The Vellichor Soul

[thevellichorsoul]

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INTRODUCTION

౨ৎ south asian | based in the uk | she/her | 9teen

౨ৎ writer of fanfics, drabbles, and one-shots

౨ৎ only writing for m!character x f!reader

likes, reblogs, comments, and follows are always appreciated and really motivate me.

CURRENT FANDOMS - with more added over time.

✦ JJK

✦ DC

MASTERLIST ⋆˚꩜｡

CREDITS

divider credit: @cursed-carmine thanks for reading!

[thevellichorsoul]

A SWEET DISASTER

𝜗𝜚 paring: toji fushiguro x reader

𝜗𝜚 wc: 2.7k

𝜗𝜚 summary: Despite having no baking experience, Toji insists on making your birthday cake, resulting in a disaster but ultimately leading to the best birthday ever.

𝜗𝜚 contents: extreme fluff, messy baking, Toji being kitchen incompetent

The kitchen looks like a bakery exploded.

There's flour coating every surface—the counters, the floor, and somehow splattered across the window. An empty egg carton sits in the sink, one shell still stuck to the side of the bowl. The butter you were supposed to cream is melting into a sad puddle because someone—Toji—cranked the heat too high.

And your boyfriend, all six feet of scarred muscle and intimidation, is glaring at a hand mixer like it personally wronged him.

"You don't know how to cook either, do you?" you ask, trying desperately not to laugh.

His head snaps toward you, green eyes narrowed. "Shut up. Of course I can cook."

"Toji." You gesture at the disaster zone that used to be your kitchen. "You put the butter in the microwave for five minutes."

"You said to soften it!"

"Softening is not liquefying!" You can't hold back anymore—you burst out laughing, the sound filling the small space. "Oh my god, it's literally soup now."

"It'll still work," he mutters, but his ears are turning red.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Today's your birthday, and you'd planned to bake yourself a simple cake—nothing fancy, just chocolate with vanilla frosting. You'd been looking forward to it, actually. A quiet day, some baking, maybe a movie later.

Then Toji had wandered into the kitchen, seen you pulling out ingredients, and declared he was helping.

You should have known better.

"Okay," you say, trying to salvage this. "New butter. We'll start fresh."

Toji looks at the bowl of butter soup. "Are we just going to waste that?"

"Toji, that's not even solid anymore. We can't use it."

He peers into the microwave. "Seems fine to me."

"It's liquid."

"Liquid butter is still butter."

"That's not how baking works!" But you're smiling, because he looks so genuinely confused that it's adorable. "Trust me. Fresh butter."

He grumbles but pulls another stick from the fridge. "This is stupid. Cooking shouldn't be this complicated."

"It's baking. There's a difference."

"Yeah? What's the difference?"

"Baking is science. You have to follow the recipe exactly, or everything falls apart." You pull out a small plate for the new butter. "Cooking, you can improvise. Baking, you really can't."

Toji absorbs this information with the same focus he'd give a target assessment. "So what you're saying is baking is harder."

"For some people, yes."

"And you think I can't do it."

"I think—" You pause, choosing your words carefully. "—that you've never done it before, and that's okay. We'll figure it out together."

Something in his expression softens. "Yeah?"

"Yeah!"You hip-check him lightly. "Team effort. But you have to actually listen to me this time."

"I always listen to you."

"You microwaved butter for five minutes."

"I thought you said—"

"Softening butter means leaving it at room temperature for thirty minutes, not nuking it into oblivion."

He's quiet for a beat. Then: "That's a stupid amount of time to wait for butter."

You press your face into his shoulder, laughing so hard your sides hurt. He's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. And you love him so much it's almost painful.

"Okay," you say when you've recovered. "Let's actually start. For real this time."

"I'm ready." He rolls his shoulders like he's preparing for a fight. "Let's make this cake."

You find the recipe in your book, reading through it more carefully. "First, we need to mix the dry ingredients. Flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder, and salt."

"That's a lot of powder."

"It's cake. There's going to be a lot of things." You hand him a large bowl. "Can you measure out two cups of flour?"

He takes the bowl and the measuring cup, squinting at it. "These measurements are tiny."

"Welcome to baking."

He starts scooping flour, but he's doing it wrong—dumping the measuring cup directly into the bag and pulling it out heaped over the top.

"Wait, wait," you interrupt. "You have to level it off. Otherwise, it's too much."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. Hand it over."

He passes you the overfilled measuring cup with a put-upon sigh. You demonstrate the correct technique—scoop, level with a knife, and add to the bowl. "See? Exact measurements."

"Seems excessive."

"It's necessary." You hand the cup back. "Your turn. One more cup."

This time, he does it right, levelling carefully. When he adds it to the bowl, he looks at you for approval.

"Perfect," you say, and his ears go pink again.

God, he's cute when he's trying.

You measure out the cocoa powder while Toji handles the baking soda and powder. He's reading the measurements carefully now, double-checking each one. The focus on his face is the same intensity he brings to everything—total concentration.

"Salt?" he asks.

"One teaspoon."

He measures it precisely and adds it to the bowl. "Now what?"

"Whisk it together. Make sure everything's combined." You hand him a whisk.

He takes it, examining the loops of wire like they're a foreign object. "Just... stir it?"

"More or less. You want to break up any clumps and make sure the cocoa powder is evenly distributed."

He starts whisking with perhaps more force than necessary. Cocoa powder poofs up in a small cloud.

"Gently!" you yelp.

He eases up, whisking more carefully. The powder settles, and eventually the dry ingredients are evenly mixed—dark brown and powder-fine.

"Good," you praise. "That's perfect."

He sets down the whisk, looking pleased with himself. "What's next?"

"Wet ingredients. This is where it gets tricky." You start pulling out items. "We need eggs, oil, vanilla, and buttermilk."

"Buttermilk?"

"It makes the cake tender. More moist."

Toji makes a face at the word 'moist', which makes you grin. "Don't be a baby. It's just a word."

"It's a gross word."

"Well, it makes grossly delicious cake, so deal with it."

He snorts, but he's smiling. "Fine. What do I do?"

"Crack the eggs into this bowl. Two of them."

You watch, fascinated, as he cracks both eggs one-handed, perfectly, not a single shell fragment falling in.

"Show off," you mutter.

"Occupational skills." But he looks smug.

"Add the oil, vanilla, and buttermilk."

He measures each one carefully—you've trained him well in the last fifteen minutes—and adds them to the bowl with the eggs.

"Now we mix the wet and dry ingredients together," you explain. "But we can't just dump them in. We have to alternate. Some wet, some dry, mix. More wet, more dry, mix. Until it's all combined."

"Why?"

"Because if you dump it all in at once, you get lumps, and the texture is wrong."

He looks sceptical but nods. "Okay. So you're in charge of this part."

"We'll do it together." You hand him a spatula. "I'll add, you mix."

You start with about a third of the dry ingredients, sprinkling them over the wet. "Okay, mix. Gently."

Toji stirs carefully, folding the dry into the wet. It's clumpy at first but gradually smooths out.

"Good. Stop." You add half the remaining dry ingredients. "Again."

He mixes, more confident now. You can see him starting to understand the rhythm of it—the way the batter comes together, how the texture changes.

"Last of the dry," you say, adding the rest. "Mix until you don't see any white streaks, but don't overmix or the cake will be tough."

"So many rules," he mutters, but he's focused, stirring carefully.

When the batter is smooth and dark and glossy, you both stop to admire it.

"That looks like cake," Toji says, sounding surprised.

"It will be cake. Once we bake it." You've already preheated the oven and prepped the pans—greased and floured, ready to go.

Together, you pour the batter into two round cake pans, dividing it as evenly as possible.

"Now into the oven," you say. "Thirty to thirty-five minutes."

Toji slides the pans onto the middle rack with surprising care, then closes the oven door. "And now we wait?"

"Now we wait." You look around at the destroyed kitchen. "And clean."

He follows your gaze, taking in the flour-covered counters, the cocoa powder dusting every surface, and the pile of measuring cups and bowls in the sink.

"How the hell did we make this big of a mess?" he asks.

"You tell me. You're the one who sent cocoa powder into the air."

"You said whisk it!"

"I didn't say assault it!"

He's trying not to smile. You can see it in the way his mouth twitches. "Whatever. I'll clean."

"We'll clean," you correct, grabbing a towel.

You work together, wiping down surfaces and loading the dishwasher. Toji washes the bowls by hand, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. You definitely don't stare at his forearms. That would be inappropriate.

(You totally stare. They're nice forearms.)

"So when's the last time you baked something?" you ask, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn cocoa stain.

"Never."

You pause. "Never?"

"Never." He doesn't look at you, focused on the bowl he's washing. "Didn't exactly grow up in a 'baking cookies' kind of household."

Your chest tightens. Toji doesn't talk about his childhood much, but you've pieced together enough. The Zen'in clan. The way they treated him. The fact that he has a scar through his lip and more across his body.

"Well," you say softly. "I'm glad your first time is with me."

He glances at you, something warm in his eyes. "Me too."

You finish cleaning just as the timer goes off. The smell of chocolate fills your apartment—rich and sweet and perfect.

"Moment of truth," you say, pulling on oven mitts.

Toji watches as you carefully remove both cake pans, setting them on cooling racks. The cakes are risen and springy, golden brown at the edges.

"They look good," he says.

"They look perfect." You grab a toothpick, testing the centre of each cake. It comes out clean. "And they're done!"

"So we can eat them?"

"Not yet. They have to cool completely before we frost them, or the frosting will melt."

He looks disappointed. "How long?"

"At least an hour."

"An hour," he repeats flatly.

"Baking requires patience."

"I don't have patience."

"I know. "You pat his chest sympathetically. "But you're going to learn."

He catches your hand, keeping it pressed against his heart. "You're enjoying this."

"Immensely." You smile up at him. "It's your first time baking. It's cute."

"I'm not cute."

"You're covered in flour and pouting about cake. You're very cute."

He scowls, but there's no heat in it. "If you tell anyone about this, —"

"Oh, I'm absolutely telling everyone."

"I'll deny it."

"I have photographic evidence." You'd been sneaking pictures throughout the process—Toji glaring at the mixer, Toji carefully measuring flour, Toji's face when the cocoa powder exploded.

"Delete those."

"Never. These are going in the birthday album."

"It's your birthday. Why am I in your birthday photos?"

"Because you're my favourite gift." The words come out softer than you intended, more honest.

Toji goes still. His hand tightens around yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You step closer until you're pressed against his chest. "This—you helping me bake, even though you hate it—it means everything."

"I don't hate it," he says quietly. "It's frustrating as hell, but... I don't hate it."

"No?"

"No." He cups your face with his free hand, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I like doing things with you. Even stupid things like waiting an hour for butter to soften."

Your eyes burn. "Toji..."

"Happy birthday," he murmurs and kisses you.

It's soft and sweet and tastes like the cocoa powder you'd both tested earlier. His hand is warm against your face, and you melt into him, into this, into the quiet comfort of being loved.

When you pull back, you're both smiling.

"Frosting?" you ask.

"Frosting." He sounds determined. "How hard can it be?"

The answer is: very hard.

"It's liquid," Toji says, staring at the bowl of what should be frosting.

"It's... thin," you admit.

"It's liquid. We made frosting soup."

"We added too much milk."

"You said add milk!"

"I said add milk gradually! A tablespoon at a time! "You peer into the bowl. The frosting is definitely too thin—more like a glaze than actual frosting. "Okay. We can fix this."

"How?"

"More powdered sugar. It'll thicken it up."

You add more sugar, mixing carefully. The frosting thickens... slightly.

"More?" Toji asks.

"More."

You add another cup. Then another. Eventually, the frosting reaches the right consistency—thick enough to spread, but still creamy.

"Finally," Toji mutters.

"See? Teamwork. "You test the cakes—completely cool now." Okay. Time to assemble."

You show Toji how to level the cakes, cutting off the domed tops so they'll stack evenly. Then you place the first layer on your cake stand.

"Now we add frosting to the top," you explain, demonstrating with a spatula. "Spread it evenly, then add the second layer."

Toji watches intently, then tries it himself when you add the top layer. His frosting application is... enthusiastic. There's more frosting on the sides than on the top.

"It's fine," you assure him. "We'll cover it with more frosting anyway."

Together, you frost the entire cake—Toji handling the sides while you smooth the top. It's not perfect. There are visible spatula marks, and one side is definitely thicker than the other.

But it's a cake. A real, homemade, chocolate cake.

"We did it," you breathe.

"It's ugly," Toji says bluntly.

"It's beautiful. We made it."

"It's lopsided."

"It's perfect." You grab your phone, taking a picture. The cake is indeed lopsided, with uneven frosting and a slightly tilted top layer.

It's the best cake you've ever seen.

"Okay," Toji says. "Can we eat it now?"

You laugh. "Yes. We can eat it now."

You cut two generous slices, plating them carefully. The inside of the cake is dark and moist—exactly right.

"Moment of truth," you say, handing Toji a fork.

You both take a bite at the same time.

It's... perfect.

Moist and rich, with the perfect amount of sweetness. The frosting is smooth and vanilla-sweet, complementing the chocolate perfectly.

"Holy shit," Toji says.

"It's good!"

"It's really good." He takes another bite, then another. "We made this?"

"We made this!" You're grinning so hard your face hurts. "Toji, we actually baked a cake!"

"A good cake," he corrects.

"The best cake."

He sets down his fork, pulling you into his arms. You go willingly, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Happy birthday," he says into your hair.

"Best birthday ever," you reply, meaning it completely.

"Even though we destroyed your kitchen?"

"Especially because we destroyed my kitchen." You pull back to look at him. "You—the scariest person I know—covered in flour and learning to bake. For me. It's perfect."

His expression does something complicated. "You make me want to try things. Stupid things. Normal things."

"Baking isn't stupid."

"No. But I never would've done it before. Before you." He's quiet for a moment. "You make me... softer. In a good way."

Your chest feels too full. "You make me feel safe. Cherished. Like I'm worth all this effort."

"You are. You're worth everything."

You kiss him there in your destroyed kitchen, tasting chocolate and vanilla and love.

When you break apart, you're both smiling.

"More cake?" you offer.

"Definitely more cake."

You eat until you're both full and sugar-high, laughing at nothing and everything. The kitchen is still a mess. The cake is still lopsided.

It's perfect.

Later, curled up on the couch with Toji's arm around you, you look at the photos from today. Toji is glaring at the ingredients. Both of you are covered in flour. The final, beautiful disaster of a cake.

"Next year", Toji says, "we're buying a cake."

You laugh. "Absolutely not. This is our new tradition."

"You want to do this every year?"

"I want to do everything with you. Every year. For as long as you'll have me."

He's quiet. Then: "Forever, then."

"Forever?"

"Forever." He kisses your temple. "You're stuck with me. Terrible baking skills and all."

Your eyes burn with happy tears. "Good. I wouldn't want it any other way."

And you wouldn't. This disaster of a day, this messy kitchen, this lopsided cake—it's all perfect because it's with him.

Your birthday. Your boyfriend. You're forever.

Made from scratch, with too much flour and all the love in the world.

𑣲 likes, reblogs, comments, and follows are always appreciated and really motivate me.

[miyamiwu]

Pros of reblogging:

You get to keep a copy of that post FOREVER. Tumblr is not like Twitter in that if OP deletes the original post, all the shared versions of the post will be deleted as well. This is how Tumblr still has posts from 100000 years ago circulating around.

You get to classify posts with your own tagging system. It makes finding things easier. Searching a blog using tags is also more reliable than searching with keywords.

You get to leave comments in the tags of the reblog! It’s handy when you wanna react to the post but are too shy to talk to OP and/or others in the reblog chain.

You get an archive/scrapbook of all the things you like, which you can then showcase with pretty custom themes.

You get to identify as part of a community. Among fandom blogs, fellow fans will know you’re one of them if you actually reblog things. Any outsider can leave a like, but it takes a fan or someone really interested in something to dare to reblog.

You get to make friends! People follow other people based on what their blog is like. If your blog is empty, then what’s the point of following you?

You give the impression that you care about what other people say, and it will make others look at you more nicely (empty blogs can be suspicious).

You are less likely to be blocked by artists/writers. (I’ve seen some posts from artists/writers saying that they’ll block spam likers.)

You are less likely to be mistaken as a bot or a creep (again, empty blogs are sus).

[pittsick]

okay i’m gonna say it: fandoms are kinda dying on tumblr, and they’re starving because nobody reblogs anymore.

like… i don’t wanna be that person but be for real?? likes are cute and all but they do nothing for creators. ZERO. NADA. a reblog is literally the oxygen mask keeping this blue hellsite alive. you say you “love” a fic, an edit, a gifset? then BABES… reblog it. boost it. let it breathe.

half the time creators are out here pouring their entire soul, spine, AND three vertebrae into something just for it to get 200 likes and 3 reblogs, two of which are their own. that’s why people stop posting. that’s why fandoms feel empty. content doesn’t magically fall from the sky — it comes from people who feel seen.

and i promise you: reblogging is free. it costs you like 0.2 seconds and suddenly you’re personally responsible for keeping a whole fandom alive. congrats!! so yeah. if you like something? reblog it. scream in the tags. yell. keyboard smash. put sparkles. do whatever. just don’t let creators feel like they’re shouting into a void.

reblogs feed creators. reblogs keep fandoms thriving. reblogs literally save lives (okay maybe not literally but u get it).

support the creators you love !!!!!! or else we’re all gonna be sitting in empty tags like clowns.

[alma37]

It's like comments on fanfiction. For free art, it's payment.

[thevellichorsoul]

A SWEET DISASTER

𝜗𝜚 paring: toji fushiguro x reader

𝜗𝜚 wc: 2.7k

𝜗𝜚 summary: Despite having no baking experience, Toji insists on making your birthday cake, resulting in a disaster but ultimately leading to the best birthday ever.

𝜗𝜚 contents: extreme fluff, messy baking, Toji being kitchen incompetent

The kitchen looks like a bakery exploded.

There's flour coating every surface—the counters, the floor, and somehow splattered across the window. An empty egg carton sits in the sink, one shell still stuck to the side of the bowl. The butter you were supposed to cream is melting into a sad puddle because someone—Toji—cranked the heat too high.

And your boyfriend, all six feet of scarred muscle and intimidation, is glaring at a hand mixer like it personally wronged him.

"You don't know how to cook either, do you?" you ask, trying desperately not to laugh.

His head snaps toward you, green eyes narrowed. "Shut up. Of course I can cook."

"Toji." You gesture at the disaster zone that used to be your kitchen. "You put the butter in the microwave for five minutes."

"You said to soften it!"

"Softening is not liquefying!" You can't hold back anymore—you burst out laughing, the sound filling the small space. "Oh my god, it's literally soup now."

"It'll still work," he mutters, but his ears are turning red.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Today's your birthday, and you'd planned to bake yourself a simple cake—nothing fancy, just chocolate with vanilla frosting. You'd been looking forward to it, actually. A quiet day, some baking, maybe a movie later.

Then Toji had wandered into the kitchen, seen you pulling out ingredients, and declared he was helping.

You should have known better.

"Okay," you say, trying to salvage this. "New butter. We'll start fresh."

Toji looks at the bowl of butter soup. "Are we just going to waste that?"

"Toji, that's not even solid anymore. We can't use it."

He peers into the microwave. "Seems fine to me."

"It's liquid."

"Liquid butter is still butter."

"That's not how baking works!" But you're smiling, because he looks so genuinely confused that it's adorable. "Trust me. Fresh butter."

He grumbles but pulls another stick from the fridge. "This is stupid. Cooking shouldn't be this complicated."

"It's baking. There's a difference."

"Yeah? What's the difference?"

"Baking is science. You have to follow the recipe exactly, or everything falls apart." You pull out a small plate for the new butter. "Cooking, you can improvise. Baking, you really can't."

Toji absorbs this information with the same focus he'd give a target assessment. "So what you're saying is baking is harder."

"For some people, yes."

"And you think I can't do it."

"I think—" You pause, choosing your words carefully. "—that you've never done it before, and that's okay. We'll figure it out together."

Something in his expression softens. "Yeah?"

"Yeah!"You hip-check him lightly. "Team effort. But you have to actually listen to me this time."

"I always listen to you."

"You microwaved butter for five minutes."

"I thought you said—"

"Softening butter means leaving it at room temperature for thirty minutes, not nuking it into oblivion."

He's quiet for a beat. Then: "That's a stupid amount of time to wait for butter."

You press your face into his shoulder, laughing so hard your sides hurt. He's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. And you love him so much it's almost painful.

"Okay," you say when you've recovered. "Let's actually start. For real this time."

"I'm ready." He rolls his shoulders like he's preparing for a fight. "Let's make this cake."

You find the recipe in your book, reading through it more carefully. "First, we need to mix the dry ingredients. Flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder, and salt."

"That's a lot of powder."

"It's cake. There's going to be a lot of things." You hand him a large bowl. "Can you measure out two cups of flour?"

He takes the bowl and the measuring cup, squinting at it. "These measurements are tiny."

"Welcome to baking."

He starts scooping flour, but he's doing it wrong—dumping the measuring cup directly into the bag and pulling it out heaped over the top.

"Wait, wait," you interrupt. "You have to level it off. Otherwise, it's too much."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. Hand it over."

He passes you the overfilled measuring cup with a put-upon sigh. You demonstrate the correct technique—scoop, level with a knife, and add to the bowl. "See? Exact measurements."

"Seems excessive."

"It's necessary." You hand the cup back. "Your turn. One more cup."

This time, he does it right, levelling carefully. When he adds it to the bowl, he looks at you for approval.

"Perfect," you say, and his ears go pink again.

God, he's cute when he's trying.

You measure out the cocoa powder while Toji handles the baking soda and powder. He's reading the measurements carefully now, double-checking each one. The focus on his face is the same intensity he brings to everything—total concentration.

"Salt?" he asks.

"One teaspoon."

He measures it precisely and adds it to the bowl. "Now what?"

"Whisk it together. Make sure everything's combined." You hand him a whisk.

He takes it, examining the loops of wire like they're a foreign object. "Just... stir it?"

"More or less. You want to break up any clumps and make sure the cocoa powder is evenly distributed."

He starts whisking with perhaps more force than necessary. Cocoa powder poofs up in a small cloud.

"Gently!" you yelp.

He eases up, whisking more carefully. The powder settles, and eventually the dry ingredients are evenly mixed—dark brown and powder-fine.

"Good," you praise. "That's perfect."

He sets down the whisk, looking pleased with himself. "What's next?"

"Wet ingredients. This is where it gets tricky." You start pulling out items. "We need eggs, oil, vanilla, and buttermilk."

"Buttermilk?"

"It makes the cake tender. More moist."

Toji makes a face at the word 'moist', which makes you grin. "Don't be a baby. It's just a word."

"It's a gross word."

"Well, it makes grossly delicious cake, so deal with it."

He snorts, but he's smiling. "Fine. What do I do?"

"Crack the eggs into this bowl. Two of them."

You watch, fascinated, as he cracks both eggs one-handed, perfectly, not a single shell fragment falling in.

"Show off," you mutter.

"Occupational skills." But he looks smug.

"Add the oil, vanilla, and buttermilk."

He measures each one carefully—you've trained him well in the last fifteen minutes—and adds them to the bowl with the eggs.

"Now we mix the wet and dry ingredients together," you explain. "But we can't just dump them in. We have to alternate. Some wet, some dry, mix. More wet, more dry, mix. Until it's all combined."

"Why?"

"Because if you dump it all in at once, you get lumps, and the texture is wrong."

He looks sceptical but nods. "Okay. So you're in charge of this part."

"We'll do it together." You hand him a spatula. "I'll add, you mix."

You start with about a third of the dry ingredients, sprinkling them over the wet. "Okay, mix. Gently."

Toji stirs carefully, folding the dry into the wet. It's clumpy at first but gradually smooths out.

"Good. Stop." You add half the remaining dry ingredients. "Again."

He mixes, more confident now. You can see him starting to understand the rhythm of it—the way the batter comes together, how the texture changes.

"Last of the dry," you say, adding the rest. "Mix until you don't see any white streaks, but don't overmix or the cake will be tough."

"So many rules," he mutters, but he's focused, stirring carefully.

When the batter is smooth and dark and glossy, you both stop to admire it.

"That looks like cake," Toji says, sounding surprised.

"It will be cake. Once we bake it." You've already preheated the oven and prepped the pans—greased and floured, ready to go.

Together, you pour the batter into two round cake pans, dividing it as evenly as possible.

"Now into the oven," you say. "Thirty to thirty-five minutes."

Toji slides the pans onto the middle rack with surprising care, then closes the oven door. "And now we wait?"

"Now we wait." You look around at the destroyed kitchen. "And clean."

He follows your gaze, taking in the flour-covered counters, the cocoa powder dusting every surface, and the pile of measuring cups and bowls in the sink.

"How the hell did we make this big of a mess?" he asks.

"You tell me. You're the one who sent cocoa powder into the air."

"You said whisk it!"

"I didn't say assault it!"

He's trying not to smile. You can see it in the way his mouth twitches. "Whatever. I'll clean."

"We'll clean," you correct, grabbing a towel.

You work together, wiping down surfaces and loading the dishwasher. Toji washes the bowls by hand, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. You definitely don't stare at his forearms. That would be inappropriate.

(You totally stare. They're nice forearms.)

"So when's the last time you baked something?" you ask, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn cocoa stain.

"Never."

You pause. "Never?"

"Never." He doesn't look at you, focused on the bowl he's washing. "Didn't exactly grow up in a 'baking cookies' kind of household."

Your chest tightens. Toji doesn't talk about his childhood much, but you've pieced together enough. The Zen'in clan. The way they treated him. The fact that he has a scar through his lip and more across his body.

"Well," you say softly. "I'm glad your first time is with me."

He glances at you, something warm in his eyes. "Me too."

You finish cleaning just as the timer goes off. The smell of chocolate fills your apartment—rich and sweet and perfect.

"Moment of truth," you say, pulling on oven mitts.

Toji watches as you carefully remove both cake pans, setting them on cooling racks. The cakes are risen and springy, golden brown at the edges.

"They look good," he says.

"They look perfect." You grab a toothpick, testing the centre of each cake. It comes out clean. "And they're done!"

"So we can eat them?"

"Not yet. They have to cool completely before we frost them, or the frosting will melt."

He looks disappointed. "How long?"

"At least an hour."

"An hour," he repeats flatly.

"Baking requires patience."

"I don't have patience."

"I know. "You pat his chest sympathetically. "But you're going to learn."

He catches your hand, keeping it pressed against his heart. "You're enjoying this."

"Immensely." You smile up at him. "It's your first time baking. It's cute."

"I'm not cute."

"You're covered in flour and pouting about cake. You're very cute."

He scowls, but there's no heat in it. "If you tell anyone about this, —"

"Oh, I'm absolutely telling everyone."

"I'll deny it."

"I have photographic evidence." You'd been sneaking pictures throughout the process—Toji glaring at the mixer, Toji carefully measuring flour, Toji's face when the cocoa powder exploded.

"Delete those."

"Never. These are going in the birthday album."

"It's your birthday. Why am I in your birthday photos?"

"Because you're my favourite gift." The words come out softer than you intended, more honest.

Toji goes still. His hand tightens around yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You step closer until you're pressed against his chest. "This—you helping me bake, even though you hate it—it means everything."

"I don't hate it," he says quietly. "It's frustrating as hell, but... I don't hate it."

"No?"

"No." He cups your face with his free hand, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I like doing things with you. Even stupid things like waiting an hour for butter to soften."

Your eyes burn. "Toji..."

"Happy birthday," he murmurs and kisses you.

It's soft and sweet and tastes like the cocoa powder you'd both tested earlier. His hand is warm against your face, and you melt into him, into this, into the quiet comfort of being loved.

When you pull back, you're both smiling.

"Frosting?" you ask.

"Frosting." He sounds determined. "How hard can it be?"

The answer is: very hard.

"It's liquid," Toji says, staring at the bowl of what should be frosting.

"It's... thin," you admit.

"It's liquid. We made frosting soup."

"We added too much milk."

"You said add milk!"

"I said add milk gradually! A tablespoon at a time! "You peer into the bowl. The frosting is definitely too thin—more like a glaze than actual frosting. "Okay. We can fix this."

"How?"

"More powdered sugar. It'll thicken it up."

You add more sugar, mixing carefully. The frosting thickens... slightly.

"More?" Toji asks.

"More."

You add another cup. Then another. Eventually, the frosting reaches the right consistency—thick enough to spread, but still creamy.

"Finally," Toji mutters.

"See? Teamwork. "You test the cakes—completely cool now." Okay. Time to assemble."

You show Toji how to level the cakes, cutting off the domed tops so they'll stack evenly. Then you place the first layer on your cake stand.

"Now we add frosting to the top," you explain, demonstrating with a spatula. "Spread it evenly, then add the second layer."

Toji watches intently, then tries it himself when you add the top layer. His frosting application is... enthusiastic. There's more frosting on the sides than on the top.

"It's fine," you assure him. "We'll cover it with more frosting anyway."

Together, you frost the entire cake—Toji handling the sides while you smooth the top. It's not perfect. There are visible spatula marks, and one side is definitely thicker than the other.

But it's a cake. A real, homemade, chocolate cake.

"We did it," you breathe.

"It's ugly," Toji says bluntly.

"It's beautiful. We made it."

"It's lopsided."

"It's perfect." You grab your phone, taking a picture. The cake is indeed lopsided, with uneven frosting and a slightly tilted top layer.

It's the best cake you've ever seen.

"Okay," Toji says. "Can we eat it now?"

You laugh. "Yes. We can eat it now."

You cut two generous slices, plating them carefully. The inside of the cake is dark and moist—exactly right.

"Moment of truth," you say, handing Toji a fork.

You both take a bite at the same time.

It's... perfect.

Moist and rich, with the perfect amount of sweetness. The frosting is smooth and vanilla-sweet, complementing the chocolate perfectly.

"Holy shit," Toji says.

"It's good!"

"It's really good." He takes another bite, then another. "We made this?"

"We made this!" You're grinning so hard your face hurts. "Toji, we actually baked a cake!"

"A good cake," he corrects.

"The best cake."

He sets down his fork, pulling you into his arms. You go willingly, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Happy birthday," he says into your hair.

"Best birthday ever," you reply, meaning it completely.

"Even though we destroyed your kitchen?"

"Especially because we destroyed my kitchen." You pull back to look at him. "You—the scariest person I know—covered in flour and learning to bake. For me. It's perfect."

His expression does something complicated. "You make me want to try things. Stupid things. Normal things."

"Baking isn't stupid."

"No. But I never would've done it before. Before you." He's quiet for a moment. "You make me... softer. In a good way."

Your chest feels too full. "You make me feel safe. Cherished. Like I'm worth all this effort."

"You are. You're worth everything."

You kiss him there in your destroyed kitchen, tasting chocolate and vanilla and love.

When you break apart, you're both smiling.

"More cake?" you offer.

"Definitely more cake."

You eat until you're both full and sugar-high, laughing at nothing and everything. The kitchen is still a mess. The cake is still lopsided.

It's perfect.

Later, curled up on the couch with Toji's arm around you, you look at the photos from today. Toji is glaring at the ingredients. Both of you are covered in flour. The final, beautiful disaster of a cake.

"Next year", Toji says, "we're buying a cake."

You laugh. "Absolutely not. This is our new tradition."

"You want to do this every year?"

"I want to do everything with you. Every year. For as long as you'll have me."

He's quiet. Then: "Forever, then."

"Forever?"

"Forever." He kisses your temple. "You're stuck with me. Terrible baking skills and all."

Your eyes burn with happy tears. "Good. I wouldn't want it any other way."

And you wouldn't. This disaster of a day, this messy kitchen, this lopsided cake—it's all perfect because it's with him.

Your birthday. Your boyfriend. You're forever.

Made from scratch, with too much flour and all the love in the world.

𑣲 likes, reblogs, comments, and follows are always appreciated and really motivate me.

[thevellichorsoul]

⋆𐙚 ̊ Jason Todd loves eating you out ╰wc: 1.3k

The air in Jason’s apartment is thick with the familiar, comforting scent of old paper, gun oil, and the faint, clean leather of his jacket slung over the back of a chair. But tonight, that familiar scent is laced with something else—the sharp, electric tang of anticipation, the warm, musky promise of his skin. You’re standing before him, his hands on your hips, his gaze a physical weight as he looks up at you from where he’s sprawled on the worn-out couch.

“C’mere,” he rasps, his voice a low gravelly hum that vibrates through you. He doesn’t wait for you to comply, his hands tightening on your hips as he guides you forward, manoeuvring you until you’re standing over him, one foot on the couch cushion on either side of his head. The position is dominant, almost clinical, but the look in his eyes is anything but. It’s dark and hungry, a primal fire that promises to consume you whole.

“Don’t be shy,” he murmurs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, sending shivers racing up your spine. “Sit.”

You lower yourself slowly, your breath catching in your throat as you feel the first hot puff of his breath against your slick, waiting folds. You’re already soaked; you have been since he gave you that look across the room, the one that promised you’d be screaming his name before the night was through. You settle your weight on him, your knees sinking into the worn cushions, and the first contact is electric. It’s a soft, wet brush of his lips against your clit, and a jolt of pure pleasure shoots through you, so intense it makes you gasp.

He groans, the sound a deep, guttural noise of pure appreciation that’s muffled by your flesh. He’s not teasing, not anymore. He’s devouring you. His tongue is a masterful instrument, a broad, flat stroke that goes from your weeping entrance all the way up to your pulsing clit, collecting your arousal like a connoisseur. He’s tasting you, learning you, memorising the very essence of you.

Your hands fly out, gripping the back of the couch for support as your legs begin to tremble. The sight is obscene in the best possible way. You look down and see his dark head, the messy black strands of his hair tickling your inner thighs. You see the way his jaw works as he eats you out with a focused, almost desperate hunger, like a man who’s been starved for far too long and has just been presented with a feast.

His hands slide up from your thighs to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling you down, grinding you against his mouth. He’s taking control now, setting the pace. He shifts, angling his head, and then his tongue is delving into your entrance, fucking you with it in slow, deliberate thrusts that mimic the act itself. You can hear the wet, lewd sounds of his mouth on you, the sounds of your own slickness, and it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever heard.

“Jason… oh fuck, Jason! ", you whimper, your hips starting to move in a slow, rocking rhythm, instinctively riding his face. You can’t help it. The pleasure is too good, too overwhelming.

He hums in response, the vibration sending a jolt of pure ecstasy straight to your clit. He pulls back for a moment, just long enough to speak. “That’s it,” he grunts, his voice thick and husky. “Ride my face. Use me.” His words are a lit match to gasoline. They’re filthy, degrading in the most glorious way, and they unleash something primal inside you.

He shifts one of his hands, bringing it around to your front. His fingers find your clit, and he starts to rub it in tight, fast circles, in perfect time with the movements of his tongue. The dual stimulation is a sensory overload. Your thighs start to shake uncontrollably, your movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. You’re no longer in control; you’re just a vessel for the pleasure he’s giving you.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice muffled but laced with an undeniable authority. You force your heavy eyelids open, looking down the length of your body at him. His face is buried between your thighs, his eyes locked on yours, and the sight is so incredibly hot, so intensely intimate, it makes your pussy clench hard. You see the raw, unadulterated hunger in his gaze, the sheer joy he takes in your pleasure. He’s not just doing this for you; he’s doing this for him, too.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful like this,” he groans, his words slurred. “All spread out for me. So fucking wet.”

He redoubles his efforts, his tongue and fingers working in a relentless, perfect harmony. He’s pushing you, driving you higher and higher, closer and closer to the edge. The coil of pleasure in your stomach is tightening, a hot, heavy weight that’s about to snap. You can feel the orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation that’s about to crash over you.

“Don’t stop, ngh,” you gasp, your voice a breathy plea. “Please, Jason, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves while his fingers continue their merciless assault. That’s all it takes. The orgasm tears through you, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches, your head thrown back, a silent scream caught in your throat as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy washes over you. Your body convulses, your thighs clamping around his head as you grind against his face, riding out the intense pleasure.

He doesn’t stop, his tongue lapping up your juices, prolonging your orgasm until you’re a boneless, trembling mess above him, completely and utterly spent. You collapse forward, your forehead resting against the cool leather of the couch back, your body limp and pliant.

He gently eases you off of him, his hands supporting your hips as you settle back onto his chest. You’re breathing heavily, your heart hammering against your ribs. He’s grinning, a smug, triumphant look on his face, his chin and mouth glistening with your arousal. He looks proud, like he’s just conquered a small country.

He leans up and captures your lips in a deep, possessive kiss, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. It’s a filthy, intimate taste, a heady combination of you and him, and you moan into his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growls against your lips, his hands roaming your body, squeezing your ass, pulling you closer. “But I think you can give me more.”

Your eyes fly open, and you see the wicked glint in his. He’s not done with you. Not by a long shot.

“Again”, he commands, his voice a low, dominant rumble. “This time, I want you to fuck my face. "Hard."

He doesn’t have to tell you twice. You straddle him again, this time with a newfound confidence, a newfound hunger. You lower yourself onto his waiting mouth, and this time, you don’t hesitate. You take what you want, grinding down against his tongue, riding his face with a wild abandon. He meets you thrust for thrust, his mouth and tongue working in a frenzied rhythm. The second orgasm builds faster, a sharp, intense peak that has you crying out his name, your body shaking with the force of it.

You collapse against him, completely and utterly spent. He holds you, his arms wrapped around you, his body a warm, solid presence. You can feel his heart beating against your chest, a steady, reassuring rhythm.

“You’re amazing,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Absolutely fucking amazing.”

You close your eyes, a contented sigh escaping your lips. But just as you’re about to drift off to sleep, you feel him shift. You open your eyes to find him looking at you, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face.

“Rest up,” he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Because we’re not done yet. Not even close.”

𑣲 likes, reblogs, comments, and follows are always appreciated and really motivate me

[mimuju-deactivated20260521]

toji loves it when you're mad at him ೀ

your husband has a very bad habit of taking his pants off whenever you yell at him.

it’s not intentional. at least, you don’t think it is. it’s like a pavlovian response. you raise your voice, and his hands go straight to his belt.

the first time it happens, you’re furious about the dishes piling up in the sink for a week. “toji fushiguro, if you think i’m your personal maid, you've got another thing coming!” you shout, hands on your hips.

he’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed. you see the twitch first— his fingers flexing. then, with the casual efficiency of a man who’s done this a thousand times, he pops the button on his jeans. they hit the floor. boxers too.

you freeze mid-rant. “what the fuck are you doing?”

he shrugs, already half-hard. “you’re sexy when you’re mad.”

“don't be disgusting— put your goddamn pants back on!”

he grins, stepping closer, making no move to comply. “make me.”

it happens again two days later. you find mud tracked through the hallway. “are you five years old? who comes into the house with their boots on?”

snap! belt unbuckled. pants down. he’s standing there in the entryway, thick cock tenting his briefs, looking at you like you just offered him dessert.

“toji!” you shriek, torn between outrage and reluctant arousal. “this is not a strip club!”

“could be,” he rumbles, palming himself through the fabric. “you gonna keep yelling, or you gonna do something about it?”

you hate that it works. you hate that your traitorous body responds to his shamelessness. you hate that he knows it.

the final straw is when you discover he’s been “forgetting” to take out the trash again. you march into the living room, where he’s sprawled on the couch watching some brainless action movie. “i swear to god, toji, if i have to do it one more time—”

ziiiiip! pants gone. he spreads his legs wide, making himself obscenely comfortable, his erection now fully freed and standing proud against his stomach.

“really?” you demand, even as your mouth goes dry. “have you no shame?”

he smirks, slow and filthy, giving himself a lazy stroke. “you know the rules, doll. you get mad, i get hard. you wanna yell at me? fine. but you’re gonna take care of this first.”

you throw your hands up. “this is ridiculous! i’m trying to have a serious conversation!”

“serious, huh?” he hooks his thumbs in his waistband—pure showmanship— and tugs the briefs down further. “come tell me how important taking out the trash is while you’re riding my cock, then.”

you hate him. you hate that you’re already stepping between his spread thighs, pushing his hand away to wrap your own around his thick length.

“you’re so fucking annoying ,” you grumble, even as you sink to your knees.

“and you love it,” he chuckles, threading his fingers through your hair. “now swear at me some more. i like it when you’re feisty.”

you do. and he does. the trash still doesn’t get taken out, but the hallway floor gets very clean later.

-

tags : perm - @whorishminds @besidesjustmyamour @throatgoatgeto @go-go-gadget-autism @thecrazyfangirlthings @grignardsreagent @strawberryshortcakkitty @naammiii @liasacountgothacked @annicishana @my-starlights @error-racoon-404 @afreakforyautja @cupidstrace @iam-souless @sindulgent666 @chewiebee @tojisballhair @ex1acy @palanggaaa @yourlocalcatscammer @ehcilhc @gravecyte @restingoasis @satorupi @heliumshorns @laburantesdoll @sxpernova @thethyri @lostgeto @lilytrn @sweethearticism @mikaari0 @chososballhair @nanamissilkytie @iwasabs @tojis-juicymantitys @laitifly @farylfordaryl @bl1ndv3lvet

[idiotoru]

whipped!kuna copying his gf's mannerisms

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

soft isn't a word sukuna would use to describe himself. at least, not before you came into his life. his life that once used to be dull and angry became calm, warm and something he didn't quite understand. something like a combination of loving and joyful and it consumed him. and you were the only person to see the transition, to feel it.

sukuna was obsessed with the way your tiny brain worked. he studied you so closely, taking in the way your head tilted in confusion or the way you stuck your tongue slightly out in concentration. he didn't know how or when it happened but he'd somehow subconsciously stolen your mannerisms.

now, when cutting fruits for you, he stuck his tongue out as he focused on getting the shapes right. or when you told him about yet another show you'd watched and the plot didn't match up, he'd tilt his head, eyebrows furrowed as the gears in his head turnt. he even started copying the way you showed affection. sukuna, who hated physical touch the most, would now wrap an arm around your waist when he wanted to cuddle or hold you close while you watched tv together.

in an attempt to tease him once, you copied one of his own— running his tongue over his canines in annoyance. he was nagging you about how you kept using his body wash when you put your hands on your hips, tilting your head to the side and running your tongue over your teeth. he immediately caught on but he couldn't get mad at you. instead, he chuckled, genuine and adoring before carrying you in his big strong arms.

sukuna couldn't tell exactly what you had done to make him so soft and sappy but he knew that he was grateful for whatever it is. he may not say his appreciation straight to your face but he knows you can see it, like when he lightly taps his head after he makes a mistake.

yet another habit he stole from you.

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

note: tiny sukuna drabble so i don't lose my mind being studious. #ihatethedoublelife

-love, ryu :3

[reignpage]

Wedding Jitters

in which the men turn to Google for advice during your engagement What to Expect When Expecting - the pregnancy version

SATORU

SUGURU

CHOSO

TOJI

KENTO

SUKUNA

Edit: amended one of Sukuna's searches (the vanquishing one) cause the better idea came to me in the middle of the night lol

[gojosconsort]

mdni. suguru loves to corrupt his best friend’s little sister.

“missed me, princess?” suguru whispers against your throat after he’d slipped into your room after midnight. moonlight slices through the blinds, painting silver across your skin as he peels your shirt away.

he’s been doing this for weeks: sneaking in while satoru sleeps next door, corrupting his perfect little sister one deep thrust at a time. you started innocent—soft gasps, shy touches—but now you arch into him, greedy, begging with your body for everything he gives.

suguru flips you onto your stomach, spreads your thighs wide, and presses the fat head of his cock against where you’re already dripping for him. he pushes in slow and deliberate—stretching you open around his girth, inch after thick inch. you bite the pillow to muffle your cry, but suguru pulls your hair back, forcing your head up.

“let me hear you,” he says and sinks deeper, kissing your cervix with a groan as your pussy clenches around him. he pulls back and slams in again—harder, the headboard knocking the wall shared with satoru’s room. your moan spills out—loud and desperate.

“that’s it,” suguru breathes, lips at your ear. his thick cock drags along your walls, pumping you full, stretching you so good you’d always let him come into your room in the middle of the night. “let your brother hear how i ruin you. let him hear his perfect little sister taking my cock like the good girl she is.”

he never pulls out fully—always comes inside, flooding you with his hot and sticky cum. it’s his favorite part: corrupting you so completely, filling his best friend’s innocent little sister until you’re dripping his cum while satoru sleeps next door.

the thought that one day satoru might catch you—hear the moans, burst in, see his perfect little sister stuffed full and ruined—only makes suguru fuck you harder, darker, more possessive. he just loves you so so much.

part one ✧ part two

[hushkuna]

sukuna comes home with a new haircut and you don't know how to act

“oh my god"

it’s been about 30 seconds since sukuna entered through the door. he’s barely had any time to put down his bag and give you a greetings kiss before you literally launch yourself at him.

he kissed you goodbye before going to the gym, a regular routine, usually 45 mins to an hour. today he took a little longer but you figured he grubbed with his gym bros before coming home but something better was about to unfold.

“someone’s extra jumpy” he grumbles under his breath, oblivious about what’s going on.

“are you serious?!” you shriek in delight. honestly, nothing could prepare you for what he was coming back with—a sexy mullet that quiet literally made you want to go down on him.

“i can’t tell which way you want to devour me” he says as he sees the look you have in your eyes.

“are you really asking me that…you come home all hot and sweaty, that’s already something on its own, and then u get a haircut!? it’s not even just any haircut, a fucking mullet.” there’s no way he’s going to act like this is a daily occurrence. for all the time you’ve been together, he’s maybe changed the way he got his haircut a maximum of 3 times.

“well why does that matter i just—“ he starts to trip over his words, crazy i know, but soon gets cut off as you start to pepper kisses from his jaw to his face.

“you sexy beast” you say as you break away before finally melting into his lips hungrily kissing him as he quickly adjust to the pace as you feel the tiniest smile against your lips.

“you crazy ass woman.” he tries to fight back, but the way he’s holding you says otherwise. “maybe i should keep cutting my hair like this if it means i get to come home to this hmm?” he teases.

a small whine comes out of your mouth as you chase his lips for more. “ah ah ah, slow down tiger, can’t be too selfish now, baby” you roll your eyes and tug at his hair in a playful manner. “whatever.”

he chuckles as gives you a lighthearted kiss to your temple.

he’s right where he wants to be.

find more of mullet!kuna here hello mulletkuna nation...first time writing so it kinda suck Ok?

+ ₊‧꒰ა likes & reblogs are always appreciated ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ +

[gojosluut]

when people see Toji with his sweet girlfriend out in public it’s all whispers

ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃

An older woman whispers to another about how sorry they feel for you or assuming what Toji is like behind closed doors just by his large muscular form, grumpy face, and his overbearing rough demeanor it’s not rare people are going talk.

You don’t hear the whispers, but Toji does, all of the tiny hushes going unnoticed by him.

His eyebrows furrow from slight irritation as his eyes watch you wander around the lingerie store trying to find that pink set you saw online.

Toji doesn’t complain on how long you’re taking his heavy footsteps following behind you while you looked around. His ears twitch as he hears a woman whispering to one of her friends about how they feel sorry for you, again assuming how Toji is behind closed doors.

Once you had your full fill of shopping and you were back in your cozy apartment all Toji could think about is how he wished all those people in the mall could see him right now.

large muscular form taking up your entire vanity chair as you test out all the new makeup products you bought. Your hand steadily applies the eyeliner on his lash line - face completely concentrated as you swiftly apply a small wing.

His hair was clipped back by my melody hair clips, face in full glam with all the products you just bought. You lean back eyes scanning his face - hand gripping his jaw as you turn his head from side to side inspecting your work.

Toji doesn’t complain nor does he saying anything just a sigh through his nose - eyes never leaving yours as you stare at him. Finally you give a satisfied smile as you hand him a mirror. “you look so pretty ‘ji !” you squeal while Toji checks out your magic.

Tojis scarred lips tug into a grin as he puts down the mirror grabbing you by the waist pulling you into his lap.

“mhm i do, you like everything you bought then?” big hands rubbing up and down your waist. You nod with a smile as you lean forward kissing his cheek as a thank you for his compliance.

If only the people around them could see him like this. His sweet girlfriend treating him like some doll, then they really wouldn’t be saying anything.

______๑♡⁠๑_____

(not proof read)

[fireflyschiikawa]

husband!satoru : carry the baby for me

Back aching, dragging swollen feet you pad across the living room towards your husband, satoru.

Approaching his slightly drowsy figure on the couch you call out his name. Slowly his sleepy gaze lifts and lights up at the sight of his 6 months pregnant wife.

“Hey…baby” his voice soft, gaze lingering at your swollen belly and the cute pout on your face.

“What’s wrong?” he questions standing up, hands automatically resting on your hips.

“Carry the baby for me” you huff out.

Satoru tilts his head amused at his wife’s command “I would honey, if I could I would turn into a male seahorse and carry all our children”.

You glare at him, too moody for his silly antics and proceed to turn around on your feet, his chest to your back.

“Give me your hands toru” and being the ever pleasing husband he is he abides.

Bending down you feel your husband in the crook of your neck watching you guide his hands under your belly.

Something clicks and he whispers “yes ma’am” as he lifts your belly gently with his large hands.

A sigh of content leaves your lips as the weight of the bump gets transferred to your husband momentarily.

After all carrying the strongest’s offspring is no easy task.

Satoru watches as you melt into his chest, snuggling into your neck and inhaling your scent.

“I wasn’t joking about the seahorse part” your chuckle vibrates against his chest, his heart beating faster as your warmth ruminates through him, your mood clearly elevated.

firefly; my first post ever! i’m so nervous posting my work hopefully i can improve my writing through this ❀ུ͏  

masterlist

[yuriskity]

all the other women in your gardening club were so incredibly jealous of you.

it had started off when you were showing them a photo of some fresh strawberries that you grew. the photo was of around 16 perfect looking, freshly washed strawberries placed on top of a cloth inside a basket... and the basket was being held by your husband, satoru.

it was a simple photo, satoru had a cute face, not looking at the camera but instead, was looking down at the fresh fruit, impatiently waiting to eat them.

your fellow club members gawked and smiled widely at your photo.

"wowh! what a beauty!"

"how perfect!"

you smiled in pride as your club members complimented the photo of your stawberries, unaware that they were staring only at satoru and his annoyingly handsome face.

the next instance was when you had shown them photos of your perfect, weedless garden.

"wowh! what weed killer do you use?" one of the older women exclaimed in shock.

"ohh ahah!" you smiled "i don't use any weed killers, we have a dog in the house and i'm afraid he might sniff the toxins, so i pick out the small ones by myself, and i ask my husband to get the bigger ones for me"

"ah... you're so lucky, [name].. my husband is far too lazy to pick out the large weeds when i ask..."

"your husband listens to you, just like that? i wish my husband would do that.. if i ever asked, he'd complain and whine like a baby"

the last was when your car broke down and had to stay in maintenance for a few days. satoru dropped you off to your gardening club that saturday.

when you walked in, all the ladies' heads snapped over to see satoru.

".. he's even more handsome in person.."

"he's sooo dreamy.."

"look at his biceps..."

you turned around, going on your tiptoes to kiss him goodbye. satoru placed his hand on your waist, leaning in to pull you into his hungry mouth. you pulled away, much to his dismay, satoru tried to pepper more kisses on your face, but you quietly told him to stop, causing him to pout.

"... and he's so inlove with her too..."

"what a loving man.."

"... i hope [name] knows how lucky she is."

those other ladies whispered among themselves before you gave satoru another kiss farewell before turning around and greeting your club members. satoru lingered around the doorway for another minute, watching you with a gentle smile before forcing himself to turn around and leave.

that alone made the ladies expel any thoughts of seducing him to cheat on you... it was too late. He was too deeply in love, and much to their dismay, they understood clearly why he was so obsessed with you.

— likes and reblogs are appreciated!!

[tonycries]

PITBULL // TERRIER!

Synopsis. Do you want to change the world? Do you see those poor, endangered hybrids and wish you could do something to help them? Join us now at www.HYBRIDBR33DINGPROGRAM,69 to help your hot local hybrids put a baby in you!

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, hybrids AU, pheromones, knots, bréeding, FÉRAL JJK men, matíng presses, fuII neIsons, fíngering, spítting, p talking, p sIapping, chokíng, HEADLOCKS, aIpha!Toji, manhandIing, making it fit, creampíes, marathons, Iactation (Sukuna), mates, dúmbifícatíon, cúmfIation, cúmpIay, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Tony’s backkkk with delicious things piled up for you babygirls heheh-

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Wolf

“So now I have to warn you-” You’re turning your head towards the primly-dressed lady that was leading you through the maze of corridors.

She’d been the first to meet with you after weeks of interviews and medical exams and waiting around the telephone ever since you’d entered…the program. Your match-maker, almost. With an appointment finally set up, you made your way through the official-looking building.

Listening to her intently as she debriefed you on the hybrid you’d been set up with. “-the hybrid we have paired you with, according to your sheet and your scent vials, is a wolf hybrid.” She looks at you closely, “An alpha wolf hybrid.”

Your heart races, “Oh.”

“And as you may know, alpha wolves are quite known for their…intense…ruts.” The two of you stopped before a tall door, it almost looked like a hotel entrance. “But the thing is- with this speciman, Toji, you’re the first one he’s ever accepted during his rut.”

“Oh.”

She rattles off something about how your scent was the only one he’s ever reacted to, how ever since then he’d been dying to meet you. Thrown into the throes of his rut all over again, practically. Clawing at the walls. Restless.

And before you know it, the door is opening and you’re being ushered inside. Left alone. With him.

Toji’s feverish body is on you immediately.

He’s gasping you in. Gnawing on your neck. Pressing his hips against yours like he was trying to meld your two bodies together—

“Oh, pretty doll…” The straight line of his nose drag-drag-draaaags down the side of your scent glands, huffin’ in your sweetened scent. “Pretty, pretty doll.” Breath hitching, Toji pins you harder against the wall and you feel something so long and rock-fucking-hard crush up against your front. “Do you have any fucking idea how long I’ve been waitin’ for ya? I could smell you the second you stepped in the building- fuck, damn near broke down these walls to find ya myself.”

“O-oh.” Your eyes almost bulge out of your skull as you get an impression of his sheer size. Tall. Hulking. He really was a wolf hybrid through and through, tail swishing impatiently behind him. “You’re so…big.”

So swollen with need that the mere feeling of your warm body made him twitch.

And the thing is- he could smell your cute cunt getting wetter. Guttural voice whispering against your ear, “And you’re not walking outta here until you take every single inch.”

In just a few split-seconds, you’re on the bed by the corner of the room. You’re on all fours. You’re being pushed down by one of his clawed hands knobbled on top of your scalp, manhandling you.

His giddy weight hovers over you, rasping to himself. “Won’t be- hah, walking outta here at all, actually.” His abs plaster against your back as he leans over to kiss down the line of your spine. “Gonna- fuck, make you forget how to walk.” Smooch after sultry smooch. Open-mouthed. “Gonna hafta fuckin’ carry you outta here- oh, m’gonna ruin you, mama.”

You’re squealing at the top of your lungs when his fingers slither down to tear off your sticky panties. Weavin’ the fabric between his digits, he brings it up to his flared nostrils and sniffs.

A great, big whiff that makes Toji’s scarred mouth drop into a soft ‘oh.’

“F-fuck-” He’s wrenching out a primal grunt, just catching sight of your glistening hole. “Oh my-”

Cutting himself off by spitting down onto your wettened pussy, the line of saliva smacks against your slit and drips down in a puddle. 

And he wasn’t just spitting from behind - Toji was drooling. A thin line of it trickling down the side of his curved lips as he immediately spreads your sheeny thighs, immediately ruts against the folds of your cunt. 

Immediately let his thick, globular tip start swipin’ his way inside your pussy.

“Oh-oh my god…” Toji’s head falls once he starts easing inside, husky baritone breaking mid-sentence. And your toes curl at the incredible feeling of his plump, puckered tip squeezing all inside your snug entrance. Shoving inside. Bullying inside. You clench and you think he damn near shivers- “Wait o-ohhhh, go easy on me, lil’ omega.”

“Omega?” You’re questioning, “You can tell?”

“Oh fuck, I don’t even know right now, doll- just hold on- let me…” The gluey surroundings of your cunt were just sucking him up. Swallowing. Each heavy inch being slid inside—and Toji wasn’t just thrusting, he was rutting.

Just to fit inside. Just to feel more n’ more of your velvety walls sucking him up - you swear you can feel the exact moment the line of his swollen tip grazes your g-spot and Toji himself breaks.

“Oh my god- fuck, oh my god, it can feel this good?” His stern lips wobble, that sleazy smile from before nowhere to be seen now. And there’s a slight tinge of madness in his voice, one that makes his gruff tone pitch higher. 

And suddenly you’re being reminded that this was the first ever time that he’s spent his rut with anyone.

He was just so sensitive. “No- no, that should be fuckin’ illegal.” Toji grabs the back of your neck and pulls you back into his vein-covered cock. “It can’t be- it c-can’t—” 

Letting your drippin’ wet pussy sloppily sluuuuurp back into his long, long length. Toji has the audacity to swipe the pair of panties in his hands down where your syrupy wetness was smearing. Drenching it just a lil’.

Before bringing it back up to his nose and sniffing, hazy peripherals rolling to the back of his head. He spreads apart his meat thighs even further and moans out as he pushes. “Who the fuck let you hold out on me for this long, huh?”

He was going crazy. He was drilling into you like a madman.

Again and again and again. 

Not even waiting for you to adjust. Not even faltering. Heavy, half-thrusts to open up every drivelling orifice inside your cunt. To pinpoint even your tiniest hidden spots with his strawberry-red divot- fuck, it was almost like he was out of control.

So was this what it felt like to be…pussydrunk?

Toji feels you slipping away with the recoil of his jackhammers and he uses his inhuman strength to jerk you back up to him.

You’re choking out, “I wasn’t- fuck.” You’re grabbing ahold of the silken sheets, bucking your hips stupidly into his. The lewdest squelches ring out every time you do, synchronizing with your own sinful noises. “S’not my fault.”

“Then whose is it, hm?”

He moves his left hand over to spank the side of your ass cheeks, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Your mouth lolls open stupidly upon impact and he bends over to spit straight into his wide-open target. 

“Tell me- hah, tell me, little omega.” He’s tightening his hold on your throat and you yelp. Absolutely useless against the way his vein-covered girth stretches out your every nook n’ cranny, his rose-colored tip was pushing even deeper into your gooey insides. “Who let you hold out on me? Who said this pretty pussy could f-feel so good? Where the fuck have- you- been- all my life?”

“I don’t- ngh, could’ve found me sooner- ngh, then.” You’re biting back, your mind dizzy with all these questions and his thrusts. And oh, he liked that.

Having you talk back to him like that - it only made his thick length swell up even further, making your pussy let out such a carnal squelch once he finally, finally pistons towards the back of your cervix.

Slick and tight.

The probin’ push of his mushroomy tip drives deep, like he was trying to burrow into your very lungs. His globular end is driven in, in, in—all round n’ achingly hard, filling you out from the inside so much that you swear you could see stars.

Fuck, he’s gnawing down on the edge of his bottom lip and staring. Taking hefty gulps of the pheromones you were letting out each time his creamy cock pistoled back in. 

“Mmm, you’re right.” Toji snickers. And he gives the wobblin’ side of your ass cheek yet another mean swat, leaving it there for a few seconds to grope you. “You’re s-soooo fuckin’ right, mama. Always are, hm?” Oh, he was thoroughly pussydrunk - to have such a big, proud alpha admit defeat? Fuck, he might just kneel at your feet next.

You’re whimpering once his thumb reaches over to swipe down your treacly slit, pressing down on your clit. “Oh yeah? M’right after I manage to- hck! take it all?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say all…” Wouldn’t say all? In shock, you swivel your head around and catch Toji’s filthy, filthy grin. The way he was looking down at where the two of you were connected with half-lidded eyes. “There’s just a-” The hybrid crushes his toned v-line against you. “-little more.”

And that’s when you feel it.

That’s when you realize it: with Toji being a wolf hybrid, his prolonged length won’t be the only thing you have to take. You forgot about the plump, thickened knot at the base of his cock - pulsing wildly away where he kissed your pussylips with it.

Toji growls, “You’re not walkin’ outta here without carrying my pups, mama.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Jaguar

“Are you alright, my love?” The blond-haired man hushes out from above you just as soon as his thick, reddened tip manages to bulge against your cervix. Manages to bottom out. Hot and sultry. Just drippin’ with fresh wads of precum and need.

He’s running his thumb down the side of your temple, tenderly wiping away a few trickles of sweat. “Breathe in– breath- atta girl. This pretty pussy of yours feeling, mmm, alright?”

Your hips buck with a whimper once he grazes his roverin’ fingertips down your swollen slit. Teasing rolling over your sensitive clit so you’ll make those pretty, pretty noises for him once more. “Yes- hck! fuck fuck fuck, yes, Kento. You can keep moving now…”

“O-oh.” His handsome maw drops. And something in him seems to shake at the very notion. Something in him seems to crack. You watch as Nanami’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs, his throat parched. “Keep moving, darling?”

“Mhm—” You’re nodding, brows furrowing. “That is the whole point of the program, after all- isn’t it?”

NAME: NANAMI KENTO

AGE: 27

OCCUPATION: OFFICE WORKER

HYBRID TYPE: PANTHERA ONCA

You’d read his profile multiple times. You could tell from the very second you’d been escorted inside this tidy bedroom that Nanami Kento was the predatory type. The type that could break you in half. The type that could leave you without the ability to walk for weeks at a time without even trying - and yet, he was treating you like glass.

So gently.

Nanami had spent hours overstimulating your poor, bawlin’ pussy before you’d even started taking his incredible size. Spent hours tugging n’ prying apart your delicate pussylips just so that he could fit each solid inch.

His girth was so massive that the mere feeling of him bullying inside your gooey channel, molding you to him, made your toes curl. 

Your nails clawing down the expanse of his broad back as you pull him even closer to you, “C’mon Kento.” You jut out your lips into a pout, and he shivers at the sight. You’re just so sensitive. So needy that you could cry. “Don’t you wanna, ngh, breed- oh fuck!”

He’s shutting you up.

He’s roughly pulling back his powerful hips to strike the ends of your pussy with a great, heaving thud! Coating your cervix with a few stringy wads of pre, his curly blond hairs tickling your clit. 

Anything. Everything just to get you to—

“Sh-shut up—” Nanami unhinges his sharp jaw just to puff out, his clouded breath hitting your face. And then he’s gasping, then he’s realizing what he’s just said and fighting back a groan.

Slowing down the ravenous cadence of his hips to something slow n’ sensual. Nanami cups your cheek, biting down on his wobbly lower lip. “F-forgive me.” He begs, “I spoke out of turn- I- hngh, acted out of turn.” He’d just gone out of control.

The thought makes you wetter - and Nanami’s nose crinkles at the sweetness as he can smell it. “But m’not complaining, y’know?” You’re insisting, arching your hips up into his. It was just so cute that he was so considerate, but you wanted something…rough. “I wouldn’t mind if you-”

“Don’t.” He cuts you off. And you’re suddenly getting punished by a thorough few probes of his circular, wet tip against the roof of your pussy. “Don’t talk out of this pretty pussy, darling. You don’t know what m’capable of-”

“I do.” Batting your teary lashes, “I read all your profiles—promise! Did my own research, too. I just want you to- hngh, use me, Kento.”

Something in him looks like it had just snapped.

He whispers - barely even audible to you. “U-use…”

And you’re nodding furiously, slidin’ away your plush walls to meet his every thrust. Now, Nanami’s tempo had grown slightly harder, slightly out of time—slightly like his restraint on himself was slowly slipping away. So you let out the finishing blow - “Wan’ you to use me as your hngh! cumdump, please?”

Fuck, you’d even added manners.

Nanami Kento was gone.

Nanami Kento was ruined.

Nanami Kento was throwing your legs over his muscular shoulders in a second - fuck missionary, he was putting you in a damn mating press. Snapping his hips down until your capped knees hit your tits, and his globular cocktip scrapes your womb.

So hard that you swear he’s leaving nail marks on your skin, your hamstrings stretching like never before, a few of your joints popping!

With a few slurping sounds, he’s fucking his girth into with thud after thud after thud. Looong, rapid thrusts that leave you with your mouth comically ajar, spit drivelling out pathetically. Puddling. “Yes-” You whine, white-hot pleasure running through you. “Yes yes yes- just like this, Ken, ngh-”

“Ah ah-” And suddenly, one of his firm hands finds its way ‘round your throat. Blocking off your airway, “Shut up and fucking take it since you wanted to so bad.”

You’re whimpering- “But it feels so- oh.”

Only for Nanami to lunge over and sink his lengthy canines against the side of your throat, “What did I say?” He murmurs, the vibrato of his bass making your skin tremble. A stern tone. “Cumdumps don’t talk.”

Fuck. 

Again and again.

You press your lips together, trying to hold back all the broken crackles and pleas that threatened to break through each time Nanami was pummeling away his massive length. Red-hot. Ravenous. He throbbed all the way near the clingy bottom of your pussy, drenching it in so many webs of his sap.

Flooding each tight orifice inside you, forming your heart-shaped cunt around him- and then barely even letting you squirm after each recoil of his thrusts. Barely letting you bounce away.

Weighing down on you. Glissading his abs. Every time you moved, he’d tighten his arm on your throat and drag you back. 

Another one of his strong hands slides down your front - he’d been tenderly massaging your core before. Now the hybrid only pushed down where he could feel his thick cylindrical length probin’ through, feeling for himself as he fucked you.

“Oh, yes. Remember what you hah- asked for, my love- fuck, I mean…” Harder. Firmer. Nanami was pinpointing your every sweet spot with wads of precum so rudely, “-my pretty, pretty cumdump.”

You’re shrilling as he leans in with a purr to nuzzle your throat, one of his wild slams slaps your cervix so hard that you think your eyes pop out of your skull. “I-ngh, keep going like that and I’ll-” Forgetting that you weren’t supposed to speak - and if you couldn’t listen to him, he’d make you silent.

He’s spitting straight between your jabbering lips, swiping away the purposeful splatter on the edge of your lips. “Cumdumps cum quietly.”

And you’re so far gone that you aren’t just cumming with a few more vulgar strokes - you’re splashin’ out and squirting. Soaking splosh after splosh of your miry high, it sticks to his tannish skin and creates a tiny pool between your bodies.

Nanami was pistoning away oh-so-frenzily, and he expected to hold you down so that you could stay. So that you could take it.

Each n’ every one of your peaks being pounded through by his rovering cock.

Your pupils swirl maddeningly, body shaking with the twitches of your orgasm. “Mmm, didn’t know cumdumps could squirt, too.” He snickers rudely as you see stars, your vision shattered. And before you know it, he’s emptying out a few droplets of precum into your womb - you swear his twitching knot at his base only grew fatter. Oh, he was just getting started.

“Wh-what do you mean?” You’re whining up at him, with wide eyes—shit, did he say that out loud?

Nanami smiles a sleazy smile, his long canines peaking out. “M’cumdump needs to be full of cum now, doesn’t she?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Sssnake

The slithering slurps were just lecherous.

Each time after Geto slid his flexible fingers in and out of your folds, tapping the slick-glazed tips against your inner thighs. “Hmmm…that should do it. Don’t you think, gorgeous~?”

“Sh-shit-” And for just how calm, cool, n’ collected he was - you were practically shattered. Feeling the sparks of your high escape right under your nose, Geto had edged you for about the fifth time tonight. Ruthlessly. You clamor to hold onto his wrist, “You’re so mean, Sugu- fuck-”

“Oh, so you don’t want my cock?” His dark brows furrow, faux-pouting. And oh, you damn near shed a few tears at the way he’s dragging his puckered cockhead between your folds, before pulling away—“Alright, guess I can give this pretty pussy just my fingers then-”

“N-nooo—” You sob out, “Please-”

“Ssso you don’t want my fingers either, huh?” Pretending to gasp, pretending to drive you to the end of your sanity (he actually was). “Well then I can just go and tell the organizer that you’d rather have another hybrid- f-fuck.”

You’re not even thinking twice - you’re not even hesitating before you suddenly press against Geto’s toned body. Pinning him down. Straddling his naturally chiselled hips and letting your ready cunt siiiink down his fat cock.

Oh.

He was just so thick, n’ covered in so many winding veins that tickled your sensitive insides. Extra. “Oh my god- I m-meant that I want your, ngh, cock in me.” You’re blurting out, your head throwing back dazedly. “Want you all up inside- ngh.”

“Oho?” And serpentine hybrids weren’t just sly - you’re coming to find out that they knew exactly how to drive you wild. Exactly how to use their numerous snaking tendrils.

Before you know it, Geto drags his gigantic tail around your waist to pin you down to his pelvis. Human for most of his body, but his true form did peak out during times like this. “Sss’that so?” He’s humming out, grin widening. “So is it my mating season or is it yours, gorgeous?”

“Y-yours–” You mewl out, stubbornly. After all it had been you that was specifically assigned to the massive boa constrictor to help him through his season of need. His heat.

His time of year that makes him all but whimper the very instant Geto’s slick cock starts fucking in and out of you. In smooth, long thrusts - there’s so much power behind his actions that the front of your pussylips start to bruise already.

Geto’s brows furrowing as he hisses between his fangs, “Mhm, then why don’tcha act like it, hmmm–?” Hitting your g-spot dead-on, your hips move restlessly and his tail pins you down immediately. “Drippin’ so much, sucking me up like such a ssssslut.”

He’s smiling oh-so-meanly as he pokes and probes you every hidden spot. Not just your g-spot, it’s like he’s somehow mazing his vein-decorated cock everywhere. Anywhere.

Again and again.

His slimy, curved tip sticks against the edge of your cervix and makes you whine.

“Take me so well like this n’ I might just give you my second cock, gorgeous.”

Your eyes snap open, “S-second?” And without another second of hesitation, you tilt your head down and- oh, lo and behold, there was a line along the middle of Geto’s happy trail. Right where his rock-hard erection was, a second length was starting to perk upright. Two. 

Two needy shafts that filthily kissed your hole, the more you’re bouncing atop him- the closer his weeping cockhead gets. Anticipating. Eager. 

“Mhm, didn’t you know?” Geto tuts, “Serpentine hybrids tend to have double the cocks-” And suddenly, he’s swipin’ aside your puffy folds to take a gooood, long look at your clamping hole. “-double what this sssslutty pussy wants. And if you’re good- heh, I’ll give it.”

“I’ve been so good.” You beg, your hand reaching for his double shafts- only for Geto to slap it away.

“I just gave you my first and now you want my second?” He rolls his dazed amethyst eyes, “Try riding this one ngh, proper and we’ll see about-” Oh, he doesn’t even have to finish his damn sentence to have you gyratin’ your hips wildly.

With your sultry figure-eights swerving and swerving.

Faster. Harder. You arch your spine into the perfect curvature and let his textured length stir against your cute pussy. Filling out your every nook n’ cranny—“I am, see-” Spit splashes down your chin, and Geto’s forked tongue comes out to lap at it. “T-taking it- ngh, they paired me with you so that means I must be able to take a second-”

“‘Must’, hmm–?” It was just so fun to tease you. To slow his bucking hips down and watch as your trembling, needy body ruts down animalistically to chase his globed tip. “And so that means-”

“Yes-”

“-that you must take my kids, riiight?” He narrowed his greedy gaze, and you’re struck with the sudden thought - oh, mating season. Geto was going to fuck you pregnant.

He was already pounding upwards like he aimed for it. Already shoved the fat crown of his shaft to poke your womb, so hard that you’re sure to feel that soft flesh bruise. Thudding. “That you’re gonna- mmm, let me cum inside you with both my big, fat cocks.” You feel a hot splash against your outer pussy, and realize that he’s holding his matching length with one hand. Angled straight towards your entrance- “Let me fill you up until you can’t even remember your name—”

“O-oh my god-” Your pupils swirl in the whites of your eyes, feeling the circle of your cunt get stretched out maddeningly. Like elastic, he was probin’ away his honed cocktip inside. “Yes- wan’ it please, Suguru-”

“Actually-” As he slightly stalls his cadence, “-can you even remember your name? Right now?”

You don’t even care at this point. Don’t know anything but the way he was filling out your geysering orifice with such wet slurps, “I don’t know I don’t know- just want it-”

“So you can’t even remember your name?” Seething, voice pitched even higher. There was a sort of crazed glimmer in Geto’s peripherals when he realized the effect his double cocks had on your poor body. Your poor self. “C-can’t believe- hah! You seriously don’t fuckin’ remember your own name? My cocks have that much of an effect on you, hm?”

Push after push. Now he’s a solid few inches inside your velvety cunt and you think you might just cum from the sheer stretch of him. The way he was holding you down- one hand plastered on top of your sweaty scalp now.

Geto’s using his strength to force down his swollen shafts, his zig-zagged veins pliably letting him slither his way in-

“S’okay, gorgeous.” He’s finishing off once his matching tips bottom out with two matching thwacks! All the way opening up your womb- “You don’t need any other name- hah, there’s only one you need.”

“And wh-what is that—?” You shiver once his pointed fangs trace your skin, scorched breath panting out.

“My mate.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Bunny!

“P-please, I’ll be good…” Choso’s broken whimpers grace your eardrums like the prettiest song, and he’s also letting off such lewd slurps any time he tap-tap-taps his red, swollen cockhead against the front of your pussy. 

So loud. So filthy. The twitchy hybrid smears aside the drops of cum that were on top of your folds, like some white glaze.

His half-lidded eyes look down at the mess he was making and he groans, feeling his mouth start to salivate at the sight. “Mmm, so delicious, baby.” Before you can respond - before you can even think - Choso has the audacity to swipe his fat thumb down your slit and dab on a bit of sap for him to suck. “Won’t you let me- hah, fill this cunt up all over again? Please?”

And oh, you’d heard of the incredible prolonged stamina that bunny rabbit hybrids have - you just didn’t expect it to be like this.

Because it’d been hours since you were led into this very room by the organizer lady. Hours since you’d first met the hybrid you were paired up with, and had him cream his poor pants simply by his first kiss with you. 

Hour since he’d first begged to put his cute, flinchin’ cock inside and fucked you like he never ever wanted to pull out.

Still rutting into you like such an animal- the slightest half-thrusts that leaves him whimpering. “P-please?” Choso whines, his handsome cheek staining with a line of tears. “Do you need me to beg on my knees again, baby?”

Your breath hitches, “I’m just wondering whether you aren’t- hah, tired yet, Cho? I’m sure it’s already ahem- taken, so to speak.”

“Oh, but we won’t know for sure now- will we?” And of course you wanted him more. Of course you still teased him. Watching his doey, brown eyes tear up, long ears flopping. “And m’not dead yet so- don’t worry, no matter how many times I cum, my cock is always- ngh, hard for you, baby.”

And he meant it.

He was slightly pulling out of your geysering hole - fuck, it almost killed him to - rutting and humping into your wettest depths wildly. He wanted to get you pregnant badly.

And as soon as you’re nodding needily for him to go on- Choso immediately perks his toned hips back n’ plunges inside your cunt once more. His ruby-red cocktip swipes aside your dewy walls, and as soon as his hulking size swivels inside, Choso groans.

He gasps.

He throws his head back and can’t stop himself from fucking cumming all over again, just from feeling your cutely heart-shaped walls. 

You squeal as you feel his hot syrup fill you out from the inside, sploshin’ against all the other wads of cum he’d left over hours prior. “Sh-shit—” You’re clawing down his pale back, sure that it was ravaged with so many lines of red by now. “See? What did I tell you, Cho-”

“And what did I tell you?” He whimpers out, tears beading in his widely-opened eyes. “No matter how- haaaaah, many times- I- cum-”

Each one of his words was punctuated by a rugged thrust. Not only was he fucking in his treacly wads of seed inside, he was also draaaagging every ridge n’ line of his shaft along your sweetest spots. Leaning in close so that he can nibble on the underside of your jaw. Whispering. “-I’ll always be hard for you, baby.”

“O-oh my god—” Your eyes sprint all the way to the back of your skull - because Choso was fast. A rapidly slamming tempo that left his own pelvis all red. Nails digging deeper. “Shit, it feels so—Cho, are you crying?”

He’s blinking back his tears. “Fuck-” So overstimulated. So rubbed raw on the channel of your cunt that he found himself hatching out sobs at the back of his throat. “I didn’t, ngh, realize…I am.”

It’s only then that Choso’s fully registering himself.

The way his back was bleeding with how hard you were latching onto him. The way he could barely focus his dilated eyes. The way that every time he harshly pistoned his cock into you, Choso’s entire body twitched with something primal.

Your pussy was so good that it’d overstimulated him to tears.

You gasp as you notice the state he was in - and he only swabs his plumpened, red tip even harder. “I don’t mind, baby, m’just a little- n-ngh, sensitive right now.” Choso reassures, and you move your hand down from his muscular back to his waist. “Promise I can still fuck you all- oh.”

Only for your trembling fingertips to graze - just graze - his fluffy bunny tail. And oh- if you thought he was sensitive before, then Choso was so sensitive there that he damn near whimpers.

“D-don’t touch me like that~” He’s whining from the back of his throat, core tensing and flexing each time he drilled forwards. Faster. Filthier. “Don’t blame me if it makes me go even harder, okay, baby?”

“Well, m’not to blame. You’re the one that insisted.” You’re biting back.

And a dopey grin spreads across his face, “I did.” It was almost like he was reminiscing just moments prior. Chasing the softness of your pussy, he veers forwards and thumps your cervix loudly. “H-heh, n’ I think I’m gonna…oh…cum again.”

“A-again?” You gasp - you just felt so damn full. Stuffed all the way to the brim, glittery wads of cum spill out of you every time he’s thrusting in. And yet- fuck, and yet Choso still wasn’t done. 

Still wasn’t letting up. Still wasn’t slowing down once he leans down to kiss your puffy lips. Your own high was nothing more than a few tingles, driving you half-mad with pleasure when you feel his glissading tip pulse against your cervix. “Did you just- oh, cream ‘round my cock?” He shallowly breathes, “Again?”

You can only nod and nod.

And Choso can only crinkle his nose in bliss, his entire body shaking viscerally when the mere notion throws him over the edge once more. 

“O-oh.” He pants out, “Gonna blame me for, ngh, cumming so much when s’your fault.” Before you know it, you feel scorched wetness flood your cunt once more. It’s all sticky, gluing your pussylips together with his ivory sap.

And Choso fucking beams as he watches the glaze of it seep out of you and drench his dark happy trail. Creating a puddle of wetness that he swipes his hand down, lovingly. 

Before reaching up and pressing on the cum-inflated bulge he was fucking into your tummy.

“Please give me a baby, baby–?”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - BULL

You’re stopped in your tracks just before you can open the door. 

That official-looking lady who’d accompanied you now held onto your hand, her expression of slight concern breaking the cool façade you’d been met with ever since you entered the program. She says, “I must make sure you know- you only need to give us a call, and we’ll be here in a second.”

“Yes?” You question her sudden worry.

“Oh, it’s just that-” She looks over your shoulder, as if trying to make sure that whoever was inside (the hybrid you’d been assigned to, Sukuna, you heard) couldn’t hear. “-we’ve had many candidates get paired with this particular hybrid, and all of them had broken off the pair before a match could be made. It seems he really needs help - he’s desperate with his rut.”

You’re furrowing your brows, “How come?”

She shuffles uncomfortably in front of you. “See- it’s just that this speciman seems to be a little…big.”

“Oh.”

“And rough.”

“Oh.”

“And he has certain attributes that often put him a step above other hybrids- especially ones in rut.” She explains to you, and your hand trembles on the door handle. “So, just letting you know-”

THUD-THUD-THUD!

It sounded like a storm. Like a whirlwind. Like something just broke down the polished, mahogany door in front of you - and left you dwarfed next to the towering bull hybrid you’d been paired up with. You don’t know what type he was; but he was over eight feet tall, pink hair, covered in swirlin’ black tattoos, with a massive bulge in his thin, off-white trousers.

Oh, he was in rut alright.

You look behind you- only to find that your escort had already disappeared.

And before you could register a single thing more, the hybrid- Sukuna has one of his four hands wrapped around your wrist. Tugging you inside the room. Manhandling.

All but tearing into your flimsy skirt- “Fuck.” He spits, between his clenched canines - you notice with a jolt that he had a piercing through his septum. It glimmers in the dim lighting as he huffs raggedly in and out, “Fuck- you’re gettin’ wet, aren’t ya?”

“I-I am?” You gape, affronted. 

He sniffs at your throat and snickers, “Oh yeahhh, you are. In fact-” With only a single, sharp riiiip he’s torn off your drenched panties. Absolutely gone. And he breathes in even deeper, “-yer ovulating, mama.”

You didn’t know bulls could smell that - hell, you didn’t know any hybrid could smell that.

But before you can even think of asking him anything of the sort, Sukuna has your thighs smeared apart on his meaty hips, your cunt being speared thoroughly by his thickened shaft.

Right then n’ there on the bedroom floor, he’s taking you.

His round, bludgeoning tip entering your tiny hole- the stretch of it surrounding your pussy is incredible. A sheer sting that renders your eyes closed, your mouth speechless - meanwhile Sukuna’s just jerking his hips back and pushing and pushing. “Fuh-fuuuuck!” You shrill pathetically, feeling him open up even your most hidden orifices and head straight towards your womb. “Oh- oh my god, who let you be so damn ngh- big?” 

“You’ll say—” Sukuna’s crimson eyes narrow in amusement, and he uses one of hands to flick at your swollen clit. The other two lacing on top of your scalp and tuggin’ you down roughly, “-and yet- you’re the only one to take me like this.”

“Th-the only one?” You gawk.

“The only one ta even make it this far.” He snickers, before interrupting himself with a gulping gasp of your scent. “And I’ve never smelled a human so- mmmm—” Sukuna grins and- oh, and now you’re realizing that he has two mouths. 

One on his face, the other slashed across his heavily chiselled abs. 

“-so delicious.”

Shivers run down your spine, “And what do I need to- ngh-” Your entire body felt weak with the way he was fuckin’ you oh-so-vulgarly open. Your pussylips were pried apart to the maximum, dribbling wet ribbons of slick. “-to help you through this rut of yours, then?”

“Oh, you just need to take it.” He grins, his pinkish tongue sticking between his teeth - both of them. That second cursed mouth of his salivates down your core, sticking just between your folds, pressing on your clit.

And every time you twitch with his rolling tastebuds, Sukuna can feel you clench. “Just lemme fuck you- oh, yeahhh, just like that. Never felt anything better.” He hiccups, two of his hands now move from your head and onto the sides of your waist. “Just take it alllll, lemme use this pretty pussy and- o-oh.”

Moving you. Teasing you. So much so that your entire body was starting to go limp - and it was exactly that boneless state of yours that made you rest your head down between the valley of his chest. 

Exactly what made your mouth loll open with a puddle of drool, your hands gripping his pecs and squeezing—

“Oh sh-shit.” Sukuna groans gruffly, and you don’t know what you’re more shocked by: the cracking tone of his voice, or the way that a slight pearl of whiteness beads out of Sukuna’s pecs the moment you grope them. “Look what you’ve made me- ngh, oh fuck, brat. Fuck.”

“I-is this part of your…” Without even finishing your sentence - almost as if on instinct - you’re veering your mouth over to lick at the sap trickling out of him. And—

Oh.

Oh, Ryomen Sukuna was lactating.

“You can- this is milk?” You gasp, and before he can respond, you’re trying to urge more out. Letting the sweetened ivory sap fall into your agape maw, “I didn’t know even bull hybrids could lactate, Kuna.”

“So what?”

You look up at him through your lashes, every time he’s thrashing his cock inside you, you’re sucking on his pretty pink pecs. “I like it.”

“T-tch—” Sukuna tries to sound tough - fails. Because you could already make out the way his breath shook, his flexed core tensed.

Any time your textured tastebuds sizzled on top of him, Sukuna shivered. Was forced to attempt not to close his eyes and bite down on his lips - you’d never have thought that lactating would make the big, bad hybrid putty in your hands.

He blushes all the way down from the tips of his ears, down to his honeyed pecs, down to the globular edge of his shaft. Hitting up into your soft cervix with a bang—

“I-in about nine months, you’ll be lactating, too…” He whimpers.

♡ INO TAKUMA - Puppy

“Does it feel good, pretty?” Ino’s innocent chocolate eyes sparkle, and you swear you could see from where you were that his cute tail was wagging. 

Rough thrusts being punctured by the cutest lil’ whimpers, Ino moans into your mouth just as soon as he feels you clench your heart-shaped insides ‘round him. “Ohhh, th-that means it feels good right? M’I doing a good job–?”

“Yes- yes yes yes–” You’re crying out, drunken saliva puddling on top of your pillow beside you. Each one of his roverin’ wet thrusts left your mind all emptied of thought.

And the thing is, you never even expected Ino to be this good.

NAME: INO TAKUMA

AGE: 21

OCCUPATION: UNIVERSITY STUDENT

HYBRID TYPE: CANIS LUPUS FAMILIARIS

When you’d first been notified that you were paired with a dog hybrid, you’d assumed that it would be a simple task. An easy task. They weren’t particularly apex predators, right? So how hard could it be—

That is, until you were running on the fifth round with Ino shovelling his heated cock inside you for the nth time. His silken ears drooping as he sniffs the side of your throat, trying to smell out your arousal- “So this pretty pussy’s likin’ it? Ngh, how else could I make you feel good, sweetness?”

“You’re already making me feel s-so good, Taku.” You gasp, feeling his slender fingers dip down to pinch your clit.

And just as he hears your words, Ino’s entire body perks up. Face beaming. His bulbous cock twitching at the very end, Ino drives it in even deeper against your g-spot with a damp squelch. “Oh yes? Then–” He looks down shyly, the cutest strawberry blush taking over his face. “-then could you say the special words, pretty?”

“Hmmm…” You pretend to think, “We’ll see, Taku.”

He all but whimpers.

Ah, those special words - it’d been an accidental discovery, really. The fact that Ino would be so affected by two specific words was a discovery that you hadn’t expected to stumble across during your research beforehand.

And he’s doggedly pounding his hips into yours, as if he was trying to fuck that very pet name from your mouth. “B-but I’ve been so good, don’t you think?”

As if to prove his point, Ino lightly swats your perky clit - just to show how bad he could really be.

“Now now–” Your breath hitches, thighs shivering ever-so-slightly at the sparks of bliss that suddenly explode behind your eyelids. He was drilling himself in so deep, stretchin’ out every sweet, slick-filled orifice. “-keep going like that and I won’t say it at- ngh, all.”

“Oh- please-” Don’t even mention it. Don’t even think of it. He lurches forwards to capture your lips in his, and Ino was always so sloppy with the way he kissed you.

Just letting his long, salivating tongue taste you. Ino’s lecherous sounds crack at the back of his throat, the vibrations humming along your skin. And his pretty cock just squelches out precum at the feeling, “But I’ve been so good, sweetness. Haven’t I been makin’ this pretty pussy feel all n-niiice and—” Instead of spanking your clit this time, now he’s rolling his thumb over it. Feeling the sultry wetness. “-wet, hm?”

“You have.” You tease, your face turning faux-thoughtful at the excitement in his eyes. “But I don’t know if you deserve that-”

“D-do I just need to fuck you harder, sweetness?” Ino pleads with you. And before you know it, one of his hands plaster onto the side of your hips, tuggin’ you close to him. “I can do that, y’know?”

Your brows raise, “Oh you c- oh.”

Not only is he pounding you even harder - enough that the formal bedsprings creak, enough that your vision shatters with tears - but he’s also makin’ his tempo even sloppier. Loooong, miry drags of his shaft that poke your very sweetest spots.

His blossoming red divot sticks up against the roof of your pussy and draws lil’ circles, edging towards your g-spot. “S-see? I can do harder.” He looks down at the place over your stomach, where his bulbous girth was swipin’ against your cervix. “I can also fill you up, mmm, deep inside with my ngh- cum, if you’d like?”

You swear you’re gushing out so wetly that it creates a ring of white ‘round Ino’s bulky hilt. All sappy and glistening with need.

And before you can even formulate a coherent answer inside your mind, Ino slightly raises his nose into the air and sniffs. And lets his mouth drop. His Adam’s apple swallowing. “And I can a-also smell if it’s taken, sweetness…”

“Taken?” You ogle at his words, “What do you mean-”

“You know…taken.” Ino looks at you meaningfully with this pussydrunk, half-lidded eyes of his. Every thrust of his leaves his aching knot slamming against the front of your pussy. Vicious.

“And ah- has it taken?” Asking, out of genuine curiosity - that was the entire point of the program, was it not?

“Well…” Ino elongates his throaty murmur, and for a few more strokes he lets his twitchy cock do all the talking. Smooch after smooch against the slimy door to your womb, he stirs aside the webs of cum from rounds prior. Whiffing down at your scent glands as he does- “I think just one more should n-ngh, do it.”

“Oh my—” Your mouth falls open, and you drag a hand through the tawny brown locks of Ino’s sweaty scalp. You could feel something primal building up in your stomach, in his thrusts. “Good boy.”

And there you said it.

It’d slipped out, really. Something your stupidly buzzing mind had been thinking for the last few jackhammers but hadn’t said out loud yet. 

Something that Ino Takuma himself had been dying for you to say - you’d said it.

And it’s all that Ino has to hear to shove himself all the way to his thick hilt inside your pussy and cum. Deep, deep inside - like he was aiming for his gooey white ribbons to reach the very door to your womb, and you swear you could feel it slipping ‘round like just so.

Sloshing n’ squelching every time he pulled his hips out to thrust back in- “Good boy-” Ino gasps, breathless. He was hammerin’ into you vulgarly and still managed to find the time to babble out. “You called me ‘good boy’- you called me- oh…”

You blink your vision back from its daze as Ino’s voice hitches, “Yeees–?”

And he only blinks his teary lashes, looking up at you with the most needy puppy-dog eyes while he still ruts his cock into your deepest depths. “M’your good boy, aren’t I?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Snow Leopard

The room you were led to had been sectioned off.

It had been padlocked twice.

It had you stumbling back at the ice-cold pheromones that hit you the moment that door opened - and when you looked into Gojo Satoru’s expressionless face—oh.

You weren’t making it out of here alive.

One hour later.

You still think the same- “F-fuck, ngh…” Your mouth gapes ajar, saliva sploshing down the side of your mouth every time he thrusted in. Long, vicious hammers of his ravaged cock that left you all stupid. 

Flat on your back. You looked up through your teary lashes at his flushed face, drunken eyes. “Toru, how are you- hck! still going?”

“I don’t know.” He replies, simply. And his voice is deep, his voice wavers. Sounding as if he was genuinely in disbelief as to how he hasn’t stopped yet.

Still fucking into you like a madman - you didn’t need to talk right now. Why would you need to talk?

A sudden, sharp laugh bursts out of Gojo’s puffy lips when he registers the fact that you could still form coherent sentences: he needed to fix that. Now. 

And before you know it, one of his overlarge palms clasp down on the top of your scalp and you’re being drag-drag-draaaagged back down. Down to where he was working on mazin’ his slimy wet cockhead repeatedly past your folds, pinpointing your tiniest orifices. 

Your breath hitches as you look back down to where he was pummeling you- then up to stare deeply into his glowing blue eyes.

“Enough talking.”

Three hours later.

“Oh p-please, Satoru—” You shrill out, loud enough that you’re sure the whole establishment could hear you by now. On all fours by now, with your back arched wildly into his chiselled abs.

You swear you could count all eight of them, flexing and rippling, each time his honed hips slapped into yours. Slap after slap after slap- Gojo’s crowned tip reaches for your womb and you find your legs shaking. Head falling forwards-

“Ah ah-” Your vision flashes in front of you as something firm grabs onto the back of your neck. Only a few more strokes later, you’re realizing that it was his damn bicep - curling around your neck in a headlock. “I need to scent you.”

“But you’ve been ngh- scenting me for hours already- oh.” Your words strangle up in your throat as soon as you feel yourself crashing into your high once more. For the nth time tonight. 

Every white-hot burst of your high that Gojo can practically smell on you, his feline capabilities can sense just when your orgasm has peaked. And he’s pushing his vein-covered cock in maddeningly, “And I don’t hear you complaining.” You’re startled by a sudden spank down on your clit, finding that his tail had wrapped ‘round your sheeny thighs to pull them apart. Enough for him to slap your weeping pussy- “I don’t hear her complaining.”

You gawk, your spittle creating a glazed layer on top of his biceps. “Y-you can understand- oh.” Only for him to tighten his restraint. Choking you with his beefy arms—fuck.

“Of course I can, sweetheart.” Gojo purrs out, as if it should be obvious. “M’a big cat, after all. N’ I can talk to- heh…kitties.”

“Oh.” He was utterly pussydrunk. Gone.

Barely even registering when he trickles out a few gluey wads of cum to stick upon either side of your walls, all webbed up. But he wasn’t done yet - far from it, you think you can feel Gojo’s knot at his base start to swell even bigger-

“And this kitty says that she’s not done yet.”

Seven hours later.

“Please-”

“Come back-”

“Oh—” You’re being caught steadily. The bed had long since broken, and if you thought that you were stuck in the dilemma between running away from his cock and gyratin’ back for more, more, more then Gojo was already making the choice for you.

Already pulling you back with his inhuman strength, he folds you underneath him.

You’d only had the time for a brief snack break, stocked on the bedside cabinet as if the organizers knew that this was going to happen - it was Gojo’s first time in the program, though they must have known an apex predator’s stamina.

Such incredible, incredible stamina.

You had your head against his collarbone by now, your body bent into the meanest full nelson physically possible. Gojo was bending you to his lecherous whims so easily, tugging you back so you turn your face and gnaw down on his throat. 

Whining, “P-please—” You let sobs wrack your throat, your entire body shaking sensitively as he shovels his long, solid inches into you again. And again. And again and again and again. “And she–” You might just be losing it as much as he was. “-says she’s not done still?”

“Mmm, let’s see…”

With a purr, Gojo’s powerful spock-marked tail wrenches apart your thighs. He snickers after one of his hands comes down to leave a solid spank!

So hard that glittering specks of slick n’ cum splatter all over your thighs. And Gojo himself finds his breath catching at the lewd sight of it- “Not yet.”

“F-fuck…” Your mouth lolls open stupidly in a silent scream - at least, you think it was silent. Because just then Gojo pulls out his entire girth to fuck back into you deeper, and it lets out the most deafening slurp. “But what if it doesn’t fi-”

“Shhh, sweetheart.” He already knew what you were going to say: that his generous helpings of cum might not fit anymore. And you didn’t need to think about that - you didn’t need to even imagine that.

What do you mean it might not fit? Hah! As if—“This kitty tells me that sh-she can take, ngh- one more.” You could practically hear the grin in his raspy tone, “In fact, she tells me she can take my knot.”

Your eyes bulge open, “That- what?”

And he’s only nodding along - not to you, but to the sultry sounds your pussy was making. As if he was in conversation with your slick-glazed pussylips. “Mhm, my knot, sweetheart.” As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He pants, “Haaah—get ready.”

It’s the only warning you get.

Before you know it, your toes curl with such an incredible stretch.

A stinging sensation that burns all the way from your parted thighs and up your spine- you wriggle your body around, and Gojo pulls you back using his trusty headlock once more. “C’mon-” He whispers between his prolonged canines, “C’mon c’mon c’mon-”

“Shiiiit—” You trill, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull as he uses his other hand to pry apart your sticky folds. Plugging a finger in to swivel inside n’ fit his swollen knot, “It’s so big- it’s so- oh my-”

“Yeah- yeah yeah yeah, biiiig stretch, ain’t it?” Gojo chuckles darkly, and you’re completely pinned down while he eases inside. “Say it w’me now, m’gonna make it fit. Hah, biiiig—”

“S-stretch-” You mutter out thickly. Your head throws back with every slight centimeter of circumference he’s managing to squeeze inside. Bullying inside. “S’a big- stretch- ngh-”

“That’s it, that’s it- big stretch.”

Gojo’s just so thick that it takes you more than a few aggressive strokes to finally shove his hefty knot inside with a wettened plop! It fits in so deeply, molding your tight walls - you swear he’s so plump there that you can count each throb of his pulsations.

“Count- can you?” He’s humming after you and oh- did you say that out loud? Slowly, sensually, Gojo starts to grind his wads of cum inside. 

Primally. 

While you’re stupid on the stretch, he finishes off - “Let’s see if you can count how many kits I fuck into ya, sweetheart.”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Hawk <3

“Oh, honey…” Higuruma puffs out breathily from between your legs, his slick tongue lapping up n’ down your slit at a frenzied pace. “Oh, angel- oh, sugar- oh.”

“Please, Hiromi—” Your thighs shake from either side of his handsome face, where he made sure that you were practically glued to him. Your cunt sliding down his mouth, his hooked nose. “I wan’ you…hck.”

“Think she’s all ready f’me again?” One of his large hands comes up to pat your ass cheeks, tenderly- though his mouth was the complete opposite.

Shoving straight between your puffy pussylips to dig against the side of your orifice. It’s only once you’re all clean from the wads of cum stuck to you that Higuruma actually moves from underneath. His dark locks tickling the side of your thighs, “Now, turn ‘round and bend over f’me, angel?”

And the voice he’s saying it in isn’t even particularly stern - but you’re clamoring to listen to him in an instant.

Oh, a hawk hybrid: one of those rare types that you were honestly lucky to be paired up with.

But, the thing about being with such a highly endangered species (especially during his peak, his rut) was that their primal instincts told them to breed. And they were going to breed. Right now.

Smack!

“Pay attention, angel.” Higuruma doesn’t even apologize for the hand he has swatted to the side of your hips. Holding you still as he quickly swipes his ruby-red crown down your slit a few times, gathering the beads of slick that drip out of you. “You hafta pay attention when m’fuckin’ you all full of my- hah, kids, alright?”

You whine, your teary lashes fluttering- “Y-yes I- oh!”

Yet another smack!

“Ah ah, what did I tell you?” You can’t reply - he doesn’t let you. Because in an instant, Higuruma’s proud girth starts pushing in. Probing.

He’s so thick that he has to spread his meaty thighs and fuck upwards to help squeeze his split-ended tip inside. Like a spotlight, he mazes his lengthy cock inside- “Hafta what?” You feel his scalding breath puff out from behind you, and it takes you a few more half-ruts to realize that he was talking to you. “You have to what now, angel?”

“Pay attention-” You’re fisting at the sheets.

“Exactly.” And Higuruma’s swollen cock twitches just a little bit hearing you say the correct answer. “Pay attention f’me while I breed you- ngh, okay, sugar?”

“Y-yes, sir-” 

Oh, it slips out without you even realizing. Without you even wanting to.

You honestly don’t know where it even came from (perhaps from your slight research about hawk hybrids beforehand? Perhaps from the whole official-feeling vibe of the building? Perhaps just from him?)

But Higuruma certainly wasn’t complaining. In fact, just the mere sound of your addressal makes him arch his back, throw his head, and it makes his powerful wings twitch.

Attached to his muscular shoulder blades, there’s a sudden whooshing sound as they suddenly flare out. Wingspan so wide that they touch either side of the dimly-lit room, and even Higuruma’s aching cock jolts.

Flinches.

Spurting out a translucent wad of pre that slickly slides down to your womb- “Y-you can’t-” Immediately, he clears his throat but it’s no use - you already hear the way that Higuruma’s voice just cracked at the very tail end of his sentence. “You can’t just call me- oh.”

“Yes, Hiromi?” Looking behind your shoulder, with those pretty eyes and that pretty voice. Honestly, he can’t handle it.

And your face is suddenly being forced forwards by one hand ‘round your neck. A headlock. 

Used solely to keep you in place, he’s drilling into you from behind like a madman, the feathery ends of his wings jolting. His thick thighs shaking. Plastering every veiny inch of his cock alllll the way inside- “S’all your fuckin’ fault.” And you don’t know whether he’s talking about the way his length was pummeling even harder, or whether his wings seemed to be oversensitive. Flapping wildly. “That m’like th-this- fuck! Why do I feel like m’going so- ngh, out of control…” 

Almost as if he’s babbling to himself.

Bit bit bit, probe by probe. His plump cock fits into even your smallest orifices, filling you up from the inside out and making you keen. “S’not my fault-”

“Of course, s’not- just you and this hngh-” He grits his teeth, nose sliding down the column of your throat so he can bask in your scent. “-pretty pussy, and this preeeetty scent and- and…”

“Yes?” You question, as he trails off.

And it takes a few more pressurized pushes before the stern man can finally answer, almost shyly. “-call me that again. Please, sugar?”

Oh, he was asking so nicely. So how could you possibly say no?

“Please- I want you to c-cum inside–” You swerve your peaking eyes around, eyes wet with tears. Just the mere sight itself - just those words already - enough to make Higuruma slam his riding hips, so hard that it almost hurts. “-sir?”

You feel something flutter. Something flap.

Before you’re crashing into your high, and Higuruma is right behind you - pour after stringy pour of cum. Clinging down from the edge of your cervix all the way down your folds, it formulates the cutest white ring that he takes such pleasure in smearin’ on your flesh.

Your toes curl, and you buck your hips back at a steady pace to meet his oncoming thrusts. Perfectly timed with every high mountain of your high, he fucks you oh-so-perfectly through your bliss.

Thinking that that melody of your moans was the prettiest fuckin’ thing he’s ever heard. “Oh my g-god—” Higuruma’s struggling to catch his breath, you left him shaking. “M’gonna hafta find a way for you to pay for this- fuck.”

“But you asked—” You whine in righteousness, blinking back the tears in your eyes once most of the haze has dissipated. And you’re seeing—all brown?

A glossy, dark brown that was practically black in some lighting. It’s soon after that you realize that Higuruma’s wings had been protectively encircling the two of you right as you hit your orgasms, like a curtain of long feathers.

He shivers n’ grunts as he pulls his wings back- honestly, it’s like they couldn’t be apart from you.

“Hawks are protective of their nest, you see.” He gruffs out, by way of explanation. Still trickling in gooey wet wads- “Especially of things that should be in their nest.”

Be in–

“Like you.”

A/N. Hope you enjoyed your stay in the program!

Plagiarism of work not authorized.

[thevellichorsoul]

Sickness and Clinginess

SICK GOJO

𝜗𝜚 paring: satoru gojo x reader

𝜗𝜚 wc: 3.5k

𝜗𝜚 summary: Gojo gets sick (rare). You take care of him. He's clingy and honest in his fever.

𝜗𝜚 contents : clingy gojo and extreme fluff

You find out Satoru is sick the way you find out about most things with him — too late, and only because he physically cannot hide it anymore.

It starts with a text.

coming home early

You stare at it.

Baby?? Are you okay??

The dots appear and disappear three times. Which is how you know it's bad, because Satoru Gojo types the way he does everything — fast, loud, certain. He does not deliberate over texts. He sends seven in a row without waiting for a response. He uses so many exclamation points that it borders on aggressive.

Yeah, just tired.

You're already moving.

You go to the bathroom cabinet first. Thermometer, paracetamol. Then the kitchen — you check the fridge and the cupboards and start a mental list. Then the linen cupboard for the big blanket, the weighted one. You carry it all to the living room and arrange it without really thinking about it, the way you do when someone you love needs something, and your hands just know what to do before your brain catches up.

Then you sit on the couch and wait for him.

The door opens, and he looks terrible.

He looks terrible, and he's the most beautiful person you've ever seen, and both of those things are true at the same time. His sunglasses are pushed up lopsided into his hair. His jacket is half off one shoulder. He's pale in a way that looks wrong on him, because Satoru is usually so vivid, so present, like someone turned the brightness up on him specifically.

Right now, someone has turned it all the way down.

He sees you on the couch, and his whole face does something. Like the last bit of whatever he was holding himself together with, just — let's go.

"Hey," he says. His voice is completely wrecked. Raspy and low and small.

"Oh, sweetheart." You're already off the couch, crossing the room. "Come here."

You don't wait. You just put your hand to his forehead, and the heat hits you immediately, and your heart squeezes so hard it almost hurts because he's really not well, he's genuinely not well, and he's been on the train like this and walking home like this and trying to text you. Yeah, just tired like this—

"You're burning up," you say softly.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine, baby." You take his bag off his shoulder. Set it down. Start on his jacket. "You should have called me; I would have come and got you—"

"Didn't want to bother you."

You look up at him. He's watching you with those glassy eyes, standing there letting you peel his jacket off him like he hasn't got the energy to do it himself, and something about the way he said that – didn't want to bother you – makes you want to wrap him up in seventeen blankets and never let him do anything alone ever again.

"You are never a bother," you tell him, firmly and clearly. "Ever. Do you understand me?"

He blinks. "I—"

"Ever," you say again. "Now come sit down."

He comes.

You get him settled on the couch, which takes some arranging because he's so big and also apparently has lost the ability to organise his own limbs. You get the blanket over him, get his shoes off, and get a pillow sorted behind his head. He watches you do all of it with this stunned, slightly feverish expression, like he cannot fully process what's happening.

"Thermometer," you say. "Open up."

He opens his mouth like an obedient, exhausted golden retriever.

38.9. You show him. He squints at it.

"That's not—"

"That's a fever." You're already handing him the water and the paracetamol. "Take these. All the water, not half."

He takes them. Drinks the whole glass without being asked twice, which tells you he feels worse than he's letting on. Hands the glass back and then just — sinks. Into the blanket, into the couch, like he's been fighting gravity all day and has finally stopped.

You pull the blanket up higher. Tuck it in around him properly.

He makes a sound.

It's so small. So involuntary. Just this tiny, helpless sound of warmth and relief and something that's been needed for a while. Like a sigh that goes all the way down.

Your heart absolutely cracks in half.

"Better?" you murmur.

"Yeah." His voice is barely above a whisper. "So much better."

You sit on the edge of the couch beside him. Without even thinking about it, you reach out and start carding your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, just the softest thing.

He goes completely still.

Like an animal that's been startled into trust. Like he's not sure this is real, and he doesn't want to move in case it stops.

"You're okay," you tell him softly. "I've got you. Just rest."

And the great Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, the man who has never in his life been told to rest and actually listened, closes his eyes.

"Okay," he breathes.

He's asleep in eight minutes.

You know because you're watching. Sitting beside him, hand still moving slowly through his hair, feeling the moment his breathing evens out and his face goes fully slack. He looks young like this. Softer than he ever lets himself be awake, all the careful noise and brightness turned off, just him underneath.

You sit with him for a long time before you do anything else.

Eventually, you get up, slow and careful so you don't wake him, and go to the kitchen. You make soup because, of course, you make soup — proper soup, the kind that takes time, stock from scratch, and the good vegetables. You're not doing it to be impressive. You're doing it because he came home pale and exhausted and said he didn't want to bother you, and something in you needs to fill every corner of today with warmth until he understands that he is never, not ever, a bother.

You check on him twice while it cooks.

Both times, he's exactly as you left him. Both times, you stand in the doorway for a moment and just look at him.

He wakes up when you carry the bowl out. His nose twitches first — actually twitches, like a sleepy animal catching a scent — and then his eyes open and find you immediately, like he knew exactly where you'd be.

"Hey," you say softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Hm." He considers this with genuine effort. "Weird. Hot. My throat hurts."

"I know, baby." You set the bowl down and sit beside him. "Can you sit up for me?"

He sits up slowly. His hair is a complete disaster. There's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks absolutely ridiculous and completely precious, and you have to physically stop yourself from saying that out loud.

You hand him the bowl.

He looks at it. Looks at you. Looks back at the bowl.

"You made soup," he says. His voice comes out strange. Thick.

"Mm-hm."

"From scratch?"

"It's nothing; eat it while it's hot—"

"You made me soup from scratch." He says it like he's reading something very important. Like he's memorising it. "While I was asleep, you went and made me soup."

"Satoru—"

"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever—" He stops. Swallows. And you watch him get slightly overwhelmed about soup, which should be funny and is instead the most endearing thing you've ever witnessed. "Sorry. I'm – the fever, probably."

"Probably," you agree gently. " Eat."

He eats. Slowly and carefully, both hands wrapped around the bowl, you sit right beside him with your hand rubbing slow circles on his back, and you feel every time he swallows, every small wince when his throat protests, and you make a mental note to get honey and lemon after this.

He finishes most of it.

Hands the bowl back and then immediately, without any preamble, lies sideways and puts his head on your shoulder.

"Okay?" you ask, smiling.

"Mm." He pulls the blanket up around himself. His hand finds yours, and he wraps both of his around it, holding on. "Can we stay like this?"

"Of course we can."

"For a long time."

"For as long as you want."

He makes a happy, feverish little sound and closes his eyes.

The afternoon unfolds like something slow and golden.

You don't go anywhere. You don't suggest he should be fine, or ask if he needs anything every five minutes, or hover in a way that makes him feel like a burden. You just stay. Right there. His head on your shoulder, his hands around yours, your thumb moving back and forth over his knuckles.

He drifts in and out. Half-asleep, then murmuring something, then quiet again. At some point, he shifts so he's more horizontal, head in your lap, and you don't say anything. You just let him. Start running your fingers through his hair again, and he sighs so deeply it moves through his whole body.

"That's nice," he mumbles. "Don't stop."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

A long, contented pause. "You're the best person I've ever met."

"You're feverish."

"Doesn't make it less true." He turns his face slightly into your hand. "I mean it. Best person. By a lot. Everyone else is miles behind."

"Go to sleep, Satoru."

"I'm serious, though. Scientific fact. Empirically proven—"

"Sleep."

"...okay."

He sleeps for two hours. Proper deep sleep, the healing kind, his face completely soft against your leg. Your phone is on the armrest. You answer emails one-handed and watch bad TV with the volume barely on, and every now and then, you just look down at him.

He's okay. He's going to be fine. He just needs today.

You're so glad he came home to you.

When he wakes up, it's almost five, and the room is going amber, and he blinks up at you from your lap with those heavy, glassy eyes, and for a moment, he just looks at you without saying anything.

You smile down at him. "Hey, sleeping beauty."

His whole face goes soft. "Hey." He doesn't move. Doesn't seem to have any interest in moving. "Were you there the whole time?"

"Where else would I be?"

He blinks. Like that's a concept he's still working out. Like, where else would I be? is something he's turning over carefully, examining.

"You didn't have to—"

"I know." You push his hair off his forehead, gently. "I wanted to. How's your head?"

"Better." He still doesn't move. "How long was I out?"

"A couple of hours."

"Were you uncomfortable? Your lap—"

"I was perfectly comfortable."

"You're not just saying that?"

"Satoru." You look down at him warmly. "I was sitting with you while you slept. That's exactly where I wanted to be."

He stares at you. Something's happening in his expression that's very close to the surface right now, fever-thin, with all the usual layers stripped back.

"I don't know what I did," he says quietly. "To get you."

Oh.

"You didn't have to do anything," you tell him, just as quietly. "You just had to be you."

He turns his face into your knee. Hides there for a second. When he comes back, his eyes are a little bright, which you are going to absolutely attribute to the fever and not mention.

"Okay," he says roughly. "Okay."

You make him honey and lemon tea, and he holds the mug in both hands and watches you move around the kitchen from the couch with this particular expression, soft and tracking, like he can't quite let you out of his sight.

Every time you glance over, he's watching.

"You're staring," you tell him.

"I know." He doesn't stop. "You're nice to look at."

"Drink your tea."

"I can do both." A pause. "Come sit with me when you're done."

"I will."

"Soon?"

"Satoru, I'm literally making you tea."

"Soon, though."

You come back with your own mug and sit beside him, and he immediately rearranges things so he's leaning against you properly, your arm around him, his head on your shoulder. He makes a small pleased sound. Pulls the blanket to cover both of you.

"Hi," he says, satisfied.

"Hi," you say, smiling into your tea.

He sips his drink. You sip yours. The evening comes in through the windows, and the apartment is warm and quiet and golden, and he keeps adjusting imperceptibly, just small movements, getting incrementally closer, and you let him; you keep letting him because he can have every inch.

"Can I tell you something embarrassing?" he says.

"Always."

A pause. "I was really glad when you told me to come sit down. Earlier. When I came in." His voice is careful. Honest. "I was going to say I was fine. I had the whole speech. And then you just—you said, "Come sit down," and I just..." He exhales. "I just did. Because you said it like it was easy. Like taking care of me was easy."

"It is easy," you say. "It's the easiest thing."

"It's not, though. I'm a lot—"

"You're not a lot." You lean your head against his. "You're just Satoru. And taking care of Satoru is something I would choose every single day."

He's quiet for a long time.

Then, very softly: "Even when I'm like this? All... pathetic and clingy and—"

"Especially when you're like this." You squeeze his hand. "This is my favourite version, if I'm honest."

He makes a sound that is absolutely not a laugh but might be one.

"Your favourite is when I'm sick and miserable?"

"My favourite is when you let me in," you say it simply, the way you say most things that matter. "You don't always. So when you do, I want to make the most of it."

He doesn't say anything for a while.

Then he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Slow and deliberate, and so sincere it takes your breath away.

"Thank you," he says against your hand. "For today. For all of it."

"Thank you for coming home to me," you say.

Dinner is simple — he's not up to much, and honestly, neither are you, too content on the couch to want to make a production of it. You heat up rice and make some eggs, and he eats sitting right beside you, your thighs pressed together, and it's the best dinner you've had in weeks for no logical reason except that he's here and he's warm and he's leaning against you between bites.

After he puts his bowl down and immediately turns and opens his arms, you don't even hesitate. You go. You let him pull you into his chest, let him wrap both arms around you and hold on, and he's so warm, so solid, so present, and he says into your hair,

"I love you."

"I love you too, Satoru."

"I love you a lot."

"I know." You press a smile into his shirt. "I love you a lot too."

"I don't say it enough."

"You say it plenty."

"I could say more." His arms tighten. "I'm going to say it more. Starting now. I love you. There. That's one."

"Very romantic."

"I love you. Two." He's smiling; you can hear it. "I love you. Three. This is called being prolific. I love you—"

"Satoru."

"Four—"

"Bed," you say, laughing. "You need to sleep."

"I've been sleeping all day."

"You need more."

A groan. A dramatic, exhausted, absolutely put-upon groan. But he lets you untangle from him, lets you pull him up from the couch, and follows you down the hall with his hand in yours and his forehead drooping toward your shoulder from behind.

"Carry me," he suggests.

"Absolutely not."

"I'm sick."

"You're also twice my size."

"So? Where there's a will—"

"Walk, Satoru."

He walks. But he keeps his hand in yours all the way to the bedroom, and he doesn't let go when he climbs into bed either, just pulls you with him and rearranges the entire situation until you're exactly where he wants you — tucked into his side, his arm around you, his chin resting on the top of your head.

"Hi," he says, for approximately the sixth time today.

"Hi, baby." You settle your hand on his chest. Feel his heartbeat. Steady and slow. "How are you feeling?"

"Honestly?" A pause. "Like the luckiest person alive."

"You have a fever."

"Both can be true." His hand starts moving on your back, slow and gentle. "I mean it, you know. Today was—you were so—I didn't know it could feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Like being taken care of." His voice is getting quieter, sleep pulling at the edges. "I've been taking care of myself for so long. And then you just—you do it like it's nothing. Like it's the obvious thing. Like I'm worth that without having to—" He stops. "Without having to do anything to earn it."

Your throat gets tight.

"You are," you say softly. "You are worth that, Satoru. You're worth so much more than that."

"I'm working on believing that," he mumbles.

"I know." You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'll be here while you work on it. For as long as it takes."

He makes a sound that goes right through you. Soft and undone and full.

"Yeah?" he whispers.

"Yeah," you tell him. "I promise."

His breathing slows. His hand on your back goes still, resting warm and heavy.

"Best person," he mumbles, right at the edge. "Empirically. The best person in the world. All the world's..."

He's asleep before he finishes the sentence.

You stay awake a little longer. Listening to him breathe. Feeling the warm weight of his arm around you, the steady thump of his heart under your palm, and the way the whole apartment feels softer with him in it.

He came home and let you take care of him.

He said he didn't want to bother you, and let himself be bothered anyway.

He said I didn't know it could feel like this, and meant it in a way that made your chest ache.

You press a kiss to his shoulder. Pull the blanket up a little higher. Let your eyes close.

He's okay. He's safe. He's here.

That's everything.

Morning.

You wake to the smell of something — coffee, maybe, or —

You open your eyes.

Satoru is not in bed.

You sit up. The space beside you is warm still, recently vacated. You blink at the ceiling. Then you hear it — movement in the kitchen. The specific clink of your favourite mug.

You get up.

He's standing at the counter in his pyjamas, hair in absolute chaos, squinting at the coffee machine with the concentration of someone who is not a morning person and never has been. He's made coffee. Two cups. He's also, you notice, slightly pink in the cheeks — not fever-pink, just him, just the warmth of sleep.

He hears you and turns.

And the smile he gives you—

Full and real and soft around the edges, the morning version is the one that's just for you in the spaces before the day asks anything of him.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi." You cross the kitchen and press your hand to his forehead. Cool. Properly cool. "The fever's gone."

"Told you. Exceptional recovery speed." But he turns his face into your hand slightly, the same as yesterday. Same small helpless lean. "How'd you sleep?"

"Really well." You drop your hand to his jaw and cup it gently. "How do you feel?"

"Good." He covers your hand with his and holds it there. "Really good." A pause. His eyes are clear and warm, and looking at you like you're something remarkable. "Thank you. For yesterday."

"You already said that."

"Saying it again." He turns his head and presses a kiss to your palm. "And again. And probably many more times after this." He pulls you in by your hand, wraps his arms around you, and rests his chin on your head. You feel the long exhale move through his chest. "I mean it. Yesterday was—I didn't know I needed it until I was in it."

"I know," you say into his chest.

"Can we do it again sometime? Minus the fever?"

You laugh. "Lazy day on the couch?"

"Soup. Blanket. You." He squeezes you. "That's the whole list. That's everything I want."

You look up at him. He looks down at you. And he's smiling — that full, real, unguarded smile — and his hair is ridiculous, and he's in his pyjamas, and he's healthy, and he's yours, and the morning is soft and golden, and there's nowhere either of you has to be.

"Yeah," you say. "We can do that."

He beams.

Then: "Can we have the soup for breakfast?"

"That's not—"

"I'm recovering. I'm fragile. Medically speaking, the soup is probably—"

"I'll make you toast."

"Toast and soup?"

"Satoru."

"I'm just saying it's not mutually—"

"Toast," you say firmly. "And then we're going back to the couch."

He grins. Ducks down and kisses your forehead, warm and slow.

"Deal," he says. "Best person in all the worlds."

You roll your eyes. But you're smiling so hard it almost hurts.

"Go sit down," you tell him. "I'll make breakfast."

He goes. And you turn to the counter, and your heart is so full it almost doesn't fit, and outside the morning is doing something beautiful with the light, and somewhere in the living room Satoru is arranging himself on the couch and saving you a space.

You're already looking forward to filling it.

𑣲 likes, reblogs, comments, and follows are always appreciated and really motivate me.

[thevellichorsoul]

The Binding Mark

𝜗𝜚 paring: ryomen sukuna x reader

𝜗𝜚 wc: 10.8k

𝜗𝜚 summary: When famine and plague threaten your village, you make a desperate bargain with the King of Curses, Sukuna, whose intimate curse binds to your blood, tightening with every act of defiance as he reshapes you into something that belongs to him alone

The shrine had been abandoned for three generations, left to decay at the edge of the forest where the old-growth trees twisted into shapes that hurt to look at for too long. Your grandmother had told you stories about it when you were small—warnings, really, about the thing that lived there. The King of Curses. Ryomen Sukuna. A name that should never be spoken above a whisper, and never, ever spoken with want in your voice.

But what was a luxury? What you had was desperation.

The village was dying. Not quickly, not dramatically, but slowly, inevitably, like a body bleeding out from a wound no one could find. The crops had failed for the third year running, the grain stores were nearly empty, and the sickness had come with the last rain. It started with the children—it always started with the children—and then spread to the elderly, the weak, and the ones who couldn't fight it off. Your sister had been the first in your family to fall ill. Your nephew, only four years old, had been the second.

The village elders had prayed to the new gods, the ones with clean temples in the capital, the ones whose priests wore white and spoke of purity and redemption. Those gods did not answer. Perhaps they never had. Perhaps they were too far away, too clean, too removed from the mud and blood and desperation of a place like this.

So you went to the old shrine instead.

The path was overgrown, barely visible beneath three years' worth of fallen leaves and creeping vines. No one came here anymore. No one wanted to remember what the village had been before the new religion, before the capital's influence, before people had decided that the old ways were savage and the old gods were demons.

The shrine itself was smaller than you had expected. The wood was grey with age and soft with rot in places, the thatched roof sagging inward like a mouth that had lost its teeth. The offering box hung crooked on its post, empty except for a bird's nest and the desiccated body of something small and long dead.

There were no priests here. No rituals you knew how to perform. You had only the stories, the fragments your grandmother had whispered when she thought no one else was listening. The old ways. The forbidden ways.

Blood and want. That was what the old gods understood. Not prayer, not piety. Sacrifice.

Your hand shook as you drew the knife across your palm. It was a small blade, meant for cutting thread and paring vegetables, but it was sharp enough. The pain was bright and immediate, a clean line of fire across your skin. Blood welled up, dark and thick, and dripped between your fingers.

You let it fall onto the shrine's threshold, watched it seep into the ancient wood, and spoke the words your grandmother had taught you. Words in a language you didn't fully understand, syllables that felt wrong in your mouth, like they were scraping against something inside you that didn't want to bend into those shapes.

"Ryomen Sukuna," you said, and the name tasted like copper and ash. "King of Curses. I offer blood and want. I offer desperation and need. I ask—" Your voice cracked. You swallowed and tried again. "I ask for aid. For mercy. For salvation."

The forest went silent.

Not gradually. Not the slow quiet of birds settling down for the night. Instantly, completely, as if every living thing had simultaneously held its breath.

Then, from inside the shrine, something laughed.

It was not a kind sound. It was the sound of rot spreading through healthy wood, of meat spoiling in summer heat, of bone breaking under pressure it was never meant to withstand. It was amusement, but the cruel kind, the kind that came from watching something small and helpless struggle against inevitable doom.

"Well," a voice said, and it came from everywhere and nowhere, from the shrine and the trees and the ground beneath your feet. "It's been a long time since anyone came here with want in their blood."

You should have run. Every instinct you had was screaming at you to run, to get away from this place, to take your chances with the famine and the sickness because at least those were natural; at least those were things you understood.

But your sister was dying. Your nephew was dying. The whole village was dying.

So you stayed.

"I need help," you said, and hated how small your voice sounded. "The village—there's a plague, and the crops won't grow, and we're—we're dying. All of us."

"Yes," the voice agreed. "You are."

Silence. Just your breathing, harsh and quick, and the wind moving through the trees with a sound like whispered warnings.

"Will you help us?" you asked.

The laugh came again, softer this time, almost fond. "Such a polite way to phrase it. Not 'save us', not 'I demand aid', just... 'will you help?' As if I'm a neighbour you're asking to mend a fence."

You waited. There was nothing else to do.

"What will you give me?" the voice asked. "If I help your dying little village, what will you offer in return? Your soul? Your firstborn? Your eternal service?"

You had thought about this. Had spent three sleepless nights thinking about nothing else. "Whatever you want," you said. "Anything. Just save them."

"Anything." The word rolled through the air like thunder. "Dangerous thing to offer a curse, girl. We're not bound by the same rules as your clean, new gods. We don't deal in metaphor and spiritual transformation. When we take, we take."

"I know." You didn't know. You couldn't possibly know. But you said it anyway.

"Do you?" The voice was closer now, coming from directly in front of you, though you could see nothing but the empty shrine. "Do you know what you're offering? Do you understand what it means to give yourself to something like me?"

Your hand was still bleeding. The cut wasn't deep, but it wouldn't stop. Blood dripped steadily onto the threshold, and you watched it pool in the grooves of the ancient wood.

"I understand," you lied.

"Liar." But there was approval in it, dark amusement. "You don't understand anything. But you will."

The air pressure changed. Your ears popped, and suddenly, there was a shape in the doorway of the shrine. Not walking out of it—just there, as if he had always been there and you simply hadn't been able to see him until this moment.

He was tall. That was your first thought. Inhumanly tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that seemed to take up more space than his physical body should occupy. Four arms, just like the stories said. Two pairs, one above the other, each hand tipped with black nails that looked sharp enough to flay skin from bone. Marks covered his skin—dark lines that might have been tattoos or scars or something else entirely, patterns that seemed to move when you weren't looking directly at them.

But it was his face that made you understand, truly understand, what you had done.

Two faces, merged into one. Four eyes, all of them focused on you with an intensity that made you feel like an insect pinned to a board. Two mouths, both smiling, and the smile was worse than the laugh had been because you could see the hunger in it.

"There you are," Sukuna said, and his voice was different now that you could see him, deeper, resonant in a way that you felt in your chest. "Blood and want and desperation. My favourite flavour."

You couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.

He stepped down from the threshold, and the leaves beneath his feet withered and died. He moved closer, and you still couldn't make yourself run, couldn't even make yourself step back.

"You want to save your village," he said. It wasn't a question. "All those dying people. The children have a fever in their lungs. The old ones are coughing up blood. The crops are rotting in fields that used to be fertile. You want me to fix it."

"Yes," you managed.

"I could." He was right in front of you now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin and could smell something like incense and iron. "I could make the sickness disappear. I could make the fields fertile again. I could save every single one of your pathetic, dying villagers."

Hope flared in your chest, bright and desperate and painful.

"But I won't," Sukuna continued, and the hope guttered out. "Not for free. Not even for your soul—souls are tedious things, and yours isn't particularly interesting."

"Then what?" Your voice was steadier than you expected. "What do you want?"

All four eyes gleamed. Both mouths smiled wider.

"You," he said simply. "Not your service. Not your worship. Not your soul. You. Your blood. Your body. Your presence. I want you bound to me in a way that can't be broken, can't be escaped, and can't be bargained away." One hand reached out, fingers catching your chin, tilting your head up. His skin was fever-hot. "I want you to belong to me."

You should have said no. Should have run. Should have done anything except stand there and meet his gaze and say, "If that's what it takes."

His smile changed. Became something sharper, something satisfied.

"The village will be saved," he said. "The sickness will vanish by dawn. The fields will be fertile again. The water will be clean. Your people will live." His thumb brushed across your lower lip, and you tasted copper. "And you will be mine. Bound by blood and curse. Marked. Claimed. Owned."

"How?" you asked, because you needed to understand and needed to know what you were agreeing to.

"Like this," Sukuna said, and bit you.

Not on the neck, not like in the old stories about vampires and demons. He bit your bleeding palm, the one you had cut to make the offering, his teeth sinking into the wound with a sharp, bright pain that made you gasp.

Then the pain changed.

It spread from your hand up your arm, not burning but transforming, like your blood was being rewritten, like something foreign and powerful was being etched into your very veins. You could feel it moving through you, could feel it reach your chest, your throat, and your heart.

When Sukuna pulled back, there was blood on his lips—your blood—and his eyes were brighter, more alive, and more present than before.

"There," he said softly. "Now you're mine. My curse lives in your blood. My mark sits in your marrow. You can't cut it out. You can't pray it away. You can't run far enough or fast enough to escape it." He released your chin but didn't step back. "I'll be with you always now. In your dreams. In your reflections. In every shadow that crosses your path."

You looked down at your hand. The cut was gone. In its place was a mark—a dark, intricate symbol that looked like it had been burnt into your skin, though you felt no pain from it. It was beautiful and terrible, and you knew instinctively that it would never fade.

"What did you do to me?" you whispered.

"I bound you," Sukuna said. "The way I said I would. You're mine now. And every time you resist, every time you try to fight it, the bond will only grow stronger." He leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred your hair. "The bite doesn't kill, little one. It binds. Forever."

Then he was gone.

Not walking away, not fading. Just gone, as if he had never been there at all.

You stood alone in the clearing, in the growing dark, with a mark on your hand that pulsed in time with your heartbeat and a feeling in your chest like something had wrapped around your ribs and wasn't planning to let go.

Behind you, in the distance, you could hear the village bells ringing. The alarm bells, the ones that only rang for emergencies.

You ran.

By the time you reached the village, people were pouring out of their homes, crying, shouting, and laughing. Your sister met you at the edge of the square, her face streaked with tears, and grabbed you in a hug so tight it hurt.

"He's breathing," she sobbed into your shoulder. "He's breathing. The fever broke. He's going to be fine."

All around you, it was the same story. The sick were recovering. The dying were sitting up, asking for water, for food. The impossible had happened.

You had saved them.

You had damned yourself, but you had saved them.

That night, you couldn't sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Sukuna's face, felt his teeth in your palm, and heard his voice promising that he would be with you always.

The mark on your hand throbbed.

In the corner of your room, the shadows seemed darker than they should be and seemed to move when you weren't looking directly at them.

And when you finally, fitfully, fell into an exhausted sleep just before dawn, you dreamed.

You dreamed of a temple made of bones, of a throne carved from a single piece of black stone, of a figure sitting on that throne with four arms and four eyes and a smile that promised terrible things.

You dreamed of Sukuna.

And in the dream, he looked at you and said, "Welcome home, little one. We have so much to discuss."

You woke with a scream trapped in your throat and the mark on your hand burning like a brand.

The bond had begun to tighten.

The first week was the worst. Not because anything happened—nothing happened, and that was the problem. You went about your days in a haze of paranoia and exhaustion, waiting for Sukuna to appear, to claim whatever it was he had bound you for, to drag you away to whatever hell he inhabited.

He didn't.

The village celebrated its miraculous recovery. The fields, which had been barren and cracked, were suddenly verdant again. The well water ran clear and sweet. The sickness vanished so completely that it was as if it had never existed. People spoke of divine intervention, of the new gods finally answering their prayers, of a miracle.

You said nothing. You wrapped cloth around your marked hand and tried to pretend the symbol wasn't there, tried to ignore the way it sometimes pulsed with warmth, and tried not to think about the price you had paid.

Your sister noticed you were withdrawn. "You should be happy," she said one evening as you helped her prepare dinner. Your nephew was playing in the corner, healthy and whole, building elaborate structures with wooden blocks. "We're all going to be alright now."

"I know," you said, and forced a smile. "I am happy."

She didn't look convinced, but she didn't press. No one pressed. They were all too relieved, too grateful, too caught up in their own joy to notice that you barely slept anymore, that you jumped at shadows, that you avoided mirrors.

The dreams continued.

Every night, without fail, you found yourself in that bone temple. Sometimes, Sukuna was on his throne, watching you with those four burning eyes. Sometimes he was closer, circling you like a predator, speaking in that deep, resonant voice about things you didn't understand—about curses and power and the nature of binding magic.

"You're adjusting well," he said one night, and you realised with a start that the dreams were getting clearer, more vivid. You could feel the cold of the stone floor beneath your feet, could smell the incense and iron, and could see every detail of his marked skin. "Your body is accepting the curse. Soon it will be as natural as breathing."

"I don't want this," you told him, because in dreams you were braver than in waking life. "I didn't agree to—to belong to you. I agreed to save my village."

"And I saved it." He moved closer, and you found you couldn't step back, couldn't move at all. "I upheld my end of the bargain. Now you'll uphold yours." One hand reached out, fingers ghosting across your cheek. "You gave yourself to me. Willingly. With full knowledge of what I am."

"I didn't know what it would mean."

"Then you should have asked." His thumb traced the line of your jaw. "But you were desperate. Desperation makes people reckless. Makes them offer things they can't take back."

You wanted to argue, to fight, to pull away from his touch. But this was a dream. His domain. And in his domain, you had no power at all.

"Why?" you asked instead. "Why bind me? What do you want from me?"

All four eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement or might have been hunger. "You'll understand soon enough. For now, just know that you're mine. And every day that passes, you become more mine. The curse is spreading through you, little one. Taking root. Soon you won't be able to imagine existence without it."

You woke gasping, the mark on your hand burning.

Outside your window, the sun was rising.

The second week, you started seeing him in mirrors.

Not clearly. Not at first. Just a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision when you passed by reflective surfaces. A shadow that didn't quite match yours. The suggestion of a shape that was too tall, too broad, and that had too many arms.

You stopped looking at mirrors. Started avoiding them, taking the long way around the house to bypass the polished metal your mother used to check her appearance, keeping your eyes down when you passed by the well.

It didn't help.

Because if Sukuna wasn't in the mirrors, he was in the windows. In puddles. In the polished surface of serving spoons and the glassy eyes of dead fish at the market.

Everywhere you looked, he was almost there, just at the edge of visibility, watching.

"You're looking tired," your mother said one morning, concern creasing her forehead. "Are you sleeping enough?"

"I'm fine," you lied.

"You're not fine. You haven't been fine since—" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Since the miracle. Did something happen? Something you're not telling us?"

Everything you wanted to say. I sold myself to a curse to save you all, and now he lives in my blood and haunts my dreams and watches me from every reflection.

"No," you said instead. "Nothing happened. I'm just tired."

She didn't believe you, but she didn't push. Your mother had always been good at knowing when to let things lie.

That night, you avoided sleep for as long as possible. Sat by the window, watching the village settle down for the night, watching lights flicker out one by one until only the moon remained.

Your hand ached. The mark seemed to pulse stronger when you were tired, when your defences were down.

You lasted until just past midnight before exhaustion dragged you under.

The dream was waiting.

This time, Sukuna wasn't on his throne. He was standing right in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his skin, close enough to count the marks that covered his body.

"You're avoiding mirrors," he said. "Why?"

"You know why."

"Say it anyway. I want to hear you admit it."

You gritted your teeth. "Because I see you in them."

"Yes." He sounded pleased. "The bond is strengthening. Soon I won't need mirrors. I'll be able to manifest anywhere there's shadow. Anywhere there's darkness. Anywhere you are."

"This isn't what I agreed to."

"This is exactly what you agreed to." His hand came up, fingers tangling in your hair, tilting your head back. "You agreed to be mine. Body and blood. This is what that means. This is what binding looks like."

"I want it to stop."

"No, you don't." His second set of hands came up, one settling on your hip, the other on your shoulder. "You're afraid, yes. You're overwhelmed. But you don't want it to stop. Because the bond works both ways, little one. You're in my blood now just as much as I'm in yours. You're starting to feel it, aren't you? The pull. The need. The sense that something's missing when I'm not close."

He was wrong. He had to be wrong.

But even as you thought it, you could feel the truth of his words. The restlessness you felt during the day. The way your skin felt was too tight, too confining. The strange, inexplicable urge to go back to the shrine, to find him, to—

"No," you said.

"Yes." He leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred your hair. "Fight it all you want. Resist as hard as you can. All you'll do is make the bond tighter. Make the pull stronger. Make yourself more mine."

"I hate you."

"I know." He sounded amused. "Hate me all you want. It changes nothing."

When you woke, there were tears on your cheeks and an ache in your chest that had nothing to do with fear.

The third week, he appeared in the shadows.

You were walking home from the market, basket heavy with vegetables and grain, when you saw him. Not in a reflection this time. Not in a dream. Standing in the shadow cast by the old oak tree at the edge of the village, as solid and real as anything else.

You froze.

He smiled, both mouths curving in perfect synchronisation.

"Hello, little one," he said, and his voice was exactly as it had been in your dreams—deep, resonant, inescapable.

You looked around frantically. There were people nearby, other villagers going about their business. But no one was looking at the oak tree. No one seemed to see him.

"They can't see me," Sukuna confirmed, reading your thoughts with that uncanny perception. "This manifestation is for you alone. A gift of the bond."

"I don't want it," you whispered.

"So you keep saying." He stepped forward, out of the shadow, and the sun should have made him disappear, but it didn't. He was there, solid and present, four arms and four eyes and all. "Yet here you are, still alive, still whole. Still mine."

"What do you want?"

"The same thing I've always wanted. You. Your presence. Your acknowledgement. Your submission."

The word hit you like a physical blow. "I'll never submit to you."

"Won't you?" He moved closer, and you found yourself backing up until your shoulders hit the wall of the nearest building. "You already have. The moment you made the bargain. The moment you let me bite you. The moment you accepted my mark. " One hand came up, catching your marked palm, pressing his thumb against the symbol burnt into your skin. "This is submission, little one. This is surrender. You just haven't accepted it yet."

The mark burnt where he touched it, but not with pain. With something else, something that made your breath catch and your heart race.

"Every time you resist," Sukuna continued, his voice dropping lower, "the bond tightens. Didn't I tell you that? Didn't I warn you?" His other hands came up, one framing your face, one resting against your ribs, right over your racing heart. "Feel that? That's not fear. Not anymore. That's recognition. Your blood knows me. Your body knows me. Soon your mind will catch up."

"Never," you breathed.

"We'll see." He leaned in, and for one terrible moment, you thought he was going to kiss you. Instead, he pressed his forehead against yours, and you felt something shift in your chest, something click into place like a lock finding its key. "Three weeks," he murmured. "Three weeks since the binding. The curse has spread through your entire body now. Every drop of blood. Every breath. Every beat of your heart. You're more mine now than you've ever been."

Then he was gone, dissolved back into shadow, and you were alone against the wall, shaking, your basket of vegetables scattered at your feet.

No one had seen. No one ever saw.

You were alone in this. Utterly, completely alone.

In the fourth week, you stopped fighting.

Not because you wanted to. Not because you accepted what Sukuna said. But because fighting was exhausting, and you were so, so tired.

You let yourself sleep. Let yourself dream. Let yourself exist in that bone temple without struggling, without arguing, without resisting every single thing he said.

And in return, the dreams became... gentler.

Sukuna still circled you like a predator, still watched you with those burning eyes, and still spoke in that voice that resonated in your bones. But he also talked to you. Really talked. Not orders or demands or cruel observations, but conversation.

He told you about the world before, the age of curses, when beings like him walked freely, and humans built shrines out of fear and respect rather than just fear. He told you about power and binding and the nature of deals made in blood. He told you about loneliness, about being sealed away, about the long centuries of silence.

"You're the first person to approach that shrine in seventy years," he said one night. "The first person to make an offering. The first person to give me something I wanted."

"You wanted me," you said. Not a question.

"I wanted connection." One hand reached out, fingertips brushing your cheek. "Power is meaningless without something to tether it to. I've had power for a thousand years. What I haven't had is..."

"What?"

"Someone who chose me." His expression was unreadable. "You came to me. You offered yourself. You didn't have to—there are other ways to save a village, other powers you could have begged. But you came to me."

"Because I was desperate."

"Because some part of you knew I would answer." His thumb traced your lower lip, just as it had that first night. "Because some part of you recognised me."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to say he was wrong, that it was just a coincidence, just bad luck.

But you couldn't.

Because deep down, in a place you didn't want to examine too closely, you knew he might be right.

In waking life, Sukuna appeared more frequently now. In shadows, always, but sometimes he seemed more solid, more present. He didn't touch you when he manifested like that, didn't speak much, just... existed near you. Watching. Waiting.

The mark on your hand had changed. The symbol was the same, but it had spread, tendrils of dark pattern creeping up your wrist like vines. It didn't hurt. It should have terrified you.

It didn't.

You were getting used to it. To him. To the bond.

And that realisation was more frightening than anything else.

One month after the binding, something changed.

You woke from a dream—Sukuna's temple, his throne, his eyes—and found you couldn't remember what your life had been like before. couldn't remember the events, the people, the daily routine. But couldn't remember what it felt like. Couldn't remember existing without the constant awareness of him in the back of your mind, in your blood, in every breath.

The bond wasn't just tight anymore. It was fundamental.

You got up, got dressed, and avoided looking at your hand where the marks had now crawled halfway up your forearm, intricate and beautiful and utterly inhuman.

Your sister found you in the kitchen, staring at nothing.

"Are you alright?" she asked, and you realised you'd been asked that question a hundred times in the past month. A thousand times.

"Yes," you said, and for the first time, it wasn't entirely a lie.

You weren't alright. But you weren't falling apart anymore either. You'd found a strange, unsettling equilibrium. The bond was there. The curse was there. Sukuna was there. And you were... adjusting.

"Your hand," your sister said, and her voice was sharp with concern. "What happened to your hand?"

You'd forgotten to cover it. The marks were visible, dark against your skin, impossible to explain away.

"It's nothing," you said quickly, pulling your sleeve down. "Just an accident. A burn. It's healing."

She didn't believe you. You could see it in her eyes, in the way her mouth tightened. But she didn't push, didn't demand answers you couldn't give.

"If you need help," she said carefully, "if something's wrong, you can tell me. You know that, right?"

"I know," you said.

But you couldn't tell her. Couldn't tell anyone. Because how could you explain this? How could you make them understand that you'd traded yourself to a curse, that you were slowly being transformed into something that belonged to him, that the village's salvation had come at the cost of your freedom?

You couldn't. So you didn't try.

That night, the dream was different.

You appeared in the bone temple as always, but this time, Sukuna wasn't on his throne. He was standing in the centre of the vast chamber, and there was something about his posture, about the way he held himself, that was almost... vulnerable.

"One month," he said without preamble. "The binding is complete. The curse has settled. You're fully mine now."

"I know," you said, and your voice was steadier than you expected.

He tilted his head, studying you. "You've stopped fighting."

"I'm tired of fighting."

"That's not why." He moved closer, all four eyes fixed on you with unnerving intensity. "You've stopped fighting because you're starting to feel it. The bond. Not just as a curse, not just as a compulsion. You're starting to feel what it really is."

"And what is it?"

"Connection." He reached out, one hand catching yours—your marked hand—and his touch sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with pain. "I told you the bond works both ways. You're in my blood just as much as I'm in yours. I feel you, little one. Your fear. Your exhaustion. Your slowly growing acceptance. And you feel me."

He was right. You did feel him. A presence in the back of your mind, constant and warm and oddly comforting. Not an invasion—or not entirely an invasion. More like a shadow that had learnt to match your movements perfectly.

"I don't want to belong to anyone," you said quietly.

"I know." His other hands came up, one cupping your face, one settling on your waist. "But you do. You belong to me. And I—" He paused, and something flickered across his expression, too quick to read. "I belong to you."

The words hit you with unexpected force. "What?"

"The binding goes both ways," Sukuna repeated, and now there was something almost bitter in his voice. "You think I chose this lightly? You think I didn't know what it would mean? I bound you to me, yes. But in doing so, I bound myself to you just as thoroughly."

You stared at him, trying to process this, trying to understand. "But you're... you're the King of Curses. You're powerful. You don't need—"

"Power is nothing without an anchor," he interrupted. "I've been alone for so long, little one. Sealed away. Forgotten. The shrine is rotting. No one is speaking my name. No one is coming to me with offerings or prayers or even fear. Just... silence. Endless silence." His hand on your face tightened slightly. "And then you came. Desperate and frightened and so full of want. And I thought, here. Here is someone I can bind to. Someone I can keep."

"So I'm what? A pet? A possession?"

"You're mine," he said simply. "Mine to protect. Mine to keep. Mine to—" He stopped, seeming to struggle with the next word. "Mine to care for."

The admission hung between you, fragile and weighty.

"I don't understand," you whispered.

"Neither do I." He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours again, and you felt that same click, that same sense of something settling into place. "I didn't expect this. Didn't expect you to be so... stubborn. So resilient. So unwilling to break. "A pause. "So interesting."

"You're a curse."

"Yes."

"You've killed people. Probably thousands of people."

"Yes."

"You're cruel and dangerous and—"

"Yes," he said again, cutting you off. "I'm all of those things. But I'm also bound to you. And the binding changes everything."

You didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know what to feel. Part of you wanted to reject it, to push him away, to keep fighting even though fighting was useless. But another part—a growing part—wanted to lean into it. Into him. Into this strange, terrible connection that was slowly becoming the most real thing in your life.

"What happens now?" you asked.

"Now?" One of his hands came up to trace the marks on your arm, following the patterns that had spread from your palm. "Now you stop resisting. Stop pretending this isn't what it is. Stop lying to yourself about what you want."

"And what do I want?"

All four eyes gleamed. "Me. You want me. You've wanted me since the moment I bit you, even if you won't admit it. The bond didn't create desire, little one. It just made it impossible to ignore."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to say he was wrong.

But standing there in that bone temple, with his forehead against yours and his hands on your skin and his presence wrapped around you like a second heartbeat, you couldn't.

Because he wasn't wrong.

The bond had changed you. Was still changing you. And part of that change was the slow, inexorable pull towards him. Not love—or not just love. Something deeper, more primal. Recognition. Need. The sense that you were two halves of something that had been split apart and was now, finally, coming back together.

"I hate this," you said, but there was no heat in it.

"I know." He pulled back just far enough to look at you, all four eyes soft in a way you'd never seen before. "Hate it all you want. It won't change what we are. What we've become."

You woke with tears on your cheeks and the mark on your arm burning.

But this time, the burn felt almost like a caress.

The seasons began to shift. Summer's oppressive heat gave way to autumn's cool reprieve, and with it came the harvest—a harvest so abundant that the village could scarcely believe it. The fields yielded three times what they had in the best years before the famine, the fruit trees hung heavy with perfect, unblemished offerings, and the livestock grew fat and healthy.

It was Sukuna's doing, of course. His curse didn't just bind you—it bled into the land itself, into the soil and water and air. The village prospered because of him, because of the bargain you'd made, because of the mark that now climbed past your elbow and had begun to trace delicate patterns across your shoulder blade.

You found yourself touching it sometimes, when you thought no one was watching. Running your fingers over the raised lines, feeling the warmth that pulsed beneath your skin. It should have repulsed you. Should have felt like a violation, like something foreign invading your body.

It didn't.

It felt like you.

Like it had always been there, waiting to surface. Like Sukuna's curse hadn't added anything new but had simply revealed what was already present, dormant, sleeping in your blood until he woke it.

Your mother noticed the marks one evening when you were washing. You'd been careless, too tired to remember to keep yourself covered. Her gasp was sharp and pained, and when you turned, she was staring at your bare shoulder with wide, horrified eyes.

"What is that?" she demanded, and there was fear in her voice. Not fear for you—fear of you. "What's happened to you?"

You pulled your shirt back on quickly, fumbling with the fabric. "It's nothing. Just... a rash. It's been spreading slowly, but it doesn't hurt."

"That's not a rash." Your mother's voice was shaking. "That looks like... like the old marks. The ones the cursed ones bore, before the purges."

The purges. You'd heard stories about them, whispered in the dark when you were small. A hundred years ago, the capital had sent priests and soldiers to cleanse the countryside of curse users, of people who'd made bargains with the old gods, of anyone who bore the marks of unholy pacts. They'd burnt shrines, killed hundreds, and tried to erase every trace of the old ways.

"I'm not cursed," you said, and the lie tasted like ash.

Your mother's eyes searched your face, looking for something—reassurance, perhaps, or confirmation of her worst fears. "If you are," she said slowly, carefully, "if you've done something, made some kind of bargain—"

"I haven't," you interrupted. "Mother, I promise. It's just a skin condition. It'll fade."

She didn't believe you. You could see it in the set of her jaw, in the way her hands twisted together. But she was also afraid to push, afraid of what she might learn if she asked too many questions.

"Cover it," she finally said. "Don't let anyone else see. The village is... people are already talking. About the miracle. About how sudden it was. If they see marks like that on you, they'll start asking questions we can't answer."

You nodded, throat tight. "I'll be careful."

She left you then, and you stood alone in the small washroom, staring at your reflection in the basin of water. Your face looked the same—the same eyes, same mouth, same features you'd had all your life. But there was something different in your expression now. Something sharper. Older.

You looked like someone who'd seen things they shouldn't have. Known things they shouldn't know.

You looked like someone who belonged to a curse.

In the water's surface, behind your reflection, you saw movement. A shadow that was too tall, too broad. Four eyes gleaming in the darkness.

You didn't turn around. Didn't need to.

"You're getting sloppy," Sukuna's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, from the water and the walls and the air itself. "Letting her see the marks. You'll draw attention."

"I was tired," you said to your reflection, to his reflection. "I forgot."

"You need to be more careful. The last thing either of us needs is for this village to decide you're a threat. "A pause. "They killed curse-marked people here, you know. A century ago. Burnt them alive to 'cleanse' the land."

"I know."

"Do you? Do you understand what they'll do if they find out what you are? What do you become?" His reflection moved closer, and you could feel him even though he wasn't physically present. Could feel the warmth of him at your back, the weight of his presence. "They'll turn on you. The people you saved. Your own family. They'll tie you to a stake and light the fire themselves, all while praying to their clean, distant gods."

You closed your eyes. "Then what do you suggest?"

"Leave."

Your eyes snapped open. "What?"

"Leave the village. Come to me. Fully. Completely. Stop pretending you can live in both worlds—the human one and mine. You can't. The bond is too strong now. The curse is too deep. You're more mine than theirs, and it's only going to become more obvious."

"I can't just leave my family."

"You can. You just don't want to." His voice was soft, almost gentle. "But you will. Eventually. When the choice is taken from you. When they look at you with fear instead of love. When they raise their hands against you." A pause. "I'd rather you came to me willingly. Before it gets that far."

"I'm not yours," you said, but the words were hollow.

"You are. You've been mine since the moment you offered your blood at my shrine. Since the moment you said 'anything'. Since the moment you let me bite you and didn't pull away." His reflection smiled, both mouths curving. "You're just afraid to admit it."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that you were still your own person, still had choices, and still had control.

But the mark on your skin pulsed warm, and you could feel him in your blood, in your bones, in every breath. And you knew he was right.

You were his.

The only question was how long you'd keep pretending otherwise.

The dreams became more vivid. More real.

You would fall asleep in your small bed in your family's modest house and wake—truly wake, not dream-wake—in Sukuna's temple. The transition was seamless now, no disorientation, no confusion. Just one reality sliding into another as naturally as breathing.

The temple itself was changing too. Or perhaps you were simply seeing it more clearly. It wasn't just bones and black stone anymore. There were tapestries on the walls, woven from what looked like spider silk, depicting scenes of battles and rituals and things you couldn't quite comprehend. There were braziers that burnt with flames that gave off no smoke but smelt of sandalwood and myrrh. There were windows—impossible windows, since the temple existed somewhere outside of normal space—that looked out onto landscapes that shifted and changed: mountains that walked, forests where the trees bled sap like honey, and skies painted in colours that had no names.

Sukuna's domain. Not just a temple. A world unto itself.

"Do you like it?" he asked one night, finding you standing at one of those impossible windows, watching a river of stars flow through a valley of crystallised shadow.

"It's beautiful," you admitted. "Terrible. But beautiful."

"Like me," he said, and there was dark humour in his voice.

You turned to look at him. He was sprawled on his throne—four arms relaxed, expression almost lazy—but those eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

"Why do you bring me here?" you asked. "Every night. Why not just... leave me alone? You have what you wanted. The bond is complete. I'm bound to you. Why do you need me here?"

"Because the bond isn't just about possession," Sukuna said, sitting up straighter. "It's about connection. Proximity. Presence." He stood, moved towards you with that predatory grace. "I told you—I've been alone for a very long time. Silent. Forgotten. And now I have you. Why wouldn't I want you close?"

"I'm not really here, though. This is a dream."

"Is it?" He reached out, one hand catching yours, raising it to examine the marks that now covered your entire arm. "You feel solid enough. You can touch things here. Change things. You wake with memories of this place as clear as any waking moment. What makes it less real than the other world?"

You had no answer to that.

"The bond blurs boundaries," Sukuna continued, his thumb tracing the patterns on your skin. "Dream and waking. Yours and mine. Human and curse. The deeper it goes, the less those distinctions matter. Soon you'll be able to manifest here fully. Not just in sleep. You'll be able to walk between worlds the way I do."

The thought should have terrified you. Instead, you felt a strange flutter of anticipation.

"And then what?" you asked.

"Then you won't have to go back," he said simply, matter-of-factly, as if it were inevitable. "You can stay here. With me. Where you belong."

"My family—"

"—will forget you." His voice was gentle but implacable. "Not immediately. But over time. The bond will make you... difficult to remember. Difficult to hold in their minds. You'll become like a dream to them. A ghost. Until eventually, it's as if you never existed at all."

Horror washed over you, cold and sharp. "No. No, I won't let that happen."

"You won't have a choice." He pulled you closer, one hand settling on your waist, another cupping your face. "The curse is rewriting you. Making you into something that can exist here, with me, permanently. Fighting it only makes it work faster."

"Then I'll stop fighting," you said desperately. "I'll accept the bond, I'll stay in the village, I'll—"

"You'll die," Sukuna interrupted, and there was something in his voice you'd never heard before. Something that might have been fear. "If you try to stay fully human while bound to me this deeply, the conflict will tear you apart. You have to choose, little one. Become what the bond is making you—something between human and curse, something that belongs to both worlds and neither—or cling to your humanity and let it destroy you."

You stared at him, searching those four eyes for any hint of deception, any sign that this was another manipulation.

You found none.

"I don't want to lose them," you whispered.

"I know." He pulled you against his chest, all four arms wrapping around you, and for the first time since the binding, his embrace felt protective rather than possessive. "But you're going to. One way or another. The only question is whether you lose them while dying or whether you lose them while becoming something new."

You pressed your face against his shoulder and let yourself cry. Not the silent, hidden tears you'd shed so many times in the past weeks, but real, wracking sobs. Grief for what you were losing, for the choice that wasn't really a choice at all, for the life you'd traded away to save people who would eventually forget you anyway.

Sukuna held you through it. Didn't speak, didn't offer empty comfort, just held you while you broke apart and slowly, painfully, began to put yourself back together in a new configuration.

When the tears finally stopped, you pulled back enough to look at him. "If I do this," you said, voice hoarse, "if I let the bond complete, if I become whatever it is you're making me into—what happens then?"

"Then you're mine," he said. "Fully. Completely. No more half-measures, no more divided loyalties. You live here, in my domain. You exist as my—" He paused, seeming to search for the right word. "My companion. My anchor. My other half."

"Like a wife."

"Like a queen," he corrected. "I am the King of Curses. If you bind yourself to me completely, you become my equal. My counterpart. Not a possession, but a partner."

The distinction seemed important to him, though you weren't sure you understood the difference.

"And my family? The village?"

"They'll prosper. The blessing I gave them will hold. They'll have good harvests, healthy children, and long lives. They just won't have you." His expression softened. "It's not a cruelty, little one. It's a mercy. They'll forget slowly, gently. They won't mourn you because they won't remember you clearly enough to mourn. It'll be like... like trying to remember a pleasant dream. They'll have a sense of something good, something lost, but no pain attached to it."

You wanted to believe him. Wanted to think that your sacrifice wouldn't destroy the people you loved.

"Can I... can I say goodbye? Before it happens?"

"You can try." He released you and stepped back. "But the bond is already working on them. You've noticed it, haven't you? How do they look through you sometimes? How do conversations seem to slide away from you? How even when you're in the room, they forget you're there?"

You had noticed. Had been trying not to notice, trying to pretend it was your imagination.

"How long?" you asked. "How long until I can't go back at all?"

"A month. Maybe less." He reached out, caught your chin, and tilted your face up to meet his gaze. "The next full moon, the transformation will be complete. You'll have to choose before then. Come here willingly, or be pulled here anyway. But either way, you're not staying human. Not anymore."

When you woke, the sun was already high. You'd slept late, and no one had come to wake you.

You found your family in the kitchen, preparing the midday meal. Your sister was laughing at something your nephew had said, your mother was kneading bread, and your father was repairing a broken chair.

"Good morning," you said.

Your mother looked up and smiled vaguely. "Oh. Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. I—" You paused. " I was wondering if you needed help with—"

"We're fine, thank you," your mother said, already looking back at her bread.

You stood there for a moment, waiting for someone to ask where you'd been, why you'd slept so late, and if you were feeling alright.

No one did.

Your sister glanced at you once, her expression puzzled, as if she was trying to remember something. Then your nephew said something else, and her attention shifted, and you were forgotten again.

You left the kitchen. Walked through the house. Went outside.

No one noticed.

The bond was already erasing you from their lives, and they didn't even realise it was happening.

The next three weeks passed in a strange, detached haze. You went through the motions of daily life—helped with chores, attended village gatherings, smiled and spoke when spoken to—but you felt increasingly like a ghost in your own existence. People looked past you more often than at you. Conversations you participated in seemed to evaporate from others' memories within minutes. Your sister forgot your name twice, correcting herself with a confused laugh both times.

The marks had spread further. They covered both arms now, winding across your shoulders and beginning to trace delicate patterns down your spine. You wore long sleeves and high collars constantly, even as the weather grew colder and such precautions became less suspicious.

But it wasn't just the visible marks that were changing.

Your senses had sharpened. You could hear conversations from three houses away, could smell the difference between varieties of apples from across the market square, and could see in the dark almost as clearly as in daylight. Your strength had increased too—you'd accidentally broken a wooden spoon while stirring soup, had lifted a sack of grain that should have required two people, and had torn a door off its hinges when it stuck.

You were becoming something other. Something more.

Sukuna appeared to you more frequently now, no longer constrained to dreams and shadows. He manifested in full daylight sometimes, solid and real, though still invisible to everyone but you. He would walk beside you through the village, commenting on the people, the buildings, and the small dramas of daily life.

"That one's having an affair," he'd say, nodding towards a respectable married woman. "The baker's son. They meet in the mill on Thursdays."

Or: "The elder with the limp—he's embezzling from the village funds. Has been for five years."

Or: "Your sister is pregnant again. Two months. She doesn't know yet."

You didn't ask how he knew these things. Curses saw differently than humans, perceived truths that were hidden, and sensed the threads of fate and fortune that wove through mortal lives.

"You'll be able to see it too," he told you one afternoon as you walked through the forest, ostensibly gathering firewood. "Once the transformation completes. You'll see the world as I do. All its hidden rot and secret beauty."

"I'm not sure I want to," you admitted.

"You say that now." He plucked a leaf from a low-hanging branch, and it withered to dust in his palm. "But human sight is so limited. You see surfaces. I see depths. You see moments. I see patterns. You see individuals. I see the vast, interconnected web of choice and consequence that binds everything together." He let the dust fall. "It's overwhelming at first. But then it's... clarifying."

You watched the dust settle onto the forest floor. "Will I still be me after?"

"You'll be more you than you've ever been." He moved closer, one hand coming up to trace the marks on your neck. They'd reached your jawline now, delicate as lace. "Humans are so constrained by what they think they should be. By social expectations, moral frameworks and fear of judgement. The transformation burns all that away. Leaves only the essential self. The truth of you."

"And what if the truth of me is something terrible?"

"Then you'll be terrible," he said it without judgment, without condemnation. "But you'll be yours. Authentic. Undiluted. Free."

Freedom. You'd never thought of the bond as freedom before. Had always conceptualised it as a chain, a prison, a loss of choice.

But maybe it was the opposite.

Maybe surrendering to Sukuna meant surrendering all the things that had constrained you—duty, propriety, fear, and the need to be good and sweet and acceptable. Maybe becoming his meant becoming yourself, unfiltered and unafraid.

The thought was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.

Two weeks before the full moon, your father stopped recognising you entirely.

You came down for breakfast, and he looked at you with polite confusion. "I'm sorry, miss, but I think you've entered the wrong house."

Your mother looked up from the fire, squinting. "Who... oh. Is that... do we know her?"

Your sister frowned. "She looks familiar. Do you work at the market?"

You stood there, frozen, as your family—your own family—looked at you like a stranger.

"It's me," you said, voice shaking. "It's—" But you couldn't say your name. Couldn't make yourself speak it, as if the bond had stolen even that.

"I think you'd better go," your father said, not unkindly. "We don't have extra food to spare for travellers."

Travellers. They thought you were a traveller.

You turned and walked out, numb, and didn't stop walking until you reached the forest, until you were deep enough in that the village sounds faded to nothing.

Then you collapsed against a tree and screamed.

Screamed rage and grief and frustration, screamed until your throat was raw, until the sound became more animal than human.

When you finally stopped, Sukuna was there.

Not manifesting from shadows this time. Just there, solid and present, as if he'd been waiting.

"It's time," he said quietly.

"Not yet. The moon isn't full yet. You said I had until—"

"The bond is complete." He moved closer and knelt in front of you. "Your family doesn't remember you. The village is forgetting. There's nothing left to hold you to that world. You're already gone from it, little one. You're just clinging to a corpse."

"They're not dead."

"They are to you. And you to them." All four of his hands came up, cradling your face, wiping away tears you hadn't realised you were shedding. "Come home. Stop torturing yourself. Come home to me."

"I don't have a home," you said brokenly.

"You do." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Here. With me. In my domain. You've always had it. You just weren't ready to accept it."

You closed your eyes, felt the mark on your skin pulse in time with your heartbeat, felt Sukuna's presence in your blood like a second soul, and felt the bond pulling tight and tighter until there was no space left between you.

"What do I have to do?" you whispered.

"Just stop resisting. Stop fighting. Let go of what you were and embrace what you're becoming." His voice was soft, almost tender. "Let me pull you through."

Through. Not to. Through.

Because you weren't going to his world. You were going to exist in the space between worlds, the liminal realm where curses lived, where the bond had been pulling you all along.

"Will it hurt?"

"No. The transformation is already complete. This is just... the final step. Letting yourself exist fully in both places. Human world and cursed world. Mortal and immortal. Yours and mine."

You took a shaking breath. Let it out. Took another.

Then you opened your eyes, met his gaze—all four burning points of attention—and said, "Alright. Take me home."

He smiled, both mouths curving in identical expressions of satisfaction and something that might have been relief.

Then he kissed you.

Not the bite from that first night. A real kiss, claiming and possessive and surprisingly gentle. His lips were warm, and you could taste copper and smoke and something sweeter underneath. The kiss deepened, and you felt the bond flare bright and burning, felt it wrap around you like chains made of light, felt it pull you apart and remake you and pull you somewhere else entirely.

The forest disappeared.

The mortal world disappeared.

You fell through darkness that wasn't dark but full of colours you had no names for, fell through space that wasn't space but the gaps between moments, and fell for an eternity that lasted less than a heartbeat.

Then you were standing in the bone temple, solid and present and more real than you'd ever been in any dream.

Sukuna stood in front of you, all four hands still touching you—one on your face, one on your waist, one tangled in your hair, and one pressed over your heart.

"Welcome home," he said.

You looked down at yourself. The marks covered every inch of visible skin now, intricate and beautiful. Your clothes had changed too—no longer the simple homespun dress but something that looked like it had been woven from shadows and starlight, flowing and dark and perfectly fitted.

You looked like you belonged here. In this impossible temple, in this space between worlds.

You looked like a queen of curses.

"How do you feel?" Sukuna asked.

You took stock. Your body felt the same but different—lighter, stronger, more present. Your senses were even sharper than they had been. You could feel the temple around you, could sense the vast domain beyond it, and could perceive the threads of cursed energy that wove through everything like an invisible web.

"I feel..." You paused, searching for the right word. "Awake. Like I've been asleep my whole life and just now opened my eyes."

"Yes." He looked satisfied. "That's exactly right. You're fully conscious now. Fully present. No more half-existence."

You turned in his arms, looking around the temple with new eyes. It was even more magnificent than you'd realised, every surface carved with intricate patterns, every shadow hiding depths you could now perceive.

"Can I go back?" you asked. "To the mortal world?"

"Yes. You exist in both places now. You can walk between them at will." His arms tightened slightly. "But you can't stay there. Not for long. And they still won't see you. Won't remember you. You're a ghost to them now."

You nodded slowly. You'd expected that. Had already mourned it.

"And this?" You gestured to the temple, to the domain beyond. "This is home now?"

"This is home," Sukuna confirmed. "Our home. Yours and mine."

Ours.

The word settled into your chest, heavy and warm and right.

You turned back to face him fully and reached up to touch his face—something you'd never dared to do before. His skin was warm under your palm, the marks raised slightly, textured like embroidery.

"I'm yours," you said. Not a question. Not a complaint. Just a statement of fact.

"Yes." His lower set of hands came up to cover yours. "And I'm yours. The binding goes both ways, remember? You're not my possession, little one. You're my equal. My partner. My—"

He stopped and seemed to struggle with the word.

"You're what?" you prompted.

All four eyes met yours, and there was something vulnerable in them, something almost afraid.

"My heart," he said finally, quietly. "I didn't have one before you. Didn't need one. But the bond... it gave me something to protect. Something to care for. Something that could be lost." His hands tightened on yours. "You're my heart. And that's terrifying."

The admission hung between you, raw and honest.

You leaned in, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted.

He didn't.

You kissed him, soft and deliberate, and felt the bond sing between you, felt it settle into place like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

When you pulled back, Sukuna was looking at you with an expression you'd never seen before—unguarded, open, almost tender.

"Welcome home," he said again, softer this time.

And standing there in a temple made of bones, in a domain outside of time, bound to a curse that had claimed your body and soul, you realised something.

You were home.

Finally, truly home.

The village had forgotten you. Your family had let you go. Your mortal life had ended.

But here, in the spaces between worlds, in the arms of a monster who'd somehow become more real to you than anything else, you'd found something you hadn't even known you were searching for.

You'd found where you belonged.

The bond pulsed warm in your blood, and you smiled.

"I'm home," you agreed.

And meant it.

Time moved differently in Sukuna's domain. Days could pass in what felt like hours, or hours could stretch into what felt like weeks. You stopped trying to track it, stopped trying to maintain any connection to the mortal world's rhythm.

You learnt to navigate the domain, to walk through its impossible corridors and ever-shifting landscapes. You learnt to perceive cursed energy the way Sukuna did, to see the threads that bound everything together, and to understand the vast and terrible beauty of the cursed world.

You learnt to use power—not the same way Sukuna did, all destruction and domination, but in your own way. You could heal curses that were injured, soothe spirits that were distressed, and mediate disputes between entities that had been fighting for centuries. Where Sukuna ruled through fear and strength, you ruled through something else. Something that might have been compassion or might have been a deeper understanding of what it meant to be bound and broken and remade.

The courtiers began to call you Queen. Not because Sukuna commanded it, but because they recognised what you were—his equal, his balance, his other half.

Sometimes you visit the mortal world. Walked invisibly through your old village, watched your family go about their lives. Your sister's pregnancy had progressed; she had a healthy daughter, whom she named something that hurt to hear because it was almost your name, but not quite. Your parents grew older, their faces lining with age and contentment. The village continued to prosper, blessed by Sukuna's lingering magic, unaware of the price that had been paid for their salvation.

You didn't miss it. Didn't long to return to that small, constrained existence.

But you remembered it. Honoured it. Let it inform who you were becoming in this new, vast, impossible life.

Sukuna found you one evening (or what passed for evening in the domain) standing at one of those impossible windows, watching the mortal world spin below.

"Do you regret it?" he asked, coming to stand beside you. "The choice you made?"

You considered the question seriously. "No. I regret the necessity of it. I regret that it had to happen the way it did. But the choice itself?" You turned to look at him. "No. I don't regret choosing you."

Something in his expression softened. He reached out, pulled you against his chest, and you went willingly, fitting yourself against him like you'd been designed for that exact purpose.

"I would do it differently," he admitted quietly. "If I could. I would give you more time. More choice. I would be less..." He paused, searching for the word.

"Cruel?" you suggested.

"Impatient," he corrected. "I saw what I wanted, and I took it. Didn't consider what it would cost you. Didn't care what it would cost you." His arms tightened. "I care now. If that matters."

"It matters," you said.

You stood there together, watching worlds spin and shift, and you thought about bindings and choices and the strange, twisted path that had led you here.

You thought about the girl you'd been—desperate and frightened and willing to trade anything for the people she loved.

You thought about the creature you were becoming—powerful and strange and bound to something monstrous.

And you thought about the space between those two states, the liminal existence you now inhabited, neither fully human nor fully cursed but something new, something unprecedented.

"The bond doesn't kill," you said softly, remembering Sukuna's words from that first night. "It binds."

"Forever," Sukuna agreed.

"Forever," you echoed.

And in the temple made of bones, in the domain outside of time, in the arms of the King of Curses who'd claimed you and been claimed in return, you felt the bond pulse warm and constant in your blood.

You were bound.

You were his.

He was yours.

And somehow, impossibly, that was enough.

More than enough.

It was everything.

The mark on your skin glowed softly in the twilight, and you smiled.

Forever, you thought.

'Forever' sounded just right.

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