#forth and fear no darkness | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shokocide · 3 months ago

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HIS TO RUIN - RYOMEN SUKUNA

summary. Ryomen Sukuna is revered across the lands for being the most dangerous tyrant. Nothing gets in his way when he wants something. Or someone.

word count. 13k (oops)

content. mdni fem! reader, modern day! sukuna, arranged marriage, sukuna's highkey toxic but we get character development, angst, talks of violence, pet names, teasing, fluff towards the end, smut, oral (fem rec.), p in v, loss of virginity (reader), breeding, creampies, missionary (lemme know if i missed something!)

author's note. this was supposed to be a short drabble idk how this happened-

"Ride to the North. Deliver my words exactly as I speak them.” Ryomen Sukuna’s loud booming voice echoes through the room and the messenger falls to his knees before the King, bowing his head out of reverent fear.

“The King of the North will surrender his daughter to me. She will be bathed, adorned, and presented in the finest silks befitting a queen—my queen. She will be ready when I arrive. There will be no hesitation, no protest, no delay.

If they value their kingdom, they will obey. If they hesitate, remind them of what I do to those who defy me.

This is not a request. This is a command. And a command is not given twice."

The doors to the great hall burst open, the gust of winter air doing little to cool the fear that grips the court. The royal guards stiffen as a lone rider steps forward—cloaked in black, his presence as foreboding as the letter he carries.

He does not bow. He does not kneel.

He merely lifts a scroll, and steps toward the throne.

"From the Honored King of the South, Lord Sukuna." The messenger’s voice is steady, but his hands betray him, shaking ever so slightly as he extends the letter.

A long silence follows. No one moves. No one breathes.

The king’s face is pale as he takes the scroll, his fingers hesitant, as if touching it alone might bring ruin. He knows—they all know—that whatever is written inside is not a request.

It is an order.

The king’s hands tremble as he unrolls the scroll. The seal is unmistakable—deep crimson wax, pressed with the mark of a ruler who does not ask, only takes. The grand hall is silent, every noble, every guard holding their breath as he reads.

His blood runs cold.

His worst fear has come to pass. Ryomen Sukuna has set his sights on the North—and worse, on his daughter.

His fingers tighten around the parchment, but it is useless to fight the inevitable. The ink on the page might as well be written in blood. There is no choice, no negotiation. Only surrender.

He lifts his gaze to his council, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Prepare the princess."

Sukuna hoards the world's most precious things. He has it all for nothing intoxicates him more than possessing what others can only dream of touching.

So when he hears of you—the fabled Princess of the North, revered for her ethereal beauty—something dark and insatiable awakens within him.

Sukuna has leveled kingdoms for lesser desires and turned cities to ash for trinkets that caught his eye. This is no different. The Princess of the North is the rarest of all treasures, and if the world must burn for her to be his, then so be it.

With an unshakable desire burning in his chest, Sukuna sets forth to the North. The cold, the distance, the blood it may take—none of it matters. He has decided. The princess will be his.

You, on the other hand, have heard many legends of the whispers of Sukuna—the name that freezes even the bravest in fear, the name no one dares to utter above a whisper as if speaking it aloud might summon the monster himself. They say he is no mere man but a creature of nightmares with four arms and two faces. His empire was built on blood, his throne carved from the bones of those who stood in his way.

The kingdom is on high alert. Every hall is scrubbed spotless, every banner hung with precision, every offering laid out with trembling hands. Servants and nobles alike move with hushed urgency because they all know—this is not a mere guest they are preparing for. And if something isn't to his liking, he is not hesitant to paint the kingdom red.

Your father bows to every command. He knows resistance is futile—knows the ruins of fallen kingdoms serve as warnings, knows that a single misstep could mean the end of everything he holds dear. And so, with a trembling hand and a voice that barely holds steady, he seals his daughter’s fate. The princess is promised to Sukuna. A gift, an offering, a desperate attempt to keep his kingdom standing.

Betrayal tastes bitter on your tongue. You stand in the grand hall, the very place where you were once cherished, now nothing more than a pawn to be bartered away. Your father’s words echo in your mind—calm, calculated, but spoken with much hesitation. Promised to Sukuna.

The weight of it crashes down on your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs. Was this always your fate? You want to scream, to run, to fight—but what good would it do when your opponent is a man who bends nations to his will? The halls you once walked freely now feel suffocating, the crown on your head heavier than ever.

And somewhere beyond these walls, he is coming for you.

Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t march—he descends. His arrival is not a mere procession but a declaration of power.

His army moves like a shadow stretching across the land, thousands of soldiers clad in blackened steel, their banners rippling against the icy winds.

And at the head of it all, Sukuna rides. A vision of ruthless grandeur—draped in rich silks. He does not rush. He does not need to. The North knows he is coming. The North knows there is no stopping him.

By the time his forces reach the gates, the air is thick with the smoke of torches, the ground trembling beneath the weight of conquest. And as he halts before the castle, his crimson gaze lifts toward the highest tower—where he knows she waits. His princess.

"Come, princess," he murmurs, a wicked smirk curling at his lips. "Let me see what they’ve promised me."

The halls are silent, suffocating under the weight of unspoken fear. Every servant, every noble—everyone—has seen the torches in the distance, the black tide of an army moving like a storm upon the land. No one speaks his name, but they all know.

Ryomen Sukuna is here.

From the highest tower, you watch as the darkness swallows your kingdom. The slow, unyielding march of his army shakes the very foundation of the castle, each beat rattling through your bones.

And then you see him.

At the head of it all, he sits atop a monstrous steed, his armor gleaming like blood-soaked silver. Even from here, you can feel his presence, suffocating and inescapable. His gaze lifts—deliberately—straight towards your tower.

Towards you.

You stumble back, breath catching in your throat.

A slow, cruel smirk curves his lips as if he already knows—you will be his, whether you want it or not.

Your hands curl into fists, your pulse hammering against your ribs. This is no fairy tale, no love story whispered in the gardens of the palace.

This is your ruin.

The castle doors are flung open with a force that rattles the very foundation of the palace. A cold wind rushes in, but it is nothing compared to the presence that follows.

Sukuna enters like a god among men.

He does not wait to be announced. He does not pause to acknowledge the bowing nobles, their heads lowered in terror. Instead, he strides forward with the slow, deliberate confidence of a man who owns everything he lays his eyes upon. His gaze sweeps across the grand hall—bored, amused, hungry.

The king stands from his throne, his face pale, hands gripping the arms of his seat as if it is the only thing keeping him upright.

"Lord Sukuna, we—"

A single glance from Sukuna silences him.

The air is suffocating. No one dares to move, not even the guards lining the walls. They all know—steel and numbers mean nothing to the monster before them.

And then, he sees you.

The princess.

You’re standing beside the queen, wrapped in silks finer than any he has seen, yet you look as though you would rather be draped in chains. Your hands tremble at your sides, but you lift your chin, defiance warring with the fear in your eyes.

Sukuna smirks.

“So this is what the North has offered me.”

His voice is smooth, rich, laced with amusement—but underneath, there is something far more dangerous.

He takes a step closer, his towering form casting a shadow over you.

“Tell me, princess.” He tilts your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to meet his eyes. Eyes that have seen kingdoms fall, men beg, and empires burn.

But you refuse to tremble.

“Are you as fragile as you look?”

The entire hall holds its breath.

You meet his gaze head-on, your pulse racing but voice steady. "I am not fragile."

A slow, amused smirk curls on Sukuna’s lips. The tension in the room thickens as he watches you, studying the fire in your eyes, the defiance laced within your words. He had expected fear, expected you to shrink beneath his touch—expected you to be like everyone else.

But this?

This is entertaining.

"Oh?" His thumb brushes against your jaw, his tone laced with mockery. "Then tell me, princess… should I test that claim?"

The nobles shift uncomfortably. The king swallows hard. The queen grips your arm, silently begging you to lower your gaze, to not anger the monster before them.

But you do not yield.

"If you must." Your voice is firm, each word was a blade sharpened with resolve.

A beat of silence.

And then��Sukuna laughs.

It is low, rich, and dangerous. The kind of laugh that promises both destruction and amusement.

His grip lingers a second longer before he finally lets you go. His grin widens, something dark and hungry flashing in his eyes.

"This might be fun after all."

Sukuna watches you, his smirk deepening as the silence stretches. You do not cower, do not drop your gaze, do not even flinch.

He tilts his head slightly, his amusement growing. “Interesting...”

Then, with the ease of a man choosing a fine piece of treasure, he turns to the king and declares, “I’ll take this one.”

A fog of complete grief descends upon the court. Your mother stiffens beside you, the nobles look down in sorrow, and your father—who had spent his life bending to power—looks like he might collapse where he stands. They all saw it coming but it seemed like they held some hope—hope that he would have mercy. But, of course, what do they expect from Ryomen Sukuna?

You do not move. Do not falter. Do not beg.

Sukuna expected resistance, tears, and a desperate plea. Instead, you meet his words with silence, your face unreadable, your spine straight.

He raises a brow. No fear. No pleading. Nothing.

The lack of reaction sends a slow thrill down his spine.

He steps even closer, invading your space, towering over you like a shadow of doom. “Nothing to say, princess?” His voice is almost mocking, expecting the first crack in your armor.

But you only lift your chin, your voice smooth as silk.

"You have already decided, haven't you?"

Sukuna chuckles, dark and low. Oh, he likes this one.

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “You’ll make this far more entertaining than I thought.”

The court watches in stunned horror as he turns, striding back toward the entrance like he has already won.

"Prepare her," he orders, barely sparing the king a glance. "We leave at dawn."

Then, just before he disappears past the castle doors, his crimson eyes flick back to you one last time.

Yes... this one’s going to be fun to break.

The palace is silent.

In the lavish chambers prepared for him, Sukuna lounges with the ease of a man who has already won. The finest silks drape over the bed, golden goblets filled with the richest wine sit untouched, and yet—he is not asleep.

He smirks to himself, fingers idly tapping against the armrest of his chair. His mind lingers on the princess, on the way she stood her ground when others would have crumbled. Strong, but for how long?

Meanwhile, high in the tower, you gaze out over the land you have cherished since childhood. The snow-covered rooftops, the lantern-lit streets, the distant hills that stretch far beyond the horizon—it is all yours. Was yours.

Tomorrow, you will be taken from it all.

A lone tear slips down your cheek, but you wipe it away before it can fall past your chin.

You clench your fists, your breath steadying. No more tears. No more weakness.

You will not break.

The door creaks. But you don't move.

You know who it is before you even turn your head—the soft, hesitant footsteps, the gentle rustling of fabric. Your handmaiden, the woman who has cared for you since you were a child.

"Princess..." The voice is quiet, almost unsure, as if afraid of disturbing the fragile moment.

You don’t answer. You keep your gaze on the kingdom beyond your window, your arms wrapped around yourself. The silence stretches, heavy and thick.

The handmaiden steps closer, eyes softening at the sight of you. Her brave, strong princess, standing alone against a fate she never chose.

"It is late," the handmaiden murmurs. "You should rest."

A bitter smile ghosts your lips. Rest? How can you rest when tomorrow, you will leave behind everything you have ever known?

Seeing the sorrow you try to hide, the handmaiden’s heart aches. Gently, she reaches for your hair, smoothing it back like she used to when you were just a girl.

"You have always been strong," she whispers. "But you do not have to be strong alone."

You close your eyes at the familiar comfort, throat tightening.

"I will not cry," you say, more to yourself than anyone else.

The handmaiden smiles sadly. "Then I will cry for you."

The words break something inside you. You exhale shakily, leaning ever so slightly into the warmth of the only person who has ever felt like a second mother.

No sobs, no trembling—just a single tear, slipping down your cheek.

The handmaiden wipes it away with a soft touch, just as you had done moments ago.

"No matter where you go, you will always be our princess," she murmurs. "And you will never be alone."

For the first time that night, you allow yourself to believe it.

The first light of dawn spills through the high windows, bathing your chambers in a cold, golden glow.

You stand motionless as your maids work around you, their hands careful yet trembling as they fasten the intricate layers of silk and fur around you. They do not speak. No one speaks.

The room is heavy with unspoken grief.

Your gown is the finest you have ever worn—rich, embroidered fabric, delicate gold accents, the kind of attire fit for a queen. But to you, it feels like a funeral shroud.

Your hair brushed to a glossy sheen, is pinned back with delicate golden clasps. Your crown—a smaller, more elegant piece than your father’s—rests lightly atop your head. You are dressed not as a prisoner, not as a bride, but as a prize.

And you hate it.

The doors open. A court official steps inside, his face pale, his voice tight.

"Lord Sukuna awaits."

The room stills.

You exhale slowly. This is it.

Your handmaiden gently reaches for your hand. For a moment, neither of you speak. Then, in a voice only you can hear, she whispers:

"Do not let them see your fear, my lady."

You tighten your grip for a brief second before letting go.

You lift your chin, steel your heart, and without another word, step forward.

The halls are lined with nobles, servants, guards—all watching in suffocating silence as you descend toward the grand entrance of the palace. Some avert their eyes. Others look at you with pity.

You keep walking.

And then—you see him.

Standing at the foot of the great staircase, Sukuna waits. Clad in dark robes of crimson and black, his presence is an open declaration of power. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—those deep, red eyes—flicker with something you cannot place.

The moment you reach the last step, Sukuna’s gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate.

"Hmph." A single, amused exhale. "At least they dressed you properly."

You say nothing. You meet his gaze without flinching, without bowing.

Sukuna smirks. So the fire in you hasn’t burned out yet? Good.

Without waiting for permission, he steps forward, reaching out—and in front of the entire court, before your father, before your people—he grips your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to him.

"I hope you understand, princess." His voice is low, and dangerous. "You belong to me now."

The court watches, horrified, breathless.

You, however, do not break.

Instead, you lift a single brow. "Do I?"

For the first time that morning, Sukuna laughs.

The journey begins at dawn.

You are seated inside a grand carriage, its interior lined with the finest silks, yet it feels like a gilded cage. Outside, Sukuna’s army moves like a living beast—rows upon rows of soldiers marching in perfect sync, banners bearing his sigil rippling in the wind. There is no celebration, no fanfare. Only the crushing weight of reality settling in your chest.

You’re leaving home.

Across from you, Sukuna lounges in his seat, one arm draped over the cushioned backrest, his gaze heavy on you.

"You’re quiet," he muses. "Already mourning your kingdom, princess?"

You don’t answer. Your fingers tighten around the folds of your silk gown.

He chuckles, the deep, rich sound filling the enclosed space. "Good. You should."

Your jaw clenches, but you refuse to give him the reaction he wants.

The carriage rocks over uneven terrain, jolting you forward. Before you can stop yourself, you stumble—only to be caught by a firm, unyielding grip.

Sukuna’s hand clamps around your wrist, steadying you with effortless strength. The heat of his skin seeps through the thin fabric of your sleeve, and when you look up, you find his red eyes glinting with amusement.

"Hmph. Clumsy," he murmurs, but he doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, his grip lingers, his thumb tracing the delicate skin of your wrist in slow, deliberate circles.

You yank your arm back. "I don’t need your help."

His smirk widens. "Oh? And yet, here you are, tumbling right into my hands."

You glare at him, but he only chuckles, leaning back into his seat with a satisfied hum.

"Tell me, princess," he drawls, watching you with a look that makes your skin prickle, "how does it feel to know that everything you once loved is behind you… and everything ahead belongs to me?"

You refuse to answer.

But the silence only makes his smirk grow.

"Oh," he says, his voice a purr of satisfaction, "I think I’m going to enjoy this."

You finally stop to rest, but instead of a lavish chamber, you’re given a tent—one meant for nobility, but a tent nonetheless. You don’t complain. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Sukuna watches. He expects anger, desperation, maybe even tears. But instead, you quietly settle in, shoulders squared, face unreadable.

And that? That annoys him.

Because why aren’t you breaking? Why aren’t you begging like every other royal before you?

He expects resistance, expects defiance. But what he doesn’t expect is dignity.

And that’s when it starts.

That first, tiny fracture in his perception of you.

The fire outside crackles softly, casting flickering shadows against the fabric of your tent. Sleep evades you—of course it does. How could you possibly rest when you know that with each passing mile, you are leaving behind everything you’ve ever known?

The entrance rustles. Instinctively, you stiffen. And then—

He enters.

Sukuna doesn’t ask for permission. He never does. He steps inside like he owns the space—because he does. His robe hangs loosely over his shoulders, revealing ink-stained skin and muscle carved like stone. He should be terrifying. He is terrifying.

And yet, as he settles on the floor beside the low table, there is something… oddly human about him.

You glare. “Shouldn’t you be off basking in your victory?”

His lips curl into something between a smirk and a scoff. “And leave my bride all alone?” He leans his chin on his palm, watching you with those unreadable garnet eyes. “That would be unkind.”

You don’t respond.

A beat of silence. Then—

Sukuna notices the untouched plate of food by your bedside. He clicks his tongue. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Starving yourself won’t change anything.”

Still, you don’t move.

He watches you for a long moment before, to your shock, he reaches for the plate himself. With little care for dignity, he plucks a piece of fruit and takes a slow bite. The action is simple, thoughtless even, but it’s… strangely ordinary.

Domestic.

When he speaks again, his voice lacks its usual razor-sharp edge. “Eat. I need you alive, not wasting away before we even reach my kingdom.”

For a second—a fleeting, impossible second—you could almost believe this was something normal. That he was just a man, and you were just a woman, sharing a quiet meal under the same roof.

A what-if, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand.

And then his eyes meet yours again, and the illusion shatters.

Sukuna watches you, expecting something. A reaction, a glare, an outburst. Anything.

But you just sit there, unmoving. The firelight flickers against your skin, casting soft shadows across your features. You look… tired. Not weak, not defeated, but like someone carrying the weight of a thousand burdens.

And then—just as he’s about to scoff, about to say something snide—

You finally speak.

"You don’t have to pretend to care."

It’s soft. Not bitter, not sharp—just factual. A quiet, simple truth that hangs in the air between you.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

Sukuna doesn’t know what to say.

Because was he pretending?

The thought annoys him. Irritates him. Grates at him in ways he refuses to examine.

So, instead, he scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Throws the half-eaten fruit back onto the plate like he never wanted it in the first place.

He stands, looming over you like a shadow. “Believe what you want, princess.”

And then, without another word, he leaves.

But long after he’s gone—after the fire dims and silence settles over the camp—

You wonder…

Why didn’t he deny it?

Dawn breaks over the horizon, streaking the sky in gold and coral, but the air remains crisp with the lingering chill of the night. The camp is already stirring—soldiers dousing the last embers of the fires, banners rippling in the wind, the sound of hooves crunching against the dirt as preparations to depart near completion.

You step out of your tent, the heavy cloak draped over your shoulders doing little against the morning cold. Sleep had been fleeting, your mind restless with the weight of what awaited you. Today, you would arrive at his domain.

And there he is.

Sukuna lounges against the door of his grand, black carved carriage, one arm resting lazily on his knee, his red eyes half-lidded as they sweep over the waking camp—until they land on you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but there’s something about the way he watches that makes your stomach knot.

"Took your time," he muses when you finally approach, his voice deep, edged with something that almost sounds amused.

You meet his gaze, unyielding. "I wasn’t aware I was on your schedule."

A slow smirk curves his lips, his fangs flashing ever so slightly. He doesn’t bother responding—he doesn’t need to. Instead, he gestures toward the waiting carriages with a flick of his fingers.

"Let’s not keep your new home waiting, princess."

And just like that, the journey begins.

The carriage rocks gently as the convoy moves forward, the rhythmic sound of hooves against the dirt road filling the silence. Inside, the space is lavish—dark silks and embroidered cushions, the scent of incense lingering in the air. But no amount of opulence could make this feel less like a cage.

You sit across from Sukuna, your posture rigid, hands folded tightly in your lap. He, on the other hand, looks completely at ease, one arm slung over the back of the seat, legs stretched out just enough that his knee nearly—nearly—brushes against yours.

A gust of wind slips through the carriage window, making you shiver under your cloak. Before you can steel yourself against it, something shifts.

Warmth.

Sukuna, without a word, tugs at the fur-lined cloak draped over his own shoulders and tosses it over your lap, the gesture so absentminded, so casual, it nearly startles you more than the cold had.

You blink at him, uncertain.

"Can’t have you freezing to death before we even arrive," he says, red eyes watching your reaction closely. There’s no teasing lilt to his voice this time, no smirk—just a simple statement, as if the act means nothing.

But it does.

You should push it off, return it, refuse to take anything from him. And yet… your fingers curl into the fur, just slightly.

He notices.

He says nothing.

The journey is long, stretching through dense forests and winding mountain paths, but as the convoy crests the final hill, the castle comes into view.

It looms in the distance, a dark, sprawling fortress carved into the very bones of the mountain. Towering spires claw at the sky, their obsidian surfaces gleaming under the dying light of the sun. Crimson banners ripple in the cold wind, each emblazoned with the sigil of the man who now owns your fate.

Your breath catches.

The air grows heavier as the convoy nears the gates, the atmosphere thick with something unspoken. Soldiers line the entrance in perfect formation, their armor gleaming, their expressions unreadable. At the castle’s grand doors, figures await—advisors, servants, warriors, all standing in disciplined silence.

Sukuna watches you. He has been watching you ever since the castle came into view.

A slow smirk plays on his lips. “Welcome home, princess.”

The towering gates of Sukuna’s fortress groan open, revealing a palace unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It is both magnificent and monstrous—carved from dark stone, adorned with golden accents that gleam like fire under the setting sun. Statues of beasts, their eyes gleaming like cursed jewels, guard the entrance, their snarling faces frozen in eternal warning.

You should be afraid. And you are. But beneath that fear is something else. Something undeniable. Awe. It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying.

Sukuna, walking a few paces ahead, catches it. He sees the way your gaze lingers on the towering spires, the intricate carvings woven with both beauty and horror. He sees the flicker of wonder in your eyes before you can school your expression into something unreadable.

A slow smirk curves his lips.

"Humbled by my domain, princess?"

Your stomach knots. You turn away too quickly, feigning disinterest. "Hardly."

A deep chuckle rumbles from him. Amusement. Satisfaction. He doesn't need you to say it.

He knows the truth.

The castle doors part with a deep, echoing groan, revealing a grand, cavernous hall bathed in the glow of towering braziers. Shadows flicker along the obsidian walls, stretching and twisting with every step as you cross the threshold. The air is thick—heavy with incense, the faintest trace of something metallic lingering beneath.

Your footsteps barely make a sound against the polished stone, but the hush that falls over the gathered figures amplifies every movement. Rows of warriors stand at attention along the hall, their expressions unreadable, their eyes tracking your every step. Servants bow their heads, stealing quick, wary glances before averting their gazes.

Sukuna walks beside you, unhurried, completely at ease in his domain. His presence fills the space, effortlessly commanding the attention of all within it. He does not guide you—he does not need to. You are already walking where he intends you to go.

At the far end of the hall, the throne room doors loom ahead, carved with intricate depictions of conquest, of gods and monsters intertwined in eternal battle. The weight of what awaits beyond them presses down on you.

Sukuna glances at you, his smirk returning. “You’re awfully quiet, princess.”

You don’t answer.

The doors swing open and you step inside.

The throne room is vast, designed to make anyone who enters feel small. The ceiling stretches impossibly high, supported by towering pillars carved with depictions of battles long won. Braziers cast a golden glow across the dark stone, illuminating the crimson banners draped along the walls—each marked with the sigil of the man who is to be sat at the far end of the room.

Sukuna’s throne is massive, made from the same dark stone as the castle itself, inlaid with veins of deep, gleaming gold. It is not just a seat of power—it is a symbol of dominion.

The moment you step inside, every pair of eyes in the room turns to you. Advisors, high-ranking officers, and attendants stand in quiet formation along the sides, watching as you make your way forward. The air is thick with anticipation, laced with something colder—fear, reverence, inevitability.

Sukuna does not rush. He walks at a leisurely pace, his hands resting at his sides, utterly unbothered. This is his kingdom, his palace, his rules. And you—his soon-to-be queen—are walking straight into his world.

He arrives at his throne and takes his seat.

As you near the steps leading to the throne, he speaks.

“Kneel.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

The words hang in the air, heavy, absolute. Your heart pounds and your hands clench at your sides. You can feel the weight of every gaze, waiting, expecting.

You do not kneel.

The silence stretches.

Sukuna watches you, something dark and amused flickering in his eyes. He tilts his head, studying you, and for the first time since you arrived…

He smiles.

The silence in the throne room is suffocating. Eyes dart between you and Sukuna, waiting, anticipating. No one has ever defied him and walked away unscathed.

But you don’t kneel.

You lift your chin, steady, unwavering. “I kneel for no man.”

A sharp inhale echoes from somewhere in the hall. The tension coils tighter, suffocating. Even the guards, trained to be expressionless, flicker with shock.

Atop his throne, Sukuna stares at you. And then—he laughs.

It’s low at first, just a chuckle. Then it grows—rich, full-bodied, amused beyond measure. The sound sends a chill down your spine. It’s not the laugh of a man who has been insulted. It’s the laugh of a man who has just been thoroughly entertained.

“Oh?” His voice drips with intrigue as he leans forward, elbows resting on the arms of his throne, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “No man?” His crimson gaze gleams. “Then tell me, princess… what do you think I am?”

You meet his gaze, refusing to waver. The air in the room is thick and heavy with expectation.

"You?" You tilt your head ever so slightly, eyes gleaming with quiet defiance. "A man wouldn’t need to demand kneeling to prove his power."

The court freezes.

The amusement in Sukuna’s expression flickers—just for a fraction of a second. Then, something slow and dangerous stretches across his face.

The silence is unbearable. No one dares to breathe.

Then—

His grin widens.

The sharp glint in his crimson eyes is unmistakable. Oh, he likes this. He likes you.

And that is far more terrifying than his anger.

Sukuna doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watches you—studies you. His gaze drags over your face, searching, calculating.

Then, in one fluid motion, he rises from his throne.

The room tenses. No one moves. No one speaks.

And then—he starts walking.

His boots echo against the marble floor as he descends the steps, slow, deliberate. The closer he gets, the more the air shifts—thick with something you refuse to name.

And then—he’s in front of you.

Too close.

You can smell him now—spiced incense and something dark, something sharp. The sheer size of him makes you feel smaller than you’d like, his presence overwhelming.

A clawed finger tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His hands are warm—uncomfortably so.

"You have a sharp tongue," he murmurs, voice low. His breath ghosts over your lips. "But tell me, princess…" His thumb grazes your jaw, almost thoughtfully. Too gentle for a man like him.

"Will it serve you well… or get you into trouble?"

His lips curl, a smirk playing at the corner. He’s entertained. Intrigued.

And then—just as quick as he touched you, he’s gone.

He turns, voice echoing through the hall as he walks back to his throne.

"Very well… let’s see how long you last."

You stand your ground, refusing to move, refusing to let him see how his touch lingers like a phantom against your skin.

But your body betrays you.

Your heart stumbles—just for a beat, just for a second. A warmth blooms beneath your skin, creeping up your neck, pooling at your cheeks.

You force yourself to breathe. To look unaffected. But you know—oh, you know—he sees it.

Because as he settles back onto his throne, Sukuna’s smirk deepens. His eyes flicker, pleased. Amused.

He says nothing more. He doesn’t have to.

He already knows.

The castle is alive with movement. Servants rush through the halls, arms full of silks and gold-threaded fabrics, their whispers trailing behind them. The scent of incense and fresh flowers lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating.

It’s happening.

Your wedding to the King is being prepared in full force.

Jewels, silks, golden embroidery—everything is perfect. Everything is grand. But not once did anyone ask what you wanted.

Because it doesn’t matter.

It never did.

You sit before the grand mirror in your chamber, a seamstress adjusting the fabric of your ceremonial robes. The weight of the moment presses on you like iron shackles.

Married.

To him.

Your hands curl into fists against your lap. How did it come to this?

A knock at the door. Your handmaiden enters, hesitant. "My lady… the King wishes to see you."

Your breath stills.

"My lady…" she says, voice low, hesitant. "The King—" she pauses, correcting herself, "Sukuna—has summoned you."

Your breath stills.

"Summoned?" you repeat, as if the word alone leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

She nods. "To the gardens."

Not the throne room. Not his chambers.

To the gardens.

That alone unsettles you.

"Did he say why?"

Your handmaiden swallows. She’s afraid. That much is clear in the way she grips the fabric of her sleeve and the way she hesitates before answering.

"No," she admits. "Only that you are to come. At once."

A demand. Not a request.

Like everything else he does.

Your fingers twitch against the folds of your dress. You should have expected this. Of course, he would summon you like a thing to be retrieved.

And yet—you hesitate.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, your mind racing with possibilities. What could he possibly want? Why here, why now?

And more importantly…

What would happen if you refused?

The silence stretches.

Your handmaiden fidgets under your stare, waiting for you to move. To answer. To do anything but stand there, expression unreadable.

"Shall I prepare your cloak, my lady?" she asks carefully.

You exhale slowly, gaze flickering toward the window. The gardens are bathed in silver moonlight, awaiting you. But you?

You are in no rush.

"No," you say at last, turning away. "Let him wait."

The words are soft, but they hold weight.

Your handmaiden stiffens. "My lady, he—"

"He will not kill me over this," you murmur, fingers brushing over the smooth fabric of your gown.

You tell yourself it’s not a game—you are not playing with fire. You are simply reminding him that you are not a woman who bends so easily.

"Stay with me a while," you say instead, settling back into your chair.

Your handmaiden hesitates, then bows. "As you wish."

But she is tense. She knows what you are doing.

And when you finally rise, when you finally allow yourself to be led into the night, you wonder if you have made a mistake.

Because Sukuna is not a man who enjoys waiting.

And you are about to find out exactly how much patience he has left.

The palace gardens should not exist.

Not in a place like this. Not within the walls of a kingdom ruled by a monster.

And yet, as you step past the towering arches, you are breathless.

Moonlight spills over an expanse of shimmering ponds, ivory statues, and trees heavy with blossoms. Soft petals dance in the air, caught in the cool night breeze. The scent of wisteria, jasmine, and something undeniably rich fills your lungs. The lantern-lit paths curve between marble fountains, their waters singing a song too gentle for a place so cruel.

It’s beautiful. Devastatingly, unfairly beautiful.

And then, you see him.

Sukuna stands near the largest pond, his back to you. A striking silhouette against the lantern glow, his robe open just enough to reveal the dark markings tracing his skin. His hands are clasped loosely behind him—a king at ease in his kingdom, knowing he owns everything within it.

Including you.

"You kept me waiting."

His voice is smooth, deep, and edged with amusement. He knows you hesitated.

Of course he does.

You inhale sharply, lifting your chin as you take another step forward, feet crunching softly over the white pebbled path. You will not cower.

"You did not say it was urgent."

Sukuna chuckles, finally turning to face you. Red eyes gleam in the lantern light, flickering with something unreadable.

"No," he muses, tilting his head. "I suppose I didn’t."

"Why am I here?" you ask plainly.

Sukuna hums, watching you carefully. Too carefully.

Then—he reaches.

The movement is slow, deliberate. Not a threat, not a demand. His fingers brush just beneath your chin—not gripping, not forcing—just touching. A reminder of who stands before you.

"Must there always be a reason?"

His voice is quieter now, lower—like a secret meant only for you. His fingers, calloused and warm, brush against your jaw before retreating, leaving behind the ghost of a touch.

Your breath catches, just for a second.

The night air feels heavier, thick with something unspoken. The scent of blooming jasmine wraps around you both, the silence stretching—not tense, not hostile—but charged.

You meet his gaze, refusing to look away.

"You summoned me." Your voice is steady, but softer now. "So there must be one."

Sukuna studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he moves.

Not sudden, not aggressive—slow. Measured. He steps closer, and though every instinct tells you to retreat, you hold your ground.

The space between you shrinks. It is barely a breath now.

"You intrigue me." His words are almost thoughtful, but there is something else beneath them—something dangerous. "Your fearlessness."

A pause.

Then, softer—more deliberate.

"Your fire."

The warmth of his breath ghosts over your skin, closer than you should allow. Your pulse quickens, but you do not step back.

You will not.

Instead, you tilt your head ever so slightly, meeting his crimson eyes with a quiet defiance.

"And what is it you plan to do with this… intrigue?"

Sukuna’s smirk curves into something deeper—something unreadable.

His fingers brush over your wrist now, barely there, like a whisper of a promise yet to be spoken.

"Oh, princess," he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement—and something else. "That depends entirely on you."

The space between you is almost nonexistent now.

Your breath is unsteady, heart hammering far too loudly. Sukuna is close—closer than he should be. His presence wraps around you, commanding, unyielding.

You tell yourself it’s the heat of the evening, the way the lanterns cast a golden glow over his features—too sharp, too beautiful.

But then his gaze drops.

To your lips.

And your breath catches.

His fingers, barely there, brush against your wrist again—lingering this time. His touch is a question, a challenge, a taunt.

"Tell me, princess," he murmurs, his voice lower now, something undeniably indulgent in his tone. "Are you afraid of what this might mean?"

You should pull away.

But you don’t.

Instead, you tilt your chin up—defiant, stubborn—but you don’t break the moment. His smirk falters just slightly at that.

Not in disappointment.

In intrigue.

Your breath mingles with his now, the world around you shrinking to this—to him.

His eyes darken.

And then—

A noise.

A branch snapping in the distance, a gust of wind rattling the trees. It shatters the moment, just barely, just enough.

You step back.

A breath.

Then another.

Sukuna watches you, unreadable, and for once—he does not push.

Instead, he lets the silence settle. His smirk returns, slower this time—but you know, now, that he is watching.

Waiting.

"Careful, princess," he drawls, stepping back at last, giving you space that feels far too vast now. Far too empty. "Play with fire, and you just might burn."

His words should unnerve you.

They don’t.

Instead, your lips curl—just slightly.

"Then let it burn."

The tension is suffocating.

Sukuna watches you—intensely, unblinking, unrelenting. The smirk is gone now, replaced by something deeper, something unreadable.

Your pulse thrums in your ears.

You should step away.

You don’t.

He lifts a hand, slowly, deliberately, as if waiting to see if you’ll pull back. His fingers brush against your jaw, featherlight, the touch barely there—but it sears.

A test. A game.

But you don’t move.

His thumb traces the curve of your cheek, his touch too gentle, too intimate, too dangerous. He leans in just a fraction, just enough that you feel his breath ghost over your lips.

"Say it, princess," he murmurs. "Say you don’t want this, and I’ll stop."

You open your mouth— to say what, you don’t know.

But you never get the chance.

Because he kisses you.

It’s not rough, not bruising, not like the tyrant he is supposed to be. It’s slow, controlled, deliberate—like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s savoring you.

And for a second—just a second—you let him.

Your hands clutch the fabric of his robe, not pushing away, not pulling closer—just holding on. The warmth of him, the press of his lips, the way his hand slides to cup the back of your neck—it’s overwhelming.

Your breath is stolen, your mind blank, lost in something you never thought you would crave.

He pulls away first—barely, just enough to let you breathe. But he doesn’t let go.

His forehead rests against yours, his voice lower now, rougher.

"Still think you can fight me, princess?"

Your lashes flutter, breath uneven, but your eyes find his.

"I think..." you whisper, voice steady despite the chaos inside you, "...you have no idea what you’ve just started."

Sukuna exhales a short laugh, his grip tightening just slightly.

"Good."

The moment stretches, the air between you crackling like a fire starved for oxygen.

And then—he moves.

You barely register the way his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you in, chest to chest, breath to breath. The way his other hand cups your jaw, fingers pressing just enough to tip your face up—just enough to make escape impossible.

But you don’t even think about escaping.

Because when his lips finally crash into yours, it’s not soft, not gentle—it's a claiming.

The world tilts.

Your fingers—traitorous things—grip at his robe, twisting in the fabric as he deepens the kiss, as his teeth graze your lower lip before his tongue slides against yours, demanding, unrelenting.

You hate how easily you match his intensity.

Hate how your body presses into his, meeting him step for step, fire for fire.

You should be resisting.

But instead, you’re burning.

The kiss is a battle, a push and pull, neither of you yielding, neither willing to lose. Your breath hitches as his hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, exposing you further—taking, taking, taking.

And you—you give.

A sharp exhale leaves him, like he wasn’t expecting you to kiss him back like this. Like he wasn’t expecting you to be just as relentless.

By the time you both pull back, you’re breathless.

Your chest heaves.

His grip on you hasn’t loosened, his lips still hovering dangerously close, as if he might go back for more.

Your pulse thrums wildly, your lips swollen, heat pooling in your gut at the sheer intensity of it all.

His forehead brushes against yours, his breath ragged, uneven. His fingers at your waist flex slightly, like he’s restraining himself, like he’s memorizing the feel of you against him.

Your lips still tingle.

Your breath is still ragged.

And yet, something inside you snaps—a cruel reminder of the reality you had let yourself forget.

You rip yourself away from him, the loss of warmth almost painful, but you force yourself to step back, hand trembling as you press your fingers to your lips.

"This is wrong."

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the heavy silence between you, it cuts like a blade.

Sukuna's eyes flicker, unreadable, his breath still uneven. His hands, still curled from where they had gripped your waist, slowly lower.

And then, his expression shifts.

His jaw tightens. His brows draw together.

"What?" His voice is sharp, edged with something you can’t quite place—disbelief? Anger? Something deeper?

But you can’t let yourself linger on it.

You force yourself to look up at him, even as tears burn in your eyes.

"This was a mistake. One I was foolish enough to commit."

He takes a step forward, like he’s going to reach for you again.

"What are you talking about?"

Your breath shudders. You shake your head, stepping back again—away from the temptation of him, away from the warmth that could consume you if you let it.

"I can't do this," you whisper. Your voice shakes, but your resolve does not. "I have agreed to be your bride, but I won’t fall victim to your hedonistic desires."

Silence.

Sukuna just stares at you. And for the first time since you’ve met him—he looks stunned.

He blinks once, lips parting slightly, as if he genuinely hadn’t expected you to say that.

Then, slowly, something dark, something unreadable slithers across his expression.

His eyes lower, flickering over your face—your tear-bright eyes, your trembling lips, the way your hands clench at your sides as if to hold yourself together.

He inhales slowly.

"You think that’s what this is?"

His voice is softer than before, but there’s something dangerous beneath it.

Your throat tightens. "Isn’t it?" you whisper.

He exhales sharply through his nose, a sound almost like a bitter laugh.

Then, he takes another step forward—and this time, you don’t move away.

Because you can’t.

His fingers lift, brushing against your chin—so gentle, so unlike the tyrant he is. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, the touch featherlight, fleeting.

"You have no idea what you’ve done to me, princess."

His voice is low, almost—pained.

And that terrifies you more than anything else.

Because if you’re not careful—you might ruin him.

Just as he might ruin you.

You force yourself to turn away.

Your legs feel heavy, your heart a war drum in your chest, but you don’t stop.

Not even when you feel the heat of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when the silence stretches too long, too unbearable.

And then—

"Go, then."

His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

But it’s not resignation.

It’s something else. Something that lingers in the air like a storm yet to break.

You don’t dare look back.

Because you know if you do—if you meet those ruby eyes, if you see whatever unreadable thing is brewing behind them—you might not be able to walk away.

So you don’t.

You keep moving.

Even when the ache in your chest becomes unbearable.

Even when you hear him exhale sharply, like he’s stopping himself from saying something else.

And he lets you go.

For now.

But deep down, you both know—this isn’t over. Not even close.

Sukuna leans against the stone railing of his balcony, staring out at the dark horizon. The wind is cool, the scent of rain lingering in the air. He exhales slowly, fingers drumming against the marble.

You sit by your window, staring at the same sky. The city below glows in the dim torchlight, yet it feels impossibly far away. Your hands rest in your lap, twisting the fabric of your nightgown between your fingers.

Neither of you sleep.

His mind replays the kiss, the way your lips parted so easily for him, the warmth of your body so close to his. He scoffs, jaw tightening. And yet, you pulled away.

Your mind replays the same moment, the way he kissed you with such certainty, as if you belonged to him. The way you almost—almost—let yourself believe it.

He clenches his fists. You wanted it. He knows you did. The way you leaned into him, breath hitching, fingers trembling against his chest—he felt it all. Yet, you turned away. Why?

You close your eyes, guilt twisting in your stomach. You wanted it. You can’t deny that. But that doesn’t make it right. He is still the man who tore you from your home, the tyrant who leveled kingdoms without hesitation.

Sukuna exhales sharply. This shouldn’t bother him. He shouldn’t care. But he does. And that infuriates him more than anything.

You inhale deeply. This shouldn’t affect you. You shouldn’t feel this way. But you do. And that terrifies you more than anything.

The wind howls, the night stretches on, and neither of you move.

Both lost in the same moment.

Both refusing to admit what it meant.

The next day, you do everything in your power to avoid Sukuna. You keep to the quieter halls, taking longer routes just to ensure you don’t run into him. If your handmaiden notices, she says nothing. But the tension in the air is undeniable.

Sukuna, on the other hand, does nothing to seek you out. He acts as if nothing happened, as if you never left him standing in the garden with your lips swollen from his kiss and your eyes shining with unshed tears. But everyone around him treads more carefully. His patience is razor-thin.

Then, it happens.

A sudden storm rolls in, the winds howling through the corridors like restless spirits. You’re in one of the castle’s many libraries, a place you assumed was far from Sukuna’s reach. You were wrong.

A heavy door slams shut behind you just as the first crack of thunder shakes the castle. You whirl around—and there he is.

Sukuna stands in front of the only exit, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The storm rages outside, but it’s nothing compared to the storm in his gaze.

Your heart pounds. Trapped. With him.

“Move,” you say, voice steadier than you feel.

He doesn’t.

“I didn’t summon the storm, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says lazily. "Though I can’t say I mind the inconvenience."

You swallow. “You think this is funny?”

“Not at all.” His gaze darkens, sharp as a blade. “I think it’s convenient.”

You take a step back. He takes a step forward.

The tension is unbearable. The storm grows louder, shaking the very walls of the castle, but all you can focus on is him—his scent, his heat, the way he watches you like he’s trying to figure you out.

The kiss lingers between you, unspoken yet suffocating.

Sukuna tilts his head. "You’ve been avoiding me."

"You noticed?"

He chuckles, but there’s no real humor in it—just something sharp and knowing. “You kissed me like you meant it,” he murmurs, taking another step closer. "And then ran like a coward."

You stiffen. “I didn’t run—”

He cuts you off. “You did.” His voice is low, rough. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but don’t lie to me.”

Your throat goes dry. The heat of him is suffocating, his presence overwhelming. The storm rages outside, the flickering candlelight casting jagged shadows across his sharp features.

You force yourself to stand your ground. “I told you, this was a mistake.”

His eyes gleam, something dangerous curling at the edges of his smirk. “A mistake?”

Then, faster than you can react, he moves—closing the distance in a single stride, his hand bracing against the shelf behind you. Not touching, not forcing, but caging you in.

Your breath catches. He leans in, his voice a whisper against your ear.

“Then tell me…why do you look like you want to make it again?”

Your eyes flash with defiance, your chin lifting despite the rapid beat of your heart.

"And why do you look like you can't stand not having everything handed to you?"

Sukuna’s smirk doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker in his red eyes—something between intrigue and challenge. His hand stays where it is, caging you without touching, testing the boundaries you refuse to let him cross.

"Careful," he murmurs, voice like silk wrapped around a blade. "That mouth of yours might get you in trouble."

You glare up at him, unyielding. "Then do your worst."

For a long moment, he simply watches you, his smirk widening. Amused. Pleased.

He leans in, just a fraction closer. Too close.

"Oh, I intend to, princess."

The palace buzzes with restless energy as the wedding looms closer. Servants scurry through the halls, carrying silks, gold-threaded robes, and delicate jewels fit for a queen. The entire kingdom is preparing for a spectacle—a union between beauty and terror, between the feared King of Curses and the Princess of the North.

Yet behind closed doors, the air is thick with unspoken words and lingering glances.

You and Sukuna haven’t spoken about that night in the gardens. Haven’t addressed the kiss, the way your heart pounded against his chest before you fled. But it lingers in the way his gaze sears into you during royal gatherings, in the way he looms just a bit too close whenever your paths cross.

And you? You hold your head high, but your fingers tremble when your handmaidens fasten the bridal jewelry around your neck.

It’s happening.

No matter how much you fight, no matter how much your heart wars against itself, soon, you will be his.

The grand hall is drenched in gold and crimson, lit by a thousand flickering lanterns. The scent of incense coils through the air, rich and heavy. Nobles and warriors alike hold their breath, waiting for the moment when the tyrant takes his bride.

You stand at the end of the aisle, wrapped in silks so fine they feel like whispers against your skin. Jewels glitter in your hair, but they feel no heavier than the weight pressing down on your heart. You’re walking toward a man feared across the world, a man who has claimed you as his.

And yet—when you reach him, he does not touch you like a conqueror.

Sukuna’s hands, tattooed and powerful, settle on yours with a gentleness that no one expects. His thumb skims over your wrist, a silent, almost reverent touch. His red eyes, so used to burning with cruelty, soften just for a second.

For a moment, there is no war. No kingdoms. No chains.

Just him and you.

The officiary looks at the both of you in quiet wonder before he speaks- “Dear beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this bride in holy matrimony-” he gestures to Sukuna, “You may begin.”

Sukuna does not hesitate. His voice is deep, rich, unchallenged.

"I vow to take you as my wife, to protect what is mine, to keep you in wealth, in power, and in blood. Let the gods bear witness to this union, for I claim you, now and forever."

A shiver runs through you. His hand is warm where it clasps yours. Too warm. Too steady.

You are meant to answer. To seal this union. To give him what he wants.

Your throat tightens.

Your mind screams—no, no, no.

Your lips part, but the words don’t come. Not yet.

Sukuna’s grip on your hand tightens—just slightly. Not in warning. Not in threat. Almost as if he is waiting.

And in his eyes, in the way they search yours—there is something else. Something like… patience.

For a single breath, the world slows.

You think of your people. Your kingdom. The life you once had—the life you could have had. And then, you think of the man before you. Of what he could become.

So you inhale. You lift your chin. And with a final, quiet surrender—

“I believe in you, the person you will grow to be and the couple we will be together.

With my whole heart, I take you as my husband, acknowledging and accepting your faults and strengths, as you do mine.”

The hall exhales. A murmur ripples through the gathered court.

Sukuna lets out a breath, so subtle you almost miss it.

He smiles—but it's not his usual smirk. Not mocking, not cruel. It's something quieter. Softer.

The officiary speaks the final words. And when Sukuna lifts your veil, when he leans in and tilts your chin up with the faintest touch—the grand hall watches in stunned silence.

Because Ryomen Sukuna, the man known as the King of Curses—

is looking at his bride like he would burn the world down for her.

The kiss is not rough, not bruising. It is slow. Intense. Claiming. And when he pulls back, his forehead lingers against yours for half a second too long.

"Mine," he murmurs against your lips.

And for the first time, you wonder—are you truly lost, or have you simply been found?

Sukuna doesn’t go looking for you.

He doesn’t have to.

The heavy silence in your chambers is unnatural, suffocating in a way that unsettles him—not because he cares, but because he expects defiance, not absence.

His feet carry him forward before he even registers the thought. Past the sprawling corridors of his castle, past the ever-watchful eyes of servants too afraid to meet his gaze.

He finds you where the candlelight barely reaches, sitting by the window, your silk sleeves clutched in trembling fists, your shoulders drawn tight.

At first, he thinks you’re merely lost in thought.

Then, he hears it. The shallow, uneven hitch of your breath.

He’s heard every sound a person can make. Pain, terror, rage. But this—this quiet, fragile grief—is something else entirely.

For a moment, he simply watches. He should leave you to it.

But something about the way your fingers dig into your arms, as if holding yourself together, makes him speak.

"You mourn them."

The words break the silence like a blade through cloth.

You freeze, but you do not turn to face him. You don’t deny it either.

Sukuna should be pleased. You are finally bending under the weight of your circumstances, realizing the futility of resistance.

But the sight of you like this—spilling over with grief, silent and unguarded—unnerves him.

It irritates him.

He should leave. He should turn his back and let you drown in it.

Instead, he steps closer.

And before he can stop himself, his fingers brush against yours.

"You still have yourself," he murmurs, the words slow, deliberate. "That is more than most who cross my path."

Your breath catches.

Sukuna doesn’t know why he says it. Doesn’t know why he’s still standing here. But when you finally turn to face him, eyes rimmed red, pain etched into every delicate feature—he hates it.

Hates that he has to look at it. Hates that, for some reason, he cannot look away.

His hand is still there, hovering near yours. A mistake. He should pull away. Mock you. Walk out.

Instead, he does something even more foolish.

He moves closer.

You’re still staring at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears, lips slightly parted as if caught between words and silence. Sukuna doesn’t know which he despises more.

Your grief is suffocating, filling the air like incense—cloying, inescapable. It reminds him of things long buried. Things he does not care to remember.

And yet.

"Come here," he mutters, barely above a breath.

He expects resistance. A flinch. Maybe even a trembling whisper of defiance. You always fight him. Always.

But this time, you don't.

This time, you let him pull you in.

His touch is careful, almost hesitant, as if testing the weight of this unfamiliar act. But once you’re close—once your forehead rests against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his robes—he doesn’t let go.

He can feel it then. The slight shake of your shoulders, the way your breath hitches against him. He has felt people tremble before—but never like this.

Never against him.

A sigh leaves him, low and tired. "You grieve for them, yet they still breathe," he murmurs, his lips close to your hair. "You act as if I have burned your home to the ground."

You swallow hard. "I might as well be dead to them."

Sukuna stiffens.

The weight of your words settles over him, unfamiliar and heavy. He has taken many things from many people—lives, kingdoms, freedom.

But this? The ache in your voice, the unspoken sorrow of being cast aside by those you loved most?

It is not something he has stolen.

It is something they have given.

For a long moment, he says nothing. And then—because he cannot offer you lies, nor promises of comfort—he does the only thing he can.

He holds you closer.

His grip is firm but not harsh, solid in a way that dares the world to challenge it. Let them call him a monster. A tyrant. Let them cower at his name.

None of it matters.

Because right now, you are in his arms, and he is the only one here.

And he will not let you break.

His thumb brushes idly over your shoulder, absentminded, like he's forgotten it's you he's holding. You, who have done nothing but push him away, spit fire at him when others cower.

And yet here you are, clutching onto him like he’s the last solid thing in a crumbling world.

He exhales through his nose, a quiet huff of amusement. "Tch. I didn’t know you had it in you to be so… delicate."

You stiffen, but he tightens his hold before you can pull away.

"Don’t," he murmurs, voice dropping into something dangerously soft. "Don’t start building your walls again."

His fingers find your chin, tilting your face up—just enough for your eyes to meet his. They’re still damp, shimmering like fractured starlight. And Sukuna?

Sukuna hates it.

Not because you’re crying. No, he's seen bloodied men and weeping queens before.

It’s because—against all logic, against every instinct that tells him to be cruel—he wants to take that pain away.

"You’re insufferable," he mutters, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone. "Sulking over people who abandoned you the second they found it convenient."

You swallow, a glare forming. "That’s my family you’re talking about."

"Exactly."

Your lips part, an argument forming, but you don't pull away. You stay.

He lets you.

"You have a home here," he says at last, almost begrudgingly. "Whether you like it or not."

You blink, surprised.

Sukuna tuts, shaking his head. "Don’t look so stunned, my queen. I’m not that heartless."

He leans in then, his breath warm against your temple, his voice a low murmur.

"But if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll have to kill them."

It’s a joke. Mostly.

You let out something caught between a scoff and a laugh, burying your face against his chest. And he lets you do that too.

For a while, neither of you speak. You just breathe. Just exist in each other’s presence.

And for the first time since this wretched arrangement began—since you were forced to leave the lands you loved—you don’t feel quite so alone.

Silence stretches between you. The warmth of Sukuna’s hands lingers against your skin, his grip no longer possessive, no longer a claim—just there. He watches you, the weight of his gaze heavy, unreadable.

Your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths. You should pull away. You should say something. But you can’t. You don’t want to.

Sukuna exhales sharply, a huff of amusement laced with something softer. "You're staring... Do I have something on my face?" he murmurs, his thumb ghosting over your knuckles.

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering in your throat. The space between you is fragile, delicate—something you’ve never had with him before.

“Shut up,” you whisper, voice trembling.

He smirks, tilting his head. “Make me.”

It’s the last push you need.

You close the distance, pressing your lips against his. It’s desperate, feverish, final—a clash of everything unspoken, of battle and surrender, of all the walls you swore you’d never let crumble. His hands slide up to cup your face, pulling you deeper, letting you take as much as you give.

You lose yourself in him. In the fire, in the softness hidden beneath it. And for the first time since he took you away, you don’t feel like you’re drowning.

The world fades. The war between you quiets. There is only this.

The kiss leaves you breathless.

You’re still reeling, lips tingling, your heart pounding against your ribs like a war drum when Sukuna’s hand finds your waist. With a low grunt, he pulls you into his lap as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. You gasp, startled, your hands pressed against his chest for balance, but he only smirks—lazily, like he’s been waiting for this moment all along.

“Well,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough near your ear, “didn’t think you’d be the one to lose control first.”

Your breath hitches. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” His lips brush along your jaw. “Didn’t mean to kiss me? Or didn’t mean to want it so badly?”

You try to look away, but his fingers curl gently around your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. His red eyes—dangerous, hungry—search yours, but there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the fire. A pause. A check.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, “and I will.”

You don’t.

Instead, your fingers twist in the fabric of his robe as if anchoring yourself—and that’s all the permission he needs.

His mouth finds yours again, rougher this time. Hungrier. His hands trace your sides, down your waist, learning the shape of you with reverent ease. The kiss deepens, tongues tangling, heat building fast and thick between your bodies. You can feel him, hard beneath you, but it doesn’t scare you—it sends a jolt of heat straight through your core.

And Sukuna notices.

“Fuck,” he growls, breaking the kiss for a heartbeat. “You’re killin’ me, princess.”

And when he kisses you again, it’s different. Slower. Devouring. One hand cradles the back of your head while the other trails lower, slipping beneath layers of silk to touch skin—bare, warm, sensitive. His calloused fingers drag a line along your thigh, and you gasp into his mouth, every nerve alight.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs with a dark, amused smile. “That nervous?”

You manage a weak, “A little.”

“Good.” He nips at your lower lip. “Means you feel it.”

You’re straddling him now, nestled snug against his lap, your skirts bunched up between you. The soft silk does little to hide the growing friction, and you can feel the shift in him—his control thinning, his need sharpening.

His lips trail down your throat, warm breath skimming your skin, tongue flicking teasingly at your pulse.

“You’re trembling,” he mutters, voice thick with lust. “Is that fear, or anticipation?”

Your fingers fist into his robe. “I don’t know.”

He chuckles darkly, and the sound vibrates against your neck. “You will.”

A single hand smooths up your thigh beneath your nightgown, calloused fingertips dragging slow, deliberate paths along your bare skin. When he grazes the edge of your undergarments, you tense—but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

“Soft,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So soft.”

Your breath hitches when his fingers press lightly against the heat between your legs, and his smirk deepens.

“Already warm for me.” His voice is velvet and gravel, a dangerous purr. “Do you even know how badly I’ve wanted this?”

“Sukuna…”

Your voice breaks, barely more than a whisper—but it’s enough.

That single plea undoes him.

And then he lifts you—just like that, effortlessly, like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. His mouth trails kisses along your throat as he lays you down, his body sliding over yours. You arch into him instinctively, desperate for friction, and he chuckles against your skin. He helps undress you, eyes burning into each inch of newly exposed skin.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick with desire. “So pliant already. Didn’t even have to do anything.”

You squirm, heat pooling between your thighs. “Shut up.”

He grins at your flustered expression, and then—without warning—he disappears between your legs. You gasp, trying to sit up, but he drags your hips down, strong hands pinning you in place.

“Stay still,” he mutters, “and let me taste you.”

A cry rips from your throat the moment his tongue finds your sensitive clit and sucks. He devours you like a man starved, groaning against your core as your fingers twist in the sheets.

“S-Sukuna—”

Your thighs tremble, your back arches. It’s too much. Too good. He’s biting, kissing, licking and it’s so many sensations it makes you drip in copious amounts.

His hands part your folds, fingers prodding at your entrance before pushing in. Tears brim at your waterline and you’re sobbing. “S-Sukuna, it’s too much! I can't-”

“You can and you will. Now, spread those legs wider for me—that’s it—good.” He buries his face deeper, his nose nudging your swollen bud. His fingers continue their relentless pace and when he finds that spongy spot inside you, he pushes against it hard. And when he sucks gently, you come undone—your first orgasm crashing over you like a wave, leaving you gasping, flushed, boneless.

He rises slowly, licking his lips, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Didn’t even have to fuck you yet.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before Sukuna rises above you, crimson gaze smoldering as he watches you unravel beneath him. He strips off the last of his clothing, and your gaze drops instinctively, your lips parting.

He's big. Of course he is. Long, thick and veiny at all the right places

You squirm, suddenly unsure, but his hand cradles your jaw, tilting your gaze back to his.

“You're alright,” he murmurs, surprisingly gentle. “I won’t hurt you."

You feel the heat rush to your cheeks. “I’ve never…”

“I know,” he cuts in softly, kissing your cheek. “I'll go slow.”

But “slow” is a lie. A tease. Because the way he slides the tip against your entrance—just barely pushing in, then pulling away—has you trembling, desperate, needy.

“Sukuna,” you whimper, clutching his arms.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growls, easing in with slow, maddening precision. “Like your body was made to take me.”

You moan—loud, helpless, clinging to him as he finally thrusts in fully. You’re stretched wide, full, overwhelmed in the best possible way. He’s panting above you, struggling to hold himself back.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters against your neck.

And then he moves—rolling his hips deep, smooth, precise. Every drag of his cock sends sparks ricocheting through your nerves. He sets a rhythm, slow but firm, his control ironclad, his dominance clear.

Each moan, each gasp, each broken plea earns a smirk.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, brushing hair off your flushed face. “Fucked dumb already and I’ve barely started.”

You gasp as he thrusts deeper, one hand on your thigh to spread you wider. Your head falls back, mouth open, and he dips down to kiss you—deep, possessive, filled with heat.

You don’t know how long you’re lost in it—all you know is him. His voice in your ear, his body owning yours, his whispered praises and filthy promises.

You’re close again—so close you’re trembling—and then—

Knock-knock.

“Your Highness?” your handmaiden calls softly through the door. “I was wondering if you’d like me to draw a bath before bed.”

You freeze.

Sukuna stills inside you, chest heaving, a wicked glint in his eye.

“I-I’m fine!” you call out, voice breathless and a little too high.

A pause. “Are you alright, my lady? You sound… unwell.”

“I’m alright! J-just a headache- d-don’t wo-”

Before you can say another word, Sukuna presses a hand to your mouth, muffling your response. He leans in toward the door and, in that infuriatingly calm drawl of his, says “She’s fine. I’ve got it under control. I’ll take real good care of my queen tonight.”

Then he rolls his hips—slow, deep, deliberate.

You moan against his palm, loud enough that it echoes in the chamber.

A beat of silence.

"Apologies, Your Majesty,” your handmaiden says hastily. “I’ll leave you to it.”

As her footsteps fade, Sukuna lowers his hand and looks down at you smugly. “Oops.”

“She definitely heard that,” you hiss, mortified.

He chuckles darkly. “Should’ve kept your voice down, sweetheart.”

And then he drives into you again, hard, relentless—until you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe without him.

Your nails dig into his back as Sukuna picks up the pace, relentless now, pounding into you with a rhythm that’s pure sin. He’s feral—yet still somehow completely in control, watching every reaction, every shudder, every sweet sound that escapes you.

“You feel that?” he growls, breath ragged against your ear. “You’re taking me so well.”

You whimper, clinging to him as your body tightens again—hot, electric, right there.

“‘Kuna-”

His entire body stills and for a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Then—then—he’s on you again, lips crashing against yours like he’s lost his mind. Like that one nickname was all it took to break whatever leash he had on himself.

“Say that again,” he begs, voice rough and cracking at the edges. “Say it again, please.”

You whimper, eyes wide, breath stolen. “’Kuna.”

He snaps his hips forward, hard, claiming every inch of you all over again. “You’re mine, princess,” he hisses. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world. “Yours, ‘Kuna.”

“That’s fucking right,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder, voice ragged and trembling. “My queen. My wife. Mine.”

Each word is a brand, hot and absolute.

Mine, mine, mine.

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice is low, commanding, but there’s a strange softness underneath. “Give it to me. Let go.”

You do.

You cry out, back arching as the orgasm crashes through you—white-hot and shattering, stealing every breath from your lungs. Sukuna groans, hips stuttering, and then he's spilling inside you with a deep, guttural snarl, his entire body tensing as he rides it out, buried to the hilt.

For a long moment, there’s only silence.

Heavy breaths. Sticky skin. A faint tremble in your thighs.

And then Sukuna collapses beside you, pulling you close, one tattooed arm slung around your waist. He nuzzles into your hair, still catching his breath, and for a moment… he doesn’t say anything cruel or cocky.

Just holds you.

“You okay?” he murmurs at last, quieter than you’ve ever heard him.

You nod, cheeks flushed, heart still pounding. “Y-Yeah…”

A pause.

“That was your first?” His tone is unreadable.

You glance away, shy. “...Yes.”

Sukuna hums, fingers brushing over your arm in slow, absent strokes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laugh weakly. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling. “You were perfect.”

You blink, startled.

Sukuna rarely says anything without an edge. But this... this feels real.

You don’t reply—just nestle closer to him, your head resting on his chest as his hand lazily trails patterns on your back.

“I scared you,” he mutters after a beat. “At the beginning.”

You nod slowly. “You still do.”

He snorts. “Good. Wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable.”

But his hold tightens, and you feel his lips brush your temple—so soft, so fleeting, it’s almost like he didn’t mean for you to notice.

You smile faintly.

Outside, the castle sleeps. The halls are silent, the air cool. But here—in this bed, tangled in sheets and limbs and breaths—you’re warm.

You close your eyes. And for the first time since being torn from your home, you feel… safe.

You’re still catching your breath, limbs tangled with his as the heat between your bodies begins to settle. The room is quiet save for your soft, uneven inhales and the rhythmic thud of your heart, still racing. Sukuna’s hand lazily traces your spine, his other arm wrapped under your head, holding you close as if you might disappear.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low, satisfied. “This suits you, princess.”

You nudge him with a scoff, cheeks warm. “You’re insufferable.”

He chuckles darkly, eyes gleaming as he shifts to hover over you once more. “Mm. And yet here you are…” He presses a kiss to your throat. “Pliant. Breathless.” Another kiss, lower. “Mine.”

Your breath hitches, fingers curling into his shoulders. “We just—”

“I know,” he whispers against your skin, voice thick with want. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyes widen. “'Kuna-”

His lips brush against yours, soft but burning. “Say yes.”

Oh, boy.

author's note : honestly wasnt planning on this being so long. also my first time writing a long fic so feedback is much appreciated <33 leave a like/reblog if you enjoyed!

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

3K notes · View notes

bi-writes · 13 days ago

Text

polarity | ghost x f!reader

maybe we're not so different after all.

type: one-shot (8.3k), AO3

cw: this piece is actually super dark proceed with caution, dark!ghost, dark!simon, sunshine!reader, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence + gore, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, meet-cute until it's not, background breeding kink, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, references to simon's past canon trauma, 18+

Ghost does not believe in love at first sight.

The concept is for children; even when he was a child, he doesn’t think he would’ve believed it then, either. There was no love where he went, even to the places where it was owed to him. In his own house, he feared what love felt like. The kind he knew was pain and misery and the terrifying reality of what it meant to always be looking over his own shoulder.

Love at first sight chewed Simon Riley up—and what it spat out was terrible, big, and caged-off from the rest of the world.

Ghost is built of many layers. Not like an onion, no—onions are easy to manipulate. With the tip of a knife, you can cut right through its skin and tear it apart, but Ghost is not built the same way. He laid concrete out in front of himself a long time ago. The things around him are rotten, curled in on itself, and it would take too long to unbury him for anyone at all to want to spend the time and try. He prefers it this way. He likes it this way. Being alone means there are no surprises, and there is no one waiting for you. There is no one to disappoint, and there is no one to prove right or wrong. There is only today and tomorrow, because yesterday has already passed, and he doesn’t care to think about what already was.

It’s Johnny that’s brought him here. In a pub too loud, with watered-down drinks that cost a quid too much. He didn’t have an excuse today to turn him down. Johnny’s got a sister he needs to see, and his sister has got a friend—someone from her uni, taking the same chemistry courses, or something like that. He can’t really remember, he wasn’t paying attention too closely, but Johnny offered to pay if his lieutenant just gave him company in the long drive into the city.

The booth is too small. His bourbon tastes off. All he wants to do is smoke a cigarette, but he’s been staring daggers at the “No Smoking” sign that’s posted behind the bar. There’s a ringing in his ears that’s been following him since they got off their last op just a few days ago, and it feels strongest here in this room, with too many unknowns in too many dark corners.

“Johnny!”

A soft voice squeals. Simon’s eye twitches, and he looks over Johnny’s shoulder to see a pretty brunette with bright, blue eyes smiling wide as she hurries towards them. Johnny slips out of his seat to cradle the woman to his chest, rocking back and forth as he hugs her. His baby Emily, he hears Johnny mutter. She’s got that same square jaw and strong brows, and Ghost imagines that if Johnny were to grow out his hair, it’d grow in the same matching, bouncy curls that Emily has. She sounds so happy to see him, and Ghost swirls a gloved finger around the rim of his glass as he watches.

It tastes sour, looking at something that he used to have. He wishes that he didn’t want it as much as he thinks he does at this very moment.

“Oh! Sorry, forgot for a wee second there. This is who I told you about—”

Emily steps aside, and there you stand.

Glossy, pink-tinted lips. A cardigan that hugs your frame with a knit, sunflower pattern. Light wash jeans, baby blue boots. Your fingertips are painted glittery and pink, and your baby blue purse matches your shoes.

Emily says your name, and you hold out your hand for Johnny to shake. It’s then that your eyes move to the shadow behind him, and Ghost licks over his teeth, satisfied, when you visibly swallow and your eyes widen a little.

“Ach, don’t mind ‘im. Tha’ scary bastard is just my lieutenant, Simon,” Johnny nods his head over his shoulder. “Simon, would ye introduce yerself, fer fuck’s sake? Stop brooding over there.”

Naturally, Emily sits next to her brother, already squeezing his shoulders and excitedly telling him about some fellowship opportunity she was up for. You slip your purse off your shoulder, shuffling towards the space next to Simon. You grip the edge of the booth to hoist yourself up onto the high seat, and you smile a little when Simon holds out his hand for you.

You take it, smooth palm in his gloved one, and it takes no effort at all for him to tug gently and get you up to sit. He sniffs, looking up when he finds himself staring a little too long at the curve of your jeans, but it’s hard not to when both of you take up the entirety of the booth. Just to fit, Simon has to lean back, and you adjust your cardigan over your shoulder when Simon stretches one big arm out behind you.

“So, uh…” You clear your throat. “What are you drinking, Lieutenant?”

“Piss water,” Simon says lowly. He cringes a little at the bite of his tone—he never means to be curt, but it always comes out that way. You purse your lips, tapping your nails on the wood, and you look at him over your shoulder.

“Hmm,” you make a face, “so Johnny made it?”

It takes a few moments for Simon to realize you’re telling a joke. The silence must mortify you, because you’re looking down and tearing a piece of yarn out of your sweater, and Simon realizes he’s wearing his mask, and you can’t see his face, and she’s trying to break the fucking ice—

“Nah,” Simon shrugs, shaking his head. “His tastes more like right shit.”

Your eyes flicker up, and you stare at him for just a few moments under your lashes before your hand goes up to cover your mouth. You giggle, cheeks warm, and he blinks at you slowly as your entire body relaxes. Your thigh touches his, and his fingers flex on the hand that’s thrown behind you, twitching as he thinks about letting them graze the skin peeking out from under your sweater.

When he gets the urge to touch you under your chin, he nearly curses out loud because fuck—

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Simon knows it as soon as he lays his eyes on you again. Staring right into yours, hand fidgeting behind you as it wants so desperately to cup the back of your neck and tangle into the strands of your hair—fuck, fuck, fuck—he’s so fucked.

He knows it, too, when you’re in his bed. Sunflower sweater draped across his floor, boots in the hallway, glittered nail-polish piercing his biceps as he tilts your head back, bares your throat, sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh there. You giggle, and it’s the rainbow after a storm. The drink of water after days in the desert, the stitch that holds the seams together, the pins that will take his broken bones and put them all back together again—

He’s feeling his cum dripping between your thighs when you ask him about his scars. He adjusts the edge of his mask as soon as you ask, sniffing under it as you smooth a finger over a puckered scar on his chest left behind by the ricochet of a stray bullet, one of many. You squeeze your thighs together when his long fingers move in squelching circles over your cunt, and your back arches when he slips them inside of you. You take his jaw between a few fingers and grip it tight, pressing your lips against his mask as you whine and kick your feet in overstimulation.

He doesn’t want you to ask questions. He doesn’t want to burst this bubble of warmth and goodness and intimacy that he’s created, because then this will be something else. Right now, he’s the mysterious, black ops military man you’ve spent an incredible night with, and if you start talking, you’ll learn. You’ll understand. You’ll find out why he doesn’t want to talk much. You’ll discover what he is under the skin he wears, and he already knows he’ll terrify you. There is nothing good about what someone uncovers under the lid he keeps over his head.

“Where did you get this one?” You point to a particular nasty white gash on the side of his ribs. He rubs a thick hand down your bare back, cupping your ass and squeezing gently.

“Op in Baghdad,” Simon murmurs. “Hand to hand.”

You touch a small circular scar on his arm.

“And this one?”

“Cigarette.”

You push the blankets down a little and bring your knee up. Simon grips the side of your thigh, and you hike your leg up to give him a better look at the puffed scar across your kneecap.

“Look at this,” you giggle. “I fell off my bike when I was little.”

“Tha’ right, swee’eart?”

“Mhm. Just like you.”

“Just like me.”

You’re still there in the morning. Cheek smushed against his chest, leg tangled between his, arm curled around his middle. There’s a little drool drying on the side of your mouth, and Simon thumbs along your jaw as he watches you sleep. The glittery eyeshadow you were wearing last night has smeared across your cheek a little, and you’re glowing. A good shag and a good night’s sleep, and you look like a right angel in the early hours.

You look like one on his couch, too. You look like one in his shirt that barely fits over your tits, watching his telly, eating the shit plate of eggs he made you since he’s never bothered to learn how to cook. You look beautiful getting your clothes back on and smelling just like him as he drives you back to your flat.

You look like his when he crowds you against the door of your place, masked mouth against your open lips as you fumble for the doorknob and yank him inside to get his pants off.

Your flat blinds him. There’s different colors scattered across the place. A fluffy pink carpet in the living room. String lights hung everywhere, in different colors, twinkling gently. There’s plants of all shapes and sizes hanging from the ceiling and overflowing from their brightly colored pots. No plate or cup is the same shape or color or even matches one another, and there’s lamps in the shapes of mushrooms and fish sitting on your mismatched coffee and side tables. You collect everything—movie posters of all kinds on the walls, an entire wall of funny clocks, another wall of arts and crafts that must be homemade, framed and hung up.

Your home is what you are. Fun and colorful and happy and bright, and Simon hikes his mask up so he can bite and lick and nearly eat you as he tries to absorb all of it. There is nothing inside of this place that doesn’t incite joy, and he feeds on it like a leech. He must have it, because he never has before, and whenever he lets go, he feels it less, and that cannot happen, he won’t let it go.

If it isn’t your smile keeping him close, your pussy is the next best thing. You look incredible on your knees—perched on your elbows, ass up, pushing back against him as he fucks into you lazily. You’re so beautiful, in every position, but there’s something about getting to push your thighs apart a little and watch you take his cock that makes his belly clench as he watches you suck him in again and again and again. There’s a ring of slick gathering at the base, making it nice and easy for him to kiss your cervix, and you sound so pretty—soft whines of his name, little mewls that make his jaw tick.

“Simon—Simon, please—”

He doesn’t like to hear you beg. You deserve whatever you ask for, whatever you want. Those big eyes should never desire anything. He never wants to see you pout or blubber—he wants you relaxed and pleasured and incoherent from how fed you are in every aspect, and he’s going to fuck you right into this mattress until he gets you right where you’re meant to be.

You tell him he looks funny in your bed, surrounded by the squishmallows and fluffy teddy bears, but he doesn’t mind. He didn’t realize what a proper bed could do for his back, because yours has springs and memory foam, and his body just sinks into it just right.

He gets woken up in the middle of the night by his phone. Wheels up at 0500, and now he’s dreading getting into his truck. There’s something warm on his chest, and for a moment he thinks it’s you, but then he blinks into focus when the thing on his chest moves and stretches, staring down at him with curious green eyes. It’s a chunky tuxedo cat, and it’s wearing a black bedazzled collar.

“‘ello,” Simon mutters, scratching under its chin. The big thing just nuzzles against his hand before moving to the end of the bed to curl up between your feet.

Simon tries not to think about you on the drive back, and he tries not to think about you as he puts his gear on; but there’s a bouquet of fake sunflowers on a secretary’s desk mocking him, and when he goes to put his gloves on, there’s still glitter on his fingertips.

You are everywhere. You are in the warmth of the sand that gets under the fabric of his mask. You are in the water that sustains him on hour fifteen of sitting on a rooftop. He sees you in the bright red that trickles from the hole in his target’s forehead, matching the red of the strawberry plushie that you were holding the morning he left.

He notices himself more. How much space he takes up. How loud his voice is. He compares the way his cock looks in his hand now to the way it looked in yours, and he has to swallow the groan that threatens to break when he thinks about the way you thumbed at the tip and cooed about how pretty he was. Delicate, pretty hands, not at all like his own—not at all like the roughness of his palms, the scars along the backs of his hands, the blood against his raw knuckles from beating a hostile into the ground just to feel something.

Just to feel anything.

Standing next to you, it is all too clear what kind of man Simon Riley is. He’s not a man at all—he’s nothing more than an extension to his rifle, and when the trigger isn’t getting pulled, he’s just not that fucking useful.

Johnny is in a mood. Scowling like a brat. Glaring at the back of his head. Hitting him with his shoulder whenever they pass by each other. Simon is indifferent, and Simon pretends not to care, so he takes it in stride, but it makes his teeth ache with how annoyed he is.

“What the fuck is wrong with ye?”

He doesn’t like being scolded, especially not by his sergeant; but he sits there, and he takes it, because what Johnny is telling him isn’t a lie. There’s a girl that woke up in an empty bed—a sweet one, with glassy eyes, and she thinks he’s a two-faced asshole that slipped out when she wasn’t looking. A girl that can do casual, but not a girl that can tell him about the dreams she’s too scared to write down and lets him rest his head on the same pillow where she rests her own. Too intimate, too many words, too many times he came inside of her and told her that’s where it’s supposed to be—in y’r pretty pussy, baby, right there—

He’s never done this before. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t stick around where he knows he doesn’t belong, and he never thinks he’s done anything wrong enough to warrant some kind of apology. With Simon, you get what you get, and he doesn’t think he advertises himself as someone warm, empathetic, considerate; but he’s sitting here, his truck still running, and there’s a decaying plastic-encased bouquet of yellow tulips resting haphazard in the passenger seat.

He’s been waiting on your doorstep for more than five minutes. He sees you peeking through the window in your kitchen, and his eyes find yours through the blinds. He narrows his eyes at you, squeezing the bouquet until the plastic crinkles under his fists. It takes a couple more moments before you open the door, and Simon sniffs under the mask when he sees your eyes again. They’re big and wet and sad.

He never wants to see them like this again.

You’re sweet, so you take the flowers from him. You purse your lips as you stand there, trying to keep your lip from wobbling, but it’s very clear you’re trying not to cry. You hug the flowers close to your chest, and Simon brings his hand up, tucking his gloved fingers under your chin and tipping it up.

“‘ello, swee’eart,” he murmurs. “Were y’lookin’ for me?”

“N-No.”

“Y’r a bad liar, baby.”

It takes a few minutes to get you settled. Sitting on your couch, batting at your tears with the sleeve of your sweater as Simon turns the kettle on in your kitchen. The cat weaves between his legs as he steeps the tea bags, and when he comes back into your living room, you’re staring at the droopy tulips, rubbing a thumb over the petals.

“‘ere,” Simon murmurs, setting down a mug in front of you.

“I…” You wipe under your nose. “I-I don’t need your pity, Simon.”

“Not here for tha’.”

“I know Johnny said something to you, and I really don’t want to talk about it—a-and if that’s why you’re here, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

You pick up one of the stuffed animals that sits on your couch. It’s a goldfish, fat with stuffing around the middle, with a comical smile and rainbow-colored scales. You hug it, resting your cheek on it, staring at Simon through wet eyelashes as he stiffens uncomfortably. Crying, emotions, talking—he doesn’t do any of these things. This complicates things. Relationships make things more difficult, and connections mean he has obligations, and he’s already seeing now what this kind of thing will be between you.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

“He did say somethin’,” Simon mutters. He sniffs, looking down at his gloved hands. His fingers curl into fists as they rest on his thighs, and he lets out the breath he’s holding harshly, shaking his head. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing here, but the thought of getting up and leaving seems worse. “Didn’t sit right wit’ me.”

You tuck your legs underneath you, and he watches as you absentmindedly knead the stuffed fish. You hum lowly, sheepish, and then you open and close your mouth as you try to find the words to say.

“I know we…” You flinch a little. “It was just…I know it was just a day. A night.” You rub your nose. “I feel so stupid. I don’t want you to feel bad. I don’t want you to feel…like you h-have to come here and…explain, I…” You close your eyes. “I-I just…I really like you, Simon.”

I really like you, Simon.

He leans his head back against the back of your couch. Something in his chest squeezes tight, and he swallows hard as he listens to you say it again and again in his head.

I really like you, Simon. I really like you, Simon. Don’t you like me?

“Oh, love,” Simon breathes. He turns his head to look at you, and you’re already looking at him. You have the fish to your chest, hugging it tighter, and he reaches over and touches under your chin gently. “Y’don’t want this. Y’don’t want me. I know y’think y’do, and ‘s sweet, but y’don’t want this.”

“Tell me why,” you say softly. “Convince me, then.”

“Do you…do you even know wot we do?” He asks. “The kinds of things they ask us to do? Wot I’ve done t’get here?”

You shake your head, and when his hand opens up, your cheek finds his palm, resting there, nuzzling.

“We’re murderers with fuckin’ passes,” he whispers. “There isn’t a line we don’t cross. No boundary we don’t ignore. They killed my whole fuckin’ family, and then I came back for more, because tha’s the kind of life I live, and tha’s the kind of work I do. When I come home, I have someone else’s blood on my clothes, do y’understand tha’?” He leans closer, touching his nose to yours. “We go places tha’ no one comes back from. Even now—” He pinches your chin between two fingers, “—I strangled someone with these very hands, love, tha’s the kind of man I am. Look at me—”

You flutter your lashes, meeting his eyes, and he shakes his head.

“Tha’s wot I do, love,” Simon grunts. “And the worst part of it is tha’ I fuckin’ like it.”

You lift a hand up and wrap it around his wrist. There is no resistance as you draw his hand off your face and hold it instead, intertwining your fingers and resting them in your lap. His hand dwarfs yours—long, deft fingers and spread palm that covers your own completely. You scoot a little closer, getting up onto your knees, and Simon’s eyes follow you as you abandon the stuffed fish to put one hand on his shoulder and the other cupping his masked cheek.

“You didn’t say no.”

“Wot?”

“You won’t say no,” you whisper, sliding the hand on his shoulder up to caress the back of his neck. “To me. To this.”

“Because I can’t,” Simon groans. “Need you t’do it.”

“But I…” You lean down and press your forehead to his. “I-I do want it. I want you. You’re…” You kiss him through the mask, a soft press of your lips against his. You feel him kiss back, and you pull away slowly. “Please. Please, Simon?” You kiss down his cheek, thumbing under his eye, and he lets out a shaky breath as you fall into his lap, knees on either side of him. His hands come up easily, cupping under your thighs, and you whine as he drags your hips forward, a slow grind that makes you shake. “Won’t you try? For me?”

Getting Simon into your bed is too easy. He looks nice here, underneath you. You press down onto his chest for leverage, using it to help throw your hips back against his. He’s deep, pulsing inside of your cunt—your rhythm stutters every time he touches your cervix, but his tight grip on your ass keeps you moving.

You’re so wet. You’ve never been wetter with another man. Sweat, tears, slick—every part of you leaks when you’re with Simon. You dig your nails into his chest, and he grunts, when you start to feel your orgasm creeping up on you, you arch your back to get friction onto your clit and squeal when Simon gets the hint; he lifts you up and plants his feet against the bed to fuck up into you and force your eyes into the back of your head.

He tastes like you after awhile. After spending days in your flat, his kisses start to taste as sweet as the pastries you make, and he starts to smell like the citrus soaps you keep in your bathroom. You get a whiff of lavender from his clothes after using your laundry detergent, and he sleeps like the dead after round two inside of you. Cum cooling between your thighs, mouth fixed to your throat, fingers stuffed inside of you to keep warm as he breathes in a sigh of relief until he’s deep asleep. He still doesn’t take his mask off, but he gives you his mouth, and you fix yourself there, mouth against his, kissing him feverishly whenever he exposes his lips just for you.

“Will you miss me?” You ask. He’s standing at the door, pulling his jacket on. He flips the hood up over his head, clicking his tongue as he fits a hand into the back pocket of your jeans and squeezes, pulling you towards him and into his chest.

“Mhm,” he mutters. You giggle, cupping his cheeks, and when he puts his thumb between your lips, you let him open your mouth, tilting your head as he spits onto your tongue before kissing you wetly. You wrap your arms around his neck, charmed bracelets jingling as you try to climb up to him. He bends, gripping you under your thighs before he hoists you up and against the wall. You moan, scratching along his back.

“Do you really have to go?” You whisper between kisses, and he hisses in response.

“Got to,” Simon sighs, but you smile wide when you hear the sound of his belt buckle. “But I can be late.”

Like you, Simon feels like he’s seeing the world for the very first time—all in color. Food has taste. Views have beauty. His gun feels heavy, and his cot is cold to the touch. Time finally has duration—it hangs and drags now, minutes and seconds taking too long as he sits in a dark room and listens to his captain explain an op he could care less about. His leg bounces impatiently, fingers twitching as he watches the screen and tries to pay attention.

Complicated. Difficult. Not enough and too much.

You are so beautiful. Your name lights up his phone, several pink and yellow emojis beside your name that you entered yourself.

we miss u! xoxo

There’s a picture of you and your cat. You’re seated on your couch, a pink blanket in your lap, a selfie of you holding up your cat in one arm. Simon clenches his jaw when he sees that you’re practically naked—in just a yellow lace bra, blanket covering your lower half. You send another picture after a few seconds, and Simon licks over his teeth. Another selfie of you, cleavage on display, and he can see the little rhinestones that are sewn into your bra. He can also see the little butterfly clips you have in your hair and the darling smile you wear.

He comes in his fist later, selfie on display in one hand, his mind on the sound of your voice. It’s never happened so fast—just a few languid tugs, and he’s spilling over his thighs like a teenager.

It’s all he thinks about. The blood runs warmer, easier. His gun fires quicker. He’s got tunnel-vision now, eyes on his prize—the sooner he finishes, the quicker he gets home, so he sinks his blade into throats and keeps his feet moving. He keeps quiet, keeps steady, and as soon as he’s got his target in his sights, he pulls the trigger without a second thought.

“Got somethin’ on yer mind, LT?”

Simon narrows his eyes. Johnny looks smug—a ghost of a smirk on his face, face red from sweat and his own cheekiness. Simon just leans his head back against the side of the helicopter, looking outside as the ground gets farther and farther away.

“Never pegged ye fer the type.”

Simon’s hands dig into his rifle.

“Always liked tha’ one,” Johnny continues. “Got a sweet face. Always wondered why she never liked me. Guess she likes ‘em big ‘n scary.”

“Careful, Johnny,” Simon warns, glaring at him.

“I just—”

“No, listen ‘ere,” Simon snaps. “We don’t talk about ‘er. We don’t mention ‘er. She is off limits, to you or anyone else. As far as y’r concerned, she doesn’t exist, yeah? Repeat it back t’me.”

“Don’t know who yer talkin’ about, LT,” Johnny says after a few moments. Simon looks away, shaking his head.

“Good boy.”

He doesn’t go back to his flat. There isn’t anything there that he wants; everything he needs leads straight to you. You’re cooing when he comes through the door, murmuring lowly as he drops his duffel bag and shoves his masked face into the crook of your neck. He crowds you against the door when you shut it, and you giggle as he takes deep breaths of your perfume. His hands grab at your waist, sliding down the backs of your thighs, feeling over the soft skin and biting at your throat even through the mask.

“What happened, teddy bear?” You mumble, scratching the back of his neck. “What did they do to you, huh?”

Dog, mutt, devour. He’s been away for too long, been starving ever since he left, and you take it with a smile. Simon is never too much for you. Simon is never too rough or too loud, and he is never too far into your space or too attached. You drink it so lovingly, and you never push him away.

He watches you carefully as you help him take his gear off. You start with the weapons. You slip the gun out of its holster on his chest, emptying the chamber and taking the magazine out. His grip on your waist tightens at the sight of you handling it with such ease, and you just shrug as you set it aside.

“I’ve been practicing.”

You unload all of his throwing knives, from his thigh holster and from inside of his boot. You find another small pistol attached to his boot, and you sigh as you unload it the same. Your hands find the buckles of his thigh holsters, and when you slide it off of him, you settle on your knees and tip your head back to look up at him.

He caresses the back of your head, and you swear you hear him purr. You lean forward, pressing your cheek to where his belt is. You kiss there, right against his zipper, and his fingers tangle into your hair just enough for you to feel a little pressure. He’s still gentle, still kind, but his eyes are so dark. You wonder if the way he looks at you now is the way he looks at his targets. Is this hunger the same—the same for you as it is to get the job done? They say love and hate are so alike, so intertwined; is that why he keeps coming back? Does he chase this feeling all the time?

What is it that you are?

An addiction? Or a necessity?

You take his dirty clothes from him as he undresses in the bathroom. Shirt, jacket, belt, pants, socks, boxers—you eye him with a smile, biting your lip, and Simon winks at you from under the mask as he slides a big hand down his middle.

“Wot?” He asks. “Like wot y’see, love?”

It would be impossible not to. Thick arms, tattoos on display. Unforgiving muscle and fat. His hands ungloved, you can see the split of his knuckles and the bruising from where he must’ve hit something—someone. Then your eyes skim over the curls just over his cock, which hangs heavy and red between his thighs. Simon has no shame—his nakedness is not something he cares to hide, especially not to you. You stand on your toes and gives his cheek a kiss before taking his clothes to the laundry room.

You’re at the sink when he’s freshly showered. There’s a bottle of peroxide next to you, and you’re wearing gloves, and he watches as you have his pants half in the sink as you work on scrubbing at the fabric.

“Wot ‘appened?” Simon asks. You hum, shrugging, ringing out a bit of the fabric.

“Just some blood. I’ll get it out. What do you want to eat for dinner, baby?”

Simon thinks that’s the moment he knew he was in love with you. Hair pinned back, baby pink matching lounge outfit with the tiniest shorts he’s ever fucking seen, scrubbing out the blood from his clothes as you talk about supper.

He knows he was fucked from the moment he met you—but it’s now that he knows he’ll never leave.

He’s reminded again of that feeling when you call him angrily from your flat. He’s pushing a trolly in the store, eyes sweeping over the selection of chocolate in the baking section. You were baking chocolate scones and would be making some ganache tomorrow, and he’s squinting at the paper you gave him with your list when his phone starts ringing.

“‘ello, love?”

“Simon, are you serious?!”

“Wot happened?”

“There’s—Simon! There’s a grenade in…in the jar!”

“Wot’s tha’?”

“The jar with my powdered sugar. I found a grenade in there!”

“Oh. Mmm. Right. Leave it there.”

“Simon! And are you taping ninja stars under my tables? I found two already!”

“Dunno. But sounds like someone ‘ad a good idea, wanted t’be prepared, y’should leave them there.”

“Simon, you are—” There’s a pause, and then he smiles under the mask when you laugh. “Just get my chocolate and get back here, please.”

You have no idea what Simon was talking about. You don’t understand what it is that he was running from. There’s so much of himself that he was meant to show to someone else. He’s been hiding for so long, and not just underneath the mask he wears—but there’s a man under it all, and you love when he comes out to meet you.

Maybe he is a little terrible. Maybe he really is just the thing you don’t need. You think about that a little too long when the water in the sink runs red again, his shirt an entirely different color from whatever it is that he had done before he got home. Maybe he really is wrong for you—it crosses your mind when you’re dusting the shelves and find a loaded pistol in the vase that used to hold your apology tulips.

He lives an entirely different life than you. He drags colors into your home that you tried so hard not to embrace, all the black and blue and grey that you’ve always felt could swallow your entire self—but you don’t know what the alternative is. There is no one else in the world that looks at you the way that he does. There isn’t anyone’s hand that feels the way his does when it’s against the side of your face or tangled between the strands of your hair or warm between your thighs.

You don’t think anyone else would mean it if they saw you crying and threatened to kill whoever had made you so sad; because he does mean it, doesn’t he? He would do it if you asked, wouldn’t he?

That’s love; you’re convinced it is. Love is the boundaries you say you won’t cross that you step right over without thinking. Love is the places you say you could never go that are already behind you. Love—real love—is the doorway that Simon keeps passing through even though he promises you that this is the last time whenever he leaves.

“Look at me—ha, Simon!—look here.” You fit the headband onto over his head, fitting the cat ears on top of his head. He grunts a little, sighing through his nose, and you warm up the makeup remover between your hands. Delicately, you start to rub it into his face. He closes his eyes, and you carefully work your fingers against his skin as the eye-black begins to run easily. “Almost done.”

You use a warm cloth to wipe his face. The eye-black comes off, but the scars remain, and when he opens his eyes, you know that you haven’t really taken anything away from him. There’s still something that weighs heavy on his shoulders, and you lean forward to get closer to him, keeping your voice quiet.

“What was it this time?” You ask, putting both hands on his face and keeping his eyes on yours. He blinks, and he goes somewhere else. He’s thinking about it. There’s something he’s looking at, somewhere far away, over your shoulder.

“He begged me not to,” Simon murmurs. “Told me their names.”

Moms. Dads. Partner. Children. They always have names at the end—as if attaching themselves to another will make their deaths harder. Men are singular beings. Rarely are they life support for another.

“It’s okay,” you tell Simon. You close your eyes as you rest your cheek against his.

“It is?”

“Uh huh.” It’s so warm here, arms around him, face tucked against his. “I forgive you.”

It’s okay. I forgive you. Everything is just as it should be.

“Y’don’t know wot I did,” Simon counters. “Wot I…got outta him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say softly. You squeeze the towel out, wetting it again with warm water before passing it over his face again. You hold him under his chin, catching the droplets of water, and you smile as you kiss his nose gently. “It never does. Never will.”

“But—”

“I made your favorite,” you interrupt, plucking the cat ears off of him and tossing everything into the laundry basket. “There’s brownies in the kitchen. I want you to try.”

Is Simon really committing heinous war crimes when his reward is chocolate decadence and wet pussy?

You look so cute. You’re wearing a flowery pajama set, tiny shorts and cropped shirt, something that leaves nothing to the imagination as he pulls the gusset of your panties to the side and sinks into you easily. You brace yourself against the back of the couch, sitting up in his lap. Simon groans when your tits are right in his face, pebbled nipples poking through your shirt fabric, and he reaches up to pinch them between greedy fingers as you sit right down on his dick and take him to the tilt.

“Fuuuuuuuuck—” Simon breathes. The wet squelch is making his head spin. His wet girl, his pretty girl, his sweet girl. He sharpens his teeth when he leaves, and you dull them when he comes home, letting him sink his teeth into you and eat. You keep him in balance; the push and pull that he always felt he struggled with is nonexistent now that you’re here. When Ghost used to get put back into his duffel, Simon felt like what was left behind was almost too much to take. The nightmares, the torture, the disregard for what was moral in favor of what got the job done—it is gone with you. Your absolution resolves him of this debt.

How can he feel he’s done anything wrong when you’re calling him teddy bear and taking his cock like this?

You drag the hem of your shirt up slowly, and when your tits are bouncing, bare and sweaty in front of his face, Simon loses his train of thought. His mouth falls open, tongue hanging out, and you cup the back of his neck to draw him close until his lips wrap around your nipple and suck. You whimper, keeping him there, slowing your hips to watch him let go for just long enough to spit on your chest and lick it right back up.

“Feels so good, teddy bear,” you whine. “You’re so big…” You wiggle your hips until just the tip of him is inside you, and then you sit back down, drawing out a long moan from the both of you. His hands fall to cup under your thighs, and you feel like you’re melting as his tip prods against a squishy spot inside of you and makes you see double. You grab onto his shoulders, digging your nails in, crying. “Oh—right t-there, baby—right there—”

“Right there, swee’eart?”

“Mhm! M-More…”

“My sweet girl,” he mumbles, and you squeak when he grips the fabric of your shorts, grunting as he tears the fabric apart. His fingers cup both sides of your ass, spreading them, using the new leverage he has on you to start picking you up and bouncing you with nothing but sheer strength. You’re thick everywhere that he needs you to be—hips, stomach, thighs, all the perfect places he hopes any girl he’s with will be. They never quite had it the way you do; when his fingers dig and feel nothing but softness, he hisses because it feels so good to grab onto you. It makes his mouth water. It makes him so fucking hungry. It makes his cock ache and his balls heavy, and he’s going to come if he keeps seeing your breasts sway like that as you take his cock so well. “Fuck—” He shakes his head. “Fuck!”

You lick into his mouth just as he loses control. Fingers under his chin, tongue around his teeth as he holds you down on his lap and fills you nice and warm. Your hips stutter, and he lets you lean back just enough so you can touch your clit and squeeze around him. You look down between your bodies, touching tenderly where you’re connected, like you’re fascinated by how much of him fits inside of you.

You settle after a few minutes. You rest your palms on his chest, squishy muscle supporting you as you lift your hips and let him out. You lean over him, whining when you feel fluid slipping down your thighs and gathering underneath you.

“You’re thinking too much,” you whisper as you slip your shirt back on. Simon hums as he holds you in his lap, cock twitching as he watches you move your hair out of your eyes and lick your own fingers.

“Got a lot on my mind,” is all Simon gives you. You let your knee fall open, and you use your fingers to swirl between your folds before you guide them up and into Simon’s mouth. He chuckles, taking them, and you lean forward to kiss his cheek just as you pull your fingers back out.

“You’re not supposed to think about things,” you murmur. “How many times do I have to tell you, Simon?” You cup one side of his face, making him look at you. “You could never do something wrong. Everything is okay.” You smile. “You believe me, don’t you, teddy bear?”

It’s so easy to believe you when you look at him like that. You’re so pretty—you always are. There is nothing terrible about your mind. Your brain isn’t rotten between the flesh as his must be. There is no blood forever under your fingernails, and you don’t sleep thinking about the graveyards you fill with your heavy hand. You don’t know what it feels like to have a gun burn in your palm, and you’ve never heard the screaming of someone who only has one limb left to spare. You don’t know how long it takes before a father will give up his children, and you’ve never seen your tombstone so clearly that the callous of your hands feel like the rock it’s made of.

Whatever you say must be true. Whatever you forgive him of must be good enough. There is nothing you cannot give, and there is nothing you can say that won’t be absolute reality. He feels like he poisons you every time he touches you, but when he takes his hands away, the skin underneath looks the same, and your smile never fades. You don’t bruise like other people do when he puts a hand on them. You don’t flinch when he raises his arm. You don’t scream when he comes close to you.

He hears your laughter wherever he goes. He’s kneeling now, bone digging into the ground as he lifts up his arm that holds a blade high. The bullet would be quicker, but this feels better. It pierces the neck, flesh giving away to its sharpness like a hot knife through butter, and Ghost licks over his teeth as he watches something sacred leave their eyes. For a moment, he feels bad about what he’s done. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, looking for his alternate reality.

I am no good. There is nothing good in me. I am not made of it.

There you are. Sitting on your knees between his thighs, cheek nuzzled against his jeans, sparkly, glossy lips curled into a wicked smile as you fist his cock and coo up at him. When you kiss his tip, you leave it shining, and then your tongue comes out of your mouth, and it’s over for him. There is a heaven inside of you. When you suck, his mind blurs, and his jaw aches with how hard he clenches it as you dip your head and take him deep. You whine because you like it. No one’s ever liked Ghost the way you like him. No one’s ever seen the mask and giggled the way you do. There’s no one that looked at the layers he’s made of and thought to use their fingers to lift them up to tuck themselves inside. His shell is not a barrier, it’s merely an illusion, and there you are—blinking up at him, bouncing in that sunflower sweater, wet eyes like diamonds. He feels warmth in his hands, and he thinks it’s from how hard he’s just come, but when he opens his eyes, it’s merely blood soaking into the fabric of his gloves.

The house is dark when he comes home. The cat is staring at him from her spot by the window, blinking slowly as he toes off his boots and passes by her with a soft scratch under her chin. He finds you in your bed, face against your silk pillow, wearing fuzzy purple pajamas and hugging a well-loved stuffed bear. Your nightlight is on, casting soft shadows of a moon and her stars, and Ghost finds himself watching you for more than just a moment. He stays there in the doorway, rooted to the spot, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you snooze.

You wake up when the bed dips from his weight. Groggily, your hand moves, searching for him, and when you find the fabric of his hoodie, you close your fist around it and pull him until he’s nearly on top of you.

You taste sweet. When you kiss, Ghost chases the sugar sweet that still lingers on your lips, and you seek the ash from the cigarette he smoked outside. Your knees fall open, and Ghost settles between them. Too big, but he forces himself there anyways, one big arm wrapping around you and under your back before he yanks it into an arch and bites against the side of your neck. Where he saw blood earlier, all he sees is the give of your skin under his teeth. Instead of begging, instead of screaming, he hears your soft whine, a breathy call of his name that makes his cock so hard, he has to yank down the zipper of his jeans before he cuts himself on it.

Where he saw death in their eyes, he finds nothing like it in your own. When he is inside of you again, he tells himself he’ll never leave. His body has new purpose, and this is it.

You’re sleepy all over again once you come. Draped over his chest, palm rubbing against his solid middle, legs tangled between his. You smile at him as he turns his head to look at you, and he slips his hand under the hem of your shirt to caress you at the base of your spine.

“Good day at work?” You mumble, snuggling into his side. Simon tightens his grip on your middle. When he feels the flesh squish under his hand, he breathes nice and easy. Just what he expected. Exactly as he prefers.

“Good day, love.”

“You got all the bad guys, teddy bear?”

Simon licks his lips. He thinks about who had the unfortunate opportunity of being at the end of his scope today, and he thinks about who it’ll be tomorrow. He likes this routine. It satiates something nasty in him, but he’s never been quiet about the way it makes him feel. It’s what drew you to him, wasn’t it? He told you about all the horrible things that exist in his head, and you’re still here, you’re still in his bed—it wasn’t enough to push you away, so there’s no need to hide this dark truth from you. If anything, you might want to go again.

His cock twitches at the thought.

“No,” Simon tells you, and you shrug, closing your eyes.

“That’s okay. There’s still tomorrow.”

Simon feels something ache under his ribs when you say it—like taking the words straight out of his mouth. You are so in tune, it would scare him if he wasn’t already convinced that you were meant for him.

But even if you weren’t, I’d chain you to this bed. Never let you go.

He wonders what color your blood runs. He doesn’t think it would be red—you’re too pretty to have blood be such a color. Maybe it’s pink. Purple. Maybe it’s yellow. Maybe it glitters just like the sparkles you love to wear.

Maybe it runs black. Maybe, underneath it all, you and Simon are one and the same. Maybe you are rotten inside. Maybe you’re an illusion, too, maybe what he sees is just a mirror-view, and the real you hides and plays your limbs with puppet strings and masks the horrible, terrible, evil things that live inside of you—

You pat his chest a little, pouting, an annoyed breath leaving you as you close your eyes.

“Go to sleep, Simon. It’s late.”

It is late. You’re right. Always right, his smart girl, always telling him how he needs to hear it so his mind settles and his body relaxes.

It’s okay.

Isn’t it?

I forgive you.

He can never do anything wrong.

Everything is just as it should be.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!ghost #dark!simon

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redeemingvillains · 8 months ago

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the black lake - mattheo riddle

summary: mattheo is hogwarts' triwizard tournament champion, and he's proven that he can crush the competition. but when the stakes are raised, and you're involved, nothing will get in his way.

word count: 2.3k

a/n: this was was so fun to think about! lots of references to goblet of fire! lots of swearing, matty is not a happy camper in this one. enjoy ♡

Obviously this boy would put his name in the Goblet of Fire (all of the boys did) and there would be a lot of feelings about him being chosen as the Hogwarts champion, lots of accusations about him rigging the selection (he probably did). But he'd definitely crush the competition, especially when he had the right motivation...

ˋ°•*⁀➷

It's the morning of the second task, the day crisp and frosty, creating puffs of air as Mattheo huffed in exertion, marching down to the Black Lake surrounded by his friends. Suffice to say, he was pissed. It was fucking frigid outside and he hadn't seen you all morning, the combination enough to set him dangerously on edge.

You'd told him you'd come spend the night with him, and if nothing else you always ate breakfast together, so when you didn't show up last night and you were nowhere to be found this morning he was furious that you'd blown him off. Now he was spending his entire walk from the castle to the lake ruminating over it, piling on every perceived slight over the last few days, including the way he saw you talking to a group of guys from Durmstrang in the Great Hall yesterday, causing him to involuntarily curl his hands into fists at his side.

His friends walked beside him, surrounding him in a sort of semicircle, but moving in complete silence; they knew better than to try to say anything to him when he was in a mood like this. Before long, Pansy came running to meet them, nearly out of breath as she said, exasperated, "I couldn't fucking find her. She's not anywhere in our dormitory, in the library, I don't know where she's gone." Concern and frustration laced her voice as she looked at the group and then up at Mattheo.

This wasn't like you.

You had been Mattheo's #1 supporter throughout the whole tournament, helping him prepare, cheering him on, jumping into his arms the moment he'd defeated his dragon, and generally always glued to his side. In fact, you were always glued to all of their sides, the group of you being nearly inseparable, so having you missing made all of the boys feel shifty and on edge as they looked at one another.

Fear bloomed in Mattheo's chest. And the feeling of fear when it came to you did not sit well with him. He didn't want to feel afraid, to feel vulnerable when it came to you, so he opted to shove the feeling down, keeping instead with anger which was much easier and more natural to him.

"I don't have time for this" he muttered, quickening his pace as they all scrambled to keep up with him.

The biting wind whipped through his dark curls and stung his cheeks as he stood on the platform above the lake, staring into the middle-distance of the dark and choppy waves. Students and staff alike were cheering and shouting their encouragement for their champions, but he was completely zoned out, his mind bouncing back and forth between your lingering absence and the task ahead of him. He only perked up when Dumbledore's loud voice rang out over the crowd.

"Welcome to the second task!" it radiated.

"Last night something was stolen from each of our champions, a treasure of sorts—"

Mattheo's heart plummeted so fast into his stomach that he subconsciously grasped at his chest. A treasure? There wasn't a thing he owned that he valued enough to call a treasure, not a single thing in his life that held that much weight... except you. You were undeniably his treasure. He looked back into the murky water of the Black Lake... it couldn't be... he thought ... surely they wouldn't... as Dumbledore's voice continued.

"—These four treasures, one for each champion, now lie on the bottom of the Black Lake—" Mattheo's stomach lurched with what little breakfast he'd been able to eat as his eyes shot to Pansy's in the crowd in enough time to see her clasp her hand to her mouth as she pieced the situation together.

"—In order to win, each champion need only find their treasure and return to the surface. Simple enough. Except for this. They will have but one hour to do so and one hour only. After that, they'll be on their own. No magic will save them."

Mattheo's feet were moving before Dumbledore said another word, sprinting towards the water because fuck this stupid tournament, and fuck the geezer for thinking he could take you away from him, that he could put you in danger.

"You may begin at the sound of the cannon."

BOOM!

Mattheo heard the blast as his body hit the water, diving headfirst into the waves without bothering to cast a spell, without a care to what he'd find within the foreboding depths.

The cold shocked his system, but his heart was hammering for plenty of other reasons as he pulled his body through the fierce current, his strong arms and legs working against the waves.

For a minute he was surrounded in dark nothingness. He could feel rather than see that he wasn't alone in the water, occasionally sensing something moving on either side of him, but he didn't have time, you didn't have time for him to care. His lungs started to burn and he pressed his wand to his neck, casting a spell frantically so as not to waste another second.

After swimming at an impossible pace for so long he wondered if there even was a bottom to the lake, he heard an ethereal sound, like singing and changed course to swim towards it, which brought him to a large clearing where he could see merpeople swimming around. The few nearest him whipped their heads toward him, surprised at his presence as they turned to face him fully. He dared them, dared any fucking one of them to come near him, welcomed it actually, a chance to take out his rage, but they steered clear, perhaps sensing it would be a losing battle despite the tritons they carried and their razor-sharp teeth.

He swam on, his muscles straining, aching with the exertion of pulling his weight through the thick water at such an unwavering and desperate pace, but the feeling faded, drained from him, as four distinct figures came into view, four bodies, tethered and floating in the water, their hair moving eerily around their faces, their bodies stiff and still, like corpses.

He identified you immediately and he swam harder and harder until he was close enough to touch you. He brushed a hand against your cheek; your skin held a blueish tint and your face was expressionless, void of the smile that you always had for him, that reached your eyes, that lit up your face, the absence of it was enough to make his eyes sting in a way that had nothing to do with the brackish water.

He grasped your stiff form, the resistance of your body against his continuing to mess with his mind as he sent a spell to sever the rope that secured you and tried not to think about how rigid you felt in his arms.

His ability to breath underwater didn't matter for shit, because he was certain he didn't breath the entire way back, climbing harder and harder as he carried your weight with him, desperate to reach the surface, desperate to save you, thinking the entire time how fucking foolish he'd been to spend even one second mad at you today.

Finally, he could see the light of the surface, the grey clouds in the sky reflecting in the waves, and after a final series of strong kicks he broke through the current.

Immediately, he felt you come alive again in his arms, spluttering and coughing as you grasped for him.

"M-Matty!?" you said hysterically, the cold and fear in your voice setting his heart in a vice as your eyes fluttered open and you looked around in confusion at your surroundings. "What happened?! Where—?!"

"—It's okay, you're okay, you're safe" he said, pulling you against him, keeping you both afloat even as you rocked in the waves and he gasped deeply for air.

"C'mere, c'mon" he said, swimming with you in his embrace towards the platform, anxious to get you out of the freezing water.

The crowd had erupted into cheers when you'd breached the surface, and they were announcing that Mattheo was the champion by a long shot, not having been in the water for more than 20 minutes, the other champions still completely unaccounted for. But hearing talk of the competition and seeing everyone's ignorance about the whole situation as they clapped and smiled was pushing him to his limit as he hoisted you up to Pansy who greeted you with a thick towel.

Mattheo pulled himself out of the water, barely taking time to wrap a towel around his shoulders before grabbing three more and pulling them around you. You laughed under the heavy bundle, even as your shivering continued uncontrollably. "I-I'm okay, I-I'm okay" you said, trying to reassure him, even as you noticed that he wouldn't meet your eyes.

"Buncha fucking idiots" you heard him muttering as he rubbed your arms before he stooped down and swept you off your feet bridal style, one hand around your waist, the other holding on to your legs. The crowd cheered again, erupting in a sigh of "awws" at the gesture until he began barreling towards them.

"Matty?" you asked, concerned, "Where are we—?"

"—Anywhere but here" he growled as people began pushing each other to get out of his way.

"Mr. Riddle!" McGonagall chided, chasing after you both as you watched her from over his shoulder, urging him to stop as a couple of other professors followed in pursuit.

He veered towards the raised platform where the headmasters were seated, coming to a brief stop in front of Dumbledore who had stood to his feet.

"You are out of your fucking mind!" Mattheo spat at him.

Several people around you gasped, even Igor Karkaroff had the wherewithal to look surprised, impressed even, before Mattheo walked away, marching right off the platform and back towards the school as the entire crowd watched you go.

You could tell Mattheo was tired, beyond tired, physically, emotionally; you could feel his arms shaking against your weight.

"Matty, I can walk, it's okay" you said quietly, but he wouldn't let you go, wouldn't set you down, wouldn't even respond to you or meet your eyes. So you resigned yourself to resting your head on his shoulder, nuzzling against his neck which seemed to relax him a bit.

He carried you all the way to his room, making his way to the bathroom where he finally set you down and immediately began running you a hot bath. Wordlessly, he found a towel and a set of his clothes for you to wear, placing them at the edge of the tub before leaving without a word, closing the door gently behind him.

You looked anxiously at the closed door, aware that something was very very wrong, but also acknowledging that he might need a minute, and that you still couldn't feel the tips of your fingers or toes, so you resigned yourself to the hot water.

It felt heavenly, as did washing the muck of the lake off your skin and out of your hair. You reveled in the smell of his soap, like cedar and evergreen, but you were too anxious to sit there any longer than necessary, quickly pulling on his sweatpants and sweatshirt that engulfed your frame as you toweled your hair dry and pushed the door open.

Mattheo was seated at the edge of his bed, still dripping wet, his body shaking noticeably as he stared at the ground. He glanced up when he heard you, visibly relaxing a bit as he took in your warm, rosy cheeks and your soft smile, his mind flashing for only a moment to your unsmiling rigid form floating in the water, trying to reconcile that version of you with the one in front of him.

You approached him slowly, moving to stand between his legs as you took his face in your warm hands, tilting it to look at you. He had a strained, puzzled expression on his face as his eyes drank you in before his hands came to rest on your waist.

"Babe—" you started.

"—I love you" he said.

Your heart somersaulted over the words you'd never heard him say before as you let out a small breath, your hand moving to cover your mouth in shock as your eyes widened.

"I'm-I'm a fucking wreck for you" he continued, laughing humorlessly as he shook his head. "Today... really fucked me up. I thought I'd lost you, I thought..." he paused, getting quiet "...The way you looked down there, alone, miles under the water, surrounded by all sorts of shit" he shook his head harder like he could unlive the memory of it all.

"I should have told you sooner, because I've known for awhile, for a long fucking time, but I've been too scared to say it, too scared that you don't remotely feel the same way, but that doesn't matter anymore, nothing fucking matters other than you hearing me say it, today, every day, I love you, YN." His eyes met yours finally, wide and sincere. "With everything I've got, I love you."

"I love you too!—" you whispered, and the words were barely out of your mouth before he pressed his cold lips to yours, pulling you into him so tightly you let out an involuntary squeak as your arms moved to wrap around his neck and he fell backwards onto his bed, continuing to mumble against your lips "Iloveyou, loveyou, I loveyou", smushing your kisses with his affectionate words until you were laughing with joy, the sound finally reassuring him that you were his, and that you were okay.

♡

@kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf, @sleepiibunniiii, @darlingshecried, @girlblogging777, @foivetimesacharm, @clar2aa, @broadwaybaby123, @slytherinscreamqueen

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle fluff #slytherin boys

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ladytemeraire · 4 months ago

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Hmm. Wanna write a mini-thesis on a lesser LOTR leitmotif, but I lowkey need to rewatch the extended editions and/or listen to the complete recordings to make sure I catch every instance of said motif and accurately capture what it represents.

Oh nooooo, I get to revisit some of my favorite media, such a hardship, whatever shall I do.

#life with ladytemeraire #LOTR #formative influences #forth and fear no darkness #that last quote is VERY relevant to the motif in question FYI #music is emotion searching for words

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nanamiskentos · 5 months ago

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★ 🐚 🫧 GONNA' MATCH MY FREAK? jujutsu kaisen. 呪術廻戦.

prologue ⋆ ★ getting down and nasty with some fine men? yes, please.

pairings ⋆ ★ sukuna, toji, geto, hajime, choso, gojo genre tags & warnings ⋆ ★ afab/she+her!reader, making it fít, trueform!sukuna, against a wall, créampíe, bréeding, ríding, temple séx, mild mention of smoking (geto), unintentional public séx, óral (f), inappropriate use of jujutsu (electricity), backshóts, mentions of voyéurísm

word count ⋆ ★ 5.1k a/n ⋆ ★ going thru it 😝 was gonna add noritoshi kamo because he's my #bias #ult but i wasn't sure how to write him yet...

RYOMEN SUKUNA ៹ the king of curses

"now yer' just being stubborn," the blush-haired demon is grousing, dark nails clawing at the bare juncture of your hip, as though he's trying not to let his gaze leer downwards. to linger where your bare cunt is straddling over both his tattooed cocks. hefty, and weighty against the meat of your thigh.

"i can take them, 'kuna, know i can," and it's got sukuna sighing at your stubborn nature, as though he's not already being plagued by the most delightful visions of you swaying those delightfuls hips as both his tips swab at your entrance. oouh, tempting, tempting indeed.

you're already getting ahead of yourself, positioning your leaking folds over the first cock, the one stacked on top of the other, letting the fat tip snag at your gummy walls, and fuck, sukuna genuinely fears he may just be in love when you give him those insufferable, pleading doe eyes, "can y'help me fit them in, 'kuna?"

oh, can he ever. sukuna's ducking his face into the crook of your neck, nipping at the shell of your ear, so you can't see the warm flush painting his cheeks, hands heavy on your waist as he gently props you up, two arms wrapped in coils around your torso, and two softly positioned underneath your shaking thighs.

slowly, carefully, lowering you down. angling you just right, so your cunt eagerly begins to swallow him up. slick already drooling and painting treacly strands over his cock, trickling down to the base of thick, curled pink hair that gathers at his groin.

"haahh," you're sighing, lips parting in a way that makes sukuna feel like someone just hit him with a shovel, dumbfounded at the sight of you, only you, "bigger than i thought, 'kuna."

and the king of curses won't admit in, no, he's loathe to lower himself thus, but his heart (and his cocks) only swell at the praise, the knowledge that you're still just so eager to take him, to ride him on his throne, his kimono opened bare across your pretty form so he can lave sharp, stinging kisses over your chest.

"t-taking it so well," sukuna bites out, doing his best to fight the crack in his gruff tone, for the sake of his dignity. or at least, that's what he tells himself, never mind at how he feels lightheaded from the way your cunt is almost kissing the base of his cocks now, and the sound is absolutely filthy, echoing through out the empty hall. all damp sloshes of pre that's leaving smears over your innermost walls.

he has to focus over the buzzing in his ears to catch your sweet words, a hand coming to rest on the back of your head, tilting you closer to him, "mhm, yer' sayin' something?"

you're nodding, breathless and hazy, steadying yourself now in his lap, groping at the little divot that's already formed where his tip(s) now lie, "does it feel g-good for you?"

sukuna stares at you, half-clouded with the tight heat of your pretty, swollen pussy swallowing him up, "what?"

you're pawing at his chest, nails digging into hardened skin, grazing over dark tattoos that have lasted a millennia, "wanna know if 'm making y-you feel good, 'kuna."

oh, he's in love with you. ryomen sukuna is absolutely, foolishly, pathetically head-over-heels for you. his pretty, little woman that's balanced on his hips, rocking yourself back and forth to feel that glorious friction against your sweet spot.

ugh, fine. just this once. dignity be damned, for he's got you.

a large hand cups your jaw, resting against the curve of your neck, as crimson eyes bore into you, "you are what i want, brat," and sukuna means it, planting a heavy kiss against your lips, "just you, just like this. couldn't be b-better."

"you're getting soft." gentle, teasing as you watch watercolour flush paint pretty pink over sukuna's handsome features. for someone who fancies themselves a rather stoic king of curses, a fearsome sorcerer that can command life and death, he does a poor job of hiding how just how much you undo him.

a low grumble erupts from sukuna, gripping at your hips, pulling you closer to him in a way that you feel his cocks jostle within you, brushing against that sweet, sweet spot, "careful, there. don't wanna' break m'favourite human." yeah, you know that idle threats means that you've really got him blushing.

TOJI FUSHIGURO ៹ the sorcerer killer

"heh, thought you said we were gon' get on the job," toji's guffawing even, but that smug expression quickly flitters away when your wandering, wanting hands are feeling him up. gripping at his pectoral muscles that strain against his black, tight top.

"we are on the job," you fiercely gasp against his mouth, feeling that rough scar twitch against your skin, "jus' need you, that's all."

you can see stone-green eyes flick upwards, heightened senses scanning for any intruders, any unwanted peepers to this show that he's about to put on, before kicking the rusted, weathered steel door closed. sealing you in this storage closet with him.

"so," toji simpers, and you know better than to trust the faux-concern on the assassin's face, "what does she need help with?" large hands patting at the clothed juncture of your thighs, running up the thick band of your holster, "couldn't even wait till we shot the damn' bastard, and took home a niceee paycheck."

you push at him, arms using as much as force as you can muster but it does very little to move this solid block of a man. but toji's clearly humouring you, letting you shove him against the reinforced, but worn-out walls, "how 'bout i give you an advance for the job?"

toji's wrapping a muscled arm around your waist, pulling you closer so he's nudging against your lips, "hah, a little taste then?" tugging at the waistband of your pants, "don't mind if i do."

and before you can even take a second to blink, he's whirling the two of you around. balancing you with inhuman levels of strength against the wall, so your ankles dangle in the air. quickly hooking against his waist, while toji thumbs at your underwear, eager to slide any remaining fabric away.

"stay focused now," toji murmurs, "got a big stretch for ya', heh."

and fuck, he wasn't exaggerating. you've never gotten used to it, the way his thick, girthy shaft melds into you, swabbing at the swollen, dripping walls that toji loves to call home. you're not sure if you're losing your mind, but you swear, you truly swear that you can feel the pulse of that one, angry vein that runs along the underside of his cock (yeah, you're pretty familiar).

"ngh –" you babble, "s-so big, fuck," your mind's gone entirely blank, grasping for the right word to encompass just how enrapturing toji's cock is, "so deep."

toji seems to like that, cheeks flushing the most adorable shade of peach and pink that he seems desperate to hide and deny, "y-yeah? deep in ya'?" he's rustling you in his hold, eager to hit bullseye on your cervix, to see you rolling your eyes to back of your head as you take him.

and if toji tears his gaze downwards, he can see your puffy folds parted, inches stuffed into your cunt. painting such a pretty sight that if toji were a less jealous, lecherous man, he'd hire a photographer to come capture the sinful view. hmm, maybe the new paycheck can go to a camera? oh, yeah, he's havin' ideas.

"t-toji –" you mewl, hands grasping at the firm curve of his pectorals, defined and taut underneath the fabric that stretched across his chest, "that's it, hah, jus' what i needed."

"mhm?" toji chuckles against the shell of your ear, "got so fucked out on the job, needed me to come take care of you like t-this?" he can feel your legs trembling in his hold, turning to mush and quivering, as he batters hit after hit against your mound. he shifts, readjusting himself for the right angle so...

plap! each smack of his heavy, laden sack rings throughout the abandoned storage room of this fuck-ass hideout, repurposed for something far more pleasurable. brows furrowed, sweat dripping down tanned skin as toji squeezes his eyes shut, feels every cell in his body unravelling (or well, something like that, he's not a scientist) as your tight cunt swallows him up, takes him apart.

"hnngh, fuck, girl, look what you're doin' to me," toji gasps, rocketing his hips to dig as deep as possible, cock twitching and practically sending s.o.s signals despite this being the first round of many.

he knows he's close, knows that tell-tale tightening in his groin will only lead to him shooting ropes out, so he pulls you in for a filthy, clashing kiss, "where do ya' want it? gon' have to tell me quick, – dunno' how long i can –"

"inside," you murmur, sounding as breathless as toji fushiguro feels, legs deliciously arched against his back, "want it inside, toji." whimpering the most beautiful, sweet groans against his ear.

toji wishes he was a stronger man, he truly does. wishes that he had some restraint, and sense but the very second your mouth parted to form those syllables, he felt the world go blank. ropes upon ropes of thick, cloying seed stuttering out of him, making the assassin feel off-kilter, "think it took, doll?" toji scoops some of the creamy release against your sloppy cunt, "or wanna' try one more time? or two?"

GETO SUGURU ៹ the worst curse user

"eyes on me, pretty," geto's panting, glossed lips parting, and you can see just how affected he is, that soft tremble of his mouth giving away the cracks in his composure.

but are you shocked? well, nah. you've learnt there are several ways to undo geto suguru, to unravel him until he's a trembling mess and your favourite way is to plant your hands on his bare chest, and rock your hips until the two of you are seeing stars.

and god, you feel as though your mind is turning to a sludgy mush, a faint whine building up between your ears until you realise that the sound is coming from your own parted mouth. geto's got a hell of a package down there, and he sure knows how to use it. every tilt of your pitching hips has his fat tip swabbing smears of silky pre against your inner walls, "mhm – feels s-so good, sugu', fuck!"

it's quite a sight, this you know. you had managed to paw off a decent swathe of geto's thick robes, still stained with a splash red that you're not eager to identify. pooling the silk on the cool tiles underneath the broad man. the taper of his broad, solid thighs keeps you well balanced as you crinkle your nose, plucking the lit stub from geto's smoky mouth. tossing it onto the tiles of the temple, so the flame patters out in the stained, warm glow of this sanctuary.

"hey, i was enjoyin' that," geto glowers, violet eyes subdued into a mauve, lustful haze, and you dig the very tips of your nails into the meat of his shoulders, opting for a harsher, sharper angle to slap skin against skin.

"enjoy this, instead," your eyes roll and fall to the back of your head as geto's grip on your hips tighten, almost bruising in the most delicious way possible. but a large, calloused hand travels further along, coming up to cup the underside of your tits, tweaking and pinching appreciatively. predictable, like an ant to some honey.

"heh, q-quite a sight," geto purrs, watching how your captivating form writhes and shakes. knowing that it's solely due to his thick shaft working inches into you, hitting spots that you weren't even aware of, "always so perfect for me, pretty."

you lean down, capturing his waiting lips in a sloppy, heavy kiss. a clash of your eager tongue against his, teeth sinking into plush lips. geto seems to been hit with a spark of some new idea, for he's suddenly pushing you back, murmuring a gentler kiss against your lips as an apology.

manoeuvring his broad frame so he's sitting up now, with you still balanced in his lap. the change in the nasty angle is so prominent, for his cock feels deeper than ever before. each thick vein scraping and pulsing against the walls of your swollen cunt, leaving no surface unclaimed.

"s-suguru, 'm there, right –" the sentence leaves you, mouth parting in a wordless, mindless oh! for the fat, creaming tip of his cock must have brushed past that delicious patch, that g-spot, and it has you trembling, climax washing over you in the most, delicious pulsing waves.

but geto suguru never lets up, never lets his best girl off the hook that easy. he doesn't stop bucking muscular hips up into you, sticky skin slapping over and over again in an addled cacophony of pleasure, determined to have you fall apart all over again. and he needs it to be asap.

"g-gorgeous, heh," he's tapping fingers against your cheek, pushing and pulling at your mouth, "what did i say about wanderin' eyes? keep them on me, love. need ya' to be lookin' at me when i split you apart."

"fuck, 'm feelin' –" you almost sob from the pleasure, crystalline tears pooling at your lashes from the sheer overstimulation. geto's cock absolutely heavy and weighty in you, kissing at your walls, and pecking your most sensitive spot.

"yeah, yeah, i k-know," geto gasps, feeling his own orgasm knocking on the door, thin strands of wispy cum already beginning to shoot out, but he's determined. a man on a mission, so a wide hand reaches in between the tight space, slapping sloppy circles against your sensitive clit in a way that has you sinking teeth into the side of his thick neck.

he's looking at you expectantly, like he knows exactly what's arriving. and when. long fingers twirling at your sloshy cunt, flicking over your throbbing clit, "three," he murmurs, "two..."

"and one –" geto's climax hits him at the exact same time, the hypnotising pulse of your pussy practically sucking any restraint out of him. translucent ropes of cream and ivory pumping into you, until you can only lay limp and boneless in his arms, with him still sprawled against the floor of the temple and...oh.

"suguru, baby?"

"hah, yeah," oouh, geto sounds ruined. his voice a rock-salt rasp, still quivering from the earth-shaking climax.

"did we leave the temple door open? and aren't all your guests meant to be arriving today?"

HAJIME KASHIMO ៹ the god of lightning

"tch', thought you said you weren't gonna move, silly girl."

hajime's been going at it for hours, now. well, you can't truly be sure for the world has become slow and hazy, but it certainly feels like an eternal passage of time, rife with that familiar, cloying buildup of pleasure shaking your abdomen.

you're whining, glossy and reddened lips being gnawed and worried into, aching fingers curling into loose strands of cyan hair that's come loose from the knots that hajime seems to favour, "i k-know. but it's –" you squeal when sharp fangs bite at the inner flesh of your thighs, "it's so much, and i've already –"

the sorcerer fixes you with that piercing stare of his, that disconcerting gaze of jewel-cerulean that is a direct shade match with his soft hair, "you've what? finished already? twice? thrice?" the man's getting cocky, you murkily wonder, scraping the tip of his tongue against your throbbing clit, "that's the point. but 'm waiting for something else, y'see."

you can only what else he could possibly want from you, for hajime's got you splayed out for him. bare thighs spread across the edge of the clean bed, the heat of your cunt sensitive even to the cool chill of the air, as he continues to kneel in between your legs. humming, murmuring, as he toys with your slick, sweet folds.

but you know one thing for certain, hajime is a man who will never accept defeat. he's competitive as fuck, and he shows it in all aspects, but especially when it comes to pleasuring you.

"look at you," hajime's cooing, pink mouth blooming a vivid magenta, painted a mirror sheen of your arousal, "jus' falling apart from my mouth? already?"

turquoise hair bunched around hajime's shoulders, falling over his white robes in thick, silky swathes, as he wraps his lips right around your sensitive bud, cheeks hollowing to suck. slender, wiry fingers littered with scars trace mindless circles around your entrance, pushing at your gummy walls until he's the one sucking in a breath.

"heh, s-so tight," hajime mutters, bestowing a filthy kiss upon your cunt, all sloppy and so loving, "have half a mind to just fill you up instead, have ya' pressed under me." he seems dazed by the way that you're still taking his fingers so readily, never mind the six orgasms that he's ripped from you already.

and you would be lying if you said you weren't desperate for the thin but lengthy curve of his cock, pressing up against your cervix as he was so prone to doing when he had you in a tight mating press.

"why don'tcha, then, 'jime?" you're mewling, hands moving away from his sea-green hair to paw at the thick padding of his ivory robes, "want y'in me so, so bad." you're all but sobbing, for hajime's delighted with how you're taking a third finger, and he's crooking the digit up. searching, searching for that sweet spot.

"patience, woman," the rough pads of hajime's fingers swirling thick arousal back into every cranny and divot of your walls, "hmm, 'm gonna' try something." he's grinning now, face splitting into an electrifying smile that you are all too familiar with, "just need to relax for me, sweet thing." pulling sodden fingers out of your cunt, ignoring your needy cries at the sudden loss of sensation.

you can practically feel how restless the sorcerer is, bruising the fingertips of his left hand into the fat of your thighs, amused at how they leave gloss-streaked smears over the skin. but the other hand is slowly stroking at your folds, teasing as hajime takes joy in watching your hips buck up continuously, desperate for some stimulation.

and that's when you first feel it. it's a little jolt at first, something stronger and almost harsher than what you're accustomed to. you can't even help the wanton, candied moan that falls from your lips at how the pins-and-needles quickly turns pleasurable, and how hajime's eyes have become aglow, cursed technique ever so delicately ramping up.

"hahh, 'jime," you're not even sure what to say, to cry out and hope that the words are able to form themselves, and not fall out in slurred groans of pleasure, "more, m-more!"

the sensation is warm too, each small spark sets you alight. far more heated than the cool tips of hajime's fingers that you're used to. and you're certain that you can attribute the involuntary twitching of your leg to the small, controlled electricity being channeled through hajime's skin, each pinch at your clit having you arch your back in the most filthy, whoreish of ways.

"aha," hajime angles a finger in you once more, resuming that gentle push-and-pull pace that he's kept for hours, so the messy pop! rings in your ears each time that he glides away and bottoms his fingers out once more, "i think 'm getting the hang of this, wouldn't ya' say?"

you must look absolutely out of it right now, for hajime's cursed technique is running jolts and buzzes through you in such a way that you know jujutsu was never intended to be used for. tongue falling out of your mouth, whining, as you squeeze your eyes shut. feeling the pace pick up, and hajime's fingers hit bullseye when they brush that spot.

"there, there, t-there, 'm gonna –"

you faintly catch the satisfied, thrilled look on hajime's face when you climax, spraying all over his chin. droplets of clear release that he's eagerly digging into to lap up, hah, you know he's glad to have achieved a victory like this, exhilarated just from achieving your pleasure. tongue sloppy as it works you through a mind-numbing orgasm, slick dripping over his faintly-tanned chin.

"see, i knew y'had it in you," hajime's standing up now, and you bite back a bratty comment about how a four-hundred year old sorcerer was able to stay on his knees for so long, gulping as you see him reach for the loose ties on his martial pants, "and i wanna' see something else now."

CHOSO KAMO ៹ the death painting

"are you sure, my love?" you've barely even touched him, and choso already sounds ruined, tremors wracking his sensitive form. he's beautiful like this, broad-shouldered and thick with hardened muscle. a dark curtain of inky, clingy hair falling around his face as he looks down at you, from where he's hovering with his beefy arms on either side.

"i'm sure, cho," you whimper, inching your legs up to wrap around his waist, pulling him in and closer to where your hot, glossy folds are practically begging for his touch. or rather, for his cock — all his glorious inches that beam an angry, sensitive shade of scarlet.

choso brushes his nose against yours, as intimate as he always is, "jus' don't wanna' hurt you," thick tip snagging against the very entrance of your glistening, winking hole, "tell me if it's too much."

"i will, oh, i –" the air is punctured from your lungs, like your very breath has been stolen away from you in the most searing kiss. that first, initial stretch of choso's cock in you is nothing short of delicious and eye-opening. he's always like this, so intoxicating and sweet, and mindful of how the body of a human may differ to that of a half-curse such as himself, so he's running a thick hand against your abdomen, soothing as he bullies another inch into you.

"not too much, love?" choso gasps out, spellbound by your tight, loving grip, and he thinks he's already lost his mind, hand kneading at the sudden divot that's formed under your skin, from where his cock is settling.

"mhm, mm!" you shake your head, unable to speak from the instant swipe of his cock against your sweet spot already, determined not to wantonly start moaning and gasping in his ear before he's already bottomed out.

choso's worried thumb comes up to swipe at your lower lip, pressing into the kiss-stricken flesh, "hey, i like hearing you. always sound so pretty." pressing his lips to your mouth again, as though he could stay there forever. like this, with you. in you.

"ahh, cho, 's good, really," and you're telling the truth, for his thick cock is rendering you senseless, and so in love. nails lightly clawing at his peach-toned skin, certainly leaving small, crescent marks that you know will make choso flush later. raking your nails down as choso finally, finally bottoms out with a pop!

the sound of skin slapping and sliding against skin makes you flush, your arousal practically drooling out of swollen folds, as thin strands delicately balance between your hips before snapping into creamy puddles, creating an absolute mess underneath you.

"it's like i can feel all of you," choso groans, silky ends of his dark hair tickling your cheek, "and yer' so, so pretty," he's gnawing at his lips, blood-hued, fucking you absolutely stupid on his endowed cock. hitting you with solidified rams against that rough, sensitive spot, drawing senseless, pleasured sounds of your gaping mouth.

choso's weaving his hand in between the two of you, determined to reach for your glistening, throbbing clit. to run sloppy, mindless shapes over the bud that make the most filthy sounds, that soft and pulling sound of your translucent slick sloshing over choso's broad hand.

"you gotta' finish," choso heaves, hauling you a little closer to him, so he can do his very best to draw circles around your clit, despite the slick making it nigh impossible for his fingers to stay on course, "gotta' see you fall apart f'me."

and what a glorious sight for choso's eyes, to see how your lips moisten and part. eyes tight and shut, brows drawn together like a bow releasing a quiver of arrows, he thinks he'd be content to stay like this forever. to have your body tremble underneath him, orgasm painting over you in the most gentle shade possible, hips bucking further into him.

"wait," choso looks almost sheepish now, ears a glowing shade of berry-red, kissing away the last tremours of your climax, "can i turn you around? wanna' see how you look from the back."

GOJO SATORU ៹ the strongest

"w-what? here?" gojo groans, but god, he's never one to complain. hard for him to even find one fault in the world when you're straddling his thighs, looking so lustful and dazed above him.

you're nodding, lips pressed into a frown that gojo immediately swipes away with a kiss, "been wantin' you for days, 'toru." hands already pulling aside his haori, digging into the soft bands of his white pants, "always soo busy, everyone's takin' your attention."

oh. you're needy. and gojo's not ashamed to admit that he loves to play into it. loves to see how his pretty wife's brows furrow and lips part when she's desperate for him.

he snickers, looping a muscular thigh in a way that he's able to flip the two of you over. splaying you out on all fours for him, him only. your knees digging into the soft mats in the training rooms that gojo's certain he locked when you dragged him in here.

he's biting at the shell of your ear, rough hand slithering up your top to cup at the fat of your tits, "y'do know that everyone's on me because they wanna' check in about my fight with sukuna." rocking you back against his tight bulge, "and i did say i would face...him before the twenty-fourth."

"you're the s-strongest, – fuck, that's so –" hah, gojo's already a step ahead of you, sheathing both girth and length into your drooling pussy, leaning back to admire the way your swollen folds snatch and eagerly swallow him up, "and you're always trainin', i was getting lonely."

"my, my," gojo purrs, running a large, broad hand down your spine, slamming your hips back into his so the white curls at the base of his cock kiss the heart-shaped juncture of your ass, "if i knew m'wife was this jealous, i'd have brought ya' in to train with me." gojo's figuring that life's kinda short, and he's gotta live a little — revving up six eyes without any shame, desperate to see the curve of his cock drill home into your tight cunt.

you squeal when he rams his thick, rosy-toned tip deep into your sticky, slimy walls. and for each squelch! when he pulls out, there's a coating of gloss that drips from his cock, entrancing the white-haired man, "well, we're kinda' training now, s-satoru."

"heh, you're right, wifey," gojo decides to take it all the way, looming his frame over you so the tight weave of his dark tee presses against your back, his chest firm enough against you that it bows your back down in the most pleasurable arch, rummaging his cock all over, "see, what would i do without ya'?"

if you crack open bleary, hazy eyes, you can make out the cracks and fissures that run deep in the walls here, plaster splitting apart to reveal brick underneath. wondering, vaguely, whether it was the force of gojo's cursed technique tearing apart the foundations of this building. but it doesn't make you shudder, no, what truly makes you quake is the smack! of gojo's palm against the fat of your ass, and his thick, muffled groan against your ear.

"can't believe i've been neglecting ya', sweets," gojo whines, churning at your pussy in determined rolls of his hips, "and her, too, of course." he's got you bent at such a determined angle, that you're not sure whether you can muster the energy to even tilt your head back. but you certain that the hot drops that quickly cool upon your shoulder are leaking from his stormy eyes, prickling at his long-white lashes. gojo's always been so sensitive during sex, always so easily riled up and undone.

he doesn't let up on the place, continuing to smack the fat head of his cock against your cervix, as though he's desperate to not miss the right spot to spill thick wads of buttery release, and you know that gojo won't, not with those superhuman, heightened senses of his.

"close? close? is m'wife –" gojo hoarsely rasps, "are ya' close? because i think 'm gonna pass out, ouh, yeah. snatching me way too good, heh, been missing out on this training," already pussydrunk and babbling as he tends to do, running his mouth at the same pace at which he's slamming his cock into you, "you know i lo –"

gojo's never one to withstand a rude interruption, not even when its his own orgasm snatching the words out of his mouth, so even as steaming, slick strands of his climax pump themselves into you, he's mouthing and kissing at your neck, gently pulling you up from all fours to balance your arms wide, splaying your thighs wide apart — all while he's still filling you up, "love you, love you so much, i fuckin' love you."

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