The Decadent Times

21 ✦ ARIA m.list

[toshisdecadence]

Peruse the latest stories at our esteemed newspaper. Minors, beware of the contents below. The newspaper contains mature and dark content.

The stories marked with (m) are mature in nature and contain themes of sex, infidelity, violence, and many more that may not be suitable for minors. Stories marked with (dc) are dark content and contains themes such as consensual non-consent (cnc), dubious consent (dubcon), incest, stepcest, gore, and many more that may not be suitable for some audiences.

The audience is responsible for the content they consume. Read the warnings that accompany each story, and read responsibly.

All Rights Reserved © toshisdecadence 2026. Do not copy, modify, re-imagine, translate, or repost any of the stories below on any other platform or medium.

HAIKYŪ!!

Snowball! (dc) (m) | stepbrother!wakatoshi ushijima x stepsister!reader - What could ever go wrong with being alone with your stepbrother for a week during the holidays?

Accidentally On Purpose (m) | PART 1, PART 2 | athlete!wakatoshi ushijima x popular!fem reader - After reading about the benefits of sex, volleyball star Wakatoshi Ushijima sees no reason not to accept your persistent offers.

?????????? (m) | merman!wakatoshi ushijima x ????!fem reader (COMING SOON!) - ?????????

JUJUTSU KAISEN

Another Notch on Her Belt (dc) (m) | sub!yuta okkotsu x dom!fem reader - You, the resident maneater of the university, set your hungry eyes on none other than the shy and bumbling Yuta Okkotsu.

The Devil Wears Zegna (dc) (m) | devil!suguru geto x archangel!fem reader - Your former colleague, Suguru Geto, now Devil and overseer of the Demonic Realm, is extremely unprofessional.

What A Woman Wants (dc) (m) | dilf!toji fushiguro x rich girl!fem reader - You find yourself tangled in an intense affair with the last man you should ever want—Toji Fushiguro, broke, rugged, and utterly irresistible.

Dangerous Liaisons (dc) (m) | nerd!kento nanami x rich girl!fem reader - Your popular boyfriend is an utter disappointment in bed, so why not entertain the quiet nerd you’ve picked on since freshman year, Kento Nanami?

The Blue Sleeve (dc) (m) | nine-tailed fox!satoru gojo x noblewoman!reader - Fox deity Satoru Gojo, cursed to die by pleasure, hires a broke noblewoman to fuck him to death.

House Rules (dc) (m) | father-in-law!ryomen sukuna x daughter-in-law!reader (x fiancé!yuji itadori) - You thought Ryomen Sukuna was your past, but as it turns out, he’s your fiancé’s father too.

?????? (m) | stepbrother!sukuna ryomen x stepsister!reader (COMING SOON!) - ?????????

BLUE LOCK

coming soon!

GENSHIN IMPACT

coming soon!

HONKAI STAR RAIL

ERROR 404: Overload! (dc) (m) | svarog x mechanic!fem reader - You discover the reason why Svarog wears pants.

?????? (m) | sunday x fem reader (COMING SOON!) - ?????????

MISCELLANEOUS

coming soon!

[toshisdecadence]

The higuruma scene with him spinning the girl’s chair around in the office… my clit is doing splits!!!

[toshisdecadence]

This is turning into a dark content blog I realize LMAOOOOO

Also, finishing up my stepbro!sukuna fic and hopefully it should be posted within this week!! I’m still not happy with how I did the sex scenes for the two sukuna fics I’ve been working on for basically half a year because my love life has been so dry for so long and the raunchy smut gods are not giving me the revelations I had a year or two ago!!!! Hopefully they’re still (kinda) decent and convey enough of the debauchery I had in mind for Sukuna, bearer of two cocks

[toshisdecadence]

House Rules

PAIRING: father-in-law!ryomen sukuna x daughter-in-law!reader (x fiancé!yuji itadori)

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, stepcest, incest (father-in-lawcest?), age gap (reader is in her mid-20s, sukuna’s in his 50s), dubcon, noncon (sukuna decides he doesn’t wear condoms and cums inside), infidelity, babytrapping (sorta), netorare i guess, degradation (sukuna calls reader slut, whore), rough sex, sukuna is a whole warning by himself, spanking, unprotected sex, oral sex (f and m receiving), creampie, overstimulation, size kink (its never a fic by me without one), size difference, fingering, public sex (yuji is literally 3 feet away), manipulation

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

SUMMARY: You thought Ryomen Sukuna was your past, but as it turns out, he’s your fiancé’s father too.

© toshisdecadence

You hadn’t thought about him in years.

Why would you? College had been a blur of thesis deadlines, internships, questionable meal choices, and that one off-campus apartment with the perpetually broken air-conditioning. And then there was him. The older man who lived in that penthouse some twenty minutes away in the heart of the city, who always smelled like clean cedar and cigarette smoke, who looked at you the way men look when they’re used to getting exactly what they want.

He’d never told you his full name. You’d never asked. That was part of the appeal: he was just a man with a sharp jaw, tattoos through his rippling copper skin, and a wallet that suggested he didn’t need to care about anything. You hadn’t cared either. You were twenty, bored, broke, horny, lonely during exam season, and he’d been… well.

You still remembered how he fucked. Unfortunately.

Yuji’s hand squeezed yours as he unlocked the front door of his family home. Tall and heavy. Double wooden doors. Probably imported from somewhere overseas.

“You’ll like my dad,” he said, giddy with excitement and a bit of fear. Yuji hadn’t told you too much about his family. The extent of what you knew was: his mother had died when he was young, and his father had remained single since. “He’s a little intense, but he means well once you get past the… you know.” He waved his hand vaguely. As if this were a script he’d readied for others all his life. “His whole vibe.”

“Vibe,” you echoed, trying to sound normal. “Right. I’m good with vibes.”

You weren’t. Not when your stomach had been doing slow, confused flips ever since Yuji mentioned that today would be the day he would introduce you to his mysterious and ever-elusive father. Now, you have always thought quite highly of yourself. Parents always approved of you, your friends’ parents always relaxed when they heard you were tagging along with their kid—parents always loved you!—but this was a little different. This was the father of your fiancé. You imagined some strict, suit-wearing businessman. Maybe a prematurely gray professor type. Someone with glasses, maybe? Someone stern, awkward, maybe a little boring.

Yuji nudged you inside before you could get your bearings. “Dad? We’re here!”

The house was nice. Upscale. Too upscale. You had never taken Yuji as a rich kid type in all the years you’d known him, but you had an inkling when he drove up to the famous gated subdivision in the heart of the city, known for its affluent and high-profile residents. Not even a fly could get inside without permission. The house that Yuji grew up in was the kind of place with real hardwood floors, minimalist decor, and that faint antiseptic scent of money. You barely had time to take it in before you heard footsteps approaching. Slow, unhurried, and familiar in a way that made your pulse jump into your throat.

And then Yuji’s father appeared at the end of the hallway.

There was no fucking way.

Older, now. Sharper. But it was him. Unmistakably him. The same crimson eyes that had watched you come undone under him with that sick glee. The same rugged mouth that had left marks on your skin for days. The man who had once pushed you face-down into his cotton pillows and wiped his cum off of your swollen pussy with crisp bills. The same man you had casually, stupidly chalked up to “some older guy with a huge dick and too much money.”

His heated gaze flicked from Yuji to you.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Yuji grinned like this was the most ordinary day in his life. “Dad, this is my fiancée!”

Sukuna’s expression didn’t change. Not outwardly. But there was a quiet, awful curl of amusement in his eyes, like God had opened a window just to laugh. At you, you were sure.

“Well,” he said, voice low and smooth in that way you remembered too well. Your stomach curdled at the nights when that same voice cooed right into your ear, stretching your body to its absolute limit. “Isn’t this… familiar.”

Your blood ran cold.

He shouldn’t have recognized you.

He shouldn’t have remembered anything.

You shouldn’t have slept with your fiancé’s father years before you met your fiancé.

And Sukuna—of course he fucking did—looked like this was the most entertaining thing that had happened to him in a decade.

“Welcome,” he added, gaze lingering on you for a beat too long. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Yuji’s living room was tasteful in a way that felt deliberate. Dark leather, clean lines, a low coffee table that probably cost more than your entire college rent (which Sukuna had paid most of). You sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded too neatly on your lap, acutely aware of the fact that Sukuna had taken the single armchair opposite you.

A king on a throne.

You had been naked on that lap once. Too many times.

Yuji plopped down beside you, oblivious to the cold sweat lining your spine. “Dad, she brought those pastries you like. Thought we could have them while we all talk?”

Sukuna nodded, slow and polite. “How thoughtful.”

His voice was calm, almost bored. Only you caught the slight rasp under it. Something that used to drag across your skin when he had you pinned and unmoving.

Yuji nudged your knee with his own. “You okay? You’ve been kinda quiet.”

You forced a smile. “Just nervous.” True, but not for the same reason as you were before. “Meeting parents and all.”

“No need for that,” Sukuna said. His gaze slid over you with deliberate leisure, lingering just long enough to make your stomach pitch. “I only want to know who my son intends to marry.” 

A diplomatic smile.

“Properly.”

Your lunch threatened to hurl its way out. Yuji, mercifully, didn’t notice.

“So,” Sukuna continued, settling back, crossing one leg over the other like this was a polite interview and not psychological warfare. “How did you two meet?”

Yuji launched into the story. Your mutual friend, the study group, the way you hit it off. Of course, Yuji conveniently let out the raunchy details. You nodded along, pretending not to feel Sukuna’s attention like a hand around your waist.

“And you studied…?” Sukuna asked, eyes never leaving yours.

You gave the name of your degree.

“Mmm.” A thoughtful sound. “I remember.”

Yuji blinked. “You do?”

Sukuna smiled with all his teeth, sharp but civil. “Her field leaves an impression. Demanding, if I recall.”

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t talking about coursework. He was talking about late night complaints you used to whine and murmur into his chest, the way he’d drag you onto his lap and push your sticky panties aside and—

You shut the thought down before it showed on your face.

“Dad,” Yuji said, laughing lightly, “you make it sound like you’ve met her before.”

Your hand closed around a pastry you didn’t want, noting the trembling in your fingers.

“She simply reminded me of someone I was acquainted with in the past,” he said casually.

Yuji, already distracted, was too preoccupied with the sweets to pursue it further.

“So,” Sukuna went on smoothly, turning the conversation with surgical precision, “you’re planning a fall wedding.”

You nodded, feeling your breathing calm a bit. “Yes. We’re finalizing the venue.”

“Good.” His fingers drummed on the armrest, lazy. “Commitment requires follow-through. Consistency.”

A beat.

“Fidelity.”

You almost choked on the walnut tart.

Sukuna leaned forward just enough to look engaged. “And you intend to be devoted.”

Your nails dug crescents into your palm, but your voice wasn’t as firm as you hoped it would be. “Of course.”

“Mmm.” Sukuna’s gaze sharpened, leaning forward just slightly. Close enough to unnerve you, far enough to look like a normal, interested father. “A man should know how his future wife understands restraint. How to take responsibility.”

You met his eyes. The crimson irises of a predator. You shouldn’t have.

There was recognition in them. And, worst of all, memory. And the slow, terrible pleasure of watching you drown in your own restraint.

Yuji waved a dismissive hand, mouth full. “Don’t mind him, babe,” he murmured to you. “Dad’s just being overprotective. He interrogates everyone.”

“Do I?” Sukuna said mildly. He watched his son stuff himself full with sweets before turning to you. “I’m only curious.”

“About what?” Yuji frowned.

“What persuaded her,” Sukuna said, “that you were the right man.”

You swallowed. Because the way he said man wasn’t neutral; it was a quiet nudge in the ribs. A reminder of every time he’d pressed you into a mattress and made you forget your own name.

“I love Yuji,” you said carefully. “He’s very kind to me.”

Sukuna’s eyebrow lifted a fraction. You’d miss it if you blinked. “Kindness is admirable.” He paused. “Though it rarely sustains desire.”

Yuji groaned like a kid embarrassed of their parents. “Dad, come on—”

“No, no.” Sukuna’s smile was mild, practiced. “I’m listening. Go on.”

You didn’t. There was nothing else safe to add.

Satisfied, he folded his hands, looking almost academic. “What do your parents do?”

An ambush disguised as curiosity. You managed a steady answer. He nodded along like he actually cared.

“And your work? Your ambitions?”

Another set of normal questions. Except every one felt like he was peeling something back, layer by layer, not because he needed information but because he wanted to see how much pressure it took for you to crack. He liked to see you squirm in your seat.

Yuji didn’t see any of it. He was busy grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

When the subject shifted to the wedding timeline, Sukuna sat forward. Not much, just enough. “You must have many memories from college,” he remarked, casual.

Your heart stuttered.

Yuji brightened. “Yeah, she tells me the funniest stories—”

“Did she?” Sukuna murmured, gaze flicking to you with amusement. “I imagine she learned a great deal during those years.”

The air thinned. You forced a nod. “Everyone does.”

Sukuna leaned back again, satisfied, like he’d tested something and gotten his answer.

“I’m glad,” he said. “Experience is valuable. It shapes who we become. Especially in relationships.”

Yuji didn’t catch the shift in tone. How could he?

“And what do you value most,” Sukuna asked, “in a partner meant to last?”

Yuji looked at you expectantly.

Sukuna watched you like you were still in his old bedroom, waiting to see how honest you dared to be. Whether you’d tell him what you really wanted from him.

“Stability,” you said. “Respect… and boundaries.”

Sukuna’s fingers tapped the armrest once, twice. Not quite amusement, more like acknowledgement.

“Good answer,” he said quietly.

Yuji had barely finished his pastry before his phone buzzed, vibrating insistently against the glass coffee table. He glanced down, groaned, and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“Sorry—work thing. I have to download a report before the deadline. Can I leave you two for a sec?” He kissed your cheek without waiting for an answer. “And be nice, Dad!”

Sukuna didn’t bother pretending innocence. “Always.”

Yuji vanished down the hall toward an empty room, already cursing at whatever file refused to open.

Suddenly, the house felt too quiet.

Sukuna rose from his chair, smoothing the cuffs of his dress shirt. It was an unnecessary, elegant gesture he’d never bothered with in college. He didn’t say your name. He didn’t need to.

He simply nodded toward the hallway.

“Come,” he said. “I’ll show you the house.”

You hesitated for half a second. Not enough to be obvious, but enough for him to notice. You followed anyway, because refusing would be loud, suspicious, and Yuji was twenty feet away.

There was nothing overtly threatening about his tone. It was polite. Courteous. The kind of voice a respectable father might use when offering a mild tour to his future daughter-in-law.

But when he gestured toward the hallway, you felt the warning in your bones.

You stood. Because what else could you do? Refuse? Announce in front of your fiancé that you had once let his father—

Absolutely not. So you followed.

The hallway opened into a long, high-ceilinged corridor with dark wood floors and a muted, expensive runner that made your footsteps silent. Framed calligraphy lined one wall. Strong strokes, powerful, unhesitating. You didn’t doubt Sukuna had made them.

He didn’t speak at first. Just walked ahead of you, hands casually in his pockets, the picture of an elegant, composed patriarch. The kind of man people respected on sight. The kind no one questioned.

“This wing is mostly for guests,” he said finally, voice smooth. “Though we don’t host often. Too much noise.”

You stayed a few steps back. It felt safer.

Sukuna glanced over his hulking shoulder. “You used to like noise.”

Your breath hitched, feeling your face burn. “Please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” He slowed, pacing beside you now. His broad body still seemed as imposing as it was back then, caging you beneath him. “Talk? Ask questions my son would ask? Show hospitality?” His smile was faint, all cutting edges. “I’m being perfectly appropriate.”

You swallowed hard and kept walking.

He led you through a set of double doors into a high-ceilinged sitting room wrapped in floor-to-ceiling windows. Afternoon light poured in, warm and unforgiving. The dust danced across the floor, illuminated by the rays of light. The room was empty, the kind of space meant for hosting dignitaries or impressing donors.

You felt exposed in it. Too seen.

Sukuna stepped closer. Not touching. He didn’t need to. His presence alone rearranged the air. It felt electric. Like you’d combust if his skin so much as brushed yours.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said softly. “My son is a good man. Earnest, trusting.” A slow pause. “So trusting.”

You stiffened. “Mr. Sukuna—”

“Ah.” His eyes glinted. “So you do remember my name.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t need you to.

He walked toward the windows, hands clasped behind his back like he was surveying his property. His voice, when it came, was deceptively mild.

“You ran from our little arrangement very quickly back then. No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone.”

“I graduated,” you said weakly, not daring to meet his eyes. “I moved.”

“You ran,” he corrected lightly. “Which is fine. Youth is like that.”

He turned, leaning back against the window frame. Sunlight cut across his face, highlighting the harsh lines of his face, the quiet amusement pulling at his mouth.

“Imagine my surprise,” he said, “when my son brought you home.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “This isn’t funny.”

“For you,” he agreed. “No.”

He pushed off the window and came toward you. Not crowding, not cornering, but close enough that you could smell the faint hint of smoke and some sharp, expensive cologne. He still wore the same scent he did all those years ago.

“We’re adults,” he murmured. “Capable of politeness.” A step forward. “Discretion.” Another step into your space. “Self-control.”

Your breath shook. 

“We don’t have to make this difficult.”

You almost believed him. Almost.

Then he leaned in, just enough that his lips nearly grazed the shell of your ear, and spoke low enough that only you could hear, the same way he used to: “But you remember how easy you were for me, don’t you?”

Your body went rigid.

He pulled back immediately, expression smooth, composed, hands visible at his sides. Every inch the respectful father giving a dutiful tour.

Yuji’s voice floated closer. “Babe? Dad? You guys down here?”

Sukuna didn’t smile, but something flickered in his eyes. Victory, maybe, or the first spark of a plan.

“This way,” Sukuna said, leading you back toward the safer, brighter wing of the mansion. “We wouldn’t want Yuji to worry.”

The dining room was too formal for three people.

Ten chairs. A long table. Candlelight reflecting off glassware that looked hand-blown and old enough to have a provenance. A private chef moved efficiently at the far end, plating the last course.

Yuji was already tipsy by the time the appetizers left the table.

“Dad always brings out the special stuff when guests come over,” he said brightly, cheeks flushed, swirling the wine in his glass like he had no idea what he was doing. “It’s, um, what’s it called again?”

Sukuna’s eyes didn’t leave you. “Expensive.”

Yuji laughed. You didn’t.

The chef set down the main course in front of each of you. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No,” Sukuna said. “You’re all dismissed for the night. Clean up tomorrow.”

You felt it immediately—the room shrinking, the air thickening—as the chef bowed and disappeared with the rest of the staff. The sound of the door closing was too final.

Yuji didn’t notice. He was already draining another glass.

Sukuna ate slowly, neatly, as if nothing about this dinner was irregular. As if he wasn’t tracking every flick of your fork, every tremor you tried to suppress. He asked you normal questions, the kind any father might ask.

“So,” he said mildly, cutting into his steak, “what are your plans after the wedding?”

Yuji perked up. “She wants to finish her certification.” He hiccuped. “Maybe start a business later. She’s super dedicated.”

“Mm.” Sukuna’s eyes stayed on you. “She’s always been… diligent.”

Your fork froze halfway to your lips.

Yuji grinned proudly, oblivious. “Right? She never stops.” He giggled, the alcohol thrumming through his veins. “t’s one of the things I love about her.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “I’m sure it is.”

Another glass of wine later, Yuji’s words blurred. “Dad, we—uh, we should—toast. To us. To the future! To…” He blinked. “…food!”

Sukuna poured him a half-glass. No more.

Yuji took it like a dare, drank it in three gulps, and then, mid-sentence, slumped sideways with the graceless collapse of someone whose body had simply given up.

You reached for him quickly. “Yuji—Yuji, hey—”

“He’s fine,” Sukuna said in a tired drawl, like he’s seen the same film play out too many times. “He always falls asleep early when he drinks. Tch. His weakness to alcohol is not something he inherited from me.”

“He shouldn’t be passed out like this.”

“He’s breathing evenly,” Sukuna said, standing. “Here.”

He scooped Yuji up with one arm, as if lifting his full-grown son was nothing. He marched him out to the living room, laid him on the couch, adjusted the throw pillow beneath his head with a surprisingly gentle touch.

Then he returned. Alone.

He sat back down across from you.

Silence settled like a curtain.

And then Sukuna looked at you. Really looked. Without pretending anymore.

“Come here.”

You didn’t move, but the tone of his voice had your body inching to move on instinct. Like it used to for him. “Sukuna—”

“Do you think I’m going to shout across the room like a teenager?” he said, voice soft but edged in that thinly-veiled drawl of ire. “Come. Here.”

You stepped closer. Because you always had. Because your body still remembered the tone he used when he didn’t want to say something twice.

He stopped you with a hand at your wrist. His fingertips were sweltering to the touch, as if he embodied the sun itself.

“You’ve been very well-behaved tonight,” he said, his large hands traveling up your arm, before resting at the curve of your back. “Impressive, truly. I didn’t expect you to hold it together this long. You usually aren’t this well-behaved.”

Your breath stuttered. “I’m marrying Yuji.”

“I know.”

“He loves me.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle whose final shape he already knew. 

“Because I’m not delusional,” he said evenly. “You’re a good partner to him. You’ll make him happy.”

That hurt more than it should have. You didn’t know why.

“And,” he added, “I’m not a monster. I have no intention of breaking my son’s heart.”

Relief flooded your chest. Too quickly.

Sukuna stepped closer. Close enough that you felt the warmth of him, the quiet danger that had never needed volume to be unmistakable. That familiar manly musk and the cool scent of sandalwood that belonged uniquely to him invades your senses. The same way it used to when he hovered above you, or when you gazed up at him between his sinewy thick thighs—

“But,” he said softly, “I’m also a man.”

Your breath caught.

“And I didn’t stop thinking about you just because you disappeared.”

Your stomach dipped. It wasn’t entirely from fear.

“You were mine first,” Sukuna said. There was no boast. Just fact. “I was in you before my son knew your name. I made you a woman. My woman.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Don’t say it like that.”

“I could be far more explicit,” he replied calmly. “Consider this restraint.”

His thumb traced the inside of your wrist, slow and proprietary.

“I’m not going to ruin him,” Sukuna said. “But I’m also not pretending you belong solely to him.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you were already going to live under my roof.”

Your pulse spiked.

“Yuji plans to ask,” Sukuna continued, smiling like a poisonous serpent. “He wants support while he establishes himself. He trusts me. He trusts you.”

A pause.

“This arrangement was inevitable.”

Your voice barely held. “And you think that gives you—”

“It gives me proximity,” he corrected. “And honesty.”

He released your wrist. It didn’t feel like mercy.

“You’ll be his wife,” Sukuna said. “But you’ll come to me when I ask.”

“And if I refuse?”

His expression didn’t change.

“Then I’ll step aside,” he said quietly. “And I’ll let my son decide how he feels about the woman who once shared my bed.”

Your chest hollowed.

“That,” Sukuna added with a low chuckle, “would be cruel.”

Your back hit the couch before you realized he’d moved.

A firm hand at your hip, pressure, gravity shifting. Then he hauled you downward, your knees bracketing his thighs, your breath locked in your throat. Sukuna settled you over him with the kind of ease that made your pulse misfire, his grip unhurried, like this was a position he’d always known you’d return to.

Across from you, Yuji slept on, mouth parted, chest rising and falling softly.

Your stomach lurched.

“Can’t we move somewhere els—” you whispered, your words falling on deaf ears as he made work of your clothing; popping your top’s buttons open to pull your breasts our, hooking a finger against your soaked panties and yanking it aside.

Sukuna didn’t tighten his hold. He didn’t need to. His eyes lifted to yours, heavy, expectant, the same look he used to give you years ago when he already knew your body would fold before your mind did.

A slow drag of his fingers along your waist. A touch that was barely there, if any, at all, made your breath stutter. Your body went hot and treacherously soft.

“Still remembers me,” Sukuna murmured.

“No,” you breathed, even as your thighs pressed together tighter without your permission.

His hand slid up your spine—not crude, not groping, just a steadying line of control that made your whole chest tighten.

“Look at him,” he said quietly.

You didn’t want to. You did anyway.

Yuji was out cold. Completely defenseless.

Your throat closed. “This is wrong.”

Sukuna hummed once, low. Not disagreement, but acknowledgment. He lifted his other hand, caught your chin between two fingers, guiding your gaze back to him.

“Wrong doesn’t change what you want.”

Your pulse hammered so hard it hurt. “You’re twisting—”

“I’m stating,” he cut in, voice low, final. “If you truly wanted to run, you would’ve been fighting for the door the moment he passed out.”

His mouth found yours first.

Not rushed—never rushed—but with the unerring certainty of someone who already knew how you would open for him. The kiss was deep, controlled, his lips firm and warm, the faint scrape of stubble grazing your skin. You tasted wine, smoke, something mineral and dark that was just him. It hit you low and fast, that familiar unspooling, your body tipping toward him like it had been waiting for permission.

Your fingers curled into his shirt without thinking. The fabric was thicker than Yuji’s. It was tailored, expensive, and held heat. Sukuna’s chest was solid beneath your palms, unmoving when you pressed against it. He doesn’t adjust to you. You adjusted to him.

His hand slid along your side, slow, deliberate, fingers spreading as if reacquainting themselves with old territory. He knew exactly where to pause. Where to press. Where the slightest pressure would make your breath stutter into his mouth.

Across the room, Yuji exhaled in his sleep. A soft sound. Blissfully unaware.

The awareness sliced through you—sharp, electric—and somehow only sharpened everything else. The leather beneath you creaked faintly as Sukuna pulled you closer, the couch dipping under his weight until you’re slanted toward him, caught between his body and the armrest. You feel held, contained by him in a way Yuji never quite managed. Yuji always checked in, always eased up. Accommodated your desires.

Sukuna doesn’t ease.

His fingers made quiet, devastating work of you—over clothes, beneath fabric, his rough and thick fingers rubbing against your pussy—each movement precise, economical, like he’s tuning an instrument he never forgot how to play. Your hips betrayed you, tilting without permission, chasing pressure you know you shouldn’t want with each intentional rub at your clit.

You broke the kiss with a gasp. He doesn’t chase your mouth, he just lowered his forehead to yours, breath mingling with yours, steady where you’re already fraying.

Sound sharpened. The faint hum of the house. The whisper of fabric. Your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears. Smell followed: sandalwood and heat and the clean, faint scent of leather. Taste lingered on your tongue, rich and dizzying. The taste of regret, sin, and ultimate pleasure.

Yuji’s touch had always been earnest. Careful hands, reverent, as if afraid you might slip away if he held too tightly. He was a sweet man. You loved him because of that.

Sukuna was possessive without cruelty. He touched you like something that already belongs to him, like the question was settled years ago and this was merely the answer being revisited.

Your back arched despite yourself when his fingers press just right, pressing against the erect nub of your clit and rubbing it between his fingers. The sensation made you squirm against him, your toes curling, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. He caught the movement immediately, palm firm at your lower back, holding you there. Keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Your head fell to his shoulder, breath breaking against his collarbone. His mouth followed—jaw, throat, the sensitive place beneath your ear—kissing without spectacle, without noise, devastating in its restraint.

You shouldn’t compare. You knew that.

But your body did it anyway.

Yuji’s warmth versus this heat. Yuji’s kindness versus this intense gravity. Yuji loved you like a choice.

But Sukuna touched you like inevitability.

Somewhere in the room, Yuji shifted again, murmurs incoherently, and the danger of it sends a fresh wave through you, sharp and illicit. Sukuna still doesn’t look away. His focus never wavered, fingers steady, skilled. His fingers finally relented on their assault on your clit, opting to push a thick finger inside of your embarrassingly wet cunt.

You bit down on your lip to keep quiet.

The stretch felt so familiar and yet so foreign at the same time.

Yuji was always the token athletic man back in your college. He was one of the beefiest men you knew, but even he didn’t compare to his father, who was a tank of a man.

“Tight,” he observed simply, sinking until he was knuckle-deep. “Yuji fuck you often?”

You could barely think with how his finger curled inside of you, grazing against that spot that had your hips twitching. “D-don’t ask me that while you’re—”

He added another thick finger. “Yes or no.”

You barely bit back a gasp, feeling tears prick your eyes from the achingly familiar stretch. 

“Yes,” you finally whimpered out in admission. Yuji had a fairly high libido, and he wasn’t one to shy away from fucking you any chance he could.

Sukuna hummed thoughtfully, pumping his fingers inside of you, stretching you out. He had to, or else you’d rip from his cock. 

“I figured. My son should take after my stamina.”

He added a third finger, earning a soft squeal from you. The sound traveled throughout the living room. You immediately slapped your hand over your mouth, your head whipping to Yuji’s direction with your heart stopping in your chest.

Yuji was still knocked out. Drooling on the pillow, too.

Sukuna chuckled at your anxiety. “Want to make this quick, hm?” He pulled his fingers out of you, admiring the wet slick, the creaminess forming and trickling down his palm. “Don’t want him to find out you’re actually my slut.”

He sat down beside you, thick thighs spread wide, and he lazily palmed his hefty bulge. “Well?” He cocked his head at you, raising a thick brow expectantly. “Better make me cum soon before he wakes up.”

Swallowing down your anxiety, you settled between his thighs, soft hands reaching out to unzip him. It was exactly the same view you had all those years ago, gazing up at this domineering tree of a man as you pawed at his cock. You freed him from his boxers, and the same cock that broke you in stared back at you.

It was just as you remembered it. It was so heavy and thick it seemed like it struggled to stand with its own weight, with prominent veins lining its length, the tip flushed an angry red, precum already leaking.

“Go on,” Sukuna said. “Do it like how you used to.”

Hesitantly, you leaned in, wrapping your hands around the base. He was so thick your fingers didn’t even meet. Gently, you wrapped your lips around his tip, the saltiness coating your tongue. He was so warm, that when his thick hands wrapped around your hair, you felt that unmistakable throb in your cunt as you pathetically rocked your cunt against the balls of your feet for some friction.

That doesn’t escape his watchful eye.

“Tch. Can’t even wait for me to properly fuck you.” His grip tightened around your hair, pushing you down further on his cock, causing the tip to jam itself in the back of your throat. You gagged, tearing up from the intense sensation. His scent filled your senses, your nose tickled by the coarse black strands lining his crotch. Sukuna overwhelmed you, his musky cool scent, the salty and tangy taste of his heavy cock, the pain and pleasure of his hand fisting itself in your hair—even your thoughts.

When you reached your limit, your lungs screaming for air, he pulled you off his cock with a sharp pop, a string of creamy drool connecting from your swollen lips to his angry tip. The sharp intake of sudden breath had your eyesight blurry with tears, your nose stinging from the onslaught of oxygen, and your expression fucked out and content.

Sukuna paused at the sight for the briefest moment. Your eyes were teary, streaking your face, drool dripping past your lip, your hair all mussed from his grip, utterly devastated by none other than him and him alone.

Before you could process it, he was already pulling you up to stand. Your hands found the couch to steady yourself, feeling dizzy as you felt Sukuna cursing behind you, parting your legs open for him. The tantalizing sensation of him slapping his tip against your cunt, before rubbing it, causes your breathing to deepen. Tap. Tap. Tap. You felt that deep pit in your stomach, as if your body was already unconsciously making space for him. When his tip parted and rubbed against your folds, not quite yet pushing in, you snapped out of your haze to let reason shine through.

“Condom,” you reminded him in a soft gasp.

He made a sound of displeasure behind you. “You’re worried about that now?” 

“Wear one,” you insisted.

There was a huff. You felt his cock pull away for a bit, and then came the sound of a foil wrapper wrinkling.

Without another warning, he pushed inside of you.

You gasped out, biting down on your own lip to muffle your sounds. You spared a glance toward Yuji, who was still peacefully sleeping without a care in the world, feeling both mortification and arousal swirl in your belly. Behind you, Sukuna hissed, his strong hands finding purchase on the curve of your hip, gripping you firmly as he mercifully allowed you a few moments to adjust to his size.

“Tight as a vice,” he huffed behind you, feeling your gummy walls fluttering around him as if in panic, like it was doing its damnedest best to accommodate his size.

Just the mere sensation of having him deep inside you, practically kissing your cervix, was already pushing you to a near orgasm. Your nails dug into the leather of the couch before you, in disbelief at your own body. Even Yuji had never gotten you to cum this fast, and he was damn enthusiastic about it!

Sukuna didn't warn you before he began moving. He knew your body down to the last centimeter even after all these years. He gathered that your cunt was well adjusted enough. It was bound to after tonight. He’d see to it that you’d adjust to his size again.

“Hear your cunt?” He grunted right into your ear as you whimpered and moaned out softly. The sounds of your slick filled the living room, accompanied with each harsh and firm smack of his hips into your rear. “Yuji might just wake up from the sound of it.”

You clenched around him at that, panicking at the idea. You squirmed, pleading with him softly.

“L-let’s move somewhere else,” you managed weakly despite the brutal force of his thrusts. “Not here, please.”

“You can still talk,” he spoke dryly. “Seems I’m not fucking you hard enough yet.”

His words barely registered before he was pushing you onto all fours on the couch, spreading your thighs wide for him, before he reentered. You moaned out into the couch, feeling all the air punched out of your lungs. Your legs faltered from his brutal pace, but his firm hands kept a strict hold on your hips, holding you upright as he used your cunt as he saw fit.

Your toes curled, your breathing picking up from the searing pleasure coursing throughout your limbs. White hot pleasure made its way to your lids every time you blinked, eyes practically half-lidded from the overwhelming sensation of Sukuna pounding into you like he had something to prove.

Your moans and small pleas for reason—asking him to move to a different location, somewhere other than where Yuji, your damned fiancé, was sleeping—slowly dwindled away into mewls and little gasps.

His thick fingers joined the onslaught on your cunt, flicking at the button of your clit, pressing right at that spot that had your hips stutter and your legs falter once again.

You sobbed out, shaking your head, pleading faintly for him to slow down, that it was all too much, that you couldn’t think, and then the intense warmth poured over your entire body as that pressure in your lower stomach snapped and you came with a moan.

You trembled weakly around him, but Sukuna’s thrusts didn’t ease up. He grunted, a hand wrapping around your throat to hoist your head up. He leaned in, kissing you filthily.

It was wet. His tongue pushed its way into your mouth, party silencing your moans, forcing your back into an arch as he continued pummeling his fat cock inside you. You were dizzy from the taste of his tongue, feeling the drool spilling past your lips.

His other hand grabbed a handful of your breast, encompassing the soft flesh wholly. He squeezed at it, tugging and twisting his roughened fingertips against the erect buds of your nipples.

“Didn’t give you permission to cum, slut,” he murmured against your lips. Your blurry eyes gazed into his own, and you saw the displeased furrow of his thick brows, his piercing red eyes rendering you still and pliant. He would usually be angrier, but perhaps he was letting it slide since it had been so long since he’s last fucked you.

“‘m sorry,” you whimpered out breathily, strings of saliva connecting your tongue to his own as he briefly pulled away from your lips to listen to your response.

“You will be,” was all he said, before he was hoisting you up.

Your hazy mind barely registered the change in scenery. He had crossed over to the other couch in two long strides with you in his arms, bending you over so you were face to face with Yuji’s sleeping face.

Your heart stopped in your chest, and a scream almost left your lips if not for Sukuna’s hand wrapping firmly around your mouth and the harsh thrust he gave you as punishment.

“I guess you want Yuji to see me fucking you like a whore,” he sneered from behind. “Can’t keep your mouth shut.”

His left hand reached down behind your left knee, hoisting your leg up so he was allowed a deeper angle, letting your foot settle on the armrest of the couch. Your face burned at the realization that your swollen and sopping wet cunt—stuffed full of Sukuna’s cock—was just mere inches away from Yuji’s peacefully sleeping face.

The fear, arousal, sadness, shame—all of it that welled up within you in that very moment caused you to clench tightly around Sukuna.

He groaned into your ear, his hips stuttering temporarily in their assault on your cunt. You had tightened up so much that he felt like he was being forced out of you.

“Are you getting off to this?” He rasped against your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin. “If Yuji wakes up, he’ll see you getting fucked by his old man. You okay with that?”

He finally pulled his hand away from your mouth, letting your mewls slip past your lips. You dealt with his punishing thrusts, all while gazing down at the innocent face of your poor fiancé.

Yuji exhaled softly in his sleep.

It was such an ordinary sound. A small, human thing. The rise and fall of his chest. The faint crease between his brows that only appeared when he’s dreaming of something lighthearted and stupid like living in the Mesozoic era. You knew that face. You’ve kissed that mouth gently in the mornings, traced the slope of that nose with fondness.

Now your breath trembled shakily against the same air he’s breathing.

Sukuna’s grip tightened at your hip, fingers digging in—not enough to bruise, but enough to remind you where you are. Who had you. Who was fucking you. The couch shifted faintly beneath the force of him behind you, the leather whispering with each scrape of your nails.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured near your ear.

Your fingers were trembling.

Not just from him. From the unbearable closeness. From the heat of his body sealing against yours. From the obscene awareness that if Yuji’s eyes opened—if they fluttered just once—you would be caught exactly like this. Exposed. Split in two. On a cock you’re not supposed to be cumming on.

Your body betrayed you again, tightening around him. He inhales sharply at the reaction, a low sound vibrating through his chest into your spine. You feebly wondered when he would finally cum. Curse him and his fucking stamina. No guy approaching his fifties should be fucking like this.

The room smelled like sweat now. Like sex. Like something irreversible.

“Look at him,” Sukuna said quietly.

You didn’t want to.

But you did.

Yuji’s lips parted slightly. He shifted, turning his face just a fraction toward you, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath ghost against your inner thigh. You’d felt that same sensation before. When Yuji was between your thighs, pleasuring you for hours, because he loved being close to you. He loved you. The tenderness of it nearly undid you.

Sukuna’s mouth brushed your shoulder. It wasn’t a kiss, not quite. But a claim.

“You chose this,” he reminded you, softer now.

That certainty was worse than cruelty. You did choose this. You didn’t have it in you to confess to Yuji that you’d been fucking his dad back in your college days when the two of you were nothing but good friends. You didn’t have it in you to admit that the entire reason you even got with Yuji, aside from the fact that he was a gentleman and the sweetest man you knew, was that he resembled Sukuna in the first place.

Of course, he fucking resembled his dad! 

Your nails scraped against the upholstery as another wave of pleasure crested through you, dizzying and humiliating. You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, desperate to keep quiet, to keep the fragile illusion that you had not betrayed Yuji intact. Hanging onto the feeble hope that as long as Yuji didn’t know, everything would be okay.

Sukuna moved with slow, punishing deliberation now. Each thrust measured. He moved like this when he was nearing his orgasm, preferring to feel the ridges of your cunt and the slow stickiness of your walls clinging to every inch of him. As if proving something. As if reminding you that this—this overwhelming gravity, this dangerous heat—is what you’d been orbiting all along since you’d walked away from him.

Yuji murmured something unintelligible.

You froze.

Everything stilled except the frantic hammering of your pulse. For a suspended second, the entire house held its breath.

Then Yuji settled again. His breathing evened out.

Relief flooded you so sharply it almost felt like grief.

Behind you, Sukuna exhaled through his nose, something darkly amused in the sound. His hand slid from your mouth to your throat, not really squeezing, just resting there, thumb feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.

“Always tightening up when you think Yuji’s about to wake up,” he grunted. “Don’t tell me you like this? You want Yuji to see me fucking you better than he does? What a slutty wife he has.”

Maybe you are.

Maybe that’s the worst part.

Your forehead nearly brushed Yuji’s as another tremor ran through you. The shame, the desire, the fear—it all tangled together until you couldn’t separate one from the other. You didn’t know whether the tears in your eyes are from pleasure or self-disgust.

Sukuna leaned forward, lips brushing your ear one last time. He bit down on your shoulder, his heavy balls twitching, his hips stuttering, and then you felt the heat of a thousand suns unload into you.

It happened almost before you understood what you were feeling.

A shift. A sudden change in pressure. The sweltering heat. Deep, flooding, and unmistakable.

For a second your mind was too fogged to name it. Your body still trembled from the intensity, muscles twitching, nerves raw and oversensitized. You were bent forward, breath stuttering against the fabric of the couch, Yuji’s sleeping face still inches away.

Then you felt it.

That warmth.

Not outside. Not contained.

Inside.

Your stomach dropped so violently it feels like you’ve missed a step in the dark.

No.

No, no—

Your hazy mind scrambled backward through memory. The beginning of the night. The agreement. The sharp, whispered insistence: Use one. You remembered it. You knew you said it. You remembered the sound of the condom wrapper before Sukuna—

Your pulse turned frantic.

He slowed behind you, breath heavy but controlled, like nothing was wrong. Like nothing monumental had just shifted.

You twisted your head slightly, panic slicing through the fog. “Did you—” Your voice broke, a sob slowly crawling its way out.

He didn’t answer immediately.

And that silence told you everything.

The room seemed to tilt.

“I told you—” Your throat closed. It came out strangled. Even speaking and breathing became an arduous thing. “We said—”

His hand steadied your hip, firm, almost dismissive. He still hadn’t bothered to pull out. “Relax.”

Relax.

The word detonated inside your chest.

You’re not on birth control.

Not anymore.

You stopped months ago. Quietly. Because you’d been planning something soft and hopeful and full of light. You’d imagined Yuji’s face when you’d tell him. Imagined laughing, shy and warm, letting him hold you closer and whisper about a future that felt safe.

You were going to let Yuji be the first.

You were going to surprise him.

The realization clawed up your throat so violently you think you might choke on it.

You pulled away from Yuji’s sleeping face as if burned, scrambling back, nearly collapsing onto the couch. Your thighs shook uncontrollably. You could still feel it—evidence of what’s been done, the thick syrupy strings of cum trickling down your ass, your inner thighs, lining the inside of your walls—your body too aware, too open.

“Are you insane?” you whispered, but it fractured into a sob halfway through.

Tears spilled before you could stop them. Not quiet tears. Not controlled. Your shoulders hitch violently, chest caving inward as the enormity crashed down on you.

Sukuna watched you.

Not confused. Not apologetic.

Just watching.

Then he slowly moved, making himself decent, finding a wet cloth before approaching you.

“I’m not on anything,” you choked out, hands gripping your own arms as if you can hold yourself together physically. “I stopped. I was going to—I was going to—” Your voice cracked.

Sukuna let you sob and overthink as he pushed apart your thighs, wiping away the cum smeared all over your cunt and ass. You pushed and punched weakly at Sukuna’s chest, but he barely even moved or budged, continuing to clean you. You may as well have been an ant trying to bite him.

Yuji shifted in his sleep again, and the normalcy of it was unbearable. He had no idea. No idea that the future you were building in your head—carefully, lovingly—had just been shattered in the span of a few reckless minutes.

You pressed a hand to your lower stomach instinctively, as if you could undo it. As if you could push time backward.

The physical sensation won’t let you forget. The lingering warmth inside of you. The slick reminder between your thighs that Sukuna was wiping away but could never fully erase. Your body felt foreign. Complicit in its betrayal. 

“Relax,” Sukuna said evenly, but there’s something harder under it. Something claiming, as if he didn’t even fully believe what he was saying. “One time won’t get you pregnant.”

“That’s not the point,” you cried, voice cracking open completely. “That wasn’t yours to decide, you bastard.” You punched his chest, sobbing. 

The shame was suffocating. Not just because of Yuji. Not just because of the betrayal. But because part of you had wanted something pure with him. Something untouched by Sukuna’s shadow. A child conceived in love, not in secrecy and spite and heat.

And now even that felt contaminated.

Your sobs turned quiet and ragged, your entire body trembling as the panic settled into something colder. 

Across from you, Yuji slept on.

You did everything you could to preserve the illusion of your happy relationship with Yuji. Just hours after Sukuna had fucked you, you had pulled Yuji into your shared room, letting him fuck you raw for the “first time.”

Yuji was eager, splitting you apart, peppering your face with kisses, chanting “I love you” right into your ear. You could only sob out as you told him you loved him too. You could never admit to him that you’ve betrayed his trust and love just hours ago.

Conveniently, Sukuna had left the estate for a business trip in a different city. Before he left, he made sure to fuck you full of his cum in his office all while Yuji worked in his office on the other end of the house.

Two weeks later, the morning came with sunlight slanting through the blinds, sharp and accusing. You sat on the edge of the bed, trembling, sticky sheets clinging to your thighs. Yuji slept peacefully beside you, tangled in the sheets, his hair a mess. Sukuna was not expected to return until tomorrow because of his flight delay. The morning silence was heavier than his presence.

Your hand went to the small plastic stick tucked in the drawer, the one you had almost forgotten in your panic two weeks before. You had been eager to take a test as soon as Sukuna had fucked you. But you waited until you could get the most accurate results.

You held it with a shaking grip, breath caught in your throat. Your warmth seeped into the toilet seat as you braced yourself for the result. Whatever it was, you were already past the point of no return.

One line. Two lines.

Positive.

You froze, mind spinning. Not that it was certain. Not really. You had… made sure. Made sure that if anything came of that shameful situation, Yuji could plausibly be the father. You had… taken measures. After that night, after Sukuna, you had done it with Yuji—careful, precise, desperate in your own way—so that even if your body had betrayed you, you could tell yourself you had a choice. Plausible deniability.

Still, looking down at the stick, your chest tightened. This was real. And yet, somehow, you could almost hear Sukuna’s smug chuckle echoing in your head. Relax, he’d said. As if the universe bent to his will alone.

It was a simple night. The kind that almost convinced you nothing complicated could exist inside it.

The balcony doors were open, curtains breathing in and out with the wind. The city below glittered in patient constellations. Office towers blinked red at their tips, headlights sliding along distant roads like slow-moving veins of light. Everything looked orderly from this height. Like everything was right with the world.

Yuji sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, his tea warming his hands. He held it the way he held most things: carefully, as if afraid of dropping something important. The faint yellow light from inside traced the line of his jaw, softened the earnest crease between his thick brows.

“I just wanted to ask,” he said at last, voice low, cautious, “how you feel about living here. With my dad.”

You didn’t answer immediately. The way his shoulders curved inward when he was uncertain. The way he searched for the right phrasing, even now, even with you. The way he avoided your eyes when he felt unsure. He was open in a way that made him vulnerable. Soft where his father was not.

Your thumb turned your engagement ring slowly around your finger. Once. Twice. The metal was cool despite your skin.

“I know it’s not ideal,” he continued. “I’m still getting established. I can’t really provide yet.” He gave a small, self-conscious smile. “Dad makes it look effortless. I don’t think I’ll ever be as decisive as he is.”

Decisive.

The word lingered.

Sukuna never asked for space. He occupied it. He never waited for permission. He never framed anything as a question. He was a man who moved without hesitation, as if he expected the world to bend over backwards to accommodate him.

The first time after that night, you had told yourself it wouldn’t happen again. You had rehearsed refusals in your head thousands upon thousands of times. A firm, clean, and final no.

They dissolved the moment he called your name.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten. He simply beckoned. A quiet summons from the far end of the house. A knock on your bedroom door when Yuji was in the shower. A hand at the small of your back when no one else was looking.

You could have said no.

You told yourself you tried.

But Sukuna did not argue. He stepped closer. He reminded you—softly, almost amused—how fragile certain truths were. How easily they could be misplaced. How one word from his lips could send your life as you knew it toppling down like a house of cards.

And sometimes, if you were honest in the dark with yourself, it wasn’t only fear that made you follow him down the hall.

The house had developed pockets of silence that belonged only to the two of you. His office with the blinds half-drawn. The storage room near the back staircase. In the kitchen pantry. Quick, stolen minutes that left you breathless and furious at yourself in equal measure.

Each time, you promised it was the last. Surely, it would be the last.

Each time, it wasn’t.

“I want to give you more,” Yuji said quietly, pulling you back. “A place that’s ours. Not his. I just… didn’t have another plan. I didn’t want to blindside you.”

You reached for his hand before the silence stretched too far. His skin was warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that made your throat tighten.

“I didn’t need another plan,” you said gently. “I’m fine here. As long as I’m with you, I’m fine.”

The sentence sat neatly between you. 

“And him?” Yuji asked after a moment, hopeful. “He doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”

Uncomfortable.

You thought of Sukuna’s hand resting possessively at your hip as you passed him in the kitchen earlier that week, fingers pressing just long enough to remind you. Of the way he looked at you across the dining table while Yuji talked, his gaze unwavering, almost lazy, like he already knew something no one else did.

Of how you had started anticipating the firm and pointed sound of his footsteps outside your shared room with Yuji past midnight.

You smoothed your expression before answering. A vacant smile, warm, and with hollow eyes.

“He’s not so bad.”

[toshisdecadence]

That ushi fanfic was TOP TIER! It’s been a minute since I’ve see a good fanfic like that

Hi!! Oh my god I just saw this now because I’m finally formatting and getting ready to upload the sukuna fics I’ve been working on for like over half a year LMAOOO

Thank you so so much! I’m so glad you enjoyed my ovulation-induced fantasies of my #1 man. Hoping to get out another ushi fic soon since I’ve had an idea for him but I haven’t really gotten to it yet since I’ve been so busy……….

[pnglove]

[toshisdecadence]

i have two sukuna fics im trying to finish hehehehhehehehehehe i hope to get them out this month

[toshisdecadence]

i don’t want kids but whenever i see wakatoshi the ladadada song plays in my head and i imagine our two story home with our white picket fence and our four kids attending private school

[toshisdecadence]

stepbro!sukuna..... ive been so busy ive been unable to do anything else but just focus on writing that in short increments. BUT I ALSO WNATED TO DO ANOTHER NANAMI FIC THE IDEA'S BEEN IN MY HEAD AFTER READING THIS ONE MANHWA.

im delirious

[toshisdecadence]

i want to do kinktober so bad but like idek where to start. i know for sure i can’t cook up like what my usual 10k+ oneshots so it’ll have to be super short smutty and vile drabbles

some thoughts…… i might make it office au based idek im just getting inspo from my internship

i have one month to decide

also i always saw kinktober as this big thing that the super great and wonderful authors on this site always participated in, and i, a humble gooner, just voraciously ate up their works to fuel my fantasies. idk ill see whether i can do one im way over my head my drafts are staring holes into my behind

[toshisdecadence]

just started my internship, and im already thinking of a nanami office au fic oml im going to eat him alive

SEND ME TO HR!!!

but before that i need to actually finish my sukuna stepbro fic I haven’t touched it in weeks

[toshisdecadence]

ushi got me feeling like one of those kpop stans with parasocial relationships with idols because i’ve been plotting on that man for YEARS when he was underrated and NOW THERES A RESURGENCE OF INTEREST IN HIM AND IM SCREAMING INSIDE

[toshisdecadence]

furudate threatens to release post timeskip married characters in haikyuu

if furudate reveals ushijima as one of them im going to end up on national television. i’m going to go crazy. you’ll see infidelity and cheating everywhere in my tags. yes ushi’s married—married to ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[toshisdecadence]

The Blue Sleeve

PAIRING: nine-tailed fox!satoru gojo x noblewoman!reader

WARNINGS: dark content, gore (descriptions of mutilation), attempted murder via sex, bodily transformation, religious/mythological references (kitsune folklore, kami pantheon, reincarnation i guess?), virgin!reader, cherry popping, size kink, size difference, rough sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), creampies, fingering, overstimulation, marathon sex, degradation, praise, dirty talk, cunnilingus suffocation attempts, aftercare

WORD COUNT: 10.2k

SUMMARY: Fox deity Satoru Gojo, cursed to die by pleasure, hires a broke noblewoman to fuck him to death.

© toshisdecadence

They say the gods died long ago, buried under yellowing imperial scrolls and obsolete prayers, but you know better.

Gods do not die. They are reborn. They shed their names like serpents rid themselves of their skins, quietly slip between the cracks of belief, and wait.

Others still wander. Foxes with too many tails still roam the mountain paths, their shadows longer than memory itself. River spirits nest in the dry mouths of forgotten wells. Celestial beasts, once divine, now haunt bustling teahouses and brothels, drunk on the taste of rain, of regret, of the small, human aches that heaven could never offer.

You were raised in a house that once held tea ceremonies for nobles and poetry readings by candlelight, but now hosts silence thick as smoke. The garden is overgrown, your father’s debts accrue like dust on lacquer, and your brothers make excuses in poor haiku. And still, you hold your head as you were taught. Chin high, spine straight, no trembling of the sleeve even when the creditors bow lower than they should.

You are your family’s last dignity, the last porcelain mask keeping the world from peering in. And like porcelain, you’ve learned how to crack beautifully.

You’re seated where you always are when officials come to collect: kneeling with perfect posture, spine like drawn steel, in your father’s study turned ledger-room. If one turned a blind eye to the decrepit house that shelters you, one would mistake you as a lady who needs not lift a finger in life. You do not bow too deeply. You never cry. You are a woman of good breeding, after all, even if the silks you wear now are last year’s dye and the tea you serve is bitter with cheap leaves.

So when the shoji door rattles again—no announcement, no name card—you lift your gaze with the practiced restraint of someone expecting another creditor.

But the man who steps over the threshold is no clerk.

He wears the color of melting snow and the scent of something old. Peach blossoms, perhaps, or dried blood left too long in the sun. His eyes are not the eyes of a man. Pale blue and glinting like the last shard of ice in a winter stream.

When he smiles at you, the hairs on your arm rise. Not from fear. But from recognition.

There is something in him that calls to the stories your mother whispered to you in poems and lullabies before sleep: of women who kissed gods and drowned in rivers, of girls who mistook monsters for salvation. Of love, if it could be called that, blooming like wolfsbane in a porcelain cup, purple petals unfurling slow and fatal in the heat of the water.

Hair like the snowfall on Mount Zaō flows down his back, white, fine, and faintly luminous, as if kissed by morning frost. It spills loose past his broad shoulders, bound only at the nape with a ribbon the pale blue of lake water under moonlight. His kimono, a shade softer than aizome dye, wears the color of indigo washed thin by river stones. Elegant, but ill-disciplined, draped over his body like a nobleman’s robe on a spirit that has long outgrown the court. The silk flares at the hems as he moves, like crane wings stirring over reeds, catching light the way mist clings to the surface of Lake Kawaguchiko at dawn, subtle, glinting, impossible to hold.

And his eyes…

Not merely blue, but the shade of frozen riverbeds under winter moonlight. Glassy, glacial, and far too ancient. Slit-pupiled like a fox’s, the shape made for hunting in the dark, they held the stillness of something that watched long before men ever lit torches against the night. The kind of eyes they say Tamamo-no-Mae had before she was slain and scattered across the land; the kind that gleamed from within reeds or shrine woods, belonging only to things with tails and teeth.

And in this moment, they are looking at you.

“You looked lonelier than most,” he says, voice like dusk catching on stone. “I thought I’d introduce myself.”

And he gives his name: Gojo.

Just the one word, unburdened, unbowed, and unmistakably chosen. You wonder, distantly, if it is his true name. If it ever was.

The tea spills. Just a drop. A bead of darkness blooming against the indigo of your sleeve, a bruise in the fabric. You don’t breathe.

Because somewhere in the oldest corner of your memory, you remember another fable. Told not in the courts. Not in markets. In stories. Whispers told between sliding doors. The pale fox of the frosttail. The storm-lover. The white shadow that laughs at dawn. A kitsune who tricked a warlord into surrendering his name. Who seduced a priestess into damning herself for love. About a man with blue fire in his eyes. About a fox who came down from the mountain. About a name that wasn’t supposed to be spoken aloud.

And yet Gojo-no-kitsune is here. Smiling.

Across from you, he leans against the pillar like it was carved for him. No one ever said he was beautiful. They only ever said: beware. Too tall, too white, too still. You wonder, briefly, if he breathes at all.

“Most women swoon when I appear,” he says, tilting his head.

You glance at him, unimpressed, maintaining your composure. “Then most women are fools.”

He smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that’s seen centuries burn. “No wonder I came to you.”

His voice lowers, not in tone but in temperature.

Your debts. Your fading name. Your ancestral house like porcelain teetering on the edge of a shelf. He lists them without cruelty, only with the idle familiarity of one recounting tragedies already written, already sealed in ink.

“I’m offering ten thousand ryō and a marriage contract.”

You do not blink. “And in return?”

He tilts his head, more animal than man in that moment, all glinting teeth and moonlight silk.

“You have to kill me.”

You sign the contract in your father’s study, using the same brush that once inked trade treaties and war pacts with three provinces, a northern daimyo, and a now-dead marriage prospect to a respectable family that could have saved you from the inevitability of selling your noble title. It is a family brush, lacquered red and tipped with badger hair, heavy in the hand.

Gojo doesn’t wait for the paper to settle. He rises, already moving. Outside, a palanquin awaits, painted a deep, bloodless red, its canopy stitched with cloud patterns and foxes in running gold thread. It wasn’t there before.

The bearers bow. Their faces are pale, indistinct, like mist on Lake Biwa at dawn. When you try to remember their features, your mind glides off them like an oiled brush. They do not speak, and you do not ask.

There’s no procession, no fanfare. Just the hush of twilight and the sound of the wind needling through sugi trees, like swords drawn slowly from their scabbards. He doesn’t ride with you. He walks. Barefoot.

Through the part in the curtain, you glimpse him. White-haired, blue-robed, his figure catching the last light like frost clinging to the peak of Mount Fuji. The road is uneven, stoned and choked with roots, but his steps make no sound. You’re not sure his feet ever touch the earth.

You think, quietly, that you may have just sold your name to something that does not bleed, does not sleep, and does not kneel. You don’t lie to yourself. You didn’t have another choice.

The estate rests at the end of no road, half-swallowed by forest. Its gate rises out of the mountain ridge like a shrine no one worships anymore. The wood is blackened, the seals burned into it in a script older than the Kojiki. Beyond it, a low-roofed manor sprawls like something hibernating, curved like a fox curled to sleep, its lanterns glowing with a light that isn’t flame.

Inside, the air is wrong. Heavy, as if you’ve stepped underwater. The walls breathe. The tatami hush beneath your steps, but never his.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t explain. Just leads you through corridors that shift when you blink. The house rearranges itself like a puzzle someone’s still solving. You pass a hall that smells like old incense and rain. Another that hums, faintly, with something that sounds like bells under water.

Finally, he brings you to a garden. You don’t remember climbing any stairs, but you’re high. High enough to see distant mountains and a sliver of river that might be the Kumano. The trees bloom with out-of-season plum and peach, petals drifting like snow. The air smells of warm stone, fox fur, and something older, something sweet like rot.

Then you see him. Where the lantern glow slips, his shape shifts. Nine long tails unspool behind him like silk dragged through deep water. His ears flick once, sharply, like a creature scenting something it already owns.

He turns before you can pretend you weren’t watching.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he says, eyes pale as crushed ice, voice curling like smoke from an offering bowl.

“I’m only thinking.”

He tilts his head. “And what does a newlywed bride think, on her first night in a fox’s den?”

You look past him. To the wrong season, the sky too still, the air too clean.

“That I’ve been sold,” you say. “But not cheaply.”

They come for you at dawn, though the sky is still dark. You wake not to sound, but to stillness. The kind that feels intentional, like something has paused just beyond the walls.

Three women wait by the door. They do not speak. They do not smile.

Their robes are old. The sort that was once worn by priestesses before the capital moved to Heian-kyō. Hair bound, hands pale, faces powdered smooth like porcelain. They look like they were painted into the room. They move like they never left it.

You are undressed. Not like a bride, but like a relic. Their hands work without pause, dousing you in steam and oils that smell of hinoki bark and bitter plum. The bath is drawn from stone. They scrub slowly, deliberately. Wrists, ankles, behind the ears, along the spine. The sensation is neither sensual nor sterile. It is a ritual. You are not being cleaned. You are being prepared.

When they wash your hair, they do not speak, but one of them begins to hum. The tune is older than lullabies. You feel the breath leave your chest in a soft exhale. Not relief, but rather surrender.

They paint your face in thin layers. Camellia oil and pale powder, color at the lip but not too much. The robe they fasten you into is the color of a deep harbor sky before a storm. Indigo edging into violet. Heavy with silver thread embroidery: foxes tumbling through clouds, a moon that never quite waxes full.

The mirror shows a woman you do not recognize.

When you stand, the robe settles around you like a shrine closing its doors.

They leave without bowing. You do not follow. The door opens itself.

The walk to the shrine is shorter than you expect. The corridors rearranged themselves again. The house is always watching.

The shrine is set behind a grove of moonlit trees, built into the slope like a secret. Its roof curves low, its doors lacquered black, trimmed in gold. You’ve seen court shrines before. This one is not that. It’s too old. Too plain. Too sacred. Too wrong.

Gojo is already there.

He wears white, layered robes of shōzoku silk, the kind usually reserved for exorcists or high priests. His hair, long and unbound, glimmers like frost caught on bare tree branches. There is silver patterning at his sleeves—fox tails and cranes in flight—and he wears no crest.

He is barefoot. Again.

You stop a few paces from him. No music. No priest. No guests. Not even a single lantern to witness it properly.

“This is your idea of a wedding?” you ask, voice dry, level.

He smiles. Easy, careless, the kind of smile that has never needed permission.

“What, expecting guests? Incense?”

“I expected something. Or someone. Aren’t ceremonies supposed to be witnessed?”

He lifts a hand in a half-shrug, as though that’s a matter of taste. “It’s just for us.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then why bother with the ceremony at all?”

Gojo glances up at the empty torii gate, then at the half-blooming trees beyond. His expression doesn’t change. But something in the air leans closer.

“I’ve never had one,” he says simply. “I thought I’d try it.”

As if marriage were a seasonal sweet he wanted to sample. As if this is all a curiosity to him.

You kneel because it’s expected. Because you know your role, and because there is no audience here to play to but him. The mat beneath you is warm, faintly scented of pine resin and fox fur.

Gojo kneels across from you. The distance is small. But it feels like you’re facing across a century. He pours the sake himself. The lacquer cups catch the starlight wrong.

Three sips. One for heaven. One for earth. One for the space between.

When the cup passes between you, his fingers brush yours. His touch is surprisingly warm. You thought glaciers ran in his veins.

He watches you drink.

You glance once toward the trees, which are still blooming out of season. There’s no bell. No seal. Not even a fox’s cry, even as the foxes watch from the shrubberies, their eyes glowing like molten gold.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” he asks.

You look at him. Beautiful and sharp, like the coast of Noto before a storm surge.

“Would you die if I did?”

His grin deepens. “Not yet.”

The chamber he brings you to is warm and low-lit, paneled in a lacquered wood that smells faintly of burnt plum and cedar. Shadows move too slowly here. The walls seem to lean inward.

You expect a conjugal bed. You’re dressed like a bride. You’ve been bathed like a sacrifice.

Instead, you find Gojo reclining on a low divan like a bored concubine in the inner palace. One sleeve slipped scandalously off his shoulder, white hair spilling down his back, nine pale tails fanned behind him like a lazy halo. He looks like he belongs on the mural of a pleasure house, waiting for the next fool to bankrupt themselves over a night with him.

This is not what you imagined gods to be like. Not poised, not solemn, not ancient and weighty with knowing. He smirks like a courtesan. Drinks like a gambler. Sprawls like a man who’s used to being admired and rarely denied.

He gestures to the floor beside him. “Come. Let’s talk strategy.”

You move slowly, robes whispering over the tatami. He watches you sit with a fox’s interest. Half-lazy, half-hunting. A lacquered tray sits between you, two cups and a pale bottle of sake that never seems to empty.

He pours. The liquid gleams like liquid moonlight. You take the cup, but you don’t drink just yet.

“You want to know what you’ve married,” he says.

“A fox with a death wish. That part was clear.”

“Ah, but not just a fox.” He winks. “I’m refined.”

You glance at the silks slipping off his shoulder. “You look like a man kept in a teahouse.”

He grins. “Not far off.”

He leans back, shifting to one elbow, tails dragging across the floor like silk cords. His robe parts just enough to be inappropriate. He doesn’t seem to care.

“I was cursed centuries ago,” he says with a sigh, as if recalling a story he’s tired of retelling, “by a priestess I should not have slept with. She was powerful, vengeful, and… regrettably sincere. She had a knack for poetry. I told her she should make a haiku. And she did, when she cursed me.”

“...That sounds an awful lot like your fault.”

He conveniently ignores you to recite the curse.

“No blade shall take him Let coitus be his coffin Perish by the bed.”

He sighs, continuing. “Her curse was precise, exchanging her own life for it. She said it like a prayer. A terrible haiku, even. Poetic types are the worst.” He shrugs. “And then she burst into flames. Very dramatic.”

You raise a brow. “And... have you been trying ever since?”

He sips. Then leans closer, tone lowering into something conspiratorial.

“I spent the better part of a decade disguised as a daimyo’s third son. Very handsome. Very rich. I funded a theater. Dined on carp tongue. Fucked my way through a record number of noble brides, actors, monks, and one extremely talented onna-bugeisha who almost skewered me after I made her cum.”

You blink.

“I mean that as a compliment,” he adds.

“I didn’t take it as one.”

“You should. She certainly did.” 

You sip your drink just to avoid responding immediately. “And none of it worked?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Some came close. One lover managed to make me faint. Another got me to cry.” He gives you a sly look. “In a good way.”

You look at him flatly.

“And then there were the more... creative ones,” he adds, twirling the cup in his hand. “I’ve been strangled with silk, stabbed with a hairpin, poisoned mid-climax. One woman hacked my arms off in a fevered fit of ecstasy. Another tried to drown me in the bath she drew with cherry blossoms.”

He wiggles his fingers at you. “I grew them back.”

“You died?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” he says cheerfully. “Several times. Limbs off, heart stopped, blood everywhere. Very dramatic. I always wake up a minute later, body whole again, and they scream. Or cry. Or try again. It never finishes. The curse is too precise. Let coitus be his coffin—ugh, such poor lines—not pain, not hatred, not desperation. It has to be the soul tipping out through the mouth, as I come apart from the inside.”

You take another drink. He watches your expression.

“You thought me solemn, didn’t you?” he says, smiling like a man who’s read too many love poems and survived too many of their authors. “Most people do. They see the hair, the eyes, the tails, and think I must sit on mountain peaks meditating through storms.”

“Do you?”

“I did. For a year. Boring as sin.” He stretches, like a spoiled cat. “I prefer cities. Lantern-lit girls with quick hands. Gossip. Sake.”

You don’t know what surprises you more. That he’s speaking so plainly, or that he’s not pretending to be more than he is.

He pours you another cup. You let him.

“So,” you say, after a moment, “you want me to kill you. Beautifully.”

He smiles over the rim of his sake. “Exactly.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we try again. Until I die or you tire of the view.”

You study him. The curve of his throat. The lazy sprawl. The tails shifting like smoke in their own wind. You wonder if the women before you had stared the same way, trying to map where the line was between man and myth, between body and curse.

You wonder if they all loved him, just a little, before they tried.

You prepare as one would for battle.

Bathed. Perfumed. Waxed to velvet. Hair wound into silken knots and threaded with pins. You do not feel like a bride. You feel like an assassin wearing silk. Yet you are both.

The robe you’re given is indecent. Pale, translucent, sleeveless. Something a courtesan would wear after the show, not before. You refuse the underlayers. He doesn’t deserve those.

The room is dimly lit again with lanterns that seem to flicker without oil. The air smells faintly of peaches, and something deeper underneath: a musk like fox fur left to dry in the sun. He waits for you on the same divan, lounging like a man with nothing but eternity in his hands. When you enter, he looks up and smiles with all his teeth.

“I see,” he says, “you’ve come with intentions.”

You don’t answer. You kneel before him.

He watches you for a moment, studying your face the way one might study a difficult passage in a religious text. Then he shifts forward, draws your wrist into his hand, and kisses the inside of it, too gently, like a mimesis of tenderness.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he murmurs, regarding you with those hypnotizing slit-pupils. “We both know you’re not here to make love.”

You still. He chuckles.

“Don’t look so shocked. You’re not the first to try something clever. One woman hid a poisoned pin in her mouth. Another thought if I bit her and swallowed some of her blood it might bind us.”

You don’t ask what happened to them. You suspect they screamed, and tried again.

He rises fluidly. Steps closer. You smell the warm cedar of his skin, the pale citrus of his robe. His fingers trail under your chin, tipping your face toward him.

“So,” he says, quiet now. “What is it tonight? Do you intend to strangle me with your thighs, or kiss me to death?”

“I was hoping,” you say calmly, “that if you suffocated while eating me out, I wouldn’t have to look you in the eye.”

He bursts out laughing. “Really?” he says, already between your legs, chin propped on the inside of your thigh like he belongs there. “That’s your plan? Death by cunt?”

It starts slow. Obscene. Wet heat dragging up the plush of your folds, tongue flattening with intent before curling in. He suckles at you like he’s been dreaming of it for centuries, each movement purposeful, greedy, devout. You feel it everywhere: in your thighs, your belly, your spine. A ribbon of sensation that coils and tightens until your breath stutters into silence. He mouths at your cunt like a man sealing a blood pact. Like if he worships hard enough, the gates of heaven might open under his tongue.

You were taught, vaguely, what a husband might do to a wife. That pleasure was a duty. That softness could be weaponized. But there was no pamphlet, no mother’s whispered warning, for this.

Your thighs clamp around his head, unthinking. The wet, lewd sound of his mouth on you fills the quiet chamber like a spell too ancient for modesty. He groans, delighted—something closer to a purr, really—nosing deeper into the slick mess he’s making of you. His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs parting you at the seam, and he devours you.

Not kisses. Not love bites. Devours. It’s lecherous. Messy. Vile. It’s so good you nearly sob.

And he knows. He knows, because he laughs. Mouth still on you. A soft, muffled chuckle that vibrates right against your clit and makes your hips buck against his face. He’s not deterred. He’s drunk on it. Lapping at you like a man in heat, jaw working slow and brutal, as if he’s determined to make you forget your name.

You’d thought, dimly, that maybe—maybe—if you locked your legs around his head tight enough, he’d suffocate there. That his body would go slack. That you’d open your eyes to find a collapsed deity with a blood-wet mouth and no pulse. That the curse would shatter like a mirror struck by lightning.

But no. He doesn’t even pause. He moans into you, low and hungry, like he likes the idea of dying like this. You briefly think of the poor priestess who exchanged her life to curse a man who enjoys his curse. And when you think you can’t take any more, when your legs are trembling and your cunt is dripping and your hands are clawing at the tatami for mercy, he flips you.

You don’t remember it. Only the aftermath: your cheek pressed to the floor, his hand between your shoulder blades, your hips raised and open like a sacrificial offering. Your thighs are slick. Your cunt leaks down your inner thighs like perspiration down a lotus stem.

You feel him behind you. Big. Thick enough to scare you. He strokes himself once, twice, lets you hear the sound of it, and then he pushes in.

You gasp. Scream, maybe. It splits you open, more overwhelming than painful. Like being caught under a wave. Like your body is no longer yours to command. Like your insides are being remade in his shape.

He doesn’t rush. He slides in deep. Inch by inch, giving you the full weight of him, letting you feel every throb, every ridge, every intent. Your breath leaves you in a ragged moan as your cunt clenches reflexively around him.

There is a moment—one crystalline second—where you think: maybe. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how you both go.

He begins to move. Not with mercy. Not with violence either. But command. He fucks you with the steady, obscene confidence of a man who’s seen empires rise and fall between women’s legs. His thrusts are deep and thorough, hips grinding into your ass, cock dragging along every hypersensitive part of you until your eyes roll back.

And he talks. Gods, he talks.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, leaning over you, tongue licking a line up your spine. “Is this your plan, little bride? Gonna fuck the life out of me?”

You whimper, unsure if it’s agreement or denial.

His voice dips, filthy-sweet. “No, you want it. You want me so deep you forget your own name.”

He praises you. Coos at you. Calls you cruel, perfect things in a voice you’d expect from a lover in a dream. Tells you how good you feel. How tight you are. How his cock belongs inside you and nowhere else.

“Are you squeezing me to kill me,” he pants, rutting into you harder, “or because you’re about to cum again?”

His tails curl around your waist like silk ropes, tightening with each moan he wrings out of you. They could crush you, you think. Could break you in half if he wished. But they don’t. They hold you together.

Your climax builds fast. It surges through you, blistering and sudden, your legs trembling, your nails dragging across the floor.

You cum with a cry, and he doesn’t slow. He fucks you through it, cock grinding deep until the overstimulation makes your thighs quake and your breath hitch.

Still, he doesn’t die.

When he finally spills inside you—hot, heavy, and too much—he groans low into your shoulder and stays there, buried to the hilt. You feel him pulse, twitch, claim.

And when your body is limp and wet and wrung out like silk in the rain, you lie there.

Waiting for the stillness. The light. The silence of a god departing.

“Nothing?” he says, amused.

You groan into the pillow. “Nothing,” you croak.

He sighs, mock tragic, and collapses beside you with the grace of a spoiled concubine. “That was a good one, too.”

You roll your head toward him, your legs still shaking. “…I think I almost died,” you murmur.

He grins, brushing damp hair from your temple. “I think I almost came to death. But alas. Still breathing.”

You lie in silence for a while. Your limbs feel boneless. His tails drape over you like silk. And eventually, you say, breathlessly, “Maybe it’s not just the sex.”

He lifts a brow. “Oh?”

You turn your head. Look at him. All teeth and beauty and tragedy disguised as charm.

“Maybe,” you say quietly, “it has to be someone you love.”

He blinks. Once. Then again.

“That,” he says, “is a terribly boring theory.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” you say as you gather your robe.

He watches you from the sheets, propped up on one elbow, hair a mess of silver and shadow.

“I don’t know,” he says languidly, grinning like a cat. “I’ve never tried that.”

You try to suffocate him with your cunt again. That’s attempt two.

He laps at you until your knees buckle, until the world whiteouts behind your eyes. But when you clench around his tongue hard enough to bruise, he moans so sweetly. Dies, even, breath huffing still against your soaked thighs.

You almost cry from relief. You wait, trembling, gasping.

A few minutes pass when his hand pats your hip. “I can’t feel my face,” he mumbles into your cunt. “Did it work?”

Attempt three: you try stabbing him mid-orgasm.

You wait until he’s nine or so inches deep inside you, moving like sin incarnate, whispering filth in your ear about how tight you are, how good you take him. His hips snap against yours, his voice ragged as he calls you lady-killer.

You drag the tanto out from under the pillow.

“Hot,” he gasps, right as you plunge it into his chest.

He arches. Shudders. Dies beautifully, moaning your name like a prayer.

You fall off him. Panting. Shaking. Covered in crimson.

And then, thirty seconds later.

“Oh,” he groans, sitting up, blade still embedded in his sternum. “That’s where you hid it. Clever girl.”

Attempt five. You decide to get technical.

You read about it in a banned scroll: a Tantric position said to rupture the spirit if performed with intent and perfect breath control. It involves three stacked positions, eye contact, synchronized pelvic thrusts, and the mutual recitation of death mantras.

Gojo makes it halfway through the sutra before collapsing into a laughing fit.

“You’re riding me like a priestess possessed,” he wheezes. “Oh gods, yes, keep going—‘thus I crush thee between heaven and flesh’—how poetic.”

He dies with a dramatic gasp and a string of Sanskrit praise.

Wakes up dazed. “Was I levitating?”

Attempt eleven: you acquire a lacquered phallus possessed by a demon of lust and vengeance.

He finds it adorable.

You tie him up. He mouths off. You use it anyway.

Three orgasms later, he’s convulsing, twitching, eyes rolling back in his head. The air smells like lightning. The cursed object cracks in half.

You nearly cheer.

Then he gasps, swallows air, and croaks. “That thing had some teeth. Where’d you get it? I want another.”

You leave the room. He follows.

You barricade the door with a futon.

He doesn’t push it. When he peeks in through the screen panel with the brightest grin you’ve ever seen—nine tails wagging behind him like a pleased cat—you throw a sandal at his face.

“I swear to the gods,” you say, voice fraying. “If you so much as wink at me, I’ll set your favorite robe on fire.”

He catches the sandal midair. “This one?” he asks, holding it up. “Or the one you ripped earlier while riding me?”

You pick up a second sandal.

He closes the screen.

That night, you sleep alone.

In the morning, your tea is steeped just how you like it. There’s pink mochi on the tray. He’s scribbled a note on the napkin in frankly perfect calligraphy: Abstinence makes the cock grow fonder. You almost throw it away—almost—but fold it in half and tuck it into your sleeve.

You don’t know why.

Days pass.

You sit in the garden. He joins you, but doesn’t touch. He’s barefoot again, tails curled around himself like a shawl. His hair’s still damp from a bath. He smells like plum blossoms and recklessness.

“I thought you’d get bored,” you say after a long silence.

“I did,” he admits. “That’s why I followed a sparrow for an hour. I wanted to see where it lived. I got distracted halfway through and accidentally learned a tea ceremony from a ghost.”

You blink. “Is that a metaphor?”

“No.”

“…Do you ever stop being strange?”

“Gods, I hope not.”

By the fifth day, he sits beside you like a companion.

He feeds the koi in the pond. You pluck leaves off the silk tree.

There is a kind of silence between you now, not hostile, not awkward. Just a strange, settling peace. “I think I’m still sore from last week,” you say at one point.

He winces sympathetically. “So am I.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re immortal.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t chafe.”

He opens up in small ways.

It’s not like you asked. He just does.

“Most people wanted something from me,” he says once. “Sex. Protection. Power. Or they just wanted to say they’d been with a deity.”

You glance at him. He’s lying on the stones, staring at the sky, arms folded under his head. One tail lazily flicks dust off the hem of your robe.

“I didn’t mind,” he continues. “It was easy. No one asked me for anything real.”

You hum. “That’s sad.”

“It’s efficient.”

“But not warm.”

He doesn’t answer that. 

By the seventh day, you’re brushing your hair out on the veranda when he startles you by appearing upside-down from the roof beam.

“Your brush has missing teeth,” he says, chin resting on his folded arms.

You glance down at it, then back at him. “So does your ninth tail.”

He snorts, amused. “Fair. Mine’s growing in crooked. Yours is just sad.”

“It belonged to my mother,” you say softly.

That earns a pause. Not silence, exactly, but the kind of quiet where he’s listening. His expression shifts, just slightly, but enough to notice. You wonder, not for the first time, if he's capable of real grief, or if he's only learned how to mimic it.

“Did she teach you to braid?” he asks.

You shake your head. “She wore hers long and loose. Said knots belong in thread, not in hair.”

Gojo hums, tilting his head. “She sounds wise. Or dramatic.”

“Both.”

He blinks at you, then says, “I’ll fix your comb.”

You raise a brow. “You’re not a craftsman.”

“No, but I’ve stolen from a few,” he says cheerfully. “I can glue ivory like a liar.”

You laugh, despite yourself. “Won’t it still be crooked?”

“So is my ninth tail,” he replies, grinning upside-down. “But it still counts.”

He catches you muttering over accounts once.

You’re hunched over scrolls in the study, ink drying crooked on the ledger. The math doesn’t match. It never has.

Gojo pokes his head in and frowns. “Why are you doing that?”

“Because my idiot brothers are off playing samurai and poets in the borderlands,” you say, rubbing your temple. “And if I don’t, no one will. My family’s land is falling apart, the rice is short this year, and my house steward keeps asking if we can sell off heirlooms.”

He raises a brow. “I offered you ten thousand ryō.”

“That’ll keep them afloat,” you mutter. “But someone still has to steer the ship.”

You sigh and glance at him.

“I’m the last daughter of a house on the verge of being forgotten. No sons at home. No uncles left. Just me. It should never have been me.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Instead, he folds himself beside you and asks, quietly, “Then why did you say yes?”

You don’t look at him when you answer. “Because I’d rather sell myself to a fox than let the vultures pick my name clean.”

Later, when you’re both sprawled in the sun like cats, his voice drifts up, quiet. “There was a time I lived in a shrine,” he says.

You blink. “You?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I was young. Barely four tails. Curious about humans. I let a small mountain village worship me.”

You stare.

“They were kind,” he continues. “At first. Then the winters came. The crops failed. And they needed someone to blame.”

“…What did they do?”

“They stopped praying,” he says simply. “Then they started starving. Then they tried to burn me.”

You sit up. “But you’re a deity—”

“I was a fox,” he says. “A young one. I could conjure light, not food. They didn’t want light.”

That night, you find yourself brushing your hair with the broken comb again. Gojo stands behind you, watching. For once, he doesn’t make a joke.

“May I?” he asks, voice low.

You nod.

He combs it gently, slowly, like he’s learning the shape of your silence. His hands are warm. Too warm to be mortal. But careful.

After a while, you speak. “Do you miss being worshipped?”

He snorts. “I miss the gifts. Less so the flattery. You can only hear ‘oh great divine one’ so many times before it starts sounding like sarcasm.”

“And now?”

He pauses. “Now I think I prefer this.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “Being ignored?”

“Being seen,” he corrects.

You don’t smile. But you don’t stop him when his hand lingers at the nape of your neck a little longer than needed.

The moon is thin tonight, a sickle blade above the estate’s crooked rooflines. Wind combs through the pine trees, soft and whistling, like a mouth too old to speak plainly. You should be sleeping. But something tugs beneath your ribs. Not restlessness. Not duty. Just a kind of... tightness. Like you’ve pulled a string too taut and now it won’t loosen.

When you follow him into the house, he doesn’t speak. He only waits.

You find him not sprawled on cushions or reclining like a courtesan tonight, but standing by the window, back lit by moonlight. It makes a silhouette of him—slim waist, broad shoulders, hair spilling down like a silver curtain—and for a moment, you forget that he’s ever been ridiculous. He looks like a myth in mourning. Or one on the verge of breaking.

You cross the room and reach for him without ceremony. Your hands meet the silk of his robe before he turns, and by then, it’s too late to pretend you were after anything else.

His gaze flicks to you immediately. He was waiting. Or watching. Or both.

“No sandal to the face this time?” he murmurs.

You don’t answer.

You step barefoot across the wood. The air is cool against your skin, the silk of your robe a whisper with every movement. His eyes track you like a predator humoring its prey. There’s no smugness this time, no easy quip curling off his tongue.

You drop to your knees in front of him.

His mouth parts, slightly. “Ah,” he says softly, “so it's that kind of night.”

You climb into his lap.

His hands go to your hips instinctively, but you push them away.

“I didn’t come here for you to touch me.”

His grin returns, but it's slower. Hungrier. “No? You came here to touch me, then?”

You don’t reply. You pull your robe open instead, exposing the shape of your thighs, the soft underside of your breasts, the line of your navel like ink spilled down a scroll. His eyes flash.

Your hands push at his robe. He shrugs out of it without flourish. Beneath, he is unreasonably beautiful: all pale skin and long muscle, the lean grace of something that’s never known sickness, never needed to fight to survive. The kind of beauty that ruins kingdoms. That topples temples. That should not belong to anyone still walking the earth.

You do not undress slowly. You do not need ceremony. He has seen you bare before, in other nights, other acts, when there was always a goal: the cliff edge of climax sharp as a blade, the gamble of death hovering behind every thrust.

But this night is different.

This night, you climb into his lap like the world isn’t ending. You press your mouth to his collarbone and taste the salt of his skin, and when his arms wrap around you, it is not to restrain or ravage. It is to hold.

His cock is already hard when you grind against him, slow and deliberate, your breath catching at the press of him between your thighs. He groans, low and ruined, forehead tipping forward to rest against yours.

“You still feel like silk,” he murmurs, guiding himself to your entrance. “Every damn time.”

You sink down onto him with a sigh. There’s no rush. No surprise. Just that impossible fullness, stretching you wide as you ease down inch by inch, your breath fluttering with every shallow thrust of your hips until he’s seated fully within you. You both shudder.

Your arms loop around his neck. His hands grip your waist, thumbs stroking the curve of your hip like it grounds him.

You move slowly. Not coy. Not shy. Just honest. Your body rises and falls over his, rhythm as steady as breath, hips rolling with practiced grace. His eyes don’t leave you. Not once. You ride him like you mean it. Not to kill, not to prove, but because you know how he fits, how you feel with him inside you. It’s not performance. It’s not war.

It’s something else entirely.

“You’re warm tonight,” he whispers, voice threadbare. “Softer.”

You huff a laugh into his hair. “You’re sentimental.”

“I’m fucked,” he agrees, teeth catching your earlobe. “Absolutely, perfectly fucked.”

His hands spread over your back, holding you flush to his chest as you grind down on him. You can feel how hard he is, how he twitches deep inside you with every squeeze of your walls. There’s no tempo but the one you make together, no game but the sound of skin meeting skin, no purpose but pleasure blooming slow and deep like wisteria at dusk.

He flips you, eventually, when your thighs tremble too much to rise again. He pushes into you in long, unhurried strokes, his mouth at your neck, his hair brushing your cheeks like thread-thin silk. One of his tails curls around your ankle. Another trails along your spine.

When you tighten around him, he groans.

“You’re close,” he says, breathless.

“So are you.”

He hums, forehead against yours. “Then cum with me.”

And you do.

It crests like a slow wave. Sensation tightening, cresting, unfurling until you break. You clench around him, body shuddering, and he thrusts once, twice, then spills into you with a sound that borders on reverent.

You lie tangled together afterward. His chest rises beneath your cheek, his fingers lazily brushing your spine.

You don’t expect him to die this time. And he doesn’t.

He sits behind you on the veranda, knees parted to cradle you between them, comb in hand. The day is still, the kind of stillness that only happens when the wind forgets its name. A low breeze makes the wind chimes speak soft nonsense, glass-thin syllables strung across the eaves.

Gojo hums tunelessly. His fingers card through your hair, slow and unhurried. The teeth of the comb follow, smoothing each lock until it gleams. You’ve long since given up asking why he insists on doing this himself. He likes to say your hair is a “meditative exercise.” You’re fairly certain he just enjoys touching you.

He begins to braid, lazy, half-focused twists.

“You’re quieter today,” you murmur.

He hums again. “I was thinking about the first time I grew a tail.”

You turn your head slightly, not expecting him to discuss his past, but he presses a finger to your nape, firm. “Don’t ruin the braid.”

“…You weren’t born with them?”

He snorts softly, like the question amuses him. “Do you think gods are born? Even we have to earn our divinity. The universe doesn’t give, it makes you take.”

The braid tightens. You glance back at him, but he presses a thumb lightly to your nape. “Don’t turn. I’m almost done.”

The braid is heavier now, weighted with rain-damp silk. You feel the ribbon wind around it, something fine and dark, probably looted from one of his previous lovers.

“Most foxes die before they reach four tails,” he continues. In that same tone that reminds you of how your mother used to tell you fables as dusk kissed the sky. “Or they fade into smoke. Or they go mad from the weight of memory.” His voice is low now, almost reverent. “But if they live. If they love and hunger and suffer long enough, the ninth tail arrives.”

You sit with that for a moment. “And then?”

“Then they’re not a fox anymore,” he says, eyes half-lidded. “They die. And the gods receive them as one of their own.”

“Wait, so your death is… your ascension?”

He smiles. “You thought I was being poetic, didn’t you? When I said I needed to die.”

You don’t answer. You thought he was just an eccentric fox deity.

He leans down, resting his chin on your shoulder. His breath is warm where your robe falls loose.

“Only a few kitsune have done it,” he murmurs. “Tamamo-no-Mae was one. But she died messy, didn’t she? Killed by men who couldn’t understand what she was. She didn't die right. So she still lingers, trying again.”

You think of the nine tails you’ve seen, curling like smoke around him when he forgets to pretend. You think of the smile he wore the first night he made you come apart like silk. You think of his bare hands steeping your tea each morning. His humming. His stubbornness. The sandal he caught mid-air.

You turn to look at him. The braid itches suddenly. Like it’s binding you to something that has an end.

You look down at his hands—hands that have gripped you, soothed you, teased you, hurt you just right—and you ask the first thing hanging on the tip of your tongue.

“…Do you want it?”

His smile is quiet this time. No teasing. No fangs.

“I do,” he says. “Have been for a very long time.”

“Even now?”

He cups your cheek, gently, like he’s done it in a hundred lifetimes.

“Well,” he says. “I suppose I’m starting to enjoy being almost a god.”

The seasons begin to change, though neither of you marks them by calendar. Only in subtler ways: the plum blossoms vanish from the wind. The moss thickens on the stone path. Your robe sleeves grow longer, lined now with a heavier brocade. You drink your tea hotter. He begins to warm the floors for you before you wake.

The attempts still happen, sometimes. A hand closed too tightly around his throat. A night where you drink too much and dare him to fuck you until the walls shake. A morning where you bite down on his neck hard enough to draw blood, and he only moans into your mouth.

But they’re less desperate now. Less cruel. Like something in you has stopped hoping he’ll vanish.

Like something in him has stopped wanting to.

Sometimes, he lets you see the tails when they’re not behaving. When they slink behind him like shadows, coiling, flickering, agitated by weather or mood. You count them, sometimes. Always nine. But the ninth is strange. Not fully formed. Not as sharp or as sure. It frays at the ends like it's unfinished.

“It’s still growing,” he says. “It’s the tail of endings. It doesn’t settle until the soul does.”

You look at him. “Is yours unsettled?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He begins to braid your hair more often. Not just when he’s trying to distract you with stories or tie you to him with silk. But in the mornings, when you read. In the afternoons, when you nap in the sun.

He’s still a nuisance—still vanishes to chase spirits, still slips into town disguised as a minor noble to steal yours and his favorite sweets—but he returns now. Always. And he brings things back: a comb made of mother-of-pearl, gossip from the innkeeper’s wife, a scroll of love poems “written by an old ghost who pines in the bathhouse.” Allegedly.

You fall asleep with his breath on your neck more nights than not. And sometimes you wake to him staring—not lustful, not teasing—just… watching. Like he doesn’t understand how you got here. Like he’s unsure if you’re real.

You’re not sure, either. But the space between you no longer feels sharp.

It’s soft. Like the curve of your spine when he kisses it. Like the sigh he makes when you comb his hair, now that he lets you. Like the quiet after a failed attempt, when you both lie together in the dark, limbs tangled, hearts steady.

You haven’t killed him. But you might be killing him all the same.

He reads to you now.

Tales of foxes tricking emperors, like the story of Kūko, the nine-tailed fox who wore the skin of a concubine and collapsed a dynasty with a smile. Of women who fell in love with lightning and bore sons who could call storms with their grief. Of ghosts who wandered courtly gardens, whispering their names to dying noblemen in exchange for one last night of poetry and flesh.

He tells you which ones are true.

“Not this one,” he says another evening, tapping a passage written in gold ink. “A fox who gave her name to a mortal out of love? Rubbish. No fox ever gave their name willingly. Not unless it was stolen. Or tricked from their lips at the brink of death.”

You glance up at him where he reclines, long legs folded, a glazed plum between his teeth. One tail coils idly around your ankle. It’s a lazy, familiar intimacy now. Weightless.

“Would you?” you ask, quiet.

His expression is uncharacteristically thoughtful. Almost sober.

“Maybe,” he says at last, voice low. “If she asked nicely.”

He brings it up one night without warning.

You’re reclining together beneath the open beams of the veranda, cradled in the warm hush of late summer. The wind is gentle, stirring the sound of chimes and plum branches, perfuming the air with something faint and aching. Gojo lies in your lap with his eyes half-lidded, his long white hair spilling across your thighs like a silken net, tails slowly waving behind him in the way a content cat flicks its ears.

“You should think about what you’ll do,” he murmurs suddenly after not speaking for a while. “When I die.”

Your fingers still in his hair. He speaks with the ease of someone choosing a menu or idly discussing the weather. Not cruel. Not even solemn. Just inevitable.

“I’ve already arranged it,” he continues, blinking up at the painted rafters. “The titles will pass to you. The sealed vaults too. The estate itself is warded to recognize your presence. All the foxfires, all the silent things, will know not to harm you.”

You frown. “What estate?”

He snorts, amused. “Which one?”

And then he begins to list them. A mountain stronghold in the Japanese Alps, abandoned since the Edo period, haunted by a disgraced mountain spirit who sings only in winter. A villa on the shores of Lake Biwa, half-swallowed by tenacious ivy, where he once seduced a foreign empress who compared him to the moon. An underwater shrine in Ise Bay, sunken during a war he claims he didn’t start (but probably did). He keeps a key beneath the floorboards of the guest room. He’s told no one until now.

“There’s a summer home in Izu,” he adds, “with gold-leaf walls and a tearoom only the dead can enter. I lost the deed, but the ghosts still pay rent.”

You exhale. “So you’re… leaving me everything?”

“Of course,” he says, almost offended. “Who else would I trust with my entire, debauched, questionably-gotten legacy other than my wife?”

“And you don’t want me to wear white?” you say. “For mourning?”

He lifts a finger, wagging it like a tutor correcting an unruly student. “No, no. Not white. Wear blue.”

You pause. “Why?”

“Because white is what the living wear for the dead,” he says, glancing up at you. “Blue is what gods remember. Blue is to match me. And when they ask if you ever loved me, lie through your teeth.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He opens one eye. “Because gods like a good tragedy.”

You do not know when you began to think of him as something more than an obstacle. You only know that one day, his presence stopped being strange. That the sound of him humming—tuneless, off-key, maddeningly cheerful—no longer grated. That when he braided your hair each morning and tied it with silk, he no longer had to ask you to sit.

He touches you differently now. Not reverently. Not roughly. But familiarly, as if you’ve always been his. There’s no performance to it anymore. No thrill of conquest, no edge of mockery. Just his hand on your back when you pass through the garden gate. Just his sleeve brushing yours when you read beside him. Just his smile, no longer fanged.

He’s quieter too. Talks less during sex. No more lewd commentary, no dramatics, just breath and skin, just heat and the rare, too-human sound of him sighing your name like it’s a secret he’d never meant to say aloud.

You don’t notice the change until it’s too late. Not even when he pulls you into his lap on a languid summer night, his robe loose, yours looser. Not even when he kisses you with that same strange hush he used to speak of Tamamo-no-Mae. Like you’re a story he’s afraid will end.

It’s only when you feel for the hairpin tucked behind your ear—his gift, from long ago, lacquered black with a silver fox curling down the length—and press it to the bare skin just beneath his ribs, puncturing his porcelain skin, that you feel him still.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t gasp. Just stills. And breathes out your name.

You expected red, something human. But when you draw the hairpin out from beneath his ribs, the blood that wells up is pale and gleaming. Not crimson. Not dark. But silver-blue, like moonlight caught in a bell.

He blinks at you, lashes low, blue eyes dazed with something beyond shock. And then he smiles—not wide, not crooked, not smug—but small. Soft. Relieved.

“Ah,” he says. “So that’s what it takes.”

You want to say something. You don’t know what. You feel him pulse inside you once more, his breath catching on yours, and for a moment, you think he’ll stay. That it was a false alarm. That he’ll laugh again. That he’ll say something idiotic.

But he begins to fade.

Not in blood, not in light. But in presence. Like a god recalling his own name. Like smoke that was never meant to linger in a body this long. His hands on your back begin to lose shape. His hair falls around your shoulders like snow, turning weightless.

His holdings were absurd.

Palaces in Kyoto, sapphic tapestries from Tang courtesans, calligraphy penned by poets now worshipped as saints. Entire vaults of gold, deeds to ports and mountain passes, enchanted kimonos that weep when worn. Sealed vaults with ivory seals, iron keys, and deeds scribed in a language that hasn’t been spoken aloud since the court of Genji. There was a lake in Hokkaido that belonged to him, but no one remembered why. He’d once out-gambled a thunder god for it, apparently.

His lawyers—a grim band of tengu and one suspiciously smug cat—arrived in the second week. Their faces were solemn. Their bows were low. One by one, they presented you with ledgers, deeds, ceremonial blades, a set of floating pearls that whispered when touched, and an annotated sex manual signed by several imperial mistresses. The bank accounts—ancient, coded in ink no human hand could forge—unlocked with a single prick of your finger.

“All this,” the head tengu said, “belongs now to the lady.”

You wore blue to his rites. Not white. Not black.

But blue, the shade of foxfire at dusk, and widowhood in old stories, and the sky when a deity leaves behind his shape.

They say your coffers rival the imperial family now. They are wrong. The imperial family could not afford your shoes.

You restored your house before the moon had waned. You rebuilt the family shrine with gold tiles and fox-faced gargoyles. You put your brothers to work repaying their debts with interest. You reopened the estate libraries, the ones buried in dust and half-truths. You found his scrolls among them, tales of beasts and girls and gods who died improperly. You filed them neatly. Catalogued them with the rest of your holdings. One wing of your home is now a museum. Another is a shrine. The third is locked, sealed, and heavily trapped, because that’s where his sake collection lives, and even death was not enough to empty it.

Sometimes, children leave offerings at your gate: vials of salt, red strings, blue shells. They whisper that you are a woman too powerful to be touched, too clever to be crossed. You do not correct them. You are busy.

The business of widowhood, it turns out, is exhausting.

You attend court now and then, but only when the moon is high and the invitations are velvet. People ask who made your hairpins, who embroiders your robes, who taught you to smile like a woman who has once killed her husband and called it love. You tell them nothing. Let the gods speculate.

Because gods, after all, are talkative.

The first time you see him again, it's in a pool of water.

Not a dream, not a memory. A real pool, still and ink-dark, tucked behind your summer villa in Izu, the one overgrown with wisteria and gold-leafed walls.

You lean over to rinse your hands. And there he is. His reflection stares up at you.

Not clothed in silk or laziness now, but something larger, finer. His form is half-golden, half-moonlight, pupils slit and haloed with fire, tails unfurling behind him like banners of smoke and light. He looks like a war god carved from ivory and ruin.

“You let the koi overbreed,” he says, grinning, chin on his palm. “Again.”

You don’t flinch. You’re used to this. You dry your hands on your sleeve.

“You’re a god,” you murmur, not meeting his eyes. “Can’t you find better things to do than spy on your widow?”

“Not a widow,” he corrects cheerfully. “Technically, I didn’t die. You have not remarried.”

You scoop a stone from the pond and flick it into the water. The ripples slice him into nine glittering pieces. When he reforms, he's even more smug.

“I found another haiku written about me,” his voice purrs, slow and smug, drifting into your ear like a summer breeze. “It didn’t capture my beauty. I wept.”

It’s been exactly three celestial cycles since the fox ascended.

The halls of the gods are made of moonlight and crushed pearl, too bright to look at for long. Time doesn’t pass so much as unfold. Stars are kept like pets. Mortals are discussed the way one might mention garden weeds. Charming, but only in small doses.

And the kitsune has made everyone’s life a nightmare.

He lounges across a cloud-dais meant for council business, head pillowed on one arm, tails flicking like lazy brushstrokes. His robes are half-undone. He’s eating peeled grapes that he keeps plucking from the sleeves of his own godly garb.

“You’re not supposed to bring mortal memories here,” mutters Kamo-no-kami, a wind god, whose name is only spoken in the rustling of pine.

“I didn’t bring them,” Gojo says, mouth full. “I just refuse to forget them.”

A kami of harvests, Ieri-no-kami, older than rice itself, glares at him. “You were meant to die and be reborn.”

“I did,” he says cheerfully. “You’re just upset my death was orgasmic.”

A bolt of divine lightning barely misses him. Likely Sukuna-no-kami.

“Anyway,” he yawns, waving them off, “don’t worry, I’m adjusting. I only go down to visit her once a week now. Sometimes twice. I bring offerings. I send foxes to leave her nice things.”

“You are the deity,” grits a war god, Nanami-no-kami, whose weapons have begun rattling from irritation. “Stop trying to possess shrines that don’t belong to you.”

“I'm not possessing them,” Gojo says, sitting up. “Officially. Fox god of pleasure, mischief, mortal temptation, heartbreak, forbidden knowledge, and…” He pauses. “I think I stole a title from the god of silk. Oops.”

“You gave a mortal woman access to your entire wealth—”

“She earned it,” Gojo shrugs. “Would you fuck me so hard I died if I asked nicely? No? Then you get nothing.”

There’s a long, pained silence. A thunder kami groans.

“He’s going to haunt his widow forever, isn’t he?” mutters one.

“No, no,” Gojo says sweetly, eyes shining. “I’m technically her husband. Still married. Death was in the contract.”

A hush falls over the divine halls as a shooting star arcs above.

Gojo’s gaze follows it lazily.

“She’s wearing blue today,” he says softly.

The others glance at him, then at the mortal realm, where a woman in indigo silk walks through a blooming plum orchard. Hair pinned simply. Face serene. You walk towards a group of small foxes watching you from the bushes, admonishing them gently as spies of Gojo.

“She’s so annoying,” he murmurs with a smile on his face. “I hope she never remarries.”

Getou-no-kami finally looks up. “You’d curse her, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not,” Gojo says, placing a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “I’d just... inconvenience anyone who tries.”

[toshisdecadence]

ushijima (or any other character of your choice) trying to baby trap reader 😛

ushi and babytrap in the same sentence...haha!hah haheheheeh im not goign to live

okay so i HAVE considered a yandere!ushi fic. but hmm idk i dont think ill be writing it anytime soon since i have a merman!ushi fic thats rather wholesome thats currently in my drafts rn, andd i just finished up with accidentally on purpose where hes just an overly earnest guy on the spectrum. i love that man to DEATH (like my ushi merch is extensive, his plushie is t-posing like a figure of jesus christ in my apartment), so its going to take a very specific type of mood and inspo to get me to do smth yandere for him since i dont really see it in him (although i understand it)

BUT!! if we're just talking about babytrapping as a concept... then i have been thinking of sukuna honestly. like i was tinkering around on my drafts as i do, looking through tiktok edits of nanami, watching educational hentai as one does, and then i remembered the amazing sukuna fic by @rinhaler where hes a plug (that was coachella 2016 for me) and then i remembered wait sukuna is a massive, stinking piece of shit. if i were to write a yandere character who'd babytrap someone and feel not a morsel of remorse for it, its gotta be sukuna

so i was writing a few paragraphs for this stepbro!sukuna fic in my drafts weeks back just to get the idea down while it was fresh in my head, and i hadnt really considered the whole babytrapping thing, but after this i can totally see sukuna doing that to reader...

thank you anon for giving me more material HARHARHAR

[toshisdecadence]

im so sorry but that is the best fic and writing ive ever seen in my LIFE.

thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou

HELLO!!! thank you so so much im so happy you enjoyed my writing (not sure which one this is for)

im glad the product of my ovulation-induced ideas serve as a form of entertainment!!!

[toshisdecadence]

my day is ruined tumblr has a 1,000 block limit now my oneshot powers have been taken away from me and i was forced to splice my ushi fic in half

yes the ushi fic is the way it is because i listened to seulgi’s album on repeat