Simon has a stay at home spouse, which surprises everyone on the team. Not only is he married, has been for four years, but you absolutely dote on your husband.
Dinner when he gets home, sending him with packed lunches, waking up early to make him a good breakfast, and taking care of the house. "How you convince someone to do all of that for you? Pay em a fortune?" Johnny teases, but Simon just shrugs.
"Let me ask if the missus would like to have you over."
According to Simon, you were ecstatic about them coming over, greeting them at the door with Simon's arm around your waist.
"Hello! You must be Simon's coworkers!" You beam, shaking their hands and leading them inside the kitchen. They hadn't expected Simon's missus to be a man his size. Your shoulders bump with Simon's as you pass him the bowl of chips and dip. "Set those on the table, dinner won't be ready for another thirty minutes."
"Yes, sir." Simon hums, kissing you softly before sitting down at the table with his men. He keeps the smirk off his face as his team watches you flit around the kitchen. They had a lot more questions now than they did before they met you.
summary: You were never supposed to be anything more than the strange one. The wrong one. The boy in too-short sleeves and too-sharp stares, tucked away in a village that never wanted to understand you.
But when your father goes missing, you don’t hesitate. And when you find him imprisoned by a monster— a beast with too many arms, too many eyes, and a curse so old it hums in the walls— you make a deal.
You stay.
And slowly, something unexpected begins to bloom between all the thorns.
pairing: the beast ! ryomen sukuna x belle ! male reader
content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + penetrative), bottom trans male reader, transphobia (implied, not explicit), emotional hurt/comfort, mild violence, trueform sukuna, canon-typical blood, sharp-toothed tenderness, trauma, enchanted furniture, redemption arc, flower language, they kiss a lot.
word count: 7.4k
best viewed in dark mode
The village always woke before the sun.
You could hear it through the window of your father’s little workshop— boots on dirt, chickens fussing, someone slamming a cart too hard around the bend. You lay still beneath the quilt, blinking up at the ceiling beams and waiting for the ache in your chest to settle into something manageable. It wasn’t pain, exactly. Not grief. More like a weight. A quiet hum of not-right-ness, of not-fitting-here-ness, stretching out from under your ribs and seeping into the corners of the room.
Downstairs, the smell of oil paints drifted up from your father’s studio. He would already be hunched over his latest canvas, humming absently, paint on his sleeves. He never asked questions about why you dressed the way you did or why you flinched when someone called you “girl.” He didn’t ask. But he saw you.
It helped.
A little.
⋆｡°✩
You dressed quickly— shirt, vest, trousers— clothes that always earned stares from the butcher’s wife and side-eyes from the baker’s daughter. They weren’t what you were supposed to wear, they said. Not feminine. Not proper. But they made it easier to breathe. That was enough.
With a worn book tucked under your arm and Megumi at your heels— scruffy, growling, loyal as ever— you stepped into the morning light.
The village square had already come alive. Market stalls groaned with apples and spices, men shouted greetings across the fountain, and the children had started their daily ritual of chasing chickens between carts. It should’ve felt like home.
It never did.
They all knew you— or thought they did. The painter’s ‘daughter’. A little strange. Bookish. Lonely. A poor excuse for a wife, someone had whispered once. Not fit for marriage. You carried those words in your spine, learned how to make yourself smaller in crowds, how to walk fast and smile politely, how to pretend you didn’t hear the things they said.
⋆｡°✩
“[Y/N]!”
The voice cut through the hum of the village like a blade. You stopped short.
Naoya Zenin swaggered across the square like it belonged to him— tall, smug, jacket unbuttoned just enough to show off. He had a musket strapped across his back, though no one could remember the last time he used it for anything other than posing. A few women tittered from behind the flower stall. Naoya winked at them, then turned his full attention on you.
“I was just telling my friends,” he said loudly, “you’d make the perfect wife. Sharp enough to be interesting, quiet enough to be trainable.”
The air in your lungs turned to glass.
You didn’t answer. You never did. It never stopped him.
“Why don’t we take a walk?” he offered, already reaching for your elbow. “We should talk about our future.”
Megumi growled low in his throat, teeth flashing.
You stepped back. “No.”
Naoya blinked, mock-offended. “Still playing hard to get, huh?”
“I’m not playing anything,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I’m not interested.”
The words sat there, raw and final.
Naoya’s smile twisted. “Not interested,” he repeated, like the words were foreign. Then softer, closer: “What’s the matter with you, huh? Don’t you want to be taken care of?”
You didn’t answer.
There wasn’t a point.
You turned and walked away, boots crunching hard over the packed dirt. Behind you, Naoya whistled low— long and slow and mocking.
The only thing that stopped you from running was the book clenched tight against your chest.
⋆｡°✩
You spent the rest of the morning in your usual spot— a quiet bench beneath the oak tree behind the chapel, where no one ever looked twice at you. You opened the book. You tried to read. But the words swam. All you could think of was his hand on your arm. The assumption in his voice. The way no one ever corrected him.
No one ever looked at you and saw you.
Not yet.
Your father was already halfway through packing by the time you got home.
His old travel satchel sat open on the floor, its seams stretched from years of patched repairs. Brushes wrapped in linen were tucked beside ink pots and carefully sealed sketches. A bundle of warm bread from the baker's daughter— a rare kindness— rested on the table near a folded scarf.
“You’re leaving early,” you said softly, slipping into the studio.
He looked up from where he was fastening a buckle. His face— lined, sun-browned, familiar— softened when he saw you. “Storm’s coming. Thought I’d get ahead of it.”
You nodded, moving to help. “You’ll sell more this time,” you said. “People’ll see how good it is.”
He chuckled, gruff and quiet. “If they’re not too busy ogling Zenin’s new coat.”
That pulled a faint smile from you. It vanished just as quickly. He caught the shift in your face. Of course he did.
“Is he bothering you again?” You hesitated.
You didn’t like worrying him. You knew how hard he worked, how much he already carried. But the truth sat heavy in your chest.
“He thinks I’ll say yes if he asks enough times,” you said finally. Your father’s jaw tightened. “Let him try again. Next time I’ll—”
“It’s not worth it,” you interrupted gently. “He doesn’t see me. Not really.” He was quiet for a moment. Then: “One day someone will. Someone who sees you. All of you.”
You looked at him, and something unspoken passed between you. Not full understanding, but something close.
He reached out and smoothed your hair, the way he used to when you were younger. “Anything you want me to bring back?”
You thought about it. The markets were always full of junk— glittery trinkets, loud music, bad paintings pretending to be art. You never asked for much. But something tugged at you now.
“A rose,” you said.
He blinked. “A rose?”
“Yeah. Just… something alive.” He studied you for a second, then smiled. “Alright. A rose.”
You handed him his coat. Watched him fasten the last clasp. Watched him sling the bag over his shoulder like he always did before leaving. It should have been routine.
But something felt different. A heaviness you couldn’t name.
⋆｡°✩
The storm hit sooner than anyone expected.
By dusk, the sky turned slate gray and the wind howled like it wanted to rip the roofs off the village. You stood at the window long after the last candle burned out, watching the trees bend and sway. Your fingers twitched against the windowsill.
You thought of your father alone in the woods. You thought of wolves. Of ice.
You thought of the rose.
⋆｡°✩
The storm swallowed the path whole.
Your father’s horse had bolted hours ago, spooked by the thunder, and now he was stumbling through underbrush with frozen fingers and a soaked satchel, eyes straining for light. Branches clawed at his face. He could barely breathe through the fog and rain. But worse than the weather was the howling— not wind, not wolves, but something deeper. Something wrong.
Then he saw it.
Iron gates. Twisted and ancient, half-buried in ivy. Beyond them: a castle carved into the side of the mountain, black stone rising like a broken crown against the lightning. The torches at its doors flickered as if they had been waiting for him.
He didn’t question it. He was too cold to be afraid. Too tired to wonder.
The gates creaked open when he touched them.
⋆｡°✩
The castle halls were quiet. Not dead, but not alive either— as though the whole place were caught in a breath it hadn’t released in centuries. Paintings lined the walls, their subjects watching him with eyes that followed. Tapestries sagged, velvet faded. But the fire in the hearths was lit.
He moved slowly, half in a daze, whispering thanks to no one as he followed the warmth. A teacup clinked somewhere. He didn’t see who left the bread on the table, but he ate it. He didn’t question the clean towel. Or the blanket.
Only when he passed into the garden— hedges sculpted into monstrous shapes, thorns winding around marble statues— did he remember the rose.
There it was. Alone in the snow. Blooming bright red on a frost-bitten bush.
His fingers brushed it gently. He hesitated.
Then, with trembling hands, he plucked it.
The ground rumbled beneath his feet.
⋆｡°✩
A roar tore through the castle— deep and ancient and full of fury. He dropped the rose.
Something moved in the shadows.
It didn’t step so much as ripple— out of the dark came a form too big to be human, cloaked in heavy silk, horns gleaming wet under the moonlight. The man— if it was still a man— towered over him, four arms unfurling from beneath his robes, twin pairs of glowing eyes boring down. His skin was marked in black lines, sacred and savage, and his teeth glinted like knives when he bared them.
“Thief,” he growled.
Your father stumbled back, hand raised in defense, voice cracking as he tried to speak— to apologize, to plead. But the Beast was already moving, too fast for his size, fury radiating from him like heat.
He raised one clawed hand and the gates slammed shut.
“Your life is forfeit,” the Beast snarled, voice like splitting stone. “Or someone must take your place.”
And then he vanished, leaving only silence behind.
The castle looked worse in daylight.
Dark towers twisted against the gray sky like claws, their windows shuttered with old iron. You’d barely slept the night before— you’d begged anyone who would listen, searched every road, followed every clue— and now your horse was tied at the gate, still panting from the run. Your father’s satchel had been found tangled in the woods. The rose still sat in the saddlebag. It hadn’t wilted.
That was how you knew he was inside.
You shoved the gates open and stepped through.
Inside, the silence pressed close. The castle was too still, too warm. Fire crackled in the hearths without kindling. Curtains stirred without wind. Shadows stretched long across the stone. You moved carefully, hand on the book at your belt like it could protect you.
Then something moved.
You didn’t see him at first. Only a flicker of black silk. Then— a step, too loud. A shape too large. And out of the dark came a monster.
Four arms. Eyes like blood and gold. Skin covered in inked scripture and scars. He loomed, horned and massive, mouth curled in something far too cruel to be a smile.
You froze.
“So,” he said, voice like gravel and heat, “you came.”
You swallowed. “My father. You took him.”
“I spared him,” the Beast growled. “He stole from me. A life for a rose.”
“He didn’t know—”
“I don’t care what he knew.”
Your hands clenched into fists.
He stared at you, two pairs of eyes narrowing. “Are you here to beg, then? Scream? Cry?”
“No,” you said. “I’m here to take his place.”
The silence cracked like ice.
He looked at you long and hard. His gaze flicked over your clothes, your stance— your fear, buried deep under defiance. Something in his jaw ticked.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because he’s all I have.” You stood straighter. “And I don’t run from my choices.”
He stepped forward. You held your ground.
“I don’t want your tears,” he said slowly. “You’ll stay. One moon’s cycle. If you try to escape, he dies.”
You nodded once.
Then— impossibly— the corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A test. “We’ll see how long you last, little thief.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
⋆｡°✩
The door didn’t lock behind you, but it might as well have.
The room you were led to was massive— too grand for a prison cell, but too cold to be called a home. Tall windows let in gray light. A fire snapped quietly in the hearth. The bed was too large, draped in dark velvet, untouched and unfamiliar. Someone had left food on the table— covered, still warm.
You didn’t touch it.
Instead, you sat on the edge of the mattress, hands in your lap, and waited.
The castle didn’t creak like old houses do. It… shifted. Whispered. You could feel it in the stone beneath your boots, in the air moving through the curtains like breath.
“Do you think he’s going to cry?” a voice whispered.
You jumped.
“Don’t be rude, he’s new,” another voice sighed.
You turned fast enough to make yourself dizzy— but no one was there. Just a candelabra resting on the table, its three wax arms flickering calmly.
Until one of them waved at you.
“Hey, sunshine,” the candle said brightly. “Welcome to the worst Airbnb of your life.”
You screamed.
⋆｡°✩
Ten minutes later, you were sitting at the hearth with a talking candle, a very agitated clock, a feathery swan-shaped brush that kept hissing at your shoes, and a teapot who somehow radiated more maternal energy than your actual mother ever had. The little teacup at her side bounced excitedly with every word.
“I—this isn’t real,” you muttered.
Gojo, the candle, winked at you. “Define real.”
“You’re all—cursed?”
“Correct!” Geto, the clock said miserably. “Trapped. Forgotten. Left to rot with that thing upstairs.”
“Watch it,” said Shoko, her bristles flaring slightly. “He’s always listening.”
Kaori Itadori the teapot poured you a cup of something warm and spiced, her voice gentle. “You’re safe now, dear. No one here means you harm.”
Yuuji bounced beside her. “What’s your name? Do you like books? Do you know how to sword fight?!”
You blinked. “…You’re a teacup.”
“Exactly!” he beamed.
There was a long pause.
You drank the tea.
It helped.
⋆｡°✩
Later, after the introductions had settled into something like peace, Gojo flickered closer and said in a conspiratorial tone, “So. Between us, what do you think of our dear master?”
You frowned. “He’s… a monster.”
Geto groaned. “Don’t antagonize him, Gojo.”
“Four arms,” you muttered. “And those eyes. He looked at me like—”
“Like he wanted to rip your soul apart and wear it as a scarf?” Shoko offered.
“Yes!”
There was a silence.
Then Gojo laughed, bright and unapologetic. “Don’t worry. That’s just his flirty face.”
“Flirty—?”
“You’ll see,” Kaori murmured, sipping from her own spout.
⋆｡°✩
You learned quickly that the castle had moods.
The halls rearranged themselves when they thought you weren’t looking. Windows that should’ve faced the gardens now overlooked cliffs. Stairs melted into ramps. Once, you turned down a corridor you swore led to the kitchens, only to find yourself in a balcony big enough to house half the kingdom.
You liked that one.
Sometimes, when no one else was around, you went back. Sat beneath the stained-glass skylight. Let the dust settle on your shoulders. Read until the words stopped swimming.
But you weren’t alone.
You never really were.
You felt him watching— not always, not obviously, but enough. A breath against the back of your neck. A shadow in the corners of your eye. Sometimes a faint growl echoing through the stone, like the walls were angry. You told yourself it was nothing.
But when you reached for the wrong door— the one at the end of the north hall, carved with unfamiliar script and choked in ivy— Gojo appeared out of nowhere.
“Don’t,” he said, suddenly very serious.
You frowned. “What’s in there?”
“Not for you,” Geto snapped, rolling up behind him. “Not for anyone.”
“You mean the Beast’s room.”
They both flinched.
“That’s not his name,” Kaori murmured from the end of the hall.
“But it’s what he is, right?”
Shoko sighed, fluttering down from a windowsill. “He wasn’t always.”
That made you pause.
You looked at the door again. Heavy. Silent. Waiting.
“He’ll kill you if you go in there,” Geto said flatly.
And deep in the shadows above— just behind the balcony’s curve, Sukuna exhaled through his teeth.
“Curious little thing,” he muttered.
His claws curled around the railing.
“He’ll run screaming before the rose falls.”
But he kept watching anyway.
⋆｡°✩
You hadn’t meant to get lost.
The castle was different at night— colder, darker, the torches dimmed down to blue flame. You had gone looking for the library again, craving something quiet, but the halls kept shifting under your feet. The stone whispered under your boots, windows fogging over as if the castle itself had turned its face away.
Then came the thunder.
The wind howled through a broken pane and sent a gust down the corridor, cutting through your shirt like a blade. You hugged your arms to your chest and turned back— or tried to. Nothing looked familiar anymore. The paintings had changed. Doors sealed themselves. Your breath curled visibly in the air.
And then the torchlight vanished.
You stood in the dark, heart pounding, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. You weren’t afraid of shadows. You weren’t. But this was different— this was the kind of dark that watched.
You tried to move, but the cold sank deeper. Your legs felt heavy. The walls closed in.
And that’s when you heard it.
Boots. Heavy. Slow. Too many to belong to one man.
You turned, just in time to see the shape step into the hallway— tall, massive, horned, eyes glowing through the gloom.
He looked like death.
“S-Stay back,” you said, voice cracking.
Sukuna didn’t answer.
He moved forward, slow, shoulders wide enough to block out the torchlight behind him. Four arms moved with eerie synchronicity. His mouth curled in something unreadable.
You stumbled backward, spine hitting the stone wall.
“I told them not to let you wander,” he muttered.
“You—you were watching me?”
“I always watch what’s mine.”
That made you bristle, even through the fear. “I’m not yours.”
He cocked his head. “Aren’t you?”
You glared at him. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”
He snorted. “You’d be screaming if I meant to.”
You opened your mouth to snap back— but a shiver cut through you, violent and sharp. Your knees buckled before you could stop them.
In two strides, he was there.
One massive hand— too warm, too careful— caught your arm before you could hit the ground. Another tugged his cloak off in one motion and wrapped it around your shoulders. It smelled like ash and smoke and something older.
You blinked, stunned.
He didn’t look at you. Didn’t leer or gloat. Just held you steady.
“Humans break too easily,” he said quietly.
“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked again.
He looked down at you then— really looked, and for a moment, all the sharpness dropped from his face.
You weren’t sure who broke eye contact first.
⋆｡°✩
He brought you back in silence.
The cloak stayed around your shoulders. His hand never left your back. When you reached the door to your room, he paused. Said nothing. Waited.
You turned back toward him, heartbeat still thudding in your ears.
“…Why are you like this?” you asked.
He looked tired. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
A pause.
Then, softly— more a breath than a word. “Not tonight.”
⋆｡°✩
You didn’t expect him to knock.
The next morning, the castle was quiet again— no storm, no footsteps, no flickering shadows. You’d barely slept. Too many thoughts. Too much confusion. But when the knock came— low, firm, deliberate— you startled anyway.
You opened the door. He was standing there.
No cloak. No scowl. Just Sukuna, framed in sunlight, arms folded, like this was something he’d talked himself into and now regretted instantly.
“…Come with me,” he said.
You stared. “Why?”
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked.
You should’ve said no. You should’ve slammed the door and gone back to bed. But your feet moved without asking. You followed him.
The halls were quieter than usual. Even the castle seemed to be holding its breath. You passed by Kaori spinning in slow circles. Shoko raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Gojo and Geto were suspiciously nowhere in sight.
Finally, he stopped before a door you hadn’t seen before. Tall. Iron-bound. Carved with symbols that looked ancient.
He opened it with one hand.
The scent of old parchment and cedar drifted out.
You stepped inside— and froze.
It was a library.
Not just any library. A cathedral of books. Stacks that went up past the rafters. Staircases winding through shelves. A glass dome overhead flooding the space with morning light. It wasn’t just beautiful— it was impossible.
You turned slowly, staring.
“I thought you might be… bored,” he said.
You looked at him.
He wasn’t watching you. He was watching the ceiling. Like if he looked at you directly, something might crack.
“…You did this for me?”
“It was already here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence.
Then, so quietly you almost missed it:
“You’re the first one who’s stayed.”
Something tightened in your chest.
You stepped further into the room, running your hand along the spines. Some were cracked with age. Others looked untouched. Languages you couldn’t read. Stories waiting to be discovered.
You turned back to him. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, as if trying to brush it off. “Don’t make it a habit.” But you smiled anyway.
And the moment stretched. You spent the rest of the morning there.
He didn’t leave. Didn’t say much. Just sat in the corner, arms crossed, pretending to nap while you read through half a novel out loud. Every now and then, when you glanced up, you found him watching— like he wasn’t sure how to stop.
You didn’t ask him to.
The castle started changing around you.
It was subtle. You didn’t notice it at first— a hallway that stopped shifting, a door that stayed unlocked. The room warmed. Curtains were drawn back. Kaori started humming again. Even Geto’s constant fretting softened into something bordering on hopeful.
But more than that, he changed.
Sukuna didn’t loom as much anymore. He didn’t snarl every time you asked a question. He still watched you— always— but it was different now. Less like a hunter. More like someone studying sunlight through stained glass, trying to understand how something so soft could still burn.
Some afternoons, he sat across from you in the library while you read aloud— never interrupting, just listening. His hands stayed folded. His eyes didn’t blink. But when you paused, he always knew how to fill the silence.
Other days, he took you through the gardens. Let you see where the snow hadn’t touched. Showed you flowers that shouldn’t have survived this high in the mountains. You learned his favourite place was a crumbled balcony overlooking the cliff’s edge. You stood there once beside him, the wind in your face, and he said nothing for a long time before finally muttering, “The world used to be so loud.”
You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.
And when you laughed— really laughed— at something stupid Gojo said one evening over dinner, you caught Sukuna staring again. His expression was unreadable, but his hands flexed on the armrest like he wanted to reach out and didn’t know how.
⋆｡°✩
The ballroom happened by accident.
You’d found it while wandering— golden columns, frozen chandeliers, dust hanging like mist in the air. The moment you stepped inside, something in the walls shifted. Candles sparked to life. Music hummed faintly from nowhere. The floor gleamed beneath your boots.
He found you there later.
Didn’t speak. Just stood in the archway for a moment, watching. You turned.
“I didn’t mean to trespass,” you said. He shook his head slowly. “You didn’t.”
He stepped inside. The room felt suddenly smaller.
You met him halfway. The silence stretched.
The— tentatively, almost shy— he reached out and offered one clawed hand.
Your breath caught. You took it.
He led you in a slow, clumsy circle— one hand awkward on your waist, the other curled around yours far too gently for a man with talons. He didn’t know how to dance. You didn’t care. The music rose around you. Your pulse kept time with the rhythm. He didn’t look away, not even once.
And when your fingers brushed— when you felt the rough edge of his palm curl a little tighter around yours— something clicked in your chest so sharp it nearly made you stumble.
You didn’t know what it meant. But you didn’t let go.
It started with curiosity.
You hadn’t meant to go into the West Wing. You’d promised— really, you had— but promises meant less when the person you made them to refused to explain why. You’d grown used to the castle shifting around you, bending its rules in silence. So when the corridor appeared— unmistakable and unchanged— something inside you said, now.
The door wasn’t locked.
The air inside was colder than the rest of the castle. Not freezing, but still. Still like a room preserved in grief. The furniture was draped in thick fabric, dust curling in the beams of sunlight through the tall, cracked windows. A mirror stood against one wall— ancient, silver-edged, humming with a kind of magic that made your stomach turn. But it wasn’t what drew you forward.
It was a rose.
Suspended in a glass dome, nestled on a carved pedestal, petals impossibly bright against the gloom. It glowed faintly, pulsing with something warm and alive. A few petals had already fallen, curled along the base like fallen stars.
You stepped closer. You didn’t touch it. You didn’t need to. Just being near it made your chest ache.
You heard the growl before you saw him.
The roar shattered the stillness.
He was there— sudden and huge, fury pouring off him like fire, four arms tense, claws bared. He stormed into the room like it had betrayed him.
“What did I say?”
You stepped back, hands up. “I didn’t touch it—”
“You don’t belong here!”
“I just—!”
“You don’t belong anywhere in this castle!”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You stared at him— not at the monster, not at the claws, but at his face. At the panic buried beneath the rage.
“I didn’t mean to,” you said, softer.
“That’s what they always say,” he hissed. “Curious little things. Poking around. Making promises they don’t keep.”
You swallowed. “Who hurt you?”
He went still. It only lasted a second. But it was enough.
Then his eyes narrowed again, and his voice dropped to a snarl. “Leave.”
“What?”
“Get out.” You took a step back.
He didn’t shout again. He didn’t have to.
You turned and ran.
The forest was colder than it had been days before. You hadn’t meant to go far— only out, away, anywhere but that room— but the storm clouds overhead built fast. Within minutes, the path vanished beneath your boots, snow curling around your ankles, trees blurring into shadow.
Then came the howls.
Wolves. Closer than you expected.
Your legs burned. Your lungs ached. You tripped once— twice— the second time hard enough to scrape your palms. When the first set of glowing eyes appeared through the trees, you knew you weren’t making it back.
You raised your fists anyway.
They lunged.
And then he was there.
⋆｡°✩
Sukuna hit the wolves like a thunderclap— claws flashing, eyes burning, more fury than form. You couldn’t follow it all. Just movement. Just sound. Just teeth and blood and screaming.
Then silence.
He stood over you, chest heaving, snow melting where it hit his skin.
One arm was bleeding. Deep. Ugly.
You pushed yourself upright. “You’re—”
“Stupid,” he growled. “Running into the woods. You could’ve—”
“I know,” you said.
He winced. Dropped to one knee.
Without thinking, you stepped forward and caught him— your hands too small, your body too light, but he let you steady him anyway.
“Let me help.”
He didn’t argue.
⋆｡°✩
The fire in your room was still lit. You dragged a chair close, pushed him into it, and rolled up his sleeve— careful, gentle, still shaking. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you.
The gash across his bicep oozed, still fresh. You pressed a warm cloth against it and felt him tense.
“Why’d you follow me?”
“You ran.”
“You didn’t have to come after me.”
“You shouldn’t have left.”
The silence stretched.
You kept cleaning the wound. Carefully. Quietly.
“I thought you hated me,” you said.
He looked away.
“I thought you hated yourself.”
That got his attention.
“You’re wrong,” he said. Then, quieter: “I don’t hate you.”
You froze.
He exhaled, slow. “You’re the first person to look at me like I’m not something broken.”
You tied off the bandage. Sat back on your heels.
“I don’t think you’re broken,” you said. “Just scared.”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t look away.
⋆｡°✩
The fire burned low. The storm had passed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, the castle was completely still.
Sukuna sat in the chair by the hearth, his injured arm resting on his knee, cloak draped over one shoulder like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. You sat across from him, the heat of your body still soaked into the cushions behind you. The bandages you’d tied were clean. The room smelled like ash, like rain-soaked fabric, like breath held too long.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“So should you.”
Neither of you moved.
The silence between you wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry. It hummed with something else now— a weight, a possibility. His eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but they watched you like he was memorizing. Like he was letting go.
You stood.
He didn’t stop you when you crossed the room. Didn’t flinch when you reached for the cloak around his shoulders, or when your fingers brushed the edge of his wrist. He let you touch him.
“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.
“I told you, you’re free.”
You looked up.
“I don’t mean the castle.”
For a moment, his expression flickered— something raw behind the bone and ink. Then he reached up— slowly, carefully— and pressed one hand against your chest. The warmth of his palm bled through your shirt.
“You shouldn’t want me,” he said.
“Too late.”
⋆｡°✩
When you kissed him, it wasn’t soft.
It was slow. Careful in the way only something dangerous could be— like you were both afraid the moment might shatter. His mouth was warmer than you expected, rough but patient. His claws ghosted over your ribs but never dug in. When you parted, breathless, you watched his eyes flutter open— and for once, they weren’t guarded. Just full.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
You didn’t.
⋆｡°✩
The bed creaked beneath your weight. You let him guide you down with hands that had once shattered stone, now shaking as they touched your skin like it was something sacred. His lips followed— jaw, throat, collarbone— trailing reverent, slow heat. Your shirt peeled away. His claws never scratched. Not once.
When he saw you— all of you— he stilled.
You waited.
He leaned down, pressed his lips against the dip between your ribs, and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”
The ache that bloomed in your chest was too much to hold.
⋆｡°✩
He kissed every inch of you, like he was trying to rewrite the memory of how you’d been seen before. His hands mapped your hips, your stomach, your thighs, never greedy, only steady— like if he rushed it, you’d vanish. You clung to his shoulders, the ridges of his arms, the heat of his body as he moved against you, slow and sure.
It didn’t matter that you shook. He held you. Listened to the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched into his, the way you whispered his name like it was a secret he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.
When he finally entered you— gentle, careful, with your breath caught in his mouth— the stretch burned, but you welcomed it. He didn’t move until you pulled him closer.
Every motion after that felt like a promise. His pace was slow, hips rolling deep, deeper, every thrust grounded in reverence. His name slipped from your lips again, and he cursed low against your skin. One of his hands found yours and squeezed— not possessive, but grounding.
You felt him unravel above you. Felt the way his rhythm faltered as your legs locked around his waist. When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and his mouth at your throat.
He followed with a growl that shook through both of you.
⋆｡°✩
After, he cleaned you gently— like it meant something— and pulled you against him beneath the sheets. The weight of his arm across your waist was solid and warm. His other hands traced your spine like he didn’t want to forget the shape of you.
You lay there for a long time, chest to chest, breath to breath.
“I’ve never had this,” he murmured.
You looked up at him.
“You do now,” you said.
And he closed his eyes.
⋆｡°✩
The next morning, you found him in the garden.
The sky was pale with early light, frost clinging to the edges of the stone, and Sukuna stood alone near the edge of the rosebushes— still dressed from the night before, cloak loose around his shoulders, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see.
You hadn’t spoken since. Not with words. But your body still ached with memory. You could still feel the weight of his hand on your waist, the rasp of his voice against your throat.
When he turned, you knew he’d already felt the shift.
“The mirror,” he said simply. “Ask it to show you.”
You hesitated.
Then you stepped forward, reached into the space between you, and the mirror bloomed to life in your hands.
Glass shimmered.
Your father’s face appeared in the surface— pale, shaking, trapped in a cage. Behind him, jeering voices. A man’s laughter that turned your stomach.
Naoya.
The world inside the mirror shifted, and you saw the asylum gates.
Your heart dropped.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.
Sukuna’s voice was quiet. “Go to him.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“You can.”
“I’ll come back.”
His eyes flicked away. “Don’t make promises you don’t mean.”
“I mean it.”
He didn’t argue.
He reached into the folds of his cloak and pressed the mirror into your hands. His thumb brushed your wrist, just once, before pulling away.
You held his gaze.
“You’re more than this,” you said.
His voice was barely a breath. “And you’re the only one who ever saw it.”
Neither of you said goodbye.
But as you turned and stepped through the gate, you felt something in your chest twist tight— like a thread had been tied between you, and you’d left it trembling in the cold.
The carriage was already waiting when you arrived.
They’d moved fast— too fast. Naoya had spun his lies like thread through every ear that would listen, his voice oiled with performance, face clean with practiced pity. “The poor painter,” he’d said. “Mad with grief. Imagining monsters. His daughter brainwashed.”
They never asked for your side. They never wanted it.
By the time you found your father, he was already bound and trembling, hands clutching the bars of the cage. His eyes lit up when he saw you— but the fear didn’t leave his face.
“He’s sending me away,” he whispered. “They won’t listen—”
“They will,” you said. “I’ll make them.”
You turned.
Naoya stood by the wagon with his arms folded, coat freshly pressed, a gleam in his eye that made your stomach turn. “Come to your senses?” he asked. “Or just here to cry some more?”
“I’m here to end this.”
Naoya smirked. “You don’t even know what you’ve been sleeping beside.”
You didn’t flinch.
Instead, you held up the mirror.
And the courtyard fell silent.
⋆｡°✩
Gasps rippled as the image bloomed— Sukuna’s face, sharp and monstrous, watching from the castle gate. Behind him, the castle stretched in shadow and stormclouds. His four arms moved with eerie stillness. His eyes glowed.
Naoya’s smirk faltered.
“You see?” you said. “He exists. My father told the truth.”
“But he’s a monster,” someone muttered.
“He’s cursed.”
Naoya recovered fast. “Then he’s dangerous.”
“He saved my life.”
“He’s bewitched you.”
“He let me go,” you snapped. “He gave me freedom when no one else did.”
Silence. Then someone shouted, “Even if it’s true— who’s to say he won’t come for us next?”
Naoya turned, voice rising with mock-heroism. “The time for talk is over. The creature threatens our home, our children, our future. If no one else will act—”
He raised his musket.
“I will.”
⋆｡°✩
They moved like floodwater.
Torches lit. Guns drawn. Blades rattling against pitchforks. You tried to fight your way back, tried to shout above the roar— but Naoya had planned this too well. You were grabbed, shoved, dragged toward the same cage your father had escaped from only minutes before.
“Lock them both up,” Naoya growled. “They can watch the castle burn.”
And as the mob marched toward the mountains, you kicked against the bars and screamed his name.
But the wind stole it from your lips.
⋆｡°✩
The castle saw them coming.
Long before the first torch lit the cliffside, before the wheels of the cart screeched against the stone, before the mob had even reached the gates— the castle knew. You could feel it in the air. The torches inside flickered low. The mirrors dimmed. The wind outside rose like a warning.
And the servants prepared for war.
Gojo lit every candelabra in the main hall like it was a funeral pyre. Geto barked orders no one listened to. Kaori shoved Yuuji into a cupboard and told him not to come out no matter what. Shoko, brush raised like a spear, muttered something about having waited centuries for a good excuse to stab someone.
And through it all, Sukuna stood on the highest balcony, silent.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared down at the torches approaching like they were stars fallen from the sky.
“He’s not coming back,” he said, to no one.
No one corrected him.
⋆｡°✩
You had never run so fast in your life.
Your father limped behind you, breath ragged, hand clutched tight in yours. You didn’t know how long the gate would hold. Didn’t care. The mountain path blurred beneath your boots, the wind howling past your ears, your lungs burning.
You saw the smoke before you saw the fire.
And then— through the trees— the castle.
And Naoya, musket raised, climbing the stairs.
⋆｡°✩
The servants fought like chaos incarnate.
Kaori tripped one man with a swinging teacart. Geto lobbed vases from the top floor with mechanical precision. Gojo lit half the mob’s torches out of spite. But it wasn’t enough. The villagers kept coming. Loud. Angry. Terrified of what they didn’t understand.
Sukuna met Naoya on the roof.
There were no words. Just a flash of steel, a snarl, the clash of teeth and blade. Sukuna didn’t hold back. But he didn’t kill him either. He let him fall once. Let him scramble back to his feet. Let him swing again.
He turned away.
And Naoya fired.
⋆｡°✩
The shot rang out sharp against the storm.
You saw it hit— watched Sukuna stagger, one knee dropping, blood already soaking through the silk. You screamed his name. But the castle was too high. The bridge too narrow. You couldn’t reach him.
Naoya raised the gun again.
But this time, the ledge gave way.
He didn’t have time to scream.
⋆｡°✩
You reached Sukuna just as he collapsed.
He was so heavy. So warm. You dropped to your knees and caught his face in your hands, blood slick beneath your fingers. His eyes fluttered open— unfocused, glassy, still watching you.
“You came back,” he rasped.
“Of course I did.”
“You… idiot.”
You let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You’re not allowed to die. Not like this.”
“It’s too late.”
“No—”
“The rose…”
You looked over your shoulder.
The last petal falls.
⋆｡°✩
You didn’t feel the petals hit the ground.
You only felt his hand in yours— colder now, less steady. The weight of his body against your knees. The way his chest rose slower with each breath.
“Sukuna,” you whispered, “look at me.”
He didn’t.
“Sukuna, please.”
One eye opened. Barely. The glow had faded. The strength was gone. But he was still here. Just barely.
“I’m not ready to lose you,” you said. “I didn’t come back to watch you die.”
“You came back because you’re good,” he murmured. “You always were.”
“I came back because I love you.”
That stilled him.
Completely.
The breath in his lungs caught. His jaw twitched. You saw the disbelief flood his face like something painful. Like something he hadn’t let himself imagine.
“I see you,” you said. “I always have. You’re not a monster. You never were.”
He blinked.
Once.
Then the light left his eyes.
⋆｡°✩
The stillness that followed wasn’t real silence— it was a grief so sharp the world seemed to hold its breath. The castle groaned beneath you. The wind outside died. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered.
You didn’t let go of him.
You bowed your head, forehead pressed to his. Your voice was too quiet to echo.
“Come back.”
Nothing moved.
“Come back to me.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I’m not done loving you yet.”
⋆｡°✩
The magic cracked like thunder.
It didn’t explode— it bloomed.
Light poured from the wound on his chest, golden and blinding. His body lifted, spine arched, arms outstretched as if something ancient had taken hold of him. You stumbled back— not out of fear, but awe— and watched as the lines on his skin unraveled. The ink melted. The horns splintered to dust.
He dropped to the floor— whole.
Still.
Then his chest rose.
He gasped like someone drowning.
And when his eyes opened, they were still him.
Sukuna. Just Sukuna. Not a Beast. Not a curse.
“...You stayed,” he whispered.
You launched into his arms before he could say anything else.
Later— after the villagers’ memories returned, after Kaori wept openly in the kitchen, after Gojo danced with the mirror for no reason at all— you stood beside him in the ballroom, chest pressed to his as the music rose. His hand in yours was solid. Strong. Warm.
You wore your best shirt. He still wouldn’t put on a crown.
You looked up at him.
“I still hate you a little,” you said.
He smiled, just slightly.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
⋆｡°✩
The castle bloomed again, slowly.
The halls brightened. The ivy peeled back from the windows. Rooms you hadn’t dared open now welcomed you with soft lamplight and warm air. The gardens thawed first— roses blooming in defiance of the season, red and gold and white, petals trembling in the breeze.
The servants were alive again. Whole again. Gojo wouldn’t shut up for three days. Geto complained about everything and still offered you tea every morning. Shoko took up smoking and refused to explain why.
You didn’t need a title. You didn’t ask for one. But the people came anyway— not to see a fairytale, but to see the man who’d saved their prince. Who’d kissed the curse out of a beast’s broken body and asked for nothing in return.
You stayed.
And he did, too.
⋆｡°✩
The night was warm. Summer had finally found the mountain. Fireflies gathered in the rose garden like floating lanterns. You leaned against the railing of the balcony, bare feet on cold stone, the wind brushing through your hair.
Sukuna stepped behind you.
His arms came around your waist, steady and slow.
You let your body melt back against his. His touch was different now— less cautious, more certain— but never greedy. He held you like you were something fragile only because he knew how hard the world had been to you.
“You’re thinking again,” he murmured.
You smiled. “That obvious?”
“Always.”
You turned in his arms.
Looked up at him.
“Do you still have nightmares?” you asked.
“Not when you’re here.”
You kissed him then— slow, sure, like you had nothing left to prove.
And when the stars came out, you were still there, tucked against him. Safe. Wanted. Home.
Priest Miguel O'Hara x Incubus reader. I had this idea for two years, only now writing it. The reader is ftm! (cunt, pussy, and clit are used in this! Turn away from this!)
Imagine priest Miguel finishing a sermon, preaching the words of God to the attendees as he stood at the altar, closing the Bible with a soft thud. The light shining on him from the morning sun made him look holy and godly. His black vestments covered his muscular body, underneath which would make every woman in the vicinity want him, but he doesn't dwell on or engage in those desires as they are impure and go against God's vision. He watched everyone leaving their pews, some coming up to chat before leaving, then he saw you.
Imagine you are walking up to the altar, making sure everyone is gone. Your boots clicking along the floor, deliberate and sensual. "Is there something you need, child?" (or whatever the priest says.) Miguel says as he sees your body coming into view, his mouth goes dry. You were handsome, almost divine. Miguel then smelled something strange in the air, not the usual incense; it was sweet, richer, and dizzying. Miguel felt something come over him, but he quelled it, for now.
"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," you said, your voice soft as silk and warm blankets. A smirk planted on your face as you see the effects the aphrodisiacs were having on Miguel. It's been a long time since you last feasted, priests and married men were your main options, so much pent-up desire and needs that they have to bury for the sake of being deemed worthy for the pearly gates, you didn't understand that. You never will, but you didn't care. Sex is amazing.
Imagine priest Miguel listening to your confession, it was the most sinful confession he has ever heard. You confessed to having sex with a variety of married men and indulging in voyeuristic tendencies. Yet, he continued listening. The smell was getting stronger, his mind was becoming cloudy, and his body was boiling hot. Miguel's breathing got heavier as his large cock was aching in his pants, throbbing and leaking. Something primal and darker was clawing at him as the holy facade was cracking from the pressure. When Miguel looked again, the young man had horns, wings, and a tail.
"You're a demon..." Miguel mutters, attempting to hold himself back and not indulge in sin, with an incubus no less. Having sex in God's holy temple was blasphemy. Miguel mutters scriptures and pleas to God, begging for forgiveness. He was unaware of you kneeling before him, tugging at his robe until he felt your warm fingers grabbing his cock.
"My, My... already leaking and all of this is for me?" you purred, grinning from hearing Miguel's strangled groans and moans. This priest's cock was bigger and thicker than any other you've had. Your cunt leaked, drenching your underwear with the sticky, sweet fluid. Miguel snapped out of his babbling when he felt your warm, hungry mouth wrapping around his cock. His groans echoed in the quiet church, he fell back against the altar as you deepthroated him, gripping it for support. Miguel bit down on his hand as you worshipped his cock, like it was God. Your tongue teasing his cockhead, slit, and undersides, one of your hands fondling his balls.
"You taste divine, Father." That was the last straw for Miguel. He gave in to the temptation.
Imagine priest Miguel yanking your head off his cock and perches you against the altar. He ripped your underwear off, slapping his throbbing cock against your soaked pussy, gathering the slick and smearing all over his cock. Your dominant and assertive attitude was replaced with submissiveness as felt Miguel's cock teasing your swollen clit, purposely stimulating it. Your poor little hole fluttered around nothing, trying to capture the cockhead, so much slick was gushing out.
"F-fuck..." The word is foreign to Miguel as he rarely curses. His cock was sheathed in your warm, tight, and wet cunt, every inch of his cock was squeezed and massage by your warm insides, slick coating his cock, his heavy balls resting against your ass. Your cunt was hungry as it clenched around his cock every time he attempts to pull out, it didn't Miguel to pull out. Miguel was in pure heaven or hell. Was this how sex felt? It felt amazing, specifically gay sex! His cock being massaged and drenched in slick.
"This is what you've been missing out on, Father. Feel my cunt? It wants you, wants your sin, seed."
Imagine priest Miguel fucking you against the altar, his large, worn hands gripping your hips as he fucked your demon pussy. Moans and other debaucheries filled the silent church: wet skin slapping, pussy squelching, and strangled moans. You could feel Miguel's cock stretching your entrance as his cock dug you out. Your arms locked around Miguel's shoulder, back arching. Your mind was cloudy, but you could feel the energy flooding your body; you weren't going to completely drain Miguel.
"M-Miguel-- oh God... fuck." you cried, causing Miguel to fuck you harder. How dare you, a slutty demon, use God's name, shouldn't be allow to leave your mouth. Miguel groans, his hips stuttering as his thrusts become slow but harder.
"S-so deep... s-so full! Yes, yes! Fill me, Father~ wanna feel it inside me~ breed your sins into me~" you babbled greedily sucking the priest's cock deeper. You could feel the tip ramming against your second entrance, you rubbed your swollen clit in rhythm with Miguel's thrusts. Your body quivered from the sensation as it came around Miguel's thrusting cock, clamping around the piece of meat, milking it of its thick, virile load.
That didn't happen; instead, Miguel pulled out in tight and came all over your stomach. His eyes fluttered shut as his cock pulses, spurting more cum. You were impressed: no man has managed to do this, it seems like Miguel has regained a semblance of control.
Oh yeah, you were definitely coming back for seconds
Author's note: I haven't proofread this, and hopefully it sounds good! Kinda rushed tbh and was delirious due to lack of sleep.
Phainon looks up at you, kneeling obediently with his shirt partially unbuttoned in the middle to reveal his hardened nipples and his pants pulled down just enough to show his hard, dripping cock.
He grabs his length, slowly stroking himself as he drags his tongue up your thick strap. He envelops it in his mouth and bobs his head.
"Look at me." You command. He locks eyes with you, whimpering. He passionately sucks you off while deliberately moving his hand in a way that won't make him have an orgasm, you haven't allowed him to yet.
Phainon managed to last a long time before slipping into a hazy state of pleasure. His hand moves furiously fast and mindlessly, he wants to come.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Your voice snaps him out of it. "I'm sorry– I'm sorry, sir-" He apologizes profusely. He looks like a sad puppy as he watches you walk towards the dresser. You grab a cock ring then slide it down his twitching length. He won't be having an orgasm any time soon.
"Get on the bed." You order. He scrambles onto it, knees and elbows pressed against the mattress. He pulls his pants further down and presents himself to you. You pour an adequate amount of lube on his hole. "Do it yourself, don't stop until I say so."
He whimpers and slowly eases a finger inside him. This continues until he gets a third finger in to mimic the size of your dick. He opens himself up in front of you, subconsciously grinding his cock against the mattress. "I'll be good, sir-" He moans. "Please- hah...fuck me-" He begs you repeatedly, even as his words turn into mindless babbles. He doesn't even care about the damn cock ring or not getting to come, he just wants you inside him.
✮ WARNINGS/TAGS porn without plot, smut, oral (r! receiving), sub! reader, soft dom! bucky, penetration, fingering, gentle sex, pet names, praises, light choking, sexual tension, hand kink, size kink, metal arm kink, size difference, post top surgery reader, reader is on hrt, temperature play (if you squint), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), cream pie, worship, consent, clit referred to dick, aftercare
✮ SUMMARY Your interest in Bucky's metal arm didn't go unnoticed and Bucky invites you to explore your fantasies in a safe environment of his apartment
✮ A/N I have accidentally reminded myself that I really liked Bucky's metal arm and had to write something about it. Also I started writing this on docs, but after finding out docs uses your work to feed their disgusting ai, I decided to look for alternative. So here I am, writing the rest of this on Notion. For now I am testing this out and I am really enjoying it. Imo, this app is much more eye pleasing that docs was. This app also uses ai (unfortunately), but this time you have a choice whenever you want to feed their ai which I think is a very good choice and all apps like this should have it. Idk for how long i am going to use notion, for now i am quite satisfied with it, even thought i am still learning about it's features and how to work with it. Also I haven’t wrote smut (also in general) in a while so feedback is very welcome! <3
ao3 masterlist requests
Ever since you became part of the team and started going on missions, there was a specific kind of tension between you and Bucky. You couldn't help yourself from staring at him, getting distracted by him, while it seemed like he wasn't trying to get your attention at all. At least at first.
He noticed, obviously. Your curious glances, the little shivers when he brushed against you while walking past you. He noticed all of it, especially the glances towards his metal arm. You were so fascinated by it, it was impossible not to notice, especially with the way your eyes wandered over it or by how you sometimes couldn't help yourself and bite your lip. It would be a lie to say that you haven’t lost count of how many times you imagined Bucky's hands wandering over your body, worshiping you as if you were a work of art, a masterpiece to be explored and admired.
At first Bucky decided to not react, but he quickly started liking the attention. The brushes went from accidental to intentional, his hand gently touching your lower back as he walked past you. Or he would watch you back, not trying to hide his interest in you.
The tension was palpable between the two of you to the point the team members had noticed it too, however they decided it was best not to speak. Until there were no complications during the missions, they could live with it, at least for now.
You genuinely thought it all would end on shared glances, and your dirty thoughts about him and that metal arm of his, but it seemed Bucky had a different plan for you.
You were standing against the wall after a mission when he approached you. Although his boots were heavy, he barely made a sound as he cautiously walked closer to you.
He gave you enough time to move away if you didn’t wish for him to come so close, but you didn't, you were standing still. You weren't sure what was going on in his head, but you were sure he wasn't going to hurt you. You knew him well enough to be aware of the fact that he wouldn't hurt you, unless it was absolutely necessary.
And there you were, your bodies almost touching as he put his metal hand on the wall, right next to your head and observed as your eyes went to it immediately. The same as always. He watched as you seemed in trace, being able to see it so close and actually have a moment to admire it.
“So I was right.” Bucky finally spoke, taking you back to reality and making you look up at him. His voice was husky and quiet, since he didn’t want anyone else but you to hear him. The team was aware of the tension, but they didn't need to know anything more besides that.
His hand slowly moved from the wall, gently brushing against your neck as he continued to watch you. His eyes widened at your little shudder and the way your breath hitched.
He gently cupped your chin and let his thumb barely brush against your bottom lip. It was so delicate, you barely felt the cold sensation that came from the metal. At that very moment, you swore you could feel your knees getting weak.
Bucky licked his bottom lip, his eyes fixated on your lips before his eyes bore once again into yours. “If you would like to… you can come over at 8 to my place. We can do something about your… interest in my arm.” He whispered, leaning a little closer to you, leaning down just a little bit to be closer to your height.“I would like that a lot if you came over. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes, sir.” You didn't even get the chance to think your answer through, the words just left your mouth. If Bucky's didn't have his hand so close to your mouth, you would have instinctively clasped your own hands over your mouth. You didn't expect yourself to be so shameless, but there you were, losing your mind in front of the man you were so attracted to.
You thought Bucky might pull away, comment on the way you answered him, but a smirk appeared on his plump lips.
“I'll see you at my place then, doll. Don't be late, I'm not fond of latecomers.” He warned lightly, before he let go of you and walked away as silently as he came. He took a glance at you through his shoulder as if he needed to see your dumbfounded expression before he finally left you all alone with your thoughts.
It felt like a dream, a fantasy. You had to pinch your arm to check if you weren't dreaming, and to your surprise, you weren't.
It was a little bit before 8 when you were in front of Bucky's apartment door. You took your time to get ready before coming to Bucky's. You took a shower, made sure your hair looked presentable, used a light mist to smell nice. You weren't sure what to wear so you decided to go for something comfortable, after all, you knew your clothes won’t be on your body for too long.
Knocking on the door, you heard the familiar voice yell ‘coming!’ from behind the door. You didn't even hear the steps as he came to the door, only the sounds of him opening the locks before the door finally opened.
Bucky's expression softened the moment he saw you. “You actually came. Please, come in.” He moved out of a way to let you in. He seemed a little surprised, but genuinely happy to see you.
“Why wouldn't I come?” You asked as you walked inside, then leaned down to take your shoes off.
“I don't know. You might have changed your mind or something.” He said with a shrug before closing the door.
As you straightened up, Bucky was close to you again, his expression more serious, but it still had the softness from before.
“You know you don't have to do this if you don't feel comfortable.” His eyes wandered over you before his eyes met yours. “Just because I invited you over with clear intentions doesn't mean I'm gonna make you do something you don't want to. Or that we can't stop anytime. We're here to have fun, but be safe and comfortable, yeah?”
You could feel yourself melt at his words. Bucky being so considerate of your feelings made you want him even more.
“O-of course.” You tried to keep your voice steady, not wanting to outright show how excited for whatever was going to happen soon. “I know what I came here for. If I wasn't interested, I would have said so right away.” You couldn't help, but glance at the metal arm. You were sure he noticed.
“Let's go to the bedroom, shall we, hmm?” He held his flesh hand out for you, letting you take it like a gentleman. It was bigger than yours, obviously, more calloused too but not exactly unpleasant.
With your hand in his, he led you to the bedroom. He let go of your hand and sat down, bed softly creaking under his weight. Then, with a soft smile he patted his lap, inviting you to sit on it. As you took a seat and wrapped your arms around his neck, his hands moved straight to your waist, divining under your hoodie to caress the soft skin.
You hesitated, biting down on your lip before answering. “Gentle, sir.”
“You look lovely.” He whispered, his eyes wandering over your face as he was carefully watching your reaction. He noticed a slight flinch when his cold metal touched your warm flesh. “Tell me doll, how do you want it?”
Bucky was surprised by your answer, but not disappointed. He let out a soft chuckle, his smile widening. He wasn't expecting such an answer, but he didn't mind. That request seemed so sweet he just couldn't say no. “Gentle? I can be gentle, sweetheart.”
“Say ‘red’ when you want me to stop.” Bucky whispered as pulled you a little closer. He tilted his head, his eyes flickering to your lips before coming back to look at yours. He could see the desperation in them, the way you were just waiting for him to kiss you.
Bucky couldn't help himself from smirking, the way you were looking at him was just so cute. With that, he kissed you.
As his soft, plump lips moved against yours, his hands roamed over warm skin of your back, wanting to feel your up, pull you even closer as if it was possible and find some sweet spots that could ignite you. He swallowed every little whimper that slipped from your lips right into his, feeling no shame about teasing you like that. He just kept drinking your sweet little sounds as if they were his favorite wine.
With that, Bucky wanted more of your lips. His flesh hand tangled into your hair, deepening the kiss, getting as desperate for you as you were for him, if not more. He enjoyed every second of it until he pulled away and watched how your expression turning into a one of pure disappointment. He chuckled quietly at that.
“Alright, I'm sorry.” He admitted. “I wanted to see your reaction.” He could see how unashamed you were and not wanting to disappoint you further, he grabbed at the bottom of your hoodie.
“How about we start by taking this off, yeah?” He gently tugged at the bottom, but not pulling it off just yet. He knew a thing or two about having insecurities about one's body, so he wanted to know if you were okay with having your chest displayed, even if it was just in front of him.
“Sure.” You said simply, although you were wondering how Bucky was going to react to your scars.
With swift movement, your hoodie and the shirt that beneath it were off your body, as you were exposed to Bucky's gaze.
He let out an appreciative hum, before his hand found a way to your chest as he gently pushed you to lay down on the bed. You could smell a faint of something floral as you laid down. A fresh laundry, you noted. You got comfortable on the soft sheets beneath you, while Bucky did not waste his time to get on top of you.
“That must have took a lot of courage, I imagine.” His flesh hand gently traced one of the scars with his fingertips, a soft smile on his lips.
“You look good like this…” Bucky whispered sounding a little husky, his eyes appreciating you with a soft look.
“You mean laying under you?”
Bucky wasn't able to hold back at snort at your cheeky answer.
“No, I meant with being comfortable in your own skin, it fits you well.” He explained, leaning down to give your scar soft kisses to truly emphasize his words.
Your heart did a little leap as you felt his lips against your skin, not only out of desire but the way he wanted to show you how happy he was for you. As his lips pampered your other scar, you almost melted into into the bed.
Bucky soft kisses continued, his lips going lower and lower, from your chest to your stomach before those pretty blue eyes looked up at you, asking for permission as his metal finger hooked onto your pants.
With a nod from you, he pulled them off. Next was your underwear, which he couldn't help himself from being teased and started pulling them down in such a slow, torturous way.
“Bucky, come on.” You groaned, already impatient.
“Don't be like that, doll. I know you can wait a little longer for me, can't you?” Bucky teased with a small smirk on his face.
You sighed before answering, a light blush covering your cheeks. “Yes, I can, sir.”
“That's my good boy.” He praised, not hesitating even one bit to say those words out loud. He gave your thigh a light squeeze before finally taking your underwear off and taking his own shirt off, baring his chest to your gaze.
He could feel it, the way your eyes wandered around his body, appreciating his muscular chest and stomach. “You're staring.”
“You look good, sir.”
“So do you, handsome.”
His hands grabbed your thighs, one warm and one cold, leaving goosebumps on your skin. He noticed, and let his metal hand brush against the inner side of your thighs, watching more goosebumps rise.
“I didn't expect you to be so… sensitive.” Bucky hummed, spreading your legs and taking in the view. “You're so pretty. Gonna treat you well, doll.”
With that, you watched him as he laid down on his stomach, the bed creaking once more. He pushed his hair away from his face before leaving a trail of soft kisses on the skin of your inner thigh. He was inching closer to where you needed him most. And he knew, he could see how desperate and impatient you were becoming. He was going to cooperate, sure, but that didn't stop him from teasing you more.
He couldn't just have you have it all too easy, could he?
He gave you a kiss right above your dick, earning a groan from you in the process. “James, come on—” Before you could complain more, his tongue was on you, drawing out a gasp out of you.
The feeling of his tongue against your folds was wonderful. He started lapping at you and you could already start feeling dizzy from it all. Turned out Barnes was a man of many talents.
And you were eager to experience all of them.
A shaky moan escaped your lips, along with a shudder that went through your body the moment you felt his tongue against your cock.
His eyes focused on the blissful expression on your face, watching as you were getting drunk from all the pleasure he was giving you.
“N-need more…” Was all you could say as your hand found its way to his unruly hair, grasping it gently between your fingers and pushed him a little more between your legs in hope of more stimulation from him.
Bucky let out a hum against you at that, which made more whimpers come out of your mouth. His nose brushed against the hair on your mound as you sought more pleasure from his lips.
Not wanting to disappoint you, he started gently sucking you off, the metal fingers rubbing circles on your thigh before they disappeared. Missing the feeling, you let a noise of dissatisfaction between the moans.
It was then when you felt it. Cold finger slipped past your wet folds. You couldn't bite down a small noise when you were reminded that his fingers were obviously not the warmest. Bucky noticed your reaction, letting out something of a chuckle with still taking care of your clit with his tongue.
The feeling of his tongue flicking against your clit and his single finger that was quickly joined by the second, both curling and brushing against that sweet spot inside was heavenly. You could feel your body twitch slightly, as your orgasm was approaching.
Your heart was pounding so fast and you felt breathless, you were so focused on the chasing after your own climax, you almost didn't notice the subtle creaking of the bed.
While continuing to pleasure you, Bucky humped the bed. All those sweet noises from you made him rock hard and for now, he couldn't do much more than this - rubbing his cock off against the mattress, while still focusing on you.
“Bucky…? Sir, please…” Another moan from lips as you felt it approaching. Your breathing was even heavier, mixed with moans until finally, your orgasm hit you like a truck and you reached your peak with his name on your lips, squeezing him between your thighs.
You finally let go of Bucky's head and just laid there, letting yourself to have a little moment to have breather.
As you opened your eyes, you were greeted by the sight of Bucky catching his breath with your slick dripping down his chin.
“Felt good, huh?” Bucky asked as his eyes wandered over you, taking in how good you looked as you basked in post orgasm bliss. He wiped your slick off his chin with his flesh fingers, feeling no shame about licking your juices off. Right after he wiped his hand off into a tissue before letting his hand wander over your stomach.
“Ready to continue, doll?” He murmured, titling his head as he watched you. “Or perhaps you need a little break?”
“I'm good, sir. Thanks for asking. We can continue.” You confirmed with a small nod.
“You shouldn't be thanking for respect. But I appreciate the politeness.”
With that, Bucky started taking his sweatpants off, your mouth went nearly dry when you noticed the bulge in his boxers. Bucky only smirked at your reaction.
His boxers were quickly off of him, and your eyes widened at how was thick and hard he was. Bucky chuckled at that. “Don't worry,” He squeezed your thigh with his metal hand. “I promised to be gentle and I will.”
Spreading your legs once more, he got between them before grabbing lube. “Just warning you, it might be a little cold.” You nodded in response.
He grabbed the lube that was already waiting on the bedside table. He squirted a little bit on his fingers and then gently pushed inside you, working them in. You shivered and he cooed you. “I know, just a little more for me, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.” He praised before pulling his fingers out of you, squirting more lube and spreading it over his cock.
After wiping his hand with a tissue, he grabbed your his and gave them a small squeeze. “Ready, handsome?” You nodded. “I wanna hear you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bucky smiled, happy with your answer. “There we go, sweetheart.”
Without waiting any longer, he slowly pushed in. Inch by inch, he was burying himself deeper inside your welcoming warmth. In response, your breath hitched as you felt him stretch you out.
“Doing good, doll?” Bucky asked as his eyes flickered from your pussy to your face, watching your reaction. “Need me to stop?”
“I'm doing fine, sir. Please don't stop.”
Bucky chuckled. “Eager, aren't we?” He teased as he continued until he was nestled inside of you, his hips meeting yours.
The feeling of him inside of you, stretching you and filling you was delicious, a low moan leaving your lips.
“Wait.” You suddenly said catching Bucky off guard before he had a chance to move.
He immediately became more cautious. “What? Something wrong?”
With a little bit hesitation, your slightly shaky hand reached for his metal one. Bucky didn't resist, letting you take it as he was awaiting for what you were going to do with curiosity in his eyes.
His eyes widened when you wrapped his metal hand around neck. “That's what you want?” Bucky grinned, adjusting his grip on your neck, making sure it wasn't too tight, but just enough to make you feel a little dizzy.
He watched you nod and he chuckled softly. “Then that's what you're going to get, doll.”
With that, he finally started moving.
His hips met yours, and everytime they did, his mound brushed against your still-sensitive cock. It felt both overwhelming and not enough.
Although keeping it gentle, Bucky picked up a pace a little bit, his trust harder just a bit more. He was getting desperate, not even thinking about hiding how good you felt around him as he groaned and grunted.
“That's my good boy.” He groaned, his nose scrunching a little bit before he threw his head back to get hair out of his face. “Taking me so well. You feel…” He was cut off by his own breath hitching at the feeling of you. “Incredible. Simply incredible, sweetheart.”
You barely recognized what he was saying, as you were high on pleasure. The light pressure he put on you with his metal arm was making you feel light-headed, but in the best way.
You haven't so damn good in a while.
You felt the fire in your abdomen and with that, you wanted to chase after more pleasure. You hand clumsily searching for your cock, and just as clumsily you tried to get yourself off while your mind was fuzzy.
A shaky chuckle escaped his lips as he noticed your little desperate attempt. “Let me…”Bucky switched his angle just enough to keep rubbing himself against your clit while thrusting into you.
“Isn't that better, sweetheart? I got you, you just relax and let me do the work.”
Your only answer to that was an incoherent mumble that Bucky took as a confirmation that it indeed felt better.
As he continued, his breath became more heavy, a sign of his orgasm approching, just in time as you were about to meet yours soon too.
“Wanna cum inside you, pretty boy. You want that?” He murmured, sweat trickling down his body, making him all glisten.
“Y-yes. Yes please, sir.”
He picked a pace just a tiny bit, his groans and breath louder than before.
“B-Bucky..” You mumbled out.
“Yeah, I know. I'm close too, doll.” His voice a little strained, as he focused on making sure both of you reached your high.
With every thrust the feeling in your abdomen was become more and more overwhelming, threatening to finally explode. Your moans loud and shameless, Bucky's name one again was on your lips.
Amd with that, you came. A long moan spilled from your lips, and you felt as if fireworks explored in you, your mind completely blank as you took in the feeling.
Bucky came right after, mumbling out a curse as he did so. His hand tightened around your neck a little bit before he let go, to carefully pull out of you.
The feeling of his cum leaking out of you was a little weird but not unpleasant.
“Water?” Bucky simply asked as he was ready to get of the bed. Nod was your only response as yous lowly came down from your high.
Bucky got off the bed and left the room, but he was quickly back with a glass of cold water in his hand and damp cloth in the other. He helped you sit up, and gave you the water before wiping off the remnants in you gentle with a cloth he brought. His touch was gentle, not wanting to overwhelm you while he knew you were still pretty sensitive. And after that, he cleaned up himself.
“Thank you.” You said before putting the empty glass on the bedside table and getting more comfortable on his bed.
“So, ready for round two?” Bucky asked with a grin on his face.
“Already? But we just finished. Aren't you tired?”
Kinda a weird thought but getting force masced by varka o_0 the tguy inside me wants to be soft dommed and validated
(since this is a ftm pov, i would heavily prefer trans male/masc reader interactions for this tho im not gonna enforce heavy dnis bc of it)
funnily enough i have thought of doing something related to force masc for a bit especially with a top reader but i never connected the dots and thought to do it with varka. bro… your fucking mind…
under the context of the reader being a trans guy, i can definitely see varka seeing you as a potential… project let’s just say.
since you were just a new recruit, he’s been slowly focusing on beefing you up into a strong man. he would put you through the fucking wringer to man you up. that man needs to see you out in the rain, a hot sweaty mess, as your arms nearly fall off from swinging a weighty ass sword around.
if he ever catches you comparing your progress with your cis peers and thinking you’re falling behind, then he won’t hesitant to throw your ass back out there for more excruciating training. he’ll happily do this over and over again until you’re convinced you’re man enough or even more manly than the other knights.
once you get to that stage, varka loves rewarding you for it by blowing you as if his life depends on it. he’ll love to smell your musk right after training as he sucks your tdick (will most likely make some comment about you having a nice manly smell). doesn’t matter how big you currently are, he’ll suck your cock as if it’s the biggest he’s ever taken. straight up bobbing his head on it and moaning if you fuck it deeper into his mouth.
he would only want you to top him id imagine. i mean you’re truly a man now so “why wouldn’t you?” is how he justifies it. doesn’t matter how you do it: with your fingers, mouth, toy, or whatever prosthetic/strap you can find. even if you don’t have enough confidence or experience as a top, it doesn’t even matter. he’s in control anyway so he’ll happily guide you through it and that’s usually by pinning you down and taking what he wants. whether that be by sitting on your face or riding you until he’s fully satisfied. afterwards he’ll sweet talk to you about how strong you’ve been getting and how you’re getting better at fucking him every time.
how could he not be proud of this cute little knight he’s been building from the ground up?
Trans Male Reader, emotionally drained after a long day of being misgendered at work: Ugh- Today was shit. Maybe I should unblock that one guy... Just for a bit.
-
Y/nsswornknight: Ahhh???
Y/nsswornknight: My Prince???? My love?? The most handsome man in the universe has unblocked me??
Y/nsswornknight: This is the best day of my life! My husband has returned!!!
[Y/nsswornknight has sent seven images]
Y/nsswornknight: You got my package! You look simply divine in my old hoodies, Husband! How was your day?? Would it make it better to hear I've already dealt with those who brought my prince to tears? I can send you those pictures as well-
Y/nsswornknight: Hubby?? Why aren't you responding? :( You unblocking me means you reciprocate my love, no?
-
Reader: I should really report this guy to the police.. Maybe next week...
[Reader tosses his phone aside and rolls over in bed - falling asleep to the endless stream of text notifications from the device]
Rated: Mature (sfw I just want to be safe as this contains some heavy shit)
TWs: self hatred in regards to one's transness, heavy angst (happy ending tho), internalized transphobia, referring to past self using she/her, fear of rejection, pre-transition male reader, ftm/AFAB male reader
1.3k words
After the betrayals Simon had faced, it was very clear from the very start of your relationship that communication had to be direct, honest, and to the point. You had been stewing on this for… how long? Weeks? Months? Years? You weren’t sure when it all started, but the pot had boiled over. Maybe you had always known; maybe you hadn’t. That didn’t matter now.
All those societal expectations culminated in one giant realization that the woman who walked down the aisle to marry Simon Riley wasn’t real. She never was.
After the betrayals Simon had faced, it was very clear from the very start of your relationship that communication had to be direct, honest, and to the point. You had been stewing on this for… how long? Weeks? Months? Years? You weren’t sure when it all started, but the pot had boiled over. Maybe you had always known; maybe you hadn’t. That didn’t matter right now.
All those societal expectations culminated in one giant realization that the woman who walked down the aisle to marry Simon Riley wasn’t real. She never was.
The two of you were getting ready to get dinner with the rest of the 141 crew when you just couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m trans.” you blurted, and Simon paused the tying of his boots. “I think I'm a man…. No, I know I’m a man.” He was silent, waiting for you to continue, or at least elaborate on the bomb you just dropped.
“I-I couldn't go another moment without telling you. The guilt was eating me alive, but now you just have to sit with that for the whole dinner without being able to talk about it and that’s unfair, and fuck, I’m sorry, Si.”
He waited until he was sure you were ready for a response, “I– We… can stay home and talk. If you’d like.”
“No,” you said with a bit more force than you had meant, and you winced at your own tone. “It will give us both time to think while surrounded by safe people without forcing ourselves to talk about it.”
He looked back down to finish lacing his boot and you simultaneously wanted to sigh in relief from the redirection of his piercing stare, and scream at him to look back at you.
Simon sensed that silence was best for the moment, so you both allowed yourselves the opportunity to disappear into your own little worlds for the duration of the ride to the restaurant.
You didn’t notice that the car had stopped until you felt his hand on your knee, gently bringing you out of your reverie. You were about to smile when you remembered where you were. What you were.
You cringed away from his touch, and you could see the hurt from behind the face mask he wore. This was for the best. You didn’t deserve soft touches when you had shattered everything. Sure it would hurt him, but he didn’t deserve a broken spouse. Would he call you his ex wife? The man that tricked him? Would he pretend you had never existed? Your thoughts began to stew and fester, forming a knotted tumbleweed that blew back and forth as you ran helplessly after it.
“Love,” he said, careful not to refer to you by name. He was unsure what things were okay and he just needed someone to tell him that they would be. You needed someone to tell you they would be.
Instead, he settled for a request; something he did not often make. “If we leave this car, you have to promise that we are going to talk the minute we return to it. You don't have to explain everything, but we need to work through the fear that is clearly fogging your mind right now.”
He wasn’t even talking about his own doubts; what it meant about him. You wished he could be as selfish as you were. He deserved to be selfish after the life he had lived, and yet here you were, the person meant to help get him through it all; the reason everything was crumbling.
You swallowed the bile threatening its way up your throat and nodded.
“Love, I need you to promise.”
“I… I promise.”
“Good.”
—
Dinner was torturous for the both of you; each watching the other and envying the fun they appeared to be having while also knowing it was all for show. You couldn’t decide on the way back to the car whether to drag your feet or sprint and get it all over with. Just like your relationship was about to be.
When the doors closed Simon took a large sigh. You both spoke at once:
“Simon, I–”
“I don’t–”
You paused, expecting him to demand your confession. He surprised you by not allowing you the first word.
“I can’t say I completely understand what’s going on, because all I have to go on are two sentences said as we were already out the door, but I have a few things to say, and I need you to let me.”
You winced at his calculating tone and choice of words, far different to the softness he normally held with you. Used to.
He tapped your leg and gestured to the back seat. It would be much easier to talk back there. Once you were both situated, you nodded for him to continue.
“I have come a long way over the last couple of years in terms of my understanding of identity, and I have you to thank for that.” He attempted a smile, “I might not get it at first and fuck up, ‘cause I’m not very educated in this specific thing, but I want to be. I want to figure this out. I want to figure you out. I want you to be okay.”
His words poured over your heart like molten honey; sweet, but burning.
“Your go.”
How were you supposed to explain to the man that you loved more than anything in the world that he didn’t have a wife anymore? How were you supposed to break it to him that he never had a wife and he had been married to a man without his knowledge for years? He wasn’t gay. Sure, he supported your queerness, but supporting, and even dating someone that wasn’t straight was very different than being open to it yourself.
“I don't think you understand, Si. I'm not a woman, not even a little.”
He flashed you a wry smile, “Yeah, I gathered that, luv.”
You almost smiled back. “I can't be your wife anymore, Simon. I can’t be anyone’s wife. Hell, I never was your wife. You’re not gay, so how do you expect this to work? It can’t.”
His hands gently rested on your checks and directed you to look at him. You couldn’t.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
You mustered a glance and he continued, “Do you understand how hard it was for me to leave our apartment? Our car? Hell, sitting across from you, unable to hold you and tell you I wasn’t going to run the first chance I got was torture.
“You have taught me a lot of things. How it’s not ‘soft’ to put sugar in my tea, or ‘weak’ to admit to the pain on days with flare ups. You have stuck with me through everything; failing at getting sober from alcohol countless times before I succeeded, learning to work past the idea that everyone and everything is out to get me, and forcing it down my throat that no matter what I think, I deserve your love. Can’t you let me give you the same?”
You felt the tears prick behind your eyes, “Si…”
“If your main concern is whether or not staying with you would make me gay, I suggest you rethink my priorities. I don’t give a shit what our titles are, as long as I get to have you. Hell, if you change your name, I’ll marry you again so we can share it.”
You finally let most of your worries slide off your shoulders and the tears came. Fear. Relief. Uncertainty. Adoration.
Simon finally got to wrap you in an embrace and hold you until the tears slowed.
You let out a shaky breath accompanied by a half hearted laugh, “Fuck…”
He hummed, “About what you said earlier regarding not being able to be anyone’s wife.” His eyes shone with humor, “You’re not allowed to be anyone else’s husband either.”
never written for a trans masc reader before so please tell me if I did ok or not lol
this should tide yall over while midterms have me in a chokehold. I swear I will start working on asks once I actually have time to write again
