Steven, the wicked thrill of Jake—they were all there, swirling in the afterglow, etched into your very bones.

Marc’s thumb stroked a slow, absent circle on your arm. Steven pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Jake just sighed contentedly.

You were theirs. Utterly, completely, and in every way imaginable, destroyed. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[slowpterodactylus]

[battle-for-dyke-island]

you have an internal monologue? pussy shit. I have an internal dialogue

[silly-fi5h]

Another fursona drawing >:3

Man they're like completely opposites 😭💔

I had to make them both transmasc because yes

[sans-by-shipper]

was playing around with a concept I’d seen of killers stages being different personalities. Thought I’d do my own spin on it.

Somehow each of them already of lore…